'... I dreamt of Manderley again.'

I first read Daphne dú Maurier's Rebecca (originally published in 1939) when I was in the seventh standard, egged on by my grandmum, who firmly believed that educating a girl in the English Classics was an experience in itself. At that time, I could little grasp the finer nuances and just thought of it as another ghost story. I re-read it in standard twelve and appreciated the language, the descriptions and promptly fell in love with Manderley. Post that, I must've read it at least 5 more times- each time being romanced by the suave Max deWinter and modelling my own knight after him...

Yesterday I chanced upon the 1997 television adaptation of the book and by far- it was the best adaptation I've ever seen. It brought alive the whole book. I loved Charles Dance as Max deWinter again and hated Diana Riggs as Mrs Danvers.

The place, the people- Mrs Van Hopper (Faye Dunaway in a brilliant tailormade performance as the eccentric society lady) Frith/ Crawley/ Beatrice- even Favell- came as waves of sweet remembrance- so well cast and so well played. 

It was a treat, indeed!

Time is a newborn baby

Yes.

Today I was sorting out R's old clothes- newborn ones. And I realised just how tiny she was, when she was born. She was the perfect weight- 2.995 kg - but oh so delicate. One of the earliest pics of Day 1 show a blue swaddled bald doll with piercing dark eyes, looking straight into me as I hold her and talk to her. That was really something. Much as I may enjoy R's growing up now, looking back at those couple of days when we were formally introduced to each other in the real world- were the best of my life. There was so much excitement and tension!

A newborn baby gallops through weeks, months and years.

Time is a newborn baby.

Pass-port

Today we went with an unusually hyper R to get her passport made.. Yes, yes, a foreign vacation is on the anvil. Oh man! What a tedious task. A long wait, an even more cranky R- for how long could I keep her occupied with W (her nemesis) or the Aunty with the boy (who fell down innumerable times on the smooth floor)... She wanted to zoom across the floor and into her father's arms- having missed him sorely the day before. So she devised a game of running around the metallic seats and plopping down on the floor- stopping only when I offered her some 'cake' (brownie) for her effort. The lone shop inside the waiting area is helpfully stocked with pastries of all kinds- lest the consumer experience near-death levels of hypoglycaemia while waiting so long!

I think the whole passport issue-system is a complete waste of time. Especially for mothers with infants and toddlers (there were quite a few)- it takes a long wait to get to each of the four counters even when all documents are in place. I actually expected LoML to get the printed passport in hand after all this Herculean effort- to be told that it will be couriered home God-knows-when.

That's why such a system breeds corruption of agents. If it was shorter and crisper- in tune with the changing times and consumer- it would be so much easier. 

Thomas Friedman may be correct in stating the flatness but what happens if people are hellbent on creating mountains of 'processes'?

This old man's house

Now R has this habit of watching the iPad while having milk. It's a bad habit I cultivated because she wouldn't take to formula and now it's stuck. 

One of the many things she likes watching are television commercials- lots of them- not surprising coz her lineage is from a communications background- but I guess it's more to do with the fact that they're short and snappy and have a new world of characters.

Her current favourite are the Vodafone old man series, where the trespassing boy gets a gift - and later plays carrom with the old guy. Now R's paediatrician bears an uncanny resemblance to this old man- prompting me to compare him with the clearly unfavoured character in R's little brain. But I love this man. Look what a wonderful house he stays in- it even has a garage of it's own- houses that I've lived in all my life- well, majority of my life and that's how dwellings should be- with a garden, a garage, an attic, a storeroom... Part of me feels cheated as I stay in a small apartment. 

This house looks so warm and comfortable. The door is polished a dark brown, the clock in the verandah- God knows the last time I sat in a verandah must have been in the porch of a hotel- looks so old and you can spy an antique radio in the background- so beautiful... 

Blue Beads

R is generally very cranky towards meal-times. At the risk of sounding like a useless mother, I sometimes cannot quite fathom what she wants. More so with my choice of food for her- if I make egg, she asks for sooji. If I make moong dal, she'll ask for rice. If I make.. Well, you get the drift.

During these amazing meal times- lasting well into an hour, I have to find new things/ toys/ products to distract her. She likes kitchen utensils, books, clothes, electronic gadgets but most of all- my jewellery- the large chunky beaded necklaces and earrings being her favourite. Oh and also handheld mirrors and compact mirrors! 

The other day, I was surprised to find her with my drawer open, diligently shuffling through the myriad contents of a potentially dangerous assorted items- basket and finding the glittery I Love NY compact mirror her Aunt had gotten on her last trip..  Girls!

You, yourself?

Last week, R had to get the last of the PCV vaccines. So we took the usual evening appointment and walked into a room full of waiting people. R was at her boisterous best. Screaming, running, laughing- she did it all. Even made up a little game of running between LoML and me across the room with fits of giggles. Which prompted the mom of a rather sad looking nine month old to strike up a conversation with me.

'Is she always like this- so hyper?'

(my maternal instincts so proud) 'Yep'

'How old is she? 1 year?'

'Yep- 15 months' (notice the lack of interest in my tone)

'At home also she's like this? You must have a very clean home!' (laughs)

'Yes!' (I actually DO have a spotless home. I pay my staff to keep it that way)

'You're here for vaccination?'

'Yes. PCV' 

'Oh- he's got a tiny lump where he got his injection- he's 9 months old. Didn't let me massage him. Who massages her? You?'

'Yes, I do'

'You, yourself?'

'Yes, I me myself. Since birth.'

'Really?'

By this time the friendly assistant had shouted R's name so I quickly gathered my stuff and baby.  What did she mean? You, yourself? Just because I was wearing a pair of jeans with a decent t-shirt and had bright red toe nailpolish didn't mean I couldn't massage my baby, did it?  I guess it was the nailpolish. 

The Purity of things

I am a purist at heart.

Yesterday we stopped to snack at Banana Leaf and my over-enthused South Indian alter ego ordered spicy idlis cooked Andhra style. Now, I expected the pristine White mounds surrounded by a bed of spices, instead I was greeted by something so different that I choked at the very first mouthful.

And so I satisfied myself with just the plain old idlis.

I realised that I am a purist then.

I hate combinations, fusions, mixing of foods/ music/ language...

At weddings, my family would eat eloquent off mixed Gulab Jamun and ice-cream and I would hate the thought of it, so much so, I refused to even look at such a concoction.

East and West don't mingle in my mind.

Similarly, I hate the concept of fusion music. I may listen to it for lack of better aural pleasure but you won't find a single downloaded piece on my playlist.

And how I hate those who mix English and Hindi. I secured really high marks in both Board exams in both languages- well above 95% each and I am in love with English. I have even decided to study further - so you can imagine how I would suffer to see such a lovely language - twisted and tortured to suit the speaker.

So call me old fashioned if you will, but not for me- Indian Ocean, rabri with custard or 'latkao-fying'....

Change of guard

So tomorrow is when the new cook starts full-time and my part-timer graduates to a full-timer. Thankfully there won't be too much to train them on, both having worked hard and long in previous capacities.

I remember my old cook- and chronicled his adventures in Mr. Facemaker, posted here more than two years ago. Since then he has run away thrice and come back twice. Often, with huge sums of money outstanding- not just with us, but with others in the building too.

His lavish lifestyle- he owns a Blackberry phone, sports the latest (so what if it's fake) brands of clothing and watches and eats fish for dinner almost every alternate day. But, ask him about saving and he draws up neat stories of famine in his village and how he has to send money home to keep his family alive. Makes one wonder in disbelief. He diligently watches the Homeshopping  channels for bargains and cuts out the Mumbai Mirror for Readers Offers and has them tucked away on his person to quote verbatim. 

This is consumerism at it's peak. 

It's a girly thing...

Yesterday, I was oiling my hair and took off my flower shaped diamond earrings. Little R started smiling (like she always does) when I started unscrewing the studs. This is a sign that Mamma is about to wear something more glamorous than the boring studs and it means- We're going out!!

So, there she was, my smiling little doll and I ask her- would you like to wear these, Raania? And yes, she nods- so I hold them up against her ear- indeed she does look very pretty. Just like a girl, instead of the imp that she's becoming lately. I exclaim- oh what a pretty girl! and she actually blushes and buries her head in my lap!

I'm so reminded of my own mother and the fact that her baubles look way more attractive and shiny than my own. 

Maybe it's the grace in Ma's earrings, maybe it's the sheen of her persona but I still love whatever she's worn!

Little wonder then, that my own daughter loves whatever jewellery I decide to wear!

Genes...or is this a girly thing? 

Kiddie Birthdays!!!

Last week, the doors of another world were thrown open to me. Raania was invited to a kiddie birthday party by her 'friend' in the building (friend is actually 11 years older than her, but so what- friendship defies age, right?).

And so, with great excitement, we went out to shop for a birthday present and having procured two Enid Blyton books (which I was in two minds about giving away, coz I wanted to read them myself!) and two really cute t-shirts, I proceeded to wrap them up in silver wrapping paper, and to add a bit of jazz, I added some very nice ribbon. R, of course, couldn't understand just why she had to stay away from rumpling up the paper into a ball for the fiftieth time, or why her mum was rifling through her party frocks, hung in daddy's wardrobe. But she soon guessed there was some unusual activity because I kept telling her what would happen in Sania's house lest she be terrified of  those twenty odd voices shrieking 'happy birthday' at the top of their voices.

D-evening dawned and R was suitably rested and fed, and looked every inch the style diva. Carrying off a deep blue silk balloon dress with an embroidered trimming, with matching accessories, she looked so adorable that I wanted to eat her up right there!

She thoroughly enjoyed the party, especially the cake cutting. She wanted to participate in all the games, even though she couldn't understand a thing. And she surprised me even more by actually eating a bit of the muffin and crisps offered to us.  Both her daddy and I are the recluses in the building, but our daughter is clearly the star. Everyone loved her, even the boy who she slapped because he was blowing a balloon in her face!