I spent an unusually long time at the beauty parlour (salon sounds too posh) yesterday and realised that mothers still accompany their daughters to 'supervise' the haircut. I saw at least four moms with their daughters. One pair was actually having fun getting head massages and manicures together and finally made me realise that Cosmo, Femina, Good Housekeeping and Elle weren't lying in all those perdicure bonding stories.
It's the other three I'm talking about. They stood behind the hairstylist watching how the work was being done. One had a deep, long discussion with the stylist before the process began, insisted that her daughter's hair was not be washed and then proceeded to park herself on the stylist's toe. Well, almost. I was getting a great head massage by now but could hear her instructions: Not so short, it's not equal there, etc. Wonder how the girl doing the job kept a cool head.
Most of the daughters looked at least 18. Made me wonder why did they need to come to the parlour under mom's watchful eye. Was mom scared that dotty dearest would go in for spiked, jagged edges and colour her hair purple? Or go the bald route?
Well, there's nothing in it probably but it did strike me as strange.
Also spotted in the parlour loo: flush used only for flushing
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
The Mental Judge
Before Poppin thinks I'm the rudest person on earth, let me do this tag because I'm very lazy about these things usually :)
First I'm wondering if I'm judgemental. I'd like to believe I'm not but hey...it's a vice that's difficult to escape. That said and done, who knows, at times I may be guilty of the things I say here :)
1. I'm judgemental about people who don't give you a choice or don't respect yours. That holds true for terribly religious people who expect you to fast on Tuesdays and visit the temple every week just because they do; vegetarians who shudder when you mouth the word 'fish,' non-vegetarians who wonder how people survive eating 'just sabji'; married friends who loudly wonder why a certain friend is choosing not to get hitched...the list can go on..but anyway you get the drift.
2. These days I'm a bit judgemental about supermoms. There are so many of them around that it's pretty scary to know that I am the average type and use absolutely un-earth motherly things like diapers and baby wipes (in the past as ha ha at home we are on the training route). I'm actually a complete gone case as I used to feed the Monkey Gerber babyfood (comes in bottles, pureed and is bahar ka packaged khana for the uninitiated) in his first year whenever we travelled. I'm also not averse to chocolates and chips and not a fanatic follower of homeopathy.
3. I judge people who show off, although it's the subtler variety I'm talking about. The kind who immediately tell you they prefer to drive the zen because of Bangalore's traffic though the Honda Civic is such a smooth drive. They aren't talking about traffic or driving here baby of course. Trust me, I know the kind.
4. I judge people who don't read. Yes I know I shouldn't and by that logic I shouldn't have married the husband but he did read newspapers and India Today and that's at least something, isn't it? I'm talking of people who consider books a waste of money. I once overheard a mom at Khan Market's Bahrisons telling her teenage daughter: Ab itne hi paise kharchne hai to koi dress ya shoe le le.
5. I judge people who constantly give advice. About everything from going to a particular shop to visiting their gyanec who's the best in the world to making the gravy in a particular way because that's how they do it and of course it's the done thing in the world.
6. And last one. I judge people who don't like doing something on their own. Whether it's shopping or sitting in a Barista for a cup of coffee or having a meal in a restaurant, travelling alone with a baby...several things. I agree having company is an exciting prospect but when someone says they are uncomfortable sitting and having a meal on their own in a restaurant I tend to think they are either uncomfortable with themselves or too worried about who'll think what or too timid. As for the travelling alone with baby, I'm sorry to say this but I've met a lot of shrinking violets (excooz the phrase) who cannot stomach the thought of going from Bombay to Delhi or Bangalore to Kolkata or even Bangalore to Chennai with a small child unless accompanied by husband. Why sweetie? Is the husband an on-road child sedative?
Ok can't think anymore. And I sound absolutely fanatic in that list above. But who cares. It's a license to judge, after all.
First I'm wondering if I'm judgemental. I'd like to believe I'm not but hey...it's a vice that's difficult to escape. That said and done, who knows, at times I may be guilty of the things I say here :)
1. I'm judgemental about people who don't give you a choice or don't respect yours. That holds true for terribly religious people who expect you to fast on Tuesdays and visit the temple every week just because they do; vegetarians who shudder when you mouth the word 'fish,' non-vegetarians who wonder how people survive eating 'just sabji'; married friends who loudly wonder why a certain friend is choosing not to get hitched...the list can go on..but anyway you get the drift.
2. These days I'm a bit judgemental about supermoms. There are so many of them around that it's pretty scary to know that I am the average type and use absolutely un-earth motherly things like diapers and baby wipes (in the past as ha ha at home we are on the training route). I'm actually a complete gone case as I used to feed the Monkey Gerber babyfood (comes in bottles, pureed and is bahar ka packaged khana for the uninitiated) in his first year whenever we travelled. I'm also not averse to chocolates and chips and not a fanatic follower of homeopathy.
3. I judge people who show off, although it's the subtler variety I'm talking about. The kind who immediately tell you they prefer to drive the zen because of Bangalore's traffic though the Honda Civic is such a smooth drive. They aren't talking about traffic or driving here baby of course. Trust me, I know the kind.
4. I judge people who don't read. Yes I know I shouldn't and by that logic I shouldn't have married the husband but he did read newspapers and India Today and that's at least something, isn't it? I'm talking of people who consider books a waste of money. I once overheard a mom at Khan Market's Bahrisons telling her teenage daughter: Ab itne hi paise kharchne hai to koi dress ya shoe le le.
5. I judge people who constantly give advice. About everything from going to a particular shop to visiting their gyanec who's the best in the world to making the gravy in a particular way because that's how they do it and of course it's the done thing in the world.
6. And last one. I judge people who don't like doing something on their own. Whether it's shopping or sitting in a Barista for a cup of coffee or having a meal in a restaurant, travelling alone with a baby...several things. I agree having company is an exciting prospect but when someone says they are uncomfortable sitting and having a meal on their own in a restaurant I tend to think they are either uncomfortable with themselves or too worried about who'll think what or too timid. As for the travelling alone with baby, I'm sorry to say this but I've met a lot of shrinking violets (excooz the phrase) who cannot stomach the thought of going from Bombay to Delhi or Bangalore to Kolkata or even Bangalore to Chennai with a small child unless accompanied by husband. Why sweetie? Is the husband an on-road child sedative?
Ok can't think anymore. And I sound absolutely fanatic in that list above. But who cares. It's a license to judge, after all.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Temple Trip
Like good children we took the parents on a temple trip over the weekend. They went for the darshan, we went for the art, the monkey went for the usual, i.e., climbing up and down stairs, which were in abundance everywhere and muttering 'Habelidd' and 'mangola', Halebid and Sravanbelgola in adultspeak.
Channakeshava temple in Belur was amazing. Everything from its vast courtyard, to the unbelievably detailed carvings was breathtaking.
We stayed back for the evening arati and it was quite a performance with music, bells and chants. The monkey did an impromptu balle balle much to the amusement of some and irritation of others.
We stayed for a long time, sitting in the courtyard, watching devotees pour in and out, families enjoying the evening breeze, an old priest walking back to his quarter.
It was like a beautiful park, a place to come, relax and take in the atmosphere. With an aura of history, reverence and unparalleled art.
...and this is the view after huffing and gasping halfway up Sravanbelagola. Trust me, unless you are the devoted kind, the view is the only thing worth the climb :)
Channakeshava temple in Belur was amazing. Everything from its vast courtyard, to the unbelievably detailed carvings was breathtaking.
We stayed back for the evening arati and it was quite a performance with music, bells and chants. The monkey did an impromptu balle balle much to the amusement of some and irritation of others.
We stayed for a long time, sitting in the courtyard, watching devotees pour in and out, families enjoying the evening breeze, an old priest walking back to his quarter.
It was like a beautiful park, a place to come, relax and take in the atmosphere. With an aura of history, reverence and unparalleled art.
...and this is the view after huffing and gasping halfway up Sravanbelagola. Trust me, unless you are the devoted kind, the view is the only thing worth the climb :)
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Monday, July 09, 2007
Sounding off
These days my home is alive with the sounds of teevee. It starts at 8 in the morning with Tiny TV on Pogo. Usually Kipper the Dog, followed at times by Noddy. Being the horrid mom that I am, I'd be thankful if the monkey sat through these wobbly wonders for a whole hour but as it turns out, he watches anything for barely 15 minutes before trooping off to do his thing.
The TV however stays on, as the monkey's dadu -- my husband's dad and self confessed TV addict is here. As it turns out, he's becoming quite an expert on Noddy and gang.
There is an hour or two's respite around 10ish, when 'dadu' gets busy with Sudoku, Crossword and suchlike but he's been blessed with a quick thinking brain and these things get solved too fast. Soon enough I can hear the unmistakable strains of Anil Kapoor hamming, Dharmendra shouting or Rakhi repeating one dialogue three times.*
At some point my mother-in-law finally wins the battle of the remote and sits down for some soapy stuff, thankfully at a lower volume. But such joys are short lived (and sudokus not complex enough) and the TV goes back to Rakhi and gang, at a volume to beat Aerosmith live.
Some Pogo comes on in snatches and sometimes I do laugh at Jaaved Jafri's commentary for Takeshi's Castle but usually by this time I'm too zonked out to care. Which is a good thing because in the evening all our television manages to do is stay stuck on the face of some CNBC/NDTV Profit presenter while the suspiciously named sensex plunges up and down.
* After sitting through (in an earlier life) and hearing through (in this life) several sessions of Rakhi's trials and tribulations as a mother, I cannot but sympathise with the woman. The woman is just given one role to play! Dead husband, white sari, vacant-eyed look, slightly slurring Bong accented Hindi, constant visits to Shiv temple and having to repeat the same dialogues, not once, but thrice...Tujhe tyag karna hoga...tyaag, tyaag, tyaag/Mere Karan Arjun Ayenge...Karan Arjun Ayenge...Ayenge....
The TV however stays on, as the monkey's dadu -- my husband's dad and self confessed TV addict is here. As it turns out, he's becoming quite an expert on Noddy and gang.
There is an hour or two's respite around 10ish, when 'dadu' gets busy with Sudoku, Crossword and suchlike but he's been blessed with a quick thinking brain and these things get solved too fast. Soon enough I can hear the unmistakable strains of Anil Kapoor hamming, Dharmendra shouting or Rakhi repeating one dialogue three times.*
At some point my mother-in-law finally wins the battle of the remote and sits down for some soapy stuff, thankfully at a lower volume. But such joys are short lived (and sudokus not complex enough) and the TV goes back to Rakhi and gang, at a volume to beat Aerosmith live.
Some Pogo comes on in snatches and sometimes I do laugh at Jaaved Jafri's commentary for Takeshi's Castle but usually by this time I'm too zonked out to care. Which is a good thing because in the evening all our television manages to do is stay stuck on the face of some CNBC/NDTV Profit presenter while the suspiciously named sensex plunges up and down.
* After sitting through (in an earlier life) and hearing through (in this life) several sessions of Rakhi's trials and tribulations as a mother, I cannot but sympathise with the woman. The woman is just given one role to play! Dead husband, white sari, vacant-eyed look, slightly slurring Bong accented Hindi, constant visits to Shiv temple and having to repeat the same dialogues, not once, but thrice...Tujhe tyag karna hoga...tyaag, tyaag, tyaag/Mere Karan Arjun Ayenge...Karan Arjun Ayenge...Ayenge....
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Pure Hearted Mush
There are several things I love about the husband but there is one that both infuriates me and makes me look at him with extra doses of lurrve. The man sleeps like a baby. In fact, better than most babies if his sister, who's seen more babies than I have, is to be believed. He certainly sleeps longer than ours does. And takes almost as many about turns in his sleep as his son.
His sleeping habit irritates me when we have to go out somewhere and the man sleeps much beyond the scheduled time but also makes me think of something my wise aunt used to say: People who have the ability to sleep soundly are people with free minds and pure hearts. She would say this looking at my brother whose sleep can survive earthquakes, babies bawling their throats out, loud jagrans, screaming sister, everything. That sort of takes the truth away from it a bit, but at any rate I seem to be surrounded by men of pure hearts.
His sleeping habit irritates me when we have to go out somewhere and the man sleeps much beyond the scheduled time but also makes me think of something my wise aunt used to say: People who have the ability to sleep soundly are people with free minds and pure hearts. She would say this looking at my brother whose sleep can survive earthquakes, babies bawling their throats out, loud jagrans, screaming sister, everything. That sort of takes the truth away from it a bit, but at any rate I seem to be surrounded by men of pure hearts.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Bliss is...
...a Cadbury Dairy Milk melting slowly in your mouth
But this post isn't about that. This post is about the joy of journalism. I'm no longer part of it in the truest sense of the term as I don't do stories that regularly, so perhaps I should edit that.
It's about the joy of meeting people and writing about them. Call it reporting, feature writing, jotting down hurriedly scribbled interview notes into a coherent form or what you will...the truth is, how many jobs let you meet a herpetologist one afternoon and two grannies who sell pizza the next morning?
Thank God I didn't change my mind in college when a pack of friends joined Sujata Khanna's MBA coaching classes and gave me long, hard stares when I refused to and mentioned the J word.
And Thank God I didn't change my mind when I discovered that rent was considerably more that the salary I got paid in my first job. (Well...should thank dad, actually)
It isn't a job that changes the world, requires unbridled imagination or extraordinary brainpower. Well at some level it does to a great extent, but hey, I'm just talking of my simple stuff, so let's not get there.
I love this for the people. A techie who gave up a lucrative career to start an e-library, an academic who's behind the best school in town, a woman who's given up shopping...
Where else do you get to meet such a varied lot?
* The Pizza Grannies, as many of you in Bangalore may have read, are raising funds for an old age home. The techie runs www.easylib.com. If you live in Bangalore and want a library with a truly eclectic collection of books, this is the place to log on.
But this post isn't about that. This post is about the joy of journalism. I'm no longer part of it in the truest sense of the term as I don't do stories that regularly, so perhaps I should edit that.
It's about the joy of meeting people and writing about them. Call it reporting, feature writing, jotting down hurriedly scribbled interview notes into a coherent form or what you will...the truth is, how many jobs let you meet a herpetologist one afternoon and two grannies who sell pizza the next morning?
Thank God I didn't change my mind in college when a pack of friends joined Sujata Khanna's MBA coaching classes and gave me long, hard stares when I refused to and mentioned the J word.
And Thank God I didn't change my mind when I discovered that rent was considerably more that the salary I got paid in my first job. (Well...should thank dad, actually)
It isn't a job that changes the world, requires unbridled imagination or extraordinary brainpower. Well at some level it does to a great extent, but hey, I'm just talking of my simple stuff, so let's not get there.
I love this for the people. A techie who gave up a lucrative career to start an e-library, an academic who's behind the best school in town, a woman who's given up shopping...
Where else do you get to meet such a varied lot?
* The Pizza Grannies, as many of you in Bangalore may have read, are raising funds for an old age home. The techie runs www.easylib.com. If you live in Bangalore and want a library with a truly eclectic collection of books, this is the place to log on.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Grrrr....again....
Why is it that most people assume that just because I'm working from home, I:
a) Have all the time in the world to jabber on phone about Sarita from B2 whose maid ran away with the presswala
b) Can look up the price of Fisher-Price toys on ebay as I'm "online anyway" and have nothing better to do
c) Will cheerfully take on work and finish even if it's sent late in the evening because I don't work in an office where I shut the computer and leave at 6
d) Will keep house looking immaculate, turn out a good meal and not look like something the cat brought in when there's a suddenly put-together dinner for hubby's office pals
e) Don't do anything much and probably sleep through/spend the day getting my nails done in the parlour, as for a couple of hours, the son is at the daycare centre.
a) Have all the time in the world to jabber on phone about Sarita from B2 whose maid ran away with the presswala
b) Can look up the price of Fisher-Price toys on ebay as I'm "online anyway" and have nothing better to do
c) Will cheerfully take on work and finish even if it's sent late in the evening because I don't work in an office where I shut the computer and leave at 6
d) Will keep house looking immaculate, turn out a good meal and not look like something the cat brought in when there's a suddenly put-together dinner for hubby's office pals
e) Don't do anything much and probably sleep through/spend the day getting my nails done in the parlour, as for a couple of hours, the son is at the daycare centre.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Ok, here goeth
Was tagged by Poppin's Mom and must say, it got me thinking. Hmmm...here goes the list of 8 things you didn't know about me. If you still don't wanna know, go ahead and skip this with my best wishes :)
1. I'm terribly lazy about folding quilts, propping pillows...that whole making the bed thing
2. I cannot sleep without reading. Even if it's two at night and I'm dead tired. And it can be anything.
3. I loved telling Delhi snobs (especially the ones I had to interview in the course of work) that I travelled by auto, lived in North Delhi and had studied in 'Central School.' Of course, they still had to be nice to me as I was writing about them. Ha ha.
4. I love Bangalore but continously surprise myself by missing Delhi. Ok I'll be specific: Khan Market, INA and the Vasant Vihar Fabindia
5. I am hopeless with numbers. Really hopeless.
6. My secret desire is to be the perfect cook. You know the type that can separate eggs whites in a second without making a mess and whip up yummy pasta without resorting to readymade sauce.
7. I'm a very forgetful mother. Forget things like vaccination dates and medicine timings. (There! Out of the blogging mommies meet now)
8. I love South East Asian food. I can live on it.
DONE :)))
1. I'm terribly lazy about folding quilts, propping pillows...that whole making the bed thing
2. I cannot sleep without reading. Even if it's two at night and I'm dead tired. And it can be anything.
3. I loved telling Delhi snobs (especially the ones I had to interview in the course of work) that I travelled by auto, lived in North Delhi and had studied in 'Central School.' Of course, they still had to be nice to me as I was writing about them. Ha ha.
4. I love Bangalore but continously surprise myself by missing Delhi. Ok I'll be specific: Khan Market, INA and the Vasant Vihar Fabindia
5. I am hopeless with numbers. Really hopeless.
6. My secret desire is to be the perfect cook. You know the type that can separate eggs whites in a second without making a mess and whip up yummy pasta without resorting to readymade sauce.
7. I'm a very forgetful mother. Forget things like vaccination dates and medicine timings. (There! Out of the blogging mommies meet now)
8. I love South East Asian food. I can live on it.
DONE :)))
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
The Post on Blue Mangoes
I was flipping through Good Housekeeping (ok, reading the recipes) yesterday and guess what I spotted? An ad for 'India's No. 1 pre-school chain' Eurokids which literally had me shivering in my pants. Now I don't remember the exact text and I thought I'd scan it an post but then this blog would've been written next year. The copy goes somewhat like this: While painting children tend to mix up colours. At Eurokids we ensure they don't.
The visual (again if I remember) shows a blue mango with yellow leaf. To me the Blue Mango looks perfectly cute. Appetising even. But obviously at Eurokids they want mangoes to be yellow and only yellow. Considering I'm frequently taking A's crayons (kaiiiiyooons) and colouring Bob the Builder (Bobbbiilll) pink and red (not blue and yellow and as shown in the sample pic), I'm really thanking my lucky stars for having left preschool and all such things far behind. This is because I've a history of 'incorrect colouring' going by Eurokids' philosophy. Throughout school I loved painting skies orange and rivers brown and suchlike. Don't read too deeply into this now as my friend An, the psychologist might. I'm not such a rebel in real life. In fact, the exact opposite. It's only yummy looking crayons and sketch pens that bring out this rather reckless colourful side of me. I could almost imagine (a small and shrunk) me in Eurokids being shouted at by watchful teacher with a bunch of right crayons in her hand: Paint those mangoes yellow NOW. You are going the Indian Author Writing in English Way. We've chucked all those blue mangoes and red earths from here earlier!
Jokes apart, I wonder if the power-that-be at Eurokids have figured out the message that this ad is giving out. I guess what they are really trying to convey is that every child is well looked after and there is a good teacher-child ratio. This is all very nice but it's coming out completely wrong. Somewhat dictatorial. Very 1984. Big Brother is watching you type. I wish someone tells them that if they haven't figured it out by themselves yet. Now bye bye while I go paint Bobbbbiill's house crimson.
The visual (again if I remember) shows a blue mango with yellow leaf. To me the Blue Mango looks perfectly cute. Appetising even. But obviously at Eurokids they want mangoes to be yellow and only yellow. Considering I'm frequently taking A's crayons (kaiiiiyooons) and colouring Bob the Builder (Bobbbiilll) pink and red (not blue and yellow and as shown in the sample pic), I'm really thanking my lucky stars for having left preschool and all such things far behind. This is because I've a history of 'incorrect colouring' going by Eurokids' philosophy. Throughout school I loved painting skies orange and rivers brown and suchlike. Don't read too deeply into this now as my friend An, the psychologist might. I'm not such a rebel in real life. In fact, the exact opposite. It's only yummy looking crayons and sketch pens that bring out this rather reckless colourful side of me. I could almost imagine (a small and shrunk) me in Eurokids being shouted at by watchful teacher with a bunch of right crayons in her hand: Paint those mangoes yellow NOW. You are going the Indian Author Writing in English Way. We've chucked all those blue mangoes and red earths from here earlier!
Jokes apart, I wonder if the power-that-be at Eurokids have figured out the message that this ad is giving out. I guess what they are really trying to convey is that every child is well looked after and there is a good teacher-child ratio. This is all very nice but it's coming out completely wrong. Somewhat dictatorial. Very 1984. Big Brother is watching you type. I wish someone tells them that if they haven't figured it out by themselves yet. Now bye bye while I go paint Bobbbbiill's house crimson.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Thursday, April 05, 2007
It isn't easy being a mom. In my case a stay-at-home-working one. Every morning when I go to drop my son at the daycare he clings to me and cries when I leave. Every morning I wonder, 'Is this worth it? Why can't I keep a maid to look after him at home while I work?'
Really, why can't I? Because I tried it and it didn't really work. Working from home can be very distracting because unless you have a separate area from where you operate and shut out the rest of the house, you are constantly being badgered by something or the other.
Add to that a toddler who gets super excited at the sight of a computer or anything mummy does and treats it as another toy to hammer on, much to the risk of his mom's unsaved files and just-copied research.
I can shut the door and work while the maid takes care of him. But I know that in two minutes the door too would be hammered upon with frantic cries of 'maaaaaaaaammmmaaaaaa.'.
Maaaammmmma would curse under her breath and wait for a while but eventually get up and open the door with a heart melting faster than icecream in Delhi heat.
The maid could perhaps take him out to play but heck no, being paranoid mummy par excellence, I would probably be checking the playground from the balcony with a binocular. Is that the maid talking to some of her friends? Hmm...red and yellow dress...haan that's her...I hope she's keeping an eye on him even if she's busy chatting...where's he...why isn't she checking...where's he...ohmygod...aaarghhh...he's eating mud....AARGGGGH...NOOOO...get him back...NOWWWWWWW!
Little wonder then that the daycare is a better option. I know for a fact that my son's happy there, despite the initial bout of crying every morning. I can see it when I go to pick him up in the afternoon. He's happy to see mamma but he's also happy to play with his friends. I know that I'm doing the right thing. It's good for him. And it's good for me.
But still my heart does a super-depressed flip each morning when I leave my clingy baby there. And when I get back home and sit down with a cup of tea with no one around to surreptitiously dip a little finger into it, I'm so totally racked by guilt that I can almost run and get him.
But of course I don't. I switch on the computer instead, start working and keep feeling guilty for the next five hours.
Moms are the strangest creatures!
Really, why can't I? Because I tried it and it didn't really work. Working from home can be very distracting because unless you have a separate area from where you operate and shut out the rest of the house, you are constantly being badgered by something or the other.
Add to that a toddler who gets super excited at the sight of a computer or anything mummy does and treats it as another toy to hammer on, much to the risk of his mom's unsaved files and just-copied research.
I can shut the door and work while the maid takes care of him. But I know that in two minutes the door too would be hammered upon with frantic cries of 'maaaaaaaaammmmaaaaaa.'.
Maaaammmmma would curse under her breath and wait for a while but eventually get up and open the door with a heart melting faster than icecream in Delhi heat.
The maid could perhaps take him out to play but heck no, being paranoid mummy par excellence, I would probably be checking the playground from the balcony with a binocular. Is that the maid talking to some of her friends? Hmm...red and yellow dress...haan that's her...I hope she's keeping an eye on him even if she's busy chatting...where's he...why isn't she checking...where's he...ohmygod...aaarghhh...he's eating mud....AARGGGGH...NOOOO...get him back...NOWWWWWWW!
Little wonder then that the daycare is a better option. I know for a fact that my son's happy there, despite the initial bout of crying every morning. I can see it when I go to pick him up in the afternoon. He's happy to see mamma but he's also happy to play with his friends. I know that I'm doing the right thing. It's good for him. And it's good for me.
But still my heart does a super-depressed flip each morning when I leave my clingy baby there. And when I get back home and sit down with a cup of tea with no one around to surreptitiously dip a little finger into it, I'm so totally racked by guilt that I can almost run and get him.
But of course I don't. I switch on the computer instead, start working and keep feeling guilty for the next five hours.
Moms are the strangest creatures!
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Snot Value
Had taken up a book editing assignment couple of months back. Unfortunately for me, the author (a yeng man from the IT feeilld) had decided that revulsion was the best way to grab attention. Each of his characters belch, retch, snort, fart their way through the book (or at least the pages I read). Trust me, I've great patience with bodily malfunctions, by virtue of being married to P, who bases most of his jokes on these. But all I wanted to ask our earnest yeng author was, did he have to describe his characters' morning ablutions in such great detail. Thankfully I could say no and cowardly duck out thanks to the brother's wedding. One day am sure this book would be hailed as a great work of Indian writing that nobody can exactly figure out and I as usual would lose out on the megabucks, at least some bucks. :(
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz..........
...ohgodohgodohgod
...panic is happening
...deadline's tomorrow evening
...now how many 00000s are there in a billion?
...why on earth do I need to convert everything into $$$$?
...Hedge fund sounds like a neighbourhood pool-in gardening group
...and M&A reminds me of M&Ms...mmmmmmm :)
...why did I ever agree to do business stories?
...painting toenails at women's mag office was so much better
...really
...panic is happening
...deadline's tomorrow evening
...now how many 00000s are there in a billion?
...why on earth do I need to convert everything into $$$$?
...Hedge fund sounds like a neighbourhood pool-in gardening group
...and M&A reminds me of M&Ms...mmmmmmm :)
...why did I ever agree to do business stories?
...painting toenails at women's mag office was so much better
...really
Monday, January 22, 2007
Babyspeak
The toddler can say about five-six words now...it might be seven by tomorrow morning, the repertoire keeps increasing. Like a true male, there is a lot of difference in what he says and what he means.
One of his favorite words is 'Akkaaaah' which, surprise, surprise, doesn't mean what it's supposed to mean...It means autorickshaw (don't ask why, that's another story!).
Then there is 'Auwaaah.' Since am not the smartest of mommies,it took me a long time to figure out it meant 'light' in any form — bulb, candle, the full moon...
I do hope he means 'mamma' when he says it.
And...
...it’s official. Meeting Parmanu is an excellent way to get people interested in blogging or anything remotely related to the written, sorry, the typed word.
First we saw how Alpha’s friend figured out the wonderful world of blogs. Now it’s P's turn and he thinks blogging might be cool after all. It lets you practice the art of shouting at the top of your voice to chat with great people (and their sister) over frothy cappuccino at extremely noisy café; It also gets you books. Especially the one you’ve been eyeing all this while.
Many thanks Parmanu. As a Bong, let me even apologize on behalf of the Bong lady sitting behind you on the flight :).
One of his favorite words is 'Akkaaaah' which, surprise, surprise, doesn't mean what it's supposed to mean...It means autorickshaw (don't ask why, that's another story!).
Then there is 'Auwaaah.' Since am not the smartest of mommies,it took me a long time to figure out it meant 'light' in any form — bulb, candle, the full moon...
I do hope he means 'mamma' when he says it.
And...
...it’s official. Meeting Parmanu is an excellent way to get people interested in blogging or anything remotely related to the written, sorry, the typed word.
First we saw how Alpha’s friend figured out the wonderful world of blogs. Now it’s P's turn and he thinks blogging might be cool after all. It lets you practice the art of shouting at the top of your voice to chat with great people (and their sister) over frothy cappuccino at extremely noisy café; It also gets you books. Especially the one you’ve been eyeing all this while.
Many thanks Parmanu. As a Bong, let me even apologize on behalf of the Bong lady sitting behind you on the flight :).
Friday, December 22, 2006
I must, I must, I must....
...learn not to joke in front of people with zero sense of humour. Let this be my New Year Resolution.
When A (that being my son) was doing his usual toddling/trying to run around the park this evening, a mom of two said that it was great he'd learnt to walk around so fast.
He has no choice, I said. Every morning we make him fetch the newspaper and we are waiting for the day we can send him out to buy milk.
No wonder she avoided me in the lift on the way back.
When A (that being my son) was doing his usual toddling/trying to run around the park this evening, a mom of two said that it was great he'd learnt to walk around so fast.
He has no choice, I said. Every morning we make him fetch the newspaper and we are waiting for the day we can send him out to buy milk.
No wonder she avoided me in the lift on the way back.
I must, I must, I must....
...learn not to joke in front of people with zero sense of humour. Let this be my New Year Resolution.
When A (that being my son) was doing his usual toddling/trying to run around the park this evening, a mom of two said that it was great he'd learnt to walk around so fast.
He has no choice, I said. Every morning we make him fetch the newspaper and we are waiting for the day we can send him out to buy milk.
No wonder she avoided me in the lift on the way back.
When A (that being my son) was doing his usual toddling/trying to run around the park this evening, a mom of two said that it was great he'd learnt to walk around so fast.
He has no choice, I said. Every morning we make him fetch the newspaper and we are waiting for the day we can send him out to buy milk.
No wonder she avoided me in the lift on the way back.
Monday, December 04, 2006
On my mind...
...and oh my god...one song and so many memories...my first beach party, a misguided crush, Tom Cruise in Cocktail...
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
What goes around...
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself
Philip Larkin, This Be The Verse
At one point in my reasonably well-guided youth, this was a favourite poem. It still is and I still believe it does contain a semblance of truth, however hard to digest. But now I find myself wondering, if this is how the beta will think 20 years on?
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself
Philip Larkin, This Be The Verse
At one point in my reasonably well-guided youth, this was a favourite poem. It still is and I still believe it does contain a semblance of truth, however hard to digest. But now I find myself wondering, if this is how the beta will think 20 years on?
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Since I cannot say NO in a really firm and 'I-won't-hear-anymore-of-this' kind of way, I went and met 'regard's'. As it turns out, he is a sweet, sober, ever-smiling, polite and (literally) small boy. He doesn't know about the existence of this blog of course but I am feeling a bit bad. Especially because 'regard's' paid cab fare and got me excellent kapi.
Such a bitch I am.
Such a bitch I am.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Was about to send my CV to the HR manager of a website who'd asked for it when I saw this at the bottom of his mail:
Regard's
Haven't sent CV. Though reminding self that this is HR which has very faint connection to editorial, where people probably put apostrophes where they belong.
Kahini, shall always be deeply deeply thankful to you for being millitant about my 'its' and 'it's' in the days of yore.
Regard's
Haven't sent CV. Though reminding self that this is HR which has very faint connection to editorial, where people probably put apostrophes where they belong.
Kahini, shall always be deeply deeply thankful to you for being millitant about my 'its' and 'it's' in the days of yore.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Tell Me Why
Much as I'd like to be, I'm not an automated robot. However, when it comes to word verification, my eyes (or possibly some part if my brain which sends signal to my eyes...whatever) behave like one. I'm terrified of posting comments on any blog that has WV as I invariably tend to see the slanted Ps as Bs and wavy Js as T or worse even Z. There are few, very few, lucid moments when my eye/brain/whatever actually sees the right word and types it successfully. But such are few and far between.
Is it only me? Does this happen to you too? Do I need glasses? The Kalhonahopreityzinta type?
Is it only me? Does this happen to you too? Do I need glasses? The Kalhonahopreityzinta type?
Monday, October 09, 2006
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Was planning to write about the lovely seven day holiday we had in Goa but have just finished cleaning an upturned bowl of khichdi all over the highchair so my thoughts are currently in a different direction. Anyone who says what a joy it is to see your little tot all over the house and traipsing around the furniture is either single with no intention of producing children or is suffering from the empty nest syndrome, under which they are likely to romanticise the years spent in close proximity with their kids.
(Example: Me: 'Ma, I HAVE to keep the phone, baby is attacking the TV!'
Ma: 'Oh my god he can reach the TV now! Awwwww, sho shweet.....!!!!!!!')
Sorry, don't get me wrong. I'm absolutely enjoying this 'now you see him, now you don't phase,' largely spent chasing baby around various items of furniture. See, there are several advantages of having a to-be-toddler around the house.
First, there's the enforced spring cleaning. In an effort to make everything baby-safe and baby friendly, you finally throw away the wrought iron candlestand that was too hideous to be displayed prominently and too expensive to be hidden completely.
Ditto for the ceramic astray nobody ever used, the urli that gathered dust, the five year old paper lamp with holes and so on....
Then there's the exercise. Babychasing requires you to squat, bend, stretch and push every part of your not-so-supple body to its limits, which is better than what any gym, personal trainer or liposuction could do, just in case your post pregnancy thoughts were in that direction.
So messy khichdi bowls aside, the crawl and cruise phase isn't bad at all. You clean out the junk, save money on gyms and start inching towards a somewhat flat, at least non jiggly stomach (hopefully). What more could you be asking for?
PS: As you can see from the date, this blog was started on 30th and posted on 4th. I guess there were several messy bowls of khichdi in between
(Example: Me: 'Ma, I HAVE to keep the phone, baby is attacking the TV!'
Ma: 'Oh my god he can reach the TV now! Awwwww, sho shweet.....!!!!!!!')
Sorry, don't get me wrong. I'm absolutely enjoying this 'now you see him, now you don't phase,' largely spent chasing baby around various items of furniture. See, there are several advantages of having a to-be-toddler around the house.
First, there's the enforced spring cleaning. In an effort to make everything baby-safe and baby friendly, you finally throw away the wrought iron candlestand that was too hideous to be displayed prominently and too expensive to be hidden completely.
Ditto for the ceramic astray nobody ever used, the urli that gathered dust, the five year old paper lamp with holes and so on....
Then there's the exercise. Babychasing requires you to squat, bend, stretch and push every part of your not-so-supple body to its limits, which is better than what any gym, personal trainer or liposuction could do, just in case your post pregnancy thoughts were in that direction.
So messy khichdi bowls aside, the crawl and cruise phase isn't bad at all. You clean out the junk, save money on gyms and start inching towards a somewhat flat, at least non jiggly stomach (hopefully). What more could you be asking for?
PS: As you can see from the date, this blog was started on 30th and posted on 4th. I guess there were several messy bowls of khichdi in between
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Nine Months
Wasn't it just yesterday that the little tyke was inside my tummy trying to find a way out? Wasn't it just yesterday that he slept in the same position you'd put him in?
Hard to believe that same redfaced, poopy bundle is eating crackers, crawling, standing up, banging drums, saying maaaaammma, tyaattttttyaa on top of his voice and has two small teeth. Honestly, can't believe he's growing up so fast!
Very entertaining and very exhausting.
Hard to believe that same redfaced, poopy bundle is eating crackers, crawling, standing up, banging drums, saying maaaaammma, tyaattttttyaa on top of his voice and has two small teeth. Honestly, can't believe he's growing up so fast!
Very entertaining and very exhausting.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
A Change Is Always Good?
Hello Amigos,
Am back. Was being lazy. Too lazy to blog or read or even watch TV. I go through these phases once in a while. When all I want is to stare blankly at view from balcony/faded sofa cover/blank document/dinner on plate whichever is applicable. Of course these days I cannot be a complete vegetable. How can I, when there is an extra-energetic, drooling, smiling, eight-month-old who's all over the place, babbling, crawling, trying to stand and sometimes doing all of these at once?
In an attempt at good parenting, the other day we tried to cleanse the house of potentially hazardous things to make our home a safe place for baby to explore. Realised by baby standards, we'd been living extremely dangerously all these years. Going by the Babycentre.com and What To Expect checklist, we have house hazards like loose cords, tall lamps, tables with sharp edges, rugs and mats without non-slip pads, several bins and several unused electrical outlets.
No prizes for guessing how we spend our free time these days then. Now I know what they meant when they said a baby changes your life.
Am back. Was being lazy. Too lazy to blog or read or even watch TV. I go through these phases once in a while. When all I want is to stare blankly at view from balcony/faded sofa cover/blank document/dinner on plate whichever is applicable. Of course these days I cannot be a complete vegetable. How can I, when there is an extra-energetic, drooling, smiling, eight-month-old who's all over the place, babbling, crawling, trying to stand and sometimes doing all of these at once?
In an attempt at good parenting, the other day we tried to cleanse the house of potentially hazardous things to make our home a safe place for baby to explore. Realised by baby standards, we'd been living extremely dangerously all these years. Going by the Babycentre.com and What To Expect checklist, we have house hazards like loose cords, tall lamps, tables with sharp edges, rugs and mats without non-slip pads, several bins and several unused electrical outlets.
No prizes for guessing how we spend our free time these days then. Now I know what they meant when they said a baby changes your life.
Monday, June 19, 2006
Two Weeks' Notice
One day, two weeks back: Rash goes and interviews famous person.
Evening, same day: Rash thinks of writing the story that very evening after the beta sleeps, like a true-to-her-job-reporter. Thought stays for less than one fleeting second. Rash reaches home, puts beta to sleep, has a glass of wine with the husband, watches some Reese Witherspoon movie, remembers story in the middle of movie and decides to definitely write it the next day.
Process repeated everyday (except weekends, when Rash excuses herself from her backbreaking workload)
Finally, one everning, two weeks later, she decides to put finger on keyboard.
7 pm: The beta is sleeping. Rash decides to sit with a nice relaxing mug of coffee before starting work.
7.10: Checks blogs. After all, he doesn't sleep at 7 every evening, does he?
7.30: Checks mail. Replies to every friend who has ever written to her, including person who assigned story.
7.50: Chats with friend in London on Skype. It's important as friend has exams and needs that goodluck wish.
8.30: Ooooops! oooops! ooops! That's quite a lot of time gone! Goes and checks on beta. Adjusts his blanket, checks the speed of the fan, opens one window, shuts another, dumps toys in basket, smiles fondly at beta. Repeats process.
8.35: P is home.
8.45: Decides to spend some quality time with P. She sits and reads the India Today's Bangalore supplement. He watches football highlights. They decide to have beer. It needs to be chilled. Rash goes and switches off the computer. Decides to restart work (which she hasn't started yet, except open the notes she scribbled during the interview) after dinner.
10.30: Switches on computer. Checks if there are new comments on her blog. Reads eight blogs. Chats with friend on gmail. Goes and checks on beta. Rerun of 8.30 action.
10.45: Has minor fight with P over possession of computer. Tells P she is working against a deadline and NOT BLOGGING. Writes a two line intro to justify her claim (and to show P in case he returns to check).
10.55: Tries to decipher own handwriting from interview notes.
11.10: Figures out most of the interview and decides to start. However, there's a blog in her brain. It's itching to be written. Now. Rash brushes thought of blog from her mind and gets back to story. Writes two lines.
11.30: Itching gets stronger. Rash tries to visualise person who assigned story as meancing, nasty editor standing with deadline stick over her head. Giggles.
11.34: Giggles some more at the imagery.
11.37: Non-stop giggling.
11:40: Itching stronger than ever. Rash is not a procrastinator. She decides to blog. Her brain needs to be free to concentrate on the story after all.
Evening, same day: Rash thinks of writing the story that very evening after the beta sleeps, like a true-to-her-job-reporter. Thought stays for less than one fleeting second. Rash reaches home, puts beta to sleep, has a glass of wine with the husband, watches some Reese Witherspoon movie, remembers story in the middle of movie and decides to definitely write it the next day.
Process repeated everyday (except weekends, when Rash excuses herself from her backbreaking workload)
Finally, one everning, two weeks later, she decides to put finger on keyboard.
7 pm: The beta is sleeping. Rash decides to sit with a nice relaxing mug of coffee before starting work.
7.10: Checks blogs. After all, he doesn't sleep at 7 every evening, does he?
7.30: Checks mail. Replies to every friend who has ever written to her, including person who assigned story.
7.50: Chats with friend in London on Skype. It's important as friend has exams and needs that goodluck wish.
8.30: Ooooops! oooops! ooops! That's quite a lot of time gone! Goes and checks on beta. Adjusts his blanket, checks the speed of the fan, opens one window, shuts another, dumps toys in basket, smiles fondly at beta. Repeats process.
8.35: P is home.
8.45: Decides to spend some quality time with P. She sits and reads the India Today's Bangalore supplement. He watches football highlights. They decide to have beer. It needs to be chilled. Rash goes and switches off the computer. Decides to restart work (which she hasn't started yet, except open the notes she scribbled during the interview) after dinner.
10.30: Switches on computer. Checks if there are new comments on her blog. Reads eight blogs. Chats with friend on gmail. Goes and checks on beta. Rerun of 8.30 action.
10.45: Has minor fight with P over possession of computer. Tells P she is working against a deadline and NOT BLOGGING. Writes a two line intro to justify her claim (and to show P in case he returns to check).
10.55: Tries to decipher own handwriting from interview notes.
11.10: Figures out most of the interview and decides to start. However, there's a blog in her brain. It's itching to be written. Now. Rash brushes thought of blog from her mind and gets back to story. Writes two lines.
11.30: Itching gets stronger. Rash tries to visualise person who assigned story as meancing, nasty editor standing with deadline stick over her head. Giggles.
11.34: Giggles some more at the imagery.
11.37: Non-stop giggling.
11:40: Itching stronger than ever. Rash is not a procrastinator. She decides to blog. Her brain needs to be free to concentrate on the story after all.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
I miss my bookshelf. Back in Gurgaon I had an open bookshelf right in the living room. Yes, not a good idea I know but when we moved in, there was this empty space on the wall and it was just shouting BOOKSHELF.
I love books just the way they are. I don't like it when books are bound and when books are encased in meticulous protective covers. And I don't like it when books are inside a closed shelf or almirah, usually with a wooden door. It makes me feel like I'm cut off from my books. I need to see them as I pass through, go about my daily work, cook, have a coffee, fight with husband, babble on the phone....during everything. Practically speaking, open shelves gather dust and there are more chances of people walking away casually with your books (especially when shelf is in living room) and never returning them but then being practical isn't everything, is it?
When I was a kid, one of my aunts would always gift me books with little notes scribbled on them. She had been an avid reader and if marriage, motherhood and the demands of a trying joint family had put reading in the backseat, she always tried to buy me something she herself had loved. Yet another aunt (dearly loved, except for this) would insist I cover the books she brought me to protect them from dust. In fact, once she put hideous platic covers on most of my books when she came to visit us in Orissa. I waited for her month long visit to be over and then proceeded to gleefully yank the covers off.
This is why I terribly miss my open shelf back at the flat in Gurgaon. I'd only one but there were plans to cover one whole room with such shelves and then go bookshopping to fill it up.....
Out here I have no dearth of storage space. But it is all closed in, very practical. This keeps my books from being spotted by flinching friends, cobwebs and dust. And sometimes, even by me.
I love books just the way they are. I don't like it when books are bound and when books are encased in meticulous protective covers. And I don't like it when books are inside a closed shelf or almirah, usually with a wooden door. It makes me feel like I'm cut off from my books. I need to see them as I pass through, go about my daily work, cook, have a coffee, fight with husband, babble on the phone....during everything. Practically speaking, open shelves gather dust and there are more chances of people walking away casually with your books (especially when shelf is in living room) and never returning them but then being practical isn't everything, is it?
When I was a kid, one of my aunts would always gift me books with little notes scribbled on them. She had been an avid reader and if marriage, motherhood and the demands of a trying joint family had put reading in the backseat, she always tried to buy me something she herself had loved. Yet another aunt (dearly loved, except for this) would insist I cover the books she brought me to protect them from dust. In fact, once she put hideous platic covers on most of my books when she came to visit us in Orissa. I waited for her month long visit to be over and then proceeded to gleefully yank the covers off.
This is why I terribly miss my open shelf back at the flat in Gurgaon. I'd only one but there were plans to cover one whole room with such shelves and then go bookshopping to fill it up.....
Out here I have no dearth of storage space. But it is all closed in, very practical. This keeps my books from being spotted by flinching friends, cobwebs and dust. And sometimes, even by me.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
In Which I Bitch
I was at this quiet Daily Bread store in Indiaranagar the other day, debating between yummy Mediterranean Bread v/s equally yummy Garlic Bread and generally feeling happy at the sight of so many desserts, when the door opened and in walked a strong waft of VERY EXPENSIVE PERFUME. She insisted on buying only chocolate donuts as 'Maira' loved them, or so I figured from the conversation she had with VERY EXPENSIVE RAYBAN, her hunky companion.
There was only one choco dounut left, which resulted in a mini and goodnatured tantrum. At this point Rayban insisted on driving her anywhere just to get the donuts. 'Ok wait let me check with Maira,' trilled Perfume and snapped out the tiniest of mobile phones. Rayban watched worshipfully. So did all of us.
I suddenly felt a wave of nostalgia: this is so, so Delhi, I thought. I could've been standing outside Big Chill in Khan Market watching dressed-to-kill-diva throwing a tantrum on being asked to wait. Then guess what happenned? Daily Bread guy gave Rayban directions to their Church Street outlet. Perfume trilled again before wafting out: 'But where is Church Street? We're not from here. We're from Delhi. Let me ask Maira's driver.'
See how well I knew that city? I could've cried. But I laughed instead. And not because four choco donuts were already in my goodiebag.
There was only one choco dounut left, which resulted in a mini and goodnatured tantrum. At this point Rayban insisted on driving her anywhere just to get the donuts. 'Ok wait let me check with Maira,' trilled Perfume and snapped out the tiniest of mobile phones. Rayban watched worshipfully. So did all of us.
I suddenly felt a wave of nostalgia: this is so, so Delhi, I thought. I could've been standing outside Big Chill in Khan Market watching dressed-to-kill-diva throwing a tantrum on being asked to wait. Then guess what happenned? Daily Bread guy gave Rayban directions to their Church Street outlet. Perfume trilled again before wafting out: 'But where is Church Street? We're not from here. We're from Delhi. Let me ask Maira's driver.'
See how well I knew that city? I could've cried. But I laughed instead. And not because four choco donuts were already in my goodiebag.
Saturday, June 03, 2006
Coorg
Photoblogging is so much easier. I could have written on and on about our drive to the Tata Coffee plantations in Coorg on a very rainy weekend, but the somewhat cranky beta (he's teething) has slept and there are scores of blogs I want to read.
So I'll just post some pictures. From driving out on a rainy morning to the greenery that almost made my eyes hurt.
It rained all the three days we were there, so we stayed put at the guesthouse most of the time, sipping endless cups of chai/coffee, increasing our girth by hogging whatever was offered (did not love famous Coorgi Pork curry much)and driving out once in a while. Would've loved to have done some nice walking round the plantation but hey, it's only six hours away. And rain or shine, with a view like that, how could you even complain?
So I'll just post some pictures. From driving out on a rainy morning to the greenery that almost made my eyes hurt.
It rained all the three days we were there, so we stayed put at the guesthouse most of the time, sipping endless cups of chai/coffee, increasing our girth by hogging whatever was offered (did not love famous Coorgi Pork curry much)and driving out once in a while. Would've loved to have done some nice walking round the plantation but hey, it's only six hours away. And rain or shine, with a view like that, how could you even complain?
Friday, May 26, 2006
Monday, May 15, 2006
Ok, call me whatever name you will but I'm waiting to watch Da Vinci Code. According to a friend of mine, these days I 'revel in simplemindedness.' She does have a point there, though. Throughout my pregnancy, delivery and those first few days of adjusting to the wobbly li'l bundle of poo and pee, easy reading has been my motto. Except for Possession. And My Name Is Red. The rest are largely re-reads and include old classics, thrillers and a whole of chic-lit romances. And a fair bit of Calvin & Hobbes. Does that say something?
PS: Cannot imagine Tom Hanks in the role though. Much as I love him.
PS: Cannot imagine Tom Hanks in the role though. Much as I love him.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Why is it that when you ask for a DVD of Pride & Prejudice (the BBC TV series) the shop assistants invariably come up with Bride & Prejudice? And this happens after you explain it is the TV series that you want, not the latest film starring Keira Knightley and certainly not the Gurinder Chadha washout. Surely Colin Firth doesn't resemble Aiswarya Rai?
Would love to post regularly enough. But I turn completely lazy the minute beta is fast asleep and so does my mind. And it's so much more fun to read blogs than write. At least, these days it is :)
On a different note, am experimenting with photography. Actually, that's a hip and not-so-motherly way of explaining the 700th photograph you've taken of your child in the last one week.
Would love to post regularly enough. But I turn completely lazy the minute beta is fast asleep and so does my mind. And it's so much more fun to read blogs than write. At least, these days it is :)
On a different note, am experimenting with photography. Actually, that's a hip and not-so-motherly way of explaining the 700th photograph you've taken of your child in the last one week.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Monday, April 24, 2006
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Rang Diya
Finally, finally, finally managed to watch Rang De Basanti. On the big screen. In love. with the movie. with everything in it. No point in saying much about it. It's best watched, which most people have done by now and formed their opinions I guess. Inky, thank you for putting up the translation of Ik Onkar. My day starts with it very often now.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
A will be four months tomorrow. back after monthlong trip to both sets of grandparent's. The child's grandparents, not mine. After being pampered for more than a month, have forgotten how to manage home plus kid. But cannot complain as kiddo sleeps at night. That's what everyone says incl. the kid's doc. Haven't worked for almost a year now. How time flies.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Shucks! I wasn't aware that we were a country that still practiced 'sati--the custom of a widow throwing herself on her husband's funeral pyre'. Helpfully explained also. And here I am, terribly afraid of even the smallest burn. Going to temple to pray for husband's long life instantly. Strangely, I missed out on this bit of info before I got hitched or else would've insisted on a pre-nup. Even now, I can't recall a sati in my family or anyone else's (despite it being still practiced as Canadian freelancer, Mei-Yin Teo informs us) except for that sad instance of Roop Kanwar all those years ago, condemned by every sane (I said SANE, so don't argue about Roop Kanwar being glorified, revered, etc) person in the country.
I'm pissed. They call themselves an online travel resource just for women.? Don't they do their homework or check facts? Or are they content to stereotype, just because it is India?
I'm pissed. They call themselves an online travel resource just for women.? Don't they do their homework or check facts? Or are they content to stereotype, just because it is India?
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Happy New Year
Began 2006 with several changes in life.
* Had the quietest 31st Dec in 10 years. Had lessons on 'New year TV programming' from mother in law who I've discovered is extremely with it in these matters. Wonderful son woke us up exactly at 12 so that we didn't miss out on the celebrations. Heard fireworks. Both inside the room and outside.
* Became part of the evening ramp...oops...pram show in the apartment complex. Open daily from 4 pm to 6 pm, this entitles you and your little dribbler to a free membership at the in house mother and child club, apart from giving you an opportunity to check out each other's weight, babies, strollers, toys and peadiatrician. Is that how it's spelt?
* Discovered New Age Dad in P. He actually wakes up for the 2.00 am feed...then wakes me up and goes off to sleep.
* Shopped in less than 15 minutes. Bought four tops and three pants. Tried them all. In less than 15 minutes! It's possible. Just have a squirming, ready-to-bawl infant at hand.
* Discovered endless capacity for babytalk. Esp at 4 am. Again, c'est possible. Just have 'I'll-bawl-right-now-if-you-don't ape-Donald Duck-infant' at hand.
* Became Blog lurker. V afraid son will wake up as soon as I start writing comments on somebody's blog and I'l;; end yuop wit embrassaring spelling mistakes likeh this one.
Happy 2006
* Had the quietest 31st Dec in 10 years. Had lessons on 'New year TV programming' from mother in law who I've discovered is extremely with it in these matters. Wonderful son woke us up exactly at 12 so that we didn't miss out on the celebrations. Heard fireworks. Both inside the room and outside.
* Became part of the evening ramp...oops...pram show in the apartment complex. Open daily from 4 pm to 6 pm, this entitles you and your little dribbler to a free membership at the in house mother and child club, apart from giving you an opportunity to check out each other's weight, babies, strollers, toys and peadiatrician. Is that how it's spelt?
* Discovered New Age Dad in P. He actually wakes up for the 2.00 am feed...then wakes me up and goes off to sleep.
* Shopped in less than 15 minutes. Bought four tops and three pants. Tried them all. In less than 15 minutes! It's possible. Just have a squirming, ready-to-bawl infant at hand.
* Discovered endless capacity for babytalk. Esp at 4 am. Again, c'est possible. Just have 'I'll-bawl-right-now-if-you-don't ape-Donald Duck-infant' at hand.
* Became Blog lurker. V afraid son will wake up as soon as I start writing comments on somebody's blog and I'l;; end yuop wit embrassaring spelling mistakes likeh this one.
Happy 2006
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Possession is not an easy read. Especially when you seem to be constantly feeding. And burping. And changing nappies. And rocking baby to sleep. And feeding yet again. And cleaning. But the book's been lying with me for a while and my ever-understanding online library finally wants it back. At the rate I'm going shall surely return it unfinished. Like many other things in my life since Nov 22, 2005, this will also be a first. Not significant enough, however.
Friday, November 18, 2005
First Khushboo and now Sania Mirza. Now don't these ladies know better than shooting their mouths off about sex-vex, pyaar-vyaar and saying sorry later?
I can still digest Khushboo's comment. After all she's an actress and we Indians are aware that all actresses have loose morals, no? So, we can ignore her when she says something absolutely unIndian like this. But Sania? First she addresses press conferences in foreign wearing T-shirts with bold messages instead of wearing nice zari salwar kameezes (full sleeved) and Malabar Gold jewellery. Then she goes a step ahead and supports Khushboo. And then she has second thoughts and says she's been misquoted.
Arre bhai, can't these girls think before they speak? Ek to bina soche samjhe kuch bhi keh do. Woh bhi sex jaise sensitive topic par. Don't they know that good Indian girls are allowed to have sex with only one man, their husband? And if the husband pops it or throws you out of the house, the good Indian girl can end up having sex with Man No. 2, provided the parents have procured her a husband again. After all, this is our glorious Indian culture. Everything is ok once you're married. Sex -- safe or unsafe, marital rape, domestic violence, catching the HIV virus from hubby, everything. The important thing is to be married.
Which is why the ABVP activists are right. Sania has hurt the sentiments of 'Indian people'. Well, thanks to all these cable television, shopping malls, Hollywood films, BPOs and what have Yos, there are many people who'll cry foul and say Sania has actually made a mature and responsible statement, is being forced to retract it and that we should move on with the times, etc, etc. But what do they know? Haven't these people watched Hindi films? Don't they know what happens to girls who have sex before marriage? See what happened to Sharmila Tagore in Aradhana, Parveen Babi in Deewar and so many other heroines? Agreed they didn't practise safe sex, as preached by Sania and some Miss Universe (again, model+foreigner=loose morals) but that's not the point, is it?
In fact, in all this brouaha, I'm quite confused what the point really is.
Which is why the ABVP activists are right. Sania has hurt the sentiments of 'Indian people'. Well, thanks to all these cable television, shopping malls, Hollywood films, BPOs and what have Yos, there are many people who'll cry foul and say Sania has actually made a mature and responsible statement, is being forced to retract it and that we should move on with the times, etc, etc. But what do they know? Haven't these people watched Hindi films? Don't they know what happens to girls who have sex before marriage? See what happened to Sharmila Tagore in Aradhana, Parveen Babi in Deewar and so many other heroines? Agreed they didn't practise safe sex, as preached by Sania and some Miss Universe (again, model+foreigner=loose morals) but that's not the point, is it?
In fact, in all this brouaha, I'm quite confused what the point really is.
Is it about an unmarried girl having sex with an unmarried boy? Quite possible. It is not only unthinkable and against family values as shown by K-Serials but absolutely corrupting for most of us Indians who have no idea of how babies are born until they tie the knot. Forget all those newsmagazine cover stories that claim more and more Indians are having sex before marriage. Forget realities like Delhi Public School MMS scandal which show that kids are not only doing it but being pretty brazen about it too. These are after all a small part of the Indian population who have been brainwashed and corrupted by MTV and all these newfangled movies like Hum Tum and Salaam Namaste. The majority of us are pure-minded, uncorrupted, blindfolded Indians with strong value systems. We take two steps backward for every one step forward. And we simply can't stomach any talk about sex. Safe or otherwise. Prevention is better than cure. Haven't they heard?
Saturday, November 12, 2005
Are We There Yet?
Am feeling a bit low, so I call S in Mumbai late at night for a pick-me-up chat.
'OHMIGOD! Boy or girl?!!!!!' S screams into the phone.
'None. The baby's still inside. I called to just talk.'
'Oh...and there I thought...' S sounds like a punctured balloon, before adding, 'listen am at a party. Will call you later.'
Humph! So much for 4 am friends!
Take it from me. Week 40 breathing down your neck is the worse wait of the nine month narrative. Worse than waiting in the line at State Bank of India. Worse than waiting to pay the MTNL bill on the last day. Worse than being 43rd in line at the slow moving check in counter of Air Deccan.
Babycentre, my online bible is asking me to be patient. 'Only 5% of babies are born on their exact due date. Why not practice breathing and relaxation techniques while you're waiting?'
Yes darlings. And why not learn the salsa while I'm at it? I wouldn't be writing this, if I were that relaxed, would I? Why can't I be part of that percentage of women who have babies ahead of schedule? According to mother, all the women in my family belong to that lucky percentage. Except me of course. Don't think it'll arrive anytime soon.
'Read it nice children's books,' says Kahini, when I call her to whine. This is supposed to make baby feel wonderfully excited about the world and make it come out faster. Kahini, if this works, you shall patent this idea, make money and sponsor me at Toto's for life as your first experiment. You're lucky I do not know the names of fancy lounge bars. Am off to Crossword tomorrow to buy books. Send list.
The advice keeps pouring in. By now I'm confused about what they're meant for.
'Play relaxing Western classical music'
'Run your hands over your tummy a lot'
'Sweep the floor. See how phatak se all our maids have babies?'
'Go for regular walks.'
'Go dancing!'
'Have sex.'
'Freeze on the name. You have? Refreeze.'
'Sleep as much as you can.'
I hang up in exasperation and decide to be calm, poised and patient. Have no idea why everyone starts wondering and muttering if you haven't had the baby by the time you've hit 40 weeks. Don't want to make baby feel I'm impatient mother and come out in a hurry. That way would be setting bad precedent for its entire life. And I do not wish to be affected by people. Especially by glam women with washboard abs at restaurant reception desks who tend to ask, 'so how long?'
P calls. He's heard from Mr T whom we met at Lamaze Class. Mrs T had baby girl. One whole week before D date.
I call to congratulate Mrs T. 'You haven't had the baby yet?' she is most surprised, 'What did the doc say? How much more time?'
Ugh ugh ugh.
'OHMIGOD! Boy or girl?!!!!!' S screams into the phone.
'None. The baby's still inside. I called to just talk.'
'Oh...and there I thought...' S sounds like a punctured balloon, before adding, 'listen am at a party. Will call you later.'
Humph! So much for 4 am friends!
Take it from me. Week 40 breathing down your neck is the worse wait of the nine month narrative. Worse than waiting in the line at State Bank of India. Worse than waiting to pay the MTNL bill on the last day. Worse than being 43rd in line at the slow moving check in counter of Air Deccan.
Babycentre, my online bible is asking me to be patient. 'Only 5% of babies are born on their exact due date. Why not practice breathing and relaxation techniques while you're waiting?'
Yes darlings. And why not learn the salsa while I'm at it? I wouldn't be writing this, if I were that relaxed, would I? Why can't I be part of that percentage of women who have babies ahead of schedule? According to mother, all the women in my family belong to that lucky percentage. Except me of course. Don't think it'll arrive anytime soon.
'Read it nice children's books,' says Kahini, when I call her to whine. This is supposed to make baby feel wonderfully excited about the world and make it come out faster. Kahini, if this works, you shall patent this idea, make money and sponsor me at Toto's for life as your first experiment. You're lucky I do not know the names of fancy lounge bars. Am off to Crossword tomorrow to buy books. Send list.
The advice keeps pouring in. By now I'm confused about what they're meant for.
'Play relaxing Western classical music'
'Run your hands over your tummy a lot'
'Sweep the floor. See how phatak se all our maids have babies?'
'Go for regular walks.'
'Go dancing!'
'Have sex.'
'Freeze on the name. You have? Refreeze.'
'Sleep as much as you can.'
I hang up in exasperation and decide to be calm, poised and patient. Have no idea why everyone starts wondering and muttering if you haven't had the baby by the time you've hit 40 weeks. Don't want to make baby feel I'm impatient mother and come out in a hurry. That way would be setting bad precedent for its entire life. And I do not wish to be affected by people. Especially by glam women with washboard abs at restaurant reception desks who tend to ask, 'so how long?'
P calls. He's heard from Mr T whom we met at Lamaze Class. Mrs T had baby girl. One whole week before D date.
I call to congratulate Mrs T. 'You haven't had the baby yet?' she is most surprised, 'What did the doc say? How much more time?'
Ugh ugh ugh.
Sunday, November 06, 2005
The bhadroloks at Bengalimatrimony.com are trying very hard to achieve what my parents couldn’t. Marry me off to a good Bong boy. Trivial details like the fact that I’m married and about to produce a child with that man do not bother them, even after I’ve sent an email to inform them of this mildly preventive fact.
I’ve also pointed out that I never registered with them in the first place; else I’d have done so with my real name. Certainly not as Rani, as they insist on addressing me. If I had to register with a false name I’d have gone for something exotic like Zarmaine or Finnouala or Caramia. Certainly not something as common as Rani. Even though she is Bong, actress and therefore supposed to have high recall value in the minds of us Bongs.
Despite these glitches the more I get spammed (6 emails so far) by the bhadraloks the more I see what I missed out on. The chance to meet a nice brainy boy called Shomshubhro or Bishwopriyo, with wheatish complexion, a collection of Panjabis (kurta in Bongspeak) gifted by mashis during Pujo, and a degree from top US University or at least from IIT. And of course a mother. We Bong girls do not look for anything less than that.
Blame it all on my folks. They didn’t exactly lead me in the right direction and point out the advantages of a Bong-Bong match. I was let loose to look in all the wrong places and landed up with a kalchaarless fellow who is laughing at the bhadralok’s persistence and is asking me to look for something called Jainmatrimony which will provide him with options as well. Bengalimatrimony ne meri ankhen khol di. Bas thodi der se.
PS: My sincerest apologies if your name happens to be Shomshubhro or Bishwopriyo. Or even Zarmaine, Finnouala, Caramia and Rani.
I’ve also pointed out that I never registered with them in the first place; else I’d have done so with my real name. Certainly not as Rani, as they insist on addressing me. If I had to register with a false name I’d have gone for something exotic like Zarmaine or Finnouala or Caramia. Certainly not something as common as Rani. Even though she is Bong, actress and therefore supposed to have high recall value in the minds of us Bongs.
Despite these glitches the more I get spammed (6 emails so far) by the bhadraloks the more I see what I missed out on. The chance to meet a nice brainy boy called Shomshubhro or Bishwopriyo, with wheatish complexion, a collection of Panjabis (kurta in Bongspeak) gifted by mashis during Pujo, and a degree from top US University or at least from IIT. And of course a mother. We Bong girls do not look for anything less than that.
Blame it all on my folks. They didn’t exactly lead me in the right direction and point out the advantages of a Bong-Bong match. I was let loose to look in all the wrong places and landed up with a kalchaarless fellow who is laughing at the bhadralok’s persistence and is asking me to look for something called Jainmatrimony which will provide him with options as well. Bengalimatrimony ne meri ankhen khol di. Bas thodi der se.
PS: My sincerest apologies if your name happens to be Shomshubhro or Bishwopriyo. Or even Zarmaine, Finnouala, Caramia and Rani.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
What Shall We Gift This Year?
I love gifts. Hunting, giving, getting...all of it. But one thing that leaves me stumped is gifting for the sake of it. Not because you genuinely like the person and really want to give something to him/her but because you think it forms part of your social protocol and obligation and therefore you must.
Which is why Diwali used to exasperate me in my Delhi days. And as I discovered it continues to do that in Bangalore. A day before Diwali we were at the Shoppers' Stop outlet near our home and came face to face with one of the neighbours whom we barely ever meet. After exchanging the usual hello and how are yous, we moved on, did our shoppping and got back home. Sometime in the evening, their son appeared with a box of Haldiram namkeens, muttered 'Uncle, aunty, Happy Diwali, mummy papa have sent,' and escaped.
The next morning I knocked on their door with a box of chocolates. The lady opened the door and we had the briefest of conversations: How are you ji? Very good? Chalo badiya hai. Ok. Happy Diwali. Bye.
My first encounter with random gift giving was post marriage, during my first Diwali in Delhi. I received a make-up kit from the daughter-in-law of my mother-in-law's friend. I was a bit surprised as we barely knew each other and had only met once before. At my wedding. When I mentioned this to my friend S, a Delhi veteran, she nodded sagely, 'It's part of Diwali protocol.'
Since then in my five years of Diwali in Delhi I have received several random gifts which show that the sender has to follow the protocol, even if she/he is completely unaware whether you have a taste for the stuff she/he is sending or not. My all time top five include a disgustingly floral smelling perfume and powder set, a steel tiffin carrier, pink and plasticky icecream cups, a bindi and bangle gift box and something equally terrible I've forgotten all about.
But the point isn't whether the gift is good or bad, tacky or tasteful. The point is why part with it when both the sender and receiver know that it's being done purely for the sake of formality? I'm usually flummoxed and have no idea how to react beyond Oh thank you, you needn't have, etc, on such ocassions. Yes some of you may argue it's a nice gesture but there isn't much thought that goes behind such gestures if you ask me. And to use that cliche, it's the thought that counts.
Which is why I love getting spotted-just-for-me book on Goa from Kahini, which is why I knew my friend H had to have it when I read Anupama Chopra's book on Sholay, which is why some shiny bags have Subs written on them and are screaming to be bought, wrapped in equally shiny cover and dispatched, even if birthdays, anniversaries, New Year, whatever are all far away or long gone. In my mind, gifts don't need a season but they certainly need a definite reason don't they?
Friday, October 28, 2005
Preggie Talk Again
Think only Gabby will read me at this rate :)
At the antenatal class we (The girls) ask the instructor how exactly do contractions feel.
'Different women react differently but to give you an idea, I can say it feels like extremely strong period cramps,' she says.
'Oh...O...okay...alright...ummm..think I can deal with that...well maybe not...' we nod our heads, understanding exactly what she's talking about. Well almost.
Predictably (and cruelly for the boys perhaps), the conversation turns briefly to period cramps, in an effort to find out exactly how bad would the contractions be.
We suddenly realise the men in the room seem to have vanished. Two have queued up outside the loo (and out of earshot), one is in the instructor's kitchen taking a long time over a glass of water (when she's thoughtfully placed a whole jug in the table next to us), one is peering intently into his mobile, the fifth one (mine) has suddenly developed tremendous interest in greenery and is inspecting the plants on the balcony very closely.
Boys will be boys. And girls will be well...girls.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Remix
Poor Ram Gopal Varma. He and the factory seem to have run out of ideas. Why else would he want to remake James, Shiva and Sholay? I'm sorry but the very thought has me in splits. Especially when I read that the Sholay remake is to be called 'Ramgopal Varma Ki Sholay.' Yes. The man is serious. Reminds me of a C-grade movie made years back with all those Amitabh and Dharmendra lookalikes and Amjaad Khan. It was called Ramgarh Ke Sholay. Hehehe.
Why are Bollywood directors into remakes? That too of a film released in 1975, one released in the early 90s (?) and one released what, some two months back? Hollywood does remakes too and sometimes successfully but I wonder if it works for Bollywood. Our movies seem to stay longer in our memory shelves. Perhaps it's because of the songs.
Why are Bollywood directors into remakes? That too of a film released in 1975, one released in the early 90s (?) and one released what, some two months back? Hollywood does remakes too and sometimes successfully but I wonder if it works for Bollywood. Our movies seem to stay longer in our memory shelves. Perhaps it's because of the songs.
(Though I dunno if anyone remembers any songs from Shiva. In fact, I don’t recall the movie at all, except that it had a very hairy Nagarjuna and lots of fights.)
In recent years, the recall value is perhaps higher because of the combined might of Zee Cinema/Sony Max, etc, which repeat these films often enough to ensure that no memory lapses occur.
Which makes me wonder if we’ll be interested in watching the all-new Umraojaan by JP Dutta. It was only made in 1981 and I tend to remember stuff from that many years back at least (except for Shiva, ha ha). And for God's sake, Aishwarya Rai? Can you imagine the film without Rekha in it? Without Farooq Shaikh's elegant portrayal of Nawab Sultan? And what are they going to do about the songs? How do you expect to match or surpass gems like 'justju jiski thi...' and 'In ankhon ki masti ke....'
The remade Sholay could do with some nice music though. Kill me if you are a Sholay fan and bought cassettes with 'songs and dialogues from Sholay' in your misguided youth (I know people who did) but music ain't that film's strong point. Ok, I'm not talking about the background score here.
Perhaps Ramu could introduce Gabbar Singh to that 'haunting' item number from James: 'Woh hero hai, hero hai, woh hai hero....' After all, Gabbar is the real hero of Sholay isn't he? And with Big B playing that role he'll dwarf everyone else in it anyway.
And since Ramu is remaking both James and Sholay it shouldn't be a problem to lift bits and parts from here and there, eh? That’s what remixes are all about.
In recent years, the recall value is perhaps higher because of the combined might of Zee Cinema/Sony Max, etc, which repeat these films often enough to ensure that no memory lapses occur.
Which makes me wonder if we’ll be interested in watching the all-new Umraojaan by JP Dutta. It was only made in 1981 and I tend to remember stuff from that many years back at least (except for Shiva, ha ha). And for God's sake, Aishwarya Rai? Can you imagine the film without Rekha in it? Without Farooq Shaikh's elegant portrayal of Nawab Sultan? And what are they going to do about the songs? How do you expect to match or surpass gems like 'justju jiski thi...' and 'In ankhon ki masti ke....'
The remade Sholay could do with some nice music though. Kill me if you are a Sholay fan and bought cassettes with 'songs and dialogues from Sholay' in your misguided youth (I know people who did) but music ain't that film's strong point. Ok, I'm not talking about the background score here.
Perhaps Ramu could introduce Gabbar Singh to that 'haunting' item number from James: 'Woh hero hai, hero hai, woh hai hero....' After all, Gabbar is the real hero of Sholay isn't he? And with Big B playing that role he'll dwarf everyone else in it anyway.
And since Ramu is remaking both James and Sholay it shouldn't be a problem to lift bits and parts from here and there, eh? That’s what remixes are all about.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Why I'll Never Be Rich
Dear Direct Marketing Representative,
First, I’d like to thank you for thinking so kindly about my future prospects and informing me that I could earn so much money by just signing up with the marketing network you are part of.
Thank you for wanting to be my mentor in the noble business of moneymaking and showing me how to butter my bread lavishly without having to spend much on butter. In fact, simply by sitting at home and bullying my friends to sign up with the network.
There’s only one small problem. I would love to earn money but I get tongue-tied when I have to convince other people to help me do that. Blame it on me being an ex-print journalist. Money is an alien concept to us, asking for it more so.
And there’s one more thing. You see, I do love having friends and I’m very scared that once I start calling people in my ‘friend and confidant’ tone and telling them that I want to discuss a business idea which is the next best thing after Maggi Noodles, I’ll have no friends left. Yes, even if I said I was horribly broke because I can’t hide the husband and they all know he is still working and we still own a car.
You’ve given me a booklet and a lecture which says I must not ‘prejudge anyone.’ Now the problem is that being the extremely stuck up variety, (I’m very honest about my faults, as you’ll see) I’m likely to. I’ll look at Friend No. 1 and say, ‘Nah, they’re both doctors. What do they need extra money for?’ and I’ll dismiss Friend No. 2 on the grounds that she has twins and asking her to do anything else is being cruel to her. I know, I know, this is just the kind of mindset that your booklet warns me against but what to do? I simply don’t have the ‘think out of the box’ brain.
A suicide threat is perhaps the only way I can convince my friends to part with their hard earned cash (Pls. note the perhaps), sign a contract, become part of the world’s foremost ‘multi-level-marketing system’ (to quote you respectfully) and hand in hand proceed towards becoming millionaires.
Ok, maybe millionaire is a long shot but you did say that just by signing up (and continuing the chain) I could earn at least Rs 8,000 a month first, then Rs 50,000 and then more than a lakh!
Yes my pupils did dilate and my eyes did pop and you thought I was finally coming to my senses and getting hooked. But let me be honest. That was on account of the numbers. You see, having been a lifestyle journalist for the larger part of my working life, I go a bit blank when the talk is about anything else but clothes and lipsticks. Also blame it on me being Bong. Bissness is not in awaar blaad. I’m also not very good with household work and fear I’ll horribly muck up when I show them the advantages of your cleaning concentrate as opposed to Surf Excel, Ariel, Nirma, etc.
So with due respect and profound thanks, I shall ask you to stop wasting your precious time as I simply won’t sign up. I know by doing this I’m losing out on the chance to display my inherent leadership skills (as spotted by you) and retire by the age of 35 with enough time to spend with my children and enough money to ski at St. Moritz every year. But what to do? You’ve got the wrong girl here. She’s lazy, tongue-tied and simply doesn’t have vision. And she’s also stupidly stubborn.
So goodbye. Don’t ring my bell again or I’ll display more character faults.
Warm Regards,
Rash
First, I’d like to thank you for thinking so kindly about my future prospects and informing me that I could earn so much money by just signing up with the marketing network you are part of.
Thank you for wanting to be my mentor in the noble business of moneymaking and showing me how to butter my bread lavishly without having to spend much on butter. In fact, simply by sitting at home and bullying my friends to sign up with the network.
There’s only one small problem. I would love to earn money but I get tongue-tied when I have to convince other people to help me do that. Blame it on me being an ex-print journalist. Money is an alien concept to us, asking for it more so.
And there’s one more thing. You see, I do love having friends and I’m very scared that once I start calling people in my ‘friend and confidant’ tone and telling them that I want to discuss a business idea which is the next best thing after Maggi Noodles, I’ll have no friends left. Yes, even if I said I was horribly broke because I can’t hide the husband and they all know he is still working and we still own a car.
You’ve given me a booklet and a lecture which says I must not ‘prejudge anyone.’ Now the problem is that being the extremely stuck up variety, (I’m very honest about my faults, as you’ll see) I’m likely to. I’ll look at Friend No. 1 and say, ‘Nah, they’re both doctors. What do they need extra money for?’ and I’ll dismiss Friend No. 2 on the grounds that she has twins and asking her to do anything else is being cruel to her. I know, I know, this is just the kind of mindset that your booklet warns me against but what to do? I simply don’t have the ‘think out of the box’ brain.
A suicide threat is perhaps the only way I can convince my friends to part with their hard earned cash (Pls. note the perhaps), sign a contract, become part of the world’s foremost ‘multi-level-marketing system’ (to quote you respectfully) and hand in hand proceed towards becoming millionaires.
Ok, maybe millionaire is a long shot but you did say that just by signing up (and continuing the chain) I could earn at least Rs 8,000 a month first, then Rs 50,000 and then more than a lakh!
Yes my pupils did dilate and my eyes did pop and you thought I was finally coming to my senses and getting hooked. But let me be honest. That was on account of the numbers. You see, having been a lifestyle journalist for the larger part of my working life, I go a bit blank when the talk is about anything else but clothes and lipsticks. Also blame it on me being Bong. Bissness is not in awaar blaad. I’m also not very good with household work and fear I’ll horribly muck up when I show them the advantages of your cleaning concentrate as opposed to Surf Excel, Ariel, Nirma, etc.
So with due respect and profound thanks, I shall ask you to stop wasting your precious time as I simply won’t sign up. I know by doing this I’m losing out on the chance to display my inherent leadership skills (as spotted by you) and retire by the age of 35 with enough time to spend with my children and enough money to ski at St. Moritz every year. But what to do? You’ve got the wrong girl here. She’s lazy, tongue-tied and simply doesn’t have vision. And she’s also stupidly stubborn.
So goodbye. Don’t ring my bell again or I’ll display more character faults.
Warm Regards,
Rash
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Nine Months
Warning: Baby Talk.
In less than a month (old hands say in less than 3 weeks) there'll be a baby in our lives, unless it's lazy and refuses to meet the parents on time :-)
I've never held a newborn. Seriously. Never. Not while their heads were wobbly anyway.
However when I muttered this aloud at the Antenatal Class, two voices echoed the same thing too, so I'm probably not the odd one out here. I'm a bit freaked out. But in a good way. In a very good and happy way.
The belly has developed a life of its own. It jiggles, squirms, pokes out, gets kicked and oh yes, does it increase! It continues to be a source of entertainment to all my near and dear ones. Have never been in such entertainer mode before. The other day the baby poked some body part (a toe?) through the belly. P was so entertained, since then he's been trying to poke it back to get baby to respond in similar fashion. We don't need TV anymore, we have Ze Belly.
Nothing fits me anymore. Not even large size capri pants from Fabindia's very small-sized maternity section. And I used to wear XS size from Fabindia. Nothing I've bought in the earlier months of pregnancy fit, except a tunic and magic pants from Motherware. The pants have a funny pouch to hold the belly, which rules out sexy short tops. But thank you MW. At least they fit. I largely survive on trackpants, which I keep buying at scary rate as the belly keeps rejecting them soon enough.
Friends who are parents are trying to be wonderful by sharing with us their birth stories. These usually go on the lines of 'the lift was out of order so we had to climb down 10 floors after her water broke' and 'there was no room available at the maternity ward so we had to wait 18 hours' or sinister stuff like that. And they're all predicting it'll be anytime now. Since I do not believe in predictions unless done by Marjorie Orr, I'm sure baby won't arrive before time.
P is charting out alternative routes to the hospital. To his great frustration, all of these involve the unavoidable Bangalore traffic, unless our child is kind and sends us to the hospital sometime past midnight.
And I'm trying to walk, work, cook, clean, read books and blogs and do things as usual. And waiting to see my toes again while standing straight.
In less than a month (old hands say in less than 3 weeks) there'll be a baby in our lives, unless it's lazy and refuses to meet the parents on time :-)
I've never held a newborn. Seriously. Never. Not while their heads were wobbly anyway.
However when I muttered this aloud at the Antenatal Class, two voices echoed the same thing too, so I'm probably not the odd one out here. I'm a bit freaked out. But in a good way. In a very good and happy way.
The belly has developed a life of its own. It jiggles, squirms, pokes out, gets kicked and oh yes, does it increase! It continues to be a source of entertainment to all my near and dear ones. Have never been in such entertainer mode before. The other day the baby poked some body part (a toe?) through the belly. P was so entertained, since then he's been trying to poke it back to get baby to respond in similar fashion. We don't need TV anymore, we have Ze Belly.
Nothing fits me anymore. Not even large size capri pants from Fabindia's very small-sized maternity section. And I used to wear XS size from Fabindia. Nothing I've bought in the earlier months of pregnancy fit, except a tunic and magic pants from Motherware. The pants have a funny pouch to hold the belly, which rules out sexy short tops. But thank you MW. At least they fit. I largely survive on trackpants, which I keep buying at scary rate as the belly keeps rejecting them soon enough.
Friends who are parents are trying to be wonderful by sharing with us their birth stories. These usually go on the lines of 'the lift was out of order so we had to climb down 10 floors after her water broke' and 'there was no room available at the maternity ward so we had to wait 18 hours' or sinister stuff like that. And they're all predicting it'll be anytime now. Since I do not believe in predictions unless done by Marjorie Orr, I'm sure baby won't arrive before time.
P is charting out alternative routes to the hospital. To his great frustration, all of these involve the unavoidable Bangalore traffic, unless our child is kind and sends us to the hospital sometime past midnight.
And I'm trying to walk, work, cook, clean, read books and blogs and do things as usual. And waiting to see my toes again while standing straight.
A Fantastic Childhood?
Can you imagine a childhood spent without having read a single fantasy novel or fairy tale? I can't. Which is why I had such an incredulous expression on my face when I met Mrs Alternative and her six-year-old boy at a puppetry workshop conducted by my friend recently.
Mrs Alt was very charming and friendly and we got talking soon. It inevitably started with bump talk (how many months, weight gain, diet, etc) and somehow moved on to books and theatre, the latter also being Mrs Alt's line of work. When my friend joined we ended up talking about children's books and Mrs Alt revealed that she was not 'in favour of fairy tales and fantasy fiction.'
We were intrigued and asked her the reason to which she said she and her husband did not believe in them. Fantasy did not give children any idea of reality and created the impression of a false world. At this point the expression on my face got too obvious and my tongue started to loosen up, which is why I stayed mum and prefered listening to her.
While my friend and Mrs Alt had a civilized but heated discussion, I thought of the time in childhood when I first read 'The Borrowers' and spent quite a long time imagining an entire colony of people living under the floor tiles. Or of the long summer vacation afternoons at my aunt's house when an old wardrobe was the object of my imagination.
I wish I could say to each her own after hearing out Mrs Alt. We are all welcome to stick to our individual decisions, principles, beliefs etc, because we are adults with a mind of our own and the ability (hopefulyl) to discern between what we think is right or wrong. But is it fair to impose it on children without giving them a chance to explore, experiment and see what they really like and dislike? What they really believe in or are indifferent to? By forcing our ideas and our beliefs on an impressionable mind, aren't we then creating only half a world for the child?
Thursday, October 13, 2005
It's Better In Goa
Whatta happy coincidence. Two days after I spot Frank Simoes' Goa at a local bookstore and leave it behind for later as I'm not carrying enough cash, not even my overused credit card, I get a gift from Kahini and guess what it is?
The very same book, which she spotted while on a crazy book buying spree at Reader's Bookshop, Santacruz.
Before it was reissued in its current avatar, this book used to called Glad Seasons In Goa, a better name than the current one. We were unaware of its existence untill Kahini discovered a dog-eared copy that belonged to her brother in law, read it at one go, regretted not having read it before she met Frank Simoes (lucky girl) and passed it on to moi.
Like her, I loved it instantly. If you love Goa (like most of us do), this book is a must-read. In fact, you probably have it on your bookshelf already. Nothing else gives a better picture of a life that seems to be spent building a wonderful house, tackling the Goan monsoon, meeting people like Aloysius the master carpenter and Barty and Bostao, sampling great prwan balchao, rowing friendly fishermen to St Anthony's Bar in Baga, drinking three fingers of various spirited stuff and living it up to the hilt.
Of course, the late advertising legend did much, much more with his life but we're glad he also took time off to write this book, probably sitting on the balcony of Rockheart, with the whisky and the typewriter.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Unrelated Updates
Watched Legends of The Fall on TV this evening. I have no idea who the programming brains at Star Movies are but would someone please tell me why gems like this film are slotted for 6.30 on a weekday evening? That's when people are usually at work or stuck in traffic or cooking dinner or simply occupied with other stuff to put their feet up and enjoy a good film.
Sometime after the film, I was having a TV dinner and channelsurfing when I came across FTV and guess what were their programming brains showing? A strip show! Complete with bustiers coming off to reveal what lies beneath. At 10 pm. When all the kids and preteens across the nation have definitely gone off to sleep. And we make a fuss about poor Khushboo's comments on pre-marital sex. What a country we are!
Prams and strollers aren't the way they used to be. Yeah I know if you are a parent you must be smirking at my ignorance but this is for the uninitiated. They're now called all-terrain pushchairs and travel systems and can look somewhat like this. The man is so excited it almost seems like he is buying a car.
Going by the newspapers, Bangalore is full of techies and rowdies. No other category stands out more. Every other day I read about techies being 'assaulted' or 'robbed' or 'awarded' or about 'one rowdy beaten up.' Wondering if Delhi papers have any special categories like these. Can only think of 'Businessman robbed.' Too boring. Kahini tells me Calcutta papers specialise in 'goons.' Still, you can't beat the rowdies and techies.
Sometime after the film, I was having a TV dinner and channelsurfing when I came across FTV and guess what were their programming brains showing? A strip show! Complete with bustiers coming off to reveal what lies beneath. At 10 pm. When all the kids and preteens across the nation have definitely gone off to sleep. And we make a fuss about poor Khushboo's comments on pre-marital sex. What a country we are!
Prams and strollers aren't the way they used to be. Yeah I know if you are a parent you must be smirking at my ignorance but this is for the uninitiated. They're now called all-terrain pushchairs and travel systems and can look somewhat like this. The man is so excited it almost seems like he is buying a car.
Going by the newspapers, Bangalore is full of techies and rowdies. No other category stands out more. Every other day I read about techies being 'assaulted' or 'robbed' or 'awarded' or about 'one rowdy beaten up.' Wondering if Delhi papers have any special categories like these. Can only think of 'Businessman robbed.' Too boring. Kahini tells me Calcutta papers specialise in 'goons.' Still, you can't beat the rowdies and techies.
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Names Builders Play
During our house hunting days in Gurgaon, the names of buildings never failed to amuse me. No matter who the builder was, going by the names you'd think they were selling space in Hampstead not Haryana. Unitech had Greenwood, Aspen Greens, Heritage City, The Palms and my ever-favourite, Deerwood Chase!
DLF went a step ahead with its courts, estates and towers — Hamilton, Windsor, Wellington, Carlton, Royalton, Princeton, Belvedere, etc. The names were grand, even if the buildings weren't.
Now I see this foreign-sounding naming trend reflected in Bangalore too. Purvankara, one of the builders here, has Belmont, Fairmont, Fountainsquare and Riviera. Prestige has Monte Carlo, St. John’s Wood and Clarke’s Ville!
Now, I’m really, really curious. Who names these apartments? The owner of the company? His wife? His London-return daughter? Do all builders have a naming department? Are these the result of a ‘name-our-latest-project’ competition among overworked employees dreaming of a holiday in Aspen?
I agree Riviera sounds better than Rao Tikaram Housing Society, but there are lovely names in Hindi and other Indian languages as well. What happened to those? Perhaps names are meant to conjure up lovely images that lure the buyer to part with his or her money. You’re supposed to hear Mantri Woodlands and go hmmm…must be surrounded by lush greenery and bougainvilleas. Like I always wanted to check out Deerwood Chase simply because of the name. Perhaps I pictured rolling meadows and bouncing bambis. Thankfully, the man had no imagination in these matters and we were saved.
I recently spotted a hoarding for Elita Promenade, luxury condos under-construction in JP Nagar. ‘We’ll help you settle abroad,’ said the ad. It showed trendy couple walking hand in hand in front of trendy apartment facing a huge blue lake! It also promised international style living spaces. So the name game is the beginning of a full scale promotion which is meant to make us believe that by investing in that 1350 sq. ft property in dusty Haryana or traffic-troubled JP Nagar, we’re buying a slice of hassle-free, ultra-modern, always enviable life in foreign?
I wonder if it works. It didn’t with us. At the end of the day, after searching through the towers, and courts, we ultimately invested in one of the 'estates.' Not because of what the ad promised but what pleased our eye and suited the pocket. And the name still makes me giggle.
DLF went a step ahead with its courts, estates and towers — Hamilton, Windsor, Wellington, Carlton, Royalton, Princeton, Belvedere, etc. The names were grand, even if the buildings weren't.
Now I see this foreign-sounding naming trend reflected in Bangalore too. Purvankara, one of the builders here, has Belmont, Fairmont, Fountainsquare and Riviera. Prestige has Monte Carlo, St. John’s Wood and Clarke’s Ville!
Now, I’m really, really curious. Who names these apartments? The owner of the company? His wife? His London-return daughter? Do all builders have a naming department? Are these the result of a ‘name-our-latest-project’ competition among overworked employees dreaming of a holiday in Aspen?
I agree Riviera sounds better than Rao Tikaram Housing Society, but there are lovely names in Hindi and other Indian languages as well. What happened to those? Perhaps names are meant to conjure up lovely images that lure the buyer to part with his or her money. You’re supposed to hear Mantri Woodlands and go hmmm…must be surrounded by lush greenery and bougainvilleas. Like I always wanted to check out Deerwood Chase simply because of the name. Perhaps I pictured rolling meadows and bouncing bambis. Thankfully, the man had no imagination in these matters and we were saved.
I recently spotted a hoarding for Elita Promenade, luxury condos under-construction in JP Nagar. ‘We’ll help you settle abroad,’ said the ad. It showed trendy couple walking hand in hand in front of trendy apartment facing a huge blue lake! It also promised international style living spaces. So the name game is the beginning of a full scale promotion which is meant to make us believe that by investing in that 1350 sq. ft property in dusty Haryana or traffic-troubled JP Nagar, we’re buying a slice of hassle-free, ultra-modern, always enviable life in foreign?
I wonder if it works. It didn’t with us. At the end of the day, after searching through the towers, and courts, we ultimately invested in one of the 'estates.' Not because of what the ad promised but what pleased our eye and suited the pocket. And the name still makes me giggle.
Monday, September 19, 2005
Serves me right for fiddling too much with things I do not understand. I changed my blogger template, for no good reason except that I was bored and this new one looked calm and nice.
Then I republished my blog to save the changes and guess what? All my old Haloscan comments had disappeared. But naturally, as Blogger and Haloscan aren't linked, Blogger Help informed me. So I went to Haloscan and tried to tinker with scary looking html thingies to get those lovely ole comments back but no luck. Humph! If anyone knows how to do this please to tell me. Or else never mind. Life moves on. So do blogs and comments. But as I keep telling myself, should've got a bit tech savvy when I worked with those bright techie kids in those dotcom days. :((
Friday, September 16, 2005
The Great Rejection
Yesterday I think I committed a social solecism. Just when people were proudly swapping their US-return stories, I declared indifferently I was a US reject. Shame on moi!
We were invited for dinner at our new neighbour’s place — they’re a young couple, both in the IT industry. There were about 15 guests, a large number of them in the same industry and the conversation largely revolved around terms that went swoosh over my head. Someone started talking about a project he’d just completed in the US of A and the talk shifted to comparing work ethics there and here. Soon everyone was exchanging their Big Apple and Boston stories. Since I seemed to be the only person in the room who hadn’t been to any of these places, I kept silent and listened. The hostess wondered if I was bored but I assured her I was enjoying myself.
She asked me if I’d been there.
‘No. Never to the US. In fact the only time I planned a trip they rejected my visa.’
Suddenly silence happened all around and for a second I felt like I worked for Osama. And then came the barrage of questions: Why was it rejected? Did I have proper paperwork? Was I married then? Was I working? Did I tell them I was working? Did I have anyone to sponsor me and blah blah…
Since the incident happened more than three years ago and I haven’t given the matter much thought (except to wish a week of constipation on the embassy officer for being VERY RUDE) I was somewhat taken aback. As far as I was concerned, the downside of not being given a visa was missing out on having fun with two very close friends who lived there. It didn't affect my life as I wasn't planning to move or study there. I never bothered about what the implications would be if and when I apply next, etc. And I never felt very bad about it either. I’d applied for leave and planned a holiday so I went to Bombay instead and had as much fun.
‘No. Never to the US. In fact the only time I planned a trip they rejected my visa.’
Suddenly silence happened all around and for a second I felt like I worked for Osama. And then came the barrage of questions: Why was it rejected? Did I have proper paperwork? Was I married then? Was I working? Did I tell them I was working? Did I have anyone to sponsor me and blah blah…
Since the incident happened more than three years ago and I haven’t given the matter much thought (except to wish a week of constipation on the embassy officer for being VERY RUDE) I was somewhat taken aback. As far as I was concerned, the downside of not being given a visa was missing out on having fun with two very close friends who lived there. It didn't affect my life as I wasn't planning to move or study there. I never bothered about what the implications would be if and when I apply next, etc. And I never felt very bad about it either. I’d applied for leave and planned a holiday so I went to Bombay instead and had as much fun.
But yesterday's concern showed me I should've been disheartened and very, very worried. Apparently one rejection stamp can keep me away from this hallowed land for ever. And silly me, I'd never even thought of that. Tut tut!
Monday, September 05, 2005
Recent Job Offers
Ghostwriter for CEO of cosmetic company planning to launch 'Beauty Book.'
Content editor for soon-to-be-launched religious portal (!!!)
Ghostwriter for cookbook by 'renowned cooking and food expert, very well known in Koramangla.' (Headhunter's exact words)
There has to be something wrong with my CV. On second thoughts, perhaps mentioning the willingness to work 'part-time/freelance' invariably brings in such offers.
Should think seriously about religious portal. My one shot at redemption.
Content editor for soon-to-be-launched religious portal (!!!)
Ghostwriter for cookbook by 'renowned cooking and food expert, very well known in Koramangla.' (Headhunter's exact words)
There has to be something wrong with my CV. On second thoughts, perhaps mentioning the willingness to work 'part-time/freelance' invariably brings in such offers.
Should think seriously about religious portal. My one shot at redemption.
Saturday, September 03, 2005
9.30 pm
I can hear Amitabh Bachchan in the parents' room, asking phone-a-friend 'Ashokji' to help out his friend (I-have-missed-the-name-ji') the KBC contestant.
Can also hear father-in-law's disgusted 'no basic knowledge, such people shouldn't get a chance.'
Bachchan's baritone surpasses Rolling Stones' from our bedroom, where hubby is wallowing in misery at not having the TV all to himself.
In the apartment next door, the drilling machine that refuses to shut up is making our lives miserable. We've complained about the timing. In vain.
In the apartment above, our new neighbours are having a party and I'm straining my ears to catch a song I really like these days...'Woh lamhe, woh baatein, koi na jaane...'
...and struggling hard to stay awake by making furious noises on the keyboard.
Can also hear father-in-law's disgusted 'no basic knowledge, such people shouldn't get a chance.'
Bachchan's baritone surpasses Rolling Stones' from our bedroom, where hubby is wallowing in misery at not having the TV all to himself.
In the apartment next door, the drilling machine that refuses to shut up is making our lives miserable. We've complained about the timing. In vain.
In the apartment above, our new neighbours are having a party and I'm straining my ears to catch a song I really like these days...'Woh lamhe, woh baatein, koi na jaane...'
...and struggling hard to stay awake by making furious noises on the keyboard.
Sunday, August 28, 2005
Babymaking Basics
I’m having a baby. Sometime soon enough. And now that I’m this far into the pregnancy, I’m discovering some facts of life. Bear with me. Or skip this post.
Thou Shalt Hide Thy Belly: Britney Spears type tiny t-shirts are ok only in phoren lands. And look good only on Britney Spears. Or do they? In Apna modest Bharat an obvious display of the bump can get you quite rude stares especially from auntyjis. Trust me, one of them actually advised me to cover the bump with a dupatta! Rushing to invest in some voluminous Mysore silks now.
Thou Shalt Puke But Not Pee: Excuse that gross line. Couldn't resist. Put two pregnant women together, especially those in the earlier months of babymaking and the conversation is enough to make your stomach churn. They’ll discuss in painstaking detail how often in the day they threw up, what induced it and what made it stop. To me, this isn’t the worst part of being preggie. Rushing to the loo seven million times in a day is. Strangely, stating this aloud or complaining loudly that ‘you gotta go once again’ in polite circles isn’t quite the thing. You get rude stares. And this time even from fellow preggie women.
Thou Shalt Get Used To Being Felt Up: By the doctor, by the sonographer, by your friends, by your prenatal exercise lady, by your friends' children…By the time this baby comes out, I’m sure I’d shed my inhibitions enough to become a striptease artist or pole dancer. The only problem would be all that flab.
Thou Shalt Get Fat: Heaven bless you if you don’t. You’re bound to put on some extra kilos but the dictum of going down the diaper route is that those extra kilos have to SHOW. Otherwise you shall have aunt-in-law, friend’s grandmom, Mrs Murthy from the third floor, the maid, the ex-boss, all telling you how thin you look and how you ought to eat more and how many kilos their third cousin/youngest sister/brother’s wife, eldest daughter gained when they were preggie. Never mind what the doctor says.
Thou Shalt Not Display Ignorance Too Obviously: Especially in front of shop assistants when you go to buy hitherto unwanted and un-researched items like strollers and changing mats (there's a portable version, didja know?) and babybaths. The blank look on your face is enough to convince the shopgirl that you are a novice in such matters and therefore easy prey for fleecing.
Thou Shalt Not Discuss Labour With Other Women: Especially with women who’ve done the deed and now have a three-year-old tornado to show for it. Chasing after this in-house marathon runner is so exhausting that they’ve forgotten all about that 48 hour long pain session they’d to go through to get tornado in the first place. Question them thoroughly and they are bound to say: Well, you know…it was okay. Nothing much.
Thou Shalt Try and Find One Friend Who Does Not Drink: Or else suffer being surrounded by boisterous group of people (including husband) getting higher and higher and having just the kind of fun that you used to have, while you sit nursing your orange juice or virgin mary and dreaming of the day when you can pub hop again.
Thou Shalt Hide Thy Belly: Britney Spears type tiny t-shirts are ok only in phoren lands. And look good only on Britney Spears. Or do they? In Apna modest Bharat an obvious display of the bump can get you quite rude stares especially from auntyjis. Trust me, one of them actually advised me to cover the bump with a dupatta! Rushing to invest in some voluminous Mysore silks now.
Thou Shalt Puke But Not Pee: Excuse that gross line. Couldn't resist. Put two pregnant women together, especially those in the earlier months of babymaking and the conversation is enough to make your stomach churn. They’ll discuss in painstaking detail how often in the day they threw up, what induced it and what made it stop. To me, this isn’t the worst part of being preggie. Rushing to the loo seven million times in a day is. Strangely, stating this aloud or complaining loudly that ‘you gotta go once again’ in polite circles isn’t quite the thing. You get rude stares. And this time even from fellow preggie women.
Thou Shalt Get Used To Being Felt Up: By the doctor, by the sonographer, by your friends, by your prenatal exercise lady, by your friends' children…By the time this baby comes out, I’m sure I’d shed my inhibitions enough to become a striptease artist or pole dancer. The only problem would be all that flab.
Thou Shalt Get Fat: Heaven bless you if you don’t. You’re bound to put on some extra kilos but the dictum of going down the diaper route is that those extra kilos have to SHOW. Otherwise you shall have aunt-in-law, friend’s grandmom, Mrs Murthy from the third floor, the maid, the ex-boss, all telling you how thin you look and how you ought to eat more and how many kilos their third cousin/youngest sister/brother’s wife, eldest daughter gained when they were preggie. Never mind what the doctor says.
Thou Shalt Not Display Ignorance Too Obviously: Especially in front of shop assistants when you go to buy hitherto unwanted and un-researched items like strollers and changing mats (there's a portable version, didja know?) and babybaths. The blank look on your face is enough to convince the shopgirl that you are a novice in such matters and therefore easy prey for fleecing.
Thou Shalt Not Discuss Labour With Other Women: Especially with women who’ve done the deed and now have a three-year-old tornado to show for it. Chasing after this in-house marathon runner is so exhausting that they’ve forgotten all about that 48 hour long pain session they’d to go through to get tornado in the first place. Question them thoroughly and they are bound to say: Well, you know…it was okay. Nothing much.
Thou Shalt Try and Find One Friend Who Does Not Drink: Or else suffer being surrounded by boisterous group of people (including husband) getting higher and higher and having just the kind of fun that you used to have, while you sit nursing your orange juice or virgin mary and dreaming of the day when you can pub hop again.
Monday, August 22, 2005
Family Feasts
We took the parents to MTR for a mega lunch yesterday. The hour-long wait, the system of seating people in batches according to the time, the food served from gleaming steel buckets and the generous helpings poured on the plate despite protests and a full stomach took me back to the wedding meals in the family years ago.
The largest room in the marriage hall would be converted into a dining area with at least four to five long rows of somewhat rickety wooden tables. Fresh banana leaves, sprinkled with water, would be laid out and the uncles and aunts in charge would decide how many people got to sit in which batch. Usually children would be given preference along with elderly people and ‘guests of honour’ like the bride’s ex-professor or the groom’s boss.
By the time we reached our teens, we'd refuse to be slotted with the ‘children.’ ‘We’d eat later, with the others,’ we would say importantly and ask an easily malleable uncle to let us serve. For inexplicable reasons, digging a mile long spoon into a steel bucket and serving steaming hot dal or fish curry seemed a very exciting prospect to us. However, it was always the older (and stronger) cousins who were entrusted with that exciting responsibility while we were indulgently given the lighter tasks. I remember being the perpetual ‘Poori’ server and Mims, my favourite cousin, was the water bearer, a task she would perform with grave importance. The atmosphere in the dining hall would be highly charged. Uncles would shout to each other across the room for more ‘bhajas’ (fried veggies, usually brinjal); officious aunts would pinch chubby cheeks and ask kids not to be shy and eat well. A sparse eater would have his or her plate heaped with food, whether wanted or not.
Serving protocol demanded you took ‘atithi devo bhava’ to the extreme and never listened to people. If they said one puri, you served them two. ‘Just a little dal, please’ meant a ladleful of the yellow stuff on the hapless soul’s banana leaf. And god forbid, if anyone refused the sweets!
We would follow this unsaid dining hall dictat with huge pleasure. Especially when it meant bullying grandparents to eat more, as it was usually the other way round. At some point during this noble ‘service ceremony’ the mothers would emerge and strictly ask us to take our place in the next batch and eat instead of fooling around, making us go back to being ‘children’ again.
I’m sure these exciting wedding feasts do happen but at least in my family, the last one I remember must’ve been more than 10 years back. Nowadays people employ catering services with waiters in crisp uniforms (either black and white or maroon with gold buttons) and very often it’s the buffet system. The professional service is probably more efficient and cleaner but hey, those old feasts were such fun!
In the rare case, when it’s an old-style feast, you find yourself among too many new faces to be as comfortable as your 13-year-old self. The grandparents are no more, cousins have married and moved away and you meet the extended family so rarely that you aren’t really all that familiar anymore.
The largest room in the marriage hall would be converted into a dining area with at least four to five long rows of somewhat rickety wooden tables. Fresh banana leaves, sprinkled with water, would be laid out and the uncles and aunts in charge would decide how many people got to sit in which batch. Usually children would be given preference along with elderly people and ‘guests of honour’ like the bride’s ex-professor or the groom’s boss.
By the time we reached our teens, we'd refuse to be slotted with the ‘children.’ ‘We’d eat later, with the others,’ we would say importantly and ask an easily malleable uncle to let us serve. For inexplicable reasons, digging a mile long spoon into a steel bucket and serving steaming hot dal or fish curry seemed a very exciting prospect to us. However, it was always the older (and stronger) cousins who were entrusted with that exciting responsibility while we were indulgently given the lighter tasks. I remember being the perpetual ‘Poori’ server and Mims, my favourite cousin, was the water bearer, a task she would perform with grave importance. The atmosphere in the dining hall would be highly charged. Uncles would shout to each other across the room for more ‘bhajas’ (fried veggies, usually brinjal); officious aunts would pinch chubby cheeks and ask kids not to be shy and eat well. A sparse eater would have his or her plate heaped with food, whether wanted or not.
Serving protocol demanded you took ‘atithi devo bhava’ to the extreme and never listened to people. If they said one puri, you served them two. ‘Just a little dal, please’ meant a ladleful of the yellow stuff on the hapless soul’s banana leaf. And god forbid, if anyone refused the sweets!
We would follow this unsaid dining hall dictat with huge pleasure. Especially when it meant bullying grandparents to eat more, as it was usually the other way round. At some point during this noble ‘service ceremony’ the mothers would emerge and strictly ask us to take our place in the next batch and eat instead of fooling around, making us go back to being ‘children’ again.
I’m sure these exciting wedding feasts do happen but at least in my family, the last one I remember must’ve been more than 10 years back. Nowadays people employ catering services with waiters in crisp uniforms (either black and white or maroon with gold buttons) and very often it’s the buffet system. The professional service is probably more efficient and cleaner but hey, those old feasts were such fun!
In the rare case, when it’s an old-style feast, you find yourself among too many new faces to be as comfortable as your 13-year-old self. The grandparents are no more, cousins have married and moved away and you meet the extended family so rarely that you aren’t really all that familiar anymore.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Govinda Govinda!
Just when bad press about PILs vs PROs was threatening to cause him more damage than his recent string of flops, the media has realised its mistake and is going all out to express their heartfelt sympathy for actor-turned-MP Govinda's recent loss.
Some channel, Star News I think, even updated us on the Govinda-Sunita 'bachpan ka pyaar' angle after thursting the mike in the face of his injured son and asking him 'bahut dard ho raha hai?'. The poor kid managed a reply. Probably had instructions from dad to do so.
Well I may be heartless and highly insensitive but I still can't figure out why an accident that injured Govinda's family has to be in the news for the last couple of days. Govinda is a bygone success and a criticised MP by all means thanks to his recent no-show during the Mumbai floods. How important is he in the scheme of newsy things? Why are we subjected to info on how often Sunita visits religious shrines? The death of his assistant Rishabh Jha is sad indeed as are the injuries on his wife and two children. But does it require such primetime coverage?
Some channel, Star News I think, even updated us on the Govinda-Sunita 'bachpan ka pyaar' angle after thursting the mike in the face of his injured son and asking him 'bahut dard ho raha hai?'. The poor kid managed a reply. Probably had instructions from dad to do so.
Well I may be heartless and highly insensitive but I still can't figure out why an accident that injured Govinda's family has to be in the news for the last couple of days. Govinda is a bygone success and a criticised MP by all means thanks to his recent no-show during the Mumbai floods. How important is he in the scheme of newsy things? Why are we subjected to info on how often Sunita visits religious shrines? The death of his assistant Rishabh Jha is sad indeed as are the injuries on his wife and two children. But does it require such primetime coverage?
Monday, August 15, 2005
Travel on my mind
Pangong Tso, Ladakh.
That jewel of a lake in a fascinating place that mesmerised us completely around this time last year.
This year, all my travelling has been done from the straightback chair in front of the computer. Despite the fact that for the last three months, I've been on a break from work.
There are some Kerala plans for September but the man is in a new job so the plans are very uncertain.
My friends are taking off.
The brother is trekking somewhere in the Himachal.
My friend M is trekking somewhere in Coorg.
Subs is out there in Africa.
Two lucky people in Germany have just come back from a picture-postcard trek.
Inky will be off to my favourite faraway land soon.
Bips is back to work but she did have a Himalayan odyssey before that.
So K, what are you and I doing staying put where we are?
PS: Just read Parmanu. Rolling on floor and throwing five year old type tantrum now. I WANT TO TRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAVEL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Tee Vee Ki Bimari
Have been watching too much television. Mainly due to an uninterrupted control over the remote thanks to a busy husband. If you are female and married you’ll understand what I mean. Especially if you are someone who doesn’t watch much TV and definitely not in the conventional ‘womanly’ hours like morning, afternoon, etc. Someone whose favourite show, in the rare occasion when she wishes to watch it, always clashes with a cricket rerun on Ten Sports or ESPN or a particularly mind-numbing Van Damme movie that hubby has suddenly decided to stick to.
Last week was one such exhilarating time of uninterrupted telewatch. Triggered largely by the fact that soon the in-laws would arrive and the remote would be possessed by a man who a) I cannot yell at unless I want to be slotted a bahu from Bagbaan and b) a man who would be home the whole day.
This is how TV watching went. I took one look at Amitabh Bachchan’s golden hair and gave KBC a miss. Why can’t his stylists or Abu Jani and Sandeep Khosla or whoever decides his look, let him look his age. Which, despite the goldilocks, he does.
Watched The Great Indian Comedy Show and was thoroughly disappointed to see that Shekhar ‘motormouth’ Suman has taken over a large part of the show from all those talented actors who hosted it earlier. Especially Vinay Pathak. Loved his Mahesh Bhatt act. The other reason I used to like The Great Indian Comedy Show was because of Kkukurmati Ki Kahani, which started as a laughable take off on all Ektaa Kapoor’s K serials. Sadly, while K serials seem to be going strong, Kkukurmati seems to have lost its punch.
Talking of serials, I actually sat through 15 minutes of one called Millee that seemed to feature a super-rich Indian household with mini-skirted maids. Going by the girls’ costumes, the director’s original idea must’ve been to base the story on cheerleaders. But the lack of a suitable ‘Amrikan-looking’ stadium and an easily available bungalow (discarded by ‘K’ Kapoor) would have made him/her change his mind.
If serials are getting worse could news be far behind? During the Great Mumbai Deluge, Star News showed us ‘photographs and videos taken by their viewers.’ Yesterday they went a step further and subjected us to a song on the state of Mumbai, ‘penned by a viewer’ and possibly sung by that misguided gentleman. How sweet no? Failed poets and singers need not despair anymore.
If all that wasn’t enough, the History Channel showed us a Biography of Brad Pitt (Yes. I watched it. Stop reading now.) where he was still happily married to Jennifer Aniston. I switched in desperation to Discovery Travel and Living which was repeating Ian Wright’s trip to some part of China for the 517th time.
This explains why I’m highly relieved at having the in-laws around. Between her serials and his cricket, her afternoon movies and his Aaj Tak debates, it saves me from television. Completely.
Last week was one such exhilarating time of uninterrupted telewatch. Triggered largely by the fact that soon the in-laws would arrive and the remote would be possessed by a man who a) I cannot yell at unless I want to be slotted a bahu from Bagbaan and b) a man who would be home the whole day.
This is how TV watching went. I took one look at Amitabh Bachchan’s golden hair and gave KBC a miss. Why can’t his stylists or Abu Jani and Sandeep Khosla or whoever decides his look, let him look his age. Which, despite the goldilocks, he does.
Watched The Great Indian Comedy Show and was thoroughly disappointed to see that Shekhar ‘motormouth’ Suman has taken over a large part of the show from all those talented actors who hosted it earlier. Especially Vinay Pathak. Loved his Mahesh Bhatt act. The other reason I used to like The Great Indian Comedy Show was because of Kkukurmati Ki Kahani, which started as a laughable take off on all Ektaa Kapoor’s K serials. Sadly, while K serials seem to be going strong, Kkukurmati seems to have lost its punch.
Talking of serials, I actually sat through 15 minutes of one called Millee that seemed to feature a super-rich Indian household with mini-skirted maids. Going by the girls’ costumes, the director’s original idea must’ve been to base the story on cheerleaders. But the lack of a suitable ‘Amrikan-looking’ stadium and an easily available bungalow (discarded by ‘K’ Kapoor) would have made him/her change his mind.
If serials are getting worse could news be far behind? During the Great Mumbai Deluge, Star News showed us ‘photographs and videos taken by their viewers.’ Yesterday they went a step further and subjected us to a song on the state of Mumbai, ‘penned by a viewer’ and possibly sung by that misguided gentleman. How sweet no? Failed poets and singers need not despair anymore.
If all that wasn’t enough, the History Channel showed us a Biography of Brad Pitt (Yes. I watched it. Stop reading now.) where he was still happily married to Jennifer Aniston. I switched in desperation to Discovery Travel and Living which was repeating Ian Wright’s trip to some part of China for the 517th time.
This explains why I’m highly relieved at having the in-laws around. Between her serials and his cricket, her afternoon movies and his Aaj Tak debates, it saves me from television. Completely.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Monday, August 01, 2005
She has recently moved into one of the apartments on the floor below us. She seems to be in her early 40s, is mom to a very pretty teenager and wife of a much mentioned but yet unseen (by me of course) ‘as-he-is-so-busy’ husband.
Both of us are devoid of any other neighbours on our respective floors and she came up for a chat the day after she shifted, mainly to find out about the maid system, aquaguard service, etc. When I heard that half her luggage was yet to arrive and her house was still a mess, I invited her and the daughter over for lunch.
‘How nice of you. Don’t make anything special haan. Informal.’
We had sambar rice for lunch and since I feared it may not be sufficient for the three of us, I made a quick potato sabji with the traditional South Indian tempering of mustard seeds, curry leaves and dals, to go with the sambar.
‘Are you South Indian?’ she asked after checking what was on offer.
‘No. I’m a Bengali.’
‘Oh I thought because you made sambar...then you must be making very good fish!’
‘Well, not really. Cooking was far from my mind while I stayed with my parents and I only learnt to cook after I got married. And since I was living in a North Indian Jain family, fish wasn’t part of the menu.’
‘Oh so you don’t eat non veg. How can a Bengali not eat non veg?’
I rushed with explanations to set the matter straight. Anyone assuming I do not eat non veg is more than I can take. So I went into the long drawn explanation that well…I did start cooking non veg after me and hubby moved into our own place in Delhi and though am no expert cook, I can make fish, though rarely have I cooked it the traditional Bengali way.
‘But why?’ she asked, much distressed by what she thought was a lack of interest in my own cuisine.
‘I go by cookbooks, so if the recipe sounds easy and interesting, whether it’s Bengali or Parsi or Gujrati, you’ll find me making it, whether it turns out the way it’s meant to be or not.’
This was early last week. I didn’t meet her again for a while but we chatted a fair bit on the phone, mainly for numbers of home delivery services, laundry, vegetable man, etc.
This morning she came over around 9 to ask me if my maid would be able to work at her place for a week as her own maid had taken ill.
I was making tea and asked her to come in for a cuppa.
‘So what else are you making?’ she asked, surveying the kitchen.
‘Uttapams,’ I said, hoping she will not linger to watch my uttapam making skills, which are non-existent. Am pretty bad at any pancake type stuff, from pancakes to cheelas to dosas to yes, uttapams. These usually turn out round and somewhat decent only after several failed attempts.
‘Arre! Again South Indian!’ She was extremely bemused. ‘Don’t you ever make anything North Indian? At least for your husband?’
Both of us are devoid of any other neighbours on our respective floors and she came up for a chat the day after she shifted, mainly to find out about the maid system, aquaguard service, etc. When I heard that half her luggage was yet to arrive and her house was still a mess, I invited her and the daughter over for lunch.
‘How nice of you. Don’t make anything special haan. Informal.’
We had sambar rice for lunch and since I feared it may not be sufficient for the three of us, I made a quick potato sabji with the traditional South Indian tempering of mustard seeds, curry leaves and dals, to go with the sambar.
‘Are you South Indian?’ she asked after checking what was on offer.
‘No. I’m a Bengali.’
‘Oh I thought because you made sambar...then you must be making very good fish!’
‘Well, not really. Cooking was far from my mind while I stayed with my parents and I only learnt to cook after I got married. And since I was living in a North Indian Jain family, fish wasn’t part of the menu.’
‘Oh so you don’t eat non veg. How can a Bengali not eat non veg?’
I rushed with explanations to set the matter straight. Anyone assuming I do not eat non veg is more than I can take. So I went into the long drawn explanation that well…I did start cooking non veg after me and hubby moved into our own place in Delhi and though am no expert cook, I can make fish, though rarely have I cooked it the traditional Bengali way.
‘But why?’ she asked, much distressed by what she thought was a lack of interest in my own cuisine.
‘I go by cookbooks, so if the recipe sounds easy and interesting, whether it’s Bengali or Parsi or Gujrati, you’ll find me making it, whether it turns out the way it’s meant to be or not.’
This was early last week. I didn’t meet her again for a while but we chatted a fair bit on the phone, mainly for numbers of home delivery services, laundry, vegetable man, etc.
This morning she came over around 9 to ask me if my maid would be able to work at her place for a week as her own maid had taken ill.
I was making tea and asked her to come in for a cuppa.
‘So what else are you making?’ she asked, surveying the kitchen.
‘Uttapams,’ I said, hoping she will not linger to watch my uttapam making skills, which are non-existent. Am pretty bad at any pancake type stuff, from pancakes to cheelas to dosas to yes, uttapams. These usually turn out round and somewhat decent only after several failed attempts.
‘Arre! Again South Indian!’ She was extremely bemused. ‘Don’t you ever make anything North Indian? At least for your husband?’
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