It starts with a feeling of discomfort.You start to feel hot under the collar.The seduction has just begun,but you have already lost.

Then a sense of being slowly intoxicated with the sweetest fragrance-that of the languorous  soil – it wafts gently and lingers around you and holds you captive .At this juncture you are not sure whether you are the victim  or  a mere spectator of this heavenly entrapment.
You look up at the sky.It’s too late now.The sun wont be coming to your rescue today. So you accept defeat..and give in.

Just then the temperature drops and a cool breeze drapes around you.No human arms ever hugged you so sweetly.

You go in to quickly make a cup of chai…the aroma of tea leaves mingled with that of the clouds ready to burst, is more than what you can take-but that doesn’t stop you! It starts to gently drizzle-an invitation to come outside,but you say- “na!not without my cup of tea” and so the clouds wait impatiently for you to come out and listen to their poems.
You walk to the balcony. You sit there possessively holding your tea mug wondering-was there ever a lover who so  prettily serenaded a young lady’s heart?But you carelessly ask the clouds-“what was that you wanted to say?”…and so they tell you-

The rain on the roof,the rain on the coconut trees, rain drops dripping from wet flowers…raindrops forming water bangles on the water surface…they are all different sounds….but what perfect symphony.

Watch the rain…its pace- it drizzles…and then it lashes..and then it mildly retreats…then it returns.Its in love with its own confusion.

If you want to,you don’t have to be the observer.Anytime you wish,you can become the rain.

Go out in the rain. Surrender to its lazy love making.The rain is  a moody lover-It kisses you to remember the contours of your face..but wont let you hold it. the rain loves you..then leaves you.but it leaves you smiling.

So, you tell stories to each other..It tells you great stories of when the earth was unencumbered and free,stories of the first blossom..and the thrill of the first flood.Sometimes,it tells stories about you and your journey so far. The rain knows each of your moods.It knows all your secrets-even the silly ones.It watches amusedly as you sit on the window sill and shed sentimental tears over some romantic novel or shiver expectantly as you turn the pages of a murder mystery.

Then there are days when you lie in your tousled bed under white linen covers ,playing with your hair while looking at the rains through the french windows….and you think  that you must be a character in a painting and everything around you is unreal- a figment of some painter’s imagination- a creation of his brush-stroke, as it seems unlikely that real life can be this vividly beautiful.

And soon it will be time for goodbyes..and then  you write an ode in  teardrop for your heartless lover.The clouds throw their heads back and laugh.“Will be back before you forget!..” is the promise.

You plan a tryst the next year and walk back inside, humming a lazy song.

“Were you talking to someone?” your husband innocently asks.

“Oh,no dear…I was just enjoying the last of the monsoon rains” is your reply.

There are few things which match the exhilaration of getting to live through something you had only imagined…like a favorite song or something an author wrote in a dearly loved book .You know, the “aha” moment when you see what exactly the author/poet/lyricist meant. Half the joy is of course in being proven wrong ‘coz our cynical side will never let us completely believe in anything we consider beautiful. We immediately think there must be a catch- a pretty lady must be dumb or flaky, a beautiful verse was just someone’s imagination, and not something based on experience; a tender story made to fool gullible little hearts…

Such a moment happened to me recently. Though some people I know claim that its just talk and not much singing, I have always loved the songs of Frank Sinatra .I remember college days when I carried my red tape-recorder around our house and played his songs as I sat, lost in sweet reverie. Those years I lived through love songs and dried roses kept in old diaries. I don’t remember actual events as much as I remember moonrises over the lake or waltzing with an imaginary partner to the tunes of Dean Martin and Nat King Cole. Things which are part of your growing-up…they never cease to charm you… not just because of their inherent nature, but also due to the fact that they remind you of parts of yourself, now forever lost.

There’s an old song called “Summer Wind”. Sinatra sings it in a careless way…and it remains one of my favorites. It has a tune which stays with you…but I was ensnared by the line-“And guess who sighs his lullabies – through nights that never end
My fickle friend, the summer wind”

The last few days have been very windy. The sun shines brightly but the wind makes you squint and messes up your hair. Yesterday morning, the trees swayed as if wrestling from the embrace of a violent lover. But we didn’t have time for nature’s tantrums. We were on our way to work. Everyday we cross the bay on our way to work. I am pretty sure the bay is never the same shade of blue two days in a row. It is as if the bay has feelings of her own and she makes no bones about showing it. Yesterday,thanks to the high winds, she was choppy with foamy waves as if she were slightly annoyed. We drove on. Even on our way home in the evening, our car shook on the bridge. It was as if the wind couldn’t decide which way to go. But it was in the middle of the night when I woke up to the sound, like someone sighing-it was the wind in the branches of the tree outside our bedroom and I realized what  exactly Frankie meant…that favorite verse from my dear old song-

“And guess who sighs his lullabies – through nights that never end
My fickle friend, the summer wind”

The summer wind is fickle and a little wild. It seduces you with the fragrant smell of fresh blossoms and is cruel to the little birds trying to fly homeward. But in all that, it remains your friend.

Incident 1: Of Moustaches and Newspapers

It’s just another usual day. I get into the BART, and find a seat. Since the gas prices have dropped, finding seats in BART has become easy again. I make myself comfortable in the seat and look outside at the green undulating hills around Fremont. I never tire of them.

As the train started moving, I take a look at my co-travelers. I always wonder how as a result of traveling some distance together, I was bound to these people in a certain way…that I was sharing some time with prefect strangers in close proximity, seeing the same views, breathing the same air…heading the same way. Sleepy-eyed, bored, nerdy, impertinent…but most of all indifferent faces abound in my compartment. I have always considered trains to be intimate…a place which invites you to shed your inhibitions. However, BART is different. The one thing people are scared of is “eye contact.”

There are many Indian faces…but one catches my eye.

He is dark with a broom like moustache, which would have made any South Indian actor proud. He wore a bright colored woolen band headband, presumably to protect him from the autumn wind. He was sitting in the second row on the other side and was leaning far ahead. It suddenly dawned on me that he was doing so…in order to get a better view of the Newspaper being read by the commuter in front of him. The Chinese woman oblivious to this fact kept turning the pages, an obvious skimmer of headlines. I remembered those times in Mysore-Bangalore trains when it was okay to borrow the newspaper, which your co-passenger bought and then read it in great detail. I don’t think it ever occurred to that guy that he was doing something, which many people might have considered rude. He would frown if she turned the pages too quickly. He would sometimes lisp the words that he was reading.

I do not why, but I found this amusing incident very touching.

Incident 2: what to do…we are like this only!

For people who love leisure, traveling and breathtaking views, Amtrak’s California Zephyr is a wonderful option. Since my parents were here for a visit, we thought that this would be the ideal way to start our east coast trip. This train takes 2.5 days from Emeryville, California to Chicago, Illinois.

This train travels through the breadth of America giving a panoramic view of the beauty of this great land. There is a lounge car made of glass, which is available in the train for those of us who would prefer to enjoy these spectacular views. However, since the seats are limited, one has to make haste to go occupy those seats. Years of training in Bangalore didn’t go waste. Everyday we were able to occupy seats in the lounge.

You won’t find many Indians on these trains. May be the idea of train journeys reminds them too much of home.

The second day, while we were drinking in the beauty of Utah, exclaiming ever so often “sakkat agi ide alwa!” (“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”) a fellow passenger stopped and inquired “Neevu Kannadadavra?”(“Are you kannadigas?”). We nodded enthusiastically and thus ensued an half hour conversation wherein he went on to tell us about his love for train travels and his wife’s dislike for it; how long he has stayed in US; his native place being Mangalore yada..yada…

They were the only other Indians in the train. His joy in finding fellows Kannadigas on this train was pretty obvious. But what struck me most was that he kept conversing in English even when we replied in Kannada. When he had addressed us, he had done so in flawless Kannada. Somehow he reminded me of those guys who come and talk to girls in English as talking in Kannada was considered unfashionable. Maybe its part of being a kannadiga (at least for a sizeable %age)…this unwillingness to converse in our mother tongue. What to do, we are like this only!

Incident-3: Love stories and cry babies

In Fremont there is a theatre called Naz-8.If you ever tire of watching Hindi movies in 15 parts on Youtube, you can catch all your favorite movies in Naz 8. It’s the real Indian experience. The theater is a dark dingy place, which also sells overpriced samosa and burnt tea. I am of the firm belief that people should watch Bollywood films in the theater… at least the big budget ones. You need the right atmosphere to enjoy such a movie.

Recently we went to watch Delhi6. It was a spur of the moment thing and we got there just as the movie was about to begin. The promos of this movie looked very promising. I think if a movie has classy lyrics…the movie itself can’t be so bad (there are many exceptions to this rule, of course).

Everybody had great expectations from this movie. We made our way in the dark and seated ourselves.

The movie began. The movie was about the homecoming of this American born Indian who falls in love with the old world charm of Delhi. The first few minutes when they showed Delhi…a wave of nostalgia hit me. I had tears streaming down my cheeks as I watched traffic jams, web of electric wires, and the riot of colors on the screen. A part of me was wondering why I was getting so sentimental when I don’t know Delhi all that well. But then…the things Indians complain, cherish and feel nostalgic about are the same-traffic jams, corrupt police officers, blind belief and the impertinence which is such a part of the love people shower on you …irrespective of whether its Delhi or Bangalore.

There is a trick I learnt to wipe my tears in a movie hall. First, scratch your nose and make a move as if you want to cup one of your cheeks to make yourself comfortable and then wipe the tears off in this process. This is done in hope that people behind you don’t figure out that you are a crybaby. As I started this complicated maneuver of wiping tears…I noticed that the girl beside was doing the exact same thing. I couldn’t help but be amused.

In the interval, while crappy ads about “desidentist” and “desigoldjewelry” were being projected people were excitedly talking about Delhi and Lodhi gardens and the unique allure of old Delhi. There is a storyline in the movie which talks about how Indians believe anything…however preposterous it might be…just to have something to talk about. It reminded me of my school days when there was a rumor of a Ghost who came knocking on your door. Every house in the neighborhood had this written on their doors “naale baa!” with a symbol of mooru naama. Roughly translated it means, “Come tomorrow.” The assumption is that the Ghost can read and is naive enough to think that you want him to visit the next day! Since every time the ghost would see the same message…it would return to haunt the tamarind tree…thinking it will visit you the next day! As a kid, I was disheartened, as my parents wouldn’t write this clever message on our door.

As I walked out of the theater, I saw many red-eyed faces and tear stained cheeks. The movie has garnered very bad reviews. Anyways…I did like the movie. Many people thought it was preachy. It might have been the air of nostalgia, the intensity of the feeling, which lurks below the screenplay or girl who sat crying beside me…missing the familiar sounds and smells of the place, she had once called home.

Anyways a movie which has a beautiful love song about a place…I simply cannot resist that.

It was a winter afternoon with the good intentions of a summer day. The breeze still had a chilly nip but our dear old sun was doing his cheerful best. It had rained for the past three days and the earth looked shampooed. Weekends are specially meant to be spent in the bed .Utmost one of us crawls out to fetch some nutrition (food) or tea for both of us and in rare cases to exchange a book from our personal library next room. We lie there discussing inane things, listening to the radio, looking outside from our French windows when we are not reading or paying our dues to the slumber queen. Sometimes, I even carry my cup of tea to our balcony to look at my newfound friends-birds, which come to enjoy a meal at our bird feeder.

On such days…when it is not really wise to go out, we are seized with an intense desire to get out of the house- not in a car but on foot or cycling. Maybe that is who a soul mate really is…a person who matches your level, flavor, and particularly your timing of craziness. Before we started out, we warned each other to dress warmly and there was a mad rush to find Saif’s favorite woolen cap but we finally made it out of the house. For us that is the toughest thing. One can never really predict when one of us is suddenly washed over by laziness -back to the shores of our bed. Anyways, we stepped out of the house looking like two well-fed sheep (joke refers to the amount of wool we had on). Two well-dressed ladies smiled at us benevolently from the warmth of their cars as Saif tried to fasten my helmet strap.

We do this pretty often…cycling I mean. Not as often as we wish, but our cycles are not rusting in some remote corner of our garage. The nature of our conversations alters depending on the mode of transportation. Cooped inside the car, we just talk about what happened in our daily lives or gossip about some far off relative. While on foot, it is usually a commentary on what we notice around us. When we are cycling…we discuss our plans for the future. Cycling for reasons unknown makes me very optimistic towards the future. Fremont’s main claim to beauty is the lush green undulating hills around her and our goal was to reach the foot of Mission Peak. We cycled along the main street commenting on the houses, the gardens…some well maintained and some not so much…and the hint of the approaching spring, which was all around us. After cycling for an hour or so we reached Mission Blvd which has a steep inclination. I do not know exactly how the sheep manage but I had this irresistible urge to rid myself of my warm layered clothing thanks to the physical exertion. So every few minutes, I would stop to peel off one of my layers. This reminded me of the tough lives snakes are forced to live and the silly grin on Saif’s face gave me the feeling that he was thinking of those infamous Russian newswomen!

We cycled for some time on the wrong side of the road…and did I forget to mention we had no clue how to get there! We were just cycling towards what we thought was the general vicinity of the hill. It’s almost guaranteed. The minute we step out of our house, we get lost. We have learnt to enjoy it as well-we don’t just reach a place; we re-discover it. When we reach somewhere we feel the same thrill (may be milder) that Columbus felt when he was at sea and had his first sighting of something dry! This lack of direction will not surprise our friends and closely reflects our approach towards our lives. We don’t have a grand plan…we like to discover our way around.

Not so long ago, I had this great discussion with my friend about having a purpose in life. She was convinced that everybody should have a grand purpose…and I argued that only plastic bags needed a purpose. I do not think having a purpose is wrong or anything…just that it is not compulsory. I have the same basic dream of having a comfortable existence but I don’t have a clear-cut plan or things I have to achieve before I am 30(other than losing weight of course). My mom who witnessed her daughter claiming that she didn’t give a hoot about achievements…listened intently when later that day I asked Saif “Do you have goals?”. He looked scared of the impending question-answer session and answered without blinking “Nothing!ma..nothing”. I beamed with pride and my mom couldn’t help smiling.

Anyways, I was wondering whether I could make a post about nothing at all (much like a conversation with an interesting friend) and I think I have achieved it. Let me wrap up by saying that we never did reach the foothill. We convinced ourselves that it is ok to take baby steps on our path to discovery and cycled back home. Later we went out and ate nice paranthas and declared the day wonderful!

Note: For those of you who noticed, I apologize for my long absence.

Warning: The detailed description in this post might offend your sensibilities.

So many of my conversations are peppered with stories from my childhood. My mom suggested that I make a note of all my memories before my brain embellishes them to an unbelievable extent.

As I am recounting things which happened in the past ,  it will be sweetened by the fact that it not just an experience anymore…it’s a memory. The facts may be tinged with feeling. When they did occur I was too young to think of them as special or realize that I was laying the first bricks of my life.

What I remember of my childhood is very vague and very intense. It’s like looking at an album of pictures…random pictures inside one’s head. But the memory of our first house is very alive in my memories. Whoever built that house definitely had a macabre sense of humor.

The house was a concoction of green and red. The green was the green of rotting pista ice cream and the red was from zinc oxide. The green part had vein like designs all over-thanks to bad paint job. It was as if the roots of an invisible tree were taking over the house. Ironically enough, later we found that a (baby) banyan tree was growing on our house and we had to regularly try uprooting it!

Here’s a general description of the layout. As you entered the house was the veranda. The veranda served many purposes. We parked our vehicles here…so it was not very surprising to find a few stains of oil leaks. On one side was the shoe rack where someone with time to spare could have discovered the first footwear ever made, the one Rama probably wore in Sri Lanka and even the one Gandhi wore on Dandi march. No choultry entrance could beat the number of footwear on this rack. The shoe rack was also reported to gobble up one shoe from every set…so there were a lot of widow-widower shoes…lying silently in despair on this wooden rack. On rainy nights the veranda was also our dog shed. To your right side was the bathroom which also housed the stairs to the terrace.

Many mornings, I would have to cross this maze of parked vehicles, an affectionate dog and the ever exploding shoe rack just to get to the bathroom!

On the left of the was the second bedroom which was probably called that as there was a mountain of haasge-hodge (bedding and bed sheets) on one side and the rest of the space was taken over by rattan chairs, an almirah, a mirror and a gigantic study. You had to climb on the study to answer the phone as our red and black phone was on one end of the study and only one who could aspire to lift the phone while standing was an “ajaanubaahu” (A person whose fingers reach his knees while standing up).

The wall which separated this from the other bedroom was my scrap-board. This wall was filled with multiplication tables, amateur sketches of crows, elephants, and sunrise (with a few birds flying across mountains-I bet there is no kid who hasn’t drawn that)… Kannada grammar, English alphabets …you could literally see my handwriting improve over time. I was hell bent on becoming a teacher, so whatever they taught in school, I came and wrote it on the wall teaching my own class of invisible pupil.

Now the bathroom was a marvel by itself. It was nothing less than an architectural wonder. The first thing you saw on opening the door was the stairs leading to the terrace….. How many of you can claim to have a stairway in your bathrooms?! But what you wouldn’t see was the deep open water tank hidden behind these stairs. If the plastic mug slipped out of your hand and floated to the other end of the tank…that was the last time you saw it. It could safely build a nest in the dark realms of that tank and procreate without ever fearing getting into a human hand again. Beside this tank was a “hande” (old style boiler) and we used a kerosene stove to heat the water. Every morning, you would suddenly hear “BBBbbbzzzzzzzzz” sound which meant in a few minutes you would be facing your ever affectionate dog. One of our guests had very naively asked whether there was some factory nearby.

We had to mix hot water from the hande, cold water from the spooky tank in a very heavy and old iron bucket. Because of the flames from the kerosene stove the whole place was covered in black soot. It was also very important not to wet the kerosene stove while you were bathing. I am still amazed that we bathed regularly in spite of such grave obstacles. We later got a shower installed, which also joined the community of rusting articles in our house.

Let’s not forget the stairs in the bathroom. Each and every step had its own individual purpose. The first two steps were for dumping clothes to be washed; third and fourth steps housed all our soaps, shampoos, tooth brushes, castor oil and my very old shikhakai dabba; Fifth and sixth steps were used for keeping our kerosene stove. Unless balanced at the exact angle, it had a tendency to come tumbling down…spilling kerosene on our toothbrushes on its way; seventh and eighth steps housed our gardening tools; the rest of the stairs were for all the miscellaneous items which we didn’t have any immediate use but we might have needed them if the aliens attacked or if someone in our house decided to become a ninja. We also had two gunny bags which stood there like grizzly bears ready to attack you. What they contained, I have no recollection. If you passed all these items…and the cobwebs and the spiders which jumped on your neck didn’t deter you from coming this far, you stood in front of a very old wooden door with a rusted lock. As you tried to open this lock it made a sound something like “karakarKKKaaRRaa” (repeat fast in your highest pitch). During monsoons, you also had to force the door open by colliding against it (you know how wooden doors get in rain).

The next room was the living room which also served as our dining room, bedroom and the entertainment room. At the centre of this room was a storage cupboard where all our gombe (dolls) were kept. This included a doll with one busted eye (with a straw dress) of which I was mortally afraid. This room had pictures of all major Gods looking down at us mortals from a height. Since this was also where the whole family slept, it could get kooky. If you got up in the middle of the night and a stray light hit the photos hanging above you…you had the distinct feeling that someone was watching you!

This room also had our very big dining table below which most of the dogs we had, spent their time.

Every night we had the arduous task of getting all the haasge hodge and arranging them in the hall. I had a forest green rug which I was madly in love with. I used it even when it lost all its fur and looked like a scraggy dog.

On the left of the living room was the master bedroom. This room housed a bed, two almirahs, a small hillock of haasge-hodge and dimboo and a refrigerator! This room also had a storage cupboard .One of the doors couldn’t be opened as it was obstructed by the bed and the other because the previously mentioned hillock was in the way. That doesn’t mean that we didn’t use it. This cup board housed all our cosmetics, our book collection and our cassette collection. Between the two almirahs is where we kept our chaape (jute mats) and it was a real pain to get them out when guests came without notice. This room also had an attic and it was a pastime to lie on the bed and wonder what was in each box. (The mixie box contained unused plates and spoons).The almirah doors were also blocked by the bed and the whole space was really crowded for an adult. So only children of the house could squeeze into that cramped place and get the necessary item out. Those times made me realize that calling purple- blue won’t help anyone!

To the right of the living room was a claustrophobic corridor which you crossed to enter what was probably one of the scariest kitchens in the world. This tunnel also featured two windows which opened into the bathroom, don’t ask me why! I have spent many evenings sitting on the first windowsill and demanding toll from people passing through this corridor. The corridor had a coating of sunna (Lime) so it was not very uncommon to see white powder on our clothing and body parts.

The kitchen had a dark nook with a chimney where we kept our gas stove. The backsplash made of splattered oil and food matter sparkled like freshly polished granite. The scariest view in the house (which is an achievement by itself) was definitely up the chimney. On one side of the kitchen was an old wooden table (painted light blue for unknown reasons) was the pedestal where we kept the mixie. Right beside it was our sink…which included a tap and an opening which was a feet below the tap. It was impossible to open the tap without getting wet yourself. On the other side of the tap was the stone grinder embedded into the floor. So one couldn’t use this grinder and the tap at the same time (unless u wanted water splashed all over whatever you were grinding). Along with water storage, drums for rice and dal…this too was a crowded place.

The kitchen also housed a puja place which had a rusted mesh gate. Every imaginable Hindu God resided there and while mom prayed, I spent my time trying to pull the mesh out.

The corridor also led to the passageway which housed a loo, tap and a water tank, a place to wash the clothes, do dishes and a rusted iron door to the garden. I liked placing my hand on the water surface in the tank…feeling the texture of water. It still remains my favorite sensation.

We may argue on many details but my family agrees on one thing. The loo was definitely the crowning glory of this house. It had a very modern design. It was an open design which meant it had no covering on top. This provided an excellent view of the sky…

But since the house beside us was higher than ours and had a terrace, we had to first peep and make sure that there was no audience. It was a square-ish place which had a blue metallic door which was rusting from all sides (too many things were rusting in that house).One way you could entertain yourself whilst you were there was by breaking off chunks of rusted metal from the door. I always felt that the faded blue door with its brown erratic edges was a beauty. This door finally broke and was kept aside. So you first went in, lifted the door and tried as much as possible to block the entrance. There were also some plants growing by the edges…and weeding was another option if you were not so much into art in metal. And don’t get me started on those rainy days when I had to carry an umbrella in there!

Another weird thing about the house was windows which opened into other rooms. There was a window in the living room which opened into the veranda, the two aforementioned windows in the corridor which opened into the bathroom and big meshed window in the veranda which could not be closed.

The house had its compensations-The beauty that was our big wild garden and our big terrace. It was not a cultivated garden…it was more like a forest. We had park-like concrete benches, big guava and cashew trees, rose bushes everywhere and a secret moss covered tap and a rubber hose which I confused for a snake many many times. On one side of the house was a bench with a parijaatha tree. I would do all my studying on this seat. I remember the soft smell of parijaatha…the feel of the bark of the skinny tree…its rough leaves. This tree was directly opposite the window of the second room where I did my homework. It was hard concentrating on homework when the fragrance was so intoxicating. These trees were my best friends. I spoke to them, hugged them often and taught them whatever I learnt in school.

Another oasis was our very big terrace. I spent so many afternoons there lying on my back, looking at the clouds go by. A part of the terrace was shaded by the guava tree…and when it got too hot, I would just nestle into the shade and doze off.

I cannot think of any place which is such a perfect combination of sheer ugliness, unsurpassed horror and surprising beauty. But most of all these memories stand as testament to those days of innocence where we didn’t realize the ugliness of that house. You see, for us it was our home where we grew up under so much love and affection.

Coming soon: Neighbors and stealing flowers

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She felt it in her heart. Tonight was the night. She brushed her flaxen hair till every strand shimmered.Storms were brewing in her gray eyes. He would come today. Her life of forced solitude would finally end. She would look at him, blush like a rose bud and swoon in his arms just as he kissed her. She knew her part well. After all hundreds of fairy tale princesses had been saved from dragons before. She had nothing to worry.

She thought about her eighteen years in the lonely tower near the ocean of thunderstorms. She wouldn’t admit even to herself that she was more afraid of going back to the real world than of spending her entire life in this lonely tower. The dragon was not as bad as they made out in the fairy tales. They were very ugly but she preferred them to many things …like toads for example. She was grateful that she wasn’t the princess who was destined to kiss a toad.

Her personal opinion was that being a fairy princess was pretty dull. One couldn’t scratch when one itched.

But then she wouldn’t bring dishonor to her class. She would play her part perfectly.

As the sun set on the moon rose in the horizon, she heard the sound of horse hooves. She went and peeked from the window. He looked majestic on his white horse but whether he was really good looking she couldn’t tell.

She stood at her window and witnessed the bloody fight between the dragon and her prince charming. She wasn’t as worried as she looked…but the frown on her brow would have satisfied the most demanding reader. But the prince was deft with his sword play and he had the dragon slain within a few hours of fighting.

She seated herself besides the vase of lilies, and arranged her gown and was content that she must have made a pretty picture.

In a few minutes, her prince charming walked in. He looked tired and a little vexed.

“My lord!” she said breathlessly.

He was panting and sweating and somehow she found it very unbecoming. Fairy tale heroes don’t sweat!

He slumped on the chair as she scurried away to get him some water.

After a few minutes of rest, he looked at her appraisingly and murmured “Curse all ye women!”

Looking at her shell shocked face, he continued-

“Surprised are we? Did you except me to bow and take you in my arms? I could wringe your neck and enjoy it very well! Of all the dumb things your lot does, getting kidnapped by a dragon takes the cake!”

“What’s the guarantee that you won’t get kidnapped again, if I take you back? Or eat a poisoned apple or get a witch angry enough to curse you to deep slumber?”

She sighed and tried to explain-”My sire! You do injustice to my lot. Is it our fault that we are trusting and naive?”

“Naive… my foot! Just scatterbrained….lost in thought about your looks I suppose! Madame, your father promised me your hand in marriage as is the custom. But I am not sure that you will make any man a fit wife. You are pretty enough, but so is the milk maid. I need someone who is as perfect as my mother. How will you manage the responsibility of taking care of young ones?! Sigh! I guess I am doomed to marry you just keep up with tradition.”

She saw her future…of constant nagging about having saved her life, a life under the weight of expected gratitude-constant comparisons to his perfect mother.

And then she made her decision.

People say that they both lived happily ever after.

As contradictory as it sounds, I find new beginnings very nostalgic. In a way it makes sense as every beginning in a way ends something old. And for someone who is not good friends with pragmatism…change is always bittersweet.

After 3 months of hectic lifestyle and exhaustion (defined as the inability to carry your own body from the couch to the bed)…Saif and I gave in to what most people would consider as common sense.

We decided to move.

We have been staying in Mountain View for more than 1.5 years now and to say that we loved it there will be an understatement. It’s a beautiful place. Undulating hills, lakes, trails, buzzling downtown, lot of places to eat out-this city has it all. But what sets Mountain View apart is its ability to charm you.

Cities are very much like people. Some people are effortlessly charming. They say charm can be cultivated but I tend to disagree. You can learn to be more pleasing. But charm… is an inner light-you have it or you don’t. This city had that something indefinable. …probably an air of romance…an air of possibilities.

Not only did we love the city…we were crazy about our sunny apartment too. Small enough to compete with any artist’s nook in Paris-it had the view of mountains from both the dining space and the bedroom.

My mom always used to tell me that the wise thing to do was live in a small house when you are newly-weds. This way you keep bumping into each other. After a few years of marriage, move into a big house so that you don’t get in each other’s way.

So for nearly a month we discussed hesitantly about moving…and one of us would exclaim “we can’t possibly leave Mountain view!” .But,we started looking at homes/apartments and were relieved somehow whenever we disliked an apartment in our list. We would go to eateries near our house…and announce wholeheartedly that one would probably starve in any heathen place which is not Mountain view.

But there were moments of temptation- A house with an Ocean view in Pacifica and an old house on the top of a hill.

Then we found the condo for rent…in Fremont. We had a mental block about Fremont-about being just another face in the ocean of Indian faces. Fear of overtly friendly neighbors and forced friendships because of common nationality. But the house itself was pretty with vaulted ceilings. Saying nice things about it…made me feel guilty. But then I knew-one can’t beat the advantage of having two separate bathrooms.That’s the sad reality of life-Practicality more often than not overrides romantic notions. Two days later…it was all final. We had a week to move.

We went to Saravana Bhavan; to think that I will not get to wait outside with a growling tummy for a plate of Rava Idli! The parathas and the greasy Punjabi food of Rajjot will be missed sorely too. They have no idea how much I’ll miss their scowling faces!

I cried on Castro street saying bye to the street lamps (and freaked out two American kids, by the way) and our familiar hang-outs. Cuesta Park… YMCA and yoga classes on Saturday afternoons.

I cried for the trees…the beautiful city library…I couldn’t go in. I stood outside and cried some more. I cried for this city I loved so much!

We moved the next day.

]]> http://parijaatha.wordpress.com/2008/06/27/185/feed/ 7 parijaatha http://parijaatha.wordpress.com/2008/05/01/tagged-again/ http://parijaatha.wordpress.com/2008/05/01/tagged-again/#comments Fri, 02 May 2008 06:47:42 +0000 parijaatha http://parijaatha.wordpress.com/?p=183 ]]>

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

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 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.