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!

Outed

This is for those who read my earlier post which was an exercise in creative lying. I've fianlly been outed by one person in the S&C group. I'm sure even she must be surprised by the unlikely lie.

The only fib in this tale was that my sister was far too kind to beat me. In fact she grew even kinder to me after this! In fact no one has really been able to come between us- ever!

Full of friends

This weekend I acquired some best friends. The regularity and periodicity with which I have been doing so seems to have taken the sparkle out of this worthy exercise to my friends who hear me recount it. Nevertheless, for me, each best friend is the bestest friend. And I am as excited about the newest best friend as I remain about the older ones. So what do I look for when I go about acquiring a best friend?

Would it be the touch of energy and vivacity flowing through my friend to me, physically or spiritually, which would help me decide on a best friend? Would I value clarity above all- shunning all those with cloudy looks? Would it be the crowded shimmery mass of all desirable virtues bunched up or would one redeeming aspect be enough to compensate for any apparent or hidden flaws? Would it the sight of a gaudy flashy gay bauble or the quiet understated elegance of a classic beauty? Would it be the smooth contours of one well-honed and well polished or the rough individual edges of a one who can live with my edges, which help me decide? Would it be the twinkling tones or the flashing anger? The hard glittering glisten or the softer sheen?

The appearance of a best friend for me would be utterly unique- and suitably shabby. Who would complement me in my various moods, not detract, would not overwhelm me- not clash violently with my rags, my un-made face, my blowsy hair. Who would be the perfect accessory, not hog all the attention. Would sing lyrics when called upon to do so, yet not scream with an in your face attitude. Would have as many shades and hues as my moods- turquoise, red, emerald, sunny yellows and the enduring purifying peaceful all-encompassing white.

Talking of such a friend, would size matter? I would say not. I'd rather have a tiny solitaire which touches me than a crowded pricey arrangement which may leave me cold. And yes, size and colour are of no consequence, it is clarity I treasure in a friend. No wonder diamonds are a girl's best friend! :)

While on the topic of my friends, a comment on a post by the proposer of happier women led to some reflection on my relationship with my friends. While they consider me strong and personally powerful, there are times when I fail miserably to deal with my problems. At such times I find myself isolated in the midst of friends. To illustrate this asymmetry, I have chosen the most symmetrical of metres- a rictameter! Am not confident of the syllable count so its the thought which counts. Here goes:

With you
All emotions I share -
your joys I celebrate, in your plans I collaborate,
within me our words adumbrate resonate reverberate-
always through your moods, I reach in, participate- ponder,
deliberate. Your enemies I denigrate, and thoroughly berate.
Yet, when its my I grief I share, you dissipate enervate
I wonder why I bare
with you

An absurb Surd post

Recently, I've had the dubious distinction of being asked to adjudge a po-ab contest. Po-ab as in the poem absurd. While the general theme was absurd enough for me to participate or judge, with equal facility or lack thereof, I did not compete, merely judged. So I post my absurd composition here to be canned by you, the readers.

Typically for a dilli-walli, my sense of absurd immediately invokes an image of sardarjis or 'surds' as they are popularly known. More popular, no doubt, than the mathematical fragments, which I might have wrestled with, but would rather forget. I have had some of my dearest friends being surd and therefore would have liked to have penned an ode, but for the present this verse would have to suffice as an expression of my delightful relationship with sardars and sardarnis.

The poem follows an aabb ccddee ffgg sequence. I do not know what that makes it- hope it is suitably absurd! :)

Surds and Absurds

Talking all this absurd talk
I wish, and I do not mock,
I long for a long surd trip
But my yarn, I'd better 'zip'

Who would not love a surdy boy
The sight of one who is 'suchha' joy
With chubby cheeks and knotty tops
Intricate plaits lacing their mops
Even the gauntest of them are never grim
Hollowed cheeks maybe, but kerchief trim!

If boys be so pretty, what of the girls
Their hair is the hallmark, at times it curls
Little sikhnis, beautiful young ones
Sharp noses, sharper longer tongues!

An update

Somehow for most part of last week I was living my life off-line much more then on-line. Nothing muchly, but just life...

It started with the 14th. Just when I thought I'd spend the day idling around, a stray thought assaulted me and I got cracking at making the gooey salty-peppery porridge that goes locally under the name of pongal. Now a walk is indicated I thought, as per Alice in Wonderland, a walk to clear my head of all the pepper I'd been dealing with. Stepping out, I was rather proud of the huge festive decoration in front of the gate, made by my extremely enthusiastic maid.








Now the street we live in, its one of the loveliest, leafiest, languid streets in this 'Garden City'. That day it took on all manner of hues to look its colourful best. I ran back home and sent dd on a similar walk. She too ran back home with the exactly same idea. We had to colour the rangoli in front of our house! I had always wondered how exactly people went about this stuff, having never dared to do this colouring stuff myself. Mixing Prussian blue with vermilion and attaining the right shade of gaudiness with a pink, at the end it looked like this:







Very happy and tired by this fun and futile stuff, we sat down to our porridge much like the three bears, only difference being we were unexpectedly joined by papa bear himself, happy and back from a good game of golf- and then we were four!

The other highlight of the day was the S&C meet. I was so excited about meeting these uber literate folk at Koshys over coffee and snakes. However, while Bangalore's famous snake-man was there in person, Prem Koshy, being his hospitable best, served us (including the vegetarians) a more acceptable repast of coffee and snacks! There were the regulars word smiths as well as other gentle masters who stepped into the parlour and have since been caught on the web! There was much illumination about the group, quite a few bright sparks, and the entire experience, caffeine and all, was so heady that Sunday passed in a whirl.

Monday and Tuesday, I was in Delhi, purportedly for an official meeting but spent a major part of my stay mooring myself at the emotional anchors I have there. I confess that as happens every time I'm in Delhi, I could meet only a few of my favourite people there. Sorry again, Chitra. Back at home, there were so many things happening at home and work. Long evenings and whole day meetings with impossible deadlines and a big event coming up over the weekend had me totally tied up.

Ever since I read WhirlingBetty's post a couple of weeks ago, I'd been agonizing over my own arrangements for my little one's birthday do. We are big on birthdays in our family. Which means a lot of organizing - from the guest list, balloons and streamers, games, music, food, and age-appropriate return gifts. The pleasure, and believe me, its there, is to see all the kids have a ball. I realize too that these are limited pleasures because soon the kids are going to out-grow this birthday party thingie!

It started with this.



Seven is considered a significant number for a number of things including a marriage. For a little boy *obsessed* with beyblade, the significance or otherwise of the number would be obtruse to say the least! And yet, this list (put together with a bit of help at the end from his wise sibling) was my starting point. I was quite at sea but chose to go through the list rather than be totally hoodwinked by the smart salesman who knows a desperate parent when he sees one. There was one particular item which even smart dd couldn't help me with, she hadn't ever heard of beyblade 'gattling'! The little one educated us that 'gattling' meant scratch! A seven year scratch sounded even more significant!! :)) Guess what it turned out to be- a game board of beyblade driger Battling- I just love the way my little one coins 'new' mint fresh words.

As with Betty, I pleaded with so many parents to have the pleasure of the company of their little ones at the party, as usual I was prepared to all to actually turn up and again had stocks of uneaten candies and unused return gifts. Among the non-attendees were his partner and the girl who has the sweetest smile in the class! Anyway on Saturday, we all had a sweet, lovely seventh birthday party for a little boy who is growing up so fast that he thinks he won't sit on mamma's lap anymore.

Bearing all the surplus goodies, we went yesterday to a nearby orphanage where these were truly welcomed by such an enthusiastic bunch of kids! Returning from the orphanage which had so many tiny abandoned babies as well, dh asked: "Isn't it a crime to abandon a baby?" That really had me at a loss for words- don't know what to say.

And yes, this is what I made yesterday! Don't ask me why- just felt like it.

Eating sugar? na na na

I'd undertaken this exercise in story telling in response to a 'trigger' from the S & C group. Catch me if you can!!

I kid you not. This is a true story. True. Well almost. Somewhere within it, there is a teeny-weeny fib. Not big but its there. So all you who claim to know me, the challenge is to identify the only falsehood in my story.

Crying wolf

Each product and commodity comes with a best before date. It may keep for longer but past that date there is certain deterioration- tangible, physical change, in some cases or, more insidious and more damaging. You may be attracted to it, bite into it, consume it but doing so would nevertheless put you to some risk. We humans come in such packages too. So when did my descent begin? Could it be the first lie I had uttered all those years ago?

I was a thin, small, painfully shy kid and people had to bend really low to be able to hear what I was mumbling. I used to be on a continuous search to find new places to hide and lose myself in my thoughts. It was a long languid afternoon in muggy Madras, as it was then called. We were on the annual vacation at my grandparents and I had exhausted most of the cupboards and 'meat-safes' where I'd be usually smoked out of in moments. While I loved the just-right perfume of sandal and mothballs, I felt I needed a fresh hiding place. Explored and hid in the seemingly huge cavern behind a sofa. Suddenly my big sister realised my absence and started seeking me. It was a usual cat-mouse game in those hours between the post-prandial mangoes and the 'milk-coffee'. As she crept upon me ever so stealthily, something happened to me. In a flash, I was transformed from docile push-over little sister to a blood thirsty vampire! I tactically pulled up her frilly frock, chose a soft spot on her tummy and just let my canines sink in. I tasted the salty blood through the rubbery yet soft skin. What a to-do there was! The whole household, in fact I believe, the whole street, was roused from its siesta in the rudest manner possible. My sister freaked. She couldn't obviously have expected anything like this happening to her and from me. She beat me black and blue before any adult could separate us. We were rushed post-haste to a very reputed doctor, she for her wound and me by my bewildered parents for seeking some explanation for such weird behaviour. After she was suitably bandaged and had got shots for tetanus and what one gets from the bite of a younger sister. In her kindest manner, the doctor asked me why I bit my sister and in my sweetest martyr act, I lied and said that she had dared me to bite her and like an obedient kid, I did. Don't know if it was an effective lie but she gave me a delightful candy with the advice that I train my teeth on stick-jaws and not on salty 'tissues'. And you, dear reader, any time you start to wonder why my teeth are crooked, beware!

Outed: The only fib in this tale was that my sister was far too kind to beat me. In fact she grew even kinder to me after this! In fact no one has really been able to come between us- ever.

Addiction

Reading Ellen is such a habit with me now that I feel I should formalize my dependence by signing up for those CoDA classes she's promising every Tuesday. She has a way to getting to me (and at least half of the angst-ridden female population of bloggers!) and making me think. Think long and worry, of course. :))

This was her latest salvo, which along with the 40 odd (till date) posts it has generated makes one conclude(!) that being spouse to an addict is not fun. But somehow being non-spouse to such is also not so easy. Why ever? Thought of Draupadi who was set as wager and lost by her Pandava husbands to the Kauravas, a spirited female in Hindu mythology who chose to live on with her five self seeking husbands right up to the very end. No paragon of wifely devotion she, didn't even make it to the top five list of Hindu satis in the league of Ahalya, Sita, Savitri, Arundhati and Damayanti (that I can recollect)!

In my current verse-challenged state, I set out my thoughts in verse. I do hope it does not trivialise the issue.

Addiction

If he is addicted to other women, gambling or drink
She wouldn't want to live with him, one'd think,
Yet studying our prime mythical story
I?m no closer to unraveling this mystery

Draupadi, that acme of Indian polyandry,
She was no drudge; she was known to get angry
Brought up as a precious princess girl,
On occasion, her lips would curse and curl
She was not known to be as docile
As Sita was, in her forced exile

With each of her husbands having personal wives
Why didn?t Draupadi leave them to their loves and dice?
Why, if she could subvert chiraharan,
Did she choose the life of a common char-woman?

When all her husbands had crucially failed her
She turned to cosmic Krishna for succour
Why then, did she continue to be by them?
Engaging herself as their menial pro tem

If Draupadi had recourse to divorce
Would she have fared any worse?
Gambled away by her principal wooer
The second having to live as a neuter
The big middle one, by her, couldn't do much
And the twins, they were quite out of touch!

Dharmaraj Yuddhistra was unrighteous
Virile Arjun, reduced to shikhandii
Powerful Bhima was, for her, powerless
Nakul and Sahadev mere have-beens

With five husbands and on her own
A personal revenge she had sworn
And yet she adorned other princesses
While she didn?t tie her own tresses

A princess, a natural queen to-be,
Why did she acquiesce to ignominy?
Is there any algorithm to explain-
Why some de-train but others refrain

Not opting out, staying on, till their defenses are worn
Is it that some have a lower threshold,
while others have a lower still self esteem,
or martyrdom, a search for a higher being?
Is it love for a self-indulgent big child
Who makes the right public noises but privately cries
Is it response to a defence-less spousal position
Or simply passive masochistic destruction?

Or is it a final irony that the addict 's addiction
Creates and supports in the family, a mirror position?

Under the banyan tree

I strive restlessly ceaselessly
Thrashing hard, long, all day
Hoping that the next dawn will
Find me somewhere closer to you

Yet when day dawns seamlessly
You are you are no closer I daresay
But I aspire to reach you still
Hope these dreams will come true

You are grand, big and give me shade
I'll try to match you blade by blade
As I look up at your lofty brow
Much faster, bigger I wish to grow

But people say that it's the truth
Its unhealthy for me to be under your sway
Ah! they are plucking me from my root
And transplanting me some place away



OK. This one has a metre which I do not claim to comprehend!

This was the result of a desultory discussion on growth in corporate organisations. My position was that occasional uprooting is a prerequisite for gaining extra perquisites!

Hi!

I hurtle up the narrow flight
To answer that unheard call
The blinding blazing sunlight
On the bare white-washed wall

White-red white-red white-red
Insistently persistently pounding
This pattern permeates my head
Urging me to stumble up tripping

The leaf latticed, sun bleached terrace
Instills in me cold confounding dread
My eyes flicker in feverish pace
Seeking some temperate solace instead

But abruptly my jerky puppet movements end
Its not everyday, I make a new friend!


This one is 'inspired' by the head cold I have (acquired from Delhi, second-hand via dh who has been buzzing between the capital and home these last two weeks). The rush up enabled me to see a similarly heat seeking butterfly on the aforesaid terrace.

The last line of course is totally Narnia, which I finally managed to see yesterday, with the kids. Loved it! :))

Eid mubaarak!

Hi all you folk who may or may not celebrate Eid (or is it Id!;p)
Heres wishing you all for a speacial reason- Eid (Id) is my favourite festival. No, not for the sweets or the savories and definitely (defiantly?) not for the reason it may be celebrated of which I claim absolute blissful ignorance. Its my favourite because of all the hugs going around on the day. So here then is my idi for you- a curly hug! {{}}

Heres kicking at you!

Started this morning with my usual checking of mail. But guess what really grabbed me! This! While I keep talking of my tremendous adoration of this handsome and happening hunk, its nice to know that theres something we have in common!

Even at the risk of sounding crass, I admit to indulging in some weird physical games with my kids. Apart from the customary tickling sessions on the bed as a destressor, we also do this. We run towards each other (preferably on the carpet to avoid sudden skidding or un- intended toppling over) making menacing noises while trying to kick each other. Of course, as a basic safety measure, it is ensured that there is no actual physical connect, but we do try and aim as high as possible! It is great fun for all though I do have to be very careful with these kids of mine who are baby sized compared to their huge mama! Wonder whether this game would qualify as anywhere close to a martial art of kickboxing, but we do mange to kick up a pretty good time with it!

Breaking Point

Break, Break, Break

Alfred Tennyson, 1st Baron (1809 - 92)

BREAK, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
O well for the fisherman's boy,	5
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;	10
But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!
Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead	15
Will never come back to me.
I do not wish to insult the intelligence of the worthy reader by dwelling at length about the loss of a dear friend which Lord Tennyson suffered badly. While this led to other worthier poems which have been panned extensively, this one was relegated to school texts. The bleakness of a gray sea side landscape, the image of a gay fisher boy calling out to his play mate, the stately sights and the landscape evoke the image of tremendous absolute loss which is experienced when one finds oneself friendless. If such a person, be an introverted intense poet, who is not likely to be able to communicate with the sea of humanity around him which carries on unmindful and seemingly crashing against the grayness within him, the result had to be this jewel which is steady in its lustre and timeless attraction! Note: Got up this gray Bangalore morning ( I have to get up early to put my kids through school) with a throbbing head ache. (Maybe the after effects of a bad knock on th head in the course of the night!) Felt things breaking within me. And thought of this poem. So when JJ at S & C sent a call for poems, this is what I could come up with readily...

Life IS haw-haw he-he in the ladies coupe

One week (weak?) into the new year and I confess that I hobbled in- huffing and puffing and all padded up and in the uncomfortable ladies coupe! Well, not literally, but as metaphors go, this'll do. Ladies coupe sounds far more genteel and refined than some others which I can but choose not to use. I haven't got a rating for this post and heaven forbid, if it read by those it is not meant for, notably the squeamish and non-women!?

It also serves as an indicator to all those who do not wish to get into details of typical talk in ladies coupes, or ladies' coops for that matter.

Ellen complained of how her welcome to Santa was constrained by the earlier arrival of Aunt Flo. In my case, as I was preparing for the 'New Years', as it is popularly referred to, and was in the 'more the merrier' mode, I got a bunch load of unwanted guests.

Guests- who come regularly enough and long over-stay their welcome but can cause extreme paranoia when they do not appear at the correct periodic intervals. A bit about them now- even before their presence is formally announced there are o so many indicators heralding that they'll be around soon. The Champ Cramp is the first among the outriders. The royal cavalclade is then made up of the Mood Hood who does a thorough once-over with his arsenal which is deployed against the valiant warriors- led ably by dashing dopamine. It is only in this suitably 'prepared' environment that Her Highness, Aunt Flo comes, accompanied as always by Uncle Blob. The Royal train is made up of their unmentionable offspring who regardless of the exact number appear to be a real dirty dozen. Theres gassy Gussy, who makes a pompous ass of himself and tender Princess Belinda who causes much ouch with her touch of tenderness. Then there is His Royalty, Prince Payne, who comes clad in dull fatigues and makes straight for the below the belt. With such a lively party on, could one ask for more?

The official New Year started with the customary bouquets (floral) and some brickbats. One of my guys had come up to 'call-on' with his wishes, in deference to my position in a floor above his. He walked in with a mouth full of paan and managed to shower me with the choicest of his good wishes, in flowery Hindi! But in the process, he also sprayed his spittle on me! "Hip-py Noo Eeear, My-dum", he managed to spit or not to spit(?) "And a happy (hippy) new year to you too!" I said, trying to seek cover against the assault of spittle. "Arre, my-dum, aap ismile kyon nahin de rahiin?" he asked. "Chehre pe barah kyon baja hai? Khush rahiye na. Aap khush hi acchi lagti hain." This smart guy didn't need any research to inform him of the relationship between hormones and appearance. How the hell do I tell this guy that I can't be bloody happy and grinning when I'm bleeding sick!?!

Then within moments I get an SMS from Big Sister (hereinafter referred to lovingly as 'BS') from across the length of the country. I had been talking to her nearly every am/pm and reassuring her ad-naseum about how 'good' I was, but unconvinced she plodded and pleaded. "tell all to mamma i can feel it here". Given that there is little I can do about biharis and BS, I just need to make friends with Aunt Flo!

Hmm, hows that for a New Year resolution?

PS: Haw-haw, apart from the jolly sound it makes, is also the Hindi term for 'shame-shame'!

My meme to you all

Two memes(7 & 5) came here my way and I thought I dealt with them the best I could and that having done so, I'd given them a resting place. But no, it doesn't do. I am flooded by queries from those who are curious about memes and wish to try their hands at this sport! But haven't been tagged!

Heres tagging all of you- all my friends with a their own blogs. Prithi- you're long overdue. Arvind, Pallavi, Naresh and you too, Scott, if you'd oblige. Asmita, Alankrita, David, Jyotsna and of course the cause of my ryze, Dan! You could choose the Seven or Five or both. Prose or verse, heres waiting to your posts!

Tick Tag Two

I'm pretty much used to various labels- even reconciled myself to idiotic ones like 'special' child! But was not used to tags. First it was by AfricaBleu and then it was Artsymama who tagged me! I took on the might of Becky by refusing defiantly (have I got that right now!?!) to carry on the meme, but now, emboldened by the mighty Scott-sman himself am bold to meme and be done with the same.

Seven

Before I die, these seven things I've to do
Shed inhibitions, get about,
Scuba dive, glide, fly. But shoo,
there are other things I could never do
move my two left feet or care a jot
to sing in tune, sulk for long, smoke pot,
run or have matching shoes and a neat hair do.

This brings me to what I fancy in my man-
bright eyes, sweet ears n' lips, a nice nose,
brains to wit, brawn that looks good in repose
and yes, suitable taste in prose.
Keeping me company in my throes
I acknowledge his presence the best I can.

The seven things I say most often
don't merit such consideration
common expressions of shock, delight, affection
cogitation, action, negation and in addition,
tremendous consternation
on the sins and virtues 'seven'

The celebrity crushes I've had
in typical random order are:
Will Smith, Pierce Brosnan, Milind Soman,
Michael Holding, dare I slip in John
Abraham, Viv Richards and (my first!) the hockey Somayya
thats just some of them, not bad!

Five

For the bees in my bonnet
Could I have come up with less
Than a Shakespearean sonnet?
And for this, S & C I bless

Stranger folk are said to be
Inhabiting the land
so why not me
and my quirks- not so grand?

Capricious, unfocussed and confused
I swear I snore
hold my rigid views
And am a deadly bore

Signing off with both these tags, Whew
without a-tagging any of you.

A short sweet(?) one

My very first attempt at versification. A bit of a doggerel, but here goes...

Tremulous

From the edge of my chair
From my corner of the bed
From under my massed up hair
From the recesses of my head

From the bottom of my heart
From the depths of my soul
Like a small bit part
Of a much larger whole

Trying with a stutter
To find my voice
With feelings a-flutter
I hope to find poise

Among the general melee
I'll try, lets see!