The dog ate my excuses

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

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

“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

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

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

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

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 ?

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

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 !

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?”