I must, I must, I must....

...learn not to joke in front of people with zero sense of humour. Let this be my New Year Resolution.

When A (that being my son) was doing his usual toddling/trying to run around the park this evening, a mom of two said that it was great he'd learnt to walk around so fast.

He has no choice, I said. Every morning we make him fetch the newspaper and we are waiting for the day we can send him out to buy milk.

No wonder she avoided me in the lift on the way back.

I must, I must, I must....

...learn not to joke in front of people with zero sense of humour. Let this be my New Year Resolution.

When A (that being my son) was doing his usual toddling/trying to run around the park this evening, a mom of two said that it was great he'd learnt to walk around so fast.

He has no choice, I said. Every morning we make him fetch the newspaper and we are waiting for the day we can send him out to buy milk.

No wonder she avoided me in the lift on the way back.

On my mind...

...and oh my god...one song and so many memories...my first beach party, a misguided crush, Tom Cruise in Cocktail...

What goes around...

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself

Philip Larkin, This Be The Verse


At one point in my reasonably well-guided youth, this was a favourite poem. It still is and I still believe it does contain a semblance of truth, however hard to digest. But now I find myself wondering, if this is how the beta will think 20 years on?

Since I cannot say NO in a really firm and 'I-won't-hear-anymore-of-this' kind of way, I went and met 'regard's'. As it turns out, he is a sweet, sober, ever-smiling, polite and (literally) small boy. He doesn't know about the existence of this blog of course but I am feeling a bit bad. Especially because 'regard's' paid cab fare and got me excellent kapi.
Such a bitch I am.

Was about to send my CV to the HR manager of a website who'd asked for it when I saw this at the bottom of his mail:

Regard's

Haven't sent CV. Though reminding self that this is HR which has very faint connection to editorial, where people probably put apostrophes where they belong.

Kahini, shall always be deeply deeply thankful to you for being millitant about my 'its' and 'it's' in the days of yore.

Tell Me Why

Much as I'd like to be, I'm not an automated robot. However, when it comes to word verification, my eyes (or possibly some part if my brain which sends signal to my eyes...whatever) behave like one. I'm terrified of posting comments on any blog that has WV as I invariably tend to see the slanted Ps as Bs and wavy Js as T or worse even Z. There are few, very few, lucid moments when my eye/brain/whatever actually sees the right word and types it successfully. But such are few and far between.

Is it only me? Does this happen to you too? Do I need glasses? The Kalhonahopreityzinta type?

Goaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh....

Was planning to write about the lovely seven day holiday we had in Goa but have just finished cleaning an upturned bowl of khichdi all over the highchair so my thoughts are currently in a different direction. Anyone who says what a joy it is to see your little tot all over the house and traipsing around the furniture is either single with no intention of producing children or is suffering from the empty nest syndrome, under which they are likely to romanticise the years spent in close proximity with their kids.
(Example: Me: 'Ma, I HAVE to keep the phone, baby is attacking the TV!'
Ma: 'Oh my god he can reach the TV now! Awwwww, sho shweet.....!!!!!!!')
Sorry, don't get me wrong. I'm absolutely enjoying this 'now you see him, now you don't phase,' largely spent chasing baby around various items of furniture. See, there are several advantages of having a to-be-toddler around the house.
First, there's the enforced spring cleaning. In an effort to make everything baby-safe and baby friendly, you finally throw away the wrought iron candlestand that was too hideous to be displayed prominently and too expensive to be hidden completely.
Ditto for the ceramic astray nobody ever used, the urli that gathered dust, the five year old paper lamp with holes and so on....
Then there's the exercise. Babychasing requires you to squat, bend, stretch and push every part of your not-so-supple body to its limits, which is better than what any gym, personal trainer or liposuction could do, just in case your post pregnancy thoughts were in that direction.
So messy khichdi bowls aside, the crawl and cruise phase isn't bad at all. You clean out the junk, save money on gyms and start inching towards a somewhat flat, at least non jiggly stomach (hopefully). What more could you be asking for?


PS: As you can see from the date, this blog was started on 30th and posted on 4th. I guess there were several messy bowls of khichdi in between

Nine Months

Wasn't it just yesterday that the little tyke was inside my tummy trying to find a way out? Wasn't it just yesterday that he slept in the same position you'd put him in?
Hard to believe that same redfaced, poopy bundle is eating crackers, crawling, standing up, banging drums, saying maaaaammma, tyaattttttyaa on top of his voice and has two small teeth. Honestly, can't believe he's growing up so fast!

Very entertaining and very exhausting.

A Change Is Always Good?

Hello Amigos,

Am back. Was being lazy. Too lazy to blog or read or even watch TV. I go through these phases once in a while. When all I want is to stare blankly at view from balcony/faded sofa cover/blank document/dinner on plate whichever is applicable. Of course these days I cannot be a complete vegetable. How can I, when there is an extra-energetic, drooling, smiling, eight-month-old who's all over the place, babbling, crawling, trying to stand and sometimes doing all of these at once?

In an attempt at good parenting, the other day we tried to cleanse the house of potentially hazardous things to make our home a safe place for baby to explore. Realised by baby standards, we'd been living extremely dangerously all these years. Going by the Babycentre.com and What To Expect checklist, we have house hazards like loose cords, tall lamps, tables with sharp edges, rugs and mats without non-slip pads, several bins and several unused electrical outlets.

No prizes for guessing how we spend our free time these days then. Now I know what they meant when they said a baby changes your life.

Two Weeks' Notice

One day, two weeks back: Rash goes and interviews famous person.

Evening, same day: Rash thinks of writing the story that very evening after the beta sleeps, like a true-to-her-job-reporter. Thought stays for less than one fleeting second. Rash reaches home, puts beta to sleep, has a glass of wine with the husband, watches some Reese Witherspoon movie, remembers story in the middle of movie and decides to definitely write it the next day.

Process repeated everyday (except weekends, when Rash excuses herself from her backbreaking workload)

Finally, one everning, two weeks later, she decides to put finger on keyboard.

7 pm: The beta is sleeping. Rash decides to sit with a nice relaxing mug of coffee before starting work.

7.10: Checks blogs. After all, he doesn't sleep at 7 every evening, does he?

7.30: Checks mail. Replies to every friend who has ever written to her, including person who assigned story.

7.50: Chats with friend in London on Skype. It's important as friend has exams and needs that goodluck wish.

8.30: Ooooops! oooops! ooops! That's quite a lot of time gone! Goes and checks on beta. Adjusts his blanket, checks the speed of the fan, opens one window, shuts another, dumps toys in basket, smiles fondly at beta. Repeats process.

8.35: P is home.

8.45: Decides to spend some quality time with P. She sits and reads the India Today's Bangalore supplement. He watches football highlights. They decide to have beer. It needs to be chilled. Rash goes and switches off the computer. Decides to restart work (which she hasn't started yet, except open the notes she scribbled during the interview) after dinner.

10.30: Switches on computer. Checks if there are new comments on her blog. Reads eight blogs. Chats with friend on gmail. Goes and checks on beta. Rerun of 8.30 action.

10.45: Has minor fight with P over possession of computer. Tells P she is working against a deadline and NOT BLOGGING. Writes a two line intro to justify her claim (and to show P in case he returns to check).

10.55: Tries to decipher own handwriting from interview notes.

11.10: Figures out most of the interview and decides to start. However, there's a blog in her brain. It's itching to be written. Now. Rash brushes thought of blog from her mind and gets back to story. Writes two lines.

11.30: Itching gets stronger. Rash tries to visualise person who assigned story as meancing, nasty editor standing with deadline stick over her head. Giggles.

11.34: Giggles some more at the imagery.

11.37: Non-stop giggling.

11:40: Itching stronger than ever. Rash is not a procrastinator. She decides to blog. Her brain needs to be free to concentrate on the story after all.

I miss my bookshelf. Back in Gurgaon I had an open bookshelf right in the living room. Yes, not a good idea I know but when we moved in, there was this empty space on the wall and it was just shouting BOOKSHELF.
I love books just the way they are. I don't like it when books are bound and when books are encased in meticulous protective covers. And I don't like it when books are inside a closed shelf or almirah, usually with a wooden door. It makes me feel like I'm cut off from my books. I need to see them as I pass through, go about my daily work, cook, have a coffee, fight with husband, babble on the phone....during everything. Practically speaking, open shelves gather dust and there are more chances of people walking away casually with your books (especially when shelf is in living room) and never returning them but then being practical isn't everything, is it?
When I was a kid, one of my aunts would always gift me books with little notes scribbled on them. She had been an avid reader and if marriage, motherhood and the demands of a trying joint family had put reading in the backseat, she always tried to buy me something she herself had loved. Yet another aunt (dearly loved, except for this) would insist I cover the books she brought me to protect them from dust. In fact, once she put hideous platic covers on most of my books when she came to visit us in Orissa. I waited for her month long visit to be over and then proceeded to gleefully yank the covers off.
This is why I terribly miss my open shelf back at the flat in Gurgaon. I'd only one but there were plans to cover one whole room with such shelves and then go bookshopping to fill it up.....
Out here I have no dearth of storage space. But it is all closed in, very practical. This keeps my books from being spotted by flinching friends, cobwebs and dust. And sometimes, even by me.

In Which I Bitch

I was at this quiet Daily Bread store in Indiaranagar the other day, debating between yummy Mediterranean Bread v/s equally yummy Garlic Bread and generally feeling happy at the sight of so many desserts, when the door opened and in walked a strong waft of VERY EXPENSIVE PERFUME. She insisted on buying only chocolate donuts as 'Maira' loved them, or so I figured from the conversation she had with VERY EXPENSIVE RAYBAN, her hunky companion.

There was only one choco dounut left, which resulted in a mini and goodnatured tantrum. At this point Rayban insisted on driving her anywhere just to get the donuts. 'Ok wait let me check with Maira,' trilled Perfume and snapped out the tiniest of mobile phones. Rayban watched worshipfully. So did all of us.

I suddenly felt a wave of nostalgia: this is so, so Delhi, I thought. I could've been standing outside Big Chill in Khan Market watching dressed-to-kill-diva throwing a tantrum on being asked to wait. Then guess what happenned? Daily Bread guy gave Rayban directions to their Church Street outlet. Perfume trilled again before wafting out: 'But where is Church Street? We're not from here. We're from Delhi. Let me ask Maira's driver.'

See how well I knew that city? I could've cried. But I laughed instead. And not because four choco donuts were already in my goodiebag.

Coorg

Photoblogging is so much easier. I could have written on and on about our drive to the Tata Coffee plantations in Coorg on a very rainy weekend, but the somewhat cranky beta (he's teething) has slept and there are scores of blogs I want to read.
So I'll just post some pictures. From driving out on a rainy morning to the greenery that almost made my eyes hurt.















































It rained all the three days we were there, so we stayed put at the guesthouse most of the time, sipping endless cups of chai/coffee, increasing our girth by hogging whatever was offered (did not love famous Coorgi Pork curry much)and driving out once in a while. Would've loved to have done some nice walking round the plantation but hey, it's only six hours away. And rain or shine, with a view like that, how could you even complain?

Filter Coffee...

...have become addict. Cannot start mornings without it now.

Ok, call me whatever name you will but I'm waiting to watch Da Vinci Code. According to a friend of mine, these days I 'revel in simplemindedness.' She does have a point there, though. Throughout my pregnancy, delivery and those first few days of adjusting to the wobbly li'l bundle of poo and pee, easy reading has been my motto. Except for Possession. And My Name Is Red. The rest are largely re-reads and include old classics, thrillers and a whole of chic-lit romances. And a fair bit of Calvin & Hobbes. Does that say something?
PS: Cannot imagine Tom Hanks in the role though. Much as I love him.

Why is it that when you ask for a DVD of Pride & Prejudice (the BBC TV series) the shop assistants invariably come up with Bride & Prejudice? And this happens after you explain it is the TV series that you want, not the latest film starring Keira Knightley and certainly not the Gurinder Chadha washout. Surely Colin Firth doesn't resemble Aiswarya Rai?

Would love to post regularly enough. But I turn completely lazy the minute beta is fast asleep and so does my mind. And it's so much more fun to read blogs than write. At least, these days it is :)

On a different note, am experimenting with photography. Actually, that's a hip and not-so-motherly way of explaining the 700th photograph you've taken of your child in the last one week.

The road to Nrityagram...

Actually I'm romanticising...the road also includes horribly crowded industrial areas like Peenya and an extremely potholed one through a cow and hardware store filled market. The trees make an appearence much later. But they were worth the drive.

These Are A Few Of Our Favourite Things...

Dear Lego,

Thank you for making the caterpillar and the giraffe. These are my all time favourite toys right now. Not just because of the colours (not to mention the giraffe's funny face) but because they keep the beta happy. Thank you Legowale. Aaplogo ne ek maa ki awaaz sun li.

Signed,

Happymom

Rang Diya

Finally, finally, finally managed to watch Rang De Basanti. On the big screen. In love. with the movie. with everything in it. No point in saying much about it. It's best watched, which most people have done by now and formed their opinions I guess. Inky, thank you for putting up the translation of Ik Onkar. My day starts with it very often now.

A will be four months tomorrow. back after monthlong trip to both sets of grandparent's. The child's grandparents, not mine. After being pampered for more than a month, have forgotten how to manage home plus kid. But cannot complain as kiddo sleeps at night. That's what everyone says incl. the kid's doc. Haven't worked for almost a year now. How time flies.

Shucks! I wasn't aware that we were a country that still practiced 'sati--the custom of a widow throwing herself on her husband's funeral pyre'. Helpfully explained also. And here I am, terribly afraid of even the smallest burn. Going to temple to pray for husband's long life instantly. Strangely, I missed out on this bit of info before I got hitched or else would've insisted on a pre-nup. Even now, I can't recall a sati in my family or anyone else's (despite it being still practiced as Canadian freelancer, Mei-Yin Teo informs us) except for that sad instance of Roop Kanwar all those years ago, condemned by every sane (I said SANE, so don't argue about Roop Kanwar being glorified, revered, etc) person in the country.

I'm pissed. They call themselves an online travel resource just for women.? Don't they do their homework or check facts? Or are they content to stereotype, just because it is India?

Happy New Year

Began 2006 with several changes in life.

* Had the quietest 31st Dec in 10 years. Had lessons on 'New year TV programming' from mother in law who I've discovered is extremely with it in these matters. Wonderful son woke us up exactly at 12 so that we didn't miss out on the celebrations. Heard fireworks. Both inside the room and outside.

* Became part of the evening ramp...oops...pram show in the apartment complex. Open daily from 4 pm to 6 pm, this entitles you and your little dribbler to a free membership at the in house mother and child club, apart from giving you an opportunity to check out each other's weight, babies, strollers, toys and peadiatrician. Is that how it's spelt?

* Discovered New Age Dad in P. He actually wakes up for the 2.00 am feed...then wakes me up and goes off to sleep.

* Shopped in less than 15 minutes. Bought four tops and three pants. Tried them all. In less than 15 minutes! It's possible. Just have a squirming, ready-to-bawl infant at hand.

* Discovered endless capacity for babytalk. Esp at 4 am. Again, c'est possible. Just have 'I'll-bawl-right-now-if-you-don't ape-Donald Duck-infant' at hand.

* Became Blog lurker. V afraid son will wake up as soon as I start writing comments on somebody's blog and I'l;; end yuop wit embrassaring spelling mistakes likeh this one.

Happy 2006

Possession is not an easy read. Especially when you seem to be constantly feeding. And burping. And changing nappies. And rocking baby to sleep. And feeding yet again. And cleaning. But the book's been lying with me for a while and my ever-understanding online library finally wants it back. At the rate I'm going shall surely return it unfinished. Like many other things in my life since Nov 22, 2005, this will also be a first. Not significant enough, however.

First Khushboo and now Sania Mirza. Now don't these ladies know better than shooting their mouths off about sex-vex, pyaar-vyaar and saying sorry later?

I can still digest Khushboo's comment. After all she's an actress and we Indians are aware that all actresses have loose morals, no? So, we can ignore her when she says something absolutely unIndian like this. But Sania? First she addresses press conferences in foreign wearing T-shirts with bold messages instead of wearing nice zari salwar kameezes (full sleeved) and Malabar Gold jewellery. Then she goes a step ahead and supports Khushboo. And then she has second thoughts and says she's been misquoted.

Arre bhai, can't these girls think before they speak? Ek to bina soche samjhe kuch bhi keh do. Woh bhi sex jaise sensitive topic par. Don't they know that good Indian girls are allowed to have sex with only one man, their husband? And if the husband pops it or throws you out of the house, the good Indian girl can end up having sex with Man No. 2, provided the parents have procured her a husband again. After all, this is our glorious Indian culture. Everything is ok once you're married. Sex -- safe or unsafe, marital rape, domestic violence, catching the HIV virus from hubby, everything. The important thing is to be married.
Which is why the ABVP activists are right. Sania has hurt the sentiments of 'Indian people'. Well, thanks to all these cable television, shopping malls, Hollywood films, BPOs and what have Yos, there are many people who'll cry foul and say Sania has actually made a mature and responsible statement, is being forced to retract it and that we should move on with the times, etc, etc. But what do they know? Haven't these people watched Hindi films? Don't they know what happens to girls who have sex before marriage? See what happened to Sharmila Tagore in Aradhana, Parveen Babi in Deewar and so many other heroines? Agreed they didn't practise safe sex, as preached by Sania and some Miss Universe (again, model+foreigner=loose morals) but that's not the point, is it?
In fact, in all this brouaha, I'm quite confused what the point really is.

Is it about an unmarried girl having sex with an unmarried boy? Quite possible. It is not only unthinkable and against family values as shown by K-Serials but absolutely corrupting for most of us Indians who have no idea of how babies are born until they tie the knot. Forget all those newsmagazine cover stories that claim more and more Indians are having sex before marriage. Forget realities like Delhi Public School MMS scandal which show that kids are not only doing it but being pretty brazen about it too. These are after all a small part of the Indian population who have been brainwashed and corrupted by MTV and all these newfangled movies like Hum Tum and Salaam Namaste. The majority of us are pure-minded, uncorrupted, blindfolded Indians with strong value systems. We take two steps backward for every one step forward. And we simply can't stomach any talk about sex. Safe or otherwise. Prevention is better than cure. Haven't they heard?

Are We There Yet?

Am feeling a bit low, so I call S in Mumbai late at night for a pick-me-up chat.

'OHMIGOD! Boy or girl?!!!!!' S screams into the phone.

'None. The baby's still inside. I called to just talk.'

'Oh...and there I thought...' S sounds like a punctured balloon, before adding, 'listen am at a party. Will call you later.'

Humph! So much for 4 am friends!

Take it from me. Week 40 breathing down your neck is the worse wait of the nine month narrative. Worse than waiting in the line at State Bank of India. Worse than waiting to pay the MTNL bill on the last day. Worse than being 43rd in line at the slow moving check in counter of Air Deccan.

Babycentre, my online bible is asking me to be patient. 'Only 5% of babies are born on their exact due date. Why not practice breathing and relaxation techniques while you're waiting?'

Yes darlings. And why not learn the salsa while I'm at it? I wouldn't be writing this, if I were that relaxed, would I? Why can't I be part of that percentage of women who have babies ahead of schedule? According to mother, all the women in my family belong to that lucky percentage. Except me of course. Don't think it'll arrive anytime soon.

'Read it nice children's books,' says Kahini, when I call her to whine. This is supposed to make baby feel wonderfully excited about the world and make it come out faster. Kahini, if this works, you shall patent this idea, make money and sponsor me at Toto's for life as your first experiment. You're lucky I do not know the names of fancy lounge bars. Am off to Crossword tomorrow to buy books. Send list.

The advice keeps pouring in. By now I'm confused about what they're meant for.

'Play relaxing Western classical music'

'Run your hands over your tummy a lot'

'Sweep the floor. See how phatak se all our maids have babies?'

'Go for regular walks.'

'Go dancing!'

'Have sex.'

'Freeze on the name. You have? Refreeze.'

'Sleep as much as you can.'

I hang up in exasperation and decide to be calm, poised and patient. Have no idea why everyone starts wondering and muttering if you haven't had the baby by the time you've hit 40 weeks. Don't want to make baby feel I'm impatient mother and come out in a hurry. That way would be setting bad precedent for its entire life. And I do not wish to be affected by people. Especially by glam women with washboard abs at restaurant reception desks who tend to ask, 'so how long?'

P calls. He's heard from Mr T whom we met at Lamaze Class. Mrs T had baby girl. One whole week before D date.

I call to congratulate Mrs T. 'You haven't had the baby yet?' she is most surprised, 'What did the doc say? How much more time?'

Ugh ugh ugh.

The bhadroloks at Bengalimatrimony.com are trying very hard to achieve what my parents couldn’t. Marry me off to a good Bong boy. Trivial details like the fact that I’m married and about to produce a child with that man do not bother them, even after I’ve sent an email to inform them of this mildly preventive fact.
I’ve also pointed out that I never registered with them in the first place; else I’d have done so with my real name. Certainly not as Rani, as they insist on addressing me. If I had to register with a false name I’d have gone for something exotic like Zarmaine or Finnouala or Caramia. Certainly not something as common as Rani. Even though she is Bong, actress and therefore supposed to have high recall value in the minds of us Bongs.
Despite these glitches the more I get spammed (6 emails so far) by the bhadraloks the more I see what I missed out on. The chance to meet a nice brainy boy called Shomshubhro or Bishwopriyo, with wheatish complexion, a collection of Panjabis (kurta in Bongspeak) gifted by mashis during Pujo, and a degree from top US University or at least from IIT. And of course a mother. We Bong girls do not look for anything less than that.
Blame it all on my folks. They didn’t exactly lead me in the right direction and point out the advantages of a Bong-Bong match. I was let loose to look in all the wrong places and landed up with a kalchaarless fellow who is laughing at the bhadralok’s persistence and is asking me to look for something called Jainmatrimony which will provide him with options as well. Bengalimatrimony ne meri ankhen khol di. Bas thodi der se.

PS: My sincerest apologies if your name happens to be Shomshubhro or Bishwopriyo. Or even Zarmaine, Finnouala, Caramia and Rani.

What Shall We Gift This Year?

I love gifts. Hunting, giving, getting...all of it. But one thing that leaves me stumped is gifting for the sake of it. Not because you genuinely like the person and really want to give something to him/her but because you think it forms part of your social protocol and obligation and therefore you must.

Which is why Diwali used to exasperate me in my Delhi days. And as I discovered it continues to do that in Bangalore. A day before Diwali we were at the Shoppers' Stop outlet near our home and came face to face with one of the neighbours whom we barely ever meet. After exchanging the usual hello and how are yous, we moved on, did our shoppping and got back home. Sometime in the evening, their son appeared with a box of Haldiram namkeens, muttered 'Uncle, aunty, Happy Diwali, mummy papa have sent,' and escaped.

The next morning I knocked on their door with a box of chocolates. The lady opened the door and we had the briefest of conversations: How are you ji? Very good? Chalo badiya hai. Ok. Happy Diwali. Bye.

My first encounter with random gift giving was post marriage, during my first Diwali in Delhi. I received a make-up kit from the daughter-in-law of my mother-in-law's friend. I was a bit surprised as we barely knew each other and had only met once before. At my wedding. When I mentioned this to my friend S, a Delhi veteran, she nodded sagely, 'It's part of Diwali protocol.'

Since then in my five years of Diwali in Delhi I have received several random gifts which show that the sender has to follow the protocol, even if she/he is completely unaware whether you have a taste for the stuff she/he is sending or not. My all time top five include a disgustingly floral smelling perfume and powder set, a steel tiffin carrier, pink and plasticky icecream cups, a bindi and bangle gift box and something equally terrible I've forgotten all about.

But the point isn't whether the gift is good or bad, tacky or tasteful. The point is why part with it when both the sender and receiver know that it's being done purely for the sake of formality? I'm usually flummoxed and have no idea how to react beyond Oh thank you, you needn't have, etc, on such ocassions. Yes some of you may argue it's a nice gesture but there isn't much thought that goes behind such gestures if you ask me. And to use that cliche, it's the thought that counts.

Which is why I love getting spotted-just-for-me book on Goa from Kahini, which is why I knew my friend H had to have it when I read Anupama Chopra's book on Sholay, which is why some shiny bags have Subs written on them and are screaming to be bought, wrapped in equally shiny cover and dispatched, even if birthdays, anniversaries, New Year, whatever are all far away or long gone. In my mind, gifts don't need a season but they certainly need a definite reason don't they?

Preggie Talk Again

Think only Gabby will read me at this rate :)

At the antenatal class we (The girls) ask the instructor how exactly do contractions feel.

'Different women react differently but to give you an idea, I can say it feels like extremely strong period cramps,' she says.

'Oh...O...okay...alright...ummm..think I can deal with that...well maybe not...' we nod our heads, understanding exactly what she's talking about. Well almost.

Predictably (and cruelly for the boys perhaps), the conversation turns briefly to period cramps, in an effort to find out exactly how bad would the contractions be.

We suddenly realise the men in the room seem to have vanished. Two have queued up outside the loo (and out of earshot), one is in the instructor's kitchen taking a long time over a glass of water (when she's thoughtfully placed a whole jug in the table next to us), one is peering intently into his mobile, the fifth one (mine) has suddenly developed tremendous interest in greenery and is inspecting the plants on the balcony very closely.

Boys will be boys. And girls will be well...girls.

Remix

Poor Ram Gopal Varma. He and the factory seem to have run out of ideas. Why else would he want to remake James, Shiva and Sholay? I'm sorry but the very thought has me in splits. Especially when I read that the Sholay remake is to be called 'Ramgopal Varma Ki Sholay.' Yes. The man is serious. Reminds me of a C-grade movie made years back with all those Amitabh and Dharmendra lookalikes and Amjaad Khan. It was called Ramgarh Ke Sholay. Hehehe.
Why are Bollywood directors into remakes? That too of a film released in 1975, one released in the early 90s (?) and one released what, some two months back? Hollywood does remakes too and sometimes successfully but I wonder if it works for Bollywood. Our movies seem to stay longer in our memory shelves. Perhaps it's because of the songs.

(Though I dunno if anyone remembers any songs from Shiva. In fact, I don’t recall the movie at all, except that it had a very hairy Nagarjuna and lots of fights.)
In recent years, the recall value is perhaps higher because of the combined might of Zee Cinema/Sony Max, etc, which repeat these films often enough to ensure that no memory lapses occur.
Which makes me wonder if we’ll be interested in watching the all-new Umraojaan by JP Dutta. It was only made in 1981 and I tend to remember stuff from that many years back at least (except for Shiva, ha ha). And for God's sake, Aishwarya Rai? Can you imagine the film without Rekha in it? Without Farooq Shaikh's elegant portrayal of Nawab Sultan? And what are they going to do about the songs? How do you expect to match or surpass gems like 'justju jiski thi...' and 'In ankhon ki masti ke....'
The remade Sholay could do with some nice music though. Kill me if you are a Sholay fan and bought cassettes with 'songs and dialogues from Sholay' in your misguided youth (I know people who did) but music ain't that film's strong point. Ok, I'm not talking about the background score here.
Perhaps Ramu could introduce Gabbar Singh to that 'haunting' item number from James: 'Woh hero hai, hero hai, woh hai hero....' After all, Gabbar is the real hero of Sholay isn't he? And with Big B playing that role he'll dwarf everyone else in it anyway.
And since Ramu is remaking both James and Sholay it shouldn't be a problem to lift bits and parts from here and there, eh? That’s what remixes are all about.

Why I'll Never Be Rich

Dear Direct Marketing Representative,

First, I’d like to thank you for thinking so kindly about my future prospects and informing me that I could earn so much money by just signing up with the marketing network you are part of.
Thank you for wanting to be my mentor in the noble business of moneymaking and showing me how to butter my bread lavishly without having to spend much on butter. In fact, simply by sitting at home and bullying my friends to sign up with the network.
There’s only one small problem. I would love to earn money but I get tongue-tied when I have to convince other people to help me do that. Blame it on me being an ex-print journalist. Money is an alien concept to us, asking for it more so.
And there’s one more thing. You see, I do love having friends and I’m very scared that once I start calling people in my ‘friend and confidant’ tone and telling them that I want to discuss a business idea which is the next best thing after Maggi Noodles, I’ll have no friends left. Yes, even if I said I was horribly broke because I can’t hide the husband and they all know he is still working and we still own a car.
You’ve given me a booklet and a lecture which says I must not ‘prejudge anyone.’ Now the problem is that being the extremely stuck up variety, (I’m very honest about my faults, as you’ll see) I’m likely to. I’ll look at Friend No. 1 and say, ‘Nah, they’re both doctors. What do they need extra money for?’ and I’ll dismiss Friend No. 2 on the grounds that she has twins and asking her to do anything else is being cruel to her. I know, I know, this is just the kind of mindset that your booklet warns me against but what to do? I simply don’t have the ‘think out of the box’ brain.
A suicide threat is perhaps the only way I can convince my friends to part with their hard earned cash (Pls. note the perhaps), sign a contract, become part of the world’s foremost ‘multi-level-marketing system’ (to quote you respectfully) and hand in hand proceed towards becoming millionaires.
Ok, maybe millionaire is a long shot but you did say that just by signing up (and continuing the chain) I could earn at least Rs 8,000 a month first, then Rs 50,000 and then more than a lakh!
Yes my pupils did dilate and my eyes did pop and you thought I was finally coming to my senses and getting hooked. But let me be honest. That was on account of the numbers. You see, having been a lifestyle journalist for the larger part of my working life, I go a bit blank when the talk is about anything else but clothes and lipsticks. Also blame it on me being Bong. Bissness is not in awaar blaad. I’m also not very good with household work and fear I’ll horribly muck up when I show them the advantages of your cleaning concentrate as opposed to Surf Excel, Ariel, Nirma, etc.
So with due respect and profound thanks, I shall ask you to stop wasting your precious time as I simply won’t sign up. I know by doing this I’m losing out on the chance to display my inherent leadership skills (as spotted by you) and retire by the age of 35 with enough time to spend with my children and enough money to ski at St. Moritz every year. But what to do? You’ve got the wrong girl here. She’s lazy, tongue-tied and simply doesn’t have vision. And she’s also stupidly stubborn.

So goodbye. Don’t ring my bell again or I’ll display more character faults.

Warm Regards,
Rash

Nine Months

Warning: Baby Talk.

In less than a month (old hands say in less than 3 weeks) there'll be a baby in our lives, unless it's lazy and refuses to meet the parents on time :-)

I've never held a newborn. Seriously. Never. Not while their heads were wobbly anyway.
However when I muttered this aloud at the Antenatal Class, two voices echoed the same thing too, so I'm probably not the odd one out here. I'm a bit freaked out. But in a good way. In a very good and happy way.

The belly has developed a life of its own. It jiggles, squirms, pokes out, gets kicked and oh yes, does it increase! It continues to be a source of entertainment to all my near and dear ones. Have never been in such entertainer mode before. The other day the baby poked some body part (a toe?) through the belly. P was so entertained, since then he's been trying to poke it back to get baby to respond in similar fashion. We don't need TV anymore, we have Ze Belly.

Nothing fits me anymore. Not even large size capri pants from Fabindia's very small-sized maternity section. And I used to wear XS size from Fabindia. Nothing I've bought in the earlier months of pregnancy fit, except a tunic and magic pants from Motherware. The pants have a funny pouch to hold the belly, which rules out sexy short tops. But thank you MW. At least they fit. I largely survive on trackpants, which I keep buying at scary rate as the belly keeps rejecting them soon enough.

Friends who are parents are trying to be wonderful by sharing with us their birth stories. These usually go on the lines of 'the lift was out of order so we had to climb down 10 floors after her water broke' and 'there was no room available at the maternity ward so we had to wait 18 hours' or sinister stuff like that. And they're all predicting it'll be anytime now. Since I do not believe in predictions unless done by Marjorie Orr, I'm sure baby won't arrive before time.

P is charting out alternative routes to the hospital. To his great frustration, all of these involve the unavoidable Bangalore traffic, unless our child is kind and sends us to the hospital sometime past midnight.

And I'm trying to walk, work, cook, clean, read books and blogs and do things as usual. And waiting to see my toes again while standing straight.

A Fantastic Childhood?

Can you imagine a childhood spent without having read a single fantasy novel or fairy tale? I can't. Which is why I had such an incredulous expression on my face when I met Mrs Alternative and her six-year-old boy at a puppetry workshop conducted by my friend recently.

Mrs Alt was very charming and friendly and we got talking soon. It inevitably started with bump talk (how many months, weight gain, diet, etc) and somehow moved on to books and theatre, the latter also being Mrs Alt's line of work. When my friend joined we ended up talking about children's books and Mrs Alt revealed that she was not 'in favour of fairy tales and fantasy fiction.'

We were intrigued and asked her the reason to which she said she and her husband did not believe in them. Fantasy did not give children any idea of reality and created the impression of a false world. At this point the expression on my face got too obvious and my tongue started to loosen up, which is why I stayed mum and prefered listening to her.

While my friend and Mrs Alt had a civilized but heated discussion, I thought of the time in childhood when I first read 'The Borrowers' and spent quite a long time imagining an entire colony of people living under the floor tiles. Or of the long summer vacation afternoons at my aunt's house when an old wardrobe was the object of my imagination.

I wish I could say to each her own after hearing out Mrs Alt. We are all welcome to stick to our individual decisions, principles, beliefs etc, because we are adults with a mind of our own and the ability (hopefulyl) to discern between what we think is right or wrong. But is it fair to impose it on children without giving them a chance to explore, experiment and see what they really like and dislike? What they really believe in or are indifferent to? By forcing our ideas and our beliefs on an impressionable mind, aren't we then creating only half a world for the child?

It's Better In Goa

Whatta happy coincidence. Two days after I spot Frank Simoes' Goa at a local bookstore and leave it behind for later as I'm not carrying enough cash, not even my overused credit card, I get a gift from Kahini and guess what it is?

The very same book, which she spotted while on a crazy book buying spree at Reader's Bookshop, Santacruz.

Before it was reissued in its current avatar, this book used to called Glad Seasons In Goa, a better name than the current one. We were unaware of its existence untill Kahini discovered a dog-eared copy that belonged to her brother in law, read it at one go, regretted not having read it before she met Frank Simoes (lucky girl) and passed it on to moi.

Like her, I loved it instantly. If you love Goa (like most of us do), this book is a must-read. In fact, you probably have it on your bookshelf already. Nothing else gives a better picture of a life that seems to be spent building a wonderful house, tackling the Goan monsoon, meeting people like Aloysius the master carpenter and Barty and Bostao, sampling great prwan balchao, rowing friendly fishermen to St Anthony's Bar in Baga, drinking three fingers of various spirited stuff and living it up to the hilt.

Of course, the late advertising legend did much, much more with his life but we're glad he also took time off to write this book, probably sitting on the balcony of Rockheart, with the whisky and the typewriter.

Unrelated Updates

Watched Legends of The Fall on TV this evening. I have no idea who the programming brains at Star Movies are but would someone please tell me why gems like this film are slotted for 6.30 on a weekday evening? That's when people are usually at work or stuck in traffic or cooking dinner or simply occupied with other stuff to put their feet up and enjoy a good film.

Sometime after the film, I was having a TV dinner and channelsurfing when I came across FTV and guess what were their programming brains showing? A strip show! Complete with bustiers coming off to reveal what lies beneath. At 10 pm. When all the kids and preteens across the nation have definitely gone off to sleep. And we make a fuss about poor Khushboo's comments on pre-marital sex. What a country we are!

Prams and strollers aren't the way they used to be. Yeah I know if you are a parent you must be smirking at my ignorance but this is for the uninitiated. They're now called all-terrain pushchairs and travel systems and can look somewhat like this. The man is so excited it almost seems like he is buying a car.



















Going by the newspapers, Bangalore is full of techies and rowdies. No other category stands out more. Every other day I read about techies being 'assaulted' or 'robbed' or 'awarded' or about 'one rowdy beaten up.' Wondering if Delhi papers have any special categories like these. Can only think of 'Businessman robbed.' Too boring. Kahini tells me Calcutta papers specialise in 'goons.' Still, you can't beat the rowdies and techies.

Names Builders Play

During our house hunting days in Gurgaon, the names of buildings never failed to amuse me. No matter who the builder was, going by the names you'd think they were selling space in Hampstead not Haryana. Unitech had Greenwood, Aspen Greens, Heritage City, The Palms and my ever-favourite, Deerwood Chase!
DLF went a step ahead with its courts, estates and towers — Hamilton, Windsor, Wellington, Carlton, Royalton, Princeton, Belvedere, etc. The names were grand, even if the buildings weren't.
Now I see this foreign-sounding naming trend reflected in Bangalore too. Purvankara, one of the builders here, has Belmont, Fairmont, Fountainsquare and Riviera. Prestige has Monte Carlo, St. John’s Wood and Clarke’s Ville!
Now, I’m really, really curious. Who names these apartments? The owner of the company? His wife? His London-return daughter? Do all builders have a naming department? Are these the result of a ‘name-our-latest-project’ competition among overworked employees dreaming of a holiday in Aspen?
I agree Riviera sounds better than Rao Tikaram Housing Society, but there are lovely names in Hindi and other Indian languages as well. What happened to those? Perhaps names are meant to conjure up lovely images that lure the buyer to part with his or her money. You’re supposed to hear Mantri Woodlands and go hmmm…must be surrounded by lush greenery and bougainvilleas. Like I always wanted to check out Deerwood Chase simply because of the name. Perhaps I pictured rolling meadows and bouncing bambis. Thankfully, the man had no imagination in these matters and we were saved.
I recently spotted a hoarding for Elita Promenade, luxury condos under-construction in JP Nagar. ‘We’ll help you settle abroad,’ said the ad. It showed trendy couple walking hand in hand in front of trendy apartment facing a huge blue lake! It also promised international style living spaces. So the name game is the beginning of a full scale promotion which is meant to make us believe that by investing in that 1350 sq. ft property in dusty Haryana or traffic-troubled JP Nagar, we’re buying a slice of hassle-free, ultra-modern, always enviable life in foreign?
I wonder if it works. It didn’t with us. At the end of the day, after searching through the towers, and courts, we ultimately invested in one of the 'estates.' Not because of what the ad promised but what pleased our eye and suited the pocket. And the name still makes me giggle.

Serves me right for fiddling too much with things I do not understand. I changed my blogger template, for no good reason except that I was bored and this new one looked calm and nice.

Then I republished my blog to save the changes and guess what? All my old Haloscan comments had disappeared. But naturally, as Blogger and Haloscan aren't linked, Blogger Help informed me. So I went to Haloscan and tried to tinker with scary looking html thingies to get those lovely ole comments back but no luck. Humph! If anyone knows how to do this please to tell me. Or else never mind. Life moves on. So do blogs and comments. But as I keep telling myself, should've got a bit tech savvy when I worked with those bright techie kids in those dotcom days. :((

The Great Rejection

Yesterday I think I committed a social solecism. Just when people were proudly swapping their US-return stories, I declared indifferently I was a US reject. Shame on moi!

We were invited for dinner at our new neighbour’s place — they’re a young couple, both in the IT industry. There were about 15 guests, a large number of them in the same industry and the conversation largely revolved around terms that went swoosh over my head. Someone started talking about a project he’d just completed in the US of A and the talk shifted to comparing work ethics there and here. Soon everyone was exchanging their Big Apple and Boston stories. Since I seemed to be the only person in the room who hadn’t been to any of these places, I kept silent and listened. The hostess wondered if I was bored but I assured her I was enjoying myself.

She asked me if I’d been there.
‘No. Never to the US. In fact the only time I planned a trip they rejected my visa.’
Suddenly silence happened all around and for a second I felt like I worked for Osama. And then came the barrage of questions: Why was it rejected? Did I have proper paperwork? Was I married then? Was I working? Did I tell them I was working? Did I have anyone to sponsor me and blah blah…
Since the incident happened more than three years ago and I haven’t given the matter much thought (except to wish a week of constipation on the embassy officer for being VERY RUDE) I was somewhat taken aback. As far as I was concerned, the downside of not being given a visa was missing out on having fun with two very close friends who lived there. It didn't affect my life as I wasn't planning to move or study there. I never bothered about what the implications would be if and when I apply next, etc. And I never felt very bad about it either. I’d applied for leave and planned a holiday so I went to Bombay instead and had as much fun.

But yesterday's concern showed me I should've been disheartened and very, very worried. Apparently one rejection stamp can keep me away from this hallowed land for ever. And silly me, I'd never even thought of that. Tut tut!

Recent Job Offers

Ghostwriter for CEO of cosmetic company planning to launch 'Beauty Book.'

Content editor for soon-to-be-launched religious portal (!!!)

Ghostwriter for cookbook by 'renowned cooking and food expert, very well known in Koramangla.' (Headhunter's exact words)

There has to be something wrong with my CV. On second thoughts, perhaps mentioning the willingness to work 'part-time/freelance' invariably brings in such offers.

Should think seriously about religious portal. My one shot at redemption.

9.30 pm

I can hear Amitabh Bachchan in the parents' room, asking phone-a-friend 'Ashokji' to help out his friend (I-have-missed-the-name-ji') the KBC contestant.

Can also hear father-in-law's disgusted 'no basic knowledge, such people shouldn't get a chance.'

Bachchan's baritone surpasses Rolling Stones' from our bedroom, where hubby is wallowing in misery at not having the TV all to himself.

In the apartment next door, the drilling machine that refuses to shut up is making our lives miserable. We've complained about the timing. In vain.

In the apartment above, our new neighbours are having a party and I'm straining my ears to catch a song I really like these days...'Woh lamhe, woh baatein, koi na jaane...'

...and struggling hard to stay awake by making furious noises on the keyboard.

Babymaking Basics

I’m having a baby. Sometime soon enough. And now that I’m this far into the pregnancy, I’m discovering some facts of life. Bear with me. Or skip this post.

Thou Shalt Hide Thy Belly: Britney Spears type tiny t-shirts are ok only in phoren lands. And look good only on Britney Spears. Or do they? In Apna modest Bharat an obvious display of the bump can get you quite rude stares especially from auntyjis. Trust me, one of them actually advised me to cover the bump with a dupatta! Rushing to invest in some voluminous Mysore silks now.

Thou Shalt Puke But Not Pee: Excuse that gross line. Couldn't resist. Put two pregnant women together, especially those in the earlier months of babymaking and the conversation is enough to make your stomach churn. They’ll discuss in painstaking detail how often in the day they threw up, what induced it and what made it stop. To me, this isn’t the worst part of being preggie. Rushing to the loo seven million times in a day is. Strangely, stating this aloud or complaining loudly that ‘you gotta go once again’ in polite circles isn’t quite the thing. You get rude stares. And this time even from fellow preggie women.

Thou Shalt Get Used To Being Felt Up: By the doctor, by the sonographer, by your friends, by your prenatal exercise lady, by your friends' children…By the time this baby comes out, I’m sure I’d shed my inhibitions enough to become a striptease artist or pole dancer. The only problem would be all that flab.

Thou Shalt Get Fat: Heaven bless you if you don’t. You’re bound to put on some extra kilos but the dictum of going down the diaper route is that those extra kilos have to SHOW. Otherwise you shall have aunt-in-law, friend’s grandmom, Mrs Murthy from the third floor, the maid, the ex-boss, all telling you how thin you look and how you ought to eat more and how many kilos their third cousin/youngest sister/brother’s wife, eldest daughter gained when they were preggie. Never mind what the doctor says.

Thou Shalt Not Display Ignorance Too Obviously: Especially in front of shop assistants when you go to buy hitherto unwanted and un-researched items like strollers and changing mats (there's a portable version, didja know?) and babybaths. The blank look on your face is enough to convince the shopgirl that you are a novice in such matters and therefore easy prey for fleecing.

Thou Shalt Not Discuss Labour With Other Women: Especially with women who’ve done the deed and now have a three-year-old tornado to show for it. Chasing after this in-house marathon runner is so exhausting that they’ve forgotten all about that 48 hour long pain session they’d to go through to get tornado in the first place. Question them thoroughly and they are bound to say: Well, you know…it was okay. Nothing much.

Thou Shalt Try and Find One Friend Who Does Not Drink: Or else suffer being surrounded by boisterous group of people (including husband) getting higher and higher and having just the kind of fun that you used to have, while you sit nursing your orange juice or virgin mary and dreaming of the day when you can pub hop again.

Family Feasts

We took the parents to MTR for a mega lunch yesterday. The hour-long wait, the system of seating people in batches according to the time, the food served from gleaming steel buckets and the generous helpings poured on the plate despite protests and a full stomach took me back to the wedding meals in the family years ago.
The largest room in the marriage hall would be converted into a dining area with at least four to five long rows of somewhat rickety wooden tables. Fresh banana leaves, sprinkled with water, would be laid out and the uncles and aunts in charge would decide how many people got to sit in which batch. Usually children would be given preference along with elderly people and ‘guests of honour’ like the bride’s ex-professor or the groom’s boss.
By the time we reached our teens, we'd refuse to be slotted with the ‘children.’ ‘We’d eat later, with the others,’ we would say importantly and ask an easily malleable uncle to let us serve. For inexplicable reasons, digging a mile long spoon into a steel bucket and serving steaming hot dal or fish curry seemed a very exciting prospect to us. However, it was always the older (and stronger) cousins who were entrusted with that exciting responsibility while we were indulgently given the lighter tasks. I remember being the perpetual ‘Poori’ server and Mims, my favourite cousin, was the water bearer, a task she would perform with grave importance. The atmosphere in the dining hall would be highly charged. Uncles would shout to each other across the room for more ‘bhajas’ (fried veggies, usually brinjal); officious aunts would pinch chubby cheeks and ask kids not to be shy and eat well. A sparse eater would have his or her plate heaped with food, whether wanted or not.
Serving protocol demanded you took ‘atithi devo bhava’ to the extreme and never listened to people. If they said one puri, you served them two. ‘Just a little dal, please’ meant a ladleful of the yellow stuff on the hapless soul’s banana leaf. And god forbid, if anyone refused the sweets!
We would follow this unsaid dining hall dictat with huge pleasure. Especially when it meant bullying grandparents to eat more, as it was usually the other way round. At some point during this noble ‘service ceremony’ the mothers would emerge and strictly ask us to take our place in the next batch and eat instead of fooling around, making us go back to being ‘children’ again.
I’m sure these exciting wedding feasts do happen but at least in my family, the last one I remember must’ve been more than 10 years back. Nowadays people employ catering services with waiters in crisp uniforms (either black and white or maroon with gold buttons) and very often it’s the buffet system. The professional service is probably more efficient and cleaner but hey, those old feasts were such fun!
In the rare case, when it’s an old-style feast, you find yourself among too many new faces to be as comfortable as your 13-year-old self. The grandparents are no more, cousins have married and moved away and you meet the extended family so rarely that you aren’t really all that familiar anymore.

Govinda Govinda!

Just when bad press about PILs vs PROs was threatening to cause him more damage than his recent string of flops, the media has realised its mistake and is going all out to express their heartfelt sympathy for actor-turned-MP Govinda's recent loss.
Some channel, Star News I think, even updated us on the Govinda-Sunita 'bachpan ka pyaar' angle after thursting the mike in the face of his injured son and asking him 'bahut dard ho raha hai?'. The poor kid managed a reply. Probably had instructions from dad to do so.
Well I may be heartless and highly insensitive but I still can't figure out why an accident that injured Govinda's family has to be in the news for the last couple of days. Govinda is a bygone success and a criticised MP by all means thanks to his recent no-show during the Mumbai floods. How important is he in the scheme of newsy things? Why are we subjected to info on how often Sunita visits religious shrines? The death of his assistant Rishabh Jha is sad indeed as are the injuries on his wife and two children. But does it require such primetime coverage?

Travel on my mind

Pangong Tso, Ladakh.

That jewel of a lake in a fascinating place that mesmerised us completely around this time last year.

This year, all my travelling has been done from the straightback chair in front of the computer. Despite the fact that for the last three months, I've been on a break from work.

There are some Kerala plans for September but the man is in a new job so the plans are very uncertain.

My friends are taking off.

The brother is trekking somewhere in the Himachal.

My friend M is trekking somewhere in Coorg.

Subs is out there in Africa.

Two lucky people in Germany have just come back from a picture-postcard trek.

Inky will be off to my favourite faraway land soon.

Bips is back to work but she did have a Himalayan odyssey before that.

So K, what are you and I doing staying put where we are?

PS: Just read Parmanu. Rolling on floor and throwing five year old type tantrum now. I WANT TO TRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAVEL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Tee Vee Ki Bimari

Have been watching too much television. Mainly due to an uninterrupted control over the remote thanks to a busy husband. If you are female and married you’ll understand what I mean. Especially if you are someone who doesn’t watch much TV and definitely not in the conventional ‘womanly’ hours like morning, afternoon, etc. Someone whose favourite show, in the rare occasion when she wishes to watch it, always clashes with a cricket rerun on Ten Sports or ESPN or a particularly mind-numbing Van Damme movie that hubby has suddenly decided to stick to.
Last week was one such exhilarating time of uninterrupted telewatch. Triggered largely by the fact that soon the in-laws would arrive and the remote would be possessed by a man who a) I cannot yell at unless I want to be slotted a bahu from Bagbaan and b) a man who would be home the whole day.

This is how TV watching went. I took one look at Amitabh Bachchan’s golden hair and gave KBC a miss. Why can’t his stylists or Abu Jani and Sandeep Khosla or whoever decides his look, let him look his age. Which, despite the goldilocks, he does.

Watched The Great Indian Comedy Show and was thoroughly disappointed to see that Shekhar ‘motormouth’ Suman has taken over a large part of the show from all those talented actors who hosted it earlier. Especially Vinay Pathak. Loved his Mahesh Bhatt act. The other reason I used to like The Great Indian Comedy Show was because of Kkukurmati Ki Kahani, which started as a laughable take off on all Ektaa Kapoor’s K serials. Sadly, while K serials seem to be going strong, Kkukurmati seems to have lost its punch.

Talking of serials, I actually sat through 15 minutes of one called Millee that seemed to feature a super-rich Indian household with mini-skirted maids. Going by the girls’ costumes, the director’s original idea must’ve been to base the story on cheerleaders. But the lack of a suitable ‘Amrikan-looking’ stadium and an easily available bungalow (discarded by ‘K’ Kapoor) would have made him/her change his mind.

If serials are getting worse could news be far behind? During the Great Mumbai Deluge, Star News showed us ‘photographs and videos taken by their viewers.’ Yesterday they went a step further and subjected us to a song on the state of Mumbai, ‘penned by a viewer’ and possibly sung by that misguided gentleman. How sweet no? Failed poets and singers need not despair anymore.

If all that wasn’t enough, the History Channel showed us a Biography of Brad Pitt (Yes. I watched it. Stop reading now.) where he was still happily married to Jennifer Aniston. I switched in desperation to Discovery Travel and Living which was repeating Ian Wright’s trip to some part of China for the 517th time.

This explains why I’m highly relieved at having the in-laws around. Between her serials and his cricket, her afternoon movies and his Aaj Tak debates, it saves me from television. Completely.

Choking

Here's why

http://in.rediff.com/movies/2005/aug/03look.htm

She has recently moved into one of the apartments on the floor below us. She seems to be in her early 40s, is mom to a very pretty teenager and wife of a much mentioned but yet unseen (by me of course) ‘as-he-is-so-busy’ husband.

Both of us are devoid of any other neighbours on our respective floors and she came up for a chat the day after she shifted, mainly to find out about the maid system, aquaguard service, etc. When I heard that half her luggage was yet to arrive and her house was still a mess, I invited her and the daughter over for lunch.

‘How nice of you. Don’t make anything special haan. Informal.’

We had sambar rice for lunch and since I feared it may not be sufficient for the three of us, I made a quick potato sabji with the traditional South Indian tempering of mustard seeds, curry leaves and dals, to go with the sambar.

‘Are you South Indian?’ she asked after checking what was on offer.

‘No. I’m a Bengali.’

‘Oh I thought because you made sambar...then you must be making very good fish!’

‘Well, not really. Cooking was far from my mind while I stayed with my parents and I only learnt to cook after I got married. And since I was living in a North Indian Jain family, fish wasn’t part of the menu.’

‘Oh so you don’t eat non veg. How can a Bengali not eat non veg?’

I rushed with explanations to set the matter straight. Anyone assuming I do not eat non veg is more than I can take. So I went into the long drawn explanation that well…I did start cooking non veg after me and hubby moved into our own place in Delhi and though am no expert cook, I can make fish, though rarely have I cooked it the traditional Bengali way.

‘But why?’ she asked, much distressed by what she thought was a lack of interest in my own cuisine.

‘I go by cookbooks, so if the recipe sounds easy and interesting, whether it’s Bengali or Parsi or Gujrati, you’ll find me making it, whether it turns out the way it’s meant to be or not.’

This was early last week. I didn’t meet her again for a while but we chatted a fair bit on the phone, mainly for numbers of home delivery services, laundry, vegetable man, etc.

This morning she came over around 9 to ask me if my maid would be able to work at her place for a week as her own maid had taken ill.

I was making tea and asked her to come in for a cuppa.

‘So what else are you making?’ she asked, surveying the kitchen.

‘Uttapams,’ I said, hoping she will not linger to watch my uttapam making skills, which are non-existent. Am pretty bad at any pancake type stuff, from pancakes to cheelas to dosas to yes, uttapams. These usually turn out round and somewhat decent only after several failed attempts.

‘Arre! Again South Indian!’ She was extremely bemused. ‘Don’t you ever make anything North Indian? At least for your husband?’

I know it's raining more than it has in the last 100 years out there.

I know most people are spending the nights wherever they are, be in at work, in their car or even, in my all time pet hate — crowded, squalid Dadar station.

I know it isn't much fun to have to walk through knee-deep or waist-deep water, which isn't exactly of five star swimming pool quality.

So will you consider me a complete nut if I say, despite all these, despite the fact that I will never get a decent-sized three bedroom apartment with lovely city view for the price I pay here in that submerged suburbia, I would still jump and pack my bags and take the first flight out, if only I got a chance to move to Bombay?

Don't get me wrong. I'm not cribbing. This is wishful thinking part II.

I did not like Delhi. Warmed up to bits of it by the time I left. I miss Khan Market. Ok not the whole of it. Only Cafe Turtle and Empire Stores. And now that I'm not working, it would have been fun to have gone pottering around Dilli Haat and Priya (Ok. Fact & Fiction) and when I felt obscenely rich, at least in my imagination, even Santushti and Hauz Khas Village. Though given the heat I doubt I'd have stepped out of home voluntarily. And would've been working had I been in Delhi I guess.

Sorry. Diversion happened there. So Delhi, by the end of my five year stay, was grudgingly passable. I quite like Bangalore. It's green, people take care of trees and the weather makes me smile and it has some nice places to hang around.

It's just that I like Bombay much, much better.

Wishful Thinking

After partying nonstop for for six days and five nights, I am dropping dead. Literally. The house looked terribly empty this morning without our mad friends and the ensuing chaos...

...And it struck me hard that after a point, you continue making good friends. The kind you can comfortably party with on weekends and go on treks and drives. But none that can read your pulse as well as the old ones can.

So for once, after a long, long time, I wished, really wished that I was back in Bombay. The city where I made at least half a dozen friends-for-life.

Inside Hogwarts

Had booked an advanced copy at Crossword but was able to sit down with Harry only late last night as we had guests over the entire weekend. One of them even looked at the book with a slightly amused eye. Humph! Dear guest, go join AS Byatt. I'm glad to be a childish adult.*

Was at page 358 before I looked at the unearthly hour on the bedside clock and decided it wasn't worth reading with really droopy eyelids. Not to mention the head.

But the joys of not working can be wonderful! Shall dedicate rest of the day to Potter after checking mail (and blogging and reading about other Potter maniacs and wondering if Kahini is doing this too. We were both quite excited during the last book).

The weather is lovely and inviting enough to drag the bean bag into the balcony (not to mention a mug of hot chocolate) and race through the adventure which I think has a somewhat insipid start and an overall feeling of sadness despite the raging hormones. But makes a great read nevertheless.

Go back to work then, all you lovely people.

Ciao!

* Thank you for the link Parmanu. I don't agree with her views but they are interesting.

Arranged Adventures

My little cousin (he isn’t reading this, so I can call him that) is getting married sometime soon. At least he plans to. He’s barely 25. Has a great and well paying job and thinks it’s time he got hitched and settled down.

If this were a Suraj Barjatya movie, his parents would’ve been ecstatic and a Bhagyashree type bahu who loves peeling carrots in the kitchen would’ve made her entrance already but my cousin has to deal with a formidable mom. And a somewhat baffled dad.

Maami (maternal aunt) and mama (maternal uncle) met in school when they were 16. He fell for her. She being a good girl from a good Bong family kept her feelings to herself. Until she was barely 20 and her parents decided to get her married off to some rich Bong businessman, who according to maami, looked like a toad and smelt worse.

Maami rebelled and helped by her brother went off to study in a college and live in a hostel somewhat far from home. Sometime later, she came home during the Durga Puja holidays and in true Bong romantic fashion bumped into mama in a Puja pandal (the place where the idol of Goddess Durga is kept. Scene of much merry and matchmaking).

The rest as they say is history. They married four years later, both of them working to save up for the future as parental support wasn’t exactly forthcoming. I have no idea why the parents on either side were opposed to the match since from the time I’ve seen them, they seemed to be on very cordial terms, but the cousin grapevine puts it down to ego clashes.

To get back to our young man, this is where the problem comes in. His parents cannot understand why, at an age when he should be going and checking out the world (and girls) and has all the liberty to do so, should he want his parents to open the matrimonial section of Sunday TOI and Anandbazaar Patrika and check out a girl for him.

And what they or my parents (who didn’t face parental opposition but did not need their help to find each other) cannot understand is: An arranged marriage? When we have given the boy all the liberty to choose whoever he likes, caste, creed, colour, language not a hindrance (as long as it’s a girl, they aren’t that liberal yet) and whenever. No deadlines here, please.

The boy, who was in Bangalore for a day on work and dutifully met me, thinks arranged marriages are wonderful. Here’s his logic: I’m working. I don’t have the time to meet a girl and even if I do, I don’t know if I’ll be able to put in much time in getting to really know her, her background, etc. If it’s an arranged marriage my parents can do all that (Like date the girl and find out which books she likes, I suppose?) and once all these background issues are smoothened out, life is much easier.

Me and P sat silently, looking at each other throughout this self-assured dialogue delivery. Later P told me that some younger kids at his workplace thought the same way my cousin did. And I remembered a conversation with a friend long ago about how it’s mostly our generation (The 30 plus ones) who like taking risks, like waiting till the right one saunters along or deciding they don't need marriage to 'settle' altogether.
Is adventure no longer for the young?

Inky has sent me a book meme. Since I'm always confused when it comes to selecting favourite books etc, have been putting it off for a while but you never know about bad luck (or bad lux, as kid in my school would say). So here goes. Please skip if bored.

Number of Books owned:
Between 350-400? Haven't counted. Occupies one whole cupboard at the moment.

Books I recently brought:
Snobs: Julian Fellows. Same person who wrote Gosford Park, which I enjoyed quite a bit. Haven't started reading yet.

Black Friday: S Hussain Zaidi. Since P grabbed it before me, I started it last Thursday. Then switched on the television and heard about the London blasts. Eerie...

Skin: Margaret Mascarenhas. Bought it finally and re-read. I love this book. The incidents and characters are like peeling the layers of an onion.

Last book I read:
Well...finished Black Friday last night. So has to be that one.

One book that I couldn't finish:
Ha ha. The White Mughals by William Dalrymple. I did read the first, second, third, fourth, zzzz..., fifth, zzzz...and the last chapters and many of the pages in between but frankly, after a point I gave up. It was too heavy for bedtime reading anyway...

Five books I cherish:
This is a difficult one. There are so many of them. So just putting down the ones that randomly come to my mind.

Neither Here Nor There: Bill Bryson. Anytime I need a laugh.

84 Charing Cross Road: Helen Hanff. The one I have also has The Duchess of Bloomsbury Street, Hanff's London travelogue. I LOVE this book.

Fried Green Tomatoes At The Whistle Stop Cafe: Fannie Flagg. There's something about this one. It's a look into a different kind of life altogether.

Bridget Jones' Diary: Helen Fielding. I even like the film. Purely because of the two men in it, actually.

Comfort Me With Apples: Ruth Reichl. If you like reading about food, love, travel and finally finding your feet, read this one.

Now who shall I pass this on to:

Kahini (who introduced me to three of those cherished books and many more, at different points in life.), Subs and Colours.

Had to bug you girls, even if you've been tagged before.

*wicked laugh*

The July 2nd Indian Express had an interesting page one photograph. I tried looking it up on the express site so that I could post it here but it's not available.

It showed Ahmedabad's Joint Commissioner of Police, K Kumara Swamy, being carried by (possibly) a constable through a flooded street in the city.

this is no humour in uniform,' said the caption.

I wish it was. Because the joint commissioner's legs seemed perfectly capable of wading through the waterlogged street. Despite that he had chosen another human being, his junior by many many ranks, as his mode of transport.

Why?

Well, simply because his car had broken down! How could a senior officer of his stature dip his precious feet, not to mention his sturdy, well polished boots through all that dirty water. Never mind that there's probably a lackey waiting at home to clean those precious boots.

I do hope the Jt. Commissioner took this step because of some physical problem. Arthritis perhaps. Or maybe a wound that's taking days to heal.

But if this is the way he moves around, whenever there's a bit of muck, who says we've moved away from the days of the Raj?

Do I know these people?

I don't use yahoo mail any more as paranoid ex-office had included it in its strange list of banned websites (Dear employees, surf porn by all means but no going on yahoo, rediff and DEFINITELY NOT HINDUSTAN TIMES!).

So I checked my yahoo address book after ages and have made interesting discoveries.

The number one name in the address book belongs to the former regional editor of the newspaper I worked for. In fact I have not one but two email IDs for a man who positively disliked me and whose feelings I reciprocated. When did I this ID down? Also I was acquainted with him in those pre-email days, so still wondering how...

I have email IDs of several people whose existence I seem to have forgotten. One of them is interestingly called silky followed by a number. The other calls herself/himself teekhimirchi.
There is one called Sujata but she isn't one of the two Sujatas I know. Who on earth are these people??!!!!

Discovery of the afternoon: email IDs of two ex-crushes. Hatching evil plan. Hehe

There are four alternative IDs for one certain person who was part of the alcoholics network masquerading as the features team at one point. Shows the strength of our friendship in those days I suspect, though I can't seem to remember much of it.

Strange are the ways of the world and the internet.

I’ve always hated being asked this question.

‘What’s your caste?’ Aap logon ka caste kya hai?

I see no reason why someone needs to know such intimate details of my background within 15 minutes of being introduced to me. And I’m always at loss to understand what they mean by the word ‘caste.’

Very often, in my experience, people mean community when they wrongly say caste. Though some never-say-die types also want to know what your caste (now meant correctly) is after they’ve figured out the community.

Among friends, we do make jokes about each other’s community and we do at times want to know what they do similarly or differently from us but what I don’t understand is when people plunge into the question almost right away.

Believe it or not, leaving aside other instances, I’ve heard this question from a teenager in Delhi (yes, she wanted to know what my friend’s caste was) and yesterday from a reasonably young mother in the neighbourhood during my evening walk, which is a lovely thing people who stay at home can do, though not when strange questions are coming their way.

Well why do people need to know? Are they going to further their interaction with you based on your answer? Or is it plain curiosity, sheer habit or perhaps mummy papa didn't tell them it wasn't an important thing to ask?

When I lived in Bombay I never once had to face the caste question. At most, people asked where you were from as it was apparent you lived on your own. Thankfully, I never had a landlady who brought such things up either.

But I inhabited a different world in those days. We made friends easily and how far it would go was based on that person’s capacity to work, laugh, party and imbibe first day first shows rather than on personal details they had no control over.

Rainsong

Now that it's raining in Mumbai and newspapers and TV channels can't get enough of the waves splashing on Worli Seaface and Marine Drive, am getting very nostalgic. True my memories of Mumbai rains include many that involve a lot of muck but nostalgia always excludes those ones.

I loved getting soaked by the waves on Marine Drive during the rains but my two absolute favourite rainspots were Bandra Bandstand where the wind could carry you off and the grotto with the curving srairway opposite Mount Mary church. You couldn't feel the waves there but you could keep standing there, sometimes alone for hours, get soaked and watch the sea merge into the blue grey sky.

That place was my zone of peace. Went there when I was feeling happy, sad, strange or nothing at all. And during the rains.

Going To KV

Subs’ comment about some parents not sending their kids to a middle class school got me writing this one. WARNING: LONG RANT. HAVE POSSIBLY RANTED ON THIS BEFORE

From Class II till Class X, I attended the most middle class school of all in India — Kendriya Vidyalaya or Central School as it’s better known. A number of them actually as dad had a transferable job. No matter which remote area we went to, the syllabus remained the same and admission was more or less guaranteed so mom and dad were happy with the arrangement. It did occur to them to send us to a boarding school for a while but both me and brother threw ultimate tantrums at just the mention of it and till date, I’m glad they never took that step.

I studied with all sorts of kids. If the squadron leader’s daughter was in the same class with me, so were the school’s clerk’s twins. My parents did not seem to have a problem with this mixing of classes. Strangely though, scores of other people did as I realised gradually.

The general perception about KVs is that it is a ‘Hindi medium school,’ teaching standards are extremely low and that crowd that studies there has ‘all types.’ Some allegations aren’t very far off the mark. There are some 800 plus KVs around the country and abroad and there is a possibility of poor teaching standard in some of them. I’ve gone through a terrible history teacher, a wonderful English teacher who taught me to love reading and two Maths teachers, one of whom made me hate the subject and the other ensured I ended up liking it enough to get a decent score in my board exams. This lack of uniformity isn’t unique to KV. There are several upper middle class schools across the country where the teaching standard isn’t uniformly excellent.

A friend and I had an argument once. She is a young mom and pretty concerned about which school her two year old will eventually get into. She’s limited her choices to the crème de la crème (at least by repute) schools of Delhi. It HAS to be Vasant Valley, Modern, Mother’s International, Sanskriti or something else in that super school category. Her argument: A good school shapes you for life. And you study with people from good families.

I don’t know how much of that argument I agree with as I've never quite understood school snobbery. I’ve seen kids from the best of schools do miserably in competitive exams while someone from a school we hadn’t even heard about has sailed past with ease. Of course these aren’t generalisations. The opposite can be true as well. The thing is whether you study in Kendriya Vidyalaya, Ferozpur Cantonment. or Cathedral and John Connon Bombay, how you ultimately shape up depends on a lot more factors than just which school you went to.

I studied with kids from all kinds of backgrounds and cultures. I may not have ‘connections’ with the vice admiral’s kids as my friend Adi does thanks to his days in Modern Barakhamba, Delhi but I do have friends from diverse backgrounds and communities and a reasonable amount of knowledge and level of tolerance about them than in many other people I know. People who think all Gaons are Catholics and Maharashtrian cuisine consists mainly of pao bhaji.

And no, am not bragging.


PS: On an absolutely different note have a problem maid at hand. Does the work well and claims to understand Hindi but the moment I want her to do things a certain way, pretends to lack all knowledge of the language and gets weepy.

My two bits...

ON PARINEETA
Very nice period details. Esp. the Saridon ad and the switches which sent me back to my grandparent's old house in Cal. Saif looks hot. Vidya Balan is a discovery. Good they picked her out of those chai ka patti and washing powder ads. Only sore point, did they need to have such a dramatic climax?

ON GARBAGE SEGREGATION
Recently started in the building. Largely due to the efforts of two ladies, one of them retired, the other a post graduate student. The reaction? Surprisingly varied according to the volunteers. An 80 plus grandmom has no objection doing it after a lifetime of habit where she probably had maids dumping all the garbage in one bin. On the other hand a 30 something woman has been complaining about how such stuff takes up a lot of time and is almost impossible for a busy working woman like her. Some things can be eye-openers in a strange way.

ON A CERTAIN HOT SHOT INTERIOR DESIGNER IN BANGALORE
Was talking to her for a story I'm working on. Her response to one of my remarks: 'I don't do middle class homes my dear. They're too many people involevd and they aren't just worth it.'

The Best?

I don't know about you but all these best blog listing always leave me cold. Esp the ones about Indian blogs. Find most of the blogs featured there either too opinionated or trying too hard (but please note, I said 'most') to be cool. And do we really need to know the life of every kid in every B school? Spare us for God's sake.

Some of the best blogs I read regularly are private so that rules them out but some aren't and in my opinion they would rate highly in any blog list anywhere. But that's my opinion and perhaps the listmakers of blogworld differ.

What brought about this current grouse, went to a listing of best Asian blogs (sorry can't gove the url, have deleted address bar history) and with the exception of a genuine blog or two, there wasn't much to cheer for. So I have some 'koshchens.' Do you get the same feeling whenever you visit a best blog list? Why does this happen and er...am I sounding terribly opinionated too?

Have discovered the magic word to get work done -- 'sahab gussa karega,' 'sahab ko achcha nahi lagega' and various other combinations with the word ‘sahab’. This is how it happened. Was fruitlessly telling the cable guy to tune Travel and Living and National Geographic properly so that I can actually watch them instead of just hearing disembodied voices when inspiration struck. 'Sahab sham ko aake yehi channel dekhta hai. Ye achcha nahi ayega to sahab gussa karega.' I told the guy. The next thing you knew the man had pulled some wires and the reception was crystal clear. Never mind that 'sahab' (P who is blissfully ignorant of the things that get done in his ‘name’) doesn’t venture beyond HBO and ESPN.

Tried same tact with the carpenters next. Was unhappy with the work done on one of the kitchen pullouts and had been unsuccessfully chasing them. Just had to pick up the phone last Sunday and utter, ‘Sahab bahut gussa kar raha hai,’ and bingo, the men came running. Had to of course train ‘sahab’ to look suitably angry when they arrived.

Similar story with man who came to fix the computer. Now am no techie but I do know the basics (I’d like to think so) and it’s me who’s going to be a permanent fixture on the home comp. ‘Let me speak to Mr P madam,’ said the computer guy after finishing his work.
‘Mr P wouldn’t be using this computer much. You can speak to me.’
‘I need to explain certain things to him madam,’ our man persisted with the look one preparing to battle with a five-year-old kid.
I ended the conversation the only way possible: ‘Look here. It’s me who uses this machine. So it’s me who has to know and understand the complicated stuff. NOT MY HUSBAND. UNDERSTAND?’

All that brings me to a slightly disturbing thought. Why is this happening suddenly to me? Is it because people automatically assume that a lady cannot take decisions without getting it approved by her husband (especially if she’s a housewife) or doesn’t have the mental capacity to understand technology? Or is it just mild-mannered, gentle (ahem) me?

On a different note:

Have discovered two good things. Daily Bread. A company that makes very exciting types of bread from spinach to whole wheat. Even one with mustard and curry leaves that smells like avial!

And Biryani Merchant. They even do a hilsa biryani!

...and the fact that I posted this in red tells you I don't have much to do.

My interesting life as a stay-at-home girl officially begins today. Well it should have technically begun about one and half months back in Delhi when I said bye to the girlie mag but circumstances kept me busy and circulating.
We finally shifted to the apartment in Bangalore yesterday. It’s pretty nice. High up again. We seem to be catching an aversion to anything below the 15th floor. The two balconies have excellent views of Bangalore’s unending greenery (yes, have fallen for the greens) and within the complex, you can feast your eyes on the manicured lawns. Ok. Not so manicured but at least that’s what they look like from this height. There’s also a lovely blue swimming pool. Again, the height helps.
Earlier in the day decided to do the following today or some of it at least from this list:
* Walk in nice looking (from above) garden. Only it was 11:00 am and a bit sunny for a walk. Wish had dog. Great excuse for walk.
* Check out the pool. Only can’t swim. So could only go, gape and get back. Could do that from the living room balcony so avoided.
* Check out the shops around. There isn’t much though, except Jai Hari Supermarket which isn’t very high on the excitement factor.
* Check out Bangalore.
* Find a beautician who offers door step services and get various body parts scrubbed and polished. Just the thought made me go zzzzzz…
It's about 4 in the evening now and haven't done any of these exciting things. Instead have spent the day finding a plumber, chasing the cable guy, getting washing machine repaired and shouting at the carpenter. Now awaiting man to come and fix aquaguard. Humph!

Wow! Feels great to be online at last. although only for a while as the furniture and the rest of our stuff hasn't reached so it will be a while till I get the computer fixed and running. Have finally landed in Bangalore. Welcomed by bad traffic and great weather. Coming from 40 degree plus Delhi the weather more than makes up for the traffic. And yes, the greenery too. Think am going to like thic city, unlike the previous shitty I stayed in.
Feels weird to have been cut off from the blog world for so long. Time for catching up.