THE BUSINESS OF DEATH

Last Sunday, a lot of my childhood memories were turned into a pile of ashes. The lady who played the starring role in every one of my summer vacation memories was no more.
I had always believed that rituals were ways to help us deal with life itself, and have always felt that those that dealt with death were no different. That they were there to help us deal with the trauma, come to terms with reality and to provide some kind of closure.
Cremation over, it was time to discuss the ceremonies (“beli”)that usually follow in a week’s time or so. That was when the shocks began. The “Kanniyan” or the astrologer, informed us that the date my grandmother passed away was “unlucky”. That we were soon to hear of 4 other deaths; within the family, friends or neighbors. He neatly covered all bases by clarifying that the deaths could be those of pets too.
Next this middleman comes by with a gargantuan list for the puja. It had enough items on it to ensure that the priest’s family did not have to visit the grocers at least for the next three months. The middleman was magnanimous enough to state that we only had to arrange for the money and that he would get all the items on the list. Moreover, we had to ensure that all of these items were delivered to the priest’s home!! And the cost of all the items on the list?...a cool Rs 25,000. The cost of the “dakshina” for the priest and his apprentices and that of the feast that would need to be served to them as well as to the other invitees were not included in this figure. On being told that the cost was way beyond what we could comfortably afford, we were told that we always had the option of borrowing!!! But the quality of the puja (read the quantity of the items needed) could not be compromised.
All of this brought to mind a story I had read a long time ago. My mom, who teaches the language, in her zeal to introduce her only daughter to the richness of Hindi literature, had insisted I read a few works of Premchand. This one, if I remember correctly, was titled “Kajri Billi” (The Black Cat). The story was about this rich zamindar’s daughter-in-law, who inadvertently “kills” this thieving black cat that sneaks into her kitchen, by throwing something at it. The whole household is soon in an uproar and the family priest is summoned. He decrees that a gold figure of the cat needs to be made and worshipped along with the requisite rituals and pujas to lessen the impact of this dire act. The “dakshina” would obviously include the gold figure of the cat, along with money, new clothes as well as various items listed as required for the puja. The superstitious zamindar’s family agrees to this and is soon busy with readying the items needed. The happy priest goes home to his wife and declares that she is soon to be treated like a princess; new clothes, new jewellery and enough groceries to prepare all the delicacies she was always hankering after.
He returns to the zamindar’s and readies for the puja. At this point, the maid rushes in with the news, “The cat just got up and ran away.” Apparently, the daughter –in-law had merely stunned the cat!!
Ma, I know I was skeptical when I first read this, wondering how people could be so gullible. But then you were right, as usual. People do tend to be gullible when they are grief-stricken, and yes, Premchand’s stories are based on real life!!!

YEAH………LAZY LAZY LAMHE………..

“Why on earth are you two up at this unearthly hour? “ grumbled Hubby Dear snuggling deeper into the blankets. “Not even the birds are awake”! Appu, bright-eyed and bushy tailed at 6 in the morning and all excited about the day to unfold, took umbrage to that. He simply could not understand why his Accha was not “gettuping”. This from a kid who needs to be prised out of bed each morning, using a crowbar. He promptly dived under the blankets and started tickling… bedlam followed.

A bleary-eyed Accha, finally admitting defeat, slunk bleary-eyed to the living room and plunked himself down on the bean bag. “Do I atleast get a cup of tea?” Tea provided, hubby dear wanted to know why we needed to leave for Devrayanadurga this early. “So we are in time for breakfast at the Kamat Restaurant near the hills.” I knew hubby dear had accepted defeat when he did not even question this logic.

Grabbing some water and some stale French fries from the previous evening’s junk food orgy(just in case we got hungry!!) off we went, picking up a friend ‘M’, our guide and mentor on this trip. We made a pitstop at the Kamat Yatri Nivas. Masala Dosas, pooris, rava dosas, innumerable vadas and cups of coffee later, we were ready for the final leg of the drive.

About 20 minutes later, we were at our destination. Devrayanadurga is a pretty place with a number of temples nestled amongst the hills. The one we visited was called the Yogalaksminarasimha Swamy temple(I dare you to pronounce it in a single breath!!). It is set bang into the hillside. Something to be said about the area, it is really well-maintained. None of the callousness or damage one would associate with places of historical importance. We could see the steps being repaired and safety features being added. In addition the place was absolutely clean.

Temple visit over, we decided to climb up to the very top. A lot of climbing and slipping not to mention scratches later, we made it to the very top… to an absolutely fantastic view!! The rock we were on was vertical in some places and we had an uninterrupted view of the countryside. Appu, who had never been to a place like this said in awe, “Wow, you can see so many “countries” from here.” On being asked what those countries were, he promptly replied, “Matralli, hegdenagar and Sooltanpali”. (Marathahalli, Hegdenagar and Sulthanpalya, in case you are wondering). What really made me mad was that I had such a lot of trouble getting to the top, me, the so called avid trekker ; while the three men clambered up without a care, proving their monkey antecedents.

I took to sliding down some of the more slippery rocks and had thorns all over and peeled off skin to show for my trouble, while the three didn’t even seem to be breathing hard!!!

On our way back, we stopped at “Namada Chelume”. This is in the middle of some really pretty reserve forests-text book pretty and poetry inspiring-deep woods, lovely, dark and deep and all that.

To make it even more interesting, legend states that Lord Rama had stopped here and had searched for water to apply the ‘nama or tilak’ on his forehead. When he couldn't find any water, he shot an arrow into the heart of the rock. The hole thus created yielded water!!! Hence the name ‘Namada Chilume’ or spring of the ‘nama or tilak’. Surprisingly this little spring never dries up throughout the year. This legend was recounted to me by a young girl who was selling fresh roasted corn on the cob at the entrance to the forest.

It was time to leave and we soon got back home, muscles tired and hurting; but memories of the fantastic view from the top of the hill and the soul satisfying green of the forest soothed us all into a deep sleep-at 6 in the evening!!!

VIRUS VERSUS VIRILITY

It all started with a TV promo..that of Shahid Kapoor running amongst white horses (in slow motion of course) each well exercised muscle displayed to perfection… now tell me, which woman worth her salt would be able to prevent her heart beats from going into overdrive?

Since the TV promo teased more than it displayed.. I was determined to go see the whole thing come hell or swine flu. Enquires amongst my normally movie-mad friends elicited mixed responses:

“Are you mad? I don’t want to go sit in a theater full of swine flu viruses”. This from someone who doesn’t think twice about gobbling pani puri from the now ubiquitous pani puri stalls right next to a busy traffic signal or drinking from dirty glasses from the omnipresent “wine shops”.

“Why couldn’t you have let me know earlier.?” I’ve already booked the tickets.”

“What’s with you and your sudden desire to watch a movie in a theater?”

Finally, after a lot of arm twisting and cajoling.. hubby dear was sweet enough to get tickets from the nearest theater and was willing to sit through 2 1/2 hours of sheer nonsense (his words not mine!!). I have a strong feeling the words “Quentin Tarantino” in a couple of the movie’s reviews had something to do with this decision!!

Word spread faster than the swine flu and soon we had almost the whole gang, except the linguistically- challenged congregated at the said theater for a late night show, wives and babies in tow.

That’s when they started trickling in.. the ones who couldn’t keep away. All decked out in paper masks and in some cases even the N95 masks. Didn’t they know that all those masks would do was to make them look like Darth Vader’s reincarnations on earth? One look at the mask-clad hunks and all the babies, without exception; set up a holler loud enough to wake any of the hitherto sleeping viruses.

Needless to say, I spent most of the movie looking at all the various kinds of masks on display.. so much so that, hubby dear had to poke me in the ribs when the “Shahid with the white horses” scene came on!!

And as to the movie: I think it would suffice to say that I have been threatened with excruciating tortures if I ever lured anyone to the theater again with the words “Quentin Tarantino”.

OF GODS AND MERE MORTALS

It’s that time of the year again. When devotees of Ayappa don their ‘malas’ and take a vow of abstinence. This is a regular feature in our home, where both the so called grown men of our home (Appu not included)get ready for the annual pilgrimage.
Appu was fascinated with hubby dear’s mala, and with his usual exuberance was trying his best to break it. This earned him a stern reprimand from hubby dear, who usually allows him to get away with murder. I, in all my newly found maternal zeal to explain things to Appu, decided to tell him why he wasn’t supposed to be messing with the ‘mala’.
Towards that end, I tried to convince Appu that his dad was now officially a “swami”. I was prepared for puzzlement. But instead, sonny dear, who never fails to surprise me, asked me with a naughty glint and a mischievous smile… “ Swami?” Like Ganesha? ( that is his favorite deity, since his school has an enormous one in the prayer hall) . So do I now have to call him “Ganesha Accha?”
One look at hubby dear’s face and I hurriedly abandoned all attempts at explanation!! I was too busy trying not to burst out laughing!!!!

Meet Rabia Sultana!!

Another one of those ethnic days at work (yawwwwwwwwwn!!). What do I wear? The same old settu saree? And who was going to help me wear it? I had better get it perfectly right if I did not want derogatory looks and thinly veiled sarcastic comments from the mallu brigade at work.
Then inspiration strikes… or let me reframe it… the recipe to disaster stuck… why didn’t I try one of those Malabar Muslim outfits, especially the ones worn during the “oppana”?.
I shot off a frantic email to friends, enemies and country men… “Did anyone have an oppana costume?” I was laboring under the misconception that anyone who was Muslim and lived in the Malabar region was bound to have one… rather like the ubiquitous ghagras every self respecting fashionista would have in her wardrobe.
The replies I got to the above mentioned email really set my teeth on edge:
“Why don’t u try the Kummattikali costume?”
Me: What on earth is that?
A very cryptic reply: “Ask your darling hubby.” ( I found out later it was a colorful mask dance of Kerala)
The next reply was even more enlightening: “I shall check with my girlfriend.” Err.. you sure about this? What if she thinks you’re a cross dresser?
“Oppana costume?” “What is that?”. And all this while I thought I was the only “fraud” mallu in this group!!!
A very hesitant reply from a body builder types: “I shall check with the womenfolk at home in Kozhikode.” ( I would have loved to have seen the expressions of the said womenfolk when the request was made)
Since it was pretty obvious that a readymade costume was not to be found for love or for money, I set my mind towards making one of my own. That should be simple enough. All I needed was one of those long sleeved blouses, I could use the top half of the settu mundu to make my veil and the bottom half could be worn lungi style…all I would need was a belt to secure it in place…. not much effort I figured!!!
Phone call to R, (my very own yellow pages, I often tell her). “R, do u have a long sleeved top I could use as part of an oppana costume?” “R” by now used to my out of the world ideas, didn’t bat an eyelid and calmly said. “Well I have a green one that my husband calls “a Pakistani flag”. The blouse was perfect, sleeves and length and color… But wait a minute… the neckline.. I was pretty sure the women folk of the said region didn’t wear a plunging neckline like this one had, so I had to regretfully put that one aside.
After two more unsuccessful attempts at finding the perfect long sleeved blouse (one was a bright red kurta that ended at my knees and the other was a shiny black top sewn indiscriminately with plate sized sequins) I decided to see if I could shorten one of my kurtas. I was rummaging in my closet with that in mind when hey presto!! I found an old shiny blue top that I used to wear with my jeans. And I also had a settu mundu to match!!!
Next I needed heavy jewellery to match. “P”, yet another long suffering friend of mine, actually lent me her kundan set that she had used at her wedding !!
Next morning, in a frantic hurry to make it to work on time, I begged and pleaded with hubby dear to please iron my blouse so it didn’t look so disreputable. Off I went to have a quick bath… and that’s when disaster stuck. Hubby dear had used the highest setting on the iron and had burnt a hole in my blouse!!! Looking sufficiently chastened, he did point out that it wasn’t too bad, that my head covering would cover most of the burnt area.
I was mad enough by this time to get into the confounded outfit come what may… The sheer effort I had put into the outfit had to be compensated somehow. After a lot of disaster recovery and camouflaging in the restroom of my office, thanks to friends, I was finally ready.
The rest of the morning was spent in staring down a lot of people, some disbelieving, some shocked, some amused and some plain curious. But the best moment of all came when the news filtered in THAT I HAD ACTUALLY WON THE ETHNIC DAY COMPETITION!!!

To BEE or not to BEE

Remember all those email forwards with a subject line that goes “ Children home alone with Daddy?” Accompanied by funny pictures of kids drinking water from the doggy bowl or climbing into a refrigerator filled with beer cans? All this while, I was one of those moms who labored under the misconception that those horror stories were just that-horror stories. But the events of last Sunday have got me thinking…
I firmly believe in father-son bonding.. and since I have a father-son duo who bond extra well, it leaves me with time on my hands to indulge in things I would otherwise never be able to fit into a crazier-than- crazy schedule.
Hence last Sunday found me at Blossoms on Church Street, basket in hand, merrily buying up every book (new, old or moth eaten )that caught my fancy. This was one mad buying spree that I really did enjoy (especially since I was not the one who was paying for it!!). I was browsing through one of Wodehouse’s masterpieces and giggling to myself as I am wont to do, when shrill summons from my cell phone brought me back to planet earth with a resounding thud. ( I know, I know cell phones in a book shop are so de rigueur!! Blame it on a mom’s natural fear of catastrophe waiting to strike her little one!! )
I picked up the phone to hear a loud pain-filled yell from my normally stoic son and the blood froze in my veins. In the midst of all the hiccupping and yelling, I was only able to make out that Appu was hurt. Finally hubby dear managed to get in a word edgewise and let me know that Appu had managed to get chased by bees and had gotten himself stung in three different places no less!! Visions of swelling arms and stingers stuck in poor Appu’s hands swam before my eyes. Staccato instructions to hubby dear followed, “ Put some ice around the area to bring down the swelling.” “Check to see if the stingers have been still left where he has been stung”. “Make sure you apply some turmeric if the stingers are out” (this nugget I got from my own childhood brush with the bees!!) “ Try not to break the stingers, use forceps”. “Where are the forceps?” (In my manicure kit where else??). “And watch for any reddening, increase in swelling, acute discomfort or difficulty breathing.” “Why do u need to watch for all that?” Because those are signs that Appu is allergic and is going into shock, you dork!!!
I’ve to hand it to hubby dear. His Buddha like-demeanour, which usually drives me up the wall, is a godsend in times like these. Caught up in the tentacles of guilt so bad they squeezed all sanity right out of my brain, I got home as soon as soon as I could, and heaved a sigh of relief at the sight that met my eyes. Appu, fast sleep, hands carefully positioned over the quilt, no signs of any reddening , swelling or stingers.
I finally got the whole story. It seems hubby dear was talking to one of his friends on the phone in the balcony. Appu, bored with the cartoons he was watching decided to go put his two cents worth into the conversation. He walked out into the balcony and seeing his dad wasn’t handing him the phone, decided to go investigate the black and gold wriggly things on the dish tv antenna fixed to the side of the balcony railing. Next thing anyone knew, Appu was being chased back into the house, by a trio of bees in hot pursuit, who did manage to get some stings in. More than the pain, we were worried about how traumatized he had been.
The next morning saw those fears put to rest. Appu, pointing to a colorful advertisement of a beehive, (savings for some bank) pointed to a picture and said, “Those are the bees that bit me yesterday right?”

And the best laid plans…………….

Important note to people travelling to the Lakshadweep islands: However well you plan, there is one contingency you can never plan for…. the whims and fancies of the dreaded species called the “M.Ds”(that’s local parlance for the government VIPS) . This is a species unique to the Lakshadweep islands, and their powers are vast and sweeping. Changing routes of speed launches, throwing people out of previously booked cabins,-this is all in a day’s work for the “M.Ds”.

Picture this: Waking up at 4:30 am to be in time to get on the speed launch that goes from Kavaratti to Agatti enroute to Bangaram. We were warned time and again by the locals that we simply had to be at the dock by 7 or else we would miss the boat for sure and there wasn’t another one for days after. We did manage to make it on time after a lot of scrambling… only to be told that the vessel was waiting for the “M.D” who arrived 50 mins later!!!

Two hours later we were told, the vessel was heading to a different island altogether before carrying on to Agatti. The reason? The MD and his family wanted to visit this island. The thought of enduring another two hours in the speed launch was unimaginable to most of our group, so we decided to get off at Kadamth.

We thought we were rid of the pests for good when they surfaced again on the ship back to cochin!!

Thanks to them, we didn’t get the air-conditioned cabins we were supposed to and since it was unbearably hot, we ended up on the open deck of the “Tipu Sultan”, the ship hitherto used to transport cattle. (Is there a lesson here somewhere?)

The whole situation reminded me of the fish in A’s bottle. After a point of time, most of the fish came up to the holes punched in the plastic sheet covering the bottle, in search of oxygen, per A’s expert advice. Somehow, I couldn’t help but draw parallels between their situation and ours!!!