And the cop said “…you are a good mother”.

And the cop said “…you are a good mother”.

But he was comparing me to all the crappy examples of parenthood he sees on a daily basis in the course of his work, so not sure if it counts as a resounding endorsement. Then again, many tired, sleepless people go through life without hearing the words “You are a good parent”, so I will take my compliments as they come, even the back-handed ones.

Here is how it happened: I put my baby son & his carseat in the backseat and slammed the door shut.

I placed my handbag and the keys on the frontseat, and slammed the door shut. 

Walked around the car to open the boot and place the stroller in… and IT WOULD NOT OPEN.

Now, to those of you who don’t know me, I do not like shortened misspellings, ill-conceived sentences and all CAPS. I like to be polite, even on paper. So, you can imagine my frustration if I’m using all CAPS. Let me say it again- MY CAR DOORS WOULD NOT OPEN.

Did I mention my baby was inside?

After a moment of stunned disbelief, I checked everything again- yes, the keys were still inside. My baby son was still inside. I was not inside. I was definitely outside.

I always thought when something like this would happen, I would be perfectly calm, composed and poised. I would be a model of controlled adrenalin rush, an exemplary specimen (speci-woman?) of strong, sensible parent, getting things done.  But in reality, I was frozen. Whatever parts of me that were working, were not functioning properly -I was a mess of shivering hands, sniffing nose, teary eyes and babbling mouth, accompanied by burning chest and fire in the belly.

Oh, I did manage to call 911 within a minute of discovering the locked doors. There was simply no way around it. And then I spent what was most definitely the worst ten minutes of my life- making rounds of my car, checking the doors repeatedly: driver side door – locked, back doors – locked, boot – locked, driver side door- still locked. Going in circles, checking, double checking, as if a door would be magically open all by its sweet self.

I had my husband on the phone by this time. Poor guy, too far away to help me, goes “Is the baby O.K.?”

“Yes, he fell asleep!”, I assured him.

“Fell asleep or fainted due to cold?”

Took the wind out of my sails, it did.

The police came exactly ten minutes after my call. The cop was basically there for moral support. He called a working crew to open my car and we waited another 15 minutes for it to make an appearance.

Apparently, many people lock their keys in the car.

Apparently #2, some idiot sued the county police for damage to the car when they assisted someone in distress, so no more opening doors for civilians. Not even the prettily crying kind.

So I leaned in closer to the cop and said surreptitiously, “Do you know how to open this car?”

He replied, “Yes”

“Can you please open it?”

“Like I said, we are not allowed to”.

“I promise not to sue!”

And he rolled his eyes, “That’s what they always say!”

Exactly 40 minutes after I locked my son in the car, I had him in my arms. In a moment of self-deprecation, I told the cop that I have never done such a ninny thing before. He assured me that as long as locking him in the car was the worst thing I have ever done to my children, I was a pretty good mother.

Indeed!

Eating for two

Couple of weeks ago, rushing from one chore to another, I had this sudden urge to pull over the car and simply cry. So, there I was, in the middle of a cold afternoon, pulled-over, hazard-lights on, sobbing on the shoulder of Rt27. Very unsympathetic shoulder, I should add. Between the hiccups and the sniffles, it occurred to me that I was simply busy, like always. Why it did break me down this time around?

(DUN!)

Realization bloomed. Like the Bharathiraja movies, everything stilled around me, the coconut trees, the crashing waves, the zooming cars (just stay with me here, ok? It’s my story and if I want to use messed up imagery, I will), and I came to the conclusion that I might just be pregnant.

And everything faded into insignificance, as this thought took a life of its own (no pun intended)! A quick round of doctors and a battery of tests confirmed it. We announced my first pregnancy at 5 weeks, giddy with excitement and pride. This time around, since we are grown up and all, we decided to test our capability to withhold information and divulge it at the right time.

Which is right about now.

YAY! We are extremely excited to announce that we are expecting a little one in September 2012!

My darling daughter can't keep a secret you see, so initially we decided to tell her a little late. But couple of weeks ago, I was tired, she was cranky, and we were fighting. At one point, I was terrified she was going to crash into me, and my instincts kicked in. My panicked “Stop!” terrified her, since I usually refrain from yelling (at her that is. I have no compunctions about yelling at Arun).

Then came the “Mommy has a baby in her tummy” talk, followed by “How did the baby get into your tummy?” and then, “How is the baby going to come out?” Whew!

She became so excited, she wanted to assemble the crib we have stored in the basement, she put away one of her blankies for the baby to use, and made space for the baby clothing in her closet.

So I explained to her that the “Baby is not coming tonight”.
She simply rolled her eyes, “But we need to get ready!”

Since she will be in Kindergarten coming Sept, she practices her name and ours, every day. She wrote that, and she goes “Amma, what’s the baby’s name?”
“The baby does not have a name yet”
“Why?”
“I don’t know...”
“WHY?”
“You can name the baby if you want”
“ok… is it a boy baby or a girl?”
“I don’t know”
“How can you not know?! It’s inside your tummy!”

Which was my cue to laugh. I told her that I cannot “see” the baby, so I don’t know if it was a boy or a girl. But she can still name it. So she called it ‘Flower baby” and promised me that it will be a neutral color flower (not pink or purple), so that if it’s a boy baby, he will not be embarrassed.

Now that she knew, she told everyone in her school the very next morning. When I went to pick her up, all the teachers congratulated me. The next day, all the parents were wishing me well – turns out, the kids went home and told their parents that Shri’s mom is having a baby!

We were delaying having another child, citing lack of strength, time, energy, financial and emotional resources required, the fear of a second 20 year commitment, and a hundred other things. Now that the decision has been taken out of our hands, our reservations haven't diminished, nevertheless, acceptance has kicked in. Whatever will be, will be.

Besides, my dad assures me that having a child is not a commitment of 20 years, but that of a lifetime.

How I met my daughter

Not just me, but everyone I know, is so anxious to fill their day, plan every hour if possible. The day should be productive (let me state right here how much I hate that word). There has to be a long list of items to be rattled off to the question: “What did you do today?” If, by chance, one has a few minutes to spare, it should be spent on something worthwhile, or at the very least, self entertainment.

Lunch time at work is spent checking personal emails, daily commute would be the best time to make calls and keep in touch with friends, walking or jogging accompanied by music, the interval between hitting the bed and falling asleep with books, waiting in a line at the library or the grocery store can be made productive by checking FB or news or something.

Multi-tasking is the new norm. Don’t you believe me? It’s on every job requirement posted online.  To move from one chore to next, from one email to another, one appointment to subsequent one, makes a soul feel accomplished. Every weekday is routine, from work to chore to child to dinner to sleep. Every weekend is filled with activities, parties, family time and all the rest.  Freetime filled with books, music, movies or sports.

All this planning and productivity has taken away something so significant from us, and the worst part is that we have not even noticed it gone. That, my friends, is simply atrocious. This thought struck me on a recent weekend, when I experienced something so novel, I was flabbergasted and paralyzed.

A lunch plan fell through and guests did not show up. My laundry was done, kitchen and whole house clean (due to the aforementioned guests), plants watered, emails checked and calls returned. It was pouring cats and dogs, discouraging any outings. There was nothing, nothing on T.V. I browsed for a few hours, catching up on friends’ blogs and news. I played castle, kitchen and puzzles with my daughter. Colored some more. And then … And then I got…

….bored.

I did not know what to do. I had nothing to do.

Boredom. Hmm... I said the word a couple of times as it felt unfamiliar. Then I thought of how many synonyms I can come up with- five: tedium, lassitude, ennui, doldrums, and languor

I thought some more about it, trying to decide whether I liked it or not.

And then I realized something else. Not only do adults fill their lives with ‘productive’ (did I mention I hate that word?) activities, they have done so with their children too. And I’m, too, guilty as charged. I plan my daughter’s day with meticulous care. From her playtime to naptime, her creative time to meal time, she goes from one thing to next.  Travel time is also ‘productive’ with word games and rhymes. As a last resort, she will also be given cartoon time and iPhone game time, to avoid boredom.

I recently had a very weird conversation with my husband where we discussed letting her stay with her grandparents for summer. I was worried that she will fall out of routine and will have trouble getting back to school. *Headdesk*

Did I really say that? Am I so old (*gulp*) that I don’t remember my summers, that were filled with nothing? NOTHING!

Summer camp! Bah! In summers, I was left to my own devices. I climbed trees, stole mangoes, collected peacock feathers, waded streams, caught bugs, made mud pots, found henna leaves, tasted local flora and fauna, and in my teens, moved on to exploring the storage rooms for antiques, sketching people, gossiping with girls, putting on plays, cooking abysmal food, experimenting with herbal concoctions.

All of that because I was bored and my parents did not tell me how to fill my time.

The burden on entertainment fell on me. And being an inexperienced kid/teen, the planning fell way short of keeping me busy. Thus, I came up with so many things to entertain myself.

As for travel, my childhood travel consisted of looking out the window, staring at the scenery and watching other travelers. I figured out most of the traffic rules by the time I was five, learnt about the position of the sun in relation to the direction we were traveling when I was six, I had an excellent sense of rough, unsafe roads versus well-lit safe ones by seven. And I did learn a lot about body language through all the people watching.

The above activities were results of sheer boredom. Not one productive thing was achieved though them. I feel like I’m depriving my daughter of something by not letting her to be bored. She has all her time and activities planned by me.

That is not good, not good at all. I felt a little irresponsible doing this, but I guiltily curbed the voice screaming “You will ruin her!” and left her to her own devices one evening. No instructions about what she should play or do or watch.

And the most amazing thing happened- I got to see what she is like. I got to see what she likes.

 I met my daughter.

Life without a cell phone

From a novelty to a necessity, the cell phone has now become an appendage, an extension of your arm. I'm not going to spend any time on how important it is- I'm sure you have figured that out all by ourselves.

My cell phones so far, have been hand me downs. My first was my dad's Nokia, which weighed a ton (well, it felt like a ton) and was bulky like a brick. My latest was a flip phone that had seen better days in my husband's hands.

I had the same phone for over four years, which is a feat by itself. And in my clumsy hands, it has suffered such grievous injuries, that if only it could file a complaint, I assure you I would be tried and convicted of manslaughter many times over.

It whined, it screeched, it cracked and it fell sick. I tried, you know, to get it some help. I got the best charges, the best batteries. But I think it had given up on making my life easier.Then, there were the temper tantrums which I couldn't alleviate. It wouldn't speak to me for days, after which, possibly overcome by a sudden fit of un-ignorable guilty conscience, it would let me know all the missed calls and messages at the same time. One fine day, about  6 weeks ago, it finally died. Now, my instinct was to rush and get another. After all, how would I go on without a phone?

Apparently, I can go on without a phone just fine. In fact, it was more than fine- it was fabulous. It enriched my life: Pressing send and dialing the number is the norm now. What happens when there is no send button? Have we not seen the FB messages from friends who have lost a phone and lost all the contact numbers too? I actually know my friends' phone numbers now.  The numbers are un-erasable, retrieved quickly upon need, locked away safely in my head.

I know the date and have acquired an uncanny knack for judging time. I can actually add two digits numbers without the aid of a calculator or a pen!

Being deprived of the benefits of making phone calls, I had to write down the directions meticulously, so as not to get lost. And of course, there was no question of making last minute changes to plans for someone else's conveniences. Since I had no phone, everyone had to stick to the original plans.

Things are sounding more appealing by minute, aren't they? The finest leverage here is that I do not have to answer impulsively or make impetuous decisions. People can't reach me- so they email me or leave a message at my home phone or call my husband. So, I get to hear the matter first, assimilate it, think it through before taking any steps.

See, here is the heart of the matter: have you ever thought about the long list of contacts at your fingertips, people whom you can reach without a moment's notice? Ah Ha! It's actually you who are at their finger tips- they can reach you whenever they want. Not me, can't reach me. I speak to people when I deem it fit.  

Now, don't get all uppity with me- you know I would always take your call! :D

But, I think my days of freedom are now numbered. I can see my new phone looming in the horizon, getting obtrusive by the minute!

Lacking hindsight, what say you?

I have heard the condescending arguments about how women can’t drive or park, mostly from men who cast aspersions on women. Not that I condone them (arguments or men), but I do have a confession to make.

In the six years that I have been driving in the US, I have never (ever) gotten a ticket. Never been pulled over for speeding, running red lights or any other offence. Now, why am I mentioning this? I do have a point. Make that two points, actually.

First, I do have violation tickets: from the esteemed and diligent security guards of my employers, who had thought (twice!) that I have parked crookedly. Thus, they left a ticket on my windshield stating “Incorrect-Parking Violation”. Now, that paper is not much- I don’t have any fines or fees. I simply read, huff and toss.

Apparently, I cannot park correctly.

I, who have never been reprimanded by the cops, got ticket from guards! (Now, there is slight thread of egoistical insanity in that sentence, along with some form of grammatical error. Both of which I’m going to assiduously ignore since I do not want to digress).

Which brings me to the second item. I have been in two accidents (why, thank you for asking! No, I was not hurt). I think I may be misleading you with the word ‘accident’, which indicates that at least two cars were involved. Both of mine occurred when there were no other cars in the vicinity. Yes, I did it all by myself, no outside assistance needed. They were accidents in the sense that I had no intention of damaging my car, but I did.

Both the times, curiously enough, I was driving barely 2-3 miles an hour. I was crawling in reverse gear, pulling out of the parking spot. The first time I misjudged the distance and bumped into a monster truck, wrenching the bender; second time I grazed against a pillar and broke the side mirror. Since all this was happening, as I said earlier, at 2-3 miles/hr, I could clearly hear every bump, grind, crunch and screech. Curiously still, it was my husband’s car that was victimized twice by my… err, driving expertise.

And apparently, I do not drive well in reverse gear, in spite of diligently checking my mirrors.

Lacking hindsight, what say you?

PS: My car did get towed, for no fault of mine, which is a separate issue altogether. Please read "A Full Circle, where cops become buddies" in Apr 2010. I have new version of blogger, and once I figureout how to insert hyperlinks, I will do so. Until then...

Olio! Reopened!

(Clearing throat, in a melodious hostess voice):

Greetings of the day! I welcome you to Olio. We are excited to announce that our dear Chef has returned after an unexpected hiatus. Also, I apologize for the wait- I know that four months is a long time, but rest assured that we will make this dining experience worthwhile for you.

We are so pleased that you have decided to dine with us! I’m your blogger for this evening; won’t you step this way and scroll down to read? How do you like this seating- I’m sorry that I cannot accommodate you anywhere else, as your seat right now is the only place where you can read this blog.

Tonight’s specials are self-indulgent craziness garnished with expected results, served with a side of ridiculous suggestions and morbid curiosity. The Chef recommends that you do not part-take of any wines or liquids with these specials, as we are not responsible for you choking to death with laughter.

Previous dinner menus are located to your right. If you have not dined here before, please do visit it for a flavor of Whooshing Ducks, Birthday Cakes, Splashing Water and other such delicious entrees.

::Bon laughter!::

I don’t want to go into the details of self-indulgent craziness with expected results. I think I have quite beaten that topic to death. My indulgence with talking is popular (err...notorious?). And the expected result is always, always my hero complaining about the amount of noise I make. Apparently, I talk in my sleep too! Come to think of it, I might just sympathize with him for being married to a chatterbox. (Mind, I said ‘might’!)

My decision to blog had multi-intents: typing my talking (to give his ears some rest), find other ‘listeners’ for all the nonsense I spout (and count on # of hits says I have a lot of listeners) and finally, trying my hand at humor.

Romance, tragedy, even describing battles and politics any writer can do, but making someone laugh through words is simply difficult. One does not have cues to see how someone reacting, which is very significant in deciding to continue, or alter, or altogether stop the joke. (Or something in that vein which actually makes sense!) So, you write what you think is funny and wait for the laughter- oh wait, written humor does not award this instant satisfaction, you can’t hear anyone laugh. Unless, it’s right behind your back for the idiocy written previously.

For some reason, my dear hero derisively seems to think that I can prattle on almost any topic (which I can, technically). But when he voices that opinion aloud (recap: that I can prattle on almost any topic), it does get my hackles up.

I should probably mention that he ‘voiced his opinion’ rather gingerly, awaiting my out-burst. Any mention of how much I talk indubitably leads to how much he does not talk, the argument which spirals into oblivion with no peaceful end in sight.

He suggested that I take up standup comedy.

Yes, that sentence deserves a paragraph by itself, with ample space, because for that’s how I long I was stunned into silence. (Silence! Me!) A few seconds later, my faculties caught up with my surprise and I was able to quickly determine some things:

1. I can talk. (Duh!)

2. I can talk standing up (wheeee! I can multi-task!)

3. I think I’m funny (whether others think the same, is a debatable point).

Ensconced in my family, in my community, I have been safe from failure. The polite society demands that one should smile or laugh along, to keep up appearances. To step out of this dream audience, and market my humor? His ridiculous suggestion has me morbidly contemplating… Should I? Dare I?

Oh! To be proud!

I have been putting this off for quite a while! Thanks to everyone of you who bugged me to write again. :)

This one is for you.

Kids are not much into subtleties or ambiguities. It makes their life simple, and choices straight forward. Wondering about reasons and discussing validity is pretty much reserved to the grownups. It’s the unhappy provenance of maturity to see the gray shades!

As a sign of such maturity (yes, I’m mature! Go figure!) I wondered about pride. I can understand why lust, envy, sloth, gluttony, wrath, and greed are on the deadly sins list. Why is pride on it? And not only is it on the list, it’s considered the worst of it!

To be red in wrath, and green in envy, to languish in sloth, and drown in gluttony, to want more materialistically or physically, can all lead to general problems and specific harms.

But pride? Does not the management announce how proud they are of various teams’ performance? Does not the principal declare that the football team ‘has done them proud’? And the newspaper reports how the local man made his hometown proud by doing something? Did not my mom say that she was proud of me for not eating all the chalk pieces in the home? (I know, I was a weird kid!). Doesn’t everyone go on & on about national pride, causes pride, civic pride, vegan pride? Is everyone collectively sinning then?

My younger self simply scoffed at such inconsistencies. It would be beyond the scope of a young kid to realize that there are such subtleties in life, let alone grasp the intricacies of understanding it. Nothing in life is straight forward- sounds can have different meanings based on the language, and so can pride differ based on the situation.

Pride can be about writing an article well, or whipping up a meal for 15 flawlessly or getting recognized for you performance at work. Pride can be the result of appreciation from others, and any degree of appreciation is encouragement for betterment. But when that achievement becomes a bench mark for everyone else, and when that same level of dedication or belief or performance is demanded of everyone, no matter their uniqueness, is when pride becomes Pride.

Pride can lead to holding grudges simply because there is no room for leniency. To think that you would not have behaved in the similar way and therefore they should not have either- it’s a flawed argument, as they did behave that way and offend your sense of self-worth. Thus pride should be tempered with mercy.

Pride can be about the inherent goodness of a group generating loyalty- such as belonging to the Nagarathar community or college fraternity or even the cricket team. But it can also blind us, thus over-riding any objections raised against the group, disregarding the view-points of others simply because you are too proud of the group to hear about it. Thus pride should be conscious of tolerance.

Instead of being a drive for achievement and betterment, it becomes a character stumbling block, a self-importance taken to the level where isolation is rampant. Setting up high standards for one self is not enough, as intentions need to be followed with actions. When we fail to achieve self-imposed standards, Pride should be woven with acceptance- of failure, of disappointment, of differences.

The Bulbs. Enough said.

 Yes, this post is about Bulbs. What's so interesting about bulbs, you might ask. It's not bulbs I'm having to deal with, but The Bulbs. 

Being proud owners of a new home, we are guilty of Experiments of Dubious Nature, which never work out well, in my humble opinion (a post about the other E. of D.N. will follow soon).

We decided to experiment. With that decision, I solemnly swear that my involvement in the following disaster was limited to uncontrollable giggling with unfortunate timing at the unbearable number of unlimited bulbs.

I did grow up in a 'tube-light'-ed home. It took me quite-a-while to get used to the yellow bulbs here in US,  which are banished to the bathrooms in India. I'm used to the yellow ones by now, but being bitten (and infected too, I think) with a nostalgia bug, I agreed to tube-light type bulbs.

It took two trips to the store, as we had painfully underestimated the number of bulbs required to light a house this size; A regular sized room requires 4, a smaller room requires 2. So, that's 22 right there. And each package of bulb comes in multiples of 4 or 6, so that meant 6 or 4 packages of bulbs. Then came the choreographed climbing, reaching, screwing, repeated through-out the million (well, it seemed like a million!) rooms that we have. Our daughter delightedly followed us around and took charge of handing the new bulbs over. Apart from making the whole house faded and nondescript, the day-light bulbs gave all of us head-aches.

My immediate and compelling thought was to revert to the yellow ones and cast the lot of day-lights to twilight zone. Dear readers, here is the twist in the story you were expecting, the reason why I called them Blubs, with a capital B.  

Someone disagreed.

Annoyingly (albeit ridiculously), as 'we' were still in experimenting mode, 'we' decided to experiment some more. So, 'we' came back with boxes and boxes of soft-white bulbs, which are actually a light pinky-white. Thus we launched into another round of climbing on chairs, beds, tables and stools to change the bulbs, all the while fighting over who would screw them and who should decide the bulb types. This time around, my sensible daughter rolled her eyes and went back to her dolls.

So, now I have 22 yellow bulbs and 24 day-lights bulbs. But wait, that sounds very less! These are just the 'regular' bulbs. Did I forget to tell you about the hand-sized bulbs which go into the living room recess lighting? Oh, I also forgot the assorted bulbs adorning the hallways, staircases and night-lights? Do you want to hear about the various types of bulbs?

No? I thought so. Couple of days later, we were at the local store, 'experimenting' with chandeliers. As I was discussing the merits of a particular one I liked, I turned to stress a point and realized I was.. err, apparently talking to myself. My hero had disappeared.

With a sneaking suspicion forming in my thoughts, my heart racing, I ran down a couple of isles.YES! He was among bulbs. He looked surprised, embarrassed. I sat down cross-legged, right there next to the rows and rows of bulbs, and laughed. I laughed as passersby gawked, I laughed as my stomach hurt, I laughed as my husband joined in.

PS: In case you need a consult on bulbs, my in-house expert is available (and the bulbs. For free!)

Ticked Off by the Time Pieces

I’m much beleaguered by the time-pieces that an ode or an elegy would not be out of question. ‘Why? It’s just a clock which tells time’, you may ask. And, I would reply, “Nothing, my dear friend, is just a anything".

Now, the clock in my bedroom is an hour ahead. This I lay entirely upon the individuals who decided that the clock must be set ahead in Spring and set back in Autumn by an hour. This Autumn, we couldn’t reach the clock (or weren’t inclined to reach), thus it runs an hour ahead.

The clock in living room (is thankfully within reach and thus was adjusted), runs exactly two minutes fast. This is to account for the time required to hunt the remote, find a spot on the sofa and shush the child before the program on the T.V starts.

The cars are a different story all together. My husband has set his five minutes fast and I have set mine ten. He is calculating for catching a bus while I’m planning for rush-hour traffic.

So, my Dear Readers, here is what a typical morning for me is like: I wake up and go into a panic mode: “It’s 7:30, I can’t believe I over slept!” Then a moment later, reality checks in- “it’s only 6:30, and I’m right on time”. So, get ready and rush out, I immediately subtract 2 minutes from the living room clock. As I’m make breakfast, (the kitchen digital is correct time by the way) and shuttle between kitchen and living room, I add and subtract 2.

Then the car. It takes a few seconds to recollect which car I’m driving (mine) and subtract some more accordingly (10). At the daycare, sane, boring people that they are, have set the clock to the right time. I roll my else at them and reach the car. As I elbow my way through the jam-packed streets, I throw a harried glace at the clock and it's 9. I get to think, "9? It's actually 8:50 then. I still have ten minutes. If only that truck would get out of my way!"


Both our phones, however, show the right time. Probably because we haven’t yet figured out how to fiddle with it yet.

On a different vein, is all well?

I did not dress up this Halloween. When my friends asked me about it, I told them I was a witch under cover, dressed as a human. Apart from concerns about spending money on a costume which I would but wear once, there is another reason which I kept under wraps. No one wants to sound philosophical or pragmatic you see, it's the fashion to be light-hearted and oblivious. But then, sometimes, you can't escape from reality, can you?

I remember writing some of my best funny posts when I was upset, worrying and up late in the night. Contrary to my mood, my writing was buoyant, because I embraced the character I play as a whimsical, silly and humorous blogger to write. For this post, I'm stepping out and shrugging off the silly blogger.

I am constantly challenged by my environment to be someone I am not. I'm sure everyone else is too. Most times, I just give in and let it get the better of me, and pretend to be whatever or whoever that is, is required of me for that moment- An affectionate and considerate friend, a agreeable and pleasant acquaintance, a supportive and loving wife, a caring and amusing mother, a passionate dreamer, a self-deprecating human being, a semi-funny blogger.

All of that, when I'm at my best. At my worst, I could be yelling, stomping, complaining maniac. Then the time comes to don the various roles again and the 'self' in me is clothed and embellished to execute the role. And I'm sure you have also been through this- you could be in the middle of an upsetting situation, but when you get to work, you will be a calm, composed, diligent employee. Thus, we may be faulty, cranky, screwed up versions of our perfect-selves, who guise into a passable working versions to go through life.

One has to strive for perfection and settle for excellence. But what if perfection requires a person to be a dashing and romantic husband, to be an elegant and graceful wife, to be a selfless and patient parent, to be a rock-like supportive friend, to be a practical and down-to-earth human being? And what if that perfection is unattainable? If you are discomposed, annoyed or angry, has the person failed as a spouse, as a parent and as a human being?

I understand the importance of such roles that we play. To pretend may sound like deception, but it is quite necessary. I'm sure this serious post from me would results in many calls and comments about the state of my mind. If I had been the semi-funny blogger while writing this, all would have been well. Since I discarded the role, it upsets the readers- not to be narcissistic about my importance in your lives, but you did pause to think why I'm being serious, didn't you?

So, as long as we don the role, as the great Ranchoddas Shamaldas Chanchad said, “All is well”.

Best left unwritten

The best ideas strike me in the middle of the night. When I’m deep in sleep, unaware, with my sub-conscious freed, I come up with such complex plot and such interwoven characters, if only put to paper, will make a sizzling best-seller. I dream a whole book, like I’m watching a movie. But come dawn, I can’t seem to remember a scrape of my mind’s escapades.

So, after yet another frustrating morning when I couldn’t remember the best seller I wove in my fantastic dreams, I made a promise to jot it down on a note pad. And thus I went to sleep for a month and a half, notepad by bedside, awaiting the unwritten masterpiece.

Last night I had one of those dreams where I see so many characters, with intensity in the emotions and richness in the landscape. And I resolutely wrote them down, in the dark, half asleep. And I woke up to this: (It was terribly illegible, like a chicken scrawl, but here is what I think was written)

He goes -->THERE
Darkness-flight-fight --hilarious, curious, furious.
Maybe past?--> go THERE again?-->Conflict.

Come with me and let’s try to figure out what I wrote:

Obviously, the ‘He’ is the protagonist. And, much more obviously, I have a place which I’m so familiar with, that only a ‘THERE’ is enough to indicate what it is. Sadly, my subconscious forgot to connect with my conscious and tell it where ‘THERE’ is.

Darkness-Flight-Fight could mean any of the following things: 1) A Romantic fight in the dark with the villain, after which the hero boards a plane for flight. 2) A supernatural darkness where the hero actually flies to fight. 3) A FBI hero goes undercover in the dark night to fight the mafia don. Ah, the possibilities!

I was, I should confess, pretty amazed at my ability to ryhme in deep slumber- hilarious, curious, furious,

Again, with the ‘past’, was I trying to explain the tortured history of the protagonist or was there a flashback Indian-ishtyle? Or maybe I was referring to something in my past that will complete my plot?

Sigh! Whatever made me think my sub-consciousness will be smarter than me? I did throw away the notepad, but rescued the crumpled plot-paper from the bin. Hey, A girl can always hope she will suddenly turn smart and figure out what she wrote!

The Curious Case of Squeaky Squirrel

When someone visits their mother’s home, they expect everything to remain the same. It’s a bittersweet pleasure to walk though the rooms where you grew up, to touch the scarred furniture and breathe in peace and familiarity. I almost forgot, one would also expect the parents to essentially remain the same, baring a few signs of aging. Preferably still lucid and intelligent, too.

After a nostalgic evening with all the trimmings of food and memories and a peaceful slumber, I woke up to bright sunshine, looking forward to yet another VDay. As I stood in the kitchen, contemplating the degree of my laziness in preparing the coffee, my mom bustled in and waved me off with “Go, sleep for some more time or watch T.V, I’ll get you the coffee”.

I stood there with tears of gratitude in my eyes at the thought of how wonderful she was… How caring she was… how insane she was! My mom, my sane, sensible mom, had the kitchen window open, and was leaning over the counter-top, peering out and talking to- Nobody!

Her actions would make sense if our kitchen window faced the home of a neighbor, in which case I would assume she was talking to someone. But unless the straight-laced employees in the two floor bank next to my home plundered the contents of the vaults, sold the building and someone else built a 4 floor home, there was no one to talk to!

But then she wasn’t talking, was she? She was cooing and hiccupping. It sounded like a cross between scared rats and crazy birds.

"Coo..coo…krrr…kish"

“Amma…” I asked, hesitantly, in case I set her off, flapping through the window.

“What? Coo..coo…krrr…kish”

“Amma, what are you doing?”

“Coo..coo…krrr…kish”

Now I was getting desperate. "MOM?!"

“Do you see that food?” she says, pointing to the ledge. “It’s still there!”

At which point I lean over the counter, just like her and peep out. And sure enough, (thank God!) there is some dried bread and weird looking brown strips there.

“What is that?”

“Coo..coo…krrr…kish…coo…kir…kish”

“MOM!”

“It’s the food I left out. That stupid squirrel is still not eating! I made the ‘puris’ especially for him! Poor thing! I don’t know where he is!”

Here I thought the puris were on my honor!

The price of beauty- Up in flames?!

I consider myself healthy even though I may not inspire any man to sing ballads to my non-mesmerizing eyes or odes to my non-delicate feet (even my own hero would scoff!). And I’m not fussy when it comes to food.

But yesterday, when a chilled glass of orange juice gave me a splitting headache minutes after drinking it, I wondered if I was growing old and this was the beginning of quirks and pet-peeves that would bug me for the rest of my life. Thankfully, it turns out, when the lazy manufacturers grind the oranges with the skin, the chemicals in the rind will trigger headaches in some.

After a big sigh of relief and a promise to stay away from Ojs henceforth, I explained to my Venezuelan and American colleagues about the OJ phenomenon. They showed appropriate interest in this and interrupted with the right amount of ‘oh!’, ‘Really?!’ and ‘I will stay away from rinds’.

One of them added that the rinds were flammable- if you squeeze a little bit and show a lighter, the rinds will go up in flames.

I was horrified! I explained about mothers painstakingly saving up the rinds to sun-dry and grind them into a fine powder, to be mixed with milk and applied on the faces of their daughters. To which they looked at me askance and said “Whyever would you want to do that?!”

“It will make the skin glow”

“Glow in Orange color?”

“No, no, it will make skin healthy and bring out the natural shine in it after you wash it off”

Pat came the absurd reply- “I though they applied the paste and took a lighter to it to make it glow!”

Duh!

“It was impossible to get a conversation going; everybody was talking too much.”

When you are aware of the story of a movie or a book, what makes you still want to see it or read it? It’s not about the ending or the story because you already know it. It’s about what happens to whom and how it all comes about. It is to appreciate the characters you come to know and delight in the plot's unfolding. It’s the journey that’s exciting, because we are always aware of the destination.

That is why when my husband asks me something, I tend to get bogged down in detail as I want him to experience first-hand what I went though. I always explained to him that this tendency was exclusive to those who read and write and generally deal with words, as I find that the book-centric people like me are very descriptive.

 To which he huffs, "All you women talk a lot!" And it's an anathema to me, when he finds cohorts to support him in this theory, who nod and generalize that they suffer from 'talkative-wife' ailment too. How they delightedly discuss who suffers more, as if that would win them an award of some kind!

Unfortunately, how wrong I was! I have, very recently, come to the awful conclusion that every myth, saying, test results and rumor about women being too talkative is true. No, I’m not doing the ‘same side goal’ as my cousin would put it, but simply stating a fact. I see that all my friends and every other woman I know, cannot go from point A to B without making a pit stop at E, J and P, and they don’t even bother to bypass Z!

So, instead of shrugging off or rolling my eyes when love of my life interrupts with, "Get to the point already!", I will revel in the fact that it's the privilege and prerogative of a woman to talk and say "Well, listen then!" :D

to know...

To begin and to know
  That it will end,
To hurt and to know
  That you will mend,
To see and to know
  That you will perceive,
To ask and to know
  That you will receive,
To do and to know
  That you will reap,
To breath and to know
  That you will sleep,
.....if only life's uncertianities to go away...

Writing posts are hard, but poems are easy...:D

The truth about dads and moms...

                                                                
The reason for the lack of posts recently and the root-cause of this post, rest solely on the shoulders of my wonderful dad. While visiting me, he realized that his daughter, upon her ascendancy to adulthood, has forgotten some of his teachings.

Thus he decided to refurbish his currently-rusted and recently- underused parenting skills.

One of his missions was to get me to pray mom-ishtyle. My rituals include a quick word with God whenever life starts acting-up and heart-felt thanks when life behaves. My mom's everyday prayers are not simply light-the-lamps-bow-and-pray routine. They are elaborate and extensive (not to mention time-consuming). Dad wanted the whole nine yards, just like my mom does.

So, mostly to get my daughter to pray and less-ly to humor him, I set everything up. With my daughter sitting next to me on the mat, my dad and I started with a very old, very long Tamil prayer song. As we sung in perfect harmony, it brought back childhood memories rushing.

Time for some truth- I don't know the middle section of this song. Never got around learning it. As we approached that section, fearing scoldings of the forgotten times, I slowed down, then stopped to let my dad carry the song over.

To my utter surprise my dad stopped at the exact same stanza and looked at me expectantly. And then both of us broke into loud guffaws totally ludicrous for the solemn  prayer times!

That's when it registered that he never knew those stanzas too! And that my dear friends, is why I didn't learn them!

Clappity, clappity, clap, clap,

I haven't penned a poem in about six years now- but this one has been clappiting around in my head for the past few days - I had to pen it down...err, type it out, I mean. 

Clappity, clappity, clap, clap,
All around the town,
Clappity, clappity, clap, clap,
Walking up and down,
Clappity, clappity, clap, clap,
Heart's light & singing,
Clappity, clappity, clap, clap,
Arms waving & swinging,
Clappity, clappity, clap, clap,
Eyes wide with wonder,
Clappity, clappity, clap, clap,
Innocence that endears,
Clappity, clappity, clap, clap,
Smile that is infectious,
Clappity, clappity, clap, clap,
My dear child so precious!

of breakups, breakdowns and breakthoughs...

Breakups- from old habits: In spite of a sane and sensible mind with good instincts, and ridiculously busy schedule requiring skipping food, shower and what-not, I tend to agree with self-motivated plans made by self-serving people. I have learned to say no. A firm one. Thus successfully breaking up from self-sabotaging impulse to say yes to everyone and their plans.

Breakdowns- needs and wants. My much (ab)used car has finally had a prim and proper breakdown. We were accustomed to placating ourselves with the fact that we need two cars. Turns out, we can manage pretty well on a single one, if need be.

Breakthroughs- a silent one. This one is about a friend who doesn't believe in the breakthrough that has been quietly and unobtrusively happening in her life. I know, but I will wait until you share with me. You see a small ray now- that means there is a crack. The breakthrough will follow. Patience, my friend.

'Yush, yush, of course!'

Bird season, fishing season...I wish there was a hunt the idiots season, so I can go shoot them. Metaphorically, of course. I like things just right and when they are mis-stated, under-stated or over-stated, I'm miffed enough, and dumb enough to try and fix it. There is nothing wrong with that notion per se, it's how you apply it, is where the thorn is.

When some obnoxious/ conceited/ narcissistic person goes on about what ever it is that they deem important, we have to invariably suffer them. But when they utter something astoundingly senseless, my hackles rise up. So, what to do? Stay and let them speak? Scoot rather than listen? Or pretend to swoon, and with hope by-pass the whole shenanigan?

I'm predisposed to speak. I politely set them straight. But lately (with the advent of internet, I must add), the ignorance level has reached way high. One would think that information at finger-tips would make one smarter. One would be wrong!

I have, I'm happy to say, discovered a smarter way - say 'yush, yush, of course. As they blithely go on, I get my kicks. The secret happiness in letting an insensitive person talk on, instead of stopping, explaining and correcting them! The 'yush, yush' in that case is impish fun.

Do you talk... to yourself?!

The exquisite women dressed up in shimmering and sparking gowns, gliding down the runway, rather than do something as ignoble and mundane as walking. The stage, the lights, the crowd, the cheers! A young girl watching the television with such yearning as she imagined herself in the beauty pageant, standing beside those women. For a brief moment, she clothed herself in silk and spot-light, wore the crown and adulation.

Her fumbling fingers found poise as the remote morphed into a mike. The words formed and took flight as she answered the judges’ question. She looked pleasantly confused when the tiara was placed on her. Then she smiled blindingly, shed a tear and.... came crashing down to earth with embarrassment as she found her neighbor standing in her doorway, looking aghast at her. As if she had gone nuts!

The girl was merely fanciful, she wasn't stupid. She knew there a snowball's chance in hell that she would actually walk down that runway - she was average at her best. But, desires and dreams do not know that, do they? She gave the intrusive neighbor a sheepish smile. It is what it is!

Well, that was me a dozen years ago. And one would think that as I grow, I would grow out of the deplorable habit of talking to myself. Instead, it seems that I have fostered a childhood habit to significant and embarrassing proportions! Have you met me? If you haven't, let me enlighten you- I never do anything in half-measures. Talking, not as in mumbling something under the breath to oneself, or even quietly in your head. Talking, as in out aloud. In third person.

I'm sure everyone has lovely conversations in their head. How else can you decide whether to smack or hit your spouse?! That is not interesting. Things get heated up when you voice the conversations aloud. I yell at myself when I do something particularly dumb - like accidentally delete something. And if my colleague walks in while I'm in full form, raging at my stupidity, then it's time for another talking-to about propriety when they leave.

I'm indebted to myself for giving up the fanciful notions at least. The talking has been reduced to occasions that merit it- dumbness, stupidity, and impulsiveness are my triggers. Next time you see me gesticulating emphatically, you would know why!