10 posts tagged “essay”

With three deadlines next week and the brain being deep-fried with radiation resistant photovoltaic cells, turbine blades and all in between, I sought relief in "On Writing Well" by Zinsser, introduced to me by dude to whom, the book is Bible and Bhagawad Gita rolled into one.  The author is a rare specimen who practices what he preaches, and I thoroughly enjoy it at every read. But there is always a risk attached - I get hyper-critical about my own writing and the writer's block surfaces out of "will Zinsser approve?" insecurity and it takes enormous effort to get over the Bell curve of self consciousness to be able to write again. In a way, this blog post is to help get over the inertia, if I want to meet the next deadline at least half way.

In his first chapter "Transactions", Zinsser writes about the time he and another writer were invited to interact with college students - he as a vocational writer, and the other, a surgeon writing on the side.  As he describes their vastly different attittudes to writing, I never fail to feel the "Aha" in me. For example, while Zinsser finds writing an arduous, lonely task where "words seldom flowed", his co-speaker found it "tremendous fun" to "write his tensions away".  Dr. Brock never re-wrote and just let words flow into a natural style, Zinsser wrote and re-wrote a dozen times before his work was out for print.  Zinsser never socialized with his editors, while Dr. Brock was often taken out to lunch by his editors and publishers. Dr. Brock could not write when in disturbed or unhappy mood, while for Zinsser, it was but a job, and had to go on.

Now why the "Aha" in me?  Because I am both of them.  My job involves writing and editing scientific proposals and documents and my hobby involves writing here, in Vox.  That way, I confess, I lead a restricted life.  When I am writing a proposal, I writhe and wriggle like a constipated snake,  and each word sees liberation after much pushing and shoving.  When I sit in front of the computer with a blank document screen, I stand before Mount Everest.  But then, this, as Zinsser says, is my job, Everest has to be surmounted and as the ideas form and take shape in the mind, I grope around for words and sentences that can deliver it.  However, when I am sitting in front of the computer with my vox screen in front of me, my hands cannot fly fast enough to freeze the ideas and words that tumble down.

My vox essays are posted just as soon as I have concluded it, while my proposals go through innumerable revisions and when I send it out, I am still not completely satisfied; a re-read few days later shows me sentences I could have constructed otherwise.   I prefer not to meet my editor/boss ever in my life, if I can help it - working from home, in a country a couple of continents away helps. I have, however, met many of my vox readers and co-writers in real life over gastronomic refreshments. My moods are clearly reflected in my vox, while there is no way a solar cell can exhibit a 99% efficiency because I have had a three scoop Sundae for lunch.

Another observation I have made over the years I have written, both on and off the job, is that "I" exist here, in vox, while "I" am a cold, distant alien in my proposals.  When I read my vox essay a few months or years later, even though I can find many ways to have written it better (the editor in me is omnipotent), I can relate to the essay  and believe that I had written it.  When I re-read my proposal, even a week after I have submitted it, I cannot. Sometimes the sentences appear neat and clean to me, and clearly, that professional writer couldn't be me.  Other times I cannot believe how badly the document has been written, and it could again not be I who wrote it.  Yet, both are very much the same megalomaniacal writer in me.

There is one sentence that Zensser starts his second chapter with - "Clutter is the disease of American writing", that I whole heartedly agree with, with the exception that I would replace "American" with "Professional". More often than not, on re-read of my proposals, I am struck with how pompous and inflated my ideas sound in the clutter of technical terms and big words that effectively mean nothing and are put in merely to give it an "intellectual" feel. I wonder if I can ever get rid of clutter from my professional vocabulary and describe my ideas in simple language and sell it. The one time I did, I received a review that the idea was "Too simplistic to warrant funding".

The ultimate irony is that when I clothed the very same idea in bombastic jargons and references, it was funded with not so much as a whimper.

 

தமிழில் எழுதுவதில் சில சங்கடங்ள் உள்ளன. 

 தமிழ் என்பது ஒரு மொழியாக இருந்தாலும், அதன் பேச்சு வழக்குகள் (டயல்க்ட்) கணக்கிலடங்கா.  ”இன்னாமா, எப்படி கீறே” முதல் “தாங்கள் எவ்வாறு உள்ளீர்கள் வரை” எத்தனையோ படிகள்.  இது போதாதென்று, பிறந்த ஜாதிக்கேற்ற மூடிகள் வேறு.  “ஆத்துல சொல்லிண்டேளா” என்பது வளர்ப்புப் படி இயற்கையாக வந்தாலும், எழுத்து வடிவத்தில் அவ்வளவு சரியாக படவில்லை.  “ஊட்டுல சொல்லிக்கீனு வந்தியா சாவுகிராக்கி:” என்பது வளர்ந்த பட்டணத்துப் பழக்கம் என்றாலும் இண்டெர்னெட்டில் போட பயமாக இருக்கிறது.  இதைத் தவிர, இண்டெர்னெட்டில் காணப்படும் தமிழ் அறிஞர்கள் பலர் சங்கத்தமிழ் சாயலில் எழுதவில்லையெனில் “ஊட்டுல...” வசனத்தை செந்தமிழில் எடுத்து வீசுகிறார்கள்.   இதையெல்லாம் தாண்டி, மனதில் உறுதி கொண்ட பாரதி கண்ட பெண்ணாய் தமிழில் எழுதத் தொடங்கினால் வேறு சில சிக்கல்கள்.

 ஆங்கிலத்தில் எளிதாக “ட்யூட்” என விளிக்கும் என்னவரை தமிழில் எவ்வாறு அழைப்பது?  ”கணவனே” கண் கண்ட தெய்வமாய் கண்டால் கல்லடி விழுமோவென்று சந்தேகம்.  ”புருஷன்” என்றால், வடமொழி – மேற்கண்ட “ஊட்டுல...” திட்டு கிடைக்கும். வீட்டுக்காரர் என்றால் வாடகை கேட்பாரோ?  ஊட்டுக்காரர் எனலாம்...ஊட்டுக்காரர் வெளுப்பேன் என்கிறார். ஆத்துக்காரர் – ஜாதிச்சொல்.  “இல்லாள்” என்று மனைவியை அழைப்பது போல் கணவனை “இல்லான்” என சொல்ல முடியாது.  “இல்லக்கிழத்தான்” என்றால், கூன் விழுந்த தாத்தா மனதில் எழுகிறார்.  மணாளன்?  நிமிடத்திற்கு இரண்டு பாடல்கள் கொண்ட கருப்பு வெள்ளை தமிழ் படப் பெயர் போல் இருக்கிறது.  அத்தான்?  நகத்தால் சுவரை கீறும் அவஸ்தை. என்னவர் என்றழைப்பதில் கொஞசம் கூச்சமாக இருக்கிறது. ஐயகோ, என் ட்யூடை வம்பிழுக்காமல் எப்படி எழுதுவேன்?

மேலும் சில பிரச்சனைகள்.  யாருக்காக, என்ன எழுதுவது?  தமிழில் கரை கண்டோர் என் வலைப்பதிவுக்கு வந்தால், என்னை திட்டுவதற்காக மட்டுமே இருக்கும். என் வயது நாரீமணிகளெனில், அவர்களுக்கு இண்டெர்னெட்டில் கிடைக்காத எந்த விஷயத்தை நான் சொல்ல முடியும்?  என் நண்பர்களுக்காக என்றால், அவற்றுள் அநேகம் பேருக்கு தமிழென்றால் வீசை என்ன விலை.  அறிவியல்?  அதற்கென்று தனிப்பட்ட வலைப்பதிவு ஏற்கனவே உள்ளது.  தமிழை வளர்க்க? இவ்வளவு படித்தபிறகும் இந்த கேள்வி வரலாமா? நகைச்சுவை?  தேவனை, சாவியை, கல்கியை, சுஜாத்தாவைப் படித்த கண்கள் வேறு எதையும் நகைச்சுவையெனக் கருதுமோ?

ஆனால் ஒரு ஆறுதல்.  ஆங்கிலத்தில் எழுத தொடங்கும் போதும் இப்படித்தான் தோன்றியது. அதையும் தாண்டி, நான்கு வருடங்களாக நானும் எழுதிக்கொண்டுதான் இருக்கிறேன். முப்பத்தி ரெண்டரைப் பேர் படித்துக்கொண்டுதான் இருக்கிறார்கள். நான் எழுதுவதால் என்ன பயன் என்று தெரியவில்லை.  உலகம் அப்படியே உருண்டையாகத்தான் இருக்கிறது. காக்கா கறுப்பாகத்தான் இன்றும் உள்ளது. ஏதோ, தொலைக்காட்சியில் மெகா சீரியல்கள் பார்த்து மனதைக் கெடுத்துக்கொள்ளாமல், என் நேரத்தை எனக்கு பிடித்த வகையில் செலவிடுகிறேன் என்பது மட்டுமே இதனால் கிடைத்த பலன்.  அதே பலன் தமிழிலும் கிடைக்குமாவென்று பொறுத்திருந்து பார்ப்போம்.   

It is amazing how many long-lost school friends have found me online.  A bit puzzling too; I'd most definitely wear branded sneakers and sprint to the next continent at the first instance of my name appearing in my radar - goes to prove that masochism is alive and kicking (pun unintended).  People-from-hoary-past fall into my trap ever so often, most probably regretting it for the rest of their lives, but Karma can be quite a bitch. 

A high school friend turned up on my linkedin.  A few emails later, she claims that I helped her with her Praveshika exam.  The instance eludes me, and is most probably a figment of her imagination, but I wouldn't admit it in public (or did I just?).  The fact was shoved to a corner of my ageing memory; I was pretty sure it would turn up unexpectadly, triggering a volley of verbal garbage, steeped in nostalgia.  But within two days?

On yesterday's lazy, cloudy, dull Sunday afternoon, I sat at the dining table, stirring a cup of Earl Gray admiring Douglas Adam's quote "I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by", with particular reference to three deadlines that are less than a fortnight away, and my adrenalin still on hold. The cling clang of the spoon on China stirred something inside me, besides the tea, and it did not take long to figure out that the sound brought back memories of my first "Hindi class".  (Digression for my Non-Indian readers - India is a country with many many spoken languages.  I speak Tamil.  Hindi is another important language, not "Hindu", which is a religion - I could be a millionaire for the cents/time I have been asked, while abroad, if I spoke "Hindu")

I grew up in the era when anti-Hindi sentiments in my State were subsiding, and people were cautiously dipping their feet into the pond of National heritage and such. The Hindi Prachar Sabha was at its heyday, with Hindi teachers at every street corner, enticing young boys and girls to learn the language. The teacher I chose, a septugenarian, deaf woman, lived a couple of streets away from my house.  My "Hindi class" was held in the veranda of her tiny house, in the corner of a huge land, filled with shrubs and thistles, in the middle of which was a beautiful temple for Panduranga, ala the temple of monkeys in Kipling's Jungle Book.  Every evening, as our "class" concluded at dusk, she would walk us through the snake-infested shrubbery to the temple for a prayer service to the beautiful Pandurangan,  during which, she would sprinkle water from a small brass tumbler with a brass spoon, which would make the same cling clang as my stainless spoon against China. 

I wrote my first two exams, Prathmik and Madhyama, ably guided by the old woman, whose name I did not know.  Then, she sold her property - house, temple, woods and all, and now a big apartment complex stands in the location, called, ironically, "Panduranga Apartments". 

By then, I was smitten by Hindi.  I joined another more formal "class" at Rajachar street, where a very ambitious Hindi teacher, had converted his entire house to a school, with black board on every room, students sitting on the floor, and the teacher, on a chair with a stool in front of him.  Mr. Srinivasan was an enthusiastic and enterprising man with a passion for the language, which made me hold on to the hobby, and finish the rest of the exams - Rashtrabhasha, Praveshika (the one S claims I helped her with), Visharad Purvardh, Visharad Uttharardh, Praveen Purvardh, and Praveen Utharard, within the next three years, all by the time I was 12.  I was proud of my achievement, and I remember it gave me a thril for a long time afterwards. 

I met Mr. Srinivasan again seven years ago, to invite him to my wedding, and was shocked at the a shadow of his old self he had become.  A spate of domestic problems, including the loss of his beloved wife, and financial woes had forced him to sell his house, where again, an apartment complex arose; he, confined to a small room in the complex, with a plethora of ailments and heartaches.  That was the last I saw of him, for I heard that soon after, he had died, more, I suspect, of a broken heart than anything else.

My Hindi dreams were not without their share of risks too.  The Indian television channel - Doordarshan, would air Hindi programs, mostly movies and soaps after dinner every day, and my family would sit around the idiot box, and ask me to translate the dialogs for them.  I remember watching episodes of Hum Log and Buniyaad, not understanding a word.  Spoken Hindi was not quite the same as the Rahim Dohas I knew by-heart.  But, can the world know of my ignorance? No. I'd make up my own dialogs and satisfy them.  To date, my family thinks "Buniyaad" means "Nostalgia" -  I am pretty tickled at how I could come up with THAT translation. It means "Foundation", in case anyone's listening.

That was long past. Now, my Hindi is restricted to speaking to our campus security fellows, who speak as much broken Hindi as I do (they are usually Biharis), and entertaining my Marati neighbour's mother whenever she visits her son, with my child talk.  I sometimes suspect she comes down to Chennai only to hear me murder the language. 

Anything to oblige, what?
 
 

 When I was in sixth class, our English Prose text book contained an excerpt from Jerome K. Jerome's "Three Men in a Boat" where the author describes his Uncle Podger who would bring the entire family and neighbourhood to its knees whenever he undertook any task.  A hilarious account, that was, at that age, marred by the fact that you had to know by-heart certain passages, to answer questions - what an easy route to making the most interesting work of literature, pure agony.  Ever since, I believe I've had a mental block against JKJ (as I did with R.K. Narayan, for his "Blind Dog" was included in the same Prose text book), because I associated him with English exams, and if you have been an unfortunate regular reader of this blog, you'd know my take on exams.  Time took its toll on the fallible human memory, and the author was shelved into the dark recess of grey matter upstairs.

A few months ago, a reader of this blog, Vani, who subsequently became a friend (should I add "despite the blog") suggested adding Jerome K. Jerome to my reading list.  After the intial nausea of exam memories subsided, I decided to indeed give it a try.  And as luck would have it, I found a 2-in-1 omnibus of JKJ on the same discount table that also housed the Lynn Truss Treasury that let me down.

The book contained two works of JKJ - "The Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow" and "Three Men in a Boat".  "Three Men in a Boat" is elegantly written, makes you smile, if not guffaw, and makes for good reading while you are waiting outside your child's school, sitting on a rather sharp culvert that is not particularly gentle on your rear.  But what bowled me over were the essays in "The Idle Thoughts...".  The essays are not only humorous, but brutally true and thought provoking, a rare combination.  Here is a paragraph from an essay titled "On Vanity and Vanities" that caught my attention.

As for love, flattery is its very life-blood.  Fill a person with love for themselves, and what runs over will be your share, says a certain witty and truthful Frenchman whose name I can't for the life of me remember. (Confound it ! I never can remember names when I want to).  Tell a girl she is an angel, only more angelic than an angel; that she is a goddess, only more graceful, queenly and heavenly than the average goddess, that she is more fairy-like than Titania, more beautiful than Venus, more enchangint than Parthenope; more adorable, lovely and radiant, in short, than any other woman that ever did live, does live or could live, and you will make a very favorable impression upon her trusting little heart. Sweet innnocent ! She will believe every word you say, it is so easy to deceive a woman - in this way.

No one writes like that anymore.  Just how much more elegant even the swear phrase "Confound it" is, compared to banal, vulgar words used today.  The lines flow uniterrupted, and paint a picture in your mind, of that which is being described. 

But raptures on language aside, I believe what he says is indeed true.  Women are easily deceived by flattery, the only unfortunate development since the days of JKJ being, she is not deceived enough.  The world would be a much better place with more flattery than exists now.  As the Frenchman whose name eluded JKJ said, love for oneself can only overflow into love for others.  And we could definitely do with more of that, can't we?

I am not quite a movies person.  Our school used to screen movies occasionally as a "treat", and I have watched "The Sound of Music", "My Fair Lady" and such like, squatting on the floor with other kids in a big hall, the movie being projected on a white cloth screen.  I remember that when I was 5-10 years old, my mother would leave me with my father, and watch Tamil movies with her mother in a theater called Krishnaveni, that was close to my grandmom's house.  My folks got a television when I was around seven (mostly to satisfy my mom), and every Sunday, a tamil movie was aired in the Doordarshan, the only channel at that time.  The entire neighbourhood and their kith and kin would turn up to watch the movie; the living room jam packed with women of all ages.  I would take a sneak peak now and then, and if there were a "duet" on at that time, I would be strongly reprimanded and ordered to "go upstairs and finish my homework" that I had already finished two days ago.  During the fight scenes, I would close my ears with my palms to lock out the "dishum dishum"  noises that would rattle me.

The first movie I watched in theater was "Bombay", with my M.Sc. classmates; I was 23 years old then.  I hated the movie, because, more than once it made me cry.  On that day I realised that the only way I could exhibit ANY emotion was by crying.  It holds good even now. Pretty pathetic, what?

I "improved" when I went to grad school.  I would go to the local mall (Carousel mall) with my roomies and impuslively watch a movie, mostly soppy ones because one of them was a hopeless romantic - "You got mail" types.  After grad school, another break for a few years until I married an all-in-all connoisseur.  Since then, we have been watching one movie almost every weekend, in our laptop perched on dude's lap (laptop perched, that is, in case people are letting imaginations run wild),  kiddo snuggled between us, fast asleep right at the first scene, and I sprawled out, mouth open, eyes half-shut and in general totally comfortable. We occasionally go wild and catch a matinee in a theater, in the middle of a working week.I have watched more movies in the last seven years than I would have thought possible in my lifetime, and have enjoyed every one of them, partly due to the good movies I have been shown by the connoisseur, but mostly due to the pleasant company. 

I have been meaning to put up a list of movies watched in the recent past, but lethargy and procrastination being my middle names, dude beat me to it.  Here, is a list of movies we have watched this past summer.  The reviews are what I would have written, albeit less succintly, so it may be considered a bit of a crisp summary of a verbose post I would have written on the topic, had I not been the lazy rear end that I am.

I am not quite a party-animal.  No specific reason I state it now, except to start the flow of verbal runs arising from the belly of nostalgia.

My cousin, younger to me by a couple of months, and my closest pal for a very long time until life took us through different paths, went to a slightly upscale school where birthday parties were common.  She would attend at least one birthday party every week.  I, on the other hand, went to a school where birthdays were spent wearing colour dress to school, and distributing 10 paise chocolates to all and sundry that cross your path, and that is where the party ended.  So, when the cousin described the balloons, the cakes, the games, the fun and the return gifts, I was naturally tempted.  Especially since my cousin had one on her sixth birthday.  Never mind that the introvert that I was, I stuck to the corner of the room, reading a book, while my cousin and her friends (Shobha, Mathangi, Sthuthimathi- can't believe I remember names of my cousin's kindergarten friends, I am unable to remember where I put my pen a few hours ago), would have a gala time.  My aunt, having been bought up in "modern" Bombay rather than the backward, barbaric village of Madras that the others of the family belonged to, would make interesting snacks for the party- sandwiches (yes, sandwiches were novelty of sorts) with mint chutney, tomato chutney and cucumbur and bhel puris. I wonder if it is a Mumbaiya thing - I recently accompanied my daughter to her friend's birthday party, and the mom of the friend, a Mumbaiwali, made the yummiest snacks (Vada Pav etc.) that I would not dare to venture into under extreme durress.

So, on my seventh birthday, I had a birthday party.  I was so excited I couldn't sleep the previous night.  I carefully made a list of friends I would invite (my cousin, Rupa, "Periya" Nandini, "Kutty" Nandini, Revathi, and since Sowndarya was going to visit Revathi that evening, she too).  The mother ordered a cake, after grumbling about the enormous hole it would make in the monthly budget. The party itself was an anticlimax, because once the cake was gone, none of us knew what to do and everybody went home; the shortest party in the history of humankind, I am sure.  That effectively put a stopper on future birthday party plans.

The next party I attended was in tenth class, when a classmate with a rich father, threw a "farewell party" to the class, at her upscale apartment in Haddows Road.  All I remember of the party was that there were organized games, lots of food, soft-drinks (that we were not permitted to drink at home) and that our parents came around 8 PM to pick us up.  This was the first time I was allowed to stay in someone else's house until 8.  The curfew time was (and continued to be for decades after that) 6.00 PM. I actually thought it was normal and everybody lived that way.  I still feel very anxious if I am out of the house during dusk.  Talk of permanent scars.

College was a culture shock to me.  I went to an ultra-mod, hyper-oomph college, and mixed among the hep and high, belonging to a social strata I did not know existed.  The gang I found myself in (thanks to one of my closest friends from kindergarten being in it) wore designer clothes and internationally branded cosmetics and often cut class to sit in the canteen eating puri with channa that often smelt of vomit.  Needless to say, I hardly fit in, but carried on, often finding refuge in the library, the reading room of which had a lovely mural of waves crashing on a shore.  During the brief lunch hours when they ate the nauseious channa puri as I ate my yummy curd rice-mavadu packed from home, I listened to them describe their daily parties.  The father had business parties at home (involving lots of booze, according to them), their moms had "kitty" parties (involving lots of booze, according to them) and brothers had stag parties (involving lots of booze, according to them).  I spent most of these lunch hours, gaping at them wide-mouthed, trying to imagine the parties and failing miserably. The one thought that would always come to mind would be, with so much booze every evening, how does the family manage to stay sober during the day.  I never got invited to any of these parties, thankfully, for (a) I would never have made it past the six-o-clock curfew at home and (b) I wouldn't have had a dress to wear other than my chungudi salwars and faded jeans.

The years at my post graduate institution were lost in more natural, comfortable, nerdy pursuits. And then in grad school, I was once again thrown into the cruel world.  My neighbours were a set of raucous undergrads, who partied every Friday, and when I say "partied" I am being very very polite. They played music that rattled my windows, they shouted and screamed until I threw few pillows over my head in agony, threw around beer to stink to high heavens and made out with random partners in the room right across my bedroom, with lights on, and window open.  All night. Every Friday.  I started working late on Friday nights, in my lab, with my conjugated-bis-ruthenium compounds soon after.

I have been to and hosted the most parties in the past five years.  And it seems to coinicde with the arrival of my daughter.  Thankfully, most of the parties are birthday parties involving a select bunch of people I know and am comfortable enough with to visit in daily-wear clothes and hair in a random kondai.  I hope even these parties peter of soon and I get back to my natural life.

I find it fit to end this topic with mention of a lovely movie called "The Party" starring the incomparable Peter Sellers.  A bittersweet, feel good film with just that touch of melancholy that makes it sweeter at the end.  This is the only party I can stand.

  

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. 

A couple of things surprised or even shocked me during this vacation.  The primary of those being the many connotations of certain words starting with an m and ending with an o with a j and o in between that I used in all innocence in my earlier post. 

Another was a surprising book I found in dude's library in his child/youthhood home - a book on female sexuality, covered with news paper, which belonged, not to dude directly, but to his late grandfather. I was first scandalized at the idea of thatha having a book like that, but once I started reading it, it was fascinating.  The book is called "Any  Woman Can", with the tag "Love and Sexual Fulfillment for the Single, Widowed, Divoced...and Married", written by David Reuben, a psychiatrist and first published in 1971. 

If you are looking for various KS-ish poses or steamy stuff, look elsewhere, because this book is all about evolution, science and misconceptions (no pun intended) of female sexuality. For someone with sufficient science background, who has known the biological aspects of human reproduction, and has had, ummmm...practical experience, most of the stuff written are known-facts, but it has been well written, and I would consider it worthy of addition to the home library, especially when there is a little girl who before long will be maturing into an adolescent with confusing and conflicting views and experiences on sexuality.

But no, this book is not what I want to write about.  These are my thoughts that arose as I read the first chapter of this book on the train back home, having just met a woman during my vacation, who, despite having a family to die for - a smart and intelligent husband, two well-bred children and a comfortable home of her own, with all the associated paraphernalia, eats twelve and a half pills every day (no exaggeration) to treat her clinical depression.  That coupled with my own more recent insecurities and doubts about my part in the large picture, led to the following thoughts that were typed out as they formed in the mind. Don't look for coherence of thought, they have not been edited and are a mere long hand account of the thoughts, joint or disjoint that raced through the mind, aided by fast typing skills on dude's laptop.

The first chapter takes on a disparaging tone on the married woman, and her (and societal) apparent disdain for the "unattached" woman, irrespective of her visible sexuality. It seems so unfair that the married woman is made the soap-opera villain, directly or indirectly responsible for all the social discrimination towards unmarried women.  But what is conveniently ignored is the hairshirt that the married woman wears,that is most often ignored by society, or even worse, considered "natural".

The modern "wife" is under enormous stress from within and without, her time at a premium and priorities torn between home management, career (in most cases), child (or children, if she has been blessed with just that much extra tenacity) and relationships with  that special someone, and the extended family, all of which is tight rope walking, with even a small falter boomeranging into judgements about her inefficiency or impotence.  Add to this some female sexuality, which is more often than not, at least through her growing up phase in a society that prides itself as being the custodian of human morality, considered to be a myth.  Or worse, wrong.  So the years of guilt that has been carefully cultivated thorugh the crucial ages of  sexual maturation ("Don't stand at the gate and make an exhibition of yourself", "why did you give your phone number to boys?", "you cannot join an engineering college because it is co-ed"), on one night, she is suddenly given the license to open out herself and all the carefully cultivated inhibitions should just morph into licensed passion.  The struggle of suppression of sexuality gives way to the struggle of overcoming inhibitions and prejudices that have been inculcated hitherto.

That aside, it feels stomping-leg-unfair to blame the "married" woman for her disdain for single status. Even if the disdain DOES exist, it probably arises from the little green monster that whispers that the single woman, is free to FEEL.  Emotions.  Something that the married woman has no time or justification to have.  For all the talk about sexual marooning in single, divorced and widowed women, and their social alienation from a society that prostrates in reverence before the women bound in holy matrimony, there is no talk about the emotional marooning of the married
woman.  The married woman, is, at least, for most practical purposes, unless we are talking strictly scientific aspects of sexuality, satiated physically and socially, and has nothing more to ask for.  But there is no mention of the emotional marooning of the woman, whether she is bound and gagged by licenses or not.  

Any emotional disturbance of a woman is, like everything else about her, attributed to the various chemicals running in her veins. In modern society, the emotional exhibition of a woman is condemned as vehemently as her sexuality. A woman who, in temporary rage of whatever- sleep deprivation, work pressure, or just plain boredom of routine, throws around a couple of dishes in the kitchen is menopausal.  An unnecessary snap is because it is "that time of the month again".  A wife and mother is the glue that holds the family together cannot afford to feel sad,  or angry, or even annoyed.  When junior has a scrape in school, when senior has a scrape at work, when superseniors have a scrape with their impending or imagined senility, the woman of the household, the Grihalakshmi, can just, by her charming and confident presence, kiss the boo boos away.  And if she cannot, it is HER fault that  she just has not that natural thing that binds the family and keeps it together.

And lost somewhere in these commitments, her emotions go into hibernation.  Or pushed into the overflowing suitcase, until one day, the lock breaks, when least expected and the contents spill out. And THAT is her fault too.  For having bottled up without release, and having brought it to the point of seeking clinical care. And then the dirty words come out - clinical depression, nervous breakdown, hysteria.  Eat twelve-and-half pills after every meal to get the darn "chemicals" under control again.

Woman's sexuality is not suppressed as much as her emotionality.

When I see my daughter "enjoy" her summer holidays, waking up late, sitting in the sweltering heat of the verandah reading comics, I am transported to my own identical childhood summer vacations.  I belonged to a rather stiff-upper-lip-don't-know-how-to-enjoy-life-rigor-mortis family that would throw a fit if I slept a minute later than seven, no matter what day of the year it is (there, I got it off my chest), but the rest of the day was pretty much the same. Laze around with Amar Chitra Kathas-Laurel Hardy (they came in comics)-Nancy Drew-Hardy Boys-Perry Mason-P.G.Wodehouse-etc. (in chronological order), the fan churning up the hot air, and home made snacks - coconut burfi, murukku fried in coconut oil (and cholesterol), gulab jamun, all stored in big tin coated brass containers in the "valai beero" (netted almirah) in the store room adjacent to the "madi" kitchen.  The store room was locked, the cook maami had the key tugged deep into the recess of her madisaar, and snacks were rationed carefully to the perpetually hungry bunch of cousins and their friends. 

But what is more indelibly branded is the moment of waking up. As the cloud is lifted from the brain, the first sense organ to awaken would be the nose.  The aroma of saathumadhu, with its dose of katti perungaayam, mixed with the invigorating smell of filter coffee is something that has been inexplicably hard-wired into the brain that just stray thoughts can brings back the aroma to the nose.  Sundays especially were a treat to wake up to, for the aroma of shallots sambar, which was otherwise forbidden (abachaaram abachaaram) in the household would instantly kindle hunger pangs, despite grand mother grumbling that it is truly "kali kaalam" that shallots are even allowed inside a house that has the saligramam.  And the various olfactory treats would continue through out the day - cardamom tea after siesta, Kancheepuram idlys, masal dosas and the like for "tiffin", milagu rasam and poricha kootu for dinner, and to end with a bang, the wonderfully rich aroma of freshly boiled milk, very recently milked from a cow routinely fed with boiled punnaakku, rather than paper posters that cows these days are fed,with added sugar and turmeric (or saffron if th lady of the house is in a particularly generious mood).

I don't claim to be a good cook, not even a decent one.  But even on days that I take extra pains to do a good job, the hardwired aroma continues to remain  hallucination and I am unable to bring out the richness of the same sathumadhu or shallots sambar that had us salivating right in bed.  I blamed my own lack of "kai maNam" until recently I realised that I cannot find that aroma anywhere.  Not even when my octagenerian grandmother, the once reigning queen of iyengar cooking, strains herself to make something simple, yet exotic, like Vepampoo sathumadhu for her grand daughter.   That is what set me thinking that while lack of skill could still be my cross to bear,  there could be a more basic mistake with the raw materials that are used to cook.  The stink of the store-bought payatham paruppu being cooked in pongal seemed to point in that direction.

That thought was shelved for later rumination, and perhaps a blog post (as it has turned out now).  Meanwhile, a familial drive towards "natural" living led to a few steps, such as use of a bronze pot to cook rice, instead of the pressure cooker (trust me, it does not take any longer; perhaps a little more water..), Iya sombu (tin pot) for saathumadhu, and as far as possible, fresh vegetables, bought from the local vendor rather than from supermarkets that exhibit unnaturally coloured food stuff.  And to take it a bit further, we discovered a supplier of "organic" food (a misnomer, all food are "organic" in the chemical sense, but the word refering to food grown without the use of pesticides and chemical fertilizers), and experimented with manure-driven, pesticide free (albeit a tad more expensive) lentils, rice and vegetables, and what do you know?  Despite my sad lack of skill, the aromas that were hitherto confined to the dark recess of memory are slowly making their presence felt.  And the "organic" spinach being cooked with cumin yesterday filled my house with memories of summer holidays many many years ago.

I thought at first that it was my imagination.  But I am beginning to believe it is true.  Food does seem to taste a lot better now. 

We all have pockets in our life that profoundly influence who we are and how we came to be what we are.  My most influential periods yet, were the age of 12-18 (high /higher secondary school) and 24-31 (My years in the US). Years before 12 are blurry, and I remember snippets such as my friend Sou asking permission from my kindergarten teacher Ms. Daisy for ME to go to the toilet (yes, I am eternally grateful to you, Sou, and will take it to my grave),  Mrs. Mason tearing up a calender in a fit of fury in class II, because it contained a picture of a Hindu god, Mrs. Nirmala accusing me of speaking bad English in class IV that still hurts badly, a classmate Kalpana bullying me to no end in primary etc..and as you see, most of them, except Sou being my spokeswoman, are not pleasant experiences. I sometimes wonder if I would have been any different had the above instances not happened. Apart from peeing in my pants in kindergarten, of course.

My 12-18 are branded indelibly in my mind.  And my teachers are an integral part of that era.  Every single teacher who entered my life at that period of time has left some mark in what I am today.  Most of them in a good way, and some, unfortunately in a bad way, but I guess it is the good with the bad that has shaped my character today.  Despite the horrors of art class, I can't help being thankful to Mrs. S for showing me what creativity is all about, and creativity is the most essential trait in my profession today.

Mrs. Renuka Paramanand, my English teacher in higher-secondary.  This is not the first time I mention her in my blog. She is the one that instilled the love of writing in me.  She somehow believed that I had style and constantly encouraged me to write.  She would enroll me in competitions even without asking me, because it would help hone my skill, and hone it did.  She left school halfway through our 12th class, but I wrote to her for a few years after.  I would write voluminous letters to her, and she would write back reviewing my letters and pointing out slips in language and lauding good portions.  I owe to her what I am now , and would be most grateful to anyone who could convey the message to her.

Mrs. Saraswathy was my class teacher in 9th and 10th, who taught us Math.  I am not sure I learnt too much math from her as I would like to claim, because she was a genius who could not quite put into words the magnificience of her knowledge.  But, she was a wonderful friend and confidante.  She could instantly see through our growing up pains and would be most happy to sit with us and discuss our issues - our premenstrual cramps, the roadside romeos, the short-tempered geography teacher, our childish squabbles with classmates and so on, with no inhibitions.  The last I heard, she was living alone in a small apartment not far from where I live, and I would love to be able to meet her and tell her how much she has meant to me.

Ms. Sulochana was my biology teacher in seventh class.  She was the one who gave us the birds-and-bees lecture, although, to be honest, most of us knew them already from clandestinely reading medical books in our home library and discussing in detail with peers over lunch. But, I am still impressed with the style in which she "taught" us - not too scientific to make it sound boring or scary, not too flippant to make us giggle.  I hope I can take my daughter to Ms. Sulo when it is time for her birds-and-bees story, that she would undoubtedly know already by reading clandestine books and discussing with peers over lunch.

Ms. George was my English teacher in ninth and tenth.  A rolly polly woman, with a perpetually beaming face, and mischievious eyes that twinkled everytime she mentioned the prince of Morocco, on whom she claimed to have a crush because he was as dark as she is. 

And then there were Ms. Meenakshi, Mrs. Peace, Mrs. Vijaya, Mrs. Kameshwari, Mrs. Antony, Sister. Leena, Sister Catherine, Mrs. Subbulakshmi,  and a few others whose names slip my mind at the moment.

It seems that my life has been ruled by teachers.  And it continues to be, I am married to one.  So, I guess, there can be no one more suitable than I, to wish all teachers out there, a very happy teacher's day.  May your tribe increase and continue to shape lives and thoughts for a better future.

The title means: Obesience to the teacher