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!