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.

Eve Bead

Since childhood I confess to have always been fascinated by gaudy stuff - stones of different hues which would catch light at different angles and reflect them in the most dramatic fashion. My sister would start me off on my exploration- demanding that I bring back some specific pieces of trash. I would wander around in the neighbourhood, keeping an eye out for any interesting twig, leaf, flower, chip of mica, buttons, odd shaped pieces of broken glass, a thread of unusually coloured wool, a brightly printed vivid cloth - anything at all which we could recycle! My offerings would be gone through perfuntorily, most would be discarded summarily and yet some pieces (with possibilities!) would be treasured.

We would tax our imagination (hers more than mine) to come up with innovative uses for the junk. Most often it would be fashioned, by means of wires and threads and vines and twines, into sorry but very unique looking jewellery.

Then growing up happened and one got a lot more self-conscious about trawling around looking for and picking up road-side junk. There was also the phase of absolutely no jewellery- junk or otherwise.

College was this first all-female institution I found myself in. And it did bring out the best in creative stuff. There were matching jingle-jangle bangles and all other trappings that came with it. Not that I was ever the most jingly-jangly Jane around but I did stretch mine own limits of being jazzed up. It was by its very nature self-limiting and I found myself reverting to non-matching stuff as soon as I stepped out of the college gates.

Now after all these years, I discover that I am truly fond of glass, wooden, stone, shell and any which coloured beads. Wish I had hoarded those shiny pieces of shell, wood and stone which I had picked up from fishing village off Dwarka or the loads of shiny smooth beads I got from tiny weekly shandies in Garhwal or pebbles and rough stones from Jhansi or other places tucked away in heart of central India. I could do with all those now as I regularly change my accessories even if I remain to my solitaire friends.

Inspired by this.

Resistance- rather futile

Met deepfried recently at bitch's post-doc blog.

But given that her recent discussions and debates may attract the attention of the office firewall (Beware all you who bloghop at work!), and bring in the sysad and other sad characters at work to peer eagerly down over your shoulders, all the while tut-tutting about how they always knew what a pervert you are, I am giving a direct link to the zogg here.

Hope you find yourself closer to discovering the sublime metaphysical truth!

Symmetry?

In the course of a year long courtship, dh wooed me with all the typical things- flowers, chocolates and such stuff that typify a budding relationship which is to blossom into matrimony. But also, all manner of books- from the practical and prosaic GRE study material to this. It was my first exposure to Desmond Morris. Something I read recently had me click a few links and get to this digit index theory about gender typing and got me thinking about the larger issue of visual aesthetics.

There is, in the begining of all this, the sacred geometry which is incorporated into all religions, folk or tribal or classic. While some people have even developed templates for human facial beauty, especially in respect of the female of the species, others merely worship symmetry, everywhere it is visible and reproducable. The very thread of life is alleged to conform to the beautiful symmetry of proportions. One could follow these links and enjoy the richness of the history of this concept of divine symmetry or just go with your own assessment of what appeals.

The learned researchers who try and determine the subtle differences between natural asymmetry and abnormal asymmetry do seem to be closer to the point that perfect symmetry may not always be so perfectly beautiful!

Boxed in again!

And just when I thought I was a lab, I get labelled as a Boxer!

You Are a Boxer Puppy

Energetic, playful and good with kids. You've also got a wild spirit that can't be trained or tamed.

What Breed of Puppy Are You?

Flutter-by baby

There is something about butterflies which seem to make them appear as magical, charmed and fascinating creatures. Is it merely their beauty or something about how a caterpillar is transformed dramatically into a butterfly? Becky says it so well about her little butterfly that there is little else I can add but give a link to her post.

Hope I can provide the right kind of cocoon to my butterflies before they flutter by.

Bloody business

The puppies are gone- and have left quite a void around here.

Among the memories they leave me with is that of other days and ages with the bloody nose theme, which was recalled while tending to the bloodied nose of one of the puppies after it was knocked down. Mammalian noses certainly contain an amazing network of blood vessles with each carrying dizzying amounts of blood!

...

As a kid I used to have the occasional nose bleeds when the then semi-arid Delhi temperatures would routinely soar over 45 degrees Celsius and the hot dust-laden westerly winds would blow in from the Thar desert. The heat without would induce the build-up of heat within too which would eventually burst out of teh body through the nasal blood vessels or manifest as boils on the body. A damp kerchief with a hint of eau-de-cologne would help cooling down as one lay the head down on some masive soft pillows (to prevent the drip within). But these were, for all the attendant fuss, very benign and manageable as the bleeding would stop soon.

Bloodier were the bleeds caused by injury. The first time I was exposed to this was when I was forced into a fisticuff with a frisky kid half my size in the back of the school bus. It was a pesky brat who insisted that he was big enough to scrap with an older (goody-goody) girl. Just to be done with the business briskly and in a no-nonsense fashion, I thought I'd give him a biff on the nose to get rid of the pest. I connected and the kid crumpled. Thankfully, I hadn't put much into the punch and soon the clod had a clot. He, and through him others, learnt from this bloody mess not to mess with me and I developed a sudden respect for the nose. I thought I might try this trick next if I was up (down?) against someone my size. (Hmm, I have never had to employ that trick, wonder why!)

...

I confess to having a pathological urge to gag- I gag at nearly most things. If I am like this now, I was far worse earlier when nearly most things could trigger my gagging! One such was the travel in the hills in those horrible metal contraptions which used to rush up the inclines and hurtle down the slopes fuelled by the alloyed mix surfeit of adrenaline, bravado and suspect and spurious diesel. While going downhill was definately worse, even the up-hill journeys on an empty stomach early in the morning was a torture. Yet my weekend marriage made it quite mandatory for me to travel in those run-down night buses atleast 2 or 3 times a month, first from Delhi to Mussoorie and then from Delhi to Shimla. So whenever I had the luxury of doing the Kalka-Shimla leg of the journey by train I would gladly sacrifice the extra three hours, over the road trip for the comfort and thrill of rail travel on that picturesque and evergreen stretch. Keeping my peculiar consideration in mind, I implored dh to come up by train when he came for me for the last time to Shimla to help me wind up my scattered and priceless effects at the end of my two year stint there.

I went to the picture-postcard-pretty railway station well in time to flag in the train which came chugging in after about 5 hours of journey on tunnel filled track. I scanned each compartment of the toy train. There was no sign of dh. Yet I knew he was to come and ran back to Yarrows to wait for word from him. It was an age of no cellular phones or GMS technology. The RAX exchanges were storming the Indian countryside but they were scattered few and far between. It was only at 2.30 in the afternoon that I received a message (third or fourth hand) that there had been a call from Dharampur district hospital about a nasty road accident on the Kalka-Shimla road and that dh was one among the injured. No more details were available. I was despatched immediately by car to wind my way down to Dharampur. I was, I realise now, worried sick, which added to my general travel sickness which the downhill journey always evoked. By the time I reached the hospital (or an apology thereof) at Dharampur, the shadows were lenghtening and a chill was fast coming up upon me. I scanned the vast bare hall and room after room of the hospital. There were quite a few casualities and there were many beds with people lying on them with a white sheet covering their faces. Not the most reassuring of scenes!

After spending about 30 minutes in this depressingly morbid environment something within me snapped. I knew dh couldn't be lying there among those faceless bodies. Imagine then how I felt when I stepped out and saw him sitting on a filthy chair in a pool of blood outside the the hospital premises, calmly sipping tea. I was so delighted to see him there that I nearly disregarded the fount of blood gushing out of the middle his face, where his nose was. When I hugged him violently, I think I probably ended up having more of his gurgling blood on me than he did. It took a long time to fix that bloody business!

Another age, indeed.