Kutcheri musings

My earliest memory of a live performance is a concert by the late Maharajapuram Santhanam. I was about nine years old and all I can remember was the raw silk kurta I had been forced in to itched, my Mother’s hushed excitement, the many overdressed women and waking up to thunderous applause. (in appreciation of the man’s virtuoso performance and not my ability to sleep through it. My somnolence was to become a regular feature in my Kutcheri listening career – and to think I’ve never been fired for sleeping on the job.)

Since then of course I’ve gone on to listen to (and appreciate) performances by both established and amateur artists. As a student of Carnatic music, it was decided that I would attend as many concerts as possible. Perhaps in the hope that some of the talent might rub off on me.

Old timers and connoisseurs may argue that it has turned in to hunting ground for prospective sambandhis and that most rasikas turn up to sample the coffee and tiffin the canteens have to offer and not the artist’s rendition of Karaharapriya. But one can not dispute that the December Season is a high point in the cultural calendar of Madras. From the free mid-morning and afternoon slots to the highly sought after evening performances, it is where fresh talent is spotted and mature artists prove they still have it. Innovations in music, dance, Kanjeevaram silks and pathir peni are all on display here.

I once accompanied my cousin to a free afternoon Unni Krishnan kutcheri at The Music Academy. My cousin was a passionate fan, and the traffic jam and crowd (the likes of which I’d only seen at Thirupathi and Rajni first day first shows) did nothing to deter him. So we squeezed through the gaps on his white, rickety TVS Scooty, bribed the watchman to look after the illegally parked two wheeler and pushed our way through the
Crowds (Mamis on a mission can be a vicious lot mind you – you either have to have thick skin or be wearing a plate of armour. Not possessing the former I used my cousin as the latter). We were directed to the upper circle of the Academy and realised that even though we were a good hour early, most of the seats were occupied. So we climbed higher and higher and finally found two seats at the very back. Those of you who have been to The Music Academy know how high up that is. Once the performance began, I found it impossible to keep looking down at the stage. So to prevent a nose bleed and upchucking the idlis I’d had for breakfast I settled back in my seat, tilted my head back and closed my eyes. I felt a twinge of guilt when the old Mama whispered to his companion
“So young, but see how entranced she is by the performance.”

As a Luz-vaasi, I also used to attend the concerts leading up to Pillayar Chaturthi at the Warren Road Pillayar Kovil. The temple is actually a part (for want of better word) of someone’s home and every year in the courtyard a stage is erected and concerts are given by the likes of Sanjay Subramanian and other acclaimed artists. If I’m not mistaken the concert on the very last day is reserved for KJ Yessudas. It’s been over four years since I’ve been in Madras, so I don’t know how the performances are attended now. But I do remember the packed crowds that used to congregate there. Music lovers would sit, stand and lean against poster clad and beedi stained walls for a chance to listen to these concerts. Like many others who lived in close proximity to the temple, an aunt and uncle of mine would simply draw two chairs out on to their balcony, and enjoy the music and cool evening breeze.

Both my school and college were big on promoting ‘Indian culture’. This meant having to sit through annual Thyagaraja Utsavams and listening to seniors and juniors sing (and sometimes screech) through a repertoire of songs that never changed during my time at these institutions. I of course was never considered good enough to go up on stage (could have something to do with the fact that I slapped our music teacher when I was in class 7. It was an accident. Honest), which is just as well since I knew the kind of catty comments that circulated through the audiences while these poor girls sang their hearts out.

I’d think I now know enough to be able to appreciate a concert more. I know that I should clap only when other’s clap, not to eat a heavy meal right before one, and that if I am going to fall asleep it should only be done when seated in the very last row. The last point was added to the list after attending a performance by Nityashree at the Asthika Samaj a few years ago. We knew the singers family and they had graciously invited us to sit in the front row with them. In my defence it was getting pretty late, so there was very little I could do to stop myself from nodding off. My mother realised something was out of order when an irregular sound not in sync with the music was emanating from her left. If my sleeping wasn’t bad enough, my snoring was the last straw. And no, she wasn’t singing Neelambari.

Hair virgin

(Inspired by this post. I love Afghans!)

Remember an easier time? When you were 7 and went to the salon with your mother. Threw a temper tantrum and demanded the hair that fell all the way down your back to your once diminutive hips be cut off? Then your mother, embarrassed by your sullen pout-now-full-blown-strop acquiesced. The tears would dry up immediately the snot in your nose would be wiped away and you would clamber up in to that big, plush chair meant for the grown-ups. Returning the smiles of the older women getting the eyebrows and nails done (silently thanking the Lord that their own children were better behaved). The voluminous dark blue synthetic cape would swish around you, enveloping you and chaffing your chin with its velcro strap. The large, buxom woman called Saritha or Kamini who would come up behind you with comb, secret plastic spray bottle in hand (that to this day I’m sure contains dishwashing liquid) and then silently turn and look at your Mother, eyebrows raised.

‘Not too much.’ The defeated woman would say.

‘What style?’

‘Usual. U-cut.’

And that was that. Fringe (or bangs as they are now called) optional. No layers. No high lights. Nothing. Just a U cut. Or a boy-cut. Or the much sought after bob. But for as long as I can remember, the U-cut was the gold standard in hair styling. And it only cost you 60 bucks (this was pre-Lakme Madras of the 90s by the way. Even Ambuli charges more these days.)

So why has it all become so complicated? A trip to the salon is now more nerve-wracking than an appointment with your gynaecologist. My first brush with the salon-elite came when I was in Bombay and realised that I hadn’t had my hair cut in over a year and a half (I can get that way sometimes). Colleagues insisted I go to a tony salon in South Bombay. So I called up their salon to book an appointment.

‘Hi! I’d like to book an appointment to have my hair cut please.’

‘Would you like to book with a Style Director?’

‘Sure!’

‘Our next available appointment is December 15th’

‘That’s over a month and a half away.’

‘Yes.’

‘How much will this cost?’

‘Rs. 2500 for a wash and cut. And extra for colouring’
2500? And In December? Was the style director going to grow new hair and then transplant it to my head?

‘Ok what’s the cheapest and quickest appointment I can get?’

‘A trainee will be available day after tomorrow for 400’ was the sniffy reply.

So two days later at the appointed time I found myself in the waiting room of the salon. I think they’d marked ‘cheapskate’ next to my name because I didn’t get the warm welcome and complimentary tea/coffee/overpriced mountain-water-that’s-from-the-tap-outside like everyone else did.

The trainee, a multi-pierced youth, with hair overstyled to look like she’d just gotten out of bed appeared, dressed in clothes that were artfully shredded to look like she’d thrown them to a pack of rabid dogs. I felt about a hundred years old. With each question she asked me I added a year to that number.

‘So what do you have in mind?’

‘I’d like a hair cut.’

‘Right. What kind?’

‘I don’t know. What do you think?’

She critically studied my hair, tossing it about, weighing it, judging it (and not in a good way) before telling me that it was too heavy and had split ends and that the current style made me look old. She said razor cuts and a side parting and Magnolia highlights would make me look 25. I was 23 at the time.

So I agreed to the cuts and side parting, vetoed all chemicals and sat down in the once coveted seat that now resembled The Chair.

I have to admit. I came out looking pretty good that day. Of course, all of you who have every had your hair styled know that it only lasts for a day and after a good nights sleep you wake up looking like the trainee. Which trust me, we all can not carry off.

Since then, my foray in to the world of fancy hair styles has progressed with tiny baby steps. I can now confidently ask for what I want. ‘How about Reese Witherspoon’s cut from Sweet Home Alabama?’ ‘Do you think Sarah Jessica Parker’s look from Season 4 episodes 3-6 would look good on me?’ ‘I’d love a Rachel’. Of course all requests are turned down and I go back to the same layers and side parting. The U-cut of the noughties.

My last hair cut was with a Cypriot called Harry at Toni & Guy. Harry was wonderful. He was in awe of my English “Where you go for classes heh?” and said my hair was in great condition. But when he found out I used no products though, all respect and awe went down with my split ends.

“What? No spray? No holder? No fixer?”

“I use conditioner” I volunteered hopefully.

After much mumbling under his breath (no doubt calling upon the Greek god of fortuitous hair) he palmed off a bag of styling products that cost twice as much as my hair cut and taught me how to use them. Of course when I went home and tried them out it was a complete disaster. The sea salt holding spray got in to my eyes and nearly blinded me. The banana flavoured volumiser was viscous and sticky and reminded me of certain scenes from There’s Something about Mary and the strange hair serum made my semi-living hair go in to a deep coma. All three products now rest in peace at the bottom of the bathroom cabinet.

I realise that in a world of £1000 hair cuts, Zen Masters who feel the chi of your hair before styling it (I wonder if it involves bowing repeatedly and apologising for the carnage) and extensions and weaves I’m very much a hair virgin. I’m all for letting my stylist go to first base with my hair but no more. I’m just old fashioned that way. Give me Saritha and U-cuts any day.

Feeling at home

I am an unwanted guest. The kind that eats noisily, rummages constantly in the fridge and takes forever in the shower. I leave near empty coffee mugs on the side table stained with the sticky, obstinate residue that will be hard to wash out. I listen to music others may not appreciate, and relish loud tamizh films with lashings of violence and tears. I leave the newspaper mangled and dismembered. The first page in the bedroom, the sports section spread out under my glistening umbrella, Inzamam catching the drops of water that slide off the edge.

The rightful owners stare at me dispassionately from the walls and cosy nooks they have occupied for over a year, unable to voice what they really think of this intrusion. Perhaps I should have given them more notice. Given them the chance to say no and make excuses. Instead I have steamrolled in to their home without even bothering to wipe my feet at the front door.

I would like to tell them to carry on as they were. ‘Don’t mind. I’ll just sit here in the corner and help myself to some of this vanilla tea cake. Sorry – was that the last piece?’ In an effort to redeem myself, I do the dishes. Pick up the dry cleaning. Go for long walks to give them some time away from me. And whisper disapprovingly behind my back.

I get a chance to meet the other house guest. I try to strike up a conversation with the snail on the window ledge. But he refuses to come out and say hello. I try after a few hours. But he just won’t budge. Literally. I stroke his bumpy, patterned shell. ‘No wonder they like you. You’re harmless, sitting in the same spot all day long. Not giving anyone any trouble. Making no demands. Is that why you won’t talk to me? Don’t want to jeopardise the high esteem in which they hold you?’

His stubborn silence enrages me, and with a vicious yank I dislodge him from his spot in the sunshine and toss him in to the garden.

I settle down in the sofa with a mug of coffee. They’ll just have to get used to me being around.

Last post...

... from work. I've written most of my posts from office. On this computer. On the sly. This is the last one. Bye work. Bye Rombout's Coffee. Bye hour and a half commute. I think I might miss all this.

on independence day

Early morning cool gives way to searing heat degree by degree. Attendance is taken, suitable punishment for the absentees are devised. Single file we march out in to the quadrangle. A sea of bluish-white uniforms, frayed collars and white tennis shoes. Hair oiled and braided, adorned only with tattered ribbons and lice. The scruffy ones are made to stand at the back.

One arm distance to the front and double arm distance to the sides. Ahalya Bai, Sarojini Naidu, Vijayalakshmi Pundit. We are divided along these names. But they mean nothing to us. Instead we worry that the green belt is not as nice as the bright, red one.

We whisper about what we will do when we get home, what movies are on television and speculate on the choice of sweet distributed this year – Lacto King again? Rottweiler Ruby tells us to keep quite. The chief guest will be here any moment now. Bets are placed on the length of his speech. Will he pronounce banyan as baniyan like the last one did?

The Chief Guest is late. He will no doubt stress the importance of punctuality in his speech later on without sensing the irony of it all. Irony. A word we did not know then. But sensed.

He tugs at the flag. It unfurls slowly, releasing rose petals, hanging limply in the still air. We salute.

Inside the cool, dusty auditorium we sit on the floor glaring at the smug, prize receiving class mates in the VIP section. We sit patiently through the speeches – the chief guest, the trophy hoarding 11 year old who gesticulates wildly as she quotes Bhaarathi and the fawning Principal – her beehive bun threatening to fall over and crush the chief guest. Or so we imagine.

The national integration cultural show. Song, dance and skit. We clap – not because we enjoy it but because everyone else is. We shift restlessly, our behinds sore, our calves patterned with dust and the zig zag imprints of our rubber soles.

Finally it is over. We stand up, legs, feet and backside numb. We limp towards the exit taking the chocolate we should be so grateful to receive and walk home. Finally.
Freedom.

Will work for shoes

So this time next week will be my second last day at work. It's been a good 15 months at this job. I've learned some really interesting things about English people (they make awful tea) and their shopping habits (they need some serious help), but it's time to move on. To what I have no idea. So till I find out, I plan to pursue my career as a writer. That sounds very grand, but what it really means is that I'll be in sweats watching Trisha and Oprah and eating oats.

So if anyone needs a writer let me know.Till then cheques can be sent to Shoefiend, P.o Box 222, London. Shoes will be accepted in lieu of money and food. Size 5 please.

commitment issues

The evidence of her infidelity. Crumpled and stuffed beneath the sofa and dumped in the garbage. Pinewood Forever and Poison heavy in the air killing the sweetness that had taken flight an hour ago. She scrubs hard when she bathes and brushes her teeth. Thrice. Any lingering scent or taste that might give her away is obliterated.

*

Her voice breaks as she promises to be loyal and faithful – vows she knows she cannot keep. She looks across the room and wonders how many of them cheat. All of them. She’s sure of it. She hates their smug piety. There’s still time a tiny voice tells her as a latecomer sneaks in to the last row. As the door creaks back in to place she worries that it will shut forever. She might never be able to escape. She turns around mid sentence and runs. Her words and silken skirt trailing behind her. She answers the shocked gasps with mumbled, half-hearted apologies. She reaches the door before it fatally clicks in to place and heaves it open. Satin pumps crunch against the gravel and she throws herself inside the car. Trembling hands grope inside the cavernous depths of the glove compartment until they close around the shiny smooth oblong.
She takes it out and smiles.

*

“I wonder whatever happened to Linda.”

“Just as well I suppose if you can’t commit. It’s not for everyone you know.”

“That’s enough chatter ladies. Now today at Weight Watchers we’ll be looking at how to eat what you like. In moderation.”

The keys to home

She is frantic. She cannot find the keys to her flat. It’s cold. She needs to pee. And the phone is ringing from inside. Each shrill ring adding to her urgency. She falls to her knees and begins to empty the contents of her bag on to the concrete ground. Her diary. The black leather notebook she bought to writes poems and feelings in but has filled with doodles of three leaf clovers and little hearts instead. Bills, receipts and sanitary napkins follow. Tissues soiled by pink lipstick stains and her runny nose.

She calls her husband. Perhaps he is on the way and she won’t have to wait that long. It goes in to voice mail and she is asked to leave a message. She curses him instead.

Her wallet, lipstick and the crumpled see-through wrapper of the chocolate muffin she can’t remember when she had. Tiny chocolate crumbs cling to the folds of the wrapper and reminds her that she is hungry. It can’t be that old she reasons to herself as she licks the wrapper clean.

Ipod ‘How long has that been playing? I’m sure I switched it off’, headphones and six pens clattered to the ground. Her bag is almost empty now. And still no sign of her keys. Her bladder begins to send messages to her brain that it is ready to go in to action. ‘Did his phone actually record what I said?’

A pay slip threatens to take flight. And the balled up tissue papers rolls away like tiny snot filled marbles.

She is scraping the very bottom of her bag now. A length of yellowing twine catches her eye. She takes it out and studies it. It is knotted along its length and a black hair slide dangles at one end. She looks back inside her bag. Scattered among the dust and errant chocolate crumbs are the tiny, shrivelled corpses of wilted flowers. Jasmine. She takes a few in her hand.

Her mother had caught hold of her as she left the house and tucked the then fragrant strand of fresh flowers in to her hair.

‘But Amma! I’m wearing jeans. Next you’ll make me wear a pottu.’

‘It’s ok. Fusion fashion. Take it out after you’ve checked in. And wear a pottu – what will your maamiyar think?’

She had grumbled about not caring what anyone thought and then agreed.

The ride to the airport, the long queue, checking in, tearful goodbyes, the dull ache in her chest.

As she had leaned back in the narrow, faux plush seat on the plane something had poked the back of her head. Her fingers had fumbled in her dense black hair, searching for the offender closing around the slide and pulling it out, stray jasmine buds freeing themselves from the confines of the twine only to be trod on by the heeled foot of a snooty air hostess.

She had dropped the flowers in to her bag, rubbed off the pottu and taken out a magazine.

The twine appears blurred.

‘Hey! Why did you swear at me on that message?’

She looks up at her husband.

‘Is everything ok? Why are you sitting out here? Why’s everything on the floor? Have you been crying? Why are you crying?’

‘I can’t find my keys. I can’t get home.’

trendy on the tube. not

I suppose it’s possible to forget the presence of certain body parts. The appendix is not often thought of until it reminds us of its presence (and impending absence) with shooting pains. Nictitating membrane and eyelashes are two other things that come to mind. I mean who thinks about their eyelashes for God’s sake? (except people who don’t have them I guess).

Men and women all across the UK have made a startling discovery since the beginning of summer. Their chests. The realisation that 8 months of protecting themselves from the elements under layers of thermal vests, sweaters and last Winter’s must have military jacket has not caused them to disappear in to another dimension has had startling consequences.

Now, I can understand their joy and elation. It must be like meeting a long lost friend. Make that two of them. Let’s imagine an emotional reunion with two of your best friends after 8 lonely, cold months. How would you react? You would whoop for joy! You would hug them and never let them go. (Remember not to do this to other people’s friends) and after that you would want to show them off to the world. You would say ‘Look! I too have friends. Two of them!’.

For the last 6 weeks I have had the privilege of meeting many people’s friends. Male and female. Young and old. Perky friends and down in the dumps friends. Friends basically in all shapes and sizes. (If you haven’t gotten it yet I’m talking about breasts people)

Now I’m no prude. I think everyone should be allowed to express themselves in a way that well – expresses themselves. Whether it’s through pickling giant sharks and passing it off as art (freak alert) or taking your puppies out for a walk in the sunshine. Who am I to pass judgement?

The Brits are a funny bunch (and not just because they call underwear ‘pants’). After spending all winter whinging about the cold and rain and waiting for a ray of sunshine all through the damp days of Spring, they aren’t very enthusiastic about summer once it actually gets here. Kind of like guests coming to stay with you – you think it’s going to be so nice, and then on the second morning of having to listen to someone sing chamiya songs in the shower you can’t wait for them to be gone. The Brits share a similar relationship to Summer. A couple of days of 30 plus degree weather and they realise how ill equipped they are to handle the heat. And then they head off to Malta or Rhodes where it’s even hotter for a few weeks. If you can figure that one out, please mail me and let me know.

The ones that don’t go anywhere for summer, decide to bring their vacation to them. (Similar to the mountain and Mohammed story). This means Daisy Duke shorts, bikini tops masquerading as tops, see through skirts, Rastafarian braids and all out bare chestedness if you’re a man. I don’t know which is worse. Ageing breasts that look like weathered handbags, suffering from a memory lapse as they obviously can’t remember how to get in to a bra. Or hairy, beer bellies hanging over denim waistbands covered in tattoos. Somebody stop the madness. Travelling by tube is bad enough in the summer without having to spend 2 hours with someone’s butt crack staring at you.

If winter is the only way to get these people to cover up I’m all for it. I never thought I’d say it but I cannot wait for the temperatures to drop. The 60 year old bald man in satin shorts, sweat and nothing else striding down platform 7 at Kings Cross today morning was the last straw.

Sentence or Story?

I came across this here.Take a look at some of the stories in the comments section.

I don't know what makes a six word sentence a story, but here goes!

1

She cries. And blames the onions.

2

Look Ma it’s Gouda cheese. Snap!

3

Blank. Rule of three be damned.

Blame the Raspberry Pavlova

It was hot. The sun sat resolutely in the sky like a giant, yellow, cat. One scorching eye trained on the human rats that huddled on the platform trying to escape.

She stood directly under its gaze. Tired, sleepy and hot. And a little drunk. She tugged at her dress, wishing she hadn’t eaten so much at lunch. Hadn’t reached for that second slice of quiche. Or that third helping of raspberry pavlova. Or worn this dress from 3 summers ago. Or these blasted underpants from Marks & Sparks that promised to help her drop a dress size. They were so bloody tight. And a pain to take off when she needed to wee.

She looked to her left and right. Everyone looked busy. Wrapped up in their Hellos and Heat. Who would notice? She was sure the pants were cutting off the blood circulation to her stomach. She was feeling faint and light headed. Or was that the Chablis?

She slowly shimmied her magic underpants down a notch. And sighed deeply and gratefully as her belly expanded over the tight elastic edge. Just a little more. Bliss. She looked down. Her paunch looked so pleased. Pleased as paunch. Ha ha.She hoisted her bag up over it.

*

He looked out the window. Bloody trains. Slow. No air conditioning. Fuck. He opened his paper for the tenth time, looking for some news snippet that had miraculously slipped past him. As he shook the paper straight, the day’s supplement slid out on to the floor. He looked at the cover. Bloody women’s nonsense. He scanned the compartment. No one from work – why not – there was nothing else to read. And didn’t the ladies like men who knew all this nonsense about pms and moisturisers?

*

She almost wept with joy as the train pulled up. But the happiness ebbed as quickly as it had flowed. It was packed. There wouldn’t be anywhere to sit. Fuck.

*

He barely looked up when the doors beeped open. This woman’s stuff wasn’t that bad after all.

*

“Four in five pregnant women are forced to stand on public transport – Chivalry is dead!”

You can say that again she thought shifting from one foot to another. Oh that one’s wearing a nice jacket. Wonder where it’s from?

*
He felt a pair of eyes boring down on him. He hated it when people read over his shoulder. He looked up in irritation.

*

Idiot she thought. Move your head I’m trying to get a better look at her shoes.

*

He looked her up and down – not bad he thought. He was about to go back to the article when he noticed her bump. Was she? No - see no ring on her finger. So? It didn’t look like a baby bump. You’re just making excuses. You know it is. Go on do the right thing. Get up.

*

What’s he getting up for then? What a nice bloke. Sap.

She sat down and began rummaging in her bag. She was sure there were some biscuits left over from last week.

Lucky cow!

In today's Independent:

"Temperatures on buses in the hottest part of Britain hit 52C yesterday while the London Underground reached 47C. EU guidelines state that cattle should not be transported at temperatures exceeding 27C"

I am changing my name to Moofiend so that I may demand my bovine rights.

Sing Shoefiend! Sing!

We’ve all been through it – the compulsory education in a centuries old art form. Dance, an instrument or the (s)training of one’s vocal cords with the noble aim of producing sweet music. In addition to this we are encouraged to take up a sport of some kind, so that we are capable of executing Bhairavi and a breast stroke with equal ease.

As a child I tried my hand at gymnastics – a failure because I was scared that headstands and cartwheels would leave me suspended upside down forever. Netball proved futile, as my immediate reaction to an approaching ball was to duck. I enjoyed swimming but only after I agreed not to press charges against the instructor for trying to kill me (he wanted me to keep my head under the water for a minute. Murderous surely?)

I wanted to learn to sing like my elder sister and proved my enthusiasm by keeping taalam with such vigour I had red welts on my thighs and singing so loudly, our teacher’s neighbours complained. That was when I was about 6.

After moving about a great deal we finally settled down in Madras. The years in between had seen my try my hand at choir (I was relegated to the last row) and playing the flute (which I was surprisingly good at).

Back in Madras, my never-say-die Mother was sure her daughter had the voice of an angel and began to search in earnest for teacher who would draw out my (very) latent talents. The search ended when my former teacher’s Mother agreed to take up where her daughter had left off. So thrice a week after school I would walk to her house with a frayed copy of A.S.Panchapakeshva Iyer’s Ganamrutha Bodini that both my mother and sister had used.

Rukmini Paati lived in an old, crumbling house that stayed blissfully cool in the summer months. She taught about 6 of us at the same time, boys and girls, ages varying from 4 to 14. Her enormous body draped in a Rangachari sari ould be perched precariously on the edge of a rusty, metal-framed bed, her harmonium box resting on her lap and keeping taalam with a broken, metre long ruler. She was mildly myopic, and would peer at us, trying to decipher who was singing off key and who was just going through the motions of singing – lip-synching in a time before Britney.

Her efforts were seriously hampered by the fact that she was pretty deaf. Which meant most of us were singing our own versions of Mayamalavagowlai and Mohanam. Adding plenty of Sondha sarakku as a favourite blogger of mine says.

After a few months of Rukmini Paati’s unique teaching methods, my mother on hearing me sing realised that it would just not do. The Paati’s services were terminated and the search continued for a guru.

This time two teachers were found – a carnatic vocalist and a flautist.
They were talented in their own right. Excellent teachers. And very strict. Countless tears stung my eyes from class 7 till class 10. But it was not in vain. For once I was decent at something – managing to claw my way up to keerthanams. But I was never that good, never practiced as much as I should have and frankly, never really my heart in it.

So when I finished my 10th board exams I stopped. Both teachers were saddened by my decision, because despite my shortcomings as a student, they had grown quite attached to me.

After that I lost touch with singing – apart from the occasional and humiliating ‘group light music’ events I was forced to participate in during inter-department culturals. (oh the horror of having to sing Words accompanied by a wan guitar that was held ‘like you’re used to playing the sitar’ as the judge said.)

My last brush with singing (not including a few tipsy renditions of Dancing Queen and You’re Still the One at Not Just Jazz by the Bay) was after I got married.

As is tradition, the newly weds must visit the homes of all the ageing aunts and uncles of the family. Since the entire family, village and neighbouring village are no longer invited to ‘see the girl’, it is the first time a family gets to inspect the new daughter-in-law. Discreetly check if she has all fingers and toes. That she can hear (cunningly tested by speaking in very low voices). And of course how talented she is. As culinary skills can only be tested on visiting the bride at her own home, the obvious substitute is to ask her to sing.

Fortunate is the girl who skilled in dance – the more exotic the better – after all who keeps a stock of Kathakali make-up at home? Those who are amateur Veena artists are in no such luck. Most ageing harridans often played the instrument themselves and will probably have one languishing in the corner of their bedroom. But woe betide she who has learnt to sing. She has no choice but to agree.

Unless she is willing to put up a spirited half hour argument on why she can not sing (a good idea - it will give way to gossip that you are strong willed and don't listen to elders.) My secret reasoning was that a squeaky rendition of Kanchi Kamakshi would not be a good first impression, so I firmly and repeatedly stated that I could not remember a single word of a single song. Which in retrospect was probably not wise, because now they all think that I have an undiagnosed memory problem.

My excuse that day was not entirely untrue. I have forgotten much of what I learnt as a child. The odd line here and there and some humming in between is all I can manage really. But I’ll always remember Rukmani Paati’s cool room and droning harmonium, my music Sir’s woeful sigh as I hit those higher notes and my flute teacher’s spirited renditions of movie songs when we took a short break for coffee.

Some memories just don’t fade.

a 55 word prayer

Please god. Let him answer the phone. Just this one thing and I won’t ask for anything else. Ever. Promise. I won’t call him an idiot again. Complain about his mother. Or grumble that he never helps out and forgets to fold the newspaper. I won’t nag. Or fight. Or throw things. Please god. Promise.

Mumbai Help

To all those who think that blogs serve no real purpose, please go to www.mumbaihelp.blogspot.com

Thoughts and prayers to all those in Bombay.

a moment

It had been another long day. The boss had yelled, the witch in the cubicle next door had been insulting and her idea for the television commercial had been hijacked and turned in to a big joke. As she trudged from the mainline station to the tube, her feet ached in the new shoes she has bought as a pick-me-up. She should have taken her doctor’s offer for a Prozac prescription instead.

People pushed and shoved. Large bags smacked against her. Commuters walked on the right hand side even though it clearly said ‘Please Keep to the Left’. She looked at the faces that rushed by. Corners of lips seemed to be on a natural downward curve and brows were scarred by the deep ridges of permanent frowns. Everyone was so wrapped up in their own lives they didn’t have a moment to spare for their fellow human beings.

As she approached the turnstiles an announcement stopped her.

‘Due to a passenger under the train, there are delays reported on the Metropolitan, Hammersmith and City and Circle lines. Please find…’

Had the passenger tripped, been pushed over – or had the hypnotic pull of an oncoming train been too much to ignore?

She stopped and listened to the announcement one more time before sighing with relief. None of the delays were on her line. She’d be home in time for Corrie.

summer x 3

Copper sulphate blue her grandmother
called that particular shade of blue
How did she know though,
having never set foot in a chemistry lab?

Her anklets are stiff
Like an old school friend you have lost touch with
The awkwardness soon gives way to a familiar comfort
It’s bells chattering away with every step taken

The woollen trousers and boots have been packed away
Cotton skirts voluminous and crinkled
Gently caress the soft inner skin of her thighs like a lover
Making her smile that secret smile

dinner

Clutching the brush and dustpan she surveyed the sickly brown striations that patterned the linoleum floor. In a far corner of her mind she heard the phone ringing. Probably her mother-in-law checking to see if her darling son had had his dinner.

Tiny mustard seeds that had found the oil too hot had pole vaulted over the rim of the non-stick wok. She liked to think that they had been cheered on by their comrades ‘Don’t worry about us. Save yourselves’.

'Yes’ she thought ‘Save yourselves. We all have to save ourselves.’ Thin green stems, denuded of their pungent curry leaves lay like felled trees. A lone pea stood in the middle of the kitchen floor, searching for kith and kin. She nudged it towards two carrot tops with her toe, but they didn’t seem to have much in common.

She got down on her knees and with long strokes ran the harsh, black bristles of the brush across the floor. The phone was ringing again. ‘Call all you want Amma. No one's answering that phone tonight’. Creeping forward, each square inch of the floor was meticulously covered as she coaxed the errant pea, unfriendly carrot tops and eel like slithers of potato skin in to a tiny heap.

‘Some more subzi dear?’ she called out, wondering whether the words would reach her husband over the din of the quarter-final highlights.

When the usual grunt failed to reach her ears she made her way to the dining table and sat opposite him. He was slumped over his plate, face submerged in rice. His dark, bald head streaked with sambar.

‘Look at the mess you’ve made.’ She chided. ‘I suppose I have to clean up? For once your mother’s right . A woman’s work is never done.’

Second hand love

To Mummy,

Hope you enjoy it!

Love Andrew, Anne, Olivier

I have a friend who only buys first hand books. He loves that fresh, new smell and the feel of crisp pages between his fingers. My friend’s obsession extends to newspapers as well, so much so two sets of papers are bought in his home – one for him and one for the rest of the family to crease, bend and scribble phone numbers on.

My own book buying habit began rather late in life. My family preferred library memberships. My father and I used to visit Easwari Lending Library in Royapettah and later on to Eloor in T- Nagar every Sunday afternoon. After a good hours browsing we would head to Woodlands Drive In or Gangotri and study our selection in detail over hot coffee and bondas. I somehow never felt the need to buy books.

All this of course changed once I got married and moved to Bombay. In Madras poky, ramshackle rooms that masqueraded as libraries could be found on every street corner. Alas, Bombay was bereft of a motley crew of Shakti/Murugan/Swami lending libraries. So after my husband and I had exhausted the contents of each other’s meagre collection, we proceeded to buy books. At first it was once every few weeks, when we went to town and were driving by Oxford. On moving to south Bombay, Crossword opened up down the road it was impossible not to pop in every other week and have a nose about.

By the time we moved to England our collection had grown modestly. We had 3 small cartons of books that thankfully fit in the oak bookshelf our landlord had provided us with.

In London, I once again found myself with a library membership. Our local council library was free and had a rather good collection. What’s more, books can be quite exorbitant here and picking up even 3 can set you back quite a bit.

Until I discovered charity shops. While Madras has Azhwar on Luz Corner and Bombay has the pavement shops near VT, in London the charity shop rules. Not to be confused with city’s excellent second hand bookshops that dot Charing Cross and the city’s many markets, charity shops are a different breed altogether. From Oxfam to St. Isobel’s Hospice, charities great and small in England have stores that allow patrons to contribute everything from their grandmother’s doily collection to 1930’s rocking horses. These are then resold at bargain prices, the proceeds going to fund the charity’s noble cause.

Though I’ve picked up my fair share of Victorian beer bottles, cast iron Spanish horses and other tat, my favourite charity shop buys are always books. Starting from as little as 50p and going up to hundreds and sometimes even thousands if the book in question is a collectors item, charity shops stock an amazing variety of titles. From Penny Jordan to Proust and William Shakespeare to old editions of Women’s Own they’re a great place to buy books. And perish any thought of old books in tatters and with pages missing. Nothing could be further from the truth. A few months ago I bought a hardback copy of Vikram Seth’s Two Lives that looked brand new for £2.At that price it seemed stupid not to buy it!

That’s the thing with charity shop books, the price alone can convince you to reach for your wallet. Books that you wouldn’t really want to pay full price for (Sex and the City) suddenly seem appealing at 49p. You can take risks at charity shops. Paying £12.99 for a book you’re not sure about is hard. But when the same book costs £1.99 it makes life so much easier. I’ve made some good, indifferent and excellent purchases at charity shops. While Joanna Harris was a little too sweet for me, Penguin’s Anthology of Women’s Short Stories introduced me to Angela Carter and Banana Yoshimoto.

Sometimes I buy books for silly reasons. The ‘To mummy…’ at the beginning of this piece was in a book called Slow Boats to China by Gavin Young. When I saw the spine of the book today, I realised it was the name of a blog I read. Intrigued to see what had inspired the name, I picked up the book and saw the inscription inside. It somehow made me want to read the book.

I like the idea that a book I’m holding has been read, loved or hated by someone before me. I like to think that fingers over the grainy pages and tucked old bills or pressed flowers as bookmarks. I like to think that someone else was amazed by the writer’s lyrical prose, incensed by a character’s actions or horrified at the sudden turn of events on page 234.

I don’t know if ‘Mummy’ enjoyed the book. I hope she did.

on beauty

It seemed the world had been taken over. Dominated by faces and bodies so perfect they were freakish. Patrician noses that were once crooked. Straight, white veneers that masked 20 years of chain smoking.

She sneered at the trout pouts. Mocked the surgically enhanced feet that would be forced in to unforgiving shoes. Such vanity. Such desperation for social acceptance.

‘Why don’t you ask your boyfriend to take care of his physical inadequacies first?’ she asked friends who were under pressure to go up a cup.

The medias obsession with physical perfection made her ill. She wrote impassioned letters to networks that commissioned plastic surgery reality shows. Look 10 Years Younger. The Swan. Extreme Makeover. What was the point? So that mourners would have something nice to look at as they passed by your open casket? So that the worms and maggots that would feast off your flesh would have plump, botoxed skin to feed off.

Her friends took none of her rants seriously.

‘What do you know about sagging boobs and flabby thighs. You’re gorgeous and thin.’

‘Plenty’ she thought as she stuck her finger down her throat for the fourth time that day.

fifty 5

'Asshole! Stupid fucking moron what the hell do you think? What, I’m supposed to just roll over and do exactly what you want me to you pretentious son of a bitch? There’s no fucking way I am going to agree to that. Bastard.'

She nodded her head in agreement.

"Of course. Whatever you say Sir."

Happiness is...

piping hot Leo coffee made from the very first decoction of the day

(She started it! Carry on bloggers)

somewhere in a hotel room

It had been so long since she had stood before a mirror naked. The long and lean reflective surface was embedded in the ageing almirah of their hotel room and she prayed it would be able to contain her full figure. Her eyes fluttered over to her husband asleep on the bed. He had surely forgotten what she looked like naked. With every pound of flesh she had gained their bedroom had become a shade darker.

The light was now a flattering pale yellow. But not flattering enough. Her breasts cast misshapen shadows on the wall and the vast, lumpy expanse that was her stomach. She knew what lay below but was shy, almost afraid to look. As though it was rude to stare at one's own private parts. She glanced at her husband again to make sure he was still asleep, and then reluctantly let her eyes touch the sparse growth of hair that nestled between her thighs. Thighs that rubbed against each other with every step she took.

She turned, trying to find something she liked. But all she saw was her low slung behind. Her stomach looked even bigger from the side. She protectively cupped its drooping weight with her two hands like women did when they were pregnant. But there had never been anything there. Nor would there be.

She took in a deep breath and held it, standing straight and staring at the shadow she now cast. Everything seemed a little higher now. Her breasts. Her chin. Her mood. She smiled and crept back in to bed her mind holding on to the image it had just received.

parting

We don’t have much time together. Just a few fleeting moments of togetherness before you are whisked away. I want to make the most it, but am so busy telling myself not to squander our time together that I do just that. I want to stand there and bask in your glory. Absorb every particle of your being in to my skin and soul. Instead I cower in the shadows and feel sorry for myself.

‘I’m here now! Make the most of it’ you say. But all I can think of is what it will be like when you are gone. Cold and desolate. All I can think of is how I will miss the feel of you against my skin. I sullenly reach out and as our fingers brush a warmth spreads over me.

‘Stay a little longer’ I beg. ‘Just a few more months.’

‘You always do this’ you chide. ‘You know I’ll be back’

We hold hands one last time, and as you pull away the air becomes cooler.

Goodbye summer.

(I know summer has just begun. But this is definitely how I’ll feel once this glorious season has come to an end. And my sincere apologies for not replying to any of the comments in the previous post. I fully intended to, but kept putting it off. And then didn’t. SORRY!)

Enough!

Dear white people I work with,

I realise that I am one of the few Indians you encounter in your day-to-day life apart from the waiters at the local balti (who are probably Bangladeshi by the way), but I really need to clarify a few things.

1.I do not know why Indian Call Centre operators call you up 10 times a day offering you new and fantastic cell phone deals. I do not know why your bank’s back office operations in Madras have your telephone number from three houses ago. And before you crib about the fact that they cannot pronounce your name correctly, try saying Kannika Parameshwari or Somayajulu or Veerabadran.

2.Please stop asking me about female infanticide/ human sacrifices/ elephant headed Gods and poverty. I have told you all I can as best as I can. Once more, and I will be asking you about the sad state of your overly promiscuous 12 year olds who are snorting coke in class (teachers tried to wake up a ‘sleeping’ student in class only to realise that she had od-d on cocaine) and delivering babies in their bedrooms (‘I dint know I was pregnant till the baby came out. Thought it was indigestion.’ Of course you did dear).

3.I understand that your country is yet to discover that apart from black and white other colours do exist. But stop twittering every time I come to work in red or orange about ‘How it does suit you people.’ I assume by ‘you people’ you are referring to those of us that are aware of other colours. Also, please do not assume that since I display a knowledge of other 'exotic' colours it is appropriate to give me a gigantic gold bag for Christmas. It is not.

4.Yes. Ha ha. People sing and dance at regular intervals in Bollywood movies. The rest of the nation does not follow suit.

5.My grasp of the English language is far superior to yours. So please, stop whispering to one another and checking my copy. Someone who says ‘Crikey is bloody hot today innit’ probably thinks a semi colon is situated in the human body and will be unable to confirm whether it should be in a sentence or not.


Sincerely

The blue kurti wearing copywriter who was almost offered as a human sacrifice to a 23 aardvark headed God.

Still not in the mood...

A giant fish's skeleton swims by lazily. I see the head first - the single, large marble-like eye fixing a startled look on me. The curves of the body remind me of the hump of a normal distribution curve. The bones a delicate, feathery white. The arch tapers off in to the tail bone, covered by a long, white, whithered tube sock. A man's tube sock. Nike. The swoosh is faint.

The sky is a wonderful place to cloud fish. And today's catch wasn't all that bad.

Laziness persists

so here are some pictures from my recent trip home.

Lost

am back from my vacation... feeling far too lazy to write something new, so here's something old.

-----

The sheets arched and dipped around them – cool, 360 thread count waves of the finest cotton. They were weary seafarers desperate to reach home. No longer enamoured by the possibility of serendipitous discoveries, for they knew of all the secret isles and dark depths the other concealed; worn maps that were once traversed and marked by fingers trembling with the joy that uncharted territories command.
Scented candles were lit, perhaps to show them the way. But instead their perfume cloyed, and the flames illuminated their inadequacies.
They floundered in the now tepid waters of their four-poster bed, drowning within the folds of its Zen minimalism. He threw the voluminous cotton off – a veritable Moses parting the seas and guiding his beloved to the Promised Land. But she shivered, cowering under his gesture of bravado.
They thrashed about - an attempt to create a tempest with their lukewarm passion. But there was no storm. Just the mildest of ripples. They drifted away clutching on to their driftwood pillows. Two castaways washed up on the shores of dissatisfaction.

Spring break

The next few weeks promise to be busy with work and two holidays. So I'm going to take a short break from blogging. See you all in the summer.

Banned

There just doesn't seem to be enough time. Sunday magazines lie by the bed, articles bookmarked for future reading and recipe's ripped out for testing on my guinea pig - The Sherpa. Music waiting to be released from the confines of their electronic homes so that they may slip in and tickle the crevices of my ear. Books bought and borrowed beckon me with words, stories and characters. Tempting me to lose myself in them and ignore the persistent whistle of the milk cooker. All these things languish in the corners of my life. While I go through the motions of every day life.

So I'm going on a weeklong Television ban. Just to re-evaluate its role in my life. The Sherpa thinks I'm being extreme and won't last till the end of the day. Watch this space to find out how it goes!

Don’t call mommy a bitch and eat that fruit

Switch on your television. Go on, I know you want to. If you have cable I’m sure a majority of the programs on your listings page are reality shows of some kind.

My first recollection of a reality show is MTV Road Rules and that other show about hot, 20 something guys and girls all living together in a cool condo - Big Brother in perhaps its earliest avatar (anyone remember the name of that show?) Survivor and its spin offs all figure much later in my time line of reality shows (but I could be wrong, so feel free to correct me).

We’ve had all kinds of reality shows – teams battling it out on exotic islands for money, people eating kangaroo testicles for money, people getting plastic surgery live without paying any money. But the ones that interest me the most are the new breed of shows. (well, new to me) The ‘let us help make your life better’ shows. They’re all over the place tackling every aspect of human life – financial, sexual, romantic and professional.

Got problems with the kids? Call Supernanny. £40,000 in debt? Watch Bank of Mum and Dad (poor unsuspecting parents who think Jr. is £300 in debt find out they need to add a few extra zeroes to the figure). Not able to prevent your children from growing up to be ASBO awarded, drug selling yobs? Tune in to Honey, we’re Killing the Kids. Missed health ed classes and don’t know that brushing your teeth twice a day is good for you? Don’t worry you can always find out about the benefits of toothpaste by watching Too Posh to Wash.

The scary thing is that the above list is very real. And just skims the surface. Pay off your mortgage in 2 years, Look 10 years younger, You are What you Eat… the list of shows is endless. Forget DIY programs, what you should be watching these days is hour long specials on how to fix your life, not bad plumbing.

So why are these programs so popular? Why do parents need to be told that it’s not ok for their diabetic 6 year old to be eating Kit Kats every day and that it will kill them? Why do young people not know that it’s a bad idea to be 50k in debt and that declaring bankruptcy is not a fun thing to do? It’s appalling to see how inept some people are at – well running their lives. And that they need to be told s-l-o-w-l-y by a posh dietician and therapist to eat a bit more fruit and veg everyday and that their 4 year old should not call mummy a bitch.

So I’m wondering – what is it that’s made people this way? Is it family background? A lack of basic education? Sheer stupidity?

These shows are on air because there’s a need for them. And they’re probably helping a lot of people out there. But if we think the government is getting too nanny-ish for our liking, what do we have to say about our television channels?

And I can’t help but wonder where all this is leading? Learn to make your own bed shows? Don’t forget to take out the trash specials? How to chew your food documentaries?

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and set some emotional boundaries with The Sherpa. The television told me to.

Pervert?

What can I say about this man? Nothing I should think as I am no authority on The Bard. His complete works weighs down my book shelf and I have every intention of reading the entire thing. One day. Honest.


We’ve credited him with adding over 1700 common words to our vocabulary, quoted him and made movies about him.

And now

‘A new edition of Shakespeare's collected works reveals that smuttiness is at the very heart of the Bard's plays. Heloise Senechal, the textual editor of The RSC Shakespeare, joins Mark Lawson to explain why she thinks previous editions have been too prudish, and how computer techniques helped her uncover the fact that Shakespeare's work is absolutely `packed with filth'.’

Source: The BBC website.

To listen to an interview with Heloise Senechal go here

And scroll down till you see Filthy Shakespeare.
It's a segment on a show called Front Row.

Very interesting, indeed.

SHOE FETISHIST SEEKS SHOE FIEND

Note

That’s the gist of what someone asked me recently in the comments section of www.desicritics.org What an excellent profile to put up in a lonely hearts column, I thought, thinking of all the wonderfully weird people it would attract.

Every Friday The Independent publishes its Arts & Books Review, a 40 page supplement bursting with well written reviews and profiles. The last page is always devoted to Great Works – an in depth analysis of a piece of art and it’s creator that I always mean to read but never get around to. Cultural Life takes a brief look in to what singers, actors and directors are reading, watching and listening to. On one page they rip a movie apart and in the next they are interviewing its director. It’s a supplement that is entertaining, informative and above all well written.

Till recently however, there was always one part of the supplement that I blipped over. The Independent Personals. Why would I bother, I’m happily married after all. (that should put The Sherpa at ease… now time to delete my perfectmatch.com profile)

But a delay on the train home last week (a rather permanent fixture in my life these days) left me bored. So I thought ‘let’s see what the market is like!’

A quick skim through the columns revealed that most of the singletons writing in to this particular publication were above 40 (Though there were 20 and 30 somethings, they were outnumbered by their more mature comrades). There were even a few 60 plussers in there.

Each profile had a little caption in bold – a hook I guess to attract the attention of skimmers like me. I present to you here some of my favourites (edited).

Women seeking Men

AISLE BE THERE FOR YOU
Genuine, attractive, mixed race F in 40’s seeks Arab, European, Indian M 35-60 looking for relationship and possible marriage.

GENTLEMEN REQUIRED
50+ to join five ladies for dinners in May.

NOT TOO MANY THORNS
Genuine F, 45, neglected rose, seeks loving M

I’M ONLY HUMAN
Down to earth, kind, witty …

DELECTABLE SEEKS INTELLECTUAL
Russian/British Londoner 40 slim blonde, chic, integrity, eccentricity, Worshipper of intellect, I promise that a thinking, outstanding man would never get bored of me.

GET UP AND GO FOR IT
Genuine F, 60 with plenty of get up and go…

Men seeking Women

DO IT OURSELVES
Gentle, affectionate M 47, likes DIY…

GARTER GET YOU INTO MY LIFE
Attractive M seeks intelligent, attractive, stocking clad F


Men seeking Men

DAMSEL IN DIS-DRESS
Good looking 43 year old cross-dressing M seeks kind person to have fun with

Women Seeking Women

SO FERRARI SO GOODIE
Recycled Ferrari, 43 seeks TLC from a caring gay F for possible long-term ownership.

It’s nice to see that in spite of all the divorce statistics being thrown at us and the constant reports of celebrity marriages falling apart people are still looking for friendship, love and the odd used car. Here’s to you singletons!

school

I rarely think of school days. Today my art partner's samosa reminded me of a friend that used to steal them from the canteen! And that seemed to open a little trap door in my head to a time when I wore two plaits and a very unbecoming blue pinafore.

i

The quadrangle is flooded.
Blue pinafores hitched up at the knees
And unpolished, dusty, Bata shoes
Suddenly glisten
polished by dirty puddles of rain water
Braids are straightened – one fat and one thin
Meenakshi never gets them right
The uniform monitor scrutinises us
And we say a silent thanks to the rain
For shining our shoes
If only it had washed away the nail polish
We think, kneeling outside our classroom

ii

Fountain Pepsi arrives at school
We queue and jostle
School bags are upturned for loose change
Bus and lunch money is spent
One Pepsi is purchased
And passed around
We feel like college boys sharing a cigarette
And giggle

iii

Our
class
is
standing
single
file
in
the
prayer
hall
I
Open
One
Eye
And
See
The
Oiled
hair
of
the
Girl
Before
me.
two
head
lice
crawl
out
single
file
and
look
at
me.
i
think

Bits and pieces

During rush hour the carriage is packed tighter than my holiday suitcase. Stragglers are shoved in to tiny crevices while the lucky ones sit neatly folded in their seats. I am a chiffon blouse after thought pressed up against a pinstriped suit in a similar predicament. Strangers savouring the intimate details of each other’s lives. Close enough to smell perfumes and aftershaves, smirk at love bites and count pimples.In the evening I study the council houses and apartment blocks of suburbia from my window. So close, like J.J flyover where flowered balconies and sagging clotheslines seem close enough to touch. Here, I cannot touch. So I see. Red walls, kitchen dramas, glowing televisions. Scenes of domestic bliss. Or so they seem from afar. Do they look out as I look in?

Mami here's your gift - Haggis!

Come April and the Sherpa and I will be making our first trip home since coming to London. It’s been a year and a half – the longest I’ve ever been without seeing my family. Excited doesn’t do justice to how I feel right now. It’s almost as though I’m cocooned by a bubble of elation, floating along with not a care in the world (hey I survived a week of Christmas merriment in March didn’t I?)

Going home requires much thought and preparation. Getting the best deal on your tickets, convincing your boss that 3 weeks is not too much vacation to ask for (oh and could I have a couple of weeks off in June too?), thinking of all the things I’ve been deprived of in London – like my mother’s cooking - and making plans to ensure I get enough of it while I’m in Madras. But if there’s one thing that eclipses all these other tasks it’s The Shopping (we should give it the respect it deserves).

I remember as a child, preparation for our annual vacations back to Madras would begin months in advance. One could always tell that The Shopping season was about to begin when our post box became jammed with blue aerogrammes from India and phone calls from Aunties who had not spoken to us since our last jaunt home, telling us how pleased they were that we were coming and how they couldn’t wait to see us (and our luggage I’m sure)

My mother became the family Santa Claus, getting requests from nieces and nephews. Whether they had been naughty or nice they all got what they asked for. Maybelline announced record breaking quarterly profits and Mattel would have gone bust if it wasn’t for our trips home.

Fast Forward 15 years and one would think there’s no need for the going home shopping anymore. After all, there’s hardly anything you don’t get in India these days. That apparently is not the case. As a friend of mine said ‘everyone from the neighbour's servant to the ball boy at The Mylapore Club must be gavunichified or taken care of’.

Now being a pro-shopper I though it would be a cinch doing The Shopping. So I drew up a list of people that I felt should benefit from my largesse and what would be suitable gifts for each of them. Feeling rather smug about my meticulousness I called my mother the Queen Bee of shopping (and the donor of rather outstanding retail loving genes) and boasted about my list. Our conversation went somewhat like this:

‘Oh but what about so-and-so Aunty?’

‘Her? Why do I have to get her anything?’

‘She gave you a silver lamp when you left for London.’

‘I never got a silver lamp.’

‘Oh that’s because I took it and gave it to so-and-so for their wedding.’

And so the list grew and pretty soon included neighbours who had moved in after I left home, third cousins thrice removed and the corner wino Muniyandi. Armed with the list, the sherpa and I headed out. ‘Remember, stay focused’ the sherpa warned. I scoffed at the suggestion that I may be side tracked from my mission (forgetting how well he knows me).

Temptation was everywhere. I would stroke handbags far too young for my 60 plus Aunt and hold up dresses two sizes too small for my neighbour’s daughter (but just right for me!). My husband joked about putting me on a leash and after an hour had to surgically attach his hand to my upper arm (even a saunter through the lingerie department wouldn’t shake him off – and that always works)

Once my roving eye was under control, we faced another problem. Everything was made in India. And the last thing I wanted was to give someone an overpriced t-shirt made in Tirupur only have them to say to me ‘You could have got this for a fraction of the price in Tirupur!’

We pretty quickly realised that other than very high end fashion and food there’s very little actually made in this country. And seeing that none of our orthodox Tam Brahm relatives would appreciate a leg of lamb, roast beef or a Vivienne Westwood corset we began looking for things made in other ‘phoren’ countries. Vietnam! Thailand! China!
A search that yielded much better results than tartan kilts (though I do think they’d make a rather interesting substitute for lungis).

In the last three weekends we’ve managed to amass a small mountain of cheaply made overpriced goods. Almost every name on our list has been crossed off. With the sole exception of Muiyandi the wino. A bottle of Grey Goose perhaps?

My god those bunnies are aliens!

Who am I kidding - at times (and by that I mean most no all of the time) my job can be the equivalent of Haemorrhoids. (I don't know what Haemorrhoids are but they sound pretty painful)

I quote from a brief sent over by a client

"We want to promote disco dancing at the centre. Something along the lines of 'if you like to boogie come and strut your stuff at Disco Dancers - the funkiest dance class around. Bop like your favourite pop star...' you get the idea."

Sigh. And to make matters worse I've been asked to start working on Christmas 2006. It's not even Easter yet you consumerist pagans! For a client by the way that won't let us shoot with Volkswagens because (please read in a Manchester accent. Think Daphne from Frasier) 'OOh not Volkswagens. I knew a girl who had one once and I didn't like her very much.'

Hard to argue with logic like that eh?

So how does one stay sane in such situations?

I present to you Angry Alien. And will say nothing more!

P.s Suggestions on how one can top "Park the Herald Angel sings? will be most welcome!

Friday is Amish Day

Friday. The end of the week and the beginning of the weekend. After 5 days of writing inane radio jingles, direct mailers disguised as exotic drinks from the Tiki Bar and television commercials that involve mannequins coming to life I am tired. My mind that was fully functioning at the start of the week has slowly degenerated in to semi-comatose entity that hardly knows what it’s telling the rest of my body to do.

As you can all imagine this has many fallouts. I begin to use words like ‘sparkly’ and ‘fabulous’ with reckless abandon. I find myself watching Project Catwalk and tearing up when the winner is announced. But nowhere else are the repercussions felt more than in the wardrobe department. Yes, by Friday I have become a sartorially challenged wreck who would make Trinny and Susannah rub their posh, breast grabbing hands in glee.

Now I’m no fashion plate. I don’t take to every word printed by Vogue as The Truth (if you ask me leggings and knickerbockers should have left behind in the 80’s along with perms and Rick Astley). But I do consider myself well dressed and make some effort in deciding what to wear (without being obsessive and ‘visualising’ outfits as the wonderfully trashy Victoria Beckham suggests).

It’s not like I wake up Friday morning and decide to look ugly. No it’s a gradual process that starts on Wednesday around tea time and kicks in to full gear by Friday morning. On Friday morning everything seems pointless and a waste of time.

Why bother with hair soufflés? (Children please don’t try eating them. Even the ones that say they’re Banana flavoured.) After all your hair just ends up looking like a bird’s nest thanks to the gale 3 winds blowing outside. And not even a cool bird’s nest like those kids in Camden Lock sport. No, just a sad ‘I’m 25 and am pretending to be 15’ looking one whose only redeeming quality is that it smells of banana soufflé. And I’m not even sure that’s a redeeming quality anymore.

On Friday morning I look at my mascara wand and think why bother? My eyelashes are notoriously clannish and insist of sticking together instead of spreading out in to long, elegant black whips. Eyeliner makes me look more Panda chic than exotic Indian and my lipstick seems to develop an inordinate fondness for my teeth.

But the worst thing on Friday is honestly what I wear. Let’s take what today’s outfit for example. For some strange reason I decided today was Amish Day. Long, frumpy denim skirt, starched white shirt and a blue sweater vest. (Don’t even ask my why I own as sweater vest) And to make matters worse I decided to slick my hair in to the most unprepossessing of buns. So not only do I look Amish, I look like an Amish School Marm.

The full extent of my fashion suicide is only apparent to me when I reach the train station. And then suddenly I’m surrounded by slick, put together women carrying Mulberry bags and draped in pashmina shawls. Their hair and make-up is perfect and I just know that underneath that tweed but not tweedy suit exist legs natural tans bestowed upon them by a Caribbean sun.

And they all look at me with pity. Wondering simultaneously when they started letting the Amish in to Britain. I usually use my newspaper as a defence. I hide behind the moral and intellectual superiority of The Independent trying to cast an
eye-rolling ‘oh-my-god’ you’re reading Heat? Which makes trying to cop a look at the Britney’s New Bump headline very difficult by the way.

And if getting to work is bad, then the journey home is even worse. Friday night revellers heading out to get smashed line the platforms like twinkling fairy lights. I try and skulk by them, hoping to draw as little attention to myself as possible. And then I catch it - that wry, sardonic eyebrow lift and lip curl from some nubile nineteen year old. I try not to have uncharitable thoughts or shout out ‘Bet you don’t know the GDP of Ukraine.’ But then neither do I so I skulk on to the farthest corner of the platform trying not to stare at the tonguing twelve year olds.

I’ve channelled a number of It’s Friday looks over the years. Immigrant cleaning lady. Garbage bag lady. Lady who looks like she lives alone with 10 cats. Lady who looks like she’s hiding one of those cats under her jumper.

So why don’t I buck up and make some effort on Fridays? Well in a few seasons some upstart fashion designer could be selling haute couture Amish School Marm dresses to an unprepared and unsuspecting public. And boy will I be ready for it.

Trapped

Dressed in wispy whites, polka dots and resplendent in floral overtures the shop windows of London have decided that spring is upon us. Bikinis worthy of St. Bart’s, peep toed shoes and dresses that would do the wives of Stepford proud beg to be bought. The burgundies and golds of Christmas have been replaced by citrus and the sea. Santa and Rudolph have made way for Malibu Barbie and mopeds. I walk past Miami Beach, The Parisian Left Bank and Marrakech. Names trying to exotify the cheap, Taiwanese garments being hawked.

But this spring blooms only in the glass enclosures covered in fake sand and redolent plastic daffodils. It borders the streets but does not spill in to it.

For on the other side of these Windolened barriers the world is colder. The sun does not shine. The trees are bare - branches sharp and angular like the teeth of a comb housing jaunty hairball nests. Feet blinded by wool socks and boots – denied the views the peep toes promise. The living shrouded in layers of cloth – hiding from the cold.

I hurry on. Fighting the urge to shatter glass and set spring free.

First love + Railway station

Note Here is my last assignment for the class. Sightly modified.

Howard takes advice from a Mars Bar

'Platform 11A for the 09:06 train to Peterborough. Calling at Finsbury Park, Potter's Bar, Hatfield…'

Even though he had been taking the same train to work every day for the last 4 years, Howard waited till his station was announced before setting off towards 11A. He merged in to the mass of commuters – an ominous black cloud floating down the platform. People whose taste in music, movies and preferred sexual positions varied yet nearly all of them concurred black was the chosen colour when it came to winter coats.

Howard settled down in his seat. Newspaper neatly folded on his lap, waiting to be read. Mars Bar in his pocket waiting to be consumed. Howard himself, waiting for the regulars to board the train. There was Perennial Blue Suit – so typically English that it had been almost two years of travelling together before he nodded at Howard. There was Tour de France with his cycle and Learn Spanish in a week book. He had been reading it for a month now and hadn't got beyond 'How to ask for directions'. There was Funny Girl - Asian and always laughing uproariously garnering her disapproving looks from Perennial Blue Suit. There was Essex Emily lamenting on the phone to an assortment of girlfriends about ex-lovers, tyrannical bosses and Big Brother house evictees. Howard often marvelled about how much and how little he knew of these people he spent every morning with.

After the usual safety announcements the doors shut, locking out the usual latecomers wearing the usual expression of frustration and loss. You'd think they'd be used to it by now.

As the train pulled out of King's Cross Howard tugged out the Mars Bar and studied the familiar black packaging. Familiar. The word seemed to describe every aspect of his life. His job. The view from the window he sat by. His ring tone. They were all so disgustingly predictable. Self-loathing rose up in his throat like bile.

He turned the bar around in his hands. What was their new campaign? Do something new every day? I can do better stuff than that. But you aren’t. No, instead Howard wrote copy for insurance companies. Telling people what they were entitled to if they lost an arm or an eye. That their policy didn’t cover damage caused by ‘Acts of God.’

Howard deferred reading the paper to thinking over the proposition. Maybe I could buy a different newspaper. But even as this traitorous thought crossed his mind he clutched the Daily Mail protectively. So much for that idea.

Great going mate, instead of finding something new to do you’re feeling sorry for yourself again. Crap job. No friends. A love life so pathetic he'd been convinced he was homosexual. A notion corrected after a disastrous foray into a gay chat room with the moniker Backdoorbandit.

All his other attempts at ‘getting out there’ had failed miserably. Latino dance classes where he was always without a partner, dancing humiliatingly alone. Creative writing classes where the teacher had said he needed a life to be able to write about it. A life coach who had been avoiding his calls for a month. Speed dating where his 3 minute dates had all left after 30 seconds.

Loser. His 8 year old nephew had called him one the other day. The sight of the rotund Asian couple opposite him holding hands and giggling seemed to confirm this. Even that saddo’s found someone.

"This is your driver. Looks like we're being slowed down by the train ahead of us. Apologies for any delays to your journey today."

The train finally pulled into Finsbury Park. Some of the regulars got off and a new set of familiar faces got on. Familiar. There was that bloody word again.

"I'm afraid there's going to be some delay in continuing our journey due to a signal failure at Alexandra Palace."

Howard looked out the window without really seeing anything. What could he do today? The more chocolate he ate the more reckless he felt. Yes, today would be the day. No more whingeing mate, take your life in to your own hands. What could he do? Get his nipple pierced? But nobody would it – it was too cold to go about without his shirt on. A nose ring? No, his boss would have a fit and force him to take it off.

It was as these thought bubbles rose and burst in his mind that he saw her. She was standing on a lone platform, rubbing her hands and peering down the tracks as though willing her train to appear. She wasn’t beautiful. No, she was what his mother would call ‘attractive’ - not a great looker but a nice package.

Howard had been looking at her so intently he hadn’t noticed her staring back. She smiled in the way commuters occasionally smile at one another – a hesitant, rueful upturn of the lips. Before he knew it Howard was waving at her. Her smile became tinged with embarrassment and Howard realised he was brandishing his hand like the Queen Mother. He stopped smiled sheepishly and returned his attention to the Mars Bar.

He’d bit off the penultimate chunk of chocolate when it hit him. That’s it! No she’s it! She’ll be the new thing I do today. Well not do but – she could be … what of she's the one.

He looked out and incredulously realised that she was still staring at him. Howard choked on the chocolate. God don’t kill me now and ruin the plan. .

"Ladies and gentleman, this is your driver. Sorry, but it looks like we’ll be here a little longer. I’ll update you as and when I get more information.”

Howard’s hands were trembling. Should he go over and talk to her? He wondered when the next train was. He didn’t want to have to wait half an hour for the next one. What is wrong with you? The first and possible true love of your life is standing 20 yards away and you’re worried about train timings? Just be cool. BE COOL.

The fat Asian couple were staring at him, worried. “You ok mate?” Despite Howard’s inner turmoil, it still registered how ridiculous ‘mate’ sounded in a foreign accent.

Howard nodded and ran a hand through his hair. Ok don’t fuck this up now. Maybe you could hold up a sign? What if she’s short sighted? How about waving your phone at her? And what she telepathically transmits her number to you? Get off your arse and over to that platform.

Howard stood up determined. But a sudden wave of nausea and dizziness brought him tumbling back in to his seat. The last thing he wanted was to leave half digested porridge on her shoes. Be a man for God’s sake. Howard cringed as his father’s voice boomed in his head. He inhaled deeply and began counting very slowly till 10.

It was somewhere between 4 and 5 that Howard realised it was not nerves but the rhythmic motion of the train that was making him sway. Finsbury Park and Howard’s shot at true love were long gone and had been replaced by blurry images of the every day. Howard shook his head and made up his mind. I’ll buy The Guardian when I get to work.

journey home

on the train

delayed
delayed
delayed

the rim of the platform is edged
with people threatening to spill
over like unshed tears

i stand at the front
of this surging swelling mass
irritated at the triple delay

i see a man
push his way through
edging along the ring

he is close and
the urge to push him
over the yellow line

so intense
that I step back
in to the crowd

the train arrives
and he
gets my seat

and on the bus

white
brown
yellow
black
blue veins
purple bruises
green eyes
tonight the bus is
a living breathing
pantone card

First love

Though my blog’s title indicates a love for shoes it doesn’t mean that only footwear can get my heart racing and my palms sweating. No, no. Being the generous person I am I see nothing wrong in sharing the love. With books, bags and cashmere sweaters that I swear purr when stroked, (I guess I should add The Sherpa to the list – after all he does help finance some of my more extravagant obsessions, so) The Sherpa.

Many of these are recent paramours. Except the shoes. No, that love affair started when I was 10 and my father took me to buy a pair for my birthday. The finance minister of our home (my mother) had issued a budget of Rs. 250. After much lower lip quivering and around the little finger twisting I managed to procure myself a pair for Rs. 750. They were brown leather lace ups with ever so slightly pointy toes. How I loved them.

As usual I digress. This post isn’t about shoes but another first love of mine. As a child I would run around department stores, greedy hands reaching out and touching everything my chubby fingers could reach. Not toys or Barbie dolls - no, I was pursuing a far more superior path of consumerism. Stationery in all its glorious forms.

Pink Hello Kitty journals and Snoopy post-it notes. Donald Duck erasers and pencil boxes adorned with Pokemon’s ancestors. Pens that not only released ink but also a sickly sweet perfume. But my number 1 love was notebooks.

I adored the smell - clean and pure. The pages smooth and unsullied. The corners still sharp before time and being squashed in the back of my drawer bent them into submission. Some became diaries. Other repositories of ‘To do’ lists. Though for the life of me I can’t remember what I populated those lists with – Eat wheetabix for breakfast? Play with Flower Power Barbie (who was more garden fairy that mod chick). In others I wrote stories that were never finished and always featured a blonde girl called Jessica May. Some bore my first attempts at art. Stick figures dressed in triangular skirts, boxy jackets and - even at age 8 - insanely high heels.

I could never see a notebook through to the end though. After a few months I would lose interest. The pages were no longer new. The excitement would subside and be replaced by loathsome familiarity. And like a fickle teenager I would transfer my affections to a new flavour of the month without little thought for the feelings of my former beau. In a year I had amassed a small pile of half used diaries and pads. Tainted with my scribbles and of no use to any one else.

In later years this obsession proved troublesome. When I started working, the office supply cupboard proved too hard to resist. Rows of shiny notebooks, envelopes, glue sticks and jars of candy coloured paper clips that were waiting for me to dip my hand in and satisfy the greedy 8 year old that still lurked inside. The expensive roller ball pens, the pencils sharpened to perfection – even the clear plastic folders weren’t safe from me. A few months in to my first job and admin began insisting that all staff showed proof that they needed new stationery.

While many of my youthful fancies have come and gone (like the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles) my crush on notebooks has developed in to a far more mature affair. The mouthless Japanese cat has been replaced by understated black moleskine and the leaking, pens held together by cello tape have been discarded for writing instruments that don’t turn by skin Quink blue.

But every now and then the 8 year inside manifests. In perfumed erasers, ventricular rulers and pens that leave a shiny, wet trail of glittery pink words.

Ps. For those of you that didn't notice, this post was just an excuse for me to tell all of you that I have a moleskine notebook and link to the site. I may never write like Hemingway but at least I have the notebook. :P

Seven sans Brad and Morgan

OK. I’ve been tagged. This is the last tag I am going to do. Please note that from today this blog is a tag free zone. Those that continue to tag me will be hunted down and forced to watch the movies on my ‘7 good movies’ list on loop for a year. Thank you.

Seven things to do before I die

· Walk the Inca trail
· Use my breasts to promote world peace
· Actually mean it when I say My other shoes are Manolos
· Win the lottery
· Write the book of the century
· Write, direct and produce a movie about my life (I‘m thinking Jennifer
Aniston plays me)
· Find out who started this whole tag thing and kill them

Seven things I can't do:

· Eat meat
· Not wave my hands about manically when I speak
· Keep quiet for more than 5 minutes
· Find another 4 things I can’t do. I'm a pretty open to new things that way.

Seven things that attract me to Europe (Who the hell came up with these questions)

· Cheese
· Old buildings
· Art I don’t understand but can pretend to (“wonderful use of space and light!”)
· European men I can admire from afar (get too close and you realise it’s true – they do have problems with bathing every day)
· Cheese
· Cheese
· Did I say cheese?

Seven excellent books:

Please refer here

Seven good movies:

· Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure
· Dude where’s my car?
· American Pie
· American Pie II
· American Wedding
· Koodi Vazhnthaal Kodi Nanmai (Live together for much goodness)
· Untitled movie about my life starring Jennifer Aniston

Last week!

Hi everyone. Well only one more week of the class to go and here's the last assignment for those of you that would like to give it a whirl!

WRITE A STORY BASED ON THE PICK 'N' MIX WORDS YOU CHOSE.

THE STORY SHOULD BE WRITTEN ENTIRELY FROM THE PERSPECTIVE OF ONE CHARACTER WHO IS NOT YOUR GENDER. (NB THIS CAN BE VIA THE FIRST PERSON 'I' OR THIRD PERSON 'S/HE' -- BUT STICK TO THAT PERSPECTIVE.)

Any length is OK. I know the working titles sound a bit pulpy, but please don't let this distract you from your distinctive voice and style. The point is to use your chosen THEME + SETTING as strong guiding principles throughout your story. (The real title can come later.)

horror/zoo
grief/garden
shock/temple
bliss/monument
new beginnings / mosque
metamorphosis/wilderness
disgrace / cellar
lust/church
anger /hospital
celebration / prison
corruption / brothel
revenge / farm
outrage / rubbish dump
addiction/museum
regret / laboratory
poverty/ship

I got "new love/railway station"

Enjoy!

Ps. That's a picture of the first flowers of spring that have bloomed outside my office. Please note the 'Indian' restaurant in the background. The brick building next to it is where I work!

My flashback

This one’s for Grandma

Surya shivered as the sleety wind did its best to find chinks in her winter armour. She stamped her feet, trying to dispel the numbing cold and her mounting impatience in one go. The 114 finally came trundling down the road. It groaned to a halt, spluttering out smoke and passengers. Shuddering all the while as though it too felt the cold.

The driver grunted as she flashed her pass at him. The bus lurched forward and she stumbled into the first available seat. Her neighbour’s face was obscured by the faux fur collar of her coat, but the faint smell of turmeric and the bindhied forehead gave her away. Bulging plastic bags were clasped to her chest like well fed pups. Out of the corner of her eye, Surya saw chipped maroon talons pull out a tube. ‘Fair Always’ it proclaimed. The woman squeezed the tube releasing a sluggish yellow river that flowed through the crisscrossing tributaries of her fate. Camphor, saffron and a 9-year old girl’s fear burst out.

'Surya! Surya! Wake up. Lazy girl.' The covers had been whipped off before she could protest. Surya opened her eyes and looked sullenly in to the murky, cataract ridden eyes of her Paati.

'Who are you scowling at, hmm? ' Surya knew better than to reply and silently rolled up her bedding and made her way to the outhouse. Paati had hobbled after her as though to make sure she didn't fall asleep on the way.

As Surya went about her morning ablutions, Thangam the maid and Paati began a daily ritual of their own.

'Look how dark she is' Paati muttered – still unable to digest the fact that her son
(who was often mistaken for a fair Punjabi mind you) had produced such a dark offspring. And a girl at that.

'Look how she washes her face – how will the darkness go if she's so gentle? She needs to scrub harder' Thangam demonstrated with the coconut husk she was cleaning the vessels with.

The statement galvanised Paati in to action. Her self-diagnosed arthritis was forgotten as she leapt across the courtyard and grabbed hold of Surya's neck, mimicking Thangam's vigorous wrist action on her tender skin.

The bus stopped. Ms. Fair Always stared at Surya and then transferred her attentions to the smug, middleclass cars around them.

'Why don't you use the ointment I got from Neela’s?’ Paati had demanded ' Her daughter’s become white as milk.'

'Surya is fine. She doesn't need anything.' Her daughter-in-law retorted.

'Why would you want to change her –she's taken after you. You know, people think
Ravi is a-'

'I know, I know! A Punjabi. Maybe she's not Ravi's daughter after all.’

'Look at what she says! Shameless! When Ravi comes home I'll- what are you laughing at? Insolent girl.’

The memory of her grandmother’s impotent fury made Surya smile.

Mother and father were going out of town and Surya had begged to be taken along. She didn't want to be left alone with Paati. Mother had wiped away her tears and father had ruffled her hair. And then they left.

'Enough loitering at the gate. They've gone.' Paati had crowed.

Surya looked down the empty road and reluctantly went back inside.

'I want hot water to bathe Paati' she murmured.

'Oh ho! Did you hear that Thangam? Maharani wants hot water.'

Thangam sniggered in to her coffee.

'Shut up Thangam! Blackie.' Surya kicked an upturned bucket and received a smart slap from Paati in return.

'Who are you calling blackie? Huh? Dark as a coffee nut and so arrogant. Go!'

It was December, and the air was gently laced with cold. The idea of a hot bath was too good to resist. So she waited till Paati had adjusted her sobre, widow’s nine-yard sari and left for the temple. Cultivating her limp along the way for her audience of sympathetic cronies.

Thangam was washing clothes out back when Surya snuck in to the kitchen. A large aluminium vessel trembled on the stove – spitting out angry drops of boiling water every now and then. Mother had told her to keep away from fire but she shouldn’t have left her with Paati like this. Surya turned the knob as she had seen Mother do and stood on her tiptoes. She grasped the edges of the vessel with an old kitchen towel and had brought it down half way when-

'Thangam! Thangam! I forgot my coin purse. It’s in the kitchen.'

The 114 slowed down as it approached Surya’s stop.

The doctor had said she was lucky she hadn't been blinded. Mother had sobbed. Father had looked helpless. Only Paati had words.

'No hope now. Dark and disfigured. Nothing can be done.'

Surya turned to her neighbour.

'Excuse me. Can I try some of that cream?'

Update

Slightly modified version. Only slightly.

Blog-a-thon for Blank Noise Project

Image courtesy - Blank Noise Project

Blank Noise Project is hosting a Blog-a-thon on the issue of street harassment. If you’d like to participate, send an email to blurtblanknoise@gmail.com before the 6th of March.

Untold

Age 10 - PTC bus to tutions. A hand up the back of my skirt.
Age 13 - On the scooter with Appa on the way back from the library. Two boys pinch me as they speed by on their bikes
Age 15 - Waiting for my mother to pick me up after school."How much for an hour?"
Age 18 - On my Scooter at a signal. Car pulls up next to me, window rolls down and a man old enough to be my grandfather mouths obscenities at me.
Age 22 - Walking down the road minding my own business. Unknown hands reach out and brush against my crotch.
Age 25 - On a near empty carriage on the tube man comes and sits next to me. He smiles proud of the fact that he's wearing no underwear and his genitals are straining against his thin trousers.

Worse things have happened to others. But what binds us is our silence.

Homework!

As many of you know I've been taking a short creative writing course that will be coming to an end in another 2 weeks. A lot of people have found the assignments interesting and some have even been taking them up on their own blogs.

So I thought I would post this week's assingment now instead of with the finished piece. That way those of you interested can take a crack at it too!

So students this week, we're writing a Flashback!

The assignment

What is a flashback? It's an illumination, it's in the past, and it's often quick as a...

A flashback is not an ornamental device or long digression. It must be relevant. It's usually a revelation which informs the present (or near past) character-story. It should deepen our understanding, add a meaningful new layer of insight, reveal aspects of the character's story which would otherwise be hidden. A flashback is not a rambling reminiscence or a guided tour down memory lane. It's usually involuntary, subconscious, provoked. As such, it can reveal 'secrets' to the reader -- insights which help to unmask even the most guarded or controlled characters.

Flashbacks are triggered clearly for the reader by a change in style, a key word, a striking image, an evocative sensation... or a direct reference to the time difference (eg "When he was 12...", "Years before..." etc). When you signal the change in time frame, you need to be in control of your tenses. You also need to be very clear about when you come back out of that deeper past.

Sometimes a weighty flashback works better if it is broken into separate chunks. Each stage can deliver a new insight. Whatever happens, we shouldn't lose sight of the main story. And we shouldn't lose our sense of narrative momentum. The central character needs to remain located in time and space. If need be, remind us that (eg) s/he is driving a car, eating an icecream or late for a wedding.

Avoid using clichés like "Memories came flooding back" -- unless you're playing with the technique in a self-conscious manner -- such phrases are the equivalent of cinema's calendar pages blowing away or misty swirls accompanied by harp music!

It's much easier to write from the present tense (eg "X is doing something" or "X does something") and go into the past from there.

So this week's exercise is harder than that! But it's also likely to be more useful.

EXERCISE
-Write a story set in the perfect or imperfect past tense. (eg "X did something" or "X was doing something")
-Keep it to one central character's perspective only.
-S/he has a flashback -- usually in the pluperfect past tense (eg "X had done this") or a repeated continuous memory (eg "X used to do this" or "X would do this every Sunday...")
-The flashback continues (you can drop the pluperfect after a while, or else your story becomes riddled with the word "had")
-The story comes back to the im/perfect past.

If you want to save time, make use of an existing character or story you've already started, THEN DELVE!


PS. This is my 100th post! Thanks for still reading.