Last night when I was enjoying my daily dose of weepy soaps and laughable reality shows alongwith crispy homemade aloo ke parathe slathered with butter, I heard my phone tinkle with the arrival of an SMS. Thinking it must be one of the sales managers updating me with their day's sales on my personal number, I ignored it, knowing it could wait till I got the buttery goop off my fingers. After a couple of minutes, the phone buzzed angrily again, reminding me of my duty to check the SMS.
I discovered it was a message from Book Palace, a quaint little bookstore which I had stumbled upon while searching for a hardware store.
'Great discounts, amazing offers, many deals- on your favourite authors! Rush now! Hurry- valid till stocks last. Make the most of it TODAY!' screamed the message in all it's urgency. Today? Now? At 9:16 pm? The store itself shut at 9pm! They wanted me to visit a shut store possibly, to plunder it? Well however great my love for books, I was surely never going to stoop to such a low level! Me- steal? Never!
Obviously their SMS scheduler had run into timing problems. Or maybe they had a large database and my name, comprising of two last names had made it to the very last of their lists.
Whatever the case was, I was certainly miffed, especially since I had to cut short my delicious dinner.
When I visited the store next, I pointed this out to the cashier, a buck toothed geeky oily fellow who looked like a character from one of the books themselves.
What can we do, madam? These cellphone operators!- and with that, he cleanly shrugged off all responsibility towards the offending message.
As for me, I now keep my phone on silent during important meal times. That way, I am tempted to HURRY! LAST DAY! TODAY! only in the land of dreams- as I check my phone last thing before dropping off to sleep!
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Catch me if you can!
'Ok so we'll catch up soon,' finished my husband, as he deftly manouevered a piece of watermelon at the breakfast table in one hand, cellphone in the other.
Being unemployed and feeling quite anti-social at the moment (I'm just so content to lie in late and have the whole day to myself, instead of living it by hour long fragments of various meetings!) I have always found this 'catching up' business not quite to my taste.
Bordering on the edge between an extrovert and an introvert, I have my phases where I will slink away from all public glare, not talk to unnecessary people and maybe even avoid their calls.
Maybe it's just me, or all people suffer from this cloak of invisibility at times. And then I do all I can in my power to remain as far away from people as I possibly can.
So when well-meaning friends ask me to 'lets meet for coffee', I fob them off until i feel I'm ready to emerge from my cocoon. So far it's worked, but with everyone's busy schedule and hundreds of commitments, I doubt how long people will tolerate my sudden absences!
Being unemployed and feeling quite anti-social at the moment (I'm just so content to lie in late and have the whole day to myself, instead of living it by hour long fragments of various meetings!) I have always found this 'catching up' business not quite to my taste.
Bordering on the edge between an extrovert and an introvert, I have my phases where I will slink away from all public glare, not talk to unnecessary people and maybe even avoid their calls.
Maybe it's just me, or all people suffer from this cloak of invisibility at times. And then I do all I can in my power to remain as far away from people as I possibly can.
So when well-meaning friends ask me to 'lets meet for coffee', I fob them off until i feel I'm ready to emerge from my cocoon. So far it's worked, but with everyone's busy schedule and hundreds of commitments, I doubt how long people will tolerate my sudden absences!
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Mr Facemaker
I have a substitute cook these days. This man has a specialty of pulling the best faces you'd ever want to see in a man. 'Bharat,' I'd say-' why is there so much salt in this bhindi?' and he'd place his lips in a straight line- furrow his brows and slump his shoulders. Or, 'Bharat, why have you cooked a pressure cooker full of daal for just two people?' and he'd glare at me with raccoon like eyes, throw down the striped kitchen cloth and stomp off to the living room. Or even, 'Bharat, why are all these bottles lying face down, without their caps in the sink?', and his face would go into contortion overdrive.
True, he's just a substitute for my old and trusted cook, but so what- that doesn't give him the freedom to go around acting like one of Enid Blyton's characters! Sometimes, I'm tempted to tell him that his face may just freeze in the same grimace- if the wind blows in his direction!
The best face, however, was when he was leaving to go to his one room shack at night, and he reconfirmed 'have to make baigan in the morning for lunch, right?' and I asked him why asking right now- will you dream up the recipe at night and he smiled his crooked, paan stained teeth, looking more like an imp than a cook- maybe the greatest joke he had encountered in his life!!
True, he's just a substitute for my old and trusted cook, but so what- that doesn't give him the freedom to go around acting like one of Enid Blyton's characters! Sometimes, I'm tempted to tell him that his face may just freeze in the same grimace- if the wind blows in his direction!
The best face, however, was when he was leaving to go to his one room shack at night, and he reconfirmed 'have to make baigan in the morning for lunch, right?' and I asked him why asking right now- will you dream up the recipe at night and he smiled his crooked, paan stained teeth, looking more like an imp than a cook- maybe the greatest joke he had encountered in his life!!
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Songstress
There's a tiny sparrow's nest just outside the kitchen window. This little nimble footed creature mostly hops to and fro through the metal wire grill, stopping for a few seconds to chirpity- chirp- chirp- chirp her way through. She's a lady cause only the lady-bird would do so much hopping, chirping and yet have enough stamina and energy to supervise her nest.
Sometimes her chirping is an incessant one, like she's urging the father to get some food- other times it's a soft almost melodious trill as she hops about her household work.
I imagine her nest (it's high up against the rafters so can't see it)- a warm comfy place built of straw and bits of dried leaves and twigs- holding a couple of hungry twittering mouths.
Once, early morning, as I was preparing breakfast in the kitchen, I heard the continuous twitter, much like a drone- and craned my neck outside the window to check what was happening. Wonder of wonders! The little Mrs Sparrow held a massive twig in her mouth- obviously too big for her to hold alone and frantically calling for help. I looked this way and that- thinking if I could just help her this once. But Mr Sparrow and I were too late as the twig fell down three floors below. I noticed the little birds. Though they seemed to stop chattering for a minute- just a minute, the next they were just the same- with Mrs Sparrow probably rebuking the father on why he'd left the birdlings alone at home for so long.
Life hands us lots of opportunities and chances. If one goes, we needn't be disappointed. There is always something better planned for us. God-the great mother hen of all of us, watches over us and ensures we always get better twigs.
Always.
Sometimes her chirping is an incessant one, like she's urging the father to get some food- other times it's a soft almost melodious trill as she hops about her household work.
I imagine her nest (it's high up against the rafters so can't see it)- a warm comfy place built of straw and bits of dried leaves and twigs- holding a couple of hungry twittering mouths.
Once, early morning, as I was preparing breakfast in the kitchen, I heard the continuous twitter, much like a drone- and craned my neck outside the window to check what was happening. Wonder of wonders! The little Mrs Sparrow held a massive twig in her mouth- obviously too big for her to hold alone and frantically calling for help. I looked this way and that- thinking if I could just help her this once. But Mr Sparrow and I were too late as the twig fell down three floors below. I noticed the little birds. Though they seemed to stop chattering for a minute- just a minute, the next they were just the same- with Mrs Sparrow probably rebuking the father on why he'd left the birdlings alone at home for so long.
Life hands us lots of opportunities and chances. If one goes, we needn't be disappointed. There is always something better planned for us. God-the great mother hen of all of us, watches over us and ensures we always get better twigs.
Always.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Winter oh Winter mornings!
Though I'm a self confessed fan of the great Indian summer, staying in Mumbai for the past eight years has brought back a sense of nostalgia I didn't think my weary bones had called for-
The slight tingle of the nascent Indian winter, characterised by that oh-so-welcome distinct crispness in the air!
Back home in Lucknow, known for it's exemplary winter days, the slight nip in the air- that feeling of distant Diwali around the corner- the air full of unlit firecrackers, the imaginary rustle of tearing off the labels from those string bombs, the smell of gunpowder permeating your fingers and making you dizzy with delight!
Of course, it's not as pronounced in Mumbai, will never be. Diwali isn't the biggest festival here- it's more of an occasion to burst 'em crackers to see which one makes the loudest noise.
But now, what I wouldn't give just to feel the starting of winter in the air!
The slight tingle of the nascent Indian winter, characterised by that oh-so-welcome distinct crispness in the air!
Back home in Lucknow, known for it's exemplary winter days, the slight nip in the air- that feeling of distant Diwali around the corner- the air full of unlit firecrackers, the imaginary rustle of tearing off the labels from those string bombs, the smell of gunpowder permeating your fingers and making you dizzy with delight!
Of course, it's not as pronounced in Mumbai, will never be. Diwali isn't the biggest festival here- it's more of an occasion to burst 'em crackers to see which one makes the loudest noise.
But now, what I wouldn't give just to feel the starting of winter in the air!
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Roosting Home
The other day, when I was forced to abandon the sweet kachoris I was having in the warm fuzzy world of my dreams, for a visit to the cold practical bathroom, when the first fingers of dawn were yet to spread their silver light across the dark velvet sky, I heard the distant crowing of a rooster. Rooster? My still sleepy ears perked up. I hadn't heard the squeak of a mouse in recent time, forget a whole rooster!
Strangely, the sound of a rooster crowing always brings back fond childhood memories.
I remember Board exams and getting up early to memorise awful chemistry stuff- who cared what vulcanisation was anyway- and the sound of the rooster crowing somewhere in the distance signalled the beginning of a well deserved ten minute nap before rushing off to take a bath before my sister. Our backdoor neighbours, I assume, had quite a jungle living with them- parrots, rabbits, white lovebirds, a cat, a mangy dog (who wasn't mangy as we discovered later but bore the marks of a severe cat- dog fight and was now best friends with the same cat) and a tall and handsome rooster. The same rooster who was as much a part of my growing up as Bon Jovi and Tom Cruise.
However since I'd moved to the large and cold suburbian town of Mumbai after marriage, I longed to hear the same sounds which shaped my adolescent years. Sadly, there were none- for in this huge bustling crowded place, who had the time or place, to pet a rooster?
That's when it struck me. Sitting in the bathroom, with the gleaming marble floor reflecting my dishevelled state- I realized this was it.
Mumbai was home now. And the rooster had followed me home.
Strangely, the sound of a rooster crowing always brings back fond childhood memories.
I remember Board exams and getting up early to memorise awful chemistry stuff- who cared what vulcanisation was anyway- and the sound of the rooster crowing somewhere in the distance signalled the beginning of a well deserved ten minute nap before rushing off to take a bath before my sister. Our backdoor neighbours, I assume, had quite a jungle living with them- parrots, rabbits, white lovebirds, a cat, a mangy dog (who wasn't mangy as we discovered later but bore the marks of a severe cat- dog fight and was now best friends with the same cat) and a tall and handsome rooster. The same rooster who was as much a part of my growing up as Bon Jovi and Tom Cruise.
However since I'd moved to the large and cold suburbian town of Mumbai after marriage, I longed to hear the same sounds which shaped my adolescent years. Sadly, there were none- for in this huge bustling crowded place, who had the time or place, to pet a rooster?
That's when it struck me. Sitting in the bathroom, with the gleaming marble floor reflecting my dishevelled state- I realized this was it.
Mumbai was home now. And the rooster had followed me home.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
3:30 am
'Who do you write for', asked the wily sage, bent over a bible type of book, the incandescent lamp casting a glow around his flowing beard, his smooth white hair. 'What do you hope to gain from your writing and why do you write', he continued. I moved forward to answer him but no words came out of my mouth. I looked around at the fading tent, the dissolving ground and the rapidly disappearing form of the sage. Wait, I wanted to stop him but he soon faded to a mass of nothingness as a goat came and chomped up the few blades of grass left behind where his tent once stood, atop a snowy peak. When I looked down, I saw the soft snow had become weathered wooden boards beneath my feet and they were crumbling away and I was falling... falling through space, feeling a little like Alice down the hole, my hair flying around my face, the wind slapping me into wakefulness as I rubbed my eyes and looked at the time. 3:30am, the wall clock blinked radium green.
'You have the power to move millions', he said, as I gazed respectfully into my master's eyes. 'Don't waste it', he said, as I sat at his feet, massaging them with rose oil. How do I do it, I thought, but before I could say anything, he got up and left me, staring through the bamboo blinds onto the grassiest patch I had ever seen. As I watched, the grass grew taller and bigger, even growing inside the thatched hut, soon it was everywhere and all around me. I started drowning in a sea of green and as that sinking feeling set in, I woke up with a start. Time on the bedside clock: 3:30 am.
'Be true to yourself and the words will flow. Don't try to be anyone else. The innocence of your words will dent a thousand hearts. The pictures you create will bleed long after you've finished. Get started now', said the gentle doctor, guiding the chalk over a dusty blackboard as the words formed and dissolved in front of my eyes. No time to waste, he said, as the benches and chairs started shaking. Soon the plaster started peeling off and bricks became dislodged, flying in all directions, while I looked around confusedly, for the doctor. He was lost already and as I dodged a heap of bricks, I suddenly turned right and woke up with a jerk of my neck. Time on the mobile screen: 3:30 am
'You have the power to move millions', he said, as I gazed respectfully into my master's eyes. 'Don't waste it', he said, as I sat at his feet, massaging them with rose oil. How do I do it, I thought, but before I could say anything, he got up and left me, staring through the bamboo blinds onto the grassiest patch I had ever seen. As I watched, the grass grew taller and bigger, even growing inside the thatched hut, soon it was everywhere and all around me. I started drowning in a sea of green and as that sinking feeling set in, I woke up with a start. Time on the bedside clock: 3:30 am.
'Be true to yourself and the words will flow. Don't try to be anyone else. The innocence of your words will dent a thousand hearts. The pictures you create will bleed long after you've finished. Get started now', said the gentle doctor, guiding the chalk over a dusty blackboard as the words formed and dissolved in front of my eyes. No time to waste, he said, as the benches and chairs started shaking. Soon the plaster started peeling off and bricks became dislodged, flying in all directions, while I looked around confusedly, for the doctor. He was lost already and as I dodged a heap of bricks, I suddenly turned right and woke up with a jerk of my neck. Time on the mobile screen: 3:30 am
Sunday, September 19, 2010
The left of the right
I'm a right brained person. I have known it all along- where I excelled in creating poems out of words, my sister bested her own score in Super Mario each time she played. Each time I would take the joystick I'd make such a mess-because my hand-to-eye co ordination was pathetic. While I would struggle with the controls, my sister and mother would collapse in heaps of giggles. It was the same story with learning to drive. After days of unsuccessful attempts and sneering jibes and months of why-didn't-you-stop-at-the-placemarker-you-killed-the-pedestrian, I finally gave up. Who wants to drive anyways, I thought- what are drivers for- and i've been extremely lucky to have been blessed with a driver all my working life.
Another manifestation of my right brain-ness is my high school marksheet. Topping the school in English- to barely scraping past in Math. I hated Math and all it's branches- and secretly was pleased when they didn't lay too much emphasis on it for the MICA written exam. Analytical abilities are tops- cause I realised it's just interpretation of English- but pure Math? No way!
But as the years progressed and so did my station in life- I was faced with the daunting task of interpreting sales numbers on excel, having to head a small-ish empire. That's when I think, my un-used left brain decided to take over.
Now I'm proud to say, that I have a balanced head on my shoulders!
Another manifestation of my right brain-ness is my high school marksheet. Topping the school in English- to barely scraping past in Math. I hated Math and all it's branches- and secretly was pleased when they didn't lay too much emphasis on it for the MICA written exam. Analytical abilities are tops- cause I realised it's just interpretation of English- but pure Math? No way!
But as the years progressed and so did my station in life- I was faced with the daunting task of interpreting sales numbers on excel, having to head a small-ish empire. That's when I think, my un-used left brain decided to take over.
Now I'm proud to say, that I have a balanced head on my shoulders!
Thursday, September 16, 2010
The relativity of reality
(Inspired by a chance status update on FB)
Are people really as happy as they seem to be? With their trophy spouses, posing in front of exotic locations and delectable cuisines?
Isn't there a real life somewhere- one, where the pains of everyday disappointment are not masked by fake smiles? One, where the place settings on the breakfast table isn't just-so-right with the orange juice and the fluffy omelettes?
It is every person's wish to be successful and happy. Since we cannot be happy all the time we invent little manifestations of our has-been happiness- postcards, events, joyful words.
And when we start living the lie, we find it hard to accept reality.
Are people really as happy as they seem to be? With their trophy spouses, posing in front of exotic locations and delectable cuisines?
Isn't there a real life somewhere- one, where the pains of everyday disappointment are not masked by fake smiles? One, where the place settings on the breakfast table isn't just-so-right with the orange juice and the fluffy omelettes?
It is every person's wish to be successful and happy. Since we cannot be happy all the time we invent little manifestations of our has-been happiness- postcards, events, joyful words.
And when we start living the lie, we find it hard to accept reality.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Wounds of the Heart
How does it feel to leave the only house you've ever known? Known so well that you can walk blindfold down the winding staircase and your hand automatically flicks on the light switch on entering a room. Known so well that the faces in the mosaic refuse to be replicated elsewhere and your eyes search for that Michael Jackson-shaped crack on the ceiling plaster.
Known so well that even before you leave it physically, you see it in your dreams each night- reliving a tiny part of yourself in muddied colours.
The wounds of the heart are deepest when one doesn't realise the extent of hurt.
Known so well that even before you leave it physically, you see it in your dreams each night- reliving a tiny part of yourself in muddied colours.
The wounds of the heart are deepest when one doesn't realise the extent of hurt.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Forbidden Pleasures
Such as lolling around in bed way after the seven a.m. snooze button has been hit four times already, or lounging around with a cup of hot ginger-elaichi tea, dousing oneself in its flavorful aroma as I wander from room to room.
Checking in on my plants, taking a minute extra to ruffle their leaves, or caress the new-green shoots.
Dozing off in the afternoon, with my favourite fiction book spreadeagled on my tummy.
Cleaning the dresser and rearranging my favourite perfumes.
Basking in the smell of clean linen- and just-washed towels.
The liberty to not answer each and every phone call.
The freedom to not read through each of the hundred-odd emails I get each day.
The option to daydream about the blurry cloudiness of my phone's wallpaper all day....
Checking in on my plants, taking a minute extra to ruffle their leaves, or caress the new-green shoots.
Dozing off in the afternoon, with my favourite fiction book spreadeagled on my tummy.
Cleaning the dresser and rearranging my favourite perfumes.
Basking in the smell of clean linen- and just-washed towels.
The liberty to not answer each and every phone call.
The freedom to not read through each of the hundred-odd emails I get each day.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
An experiment with time
It's an experiment I was hesitant to take up.
Thirty one days. Thirty one different topics. Would I be able to do it?
I did.
It's the end of the month and I have a whole stack of notes that I'm yet to publish.
Sometimes the outpourings have been from the heart, sometimes from the mind, but each day, there has been a post this month.
The biggest challenge which stared me hard in the face was: would I sustain enough excitement to be able to post each day?
I believe I did (barring yesterday)
And I'm glad I did.
I'm glad things are finally working out the right way and this has been a small step in that direction.
Thirty one days and thirty one thoughts.
Thirty one days. Thirty one different topics. Would I be able to do it?
I did.
It's the end of the month and I have a whole stack of notes that I'm yet to publish.
Sometimes the outpourings have been from the heart, sometimes from the mind, but each day, there has been a post this month.
The biggest challenge which stared me hard in the face was: would I sustain enough excitement to be able to post each day?
I believe I did (barring yesterday)
And I'm glad I did.
I'm glad things are finally working out the right way and this has been a small step in that direction.
Thirty one days and thirty one thoughts.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Small stuff
Just waiting for a fraction before you press the end call button.
Ruffling my hair while I sleep.
Hugging me oh-so-tightly when I'm just drifting off to sleep.
Buying those movie tickets I so wanted to see.
Sneaking in a drink before we finally head home
Ordering my favourite butter chicken before I even say it
Holding the car door open for me
Surprising me with a fabulous stone just like that
Wiping my plate clean with a napkin just before ladling curry onto it
Just these and a million more
Make me want you even more
Ruffling my hair while I sleep.
Hugging me oh-so-tightly when I'm just drifting off to sleep.
Buying those movie tickets I so wanted to see.
Sneaking in a drink before we finally head home
Ordering my favourite butter chicken before I even say it
Holding the car door open for me
Surprising me with a fabulous stone just like that
Wiping my plate clean with a napkin just before ladling curry onto it
Just these and a million more
Make me want you even more
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Simplicity
A jewelled watch.
An icecream.
A pav bhaji treat.
And their name flashed across all India stores.
That's all that my sales team strives for.
No big names, no fancy titles, no showmanship for them- only a healthy sense of competition and the need to be recognised.
I remember a time when I was a simpleton like them- oh, so long back!
A penny for the simple joys of life!
An icecream.
A pav bhaji treat.
And their name flashed across all India stores.
That's all that my sales team strives for.
No big names, no fancy titles, no showmanship for them- only a healthy sense of competition and the need to be recognised.
I remember a time when I was a simpleton like them- oh, so long back!
A penny for the simple joys of life!
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Music is my aeroplane
It's not blood but music which courses through my veins.
I don't lay claim to the largest repository of music that many of my friends may have, but I sure make the list, somewhere...
As far back as I can tax my brain, I've always felt a strange affinity for English music. Add to it my love for the English language and what have you- a fanatic who feels at home in the cobbled streets of Oxford.
Music has the power to teleport you to the most amazing place- your dreams. With music, each note is a different place. Music also has the power to be your solitary companion when you feel life just can't get any worse.
There's a song in my heart, and it's there for all occasions.
I loved the feel of the huge Wembley concert hall, so at one with the thousands surrounding me, yet alone in my private symphony.
True: music is my passport to myself, my alternate life that is the perfect one, which exists somewhere in ether.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Animal Farm
Chaos in the workplace today. Sensitive egos were bruised, tempers were frayed and all it took was a simple case of inter- departmental miscommunication which could've been easily avoided. The two in question, their respective head-of-departments engaged in a dirty verbal mud slinging match in front of the entire office, putting the rarely-used conference rooms to shame.
Now I work in a small office. There are about 50 staff (give or take a couple)- in about 7 departments. That makes it about 7 odd people with varying skill sets, eating lunch together, gossiping together, going on picnics together and the like. It's also a given that there would be vast differences of opinion amongst them, but none of them so large as to amount to literal slander.
What catalysed the entire showdown was a prejudice in A's mind against B, which coloured his vision and forced him to look at all aspects, all interactions in that grey light.
Why do we allow ourselves to be guided by prejudices? The mark of a true leader is adopting an open mind, objectively analysing each situation and then taking action.
Sad to say, such noble intentions exist in textbooks only.
The real world is dog-eat-dog, crab mentality and much worse than all that combined.
Now I work in a small office. There are about 50 staff (give or take a couple)- in about 7 departments. That makes it about 7 odd people with varying skill sets, eating lunch together, gossiping together, going on picnics together and the like. It's also a given that there would be vast differences of opinion amongst them, but none of them so large as to amount to literal slander.
What catalysed the entire showdown was a prejudice in A's mind against B, which coloured his vision and forced him to look at all aspects, all interactions in that grey light.
Why do we allow ourselves to be guided by prejudices? The mark of a true leader is adopting an open mind, objectively analysing each situation and then taking action.
Sad to say, such noble intentions exist in textbooks only.
The real world is dog-eat-dog, crab mentality and much worse than all that combined.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
The Secret- Rewind
When we were younger, things flowed smoother. Whatever we wanted, we got. Nothing was impossible and nothing was unreachable. It was a golden time- the best days of my life- so carefree, with ultimate focus on just one thing- getting into a B school of my choice. In fact, I even visualised myself being welcomed by seniors, my classes, how I would live life independently for the first time.. a process initiated, followed & proven successful by yours truly much before Rhonda Byrne wrote The Secret.
This process of visualisation led me to finding my perfect man and leading the perfect life. Of course, a small detail that I chose to omit- all the above happened after months of trying.
Now, when I want something, I want it instantaneously. I want that new handbag- now. I want that cheesy pizza- now. I want Peace of Mind- NOW.
I'm unwilling to wait in a queue- I hate walking down stairs and I want my food delivered now.
I don't want to visualise because I expect it NOW.
Sigh.
This process of visualisation led me to finding my perfect man and leading the perfect life. Of course, a small detail that I chose to omit- all the above happened after months of trying.
Now, when I want something, I want it instantaneously. I want that new handbag- now. I want that cheesy pizza- now. I want Peace of Mind- NOW.
I'm unwilling to wait in a queue- I hate walking down stairs and I want my food delivered now.
I don't want to visualise because I expect it NOW.
Sigh.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Red red wine
There's something about this liquid. The dark swirl of the slightly frothy sweet- tangy- sour elixir which hits you just as you think that you are in perfect control, is just something else.
Come happiness or sorrow, there's nothing that a glass of red wine can't solve. Whether it's an accompaniment to cheesy lasagna or irresistible tandoori chicken, there's something about this humble glass which lifts your spirits, making them soar so high that you feel like you are leaving the sky far below and way behind.
The aftertaste of wine is something I'd like to call afterwine. It's a slightly dry (depending on your kind of wine) or a slightly sour flavour which leaves a thin film of residue like dull senses mostly.
What follows after a rigorous wine drinking session is a good siesta- where the senses are lulled into a false feeling of calm.
Oh boy, red wine, I love you so!
Come happiness or sorrow, there's nothing that a glass of red wine can't solve. Whether it's an accompaniment to cheesy lasagna or irresistible tandoori chicken, there's something about this humble glass which lifts your spirits, making them soar so high that you feel like you are leaving the sky far below and way behind.
The aftertaste of wine is something I'd like to call afterwine. It's a slightly dry (depending on your kind of wine) or a slightly sour flavour which leaves a thin film of residue like dull senses mostly.
What follows after a rigorous wine drinking session is a good siesta- where the senses are lulled into a false feeling of calm.
Oh boy, red wine, I love you so!
Friday, July 23, 2010
Iris
'When everything feels like the movies, you bleed just to know you're alive'- Iris (Goo Goo Dolls)
Isn't this true? That just when life seems too good to be true, it falls desperately apart? When you are high and singing at the pinnacle of success, there will be that tiny sorrow which will drag you down?
I'd like to think of it like too much happiness attracting negativity towards itself (just the opposite of what happens in Rhonda Byrne's The Secret) as a balancer. Isn't life about balancing- always- work and home, self and social, fat and thin- the Chinese even have a symbol for it- the Yin- Yang!
So you can never stay truly happy or woefully sad- it's a rollercoaster life. However, you can tune your attitude to reflect positivity and optimism- like finding the proverbial silver lining in each dark cloud.
We humans are a frightened lot. We seek safety in numbers, in trodding the common path and living a life of ease. For us, balance is second nature.
Here's then, to positivity and some good cheer!
Isn't this true? That just when life seems too good to be true, it falls desperately apart? When you are high and singing at the pinnacle of success, there will be that tiny sorrow which will drag you down?
I'd like to think of it like too much happiness attracting negativity towards itself (just the opposite of what happens in Rhonda Byrne's The Secret) as a balancer. Isn't life about balancing- always- work and home, self and social, fat and thin- the Chinese even have a symbol for it- the Yin- Yang!
So you can never stay truly happy or woefully sad- it's a rollercoaster life. However, you can tune your attitude to reflect positivity and optimism- like finding the proverbial silver lining in each dark cloud.
We humans are a frightened lot. We seek safety in numbers, in trodding the common path and living a life of ease. For us, balance is second nature.
Here's then, to positivity and some good cheer!
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Channel sprinting
Often while sitting mute and watching TV with The Love Of My Life (a term borrowed from Jennifer Stewart) I am reminded of the experience akin to my childhood when watching tiny slides through a camera- microscope, my sis would rush me through the scenes- a hippo against a blue sky, a scenic Himalayan valley, a lotus pond and a roaring waterfall with giant sprays of foam rising from the sides. When I would set it aside in anger, my head would reel for a good 30 seconds before I got my bearings right.
Thanks to the remote and the nimble fingers of the LOML, I am forced to relive that childhood memory, night after night, as we sit watching the events in the world unfold- Robert Downey Jr transforming into Iron Man - Emraan Hashmi serenading Prachi Desai in Peeloon- Prannoy Roy dissecting the behavior of rowdy Congress MLAs- Sreeram singing his lungs out in Indian Idol and Akshara's mother-in-law's twitchy smile.
The day we got our new TV home I was secretly pleased coz I felt we would be able to get a theatre-like experience right at home. No more queues for popcorn, smelly upholstery and the disappointment of non-reclining chairs when you paid in full. We would save a neat amount, I thought.
Little did I know what I was in for.
This urge to constantly change channels as though you are sprinting at high speed through the maze of the TV seems born of the desire to do so much more, in so little time.
Now if only they'd invent an App to clone us to finish the millions of tasks that a homemaker does, in half the time!
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
In search of the perfect peeptoes
I'm a self confessed shoe-holic.
I love shoes.
At any given point in time, I have at least ten pairs which I wear regularly, and another ten which are occassional wear and another ten which are super- occasional wear.
I buy mostly stilletoes. I love the feel of heels and the power I exude when I stride into a room wearing heels. I have black leather skyscrapers, a funky combination of leather and small metal buckles, reserved for quarterly meetings (when I have lots of points to prove), delicate strappy sandals for my salwar suits in every embroidery colour possible, and leather peeptoes in black- brown suede.
I have yet to buy my most comfortable pair of peeptoes- in nude or light salmon pink colour, which would go well with all outfits.
The search for my perfect peeptoes has taken me across the continent but I'm yet to find MY pair.
Jimmy Choo: are you listening?
I love shoes.
At any given point in time, I have at least ten pairs which I wear regularly, and another ten which are occassional wear and another ten which are super- occasional wear.
I buy mostly stilletoes. I love the feel of heels and the power I exude when I stride into a room wearing heels. I have black leather skyscrapers, a funky combination of leather and small metal buckles, reserved for quarterly meetings (when I have lots of points to prove), delicate strappy sandals for my salwar suits in every embroidery colour possible, and leather peeptoes in black- brown suede.
I have yet to buy my most comfortable pair of peeptoes- in nude or light salmon pink colour, which would go well with all outfits.
The search for my perfect peeptoes has taken me across the continent but I'm yet to find MY pair.
Jimmy Choo: are you listening?
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Things that go creee-eek!
Have you ever felt things sighing, in a closed corner of the room, when they think no one's hearing or watching them?
Things that go creeeeeek or kad-ak or crick in the middle of the night?
I have a clothes-iron which specialises in this. Minutes after you've warmed it and ironed your runaway shirt, it justifies it's presence with a pronounced krrr-ack! Maybe it relaxes it's weary acrylic handle, worn out with years of use, stretching it's steel plate- making you surreptitiously glance at the power switch- confirming if you've flicked it off indeed.
There's an old armchair in my parents house. Made of solid teakwood, with little spindles all over the back and arms, it's not too old (maybe just half a decade or so), which loves to make noises exactly like someone's sat on the thin worn cushion. Once my sis & I were raiding the fridge for a midnight snack and the chair knocked the living daylights out of us- going Cree-eeee-eek.. ever so softly.
Mostly this happens with cane furniture. My husband once patiently explained to me that it wasn't fairies- just old cane wood which stretched a bit and dissected my fairytale with a scientific knife.
Now if only the cane rack in the study would stop groaning each time I place a stack of new books on it!
Things that go creeeeeek or kad-ak or crick in the middle of the night?
I have a clothes-iron which specialises in this. Minutes after you've warmed it and ironed your runaway shirt, it justifies it's presence with a pronounced krrr-ack! Maybe it relaxes it's weary acrylic handle, worn out with years of use, stretching it's steel plate- making you surreptitiously glance at the power switch- confirming if you've flicked it off indeed.
There's an old armchair in my parents house. Made of solid teakwood, with little spindles all over the back and arms, it's not too old (maybe just half a decade or so), which loves to make noises exactly like someone's sat on the thin worn cushion. Once my sis & I were raiding the fridge for a midnight snack and the chair knocked the living daylights out of us- going Cree-eeee-eek.. ever so softly.
Mostly this happens with cane furniture. My husband once patiently explained to me that it wasn't fairies- just old cane wood which stretched a bit and dissected my fairytale with a scientific knife.
Now if only the cane rack in the study would stop groaning each time I place a stack of new books on it!
Monday, July 19, 2010
Mr Know-it-all
Each family has one such example of the aforementioned species- mine being an Uncle, far removed from both sides of the family (I guess his far removed-ness somehow propels him to impress us with his vast repertoire of knowledge)
Now with Uncle Know-it-all around, one doesn't need the tv or the radio or any other such forms of trivial entertainment. For where else would you be forced to think about the plight of African elephants, while discussing Jane Austen's last book and the eating habits of Gujaratis? Sample this- we are sitting around, the men have had round one of whisky and the tv is tuned to one of those never-ending saas bahu serials. The general topic of discussion is our jobs and whereabouts. While we are mentally taking Uncle through some intricacy of our jobs, he springs on us the following: 'so what do you think about Brazil's GDP?', eliciting a stunned silence from all of us.
He then proceeds to educate us on the above as well as holding a parallel conversation in his head about the apparel industry of India which spews forth as the design of the shirt buttonhole!
Now all that goes without saying is that this vast amount of knowledge needs to be shared- non stop, with whoever's around. So often, Uncle Know-it-all is also known as Uncle Talk-a-lot.
But whichever way you look at it- at least entertainment for the evening is guaranteed!
Now with Uncle Know-it-all around, one doesn't need the tv or the radio or any other such forms of trivial entertainment. For where else would you be forced to think about the plight of African elephants, while discussing Jane Austen's last book and the eating habits of Gujaratis? Sample this- we are sitting around, the men have had round one of whisky and the tv is tuned to one of those never-ending saas bahu serials. The general topic of discussion is our jobs and whereabouts. While we are mentally taking Uncle through some intricacy of our jobs, he springs on us the following: 'so what do you think about Brazil's GDP?', eliciting a stunned silence from all of us.
He then proceeds to educate us on the above as well as holding a parallel conversation in his head about the apparel industry of India which spews forth as the design of the shirt buttonhole!
Now all that goes without saying is that this vast amount of knowledge needs to be shared- non stop, with whoever's around. So often, Uncle Know-it-all is also known as Uncle Talk-a-lot.
But whichever way you look at it- at least entertainment for the evening is guaranteed!
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Grate Expectations
Why do we expect so much from others? Ok forget others, lets take our loved ones. Why is it that every single time we place a vortex of hope in our heart that it fizzles out leaving tears in it's wake?
Why is it that people who love you the most, hurt you the most?
Is it because they know your vulnerabilities, so they hit you at that tender spot you accidentally left open for them to discover?
Why does life have a characteristic low before the zenith?
And why do you think that scraping through the low is the toughest part of your life?
Why does each ordeal leave you weaker than before, weaker: to sustain the pressure in your oft-battered heart?
When expectations begin to grate, do you give them up?
Why is it that people who love you the most, hurt you the most?
Is it because they know your vulnerabilities, so they hit you at that tender spot you accidentally left open for them to discover?
Why does life have a characteristic low before the zenith?
And why do you think that scraping through the low is the toughest part of your life?
Why does each ordeal leave you weaker than before, weaker: to sustain the pressure in your oft-battered heart?
When expectations begin to grate, do you give them up?
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Soul Sistah
I have a t- shirt which proclaims Soul Sistah in bright pink neon colours with a few glittery stars for effect, which I'm wearing today.
I remember when I bought it- two, to be precise, one for my sister and one for myself. At that time, little did we know how close we could be to each other.
I remember the soft velvety baby that she was, with her tiny pink fingers, placed into my lap as a chubby newborn (am afraid the chubbiness still stays). Even though we were seven years apart, I never felt any sibling rivalry (it's another thing that I was quite the perfect child & idol for lots of family youngsters, ahem) towards her. I always regarded her as my dear playmate.
We went through the tears together- from that irritating phase where she would rush to tell mummy of my little secrets - to the time of a complete role reversal (now I'm being told to hush up or else!)
She's my best friend.
She understands what I feel through my voice, so many kilometers away.
She's my confidant- even more than Mum & Dad.
After many years of lurking in the hidden corners of my cupboard, the soul sistah t shirt finally has complete meaning.
I love you, Bugs!
(I know that this is one of the few posts where words are falling short of my emotions)
I remember when I bought it- two, to be precise, one for my sister and one for myself. At that time, little did we know how close we could be to each other.
I remember the soft velvety baby that she was, with her tiny pink fingers, placed into my lap as a chubby newborn (am afraid the chubbiness still stays). Even though we were seven years apart, I never felt any sibling rivalry (it's another thing that I was quite the perfect child & idol for lots of family youngsters, ahem) towards her. I always regarded her as my dear playmate.
We went through the tears together- from that irritating phase where she would rush to tell mummy of my little secrets - to the time of a complete role reversal (now I'm being told to hush up or else!)
She's my best friend.
She understands what I feel through my voice, so many kilometers away.
She's my confidant- even more than Mum & Dad.
After many years of lurking in the hidden corners of my cupboard, the soul sistah t shirt finally has complete meaning.
I love you, Bugs!
(I know that this is one of the few posts where words are falling short of my emotions)
Friday, July 16, 2010
Papa
My dad is the best example of how've never let gender rule the life of his kids. From the time when my sis & I were tiny pigtailed pre-schoolers till the time I got married, he always treated us like boys.
Living in conservative Lucknow had it's pitfalls. Even more for young girls who went zipping past on their two wheelers. Papa never let small things like being chased by a bunch of boys, or simple ogling, get the better of us. Sure, he accompanied us to places he thought unfit but those were few.
I remember having my own savings bank account by the time I was seven. I remember how proud I used to be when papa gave me hundred rupees to put in it and how I read the figures in the passbook. Those were simple joys of life.
Now Papa coughs when there's a draft of cold wind. He gets tired easily.
But he still exudes the authority that came of heading a DD station years ago. When he walks into a room, it seems bigger, more powerful because of him.
And even now, after all these years, he still gets tears in his eyes when I return home for a vacation.
Your strong sense of saving has helped Papa, has helped!
I love you, Papa!
Living in conservative Lucknow had it's pitfalls. Even more for young girls who went zipping past on their two wheelers. Papa never let small things like being chased by a bunch of boys, or simple ogling, get the better of us. Sure, he accompanied us to places he thought unfit but those were few.
I remember having my own savings bank account by the time I was seven. I remember how proud I used to be when papa gave me hundred rupees to put in it and how I read the figures in the passbook. Those were simple joys of life.
Now Papa coughs when there's a draft of cold wind. He gets tired easily.
But he still exudes the authority that came of heading a DD station years ago. When he walks into a room, it seems bigger, more powerful because of him.
And even now, after all these years, he still gets tears in his eyes when I return home for a vacation.
Your strong sense of saving has helped Papa, has helped!
I love you, Papa!
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Ma!
My mother is the most beautiful woman on this earth. She is my history incarnate, my present support and my future likeness. I have a small part to play in each strand of grey and every wrinkle that dots her face. Her soft buttery skin, worn out with years of too much kitchen smoke and too little care. She wasn't always like this...
In their wedding album both my parents look like rockstars. Lots of hair and less flesh. The wedding mandap looks like a film set but my mother looks luminous- positively basking in the glow of a (much hushed about) love marriage.
Years later, I would see that glow again, when my little sister was born- a stunning replica of my mom.
And yet again, when both of us excelled at our chosen careers.
As a little girl, I would be fascinated by the neat rows of exotic lipsticks that lined our fridge- with foreign sounding names. I would watch, enthralled, as Ma transformed herself from a worn out lady to the gentle life of the party.
Her silk sarees and matching slippers always made her look so elegant, so beautiful, so like Ma.
Now, I have the choicest international lipstick brands on my dresser. But I still prefer rummaging in my mother's makeup drawer to steal that perfect shade of pink- hoping it transforms me into a fraction of the wonderful woman who is my mother.
In their wedding album both my parents look like rockstars. Lots of hair and less flesh. The wedding mandap looks like a film set but my mother looks luminous- positively basking in the glow of a (much hushed about) love marriage.
Years later, I would see that glow again, when my little sister was born- a stunning replica of my mom.
And yet again, when both of us excelled at our chosen careers.
As a little girl, I would be fascinated by the neat rows of exotic lipsticks that lined our fridge- with foreign sounding names. I would watch, enthralled, as Ma transformed herself from a worn out lady to the gentle life of the party.
Her silk sarees and matching slippers always made her look so elegant, so beautiful, so like Ma.
Now, I have the choicest international lipstick brands on my dresser. But I still prefer rummaging in my mother's makeup drawer to steal that perfect shade of pink- hoping it transforms me into a fraction of the wonderful woman who is my mother.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Go figure!
I am terrible at Math.
There- I've said it.
Yes- Have always been and say it without being embarassed, self conscious or feeling the least bit inferior.
Yours truly achieved just half of the full percent in ICSE board exams, and topped with English at 96%. My mother, after seeing the marksheet lamented if I'd just gotten ten more percent (a whole twenty marks) my grade would've been drastically better. My grandma wryly remarked that we had a Jane Austen in our midst so why even care about figures!
Pish-tosh! I said- thankful that I didn't have to study the beast anymore. I had no cruel intentions to suffer from nightmares (where eights and nines and sixes- the 'fat' numbers would march menacingly towards me, threatening to gobble me up), or worse, sleepless nights (I once lay awake the whole night faithfully parroting all the trigonometry theorems)!
Freed from thr shackles of High school Math, I advanced into BBA where each semester had some cousin of the tormentor- Calculus, Statistics.... I decided to show him who's the boss and aced my Statistics exam getting 98% in the exam.
Later on, at MICA, barely scraped through by the skin of my teeth in Research Methodology.
But the true test and (I hope, final torture) ensued when I was made Sales head. And for the first time in my life, I realised the language of talking numbers. I saw dipping sales because of low footfalls. I saw how YOY growth could be a positive while the ticket size was a negative. I understood marketing ROI (not that I didn't use it when I was handling only marketing) in the true sense of the word. I saw how a sales number could be reflected in so many placed impacting the outcome of a business.
From being a dunce, am now a dude(tte) at excel! And all, thanks to consumerism and the Sales function!!
There- I've said it.
Yes- Have always been and say it without being embarassed, self conscious or feeling the least bit inferior.
Yours truly achieved just half of the full percent in ICSE board exams, and topped with English at 96%. My mother, after seeing the marksheet lamented if I'd just gotten ten more percent (a whole twenty marks) my grade would've been drastically better. My grandma wryly remarked that we had a Jane Austen in our midst so why even care about figures!
Pish-tosh! I said- thankful that I didn't have to study the beast anymore. I had no cruel intentions to suffer from nightmares (where eights and nines and sixes- the 'fat' numbers would march menacingly towards me, threatening to gobble me up), or worse, sleepless nights (I once lay awake the whole night faithfully parroting all the trigonometry theorems)!
Freed from thr shackles of High school Math, I advanced into BBA where each semester had some cousin of the tormentor- Calculus, Statistics.... I decided to show him who's the boss and aced my Statistics exam getting 98% in the exam.
Later on, at MICA, barely scraped through by the skin of my teeth in Research Methodology.
But the true test and (I hope, final torture) ensued when I was made Sales head. And for the first time in my life, I realised the language of talking numbers. I saw dipping sales because of low footfalls. I saw how YOY growth could be a positive while the ticket size was a negative. I understood marketing ROI (not that I didn't use it when I was handling only marketing) in the true sense of the word. I saw how a sales number could be reflected in so many placed impacting the outcome of a business.
From being a dunce, am now a dude(tte) at excel! And all, thanks to consumerism and the Sales function!!
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Mom, can I buy a tape?
Innocuous words, lovingly spoken by an almost 15 years younger me, in front of Kala Kunj, Hazratgunj, Lucknow- the best place to buy the latest English tapes (cassettes, as we fondly called them, in those days). We lived in a fairly open-restricted world where there was not too much exposure to Channel Vs & MTVs & Vh1s and life was largely governed by free will (without Eminem throwing punches in your face singing im Not Afraid- egging you to buy his latest album- Out NOW In Stores). We picked the artists and the music we liked- by glancing through the album cover (I thought Megadeth's Euthanasia had a great cover- little babies hung up on clotheslines- it was only later when I learnt the fine filters and layers in Photoshop that I realised it wasn't such a marvel after all!) and the list of songs at the back- shrouded in mystery as just lines of text, waiting to be transformed into the next hummable tune.
A new tape meant crinkling the soft cellophane wrapper off, opening the acrylic case with a click and then inserting the tape into the player, and turning it on -LOUD! (at that time, I couldn't understand why my parents would scold me for having short hearing- I realise now that its terribly irritating to listen to some gobbledygook when a thousand chores are running amok in your head).
I still have about two hundred of those tapes- some of them are twenty years old- kept like antique treasures in the top shelf of my library- sadly, they've given way to newer CDs (ah, the joy of placing the CD in the tray and listening to a Pink Floyd concert right in your bedroom!) and even newer MP3s (I have a whole stash of them in all my laptops)
But the real joy of the music was in the times of yore. Never had waiting so much for a tape (some specially requested numbers had to be ordered from someplace else) been so enjoyable. I would look forward to the day when my requested tape would arrive & then ask Mom if I could please buy the tape (if I ran out of my princely pocket money of one hundred rupees), rush through dinner (taking small peeks at my recent acquisition which lay undisturbed in its brown paper bag) and then play it for a whole week non-stop, end to end, till I memorised the 5-second gap between songs.
Now, if I like a song I've heard, to add to my thousand-strong collection of MP3s, I just google & download it- the entire process taking less than two minutes.
A two week wait, to a two minute one now.
And guess what, I'd take the two week wait anytime!
A new tape meant crinkling the soft cellophane wrapper off, opening the acrylic case with a click and then inserting the tape into the player, and turning it on -LOUD! (at that time, I couldn't understand why my parents would scold me for having short hearing- I realise now that its terribly irritating to listen to some gobbledygook when a thousand chores are running amok in your head).
I still have about two hundred of those tapes- some of them are twenty years old- kept like antique treasures in the top shelf of my library- sadly, they've given way to newer CDs (ah, the joy of placing the CD in the tray and listening to a Pink Floyd concert right in your bedroom!) and even newer MP3s (I have a whole stash of them in all my laptops)
But the real joy of the music was in the times of yore. Never had waiting so much for a tape (some specially requested numbers had to be ordered from someplace else) been so enjoyable. I would look forward to the day when my requested tape would arrive & then ask Mom if I could please buy the tape (if I ran out of my princely pocket money of one hundred rupees), rush through dinner (taking small peeks at my recent acquisition which lay undisturbed in its brown paper bag) and then play it for a whole week non-stop, end to end, till I memorised the 5-second gap between songs.
Now, if I like a song I've heard, to add to my thousand-strong collection of MP3s, I just google & download it- the entire process taking less than two minutes.
A two week wait, to a two minute one now.
And guess what, I'd take the two week wait anytime!
Monday, July 12, 2010
The green of my hand
I have a green hand. No, not thumb, a whole hand.
I pride myself on the fact that most (please remember this operative word) of the plants i've planted have either blossomed into whole mini- trees (as much as they could grow on a three-feet wide pinch of a balcony) or spread out their leafy branches all across the eleven- feet- wide side.
I like my moneyplant. It has been grown in two cracked pots (the moneyplant cracked the pot, I didn't), a discarded cane pot and even an Art d'Inox wine cooler (well people, those were the days when both of us were off drinking and it seemed like such a waste- that nice container with the rippled body going to waste- so in went some dark earth, a fistful of pesticide and fertiliser and a sprig of moneyplant- I must say, it caught on real fast in it's new home)- and the latest- two tequila shot glasses, which were using up some space in the glasses drawer- I simply put in a coupla white pebbles (have a whole stash of them from Langkawi)- and a tiny sprig of moneyplant- and viola! he took root beautifully in both if them!
Now I'm not a connoiseur of plants. I mean, I can identify popular varieties but I have some five different types of crotons in my balcony- garden and I wouldn't know which one is which. I also have a beautiful flowering hibiscus who has been with me for six years now and she never fails to bear those bright red flowers with their tongues out, cheekily mocking me, twice a year!
Then of course, there's the venerated tulsi plant. I must say, I've had my fair share of ups and downs in my life, and I remember the ups coinciding with her being there and the downs when she wasn't. No wonder she's looked upon with so much religious belief!
Then there's this really special creeper which my mother brought all the way from our house in Lucknow- she may not bear flowers all through the year like in Lucknow (I think she never really took to the plateauing weather of Mumbai) but she's there- a reminder of my most cherished childhood memories.
Then of course, the majestic palm- without which no garden would ever be complete. I have three of them- two in oriental pots and one in a normal brown one and I always think that the normal one mocks his oriental cousins for being more down to earth!
When I'm lonely, I talk to my plants (this confession may mean the loss of a few good readers of my blog but trust me, I'm not mad!)- and I find it therapeutic.
The most loyal audience one could ever find- my bamboos- growing on the window sill of my kitchen in their transparent homes- are subject to many a diatribe towards work or silent grumbles!
And they never make me feel alone. The green bamboo plant in one corner of the living room is reassuring in his presence and I never feel lost if alone.
Here's to my green friends and the company they bring in my life!
I pride myself on the fact that most (please remember this operative word) of the plants i've planted have either blossomed into whole mini- trees (as much as they could grow on a three-feet wide pinch of a balcony) or spread out their leafy branches all across the eleven- feet- wide side.
I like my moneyplant. It has been grown in two cracked pots (the moneyplant cracked the pot, I didn't), a discarded cane pot and even an Art d'Inox wine cooler (well people, those were the days when both of us were off drinking and it seemed like such a waste- that nice container with the rippled body going to waste- so in went some dark earth, a fistful of pesticide and fertiliser and a sprig of moneyplant- I must say, it caught on real fast in it's new home)- and the latest- two tequila shot glasses, which were using up some space in the glasses drawer- I simply put in a coupla white pebbles (have a whole stash of them from Langkawi)- and a tiny sprig of moneyplant- and viola! he took root beautifully in both if them!
Now I'm not a connoiseur of plants. I mean, I can identify popular varieties but I have some five different types of crotons in my balcony- garden and I wouldn't know which one is which. I also have a beautiful flowering hibiscus who has been with me for six years now and she never fails to bear those bright red flowers with their tongues out, cheekily mocking me, twice a year!
Then of course, there's the venerated tulsi plant. I must say, I've had my fair share of ups and downs in my life, and I remember the ups coinciding with her being there and the downs when she wasn't. No wonder she's looked upon with so much religious belief!
Then there's this really special creeper which my mother brought all the way from our house in Lucknow- she may not bear flowers all through the year like in Lucknow (I think she never really took to the plateauing weather of Mumbai) but she's there- a reminder of my most cherished childhood memories.
Then of course, the majestic palm- without which no garden would ever be complete. I have three of them- two in oriental pots and one in a normal brown one and I always think that the normal one mocks his oriental cousins for being more down to earth!
When I'm lonely, I talk to my plants (this confession may mean the loss of a few good readers of my blog but trust me, I'm not mad!)- and I find it therapeutic.
The most loyal audience one could ever find- my bamboos- growing on the window sill of my kitchen in their transparent homes- are subject to many a diatribe towards work or silent grumbles!
And they never make me feel alone. The green bamboo plant in one corner of the living room is reassuring in his presence and I never feel lost if alone.
Here's to my green friends and the company they bring in my life!
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Magical Maggi-1
As I sit here on my creamy white sofa in my living room on a lazy Sunday, I can smell some breakfast being made. It's early- only nine in the morning, for a Sunday meal. The aroma of a simple Maggi being cooked, transports me back to my childhood where Sunday was family time with Mom & Papa.
We lived in a huge house in Lucknow (my Mumbai flat seems only two rooms compared to that sprawling structure)- filled with laughter and love of my parents, my Grandmom, my sis and me.
Sundays would be special- we would wait all week for them because Papa would make his version of Maggi for us- finely chopped onions, tomatoes and a hint of green chillies were fried in one pan while water for maggi simmered on the other (those were the days of 2- burner stoves only)- sometimes Papa would mash in some scrambled eggs also to make it healthy-and oh! what delectable Maggi it was! What added on to the simple dish was the oodles of fun, rib tickling jokes and the love that was spread out in generous toppings by Papa.
Recently I tried making some myself- and as I sat forlonly, forking up the exotic- veggie- laden Maggi, alone, at my dining table, I couldn't help but stifle a sob.
The years have gone by: Grandma is no more, my parents have moved to another city, my sister is all grown up.
But what remains my choicest dish even today when I visit them, is Papa's special Maggi. No matter what I do, or don't do, I can never match the magic of his hands!
(this may seem like an ode to Maggi, but well, so be it!)
We lived in a huge house in Lucknow (my Mumbai flat seems only two rooms compared to that sprawling structure)- filled with laughter and love of my parents, my Grandmom, my sis and me.
Sundays would be special- we would wait all week for them because Papa would make his version of Maggi for us- finely chopped onions, tomatoes and a hint of green chillies were fried in one pan while water for maggi simmered on the other (those were the days of 2- burner stoves only)- sometimes Papa would mash in some scrambled eggs also to make it healthy-and oh! what delectable Maggi it was! What added on to the simple dish was the oodles of fun, rib tickling jokes and the love that was spread out in generous toppings by Papa.
Recently I tried making some myself- and as I sat forlonly, forking up the exotic- veggie- laden Maggi, alone, at my dining table, I couldn't help but stifle a sob.
The years have gone by: Grandma is no more, my parents have moved to another city, my sister is all grown up.
But what remains my choicest dish even today when I visit them, is Papa's special Maggi. No matter what I do, or don't do, I can never match the magic of his hands!
(this may seem like an ode to Maggi, but well, so be it!)
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Herd about Movies
It is said that Indians have two national religions: movies and cricket. But falling into that tiny niche which follows neither zealously, please take in this post with a pinch of indifference.
One of the movies that was seeped in pre- launch hoopla just like too-sweet-gulab jamun in it's sugary surroundings-was Kites. When it opened to massive numbers but tanked like a rocket without fuel on the second/ third day, naysayers and film critics had the last laugh. They slayed and slashed the film, it's actors, the storyline and everything around it, quashing any hopes that I harboured to watch it in a theatre. Ok, I sighed to myself, I'll just wait for the TV release. Now this was super-quick, and we settled down to a tub of popcorn on our comfy sofa in our own living room shortly thereafter, ready for the worst.
But you know what, I actually liked the film. I didn't think the plot was inane- it was quite fascinating, if you ask me, and I liked the tiny thoughtful bits about instant chemistry, kids and dancing in the rain, besides Hrithik, of course, who looked like God.
I guess it must've been edited for the small screen coz it didn't seem tiringly long even after several commercial breaks.
This got me thinking: is one man's treat another man's poison or are we so in our lives that following the herd seems the best possible thing to do?
You think?
One of the movies that was seeped in pre- launch hoopla just like too-sweet-gulab jamun in it's sugary surroundings-was Kites. When it opened to massive numbers but tanked like a rocket without fuel on the second/ third day, naysayers and film critics had the last laugh. They slayed and slashed the film, it's actors, the storyline and everything around it, quashing any hopes that I harboured to watch it in a theatre. Ok, I sighed to myself, I'll just wait for the TV release. Now this was super-quick, and we settled down to a tub of popcorn on our comfy sofa in our own living room shortly thereafter, ready for the worst.
But you know what, I actually liked the film. I didn't think the plot was inane- it was quite fascinating, if you ask me, and I liked the tiny thoughtful bits about instant chemistry, kids and dancing in the rain, besides Hrithik, of course, who looked like God.
I guess it must've been edited for the small screen coz it didn't seem tiringly long even after several commercial breaks.
This got me thinking: is one man's treat another man's poison or are we so in our lives that following the herd seems the best possible thing to do?
You think?
Friday, July 9, 2010
Desi Retail-1
I love going to kitchen-ware, steel-ware shops. Now I'm not the fancy kind of housewife who has the latest nonstick, Teflon, yeflon and what-have-you coated saucepans and skillets, I have very basic and fully functional two-three of each kind of utensil- but boy, do I love going to the kitchen section of any big department store!
Just the other day, I noticed that the handle of my favorite saucepan (everyone has a favourite utensil- mine happens to be a sleek black one cute enough to hold only about two and a half cups of tea) was sadly dangling on to dear life. Presto! I swung into action and marched off to my friendly neighborhood steel kitchen man. Now he has a shop in the middle of a bustling (may I add, slightly uppity) market but does that bother him from rolling up his greasy sleeves and fix pots and pans? Not at all- he has a shop about two hundred square feet, give or take a few- with exemplary retail acumen- his display tactics can put even the best Big Bazar to shame- he has 100% conversion coz he stacks just about everything- from steel racks to the largest skillet/ pressure cooker and smallest spoon and colander- his basket size would be no less than half a thou- enviable- when you realise it's the same amount you spend on buying vegetables each week- and viola! you have your own version of Kishore Biyani- (maybe better- I bet Mr Biyani doesn't know the names and history of his most frequent purchasers at each Big Bazar outlet)- a living case study amongst us!
It's fascinating to see that he never turns away any customer- however big or small- if he doesn't have it, he will politely arrange to have it home delivered the next day. Talk about convenience!
His store is a virtual wonderland- from the top most shelf carrying casseroles of every kind and brand to the oft- purchased steel glasses and plastic fridge bottles- he has it all!
But the icing on the cake is when he offers you a discount- completely unsolicited- his own loyalty program far more efficient than any customised CRM software!
Just the other day, I noticed that the handle of my favorite saucepan (everyone has a favourite utensil- mine happens to be a sleek black one cute enough to hold only about two and a half cups of tea) was sadly dangling on to dear life. Presto! I swung into action and marched off to my friendly neighborhood steel kitchen man. Now he has a shop in the middle of a bustling (may I add, slightly uppity) market but does that bother him from rolling up his greasy sleeves and fix pots and pans? Not at all- he has a shop about two hundred square feet, give or take a few- with exemplary retail acumen- his display tactics can put even the best Big Bazar to shame- he has 100% conversion coz he stacks just about everything- from steel racks to the largest skillet/ pressure cooker and smallest spoon and colander- his basket size would be no less than half a thou- enviable- when you realise it's the same amount you spend on buying vegetables each week- and viola! you have your own version of Kishore Biyani- (maybe better- I bet Mr Biyani doesn't know the names and history of his most frequent purchasers at each Big Bazar outlet)- a living case study amongst us!
It's fascinating to see that he never turns away any customer- however big or small- if he doesn't have it, he will politely arrange to have it home delivered the next day. Talk about convenience!
His store is a virtual wonderland- from the top most shelf carrying casseroles of every kind and brand to the oft- purchased steel glasses and plastic fridge bottles- he has it all!
But the icing on the cake is when he offers you a discount- completely unsolicited- his own loyalty program far more efficient than any customised CRM software!
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Better than Me
Whoever termed it the rat race sure knew what he was talking about.
Having spent the last couple of days in (sick) bliss at home, I was forced to re-analyse my priorities (not that I ever gave my job top marks... Umm well maybe.. that mad year before last when I worked sixteen hours daily, non stop for six days a week, for a whole year before a stinging ear infection slowed my nine hour-daily conversations to just minute long yes' and no's) and just wonder why...
Gazing out of my leafy balcony, I watched the dewey raindrops fall pat by pat on the leaves, making it the best sound in the world. As I cradled a cup of warm green tea and watched a spider make it's way to the top of wet branch, I marvelled at the elasticity of time. Here I was, four o'clock in the afternoon, drinking tea and looking out at the overcast skies, without a care in the world, when I should've been behind my desk in my glass cabin, shouting why-were-sales-yet-so-low on some poor Store Manager. If this was office, I would've closed two new sales partners, followed up with the entire national sales team on targets, surfed a few websites to get the latest on e-commerce to implement, checked the purchase history of a few good customers and fired the ad agency a coupla times. But here I was, at home, with no particular agenda and after four years of running in the rat race, I actually liked being without a job list. I spent the rest of the evening catching up on HBO, cooking some delectable pasta for my husband and rustling up some boiled veggies for myself. Not once did I feel the lack of direction in the day- my purpose was clear- have no purpose!!
And I thought-
Whatever we accomplish in our professional lives always has a comparison. You are either better than last year or worse than the previous quarter. Your predecessor never/ always made it better than you.
And whatever we accomplish in our personal lives is always against our own selves. There is no greater/ smaller love towards parents. Your husband loves you more than last year, in comparison to yourself, not the neighbour's wife next door.
And then I wonder, if its yourself you are competing with, don't you deserve a little more time?
Sigh.
Having spent the last couple of days in (sick) bliss at home, I was forced to re-analyse my priorities (not that I ever gave my job top marks... Umm well maybe.. that mad year before last when I worked sixteen hours daily, non stop for six days a week, for a whole year before a stinging ear infection slowed my nine hour-daily conversations to just minute long yes' and no's) and just wonder why...
Gazing out of my leafy balcony, I watched the dewey raindrops fall pat by pat on the leaves, making it the best sound in the world. As I cradled a cup of warm green tea and watched a spider make it's way to the top of wet branch, I marvelled at the elasticity of time. Here I was, four o'clock in the afternoon, drinking tea and looking out at the overcast skies, without a care in the world, when I should've been behind my desk in my glass cabin, shouting why-were-sales-yet-so-low on some poor Store Manager. If this was office, I would've closed two new sales partners, followed up with the entire national sales team on targets, surfed a few websites to get the latest on e-commerce to implement, checked the purchase history of a few good customers and fired the ad agency a coupla times. But here I was, at home, with no particular agenda and after four years of running in the rat race, I actually liked being without a job list. I spent the rest of the evening catching up on HBO, cooking some delectable pasta for my husband and rustling up some boiled veggies for myself. Not once did I feel the lack of direction in the day- my purpose was clear- have no purpose!!
And I thought-
Whatever we accomplish in our professional lives always has a comparison. You are either better than last year or worse than the previous quarter. Your predecessor never/ always made it better than you.
And whatever we accomplish in our personal lives is always against our own selves. There is no greater/ smaller love towards parents. Your husband loves you more than last year, in comparison to yourself, not the neighbour's wife next door.
And then I wonder, if its yourself you are competing with, don't you deserve a little more time?
Sigh.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Mobile, anyone?
I never cease to marvel at the amazing invention that is technology, more so, ever- improving technology.
I remember days of yore (yes siree, those were the days) when the telephone was a black bulky instrument, the kind that would probably knock a burglar out cold, with a 5 digit phone number (I still remember ours)- and the fact that it shared the first four digits with a police station often kept us entertained for the first few months.
A variety of mutations later, came the much sleeker (and infinitely more useful) cordless phone. This was a true boon, and the grand- daddy of the modern day mobile phone. This allowed one to (wow) roam across the house, breaking the shackles of the corded variety (and also opening up access to hitherto non- discussable topics like boyfriends- mind you, this was the early nineties India and we had just started getting the first taste of DD Metro and Liberalisation).
Then came the cell phone, like a heavy chunk of fresh air. I still remember the awe on my seniors' face when I placed my cherished possession on the Mess table, in my first year at MICA. 'Is that the real cell phone', one asked, and I proudly nodded, taking more pride than ever in the fact that I was my father's (spoilt) daughter. But vanity aside, it was given to me in case of emergency as I stayed several states away from them (need I add mental, as well as physical)!
Those were the golden years of mobile telephony as we paid a princely sum of Rs 16 per minute to connect, which prompted the first of bandwidth-price- VAS-wars.
The rest, as they say, is history.
Cut to present day.
I have used almost every top brand of cell phones there are, in the market- from the humble Nokia to the beautiful Motorola pebble to the business like Blackberry- I've finally found the perfect phone for the audiophile in me- the iPhone- which helps me balance my work (work email configured), social life (I'm a Facebook loyalist) home (personal emails) and self (I post blogs through my phone).
Ladies and gentlemen, do you realise, you are being treated to a true World denizen- one that has seen mobile history being unfolded before her very eyes?
Now, if only the iPhone was available with a flap!
I remember days of yore (yes siree, those were the days) when the telephone was a black bulky instrument, the kind that would probably knock a burglar out cold, with a 5 digit phone number (I still remember ours)- and the fact that it shared the first four digits with a police station often kept us entertained for the first few months.
A variety of mutations later, came the much sleeker (and infinitely more useful) cordless phone. This was a true boon, and the grand- daddy of the modern day mobile phone. This allowed one to (wow) roam across the house, breaking the shackles of the corded variety (and also opening up access to hitherto non- discussable topics like boyfriends- mind you, this was the early nineties India and we had just started getting the first taste of DD Metro and Liberalisation).
Then came the cell phone, like a heavy chunk of fresh air. I still remember the awe on my seniors' face when I placed my cherished possession on the Mess table, in my first year at MICA. 'Is that the real cell phone', one asked, and I proudly nodded, taking more pride than ever in the fact that I was my father's (spoilt) daughter. But vanity aside, it was given to me in case of emergency as I stayed several states away from them (need I add mental, as well as physical)!
Those were the golden years of mobile telephony as we paid a princely sum of Rs 16 per minute to connect, which prompted the first of bandwidth-price- VAS-wars.
The rest, as they say, is history.
Cut to present day.
I have used almost every top brand of cell phones there are, in the market- from the humble Nokia to the beautiful Motorola pebble to the business like Blackberry- I've finally found the perfect phone for the audiophile in me- the iPhone- which helps me balance my work (work email configured), social life (I'm a Facebook loyalist) home (personal emails) and self (I post blogs through my phone).
Ladies and gentlemen, do you realise, you are being treated to a true World denizen- one that has seen mobile history being unfolded before her very eyes?
Now, if only the iPhone was available with a flap!
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Faded Friendships
Just when does it happen,this slow dissolving into a blur- of that one friend you'd vowed never to leave?
Does it happen when, despite all your disappointments she's unable to make it to the most joyous occasion in your life- your wedding?
Or does it happen much before that, when you've just started seeing Mr Perfect and you think she won't understand, think you to be too young for a serious relationship at 23?
Or does it happen even further down the road, when your choice of career forces you to travel halfway round the country, and in that new found life of independence, staying up all night and making your own decisions, she seems like the outsider?
Or had it started happening even when you were together, her insistence on doing things her way, proving to be her undoing?
You gather all those memories of the good times in your head as you try to re-establish contact with her.
A random search on google & Facebook brings you her email id. You pick your words carefully, lest it seem patronising, or worse, dictatorial.
With trepidation you hit the send button.
And wait for those faded colours to become sharp again.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Choices!
Last night, I was faced with a dilemma. Since sleep eludes me most nights, I trick my system into thinking I'm brain-tired by either reading a book or playing Farmville (god bless Zynga for making it iPhone compatible).
While I don't particularly relish the thought of holding my phone at an awkward angle, waiting for a full ten minutes till all the trees and animals of my large farm load, and then painstakingly identifying which trees need harvesting, using my finger to do all this- whew! My poor finger.
On the other hand, if I were to read a book, I need only pick it up, flick a few pages, and am transported into another world!
Besides, that old musty smell which wafts through my well-thumbed version of Little Women with it's yellowed pages- takes me back several decades to summer afternoons in my house at Lucknow, where as a little girl, I would lie besides my Granny and devour tales- both spoken and written-greedily.
Sigh.
It's technology vs nostalgia and guess who wins- I guess old age is creeping up on me coz I prefer my old book to virtual farming!
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Alphabet World
"I love writing. I love the swirl and swing of words as they tangle with human emotions." - James Michener.
Indeed.
Sometimes thoughts form and vaporise so quickly that they are killed in nascency by the non emergence of words fast enough to bear fruition.
I love the slight clack of the keys of my laptop as the sea of black words gobbles up the whiteness of a new page. I'm fascinated by the way my phone's virtual keyboard pops up the minute I command it to- a battalion of rectangular soldiers waiting to takeover the ruled notepaper, the pronounced tick of the keyboard a clarion call of victory.
The more I read, the more I want to write- about anything.
And everything.
As long as I can remember, I've been living in an alternate world where alphabets are people- and where R is the ruling queen and V is her King. All the 24 others including oft-used punctuation marks like full stop, comma and semi colon and the humble dash are courtiers, occupying large, ornate, velvet encrusted chairs. Each day we hold court, listening to cases where grammatical errors result in (no, not 'off with her head') but Off with her hand/ Tongue as the case may be!
It's a beautiful world- Alphabet Land!
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Life is like Fruit Bread
With due apologies to Forrest Gump and his mother, I herein present my case:
There is something so humbly appealing about this piece of food that it never ceases to surprise me.
Consider this: a plain looking, almost yellowed loaf, cut neatly into slices (so you can enjoy it's wholesomeness bit by bite) with a crumbly flaky browned crust, caressing the plain surface, dotted- right in the middle of the warm, all encompassing sweet smelling surface with tiny little figs and currants.
Best eaten with generous sheets of plain butter, the saltiness of butter makes an enviable companion to the naturally effusive slight sweetness of the bread.
The deep figs and emerald currants are like surprises which you didn't really expect and are chanced upon with happiness, filling your mouth with amazing sweetness a shade higher than the present flavour of the bread.
As you devour piece by piece, this wonderful creation of bakers, you cannot help but draw a parallel to life: isn't our life like fruit bread? It seems plain but the figs and currants are God's sweet surprises that He springs upon us, filling our life with unexpected sweetness!
There is something so humbly appealing about this piece of food that it never ceases to surprise me.
Consider this: a plain looking, almost yellowed loaf, cut neatly into slices (so you can enjoy it's wholesomeness bit by bite) with a crumbly flaky browned crust, caressing the plain surface, dotted- right in the middle of the warm, all encompassing sweet smelling surface with tiny little figs and currants.
Best eaten with generous sheets of plain butter, the saltiness of butter makes an enviable companion to the naturally effusive slight sweetness of the bread.
The deep figs and emerald currants are like surprises which you didn't really expect and are chanced upon with happiness, filling your mouth with amazing sweetness a shade higher than the present flavour of the bread.
As you devour piece by piece, this wonderful creation of bakers, you cannot help but draw a parallel to life: isn't our life like fruit bread? It seems plain but the figs and currants are God's sweet surprises that He springs upon us, filling our life with unexpected sweetness!
Friday, July 2, 2010
Forgiven, not forgotten.
I am one of those few unluckies who have their wisdom teeth growing parallel to the jaw. Yes, you read right- teeth and parallel.
Each year, it is the turn of one of these teeth, to assert their rights inside my mouth, from under the skin, by impacting some other tooth. Last year, it was Mr. Left (for who else from the species, but an irritating man, would refuse to take the hint and just stop pestering), this year, it is Mr. Right.
Mr. Right sought admission in my life about three weeks ago. What first started as a persistent dull ache on the right side of my face (leaving me to scaredly believe I was contracting some kind of nerve paralysis) became a full blown hammer-like pain in my right molar. An expensive trip to the ENT specialist (for I felt maybe it was the eustachian tube which had become infected again after a round of extra spicy paani puris) and an even more expensive one to the dentist (who thoughtfully suggested sawing through the gum, drilling into the bone and then extracting the tooth) left me with no other alternative but to gulp down painkillers and antibiotics. In the meanwhile, Mr. Right has extended his territory to other parts of my head as well. He just springs up, unannounced, ready to sweep me off my eyes with excruciating pain.
Needless to add that Mr. Right has been wooed by all home remedies of laung, cough syrup, warm salt water gargles which have been ruthlessly discarded by him.
I am watching it again. Today he is at the top of my skull, a pain which seeps out when poked.
How many more days to go, till he is forgotten?
Each year, it is the turn of one of these teeth, to assert their rights inside my mouth, from under the skin, by impacting some other tooth. Last year, it was Mr. Left (for who else from the species, but an irritating man, would refuse to take the hint and just stop pestering), this year, it is Mr. Right.
Mr. Right sought admission in my life about three weeks ago. What first started as a persistent dull ache on the right side of my face (leaving me to scaredly believe I was contracting some kind of nerve paralysis) became a full blown hammer-like pain in my right molar. An expensive trip to the ENT specialist (for I felt maybe it was the eustachian tube which had become infected again after a round of extra spicy paani puris) and an even more expensive one to the dentist (who thoughtfully suggested sawing through the gum, drilling into the bone and then extracting the tooth) left me with no other alternative but to gulp down painkillers and antibiotics. In the meanwhile, Mr. Right has extended his territory to other parts of my head as well. He just springs up, unannounced, ready to sweep me off my eyes with excruciating pain.
Needless to add that Mr. Right has been wooed by all home remedies of laung, cough syrup, warm salt water gargles which have been ruthlessly discarded by him.
I am watching it again. Today he is at the top of my skull, a pain which seeps out when poked.
How many more days to go, till he is forgotten?
Thursday, July 1, 2010
The 1st. Again!
There's something positive about the 1st day of each month. It signals the refuelling of one's bank account, a set of new challenges to drive sale in recessionary times and the monthly update feature I've started recently, in order to make my team feel good about themselves.
Their reciprocal joy that I see translated into words as I praise them is often grammatically incorrect, but so from-the-heart that I'm willing to overlook those bugs just this once.
Another good thing about the 1st day in each month is that it brings me a little closer to my ordained goal, that God has set out for me, and is making me sweat it out impatiently.
I bet he is sitting on his woolly cloudy sofa right now, watching me, as I type this, knowing exactly what is going on in my mind, and mentally calculating to himself how much more time, till my patience gives up completely. But herein lies the catch, for he does not know that I draw all my patience just by remembering Him, looking at His idols and chanting His name, fleetingly, several times a day!
So here's to many more Firsts...and many more challenges!
Their reciprocal joy that I see translated into words as I praise them is often grammatically incorrect, but so from-the-heart that I'm willing to overlook those bugs just this once.
Another good thing about the 1st day in each month is that it brings me a little closer to my ordained goal, that God has set out for me, and is making me sweat it out impatiently.
I bet he is sitting on his woolly cloudy sofa right now, watching me, as I type this, knowing exactly what is going on in my mind, and mentally calculating to himself how much more time, till my patience gives up completely. But herein lies the catch, for he does not know that I draw all my patience just by remembering Him, looking at His idols and chanting His name, fleetingly, several times a day!
So here's to many more Firsts...and many more challenges!
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Sunshine. Sunday.
Finally!
Sunday.
The one day where I don't have to fight with myself to get up at 0633 hours, drag myself out of the bathroom (after trying to brush my teeth with the tube of hair gel instead of toothpaste), clunk the old saucepan with water and milk on the stove to make tea, rush to the other bathroom to bundle clothes to be washed in the machine(and almost bundling in the laundry bag as well)and start chopping onions for hubby's lunch.
Today I wake up at a leisurely 0930 hours, saunter to the bathroom, comb my hair, admire my skin in the mirror, spray some of that heavenly perfume on myself and come back to bed where hubby brings in a tray of sweet smelling elaichi tea and butter cookies! Ahh life on a Sunday!
I then proceed to spend the next twenty minutes dissecting the morning's social news, a juicy scoop here and a criminal trailer there, punctuated by a list of To-Do chores that have been waiting for me, faithfully, all week.
'Buy groceries, get watch repaired, sort out papers, take in a movie...'-the last one brings another round of excitement- let me see the shows and timings.
Then hubby comes in and asks what I am doing. He says it'll have to be in the afternoon coz today's a big football match.
This means sacrificing my afternoon siesta.
Drat. Life on a Sunday!
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Thimbleful of Joy
Today,after almost eighteen years, I picked up the needle and some embroidery skeins for a bit of patchwork. Nothing too elaborate, just a quick cut and stitch job with regular buttonholing to cover up a burnt patch on a large cushion cover.
The moment I'd set up my frame(took me a while, yes it did- eighteen years is a fairly long time!) and threaded the whisk of a needle with shaded orange thread, I was transported back to my school days when needlework was as important as Civics and making a sampler of cross stitch or a tea cosy in long stitch was essential to getting passing grade. I remembered the hush that sometimes fell over class, with thirty or more pairs of eyes, hands and needles sewing diligently till the bell rang for the next class, with our class teacher stopping to inspect the tv cover, or handkerchief or even helping with a stubborn stitch. Some of those who were more atheletically inclined would wait impatiently for the class to end, but others (like me) always enjoyed this one thirty minutes where my favourite fantasy would be to imagine that I was Cinderella or Rapunzel, or both (at that age, my knight in steely armour would be none other than our very own Aamir Khan- his QSQT having been released a few months back)embroidering flowers and petals for all I was worth.
Our true test of needlework was the annual exhibition, where selected works were displayed on the class Walls (may I gently add that yours truly always made the grade) and other children's parents would ooh and aah over the fine craftsmanship. Years later, I was to hear the same hushed shriek of delight when I presented my mother in law with a set of hand embroidered kerchiefs.
I was a little sad when I finished the patchwork. As I slowly wrapped up my needlebox I felt a strange tug in my heart. How much I had enjoyed this one simple activity!
But the true reward was when my husband greeted me with a quizzical look and asked ms where I had gotten the pretty new cushion cover from!
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Fairweather Family
It hurts, doesn't it?
It hurts real bad.
When someone you thought was family, takes you for granted, trampling all over you in the shortlived process of finding transient happiness for themselves?
That sometimes when you need the familiarity of faces to dampen the anguish/ dejection in your heart, they choose to isolate themselves from the squalor of it all?
That the adage: laugh and the world laughs with you, cry: and you cry alone is imminently true?
Humans are a selfish race.
We turn our heads away from the stark realities of life- both material as well as subconscious. We are rarely there in totality (except for maybe 5% of the breed) when someone needs us the most- because we are battling our own demons.
Fairweather Family- they are there only as long as the sun is shining.
You get drenched in the rain of sorrow all alone.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Merry Meddlers
At some point in our lives,we have encountered the category called Merry Meddlers. They crop up, uninvited in our daily interactions with life, posing a harmless question here, a rosy retort there.
They assume various forms: neighbour, co-worker, cousin, friend- all bearing the same traits of great listening, incredible soaking and then expunging all that embedded knowledge back to us-drop by drop.
Their favourite words are 'so', most often presented as 'so...?' even when you don't want to elaborate on your tuppence so... Then,most often spelt out as Then? Or then! When you are clearly at the short end of the Oxford English dictionary.
Mostly though, these Merry Meddlers have just one agenda- meddle, interfere and keep meddling some more- to make life for non meddlers an almost curse.
But then, lets look at it this way- who else would pay so much attention to the mundane facts of our banal existence if not the Meddlers?
So they sit, somewhere in the middle of the hierarchy: between Concerned Family and Just-for-Kicks friends: occupying the vacant slot between carefreeness and care!
Friday, June 11, 2010
Foisting choices
Ever been subjected to choices been foisted onto you?
When you have no say in the decision, you are just told to do?
Obviously, it's not you who's doing the saying, yet you silently nod in acquiscience- knowing that the denying option does not exist.
Then you just sigh inwards and mutter- oh what the heck, what's the difference, if everyone's happy then who am I to complain?
But in this seemingly nonchalant attitude, you realise you are sacrifing a bit of yourself.
But this realisation doesn't really dawn until you are too jaded to care.
And then without much fanfare, you become like one of those Diktants yourself!
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
The Edge of Impatience
Have you ever realised this?
The edge of impatience is really where patience begins. The feeling that makes you want to explode like a volcano gives way to that funny feeling, which creeps up and tickles the small hairs at the base of your neck, smoothing down your nerves. Like ocean water, washing you down, the waves of patience sweeps over you, leaving fine grains of impatience- just so you don't forget it completely.
Sometimes it makes you feel helpless, most times just exasperated.
When you mutter those golden words to yourself, "God give me patience!", he does just that, giving you so much of patience that you yearn for the event to happen.
They say the fruits of patience are sweet. But nowhere do they say, how long you have to labour for them. There is no time clause. It could be a day, month, maybe years.
By that time, your patience has become so thick, like a layer in your life, that it makes you impervious to any emotion- sad or happy.
So when, the event finally happens, for which you have been waiting so (im)patiently, you are sort of indifferent- thinking to yourself, this was bound to happen, coz I have been patient so long!
The edge of patience, then, is where indifference begins.
The edge of impatience is really where patience begins. The feeling that makes you want to explode like a volcano gives way to that funny feeling, which creeps up and tickles the small hairs at the base of your neck, smoothing down your nerves. Like ocean water, washing you down, the waves of patience sweeps over you, leaving fine grains of impatience- just so you don't forget it completely.
Sometimes it makes you feel helpless, most times just exasperated.
When you mutter those golden words to yourself, "God give me patience!", he does just that, giving you so much of patience that you yearn for the event to happen.
They say the fruits of patience are sweet. But nowhere do they say, how long you have to labour for them. There is no time clause. It could be a day, month, maybe years.
By that time, your patience has become so thick, like a layer in your life, that it makes you impervious to any emotion- sad or happy.
So when, the event finally happens, for which you have been waiting so (im)patiently, you are sort of indifferent- thinking to yourself, this was bound to happen, coz I have been patient so long!
The edge of patience, then, is where indifference begins.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Much Ado About Anything
We live in a crazed world derived from the largeness of our self created egos. We can't tolerate a single harmless remark without making it into a national drama. We bark orders at waiters who may slip just a fraction of a minute when serving us sauteed duck, we drum our fingers endlessly while waiting to be billed at grocery stores cash counter. We flip out privilege customer cards just to get that alteration done 'right now' and glare mercilessly at the parking attendant who's allotted the last available space on the ground floor to the car ahead of us. We are ready to chew off the manager's frizzy head if heavens! she dare bring in a threading customer to fill in the five minutes of space while we were late.
We check our FB feeds once every ten minutes, feeling oh-so-connected with oily schoolmate Pinky who's become Ms. Chandigarh now and distant Shobha Maasi from the States.
We feel empowered.
We feel impatient.
And, in the land of snake charmers, we suffer from a displaced sense of importance.
Where will this end?
We check our FB feeds once every ten minutes, feeling oh-so-connected with oily schoolmate Pinky who's become Ms. Chandigarh now and distant Shobha Maasi from the States.
We feel empowered.
We feel impatient.
And, in the land of snake charmers, we suffer from a displaced sense of importance.
Where will this end?
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Losing my Religion
Having been brought up in a house where Cliff Richard dominated conversation strains, and later schooled in one of the best convents of the country, English has been my preferred language of expression.
However, in the last two decades of my life, I have noticed that most people think in Hindi and then translate into English such as 'it is only kept there' (woh wahiin rakha hai). Sample this: did you knew where he's went?(aapko pata hai woh kahan gaya hai?)
Of course, using the wrong tense anyways tenses people up: Check this: Did you got those movie tickets?(Did you get those movie tickets)
Some people have a bad habit of misusing English words- take a look at this one- we can substantiate it with a lower priced scheme (speaker wanted to say subsidise it) or we can give a memorial to her (instead of memento) - Heavens knows what the poor lady would have exclaimed to have her own memorial! Or even this: I am not getting good vibrations from her (really?! Vibrations...a-ha)- speaker wanted to say vibes. Or this: Instead of the scheme, they are not performing well (speaker wanted to say inspite)...
Another oft heard refrain is the super use of superlatives- have you seen 3 idiots? Sabse best movie hai!!
There are yet others who speak fluently but want to take the thin bylane while writing. Most people who have worked with ad agency copywriters would agree with me. As a client, I am often subject to torturous spelling and grammatical errors, making me feel no less a school mistress.
Yet others believe in expressing themselves by liberally peppering their sentences with aa aa aa...ummm especially phone conversations.
While I pride myself on my chaste English, there are some who survive on Hinglish- pakao-fying me, latkaoing me...
Sigh! Yet another set believes in starting all their sentences with 'Means?' or 'Means!' or even 'Means;' seldom signifying the correct usage thus: 'Means:'
There are, of course, a million other little grains of wisdom which one encounters in daily life.
But the true horror and widespread impact of the monster of this incorrect usage was felt on the day I remarked to my sister: let us get a trap to get rid of the mices in this house....!
However, in the last two decades of my life, I have noticed that most people think in Hindi and then translate into English such as 'it is only kept there' (woh wahiin rakha hai). Sample this: did you knew where he's went?(aapko pata hai woh kahan gaya hai?)
Of course, using the wrong tense anyways tenses people up: Check this: Did you got those movie tickets?(Did you get those movie tickets)
Some people have a bad habit of misusing English words- take a look at this one- we can substantiate it with a lower priced scheme (speaker wanted to say subsidise it) or we can give a memorial to her (instead of memento) - Heavens knows what the poor lady would have exclaimed to have her own memorial! Or even this: I am not getting good vibrations from her (really?! Vibrations...a-ha)- speaker wanted to say vibes. Or this: Instead of the scheme, they are not performing well (speaker wanted to say inspite)...
Another oft heard refrain is the super use of superlatives- have you seen 3 idiots? Sabse best movie hai!!
There are yet others who speak fluently but want to take the thin bylane while writing. Most people who have worked with ad agency copywriters would agree with me. As a client, I am often subject to torturous spelling and grammatical errors, making me feel no less a school mistress.
Yet others believe in expressing themselves by liberally peppering their sentences with aa aa aa...ummm especially phone conversations.
While I pride myself on my chaste English, there are some who survive on Hinglish- pakao-fying me, latkaoing me...
Sigh! Yet another set believes in starting all their sentences with 'Means?' or 'Means!' or even 'Means;' seldom signifying the correct usage thus: 'Means:'
There are, of course, a million other little grains of wisdom which one encounters in daily life.
But the true horror and widespread impact of the monster of this incorrect usage was felt on the day I remarked to my sister: let us get a trap to get rid of the mices in this house....!
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