Oh *my* Boy!

All my Love, all my kissing,
you don't know what you've been missing
Oh-Boy

(break in singing for some loud wet kisses on my head)

We've been OD-ing on La Bamba at home and for all the hype around Valens, this was what ds was found crooning wistfully. Holly it is for my little boy- oh boy!

C'mon Let's Go, little darling - after all, The sky belongs to the Stars!

Now On

Scott talks of the Stunt work he has been performing day after day for over fifteen years and hopes to for another 30 years or so! He is, despite all disclaimers to the contrary, a safety net, and knows the value of staying on, being there. And yes, how he has to keep performing the same stunt without safety devices or doubles.

Wonder when one the show stops and these stunts or being the net cease. There never seems a fine time.

Being On, got to keep doing the tight-rope walk, the balancing act, the flying trapeze, the ultimate endurance stunt- Reality!

Bangalore Bouquet

When I was uprooted and transplanted from Delhi to Bangalore, I was excited about the move. I did the usual (maybe not so typical for me) housewifely things such as decide the house we'd be living in, picking out the furnishings and so on.

Dh had been making a few trips to Bangalore and had shortlisted a few probables among the houses for me to check out. When I saw this house, I knew it was 'my house'! Just as I had chosen all the houses I've lived in in the past.

I was told that the previous occupant of the house was a single American gent, who like other single American gents, had more time and interest in techie innovations than gardens and lawns. Thats so NOT true, given that I know at least one single, very American gent who not only bothers about what he grows and how!The most attractive feature about the house was not the delightfully quiet street or the near continuous canopy of trees above or even the absence of open trash receptacles around it. It was the palms! Glorious luxuriant palms which obviously had taken years to grow and had been just left to do so.



The palms got me. But the palms also showed up the lack of any other form of healthy vegetation in the patch of dirt around the house. We set about righting this wrong earnestly. Overnight we got hundreds of potted and other plants in and arranged them in the freshly laid organically rich beds.

And grass! It has been laid so many times that I fear that by now it must have acquired a reputation for promiscuity!

Most of the initial tranche were foliage plants except for the odd (can you fathom I don't fancy them?) anthuriums, sadabahars (they are so ubiquitous they are called Graveyard flowers), poinsettia (now what exactly is the flower there?), and of course the already present sampige.

Then I picked up many roses from Lalbagh apart from doing what came easiest to me- rushing to Delhi and getting Chrysanthamums, Calendulas, Gerberas, Dahlias et al from my favourite haunt there at Rajdhani Nursery in Jorbagh. Some of them plants took root, put out luxuriant foliage but stopped at that. No huge prize winning flowers.

Gradually I learnt to come to terms with the fact that I was NOT in Delhi. And that I should learn to love the flowers of this garden city. There was this balled compound flower, in various shades of orange and red, which no self-respecting Bangalore garden could be without (I still haven't found out the name of that one!)

But always there were hibiscus! What a variety of them...

Treat me well

I love doctors, I hate doctors. Like most of the junta around me, doctors too are rather terrified of me- and some with good cause to be so.

My intense love-hate relationship with doctors (as with many others in my life!) began only after I became a mother. Till then, I was quite in awe of doctors and let sleeping docs lie. I never provoked them, threw sticks at them or asked them to fetch for me. But of course, this meant that I did not bestow on them too much of mind space. It was a strict policy of non-interference. But since then I have crossed the (s)Hades to acquire the status of a Mom From Hell!

This week, my son got up in the middle of the night and was tossing and turning. The angel that he is, he never cries. But it is enough indication for me to know that there must something REALLY troubling him, for him to be up. 'What is it, Angel', I ask. 'My ear hurts.' Sure enough, I give him a mandated dose of paracetamol and try to soothe him back to sleep. Half an hour later, things seem to have only gone worse. I hate it but I know there is a bottle of this at the back of the medical cabinet which is brought out only at such emergencies. After the tiniest dose which may work, I try to soothe him back to sleep yet again. It is nearly morning before he finally falls in to a restful sleep pattern.

Later, the pilgrimage to the neighbourhood doctor. The usual long waiting; the exposure to all manner of stray infections concentrated there; the sight and sounds of all the others who are suffering and suffering badly, it seems; makes me feel it may have been better to stay at home than being in the clinic. The diagnosis indicates (oral, NOT written) that there could be an abscess in the ear which is painful and may have to be removed.

The hastily scrawled prescription lists among other medications, the same analgesic-anti-inflammatory as well as some ear-drops. Given ds's susceptibility to ear-trouble and prior acquaintance with that particular brand of ear-drops, I interject- Doesn't it contain Gentamycitin? Yes, it is a very good drug, I am informed. Highly effective in ear infections. But isn't Gentamicin highly ototoxic? I happen to know a number of children who are deaf because of that drug. That's all right; it IS a very effective drug !

With thoughts of Foucault's Birth of the Clinic (a refreshingly simplistic take on one who is a most difficult writer) and the prescient Ivan Illich's Medical Nemesis (and another doctor's take )

Iatrogenesis?

I love doctors, I love medicine, but most all, I love the kid.

Friend-sied

All my friends know how much I love my friends- old and new.

There is always a frenzied excitement about meeting new friends, learning all about them, being with them! The initial high, the heady honeymoon phase, then the settling in to a routine which is comfortable without being jarringly distracting.

Through this madness, invariably there is the sane tone that old friends provide, the safe comfort of their anchor and support ensures one doesn't get blinded by the brilliance of new-found friends.

That said, there are no friends like old friends!

So imagine how ungrounded I was this morning when my very first pair of diamond earrings went literally down the drain!

But...

after an hour of reconciling myself to the fact that life often offers such shocks, I received a call from my major domo telling me that my friends had not deserted me after all!

I shan't offend delicate sensibilities all around by detailing how the drained off diamonds were recovered. But hey, all you friends out there, you all mean the world to me and I am holding on to all of you- tight!

Am I grounded?

Tiff(!)-ins

Ever since dd was put into play school, I had to shrug off my 'I don't cook' attitude and get my nose to the grind. Packing lunches every day five days a week, for so many years.

There were days when she would like the lunch! But those were few and far between. Some of the tiffins I packed for her would even be a hit with her friends and she wouldn't 'mind' taking them as long as her friends ate from her tiffin and she was allowed access to theirs!

Many a time we would agree on some sort of a routine - for each day of the week, a particular item- but this too never worked out.

Then ds started school too. And his tiffins had to be so different from hers. While she constantly craves variety rice one day, pasta the next, dosa, idli, baby idlis, roti, puri, parantha, breads, cheese, what have you, he was always steadfast in what was 'acceptable' tiffin to him.

There was a phase when they went to differnt schools and used to get different tiffins from mom. Dd had to make the compromise- she had to adjust to whatever was being made for the common tiffin. The ubiquitous potato reigns supreme.

Which is why this less than perfect mom fantasises about the perfect, nutritionally balanced, visually appealing tiffins that Meeta packs daily. I lurk there regularly but when come school mornings, it is back to the usual boring stuff.

A major disincentive to experimentation and trying new stuff is the attitude of ds. He sniffs at anything new in the most suspicious manner till I say, 'Angel, Amma has made it specially for you with love' to which he responds, 'Amma, why do you put SO much of "love"? A little "love" is enough!' And I would end up reverting to the standard fare earning the ire of dd!

Can't please them all - but am I trying enough? Priya, got me thinking...

The Eighth One

Krishna was never a favourite God.

All through childhood, one saw the grand spectacle and celebration of Krishna and love for Him as Delhi was but an extension of Braj bhoomi. His presence was reassuringly all pervasive in that land of Yadavas through each season and turn of season. Even a Rama centric festival like Diwali could not be celebrated without the mandatory Goverdhana Pooja the day after Diwali. And of course the day of His birth was celebrated with gusto- there would be street side tableaux at each corner with intense competition among them for the most elaborate and impressive jhaanki. The kids of the neighbourhood would gather together and bring all manner of goodies with which to decorate their stalls. Cash contributions would also be solicited by the little beggars and by night, each street would have its own little depiction of the birth of Krishna much like the Christian nativity scenes.

But, as I said, Krishna was never considered my favourite God.

Till I became the mother of a baby boy and saw the world in him- divine. When I first saw my baby boy in the Neonatal ICU, he was hooked up to all manner of equipment. Seeing him lying there amidst a huge machine (respirator) this love crazed mum actually saw a little Krishna with the protective hood of a snake over him and a zillion wires and pipes connecting him with the rest of the world.

For six months after my son's birth I was more or less totally confined to the house and in fact to a single room where all I did was to adore my baby, without any distractions of the world. My meals would come in and occasionally some family members (including my daughter!) would peep in. The phone calls would impinge at times and at others, I would step out of the room and the house to make the necessary visits to the doctors. But for all these diversions, I was totally immersed in the love and care of my child, my Krishna. He was my universe and it was in his face I saw ALL. Much like the other love struck mother Yashoda, who saw a miracle in her Krishna.


He may not be my eighth child, the mysterious, dark Krishna. Yet I think of him when and marvel at the significance of eight. The Eighth baby ( to one mother), born in the eighth month, on the eighth day of the dark phase of Sravana, the eighth avatar of Vishnu.

May be it is significant, I ponder, that all His favourite snacks are made in the ratio of 8:1 (rice and urad dal)!

Krishna Krishna Krishna!

Hmm-kara

I must at the outset confess that it is only wild horses which can drag me to a cinema to endure a full length film- but having said that, must admit that dh is one helluva wild one!

So we both did manage to seek time out (together!) for watching Omkara this weekend. Given my extreme eagerness to trash such outings, dh was extra keen to reach in time and arm himself with plenty of popcorn and other edibles to continually pop into my complaining mouth. Actually, his job was made easy for him because though my jaw was dropped nearly through the entire first half, I was struck quite dumb!

It was quite a spectacle! The dusty Gangetic plain seemed to come alive in all its glory and yes, the gory was especially highlighted. Enough has been said and written about the movie- so without going into the story the characterisation, casting and so on, here are just a few impressions.

The language, of course, is just too typical to be offensive. To one whose sensibilities have been weathered continually by blasts of Dilli's patois shorn of its purani dilli etiquette (though even that has been considered inferior to the tehzeeb of Lucknow), the crassness sans lyrical softness of Punjabi, the earthiness of the agrarian Jat speak of western UP and the surrounding tracts of Haryana, the lack of sophistication of the doodhiya flow of yadavs and of course exposure to the more colourful language of the Biharis, the words used in the movie cannot seem offensive. If anything, they ring true.

As does the entire range of visuals. The nautanki counterposed with the naach-gana during ceremonial occasions, distinct in the latter's dirge-like tones from the celebratory abandon of the nautch-girl's dance. The delicate innocence of seemingly fragile but flesh and blood women who seem quite literally untouched by the sun contrasted against the rough and ready manner of the trigger happy men who live entire lives only as representatives of their caste, lineage and upholders of that typically fragile, typically male concept- honour.

It was a faithful, nay, vividly perfect recreation of the ethos and pathos of an anonymous small village in poltically surcharged western/Eastern UP or northern Bihar.

The radiant jewel in the entire movie, I think, is the song Jag ja- vintage folksy Gulzaar - 'motiyon sa mogra', need I say more. And so lovingly crooned by Suresh Wadekar, a pleasure!

Note: If the sight of pot bellied men in khakhi in a kotwali, jerking their bodies lustily offends your patriotic sense, if you are worried how the mobile service providers can do any billing and enforce any revenue collection in such badlands, if the loud language grates your intact sensibilities, if the pervasive prescience of doom bothers you, if you are bothered that such movies may further glorify the credo of violence in the caste-ridden cow-belt, if you'd rather see a sappier 'family-rated' tear-jerker, take care!

That tag, this day!

In this blog-eat-blog world, a novice like me needs to watch it. I seek to insulate myself through my extremely limited readership and the fact that I choose to stay within the confines of my own comfort zone. I do not form any significant part of the blogger eco-system out there - not even an 'insignificant microbe'. No links to the blog gods or their pundits, no blog lines or rolls - this blog is just a LOT of myself on display for any or every one who may wish to read it. Detailing about the boring inanities of my grey existence, suddenly, from out of the blue, someone springs up to a-tag.

First, it was Africableu and Artsymama, who pegged me on the tag-line. Then I breathed easier- thought I acquired immunity from the tag-rag-tag like childhood measles.

No such luck, alas. It was Lak who started round two of the game as early as in March this year, demanding to know all manner of things about the me and books I own read and all! Then more recently it was Chitra who demanded to know five secrets in my freezer, car, closet, purse. And now Priya has tagged me demanding that I reveal all manner of details of who and what I am! Wish I knew the answers to all these tags!


Embarking on the various tags, I would still prefer to beg off the books one, Lak. That is something which I really don't feel upto now- so maybe another day, that tag?

Chitra, the things in my freezer, car, purse, closet would be mere manifestations of my usual cornucopia- my 'Bhanumati ka pitara' as it were! So I head first to the last, Priya's tag.

I'm thinking about:

Too many things to be recorded - work, home, the children, my parents, my family, my friends, the spare tyres around my middle, other friends, others, more friends, people around me, the people not around me...

I said:

Ever and never too often to be saying them again (hmm, does that say what I wish it to?)

I want to:

Take a break

I wish:

To write like this and this and whatever Scott writes; I wish to scrap like this; I wish to making a smocking frock (white/ blue/ pink?), even if I couldn't make it for my daughter, I hope to for hers, I wish to wish a LOT less :)

I hear:
A lot of birdsong, the wind in the trees, the sounds around me and most of all- the noises in my head!

I wonder:
How simple things get complicated and at times how the complicated sort themselves out simply.

I regret:
little.

I am:
rather confused

I love:
All that I don't violently hate

I dance:
as if I had two (4?) left feet!

I sing:
off-key

I cry:
often and for all and any one. But most of all, I cry for my self.

I'm not always:
consistent.

I make with my hands:
all manner of odds and ends which keeps me busy in the making but holds little permanent value.

I write:
with little care, intensely, as rough and ready as I am.

I confuse:
and mix metaphors

I need:
at times, a lot to keep me afloat, and at others, keel over nothing at all.

And finally:.
I fear this isn't what I was meant to write at all :p

... the wind out of my hair

Sitting at Spratt, I decided to get my hair washed. Aren't you going to be travelling by road all day tomorrow, dh asked.

Maybe I could wear a scarf over my head, I suggested.

The peace of the salon was shattered by our uproarious laughter.

Legacy

Just as the rains meant kites in the skies and swings from trees in an otherwise citified childhood, there was The Pooja, in our otherwise low-religious fanfare family!

The hype would start days, nay weeks, ahead. The family silver would be brought out from the soft folds of old cotton sarees amidst loud exclamations of how black it appeared. We would all set at work washing the silver and the brass with Vim and tamarind, dousing with brasso, rubbing in the vibhuti and rubbing revertially with the softest of cloths and then wondering at the beauty of each piece anew.

While we kids would try and experiment with shades of shringar bindi to decorate the idol's face, we would be chided by our grandma who would insist that her goddess looked perfect just freshly scrubbed (as she claimed her grand daughters did too!) She tried to instill a pride and a deep association between her godess's idol and er grand-daughters. At times the cousins would be there. Else it was just us, but fancy celebrations nonetheless.

What a lot it was which kept us busy till so late the previous night! The flowers, fruits, agarbatties, camphor, wicks, vastram, kalasham, sandal to be rubbed out of a log (not powder out of a bottle). The decorations at the doorstep and within, the tying of the toranas, the transformation of our sanitised aseptic house to a festive post to receive the Divine Devi, the bestower of wishes, Vara Lakshmi.

Grandma would insist on cooking all manner of exotic dishes to pamper herself (I think) as much as to pamper us, who were easily pleased with simpler fare. It obviously had tremendous memories and associations for her because she would inexplicably smile and hum just as she would scowl and scold! The pooja done (which she did not participate in, being a widow) and the naivedyam offered, she would relax a bit and finally sing an invocation, which in her excited but tired voice would often sound like a sad dirge.

Evening all manner of women and girls would have to be invited for the customary haldi kumkuma. And this was a tricky part. My sister would have definite likes dislikes and would specify who was to be invited and who was to be excludd. This would result in a battle of wills between mom and her and at times grandma too, with little me as a go between!

The celebration would be repeated year after year, unvarying in its pattern and pomp. Then my brother got married and his wife soon got assimiliated into this annual ritual. After my marriage, I too kept up with this with my mother-in-law. She too would cook elaborate meals outsourcing all the decorative stuff to me. Till a recent long hiatus. Now my f-i-l has passed on and m-i-l is a widow living in a different city far from me. These poojas are so NOT you, I am told by some friends who wonder how I could particiapate in rituals which may not hold much relevance and significance for me.

Yet I have the idol's face m-i-l bestowed on me and children who need a legacy from me. The link continues.

Choice? Erm... thanks.

Stay, I had prayed and sent the general request out for prayers.

Am heart-broken at the prayer not being answered, but as a mother of two delightful children, I realise that I cannot ever comprehend the enormity and bleaknesof heart-break and pain of a woman who may wish to have a child but can not.

Akeeyu is not alone in this pain and suffering. There have been others - who recorded their trials with emotion, details of medication, and generous sprinkling of humour and more , who started off believing they would bear babies just like their mothers before them, like all women always have done, the natural biological way that all animals do.

Yet when they face these hurdles in having their babies, their resolve only deepens, they focus on accessing all that modern medicine has to offer them, picking and choosing from the vast array of solutions on offer. They surrender their money, precious timed even more precious bodies at the altar of research by scientists in and out of the pharmaceutical industry. The choice depends on the amounts they are willing to offer - in terms of money, time and pieces of themselves.

Yes there are many who start off with a positive attitude, armed with the powerful armour of humour, but each one of them would definitely be having moments when they would give all their choices, all their time, money and doubts and depressions and tears for just a boringly safe pregnancy and a delightful baby to hold at the end of it. Many of these women do get success- but some do not.

Just a prayer - yet again.

My cloud

As random as it gets- (not really, as I can be ever more random, but what, if any, is the measure of random?)

I wish my clouds were so neatly organised!

Stay

I set a great deal by the power of prayer, even if I don't do any regular form of ritual prayer.

I pray daily, not a formal or long prayer- but some general diffused good wishes for all. Tonight my prayers are specially for Akeeyu - may all that is good by her, stay with her!

Preserve

As I sit down to sup, the fare greets me as regular as ever - a monotonous par for course.

No birdies, no eagles- just a squaw-king duck.

At times like this when the bland baldness of an insipid existence and other such inane tautologies drone in a metronome, there is a rare aberrant synaptic impulse, out of sync with the guiding beat, which transmits itself subliminally in that weird wiring of the nerves. One starts hankering for a dash of relish to relieve the bland insipid yada-yada-yada

Opening this jar is always risky business. One is never sure what forms lie within. What new elements have seeped in to that compact, ready to burst container in which the relish is stored. What new concoctions have risen, what colony forming units have been established, how much of the original pickle is still ready for use and what part has been grown over by the moulds. Moulds which are so toxic that the slightest contact with them can have one under the weather or leave one dead. The medium of course, is perfect for all these cultures to survive and thrive - Tears, Mucous, Blood- all salty.

Carefully, like a 'cured' addict who naively believes that the battle has been won and the demon addiction vanquished, one rationalises that a tiny helping may not hurt at all. And it would serve as a test, a validation of the victory of spirit over substance. The threads are suitably lubricated and the rusty cap is unscrewed for a bit of the denied substance.

Initially, the briny taste of tears is reassuring. These are meant to be the hors d'ouvres but soon acquire the status of a full course. They have the cheek to flow on and the tiny rills find a way to the already clammy hands.

Then comes the main feast - sweet memories and sour. Bitter ones and pleasant. Most have had their sharpness increased manifold and acquired the character of the medium. Some however, have had their tang blunted by prolonged association with the others. But each one is potently evocative. In their unseemly rush to come out and overpower, they jostle with each other- the shy memory of a little girl who was so quiet that people had to bend low to hear her, is rudely cast away by the one of the with-it woman who screams to get what she wants. The wistful childhood memories of sitting on a dusty summer evening and watching stray kites soar to gain ascendancy over the skies, has to compete with the rough and tumble memories of seeking a foothold on the footboard on an overcrowded bus. The discomfiting flush of the memory of hot tears of frustration comes bearing with it those of easy companionship in times bygone. But then also come the big whammies- the painful memories, toxic stuff which is growing over everything else, which threatens now to take you down with it. Those one doesn't wish to spell out, lest they cast their net on you all over again. Intensely painful, they have left their marks in the form of physical aches and pains which serve as constant warnings of what has been endured, and indicate what lies in the tortuous path. The unpredictability of taste is, as ever, the lietmotif of the composition.

Quite as suddenly as one sought them, there is a need to put these tastes away. One longs for the safety of a routine unrelieved by these pickled memories. But then these genies do not go back in so easily. One struggles long and hard to bottle them in. Additionally, each time the culture is opened, so many more elements are added. Each new strain of the freshly introduced contaminant is likely to struggle to gain a place in the culture by feeding off other lower organic forms. The battle shall start yet again.

The preserve re-invents itself.

I am back (short rant) ...

in.

Was out and travelling for a part of the previous week. Was incommunicado for a most of the while as the places I visited were remote and free of such luxuries as mobile telephony and GPRS. There were patches where there was mobile connectivity, but it was not offered by my provider. So was in quite a diferrent world, from the one I find myself inhabiting.

Met many people, received much warmth, did things I wouldn't 'normally' do such as eat Jack (never my favorite fruit!), sucked on honey from the honey-comb (ugh, how did I do that?), laced hands and danced with women I've never met before and am never likely to meet again, ...

Came back to the usual effusive response from the kids and family. And some! Dh serenaded much with what I now understand to be Raag Malgunji! Kids extracted all manner of promises that I shan't be leaving again in a long time. My parents were glad to see me back and my assorted family spread all over and other friends made all the right noises, as if I had undergone some trial by fire instead of a routine work-trip. Maybe they were all amazed that this time too I had returned to my life and to them!!!

But what still astounds me is that there are others- relatives, in-laws, worried international friends (in the wake of Mumbai blasts) and so on who were so shrill in their complaints that I was unavailable. They had enquiries to be made, help to be sought/ offered, wishes to be passed on, all serious business - so how could I have not been there?

Well, to all you, just saying I am back at my post.

For those who may not have read this one on Happier marriages yet, would you read it?

Also another interesting feature on a woman who understood all about marriage, even if a bit late.

And if Einstein were a woman, what would have been the most remarkable feature of that personality- a man is all. Huhn? ? ?

Blue Green

More blue-

I do not suffer from SAD -ness or any other 'polar' debility. It is periodic, these streaks of blue- long and deep. Like Begum sang, one waited- hum toh samajhe the ki barsaat mein barsegi sharaab, aayi barsaat toh barsaat ne dil tod diya.

To enhance this pervasive dripping soppy sadness, I have disarmed myself with suitably sentimental and slushy poetry of the Tragedy Queen, Meena Kumari!

Sitting and listening to her poetry in her own words, I was misty eyed and found myself quite by chance as it were, sitting on the wet green grass in my lawn. The soft music by Khayyam isunobtrusive but seems to make a contribution of its own - the wail of the sarangi, the sound of jaltarang, sitar and all the other softly played instruments, the husky, alcohol-soaked croon of Meena Kumari, the overpowering smell of the fresh grass, the weepy lyrics, the soft red mud staining my old faded corduroys, my kids buzzing around like some giant benign butterlies- me feeling very blue-green.

Some snatches of the sterling sentiment seived out of the sentimental soup:
(My apologies to those who understand or can't suffer sentimental, even though beautiful, tripe!)

Tukray tukray din beeta
Dhajii dhajii sham mili

**
Poochhate ho to suno
Kaise basar hoti
Raat hairat ki
Sadqe ki sehar hoti hai
Saans bharne ko to jeena nahi kahte ya-rab
Dil hii dukhta hai na ab aasteen tar hotii hai.
jaise jaagii huii aa.Nkho.n me.n chubhe.n kaa.Nch ke Khvaab.
raat is tarah diivaano.n kii basar hotii hai.
Gham hi dushman hai mera
gham hi ko dil doodhata hai
Ek lamhe ki judaai bhi agar hoti hai

**

Zarre zarre pe ja.De ho.nge ku.Nvaare sajde.
Ek ek but ko Khudaa usane banaayaa hogaa.
Pyaas jalate huye kaa.NTo.n kii bujhaayii hogii.
Risate paanii ko haathelii pe sajaayaa hogaa.

**

And this litlle nugget (for Kamaal Amrohi- at the time of their divorce)!

Talaak to de rahe ho
Nazare kahar ke saath
Jawani bhi mere lauta do Mehar ke saath

BTW, This stuff is going to keep me company on my trip out of town!

Sphere of influence

This is the first time that we afre following the Football world cup as a full family. Dd had been initiated during the previous world Cup itself but this is the first time ds has been able to follow the proceedings. It helps that he plays street football with all the neighbourhood kids and that he is able to read a lot of what is being written on football (what does it say about the newspaper coverage if a seven year old can read much of the and sports reportage? and is influenced by it!!)

Ds had received a pictoral chart of the flags of different nations and a T shirt and cap with the German colours and such like merchandise from my fortuitous trip to Germany earlier this year. Moreover, he actually travelled to and loved his stay at Australia. He was easily able to list out all the 32 participating nations (Trinidad and Tobago, Saudi Arabia and Togo included) and take a considered view on how they would fare. Given that this was his first such tournament and that he was predicating his predictions on the media coverage and hype that the teams received. As the final match approaches, for ds, it seems the World Cup is already over!

Nearly each time he backed a team it was worsted. All the teams are losing he wailed. Australia, England, Argentina, Brazil, Germany, Portugal- all are out of the match, WHO will win the World Cup now? he worried. And now he draws some comfort from the fact that Germany has won by resoundingly overpowering Portugal!


The little neo-convert hated each team which triumphed over his favourites so now he just hopes and prays that Italy can somehow 'injure' Zidane and thrash much disliked France 3:0.

But the rest of the family? We are all fervently rooting for France. Dh is so disgusted by all the female drool that the Italians are garnering, and dd and I, well- lets just say, we prefer Zidane! So come what may there would be Monday morning blues at home.

Heres to les bleus and the Azzurri!

And, I am travelling first thing Monday morning - to remote agency areas of Andhra Pradesh- it promises to be a retreat of sorts outside of all these spheres of influence.

Take care.

Mucho macho God

In the ancient world where there was a clear distinction between right and wrong, good and bad, pious and devilish and there were periodic duels (like tugs-of-war really) between the inhabitants of Devaloka (the realm of the Gods) and Asuras of Asuraloka (the realm of the Non-Godly). The Gods and their spousal goddesses were powerful, pious and pure while 'hell' or naraka was associated with the underworld, where power-seeking Asuras lived with their fat, dark, fertile women and often fought over them. Between the two lay the world of men. Yes, men- who spun these fantastic tales of Devas and Asuras. Of powerful beautiful charming blue-skinned or lighter-toned Gods with matching attractive, powerful and charming consorts. Of large ugly demons and their female-folk who were menacing.

While the feminity of goddesses was the acceptable benign 'norm', that of the female asuras was deviant- to be feared, curbed and over-powered by all the Gods and Men. In the major battle between the Devas and the Asuras over the churning of the nectar of immortality from the poison in the ocean of milk, the Devas realised soon enough that it was the end which justified the means. They appealed to the triumvirate of Brahma (the creator), Vishnu (the preserver) and Shiva (the destroyer of evil) to intercede on their behalf. Being sensible sort of beings, they resorted to all manner of ruses to ensure that they would be loading all dice in their favour, even the most basic ruse of alluring the Asuras to be bewitched so that they would forego their claim of the nectar. Vishnu assumed the form of the most bewitching seductress Mohini as His part of fixing the match in favour of the devas. However, an unforeseen effect of Vishnu assuming the female form of Mohini was that 'She' caught the eye of the macho male Shiva. The product of this 'same-sex' union was Ayyappa.

There are many stories of Ayyappa but let us not dwell on that here. It is His avatar as the ascetic at Sabarimala which brings most of His devout followers. It is in this form that Ayyappa is said to so pure, so pious, so male, so powerful that the temple invokes and stretches the first and most primal taboo to its limit. While Hinduism, like all ancient cultures, fears females most for their fertility. As the ultimate symbol of this fertility, a menstruating woman, is bound by a strict code of what she can do and how. While a menstruating woman is considered impure and is forbidden from entering any sacred space without a ritual cleansing bath, in Sabarimala, no fertile female is ever to be allowed in the temple. Technically, only non-females (that is girls before menarche or women post-menopause) may ever perform the hard and arduous trek up the hill at Sabarimala.

The ascetic lord demands absolute devotion and allows no scope for error or lapse. It is to directly reign in the priests and to regulate the affairs of the temple that the Lord Himself would appear in the form of the divine oracle like Ashtamangala Devaprasana to be revealed through a chosen priest. So it was to be conducted this year in the highest tradition of the temple. It is against this backdrop that the current controversy of a woman, a famous actress at that, has to be seen. While there are claims that the entire temple now needs to be ritually cleansed after a woman has entered the sanctum sanctorum, there are counter claims that deny that any of this could have actually ever happened.

Is this for real, one is tempted to ask. But this has even become a political matter between the neighbouring States of Kerala (where the temple is and whose official member is part of the temple trust) and Karnataka, where Jaimala belongs to as well as one for some marginal women's groups to raise as a platform for them to promote themsleves and their cause.

In short - a lot of to do!

***

Karaikkal Ammaiyar was a devotee of Siva who lived between the 5th and 6th centuries. Hers is an amazing story. When the young Ammaiyar (then known as Punitavati) was stopped by her youth and good looks from dedicating her life to her love for Siva, she prayed to her lord to divest her of that burden, so she could get bliss in watching His eternal dance. Thus, a young and attractive woman transformed herself into an emaciated prune of a hag - as is celebrated in those austere sculptures of her. She took upon herself the title of 'ghoul of Karaikal' who exchanged her youth and beauty for the calm and inner bliss of her spirituality. Tamil literature, especially in the Sangam era, had quite a tradition of women writers.
Then there is Andal who was so overcome by her love for her Lord, that at the ripe age of fifteen, she 'married' Vishnu in His form of Rangantha at Srirangam. The paeans she sang him, the Tiruppavaii and the Nacciyar Thirumozhi are still sung widely in Tamil households and communally on the streets during the period between mid-December to mid-January. As popular perhaps as the simple and profound verses of a formerly distraught and uncared for daughter-in-law, Laleshwari in distant northern Kashmir, which are said to reverberate in that ravaged valley even to this day. Mirabai, the Rajput princess, entered into a similar nup- agreement with her Krishna eventhough she was formally married to a prince. Different spatio-temporal frameworks, but though they were set apart in time and in geographical location, they all shared a common socio-cultural ethos.

All these women attained icon-hood and are widely revered as the ultimate lovers and devotees of their preferred Gods - Siva, Ranganatha or Krishna. Yet none of this came easy to any of these women. Their lives were full of a never-ending series of trials, privations, tests and tribulations. They were forced to make tough choices in their own lives. They were not always feted or accepted wherever they went. But they charted their course and did not stray from it. They did not let their feminity or the gender role deter them from their path. If Karraikal Ammaiyar traded her youthful good looks for the freedom to love her Siva, Andal chose to go meet her God as part of her nuptial tie when she ran to him and embraced his idol in such adoration that she was said to have been absorbed into the very idol. Mira, according to legend, carried her image of her Krishna wherever she went till she too finally found salvation in merging herself in an idol of her Lord.

So what was the price they paid? Was it the breaking of those rigid patriarchal societal conventions? Why is it that I feel it is more than that- significant though that was? Why is it that I believe that what they sacrificed was far more intrinsic, greater than any mere trapping of feminity? That it was their very essence of feminity- their fertitlity which they had laid at stake in an bizarre (reminiscent of the un-Godly faustian arrangements) pact with their God.

Why is it that each religion has to make a statement on female fertility? Why is it that even in the 'most powerful' country in the world, men can become leaders or not on the basis of the stand they take on fertility? That the choice of a woman to exercise her fertility or not is a matter to be debated and discussed at every forum and each person HAS to take a stand on the subject.

Can one be a woman and be religious in these male religions?

A wail of the time

The past few days have found me slipping precariously deep in my depths. (And I am so out of depth there)

As a child I used to be accused of behaving like a 'sponge' soaking in all things around me. Maybe thats why, when pressed, I tend to release huge amounts of fluid. Every single thing said/ not said, done/ not done, thought/not thought, imagined/ not imagined seems to provoke me to tears. The tears, they flow suddenly, long or not. Am being such a sensitive so and so that every body around me seems to be wary. Meanwhile, I try to keep out the way of my kids as the sight of a bawling mum isn't the wholesome experience that should enrich their childhood.

Among the random and disconnected events which are contributing to my malaise are the fact that the 2006 FIFA World Cup is to be an all European tournament - bereft of any Latino presence, the situation in Vidarbha, the PM's visit, the WTO talks and India's position therein, the lot of Indian farmers and a lot more!

Till I turn to my last resort (ALA), need wail aid and more tissues.