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.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Sunday, June 08, 2008
A slightly meandering post
Few days back, a friend and I were chatting about Jhumpa Lahiri's new book, Unaccustomed Earth. I told her I liked the book mainly because I identified with some of the Bong connections in it. Actually, what I identified with the most was one line from the first story, Unaccustomed Earth. 'Bengali had never been a language in which she felt like an adult,' Lahiri writes, describing her protagonist Ruma's dilemma about teaching the language to her three-year-old son.
That's exactly how I feel. Bengali to me is the language of my kiddiehood. Though I speak to both my parents only in Bengali and use a mix of Bengali, Hindi and English with my brother, I don't think in the language. This is despite the fact that I spent the first 16 years of my life at home surrounded by parents and their circle of largely Bengali friends and usually spent every summer holiday in Kolkata, discussing Pintu and sundry things with my cousin, in Bengali of course :)
The common language at P and my home is Hinglish. When A was little I would cuddle and coo to him in Bengali but now that he has grown up and understands/needs instructions, Bengali simply doesn't work. I can't be authoritative in Bong. And what's the point of screaming your head off in Bong asking him not to drop the jug of water if he doesn't understand it!
I'm sure if he were to hear Bengali around him more often, he'd pick up at least a smattering of it but unfortunately he just hears me, usually going ballistic on the phone with my mother. I'm not getting worked up here about him being able to converse in Bengali in future as I'm sure eventually he'll pick up something.
What I'm concerned is whether he would ever be able to read Bangla. No, I don't want him to turn a linguist. I just don't want him to miss out on the literature. I grew up on a steady diet of Bengali literature and in my bookshelf Shirshendu Mukherjee, Sunil Gangopadhdhay and Satyajit Ray shared equal amount of space with the Enid Blytons, Austens, Montgomery, etc.
There's no doubt about it, Bong kid lit is an absolute treasure. You can find everything there. Suave detectives and eccentic scientists, sidekick brats (usually cousins or nephews) and enormously intelligent and brave uncles or brothers. You'll also find imagination that's hard to top. Stolen statues, exotic stones, feuding families, scary sadhubabas...they have it all.
So that's my main worry. That kiddo will grow up to be a reader (have no doubt about it, he reads Pooh on the pot) and will probably read Feluda in translation but not in the language it's meant to be read in.
I guess I will introduce him to the language properly at some point and perhaps even make an effort (ha ha who am I kidding?!) to teach him to read. I don't quite remember how me and my brother learnt it as we lived outside Calcutta all along but according to my mother who has a very glazed over memory of these things, it happened quite naturally.
I hope such natural evolution (unlikely though it seems) happens with A as well and I am spared the task of teaching. Anything to escape being mommylike. Especially Bong-mommylike. A bhery dangerous species as those who know weel tell you.
PS: I know I should link every unfamiliar name (Shirshendu for instance) to a wikipedia type URL that throws some light on it but I'm usually too lazy to do that. Still I tried and came across this fabulous post by Calcutta Chromosome that also has some great comments. If any of you are Bong, have a fond memory of childhood literature or are remotely interested, check it out. It's better than any wikipedia blurb.
That's exactly how I feel. Bengali to me is the language of my kiddiehood. Though I speak to both my parents only in Bengali and use a mix of Bengali, Hindi and English with my brother, I don't think in the language. This is despite the fact that I spent the first 16 years of my life at home surrounded by parents and their circle of largely Bengali friends and usually spent every summer holiday in Kolkata, discussing Pintu and sundry things with my cousin, in Bengali of course :)
The common language at P and my home is Hinglish. When A was little I would cuddle and coo to him in Bengali but now that he has grown up and understands/needs instructions, Bengali simply doesn't work. I can't be authoritative in Bong. And what's the point of screaming your head off in Bong asking him not to drop the jug of water if he doesn't understand it!
I'm sure if he were to hear Bengali around him more often, he'd pick up at least a smattering of it but unfortunately he just hears me, usually going ballistic on the phone with my mother. I'm not getting worked up here about him being able to converse in Bengali in future as I'm sure eventually he'll pick up something.
What I'm concerned is whether he would ever be able to read Bangla. No, I don't want him to turn a linguist. I just don't want him to miss out on the literature. I grew up on a steady diet of Bengali literature and in my bookshelf Shirshendu Mukherjee, Sunil Gangopadhdhay and Satyajit Ray shared equal amount of space with the Enid Blytons, Austens, Montgomery, etc.
There's no doubt about it, Bong kid lit is an absolute treasure. You can find everything there. Suave detectives and eccentic scientists, sidekick brats (usually cousins or nephews) and enormously intelligent and brave uncles or brothers. You'll also find imagination that's hard to top. Stolen statues, exotic stones, feuding families, scary sadhubabas...they have it all.
So that's my main worry. That kiddo will grow up to be a reader (have no doubt about it, he reads Pooh on the pot) and will probably read Feluda in translation but not in the language it's meant to be read in.
I guess I will introduce him to the language properly at some point and perhaps even make an effort (ha ha who am I kidding?!) to teach him to read. I don't quite remember how me and my brother learnt it as we lived outside Calcutta all along but according to my mother who has a very glazed over memory of these things, it happened quite naturally.
I hope such natural evolution (unlikely though it seems) happens with A as well and I am spared the task of teaching. Anything to escape being mommylike. Especially Bong-mommylike. A bhery dangerous species as those who know weel tell you.
PS: I know I should link every unfamiliar name (Shirshendu for instance) to a wikipedia type URL that throws some light on it but I'm usually too lazy to do that. Still I tried and came across this fabulous post by Calcutta Chromosome that also has some great comments. If any of you are Bong, have a fond memory of childhood literature or are remotely interested, check it out. It's better than any wikipedia blurb.
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
Wear your choos when you go shopping next...
...because the magazine girl on the 'fashion' beat might just want you to be photographed. Well, it happened to us today. Correction. To my friend S, who was meeting me for lunch. We were standing outside the restaurant, waiting for another friend to turn up when this little girl approached and asked if we had two minutes. We thought she was a student doing a survey and gave her a we-hate-this-but-will-be-nice-to-you smile but it turned out that she was from a city magazine that does this 'Street Style' kind of page. They photograph well-dressed people and get the fashion editor to decode the look, why it works, etc. S was in two minds but I threatened her to be nice and pose coz I was sure the poor girl had been ordered by the editor to get 10 stylish people by the day's end. Once the photos were done, the girl asked S to tell her where her clothes, shoes and accessories were from. When S finished giving her the list, the girl asked if anything was designer.
No?
Hmmm...
Actually the watch looks neat...
200 bucks? Linking Road? What did you say the name was? N-a-g-a-n-i...oh it's just a regular store?
Well, is anything from overseas?
No?
Ok custom-designed?
Nah?
Ma'am, your bag looks really cool. Could you please say it's from Bangkok or Paris?
No?
Hmmm...
Actually the watch looks neat...
200 bucks? Linking Road? What did you say the name was? N-a-g-a-n-i...oh it's just a regular store?
Well, is anything from overseas?
No?
Ok custom-designed?
Nah?
Ma'am, your bag looks really cool. Could you please say it's from Bangkok or Paris?
Friday, May 30, 2008
Ever thought a forward could make you slurrp? Well this one did and ever since then I have been craving for Patishapta and Shukno mashla makha tetul (tamarind coated in dry spices). I did draw in the drool at the mention of Kosha Mangsho but they don't have the emotional attachment that patishapta and the spiced tetul hold for me. Those are the tastes of childhood. And a sudden invitation to so many memories.
Of long summer vacations. Of vacuous mornings spent staring out of the train window as the scenery unfolded from Mughalsarai to Howrah. Of midnight kulhar chais at unheard of stations.*
Of spending endless evenings at dida's place swatting the mosquitos while she battled those and the heat with a haathpakha (handfan, have seen them only in Cal) and we waited for the power to come. And of Patishapta. Nobody makes them like Dida did. Maami comes a close second, having learnt it first hand from her and is wonderful enough to make them everytime I visit Cal. But Dida's patishaptas were something else. Melt in the mouth with just the right touch of sweetness. So wonderful that you could eat them forever. It's a taste I search everytime I eat a patishapta anywhere, which is extremely rare. It's not a dish that's gone the roshogolla way in terms of availability and popularity. I wonder why.
And the spiced tetul? Well it has a love story associated with it. Of my cousin who carried on a long terrace romance with the boy next door (possibly named Pintu) for several years before any of them could gather up the courage to speak to each other. On my summer visits, I was the only witness allowed to take a peek into that romance while Pintu 'studied' in his small room on the terrace and cousin filled me on stuff: The day Pintu was caught looking for her, the day his friend asked for the cricket ball that had landed on her terrace, and so on. The lack of real spice in the gossip was more than made up by the tamarind. Before we could realize it, we had spent hours on the terrace, addicted not just to Pintu-analysis but also the spiced tetul.
* Had to write about the midnight kulhar chai. What is nostalgia if not clichéd? :p
Of long summer vacations. Of vacuous mornings spent staring out of the train window as the scenery unfolded from Mughalsarai to Howrah. Of midnight kulhar chais at unheard of stations.*
Of spending endless evenings at dida's place swatting the mosquitos while she battled those and the heat with a haathpakha (handfan, have seen them only in Cal) and we waited for the power to come. And of Patishapta. Nobody makes them like Dida did. Maami comes a close second, having learnt it first hand from her and is wonderful enough to make them everytime I visit Cal. But Dida's patishaptas were something else. Melt in the mouth with just the right touch of sweetness. So wonderful that you could eat them forever. It's a taste I search everytime I eat a patishapta anywhere, which is extremely rare. It's not a dish that's gone the roshogolla way in terms of availability and popularity. I wonder why.
And the spiced tetul? Well it has a love story associated with it. Of my cousin who carried on a long terrace romance with the boy next door (possibly named Pintu) for several years before any of them could gather up the courage to speak to each other. On my summer visits, I was the only witness allowed to take a peek into that romance while Pintu 'studied' in his small room on the terrace and cousin filled me on stuff: The day Pintu was caught looking for her, the day his friend asked for the cricket ball that had landed on her terrace, and so on. The lack of real spice in the gossip was more than made up by the tamarind. Before we could realize it, we had spent hours on the terrace, addicted not just to Pintu-analysis but also the spiced tetul.
* Had to write about the midnight kulhar chai. What is nostalgia if not clichéd? :p
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
You know senility is fast catching up when...
Your random thoughts during the day include...
Oh I hope the curd has set properly
Wow I didn't need to take him to the toilet even once during his afternoon nap (in fact, this is the high point of the day)
Must order more jelly
Don't I have a single new book to read? Oh wait...there's that M&B I got free with Good Housekeeping somewhere..ah here is is with Pepper Learns to Share...something to read at last.
That was the cutest Tom & Jerry cartoon ever.
Oh I hope the curd has set properly
Wow I didn't need to take him to the toilet even once during his afternoon nap (in fact, this is the high point of the day)
Must order more jelly
Don't I have a single new book to read? Oh wait...there's that M&B I got free with Good Housekeeping somewhere..ah here is is with Pepper Learns to Share...something to read at last.
That was the cutest Tom & Jerry cartoon ever.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Snapshots from the past few months
The little man is getting hugely entertaining day by day. And not just in his gardening avatar.
He loves pools. Of every kind.
And climbing anything. These days preferably without assistance.
Would love to post more pictures. But difficult to get ones that reveal yet hide :)
Saturday, May 10, 2008
I get a lot of flak for leaving my son in a daycare while I stay at home and work, as opposed to being away in office. Most of the flak is not direct of course. It's hinted at or expressed with a raised eyebrow or just an accusatory 'oh!' When he first started going, perhaps a bit of the 'guilt' (courtesy mom/MIL) rubbed off on me and I would find myself explaining to random strangers in the lift why he goes/for how long/how he loves playing there and all that.
Thankfully that stopped the day a wise lady cut me short and said, don't feel guilty darling, no mother takes a decision without thinking it through. I have worshipped the ground beneath her feet ever since (the floor of the lift as that's where we usually meet).
Yes, no mother takes a decision without thinking it through. Why then are we so quick to judge fellow mommies? We look at the child running wild flinging things off the shelves (okay, one chocolate) in the supermarket and we think the mother doesn't discipline him. What if she does? What if she's a strict mommy otherwise but may be this is a bad day, for him as well as her?
We shake our heads in unison as that cute girl from the building falls off the cycle and hurts herself while the maid flirts with the watchman. That poor thing, the parents shouldn't have chosen such a careless maid! What if they didn't? What if they took months over the decision, visiting as many agencies as possible and finally selecting who they thought was best? What if tomorrow, after she's seen the bruise, the mother doesn't spend a single guilt-free moment at work?
The thing is, we can't help ourselves. It's human nature to be judgemental. Maybe not in the absolute extreme sense but say, at least for 10-15 minutes, convincing ourselves that we've got it right while the other person has it hopelessly wrong.
Thankfully that stopped the day a wise lady cut me short and said, don't feel guilty darling, no mother takes a decision without thinking it through. I have worshipped the ground beneath her feet ever since (the floor of the lift as that's where we usually meet).
Yes, no mother takes a decision without thinking it through. Why then are we so quick to judge fellow mommies? We look at the child running wild flinging things off the shelves (okay, one chocolate) in the supermarket and we think the mother doesn't discipline him. What if she does? What if she's a strict mommy otherwise but may be this is a bad day, for him as well as her?
We shake our heads in unison as that cute girl from the building falls off the cycle and hurts herself while the maid flirts with the watchman. That poor thing, the parents shouldn't have chosen such a careless maid! What if they didn't? What if they took months over the decision, visiting as many agencies as possible and finally selecting who they thought was best? What if tomorrow, after she's seen the bruise, the mother doesn't spend a single guilt-free moment at work?
The thing is, we can't help ourselves. It's human nature to be judgemental. Maybe not in the absolute extreme sense but say, at least for 10-15 minutes, convincing ourselves that we've got it right while the other person has it hopelessly wrong.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
How To Save On Your Monthly Grocery Bill
Buy magazines. Yes, you read that right. In the last couple of months I have got green tea from Femina, silky hair shampoo from Cosmo, soup from Good Housekeeping, cream from Marie Claire and today, to my utter and complete amazement, some more shampoo, this time for strength and shine, from surprise, surprise, India Today. (Evil cackle here)
But what really cheered me up was the strip of Digene from Good Housekeeping. (Takes back evil cackle)
Really needed and much appreciated as the medical store down the road won't home deliver small quantities. Good housekeeping indeed! Now what else do I need from that grocery list...
But what really cheered me up was the strip of Digene from Good Housekeeping. (Takes back evil cackle)
Really needed and much appreciated as the medical store down the road won't home deliver small quantities. Good housekeeping indeed! Now what else do I need from that grocery list...
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Oh to be a television reporter!!!
Ooooooh....the sheer thought of it is giving me goosebumps. Imagine if I were a television reporter in these exciting times. What a life it would have been. Since news these days means chasing Kareena and Saif Ali Khan and sometimes even his poor dad, I'd get to rub shoulders with celebrities. Ok, at least I'd get to rub the mike on their noses, wouldn't I? And what limitless possibilities of research would I have! Sifting tirelessly through repetitive footage of Manish Malhotra shows, Saif's tattooed hand playing the guitar and Kareena's kohl-laden eyes. Perhaps I'd stick in the shot of a sombre looking Shahid Kapoor from some award function for that real emotional angle. And for voiceovers (or whatever they are called), I'd get to write stuff that Hindi film's corniest dialogues are made of: Kya Chote Nawab chulbuli Kareena ke maang mein ek chutki sindoor bharenge? Kya Bade Nawab ko hai apne bahu ki doli ka intezar?
Gosh, just the thought of it makes my journalistic skills jump. Gimme a job someone!
Gosh, just the thought of it makes my journalistic skills jump. Gimme a job someone!
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Tried to order pizza today. Girl at the other end said something like 'Anityullbyeonepurrssonilpyenyandgerlikbreyadnocyokemyam.'
After much blankness figured that she said 'and it'll be one personal pan and garlic bread no coke ma'am.'
Do they teach them to fake an accent even during pizza shop assistant training? Hyelp! Yam nyeverrrr khallinggg damminyos agen.
After much blankness figured that she said 'and it'll be one personal pan and garlic bread no coke ma'am.'
Do they teach them to fake an accent even during pizza shop assistant training? Hyelp! Yam nyeverrrr khallinggg damminyos agen.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Sari buying...
...from a big store is a nerve wrecking experience for me. Unless of course I'm buying from a small shop-in-the house run by nice Malleshwaram aunty who has been collecting exquisite silks for years. That too has its pitfalls. As aunty plies me with gorgeous silk after silk out of a 100 year old cupboard, I'm wondering if it would look too rude if I walked out without buying anything except a small silk stole perhaps.
But the stores are something else. I freeze the moment I step in. Especially if I'm alone. Everyone eyes you a tad suspiciously because after all sari buying in India is group activity. You're supposed to land up with your mom, maami, mausi and even third cousin and debate the merits of crystal work on pure georgette vs kantha stitch. Landing up single in a sari shop is as uncomfortable as landing up single in a pub. In fact, more so.
And why oh why are the best sari stores populated by men? I mean, c'mon it's women who buy saris largely, right? Then why would we want it draped around us by a man who is never going to look even remotely passable in those six yards? Isn't the job done better and more comfortably by a woman?
My worst nightmare is the eager beaver salesman. He'll insist you have 'cold drinks' the moment you step in and show you what he thinks are the best designs (bilkul fassnebale. Yehi design Anamika Khanna 30 thousand ka bechti hai. Aur hum apko almost free de rahe hai). Never mind if it looks like satin rags stitched together (with sequins, don't forget the sequins). In that rare moment when you can get a word in and ask to see a sari you think you may like, he'll reject your taste with a 'yeh to ekdum simple hai madam, partywear ke liye nahi jamega.'
The very same salesman, who usually looks like a stick insect will also critically evaluate your chances of carrying of designer stuff. 'Yeh pre-stiched choli ke saath aata hai, aapke size ke liye theek rahega.' AAAAAAAARGGGH!
By this time, you are halfway between a desire to leave and a strong desire to just sit there lulled by the AC+cold drink combo and keep staring at the technicolour display unfolding. Salesman is figuring out that you may not have liked anything at all, so switches into aggro mode: Aapko exactly kaisa chahiye? partwear? simple design wala? yeh ghaghra style sari chalega? Aap theek se batayegi to hum bhi sahi wala nikalenge na. Kanjeevaram mein zardozi work nahin pasand? Arre aajkal yehi chal raha hai.'
You finally find courage and meekly say that perhaps you will come back. At this salesman gestures someone to pick up the sprawled saris in a voice tinged with anger and despair. He tries one last time to interest you in a sari that screams SEQUIN ATTACK but the flick of his hand conveys that he's lost interest in you and is just finishing his job.
And you walk out of glittering sari store emotionally battered and head for the nearest 'cold drink' kiosk.
But the stores are something else. I freeze the moment I step in. Especially if I'm alone. Everyone eyes you a tad suspiciously because after all sari buying in India is group activity. You're supposed to land up with your mom, maami, mausi and even third cousin and debate the merits of crystal work on pure georgette vs kantha stitch. Landing up single in a sari shop is as uncomfortable as landing up single in a pub. In fact, more so.
And why oh why are the best sari stores populated by men? I mean, c'mon it's women who buy saris largely, right? Then why would we want it draped around us by a man who is never going to look even remotely passable in those six yards? Isn't the job done better and more comfortably by a woman?
My worst nightmare is the eager beaver salesman. He'll insist you have 'cold drinks' the moment you step in and show you what he thinks are the best designs (bilkul fassnebale. Yehi design Anamika Khanna 30 thousand ka bechti hai. Aur hum apko almost free de rahe hai). Never mind if it looks like satin rags stitched together (with sequins, don't forget the sequins). In that rare moment when you can get a word in and ask to see a sari you think you may like, he'll reject your taste with a 'yeh to ekdum simple hai madam, partywear ke liye nahi jamega.'
The very same salesman, who usually looks like a stick insect will also critically evaluate your chances of carrying of designer stuff. 'Yeh pre-stiched choli ke saath aata hai, aapke size ke liye theek rahega.' AAAAAAAARGGGH!
By this time, you are halfway between a desire to leave and a strong desire to just sit there lulled by the AC+cold drink combo and keep staring at the technicolour display unfolding. Salesman is figuring out that you may not have liked anything at all, so switches into aggro mode: Aapko exactly kaisa chahiye? partwear? simple design wala? yeh ghaghra style sari chalega? Aap theek se batayegi to hum bhi sahi wala nikalenge na. Kanjeevaram mein zardozi work nahin pasand? Arre aajkal yehi chal raha hai.'
You finally find courage and meekly say that perhaps you will come back. At this salesman gestures someone to pick up the sprawled saris in a voice tinged with anger and despair. He tries one last time to interest you in a sari that screams SEQUIN ATTACK but the flick of his hand conveys that he's lost interest in you and is just finishing his job.
And you walk out of glittering sari store emotionally battered and head for the nearest 'cold drink' kiosk.
Sunday, March 09, 2008
A Day In The Life of A Potty Trainer
Excusez moi...
For months I tried to keep potty tales out of the blog but as it turns out this currently all-consuming aspect of my life is creeping in here as well.
The child is being toilet trained. We're almost there but days coem and go when the monkey thinks poop can be a source of fun and achievement. For him that is.
This morning I woke up, brushed teeth, made myself a nice cup of tea and was ready to sit down with the paper when I heard that loving voice call out 'Mama potty aaya.'
Thrilled mama forgot chai, rushed in ecstasy towards the bathroom (yes, motherhood gives you strange highs) with child in tow thinking 'great! He's finally trained enough to say it out loud', plonked him on his Winnie Pooh seat, handed him a Pepper storybook and waited in anticipation.
Child looked up with angelic smile and almost instantly said, 'Ho gaya, finish.'
Mother tried to peer down the thing and suddenly realized that in her half-crazed, chai-deprived state, she had forgotten to take off his pants. In fact, they had already been taken off, including the diaper...on his cot and here he was now, smiling sweetly and pointing to the mess.
And with that, if you are still reading, I shall stop disgusting you. The last post was a long time ago and I had nothing else to write about. Kahini, don't tell me the headline didn't warn you.
For months I tried to keep potty tales out of the blog but as it turns out this currently all-consuming aspect of my life is creeping in here as well.
The child is being toilet trained. We're almost there but days coem and go when the monkey thinks poop can be a source of fun and achievement. For him that is.
This morning I woke up, brushed teeth, made myself a nice cup of tea and was ready to sit down with the paper when I heard that loving voice call out 'Mama potty aaya.'
Thrilled mama forgot chai, rushed in ecstasy towards the bathroom (yes, motherhood gives you strange highs) with child in tow thinking 'great! He's finally trained enough to say it out loud', plonked him on his Winnie Pooh seat, handed him a Pepper storybook and waited in anticipation.
Child looked up with angelic smile and almost instantly said, 'Ho gaya, finish.'
Mother tried to peer down the thing and suddenly realized that in her half-crazed, chai-deprived state, she had forgotten to take off his pants. In fact, they had already been taken off, including the diaper...on his cot and here he was now, smiling sweetly and pointing to the mess.
And with that, if you are still reading, I shall stop disgusting you. The last post was a long time ago and I had nothing else to write about. Kahini, don't tell me the headline didn't warn you.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Whine Factory On The Loose
There's nothing worse than being a stay at home working mom. For starters you aren't taken seriously by anyone. Not even by yourself. You cannot say No, today is Tuesday I can't go out for dinner because unlike proper working moms, you do not have a morning rush hour, PF or a boss. So you tag along, even if there's a deadline looming at the back of your mind and the spectre of having to work way past midnight.
The people you are working for seem to think they are doing you a favor by simply offering you something to do. "That Bangalore housewife wants the deadline extended. God, what do these freelancers do the whole day!"*
The direct fallout of this is that they think your work hours extend the entire day because unlike them, you aren't really working, are you? And then there are ever helpful family and friends. "You look terrible," a friend informs, "Go get a haircut."
"But I don't have the time," I whine, "I drop A to the daycare, rush home and work, finish and pick him up. My day's packed."
"What nonsense!" she declares, "You're working from home, aren't you?"
Then there are the moms. The scariest of the lot are the ones who have given up Ivy League degrees and fat paychecks for Project Pram. "You should get him down to the park more often. The weather's really nice," they chorus. Mommy scrutiny gets me all shaken and stirred, sorry scared, so I can't help but get into unstoppable confession mode.
"Erm...I had a deadline. So I let him sit inside his tenthouse and watch Winnie The Pooh five times nonstop. Oh and I also let him eat chips and almost got him beer, just to get him to stay quiet," I dread the questions that will inevitably follow after Work Vs Park. Might as well deflect them beforehand.
The saddest bit is that all your 'Me Time' (to quote Femina/Cosmo etc) gets eaten up. When the tyke is away/asleep you work and when the tyke is around/awake you a)try to work or b)feel terribly guilty about Winnie The Pooh viewings (Television! The nemesis of good motherhood!) and try constructive, fun activity which results in 30 mins of play and two hours of clean up. There are four unread books lying on the bedside table and I feel weirdly guilty (Guilt is truly every mom's best pal) when I spot them gathering dust. After all, I don't even have a proper job. How would we ever manage if I did?
* I'm sure in another life I would have been a bitchy ed to a freelancing mom. This, I guess, is payback time.
The people you are working for seem to think they are doing you a favor by simply offering you something to do. "That Bangalore housewife wants the deadline extended. God, what do these freelancers do the whole day!"*
The direct fallout of this is that they think your work hours extend the entire day because unlike them, you aren't really working, are you? And then there are ever helpful family and friends. "You look terrible," a friend informs, "Go get a haircut."
"But I don't have the time," I whine, "I drop A to the daycare, rush home and work, finish and pick him up. My day's packed."
"What nonsense!" she declares, "You're working from home, aren't you?"
Then there are the moms. The scariest of the lot are the ones who have given up Ivy League degrees and fat paychecks for Project Pram. "You should get him down to the park more often. The weather's really nice," they chorus. Mommy scrutiny gets me all shaken and stirred, sorry scared, so I can't help but get into unstoppable confession mode.
"Erm...I had a deadline. So I let him sit inside his tenthouse and watch Winnie The Pooh five times nonstop. Oh and I also let him eat chips and almost got him beer, just to get him to stay quiet," I dread the questions that will inevitably follow after Work Vs Park. Might as well deflect them beforehand.
The saddest bit is that all your 'Me Time' (to quote Femina/Cosmo etc) gets eaten up. When the tyke is away/asleep you work and when the tyke is around/awake you a)try to work or b)feel terribly guilty about Winnie The Pooh viewings (Television! The nemesis of good motherhood!) and try constructive, fun activity which results in 30 mins of play and two hours of clean up. There are four unread books lying on the bedside table and I feel weirdly guilty (Guilt is truly every mom's best pal) when I spot them gathering dust. After all, I don't even have a proper job. How would we ever manage if I did?
* I'm sure in another life I would have been a bitchy ed to a freelancing mom. This, I guess, is payback time.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
My first PR job...
...is being done out of pyar and no paisa*. Though I'd welcome some chilled beers. One of my fave writers has finally started her own blog for 'your kind perusal.' Mayawatiji dhanyabaad.
* I couldn't resist that cheesy line. Toyed between sheer pyar and pure pyar. See how creative I am at 12.20 AM?
* I couldn't resist that cheesy line. Toyed between sheer pyar and pure pyar. See how creative I am at 12.20 AM?
Friday, January 11, 2008
Wishlist 08
In no particular order...
Long nails
A visit to Goa/Andamans/Lakshadweep....anywhere with the sea
Control over my temper esp with maids where losing it is fruitless esp when maid and I have communication problem
A better managed work schedule
Doing more creative stuff with the monkey
Going for bangalore walk
Looking for a new wardrobe in places other than Fabindia
Looking for bedsheets, curtains and cushion covers in places other than Fabindia
More books
Long nails
A visit to Goa/Andamans/Lakshadweep....anywhere with the sea
Control over my temper esp with maids where losing it is fruitless esp when maid and I have communication problem
A better managed work schedule
Doing more creative stuff with the monkey
Going for bangalore walk
Looking for a new wardrobe in places other than Fabindia
Looking for bedsheets, curtains and cushion covers in places other than Fabindia
More books
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Notes From A Fast Fading December
Have spent half the month showing the two year old to his several grandparents, cousins, uncles and aunts. In the process have memorized every detail of the inflight program of Kingfisher Airlines, particularly Tom & Jerry. Have also read Hi Blitz cover to cover. Almost.
Once again went to Calcutta and fell sick, according to the time-honoured ritual I have been following since the age of six. Also, I had to work a bit there, which wasn't a good thing. But bonded with my brother's wife who was visiting and that is always a good thing. Fought with mother as usual over my bohemian baby habits (to her) and then had the usual emotional heart to heart conversation (I said that but what I meant was this) later. My dad says I'd behave exactly the same when I was in college. I'm still wondering whether this means a)haven't matured at all (Bad coming from my chilled out dad) b)still the same child-like, carefree type person despite baby (very good) or c) he's tired of these mother daughter arguments. I'd take C.
Delhi was better activity wise because I wasn't sicko anymore and got to wear my long, stylish trenchcoat after two whole years. Don't laugh but I love trenchcoats and this particular one which cost me almost half my salary at the time I bought it. Also went and watched Taare Zameen Par and cried buckets all the while attempting to hide the tears from teenager niece sitting next to me. To add to the entertainment, we had a very chatty family sitting right behind ours who kept coming up with remarks like: Bombaywale school aise hi hote hai/Aamir Khan to aaya hi nahi ab tak? Tujhe pucca pata hai na ki woh picture mein hain?
The icing on the cake was visiting Fact & Fiction, my favourite bookshop in the city. In fact my favourite bookshop anywhere. I also loved The Bookshop at Khan Market but that's gone now. Fact & Fiction is in Priya Market, Vasant Vihar, and is probably one of the tiniest bookshops around but what a collection it packs. Don't go there if you are looking for the latest bestsellers, you'll get those at the Landmarks and Crosswords. If you want interesting titles to leap off the shelves and catch your eye, authors you've never heard of who turn out to be surprisngly funny, go there.
And wherever you are, may the new year be a happy one :)
Once again went to Calcutta and fell sick, according to the time-honoured ritual I have been following since the age of six. Also, I had to work a bit there, which wasn't a good thing. But bonded with my brother's wife who was visiting and that is always a good thing. Fought with mother as usual over my bohemian baby habits (to her) and then had the usual emotional heart to heart conversation (I said that but what I meant was this) later. My dad says I'd behave exactly the same when I was in college. I'm still wondering whether this means a)haven't matured at all (Bad coming from my chilled out dad) b)still the same child-like, carefree type person despite baby (very good) or c) he's tired of these mother daughter arguments. I'd take C.
Delhi was better activity wise because I wasn't sicko anymore and got to wear my long, stylish trenchcoat after two whole years. Don't laugh but I love trenchcoats and this particular one which cost me almost half my salary at the time I bought it. Also went and watched Taare Zameen Par and cried buckets all the while attempting to hide the tears from teenager niece sitting next to me. To add to the entertainment, we had a very chatty family sitting right behind ours who kept coming up with remarks like: Bombaywale school aise hi hote hai/Aamir Khan to aaya hi nahi ab tak? Tujhe pucca pata hai na ki woh picture mein hain?
The icing on the cake was visiting Fact & Fiction, my favourite bookshop in the city. In fact my favourite bookshop anywhere. I also loved The Bookshop at Khan Market but that's gone now. Fact & Fiction is in Priya Market, Vasant Vihar, and is probably one of the tiniest bookshops around but what a collection it packs. Don't go there if you are looking for the latest bestsellers, you'll get those at the Landmarks and Crosswords. If you want interesting titles to leap off the shelves and catch your eye, authors you've never heard of who turn out to be surprisngly funny, go there.
And wherever you are, may the new year be a happy one :)
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
Thursday, November 08, 2007
The Disguised Kitty Party
She had her best crockery out.
'Was that really Villeroy and Boch...' I did a mental gulp.
She smiled, adept at reading gulps, even if these were silent. 'We got those when Satish was posted in Germany...' the story went.
The maid brought out the samosas, cakes and mini pizzas for the kids. Thankfully not on the V&B, I gulped again, given my son's love for flinging unsuspecting pieces of crockery available within his grasp.
The kids played in the nursery, watched by the maid, who had been asked to stay back. The mums lounged on the Italian couches and admired the Plasma. 'It should have been in the TV room but the points you know...'
Two days later, the scene was replayed. In a slightly sober setting and without the V&B grandiose. No Italian couches this time but a perfectly well-kept home, fresh flowers in crystal vase, neatly displayed child's room and better finger food.
"It's a good thing it's been raining," smiled mum no. 2, whose house it was and faced the audience, "so whose turn is it next?"
And then it hit me. Hell. This was the kitty party in disguise!
There are five kids in the building in and around the son's age. Actually there are several more. However, in those blissful early months when monkey just lolled around in the pram and gurgled, I paraded it round the building and struck up some sort of a 'we're-all-mums-in-it-together' rapport with these five, two of whom were familiar faces from the lift.
We'd meet downstairs with the kids, take them to the park or simply let them run around. Some of them would meet regularly, some like me would at times be dragged out kicking and screaming by a super energetic toddler waiting to meet his friends.
Then came the rains. And a weather that no mom trusts a kid with. So we started meeting in each other's homes, simply because the kids liked it.
Or so I thought.
As it turns out, these 'informal' playdates are an excuse for showing off wedding lehengas and gilt-edged crockery. Of course, it's not labelled a kitty party, because that's so behenji, isn't it?
Invitations are extended a day or two earlier these days, irrespective of the weather. I'm dreading my 'turn' because I shall serve chips, chai and chocolate flakes in unbreakable melamine plates and surreptitiously beg the husband to come home earlier than usual.
Wondering if the son will lose any friends!
'Was that really Villeroy and Boch...' I did a mental gulp.
She smiled, adept at reading gulps, even if these were silent. 'We got those when Satish was posted in Germany...' the story went.
The maid brought out the samosas, cakes and mini pizzas for the kids. Thankfully not on the V&B, I gulped again, given my son's love for flinging unsuspecting pieces of crockery available within his grasp.
The kids played in the nursery, watched by the maid, who had been asked to stay back. The mums lounged on the Italian couches and admired the Plasma. 'It should have been in the TV room but the points you know...'
Two days later, the scene was replayed. In a slightly sober setting and without the V&B grandiose. No Italian couches this time but a perfectly well-kept home, fresh flowers in crystal vase, neatly displayed child's room and better finger food.
"It's a good thing it's been raining," smiled mum no. 2, whose house it was and faced the audience, "so whose turn is it next?"
And then it hit me. Hell. This was the kitty party in disguise!
There are five kids in the building in and around the son's age. Actually there are several more. However, in those blissful early months when monkey just lolled around in the pram and gurgled, I paraded it round the building and struck up some sort of a 'we're-all-mums-in-it-together' rapport with these five, two of whom were familiar faces from the lift.
We'd meet downstairs with the kids, take them to the park or simply let them run around. Some of them would meet regularly, some like me would at times be dragged out kicking and screaming by a super energetic toddler waiting to meet his friends.
Then came the rains. And a weather that no mom trusts a kid with. So we started meeting in each other's homes, simply because the kids liked it.
Or so I thought.
As it turns out, these 'informal' playdates are an excuse for showing off wedding lehengas and gilt-edged crockery. Of course, it's not labelled a kitty party, because that's so behenji, isn't it?
Invitations are extended a day or two earlier these days, irrespective of the weather. I'm dreading my 'turn' because I shall serve chips, chai and chocolate flakes in unbreakable melamine plates and surreptitiously beg the husband to come home earlier than usual.
Wondering if the son will lose any friends!
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Identity
There is a Durga Puja pandal right below my parents' fourth floor apartment in Kolkata. During the days of Puja, it is near impossible to hear what my parents are saying if I call them in the evening. The sound of the dhak drowns everything out. Thankfully, it also brings conversation to the minimum because these days the moment I hear it, there is a catch in my voice that my parents would find hard to miss and harder to forget.
It's quite strange actually. I haven't grown up around Durga Puja and don't start sighing about the 'chill in the wind and nip in the air' like most people who have grown up in Calcutta are likely to do, come end September/early October. I have rarely ever 'gone home' for the Pujas.
But these days I do miss it. I miss the fact that I don't go out rushing to buy new clothes the moment Puja arrives, because mostly I don't remember. My mom reminds me and though this year I bought clothes for the monkey, usually I lie to her and say yes because it will make her feel good. It helps that there's always something in my wardrobe that's not been worn. Not a case of too many clothes, just too many bad buys.
I don't have too many Durga Puja memories. At least not many in Kolkata. There was one when all cousins and uncles got together, piled into a van and visited all the famous Pujas. Then there was one that took place in my aunt's almost-crumbling ancestral house. And several years back, my homesick parents turning on the radio for the early morning Mahalaya.
The later day memories are all outside Calcutta. In Orissa, where I met the school crush (not sadly on Orkut, ha ha); in a very Bollywood style Andheri Puja that I'd visit with my friend mainly to eat Bhog; similar one in Vasant Kunj, again with friend, again for Bhog. It was something you did not only to assert your Bongness, please your parents, etc but also because it was there and it was part of your culture. For me, it didn't get bigger than that.
So I really don't know where the catch in the throat comes from these days. It probably has to do with the fact that I am sometimes a bit lost when it comes to the identity part. I come from a very Bengali family but I grew up all over the place and was encouraged to make friends with everyone, never forced to learn Rabindra Sangeet (Thanks God and Mother) or memorize Abol Tabol though I loved it, as I love Feluda, every self respecting Bong girl's literary crush in youth. When I decided to get married to a non-Bong, my dad's biggest worry was that his family doesn't eat non-veg, not that they were another very different community. Honest :)
It probably has to do with the fact that I have a child now (Aqua, sounds familiar?). And this is his heritage too, even if partially. So I try to chip in bits and parts, may be a song here and there, speaking to him in Bengali when we are alone and taking him for the obligatory visit to the Puja Pandal (We'll see the famous Ulsoor Durga Puja this year, I have announced to P), even though he is too small to remember anything. And then I realize: Help, this is my mom all over again!
PS: Now that I am reading through it, there are too many alien words in the post for someone not familiar with the strange world of Bongdom. Too lazy to link them all up to explanations now. Bherry Sorry.
It's quite strange actually. I haven't grown up around Durga Puja and don't start sighing about the 'chill in the wind and nip in the air' like most people who have grown up in Calcutta are likely to do, come end September/early October. I have rarely ever 'gone home' for the Pujas.
But these days I do miss it. I miss the fact that I don't go out rushing to buy new clothes the moment Puja arrives, because mostly I don't remember. My mom reminds me and though this year I bought clothes for the monkey, usually I lie to her and say yes because it will make her feel good. It helps that there's always something in my wardrobe that's not been worn. Not a case of too many clothes, just too many bad buys.
I don't have too many Durga Puja memories. At least not many in Kolkata. There was one when all cousins and uncles got together, piled into a van and visited all the famous Pujas. Then there was one that took place in my aunt's almost-crumbling ancestral house. And several years back, my homesick parents turning on the radio for the early morning Mahalaya.
The later day memories are all outside Calcutta. In Orissa, where I met the school crush (not sadly on Orkut, ha ha); in a very Bollywood style Andheri Puja that I'd visit with my friend mainly to eat Bhog; similar one in Vasant Kunj, again with friend, again for Bhog. It was something you did not only to assert your Bongness, please your parents, etc but also because it was there and it was part of your culture. For me, it didn't get bigger than that.
So I really don't know where the catch in the throat comes from these days. It probably has to do with the fact that I am sometimes a bit lost when it comes to the identity part. I come from a very Bengali family but I grew up all over the place and was encouraged to make friends with everyone, never forced to learn Rabindra Sangeet (Thanks God and Mother) or memorize Abol Tabol though I loved it, as I love Feluda, every self respecting Bong girl's literary crush in youth. When I decided to get married to a non-Bong, my dad's biggest worry was that his family doesn't eat non-veg, not that they were another very different community. Honest :)
It probably has to do with the fact that I have a child now (Aqua, sounds familiar?). And this is his heritage too, even if partially. So I try to chip in bits and parts, may be a song here and there, speaking to him in Bengali when we are alone and taking him for the obligatory visit to the Puja Pandal (We'll see the famous Ulsoor Durga Puja this year, I have announced to P), even though he is too small to remember anything. And then I realize: Help, this is my mom all over again!
PS: Now that I am reading through it, there are too many alien words in the post for someone not familiar with the strange world of Bongdom. Too lazy to link them all up to explanations now. Bherry Sorry.
I always find it funny that my bookshelf in the living room gets such diverse comments. A very close friend who lives next door and drops in every other day notices only the chick lit variety and makes disparaging noises. He pointedly ignores the slightly more serious stuff kept right next to it. Then again, maybe pointedly is the wrong word because we only see what we want to see. A very classy and well-travelled colleague of my husband was very surprised at the collection of Bill Brysons and sportingly admitted that he didn't think I would enjoy that kind of humour.
Anyway, I find the comments and comparisons both funny and surprising because I don't have a big bookshelf or anything. Compared to some people I know my collection is a tiny one. I keep most of my books in a spare cupboard. The one in the living room is a small shelf that the man designed when he was 16 and refuses to give up. I've been wondering whether I should shift it to another room but it looks best there. I often do mean things like put in a lot of Georgette Heyers and the Shopaholic series just before some serious types come home and wait for the reaction. Yes, I may not have time for updating posts but I do have time for absurd stuff. So the bookshelf stays on because more than anything, I love the comments and reactions that it gets out of visitors. If not all, at least from some of them.
Anyway, I find the comments and comparisons both funny and surprising because I don't have a big bookshelf or anything. Compared to some people I know my collection is a tiny one. I keep most of my books in a spare cupboard. The one in the living room is a small shelf that the man designed when he was 16 and refuses to give up. I've been wondering whether I should shift it to another room but it looks best there. I often do mean things like put in a lot of Georgette Heyers and the Shopaholic series just before some serious types come home and wait for the reaction. Yes, I may not have time for updating posts but I do have time for absurd stuff. So the bookshelf stays on because more than anything, I love the comments and reactions that it gets out of visitors. If not all, at least from some of them.
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