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.

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.

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.

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?

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

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.

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 :)

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.

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...

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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

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 :)

Weekend on the road...

Sudden burst of reds...



Orange, yellow and gold...

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!

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.

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.

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. :)

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.

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.

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.

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 :)

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?

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.

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.

Roots to branches...

Parlour Spotting

I spent an unusually long time at the beauty parlour (salon sounds too posh) yesterday and realised that mothers still accompany their daughters to 'supervise' the haircut. I saw at least four moms with their daughters. One pair was actually having fun getting head massages and manicures together and finally made me realise that Cosmo, Femina, Good Housekeeping and Elle weren't lying in all those perdicure bonding stories.

It's the other three I'm talking about. They stood behind the hairstylist watching how the work was being done. One had a deep, long discussion with the stylist before the process began, insisted that her daughter's hair was not be washed and then proceeded to park herself on the stylist's toe. Well, almost. I was getting a great head massage by now but could hear her instructions: Not so short, it's not equal there, etc. Wonder how the girl doing the job kept a cool head.

Most of the daughters looked at least 18. Made me wonder why did they need to come to the parlour under mom's watchful eye. Was mom scared that dotty dearest would go in for spiked, jagged edges and colour her hair purple? Or go the bald route?
Well, there's nothing in it probably but it did strike me as strange.

Also spotted in the parlour loo: flush used only for flushing

The Mental Judge

Before Poppin thinks I'm the rudest person on earth, let me do this tag because I'm very lazy about these things usually :)

First I'm wondering if I'm judgemental. I'd like to believe I'm not but hey...it's a vice that's difficult to escape. That said and done, who knows, at times I may be guilty of the things I say here :)

1. I'm judgemental about people who don't give you a choice or don't respect yours. That holds true for terribly religious people who expect you to fast on Tuesdays and visit the temple every week just because they do; vegetarians who shudder when you mouth the word 'fish,' non-vegetarians who wonder how people survive eating 'just sabji'; married friends who loudly wonder why a certain friend is choosing not to get hitched...the list can go on..but anyway you get the drift.

2. These days I'm a bit judgemental about supermoms. There are so many of them around that it's pretty scary to know that I am the average type and use absolutely un-earth motherly things like diapers and baby wipes (in the past as ha ha at home we are on the training route). I'm actually a complete gone case as I used to feed the Monkey Gerber babyfood (comes in bottles, pureed and is bahar ka packaged khana for the uninitiated) in his first year whenever we travelled. I'm also not averse to chocolates and chips and not a fanatic follower of homeopathy.

3. I judge people who show off, although it's the subtler variety I'm talking about. The kind who immediately tell you they prefer to drive the zen because of Bangalore's traffic though the Honda Civic is such a smooth drive. They aren't talking about traffic or driving here baby of course. Trust me, I know the kind.

4. I judge people who don't read. Yes I know I shouldn't and by that logic I shouldn't have married the husband but he did read newspapers and India Today and that's at least something, isn't it? I'm talking of people who consider books a waste of money. I once overheard a mom at Khan Market's Bahrisons telling her teenage daughter: Ab itne hi paise kharchne hai to koi dress ya shoe le le.

5. I judge people who constantly give advice. About everything from going to a particular shop to visiting their gyanec who's the best in the world to making the gravy in a particular way because that's how they do it and of course it's the done thing in the world.

6. And last one. I judge people who don't like doing something on their own. Whether it's shopping or sitting in a Barista for a cup of coffee or having a meal in a restaurant, travelling alone with a baby...several things. I agree having company is an exciting prospect but when someone says they are uncomfortable sitting and having a meal on their own in a restaurant I tend to think they are either uncomfortable with themselves or too worried about who'll think what or too timid. As for the travelling alone with baby, I'm sorry to say this but I've met a lot of shrinking violets (excooz the phrase) who cannot stomach the thought of going from Bombay to Delhi or Bangalore to Kolkata or even Bangalore to Chennai with a small child unless accompanied by husband. Why sweetie? Is the husband an on-road child sedative?

Ok can't think anymore. And I sound absolutely fanatic in that list above. But who cares. It's a license to judge, after all.

Temple Trip

Like good children we took the parents on a temple trip over the weekend. They went for the darshan, we went for the art, the monkey went for the usual, i.e., climbing up and down stairs, which were in abundance everywhere and muttering 'Habelidd' and 'mangola', Halebid and Sravanbelgola in adultspeak.

Channakeshava temple in Belur was amazing. Everything from its vast courtyard, to the unbelievably detailed carvings was breathtaking.




We stayed back for the evening arati and it was quite a performance with music, bells and chants. The monkey did an impromptu balle balle much to the amusement of some and irritation of others.

We stayed for a long time, sitting in the courtyard, watching devotees pour in and out, families enjoying the evening breeze, an old priest walking back to his quarter.

It was like a beautiful park, a place to come, relax and take in the atmosphere. With an aura of history, reverence and unparalleled art.

...and this is the view after huffing and gasping halfway up Sravanbelagola. Trust me, unless you are the devoted kind, the view is the only thing worth the climb :)

Pottering around...

Sounding off

These days my home is alive with the sounds of teevee. It starts at 8 in the morning with Tiny TV on Pogo. Usually Kipper the Dog, followed at times by Noddy. Being the horrid mom that I am, I'd be thankful if the monkey sat through these wobbly wonders for a whole hour but as it turns out, he watches anything for barely 15 minutes before trooping off to do his thing.
The TV however stays on, as the monkey's dadu -- my husband's dad and self confessed TV addict is here. As it turns out, he's becoming quite an expert on Noddy and gang.
There is an hour or two's respite around 10ish, when 'dadu' gets busy with Sudoku, Crossword and suchlike but he's been blessed with a quick thinking brain and these things get solved too fast. Soon enough I can hear the unmistakable strains of Anil Kapoor hamming, Dharmendra shouting or Rakhi repeating one dialogue three times.*
At some point my mother-in-law finally wins the battle of the remote and sits down for some soapy stuff, thankfully at a lower volume. But such joys are short lived (and sudokus not complex enough) and the TV goes back to Rakhi and gang, at a volume to beat Aerosmith live.
Some Pogo comes on in snatches and sometimes I do laugh at Jaaved Jafri's commentary for Takeshi's Castle but usually by this time I'm too zonked out to care. Which is a good thing because in the evening all our television manages to do is stay stuck on the face of some CNBC/NDTV Profit presenter while the suspiciously named sensex plunges up and down.

* After sitting through (in an earlier life) and hearing through (in this life) several sessions of Rakhi's trials and tribulations as a mother, I cannot but sympathise with the woman. The woman is just given one role to play! Dead husband, white sari, vacant-eyed look, slightly slurring Bong accented Hindi, constant visits to Shiv temple and having to repeat the same dialogues, not once, but thrice...Tujhe tyag karna hoga...tyaag, tyaag, tyaag/Mere Karan Arjun Ayenge...Karan Arjun Ayenge...Ayenge....

Pure Hearted Mush

There are several things I love about the husband but there is one that both infuriates me and makes me look at him with extra doses of lurrve. The man sleeps like a baby. In fact, better than most babies if his sister, who's seen more babies than I have, is to be believed. He certainly sleeps longer than ours does. And takes almost as many about turns in his sleep as his son.
His sleeping habit irritates me when we have to go out somewhere and the man sleeps much beyond the scheduled time but also makes me think of something my wise aunt used to say: People who have the ability to sleep soundly are people with free minds and pure hearts. She would say this looking at my brother whose sleep can survive earthquakes, babies bawling their throats out, loud jagrans, screaming sister, everything. That sort of takes the truth away from it a bit, but at any rate I seem to be surrounded by men of pure hearts.

The Monkey loves buckets....

Dear God, why?

Bliss is...

...a Cadbury Dairy Milk melting slowly in your mouth

But this post isn't about that. This post is about the joy of journalism. I'm no longer part of it in the truest sense of the term as I don't do stories that regularly, so perhaps I should edit that.

It's about the joy of meeting people and writing about them. Call it reporting, feature writing, jotting down hurriedly scribbled interview notes into a coherent form or what you will...the truth is, how many jobs let you meet a herpetologist one afternoon and two grannies who sell pizza the next morning?

Thank God I didn't change my mind in college when a pack of friends joined Sujata Khanna's MBA coaching classes and gave me long, hard stares when I refused to and mentioned the J word.

And Thank God I didn't change my mind when I discovered that rent was considerably more that the salary I got paid in my first job. (Well...should thank dad, actually)

It isn't a job that changes the world, requires unbridled imagination or extraordinary brainpower. Well at some level it does to a great extent, but hey, I'm just talking of my simple stuff, so let's not get there.

I love this for the people. A techie who gave up a lucrative career to start an e-library, an academic who's behind the best school in town, a woman who's given up shopping...

Where else do you get to meet such a varied lot?

* The Pizza Grannies, as many of you in Bangalore may have read, are raising funds for an old age home. The techie runs www.easylib.com. If you live in Bangalore and want a library with a truly eclectic collection of books, this is the place to log on.

Grrrr....again....

Why is it that most people assume that just because I'm working from home, I:

a) Have all the time in the world to jabber on phone about Sarita from B2 whose maid ran away with the presswala

b) Can look up the price of Fisher-Price toys on ebay as I'm "online anyway" and have nothing better to do

c) Will cheerfully take on work and finish even if it's sent late in the evening because I don't work in an office where I shut the computer and leave at 6

d) Will keep house looking immaculate, turn out a good meal and not look like something the cat brought in when there's a suddenly put-together dinner for hubby's office pals

e) Don't do anything much and probably sleep through/spend the day getting my nails done in the parlour, as for a couple of hours, the son is at the daycare centre.

Ok, here goeth

Was tagged by Poppin's Mom and must say, it got me thinking. Hmmm...here goes the list of 8 things you didn't know about me. If you still don't wanna know, go ahead and skip this with my best wishes :)

1. I'm terribly lazy about folding quilts, propping pillows...that whole making the bed thing

2. I cannot sleep without reading. Even if it's two at night and I'm dead tired. And it can be anything.

3. I loved telling Delhi snobs (especially the ones I had to interview in the course of work) that I travelled by auto, lived in North Delhi and had studied in 'Central School.' Of course, they still had to be nice to me as I was writing about them. Ha ha.

4. I love Bangalore but continously surprise myself by missing Delhi. Ok I'll be specific: Khan Market, INA and the Vasant Vihar Fabindia

5. I am hopeless with numbers. Really hopeless.

6. My secret desire is to be the perfect cook. You know the type that can separate eggs whites in a second without making a mess and whip up yummy pasta without resorting to readymade sauce.

7. I'm a very forgetful mother. Forget things like vaccination dates and medicine timings. (There! Out of the blogging mommies meet now)

8. I love South East Asian food. I can live on it.

DONE :)))

The Post on Blue Mangoes

I was flipping through Good Housekeeping (ok, reading the recipes) yesterday and guess what I spotted? An ad for 'India's No. 1 pre-school chain' Eurokids which literally had me shivering in my pants. Now I don't remember the exact text and I thought I'd scan it an post but then this blog would've been written next year. The copy goes somewhat like this: While painting children tend to mix up colours. At Eurokids we ensure they don't.

The visual (again if I remember) shows a blue mango with yellow leaf. To me the Blue Mango looks perfectly cute. Appetising even. But obviously at Eurokids they want mangoes to be yellow and only yellow. Considering I'm frequently taking A's crayons (kaiiiiyooons) and colouring Bob the Builder (Bobbbiilll) pink and red (not blue and yellow and as shown in the sample pic), I'm really thanking my lucky stars for having left preschool and all such things far behind. This is because I've a history of 'incorrect colouring' going by Eurokids' philosophy. Throughout school I loved painting skies orange and rivers brown and suchlike. Don't read too deeply into this now as my friend An, the psychologist might. I'm not such a rebel in real life. In fact, the exact opposite. It's only yummy looking crayons and sketch pens that bring out this rather reckless colourful side of me. I could almost imagine (a small and shrunk) me in Eurokids being shouted at by watchful teacher with a bunch of right crayons in her hand: Paint those mangoes yellow NOW. You are going the Indian Author Writing in English Way. We've chucked all those blue mangoes and red earths from here earlier!

Jokes apart, I wonder if the power-that-be at Eurokids have figured out the message that this ad is giving out. I guess what they are really trying to convey is that every child is well looked after and there is a good teacher-child ratio. This is all very nice but it's coming out completely wrong. Somewhat dictatorial. Very 1984. Big Brother is watching you type. I wish someone tells them that if they haven't figured it out by themselves yet. Now bye bye while I go paint Bobbbbiill's house crimson.

Timepass

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

One reason I love this place...

...is the sunset from the balcony

It isn't easy being a mom. In my case a stay-at-home-working one. Every morning when I go to drop my son at the daycare he clings to me and cries when I leave. Every morning I wonder, 'Is this worth it? Why can't I keep a maid to look after him at home while I work?'

Really, why can't I? Because I tried it and it didn't really work. Working from home can be very distracting because unless you have a separate area from where you operate and shut out the rest of the house, you are constantly being badgered by something or the other.

Add to that a toddler who gets super excited at the sight of a computer or anything mummy does and treats it as another toy to hammer on, much to the risk of his mom's unsaved files and just-copied research.

I can shut the door and work while the maid takes care of him. But I know that in two minutes the door too would be hammered upon with frantic cries of 'maaaaaaaaammmmaaaaaa.'.
Maaaammmmma would curse under her breath and wait for a while but eventually get up and open the door with a heart melting faster than icecream in Delhi heat.

The maid could perhaps take him out to play but heck no, being paranoid mummy par excellence, I would probably be checking the playground from the balcony with a binocular. Is that the maid talking to some of her friends? Hmm...red and yellow dress...haan that's her...I hope she's keeping an eye on him even if she's busy chatting...where's he...why isn't she checking...where's he...ohmygod...aaarghhh...he's eating mud....AARGGGGH...NOOOO...get him back...NOWWWWWWW!

Little wonder then that the daycare is a better option. I know for a fact that my son's happy there, despite the initial bout of crying every morning. I can see it when I go to pick him up in the afternoon. He's happy to see mamma but he's also happy to play with his friends. I know that I'm doing the right thing. It's good for him. And it's good for me.

But still my heart does a super-depressed flip each morning when I leave my clingy baby there. And when I get back home and sit down with a cup of tea with no one around to surreptitiously dip a little finger into it, I'm so totally racked by guilt that I can almost run and get him.

But of course I don't. I switch on the computer instead, start working and keep feeling guilty for the next five hours.

Moms are the strangest creatures!

Snot Value

Had taken up a book editing assignment couple of months back. Unfortunately for me, the author (a yeng man from the IT feeilld) had decided that revulsion was the best way to grab attention. Each of his characters belch, retch, snort, fart their way through the book (or at least the pages I read). Trust me, I've great patience with bodily malfunctions, by virtue of being married to P, who bases most of his jokes on these. But all I wanted to ask our earnest yeng author was, did he have to describe his characters' morning ablutions in such great detail. Thankfully I could say no and cowardly duck out thanks to the brother's wedding. One day am sure this book would be hailed as a great work of Indian writing that nobody can exactly figure out and I as usual would lose out on the megabucks, at least some bucks. :(

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz..........

...ohgodohgodohgod
...panic is happening
...deadline's tomorrow evening
...now how many 00000s are there in a billion?
...why on earth do I need to convert everything into $$$$?
...Hedge fund sounds like a neighbourhood pool-in gardening group
...and M&A reminds me of M&Ms...mmmmmmm :)
...why did I ever agree to do business stories?
...painting toenails at women's mag office was so much better
...really

Babyspeak

The toddler can say about five-six words now...it might be seven by tomorrow morning, the repertoire keeps increasing. Like a true male, there is a lot of difference in what he says and what he means.

One of his favorite words is 'Akkaaaah' which, surprise, surprise, doesn't mean what it's supposed to mean...It means autorickshaw (don't ask why, that's another story!).

Then there is 'Auwaaah.' Since am not the smartest of mommies,it took me a long time to figure out it meant 'light' in any form — bulb, candle, the full moon...

I do hope he means 'mamma' when he says it.

And...

...it’s official. Meeting Parmanu is an excellent way to get people interested in blogging or anything remotely related to the written, sorry, the typed word.

First we saw how Alpha’s friend figured out the wonderful world of blogs. Now it’s P's turn and he thinks blogging might be cool after all. It lets you practice the art of shouting at the top of your voice to chat with great people (and their sister) over frothy cappuccino at extremely noisy café; It also gets you books. Especially the one you’ve been eyeing all this while.

Many thanks Parmanu. As a Bong, let me even apologize on behalf of the Bong lady sitting behind you on the flight :).

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