Yes, even after 34 long years. Ok, may be I should make the number of years lesser because I'm sure I didn't try looking for clarity at four or 10 or even 15. At 20, maybe. In fact, I was quite sure I had found it. I was going to be a journalist. At that time, it was an all encompassing word, no shades attached. I had a job I loved and a clear head. This is where I belonged. At least for the time being. Until I found another newspaper or magazine that paid me better. Simple. Full and final.
Well, life, at least the so called professional part of it is not so final after all. Because here I am, 14 years down the line, confused as hell despite knowing where some of the answers are. I know that I do not want a full time job. The answer to that is in my guilt ridden mind and heart on the days I have a long assignment and have to pick A up late from the daycare. I know I want to freelance. But to what extent? Do I take whatever comes my way, work late nights, make my money and be happy? Or do I choose only the kind of stories that I really want to do even if those are few? Do I network and try to revive long lost contacts even if some them are masters in the art of cold shouldering or do I make myself believe that work will find me and sit tight no matter how implausible that may sound? Well I try it all. I take up crap edit jobs that make no sense except bring me a decent enough cheque which I promptly go and spend at the Strand Book Sale on vast amounts of books for myself and the child. I trudge halfway across town to meet a social worker for a story that will pay me lesser than the cab fare. I wonder whether to start a content writing service with a friend. I wonder whether to keep myself free, writing only what actually makes me feel good and not being the hyper when-will-I-be-busy-again kind of cranky person I usually am. And I wonder when will the focus, the clarity finally stop being elusive. Maybe when I do.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Of Goa, Bombay and other random stuff...
So the entire month of December 2008 was spent travelling. Well almost the entire month if you discount the 3 or 4 days of interim breaks in Bangalore that were spent in visiting dentist, cleaning dirty dishes left by absconding maid, fixing a non absconding one, attending budday parties and doing other such exhausting stuff. We drove to Karwar and Goa and as soon as we crossed the Karnataka border, a friend called to ask where we were. 'Goa,' I said, rolling the windows down to smell the (truck infested) air. 'Again?' She shrieked, 'don't you guys have any imagination?' Our trip to Hampi in between elicited mostly positive responses (That part of Karnataka is a must do, said one 'doer') but when we landed up in Bombay at the end of the year, most people laughed. 'You've actually wasted four precious days to holiday in Bombay!' the husband heard. I'm of course spared as I do not 'work.'
Who wouldn't love exploring new places on a holiday? Especially say a place like Hampi where we climbed several hills and stairs with a child perpetually attached to our backs. Ok joking, he was permanently attached but we loved the place, though it isn't exactly a holiday for a three year old. Going to Goa is like visiting an old friend. You know exactly what to expect. There's fun in that too isn't it? Like lounging on the sunbed the entire morning as your child is babysat by the sand and a few buckets; ordering the same prawn rechado and fish curry at the same shack everyday; going sick hearing your husband say he plans to paraglide, jet ski and do everything Akshay Kumar can since the beginning of the holiday (Yes Rupa, it's a middle aged male disease) and knowing that by the time you get back exhausted thanks to all those Kings and Belos in the afternoon or evening, the bed would be made and the bathroom would be clean :D. As for Bombay....for me that's a happy story forever.
The random stuff
* Why on earth is Ghajini the name of the movie? I mean the villain is hardly iconic...I could have understood Sholay being named after Gabbar Singh but this one is sheer stupid.
* And shirtless Aamir doesn't work for me at all. It's conditioning I guess. After all these years, the only shirtless 40 plus Bollywooder I can still tolerate is Salman Khan.
* Luw Dev Patel of Slumdog Millionaire. Terribly young yes, but that's how they all are these days. Except me :(
Who wouldn't love exploring new places on a holiday? Especially say a place like Hampi where we climbed several hills and stairs with a child perpetually attached to our backs. Ok joking, he was permanently attached but we loved the place, though it isn't exactly a holiday for a three year old. Going to Goa is like visiting an old friend. You know exactly what to expect. There's fun in that too isn't it? Like lounging on the sunbed the entire morning as your child is babysat by the sand and a few buckets; ordering the same prawn rechado and fish curry at the same shack everyday; going sick hearing your husband say he plans to paraglide, jet ski and do everything Akshay Kumar can since the beginning of the holiday (Yes Rupa, it's a middle aged male disease) and knowing that by the time you get back exhausted thanks to all those Kings and Belos in the afternoon or evening, the bed would be made and the bathroom would be clean :D. As for Bombay....for me that's a happy story forever.
The random stuff
* Why on earth is Ghajini the name of the movie? I mean the villain is hardly iconic...I could have understood Sholay being named after Gabbar Singh but this one is sheer stupid.
* And shirtless Aamir doesn't work for me at all. It's conditioning I guess. After all these years, the only shirtless 40 plus Bollywooder I can still tolerate is Salman Khan.
* Luw Dev Patel of Slumdog Millionaire. Terribly young yes, but that's how they all are these days. Except me :(
Sunday, December 28, 2008
On the rocks
It's fascinating to see how the old, the new and the ordinary merge in surreal, boulder strewn Hampi. Fourteenth century balconies serve as drying spot for clothes
The granite columns of a century old bazaar becomes the perfect place to rest a tired bike.
A 14th century gateway stands tall as innumerable cars, autos and cycles pass through it everyday.
The ancient Virupaksha temple still holds wedding ceremonies. In fact, one was on while we visited. The beautiful ghats of Tungabhadra is at once a laundry and a shrine. The Hampi Bazaar that was once thought to have sold precious gems and rich silks is still as fascinating if in a slightly offbeat way with everything from Che Guevara T-shirts (didn't know they were still so popular!), lungi tops, Kutchi bags, musical instruments, Janpath style silver jewelry to Rajasthani handicrafts.
Across the river, in Hampi Island or Virupura Gadde it is a different world altogether. One that moves slowly with makeshift 'lounge bars,' tiny guesthouse with chickens and children running amok, internet cafes offering Skype and broadband and a lot of shaloms in the air. The landscape is mindblowing. More so when you head towards Anegundi. Boulders in browns and rusts, ruins strewn with granite and the sudden vivid green of paddy fields. I plan to go back again (Perhaps with Subs, who has actually worked among the ruins here!) may be to just wander along aimlessly or spend the afternoon lazing at Mango Tree, a very busy restaurant in a banana plantation, with 'seats' under a huge mango tree. Happiness!
The granite columns of a century old bazaar becomes the perfect place to rest a tired bike.
A 14th century gateway stands tall as innumerable cars, autos and cycles pass through it everyday.
The ancient Virupaksha temple still holds wedding ceremonies. In fact, one was on while we visited. The beautiful ghats of Tungabhadra is at once a laundry and a shrine. The Hampi Bazaar that was once thought to have sold precious gems and rich silks is still as fascinating if in a slightly offbeat way with everything from Che Guevara T-shirts (didn't know they were still so popular!), lungi tops, Kutchi bags, musical instruments, Janpath style silver jewelry to Rajasthani handicrafts.
Across the river, in Hampi Island or Virupura Gadde it is a different world altogether. One that moves slowly with makeshift 'lounge bars,' tiny guesthouse with chickens and children running amok, internet cafes offering Skype and broadband and a lot of shaloms in the air. The landscape is mindblowing. More so when you head towards Anegundi. Boulders in browns and rusts, ruins strewn with granite and the sudden vivid green of paddy fields. I plan to go back again (Perhaps with Subs, who has actually worked among the ruins here!) may be to just wander along aimlessly or spend the afternoon lazing at Mango Tree, a very busy restaurant in a banana plantation, with 'seats' under a huge mango tree. Happiness!
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
What makes you sadder...
The fact that our cops wore bulletproof jackets that didn't even meet the required specifications?
The political drama going on all over? That we now have a home minister we identify with finance?
A little boy orphaned the day he turned two...
Or the story of so many families losing love, hope and loved ones.
The political drama going on all over? That we now have a home minister we identify with finance?
A little boy orphaned the day he turned two...
Or the story of so many families losing love, hope and loved ones.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
The morning after the firing started and schools were declared closed in Bombay, a friend told her eight-year-old to stay in bed as there was no football practice and no school either. 'Why, is there a bomb blast?' he asked.
Yesterday's Hindu had a picture of the Taj on its edit page. The standard beautiful tourist pic, with the sea in the foreground and the Taj looming large. My son, who was playing nearby had a glance and asked, 'Mamma, where's the fire?'
What's the world in which our children are growing up?
Yesterday's Hindu had a picture of the Taj on its edit page. The standard beautiful tourist pic, with the sea in the foreground and the Taj looming large. My son, who was playing nearby had a glance and asked, 'Mamma, where's the fire?'
What's the world in which our children are growing up?
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
The third birthday was very happy indeed...
And that's the ear-splitting but much loved 'Budday gift!'
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
One of those Dear God moments...
Dear God,
In my next life, please let me be born as a woman who is putty in a man’s hand…oops…no make that a man who is putty in a woman’s hand. Drat! I got it wrong again! No of course I don’t want to be a man in my next life but a woman who can make a man turn complete jelly in her hands. Yes, I know that sounds gross but that’s not what I meant and anyway you know what I am talking about, don’t you? You see, all my life I have wanted to be one of those women. You know the kind who just have to bat one eyelash (or is it the lid?) and have a line of men ready to climb the Everest or scale the Great Wall of China or basically do impossible things like that. Have no idea if Great Wall climb is improbable but you get the gist again, don’t you God?
I of course don’t want anything so far reaching. Just everyday normal stuff would do. Like dozing off while putting the baby to sleep and not having to worry about rinsing the dishes coz the man would SURELY (and not when he feels like it) do that; like being able to make the man put away his socks EVERYDAY WITHOUT FAIL. Being able to stop the bugger from going to a boys’ night out on the day when I don’t want him to. You see, very simple, homely stuff. Utterly probable.
I also want to be rid of this insane belief that I can take care of myself and turn into a similar version of my neighbor Nita in Delhi. You see, Nita’s husband would drive all the way to DLF in Gurgaon from Rohini in North Delhi, crossing his office at Essex Farms in South Delhi on the way, simply because she had to work so far. He would repeat the process in the evenings. I on the other hand would take the Rs. 25 chartered bus and on certain forgettable occasions, even the deathly Call Centre Sumo. All because the man thought I could take care of myself and so, tragically, did I.
So Dear God, in my next life turn me into a woman who can doze off at 8.30 PM with the sound knowledge that her husband has cleared the kitchen and put the dishes under the sink. Turn me into a woman who only has to say stuff like ‘stay with me baby’ or some such dialogue to make the man forget a night of boy bonding. And grant me the ability to shiver at the thought of taking an auto after dark. Amen.
In my next life, please let me be born as a woman who is putty in a man’s hand…oops…no make that a man who is putty in a woman’s hand. Drat! I got it wrong again! No of course I don’t want to be a man in my next life but a woman who can make a man turn complete jelly in her hands. Yes, I know that sounds gross but that’s not what I meant and anyway you know what I am talking about, don’t you? You see, all my life I have wanted to be one of those women. You know the kind who just have to bat one eyelash (or is it the lid?) and have a line of men ready to climb the Everest or scale the Great Wall of China or basically do impossible things like that. Have no idea if Great Wall climb is improbable but you get the gist again, don’t you God?
I of course don’t want anything so far reaching. Just everyday normal stuff would do. Like dozing off while putting the baby to sleep and not having to worry about rinsing the dishes coz the man would SURELY (and not when he feels like it) do that; like being able to make the man put away his socks EVERYDAY WITHOUT FAIL. Being able to stop the bugger from going to a boys’ night out on the day when I don’t want him to. You see, very simple, homely stuff. Utterly probable.
I also want to be rid of this insane belief that I can take care of myself and turn into a similar version of my neighbor Nita in Delhi. You see, Nita’s husband would drive all the way to DLF in Gurgaon from Rohini in North Delhi, crossing his office at Essex Farms in South Delhi on the way, simply because she had to work so far. He would repeat the process in the evenings. I on the other hand would take the Rs. 25 chartered bus and on certain forgettable occasions, even the deathly Call Centre Sumo. All because the man thought I could take care of myself and so, tragically, did I.
So Dear God, in my next life turn me into a woman who can doze off at 8.30 PM with the sound knowledge that her husband has cleared the kitchen and put the dishes under the sink. Turn me into a woman who only has to say stuff like ‘stay with me baby’ or some such dialogue to make the man forget a night of boy bonding. And grant me the ability to shiver at the thought of taking an auto after dark. Amen.
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
Ammi's saris
This is from Subs...
I finally picked up the courage to clean out ammi's wardrobe.
It used to be an annual winter ritual -- my time with her, when she'd take out all her saris, old angarkhas, fragile chiffon and tissue dupattas and sun them.
Each one had a story woven in it.
The stunning orange and black tissue dupatta interspersed with silver threads and a silver brocade border, which was specially woven by the Banarsi neighbor at the behest of ammi's dada for her initiation into reading the Quran, when she just about turned 4.
Or the delicate gold sari which her nani left behind as inheritance. Her nani had nobody to support her financially, but the stroy goes that each night as she prayed the "tahajjud" namaz, she'd find 3-4 gold coins under the prayer mat.
The peach gharara with a velvet top and silver gota work on it still retains the nawabi look.
Each sari was hand-woven for ammi's trousseau, the silk is tattered now in some but as I held it against my cheek, I could still remember each story.
I hope this does not end with me.
Subs and I met while working for the girlie mag and have been gossiping ever since. I have only met her mum once, when I went over to Subs' and aunty fed me the best biryani ever. Aunty wouldn't recognize me if I were to visit now, in fact, there are days when she has difficulty recognizing her own daughter. I can't even imagine how difficult it is sometimes for Subs, who bravely battles it all and hasn't lost a bit of that infectious giggle of hers.
I finally picked up the courage to clean out ammi's wardrobe.
It used to be an annual winter ritual -- my time with her, when she'd take out all her saris, old angarkhas, fragile chiffon and tissue dupattas and sun them.
Each one had a story woven in it.
The stunning orange and black tissue dupatta interspersed with silver threads and a silver brocade border, which was specially woven by the Banarsi neighbor at the behest of ammi's dada for her initiation into reading the Quran, when she just about turned 4.
Or the delicate gold sari which her nani left behind as inheritance. Her nani had nobody to support her financially, but the stroy goes that each night as she prayed the "tahajjud" namaz, she'd find 3-4 gold coins under the prayer mat.
The peach gharara with a velvet top and silver gota work on it still retains the nawabi look.
Each sari was hand-woven for ammi's trousseau, the silk is tattered now in some but as I held it against my cheek, I could still remember each story.
I hope this does not end with me.
Subs and I met while working for the girlie mag and have been gossiping ever since. I have only met her mum once, when I went over to Subs' and aunty fed me the best biryani ever. Aunty wouldn't recognize me if I were to visit now, in fact, there are days when she has difficulty recognizing her own daughter. I can't even imagine how difficult it is sometimes for Subs, who bravely battles it all and hasn't lost a bit of that infectious giggle of hers.
Monday, November 03, 2008
At the Diwali party, a perplexed aunt watched some of us move mouths, heads and butts to Peechle Saat Dinon Mein and finally asked:
Ye laundry ka gaana kis film ka hai?
Sigh! I'm going to think of it as The Laundry Song from now on of course.
Ye laundry ka gaana kis film ka hai?
Sigh! I'm going to think of it as The Laundry Song from now on of course.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Random thoughts
Why are cyclones and hurricanes named after women? There is the devastating Katrina, Rita, Helen, Sarika, Veronica, Velma, Xina, Bulbul, Shoba, Neelam, etc. So how do they come up with the names? Do some people in the met bureau sit over coffee and say hmmm...four cyclones predicted...now the wifey is becoming quite a nag as well...
I'm sure there are the Edwards and Amitabhs as well but I don't have much google time. Enlighten me if you know, will you?
Oh and five years years after I started reading her, met the adventure girl. Finalee! :)
I'm sure there are the Edwards and Amitabhs as well but I don't have much google time. Enlighten me if you know, will you?
Oh and five years years after I started reading her, met the adventure girl. Finalee! :)
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Rant
This is Bhadra. It's a set of cottages by Jungle Lodges on the banks of the Bhadra river near Lakkavalli. It's about six hours from Bangalore. During the day, the blue looks picture perfect and at night, you can slather yourself in mosquito repellent cream, sit on the balcony in utter darkness and gaze at the million stars overhead. Yes, you can almost see every star. Quite an amazing feeling.
This is in India? she asked, clearly surprised. Because she feels the best holidays are always had 'abroad' like they do every year. The best locations, best stay and best hospitality. Such thoughts usually bring out the bitch in me but with painting work going on at home and the madness of having people for dinner on top of it, I bit my tongue and stayed quiet. Oh yes, I loved the little bit of Europe I got to see and would love to go to Thailand, Malaysia, Vietnam, Italy, Turkey, Scandanavia, Germany or Scotland. I'd also like to see Hampi, Wayanad, Kerala, Arunachal Pradesh, Meghalaya, Andamans and more of MP and Rajasthan. Yes, yes, I know I'm sounding terribly preachy and Kendriya Vidyalaya type but kya karoon, I'm a bit pissed. It's a leftover from last night as our dinner guest and her husband went on and on about holidays 'abroad' and how everything was just right, where as in India you only got bad rooms and bad service. Their loss, not mine. Hope they continue travelling to Switzeland and the Far East, eat pure Indian food cooked by chef of Sita Tours and buy the tackiest of gifts. There. The fangs are out now. Peace!
Monday, October 13, 2008
I just finished reading...
...Amruta Patil's Kari and absolutely loved it. I'm not too much into graphic novels and simply bought the book because the cover reminded me of someone. And finished it in one go. The illustrations are amazing and there's a lot to like in the book, especially in Kari herself. But what also touched a chord, with me at least, was life in the Bombay flat. Shared by three women and two semi-permanent men. Gossip, food, love, lust, toothpaste, shower gel all shared in a space not meant to be inhabited by more than two. Not the most ideal way to live but one that comes with inevitable nostalgia attached to it when you've moved on to better quarters :)
This one reminded me of the place in Bandra East we eventually got locked out of. Four women, one semi permanent men, an over-loving bai, rotting leftovers in the fridge, occasional mad parties and awkward bonding sessions when four very different girls found themselves alone together on some rare occasions...
It's a Bombay book through and through. For all those who have lived in the city at the start of their careers on a salary that didn't translate into a heady paycheck and company chummery, inhaled the stench of home as the Borivli local rushed towards Bandra station and drowned their triumphs and sorrows in Bombil Fry.
This one reminded me of the place in Bandra East we eventually got locked out of. Four women, one semi permanent men, an over-loving bai, rotting leftovers in the fridge, occasional mad parties and awkward bonding sessions when four very different girls found themselves alone together on some rare occasions...
It's a Bombay book through and through. For all those who have lived in the city at the start of their careers on a salary that didn't translate into a heady paycheck and company chummery, inhaled the stench of home as the Borivli local rushed towards Bandra station and drowned their triumphs and sorrows in Bombil Fry.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
We went to Bangaram Island in Lakshadweep around this time last year. It was one of our best holidays ever and I never wrote about it because a) I was too lazy b) I was supposed to write a travel piece and thought I'll save the words for that.
Being a magazine, they needed high resolution pictures and I only had a 5 megapixel camera (Did I just hear some gasps and shudders there? Wait I'm upgrading!) so the story never got published. So here it is, because a trip like that needs to be recorded forever and word docs can crash, while the internet hopefully will not :)
Bangaram should be caled the barefoot beach – because that’s what you do the moment you reach there. Kick off shoes, slump on the bar stool and try to take it all in. At 128 acres it is probably not much but the splendour of Bangaram Island is enough to leave you gaping. It makes you forget the boat ride from Agatti Island which, less than half an hour back, was challenging you to keep breakfast down with its twists and turns. It’s a natural effect, says a fellow guest and Bangaram regular. Apparently you forget everything, even misplaced baggage and cancelled flights the moment you step on to the ‘reception’ area of Bangaram Island Resort. You take in the nearly-white sand and a sea that’s dotted with every possible shade of turquoise and blue. If this isn’t perfect, what is?
Nestled in its own lagoon and surrounded by the sea and a coral reef, Bangaram Island looks like a teardrop from the plane and is uninhibited except for the resort.
Thankfully, it is simple enough to merge into the spectacular surroundings. Accommodation consists of palm fringed beach huts with verandahs. For larger groups, there are bigger bungalows with a living room. The resort is a very much back to basics one and while they do not expect you to turn up bleary eyed for yoga classes every morning (although these are held), there is no room service, no hot water, no air conditioning and best of all, no television. Phones don’t work unless you have a BSNL connection and I didn’t see a newspaper in the five days I spent there. At 40 miles across the ocean from any sort of civilization, Bangaram Island is truly isolated and they have ensured that you feel it too – in the best way possible.
Your life’s purpose here is simple: Do nothing or do something. If you belong to the do nothing variety, you’ll wake up early and go for a little walk along the beach and slowly make your way to the restaurant hut for tea and breakfast. This will be followed by moving yourself outside to find a lounger under a shade to settle down with a book and gape once more at the impossibly beautiful shades of cobalt and aquamarine surrounding the island. There are kayaks kept ready to use, should you decide to abandon laziness for a while. And then there are hammocks. Enough for you to find a favourite one to lounge on and count the coconuts.
If you are the do something variety, you’ll spend large parts of the morning underwater or at least in its vicinity. Bangaram is a famous diving destination and Lacadives, Prahlad Kakkar’s Kadmat Island based diving school, has a centre here. Beginners go only four metres deep but experienced divers can explore real underwater treasures. The other favourite activity almost everyone tries out is snorkeling. There are people who spend hours doing just that as the waters are crowded with bright, beautiful marine life of every possible colour. Even if you do not know your angelfish from your clownfish, it’s hard to tear yourself away to do anything else. You can bring your own equipment or hire it here at the watersports centre.
Whichever category you fall under, one must-not-miss activity is to go for a walk around the island during low tide, around 4.30 pm or 5.00 pm in the evening. Walking around the entire island at a leisurely pace would take your at least 45 minutes and the highpoint is walking up to the sandbank behind the resort and get that unbeatable feeling of almost walking on water, because that’s how it would look if someone saw you from a distance. This is where the staff goes to fish in the evening and you can have a great time just watching them at work, trying your hand at it, and sharing a joke with everyone. The sandbank and the walk back to the resort is a great place to spot sea birds in action and hermit crabs scurrying back into their holes. The stroll along the sandbank is also the only time your need to wear sandals on barefoot beach.
All that activity (or even the lack of it) can lead to severe hunger pangs and thankfully the variety at both lunch and dinner is not just sufficient, it’s also quite amazing. Meals are served buffet style and are a mixture of local and continental cuisine. Apart from being made into stews and curries, the catch of the day is grilled on an outdoor barbecue and served the way you like it. You can choose to have your meals outside, especially in the evenings when you can have candlelight dinner under the stars. But naturally, the best place to be in the evening is the bar, although it’s open even during the day. It’s right on the beach and the moon reflecting on the still, dark water is quite a heady sight. If the rounded bar stool (my only complaint with the place, honestly) gets too uncomfortable, spread a mat and on the sand and park yourself close enough to get that second beer. Just ensure you are liberally slathered with Odomos as soon as the sun goes down and you’ll be a happy soul. Rooms have mesh screen windows and mosquito repellants and it’s advisable not to leave doors open post sunset to stop the mosquitos from getting in.
Despite the lack of cartoon network or activities for children (unless you count the whiteboard in the library), this is a place that your child is sure to love, if she or he loves water. The monkey spent all his time doing things he cannot do in an apartment. He ran amok, chased the chickens and cats in the island, played football with mini coconuts and filled endless buckets with sand and water.
Bangaram Island Resort is run by the Casino Group. All visitors need a permit to visit the island which is easily arranged by the hoteliers. To get there, take a flight from Cochin to Agatti. Indian Airlines and Kingfisher fly the route and if you are lucky, the legendary Capt. Chaudhary will be your pilot on the 12-seater IA flight, which looks rickety but gives you an amazing flight with Capt. Chaudhary's comments. Go there now!
Being a magazine, they needed high resolution pictures and I only had a 5 megapixel camera (Did I just hear some gasps and shudders there? Wait I'm upgrading!) so the story never got published. So here it is, because a trip like that needs to be recorded forever and word docs can crash, while the internet hopefully will not :)
Bangaram should be caled the barefoot beach – because that’s what you do the moment you reach there. Kick off shoes, slump on the bar stool and try to take it all in. At 128 acres it is probably not much but the splendour of Bangaram Island is enough to leave you gaping. It makes you forget the boat ride from Agatti Island which, less than half an hour back, was challenging you to keep breakfast down with its twists and turns. It’s a natural effect, says a fellow guest and Bangaram regular. Apparently you forget everything, even misplaced baggage and cancelled flights the moment you step on to the ‘reception’ area of Bangaram Island Resort. You take in the nearly-white sand and a sea that’s dotted with every possible shade of turquoise and blue. If this isn’t perfect, what is?
Nestled in its own lagoon and surrounded by the sea and a coral reef, Bangaram Island looks like a teardrop from the plane and is uninhibited except for the resort.
Thankfully, it is simple enough to merge into the spectacular surroundings. Accommodation consists of palm fringed beach huts with verandahs. For larger groups, there are bigger bungalows with a living room. The resort is a very much back to basics one and while they do not expect you to turn up bleary eyed for yoga classes every morning (although these are held), there is no room service, no hot water, no air conditioning and best of all, no television. Phones don’t work unless you have a BSNL connection and I didn’t see a newspaper in the five days I spent there. At 40 miles across the ocean from any sort of civilization, Bangaram Island is truly isolated and they have ensured that you feel it too – in the best way possible.
Your life’s purpose here is simple: Do nothing or do something. If you belong to the do nothing variety, you’ll wake up early and go for a little walk along the beach and slowly make your way to the restaurant hut for tea and breakfast. This will be followed by moving yourself outside to find a lounger under a shade to settle down with a book and gape once more at the impossibly beautiful shades of cobalt and aquamarine surrounding the island. There are kayaks kept ready to use, should you decide to abandon laziness for a while. And then there are hammocks. Enough for you to find a favourite one to lounge on and count the coconuts.
If you are the do something variety, you’ll spend large parts of the morning underwater or at least in its vicinity. Bangaram is a famous diving destination and Lacadives, Prahlad Kakkar’s Kadmat Island based diving school, has a centre here. Beginners go only four metres deep but experienced divers can explore real underwater treasures. The other favourite activity almost everyone tries out is snorkeling. There are people who spend hours doing just that as the waters are crowded with bright, beautiful marine life of every possible colour. Even if you do not know your angelfish from your clownfish, it’s hard to tear yourself away to do anything else. You can bring your own equipment or hire it here at the watersports centre.
Whichever category you fall under, one must-not-miss activity is to go for a walk around the island during low tide, around 4.30 pm or 5.00 pm in the evening. Walking around the entire island at a leisurely pace would take your at least 45 minutes and the highpoint is walking up to the sandbank behind the resort and get that unbeatable feeling of almost walking on water, because that’s how it would look if someone saw you from a distance. This is where the staff goes to fish in the evening and you can have a great time just watching them at work, trying your hand at it, and sharing a joke with everyone. The sandbank and the walk back to the resort is a great place to spot sea birds in action and hermit crabs scurrying back into their holes. The stroll along the sandbank is also the only time your need to wear sandals on barefoot beach.
All that activity (or even the lack of it) can lead to severe hunger pangs and thankfully the variety at both lunch and dinner is not just sufficient, it’s also quite amazing. Meals are served buffet style and are a mixture of local and continental cuisine. Apart from being made into stews and curries, the catch of the day is grilled on an outdoor barbecue and served the way you like it. You can choose to have your meals outside, especially in the evenings when you can have candlelight dinner under the stars. But naturally, the best place to be in the evening is the bar, although it’s open even during the day. It’s right on the beach and the moon reflecting on the still, dark water is quite a heady sight. If the rounded bar stool (my only complaint with the place, honestly) gets too uncomfortable, spread a mat and on the sand and park yourself close enough to get that second beer. Just ensure you are liberally slathered with Odomos as soon as the sun goes down and you’ll be a happy soul. Rooms have mesh screen windows and mosquito repellants and it’s advisable not to leave doors open post sunset to stop the mosquitos from getting in.
Despite the lack of cartoon network or activities for children (unless you count the whiteboard in the library), this is a place that your child is sure to love, if she or he loves water. The monkey spent all his time doing things he cannot do in an apartment. He ran amok, chased the chickens and cats in the island, played football with mini coconuts and filled endless buckets with sand and water.
Bangaram Island Resort is run by the Casino Group. All visitors need a permit to visit the island which is easily arranged by the hoteliers. To get there, take a flight from Cochin to Agatti. Indian Airlines and Kingfisher fly the route and if you are lucky, the legendary Capt. Chaudhary will be your pilot on the 12-seater IA flight, which looks rickety but gives you an amazing flight with Capt. Chaudhary's comments. Go there now!
Friday, September 12, 2008
Diary of a harried mom
Get up late as a result of last night's impromptu dinner at home with friends. Rue fact that no longer wake up late because of hangover but because of non-cooperating body parts despite the lack of alcohol.
Start morning on frenzied note as son's playschool has 'Hygiene' as the in-house dress-up theme. Try cutting shape resembling toothpaste and toothbrush out of chart paper and silently vow to become super organized mum with special drawer+desk for school tasks done five days in advance. Also vow never to have impromptu parties.
Child refuses to wear toothbrush. Tears toothpaste cap.
Reach school. Happily dump child in hands of enthusiastic young teacher (EYT). Who also looks mildly surprised. Must be the bad brush cutout. Watch in utter envy as EYT makes child wear both brush and paste WITHOUT A WHIMPER and shows him off to everyone. Resists urge to do a 'Why Me why me why me' dance on the spot and head home.
Start work. Continue for five minutes.
Answer doorbell. Has 10 minute mime show with presswala who speaks only Telugu. Finally realize he wants last week's balance. Try to remember what balance was and why it isn't paid but cannot. Finally hand over the obscene amount of money demanded. Vow to become organized homemaker with meticulous expense diary keeping skills.
Work for 15 minutes.
Answer doorbell. Maid's sister gleefully informs that didi won't be coming today. Sprints for the lift before being asked to work.
Shut laptop and head to kitchen. Stare blankly at pile of vessels. Spend eternity scrubbing. Also do jhadoo though for an insane moment think of saving that for the child. After all, he's always chasing the maid for the damn thing isn't he?
Leave home to collect child. Get lectured by child's class teacher for not sending cap and school T-shirt, required necessities for field trip. Erm...what field trip? Wasn't it the fancy dress?
Frantically hunt child's bag for clues. The toothbrush is for tomorrow. The field trip was today.
Hide forever.
Start morning on frenzied note as son's playschool has 'Hygiene' as the in-house dress-up theme. Try cutting shape resembling toothpaste and toothbrush out of chart paper and silently vow to become super organized mum with special drawer+desk for school tasks done five days in advance. Also vow never to have impromptu parties.
Child refuses to wear toothbrush. Tears toothpaste cap.
Reach school. Happily dump child in hands of enthusiastic young teacher (EYT). Who also looks mildly surprised. Must be the bad brush cutout. Watch in utter envy as EYT makes child wear both brush and paste WITHOUT A WHIMPER and shows him off to everyone. Resists urge to do a 'Why Me why me why me' dance on the spot and head home.
Start work. Continue for five minutes.
Answer doorbell. Has 10 minute mime show with presswala who speaks only Telugu. Finally realize he wants last week's balance. Try to remember what balance was and why it isn't paid but cannot. Finally hand over the obscene amount of money demanded. Vow to become organized homemaker with meticulous expense diary keeping skills.
Work for 15 minutes.
Answer doorbell. Maid's sister gleefully informs that didi won't be coming today. Sprints for the lift before being asked to work.
Shut laptop and head to kitchen. Stare blankly at pile of vessels. Spend eternity scrubbing. Also do jhadoo though for an insane moment think of saving that for the child. After all, he's always chasing the maid for the damn thing isn't he?
Leave home to collect child. Get lectured by child's class teacher for not sending cap and school T-shirt, required necessities for field trip. Erm...what field trip? Wasn't it the fancy dress?
Frantically hunt child's bag for clues. The toothbrush is for tomorrow. The field trip was today.
Hide forever.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Jai ho...HO HO HO!
Hello darlings!
As you can see from the headline only, have gone slightly batty. Tis a result of this early morning read in the venerable The Hindu by an honored (with Capital H) gentleman called Abhimanyu Singh. You see, Mr Singh didn't like Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na. My friend's older sis didn't like it too. Too college type, she smirked. As for my college type niece, she doesn't like anything without Hrithik Roshan in it. Zimble.
Mr Singh of course doesn't go for such facetious excoozes. Especially after he thought Abbas Tyrewala was a Godard in the making. So what does he do after being sadly mistaken in this assumption? He makes my day and writes a long article in The Hindu on Jaane Tu...being a paean to patriarchy, stereotyping women, etc.
Here's a sample: "Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na" only serves to strengthen the codes of patriarchy that have dominated the representation and subsequent construction of masculine and feminine identity in cinema `. by disturbing the symbolic order of patriarchy in order to motivate audience assent to its restoration'. Here, that can be seen in Jay's initial reluctance to accept the three diktats of manhood prescribed by his father and later fulfilling them.' For the whole piece of cake, go here.
Wondering why nobody told him it was simply a nice, timepass Hindi film?
As you can see from the headline only, have gone slightly batty. Tis a result of this early morning read in the venerable The Hindu by an honored (with Capital H) gentleman called Abhimanyu Singh. You see, Mr Singh didn't like Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na. My friend's older sis didn't like it too. Too college type, she smirked. As for my college type niece, she doesn't like anything without Hrithik Roshan in it. Zimble.
Mr Singh of course doesn't go for such facetious excoozes. Especially after he thought Abbas Tyrewala was a Godard in the making. So what does he do after being sadly mistaken in this assumption? He makes my day and writes a long article in The Hindu on Jaane Tu...being a paean to patriarchy, stereotyping women, etc.
Here's a sample: "Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na" only serves to strengthen the codes of patriarchy that have dominated the representation and subsequent construction of masculine and feminine identity in cinema `. by disturbing the symbolic order of patriarchy in order to motivate audience assent to its restoration'. Here, that can be seen in Jay's initial reluctance to accept the three diktats of manhood prescribed by his father and later fulfilling them.' For the whole piece of cake, go here.
Wondering why nobody told him it was simply a nice, timepass Hindi film?
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Back in touch
Back in '92-95, a gang of girls doing Eng Lit. in Pune's Fergusson College were thick friends. They hung out at Vaishali, discussed Phadke Sir's linguistic skills, rued about the lack of guys in Arts, discussed boyfriends (both existent and non-existent) and sacked out in each other's hostels. At times, over spicy 'anda bun,' they discussed the future and how thankfully none of them were even remotely interested in an MBA (so much to study, huh?). Then college ended and some of the friendships frittered away. They'd never been too strong to begin with and had been merely sustained because of a common class, shared passion for idli vadas with 'separate sambar' and Bikram Saluja driving down FC Road in his Maruti Gypsy. Now suddenly the girls had to decide What To Do in life and slowly they drifted away. One of them moved to Bombay and shamefully forgot old connections in the new flashlights; one got busy with some inspiring developmental journalism in Pune and yet another, the spunkiest of them all, surprised everyone by suddenly agreeing to an arranged marriage and moving to USA. The girl in Bombay and the one off to USA promised to keep in touch. But such things were difficult to do in an age without mobiles and emails and with lots of excuses, especially when one had a new and exciting career in Bombay and another a new and exciting husband with a BMW in USA. Fourteen years later, the girls are back in touch. Well most of them anyway, thanks to those great finders, Facebook, Orkut and yes, in this case, even Linkedin. An yahoo group keeps them bound this time as the conversations flit between husband, number of kids, work or the lack of it. There are surprises too. Some irreverent ones seem incredibly polite and some barely heard voices have grown bindaas. Some mails bring memories, some a smile and each of them a reason to look forward to the inbox every other day.
Monday, August 04, 2008
Was watching the TV report on Bombay High Court's verdict going against Niketa Mehta just now. Don't want to talk about whether it is right or wrong, ethical or unethical, because honestly, I'm not the one facing the dilemma and it is so damn easy to pass judgements when you aren't. And this is a difficult one, isn't it. Here's a couple who are being honest. Very bravely I think.
Yet, when I first heard of the case, I did think that it wasn't right in my 'smug-parent-who's-never-had-to-face-such-a-problem-touchwood' manner.Because 24 months is almost half the pregnancy over.
Then I read this and thought of a special child in A's school. Her mother had once told me how on bleak days, she forces herself to smile by staring foolishly into the mirror. But had she known during the pregnancy would she have aborted? Her daughter may not be able to speak coherent sentences or do a simple puzzle but is the most wonderful, well behaved child I have seen.
I pray to God Mehta's baby is born healthy and leads a good life. I can only imagine how tough getting through the pregnancy must be for her, knowing fully well that her child is going to have serious health problems because let's face it, every parent wants a healthy kid. But there's one thing I've been thinking about. Now that the case is out in the open, being debated in the media and recorded for posterity on the internet, what impact would it have on the baby several years from now?
As parents, surely Mehta and her husband will do everything in their power to shield their child but if the child ever learns of the case to abort, what kind of an impact would that have on its mind?
It's a scary thought.
Yet, when I first heard of the case, I did think that it wasn't right in my 'smug-parent-who's-never-had-to-face-such-a-problem-touchwood' manner.Because 24 months is almost half the pregnancy over.
Then I read this and thought of a special child in A's school. Her mother had once told me how on bleak days, she forces herself to smile by staring foolishly into the mirror. But had she known during the pregnancy would she have aborted? Her daughter may not be able to speak coherent sentences or do a simple puzzle but is the most wonderful, well behaved child I have seen.
I pray to God Mehta's baby is born healthy and leads a good life. I can only imagine how tough getting through the pregnancy must be for her, knowing fully well that her child is going to have serious health problems because let's face it, every parent wants a healthy kid. But there's one thing I've been thinking about. Now that the case is out in the open, being debated in the media and recorded for posterity on the internet, what impact would it have on the baby several years from now?
As parents, surely Mehta and her husband will do everything in their power to shield their child but if the child ever learns of the case to abort, what kind of an impact would that have on its mind?
It's a scary thought.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
The bylanes of North Calcutta...
...can be cramped with kids playing gully cricket, rickshaws and the ocassional speeding Sumo/Maruti Van. They are also crowded, dusty and muddy, especially after a spurt of rain. But when it comes to the houses that inhabit these streets, there are some wonderful gems to be found, making you realize why Calcutta was once named the City of Palaces.
Even now in all their crumbling glory, you can get a peek into the beauty these old buildings once were, like in the now faded stained glass window...
Or in the chipped-off mosaic work above an entrance that has obviously seen better days...
One of my favorites was this carved canopy in an old apartment balcony, like a beautifully worked piece of cloth. There are several other gems like this one, discovered on a walk with Ifte of Calcutta Walks and Akhil Sarkar, an architect whose interest lies in the Calcutta of yore.
The walk was an eye opener. It started near a red bricked mansion that belonged to two rather colorful brothers, nicknamed Chatubabu and Latubabu, and then winded through the bylanes behind it. As one lane merged into another, we left the sound of buses, trucks, taxis and cycle rickshaws far behind. I tried to imagine a lost time of grand mansions with grander owners, a time when Calcutta would've been truly magnificent and also perhaps, a bit of a show off like the wealthy owners of most of these houses were.
It's also a walk that makes you incredibly sad. What would have been protected and marked with blue plaques in Western cities, lies in utter neglect here. Ornate columns are either decaying or have been been whitewashed beyond recognition. Conservation attempts of some mansions are largely off track, with 'experts' chosen at the contractor's convenience.
Still, it's a walk worth every step you take. For thakurdalans (courtyard where Durga Puja was held, and still is) like this...
...old family temples
......and many pillared roaks (seating areas), perfect for addas and afternoon naps.
And also for the old Telebhaja (fried snacks) shop where I had the most amazing malpua in a long, long time.
All this, while crisscrossing the lanes and spotting this and that.
The angel on the arch...
The angel on the arch..and a glimpse of the andarmahal.
The 200 something year old Twin Shiva temples, in a spidery tree embrace, making for great photo op , though marred by the shiny marble platform.
It's a walk that takes in cast iron balconies imported from England by rich merchants, shuttered windows, vanishing mansions, canons from Siraj-Ud-Doula's time used in sewerage and a fifth generation family of engravers and trophy makers working in a tiny office hemmed in by plants and the narrowest of lanes. When I visit, I usually see Calcutta from the inside of a cab or don't see it at all, because I have escaped to the metro, away from the traffic and pollution. This walk, in more ways than one, was an eye-opener.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Bollywood Thoughts...
Doesn't Vidya Balan look older than Shahid Kapur in Kismet Konnection? Husband thinks everyone looks older than Shahid Kapur, including Kareena.
Shilpa Shetty's Yoga DVD!!!!!????? Why??? But of course it's THE way to sell yourself to the vest, sorry West.
Vogue has Preity Zinta all glammed up on the cover. So used to seeing her in the T-shirt plus Ness combo now that I squinted double hard to figure out the cover. Incidentally, I like Vogue. Get a good laugh out of their 'budget' buys.
Aamir Khan's Ghajini hairstyle is pretty weird. Yes, I know some people find it very cool but me am old fashioned. Gimme TZP Aamir anyday.
Rani looks a bit sad and kind of down in the dumps post Abhi-Ash wedding, doesn't she? The perky thing in her is gone. Or is it Aditya Chopra as Stardust says? But seriously, has she ever taken a good look at him? And doesn't Abhishek look too serious post-shaadi. I watched the Holy Trinity being interviewed on CNN IBN and the only bright spark in that pointless interview was Abhishek's quip, don't mess with the Nagres, when they were asked what the message of the movie was.
And oh well, this isn't Bollywood but never mind. Vir Sanghvi bitched out Sex And The City in Mint. How it isn't about emancipation of women at all but marriage being the ultimate thing. Now I don't know what kind of women Mr Sanghvi has been hanging around with but who in her right mind thinks Sex And The City is about emancipation of women?!!! And this is 2008, we are emancipated and so were we 10 years ago (or was it more?) when the series started. We don't need Sex and the city to make a statement about emancipation. We need it to check out clothes we may not end up wearing, shoes we wished we could wear, hats the size of garden umbrellas, gossip and fun. Simple. It's timepass. Something to take your mind off the real world. Like 300 is for several men. Or if that irks your cult sensibilities, a Van Damme flick. Guess the old man was facing a writer's block when he wrote that one.
Shilpa Shetty's Yoga DVD!!!!!????? Why??? But of course it's THE way to sell yourself to the vest, sorry West.
Vogue has Preity Zinta all glammed up on the cover. So used to seeing her in the T-shirt plus Ness combo now that I squinted double hard to figure out the cover. Incidentally, I like Vogue. Get a good laugh out of their 'budget' buys.
Aamir Khan's Ghajini hairstyle is pretty weird. Yes, I know some people find it very cool but me am old fashioned. Gimme TZP Aamir anyday.
Rani looks a bit sad and kind of down in the dumps post Abhi-Ash wedding, doesn't she? The perky thing in her is gone. Or is it Aditya Chopra as Stardust says? But seriously, has she ever taken a good look at him? And doesn't Abhishek look too serious post-shaadi. I watched the Holy Trinity being interviewed on CNN IBN and the only bright spark in that pointless interview was Abhishek's quip, don't mess with the Nagres, when they were asked what the message of the movie was.
And oh well, this isn't Bollywood but never mind. Vir Sanghvi bitched out Sex And The City in Mint. How it isn't about emancipation of women at all but marriage being the ultimate thing. Now I don't know what kind of women Mr Sanghvi has been hanging around with but who in her right mind thinks Sex And The City is about emancipation of women?!!! And this is 2008, we are emancipated and so were we 10 years ago (or was it more?) when the series started. We don't need Sex and the city to make a statement about emancipation. We need it to check out clothes we may not end up wearing, shoes we wished we could wear, hats the size of garden umbrellas, gossip and fun. Simple. It's timepass. Something to take your mind off the real world. Like 300 is for several men. Or if that irks your cult sensibilities, a Van Damme flick. Guess the old man was facing a writer's block when he wrote that one.
Sunday, June 08, 2008
A slightly meandering post
Few days back, a friend and I were chatting about Jhumpa Lahiri's new book, Unaccustomed Earth. I told her I liked the book mainly because I identified with some of the Bong connections in it. Actually, what I identified with the most was one line from the first story, Unaccustomed Earth. 'Bengali had never been a language in which she felt like an adult,' Lahiri writes, describing her protagonist Ruma's dilemma about teaching the language to her three-year-old son.
That's exactly how I feel. Bengali to me is the language of my kiddiehood. Though I speak to both my parents only in Bengali and use a mix of Bengali, Hindi and English with my brother, I don't think in the language. This is despite the fact that I spent the first 16 years of my life at home surrounded by parents and their circle of largely Bengali friends and usually spent every summer holiday in Kolkata, discussing Pintu and sundry things with my cousin, in Bengali of course :)
The common language at P and my home is Hinglish. When A was little I would cuddle and coo to him in Bengali but now that he has grown up and understands/needs instructions, Bengali simply doesn't work. I can't be authoritative in Bong. And what's the point of screaming your head off in Bong asking him not to drop the jug of water if he doesn't understand it!
I'm sure if he were to hear Bengali around him more often, he'd pick up at least a smattering of it but unfortunately he just hears me, usually going ballistic on the phone with my mother. I'm not getting worked up here about him being able to converse in Bengali in future as I'm sure eventually he'll pick up something.
What I'm concerned is whether he would ever be able to read Bangla. No, I don't want him to turn a linguist. I just don't want him to miss out on the literature. I grew up on a steady diet of Bengali literature and in my bookshelf Shirshendu Mukherjee, Sunil Gangopadhdhay and Satyajit Ray shared equal amount of space with the Enid Blytons, Austens, Montgomery, etc.
There's no doubt about it, Bong kid lit is an absolute treasure. You can find everything there. Suave detectives and eccentic scientists, sidekick brats (usually cousins or nephews) and enormously intelligent and brave uncles or brothers. You'll also find imagination that's hard to top. Stolen statues, exotic stones, feuding families, scary sadhubabas...they have it all.
So that's my main worry. That kiddo will grow up to be a reader (have no doubt about it, he reads Pooh on the pot) and will probably read Feluda in translation but not in the language it's meant to be read in.
I guess I will introduce him to the language properly at some point and perhaps even make an effort (ha ha who am I kidding?!) to teach him to read. I don't quite remember how me and my brother learnt it as we lived outside Calcutta all along but according to my mother who has a very glazed over memory of these things, it happened quite naturally.
I hope such natural evolution (unlikely though it seems) happens with A as well and I am spared the task of teaching. Anything to escape being mommylike. Especially Bong-mommylike. A bhery dangerous species as those who know weel tell you.
PS: I know I should link every unfamiliar name (Shirshendu for instance) to a wikipedia type URL that throws some light on it but I'm usually too lazy to do that. Still I tried and came across this fabulous post by Calcutta Chromosome that also has some great comments. If any of you are Bong, have a fond memory of childhood literature or are remotely interested, check it out. It's better than any wikipedia blurb.
That's exactly how I feel. Bengali to me is the language of my kiddiehood. Though I speak to both my parents only in Bengali and use a mix of Bengali, Hindi and English with my brother, I don't think in the language. This is despite the fact that I spent the first 16 years of my life at home surrounded by parents and their circle of largely Bengali friends and usually spent every summer holiday in Kolkata, discussing Pintu and sundry things with my cousin, in Bengali of course :)
The common language at P and my home is Hinglish. When A was little I would cuddle and coo to him in Bengali but now that he has grown up and understands/needs instructions, Bengali simply doesn't work. I can't be authoritative in Bong. And what's the point of screaming your head off in Bong asking him not to drop the jug of water if he doesn't understand it!
I'm sure if he were to hear Bengali around him more often, he'd pick up at least a smattering of it but unfortunately he just hears me, usually going ballistic on the phone with my mother. I'm not getting worked up here about him being able to converse in Bengali in future as I'm sure eventually he'll pick up something.
What I'm concerned is whether he would ever be able to read Bangla. No, I don't want him to turn a linguist. I just don't want him to miss out on the literature. I grew up on a steady diet of Bengali literature and in my bookshelf Shirshendu Mukherjee, Sunil Gangopadhdhay and Satyajit Ray shared equal amount of space with the Enid Blytons, Austens, Montgomery, etc.
There's no doubt about it, Bong kid lit is an absolute treasure. You can find everything there. Suave detectives and eccentic scientists, sidekick brats (usually cousins or nephews) and enormously intelligent and brave uncles or brothers. You'll also find imagination that's hard to top. Stolen statues, exotic stones, feuding families, scary sadhubabas...they have it all.
So that's my main worry. That kiddo will grow up to be a reader (have no doubt about it, he reads Pooh on the pot) and will probably read Feluda in translation but not in the language it's meant to be read in.
I guess I will introduce him to the language properly at some point and perhaps even make an effort (ha ha who am I kidding?!) to teach him to read. I don't quite remember how me and my brother learnt it as we lived outside Calcutta all along but according to my mother who has a very glazed over memory of these things, it happened quite naturally.
I hope such natural evolution (unlikely though it seems) happens with A as well and I am spared the task of teaching. Anything to escape being mommylike. Especially Bong-mommylike. A bhery dangerous species as those who know weel tell you.
PS: I know I should link every unfamiliar name (Shirshendu for instance) to a wikipedia type URL that throws some light on it but I'm usually too lazy to do that. Still I tried and came across this fabulous post by Calcutta Chromosome that also has some great comments. If any of you are Bong, have a fond memory of childhood literature or are remotely interested, check it out. It's better than any wikipedia blurb.
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
Wear your choos when you go shopping next...
...because the magazine girl on the 'fashion' beat might just want you to be photographed. Well, it happened to us today. Correction. To my friend S, who was meeting me for lunch. We were standing outside the restaurant, waiting for another friend to turn up when this little girl approached and asked if we had two minutes. We thought she was a student doing a survey and gave her a we-hate-this-but-will-be-nice-to-you smile but it turned out that she was from a city magazine that does this 'Street Style' kind of page. They photograph well-dressed people and get the fashion editor to decode the look, why it works, etc. S was in two minds but I threatened her to be nice and pose coz I was sure the poor girl had been ordered by the editor to get 10 stylish people by the day's end. Once the photos were done, the girl asked S to tell her where her clothes, shoes and accessories were from. When S finished giving her the list, the girl asked if anything was designer.
No?
Hmmm...
Actually the watch looks neat...
200 bucks? Linking Road? What did you say the name was? N-a-g-a-n-i...oh it's just a regular store?
Well, is anything from overseas?
No?
Ok custom-designed?
Nah?
Ma'am, your bag looks really cool. Could you please say it's from Bangkok or Paris?
No?
Hmmm...
Actually the watch looks neat...
200 bucks? Linking Road? What did you say the name was? N-a-g-a-n-i...oh it's just a regular store?
Well, is anything from overseas?
No?
Ok custom-designed?
Nah?
Ma'am, your bag looks really cool. Could you please say it's from Bangkok or Paris?
Friday, May 30, 2008
Ever thought a forward could make you slurrp? Well this one did and ever since then I have been craving for Patishapta and Shukno mashla makha tetul (tamarind coated in dry spices). I did draw in the drool at the mention of Kosha Mangsho but they don't have the emotional attachment that patishapta and the spiced tetul hold for me. Those are the tastes of childhood. And a sudden invitation to so many memories.
Of long summer vacations. Of vacuous mornings spent staring out of the train window as the scenery unfolded from Mughalsarai to Howrah. Of midnight kulhar chais at unheard of stations.*
Of spending endless evenings at dida's place swatting the mosquitos while she battled those and the heat with a haathpakha (handfan, have seen them only in Cal) and we waited for the power to come. And of Patishapta. Nobody makes them like Dida did. Maami comes a close second, having learnt it first hand from her and is wonderful enough to make them everytime I visit Cal. But Dida's patishaptas were something else. Melt in the mouth with just the right touch of sweetness. So wonderful that you could eat them forever. It's a taste I search everytime I eat a patishapta anywhere, which is extremely rare. It's not a dish that's gone the roshogolla way in terms of availability and popularity. I wonder why.
And the spiced tetul? Well it has a love story associated with it. Of my cousin who carried on a long terrace romance with the boy next door (possibly named Pintu) for several years before any of them could gather up the courage to speak to each other. On my summer visits, I was the only witness allowed to take a peek into that romance while Pintu 'studied' in his small room on the terrace and cousin filled me on stuff: The day Pintu was caught looking for her, the day his friend asked for the cricket ball that had landed on her terrace, and so on. The lack of real spice in the gossip was more than made up by the tamarind. Before we could realize it, we had spent hours on the terrace, addicted not just to Pintu-analysis but also the spiced tetul.
* Had to write about the midnight kulhar chai. What is nostalgia if not clichéd? :p
Of long summer vacations. Of vacuous mornings spent staring out of the train window as the scenery unfolded from Mughalsarai to Howrah. Of midnight kulhar chais at unheard of stations.*
Of spending endless evenings at dida's place swatting the mosquitos while she battled those and the heat with a haathpakha (handfan, have seen them only in Cal) and we waited for the power to come. And of Patishapta. Nobody makes them like Dida did. Maami comes a close second, having learnt it first hand from her and is wonderful enough to make them everytime I visit Cal. But Dida's patishaptas were something else. Melt in the mouth with just the right touch of sweetness. So wonderful that you could eat them forever. It's a taste I search everytime I eat a patishapta anywhere, which is extremely rare. It's not a dish that's gone the roshogolla way in terms of availability and popularity. I wonder why.
And the spiced tetul? Well it has a love story associated with it. Of my cousin who carried on a long terrace romance with the boy next door (possibly named Pintu) for several years before any of them could gather up the courage to speak to each other. On my summer visits, I was the only witness allowed to take a peek into that romance while Pintu 'studied' in his small room on the terrace and cousin filled me on stuff: The day Pintu was caught looking for her, the day his friend asked for the cricket ball that had landed on her terrace, and so on. The lack of real spice in the gossip was more than made up by the tamarind. Before we could realize it, we had spent hours on the terrace, addicted not just to Pintu-analysis but also the spiced tetul.
* Had to write about the midnight kulhar chai. What is nostalgia if not clichéd? :p
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
You know senility is fast catching up when...
Your random thoughts during the day include...
Oh I hope the curd has set properly
Wow I didn't need to take him to the toilet even once during his afternoon nap (in fact, this is the high point of the day)
Must order more jelly
Don't I have a single new book to read? Oh wait...there's that M&B I got free with Good Housekeeping somewhere..ah here is is with Pepper Learns to Share...something to read at last.
That was the cutest Tom & Jerry cartoon ever.
Oh I hope the curd has set properly
Wow I didn't need to take him to the toilet even once during his afternoon nap (in fact, this is the high point of the day)
Must order more jelly
Don't I have a single new book to read? Oh wait...there's that M&B I got free with Good Housekeeping somewhere..ah here is is with Pepper Learns to Share...something to read at last.
That was the cutest Tom & Jerry cartoon ever.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Snapshots from the past few months
The little man is getting hugely entertaining day by day. And not just in his gardening avatar.
He loves pools. Of every kind.
And climbing anything. These days preferably without assistance.
Would love to post more pictures. But difficult to get ones that reveal yet hide :)
Saturday, May 10, 2008
I get a lot of flak for leaving my son in a daycare while I stay at home and work, as opposed to being away in office. Most of the flak is not direct of course. It's hinted at or expressed with a raised eyebrow or just an accusatory 'oh!' When he first started going, perhaps a bit of the 'guilt' (courtesy mom/MIL) rubbed off on me and I would find myself explaining to random strangers in the lift why he goes/for how long/how he loves playing there and all that.
Thankfully that stopped the day a wise lady cut me short and said, don't feel guilty darling, no mother takes a decision without thinking it through. I have worshipped the ground beneath her feet ever since (the floor of the lift as that's where we usually meet).
Yes, no mother takes a decision without thinking it through. Why then are we so quick to judge fellow mommies? We look at the child running wild flinging things off the shelves (okay, one chocolate) in the supermarket and we think the mother doesn't discipline him. What if she does? What if she's a strict mommy otherwise but may be this is a bad day, for him as well as her?
We shake our heads in unison as that cute girl from the building falls off the cycle and hurts herself while the maid flirts with the watchman. That poor thing, the parents shouldn't have chosen such a careless maid! What if they didn't? What if they took months over the decision, visiting as many agencies as possible and finally selecting who they thought was best? What if tomorrow, after she's seen the bruise, the mother doesn't spend a single guilt-free moment at work?
The thing is, we can't help ourselves. It's human nature to be judgemental. Maybe not in the absolute extreme sense but say, at least for 10-15 minutes, convincing ourselves that we've got it right while the other person has it hopelessly wrong.
Thankfully that stopped the day a wise lady cut me short and said, don't feel guilty darling, no mother takes a decision without thinking it through. I have worshipped the ground beneath her feet ever since (the floor of the lift as that's where we usually meet).
Yes, no mother takes a decision without thinking it through. Why then are we so quick to judge fellow mommies? We look at the child running wild flinging things off the shelves (okay, one chocolate) in the supermarket and we think the mother doesn't discipline him. What if she does? What if she's a strict mommy otherwise but may be this is a bad day, for him as well as her?
We shake our heads in unison as that cute girl from the building falls off the cycle and hurts herself while the maid flirts with the watchman. That poor thing, the parents shouldn't have chosen such a careless maid! What if they didn't? What if they took months over the decision, visiting as many agencies as possible and finally selecting who they thought was best? What if tomorrow, after she's seen the bruise, the mother doesn't spend a single guilt-free moment at work?
The thing is, we can't help ourselves. It's human nature to be judgemental. Maybe not in the absolute extreme sense but say, at least for 10-15 minutes, convincing ourselves that we've got it right while the other person has it hopelessly wrong.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
How To Save On Your Monthly Grocery Bill
Buy magazines. Yes, you read that right. In the last couple of months I have got green tea from Femina, silky hair shampoo from Cosmo, soup from Good Housekeeping, cream from Marie Claire and today, to my utter and complete amazement, some more shampoo, this time for strength and shine, from surprise, surprise, India Today. (Evil cackle here)
But what really cheered me up was the strip of Digene from Good Housekeeping. (Takes back evil cackle)
Really needed and much appreciated as the medical store down the road won't home deliver small quantities. Good housekeeping indeed! Now what else do I need from that grocery list...
But what really cheered me up was the strip of Digene from Good Housekeeping. (Takes back evil cackle)
Really needed and much appreciated as the medical store down the road won't home deliver small quantities. Good housekeeping indeed! Now what else do I need from that grocery list...
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Oh to be a television reporter!!!
Ooooooh....the sheer thought of it is giving me goosebumps. Imagine if I were a television reporter in these exciting times. What a life it would have been. Since news these days means chasing Kareena and Saif Ali Khan and sometimes even his poor dad, I'd get to rub shoulders with celebrities. Ok, at least I'd get to rub the mike on their noses, wouldn't I? And what limitless possibilities of research would I have! Sifting tirelessly through repetitive footage of Manish Malhotra shows, Saif's tattooed hand playing the guitar and Kareena's kohl-laden eyes. Perhaps I'd stick in the shot of a sombre looking Shahid Kapoor from some award function for that real emotional angle. And for voiceovers (or whatever they are called), I'd get to write stuff that Hindi film's corniest dialogues are made of: Kya Chote Nawab chulbuli Kareena ke maang mein ek chutki sindoor bharenge? Kya Bade Nawab ko hai apne bahu ki doli ka intezar?
Gosh, just the thought of it makes my journalistic skills jump. Gimme a job someone!
Gosh, just the thought of it makes my journalistic skills jump. Gimme a job someone!
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Tried to order pizza today. Girl at the other end said something like 'Anityullbyeonepurrssonilpyenyandgerlikbreyadnocyokemyam.'
After much blankness figured that she said 'and it'll be one personal pan and garlic bread no coke ma'am.'
Do they teach them to fake an accent even during pizza shop assistant training? Hyelp! Yam nyeverrrr khallinggg damminyos agen.
After much blankness figured that she said 'and it'll be one personal pan and garlic bread no coke ma'am.'
Do they teach them to fake an accent even during pizza shop assistant training? Hyelp! Yam nyeverrrr khallinggg damminyos agen.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Sari buying...
...from a big store is a nerve wrecking experience for me. Unless of course I'm buying from a small shop-in-the house run by nice Malleshwaram aunty who has been collecting exquisite silks for years. That too has its pitfalls. As aunty plies me with gorgeous silk after silk out of a 100 year old cupboard, I'm wondering if it would look too rude if I walked out without buying anything except a small silk stole perhaps.
But the stores are something else. I freeze the moment I step in. Especially if I'm alone. Everyone eyes you a tad suspiciously because after all sari buying in India is group activity. You're supposed to land up with your mom, maami, mausi and even third cousin and debate the merits of crystal work on pure georgette vs kantha stitch. Landing up single in a sari shop is as uncomfortable as landing up single in a pub. In fact, more so.
And why oh why are the best sari stores populated by men? I mean, c'mon it's women who buy saris largely, right? Then why would we want it draped around us by a man who is never going to look even remotely passable in those six yards? Isn't the job done better and more comfortably by a woman?
My worst nightmare is the eager beaver salesman. He'll insist you have 'cold drinks' the moment you step in and show you what he thinks are the best designs (bilkul fassnebale. Yehi design Anamika Khanna 30 thousand ka bechti hai. Aur hum apko almost free de rahe hai). Never mind if it looks like satin rags stitched together (with sequins, don't forget the sequins). In that rare moment when you can get a word in and ask to see a sari you think you may like, he'll reject your taste with a 'yeh to ekdum simple hai madam, partywear ke liye nahi jamega.'
The very same salesman, who usually looks like a stick insect will also critically evaluate your chances of carrying of designer stuff. 'Yeh pre-stiched choli ke saath aata hai, aapke size ke liye theek rahega.' AAAAAAAARGGGH!
By this time, you are halfway between a desire to leave and a strong desire to just sit there lulled by the AC+cold drink combo and keep staring at the technicolour display unfolding. Salesman is figuring out that you may not have liked anything at all, so switches into aggro mode: Aapko exactly kaisa chahiye? partwear? simple design wala? yeh ghaghra style sari chalega? Aap theek se batayegi to hum bhi sahi wala nikalenge na. Kanjeevaram mein zardozi work nahin pasand? Arre aajkal yehi chal raha hai.'
You finally find courage and meekly say that perhaps you will come back. At this salesman gestures someone to pick up the sprawled saris in a voice tinged with anger and despair. He tries one last time to interest you in a sari that screams SEQUIN ATTACK but the flick of his hand conveys that he's lost interest in you and is just finishing his job.
And you walk out of glittering sari store emotionally battered and head for the nearest 'cold drink' kiosk.
But the stores are something else. I freeze the moment I step in. Especially if I'm alone. Everyone eyes you a tad suspiciously because after all sari buying in India is group activity. You're supposed to land up with your mom, maami, mausi and even third cousin and debate the merits of crystal work on pure georgette vs kantha stitch. Landing up single in a sari shop is as uncomfortable as landing up single in a pub. In fact, more so.
And why oh why are the best sari stores populated by men? I mean, c'mon it's women who buy saris largely, right? Then why would we want it draped around us by a man who is never going to look even remotely passable in those six yards? Isn't the job done better and more comfortably by a woman?
My worst nightmare is the eager beaver salesman. He'll insist you have 'cold drinks' the moment you step in and show you what he thinks are the best designs (bilkul fassnebale. Yehi design Anamika Khanna 30 thousand ka bechti hai. Aur hum apko almost free de rahe hai). Never mind if it looks like satin rags stitched together (with sequins, don't forget the sequins). In that rare moment when you can get a word in and ask to see a sari you think you may like, he'll reject your taste with a 'yeh to ekdum simple hai madam, partywear ke liye nahi jamega.'
The very same salesman, who usually looks like a stick insect will also critically evaluate your chances of carrying of designer stuff. 'Yeh pre-stiched choli ke saath aata hai, aapke size ke liye theek rahega.' AAAAAAAARGGGH!
By this time, you are halfway between a desire to leave and a strong desire to just sit there lulled by the AC+cold drink combo and keep staring at the technicolour display unfolding. Salesman is figuring out that you may not have liked anything at all, so switches into aggro mode: Aapko exactly kaisa chahiye? partwear? simple design wala? yeh ghaghra style sari chalega? Aap theek se batayegi to hum bhi sahi wala nikalenge na. Kanjeevaram mein zardozi work nahin pasand? Arre aajkal yehi chal raha hai.'
You finally find courage and meekly say that perhaps you will come back. At this salesman gestures someone to pick up the sprawled saris in a voice tinged with anger and despair. He tries one last time to interest you in a sari that screams SEQUIN ATTACK but the flick of his hand conveys that he's lost interest in you and is just finishing his job.
And you walk out of glittering sari store emotionally battered and head for the nearest 'cold drink' kiosk.
Sunday, March 09, 2008
A Day In The Life of A Potty Trainer
Excusez moi...
For months I tried to keep potty tales out of the blog but as it turns out this currently all-consuming aspect of my life is creeping in here as well.
The child is being toilet trained. We're almost there but days coem and go when the monkey thinks poop can be a source of fun and achievement. For him that is.
This morning I woke up, brushed teeth, made myself a nice cup of tea and was ready to sit down with the paper when I heard that loving voice call out 'Mama potty aaya.'
Thrilled mama forgot chai, rushed in ecstasy towards the bathroom (yes, motherhood gives you strange highs) with child in tow thinking 'great! He's finally trained enough to say it out loud', plonked him on his Winnie Pooh seat, handed him a Pepper storybook and waited in anticipation.
Child looked up with angelic smile and almost instantly said, 'Ho gaya, finish.'
Mother tried to peer down the thing and suddenly realized that in her half-crazed, chai-deprived state, she had forgotten to take off his pants. In fact, they had already been taken off, including the diaper...on his cot and here he was now, smiling sweetly and pointing to the mess.
And with that, if you are still reading, I shall stop disgusting you. The last post was a long time ago and I had nothing else to write about. Kahini, don't tell me the headline didn't warn you.
For months I tried to keep potty tales out of the blog but as it turns out this currently all-consuming aspect of my life is creeping in here as well.
The child is being toilet trained. We're almost there but days coem and go when the monkey thinks poop can be a source of fun and achievement. For him that is.
This morning I woke up, brushed teeth, made myself a nice cup of tea and was ready to sit down with the paper when I heard that loving voice call out 'Mama potty aaya.'
Thrilled mama forgot chai, rushed in ecstasy towards the bathroom (yes, motherhood gives you strange highs) with child in tow thinking 'great! He's finally trained enough to say it out loud', plonked him on his Winnie Pooh seat, handed him a Pepper storybook and waited in anticipation.
Child looked up with angelic smile and almost instantly said, 'Ho gaya, finish.'
Mother tried to peer down the thing and suddenly realized that in her half-crazed, chai-deprived state, she had forgotten to take off his pants. In fact, they had already been taken off, including the diaper...on his cot and here he was now, smiling sweetly and pointing to the mess.
And with that, if you are still reading, I shall stop disgusting you. The last post was a long time ago and I had nothing else to write about. Kahini, don't tell me the headline didn't warn you.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Whine Factory On The Loose
There's nothing worse than being a stay at home working mom. For starters you aren't taken seriously by anyone. Not even by yourself. You cannot say No, today is Tuesday I can't go out for dinner because unlike proper working moms, you do not have a morning rush hour, PF or a boss. So you tag along, even if there's a deadline looming at the back of your mind and the spectre of having to work way past midnight.
The people you are working for seem to think they are doing you a favor by simply offering you something to do. "That Bangalore housewife wants the deadline extended. God, what do these freelancers do the whole day!"*
The direct fallout of this is that they think your work hours extend the entire day because unlike them, you aren't really working, are you? And then there are ever helpful family and friends. "You look terrible," a friend informs, "Go get a haircut."
"But I don't have the time," I whine, "I drop A to the daycare, rush home and work, finish and pick him up. My day's packed."
"What nonsense!" she declares, "You're working from home, aren't you?"
Then there are the moms. The scariest of the lot are the ones who have given up Ivy League degrees and fat paychecks for Project Pram. "You should get him down to the park more often. The weather's really nice," they chorus. Mommy scrutiny gets me all shaken and stirred, sorry scared, so I can't help but get into unstoppable confession mode.
"Erm...I had a deadline. So I let him sit inside his tenthouse and watch Winnie The Pooh five times nonstop. Oh and I also let him eat chips and almost got him beer, just to get him to stay quiet," I dread the questions that will inevitably follow after Work Vs Park. Might as well deflect them beforehand.
The saddest bit is that all your 'Me Time' (to quote Femina/Cosmo etc) gets eaten up. When the tyke is away/asleep you work and when the tyke is around/awake you a)try to work or b)feel terribly guilty about Winnie The Pooh viewings (Television! The nemesis of good motherhood!) and try constructive, fun activity which results in 30 mins of play and two hours of clean up. There are four unread books lying on the bedside table and I feel weirdly guilty (Guilt is truly every mom's best pal) when I spot them gathering dust. After all, I don't even have a proper job. How would we ever manage if I did?
* I'm sure in another life I would have been a bitchy ed to a freelancing mom. This, I guess, is payback time.
The people you are working for seem to think they are doing you a favor by simply offering you something to do. "That Bangalore housewife wants the deadline extended. God, what do these freelancers do the whole day!"*
The direct fallout of this is that they think your work hours extend the entire day because unlike them, you aren't really working, are you? And then there are ever helpful family and friends. "You look terrible," a friend informs, "Go get a haircut."
"But I don't have the time," I whine, "I drop A to the daycare, rush home and work, finish and pick him up. My day's packed."
"What nonsense!" she declares, "You're working from home, aren't you?"
Then there are the moms. The scariest of the lot are the ones who have given up Ivy League degrees and fat paychecks for Project Pram. "You should get him down to the park more often. The weather's really nice," they chorus. Mommy scrutiny gets me all shaken and stirred, sorry scared, so I can't help but get into unstoppable confession mode.
"Erm...I had a deadline. So I let him sit inside his tenthouse and watch Winnie The Pooh five times nonstop. Oh and I also let him eat chips and almost got him beer, just to get him to stay quiet," I dread the questions that will inevitably follow after Work Vs Park. Might as well deflect them beforehand.
The saddest bit is that all your 'Me Time' (to quote Femina/Cosmo etc) gets eaten up. When the tyke is away/asleep you work and when the tyke is around/awake you a)try to work or b)feel terribly guilty about Winnie The Pooh viewings (Television! The nemesis of good motherhood!) and try constructive, fun activity which results in 30 mins of play and two hours of clean up. There are four unread books lying on the bedside table and I feel weirdly guilty (Guilt is truly every mom's best pal) when I spot them gathering dust. After all, I don't even have a proper job. How would we ever manage if I did?
* I'm sure in another life I would have been a bitchy ed to a freelancing mom. This, I guess, is payback time.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
My first PR job...
...is being done out of pyar and no paisa*. Though I'd welcome some chilled beers. One of my fave writers has finally started her own blog for 'your kind perusal.' Mayawatiji dhanyabaad.
* I couldn't resist that cheesy line. Toyed between sheer pyar and pure pyar. See how creative I am at 12.20 AM?
* I couldn't resist that cheesy line. Toyed between sheer pyar and pure pyar. See how creative I am at 12.20 AM?
Friday, January 11, 2008
Wishlist 08
In no particular order...
Long nails
A visit to Goa/Andamans/Lakshadweep....anywhere with the sea
Control over my temper esp with maids where losing it is fruitless esp when maid and I have communication problem
A better managed work schedule
Doing more creative stuff with the monkey
Going for bangalore walk
Looking for a new wardrobe in places other than Fabindia
Looking for bedsheets, curtains and cushion covers in places other than Fabindia
More books
Long nails
A visit to Goa/Andamans/Lakshadweep....anywhere with the sea
Control over my temper esp with maids where losing it is fruitless esp when maid and I have communication problem
A better managed work schedule
Doing more creative stuff with the monkey
Going for bangalore walk
Looking for a new wardrobe in places other than Fabindia
Looking for bedsheets, curtains and cushion covers in places other than Fabindia
More books
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Notes From A Fast Fading December
Have spent half the month showing the two year old to his several grandparents, cousins, uncles and aunts. In the process have memorized every detail of the inflight program of Kingfisher Airlines, particularly Tom & Jerry. Have also read Hi Blitz cover to cover. Almost.
Once again went to Calcutta and fell sick, according to the time-honoured ritual I have been following since the age of six. Also, I had to work a bit there, which wasn't a good thing. But bonded with my brother's wife who was visiting and that is always a good thing. Fought with mother as usual over my bohemian baby habits (to her) and then had the usual emotional heart to heart conversation (I said that but what I meant was this) later. My dad says I'd behave exactly the same when I was in college. I'm still wondering whether this means a)haven't matured at all (Bad coming from my chilled out dad) b)still the same child-like, carefree type person despite baby (very good) or c) he's tired of these mother daughter arguments. I'd take C.
Delhi was better activity wise because I wasn't sicko anymore and got to wear my long, stylish trenchcoat after two whole years. Don't laugh but I love trenchcoats and this particular one which cost me almost half my salary at the time I bought it. Also went and watched Taare Zameen Par and cried buckets all the while attempting to hide the tears from teenager niece sitting next to me. To add to the entertainment, we had a very chatty family sitting right behind ours who kept coming up with remarks like: Bombaywale school aise hi hote hai/Aamir Khan to aaya hi nahi ab tak? Tujhe pucca pata hai na ki woh picture mein hain?
The icing on the cake was visiting Fact & Fiction, my favourite bookshop in the city. In fact my favourite bookshop anywhere. I also loved The Bookshop at Khan Market but that's gone now. Fact & Fiction is in Priya Market, Vasant Vihar, and is probably one of the tiniest bookshops around but what a collection it packs. Don't go there if you are looking for the latest bestsellers, you'll get those at the Landmarks and Crosswords. If you want interesting titles to leap off the shelves and catch your eye, authors you've never heard of who turn out to be surprisngly funny, go there.
And wherever you are, may the new year be a happy one :)
Once again went to Calcutta and fell sick, according to the time-honoured ritual I have been following since the age of six. Also, I had to work a bit there, which wasn't a good thing. But bonded with my brother's wife who was visiting and that is always a good thing. Fought with mother as usual over my bohemian baby habits (to her) and then had the usual emotional heart to heart conversation (I said that but what I meant was this) later. My dad says I'd behave exactly the same when I was in college. I'm still wondering whether this means a)haven't matured at all (Bad coming from my chilled out dad) b)still the same child-like, carefree type person despite baby (very good) or c) he's tired of these mother daughter arguments. I'd take C.
Delhi was better activity wise because I wasn't sicko anymore and got to wear my long, stylish trenchcoat after two whole years. Don't laugh but I love trenchcoats and this particular one which cost me almost half my salary at the time I bought it. Also went and watched Taare Zameen Par and cried buckets all the while attempting to hide the tears from teenager niece sitting next to me. To add to the entertainment, we had a very chatty family sitting right behind ours who kept coming up with remarks like: Bombaywale school aise hi hote hai/Aamir Khan to aaya hi nahi ab tak? Tujhe pucca pata hai na ki woh picture mein hain?
The icing on the cake was visiting Fact & Fiction, my favourite bookshop in the city. In fact my favourite bookshop anywhere. I also loved The Bookshop at Khan Market but that's gone now. Fact & Fiction is in Priya Market, Vasant Vihar, and is probably one of the tiniest bookshops around but what a collection it packs. Don't go there if you are looking for the latest bestsellers, you'll get those at the Landmarks and Crosswords. If you want interesting titles to leap off the shelves and catch your eye, authors you've never heard of who turn out to be surprisngly funny, go there.
And wherever you are, may the new year be a happy one :)
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
Thursday, November 08, 2007
The Disguised Kitty Party
She had her best crockery out.
'Was that really Villeroy and Boch...' I did a mental gulp.
She smiled, adept at reading gulps, even if these were silent. 'We got those when Satish was posted in Germany...' the story went.
The maid brought out the samosas, cakes and mini pizzas for the kids. Thankfully not on the V&B, I gulped again, given my son's love for flinging unsuspecting pieces of crockery available within his grasp.
The kids played in the nursery, watched by the maid, who had been asked to stay back. The mums lounged on the Italian couches and admired the Plasma. 'It should have been in the TV room but the points you know...'
Two days later, the scene was replayed. In a slightly sober setting and without the V&B grandiose. No Italian couches this time but a perfectly well-kept home, fresh flowers in crystal vase, neatly displayed child's room and better finger food.
"It's a good thing it's been raining," smiled mum no. 2, whose house it was and faced the audience, "so whose turn is it next?"
And then it hit me. Hell. This was the kitty party in disguise!
There are five kids in the building in and around the son's age. Actually there are several more. However, in those blissful early months when monkey just lolled around in the pram and gurgled, I paraded it round the building and struck up some sort of a 'we're-all-mums-in-it-together' rapport with these five, two of whom were familiar faces from the lift.
We'd meet downstairs with the kids, take them to the park or simply let them run around. Some of them would meet regularly, some like me would at times be dragged out kicking and screaming by a super energetic toddler waiting to meet his friends.
Then came the rains. And a weather that no mom trusts a kid with. So we started meeting in each other's homes, simply because the kids liked it.
Or so I thought.
As it turns out, these 'informal' playdates are an excuse for showing off wedding lehengas and gilt-edged crockery. Of course, it's not labelled a kitty party, because that's so behenji, isn't it?
Invitations are extended a day or two earlier these days, irrespective of the weather. I'm dreading my 'turn' because I shall serve chips, chai and chocolate flakes in unbreakable melamine plates and surreptitiously beg the husband to come home earlier than usual.
Wondering if the son will lose any friends!
'Was that really Villeroy and Boch...' I did a mental gulp.
She smiled, adept at reading gulps, even if these were silent. 'We got those when Satish was posted in Germany...' the story went.
The maid brought out the samosas, cakes and mini pizzas for the kids. Thankfully not on the V&B, I gulped again, given my son's love for flinging unsuspecting pieces of crockery available within his grasp.
The kids played in the nursery, watched by the maid, who had been asked to stay back. The mums lounged on the Italian couches and admired the Plasma. 'It should have been in the TV room but the points you know...'
Two days later, the scene was replayed. In a slightly sober setting and without the V&B grandiose. No Italian couches this time but a perfectly well-kept home, fresh flowers in crystal vase, neatly displayed child's room and better finger food.
"It's a good thing it's been raining," smiled mum no. 2, whose house it was and faced the audience, "so whose turn is it next?"
And then it hit me. Hell. This was the kitty party in disguise!
There are five kids in the building in and around the son's age. Actually there are several more. However, in those blissful early months when monkey just lolled around in the pram and gurgled, I paraded it round the building and struck up some sort of a 'we're-all-mums-in-it-together' rapport with these five, two of whom were familiar faces from the lift.
We'd meet downstairs with the kids, take them to the park or simply let them run around. Some of them would meet regularly, some like me would at times be dragged out kicking and screaming by a super energetic toddler waiting to meet his friends.
Then came the rains. And a weather that no mom trusts a kid with. So we started meeting in each other's homes, simply because the kids liked it.
Or so I thought.
As it turns out, these 'informal' playdates are an excuse for showing off wedding lehengas and gilt-edged crockery. Of course, it's not labelled a kitty party, because that's so behenji, isn't it?
Invitations are extended a day or two earlier these days, irrespective of the weather. I'm dreading my 'turn' because I shall serve chips, chai and chocolate flakes in unbreakable melamine plates and surreptitiously beg the husband to come home earlier than usual.
Wondering if the son will lose any friends!
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Identity
There is a Durga Puja pandal right below my parents' fourth floor apartment in Kolkata. During the days of Puja, it is near impossible to hear what my parents are saying if I call them in the evening. The sound of the dhak drowns everything out. Thankfully, it also brings conversation to the minimum because these days the moment I hear it, there is a catch in my voice that my parents would find hard to miss and harder to forget.
It's quite strange actually. I haven't grown up around Durga Puja and don't start sighing about the 'chill in the wind and nip in the air' like most people who have grown up in Calcutta are likely to do, come end September/early October. I have rarely ever 'gone home' for the Pujas.
But these days I do miss it. I miss the fact that I don't go out rushing to buy new clothes the moment Puja arrives, because mostly I don't remember. My mom reminds me and though this year I bought clothes for the monkey, usually I lie to her and say yes because it will make her feel good. It helps that there's always something in my wardrobe that's not been worn. Not a case of too many clothes, just too many bad buys.
I don't have too many Durga Puja memories. At least not many in Kolkata. There was one when all cousins and uncles got together, piled into a van and visited all the famous Pujas. Then there was one that took place in my aunt's almost-crumbling ancestral house. And several years back, my homesick parents turning on the radio for the early morning Mahalaya.
The later day memories are all outside Calcutta. In Orissa, where I met the school crush (not sadly on Orkut, ha ha); in a very Bollywood style Andheri Puja that I'd visit with my friend mainly to eat Bhog; similar one in Vasant Kunj, again with friend, again for Bhog. It was something you did not only to assert your Bongness, please your parents, etc but also because it was there and it was part of your culture. For me, it didn't get bigger than that.
So I really don't know where the catch in the throat comes from these days. It probably has to do with the fact that I am sometimes a bit lost when it comes to the identity part. I come from a very Bengali family but I grew up all over the place and was encouraged to make friends with everyone, never forced to learn Rabindra Sangeet (Thanks God and Mother) or memorize Abol Tabol though I loved it, as I love Feluda, every self respecting Bong girl's literary crush in youth. When I decided to get married to a non-Bong, my dad's biggest worry was that his family doesn't eat non-veg, not that they were another very different community. Honest :)
It probably has to do with the fact that I have a child now (Aqua, sounds familiar?). And this is his heritage too, even if partially. So I try to chip in bits and parts, may be a song here and there, speaking to him in Bengali when we are alone and taking him for the obligatory visit to the Puja Pandal (We'll see the famous Ulsoor Durga Puja this year, I have announced to P), even though he is too small to remember anything. And then I realize: Help, this is my mom all over again!
PS: Now that I am reading through it, there are too many alien words in the post for someone not familiar with the strange world of Bongdom. Too lazy to link them all up to explanations now. Bherry Sorry.
It's quite strange actually. I haven't grown up around Durga Puja and don't start sighing about the 'chill in the wind and nip in the air' like most people who have grown up in Calcutta are likely to do, come end September/early October. I have rarely ever 'gone home' for the Pujas.
But these days I do miss it. I miss the fact that I don't go out rushing to buy new clothes the moment Puja arrives, because mostly I don't remember. My mom reminds me and though this year I bought clothes for the monkey, usually I lie to her and say yes because it will make her feel good. It helps that there's always something in my wardrobe that's not been worn. Not a case of too many clothes, just too many bad buys.
I don't have too many Durga Puja memories. At least not many in Kolkata. There was one when all cousins and uncles got together, piled into a van and visited all the famous Pujas. Then there was one that took place in my aunt's almost-crumbling ancestral house. And several years back, my homesick parents turning on the radio for the early morning Mahalaya.
The later day memories are all outside Calcutta. In Orissa, where I met the school crush (not sadly on Orkut, ha ha); in a very Bollywood style Andheri Puja that I'd visit with my friend mainly to eat Bhog; similar one in Vasant Kunj, again with friend, again for Bhog. It was something you did not only to assert your Bongness, please your parents, etc but also because it was there and it was part of your culture. For me, it didn't get bigger than that.
So I really don't know where the catch in the throat comes from these days. It probably has to do with the fact that I am sometimes a bit lost when it comes to the identity part. I come from a very Bengali family but I grew up all over the place and was encouraged to make friends with everyone, never forced to learn Rabindra Sangeet (Thanks God and Mother) or memorize Abol Tabol though I loved it, as I love Feluda, every self respecting Bong girl's literary crush in youth. When I decided to get married to a non-Bong, my dad's biggest worry was that his family doesn't eat non-veg, not that they were another very different community. Honest :)
It probably has to do with the fact that I have a child now (Aqua, sounds familiar?). And this is his heritage too, even if partially. So I try to chip in bits and parts, may be a song here and there, speaking to him in Bengali when we are alone and taking him for the obligatory visit to the Puja Pandal (We'll see the famous Ulsoor Durga Puja this year, I have announced to P), even though he is too small to remember anything. And then I realize: Help, this is my mom all over again!
PS: Now that I am reading through it, there are too many alien words in the post for someone not familiar with the strange world of Bongdom. Too lazy to link them all up to explanations now. Bherry Sorry.
I always find it funny that my bookshelf in the living room gets such diverse comments. A very close friend who lives next door and drops in every other day notices only the chick lit variety and makes disparaging noises. He pointedly ignores the slightly more serious stuff kept right next to it. Then again, maybe pointedly is the wrong word because we only see what we want to see. A very classy and well-travelled colleague of my husband was very surprised at the collection of Bill Brysons and sportingly admitted that he didn't think I would enjoy that kind of humour.
Anyway, I find the comments and comparisons both funny and surprising because I don't have a big bookshelf or anything. Compared to some people I know my collection is a tiny one. I keep most of my books in a spare cupboard. The one in the living room is a small shelf that the man designed when he was 16 and refuses to give up. I've been wondering whether I should shift it to another room but it looks best there. I often do mean things like put in a lot of Georgette Heyers and the Shopaholic series just before some serious types come home and wait for the reaction. Yes, I may not have time for updating posts but I do have time for absurd stuff. So the bookshelf stays on because more than anything, I love the comments and reactions that it gets out of visitors. If not all, at least from some of them.
Anyway, I find the comments and comparisons both funny and surprising because I don't have a big bookshelf or anything. Compared to some people I know my collection is a tiny one. I keep most of my books in a spare cupboard. The one in the living room is a small shelf that the man designed when he was 16 and refuses to give up. I've been wondering whether I should shift it to another room but it looks best there. I often do mean things like put in a lot of Georgette Heyers and the Shopaholic series just before some serious types come home and wait for the reaction. Yes, I may not have time for updating posts but I do have time for absurd stuff. So the bookshelf stays on because more than anything, I love the comments and reactions that it gets out of visitors. If not all, at least from some of them.
Friday, October 05, 2007
Why waste words when a picture will do
The holiday was amazing. Not just for the place but also for the complete lack of any communication with the world. No TV, no phones (unless you have a BSNL connection) and no newspapers. Just a lot of crystal clear aqua-blue-green sea, white sands unlittered by crushed bisleri bottles and ice-cream sticks and a lot of silence. :)
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Where Shall We Go This October?
Way back in 2004, four people took forever to plan a holiday to Jaipur/Udaipur/Uttranchal and ended up anywhere but there.
History repeats itself this year as our little family takes forever to decide on where to go. The only thing we agree upon is a beach that's not Goa. Because we love that place and can go there anytime, something we've been doing religiously every year.
So extensive research is on. Husband and wife are constantly at loggerheads and the toddler is putting in his own two bits by tearing up brochures or switching off the computer just when we have found a beautiful homestay in Kerala.
The search is on. Hopefully shall end in a holiday worth remembering like it did in 2004.
History repeats itself this year as our little family takes forever to decide on where to go. The only thing we agree upon is a beach that's not Goa. Because we love that place and can go there anytime, something we've been doing religiously every year.
So extensive research is on. Husband and wife are constantly at loggerheads and the toddler is putting in his own two bits by tearing up brochures or switching off the computer just when we have found a beautiful homestay in Kerala.
The search is on. Hopefully shall end in a holiday worth remembering like it did in 2004.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Jai Orkut
Long lost (and much regretted) schoolfriends have finally found moi. Thought I was the only one to have escaped that phenomenon.
Anyway, great feeling. Especially to realize that:
* Certified hot babe in class thought I was one too (erm...she is 32 now. That explains the memory)
* Weirdest guy in class had crush on me
* Cannot for the life of me remember one classmate who has got back in touch.
(I'm 32. So the memory bit applies here as well)
But one of them is a girl I was great friends with and after a flurry of mails and phone calls over two days, it feels like we had never been out of touch. Some friendships do stay on, I guess.
So just for that, Orkut ka shukriya.
Anyway, great feeling. Especially to realize that:
* Certified hot babe in class thought I was one too (erm...she is 32 now. That explains the memory)
* Weirdest guy in class had crush on me
* Cannot for the life of me remember one classmate who has got back in touch.
(I'm 32. So the memory bit applies here as well)
But one of them is a girl I was great friends with and after a flurry of mails and phone calls over two days, it feels like we had never been out of touch. Some friendships do stay on, I guess.
So just for that, Orkut ka shukriya.
Sunday, September 02, 2007
The Bloggers' Club
I started blogging on a July afternoon in 2003. Not here. We hadn't heard of blogspot then. Ok I hadn't.
I probably had a free afternoon at the women's mag I worked for with nobody around to gossip with. I'd been reading blogs on and off and thought it would be fun to start.
What started off as a 15 minute activity became an obsession in the days of the bloggers' club and gradually tapered down to something that became a habit, a welcome one if I could get over the laziness of posting :)
Over the years, I have been reading bloggers who almost felt like friends despite the fact that we'd never met. The funny bit is, I go on discovering new blogs and checking bloggers whose existence I didn't know two months back quite regularly. Some of them are wonderfully addictive. At least for now. But I need a dose of the old favourites from time to time...alpha, Gabby, Lee, Inky, Shub, Parmanu, Colors, Anumita, Aqua
So what if some of them haven't posted in ages or have deleted their blogs. The much missed and read Anita Rodricks being one of them. Or Pallavi for that matter. And Subs. Where are you girls?
It's hard not to feel like you're running into an old friend when you've shared pregnancy stories with someone , watched (er...read) a 25-year-old journey into 28 and been introduced to authors you thought you never could understand by some.
Well, at least that's the way it is with me.
So I go through phases where I stop posting, stop checking other blogs simply because I'm either too sleepy (like right now) or have taken on more work than I can manage (like right now and this tells you why I can't manage) but going back and discovering a post (or several posts as I'm very irregular and people often prolific)never fails to make my day. Like Lee's did today.
I probably had a free afternoon at the women's mag I worked for with nobody around to gossip with. I'd been reading blogs on and off and thought it would be fun to start.
What started off as a 15 minute activity became an obsession in the days of the bloggers' club and gradually tapered down to something that became a habit, a welcome one if I could get over the laziness of posting :)
Over the years, I have been reading bloggers who almost felt like friends despite the fact that we'd never met. The funny bit is, I go on discovering new blogs and checking bloggers whose existence I didn't know two months back quite regularly. Some of them are wonderfully addictive. At least for now. But I need a dose of the old favourites from time to time...alpha, Gabby, Lee, Inky, Shub, Parmanu, Colors, Anumita, Aqua
So what if some of them haven't posted in ages or have deleted their blogs. The much missed and read Anita Rodricks being one of them. Or Pallavi for that matter. And Subs. Where are you girls?
It's hard not to feel like you're running into an old friend when you've shared pregnancy stories with someone , watched (er...read) a 25-year-old journey into 28 and been introduced to authors you thought you never could understand by some.
Well, at least that's the way it is with me.
So I go through phases where I stop posting, stop checking other blogs simply because I'm either too sleepy (like right now) or have taken on more work than I can manage (like right now and this tells you why I can't manage) but going back and discovering a post (or several posts as I'm very irregular and people often prolific)never fails to make my day. Like Lee's did today.
Saturday, September 01, 2007
The reason we subscribe to newspapers...
...is the reader in the family. He also likes to shred them to bits once he's through but that's another story :)
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Take a dollop of good intentions, what MM calls neeyat in poetic urdu; throw in a dash of vodka/whiskey/old monk or whatever rocks your world for good measure, add a bit of conversation and get it over with quick and fast. Because Murphy's Law rules in this house and the monkey is sure to get up even if he sleeps 9 to 9 all the other time. That's why I was tempted to say, post baby passion, what's that?
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
How many of you can sing the National Anthem correctly?
All of you I hope.
But there are children in my building who can't. Because as one of them told my friend, who along with few other people, is organizing an Independence Day function tomorrow, he kind of 'muttered it in school and his mom didn't know the entire lyrics either.'
The kid is probably nine or ten. Out of which he's lived abroad for about five six years. It's the mother I'm wondering about.
She'd be what, 33? 34? Maybe younger? In any case that's not an age when you usually start forgetting. And how do you forget the words of a song that you sung every morning in school, unless of course school was in some part of Manhattan? And for that matter, I know several people who've grown up very far away from India, who can sing the Anthem perfectly.
In this case, the mother grew up in Mumbai.
Leave aside patriotism. Just think simply. Isn't Jana Gana Mana embedded in her mind, like so many nursery rhymes, ABCD, multiplication tables, old ad jingles, basically things we grew up hearing and often singing along?
My friend, a very curious (and mischievous) person, couldn't contain herself and told the kids to tell their parents to write down the words of the National Anthem for them so that they could practice at home. One dad was honest enough to call her up and check whether it was Punjab, Hindu, Gujarat, Maratha? No, it's Sindh or Sindhu, she corrected him.
Thanks a lot he said. The wi-fi isn't working properly and the internet connection is pretty dicey these days.
But there are children in my building who can't. Because as one of them told my friend, who along with few other people, is organizing an Independence Day function tomorrow, he kind of 'muttered it in school and his mom didn't know the entire lyrics either.'
The kid is probably nine or ten. Out of which he's lived abroad for about five six years. It's the mother I'm wondering about.
She'd be what, 33? 34? Maybe younger? In any case that's not an age when you usually start forgetting. And how do you forget the words of a song that you sung every morning in school, unless of course school was in some part of Manhattan? And for that matter, I know several people who've grown up very far away from India, who can sing the Anthem perfectly.
In this case, the mother grew up in Mumbai.
Leave aside patriotism. Just think simply. Isn't Jana Gana Mana embedded in her mind, like so many nursery rhymes, ABCD, multiplication tables, old ad jingles, basically things we grew up hearing and often singing along?
My friend, a very curious (and mischievous) person, couldn't contain herself and told the kids to tell their parents to write down the words of the National Anthem for them so that they could practice at home. One dad was honest enough to call her up and check whether it was Punjab, Hindu, Gujarat, Maratha? No, it's Sindh or Sindhu, she corrected him.
Thanks a lot he said. The wi-fi isn't working properly and the internet connection is pretty dicey these days.
Saturday, August 04, 2007
Plea
Dear Over Zealous New Age Dad,
I'm so glad that you're here, finally. Frankly it was getting too much for us, both moms in-the-making and ready ones, to handle everything, from selecting the right gynaec to dealing with being a 24-hour milk production unit. But now that you are here, it's much easier. You call friends and random strangers for info on the best docs in town, register at babycentre.co.uk even before we've checked the lines on the preggie test and know more about baby burping techniques than Dr Spock. But sweetheart, will you do me a favour? Will you please, please, please spare me the 'her cervix didn't dilate beyond three centimeters' conversation?
You see, it's alright if I'm discussing her extremely tricky and (to you) toughest- in-the-world-labour with your wife. She is after all a WOMAN and it is absolutely okay for two women who have once been pregnant and poked to discuss their very private parts. But you, my dear, are a MAN. Even if you hand held your wife through the 20 hour labour, breathed lamaze techniques into her ear as she tried to murder you with one hand and looked on lovingly as a small, wriggly, muck-covered thing emerged out of her. Yes, even if you did all those things, it still doesn't qualify you to discuss cervix openings and feeding techniques with me, a woman.
Oh yeah, I know times have changed and we are all liberal, open minded people and yes, we appreciate your efforts, more than you can imagine. But could you please limit the 'how my wife emerged victorious after the world's longest labour' story to the soft, glossy, mushy parts (There are some. Ask your wife. She's forgotten everything by now) and not go into details about the exact position where she got the epidural? Don't edit the breathing-in-ear-murder-attempt-bit. It's good comic relief. In fact, it's my only relief. And excuse me if I'm laughing so hard at it that you are left wondering when I will shut up and you'll finish your story. Please don't.
As I said, some things are still best left to be discussed between women.
I'm so glad that you're here, finally. Frankly it was getting too much for us, both moms in-the-making and ready ones, to handle everything, from selecting the right gynaec to dealing with being a 24-hour milk production unit. But now that you are here, it's much easier. You call friends and random strangers for info on the best docs in town, register at babycentre.co.uk even before we've checked the lines on the preggie test and know more about baby burping techniques than Dr Spock. But sweetheart, will you do me a favour? Will you please, please, please spare me the 'her cervix didn't dilate beyond three centimeters' conversation?
You see, it's alright if I'm discussing her extremely tricky and (to you) toughest- in-the-world-labour with your wife. She is after all a WOMAN and it is absolutely okay for two women who have once been pregnant and poked to discuss their very private parts. But you, my dear, are a MAN. Even if you hand held your wife through the 20 hour labour, breathed lamaze techniques into her ear as she tried to murder you with one hand and looked on lovingly as a small, wriggly, muck-covered thing emerged out of her. Yes, even if you did all those things, it still doesn't qualify you to discuss cervix openings and feeding techniques with me, a woman.
Oh yeah, I know times have changed and we are all liberal, open minded people and yes, we appreciate your efforts, more than you can imagine. But could you please limit the 'how my wife emerged victorious after the world's longest labour' story to the soft, glossy, mushy parts (There are some. Ask your wife. She's forgotten everything by now) and not go into details about the exact position where she got the epidural? Don't edit the breathing-in-ear-murder-attempt-bit. It's good comic relief. In fact, it's my only relief. And excuse me if I'm laughing so hard at it that you are left wondering when I will shut up and you'll finish your story. Please don't.
As I said, some things are still best left to be discussed between women.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)