Coming Home

I am back home after my brief travels. And as usual I seem to have never gone away at all.

Was there a break? Did I not know all that was happening at home? The time the kids spent at play, in friends' houses, the disappointment over the delay due to the puncture on the way, the excitement over what mom's getting for them, the hours dh spent commuting on Bangalore roads - so had I missed anything?

But I did too- the way ds clambers on me monkey-like to perch on my head and KISS my hair till everybody around gets utterly disgusted. The way in which the kids and I horse around jumping shouting tickling giggling laughing kicking till we need to be pulled apart. And just before this gets too much like maternal paradise, this- the way dd can always bring me back to ground level by asking me to act my age! :p

And before I get down to getting down right complacent- there are things like the invasion of flying cockroaches in my vermicompost pit(!), the fact that the tomatoes are looking promising, but we shall be away for a couple of weeks from Sunday. The much awaited date on the calendar- Seventh May, when we begin our holiday to Australia. Arrangements need to be made for boarding things up, packing clothes, games, books and all the junk which never gets taken out of the suitcases but HAS to be packed in the interest of familial peace and bonhomie!

And the Chennai connection. On the first sector of my flight (via Chennai!) I met one of dh's friends- a person as literate and erudite as sensitive and kind. He gave me detailed accounts inter-alia, of the chicklit scene in post modern Indian English writing, being off-shore parents to what were a few years ago- their 'kid' sons, an exposition on Ramu G, a favourite author of mine - (I do adore this biography that Anita Nair has written of him). Somewhere in the midst of all this delightful talk, I brought up my rant about the lack of decent bookshops in Bangalore. And believe me, by the time I came back home, I had a parcel couriered to me via dh- with all of Kolatkar.

Fun to be back home! :)

Sylvia-n

Like Scott, I am busy too. Travelling in the 'fair' city of Hanover in Germany.

Meanwhile this morning I have Sylvia buzzing in my head - Insomniac, The Surgeon at 2 A.M., You're and of course Lady Lazarus. Go seek!

Delight

Delight decreed the Mamasaysom theme.

And delighted I am to share my delight (even if the theme now be more careworn!) ...

I have not much experience (or need) of sampling the wide array of mind altering substances that Nature - and the chemical factories have to offer. Not alcohol, no opiates, no uppers, no mixed-balls, no psychostimulants, no psychedelics, no cokes, no amphs. If I do swing wildly from the whizzing, dizzying highs to suicidal lows it is entirely my own hormonal factory at work. The hormones fuel me, brake me down, and have on the whole, kept me going. They respond to all manner of stimuli, - visual, aural, tactile and yes, extra-sensory. Much of the stimulation is auto-generated and intrinsic to the processes in the factory itself- bye-products and catalysts and all. But occasionally the over-stimulated self does rise from its dopey self-obsessed languor and take delight in and from external agents.

With that exposition on delight, let me share my most delightful moment of all.

I was in the throes of the worst torture I'd had to endure. I was hanging between life and death and no, my life did not flash by me in that moment. I was too busy trying to somehow live. I was fighting damn hard, but knew it was a tough fight. How depleted I was- unable to muster any of my reserves. Shouting, screaming, shrieking in the most undignified manner imaginable. Yes, I was aware of what a pathetic figure I presented as I lay there, ineffectually doing battle. Till someone suggested that I not try so hard. Not try so hard?- Then I'd surely die, I thought. But the tired thighs grasped that message even if the mind said No. And suddenly out it came- messy and all. The most delightful, unique fragrance hit me and ALL my hormones kicked right in. I laughed, I cried, I shouted, I whimpered, I whooped. The tiny perfectly formed purple heel indicated I was finally a mother!

Easter-ly

Well what does one know? Serendipity is me!- Given that I don?t be sitting watching TV suddenly out pops a box which informs me that I could have the pleasure of sharing Easter (eggs and all) with that chocolate-y dream boat hero of mine- John Abraham! Hmm, it was good. So how many of you caught him on CNN IBN last night? (the link is not up yet on the site- hope they do put it up for all you who'd drool too!) The poor man made such a pretty picture with his handsome visage and so much at a disadvantage too after his recent accident. And such an intelligent charmer- I could go on and on about him but shall stop here in deference to the sensibilities of the JA non lovers (can there be any such?)

I had a small errand to run at night. It had me running through the rain drenched cool streets - as usual I had no patience to slow down and was hurtling through when an uncertain but strangely familiar aroma wafted across. Wonder what breeze brought that on- was it an easterly? A 'purvaiya'?

What is it about the rain which releases these locked up scents and floods us with distant memories? There I was in a typically old-world Bangalore street and yet the trigger seemed to suggest I was in the tree lined avenues of dilli. The street- scape in the mind-scape was of large Neem trees spilling their sharp bitter fruits and the brilliant moon light streaming at nights on the dusty land through thorny acacia bushes.

Its been four months since I went to Dilli. While I do manage to talk to a couple of people- family or friends or both, its not the same as being there. I get daily weather reports and am updated hourly as it were on local gossip, new places opening, new things to be done there but I am losing the power to join the dots and complete the picture it all without the visual (and other sensory) inputs. The weather there would not be the same now as it was in January. The laburnums and jacarandas would have performed their grand show and retreated only to bloom after another year. Gulmohurs would still be surving. The mango trees (the few trees there) would be still bearing flowers while here there are young tart unripe mangoes to be had. And most of all, this is the season in Delhi of the small sweet-sour berry called phalsa. I doubt if anyone of my folk there who see it don't remember my fondness for that fruit. And, a dear friend rang up and pleaded with me inviting me to his wedding this week-end. If not for the reception, come for the sangeet, he said- alas, dilli door ast!

Pro choice

I am under seige again- much like this lovely idiotic city I'm living in. I am getting frantic yet furtive calls from all manner of folk who periodically pop out of my woodwork. Whats up? Just called to say Hi. So whats happening, yaar?- And plenty of such inane talk. But wise dh saw it coming much earlier- 'Whats with all this womyny stuff? Too many womyny posts and the Great Indian Unwashed Masses would give up on you', he warned. Another signs that my friends are geting more worried than ever for my residuary sanity and so on. So I'm likely go easy on those kinda themes but, please, pretty please, could I do this one?

Reading this here, had me worrying- about the choice and access to medication and treatments. But why do I worry my already cluttered up head about access to medications? Usually, I have been one to shun most medicines preferring to grin and bear it (and then to wear my woes and attitude as my badge of long suffering!). Feeling miserable comes so easily to me- sigh! Gather around, ye sisters, we shall celebrate our woes- seems to be the refrain.

While I may or not always volunteer to try out the latest in pharmacological advances, while the prospect of using all the state of the art drugs, micro administered carefully in their respective hotly debated dosages may not be my idea of bliss, would I like to be deprived of the biological benefits, if needed, of Nitric Oxide, would I forgo the choice to exercise my option on whether or not to use RU 486 (again, the earlier post!), even therapy like ECMO, for all its complications? No, most certainly not. But then would I hook up to life support systems to let life live itself through me??? A lot of choices there- not all the same for all.

I definitely would not have made past the previous year but for some timely and well dosed administration of ALA and other such micronutrients. The effect that an antioxidant can have on everything from mood to hair to health and a feeling of well being- and to think that I chose for long not to avail of such help, chose not to make a choice, to reach out, to get out of my misery. Once I got help, I did immediately reach out and let my charmed circle know of these choices (of course, many of my friends are similarly placed), but then its all about our own choices huhn?

A womans gotto ... do it all

Breezy, quick, the carefully casual chic
Plastic bra-strap, pert message on tank top
Some gentle ab stretches, violet-ly golden keds
Hope I'm OK soon, in a husky whisper to hunky trainer,
Off, leaving a trail of adrenaline pumping no-brainers

A blast! A cold shower at home,
Hair pampered, dried and brushed
Abs and pecs encased in corset of absolute power,
breast pads on, with spares for the day,
thick dark tee to cover all, yet look sexy

Guzzle water, munch crunchy salad, down Parlodel*
Hope it kicks in, stems the messy leak
Dizzy head, faint, yet tummy so lax,
When will it regain its muscle tone
Amidst the folds of flabby fat?

Buzzz! When are you coming
I'm bored, asks the nth SMS
I'’ll be there in a gif :-)
And sends a carefully shot pic

A final make-sure make-up look
Her hair just so her face perfect
Tummy sucked in, Hell! why does that
Baby wail so?

Clip clop clip ready to be '’viewed
Chauffeur looking respectful and smart
He must be a slick production dude
If even the driver looks a part

O you look better in person, he coos
And umm, your CV does attract
He takes her in like meat on a rack
Just well rounded, no, not fat

She wants to talk of the contract
Her role in the project team
Just lets him come around to that
Gives time to warm to the theme

At times she's so sharp, his nerves
Grate. Yet she has all he needs
And more. The CV was bait
He feels fate is so kind of late

She scored over all the others
Was definitely the best
How to show her to his advantage
Make an offer and test?

A graceful long waltz of a delicate negotiation
Already he is prey to her persuasion
Talking of bonuses, the trips and the tours
Over nibbles of exquisite hors d'oeuvres

Stay on for lunch, the guys are coming
O not this time, gotta be running
Rushing in a fink to the nearest sink
Change of pads and the Tee doesn't stink

Happier quieter in a more peaceful mood
Gets back to pick up her freshly hatched brood
Pillows pillows and now the latch is on
A full feed now, next three hours I'’d be gone.

*Parlodel or Bromocriptine works by stimulating dopamine receptors in the brain. Stimulating dopamine receptors causes a decrease in the production of the hormone prolactin from the pituitary gland in the brain, which is also the hormone which stimulates production of breast milk. Some people may experience dizziness caused by low blood pressure in the first few days of taking this medicine. The blood pressure of lactating women who have recently had a baby should be carefully monitored, especially during the first few days of treatment.

NOTE: *All ye ladies, this is not me- I let my babies wean themselves.*

That kind of a woman

100 years ago, the average woman had fewer than 50 periods during her life. Now, the modern woman could have spent almost 1/2 of her life with monthly periods.

Once upon a time, long long ago, maybe towards the end of the good times or maybe when the bad times had begun, Mother Earth was unable to bear it anymore. The burden of Evil was bothering Her. Her face was looking tired old and haggard. Her very soul was parched. All Her children were mindlessly plundering her, killing each other, bleeding her and yet unhappy. There was much discontent and dissatisfaction on Earth.

At that time, in the Heavens there was a beautiful young goddess- Ganga. She was sprightly, sporty and immensely powerful. The Gods who visited the Earth knew that some balance could be restored on Earth only if Ganga Herself was to descend to the Earth. She alone could help Mother Earth carry the burden of Her troubled children. She could provide the immense unconditional love that the mortal beings needed to act as a balm on their wounds, quench their latent thirst for goodness, offer Her body to be loved, adored, mistreated and scorned.

The destroyer of all evil, Shiva himself was requested to provide the right platform for Her descent to the Earth via Mount Kailasa. She came with Her friends, the playful Bhilangini, Yamuna and all, before She absorbed them all unto Herself. And to this day, She flows on ageless. Her children love her, play with Her, pray to Her, rever Her, mistreat Her, scorn Her and yet She flows on unmindful, with love. One of Her devotee children, a poet singer, asked Her why She flows on ('Bistirna Duparer') - but She flows on without offering any explanation for Her behaviour.

Once when this ageless young lady was strolling along Her banks in Her female human form, there came by a King- Shantanu, young, brave, strong and virile and all that young Kings are. He saw Ganga and was immediately smitten. He implored Her to agree to be his Royal Consort. After much pleading Ganga agreed but only on the condition that he should never ask Her for any explanation for Her actions. This seemed to small a price for the King to pay for the favour of her affection. They got married and lived as happily as they could, which was a lot!

But like all stories, this one too had a twist. Incredibly fertile and fecund Ganga was regularly blessed with babies- whom She bore through the long gestation with lots of love, tenderness and care. Yet each time She delivered a tiny perfectly formed baby, She would carry it off and set it adrift in Her stream of love- to float or more likely to drown. From Her womb to Her flow. The babies would leave no trace except loving ripples in the flow of the mother's bosom.

Each time he saw this happen, the king would be mystified but remembering his promise would keep quiet and ask Her no questions. But when the eighth such baby was born, he could restrain himself no longer and as gently as he could, he asked Her for an explanation. Gathering Her precious bundle, giving the bonny boy all her love in a hug, She handed the baby over to the father and left- never to come back to him. (What happened to young Devavrata and how he was venerated as the Grand Old man of Bharata varsha as Bhishma Pitamaha is another story- which doesn't concern me here)

I recall this story each time I across such nasty rants. Of course modern technology offers an incredible number of options on when and how to end a pregnancy- for each trimester for each stage the options available for medical and surgical terminations of pregnancies as well as for sustaining life as fragile and as light as 750 grams- making Roe vs Wade quite a different type of debate ! But with all these options who makes the choice? If mothers have to fight for their choice of whether to carry a baby or not, where are we? Abortion and motherhood- can these ever be things to be explained to or decided by pompous paternal men? Can there be any standard one-size-fits-all solution ever for such an issue?


Heres a prayer, a celebration of the kind of woman who loved without exception and lived without any explanation for Her body and Her choices for the body!
















PS :

The above post was discussed briefly but intensely with some of my friends who were either too upset or embarrassed to post their comments. Among them was an exemplary father too who felt I had skimmed over some pertinent issues. Among the ones raised were:

1. Not all woman are good and motherly and some are plain bloody evil and will abort a child with cold bloodedness 'especially' educated women. The talk of Ganga creates a picture of benevolence and maternal feeling but the portrayal of all of womanhood as a divine mother is not true. What about a woman, for example, who willfully has an abortion to spite her husband?

Yes I admit I did not specifically state that there are 'evil' women amongst the evil persons in the world. That they may use all the weapons at their disposal to score points against any or all the people who oppose them. In fact what I speak of is choice. A woman has the choice to bear her child or not - how good a mother she would make may actually be one of the many factors to help her make that choice.

2. Maternal feelings are not the exclusive preserve of women.

While parenting is a joint responsibility, a father may be a better parent than the biological mother who bears the baby. But parenting and maternity are distinct. These should and cannot be used interchangeably.

3. Why talk of the US? - Let us talk of India

I mentioned the US as it has a lot of very vocal and active debates on this issue. That can at best serve as a background to the choices here in India- even if they be very different. The dissimilarity is stark so the image used is a quintessential Indian image of Ganga. The irony of a Ganga who is venerated as the fertile Mother of Bharata varsha being the one who chose to not bring up seven of Her children and even abandoned the surviving eighth! Is the myth totally wasted on us?

The talk of choice is particularly pertinent to India- where abortion or the 'Medical Termination of Pregnancy' is one of the officially recognised forms of birth control. Where unwanted pregnancies, mishaps, rapes, abound. Where the societal mores and codes of honour do not accept unwed mothers in spite of legends such as Kunti. Where the reproductive life of a woman is so long. Where the sex of the fetus determines whether it survives or not. Where maternal and neonatal health facilities are woefully inadequate. Where the burden of repeated child bearing or that of repeated abortions takes its toll on the health of the woman AND her family. The choice of bearing a child or not, to vest in the woman, is all the more relevant, in India.

PPS: How could I leave this out? Bah! but I get wordy :(

Diverse

Its been a long week!

So many things happening- kids' exams, work rearing its nasty head every so often, Shakespeare and Company first anniversary celebrations at Bangalore (some pictures here), the notable common thread being that I've been dining out all week. And that I'll have to work out extra hard to rid myself of all those surplus calories. Just when I thought I could get some appreciation for all my efforts in the gym, I've been told by my trainer to go up to 200 crunches a day! :((

But enough of my gripe. Whats with all this talk of divorce surrounding me everywhere I look- first it was at Teri's. Then at Priya. The other morning, when I had started the coffee going but did not get around to pouring it out as I lay down back exhausted, dh did the dutiful thing (as in once in blue moon) and got me my coffee in bed with the papers and a big smile!!! Apart from the other sensational headlines this week regarding offices of profit, that particular day, the papers screamed Divorce.

The Supreme Court has been making observations on the Hindu Marriage Act and suggesting more legal grounds for divorce. Law is an ass maybe, but looking for a legal way to annul a marriage and can't show evidence of the legally acceptable grounds, people are hard placed to seek their freedom from the marital yoke. The hindi saying 'miya biwi raazi to kya karega kaazi' is usually used to denote a willingness of two 'parties' to come together in marriage- but ain't it equally applicable to the un-yoking, the freeing? What could be the relevance of law or society in keeping an otherwise dead marriage alive? But no, marriage is much more than two people agreeing to live together. It is this social, religious, legal contract which once made cannot be broken. It endures even long after the parties cease to exist. There is a maxim of sorts in my native telugu which says that marriage is a harvest for 100 years!~

The ugliness of having living together long after the magic if any, passed and the painful process of breaking free by painting the other as an ogre... Maybe all this was what led to my penning this set of Instructions between parting couples. It has been inspired in a perversely diametrically opposite way from that epic celebration of conjugal(?) love, Donne's A Valediction forbidding Mourning and also somehow by that Jagjit Singh song where the poet forbids his former lover from speaking of him or their relationship - Baat niklegi to door talak jayegi).

Instructions (Forbidding Mourning)

As estranged couples go legally apart
And all their possessions do formally divide
Their excited-sad friends often play a large part
'All this his. And these- she brought as a bride.'

Not so let us part. But, without a scene

No recriminations, no floods of tears
No remorse over what may have been
No traces of the vicious jeers.

Holy matrimony does often bring
In its wake, many unholy spirits
We grappled with some, sparring
While others were at our necks, devouring

Loony, honeymoon-ey delights gave way
To the harsher realities of every day
Our spark did flicker, flutter and got tired, faded
Passions were replaced by emotions more jaded

How could we, so fine, have turned so gross
To have discovered this ugly side of our selves?
Bickered over things that mattered not- were ridiculously crass
Dragged to expensive heights, spats spiraled by our legal helps

But now, as we retrace our steps, Up ahead
Let us take a fresh new vow
Undo the knots, yet not cut our thread
We?ll meet in future, but without a row

No screeching, screaming, grimacing, ignoring
The points we make, the form shall be pleasing
No threats, no shouts, no regrets, no demands
We'll be good parents and, er, uncles and aunts

With time your beauty may yet again bloom
Give it a chance, learn a dance, try a new tune
Go out, drive, fly, flirt, don't live in a tomb
And thankfully money has been a boon

Both of you, in summer break, I'll take
To exciting lands and pleasant climes

So I implore you, my has- been
Let us part without a scene

Holi High!

When I first met glittering Garnet, the particular thing I noticed was how he remembered the Holi festival from the brief time he spent in New Delhi as a diplomat kid. So this one is dedicated to you Garnet- may you relive your childhood festivities and have a colourful musical Holi!

As a child I recall a lot of happy Holis spent with friends when one rushed out early in the mornings and made as long a morning of it as possible. In fact, the lead up to Holi started weeks ahead with all kinds of strategies being planned, bucketfuls of balloons filled with coloured water and strategic positions being taken on terraces to take aim and drop those balloons on unwary passers by. Invariably these groups got divided among gender lines and eventually there would be girls' groups to do battle with boys' groups.

Then, de Beauvoir and a lot of other 'learning' happened- and I realized the gender implications of the sexist celebration of Holi - how it was a mere excuse to indulge in normally aberrant behaviour, how under the guise of festivities inhibitions and a lot else were dropped, how every right thinking woman should take a stand and make it known, how Holi equals only hooliganism, how to hate Holi! The occasion of Holi is a celebration along gender lines, used to indulge in a lot of 'eve-teasing' (as it is euphemistically called). Still there are gender positions being taken and the sexual undertones are apparent in playful festivities. Yes, for all of this it is right to dislike Holi.

But was that the celebration which was popularized in folk lore- in the stories, horis, geets and raas-leelas of Krishna in Brindavan? A celebration of 'eve-teasing'? More abandoned and wild those festivities were, but also more playful and kind. A celebration of sexuality in a different age
- a celebration child like and natural where the woman would say mohe pichkari maro na, both as an instruction as well as a plea, the na and its tone being the operative part. One would wish not return to those times as a post-modern liberated woman, yet the fleeting appeal of such play can not be denied.

When the streets look crazily romantic with flowers of all hues, can we not momentarily drop our inhibitions like those trees shed their leaves and go with the flow?

Heres hoping that we women (and the men too) would learn to be more comfortable with our sexuality to be able to participate in such festivitites as equal partners without the present gender polarisation.

And yes, a side note...

There can't be Holi without sweets - but this pack here brought me memories which had been filed away in the recesses. Crazy memories of a mad month spent in Nagpur, at a place quite appropriately called Pagal-khana chowk! Ridiculously hot January days, after the snowy cold of Shimla, with days of sleepy stupor relieved by those scrumptious meals (at least for the Shimla starvers) and nights of long celebrations. Of the daily evening visits to Sitabuldi, which was the closest commercial street Nagpur had to offer to us, who missed our Shimla mall. Of Haldirams of Nagpur vying for top-slot with Baljees of Shimla. Of Nagpuri santra burfees competing with the hot gulab jamuns and pastries of the Mall. Of a crazy group of giggling girls piling into 'Rekha Beauty Parlour' and storming that establishment. Of movies being watched late into the nights. And yes, those long waits for snatching a precious few minutes of telephonic communion with spouse in distant Delhi. Ah those days of no GPRS!

Happy Holi again!

My precious pearls

Betty knows best- she says. Don't we all? Yet we feel so pressurised by a society which wants us to conform and worse, wants kids to conform to set behavioural patterns.

If ds was THE test I had to take as a mother, then dd was obviously the top grades I got before the test itself! She was perfection personified to me! She was the baby of my dreams- all I hoped for and more. I could go on and on... Yet, if there was only one aspect of her which was underdeveloped, it was her social skills. The door bell would ring and she'd rush off trying to hide herself in the laundry basket or something. My sweet smart sensitive angelic baby, didn't want to be exposeed to all and sundry. And all around me people harped on that aspect of her alone because far from conforming- she actually outshone the rest in every other way!

Ds, he was born with a lot of problems - a very shaky start which did dog him into the first few years of his life. I worked hard with him to help me overcome the obstacles that had been placed for us to make our lives more challenging. Worked with medical and non-medical professionals who made dire pronouncements but always showed hope if only we would try. These were the people who first bonded with my son, before turning to me and talking to me. They gave him the comfort and joy that a child is entitled to.

But then there were the others- who in their limited way sought to label us. He is 'quite normal'! And this for a kid who had been through some of the most traumatic tortures that are around and was still up and smiling at the end of it all. Wouldn't you like him to join a 'special' school where he can learn at his own pace? You bet I didn't opt for that school- not because of the labels at all but for the o so superior smug talking down attitude of those dim-witted folk. Who judge all people and especially kids by their own limited yardsticks of mediocrity.

When I came home that day- for the first time I howled, never when I'd heard the bleakest prognosis had my heart faltered as that day, when I realised that I had cast my precious pearls at such swine.

Noisome noise

Old wounds do have a tendency to show up. Especially if it was a searing gash which could never quite fill and heal. Not even with time, in spite of all those aphorisms.

So when Priyanka posted this, the wound, its pain, and memories of hatred, anger, shame and pain did kind of surface.

I somehow think I've mellowed down, moved on, yet something like this makes me lose it totally.

Lit-tle link

When Jon posted his link on the S and C network, little did I realise the significance of it.

All my adult life and earlier too, I've been reading. Reading in my 'mother' tongue, English. All kinds of stuff (and nonsense, too). All through the years when I have read prose, essays, plays and more, there has always been the poetic side too. Whether it be Christina Rossetti, Emily Dickinson, Blake, Tennyson, Keats, Yeats, Dryden, Donne, Marvell, Hopkins, Coleridge, Pound, Eliot, Browning, even Milton, through it all I have had a steady companion. Whenever the mood struck, I did not have to go a-seeking the poet, for my companion always came to my rescue in searching for and enjoying the right poem for the mood. Today for the first time, even after using the world wide web for so many years, I felt that Palgraves had a competitor, finally! The added pleasure of reading and hearing poetry.

Ah! for the pleasure of hearing Sir Richard Burton chiding the old lazy fool sun, talking of Eagles and doves, the hemispheres, hearing Yeats himself recite the Isle of Innisfree, listening to Dylan Thomas about his childhood, Tennyson, Eliot, ah the pleasures are too many. And Jon promises that it is still WIP :-)

So I spent the entire day today at Jon's site roaming among his various links and guess thats where I'd head back! While I do lurk at many blogs with faithful regularity, I never sought to blog-roll them, but this one here- I might as well not have a blog presence if I don't offer a link to this. Enjoy the feast there...



*Warning* : This is NOT a site for those who consider the writings of Danielle Steele and Arundhati Roy to be the epitome of English literature.

Driven through

While 'the most powerful man in the world' was in India, I went for a drive. Was it the cynical non-response of a global netizen bombarded by all that self-righteous anti-Bush propaganda or was it the remnants of a idealistic teenager who had congregated in an Woodstock-ian protest turned picnic all those eons ago at the Narora Atomic Power Plant? Whatever the reason be, I gave the visit a go bye.

I went on a long drive. Away from city sensibilities and positions, I just was. There were miles on miles of ribbony roads which meandered much like a young stream- loopy and long. And then it was night. No stars, low moon. No one by my side as I blankly stared out- absorbing the sights, smells and the road rush as a dry clean sponge.

Journeys end in lovers meeting- or so they say. Mine, it took me to a neck in the woods where my arrival was anxiously but officially awaited. Where were you held up, Madam? Well, I just had to stop at a few places, met a few people, tried a few things and have got here too. Tired already of the reception party, I wanted to be done with dinner. The window with me was brief and their petitions very persistent. Over payasam and poppadom I presided, tackling the issues with all my waning appetite. Satisfied at last at with my interventions, small audience bid adieu.

Finally in a room alone. A clean loo and all the mod-cons too, there was even cell phone coverage. But typically for me the cell phone could not be charged- a flat plug pin does not fit into the round plug point- what an electric metaphor for me!

A call home gave me the rather ambiguous reassurance of being a redundant mum- well, at least for short stretches. The night promised to stretch long. There was the wretched document to be gone through- no disturbances either, should be spending the night at the laptop. Page 39 of the 113 page document engrosses me with its challenging charm and voila, life switches off. There is absolute pitch darkness.

The heart of my darkness - it is something I can try and remedy, surely? There is somewhere close to me a large box of safety matches, which even my fumbling fingers shouldn't really miss. And the big white candles in the burnished brass candelabra. Do I light up and let the flickering flame assist me to finish at least a part of my work till the battery of the laptop lasts? But the darkness like death is very inviting. I choose to lie back and surrender myself to the mosquitoes and assorted bugs which come into their own in their darkness.

Morning is not heralded by any crack of dawn. It is the communal chirp of the feathered jewels of Coorg which announces morning and the fact that I chose death but am alive. I pad around carefully to avoid any giveaway snap or crunch under my foot in the abundant broad deciduous leaf litter. I needn't bother as the birds high above are too lost in their morning madness to bother about lowly things afoot. They flutter from branch to branch even as the leaves keep flying down. I lose myself as the magical morning hours pass in the well orchestrated symphony of the birds- the tree pies sawing away the bee-eaters, the robins, the insistent babblers, the parakeets, the steady beat of the woodpeckers, it was great birding.

Another long call home, about 20 minutes of carefully saved battery and I feel good about being away from the frantic early morning chaos at home. Amidst the cacophonous birds, the buzzing insects, listening to Tahira Syed singing Lo Phir Basant Ayi. Hope springs...?

The morning reverie ends as the mazdoors start their trek towards the morning muster. They lead a train of toddlers. One very young man is curiouser than the others. We keep turning back to look at each other. And smile.

Namaskara. Chennagidira?

Alive / Brain dead

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

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

Zinda? No, thank you!

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

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

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

Silly season

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gifted Me!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tooth be told

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

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

This and that

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

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

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

Saying Grace

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

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

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

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

Human Geographic

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

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

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