S's three words: Maida, Surya, bucket
The overturned bucket was pushed up as close to the wall as possible. She stood on it, picking up and shaking each identical dabba that sat in a row like shiny, stainless steel sentinels until she found what she was looking for.
Squatting down on the living room floor she measured out three cups of maida. The news competed with her mother-in-law’s gaseous emissions and her own day’s headlines for attention. She sprinkled salt over the flour. Twenty men dead from drinking illicit country liquor. She slowly added water and began kneading. Her daughter had failed in maths again. Centre refuses to interfere in State’s water shortage. Her kneading fell in to beat with the news readers staccato delivery. Her mother-in-law wanted to know what Deepavali bakshanam they were making. Teachers go on strike in Machilipattinam. A month in advance. Her hands were pummelling the dough now. Her husband had said they couldn’t afford a new colour television this year either. She whacked the ball of dough viciously. Actor Surya marries Jyotika in a star studded ceremony. She froze holding the basin in her hands. As images of the beatific couple flashed across the screen a lone tear travelled down her cheek.
*
“Paithyam paithyam. If you wanted a new television that badly you should have said something - not throw things at it. Che! What’s come over you?”
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Monday, September 25, 2006
Ready, steady, charity 1
Words - Cicisbeo Tourbillon Chateau
As she walked towards the microphone a hushed silence fell over the room. The bald man in the third row stopped shaking his leg; bringing to an end the ‘shk shk shk’ sound his polyester trousers made as one synthetic leg rubbed against the other. She could see her mother sitting right up front, lips moving as silent prayers invoking His thousand names and meant only for His ears escaped in to the universe. The Chinese (or was he Korean) boy Kim walked past her grinning. Chateau? Please. A five year old could take that. Standards had dropped since last year. Last year. That had been something. Tourbillon. Now there was a word. Her word. The applause had been deafening. The interviews never ending. Champion. C-H-A-M-P-I-O-N. Champion.
She stood at the microphone now. Arms behind her back, tightly clasped, fingers digging in to the skin. Painfully. To remind her what losing would feel like her mother had said. What would that feel like she wondered?
“Cicisbeo”
The word furrowed deep in to her brain where its meaning resided. She realised she did not know. What failure felt like. Was it like the thudding, dirt hitting low that accompanies the inevitable descent on a see-saw. If success was in her hands so was failure.
“Cicisbeo”
“Could you use it in a sentence please?”
As the thin faced woman prattled out some inanity, she looked out at the audience. Her mother’s eyes were screwed shut, her lips moving faster
‘amaanee maanado maanyo lokasvaamee trilokadhrik
sumedhaa medhajo dhanyah satyamedhah dharaadharah’
Shk-shk-shk.
‘C-I-C-I-S-B-E-O.’ she thought to herself.
Getting this right meant another day of necromorphous, acephalous and drapetomania. She wondered what was on television at 12:45 on Tuesday afternoons.
She cleared her throat.
“Cicisbeo”
“C-I-C-I-S-B-E“
Maybe they’d have Tom & Jerry on.
“-Y-O”
The wail from the front row drowned out her final, triumphant Cicisbeo.
As she walked towards the microphone a hushed silence fell over the room. The bald man in the third row stopped shaking his leg; bringing to an end the ‘shk shk shk’ sound his polyester trousers made as one synthetic leg rubbed against the other. She could see her mother sitting right up front, lips moving as silent prayers invoking His thousand names and meant only for His ears escaped in to the universe. The Chinese (or was he Korean) boy Kim walked past her grinning. Chateau? Please. A five year old could take that. Standards had dropped since last year. Last year. That had been something. Tourbillon. Now there was a word. Her word. The applause had been deafening. The interviews never ending. Champion. C-H-A-M-P-I-O-N. Champion.
She stood at the microphone now. Arms behind her back, tightly clasped, fingers digging in to the skin. Painfully. To remind her what losing would feel like her mother had said. What would that feel like she wondered?
“Cicisbeo”
The word furrowed deep in to her brain where its meaning resided. She realised she did not know. What failure felt like. Was it like the thudding, dirt hitting low that accompanies the inevitable descent on a see-saw. If success was in her hands so was failure.
“Cicisbeo”
“Could you use it in a sentence please?”
As the thin faced woman prattled out some inanity, she looked out at the audience. Her mother’s eyes were screwed shut, her lips moving faster
‘amaanee maanado maanyo lokasvaamee trilokadhrik
sumedhaa medhajo dhanyah satyamedhah dharaadharah’
Shk-shk-shk.
‘C-I-C-I-S-B-E-O.’ she thought to herself.
Getting this right meant another day of necromorphous, acephalous and drapetomania. She wondered what was on television at 12:45 on Tuesday afternoons.
She cleared her throat.
“Cicisbeo”
“C-I-C-I-S-B-E“
Maybe they’d have Tom & Jerry on.
“-Y-O”
The wail from the front row drowned out her final, triumphant Cicisbeo.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Freud is in the frozen food aisle at Tesco
Never before has what we wear, eat and listen to been more analysed. Apparently, nothing reveals more about a person than their predilection for Braeburn over Gala Apples. Or the decision to go for the kinky lace up six incher instead of the riding boot with a discreet buckle at the side. A Victoriana blouse replete with ruffles says more about us than we realise. We are quizzed by magazines and then told whether we are Yuppies, Guppies or Puppies based on whether we like our morning shot of caffeine from Starbucks or the local greasy spoon. I’m fascinated by all this and decided to put to test my own powers of analysis this morning at Tesco while on the weekly grocery run.
Newspapers are of course a dead give away. For example if I was a single woman I might be disposed to steer clear of the muscled blonde man who picked up News of the World (famous for ‘My implants leaked. THRICE.’ headlines) and Nuts (famous for women with three implants on their covers).
And what do flowers say about a person? Roses – old fashioned and romantic. Carnations – optimistic and fun loving. Lilies – exotic and in possession excellent stain removers. A single stem Bird of Paradise – minimalist. 99p rose buds that will not be blooming in this century – cheapskate. C’mon you might as well pick up some flowers from the local cemetery.
Battling through the fruit and veg. aisles, elbowing OAPs in their mechanised wheelchairs so that you can get the last bunch of Free Trade Bananas says your Caring about the earth and not so much for those that inhabit it. Buying Mangetout from Gambia says screw the planet, we’re all going to die anyway so let’s die on a full, satisfied belly.
Those that eschew fresh produce (well produce that’s spent 6 days in transit from KL sprayed in wax) for ready made meals get the maximum dirty looks. They’re immediately slotted in the lazy, don’t care a toss category. I secretly admire them and their digestive tracts. Anyone that can survive those dirty looks week in and week out and frozen Chicken Tikka Masala is God’s chosen one. Don’t be surprised if they discover the next Dalai Lama in the Ready Meals aisle of your local supermarket.
Are you stocking up on weight watchers chocolate mousse or vegetarian turkey burgers? Half measures I’m afraid. Either junk the chocolates or go full hog - savour that sundae with praline. Be a carnivore or embrace plants. What the hell is vegetarian turkey anyway? Being in the ‘I want to change but I’m not too sure’ category says you can’t commit. Don’t go looking for a significant other with the above in your wheelie.
Combinations are very important. For example, you wouldn’t wear high heels with a peasant skirt would you? WOULD YOU? Similarly don’t buy Eco friendly washing up liquid and then add Triple Action (Multiple aquatic life killing) Kitchen Cleaner. The latter kind of negates the effects of the former. And if you need to buy ten cans of whipped cream and cable chords – do it on the net. Especially if you’re over 60. Getting rid of the mental images is very hard.
After playing Freud for 40 minutes I approached the check out counter pretty smug. Until I saw the guy with a trolley full of low fat milk, Stella and nothing else. The mind boggles.
Newspapers are of course a dead give away. For example if I was a single woman I might be disposed to steer clear of the muscled blonde man who picked up News of the World (famous for ‘My implants leaked. THRICE.’ headlines) and Nuts (famous for women with three implants on their covers).
And what do flowers say about a person? Roses – old fashioned and romantic. Carnations – optimistic and fun loving. Lilies – exotic and in possession excellent stain removers. A single stem Bird of Paradise – minimalist. 99p rose buds that will not be blooming in this century – cheapskate. C’mon you might as well pick up some flowers from the local cemetery.
Battling through the fruit and veg. aisles, elbowing OAPs in their mechanised wheelchairs so that you can get the last bunch of Free Trade Bananas says your Caring about the earth and not so much for those that inhabit it. Buying Mangetout from Gambia says screw the planet, we’re all going to die anyway so let’s die on a full, satisfied belly.
Those that eschew fresh produce (well produce that’s spent 6 days in transit from KL sprayed in wax) for ready made meals get the maximum dirty looks. They’re immediately slotted in the lazy, don’t care a toss category. I secretly admire them and their digestive tracts. Anyone that can survive those dirty looks week in and week out and frozen Chicken Tikka Masala is God’s chosen one. Don’t be surprised if they discover the next Dalai Lama in the Ready Meals aisle of your local supermarket.
Are you stocking up on weight watchers chocolate mousse or vegetarian turkey burgers? Half measures I’m afraid. Either junk the chocolates or go full hog - savour that sundae with praline. Be a carnivore or embrace plants. What the hell is vegetarian turkey anyway? Being in the ‘I want to change but I’m not too sure’ category says you can’t commit. Don’t go looking for a significant other with the above in your wheelie.
Combinations are very important. For example, you wouldn’t wear high heels with a peasant skirt would you? WOULD YOU? Similarly don’t buy Eco friendly washing up liquid and then add Triple Action (Multiple aquatic life killing) Kitchen Cleaner. The latter kind of negates the effects of the former. And if you need to buy ten cans of whipped cream and cable chords – do it on the net. Especially if you’re over 60. Getting rid of the mental images is very hard.
After playing Freud for 40 minutes I approached the check out counter pretty smug. Until I saw the guy with a trolley full of low fat milk, Stella and nothing else. The mind boggles.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
random ends and bits that may never turn in to full fledged posts
Poetry and C Section Kavita
Some people dedicate entire months to the reading of poetry. I would never make such an attempt - it would make me feel inadequate and stupid. I blame school for killing my ability to appreciate and understand poetry (and plays). Ozymandius, Tiger Tiger (not the on at Piccadilly) and a little Ezekiel are all I really remember. Repeatedly read by stilted voices in crowded classrooms, the verses would valiantly struggles to be heard over the droning of fans , the scratching of heads and the rustle of notes as they were passed. Poetry became just another part of my English II paper. For some strange reason my sister learning All the Worlds a Stage for a poetry recitation competition springs to mind as I type this. (She came first by the way.) Though this site has done much to remove my fear of poetry (the voices hear are not competing with V Kavita Section C and her horsy giggling. Or is that neighing?) I decided to go one step further and pick up Poem for the Day One from the library. As the title suggests there is one poem for each day with a little note at the bottom about the poet and his work. There are some in there I know, some I don't and some that look so scarily long and difficult that I may never attempt to read them. Still, there is hope.
My Chrissie Moment
Baking a cake has a decidedly Martha Stewart feel to it, though I possess neither apron nor matching oven mitts. Listening to The Pretenders as I baked a soaked orange cake this afternoon made me feel decidedly cooler. My sister was always the clever one in the kitchen. When we were kids she would bring home her Home Ec. Recipes and we would try the Hungarian Chocolate Chip Cookies and Scones. I was the official egg cracker and bowl and spoon licker. As I polished the spoon clean today I felt 8 again.
Moment of shame
I googled Suri Cruise to see what Scientology's latest follower looked like. I know.
Weather forecast
Summer hands over the reigns to Autumn reluctantly. The air is like a fresh, green apple. Smooth. Crunchy. Crisp.
Some people dedicate entire months to the reading of poetry. I would never make such an attempt - it would make me feel inadequate and stupid. I blame school for killing my ability to appreciate and understand poetry (and plays). Ozymandius, Tiger Tiger (not the on at Piccadilly) and a little Ezekiel are all I really remember. Repeatedly read by stilted voices in crowded classrooms, the verses would valiantly struggles to be heard over the droning of fans , the scratching of heads and the rustle of notes as they were passed. Poetry became just another part of my English II paper. For some strange reason my sister learning All the Worlds a Stage for a poetry recitation competition springs to mind as I type this. (She came first by the way.) Though this site has done much to remove my fear of poetry (the voices hear are not competing with V Kavita Section C and her horsy giggling. Or is that neighing?) I decided to go one step further and pick up Poem for the Day One from the library. As the title suggests there is one poem for each day with a little note at the bottom about the poet and his work. There are some in there I know, some I don't and some that look so scarily long and difficult that I may never attempt to read them. Still, there is hope.
My Chrissie Moment
Baking a cake has a decidedly Martha Stewart feel to it, though I possess neither apron nor matching oven mitts. Listening to The Pretenders as I baked a soaked orange cake this afternoon made me feel decidedly cooler. My sister was always the clever one in the kitchen. When we were kids she would bring home her Home Ec. Recipes and we would try the Hungarian Chocolate Chip Cookies and Scones. I was the official egg cracker and bowl and spoon licker. As I polished the spoon clean today I felt 8 again.
Moment of shame
I googled Suri Cruise to see what Scientology's latest follower looked like. I know.
Weather forecast
Summer hands over the reigns to Autumn reluctantly. The air is like a fresh, green apple. Smooth. Crunchy. Crisp.
Country roads take me home
They are the words ever man, woman and dog travelling by tube and local commuter train dreads.
“All trains are terminating here. Passengers are advised to seek alternative routes or wait for further announcements.”
From personal experience I can tell you that those words can take any ordinary Monday morning from grey to clinically depressing.
On the morning of 7th July last year thousands of commuters were asked to evacuate trains and stations across the city. Groggy eyed and grumbling I emerged from the rabbit warren that is the Underground out in to sunny Euston Square wondering how to get to Kings Cross. It was only after a confusing half hour of trying to board buses, make phone calls and wondering what the loud boom a few hundred yards away was (Tavistock Square) that the news of the explosions began to trickle in.
Since then, every time I am asked to disembark a train or hear the words cancellation, delays or emergency my shoulders tense and I feel a mild panic ripple through. I wait for bad news to follow.
A week ago, I stood at Slough Station humming, reading and impatiently foot tapping – in short waiting for my train to Paddington (where a famous bear resides in bronzed glory). After what seemed like an eternity I boarded the train, gloating over the prized seat I had managed to procure with no elbowing and rib jabbing. Just as my posterior began to get acquainted with the upholstered seat my fellow passengers and I were asked to leave the train. How rude.
The platform filled up once again and the train doors shut. Just to make sure no one decided to get back on. (You’d be surprised at the number of idiots who do this. THE TRAIN IS NOT GOING ANYWHERE MORON. GET OFF) So we waited. And waited. And waited some more.
And then the news. A man had thrown himself in front of a train at Ealing Broadway. And who can blame him? He was probably fed up with London Transport. As the station master relayed the bad news to us someone next to me tut-tutted. I was furious though. Selfish bastard. Of all the places and ways to commit suicide he had to choose Ealing Broadway during rush hour. Some people are so inconsiderate.
I was helpfully told to try and go to Windsor where I might be able to get a train to Waterloo. Try? Might? I wanted a fool proof way of getting home.
As I walked out of the station I realised I had spent too long inside waiting for good news from the rail Gods and staring at a woman’s black patent heels. The queue at the taxi rank stretched all the way to hell. Which isn’t as far from Slough as one would think. My only remaining option was bus.
Now, I haven’t always had the best experiences on buses. Memories of crowded 13Bs, a jaunt on the upper deck of the London Big Bus Tour which started off well enough until it started raining, and a trip to Stratford on a YMCA bus that played Bhangra music all the way crowd my mind. But I had no choice.
Slough Bus Terminus is like the rest of Slough. Large, not very clean and I’m sorry to say ugly. No wonder Betjemen wanted to obliterate the place – tinned fruit and all. The cavernous bus terminus has more than 12 different stands inside and about 3 outside. And zero employees it would seem. The information desk was closed and the man at the newspaper stand became very unhelpful when he realised I was not going to be buying anything.
By now, the motley crew of commuters trying to get back to London any which way they could had grown. Muttering imprecations under our breath we slowly began to gravitate towards one another. Misery does indeed love company. My own little band of stragglers included a Scotsman, an Australian, a Brit and myself (that sounds like beginning of one of those jokes doesn’t it? Trust me. There was nothing amusing about the situation we were in).
I decided to name them in my head. The Scotsman was Sean, the Aussie was Russel and the Brit was Colin. Sean was chatty and actually called me lass, Russel was much better behaved than his namesake and never once tried to throw his phone at me and Colin was typically tight lipped about the whole thing, clutching his umbrella and newspaper like they were all he had left in this world. An ageing Keira tried to join us but I managed to send her to a near empty bus shelter at the other side of the Terminus from where I assured her she would be able to get home.
However, my gang of buff men were pretty useless. Sean kept looking at me and saying “What we gonna doo lass?” Not very 007 and I’m pretty sure Russel would sell my kidneys if it meant a chance to get home. Maybe I should have joined ageing Keira after all. After much to-ing and fro-ing I lost the losers and spotted a bus that would take me reasonably close to where I live. And by that I mean about ‘3 tube zones and forty minutes by train’ close. I had now been looking for a way home for an hour. I knew how Lassie felt. Well. Almost. If I had that kind of hair on me, I’d be pretty bummed.
After half an hour the bus finally trundled up. I boarded, tried unsuccessfully to get the driver to accept my train tickets to Paddington and then found a seat next to a bunch of old ladies who were sweetly showing one another the potatoes they’d bought at the market earlier that day.
As the bus pulled out of Slough I sighed with relief. Finally. The rhythmic lurch of the bus was soothing. I pulled out my book and began reading quite sure that nothing outside my window would be worth watching.
How wrong I was.
For just outside Slough and its Cheerful Chicken Shops and Poundland is South Buckinghamshire and its glorious countryside. Alice Munro was soon forgotten as I lost myself to the sight of quaint pubs and charming names. Stoke Poges. Pennylets Green. Packhorse Road. Ramblers. Gosomer Cottage. The sun was comfortably sprawled out in her boudoir in a cloud peignoir of pinks and purples that would have looked gaudy on anyone else. The stress, frustration and anger of the last hour and a half ebbed away. Quiet country lanes. A large, green, common scattered with dandelions and daisies and young men in cricket whites. Independent bakeries, patisseries and bookshops. No Witherspoons, WH Smith or TopShop. This is England I thought to myself - sheep, wild flowers and the Our Lady in Heaven Churches.
After forty minutes of bucolic charm the traffic began to build up and a mammoth Tesco cast its ugly shadow on the green hills of Amersham. I was almost home.
I don’t remember every journey I make. Stations and tube lines blur and become a mish mash of names of coloured lines. But I have a feeling I’ll remember this one. After all, how can one forget a name like Stoke Poges?
“All trains are terminating here. Passengers are advised to seek alternative routes or wait for further announcements.”
From personal experience I can tell you that those words can take any ordinary Monday morning from grey to clinically depressing.
On the morning of 7th July last year thousands of commuters were asked to evacuate trains and stations across the city. Groggy eyed and grumbling I emerged from the rabbit warren that is the Underground out in to sunny Euston Square wondering how to get to Kings Cross. It was only after a confusing half hour of trying to board buses, make phone calls and wondering what the loud boom a few hundred yards away was (Tavistock Square) that the news of the explosions began to trickle in.
Since then, every time I am asked to disembark a train or hear the words cancellation, delays or emergency my shoulders tense and I feel a mild panic ripple through. I wait for bad news to follow.
A week ago, I stood at Slough Station humming, reading and impatiently foot tapping – in short waiting for my train to Paddington (where a famous bear resides in bronzed glory). After what seemed like an eternity I boarded the train, gloating over the prized seat I had managed to procure with no elbowing and rib jabbing. Just as my posterior began to get acquainted with the upholstered seat my fellow passengers and I were asked to leave the train. How rude.
The platform filled up once again and the train doors shut. Just to make sure no one decided to get back on. (You’d be surprised at the number of idiots who do this. THE TRAIN IS NOT GOING ANYWHERE MORON. GET OFF) So we waited. And waited. And waited some more.
And then the news. A man had thrown himself in front of a train at Ealing Broadway. And who can blame him? He was probably fed up with London Transport. As the station master relayed the bad news to us someone next to me tut-tutted. I was furious though. Selfish bastard. Of all the places and ways to commit suicide he had to choose Ealing Broadway during rush hour. Some people are so inconsiderate.
I was helpfully told to try and go to Windsor where I might be able to get a train to Waterloo. Try? Might? I wanted a fool proof way of getting home.
As I walked out of the station I realised I had spent too long inside waiting for good news from the rail Gods and staring at a woman’s black patent heels. The queue at the taxi rank stretched all the way to hell. Which isn’t as far from Slough as one would think. My only remaining option was bus.
Now, I haven’t always had the best experiences on buses. Memories of crowded 13Bs, a jaunt on the upper deck of the London Big Bus Tour which started off well enough until it started raining, and a trip to Stratford on a YMCA bus that played Bhangra music all the way crowd my mind. But I had no choice.
Slough Bus Terminus is like the rest of Slough. Large, not very clean and I’m sorry to say ugly. No wonder Betjemen wanted to obliterate the place – tinned fruit and all. The cavernous bus terminus has more than 12 different stands inside and about 3 outside. And zero employees it would seem. The information desk was closed and the man at the newspaper stand became very unhelpful when he realised I was not going to be buying anything.
By now, the motley crew of commuters trying to get back to London any which way they could had grown. Muttering imprecations under our breath we slowly began to gravitate towards one another. Misery does indeed love company. My own little band of stragglers included a Scotsman, an Australian, a Brit and myself (that sounds like beginning of one of those jokes doesn’t it? Trust me. There was nothing amusing about the situation we were in).
I decided to name them in my head. The Scotsman was Sean, the Aussie was Russel and the Brit was Colin. Sean was chatty and actually called me lass, Russel was much better behaved than his namesake and never once tried to throw his phone at me and Colin was typically tight lipped about the whole thing, clutching his umbrella and newspaper like they were all he had left in this world. An ageing Keira tried to join us but I managed to send her to a near empty bus shelter at the other side of the Terminus from where I assured her she would be able to get home.
However, my gang of buff men were pretty useless. Sean kept looking at me and saying “What we gonna doo lass?” Not very 007 and I’m pretty sure Russel would sell my kidneys if it meant a chance to get home. Maybe I should have joined ageing Keira after all. After much to-ing and fro-ing I lost the losers and spotted a bus that would take me reasonably close to where I live. And by that I mean about ‘3 tube zones and forty minutes by train’ close. I had now been looking for a way home for an hour. I knew how Lassie felt. Well. Almost. If I had that kind of hair on me, I’d be pretty bummed.
After half an hour the bus finally trundled up. I boarded, tried unsuccessfully to get the driver to accept my train tickets to Paddington and then found a seat next to a bunch of old ladies who were sweetly showing one another the potatoes they’d bought at the market earlier that day.
As the bus pulled out of Slough I sighed with relief. Finally. The rhythmic lurch of the bus was soothing. I pulled out my book and began reading quite sure that nothing outside my window would be worth watching.
How wrong I was.
For just outside Slough and its Cheerful Chicken Shops and Poundland is South Buckinghamshire and its glorious countryside. Alice Munro was soon forgotten as I lost myself to the sight of quaint pubs and charming names. Stoke Poges. Pennylets Green. Packhorse Road. Ramblers. Gosomer Cottage. The sun was comfortably sprawled out in her boudoir in a cloud peignoir of pinks and purples that would have looked gaudy on anyone else. The stress, frustration and anger of the last hour and a half ebbed away. Quiet country lanes. A large, green, common scattered with dandelions and daisies and young men in cricket whites. Independent bakeries, patisseries and bookshops. No Witherspoons, WH Smith or TopShop. This is England I thought to myself - sheep, wild flowers and the Our Lady in Heaven Churches.
After forty minutes of bucolic charm the traffic began to build up and a mammoth Tesco cast its ugly shadow on the green hills of Amersham. I was almost home.
I don’t remember every journey I make. Stations and tube lines blur and become a mish mash of names of coloured lines. But I have a feeling I’ll remember this one. After all, how can one forget a name like Stoke Poges?
Monday, September 18, 2006
dialogue
“Hello Reva Behen. Su karech?”
“I’m fine Ila. And you?”
“Same. Busy, busy, busy. You’ve lost some weight. What are we doing today?”
“Waxing and threading. I’ve been going swimming”
“Accha? Good, good. I’ll start with the arms. Full or half?”
“Full arms and underarms. Full legs too please.”
“So how is your husband? Still travelling a lot?”
“Mmm. Not so much. Tssss”
“Sorry, sorry. Wax too hot?”
“No, no it’s fine”
“So. Is he home this week or no?”
“Yes he’s working from home today. That’s why I walked and came.”
“In this sun? You’ll become even more dark then Reva Behen. Ask him to pick you up at least.”
“Not today. Our house help has come. He has to be at home.”
“You have a maid is it?”
“Ila Behen we shouldn’t call them maid in this country. It’s house help.”
“So lucky you are. See I have to do all the work myself here. Indian?”
“No, no. She’s Serbian.”
“Where is that?”
“Near Poland I think.”
“Lift your arm please. Hold. How old is she?”
“I think 24 or 25. She has three children but is so well maintained you know. Must be all the housework she does.”
“So brave you are Reva Behen. Leaving your husband at home alone with an attractive woman. All these Polish people in the papers taking away British jobs. Now they’ll be taking away our husbands too. Eh? Eh?”
“She’s Serbian.”
“Sorry?”
“She’s not Polish. She’s Serbian.”
“Same thing. Blond hair, slim waist. Turn over please. I’ll do this leg next.”
“Just do half leg ji. I forgot. I have to get home early today.”
“I’m fine Ila. And you?”
“Same. Busy, busy, busy. You’ve lost some weight. What are we doing today?”
“Waxing and threading. I’ve been going swimming”
“Accha? Good, good. I’ll start with the arms. Full or half?”
“Full arms and underarms. Full legs too please.”
“So how is your husband? Still travelling a lot?”
“Mmm. Not so much. Tssss”
“Sorry, sorry. Wax too hot?”
“No, no it’s fine”
“So. Is he home this week or no?”
“Yes he’s working from home today. That’s why I walked and came.”
“In this sun? You’ll become even more dark then Reva Behen. Ask him to pick you up at least.”
“Not today. Our house help has come. He has to be at home.”
“You have a maid is it?”
“Ila Behen we shouldn’t call them maid in this country. It’s house help.”
“So lucky you are. See I have to do all the work myself here. Indian?”
“No, no. She’s Serbian.”
“Where is that?”
“Near Poland I think.”
“Lift your arm please. Hold. How old is she?”
“I think 24 or 25. She has three children but is so well maintained you know. Must be all the housework she does.”
“So brave you are Reva Behen. Leaving your husband at home alone with an attractive woman. All these Polish people in the papers taking away British jobs. Now they’ll be taking away our husbands too. Eh? Eh?”
“She’s Serbian.”
“Sorry?”
“She’s not Polish. She’s Serbian.”
“Same thing. Blond hair, slim waist. Turn over please. I’ll do this leg next.”
“Just do half leg ji. I forgot. I have to get home early today.”
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Nombu in North West London
(A little busy at the moment, so here's something I wrote a month ago but never got around to posting.)
Growing up, my family celebrated every festival – religious and otherwise - with great enthusiasm. I loved it. It meant new clothes, an extra special lunch and usually a day off from school. My own levels of participation were kept at a minimum - in fact, my greatest contribution was just keeping out of the way. I was not skilled at the kolam and kaavi as my sister was (which an Uncle of mine recently attributed to the fact that I was not an engineer and hence unable to comprehend parallel lines), my ma yelais always drooped and sagged, and I could never remember the lines to the bhajans I had been taught.
As I grew up my mother insisted I get more involved. So I was appointed chief underling – ordered to fill sombus with water and bring the neivediyam without popping any of it in my mouth (applications to be the resident Pillaiyar were all turned down).
Marriage brought with it more than the obvious retinue of husband, mother-in-law and hawkeyed athais. I suddenly had to learn to cook, differentiate between patthu and non-patthu and learn how to drink coffee from a dainty china cup without sipping. I was also initiated in to the custom of Varalakshmi Nombu.
It was all well and good while we lived in Mumbai. Matunga is a mecca for displaced Mamis like myself – replete with its own Giri Trading. But then a year and a half ago we moved to London. And things haven’t been quite the same in this Mylaporean’s life. Where does one go for vethalai and vazhai thandu?
Now as much as I hate to admit it, in the last year I’ve fudged my way through most festivals. Deepavali was celebrated with payasam (pieces of dried fruits floating in a sea of condensed milk), Karthikai was marked with a few lamps (the ones outside the front door removed in compliance with strict fire hazard regulations) and I nodded at Pongal with well… pongal. But for some reason my conscience revolts against attempts to do the same with Nombu. Perhaps because it’s a tradition I’ve taken on through marriage and a small part of me thinks my Mother-in-law will get to know of any crimes and misdemeanours I commit.
So Varalaksmi Nombu is carried out to the letter. Well, as much as living in a north western suburb of London will allow.
The day before Nombu, I sweated it out on the Metropolitan line in a trench coat that seemed like such a good idea that morning when it was a good 10 degrees cooler and went over the shopping list I had foolishly written down in my head.
Nallennai (and not the horrible Chinese one), jaggery, flowers, saffron and coconuts. Coconuts. Coconuts???
Where does one go for coconuts? What if one cannot find coconuts? After all this is London – I’m more likely to bump in to a bushel of blowsy roses than a palm tree.
So I speed dialled my Mother in Chennai who was understandably irate at being woken up. Her annoyance deepened as I asked what would be considered a suitable substitute for a coconut. I was told rather snarkily to use an apple but not before having to hear how it was amazing that I know every shoe store in the greater London area but was unaware of the location of a single coconut vendor.
An hour later, loaded down by all the items on my shopping list (apparently our local Indian Grocery store stocks coconuts - I had just never bothered looking for them) I was carried home aloft a cloud of gloat. If only it had taken on the weight of my bags too.
Performing Nombu in a foreign country isn’t all that difficult. Perhaps the lack of – or should I say my lack of awareness of – so many things immediately eliminates them. The vaadyar is replaced by a cassette which I realised required a few sessions on the system before being used (I had more luck deciphering what Aretha Franklin sings after the whole R-E-S-P-E-C-T bit). So I appointed myself in-house vaadyar. Rahu Kaalam would be calculated at GMT and since staying hungry till my husband got home in the evening was not an option he was woken up earlier than usual with a cup of tea and the BBC. On mute.
There are other aspects that one finds hard to tackle. Madi for example is impossible to maintain when every square inch of ones home is carpeted. And I do mean every inch – bathroom included! Unless one is capable of levitation one should not attempt it. Also tying a madisaar is not for the faint hearted. 9 yards of silk with a mind of its own can be a dangerous thing. You’ll either end up strangling yourself or looking like something out of the Mummy Returns (oh how hard it is to refrain from calling it The Mami Returns). And where does one hang a madi pudavai out to dry anyway? Sadly, we are not living the middle class dream in a detached mock Tudor home with a sprawling faux South American jungle-garden in the back. Would our stoned patio do? A cursory glance revealed that it had been turned in to something of a giant ash tray by our upstairs neighbour. As cigarette butts and a madi nightgown are a criminal offence under section 220 of the Madi Penal Code I opted to wear a new sari instead (when in doubt, wear something new).
Neivediyam is an entirely personal matter and depends on one’s skills and to some extent the gastric stability of one’s family. Being possessed with reasonable levels of both, this year my standard menu of payasam (see above for recipe) and vadai made space for kozhakattais. (Secretly making space in my fridge for Marks & Spark’s Indian delights)
Poornam and a large white lump of maavu before me, I sat cross-legged and in a state of semi-madiness on the floor and began making my kozhakattais. As I moulded the dough in to little shells and placed the poornam in the middle I fancied them to be little oysters hiding pearls of coconut and jaggery and allowed myself to drift off in to nostalgia. My grandmother would sit in her trademark Kalakshethra nine yards on our kitchen floor in Chennai, her wrinkled hands nimbly making one kozhakattai after the other. A seventy-year-old assembly line that seemed to require no oiling up or servicing and that could work endlessly. My sister and I would beg for a chance to try our hand at making one and she would always acquiesce, softly instructing us and placing our large, uncouth creations on the tray next to her tiny, perfectly formed masterpieces. The poornam always looked like they had been wrapped in the finest of muslin. Rubbing my eyes I looked with dismay at my plate of kozhakattais and hoped God didn’t think they looked like wads of rolled up Kleenex too.
Varalakshmi might accept my misshapen offerings but the sumangalis I had invited over that evening for vethalai paaku might not have been as forgiving. The list of invitees totalled a grand 2. The wife of my husband’s boss and a dear family friend who had lived for over 20 years in England had both promised to come. Both had to be impressed. After all, I couldn’t jeopardise my husband’s career by over salting the sundal. And the latter was something of a Queen Bee in the Kenton agraharam and had the ear of all the best realtors in town. The pressure was immense. What would I offer for vethalai pakku? I had no vethalai, no manjal and no pakku unless saunf was permitted.
Thankfully, the Gods were in a munificent mood. As I rummaged through my puja bag (a giant Selfridges carrier stashed with a years supply of sambrani, kunkumam and poonals – our Romanian house help Mikhela often discards the ones left lying around by my better half. Perhaps she thinks they’re giant reams of floss) I found three blouse pieces, some manjal and silver articles gifted to me by family that were yet to be used. This is London. Rethink. Re-use. Recycle.
Vethalai pakku ready, sundal perfectly salted and thoughts of M&S party food as neivediyam firmly pushed to one side, I was ready. My Amman mugham was mounted on the kalasam and decorated in a rani pink pavadai with matching roses from Tesco. Archanai pookal came in the form of daisies and the air was redolent with the fragrance of ‘Spiritual Flower’ incense (I needed all the help I could get). As I read from my prayer book and as my husband tied the sharadu around my wrist – I felt a sense of being home again.
The chief underling had been promoted.
Growing up, my family celebrated every festival – religious and otherwise - with great enthusiasm. I loved it. It meant new clothes, an extra special lunch and usually a day off from school. My own levels of participation were kept at a minimum - in fact, my greatest contribution was just keeping out of the way. I was not skilled at the kolam and kaavi as my sister was (which an Uncle of mine recently attributed to the fact that I was not an engineer and hence unable to comprehend parallel lines), my ma yelais always drooped and sagged, and I could never remember the lines to the bhajans I had been taught.
As I grew up my mother insisted I get more involved. So I was appointed chief underling – ordered to fill sombus with water and bring the neivediyam without popping any of it in my mouth (applications to be the resident Pillaiyar were all turned down).
Marriage brought with it more than the obvious retinue of husband, mother-in-law and hawkeyed athais. I suddenly had to learn to cook, differentiate between patthu and non-patthu and learn how to drink coffee from a dainty china cup without sipping. I was also initiated in to the custom of Varalakshmi Nombu.
It was all well and good while we lived in Mumbai. Matunga is a mecca for displaced Mamis like myself – replete with its own Giri Trading. But then a year and a half ago we moved to London. And things haven’t been quite the same in this Mylaporean’s life. Where does one go for vethalai and vazhai thandu?
Now as much as I hate to admit it, in the last year I’ve fudged my way through most festivals. Deepavali was celebrated with payasam (pieces of dried fruits floating in a sea of condensed milk), Karthikai was marked with a few lamps (the ones outside the front door removed in compliance with strict fire hazard regulations) and I nodded at Pongal with well… pongal. But for some reason my conscience revolts against attempts to do the same with Nombu. Perhaps because it’s a tradition I’ve taken on through marriage and a small part of me thinks my Mother-in-law will get to know of any crimes and misdemeanours I commit.
So Varalaksmi Nombu is carried out to the letter. Well, as much as living in a north western suburb of London will allow.
The day before Nombu, I sweated it out on the Metropolitan line in a trench coat that seemed like such a good idea that morning when it was a good 10 degrees cooler and went over the shopping list I had foolishly written down in my head.
Nallennai (and not the horrible Chinese one), jaggery, flowers, saffron and coconuts. Coconuts. Coconuts???
Where does one go for coconuts? What if one cannot find coconuts? After all this is London – I’m more likely to bump in to a bushel of blowsy roses than a palm tree.
So I speed dialled my Mother in Chennai who was understandably irate at being woken up. Her annoyance deepened as I asked what would be considered a suitable substitute for a coconut. I was told rather snarkily to use an apple but not before having to hear how it was amazing that I know every shoe store in the greater London area but was unaware of the location of a single coconut vendor.
An hour later, loaded down by all the items on my shopping list (apparently our local Indian Grocery store stocks coconuts - I had just never bothered looking for them) I was carried home aloft a cloud of gloat. If only it had taken on the weight of my bags too.
Performing Nombu in a foreign country isn’t all that difficult. Perhaps the lack of – or should I say my lack of awareness of – so many things immediately eliminates them. The vaadyar is replaced by a cassette which I realised required a few sessions on the system before being used (I had more luck deciphering what Aretha Franklin sings after the whole R-E-S-P-E-C-T bit). So I appointed myself in-house vaadyar. Rahu Kaalam would be calculated at GMT and since staying hungry till my husband got home in the evening was not an option he was woken up earlier than usual with a cup of tea and the BBC. On mute.
There are other aspects that one finds hard to tackle. Madi for example is impossible to maintain when every square inch of ones home is carpeted. And I do mean every inch – bathroom included! Unless one is capable of levitation one should not attempt it. Also tying a madisaar is not for the faint hearted. 9 yards of silk with a mind of its own can be a dangerous thing. You’ll either end up strangling yourself or looking like something out of the Mummy Returns (oh how hard it is to refrain from calling it The Mami Returns). And where does one hang a madi pudavai out to dry anyway? Sadly, we are not living the middle class dream in a detached mock Tudor home with a sprawling faux South American jungle-garden in the back. Would our stoned patio do? A cursory glance revealed that it had been turned in to something of a giant ash tray by our upstairs neighbour. As cigarette butts and a madi nightgown are a criminal offence under section 220 of the Madi Penal Code I opted to wear a new sari instead (when in doubt, wear something new).
Neivediyam is an entirely personal matter and depends on one’s skills and to some extent the gastric stability of one’s family. Being possessed with reasonable levels of both, this year my standard menu of payasam (see above for recipe) and vadai made space for kozhakattais. (Secretly making space in my fridge for Marks & Spark’s Indian delights)
Poornam and a large white lump of maavu before me, I sat cross-legged and in a state of semi-madiness on the floor and began making my kozhakattais. As I moulded the dough in to little shells and placed the poornam in the middle I fancied them to be little oysters hiding pearls of coconut and jaggery and allowed myself to drift off in to nostalgia. My grandmother would sit in her trademark Kalakshethra nine yards on our kitchen floor in Chennai, her wrinkled hands nimbly making one kozhakattai after the other. A seventy-year-old assembly line that seemed to require no oiling up or servicing and that could work endlessly. My sister and I would beg for a chance to try our hand at making one and she would always acquiesce, softly instructing us and placing our large, uncouth creations on the tray next to her tiny, perfectly formed masterpieces. The poornam always looked like they had been wrapped in the finest of muslin. Rubbing my eyes I looked with dismay at my plate of kozhakattais and hoped God didn’t think they looked like wads of rolled up Kleenex too.
Varalakshmi might accept my misshapen offerings but the sumangalis I had invited over that evening for vethalai paaku might not have been as forgiving. The list of invitees totalled a grand 2. The wife of my husband’s boss and a dear family friend who had lived for over 20 years in England had both promised to come. Both had to be impressed. After all, I couldn’t jeopardise my husband’s career by over salting the sundal. And the latter was something of a Queen Bee in the Kenton agraharam and had the ear of all the best realtors in town. The pressure was immense. What would I offer for vethalai pakku? I had no vethalai, no manjal and no pakku unless saunf was permitted.
Thankfully, the Gods were in a munificent mood. As I rummaged through my puja bag (a giant Selfridges carrier stashed with a years supply of sambrani, kunkumam and poonals – our Romanian house help Mikhela often discards the ones left lying around by my better half. Perhaps she thinks they’re giant reams of floss) I found three blouse pieces, some manjal and silver articles gifted to me by family that were yet to be used. This is London. Rethink. Re-use. Recycle.
Vethalai pakku ready, sundal perfectly salted and thoughts of M&S party food as neivediyam firmly pushed to one side, I was ready. My Amman mugham was mounted on the kalasam and decorated in a rani pink pavadai with matching roses from Tesco. Archanai pookal came in the form of daisies and the air was redolent with the fragrance of ‘Spiritual Flower’ incense (I needed all the help I could get). As I read from my prayer book and as my husband tied the sharadu around my wrist – I felt a sense of being home again.
The chief underling had been promoted.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
while i was sleeping
Where do memories go? Not the ones we remember. Not the ones we reach for as we lie awake in the middle of the night, thirsty for a sip of old times. Not the warm, fuzzy ones or the giggly ones or the ones hurled as angry recriminations in the heat of the moment. No. Not these.
Where are the memories that time has hidden? The ones from age three to five? Days, weeks and months have vanished. I close my eyes and try to remember something from the time. Anything. A colour. A snatch of a song. A sweet I hankered after. But nothing comes to me.
I feel betrayed. By my own mind. On what basis has it rejected these memories? My memories. Who did it ask? When did it turf them out? How did it extract them? Perhaps it extended a long, slender finger in to the secret hiding places in the ridges and furrows of its own body where the memories hid. Trembling. Did it hook a yellowing, curved nail in to the shuddering, gossamer like filaments and then pull them out? All this as my head lay on a pillow. Asleep. Unaware. Unarmed. Unprepared.
I am worried now. Ten years from now will I remember today? My delight in the dogs that frisked in the park this evening. The feel of this red silk shirt against my skin. The smell of gardenias that come wafting through the window?
Where are the memories that time has hidden? The ones from age three to five? Days, weeks and months have vanished. I close my eyes and try to remember something from the time. Anything. A colour. A snatch of a song. A sweet I hankered after. But nothing comes to me.
I feel betrayed. By my own mind. On what basis has it rejected these memories? My memories. Who did it ask? When did it turf them out? How did it extract them? Perhaps it extended a long, slender finger in to the secret hiding places in the ridges and furrows of its own body where the memories hid. Trembling. Did it hook a yellowing, curved nail in to the shuddering, gossamer like filaments and then pull them out? All this as my head lay on a pillow. Asleep. Unaware. Unarmed. Unprepared.
I am worried now. Ten years from now will I remember today? My delight in the dogs that frisked in the park this evening. The feel of this red silk shirt against my skin. The smell of gardenias that come wafting through the window?
Friday, September 08, 2006
Our Saviour
“What would our lives be like without mobile phones?” is a question we should all ask ourselves. Now, now, ye naysayer in the back who thinks our lives would be better off. That we might spend more time talking deeply to loved ones and friends. That we might actually be able to hear bird song and not the Crazy Frog ring tone. Waiting time at doctor’s clinics would be severely reduced. That the man over there with the singed phallus may still have a chance to bear children and sow wild oats, instead of being confined to a life of peeing through a tube just because some asshole banker with Blackberry Thumb had to see the doctor first. Naysayer you are in a minority and if you continue you to speak I shall lock you in a room filled with cell phones constantly going off with Crazy Frog as their assigned ring tones. Thought that would shut u up (did you all notice my clever use of txt spk? There! I did it agn )
Now back to the question “What would our lives be like without mobile phones?” Think of the cottage industries it has helped birth and nourish – the animal ring tone industry, the amateur 10 second sex film to be sent out via MMS industry (a boon to men who are always in a hurry), the novelty dangly bits that hang off phones and get caught in awkward places industry (that boosted the flagging fortunes of Hello Kitty the mouthless feline (branded as Hello Kutty in Kerala and Tamil Nadu)). Millions of people and one very large, scary, mouthless cat (gives a new understanding of the term Vaayilladha Jeevan) have prayer alters to this man made marvel which they pay obeisance to every day.
But forget others. Think of how this god send has enriched your own individual life. Remember the time before cell phones? When you were twenty minutes late for Hum Hain Rahi Pyar Ke and your friends couldn’t be bothered to wait for you and you had to go home and take off the brand new dress you’d bought just for the film? DO YOU? Well now no more of that. We can arrive as fashionably late as we please, once the commercials for Gangar Opticians and Poonamallee Pizza Palace are well over. We can call our friends who we know never switch their phones off and demand they come outside with your ticket. And then buy you an extra large bucket of butter popcorn. Not that they need a cell phone for that.
Think of the precious time you have saved thanks to your cell phone. No more wandering through the Nagpada looking for Agripada. No more standing in the rain looking for No 34, Harley Road. No more trying to ask the Marathi speaking man at Kolivada the way to Basilica. Now when we are lost we just call friends up and say ‘I am here next to the Marathi speaking gentleman at Kolivada. Come pick me up.’ And then you hand the phone over to the aforementioned gentleman and all is well.
Think of all those dates from hell. Blind dates, first dates and oh god this is so the last date. Not so long ago, we had to suffer till the very end because we couldn’t think of a convincing excuse. Or because the dessert menu looked wonderful. We had to sit through nearly two hours of lettuce in teeth, body odour or even worse listening to the other person go on about their dream Mastermind subject – Cindy Lauper 1985-1986. Now, through the marvel of science we have a ready made escape route. A friend calls in the middle of your meal, you drop your fork, you shriek, it’s an emergency you tell your date – my best friend’s dog/cat/goldfish just died. Suzy was a wonderful pet. You are comforted. You call the waiter and ask him to pack some tiramisu in a doggy bag and you leave. (All this of course we only see in movies. I don’t know if this works in real life, but hey it’s worth a shot. Oh, and don’t call the friend who missed the trailers at the movies because you were late. Chances are she ain’t ever calling you back)
But most of all, cell phones keep our hands busy. They make us look busy. See that suit over there on platform two; brow furrowed as he stares at the screen of his new Blackberry? That isn’t some important e-mail from work. It’s either porn, Bricks or he’s trying to change the language setting from Mandarin back to English (another cell phone use – great way to annoy your colleagues.)
In my own life, this is the ultimate cell phone use. A deep rooted paranoia forces me to reach any appointment a good half our early. So after one has window shopped (and torn themselves away from the temptation that is the Mango cashmere coat), had a cup of coffee and read some of the book that looked great in the library but that you now cannot understand a word of - what does one do? One pretends to make phone calls. Send random text messages to friends. Penny pinchers can pretend to send random text messages to friends. The truly sad and pathetic can send random text messages to themselves. The chances of anyone pitying you as they pass by is minimal. Unless it’s me of course. I know what you’re really up to.
So people. Embrace your cell phones. Put away those elephant headed gods and laughing Buddhas you pray to. The Cell Phone is our new Saviour. It entertains us, connects us, challenges us (Where can I learn Mandarin?). It is a mysterious, divine presence in our lives that –
No Network Coverage.
Now back to the question “What would our lives be like without mobile phones?” Think of the cottage industries it has helped birth and nourish – the animal ring tone industry, the amateur 10 second sex film to be sent out via MMS industry (a boon to men who are always in a hurry), the novelty dangly bits that hang off phones and get caught in awkward places industry (that boosted the flagging fortunes of Hello Kitty the mouthless feline (branded as Hello Kutty in Kerala and Tamil Nadu)). Millions of people and one very large, scary, mouthless cat (gives a new understanding of the term Vaayilladha Jeevan) have prayer alters to this man made marvel which they pay obeisance to every day.
But forget others. Think of how this god send has enriched your own individual life. Remember the time before cell phones? When you were twenty minutes late for Hum Hain Rahi Pyar Ke and your friends couldn’t be bothered to wait for you and you had to go home and take off the brand new dress you’d bought just for the film? DO YOU? Well now no more of that. We can arrive as fashionably late as we please, once the commercials for Gangar Opticians and Poonamallee Pizza Palace are well over. We can call our friends who we know never switch their phones off and demand they come outside with your ticket. And then buy you an extra large bucket of butter popcorn. Not that they need a cell phone for that.
Think of the precious time you have saved thanks to your cell phone. No more wandering through the Nagpada looking for Agripada. No more standing in the rain looking for No 34, Harley Road. No more trying to ask the Marathi speaking man at Kolivada the way to Basilica. Now when we are lost we just call friends up and say ‘I am here next to the Marathi speaking gentleman at Kolivada. Come pick me up.’ And then you hand the phone over to the aforementioned gentleman and all is well.
Think of all those dates from hell. Blind dates, first dates and oh god this is so the last date. Not so long ago, we had to suffer till the very end because we couldn’t think of a convincing excuse. Or because the dessert menu looked wonderful. We had to sit through nearly two hours of lettuce in teeth, body odour or even worse listening to the other person go on about their dream Mastermind subject – Cindy Lauper 1985-1986. Now, through the marvel of science we have a ready made escape route. A friend calls in the middle of your meal, you drop your fork, you shriek, it’s an emergency you tell your date – my best friend’s dog/cat/goldfish just died. Suzy was a wonderful pet. You are comforted. You call the waiter and ask him to pack some tiramisu in a doggy bag and you leave. (All this of course we only see in movies. I don’t know if this works in real life, but hey it’s worth a shot. Oh, and don’t call the friend who missed the trailers at the movies because you were late. Chances are she ain’t ever calling you back)
But most of all, cell phones keep our hands busy. They make us look busy. See that suit over there on platform two; brow furrowed as he stares at the screen of his new Blackberry? That isn’t some important e-mail from work. It’s either porn, Bricks or he’s trying to change the language setting from Mandarin back to English (another cell phone use – great way to annoy your colleagues.)
In my own life, this is the ultimate cell phone use. A deep rooted paranoia forces me to reach any appointment a good half our early. So after one has window shopped (and torn themselves away from the temptation that is the Mango cashmere coat), had a cup of coffee and read some of the book that looked great in the library but that you now cannot understand a word of - what does one do? One pretends to make phone calls. Send random text messages to friends. Penny pinchers can pretend to send random text messages to friends. The truly sad and pathetic can send random text messages to themselves. The chances of anyone pitying you as they pass by is minimal. Unless it’s me of course. I know what you’re really up to.
So people. Embrace your cell phones. Put away those elephant headed gods and laughing Buddhas you pray to. The Cell Phone is our new Saviour. It entertains us, connects us, challenges us (Where can I learn Mandarin?). It is a mysterious, divine presence in our lives that –
No Network Coverage.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
55 trapped words
She has a secret notebook full of favourite words. Sassafras. Zanzibar. Vetiver. The exotic and the mundane. Real and created. Whiffling. The known and unknown. Icarus. Calendula. She dares not say them aloud for they may escape. Serendipitous. So they are kept in a leather clad prison, between the horizontal bars of each ruled page.
And something silly I wrote on the train.
the sun
like yellow gum
drops dissolves on my skin
mellow
And something silly I wrote on the train.
the sun
like yellow gum
drops dissolves on my skin
mellow
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Chinna chinna kadhai
i
Her everyday life was dictated by the whims and fancies of animate and inanimate beings. Woken by the alarm’s strident shrillness. Meals based on the price of onions and tomatoes. Television dictated by the sticky hands that held the remote. Sleep when she heard the grunt of her husband as he went limp above her.
ii
She couldn’t help but stare. He was big. And black. Clad in a pair of jeans that clung to him intimately. Apart from a smattering of dark curly hair near his wrists his arms were smooth. She wondered if the rest of him was as bare. And blushed.
‘Probably remembering last night’ her husband grinned.
Her everyday life was dictated by the whims and fancies of animate and inanimate beings. Woken by the alarm’s strident shrillness. Meals based on the price of onions and tomatoes. Television dictated by the sticky hands that held the remote. Sleep when she heard the grunt of her husband as he went limp above her.
ii
She couldn’t help but stare. He was big. And black. Clad in a pair of jeans that clung to him intimately. Apart from a smattering of dark curly hair near his wrists his arms were smooth. She wondered if the rest of him was as bare. And blushed.
‘Probably remembering last night’ her husband grinned.
Monday, September 04, 2006
The one in which Shoefiend admits to being culturally bereft
I was fresh out of college. It was the second week at my new job. I was a trainee copywriter. Making money that was not of the Monopoly kind. Thinking up film ideas for herbal anti-dandruff shampoo. Carrying a proper work bag. From Hidesign no less. All around me, unshaven men (and a few women) smelling of last nights take away and copier ink churned out ideas that went up around town and won awards. I was on my best behaviour. I called everyone Sir and Ma’am. Came up with lots of non-executable ideas(‘…and then the penguin tap dances all the way home’). And generally tried not to reveal what a cultural ignoramus I was. I managed to carry on doing almost all of this throughout my entire stint at the agency. Except the last one.
It happened during a ‘brainstorming’ session in one of the fishbowls we called a meeting room. A rather wild eyed writer and art director (who I shall refer to as crazy1 and crazy2) were discussing Kurosawa. A word that I was not familiar with.
Crazy 1 Kurosawa feast last night dude. It was amaaaazing.
Crazy 2 Why didn’t you call me over asshole?
Crazy 1 Dude, I thought they gave you headaches.
Crazy 2 Only the first time. Now I’m crazy about them.
Crazy 1(turning to me) Do you like Kurosawa?
Now I had two options before me. Either I admitted I had no idea what or who Kurosawa was and make a fool of myself before my very cool peers. Or I try and bluff my way through the whole thing and make an even bigger fool of myself before my very cool peers. Guess which one I chose?
Me Oh I love Kurosawas! Especially with sake.
As you can imagine I got two very blank stares, was promptly ignored for the rest of the evening and made to fetch water. Ah the joys of being a trainee.
You can imagine how stupid I felt when I found out that Kurosawa was indeed a film maker par excellence. I promptly mugged the names of some of his movies to tide me over till I got around watching any of them.
This of course happened about five years ago. And I’m glad to say I finally got a chance to see my first Kurosawa about two weeks ago. Well, almost.
After months of being on my Screenselect list, I was finally sent The Seven Samurai. Oh the joy! My husband who expressed doubts as to how it could be better than The Magnificent Seven, was given a lecture on broadening his horizons and not being a pleb. He was then promptly tied to his chair (only for the duration of the movie, I assure you) and forced to watch the film. Well, most of it.
As the opening shots appeared, my husband’s muffled pleas (I’d had to gag him as well. Again, only for the duration of the movie) reached my ears. I took out the sock (clean) from his mouth and he begged me to press the time/text button on the remote to see how long the movie was. I obliged. Shit! Three and half hours long. Was this guy some long lost relative of K-JO? My husband's loud protests were silenced once more and we settled down to a companionable silence.
Suffering Japanese peasants, marauding bandits, out of work samurais – I was expecting all of that. I mean I had seen The Magnificent Seven. But hello? Where was Shibuya’s answer to Steve McQueen? Where was the Yul Brynner of Okinawa? I mean sure I was expecting the peasants to be bad looking – they probably had scurvy from all the rice husk they were eating. But was the samurai’s excuse? I mean Ken Watanabe must have had a great grand daddy right?
So after about forty minutes of suffering and crying (my husband, both times) we switched to a rerun of Friends. I promised to watch the rest of the movie the next day. And the next. And the next. After a week, I still couldn’t face the thought of almost three hours of strife. So I slipped the DVD back in its sleeve and returned it. What can I say? I’m a fraud.
While I’m at it, I think I should confess to my other shameful secrets. I read Mills & Boon till I was in class x and only stopped when my mother threatened to burn my library membership. I used to like Roxette. When I was 12 my room was a shrine to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (I even had the sneakers. Sob). I cried when I saw Forrest Gump and Titanic. I occasionally watch Baywatch reruns. When I’m at W.H Smith I read Heat and Hello but take the New Yorker and National Geographic to the check out counter. I enjoy watching films where Kate Hudson plays a struggling singleton raising her dead sister’s children and trying hard not to fall in love with the local Pastor. I am a popular culture junkie. So shoot me. (Oh, and I think Ben Stiller is hysterical)
I’m sure I’ve fallen greatly in your esteem. All my own doing I admit. So in an attempt to raise your opinion of me by a smidgen I leave you with this. Shostakovich. (Just don’t ask me what that is. Or who. Or… ah forget it. It’s almost time for Britain’s Next Top Model)
It happened during a ‘brainstorming’ session in one of the fishbowls we called a meeting room. A rather wild eyed writer and art director (who I shall refer to as crazy1 and crazy2) were discussing Kurosawa. A word that I was not familiar with.
Crazy 1 Kurosawa feast last night dude. It was amaaaazing.
Crazy 2 Why didn’t you call me over asshole?
Crazy 1 Dude, I thought they gave you headaches.
Crazy 2 Only the first time. Now I’m crazy about them.
Crazy 1(turning to me) Do you like Kurosawa?
Now I had two options before me. Either I admitted I had no idea what or who Kurosawa was and make a fool of myself before my very cool peers. Or I try and bluff my way through the whole thing and make an even bigger fool of myself before my very cool peers. Guess which one I chose?
Me Oh I love Kurosawas! Especially with sake.
As you can imagine I got two very blank stares, was promptly ignored for the rest of the evening and made to fetch water. Ah the joys of being a trainee.
You can imagine how stupid I felt when I found out that Kurosawa was indeed a film maker par excellence. I promptly mugged the names of some of his movies to tide me over till I got around watching any of them.
This of course happened about five years ago. And I’m glad to say I finally got a chance to see my first Kurosawa about two weeks ago. Well, almost.
After months of being on my Screenselect list, I was finally sent The Seven Samurai. Oh the joy! My husband who expressed doubts as to how it could be better than The Magnificent Seven, was given a lecture on broadening his horizons and not being a pleb. He was then promptly tied to his chair (only for the duration of the movie, I assure you) and forced to watch the film. Well, most of it.
As the opening shots appeared, my husband’s muffled pleas (I’d had to gag him as well. Again, only for the duration of the movie) reached my ears. I took out the sock (clean) from his mouth and he begged me to press the time/text button on the remote to see how long the movie was. I obliged. Shit! Three and half hours long. Was this guy some long lost relative of K-JO? My husband's loud protests were silenced once more and we settled down to a companionable silence.
Suffering Japanese peasants, marauding bandits, out of work samurais – I was expecting all of that. I mean I had seen The Magnificent Seven. But hello? Where was Shibuya’s answer to Steve McQueen? Where was the Yul Brynner of Okinawa? I mean sure I was expecting the peasants to be bad looking – they probably had scurvy from all the rice husk they were eating. But was the samurai’s excuse? I mean Ken Watanabe must have had a great grand daddy right?
So after about forty minutes of suffering and crying (my husband, both times) we switched to a rerun of Friends. I promised to watch the rest of the movie the next day. And the next. And the next. After a week, I still couldn’t face the thought of almost three hours of strife. So I slipped the DVD back in its sleeve and returned it. What can I say? I’m a fraud.
While I’m at it, I think I should confess to my other shameful secrets. I read Mills & Boon till I was in class x and only stopped when my mother threatened to burn my library membership. I used to like Roxette. When I was 12 my room was a shrine to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (I even had the sneakers. Sob). I cried when I saw Forrest Gump and Titanic. I occasionally watch Baywatch reruns. When I’m at W.H Smith I read Heat and Hello but take the New Yorker and National Geographic to the check out counter. I enjoy watching films where Kate Hudson plays a struggling singleton raising her dead sister’s children and trying hard not to fall in love with the local Pastor. I am a popular culture junkie. So shoot me. (Oh, and I think Ben Stiller is hysterical)
I’m sure I’ve fallen greatly in your esteem. All my own doing I admit. So in an attempt to raise your opinion of me by a smidgen I leave you with this. Shostakovich. (Just don’t ask me what that is. Or who. Or… ah forget it. It’s almost time for Britain’s Next Top Model)
Saturday, September 02, 2006
Kensington Gardens on a Friday Afternoon
“Would you like the scenic route?” replied the smiling ticket officer at South Ken station. I had asked for directions to Kensington Gardens.
The alternative was to take the subway, and though the buskers and bright pop art posters that dot these subterranean passages are always a pleasure to listen to and see, I decided to soak in the sunshine that London’s skies are loathe to let through in September.
So walk I did; all the way down Exhibition Road. A stretch of asphalt that is home to some of the capitals most venerable buildings; starting off with The Natural History Museum and The Victoria & Albert. Two plump, ancient aunts seated comfortably on opposite porches and watching the comings and goings of the rest of the world. No doubt passing judgement, sharing gossip and occasionally getting in to tiffs (“No I got more visitors last year!”). The Science Museum, Imperial College London, whose new glass and chrome façade doesn’t look as incongruous as it sounds, the pristine white buildings that house aristocrats, i-bankers and offices are lined up one after the other and my eyes are almost relieved when it all comes to end.
Rem Koolhaas’s futuristic pavilion can be seen from the end of Exhibition Road. Was the Dutch architect chewing on hubba bubbas when he thought – “There’s an idea, the pavilion will be a big white bubble.” By day, the pavilion is a chic patisserie while in the evenings it plays host to movies, lectures and soirees that only those with hyphenated, Roman numeral including names are invited to. I had no desire to eat over priced French sandwiches (also I’d just eaten a quiche at Paul’s) so I moved on to the Serpentine Gallery – a modest, low lying brick building that sits in the shadow of the bubble. As my luck would have it, the gallery was closed for a re-hanging. I was kindly offered a diary and the chance to take a look at their book shop. Sighting an appointment with the area’s local swan population I excused myself.
I’ve only been to London’s Parks on weekends. Usually along with the rest of the city, it’s toddlers, nannies and dogs. I wondered who else would be in the gardens on a Friday afternoon. Hyde Park is perhaps a more popular and well known destination, so I wasn’t expecting to be in the midst of Nikon flashing tourists. And I wasn’t wrong.
Office workers taking extended lunch breaks. Old age pensioners walking their even older dogs. Children being minded by Phillipino and Latvian nannies.
‘Who is that?’ demanded a cherub faced devil as he marched past a statue of Queen Victoria that sits outside Kensinton Palace.
‘Princess. That is dead princess’ replied his petite minder from Manila.
I wandered aimlessly. The sun had disappeared and a cool breeze hinted of the rain that was to come. An old woman sat on a bench. Face made, hair done and surrounded by a dozen bags. She clutches them as though they contained all her worldly possessions. Was that regret on her face as she saw the little girl going by on her tricycle? Or was that just my over active imagination?
Along the edge of the lake, ducks, swans and other tiny winged creatures bathed, swam and fluttered. A white swan stood in the middle of the grassy lawns a good 15 yards from the lake. He seemed disoriented, lost and a little drunk from the look of his lurching gait. After a few wobbly steps he sat down. Reminded me of a certain Uncle who always overate at Saturday brunch.
The Kensington Palace was having an exhibition of photographs of the Late Princess of Wales by Mario Testino. Bronze plaques embedded in the foot path at regular intervals guided the faithful as they trudged along her Memorial Walk.
Lovers sat entwined in each others arms. Not at all like the furtive couples of Nageshwara Rao Park. They do their best to blend in with the foliage that shelter them from the gaze of Diabetic Mamas and the overweight Mamis who go round and round the park with a fervour that had till then been reserved for the local Anjaneyar temple.
It was almost 4:30 when I decided to turn around and walk back to the main entrance. A group of friends were chatting under a tree. In contrast, just two trees a way a lone Arab man was writing a letter. His denim jacket, jeans and sneakers were so new they looked almost unreal against the patch of brown grass and ageing bark. Perhaps another foreigner in a strange land telling those at home about Kensington Gardens on a Friday afternoon.
The alternative was to take the subway, and though the buskers and bright pop art posters that dot these subterranean passages are always a pleasure to listen to and see, I decided to soak in the sunshine that London’s skies are loathe to let through in September.
So walk I did; all the way down Exhibition Road. A stretch of asphalt that is home to some of the capitals most venerable buildings; starting off with The Natural History Museum and The Victoria & Albert. Two plump, ancient aunts seated comfortably on opposite porches and watching the comings and goings of the rest of the world. No doubt passing judgement, sharing gossip and occasionally getting in to tiffs (“No I got more visitors last year!”). The Science Museum, Imperial College London, whose new glass and chrome façade doesn’t look as incongruous as it sounds, the pristine white buildings that house aristocrats, i-bankers and offices are lined up one after the other and my eyes are almost relieved when it all comes to end.
Rem Koolhaas’s futuristic pavilion can be seen from the end of Exhibition Road. Was the Dutch architect chewing on hubba bubbas when he thought – “There’s an idea, the pavilion will be a big white bubble.” By day, the pavilion is a chic patisserie while in the evenings it plays host to movies, lectures and soirees that only those with hyphenated, Roman numeral including names are invited to. I had no desire to eat over priced French sandwiches (also I’d just eaten a quiche at Paul’s) so I moved on to the Serpentine Gallery – a modest, low lying brick building that sits in the shadow of the bubble. As my luck would have it, the gallery was closed for a re-hanging. I was kindly offered a diary and the chance to take a look at their book shop. Sighting an appointment with the area’s local swan population I excused myself.
I’ve only been to London’s Parks on weekends. Usually along with the rest of the city, it’s toddlers, nannies and dogs. I wondered who else would be in the gardens on a Friday afternoon. Hyde Park is perhaps a more popular and well known destination, so I wasn’t expecting to be in the midst of Nikon flashing tourists. And I wasn’t wrong.
Office workers taking extended lunch breaks. Old age pensioners walking their even older dogs. Children being minded by Phillipino and Latvian nannies.
‘Who is that?’ demanded a cherub faced devil as he marched past a statue of Queen Victoria that sits outside Kensinton Palace.
‘Princess. That is dead princess’ replied his petite minder from Manila.
I wandered aimlessly. The sun had disappeared and a cool breeze hinted of the rain that was to come. An old woman sat on a bench. Face made, hair done and surrounded by a dozen bags. She clutches them as though they contained all her worldly possessions. Was that regret on her face as she saw the little girl going by on her tricycle? Or was that just my over active imagination?
Along the edge of the lake, ducks, swans and other tiny winged creatures bathed, swam and fluttered. A white swan stood in the middle of the grassy lawns a good 15 yards from the lake. He seemed disoriented, lost and a little drunk from the look of his lurching gait. After a few wobbly steps he sat down. Reminded me of a certain Uncle who always overate at Saturday brunch.
The Kensington Palace was having an exhibition of photographs of the Late Princess of Wales by Mario Testino. Bronze plaques embedded in the foot path at regular intervals guided the faithful as they trudged along her Memorial Walk.
Lovers sat entwined in each others arms. Not at all like the furtive couples of Nageshwara Rao Park. They do their best to blend in with the foliage that shelter them from the gaze of Diabetic Mamas and the overweight Mamis who go round and round the park with a fervour that had till then been reserved for the local Anjaneyar temple.
It was almost 4:30 when I decided to turn around and walk back to the main entrance. A group of friends were chatting under a tree. In contrast, just two trees a way a lone Arab man was writing a letter. His denim jacket, jeans and sneakers were so new they looked almost unreal against the patch of brown grass and ageing bark. Perhaps another foreigner in a strange land telling those at home about Kensington Gardens on a Friday afternoon.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Silly me (click on the picture)
Disclaimer: the only reason I am doing this tag after my fierce no tags oath is because the tagger has an evil, slightly manic glint in her eyes. You don't mess with people who once looked like this.
So here is my silly picture. Those who wish to partake in the silliness are welcome to!
Big Blog Bog
Please ignore the title of this post, it's 9:24am and I cannot be held accountable for my actions.
So apparently today is Blog Day. Now I went here and found out what I was supposed to do (kind of like the frantic calls I make to my mother the day before Nombu and ask what an acceptable substitute for coconuts will be in the kalasam.)
So Happy Blog Day etc etc. Here are some (newish) blogs I've been reading and enjoying lately
Szerelem
Random rambles of n
Terri
Filmiholic
Venkat
Lost in post
PutVote
Also, these two wonderful blogs are no longer with us today - Witchy and Apropos of Nothing - you are much missed. Come back won't ya?
So go forth and blog. It's you people who fill my unemployed hours with joy!
So apparently today is Blog Day. Now I went here and found out what I was supposed to do (kind of like the frantic calls I make to my mother the day before Nombu and ask what an acceptable substitute for coconuts will be in the kalasam.)
So Happy Blog Day etc etc. Here are some (newish) blogs I've been reading and enjoying lately
Szerelem
Random rambles of n
Terri
Filmiholic
Venkat
Lost in post
PutVote
Also, these two wonderful blogs are no longer with us today - Witchy and Apropos of Nothing - you are much missed. Come back won't ya?
So go forth and blog. It's you people who fill my unemployed hours with joy!
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, August 25, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, August 18, 2006
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.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
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.”
*
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.”
Thursday, August 03, 2006
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.’
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.’
Monday, July 31, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Sentence or Story?
Friday, July 21, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
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.
"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.
Friday, July 14, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
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.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
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.
Thoughts and prayers to all those in Bombay.
Monday, July 10, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
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
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
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
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.’
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.’
Friday, June 30, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
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."
She nodded her head in agreement.
"Of course. Whatever you say Sir."
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Happiness is...
piping hot Leo coffee made from the very first decoction of the day
(She started it! Carry on bloggers)
Thursday, June 15, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, June 12, 2006
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!)
‘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!)
Friday, June 02, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
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.
The sky is a wonderful place to cloud fish. And today's catch wasn't all that bad.
Monday, May 22, 2006
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
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.
-----
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.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
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.
Monday, April 03, 2006
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!
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!
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