As she drives her four year old son
To his UCMAS class
She watches him idly play
With his plastic abacus
She recalls, how as a child
She played with a wooden frame
With rows of brightly coloured beads
Not knowing the Chinese secret
Of advanced math power hidden in them.
Yet, she could total up the grocery bill in her mind
She could budget the month to fit the salary
She could put two and two together,
And know, though it should turn out to be four,
Life’s quirks make it twenty- two at times…
Without having undergone special tuitions.
As she watches her kids
Eyes glued to the screen
Jubilantly criminal in sport,
Riding violent rides,
Outsmarting the unknown rivals
On their Play Station,
She recalls her simple rustic childhood
How on lazy days of summer break
With her grandaunt as her opponent
She waged battles in pallanguzhi
By no means a mean task,
Every move calculated
Every seashell manipulated to end up
In a premeditated slot,
To be scooped out
As the winner’s lot.
As she packs her kids’ lunch box
With deep fried samosas, pastries
Ajinomoto rich noodles
Sugar coated doughnuts, crimped potato wafers
And waves off the still sleepyheads
In their school bus
She remembers those hurried mornings
Of gulping down
Plateful of left over rice
Well mixed in thick curds
With dainty salted mangos
(Mmmmm…ambrosia, manna and nectar!)
Before walking three kilometers
To reach the school before the peon
Rings the stentorian bell;
Of opening the aluminium lunch box
At one o’clock and
Scooping out with fingers,
Cold sambhar or rasam rice,
Devouring the very last morsel
And rushing to the row of taps
To rinse the box
Before elbows start jostling
And water, splashing….
How times have changed
She muses
Alien land…alien habits
Alien taste…in food, clothing, routine.
Alien thinking, alien justifications,
Alien kids? Maybe soon, she thinks…
Why am I unable to adjust, she wonders
Why do I cling to my past
Knowing full well that
That past is past
And it shall never be the same
Ever again!
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Sunday, October 29, 2006
A QUICK JOG DOWN MEMORY LANE
I got a call this evening from Akhila, an ex- student of my teaching years at Bhadravathi. We chatted for half an hour about her batchmates, other students and acquaintances in and around St. Charles English High School. Many of her batchmates are married and with kids of their own. Akhila has been in Ajman since July. She told me how a particular student of mine went to Russia to do his MBBS but dropped out after the second year, brought home his Russian girl friend and eventually married her. She told me of an alumni gathering of the 96 batch and promised to mail me the pictures, an initiative taken up by Vijayasimha.
A few of my students are in touch with me. Rashmi Raman working in IBM is a regular in my mail box. Prathibha Hampapur working with Volvo has remembered to send me greeting card every Teacher’s Day.
Once in a restaurant in Bangalore, I turned when someone called me ‘Miss’ and saw tall dark fellow towering over me. For a minute I couldn’t place him…. Not that he minded. M.S. Kiran, Miss, he told me. Oh my God! How he had grown…. A great kid in my English classes, he was in the third year of engineering at that time. Must have got married and even got kids by now.
These days you meet people in the most unexpected places. Once while I was playing Literati online, suddenly someone started chatting with me…. It was Vibhav Sharma who is working in Chennai as a software engineer. As usual we catch upon who is where. Another time I get a mail from Mohd. Wayeez who had been one of my favourites while at school. Not favourite as in favouritism but someone I liked, trusted and counted on to help me with that class of 62 students. I later taught Wayeez’ sister who was in my last batch in St. Charles. He had got my mail ID from her friend and mailed me about his whereabouts and that of many other of his batch. I have registered myself with batchmates .com hoping that someone might in the course of their busy life remember my name and at least talk about me with their family or friends. Thanks to technology many of them contact me and the life I spent as their teacher, suddenly seems to have been meaningful.
It was great talking about good old days with Akhila, but after we rang up I realized how time has flown. All those boys and girls I left behind in Bhadravathi after their Grade 10,have become young men and women. Soon my own boys will start on their career and eventually settle down in life. When I left Bhadravathi for Sharjah, I had been given an overwhelming farewell by my students and I had told myself that no one will love me as they have. I stand corrected. I guess I am one of those few blessed teachers who will be given unconditional love by students.
When I look back at the seven years I spent teaching in Sharjah, I thought I may just be an ‘also ran’ but the emails that flooded my mail box after I resigned made me realize something. Students are just great people. They like you…they love you. Every now and then I get calls seeking advice, announcing their performances, sharing their dreams for future…or just making a friendly call to ask me how I am. I bask in the love showered on me by my Sowmya, Arti, Afshan, Karen, Deepika, Michelle, Sana, Christina, Anju, Ann Isac and many others. I just love it when a chat box pops open with ‘Hi M’am’ smiling at me…. Then follows a quick session of catching up with what is happening in their lives. Their achievements are of great interest to me. One explains why she has chosen a commerce stream after pursuing Science in 11th and 12th. One justifies why she left the college after the first year in BA Political Science to join the Law Academy. One tells me of her dream of becoming an ace tennis player…. One needs my advice on a college project. One just mails saying how much she misses me……all these reiterate the truth- Students are the same…whether they are in India or in the Emirates.
They don’t always use the grammar I have tried to drum into their heads. They don’t use the right letter format..( One even wrote, ‘Now that I am out of school, I am not going to sign off with ‘ Yours sincerely’ I am going to use ‘With Love’…and I don’t mind if you cut my marks for this….heh..heh…’the student has the last word here…..because I am speechless with emotion). They don’t even use the English language I know…. They use a mutilated language with terrible spellings…… But the message they convey is always the same… They love me still…. And miss me…..as I do ……miss them. They are my gratuity… my bonus…my savings… to ruminate on during the twilight of my life and perhaps to entertain my grandkids in future. In the meantime, all my Deepikas, Sowmyas, Sanas and Akhilas are welcome to mail me, call me or chat with me.
A few of my students are in touch with me. Rashmi Raman working in IBM is a regular in my mail box. Prathibha Hampapur working with Volvo has remembered to send me greeting card every Teacher’s Day.
Once in a restaurant in Bangalore, I turned when someone called me ‘Miss’ and saw tall dark fellow towering over me. For a minute I couldn’t place him…. Not that he minded. M.S. Kiran, Miss, he told me. Oh my God! How he had grown…. A great kid in my English classes, he was in the third year of engineering at that time. Must have got married and even got kids by now.
These days you meet people in the most unexpected places. Once while I was playing Literati online, suddenly someone started chatting with me…. It was Vibhav Sharma who is working in Chennai as a software engineer. As usual we catch upon who is where. Another time I get a mail from Mohd. Wayeez who had been one of my favourites while at school. Not favourite as in favouritism but someone I liked, trusted and counted on to help me with that class of 62 students. I later taught Wayeez’ sister who was in my last batch in St. Charles. He had got my mail ID from her friend and mailed me about his whereabouts and that of many other of his batch. I have registered myself with batchmates .com hoping that someone might in the course of their busy life remember my name and at least talk about me with their family or friends. Thanks to technology many of them contact me and the life I spent as their teacher, suddenly seems to have been meaningful.
It was great talking about good old days with Akhila, but after we rang up I realized how time has flown. All those boys and girls I left behind in Bhadravathi after their Grade 10,have become young men and women. Soon my own boys will start on their career and eventually settle down in life. When I left Bhadravathi for Sharjah, I had been given an overwhelming farewell by my students and I had told myself that no one will love me as they have. I stand corrected. I guess I am one of those few blessed teachers who will be given unconditional love by students.
When I look back at the seven years I spent teaching in Sharjah, I thought I may just be an ‘also ran’ but the emails that flooded my mail box after I resigned made me realize something. Students are just great people. They like you…they love you. Every now and then I get calls seeking advice, announcing their performances, sharing their dreams for future…or just making a friendly call to ask me how I am. I bask in the love showered on me by my Sowmya, Arti, Afshan, Karen, Deepika, Michelle, Sana, Christina, Anju, Ann Isac and many others. I just love it when a chat box pops open with ‘Hi M’am’ smiling at me…. Then follows a quick session of catching up with what is happening in their lives. Their achievements are of great interest to me. One explains why she has chosen a commerce stream after pursuing Science in 11th and 12th. One justifies why she left the college after the first year in BA Political Science to join the Law Academy. One tells me of her dream of becoming an ace tennis player…. One needs my advice on a college project. One just mails saying how much she misses me……all these reiterate the truth- Students are the same…whether they are in India or in the Emirates.
They don’t always use the grammar I have tried to drum into their heads. They don’t use the right letter format..( One even wrote, ‘Now that I am out of school, I am not going to sign off with ‘ Yours sincerely’ I am going to use ‘With Love’…and I don’t mind if you cut my marks for this….heh..heh…’the student has the last word here…..because I am speechless with emotion). They don’t even use the English language I know…. They use a mutilated language with terrible spellings…… But the message they convey is always the same… They love me still…. And miss me…..as I do ……miss them. They are my gratuity… my bonus…my savings… to ruminate on during the twilight of my life and perhaps to entertain my grandkids in future. In the meantime, all my Deepikas, Sowmyas, Sanas and Akhilas are welcome to mail me, call me or chat with me.
Friday, October 27, 2006
K3’S WORDS- CHAPATHI, WALL, ELECTRICITY
Kalyanasundaram faced a cul de sac. The very thought of going home for dinner filled him with dread. Another chapathi to eat and I’ll scream, he thought. Amma had been right. Think twice before marrying a Punjabi she had said. Their life style and ours are not the same. But his love for Sarabjeet had been blind. Funny how she used to remind him of a tall glass of chilled meethi lassi that he used to order in Parmeet di Dabha…and that was another thing he couldn’t stand any more. His patted the layers of lard that had accumulated around his waist in the last three months of wedded nightmare!
Being posted in Jalandhar, it seemed a good idea to move in with Sarabjeet’s family, once they were married. Once the rose spectacles of newly married life were removed, reality struck. The toughest thing to compromise was the food. Chapathi for breakfast, paratta for lunch, tandoori roti for dinner…..Oh! his palate just longed for some pazhaya sadam (leftover rice) and katta thayiru( thick curds) accompanied by kadugu manga ( spicy tender mango pickle)…. But… no way…. His mother in law could not even boil rice properly. When he had placed the desire of wanting to eat rice before Sarabjeet, what was placed before him had been a plate of ghee- dripping half-cooked basmati rice tempered with jeera.
He did not bother them again. He bought himself a rice cooker, one which worked on electricity, which he hid in his office. Every morning he’d make one cup of rice for himself and gobble it around 11.30 with curds and pickle bought at the local Foodworld. Sarabjeet would personally bring his lunch to the office everyday. Sinfully rich parathas and aloo gobhi or palak paneer or if in a mood to punish him…,sarson da saag. He would take a deep whiff of it and feign to drool…just to keep her happy. After she left, once the coast was clear, he would, throw the whole thing outside the compound wall, exactly at 1.30 p m. The local curs would be waiting for their lunch and there’d be no trace of his lunch left over. Since he suffered the punjabi breakfast and dinner, he felt justified in indulging in a little madrasi deceit.
He had been lured by the newly- opened Udupi restaurant on the other side of the town. Today, irresistibly he was drawn into the Kamat restaurant. “Sadadosamasaladosaidliwadasambharoottappamkarabhathchowchowbathmeduwa-damasalwadaakkkirotiuppumaaaaaa!!!” announced the thambi in one long breath. Oh! Good old hotel jargon….! Even the way they announced the menu was appetizing! Kalyanasundaram said, ‘Idli wada sambhar and oothappam and closed his eyes in bliss.
He rang home and told Sarabjeet, ‘Oye! Have an urgent meeting…You have food, Don’t wait for me…Madrasi clients to deal with!’That settled, he tackled the steaming idli wada sambhar that was plonked before him. All’s fair in love and war! He consoled himself…
He loved Sarajeet…but he loved his madrasiness more. Diversity in Unity!
TRIAL 2
Eureka! Screamed Unnik as he rushed out of the bathroom not naked as Archemides had done ages back… He was fully clad but that did not make him any less genius than the originator of that yell. Unnik was a science freak.
He loved experimenting…creating…and doing things related to scientific theories when others of his age enjoyed playing cricket…or watching movies. He had been told to prepare a working model of some useful gadget for the annual science exhibition. He had been at a dead end. What could he do?
Last night as he watched his mother roll out chapathis, the idea had sprouted in his mind…. But it was just five minutes back, while sitting in the toilet, like Rodin’s Thinker, that he had finalized his idea.
He would make a 'multi- limbed roti- robot' that worked on electricity…. He had a blue print in his mind for the robot that would knead the dough with one limb, while another arm rolled the dough into balls and tossed against the wall. The third arm fitted with a flat sheet of metal would press the dough to form perfectly round chapathis which would be cooked on the electrically heated wall ….. Eureka, he muttered more soberly and jubilantly… Now to get the funds for the material to make my robot! Must tell Mom to sponsor the cost….After all, she’ll benefit first…only then I’ll give the patent for commercializing my product, he decided.
Being posted in Jalandhar, it seemed a good idea to move in with Sarabjeet’s family, once they were married. Once the rose spectacles of newly married life were removed, reality struck. The toughest thing to compromise was the food. Chapathi for breakfast, paratta for lunch, tandoori roti for dinner…..Oh! his palate just longed for some pazhaya sadam (leftover rice) and katta thayiru( thick curds) accompanied by kadugu manga ( spicy tender mango pickle)…. But… no way…. His mother in law could not even boil rice properly. When he had placed the desire of wanting to eat rice before Sarabjeet, what was placed before him had been a plate of ghee- dripping half-cooked basmati rice tempered with jeera.
He did not bother them again. He bought himself a rice cooker, one which worked on electricity, which he hid in his office. Every morning he’d make one cup of rice for himself and gobble it around 11.30 with curds and pickle bought at the local Foodworld. Sarabjeet would personally bring his lunch to the office everyday. Sinfully rich parathas and aloo gobhi or palak paneer or if in a mood to punish him…,sarson da saag. He would take a deep whiff of it and feign to drool…just to keep her happy. After she left, once the coast was clear, he would, throw the whole thing outside the compound wall, exactly at 1.30 p m. The local curs would be waiting for their lunch and there’d be no trace of his lunch left over. Since he suffered the punjabi breakfast and dinner, he felt justified in indulging in a little madrasi deceit.
He had been lured by the newly- opened Udupi restaurant on the other side of the town. Today, irresistibly he was drawn into the Kamat restaurant. “Sadadosamasaladosaidliwadasambharoottappamkarabhathchowchowbathmeduwa-damasalwadaakkkirotiuppumaaaaaa!!!” announced the thambi in one long breath. Oh! Good old hotel jargon….! Even the way they announced the menu was appetizing! Kalyanasundaram said, ‘Idli wada sambhar and oothappam and closed his eyes in bliss.
He rang home and told Sarabjeet, ‘Oye! Have an urgent meeting…You have food, Don’t wait for me…Madrasi clients to deal with!’That settled, he tackled the steaming idli wada sambhar that was plonked before him. All’s fair in love and war! He consoled himself…
He loved Sarajeet…but he loved his madrasiness more. Diversity in Unity!
TRIAL 2
Eureka! Screamed Unnik as he rushed out of the bathroom not naked as Archemides had done ages back… He was fully clad but that did not make him any less genius than the originator of that yell. Unnik was a science freak.
He loved experimenting…creating…and doing things related to scientific theories when others of his age enjoyed playing cricket…or watching movies. He had been told to prepare a working model of some useful gadget for the annual science exhibition. He had been at a dead end. What could he do?
Last night as he watched his mother roll out chapathis, the idea had sprouted in his mind…. But it was just five minutes back, while sitting in the toilet, like Rodin’s Thinker, that he had finalized his idea.
He would make a 'multi- limbed roti- robot' that worked on electricity…. He had a blue print in his mind for the robot that would knead the dough with one limb, while another arm rolled the dough into balls and tossed against the wall. The third arm fitted with a flat sheet of metal would press the dough to form perfectly round chapathis which would be cooked on the electrically heated wall ….. Eureka, he muttered more soberly and jubilantly… Now to get the funds for the material to make my robot! Must tell Mom to sponsor the cost….After all, she’ll benefit first…only then I’ll give the patent for commercializing my product, he decided.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
APPEARANCES CAN BE DECEPTIVE!
When I saw Sindoo’s words, the phrase ‘child’s play’ flashed through my mind and I smiled in complacence. Oh! How the mighty are fallen! For the last seven days, my creative self has been struggling to find a connection…and, finally early this morning, I woke up at 2.30 and voila! I got it…. Sindoo, thank you for making me eat the humble pie!
SINDOO’S WORDS: RADIO, BOOKMARK, SHIP
Bharat surveyed the elegant interiors of Café Theiere. Wow! So this is where the other half wine and dine. He had never before entered such an expensive restaurant, and perhaps, never would have, if he hadn’t won a prize in a Radio quiz show. He loved interacting with the RJs during the daily long trek via Emirates Road. And during peak hours when the car just moves a couple of feet every ten minutes, the company of those sonorous,humourous, witty and entertaining RJs was a solace. He often participated in their competitions and conveyed to them the locations of traffic bottle- necks, besides requesting for his favourite songs. Last month, there had been a quiz on ships, a topic dear to him, thanks to his maternal uncle who had been a marine engineer who had regaled his childhood years with stories of his life on the sea. Bharat had developed a keen interest on ships as a boy and had a collection of miniature ships and books on ships. The quiz had been a cake- walk for him. He had answered all the questions on ships, shipping terms and disasters correctly and won a free meal in Café Theiere …and here he was.
Seated in a secluded corner, he was able to observe what was going on around him.
When the sommelier gave him the menu for wines, he declined, no he wanted only water. Did the man’s nose go up by an inch or so? He slithered away into the darkness and was replaced by a commis waiter.
With a flourish, the commis handed Bharat another fancy menu with a list of mineral water with fancier price index….. Wow! Water priced so high? You get a two-litre bottle for just two dirhams in any restaurant! This was five star robbery. He stole a glance at the stiff figure near him...Yes, the sneer was there as though the man could read his mind. Hello, you are only an assistant…. Back home in a kalyana sadyai (wedding feast) you will be beckoned with the snap of a finger…’Ambi…inga konjam thanneen…’( brother…a little water here!) You are just the twelfth man in the cricket team…. A water-boy! And don’t you give me any airs!
Bharat glanced at the list again. Something caught his eye. Canaqua. Now that sounded familiar. Where had he heard the term? He tried hard to recall. Suddenly it clicked. He had heard his RJ pal talk about a new brand of water that has hit the shelves in an exclusive mall in Dubai. Some water bottled from a Canadian spring …what was that they claimed? ‘Untouched by air or any living thing!’ Priced at Dhs. 10 for half a litre bottle. Fine…. The meal included water as well…so he might as well opt for the fancy stuff.! A bottle of Canaqua, he said as snootily as he could and handed the list back. The man’s face seemed to change.. A flash of appreciation before the professional supercilious expression of five star waiter masked it again. As the fellow disappeared, Bharat surveyed the room again. He mentally book marked the scenario….. Maybe he would share it with his favourite FM network and all its listeners in the emirates. But, he must tell them one thing, the prize winner should have the option of redeeming the coupon for its worth rather than be a victim of five star snobbery…. He had only selected the water…now there would be the main menu and the dessert … What a torture!
SINDOO’S WORDS: RADIO, BOOKMARK, SHIP
Bharat surveyed the elegant interiors of Café Theiere. Wow! So this is where the other half wine and dine. He had never before entered such an expensive restaurant, and perhaps, never would have, if he hadn’t won a prize in a Radio quiz show. He loved interacting with the RJs during the daily long trek via Emirates Road. And during peak hours when the car just moves a couple of feet every ten minutes, the company of those sonorous,humourous, witty and entertaining RJs was a solace. He often participated in their competitions and conveyed to them the locations of traffic bottle- necks, besides requesting for his favourite songs. Last month, there had been a quiz on ships, a topic dear to him, thanks to his maternal uncle who had been a marine engineer who had regaled his childhood years with stories of his life on the sea. Bharat had developed a keen interest on ships as a boy and had a collection of miniature ships and books on ships. The quiz had been a cake- walk for him. He had answered all the questions on ships, shipping terms and disasters correctly and won a free meal in Café Theiere …and here he was.
Seated in a secluded corner, he was able to observe what was going on around him.
When the sommelier gave him the menu for wines, he declined, no he wanted only water. Did the man’s nose go up by an inch or so? He slithered away into the darkness and was replaced by a commis waiter.
With a flourish, the commis handed Bharat another fancy menu with a list of mineral water with fancier price index….. Wow! Water priced so high? You get a two-litre bottle for just two dirhams in any restaurant! This was five star robbery. He stole a glance at the stiff figure near him...Yes, the sneer was there as though the man could read his mind. Hello, you are only an assistant…. Back home in a kalyana sadyai (wedding feast) you will be beckoned with the snap of a finger…’Ambi…inga konjam thanneen…’( brother…a little water here!) You are just the twelfth man in the cricket team…. A water-boy! And don’t you give me any airs!
Bharat glanced at the list again. Something caught his eye. Canaqua. Now that sounded familiar. Where had he heard the term? He tried hard to recall. Suddenly it clicked. He had heard his RJ pal talk about a new brand of water that has hit the shelves in an exclusive mall in Dubai. Some water bottled from a Canadian spring …what was that they claimed? ‘Untouched by air or any living thing!’ Priced at Dhs. 10 for half a litre bottle. Fine…. The meal included water as well…so he might as well opt for the fancy stuff.! A bottle of Canaqua, he said as snootily as he could and handed the list back. The man’s face seemed to change.. A flash of appreciation before the professional supercilious expression of five star waiter masked it again. As the fellow disappeared, Bharat surveyed the room again. He mentally book marked the scenario….. Maybe he would share it with his favourite FM network and all its listeners in the emirates. But, he must tell them one thing, the prize winner should have the option of redeeming the coupon for its worth rather than be a victim of five star snobbery…. He had only selected the water…now there would be the main menu and the dessert … What a torture!
Sunday, October 22, 2006
DIWALI DEBACLE: THE SAGA CONTINUES
Fools rush in where angels fear to tread! How true. Take me for instance. Born to an expert cook and DIL of another awesome chef, I am that culinary ugly duckling that will never turn into a swan! One should know one’s strengths and weaknesses…. at least the latter. Nah! So I give in to some foolhardy impulse on the 19th and decide to prepare sweets for this year’s Diwali, myself. ‘Okay, guys,’ I tell the men in the family, ‘this year we are not buying sweets…. I am going to prepare them at home.’ Both smile.
I rummage in my cupboard for the recipe book that was a part of my trousseau. It is a thick 1983 diary in which I have painstakingly written down instructions starting from making coffee…to arranging a typical South Indian wedding feast. I am an avid collector of recipes…though I do not get to trying out many of them as hubby is not a very adventurous eater.
I find the weather- beaten (having weathered 23 years of my married life) book and quickly thumb through the pages. After much speculation on the intricacies of steps, ingredient availability and possibilities of success, I decide on Maida- cake, Rawa laddoo and Mysore Pak.
Disaster on the First Avenue: Mysore Pak. The easy- sounding sweet, when you read the recipe. Child’s play , the way Amma makes it. So I collect besan, sugar, ghee and the biggest plate to pour the mix when it is ready. I start after 'raahu kalam' ( inauspicious time acc.to Hindu calendar). 1 hour later. Realise rahu kalam is doing overtime today…..My mysore paks are rock hard. The knife I plunged in to cut the mixture into squares is stuck. Can’t retrieve it…. I can’t let the guys see this…. I quickly take the entire plate, mysore pak and stuck- knife and all and chuck the whole thing into the garbage bin. Needed new plate and knife anyway…. Customary to buy new plates on Dhan Theras , I must tell the guys. Am not very comfortable with the discarded plate sneering at me. Quickly cover it with the Freehold and Property sections of yesterday’s newspaper.( One thing with the dailies is that they give you a lot of supplementary sheets which are useful to cover up whenever you bin wasted ‘not so fresh’ vegetables and culinary disasters!!) Phew. Must take the garbage out myself today.
Maida Cake Mayhem: Compared to my mysore pak misadventure, the maida cake recipe looks more promising. Mom normally uses green food colour for hers. I decide on saffron…. Maybe people will think it is from Puranmal or Chappan Bog. Start venture afresh. Confidence is restored. The recipe book is strategically placed near the stove for frequent reference. Mmmm! Vanilla essence smells yum… Saffron is a better colour for maida cakes….must tell mom to change her patent green… Pour out the hot mixture into a tray. All’s well that ends well?
Well? Not quite….At the end of the required cooling time, the maida cake has not set. But the recipe says….. Well, the recipe may say anthing….This is very like me…. Really flexible…. I try to take a piece off the tray… It comes like the chewing gum the twins used to take out from their mouth to annoy me….. I chuck the whole thing in the freezer. Maybe it will set when it is frozen…. Otherwise I’ll throw it out after Diwali at an auspicious time…. Like when nobody is home…heh…heh a little foul play is acceptable at times like this!
Ruinous Rawa Ladoos: They say one should learn from one’s mistakes. Well, the rendezvous with rawa ladoo seemed to be so harmless that I decide to go ahead and try my hand at that. No technicalities…..no possible glitches of timing…. This should be a piece of cake, I mean… Laddooo, I tell myself. I call the grocery downstairs to send up some raisins. Start warming the semolina in my kadai… the bell rings… I collect then raisins…rush back to the kadai… to find that the semolina has turned slightly (!) brown. Oh no! I have thrown away enough things for the day. Don’t want to waste any more. Why not innovate? I decide to camouflage the ever- so –light- brown grains of semolina by adding green food colour. Who says rawa ladoos have to be white? Besides, necessity was the mother of inventions….One had to improvise in life….So I try out my new plan.
Sigh……! Sigh, sigh! Sigh, sigh... sigh!!!
Learn a new lesson…. Some things are just not meant to be…like green rawa ladoos…or improvising with the wrong recipe…like my expertise at preparing sweets…!!!! The result of my lab work shows miserable looking ladoos which are speckled in green (never liked that green food colour…wonder what mom sees in it…must tell her not to use it in future!) and brown…. Like the eggs of sparrows or plovers…. Ugh!!! I definitely can’t place this in front of my guests. What about the packed gifts for friends? Dare I pack these into festive looking boxes and palm it off on unsuspecting friends? No…the fear of getting caught is too much. Public ridicule is unbearable! Got another day (20th) for trying out a few more recipes…. Gulab jamuns or Maa ladoos or at least Shakkar paare… (even culinary mrons can make them). Nope! This is no season to experiment. I pickup the phone and call Bala, my brother in law. “Bala,” I say calmly. 'On second thoughts, I am not going to make any sweets. Can’t risk my spondylitis. Can you pick up a few kilos of sweets from Sri Krishna Sweets or Chappan Bog?” “Sure!” says Bala. “Shall do. Just give me your list.” No questions asked, no fibs uttered in response! It is in my hands now to remove the incriminating evidence from my kitchen before the guys get home… Happy Diwali!
I rummage in my cupboard for the recipe book that was a part of my trousseau. It is a thick 1983 diary in which I have painstakingly written down instructions starting from making coffee…to arranging a typical South Indian wedding feast. I am an avid collector of recipes…though I do not get to trying out many of them as hubby is not a very adventurous eater.
I find the weather- beaten (having weathered 23 years of my married life) book and quickly thumb through the pages. After much speculation on the intricacies of steps, ingredient availability and possibilities of success, I decide on Maida- cake, Rawa laddoo and Mysore Pak.
Disaster on the First Avenue: Mysore Pak. The easy- sounding sweet, when you read the recipe. Child’s play , the way Amma makes it. So I collect besan, sugar, ghee and the biggest plate to pour the mix when it is ready. I start after 'raahu kalam' ( inauspicious time acc.to Hindu calendar). 1 hour later. Realise rahu kalam is doing overtime today…..My mysore paks are rock hard. The knife I plunged in to cut the mixture into squares is stuck. Can’t retrieve it…. I can’t let the guys see this…. I quickly take the entire plate, mysore pak and stuck- knife and all and chuck the whole thing into the garbage bin. Needed new plate and knife anyway…. Customary to buy new plates on Dhan Theras , I must tell the guys. Am not very comfortable with the discarded plate sneering at me. Quickly cover it with the Freehold and Property sections of yesterday’s newspaper.( One thing with the dailies is that they give you a lot of supplementary sheets which are useful to cover up whenever you bin wasted ‘not so fresh’ vegetables and culinary disasters!!) Phew. Must take the garbage out myself today.
Maida Cake Mayhem: Compared to my mysore pak misadventure, the maida cake recipe looks more promising. Mom normally uses green food colour for hers. I decide on saffron…. Maybe people will think it is from Puranmal or Chappan Bog. Start venture afresh. Confidence is restored. The recipe book is strategically placed near the stove for frequent reference. Mmmm! Vanilla essence smells yum… Saffron is a better colour for maida cakes….must tell mom to change her patent green… Pour out the hot mixture into a tray. All’s well that ends well?
Well? Not quite….At the end of the required cooling time, the maida cake has not set. But the recipe says….. Well, the recipe may say anthing….This is very like me…. Really flexible…. I try to take a piece off the tray… It comes like the chewing gum the twins used to take out from their mouth to annoy me….. I chuck the whole thing in the freezer. Maybe it will set when it is frozen…. Otherwise I’ll throw it out after Diwali at an auspicious time…. Like when nobody is home…heh…heh a little foul play is acceptable at times like this!
Ruinous Rawa Ladoos: They say one should learn from one’s mistakes. Well, the rendezvous with rawa ladoo seemed to be so harmless that I decide to go ahead and try my hand at that. No technicalities…..no possible glitches of timing…. This should be a piece of cake, I mean… Laddooo, I tell myself. I call the grocery downstairs to send up some raisins. Start warming the semolina in my kadai… the bell rings… I collect then raisins…rush back to the kadai… to find that the semolina has turned slightly (!) brown. Oh no! I have thrown away enough things for the day. Don’t want to waste any more. Why not innovate? I decide to camouflage the ever- so –light- brown grains of semolina by adding green food colour. Who says rawa ladoos have to be white? Besides, necessity was the mother of inventions….One had to improvise in life….So I try out my new plan.
Sigh……! Sigh, sigh! Sigh, sigh... sigh!!!
Learn a new lesson…. Some things are just not meant to be…like green rawa ladoos…or improvising with the wrong recipe…like my expertise at preparing sweets…!!!! The result of my lab work shows miserable looking ladoos which are speckled in green (never liked that green food colour…wonder what mom sees in it…must tell her not to use it in future!) and brown…. Like the eggs of sparrows or plovers…. Ugh!!! I definitely can’t place this in front of my guests. What about the packed gifts for friends? Dare I pack these into festive looking boxes and palm it off on unsuspecting friends? No…the fear of getting caught is too much. Public ridicule is unbearable! Got another day (20th) for trying out a few more recipes…. Gulab jamuns or Maa ladoos or at least Shakkar paare… (even culinary mrons can make them). Nope! This is no season to experiment. I pickup the phone and call Bala, my brother in law. “Bala,” I say calmly. 'On second thoughts, I am not going to make any sweets. Can’t risk my spondylitis. Can you pick up a few kilos of sweets from Sri Krishna Sweets or Chappan Bog?” “Sure!” says Bala. “Shall do. Just give me your list.” No questions asked, no fibs uttered in response! It is in my hands now to remove the incriminating evidence from my kitchen before the guys get home… Happy Diwali!
Friday, October 20, 2006
HAVE I NOT REASON TO LAMENT, WHAT MAN HAS MADE OF MAN?
Agar firdaus bar roo-e zameen ast,
Hameen ast-o hameen ast-o hameen ast.
If there is a paradise on earth,
this is it, this is it, this is it!
So sang poet Amir Khusrau seven hundred years back, waxing eloquent on the unravaged beauty of Kashmir. William Wordsworth expressed a similar sentiment in his Lines Written in Early Spring. More recently a poet / lyricist wrote: ‘ Ee manohara theerathu tharumo…. Ini oru janmam koodi…..’ (Will you give me another lifetime on this beautiful land) ! As we witness environmental degradation caused by Man’s mindless acts of ravaging Mother Earth, I ask myself, ‘What right do we have to commit such atrocities?’ As said by someone wise, ‘We have not inherited this world…. We have merely borrowed it from our children!’ Worth analysing?????
RAJASHREE’S WORDS: NIRVANA, IMPOSTERS, CONURBATION
Nimmi inhaled deeply as though she wanted to fill her lungs with the pure air devoid of pollutants…. She knew in her bones that this long whiff of bliss would sustain her for the next two years, the memory of it making every moment of her self-imposed exile in the West tolerable, till she came back on another holiday to her village and its neighbourhood. Standing on the tor, she stretched her hands wide open as though trying to embrace her favourite haunt in a big hug. The verdant hills, the azure sky and the zephyr waltzing with the foliage, and the trees trying to restrain them like a stern chaperone…. Aaaaaah! This was true nirvana! The ultimate bliss for human soul… This unique scene had been etched in her heart in her youth, when she used to seek an escape from her ruthlessly selfish and mechanical urban existence in this heaven on earth. She zoomed her powerful digital camera to capture another set of hard copied memories, for her to feast her eyes on, after staring at the computer monitor for hours together.
When your eyes smarted with exhaustion, those pictures on the panels of her dingy cubicle would freshen her mind, if not her body.
As she zoomed-in the distant hills, she froze. There was movement in the forest in front of her. Not the movement of the tribals who once in a while appeared to get in touch with modern civilization…, but of that modern civilization itself…. She zoomed the lens as much as she could. ‘It was true….,’ she realized with panic. There were mechanized saws cutting down trees. She could also see a few trucks waiting impatiently to get away with the loot.
How dare they! Trespassers in her paradise! ‘Chacko! Start the car…. We need to inform the police about some poachers….’she yelled to her driver, hurriedly throwing herself into the taxi she had hired for the day.
The Circle Inspector in the nearest town was not very interested in her story. Yes, he knew there was felling going on in the virgin hills, yes, they were authorized, yes, the municipality itself had issued orders, no, nothing could be done by her, no he didn’t feel moved by a pravasi malayalee’s artificial concern for her land, yes, he knew she was an NRK, (non resident keralite), yes, he had seen many like madam, no, it was not his duty to stop legitimate business…yes, it would be better if madam got a stay order from a court, yes, by that time considerable patch of forest would have been denuded….No, nothing could be done, that was that!
Imposters! She muttered angrily…. Devilish imposters pretending to be law enforcers! The legal system was impotent. No one bothered any more. She frothed and fumed making her driver shake his head in sympathy. ‘Madam,’ he said gently, ‘ They are going to set up a paper mill here. It would give job to hundreds of literate unemployed youth. This is called progress, Madam. Soon Parakkaankadu will be a conurbation, its nearness to Munnaar and Thekkady turning it into a tourist boomtown…. We will get our share of tourists…. And our economy will boom…. We all will all live happily ever after!’
‘Take me back to the tor, Chacko,’ said Nimmi in a tone devoid of any emotion. ‘Let me add a few more pictures to those on my walls….. Probably, I shall never return to this place.’
Hameen ast-o hameen ast-o hameen ast.
If there is a paradise on earth,
this is it, this is it, this is it!
So sang poet Amir Khusrau seven hundred years back, waxing eloquent on the unravaged beauty of Kashmir. William Wordsworth expressed a similar sentiment in his Lines Written in Early Spring. More recently a poet / lyricist wrote: ‘ Ee manohara theerathu tharumo…. Ini oru janmam koodi…..’ (Will you give me another lifetime on this beautiful land) ! As we witness environmental degradation caused by Man’s mindless acts of ravaging Mother Earth, I ask myself, ‘What right do we have to commit such atrocities?’ As said by someone wise, ‘We have not inherited this world…. We have merely borrowed it from our children!’ Worth analysing?????
RAJASHREE’S WORDS: NIRVANA, IMPOSTERS, CONURBATION
Nimmi inhaled deeply as though she wanted to fill her lungs with the pure air devoid of pollutants…. She knew in her bones that this long whiff of bliss would sustain her for the next two years, the memory of it making every moment of her self-imposed exile in the West tolerable, till she came back on another holiday to her village and its neighbourhood. Standing on the tor, she stretched her hands wide open as though trying to embrace her favourite haunt in a big hug. The verdant hills, the azure sky and the zephyr waltzing with the foliage, and the trees trying to restrain them like a stern chaperone…. Aaaaaah! This was true nirvana! The ultimate bliss for human soul… This unique scene had been etched in her heart in her youth, when she used to seek an escape from her ruthlessly selfish and mechanical urban existence in this heaven on earth. She zoomed her powerful digital camera to capture another set of hard copied memories, for her to feast her eyes on, after staring at the computer monitor for hours together.
When your eyes smarted with exhaustion, those pictures on the panels of her dingy cubicle would freshen her mind, if not her body.
As she zoomed-in the distant hills, she froze. There was movement in the forest in front of her. Not the movement of the tribals who once in a while appeared to get in touch with modern civilization…, but of that modern civilization itself…. She zoomed the lens as much as she could. ‘It was true….,’ she realized with panic. There were mechanized saws cutting down trees. She could also see a few trucks waiting impatiently to get away with the loot.
How dare they! Trespassers in her paradise! ‘Chacko! Start the car…. We need to inform the police about some poachers….’she yelled to her driver, hurriedly throwing herself into the taxi she had hired for the day.
The Circle Inspector in the nearest town was not very interested in her story. Yes, he knew there was felling going on in the virgin hills, yes, they were authorized, yes, the municipality itself had issued orders, no, nothing could be done by her, no he didn’t feel moved by a pravasi malayalee’s artificial concern for her land, yes, he knew she was an NRK, (non resident keralite), yes, he had seen many like madam, no, it was not his duty to stop legitimate business…yes, it would be better if madam got a stay order from a court, yes, by that time considerable patch of forest would have been denuded….No, nothing could be done, that was that!
Imposters! She muttered angrily…. Devilish imposters pretending to be law enforcers! The legal system was impotent. No one bothered any more. She frothed and fumed making her driver shake his head in sympathy. ‘Madam,’ he said gently, ‘ They are going to set up a paper mill here. It would give job to hundreds of literate unemployed youth. This is called progress, Madam. Soon Parakkaankadu will be a conurbation, its nearness to Munnaar and Thekkady turning it into a tourist boomtown…. We will get our share of tourists…. And our economy will boom…. We all will all live happily ever after!’
‘Take me back to the tor, Chacko,’ said Nimmi in a tone devoid of any emotion. ‘Let me add a few more pictures to those on my walls….. Probably, I shall never return to this place.’
Thursday, October 19, 2006
NAF’S WORDS: JUXTAPOSITION, MORNING STAR, SNOOGUMS- BOOGUM
Annapoorni bent forward and hugged her knees. She turned her face and smiled at her son. Both of them watched indulgently as her daughter in law Brenda ran after her children, 4 year old Anna and 2 year old Dev. ‘You like them, Amma?’ he asked, with a yearning look in his eyes. ‘They are wonderful, Kanna,’ she said and ruffled his hair like she used to do when he was a kid. ‘I love them,’ she said gently… ‘and so would Appa. Just give him time.’ They both lapsed into silence, each lost in memories…
‘Daddeeee!’ Dev came hurtling towards them. ‘ Help! Anna’s after me! She’ll catch me!’ Before Kannan could respond, Annapoorni drew the panting child to her and said, ‘No…she won’t.’ ‘Yes, she will…she wants to beat me.’ ‘Really? said Annapoorni. ‘You go and tell her if she doesn’t behave, Snoogums – boogum will catch her.’
‘Whatums boogum?’ asked Dev. His grandma rolled her big eyes and whispered…
‘ Snooooooogumssss….boooooogummm’… Dev, half scared and half tickled at the thought of some monster catching his sister, ran back to her.
‘Amma! You remember!’ exclaimed Kannan with astonishment writ large on his face that she still remembered the word he had used to scare everyone in his childhood. The Snoogums Boogum was the ogre specially created for him by his dad on one of those never ending story sessions they used to have when Kannan was four years old! She just smiled. Why tell him that she remembered everything about him from the day he was born to that fateful day when he had quarrelled with his father and left home not ever to return? He would not understand the pain they had gone through… Maybe he will, now that he is a father himself, she thought and immediately chided herself. God forbid! Let him not go through what we have.
She stared at the darkening sky. She could see the evening star twinkling down at her… Back home it will be dawn, she reflected. Deva would have made his coffee and he would be leaning against the railings on the balcony, looking at the morning star and taking lazy sips at his coffee… That was something they both used to enjoy doing together… ‘This morning star is our ‘arundati’. Let us watch it every dawn, together,’ he had told her the morning after their wedding. They had….. for 52 years. ‘Wonder if he misses me,’ She mused. After 52 years of togetherness, it was for the first time that they were separated like this. When Kannan had called them and begged their forgiveness, the mother in her just could not resist flying out to him. Dev senior had been stubborn. ‘You go,’ he had said. ‘I’ll be fine here.’ The evening star and the morning star, both were the same…. The Venus… Both the worlds were hers now…..
Sensing her nostalgia, Kannan hugged her and said quietly, ‘I’m happy you forgave me, Amma,’ and as his eyes misted with emotion, he quickly got up and ran towards Brenda and children. Annapoorni sighed, wiping a few stray tears away from the corner of her eyes.
‘ East is East and West is West, and never the twain shall meet!’ People who oft quoted these words in her society were so biased, she thought. In the past one week, she had seen just how well East and West had met and this perfect juxtaposition deserved all her and her husband’s blessings… She decided to call Dev senior as soon as she reached home and bridge a five year old gap between the father and the son. She owed it to these wonderful people. She watched as Kannan swung Anna onto his shoulders, her long thin legs dangling over him, and Brenda scooped a tired, tousled Dev up into her arms……
She recalled Robert Browning’s lines from Pippa Passes, the lines she had learnt by heart in her youth. She murmured them now to herself:
The year’s at the spring,
And day’s at the morn;
Morning’s at seven;
The hillside’s dew-pearled
The lark’s on the wing,
The snail’s on the thorn,
God’s in his Heaven-
All’s right with the world!
P.S. Nafs, Impossible is nothing……Nothing is impossible! I swear!
‘Daddeeee!’ Dev came hurtling towards them. ‘ Help! Anna’s after me! She’ll catch me!’ Before Kannan could respond, Annapoorni drew the panting child to her and said, ‘No…she won’t.’ ‘Yes, she will…she wants to beat me.’ ‘Really? said Annapoorni. ‘You go and tell her if she doesn’t behave, Snoogums – boogum will catch her.’
‘Whatums boogum?’ asked Dev. His grandma rolled her big eyes and whispered…
‘ Snooooooogumssss….boooooogummm’… Dev, half scared and half tickled at the thought of some monster catching his sister, ran back to her.
‘Amma! You remember!’ exclaimed Kannan with astonishment writ large on his face that she still remembered the word he had used to scare everyone in his childhood. The Snoogums Boogum was the ogre specially created for him by his dad on one of those never ending story sessions they used to have when Kannan was four years old! She just smiled. Why tell him that she remembered everything about him from the day he was born to that fateful day when he had quarrelled with his father and left home not ever to return? He would not understand the pain they had gone through… Maybe he will, now that he is a father himself, she thought and immediately chided herself. God forbid! Let him not go through what we have.
She stared at the darkening sky. She could see the evening star twinkling down at her… Back home it will be dawn, she reflected. Deva would have made his coffee and he would be leaning against the railings on the balcony, looking at the morning star and taking lazy sips at his coffee… That was something they both used to enjoy doing together… ‘This morning star is our ‘arundati’. Let us watch it every dawn, together,’ he had told her the morning after their wedding. They had….. for 52 years. ‘Wonder if he misses me,’ She mused. After 52 years of togetherness, it was for the first time that they were separated like this. When Kannan had called them and begged their forgiveness, the mother in her just could not resist flying out to him. Dev senior had been stubborn. ‘You go,’ he had said. ‘I’ll be fine here.’ The evening star and the morning star, both were the same…. The Venus… Both the worlds were hers now…..
Sensing her nostalgia, Kannan hugged her and said quietly, ‘I’m happy you forgave me, Amma,’ and as his eyes misted with emotion, he quickly got up and ran towards Brenda and children. Annapoorni sighed, wiping a few stray tears away from the corner of her eyes.
‘ East is East and West is West, and never the twain shall meet!’ People who oft quoted these words in her society were so biased, she thought. In the past one week, she had seen just how well East and West had met and this perfect juxtaposition deserved all her and her husband’s blessings… She decided to call Dev senior as soon as she reached home and bridge a five year old gap between the father and the son. She owed it to these wonderful people. She watched as Kannan swung Anna onto his shoulders, her long thin legs dangling over him, and Brenda scooped a tired, tousled Dev up into her arms……
She recalled Robert Browning’s lines from Pippa Passes, the lines she had learnt by heart in her youth. She murmured them now to herself:
The year’s at the spring,
And day’s at the morn;
Morning’s at seven;
The hillside’s dew-pearled
The lark’s on the wing,
The snail’s on the thorn,
God’s in his Heaven-
All’s right with the world!
P.S. Nafs, Impossible is nothing……Nothing is impossible! I swear!
IN CELEBRATION OF A MOTHER’S JOY !
19th October.
This morning’s Tabloid has the picture of a new born baby gorilla sleeping soundly on his mother’s chest, in a zoo in Rotterdam, Holland. More than the blissful look on the infant’s face, what caught my attention was the mother gorilla’s expression. It has that indulgent, serene and a complacent look which only a mother can sport. Last week there was a write up on the latest venture on explaining Mona Lisa’s smile. The researcher alleges that the model had very recently become a mother, and that a very thin veil that covered her (?) visible only after a thorough scrutiny, corroborated his theory. The expression on her face reflected her inner glow as a ‘new’ mother.
Like the female gorilla and Mona Lisa, every woman’s face takes on that expression when they beget children. Some of them learn to camouflage it ( for reasons best known to them).
Twenty one years back my face got that expression when I was elevated to ‘double- motherhood’ by the arrival of my twin sons….jointly referred to as Kath-Kash by our friends in Bhilai. The thing is, that expression has never been wiped off from my face! They say it is difficult to bring up kids. They say it is next to impossible to raise twins. Challenging? Yes….. Impossible? No! I have enjoyed the last 21 special years as I grew up as a mother with them. Every stage has been a wonderful learning experience.
I had delivered them in the seventh month of my pregnancy and had to watch over them eagle-eyed for the next three months. That I had the expert presence of my mom, mum-in – law, Grandma , a contingent of aunts and last but not the least, my younger sister, had helped a lot. But, there are moments, incidents, and milestones that are exclusively mine.
There was a time when I watched them with helpless tears- of frustration- when the one year old twins excluded me from their world, preferring their own company. They’d just approach me when they were hungry or needed me to change their nappies. The rest of the time they jabbered away in some special language of their own, laughing, discussing, fighting and never sparing a glance for me. Horrified that I was doing some wrong parenting, I had consulted many paediatricians who consoled me saying that it was a natural occurring. Twins had a special world of their own, which no one can trespass into- not even the mother. That took some accepting!
I have given it my best shot to not compare or contrast one with the other. There is no question of my loving one more than the other. My heart has ached, when in their course of life, others have done that- compared or commented on their achievements, or temperaments or their decisions. I know they have a deep bond that defies all logical reasoning and all attempts at analyzing their attitudes and aptitudes by outsiders.
I remember one incident that brings back the tears of pride that welled up in my eyes and heart, when they were six years old. They both were very keen budding artists and used to participate in competitions. Both of them won prizes in a painting competition sponsored by Camlin Colour Company, in Bhilai. One got the first and the other, a consolation prize. One accepted a certificate and two big gift- wrapped parcels with aplomb and happily joined us, the proud parents. The consolation prize winner was called and given just a certificate. The child lingered there thinking that he too would be given a wrapped- up gift. But he was gently ushered down the stage by someone. My heart bled the way only a mother’s can at the woebegone look on his face as he joined us. But my faith in my kids’ bonding was restored permanently, when, the one who had got two gifts told the other loudly, ‘ K! I have 2 gifts with me. Here, you take one,’ and handed one of his prizes to his twin. I cried and cried shamelessly then in that hall. God bless them both for that cherished memory that makes any physical pain I might have undergone while delivering them, well worth it!
They are great kids…. The best a mother could ever aspire to have. Adding a long string of such fond memories to my treasure chest, they have now grown up into fine young men. Anyone who has interacted with them has certified them as good kids. I only hope they get two wonderful girls as their life partners who will not mind my wearing that smug, serene and ‘overflowing with motherly love’ look, like that of that gorilla in the Rotterdam zoo, and Mona Lisa!
This morning’s Tabloid has the picture of a new born baby gorilla sleeping soundly on his mother’s chest, in a zoo in Rotterdam, Holland. More than the blissful look on the infant’s face, what caught my attention was the mother gorilla’s expression. It has that indulgent, serene and a complacent look which only a mother can sport. Last week there was a write up on the latest venture on explaining Mona Lisa’s smile. The researcher alleges that the model had very recently become a mother, and that a very thin veil that covered her (?) visible only after a thorough scrutiny, corroborated his theory. The expression on her face reflected her inner glow as a ‘new’ mother.
Like the female gorilla and Mona Lisa, every woman’s face takes on that expression when they beget children. Some of them learn to camouflage it ( for reasons best known to them).
Twenty one years back my face got that expression when I was elevated to ‘double- motherhood’ by the arrival of my twin sons….jointly referred to as Kath-Kash by our friends in Bhilai. The thing is, that expression has never been wiped off from my face! They say it is difficult to bring up kids. They say it is next to impossible to raise twins. Challenging? Yes….. Impossible? No! I have enjoyed the last 21 special years as I grew up as a mother with them. Every stage has been a wonderful learning experience.
I had delivered them in the seventh month of my pregnancy and had to watch over them eagle-eyed for the next three months. That I had the expert presence of my mom, mum-in – law, Grandma , a contingent of aunts and last but not the least, my younger sister, had helped a lot. But, there are moments, incidents, and milestones that are exclusively mine.
There was a time when I watched them with helpless tears- of frustration- when the one year old twins excluded me from their world, preferring their own company. They’d just approach me when they were hungry or needed me to change their nappies. The rest of the time they jabbered away in some special language of their own, laughing, discussing, fighting and never sparing a glance for me. Horrified that I was doing some wrong parenting, I had consulted many paediatricians who consoled me saying that it was a natural occurring. Twins had a special world of their own, which no one can trespass into- not even the mother. That took some accepting!
I have given it my best shot to not compare or contrast one with the other. There is no question of my loving one more than the other. My heart has ached, when in their course of life, others have done that- compared or commented on their achievements, or temperaments or their decisions. I know they have a deep bond that defies all logical reasoning and all attempts at analyzing their attitudes and aptitudes by outsiders.
I remember one incident that brings back the tears of pride that welled up in my eyes and heart, when they were six years old. They both were very keen budding artists and used to participate in competitions. Both of them won prizes in a painting competition sponsored by Camlin Colour Company, in Bhilai. One got the first and the other, a consolation prize. One accepted a certificate and two big gift- wrapped parcels with aplomb and happily joined us, the proud parents. The consolation prize winner was called and given just a certificate. The child lingered there thinking that he too would be given a wrapped- up gift. But he was gently ushered down the stage by someone. My heart bled the way only a mother’s can at the woebegone look on his face as he joined us. But my faith in my kids’ bonding was restored permanently, when, the one who had got two gifts told the other loudly, ‘ K! I have 2 gifts with me. Here, you take one,’ and handed one of his prizes to his twin. I cried and cried shamelessly then in that hall. God bless them both for that cherished memory that makes any physical pain I might have undergone while delivering them, well worth it!
They are great kids…. The best a mother could ever aspire to have. Adding a long string of such fond memories to my treasure chest, they have now grown up into fine young men. Anyone who has interacted with them has certified them as good kids. I only hope they get two wonderful girls as their life partners who will not mind my wearing that smug, serene and ‘overflowing with motherly love’ look, like that of that gorilla in the Rotterdam zoo, and Mona Lisa!
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
CONFESSIONS OF A DIEHARD PROCRASTINATOR
Procrastination is an art to be cultivated and perfected over a lifetime… Yours truly has graduated in it and is in the process of taking a Masters, at this point in time. Never put off until tomorrow what you can do today, my grandfather used to always advise me.
And I ….. , I can never do today what can be postponed for tomorrow…or the day after …or the one after that! Appa ( my father in law) and Amma (MIL) packed their suitcases on the 2nd of the month, if they were supposed to travel on the 15th. I, normally, throw all my things in on 14th night…. or on 15th morning mostly, if the flight is in the evening. Not for me the calm and organized existence. I always love the excitement of uncertainty in my life( that’s what we professional procrastinators always say)!!
Every year I tell myself that it is time to change and become more systematic and organized. Easier said than done. All these years I have had the excuse that the demands of my work were the impediments to a more organized existence. Now that I am a full time homemaker, I thought things would change…. Nah!
Well… I do plan things. I am great at planning things…. In fact, I make very elaborate plans…. Like I did for this year’s Diwali. Normally, I keep all my plans to myself so that only I know how many of them got shelved or abandoned. This year I was rash enough to share my plans with Puja, my neighbour, when she asked me what I was planning to do for the festival. Pompously I told her , ‘Everything! I have plenty of time this year, since I am not working. What about you?’ She has a kid in kindergarten and a 10 month old toddler. She said she wasn’t sure.. with the two kids it would be difficult… Maybe something simple, she said. This was in the first week of October.
The second week of October saw a sea change in my life. I started my own blog site…and I was busy writing and publishing my a4isms….I knew I had a lot of shopping to do. As usual I indulged in procrastinating! Tomorrow…., I kept telling myself.
Third week of October: Aaaah! I must get round to buying things – ingredients for preparing the sweets and savouries…. And gifts for friends and relatives….’I’ll do it tomorrow,’each day I told myself, knowing full well that tomorrow never comes!
14th of October: Puja came to borrow my chakli mould… She has already made two sweets. She asked me how far I had reached. I smiled mysteriously and shaking my head, said ‘ Surprise!’ ‘I’ll return this in a day or two,’ she said. ‘Take your time.’ I said. What I meant was give it after Diwali….that way I have a good excuse for not using it!
17th October : Something has triggered the panic button inside me. Was it Puja returning my chakli mould after finishing with it? Was it my husband who asked me if I had done the shopping, as soon as he returned from work? Was it my niggling conscience….or was it my ego that was all set to fall flat on its face in front of my systematic neighbour with two kids who is steadily doing everything well in time for the festival?
I realized I could not postpone action anymore. A kind friend agreed to accompany me to wherever I had to go…. I returned home lugging packets and packets of stuff…. Now for the actual action….as usual in the eleventh hour!
18th October: if I don’t start today…. I’ll probably celebrate Diwali after Diwali!! So I refrain from glancing at my PC or at the TV. I better use some extra elbow grease today.
Happy Diwali……..??? Not yet… I have not yet started making my sweets… That is a totally different story altogether!
And I ….. , I can never do today what can be postponed for tomorrow…or the day after …or the one after that! Appa ( my father in law) and Amma (MIL) packed their suitcases on the 2nd of the month, if they were supposed to travel on the 15th. I, normally, throw all my things in on 14th night…. or on 15th morning mostly, if the flight is in the evening. Not for me the calm and organized existence. I always love the excitement of uncertainty in my life( that’s what we professional procrastinators always say)!!
Every year I tell myself that it is time to change and become more systematic and organized. Easier said than done. All these years I have had the excuse that the demands of my work were the impediments to a more organized existence. Now that I am a full time homemaker, I thought things would change…. Nah!
Well… I do plan things. I am great at planning things…. In fact, I make very elaborate plans…. Like I did for this year’s Diwali. Normally, I keep all my plans to myself so that only I know how many of them got shelved or abandoned. This year I was rash enough to share my plans with Puja, my neighbour, when she asked me what I was planning to do for the festival. Pompously I told her , ‘Everything! I have plenty of time this year, since I am not working. What about you?’ She has a kid in kindergarten and a 10 month old toddler. She said she wasn’t sure.. with the two kids it would be difficult… Maybe something simple, she said. This was in the first week of October.
The second week of October saw a sea change in my life. I started my own blog site…and I was busy writing and publishing my a4isms….I knew I had a lot of shopping to do. As usual I indulged in procrastinating! Tomorrow…., I kept telling myself.
Third week of October: Aaaah! I must get round to buying things – ingredients for preparing the sweets and savouries…. And gifts for friends and relatives….’I’ll do it tomorrow,’each day I told myself, knowing full well that tomorrow never comes!
14th of October: Puja came to borrow my chakli mould… She has already made two sweets. She asked me how far I had reached. I smiled mysteriously and shaking my head, said ‘ Surprise!’ ‘I’ll return this in a day or two,’ she said. ‘Take your time.’ I said. What I meant was give it after Diwali….that way I have a good excuse for not using it!
17th October : Something has triggered the panic button inside me. Was it Puja returning my chakli mould after finishing with it? Was it my husband who asked me if I had done the shopping, as soon as he returned from work? Was it my niggling conscience….or was it my ego that was all set to fall flat on its face in front of my systematic neighbour with two kids who is steadily doing everything well in time for the festival?
I realized I could not postpone action anymore. A kind friend agreed to accompany me to wherever I had to go…. I returned home lugging packets and packets of stuff…. Now for the actual action….as usual in the eleventh hour!
18th October: if I don’t start today…. I’ll probably celebrate Diwali after Diwali!! So I refrain from glancing at my PC or at the TV. I better use some extra elbow grease today.
Happy Diwali……..??? Not yet… I have not yet started making my sweets… That is a totally different story altogether!
U C’S WORDS: PASSION, PERSEVERANCE, PONDATTI
Major Sundarapandian entered the army hospital with Karthar, his orderly, a few steps behind him, carrying the food for Ajalaa. Hope she gets discharged soon, he thought. The sooner she gets back to normal, the quicker the accident will be forgotten in the regiment.
People were laughing at his spontaneous outburst at the time of the mishap.
He blamed himself for her condition. Ajalaa had a passion for dancing. She was a well- trained artiste whose career had been reduced, after marriage, to mere formality performances in the army’s ladies club and other social functions. She contented herself by taking part whole- heartedly in the parties, an ever willing partner for many a dancing officer.
Born as the only daughter of a Consul General who had been posted in the southern European countries, she was well versed in the western dance forms as well. The only problem was that while his wife was a whiz at dancing, he was born with two left feet and no sense of rhythm. Very early in his career he had realized that he was good at commando operations, but not social ones, especially dancing. After having tripped over and tripping over a number of army wives, he now-a -days, nursed his drinks from a vantage point, from where he could enjoy watching those blessed with two dancing feet. Maybe, that was why he had been keen to marry someone like Ajalaa. A dancing wife would certainly be an asset to an army man, he had thought.
Well, everything had been fine till last week. Colonel Braganza had come to know that Ajalaa was good at the Tango and Cha Cha and had told her to reserve a few dances for him at the regimental New Year’s party.
Sundarapandian had indulgently watched the new dancing sensations – Colonel Braganza and Ajalaa holding the attention of all gathered, dance after dance. After her fifth dance,she had managed to get near him and told him to get her away as she was tired. Sundarapandian who was cradling his fourth drink, drumming his fingers on the sides of the glass had murmured, ‘ Paaruda, Ajju, You are doing a good job! Perisu happyaa irukku ( the old man is happy)! Dance little lady, dance!’ He had waved her tipsily away, as his superior claimed his wife’s hand for a tango. He couldn’t recall what exactly had happened . Probably, the colonel had also downed a couple. At one point he was supposed to hold Ajalaa’s waist by one hand and swing her up… he slipped….rather she slipped out of his hands. Thud! There she lay on the floor!
‘Ayyo! En pondaattiye keezha pottoottayedaa paavi!!’( You have dropped my wife!!!)
yelled Sundarapandian…and ran to his wife’s side. The regiment doctor was already kneeling by her side… giving someone orders to call the ambulance! A sprained ankle and severe concussion had left her in the hospital ever since.
Sundarapandian entered his wife’s room. He quickly and smartly saluted Colonel Braganza, who was accompanied by his wife, visiting Ajalaa. ‘So, my boy! She is fit as a fiddle! And you know what? We are going to practise regularly from now on…Perseverance, young man, is my middle name! HA HA HA HA HA!’ guffawed Braganza. I must apply for a transfer, thought Sundarapandian, in frenzy.
People were laughing at his spontaneous outburst at the time of the mishap.
He blamed himself for her condition. Ajalaa had a passion for dancing. She was a well- trained artiste whose career had been reduced, after marriage, to mere formality performances in the army’s ladies club and other social functions. She contented herself by taking part whole- heartedly in the parties, an ever willing partner for many a dancing officer.
Born as the only daughter of a Consul General who had been posted in the southern European countries, she was well versed in the western dance forms as well. The only problem was that while his wife was a whiz at dancing, he was born with two left feet and no sense of rhythm. Very early in his career he had realized that he was good at commando operations, but not social ones, especially dancing. After having tripped over and tripping over a number of army wives, he now-a -days, nursed his drinks from a vantage point, from where he could enjoy watching those blessed with two dancing feet. Maybe, that was why he had been keen to marry someone like Ajalaa. A dancing wife would certainly be an asset to an army man, he had thought.
Well, everything had been fine till last week. Colonel Braganza had come to know that Ajalaa was good at the Tango and Cha Cha and had told her to reserve a few dances for him at the regimental New Year’s party.
Sundarapandian had indulgently watched the new dancing sensations – Colonel Braganza and Ajalaa holding the attention of all gathered, dance after dance. After her fifth dance,she had managed to get near him and told him to get her away as she was tired. Sundarapandian who was cradling his fourth drink, drumming his fingers on the sides of the glass had murmured, ‘ Paaruda, Ajju, You are doing a good job! Perisu happyaa irukku ( the old man is happy)! Dance little lady, dance!’ He had waved her tipsily away, as his superior claimed his wife’s hand for a tango. He couldn’t recall what exactly had happened . Probably, the colonel had also downed a couple. At one point he was supposed to hold Ajalaa’s waist by one hand and swing her up… he slipped….rather she slipped out of his hands. Thud! There she lay on the floor!
‘Ayyo! En pondaattiye keezha pottoottayedaa paavi!!’( You have dropped my wife!!!)
yelled Sundarapandian…and ran to his wife’s side. The regiment doctor was already kneeling by her side… giving someone orders to call the ambulance! A sprained ankle and severe concussion had left her in the hospital ever since.
Sundarapandian entered his wife’s room. He quickly and smartly saluted Colonel Braganza, who was accompanied by his wife, visiting Ajalaa. ‘So, my boy! She is fit as a fiddle! And you know what? We are going to practise regularly from now on…Perseverance, young man, is my middle name! HA HA HA HA HA!’ guffawed Braganza. I must apply for a transfer, thought Sundarapandian, in frenzy.
MATSY’S WORDS: AEROPLANE, SHARK, UNDERWEAR
Srishti jumped out of the cab as soon as it stopped in front of the airport. She hurriedly handed the cabbie a fifty and two ten rupee notes and yanking her trolley and her kit ran in. She was already late! The flight was to leave in 20 minutes’ time. As she quickly reported for duty, she kept thinking the same thing. She had forgotten to pack underwear for her husband and her son… They had left for Mauritius by the morning flight. She had been in a tremendous hurry as she had had a hundred things to do for them. Once they had left, she had to take Kiki, her dog to the K9’s for a three-day stay as she herself would be away. Then there was Maaji. She had to take her mum-in –law to her brother –in- law’s place with all her paraphernalia of medicines, knitting and books. With all these things to do before getting ready for her own flight, she had forgotten completely about the their underwear till she got into her cab.
Shrishti! Where were you! You are late by half an hour! Cathy came running towards her. Cathy! You won’t believe this, Manoj and Vicky left for Mauritius without their innerwear!! I clean forgot to pack any!’ ‘They’ll survive,’ said the ever practical Cathy..but I don’t know if you will…. Gramps is livid you are late!’ OOOOH! Gramps is flying today. Just my luck! She said as she hurried through the formalities and boarded the aeroplane. Surender Bakshi, was a very senior pilot who would not tolerate any nonsense from his crew.
The flight from Mumbai to Dubai was full today. Even as she helped all the passengers settle down, she was preoccupied! How could she have forgotten to pack their innerwear? She knew there would be a showdown when they returned. Manoj hated disorganized people. He hated when the house was left unattended, which it often was, thanks to her irregular working hours… Her work was the bone of contention between them these days.
She passed the tray with swabs of cotton and sweets in an absent- minded manner. As she returned, Cathy told her to demonstrate the use of safety gadgets while she announced the safety instructions. Carrying the oxygen mask and the life- vest, Srishti moved to the front of the economy section. ‘ Krupaya…dhyaan de. Anthar rashtreeya niyam ke anusar…..” Cathy’s voice droned on while Srishti demonstrated the use of the oxygen mask and the life jacket. She paused after the announcement in Hindi got over. Then the English version started. “Ladies and Gentlemen, as per international flight regulations….”
Srishti mechanically started miming the procedures and let her mind wander. Manoj and Vicky planned to do a lot of scuba diving…she couldn’t imagine what they’d do without their innerwear… What if the waters were shark- infested, she worried. Then she consoled herself that if sharks attacked mere underwear was not going to save them! But still, they should go to the nearest outlet and buy some. Vicky could wear those Bermudas she had packed… She loved the look of concentration on his face as he dressed himself….” She was jolted out of her reverie when Pushpa shook her. She returned to the present. There was pin drop silence inside the craft. All eyes were on her. She looked at Cathy who was frantically waving at her. She looked down at herself. In horror she realized that she had donned the life jacket pulling it up her legs like she would wear her panties!! My last flight! She decided, as she hastily removed the life jacket and hurried to hide herself from the laughing eyes of the passengers!
Shrishti! Where were you! You are late by half an hour! Cathy came running towards her. Cathy! You won’t believe this, Manoj and Vicky left for Mauritius without their innerwear!! I clean forgot to pack any!’ ‘They’ll survive,’ said the ever practical Cathy..but I don’t know if you will…. Gramps is livid you are late!’ OOOOH! Gramps is flying today. Just my luck! She said as she hurried through the formalities and boarded the aeroplane. Surender Bakshi, was a very senior pilot who would not tolerate any nonsense from his crew.
The flight from Mumbai to Dubai was full today. Even as she helped all the passengers settle down, she was preoccupied! How could she have forgotten to pack their innerwear? She knew there would be a showdown when they returned. Manoj hated disorganized people. He hated when the house was left unattended, which it often was, thanks to her irregular working hours… Her work was the bone of contention between them these days.
She passed the tray with swabs of cotton and sweets in an absent- minded manner. As she returned, Cathy told her to demonstrate the use of safety gadgets while she announced the safety instructions. Carrying the oxygen mask and the life- vest, Srishti moved to the front of the economy section. ‘ Krupaya…dhyaan de. Anthar rashtreeya niyam ke anusar…..” Cathy’s voice droned on while Srishti demonstrated the use of the oxygen mask and the life jacket. She paused after the announcement in Hindi got over. Then the English version started. “Ladies and Gentlemen, as per international flight regulations….”
Srishti mechanically started miming the procedures and let her mind wander. Manoj and Vicky planned to do a lot of scuba diving…she couldn’t imagine what they’d do without their innerwear… What if the waters were shark- infested, she worried. Then she consoled herself that if sharks attacked mere underwear was not going to save them! But still, they should go to the nearest outlet and buy some. Vicky could wear those Bermudas she had packed… She loved the look of concentration on his face as he dressed himself….” She was jolted out of her reverie when Pushpa shook her. She returned to the present. There was pin drop silence inside the craft. All eyes were on her. She looked at Cathy who was frantically waving at her. She looked down at herself. In horror she realized that she had donned the life jacket pulling it up her legs like she would wear her panties!! My last flight! She decided, as she hastily removed the life jacket and hurried to hide herself from the laughing eyes of the passengers!
Monday, October 16, 2006
DESIGNER WATER…… TAKE IT WITH A PINCH OF DESIGNER SALT!
‘Designer’ is the ‘in’ word these days. We have graduated from designer clothes to designer jewellery, from designer furniture to designer homes. And the latest to hit the shelves of ‘designer’ malls, is DESIGNER WATER! This morning I read about Canaqua , bottled water selling at fancy ‘designer’ rates. You are not going to believe this! A 475 ml bottle of Canaqua costs 10 Dirhams in Dubai….! Wait! The joke is not over yet! The same bottle costs 3 Pounds in London (ie. Dhs 20), 6 Euros in France( Dhs 28), 4 Euros in Italy ( Dhs 18) and 7 Yen in Japan ( Dhs 26)!!!! I must warn all those designer clad jet setters of the UAE to carry their own Canaquas when they travel to these places…. Or the poor dears ( pun not intended) will be fleeced!!
Well, the founder/ owner of Canaqua, Linda Samis, may get annoyed by my cynicism. She claims that the water is from an underground aquifer spring located in the mountains of British Columbia in Canada, around 1200 ft above sea level! And it is also claimed that it is untouched by air or any living thing (!!) and is hydraulically pumped up 180 ft to be bottled (by non –living things?….. )
This reminds me of a story I have read in the ‘Aithihyamala’, a collection of legendary tales of people, places and events of ancient South India.
There was this Brahmin who was suffering from severe stomach-–ache, who approached a famous vaidyan (physician). ‘You must have a dose of python fat for a month to get cured,’ said the vaidyan to the extremely religious and vegetarian Brahmin.
‘Impossible!’ said the man and walked away dejected. He could not bear to think of violating his dharma by giving up his sacred vegetarianism. Realizing that he would die soon, he went to a near by temple and sat there, dejected. A stranger who was seated nearby asked him why he looked so sad and the man told him of his plight. ‘Well! Anyway you are going to die, so why don’t you stay at this temple for 41 days and worship God? You should go to the waterfalls in the forest behind this temple, have your bath and drink three handfuls of water from the fall. Then you must offer your prayers at the temple. Thinking that he had nothing to lose, the man started doing that. Within a month, he felt better and after 41 days he was fit as a fiddle. He decided to meet the vaidyan and tell him how wrong he had been with his diagnosis. The vaidyan would not believe him and asked the man to show what he had done to cure himself. He accompanied the man to the waterfall and started looking around. When he climbed the mountain side from where water thundered down, he saw the remains of a huge, dead and decayed python hanging on a rock.
He showed his ‘would –have –been’ patient the snake and smiled. ‘I wanted you to have python fat for 30 days, you have taken it for 41. Well, in the long run it will do you good!!”
What I mean is, isn’t it a tall claim (1200 ft above sea level!!) to say that our designer water under discussion is untouched by ‘ air or any living thing’???? Some living thing must have touched that water…at some point of time. What about the hydraulic pump that draws the water up? Wasn’t that installed by ‘living things’?…Doesn’t the said pump need regular maintenance….rendered by living things? Well… that is food …er.. no…water for thought!!
And coming right back to our bottle of water that costs Dhs 10, for 475ml… 475 ml? Why not 500 ml? What will the price be for 500ml then? 1000 fils divided by 475 ml multiplied by .25ml, added to Dhs10…. Or is it….(OOooh!! This is as agonizing as R. K. Narayan’s Swami’s plight…while calculating the cost of mangoes!!)
Anyway, who will notice there is 25 ml less in the bottle than what you expect in an average small bottle of water? As it is, people don’t finish their bottles of mineral water and, generally leave behind unfinished bottles in restaurants and picnic spots… We, of the designer generation, have no value for money! So what if there are nations trying frantically to wet millions of parched throats, or are embarking on the Herculean task of connecting all the rivers within its boundaries…. Ours not to reason why…. Ours but to buy and try…. and waste. Sad, but disastrously and scandalously true!
Well, the founder/ owner of Canaqua, Linda Samis, may get annoyed by my cynicism. She claims that the water is from an underground aquifer spring located in the mountains of British Columbia in Canada, around 1200 ft above sea level! And it is also claimed that it is untouched by air or any living thing (!!) and is hydraulically pumped up 180 ft to be bottled (by non –living things?….. )
This reminds me of a story I have read in the ‘Aithihyamala’, a collection of legendary tales of people, places and events of ancient South India.
There was this Brahmin who was suffering from severe stomach-–ache, who approached a famous vaidyan (physician). ‘You must have a dose of python fat for a month to get cured,’ said the vaidyan to the extremely religious and vegetarian Brahmin.
‘Impossible!’ said the man and walked away dejected. He could not bear to think of violating his dharma by giving up his sacred vegetarianism. Realizing that he would die soon, he went to a near by temple and sat there, dejected. A stranger who was seated nearby asked him why he looked so sad and the man told him of his plight. ‘Well! Anyway you are going to die, so why don’t you stay at this temple for 41 days and worship God? You should go to the waterfalls in the forest behind this temple, have your bath and drink three handfuls of water from the fall. Then you must offer your prayers at the temple. Thinking that he had nothing to lose, the man started doing that. Within a month, he felt better and after 41 days he was fit as a fiddle. He decided to meet the vaidyan and tell him how wrong he had been with his diagnosis. The vaidyan would not believe him and asked the man to show what he had done to cure himself. He accompanied the man to the waterfall and started looking around. When he climbed the mountain side from where water thundered down, he saw the remains of a huge, dead and decayed python hanging on a rock.
He showed his ‘would –have –been’ patient the snake and smiled. ‘I wanted you to have python fat for 30 days, you have taken it for 41. Well, in the long run it will do you good!!”
What I mean is, isn’t it a tall claim (1200 ft above sea level!!) to say that our designer water under discussion is untouched by ‘ air or any living thing’???? Some living thing must have touched that water…at some point of time. What about the hydraulic pump that draws the water up? Wasn’t that installed by ‘living things’?…Doesn’t the said pump need regular maintenance….rendered by living things? Well… that is food …er.. no…water for thought!!
And coming right back to our bottle of water that costs Dhs 10, for 475ml… 475 ml? Why not 500 ml? What will the price be for 500ml then? 1000 fils divided by 475 ml multiplied by .25ml, added to Dhs10…. Or is it….(OOooh!! This is as agonizing as R. K. Narayan’s Swami’s plight…while calculating the cost of mangoes!!)
Anyway, who will notice there is 25 ml less in the bottle than what you expect in an average small bottle of water? As it is, people don’t finish their bottles of mineral water and, generally leave behind unfinished bottles in restaurants and picnic spots… We, of the designer generation, have no value for money! So what if there are nations trying frantically to wet millions of parched throats, or are embarking on the Herculean task of connecting all the rivers within its boundaries…. Ours not to reason why…. Ours but to buy and try…. and waste. Sad, but disastrously and scandalously true!
Sunday, October 15, 2006
A TOPICAL FEVER OR A TROPICAL FEVER?
The people, the media and the hospitals of the subcontinent are all preoccupied. Health personnel seem to be working overtime with hands tied behind them… a battle so one sided that it resembles a cricket match…. A no win situation, as usual for us. As laymen we do not know anything about these fevers except that they hurt…and that they kill…. Let us hope India finds a solution for these exotic sounding fevers.
SHASHI’S WORDS: MEXICO, DENGUE, CANDLE
The power failed for the third time. The ceiling fan groaned to a halt. Yadav lit a Tortoise coil in the flame of the candle near him. Though it was warm, Yadav drew the shawl around him, covering himself head to toe, leaving a tiny opening for his nose. His body seemed to be on fire and his joints hurt. He felt as though someone was playing drums inside his head. BOOM, BOOM, TOM, TOM, TOM, BOOM, BOODEE, BOOM! He held the sides of his temples. THUD…THUD…DHUD….dhud…dhud… the intensity reduced with the pressure he applied. Still someone seemed to be dancing a wild number inside his head.
Sounds like conga drums, he told himself….On second thoughts, he decided, no they are bongos…… He was of logical mind. Conga drums were for African dances and Bongos for Spanish …..Since he suffered from dengue and not chikungunya, it had to be bongos… Everybody knew that Chikungunya was donated to India by a few stowaway carrier mosquitoes from Africa …..Someone in his village even said that those who suffered from chikungunya talked in African dialects in delirium. But, his doctor had told him that he suffered from dengue. Who had brought this? The name sounded Spanish. He remembered reading in the paper that a Mexican freight ship had docked in the harbour recently. For sure, dengue came from Mexico. Mexicans used Spanish, no? Dago mosquitoes brought Dengue!
What a funny name for a fever! He mused. In good old days fevers were called flu or malaria or (even if it was difficult to spell) pneumonia…! Dengue! What a funny name! First of all no one knew how to pronounce it. Some called it ‘deng’, others called it ‘dengu’, yet others ‘dengi’.
Angrezi was such a funny language…. Koyi logic vogic hai nahi yaar! A-R- G- U-E was ‘aargyoo’. T- O-N- G-U-E was ‘tung’ and D-E-N-G-U-E was ‘ dengi’….What language! No consistency, yaar! But, deng, dengyoo or dengi…..hai tho bada pahuncha hua bimaari! AAHHH! He writhed.What pain!
Who was it that said , ‘ A rose by any other name would smell as sweet’? He knew for sure his 9th grade English teacher had always said it…. But Sharmaji was quoting some phirangi….. Phirengi…. Dengi…. Dengi…. Phirengi….Very rhythmic. Arrey Wah! He was also getting poetic. What is that now? ‘A fever by any other name would kill as much!’ Ha ha ha ha… he chortled. Suddenly the import of his words struck him…As he became quiet he felt the boom boom inside his temples…. But that was not the only thing he heard…Ngggggggg came the sound of a mosquito. Definitely African, he thought in alarm! Can a person get chikungunya when he is already suffering from dengu… dengi… or whatever? His reasoning nature quizzed. Then his irrepressible sense of humour made him wonder immediately; ‘What will they call my fever then?’ ‘ Chikunengi? Or Dengungunya?’ Oh oh! He realized with horror that a mosquito had landed on the tip of his exposed nose. With rage he swung a fist at his nose.
SHASHI’S WORDS: MEXICO, DENGUE, CANDLE
The power failed for the third time. The ceiling fan groaned to a halt. Yadav lit a Tortoise coil in the flame of the candle near him. Though it was warm, Yadav drew the shawl around him, covering himself head to toe, leaving a tiny opening for his nose. His body seemed to be on fire and his joints hurt. He felt as though someone was playing drums inside his head. BOOM, BOOM, TOM, TOM, TOM, BOOM, BOODEE, BOOM! He held the sides of his temples. THUD…THUD…DHUD….dhud…dhud… the intensity reduced with the pressure he applied. Still someone seemed to be dancing a wild number inside his head.
Sounds like conga drums, he told himself….On second thoughts, he decided, no they are bongos…… He was of logical mind. Conga drums were for African dances and Bongos for Spanish …..Since he suffered from dengue and not chikungunya, it had to be bongos… Everybody knew that Chikungunya was donated to India by a few stowaway carrier mosquitoes from Africa …..Someone in his village even said that those who suffered from chikungunya talked in African dialects in delirium. But, his doctor had told him that he suffered from dengue. Who had brought this? The name sounded Spanish. He remembered reading in the paper that a Mexican freight ship had docked in the harbour recently. For sure, dengue came from Mexico. Mexicans used Spanish, no? Dago mosquitoes brought Dengue!
What a funny name for a fever! He mused. In good old days fevers were called flu or malaria or (even if it was difficult to spell) pneumonia…! Dengue! What a funny name! First of all no one knew how to pronounce it. Some called it ‘deng’, others called it ‘dengu’, yet others ‘dengi’.
Angrezi was such a funny language…. Koyi logic vogic hai nahi yaar! A-R- G- U-E was ‘aargyoo’. T- O-N- G-U-E was ‘tung’ and D-E-N-G-U-E was ‘ dengi’….What language! No consistency, yaar! But, deng, dengyoo or dengi…..hai tho bada pahuncha hua bimaari! AAHHH! He writhed.What pain!
Who was it that said , ‘ A rose by any other name would smell as sweet’? He knew for sure his 9th grade English teacher had always said it…. But Sharmaji was quoting some phirangi….. Phirengi…. Dengi…. Dengi…. Phirengi….Very rhythmic. Arrey Wah! He was also getting poetic. What is that now? ‘A fever by any other name would kill as much!’ Ha ha ha ha… he chortled. Suddenly the import of his words struck him…As he became quiet he felt the boom boom inside his temples…. But that was not the only thing he heard…Ngggggggg came the sound of a mosquito. Definitely African, he thought in alarm! Can a person get chikungunya when he is already suffering from dengu… dengi… or whatever? His reasoning nature quizzed. Then his irrepressible sense of humour made him wonder immediately; ‘What will they call my fever then?’ ‘ Chikunengi? Or Dengungunya?’ Oh oh! He realized with horror that a mosquito had landed on the tip of his exposed nose. With rage he swung a fist at his nose.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
10 DISHES I MISS FROM MY MOM’S KITCHEN
What do bloggers do when they are not busy publishing? They read postings of their ilk. And while whiling my time away in such a wonderfully warm pursuit, I came across a few bloggers who have tagged others on the above- mentioned topic. I am not a culinary moron. My Dal Makhanis, Mattar Paneers, Aloo stews and chutneys have won accolades at home and workplace. I owe that to my mother’s guidance, motivation and inspiration. My sister Rat is, any day, a better, more adventurous and dedicated cook, than me…. Yet neither of us have that magic touch that is our mother’s patent.
This list is special maybe because of the memories associated with them.
So I have decided to ‘ tag along uninvited’ and tabulate the 10 things I miss / yearn for/ aspire to perfect….of my mother’s kitchen. WISHFUL THINKING!
1.The incredibly soft and perfectly round chapathis she used to make for us on a kerosene stove, seated at the foot of the staircase, in the dining hall of our ancestral home, while the five of us used to bicker and jostle one another for our turn.
2. Aloo, Onion and red pumpkin sambhar she made as accompaniment to those chapathis. Sambhar for chapathis? You don’t know what you have missed…She has given me her recipe, but….. sigh!!
3.Neyyappams- Whether for Karthigai or Ganapathi homam or just when we fancied it, hers looked and tasted just divine!! Mine, I usually add to my rock collection!
4.Payasams – Specially the ones she used to make for Bhagavathi Sevai pujas. She’d bathe around 4 pm and clad in her 9 yards saree prepare the offering for the pujai. We’d wait impatiently for the priest to finish his business so that we could dig into that ‘caramel -coloured, ghee dripping, dimpling with raisins and sugar crystals’ preparation…. More than Bhagavathi (Goddess Durga), we were pleased by that prasadam. May be if I start wearing 9 yards saree, I’ll be able to make it like she does.
5.Silky lacy aappams on Sunday mornings… Hers are like kanjeevaram sarees and mine Dharmavaram…or Aarni!
6. Vegetable Biriyani – She used to make hers in big ottu (bronze) uruli. We used to hang around the kitchen savouring the smell of fried shallots and bread cubes…..SLURP!
7. Idlis – Soft, whit, spongy….. mmmmmmm!!! I can compare them to only one thing…The music of M.S. Subbalakshmi….
8.Puliyinjaam – Our name for the traditional Puliyogere or tamarind rice. Her recipe had that tang that I associate with my happy, secure childhood. I have tasted a variety of the stuff, the Iyengar’s, the MTR, the Balaji temples’ prasadams. Nothing to beat my Mom’s!
9.Vetha Kozhambu and Chutta Pappadam – On those good old days of girlhood, She would give my hair an elaborate oil massage- an ennathechu kuli- and with my hair wrapped in a white towel, I’ll tuck into hot rice with mouth- watering vethakozhambu and pappadams dry roasted on the coal stove. With that inside me, I’d go drifting to slumberland and the adjoining dreamland.
10. Masala Bhath- She’d prepare that for my lunch box. I still don’t get the exact combination of Khatta, chillies and the perfectly boiled aloo and shallots… I’d fight to control the saliva and tears when my heartless, greedy classmates snatched it out of my bag and gobbled it all up!!
May be I could go on…and on… I am sure my sons may not feel inspired by this to write their version…… May be they will- only it will be titled ‘ 10 Things We Miss From Our Grandma’s Kitchen…..SIGH!!!!
This list is special maybe because of the memories associated with them.
So I have decided to ‘ tag along uninvited’ and tabulate the 10 things I miss / yearn for/ aspire to perfect….of my mother’s kitchen. WISHFUL THINKING!
1.The incredibly soft and perfectly round chapathis she used to make for us on a kerosene stove, seated at the foot of the staircase, in the dining hall of our ancestral home, while the five of us used to bicker and jostle one another for our turn.
2. Aloo, Onion and red pumpkin sambhar she made as accompaniment to those chapathis. Sambhar for chapathis? You don’t know what you have missed…She has given me her recipe, but….. sigh!!
3.Neyyappams- Whether for Karthigai or Ganapathi homam or just when we fancied it, hers looked and tasted just divine!! Mine, I usually add to my rock collection!
4.Payasams – Specially the ones she used to make for Bhagavathi Sevai pujas. She’d bathe around 4 pm and clad in her 9 yards saree prepare the offering for the pujai. We’d wait impatiently for the priest to finish his business so that we could dig into that ‘caramel -coloured, ghee dripping, dimpling with raisins and sugar crystals’ preparation…. More than Bhagavathi (Goddess Durga), we were pleased by that prasadam. May be if I start wearing 9 yards saree, I’ll be able to make it like she does.
5.Silky lacy aappams on Sunday mornings… Hers are like kanjeevaram sarees and mine Dharmavaram…or Aarni!
6. Vegetable Biriyani – She used to make hers in big ottu (bronze) uruli. We used to hang around the kitchen savouring the smell of fried shallots and bread cubes…..SLURP!
7. Idlis – Soft, whit, spongy….. mmmmmmm!!! I can compare them to only one thing…The music of M.S. Subbalakshmi….
8.Puliyinjaam – Our name for the traditional Puliyogere or tamarind rice. Her recipe had that tang that I associate with my happy, secure childhood. I have tasted a variety of the stuff, the Iyengar’s, the MTR, the Balaji temples’ prasadams. Nothing to beat my Mom’s!
9.Vetha Kozhambu and Chutta Pappadam – On those good old days of girlhood, She would give my hair an elaborate oil massage- an ennathechu kuli- and with my hair wrapped in a white towel, I’ll tuck into hot rice with mouth- watering vethakozhambu and pappadams dry roasted on the coal stove. With that inside me, I’d go drifting to slumberland and the adjoining dreamland.
10. Masala Bhath- She’d prepare that for my lunch box. I still don’t get the exact combination of Khatta, chillies and the perfectly boiled aloo and shallots… I’d fight to control the saliva and tears when my heartless, greedy classmates snatched it out of my bag and gobbled it all up!!
May be I could go on…and on… I am sure my sons may not feel inspired by this to write their version…… May be they will- only it will be titled ‘ 10 Things We Miss From Our Grandma’s Kitchen…..SIGH!!!!
Friday, October 13, 2006
QUITE A CHALLENGE
This is getting more and more challenging. A friend has given me three words which are OH! So bizarre in combination that my grey cells had to work overtime…..
Versifying has never been my forte. Still, as the Chinese proverb goes: He who rides a tiger is afraid to dismount. I have thrown the gauntlets at my readers…. Now let me fight…… to death? Not if I can help it!
So here goes
MARIAM ISSAC’S WORDS: EPHIMERAL, RAMBUNCTIOUS, INTENSE
He was thirty five
She was in her twenties
He was a pedigreed Londoner
She, from the sub continent
He felt color and religion were of no matter
She had a face that shone with joie de vivre
He watched her every evening by the Thames
She was his raison d’etre, he felt
He believed in Karma
She was destined to be his
He didn’t know how to approach her
She once was accompanied by a sardar
He followed the Indian that evening
She was worth any trouble
He befriended the affable sardar
She must have a name, an address he groaned
He bought pints of ale for his new friend
She was worth every single pound
He even started dining at Tandoori Nights
She was worth all the antacids he gulped down later
He felt his love grow more and more intense
She seemed unaware of all the havoc in his life
He met her along with his new Indian friend by the Thames
She as always, was happy, laughing and bubbling
He exclaimed, ‘God!What a girl!
She is rambunctious!’
He looked at his Indian friend who, shaking his head, said
She? No Sir, She is Punjabi…. And she is my wife
He knew enough of Indian society
She was wedded…. for life and forever
He knew there was no chance for him
She obviously adored her consort, he realized
He accepted that his love story had been ephemeral
She blissfully continued her riverside jaunts
He nursed his broken heart in solitude.
Versifying has never been my forte. Still, as the Chinese proverb goes: He who rides a tiger is afraid to dismount. I have thrown the gauntlets at my readers…. Now let me fight…… to death? Not if I can help it!
So here goes
MARIAM ISSAC’S WORDS: EPHIMERAL, RAMBUNCTIOUS, INTENSE
He was thirty five
She was in her twenties
He was a pedigreed Londoner
She, from the sub continent
He felt color and religion were of no matter
She had a face that shone with joie de vivre
He watched her every evening by the Thames
She was his raison d’etre, he felt
He believed in Karma
She was destined to be his
He didn’t know how to approach her
She once was accompanied by a sardar
He followed the Indian that evening
She was worth any trouble
He befriended the affable sardar
She must have a name, an address he groaned
He bought pints of ale for his new friend
She was worth every single pound
He even started dining at Tandoori Nights
She was worth all the antacids he gulped down later
He felt his love grow more and more intense
She seemed unaware of all the havoc in his life
He met her along with his new Indian friend by the Thames
She as always, was happy, laughing and bubbling
He exclaimed, ‘God!What a girl!
She is rambunctious!’
He looked at his Indian friend who, shaking his head, said
She? No Sir, She is Punjabi…. And she is my wife
He knew enough of Indian society
She was wedded…. for life and forever
He knew there was no chance for him
She obviously adored her consort, he realized
He accepted that his love story had been ephemeral
She blissfully continued her riverside jaunts
He nursed his broken heart in solitude.
KINNU’S WORDS : CONSTRUCTION, CARPET, TENSION
Anirudh entered the lift with a palpitating heart. His mother was not going to be happy with his 68 % in English. He envied his friends. None of them had an English teacher for a mother. They didn’t have mothers, who wanted them to be the chips off the old blocks. Her vehement attempts at improving his English was third degree torture to him. While all his friends watched TV or played cricket he would be battling with Past Perfect Tenses and Passive constructions of sentences. ‘How did it matter if the Subject got importance or if the Object did?’he wondered. As long as people understood you!
He remembered grimly how she had once made him write ‘ ‘You’ is the subject of an imperative sentence, 200 times! For weeks he used to dream of a skeleton chanting ‘Shut the door…. You shut the door, close the window…you close the window, remove you shoes ….you remove your shoes and whatnot!!!!’
‘ Why couldn’t I have had a doctor or even a secretary for a mother? Or at least a Science teacher….. Science teachers never bothered about language… They just wanted facts. Why an English teacher?’
Even his own language teachers were on the defensive with him. He felt that his teachers corrected his paper twice or thrice fearing that his mother would appear at the Open House challenging their corrections. They took no chances. Maybe that was why they were so strict with his papers. He felt that his teacher overlooked silly mistakes in his friends’ papers, but never in his.
As the lift ascended to the 13th floor, he felt tremendous tension. He looked at the paper again. Sentence construction had never been his forte. And when you are frantically trying to finish a lengthy paper within measly 11/2 hours, how can you waste time thinking about a stupid word? So in his hurry he had written a sentence using the word ‘Appendage’- Last summer holidays my father got his appendage removed through surgery. It was only after the exam when his friend had told him about the meaning of the word had he realized his blunder. When his teacher had read his sentence out loud in the class, he had felt like a prize idiot. Of course he now knew his father had got his appendix removed… but he had been under pressure in the exam hall.
If only I could keep this from her! He thought with panic. Next few days were off for Diwali. And he could not bear being confined to his room, writing sentence after sentence to improve his sentence construction skills, while his friends had fun with crackers and outings… God! Help me, he prayed as he entered his house.
“Anirudh! Be careful!” his mother’s voice came from the bathroom. “ Don’t trip over the rolled carpet in your room. And did you get your papers?”
Anirudh mumbled something. ‘God show me the way!’ he prayed like never before. God was kind. Quickly, Anirudh rolled up his English paper into a tight cylinder and pushed it inside the rolled carpet. “Phew!” He said, relieved of all his tension. “You stay there till Diwali is over!”
‘No, Ma ,’ he shouted. ‘Only after Diwali holidays.’ He saluted Lord Krishna’s smiling picture and started removing his uniform.
He remembered grimly how she had once made him write ‘ ‘You’ is the subject of an imperative sentence, 200 times! For weeks he used to dream of a skeleton chanting ‘Shut the door…. You shut the door, close the window…you close the window, remove you shoes ….you remove your shoes and whatnot!!!!’
‘ Why couldn’t I have had a doctor or even a secretary for a mother? Or at least a Science teacher….. Science teachers never bothered about language… They just wanted facts. Why an English teacher?’
Even his own language teachers were on the defensive with him. He felt that his teachers corrected his paper twice or thrice fearing that his mother would appear at the Open House challenging their corrections. They took no chances. Maybe that was why they were so strict with his papers. He felt that his teacher overlooked silly mistakes in his friends’ papers, but never in his.
As the lift ascended to the 13th floor, he felt tremendous tension. He looked at the paper again. Sentence construction had never been his forte. And when you are frantically trying to finish a lengthy paper within measly 11/2 hours, how can you waste time thinking about a stupid word? So in his hurry he had written a sentence using the word ‘Appendage’- Last summer holidays my father got his appendage removed through surgery. It was only after the exam when his friend had told him about the meaning of the word had he realized his blunder. When his teacher had read his sentence out loud in the class, he had felt like a prize idiot. Of course he now knew his father had got his appendix removed… but he had been under pressure in the exam hall.
If only I could keep this from her! He thought with panic. Next few days were off for Diwali. And he could not bear being confined to his room, writing sentence after sentence to improve his sentence construction skills, while his friends had fun with crackers and outings… God! Help me, he prayed as he entered his house.
“Anirudh! Be careful!” his mother’s voice came from the bathroom. “ Don’t trip over the rolled carpet in your room. And did you get your papers?”
Anirudh mumbled something. ‘God show me the way!’ he prayed like never before. God was kind. Quickly, Anirudh rolled up his English paper into a tight cylinder and pushed it inside the rolled carpet. “Phew!” He said, relieved of all his tension. “You stay there till Diwali is over!”
‘No, Ma ,’ he shouted. ‘Only after Diwali holidays.’ He saluted Lord Krishna’s smiling picture and started removing his uniform.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
A PEEK INTO THE PAST OF ROME
A PEEK INTO THE PAST OF ROME
Friends, Non-Romans and Readers……… I come to glorify the history of Rome, not to bury her history as dead bore social studies lessons.
I am here to talk about a glorious chapter in human history, which runs back to about three millennia BC. Yes, I am here to talk about Rome…..Rome, to which once all roads led.
Rome… that existed in the days when the traffic system was not complex and the term peak hours probably referred to the zenith of some ruler….. Where no one got lost….because whichever road you took, you ended up in Rome ( Ref: All Roads Lead to Rome)
Rome… which some of us collocate with Julius Caesar who bequeathed to the medical profession, the profitable venture called Caesarian Section!
Rome… which made us chuckle and guffaw as kids when, by Toutatis! our favourite comic heroes Asterix and Obelix rendered the powerful Roman army with their centurions, decurians, optios and Old Julius himself , ridiculous!!!!
Rome…. Which has been immortalized by Hollywood directors, with classics like Quo Vadis, Ben Hur and more recently Gladiator!
Friends, I am here to glorify ‘that’ Rome… not to dismiss her as a dead civilization!
So, we all know that Rome was not built in a day. I do not know exactly in how many days Rome was built… but, I do know exactly who built it.
Legend goes that twin boys named Romulus and Remus were taken from their mother and abandoned near river Tiber where a she-wolf found them and looked after them till they were able to take care of themselves (and giving Rudyard Kipling the thread with which he could weave the literary magic ‘The Jungle Book’). The twins were instructed by Mars, the roman god to build a city right where they had got labeled as foundlings. Romulus and Remus did build the city, but they hadn’t obviously heard about the bonding between twins…which led to them to fight with each other. Romulus won the battle and the city came to be called ‘Rome’ after him (which makes one wonder what they’d have called the city if the other twin had won the battle…..REEM???)
Well. That is legend. Today we have contingents of historians and archeologists digging up the past to prove that a civilized society existed out there. They claim to have evidence to prove that almost 3000 years back, there existed in Europe, a people who set up their own administration, ruling their own land…. vesting power on a group rather than an individual.
Yet, Rome was divided socially. With due apologies to George Orwell, “All Romans were equal, but some were more equal than the others!”….And those others were the Patricians or the nobles….the most powerful citizens of Rome.
Then came the Equestrians or the knights … the rich and the valiant who were expected to fight for Rome.
The lesser Roman mortals were the Plebians who had little say in any political matter…. and finally, there were the Slaves who had no rights whatsoever. With apologies to my ilk, even women did not enjoy any rights….
Things continued in this vein for nearly 750 years. Soon the generals who led the Roman armies on conquests became more and more powerful. By this time Rome was no ordinary city. It had expanded its borders so fast and so regularly that cartographers found it impossible to create a permanent map of the Roman empire. All national and international highways had milestones with ‘To Rome’ etched on them. I believe even by-lanes and detours led to Rome….and everyone had to hurry to reach their destination, these said roads being congested with chariots… all going to and from Rome.
Around 50 BC came a general ( christened Julius Caesar) who went about conquering the vast territory of Gaul, crossing over to Egypt and rowing across the English Chanel to occupy Britain. He did all these without realizing that two Belgians named Gosciny and Uderzo would laugh all the way to their bank having successfully made him look ridiculous thanks to Asterix and Obelix making mince meat of the his armies and legionaries.
Well, old Julius might have been a good general but he definitely was not a sound judge of men. On a fateful swearing- in ceremony day called the ides of March, his political dream to become the first citizen of Rome collapsed like a house of cards, when he was stabbed to death by his trusted friend Brutus and not so trustworthy conspiratorial senators. He fell dead uttering the oft quoted words people use when backstabbed, ‘Et tu Brute….then fall Caesar!’ Those words were conveniently borrowed by the Bard of Avon, William Shakespeare and left to be overused by generations of literary-minded victims!
I am not here to exhume a dead Caesar and investigate the crime committed on that fateful day, nor am I here to vindicate the atrocity of those senators. Rome owed her glory to powerful men like JC who had a line of caesars following the imprints he had left behind on the Roman sands of time. The glory of Rome lasted for more than a millennium. In those thousand years, Romans built roads (er…I did mention them earlier, didn’t I?), towns, aqueducts and, circuses where Roman WWF heroes called gladiators did many a ‘ripping and getting- ripped- apart’ act. What they did not know at that time was that even after three millennia, the public would rant and rave while watching Russel Crowe simulating them and walking away clutching an Oscar!
Rome at one point might have thought, “For emperors may come and emperors may go, but I go on forever”, but did not know that it would soon decline when the barbarians from the eastern and northern corners of the then Europe started migrating to Rome..
(Well, you can’t blame those barbarians…. After all, all roads led to Rome!!!)
To cut a 3000 year old story short, the Roman collapse came when in 476 AD, the Visigoths conquered this great empire…. And then there were only ruins….. archeologists….. tourists….Hollywood… and people like me. Viva Roma!
Friends, Non-Romans and Readers……… I come to glorify the history of Rome, not to bury her history as dead bore social studies lessons.
I am here to talk about a glorious chapter in human history, which runs back to about three millennia BC. Yes, I am here to talk about Rome…..Rome, to which once all roads led.
Rome… that existed in the days when the traffic system was not complex and the term peak hours probably referred to the zenith of some ruler….. Where no one got lost….because whichever road you took, you ended up in Rome ( Ref: All Roads Lead to Rome)
Rome… which some of us collocate with Julius Caesar who bequeathed to the medical profession, the profitable venture called Caesarian Section!
Rome… which made us chuckle and guffaw as kids when, by Toutatis! our favourite comic heroes Asterix and Obelix rendered the powerful Roman army with their centurions, decurians, optios and Old Julius himself , ridiculous!!!!
Rome…. Which has been immortalized by Hollywood directors, with classics like Quo Vadis, Ben Hur and more recently Gladiator!
Friends, I am here to glorify ‘that’ Rome… not to dismiss her as a dead civilization!
So, we all know that Rome was not built in a day. I do not know exactly in how many days Rome was built… but, I do know exactly who built it.
Legend goes that twin boys named Romulus and Remus were taken from their mother and abandoned near river Tiber where a she-wolf found them and looked after them till they were able to take care of themselves (and giving Rudyard Kipling the thread with which he could weave the literary magic ‘The Jungle Book’). The twins were instructed by Mars, the roman god to build a city right where they had got labeled as foundlings. Romulus and Remus did build the city, but they hadn’t obviously heard about the bonding between twins…which led to them to fight with each other. Romulus won the battle and the city came to be called ‘Rome’ after him (which makes one wonder what they’d have called the city if the other twin had won the battle…..REEM???)
Well. That is legend. Today we have contingents of historians and archeologists digging up the past to prove that a civilized society existed out there. They claim to have evidence to prove that almost 3000 years back, there existed in Europe, a people who set up their own administration, ruling their own land…. vesting power on a group rather than an individual.
Yet, Rome was divided socially. With due apologies to George Orwell, “All Romans were equal, but some were more equal than the others!”….And those others were the Patricians or the nobles….the most powerful citizens of Rome.
Then came the Equestrians or the knights … the rich and the valiant who were expected to fight for Rome.
The lesser Roman mortals were the Plebians who had little say in any political matter…. and finally, there were the Slaves who had no rights whatsoever. With apologies to my ilk, even women did not enjoy any rights….
Things continued in this vein for nearly 750 years. Soon the generals who led the Roman armies on conquests became more and more powerful. By this time Rome was no ordinary city. It had expanded its borders so fast and so regularly that cartographers found it impossible to create a permanent map of the Roman empire. All national and international highways had milestones with ‘To Rome’ etched on them. I believe even by-lanes and detours led to Rome….and everyone had to hurry to reach their destination, these said roads being congested with chariots… all going to and from Rome.
Around 50 BC came a general ( christened Julius Caesar) who went about conquering the vast territory of Gaul, crossing over to Egypt and rowing across the English Chanel to occupy Britain. He did all these without realizing that two Belgians named Gosciny and Uderzo would laugh all the way to their bank having successfully made him look ridiculous thanks to Asterix and Obelix making mince meat of the his armies and legionaries.
Well, old Julius might have been a good general but he definitely was not a sound judge of men. On a fateful swearing- in ceremony day called the ides of March, his political dream to become the first citizen of Rome collapsed like a house of cards, when he was stabbed to death by his trusted friend Brutus and not so trustworthy conspiratorial senators. He fell dead uttering the oft quoted words people use when backstabbed, ‘Et tu Brute….then fall Caesar!’ Those words were conveniently borrowed by the Bard of Avon, William Shakespeare and left to be overused by generations of literary-minded victims!
I am not here to exhume a dead Caesar and investigate the crime committed on that fateful day, nor am I here to vindicate the atrocity of those senators. Rome owed her glory to powerful men like JC who had a line of caesars following the imprints he had left behind on the Roman sands of time. The glory of Rome lasted for more than a millennium. In those thousand years, Romans built roads (er…I did mention them earlier, didn’t I?), towns, aqueducts and, circuses where Roman WWF heroes called gladiators did many a ‘ripping and getting- ripped- apart’ act. What they did not know at that time was that even after three millennia, the public would rant and rave while watching Russel Crowe simulating them and walking away clutching an Oscar!
Rome at one point might have thought, “For emperors may come and emperors may go, but I go on forever”, but did not know that it would soon decline when the barbarians from the eastern and northern corners of the then Europe started migrating to Rome..
(Well, you can’t blame those barbarians…. After all, all roads led to Rome!!!)
To cut a 3000 year old story short, the Roman collapse came when in 476 AD, the Visigoths conquered this great empire…. And then there were only ruins….. archeologists….. tourists….Hollywood… and people like me. Viva Roma!
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
RANDOM A4ISMS
AS RANDOM AS CAN BE…
‘Why A4ISMS?’ ask my friends… Well, I thought I’d take up where Dan Brown left off and be cryptic in my own rights. Look up ‘aphorism’ in the nearest lexicon and all truth shall be revealed. We Indians are so fond of quoting proverbs and adages (whether it covers the situation or not) and being a typical Indian whose old habits die hard (J) I am going to pepper my postings with some known, some unknown and perhaps many newly coined ones to drive home my (view)point.
I love anything vintage. And my father in law has a vintage collection of proverbs to suit any occasion. He does a P.C. Sorcar everytime he pulls out an apt proverb out of the proverbial hat (pun intended!) He often invites me to match his Kannada proverbs with parallel ones in English, Tamil or Malayalam. It is fun throw the gauntlet at him, but he always manages to win the proverbial duels.
Rajashri, my friend has given me three absolutely unconnected words. I was stumped for a couple of days, but here is my valiant attempt… As the first grade child quoted, ‘If at first you don’t succeed…… use new batteries!!!’
RAJASHRI’S WORDS- WISDOM, MUSTER (of peacocks), COVERAGE
‘Adi sheruppaala!!’ (Whack him with slippers! Effect lost in translation??) muttered Ranganathaiyer as he watched Sehwag being caught out in slow motion action replay. ‘These buggers are good only for advertisements,’ he muttered in disgust while groping around for the remote control as continuous replay mauled his patriotic feelings. Watching cricket on a plasma TV was a treat but it did make Team India’s flop show larger than life! Bad enough when I watched India lose out on a 21” TV. These new-fangled gizmos make it worse….. Pulling the remote control ( they are so christened as they hide in the remotest places possible!) from under the cushions, he started surfing channels. A coverage of the Miss World pageant caught his fancy. What shameless hussies! muttered Ranganathaiyer…. How can they call this a coverage when young shameless girls hardly cover parts of their bodies? Oh he loved playing with words!! Still, jokes apart, this muster of emaciated bodies set standards for beauty! He could not believe it. His idea of beauty was his wife Amudavalli- with all her dusky charm, her traditional buxom looks and madisaru podavai…. How he used to force her into wearing nine yards of saree when they were newly married,just to steal glances at the flash of her calves as she moved about in the house. It is what you don’t see that tantalizes you more than what is exhibited or flaunted, he felt. If he were in the panel of judges he would definitely give them the toughest question. How will you drape yourself in nine yards of material to bring out your beauty? That’ll floor these stick figured peacocks!”
‘Paati! Paati! Thatha is watching aamanathondi pondugal ( nude women)on the TV!” His grandsons were yelling on top of their voices. SHHH!!! The whole neighbourhood would hear you, said as he hurriedly switched the TV off….but not before he encountered the blazing eyes of his 75 year old wife who declared….. Kandraavi!! Kaadu vaa vaangaradu… Veedu po pongaradu… innuttum manushyanodu aashaya paaru!! (rough translation…. You are in the last innings of life, yet your yearnings have not subsided! Or something like that). Ranganathaiyer sighed. Innakku rathri rava kanji thaan!
‘Why A4ISMS?’ ask my friends… Well, I thought I’d take up where Dan Brown left off and be cryptic in my own rights. Look up ‘aphorism’ in the nearest lexicon and all truth shall be revealed. We Indians are so fond of quoting proverbs and adages (whether it covers the situation or not) and being a typical Indian whose old habits die hard (J) I am going to pepper my postings with some known, some unknown and perhaps many newly coined ones to drive home my (view)point.
I love anything vintage. And my father in law has a vintage collection of proverbs to suit any occasion. He does a P.C. Sorcar everytime he pulls out an apt proverb out of the proverbial hat (pun intended!) He often invites me to match his Kannada proverbs with parallel ones in English, Tamil or Malayalam. It is fun throw the gauntlet at him, but he always manages to win the proverbial duels.
Rajashri, my friend has given me three absolutely unconnected words. I was stumped for a couple of days, but here is my valiant attempt… As the first grade child quoted, ‘If at first you don’t succeed…… use new batteries!!!’
RAJASHRI’S WORDS- WISDOM, MUSTER (of peacocks), COVERAGE
‘Adi sheruppaala!!’ (Whack him with slippers! Effect lost in translation??) muttered Ranganathaiyer as he watched Sehwag being caught out in slow motion action replay. ‘These buggers are good only for advertisements,’ he muttered in disgust while groping around for the remote control as continuous replay mauled his patriotic feelings. Watching cricket on a plasma TV was a treat but it did make Team India’s flop show larger than life! Bad enough when I watched India lose out on a 21” TV. These new-fangled gizmos make it worse….. Pulling the remote control ( they are so christened as they hide in the remotest places possible!) from under the cushions, he started surfing channels. A coverage of the Miss World pageant caught his fancy. What shameless hussies! muttered Ranganathaiyer…. How can they call this a coverage when young shameless girls hardly cover parts of their bodies? Oh he loved playing with words!! Still, jokes apart, this muster of emaciated bodies set standards for beauty! He could not believe it. His idea of beauty was his wife Amudavalli- with all her dusky charm, her traditional buxom looks and madisaru podavai…. How he used to force her into wearing nine yards of saree when they were newly married,just to steal glances at the flash of her calves as she moved about in the house. It is what you don’t see that tantalizes you more than what is exhibited or flaunted, he felt. If he were in the panel of judges he would definitely give them the toughest question. How will you drape yourself in nine yards of material to bring out your beauty? That’ll floor these stick figured peacocks!”
‘Paati! Paati! Thatha is watching aamanathondi pondugal ( nude women)on the TV!” His grandsons were yelling on top of their voices. SHHH!!! The whole neighbourhood would hear you, said as he hurriedly switched the TV off….but not before he encountered the blazing eyes of his 75 year old wife who declared….. Kandraavi!! Kaadu vaa vaangaradu… Veedu po pongaradu… innuttum manushyanodu aashaya paaru!! (rough translation…. You are in the last innings of life, yet your yearnings have not subsided! Or something like that). Ranganathaiyer sighed. Innakku rathri rava kanji thaan!
RANDOM A4ISMS
NIDHI”S WORDS- DOGS, STUDY, AEROBICS
Who says you can’t teach old dogs new tricks? Take me for instance. On the wrong side of my forties, I have started a blog to air my random aphorisms to whoever wants to read it! It took me almost four months to make my dream a reality. Maybe I should have bought expert opinion from Blogging for Dummies…. Sadly when it comes to technical language and instructions written deliberately to confuse consumers, I am a certified ignoramus. Yet, some diehard instinct in me made me pursue my project and here I am.
Like I said, whoever said ‘you can’t teach an old dog new tricks’ either wasn’t a good teacher, a good learner…or didn’t have any interesting trick up his sleeve.
So how can I prove him wrong?
You better believe this. My mom learnt to convert audio cassettes into music files on her PC, compress them into MP3 format and select and burn CDs of her choice….. at the age of 65. Hello! Point taken?
I have a friend who after being a teacher for 10 plus years has gone back to study….to take an MBA degree…
Yours truly, in fact, is always ready to learn new things. Don’t think I am doing aerobics with words….. But you can definitely teach an old dog new tricks…. It depends on the dog, the trainer… and the trick!
THIS IS FOR YOU, NIDHI
STUDY,STUDY,STUDY!!! Trust parents to keep on and on and on at it! How can they expect me to study all the time! I wish I were like you, Zeets! Zeets wagged her tail in agreement…as she always did. She knew Nidhi was cheesed off about something. So she added a melting look in addition to her wagging. That did it!
Why couldn’t I have been born a dog? Wailed Nidhi. No exams, no need to study, no homework. Zeets! I envy you. Nidhi pulled Zeets by her ears and cuddled her.
Yeah? Thought Zeets, struggling to break free. Hello…. You think it is easy being a dog? What about all those days in my infancy when each of you used to call me a different name till you all agreed upon Zeets?
I had a tough time wagging my posterior end as though I was enjoying all those silly training sessions. Shake Hands, Sit Down, Heel, Fetch….. Each time I panted with exhaustion, You said ‘She is Smiling…. She is enjoying it…. And made me do all those
juvenile aerobics again… and again…. again…Thank God I met that Doberman who told me’ You better do what they say, immediately, fella…Once they show off how well trained a dog you are, they’ll leave you alone!’ “Or act cute,” said the Pekinese from the arms of the buxom lady in the park. Just stare at them with a melting look, add a lick or two and they’ll fall flat and start koochie kooing you.” Hey, I study better outdoors in the company of dogs than in the hands of you humans..!
Well! It is time to lick Nidhi’s ears and prance around near the door… or I’ll never be taken out…. Old dogs have new tricks under their collar…Heh! Heh!
Who says you can’t teach old dogs new tricks? Take me for instance. On the wrong side of my forties, I have started a blog to air my random aphorisms to whoever wants to read it! It took me almost four months to make my dream a reality. Maybe I should have bought expert opinion from Blogging for Dummies…. Sadly when it comes to technical language and instructions written deliberately to confuse consumers, I am a certified ignoramus. Yet, some diehard instinct in me made me pursue my project and here I am.
Like I said, whoever said ‘you can’t teach an old dog new tricks’ either wasn’t a good teacher, a good learner…or didn’t have any interesting trick up his sleeve.
So how can I prove him wrong?
You better believe this. My mom learnt to convert audio cassettes into music files on her PC, compress them into MP3 format and select and burn CDs of her choice….. at the age of 65. Hello! Point taken?
I have a friend who after being a teacher for 10 plus years has gone back to study….to take an MBA degree…
Yours truly, in fact, is always ready to learn new things. Don’t think I am doing aerobics with words….. But you can definitely teach an old dog new tricks…. It depends on the dog, the trainer… and the trick!
THIS IS FOR YOU, NIDHI
STUDY,STUDY,STUDY!!! Trust parents to keep on and on and on at it! How can they expect me to study all the time! I wish I were like you, Zeets! Zeets wagged her tail in agreement…as she always did. She knew Nidhi was cheesed off about something. So she added a melting look in addition to her wagging. That did it!
Why couldn’t I have been born a dog? Wailed Nidhi. No exams, no need to study, no homework. Zeets! I envy you. Nidhi pulled Zeets by her ears and cuddled her.
Yeah? Thought Zeets, struggling to break free. Hello…. You think it is easy being a dog? What about all those days in my infancy when each of you used to call me a different name till you all agreed upon Zeets?
I had a tough time wagging my posterior end as though I was enjoying all those silly training sessions. Shake Hands, Sit Down, Heel, Fetch….. Each time I panted with exhaustion, You said ‘She is Smiling…. She is enjoying it…. And made me do all those
juvenile aerobics again… and again…. again…Thank God I met that Doberman who told me’ You better do what they say, immediately, fella…Once they show off how well trained a dog you are, they’ll leave you alone!’ “Or act cute,” said the Pekinese from the arms of the buxom lady in the park. Just stare at them with a melting look, add a lick or two and they’ll fall flat and start koochie kooing you.” Hey, I study better outdoors in the company of dogs than in the hands of you humans..!
Well! It is time to lick Nidhi’s ears and prance around near the door… or I’ll never be taken out…. Old dogs have new tricks under their collar…Heh! Heh!
Monday, October 09, 2006
MANGALA’S WORDS: GANDHIJI, SPICE, CRICKET
Mangala waited with a smile as the last of her students gathered all her belongings and headed for the door. “See you soon!” breezed young Anushka. “ Not if I saw you first,” said Mangala to herself as she nodded and waved in a plastic friendly manner before closing the door and flopping on to the plush sofa. Free for the day. She wondered if it had been a wise move at all, starting a cookery class…. She had always wanted to do something different, something that would give her a sense of purpose. But had it been wise to start cookery classes? She wondered.
She hadn’t been a very confident cook to begin with and heeding the advice of her mother that a the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach she had cultivated herself into a culinary orchid – a very specially talented, painstaking cook. She had the expertise of churning out meals of all kinds- of all regions.
Now that her kids were grown up she had too much of time in her hands. Not that they had been enthusiastic at her idea of starting cookery classes. “Marala?” her son had asked when she placed her idea in front of her family, but seeing her expression hurriedly supported her…as he had always done.
She had enjoyed initially the challenge of initiating her class of culinary morons into the aromatic, delicious world of cooking! Yes, quite a challenge, she mused, to have taught some young yuppie new bride that ‘spice’ had nothing to do with pop singers or that ‘chives’ were herbs and ‘hives’ an allergic condition. But students like Anushka who were terrified to use their fingers polished nail et al to perform menial tasks like extracting tamarind pulp the traditional way(“No dear, you don’t need to use an extractor for a gooseberry sized lump of tamarind…!”) made her feel helpless like while watching her country’s cricket team perform miserably… Why do we lack the killer instinct that the Pakistanis or the Aussies have? Have our sportsmen been indoctrinated by Gandhiji’s call for Ahimsa that they passively let themselves be trounced in the cricket, hockey or any other sport arena?
Funny how we pass the buck to the selectors and coach for our sporting disasters! We as a nation believe in not admitting our drawbacks and our weaknesses…
Well, not she. She would train her class to perform in their arena and bowl people over with exquisitely cultivated culinary skills.
She hadn’t been a very confident cook to begin with and heeding the advice of her mother that a the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach she had cultivated herself into a culinary orchid – a very specially talented, painstaking cook. She had the expertise of churning out meals of all kinds- of all regions.
Now that her kids were grown up she had too much of time in her hands. Not that they had been enthusiastic at her idea of starting cookery classes. “Marala?” her son had asked when she placed her idea in front of her family, but seeing her expression hurriedly supported her…as he had always done.
She had enjoyed initially the challenge of initiating her class of culinary morons into the aromatic, delicious world of cooking! Yes, quite a challenge, she mused, to have taught some young yuppie new bride that ‘spice’ had nothing to do with pop singers or that ‘chives’ were herbs and ‘hives’ an allergic condition. But students like Anushka who were terrified to use their fingers polished nail et al to perform menial tasks like extracting tamarind pulp the traditional way(“No dear, you don’t need to use an extractor for a gooseberry sized lump of tamarind…!”) made her feel helpless like while watching her country’s cricket team perform miserably… Why do we lack the killer instinct that the Pakistanis or the Aussies have? Have our sportsmen been indoctrinated by Gandhiji’s call for Ahimsa that they passively let themselves be trounced in the cricket, hockey or any other sport arena?
Funny how we pass the buck to the selectors and coach for our sporting disasters! We as a nation believe in not admitting our drawbacks and our weaknesses…
Well, not she. She would train her class to perform in their arena and bowl people over with exquisitely cultivated culinary skills.
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