Tagged again

Parijata has tagged me to write to list five posts of mine on the following subjects:

Family
Friends
Myself
My love
Anything I like.

After apologizing for my late response I would also like to thank her for tagging me. This has been my favorite tag so far not to say the toughest.

I got to go back and read some of my old posts and as narcissist as it sounds I found it very difficult to pick 5 posts out of the 130 posts that I have made. So I gave up. I blatantly ignored the rules and just listed a few of my favorite posts.

As usual I would like to ramble a little before I get to the point.

Two of my colleagues and dear friends, insisted that I open a blog and persisted till I actually did. I could never thank them enough. In the beginning I was very finicky about who would get to read my posts. I was hesitant to give out the blog URL and would give it out to only people who I thought would “get” me.

But then my greed for approval overcame any fundas about being exclusive. I got to a point when I would crib about not having enough readership and was intensely envious of people who would get 100 comments for every post they made.

Thankfully that phase passed and I have made peace with getting few comments and having to hear my husband say things like “Your mom probably pays your ‘friends’ to leave comments on your blog”!

Searching for those elusive 5 posts for this particular tag, I ended up reading many of my posts. In a way reading what you wrote a few years ago…tells a lot about who you were then and how you have changed.

I noticed an enthusiastic urgency in my earlier posts-the need to get it off my chest. I have mostly chosen my older posts-those I wrote in India. May be just like clothes…even older posts need airing out.

Some of these posts lack style and have an awkward flow…but I hope the strength of feeling touches you…just the way it touches me every time.

Family:

Long time ago I had written a series of posts revolving around my love for food. These were stories about how I tend to bond with people over food and good conversations.

The first of these stories, “gastronomic pleasures” spoke about my family get-togethers in Davangere. In the same series I had written about fighting for the last spoon of “kesari-bath” with my friends, eating chaat and discussing boys on Bangalore roads and the childhood joy of kai-tuttus!

Friends:

I have written a lot about my friends…and I still feel that I haven’t done justice to the amount of fun I have had with my crazy bunch.

Girlie times

Boys can be fun too

A thing of beauty

About me:

Handful of gooseberries

The ugly duckling

Adieu to childhood

Born fat

Some more

In fact I am so beyond help that I actually have a category called “Let’s talk about me”!!!

Enough said!

My Love:

Story telling has always been a passion.It started when I would tell stories about giant cats to my cousins and continues to grow stronger with years. I am known to bore unsuspecting people with zen/sufi stories or worse …stories I made up myself.

Matter of principle

Dream in blue

Superman’s son

different  routes-same destinations

gaLaaTe huDigeeru

It’s all in the mind

Anything I like-

These are posts which I like reading when I don’t like myself all that much. Reading them makes me feel better about myself.

Glimpses

Notes of a vagabond

The story of Eden

I tag Karthik, Madhuri, Soumia, Rekha and Ramesh

excuse me

It’s been a crazy month. Working late nights and weekends, drifting back to sleep while brushing my teeth,eating breakfasts while hopping into my jeans…threatening a sleepy Saif of dire consequences if he doesn’t get me to Bart station on time, having processed food for lunch…finding no time to pursue any hobbies , calling my mom at odd hours to catch up on family gossip, not returning calls to close friends, whining about my achy-breaky back to anyone who does manage to catch me on my cell…spraining my ankle and limping for a week, having nightmares about doing something stupid in front of my colleagues; trying to comprehend Aussie, British and American accents; expending effort on not using words/phrases like “anna…hogli bidu”, “come re…”, “chalo..then” with my American counterparts…and things like that!

This past month…I have been running around. Running to make it on time, running to keep up and anybody who knows me knows how I hate running! I have watched the grand total of one movie this whole month, heard Joshua Kadison’s “Jesse” a million times thanks to Pandora and just about managed to complete a book “East wind, west wind”, a book which would have taken me a day to finish!

Don’t get me wrong….I thoroughly enjoy my new job. It’s challenging, invigorating and gives me an adrenalin rush every day. But my lazy soul fondly remembers the days past spent in sweet self-indulgence. My brain creaks like an old machine suddenly put into use.

I long for the days when I spent a whole morning chasing some elusive thought. But most of all I missed blogging. I would see so many interesting things…but couldn’t find the time or energy to write it.

But hopefully my schedule will ease up a bit and I can get back to writing about inane things.In the end, this post is a long winded excuse list for being absent for so long. I owe an apology to my readers(even though they are few and far between) ,to myself for being away from something I love so much but most of all to the thoughts which got lost in the hustle-bustle of everyday living.

Goodbye Leisure

Goodbye Leisure.

Goodbye to the “just 15 mins more” excuse before waking up.

Goodbye to sipping my tea while checking my blog stats.

Goodbye to gossiping with mom on gtalk.

Goodbye to breakfasts with Saif while watching “Mad about you” episodes.

Goodbye to five minute hug-fests before he finally left for office.

Goodbye to enjoying my company all by myself.

Goodbye to the noon time silence where I am all alone in the apartment.

Goodbye to marathons of Italian and French movies.

Goodbye to the pleasure of watching light change colors as the day progressed.

Goodbye to scouring the net to find new recipes.

Goodbye to reading inane trivia on wiki and imdb.

Goodbye to having lunch in the silence and comfort of one’s dining table.

Goodbye to long luxurious baths while listening to old love songs.

Goodbye to afternoon naps.

Goodbye to eating oranges in the afternoon while reading new blog entries.

Goodbye to useless discussions with friends on chat.

Goodbye to evening walks to Cuesta Park.

Goodbye to spending insane amounts of time in the library.

Goodbye to wasting an entire day on a post…only to delete it at the end of the day.

Goodbye to another beautiful phase in my life

Goodbye Leisure.

I am starting work tomorrow. Very excited! Slightly melancholic.

yoga and the art of pronouncing ha!

My earliest memories of Yoga are related to early morning doordarshan shows where the yoga teacher would prod the participants with a stick. My mom was of a firm belief that  the next best thing to exercising is looking at someone else exercise!

Later when I reached an age where chubby was not considered cute anymore my mom enrolled me into yoga classes. Our teacher was an elderly Tamil lady who was amazingly agile for her age. She had long white hair which she wore in a braid and she wore kacche saree (I used to call her “saree-pant ajji”) and would go into “shirsaasana” (yoga stance where your body is completely inverted) at the drop of a hat. Somehow she always reminded me of Master Splinter!

As a kid I was given to wild imagination .The idea of a woman who wore saree-pant and spoke unceasingly about discipline while balancing on her hand is hard for any kid to take. I would imagine that she was training me to be a ninja. While in asaanas I would go into a flight of fancy involving superhuman powers, fighting criminals and living in the underground, lose balance and topple over.

We were supposed to meditate for ten minutes everyday. Very often, I would get caught stealthily opening my eyes or I would collapse into guffaws on hearing the sonorous snores of some sleep deprived uncle. The punishment was always the same-shirsaasna for 10 minutes. I think I can blame my weirdness to all that excessive flow of blood to my head during my childhood.

Very often she reprimanded me for not sticking to the prescribed diet of pulses (soaked overnight). Anybody who had relished the akki roti-butter-gojju combination my mom used to make…would rather prefer death over eating soggy pulses!

There was another lady who would take classes along with me. She spoke in a high pitched nasal voice. The jackass that I was, one morning I imitated her voice while saying the prayers. That day, after the class was over, I was given the beating of a lifetime.

That was the last day I ever saw saree-pant ajji . In fact I have never gone on that road again!

During my engineering, I started taking yoga classes again . My mom and her friend would also accompany me. Our yoga class was held in a big bungalow which was built near the ring road in J.P Nagar. The owner, an accomplished dancer had moved to Switzerland leaving the bungalow in charge of a distant cousin who was now teaching yoga.

Fifteen minutes past five we would start from our house. Chamundi hills would look like a sleeping giant; dogs would eye us suspiciously. The sky would be a canvas of blues and grays with shades of pink, orange and purple thrown in. Old men who were denied slumber’s sweet embrace would be heading for their morning walk. Many would stop to exchange pleasantries with my mom. There would be women drawing rangolis and milkmen who were on their way. Those big cans which were tied to the bicycle carried in their bosoms milk for the morning coffee for so many families…

The silence of the dawn has newness to it, that it’s sometimes hard to believe that it’s older than life itself.

On our first day, our yoga teacher gave us a lecture about yoga. He was a dark complexioned man who always wore white. He spoke about the discipline of a yogi. He told us that he has been practicing yoga since his childhood and that he sleeps only two hours everyday. He went on and on about how yoga would result in all round health for those who practice it deligiently. After one around of suryanamaskars we were out of there.

Next day…the gates were locked. After waiting for ten minutes my aunt suggested that I climb over the gates and go ring the door bell. After some hesitation I gave in. After constant banging on the door, our sleepy eyed guru opened the door and smiled at me sheepishly. Little did I know that this would become a pattern! In a few days…I had become adept at climbing gates!

This guru of ours had other charming qualities as well. Though he constantly bragged about his knowledge he rarely practiced the asaanas along with us. He would sit on his chair and count our breath. Sometimes he would doze off while we balanced ourselves in the “Adho Mukha Svanasana” (down-dog). He perpetually suffered from a running nose and refused medication from my mom on the grounds that it would poison his body!

But the king among his any endearing qualities was definitely the fact that he had trouble pronouncing “ha” often pronouncing “aa” instead. To make matters worse he had a penchant of using wordings full of “ha”s!

It was a test for our will powers not to burst out laughing in the middle of our aasanas while he counted “aatthu….annondhu…annerdu…adimooru…adinaaku..adinaidhu..adinaaru…adinyoLu..

Adinentu..attombatthu…”(11-19…)

[Only kannadigas who can pronounce their “ha”s will find this hilarious]

Don’t you think for a minute that I didn’t like taking classes from him! He was very patient with us. The classes were very flexible. The classes didn’t have fixed timings and you could do the exercises at your own pace. I also had the pleasure of meeting amazing “characters” during those classes. A guy who made whistling sounds while breathing, another guy who sneezed through the asaanas, a couple who did the asana in unison…

Now, I take yoga classes two times a week. Americans take their yoga very seriously.My liking for yoga has deepened over the years. There is something lovely about a group of people who exercise in silence. Yoga is not just about asaanas or discipline or doing complicated postures. It’s about knowing your body. It’s about moving with grace. It’s to be aware of our body. But even now when my American teacher asks us to hold some asana, I can close my eyes and almost hear my old teacher counting “aatthu…annondhu…”

The first of things…

In the nook of our minds, we have a box. This box holds our first- time memories. It has two compartments. In to one goes all the happy, affirmative memories and the other holds those memories….I won’t call them sad…but those which make us wise!

There is something about the first of things. The first time you rode the bicycle on your own, the first teacher who was partial to you, your first crush, your first branded and over-priced jeans, your first kiss, first job, first promotion, first love, the first diamond…

Then there are the other kind of first times…the first bruise, the first time you felt foolish, the first rejection, the first time you were made to feel ‘not good enough’, first time someone who broke your heart …

Once you grow wise…you will empty the second compartment into the first one. There is no such thing as bad experience. But until you get wise…

Anyways, the first of things…you can never let go of them. It as if they have left their timestamp on your psyche forever. They always remain special and many a times they define who you are or what you are going to be.

But when you see the first strand of white hair on your head….it means nothing! You are so freaked out that you just take a pair of scissors and cut the cursed thing out before you allow yourself to feel anything. Then, that day you obsess in secrecy…wondering whether your life is over. Then you jump right into the middle of denial. It was that damned shampoo! Or may be that person who said that you have nice hair cast an evil eye on you. For a week, you apply oil regularly, eat your vitamins and check that spot on your scalp just to make sure that your enemy was a lone soldier.

After a week or so…you are convinced that you dreamed it all up and it never happened. Just when you think you are safe, six more turn up as if they came for the first one’s funeral. You head for the scissors again or try covering it up with eyeliner.

It might be a week…a month or some years later-but the attack will come again. And this time it’s an all out army. You realize that you can’t cut them out this time…unless of course you are willing to shave your head!

Standing in you pajamas…in front of your sink…you learn acceptance. Wisdom is painful but acceptance can be depressing!

At the age of 25, I am in middle of such an attack. Every day…I take a few minutes to obsess about those 4 strands of white hair. My mom got her first white hair when she was 39 or 40 .If I continue like this, in fifteen years I will look like my mom’s elder sister! I try telling myself that most women my age nowadays have white hair. Doesn’t help at all!

I used to apply oil everyday. Till I came to US, I never used shampoo. I took castor oil-shikakai bath twice a week. I would get up at five in the morning to take my olive oil bath on weekdays. Every 15 days I would get a massage. “Look how well Krupa takes care of her hair!” was a very common reprimand for my cousins. That entire circus to what end?!?

People might say its just vanity…but what’s outside of your head is as much a part of you as the inside of your head. But I do know that it’s not an earth shattering event. People are starving; icebergs are melting. Compared to that, having a few silver strands is nothing. It’s just an indicator of the passing of things. One more list added to your “can’t be taken for granted” list.

And then I wonder…maybe the white hair is to brace you for the first wrinkle. The wrinkle- a preparation for the first arthritic ache. Its not growing old which is a problem…its saying goodbye to the picture of yourself you have in your mind! It reminds you that you are growing up.

When you can be as immature as an eighteen year old …why can’t you look like one?

In time I will learn to let go, smile and say “L’Oreal! Because I am worth it.”

As for now, I am heading back to the sink to stare at them.

In a kingdom far far away…

What is worse?

-A great movie going unnoticed

- A bad movie becoming a hit

- A mediocre movie being called “different” and “intelligent story telling”

I personally pick the third option. Time does justice to great movies. After all, “Citizen Kane” was a flop when it was released. Nor did anyone realize what a gem “It’s a wonderful life” was when it was released. And without the ability to charm and awe…no blockbuster will stand the test of time.

But a mediocre movie after getting tagged as “charming and different” will refuse to die down. Years later when they talk of this decade…they will still talk of this movie.

Then I ask myself…should it matter so much? There are so many things which gain popularity which you don’t understand. But it does. I love movies way too much to turn the other way. If you liked “Jab we met” stop reading right now. If you are a fan of Kareena Kapoor or Shahid or like watching Amitabh Bachan in every movie/commercial…pleeeeeeeeeeease stop reading right now! If you want a fair and factual opinion about this movie “Hahahaha!” to you!

I am just venting my anger baby!

In all fairness, this is not a movie I would have written about. But then again this was not a movie I would have watched if not for the rave reviews it got!

“Jab we met” (JWM) is the second directorial venture of Imtiaz Ali. His first movie, “Socha Na Tha” was a pretty decent affair. JWM is a hit and people everywhere just love it. But then they also loved “Raja Hindusthani” and “Kuch Kuch Hota Hai”…sooooo…

Let’s not forget tradition-

Aditya-Shahid-The poor little rich kid…who sulks around and thinks staring into the wall is being intense. He has the “I am being dumped in real and reel life” look! The only one who can sulk and claim acting capabilities is Ajay Devgan! Shahid just looks drugged.

Geet- Kareena- Watching Kareena makes me appreciate Arjun Rampal so much. That guy can’t act and probably knows it. But Kareena can’t and doesn’t know it. Give me ‘wooden’ any day over this eyes-popping, cute-facing making, nonstop chattering, “I’m so sexy, no?” crazy lady!

And a recent study has proved conclusively that Kareena Kapoor is responsible for half the noise pollution in India!

Scary old Grandpa-Dara Singh- Will we ever realize the damage Amitabh Bachan has done?!?

The very “original” story goes something like this-

Once upon a time,there was a sad bunny and a loud girl.

Oops! wrong story…

Aditya’s father, a very rich industrialist has died. His mother ran away with someone else when he was a kid…which left him emotionally stunted. Over that his only girlfriend dumped him to marry someone else. If this isn’t enough to reduce everyone in the audience to tears, I don’t know what is! But I was smiling…no tight shirts which emphasize “I have Hrithik’s body, Shah Rukh’s face, Prabhudeva’s agility and a rabbit’s teeth” look which is his standard avatar.

Sulking dud Shahid is any day better than the cool dude Shahid!

A few years back, there was a movie released called “Khushi” starring Kareena Kapoor and Fardeen Khan. I had headache for two days after watching that movie.After that movie…whenever asked to play a bubbly girl, she goes back to playing Khushi!

These two meet in a train…get lost a zillion times…she talks to strangers, gives Aditya some gyaan on being bindaas…is innocent and impulsive…screams at the top of her voice…changes his outlook towards life and is generally adorable! If adorable means annoying that is!

Some more crap happens and the story ends with a very uncomfortable kiss!

Tell me what is different about this movie? I am all for mindless romances…I am willing to imagine that a millionaire will fall for a pretty hooker. I watched starry eyed as a famous actress fell for a clumsy London book shop owner. I fell in love when SRK said “bade bade desho mein aisi choti choti baatein hoti rehthi hai” in DDLJ. Heck! I cheered Ravichandran with his crazy mop of hair and yellow pants when he wooed Juhi Chawla in “Prema Loka”!

But “Jab we met” is not romantic or funny or clever and is definitely not different! Nor did I see anything special about the treatment .Tweak the story here and there…and take out all the color and Bhansali madness, the plot is very much like HDDCS (The sweet intense guy taking the heroine back to her lover)!

When I complained, I was advised not to analyze the movie too much and that it’s just a feel good movie and blah blah blah…I am not trying to do any of that. Want to watch a feel good movie…go watch “French Kiss”.I will even settle for “Salaam Namaste”.

And what’s with all this crappy kissing? Let’s go back to the time when we showed two flowers rubbing against each other or a bee buzzing around some flower. A flower wouldn’t look half as uncomfortable as our actors do, even if it had to waltz around with a mulch machine!

Why does Bollywood try to sell dumb characters as bubbly and chirpy girls? We may not know the Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle (actually many of us do) but we definitely are not THAT dumb!

When will we start showing our leading ladies as creatures of mystery and intelligence? When will a smart, witty, sexy and classy heroine grace our movies?

Will there ever be a Punjabi family in our movies where no one would talk at the top of their voices or break into songs every three minutes? My friend is a Punjabi who is sweet and soft spoken…and I have never seen her dance!

Will there ever be a serious leading man who won’t take out his glasses and chew at its edges when he pretends to be contemplating?

And if I ever make a movie, the hero won’t play the guitar. He will play the “tabla”.

A billion stories waiting to be told. And people get up and cheer for this?!?

There are a few moments in this movie which are alright. But I won’t recommend a crummy restaurant because they serve tasty pickle.

They said that Bollywood’s hope rests on the new breed of directors. And long, long time ago, Emily Dickinson wrote “Hope is the thing with feathers”.

Imtiaz Ali just shot that feathered creature down.

Breakfast in Ghost town

It was a ghost of a town. In fact all there was to it were two filling stations, a small restaurant and a great history. In the morning mist it almost looked surreal to our sleep hungry eyes.

We were on our way to Grand Canyon and we had driven all night. We stopped for gas in Ludlow. From this dreary gas station we saw the sun rise in the Mojave Desert. What is it about mountains, seas and deserts that enthrall the human mind? Even after the sunrise the air was chilly and misty. We decided to have some breakfast. Little did we know that this place was steeped in American history!

It was a small eatery called “ The Coffee shop”, built in a tepee shape…the seemingly modern glass exteriors looked out of place in this desert.

{NOTE: Picture borrowed with gratitude from here}

 

We were surprised to see the place crowded so early in the morning. Most of the customers were well past their prime. Once inside, the place looked different. On the walls were old B/W photos, shovels, mining equipment and other remnants of its past glory.

The cafe looked old and proud. It looked like home. Even the customers looked as if they knew each other well. You could tell that they were fond of this place.

When you have known a place for a long time…the place becomes a part of who you are…entwined in all your memories- good and bad. Out of this arises a love you cannot explain and strangers cannot understand!

We saw a lady in a pink sweater serving food. She had several layers where others usually have a chin. She reminded me of Ursula-the sea witch in the little mermaid. She seated us and gave us the menu. On the back of the menu was the story of this place.

Ludlow was a watering station on the historic route 66. Built in 1926, Route 66 was one of the first federal roads in US and is popularly known as “The Mother Road”.

It ran from Chicago to Los Angeles (You now what Sadie was singing in Smooth Operator).It traversed through the following 8 states –Starting from Chicago in Illinois through Missouri, Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona and California.

Route 66 meant different things to different people. It meant hope for the homeless farmers who were fleeing the Dust Bowl during 1930s (Suggest watching ‘Grapes of Wrath’ which was about this topic).

It meant prosperity to many families in the small towns through which it traversed. During the Second World War, it was the life line for people migrating to California seeking employment in the war related industries. It gave rise to the growth of mom and pop business, fast-food business and now supports a burgeoning tourism industry. For many it talks about the glory of the days gone by…a testament to human survival and resourcefulness.

Route 66 was decommissioned in 1966 but has a very strong group of people who champion the cause of its revival.

Ludlow as mentioned before was a watering station for the Atlantic and Pacific railroads. During the California Gold rush, it was mining town. Ludlow is a place which has refused to die. Decline of mining and rails would have heralded the doom of Ludlow if not for Route 66. The entire town moved a block to meet Route 66.When the route was decommissioned, They moved a block further to meet I40. The interstate highway keeps this town alive.

I look at the elderly couple in the opposite table. They must have so many stories to tell. They might have spent evenings sharing a dessert in this café while he was serenading her; He must have come here with his cronies when work pressures irked him. Every nook and corner must remind them of some sweet memory. It must hurt them that their children don’t love this place the way they do!

Leaving my romantic rambling aside, the food was amazing. We were not treated as irksome customers but as hungry guests. We felt human instead of just some random credit card flaunting beings!

On our way back, we stopped again at the same cafe for breakfast. Instead of our dear old Ursula there were two charming silver haired old ladies who were playing hostesses.We ordered a pumpkin pie which really tasted like a slice of heaven.

In today’s’ need of ease and speed, convenience has put charm in the back burner. It has been a long time since I went to a restaurant and was made to feel welcome. The old lady reminded me of a genial granny who instinctively knows that you like your pie warm with lot of whipped cream on top!

While we were leaving, I complimented on the food and the lady seemed genuinely happy.

I wondered whether my children will get to see this quaint little eatery where the past and present merge, where the food tastes delicious and is served with love.

Hands Up! You are tagged…

Vasuki and BPSK have tagged me to come up with a middle name

The rules of the tag are:
1. The rules must be mentioned in the beginning of the tag.
2. You must list one fact that is somehow relevant to your life for each letter of your middle name. If you don’t have a middle name, use the middle name you would have liked to have had.
3. At the end of your blog post, you need to choose one person for each letter of your middle name to tag. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.

For many years I firmly believed that the toughest thing was to mentally add 293709.08967654 and 98786875.87867(or any two numbers for that matter)

But the last few days have made me change that opinion. Coming up with a middle name is definitely the toughest thing to do! After browsing through pretty words in Sanskrit, French, Urdu, Greek and Swahili I still couldn’t think of any middle name.

I would have liked to pick “zaphod beeblebrox” as my middle name but since I don’t have that many friends to tag…it wasn’t an option!

I finally sought help from Ramesh. He suggested ‘drowned’ as in“krupa drowned raj” and laughed for a few minutes at his own dumb joke. Then he went on to suggest ‘bulldozed’, ’killed’ etc till I asked him to shut up. I asked him what he thought of “Karissa” which is Greek for beloved. He replied that it sounded like ‘krupa caress a raj’! Sooo…karissa was out of the game.

Then I sought help from Charu. She suggested ‘Vela’…which sounded too much like “whale” which is what my cousins called me when I was a kid. Talk about childhood trauma!

After a few minutes of discussing…we finally came up with a middle name which made me happy. Thanks, Charu! If not for you, I would have had to go with one of Ramesh’s suggestions!

I have picked “preeth” as my middle name.

“Preeth” translates to love in English. From a very long time I have been in love with love. I could give any Yash Chopra heroine a run for her money! So, somehow preeth sounds like an apt middle name for me.

Love is also the theme I am going to pick…

P-I love Pride and Prejudice, the flower paarijaatha, Perry Mason, Paris, Phoebe’s weird songs, Peter Pan, Pizza, love poems, Pather panchali, the song ‘pina colada’ by Simon and Garfunkel, pink panther, pistachios, pepper, Billy Joel’s “Piano Man”, songs from the movie “Prema Loka”; being Photographed; the movie “Pretty Woman”, spicy mango pickle; The song from the movie Prince “Badan pe sitaare” ;Joshua Kadison’s song “Painted Desert Serenade”; Prem Joshua; Pirates of the Caribbean; Pillion driving on Saif’s bike; The way Patrick Swayze moves in Dirty Dancing, Peter Gabriel’s “Book of love” …

R-I love romance novels, roses, Richard Kincaid, Mohd Rafi, Richard Gere’s smile; Rasmalai;the color ‘red’; dancing to old Rock’n Roll tunes; Rumba (a dance I want to learn);Roxette’s “It must have been love”….

E-I love Elisabeth Bennett, erulli chitranna, egg dishes, Bullet Enfield….

E-I love Ernst Lubitsch, Elvis Priestley, Eric Clapton, Elton John’s “The way you look tonight”, Eric Carmen’s “Hungry Eyes” …

T-I love Tea, Tinkerbell, Turner Classic movies, Thai food, Tina Turner(particularly “what’s love got to do”)Thomas Hardy’s ‘Far from the madding crowd’, Tango from the movie “Shall we Dance”; movies-The sound of music, The Shwashank Redemption, The Godfather, The motorcycle diaries(I have never been more grateful towards ‘the’),Tolstoy’s “Resurrection”, Georgette Heyer’s “These old Shades”…

H-I love Haiku, horses, H2G2, high heels, Deepak Chopra’s “He has no choice”, Shakira’s “Hips don’t lie”…

Needless to say that these are just a few of my favorite things …my list is endless!

I tag Ramesh, Soumia, Rekha, Karthik and anyone who cares to take it up.

 

body beautiful

She walked out of the bath clad in a pink towel. She felt refreshed. She looked at herself in the mirror and sighed. She had to lose some pounds around her hips! When was the last time she had looked at her reflection without some negative thought creeping into her head? Maybe she should stop those subscriptions to Cosmo! Staring at those skinny models with their long legs was doing nothing good to her self esteem!

She wished she could stop comparing herself to other women. She wished that she could stop persecuting herself. Every time she met a woman she would immediately start comparing sizes and shapes and it was driving her crazy! She often had nightmares where she would enter a room and no guy would turn to look at her and all the women would make pitying noises!

She found it amusing that men actually thought women go through all that torture just to catch a man’s fancy! Bah! Every woman wants men to find her attractive but its not just that…women dress up, starve themselves and spend a fortune on cosmetics to make other women jealous or at least to keep up with the competition. More than anything it’s to shut that little voice in their heads which keeps saying “She looks better than you!”

She sat there rubbing moisturizer on her arms while the above thoughts floated inside her head. Then she remembered something she had read in that self help book-“Love your body, love yourself” by Grace King. For a few seconds she wrestled with self doubt but decided that she was going to do it.

She locked the door just to give herself the courage. She went nearer to the mirror. She looked at her eyes. Clear brown eyes. Not bad at all. Then she looked at her nose. It looked too big for her face! She chided herself-“Remember! No negative thoughts! Just observe.”

She looked at her cheekbones and traced the shape of her lips. She looked at the hollow of her neck, her strong shoulder bones and felt her ear lobes. She caught a strand of hair…and felt its texture. She was 28 years old and it was as if for the first time that she was discovering her body. She wiggled her toes; Pouted at her reflection; Traced her tongue on the insides of her mouth. She felt good.

She dropped the towel. At first she averted her eyes but she willed herself to look at the reflection. The reflection wasn’t hideous as she had expected to be. She noticed the contours of her body…the curves, the planes and the lines. She smiled.

She traced the scar on her knee. It was a souvenir from her childhood. Her body was like a scrapbook for the events which had happened in her life. She counted all the moles on her body. She decided that the one on her hip was her favorite mole.

She felt the way Columbus must have felt when he finally reached the new land.

“When I stand up…there are so many muscles, bones working in tandem to make it happen. When I smell something delicious there are a million neurons dancing crazily to carry the happy news to my brain. My skin is sensitive enough to distinguish between silk and chiffon. I am able to express exactly what I feel using my facial features. I can pick up a child, hold a rose, blow my nose and slap a guy with the same pair of hands. Why am I not grateful?”

She felt light…and carefree like a child. Maybe tomorrow will bring back the old fears and insecurities. But today…she felt only wonder for her body. She loved it. She was proud.

Three pictures and a pair of eyes

You rock my world!

There are 8 families living in our apartment building. An Afro-American couple, a single white guy, a Chinese couple, two college students, a white family, a Nigerian with his blonde wife, an elderly Indian who lives alone and us-Together we  have representation from all age groups and race.

 We exchange smiles if we happen to meet on the stairs but we are not overtly friendly with each other. The Nigerian is quite friendly. He maintains a vegetable garden and distributes vegetables to everyone. But overall we just mind our business. This suits me fine. I find it very taxing to fake friendliness. If you live in an Indian-dominated area, you will be constantly invited to kitty-parties, get together parties or you are expected to be friendly with everyone around. I think that’s a fun life…but I don’t have the temperament to live that way.

 Yesterday evening, when I was just heating the tava to fry some eggs…the apartment started shaking- An earthquake! Saif and I look at each other…and then Saif immediately ran out to check what’s happening. I turned the gas off…and followed him. The Nigerian guy was running out with the kid. Near the steps, I saw the scared faces of all my neighbors. We looked at each other with worried faces….and then giggled self consciously. The single white guy took a look at my pink fluffy slippers and gave me a smile. We were too scared and self-conscious to make small talk.We all stood there in silence. Many people had come out of their apartments and neighbors were meeting for the very first time.There were people on the streets asking whether everyone was ok and I could hear a few excited voices making uncomfortable jokes.

 
I suddenly remembered reading about the San Francisco 140 yr earthquake circle. Every 140 years SF is hit by a major earthquake and we are due again for a big one. Two weeks ago I had laughingly told my mom about it. She had replied “Be careful!”…and we both had laughed at how ridiculous that advice was! When the earth beneath you shakes… you just can’t be careful!

 I ran back into the house to get a coat. Saif came back. It was over. Saif hugged me and quipped “There is an earthquake and memsaab is worried about her new coat!”

 
I called my mom. It felt great to listen to her calming voice. I was shaking. My first earthquake was over.

 Later I thought about the scared faces of my neighbors. Maybe I should get to know them better.

With a perspective…

I am like Marianne in “Sense and Sensibility”. I sometimes unfairly think that people who don’t appreciate things as intensely as I do…shouldn’t be allowed to enjoy it at all!!!

So I find it hard to share books, music/movie CDs and anything wonderful I happen to come across. So to make amends…I am writing this post. I am sharing something which has brought a lot of joy and beauty to my life.

But let’s start from the very beginning-

It is amazing to think how small things can alter your life. Sometimes random choices we make…bring so much happiness into our lives. When my husband was furnishing our house with basic amenities (before I joined him) he bought a radio alarm for our house. Little did he know that it would become so much a part of our lives.

Everyday I wake up to the sounds of the radio (mostly KQED). Radio is oddly more comforting than the TV or the computer. TV is chatty and frivolous whereas a laptop is the all-knowing guru (I have a feeling that my laptop secretly looks down on me!) But a radio…ah! the radio is your friend. Its not just entertainment or information, it’s about comfort.

When I am tossing around desperate for the last few minutes of sleep, a part of my mind is listening to the radio. When the program ‘California report’ starts, it is time to wake up. I get up, make and drink my cup of tea listening to the traffic report, three minute interviews of authors and musicians and lively debates on “the Forum”. But my favorite show definitely has to be “Perspectives”.

Perspectives is a program that runs for 3 to 4 minutes(at around 7.37am) where people like you and me talk about life’s lessons , love, fighting cancer, death, farming, war, people they know and love…just about anything that moved them and changed their you guessed it right, perspective.

I remember the first program of ‘Perspective’ that I heard. It was called the “Letters from the Holocaust” and was by a lady called Elisabeth Statmore. She spoke about how her heart still grieved for the young lives lost in the Second World War. One line “I grieved in the privacy of a young child’s anguish…” particularly touched a chord in me. By the time she was done…I felt tears stinging at the corner of my eye.

The next episode which stands out in my mind is about “Gay Flamingoes”. It just as witty and amusing as it sounds..and with his wry humor the narrator makes an excellent argument for gay rights!

Slowly I began to recognize the regulars-Richard Swerdlow, Micheal Ellis, Brenda Payton, Susan Dix Lyons etc….

These were opinions of strangers I have never met. But more often than not, I find myself agreeing with them and nodding my head at some similar experiences. For example a guy spoke about how the flowering weeds on Highway 101 brought joy to him while stuck in an endless traffic jam. It brought back memories of evenings on Hosur road-sunsets….flowers on the dividers and how evenings would melt into the darkness of the night in a cacophony of horns and radio stations.

A guy talks about the woes of the cell phone; Another man talks about “Schadenfreude”- German for that guilty pleasure one feels about somebody else’s undoing; A woman talks passionately about being a Giants fan irrespective of whether her team wins or not; Someone talks about how his neighbors supported him during his partner’s death. An American woman talks about how guilty she felt when she met a dislodged Iraqi on a hot afternoon; Another woman vehemently talks out against sagging pants and another man called the president a lame duck!!!

Some of my favorite pieces are “Deafening Silence” by Erica Gies; “December is the hottest month”, “Johnny, I hardly knew you” and “Pet Sitter” by Richard Swerdlow, “Peaches of Brentwood”, “Just one?” by Karen Stephen, “Preserving the beauty of the wood”, “Baby Frog”, “All in the family”, “Get a dog”…

But more than anything else, I am gladdened by the thought that there are people who are passionate about things….that there are hearts untouched by indifference; People who think independently and express themselves strongly and beautifully!

You can hear these programs at Perspective.

An afternoon to remember…

It’s Wednesday afternoon. He called in sick. We lie on the bed…and look outside the window. The sky is clear. I am grateful for this feeling of content, a warm bed and the color blue. I think to myself that this hot Wednesday afternoon…will remain in my memory for a long, long time.

He is listening to some show on the radio. I am reading “Interpreter of Maladies”. I have read it many times…..yet I simply read along. I notice how the words curl…I read them aloud in my mind…and they sound nice.I wonder whether she made it all up…or were they true stories she wrapped in pretty words…and made a book of lovely intimate afternoons?

I know I shouldn’t write about this afternoon-it’s too intimate, too romantic…but instinctively I know, I will. Its like a poem…you have to write it. You have no say in that. But, it’s not a poem. It’s just a lazy afternoon in October.

Lethargy takes over.I close the book…and I close my eyes. I remember smiling.

I doze off. When I wake up, I see his face and a naughty ray escaping the blinds…and grazing his cheek. I smile at this pretty picture. I doze off again.

After a while…he pulls me into his arms. I mumble “Go, make tea!” He mumbles something incoherent and sleeps again.

At the back of my mind…I hear a voice saying “wake up…it’s so late…” but I stubbornly ignore it. A part of me is sad…that this afternoon will melt into a rosy evening and then dissolve into an inky night.

I want to hold this moment gently in my fist and not let it go…but I know it will escape.There will be other enchanted times…but magic moments-you cant keep them in your fridge and reheat it whenever you want!

I feel my hair spread all over the pillow. I am curled up like a cat inside the maroon razaaii. A single strand of hair is tickling my nose…but I’m too lazy to move it aside. I knew I would change nothing in this moment… not even that ticklish strand of hair.

The aroma of boiling tea…invades my slumber. I smile…and I shift to his side of the bed. It’s still warm. After a few minutes, he comes in and says “wake up lazy bones!”

Yes, I will remember this afternoon for a long time to come.

tip..tip..tip

There is a saying in Kannada which roughly translates to “Some people when they have nothing better to do, amuse themselves by sitting on an ant-hill!”

I feel that it’s a perfect description of my attitude. Every time, I think I’ll never write things which might upset people. But then when I sit to blog, I am tempted to get on people’s nerves by writing controversial views!

So here goes:

SCENE 1:

We are in a fancy restaurant. The ambience of the place is mind blowing. We laughingly discuss that a heavy meal here would cost us a month’s rent. The waiter looks down on us as we carefully pick the cheapest items on the menu. The food is mediocre and so is the service. By the time we finish our meal, the waiter has made us feel ashamed of ourselves…

The waiter gets the bill. My friend picks it up and automatically tips him 10%.I argue; I lose. I’m told it’s the norm.

As we leave, I have a very strong impulse to kick the waiter in the shin .I don’t; like my friend I’m timid …and well, it isn’t the norm.

SCENE 2:

Vijay, Kishan (my younger brother) and I are lazing around in Coffee day (M.G.Road). Kishan is enjoying his chocolate cake. Vijay and I decide to take a look inside Bombay store. We ask Kishan to pay the bill and join us inside. We give him the cash…and head inside Bombay store. Later we found out that my dear naïve brother had tipped just Rs 2/-!!!(Well, he was just out of school…was his first time at fancy coffee shops)

We have avoided that Coffee day ever since. A part of me argues that I shouldn’t be feeling guilty. Two coffees and a cake…that’s not much to serve!

But I still don’t dare! We made Kishan feel so guilty…that he has joined the “better tip more than be a jerk” group.

SCENE 3 to 100:

Saif and I argue every time we go out for dinner. Great waiter gets 10%.Lousy waiter gets 10%.

SCENE 101:

We are in a fancy sea side restaurant. We are the only non-whites and we are made to wait really, really long for our order. After our dinner Saif tips her generously. We argue till we reach home.

I have seen the scene in Reservoir dogs (while nodding my head like crazy) and I have had this argument with so many people…and I am yet to find anyone who can give me a convincing argument.

I have a confession to make. For all my venom spewing arguments, I always tip. Not because I want to…but I don’t want to be called bad names. I want to break free…but I’m too darn scared!

My stand on this topic:

Tipping is a personal thing. If I think the service was excellent…then I can be generous with the tip. If I think it was crappy, then I should have an option of tipping less or not tipping at all without being made to feel like the scum of the world.

Now tipping is more like “hafta vasooli”. You are giving them money so that they don’t spit in your soup…or that your friends and family don’t burn you at the stakes!

Arguments I have had:

Argument 1:

They earn very less. So you tip them.

Counter-Argument:

Your house maid earns a lot less. She cleans your dishes, mops the floor and probably washes your clothes as well. How come you never feel guilty while refusing to give her a raise?

By the same argument, if you know a tailor who has no clientele at all-will you tip him for stitching your trousers?

What about the vegetable vendors? How can you argue about his high prices? Come on, he can hardly make ends meet!

Argument 2:

They do the dirty job of cleaning up after you…how would you feel cleaning somebody’s coffee cup which has two cigarette butts in it?!? SO you tip them…

Counter-Argument:

OK! So do you tip your proctologist? (Very, very cheap joke…I know that!)

Argument 3:

You tip them so that they don’t sneeze in your soup the next time you visit the restaurant.

So do you tip your doctor for not sneezing when he is examining you? And that’s pure blackmail! If you won’t complain about this…you shouldn’t complain when the mafia don calls you up the next time!

Argument 4:

This is the only job people without a graduation can take…

Counter-Argument:

Well, the guy who became a doctor worked very hard for it. So did the music teacher. So did the guy who drives the trucks!

And they are still working hard at their jobs…who will tip them?!

Argument 5:

It’s a very difficult job. They are on their feet all day…

Counter-Argument:

Cardiac surgeons have such work pressures, that they tend to have high risk of blood pressure-do you tip them?

What about the guys who work in the mines? Who will tip them?

And the dancers? They are always on their feet…you have to tip them!

——————————————-

Bottom line is that I’m not against tipping. I believe that I shouldn’t be made to feel guilty for not tipping an average/lousy waiter/waitress!!

Tipping is like charity. It’s should be your decision.

I have been there done that. If a guy took me to dinner…and didn’t tip, I would consider him cheapskate. My parents told me it was the right thing to do, I had never questioned it. Now, I have second thoughts about it.

I invite your thoughts. In fact I want to be convinced that I am wrong and tipping is actually the right thing. Because, if I’m right…I have tipped enough to buy myself a pair of Gucci boots!!