Myriad Musings

Bedtime Stories

2011-06-07T23:40:00.000-07:00

Bed time at our home is a mixed bag; what with us parents trying to get Appu to go to sleep and him trying to put off falling asleep till the very last minute.

Bed time is also the time that Appu’s reflections on life and philosophy come to the fore. And we poor flummoxed parents are left scrambling to find answers to questions that are more profound than, “What is life?”

Sample this:
A discussion on grammar: “Accha, is there a word called “broke?”? “Why does Chinnu (his bosom buddy) say, broke”? Accha, grabbing at the chance to ram some grammar down sonny’s throat says, of course there is a word called “broke”. “It’s the past tense of the word “break”. "For example, I could say, “Appu, did you break the window?” “How would you respond to that?”
Pat came the reply from Appu, “ I’d say, yes Accha I did break the window.” “I am sorry, and you can beat(punish) me if you like.” !!! The utter silence from Accha’s side of the bed was broken by muffled giggles from my end of the bed. However, I did walk around the next morning checking all the windows, just to be sure…..

Here’s another: This time on metaphysical matters-“Accha, Chinnu says, when we die we all come back, is that true?” And Accha says, “Yes, we Hindus believe that we come back, maybe as humans or maybe as some other living thing once we die.” There was silence from Appu for about 5 seconds, and then came the zinger, “So if I came back as something else, would I still be able to ride my cycle?”

PICTURE PURRRRRRFECT

2011-02-10T00:02:00.000-08:00

My arms hurt!! Why? As is the case with me, it’s a long story…….

8:30 PM yesterday, and I am at the local departmental store, trying to get some of my grocery shopping done (so the weekend can be dedicated to much more important things-like lazing around) when I get a garbled phone call from my mom. “ You have to cut up pictures of cricketers and stick it in Appu’s scrapbook.” WHAAAAAAAAT? The first question that pops into my head is “Why is the school encouraging cricket above all else?”

After hastily concluding my shopping, I rush home to check his diary (fashionably called Almanac!!)-Nothing there, a quick look at a page in the scrap book and there is a page bearing the legend-“Streck Pieteers of players”. This was well beyond my powers of translation, hence a frantic yell to hubby dear working upstairs. “Could you please log into his school website and see if there is anything there on Appu’s homework for today?” Nada…

A few deep breaths later, I realize I do not have a choice. I have to decipher my son’s hieroglyphics come what may. Further scrutiny revealed what looked like pictures of a snooker table, boxing gloves, a tennis racket, a gun and the ever present cricket bat!! Aha, now I get what the “Streck Pieteers “ part of the heading means!! -“Stick Pictures”!

I rushed to my parents’ home to pick up all the newspapers they had-some three months’ worth. (and this is where the hurting arms part comes in). Why, oh why, mom do you insist on getting rid of newspapers as soon as the newspaper tower threatens to topple over and engulf all of us?

Soon we were all settled on the floor of our living room, scissors in hand, busy looking through newspapers, when I realized something. All those raves and rants about cricket being the only game encouraged in this country are so very true. I could find pictures of even obscure cricketers-past, present and future involved in all kinds of activities-from walking their dogs to cuddling their girlfriends-but no sight or sign of sports persons from other disciplines.

After about an hour of searching we found pictures of Leander Paes and Mahesh Bhupathi, but no, hubby dear persisted until he had found ones of Sharapova and Kournikova. An argument ensured with me asking why we needed foreign players when we had ones of our own that would fit the bill. Appu, for once was on my side, asking for pictures of “Shani” which I took to mean Sania Mirza. Disaster was averted as we found one of Sania’s pictures and it duly went into the scrapbook.

As for pictures of Abhinav Bhindra, Vijendar Singh and Pankaj Advani…there was no sign. That was when I saw a picture of Dhoni in a clothing ad and had a brainwave. We had better be looking at ads too…what if one of them had featured in one? Additionally, we should also be looking at Page 3 photos-our sportsmen are the partying kinds aren’t they?

Peace reigned until hubby exploded looking at a sheet in my hand. “There’s a picture of Vijendar Singh, cant you see?” Well I did see, but the caption beneath said “Virendar Sehwag”-so not my fault right? “Ever heard of the printers devil?”-asked hubby dear(sore at having lost the Sharapova, Kournikova war), grabbing the paper from my hand and cutting out the sought after picture.

Another hour of this and hubby dear and his illustrious scion went to bed, while the stubborn lady that I am, kept at it. Eureka!!! I soon found a tiny picture of Abhinav, squashed between ads for growing hair on bald pates, and one for a herbal supplement for Viagra. Interestingly, the picture accompanied a tiny blurb where he was talking about his favorite cricketer!!

One last picture-that of Pankaj-and I could go join the snore fest upstairs. I searched and searched, to no avail. I had gone through them all: ads, page three photo shoots, sports pages, even ones where celebrities were talking about their favorite recipes-I had left no stone unturned. I was at my wits end and had almost admitted defeat when I saw it-a tiny but recognizable picture of Pankaj- handing out an award for the best restaurant in a Times of India contest!!!

Thank you God!!

POETRY ON CELLULOID

2010-11-22T08:57:00.000-08:00

“You are going to go watch Guzaarish?” “You will be watching another very boring blue film.” Comments like these are what I heard when I announced my intention of going to watch Guzaarish-Sanjay Leela Bansali’s latest offering.

Seated in a nearly empty Cauvery theatre a few minutes early (surprise, surprise!!), last Friday, I was beginning to think my friends were right and that this was an exercise in futility and sheer stubbornness on my part. Thankfully, a few minutes into the ads, the theatre slowly started filling up. So much so that a large family in front of us managed to block our view for a whole 10 minutes before they all found seats to their mutual satisfaction.

Sometimes being mulish and sticking to your guns pays, and pays handsomely. Guzaarish is literally a poem on celluloid. The movie is simply beautiful-so much so that the sets and the costumes reminded me of the other magic movies that I have loved; of the likes of “The Prestige” and “The Illusionist”.

Dealing with an emotionally charged subject like euthanasia is fraught with danger-literally walking an emotional minefield. It is easy to go to extremes of pity or haranguing the public about its callousness. But SLB manages a fine balancing act and how!!! Each frame is beautifully crafted and the sets are a visual delight.

And surprisingly, Aishwarya manages to get into the skin of the character . I have always felt she never quite manages to let go of her artificiality, but her enactment of this character should prove all her detractors wrong(me included!!). Be it her free-spirited performance at the restaurant or her drive through the Goan countryside; or even the simple act of drawing the curtains; her sheer joy of life and love shine through.

Ditto for Hritik-the Greek god with his drop dead looks manages to tug at your heart strings-not only for his rendition of a quadriplegic’s predicaments, but for his sheer love of life and all that it has to offer. Interestingly, pity is the furthermost emotion on your mind. In fact, one feels sorry for oneself in missing out on life’s little pleasures.

Supported by a cast of believable characters-this is one movie that delivers its message, all the while ensuring that it never loses its entertainment value. Hats off SLB!!!

Aakashaparavagal-Birds of the Air

2010-11-22T07:39:00.000-08:00

Imagine going out on an outing with your family, getting lost, and not being able to get back home because your memory has shut down and you simply cant remember where you live? Think it only happens to children? The 80-odd members of “Aakashaparavagal”- a home for the mentally disturbed bear ample testimony to the fact that it can happen to adults too.

Picked up from the streets; hungry, hurt, uncared for, more often than not bearing marks of their ill-treatment at the hands of the so called “normal” people, these children of a lesser god are transformed into child-like beings at the hands of the volunteers at this center near Jalahalli.

A few snapshots of the home:

A bright red children’s cycle-interesting in its sheer incongruity in its surroundings. It belongs to a little boy; the only child amongst adults. Will he grow up with scars on his psyche from being in the middle of the inmates who are recovering from illnesses of the mind? Or, will he grow up full of love, compassion and understanding for people who are different from him?

The 100-watt smile of Shaju Chettan: The smile never wavers. His can’t be an easy life. What is it that makes him so strong and willing to serve mankind-taking care of the truly lost ones? Bringing people off the streets and trying, sometimes to no avail, to bring them back to some semblance of normalcy using every avenue available to him. Being able to live the doctrine “As God provides for the birds of the air, he will provide for this home and its inmates” (hence the name!!). Living with his family (a wife and the little boy-proud owner of the red bicycle) in the midst of the inmates who can turn dangerous at any point, it takes courage of a rare kind to continue to do what he does so well.

A neat dining hall: At one point, full of inmates who sat at tables patiently awaiting their lunch. Surprisingly calm and quiet. Except for squabbles that arose when one stole some chicken from another’s plate. And also a sudden cry from a lonely man crying out his anguish and wanting to be back with his family and familiar faces.

A dwarf-completely normal and belonging to the Gemini circus. Left behind at a hospital in K.R Puram due to his lung problems-all his money gone in its treatment. Uncaring relatives and having nowhere to go, he has found his way to this center too.

Leaving the center one image lingers. That of the inmates-all freshly bathed and spruced up to face the day-sitting in the warm sunlight on the fenced in terrace-happy with the simple things in life!!

ANIMAL BITES

2010-09-06T03:19:00.001-07:00

Another beautiful, chilly morning. The kind Bangalore is famous for and the kind I can stand for about a week before I start feeling depressed. Instead of putting his feet up and enjoying a cup of tea with the newspaper as I was doing, Hubby Dear decided to tackle a long pending chore-that of getting his car back to looking like a car.

The said chore is taken care of in the summer holidays by hordes of neighborhood kids-all wanting to wash “uncle’s” car-for a tidy sum- no doubt-but hubby dear believes in rewarding industriousness and will willingly shell out anything for the privilege.

Two full buckets and an old t-shirt in hand, he marched off to the car, with the air of a gladiator all ready to engage in combat with an unseen adversary. Two minutes into a most vigorous scrubbing, it happened-two decorated oxen-(the kind that stop at houses and are led about by perfectly healthy men preying on religious sentiments of gullible folk), decided to make a pit stop. They dipped their heads into the brimming buckets of water and sipped and sipped till it was all gone!! The incredulous look on hubby dear’s face was one that sent me off the sofa rolling with laughter.

Dignity in tatters, hubby dear marched back into the house declaring-did you know that those oxen only stop at some houses? Some additional questioning revealed that the said oxen (bearing religious pictures more often than not) would stop only at a few houses (ok, now what technique do those men use?) and the people in those houses were compelled to give cash to the men leading the oxen. Which brought me to my next question, “Well , they did stop in front of our house, how did they let you get away scot free?” To which Hubby Dear indignantly replied, “Well I gave them water didn’t I?”

Needless to say, the car remains unwashed….and I am curiouser than ever-is that tale really true???

CAST OFF

2010-07-13T02:42:00.000-07:00

I went home last Thursday, really glad a very long and hectic day was finally over. I was daydreaming of the day off the next day, which I would spend on a train chugging my way to Palakkad.
My daydreams were rudely interrupted the minute I stepped over the threshold. Appu, who till the had been lounging on the bean bag watching TV, came running to me at breakneck speed, trying to show me his swollen thumb at the same time giving me a garbled explanation of some skirmish with Acha panther.
A while later, when id heard explanations from both sides, I managed to piece together what had transpired. Appu and Achan had gotten into a skirmish over him having soiled his underpants yet again. I figured the swelling would be down the next morning, and since I had to leave really early to make the early morning ‘Intercity’ to Palakkad, didn’t think too much of it.
Later, I heard, Acha, plagued by guilt and remorse, had taken Appu for an x-ray. ..And the doctor, finding nothing particularly wrong but not wanting to take any chances with the likes of Appu and his hyperactive ways, put him in a cast for a week. Appu had then gone to school amidst protests over “How am I going to turn a page if you send me to school?” (The cast is on his left hand!!) But the bomb dropped that evening. Appu tells his dad “The teacher wants to meet you on Monday”. Visions of being accused of child abuse and being tagged cruel, heartless parents plagued me the entire weekend.
Cut to Palakkad: Appu, thrilled at being the center of attraction, thanks to his cast:
Scene 1: Appu: “Amma, will you listen to everything I say for the next 10 days?”
Me: “Why?”
Appu: (with his most doleful expression) Coz my hand is broken no???
Scene 2: At the wedding pandal where we went to greet the newlyweds: “Ajay uncle, see what my dad did to my hand.” Several sympathetic exclamations later, Appu ends up getting himself photographed as a part of several other family units(except his own of course!!)..as he refused to budge before everyone had properly given him his due, in spite of all kinds of tricks tried by the photographers and videographers to budge him from his spot.
Cut to Bangalore: Appupan and Ammuma are now his willing slaves. Acha, now thoroughly harried, refuses to meet the eyes of any visitor to the home (especially the ones who have heard Appu’s version of the events). The neighboring kids are all green with envy over Appu’s latest acquisition. Appu has taken to biking (still at top speed) with one hand.
Monday morning. Acha asks Appu, “So what time do I need to come in to meet the teacher?” To which pat comes the reply, “My teacher never asked me to call you to school.” I simply, simply told you that.”

My son, the braveheart

2010-04-21T02:12:00.001-07:00

Moving into an independent house after having lived in a flat for a while is certainly a novel if not an exciting experience. But along with the freedom, also comes a niggling fear-“Is it safe enough?” I hadn’t realized how much our little boy had been absorbing (his satellite dish ears do have a function!!) until last night.

Hubby dear had left for a ‘night out’ with the boys and it was just me and Appu at home. Appu, having been brushed and bathed to within an inch of his life, was safely tucked up in bed with only his little head peeking out of the quilt (in this weather!! Just seeing him wrapped up in it made me sweat some more!!).
Bedtime is when Appu shares his deepest thoughts, dreams and stories. So I wasn’t surprised when a little voice piped up, “Amma, you know something?” “What?” I asked. “If someone knocks at our door, call me ok?” My heart swelled with motherly pride. What a brave little lad we had raised!! “Why, what will you do?” yours truly had to ask.

“I will jump on my cycle and you run, and we will both go very fast to Ammuma’s house!”

Chocolate, men, coffee - some things are better rich!!!

2010-03-19T03:36:00.000-07:00

I was dutifully rooting through the shelves of rice, dal and the like at the friendly neighborhood grocery store, when I saw it. A little chocolate-colored tube perched amongst its snazzier counterparts. I took it down and the label proclaimed “Hip Hop Coffee Face Scrub”. Now which female worth her facials could have possibly resisted that lure?

I gleefully showed it off to my husband at the checkout counter. As usual, he brought me crashing down to earth, with his retort, “You put gallons of the stuff inside you each morning to try and wake up, that doesn’t seem to work, so now you’re trying to see if putting it on your face helps?

I refused to be squashed by comments like these, and resolved to try it out the very next morning; head cold notwithstanding. I figured a coffee face scrub was just the thing to drive away my “cold” blues. It was creamy in texture with lots of grainy stuff (I fondly imagined it to be lot of coffee beans ground up!!)

My face did look rosier, or was it just that the whole top layer had been stripped off, exposing the raw layer underneath? I quickly got ready for work (so I wouldn’t have to hear any more sarcastic comments from hubby dear ) and got to the office. Throughout the day, I could not but help notice that people kept giving me strange looks. I did look at the mirror, and there didn’t seem to be anything drastically different, so could it be that people thought I had fallen into a vat of coffee or something?

Ghostbusters

2010-03-15T07:06:00.000-07:00

Sonny and I were alone at home. I was watching 1408 or rather trying to watch it after a long and hard-fought battle for the remote with the pint-sized terror in my home.

Let it be known that I had done my homework. I prefer not being scared to death and hence had sent out an SMS each to two of my horror movie aficionado friends and they had categorically assured me that I was unlikely to be encountering any strange creatures with dead pan (pun intended )faces, nor was it likely that there would be grotesque appendages popping out without warning.

But scare me it did; no not the movie, but the sudden indignant yells of "What are you watching Amma?" "And I want to watch cartoons"-this during some specially tense scenes in the movie.

Gradually it dawned on Sonny dear that Amma was a bit nervous-and that was putting it mildly. With an intuition that boggles the mind, he declared," You know what I will do when I see ghosts?" Now this seemed definitely more intriguing than the plot unfolding in front of me, and so I asked,"What?"

"I will throw some salt water on the ghosts and they will all die." Needless to say I handed over the remote.

Appuspeak

2010-03-08T01:11:00.001-08:00

Cloud: The black dots you see when you point your camera skywards and zoom it like nobody’s business

Candle: something to blow out whether its perched on top of a birthday cake (dosent matter if its your own or somebody else's) or fixed to various surfaces in case of a power cut

Gettuping: The act of being dragged out of bed each morning using threats, water, wild stories and the like... exception on Sundays when these tactics do not need to be employed

Milk: The experimental liquid you experiment on each morning to see how much it can help you with delaying having to go to school. The temperature, texture and taste are potential weapons for a successful sortie. Success is measured by how high you can send mom’s and grandmom’s blood pressure each morning

Milking: No relation to the four-legged animals with the wayward tails. This is the walk grandfather and grandson take each morning to the Nandini milk booth. Usually associated with grandfather having to buy two “Boomers” (chewing gum) on the walk back

Match it: The act of striking a match while kneeling next to the cooking range with a over anxious Amma hovering about trying her best to get her hands on the said match and matchbox before the whole kitchen is set ablaze

Shoes: Storehouses of sand, bits of erasers, crayons, pencils or even a well-chewed bubble gum. The less said about what is sticking to the underside, the better

Sprok: The instrument with tines you can use to meddle with Maggi noodles until such time there is a bellow from mommy dear

Smelling: What lesser humans would call spellings

Uniform: Something to fight with each morning with all your might.. except for Saturdays when its “Jean Pant’ time

To be continued……

THE FIRST TEST

2010-02-01T06:56:00.000-08:00

July 2009

Phone calls and emails to find out when the forms would be issued. Check

November 2009

Form bought (for 600 bucks no less) and duly filled out. Check

Regular phone calls for updates. Check

Frantic phone calls as to why we hadn’t received the coveted appointment yet. Check

27 Jan, 2010

9:00 AM

‘Family Emergency’ message sent to boss. Check

Original Qualification certificates. Check

Address proof. (God could we give my dad’s telephone bill? It IS his house after all!!)

Appu’s Birth Certificate. Check

11:00 AM

Father and son clothing inspection: Check

Appu’s unruly hair neatly combed: Check

Appu has a handkerchief and knows how to use it. Check

Last minute instructions on greeting people. Check

2:15 pm

Nail biting suspense. Nervous smiles. Lady at reception smiles benevolently and says, ‘We will now take him for a written test.’ WHAT??? What written test? We were here only for an ‘observation’ right? Hearts in respective mouths, we wait nervously while sonny happily goes away into another room.

“ I wrote everything fastly”, announces Appu, an hour or so later. We wait some more. We are given a token number (19). “You can now move to the waiting area in the basement”.

3:00 PM -4:00 PM
Pandemonium. About 10-15 preschoolers in the midst of slides and the like with parents keeping a watchful eye lest any speck of dust dare come near their spruced-up offspring.

4:30 PM

In front of the principals’ office. “Appu could you please stop running about so much?” “Appu please be gentle, that’s a little girl your playing with.” “Appu, come back here this instant.” “Appu, please stop fighting over the water glass.” “Appu, we are going to just leave you behind if you insist on rolling about on those dirty steps”. “Appu, please remember to say “Good Afternoon” when you go in to meet the principal.”

15 minutes later

“Good Afternoon, Mahadevan” . Silence

“You have written very neatly, in a small cute handwriting.” Silence
(Was this my son they were talking about?)

Do you like storybooks. A very hesitant “Yes”

Which is your favorite story. Silence

“Appu, which is your favorite story?” “Baa Baa black sheep”

Well, Mahadevan has found a place with us. (Oh thank you God, you’ve been really kind today!!).

Sonny promptly slides off chair and eyes the bowl of chocolates displayed. “ You can take one, in fact you can take two, you’ve written your test so neatly.” Sonny, grabbing two chocolates on the run promptly heads for the door.

“Appu, say thank you.”

“Thank you”

We stepped out of the door. We actually made it!! Appu is finally in UKG!!

THE BUSINESS OF DEATH

2009-09-15T05:18:00.000-07:00

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………..

2009-08-31T03:51:00.000-07:00

“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

2009-08-19T23:30:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-13T23:49:00.000-07:00

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!!

2009-08-04T03:28:00.001-07:00

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

2009-07-01T06:12:00.001-07:00

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…………….

2009-05-04T01:45:00.001-07:00

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!!!

Ingenuity at work

2009-04-30T01:45:00.000-07:00

After a too-short nap to while away the hot afternoon, I woke up to the results of A’s latest project. A jam bottle, complete with silvery sand, coral, sea weed and a few tiny black and white, striped fish that seems to thrive so well in the Lakshadweep islands. The mouth of the bottle was tied with an ordinary polythene bag with holes punctured in it. A miniature aquarium and a perfectly proportioned one at that!!!

Being a city girl, I was dumbstruck at how anyone could have managed this; that too in the short time that one took to take an exploratory walk. A, forever mindful of the gaps in my childhood experiences of the kind, decided to show me the contraption he had used work the miracle.

It was very simple fishing device. A thick long piece of wood, a long piece of cloth that had two ends tied to the wooden piece while a third end was held away from the piece of wood to make a makeshift triangle-shaped net. All one had to do, according to him, was to find a rock pool and scare some fish into the area where the net was held.. And hey presto… you had bagged some fish!! I was so impressed with his ingenuity that I decided to take a closer look. And hey presto, the net seemed to have a neat frill along one edge. Realization, though slow, did dawn; he had found some lady’s blouse to use as a net!!! And from the looks of it, it belonged to a pretty gargantuan lady at that!!! So now we have some poor lady wandering the island blouseless!!

GENERATION "GAP"

2009-04-15T01:56:00.000-07:00

Its 9:30 pm the night before Vishu. Hubby and the not so little mite in tow, I enter Brand Factory in search of new clothes. I am dead on my feet after yet another crazy day at work, hubby dear is tired out after the long drive back from Kozhikode, and Appu wasn’t too happy at being denied some popcorn at what he felt was a reasonable time of the night.

Mindful of the fact that I was perilously close to facing a revolt from the two men in my life, I quickly grabbed two shirts off the rack and tried them on Appu. They fit!! Thank you God!!!. Now I just needed to find a pair of pants that fit and we could all go home.

Sooner said than done. I should have realized that things could never be that simple!! Not in my life at least!!. We simply couldn’t find trousers that fit!! Appu, fortunately or unfortunately, has a waist that resembles that of a wasp but with the legs of a giraffe. As if that wasn’t enough, he was mortified at being asked to change tens of shorts, pants and other doo dads in the middle of the floor. Of course, the fact that he had his underwear on, or that we were practically hidden behind all the hanging clothes did not lessen his distress.

The last straw came when we asked him to go look in the mirror and see if he liked the one he had on. He angrily walked off, me anxiously following (in case he decided to walk out of the store itself). The scene that met my eyes had me laughing. Appu, hands in his pockets was turning this way and that, busy admiring himself in front of the mirror!!!

At the counter, the saleswoman, who seemed to be having a bad day herself, told me she would only bill my purchases if I had a card!!! Biting back a scathing retort to that, I meekly handed my card over and we were finally done!!!

Next day we only woke up after the household help had rung the bell long enough to wake up everyone in the building. After lots of rushing about and viewing the “Vishukanni” it was time to dress Appu in all his new finery. And I got the shock of my life………… Did that shirt actually have a rip down the front? Visions of the shelling I was about to get from everyone flashing across my mind’s eye, I fearfully felt the “rip”; only to realize that it was actually backed by differently colored material. The whole shirt was a miniature version of the currently fashionable inside out clothes. Looks like I am woefully behind in keeping with the current kiddie fashions!!!

THE LITTLE EMPEROR’S LITTLE CLOTHES

2009-03-24T04:25:00.000-07:00

Our little emperor, Appu, was enjoying his usual Sunday afternoon swim in the pool close to our apartment in Marathahalli. Err, let me correct that. Appu’s version of a swim is slightly different from the common man’s. It basically involves getting all dressed up in a teeny weeny blue swimsuit, Speedo cap to match (no less!!) and running in excited circles all around the kiddies swimming pool. All this while daddy dear, exhausted after multiple attempts at trying to get sonny boy into the water, wallows in the pool like a beached whale.

Into this tranquil scene of father-son bonding enter two little girls. One look at Appu, and they start giggling uncontrollably. And Appu, mad and confused at the cause of such hilarity, promptly jumps in to the water!!!

An hour later, Appu, all dressed up, in street clothes, emerges from the shower stall near the pool and proceeds to the play area. Only to see his little tormentors occupying the coveted swing sets. And worse, they take one look at him and start giggling again. Outraged at this injustice our little hero asks, Hey!! Why you laughing man? I am wearing clothes no?

Questions with no answers

2009-03-02T00:38:00.000-08:00

5:30 AM somewhere in Marathahalli: A bleary-eyed mom sets some milk on the stove to boil.

Sonny dear comes tripping in and as usual insists on sitting on the kitchen ledge to watch the proceedings. Too tired to get into the “No, you cant do that” scene early in the morning, mommy dear lets him.

The ever inquisitive kiddo starts with is questions:

Sonny: Amma, milk makes you strong right?

Amma: Yes, yes!! (Please god, let him drink his milk at least today without any fuss!!)

Sonny: And tea is bad for you?

Amma: Yes, very bad. If u want to grow big and strong, you’ve to drink your milk everyday.

Sonny: Then why is it that you and Accha drink tea every day instead of milk?

Amma: Go ask your Accha.

Accha: (Promptly diving under the quilt and pretending to be fast aleep) I heard that!!!!

Doggy Tales

2009-01-30T07:24:00.000-08:00

Sports day at Appu’s school… end result-two exhausted parents and a kid full of beans even after a whole day spent in the sun.

I was glad to be able to take a nap for a couple of hours when a rude prodding from Amma woke me up. It had started to drizzle and Amma wanted me to run up to the roof and rescue the clothes on the clothesline before they were all soaked through.

I trudged up the stairs muttering at the unfairness of it all, when something streaked past me at lightening speed. Who else, but Appu, who, rain or no rain, was not going to give up a chance to run amuck on the rooftop.

In the middle of “helping” me with the clothes, Appu’s attention was drawn the neighbouring terrace. Our neighbour, sister in tow, was trying to train his dog. Now this dog had one of those new-fangled names that slip my mind, but had a “pet” name of “Ammukutty.” Every time my poor neighbour got his dog to “Sit” or “Stay” Appu would yell, “Ammukutteeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee”. The dog, all excited as labs are wont to get, would excitedly jump up and try and cross over to our terrace barking excitedly.

After this went on for sometime, our neighbour changed tacks and tried to teach the dog to stay when he went down the stairs. He was mighty pleased at being able to get his dog to perform at his bidding at least this once and started to slowly back down the stairs.

At this, Appu, who looked puzzled at this latest development, yelled, “Ammukutty, ON YOUR MARK, GET SET AND GO!!!” As if on cue, Ammukutty shot off her haunches and launched herself at the terrace wall again!!! I beat a hasty retreat, with Appu in tow, before I was made the target of my neighbour’s ire!!!

BLOOD, GUTS AND GLORY

2008-10-06T11:10:00.000-07:00

Its 10:45 am and I am already 15 minutes late. Do I really have to go through this? I was here purely on by my own volition. Absolutely no one to blame for the predicament I found myself in; except maybe bad genes?

I stepped across the threshold and come face to face with my would-be tormentor. A mere slip of a girl, skinny with granny glasses and a ready smile. “All ready?” she queries. “As ready as a lamb led to the slaughter will ever be,” I think to myself.

She looked into my mouth and in my mind’s eye I see her rubbing her hands with glee. I have been blessed with the most crooked teeth this side of the Vindhyas, and am thus every dentist’s delight and not to be overly modest, also one of the major contributors towards fattening their bank balances.

All professional she says, “Open Wide,” while deftly ticking a suction pipe into my mouth. After a quick look-see using the tiny mirror, she grabs hold of the scaler, a wicked looking curved hook held perilously close to my eye, and begins what she had innocuously called a “thorough cleaning”.

The taste of plain old water, rubber gloves and the feel of metal scraping against my teeth; it took all my will power not to gag and make a complete fool of myself. Couple this with the whine of the machinery and exhortations to “relax” and my misery was complete. How anyone can be expected to relax in this kind of an ambience is beyond my comprehension.

We got two quadrants done (the whole mouth is divided into four quadrants rather like you would divide an orange into quarters) and then disaster stuck. An elderly lady walked in and in broken Tamil and English proceeded to give the dentist a vivid description of the allergies she had suffered due to the medicine she had been given the previous day. After multiple attempts by the dentist to figure out the name of the drug, (which was met with-“it was a small white capsule” doctor!!!), the elderly lady proceeded to hunt through her rather capacious bag in search of the elusive prescription. I had had enough, and I stealthily pulled the suction device out of my mouth.

A few minutes respite while the prescription got rewritten and then the dentist went right back into the procedure with renewed vigor. I had gone back to praying to all the gods whose names I rememberd to end this ordeal quickly- when it happened. Strains of “ Mungaru malaye……” emanated from the hidden speakers and I knew that was a sign from the heavens above that I was going to get through this. The next few minutes were spent visualizing the glorious jog falls that Ganesh (the Kannada actor who was the movie’s tragic hero) had perched himself beside and the next 15 minutes passed in a jiffy. There is definitely something to be said about this whole visualizing business for sure!!

“You just don’t know how to be happy”

2008-10-01T08:48:00.000-07:00

It all started with a trip hubby dear was taking with “the boys”. Only, I discovered, on the day they were to leave, that the trip included two women. I saw red since I was categorically told I couldn’t go as there were no other women going. The sniping turned into a full blown row which led to hubby dear declaring, “ You just don’t know how to be happy.” “All you ever do is whine.”

That stopped me in my tracks. I was actually at a loss for words!! Now that is a very rare occurrence as friends and family will readily attest. After the shock had worn off, I started to ponder. Had life turned me into what R, a friend of mine so aptly calls a “despair junkie?” Had I really turned into the shrew that my husband accused me of being?

Only one way out, I figured. I was going to make a list of things that truly make me happy, and look at it every day to remind myself that I have lots of things in my life to be truly thankful for and hopefully, I will stop being so whiny.(Oh, if things were only this easy!!!)

So here goes the first draft of my list.

THINGS THAT MAKE ME HAPPY

1. I do not have to visit the dentist for the next six months. This has to be on top of my list after the scary 45 mins I spent at the dentist’s office today.
2. I do not have any chronic diseases except maybe those irritating colds i keep catching. In fact, I sometimes wish I fell sick so I could take a day off from work and get a little TLC (tender loving care) without feeling too guilty about it. (Hubby dear, I hope you are reading this)
3. Friends that make me laugh. I hope we don’t get thrown out of the cafeteria one of these days for creating such a ruckus.
4. Truly supportive parents.
5. Appu, the imp who can drive me from despair to delight in two seconds flat.
6. Hubby dear. The only reason he made it on this list is that he bravely eats anything I dish out in the name of food.

Not a bad start hey??

Swalpa Adjust Madi, Maveli…..

2008-09-15T09:26:00.000-07:00

This Onam threatened to be a dud: two people sick at home, deadlines at work, what else could go wrong to squash the festive spirit?

6:30 AM : Hubby dear, who was flat on his back, thinking up ways to get to my parents home, which is halfway around the city. Ideas included hiring a city taxi, which I promptly shot down. I know Bangalore roads intimately, and I know for a fact that they were not going to help his bad back any.

6:55 AM: It is confirmed, I am playing hookey from work. That decision made, decided to stay in bed a little longer and wallow in self pity. Hunger pangs and a charged-up monkey( my 4-year-old), jumping about put paid to our dreams of lolling about just a while longer. Breakfast: Warmed up garlic bread from last night’s dinner. Harbringer of things to come??

7:30 AM: Call from our apartment gate, a slightly irritated dad, asking that I come down immediately to let them in. I rush downstairs to see my parents, bags laden with all the makings of an Onam sadya. Hurrah for parents!!!

7:55 AM : Yet another breakfast, a more traditional one this time, dosa (mom had actually got the batter along!!) with some yummy coconut chutney.

8:30 AM: Hard at work making the Pookalam, amongst admonishments from my oh so tradition-bound dad that this had to be done really early in the morning. (Who forgot the flowers that needed to go in the middle?) A completely lop-sided pookalam thanks to Appu’s insistence on “helping”. This pookalam goes on record as one of my less elaborate creations but the one made with the maximum love. ( Is Maveli listening?)

12:30 PM: Sadya ready. Mom, u truly are the greatest!!!

MOMS AHOY!!!!

2008-09-01T22:57:00.000-07:00

On a recent trip to Kundapur, we were put up in a typical farm house amidst sylvan surroundings. Miles and miles of green paddy fields stretched as far as the eye could see.

The home, as is common amongst agricultural homes in the area, also housed a cowshed with calves of varying ages. Appu, whose attention span is greatly limited, was fascinated with the liquid-eyed creatures. After some initial hesitation due to the size difference, he was persuaded to feed the calves with a few bananas that had survived the bus trip from Bangalore.

Our 20-minute long reverie was destroyed when Appu came rushing into the room yelling “Amma Amma, pettanu va, pashu vilikyunnu” ( Mom, come quickly, the cows are calling). Visions of some great calamity wrecked by my son flashed before my eyes and I rushed out to the cow shed.

The scene that met my eyes was entirely peaceful, with the calves calmly munching away, and everything all right with the world. Mystified, I looked to my husband for answers. He looked as confused as I was, so we looked to the only other person who could provide us with answers-Appu.

After a long interrogation where none of us understood what the other was saying (I think I need to take a few classes to develop my parent-child communication skills) realization dawned when one of the calves let out a loud bellow………..MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA. Pointing excitedly to it and jumping up and down, Appu said, “See Amma, the cow is calling you.”

Lights, Water, Action!!!!

2008-06-12T08:00:00.000-07:00

Iridescent colors, plain old water twisted into unimaginable shapes and some pulsating film music. This constituted the musical fountain at Wonderla. It was a show that held everyone spell bound: kids and grown ups alike. The first few minutes, awe manifested itself in utter silence and that spoke volumes. Then everyone got down to clapping their hands and thumping their feet in time to the music and a new atmosphere was created, that of fun and laughter.

The musical fountain was followed by a laser show, a first for me, and I felt like a kid all over again. One of the advantages of having a kid? You can behave like one too and do the silliest of things without a qualm!! So I oohed and awed to my hearts content. A fitting finale to a fun trip!!!

PSYCHO

2008-05-06T01:30:00.000-07:00

No, I haven’t turned psycho though the circumstances both at home and at work do warrant such a scenario. It is merely the name of a new Kannada movie that is to be released in June. Togged out in my best Kanjeevaram, I made a beeline to Chowdiah Memorial Hall where the music release was scheduled to happen.

The movie was produced by a techie and it showed: in all the promotions, the press conference as well as in his congratulatory speech!! With a voice portal and a fantastic salsa performance, it was a true tribute to the silicon city that is Bangalore or err…. Bengaluru as it has been lately christened. Wonder if I will be so lucky as to be invited to the movie premier too!!

RETAIL THERAPY

2008-03-09T19:41:00.000-07:00

Excitement ran high last week at work. We were going on a field trip to culminate our two-week long merchandizing training. And to an all-girl group what could be more exciting than spending half a work day shopping?

Our group was to go to Big Bazaar in Koramangala and we were there pretty early, expecting to see the store nearly empty. But boy, were we surprised! There were home makers, PYTs, grandmothers and grandfathers with grandkids in tow; all browsing the shelves.

Things went smoothly for a while until one of the store managers caught two of the women busily scribbling in the questionnaire that was given to us in the beginning of the trip. Talk about being naïve… The next thing they did was to come up to me and start recounting their horror stories of being followed all around the store by the security guard. Grow up gals!! What did you expect??

Thanks to their seeking me out to vent, the store manager marched up to me and demanded to know whether we were on some kind of project to which I put on my most innocent expression (I know he wasn’t fooled one bit) and showing him my basket, told him I was just shopping.

At the billing counter, the aforementioned gals needed to take a look at the feedback form. So I had to turn thief (thank god they don’t tag their feedback forms) and steal one.

We made it back in one piece and then the hunt for a bell began. I wanted to showcase one of Big Bazaar’s promotions and it seems like living with a 3 year old has turned me into a noise freak. I found the noisiest bell possible, (after much begging from my long- suffering parents) and was I gratified when, at the start of the presentation, (we were the last) I walked up to the platform ringing my bell as loud as I could, effectively waking up all of the audience who had fallen into a pleasant doze!!!

WOMEN’S DAY OUT

2008-02-24T21:08:00.000-08:00

The Attukal Pongala-it is a literal test of how much heat you can take. If the Olympics is a test of endurance, this one follows right behind. Best of all, it’s a ladies only affair.

The whole city shuts down and as for the poor men-NO ENTRY anywhere- on the roads or bylanes until the pongala is over and done with. They are reduced to staying indoors all day. ( A taste of how restrictive it can be for women?)

Considering the discomfort of lakhs of female devotees who throng Trivandrum and literally sleep on the roads, bus stands or railway stations the night before, I had it easy. I was in a relative’s home in Manakkad, and along with 50 others performed the pongala in the relative comfort of a tree-lined courtyard. The courtyard also had a swing, which thankfully, kept Appu occupied all day. I sent a prayer of thanks heavenwards as the heat of the day, combined with the heat of 50 odd fires, and billowing clouds of smoke made its presence felt.

The best part about the ritual-every home in the neighborhood, opens its doors and kitchens to the devotees, religion be damned. In a true show of solidarity, women lend a helping hand to their brethren and try and ease the discomforts associated with a festival that sees the number of devotees increasing year by year.

As the day ended; I was left with memories of a night spent walking to the market to get coconut-shell ladles at 10 o’clock in an all women group( this is unheard of in good old Trivandrum), the chatter, the yummy payasam and the “manda puttu” (a dish made of rice flour and gram flour, flavored with jaggery), the afternoon naps, the gossiping and the religious fervor of the whole ritual.

I count the deep satisfaction I felt at the end of the day a blessing indeed from the benevolent goddess.

HEART WARMING

2008-02-13T02:20:00.000-08:00

4:15 am: Yours truly and hubby dear lugging bricks up to our 7th floor home. A bucket of sand included in the end, which sent Appu into raptures as he gleefully imagined the havoc he could wreck to our home once he got his busy little hands on it.

4:30 am: Wearing the Settu Mundu and discovering to my chagrin that it mysteriously had a very short pallu. How could I have gotten it on the other way around???

4:55 am: Everyone out on the balcony or strategically placed near windows; eyes streaming and gasping for breath thanks to the smoke from the homam.

8:00 am: Frantic phone calls to the caterer as to why the idli-vada-sambar and idiyappam hadn’t turned up yet. The accusing looks of hungry people striking like arrows….

9:00 am: In the middle of “And here’s our kitchen”; expecting to hear oohs and aahs, but hearing “yikes”, “what the hecks” and a few other choice expletives instead. Our kitchen had sprouted a shower. I was ready to add to the water works when the facilities men trooped in and with a twist of the wrench put everything back in order again.

9:15 am: Yours truly was in the kitchen when I smelt it. The unmistakable smell of cooking gas. After a frantic hunt I decided to turn off the regulator. The next 15 minutes were spent reassuring everyone who came into the kitchen (to let me know that they could smell leaking gas) that I had shut off the regulator. (Most unfair that my reputation in the kitchen always precedes me. Couldn’t they trust me enough to complete such a simple task properly?)

9:30 am: Happy smiles all around. The food had arrived and consumed with much gusto.

11:30 am to 4 pm: Streams of visitors. Much laughter and shared memories. More yummy food. And aching feet; of course.

4:30 pm: Quick saree change. Watching the Tirumeni draw the intricate and colorful “kalam”. More poojas and blessings.

6:00 pm: Appu insisting on opening all the “prizes” and losing interest once he saw that none of them contained any toys. But cheering up once he realized the colorful wrapping paper made a lot of noise and could be torn with impunity.

Next Day:

Cosmos Mall shopping trip: Wellhome: We were to buy stuff worth 5000 bucks to avail of the 50% off discount on everything. The whole store filled with our relatives. Hubby dear hollering out at 3:30 pm “Sondakarum, bhandakarum ellavarum billing counterlekyu varuga” and half the salespeople dissolving into peals of laughter. Final bill: Rs 13, 500 worth of the exact same curtains, cushions and rugs that are in our home.

4:00 pm: Airport: Bidding a tearful goodbye to hubby dear’s grandmother, a gritty old lady in a pristine white settu mundu and sweatshirt.

7:00 pm: Herding 20 odd relatives to Krishnarajapuram railway station with some 100 odd pieces of luggage. (Thank you god, nobody had come up with the brilliant idea of going by bus.)

11:30 pm: Quiet reigns. We high five each other on a mission well accomplished.

IT DON’T MATTER IF YOURE BLACK OR WHITE……….

2008-01-27T19:22:00.001-08:00

One of those rare days when yours truly, struck with maternal zeal, decided to spend quality time with Appu and teach him colors. It started off pretty well and we managed to get through the primary colors and even the browns and light blues. (Thank god for the teachers at the playschool). We then decided to move on to black and white. Once Appu had figured out those two colors, I teasingly pointed at my face and asked “What color am I? Appu answered “White”. (Yours truly did preen a little, lets be honest here!!) Next, pointing to Appu’s face I asked, “And what color is Appu?” To which he replied, “White”. To tease him I said “No, No, Amma white, Appu black!!” To which my over smart kid replied, “Amma white, then how is Appu black? Appu white!!” Not wanting to get into the intricacies of genetics I blandly stated, “No, Appu black.” At this, my son, clearly upset, went up to his grandmother to get her to refute my statement. Interestingly, he didn’t give up until his granny assured him he was “white” too. Is there a lesson in here somewhere? I guess I should have paid more attention when hubby dear once told me that Appu and Michael Jackson shared the same birthday!!!!

HOT AND SPICY!!

2008-01-20T19:34:00.000-08:00

A nice lazy Sunday afternoon and I was enjoying a drive, (obviously hubby dear was driving) and I was letting my mind drift off when I heard it, and was brought back to earth with a resounding thud…..

Tere Ankhen Garam Masala
Tere Honth Garam Masala

Adnan Sami (I think) and his plaintive wail. Must be hunger pangs that bring so much anguish into his singing, what with his crash diet and his desperate bid to hold on to his lady love. I hope he knows that he has all our collective sympathies in his tough times.

The song set me thinking. Is this some desperate lyricists' last ditch attempt to make his song “hot and spicy” per the director’s (I am guessing that's the guy who has a say in such matters) instructions? We seemed to have moved from flowers, gardens, the moon and what have you to straight to the no longer dull and boring kitchen shelves. Talk about thinking out of the box err the carton/sachet that the masalas come in.

Or is this some new marketing gimmick thought up by the ad gurus to promote masalas? What with the myriad brands available, instant food and fast food, the dog eat dog world of massala makers and their marketing team had no other go but to innovate and dream up this song.

Or is this just an admonishment to errant home-makers(does this breed still exist?) from the consumers of their cooking not to forget to add the garam masalas(in the midst of their movie watching, serial watching or gossip session over the compound wall) and render everything insipid?

All said and done the humble garam masala has left the confines of the kitchen shelves to land on everyone’s lips and be the talk of the town. Mission accomplished!!!

TRIAL BY FIRE

2008-01-13T19:28:00.000-08:00

Loading? What loading? Hubby dear’s reaction when I told him we had an invite to attend a Lohri party. The invite was from a close friend of mine, who called to say that it was on Sunday, the day before “you people”(she meant South Indians) celebrate Sankranthi. I thought that was rich, coming from someone who had married a Tam Brahm. I teased her about the “you people bit” and gently reminded her that I was a Mallu, and we celebrate Vishu in April as our New Year’s Day. (Mallus always have to do things differently!!).

All togged out in “ethnic” wear (keeping in mind my pal’s strict edict on the dress code) we set off to Patel’s Inn at R.T. Nagar and were faced with the perennial problem that never seems to stop haunting us Bangaloreans-lack of parking space. Once that was sorted out, we faced another problem. Where was this shindig happening? We could see hordes of silk clad people descending on the entrance to the place and all these people could certainly not be going to the “small” Lohri party. And then we heard it-the unmistakable bhangra beat and that was what guided us to the right party!!

There was an open fire, like in a camp; and everyone threw handfuls of puffed corn and groundnuts into the fire. I was told that since this was also when harvests came in, the ritual symbolized the giving back of a portion of the harvest to God. The fire, considered holy and cleansing, was traditionally made of broken sticks of furniture. I shuddered with horror when I imagined having to shop for new furniture every year. I have just finished the ordeal as a precursor to moving into our new home, and I definitely DO NOT want to think about furniture for a really long time-preferably never.

Some energetic dancing and some good food later, we made our way home. A new way to bring in the New Year-and tomorrow and day after, the New Year comes to our home again-in the form of yellu-bella and til gul!!

TAARE ZAMEEN PAR

2008-01-08T18:54:00.001-08:00

Garuda Mall-5:40 pm, Sunday. In a queue to try and get tickets to the movie we had heard rave reviews about. Nail biting tension-fingers, toes and every other available appendage crossed-the ticketing information showed fast filling-maybe, just maybe we would get tickets!! At the counter-disaster struck-no tickets. The billboard still showed fast filling. Sadists all, deriving such vicarious pleasure from making people come up to the ticketing window and then gleefully announcing that the tickets were all sold out.

On to Innovative multiplex. At least 10 people ahead of us in the queue. Disappointed faces turning back from the window. Hubby dear, just to make doubly sure, asked the man at the counter, “No tickets?” And hallelujah!! There were just two available!!!

After our photo-finish at the ticketing counter, we walked into the theater, clutching “pokorn” and soda, which Appu absolutely had to have. I was sure we were going to be spending more time outside the theater than in it. I simply could not imagine my 3-year old sitting through a 2 ½ hour movie. Yet another miracle… Appu was goodness personified. Apart from loud questions on “Why is Chetta crying?” and “What happened to Chetta?”, Appu not only sat through the movie but seemed to be enjoying it as well. Or was it just the popcorn and cola???

Bounce, Bounce

2007-12-04T18:53:00.000-08:00

I was sick and tired of hearing umpteen comments about my “birds nest”. Things literally had gotten to a head, so I decided to take the plunge. After taking recommendations from all and sundry, the people who had made all those disparaging comments, I made myself an appointment with Bounce-the “Style Spa” on Lavelle road, a whole week in advance –no less.

Come Saturday and I presented myself at the said spa with my best nervous smile and hoping against hope I was going to land safely on my two feet and not my head once I was done with this little adventure.

The spa was very futuristic looking- all purple, black and white. Tubes and tubes of colors (I am assuming these were hair colors) lined what looked like clotheslines hung across mirrors. Well, the stylists have to be conjuring artists I guess; what with some of the material that they get to work with and transform into stunners. The stylists themselves sported hairdos that would have put the actors of Star Wars to shame. I know, I know, this is the generation gap at work.

I perched myself on the nearest stool while I waited for my stylist-Kajol-(the actress of DDLJ has a lot to do with getting this pronunciation of the name popular, whatever happened to the Kajals of yore?)- to attend to me. I looked with interest at the teenage expatriate sitting next to me. She had her head stuck into a dryer and there were spurts of steam issuing from it at regular intervals. Boy, was she paying through her nose to get her head boiled?

Finally Kajol turned up, stuck a languid pose and running a finger though my hair, announced, “You have curly hair. (Tell me something I didn’t know), very dry and with dandruff to boot.” While I cringed hoping against hope that she would not announce that I had lice next, she continued, “You have thick hair (that’s a good thing right?) so we are going to thin it at the bottom and add volume at the top.” That was fine, just that I heard the exact opposite being told to the woman behind me. Ah, now i get it!! The whole point of getting your hair “styled” is that everyone ends up looking the same and you pay through your nose for the priviledge.

All said and done, after being made to sit still for a good hour, I had my hair transformed (my friends would beg to differ). Wishful thinking I know, but would it look like this when I got back home and didn’t have an hour to fuss with it?

The day after my 1000 buck haircut: My hair looks great. It looks exactly the same whether I comb it or not. Sometimes, just sometimes, life sure is perfect!!

COORGS OR KODAVAS-NOT COORGIS

2007-11-13T18:48:00.000-08:00

Or so the book on the coffee table informed me. (The tiger’s tail and other stories by C.M. Belliappa to be precise!!!). I filed that bit of information away for future use to try out on my Kodava friends-hopefully they do not resort to anything violent nothwistanding their martial heritage.

Snapshots of my weekend trip to Coorg:

-A lovely house right in the middle of a coffee estate-a homestay-(or was it an estate stay since there wasn’t a family living in with us?) with two Bengali cooks. Needless to say we were not treated to native fare, but the food on the table at each meal time was simply scrumptious, so no complaints there.

-Pretending to be planters-long morning walks through the dew-soaked flora -keeping a sharp lookout for leeches. I can’t stand the things-both the animal and the human varieties. Back after a tramp in the hills and sitting down to a huge breakfast-true planter style. It was mind boggling the amount of food we managed to put away!!!!

-Spotting fire-flies in the night. The last time I must have seen this beautiful sight must have been during my childhood days in Bangalore-and that definitely was a long time ago.

-The East End Hotel-a hotel with a difference. Made up of a group of quaint, old-fashioned houses with red tiled roofs, red oxide flooring and airy verandas, it was packed to the gills, attesting to its popularity. The menu card was even better! For the first time ever, I spotted honey and cigarettes on the menu, but of traditional Kodava cuisine, there was nary a mention.

-The above situation, combined with the Bengali cooks, forced us to venture out in the evening, in a car full of kids and three adults (we were suckers for punishment) in search of local delicacies . A friendly local pointed out “Coorg Cuisine”, a hotel that served traditional Kodava fare, but was surprisingly empty. We practically bought everything on the menu, the Kadam puttus (rice dumplings), the nool puttus (the Kodava version of rice noodles) and last but not the least, the famed “pandi curry.”

-Nights so dark, you could cut it with a knife. Stars so brilliant you could not help but stop and stare. (All this stargazing led to a heated discussion on Ursa Major and Ursa Minor. Resolution required a google search on hubby dear’s mobile!!!)

-Hubby dear, in order to keep all the hyperactive kids occupied, started an impromptu reciting session. Eensy weensy spider seemed to be the hot favorite with almost every kid reciting it at least once. Appu, who had never heard the rhyme before then also jumped into the bandwagon with “Eensy weensy spider, sat on a wall” and couldn’t understand why all the adults were holding their sides and rolling with laughter!!!

-One bounce out cricket: Are the T20 organizers listening? Here is another very popular version of the game, atleast judging from the decibel levels of the players

-Return trip-Stopover at Ranganathittu. A lovely boat ride on a glassy green lake, the only sound the gentle slapping of the oars in the water. Slightly marred by a Titanic-style collision with another boat. The only human voice heard being one of the zealous moms pointing out sights to the kids. This, after all the kids were threatened with dire consequences if they so much as sneezed!!

-A alligator sunning itself on a rock, so quiet and still we decided it was a mummy posed for the tourists' benefit, much to the indignation of the boatman. Our theory put to rest when we saw a couple of beady eyes and the very tip of a snout glide soundlessly by a little later.

-After two days in idyllic surroundings, we were brought back to earth with a resounding thud- a traffic jam that started 60 km away from Bangalore.

Yes, we didn’t get to hit the popular tourist destinations-Nisargadhama and the Tibetian monastery. But then, that’s the perfect excuse to go back!!!

EXAM FEVER

2007-10-31T02:35:00.000-07:00

I thought I was over and done with exams for a lifetime. But the gods willed otherwise. I opened Appu’s “homework diary” the other day and my heart stopped beating for a moment. Right at the top written in bold was the legend, EXAM SYLLABUS.

The list read as follows:

A to Q-both capitals and small letters-this for a 3-year old who can barely hold a pencil.

Numbers-1-10-now this one I could do, especially if I could get a hold of enough “Gems”-the sugar coated candy my son is so fond of.

Fruits from Page 10 of textbook- Now how hard could this be? I had reason to gloat, since Appu dear already knows the common ones thanks to his grandmother’s persistence. I was in for a surprise. The list of fruits on Page 10 read like this. Pineapples, Litchi, Custard Apple…….whatever happened to the apples, oranges and mangoes of yore?

Add to this, a bunch of nursery rhymes I had never even heard of. Was this the generation gap at work?

Report Card day at playschool. I waited with trepidation. This was ten times worse than getting my own report card in the past. I was handed the report card and I braced myself for a slew of comments on my bad parenting skills.

I opened it and saw a cute little golden duck pasted on it. Mystified, I looked at Appu’s teacher. The only duck I could think of was as in cricket, and I hoped against hope that this wasn’t anything to do with zeros. Seeing the mystified look on my face, Appu’s teacher hastened to explain that a golden duck meant “Good”. I took that to mean that wonder of wonders, Appu had passed!! I am now steeling myself for the next ordeal in store for me-THE FINAL EXAMS.

SALT OF THE EARTH

2007-10-28T21:22:00.000-07:00

Sunday evening saw me make a beeline to Lalbagh with a friend. Steady drizzle notwithstanding, I was determined to view the “Janapada Jatre” – the folk fair to all you uninitiated.

Seated on the hillock that is a famous landmark of the gardens was a sea of humanity from all walks of life. Mouthwatering smells of roasted corn and masala chai permeated the air.

A sense of expectancy surrounded the crowd. The show began, right on time, I might add. What followed was a spectacle par excellence. A riot of color, pulsating drums, perfect synchronization and some heart stopping acrobatics by a woman, no less, held the audience in thrall.

For an hour and a half, rain or no rain, the crowd egged the folk dancers on. Move over, Boogie Woogie and all you reality dance shows. This is the real thing!!!

HAIR TODAY GONE TOMORROW

2007-10-07T21:37:00.000-07:00

Emergency situation that called for drastic action.

Appu’s head was beginning to sport a realistic afro and his tiny little face was lost somewhere in all those curls. Repeated entreaties to both men in the family were met with a “later, we are busy.”

Never one to give up once I got something into my head, I decided to take Appu to the nearby barber’s. This decision was met with a scandalized reaction from my dad. “What?” “Youre going to go into a men’s saloon?” “ Are you out of your mind?” “What will people think?”

“That I came in to get my son’s hair cut, that’s what.” Proud of myself for having come up with a witty retort at least this once and feeling distinctly superior for breaching yet another male bastion, off I went.

As I parked my bike, I was filled with trepidation. Had I bitten off more than I could chew? Was I ok with being stared at by all the resentful men waiting for their haircuts? What if Appu decided to kick up a fuss and refused to sit still?

Praying to all the gods I could think of, I set foot inside the saloon and surprise, surprise!!! Not a single patron around. It was a Tuesday, when most people do not get their hair cut.

My heart rate returned to normal and I made myself comfortable while my son got his hair cut. Surprisingly enough, he didn’t move a muscle for the next 15 minutes. Were there any more surprises in store for me?

As I sat around waiting for the barber to finish, I looked around the saloon. No girlie pictures, not even a calendar. But every single brand of hair dye and bleach I had ever heard of was displayed on the shelves. It was weird to see all those female faces on the boxes stare back at you in an all-male saloon. Whoever thought of fairness creams, bleaches and shampoos for men is certainly going to be laughing all the way to the bank!!

FOOT FUN

2007-09-30T19:27:00.000-07:00

I have had a crazy week at work. I was just about ready to collapse with the sheer strain of it all when I was brain-washed about foot massages and how relaxing they were. I, being in one of my adventurous moods, decided to give it a try. Last minute, I chickened out and decided on a pedicure instead.

After depositing junior with mom and hubby dear, off I went, to the nearby friendly beauty parlor. I mumbled a very hesitant “pedicure” at the lady in charge. This was a catalyst. At her bellow of “pedicure” two of her underlings came scurrying with all the necessary paraphernalia. Two maroon pieces of cloth, on which were laid out some lethal-looking instruments. At first look, they seemed right out of a medieval torture chamber.

Gritting my teeth, I endured having my poor feet dipped in scalding hot water, scrubbed, pummeled and massaged to within an inch of its life. Nary a whimper escaped my lips, I am proud to state.

Finally it was all over, and I heaved a sigh of relief at my incipient escape. I still do not understand how anyone can call this relaxing. But then, small reward, my feet look real pretty in my strappy sandals!!!

Driving class 1-Aug 22

2007-08-26T03:20:00.000-07:00

The driver’s seat of a car is not one of the places I traditionally find myself in, since I am one of those people who are mechanically retarded. Hence, I tend to leave driving to the experts, namely hubby dear or sundry friends kind enough to offer me a lift.

Thanks to hubby dear being laid up for 6 weeks and being neither a toddler nor a geriatric, I was the one arm-twisted into learning how to drive the family car.

Wednesday morning, after the requisite prayers to Lord Ganesh to keep me and the other souls unfortunate enough to be on the road the same time as I from harm; I landed at the driving school for my very first class.

Fifteen minutes later, and some 2000 odd rupees poorer, I found myself in a white Santro attending what was euphemistically called “Theory Class” of my driving lessons.

After ascertaining my linguistic abilities in the local languages, my driver began explaining the mysteries of a car engine to me. He first taught me the basics; A for accelerator, B for Brake, C for clutch and was threatened with dire consequences should I forget.

All I remember of the lesson was that a dynamo “translates” energy to a battery. And that the “Wifer” should not be run when there is dust on the windshield.

After a mind boggling array of facts were slipped past me at the speed of light, I was allowed to go home. And boy, was I glad the ordeal was over for the day!!!

RADIO GAGA

2007-08-26T03:06:00.000-07:00

I have a normal person’s dread of hospitals. To add to it, I seem to end up spending unseemly amounts of time in them. So much so that it has now reached phobia proportions. Imagine my consternation when, last Sunday, I was forced to sit around in the radio diagnostics department of Manipal hospital waiting for an MRI on hubby dear’s knee. The fact that the department is located two floors below ground level only made it more ominous.

There were three patients in all, along with their respective spouses. A plump, jolly lady turned to me and said, “Are you one of the Hiremaths?” You look a lot like Mrs. Hiremath. So did hubby dear look like Mr. Hiremath too? I was dying to ask.

Even though I assured her I wasn’t Mrs. Hiremath, she proceeded to tell us, in spite of her husband’s vehement protests, what she thought of doctors and their advice. This, in spite of her son being one of the clan. The nurse then came up to her and asked her to get into hospital clothes in readiness for her CT scan. After a good 15 minutes, we heard a yell from the changing room. Could you go tell the bla***d nurse that nothing fits? She then marched right out in her everyday clothes. The nurse came back and told her, “Ma’m, you have to get into hospital clothes, those are the rules.” Pat came the reply, “Is it the hospital rule to diagnose patients half naked?” Needless to say she went in to get her scan in her own clothes.

The next person the nurse chose to talk to was the couple sitting next to us. The lady was in south Indian attire. With a slightly superior air she asked (in English) “Do you understand English? Which language do you speak?” The lady in question was so shocked at the abruptness that she kept mum. The husband, quite irritated by her attitude declared, “She speaks nothing but French.”

I think I am going to have to change my perception of hospitals as dull, dreary places pretty soon.

The next person the nurse chose to talk to was the couple sitting next to us. They lady was in south Indian attire. With a slightly superior air she asked (in English) “Do you understand English? Which language do you speak?” The lady in question was so shocked at the abruptness that she kept mum. The husband, quite irritated by her attitude declared, “She speaks nothing but French.”

I think I am going to have to change my perception of hospitals as dull, dreary places pretty soon.

NOSE BACK TO THE GRINDSTONE

2007-07-15T00:14:00.001-07:00

I sit in a class (after some 10-odd years) with 50 others, zoned out and trying hard to keep an expression of avid interest on my countenance. It wouldn't do to antagonize the presenters. After all I have been there, done that. To stay awake, I begin a mental list of things I am going to be missing out on, now that I have rejoined the class of "working moms."

-No more pajamas all day long. Color coordination is in, and if the buttons are all intact-half the battle won.
-Yes, I do need to figure out where the comb has hidden itself.
-Yeah, I have to look at the clock at intervals and not just to see if my favorite movie has begun on the tube yet.
-No more catnaps.
-No more snacking whenever the urge struck me.
-No more gaining malicious pleasure out of scaring salesmen with gunk on my face.
-No more dance class and prancing about the gym.
-No more walks to pick up my son and seeing the grin on his face as he raced home.
-No more time or energy to listen to all the stories his vivid imagination conjures up.
-No more tea-time gossip sessions with mom.

Sigh!!! Is it all worth it in the end???

ONE TIGHT SLAP

2007-06-20T21:26:00.000-07:00

Picture this. Appu and his dad seated in an armchair singing “Nobody wanna see us together” by Akon at the tops of their voices. Daddy gets distracted for a moment and turns to look out the window at a PYT walking past. Appu, miffed at losing his singing partner, lands one tight slap on dear daddy’s face, which sets daddy’s eardrums ringing. Outraged, Appu receives a spanking.(I do hope no child rights activist is reading this). A lot of tears and recriminations later, things are patched up. Daddy, suddenly conscious of his role as a father, decides to advise Appu against using violence to solve problems.

Daddy: Appu, youre a good boy right? And that slap hurt. Do you think it’s a good thing to hurt people that way?
Appu: (Showing dad his bottom). Well, you hurt me too!!!!

DIZZYING HEIGHTS

2007-06-20T21:22:00.000-07:00

What’s the connection between heights and food? Well plenty, if you happen to be a restaurateur in Bangalore. I have always wondered about this obsession. How else do you explain restaurants named 13th Floor, 20 feet, and 100 feet to name a few? Is it superstition that comes into play or some kind of numerology? Or is it the fond hope that the restaurant would reach those heights and live up to its name? Something common about all these restaurants- all three serve pretty good continental food; if you can get the serving personnel to understand what it is you would like to eat, that is!!!!

DANCE, LITTLE LADY, DANCE

2007-05-19T00:59:00.000-07:00

I am not cut out to be a housewife. After weeks of being housebound, I discovered this profound facet to my personality. I need the constant stimulation of having people around me most, if not all, the time. Agreed, being around an energetic toddler is fun, but two months of watching Pogo was really beginning to tell on my psyche.

Things came to a head when I noticed the other members of my family tiptoeing around me. I have a feeling that my imitation of a snapping wolf at their simplest queries had something to do with this. This was when I decided to throw caution to the winds and enrolled myself in a dance class. This was an extremely brave thing to do for one who was born with two left feet and had no concept of this mysterious thing called rhythm.
So off I went, all togged out in my new pink tracksuit and hair up in a ponytail. The least I could do was to look the part even if I couldn’t dance to save my life!!!

Did I say I was brave? Let me amend that statement. I think the dance teacher happens to be the bravest soul I know. He took one look at what passed for my dance moves and did not bat an eyelash. Of course, he did turn pale under his tan, but I am going to put it down to the heat in the gym.

Three weeks later, and I still have not been thrown out of the class. I call that progress. Yeah, I have been asked to dance with a group of school going kids, but hey, at least I am dancing!!!

Best of all, my pathetic attempts at moving my body to the beat have won me a lot of sympathizers, who keep trying to help me figure out the contortions that pass for free-style dancing. Their sympathies I soon hope to convert to friendship. Hurrah for dance class!!!!

MANY FISH IN THE OCEAN

2007-05-01T10:19:00.000-07:00

Let me warn you at the very outset. This blog is not for the faint-hearted. Specially the ones that belong to the vegetarian variety. Not that I have anything against vegetarians, just that I am not too sure you guys would want to hear me go on and on about fish, specially dead ones.

Like any true blue Mallu, (except for my dad, who is the sole exception in our family) I love fish. The fried variety to me is manna from heaven. I love to eat it with just plain boiled rice much to the disgust of my mom.

My last trip to Kerala, needless to say, was filled with fish of all shapes and sizes. While the ones in the aquarium fascinated my son to no end, the ones frying in hot coconut oil were what my fantasies were made of.

Appu was endlessly fascinated by the whole preparation process. Right from day one he learnt to listen for the sound of the fishmonger’s little rubber horn mounted on a rickety old bicycle and at the first honk would rush to let us know that the fish had arrived.

Then he would squat next to his grandmother, who would clean the fish and ask her, “Ammuma, meenine kulipikyugeyanno? (Grandmother, are you giving the fish a bath?) This would send everyone into peals of laughter and now everyone calls the process “bathing the fish”.

I got yet another insight into my son’s complicated mind with the next incident that again involved fish. The neighborhood children would show my son the fish they were rearing to eat mosquito larvae. The “tank” consisted of sheets of plastic stretched on a frame filled with water. The fish were reared in this shallow pool. One look at the fish in the pool and my son exclaimed, “Aha, meen. Fry cheyidu tinnam!!! (Aha, fish!!! We can fry and eat them). Atta boy Appu, you are a Mallu too!!!

HAPPY GOLDEN NEW YEAR

2007-04-15T00:08:00.000-07:00

Today is Vishu. The mallu New Year. As I woke up sleepy-eyed to gaze upon the Vishu Kanni, it stuck me. The mallu obsession with the yellow metal extends to the Vishu Kanni too. All of the items that make up the vishu kanni bear some resemblance to the precious metal. The yellow flowers, the bronze uruli, the lit lamp, the frame of the mirror, the yellow cucumber, not to mention the jewelry and the new clothes-all of these are some shade of yellow.

Take a ride through Kerala and you would think you had landed in Gold’s Own Country. The hoardings, the advertisements painted on the walls, the banners, all advertise jewelery stores; not only in Kerala but exotic locations like the Middle East too!!! The sheer number of jewelry stores that exist boggles the mind. And the number of people who throng these stores at any time of night or day makes you wonder if India truly is the poor country it is made out to be.

One only has to look at mallu brides to see the excesses which people commit. Most mallu brides dressed up in all their wedding finery could easily rival the caparisoned and gold-bedecked elephants of the Thrissur pooram!
Gold or no gold, I hope every mallu has a truly golden new year ahead!!!

ONE AND A HALF

2007-04-08T04:53:00.000-07:00

They are an integral part of Bangalore city. In fact, no visit to the city is complete unless you’ve experienced a ride in one. The pathetic public transport system the city has has ensured that one is at their mercy if you ever want to get anywhere on time. You can find them in all the nooks and crannies of the city. The ubiquitous yellow and black rattle traps, more often than not belching out thick, dark, smoke and creating a racket loud enough to wake the dead. But strangely enough, the first drops of rain and they vanish, rather like a group of mice at the sight of a cat.

To their credit, they are the only things that can navigate Bangalore’s crazy traffic. The only ones who can make a 180-degree turn right in the middle of a busy thoroughfare and get away with it. A ride in an autorickshaw is certainly not for the faint-hearted. The heart-stopping speeds, the sudden stops, the feeling of being airborne when you encounter a pot hole, who needs the thrills of an amusement park when you can have a similar ride at quarter the price?

Many a professional has had his negotiation skills perfected haggling with the auto driver. In this case, the customer is certainly not king. If you happen to want to go the same way as the auto driver, you can heave a sigh of relief and get into the contraption, happy that you’ve won a major battle.

Do you need to go anywhere in the evening? Prepare to be told “one and a half agotte madam” (you will have to pay one and half). This has nothing to do with the area, the distance or the time. This is the acid test to see if you are a native to the city or one of the “outsiders” who don’t know any better. Another trick in the book, to take you through the most circuitous route possible. Or to ask you “ yava kade hogali madam?(which way should I go, madam?) If you hem and haw, you are done for. Prepare to be parted from a few extra rupees, after all, haven’t you heard the adage, a fool and her money are easily parted?

But to their credit, Bangalore’s autorickshaws have definitely honed the soft skills of all the professionals in the city. This stands them in good stead both within the country and abroad. It is certainly about time that the not so humble autorickshaw drivers of Bangalore were given due credit for putting Bangalore on the world map.

BABY,BABY

2007-03-31T23:28:00.001-07:00

We had never been able to understand it. We in this case being my dad and I. Babies who had been smiling and gurgling until a few seconds ago, would take one look at us, screw up their tiny little faces, and let out loud wails which would bring their mothers running post haste. Moms would pick up their bawling angels, glare at us like we were foot soldiers of Genghis Khan and walk off in a huff, leaving us wishing the earth would open up and swallow us.

It has been a standing joke in our family that the two of us were guaranteed to make the most good-natured of babies cry. Dad blamed it all on his bristling handlebar moustache. I, on the other hand, had no such recourse. Wild stories made the rounds, fueled by none other than my mom, of me having dropped a baby just because it had dared pee while I was holding it. The fact that I must have been barely 7 years old and that I had “dropped” the baby onto a large fluffy pillow on a bed was conveniently forgotten. And to add fuel to the fire, I married a man who could make babies smile benevolently by merely crooking his little finger.

All that changed when I had one of my own. Suddenly, I was granted entry into an exclusive club. Babies will now smile at me and trustingly go to sleep cuddled up against me. And better still, I can now pick up and hold even newborns with panache. Moms who would not let me near their little darlings even at gunpoint, will now trustingly put them into my arms.

As I glimpsed the sleepy smile of my toddler outside the airport, it hit me. That what they said was true. There is no feeling in the world that can match having a baby smile at you.

HOME SWEET HOME

2007-03-21T12:00:00.000-07:00

It’s that time again. Time for me to say goodbye. I don’t know why I put myself through this over and over again. And this time, as always, the goodbyes are going to be hard. Because it was so difficult to find people who really care. And to know you might never see them again.

My desk looks empty, since I have moved all the stuff….right into the trash can. It is kind of fun not to have to answer that constantly ringing phone. Little gifts from people at work. Exclamations of how quickly time went by and promises to keep in touch.

Wrestling with stuff that refuses to fit into suitcases. Does stuff multiply or something? . Figuring out what can be given away to goodwill. How on earth can I have so many memories attached to clothes? And dear lord, how am I going to carry all those chocolates back home since I am way over the allowed baggage limit???? Looked in the airline’s website. They do have a section on what to do with antlers, yes antlers, I kid you not, but nothing on whether u can sashay in with chocolates in your purse!!! And what on earth am I going to do for 8 hours in Singapore? There is an 8-hour wait for a 2-hour flight that takes me home. Somebody sure messed up somewhere.

Final phone calls to be made, final emails to be sent, goodbyes to be said. The final hugs and the tears…. Things are never going to be the same again.

But at the end of all this gloom, a bright light at the end of a dark tunnel. I am going back to my family and a month long vacation. So Bangalore, here I come!!!!!!

SHENANIGANS AT WORK

2007-03-16T14:12:00.000-07:00

I work in insurance. Typical reaction: Boring with a capital B. So an insurance office has to be duller than dishwater right? Not our office; far from it. Dont believe me do you?

Sampling of typical conversations at work:

Lady 1: Can you believe I just got a medical bill from a Dr. Decock?
Lady 2: Oh yeah? Well, I have a hearing at the Board tomorrow with Judge Pussey.

Me: Oh, oh, I have been sitting so long my foot has fallen asleep.
Lady 3: Oh the poor thing, now it is going to stay awake all night.

On Halloween, we had an office full of witches and warlords and everything in between. I wonder what the people whose claims we administer would have thought if they had happened to wander in.

A colleague decided that she needed a broom to complete her witch outfit. She went into the broom closet and helped herself to a rather old and misused one. She left it at her desk that day. She came in to work the next morning and voila!!!! a brand new broom!!!. (The cleaning lady had, out of the goodness of her heart, exchanged the old one for a nice new one.) The expression on her face sent us all into peals of laughter so loud that the supervisor had to come and get us all to quiet down.

Our office has to be the worst place for anyone on a diet. I am definitely blaming the office for all the extra rolls of fat I now lug around. There is simply so much food lying around. Cookies, chocolate, donuts, and if that wasn’t enough, every time we had a training, the trainers would order in yet more food. Probably to make sure people would attend.

So when the Weightwatchers program was announced, it was felt people would make a beeline for it. But not here. To date I think they have been able to recruit 6 people, two of whom were managers who were compelled to set an example for the rest of us. Well, we obviously believe in being fat and jolly.

A colleague’s birthday and since she loved Starbucks coffee, her workstation was decorated with empty cups and cup holders with green, black and white helium balloons to match. We all thought it looked gorgeous until we got an email the next day stating that the balloons had to come down the same day they went up. The reason? Our manager was mad at being woken up twice in the middle of the night by phone calls informing her that there were intruders on our premises. The swaying balloons had apparently set off the motion sensors triggering the phone calls.

I rest my case.

DIAMONDS ON BLACK VELVET

2007-03-09T12:46:00.000-08:00

A freezing cold night up in the mountains. Patches of snow everywhere. Moonlight so bright that it hurt to even look.

Four people peering at the night sky through huge telescopes. A whole new world, made up of supernovas, galaxies, and stars. Distances unfathomable by the human mind. Revelations of how insignificant we humans are in the broader scheme of things. A chance to peer into a world hundreds of thousands of light years away with an awe that supersedes speech.

A “magic” star colored violet. Stars that revolve around other stars. Stars being formed. Stars being destroyed. A world that proves that change is the only permanent thing.

Grand finale: Shiny Saturn in all its splendor; rings and moons included. MAGIC…..

BLACK BUBBLES

2007-03-01T16:16:00.000-08:00

My fascination with my only tipple continues. This time it has been dressed up with black tapioca beads and it’s called Boba tea.

Boba tea or bubble tea is all the rage the world over and is slated to take over Starbucks coffee. Boba tea is believed to have originated in Taiwan. The “Bubble” refers to dark colored, chewy tapioca balls in the tea. They are also called pearls and these are sucked up along with the tea through a wide straw.

Bubble teas can be fruit-flavored or milk teas. I tried the mango-flavored black Chinese tea, and its one of those drinks that instantly elevates your mood. Considering it was one of those rainy evenings, that was no easy task. I persuaded a friend to try the exotic- sounding green tea with tapioca milk, so I could get a taste of it too, but not have to drink it all if I didn’t like it!!!. It was surprisingly good and came in a cup large enough to be a bowl with a soup spoon in it.

The highlight of the expedition came when my friend decided to investigate why we could not understand a word the pretty waitress was saying to us.. He was convinced she had a tongue piercing. And the true scientist that he is, he had to get to the bottom of it all and so he went right up to her and asked her if she had had her tongue pierced. The poor thing shrank into a corner in confusion and fearfully pointed out the manager. The said friend, instead of leaving things well enough alone, repeated the question to the manager.

Suffice to say that for a moment I was not sure we were going to get out of the cafe with all our limbs intact. My scientist friend is still mad that he could not get to the bottom of the puzzle and madder still since I told him that he had been rude to have asked such a question. The argument continues to this day whether you can or cannot ask someone if they have had their tongues pierced.

RASAM AND PRELUDE IN C MINOR

2007-02-28T16:13:00.000-08:00

I finally did it. I have had some really close shaves but yesterday was the day it was meant to happen and it did. I would have rather that it hadn’t, but then you can’t avoid the long hands of fate forever right?

It all began with my roommates’ plea for an Indian dinner. And the horrible cook that I am, I settled for rasam and rice. Simple fare, but perfect for a cold, rainy evening with the added advantage that no matter how hard I tried, nothing could possibly go wrong.

So there I was, standing by the stove, languidly stirring the rasam and loving the hot peppery scent of it. This scent unfailingly brings to mind other rainy evenings, and mom’s panacea for a thorough drenching in the rain.

C was playing the piano and the warm cozy ambience, with the rain falling outside was the perfect backdrop for one of my day dreams. That’s when it happened. Three short bursts of a siren going off. I had set off the smoke detector.!!!! I looked down at the stove in horror. How could that have happened? I hadn’t let the pot boil over so where was the smoke coming from? Surely the steam could not have set the alarm off??

Poor C jumped up from her piano stool, rushed to open all the doors and windows and got the fan going to disperse the smoke. We did investigate and discovered that the smoke was coming from the leftover food that had fallen into the stove after somebody else’s culinary adventures.

I fervently thanked all the gods I could think of, when I realized that the fire engine was not going to come clanging up to our doorstep. The fire station is right down the street where I live and I was particularly glad it did not have any overzealous fire fighters.

Needless to say, it was a rather quiet dinner last night.

ON TOP OF THE WORLD

2007-02-22T15:04:00.000-08:00

I saw snow for the first time. Not mounds and mounds of it or a blanket of white covering everything in sight like in one of those pretty Christmas cards, but more like bits and pieces of it, clinging on to some really tall mountains, and parts of it trampled and dirty instead of pristine white. But that did not make it any less beautiful. There is something to be said about holding snow in your hands and feeling your fingers slowly go numb.

There definitely is something to be said about sitting on a log in the midst of a green cathedral and being thankful that all this beauty exists and that you were blessed enough to be able to drink it all in. Trees that seem to touch the sky and a silence that speaks to you. A sense of timelessness and the feeling that there is a God, whether you choose to believe in him or not.

Walking around, there are spectacular views of mountains, golf courses, Palm Springs downtown and wind mill farms. Each windmill costs anywhere from a half a million to a million dollars and there were hundreds of them visible from the top. This is definitely not a poor country.

The aerial tramway at Palm Springs is what brings you to this little piece of heaven, and that is a marvel by itself. The cable car is round and the floor keeps moving, so everyone is afforded a different view of the gorgeous mountains. Of course, you better not gawk too much at the views or you’d fall right over someone’s big feet!!!

High up (about 8000+ feet) and you come to realize how insignificant you are in the larger scheme of things. All the cares of the world drop away and you live, live just for the moment.

WALK LIKE AN ETHIOPIAN

2007-02-16T16:28:00.001-08:00

Another Friday. Time for another culinary adventure. This time the vote was for Ethiopian food and we made a beeline for the restaurant called the Red Sea. It is situated in a not-so-nice part of town on University Avenue. The people in our group, specially the ones with the nice cars, were a bit jittery about parking in the dark by lanes, so we ended up making at least four trips around the restaurant just to find parking that met with everyone’s approval.

The restaurant itself had a very homey feel. The art and the pictures on the wall were all done on leather which gives the illusion of being inside a tent. Our waitress was a work of art herself. She was tiny, slim with an exquisite face that seemed to have been carved out of ebony. She reminded me of all the long-necked busts that people bring back from trips to Africa. The service was pretty slow, but then I don’t think anyone minded.

Ethiopian food is eaten with the hands, so I felt right at home. We started off with what seemed like samosas, just a flattened version. It was listed as a sambusa or was it listed as sammossa with a lot of extra ss and mms thrown in for effect?

The staple dish is “injera” which closely resembles a large dosa. The food is served on huge platters and the injera lines the inside of the platter. The side dishes are served on top of the injera. The side dishes, which can range from lentils to dishes of lamb and beef, have a lot of similarities to Indian cuisine. They could easily be mistaken for home- made Indian curries.

The Ethiopians also eat a spicy “hot sauce” with their meals to add an extra zing. It reminded me of garlic pickle minus the scent of garlic.

But the most interesting part of the food is the way some of their traditions are linked to it. Ethiopians chew a portion of the food and then gently pass it into the mouth of their loved one. This is generally practiced amongst spouses. Any takers?

I DON'T LIKE VALENTINE'S DAY!!

2007-02-15T14:09:00.000-08:00

Topic in our lunchroom today: Valentine’s Day. Not surprising, since we just survived another one yesterday. I was eavesdropping on a conversation between two co-workers. Well, to ease my conscience, I wasn’t doing it on purpose. I was sitting there reading my book and eating at the same time, so it wasn’t like they couldn’t see me.

The guy was talking about how his girlfriend claimed that she didn’t like Valentine’s
Day but had still gone ahead and bought him lots of stuff. He had bought her her favorite cookies, her favorite candy and a flower anyways, since he believed that no girl should be without presents on Valentine’s Day. Now this guy definitely had a very happy girlfriend.

The lady he was talking to had her own views on the subject. She felt that every girl claimed not to like Valentine’s Day, quoting commercialism as a romance killer. But then, every girl does this so that she is not too disappointed when the expected romantic gestures do not materialize.

Set me thinking, is this really true? Most of the men I know wouldn’t be caught dead with any form of plant life, let alone roses. But then there are the ones who are perfectly comfortable with the idea too. Why is it that people are not willing to make that effort to make the other person feel cherished? And this by the way, should work both ways.

I agree that one day should not be held up as the epitome of love, but then, I see nothing wrong with having a day to remind you that you’re really lucky to have a special person in your life and to never take that for granted, coz who knows what life might bring?

KNIGHT RIDER

2007-02-13T09:15:00.000-08:00

Blame it on silly girlhood fantasies. But who could forget the TV serial of the same name with a black leather clad, helmeted David Hasselhoff and his lean, mean man-machine? I had gone to the extent of recording the title music on my rickety old tape-recorder (this was the pre i-pod era by the way) so I could play the music over and over and be lost in a fantasy world populated with cute men and their cuter rides.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered one of my friends here in California owned what is called a "sports bike". True blue bikers would consider it sheer sacrilege if anyone called these crotch rockets "bikes". Did I dare ask him for a ride? Would he refuse point blank and give me a set of 10 logical reasons why he could not take "the thing" (his nickname for the feminine gender) on his all-male bike? Screwing up all my courage I did ask. I got a blank stare in response. The lift of his eyebrows indicated that he thought this was a huge joke.

But gentleman that he was, he did not squash me point blank and pointed out that if I wanted a ride, I had to have a jacket and more importantly a helmet. If I did manage to procure both of these, he would take me for a ride.

Miracles do happen in this world. Proof of that is the fact that I got to go on my bike ride. All the way upto Malibu. Of course for the first few miles I felt like the top of my head was going to be ripped from my shoulders and I was pretty sure, at the very least, that the helmet would fly off and hit some poor unsuspecting motorist.

Later, when I did get used to it, it did give me high to be moving at incredible speeds with the wind rushing past my face, overtaking most other vehicles. What a royal pity I couldn't ride it myself.

Stopover at beautiful Malibu for lunch and the trip back made in really cold weather.

Inspite of not being able to sit down properly for a week, this is a ride that I don't intend to forget in a hurry!

MONGOLIAN MYSTERY

2007-02-07T16:21:00.000-08:00

Friday evenings tend to be the most wonderful part of a week. The whole weekend stretches tantalizingly ahead of you and you have time to lick your lips in anticipation. In this case, quite literally. This weekend was one of gastronomic delights.

All I know about Mongols is the fact that Gengis Khan was one of them and that some babies are born with a congenital condition called “mongolism”. Not very good analogies I agree.

Since we were feeling particularly adventurous, we walked into the Mongolian Grill in San Bernardino. It was a very pleasant place with comfortable seats, and with a huge tava- like contraption holding the place of honor.

There was a huge buffet table set up in the middle with all the ingredients for a meal. Now this is how you do it. You take a small bowl from the corner of the buffet and walk down the buffet choosing between meat, veggies or fish. The last counter has noodles that you place on top of everything else you’ve chosen. Then you pour on a vast variety of sauces depending on how spicy you want your food to be. You then take the bowl to the two chefs manning the “tava”. The tava rather looks like the ones our chatwallahs use back home, just that this tava is huge. The cooks then walk all round it pushing the food with their spatulas. This is done because (as one of my co-diners informed me with a sufficiently supercilious air) different parts of the tava are heated to different degrees. Once the food is cooked, the chefs put it on to a dinner plate and present it to you with a flourish.

Did you think this was simple? Let me hasten to put that notion to rest. There is a technique to it all, as one school kid demonstrated to his girlfriend. To ensure that you stuff the maximum amount of food into your bowl, you pick up another bowl and use the bottom of the first to stuff food into the first. He nonchalantly told his girlfriend that he was just doing this to show her how to do this right, not that he wanted to eat quite that much. To which the PYT replied, “Oh, I have been to dinner at your house, and you all eat like pigs.”

In case you are wondering how the food tasted, it tasted just great, though my first bowl had an overpowering taste of garlic, and I had no one to blame for it but myself. But by my second bowl, I had it down pat, and so now I have some good food to associate with this mysterious place called Mongolia.

PLENTY OF FISH IN THE SEA

2007-01-31T16:30:00.000-08:00

It was one of those dreary rainy mornings in San Diego, rainy and cold, with gusts of wind making sure the rain penetrated right through clothes. I hate rain in the mornings, especially if I have to go to work. Now, to be fair, it can rain as much as it likes as long as I am tucked under a nice warm quilt, a cup of hot tea in hand, reading a good book. I love to watch the rain pitter patter down windowpanes or drum on roofs but to have to trudge to work in this kind of weather, now that totally puts me off.

In order to fortify myself against the day ahead, I decided to eat a good American breakfast. Err, now let me modify that. A good American breakfast for people with very little time on their hands and a modicum of respect for their stomachs. So cornflakes it had to be. I was forced to eat “Honeybunches” since our pantry is filled to overflowing with the stuff. D, in a misguided move to impress upon his wife that her every wish was his command, had gone down to Vons and come back with a whole crate of the stuff.

Breakfast done, it was time to think of lunch. 11:30 am and a bunch of like-minded foodies decided to go out for a Japanese lunch. Now let me get this straight. I love fish, specially the fried variety, how could I not? It is an integral part of being a mallu. But raw fish? Now that is enough to make even the bravest soul cringe. So I spent the next hour trying to find something at least half-cooked if not completely cooked. I settled for dumplings with different fillings, a miso soup and a salad.

That was when my lunch companions decided that I had to be properly introduced to true Japanese cuisine. They begged me to try the California rolls. It boggles the mind why a Japanese dish should be called that. It consists of a roll with small pieces of fish (please god, let it have been cooked) surrounded by rice and various other condiments all wrapped in a thin sheet of I have no idea what. (Was it sea weed of some kind?). It was then cut into bite-sized chunks. I was informed that the true-blue sushi eaters do not consider the California rolls sushi, but that it was perfect for a novice like me making a brave foray into the world of sushi eaters. Suffice to say that I dipped it into every sauce that was on the table and put it into my mouth and swallowed. That was my first experience with sushi, and since I am still alive to write this, it doesn’t seem to have done me any harm.

Cold rainy evening and what could be better than a hot cup of coffee? Off we went, to a Vietnamese restaurant, to sample some of their wares. I had heard lots of people wax eloquent over Vietnamese coffee and wanted to try it to see if it was as good as it was made out to be. My enthusiasm levels were high since I knew for sure that it was not likely to contain anything raw, except of course, if the Vietnamese got it into their heads to make their coffee with raw milk. The coffee was strong and sweet, with condensed milk, and served in little individual filters rather like the typical south Indian filter coffee.

Come to think of it, my day, in spite of the rain, was pretty international, so I guess rainy days have their good points too.

SHE IS DISGUSTINGLY BEAUTIFUL

2007-01-30T15:36:00.000-08:00

The lovely couple I live with are very interested in all things Indian. So in the interests of their continuing education in Indian culture, I asked if they would like to go see a Hindi flick. C was game, but D chickened out at the last minute.

I would have loved to take them to a good old Bollywood masala movie, but the only one playing right then was “Guru”. So off we went, with a couple of other friends. Friends who were quite upset at what they called “chicklogic.” They opined that only the truly deranged would insist on watching a Hindi movie when there was an exciting football match on TV.

First shock, when I realized that there were no seat numbers and that one can practically sit anywhere. Only in this case, anywhere happened to be in the second row near the screen. C had a shock when she realized that Hindi movies were looooooooooong and actually had intermissions in the middle. I wonder what she would say if I made her sit through Hum Apke Hain Kaun.

C loved the dancing and the costumes and was actually trying out some of the dance moves during the intermission. Some of those moves were actually quite risqué and I bet the men in the rows near us got quite an eyeful. Poor C also got stared quite a bit since she is light-skinned and beautiful to boot. She did have the look of a deer caught in headlights when people would actually stop talking to look at her.

Movie over and back home, I asked C what she thought of Aishwarya Rai. C retorted, “She is disgustingly beautiful.” “How do people even manage to talk when she is looking at them through those eyes.?” Good question C, any answers anyone?

ORDER!! ORDER!! ORDER IN THE COURT!!

2007-01-25T08:34:00.000-08:00

“Do you think I could use tofu instead of buffalo wings to make this Mexican dish?” One pyt (pretty young thing, for the uninitiated) asked another. A weighty decision that needed to be made in a Court Room with the presiding Judge in attendance. An animated discussion followed, where the pros and cons of such an action were discussed. The discussion came to an abrupt end when the judge banged her gavel so she could make herself heard. The judge herself was a crusty old woman, full of vinegar and piss. She called herself a bitch and berated one of the insurance companies since they had made an appointment and were nowhere to be seen.

My first visit to the Worker’s Compensation Appeals Board and more illusions came crashing down. Where were the hallowed portals and the hustle and bustle of the courtroom as portrayed in movies? Where were the attorneys rushing about looking hassled, striving to save the innocent? All I got to see was a room full of rather sad-looking people resigned to their fate and hoping some good would come out of their trip to the board.

The lady judge, in the course of our tour, allowed us to peek in her office. We noticed a dark, pod-shaped object with what looked like short brown wires and hair sticking out at odd angles. This, she explained, was the prize winning artifact made by her 37-year-old daughter in her free-throw ceramics class. One of her secretaries later confided to us that they all had a nick name for it: “the hairy dick”.

We walked past rows and rows of files and came to a stop in front of what looked like a first aid box. Only, this first aid box had an emergency defibrillator. I can only imagine how many heart attacks must have taken place in the building to have necessitated the installation of such a machine.

The tour ended with lunch at P.F.Chang’s where everyone ate like there was no tomorrow. Out in the warm sunshine, after that enormous lunch, I did try out a feeble excuses my comatose brain had come up with to not go to work. None seemed really plausible, hence back I went to the salt mines.

HEAVEN IS A LITTLE CLOSER IN A COTTAGE BY THE SEA

2007-01-17T16:22:00.000-08:00

Nestled in the hills surrounding a pristine beach is a little cottage with gray walls and a blue roof. Little wind chimes tinkle sweet melodies as the wind plays hide and seek. Huge glass windows capture all the sunshine and a warm wood floor holds all that warmth inside. A wonderful fireplace for chilly evenings and knickknacks that hold memories from all over the world.

Best of all is the woman who lives here. One who gave up a life of gain to give something back. To underprivileged women struggling with abuse and poverty in some of the poorest countries in the world.

She was so impressed with the warmth shown to her by complete strangers that she is going to spread it around. She welcomes people into her home and heart and hopes that the recipient passes it around. A wonderful way to make the world a better place.

Does the beautiful piece of earth she lives in play a role in the warmth she exudes? Weatherworn wooden steps lead from her home to the wide expanse of the beach. Trees line both sides of the path leading to the ocean and the green canopy overhead makes it a dark and mysterious tunnel. The path ends suddenly and there is a sudden burst of sunshine. Vistas of blue and white stun the eye after the cool and soothing colors of the path. The water is every shade of blue and more and the white sands provide a startling contrast: a true feast for the eyes.

Heaven on earth. Only the truly lucky get a taste of it and only the luckiest get to live in it.

LUNCH WITH LORNA DOONE

2007-01-11T15:53:00.000-08:00

A long time ago, when I was a young girl, I happened to read a novelette titled Lorna Doone. The thrill of reading the said novel was doubly compounded since I had sneaked the book off of my cousin’s study table.

The story was that of a young man who falls in love with the daughter of a gangster who hid in the hills and the young couple would secretly meet in a green grassy bower. The word bower brought up visions of a saucer-shaped depression with sloping green, grassy sides interspersed with flowers.

This describes, to a T, the little park outside where I work. It is a little depression, with sloping grassy sides and hundreds of tiny flowers interspersed in the grass. I always wonder how the flowers bloom equidistant to one another. Is it the skill of a consummate gardener or the wonders of genetic engineering?

I tend to eat my lunch here most days sitting on the steps, book in hand. I love to hear the bees and feel the sun warm on my shoulders while I am lost in the story. I once had a humming bird grant me the rare privilege of watching him while he ate (or was it sipped?) his lunch. He was so close I stopped breathing for fear of scaring him away. Another first, being able to watch a humming bird right under my nose.

My bower has had its share of romantic couples too, only these are ones trying to snatch a shared moment together in the middle of a busy day. I guess their bosses would do very well for Lorna’s tyrannical father. I do sometimes berate myself for intruding, but then, I was there first and that should count for something.

Today was one of those days when I simply had to get out of the office, so I collected sandwiches, book, a bottle of water and off I went. I made myself comfortable on one of the lower steps and was soon lost in the story of charging horses, princes and beautiful princesses just waiting to be rescued.

I had just gotten to the part where the princess was about to swoon into the prince’s arms, when something went whoooooooooooosh overhead and then landed with a thump. I nearly fell off of the step in fright. Had one of the horses in my book come to life? I looked up fearfully to see a cyclist, helmeted and padded to within an inch of his life, standing there with a foolish grin. I am still trying to make up my mind what made me madder, the loss of the romance, or the foolhardiness of some people.

SALAD DAYS

2007-01-09T16:25:00.000-08:00

Salads: just the word is enough to send shivers down the spine of any self respecting meat-eater . Who wants to eat boring old veggies, bland and practically tasteless, when there is meat? Now I can see frowns of disapproval from the die-hard veggies. But then, if you want to be kind to animals, why are you eating their food?

But living in the US, that too with an American family has caused me to dramatically change my opinion. There has been so much meat in my diet that I have now come to love salads with a passion.

Salads have saved my skin a number of times, especially in restaurants. I hate having to choose what to eat. Yeah I am variety-phobic. I generally beg someone else to choose what I should eat. But this does not always work, especially in restaurants where the menu has exotic dishes and no one has any idea what goes into any of them. Along comes a salad in shining armor to my rescue.

And the sheer variety in salads, now this is one area that I love variety. It would be sheer sacrilege to call the salads here boring. They come in all shapes and sizes with the most obscure ingredients, like beans, pieces of meat, fish, garbanzo beans (the lowly channa) and exotic stuff like artichoke hearts.

Salads are also a godsend for people on a diet. Though I fail to understand how you can diet with salads when all the dressings are so calorie-intensive!!

And the best part about salads? The snob value. The sheer superiority complex that differentiates the salad eaters from lesser human beings. Have you ever noticed people in a restaurant who are smug and walk with their noses in the air and what seems suspiciously like a halo around their heads? These are the self-righteous ones who have just chosen salad for their meal.

GALLIVANT ON THE GREEN

2007-01-08T16:04:00.000-08:00

Another first for me. I got to go to go golfing. Of course, stating that I went golfing is stretching imagination quite a bit, since I didn’t know and still do not know a putter from a 9-iron. This was another of those lazy afternoons; the kind I like best.

The people who went with me deserve the Nobel price for patience. Specially, since I had the habit of wandering off with somebody’s clubs, to go look at some bush or twisted tree that caught my fancy. “A” was actually patient enough to explain all the nuances of the game. Like I have told him before, he would have made a great teacher. So thanks to him, I know what a green is, why people sit on their haunches before they take a shot, and that it requires quite a bit of skill to play a sport that looks relatively easy to an onlooker.

To the consternation of all involved, I decided to play a shot too. I was told to bend my knees, grip the iron with both my thumbs facing downwards, and to try and get the ball in the general direction of the hole. Then everyone moved to a safe distance. I swung, missed the ball completely and instead, a chunk of the turf went flying, leaving behind a divot. At least it went flying in the general direction of the hole, and I am convinced it took along a piece of my right toe too.

In the interest of the rest of mankind, specially the ones within hurting distance of me, I decided to stop with that one try and went back to my meanderings. I am not sure if my ears deceived me or if I did hear a collective sigh of relief.

COFFEE AT CORONADO

2007-01-04T16:02:00.000-08:00

Anyone up for a nice, restful afternoon after all the stresses of the week? Then the place to head for is Coronado Island. The way to it is over a huge bridge that spans across the bay affording spectacular views. Views that remind you that San Diego is truly what all the travel brochures call ‘picturesque’.

Quaint, old fashioned neighborhoods, sidewalks just meant for ambling along, stores just perfect for browsing. That about describes picture-perfect Coronado. Oh, I forgot to mention the lovely old hotel. It boasts of having had various Presidents stay in its romantic old rooms. The hotel is all white with a red roof, right out of a story book. I was convinced that if I looked hard enough, I would find a piece that I could break off and eat. The white walls are sure to be made of white chocolate and the roof of marzipan; colored red.

Outside the hotel, there are vast vistas of white sand that just beg you to take off your shoes and bury your feet in its warmth. And the icing on the cake: beautiful views of the ocean that bring out the poet in your soul.

Let me hasten to add that for the afternoon to be truly perfect, you have to bring along a friend. One who you can sit around shooting the breeze with, one who doesn’t think you’re weird just because you talk about the colors of the sea, one who is willing to listen when you want to bitch about your mother-in-law.

So there you have it, the recipe for a perfect, lazy afternoon: A sunny day, Coronado Island and a good friend. Life is sometimes so simple.

JEWEL IN THE DESERT

2007-01-02T16:44:00.000-08:00

Las Vegas. A sea of lights twinkling in the surrounding gloom, enticing all and sundry to come and be caught up in the magic. A gentler description? Little lamps lit and set afloat on a dark river, a river of dreams.

Vegas on New Year’s Eve was all it promised to be. Brash, loud, noisy and in your face. The glitz and the glamour, all the ugliness hidden under the bright lights. So much like the ladies of the night, collecting all that is dark and ugly and holding it in, so the rest of world can breathe easy.

Caught in a mad crush of people, busy filming everything, and to have friends who made sure I was safe. People waving at my camera, and yelling Happy New Year. Being horrified when things went crrrrrrrrrrrrrrrruuuuuuuunch under my feet and finding out I was walking on a sea of glass.

Sympathizing with guys whose girl friends were so drunk they could hardly stand up let alone walk. And marveling that the bunch I was with, not a single one was. Talk about weird things!!!

A lovely new year’s eve, one that will stay special!!!

DOES GOD HAVE A SENSE OF HUMOR?

2006-12-27T16:38:00.000-08:00

I sure hope he does. Or I am likely to be stuck by lightning as I walk home today. It is raining here by the way. So the stage is set.

I was stuck with religious fervor on Christmas Eve which resulted in my agreeing to go to two different services on Sunday. One of them at C and D’s church and the other, an evening candlelight service at C’s parent’s church. Maybe I was making up for all those times when a 6 o’clock curfew and later the lure of a nice, warm bed prevented me from ever going to a Christmas Eve mass.

The morning one was comparatively incident free if you don’t count the one tiny incident where I almost caused a sweet old woman to go into seizures. I tripped over a wire that someone had left on the church floor, for the express purpose of tripping people up I believe, and almost landed in the poor lady’s lap.

This was a high-tech service, with an overhead projector, where the lyrics of the carols were displayed so everyone could sing along. I decided to add my voice too; only, I had no clue as to the tunes. I did catch C giving me strange looks during the carol singing, but then it’s the spirit that counts right?

The sermon was far from boring too. It was delivered by a long-haired, good looking pastor wearing a colorful striped shirt and tan slacks. He added spice to the proceedings with frequent references to Tom Cruise and his ilk.

The evening service was more moving. The cathedral was a stately one, and decorated with all the trimmings of the season. The pastor, or should I say lady pastor, was an ex-newscaster with the local San Diego news station, before she decided to serve God instead of a media mogul. She definitely had the gift of the gab.

This service was advertised as a “candlelight” service. Of course, like all the things here, it was not quite as it seemed. There were fire regulations in effect, so of course, there were no real candles. We had battery-operated ones and these could be turned on by twisting the top half of the “candle”. We all stood in a circle around the pews and each person turned on the light when their turn came. It was soon my turn, and as usual, I could not turn on the candle. The top half was screwed on really tight. I soon had people on either side of me trying to help me with it and all their efforts were in vain. My candle refused to light up. I looked up to see half of C’s large family at the opposite end of the church grinning from ear to ear and trying hard not to guffaw. C’s father finally solved the problem by handing me his candle. Like I said, I sure hope God has a sense of humor.

SCENT OF A WOMAN

2006-12-22T13:40:00.000-08:00

“Lotion is a wonderful thing!”, declared C, as she sat on the bed one morning slathering on the stuff. I would have agreed with her if I didn’t have to waste 10 precious minutes each morning putting on the stuff. I wonder why they couldn’t have come up with a spray-on version. They do have spray-on sunscreens so why not winter lotions too?

When I first came to San Diego, I labored under the delusion that since it was by the sea, it would have weather like Kerala. Hot, humid and the kind that skin and hair love. I could not have been more wrong. This is becoming a habit, being so wrong about things. My brain had neglected to register the fact that that the whole of California is basically a desert.

Winter arrived and brought with it a unique set of problems. My hair, which has a mind of its own even otherwise, began to look like I had stuck my finger in an electric socket and the less said about my skin the better. Suffice to say that the Komodo dragon seemed to have skin that looked better than mine!!!

In an effort to get back to a semblance of my old human self, I embarked on an expedition to stock up on lotions and potions. I got the names of a couple of lotions from my roommate and armed with that knowledge, I confidently marched up to the cosmetics aisle of Target. One look at all the aisles full of cosmetics and I was tempted to turn tail and run back home. How were people ever supposed to decide what they wanted if there was such a bewildering array to choose from? And here I thought Americans valued their time!!

I steeled myself and started on my quest. I was baffled when I found a ginger and orange lotion. Is this a scent in this country? And to think of the hours I spent with halves of lemon frantically trying to scrub the scent of ginger/garlic off my hands. But it brought back fond memories of trying to weasel out of helping mom with the cooking, so I went ahead and got some. Sun-kissed raspberry and gardenia, now that sounded very exotic, so I had to get that one too. Powder fresh, now this reminds me of sweet swelling babies, all bathed and powdered with Johnson’s baby powder, so I grabbed some of that too.
Suffice to say that I now have enough creams, lotions and gels to last me for the next 10 years if not for the rest of my life. The question is, how many of those can I use at the same time, without smelling like the Malleshwaram flower market???

GIMME S’MORE

2006-12-21T14:41:00.000-08:00

I had donned my new fuzzy socks, had brushed my teeth like a good gal and climbed under my quilt with my “Memoirs of Cleopatra” book when a knock sounded on the door. C’s head poked inside and she stated, “Even for you S, this is a new record. In bed by 7:30 PM!!” I pointed out that since I was reading and not sleeping she could not accuse me of one of the seven (or was it eight?) sins.(Sloth, in case anyone is wondering). She would have none of it and enticed me out of my warm lair, with promises of making some s’mores.

A s'more, according to Wickepedia, is a traditional campfire treat popular in the US and Canada, consisting of a roasted marshmallow and a slab of chocolate sandwiched between two pieces of a graham cracker. (a thin square biscuit).

A marshmallow is skewered on the end of a long stick and held just above the campfire until its outer surface starts to brown, char, or even catch fire. Once heated, the marshmallow's inside becomes soft. The marshmallow is quickly pinched off its stick with the waiting graham crackers. Ideally, the heat from the roasted marshmallow partially melts the chocolate into a gooey mess.

We live in an apartment complex, and a campfire was out of question. Per D, we had two options, either he could fire up the barbeque unit on the balcony or we could use candles. Neither of us wanted to brave the freezing cold out on the balcony so we decided to go along with the candle idea. Next, we needed long sticks. We searched high and low and found nothing to suit our purpose. D again came to the rescue. He found us wooden kabab skewers. How the man can remember where every single thing is placed is quite beyond me. He then went back to his online classes.

We assembled all the paraphernalia we would need. We had also found some tea lights (tiny flat candles in aluminum holders, rather like Diwali lamps). This we placed on a plate after lighting them, since we were sure D would get upset if we got any wax over his dinner table.

We skewered our marshmallows on the wooden skewers and held it over the flames. To our surprise, D came out of his room, pulled out a chair and sat down between us. He had decided that he could not quite trust the two of us not to burn down his house.

He gave me strict instructions that I was to blow out the flame if my marshmallow caught fire. And as usual, I bungled it. The minute my marshmallow got too close to the flame, D would yell, “you are on fire” and it made me so tense that I would wave my stick around, feeding the flame, instead of blowing it out. When C did the same thing, I guess D had had enough.

He marched into the closet and returned with a dusty old fire extinguisher. At our incredulous expressions, he informed us that he was not taking any chances with two pyromaniacs loose in his home. And the said fire extinguisher had lost its safety ring, so technically it was ready to go. I just prayed that D did not have super quick reflexes or one of us was sure to get sprayed.

In spite of D glaring at us, and trying to pretend like he was exasperated, we managed to make two s’mores each and enjoyed the gooey mess, giggling all the while. D of course was busy eating all the leftover pieces of chocolate. We licked our fingers clean and made our way to the bathroom, where, as C so eloquently put it, we performed, “BRUSHING TEETH, TAKE TWO.”

BROKEBACK CAT MOUNTAIN

2006-12-20T16:23:00.000-08:00

I live with two cats: Clyde and Stuart, who belong to C and D respectively. Until now, I had no idea that cats could have personalities, let alone such distinct ones.

Clyde is the friendly one, who loves to explore. He has been in cat heaven ever since I moved in to live with them. I had brought along a suitcase full of spices from home, and Clyde spends most of his waking hours in my room, exploring all the new smells.

Stuart on the other hand, is the good-looking bloke, all sleek black fur and what C calls a white garter on his hind leg. But if a stranger tries to pet him, he runs the risk of being hissed at or scratched to within an inch of his life. And both C and D have unsuccessfully tried to convince me that he doesn’t actually bite, it is just “love-bites.”

Wars are fought at home between C and D for their affections and there are strict rules in force about whose lap the cats can sit on while we all watch television. The cats are both male and hence D feels a little less threatened. His constant refrain is that in a house with two women, he is awfully glad that at least the cats are male.

All said and done, the two are a constant source of amusement. D has a tiny laser light that he shines all around the house and the cats simply go berserk at the sight of it. They jump up at walls following the laser pointer and provide us with endless laughs. I am sure that D is walking a thin line here. One of these days, he is going to be charged with cruelty to animals, as I keep warning him every so often.

Yesterday evening we all settled down to watch an episode of One Tree Hill and the cats as usual played favorites. Both cats decided to favor D with their affections in spite of him trying to hand Clyde over to C. After a few minutes, something very strange happened. Clyde climbed on top of Stuart and got busy licking his ear. This sent all of us into hysterics and D exclaimed, “Great, we have gay cats now.” “This sure is Brokeback Cat Mountain.”

THE NUTCRACKER

2006-12-19T16:55:00.000-08:00

When I was a little girl (that seems like such a long time ago), I was brought up on a steady diet of Russian Children’s Magazines. My favorite pictures were those of the beautiful ballerinas and of Russian dolls, the kind that fit perfectly into each other. They seemed to belong to a completely new world, a world of fantasy where only the very privileged were granted entry.

The next nail in the coffin was when Preity Zinta takes Aamir Khan to the opera in the movie Dil Chahta Hai and I fell, hook, line and sinker. Symphonies, operas and ballet became the stuff of my dreams maybe because I didn’t have a hope of ever going to one.

So when my roommates C and D asked if I wanted to watch the ballet with them, I jumped for joy, notwithstanding the snide comments of two of my friends (male, obviously) who couldn’t understand why I was getting all excited about what they deemed a “perverted show.” It took a couple of minutes before that sank in.

I promptly went out and bought a new dress. I bought it on sale to quench a guilty conscience. It was a black silk chiffon number with a skirt that ended just below the knees and a pretty lacy top interspersed with sequins. I also discovered the joys of a pair of nylons. Whoever discovered nylons has the eternal gratitude of women the world over, specially the ones with less than perfect legs.

Come Saturday, and I got all dressed up in my new dress. The pretty dress just begged for a pretty face, and since I have the kind that can crack a mirror, I decided to try camouflage. I decided to put on makeup!! I assembled all the stuff I owned that fell under the general category of makeup. It consisted of eyeliner, mascara and a lip-gloss. Pathetic.

I discovered another aspect of my personality. I can never put on eyeliner or mascara without smudging it, which results in my looking like a raccoon, and today was no exception. I finally gave up in frustration and decided to wash my face clean.

We went to Anthony’s, a very pretty restaurant by the harbor for dinner. C’s parents took one look at me and said, “You should take a picture and send it back to your husband.” God, had I not succeeded in getting all the stuff off of my face? I did not want poor Deep fainting in shock. We sat down to dinner and as usual I could not decide what I wanted to eat. I usually get someone else to order for me so I could be spared the stress of choosing, but that was hardly the case here. I finally decided to go for a platter, hoping there would be something I could enjoy eating. The platter consisted of five different kinds of lightly battered and fried fish along with a side of salad and rice pilaf. Very very satisfying.

Stomachs sated, we went to the Civic Center in Downtown San Diego to satisfy our souls. The ballet began, and it was everything I had ever dreamed it could be. The live music, the wonderful performances and the beautiful settings. The ballet was performed by the California School of Ballet so the performers ranged both in ages and proficiency. My favorite part of the ballet was the scene in the land of candy, where everything was pastel, the music ethereal and the performers seemed to be floating on thin air.

The last musical note sounded, bows were taken and it was soon time to go home. As I left the theater, I left with a smile in my heart, since I was leaving with the priceless treasure of yet another beautiful memory, the kind that lasts a lifetime.

LETTING GO

2006-12-18T16:23:00.000-08:00

Julia stood by the water looking out into the harbor. It was weird how she had never noticed its beauty before. Anthony’s, the restaurant, jutted right into the water. All was quiet now, the patrons having left long since, happy and sated, by both the beautiful view and the excellent sea food the restaurant served. The water looked very dark and mysterious. The lights reflected in it enticed, promising a magical new world, if you would just take the plunge.

She was tempted to take the plunge and end it all. The heartbreak, the tears, the pain of having to let go. She looked at Arun, who was studying some of the sculptures on the sidewalk. He seemed quite absorbed in them. She could never understand what was so interesting about some weirdly shaped pieces of metal; some artist’s representation of trees.

Arun looked up suddenly at an airplane flying overhead and said excitedly, “I am going to be on one of those tomorrow, going home.” Her heart contracted at these words. Should she tell him and take the consequences? Or did he know already? Was it better leaving some things unsaid? She knew he would never dream of staying with her. His heart was elsewhere and nothing could entice him to stay. He had shared his hopes and dreams with her, and none of them had included her. He was going to go home and marry the girl his mother chose for him, his gift to his parents as a dutiful son.

But she could not bear to let go. How her heart would break when he left. Would he even realize what a forlorn, lonely girl he had left behind? He was not even going to think about her when he was amongst friends and family so why was she eating her heart out? Why had she even allowed this to happen? She knew love meant pain. But then it had sneaked up on her unawares. And she knew no amount of tears, no amount of pleading would soften that piece of granite he called a heart. She was going to have to learn to let go.

She would go to the airport tomorrow and bravely wave goodbye to them both. Both Arun and his canine friend Bruno, the love of her life.

THE IDIOT BOX

2006-12-13T13:46:00.000-08:00

Anil was tired. It seemed like he was always tired nowadays. All that studying, cooking and work was taking its toll. Combined with the fact that he was far from home and missing his folks, life was not exactly the bed of roses he had envisioned when he had landed in the US of A.

“I think I shall buy myself a TV.” He thought to himself. “One of those inexpensive ones, that should help me understand this country and its people.” “And maybe, just maybe, it will help me get through those lonely hours too.”

Decision made, he logged onto craigslist.com, and began looking through listings for televisions. “Hmm, this one sounds interesting,” he thought to himself reading further.
Moving this weekend, television for sale, speakers included. Perfect, he thought to himself. I think I will go check this one out.

He got to the address listed and the man selling the TV told him, “ I am leaving right away, and you can have the TV for $20.00 if you take it away right now.” “Wow, that is quite a bargain” thought Anil to himself. But then his cautious side asserted itself. He had better switch it on and see if it worked. He switched on the TV and was confronted with ghostly images that were dancing to eerie ghostly music. The owner assured him saying that the cable was disconnected and that was why the images were so hazy and that it would work just fine once it was set up properly. A bargain was stuck and the TV changed hands.

Anil walked outside pleased with himself and was confronted with the next problem. The TV was big and heavy and his car was too small to safely transport it home. He called Hemant, praying he would be home and willing to come help him with transporting the TV. He enlisted the help of Arun too, just in case the TV proved too much for the two of them.

Hemant arrived, wondering for the 100th time why he had never learned to say no to people. First, it was this girl who had just arrived in the city and knew no one. She wanted to move from one hotel to another and he had volunteered, sensing she needed his help. She had two battered suitcases and his heart was in his mouth when he had to place one of them on the back seat of his brand new car. And now this huge, heavy TV. His leather seats were never going to be the same again.

Sighing and resigned to the inevitable, he went in and helped Anil wrestle the TV into the back seat of his car. Where was Arun for pity’s sake? The guy was around only when there was food available.

Anil managed to get the TV safely home and got it all hooked up. He held his breath when he switched on the TV and something was not quite right. The whole screen was red since the actor wore a red shirt. Smacking his head and cursing his stupidity, he resolved to set it right if it was the last thing he did. He got to work. He looked up every website listed on the topic of tv repair and finally managed to fix it over the course of three weekends.

THREE MONTHS LATER

It was time to get rid of the TV. It had gone on the blink permanently. Anil now had his eye on a new flat front 58-inch TV that he had always wanted. But what was he to do with his old one?

He hit upon a brainwave. He got a thick sheet off the bed, put the TV in the middle of it and got his four friends to hold up a corner each. After all, everyone was going to benefit once the new TV came home, right? And didn’t they all state that they owned 1/3rd of the old TV since they had helped to bring it home in the first place?

They again wrestled it into the back of Arun’s car, since this time Hemant flatly refused to subject his car to any more mangling.

They drove to the waste disposal center. The attendant at the disposal center accepted the TV, but when Anil put the two speakers on top of each other, he insisted that those were “electronics” and that they had to pay extra to dispose of them.

Heart heavy and purses lighter, the quartet returned home. The only bright star on their horizon was the anticipation of the spanking new TV that would soon find it way to their home.

LAUNDRY LAUGHS

2006-12-12T13:27:00.000-08:00

Laundry tops my list of most-hated chores. Our apartment complex has a public laundry. There are some 5 washing machines and about 200 people, hence, getting it done is such an excellent exercise in time management that I feel business schools would do well to incorporate this into their curriculum.

A wash cycle is about 23-25 minutes usually and the dryer takes about 45 minutes. And heaven help you if you don’t make it to the machines on time. The next person waiting for the machine will simply take all your clothes and dump it on the nearest flat surface. So if you do not want to face the public humiliation of having all your clothes on display, you would do good to ensure that you reach the washing machine at exactly 22-1/2 minutes from the time you started it. This has to be the most aggravating part of the entire exercise. Personally, the very thought of some stranger handling my clothes gives me the goose bumps.

I now have an action plan to circumvent all this hassle. I absolutely refuse to do my laundry on weekends, even if I am doing nothing more exciting than reading in bed. My precious weekends are not to be wasted on mundane stuff like laundry. Next, I make sure I get it started before 7 o’clock. I am yet to bash in the head of the next impatient male wanting to do his laundry as well as watch the Monday night football game at the same time, so it looks like my plan is working.

Yesterday, when I lugged my heavy basket into the laundry, I was confronted by a sign on the door. Dreading what I would find, I read through it hastily, in the semidarkness. It said, “All but two trees will be uprooted and pruned.” I was shocked. Our apartment complex has atleast 25 trees. And notwithstanding the fact that I was forever tracking tiny little leaves into my room and having to vacuum every two days, I loved those trees. I did not want such a horrible fate befalling them. And why did they need to uproot the trees to prune them? Was this another of those American ways that I was never going to comprehend? I have heard of tree doctors and trees being transplanted in Bangalore, but to do that to 25-odd trees did seem like a mind-boggling exercise in futility. Would they ever take root again or did the pruners plan to plant fully grown trees next spring??

Soon it was time to go back to the laundry room and I decided to read the sign again. And then it dawned on me why my English teacher was so adamant about commas and their placement in a sentence.

EGG NOG, POPCORN AND TINSEL

2006-12-11T16:52:00.000-08:00

Christmas has certainly arrived at our office. After my last fiasco with popcorn, almost everyone has taken to leaving packets of popcorn on my desk. So much so that I can hardly be seen behind all of the stuff. I know this is the holiday season and everyone loves to get into the spirit, but I do wish they would stop burying me under all that goodwill.

We got a tree at the office today, and I was promptly marched off to help trim it. This makes it my third tree. By the time I get back home, I am going to be quite the expert at this.

The other tree I got to trim was at C’s parents home. The only difference was that each of the ornaments that went on the tree had a story behind it. It was a beautiful feeling hanging up memories. And I just loved the sentimentality of it all. Of course, the men folk refused to help, stating that they would rather watch three beautiful women trim the tree than move a muscle to help.

I have been bombarded with so much Christmas trivia that I am now a walking encyclopedia on the subject. Did you know that a pickle(an ornament not the real thing) is hidden in the tree and the child who first finds it gets an extra gift? Or that a tree should always have a bird’s nest with a bird in it for luck? Or that seeing a red headed woman on Christmas Day ensures that your child would be a red-head? (If it only were so easy!!)

My tree trimming at C’s parents house came to an abrupt halt when I leaned over too far while trying to position an ornament just so, and almost fell into the tree, step ladder and all. I was saved in the nick of time, by C’s father who pulled me back by the seat of my pants. I was mortified and worse, I strongly suspect “D” got a picture of me in mid flight.

By then, C’s parents figured out that it was safer to have me sitting down than have their tree and their home in shambles. Hence, I was promptly shown to a comfy armchair and plied with chocolate, cheese cake and egg nog in reward for all my labors.

BEAUTY AND THE BEAST

2006-12-08T16:03:00.000-08:00

The ordeal is finally over. America’s Top Model has been chosen. I have never been an avid fan of reality shows and have never watched them until now. I feel happy for the ones who finally make it but feel terrible for the ones who lose out and wear their hearts on their sleeves.

It took a lot of guts and determination for me to be able to watch week after week. C loves to watch though. I suspect it had less to do with the show itself and more to do with the fact that she had an ongoing pool game with her girl friends on guessing the winner. She is richer by 40 dollars as of this Wednesday.

Coming back to the show… I could bring myself to watch because there was this really exotic Indian girl. She was dark with the longest, straightest hair and a face that could truly launch a thousand ships. And was she happy?? Oh no. She was maybe 5 pounds heavier than some of the other girls and she was obsessed with it. I wish somebody would explain genetics to her.

Throughout the show, the contestants have been put through what can only be called endurance tests rivaling those of the US Marines.

They have been photographed in the most bizarre situations a demented mind on psychedelics could have dreamed up. They have been dropped into a vertical air column, they have narrowly missed being gored to death by bulls, they have been asked to float in ice cold water and these were just some of the innovative settings. The last one truly took the cake. The last two contestants were ghostly brides or in other words “brides of Frankenstein.”

After emerging triumphant through all these trials, they endured the scathing comments of four supercilious judges. What makes judges so superior to the rest of us humans??

Anyways, atta gal Caridee, and I hope the world is a beautiful place for you!!!!

MURDER , SHE WROTE

2006-12-05T16:17:00.000-08:00

I am in a particularly murderous mood this afternoon. It might have something to do with the fact that I have a pounding headache and my favorite brand of tea is missing from the cafeteria shelf. It could also have something to do with the fact that I had to eat a salad for lunch.

At such times, I find that committing a murder or at least planning one seems to have a soothing effect on my nerves. I have tried this once after I have landed in the US of A and I was rescued just in time by the ever gallant “D”. His timely intervention ensured that there were no police cars, fire engines or ambulances outside our door. It is still unclear whether he did this out of the goodness of his heart or merely out of a sense of self-preservation.

I decided to go ahead with my plan. I sneaked out of my cubicle and sauntered past coworkers with a beatific smile plastered on my face. I made it to the lunch room without anyone suspecting that something was amiss. A quick peek into the lunch room ensured that there were going to be no witnesses to the heinous act.

Midway through the murder, smoke began to emanate from the lunch room. This was accompanied by an acrid smell of burning. I had to leave quickly before I was found out. I rushed out, to the sight of people, all standing in their seats, signs of alarm writ large on their faces. I shamefacedly returned to my seat, wishing that I could be an invisible fly on the wall.

I had done it again!! I had managed to murder yet another bag of microwavable popcorn.

GIRLS DAY OUT

2006-12-04T16:44:00.000-08:00

Saturday morning saw me twiddling my thumbs with nowhere to go and nothing to do; hence I agreed to help C with her Christmas shopping. Yeah, she did entice me with breakfast at her favorite place, and my agreeing had more to do with the chance to check out a new restaurant than with any great interest in retail therapy.

Hash House A Go Go, the very name of the restaurant caught my fancy. It is situated in what is primarily a gay locality. At least that is what I have been told. So we were guaranteed some great looking guys for our viewing pleasure. The restaurant itself is very quaint, with framed photographs, an antique boiler, tables squashed together and a lot of cheer and noise to go with the ambience. The food is hearty, tasty and there is quite a lot of it. I thought I had gotten used to the portions here, but this one must surely take the cake. There was enough food to last us for a week. It is served on really heavy skillets for plates, with huge sprigs of rosemary stuck in it. Now I know how all those cute waiters get their bulging muscles.

We got rid of all the foliage on our plates and dug in. Even after all our valiant efforts, we were only able to make a tiny dent in all the food set before us. We still had to make space for the desserts. Yes dessert after breakfast, weirder things have been known to happen.

A word about the desserts at this place. The secret has to be shared. Anyone trying to get a woman to fall in love with you: Simply bring her here and share a s’mores mocha. If she hasn’t fallen in love with you by the time you’ve reached the bottom of the cup, you might as well stop trying.

THE PRICKLY PEAR

2006-12-01T16:45:00.000-08:00

The day after Thanksgiving saw the whole family, thirteen of us to be precise, make a beeline to The Prickly Pear. The Prickly Pear, to the uninitiated, (I for one) is an antique store in downtown Yuma, Arizona. We were all to choose our Christmas presents there. Whatever happened to the idea of surprise gifts?

We entered a dimly lit store and I was in Aladdin’s Cave. The store was filled with curios from all around the world. More than the store, it was the store’s owners that caught my interest. Two ladies, who look almost identical. One was garbed in a black velvet dress with chunky blue and turquoise jewellery with spiky hair. The other in similar attire, just that the velvet dress was brown and the jewellery was green. This in the searing heat of Arizona.

I was standing by a stone Nandi and hence was treated to an elaborate spiel about it, complete with the most fascinating hand gestures. I was told that Nandis were found only in Nepal. I shudder to think what all the Nandis in front of the Shiva temples in India would have to say about that. The conversation was brought to a sudden stop when one of C’s aunts introduced me to the lady, stating that I was from India.

C’s aunt wanted my opinion on a rug. It was a beautiful one, in warm earth tones, and I told her so. But I was secretly pleased when they reluctantly decided not to buy it. They felt it would be too slippery for the passage they intended to place it. In case you’re wondering, the rug came from Pakistan.

More wandering around in the store turned up Kashmiri Shawls!! A bittersweet moment, homesickness combined with a sense of pride that India had made her presence felt even in such a rustic place, right in the middle of nowhere.

A discordant note in the store was the presence of steel kitchen appliances. Since when did steel come to be considered as antique?

THE DOG WHO GOES TO SCHOOL

2006-11-30T16:03:00.000-08:00

“D” is a golden retriever who belongs to“E”. A curly haired one at that. It might surprise you to know that she is pure-bred. Whoever heard of a curly haired retriever? And to top it all she is skinny. Of course, her weight is closely watched by her proud owner, but I fervently hope the poor thing doesn’t have to go to a gym like her human counterparts.

She is barely out of puppy hood and just like a toddler, has this seemingly inexhaustible supply of energy. All this extra energy is spent licking anybody who gets within licking range. And the said object does not even have to be human. She loves to give cars and garden chairs a thorough washing too.

She goes to obedience school and to the surprise of everyone present, actually passed the course. She was the only one of out of all the dogs ever owned by C’s family that ever managed to do that. Which just goes to show how deceptive appearances can be.

What truly adhered her to everyone’s hearts is that even though she was left loose in the garden for three days, she didn’t dig up a single flower bed. Yes, on the last day she did dig up one little plant with pink flowers on it. But everyone agreed that it was just her way of saying thank you to C’s grandmother.

FOLLOWER OF DREAMS

2006-11-29T16:57:00.000-08:00

He is a World War-II veteran who flew fighter planes. He boasts of ancestors who signed the Declaration of Independence. He won the fight against oral cancer. He creates three dimensional paintings.

She married him at the tender age of 18. She had never traveled out of Colorado. But she still followed him to all the way to Yuma, Arizona. All they owned was a beat-up old truck, a cranky old refrigerator, a hoe and a pump. The net value of everything they owned was $3,300.00. This was a good thing because if they were to be granted any land in Arizona they had to show that they had assets worth atleast $2,500.00

These were the two wonderful people who welcomed me into their home and their hearts on Thanksgiving Day. To me they symbolize the realization of the American dream. Sure, times were hard and the going tough, but they have both been through it all and come out all the stronger for it. They succeed so well that they went all the way to Egypt to help the then Egyptian President with his plans for a green revolution in his country.

They teased me good-naturedly, stating that they would have an Indian at the table this year. And I decided to play the part by dressing up in one of my Indian outfits. This sent everyone into raptures and there was a flurry of clicking cameras.

The table was set with the colors of Thanksgiving, warm ambers and browns. The centerpiece consisted of ears of corn, aromatic candles, wooden napkin holders shaped like turkeys and tiny pumpkins. The crystal ware gleamed in the light of the candles. The traditional feast that followed consisted of roast turkey with all the trimmings. Side dishes consisted of cranberries, stuffing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, a bean casserole and some sour bread. And the desserts, how could I not go into raptures over the desserts, there were three different kinds of pies; pumpkin, pecan and apple.

About two hours later, all 13 of us were lolling about in the living room, reading books or watching TV, too stuffed to do anything else. Talk about being stuffed!!!

DESERT ROAD

2006-11-28T15:09:00.000-08:00

I was invited to spend Thanksgiving with C’s grandparents, who live in Yuma, Arizona. Hence plans were afoot as to how to get an entire family including a hyperactive dog to Yuma with the minimum of effort. I was to go with D, since I was not sure when I would be able to get off of work and C wasn’t sure she wanted me and a hyperactive golden retriever together in the back seat. Whose sanity was she really trying to save?

So D and I set off after dropping off C at her cousin E’s home. She gave me strict instructions to swat D if he swore too much at the other drivers along the way. D complained that he was not only getting beaten up by his wife, but that she was instigating other people to do the same. If you could beat up a 7-foot, 200 + pound Navy- trained sharpshooter that is. We were off, with D gleefully remarking that we would definitely get there before the “girls”. He was a perfect gentleman, swearing only once at a crazy guy who kept changing lanes in bumper to bumper traffic.

We decided to stop at Carl’s Jr for a bite to eat and who should walk in but C and E. The look on D’s face was a sight to behold. He finally decided that he was unfortunate enough to hit all the traffic while the girls had had a relatively traffic-free ride. We left the restaurant before them, since the dog needed a walk to burn off extra energy. Two hours later, we arrived at C’s grandparents’ home. A minute later, guess who we see pulling into the driveway??

I AM GOING TO BE FAMOUS!!

2006-11-27T11:51:00.000-08:00

It is a cold rainy day today in San Diego. This after the clear blue skies and warm, sunny weather in Arizona over the weekend. People had made dire predictions about how hot Arizona was going to be when I told them that I was going there for the Thanksgiving weekend. Let it be on record that Arizona, or at least Yuma, has lovely weather at this time of year. It was foggy when we left on Saturday morning!!

Weather, combined with the fact that it was Monday and half the people had not turned up to work, ensured that I was bored to tears.

So when a colleague asked if I wanted to hop over to Starbucks, I jumped at the chance. I was not going to drink their coffee, of course, because it gives me the jitters, but I sure could help her with the cups. She went around the office collecting orders and off we went. Juggling two umbrellas, a purse and the entry card made getting the car door open a difficult proposition.

We managed to make it to the car without any major mishap and had to repeat the performance in the reverse order when we got to Starbucks. That was when we had a micrphone thrust into our faces and horror of horrors, a TV camera too!! This, when the two of us looked like drowned rats.

After answering a bunch of inane questions on why we loved the rain and how San Diego needed it badly, we were allowed to go. So watch me on Channel 8 people!!!

BOND, JAMES BOND

2006-11-22T13:18:00.000-08:00

D-day finally arrived last Sunday. When my roommates asked if I wanted to go catch the latest James Bond flick, I jumped at the chance. I was at the end of my tether by now. My normally peaceful roommates were bickering like crazy. The constant battles were getting fiercer by the day and it was no fun being caught in the middle of the cross fire. The new James Bond did get emotions running high. At least in our home!!

Per D, having a golden-haired, blue-eyed, rough-around-the-edges man play Bond was sheer sacrilege. C begged to differ. She had seen the said actor on one of the promos with his shirt off and as far as she was concerned, that settled the matter.

This was a pretty different James Bond movie. For one, it was much longer. It showcases the emotional side of the man licensed to kill. It also sets the stage for his flashy cars, an Aston Martin no less, and of course, for his womanizing ways. This is the rough and ready Bond before his metamorphosis into his suave avatar.

The new Bond has a craggy face, the bluest of eyes, cute ears that stick out and the body of a Greek god. I think on this one, I am going to have to side with C.

CHEESECAKE

2006-11-21T16:26:00.000-08:00

Stop salivating!! I know that is a difficult proposition when the object in question is all cream, white and cherry red, dripping with whipped cream and ready to be eaten!!

I am talking of the Cheesecake Factory, a popular restaurant, what did you think??? The place was so crowded that we were handed little gadgets that beep and flash red lights when a table is ready. We chose to sit on the bar stools. I had a tough time finding a typical American meal on the menu. Half the menu was Mexican or hybrids of the same and I am heartily sick of Mexican food by this time. I finally found meatloaf and potatoes which I promptly ordered. This set us talking about American food and I discovered that the quintessential hamburger was not American. Per D, the watcher of the History Channel, it was discovered by an Italian who was riled that his meatballs took forever to cook. He slammed his spatula down on them and voila, the hamburger was born!!

More shocks, Santa Claus was the invention of Coca Cola. Of course, Saint Nick did exist. He was a rich Russian who used to hand out gifts to his less fortunate brethren. But the rolly-polly red- suited gentleman who embodies the spirit of Christmas was the result of an advertising blitzkerig. Why red? To match the color of coke, of course. I don’t know how many of my illusions are going to be razed to the ground before I leave this country. I know I am too old to believe in Santa Claus, but this was too much to digest.

Talking of digestion, we decided to walk around the Fashion Valley mall to aid the process. I saw this cute electric scooter that the security guard was using. It has two wheels and a handle to hold on to. Something right out of a sci-fi movie. It is supposed to be amazingly stable and easy to maneuver. You wouldn’t think it if you could see it. It looks like a stick balanced between two wheels. Only two people have the dubious distinction of ever having fallen off of one. President Bush and Paris Hilton. Go figure.

Another piece of wisdom bestowed on me by D. If you can only see the make up and not the girl, then she has on too much makeup. Now guys are beginning to figure out this makeup business? Where was I when this revolution was happening? I seem to know less about make up than the average guy!! Jeez… Talking of guys and make up, MAC’s, the upscale makeup store has at least two guys who wear it, and these guys are SERIOUSLY cute………. Yeah I know, they could be gay, but what the heck, a gal is allowed at least a few illusions right?

I also spotted this painfully young, bespectacled figure looking completely lost and lonely. He was making circles on the floor with the toe of his shoe, rather like a young Indian gal with the tea tray in hand, during the girl-seeing ceremony.(I watch too many movies.) I was sorely tempted to walk up to him and say, “Hey Sunil, how are you doing?” Just to see how he would react. Why Sunil, you might well ask. Because he looked Sunilish, why else? Better sense prevailed though, just in the nick of time. I walked past and got into the line for movie tickets, a regular Miss Goody Two Shoes if there ever was one.

THE HOMECOMING

2006-11-20T17:01:00.000-08:00

It was homecoming week at C’s school. The said school is set on Point Loma and is surrounded by spectacular views of the sea. At any given point in time, groups of students can be spotted in the coves, surfing. It has the reputation of being one of the best surfing schools in the country and from what I saw, that reputation is certainly justified. I wonder how much studying they get done though.

C’s friend E came down from northern California to attend the homecoming and a wedding. She is a petite, extremely fair blonde, with straight golden hair that just shimmers on her shoulders. She also has the prettiest colored eyes if you looked beyond the glasses. And those glasses are just a front. I bet she wears them to hide the razor sharp wit that lurks underneath. She had us in splits with her descriptions of her 88-year-old grandmother, who she takes care of, and the kindergarteners in her mom’s school. On being asked how the wedding went, she stated, “Oh, it was fun.” “ I have never seen so much boob on display for a long time now.” That led to a lively discussion with D giving us his protracted opinion on the subject, interspersed with glares from C.

We got to the school auditorium and the set had the Taj Mahal as its background!! There were also a few elephants scattered about to add to the ambience. All this led C to exclaim, “Oh, I am going to just die.” “I invited an Indian to come watch an Indian program?” “I will never live this down.” She thought I would die laughing at the variety programs if it was Indian and the students did not know what they were doing. The background was pretty good as far as backgrounds go, but the program could have done without the girl in the red and blue sackcloth. She fondly believed she was alluringly draped in a saree. Even I can drape a saree better than that. And no, being an Indian does not automatically mean that you are born with the skill. To say that I was slightly retarded in that aspect is putting it mildly, but I know I could have done a better job.

It was pretty noisy in the auditorium. There was a lot of squealing and hugging. People climbed over seats to hug long lost friends. I did wonder if I could go around hugging people like they were long lost friends and watch their astonishment when they couldn’t figure out who on earth I was!! That plan was soon laid to rest when I realized the whole audience was primarily made of White Christians. Again, it was one of the few times that I wished I was a guy. Per C, the women outnumber men in the ratio of 3:1. And each girl was prettier than the other. Phew!!

The programs began with the usual good-natured jeering and catcalls. But the thunderous applause that greeted the end of each program showed the pride the students felt for their school.

The names of the homecoming Princes and Princesses were announced and they all had to walk up to the stage. The girls wore pretty gowns and the men were all in tuxedos. They were an extremely uncomfortable bunch as could be seen from their demeanor. In fact, the guy who was chosen to be the Homecoming King, hung his head all the way until he got out of the auditorium.

The most startling discovery of the evening was that my sweet looking apartment mate was such a good mimic!! She does this really neat imitation of a monkey. She told me that she has tried the monkey chatter with every one of the guys she dated. Which leads me to think that maybe, just maybe, D was the only one who could live with it and hence the resulting marriage.

RIVERDANCE

2006-11-16T16:43:00.000-08:00

Lord of the Rings ambience. Music that varied from haunting melodies to foot stomping numbers.(Now I know where AR Rehman gets his inspiration!!) Dances that ranged from tap dancing to flamenco. Costumes that were a feast to the eyes. Angelic voices that reminded you that there was a God. Splendid performances that left you gasping for more.

Riverdance, as the production is called, is a collection of music, comedy, and some wonderful Irish dancing. My first experience of theater and I was in raptures. If this is what it does to your soul, I definitely want more of it. I had always though of theater as being stuffy, snobbish and for the fuddy-duddies. And I gracefully accept defeat. I am grateful I got to experience something so moving.

It was wonderful to see how it touched everyone in the theater. There were a lot of school-going kids and they were just as enraptured as I was. Or was it the child in me reacting to something new, something wonderful? I was glad to see “C” was caught up in the spell too. She actually tried out a few of the steps during intermission. The rest of the intermission was well-spent figuring out which of the red-heads in the row ahead of us were fake. I, as usual, failed miserably, having no clue what a red-head was, fake or otherwise.

Intermission over, the magic started again. More dancing, more music, more magic. All in all, it was too short. I hated to leave, hated having to come back to earth after being in a dream for two short hours. But come back to earth I did, with a resounding thump!!

CONNECTIONS

2006-11-15T17:02:00.000-08:00

I have a karmic connection with buses. I cannot explain it any other way. After more than 15 years of traveling on the good old red (now blue!!) buses of namma bengalooru, just when I though I had gotten rid of buses for good, I land here, in the land of plenty, and get reacquainted with them.

The powers that be had an inkling that I would be using the MTS buses. Barely a week after I got here, they put their combined heads together and changed all the bus numbers and the bus routes to boot, confounding my already addled brains. So instead of one, I now have to ride two buses just to get to work. And to twist the knife in a little deeper, the waiting time between connecting buses is so well coordinated that I can never hope to get to work on time unless I run to catch the buses.

My acclimatization process here had more to do with getting used to the buses in this city than anything else. Contrary to back home, the buses here run on time. Except when it is time to go home, when they invariably run late.

The early morning wait for the bathroom ensures that both the bus and I cross the road at the same time when the traffic lights change. Me, at a dead run, jumping over potholes and sundry other obstacles with élan, putting any Olympic hurdler worth her salt to shame. Mothers with strollers, dogs, sweet old ladies, grumpy kids, all get out of the way in a hurry when they see me coming. The bus driver plasters a smile on his face and wryly comments that I did good when I hop in just as the doors close. I wonder if he would recognize me, if one of these days, I am standing at the stop when the bus rolls in and I walk into the bus like the rest of the civilized world.

All said and done, I love the buses. I love the way a bus actually “kneels” to let people with disabilities get on. I love the way the drivers are always polite. I love watching the whole cross section of society that gets on and off of a bus. The gamut of people runs from the smartly dressed business woman to the old man who looks like he never takes a shower. This is really weird because the said old man always has a new book to read at the bus stop. I know, because I always try and read the title. He smiles when he sees my antics and I turn away shamefacedly. And nothing to beat the kind of conversations I have with the people waiting at the bus stops. Everything from desk top printing to the devastation caused by the tsunami. I do not think I would ever want to give up all of that in a hurry. And best of all, there is nothing, absolutely nothing, that beats the rush of finally spotting the bus that takes you back home, after a long wait at the bus stop.

MOVIE MAGIC

2006-11-14T16:50:00.000-08:00

I have had an overdose of Prithviraj over the weekend. First it was “Classmates”, the movie that is all the rave in Malluland, and then it was “Parijatham,” a Tamil movie.

I know true blue mallu-movie watchers are going to sneer at my selection of movies. I never was a Malayalam movie fan. Possibly because my parents were not avid movie goers. My first taste of a mallu movie was on Doordarshan. Every Sunday afternoon, an award winning movie would be screened. Thank goodness, a lot of mallu movies won awards. Never was a mallu movie more avidly awaited. I belong to the elite few who actually watched “Elipattayam” from start to finish without falling asleep even once.

All that changed once I got into college. Having a bunch of mallu-movie fanatics for friends helped. That was when I got to see movies like Manichitrathazhu, Amaram and Kilukam and they have remained favorites to this day. I labored under the impression that I had seen it all and considered myself quite a connoisseur as far as Malayalam movies were concerned.

My self delusional state lasted until I got married. Hubby dear was aghast at my mallu movie repertoire. He felt my education was sorely lacking and took it upon himself to set things right. He started me off with “Thoovanathumbikal” and I fell hook, line and sinker.

Now most of the arguments at home are about who the better actor is-Mammooty or Mohanlal. Never has the north-south divide been so prominent. I am a Mammooty fan since he looks great and acts even better. And hubby dear is a die-hard Mohanlal fan. He actually tried to name our son after one of the characters in a Mohanlal movie. That was when I had to put my foot down.

Things have come to such a pass that I have hubby dear’s friends trying to convince me that I have to shift to the Mohanlal camp. They consider me a traitor and sneer at hubby dear for failing to make his wife change her mind.

I never realized the seriousness of the issue until I boarded one of the local buses in Kerala. My aunt and I were having a discussion on Mohanlal movies and I happened to comment that he looked like a teddy bear. The sudden pin drop silence in the otherwise noisy bus was deafening. My aunt hissed at me to keep quiet and we hurriedly got off at the next stop!!!

SNAP SHOTS

2006-11-13T16:39:00.000-08:00

* Early Friday morning. I left home a whole hour before the train was scheduled to leave for L.A. And I still managed to miss the train I was supposed to take. Once, just once, I wish a trip would go off smoothly without any hitches. I am tired of having all these misadventures. I go on trips to take a break and I end up with frazzled nerves instead.

This time, about 3 minutes from the Santa Fe station, a friend and I were stopped by a policeman. The reason? We had come out of a building where the alarm had gone off. Answering a bunch of questions on why were in the building’s lot (we had gone to get directions) and where we were headed ensured that I had missed the train.

** The train itself was a blue and silver affair and double-deckered to boot. It went by the fanciful name of “Pacific Surfliner.” Cheesy I know, but I loved it. It brought to mind visions of the sun, surf and the sand. All able-bodied people had to go on to the upper deck while the lower deck (is it called that on a train?) was for the feeble, handicapped and the elderly. Surprisingly, the train was crowded. There were people sitting on the aisles. Reminded me of all the trains back home in India. The only thing missing was the parade of vendors selling everything from hot tea to cd discs. Yes, cd discs, I saw this on my last trip to Kerala. Instead we had frequent announcements from the snack bar on the availability of a “wide variety of snacks and beverages”.

***Two concrete domes, a part of a reactor, with a smoke stack on the top of each. This view out of the train window inspired one young chap to comment to another, “Boy, what rock-hard boobs.” The domes did resemble the said part of the female anatomy. A few seconds later there was a third one!!!

****Metro link to Sierra Madre: Towards the end of the ride, the train was actually in the middle of two freeways with vehicles zipping full tilt on both sides. Who came up with the brilliant idea of putting a train track in the middle of a freeway?

*****Early morning car ride in Arcadia. Traffic completely at a stand-still. This early and a traffic jam? The reason: A whole family of peacocks crossing the road. Penalty for hitting one? Just $1000.00. Anyone up for an import business in peacocks?

******The tram ride from the parking lot to the Getty museum. A weightless feeling, like you are hanging in mid air. The tram slows down too, adding to the other-worldly feeling. Combine that with the knowledge that the tram (or is it called a cable train?) has no human driver and the feeling of being close to the Maker is reinforced.

*******The sight of kids (and more than a few adults) rolling down the gently sloping, grassy, landscaped, Getty Gardens. What fun to be crazy and to be able to let go like that.

********On seeing a sculpture that had three versions of the human torso, each smaller than the other, stacked one on top of another, my friend’s 13-year-old son commented, “Is that supposed to represent the American national obsession with dieting?”

*********“Enikyu Charlie Chaplinum ayittu photo edukanam.” Young wife telling her husband on the Star Walk in Hollywood Boulevard. The global Mallu has truly arrived.

*Coming back to a house filled with toys strewn all over, the air redolent with the smells of Indian cooking. Can this be packaged and sold? A fortune to be made, what with all the homesick desis that abound.

**Throwing darts at a dart board in a sports bar in Baldwin. Since there were 10 of us throwing darts indiscriminately, god save anyone who did not get out of the way in time. More than a couple of people had darts fly past their noses while they were trying to pull darts off of the dart board.

***The two dragons that guard the entrance to China Town in L.A. They represent prosperity and harmony. I felt a strange affinity to them. I am born under the sign of the dragon per Chinese astrology. That must explain the attraction.

****Eating “authentic” Chinese food. I don’t think I have ever eaten Chinese food that so oily. But nothing to beat the taste.

*****Mexican Dancers in the courtyard of the Institute of Mexican Culture. Thumping music, beautiful costumes. Feathered headdresses. Another dance, beautiful Mexican women dressed in colorful, fringed gowns and the men a perfect contrast to all the color, dressed all in black, with huge black sombreros.

******Memorial park, a native Indian, dressed in traditional costume, playing haunting music on various wind instruments. Beside him, his associate, a PYT (pretty young thing, all ye uninitiated) selling cds of the music.

IN THE HOT TUB

2006-11-09T14:54:00.000-08:00

Last evening saw me curled up on the green velvet La-Z-Boy, channel surfing. I had had a bad day at work and I was plotting innovative methods of torturing the various entities that had made my day miserable.

“C” walked in and asked if I wanted to go into the hot tub. She had asked me earlier too, and I had declined saying I couldn’t possibly get into a swimsuit. This time around, she would not take no for an answer. When I trotted out my familiar excuse of not having brought my swimsuit, she offered to lend me one of her “modest” ones.

The swimsuit in question was a one piece (thank god for small mercies), with pretty blue flowers on a darker blue background, cut low in the back and high along the sides. Gad!! Did she honestly expect me to wear that? I tremulously asked her, “C, can I wrap a towel around this?” On hearing that I could, I grabbed my towel off the rack in the bathroom and hurriedly wound it around myself sarong-style. And C promptly pulled it off saying, “That is a bath towel, silly, get a beach towel.” For the life of me, I could not figure out the difference. Only that my bath towel was a solid mehandi-green color while the beach towel was a gaily striped blue and white one. Does the color and pattern make such a difference?

I was aghast at the knowledge that the three of us, actually two, since D was clad in his shorts and t-shirt, were going to be traipsing along the path to the swimming pool in minimal clothing. On questioning C, she nonchalantly informed me that the people in our apartment complex were quite used to the two of them walking about in their swimsuits. Great, just great.

We got to the hot tub and I threw my towel over the railing and hurriedly got into the tub before anyone could get a glimpse of a baby hippopotamus in a swim suit. I was in such a hurry that I sent a tidal wave of water towards poor D who was almost drowned. It was just his navy training that saved him.

C slid in. I really envied the way she looked, so svelte and perfect. The water was hot, but as I got used to it, I could actually feel all my tensions slip away. That must have been my Piscean side kicking in. Water always soothes me. We sat in the tub for a while talking about our day and at the end of it all, I really felt good. Pretty silly of me not to have tried this earlier!!!

SIMPLE PLEASURES

2006-11-08T16:18:00.000-08:00

A convertible with the top down. Long winding country roads. The wind whipping your hair into a frenzy. Rolling pasturelands on gently undulating hills. Music from Gangster. Great company. Loads of laughter. That about sums up my trip to Julian.

Julian is a quaint little town set in the hills of San Diego. It is story book perfect. Signs direct you to give way to horse drawn carriages and to watch out for horses at crossroads. One can actually find sheep, horses and cows out in the open. A scene that is extremely rare in the US.

There were four of us. Three girls and one guy. I don’t know how “M” contrived to bring about that situation. He did have this long-suffering expression of being stuck with three women, but secretly, I think he enjoyed it all. To his credit, he let us browse all the little stores to our hearts’ content, even pointing out a few interesting ones to us.

On our way to Julian, we saw horses grazing in a field. A perfect photo op. Out we jumped. “M” went first nonchalantly leaning on one of the poles that supported the fence. The two girls, K and A, went next, standing a safe distance from the snorting horses. I decided to copy M’s pose. I put my elbow on one of the posts and ZAAAAAAAAAAP!! I jumped back in alarm; I had felt an electric current run through my arm! “M” then says, “Oh you felt it too?” Couldn’t the idiot have warned me? Next we saw a long winding road and we obviously had to get pictures of that too. “M” decided to fling out his arms and caught me neatly at the edge of my left eye. I know I shouldn’t have called him an idiot. It is a good thing my husband isn’t in the US right now or he would have been facing charges of martial abuse since I went to work on Monday with a shiner.

We stopped again to photograph a gaunt tree and had to make a mad dash back to our car since we saw a patrol car stop right in front of our car. Later we found out the policeman had not stopped for us!!

We finally got to Julian and it was like being transported to another century. Of course, the hordes of bikers on their Harley-Davidsons struck a discordant note. Yeah, if I was a man, am sure I would have felt differently about it.

The stores all sold handmade things. Everything from pot-pourri to jewellery made of the locally available stone was on display. Perfect for a Saturday afternoon browse. The girls also went wine-tasting. It really was a pity that I had never tried anything alcoholic in my life. Does cough syrup count?. I would have loved to try the different wines too. But then, I didn’t want poor “M” to have to carry me back to the car.

The diner we went to for lunch was so historic it had only one washroom. Our tokens were cards from a deck. And you went hungry if the waitress called out “Queen of Hearts” and you weren’t listening. Lovely system. Wonder when someone is going to bring that one to India. There were other groups of our fellow countrymen. And as usual everyone was busy ignoring everyone else.

Late afternoon and we had to try the specialty of the area. The apple pies. And since M planned to eat a whole pie and I wanted to get one for my roommates we went to the express lane. Five minutes later and the express lane was the longest line there, actually stretching on to the road. We savored the warm, wonderful smelling apple pies and once sated, made our way home.

A nice lazy Saturday, right up my alley!!!

THE SHOUT HOUSE

2006-11-06T15:07:00.000-08:00

Yet another birthday. And this time I was prepared. Or so I thought. (I had remembered to carry my credit card).

I was told that we were going to a place that had “dueling pianos”. Visions of elegantly clad men and women with wine glasses, soft muted lights, listening to classical piano music flashed across my mind.

For once, I truly regretted being such a tomboy. I don’t think I have ever owned a truly feminine dress in my life. Sighing at my lack of pretty dresses, I chose to wear a long black skirt with a knit black and white top, all the while hoping that I would not be turned back at the door for being so casually dressed.

I stepped out into the living room to find a decent pair of sandals to go with the outfit. Did I even own one? “D” took one look at me and stated, “Sam, you are overdressed.” What? Did I hear him right? Umm, so “D”, what kind of place are we going to? “To a bar.” (As if that explained everything). Back I went, to change into my usual uniform of jeans. I went back to D with another question. Would I look like a complete idiot if I drank water in a bar? Thankfully the answer was no. Phew!!!

C’s cousin, “E” turned 21 on Nov 2nd. A very important age in the US, coz you can henceforth drink legally. Is this state specific? I never did find out.

She was a pretty girl with dark, natural corkscrew curls. I have never seen hair so naturally pretty. The key word here is “natural”. She was a vision in an electric blue spaghetti top and jeans with blue velvet Indian jhooties.

We went into the bar and I was duly stamped on the inside of my left wrist. I felt like I was being stamped before I entered the gas chamber. The stamp was a five pointed star by the way. This was a week day and the bar was supposedly empty, though I could not spot a single empty chair.

The bar was around a raised platform which had two pianos placed together and there were two singers. You could request your favorite songs which would then be played on the pianos. And all the while that I was there, there were no dearth of requests and the music was continuous without a break. It was a complete antithesis of what I had imagined. The music was foot tapping, earthy, raucous, loud, and accompanied by loud catcalls.

The favorite song seemed to be the one that had a chorus that went, “It’s a fine time to leave me Lucille; you b***h, you s**t, you w***e!!!! And everyone would point fingers at whoever was on the dais at the time.

There were at least three birthdays. The birthday gals (all three were girls by the way) got to sit on top of the pianos while the songs requested for them were being played. Once done, they got bumper stickers with the words “The Shout House” stuck across their fannies for their trouble.

“E” went up when it was her turn. An extremely raunchy number was played. I shall not put down the words of the song in deference to my young readers. Suffice to say it was enough to turn anyone beet red. And to top it all, a young male volunteer from the crowd did a lap dance for her. Since I have never had the occasion to see one, I found the whole performance entertaining. That was one sporting volunteer.

Poor “E” came off the dais after she got her bumper sticker, and was almost on the verge of tears much to D’s consternation. He had requested for a song, but not the particular one the pianists chose to play. Peace was restored by the promise of an extra drink at D’s expense.

We had to leave early since all of us had to go to work the next day. I gave “E” a hug and wished her a very happy birthday again. As I left, I admired the young girl’s grit. Not once did she break down in front of all those people. She kept smiling through the entire performance even though it was obvious to everyone she was very uncomfortable. I was told that she was brought up in an extremely strict environment where the mere mention of the words booze or sex was taboo. So you had to admire that kind of poise in one so young. You are going to be one heck of a woman “E”.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

2006-11-02T17:11:00.000-08:00

It was D’s birthday yesterday. And I am yet to meet a person who is more reluctant to celebrate it. And hats off to his wife “C” who is determined to make him like his birthday again and pretty much succeeded.

There is a tragedy behind the entire tale. Both of D’s grandmothers were buried on his birthday. Which is technically enough to turn anyone off of birthdays I suppose.

As for sheer effort, I think C definitely needs a medal. She has been planning it all since the beginning of October. And I have had my agony aunt skills stretched to the limit.
She decided to get “glamour” pictures of herself. That was her idea of a gift for D. That is when all the cloak and dagger stuff began. She hid stuff in my closet before and after the photo shoot. And once the pictures were ready, she asked me to go along to choose six of them. This was an opportunity that any red-blooded guy would have given his right arm for. Unfortunately, I was the wrong gender and straight to boot!

Choosing the best photographs is hard work!! Never again will I envy the judges of any kind of beauty contest. I am sure they get psychiatric help after every judging. And my travails continued…Imagine going through 300-odd pictures to choose 6. But to my credit, I did it. Maybe I actually have a flair for this kind of thing!!! Hmm.

We all went to a restaurant called Claim Jumper. And as to why it is called that, I haven’t the foggiest idea. The restaurant is all wood and old world charm. I loved the fans. They were palm leaf shaped all attached to a central, long, rotating steel shaft and attached to the roof.

More present giving……… and one of D’s presents was attached to a ball of string that went all around the restaurant. Drew had to walk around winding the string, under tables and around poles before he finally got to it. After a lot of excuse mes and I am sorries, D finally got his present. Suffice to say that I have never seen anyone get more excited about a golf club.

Dinner was fun as I got to meet C’s parents as well as various other sundry relatives and friends. C’s father teaches business marketing at the university and we had a lively discussion. Right from the matriachal society of Kerala to the nitty gritties of bringing up children. I haven’t had such good conversation for a long time and I thoroughly enjoyed every minute of it.

We all finished eating and then a strange thing happened. Each of us was presented with a bill. God, how could I have forgotten? We were going Dutch. I had left my credit card behind. Now this was going to get embarrassing. I frantically looked through my purse, and thank you, God, found that I did have some cash stashed in a forgotten pocket. Phew.

Now this was another lesson I learnt the hard way.
Never, ever, step out anywhere without your credit card or your cell phone.

HALLOWEEN ROCKS!!!!

2006-11-01T17:09:00.000-08:00

Sexy sleeveless long gown. Check

Black lacy overcoat with red spiders all over and red satin ties. Check

Pointy lacy red and black hat. Check

Black sandals-Check

Cute broom-Check.

Black kohl-ringed eyes. Check.

In case anyone is wondering if I have defected to a fashion house, I was just describing my Halloween attire. People here really take their Halloween outfits very seriously. I figured that one out yesterday.

It started right from the bus in the morning. At every stop there would be angels of every hue and color, bunnies, a Viking queen and even Xena the Warrior Queen getting on. There weren’t too many witches though, which was funny, considering it was Halloween after all. I would have loved to get on to the bus in my full witch regalia, but I was unsure if the bus driver would let me get on the bus, broom and all. He could tell me to fly to work on my broom right?

Note: I got more compliments yesterday than I ever have in my life. So I look good in witches’ attire? Go figure….

At the witching hour, the trick or treaters started arriving. “D” looked handsome in his King Arthur regalia. “C” was the Rainbow Bride. She wore a really short blue costume trimmed in white fur with a halter neck and multicolored gloves and stockings. It was hot enough to turn the cold evening steamy.

Soon we had a whole parade of kids and not-so-kiddy teenagers at our doorstep demanding candy. There were some who could hardly talk, they were so small!! I loved handing out the candy and wishing everyone a “Happy Halloween.”

Soon it was time to go downtown. This was the best part according to “D” and “C”. I was skeptical. Downtown on a week night? I was sure it was going to be deader than a graveyard in the middle of the night, but then as usual, I was proved wrong. I was warned by “D” that some of the girls did tend to dress a “little slutty”. Understatement of the year?

We were joined by some friends and we sure were a motley crew. We had
Rainbow bride: She drew enough wolf whistles and cat calls to set “D”s teeth on edge. I bet he was dying to hit some of the people.
Psycho: It was “M” in a really scary mask. The guy is at least 6 feet tall and lanky. He wore a really baggy pair of jeans and a white shirt smeared with blood. He looked pretty natural, scratching his head and looking retarded. His favorite game was to hide behind walls and come out suddenly screaming his head off. And for some reason his favorite people to scare were Asians. He had the time of his life yesterday.
The Green Alien: This was a very pretty girl dressed in a short green silk dress, with a laser gun and an insect like mask.
Captain America: He wore a red and blue dress rather like Superman and he had foam rubber shaping his superb muscles. He did everything from direct traffic to warn people against Psycho. He also broke into an impromptu jig with a couple of girls at a traffic light to the accompaniment of much clapping and whistling.
We also had bat-girl and a girl pirate to heat up things if things weren’t hot enough already.

Downtown yesterday was a riot of color. The costumes ranged from the innovative to the completely bizarre. How else do you explain a penis with two testicles, a lady dressed in a towel with bubbles in her head, someone dressed in a Sikh’s turban and someone else dressed in a saree!!! The best one was this truly beautiful woman all dressed in black leather as a dominatrix. She was dragging along this guy, also dressed in black leather. She willingly swatted anyone who wanted to be swatted on their butts with a leather whip.

And as for the women. Looks like yesterday’s motto was “Less is better.” Everyone lived up to that unspoken rule. Suffice to say that it was every guy’s wet dream come true.

We traipsed along the streets seeing and being seen, having the time of our lives. I had to be particularly careful to see that I did not poke anyone in the eye with my broom. But in spite of all the glitz and the glamour as well as the blatantly sexual nature of the costumes, there wasn’t a single instance where someone misbehaved. I really admired that kind of restraint. And I am pretty glad I decided to get into the spirit of things, sore feet and the cold, notwithstanding.