I Think

Shops in parrys

The m-i-l decided to paint our local "town" ("downtown" in American lingo), aka "Parry's Corner" red by her presence with the excuse of buying knick-knack-brick-bracks to gift to kids during Navarathri that is three months away.  Sometimes I think had the m-i-l been around in the late nineteenth century, she would have laundered and ironed the Indian Tricolour on the day the baby was named Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi.  I know of advanced planning, but with the m-i-l everything is so advanced that you'd need a time machine to visit her in the present.

But I digress.

So, with the new found time due to (a) a deadline so far away, you’d need hubble to see it and (b) the kid being off at school "full day" rather than the meager two hours as until last year when I would just have enough time to take a leak before rushing back to school to pick her up, I bravely volunteered to accompany the m-i-l, more to see if there were any k-k-b-b I could pick up for myself.  The m-i-l as usual planned every detail of our rendezvous a week ago, and I left this morning after spending a good half-hour haggling with auto drivers to take me from our end of town to my m-i-l's without demanding my pound of cardiac flesh in exchange.  And so, as the auto took me through the town I grew up in, the mind automatically shifted to reverse gear, bringing back memories of places long known.

As the auto crossed the bridge over river Koovam at Saidapet, a dilapidated building at its bank reminded me of a school classmate called Deepa, whose father owned a posh furniture shop in that building.  It was called "Grafix Furniture" and was a landmark in the area.  Deepa herself had a bit of a celebrity status as she belonged to the "upper middle class" in a school full of middle class kids.  And what is more, Deepa's mother would visit school everyday in their chaufffer-driven car, wearing synthetic sarees, in stark contrast to the rest of the Tam-Bram moms who would be draped in chungudi. And she would wear lipstick. LIPSTICK.  We would look at her clandestinely, believing that even a look at her stained lips was a sin-of-sorts.  Deepa was a chubby, curly haired, oily skinned, fair girl, prone to throwing tantrums, if I remember right and always shepherded around by her elder sister Prabha.  I wonder what became of them.

We turned into a few random lanes and entered the bastion of middle class Tam Bram community of yore – West Mambalam.  As I crossed the Ayodhya Mandapam, I could not help remembering the platoon of friends that haunted the area.  Soumya, my first friend in life lived in the area, and I have spent hours at her house playing house, something about both of us being neighbours and cooking for each other (girls will be girls).  Sudha, a friend during adolescence, did not have a phone in her house and we would send letters to each other every week during summer vacations listing the activities for the week, the books we read, the cousins we met, and planning the next meeting.  For some strange reason I remember the gift we bought for her housewarming event.  It was a wall-hanging that said “Old things are always the best – old books, old wine, old friends”.

Fast forward a few hours and the three women (mil, sil and yours sincerely) left for our excursion, resolved to not let the scorching sun go waste.  As we crossed panagal park, I remembered Sugan where we bought our uncomfortable uniform material and Kesavan, the tailor, who single-handedly stitched three sets of uniforms each for over a thousand kids in the area every summer.  If there is a heaven for tailors, he would be king.

After much excitement we reached Parrys corner.  I wistfully thought of my first bicycle (Hero) that my father bought for me from there when I was in sixth class. A red heavy contraption that groaned and moaned as I pedaled to school for the next seven years of my life.  And the Chenna Kesava Perumaal Kovil that my father once impulsively dragged me to, a day before my big exam.

For some reason, that is where nostalgia ended and current events took over.  After dragging our feet over most of the tar-melting roads, we filled our bags with junk and more and returned, a spent force, ready to gulp down the Indian ocean after desalinating it.

Image from : http://jonnadula-madhu.sulekha.com/albums/allphotos/slideshow/204962.htm

Counting

The humdrum of daily routine and the susceptibility of the weak human mind to negative emotions often makes us forget how blessed we really are.  I refuse to overlook my blessings any more.

My husband:  Seven years has taught me that this is the most honest (even if brutally so) man I have ever and will ever come across in my life.  A man with solid goals and dreams and whose goals and dreams do not blind him to life beyond.  A man with so many talents that sometimes I wonder if Lord Brahma had any left in his kitty after he created this one.  I waited thirty years for this fellow, many a times cursing him for not coming into my life sooner, but the wait has been totally justified.  All I can do is hum with Maria as she sings "Somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done something good".

My daughter:  Today, as I lay on the bed, nursing a headache, this little five year old comes to me with a pain balm offering to massage my head. Which head-ache has a chance over her tiny fingers? This is the most gentle, sweet, intelligent, good-natured, cheerful, beautiful little jumping jack clut I have known.  I can only pray that God gives me the courage to be the mom she truly deserves.

My dad and grand mom:  The former in his late sixties and the latter early eighties.  Every aspect of senility cropping up.  Yet, they breathe for me.  They would much rather tolerate a degenerating spine or palpitating heart on themselves than hear of a paper cut in my finger.  I feel sorry that my mother is not around to be part of them. I hope God gives me the strength to be for them when they need me.

My in-laws: My father-in-law, in his mid sixties is thirty in spirit.  A handsome, incredibly neat, intelligent and funny person, who is as much at home in his easy chair reading Ananda Vikatan, as in the top of the corporate ladder where he rightfully belongs.  My mother-in-law, in her early sixties, is actually around six years old in spirit and her grand daughter's best friend.  Believe it or not, she is a queen of the stock market and Ambani and such like could take a tip or two from her about management. From the moment she wakes up at 4 in the morning until she gets to bed around 10, this woman hoards all the energy in the world for herself, scouring the stock market, painting, cleaning, socializing and running the show with aplomb. She calls herself "uneducated", but if she be uneducated, the rest of us are somewhere among the ocean scum.

My job: How many women have a job they like, are good at, can work at their pace and time, from home, AND get paid for it?  I have been with MMI for nine years now, have ridden the see-saw with the company that one year of downslide gets me down and one little proposal funded leaves me with a glow that rivals the aurora.  Despite my cribs during deadlines that I want to quit, I don't want to, and I hope MMI and I grow old together through good times and bad.

My finances.  I have a job that pays for the future, the husband has a job that pays for the present, we have a life devoid of excess wants, a set of parents on both sides that are not financially dependent on us and a child who can take a "no" for the expensive Dora kitchen set without much ado.  Is there anything more I can ask for?

My home:  I have a comfortable house, ground floor with a garden (that is right now languishing because I writing this post instead of watering it), tastefully done living room (with gorgeous windows, if I may add), a clean bathroom, a cool bedroom, and a kitchen, which although I don't particularly like working in, serves its purpose admirably.  My home makes me take for granted what millions lack out there.

My relatives: My sister-in-law, a beautiful, brilliant lady with infectious enthusiasm.  I wonder if she can rub off some of it on me the next time she comes here. In return I will babysit her two darlings.

My skills:  I write well, both on and off my job, have a mellifluous voice and intelligence to pick up any new skill with ease.  Just how unfair is it to waste the talent on unwanted thoughts?

My friends: My friends who are willing to give me the ear no matter how much I drivel, and not judge me for it. 

Everyday should be a thanksgiving for me, and I hope I will always remember to count my blessings before I ponder about negative things that do not make any sense whatsoever.

Lynne truss

After the stiff-upperlip-smile of PGW, I chose for the next read, the Lynne Truss Treasury that I had picked up at Landmark for Rs. 90 (< $2), on a sale table, underneath mounds of "How to win friends and influence people", "Linda Goodman Lovesigns" and such other flush-worthy mush. Having been bowled over in the past with "Eats, Shoots and Leaves", the heart bled at the mix Truss had got into, and I took it upon myself to rescue the damsel in distress and give her a new home in our shining new book shelf.

Now, as I labour through the many pages of the first novel (One Lousy Free Packet of Seed) in the collection,  I wonder if its rightful place was right at that table.  Agreed that the author has a command of language and punctuation that is enviable. The story, if there is any in the first place, is hardly of the calibre I had imagined.  Perhaps it is early days yet, and the story would pick up after the third chapter I am constipating at, or perhaps this is an exceptionally bad piece in the collection, to give it a benefit of doubt.  Yet, I am wondering if I should continue to torture myself with this story, or perhaps move on to another in the collection, or her columns perhaps, or perhaps to a completely different book, like Erma Bombeck, to lift the sagging literary spirit - not that Erma has any literary merit to speak of, at least she makes me laugh. This first story in the book reminds me of a trashy pulp fiction I read as an adolescent called "I  still miss my man, but my aim is getting better" by Sarah Shankman.  I am not sure if that is a compliment to Shankman or Truss.

This, as usual, leads me to a tangential topic. Some people associate memories to smells, some to sights; I, to books.  I get a funny feeling in my stomach at the memory of "I still miss..." because I read it at a time that I was laid off my second job within six months during the 1997 recession, with a credit card balance, an expiring visa and no hope in sight and I had constant crabs gnawing the innards as I read the book to drown my sorrows.  Similarly, dude and I had listened to an audio book during my first trimester, and any audio book I hear since, makes me feel nausious and crave for saltines.

Back to where we started.  Should I or shouldn't I proceed with Truss? 
 

Thematingseason

"As the days went by, these unsettled outlooks became more unsettled, those V-shaped depressions even V-er.  It was on a Friday that I clocked in at Deverill Hall.  By the morning of Tuesday I could no longer conceal it from myself that I was losing the old pep and that, unless the clouds changed their act and started dishing out at an early date a consierably more substantial slab of silver lining than they were coming across with at the moment, I should soon be definitely down among the wine and spirits."

I don't claim to be an expert writer, but writer I am by profession, by virtue of which I once gave a lecture to some kids in college about what constitutes science witing and what are the must-dos and  dare-not-dos of science writing.  The above paragraph that starts chapter 10 of The Mating Season by P.G. Wodehouse violates every single "rule" I layed out to the students - never write long sentences, never use too many clauses and phrases in the same sentence, always use active voice, do not use platitudes and adjectives that do not qualify the noun objectively, to name a few. My heart should ideally bleed at the total disdain for my rules.  Yet, every book by PGW I re-read for the teenth time since adolescence makes me love them more.  The easy flow of language, the exaggerated use of unexpectedly apt words, the complex sentences that take a couple of reads to untangle and understand, and the intricate plot that involves knots within knots that are unravelled beautifully - I am yet to read another humour writer who has appealed to me as much as PGW. 

As tempting it may be to believe that PGW is a genius whose writing just happens by chance,  a read of his last, unfinished novel Sunset at Blandings proves otherwise.  It is surprising to know that PGW starts his novels with only a semblence of a half-baked plot, and writes up the bare skeleton of the story, berefit of language sophistication, satire and the tongue-in-cheek that is so characteristic of him. It reads rather like a poor story by a wannabe writer without any talent. I believe that all his novels start this way. And yet, after many many revisions (I read somewhere that each novel goes through 14-20 revisions before it goes to print) the half-baked boring story metamorphoses into the side splitting, one-of-a-kind stories that bring Bertie or Bladndings castle in front of your eye..

I am typing up this post on my husband's micro-mini HCL tablet PC, where my fingers don't fly like they do in my safe and trusted monster of a desktop computer, and I can wager that I would post it without a single re-read.  I have a long way to go to even aspire to write like my hero. 

Ilaiyaraja

Over and above the familial back-slapping and trumpet blowing, from a very objective and impartial (if that is even possible) angle, I liked the series of articles by dude on Ilaiyaraja and The Curse of the Visual (Parts I, II, III, IV and Concluding part).  I believe it is a worthy tribute to the king. All I can add to it is "Amen".

BackToSchool

My daughter's vacation ends and school starts tomorrow.  She is pretty indifferent about it unlike her mother who is shaking with excitement and also nervous and is behaving much like a cat on a hot tin roof.   Excited because her little baby is going to first standard now - she can still vividly remember the juicy kicks she got when the kid was inside her.

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Back during school years, I would always look forward to the first day of school after summer vacation.  The glow on every child's face, the sights and smells of school (not near the toilets though), the new uncomfortable uniforms, biting new shoes, the new school satchel, newly covered books, the excitement of knowing who would be in my section that year (there was "shuffling" every year), who my class teacher would be...and so on.

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While at school, I was part of the school choir.  The dramatics club would stage musicals now and then and despite my secret hope of being chosen to play a part on stage, I was always delegated to the side stage, as an alto, which in itself was not necessarily bad; at least I did not have to wear makeup.  A lot of effort went into these musicals, and I wonder where the teachers got the energy from, to herd a group of children and bid them do their stuff.  I distinctly remember a musical called "Thumbalina" where the title role was played by a rather short classmate of mine.  I don't remember any of the songs in it though, it was staged when I was in primary school.

We also staged a musical called "The Prodigal Son" (from the Testament), and for some reason, one of the songs in the musical has been running in my head all day today.  It seems to fit my own ruminations of the past few weeks. The song goes thus:

There seem to be several people
Locked up inside of me
Fighting a constant battle
For my identity
Sometimes they keep me prisoner
Sometimes they set me free
Is one of them my true being?
Is one of them really me?

Who am I? 
Just a dreamer of dreams?
Who am I?
Quite a failure it seems?
No, A Hero.
The Idol of the crowd.

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I can't seem to get over the vacation mood.  Got a deadline in a week, and not even a semblance of sense yet.  One of these days I am going to go into hyper panic and I hope my Vox will be ready at that time for verbal outflow of tension.

This deadline is weird.  The requirements are so abstract that I am not even sure I can write anything.  Which is not good because right now, I am the only one in the company who can write, and if I get into a real or perceived mental block, the boss is not going to be a happy camper. 

HELP !

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Read an interesting book (for sake of internet censorship, I won't mention the name of the book), which is an ancient Indian treatise on some essential social umm...customs and practices....that mentions in the passing what makes a good wife.  Of course, it is all atrociously chauvinistic.  It says that one of the requirements of a good "house wife" (which itself is an aggravatingly cliched term) is that she maintains a thriving garden.  I suppose the author would find me an adequate "housewife" in that regard.  My garden, after many years of toil and sweat is just about beginning to respond.  But I won't talk anymore about it lest I jinx it.

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For a birthday treat, we had dinner at a restaurant called "Georgio" in Besent Nagar (Thanks for the tip Gayathri).  Good place. Decent ambience. They even had a projected show of the live World Cup cricket match that junior insisted on watching while eating.  Their Mamos were to die for, and main course was good too.  Desert however, was sadly lacking.  Try it out if you have some moolah to burn and event to celebrate.

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End of Ramble. 

Suzanne-somers

I call myself a hypochondriac when I take an occasional acetaminophen for a headache. 

"In January, Oprah Winfrey invited Suzanne Somers on her show to share her unusual secrets to staying young. Each morning, the 62-year-old actress and self-help author rubs a potent estrogen cream into the skin on her arm. She smears progesterone on her other arm two weeks a month. And once a day, she uses a syringe to inject estrogen directly into her vagina. The idea is to use these unregulated "bio-identical" hormones to restore her levels back to what they were when she was in her 30s, thus fooling her body into thinking she's a younger woman. According to Somers, the hormones, which are synthesized from plants instead of the usual mare's urine (disgusting but true), are all natural and, unlike conventional hormones, virtually risk-free (not even close to true, but we'll get to that in a minute).

Next come the pills. She swallows 60 vitamins and other preparations every day. "I take about 40 supplements in the morning," she told Oprah, "and then, before I go to bed, I try to remember … to start taking the last 20." She didn't go into it on the show, but in her books she says that she also starts each day by giving herself injections of human growth hormone, vitamin B12 and vitamin B complex. In addition, she wears "nanotechnology patches" to help her sleep, lose weight and promote "overall detoxification." If she drinks wine, she goes to her doctor to rejuvenate her liver with an intravenous drip of vitamin C. If she's exposed to cigarette smoke, she has her blood chemically cleaned with chelation therapy. In the time that's left over, she eats right and exercises, and relieves stress by standing on her head. Somers makes astounding claims about the ability of hormones to treat almost anything that ails the female body. She believes they block disease and will double her life span. "I know I look like some kind of freak and fanatic," she said. "But I want to be there until I'm 110, and I'm going to do what I have to do to get there."

She knows she looks like some kind of freak?  Excuse me.  SHE IS ONE.  I am surprised her kidneys have withstood the attack thus far.  I give it a couple more years before they die out on her.  And from the looks of her (see above), I don't think she looks 62. She looks 110. Trying to look like 18, and failing miserably.

Whats with this obsession about looking young, anyway?

News courtesy: Dude. Via Twitter.  Information: http://www.newsweek.com/id/200025

Twitter

A rather influential loved-one, who sits at the computer right next to mine, let's just call him "dude" for convenience, reminded me of this site called Twitter that, in a moment of weakness, I had, some months ago, subscribed to and even contributed word-rationed verbal garbage.  So, having been reminded of it now, I visited it to see if the account existed, and if so, what was happening there. 

Remember how, when you see an SMS for the first time in life, with all the weird abbreviations and lets-drop-vowels-altogether-from-life messages, you want to curl into fetal position and sob your heart out to your high-school English teacher ?  The feeling I got was not too different as I scanned twitter and read what the 12 people I have been "following" (that is a Twitter lingo, in case you are wondering) were talking about.  For one,  the twelve people seemed to chatter incessantly, and not necessarily coherently.  Which actually makes sense because they are not really talking to each other, but they come on my screen only because I HAPPEN to "follow" them (for what reason, I don't know).

Still, just imagine if you were sitting in your living room, surrounded by 7 friends, and the conversation went something like this:

Friend 1: Young Ballerinas Face Heart, Bone Risks due to too few calories, too much exertion
   
Friend 2: ananyone want to take up the next manic monday tweet / email me
   
Friend 3: Liked "Exceptionally refurbished Mac mini"
   
Friend 4: Boy Fed played THAT close
   
Friend 5: Wasn't quoted in the NPR story, but was interviewed by Allison Aubrey for it.
   
Friend 6: Researching on 'Magic Food'-- guess what it is? Am planning to start on this 3 days a week.
   
Friend 2: Bingo. Absolutely on the dot. MUST SEE (& laugh)
   
Friend 2: I am listening to the Beverly Hillbillies parody On the Ritz show on BlogTalkRadio
   
Friend 5: Happy Monday to you all
   
Friend 4: Happy Birthday <whoever>. May the Great Llama bless you and replenish the fount of whacky ideas :)
   
Friend 7: Its scientific; its fun; c if u wanna participate RT @RichardWiseman Twitter Experiment Starts Today!
   
Friend 4: Nor mine either :P But relax. It promotes hygiene, so you're just being the good doctor ;)

Friend 3: Just recorded #c2cbio 21. Need to mix 20 and 21 now

   
Would you be sane at the end of it ?

And the worst part is that I had contributed to this garbage.  This is how my monologue has been in the past in twitter.

# To friend 1 : As is everyday.9:14 PM May 30th from web in reply to <friend 1>
  
#To friend 2: I suspect the MoA is placebo effect. Some of us are terribly impressionable.11:50 AM Jul 30th, 2008 from web in reply to friend 2  
 
# To nobody in particular: Arunn and I have rationed each others' internet time to spend time smelling the coffee rather than gulping in front of comp.11:49 AM Jul 30th, 2008 from web

[[Digression: Yeah Right]]
   
# To Friend 3:  Ah, I am sure I won't hang around too much.11:48 AM Jul 30th, 2008 from web in reply to friend 3
   
# To Friend 2 : Friend 3 recommended pyricontin for my pms and it works. My husband is eternally grateful to him.7:59 AM Jul 30th, 2008 from web in reply to friend 2
   
# To Friend 3: Amen ! Calcium helps too.7:54 AM Jul 30th, 2008 from web in reply to friend 3
   
# To nobody in particular Pongal to relevant people.7:50 PM Jan 14th, 2008 from web
   
# To nobody in particular : Both9:49 PM Jan 5th, 2008 from web
   
# To nobody in particular: Spinach soufflé casserole. NOT a good idea for dinner. Fell like an overfed python.9:26 PM Jan 5th, 2008 from web
   
# To nobody in particular: Hours to go before I sleep. Brain won't listen though. I could lend @mndoci some of my somnic boom.8:39 PM Jan 2nd, 2008 from web
   
# To nobody in particular: Finally some time to work. Or did I jinx it by stating it ?2:44 PM Jan 1st, 2008 from web
   
# To Friend 2: Who is driving you back home, friend 2? Someone sober, I hope.9:09 PM Dec 31st, 2007 from web
   
# To nobody in particular: Doodling2:04 PM Dec 31st, 2007 from web
   
# To nobody in particular: Party time ! At ultrasound levels.11:06 AM Dec 31st, 2007 from web
   
#To nobody in particular: Just how long does the "terrible twos" last?10:59 AM Dec 31st, 2007 from web
   
# To nobody in particular:  am going to turn in with "Quirkology". Successfully doodled all of today and feel a bit guilty about it, Gotta sleep out the guilt.9:38 PM Dec 30th, 2007 from web
   
# To nobody in particular: Checking some sandwich ideas for the kids for V's birthday "party".8:56 PM Dec 30th, 2007 from web
   
# To nobody in particular: Family time. Listening to MS on UTube. Excited about kiddo's birthday tomorrow. Baked cake. Consciously avoiding work...8:30 PM Dec 30th, 2007 from web

Excuse me while I gag, but WHAT WAS I THINKING?

The Internet is like alcohol in some sense. It accentuates what you would do anyway. If you want to be a loner, you can be more alone. If you want to connect, it makes it easier to connect.
  - Esther Dyson

Desperately trying to find something interesting to write about, so that the special area of the brain would light up and signal the endorphins to come out of hibernation and kick out this horrible mental lethargy.  Even the usual Vox Hunt question "Littering, long showers, not recycling... What's your biggest pet peeve about the way some people (mis)treat our planet?" is so bleah.

The house is unkempt, the computer lies in wait, the kitchen (which has never in the recent past been any kind of inspiration) has sunk to its lowest ebb, reverse glass work gather dust in a corner, music classes suspended temporarily, there has been no guffaw over the most un-funny things with family or friends in days now, the many craft work planned with kid, remains in the planned stage. Heck, I don't even have the enthusiasm to search for an apt picture for this entry, like I usually do.

Could this be the midlife crisis?
Or just temporary hormonal imbalance?
Or perhaps the body automatically shutting off to give a break from the tail-on-fire running around of the past year?
Or that kiddo's school starts in two weeks, and the body is subconsciously conserving energy for then.
Or has, as my grandmother would love to say, an evil eye been cast?
It could be that a work deadline is still two weeks away and there is no adrenalin pumping in yet.
Or just the heat (in terms of weather, that is).

Whatever it is, I sincerely hope it ends soon.  This is so NOT me.