The World Is So Small

(Or why I should walk more)

This evening I came home with my ample shoulders bearing the burden of all my onerous woes to see ds fallen asleep waiting for his amma to reach home. I felt further burdened by the guilt trip we working women have and was about to sink into my scowly sulky self, when I decided to step out.

Just be back in a mo. I said and strode out before any protests could begin. Keeping me company was an obscure NFAK track from an album called Nach ke Manava Yaar nu, which believe it or not sounded like, ugh! Tere bina bhi kya jeena. You know just how low things are if Nusrat sa'ab sounds like a Kal-An song! But just the sheer momentum of moving, striding purposefully in a totally random fashion helped. I'll just pick up a fresh loaf of the Daily B and run back home, I thought. I turned into the neighbourhood Food World ready to pounce on any unwary creature who may be lurking there but lo n be!

Flashback to February this year.

I sat extremely nervously at the waiting chambers of a flourishing gynae with a budding practice, among very pregnant females and feeling quite at sea there. But then having made some promises, I had to keep them too. I had with me a tiny red draw-string bag which I wished to stuff with goodies for a sweet girl. I wanted to embroider it with some suitable pattern, but was quite at a loss. I tried out some patterns, took them out, then some colour schemes. Wasn't too sure. Looked up to see the bright curious eyes of an obvious primi (nearly full term) and suddenly I didn't feel so out of place there. We made friends with each other by holding out different coloured strands of Anchor thread and golden glitter and soon swapped tales of our childhoods, schools, jobs and what have you! We parted promising to keep in touch with each other, but you know how it is- we lost touch.

And now here she was with a bonny baby in tow in mine own Food World! I burst in shrilly screeching Hiiii (without much concern for other denizens of that World) and then (not quite remembering her name) stepped back a bit in case she didn't remember me- but oh! sweetholymother she did! We hugged, shared our updates over the past few months of not being in touch(!), and then did the ultimate feminine talk of swapping birthing tales. I picked up and hugged and cooed over baby, while she gurgled happily and drooled various fluids on my shoulder.

After hearing about burst waters, 30 hours of non-progression of labour, C-section, excellent birth weight, the sweet temperament of baby, perfect regimen of feeding, a successful annaprashana, the first cold of the god child, I did feel better.

PS: This time I gave the mom my number and promised we'll be in touch more.

PPS: BTW, I returned home empty handed as there was not one loaf of bread on the shelves there today!

Very Hungry

I am hungry for air. What abominable pain it is to be denied air. And I speak not merely of asthma or physically apparent respiratory distress, but the more insiduous distresses with which we cramp our lives.

Whenever the going is good and I OD, there it manifests itself, this hunger. There, and immediately then, I desperate need to drop all, run away and take in lungfuls of air. Air untarnished by the breath of others. No odours from the past or the present, no obstructions to my pathways, no shocks to my blood gases. I cannot allow my aspirations to mix with my vital processes, without risk of very dire consequences.

Gimme my mandatory dose of plenty of air (as fresh as it can get!)


Note: This post was on my lappy as a draft for over two months. Glad to have finally expelled it!

Probashi phorever

This entire post is about dh, notwithstanding his earlier misgivings about being featured on this blog.

He was born in Calcutta - lived there for just the first couple of years of his life or so - but then you know it, he is a probashi for life. Given that he went for his first Durgo immersion (without informing folks at home) at the tender age of two, the time he misses Calcutta most is obviously during Durga Puja. Whether it be the politics and sport of pandal or para, he misses Calcutta so!

I had dh sing his (just one among many) ode to Cal songs and it was pleasingly enough for me, Sumaner gaan. So here are a clip (in dh's voice) and the full lyrics of one of the prime of Kabir Suman , which I got from here.

prothomoto ami tomake chai, ditioto ami tomake chai
tritioto ami tomake chai, shesh porjonto tomake chai.
nijhum ondhokare tomake chai, ratbhor hole ami tomake chai
shokaler koishore tomake chai, shondher obokashe tomake chai.
boishakhi jhore ami tomake chai, asharer meghe ami tomake chai
srabone srabone ami tomake chai, okal bodhone ami tomake chai.


kobekar kolkata shohorer pothe, purono notun mukh ghore imarote
ogonti manusher klanto michile, ochena chhutir chhowa tumi ene dile
nagorik klantite tomake chai, ek fota shantite tomake chai
bohudur hete eshe tomake chai, e jibon bhalobeshe tomake chai.

chourastar mor'e-park'e-dokan'e, shohor'e-gonz'e-gram'e-ekhane-okhane
station terminus ghate bondore, ochena drawing room'er chena bondor'e
balish-toshok-katha-purono chadore, thanda sheet'er raat'e leper ador'e
kadi kathey, coukathe , madurey paposhey , hashi-raag-oviman-jhogra-aposhe

tomake chai, tomake chai, tomake chai, tomake chai.

ek cup chaa'e ami tomake chai, daine o baye ami tomake chai
dekha na dekhai ami tomake chai, na bola kothai ami tomake chai.


shirshendur kono notun novel e, hothat porte bosha abol tabole
oboddho kobita ar thungri-kheyal'e, slogane slongane-dhaka deyale deyale
Sholil Chowdhury'r fele asha gan'e, Chaurasiya'r bashi mukhorito pran'e
bhule jaowa Himangshu Dutta'r shur'e, shei kobekar onurodher ashor'e.
tomake chai, tomake chai, tomake chai, tomake chai.
onurodh'e, minoti-te tomake chai, bedona'r arti-te tomake chai
dabi-daowa-chahida'i tomake chai, lojja-didha'i ami tomake chai.

odhikar bujhe neya prokhor dabite, shararat jege anka loraku chhobi te
chhipchhipe kobitar chhonde bhashay, buddhi'r juktite bachar ashai
srenihin shomajer chiro bashonai, din bodol'er dhora chetonai
didha-dondher din ghochhar shopne, shammyobad'er dak ghume-jagorone
bikkhobe-biplobe tomake chai, bishon oshomvobe tomake chai
shanti oshantite tomake chai, ei bibhranti-te tomake chai.

Happy Durga Puja folks! :)

PS: Here it is, finally posted the audio clip! Ok, am very proud of dh's singing skills- so go ahead and download & enjoy this :)

DEAR Me

*Drop Everything And Read*

Ever since childhood I read stuff. I can not claim any credit for that reading because all around me there always were plenty of books. The 'right' books. No 'trash' was allowed to us at home and somehow it never seemed to matter that I was reading Arthur Miller when I was 8 and Freud while I was 14 (pretty irrelevant was how much of it I could understand and assimilate!). I was still in school in pigtails and scruffy shoes when I read The Second Sex (my first Bible). There never was any time for me to read frivolous stuff which my contemporaries were surreptitiously deciphering. I could read Sons and Lovers and Women in Love before I ever was permitted to read a vapid romance(Lady C. came later though). Georgette Heyer was on, Danielle Steele wasn't. Shaw was on but James Hadley Chase & Harold Robbins weren't (back then!)

School was a lark with a wonderful library and a delightfully charming librarian. I have yet to come across anyone as dignified and graceful and yet so firmly in control over the legions of louts who used to fidget through the mandatory Library period every week. Library was really a place where I could sit (very quietly) and forget the whole world and read. Whether it was a classic or a reference text, the library was always well-stocked and yet we would often complain about a missing book- and wondrously, it would appear on the shelves, with its fresh scent, within weeks. A favourite haunt of mine, when I was bunking classes in school, was the library (more often than the streets of Sunder Nagar!) and far more difficult to be in because, unlike being in Sweets Corner, one had to come up with valid excuses to justify one's presence at the Library. But then, like most of my teachers, Mrs. Jalil was rather kind to me and did not interrupt my education!

College was where I came into my own. One had absolute and total freedom within those all girls gates- may be a bit stultifying but it was a haven. There were so many nooks and corners one could curl up in and spend hours- the most favourite being the library with its low divans and bolster pillows in the little favoured musty upstairs reading room. I was not too interested in poring over the text books, which would be hidden among the non-related reference books racks by the girls who not only wanted to do well academically but also wished to seal their success by ensuring others' failure. The reference library was a delight. I would wait for the gaggle of giggly girls to leave by their 1.30, or latest by the 2.30 Specials, and stay on till late evening, till finally hunger would drive me home. In between would be the ambles across to other colleges in the campus and a few beyond too. There would be slide shows, discussions, seminars, demonstrations, movie screenings (docu-edu-tainment only!), walks in the Ridge and much discussion and debate of ideas and thoughts- all of which would push me back to Drop Everything And Read.

I would read everywhere- at home- in bed, at the table, in the loo, in the buses (which were NOT Specials and therefore were adrenaline surcharged ideal 'eve-teasing' environment), in libraries, in parks, under trees, in coffee-houses, over hot steaming chai, just about everywhere. It helped that there were others around me who paced me, because try as I might, I could never compete with my Sis in either the width or depth of reading. I read nearly all I could lay my hands on and with the passage ot time became increasingly inclusive in reading much more than I read - BUT there were limitations. I could never read 'trash', however hard I tried to break the childhood hex. I could never go past the initial unease with sci-fi which I developed an aversion to early in life - whether it be Wells or Kingsley I shunned them even while I loved Verne. After the initial unfortunate exposure to Bunyan, I could never pick up a preachy Christian tale, however fantastically well-written.

And there was the limitation of language. English and Hindi were, and remain to this day, the only languages which I can read and write in. I could not read as much of Hindi as I wanted. I regret that I haven't read as much of the modern Hindi literature as I could have.

And now, off for some DEAR time, dearies.

NOTE: The term DEAR was introduced to me by a school in which ds was fortunate enough to enrol but could not study beyond one month as we moved to Bangalore.

Personal

CP & I

NOTE: This post is not, repeat NOT, about dh or my marriage. This post, like the rest of this unleavened blog, is about me.

As a child I was notoriously shy. There were stories of how people had to bend extremely low to be able to hear me apart from the tales of how I never seemed to pay any attention, be interested in any thing around me. I had many friends and no single best friend to choose amongst them.

Then there were the usual loyalty issues at home. Being the youngest, I was always asked to align myself with one of my ever sparring siblings. Big brother was very very much older and spent the little time we had together being alternately kind and cruel, like one would with a pet mouse. Big S was more forthright and took charge, demanding pledges of absolute loyalty.

There was this instance when the maha block-bluster was released in the mid-1970s (Sholay). Being that we were non-filmi types, our family was the only one in the entire neighbourhood, which hadn't seen it! The songs- they were everywhere. Inspired by one such, Big S asked to hold my hand and sing with her about how our friendship would be eternal and that it would live on even after our breath leaves our bodies and so on. To her everlasting chagrin and, I must admit, to my credit, I never held her hand or made any such promise to her. Some such song may have been sung by dh too (oh, I suffer so from amnesia), but I have never been pinned down by a word to any one.

There were others who tried to play the emotional blackmail game, if you like/love/care for me, then you have to ----- and just this way.

I never commit. I never promise anyone anything. And yet can never hold myself back from delivering on all those promises not made. Put myself through all manner of extremes and unpleasant stuff to endure, last out, see things through, stay till the end, do the done thing - but, I don't ever commit. I never say ever or never.

So whom am I fooling?

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.