i wonder

Today morning, I read this - Bihari women learning how to be ideal wives and daughter-in-laws. And this is no 'finishing school' in Switzerland teaching the likes of Queenie Dhody how to order servants about. This place tells girls not to look at blind people when they’re pregnant, how to brush their teeth in the in-law’s house (because of course, the way the task has been carried out up to that very moment is in a manner disrespectful to senior citizens) and how to treat your husband like God.

And in the so-called ‘progressive’ West, The Bible i.e Vogue (yes I read shallow fashion magazines) expounds the importance of being feminine for Autumn/Winter. And by feminine I don't mean wearing florals and twin sets (which is apparently boho and mumsy). I mean burn your current wardrobe and get dressed in clothes two sizes too small that effectively shut down your respiratory system and force you to walk with 'tiny hip wiggling steps'. Heroin chic has apparently been replaced by the asphyxic equivalent.

Save Our Jugs

One of the great things about living in the UK (apart from drinking luke warm, milky tea) is getting to read The Sun/ Daily Mirror /News of the World and other illustrious newspapers as part of my job. In an effort to help me get better acquainted with the British way of life (something that all us immigrants/refugee seekers/ brown people are trying to besmirch) my office buys me all three newspapers every day.

Today, there's 'Get back in your cave' on the front page - an article urging Ayman al-Zawahiri to learn how to use the rifle beside him because the SAS are going to come after him. The usual page 3 topless model (who says 'I have always wanted to do this. It's a real honour.') (note - the concept of page 3 here is very different from that back home. I mentioned to a Brit colleague how all socialites in Bombay want to be on page 3 and his eyes bulged)

But the best article in the entire newspaper had to be a double spread entitled SAVE OUR JUGS. The EU has issued a directive ordering all bar maids to cover up their assets. Apparently, prolonged exposure to the sun when serving pints outside could give them skin cancer. The Sun of course is outraged and demands that the EU keeps its, and i quote 'hands off our barmaids' boobs.'

Now I wonder about many things regarding this situation. Two of them are a) How many barmaids did the EU have to meet with and how many er, jugs did they have to observe to come to this decision? b) Doesn't the EU have better things to do with it's time?

A sentiment shared by many of the bar maids interviewed by The Sun. "The directive is stupid" "They're bonkers" were some of the opinions shared by these young women (apart from an ample view of the at-risk body part.

I suggest we start a petition to save this sacred English tradition. Do not scoff. Would any of the Carry On movies been the same without the compulsory bar maid cleavage? Think of all the Skiving Scholars and Hogs Nipples that would have to shut down because of loss of business. It's our duty as citizens of the world to help The Sun in its noble endeavour.

And in other news - a drunken man battered his wife with an 8 pound pike fish, a DIY fan narrowly missed death after shooting himself in the heart with a nail gun and a young 15 year old girl is the proud mother of two - children fathered by her step brother no less.

The British way of life. God bless it. (and the Queen)

What to do?

My boss is out till 2:00 and my art partner called to say he's not coming in. This is the perfect Friday. I've flitted from blog to blog, left comments and resisted the call of Marc Jacob shoes on ebay. And now I don't know what to do.

Perhaps I should practise the great Indian rope trick.

Does anyone know what the great Indian rope trick is?

Apparently the Western Paragliding Association do. Huh?

weekends

It's Friday morning, and I've already started counting the hours till freedom. Come 5:30 pm and I'll be out the front door of my office faster than you can say Speedy Gonzales.

All weekends are inaugurated in a similar fashion in our home. Friday nights are for take-aways and rented dvd's, enjoyed in the comfort of one's oldest and most de-elasticated tracks. (I know, Friday nights are meant for getting dressed up and dancing the night away, but please - after a week of writing direct mailers for yobs in Manchester I do not have the energy) (Also it's not as fun as Hitchcock and chow mein)

The next two days of the weekend are passed in an enjoyable haze of sleeping in, coffee, late lunches, meeting friends, naps, more movies, half hearted cleaning and grocery shopping. Ah! The bliss of the predictable.

But it's only been this way for the last 8-9 months. That's the wonderful thing about London. No one would dare suggest you work on a weekend. And the working week effectively ends on Friday afternoon when people head down to the local Rat and Parrot or Trout's Head for a pint or two or three. Unlike back home where weekends are two days of free labour employers extract, this good Christian country rests with their Lord.

And it's a liberating feeling. Knowing that you can make plans and stick to them (the number of times my husband has bought exhorbitantly priced tickets in black that have then been passed on to friends) I no longer need to keep a low profile all Friday long so I'm not asked to come in and work on a pitch for fairness creams for cats. And I no longer need to face the sly and leering comments of coworkers on Monday morning asking how my weekend was. (when they of course were slaving away at work)

Why I ask you? Why do we begrudge other people when they've managed to finish their work on time and head home? Why must we wink and nudge as these people go by, say that they aren't hard-working enough and doubt their commitment? Is it so terrible that people get two days to recharge and relax?

And then we come to a country where people know and understand that work isn't everything and that there is a life outside the rat race. And what do we do? We mock them! 'Ah these lazy Brits. Don't want to work hard yaar. They all leave sharp 5:30 and shout if you call them on weekends.'

Well if leaving at 5:30 sharp makes me less Indian and more Brit, then it's one part of my 'Indian'ness that I'll gladly give up. Tea anyone?

Jingle bells

It's a lovely day here. The sky is picture perfect blue, there are little clouds floating along like Little Bo Peep's sheep. Why I even saw a bit of dandelion fluff float by my window. And I'm thinking about Christmas. I know, I know there's more than 4 months to go for the second most important day in the calendar celebrating God (the first is the Annual MGR birthday celebrations across the South).

So why am I thinking of Christmas? My work demands it of me. As an advertising copywriter I've been forced to immerse myself in premature yuletide joy and come up with lines like

"Park! The Herald Angels Sing."
10,000 free parking spaces at The ...........

Sigh. Sigh. And sigh again. I don't know what I feel worse about - insulting the Herald Angels or insulting the people who are going to read this poster.

It could be worse I tell myself. I remember a time when I used to do ads for a chain of household appliance stores. 'Hot deals for a cool summer' was a favourite.

We all do it in advertising. Write lines we hate. Skip channels when embarassing tv commercials we had a hand in are aired. It happens to everyone in the industry. Like doctors who forget scalpels inside their patients. Kind of.

So what can one do? I could insist my better lines be accepted (and I assure you there are better lines) I could take a year off and find inner peace. Or I could make myself some coffee and wait for Valentines Day, Easter and Hanukkah.

Coffee here I come.

(And Herald Angels, in some of the words of Uma Thurman in Kill Bill Vol 1 'If you're feeling sore about this when you're older, I'll be waiting'.)

rain.

murderous in bombay. 972 people. thousands of animals. i refuse to conform to the rule of 3.
non existant in chennai. a source of livelihood to thousands of corrupt metro water lorry drivers. back doctors. and little boys who will carry your kodams for 5 rupees.
threatening in london. will it. won't it. an overcast sky that teases like some bar dancer. showing tantalising glimpses of the blue sky beneath.

a first

I am tasting licorice for the first time as I type this. Not the long, black tentacle like sweets they sell at the corner shop but the actual plant from which it comes. My very English art partner brought me some when I told him (much to his shock) that I had never tried the aforementioned sweet before.

Other English things I grew up reading about

- ham sandwhiches as consumed by the famous five
- earl grey tea as consumed by ladies and other well to do dowagers
- scones, clotted cream and jam
- haggis a Scottish er delicacy of stuffed animal parts
- Guiness beer

As a strict vegetarian I've restricted myself to the tea and scones and now licorice. Which is very much like the stick Rajini used in Yejaman to clean his teeth in that song with Meena.

So I leave you now to perfect my Rajni impersonation and hum the song in my head. If only I could remember the words.

Ah yes - Alam pol...

Questions

"Why does it rain?"

"Why do I have to go to school?"

"Why do I have to do march past?"

"Why can't I go out with my friends tonight?"

"What's wrong with talking to boys?"

"Who cares what your relatives think?"

"How will calculus help me in life?"

"Why is pre marital sex taboo?"

"If we ever go back to India will we have to live with your parents?"

"Would you raise your children abroad?"

"Why haven't you had children yet?"

"Why do you ask so many questions?"

birds

I haven't seen a crow in 9 months.
There are pigeons everywhere ofcourse.
And the Mayor calls them rats with wings.
I wonder what Thackeray would call crows if he took the time?
Chatrapathi Shivaji's winged warriors?

I love being silly.

What's in a name?

When parents choses a name for their child do they ever wonder whether the bawling, kicking individual in question will ever live up to the name they are about to bestow? Past experiences indicate that they do not.

I have met numerous Vidyas who are incapable of addition, Sushmithas who were forever grim and Shaktis who would go running off the playground screaming and crying when 'attacked' by grasshoppers.

Now I'm not blaming parents or children. Parents can only hope that Geeta won't sound like a defunct garbage disposal machine when she sings and it's not little Vijays fault he gets bowled out as soon as he reaches the crease.

Perhaps parents whould wait a few years before naming their children. See how they turn out first. Children could be given serial numbers instead. So after AD892 has shown that he is sufficiently discerning his parents can name him Vivek.

I know, I know. How cruel to serialise children and not give them proper names that they can be cajoled, coddled and cosseted with. Well it's not like parents really call their children by their actual names until they're 3-4 years old. Till then it's usually a mix of Bujju, Gudiya, Kannu, BooBoo and other such terms of endearment. Sure the children will have a hard time adjusting and responding to their new names. Some may even suffer an identity crisis. But what's worse? That or having Vishwanath (Lord of the Universe) getting pulverised by Mridula for his lunch money?

My parents took the easy way out. They named me after a celestial dancer (I think they were watching way to many cabarets back then). So on looking up the meaning of my name all I found was, well "celestial dancer". So I really don't have any expectations to live up to, unless my lack of dexterity when it comes to hip thrusts has let my parents down.

Sorry Mom.

He said She said

She Said " Which one looks better on me - the black or the red?"

He Said "Ummm... they both look nice to me"

She said " So should I take both of them then?"

He winced " Do you really need two ... take one"

She said " OK so which one... the black or the red?"

He said " Ummmm... they both look nice to me"

Moral... One would get more help shopping from a Lhasa Apso than from a spouse

And in other news the London Underground has united for a new cause - Harry Potter and the half blood prince! Everyone's reading it.

Tic toc

Does time fly when you're having fun? The two hours since my last post seem like the longest in my life. No sorry, the longest two hours of my life were on a road trip to Tirupathi, when I really really needed to answer the call of nature, but couldn't find a single toilet suitable for living beings. If even the flies won't go in you know it's bad news. Sorry if that was too much information.

Trring

14:46
I will the display forward
It stays where it is, defiant
Is this what they mean by 'time stood still'?
another three hours
flashback to school and college
the agonising wait for the bell to ring
but there's no bell now
except for the one in my head

Memories of Luz

It's always nice to think back to the sepia tinged days on one's childhood. After 7 years of living around the world, my family put down roots in Luz - a leafy, tree lined avenue in Madras. It was wonderful. We were surrounded by madisaar clad mamis who took rikshaws to the market - their diamond earrings almost blazing in the mid day sun. Boys who played cricket at the corporation school ground down the road. Stray dogs that used to sleep in the shade of the mobile isthri vandi that was positioned outside our gate. It was wonderful. After years of living in high rise apartments where one would have to call neighbours before visiting, here I was free to wander in to 64/4, would be cajoled in to the house behind ours for cold home made ginger-lemon juice and was often employed as a messenger bearing sweets, invitations or news to the other denizens of our little world.

I lived there for 11 years. And then was whisked off one day to Bombay. And from there to London. But every year I go back to my old neighbourhood where I'm reunited with the people who have seen me grow up. The balding septagenarian upstairs who would correct me every time I made the same mistake when I sang Bhairavi. The family down the road who's eldest son would give me joy rides on his new motorbike when I was 12. Our family doctor, conveniently located right opposite our house - often roused from sleep to treat my viral fevers and my sister's wheezing.

New people have moved in. And some old faces have passed on. Many of the traditional bungalows have been replaced by modern apartments that stand out like an eye-sore. But some things never change. The stray dogs (grand children of the roads pioneers?) still snooze under the isthri vandi. The old mami behind our house still offers me her home made juice and the Doctor always asks how I'm doing. The anonymity that living abroad offers one may have it's own advantages, but sometimes I do miss living on a street where everyone knows my name

Here's a reminiscence of a street of a different kind.

This can not be happening to me

9:05 am at Euston station. The usual crowds. People reading the Metro, basking in the glow of London's Olympic win. Then an announcement. "King's Cross Station is closed. Please use the Victoria Line and change lines for your destination." People groaned and grumbled. I said goodbye to my husband and made my way to the Victoria platform. And then another announcement. "Please evaccuate the station there has been an emergency. Please evaccuate."

Well that's a new one i thought as I trudged along with thousands of commuters to the exit. Outside Euston people crowded around London's trademark red buses hoping to get to work or atleast to the next station.

The 390 I was on was full of talk about what had happened. People guessing, surmising or just making things up. One man reading the news off his phone announced that a bomb had gone off at Liverpool Station because of a power surge. The bus stopped abruptly and we were told that it wouldn't go any further. Oh great, there goes my 9:36 national rail.

Euston Road, 15 minutes later. I'm lending my phone to people whos networks have collapsed. People calling in work, family and friends trying to get a sense of what was happening. More news of power surges and stations being closed. I stood on the corner of the road, wondering which way King's Cross was. And then it happened. I witnessed my first bomb blast. From a distance albeit. A bang. Alot of smoke. And a people running like mad.

Oh my god. This isn't happening to me. This is something I watch on the news. In other countries. I just stood there. Not knowing what to do. So much for my "I always know what to do in a situation." And no matter how prepared you think you are, your mind just shuts down.
You're just walking about aimlessly waiting for someone to come and take control. Sirens wailing. Police. Ambulance. Someone in a bright yellow coat comes up to me and tells me to move as far away from the area as possible. To where? I'm not even that sure about where I am, I think. I walked down the road and called my office. Some smart aleck suggesting I walk to King's Cross and find an overline to Hatfield.

More news pouring in. No power surges. All bomb blasts. Underground shut. No buses will run in central London. All you can do is wait.

Wait for what? Another blast? WHy hasn't my husband called yet? My own overwhelming urge to call my family. Call them and say what? Hi there have just been blasts across London, I'm ok but just in case I love you? Do i sound like I was over reacting. I was. Around me women were having panic attacks. Sitting on the ground. Breathing deeply. Breathe deep I told myself. Don't cry. Nothing's even happened to you yet.

I looked around again. No buses. No trains. My only recourse was London's notoriously expensive black cabs. I saw a man getting out of one a few yards away from me. As I approached the cab he rolled the window down "I ain't taken you to central London luv". Since I was trying to get as far away from there as possible I hopped in and directed him home.

All the way back the radio crackled out more news - of casualties, emergency efforts and possible suspects. The cabbie kept up a steady stream of chatter - whether to take his mind off it or mine I don't know. But I was grateful.

As we entered the sleepy suburb I live in, the difference was startling. The sreets were empty as always, the odd grandma walked her dog and that was it. Half an hour before I was in the middle of a swirling mass of humanity. And now nothing.

I'm back home now. The heating is warming me up but hasn't reached the chill in my heart. The news is on, family has been called and reassured, and chai has been copiously consumed.

There are people who won't reach home tonight. Fatalities of a senseless attack. Someone's parent, spouse, friend, sibling. Someone's child.

And to think yesterday all I was worried about was a clogged drain outside my house.

Childhood memories

I grew up in a world of child prodigies with ESP, boys who romped with centipedes in giant fruits and friendly giants who farted before the Queen of England. And here's a critique on the man who made it all happen. It reminded me how much fun childhood was and how jaded we've become as adults. Here's to childhood!

A very brief affair

Sudoku. On the train. At work. On the web. I took a look at The Hindu’s puzzle. The grid of numbers looked back at me mockingly. .I used the sheet to mop up some spilt coffee. And returned to the crossword. Who like a Tamil film wife forgave me for my dalliance and welcomed me back with open arms.

Review!

The first six months of 2005 have gone by and I looked over my list of resolutions (yes I'm quite anal about these things and write them down lest I'm bumped on the head and get amnesia - you never know). Of the things on my rather long list I was pleased to know that I had ticked many of them off - get a job, learn a new language. Ok that's 2 not some - but it's better than 0 which is what most people have managed. With six months to go I realised that it was time to get started on the other things on my list - get fit, learn how to salsa, stay in touch with friends and family,etc. So today I'm off to the gym to get a membership! So to those of you reaading this - a gentle reminder to GET OFF YOUR ASS AND ACTUALLY SEE ONE OF YOUR NEW YEAR RESOLUTIONS THROUGH.

(Wouldn't I be a great Good Samaritan phone counsellor?)

Raju chai!

As I made my morning cup of coffee in the office today my mind wandered (as it is proned to do) to the canteen boys that are littered all over offices in India. After coming to London, one must get used to the fact that there is no one to make your morning coffee/chai at work. Phew! It feels good to be able to say that without being looked upon as some elitist snob (these English I tell you). But those of you who work in India will understand. Even before your prehistoric PC has booted in the morning you're on the phone to the canteen asking what's for breakfast and ordering a chai. And as your PC is still groaning to life, a canteen boy will come scampering up with a plate of steaming poha and masala chai. Bliss. (There's nothing more depressing than making coffee from a sachet that says Kenco Frozen Coffee Granules)

But back to the canteen boys. 12-13 years of age, scrawny, beady eyed and always called Raju. (We once had a canteen boy we all called Raju for 7 months before we realised his name was Suresh) They start out as shy and timid creatures who you can bully and send back too sweet/too milky/too cold chai to and demand a replacement free. You can shout at them, harass them and ignore them. And then they learn the power they wield. They'll start bringing you your lunch cold. Then they won't bring you your lunch at all and pretend like they never got your order. Worst of all they'll slap you with a canteen bill so large you'll need a soft loan from Citi to pay it off. (Don't even bother looking over their ledgers either - it's written in a secret canteenish script that only they understand)

But be nice to them and they'll love you for life. When I quit my first job to move to Bombay, the canteen waived my bill of 500 bucks. A marriage gift they said. (I know - awwww).

Good or evil, canteens are an integral part of working life in India. It provides employment, is a great place to bitch about colleagues and bosses and has pioneered the art of making masala chai. I miss them. And I miss fighting with the Rajus in my awful hindi (which would invariably slip in to English when I was either very angry or when my pool of hindi words ran out).

So here I am in old Blighty, and whenever a caffeine craving comes visiting I can't help but instinctively reach for the phone. And in an attempt to recapture the past I've christened the office kettle Raju.

Long time no blog

It's been so long since I last blogged I'd forgotten my login name and password. After trying various permutations and combinations of the two I struck gold. (Btw for those who are interested the login name sesquipedalian is free for the taking)

So what have I been up to? I've been to Paris, bought an ipod, shopped at Harrods (getting a Store Guide counts ok) and playing the dutiful bahu or as we Madrasis like to say Maatuponnu (which literally translated means Cow Girl. (I know!) )

Six unemployed months watching Kyunki Saas, Kahani Ghar Ghar Ki and the fashionably challengedKasautti Zindagi Ki (the men wear 3 piece suits and silk smoking jackets for gods sake) I realise I have learnt nothing. I cannot make round chapathis, forget to address my pati in a respectful manner and keep forgetting to wear a bindhi! (it's only cool with jeans on Madonna girls - we look like BTMs).

So how does the modern day girl impress her in laws? Easy! Always look busy! Rush around the house arranging things that are already in their place. Load the washing machine three times a day. Constantly clean the kitchen and loo. Iron everything - even ur husbands undies. And they will admire you're house management skills, go home and tell everyone that they have the best daughter in law in the world. (in my inlaws case that happens to be tru btw)

Such activity will not only assure you their admiration but will also make them extend acts of kindness in your direction. They'll make you your morning coffee, pack your lunch and make dinner.

So women, stop watching Tulsi and Parvati for inspiration, enough of wearing horrendous bandini synthetic sarees and monstrous bindis. If you follow my tips you can wear those hot pants and still be loved by your Saas. (But please wax first)