how long?

But how long can Kolkata afford ’shorshe eelish’ is the question? Every single state machinery is close to ruins. However, this ‘misguided anarchism’ is not limited to any particular political party nor is it a fresh idea. I have witnessed ‘bus porano’ 15 years back and if I recall right, the expressions on the faces of the perpetrators weren’t any different. (Looking at the woman should I be lauding them for gender equality?) Living in another city for many years now, I realize more things change more they remain the same.

Every day there is a ’swell’ of Bangalees arriving in other cities looking for opportunities and the ones who remain are probably looking for their 15 mins of fame in this fashion. I am not trivializing the trigger but the means used for protest. Maybe change will come with pain. But I doubt that. As I speak with many folks who live there, I get this alarming sense that they are perfectly ok with the bandh/bus-burning. Yes there is the obligatory noise about ‘economic loss’ but beyond that Kolkata is happy enjoying a long weekend. There is this entire generation that grew up ‘enjoying’ the bandh holidays and would know no better. While watching the news, my nine year old asked ‘what is bandh?’ and for that I am grateful.

happiness...

It was party time with Ro celebrating his birthday. The poor mother was dancing not so daintily between office work and the arrangements. So the cake had to be chocolate and strawberry and the balloons blue and white and the badges Spiderman and the goodie bags handmade from old newspaper and blue satin ribbons and the party games fun. Yes, the mother stayed up nights and ran all the errands till she was ready to collapse before the party. All for a hug and a wet kiss at the end of the party followed by a declaration – you are the best mommy in the whole world. The reward justifies the backaches, the un-met deadlines at work, the dark circle and the haggling with the decorators. For once, the squealing kids didn’t trigger a want to clobber them instantaneously. So they danced and skidded, dropped cake and spilled soda on the floor, screamed their lungs out, thumped each other with balloons. At the end of two hours the place turned into a battered war zone. The service folks bore all the mauling with a smile and the mother looked bedraggled and ready to howl. Finally the party ended and the goodbyes lingered.

baby boy

Ro turned 9 this Monday. He is growing up at a pace that I do not know how to keep pace with anymore. Despite the Ben 10s and the other competing contraptions, he retains some endearing innocence that I know for sure wouldn’t last till next year. He still rushes to hug me when I return home, even when he is in the midst of his friends at the playground. If he is home before me, he insists on opening the door, instinctively knowing who’s at the door. He never flinches when I call him my little baby in public. One of my neighbours always says how lucky I am to have such a loving child. Of course, she doesn’t know of our skirmish and I-will-NEVER-talk-to-yous. But he is a gentle child, probably one of the reasons most girls are friends with him but not all the boys. He doesn’t get into fights and has learnt the art of fixing boys older to him with a stare, which is commendable at his age. I had wished for him to be more aggressive when I mistook his easygoing adaptive nature for passivity. But as he grows, I notice the distinct streak of latent stubbornness that’s a sure sign of a mind all of its own. He has opted for cookery for his hobby class in school this year. My father, being from the generation that he is, looked at him in disbelief when he announced his choice. My mother smiled and was secretly pleased. Last year he had taken yoga, again out of his own volition. To my father all this is very alien and he wonders why on earth his grandson chooses cookery over a science club. Though seeing my mother’s enthusiasm, he keeps his ‘wonderment’ to himself. Finally, I heard him telling Ma yesterday, that he regrets never having learnt how to cook himself. To which my mother, being my mother, tells him it’s never too late.

With you

I was alive

I was spontaneous

I would talk ceaselessly

Time stood still

Right now

I am peaceful

I live a routine

I am a compulsive listener

I wear a watch

Yesterday has been a rite of passage of sorts. Since I know, I have been orgasmic about chicken biriyani. I love and savour it like some women worship and salivate over John Abraham. And I am not a snooty foodie, therefore have had this beloved ‘item number’ across cities, towns and across price ranging from a happy Rs.35 to a heady Rs.375.

But it finally happened yesterday. I was at my favourite biriyani haunt in Hyderabad. And no it isn’t Paradise. It’s a quaint place called Point Pleasant on Banjara Hills Rd. 10. Don’t go by the name or the fading garish look. For the last one year that I am traveling to Hyderabad frequently, I have sworn by their chicken dum biriyani. In Hyderabad, this is my staple everyday. I skip breakfast and dinner to be able to gorge on this ‘item’ during lunch. But the spell broke. Just like many others over the years of wising up. The beautifully laden plate didn’t excite. The mind-bending aroma didn’t titillate. I was left with stunted emotions grouping desperately to find my ‘love’. I watched the curling steam and found myself wishing for a plate of curd rice. My conversion complete. I am praying it is a temporary affliction. Let the lord be with me.

I am back in HYD. Same airport, roads, buildings, hotel room, everything. Just as I left it a month back. In my life, change doesn’t last. Or so it seems. I miss Ro. Intensely. So I work late till I am ready to fall in bed. I miss our ‘slug monster’ games that he invented a few years back. It’s a silly game alright. He crawls up from behind when I am lying on my belly reading a book or fiddling with the keyboard, and I would be obliged to shake him off my back. Silly ain’t it? But these are some of the most fulfilling times that I have known. He has grown up so much that my back hurts but I don’t want him to know. So I strain to shake him off and he goes..weeeeee…yeeeeeee….but well I wouldn’t give that up for anything will I? I do hope someday he will read this and know how much it means to me to have him make me a part of his silly childish games.

the wonderment

Currently I am on a dubious assignment conjured up by my boss and her peers which took me past the St. Patrick’s Cathedral on the right and the Sacred Heart Convent on the left. It’s a spot where Hosur Rd. meets the Residency Rd. and has a long traffic signal. While waiting, I noticed the cobbler kiosk on the left. I have seen it many times before and like any other city dweller learned to forget about it as soon as the light changed to green. Today there was this little girl no more than six in her rather dirty school uniform, with no shoes and hair neatly plaited with red ribbons. She stood right in front of the cobbler kiosk reading a notebook. In a moment I realized she was learning the multiplication table. Completely immersed in her notebook, she kept on reciting the numbers as the pedestrians rushed by, the buses screeched, the autorickshaws honked away and the general din of a busy intersection engulfed her. She stood and practiced her numbers with scant attention to what was happening around her. The middle aged man and a teen aged boy working in the kiosk occasionally looked up at her. The easy comfort of the three leads me to believe that they must be a family. I wanted to get down from the vehicle and may be smile at her and say ‘I am proud of you’ but hesitated. I was the outsider here and didn’t want her concentration to waver. The lights changed and before I could fish out the camera to take her picture the vehicle moved. I just hope her parents know how lucky they are. With the excesses we tend to bring up our children, often the purpose is lost and the value warped. All I wish for her is to get a fair deal and be who she wants to be without getting in the cross hair of our corrupt social fabric. God bless.

Ro’s summer holidays are getting over in exactly 4 days. He seems excited to start school. Even came up with a suggestion why not a new school for the new class, which alarmed me. Fearing the worst, I probed. Do you not like your school? It’s not like that mommy, he looks at me wondering why I don’t get it. It would be fun to get new friends na? This is his third school since kindergarten. And he has never fussed and happily went through the gate never ever looking back. It always unnerves me to see how easily he takes to change. Even to changes which are more personal and intense. We moved house literally over night when I moved in with my parents and he didn’t protest even a bit. I sometimes fear that he must hold a secret grudge and it will all burst open someday. I have tried subtle questions, probing questions and downright honest questions. Nothing. He has never expressed desire to get back to his ‘old’ home/school/friends/neighbours. This puzzles me. I got a close friend to talk to him. She being a trained psychologist hopefully will be able to catch some undercurrent that I have missed. But there was no hint of resentment for the intense changes he has been through. She concluded that he is a superbly well-adjusted child.

When he left his previous school, on the last day of the term, his best friends cried copiously saddened that they wouldn’t be meeting everyday. He hugged them and said bye just like he did everyday for the last three years. The guilt of seeing the tears in the other boys’ eyes wrenched my heart. They were all of five. I promised their mothers that we will meet during vacation. Which we did for a while and there were those frequent telephone calls. But I always got the feeling that he cared more about his friend’s feelings than actually missing them. So while he was polite and cheerful when he met them, he wasn’t really attached. Maybe I am just paranoid!

talking lizzy

I am done with Amit Varma's My Friend Sancho and I have decided to stay with Amitav Ghosh. I tried. No, honestly. I did. It is like Ekta Kapoor's serial with shorter dialogue. This is no Murakami. I expected better craft. I will continue to read his blog instead.

What’s happening with me

My city is having a spell of heavenly weather and hellish roads. Yes. It’s the rains again. Gusty, loud, passionate downpour that is lovely to watch from the glass bubble where I work. But you realize soon that divinity stops at 10 ft above ground. Since we don’t have transporter we have to battle through roads turned sewers, non-stop honking, traffic snarls from hell and breakpoint temper. Caught up in the loveliness I reached home at 9.30. That is a full evening show of being stuck in my car. I could have sat at a movie theatre instead, except that all theatres are on strike!

The good part of this week is the two books I am reading. Carl Muller’s Once Upon a Tender Time, the last of the Von Bloss trilogy. Through the first two parts, The Jam Fruit Tree and Yakada Yaka I fell in love with the Von Bloss. It is an adult tale of love, misgivings, betrayal, loneliness and humour in the backdrop of Srilanka’s fractured history.

The other is Amit Varma’s debut novel, My Friend Sancho that I picked up yesterday from Shankar’s at the Taj. I read his blog regularly and appreciate his view point on most things. I will comment on the book once I have finished reading. My last impulse-buy turned out to be a dud. The only reason I bought that book was the male protagonist’s name. (Yeah! now you know why I am bankrupt).

Oh, the rest of this post is about you. Last night was the third continuous night I dreamt of you. I haven’t missed you all day. Hell, I don’t even think of you as often as I used to (which was every other minute). And I thought I made it. Got over you. Got over the hurt, the indifference, the non-existence, the lies. But then you arrive in my dream as the ordinary, everyday loving self. We talk, we share laughter, we quibble. We become two real persons in my dream. And I fall in love again. I woke up disoriented last night with the taste of bhelpuri that we were feasting on. Falling back to sleep, I realized we have never had bhelpuri together. I just hope I am not talking in my sleep. That will worry Ma.

@ HYD Airport

Sitting at Hyderabad Airport, I am enraged. I just realized that flying to and fro from Bangalore I paid the user development fee twice! If that wasn't enough, at Bangalore, I was told that the airport is not accepting cards of any kind as they don't have the facility and neither do they have change for a Rs.500 since passengers are expected to carry the exact amount! This is 6.30AM and I am expected to find the exact change and tender the same. WTF!

First, I didnot ASK for a swanky airport where a plate of iddlis (2 nos.) costs Rs.90. I didnot ask for an airport that will cost me Rs.700 to reach. Many talk of better 'facilities'. I would ask which ones? Yes, the toilets are cleaner but there is no announcement box inside. So if you errr take longer you just might miss the flight.

I consider air travel as a basic service that should be provided to the average tax-paying citizen. The airports should function efficiently with on-time departure and arrival, acceptable hygiene and cleanliness and other facilities at a reasonable price. I would rather have a no-frills airport that has a better record of on-time takeoffs! Who needs these fancy branded shops that pay a bomb to be there and pass that on promptly to the customer. Imagine if Chennai Central starts charging UDF since it has introduced trolly carts to ferry passengers from entrance to the platform. I bet the railways have a far better record of timely departures and arrivals. So what am I really paying for?

Ok enough cribbing. The road to airport is far prettier in Bangalore than Hyderabad. But Hyderabad has many competitive players in the air-conditioned cab service. Better options than Bangalore.

here goes...

This lovely, lovable lady tagged, so here it is..

A

- Available: no

- Age: three decades and a quarter

- Annoyance: summer heat

- Animal: all

B

- Beer: draught.

- Birthday/Birthplace: 30th Jan/Kolkata

- Body Part on opposite sex: eyes and hands

- Best feeling in the world: holding Ro for the 1st time

- Blind or Deaf: Deaf

- Best weather: winter chill. Cooler the better.

- Been in Love: yes

- Been on stage?: yes, often.

- Believe in yourself?: yes.

- Believe in life on other planets: wouldn’t rule it out.

- Believe in miracles: lucky coincidences.

- Believe in Magic: yes. of the entertaining variety.

- Believe in God: No. But respect those who do.

C- Car: Xing. Dream of a Ferrari Spider.

- Candy: naaah!

- Color: black, red, purple.

- Cried in school: never.

- Chocolate/Vanilla: Tiramisu.

- Country to visit: Egypt and the Scandinavia

D

- Day or Night: Always been an owl. 2-4AM is my fav time. Love the quiet.

- Danced: love it.

- Dance in the rain?: Yes. hell yes.

- Do the splits?: Nope.

E

- Eggs: boiled and shelled.

- Eyes: Smiling.

- Everyone has: a funny bone.

F

- First crush: in school.

- First thoughts waking up: What’s special today?

- Food: well done steak.

G

- Greatest Fear: losing my wit

- Giver or taker: giver . sigh!

- Goals: to be content and happy.

- Get along with your parents?: yes.

H

- Hair Colour: black

- Height: 5’6”

- Happy: most of the time.

- How do you want to die: alone and in peace.

- Health freak?: Noooooooo….I LOVE food, the sinful kinds!

- Hate: Hypocrisy.

I

- Ice Cream: strawberries with cream and gooey strawberry sauce (if it qualifies for icecream) or coffee flavoured ones.

- Instrument: tried to learn guitar. But the teacher gave up.

- Jewelry: my little blade pendant, tiny ear rings.

- Job: Human resource professional. Dream job: painting.

K

- Kids: Have a boy. Want a girl.

- Kickboxing or karate: none. I am the non-violent kind :)

- Keep a journal?: No. Never had the patience or discipline.

L

- Love: begins with self.

- Laughed so hard you cried: Yes.

- Love at first sight: Naaah!

M

- Mooned anyone?: Nope.

- Marriage: Done with.

- Motion sickness?: Severe, specailly on spiraling roads..and I love mountains, so you can imagine..

N

- Number of Siblings: had 1

- Number of Piercings: 4

O

- One wish: peace everywhere…

P

- Place you'd like to live: on a mountain somewhere…

- Perfect Pizza: pepperoni.

- Pepsi/Coke: Water.

Q

- Questionaires: I don’t like silly ones (like this one!)

R

- Reason to cry: when I am hurt.

- Reality T.V.: No, no, no. I don’t watch TV.

- Roll your tongue in a circle: that’s fun!

S

- Song: current favorite – You Found Me - Frey

- Shoe size: 41

- Slept outside: yes. In a tent!

- Seen a dead body?: yes.

- Smoked?: yes.

- Skinny dipped?: yes.

- Shower daily?: usually twice.

- Sing well?: Only Ro thinks I do.

- In the shower?: yes, yes and yes.

- Swear?: often.

- Stuffed Animals?: Currently Ro has loaned me a monkey called George.

- Single/Group dates: Single.

- Strawberries/Blueberries: Strawberries...with fresh cream!

- Scientists need to invent: nothing. They have done enough!

T

- Time for bed: late usually.

- Thunderstorms: I like them…

- TV: Don’t watch.

- Touch your tongue to your nose: Oops…too short!

U

- Unpredictable: absolutely.

V

- Vegetable you hate: Bhindi….yeow!

- Vegetable you love: potato, any doubt!

- Vacation spot: Himalayas

W

- Weakness: much too idealistic..hmm

- When you grow up: Hey! I am already grown up..what kinda question is THIS!

- Worst feeling: to be lied to...

- Wanted to be a model?: No. A model student yes. But my teachers thought otherwise.

- Where do we go when we die: Do I care? I am dead...

Worst weather: Sticky summer heat!

X

-X-Rays: Once. For a suspected hairline crack in the ankle.

Y

-Year it is now: 2009..hah!

-Yellow: Sunflowers.

Z- Zoo animal: I don’t like animals in the zoo…

- Zodiac sign: Aquarius

This lovely gent is surprised to see me do a tag.....infact he asked me if I was feeling alright! Therefore, let me put it on record that I have always done tags, if invited to do so. So here you go Rambler, now it's your turn. Teeheehee!

peeve

Two things that are irritating me right now:

1. I see no reason why India in general and Indians in particular should meddle in Srilanka's internal affair. We should have stayed out of East Pakistan and we should stay out of other people's countries. Send aid if asked. Appeal for minimal casualty. But don't meddle. Currently I am stuck in Chennai since DMK has called for a 'bandh' to protest and armtwist Center to 'intervene' in Srilanka. Thanks to them, I will have to work out of my hotel room tomorrow.

2. I don't see the point of the spotlight in Varun Gandhi. This is election time. Rhetorics are aplenty. Why castigate him for something that doesn't deserve so much hoopla. I have heard the 'acid speech' on TV several times as broadcasted during news. I didn't find anything offensive in it. Go ahead. Call me a bigot.

She misses him at the oddest moments. While watching Flashbacks of a Fool and wanting to know what he would have thought of it. When she wondered who he will vote for this time. When she got stuck on clue 17A of the Sunday crossword.

Yes. She still misses him on her pillow. In the shower. In the kitchen. In their Floyd song. In that antique bar cabinet that they almost bought. In the blueberry cheesecake she doesn’t eat anymore. But these are expected places. So it gets easier with time. It is the odd unexpected ones that take her breath away.

thank you

Last evening, it was that rare headache. On those odd occasions, it leaves me crabby and terribly vicious. Last evening was no different. The constant throb left me barely human. I sat quietly with a steaming cup of tea, staring vacuously out of the window, at the gathering darkness outside. I was barely conscious of how much I hate evenings. In fact, it had driven out all other thoughts from my head. And no, I have a warped sense of wellbeing and therefore wouldn’t pop pills for silly things like headaches. So I suffer, usually in silence.

A time like this isn’t easy on an 8-year old. Ro came running almost every other minute to say this and that. His football needs a fill of air, his favourite blue car has a broken wheel that needs immediate fixing, when will I read him the new Tenida story. First I ignored, hoping he will soon find something else to amuse himself with. It didn’t work. He went about with dogged determination that can only be blamed on genes. Mine. He finally decided to regale me with one of my favourite hindi songs – tujhe yaad na meri ayi. Yes, very cute and very charming. Yes, he has a pleasant voice. No, his hindi isn’t top class so he got the lyrics all wrong. Throbbing headache and botched up lyrics doesn’t go well. At that juncture, the slap happened. It was harder than I intended it to be. It shut him up instantly and he ran to Ma screaming 'I will never talk with you again'. I didn’t see him for the next hour or so till I went to bed. By then, the throb had waned giving way to a fuzzy dullness that was bearable. It was a cool night and I pulled up the coverlet to find him tip-toeing inside and settling himself on the other side of the bed. The lights were off but I saw his big eyes shinning with concern and what can only be called love. ‘Sleep, Mommy. You will feel better in the morning’, he whispered. I hugged him and cried. Not bothering to hide my tears. I said I was sorry. He smiled and gently kissed my hair as I curled up hugging him tight till we both drifted off to sleep.

There are a whole lot of things that I have done wrong. But there must have been something that I did right to have deserved him. Thank you, god for giving him to me. I know I never thank you enough. I know I am not a perfect mother. I get overwhelmed easily. I am often flustered. I am impatient at times. I often struggle to manage the various demands. But amidst all of this, you have given me this gift. So thank you again.

The Bong Quotient

You are a bona fide bong if:

1. You are obsessed with either end or preferably both ends of the digestive system.
2. You have an opinion on everything under the sun and believe it is your birth right to express it at every opportunity.
3. You are an ardent practitioner of self-medication and offer solutions to the ones around you whether asked or not.
4. You wear glasses – higher the ‘power’ the better.
5. Your grandmother fed you fish heads when you were a kid promising to make you smarter in math although you have never actually seen a fish of any variety solve algebra.
6. You are obsessed with numbers and force-rank every one/thing from physicians to space satellites and take offence when contradicted.
7. You wear egg-sized gemstones on more than two fingers and most likely dangle mini metal contraptions containing holy flowers/ashes on the various covered and uncovered parts of your body to ward of evil and make yourself invincible.
8. You have tried homeopathy at least once in your life. Better still you have practiced it after learning from an old handbook bought from a used-book store.
9. You are an expert in palmistry. Again, learnt from a second-hand Kiro book bought off the pavement.
10. You insist on screaming your companion’s name in public least he or she gets lost in a crowd. The rule is followed with equal zest in movie theatres, malls, railway compartments, aircrafts and parks.
11. You believe Rabindranath Thakore is the greatest literary figure of all times. The others who count are either English or French.
12. You bargain even at paid public toilets.
13. You smell a ‘chokranto’ (grave conspiracy) every time any thing slightly negative is written against illustrious bongs like Sourab or Pronob (irrespective of your political leaning).
14. You love sleeping in the afternoon.
15. You know all the rights of citizens of India. However, every time responsibilty is discussed you smell a 'chokranto'.

of misspelling..

Recently, in a gathering where I was invited to, I met an exuberant man who seized every opportunity to express his unrestrained opinion. At the end of the program where everyone generally thanks everyone else, he came to me and over some polite talk offered me his business card. We shook hands, I smiled and I left. I got to my car and while putting the card in my bag read the details. Here is part of the card. I have written to him, gently urging him to get his cards reprinted immediately.

P.S. (Incase you haven't been able to make out, the crucial 'l' in 'Public' is missing...making it Pubic Relations and Training. Wondering what all tax payers are paying for eh?)

radio ga ga

I am a self-confessed radio junkie. Between full-time work and a boisterous eight-year old, my music listening happens while driving to and from work and often during late nights on weekends. I guess I have to thank the Galvin brothers for that. I am lazy enough not to organize my CDs and MP3s to make the songs easily accessible and I like to be surprised, so radio works for me. I am a sucker for the retro shows. Mostly because I don’t have to wonder about the words! Ok, now about the two songs this morning…

Black Velvet by Alannah Myles. This has been an old favourite (1989 is positively retro). There is something about her raspy voice that oozes languid insolence. It is so refreshing to hear the opening score of the song. I had spent hours imagining myself in those leather boots and felt hat singing and strumming in front of Elvis-crazed fans. Sigh. That was the only time I wanted crinkly hair.

You Found Me by The Fray. Débuting last November, this one is comparatively super-fresh modern. This song has all the Nirvanasque angst and melancholy minus the guitar riffs. Despite the depressive lyrics that talk about the hopelessness and disappointment that life offers, it is a strangely uplifitng song.

Listen in…

coming back to life..

They played 'our' song today on the radio. It took me by surprise. They never play anything like that so early in the day. The RJ said, 'Roll up your windows and let the music fill your car..' Good for him. What does he know. Silly, really. To be holding on to a song when you have to let go of the person. Then maybe that's how it is meant to be. That is why the song a classic.

wake me up inside...

For the last few weeks the highpoint has been the radio show on Thursday afternoon called ThinkTank where the callers quiz the RJ on music trivia to win sponsored goodies. Usually some rare trivia gets shared which makes the show interesting. Regularly, I leave office at 6 just to be able to tune in while driving back. Speaks a lot about my life doesn’t it.

Anyway, the recent psychometric test found my score to be highest on spatial-visual intelligence followed by musical, intrapersonal and linguistic. I scored lowest on logical-mathematical which comes as no surprise. I remember only two telephone numbers and both of them I have had for the last several years. Once, in school, I had drawn bicycle wheels on the entire math notebook to find out the number of revolutions required to cover an asked distance. Precisely then, I guess, my parents gave up their dreams. More on that later. Only now, I have learnt the multiplication table along with my eight year old. In university, all my applied statistics used to take shape schematically on paper napkins while my partner crunched the numbers. My kith and kin are well aware of my severely challenged ability to comprehend anything numeric. I do not remember the silly SMS numbers that flash on TV to vote for the even sillier shows. I even skip the numbers in an advertisement and read them as ‘blah blah blah’.

Then again, I am the most illogical person around with impossible wishes and irrational reactions. Therefore, unlike DA, I cannot erase people as easily as their telephone numbers. For me, a person, thing or moment is tagged with a multi-sensory memory and filed in the deep crevice of my conscious from where they are impossible to dislodge. Then for years afterwards, I will relive those memories, often painfully, when triggered by a familiar phrase, a well-remembered tilt of the head, a similar posture, snatches of a tune, whiff of a perfume, a certain warmth of voice, a shared joke.

It would have been so much easier if I could put people in numeric context. His bank balance. Her shoe size. His height. Her age. His address. Her phone number. So much easier to erase when required. But that wouldn’t work for me. Unlike the old couple in the paint advertisement on TV, I will recall the colour, texture, smell, taste of all 'our' memory. So, for those I have lost through fate or frivolity, what remains are the myriad hued memories and of course the songs. ‘Our’ songs that will always remain even after the ‘our’ is rendered redundant.