daily a-musings

Act Your Age

2012-01-30T08:23:00.000-08:00

I tell Neel, 7 1/2, ‘C’mon – don’troll on the floor. Act your age!’
I tell my Mom, in her 70s,equally indignantly, ‘You can’t demand candy floss. C’mon, act your age!’

Because there are these rigid AYA(act your age) rules, aren’t they? Which we’re all trained in, withoutexception. These rules allow you to stare at morbid fascination, at someonedigging his nose when you’re 3, but insist that you politely avert your eyeswhen you’re 30.

Niks at almost 5, launches himselfat anyone he likes. ‘Launches’ because any other word won’t do this actionjustice. He doesn’t welcome you, or hug you, or even insinuate himself intoyour arms. He launches. He hits you with a hurricane force, that propels youbackwards and out through the door which is supposed to welcome you in. If yousurvive in vertical position, he then climbs you – to land up somewhere withhis legs wrapped around your neck. If you have fallen back onto the floor, hesits on top of you.

I, on the other hand, (atunmentionable age) smile, and do not throw myself or any of my body parts atyou, lest you take it badly (if you are a woman too) or a little too happily(if you are male). I will smile at you whether I am thrilled you have come, orwhether I have something burning on the stove, 2 assignments to hand in – and wishyou’d freeze at the door and visit 2 hours later.

This is because I am AYAing.

Acting Your Age forces you to lookinterested when you’re falling asleep, to insist it’s no trouble when you’vespent the whole morning cooking. In short, AYA teaches you, as you grow up, to learnto lie. And to stifle whatever is spontaneous and honest and straight from thegut, and to wrap it up in tinsel instead.

Learning : Can’t really go about telling people thatthey have wobbly chins, or that they talk too much. And can’t launch at guestsor pick at bellybuttons in public or laugh till the food dribbles down yourchin. Wottodo? Wottodo? Wottodo? C’mon – Act Your Age and tell me what to do!

Murphy on Holiday

2012-01-02T20:54:00.001-08:00

We decided to leave Ole Murphybehind, locked firmly at home while we had that ‘perfect holiday’. Did too.Almost.

Here, for a change, is what didNOT go wrong.

1. Dida train journey to Goa. Air-conditioned 4-seater to ourselves. Kids did notfall off the train. Niks did however, fall off his lower berth SEVEN times inthe night, which meant, I had to wake up SEVEN times in as many hours – and shovehim back on.

2. Thehired car guy ditched us when we reached Goa, asking for double the hire rate.Met my darling college buddy, who I wanted to spend hours talking to. She spenthours talking – to every car operator she could think of – begging, pleading –and finally getting us the car. She did not talk to me, and I don’t know if sheever will again.

3. Wespent every day at the beach. With cousins. The kids turned purple and peeling –and would not get out of the water or sun. The bottle of sun-screen lotion gotlost on Day 1, and the un-sun-screened kids had a blast.

4. Allthe kids got tattoos. Made of HAIR DYE! Niks is gonna have a purple scorpionrunning in rivulets down his forearm –and Neel is gonna have to wear a jacket to school for the next month to keephis hidden from his teacher. Niks, back in Bangalore, bared his arm to a littlegirl on his school bus, and I could hear her scream. (Desired responseachieved. Niks sat back, pleased!)

5. Weate. We walked. We ate. We shopped. We ate. We drank. We ate. We partied. Weate. We ate. We ate. No one got sick. We put on a total of 24 kilos – 4 adults.We tried to walk it off – only till the next bar, where we ate some more.

6. Ibought tons of flimsy shell trinkets, and sarongs in scraps of cloth, that wereperfect for the beach. And that I will never ever wear again. I ate, to make upfor the guilt.

7. Wemet family and friends in our aunt’s beautiful old house. We ate. The kids madetunnels through the hedge, and collected sticks and bruises. Their clothesturned red, their faces black.

8. Lostthe keys to the suitcase. Twice. Scratched the hired car. Puked into the sandsof the Arabian sea. Sat through a Konkani mass. Got into a bar brawl. Chased aGoan pao (bread) guy on a cycle at 7 in the morning. Fed stray dogs.

9. Whatwe brought home: 2 kilos of sand – sand in clothes, shoes, hair, cuffs, ears...shells, broken sandals, feni, cake, tattoos, cuts, poison ivy itch, sunburn(found the sunscreen bottle when we got home). If anyone wants to come over andshare our Goa loot – you’re welcome to any of the above. P.S. The cake is over!

Was a perfect holiday. Came hometo ole Murphy. Got out of our sunny holiday plane into Bangalore. It wasraining and cold. The sunhats and shells got soaked.

Not now, I'm busy

2011-12-13T20:44:00.000-08:00

Busy is one of those things thatwax and wane – like the moon – or like the water content in your body – whichbloats just when you want to show your midriff off.

Back to Busy however – which isjust as traitorous. An undependable, varying, dissatisfied thing – this busyis. Everyone is busy. Always. Gmail offers status warnings that you are busy.All through the day and night – for 7 months in a row. (Can you be busysleeping?) Your phone allows you to set a busy tone. Anyone you call seems soso busy, even if they proceed then to bitch about their boss for the next 45minutes.

I used to be busy. I hated it. Ihad 2 kids under the age of 3, and I sleep-walked at 60 km per hour – throughnappy-changing and feeding and rocking someone to sleep. Someone except me. Iate while running up the stairs to fetch a bottle, and I used the loo whilereading a story book aloud to the brawlers outside. Busy! Exhausted andirritable. That’s what busy does to me.

Then the kids grew up and went toschool. And I’d huffed off my job. So there was a time when I got just theopposite of busy. And I hated it. I called friends to ask about their newhaircuts, and I offered to write brochures free for any NGO who sneezed in mydirection. I read 3 library books a week, blogged with a vengeance, facebookedwith a greater vengeance, and wrote a whole book.

It worked. I’m busy again. And Ihate it. I’m too busy to have coffee with all those friends I begged to go outwith, and too busy to cut my hair. And too busy to go to a meeting for a newproject. And too busy to spend time writing this blog. I hate it.

Where’s the middle path, huh? Busyis one of those selfish, I-want-all-or-nothing creatures. Busy must be male!

'That' spoilt kid

2011-11-27T20:21:00.001-08:00

I’d see that kid in therestaurant howling, rolling on the floor or putting all the sauces into the jugof water, and I’d think – Phew, what a spoilt kid that is! Can’t those parentsget him into shape? That is – until Saturday. Which was a ground-breaking (andhide underground), life-changing (and crumbling), face-reddening Saturday.

I faced my first tantrum from Niks.And all over a choco lollipop that his brother got which he wanted. And to my horror – all of a sudden, I had a 41/2 year old mass of pouring tears, sobs at a volume louder than the localloudspeaker’s, and a non-stop series of heart-wrenching “Mama, pleeeeease,pleeeeeease!” Aargh!

In the middle of a public space.These are the looks I got:

What a hard-hearted mom. Can’t she give the kid what he wants?
What a useless mom. Can’t she give him a slap?
Thank God that’s not my kid!
Should I call the child services? Is she kidnapping that kid?

A kind looking lady came up witha wrapped toffee as a peace offering to Niks. He howled louder, while I barkedat her to back off.

Finally, like a little cloud, heexhausted his water supplies. The tear ducts ran dry. Red-nosed, he ended hishunger strike, and vehement demands, and went back to eating what he had beengiven, and in a minute or 2, forgot all about it, and began to laughuproariously at some joke the other kids cracked!

Sigh! If only all hunger strikescould end so amicably!

Learning : Niks may or may not have learnt his lesson. But Ihave learnt mine. ‘That’ spoilt kid? People in glass houses should never throwstones. In fact, what are people with 4 ½ year old kids doing in the glasshouses in the first place?

the baby that killed me

2011-11-18T05:00:00.001-08:00

News articles so far I have seen about Aishwarya Rai:

- She dumped Vivek Oberoi and Salman Khan

- She said Yes to the Bacchan baccha on a flight(where she opted for veg meal with tea)

- She is pregnant

- No, she is not pregnant

- She can never get pregnant

- She is suing all newspapers that said she waspregnant

- She is pregnant

- She is wearing kolhapuri chappals

- She is wearing green on her baby shower

- She is having a baby on 11.11.11

- She is not having a baby on 11.11.11

- She is not too posh to push. Natural birthing itis.

- She is going into labour.

(SO AM I! I’m in pain. I’ve neverbeen happier to see someone go into labour – and I do hope she has a short onebecause I so want her to get off the news!)

News articles that have beenpushed to page 2 or 22 because of this:

- World on brink of war. No more oil reserves.Petrol dried up. Temperature’s rising. Another Tsunami expected. Incurablevirus spreading.

Somewhere, when I’m taking mylast dying gasp of breath, Hindi-movie style, the doc will tell me, “But whydidn’t you prepare yourself? Everyone else knows - About the tsunamis and warsand viruses that are now killing you!”

“Are you crazy?” I will reply. “Don’tyou ever read the news?”

My exciting toes

2011-10-23T06:46:00.001-07:00

I’ve got exciting toes. So do you. If you keep staring atthem, you’ll see great and wonderful things happening there. The middle toe isleaning towards the little one, but the big toe is acting pricey!

What yoink, you say. What next? Stare at my toes? I don’thave the time to do that – you, Jandy, have the time to stare at your toes andblog and stuff, but me ...

And yet, growing up gives us all this fascination with ourtoes. In a waiting room, we stare at them. While walking, we stare at them. Andin an escalator – whoa – we do a PhD in the toe-staring thing. Aha! Got it now,didja?

The toe-staring is a grown-up thing to avoid eye-contact. Atany cost!

It would be strange really, if while walking around myneighbourhood, I looked at everyone in the eye – I mean I know everyone – the grocer,the housekeeping staff, the security men, the neighbourhood layabouts, theneighbour’s aunt. But oh no, it’s so much more polite to just pretend thatthough we see each other 44 times a month, we don’t know each other. We don’treally want to wish each other here. Or start a conversation, phew! That wouldtake forever out of our busy schedules. So what do we do instead? We spend ourtime looking down at those mesmerizing toes of ours.

Last year, a young Swedish couple moved into our buildingcomplex. Cute young guy passed me one morning while I walked Marco, and sent mea cheerful : “G’morning!” I frowned at his effrontery, and stared at my toesand even more intensely - at Marco’s toes. The guy learnt quick. He grew up?The other morning, I passed him, and nodded, ‘Hello!’ He hurried on, refusingto wish me or even look at me. He was absolutely spell-bound by his hurriedlymoving toes.

And of course, we teach our kids this toe-staring evenbefore we teach them their geography.
At lunch with afriend, and her lil daughter... the nexttable sported 4 young lasses – with pierced noses and weird chains and plastic flowers in their hair. While we tried hard to look at them just from behind our menus(they were so funky!), lil Ro went right up and did a stare-a-thon at them for5 full minutes. The young ladies did NOT stare back, oh no. They stared insteadat their toes, while we tried to entice Ro back to our table to school herproperly.

When Neel was 3 years old, a nice blonde lady got him ontoher lap. Neel kept staring at her silver blonde hair, remembering what he was taught inschool, then finally pointed to her head, “Old”, he said, while I blushedbeetroot and – ya, right, - stared at my god-sent rescue team – my good oletoes!

Click

2011-10-14T22:10:00.000-07:00

Photography, when it first made an appearance, was rejectedas the Devil’s Work, because a photo clicked of you was supposed to steal yoursoul.

Times have changed, haven’t they? Photographs are clickedeverywhere – roadsides, beaches, workstations – even at ATMs and airports – andright here, while I sit and clack away – my webcam keeps clicking.
And anyway – who’s even got a soul left to steal still?

Makes me think about the way I’ve been posing for pix. Overthe years. I see black n whites carefully preserved in moth-eaten frames of meas a toddler, peering under the table at the wedding reception. Who cares aboutlooking at the camera, when the half-eaten cake underneath is way moreinviting!

Next, the convent school stage – neatly ironed girls inrows. ‘Knees together!’ All of usoutdoing each other in solemn frowns.

Teen pix swing the other way. Way Way – the other way. Wild clothes,wild parties, hairstyles that belong to the Ripley’s Believe it or Not – andenough embarrassments for the rest of my life.

Somewhere, along the line, I learn to smile for the camera.Demure or seemingly delighted – that there was going to be an image of mecaptured on some server somewhere in the world. The minute the ‘Look here’ was sounded, mylips would bare, teeth would stretch, head would tilt.

Click would go the camera, flash would go the flash. Andhere comes my pic. One eye shut. Click again. Head half cut off. Click oncemore please. Teeth look like jaguar’s. once more. Oops, cleavage showing. Re-click. Red eyes. Clickagain please.

No one’s got that one perfect pic of themselves. The truth:We all think we look much better than those photographs of ours do. I know I do. I mean, is one side of my nosereally fatter than the other? C’mon, click again. Please. Just once more!

Your turn to talk

2011-10-11T21:37:00.000-07:00

Ok – so here’s the truth. Most of it. I stopped bloggingbecause it seemed like a one-way mirror. Only a coupla comments - when Googlewould inform me there were over a 100 page views. Why does everyone just readbut NOT talk back to me, I’d think? In fact, I started blogging to actuallystart bitching – y’know – share impolite ideas about dysfunctional things.

In real life, here are my conversational peaks:

Ma (reading newspaper): Do youknow that not having breakfast causes duodenal ulcers?
Me: I’m not hungry so early inthe morning.
Ma: It says here that 56% ofpeople who do not eat breakfast live 3.2 years less than others.

Later, Me to Neel: Finish your food. You’ll get duodenalulcers.
Niks: I too want them. It’s not fair. Neel gets everything!

Still later (9 pm) – Me to S, who’s surfing channels: I haveto tell you something important.
S: No! How can they not be showing EPL?
Me: What’s wrong with you? I’m talking of somethingimportant.
S: What’s wrong with our cable operator? Let me call him.
Me: (At a volume rated 7.8 on the Richter scale)NO! Listento ME! I want to have a conversation.
S (startled): Oh! What about?
Me: er...
S: Well?
Me: Do you know that not eating on time gives you duodenalulcers?

And that’s why I blog. Hoping to have some more meaningfultopics covered out here. And hoping YOU WILL REPLY !

stuck

2011-10-11T08:43:00.000-07:00

Stuck in a traffic jam. And all of a sudden, the radio began to play Sting’s ‘Fields of Gold’. Heard it after a long time. And then I realised – you know what I haven’t done for a long time? Blogged... So here I am. Thanks to all of you who’ve been patiently logging in – and those who’ve been impatiently sending me rude reminders.

The traffic jam just after Hosmat hospital – nothing moving. I am stuck between a bus on my left, with a man who is chewing paan and spitting it out of his window and narrowly missing my left arm each time. And in front is a leery lout on a bike, who’s been staring at his rear-view mirror. To my right, however, is a bike, where there is ACTION happening...

The girl has been hanging on to the guy, talking into his ear. ‘And she then told him to go get a life and then he told her she had no business to talk of his life when her life... and then she told her to get out of his life... and she told him to stay away from her...’And suddenly, the guy takes off his helmet, turns around and says, ‘What?’

The girl gets off the bike, eyes blazing, and says, ‘You haven’t heard a word I’ve been saying? You never ever listen to me. It’s off! I’m going.’

And then, to the tune of Sting crooning, the blinking lights turn green, and the traffic begins to move. Rotten timing. The paan-chewer, the rear-view-mirror leerer and me – we’ll never know how the Action ended.

Sigh!

it WAS me

2011-05-21T03:56:00.000-07:00

I’m working on something. It’s working too. A bit.

See – I used to take everything personally. Like the planet was whirring out of orbit just to make it a lil tough for me to – say – balance that coffee on my knee. So if it spilt, it was – hey, Gravity Sucks! Y’know?

And say, if you dropped the coffee, I’d say – Hey, you dropped the coffee, haha. But if I dropped the coffee, I’d say – Ugh, the coffee fell. Like the coffee cup grew hands and pitched itself over the saucer – just to make my day a little lousier.

So now, I’m changing the way I see life. Like that signal has not turned red JUST when I reached it because it knew deep down inside its metal heart that I was driving up. Nope. It’s not Fate either. Nor the planets or stars. None of the usual suspects, oh no. It was because I planned it down to the last micro-minute. And I am naturally late. And this perfectly normal signal (with its evil metal heart) is not to blame. Though it has a red eye that’s taking longer than usual to turn green. Grrr.

Working on it, working on it. So, the next time something goes wrong. Say some idiot phones at midnight on a wrong number, I’m going to say – hey, not your fault you dialed wrong, you perfectly normal intellectually-challenged soul with a finger too fat to hit the right keys. It’s because it’s my fault. I bought the wrong phone. I got the wrong number. I have wrongly kept my phone under my pillow at night. I am wrongly sleeping at midnight when I should be awake waiting for wrong calls. Yup, my fault.

As I said, working on it…. Working on it.

The Lizard of Oz

2011-05-08T07:47:00.000-07:00

We had the kind of dream holiday in Australia, where we wanted to throw out the clocks. But Time, with its usual arrogance, kept ticking away. And in the last few days, we had to pack our bags.

How do you pack a memory? Should I take a handful of sand from the quaint Hillary’s Quay? Or a handful of kangaroo feed from the Wildlife pack, where we walked with the roos? Or something unbelievably cute like Dinosaur cookie cutters from one of those grand malls?

Should I pack a lil bit of Mary Anne’s delicious cooking? Or a bubble from the boys’ much loved bubble bath? Or a bunch of grapes that Greg’s growing wild in his backyard? Or a lopsided non-round non-foot Aussie football?

We got bags full of stuff of course, a lil something for everyone, and hordes of pix lovingly put together by Greg.

And then Mary Anne got me the lizard.

He’s silver and shiny, and covered with rhine stones, and he has all-knowing glassy eyes. I fell in love with the lizard. And planted a kiss on his cold sparkling head. Maybe, like a frog, he would turn into a prince?

But something even more magical happened. He turned into nothing. But he turned me into something different. I became more relaxed, a little wiser (or a little more silly), more grateful for just wide blue skies and purple grapes and hugs.

He made me realize that it’s not the things I saw that made me happy, but the people. And I can’t pack them back in my bags of course.

But if you’re really nice to me and leave me some nice comments out here, I’ll lend you my Lizard. And let him work his magic on you too.

Packin my bags

2011-04-15T05:03:00.000-07:00

So, I’ve been shouting from the rooftops (that’s probably why the pigeons have stayed away) that we’re off to the Land Down Under. Tonight. Really. Yippee. Yay. But …

Packing is a fine art (which I don’t possess). A sign of an organized mind (which I don’t possess). For a trip of 17 days, I’ve thought about packing for a month earlier. I’ve put in clothes, and pulled out the clothes I put in, then had a panic attack about the weather there, and bought new clothes for the kids, then had a panic attack about my own wardrobe and pulled out everything I packed once more.

It’s the Easter week, says Ma, so put in good formals for church. Good formals go in.

You going to Australia, says my neighbour. Everyone wears shorts there. Good formals come out.

Gonna be chill nights, says my Bhabhi. Woollens go in….

But hot sunny days. Woollens come out and Tees go in.

No meat products allowed in through Customs. Out come the prawn pickles. They have oiled up my gifts. Rush out and buy new gifts. Suitcase smells like a haus-frau’s kitchen.

Swimwear, plus rainwear. Shoes or sandals? Or keds? The kids meds take up half a suitcase. Then one of them goes and gets loosies 4 days before we leave, (totally uncaring child), so I have to yank out everything and pull the med case out again.

Packed their toothpastes too yesterday, so let them go 2 days with gooey teeth. And where, asks Ma, are her specs? Ooops, right at the bottom of the case, wedged in to the lingerie.

So, now we’ve got empty suitcases, and a pile of stuff to be packed piled up in the middle of the TV room floor. The dog is running around with the prawn-smelling lingerie. With exactly 2 hours to leave.

Wottodo? Wottodo? Wottodo? Got it! Ignore it all, open my laptop and start on this blog.

Will (not) Power

2011-03-31T03:29:00.000-07:00

Read that some people have addictive personalities – it’s not their fault that they can’t resist booze or nail-biting or shop-lifting or whatever – you can’t blame them. You gotta blame their parents – for birthing them with addictive genes.

I do not smoke or drop names or shop-lift. Which proves that I can really resist any addiction that pops its ugly nose into my life. To test this theory of my iron will power, I decided to put to the test the one thing I adore – chocolates.

Monday: No chocolate all day. Late night, woken up by a kid (mine) who fell off the bed. Went down to drink water – and saw the chocolate slab I had NOT eaten all day. Also saw the time. 1 a.m. It is not today. I have survived today without chocolate. Sat and ate it.

Tuesday: Met a friend for coffee. She wanted to eat a chocolate truffle pastry, but said it’s too fattening so please would I share it? I agreed to help her out. (Also remembered I had eaten a chocolate slab at 1 this morning.)

Wednesday: Had mid-week blues. Internet was down. Took out the store of emergency choc hidden. Ate half of it. Mid-week blues qualify as emergency.

Thursday: Did not eat any chocolate. Drank 3 mugs of hot chocolate. DRANK, did not EAT.

Friday: Thank God it’s Friday. Almost the end of my non-choc week. Gotta celebrate. Ate half a Lindt bar. The other half looks lonely.

Saturday: Been a pretty healthy week, innit? Ate some squares of dark chocolate. Very good for the heart. Very healthy. Ate all the squares finally.

Sunday: Went for a long walk with S. Burnt thousands of calories. Felt faint and weak and thin. Ended up at Corner House and ate a Death by Chocolate. Aptly named. But only to avoid feeling faint and weak and thin.

Learning: I have had one week of resisting chocolate. I cannot. I have an addictive personality. It is not my fault. I blame my parents.

M.A. Tech

2011-03-17T05:12:00.000-07:00

If you think I’m tech-challenged, blame it on my maternal genes. My Ma and Technology are definitely not twins separated at birth.

She talks back to the Voice Recordings from the bank. I overheard her telling the phone voice the other day, “I already pressed ‘2’ – I pressed it 4 times already.”

She once called me in office in the middle of an important meeting to ask me, “The second orange light on the washing machine is now beeping. What should I do?”

She is almost single-handedly responsible for keeping the Indian Postal Service alive – pain-stakingly buying cards and writing long-hand letters and buying stamps etc… and takes it a personal insult if someone sends her an e-card in reply. I’ve offered to write her emails, if she dictates them. Ever-willing to give it a try, she starts her emails with ‘I hope this reaches you on time, and finds you in the best of health.’ (Ma, I object, this will reach instantly, and he was in the best of health when he sent you an email 5 minutes ago, to which you are replying. His health couldn’t have deteriorated rapidly in the last 5 minutes.)

She whacks her DVD player when a DVD gets stuck while playing, and IT STARTS AGAIN.

On second thoughts, she doesn’t really need technology, see. She has an in-built memory chip which remembers the birthdays of all her cousins, nieces and nephews, down to the time they were born (making it impossible for anyone to fake their age). She gets the stains off the kid’s clothes when the washing machine has thrown up its hands in surrender. She bakes better cakes than any auto-timer microwave magic could dream of. And she’s got some patented copyright to make her grandkids feel that they’re the smartest guys around. Now, that’s something that technology hasn’t invented yet.

Ma 1, Tech 0.

Designer genes

2011-02-26T06:40:00.000-08:00

Don’t you wish you were born now? Of course, the advantage is that you’d have young pink baby skin, but there’s more to this. You could choose your genes. No kidding. At least, your parents could. The news is going gaga about people who pick out cancer-free babies and boy babies and babies with blue eyes.

If I was born now, I am writing it down in my will (or blog at least) that I demand these genes:

- I want red hair. And I don’t care if Loreal makes it in a bottle. I want it to grow out of my scalp. Because research proves that red haired women make the most money.

- I want to be born with an hourglass figure. At least, I don’t want to be born that way, cos I’d make for a funny looking baby, but to eventually grow up that way. So that no matter how much I eat, or how many babies I produce, my waist snaps back automatically to the circumference of an orange.

- I want to be a child genius, so that I don’t have to waste those years studying, and can immediately play the cello in the London Philharmonic, or become the CEO of IBM, or something that’s equally cool.

- I want them to control my genes so I never have the flu, or dust allergies – and have bones that will never break, and teeth that will never get cavities.

This is getting kinda boring. Designer genes will mean I’d never have an off day from school for being sick, and get pampered by ma’s soup and cheese at home. It means I’ll never have to make the embarrassing mistakes I always do, overeat, grow old with the someone I love, forget my TPin all the time, boil with road rage, bring my kids up the wrong wrong way, or crib about everything that’s going wrong – on this blog.

I think I’ll stick with the genes I have. I’ve suddenly realized they’re designed just fine – not to give me the perfect life, but to have the most fun, while living it.

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

2011-01-30T20:57:00.000-08:00

‘They’ say we spend a third of our lives asleep. Which third? I’ve taken enormous pains here to clock the life cycle of human sleep.

Babies: At this stage, they stay awake the whole night, and fall blissfully asleep at 6 in the morning. Any attempts to wake them will be at your own peril, as new moms discover soon.
Kids: Kids never want to sleep. They treat your entreaty to sleep with major suspicion.
Me: Niks, time to sleep.
Niks: I doesn’t want to. Please I will be a good boy. Please I want to play. Please I doesn’t want to sleep.

Teens: Study/ play computer games/ chat mindlessly online or on phone through half the night, then sleep till afternoon, and demand breakfast at dinner time.

Adults: (I am presupposing here that you consider me one). Adults are all sleep-deprived. New parents walk around like robots, pouring coffee at regular intervals into their mouth, and walking into walls. When their children grow into teens, adults will stay awake all night waiting to hear their kid’s bike engine throb into the driveway after a late night party, after which they will scramble hurriedly into bed, and stay awake wondering whether the kid’s come in alone or not.

This is pure honesty, is my sleep pattern:

11 p.m. Finally Niks crashes out, and I put my weary head onto the pillow.
11.05 p.m. Remember that I left the food out and it will be cockroach-fest, so run downstairs to put it into the fridge.
11.20. Head hits pillow when Marco begins to bark his head off at phantom imaginary cat.
11. 35. Pillow over head, close eyes. Someone begins to sing. Oh, only the TV. Someone has left it on. Walk down to switch it off. It is not my TV. It is the house opposite. Also note strange things happening through the curtains of their window. Takes up 5 minutes more of amused watching. More entertaining than the TV.
11.55. Yippeee! Made it to sleep before midnight.
Midnight: Cell phone shrills. Someone wishes Anjal a Happy Birthday. Assure them I am not Anjal, and it is not my Birthday, and tell them to sue Facebook.
1 a.m. Have spent last 20 minutes staring at Niks asleep and wondering how, at age 3, he can snore so loudly. It is inherited for sure.
1.45 a.m. Finally. Good Night.
2 a.m. Alarm begins to screech. S has a football match to watch in the middle of the night.
Give up and spend till 5 am. Reading in the lamplight.

At 5 am, fall asleep. Do you see what’s happening here? The sleep cycle is a CYCLE indeed. I have regressed, in adulthood to baby sleep patterns.

Present Tense!

2011-01-11T05:21:00.000-08:00

So I had to buy a present for a 10-year old boy. Now, I don’t have a 10-year-old boy, and I was never a 10-year-old boy myself, so you can imagine how clueless I felt. And how stressed out. I mean, what does a 10-year-old boy even like?
This is what I ended up buying the boy.

I picked up a Hardy Boys book, then at home, realized that was probably the Dark Ages to him. So, the next morning, I got a top (also Dark Ages) – now it’s called a Bay Blade. Then I thought that looked too small as a gift. So, I bought him a toy rifle. Promoting violence! Oh no! In desperation, on the way to the party, I bought him a TShirt, which later looked too small and a glow in the dark bedsheet, which may or may not glow in the dark later that night. So, bearing 5 wrapped gifts, I drove my kids to the party- and finally slipped the Mother a larger-than-she deserved currency note, telling her to please buy her 10-year-old boy something he liked. She gave me a look that said, ‘You couldn’t even take a minute to buy it yourself?’

It’s a genetic flaw. I cannot buy a present right.

I once gave an old cheerful aunt who is full of the love of life – a pair of Nike sports shoes – to meet her and find out she’s bedridden with arthritis. I gave someone a house-warming gift of wine glasses to be told they are rabid tea-totallers, who frown seriously on alcoholic people.

I wish I could be like S, who gives everyone books. He doesn’t seem to care too much whether they read the book, or they’ve already read it, or they never will. He just enjoys spending hours in a book store, and buying a book he likes himself.
Perhaps, I should have bought the 10-year-old boy something I liked? Like a pair of pearl earrings?

The god of small people

2010-12-13T21:48:00.000-08:00

Niks has been falling sick. Again. And again. We’ve tried a variety of doctors and medicines and even antibiotics through a needle in his little hand. The Manipal hospital Emergency nurses say he is the bravest kid they’ve ever seen, with the scaredy-pooest mom. I stand outside while they poke at him inside.

When all earthly supports fail, we remember those guys upstairs.

And religions blend into one, with all the gods in their heavens being called down in a stampede. It doesn’t matter whether the god wears white robes or saffron, as long as He does the job.

So my neighbor, Nik’s adopted mommy, a Hindu Nair, promises the Infant Jesus church a solid bribe. And my Ma, a die-hard Roman Catholic resorts to tying a black thread ‘to ward off the evil eye’ on Nik’s skinny lil hand. And my cook does a hocus pocus with some seeds and oil around his nose. Something works. And Niks gets well.

I sit back and wonder. At what this relationship is with our Gods. They are smart beings for sure. Probably when Their coffers run a lil empty, and They need to finance a celestial tour across the skies, They look down, chewing Their divine lip.

And then They send Niks a tedious little viral infection, and soon enough – the prayers – and the funds will start pouring in.

In a perfect world

2010-10-04T21:11:00.000-07:00

In a perfect world, the day I did the washing, hung all the clothes out in the sun till they were nice and dry and crisp – it would NOT RAIN! Especially, when I was out of home in my new suede shoes! Walking! Without an umbrella! With a cold already!

In a perfect world, the door jamb would hold a door open, not spinelessly fold up and let the door slam on someone’s fingers.

In a perfect world, the coffee would NOT run out just when I had a humpback whale of a headache.

In a perfect world, I would not be an hour late for a one hour meeting.

In a perfect world, I would have a longer nose. And thick lustrous hair falling down my back. (Well, it still falls down my back, but I would rather it was still connected to my scalp while it fell down my back, I meant).

In a perfect world, Niks would not collect germs and school complaints by the dozens and bring them home.

Learning : It’s cloudy outside, and I’ve just put my clothes to dry up, and I’ve got a nice big cuppa chai (so what if there’s no coffee?) and the house is filled with the noise of the kids playing Dinosaur with eachother and swinging from the curtains, and the golden brown dog is curled up in a slice of sunshine, and my hubby’s laughing out loud at something on the TV, and my Ma is doing the crossword, and Niks comes and sits on my lap right now , and wipes his nose on my TShirt, while trying to give me a big hug.
It IS a Perfect World!

My little black dress words

2010-08-23T06:25:00.000-07:00

Every woman who ever reached anywhere to be interviewed in any article seems to have a little black dress which she says is the ONE element of her wardrobe she cannot do without. (Well, I have done without one for ages,) and anyways, it only really looked good on Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffanys and on no one who has fat knees.

But I do have that one all-purpose swiss-penknife little black dress WORD – or series of words. They fit in anywhere – consider:

LBD words # 1 : Next time, for sure.

Annoying clingy person: You said you’d call. You didn’t call. You were in the house next to mine, and you DIDN’t CALL!
Me : Oh ah ya. I didn’t call? Next time, for sure!

Ma : You forgot to post my letter again?
Me: Next time for sure.
Next time, Ma :You posted my letter?
Me: Next time, for SURE.

LBD # 2 : hehe

Really bad joke-telling person: So did you get it?
Me :(didn’t get it) : hehe.
Me : (got it but didn’t think it was funny) : hehe

Ira : You didn’t apply for your passport reissue yet?
Me : hehe.
Ira : hehe yes or hehe no?
(the problem with little black dress words is friends soon catch on!)

LBD # 3 : The kids did it!

Posh guest arriving at home: Ah, well, your house looks so – er – homely.
Me : It’s a mess, right? The kids did it!

S (from upstairs): What’s that noise down there?
Me : (dropped hot pan of milk) : Milk fell. Kids did it.
S : The kids are up here with me!

And sometimes, if the situation is really bad, I can use all 3 emergency LBD words at once… like…

Someone I don’t recognize : Hiiii Jane, you look just the same.
Me : hehe.
The someone : I still remember that portrait you said you’d paint of me.
Me : Next time, for sure.
The someone, suspiciously : You don’t know who I am, do you?
Me : hehe.
Someone : Don’t tell me you’ve lost your memory?
Me : The kids did it.

From: Jane. To: Rain

2010-08-06T08:41:00.000-07:00

Oh great Indian monsoon, please show your face.
So far, you’ve been an utter disgrace!
No storms, no sploshes, no plops.
No miserly two-bit drops.

But wait - hey!
When I said Rain Rain Go away,
I really meant to say, Please stay.
Don’t be a spoil sport, come out and play.

Please wash my terrace, flood the streets.
You have permission to drench my sun-dried bed sheets.
Just Rain.
Don’t be a pain.
I want no excuses, no buts.
And I really want no more power-cuts.
The price of tomatoes has gone through the sky.
Because every farm is dry.
The big ole trees are dying of thirst.
But those pregnant clouds just refuse to burst.

Made my point. Please Mister Rain?
Save our grain. Please, pretty please, just come out again.

Comment : 1

Dear Jane. This is Mister Rain.
I know the reason you want me to shoot,
Is not for the earth or the crops or the roots.
I’m a wise old fella.
It’s cos you’ve just bought a new fancy umbrella.

i failed the passport test

2010-07-27T22:15:00.000-07:00

The newspapers blazed with ads of all the minister’s smiling mugs, proclaiming Bangalore to be the new icon for passport purposes – all computerized – smooth process – no waiting - passports in 3 days – child-friendly -no hassle to citizens. I beamed more than the ministers. Time to get the kids their passports and renew my own and my mom’s. With NO hassle.

Now, reading between the lines, this is what it really means:

1) New scheme : You are our latest guinea pig! The post office staff supposed to helpfully supply these services looked blank, said they didn’t know what I was talking about and made me buy stamps for standing in the queue.
2) 3 days : It takes over 3 weeks to get an appointment to even apply for a passport under this scheme online – and wade through crashing systems. If you are one of the poor paupers who needs to go stand in the queue, please go the previous night, with idlis wrapped in newspaper, for the passport office to open the next morning.
3) No waiting : We waited for 4 hours, along with others who had brought tons of tiffin and tons of relatives.. Finally had to whine my way in, saying I have 2 sick kids, 1 handicapped mother (she walks with a stick – ha!) and got a chance – after the guy took pity on S, who looked like a normal person stuck in this circus.
4) Child-friendly : Niks,(who unlike the other toddlers who sat and sucked their mom’s sari pallus for 4 hours straight) ran away and got lost when his turn came, then fell onto the camera, and got the fingerprinting stamp ink on to everything else in sight, and insisted on giving the data entry operator a star on her official document. Neel sat and complained to an elderly lady on the other side, about the weight on his 6-year-old shoulders of monthly tests at school.
5) Smooth process : We needed to go through 4 separate levels, some desks manned by grim TCS hires, and some manned by boiled potatoes.
6) No hassle to the citizens : Hahaha – excuse me, while I choke over the coffee that I had to fight off 15 people in the queue in the ‘smooth process’ for!

Did I mention they also fingerprint you and take your photograph on the spot? So, I had done my hair, and put on an apricot shade of lipstick. 4 hours later, when the pic was finally clicked, I ended up looking like Ozzie the Orangutan on a bad hair day.

Need a mid-week weekend

2010-07-18T22:01:00.000-07:00

Chix and I just exchanged hellos, how are yous this Monday morning, and realized we’re both exhausted and need a holiday. Because we’re recovering from two holidays in a row, and you know how stressful that is!

The weekend’s more packed, than the 6.02 Churchgate local is. There’s everything you couldn’t do on the weekday to do, like:

Bills to pay and queues to stand in, and bills to search for in safe places, and to find to see that they’re overdue, and therefore different queues to stand in – to be told you’re too late and it’s the weekend, so come back later, since the office is now closed.

Shopping rears its head, since the cupboard is bare. There are exactly two and a quarter geriatric drumsticks that have fossilized, that support the innards of the fridge, so the weekend is the time to stock up. S, with his caveman instincts, likes to hunt and forage, and pick up another five kilos of something that no one will ever eat, except the ants, some day. While the drumsticks live on.

There are errands to run, school things to be picked up (where does one buy bangles of different colours for a BOY’s school project, and WHY does a boy need them?), and socks that display magical holes just a day before school opens and pressure cooker gaskets that suddenly blow and people who fall sick and need visiting, and long-lost family members who appear and need to be visiting…. And the list goes on and on…

There are books to be exchanged in the library, and therefore, the night before spent in speed-reading the book to return it. There are appointments with dentists and saloons and vets, and washing machines that lie down and play dead, and parts for extinct electrical gadgets to be sourced, and – phew!

And do NOT FORGET TO HAVE FUN! Weekends are to have fun, so you must have fun, even if it kills you. So, squeeze in a pub in between standing in a BSNL queue, and repairing a shoe. Or take the kids on a play date with other parents who look as hollow-eyed as you do.

And finally, it’s Monday morning. Time for the blues. Time for a break!

Learning : Don’t you think the week should start with a weekend?

back to the front burner

2010-07-15T21:51:00.000-07:00

To all those who kept asking me to re-blog (like that’s a word!) – this one’s for you. A pile of excuses. It’s nice, by the way, to be told someone’s waiting to hear my thoughts. And my cribs:

1) The World Cup : We all know by now, that every guy will watch anything with balls (didn’t come out quite the way I meant it). And since I have 3 guys at home, there wasn’t time for anything but football, at those insomniac hours. Though I must admit, that I’d get my huge mug of hot chocolate, get the place all readied up to watch the midnight match, and then at the first kick, fall asleep.

2) Nik’s started school : For these last 6 weeks, Niks has started going to Monstessori on a staggered (timings for the kids) and staggering (time for me) schedule. It was drop and pick-up, and now he’s finally going in the big yellow school bus, I miss taking him. He came home yesterday with some big girl’s shoes on. (Only wonder what she wore?) So, now I’ve got myself a little breathing space in the mornings, with Niks at school. Of course, his teachers look like drained out laundry after spending 3 hours in his company. Serves them right. Couldn’t they have opted for an easier profession – like neuro-surgery?

3) Last excuse in my book – is just that. A book that I’m writing/ trying to write. It’s not going forward. Quite the opposite, actually. Every chapter I manage to write, I delete two of the previous ones. Which leaves me with a backward progressing novel. It’s tough to write a book – demoralizing and no feedback (unlike your happy comments on the blog) – so I’m writing it mostly in the dark (literally,given Bangalore’s power situation).

But there it is! You can always depend on me for many excuses. I’m really good at that.
But thanks anyway, for missing me.

germ warfare

2010-05-27T07:04:00.000-07:00

I am sick.
Day 10 now. Coughing like an old car, and head thumping like a new drumset.
And I didn’t do NOTHING to get sick, honest !
What’s happened to my immunity?

Down Memory Lane :
Memory 1 : I lived in a place where they bred cows for the milk next door. I used to spend my time hanging over the cow shed wall – making friends with all the buffalo calves – they are downright cute! All that cowdung and smell ! And I’d be in the middle of all of it, cuddling them up. Come right home, feeling hungry and make up a sandwich WITHOUT washing my hands.
Healthy as a horse ! (Excuse the mixing of metaphors and animals).

Memory 2 :
Playing all day – dashing around in the mud – hot sunny day – buying 2 rupee iced water in hideous colours of parrot green and orange from the roadside (though it was rumoured they made it from the gutter water).
Gastro-enteritis? Not a whisper !

Memory 3 :
Icy-cold Jamshedpur winter. Freeeeeeezing, and on top of it, it was raining. Saw from my verandah, some lil puppies getting drenched and howling on the road. Went running down (umbrella? Nah!) – and carried them all to push them under a culvert –, and wiping the rain streaming down my face -off at the same time.
Unhygienic? Fleas? Rabies? How do you spell all that?

Not fair. Fast forward a coupla decades – and here I am – being good. Using umbrellas in the rain, and hand SANITIZER – and half the preventive pharmacy – and guess what?

Caught some big bad bugs.
My kids cuddling up to me, kissing me all over my germ-infected nose - and still healthy as - horses!

Learning : Guess those guardian angels that they say kids have? That’s really true.

Early bookings

2010-05-11T06:05:00.000-07:00

Every alternate Sunday morning, like a good convent-educated girl, I make my way to worship. In the crowded, dusty environs of Eloor library. Which holds, in the most no-nonsense style, the best books to be had in the city. There, I spend a good part of the morning hours browsing, reading, searching, giggling at a funny line, raising my eyebrows at the audacity of someone who can’t write at all, tip-toeing to the top shelf to get a look at the books hidden up there, sneezing at the cobwebs.
All, in all, it’s a fabulous wouldn’t-give-it-up-for-the-world morning. I come away feeling refreshed (though a lot grimier).

Once in a while, S and I take the boys, in an attempt to introduce them early to this wonderful world of make-believe that makes the world of non-make-believe a lot more livable. Each time, we do this, we promise never to repeat it again.

S goes down one aisle to his section of books heavy enough to start weight-lifting with, with pages full of words no one but the author (and apparently S) had heard of. He then turns to his other interest – absolute mind-smashing Wild West comic books. Similarly, I window-shop through all the erudite master-pieces, cluck at the wisdom and the beauty of those Pulitzer prize winners, and then settle for some nail-biting thriller I can read before falling asleep.

Neel reads (has just learn to read) in loud stage whispers : “P-A-N-T-H-E-R TALES.”
Nik : Whasthat mean, Neel?
Neel (who admits to not knowing nothing) : It’s about why you can’t wear pants if you have tail.s
A couple of giggles around the library. A loud sssssssssshhhhhhhh.

Chastised, Neel goes on to read another book, loudly and all wrong.
Niks soon bored, goes to his favourite task here. He rearranges all the reading stools. He stocks them up on each other, then tries to climb up the whole unholy pile, and before he crashes to the floor, someone kind thankfully catches him. Then he starts all over again.

S often thinks of charging Nik’s audience for the entertainment he never fails to provide.

Neel, meanwhile, has moved to another section of the library, it seems from his loud rendering of “L-A-D-Y C-H-A-TTTTTT-something – L-O-V-E-R”.

Sorely tempted to disown both, and leave them behind in the library, S and I, nevertheless, act the part of responsible parents, and quickly hustle them away. We pay for our books, and rush out red-faced, promising yet again, never to bring them here again.

We are half-way home when we find that Niks has become the world’s littlest shop-lifter, and certainly the first in our family. He clutches on, innocently, to the Little book of Classic Quotes.

With a sigh, we turn back.

Jane Funda’s workout

2010-05-04T05:48:00.000-07:00

To those of you who ask me how I stay slim in spite of 2 kids, I say I stay slim BECAUSE of 2 kids. But here's my secret - the daily exercise regimen - never miss a day.

Yoga : Start the day by lying on a mat staring at the ceiling.
Breathe in, saying “Oooooooooooom”
Breathe out, saying “WHO threw ketchup at the ceiling?!!!”

Aerobics : (good for the heart)
It’s gonna rain. Run up the stairs, to pull in all the clothes drying out. Kids run after me to help. Niks throws a clean bed sheet over the terrace wall. It falls to the ground 3 storeys below.
Run 6 flights of stairs down to get the bed sheet, run up 6 flights of stairs back to the terrace. Find that Niks has thrown all the clothes clips over the wall. Run down…. (to be repeated at least thrice).
Scream and rant and rave at Niks (bad for the heart).

Rest : (Finally slump down on pillow for well-deserved rest).
Jump up, with pillow jumping with me. Why? Someone has stuck chewing gum on the pillow. Spend 1 hour vigorously washing hair, and finally have to cut off some strands.

Dance :
So angry now, that should catch and whack the butt of some offending kid. Easier said than done!
Lunge to the left. Bend to the right. Jump over the chair. Dive under the bed. A 1- and a 2- and a- 3- Stretch to the top of the cabinet – a-4- and a- 5- (count till 30 and if haven’t caught the kid till then, let him go!)

Meditate :
Close eyes, sit in a dark room and listen to the sound of …
“Mama, potty!”
“Mama, Marcopolo is chewing up my underwear.”
“Mama, how do I get a crayon out of my nose?”

Learning : Dash around doing three things at once, maybe 40 times a day, and I guarantee you – even after eating comfort-food of a double bar of rich chocolate a day – you will – on this exercise plan– lose 5 pounds a month (and a lot more hair).

TV is full of vitamins

2010-04-27T04:53:00.000-07:00

Dinner announcement in my house is met with :
Neel : What’s for dinner?
Me : Well, there is….
Neel : Why ?
Nik : I doesn’t like it.

I am quite aware that I need to start dinner etiquette early in life, and am very impressed by pictures of kids sitting at table, elbows off the table, with greens on their plate. Greens !

The problems with this picture :
1) Anything green is pulled out of the mouth along with more green slime from the inner depths of the mouth cavity, and flung at the other kid’s plate.
2) Elbows are never off the table. In fact, sometimes the whole shoulder too, and a chin, and a knee follow.
3) The table itself is a miracle. I started out with all kids strapped in high chairs, at the table. As soon as they could crawl, they crawled out of the strapped high chair, displaying dexterity that Houdini would give his left elbow for.

So dinner now consists of me chasing Niks around the house, under the sofa, with a piece of roti in my hand, threatening him with fire and brimstone forever and ever. While Neel sits with his plate in front of him and whines : Why can’t I run around and eat too?

If all else fails, I turn to my always-present, always-helpful baby-sitter.
TV.
So while Ben 10’s many-legged alien spouts green goo at some unfortunate, the little eyes watching open wide, and the little mouth opens wider, and in goes the piece of roti.

Doctors who say never feed your kids in front of TV, never said this in front of their wives.
Cos wives/ mothers all know TV is terrific for our kids. It is the source of Tom and Jerry, Vitamins and Minerals. Dora, the Explorer = a slice of carrot, Spiderman = a spoon of sprouts.

WoMandatory

2010-04-12T07:29:00.000-07:00

This is in heated defence of what S calls the advantage of being a male – “you don’t have to carry a bag of useful things around.”

Dip-bag research held immediately.
Results :

- 93% of women friends carry a Biiig bag to put all the things that might be needed. Like a hockey stick – hey, you never know when you’d need that. My Ma has never thrown out anything since 1960 because she’s convinced we will all need that some day.
- 10% of women carry photographs of old boyfriends UNDER the picture of their husband.
- 30% of women carry a pair of running shoes, since they wear thigh-twistingly high heels to look taller than their Boss
- 82 % of women carry tissues, in case they go for a movie, and in case the movie is sad, and in case they cry, and in case they have no man’s shirt nearby to wipe their noses on.
- 3 % of women carry money for impulse shopping. The other 97% do NO impulse shopping (that they can’t buy on their card). 96% of these carry their ‘joint account’ card. Ahem!
- 57% of women carry chocolates/ candies/ gum/ roasted pork chops with burnt sauce – in their bags in case hunger pangs hit.
- 35% percent carry safety pins to “accidentally” jab viciously into that man in the bus who “accidentally” falls on them. The others carry more dangerous weapons.
- Many percent carry lipsticks, perfumes, sunscreen, mascara – and a spare toothbrush.
- 45% of women carry age-proof that proves they are 15 years younger than they actually are.
- Zero percent of women carry anything “useful” if it doesn’t look expensive or make them look expensive.

Dip-stick research carried out on men friends as to what they’d carry if they had to carry a big bag – turned out responses like “But Why?” or "Why Me?" , and were invalidated.

Note : Nowadays, women in fashion magazines are not seen with a big bag, but something called a ‘clutch’ – which is the size of a post card, and as slim. These are not ‘real women’ but cut-outs of paper, that weigh as much, and are born without things such as brains and ‘hunger pangs’ – both needed to adequately fill that big bag.

An Easter Story

2010-04-04T04:55:00.000-07:00

No hot cross buns? NO HOT CROSS BUNS ?
I stomped and the waiter at Daily Bread squirmed.
Today is Good Friday. Once a year, on one day, there are hot cross buns. And you say there are NO HOT CROSS BUNS ? I mean I wait 364 days a year for a day on which I’m fasting to eat these buns !
The waiter promised me he would get them, go to his HQ, go to the bakery, short of making his grand-mom bake them, he promised me everything. At 6 that evening, they would be ready.

At 6.05, I was at Daily Bread, with my 2 lil boys in tow.
No hot cross buns? AGAIN ? YOU PROMISED ME !!!
My voice rising like the tide, I unleashed a whole speech on my Easter season being ruined, and my little boys dying of disappointment (though they did a dismal job of being dead, since they were chasing each other around the trays of cakes, oblivious to their supposed disappointment.)

Suddenly, the waiter was called to another table, and came back with a huge box. It had 4 hot cross buns in it.
I thought you said there were none left? I hollered.
The waiter gestured at the table in the corner where a lady sat sipping coffee with her 11-year-old son. They ordered it, said the waiter, but they’re giving theirs to you. For your boys.

If Easter is about hope, and kindness and empathy, I think that lady gave her son a much stronger Easter lesson than I gave my boys that day.

I wanna sue somebody

2010-03-28T07:10:00.000-07:00

We’ve all read of this woman who dropped hot coffee that SHE ordered and SHE was carrying, on HERSELF – and sued the café for it being too hot ! And WON a million dollars!
That’s America !
I am making a list of who to sue, cos I could sure use a million dollars.

When Neel was 4, he fell in a Mickey Mouse birthday party, and fractured his arm.
Ban parties ! Sue Walt Disney ? Sue the floor for being too hard?
When Neel was 5, the wind blew the door shut and his finger got cut off.
Sue the South West Monsoon? Ban all doors ?

Not working the way I wanted it to. Can’t see those million dollars anywhere near.

I busted my lip. Tried to make up an exciting story for it, but the truth is I slipped on a toy car at home. (my house looks like a Bangalore traffic jam with toy cars strewn in every corner).
Sue the Hot Wheels car makers for making cars with 4 wheels?

The house is child-safe. All plug points are covered in cello tape. The stairs have a latched gate (That even the dog has learnt to open). Knives, scissors and sharp stuff is shut away.
Niks threw a spoon at Neel and hit him on the head. Neel whacked Niks with a broom and nearly dislocated his neck.
Ban brooms? Sue the makers of spoons and plates?
Niks tumbled over his own shoes and fell on his nose.
SUE THE WORLD for its unfair law of gravity !!!

Learning : Nah ! I think there’s nothing wrong with the way the world and its manufacturers of stuff work. It’s our kids. Let’s face it.
Even better, let’s sue them ! That’s my only million dollar idea so far. Sue them for being so totally accident-prone and kid-like, and hope that they will become billionaire rock stars real fast, and therefore be able to shell out a million dollar lawsuit to their poor ole mom n dad.

The doctor's waiting room

2010-03-24T07:58:00.000-07:00

Doctor looking out at the room through his one-way glass, wonders when this evening’s crowd of patients will ever end. Also wonders if he can finally ask his receptionist out to a drink after work.

Receptionist looking at the coiffeured woman in her mid-40s, immaculately dressed, each hair in place. Wonders if this is the person the doctor talks of cheating his wife with.

The woman in her mid-40s looks quietly over her fashion magazine at the young man sitting near her in his 20s, in his tight-fitting jeans, chewing gum, and wonders what it will be like to have a fling with a guy like that, all muscles and no brains, no strings attached.

The young guy chews his gum and openly stares at the teenage girl right across from him, and thinks up a dozen situations of them together. He keeps staring at her, willing her to look at him.

The teenage girl feels openly resentful of that gum-chewing idiot salivating all over his shirt, and staring at her. She needs someone with class, like that grey-haired man in the corner chair, who looks like he owns a corner office too, and would know how to dress a young lady in diamonds.

The grey-haired man waits for his turn to go in to meet the doctor, who he has been seeing for months now, with no other reason except that he has a huge crush on him, and today, he finally plans to confess his love for the doc.

chocolate ke peeche kya hai ?

2010-03-13T04:01:00.000-08:00

I saw this article in the paper where they have made fuel to run a car out of leftover chocolate. A WHOPPING LIE !
Hint 1 : Left over chocolate. LEFT OVER ? who in their right minds would leave over chocolate? I even lick up the piece that falls under the bed.
Hint 2 : There was a woman model sitting in the car. Hah ! She would have drunk up the chocolate fuel for sure.

Same reason I don’t go for chocolate massages. Would not want to be caught licking myself all over !

Anyway, women love chocolate and it is NOT OUR fault ! Something to do with our hormones or genes or something. Guys prefer vanilla icecream. Ugh ! They must have craters full of that on Mars!
If I catch S sneaking into my chocolate stash, I take it as a personal call to Battle !

Men, listen to this. If you have forgotten to wish her on her birthday, (despite my earlier post on V Day), buy her a chocolate as big as a car. She will eat it, while bonding with her girl friends, and tell them what a jerk you were to forget her birthday. (Hey, no one said this was about YOU winning).

Some more facts about chocolate :
A square of dark chocolate a day prevents strokes. (Therefore, 10 squares should be even healthier).
Good for headaches. Good for PMS. Good for depression. Good for morning perk-ups. Good for evening fatigue. Aphrodisiac.
Bad for the Big Butt Society. It has about a hundred calories in every bite I’m afraid.

However, I have a loophole even for this.
The Ugandan village males like fat women. They have a ‘fattening hut’ where they will keep you for months before they even consider marrying you.

Learning : Girlfriends unite! Let’s meet, eat chocolate and all go to Uganda after that.

Windows 2010

2010-03-06T03:46:00.000-08:00

You know what would help you avoid shoe bite, traffic fines, eunuchs, sick children suspected of swine flu and thieves ?
Car Windows… No kidding ! the all-in-one cure !

Here’s a chain of events that happened when my niece went clickety-click on the automatic car windows :

- The automatic windows broke – The windows wouldn’t roll down – The windows manufacturer (not Bill Gates) said the repair unit would take 48 hours – I kept the car running with windows up and air con running for 2 hours – So Niks came down with a cold and fever – Spent thousands on his tests and meds – S took 2 days of leave - The windows manufacturer said the unit would take another 48 hours – Met someone I knew while driving on the road – Could not roll down the window to say Hi – Had to open the car door and get out in traffic to say Hi, my Windows won’t roll down – Angry traffic cop –Went to Manipal Hospital – where car valet managed to get windows DOWN and now they wouldn’t go UP – The windows manufacturer said the unit would take another 48 hours – Now driving with windows down all over town – Traffic signal, the “gender-challenged scary beggars” snaking their arms right in – Can’t park the car anywhere outside cos the windows are DOWN – found my old favorite boot hanging on the mirror flicked – found the car shelf flicked - Mosquitoes flying in and out of the car – threatening malaria - sunniest of days no air con – cos the windows won’t go UP - – I had to walk 1 hour 45 minutes to somewhere cos I couldn’t take my windowless car – got a shoe bite- The windows manufacturer said the unit would take another 48 hours.

Learning : So forget Insurance and gym memberships and Buy the Right Car Windows, People! It could one day (or in 48 hours) save your life !

Murphy and Me

2010-02-24T07:23:00.000-08:00

I ran down the stairs, with the car keys, a book, a toy rubber tiger and my cell phone in my hand. Splattt ! The cell phone fell !
Murphy makes sure whatever’s most precious will fall, whatever’s breakable will break.
If I have keys, book, toy, cell phone and camera? Camera falls !
If I have keys, book, toy, cell, camera and baby ? …. ??!!

Murphy has been wedded to me for ever since I remember, having promised to stick to me in good times and (turn them to) bad – till death do us part. S is aware he has married a bigamist.

As I enter the bathroom in the morning, already very late for something important, the phone rings. It is an earth-shakingly (or bank-shakingly) even more important call from the USA.
“Hello,”(flush sound).
“No, of course, I’m free.” (tap running sound).
“Yesssshh” (while trying to brush my teeth).
“No, you are perfectly clear. Please go on.” (splash while phone falls into bucket of water, and ends call).

I get out of home, and guess who’s in the back seat ? Ole Murphy of course.
He gets me into the longest queue in the traffic jam, behind a Learner Car of a lady who gets out in the middle of the traffic to buy something from a chemist.
I inch forward in the car queue to enter the movie complex. The car before me goes through and they come and slap a PARKING FULL sign and close the gate.

If anything can go wrong, says Murphy’s First Law, it will go wrong.
Today, I have lost my IT papers (kept safe in a place too safe to remember), threw my medicines in the dustbin and the plate with leftovers in the fridge, had a power cut while I was baking a cake, and have a 3 year old down with high fever.
And while rushing home today, I got caught by a traffic cop for talking while driving. No one else in the car. I was not talking on the cell, I tell him, I was talking to Murphy, sitting invisible in my back seat.
If 99 people go wrong, you will be the 1 to get caught, says Murphy.
“Oh shut up,” I tell him.
The cop looks even angrier and doubles my fine.

No roses on Valentine Day?

2010-02-14T08:20:00.000-08:00

Like most girls, I used to measure how much I was loved by the number of roses, cards, chocolates I got on Val Day.
Like most guys, S doesn’t know what Valentine’s Day even is.
Me : What is Feb 14th ?
S : Tuesday.

This year, it wasn’t any different. No roses. No cards. No wishes.
This is how Val Day went :

S & I were going to the library. I was 45 minutes late. He pretended not to notice.
“I’ll just rush in, get a book, and rush out,”; I said. I spent 25 minutes there, totally forgetting about the rusharound promise. S kept Nik busy all the while, chasing him down one aisle, and up the other, picking up every book Nik pulled out, answering every question Nik asked.
Nik : ‘What you doin?’
S : Reading books.
Nik : Ok. Now, what you doin ?

S filled my car up full tank of petrol.
He paid my phone bill.
He took our 5 year old for a party to have a blast with his own pals.
He couriered a letter for me.
He sat while I had a huge filter coffee.
We both went for a walk in the evening. I changed my mind 3 times over about what to get for dinner. Even the waiter looked like he wanted to throw the naan at me.

I got home with a bad headache.
So S fed Nik.
Nik : I don’t want bread.
S : This is Naan.
Nik : I don’t want Naan.
S : This is not Naan.
Nik :I don’t want Not Naan……

In the evening, a good girl friend wished me Happy Valentine’s Day. What did S give you? She asked.

He gave me the best ever Feb 14th. And 15th. And 16th.

Learning : It’s never measured in roses.

Happy Birthday, Nikash

2010-02-04T23:09:00.000-08:00

Today, my baby turns 3. Your grandmother has given you a big red car to ride around in. Dipika Mummy gave you a fabulous shirt-jeans combo. Many people will come and give you lovely gifts. And you will be thrilled, but wonder why Mama didn’t give you anything.

I'm giving you what I've got (but not my stash of chocolates hah !) :

Clouds : Your first playschool complaint came in. Your teachers told me while all the other children sat to study, you were wandering around in your own world. I told her, So Am I. Lost in my own world. In the clouds. It’s a beautiful place to be. It’s where the dreams come out of. And life, without those dreams, is F-all !

Bump on the head : You jump off the cabinet, fall, get a bump on your head, cry, and then go jump again. I can't stop you. I have scars on my knees that I got from falling off cycles, and skates, and walls. If there’s a wall, you gotta climb it, Niks. If there’s a sofa, you gotta jump off it. Getting hurt is tons better than living scared.

An orange grape : I asked you the other day what colour the grape is. You said it’s grape-colored. Who said it should be purple? Other people? Books? Teachers? It’s your life, and don’t let anyone else tell you how to live it. (Not even me). Go ahead and be different. Stay honest. And become whatever colour grape you want to.

ok then - some chocolate : Most of all, I want to give you the promise that you are loved. So so sooooo much. And please never be afraid to love back. Go ahead and do anything you want. As long as you don't hurt anyone else. And if you hurt yourself ? There will be a bandaid and a cup of hot chocolate whenever you get home.

And yeah – I’ll try not to call you Baby any more. OK, Pup ? :)

Hai-Tech

2010-01-24T23:29:00.000-08:00

These are the gadgets our household has bought to save its people time and trouble.

The Cell phone : Mine is not charging. I have bought 3 chargers in 3 weeks from. Not charging! I have, with human intelligence found that if laid at an angle of 37 degrees on the bar cabinet, supported by a toy Brontosaurus, held together by a clothes clip and wedged with a tooth-pick, it charges !!! If I replace the toy brontosaurus with a Stegosaurus, it won’t. Or else, I have to stand by the plug point holding the cell phone in place till it charges – while doing nothing else for the 2 hours that this takes. Time-saving device. Hah !

The Microwave : Can do a hundred magnificent things, almost stand on its head. But is used in 99% of Indian households to re-heat ONLY. So, I put the cold milk from the fridge (also tech device – please note) into the microwave to heat quickly. Then Niks scalds his lips and screams. So I put the milk back into the fridge to cool. Final end to this episode : Niks goes to school LATE with burnt lips plus a sneezy nose from milk out of the fridge. Saves trouble. Hmph !!!

The Electric Iron : Our household uses this item as purely educational, since all clothes are sent down to the dhobi. Educational – because Niks is told NOT to TOUCH it, which he chooses to interpret as push Neel onto it, so Neel will touch it instead. And then let’s see what happens.

Laptop : To carry anywhere and have a mobile office. Right now, sits plugged into the mains, since its battery won’t charge. Why is it all items in my house are non-chargeable? But every item in a store that Niks breaks is chargeable? Murphy, c’mon out and let’s talk !

The household also has other inhabitants, some of which are lower-tech-evolved than me. Example : In the middle of a do-or-die presentation, my mom phones me at office to say ‘ The second red light on the washing machine is blinking. Now what to do?’
And there are higher-tech people like my dog, who is the only one who can operate the 5-click guaranteed burglar-proof safety lock on my door.

Learning : They have created a really high-tech appliance which can do children’s homework, fix bulbs, make and pack tiffins, issue warnings, dispense hugs, do crosswords, scrub kids, dress kids, and then drive itself to a full day of work. Guess what it’s called ?

Organizing Blues - and Greens

2010-01-19T21:33:00.000-08:00

‘Hey,’ said an old friend I’m meeting after 12 years. ‘Isn’t that the same blue whale t-shirt you had back then?’
‘It’s not, ‘ I reply, ‘then I had a dolphin, now it’s turned into a whale’.
In response to those who think I’m hopelessly fashion-challenged, or disorganized, or lazy :

TODAY is WARDROBE ORGANIZING DAY :

Here are my piles :

Pile 1 : To throw out - Those clothes I have worn for 10 years : Bye Bye blue whale T shirt. Bye Bye old blue jeans that I fell off a tree in, and then fell off a bike in. (blood stains to prove it). Bye Bye,– sorry, these go right back in.

Pile 2 : To throw out instead – Clothes I have NOT worn for 10 years (smarter !) There should go all my wedding trousseau sarees, but Ma will stage a hunger-strike, so sarees will go into Pile 3.

Pile 3 : Those clothes I have NOT worn for 10 years BUT will wear again : All those tiny tops and size 24 inch waist jeans. Some day I will lose the tummy and the thighs and the – oh forget it, will just give them to some stick-insect teen I meet.

Pile 4 : Shoooooooooes ! I have (opposed to the 3 pairs of footwear that S owns) - currently 27 pairs, out of which I wear my red keds almost every day. Yet, I keep going out and buying another pair of impossibly high heels. (All linked to childhood advice from my Dad – blame him – he said : “Aim High. Stand Tall.”)

Pile 5 : Slinky black dresses and night wear. Night wear now = pajamas. Stick-insect teen – your lucky day !

Pile 6 : Striped T Shirts in all colors. Love these. Buy them every time I sneeze. When I had my 11th, I read that horizontal stripes make you look fatter. Wottodo? Can’t wear my T Shirts at right angles, can I? Too late now. Keep all. Look at the positive - Would fit straight into a jail-break movie/ mental asylum flick (no reader comments accepted on this !)

Pile 7 : Lots of hairbands, caps, socks, (these are called Accessories by fashion mags). They work to color-co-ordinate your look, apparently. Hmmm – like when I’m formally dressed in a black silk sari, nothing like a pair of orange socks with ‘hiya captain’ on them to colorize the co-ordination.

Pile 8 : All other clothes – salwars, trousers, skirts – no more time left to waste, and no more shelves left, so just push them all into the one remaining shelf space, squeezed in between the books, which I have labelled as ‘Unstriped clothes’. (After all, books too qualify as unstriped clothes).

There ! Wardrobe Organized !

Learning (for you this time) : Now all of you who ask why I keep wearing the same red striped T Shirt in all my recent facebook pix, KNOW !

The Perfect Ad

2010-01-14T08:12:00.001-08:00

Early in my advertising career, some Ad Big Wig came n gave us a few smart sassy snippets of slurp-up advice, that we, on command, slurped up.

What sells most in ads, said he : Sex, Kids, Dogs

Eager to attain immediate Big Wigdom, I immediately thought up scenarios combining all 3 for my next ad film. But they were all a li’l revolting – in any permutation together – especially since the product to be advertised was a stress-relief tablet.

But I finally crunched all together in a brilliant script - with a cute baby n her sexy mom, playing with a cute puppy.

Ad film Shoot day : The models were shortlisted, the young mom short-skirted, the baby was drool-worthily cute, all dimples and gurgles and giggles. The puppy cuddly.

The day of the shoot, cameras ready, lights set up, the baby wants to grab the camera. The crew, the client, the ad team all try to distract her. She starts to howl. No more giggles, just growls !

She is hungry, said her mom, so she was given Cerelac. She didn’t want it. She tried to chew on the light cable. Everyone got into the act again to stop her. She begins to howl again.

She is sleepy, says her mom. So the baby, the main star of my aborting ad filim goes to sleep. She sleeps all through the morning. We wake her after 4 hours, and she begins to howl. We give her a cable to chew on, and she smiles.

The Director starts shooting, and the baby starts howling.

She wants to go to the toilet, says her mom, so we spend most of the afternoon, changing diapers, and cleaning her up. The baby begins to howl. She has diaper rash, says the mom. She will be ready in a minute. Then the baby goes back to sleep for another 4 hours.

She wakes up at dusk, and the Director begins to howl. He’s lost the light. He can’t shoot. The baby starts to howl because the Director is howling. I have to shoot the rest of the film with another substitute baby without dimples – he is a 2 year old toddler. The stress relief tablet never explains how the curly haired dimpled girl baby turns later into a straight-haired bigger boy. The puppy never makes his film debut at all.

Learning : I never know whether my sexy mom-baby-puppy ad film actually sold the stress-relief tablet to the public. But the entire crew, ad team and client team and everyone else on the sets were popping up the stress-relief tablets. In between howling.

Proven New Year Diet

2010-01-08T09:18:00.000-08:00

I will lose weight from the 1st of Jan, 2010.
I will start this resolution on the 2nd of Jan, since the 1st of Jan is the New Year party hangover day and I will need sugar for strength to start my diet.
I will not eat more than 1 sweet thing a week. (coffee and tea do not count.)
Coffee and tea do count! Just checked that every spoon of sugar adds 30 calories. I will drink them unsweetened.
Just tried unsweetened coffee. Will not survive it. I will cut out the 30 calories from my breakfast instead, by not eating half the apple.
I will not eat the left-over Christmas cake. I will instead give it to my neighbours who will return the favour by sending back more home-made sweets, which I will NOT eat.
unless they send their coconut barfi, which I cannot resist, so will eat one a week (allowed by my diet resolution) but coconut gets bad soon, so must finish in one day.
I will cut out snacking in between meals.
I will cut out meals, when I do give in to snacking.
I will chuck out all the snacks in the house. (maybe not these crisps I’m munching on right now, because they are exceptionally good, and they are made of chilli-potato, which is healthy, since chilli is good for the heart).
ok, I will keep the snacks, but only for emergencies.
Midnight chocolate cravings do not count as emergencies. I will eat carrots instead.
No more chocolate !!!!!!
(unless someone gifts me chocolate, which I can’t refuse, because that would be rude).
Read somewhere that chocolates help in avoiding migraine attacks, which would qualify them as a medical emergency.
Go vegetarian.
I will cook only with olive oil, which makes Mediterranean people live longer.
They also eat lots of fish, so I cannot go vegetarian.
Eggs are high in cholesterol but also high in calcium. ????
Compromise. Eat eggs only in things like cakes, puddings and pancakes.
Do not eat hidden fats. (Does cabbage have hidden fats? Must check, till then, do not eat cabbage).
Also do not eat pumpkins, radish, tendli until the above point is checked out.
Substitute instead with plenty of vitamin supplements.
Vitamin supplements leave a bad after-taste, so have them disguised in a small chocolate pastry (chocolate is a medical emergency, as just proven here).
Do not eat out more than once a week.
ok, eat out, but order sensibly. Drink soup.
Do not drink.
Just read that Alcohol kills the appetite, so drink a lot.
High-fibre diet. Order lots of fried nuts and cashews with drinks.
Drink plenty of water (Beer is only 5% alcohol, and 95% water).
January is full of friends’ birthdays, so should this diet start from Feb?

Jane’s Proven Immediate-Result Guaranteed Crash Diet Plan (in summary) :

· Party heavily. Drink a lot.
· Snacking is allowed, especially chocolates
· No more cabbage, red spinach, radish and other unhealthy veggies.
· No veggies at all. Non-veg makes Mediterranean people live longer.
· Plenty of coffee and tea, with sugar, but cut out fruits to balance the sugar in body
· No more sweets, unless medical need, or gifted a box, or neighbours send some over, or friend’s birthday party (or other emergencies).

Tooth Fairy-Tales

2009-12-17T08:11:00.000-08:00

Kids are not kids any more. They are growing up in such a huge hurry.
Neel, at 5 ½ , came up with a shaky tooth. (but isn’t that supposed to happen after 7 ?)
That’s cuuuuuuute !
Then he showed us a big-boy tooth already growing.
Yikes, now that’s scarrrrrrrry !

Off to the dentist.
This is what it cost us :
A chocolate bribe, an icecream sundae after, a sick father burning with fever walking over to the sweet shop, a toy, a special tooth box from his friend Navya, a few more chocs from the neighbourhing mummy, another toy….

Neel was very brave about the dentist pulling out his tooth. And super thrilled about the tooth fairy taking his baby tooth away from under his pillow at night.

The next morning, Neel came running up so excited. “Mama, I tried to stay awake to see the tooth fairy, but I didn’t – but I think I heard the fairy’s stars twinkling.”

No, my little boy, with a big-boy tooth – that was just the twinkle in your eyes, I thought. Aah, the wonder, the innocence and the excitement of kid-hood !

Kids, after all, are still kids. They’ve a long way to go before the cynicism of adulthood sets in. (At least till the day Neel discovers what ‘fairy’ also means).

Part II – The next afternoon, Neel and Niks were rolling, fighting and playing rough, as only little boys can. Another yelp from Neel. His 2-year-old brother had bashed out ANOTHER tooth.
Help - here we go again !

Life is dangerous

2009-11-19T05:16:00.000-08:00

Got a scary email today saying microwave food is dangerous – free radicals – cancer of the intestines.
Read yesterday, they’ve finally proved that cell phone usage will end up in cancer of the brain.
Using re-cooked oil will give me cancer of whatever body part is left.

The pollution levels in the city are so high that over half of the population will get asthma or other respiratory illnesses.
The underground water has sewage seeping into it which will cause gastro-enteritis or skin problems – or probably both.

Processed food out of cans causes damage of the nervous system.
Cooked food kills all nutrients, and will leave me with iron and calcium and mineral deficiencies.
Raw food will give me salmonella poisoning.

If I stay home and watch TV –I’ll get obese – and slowly blind.
If I get out and drive in the traffic – it’s road rage and stress syndromes.
Walking in the sun causes skin cancer.
Jogging gives me heel and knee tendonitis.

I think the general prediction here is no matter what I do –
if I carry on living, I’m going to die.

So let’s go sit out in the cancerous sunshine, inhale some lung-polluting air, open the bag of carcinogenic chips and wash it down with some liver-damaging vodka.

Who wants to join me ?

Annoyingest

2009-11-09T00:20:00.000-08:00

This morning, I get a phone call
“Hello,” I say.
“Who is that?” says the other voice.
“Jane,” I reply, biting back a fittingly caustic reply.
“Oh please hold on…. ”

So, I decided today, to dedicate this blog post to the annoyingisms of daily life :

Party invitees, who turn up 2 hours after you’ve invited them, saying they had to be elsewhere, and then leave early, saying they have to be going elsewhere. (Elsewhere has since been checked out, and exists in the same category as ‘next time’ – as in, ‘next time’ you are invited to ‘elsewhere’.)

Women who starve themselves on an almond a day – and then ask if they ‘look fat in these clothes’.

My mom’s very clear un-ambiguous speech, which drives me up the wall (and from this blog, you probably think I permanently reside up there) by asking ‘Can you pass me that thing from there?’

My 2 ½ year old, who is going one day to post-graduate in annoyingism – who straight after a crash from the other room, comes running in to say, “I didn’t do it.”

My favourite - borrowed from a friend, Gaurav : The definition of a Nano-second : the time between when the traffic light turns green, and the idiot behind you starts honking.

People who send your forwards with all the chain of forwards that other people have sent them – down to 14 generations – and to add insult to environmental injury – threaten instant strokes of lightning if you don’t continue the chain.

And if you think I’m over-reacting – consider that a whole lot of people actually spent real time on this research : A research found 99 out of 100 people found the most annoying word was ‘Whatever’.
They asked the remaining 1% what she thought of it – and she said “Whatever…”

Learning : But the annoyingest of them all goes to someone who calls her blog 'daily a-musings' and then posts once in 2 weeks ;-)

Saturday Night Fever

2009-10-25T05:11:00.000-07:00

Then :
Remember John Travolta belting out ‘Saturday night fever –yeeeeeah !’ pointing his finger in the air, and his pelvis too?
The theme song for singles ! I couldn’t wait for the week to end – to hit the night clubs, and when they closed – 7 of us hostel girls cheaped out at the Taj Coffee Shop over 1 cup of coffee for all of us – till 6 in the morning, when we jumped the hostel gate, jumped into bed –and slept through the education our parents were paying for.
Aaah, those were the days – or rather, the Saturday nights.

Now :
Saturday night is when the fever hits all right.
104 degrees. Burning heads, puking kids.
And what every sleep-deprived parent knows : No doctors are open on Sundays.
And kids plan their urgent, sick n dying, fevers for just then. Always. Without fail. They’re as healthy as horses through the week.
Mine both kept me awake all of last night (yup – it was a Saturday) - with loosies.
“See the night – see the night, feverrrrrrrr, we know how to do it”

So from spending the night dancing the groove – to the tango with the loo.
From cocktails on our table – to a bedside table with a dozen medicine bottles.
From the juke box – to the puke box !

You've come a long way, Baby, oh yeaaaahhhh !

Short Cuts take too long

2009-10-21T09:07:00.000-07:00

The shortest cut from A to B for me is invariably via C, D and E as well.
I actually went from Calcutta to Delhi once via Hyderabad, which meant that I was actually flying South, when I wanted to fly North. But the fare was so tempting. Of course, I spent a good many hours more, including one hour at the Hyderabad airport, stuck in the plane.

So, it is my long-term opinion that short cuts are not worth taking. I will teach my sons this. There is no short way out – you’ve got to study for the tests. Sleeping with the book under your head will not transfer the material magically to your brain in the night. I’ve tried it. Transfer Failure. Translated further into Test Failure too.

D’you know, there is no short cut in life, Nikash, I said to him this morning on our way to play school.
I no know, said Nikash, which is his standard reply to anything asked from complex philosophical phenomenon to What will you eat for Dinner?
There is no short cut, I repeat. And then I see before me a humungous pile-up of cars at a stubbornly red signal. And equally suddenly, I see the back lane that turns off to the left, and I swing the car over to the lane. It seems empty. Of course it is. It is a dead-end. Aaaah – so I turn back and take the next lane, which turns out to be a one-way, with a rather unsympathetic cop at the end. I turn back and get stuck, (now with a 100 buck fine too, in my hand) in the first humungous traffic pile-up, which has become even more humungous during my antics.
Why didn’t you remind me, Nikash, that there are no short cuts if life? I ask him.
I no know, he replies.

But I dream of the day when there will be tailor-made short cuts. Like 1 switch will replace the 1 hour that it takes to get 1 dosa down Nikash’s mouth. Or 1 button which will cook a 3-course-meal. Or 1 phone call which will get a 3-year-degree without studying for it. Hey, hang on – that’s possible. In Bihar, at least it was.

That brings me to the fact that everyone else seems to know how to take these short cuts and win. The auto-driver zooms past on the wrong side of the road, and makes it past the signal in time. A pushy mom pushes her pushy kid right up to the bank counter, while I wait in the never-moving queue. And all my landlord’s sons in Bihar became doctors while they just lay on their cots the whole day and chewed cud.

That’s ok. See – there are some things you gotta do just because they are right. I tell my little boy while bringing him home. Cheaters never prosper. It’s better to do things the long way and to do them right.
I know, says Nikash.
I turn to him with surprise, then give him a hug, while the light turns green, and the other cars whizz past.

Tarzan & the Apes

2009-10-09T04:21:00.000-07:00

Last week, we drove far and high into the Nilgiri mountains to get away from it all.
11 friends. No cells, no email, no TV, no electricity, no cars, no smoke….

Planned activities : 6 am steep mountain trek in fresh air
Actual activities : Finished a bottle of Chivas at night, and no one woke up for fresh mountain air or steep trek.

Instead, every day, took a jeep safari deep into the jungle. Aah, the beauty of trees, the smell of fresh rain, the chill of mist, the sound of silence…
“Look there’s a black panther”
“What other colour panther is there?”
“Pink Panther.”
“That’s not a panther. That’s a flying fox.”
“Foxes can’t fly. That’s a kingfisher.”
“Kingfisher is what my Dad drinks” ….
Warning : For the sound of silence, please leave 5-year-olds at home.

Actual no. of panthers seen = ZERO
Panther seen however by a barking deer, (according to our guide), which let out an alarm call. (Or may have been the backfiring of another safari jeep).

Wildlife seen : Deer, and more deer, and more deer. The deer were sending out embossed invites to their second cousins, removed thrice, to come and see the funny humans in the jeep.
Also seen : 1 wild, vicious, huge Indian bison – gaur. Neel got so excited, he almost fell out of the jeep, and got trampled by the vicious wild bison, which instead turned its humungous butt to us, and carried on munching grass and emitting greenhouse gases.
Result : 1 photograph of humungous butt of indeterminate origin.
Not seen on safari: a single leopard or tiger or even wild boar. But as a PR exercise, a whole family of wild boar piglets waddled over to our tent that night, to share our dinner.

Yup, it was a beautiful, blissful, brilliant getaway – marked by a singular lack of worry – about the things that usually worry us.
For example :
No. of calories consumed = 6 million and 47 (all by me).
Result : 1 photograph of humungous-butt bison again (oh, sorry, that was ME !)

For example again :
No. of rocks Niks climbed = 329
No. of rocks Niks fell off = 329

We went as 6 adults and 5 kids, and came back as 11 kids.

Most precious

2009-09-29T22:30:00.000-07:00

What’s the most precious thing you have? Asks a friend. If there’s a fire, what are you going to take out of home with you? Given that all people and dogs and fish are out, of course.

Don't think too long. Remember, there's a fire.
I’d first take the photos. My babies, sepia-tinted me as a baby myself, of friend-filled manic years, of getting married (if only to prove I once had a 24 inch waist) – these are memories – can’t let them burn.

Then to the kitchen to take the recipe books full of Ma’s hand-written recipes that no one else on the planet can make… ooops, kitchen’s full of smoke – oh that’s ok – I left the fried egg still frying. While here, must take Nik’s sipper – cos without it, he’ll never drink a drop again (Alcoholic Anonymous’ pledge).

Can’t take something of Nik’s and not Neel’s. Will have World War 3. OK, take Neel’s light shoes with Xoxo masters on them. And his glow-in-the-dark pig. Oh, there’s his birthday drawing for his Dad – a dinosaur eating up someone (hopefully not his Dad) – must take that.

The antique grandfather clock, the wedding portrait of my parents (which makes everyone ask how 2 good looking people produced someone like me J ) , the sword we got from Venice, the hand-made quilt.

My jewellery? Or will the fire melt it to one solid lump of gold, which I can use to fill my teeth. Our leather-bound family bible. S’s bible – the Best of Rolling Stones. Our collection of Just William books.
MY LEVIS JEANS.. nothing else makes my legs look so long…
Fire all over the house now !
Box full of papers? Proof of birth, proof of marriage, proof of graduation….S’s 180 proofs?

Too much to take, too little time.
And then I hear the little voice that says : Leave it all behind. You’ll go, as you entered. Without anything.

A 100 miles. In baby steps.

2009-09-21T06:52:00.000-07:00

Learning : going to begin this with a learning this time. In order to run, walk or things like this, you must set SMALL milestones. Count in steps.

Case Study of Day 1 :

2 minutes to get my running shoes on.
Can’t find matching red sock – does it matter? Marco has 1 chewed red sock in his basket. Ugggh – can’t wear that. Will wear one red sock and one striped (can’t find other striped sock too).
That took 10 minutes. Oh well !

2 minutes to breathe in and breathe out – before starting on my run.
Haha – look at my stomach when I breathe out – looks at least 5 months pregnant.

Down the lift.
Up the lift. It’s going to rain. Best take an umbrella. Must go running. Come rain or shine. That’s me.
Can’t find the umbrella. Wear a hooded jacket instead. Now, I look like a serious runner. Or a terrorist. Must change into pink track pants to match the jacket.
25 minutes. Have not started the run yet.

Ok. Make it down the lift to the back gate.
Meet a neighbour who asks about school admission. 17 minutes.
10 steps to the tailor shop. 10 steps to the lamp post.
Meet a boy walking a pup peeing on the lamp post.
Stop to coochie coo the puppy. 8 minutes of giving gyan to boy and pup.
Pup is now looking at my leg as a substitute for the lamp post.
Time to run.

20 steps to the dhobi cart.
Cell phone rings. Old friend from Delhi. 20 minute chat about how I have started running seriously, while resting on a tree trunk.
Serious run now. 14 steps to the next tree.
Cell phone rings. Spend 6 minutes trying to explain to someone why I can’t talk now.
15 steps to the … shoelace opens out.
Bend to tie shoelace and then do 3 steps to the street corner.
Starts to rain. Where’s my umbrella ?
Aaah. Left it at the first tree or second tree or dhobi cart?

14 steps to the shelter of Sree Krishna Sweet Mart. Fastest run of the day yet.
Rains for 15 minutes.
I consume 2 pieces of mysur pak and 1 over sweetened badam milk shake.

Not good to run on a full stomach.
Call home and ask S to pick me up and take me back home.

Feeling real good. Running is real good.
Must do this every day.

what's your dword ?

2009-09-04T05:26:00.001-07:00

I stubbed my toe on the $#** door jamb that is supposed to keep the door open.
“damn”, I shout, then seeing Nik (2 ½ years old) - “damnnadiffadoooodidoodilaaaa ! “

We all have a favourite word – the one that comes out first – when that son-of-a-female-dog driver cuts in front of you, or the lice-infested, onion-smelling boss calls you in on a Sunday to office. Or when the damnadooodillaaa door jamb stubs your toe…

I call them dwords (door jamb words), and they tell me more about people than anything else does. Here are some of the results of my life-long research. Feel free to add your own.

“AIIYYO” = “All people listen, I am a proud southie and I don’t care what You think, so sod Off !”

“Oh God” = I don’t think there’s a God, if this is happening to me.

“Awesome” = I have a limited American vocabulary of words like “like”

“Yeeeeoooow “ = I’ve been watching too much Cartoon Network

“Shit” = i was born before MTV

“Fcuk” = I am so fcucking uber-cool that I need to use fcuk 5 times in a sentence before I brush my teeth

“Aaaaaah “ = I am a normal human being in a normal reaction of pain… (which is why you never hear anyone saying this).

While writing this, Nik, who has dropped a monster truck on his own toe screams “Mamaaa ! “ – that’s his dword – and it means “Mama, drop whatever you’re doing (on your toe) and get your butt here at once to make the pain go away! “

“HaHa” says S, which is his dword, since he finds almost everything funny. Also called Laughing Buddha by a wise friend, he is an unflappable person who finds a furious screaming Nik, who immediately stops crying when a furious me arrives, and then immediately drops the same monster truck on his same toe – funny !!!
And suddenly I feel a laugh coming on myself… hehe haha.
“HaHa” – yup – that’s a great positive dword – I will use it from now on till forever.

Nik looks at both his parents cracking up and drops the monster truck – on MY door-jambed toe !
“DAAAMNADADILLLAADILOOOOOOOOOOO” !

101st Dalmation

2009-08-30T21:48:00.000-07:00

I woke up one day covered with spots. Red itchy ones.
Measles, I think. Finally, I get to sit back in bed while everyone pampers me.
No, said the doc, it’s an allergy. NO bed.
What am I allergic to, I ask? Doctors – HaHa.
The doc is not amused.

I go through 2 months of tests.
Pin pricks, punch pricks, a patch test (which makes me look like a robot, because I have this huge patch full of 30 little spots stuck onto my back). I tell the nurse when she comes to pull it off - So now, you’re going to open up my back and replace my batteries.. Haha.
The nurse is not amused. She yanks the patch off, and I yell.
Mental note : Add nurses to my allergies.

3 months of spots over… no diagnosis. 5 more doctors consulted.
Dermatologists, Derma-toxi-tolgoists, Derma-I have a degree from Scotland-tologists.
A lot of my money goes. None of the spots go.
Says the Derma-I am dead serious about this -tologist – You need a skin biopsy.
I dissolve into tears. I have Cancer. Then I remember, that if I have Cancer, I have precious little time, so I must not waste my time crying. I must make a Will.
I realize I have less money in the bank, and more debts to pay – that is not a good thing to Will someone I love. No Wills. Back to crying.

4 months – Don’t be an idiot. Go to a Homeopath, say All the Wise Ones, in my life.
I flush out all the pills. And go to the Homeopath.
No, No, You have done it all wrong, says this doc, You are poisoning yourself. Allopathy kills. Drink water, don’t drink coffee, don’t kill yourself.
I take lots of sweet little white balls. I get a new red spot for every homeo ball I take.
I also have huge migraines from not having coffee.
Bye to the Homeo, Back to the coffee.
If I am going to die, I want to die happy.

It’s now been 6 months of spots.
Take Safi to clean your blood, says my Mother (Mothers know best?)
Take bitter gourd juice in the morning, says another Wise One.
You are allergic to your dog, says another doctor. (Poor Marco goes through 5 weeks of tic-tac medicinal baths and doesn’t know what’s hit him.)
You are allergic to dust, pollen, bugs, mosquitoes (say docs numbers 5 to 8).
You have spotted swine flu, says someone who has been watching too much news.
I have now done so many tests, that I can google myself as a case study.
I can never wear shorts again in my life – booo hoooo !
I will never be cured of my allergic cancer to dogs and dust mites and doctors. Boo hooooo !

Woke up this morning to even more spots.
Mama, says Neel, you look amazing ! You’ve turned into a leopard.

I LOVE YOU, NEEL !

Who let the cat out?

2009-08-12T09:49:00.000-07:00

Today, I drove out and stuck my car into the worst ever traffic jam.
A narrow street, half of it being dug up, and cars stuck at strange angles which would make it quite impossible for anyone to go anywhere, unless some cars were to suddenly sprout wings.
So I stepped out of my car and plodded over to find out what happened. This is what I was told.
A black cat crossed the road.
The red car about to cross jammed on its brakes. The white car behind it and the 2 bikes behind that all went and smashed into the red car. A black SUV van from the other side of the road also refused to cross after the black cat, so it turned into a 1-way-road, and jammed up a dozen peace-loving vehicles on that road. Another bike with 3 people on it tried to get in between, and got in STUCK in between it all.
Everyone was arguing with everyone else. Like the Tower of Babel.
The red car had an angry woman screaming in Bengali. The white car had a driver screaming in Hindi. The auto drivers (from 11 cars down the road all came to pass loud judgement in Kannada). The black van had a teenager hurling choisest abuses in Punjabi (I think).
In the midst of this all, some smart guy on a moped thought he’d squeeze in between and get out, so he passed.
THE BLACK CAT SPELL WAS BROKEN !
Some auto guy yelled out to him and told him he’d crossed the black cat path. The moped guy now came back to push the black van driver, who took a swing at someone else who had just stopped to listen.
Soon, it was back to Square One. Or by now, Octagon One.
A yellow school bus conductor had come out to join the fight. All the school kids were out playing in the dirty drain. Some guy came selling American Sun Shades. A woman with a kid drinking milk out of her came to beg for money. Some auto drivers left their autos in the middle of the mess and went to drink tea. A foreigner started taking photographs. And the black van driver threw him a punch too.
--
40 minutes later, by some miracle it began to rain. Everyone got into their own cars and started their engines. As the first car was about to pull out, the black cat, who had been sitting on a wall watching the entertainment, decided to saunter across the road again.

Learning : I am not superstitious, but probably really stupid. Because I cannot understand why I can’t cut hair on a Tuesday, or marry someone born on a Monday. Or why walking under a ladder, or crossing the road after a cat, or breaking a mirror will cause me 7 years of bad luck. Unless of course, the cat decides to stop crossing the road, and comes back to scratch me to shreds. In which, 7 years of bad luck will be the least of my worries.

The Birds and the Bees

2009-08-03T07:22:00.000-07:00

What’s a good time to give your kids their first hint at a topic that will fascinate them forever after? At 14 or 10 or 6 ?
Some snippets from discussion with friends :
Mom 1 : Whose lil daughter thought that women grew boobs when their babies blew air into them.
Mom 2 : When asked about what a condom was said it was a small balloon, and had her son yell in a birthday party that he wanted a condom NOW.
Dad 3 : Whose 3 year old son asked him whether he’d found his fucking car keys yet.
Me : My son at 5, is still happily innocent. He thinks women have 3 ‘belly buttons’.

In our house, in our attempt to bring them up naturally and healthily etc… we let them get their sex education from National Geographic and Animal Planet.
So Neel sees the wilderbeast “pottying” out a baby, and I’ve caught him once or twice sitting on the pot, and sneaking a peek to see if he was producing anything living himself.
He has no clue of course where the baby comes from, and still threatens to send his little brother back to the hospital gift shop that supplied him.
Mom 4 is mightily worried when she read about a 13-year-old boy fathering a kid, since her own son is that age himself, and she is struggling enough with being a mom, forget being a GRANDMOM !

The last time I was inspired to tell Neel about the birds and the bees, I chickened out, and just told him the difference between eagles and hawks. But the world is changing quick. And kids are getting smarter than their old pops and moms.
So one day pretty soon, Neel’s gonna sit me down and tell me : Now Ma, I think you’re grown up enough to understand this. I hate to tell you this but Niks did not come from a hospital gift shop. He came from a dinosaur egg.

The dog ate my excuses

2009-07-23T05:25:00.000-07:00

10.10 a.m :I am so so late for a 10 a.m. meeting – everything that could have gone wrong, WENT wrong… Murphy lives !
I am therefore in my bath, when the cell first rings ‘Where are you, Jane?’
“On my way”
Nik starts howling.
‘What is that noise?’ asks the office voice
“That’s the traffic policeman. Can’t talk. Bye”

10.25 : Make it somehow to the car.
Yeooooww – forgot the stupid car key.
Run up the stairs.
Get into the car. Forgot the stupid cell phone.
Run up the stairs..
Cell rings “Where ARE you, Jane?”
“Bad traffic. Baaaad traffic. Traffic jammed for miles.”
Neighbour on stairs “Hi, still here today?”
Office Voice : “Who was that?”
Me : “Radio – radio FM”

10.45 : Now truly stuck in the dratted traffic jam.
Cell rings “Where are you NOW? Client’s waiting.”
“Reached. Parking. Be there in 5 mins.”

5 minutes later : Office voice :”Where are you now?” (I think they’ve got an automated voice response to keep saying this – it sounds like Arnold Schwazznegger )
“Can’t find parking. There in 2 mins”

Reach the office 1 hour 7 ½ minutes late. Rush into meeting.
Furious looking office person (owner of the Office Voice) and grumpy looking client.
“So Sorry! Am I late?
So – Where are We now? “ (hah ! Revenge on the Automated Office Voice).

Learning : I have made and heard excuses of every species : Rained, Flooded, Caught by police, Kid (Dog/ Fish/ Spouse) fell ill, I fell ill (should be accompanied by violent sneezes), forgot the way, forgot the date, forgot who I am (should be accompanied by bump on the head)…. Gonna write a book on them some day – Got any real winners, anyone? Maids have the best ones, I think though, going by the number of times they kill off a number of grandmothers.

The ghost of D 305

2009-07-17T05:36:00.000-07:00

I never believed in monsters, but I have 2 little ones at home. I never believed in aliens, but I’ve married a man who is convinced he’s one, and I never believed in ghosts. Till…

Me : Omigosh, I’ve been gone 5 minutes. Who broke my long-stemmed vase?
Neel : Not me.
Niks : Not me.
Marco polo does not even shake a guilty tail.
The maid is cleaning under the sofa – under – understand – that’s a side of the sofa that has never seen a broom in its life, and is getting a persecution complex at the sight of one.
The cook is seriously buried in churning out something no one will eat. (Neel : Not me, Nik : Not me)
S is buried in a mallu flick, paying more attention to the woman shrieking on TV, than the woman shrieking off it.
Ma is playing the keyboard to drown out the screams of the dying vase. And those of her living daughter.
No one entered the house. The door is locked from inside. Hercule Poirot/ Mr Holmes, where are you?
Elementary, my dear watsits, the vase jumped up out of depression at being in a see-through garment all its life, and committed suicide! Any other theories anyone? Any IDEAS, huh?
Neel : Not me
Niks : Not me

Learning : The same mystery occurred when my keys got lost (and were found in the washing machine), when S’ specs were bent backwards, and when my perfume bottle was emptied into the dog basket. Any insider insights or ghost busters are welcome !

Black or White

2009-07-08T22:19:00.000-07:00

“Oh Oh my baby, it don’t matter if you’re black or white”.
But it did matter to him, didn’t it? He went under multiple knives, and even more media twitter to become white, he married white women and had white children.

White. Thin. Rich. Cool.
Who sets the ‘happening’ labels ? Some fashionista in the sky? A blue-eyed god? Not likely. Centuries of white dominators?
And when do the opposite words become weapons?
Walking past the playground, I overheard “No, you can’t sit on that. You’re too fat.” A dreaded label which that little girl is going to try all her life to shake off.

Here instead are some totally cool labels I’d like to see (inspired again by my favourite beings : kids n animals)

“Butt-scented” : Notice how dogs make an impression on other dogs by sniffing their butts? As in : “Whoa, she’s cute!!! Her butt stinks from a few blocks away!”
“Stung Stud” : Neel : Mama, That tall boy’s really cool. He got stung by a bee 3 TIMES !!!”
“Lice Mate” : As in monkeys – “She’s the best thing to happen to me – She and I – we spend whole mornings just picking each other’s lice – My Lice-Mate till I die….” (sung to the tune of Yaadon ki Baarat. )
“Spit Chief” : I know for sure that the coolest kid among the 5 year olds is he who blows the biggest spit bubble.

No one’s bothered in the dog kingdom whether you look like a million dollars or earn it. The only label they ever stick on you is “Good tummy rubber” or “World’ best cook” (finally - someone thinks I am !)

Anyways, I sat through bits of Jacko’s funeral today, and through the tears, heard various people call him the “Greatest Entertainer of all Time”, “a loving Dad”, “ a fantastic human being”.
All politically correct, added-sugar, take-in-small-doses labels.
No one called him Black.

Stress busters busted

2009-07-02T05:34:00.000-07:00

So my doc tells me I’m stressed. (I have paid her a hugely stressful amount to tell me this). This is my list of how to bust the stress.

1) Breathe in and out.
Situation : Annoying person cuts in front of you in queue.
Action : Breathe in and OUT into his face. (preferably after eating garlic). Annoying person either passes out, or starts a fight, in which case, you are justified to smash him to pulp.

2) Yoga
This is very relaxing I am told, but it didn’t work for me, for the following reason.
Yoga involves twisting your body into impossible angles, while thinking all the time of whether you have switched off the gas, or even worse, whether you will ever be able to untwist your body – and if not, how will you drive your car home?

3) Make me-time

This is the King of Wishful Thinking. The last time I wanted to go with my girlfriends for a drink, this is how it went. I had to iron my white shirt last minute, feed niks in a hurry, who then threw up over the white shirt, iron the black dress last minute, the dog ran away with it straight after, iron my red shirt last minute and find a huge iron burn in it, because I went to answer the phone,(which was S saying he’s stuck in traffic), then wear something un-ironed, which made my butt look too big, and not have time with all the ironing to wash out my hair which I had oiled with egg yolk, and have my 5 year old choose that moment to try out cross-dressing and break the high heel I had kept out to wear, and finally call my friends to say I can’t make it, because I want to use my “me time” to sit and howl.

4) Organise your life.
Ha HAAA. I am the kind who keeps all my bills in a shoebox. I am the kind who never pays these bills till they are overdue and my various phone and power connections have been cut off. I am the kind who gets pre-traumatic disorder when tax returns, insurance policies and other various things with drunk, dancing numbers – have to be organised. I wish we could go back to the barter system. You give me a bar of chocolate, and I will give you a branded black dress that my dog ran away with, and did undescribable acts with.

Learning :
I am never gonna be stress-free, am I? But you are welcome to try and help me – by sending me your proven stress-busting tips. I promise to keep them carefully in my shoebox.

The Masked Woman

2009-06-25T06:13:00.000-07:00

I have masks from all over the world strung up on my wall. It took a kid to walk in and ask me “Do you wear any of the masks?” to get me thinking.

I try hard to be honest – especially to myself… but...

There’s my Jack Nicholson Joker mask : The smile frozen in ice, when I want desperately to be somewhere else but am trying to look interested. “Yes, really, that is sooooooo interesting, tell me more.” (I wonder what’s for dinner?!!). “Yes, what you do is soooo interesting.” (Where is the loo in this place?)

My Raavana mask : (oooh boy, here comes Mama, with her 10 heads – all looking equally fierce.. we musta done something really bad today !) Followed by 2-year-old Niks who quickly said yesterday, “Ok, Mama, I’m going to stand in the corner.”

And then sometimes, it all slips !
To the Rain-goddess mask : I have had enough of everyone and everything… I’m underpaid and over-worked ! Watch out, the showers are gonna start ! hooooowl !

If I have a mask I pull out for every occasion - I’m wondering what the real me looks like?

I know people – a vary rare few actually – who are so comfortable in their own skins, that they actually are the same with everyone…. either utterly rude, or politically incorrect, or preachy, or whatever.. but it’s the same (take me as I am)…

But the majority of us, we’re multiple-masked bandits, aren’t we? The Kick-ass-Boss mask, the Lone Ranger (“no one better come into my corner”) mask, the Nobody-can-hurt-me mask, the yahoo-always-smiley mask…. No one really sees the real us… not even the mirror ?

And this is the part I hate : We teach our kids to mask themselves early in life. (Atleast Michael Jackson is open about it). I saw Neel come home from school today with swollen eyes.. but when he saw me, he tried to smile. That’s the Big-Boys-Don’t-Cry Mask. And I’ve been teaching him to wear it.

a nik by any other name

2009-06-18T09:07:00.000-07:00

Giving birth to my children was easier than giving names to them.
S and I agreed on Neel after 6 months (ok, not on Neel – we loved him from the time we saw him) but on the name Neel. I offered a list of 12 fabulous strong boy names, and S said let’s call him Rohan.
2 1/2 years later, I went into hospital clutching my 110 agreed-upon girl names, and we had another boy. So I agonized over 15 strong boy names, and S said let’s name him Rohan. We went through all the books and all the sites and it became an international naming process, with everyone contributing. The baby was called Nemo because he drank like a fish. Then Yoda, because he looked like a wizened old wise man. He was finally named Nikash under threat. (Srini threatened to call him GilliGilliAppa). Let me also add that no one calls him Nikash. He’s Nik, Niks, Niku, Niki, Appu, Kutta, Nikky Poo, Sweet potato, and even Big Dinosaur (his name for himself).
What is it a name means to us? Do we want our kids to be proud of what they’re called? Do we want them to grow up into their names – Like a Rose or a Veer or a Sundari ?
Naming significant others in the family was tons easier. Like our pup got named Marco Polo, because he walked into the house, and explored every corner, also peeing in each one of them (not that the original Marco Polo did – or at least, I have no proof).
The toys also were named super-fast. One car is actually called Super-fast. Neel has a very descriptive and action-oriented approach to naming. When asked what he wanted to call his little brother, he replied “Rolly Polly Machine”. His stuffed tiger is Ferrari, his stuffed dinosaur is “Green Fire Nose”. And after agonizing over the name of his stuffed dog for all of 2 days, I walked in and asked him “Neel, have you named your doggie ?”
“Not Yet, Mama,” he said, and NOTYET is the doggie’s name ever after. Amen.

Learning :
Would love to hear from you what you named your kids/ dogs/ spouses/ cars – but the why – and especially the “how” . Was it the letter of a book? Or from the pages of a book? Or some old girlfriend you had a crush on? Or the name of grandparents, in which case, I would be named “Antonio Santana Felicia Anna Maria Cajetan Salvadore da souza”. Sexy, huh?

Niks in lock-up

2009-06-11T06:54:00.000-07:00

High-tension drama enacted at D305 on Sunday evening, starring Nik, aged 2, and 12 panicked adults, aged – well – let’s keep that confidential, shall we?
Nik woke up from his afternoon nap and locked himself in the ONLY room in the house which has no key. This is the series of events, after that :

1. Me : Niks, open the lock
2. Nik : ok, mama… (does no such thing)
3. My mom : Nik, turn the black thing
4. Me : He doesn’t know colours
5. My mom : turn the round thing
6. Me : He doesn’t know shapes
7. My mom : You haven’t taught him ANYTHING
8. S has, all this time, been having a haircut (and probably massage and all that goes with it, at the local barber)
9. Neighbours rush in to help
10. Neenu : Nik, don’t cry
11. Me : (starting to cry)
12. My mom : I TOLD you both to get a new KEY – AGES ago !!!
13. Neighbours go to find a locksmith. It is a Sunday night and all locksmiths are at home, behind closed doors (like mine). The building handyman is called in. The security man also walks in. Basically, anyone passing by walks in.
14. Everyone : Niks, open the lock
15. Nik : ok (does no such thing)
16. My mom : I TOLD you both to get a new KEY – AGES ago !!!
17. Locksmith is brought in. He cannot open the door. He has not brought his set of spare keys.
18. Locksmith goes back to his shop to bring his spare keys.
19. My mom : I TOLD you both to get a new KEY – AGES ago !!! … (and says this another 27 times in a row)
20. S returns to see his house full of hyperventilating people, and asks : Where is Neel?
21. Neel has been taking advantage of everyone being busy and has eaten a whole slab of butter meanwhile.
22. OMIGOSH, now we’re gonna have TWO kids in trouble!!!
23. Locksmith returns with spare keys. Cannot open door. Totally breaks up my other spare key to my other door (we now have 2 doors without keys – and I HOPE no house-breaking thief type person is reading this).
24. Me : Break the @#$#* door
25. Locksmith cannot break the door. Who is this man? Is he a non-violent nun in disguise?
26. It takes 2 hours and 12 people to finally break the door.

12 adults in panic peer into the dark room inside – to see –
1 calm smiling baby playing in the dark on the bed : Hey Mama !

Learning : Do not ever let your child lock himself in a room, which has no key, on a Sunday evening, while your husband is having a haircut, and the only locksmith on duty is a non-violent nun. The probability of these events happening together is 1 in a trizillion. But if it does happen, call me ! I’ll bring my 11 other adults to help you panic.

whose mom am i ?

2009-06-02T08:05:00.000-07:00

I am a mother to 2 little boys, and a daughter to loving parents.
Or sometimes I wonder, is it the other way around?

1 day, when I was in Bombay crossing a road with my big strong Dad, I suddenly found myself reaching out for his hand, in the traffic hurtling by. And I also realized it wasn’t because I was unsafe, but I though he would be. I wanted to make sure he went across ok.
When did the roles reverse?
Today, my mom lives with us. And I put 3 bowls of porridge out every morning. For my kids and for my mom. I take her out once in while to somewhere she really wants to go. Like to church. I scold her when she eats too little veggies, or when she eats too much sweet.
When did the roles reverse?

And sometimes late at night, when S is out of town, and it is my turn to take our doggie out, I find it is a little too dark and too late and too scary. And Neel, all of 5 years old, suddenly hops along, “because he doesn’t want anyone to take his mama away”. And I find his hand in mine, because he feels unsafe? Or he thinks I do?
When did the roles reverse?

Splitsville

2009-05-22T06:38:00.000-07:00

Preity and Ness headed for Splitsville, scream the headlines. That’s the same place that Jen-Ben once went. And Jen-Brad once went. And Brad-Anjelina are now thinking of going. Where is this place?
Splitsville is somewhere only the rich and famous go. Like Maliboob. I’ve split in my time.
But you think the papers would send me there? Nah. It’s chocabloc full ! Of film stars and soccer stars and journalists who are so busy following everyone in there, that their significant others have split. Being in Advertising, I have naturally turned my extensive intensive research into an ad.

Head to Splitsville this summer.
Beat the Heat with the hottest splitting bods in Bollywood (or get even hotter)
Then cool down by the Split-level pool, while you get photos clicked of you, so you can sue every paper in town.
Enjoy the split level air, and split the bill (or anything else) with Brad Splitt.
Only $1 million for further information – split into further information chapters of more million $ each.

Learning : Why do we lap up this Splitsville news with such glee in the first place? Is it because we like to see those who are so beautiful, rich and famous, become a little sadder, a little more human? After all, when someone normal and non-famous who we know splits (I mean a couple splits of course – would be quite painful if any one person were to split – unless he has a split personality, which means he is already split and in pain… digression over.) So if a couple splits, we offer tea and sympathy (unless of course she “deserves” it, which means she said you’d put on weight the last time she met you, the b*%#@ ! Digression over again) And then we go on to tell humiliating stories about the ex-partner, who it turns out “we never really liked”. Till some day, we meet them together again, and realize they’re back together again, and had never really split.
P.S. Mel Gibson has left his wife of 28 years for Splitsville, with a woman who plays the piano really well. She also has a hot bod, but apparently he noticed her piano playing. Being a little thick in the head must be another criterion to get into those golden Splitsville gates.

Keep track !

2009-05-14T05:06:00.000-07:00

Back when I was in an office, which back then, had a coffee machine, I overheard this conversation :
She : “ I can’t stand her ! She’s always leading him on…”
Another She : “Yes. And having an affair on the side, I’d like to slap her.”
I sidled in to “lend a ear” a bit more – only to find out they were in a sympathetic cluck-a-cluck over the latest soap opera.

My mom once watched a soap for many moons and sunny afternoons. Everyone basically married every one else in turn, so that there were more connections than the Indian Railways. So Brick, for example, marries Stone (yes, they really have names like that), who is his Dad Sand’s ex-wife. Their kid (Cement?) therefore is his son and his brother – or is it uncle?
“Aaah,” says my anguished Mom, who follows these connections like a bloodhound. “That is SandStorm – the adopted ex-kid who pretended to die in the last episode. You never keep track.”

I walk into S watching his football. Fairly simple. He cheers for Arsenal, who play in red, whose main striker is this brilliant guy called Thierry (Yes, he could apply for my mom’s serial with a name like that). So I walk in and see Thierry in red kick a fabulous goal. Yay Yay, I cheer, Way to go, Arsenal.
S is not amused. Apparently Thierry has joined Barca ages back, and Arsenal, for my kind information, lost their last match. “You never keep track.”

So, I hardly ever watch TV. So what?
But how tough is it to catch on to a kiddie program, I think, as I watch Neel watching the antics of a cartoon dog on screen. How many cartoon dogs are there? Scoobie Doo, Pluto, Spike? I carefully ask : “Hey, Neel, what’s this dog’s name then?”
“Mama, that is NOT a dog. It’s a Velico-Vanquerer-Rapto-Prex. Mamaaa, you never keep track.”

Learning : You can tell who is Boss at home by whose hands have the remote control of the TV. So I should get my hands on it, and fling it out of the window. And to the vociferous objections I will get, what can I say? “Don’t you know what day it is today, you guys? Today is My Bad Hair-Badder Mood Day. Don’t you ever keep track?”

Every neighbourhood has 1

2009-05-11T23:50:00.000-07:00

We all know this one person who is totally eccentrically infuriating – sometimes avoidable, but sometimes not – like I walked in home to see Aunty G sitting there. Aunty G or Aunty Gravity, for the unique ability to make the world revolve around her.

“Did you hear – in that storm - a coconut tree fell on my neighbour’s house and smashed their roof.”
“At least, it wasn’t your house, Auntyji.”
“It was MY neighbour. I asked God of all the houses in this place, you could only find one next to me? It will be my house next? What have I done to deserve this?”

I search desperately for some topic where she won’t be the unwilling focus.
Elections ! – aha ! Surely she can’t be the centre of a nationwide phenomenon.
“They are having elections NOW ! Just when I am going to be in my daughter’s house in America that time… What timing ! They always have elections when I can’t vote!”
Subtle hints like telling her that there are greater forces, besides her, fall flat.
“Look, elections are a 5-year-thingie, Aunty, – and you should plan your trip accordingly.”
“What rubbish! My daughter is having a baby,” she lashes out. “And they too are so selfish. They couldn’t have planned that baby better ?– at some time when I was free to go.”
OK, so family planning, national planning and weather planning are definitely not to be undertaken without Aunty G’s prior permission.

She finally heaved herself up to leave, after complaining that the sweets I served were too sweet, with no concern for diabetics like her, and that we live on the 3rd floor, with blinding blindness towards knee pains of arthritic people like her.
“You really shouldn’t take the trouble to come over,” I say. “The steps, the distance… for someone like you.”
“What rubbish!” Aunty G retorts. “I never think of myself.”

The Mask - Part J

2009-05-03T03:38:00.000-07:00

Urged on to get glowing hair and creamy teeth, or is it silky teeth and dazzling skin– or anyway, just urged on to look like Barbie by a zimultizillion magazine ads, I finally succumbed.
Today, after a day of fumes and sun and paint dust, I pulled out the Neem face pack that I’d got as a freebie with washing soap. Lathered it on, and imagined myself emerging like Bo Derek from the water. Emerged from the bathroom to a shriek, and my 2-year-old began to howl, and wouldn’t come to me for half an hour after. I hurriedly washed off the Neem mask and my Bo Derek hopes.
I’ve had a hate-hate relationship with cosmetics all my life. I ate a bit of my strawberry crush face lotion in a late-night pregnancy hunger pang. My dog growled non-stop at my Mud under-eye cream, and when he got to it, he chewed it to little mud pieces. His under eyes have been glowing ever since. My sons play ping-pong with my 3 sunscreen lotions, none of which have ever been used, and have hardened into alien life forms. The burgundy hair colour which has Penelope Cuz tossing her glossing curls because she’s ‘worth it’, turned my hair into blood red spikes.
I never find the time to go the beauty parlour, and the one time I went for a spa massage, I giggled so much, they refunded my money and shut the door on my face. While growing up, I was more a tom boy than the blushing rose, and the only beauty aid I ever used was band-aid on my knees, from falling off a dozen trees.
So today, I cleared my bathroom shelf of the little bottles of 5-star hotel lotions and potions, and the guaranteed silky skin so-and-sos. And I picked up my still sniffling 2 year-old, who looks a lot happier now that his mama’s face is no longer green.

Learning :
1. Nothing’s gonna change the way I look, except for a meteor falling on my face. Which I can live with, or in this case, live without.
2. My 2 little boys think I’m the most beautiful woman in the world, and Hey – that’s good enough for me… (that’s till they discover Barbie of course).

Single's Party Tonight

2009-04-26T07:47:00.000-07:00

“Why be single, come and mingle,” tingled my cell in an early morning sms from someonematrimony.com. Opened my mail to be told “The woman of your dreams is waiting for you!” Umm ?

My understanding of dating, mating sites is that pot-bellied old men pose as young hunks to attract young nubile nymphets, who are actually over-the-hill women looking to attract young hunks. Complicatedly simple….

The singles I know are happily single. One has traveled 75 countries on her own, and is on her next. My most adventurous trip of late has been taking my dog to the vet with a ear infection.(My dog’s, not the vet’s – though the vet may have got a ear infection after meeting my dog – which just goes to show that not all arranged dates work so well.)

Anyway, I invite all the matchmakers, marrying sites and dust mites to my very own SINGLES PARTY tonight.

See, S is always cribbing that the washing machine eats up one of his socks. He never gets 2 socks of the same colour out again. S has the world’s leading collection of single socks. Next - I buy a dozen clothes pegs, and the next day, there are 11 left ! 1 spoon out of the new set has gone walkies, under my nose.

So where do these Singles all go? Is there some hip hopping party under the floor tiles of my house that I’m sleeping through? Only one way to find out. I invite all those who have been urging me to meet my match to my singles party tonight. Creep under the tiles and go seek. You never know.
You may have the time of your life. And meet the sock of your dreams.

The murder of Daisy Dee

2009-04-17T07:48:00.000-07:00

My most faithful childhood companion was a doll called Daisy Dee whose hair I combed and shampooed; I told her many secrets, married her off to many suitable suitors, like Wind-up-Piggy and the boy on the biscuit tin.

Recently, I asked a tiny girl her favourite doll’s name. “I have 27,” she said, “and they’re all called Barbie.”
Today’s kid gets a toy when he does well in class, does miserably in class, Dad goes on a biz trip, Mom goes on a shopping trip (guilt), Sunday, Rain day, Uncle’s-coming-avisiting-so-you’d-better-behave day, election day in Alaska, found-a-toy-not-made-in-China day….
Do they know the romance of waking up every morning to the same beloved, raggedy teddy bear? Or is it quick flings, one-night stands with the train set, until the new car comes in? Will they ever know the magic of an entire afternoon spent fixing a toy soldier’s broken arm with string and grandma’s stolen dentures? Or will it be “Pa, just buy me the next-gen soldier with the laser gun?”

The other day I found Daisy Dee in an old box, and decided to introduce her to my little boys, with all her stories and dreams. We cuddled under the quilt at night, and I told them about value, sentiment and love. They looked at her and me with awe. I DID IT, I thought, I gave them a life lesson.

The next morning, my foot kicked something that went bouncing down the stairs. It was Daisy Dee’s head. A monster truck had run over her, a Transformer twisted her arms backwards, and a dinosaur had bitten a chunk out of her middle. I put her back into her box. Only one dainty foot was still un-attacked.
May her sole (and my heart) rest in peace.

Membership open for the Bleeding Hearts Club

2009-04-13T05:14:00.000-07:00

Ok, so I get a lot of ribbing for being a pulp. I sob at sad movies, goo-goo over stray pups, buy anything from any seller with a sad face. BUT – it’s a firm NO to beggars.

This signal on 100 feet Road? – there’s a kid there – a regular. Sometimes, he appears with his head bandaged, after applying ketchup behind a tree. Sometimes, he’s selling ear buds. Today, he had a big God portrait, and a coupla garlands around his neck.

“I have no money to go to Tirupati”
Me : I have no money too.
Kid (looking through my car window) : You’ve got your handbag.
Me : That’s my mother’s handbag.
Kid : You’re so lucky. I have no mother
Me : (heart bleeding a bit)
Kid again : I’ll pray for you to Lord Balaji at Tirupati
Me (last ditch attempt ) : That won’t help me. I’m Christian.
Kid : Then I’ll pray for you at St. Mary's Church on the way.

I lost. I gave him something. Heck, I almost hired him. Trust me, he’s gonna be Big someday. And maybe sponsor my Bleeding Hearts Club.

Save My House

2009-04-08T21:22:00.000-07:00

My summer holiday homework is REDO House.
S wants to know if my idea of saving money in a recession, is to spend loads of it.
The answer stares you in the face. If you come knocking on my door, that is. (And don’t knock too hard, or the door may cave in.)
Between my dog and my kids, they have peeled the walls and chewed the furniture. There is a stain on the sofa that looks suspiciously like some disgusting body fluid, but is actually orange juice, which by an anti-gravity miracle, has also splashed the ceiling. When a guest opened a cabinet, the Giant Book of Monsters fell on his head.
So I’ve spent hours in the sun, in various potty shops (as Priti so delicately puts it) looking for tiles and basins, and more hours arguing with a lost-looking contractor.
The salient points of my Redo House are therefore :
- Only space left for Ma’s expensive keyboard is in dog’s basket
- Nik fell off the bunk bed in the display at the furniture store – so that is out.
- S and I have argued over every item, colour and finish, and now reached a shade between jaundice-yellow and bile-green
- Neel has asked Asian Paints to paint a HYENA on his wall
Summary :
After copious calculations, (and bad sun tan), I have arrived at NO conclusion on tiles or walls, but reached an estimate. It will cost ½ the State budget, and take 13 years to complete my house.
And will be broken down the next day.

Statistics prove you are going to die

2009-04-08T09:00:00.000-07:00

Woke up to the fresh smell of filter coffee. And opened the newspaper.
Warned the health column – 62% of coffee drinkers have ulcers and angina. Phew ! Just in time !
Opened the orange juice carton. Packed with Vitamin C and all that… Statistics prove that 46.3 % of people who drink juice, which has no fibre, end up with constipation and piles. Ouch !
Cornflakes… frown the statistics – cause cavities in 8.3 out of 10 kids. (what does a .3 kid look like?)
87 % of packaged foods have additives.
85% of fruits have pesticides.
99% of meats are instant cholesterol.
Idli, dosa make India the Diabetes capital of the world.
Ahem ? Water then? Statistics cannot believe my ignorance, pointing out how 77.6% of drinking water is contaminated with underground sewage…. Ugh !

Not hungry any more. Let me just live on fresh air…
Not a chance ! 9 out of 10 places in the city have air that is polluted with above average suspended particle matter which will give me asthma and cancer.
Stop eating. Stop breathing.

A crash course in statistics :
The interviewer met Betty and Sue in a small American hick town, over a cup of coffee. After that, Betty said Bye, tripped over her shoelace, fell down the stairs and broke her neck. The interviewer wrote – Statistics prove that 50% of women who drink coffee die premature deaths.

Statistics are bad for you. Don’t believe everything you’re told… unless I’m telling it to you. J

A question on drawing

2009-03-31T10:01:00.000-07:00

I met a kid I know after her Board exam. “It was super easy,” she said. “Everyone cheated.”
We all laughed. That was funny. And then sad.

It took me back to my own student days. I remember an exam where I squinted hard at question no. 29, all the while being prodded by someone’s foot from behind, getting a loud whisper from the left, and a dig in my ribs from the right. The 2 students ahead of me had their heads joined into 1 big solar eclipse.
Did I cheat?
No. Maybe…. Yes ! Once or twice. Or maybe thrice. To help out a friend in need. Or just to be cool, and ‘with it’ and ‘with them’.

It took me to the future too. What am I going to tell my own little boy? To draw the line? To be honest, and then get shredded to pieces outside the class by his mates? Will I sweep up the pieces, cello-tape him up and tell him I’m proud of him? Or will I tell him to go by his instincts? To go with the “flow”? To do what he wants to do?

No, I will have to say No. Not once. Not ever.
Because I’m not his pal. I’m his Ma.
Because I first put that pencil into his tiny hand. And now, if I don’t teach him to draw the line, who will?

8 women vs 1 decision

2009-03-27T06:18:00.000-07:00

Who said women can’t decide? A blue dress or green? Both ! – that’s a decision, isn’t it? Yesterday, for example, 8 of us women met for lunch and decided on where to have the next lunch. It took us 4 hours – but that’s not the point !

Minutes of the meeting :
-Let’s do Saturday lunch for a friend’s farewell. 2 women going to be stuck in hospital. 1 will be stuck with 2 kids (not even her own). So Saturday lunch is out.
-Saturday dinner? With partners then. 4 for the motion, 3 against, 1 in the loo.
Too much for 1 woman to cook. So eating in is out. Eating out is in.
13 restaurants discussed, 13 excuses for not going to any of them : - Too expensive - Too cheap (waiters are pigs) - Continental – too bland - Andhra – too spicy for kids (Kids? We’re bringing the kids?)
Realise kids are tearing each other apart in the other room. 1 is learning to skate, with another learning to trip him. 2 are trying to sleep on the floor, while the others play hopscotch on them. 3 are fighting over 1 car, while 77 other cars lie close by. 2 are trying to pull the fish out of the fish tank.
Eating IN is back in. Too much for 1 woman to cook. So who cooks what? (The last time we spent 3 hours discussing a picnic and who would bring what, and then 3 seconds the next day canceling it all).
EMERGENCY BREAK : 1 kid locks himself into a room. 35 minutes spent with everyone trying to explain to him how to open it. 11 minutes spent planning to climb the balcony to the window sill to the room – to find the kid is already out.
55 minutes spent discussing how we cannot decide on anything.
Monday lunch is now in.
Phew ! Finally ! 3 hours, 59 seconds !!!
The girl to be farewelled walks in. She cannot come for Monday lunch. We cannot have a farewell without the girl to be farewelled.
Back to the beginning.

Learning : S tells me it takes 8 men (or 80) exactly .33 seconds to decide on where to have lunch. There is only 1 criterion. There has to be beer.

Love goes around - and around

2009-03-24T07:40:00.000-07:00

6 years ago, I opened an anniversary gift from Shilpa, to find a poisonously-pink scented candle, with a huge LOVE carved into it. I grimaced in pain, put on my dark glasses and hid it on the top shelf (don’t deny you have one) – to give the gift you’re never going to use – to someone else who’s never going to use it.
When Riyah, an arty-party-pink-candle person insisted I come for her kitty party, I gave her the LOVE candle as a sign of protest. (She’s been giving me sly smiles ever since). Riyah then gave it to her boyfriend as a sign of their eternal love. He left her next month, and gave it to his new girlfriend Alia, as a sign of their eternal love. Alia put it on her grand-aunt’s grave, hoping they’d bury it too.
But the priest took a liking to it and took it back. He gave it to an Australian called Barry for a reason no one knows (or dares guess at). Barry took it back to Australia and gave it to Sam as a sign of Indian Tribal Art. Sam flung it out of his back window. Vanessa D’Cruz, who was Sam’s neighbour, found it flying at her while she was de-worming her plants, and saw it as a sign from God. She took it back to Goa on her next trip back to India, and gave it to Sr. Nobilia as a sign of Australian Tribal Art.
Sr. Nobilia put it on the altar, and Cindy stole it (this part of the story is not proven, since Cindy denies it). But Cindy, who wanted to make it in Bollywood, gave it to Kareena Kapoor’s make-up assistant who was doing a shoot in Goa. Who gave it to his wife’s younger sister, Meera, as a sign of his love. Meera hated him and the candle. She left it in a fish market.
OK, so here the story got lost… but last week, I met Tanya, whose hair I once put chewing gum on. Tanya tells me all’s forgiven, and she’s taken days to make me something special. It smells of fish and graveyards. And there it is…in all its pinkness - the LOVE candle.
Learning : Please don’t send me candles. Please don’t send me invites to kitty parties. Please don’t send me junk mails. And please do send this junk mail pink candle story to atleast 43,118 people you know immediately, and wait for a miracle to happen tomorrow

Look Ma, 10 hands !

2009-03-20T05:55:00.000-07:00

“My son can count 1 to 100 – backwards – in Latin,” said 1 proud mom in the park.
My son thinks Latin is the next action hero. I gotta do something NOW… so I dashed around picking up info on how to make my kid into Superkid. Surprise – there are tons of classes offering to turn Neel into Tiger-Bill-Gates-Barrack-Obama-Woods !

Where I live, every kid goes to math genius class, soccer genius class, Art genius class, reading story class (takes a genius to start a class for that), music genius class…. So I enrolled my 4 year old in music, badminton, swimming and dance class – all of which he lasted a week in.

Anyways, so we’re going to have, in the next 10 years, every child who is brilliant, comes 1st in class, is a tennis pro, a swimming champ, wins the Oscar, Nobel and Pulitzer together, plays 6 instruments, speaks 16 languages, and builds a submarine with his bare hands, while doing backward somersaults on the trapeze bar.
Or they’re gonna land up to be very bad losers (because no one wants to come 2nd !). And pick up a gun and shoot everyone who’s done better than them.

Learning : So – me ! I’m going to find something my son is really bad at, and then train him to do even worse. We’ve all gotta learn to come last – I did in the marathon – even after taking a taxi half-way ! He’s going to land up as a loser-hippie-rock n roller on the beach (hmm – should I send him to Rock music class?)

I've got less friends than you on Facebook

2009-03-16T06:05:00.000-07:00

I just got a ‘friend invitation’ from someone I don’t know on Facebook who has 872 friends. Some collection huh? Beats my mom’s collection of old newspaper recipes since 1958.
Anyway, I’m sorry, it’s a no. I’m not a collector’s item – but I could put you onto my Ma, if you’d like.

So here’s a list of my own :

If you’re my friend, you gotta earn it, dude (And never call me that) ! Meet over a coupla coffees (and spare me the lecture on my 3 sugars), have a few earth-shattering fights (over an issue you can’t even spell when you’re sober), rush me to hospital after bad prawn curry with me puking all over the back seat of your car, sock someone in the eye because he called me a bad word (something only you can do!), let me fix you up with a blind date and threaten to kill me later.

Do 872 people actually know your deepest darkest fears, like the chicken kabab on your plate may suddenly come to life?

When I change my status line on Facebook, only those who know me will say “Jane has now changed her status to “Jane is a raving lunatic” but hey- isn’t that what she always was?”

My apologies to the 872 – or now 871er ! Put it down to a bad case of Sour Grapes, ok?
And hellooooooo there to my good many good friends on Facebook, and out of it. And a few who are almost there! But first I’ve got to find out if they’re worthy – or rather if the backseat of their car is puke-worthy !

Do the Fetness Quiz now

2009-03-13T04:40:00.000-07:00

I’m not fat, and definitely not fit. Somewhere in between...fet?
See – being Fet is gonna be the latest craze, and remember you heard it first from ME.

1. Fet is looking at this skinny girl in skinny jeans, with a skinny IQ walking past, and sucking in your belly – and then letting it out with a whooooooosh, that almost blows her away like a leaf – sorry, skinny leaf. 25 points !!!

2. Fet is promising to exercise everyday. Before I can swim, I need to exercise to wear that swimsuit. Before I can do yoga, I need to buy a mat. Before I can go for a walk, I need to pull my jogging shoes out of mothballs. So drive around instead… it’s a lot of stress – which in turn, burns calories. 18 points !!!

3. Fet is getting your lingo right. You have child-bearing hips (not called a big butt) - 20 points. Delicious curves (not bulges) that drive men in Cosmo crazy – 25 points. You have muscles (not called fat arms) (all the better to smack them with, if they’re looking at Ms Skinny). 142 points !!!

Scoring : Now add up all your points. If you’re over 3 points, you’re very Fet - go treat yourself to a hot chocolate fudge. If you’re over 4 points, you’re a Fetness guru - buy yourself a pair of jogging shoes and put them into mothballs.

Supper Theatre

2009-03-06T04:25:00.001-08:00

Little Tommy Tucker sang for his supper. Lucky dude! I need to dance a jig, bribe, wheedle, and run negotiations that would make a Trade Union Leader proud.

“Dinner’s Ready !” (Me)
Neel : Why?
Me : It’s Yum spinach and corn
Neel : Why ? (Neel’s reaction to anything not Pizza)
Me : Because it will give you muscles like Popeye
Neel : Why ? I wanna look like Ben 10’s aliens (one of whom has Four Arms, and another a Crocodile Head)
Me : Nothing I cook will ever make you look like that !
Neel : So let’s order Pizza !

Next is Nik’s turn. I spend 45 minutes stuffing his face. It’s like stuffing cotton into a pillow. Nik never chews. Nik never swallows. His mouth keeps getting fuller, till the hi-tech machinery inside his mouth churns all the accumulated food into a looooooong noodle which he spits out at the nearest impossible-to-clean surface.

My dog Marco pops an eyebrow up at his dinner bowl with a Where’s-the-pizza,-Woman? Look and goes back to licking his balls, which he thinks are tons tastier.

By the time, it’s all over, I’m boiling and my own dinner’s cold. “I’m going to bed hungry,” I announce, expecting everyone to melt with sympathy.
“That’s not fair. Why can’t I do that?” – from Neel.

Thank God for S, who is a human vacuum cleaner and eats everything that’s left over. He is one of those gifted persons who eats like he’s pregnant but still looks like a noodle (that Nik spat out).

When did you become an Aunt?

2009-03-05T21:07:00.000-08:00

I was 24, and sprinting across the playground to my cousin’s place, when I heard the words that made me turn around in slow-mo.
“Auntie, pass the ball !”
Auntie? Who Me? Noooo !
I kicked their dratted ball right even further away, right over the wall, and ran to the mirror.
No grey hairs, butt’s in shape, or is it? … Auntie? Reallllly ?! I decided to start kickboxing classes immediately. (kick-butt-boxing classes – multiple puns intended).

My husband, before he became my husband, that is, got his first ‘uncle’ when he was a bachelor on his first job. At a dinner at his boss’ house, the boss’ pretty young 18-year-old pranced in…and S got his hopes a-soaring.
The Boss then introduced them “This is Manya. Manya, say Hello to this UNCLE.”

One day, you’re a nose-ringed, dirty-jeaned rebellious teen, and the next day, you’re the one being rebelled against. It’s a fine line…the next fine line’s called a wrinkle.

Learning : Years later, when my first-born first called me “Mama”, I yahoooed with joy. Why do I love being called Mama, but break into red spots at ‘Auntie’?

To the real hero of Slumdog M

2009-02-27T04:24:00.000-08:00

And the Oscar kept going to Slumdog Millionaire.

Everyone got what they wanted. Anil Kapoor got photographed with the gold nude in his hand. Freida Pinto got a Hollywood agent. Dev Patel got Freida Pinto. And they all lived happily ever after as “good friends”.

It’s got something for everyone. Westerners want to see the slums. My kid wants to see the dog. We all want to see a story where a poor boy gets rich and gets the girl… but hey, isn’t that what every other Hindi film is about? What’s so great about….

…and then Rahman goes up on stage. And I have no more Q. or A. Just a big lump in my throat. Is this the best movie ever made? I don’t know. Is this the best song he’s ever made? I don’t care. If a boy with not much in his pocket but big dreams in his eyes, can today stand up with an Oscar in his hand… then the story’s turned out right.

It’s easy for me to be funny, or cynical, or droll. But it takes a moment like this to make me proud. So proud.

when santa won't behave

2009-02-26T03:54:00.000-08:00

Today was Neel’s first ever big school Annual Day, and he had ONE whole line to say on stage. For that, his father took half day leave from office, (this is a man who took his laptop into hospital for his own disc surgery) and his mother (me, for the uninitiated) almost collapsed.

I was assigned a vegetable carving of Santa Claus, for which I spent the last 3 months searching for a piece of ginger shaped like a reindeer. Every veggie vendor in town thinks I’m trying to hit on him, the time I’ve spent.

Finally, my friend Goury found 1 ginger reindeer which kept swooning, and needed critical care bandaging with cello tape to stay up. The other reindeer, because of condensation, stood in a puddle of water, which looked like it had peed on the school project. Santa – a brinjal painted red (and try painting a slimy brinjal red – it looks like you've stabbed Santa and he's bleeding!) kept falling off his sleigh, which was a pear balanced on 2 drunk green beans. To add to the Christmas debacle, there were cauliflower florets supposed to act like snow, which sadly lacked these acting talents, and oblivious of their great role in the Annual Day, rolled all over the school steps.

The teacher, thankfully, was very nice, and took in the tired vegetables, and the exhausted mom, with a smile.

Neel’s one line went off brilliantly. He saw us off stage, and smiled and waved from on stage. I smiled back, though I was so tired, my eyes criss-crossed, and I might have waved at the vegetable display instead. But it still beat my Santa brinjal, whose eyes had fallen into his sleigh by then.

Hair and the City

2009-02-21T08:48:00.000-08:00

It’s a known fact that women feeling lousy and wanting to feel better, go cut their hair, then hate their hair cuts and feel more lousy.
It is also a known fact that men do not know this known fact.
So it was I came home yesterday with short hair and a long face.
“Why do you cut your hair if you hate it so much ?” asks S, proving my theory on men, women and known facts right. (Men cut their hair whenever it tickles their ears, or a new female employee joins, and no one ever notices it – not the female employee, the man, or even his barber.)
Other reactions to my haircuts are dramatic - “Hummm”, “Achooo!” and “Wow, look at your nice pink shirt.”
Hoping to cash in on my 4 year old son’s love for his mom, I ask “Neel, how is my haircut?”
“One side is longer than the other, “ (ignorant man-in-waiting !)
“Well,” I explain, “this style is in. Don’t you see the women in Sex and the City?”
“No,” says Neel, “you don’t let me see it. What’s Sex ?”
---

Today’s talk has not gone well. Today's haircut has not gone well. I think I should forget today, and wake up tomorrow and make some drastic change to make me feel New and Better…. Like cut my hair?

Happy Val Day, Mr Mutalik

2009-02-16T03:30:00.000-08:00

Mutalik saying Love is imported from the West, and sending him pink panties (also imported from the West) must rate among the Valentine Day’s Funniest Evers. But the award goes to …

One Valentine’s Day, I met an old buddy with his new wife – you know the kind of shoulder-punching, bhutta-on-the-road-eating guy who makes a great friend.

“Don’t worry,” he’s saying, “I’ve told my wife about us.”
Us ? There was an “us” ? While I was eating pani puri (or bhutta) on the road, he was building us a family, kids, house with a garden and plumbing problems?
“She also knows about our break-up,” he added.
“errrr…. When did we break up? “ I had to ask. Was I too busy drinking roadside tea (ok ok bhutta) to notice we were breaking up?
Now, wife-status simpers. “Oh, you’re still in denial! He told me about your break-up, tantrums and final mental breakdown.”

After they left, I sat down to raise a Valentine’s Day toast to myself, to the grand romance and tragic end of a relationship I didn’t even know I’d had.

Learning : Eating kulfi (yes, yes, bhutta!) on the road is a culture imported from the West, and will therefore, lead to divorce and gastroenteritis.

Roughing it out is NOT in

2009-02-13T05:10:00.000-08:00

For the LAST TIME, I told the smug snooty HR-girl-with-a-foreign-degree, book me into a hotel with a heated swimming pool, or I AM NOT TRAVELLING! She cursed in Scandinarabic and scuttled away.

Flashback movie style to my backpacking college days: I once slept all night on a railway platform at some unheard-of station in Rajasthan. The trains too hadn’t heard of it, because no train stopped there for hours on end, and when one did, we had to hang on to the closed door of a running train (told you it was movie style) for a coupla minutes.

Next shot : We’re in this flea-bag hotel in Sikkim, where the room rate was so low, till we realized it was sponsored by the long queue outside our bathroom window, with tickets being sold for a peep-in.

Next shot : We’re in a little car in breath-taking mountainside, with my head hung outside, hair trailing the dust, coughing, gasping, puking my insides out. Breath taken all right!

Hot meals used to mean pulling a leech off my leg, boiling it and eating it…(leeches are rich in Vitamin Something). And Room Service meant someone coming into my room to chase a rat away at 2 a.m. while I jumped up and down on the bed screaming. Travel Insurance : I once kept my boots on for 7 days and 7 nights out of fear that someone would rob them. Someone did – on the 8th day.

So the HR girl came whimpering back, with the heated pool hotel. It has Continental and Indian restaurants, she offered. NO CHINESE? I growled, I can’t be expected to stay in a place like that !
(After all, eating live leeches is definitely Chinese cuisine, wouldn’t you agree?)

Guns or Roses ?

2009-02-11T03:54:00.000-08:00

A neighbour said she didn’t let her son touch a toy gun.
I came home to find Neel and Nikash shooting at each other, rolling over, playing dead, with hands plunged into gory imaginary blood wounds, and tongues grotesquely stuck out, eyes rolling. The toy guns, knives, ropes were OUT !

S came home to find his son surrounded by a PINK teaset, dolls and teddy bears. The dolls were OUT !

Out went Ben-10 and his aliens, OUT went the sharp toys kids under 3 “may swallow”, out went the rockets, gum, toy snakes, poisonous paints …

Meanwhile, in the last year, my sons have swallowed a bee, then a red crayon, jumped from a plain ole sofa and twisted an ankle, fallen off a SAFE rockinghorse and cracked a head, fallen off a child cycle and torn a ear ! One almost beheaded the other with an ABC book. I have come to the conclusion they can turn cotton balls into life-threatening missiles.

Learning : Children who play with guns don’t grow up into terrorists. 15 years back a kid who played with guns grew up into Abhinav Bindra, and won an Olympic Gold, or they turn into army cadets. It’s never what you put into their hands that shapes their life. It's what you put into their heads.

The TV broke

2009-02-07T04:41:00.000-08:00

One day the TV sent some ziggy zaggy beams, beeps and coded high-secret spy signals to Outer Space, and then died.
I did a jig – finally our family could TALK.
S came home from office, read the newspaper and then read it backwards, and then we spoke for 1.33 seconds till his office called for 2 hours.
Neel gave a version of Bob Marley’s “No TV, No Eat”.
Nik pushed the TV buttons, the remote buttons, my cell phone buttons, my shirt buttons, and then threw the remote control at Neel.
That started a full-fledged battle/ chase and the dog joined in, all screeching.

The neighbours called up to say “Turn your TV volume down”.
I went upstairs and TALKED. To the TV repair centre, and begged them to come home immediately.

Learning : Contrary to what child specialists say – TV is brilliant for family bonding. The best conversations in our house have been with the TV on full volume.
S : Neel, come and watch Van Persie kick
Neel : I can kick better
Nik : Nicky kicky

My baby no more

2009-02-03T04:11:00.000-08:00

When he was 2, I went : “Don’t cry ! Don’t be such a baby !”
When he was 3, I said : “Don’t hit your little brother, he’s a baby !”
When he was 4, HE said : “Don’t kiss me in front of my friends. I’m not a baby !”

Now, he’s not yet 5, but he’s too old to be seen with “Cute stuff” on his clothes. He’s too old for me to hold his hand. He’s too old to drink from a sipper. He’s too old to be given stuffed toys.

But sometimes of a night, on a day when nothing’s gone right – when the troubles of being a “big little small boy” hit him hard, he’s game for a little cuddle. Just when no one’s looking, you understand. Just me and him; and the complexities and confusions and scraped knees and bullies of the playground forgotten.

Because being almost 5 is a big big burden. He’s not a baby any more. But he’ll always be mine.

yes, I can't cook

2009-02-02T04:59:00.001-08:00

I was introduced as a young bride, “pretty, yes, intelligent, yes…. But…….”
In a whisper “SHE CAN’T COOK !”

I met some distant (and after this meeting, even more distant) relatives, who said
(compliment) : Wow, you’re looking so slim after all these years.
(not-so-compliment) : It must be because you can’t cook.

I’ve thought of learning. I’ve bought half the recipe books ever published.
And then I’ve realized I’m not learning to cook.
I’m learning to give in. To what every woman “must know”.

So I’m publishing it. I have a personality flaw. I had a deprived upbringing.
I learnt Shakespeare, to fly kites, to skate, to swim, to write a play, the rules of boxing.
But I never learnt to cook.
I am the only person I know who can burn water. It takes me 20 minutes to make the Maggi 2-minute noodles. And it still tastes raw.

Learning :
I can’t spend hours in the kitchen making a dish to make my guests go orgasmic.
Instead, I spend the evening chatting with them –about things that really matter. Like the food we’re going to order in.

Birthday Blues

2009-01-31T04:06:00.000-08:00

This is a season of weddings and birthdays and babies being born all over the place – really, one was born in a library! Thankfully though I don’t know that one. This is about all the people we do know and like well enough to supply with gifts.
S has predicted that we will be the first family to go bankrupt because of birthdays and birthday presents.
The average child’s birthday party consists of invitation cards (in theme), decorations (in theme), return gifts (in theme), an EVENT MANAGER (no more paper cut-outs of Pin-The-Tail-on-The Donkey), a tattoo artist, a magician. These are mandatories – more mandatory than the birthday kid himself.
So your little invitee walks in and says “Happy Birthday, Adi, where’s the tattoo artist? Can he tattoo Ben10 fighting Spiderman on my arm? He can’t? ok Give me my gift back – and my return gift.”
The next one walks in, looks at the magician and says “This guy was at Ria’s party. He can only pull out rabbits, not elephants from his hat. Give me back my gift.” And so on…..

Learning : So we should all ban birthday parties, and go back to Pin-the-tail-on-the Donkey. Or, when your lil 4 year-old comes to you with jam on his face and cake on his mind, do what we do. Sell your car, and go (by bus) to buy yet another birthday gift.

Magnetic Man

2009-01-28T04:10:00.000-08:00

And then a long lost school friend who I’ve just Facebooked, asks me to describe the man I married. Wasn’t the best of times, since I’d had a long silent sulk this morning, which he didn’t even notice. Anyways, after chewing on my mouse (pencil/ pen/ nails – it’s just a figure of speech ok?) I got that one word to describe him !
“Magnetic”. A magnetic personality.
I mean, everything electronic just flies at him.
As soon as he enters the door, after a whole day at office, for example, the remote control flies into his hand. His feet are then drawn to the television, and his body responds immediately to gravity and attains a horizontal position, from which it is only coaxed out when the beer can flies once again into his hand.
At times like this, I resist the temptation to throw the frying pan at him. After all, it’s metal, isn’t it? It should go and meet the middle of his eyebrows on its own. Hardly my fault ! He’s magnetic !

The flag

2009-01-27T03:49:00.000-08:00

We bought 3 little flags the night before Republic Day.
1 Re each. The price that patriotism is selling at.

We woke early in the morning, and went to Cubbon Park.
The boys played football, I fell into a dirty stream, the dog tried his best to pick fights with every stray dog, and Neel had to be pulled off the fence of the goose enclosure.
I took my baby for the building Flag Hoisting – and eyed the free coffee, that never came my way. While the children were belting out a re-mix of Vande Mataram, we were talking about allergies.
Later that day, we went shopping (great Sales in town), ate, did a lot of book browsing, and I got food poisoning, and ended the day throwing up the entire contents of my mile-long intestines (And a good part of the intestines too).
All in all, a nice full day, I’d say.
Before getting into bed, I picked up my shopping bags, and found something lying squashed under them.
The flags.

Broken Bones

2009-01-25T07:31:00.000-08:00

My little boys are definitely competitive.
Neel fractured his arm when he was 4. Nik has sprained his foot before he turned 2.
I have so many XRays of them both, that I could set up a whole Spooky House Gallery.
Oh that’s ok, says Savio, their cousin. I’ve got 8 stitches on my face. Great ! A new high for them to aim for.
The worst part ? They don’t learn.
Each fall from the table, my BP does a pole vault. But little Nik bawls his head off, wipes his snotty nose, and goes right upto the table, and jumps again. And falls again. And bawls again. On and on, till their Dad comes home to see me crying.
Are you hurt? He asks
No, but Nik is.
Is that why he’s crying?
No, that’s because I spanked him.
S sits down on that one… Let me get this straight. He hurt himself, so you hurt him some more, so he’d cry, so you’d cry.
Something like that… fast learner, this man !

Learning from today :
Kids need to jump. They need to fall. They need to learn. I need to learn that they won’t learn. I also need to know that the only permanent scars will be those worry lines on my face !