Things I found after spring cleaning...

&...

Just finished watching Revolutionary Road. Fabulous, immaculate and disturbing, everything about it. Don't miss.

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'Ány vices?'asked the doctor.

'Depends on what you mean by vice,' I snapped, wishing for a moment I could add smoking to the vice list that included drinking. What else should we add when faced with questions like these? White lies, jealousy, judgemental...?

Questions like these always throw me off balance. They make me wonder how an educated person could think these up with a straight face. This is the second doctor to ask me the vice question and it always surprises me how casually it is asked. To me, it implies that the good doctor already has some assumptions deep-rooted way inside her mind when it comes to the word. I once gambled in Goa, I'm tempted to reply. Does it count as vice as the thrill of winning/losing huge amounts of money probably played yo-yo with my blood pressure? Sadly, such people usually do not possess a sense of humour and my deep and searching questions just stay where they are. Inside. The vice question however, rates way up there when it comes to the weird questions list. 'What's your caste?' being the other all time favourite.

Mashed eggs with pasta and other delicacies

I'm the queen of leftover breakfasts. Ask Kahini and she will tell you of wonderful mornings of being hungover in Haryana and battling it with a great and greasy breakfast of leftover biryani and eggs fried in a few strips of fatty bacon. If you just went yuck this post is not for you so don't tell me I didn't warn. These days I do end up making a proper breakfast for the husband and the child. Now before you get any vision of a BBC Good Homes style colour coordinated table with a bread basket, Good Earth porridge bowls and gleaming cutlery, let me tell you that in my house 'proper breakfast' translates into one kadai of Poha/vermicelli upma/pasta plonked on the dining table with accompanying yells like 'Add some salt to the poha/take the bread out of the toaster' etc,. But still it's food that is good enough to go but would you find me eating it once the boys have gone and I have the house to myself? Never. I cannot eat a straightforward breakfast. I need to make it complicated. So the Poha would have some aloo bhujia thrown in and if I have energy left to throw it back in the kadai and toss it with some puliogare powder nothing like it. My absolute favorites tho are Mashed eggs with pasta and Moong dal with prawn balchao. For the first one you need a bowl of pasta and one boiled egg left unfinished by a three year old. This three year old part is very important because only then will it have the right consistency of being pricked with a fork a hundred times over and doused with sticky, sweet ketchup. Dunk this mashed concoction (carefully taking off the extra ketchup with a spoon)in a pan with a nice dollop of butter (I believe in good health) and press it all further with a potato masher. Add some water and let it simmer till you have something that looks unfit for human consumption. If you have Oregano left over from Domino's Pizza delivery add that. It's yum. My current fave though is Moong dal salad. No not the sprouted version. I run mile away from them. This is basically moong dal soaked overnight and then sauteed with jeera and hing and mixed with cucumber, tomatoes, chopped onions, etc. That of course is the husband version. Mine gets dried prawn balchao (available at the Koramangala Fabindia) and loads of green chillies thrown in for good measure. Simply divine. My heart will possibly not agree few years later but hey, as long as it gives me a good start to the day, who cares!

Rambling mommy post

Sometime early this evening, as I was climbing up the stairs to an electronics store, I tripped and dropped my sleeping son on the ground. He fell with a thud, rudely awake and crying his guts out. P scooped him up and there we stood for the next two minutes, rubbing the poor child's head and trying to soothe him and angry with each other. P with me for I wasn't exactly looking where I was going. Me at myself for doing what I'd just done. The fall was a nasty one, the sound of it even nastier. Mercifully there were no bruises or cuts, except a minor scratch on his arm. Back home, after a small hospital check up (I bet the emergency guy logged us as Paranoid Parents mentally), we couldn't get it out of our minds that it had been a close shave. He could have fallen further down the stairs and it could have been worse. Predictably, in true mother mode, I've been feeling horrible, despite everything getting back to normal. A's even done his Rock On routine for us before bedtime and proudly shown off the Band-aid on his arm. It's me who's in jitters. The klutziest mother on earth. Of course that isn't true. I may not have Angelina Jolie's ability to balance babies on various parts of her body but I do usually manage to walk in a straight line. Though to be honest, this isn't the first time I've dropped my son. The last instance was unavoidable but when he was a jiggly necked baby, my hands would almost turn to jelly every time I had to pick him up, which was practically all the time. Do other mothers feel like this? Perhaps they don't. Look at Meghna my friend. She can balance a clutch and her pretty daughter while walking in high heels. And another friend goes rock climbing with her son. I'd rather be turned into stone that do that! Why am I finding it difficult to move on after something so small? Do fathers have it easier? P came back to normal once we knew nothing was wrong. I'd have shouted at him too had he dropped A instead of me but would he have been feeling as weirdly horrid as I am? I'm indulging in self pity? Absolutely. What else do I have a blog for! Need to have this written and off my chest. Motherhood is such a fucking complicated box of emotions. You can go from happy, sad, warm, angry, frustrated, guilty, elated, proud, thrilled, envious, foolish, sheepish, bitter...all in a matter of seconds and I've actually run out of adjectives. There are many more. You can beat yourself to death mentally for having dropped your son and then feel frustrated later when he refuses to even touch his dinner. You start shouting/trying to make him eat and then that one drop of tear silences you because today of all the days, you should go easy, shouldn't you? The child being the cunning monkey that he is, knows just which buttons to press and when. Which makes me wonder if I am pressing the right ones. Of being able to take care, take charge, do all the right mother type things and blah blah. There was some Cher movie (forgot name) where she says to her kids 'It's not as if you guys came with some instruction manual. Well at times you do wish they did. Dropped child today? a) Allow him to play with his food b) Gently, but firmly remind him that food is meant to be eaten and there are no alternatives available c) Run to loo and cry. Scroll down to see answer.

Possible professions in 2009

With the job market in such a state, me and some friends thought of a few possible jobs in today's troubled times while having dinner. Here goes:

1. Moral Mausi

Job description: Upholder of Indian culture. Heavy demand in every Indian city. Will start by standing at every building gate and checking for errant school going girl children with skirts above their ankles. Will also post herself in front of pubs, clubs, movie halls, gyms and at rich Marwari weddings at the Oberoi to check for women in skin showing spaghetti tops, skirts, capris, shorts and sheer saris with sequin overdose. In fact will forward proposal to ban the sari altogether as it shows too much skin, that too around the erm...erogenuss/nous/noze (Chee chee! Moral mausi doesn't know spelling of such bad words) areas and still pretends to be Indian. Will uphold Mayawati style one size covers all salwar kameezes for anyone who's not a man. Problem solved.

2. TV Terror

Job Description: There is only one word for it. Suhel Seth. You will require a passable knowledge of what the 'gorment' is up to, highly stretchable vocal chords, some wisecracks and a dictionary with words such as 'buffoons,' 'cartoons,' 'baboons,' etc. A few years in Delhi cozying up to powerful media types will also help.

3. Luxury Consultant

Job Description: There isn't any. Will need to own sufficient Vuittons and Venetas, Cavallis and Choos. Will also require rich dad/husband to buy luxury mall post which candidate can call press conference, flash the Vuitton, call herself luxury consultant and pose for photographs. Tough call but easy job. All you need to do is look convincing as you give quotes like, 'The luxury segment is opening up in India/people are well travelled and know what luxury is/the time is right for luxury goods to enter the Indian market, etc etc.' People have been saying the same for the last five years so you will have enough research material.

4. Chamelion

Job description: Self explanatory. Think US returned IT person turned kiddie library founder turned playgroup founder turned restauranteur turned delusional turned IT person working on Banerghatta Road.

5. Model Mother

Job description: Franchisee for serenity, world peace and inner poise. Will need to be former model well trained in Yoga, own a large number of Lucknawi chikan churidar kurtas and a calm, peaceful expression. Will need to have friend with bungalow surrounded by greenery and basement for meditation.

Am off to sleep now on that peaceful note. Feel free to add.

Loved Gulzar's reply to why he didn't attend the Oscars in this morning's Bangalore Times. 'Kaala coat nahi mila,' he says. Cackle cackle. How could Raakhi divorce this man. Actually on second (and more mature) thoughts...how could he marry Raakhi!

Bitching apart, wish Rahman had thanked him a wee bit more publicly though...considering he's credited everyone from Subhash Ghai to his mother. Speaking of Rahmania, terribly glad that I'm not a Chennai based lifestyle journo at the moment. Friend working there says they've been asked by their newspaper bosses to dig up every impossible, unknown bit of info about him in the next few days or else...

Oh we're attacking the Sri Ram Sene, Yediyurappa and any moralistic political bugger all right but we've forgotten the handsome, yuppy puppy boy next door. He's the one who is part of your fun gang when you start going to pubs after work; he's the one hailing the autos for you at midnight and dropping you home (in these days of easy loans he probably has a car); he's the one going out with you for a late sunday hangover healing breakfast;he's the one who likes you, hasn't quite met anyone like you but won't take you home to mummy. Not even when you are sober. Coz you see, it's alright for him to take his sorry ass to the pub when he's tired after a long day's work but when you do that, you automatically get struck off as ideal wife material from his long-standing mental list. To make the cut you need to go home straight from work (after politely saying NO to all those loose moraled girls who want you to come out and drink), change into cute striped pajamas, eat your chapatis and spend your time watching 'First Ladies' or HBO. On the days you are out with him, you need to ensure you have nothing more incriminating than a Cranberry Breezer. A beer? Certainly not. Ciggies? Look around, I think he's run away already. So why just rant on the Sene in TV debates. Deep down in their hearts, most Indian men (and several women) still believe drinks and decency do not mix.

A very good friend got dumped by her handsome, supposedly cool, liberal boyfriend a while ago. The reason? He didn't really feel she could be the 'family type.' Now that they were talking marriage, he felt she needed to sober down a bit. Not too many long hours at work, not too much after work bonding with the girls, not too much this, not too much that. It's not commitment phobia. It's hypocrisy. Trying to mould someone to your skewed idea of what's moral and what's not, despite the fact that you aren't exactly following them. My friend is sad but thankfully had the guts to walk out of the relationship. So we are off to celebrate. In true 'pub culture' tradition of course.

Clarity, thou art hard to find...

Yes, even after 34 long years. Ok, may be I should make the number of years lesser because I'm sure I didn't try looking for clarity at four or 10 or even 15. At 20, maybe. In fact, I was quite sure I had found it. I was going to be a journalist. At that time, it was an all encompassing word, no shades attached. I had a job I loved and a clear head. This is where I belonged. At least for the time being. Until I found another newspaper or magazine that paid me better. Simple. Full and final.

Well, life, at least the so called professional part of it is not so final after all. Because here I am, 14 years down the line, confused as hell despite knowing where some of the answers are. I know that I do not want a full time job. The answer to that is in my guilt ridden mind and heart on the days I have a long assignment and have to pick A up late from the daycare. I know I want to freelance. But to what extent? Do I take whatever comes my way, work late nights, make my money and be happy? Or do I choose only the kind of stories that I really want to do even if those are few? Do I network and try to revive long lost contacts even if some them are masters in the art of cold shouldering or do I make myself believe that work will find me and sit tight no matter how implausible that may sound? Well I try it all. I take up crap edit jobs that make no sense except bring me a decent enough cheque which I promptly go and spend at the Strand Book Sale on vast amounts of books for myself and the child. I trudge halfway across town to meet a social worker for a story that will pay me lesser than the cab fare. I wonder whether to start a content writing service with a friend. I wonder whether to keep myself free, writing only what actually makes me feel good and not being the hyper when-will-I-be-busy-again kind of cranky person I usually am. And I wonder when will the focus, the clarity finally stop being elusive. Maybe when I do.

Of Goa, Bombay and other random stuff...

So the entire month of December 2008 was spent travelling. Well almost the entire month if you discount the 3 or 4 days of interim breaks in Bangalore that were spent in visiting dentist, cleaning dirty dishes left by absconding maid, fixing a non absconding one, attending budday parties and doing other such exhausting stuff. We drove to Karwar and Goa and as soon as we crossed the Karnataka border, a friend called to ask where we were. 'Goa,' I said, rolling the windows down to smell the (truck infested) air. 'Again?' She shrieked, 'don't you guys have any imagination?' Our trip to Hampi in between elicited mostly positive responses (That part of Karnataka is a must do, said one 'doer') but when we landed up in Bombay at the end of the year, most people laughed. 'You've actually wasted four precious days to holiday in Bombay!' the husband heard. I'm of course spared as I do not 'work.'
Who wouldn't love exploring new places on a holiday? Especially say a place like Hampi where we climbed several hills and stairs with a child perpetually attached to our backs. Ok joking, he was permanently attached but we loved the place, though it isn't exactly a holiday for a three year old. Going to Goa is like visiting an old friend. You know exactly what to expect. There's fun in that too isn't it? Like lounging on the sunbed the entire morning as your child is babysat by the sand and a few buckets; ordering the same prawn rechado and fish curry at the same shack everyday; going sick hearing your husband say he plans to paraglide, jet ski and do everything Akshay Kumar can since the beginning of the holiday (Yes Rupa, it's a middle aged male disease) and knowing that by the time you get back exhausted thanks to all those Kings and Belos in the afternoon or evening, the bed would be made and the bathroom would be clean :D. As for Bombay....for me that's a happy story forever.

The random stuff
* Why on earth is Ghajini the name of the movie? I mean the villain is hardly iconic...I could have understood Sholay being named after Gabbar Singh but this one is sheer stupid.
* And shirtless Aamir doesn't work for me at all. It's conditioning I guess. After all these years, the only shirtless 40 plus Bollywooder I can still tolerate is Salman Khan.
* Luw Dev Patel of Slumdog Millionaire. Terribly young yes, but that's how they all are these days. Except me :(

On the rocks

It's fascinating to see how the old, the new and the ordinary merge in surreal, boulder strewn Hampi. Fourteenth century balconies serve as drying spot for clothes



The granite columns of a century old bazaar becomes the perfect place to rest a tired bike.



A 14th century gateway stands tall as innumerable cars, autos and cycles pass through it everyday.

The ancient Virupaksha temple still holds wedding ceremonies. In fact, one was on while we visited. The beautiful ghats of Tungabhadra is at once a laundry and a shrine. The Hampi Bazaar that was once thought to have sold precious gems and rich silks is still as fascinating if in a slightly offbeat way with everything from Che Guevara T-shirts (didn't know they were still so popular!), lungi tops, Kutchi bags, musical instruments, Janpath style silver jewelry to Rajasthani handicrafts.





Across the river, in Hampi Island or Virupura Gadde it is a different world altogether. One that moves slowly with makeshift 'lounge bars,' tiny guesthouse with chickens and children running amok, internet cafes offering Skype and broadband and a lot of shaloms in the air. The landscape is mindblowing. More so when you head towards Anegundi. Boulders in browns and rusts, ruins strewn with granite and the sudden vivid green of paddy fields. I plan to go back again (Perhaps with Subs, who has actually worked among the ruins here!) may be to just wander along aimlessly or spend the afternoon lazing at Mango Tree, a very busy restaurant in a banana plantation, with 'seats' under a huge mango tree. Happiness!

Sun, sand and sunset...

What makes you sadder...

The fact that our cops wore bulletproof jackets that didn't even meet the required specifications?

The political drama going on all over? That we now have a home minister we identify with finance?

A little boy orphaned the day he turned two...

Or the story of so many families losing love, hope and loved ones.

The morning after the firing started and schools were declared closed in Bombay, a friend told her eight-year-old to stay in bed as there was no football practice and no school either. 'Why, is there a bomb blast?' he asked.

Yesterday's Hindu had a picture of the Taj on its edit page. The standard beautiful tourist pic, with the sea in the foreground and the Taj looming large. My son, who was playing nearby had a glance and asked, 'Mamma, where's the fire?'

What's the world in which our children are growing up?

The third birthday was very happy indeed...

And that's the ear-splitting but much loved 'Budday gift!'

One of those Dear God moments...

Dear God,

In my next life, please let me be born as a woman who is putty in a man’s hand…oops…no make that a man who is putty in a woman’s hand. Drat! I got it wrong again! No of course I don’t want to be a man in my next life but a woman who can make a man turn complete jelly in her hands. Yes, I know that sounds gross but that’s not what I meant and anyway you know what I am talking about, don’t you? You see, all my life I have wanted to be one of those women. You know the kind who just have to bat one eyelash (or is it the lid?) and have a line of men ready to climb the Everest or scale the Great Wall of China or basically do impossible things like that. Have no idea if Great Wall climb is improbable but you get the gist again, don’t you God?
I of course don’t want anything so far reaching. Just everyday normal stuff would do. Like dozing off while putting the baby to sleep and not having to worry about rinsing the dishes coz the man would SURELY (and not when he feels like it) do that; like being able to make the man put away his socks EVERYDAY WITHOUT FAIL. Being able to stop the bugger from going to a boys’ night out on the day when I don’t want him to. You see, very simple, homely stuff. Utterly probable.

I also want to be rid of this insane belief that I can take care of myself and turn into a similar version of my neighbor Nita in Delhi. You see, Nita’s husband would drive all the way to DLF in Gurgaon from Rohini in North Delhi, crossing his office at Essex Farms in South Delhi on the way, simply because she had to work so far. He would repeat the process in the evenings. I on the other hand would take the Rs. 25 chartered bus and on certain forgettable occasions, even the deathly Call Centre Sumo. All because the man thought I could take care of myself and so, tragically, did I.


So Dear God, in my next life turn me into a woman who can doze off at 8.30 PM with the sound knowledge that her husband has cleared the kitchen and put the dishes under the sink. Turn me into a woman who only has to say stuff like ‘stay with me baby’ or some such dialogue to make the man forget a night of boy bonding. And grant me the ability to shiver at the thought of taking an auto after dark. Amen.

Ammi's saris

This is from Subs...

I finally picked up the courage to clean out ammi's wardrobe.

It used to be an annual winter ritual -- my time with her, when she'd take out all her saris, old angarkhas, fragile chiffon and tissue dupattas and sun them.

Each one had a story woven in it.

The stunning orange and black tissue dupatta interspersed with silver threads and a silver brocade border, which was specially woven by the Banarsi neighbor at the behest of ammi's dada for her initiation into reading the Quran, when she just about turned 4.

Or the delicate gold sari which her nani left behind as inheritance. Her nani had nobody to support her financially, but the stroy goes that each night as she prayed the "tahajjud" namaz, she'd find 3-4 gold coins under the prayer mat.

The peach gharara with a velvet top and silver gota work on it still retains the nawabi look.

Each sari was hand-woven for ammi's trousseau, the silk is tattered now in some but as I held it against my cheek, I could still remember each story.

I hope this does not end with me.

Subs and I met while working for the girlie mag and have been gossiping ever since. I have only met her mum once, when I went over to Subs' and aunty fed me the best biryani ever. Aunty wouldn't recognize me if I were to visit now, in fact, there are days when she has difficulty recognizing her own daughter. I can't even imagine how difficult it is sometimes for Subs, who bravely battles it all and hasn't lost a bit of that infectious giggle of hers.

At the Diwali party, a perplexed aunt watched some of us move mouths, heads and butts to Peechle Saat Dinon Mein and finally asked:

Ye laundry ka gaana kis film ka hai?

Sigh! I'm going to think of it as The Laundry Song from now on of course.

Random thoughts

Why are cyclones and hurricanes named after women? There is the devastating Katrina, Rita, Helen, Sarika, Veronica, Velma, Xina, Bulbul, Shoba, Neelam, etc. So how do they come up with the names? Do some people in the met bureau sit over coffee and say hmmm...four cyclones predicted...now the wifey is becoming quite a nag as well...

I'm sure there are the Edwards and Amitabhs as well but I don't have much google time. Enlighten me if you know, will you?

Oh and five years years after I started reading her, met the adventure girl. Finalee! :)

Rant

This is Bhadra. It's a set of cottages by Jungle Lodges on the banks of the Bhadra river near Lakkavalli. It's about six hours from Bangalore. During the day, the blue looks picture perfect and at night, you can slather yourself in mosquito repellent cream, sit on the balcony in utter darkness and gaze at the million stars overhead. Yes, you can almost see every star. Quite an amazing feeling.

This is in India? she asked, clearly surprised. Because she feels the best holidays are always had 'abroad' like they do every year. The best locations, best stay and best hospitality. Such thoughts usually bring out the bitch in me but with painting work going on at home and the madness of having people for dinner on top of it, I bit my tongue and stayed quiet. Oh yes, I loved the little bit of Europe I got to see and would love to go to Thailand, Malaysia, Vietnam, Italy, Turkey, Scandanavia, Germany or Scotland. I'd also like to see Hampi, Wayanad, Kerala, Arunachal Pradesh, Meghalaya, Andamans and more of MP and Rajasthan. Yes, yes, I know I'm sounding terribly preachy and Kendriya Vidyalaya type but kya karoon, I'm a bit pissed. It's a leftover from last night as our dinner guest and her husband went on and on about holidays 'abroad' and how everything was just right, where as in India you only got bad rooms and bad service. Their loss, not mine. Hope they continue travelling to Switzeland and the Far East, eat pure Indian food cooked by chef of Sita Tours and buy the tackiest of gifts. There. The fangs are out now. Peace!

I just finished reading...

...Amruta Patil's Kari and absolutely loved it. I'm not too much into graphic novels and simply bought the book because the cover reminded me of someone. And finished it in one go. The illustrations are amazing and there's a lot to like in the book, especially in Kari herself. But what also touched a chord, with me at least, was life in the Bombay flat. Shared by three women and two semi-permanent men. Gossip, food, love, lust, toothpaste, shower gel all shared in a space not meant to be inhabited by more than two. Not the most ideal way to live but one that comes with inevitable nostalgia attached to it when you've moved on to better quarters :)

This one reminded me of the place in Bandra East we eventually got locked out of. Four women, one semi permanent men, an over-loving bai, rotting leftovers in the fridge, occasional mad parties and awkward bonding sessions when four very different girls found themselves alone together on some rare occasions...

It's a Bombay book through and through. For all those who have lived in the city at the start of their careers on a salary that didn't translate into a heady paycheck and company chummery, inhaled the stench of home as the Borivli local rushed towards Bandra station and drowned their triumphs and sorrows in Bombil Fry.