to the wind and the trees

pear with fig and honey compote

2011-03-06T14:14:00.004+05:30

who said desserts have to be bad for you.

last night, feeling snacky (what's with midnights and snacks anyway!) i made a 3 minute dessert for myself. it was good enough for me not to care about the damage done to my diet. and come to think of it, i don't think it would have done even as much damage as a pack of gems!

here goes

peel half a pear, and core it neatly to leave a channel along the length. fill this with a teaspoon of the best fruit preserve you have... i used a yummy fig and honey jam, and zap this in the microwave for 3 minutes.

the jam will be bubbly and slightly caramalised, and the pear cooked just so.

spoon the runny sauce onto the pear, slice the fruit into chunky slices if you like, and enjoy!

here's the source of my inspiration.

flee fly flew flum!

2011-02-10T11:37:00.003+05:30

lady behind the counter to the passenger in front of her 'sir, your flight is three hours late.'

passenger, horrified 'three hours?? you've got to be kidding me!'

lady, straight faced 'no sir, i'm very serious. do you have a seat preference?'

passenger splutters. i smirk.

till i hear my flight is also three hours late! sigh.

and then he said - happy birthday amma

2010-09-08T20:11:00.006+05:30

sons! how many different ways they find to make a mother shed tears!

it was a big birthday for me this year, and i had spent months dropping hints to everybody in the family about presents. my children got wishlists too; everything from the complete set of clavin and hobbes books (rs.6,000/-) to the bose wave radio (rs.40,000/-) yes, i know. how on earth are a couple of teenagers to get their hands, legally, on that kind of money. but then the greedy heart knows no reason.

so my birthday came. and my birthday went and there were no signs of presents from the brats who had kept me for hours in labour that was hard enough to burst blood vessels in my eyes, and all over my face, and kept the hard times coming since. (ok, there were good times too, but i'm not talking about them now, this is supposed to be a rant.)

then came time for big brat to leave for college. off to the US of A and all that, ignoring his poor mothers pleading, persuasive arguments that india had excellent colleges, emotional blackmail and admonishments.

so, half an hour before he leaves for the airport, choosing a time when i'm on the very edge, holding back my tears with every bit of courage, strength and determination that i never knew i possessed, he thrusts a ratty white envelope in my hands.

'your birthday present' he says gruffly.

i look at the cover. not something one would put a gift of any kind in.

'boys!' i think, and open it. it has a sheet of notepaper, torn off roughly, with some writing hastily scribbled on it.

'ma,' the note says,

'i've never been an outstanding student, but you've always given me the best of opportunities. i know there are lots of children out there who are brilliant, but don't have the opportunity to study.

i know education is important to you, and it is important to me too. so, with some money that i've saved up - rs.5,000/- i'm sponsoring the education of a girl child, for one year, in your name.

happy birthday.'

because

2010-08-02T22:15:00.005+05:30

‘Don’t do this,’ Amma said,

'And don’t do that…

Don’t look at boys,

Actually don’t look up at all.

Listen to your elders,

Don’t ask questions,

Learn to adjust.

You will get ‘spoilt’

If you wear jeans, study,

Work for money,

Drink, dance,

Or have a 'good time.'

Cover your breasts,

Hide your intelligence,

Pretend you don’t have

An independent thought in your head.

Stay home,

Have babies,

Learn to cook,

Be happy cleaning.

No, the house is not yours,

Nor the money,

Nor the opportunities

Your brother has.

Why?

The reason my darling is simple...

You have a vagina,

He has a penis.'

(this is for my friend N who has finally broken free, and for all the women who listened to, and still have to listen to, this kind of nonsense)

raavan - shades of grey and not much else

2010-06-19T10:02:00.011+05:30

what do you look for in a film? escapist entertainment? a hearty laugh fest? a thought provoking experience? gripping drama? what are you looking for in mani ratnam's raavan/ravanan?

if you are looking for escapist entertainment, you will be disappointed.

as everybody knows, mani doesn't do that sort of mindless thing. and there's not much room for comedy here anyway, intelligent or otherwise.

if you are looking for drama, you will be disappointed.

the story line certainly has room for all the drama a movie maker can dream up, and then some more. there's a dreaded outlaw or much loved deliverer of justice, depending on whether you are the police or jungle dweller; there's an upright cop determined to rid the world of this villain; and there's a beautiful woman, feisty and fearless, the wife of the policeman, now in the hands of the villain, and must be rescued by her husband, whom she says is her 'god'

there are interrogations, chases through lush forests, fights set in breathtaking locations, dare devil jumps off cliffs, dances set in angkor wat like ruins, and so on and so forth. all of these are picturised so beautifully, it will quite literally mesmerise you, and leave you wondering at the mind that conceptualised it all, and the skill that made the idea a reality. the camera caresses aishwarya with far more adoration than a lover could have, and shows you the jungle in a way that will leave a nat-geo or discovery programme looking like a 1970's doordarshan documentary.

that one scene with the dragonfly poised on a rain soaked log as the hero slips under it, and the other where ragini, ethereally beautifull, falls throught the trees into the water, will stay in your mind long after you forget the rest of the movie. but is that what you came to watch this mani rathnam movie for?

the acting is not bad, but it is not outstanding either. it is not really the fault of the actors. it is the characters. and the stilted dialogues. what does an actor however accomplished, do with a caricature, with a hollow shell of a character? so aishwarya is the wide eyed beauty screaming her defiance, abhishek could have been his yuva or guru character, just dressed differently, and vikram does what he always does - sink his teeth into his role and flesh it out as best as he can. it still falls short.

if you came looking for a thought provoking experience, you will be disappointed, which is rather sad, because one does expect a mani rathnam movie to linger in the mind, asking questions for which there may not be answers, and if there are any, for them to be uncomfortable ones.

yes, the story is one of the conflict between good, as represented by dev, and evil, personified by beera/veera.

somewhere in his pursuit of justice, and the recovery of his wife kidnapped by the jungle outlaw, the upright cop, not beyond using pain, manipulation and other not so honourable methods to get his man, doesn't seem all that 'upright' anymore.

rarely is any person all good or all bad, not even the original ram and ravan whom dev and beera are loosely modelled on, and mani does make us question not only the concepts of absolute good and evil, but our own expectation that good be all good, and bad completely evil.

however, beyond getting us to wonder who the real villain is, and who the hero, mani fails in making his audience connect with the characters or even care. this is the tragedy of raavan/ravanan, because the movie could have been so much more. mani has certainly proved he is capable of it. what is worse is that this time he has sacrificed raavan/ravanan at the altar of style.

everything in the movie- the story, the actors, the director's potential, everything, has been wretchedly under utilised. you walk out of the theatre thinking raavan is the better man, and the movie is a stunning, breath-taking, spectacularly beautiful example of talent and possibility squandered. as my son, who actually dozed off in the second half, put it - there's not enough of anything in the film.

raavan/ravanan is like a vandalised faberge egg - brilliantly conceptualised, skillfully put together, exquisitely decorated on the outside and empty inside- it's surprise lost.

lazy sunday coriander chicken

2010-03-28T18:08:00.016+05:30

the cooking of my grandmother's time was very simple - ingredients were the kind that were either grown in the backyard, or available in the village market- fresh but extremely limited in its range.

i remember sitting on the steps outside the kitchen while she cleaned bright green, fragrant bunches of coriander. she would shake the soil from the roots and wash them. i would help eagerly, just to get the rich aroma of the herb to cling on to my hands. the roots would be cut off and carefully set aside, to use in a gravy or chutney. 'this is the best part,' she would tell me. today, living in the city, i'm hard-pressed to find coriander that fresh, roots, clingy soil and all, but i still mince the stems and use them along with the leaves.

potatoes were always scrubbed and cooked with their skin on. she rarely used tomatoes.

this afternoon i had an unexpected guest, and barely half an hour to get something nice ready. the freezer revealed less than half a chicken sitting sadly in a dabba, and there was nothing special - no pesto, no fancy cheeses, no capsicum to stuff with mince, nothing. so this is what i whipped up, my janamma (our short form for janaki amma) style, and guess what - it turned out simply delicious.

janamma's measurements were never precise; it was always 'a pinch of this' and 'a handful of that,' so feel free to use those given below simply as a guide, and add more or less to your taste.

main ingredients

chicken - 200 grams

potatoes - 2, scrubbed and cut into chunks, with skin on

curds (lightly whisked) - 2 serving spoons

coriander leaves (finely minced) - 1 large bunch (remove stems, chop & use for c/c paste)

onion, sliced - 1 large

flavouring ingredients

green chillies - 3, slit

turmeric - 1/4 tsp

chilli powder - 1 tsp

salt

to grind, for coconut/coriander paste

cashews - a few

grated coconut - 2 tablespoonsful

ginger - 1 inch

coriander - 1 small bunch, plus stems from other bunch (chop leaves and stems together roughly)

in a mixie grind ginger and coconut together, add the cashews and coriander, and grind to a fine paste

seasoning

mustard seeds - 1/2 tsp

jeera - 1 tsp

crushed garlic - 3 cloves (just place flat of knife blade on garlic clove and press down)

method

*heat oil in a pressure cooker, and allow mustard and jeera to splutter. add crushed garlic, saute.

*add sliced onions and fry till golden brown, then throw in the green chillies, turmeric powder and chilli powder, and saute till the sharp masala smell is gone - a couple of mins.

*add ground coconut/coriander paste to the onion mixture and saute for 5 minutes - careful, it might stick

* when done, add curds and mix well, before tipping in the chicken and potatoes.

* you won't need any more water, but if you're not too sure, just swirl a tiny bit into the dish that held the c/c paste, and pour into cooker.

* pressure cook for 1 whistle.

* check if chicken and potatoes are done by piercing with a toothpick.

* add chopped coriander leaves, and stir continuously till the gravy is reduced to the consistency you want

* season with salt, add a squeeze of lime juice if needed, and finish by pouring a spoonful on ghee on top.

enjoy :)

this dish serves 4, and can be made vegetarian with just potatoes. it goes well with rotis and rice.

a teenager's dream, a woman's life

2010-03-27T15:18:00.020+05:30

19 years ago, today, my husband and i were married. 3 times.

the first was a small private ceremony with only a handful of family members in attendance, at my husband's family perumal temple. it was a beautiful march morning, still dark, still cool from the night breeze.

i was woken up at some crazy hour by my sister, and after the ritual bath with herbs and turmeric, she did my hair, i did my makeup. a french braid, some jasmine, a little eyeliner and lipstick. she wrapped me in the beautiful deep red saree with tiny gold buttis that my mother in law had chosen. then came the adornment with jewellery: an ancient kempu (ruby) addigai, kasumalai, red and gold glass bangles and a heavy gold odiyanam.

at the temple my husband waited with his family. dressed in a white silk shirt, and a zari binny veshti, he looked so happy. to me, there was no better man in the world.

one year of courtship, and one more year of battling my parents for permission to marry the man i loved -we were not going to marry without their blessings. how many secret phone calls (which, unknown to us, were actually broadcast on the radio) the years had seen, how many letters passed to each other hidden in books, how many nightly tapes made on a dictaphone, describing our yearning to be together... how long we had waited for this day.

there was a small puja first, and then he tied a piece of cotton thread with a round gold mangalyam around my neck. we exchanged garlands, and were husband and wife in the eyes of god. the family elders blessed us, as did the temple elephant, and we left for home and the madness of the ceremonies that were to follow.

later that morning, we were married again in front of thousands of friends and relatives.

i washed my parents' feet and anointed them with sandal paste and kumkum. they performed the kanya daan. my husband placed my foot on a small grinding stone, signifying that he would remain as steadfast as that rock, we linked hands and walked around the ceremonial fire, and prayed to the star, arundathi, for a happy married life.

this ceremony was for society, for all those tongues that wagged. this was my way of saying i was proud to be married to my husband, happy to be his wife.

much feasting later, we were back in my father's sister's home. the registrar was waiting for us with his big book. we signed our names in it. this was for the law. we were husband and wife in its eyes and none, other than the two of us, could separate us now.

that was only the beginning. life has put us in situations that never even featured in the romantic dreams of the teenager i was when i fought that battle with my parents, defying them for the first time, for the one thing that was most important to me.

have these years been good? yes. have they been rocky? yes. did i ever wish i had never been married? yes. did i ever look around and thank god for a husband far better than most of the men i saw around me? yes to that too.

and if there's anything i've learnt in these years, it's that points of happiness constantly change. i've learnt to ask myself - is this going to matter 2 years from now? and then act/react. for that bit of wisdom, i've got my husband to thank.

this one's for you pa, happy anniversary.

all's fair in love, war and commerce

2010-03-26T23:20:00.013+05:30

hussain, bawa set a new high at auction, front page headlines scream in the same newspaper where the editor eloquently argued a case for the barefoot artist.

why do i feel, again, that the qatar controversy was an elaborately engineered ploy designed to draw attention and raise the already inflated prices of hussain's paintings?

inspite of being a fan of some of his work, i'm with hilda raja on this one. there is a big difference between using and abusing freedom of expression.

remember pandit nehru's speech in which he said 'freedom and power bring responsibility'?

too bad hussain didn't get that last bit right. let qatar have him. let any other country have him. it's time to let go of this master manipulator of the markets.

boyfriends and best friends

2010-03-26T21:57:00.016+05:30

my chellam has many issues that keep her nails well chewed; one of them is boys. all the 3 boys she likes are 'going steady' with other girls, her friends.

'what do you mean going steady?' is my reaction the first time i hear of it. after all, these kids are just 14, and isn't that the age of multiple crushes?

'yah ma, they've been together since 7th.' she says very sadly, mouth turned down in the most impossible upside down U

gaaahh!!! 12 years old and going steady??? how did things change so much in the span of one generation?

i pretend a casualness i don't feel. 'so why don't you have a boyfriend?'

'i told you ma, because all the boys i like are taken!' brat repeats, rolling her eyes at the dim mother who doesn't understand.

'what about...' i name a few boys in her class i know, and they are all dismissed in the most unflattering of terms... nerd, snitch, smelly...

i know she's very close to the 3 boys earlier described as 'taken.' she's chatting with them on the phone and on facebook as much as, if not more than, she does with her girl buddies.

sometimes the closeness worries me. i worry that she will develop 'feelings' for them and then, seeing as these testosterone charged mini-men are involved with her friends, things will get messy. i worry if she can cope with heartbreak.

'careful sweetie,' i tell her, 'it's very easy to cross the line from friendship to attraction to your teenage version of love, and then it's very easy to forget these are your friends' boyfriends!'

'chill ma,' she always replies, 'you're too hung up on this boyfriend-girlfriend thing.'

i drop the topic. till the next time.

one particular next time i push a bit more...

'so how does it feel to have a crush on your best friend's boyfriend?'

i don't look up from my dosa and chutney but can feel her eyes boring holes in the top of my head.

she stammers, sputters, denies, and in general protests way too much, before settling for a 'how do you know?'

'i'm your mother, i know,' is response enough.

so she tells me how yes, she does have a crush on her best friend's boyfriend, how her best friend found out, and freaked out. 'she felt really insecure, so i told her i actually didn't like him.'

'did she believe you?'

'no ma, so to make her believe me i swore i actually liked X.'

sigh. X is another friend's boyfriend. this was getting too complicated for me.

'but you know what ma,' she carries on, 'it's ok i don't have a boyfriend,'

(you bet it is baby, i'm thinking, but not saying)

'i have many friends, and if there's one thing i'm not going to do, it's steal my friend's boyfriend just because i like him and he likes me too!'

i gape at her in open mouthed amazement.

way to go girl. you've got your heart in the right place. there's plenty of time for your someone special to come along, and when he does, he will come with no strings attached (i sincerely hope).

now if only adults had the integrity this little child has!

of friends, fa(c)ts and figures

2010-03-17T23:05:00.005+05:30

strong fingers kneaded the muscles of my neck, and worked their way down my shoulders, back and waist. by the time they found the curves of my hips and pushed my legs apart to reach the insides of my thighs, i was ready to melt into a puddle of pleasure.

'put on a bit of weight, haven't you,' the knowing voice commented, cruelly bursting the bubble of bliss i was floating in. 'you should see gayathri and prasanna. ah, what figures!'

*$@&^%$*!

bad enough that i was being called fat by the one person who knew my body better than anyone else on this planet, i was also being compared, unfavourably, to my best friends, both of whom happen to be in superb form.

this is what happens when you loan your maalish-wali out to those you love!

when the highest in the land make crazy statements

2010-03-11T23:29:00.005+05:30

imagine this situation - a couple has had their child brutally murdered. the case comes to court, and the judge says if the couple so wishes, they should be allowed to adopt the murderer.

does it make sense? or would you say the person who made the statement was completely insane?

so how does it make sense for a judge to say a woman should be allowed to marry her rapist if she so wishes?

when will the indian system start to show more sensitivity toward victims of rape, understand and accept that rape is a horrific crime that steals more from the victim than we can even begin to comprehend, and no, i'm not talking about so called 'honour.'

rape is deserving of the harshest of punishments. to talk of the victim marrying the rapist, is stupid beyond belief.

read more about that crazy statement here

vinnai thaandi varuvaaya

2010-03-11T07:41:00.018+05:30

i don't like simbu - the list of reasons why is too long. i don't like trisha - she has enough wood in her expression to build a tharavadu. i went to watch vinnai thaandi varuvaaya only because the movie was made by gautam menon - how wrong can a gvm movie get anyway! and because i was seeing it with some very dear friends.

vtv is easy to pick holes in. love happens at first sight, dialogues and situations are cliched, silly choreography takes away from the beauty of the songs - why gautam, why the obsession with group dances featuring firangs? simbu swears undying love every two minutes, and trisha changes her mind every five, and towards the end of the rambling, sometimes self indulgent film, you start wondering what the point of all that song and dance is. take the movie apart, and practically every piece is flawed.

yet, somewhere down the line, vtv shuts your analytical/critical mind out. it stops being a series of improbable vignettes, and becomes a gritty feeling you can't brush aside. it wraps its fingers around your throat, and forces out another laugh. this time at the memory of yourself in a situation similar to the one playing out on screen.

it reminds you of the time you looked at someone and couldn't look away. of the time you couldn't make up your mind whether you loved, or did not. of the time you loved too much and the time you didn't love enough. of the time you asked yourself - why does he/she love me? why doesn't he/she love me? why doesn't he/she love me enough? why doesn't he/she love me anymore? how could he/she love me and still walk away? why do i continue to breathe? how can i go on?

if you have ever experienced the messy and tangled emotions of love, it reminds you of the time when your life was a mad riot of conflicting passions. when your every thought was drenched with desire. when you were sure you would love forever. when you knew you would never get over heartbreak. it reminds you of the time when you finally realised love was neither fair, nor logical, and life went on anyway.

it forces you to acknowledge that no matter how much time has gone by, or how much you laugh at a reel-romance that you pretend has nothing to do with anything you have ever felt, you never really get over your heartbreaks; you simply put them away. out of sight. boxed up. waiting for that insidious nudge that will bring the memories tumbling out. and if you are alone that night, vinnai thaandi varuvaaya makes sure sleep will not be your companion.

love it or hate it, you've got to give gautam vasudev menon this - he knows how to unearth, and expose, raw nerves. finally, it makes you want to smash your computer, because you've got aaromale on a loop, and it rubs on those raw nerves.

ps. gautam, all of this aside, how 'bout giving us a kaakha kaakha style thriller for the next one? and that line about simbu? that was before vtv!

(another post script) as we exchanged notes over ravanan, gvm revealed that he actually is making a yet to be named thriller - can't wait, and remember you heard it here first!

midnight feasts - 2 recipes

2010-03-06T01:34:00.011+05:30

couch papaya, this one's for you.

disclaimer 1 - i am not an expert cook, i simply throw things together. most often you will be required to use your own measures, to suit your tastes, for the ingredients mentioned.

disclaimer 2 - i like my food simple and prepared with minimum effort/skill. you will find nothing 'fancy' here.

strictly speaking, what i do can't even be called cooking!

1 - 'i could sell my soul for corn' corn

ingredients

sweet corn - plain, not cream-style - 1 small tin

mixed italian herbs - 1 generous pinch

fresh basil - a few leaves, torn

method

mix ingredients in a pretty bowl. enjoy :)

2 - to die for tomatoes

ingredients

for dressing

extra virgin olive oil and balsamic vinegar - 3:1 proportion

garlic - 1 clove, crushed and minced

basil - a few leaves, chiffonaded (a fancy word for stacking leaves, rolling up and cutting into very thin strips)

salt and freshly ground pepper - to taste

make the dressing and allow to sit while chopping tomatoes

tomatoes - 2, chopped

method

toss tomatoes and dressing together. salad done.

if you're really hungry, pile this on to some crusty french bread that you've rubbed with garlic, and you have lovely bruschette!

***********

i must confess i started writing this, and just had to go down and make myself a tomato salad for a midnight snack. i let it sit all mixed up, flavours blending, while i washed up the chopping board and knife, and put away the rest of the ingredients. the salad was over by the time i walked leisurely up the staircase to my room, leaving me staring at the empty bowl, wondering why on earth i always stopped with just two tomatoes.

and if you are wondering if any sane person really eats this kind of food, i must tell you my teen brats who think the words 'healthy' and 'food' together are a sick adult joke, actually ask for both the corn and the tomatoes for their 'break'!!

try these recipes. there's nothing simpler or quicker. doesn't taste bad too :)

fullo' fruit smoothie

2010-03-04T10:22:00.013+05:30

what is about childhood pet hates that mysteriously morph into adult must do's? is it that as children we blindly refuse to see the particular goodness of something adults are sure exists? or that we simply see through adult hype and hoopla, shouting out cheerfully that the rajah is indeed nanga?

whatever it is, oats as a food was something i wouldn't touch, convinced it was cattle fodder, and now it's a breakfast staple! why, yesterday i even discovered i was in good company; a slim and sexy friend not only has oats for her own breakfast, she also carries some kanji with her as a quick pick me up in her rushed 'food? who has time for food?' kind of day.

recently i picked up an oats based fruit smoothie in m&s, and loving the taste, put together my own version of the drink. try it - if 'oats' has been a bad word in your culinary dictionary so far, you just might be a convert!

fullo'fruit oatmeal smoothie - 1 serving

oats (the quick cooking rolled oats kind, quaker is good)- 2 heaped tbsp

banana (small) - 1

water - 1 big water glass

fruit juice concentrate - 1 1/2 tbsp

these are the basic ingredients. to this you can add other fruits like

a handful of hulled strawberries

1/2 a guava de-seeded

1/2 an apple

and other healthy stuff like

flax seed powder - 1 tsp

wheat germ - 1 tsp

method

chop fruit and freeze overnight

toss fruit with oats, flax seed powder/ wheat germ if using, and fruit juice concentrate into the mixie, with a little water.

pulse a few times, then blend till smooth

pour into a beer mug, add rest of water and mix well. smoothie ready!

this taste and consistency works for me. you can increase amount of fruit juice concentrate or water to suit you

once in a while, i use juice instead of water- dabur real active has a nice range, and i must confess i love their fruit spinach cucumber juice

i use bananas not only for their taste, but for the lovely smooth texture they give the drink. for those who don't care for them, leave bananas out and increase other fruit quantity.

when children are scrambling madly to get ready for school and have neither the time nor inclination for breakfast, pour some of this in a glass, and thrust it into their not so eager hands, to have in the car/van. keeps them buzzed until lunchtime :)

and how 'bout checking out the health goodies a bit of oats everyday can give to you

bombay cab drivers

2010-02-25T09:35:00.006+05:30

i like bombay cab drivers; as a species, they are probably the best i've seen anywhere in the world, even if they are not from mumbai, and know neither marathi nor the city roads!

i was in the city a few weeks ago with my son. we had an appointment with some professors in st.xaviers, and were lost and wandering about, country bumpkin in city style, till we stopped by a taxi and i, using the best hindi i knew, asked for directions to the college.

the driver couldn't have been more helpful.

following his directions, we walked for about 10 minutes before we realised we were more lost than ever, and were turning back, when we heard frantic honking behind us. it was the taxi driver who had (mis) directed us.

apologising profusely, he offered to drop us at the college, asked if we had had breakfast, and when we said no, asked about our food preferences - udipi chahiye? (our south indian-ness is written large on our faces i guess!) took us to a restaurant close enough to college that we could walk on down after we were done stuffing our faces, and refused to accept a fare for his troubles.

'i gave you incorrect directions,' he said, 'it was my duty to set the wrong right. i don't want any money.'

well, we did end up pressing some notes into his palm, and left, smiling, faith in humanity reinforced.

rehab

2009-11-17T23:59:00.006+05:30

an organisation i belong to presented a very famous actor with an award today. as expected, the venue was a melee of journalists and photographers wielding mikes and cameras, refusing to listen to appeals to 'behave!'

in the crowd were a few safari clad men trying hard to blend into the background, and not succeeding very well. tall, muscle packed, dark skinned, with sharp eyes that darted about the room without pause, in contrast to their curiously still bodies, they were hard to miss.

'who are they?' i asked a lady who had access to every bit of information that flowed through our club doors.

'oh they are gym-boys,' she said, 'here to do a bit of crowd control if needed.'

apparently these euphemistically named gym-boys who looked like they could snap heads with a flick of their fingers, and chew thigh bones for breakfast, used to be henchmen of a local don who was, as dons often tend to be, bumped off by a rival.

these men, jobless after their boss moved on to newer *'pettais,' discreetly approached a few men whom they knew could use 'protection services,' and were now 'rehabilitated' in respectable employment.

so much more fun, no, when you can bash up people, be paid for it, and not worry about landing face down in a gutter with a bullet in the back?

* pettai = literally meaning village/town, here referring to their area of control

mushtaq, the bangle maker

2009-09-24T13:53:00.005+05:30

mushtaq looks like he is in his 60s. i don't ask him his age. but i talk to him about his products. painted wood bangles, hair-clips, photo-frames, key chains, and some very imaginatively designed clothes hangers.

he doesn't speak any tamil, and i don't speak much hindi. our conversation is a laughing mixture of hindi, english and signs. he is indulgent, and tells me about his family and the people who work with him to create all of this beauty. i write down what is relevant to my survey, and absorb the rest.

a particularly beautiful bangle catches my eye, and i point to it. 'how much?'

'wan 'undred.' he replies, and reaches back to get it for me. it has taken him 2 hours to make. i wonder how much is left over for him after paying for the wood and paint, but i don't ask. the question is not relevant to my survey, and i'm afraid the numbers would be too heart-breaking to listen to.

'how can we help you?' i ask him.

'with medical insurance.' he responds. 'we come for these exhibitions, make money, go back home, and spend everything on medicines for our family. 50% is enough. we will give 50%.' i make a note of it in my book.

his hands, rough and calloused, are a dramatic contrast to the beauty of the bangle he's wrapping for me in newspaper. and when he holds out a painted strawberry keychain and says 'aapki beti ke liye.' his smile is the brightest.

if you live in chennai, go visit the crafts council of india sale at valluvar kottam. it's on till sunday, the 27th of september. you will find mushtaq there.

you used to be mine!

2009-09-23T23:54:00.010+05:30

lunch was over, and the 6 of us got up to leave, paying bills, rounding up stray french fries, picking up sleepy babies falling sideways, with thumbs stuck in their mouths.

'isn't that so sweet?' p said, to nobody in particular.

'take the hint,' i teased s. 'your wife's trying to tell you something.'

he hugged her close to him. 'let's cancel all plans and go home to work on that baby thing.' she punched him in the side. and the banter went on, back and forth, between the couple, and friends who had known each other long enough to say anything and for it to be laughed at.

***

years ago, there had been another woman in s's life. he didn't commit to her. she left town. he married p. the other woman married too, and everybody seemed content in their lives. i saw s and his wife once in a while. they seemed happy together.

'he's faking it.' the other woman insisted. she didn't like the wife, and i knew barbed remarks occasionally flew between the two women, at least privately.

'i can't stand it,' she would swear. 'he calls me only when she's around, and makes polite conversation, saying his wife's the best thing to happen to him, and that he's finally perfectly happy in his perfect life. i know he says all of this just because she's around, and he wants to convince her she is most important.'

'it's been years, maybe he really loves her.' i said once. though i was very fond of s, i didn't know the couple well enough to judge either way. the response was always a disbelieving snort!

'he can't pretend forever, but till then, i'll just go along with the game.'

i knew the woman well enough to know she would wait it out till she found a way to get what she wanted - in this case, the place in his affections she considered hers.

as i got into the car, i sent up a quick prayer that regardless of anything and anybody that tested their relationship, love, trust and closeness was something this couple would always share between them.

why a woman?

2009-08-17T23:43:00.004+05:30

chellam, at the dining table, whining about some totally unnecessary and wildly expensive gadget she had to have.

me - you know...

chellam, cutting in - ma, when you start saying 'you know...' in that tone, i just know you're going to lecture me on some poor child who doesn't have anything. i KNOW all that, but i still want this so badly, and i can't help it, ok?

me (quickly changing tracks) - chellam, i wasn't going to say anything like that. i was going to ask if you read that bit in the papers about women in afghanistan.

both children look up from their food. i continue - you know (i really should stop saying that!) about how if women refuse to have sex with their husbands, their husbands can deny them food, and starve them.

chellam, completely outraged - what???

we discuss the recently passed law, how husbands can legally rape their wives, and how a rapist can get away with rape by paying blood money to the family of the girl.

raja - sheesh, excuse me for being so crude, but if all those men want is something warm to stick it in, why not a cow or goat, why a woman!

(wonder why hamid karzai didn't have the courage to ask his men this?)

a discussion on women's rights and the lack of them in certain countries, the interpretation of islam for the convenience of men, etc. follows.

then, chellam - ma, where did you find this news? on the front page?

me - no kanna, tucked somewhere in the back pages, why?

chellam - why would somebody hide important news like this in the back of a paper instead of putting it in the front page? ma, half the world is women!

(journalists, do you have an answer for this?)

when the earth moved...

2009-08-11T10:18:00.017+05:30

last night, i was sitting quietly at my dining table, working at my computer, soul music playing in the background, when it started to pour. just like that. no warning. one minute silence, next the relentless whoosh of water on the roof. the wind picked up, and the door leading from the dining room to the kitchen creaked open on hinges that could certainly do with a drop of oil.

'too RGV movie like,' i was starting to think, when i felt the earth move beneath my feet. literally. and my chair do a little jig (no mean feat that, with me and my considerable girth settled on it) and the table join it in a sideways dance. i looked up and there was the light, swaying gently to and fro.

shocked speechless, and senseless, and feeling a bit like chicken little, i recovered just enough to message my nearest and dearest, asking if they too got this sky falling on their heads feeling. nobody replied. yes, i know it was 1.42am, but surely i wasn't the only person on earth, or at least in my time zone, awake at that hour? this morning the responses started coming in...

- you sidey, where were you partying at that hour without me

(i wish my life were really that exciting!)

- must have been a tremor, silly

(thanks very much jay, i knew that, i was looking for a spot of reassurance!)

- i told you you need to cut down on the booze, and you never listen!

(no, not me. not true.)

- you liar, get your lazy bum to the gym. if you are exercising as much as you claim to be, you would have been fast asleep at that hour.

(smart girl, she got me on that one!)

- i told you there was a spirit in the apartment!

(hmmm... now i feel really reassured)

- 1.40? babe, that's middle of the night for me. what were you doing up at that hour anyway?

- what were you doing up at that hour? what were you doing up at that hour? what were you doing up at that hour? what were you doing up at that hour?

then one lone message

- sweetheart, are you ok?

(thank you lakshmi, i love you too!)

and one scary message

- that's the resident ghost of your area. didn't you know? it preys on young, pretty, thin women.

the scary part was that the message came from my brother. THREE compliments in ONE message?? that's three more than i've heard in one year - i wonder what the man wants!

anyway, this much i know, if i really am buried under a ton of rubble, i've got at least a dozen friends i can rely on, to not dig me out!

pah!

ps. if you are wondering, yes, there really was a tremor in the city last night, and we are lucky it was as mild as it was - it hit the andamans at 7.8 on the richter scale!

why?

2009-08-11T00:59:00.002+05:30

the last couple of hours have been 'disturbing' to say the least.

dh messaged saying a friend's father died.

he shot himself.

he was 90...

how does one make sense of something like that? where does one look for answers?

this man who makes me laugh, and makes me cry

2009-07-30T00:36:00.022+05:30

phone call from darling husband. 'what did the doctor say?'

i explain that if i want to breathe properly again (of course!), to hopefully regain my sense of smell (i can't wait!), to distinguish between the tastes of damp cardboard and an exquisite spicy chocolate mousse with ginger and chilli (yes, yes!!) and to get back my dark husky voice (grinning very immodestly here) i need a procedure called functional endoscopic sinus surgery.

hubby listens, then 'how're you feeling, bujima?' he asks. i respond that i'm fine, but i could do with a nice long hug. he's indulgent, and makes all the right noises.

loooonnng pause on the line, then 'btw, how are you planning to pay for those bangles you bought t (my niece) for her saree ceremony?'

i quickly launch into a spiel about the necklace i never use, and that i can't see my chellam wearing, so i'd trade that in for the bangles. i half expect him to interrupt with a disapproving lecture on jewellery swapping, and to give me a hundred reasons why my niece would be better off with shares, or with the money in a mutual fund, or something equally practical (and boring!)

my 'but she can't wear share certificates to a wedding' defense is ready to roll, when...

'oh don't do that,' he says, very casually, as if commenting on the weather or something. 'your mom made that necklace for you when you were little. i'm sure you have plenty of memories to go with it. i'll bring you the money for the bangles.'

it takes a few seconds for the words to sink in, and then it seems as if the air around me is too heavy to inhale. i look down at that piece of paper in my lap with the doctor's recommendations. the letters are hazy, as if i'm looking at them through a liquid barrier.

i can't think of anything to say to this man i thought i knew so well.

and for some strange reason, all i can think of at that moment is that he's been wearing the same watch for 23 years.

angles vs curves

2009-07-27T13:33:00.026+05:30

it's saturday afternoon, g and i go shopping. of course we plan on being good girls and checking out only the sales: benetton - 50% off, wills lifestyle - buy one get one free, and tommy hilfiger - upto 50% off. we end up at evoluzione where there's no sale of any kind in sight, just silks and chiffons and sheer cottons and stretchy knits in every yummy colour god ever created, and fall madly in lust.

after trying on every thing the store has in our sizes, g settles on the most sexy red malini ramani dress ever. she looks so hot in it, i half expect fire engines to be called in to douse flames. i pick a malini ramani too; a more sedate black and gold knit wrap, cut low in the back.

as we strip off in the large changing room with its unforgiving lights, we compare notes on low backed-low fronted clothes, and underwear that refuses to remain under cover. i moan about straps and wires i can't do without, and body bits that won't stay where they are supposed to. the lean and lithe g laughs about how being angular is sometimes very convenient.

dear god, i'm grateful for the curves you've given me, i truly am. but till invisible underwear is invented, may i have angles too? please?

adjustments - why do girls have to make all of them?

2009-07-27T13:07:00.014+05:30

'where will they live after they get married, ma?'

that was my son, asking about a young girl we know, who is seeing a boy living in a different city.

'in his hometown of course raja,' i responded.

'and what will she do there?'

'what do you mean?' i asked. 'she's a qualified professional, she will find work there, and where else is she expected to live anyway?'

'why can't he move to chennai?' was the next question.

'don't be ridiculous raja,' i snapped. 'he's got his business there, and his family's there.'

'ma, why is she the one expected to leave her family and friends and the life she has lived all these years? why is the girl expected to make all the adjustments while the boy sits back in his comfort zone, enjoying the life he's always lived? doesn't that seem unfair to you?'

you're right, raja. there's no reason at all, except that we've always thought it was the girl who should do it.

in many ways, i am still a product of the years of conditioning i've been put through. i don't have the right answers. often i don't even think to ask the right questions. but i'm proud of my children for doing it, and when it's their turn to find answers, they have my complete and unconditional support.

take a look at this article; most of it is cliched westerners gawking at indian culture stuff, but keep going till the end. i love the part where kartik says ' i didn't really have a choice about moving, gowri is based here.'

a monday morning smilemaker

2009-07-27T12:11:00.004+05:30

who says there's only one way to do anything? or that weddings have to be solemn affairs? enjoy this video.

freedom

2009-07-26T10:50:00.011+05:30

i wasn't always ‘that useless husband!’

friends. musical evenings. early morning walks. love making through the night. simple pleasures filled our lives.

it hadn’t mattered that i couldn’t afford a cruise, or jewellery, or that my family was 'from the boondocks where the most exciting thing that happened was the possession of the barber at the mariamman temple festival.'

she looked up from her phone conversation, ‘ get me allegra. one pack 120 and one pack 30.'

i put water on the stove, and called out that it would be ready in 10 minutes. ‘the eucalyptus oil’s by your basin.’ i reminded her, and left.

my phone rang. it was her sister. ‘where are you?’ she screamed, ‘nobody could reach you!’

there had been a gas leak, and with that cursed sinus infection, she couldn't smell a thing.

they declared her dead on arrival.

(this is for sandhya, who said 'oh gosh, that's dangerous!' and put the idea in my head.)

garlicky mushrooms in a white wine sauce

2009-07-23T00:39:00.029+05:30

it's not a good idea to be wide awake at 12.30 at night, especially when you've had dinner at 6.30 in the evening. between your stomach crying out for filling, and transparent tupperware boxes full of calorie bombs stacked shoulder high on the kitchen shelves, a person trying to be weightwise has very little chance of getting through the night unscathed. so i opened my fridge to drown my hunger pangs with plain, calorie free water, saw a bottle with enough wine left in it to get me drunk, and almost swooned.

what my mind and body now clamoured for was mushrooms. in a white wine sauce. fat chance of that happening, woe is me and all that. tomorrow, i will make myself some, i promise. for now, here's how to prepare the most sinfully delicious mushrooms in wine ever!

ingredients - in order of appearance

olive oil

mushrooms, whatever kind you can get your hands on. regular ol' button will do - washed and sliced thick. about 200gm per person

salt, pepper

garlic, crushed (just put the flat of your knife on a clove and press down hard) - a couple of cloves.

herbs, fresh rosemary and thyme, if you can get some, otherwise mixed dry herbs with a handful of chopped coriander will do. this is not worth going grey over!

white wine

butter, chopped parsley/coriander

pour some olive oil into a kadai (no non stick pans please!) when hot, add crushed garlic, saute for a minute. throw in the sliced mushrooms. add salt to taste, grind plenty of pepper over it and toss in the herbs - fresh or dried. stir, and allow to cook. it will take time as the mushrooms have to give up their water. hold on, it will reduce, i promise. the mushrooms will also shrink and start to get brown. this is when the fun begins.

don't worry about the mushrooms sticking to the bottom of the pan. toss them just enough so that the slices at the bottom don't burn, and that all of them get brown. at the stage when you look at the brown stuff at the bottom of the kadai, and start questioning the wisdom of listening to a non-cook blogging in the dead of the night about deglazing, is when you get the wine out, and splash generous amounts of it into the kadai.

be prepared for lots of steam and sizzle. stir, making sure you scrape up all the brown bits, and lower the heat. let the liquid reduce. the wine will pick up the stuff you were frowning over, and transformed it all magically into a delicious sauce. if the sauce is too thick, don't panic, add more wine, and let it reduce to preferred consistency.

take kadai off the heat, check seasoning. remove the sprigs of rosemary and thyme, if you were using fresh herbs. toss with a little butter and chopped parsley or coriander if you used a dry herb/coriander mix. spoon into a bowl, and dive right in. it tastes great with toast, or heaped on pasta too. no, you don't have to share.

(as always, no quantities specified - trust your tastebuds. experiment. enjoy!)

birthday presents, and how to get what you want!

2009-07-19T14:04:00.010+05:30

last night, chellam, raja and i walked into the taj for a late, late dinner, and saw this prominently displayed sign that said 'salvatore ferragamo at the taj coromandel'

after squeals of delight from my daughter who wouldn't know a ferragamo from a frock stitched by the local roadside tailor, sarcastic comments about overpriced italian brands, courtesy my son, and my observations on the psychological differences between paying a couple of hundred dollars vs many thousands of rupees for a tie, we settled in to the usual crazy dinner conversations the family is known to have! today's topic was chellam, and her penchant for everything branded, hyped and overpriced, and how she would soon (in about 11 years) have to foot her own bills. amidst much hooting and laughter and protests, we figured this is how she would probably fill her closets with designer junk.

chellam, from somewhere in europe, calling her brother - hhaaaii annnaa!!! (polite conversation follows)

brother, rudely cutting her off - ok, what do you want?

chellam - noth-thing anna, just that it's my birthday in a few days, and i was wondering if you were planning to get me a present. (silence on the line, so chellam bravely pushes on) anna, will you get me a pair of jimmy choos?

long silence again, then, brother - sure... in your dreams! (click of receiver in her ear)

chellam calls her mother next. polite conversation follows, then - ma, it's my birthday in a few days...

mother, cutting in- yes, bangaru, i know. i've arranged for a special puja and homam in your name. i'll send you the prasadam as soon as i get it. put some kumkum on your forehead every night without fail, ok?

chellam rolling her eyes -her mother's a hopeless case- and hanging up. she can always blame it on the connection later! she calls her father.

father - yes, what is it? i'm in the middle of a monthly review meeting!

chellam - no nana, it's my birthday in a few days, and i was wondering if i could pick up a present for myself.

father, figuring he can get off the phone in less than 2 minutes, is all sweet and indulgent now - sure kanna, get yourself something nice. what do you want?

chellam - nothing much nana. is a pair of shoes or something like that ok with you?

father, glancing at his watch - of course, get yourself a couple of nice pairs chelli paapu. but get something sensible, not those horrible purples and oranges you wear all the time, ok? take care of yourself. are you dressing warmly enough? don't go out in the wind without your thermals. i've got to go now. call me on sunday, ok? love you.

chellam hangs up with a wide grin on her face. 2 pairs, yyyesss!

father hangs up with a sigh of relief. shoes! now back to the meeting.

of course he has no idea what shoes she has in mind or how much they cost, and she's not going to be around when the credit card slip arrives, he finds out, and bursts a blood vessel!

the newest party flavour

2009-07-11T12:07:00.005+05:30

the bling adorned fashionista, the super networked social climber, the jet setting royal, everybody wants the pretty, powdered, and flashily dressed slim young thing on their arm as they smile for the newspaper photographer.

and the pretty, powdered, and flashily dressed slim young thing makes the most of these 15 minutes of fame under the spotlights, pouting for cameras, cultivating contacts, signing on radio, tv or movie deals, smart enough to know that today he, the overtly homosexual drag queen may be the flavour of the month, but tomorrow he will probably dumped on the ever growing heap labelled 'used and forgotten.'

how many servings was that?

2009-07-10T01:04:00.015+05:30

if your mother or mother in law are anything like mine, they make the best spiced puffed rice, (better known in south indian homes as pori) on earth! it will be light and crisp, have peanuts, chillies soaked in buttermilk and dried, roasted bengal gram, and will be seasoned with just the right amount of mustard, curry leaves, chilli power and garlic; it might even have a hint of asafoetida. i swear that pori's an open invitation to simply pick up the large dabba, and eat from it, stopping only when the last grain of mustard is eaten!

if you've tasted it even once, you surely know how easy it is to finish in half an hour, that dabba meant to last you one week.

i was visiting darling hubby over the last couple of days, and even before hello was said, spotted that familiar pori dabba with it's bright yellow lid. best of all, it was mostly full!

niceties done, i headed straight for the dabba, unscrewed the lid, poured some pori into a bowl (ok, i'll admit it was a large bowl!) screwed the lid shut again, brought the bowl into the living room, and proceeded to demolish it while pretending to make conversation.

i stopped only when my mind, and body said enough, and miracle of miracles, the level of pori in the dabba was down only by a couple of inches.

so what went right this time?

1 - if you don't want to make an absolute pig of yourself, don't eat directly from a container that has more than one helping of food.

take what you want, put it into another, smaller, container/bowl/plate, so that you can see exactly how much you are eating.

if you're a lunch time rice eater, put the rice you're going to eat in a smaller katori; don't serve yourself directly from the big rice bowl.

the 'oh god, did i really eat all that?' feeling is a total bummer!

2 - after helping yourself to a snack, act as if that is the only helping you will have. close the container, put it away, and move away to another place to eat what's on your plate/bowl.

no matter how tempted you are, don't just carry the big dabba/packet along with you.

this gives your mind a chance, even if only a very slim chance, of saying to you - ok, enough, stop already, you've already been through this three times!

as for that pori, in spite of the temptation, because i followed those rules, i only went back for two refills, i swear. and that's not a bad thing.

contrast that with my experience on tuesday, when i picked up a box of nutties, parked it in front of me, and in full view of half a dozen colleagues, proceeded to demolish it while i pretended to work. yes, i know, shame!

what on earth were they thinking of!

2009-07-10T00:33:00.013+05:30

darling husband, looking at the bill for a 6-fruit drink called 'indian cocktail' from the 'fruit shop on greams road'

'what on earth have you been having!'

me, peering at the piece of paper in his hands. it says:

1 indian cock- Rs. 45/-

the story of kiran and arjun

2009-07-03T20:26:00.025+05:30

1979

kiran was tall, slim, beautiful, and well educated. homely too, if your definition of homely matched the one found in indian matrimonial ads - quiet, conservative, glad to stay home, cook and clean and generally keep in-laws as inlaws, not outlaws.

arjun was tall, dark and handsome. well educated and stud about town till he laid eyes on kiran. now he was besotted, and knew there was nobody else for him.

perfect match some said, and blessed it.

kiran's parent's were not too thrilled. they loved their daughter, and had always encouraged her to think for herself, never knowing it would one day come to this! anyway, if this was what made her happy, they would accept the match, and try to be happy for their ladli.

arjun's parents were shocked. how could they bear the shame. she ate meat and couldn't tell the difference between aiyappan and ayyanar if her life depended on it. and the way she wore her sarees, aiyyo, athu saree-ya, poonal-a! so they cast their son and his wife out of their lives. the mother even poured water over her head, and declared her son dead.

they didn't see their grandchildren, and pretended not to care.

honour, dignity and prestige in society were more important than the feelings that caused the mother to sometimes cry in the dead of the night when she thought the father was sleeping. he stiffened at the sound, but didn't turn to comfort her. try as he might, he couldn't shut out images of his little boy bouncing on his knee, calling out 'appa, appa' and saying that when he was growed up, he would buy him a biiiiiggggg bung-la and a cheverlet car. their choices, hard as they were, were made.

2009

the kiran in the story could be a man, just as arjun is, and homosexual relationships might soon be to conservative society what 'inter-caste/community marriages' were, decades ago.

30 years from now the controversy of the day will be something unimaginable today, and probably indian matrimonial ads will say, 'wanted for tall, slim, well educated boy- tall, fair, well educated and homely young partner - gender no bar'

but regardless of anything else we are willing to accept or not, this i know for sure, 'fair' will be a non-negotiable!

*** thanks abha :)

finally, the freedom to choose your sexual partner

2009-07-03T11:54:00.016+05:30

the streets of our metros have been gaily painted in rainbow colours over the last few days! and then the delhi high court passed an order that brought much joy to the homosexual community in india. i was just asking a lawyer friend to explain the order.

it means that if you are a practicing homosexual in this country, versus the kind that's still lurking about in dark, claustrophobic spaces , you can no longer be arrested for having committed what was considered a criminal act.

can other courts pass contradictory orders? technically, yes, but it is not likely to happen, other courts will follow the legislation.

so can two people of the same sex get married? no, not yet, and according to my lawyer friend, 'never, nevv-vver! not in this country!'

it's taken 150 years for this country to overturn a law that shouldn't have been a law in the first place. how is it anybody's business if two consenting adults- man, woman, or anything else, have sex in private?

if there is coercion, come down on them hard, if there is rape, come down on them hard, if there is involvement of a minor, come down on them hard, but why should we care otherwise about what people do in the privacy of their bedrooms and with whom? the law even specifies where you can and cannot place certain body parts during intercourse! does the government, and society, really have nothing better to do than act as voyeuristic, judgmental peeping toms?

and what law of nature are the religious grey beards making such a noise about? just because heterosexual relationships are the majority among humans doesn't make that the only 'natural' kind - ma nature has room for any sexual combination the human mind can think up, and then some; just look through any 10 year old's biology text book for proof.

it's time religious heads focussed on gaining a true understanding of the philosophies espoused by their religions, and stopped exploiting god to further their personal and political agendas.

it's time governments focussed on making good all their promises to create an environment that allows it's citizens to flourish culturally and economically, and

it's time individuals remembered that nobody appointed them judge and jury of somebody else's private business.

now that that's been settled, can we please be spared the rubbing in our faces of a sexual choice, and PDAs that serve no other purpose than to gain attention? heterosexual, homosexual, bi-sexual,and whatever else you are, if you feel the urge to grope your partner, please, find a room first.

ps. why do i get the feeling that transgenders have been given the short shrift here? surely this fight was not just about the right to be physically intimate with the person of your choice, but also for transgenders to be recognised as a separate sex by themselves? what happened to that?

and some days, they are perfectly horrid!

2009-07-02T01:20:00.027+05:30

originally posted in 'dear god... wasn't there supposed to be a manual?

************************************************************************

4.45am - "BITCH GET IN MY CAR" i jerk upright and flail around blindly. damn, there's somebody in my room, and from the sound of it, the foul mouthed idiot is trying to kidnap me or something!!

chellam says sleepily, 'ma, can you shut that alarm off, i want 5 minutes more please!'

what the hell!!! that is her morning alarm? and what's it doing going off at 4.45 am anyway?

5.45am - jerk upright and flail around blindly. please god don't tell me i overslept. first born had to be at the golf course at 6.00. damn, i overslept. dash madly into his room, apologising profusely, only to find him under the covers. 'don't worry ma, coach smssed saying it was ok if i was there at 7.00'

oh, and you never thought to let me know?

walk back to room with mood meter inching toward 'annoyed'

discover chellam is still sprawled across the bed asleep. so much for that 4.45 alarm. wake her up, get under the covers and try to grab some sleep. nope, not happening. too much adrenalin rushing around for that. remain under the covers, eyes closed, forcing myself to breathe slow and deep. not working.

7.00am - back from the golf course, pick up breakfast for chellam from the kitchen, and take it up to her.

chellam 'maaa, whydyu get TWO idlis!!'

whiney tone actually triggers a sharp shooting pain that goes all the way from the back of my teeth through my eyeballs, and right into my brain! i mutter something about ungrateful children and a mother's stupidity, slam the plate down on the bed, and lock myself in the bathroom.

mood meter is firmly lodged at 'pissed off' and the day hasn't even got to it's feet yet.

8.15am - driver calls. he's not coming in to work, his wife's sick.

8.45am - maid calls. she's not coming in to work, her father's sick.

mood meter points to 'ohh myyy gorrdddd' hopelessness

wash down my morning's handful of antibiotics, steroids, tummy protectors and decongestants with a glass of hot water, and throw in some paracetamol for good luck. that flushed feeling could be the onset of insanity, or maybe it is the fever coming back.

the day passes in a daze of phone calls, instructions to the other maid who at best functions like she checked her brain in at the gate before walking in through my door, a meeting with a dear friend. we spend more time gossiping and less working. thank god for small mercies.

mood meter tentatively hovers around 'happy'

5.15pm - turn into my lane and find chellam running out onto the road bare footed, in her school uniform shirt and the thin knit shorts she wears under her uniform skirt - she might as well have run out on the road in her panties! yell and scream that she might have the body of a lumbering 16 year old but her brain is still stuck at 10.

the handful of leering drivers and watchmen looking on have their entertainment quota for the day filled. barely manage to stop myself from turning around and screaming 'and whatreyou looking at? yeah, you, and you, and you!'

8.30pm - get my ass kicked in scrabble, but the company is worth every point i lose, and then some, so it's ok.

9.30pm - come home to find that brat female offspring of mine has been on the computer, on facebook and some stupid thing called 'restaurant city,' knowing perfectly well that the computer is out of bounds on weekdays, and especially so now because exams are going on. check phone - find she has been merrily smssing away. do i even need to say that we have a 'phone turned in before dinner' rule?

lose it. completely. mood zooms to 'insane woman yelling madly, loud enough to be heard down three streets, arms flailing about, spraying spittle all over the room, and eyeballs in serious danger of falling out of her head'

'ok, if all you do is break every rule i set,' i yell, 'fine, no rules. but don't expect me to do anything for you either. you can't have EVERY BLESSED THING your way!'

she throws a tantrum back, and stalks off, fat tears streaming down her face, saying she needed some peace and quiet to study in.

right, and i was the one getting in the way of her mugging up her math equations!

mood meter quietly gives up trying. there's nothing in it's experience to describe this.

9.45pm - mom calls, and makes the mistake of asking about the children. she gets an earful. and then she actually says 'don't be too harsh with her, poor thing, it's that age! children are so sensitive these days.' and goes on to tell me about an 8 year old who was accused by her teacher, in front of the class, of stealing a classmates pencils, and the child, feeling humiliated, went home, poured kerosene over herself, and set herself on fire!

thank you ma, that makes me feel so reassured, and hello, where was all this understanding about 'that age' when i was growing up? i mean, i remember dad actually taking a belt to me, and you watched without saying a word. didn't i go through 'that age' too?

but what's the point. i can't say all of that, and she's only trying to help. i don't even bother checking the mood meter.

10.30pm. talk with mom done, i turn the radio on to 'quiet storm' put my head down on the dining table, and wish i could cry. my eyes burn. i don't know if it's from the fever, or the emotions roiling inside. the voices of barry white, and sade, and seal flow over me in songs of love, and slowly lead my reluctant emotions to a place where it's still dark, but not an acid in the gut dark. this is a more bearable curtains drawn in a cool room dark.

11.15pm - first born calls, asking to be picked up from work. 'i'm hungry ma,' he says, 'can i have some dinner as soon as i get home?' i heat up some quiche, fill a bottle with vegetable juice, and leave. the car's sun roof is open, the warm night air flows in the windows rolled halfway down, soft rock plays on the radio. the roads blessedly empty.

12.30am- dinner's done with. everything's put away for the night. the children are both in bed.

i look at my handful of medication, the steroids, the antibiotics, and everything else, and feel like throwing all of it away. the prickling behind my eyelids comes back again.

i want my darling husband here. i want a sane and sympathetic adult to talk to. a warm body to hold. somebody to stroke my back, and smooth my hair and ask if i need anything. i need to put my head on his shoulder, and have him drape his leg over my hip and hug me close, to fall asleep not knowing where he begins and i end.

but he's hundreds of miles away, and i won't see him for 3 weeks. wishing we were a 'normal family' with mother and father and children sitting down to breakfast every morning, discussing the day's events every evening before children are tucked in under the covers in their rooms, and mom and dad curl up in each others arms to sleep, is not going to help. heck those kind of families probably don't even exist!

so, get over it, i tell myself, now, or by tomorrow morning at least, when the alarm will go off again at some unearthly hour, to some awful noise that passes off as music, created by some ass whose mother should have washed his mouth out with industrial strength floor cleaner years ago.

dear god, tomorrow (today actually) is a new day. please, let it be a better one.

first day at work

2009-06-29T23:08:00.006+05:30

today is my first born's first day at work. all of 17, he's got 2 months before he gets into his final year of high school and is doing an internship in a local 'star hotel' kitchen to see if he can kick the food bug, or if he cares enough about it to succumb, and go to culinary school.

he's working split shifts - 10am to 3pm, and from 7pm to when ever the restaurant kitchen closes. between golf in the morning, and an hour of gym in between his shifts at the hotel, he's got more than his share of things to keep him out of mischief.

today, he came home after shift 1, and gave me a colourful picture of the workings of a hotel kitchen (i'm glad i'm not vegetarian, and even so, i wonder if i will ever eat there again!)

here's a snippet of conversation between star hotel dish washer-upper and my son -

washer-upper - dai, entha ooru, coimbatooraa? ('where are you from, coimbatore?' it's hard to describe 'dai' accurately. suffice to say it's an extremely disrespectful way of addressing someone)

my son - aamaa, yaen? (yes, why?)

washer-upper - athan, vaaya thoranthale theriyudhu, pattikkaadu! (it shows the minute you open your mouth, bumpkin!)

after i picked myself up from the floor, wiped my eyes, and stopped laughing long enough to talk, i asked him if he minded. after all, he was used to being addressed by the staff as 'thambu,' a form of thambi (younger brother) a term both respectful and affectionate, that is peculiar to coimbatore.

he shrugged, 'why should i!'

yes, this holiday/ internship would definitely do him good, and if nothing else, it certainly should be interesting!

who are these people?

2009-06-29T22:19:00.011+05:30

i love the feedjit widget i've added to my blog. it tells me who's visited, and what they've read. it tell me what search words people have used to get here, and reminds me that if i'm reading all of this in so much detail, i have too much time on my hands. most of the readers are 'my' readers, ie, my friends or regular readers who have booked marked me and come back to read what's new.

and then there are people looking for aluminium trunks, for dieticians, for smart clothes in chennai, for mango recipes, for the love of wind in the trees, and most chillingly, people looking for children and sex, sometimes indian children and sex.

while i would love to think the people who entered those search words 'children sex' in their browser are concerned parents or responsible adults looking for ways to create awareness about child sexual abuse, or ways of talking to their children about it in a sensitive manner, somehow i can't imagine that hit from berlin, and vietnam, and pakistan, punjab and andhra coming in the dead of the night, as all of that.

it reminds me my daughter is on a social networking website, with her name and school and photographs posted out there. it reminds me of the time my massage lady told me about her neighbour's 11yr old son, sent as a guide with a foreigner, how that child had 'lots of problems going to the bathroom' afterwards and how the family mysteriously had money to pay off some of their debts. it reminds me of how easy it is to trustingly give a 'net friend' information that will allow access to your computer, turn on your web cam, record your conversations, and literally take control of any information you put on your machine.

am i being paranoid to worry about all of this? maybe yes, but i do worry, and i wonder, other than educating our children, and creating a greater awareness in our own small circles, is there anything more that ordinary people like you and me can do, to make satisfying sick pleasures more difficult for dirty old coots trawling the net looking for (indian) children and sex?

what do you think? any ideas?

midnight feasts

2009-06-27T01:20:00.020+05:30

enid blyton surely must have inspired generations of children to sneak out of bed in the dead of night to secretly feast on cold, wobbly jelly and marie biscuits. for some of us, that inspiration never wore out, and we grew up to be serial midnight feasters! i am one of that secretive brood, and can swear that there are few gastronomic pleasures greater than a mini-meal secretly devoured in the dead of the night. a true midnight snack attack must follow every one of these steps -

1 - the rest of the household must be asleep, and you must be the only insane one lying in bed, dreaming of happy cow cheese, or kiwi fruit, or tirunelvelli halva, or whatever it is that gets you salivating

2 - you must use utmost stealth. tiptoeing, taking 3 minutes to turn that creaky door knob so that nobody can hear you, and working in semi darkness are all mandatory

3 - the snack must be a calorie bomb

4 - no evidence must be left behind

some nights my fridge is woefully empty, and my midnight snack is a hastily assembled sandwich, layered thickly with a karen anand chutney or preserve of some sort, or her salsa and cheese.

on the nights i'm lucky enough to find any left over, i feast on chocolate, or a big bowl of ice cream.

when i'm in the mood for something light, it's always fruit - in summer, golden-yellow mango; tart, cold kiwi fruit; oranges, heavy with juice; a bowlful of bright red cherries; or at the very least tiny and unbelievably delicious bananas my mother sends up to chennai by bus, all the way from the village.

the quickest is a bowl of yoghurt topped with honey, pickle, or some relish, often spicy home-made mango chutney, rich with the sharply contrasting flavours of ripe mango, roasted jeera, red chillies and a hint of sugar.

sometimes i prepare a more elaborate snack, and these are the most satisfying.

one night it could be a greek salad, prepared with slices or quarters of ripe tomatoes seasoned lightly with salt and a little freshly ground pepper, topped with a smidgeon of pesto, sliced black or green olives, and feta cheese crumbled on top. quick, easy, and absolutely divine

another night it is spicy corn, a slightly jazzed up version of the corn on the cob available in vandis on marina beach or outside cubbon park, prepared with corn kernels, a little butter, salt, chilli powder, a squeeze of lime, and a pinch of mixed herbs.

a favourite is noodle soup made with soup powder, usually the hot/sweet and sour kind, and some instant noodles thrown in with plenty of water, and seasoned with a dash of oyster sauce, a handful of chopped coriander leaves, and a green chilli or two slit down the centre.

so the next time you are in the mood for a midnight snack, don't settle for a few biscuits or a fried something in a shiny packet. come look this up for inspiration, indulge, and enjoy! and now, i must go. i have a bowlful of cold, deliciously fragrant mango waiting.

ps. if anybody wants easy-peasy, idiot-proof, midnight snack recipes, just ask.

where singapore scores over india!

2009-06-26T18:09:00.014+05:30

it was 9.00 pm, we had just finished a lovely dinner when my friend uma asked - ice cream anyone?

who in their right minds would refuse ice cream, but i didn't remember seeing any in the freezer.

she called out to her daughters, one 13, and the other 10, handed them some money, asked them to take a cell phone along, and gave the girls a list of flavours to get. i was puzzled - the nearest ice-cream store i remembered seeing was 2 streets away.

'oh that's alright,' she said breezily, 'they'll be fine. singapore's really safe.'

i swallowed the 'but it's 9 at night' comment that hovered on the tip of my tongue, and nodded dumbly to my chellam when she asked if she could go along. those must have been the longest 25 minutes of my life, and the most stressful, ever!

uma watched amused when i threw myself on the girls on their return and smothered them with hugs and kisses; i didn't even pretend it was for the ice cream.

here, a woman returning home from work can be molested, knifed and robbed in a bus full of passengers, the perpetrators of the crime can get away with all of this unquestioned, and it is becoming more the norm than the exception.

when will men, women and children in india ever be able to walk out of their homes, day or night, confident in the knowledge that in this country they can do this, and be completely safe?

and really, is it so much to ask for?

girls and women, stay home, where you belong!

2009-06-24T11:13:00.011+05:30

did you read the article in toi about the woman in delhi who was travelling home after work in a bus, was harrassed by four men, and when she protested, not only had her face knifed, but also her valuables stolen, before the thugs fled?

in what i presume was a bus that had other passengers too, this girl

- was molested (what were the other passengers doing?)
- was knifed when she protested (what were the other passengers doing again?)
- then had her belongings stolen (and they just stood by and let the men rifle through her belongings and take what they wanted?)

and as a grand finale, the thugs got the conductor and driver to stop the bus, and got off.

am i the only one here thinking that there's something horribly wrong with this whole scenario?

not a single person objected or tried to prevent this AND the driver and conductor meekly dropped the thugs off too?

is the concept of standing up for right against wrong so completely dead in our country?

everybody and his grandmother carries a cell phone these days. couldn't the driver have called the police for help? or at the very least stopped the bus by a traffic cop?

is security just for the so called v.i.p.s? are there no systems in place at all to ensure the safety of the public that puts them in power?

and to make things worse, in the comments section of the article, an indian woman from the us writes -

(ramya,usa,says:These incidents happen everywhere. Let girls and women dress in decent manner which will not attract men who are in sexual need. These days women wear anything which was used to cover only head or handkeys... Girls and women why do you bother men and put yourself in trouble. It is certain this will happen again somewhere sometime.)

a classic case of 'let's ignore the crime and blame the victim.' 'girls and women, why do you bother men...' she says. maybe she would like half our country to be draped 9 yards of fabric, and remain locked indoors, so that they will not 'attract men in sexual need'? shame!

to all the ramyas that abound, may i suggest you read this article and this one too?

mango-corn salsa

2009-06-23T19:16:00.022+05:30

if i cook, you can bet your last rupee the recipe is completely idiot proof. here's my version of mango-corn salsa. you can't go wrong with it, mostly because the flavours of the ingredients used are so fresh and delicious, there's nothing to go wrong with.

main ingredients - quantities as preferred

mango (semi ripe, NOT raw or very ripe. what you need is a sweet-sour taste) - diced

bell pepper (green - i use green to balance the colour of corn, mangoes and tomatoes) - diced

corn

tomatoes (deseeded) - chopped

optional

onion (if you don't mind the taste of raw onion, then this adds zing, use it)- chopped fine

garlic - crushed

for dressing - to taste

lime juice

tabasco sauce (unless you're very brave, a couple of drops will do)

salt

green chillies (deseeded) - chopped fine

coriander leaves - chopped fine

method -

* if using fresh corn, saute kernels, with a little garlic, in a few drops of oil for a few minutes. skip step if using canned corn. mix all main ingredients.

* mix all dressing ingredients. pour over mango-corn preparation and toss.

let the salsa sit for a while. tastes better when ingredients have had a chance to meet, greet, and blend together.

this mango-corn salsa is surprisingly delicious for something so disgustingly healthy. enjoy!

the better golf club

2009-06-23T07:39:00.016+05:30

conversation between father and son

father - what's this driver doing in your room?

son - it's always been here nana

father - yes, but why isn't it with the other clubs?

son - mumbling something

father - what's going on here? you planning on using it on someone or what?

me - pa, let him be, and yes, that was the plan.

father - that's plain crazy. if you're going to whack somebody on the head with a golf club, a 7 iron's the one to use, not a driver; what on earth do they teach you these days!

growing wings

2009-06-22T22:22:00.016+05:30

they're back. in two weeks, father and son have travelled across three continents, driven 2,000 miles and visited 16 colleges.

in the last two weeks, first-born has told one admissions counsellor that the way he saw it, he would not be the super-chef dishing up global delicacies, he would be the one hiring the man; charmed a hostile admissions counsellor into giving him the new, and so far undisclosed maths syllabus, so he could brush up on it, increasing his chances of admission, and got a third counsellor to promise him a 20% scholarship right from year 1, if he finished with a fairly decent high school grade.

the son's now given up the idea of culinary school; he thinks management is a better option.

his father's now given up the idea of technical school; he thinks the college with a 3:1 girls:boys ratio is the better option.

all in all, a good trip.

as for me, i'm not turning on the waterworks. not yet.

children, sex and safety

2009-06-18T23:00:00.035+05:30

we were doing our days' mullum malarum (recap of the day) at the dining table when my chellam mentioned that her teacher was talking about 'weird weird stuff' in class. after resisting some subtle and not so subtle probing, and trying to dismiss it as 'just stuff ma' she caved in (after all the spanish inquisition was trained by a bunch of mothers, wasn't it?) and confessed that a particular class today was about sexual abuse and safety.

apparently the teacher gave the class different scenarios, what would you do if you were walking down a quiet road alone and somebody followed you, what would you do if an adult you knew tried to touch you in a way that made you feel uncomfortable, etc., and asked the children to come up with solutions for the problems.

'so what did you say kanna?' i asked. she dismissed the whole exercise as being silly and not likely to happen, and why did they have to talk about such stupid stuff anyway. but obviously it was important, because here she was, talking about it.

we spoke about the dangers of posting personal information on facebook and orkut, about rape and about arushi talwar. we spoke about how child sexual abuse could happen to both boys and girls, about how the victims were intimidated into silence using different tactics, and about how they could and should fight back.

i asked her to imagine different scenarios - a trusted adult touching her inappropriately, a boyfriend pushing her to do something she wasn't ready for (i can't believe i am having these conversations with my baby!) and even being looked at or spoken to in a way that made her feel uncomfortable. after the eeeuuwwws and yucks were done with, we came up with this list -

1 - it is not your fault, and don't let anybody tell you it is.

2 - say loudly and clearly that you are uncomfortable, and that you want the person to stop immediately.

3 - walk away from the situation; put physical distance between you and the person.

'but ma, what if it's someone i know well, or am fond of, or maybe am a bit scared of?'

'your first duty is to protect yourself kanna. why would you let anybody, even if you like them, hurt you mentally, physically or emotionally? and don't be scared. remember you always have me on your side, no matter what happens.'

'give me a 'no matter what happens' situation.'

'ok, imagine you told me you were going out with one of your girlfriends, and actually sneaked off somewhere with your boyfriend (praying 1 - she doesn't have a boyfriend. yet. and 2 - that i'm not putting ideas in her head!) and he asks you to do something sexual, or drugs, or smoke or something, and you don't want to. you ask him to back off. if you have trouble getting him to back off, you call an adult who can help - you call your brother, or your akka or me.'

'but ma, won't you shout at me for lying to you?'

'yes, but that's afterwards. my first priority is you and your safety, and to get you out of a dangerous or uncomfortable situation. and then i will thulp the guy.'

'chellam, remember at whichever point you are uncomfortable, you have every right to say stop. don't ever let yourself be pushed into doing something you don't want just because you like the person, or are scared or think maybe it's your fault because you didn't say anything in the beginning.'

4 - tell the person you will tell your parents/a responsible adult

'but ma, that's embarrassing!'

'for whom kanna? you are not at fault. it is not your shame, or your embarrassment, it is the other person's. the last thing they want is to be exposed, which is why they will most likely back off if they think you will tell somebody. then you must tell me anyway, so we can stop the person trying it with some other child not as brave as you are.'

and then, it made me sick to say this, but i knew it must be said, so that she would understand that no matter how horrifying the situation, she could always get help.

'and kanna, if you think your father is behaving in an inappropriate manner with you, what would you do?'

she looked at me in shocked silence for a few seconds, then 'tell you?' she asked, in a small voice.

'and if you think i am behaving in that manner?' i pushed.

'i must tell nana?'

'yes raja, or anna, or atha.'

'ma, do these things really happen? can people who say they love you, and people you like, really do bad things to you?'

'they can chellam,' i replied, 'and the tragedy is, children don't know they can speak out and escape from that horror.'

5 - let your parents know where you are at all times, and with whom

6 - carry your phone with you at all times, and don't hesitate to call at any time

'but suppose ma, i can't reach you or anybody else for help?'

'then you will have to help yourself kanna. take your kalari classes seriously. it's not just exercise, your instructor is teaching you skills that can get you out of a sticky situation, or even save your life.'

7 - learn to physically defend yourself

chellam listened with wide eyes and rapt attention, and we moved on to the next step, talking about intimidation tactics. i told her how 3 different tactics could be used

1 - to make the victim a co-conspirator

'it's a secret just between us, don't tell anybody else. i love you, and this is a special way of showing love.'

2 - bribes

verbal - 'you are very special. i love you, and this is a special way of showing love.'

material - buying special things, and

emotional - giving extra attention.

3 - threats

verbal - 'nobody will believe you. they will say it's your fault.'

emotional - taking away attention

physical

financial - withholding pocket money, denying treats, etc.

'will you believe me ma?'

'yes my darling, i will, and i will never try to tell you it is your fault.'

'but what if you don't listen to me ma? sometimes you don't pay attention to what i say!'

'then kanna, you just have to tell me again, because this is important, and you need the help i can give you. if i'm stupid enough not to pay attention when you tell me the first time, don't give up, tell me again.'

i explained how sometimes it's hard to find the words to explain feelings, so it was ok to say things like -

1 - i'm not comfortable spending time with the person

2 - i don't want to be alone with the person

3 - i don't want to be here now, can we leave

i did go on to say though that i would need an explanation for her words, and that she should find a way to convey her feelings instead of dismissing it as 'nothing.' otherwise she may not be taken seriously.

i took her in my arms and hugged her tight.

*******************************************************************************************

ps. child sexual abuse and safety is not given as much attention as it needs to be. if you think this post will address the issue in some measure, please link to it in your mails and blogs, and help get the message across to more people. talk to your child about sexual abuse and dealing with it. if you believe this issue should be addressed in your child's school, talk to school authorities about it. speak up, speak out; after all, it's a child's safety!

hello beautiful :)

2009-06-16T00:00:00.019+05:30

beauty is not about the numbers on her scale.

beauty is inspite of her grey hair disguised as orange,

and laugh lines so deep she wonders when life was ever that funny.

beauty allows that her body needs less lace and more support.

it salutes the confidence with which she teams blue, pink and purple. it cheers when she lets her hair curl naturally instead of straightening it to a fashionable death. it smiles with her crooked smile, and applauds the freedom with which she throws her head back, and laughs out loud.

it celebrates her acceptance of herself as she is. finally.

sweet child o' mine

2009-06-12T23:26:00.019+05:30

me, at dinner, trying to educate my daughter on the delights of my music, 80's rock.

chellam, cutting into my rapturous speech on the boss - oh i know rock. it's your pink floyd and guns n' roses and *andha kaalam bands like that.

me - (ignoring the andha kaalam reference, and quite impressed that she's actually knows some names) yes kanna, when we get home ill give you some of their music to put on your ipod.

chellam - sure ma. by the way, this guns n' roses thingy, are they like, as good as...mmmm......... justin timberlake?

me, lost for words. completely.

now to find a wall and bang my head on it till pain takes the sound of those words away!

* andha kaalam -literal translation:- those days.

implication:- stuff you like to think fondly of, which has no relevance to my life in any way.

thank you kamala das

2009-06-10T23:29:00.037+05:30

what was kamala das to you? words, sometimes scandalous, hidden in the pages of a dry literature text book? or words, magic words in a volume of poetry you searched out and read in the quiet of the night? or an eccentric celebrity occasionally featured in newspapers and magazines?

to me she was all of that, and just a little bit more - i spent one afternoon with kamala das when i was 18, an afternoon i've never been able to forget.

as an office bearer in my college student union, one of the jobs i was saddled with was to look after guests. most were the dull as ditchwater types who were scheduled to give speeches on topics none of us girls had any interest in. one day i was called into the principal's office and told we were having a special guest, and i was to go to the station to pick her up and keep her company for the afternoon. cursing my post, i snatched the paper out of the secretary's hands, then stood looking at it dumbstruck - the special guest was kamala das!

in this town literature was the choice of girls who were in the process of getting their mandatory degree while waiting for a suitable groom. to me this was as close to heaven as i could have got. little did i know what was in store for me.

kamala das was in the mood to shock that day. maybe she had had enough of dumb and mindless adoration by countless readers of her work, maybe she was bored and was looking for some entertainment, or maybe she really was what she claimed to be.

we spent an hour discussing her work, after which she picked apart everything about her current trip. the coconuts didn't taste like the coconuts in kerala, the water in kerala washed away the oil in her hair, but the water in tamilnadu didn't, kerala was green and lush, tamilnadu was a motley collection of dry villages clumped together. i didn't have the courage to protest or challenge her on any of it.

'so tell me about this boy who's troubling you so much' she said suddenly.

'what boy?' i stammered, confused by the sudden twist in the conversation.

'i'm clairvoyant, m,' she declared. 'i can see you haven't been able to shake off his thoughts for many years. you are what, 17, 18? and for someone your age, that is at least three years too many. isn't it enough that you've allowed him to shape your life in ways that are not in your interests, do you have to give him your sanity too?' she added more facts she could never have known without my telling her.

i was shocked. not just by the audacity she had to say this, but also by the accuracy of her words.

when i was just finishing high school, i got involved with someone completely unsuitable. as these things usually do, it began innocently enough. my friend and his were going out, and as we acted as chaperones to the couple, spent a lot of time together.

what followed could have easily been part of a ridiculously cliched masala movie, except it was all real. i doubt any 15, 16 or 17 year old would have been equipped to handle the kind of emotional pressure and stalking that followed over the next few years, without going slightly crazy. also, being in the kind of place i was, there was no question of my turning to my ultra-conservative parents, or any other adult, for help.

more probing followed and i ended up confessing all to kamala das; she held me in her arms as i sobbed my fears and disappointments and anger out.

when the emotional storm quietened, she spoke to me woman to woman. to her then i was perhaps not a frightened 18 year old village girl, but a woman, unaware of her potential. 'look at me,' she said. 'i could have let my life be dictated by the opinions of society, but i dared to be brave, and though it's not a life for everyone, it's one i would not exchange for anything else.'

she spoke of the immense power women had that they weren't even aware of. 'go home this evening, strip your clothes away, and stand in front of your mirror naked. look at your breasts, at the curves of your waist, belly and hips, and thread your fingers through the curls between your thighs; this is where the first and most obvious source of your power lies. be proud of your body.'

'your next source of power is here,' she continued, tapping her temple. 'your mind can take you where ever you want to go. it can make even your wildest dreams come true. let it dream, and let your dreams guide you.'

'and finally your greatest source of power lies here.' she leaned forward and placed the palm of her hand on my heart. 'here is where you will find the strength to go on when you think you can't take another step. here is where you will hear the voices that tell you you are strong and powerful and beautiful beyond your current belief, and these are the only voices you must heed.'

nobody had ever spoken to me like this before. her words seemed to be the truth i suspected existed in worlds other than my own, but everything she said went against everything i was brought up to be. seeing the confusion written large on my face, she laughed, not unkindly, patted me on my shoulder and told me i was young and not to pay too much attention to the nonsense of older people.

then maybe bored of this too, she demanded i tell her about the meenakshi temple, and in a few minutes it was as if that conversation had never been.

i would have dismissed it as a dream if not for the piece of paper she pressed into my hand before she left. 'i have written a poem for you.' she said. 'remember it well.' and she was gone. running to the nearest empty classroom, i smoothed open the crumpled ball of paper, damp with the sweat of my excitement, and read her words.

'wipe out the paints

unmould the clay

let nothing remain

of that yesterday'

that bit of paper is lost, kamala das, and today you are gone from this world too, but you're not forgotten. i've not forgotten. thank you for that afternoon. thank you for your words of courage. where ever you are today, i hope you have found your peace.

a perfect day

2009-06-09T22:27:00.028+05:30

this is not the kind of post i would normally put up for public consumption, but there was something so beautiful about this day- some sweet, some spice, a little work, a little play, and lots of time with people i love. left me feeling so good, i just had to share it.

5.45 am - wake up, switch the heater on, and wake up daughter for an early morning hug.

6.00am - the sublime sounds of the venkatesa suprabhatam fill my room. kick daughter out of bed and spend the next hour yelling reminders and instructions over songs in praise of various gods- have you brushed? yes, today! wear clean socks please! look through your lessons! no, one idli isn't enough for breakfast!

7.15am - frantic calls from downstairs. driver hasn't turned up. a phone call reveals he has quit work. result of yesterday's tamasha, i presume, but what a way to break it to me!

7.16am - leap out of bed (yesss, i know... i tend to laze about while barking orders) and hunt for sweats to wear with crumpled t. good enough for school.

7.23am - daughter has decided she wants to go to school in mom's new car, so i sit behind the wheel, trying not to panic, telling myself that driving an automatic for only 3 minutes under the eagle eyed supervision of my darling husband two days earlier qualifies me to drive this monster; not that i have a choice anyway, my daughter has to pick up her car pool buddy and get to school in 17 minutes or less.

7.36am - in school, perfectly smooth drive, and on time. yippee!

8.20am - sms two friends asking for help finding a driver.

8.40am - friend 1 responds saying he would send one of his company drivers over in an hour for me to interview, and hire if i wanted. i love the man!

9.00am - quick look around favourite blogs, post comments, respond to (woefully small number of ) comments on mine. aha, inbox holds an enquiry for a voice over!! dash off emails.

10.21am - co-ordinate with painters and plumbers to get work done around the house before dh and first born return home. 2 minute calls to akka to check if she's better today, and to friend congratulating her daughter on fab exam results. draw up study plans for a friend's teenaged son who's home for 2 months from boarding school.

11.36am - coffee (ok, tea actually, but somehow meeting over coffee sounds right in a way that meeting over tea doesn't!) with friend i haven't seen in over a month, open up birthday presents - autographed book by jeffrey archer and perfume to die for- with very undignified squeals of delight. panic when i can't put the car in reverse gear, and call friend to come back and rescue me. figure out how to do it for myself :) call again asking him not to bother.

12.30pm - interview done, new driver hired, old driver returns and apologises for yesterday, and gets a lecture on how he should come to me if he had a problem, not quit without notice, or threaten me by saying he would quit.

1.20pm - lunch at my club, thrilled at the announcement that our bulletin (am godmother to this baby) got the best bulletin award, discuss ways to bring in money for the next fund raiser, bring home the vision committees proposal to edit.

3.00pm - hand driver 2,000 rupees to deliver to greedy doctor.

3.23pm - gorge on red cabbage and gooseberry salad, sip cups of peppermint tea, and play a kick ass game of scrabble with a darling friend while talking about everything from her painful eye, to men (of course!) to indian inheritance laws and the smartest investments to make in this economic climate. argue, successfully, that the word 'liced' doesn't exist except in her imagination.

5.07pm - hug my darling chellam, and chat about her day while she gets ready for a swim. lecture her on need to follow rules, and pack her off, smiling happily, in her new swimsuit.

6.30pm - slip on sneakers, sweats and t, and go for a quick walk. feel very virtuous.

7.13pm - chellam calls, 13 minutes after her curfew is up, asking if she can stay at her friend's till 7.30pm. very calmly i tell her to get her curfew violating ass home immediately!

7.35pm - yummy dinner of oothapam with poondu kuzhambu. discover my daughter hasn't gone for a swim, but to a friend's, 'to pick her up ma,' and then hung out at the friend's house because the girl 'had that thing' and couldn't swim.

swallow anger and settle instead for a talk on responsibility, rules, penalties for breaking rules etc. explain how it is important for her own safety that i know where she is at any time, and with whom. when will she ever grow up and see these things for herself!

8.30pm - sit down to prepare lesson plans for tomorrow, and edit the vision committee document while chellam does her homework - she laughs at my inability to find the cube of 13! i indulge in a glass of crisp sauvignon blanc (after all, wine in a bottle already opened doesn't wait for weekends to come around before going off) read email from dh, and reply sending hugs and kisses. soul music plays softly in the background. the curtains are drawn, the day is winding to a close, and there's a warm glow in the air. speak to my amma, and she promises to send over ingredients for kashayam (ugh!!) for my persistent cold. i can already feel it clearing up!

9.34pm - bed time. chellam and i do our 'mullum malarum' (thorns and flowers) routine - we discuss good things and not so good things that happened during the day.

9.57pm - lights are out, her fingers are twisted in my hair, her breathing's soft and slow, she's falling asleep.

10.00pm - thank you god. i couldn't have asked for a better day.

homework time, 3 vignettes

2009-06-09T21:24:00.012+05:30

chellam - ma, is 39 the cube of anything?

me - mmm...13?

chellam, bursting into laughter - ma, you're hopeless with numbers, aren't you?

me, trying to look intimidating - want to play a game of scrabble with me?

she quickly gets back to her maths

*****

chellam - ma, did that doctor call to thank you after you sent the money?

me - nope

chellam - so it was like throwing the money into a dustbin, right?

*****

chellam - ma, can i have a sip of your wine?

me, glaring at her

chellam - just one teensy weensy sip, please

i hand her the glass. she takes a small sip.

chellam - mmm...nice

takes a bigger gulp and her face twists into indescribably horrible shapes

chellam - slightly sour, no?

i burst into laughter

the doctor who sold her reputation for 500 rupees

2009-06-08T22:45:00.020+05:30

i'm constantly amazed at human nature.

this evening, i was out at fabindia hunting for a particularly rich chocolate brownie for a friend who is in bed, unwell, when i heard a woman behind me shouting about how her new car had been knocked into by an inconsiderate ass of a driver. i turned around and saw my driver rush into the shop after her. he was the 'inconsiderate ass' who had allegedly knocked into her car.

dreading what i would see, i went outside, and found that the damage was confined to both cars having some scratches, and coin sized bits of paint knocked off the bumpers. not good, but not as bad as i feared it could be either!

it was impossible to say who was at fault- my driver claimed my car was stationary, and that she had reversed into him. she claimed she was about to reverse when he tried to squeeze into the tiny space between her car and a bike, and scraped the paint off her fender. both got louder defending themselves, the scene was getting ugly, and i stepped in asking my driver to back off. after all, i would have felt horrid if i was in the lady's place.

'ok,' i said, 'both our cars are damaged, and it's hard to say who is at fault. now let's sort this issue out amicably.'

'yes. pay for the damage to my car.' she demanded. i was a bit taken aback. after all it was her word against my drivers, and there was no witness; the store security had conveniently disappeared. i was prepared, however, to take her word for it, mostly because having just got a new car myself, i knew she must be feeling miserable, and didn't want to make her feel worse by arguing over a spot of paint.

'how much do you want?' i asked.

'2,000 rupees in cash.' she said. 'now.'

i wasn't carrying too much money with me. 'i don't have that much with me.' i told her, 'how about if i get the damage fixed for you?'

'and how do you propose to do that?' came the question.

'you get the job done at your garage, and i'll pay for it.' i responded. i knew the cost could be more than what she was demanding, but was prepared to take the chance because the damage wasn't much to begin with anyway.

'no, give me a cheque now if you don't have cash.' she said, really really nastily.' i've seen so many people like you. they make promises, and the next day they run away, and you never hear from them again.'

thinking to myself that this was more rudeness than was strictly called for under the circumstances. after all, her innocence was just something she claimed, and my car had been damaged in the incident too. i still went along, trying to get the incident wrapped up.

i offered her my telephone number. 'give me your address,' she snapped, 'how do i know you are giving me the right number anyway.' like i couldn't fudge an address if i wanted to!

don't even ask me why i continued to talk to her, my brain must have been seriously addled. she demanded money again. or a cheque. i repeated that since i had neither with me, the best i could do was completely cover her repair costs, but madam wouldn't be satisfied. the conversation went round and round in circles.

'come with me to the garage now then.' she demanded.

i couldn't. i had dropped my daughter off at her dance class, and she had to be picked up in half an hour. i couldn't go waltzing off to some garage at 7.00pm and leave her alone. i told her this.

then the character attacks started.

'you think only you have work and i have nothing to do? you don't know what it is like to drive from one place to another, and find parking. people like you don't drive yourselves, so you think you can simply pay and get away with anything.'

actually i do drive myself about, and i know how hard it is to manage in the city with it's horrendous traffic and rapidly dwindling parking. and what did she mean by people like me anyway?

'you will make promises and run away, and i will have to chase after you.'

mmm... and in the 15 minutes that we had talked, when i had even stupidly offered to pay for damage she might just have caused herself, she had figured me out that well, had she?

'i'm almost 60, and have been driving for 40 years. i've seen so many people like you.'

with that, my sympathy for the woman vanished. what was with this people like me statement? and under the circumstances, by anybody's reckoning, i was doing far more than anybody could expect.

'ok,' i said. 'give me your address and telephone number. you will have a cheque for 2,000 rupees on your desk tomorrow.'

'how do i know you will do it?' she asked again. would she never stop?

'you'll just have to take my word for it.' i snapped, ' and anyway you have my telephone number. call me if i don't.'

then the lady actually said

'2,000 rupees won't cover this damage. it will cost much more. you will have to pay more.'

squashing my instinct to ask 'sure you wouldn't like another brand new car?' i gasped 'how much more?'

pat came the answer '2,500.'

i'm certain my mouth fell open, leaving me looking like the idiot i surely was to have stood there talking to her in the first place.

when i finally stopped my fish gasping for breath impression, i said,

'i'm sorry. taking your word for it that the fault was my drivers, and knowing the repair costs might be more than the 2,000 rupees you demanded, i still offered to fully pay for it. you refused, demanding cash immediately, or a cheque. now when i say i will give you a cheque, you demand more money? i'm sorry but it's not possible. i can send you a cheque for 2,000 tomorrow. think about it, and give me your answer. i'll be inside the shop.'

'just because i said 2,000 rupees at first, you can't hold me to it,' she insisted. '2,000 rupees won't cover any of this damage.'

thinking to myself 'too bad lady,' i said 'i'm sorry, that's the best i can do.' and turned to walk away.

'ok.' she snapped, before i had taken even one step, and got into her car. 'send it.'

this lady is a doctor, a gynec, at malar hospital, one of chennai's leading hospitals. and if she is almost 60, then she surely qualified to be a doctor well before the era of ridiculous medical college capitation fees so what was her problem? seems to me like pure and simple greed!

her poor patients! i can just imagine her in the middle of a c-section, suddenly remembering that she needed a new ac for her bedroom, and sending word to the anxious father-to-be, chewing his nails outside, that she would sew up his wife only after he paid 40,000 rupees extra!

gosh, she gives me the shudders.

bushy eyebrows and pithy observations

2009-06-07T10:32:00.025+05:30

i took one look at the image in my brightly lit bathroom mirror, and reeled back in horror - my eyebrows rivalled lalu prasad's! worse, blind in the dim light of my friends' bedroom and bathroom mirrors, i had traipsed through two countries blissfully oblivious to this scrub jungle on my face.

grabbing a pair of tweezers, i set about attacking the offending bristle, while my daughter bounced on the bed, watching.

'isn't that painful ma?' she asked, commenting on the bumps and the blotches of angry red skin the vigorous plucking left behind.

'mmm...yes chellam... it is.' i replied absently, trying not to pinch skin.

'so why do you put yourself through it?'

aarrgghhh... there she went again! why did she persist in asking silly questions with obvious answers?

i flashed one quick fiery look at her from the corner of my eye, a look i hoped spoke the volumes i couldn't trust my words to convey kindly enough.

totally unfazed... see, this is yet another thing about her that drives me crazy, i could go ballistic and she wouldn't even notice... she continued,

'well, her bushy eyebrows and big mustache never stopped you or anybody else from saying frida kahlo was brilliant, and you always say you admire the way she remained a 'natural' woman, so how come you have different standards for yourself, ma?'

i was lost for words. completely.

two girls, one history

2009-06-07T02:33:00.016+05:30

long ago, a little girl locked herself in a dark store room, threw herself on a stack of old cotton mattresses, and sobbed as if her heart was broken. she had discovered, and there was no doubt about it, that something she had suspected for years, was true - her mother loved her brother best. actually she wasn't even sure her mother loved her at all.

'i wish i was never born in this family,' she wept, and her tears soaked wet stains into the musty cloth under her, 'i wish i had the guts to run away from home, i wish i was dead.'

and finally, when there were no more tears left, just deep deep pain, she swore that when she had children of her own, she would love them all the same.

that girl was 11 then, or maybe 12.

back then she had cried for the little girl she was. now the pain is for another girl, just like her... a little girl who cannot see that a mother might not love both her children the same, but that did not mean that she loved one more and the other less.

where is a bite of sanity when you need it?

2009-05-25T14:48:00.016+05:30

'you never do anything i want!'

that's my daughter's favourite grouse against me. not fair. i take her to dinner, and to the movies, and shopping. i ferry her to friend's places, and to activities she has chosen to go to. she gets foot rubs on demand too! well, sometimes.

what's not on the list - video game parlours and thriller rides - is what she begs for. of course asking my son to take her and her friends has only one outcome - flat refusal. as the brat is only 13, and i won't let her go on her own, tantrums are available in plenty around our lovely home!

call me crazy, but i've actually put together a one week mother-daughter holiday where she can go on wild roller coaster rides and play video games all day, get corn rows put in her hair and 'art' done on her nails, shop in night markets for the mountains of junk she mysteriously attracts, eat at every street stall she fancies, and do all those things she sulks that i never let her do, or do with her.

haven't breathed a word to her about this mad plan though. if sanity rears its head at the last minute, i want the option to escape. quietly.

so, she thinks i'm picking her up from her grandmom's place, and bringing her back home to chennai, while we're actually heading towards the joys of the merlion and mickey mouse!

if i come back sane, i'll write about the experience. keep blogging, and say a prayer for me.

lasya- smart, chic, elegant

2009-05-25T13:56:00.008+05:30

tucked away in a tiny by-lane off kasthuri rangan road, is lasya, usha umapathi's clothing design centre. i use that clunky phrase to describe it, and not the word 'boutique,' because boutique conjures up images of a store with racks of clothing already designed, and usha doesn't work that way - she makes your clothes not only to fit you, but to suit you best.

don't imagine you can walk in with a shopping bag full of fabric, pick out some designs, and leave half an hour later; there's nothing cookie cutter about the process.

you have to call and fix an appointment first. then usha will interview you, quite literally. you will find yourself talking about what colours you like and what you will never wear, about the kind of 'look' you admire, whether you like frills or plain clothes, colourful contrasts or muted tones. you will find yourself analysing your personality and your social life, and it goes on. all of this is faithfully recorded, with your measurements.

usha insists you be an active participant in designing your clothes, and when they are finally with you, 'take them home,' she will say. 'try them on, wash them a couple of times, and if the fit of the cottons change, bring them back, i'll have them altered.'

now that kind of service is definitely unusual, and something to delight in. it's another matter that the fit is usually so good, you don't need to go back for alterations.

:) so heres a smile for your service usha, i'm always glad to give you my business.

we two, ours two

2009-05-24T13:40:00.003+05:30

two children, born 2 years apart, of the same parents

elder - sent to a co-educational school at the age of 4, shifted to a single sex school in middle school. given the choice of studying in single sex local college, or marriage. soon after getting a degree is married and given a small share of property. stays home.

younger - sent to a co-educational school at the age of 4, does higher education in a co-educational college in india and then in college in the us. comes into family business. inherits majority share in business and property. is encouraged to have second child, to carry on the family name.

any guesses as to which child is the boy, and which the girl?

being weight wise - flashback time

2009-05-23T21:23:00.011+05:30

ok, here's a quick recap of the weight loss mantras i've rambled on about in some posts gone by. you won't find pearls of wisdom like 'no carbs,' 'three tomatoes for three days, and a banana milk shake on the 4th,' 'no eating after 8 at night,' and other nonsense like that here. what you will find instead are strategies that will help you change the way you eat.

they are very very simple, and seem quite ordinary by themselves. but just put them all together, follow them every day, and you will shed those pounds, i promise you.

click on the tips to read the complete posts.

1 - diets don't work, only modified eating plans do

2 - modified eating plans must be

sustainable over extended periods,
workable in most dining situations, and
compatible with any kind of food

3 - take only one helping of any food

4 - eat off smaller plates

5 - eat only one plate of food

6 - break the 'i'm still not done eating' chain of thought

7 - don't be apologetic about the way you eat

i'll keep coming back with more tips. happy new eating habits, keep it down :)

sure death

2009-05-23T21:00:00.019+05:30

know the best way to kill a diet? go stay with your mother during the summer holidays.

if your mother is anything like mine, she will wake you up with a glass of cold orange juice, and pretend she didn't hear if you ask if there's sugar in it. of course, the drink tells it's own tale! then will come breakfast, with idlis, dosas, pongal, vadas, (take your pick of any two at least, on any given day) with coconut chutney and sambhar and idli podi with ghee to eat it all with, and some papaya to soothe the conscience of the diet gods.

she will give you just enough time to stagger from the table before placing a huge dish of 'nungu' in front of you, a jug of 'padhanir' or toddy (which in another, fiery avatar, becomes arrack) and tender coconut water fresh from the trees in the backyard, and a big bowl of coconut so tender it's almost transparent!

lunch served on a banana leaf large enough to use as a blanket follows, and it goes without saying that there's enough food to cover it from end to end. (check out what a similar spread looks like in 'the bangala,' a friend's chettinad home, also a hotel) no meal is complete without mangoes, so they tumble out of the fridge, cold golden squares, cut just so! there's no way of calculating how many mangoes make up that serving heaped in the centre of your leaf, and that's the way it should be, declares ancient wisdom - who counts the numbers when you eat!

tea time follows a simple procedure; there's a side table in the dining room, groaning with the weight of a variety of fruit, sweets and fried goodies. we are welcome to help ourselves to anything, or better still, everything we want.

dinner is a 3 course affair, if we don't count mangoes, and we don't - remember that bit of ancient wisdom about counting and food?

and so it goes on, day after day after day.

so what is a weight-wise person to do under these sinfully tempting circumstances? simple, take the old mantra -just one helping- and combine it two new mantras -

1 - only one plate of food

2 - eat off a reasonably sized plate (and not a huge platter or a large banana leaf!)

try it, it works. if i don't sound too convincing, blame it on the effect of the himam pasand mangoes i've just inhaled.

politics of hate

2009-05-23T12:39:00.024+05:30

jean was 17 years old, sri lankan tamil, an LTTE sympathiser/recruit filled with hate for everything indian. she was my room mate in college.

every day the vitriol would drip, slow, relentless, into any available, and not necessarily willing, ear. we sympathised at first. being caught in the middle of a war was surely traumatic beyond our comprehension. it was harder to listen to the ipkf being labeled murderers, to hear her deify prabhakaran and the ltte, and brag about indian deaths at their hands. reminders that she had left her country to take refuge in ours had no effect.

she always had the latest news, and took pride in recounting it in great, and gory detail. we learnt to put our discomfort aside and tune her out.

she started to gloat about specific strategies the ltte was using to chip away at the ipkf. we heard about indian radio messages being intercepted, and fake ltte radio communication falling into ipkf hands, about informers planting information that prabhakaran was going to hold a meeting with his top aides in a particular place, when in reality he wasn't going to be anywhere in the vicinity. the idea was to tempt the ipkf into planning a strike, to get them in large numbers in one place, and inflict serious damage. this talk was dismissed as more of her craziness.

the jaffna university massacre happened.

'don't cause trouble,' friends said, 'this is not your problem.' how could it not be?

'these things happened all the time in a war, and that it was easy enough, even randomly, to get basic information right.' college authorities dismissed.

when i persisted that she should at least be warned about her hate mongering, i was told jesus taught forgiveness and that this was a good time to put that into practice. if i didn't like the situation, maybe i could find another alternative?

'she's a church quota,' friends said, 'it's useless to complain.'

i had a quiet talk with jean. 'why don't you take your anti-india propaganda somewhere else' i suggested. 'you just might end up face down in a dark street somewhere, and then how will you go home and train to kill indians?' she shut up, at least in the dorm.

one day, before she left college, she stopped me outside the library. 'we will get rajiv gandhi, you know.' she smiled a wide, very white smile. 'even if we have to strap bombs to ourselves and blow ourselves up to do it, we will.'

the ipkf was leaving sri lanka, that war was not ours anymore.

'yeah *&^#$,' i thought to myself, 'sure you will.'

a year later they got him. 20 years later, almost to the day, prabhakaran is dead too.

i wonder where jean is now, and what she is doing.

ps. if you're interested in learning more about india's own vietnam, rediff has an exhaustive series of interviews with the men who were in charge.

untying the strings

2009-05-18T19:24:00.030+05:30

here he is now, fast asleep on the sofa, feet propped on my lap, forcing me to balance my computer awkwardly as i tap this post out.

my son, 17, the lines of his face soft and relaxed, beautiful, exactly the way he used to be when he was 4, and slept just like this, except that now he has a 3 day fuzz covering most of his face, and an earring glints between the overly long strands of hair brushing his cheeks.

i remember when we first moved to chennai. i was 24, scared and quite alone. i had never stepped outside the shadow of my parents or husband, and there i was, pregnant with my second child, in an unfamiliar city, my two and a half year old son in tow, and the disapproval of family, mine and my husband's, hanging over my head.

'i want to study' i declared.

'and what about your son?' they asked.

'i'll send him to school' i said.

'but you're expecting a baby' they said.

'yes i am.' i replied.

it was just the two of us in that flat that seemed so small after the luxury of space we were used to in the house in the village. us, an old cook and his wife, and a 'boy,' all of whom had been around far longer than i had been married.

i would drop him off in play-school and rush off to college, studying something i didn't even know if i was interested in. anything to escape a life where every day was the same as the previous one.

i remember he had to stand on tiptoe to reach the light switches, and even then sometimes they were just beyond the reach of his fingertips. and i remember bathtimes. he would sit on his colourful stool, and i would work the soap into a mountain of suds in his palm, and heap them on his nose, and into horns on his wet hair, singing 'row, row, row your boat...'

'merri-vily, merri-vily, merri-vily, merri-vily, life is but a dream.' he would chorus in his baby voice, and we would laugh, both of us.

i remember the day the doctor told me the pregnancy had to be terminated. i was distraught. my son wiped away my tears, wrapped his arms around me and said 'amma, don't cry, i will always be your baby.'

we held each other and cried. i, for the loss of one child, and for the innocence of another, and he because his mother was crying.

we went out to dinner twice a week, once on wednesday to the club, and once on saturday, to any restaurant i had heard about. i introduced him to everything from street food to japanese cuisine, all of which he learned to enjoy, and by the time he was three he was handling his cutlery so beautifully, friends asked if i would teach their children too. he wanted to learn to use chop sticks, so i bound a pair with rubber bands, wedged a piece of paper in between, and showed him how. how frustrated he would get every time he dropped his food, but he persisted, and got it.

there was no thought then of space. he would bounce home from school, full of stories about his day, and i would gather him in my arms, hold him close, and listen.

then his sister came along, and he had to learn to share his mother's affection. he didn't like it one bit. i would get reports from school that he had stuck bubble gum in nikila's hair, and had got into a fight with akshara. he would return with scratches on his face. my solution was to teach him to fight back. bad idea. he wouldn't, or would do it so tentatively, he would get walloped.

i don't know when it started to seem as if i couldn't breathe. maybe he was 4, or maybe he was 5.

'go on,' i would say, 'you're not a baby any more, try to do it on your own.'

he didn't understand. what had been perfectly ok was suddenly declared 'babyish.' so he had to go into the wash room on his own, and he had to fall sleep on his own while his mother sat in the next room watching tv. if he came to the slightly open door, and held on, watching me, waiting for the programme to end, so that i would come to bed, and tell him a story that he could fall asleep to, like i had done all these days, i would fly into a rage.

'why can't you sleep on your own?' i would demand.

'because i'm scared amma.' he would whisper, lips trembling, tears ready to spill onto his cheeks.

'but i'm right outside!' i would say in exasperation.

'but i want you here amma,' he would reply, patting the bed by his side.

more years went by. now he wanted some space too. no more hugs in school in front of his friends, no cheering loudly for him at the races. affection was strictly for demonstrating at home. his friends and what they thought was all important.

but we still had our twice weekly dinners out, and discussed everything under the sun. we talked about the magic of books and he read them faster than i could buy them. i spoke about the wonder of ancient indian culture. he took tosilambam happily, pouted his way through three yoga lessons, and refused to try dance.

'listen to my music,' i said, and introduced him to the sounds of rock, country, jazz, and classical music. he loved classical indian violin, and even learnt it for a while.

we hung out at art galleries and gaped at everything in equal wonder.

'what do you want for your birthday?' his father asked him.

'a painting.' was the prompt reply. he was 11.

my brother declared him an unnatural child, made old before his time. he didn't care. he fell in love with the bright canvasses of shuvaprasanna's flowers.

'make me one,' he begged the artist, 'in pink and blue.' the artist, amused, agreed, and the boy worked 3 years, washing cars, and saving his birthday money and his deepavali money, and negotiating a 'money for marks and medals' deal with his father, to pay for it.

i remember one day when he came home from school terribly disturbed. he had listened to some street children speaking at his assembly, talking about their dreams to become doctors, engineers, and policemen.

'ma, they don't even have money for 3 meals a day,' he said, 'all they have is their dreams. one boy was so scared to speak, he peed in his pants, right there on the stage. i felt so bad for him. can we do something for them ma?'

so we raised money for these boys to have milk and biscuits in the evening. and he would go visit them them at festival times, taking biryani and sweets.

then one time he came back from school, threw his bag down by the dining table and demanded his lunch, as he did every day. i looked at him, mouth hanging open- in those few hours he had been away from home he had changed.

'raja, your voice has broken.' i said.

'what rubbish amma' he dismissed, only to admit 3 days later that i was right.

my baby was growing up.

our weekly discussions now included girl friends and drugs and alcohol and sex. 'treat them with respect' i would say, 'stay safe no matter what. don't do drugs. don't drink and drive. actually don't drink at all, you're too young for all of that.' and he would roll his eyes and call it lecture number 17, or something.

and i remember the day we fought. he threw his watch down on the ground, smashed it and screamed that he hated me, that he never loved me at all, and that he had only been pretending. i remember calling my sister to come over and do something because i couldn't do anything at all, except reel from the pain of what felt like a thousand knives in my heart. i don't remember today what the argument was about, just that i felt like i was going to die.

'he's growing up,' a friend said. 'he needs space and doesn't know how to ask for it or how to take it.' he had his secrets and his friends and parts of his life that had nothing to do with me. he was ready to let go of his mother; i wasn't ready to let go of him yet.

he went away to boarding school for a year. he went away a child, and came home so grown up i sometimes wondered who this young man was. our relationship was different now. sometimes he looked to me for advice, and sometimes i turned to him for answers.

'stay in india for your undergrad raja,' i said.

'when are you going to let me go ma?' he responded. 'it's got to happen sometime, you know!'

and so he is preparing to fly.

'come with me to look at the colleges.' he asked today.

'no, i said.' i don't know anything about all of this. go with your father.' and sat down with a friend to have a little cry. she sent me a link to a blog with a post about letting go. it just made me cry harder.

'do fathers also feel this way?' i wrote to another friend, 'or is it just us silly mothers?'

i remember talking to a friend years ago about how apron strings could bind so tight they became prisons. glib talk that. words spoken without a thought to how letting go could be so heart breaking.

but my son's life is his own, as mine is my own. i know even though i am not ready to let go, i must; in spite of his promise to me, my baby cannot always be my baby.

and for the first time i truly understand why, every time we children leave home after a visit, my mother has tears in her eyes.

one mother's wishlist

2009-05-10T21:53:00.010+05:30

Raja, Chellam,

Let me spare you the worry of thinking up something appropriate to get for me on those days you think are special, and you must get something to mark it; here's my list for you.

Your company – The man who said, ’’The greatest gift is a portion of thyself’’ sure knew his stuff. Talk to me when I call, make time for me when I drop in to see you, even if you think you are too busy to make that time. Maybe I want to see you just for a minute. Maybe I just want to see that smile, maybe I just want to hug you and think of how you used to smell of baby powder, or too much perfume, or sweat, dirt and excitement after a football match.
Come with me to that hopelessly romantic movie, even if it embarrasses you to be seen with your old mom at a chick flick. You don’t have to jump off the plane with me if I suggest going sky-diving, but drive me to the drop zone. Come out to lunch with me, take me with you when you go shopping for your new gizmo, sit with me a while when I’m unwell, and keep me a part of your life no matter where you are and how old you are, and who else is in your life.

Tell me the truth – Don’t lie to me, ever. I am always firmly on your side. It maybe a hopeless exam result, it maybe a girlfriend or a boyfriend I don’t approve of, it maybe murder you have committed, I don’t care. Tell me the truth. We will find a solution for it and face the world together.

Hugs and kisses – I will never be too old or too dignified to be hugged and kissed. Hug me, kiss me, tell me you love me; I will make sure I always return these gifts to you, doubled.

Your appreciation – I love doing things for you. Some of them are silly and spontaneous, some take a lot of planning and effort. Show me you appreciate my efforts and my thoughtfulness. Don’t take me for granted. Tell me I am the best mom in the world; pay me for what I do with your words and smiles, with your hugs and kisses. That is what keeps me going.

Your children – You will not always have as much time for me as I want from you. Give me your children to love, to bring up, to tell stories to, to talk to about when you were little, to braid their hair, tuck their shirts in, to kiss their scraped knees and comfort them, to scold, and in them to see you again as you once were, in all your goodness and innocence, before you got all grown up, and independent, and left.

Make me proud of you - Live happy, live your life without regrets, follow your dreams. Life is not just about work or about material success. Be curious, be adventurous, take time off to love and to laugh. Also don’t ever forget that life has been good to you; give back to those who are not as fortunate. Let me see you do all of this, and let me feel the glow of pride that comes in seeing you live well.

Of course this doesn’t mean that you don’t provide your old mom with gifts of the material kind. Surprise me with a party, pamper me with jewellery; give me presents of art, exotic holidays, accounts at my favourite book-store, and melt in the mouth chocolates. If you think there’s something I might like, and if it doesn’t feature in this list, please feel free to go right ahead and get it for me. And you don’t have to wait for an occasion to give me a present. I won’t take offence at the ‘for no reason at all’ gift.

Love and hugs, Amma

vote for the change you deserve

2009-05-09T01:04:00.018+05:30

I first met him on a flight, a young man in the seat next to me, dressed in a frayed shirt and faded denims. ‘College kid,’ I thought. After a perfunctory smile, I kept my eyes firmly closed. No conversation for me today, polite or otherwise, just a nap.

A little while later, tired of chasing that elusive devil, sleep, I reached for some entertainment, the newspaper, tucked in front of his seat, when he interrupted with a soft ‘Excuse me.’

I looked up.

‘Are you in the movies?’

I burst out laughing, and after the slightest hesitation, he joined in too. He now had my complete attention!

‘College?’ I asked.

‘IIM’ he replied, a hint of pride in his voice, ‘Ahmedabad, but I work now, I’ve got my own food business.’

I had an hour to pass, ‘Tell me more,’ I encouraged. He didn’t need too much prodding, and I listened to his story, astonished.

Born into a large, and very poor, family in Madipakkam, Chennai, where his mother, the bread-winner, worked two or three jobs at any time to feed them all, this young man grew up in a tiny hut, studying in the circle of light thrown by a lone kerosene lamp.

The family was lucky if they went to bed with their stomachs full.

After school, he helped his mother sell idlis in her pavement stall, and during school holidays, while his friends played, he set up a book binding enterprise, which incidentally grew to become so successful he had to hire other boys to complete orders.

From here to college, in BITS Pilani was a giant step made possible with good marks and his sister pawning what little jewellery she had. To supplement the meager amount, he borrowed cash from money-lenders, often at usurious interest rates. Later, scholarships came his way.

‘I had my college fee covered,’ he laughed, pain still grabbing at his words as he spoke about those exhilarating, but difficult days, ‘but for everything else I needed, right from my toothpaste to canteen money, I had to work. Hard work was just something I did. All the time. There were no options.’

Then came IIM, and excellent job offers rejected in favour of setting up his own business – institutional catering- with a start up capital of 2,000 rupees. ‘We would deliver snacks in an auto.’ he said.

The initial years of work brought no profits, but there was no question of giving up or giving in. ‘I believed I was doing the right thing,’ he declared, ‘and I wasn’t going to let a little thing like not breaking even or making an immediate profit defeat me.’

Break even he did, and the profits came too. Business expanded, along with fortune came fame, and it was not long before he was the media’s darling. Interviews, opportunities to speak about his success, youth awards, sharing the stage with CEO’s of India’s best companies, rubbing shoulders with politicians, he had it all.

‘What next?’ I probed.

‘Politics.’ He responded, without the slightest hesitation. I looked at him in surprise.

‘Why?’ I asked. ‘You have it all, ‘why would you want to step into something like that? Money?’

Yes, the question was terribly rude, I know, but what did I have to lose!

‘No,’ he responded, smiling, ‘Power.’

Aha, here was a man unafraid to speak the truth. I didn’t know if I should applaud his honesty, or pat myself on the back for recognizing this story could have a catch.’

‘As an individual, there’s only so much I can do,’ he said, ‘ but if I get into politics, my power expands exponentially. I will have the power I need to make the changes I want.’

‘And what changes are those? I queried, not quite convinced.

‘I want to eradicate hunger. No child in our country should go hungry. I know what hunger is, I've grown up with it, and I don’t want any other child to go through what I did.’

Feeling slightly ashamed of my cynicism, I listened.

‘See, politics is the best platform if I want to make my voice heard,’ he explained. ‘I can get people who matter to listen, to help. I can bring together the right minds, the right hands, get the funds, take the action needed, and given time, I can get enough people involved, and put the systems in place to ensure hunger is a thing of the past.

We have it all,’ he continued, ‘we have the knowledge, we have the money, we have qualified people, all we need are fool-proof systems, and somebody with enough determination to put it together. It can be done. I know it. I know I can do it.’

The captain announced our arrival at Chennai, all too soon. We exchanged numbers, wished each other all the best, promised to keep in touch, and kept in touch.

The young man, driven by the passion to make a change, was Sarath Babu Elumalai, and today he is standing as independent contestant for the Loksabha seat from South Madras.

Saying he wanted to make a change was one thing, but was he willing to back-up his talk with action?

Sometime after we met, a friend responsible for an evening meal programme for school children was faced with the problem of identifying nutritious and filling food that could be prepared with minimum effort, and fit into a miniscule budget. I wrote to Sarath asking for ideas. Within the week he called with several options and followed it up with an email outlining the pros and cons of different options, giving information about where certain food products could be obtained, and promised more help if I needed.

Impressed, and intrigued, I looked out for news about Sarath Babu, and there was plenty, mostly about his rags to riches story, but also about his efforts to bring food and jobs to people in need. Here, finally, was a young man, in touch with the realities of today's India, eager to make a change, and unafraid to step into the arena of Indian politics to do it; here was a man who walked his talk!

It’s time we elected representatives who cared about the people who put them in power. It's time we had a government that remembered the real reason it is in power. It’s time we gave the power to make a difference to those who truly will work to make that difference.

It’s time to vote for change; that change, that difference we need, and the change we deserve, could just be Sarath Babu Elumalai.

***

click here to get an insight into sarath babu's life

click here to learn about his political views

and here's a video you must watch

when it's over, it really is over!

2009-05-07T15:07:00.022+05:30

food and love, so much alike, aren't they?

you can't live without food, and you can't live without love; what's worst for you is the most tempting, and when it's really good, or even painfully bad, you just can't bring yourself to call it quits!

remember the relationship so fantastic it seemed straight out of a romance novel? and how one day it just wasn't that good anymore, but you held on, fed by the memory of what was, thinking it could still be, until all that remained was a sad mish-mash of hurt feelings?

remember all those meals where you sit at the table even after your body cries enough, and take just one more tiny serving of that yummy potato kari, or one more slice of pizza you really didn't want, or one more spoon of curds and top it with some mango pickle?

you're not eating, you tell yourself, you're just keeping the others company.

right!

get up from the table when you've finished your meal, especially at home. put that plate away, wash your hands, wash the taste of food away, do something that breaks the 'i'm not done yet' cycle, and then come back, if you must.

if you can't sit there empty handed and watch others eat without going crazy, help yourself to a bowl of skimmed milk yoghurt, and savour it. slooowly.

with love we never seem to learn, with food we should - after all, the chances of finding another delicious man just like the one gone by might not be too high, but one can always find some more gooey caramel centered chocolate!

mirror mirror on the wall

2009-05-05T23:16:00.033+05:30

one evening, at the dinner table, looking at me with that 'do you even know what you sound like?' expression teens tend to favour their parents with, my first born took it upon himself to rip some dusty veils away from my eyes, and then hold a mirror up to me!

ouch! painful exercise!

i didn't recognise the stranger who looked back, except that she reminded me vaguely of the person i swore, when my view of the world was still idealistic, i would not become.

then, last week, a friend and i were talking about a blog post of hers. 'oh god, i hope the people i wrote about don't read this and recognise themselves!' she groaned.

'don't worry,' i reassured her, 'when you hold a mirror up to people, they rarely recognise their images in it!' i should know, hadn't i just been there?

and if that is true as my friend agreed it is, i wonder when faced with a mirror,

what does the ever smiling, 'i know everybody worth knowing' person who can't distinguish between networking and making friends see?

what does the patron of good causes, but only when it garners publicity see?

what does the moral policeman passing laws against drinking, before going home to scotch with his buddies see?

what does the woman who stepped into her best friend's intimate relationship and damaged it see?

what does the wife worshipper who sneaks off to a secret rendezvous so regularly he gives 'work' a whole new meaning see?

what does the 'thank god i'm not that kind of a mother' good mom see?

what does the air kisser who systematically maneuvers herself into every pr professional's invitation list see?

what does the son who sent his father the biggest home-theatre system, and spent just 3 days visiting over the holidays last year see?

is there a fearless child in their lives to rip their veils away, and tell it as it really is? do they ever listen to that voice? or do they ignore it, and keep walking?

what do you see when you look in the mirror?

why do i love thee, let me list 5 reasons...

2009-05-04T00:36:00.019+05:30

first, my apologies to abha for letting this post slide for this long - will your hurt be appeased, my friend, if i say it was because i was romancing my darling husband in the hills somewhere, singing songs, running around a tree, with flowers nodding in the background, etc., in true bollywood style?

what! you don't believe me?

oh just as well, because it wasn't true anyway - at least not the singing part :)

now, on to the tag - 5 things you love about being a mother - that's what abha's tagged me to d0 - check out her list of 5.

i'm going to copy paste her instructions

The tag is: 5 things that you love about being a mom. Next, find someone to link to and tag - someone from your own country, if you like, but definitely someone from another country (let them know that you've tagged them!) - and link back here and HBM (that's where this all started) and leave a comment.

here goes -

1 - i love seeing the world through my children's eyes - my 17 yr old, i swear he was born old, is the eternal cynic. i'm amazed at the way his mind works, at how he can take apart an action, a reaction, a conversation, anything at all, and analyse it to death, dragging me into discussions the wildest stretches of my imagination could not otherwise think up! i love the way my 13 year old, a romantic in the truest sense of the word, is ready to believe the best of everything, and secretly pray she never loses this innocence that makes her such a pleasure to be with.

2 - i love the way they keep me young and 'with it' - without them, how would i know how awesome jesse mccartney or the google android was? how would i know that a pottery party was the most 'uncool thing' a mom could think up for her child, and that girls are just as good at football as boys, if not better? it's not just media stars, gadgets, and other things teens are fascinated with, they have such fresh ideas, and think in ways i've forgotten to. they take me back to my own childhood, and remind me what hard work it is to be a child in a grown up's world.

3 - a little give, and a little take - ok, a lot of it! - i love doing things for the children; covering books with brown paper, giving massages and mini facials, finding the right shade of bangles to match that silk skirt, driving them to an early morning classes, serving them hot lunch when they come home tired from school... there are alternatives, somebody else could do it, why they themselves could do it, but i do it, simply because it makes me feel great to still be able to do little things for them.

and it's a wicked thing to admit, but children are very handy when it comes to fetch and carry - who else can you get to run around looking for the keys that are in the handbag right next to your elbow, or to fix the computer when the dog has jumped on the wires? who else can you get to give you a foot rub when you're home after a long hard day, or carry back that sandstone sculpture you fell in love with in thailand?

4 - i love how i can still teach them to look at the world through my eyes - wow, raw fish is not such a bad food, and taking half a day off to go browse through a museum while on holiday is not so boring really. and hey, this ray charles dude can sing, can't he, and bombay jayshree, and begum abida parveen, and vivaldi can make really nice music ma! music, art, indian culture and customs, the list goes on. there's so much they still have to learn, and i love introducing bits of these worlds to them.

5 - i love early morning 'kattis' (our word for hugs) - at one time early morning hugs were things i took for granted. actually with two children, one who fell asleep only if she had my hair twisted in her fingers, and another who kicked me all about the bed, i was glad for space. who needed early morning hugs! now that big bed seems strangely empty without all those bodies filling it up, and i'm glad for times they still feel little enough to sneak in for a cuddle. reminds me of how quickly times flies by, and how soon the small joys we take for granted today are gone. i love you my babies, i've always got room for an early morning hug!

i'm tagging

sandhya - a super cool mom of two, or is it four? and

arundathi - anybody who cooks this well, has to be in line for best mom in the world!

and because this is all about linking to moms in different countries, here's a swedish mom in brazil!

no room for more

2009-04-28T10:26:00.019+05:30

'repeat after me' i typed in the message box. 'i a.j., promise from this moment on...'

'i a.j. promise from this moment on...' the words popped up on my screen one by one.

'will eat every kind of food i want to eat, and savour every bite of it, taking pleasure in its flavours and textures, and will stop with just one helping of it at any one time.'

the words were typed in rapidly at first, there was a tiny pause, and the final part of the sentence made its appearance.

a.j., a dear friend wanted to lose some weight, and asked for help. while i am no expert in nutrition and diet, there are some strategies that helped me drop the 50 odd pounds i shed over the last two years, so i promised to help.

any rule i think of adopting as part of my diet plan must fit certain conditions first. these rules must be

- something that can be sustained long term

- something that can apply in any dining situation - whether at home, or at a restaurant faced with a huge buffet

- compatible with any kind of food

the last thing i want is to either feel deprived, or to make my host feel uncomfortable working around my food idiosyncrasies.

here's a mantra that fulfills all my conditions and works beautifully-

just one helping

'what about if i'm eating chips,' a.j. asked, and i'm sure if this were a conversation, her voice would be brimming with laughter, 'does one bag qualify as one helping?'

i wish!

here's what i do - i take out and put into a separate container one helping (as big or as small as my will-power will allow) of chips or potato wedges or whatever sinful food it is i'm telling myself at that moment it is not all that bad to have, and eat just that amount.

there's no going back for a refill.

try it. it works.

ps. the only time this rule fails miserably is when there's a bottle of nutella in front of me. somehow my mind equates one helping with one bottle. sigh, we all have our waterloo!

summer wine

2009-04-27T19:09:00.040+05:30

strawberries cherries and an angel's kiss in spring, my summer wine is really made from all these things...

don’t I know you from somewhere?’ the voice behind her murmured, just as the bus started to the waiting aircraft. she turned around and smiled at him, ‘hello stranger, what a pleasure.’

‘that it certainly is, ’ he drawled, stepping in closer.

the journey was punctuated with little pockets of silence, taut with tension, and anticipation. he bought her breakfast, rubbed some warmth into her cold hands, joked with her, and tried to take away the knot she confessed was growing in her stomach.

their suite was lovely, a tiny kitchen, large sofas they could sink into and a tv on the wall, just in case they had the time to cook, and make conversation, and watch world news. she tried not to look beyond the sofa to the oversized bed.

i walked in town on silver spurs that jingled to a song that I had only sang to just a few…

the seed had been planted months ago; a whispered comment in a crowded room, a smiling glance, a compliment, a message saying she was beautiful, that he had never felt this way about anyone else. she started looking for him in places he had always been, but she had never noticed him in. she fought him, fought the new attraction shimmering between them. he gave her time, gave her space, and let her be. he knew she would be back.

she came back.

he reassured me with an unfamiliar line, then he gave to me more summer wine, ohhh-oh summer wine...

she fiddled with the curtains, the controls of the air conditioning, with the tags on her luggage, and when she turned, he was there, just a towel wrapped around his middle, sprawled on the sofa, watching her, amusement pulling at the corners of his mouth.

her voice, small, quivering, muffled against his shoulder pleaded ‘slow, slow please, i’m not ready yet, i'm not ready.’ and he shushed that voice with gentle lips, big hands running softly over her hair, and her back, and the curves of her body, soothing her as if she were a frightened bird.

he let her bury her face in his chest, let the warm fragrance of his skin seep into her senses as he held her close, rubbing away the tightness in her shoulders, let her fingers explore him one inch at a time, let her breathing slow and her trembling stop, and when she kept her eyes closed, too shy to look at him, turned her around to soak in their reflection in the floor-length mirror. limbs entwined. she fully clothed. he in a towel dangerously close to dropping.

‘look at us’ he whispered, ‘aren’t you beautiful…take that off my baby...’ his gentle hands drew the dupatta from her shoulders.

my eyes grew heavy and my lips they could not speak, i tried to get up but i couldn’t find my feet… ohhh-oh…summer wine

there was no room for thought, no need for words. just sighs, and whispers of pleasure, and pleas for more, or sometimes less. hair roughened limbs slid against the slick sweat-wetness of soft smooth skin. there was no day, no night, no world outside what existed in their heads and in the joining of their bodies.

phone calls were not answered ‘she knows what I sound like when I’m in bed,’ or were made before questions could be asked ‘everything’s fine. i’m going in for a meeting, i won’t be available till evening.’ and reality segued into a king-sized bed again.

when I woke up the sun was shining in my eyes…

the scent of his skin still lingered on her body. and his voice, gravelly with desire, suffusing the air with incoherent sounds of pleasure, filled the spaces of her memories, and yet, their day of stolen love already seemed like it was a lifetime ago.

‘i’ve got just hand luggage...’ she paused, as if searching for the right words, then shrugged, a small gesture of dismissal. the time for words was long gone. 'i’ll go on ahead... you've got a car waiting for you?'

the backs of his fingers slid against her arm, a tiny intimacy. she looked into his eyes smiling down at her tenderly, and suddenly those words, those words begging for reassurance that she was special, those words she swore she would never speak out loud, exploded to life in her mouth. she forced a teasing lilt to her voice, ‘don’t forget me in the crush of women around you.’

‘i’m all yours baby,' he responded softly, sounding completely sincere, as he always did, 'there’s nobody who makes me feel the way you do.’

she had believed him once.

this man- the hunter, the charmer, the lover, the leaver- maybe in his own fashion he cared for her. she asked for no promises, he made her none. she loved him, but could not afford to let her world revolve around him. or crumble around her.

she pressed a kiss into his palm, took her bag from the overhead compartment and walked out of the plane, a dull ache in her heart, her head held high.

strawberries cherries and an angel’s kiss in spring, my summer wine is really made from all these things. take off your silver spurs and help me pass the time, and I will give to you my summer wine... mmm-mm summer wine.

'what happened next?' many of us asked after reading sandhya's post 'the seed.' maybe 'summer wine' is what happened. if you're looking for the song, you'll find it here and here

what did you sell your vote for?

2009-04-27T14:39:00.014+05:30

p, all of 19, a domestic help with somebody i know, went home to her village to cast her vote.

'whom did you vote for?' her employer asked, expecting the answer to be the film star's party.

after all, the girl had talked for weeks about how all politicians were 'thieving dogs' and that the matinee idol being new to game, and not needing to make money off the public, would probably bring in much needed change.

'party c' the girl replied, all smiles. taken aback, her employer asked why. p's reasoning was simple.

the film star's party had offered every family rs.2000 to cast their votes in its favour. it seemed like a good deal till the party c came along - they offered rs.15,000.

in addition to that, through a local party c connection, the girl got herself a community certificate (the golden card!) and citing a physical handicap, some more certificates of concession. now how could she not vote for them?

so carries on the cycle of politicians trading favours - cold cash, alcohol, community certificates, tv sets, 1 rupee rice, gold rings etc. for votes. with this exchange, they act as if their duty to the voter is done, and why not, they did buy that vote after all, and get down to their primary job - filling their own pockets, and the coffers of their party, with the kind of money that's more than enough to wipe out national debt many times over.

what about good governance? damn good governance! when the voter who could have made a wiser choice has abdicated his responsibility, citing flimsy excuses, should we even be talking about it?

welcome to the great indian election tamasha, version 2009. very little has changed!

things that go bump in the night

2009-04-24T08:26:00.032+05:30

'stay right where you are,' my darling husband snapped!

considering that it was 4.00am, and that till the moment he had barked his order, i had been fast asleep, there didn't seem any immediate danger of my jumping up and rushing off anywhere.

'what's happening pa?' i asked sleepily.

'nothing,' the man of the house retorted, 'don't move!'

wide awake now, and definitely not ready to take orders lying down (forgive the awful pun!) i struggled up from bed. 'pa, what's going on, did you hear somebody in the house?' i asked, my words bouncing off a closing door around which came a snort that could have meant yes, or no, or anything else.

my dh had stalked off to see who had invaded his territory.

he, as he had proved years ago, is far braver than he strictly needs to be when woken up by intruders in the middle of the night. such situations usually ended with the bewildered intruder bound with cord yanked off a table lamp, and dumped in the back seat of the car, while my husband prepared to dash off with his booty to the police station, clad in nothing more than boxer shorts!

i peeped out of the bedroom and saw lights snap on rapidly in room after room.

'where's s?' the question ricocheted up the stairs.

where was my son? in his room, i hoped, fast asleep, like he was meant to be. suddenly horror stories about disgruntled domestics sneaking into children's rooms and slitting the throats of the sleeping babes rushed to my mind. 'oh god, let him be safe, please!' i prayed.

it was definitely time to act. i shook my daughter, 'get up,' i snapped at the poor thing. (yes, when you have no idea what you are doing, barking orders feels useful.)

i yanked the mattress up, frantically searching for my 'whacking stick,' a wicked brass tipped bamboo staff i kept hidden there specifically for these situations.

there was no way i was going to let my man face what i imagined was a mustachioed, knife-wielding, lungi-clad thug, armed with just courage and a sense of outrage, or let my child have his throat slashed in his sleep, so weapon in hand, i crept out of the bedroom, determinded to save the situation.

'check on s!' the command bounced up the stairs again.

heart beating so loud i could actually hear the pounding, i gripped the bamboo staff tightly in my sweaty hands, and pushed open my son's bedroom door softly... and froze at the sight in front of me...

sitting cross-legged in bed, there he was, my son, plugged into his music, completely oblivious to the galatta his nocturnal wandering had caused, calmly eating some kiwi fruit he had just raided from the fridge!

'pa,' i shouted, laying down the bamboo staff, 'i found your intruder!'

how will you know if you don't try?

2009-04-23T14:45:00.033+05:30

a few days ago mithran called. 'm, do you sing?'

'what?' i responded, sharply, but not very brightly, not sure i had heard right.

'do you sing?' he asked again.

well, while i do have a voice that is a very fortunate genetic accident, as anyone who has heard me sing, and as the tiles shaken loose in my bathroom will testify, my singing is, to put it kindly, not of quite the same caliber.

deciding to foist the blame on technology while i bought some time and tried to make sense of the question, i said 'i'm afraid the signal's not very good, could you repeat that please?'

patient man that he is, mithran obliged. 'no,' i responded, 'i don't sing.' i said i did voice overs, however, and curiosity aroused, i asked him why he wanted to know.

'this is for a stage adaptation of the movie mamma mia,' he explained. 'we're casting for the lead roles, and i wondered if you sang.'

oh goodness! me! on stage! singing in front of an audience of hundreds! just the thought was enough to bring on a cold sweat. the coward in me rejoiced that i had had the sense to say no and rushed to ensure there could be no possible misunderstanding.

'no, i don't sing.' i repeated. firmly.

that should have been the end of that matter, but as i drove to the airport the conversation played on in my mind.

why had i said no? why had i let fear make yet another decision for me? after all, hadn't i confessed to friends so many times before that i wished i could moonlight as a singer?

'a small dark, smokey jazz bar,' i would say. 'i'd sit on a stool in the middle of a tiny stage, a bright circle of light on me, close my eyes, and just let the music flow... i'd sing ella fitzgerald, and nina simone, and norah jones, and take songs i love, infuse them with my own singing style... with a sax and piano... leading sometimes... taking their cue from me at others ...i'd make magic... and the handful of people there would listen, mesmerised... food and drink forgotten...'

and now, i had given up the chance to sing on stage, without even trying?

mamma mia, that slightly silly musical, featured songs i had grown up singing.

i remembered how, in school, manju and anne had pulled on silver jumpsuits and sung super trooper for parent's day, and how i had wished i could have done that too.

i called him back.

'mithran,' i said, 'they're abba songs, right? i've grown up singing them. can i still audition?'

'of course, m,' he replied, 'but can you sing?'

'i don't know,' i confessed, 'but i'd like to try.'

audition day came and went. i sang 'money money money,' not badly either, and i had fun doing it too.

not bad, was mithran's verdict, but not good enough for the lead in a musical, maybe i'd like to try for a smaller role?

i didn't mind the answer really. i had even known that's how it would be. what mattered was that i had taken courage in my hands and put myself in a tough place, on the off-chance that i could make a dream come true.

who knows, maybe i will take voice lessons, and maybe one day i will be on stage, sitting in a circle of light, singing. and maybe you, listening to my voice caress the music, for that one moment will forget the rest of the world, and it's multitude of cares.

***

ps. an unlikely hero - paul potts and heroine- susan boyle- and their seemingly unattainable dreams; take a look at these clips. thank you tascha for pointing them out.

don't do this!

2009-04-19T23:07:00.012+05:30

lesson for the day -

never have a red bull and a bar of chocolate together -

especially on an empty stomach.

the caffeine and sugar combination gives you such a kick you will have to be peeled off the ceiling.

seriously!

woman, why do you do this to yourself?

2009-04-18T11:29:00.022+05:30

'it's no big deal,' she shrugged, 'after all i knew there was no question of long term commitment.' she looked at me, smiling, as if trying to convince me that everything was ok, and i really shouldn't worry about her.

she laced her fingers through mine. 'men, can we ever change them?'

why was she trying to reassure me? for whom was she putting up this brave facade? i could see the smile didn't reach anywhere near her eyes; how she must have been hurting behind that pretense. after all, hadn't she said something a few months earlier about finally finding a man who she was crazy about, and who, even if he hadn't made any promises, really cared about her?

and now, she was delicately working her way through a plate of grilled vegetables as if she hadn't just confessed that she had been sitting up in bed with her man, head on his shoulder, sharing a tender moment, when his cell phone beeped, and he opened it to a message from another woman. it said - i'm amazed at the closeness we share. sometimes i wonder if this is for real.

i had heard her say those very words when she first met him.

why was she in the relationship? 'why do you put up with this?' i wanted to ask her. 'you are smart, intelligent, have a close knit family, friends, and a social life that's as active as you want it to be. why are you doing this to yourself?'

but this was not the time for all of that; to say anything now would be an assault on that dignity she was so bravely pulling around herself. so i pretended not to see the tears shimmering on the edge of her lashes, and squeezed her fingers in a silent show of support instead.

my questions remained unasked.

an unusual man

2009-04-18T09:54:00.010+05:30

'a' is finally free of a torturous marriage.

for years i watched him fly down from the us to make court appearances, and swallow his frustration when his wife, who lived an hour away from chennai, didn't show up. 'i don't know what she wants,' he would say, 'but i just want it to end.' so he would meet whatever demands her lawyers came up with, and she in turn would make yet another new one.

now, it was over. 'what next?' i asked him.

'nothing,' he replied. 'i'm busy enough with work and am happy with the company of my friends. no relationships for me, no marriage.'

i could understand the no marriage part of it, he had just come out of a really nasty situation, but no relationships? he had been alone for 5 years, didn't the quiet ever get to him?

'no,' he smiled. 'i don't want any long term commitments, and casual relationships don't work. sure, they may start out as 'no strings attached' affairs, but deeper emotions do get involved sooner or later, and expectations of the relationship change. i neither want to cause that kind of hurt, nor deal with those complications.'

how true his words. regardless of the intent at the start, casual relations rarely ever remained that; i was reminded of all the heartbreak stories i had heard, and the wry 'hey, but i have only myself to blame if i'm hurting today, i knew from the start there was no long term commitment' statements women made while dismissing yet another situation they shouldn't have been dealing with in the first place.

you're a rare man 'a,' and a good one. i wish your life brings you much happiness.

is that all?

2009-04-18T09:11:00.009+05:30

'is that all you're going to eat?'

that's a question i get asked too often when i'm meeting people over a meal.

earlier i would have squirmed and made excuses for the quantity of food on my plate, and maybe used that question as a cover to take another quick helping of something sinful i had half-heartedly convinced myself was bad for my waistline.

today, i simply smile and say 'yes.' no excuses made, no explanations given.

too many people on a 'diet' or a different eating plan are apologetic about their food choices. don't be.

of course i'm not endorsing unhealthy eating habits; most of us are sensible enough to know what we can live well on, and what's crazy, and if we have doubts, there's always the friendly neighbourhood dietician, or a diet page online that can set us straight.

don't let sharp comments get you down.

get your facts right, find an eating plan that suits you, and stick with it, sans apologies.

chandra, the fruit seller

2009-04-06T13:16:00.015+05:30

where do you shop for your fruit?

if, like me, you live in south madras, your answer could be pazhamudir nilayam, or amma nana, nilgiris or even pondy bazaar.

let me point you to one lady who's been selling fruit by the side of the road for as long as i can remember.

on c.p.ramaswami iyer road, opposite nilgiris, are a couple of fruit sellers, guarding their store of fruit heaped high on carts. one of them is a dusky, rotound lady in glasses, chandra.

make conversation with her as you select fruit, and you'll hear about high prices and low margins (naturally) and about her blood sugar, and how cops harrass fruit sellers, sometimes for produce, and sometimes for money, and all the while she will help you select the best oranges and the freshest apples in the heap, and bag it for you with a smile. tell her her prices are atrocious, and she will smilingly take 10 rupees off the total.

so why do i go to chandra when the bigger shops have fixed prices and a better variety of fruit?

first, she's not a chain of stores - every sale makes a difference to her to her livelihood

second, she serves me like she's genuinely glad to have my business

so if you want kiwi fruit or figs, head for the fancy stores, but if it's apples and oranges you're shopping for, go to chandra.

:) here's a smile for your service chandra, may your tribe live long.

shree mithai

2009-04-05T15:57:00.008+05:30

i love the food in shree mithai and admire the way they have grown from one dinky shop in chetpet to a fairly swanky chain of outlets. unfortunately their 'take it or leave it' attitude towards customers hasn't changed one bit over the years; their service remains indifferent at best!

recently i was in their spencer plaza branch, and ordered samosas to be packed to take back for my staff. my son, who placed the order, forgot to mention he wanted it in two bags, till he saw it in one big bag. he then asked if it could be repacked.

the server snapped 'why didn't you tell me this earlier?'

'is there a problem with repacking it?' i asked, extra polite, fully aware specific instructions should have given.

'who said there was a problem,' came the surly response, 'you didn't tell me how you wanted it, and now this bag is being wasted.'

he had a point, but did he have to be so rude about it?

:( bad, shree mithai, bad, service could definitely be better.

where summer shops

2009-04-05T15:40:00.006+05:30

does customer service mean anything to you?

to many businesses it doesn't.

take a look here to see which business is worth giving your money to, which you should never give a thought to, let alone your money, which one is glad to serve you, and which one isn't.

ps. after reading arundathi's comment, i've included this note on the reasoning behind my rating.

- praise may be lavished after one good experience, but no business will be damned on the basis of one bad experience - after all chennai's climate is hot enough to scramble brains, and everyone is allowed their occasional bad day!

the only exception will be if, despite repeated efforts to correct a bad situation, the staff/management have been particularly unhelpful or rude.

- a clear distinction will be made between quality of goods and service; often one has nothing to do with the other.

diets don't work

2009-04-05T15:07:00.007+05:30

a couple of weeks ago a friend announced she was on a gm diet; she wanted to boost her weight-loss and this seemed a sensible way to do it. so she put herself through gastronomic torture and by the 3rd day was so bad tempered, she had her family walking around her on tiptoe.

she did drop 2 kilos though, and is now afraid to eat her 'normal' way for fear of putting it back on.

cabbage soup, chicken soup, lettuce leaf, and 3 tomatoes; south beach, palm beach, calangute and kovalam - i'm sure there are as many diets as there are foods and beaches with fancy names.

point is - do they work?

yes, they do, in the short term.

can that kind of eating pattern and weight loss be sustained? definitely not!

let's assume you need to lose weight because, rightly or wrongly, you think you are overweight. here what you need to take before you go on that diet that sounds too good to be true.

* ask yourself why you want to lose the weight

to get the attention of that dishy man in the cabin next door is as good a reason as to get rid of that nagging knee pain! just remember the the effects of a fad diet may see you through your interest in the dishy man, but the knee pain could need a long term solution.

* check your bmi

see how much weight you need to drop to get to your ideal range. these numbers are not the most accurate measure of what you should weigh, but gives you a fairly reasonable weight range that does not require you to be model thin to fit in.

* make a list of foods you can't do without - diets should never ever be about deprivation

* make a list of sports you enjoy/could learn and take up

rarely ever, especially if you are not too overweight, is weightloss sustainable without exercise.

* maintain a food diary for one week

no cheating - who are you trying to fool anyway? it's your body, your life, your figure and your fat butt.

* go see a qualified dietician with your food lists and diary.

you might have a health issue that needs someone with a grain of medical insight to help keep under control, and that glamorously dressed skinny young thing with the fancy office may not always be the best person for the job.

if you're in chennai, dr.bhuvaneshwari shankar, chief dietician, apollo hospitals is excellent

* if you're over 35, or terribly overweight, or not used to any exercise other than walking to the fridge for another bar of chocolate, see your GP before starting a new exercise programme.

*****

once you've done all of this, you'll come home armed with reams of paper giving you instructions on what to eat, and when to eat, and a new found enthusiasm to try everything that sounds even vaguely like it will help to shift the numbers on your scale.

go with the flow, and when you feel the enthusiasm flagging, come back here, i'll give you food mantras, and some tricks and tips you can adopt to keep the kilos off.

good luck.

wanted - one philosophy of convenience

2009-04-04T14:36:00.007+05:30

she is attractive enough to cause a palpable wave of envy when she walks by, keeps a lovely home, and manages a fairly high powered career. she's a partner in a not particularly pleasant marriage.

he is charming, a witty conversationalist, and shrewd businessman. he knows how to make a woman feel vibrant and wanted. his marriage is nothing to speak of.

they had common friends, they met, they were drawn to each other; it was inevitable. they smiled and made small talk at first, then called each other to consult on little issues that were non-issues really. soon they stopped pretending they needed these excuses. they shared some wine, some laughter, some confidences, and all the while the air sizzled with unspoken attraction.

one day he told her how he felt. and she asked him what he wanted.

to say it would make him sound like the crassest of men. he said nothing. she understood.

she had vowed never to come between a man and a woman in an active relationship, and she had vowed never to be a 'casual fling.'

she stepped back.

and found that she could leave him, but couldn't stop loving him.

how much simpler her life, if her philosophies were ones of convenience, not conviction!

how deep? how wide? how far to becoming your mother?

2009-04-04T13:33:00.004+05:30

a few days ago i'd gone to lasya, the very elegantly dressed usha umapathy's clothing design centre (tailoring unit sounds like a bad word when juxtaposed with this impeccably turned out lady!) just off kasthuri rangan road.

i stood there, arms stretched out, while usha walked around me poking and prodding, and taking measurements, murmuring soft comments - 'ah, nice loss of inches here,' and asking questions - 'are you planning to tone up these arms?'

she measured me for trousers, for tunics, for salwars and kameezes, and for every other kind of garment i, with my newly acquired body confidence, would possibly find the courage to wear. finally we came to saree blouse measurements.

'how low?' she asked, for the neckline and back. 'how high?' she asked, wrapping the tape below my breasts.

'not too much skin usha,' i replied absently, attention focussed on the slight suggestion of an indent at my waist. 'sexy is fine, but somehow i feel too much skin is sluttish.'

usha laughed and agreed there was a fine line between the two, but i wasn't listening. the words i had just spoken, with so little thought, buzzed about my ears, deafeningly loud. i turned and looked at her, quite shocked at myself.

'you know usha,' i said slowly, 'when i was in college, i would plot with the tailor to make the blouse as tiny as possible, and all the while amma would lecture me on how showing too much skin was sluttish.

'and now... i sound just like my mother!'

the aluminium school trunk

2009-04-04T10:40:00.003+05:30

this morning i called my mother to ask if she still had my old aluminium school trunk with her.

'what do you want with it?' she asked in surprise, 'you always hated that thing!'

to those who are wondering what on earth an aluminium school trunk is, at the risk of revealing how ancient i actually am, let me explain.

in the good old days when i was first packed off to boarding school, my mother was given a clothing list a mile long. this included blankets, pillows and such like, that would have filled up at least 4 of the largest plastic VIP suitcases that were the then travellers' favourite companion. i didn't have even one of them.

i grew up in a village, and my parents were perfectly happy to provide us children with whatever supplies could be purchased in the nearest small town. practical, no-nonsense soul that she was, and still is, amma's criteria for selection included 'cost effective' and 'tough enough to take years of abuse by ungrateful children.'

the VIP suitcases, especially when there were 5 children to be packed off to boarding schools, were neither.

that's where the aluminium trunks came in.

i don't know if these were readily available, or if they were a particularly effective instrument of embarrassment thought up by my mother, but they turned up at home one day, gleaming in their new shiny aluminiumness ('thickest grade sheet, amma,' the driver proudly announced.)

my mother inspected the trunks carefully, pronounced them adequate, and packed them off to the workshop to be painted that particularly bilious shade of green that adorned the machinery in our mill.

i went to a somewhat posh boarding school in the hills where the 'bombay girls,' who most often lived somewhere abroad and called bombay home for few weeks every year, brought their things in brightly coloured plastic suitcases with shiny metal clips, sporting names like 'samsonite,' and 'local' (read south indian) girls had parents sensible enough to send supplies, even if they only were VIP suitcases, and not fancy 'imborted' ones, that allowed their daughters to fit in with the rest of the crowd.

my arrival in school was something everybody, other than me of course, waited for.

the white ambassador ('taxi car' as one somalian girl announced,) would roll up, and the driver would wrestle the humungous green trunk, with my name stencilled on top in big white letters, out of the boot.

the school porters would groan at the sight - i am sure they waited for the day when my mother would see sense and send a relatively lighter plastic suitcase, like everybody else did- and grumble loudly, every step of the way, to which ever dorm i was allotted.

new girls would stop sobbing on their mothers' shoulders and stare, wide-eyed; old girls would stop mid-conversation with friends and once again thank which ever gods they prayed to, for their savvier mothers, and parents would turn sympathy filled eyes around to find the poor soul this monstrosity belonged to.

i, of course, would have darted to the nearest loo by then, and have locked myself in, till the noisy dramas of helloes and goodbyes started again, and my driver, fed up of trying to find me, left for home.

and now, more than 2 decades later, i was asking my mother if she still had the trunk with her, and if i could have it- any wonder she was shocked?

but she does have it, and i'm going to bring it home, have the awful green scraped off, paint it a cheerful magenta, or dull gold, and find a nice corner for it in my daughter's bedroom.

i don't know what my fussy teen will have to say about it, but i think it will add an unusual 'retro-kitsch' touch to her room, and also serve the very practical function of storage for pillows and quilts.

'oh, by the way ma,' i said, 'send me the one with the thickest grade sheet. i'm sure she will use it to sit on, and the trunk's going to see quite a bit of abuse at this child's hands!'

both of us laughed.

how quickly i have become my mother!

that first step, again

2009-03-27T16:26:00.003+05:30

'If a 13 year old can do it, and can do it well, I can too.' That's what I told myself, as I struggled to set this account up, and actually get it going.

What is it about 13 year olds that they can do things with apparent ease that us ancient 30 somethings cannot seem to get a grip on? After all we're older, supposed to be wiser, have seen so much more of life than they have, and have so much more more of what is supposed to be the best teacher - experience.

Is it that we-

- lack courage?
- are afraid of making mistakes?
- are afraid of making idiots of ourselves?
(are the above all the same?)
- are reluctant to try something new?
- are set in our ways?
(again both these mean the same, I think)

What ever it is, it is only that first step that seems so daunting. Thanks to a smart 13 year old today I've done one more new thing in my life.
Here's to courage, and here's to new experiences!

(this post appeared in my first blog years ago, and i'd like to think i'm much braver today than my techno-twit self was in 2005. so here's not only to courage and new experiences, but also, as many more of my friends are in blogsphere, to some writing and much more reading!)