Alive / Brain dead

Today began well. I was up at crack of dawn, went for a mind altering Kerala massage and got back even before dh could get up and come down. He found me deeply engrossed in the furrows over the brows of John who was featured in the Sunday edition of TOI (sorry can't get a link to that article, actually that picture).

The handsome hunk is quite the dreamboat and I was drooling over him to the accompaniment of certain disgusted sounds emanating from the diffused direction of dh. I could have prolonged the lech session, if only I went and sat through a three hour movie featuring him and still playing in the neighbourhood multiplexes after all those weeks. So why not!?

Zinda? No, thank you!

It is one of the slick productions shot in Hongkong with the right camera work and all the mysterious skills that go into the making of a slick movie. It has reportedly got very good performances from the lead actors (though methinks the female half of the audience would more likely have been in swoons) , taut tension throughout, absolutely vile violence, great music and all. So why am I writing of this here rather than going out and seeing the movie? The problem is, I read the story of the movie. Having got that advantage(?) would I still subject myself to the torture of watching three hours of zipless yuck about men fighting battles and avenging each other through the violence wreaked or purported to be wreaked on the bodies of the other guy's women???

The entire elaborate charade of sexy sophistication falls flat on a story which screams antiquated cave-man mores. OK, I have strong opinions, who doesn't?

Sorry John if you want me to go out and buy tickets to watch you, you've got to pick a better story.

Silly season

Whatever it may be in the western world, in India the silly season is well and truly on. From the beginning of the month of Maagha when the Sun sets off on its northern journey to nearly the end of the month when the Shivaratri heralds the onset of serious unrelenting summer, it is the Indian silly season.

And during this crazy season the noteworthy celebrations are themed on the silliness of the season itself. First, there is the Vasant Panchami, the formal harbinger of Spring when all the people are bedecked in the brightest sunniest yellows and engage in much merry making. Then there is the ultimate abandon of Holi which is ritualistically formalized by the communal consumption of opiates. The end of the silliness is on the night of Shivaratri where the ghosts, gnomes and all the world's weirdos are supposed to parade in the wedding procession of Shiva himself.

The government of my state has been changed this silly season. The world is congregating in the city of Bangalore to communally learn how to breathe making it that much more difficult for us beleaguered citizens, the temperatures are soaring yet the silliness permeates. There is too much silliness around. Yet the silliness of the season was celebrated so beautifully for me when I attended a concert of Shuba Mudgal.

The flashing diamonds nearly had me comparing her to those two ladies. She has the sweet devotion of one and the tremendous range of the other and yet her style is totally her own. Her repertoire seems limitless stretching from pure classical Hindustani music to the lighter styles of semi-classsical music to pop to jingle jangle and all. But she chose to go along with the silly season and sang only the sweet silly songs of vasant. Thumris, bhajans, horis and rasias- all about the shyam sundar in braj and thereabouts. And the diamonds, they brilliantly kept tune with her tones!

The intense pleasurable longing that Krishna evokes rendered in multiple compositions in raga desh juxtaposed with such musical fun and banter that I forgot myself totally. Lost in the music I felt I was in the pastoral vasant kunj of braj bhoomi not a stuffy air-conditioned hall in an urban mess. Young Murad Khan at the sarangi was wonderful in trying to match Shubha's virtuosity but one really missed a flute!

It was such beauty that I re-engaged in my eternal waiting for Him. He who showed the whole universe to his enraptured mother, who could appear to be singularly present and yet collectively mesmerise. For a glance of that divine beauty, I did go here but I think He is more there. Or so it seemed to me this silly season. In truth He is everywhere if only we can reach out and invoke Him.

Priya, if you are reading this, isn't Krishna more than a mere saviour of the oppressed downtrodden in his Apatabandhava form? Isn't he also the friend who plays foolish pranks and ensures that all are happy? For all his braj and Gujarati stories, He sure must, in spirit, be a true blue Bangalorean to be doing all this outsourcing, huhn?!!

Note: In celebration of the silly season, I've changed my colours too. Eventually I may return to staider stuff but for now- it's the silly pretty pitambar!

Gifted Me!

Anjali in her various moods and colours has told me I'm gifted! I'm finally coming round to that view myself. I do seem to be a very gifted person, indeed.

It started with a sudden and unexpected parcel arriving for me at home while I was at work one day in mid January. When I heard of it and of its sender, over the phone from my major domo, I had a fair idea that it must be a lovely gift. And so it was, as I discovered at the end of that extremely long day- a gift from a dear sweet friend who had picked up some of the choicest stuff from Cottage for me and the kids and parceled it.

Then came the diamonds dh bought me- as part of the now annual exercise- a stone to mark each milestone.

Then came the 'surprise' gift which even dh could not wait to reveal. While I was half-hoping half-fearing that it was going to be the Labrador pup which the entire family (but me) wanted, I was totally taken by surprise by the gift of the latest i-pod!

The day dawned bright and nice with my kids gifting me their affection in the form of a, what else, beyblade card, which was a download from beyblade.com. An old friend and new got together and gifted me with a flowery cheesy sinful long lunch. Dh gave me a lovely long dinner!!! Another friend called up a day later and gifted me a book- all wrapped up and pretty. I thought I was very much gifted.

So imagine my surprise when my new friend Pallavi again sent me a parcel- with not one or two but a delightful collection of three books! And then she followed the parcel and came around to gift me the pleasure of her company too! In the midst of all the exciting things happening in her life, it was a great gift to spend a few hours with her and imbibe from her, her philosophy and her abundant energy.

I've said my grace before, so I shall repeat it- thank you all!

Tooth be told

While Ellen is tormented by the visitations of a teething monster, I have a different issue! My son is finally having a shaking molar(?). He is troubled by it so much that he can hardly chew anything. All my valiant attempts at yanking it cleanly off from the root have failed because though it is shaking at the crown, the root is fully in place. In a moment of desperation, I sought to comfort him- the only which way I knew. 'Don't worry, sweetheart, Tooth fairy, may come by for it, AND she may get a gift for you too', I said, engulfing him in a mama hug.

And now I agonise... Santa is still a favoured myth, but is fairies a bit too much? Is it ok to talk of fairies to a seven year OLD boy? Dd was thrilled with the visits of the tooth fairy and the gifts she brought, but a Boy??? Will it have any long term impact on the impressionable 'boy' mind? And what if he demands a beyblade for each tooth traded? Tooth be told? Tooth be sold?

This and that

Yet again I fall foul! This time I am accused of being too wordy ever since I have enrolled in a company of a bardy type. The complaint is that of ignoring the Great Indian Masses. DH, the first reader of my posts, doting hombre that he is, tells me that there is actually a dedicated audience for this blog which I am putting off by peddling obscure verbiage. Keep your company stuff out of the blog like any professional would, he advises. My statement that he must be suffering from some form of grand delusion with regard to my readership is refuted by his claim that he and his friends discuss daily my posts offline and in other fora and I merely need to check the hits. I counter by saying I find counters obnoxious and this is my blog, na? The argument goes onn'on. Anyways, dedicated devoted wifey that I am, this one is for all dh's friends?

Just when I was making peace with Bangalore and thought of putting down some medium-term roots here, the place turns me off yet again. Want plants, go to Lalbagh, I'm told. Or, you could try the Indo-American nursery in Banashankari. Or, the smaller nurseries at Siddapur. I went to all these places yesterday, thanks to a welcome mid-week break for ritualistic self-flagellation. Torture, it was to trek from one furiously foliar nursery to another with their riot of palms, crotons, other variegated foliage plants, Monsteras- swiss-cheese plants, bleeding hearts, mother-in-laws' tongues, leaves leaves every what of the colourful flowers. How I missed the sprawling monumental Sundar nursery or the more compact but discerning Jorbagh nursery. Ah, for the flowers of my youth! Where in this city can I get the dahlias, the pansies, the petunias, the balsam, the calendulas, the chrysanthemums, marigolds to grow and enjoy, and not merely carry the pots home? As with books so with plants, I long for Delhi!

But while on books, my friend, who has recently been conferred a prestigious award (sorry no link for that), has presented clueless me a hat-ke book. Thank you for the redeeming read Raghu!

Saying Grace

Something about this truth set me thinking, being that I was already on a spiritual high induced by that visit to the Big Boss. Yes, I had so many things to be grateful for. The material things I do not bother to list. Nor the other emotional props, I've been blessed with. I always had plenty- plenty of everything, including problems. But then I carried those too like a badge, proud of having problems, because I could deal with them.

Then somewhere things changed. I lost everything- especially my enthusiasm, my will, my protective shield of innocence. I became extremely cynical, an ugly monstrosity who would break into tears, be ungrateful for all I had, while hankering for what I might never have had but believed to be lost to me. A disbeliever.

If I am here today, it is only due to the tremendous faith and support I have imbibed from my family. And when I say that I mean, my extended family. My family of course, like all families is headed by the strong leaders- with a preponderance of strong women- my friends- in the physical and virtual realms. Women I have met and those I have never met. Yet I have sought them out daily and at times hourly for support and sustenance. Women like the Sunset Angel and her group of strong people who have always been there for me for these past seven years. Tara, Elizabeth, Heidi, Danielle, Pam, Susie, Judi, the list is too long? They have always been there for me like a safety net. And still, their message was clear- I had to deal with my problems for my self- 'they' wouldn't sort them out for me. But what they gave me was priceless- a faith in me!

Recently, I 'met' Ellen, who has had a most remarkable effect on me. And Teri. So all you who think I am a big strong woman, just remember I'd be nothing without my bigger stronger family. My cup brimmeth over! Heres to you all- Thank you!

Human Geographic

Spring is in the air (at least in the Northern Hemisphere, wonder what is happening in the Southern Hemisphere?) Though I admit I do not spy a single swallow yet in polluted gasping Bangalore, hope is in the air. Can love be behind?

Scott, that lover of useless trash such as wire and other such trivia, is having a recyled love-fest. Everywhere I lurk, I read posts and poems about this many splendoured thing called love. Even the Shakespearens have admitted into the august February company, a hint of mid spring madness what with shrinks and all. Talking of which, I have been ambushed by all those seeking consultations with my alter ego, the esteemed Dr. Shrinkari. I repeat, I do NOT offer consultations in smoky chambers in any places called Koshy's. All those who wish to see me are advised to seek an appointment in advance through proper channel! (A friendly blogger, bubbly Pallavi did so- but the burden of her Tull induced song- with long-winded flaunting of the flute and gentle drumming was- Physician heal thyself!)

And yes, in parting,have you read that collector's item? The February 2006 National Geographic? Its simply lovely! :)

Yet another exercise

This was the exercise set for us this week at the company:

We shall play at being a shrink - a psychiatrist. Imagine yourself as a psychiatrist and psychoanalyse a member of this board whom you know well or whom you are sufficiently close to, based on ANY ONE of the following three statements your patient or subject makes to you:

1) Doctor I hear voices in my head/
2) Doctor I see little green men all the time
3) Doctor I think I have a peculiar problem, I see two of my husband/wife in bed.

RULES:
1) Your analysis MUST BE FUNNY.
2) You MUST NOT BE RUDE OR OFFENSIVE TO/ABOUT your patient/subject.
3) You MUST NOT GET PERSONAL OR REVEAL PRIVATE INFORMATION about your patient/subject.
4) You MUST SOUND SUITABLY PROFESSIONAL - in other words, you must sound like a shrink.

Mental health being a topic which has not always been one of my strengths, I was loathe to participate in this exercise. However, the time limit has been extended due to paucity of entries (others similarly constrained as me?). Moreover the context of many of the thinly veiled references would be apparent only to the members of the exalted company, but as this is my writing exercise in tongue-in-cheek creativity, I'm posting in the blog too. So here goes...

This is most irregular, I muttered to myself under my breath. Highly unprofessional too. How did I get conned into such an arrangement? How could I see anyone at the end of my working day, outside my hours and at a café at that! I walked in through the dark doors into a dim lit environment reeking of smoke and other such vapours proclaiming it a vapid locale. But such is my noble profession that I often recall the Hippocratic Oath and work the extra hour and walk the extra mile for a patient!

Scanning the tables where just about everyone looked queer, I stumbled onto one where a particularly strange specimen had the solitary seat. JJ?, I asked even as I put out my hand to get a good grasp of him. And you are --- ? he asked abruptly and suspiciously though the manner was quite sane. I'm Doctor Shrinkari- I introduced myself and sat down facing him. Sizing him up cursorily I was pleasantly surprised to note the attention to detail in matters of couture and coiffure. Was he really hearing voices in his head as he had said to me over the phone while seeking an appointment? Or was this a ruse to have an evening out with me? I am, quite assuredly, another man's wife and in all my years of psychiatric practice, I have come across many men who like to fall for women as soon as they don the mantle of matrimony- with other men.

The mystery of his excellent turn-out was soon revealed showing a foreign connection. Italian, none less! In his extreme relief at having actually made the effort and reached out to a medical professional, JJ started urburdening himself. He began with his many personas- some know me as Murphy, some call me SMS and yet I am none of those, I am as I told you- JJ aka James Joyce (a very Irish name for one seeking an Italian persona, but thats that). I was feeling quite relieved by the pleasant urbane manner and his all personable personas. But why did you insist on a sitting here in Ciggy's, I asked. I constantly crave coffee like any self-respecting Italian (Irish?), he claimed. I was sure that my office premises would not be more noxious than this café. But he clarified further, "You see this is the headquarters and I must not step out as I am on call all the time." So what is this work which keeps you stuck here, I pried. He drew himself to his full stature, gave a dramatic quiver to his beard (sharp as it was, did it have any arrows, I wonder?) "I am the Consigliore of the Ess and Company. My Donna is in faraway New York and I control the Bangalore mafia of the Company", he said. With each word, he seemed to transform. From a mild mannered and yes, definitely suave gentleman (a more catty woman may have called him natty) he grew coarser and worse till he resembled an Italian head hood! By the minute, I was getting worried for my own safety as I didn't know what arms he may be carrying upon his person. All around me, the Ciggy environment seemed to come to a stand-still as the old men and young women seemed to sense the transformation. The regulars of the institution (it is surely worthy of being called that) wore their mask of cynical disinterest even as they tensed with each note of his crescendo.

Thank God, I had the foresight of asking my Head Shrink to come by later. As I had planned it, some reinforcements may be handy in dealing with a patient in an unusual setting and in case they were not required, and I had handled the case on my own, we could imbibe some shots of caffeine in collective celebration. My worthy Head, Doctor VM came along just as I was getting truly overwhelmed.

"Hullo Doc, this is JJ", I said by way of introduction. He sat down around that wooden table and the man went absolutely berserk! He shed all pretensions of sanity and collared the seated Doc. "Now I have caught you- shan't let you go of you, you scoundrel. There is something known as Honour. I have lived by it- and you shall die for it!" Immediately it dawned on my superbly attuned medical mind that the object which was offending JJ most was the bottle of a caffeine laced beverage popularly referred to as a Cola which had been handed to the good Doc by one of the passing regulars of Ciggy's. As I shattered the bottle with all the power at my disposal in one weighty and well-aimed blow of my handbag, JJ collapsed gratefully back into his chair. The relief was palpable. Even the foreign personas seemed to fade. "No more of those battles of the bottle, no more voices in my head Doctor". "Thank you Doctor Shrinkari, you have shrunk my woes."

Exalted company

I am helpless to do anything but hold my aching sides and laugh and laugh even as the tears have the cheek to go down! It was due to this that I was reduced to this state. And this. And I can do nothing further if not copy and paste... :))

Yesterday I took a day off

A day off from my life. From my maddening metro maze of an existence to a pastoral pace in a pilgrim place. On a day, I couldn't possibly have taken off...

When I reached home on Tuesday night, I had little inkling how the next day would be. Yes the grind was as its usual self. There were impossible deadlines at work- crazy long meetings, a house full of guests of the in-law kind, tests for both the kids the next day and somewhere in all this there was an insistent request, nay, demand, that I accompany the in-laws and dh on a pilgrimage! I didn't take this too seriously as I was confident of coming up with n number of very genuine reasons why I couldn't and shouldn't leave town. Reached home and set about lessons in Hindi in right earnest with the little one. Mid-way, he got violently sick. And again and again and again through the night. He was officially declared sick and off the Hindi test hook. Meanwhile dd had on her own, acquired a stomach bug too and joined her brother in the sick bay. Morning brought a little tired sleep and plaintive pleas from both my kids 'take care' of them. I couldn't leave them now.

Then came the sharp well-aimed barb of dh- you won't go to Tirupati because you have no desire to go there, he accused. Yes, it was true. All along I'd been coming up with all manner of excuses not to go- the kids falling ill was just too convenient. It didn't shame me to accept the truth- it went far beyond, it drilled a hole through me. Yes, I was angry with my lord, my ishta-devata for so many things in which He had let me down. My crazy manic-depressive self I blamed on the loss of faith- in myself and in Him. Suddenly, I went from being the rational logical woman, mother et al to a crazy illogical irrational demented devotee.

I had many fights to pick, many thanks to give and still many favours to ask of Him. I wanted another chance- at my faith. So I set out, determined to be miserable, determined to hate my travel companions, determined to feel bad about having left my kids at home, determined to be a major pain?

Strange what I am capable of coming up with at a moment's notice! Out of the blue, I decided to make this my personal pilgrimage to my God. I was determined to climb the seven hills in order to seek Him out. Once the decision was made, I sat back quietly and just let things happen all around me. Strange to feel good when you want to feel bad. Strange to find that the in-laws are not as horrendous as I make them out to be. Strange to have a strange little one on one's lap. Strange to have a strange little head lolling at my breast.

When I announced my decision, midway through the journey, it evoked typical responses from the in-laws and from dh. They were upset that I would not be around to chaperone them. Dh was insistent that he would accompany me on the trek up the seven hills. I argued with him that this was 'my' personal pilgrimage and that he could just go ahead and receive me at the top. There was the usual ugly debate before he told me that he had made up his mind just as I had made up mine! Good thing too- as I got someone to pace me and keep me on track. In all the gazillion years we?ve been married, we've never trekked together! A first! The first 1000 of the 3550 steps were sheer vertical. Glad dh was around and telling an 'old' trekker like me the advantages of staying ahead during the second breath! But while earlier I have embarked on treks with a lanky lean frame sporting the rucksack, now I had to lug the considerably filled out frame in addition to the XL sized handbag and the large pouchy growth which is loosely attached to the rest of me, covering my abs with an independent personality of its own. In fact, at a particular spot where I sat down to do some deep breathing and let it all hang out, there was this real smart-huge-assed dumb-chick who came upto me and asked if I was expecting!?! *#$@#! I trudged on determined to outrun her if it were the last thing I do! On a couple of occasions, dh was urging me on, focus one step at a time and I thought, one step at a time, one day at a time, sweet Jesus! Thought of the first time I had 'labour'ed with the collective womanly chant of One more push, much like the rambhakts chant of 'ek aur dhakka' and the final relief I got from the much needed epistomy. Then of the second ineffective labour which, due to its sheer non-progression, necessitated the C-section. (Before any of you say that I think a lot, remember whats written up there- I think therefore I am!) While dh was not pacing me, regulating my breathing through those labours, I was actually glad to have him with me on this one.

Along the way, I also met other characters, less judgmental, less refined, but definitely more fun. I was keen to try out my rusty Telugu among those rustics rather than the sophisticates who might have been offended by the form of my address. Much to the discomfiture of dh, I chatted and chattered with many of them- making it truly a pilgrimage.

Finally as we managed to pace ourselves well even after the gazillion years of marriage, I saw that in itself as a major act of faith! Thereafter, I was treated to the best possible darshan I have had of the Lord of the Seven Hills. I'm glad that when my call came, I was able to shed everything and rush to my cowherd- Govinda!