“The Legend of Bagger Vance” by Steven Pressfield is definitely worth a read. I came across the book a few days ago at my neighbor’s house and borrowed it. It is a small book but not easily read for most people. As I started the book, I was doubtful of it making any sort of impression on me since it appeared to be about the game of golf and how it can be compared to the game of life. I know nothing of golf and after reading the book am none the wiser but golf turned out to be only a medium so I was able to appreciate the author’s attempt at expounding a philosophy which is not easy to teach or even comprehend.
The book is totally based on the Bhagavad-Gita, Lord Krishna’s teachings to Arjuna on the eve of the Mahabharata war on the vast Kurukshethra. The very name Bagger Vance is an obvious corruption of ‘Bhagavan’ or God in Sanskrit. The protagonist is Junah again based on Arjuna, the mighty Pandava warrior. The battlefield is the Krewe Links after the Kuru fields of Mahabharata. The essence of the Gita is the beautiful teaching of Krishna – the secret of all existence and the true nature of man. The author seems mesmerized by it. While the concept is familiar to many Indians, it must be entirely new to the Western way of thinking and therefore harder to digest. Perhaps that is the reason the author chose to envelop the most profound truth in golf parlance.
Like Krishna, Bagger Vance is dark hued. Like him, he chooses to be merely the caddie to the player as Lord Krishna chose to be the charioteer of the warrior, Arjuna. From this position of advisor, power pours forth as the caddie exhorts the player to find his “authentic swing” – that which is the true swing after all other ineffectual swings are removed. The Authentic Swing is ever present in potentia as it were, every time a player swings his club. But it appears only when one loses all thoughts of glory or fear or desire. When one plays with true detachment, with no thought to winning or losing but only with focus on the act itself, the one’s swing becomes true and there exists a state of utter calm combined with exaltation. This is the state to which every doer must aspire. This philosophy of “Nishkaam karma” as stated in the Gita is very difficult to bring to being in practice. But it is said that if one reaches that state, then one’s ability to be the best he can is achieved.
The book flows well as a narration by the man, Hardy, who as a boy, accompanied Junah and Vance on that fateful day when Junah is thrown against two mighty golfing greats Jones and Hagen in an exhibition match to inaugurate the newly completed golf links on Krewe Island. The story finishes when he tries to impart his own wisdom to a young man named Michael in the throes of frustration. The young man, though immensely talented feels that life is pointless and there can be no meaning in the misery of millions that make up the modern world. Bagger Vance makes a final mystical appearance to save Michael from despair and to give him the insight he so desperately needs to fulfill his role in life.
The book is inspirational and uplifting if one has but the patience to go into its depth and take the wisdom on offer. Like I said, a truly worthwhile read.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Not a textbook son?
I am a text-book personality. I don't mean I have a textbook case of neurosis but simply that most of the time I don't have the imagination to think or see beyond a set of rules or prescribed actions. That doesn't imply I am completely inflexible, just that flexibility is a mindful attribute and does not come naturally. Maybe that is why I find it so hard to connect to my son. He is as un-textbooklike as any kid can get. He has very little in common with any other child of his age. He dislikes studying or maybe being taught by me - I am not known for patience. His brain works so differently that it is almost impossible to understand why it is so. Accepting that he has a problem which is forcing him to behave this way was hard because he seemed to be fine half the time and he looks like any other kid his age (only maybe quite a bit cuter ;-)). I cannot focus on anything else because this problem is in my mind all the time. I can be productive but instead i let myself dwell on the problem endlessly without finding a solution. Meanwhile my son gets irritated at me for being stressed. A vicious circle which I recognize and hope to break.
I feel very strongly that today's children must be schooled more in emotional courage than academics because they are so unbelievably smart that studying is no longer a challenge. But becoming good human beings are. I think we are raising a generation of emotionally stunted kids who cannot look beyond themselves at the larger world view. They are also extremely intolerant. How do you think a mother feels when her child is always outside looking on? The soft heart that one assumes children should have is not visible at all. So much anger, competitiveness and a single minded desire to get the best of everything is what I see when I look at my neighbours' kids. Sometimes I wonder whether children like my son aren't aberrations from the norm , rather they are blessings that show us how a child's heart should really be if all thoughts of 'only me' are taken out of it...
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Giving
Is it possible for anyone to be truly selfless while giving? I read somewhere that the true giver must give with no thoughts of anything in return not even a grateful smile or a simple thank you. I don’t know how easy that is since I am far from reaching such a state myself. I expect nothing in kind but a show of gratitude seems necessary especially when I am forced into giving (it could be money or even a service or some act to keep up the family status) and not doing so of my own volition. If I give whole-heartedly of my time or money then I feel good but would sometimes still appreciate a thank you (in a look or a smile even).
So I wonder how anyone can reach a stage where the giving alone results in happiness and joy thus removing the need for any response from the receiver. It is a wonderful trait to acquire. I think the closest we come to being truly selfless is when we are parents. I don’t ask for gratitude from my children if I spend sleepless nights watching them when they are ill and that is truly a much more difficult task than shelling out money for charity. No parent would hesitate to exchange their life for their child’s if God or fate demanded it. But we parents do expect returns in terms of obedience or excellence in academics from our children or maybe even conformance to what passes for normalcy in society. So there too we are not truly selfless even if we do place our children above ourselves.
I think for me there was only one time that I was truly selfless (other than after I became a parent). This is when I was sixteen or so. I stayed in the college hostel and there was this other girl who was my roommate. I had three roommates but she was my favorite. I liked her just for herself. I helped her quietly when she needed it and most often she was coldly polite. I did things for her because there was something in her that I felt connected to. One day during the exam season, she fell very ill and lay shivering. Everyone was busy studying. She couldn’t afford to miss the exam but she couldn’t read or hold up a book. So I sat with her to read to her all the stuff she wanted to learn and helped her for hours. I didn’t study my portions that night but it didn’t bother me. She could not believe it and her eyes filled with tears as she thanked me saying “I don’t know why you did it”. I told her to relax and rest. We both did well in the exams. The last day of our stay in the hostel, she called me aside and said she had to apologize for thinking me a snob for the last two years and thank me for continuing to be her friend even when she was deliberately rude. I simply smiled and told her that her reaction never bothered me.
I never repeated such acts later – for my branding has always been that of arrogant and perceptions change rarely. But the weightlessness that lack of expectations brings is a pleasure hard to describe. You simply be good and forget about it. My one experience made me realize years later that it was a small selfless act in my normal existence. The only problem is that I no longer am that naïve and find it hard to open my heart like I could do at sixteen – a portion of loving must accompany the giving for the giving itself to be pure – that is the most difficult part.
So I wonder how anyone can reach a stage where the giving alone results in happiness and joy thus removing the need for any response from the receiver. It is a wonderful trait to acquire. I think the closest we come to being truly selfless is when we are parents. I don’t ask for gratitude from my children if I spend sleepless nights watching them when they are ill and that is truly a much more difficult task than shelling out money for charity. No parent would hesitate to exchange their life for their child’s if God or fate demanded it. But we parents do expect returns in terms of obedience or excellence in academics from our children or maybe even conformance to what passes for normalcy in society. So there too we are not truly selfless even if we do place our children above ourselves.
I think for me there was only one time that I was truly selfless (other than after I became a parent). This is when I was sixteen or so. I stayed in the college hostel and there was this other girl who was my roommate. I had three roommates but she was my favorite. I liked her just for herself. I helped her quietly when she needed it and most often she was coldly polite. I did things for her because there was something in her that I felt connected to. One day during the exam season, she fell very ill and lay shivering. Everyone was busy studying. She couldn’t afford to miss the exam but she couldn’t read or hold up a book. So I sat with her to read to her all the stuff she wanted to learn and helped her for hours. I didn’t study my portions that night but it didn’t bother me. She could not believe it and her eyes filled with tears as she thanked me saying “I don’t know why you did it”. I told her to relax and rest. We both did well in the exams. The last day of our stay in the hostel, she called me aside and said she had to apologize for thinking me a snob for the last two years and thank me for continuing to be her friend even when she was deliberately rude. I simply smiled and told her that her reaction never bothered me.
I never repeated such acts later – for my branding has always been that of arrogant and perceptions change rarely. But the weightlessness that lack of expectations brings is a pleasure hard to describe. You simply be good and forget about it. My one experience made me realize years later that it was a small selfless act in my normal existence. The only problem is that I no longer am that naïve and find it hard to open my heart like I could do at sixteen – a portion of loving must accompany the giving for the giving itself to be pure – that is the most difficult part.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Risking it all
“Too many people are thinking of security instead of opportunity. They seem to be more afraid of life than death.” – James F. Bymes
I don’t have any idea who this author is or what he was famous for other than good quotes. But I quite like this one. It seems to put an ordinary statement in a new light. Most people, at least most people I know are all against taking risks of any kind. I am not a major risk-taker myself normally but I have tried it a couple of times with decent success. Most of the time though I am rather afraid of doing anything perhaps because internally I am more afraid of success and having to work for it but cloaking it under the guise of a myriad excuses.
Currently I don’t have a job (at least not one that pays!!) and neither does my husband. We are starting a company – actually he is – I am along for the ride. We have plenty of loans to pay back to various banks and we also have two children to educate and any number of expenses (unavoidable and avoidable both). So it did sound crazy to the people we knew – of course they were all encouraging but I could see the non-belief in their eyes – there were similar risk-takers in our circle of acquaintances but none who sacrificed total earning power to follow a dream. Of course my dream is different and I have yet to find a way of following it but I am trying a little everyday.
Following your dreams at the expense of security is not for everyone – not many can afford it but if you can, it is good to try at least once in this lifetime or as the saying that inspired this article implies, you will never be truly alive. Security is an illusion – that we have any control over it is an illusion – that we can plan for any eventuality is an illusion too – sometimes things happen and we have to deal with it as best we can. But it is not the goal of human life to live in fear – ours is a noble nature meant to fly and we are perhaps the only one of God’s creatures who can truly do that.
I don’t have any idea who this author is or what he was famous for other than good quotes. But I quite like this one. It seems to put an ordinary statement in a new light. Most people, at least most people I know are all against taking risks of any kind. I am not a major risk-taker myself normally but I have tried it a couple of times with decent success. Most of the time though I am rather afraid of doing anything perhaps because internally I am more afraid of success and having to work for it but cloaking it under the guise of a myriad excuses.
Currently I don’t have a job (at least not one that pays!!) and neither does my husband. We are starting a company – actually he is – I am along for the ride. We have plenty of loans to pay back to various banks and we also have two children to educate and any number of expenses (unavoidable and avoidable both). So it did sound crazy to the people we knew – of course they were all encouraging but I could see the non-belief in their eyes – there were similar risk-takers in our circle of acquaintances but none who sacrificed total earning power to follow a dream. Of course my dream is different and I have yet to find a way of following it but I am trying a little everyday.
Following your dreams at the expense of security is not for everyone – not many can afford it but if you can, it is good to try at least once in this lifetime or as the saying that inspired this article implies, you will never be truly alive. Security is an illusion – that we have any control over it is an illusion – that we can plan for any eventuality is an illusion too – sometimes things happen and we have to deal with it as best we can. But it is not the goal of human life to live in fear – ours is a noble nature meant to fly and we are perhaps the only one of God’s creatures who can truly do that.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Seeping memories...
I’ve always taken my good memory for granted. I was an exceptional student who didn’t have to spend time trying to comprehend or memorize anything. All through my childhood, I devised games with rhymes and words which I think helped my retention power immensely. I remember getting this book of dinosaurs one day and my excitement at the lovely pictures in it – I must have been nine or so. The names were long and involved – not your average tyrannosaurus, brontosaurus or stegosaurus – so in order to remember them I made up a song with all the names – I did that to tackle almost anything I wanted to memorize and I loved collecting words as if they were precious stones.
It may be because of this then that I was disturbed after watching a portion of a movie yesterday. The movie was about a well read and intelligent man’s road to self-destruction because of Alzheimer’s syndrome. I won’t go into the details of the movie because I saw only twenty minutes of it but that was painful enough. I have read about this issue in books of fiction as well as in newspaper and online articles but actually seeing a portrayal was shocking. The family’s suffering was horrific. The patient himself was completely unaware (or at least only intermittently aware) of what was happening to him and he remembered only his childhood days and very little of anything else. So he was in fact mostly happy. The family on the other hand was coping with a nightmarish situation in which the primary breadwinner and the pivot of their life was unable to contribute in any way. The children lost their father and the wife lost her husband. Even death seemed preferable to seeing the merciless disintegration of a human being memory by memory.
I shudder to think of what it would be like to have a brain that is leaking memories– where nagging thoughts are vaguely eating at you but you cannot catch them – or worse, where there are a few lucid moments when you know exactly what is happening and yet are powerless to stop it.
It may be because of this then that I was disturbed after watching a portion of a movie yesterday. The movie was about a well read and intelligent man’s road to self-destruction because of Alzheimer’s syndrome. I won’t go into the details of the movie because I saw only twenty minutes of it but that was painful enough. I have read about this issue in books of fiction as well as in newspaper and online articles but actually seeing a portrayal was shocking. The family’s suffering was horrific. The patient himself was completely unaware (or at least only intermittently aware) of what was happening to him and he remembered only his childhood days and very little of anything else. So he was in fact mostly happy. The family on the other hand was coping with a nightmarish situation in which the primary breadwinner and the pivot of their life was unable to contribute in any way. The children lost their father and the wife lost her husband. Even death seemed preferable to seeing the merciless disintegration of a human being memory by memory.
I shudder to think of what it would be like to have a brain that is leaking memories– where nagging thoughts are vaguely eating at you but you cannot catch them – or worse, where there are a few lucid moments when you know exactly what is happening and yet are powerless to stop it.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Unlicensed but determined
My husband has the nasty habit of selling any car I start to learn driving in. It usually takes me at least two to three years after the purchase of a car to have the guts to attempt driving it. And within a week he will sell it. I do not exaggerate – may I be stricken down with lightning or whatever from the heavens if I lie. See, I’m still typing so you can be assured that this is the God’s own truth.
Why he has the irresistible urge to sell when I am in the process of beginning to get comfortable with driving is a mystery to me. I think in his secret heart, he is afraid I’d destroy his property and hence sells it off at a loss on spying his wife behind the steering wheel. This time it was a month before the vehicle was disposed off. The reason is simple. I got my driver to give me lessons (see the damn thing has a clutch – why would I want to shift gears constantly? – I think I should just move it and the car should reasonably take care of the rest) in absolute secrecy so my husband never knew or saw. But as soon as I shyly confessed to him thinking to make him proud of me because I was driving real smooth, he congratulates me enthusiastically and starts muttering into his phone. Before the week is up – ta- daaa the car’s vanished!!!
Now we have only one car – to me it looks like a truck. I am sure my husband believes I will not attempt to drive a vehicle which (look this is India) can comfortably house two of the average cars on the road. Moreover its diesel. For you neophytes, a diesel engine is a far cry from a petrol engine and behaves very differently. Now today’s technology has created a very smooth diesel engine but its still not petrol. So while I have mastered the clutch (it’s a beauty) on the truck, it still lurches whenever I do anything with it. It lurches when I take my foot off the accelerator. It lurches when I change gears. I make the car look like an old lady hobbling across the street and am heartily ashamed. And tomorrow I take it and go for my driving test. Dear God, what have I done to deserve this? Will I never be licensed?!!
Why he has the irresistible urge to sell when I am in the process of beginning to get comfortable with driving is a mystery to me. I think in his secret heart, he is afraid I’d destroy his property and hence sells it off at a loss on spying his wife behind the steering wheel. This time it was a month before the vehicle was disposed off. The reason is simple. I got my driver to give me lessons (see the damn thing has a clutch – why would I want to shift gears constantly? – I think I should just move it and the car should reasonably take care of the rest) in absolute secrecy so my husband never knew or saw. But as soon as I shyly confessed to him thinking to make him proud of me because I was driving real smooth, he congratulates me enthusiastically and starts muttering into his phone. Before the week is up – ta- daaa the car’s vanished!!!
Now we have only one car – to me it looks like a truck. I am sure my husband believes I will not attempt to drive a vehicle which (look this is India) can comfortably house two of the average cars on the road. Moreover its diesel. For you neophytes, a diesel engine is a far cry from a petrol engine and behaves very differently. Now today’s technology has created a very smooth diesel engine but its still not petrol. So while I have mastered the clutch (it’s a beauty) on the truck, it still lurches whenever I do anything with it. It lurches when I take my foot off the accelerator. It lurches when I change gears. I make the car look like an old lady hobbling across the street and am heartily ashamed. And tomorrow I take it and go for my driving test. Dear God, what have I done to deserve this? Will I never be licensed?!!
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
ennui
Nothing deadens me like routine. Actually that’s not correct, it’s not the routine that sucks all life out of me, it’s the meaninglessness of the chores that fill up the routine. I have always thought of myself as a fairly intelligent person and cannot believe I aced academics all my life just to scrub pots. I should have gone around dating instead of actually studying and maybe I would have ended up a more fun person. Instead I have turned out to be a repressed nutcase with severe control freakishness.
How did I get myself in this soup? I had the world before me and I wasted it. A series of bad life choices and now a complete lack of future awaits me. I have tried so hard to be upbeat but I cannot do it. How can I reinvent myself at 34? Where will I find the inspiration to discover a reason for living? I am not cut out to be a great wife or mother – I cannot even fake interest anymore. The kids are not babies and seem to do well enough without my meddling. My husband can lose himself in any activity – what would he need me for? I stayed at home for a family that really doesn’t require me for anything that a maid can’t do. It is beyond comprehension how systematically I have ensured that I become redundant in every sphere of life. I alone am responsible for my present condition but how on earth can I pull myself back from the brink for that’s where I am and it is unbelievably difficult to even want to.
How did I get myself in this soup? I had the world before me and I wasted it. A series of bad life choices and now a complete lack of future awaits me. I have tried so hard to be upbeat but I cannot do it. How can I reinvent myself at 34? Where will I find the inspiration to discover a reason for living? I am not cut out to be a great wife or mother – I cannot even fake interest anymore. The kids are not babies and seem to do well enough without my meddling. My husband can lose himself in any activity – what would he need me for? I stayed at home for a family that really doesn’t require me for anything that a maid can’t do. It is beyond comprehension how systematically I have ensured that I become redundant in every sphere of life. I alone am responsible for my present condition but how on earth can I pull myself back from the brink for that’s where I am and it is unbelievably difficult to even want to.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Steaming in Kerala
I just got back from a trip to Kerala. The only way to describe it would be hot. Its not just a plain old heat – it’s a sapping, enervating sort of heat and I wonder how I managed to stay there for ten years but then I used to be a lot more accommodating then. You get up in the morning all in a sweat and it gets worse during the day. Your eyes sting and copious rivulets cause various parts of your body to stick to your clothes.
I don’t know whether it’s only my part of Kerala that is stuffy. Everyone there has a stuffy mindset just like the weather there. Of course I love the lushness of the greenery – the fields are a glorious shade of green that is like nectar to the eyes, the soaring coconut palms are a yet another shade of green and the numerous temple tanks are varying shades of green as well. The part I don’t like is the regressive attitude of the people when it comes to personal freedom especially for women. I don’t drink, smoke, wear revealing clothes or even anything less than full length stuff but I am considered a rebel because I think differently. I don’t see anything wrong in asking my husband to help with the children. I don’t see the point in bending backwards to satisfy the inexplicable demands of society. “What will people think?” is the overriding concern of my in-laws. I understand that both I and my children are a sore disappointment to them. I don’t work or drive (yet!) but when I did work, they were upset that I had to keep more hours than a government school teacher. My children can neither sing nor dance or in any way perform to crowds and I have honestly never sent them to be trained in that fashion. I will if they are interested but I simply don’t like forcing them. So they get no attention through my children and they find it difficult to connect with them which is of course understandable.
Restraint is always taught to the females – all girls should school their features into indifference lest they attract attention and definitely no running about. I find that even during a music show, people have constipated looks and they don’t applaud much or show any expression of enjoyment – of course the youth are different but it still seems forced to me. I’m sure one more generation will take care of that .
My roots will pull me back some day though. I only hope I would have regressed sufficiently to survive there by then!
I don’t know whether it’s only my part of Kerala that is stuffy. Everyone there has a stuffy mindset just like the weather there. Of course I love the lushness of the greenery – the fields are a glorious shade of green that is like nectar to the eyes, the soaring coconut palms are a yet another shade of green and the numerous temple tanks are varying shades of green as well. The part I don’t like is the regressive attitude of the people when it comes to personal freedom especially for women. I don’t drink, smoke, wear revealing clothes or even anything less than full length stuff but I am considered a rebel because I think differently. I don’t see anything wrong in asking my husband to help with the children. I don’t see the point in bending backwards to satisfy the inexplicable demands of society. “What will people think?” is the overriding concern of my in-laws. I understand that both I and my children are a sore disappointment to them. I don’t work or drive (yet!) but when I did work, they were upset that I had to keep more hours than a government school teacher. My children can neither sing nor dance or in any way perform to crowds and I have honestly never sent them to be trained in that fashion. I will if they are interested but I simply don’t like forcing them. So they get no attention through my children and they find it difficult to connect with them which is of course understandable.
Restraint is always taught to the females – all girls should school their features into indifference lest they attract attention and definitely no running about. I find that even during a music show, people have constipated looks and they don’t applaud much or show any expression of enjoyment – of course the youth are different but it still seems forced to me. I’m sure one more generation will take care of that .
My roots will pull me back some day though. I only hope I would have regressed sufficiently to survive there by then!
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Why I will not become a best-seller
Alright, here are the several reasons I figure I am not going to be a best-seller.
I am not a stripper. Or a Las Vegas showgirl or a reformed or otherwise call girl/escort: Apparently being any of the above really helps if you have a book to sell. It even helps to get people to read your blog and once enough people have read it, publishing houses approach you with fat advances. Why did I have to be a studious sort growing up? – it would have been much easier to learn to pole dance.
I am not starving and living in a loft: I know this is commonly associated with artists but it couldn’t hurt to be really hard up – it sort of drives you like nothing else I am told. My husband thinks that technically I could be considered as ‘starving’ because of my distaste for food but I don’t think that actually qualifies.
I am not a single parent neither am I divorced or an unwed mother: Again while that alone won’t help, an author who writes under those circumstances has a vastly better chance than a stay-at-home mom who’s an aspiring writer in between housekeeping.
I don’t drink, smoke and have sex every night preferably with different people (on different days of the week I mean): I read this blog recently in which the lady wrote precisely about the three things I have mentioned above. There really isn’t anything much in the blog except how she’s coping from one break up and who is better at sex and why smoking during sex is a real thrill. There I’ve used the word ‘sex’ so many times that hopefully some people will read my blog at least to ask me where they can find the sexy lady’s blog! And to top it all, this lady has a book published by Penguin after one of their talent hunters spotted her very interesting (I honestly didn’t notice that she could write though) and highly popular blog!!
I don’t live in Afghanistan/Pakistan/Iraq and have never met Bin Laden:
Blame me for having a very ordinary life dominated by very ordinary milestones. Who would want to read about characters who were born, grew up, got married, had kids – you can actually see how boring that would be. I did live in the Gulf for 10 years but Bin Laden wasn’t fashionable in those years and I lost a valuable chance to add some color to my history.
I don’t know Bill Clinton or to put it better, Bill Clinton does not know me:
I don’t think I need to explain that one ...
Monday, March 31, 2008
Are you happy?
I just got a mail from an old friend asking me if I was happy. It was not an easy question to answer. I don’t think my reply was completely correct either. So I started thinking about my life and wondered why I was not happy. I am not unhappy but a lack of unhappiness does not mean the presence of happiness. There are many things in my life that other people would covet. I have a beautiful family, a nice house (yeah now after I have slaved for months living through painting jobs and improvement projects!!), a husband who has probably never looked at another woman (:-)), a reasonably good figure (you try giving birth to two kids and we’ll see how you look!) and on occasion a tendency to be rather humorous. So why am I not happy?
I think it’s because I have nothing (excepting some land and half my house – not bad actually!) to my name - neither money nor fame nor even a simple thing such as a car. What I have is what has been given to me – I have earned none of it. I have a bit of money saved up from my previous job but it’s not like I can do anything with that. I have started a software company because they needed someone to sign the papers and my husband always wanted to do something on his own. He is very talented and a great leader so I have no doubt that he’ll be successful and make tons of money as well. But I have no part in that either. True I gave up my job in order to sign the papers. But it could’ve been anyone else’s name – that won’t make or break the company. I am the Director but that doesn’t mean anything. I will not have a job to do and the rest of the people who are part of the company all know each other and respect each other so I would be the only outsider. While I think I could man the phones, the CEO’s wife will not be allowed to do that I think. So I am without any income and worse, after years of staying at home, I have ensured that my earning power will be real low even assuming I do go and get another job.
It is hard to be happy when you feel that in the past ten years what you have done could have been done by anyone else – it didn’t require much talent to get pregnant or deliver the kids. It didn’t take much talent to run a house. It did take talent to raise the kids but I rather screwed that up with my son. It did take a deal of talent to get my graduate and post-graduate degrees though but not using that has eroded its value and mine. So yes I get into a depression now and again at thought of what might have been and the frustration of not being able to get all the words in my head out. I want to write so badly but whatever is in my mind cannot find its way out. Where are the characters, the plots and sub-plots, the descriptions of human follies that are seething in my brain but vanish when I try to pin them down? I picture myself as being happy when I get my book out hoping someone would read it. I cannot picture myself being happy as a software engineer or as a director in someone else’s company who is tolerated because she is the boss’s wife. I am in short unhappy because I have earned no happiness yet. Maybe the best is yet to come but the waiting is not easy.
I think it’s because I have nothing (excepting some land and half my house – not bad actually!) to my name - neither money nor fame nor even a simple thing such as a car. What I have is what has been given to me – I have earned none of it. I have a bit of money saved up from my previous job but it’s not like I can do anything with that. I have started a software company because they needed someone to sign the papers and my husband always wanted to do something on his own. He is very talented and a great leader so I have no doubt that he’ll be successful and make tons of money as well. But I have no part in that either. True I gave up my job in order to sign the papers. But it could’ve been anyone else’s name – that won’t make or break the company. I am the Director but that doesn’t mean anything. I will not have a job to do and the rest of the people who are part of the company all know each other and respect each other so I would be the only outsider. While I think I could man the phones, the CEO’s wife will not be allowed to do that I think. So I am without any income and worse, after years of staying at home, I have ensured that my earning power will be real low even assuming I do go and get another job.
It is hard to be happy when you feel that in the past ten years what you have done could have been done by anyone else – it didn’t require much talent to get pregnant or deliver the kids. It didn’t take much talent to run a house. It did take talent to raise the kids but I rather screwed that up with my son. It did take a deal of talent to get my graduate and post-graduate degrees though but not using that has eroded its value and mine. So yes I get into a depression now and again at thought of what might have been and the frustration of not being able to get all the words in my head out. I want to write so badly but whatever is in my mind cannot find its way out. Where are the characters, the plots and sub-plots, the descriptions of human follies that are seething in my brain but vanish when I try to pin them down? I picture myself as being happy when I get my book out hoping someone would read it. I cannot picture myself being happy as a software engineer or as a director in someone else’s company who is tolerated because she is the boss’s wife. I am in short unhappy because I have earned no happiness yet. Maybe the best is yet to come but the waiting is not easy.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Birthday disasters
I just turned 34 on 26th March. Its one of those nondescript ages you have in order to pass on to a more important one. I always hated my birthdays because I have found out on reflection that most of the difficult times in my life have happened on or just before my birthday. Take the earliest really bad one for instance – I think I turned 10 – that was the night the guy who was sharing a flat with us in Kuwait (we called him Uncle – a really nice person) got back from India after his marriage with a chickenpox afflicted wife. Only my dad would have been so generous as to allow him to stay in a flat with three children and expose all of us to the risk of infection. The worst happened – all of us fell ill. That was only the beginning. My dad lost his job because in the Gulf, if you apply for leave it makes no difference. If you are dying it makes no difference. There are no laws about firing – you could find on any day that you are no longer employed by the company. So he lost his job and a terrible three years of mostly unemployment was before him. We survived somehow.
The next difficult one came when I was 13 and had to leave Kuwait and all my friends and the school which I loved to return to Kerala. Most birthdays after that were forgettable till maybe 13 years later when I had to leave the US though I had become fond of California – it was also the time I learnt that dad had cancer. A year later my dad passed away the day before my birthday – that was the worst experience I have had till date – I have disliked my birthdays more than ever after that loss.
True mostly my birthdays have been either forgotten or not really noticed but that of course was better than struggling through bad ones. This time around it was quite a disaster. All my friends (I have only fiveJ) called me or sent a message. So that was the good part. The bad part is that I have been under house arrest since nine days because the house is getting repainted at an astronomical cost. I cannot leave the house for a minute even to get groceries. I cannot go out for a walk. I cannot eat lunch with privacy or lie down in the afternoons. I can’t find a place without dust. But it’s for a good cause and I am coping. But it is sad when you can’t even step out for your own birthday. It’s even sadder when your husband forgets his wallet at home and does not bring you even a single flower or a piece of chocolate because he didn’t have the money. I would have simply borrowed a few bucks and gotten some flowers but then that’s just me – I guess a guy doesn’t borrow money even for emergencies.
So I got no gifts – I was woefully short of ingredients to make sweets to give the kids at least and I couldn’t go and buy them because of the painting. So I gave up and just went with the flow. The whole afternoon was spent in moving stuff downstairs to upstairs and I couldn’t get a break but at least my husband came early to help with that. While we finished getting one room ready and he was giving the kids a bath, a real heavy and completely unseasonable downpour started. The guy who’s been waterproofing my roof for the last five months (yes I have tolerated the banging and thumping noises all this while – he’s a one man army and therefore takes forever) had blocked the terrace drain with sacks of cement despite my husband telling him several times not to. So the water gushes in from under the door – piles into the newly painted room flows musically down the stairs and fills the hall. To cut a miserable story short, my husband went out in the blinding rain, cleared the drain and stopped the gush. The next few hours were spent in mopping up. My back felt like it was broken in at least three places. The promised trip out to dinner had to be cancelled because of my pain and the rain. I didn’t sleep a wink that night imagining the rain would come in again through some freak repeat of the day’s horror. Of course the positive side is that I now have sparkling clean floors. A birthday to remember you say - more accurately, a birthday to forget – I never liked the number 34 anyway.
The next difficult one came when I was 13 and had to leave Kuwait and all my friends and the school which I loved to return to Kerala. Most birthdays after that were forgettable till maybe 13 years later when I had to leave the US though I had become fond of California – it was also the time I learnt that dad had cancer. A year later my dad passed away the day before my birthday – that was the worst experience I have had till date – I have disliked my birthdays more than ever after that loss.
True mostly my birthdays have been either forgotten or not really noticed but that of course was better than struggling through bad ones. This time around it was quite a disaster. All my friends (I have only fiveJ) called me or sent a message. So that was the good part. The bad part is that I have been under house arrest since nine days because the house is getting repainted at an astronomical cost. I cannot leave the house for a minute even to get groceries. I cannot go out for a walk. I cannot eat lunch with privacy or lie down in the afternoons. I can’t find a place without dust. But it’s for a good cause and I am coping. But it is sad when you can’t even step out for your own birthday. It’s even sadder when your husband forgets his wallet at home and does not bring you even a single flower or a piece of chocolate because he didn’t have the money. I would have simply borrowed a few bucks and gotten some flowers but then that’s just me – I guess a guy doesn’t borrow money even for emergencies.
So I got no gifts – I was woefully short of ingredients to make sweets to give the kids at least and I couldn’t go and buy them because of the painting. So I gave up and just went with the flow. The whole afternoon was spent in moving stuff downstairs to upstairs and I couldn’t get a break but at least my husband came early to help with that. While we finished getting one room ready and he was giving the kids a bath, a real heavy and completely unseasonable downpour started. The guy who’s been waterproofing my roof for the last five months (yes I have tolerated the banging and thumping noises all this while – he’s a one man army and therefore takes forever) had blocked the terrace drain with sacks of cement despite my husband telling him several times not to. So the water gushes in from under the door – piles into the newly painted room flows musically down the stairs and fills the hall. To cut a miserable story short, my husband went out in the blinding rain, cleared the drain and stopped the gush. The next few hours were spent in mopping up. My back felt like it was broken in at least three places. The promised trip out to dinner had to be cancelled because of my pain and the rain. I didn’t sleep a wink that night imagining the rain would come in again through some freak repeat of the day’s horror. Of course the positive side is that I now have sparkling clean floors. A birthday to remember you say - more accurately, a birthday to forget – I never liked the number 34 anyway.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Waking Up
Her ears woke up long before her eyes did. They heard the musical, rhythmic chanting of RamNam (literally, the name of God or Ram). Her father would be the one softly chanting in a voice so steeped with devotion, it brought tears to her eyes. She would lie with her eyes closed and simply listen. Her father would be up by four in the morning everyday and perform his ritual of chanting the Lakshmi Sahasra Naamam (the thousand names of the Goddess Lakshmi) and RamNam followed by reading from the Gita at his little corner of the bedroom before leaving for work at five. Agarbattis would give off their fragrance of devotion and for the little girl all was right with the world.
Years later she would wake up to the sounds of her roommates getting up or the early morning coffee bell at the girls’ hostel. Those mornings saw her chanting for a few minutes before the real start of day as she had promised her father. The rest of the day would go by as a blur but the mornings were always the same and she never faltered in her routine.
Much later when she awoke next to her husband in her new world, she found it more difficult to keep the promise to her father. Sometimes her rosary would have to be hidden since there didn’t seem to be a place for it in the new scheme of things but whenever she felt lost and alone, she would pray mentally to get some solace. But she felt like it was a thing of ridicule and a habit that she must overcome rather than continue.
And even more years later, she awoke free from all thought of chanting or God’s name or anything connected to it. Her mind would be full of the list of things to do as soon as she woke up. No time for contemplation or remembrance or even a tug of memory for her childhood mornings. Now she would be up thinking about whether her maid would be in or not, whether she had enough dosa batter for the family or would it be enough for her children who would eat nothing else – whether the school uniforms were ironed or not, whether she’d make chutney or make do with toast, whether she’d have time for a cup of coffee before the morning’s work is begun. None of the thoughts she woke up with were restful. None of the sounds she hears when waking bring a smile to her face. It is usually the raucous noise of construction or the blaring of the loudspeakers from a nearby Ashram that wake her up.
It has been too long since she woke up with joy in her heart and a prayer on her lips to welcome the new day. Her waking colors her whole day and so her whole day is spent in doing chores on her list or trying to get things done. Her father’s voice still echoes in some dim recess of her heart trying to find a way out so that his grandchildren can have the pleasure of a joyous waking up. She had let his loss bury not only him but also all his lessons and a part of her childhood which she could not pass to her children.
Years later she would wake up to the sounds of her roommates getting up or the early morning coffee bell at the girls’ hostel. Those mornings saw her chanting for a few minutes before the real start of day as she had promised her father. The rest of the day would go by as a blur but the mornings were always the same and she never faltered in her routine.
Much later when she awoke next to her husband in her new world, she found it more difficult to keep the promise to her father. Sometimes her rosary would have to be hidden since there didn’t seem to be a place for it in the new scheme of things but whenever she felt lost and alone, she would pray mentally to get some solace. But she felt like it was a thing of ridicule and a habit that she must overcome rather than continue.
And even more years later, she awoke free from all thought of chanting or God’s name or anything connected to it. Her mind would be full of the list of things to do as soon as she woke up. No time for contemplation or remembrance or even a tug of memory for her childhood mornings. Now she would be up thinking about whether her maid would be in or not, whether she had enough dosa batter for the family or would it be enough for her children who would eat nothing else – whether the school uniforms were ironed or not, whether she’d make chutney or make do with toast, whether she’d have time for a cup of coffee before the morning’s work is begun. None of the thoughts she woke up with were restful. None of the sounds she hears when waking bring a smile to her face. It is usually the raucous noise of construction or the blaring of the loudspeakers from a nearby Ashram that wake her up.
It has been too long since she woke up with joy in her heart and a prayer on her lips to welcome the new day. Her waking colors her whole day and so her whole day is spent in doing chores on her list or trying to get things done. Her father’s voice still echoes in some dim recess of her heart trying to find a way out so that his grandchildren can have the pleasure of a joyous waking up. She had let his loss bury not only him but also all his lessons and a part of her childhood which she could not pass to her children.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Bollywood Bonanza
I cannot turn on the TV at all without being bombarded with images of scantily clad females in every channel. Yes, I do know that at least 50% of the population are enjoying this and even small kids and pre-teens get a big kick out of the whole Bollywood song and dance routine. But honestly doesn’t it pall after the first one thousand close up shots of almost-boobs and endless thighs? How many different kinds can there be after all? Not a single Hindi movie gets made without at least one ‘item-number’ – for those of you who are not Indian, this translates as an excuse for the director/producer to bring in almost completely undressed women doing pelvis-dislocating routines in case the heroines are a little coy about showing acres of flesh because the ‘script calls for it’ (what script? Hindi movies never have one)
Imagine a poor unsuspecting person watching a Hindi movie. The movie starts off with the hero landing in a helicopter or some such nonsense and an extravagant song routine follows where the mother of the hero features prominently (she is , thankfully, fully covered). The hero then does the rest of the heroics and right in the middle of an emotional dialogue between father and son, up pops the item number. Why would someone in harem pants and/or leopard skins be dancing in the middle of the living room around a pole in broad daylight is anyone’s guess but dance she does with the father and son ceasing hostilities till the number is done and resuming shortly after. This would be the script of a blockbuster hit – I don’t do flops – and in case this dosage of see-all costumes is not enough, a title track is added after the movie is made!! This is to keep you in your seat after the movie is finished and to raise funds for the poorly-clad women on screen I’m guessing.
I understand that men may get ,er, titillated by the sight of toned bodies gyrating on screen but even some of them feel that there’s simply too much and the novelty’s long since worn off. And yet the Hindi film industry has a huge fan following. People don’t mind being taken for a ride or the lack of a script – all they want is entertainment. For those of us who come from states where the regional film industry actually bothers to create cinema, it’s a bit baffling. I grew up watching great cinema (both English and Malayalam), wonderful acting and meaningful stories on film. I can watch a Hindi movie only after suspension of all brain-activity or as a stress buster after say, a bout of examinations or a killer project. I am definitely in the minority here in Bangalore but I shall continue to single-handedly defy the meaningless stupidity that is the average Hindi movie.
Imagine a poor unsuspecting person watching a Hindi movie. The movie starts off with the hero landing in a helicopter or some such nonsense and an extravagant song routine follows where the mother of the hero features prominently (she is , thankfully, fully covered). The hero then does the rest of the heroics and right in the middle of an emotional dialogue between father and son, up pops the item number. Why would someone in harem pants and/or leopard skins be dancing in the middle of the living room around a pole in broad daylight is anyone’s guess but dance she does with the father and son ceasing hostilities till the number is done and resuming shortly after. This would be the script of a blockbuster hit – I don’t do flops – and in case this dosage of see-all costumes is not enough, a title track is added after the movie is made!! This is to keep you in your seat after the movie is finished and to raise funds for the poorly-clad women on screen I’m guessing.
I understand that men may get ,er, titillated by the sight of toned bodies gyrating on screen but even some of them feel that there’s simply too much and the novelty’s long since worn off. And yet the Hindi film industry has a huge fan following. People don’t mind being taken for a ride or the lack of a script – all they want is entertainment. For those of us who come from states where the regional film industry actually bothers to create cinema, it’s a bit baffling. I grew up watching great cinema (both English and Malayalam), wonderful acting and meaningful stories on film. I can watch a Hindi movie only after suspension of all brain-activity or as a stress buster after say, a bout of examinations or a killer project. I am definitely in the minority here in Bangalore but I shall continue to single-handedly defy the meaningless stupidity that is the average Hindi movie.
Monday, March 10, 2008
A job well done...
The following is a letter I sent to our newspaper when I could no longer control my anger at a very political issue that is going on. I am sure they will not publish it - so just to have the pleasure of telling them I've posted it on the net, I am leaving it here. Good heavens, who thought I'd go political;-)....
I am writing this to express my unspeakable irritation at the farce that I see unfolding before me regarding the new Bangalore airport. As a concerned citizen, I cannot believe that the government would so publicly renege on its commitment. The airport is ready and it’s ready on time. I live in Jakkur and have personally watched with growing pride at the way the work has progressed these last three years. The roads from the Hebbal flyover to Devanahalli are in good shape. Brunner has delivered a perfectly executed finished product. And the government as well as assorted politicians and even key business names have now woken up and protest that the airport is too far for their convenience.
All us North Bangalore residents have been so used to the step motherly treatment of our needs that we commuted to the business areas in increasingly chaotic traffic without a murmur. A trip to the airport would take us nearly two hours but who cares about that. Now that the other people have to make this same trip, it rankles. But where were all these people when the airport project was announced so many years ago? Didn’t they know what it meant then? The BIAL completed its task to perfection – connectivity was not their job. It was the job of the government which was apparently in hibernation or in a drunken stupor all this time since only now it seems to have woken up to the glaring fact that a world class international airport in Bangalore also need roads to get there.
I fully agree that traveling to the new airport will not be easy but keeping the existing HAL airport which was a makeshift arrangement right from the beginning, is not going to solve the problem of connectivity. The HAL airport is a disgrace – there’s not adequate room for anything – not for parking, not for the arriving passengers. It is a cowshed in comparison to the new facility and instead of lauding all the efforts that went into it, people are acting like it’s a curse!
Let the government work immediately to provide a dedicated road system from the city to the new airport. Let them pay a penalty for going back on their word, for not doing anything, for bringing in loss to the airport authorities. I am fully confident that no foreign company will now take part in an infrastructure development project in Karnataka. Why, even today’s front page screamed ‘New Airport inauguration postponed’ – do you know why? – I don’t and neither does the article – it just says that some equipment is not installed in the ATC – yeah, right. Anything to throw dirt on a flawless piece of work – anything to show BIAL in a bad light – not even bare details of the kind of system missing in the ATC (which somehow still managed to conduct successful flight tests) – irresponsible reporting supporting an even more irresponsible government. Can we just give the new airport a chance? Its location cannot be an issue – all major cities have airports that are situated away from the business districts. Its facilities cannot be an issue. Only getting there is – let’s get the government to do its job instead of penalizing people for having done theirs too well.
I am writing this to express my unspeakable irritation at the farce that I see unfolding before me regarding the new Bangalore airport. As a concerned citizen, I cannot believe that the government would so publicly renege on its commitment. The airport is ready and it’s ready on time. I live in Jakkur and have personally watched with growing pride at the way the work has progressed these last three years. The roads from the Hebbal flyover to Devanahalli are in good shape. Brunner has delivered a perfectly executed finished product. And the government as well as assorted politicians and even key business names have now woken up and protest that the airport is too far for their convenience.
All us North Bangalore residents have been so used to the step motherly treatment of our needs that we commuted to the business areas in increasingly chaotic traffic without a murmur. A trip to the airport would take us nearly two hours but who cares about that. Now that the other people have to make this same trip, it rankles. But where were all these people when the airport project was announced so many years ago? Didn’t they know what it meant then? The BIAL completed its task to perfection – connectivity was not their job. It was the job of the government which was apparently in hibernation or in a drunken stupor all this time since only now it seems to have woken up to the glaring fact that a world class international airport in Bangalore also need roads to get there.
I fully agree that traveling to the new airport will not be easy but keeping the existing HAL airport which was a makeshift arrangement right from the beginning, is not going to solve the problem of connectivity. The HAL airport is a disgrace – there’s not adequate room for anything – not for parking, not for the arriving passengers. It is a cowshed in comparison to the new facility and instead of lauding all the efforts that went into it, people are acting like it’s a curse!
Let the government work immediately to provide a dedicated road system from the city to the new airport. Let them pay a penalty for going back on their word, for not doing anything, for bringing in loss to the airport authorities. I am fully confident that no foreign company will now take part in an infrastructure development project in Karnataka. Why, even today’s front page screamed ‘New Airport inauguration postponed’ – do you know why? – I don’t and neither does the article – it just says that some equipment is not installed in the ATC – yeah, right. Anything to throw dirt on a flawless piece of work – anything to show BIAL in a bad light – not even bare details of the kind of system missing in the ATC (which somehow still managed to conduct successful flight tests) – irresponsible reporting supporting an even more irresponsible government. Can we just give the new airport a chance? Its location cannot be an issue – all major cities have airports that are situated away from the business districts. Its facilities cannot be an issue. Only getting there is – let’s get the government to do its job instead of penalizing people for having done theirs too well.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Go Go Goldfish
I am a complete sucker. There is no doubt about it. I keep falling for the same tricks time and time again. This time it’s the goldfish.
I have been in the “let’s get this house to look like a human habitation” mode for quite a while now. While on a cleaning spree, I uncovered a glass bowl which used to contain goldfish. We had gotten it (plus the fish) as a return gift on my neighbor’s son’s birthday party. I should have dumped them when I had the chance – instead I got them home and tried to take care of them. Despite my care or maybe because of it, they died within a week. I felt really bad and my kids kept asking me what happened to the fish. Anyway that was two years ago but the uncovering of the fish bowl got my daughter asking for the fish all over again. So I succumbed (if I had the guts, I would tattoo ‘idiot’ on my forehead – well actually the mirror image of ‘idiot’ so I would get a good look whenever I pass by a mirror). I promised the kids I would check for fish in the local pet shop and buy some if they weren’t too expensive. I think it’s important to keep promises and so I went out the next day and got a pair of small goldfish.
I couldn’t wait for them to come home from school and see them. When they burst in that evening and saw the fish, they were really thrilled – I couldn’t help grinning at their expressions – they promptly named the fish Appu fish and baby fish after themselves. I told them not to upset the creatures and to not make too much noise around them and to please never feed them anything or they would die. They chorused assent. When I cleared the table set for tea and got back, my son had dumped half a biscuit in the goldfish bowl. I frantically fished the offending item out, fished the fish out and changed the water and let out a long held breath when they were back in the bowl. I saved them once but the days ahead were worse.
By the third day, my kids began acting like the whole thing was my idea. They forgot about the fish – didn’t want to help me feed them or watch me change the water or say good night to them any more. And me? I got stuck with taking care of two more monsters. The fish take after their namesakes - one is hyper and eats properly, the other is slim and eats nothing. I can only give six pellets of food and one eats them all so either a) the fat one dies of too much food or b) the thin one starves or c) they both die. Eeeek!! Too much stress – I thought watching those damn things swim was supposed to relax you. I tried whistling and clucking at the non-eater so that it would notice the food – it’s of no use – that fish is completely oblivious. I tried yelling at them to have breakfast (well it works with the kids) – no use. I tried cajoling but couldn’t think of any reasonable bribes they might be interested in. I really don’t want skinny to die but I see no hope if this regimen of dieting continues.
All in all I am beginning to spend so much time or trying to feed the damn things with absolutely no results that it’s getting to me. I don’t even make fish curry anymore since I can’t stand the sight of fish of any kind. I am switching to chicken – to eat and not to keep as pets. Maybe I should just leave the two to the tender loving care of their namesakes – that would for sure get them back in line !!!
I have been in the “let’s get this house to look like a human habitation” mode for quite a while now. While on a cleaning spree, I uncovered a glass bowl which used to contain goldfish. We had gotten it (plus the fish) as a return gift on my neighbor’s son’s birthday party. I should have dumped them when I had the chance – instead I got them home and tried to take care of them. Despite my care or maybe because of it, they died within a week. I felt really bad and my kids kept asking me what happened to the fish. Anyway that was two years ago but the uncovering of the fish bowl got my daughter asking for the fish all over again. So I succumbed (if I had the guts, I would tattoo ‘idiot’ on my forehead – well actually the mirror image of ‘idiot’ so I would get a good look whenever I pass by a mirror). I promised the kids I would check for fish in the local pet shop and buy some if they weren’t too expensive. I think it’s important to keep promises and so I went out the next day and got a pair of small goldfish.
I couldn’t wait for them to come home from school and see them. When they burst in that evening and saw the fish, they were really thrilled – I couldn’t help grinning at their expressions – they promptly named the fish Appu fish and baby fish after themselves. I told them not to upset the creatures and to not make too much noise around them and to please never feed them anything or they would die. They chorused assent. When I cleared the table set for tea and got back, my son had dumped half a biscuit in the goldfish bowl. I frantically fished the offending item out, fished the fish out and changed the water and let out a long held breath when they were back in the bowl. I saved them once but the days ahead were worse.
By the third day, my kids began acting like the whole thing was my idea. They forgot about the fish – didn’t want to help me feed them or watch me change the water or say good night to them any more. And me? I got stuck with taking care of two more monsters. The fish take after their namesakes - one is hyper and eats properly, the other is slim and eats nothing. I can only give six pellets of food and one eats them all so either a) the fat one dies of too much food or b) the thin one starves or c) they both die. Eeeek!! Too much stress – I thought watching those damn things swim was supposed to relax you. I tried whistling and clucking at the non-eater so that it would notice the food – it’s of no use – that fish is completely oblivious. I tried yelling at them to have breakfast (well it works with the kids) – no use. I tried cajoling but couldn’t think of any reasonable bribes they might be interested in. I really don’t want skinny to die but I see no hope if this regimen of dieting continues.
All in all I am beginning to spend so much time or trying to feed the damn things with absolutely no results that it’s getting to me. I don’t even make fish curry anymore since I can’t stand the sight of fish of any kind. I am switching to chicken – to eat and not to keep as pets. Maybe I should just leave the two to the tender loving care of their namesakes – that would for sure get them back in line !!!
Monday, March 3, 2008
A hand up...
The kids had their annual day last Friday. It went well all things considered. The programme started on time and finished on time. The chief guest came on time and was someone I have long admired so I enjoyed hearing him speak. Our kids behaved well and did not throw any tantrums and remained more or less quietly backstage till it was time for them to perform.
I was uncomfortable though – because the truth which I go to great lengths to hide from myself is becoming more apparent with each passing day. The fact hurts me much less now than it did four years ago but it still hurts all the same. My son is not like the other kids. That’s the truth and there is no way out of it. It is not a good thing but neither is it bad. He is extremely intelligent and very cute as well. He loves with a heart as big as the whole world. He can solve puzzles in a trice and is a computer whiz at seven years of age. He is also wrapped up in his world or at least a world that seems to barely overlap mine most of the time. He used to be mine when he was very young and then he left to follow some other vision. He loves to be treated like a much younger child. He doesn’t want to grow up.
At the annual day, they made him give a bouquet to an important guest. All the ‘special’ children were made to do that – so it killed me on the inside to see my child alongside them. I hate the word special. He does not have any mannerisms or features that make him look different – only his partial presence and therefore lack of focus in this world causes him to be labeled as such. He then got an award for “best attempt at adaptation to a classroom environment” which means he has finally learnt to sit still for 20 minute stretches and is therefore allowed in the mainstream classroom. I think it’s great he got the award but the way the teachers were leading him and holding his hands together and turning his head for him made him look like he could barely go and take the certificate by himself when he is normally very self-reliant!! I don’t know whether to applaud the teachers for their over-zealousness or wring my hands in agony that they seem so eager to slot him that they give him no chance to be himself.
Then he had a bit part in the play (which he very cutely screwed up so innocently that it had me laughing loudly) and then in a group dance. I was amazed at the way he actually stood in his place and managed to match everyone’s steps. I wanted to cry so badly there in that hall seeing my son jump up and laugh and clap and shake his little butt. How his teachers managed to get him to be interested in the steps is something I cannot begin to guess at. Anyway he had a good time and we were relieved and happy as well.
The little one performed as well. She was a class act. Every step of her dance she executed with skill and grace though she was the smallest kid in the group. I felt pride lift me up off the chair by a couple of inches at least!! When I got home, I started thinking about why her achievement should be more laudable than his – she always liked to dance – he never was so inclined – from being unable to stand still for a few minutes even, he managed to dance through a whole song and that too in time with others. So while she is much younger and really talented, the amount of effort my son put in must have been tremendous. And I in my narrow-minded spirit failed to see that. I saw his awkward steps and didn’t see his joy. I saw him as part of a group that is normally looked down on and was ashamed to be associated with him. I worried that others would pity me as his mother. It is easy to love a child who is all you imagine. It is more important, however, to love more the one who needs a hand every step of the way he needs to tread to reach his personal goals. If a mother fails to see that, she can be no better than the majority who deride and ridicule someone for being different. So I will stand up for him and cheer the loudest every time he gets a prize or reaches even the smallest milestone. I will applaud the loudest for his every step and will pray the hardest. And one day he will leave his other world and come back to me….
I was uncomfortable though – because the truth which I go to great lengths to hide from myself is becoming more apparent with each passing day. The fact hurts me much less now than it did four years ago but it still hurts all the same. My son is not like the other kids. That’s the truth and there is no way out of it. It is not a good thing but neither is it bad. He is extremely intelligent and very cute as well. He loves with a heart as big as the whole world. He can solve puzzles in a trice and is a computer whiz at seven years of age. He is also wrapped up in his world or at least a world that seems to barely overlap mine most of the time. He used to be mine when he was very young and then he left to follow some other vision. He loves to be treated like a much younger child. He doesn’t want to grow up.
At the annual day, they made him give a bouquet to an important guest. All the ‘special’ children were made to do that – so it killed me on the inside to see my child alongside them. I hate the word special. He does not have any mannerisms or features that make him look different – only his partial presence and therefore lack of focus in this world causes him to be labeled as such. He then got an award for “best attempt at adaptation to a classroom environment” which means he has finally learnt to sit still for 20 minute stretches and is therefore allowed in the mainstream classroom. I think it’s great he got the award but the way the teachers were leading him and holding his hands together and turning his head for him made him look like he could barely go and take the certificate by himself when he is normally very self-reliant!! I don’t know whether to applaud the teachers for their over-zealousness or wring my hands in agony that they seem so eager to slot him that they give him no chance to be himself.
Then he had a bit part in the play (which he very cutely screwed up so innocently that it had me laughing loudly) and then in a group dance. I was amazed at the way he actually stood in his place and managed to match everyone’s steps. I wanted to cry so badly there in that hall seeing my son jump up and laugh and clap and shake his little butt. How his teachers managed to get him to be interested in the steps is something I cannot begin to guess at. Anyway he had a good time and we were relieved and happy as well.
The little one performed as well. She was a class act. Every step of her dance she executed with skill and grace though she was the smallest kid in the group. I felt pride lift me up off the chair by a couple of inches at least!! When I got home, I started thinking about why her achievement should be more laudable than his – she always liked to dance – he never was so inclined – from being unable to stand still for a few minutes even, he managed to dance through a whole song and that too in time with others. So while she is much younger and really talented, the amount of effort my son put in must have been tremendous. And I in my narrow-minded spirit failed to see that. I saw his awkward steps and didn’t see his joy. I saw him as part of a group that is normally looked down on and was ashamed to be associated with him. I worried that others would pity me as his mother. It is easy to love a child who is all you imagine. It is more important, however, to love more the one who needs a hand every step of the way he needs to tread to reach his personal goals. If a mother fails to see that, she can be no better than the majority who deride and ridicule someone for being different. So I will stand up for him and cheer the loudest every time he gets a prize or reaches even the smallest milestone. I will applaud the loudest for his every step and will pray the hardest. And one day he will leave his other world and come back to me….
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
life's purpose?
I read an article in the papers today. It was written by a spiritual guru – the reason I actually read all of it was because it had none of that moralizing, holier-than-thou attitude I dislike. The topic was simple enough only the view was new to me. The writer talked about how everyone at some stage of their life ponders the purpose of their existence.
Now I have frequently done that and have never come up with a remotely acceptable answer. I constantly lament the passing years and my inability to find my inherent talent so that I can pursue it and enrich my somewhat (!) incomplete existence. The article started off with the statement that life has no purpose. We have no purpose. Our work, be it big or small does not by itself give life any purpose. Our mistake lies in attributing something consequential to our existence.
Life by itself is sufficient cause for celebration. The reason for it need not be pondered at all. The living of life actively is the true purpose. The anxiety to search for a purpose comes about because we are not truly living our lives to the fullest. He went on to say that sensory perception which is the only way we view the world, is partial and cannot be used to grasp at the meaning of life. If we can view only parts of everything we see such as grains of sand or the road ahead, then how do we view life as it is meant to be viewed? The answer lies in opening the inner eye or in being able to go inward, into our true selves so that our perception is expanded.
I cannot claim to understand all of what I’ve just written – I’ve merely restated what I read but it is intriguing to look at a familiar problem differently. What if we all accept that there is no purpose to life and stop stressing ourselves to go somewhere, be something before we turn 30 or 40 or 50? What if we go through life in a relaxed fashion, the way we would go to a party not obsessing about the reason we are there but just enjoy ourselves? Would we be happier and live our lives better? Maybe we would – its definitely worth trying…
Now I have frequently done that and have never come up with a remotely acceptable answer. I constantly lament the passing years and my inability to find my inherent talent so that I can pursue it and enrich my somewhat (!) incomplete existence. The article started off with the statement that life has no purpose. We have no purpose. Our work, be it big or small does not by itself give life any purpose. Our mistake lies in attributing something consequential to our existence.
Life by itself is sufficient cause for celebration. The reason for it need not be pondered at all. The living of life actively is the true purpose. The anxiety to search for a purpose comes about because we are not truly living our lives to the fullest. He went on to say that sensory perception which is the only way we view the world, is partial and cannot be used to grasp at the meaning of life. If we can view only parts of everything we see such as grains of sand or the road ahead, then how do we view life as it is meant to be viewed? The answer lies in opening the inner eye or in being able to go inward, into our true selves so that our perception is expanded.
I cannot claim to understand all of what I’ve just written – I’ve merely restated what I read but it is intriguing to look at a familiar problem differently. What if we all accept that there is no purpose to life and stop stressing ourselves to go somewhere, be something before we turn 30 or 40 or 50? What if we go through life in a relaxed fashion, the way we would go to a party not obsessing about the reason we are there but just enjoy ourselves? Would we be happier and live our lives better? Maybe we would – its definitely worth trying…
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
little miss
My daughter is four years old. She thinks her mother is the most knowledgeable human being in the universe. And she tests it by asking me unbelievable questions. When my son was a toddler, I longed for him to display the first signs of a thirst for knowledge hoping he would inherit my love of books and reading. Well it turned out that he was very curious but preferred the “let me see if I can take it apart and figure it out” method of learning. The younger one is more artistic as the psychedelic nightmares on my wall testify. She also loves reading (she can’t yet) and is full of questions.
Now I am fully prepared to answer questions like “why is the sky blue?” or “how do airplanes fly?” but I am not equipped to handle “why is that tiger broked Amma - why no one is taking him to doctor?” (this was after watching a documentary on tigers in India on Animal Planet) or “why is that yucky vulture eating deer - he cannot eat him - vulture should eat only rice -no,Amma?”. I no longer put on Animal Planet for them – too many dicey questions.
She also has a bizarre choice in pets. Now she spends two hours in a daycare (well it’s actually just a lovely lady who likes children, running a daycare at home) and the lady who runs it currently takes care of five dogs, two of which are hers and the others’ assorted neighbors’. So, when the little madam came home one day and asked me “Amma, why we don’t have animals in the house?”, I was sure she wanted a dog as a pet. I told her that dad can’t stand dogs or cats or indeed any animal being in the house and he’s allergic as well. And then I asked her what sort of animal she wanted. She promptly piped up “I want an elephant. It’s my fravrite animal!!” I asked her where the elephant would live. She said our back garden would be fine. Then she added “Amma, you can give elephant one drumstick everyday (I used to have a big drumstick tree in my backyard) and also water but I will not let the elephant run because he will fall and get hurt.” Phew!
She wants to know why her brother is the first kid and she’s not. She takes a lot of offense at that because she likes to be second to none. It annoys her that we insist that Appu is our first child. She throws tantrums, cries, sulks and says she hates us but she will not give up her stand. My husband and I have tried various ways to get her to see reason but there is really no such thing as rational thought for a four year old. So we are definitely stuck and have arrived at a compromise situation by telling her that she’s the first girl and her brother’s the first boy. It is currently working but only if we augment it by giving her everything else first. She has to be bathed first, tucked in first, given a hug and kiss first – even her plate for dinner has to be set first. I am going insane at the thought of what that child will be like when she grows up!! I sincerely hope and pray that she gets a daughter at least ten times naughtier so that I can rest in peace ;-)
Now I am fully prepared to answer questions like “why is the sky blue?” or “how do airplanes fly?” but I am not equipped to handle “why is that tiger broked Amma - why no one is taking him to doctor?” (this was after watching a documentary on tigers in India on Animal Planet) or “why is that yucky vulture eating deer - he cannot eat him - vulture should eat only rice -no,Amma?”. I no longer put on Animal Planet for them – too many dicey questions.
She also has a bizarre choice in pets. Now she spends two hours in a daycare (well it’s actually just a lovely lady who likes children, running a daycare at home) and the lady who runs it currently takes care of five dogs, two of which are hers and the others’ assorted neighbors’. So, when the little madam came home one day and asked me “Amma, why we don’t have animals in the house?”, I was sure she wanted a dog as a pet. I told her that dad can’t stand dogs or cats or indeed any animal being in the house and he’s allergic as well. And then I asked her what sort of animal she wanted. She promptly piped up “I want an elephant. It’s my fravrite animal!!” I asked her where the elephant would live. She said our back garden would be fine. Then she added “Amma, you can give elephant one drumstick everyday (I used to have a big drumstick tree in my backyard) and also water but I will not let the elephant run because he will fall and get hurt.” Phew!
She wants to know why her brother is the first kid and she’s not. She takes a lot of offense at that because she likes to be second to none. It annoys her that we insist that Appu is our first child. She throws tantrums, cries, sulks and says she hates us but she will not give up her stand. My husband and I have tried various ways to get her to see reason but there is really no such thing as rational thought for a four year old. So we are definitely stuck and have arrived at a compromise situation by telling her that she’s the first girl and her brother’s the first boy. It is currently working but only if we augment it by giving her everything else first. She has to be bathed first, tucked in first, given a hug and kiss first – even her plate for dinner has to be set first. I am going insane at the thought of what that child will be like when she grows up!! I sincerely hope and pray that she gets a daughter at least ten times naughtier so that I can rest in peace ;-)
Monday, February 25, 2008
being a parent
While actually becoming a parent is easy, being one is not. There are so many things you do not know when you hold your newborn babe in your arms. You don’t know how to feed him, you don’t know how to hold him right or bathe him. It is a terrifying experience and also very momentous. The weight of responsibility is crushing and the fears mount alarmingly. What if you do something wrong? How did God entrust you with a life to take care of other than your own when you are hardly great at managing your own life!
For me the scariest times are when my children are ill. I am really helpless while I watch them lying listless and weak or in pain. Medicines are of course there but sometimes you have to let a fever break on its own – those are the hardest times. It is important to be able to not succumb to easy remedies like antibiotics which the Bangalore pediatricians seem to love irrationally. I let my son be dosed frequently with those till his immunity was shattered. It took a long time for his immunity to restore itself to a semblance of what it would be for a healthy child. I was more careful with my daughter but the guilt stays because I unknowingly harmed my kids with bad choices.
Another difficult thing to do is stand back. I am bad at that. I can’t see my kids hurt. Of course I am not gentle with them but no one has the right to hurt them. I get incensed if the other kids tease my son when they cannot understand what he’s saying. True it sounds like gibberish to them but they are merciless in their hatred of anything that can be ridiculed. My poor son! My daughter rarely needs my protection. The feisty little character can take care of herself and sometimes her elder brother too. But even with her I have had to stand back and let her go through some harsh lessons so that she may learn. I have had to restrain myself from whacking a neighbor who deliberately shows a mean face to her when I am not around (or she thinks I’m not around) – she’s always honey sweet when she sees me. I have had to think up explanations when my daughter asks me why I won’t let her play in that neighbor’s house when her daughter comes here all the time. How can I tell her that I have caught the lady hiding behind the curtains in her house not opening the door to my kids while at the same time sending her kid to my home every day so she can go gossiping to the other houses? How can I tell them to be cunning and not to trust people? It is a scary world out there and I have no idea how to prepare my children for it.
My son hates reading and writing but loves computers and puzzles. I have to figure out some way to instill a love of learning into that boy. My daughter loves learning but has a really stubborn nature which makes me pull my hair in frustration during the times she is not making me laugh. They are a joy to me. I don’t know what I would have done without them. But they are an awesome trust too – in the seven years since I have been a mother, it hasn’t gotten any easier and I doubt it will ever be easy only I hope to better myself at it as I go along.
For me the scariest times are when my children are ill. I am really helpless while I watch them lying listless and weak or in pain. Medicines are of course there but sometimes you have to let a fever break on its own – those are the hardest times. It is important to be able to not succumb to easy remedies like antibiotics which the Bangalore pediatricians seem to love irrationally. I let my son be dosed frequently with those till his immunity was shattered. It took a long time for his immunity to restore itself to a semblance of what it would be for a healthy child. I was more careful with my daughter but the guilt stays because I unknowingly harmed my kids with bad choices.
Another difficult thing to do is stand back. I am bad at that. I can’t see my kids hurt. Of course I am not gentle with them but no one has the right to hurt them. I get incensed if the other kids tease my son when they cannot understand what he’s saying. True it sounds like gibberish to them but they are merciless in their hatred of anything that can be ridiculed. My poor son! My daughter rarely needs my protection. The feisty little character can take care of herself and sometimes her elder brother too. But even with her I have had to stand back and let her go through some harsh lessons so that she may learn. I have had to restrain myself from whacking a neighbor who deliberately shows a mean face to her when I am not around (or she thinks I’m not around) – she’s always honey sweet when she sees me. I have had to think up explanations when my daughter asks me why I won’t let her play in that neighbor’s house when her daughter comes here all the time. How can I tell her that I have caught the lady hiding behind the curtains in her house not opening the door to my kids while at the same time sending her kid to my home every day so she can go gossiping to the other houses? How can I tell them to be cunning and not to trust people? It is a scary world out there and I have no idea how to prepare my children for it.
My son hates reading and writing but loves computers and puzzles. I have to figure out some way to instill a love of learning into that boy. My daughter loves learning but has a really stubborn nature which makes me pull my hair in frustration during the times she is not making me laugh. They are a joy to me. I don’t know what I would have done without them. But they are an awesome trust too – in the seven years since I have been a mother, it hasn’t gotten any easier and I doubt it will ever be easy only I hope to better myself at it as I go along.
Friday, February 22, 2008
growing up
Dad always used to sit in his favorite armchair with his legs out in front crossed at the ankles. She loved to climb into the hollow between his knees and hang there with her bottom just above the floor. Dad used to move the ball of his foot to and fro making a rocking motion which she loved. Ensconced in that warm cocoon, only her head would be visible and she could sit that way for hours watching TV along with dad.
She never assumed that things would change. Her place would always be assured. Then one day when she was about to climb in, her dad said “No – your brother wants to sit. Let him.” So she didn’t sit in her cocoon and she never tried again afterwards. Her brother was five years younger and always got the pride of place in the family. So she understood and never complained.
She loved French fries and her parents would make loads of them for the kids. But fries were her favorite snack. The kids would sit in the living room playing games or watching television and dad would send out new batches fresh from the frying pan. Her brother got a whole plate to himself. She and her elder sister had to share. She never could figure out why she couldn’t have a plate to herself. There was always plenty of food in the house – her parents always kept a full table. But anything her brother liked, she learnt not to ask for. He loved drumsticks and though her sister did too, he always got them. He was never asked to take turns or share. She didn’t care for any of that except the fries – if only once she could ask for a whole plateful just for herself. But she never did.
She vividly remembered her ninth birthday. It was the first time she got to choose her clothes. It was the first and only time she had a birthday cake. She got to call her other friends not just her neighbors and she was beaming and ecstatic. Her mother had prepared a feast as usual (well she always made a feast for the kids’ birthdays). She had a real party and she was so proud she thought she’d burst. Then the came the time to cut the cake. As she was about to do the honors, her brother started crying and her parents asked her to let him cut the cake. Her heart broke and she refused. But he had his way and she was allowed to cut too of course but it wasn’t the same anymore. The day had lost its magic. She tried hard not to let her tears show. After all she was too big to cry.
She never assumed that things would change. Her place would always be assured. Then one day when she was about to climb in, her dad said “No – your brother wants to sit. Let him.” So she didn’t sit in her cocoon and she never tried again afterwards. Her brother was five years younger and always got the pride of place in the family. So she understood and never complained.
She loved French fries and her parents would make loads of them for the kids. But fries were her favorite snack. The kids would sit in the living room playing games or watching television and dad would send out new batches fresh from the frying pan. Her brother got a whole plate to himself. She and her elder sister had to share. She never could figure out why she couldn’t have a plate to herself. There was always plenty of food in the house – her parents always kept a full table. But anything her brother liked, she learnt not to ask for. He loved drumsticks and though her sister did too, he always got them. He was never asked to take turns or share. She didn’t care for any of that except the fries – if only once she could ask for a whole plateful just for herself. But she never did.
She vividly remembered her ninth birthday. It was the first time she got to choose her clothes. It was the first and only time she had a birthday cake. She got to call her other friends not just her neighbors and she was beaming and ecstatic. Her mother had prepared a feast as usual (well she always made a feast for the kids’ birthdays). She had a real party and she was so proud she thought she’d burst. Then the came the time to cut the cake. As she was about to do the honors, her brother started crying and her parents asked her to let him cut the cake. Her heart broke and she refused. But he had his way and she was allowed to cut too of course but it wasn’t the same anymore. The day had lost its magic. She tried hard not to let her tears show. After all she was too big to cry.
Friday, February 15, 2008
hairy tales
I have lots of thick hair – cascades of it. It is definitely my crowning glory. But it also has its problems. The first being that, like God, it is omnipresent. My husband glares at me whenever he finds a strand on the sofa, in the car, on the pillow or wherever. I tell him testily that it is not by choice that I am losing my once abundant locks, but it seems to be happening and nothing I do is making any difference. He snorts at that and goes back to doing whatever it is that he was working at. I sigh sadly at look at my reflection showing dark wavy hair flowing up to half my back and reminisce over my college days when it was waist length and way thicker as well. Well the glory doth diminish but what the hey – so does everything else.
The second problem is that I never have good hair days. My locks have a life of their own. They don’t subject to the rule of comb or brush but go any which way they like. I pull it into a hair band and am left with a bushy raccoon tail in the back and a suddenly small-sized oval face in front. Not good at all. Now if its wet it hangs comparatively limply and immediately begins metamorphosing to wayward tendrils by the time my hair is half dry. Hairdryers take too long to dry my hair and leave it brittle so I dry it the natural way – by leaving it as is. Not that drying and styling help, my hair is simply too stubborn for that and since I don’t hold with chemicals much, gels are out of the question. On those days I envy the straight, sleek looking hair I see around me and wonder whether I could ever look so chic.
Still it does have its good days when it does all that good hair is supposed to and I can walk about showing it off – but usually that is in winter and late at night so I don’t have much of an audience but it does warm the cockles of my heart when it behaves so. I have had a lot of people over the years ask me what I do to make the hair the way it is – they want to know what oil I use, what shampoo, whether I use henna , curds, chocolate sauce, eye of newt or anything else. I tell them I wash it daily and that’s about it. No one believed me – they attributed it to my being from Kerala where it is rumored that all the women are richly hair-endowed. I suppose I could have come up with a recipe for a fake foul-smelling concoction involving lots of preparation that could then be sold – ultimately it would cause the women involved to wash their hair daily anyway and voila – the results would be there for all to see. But silly me I stick with the truth and get no credit at all…
The second problem is that I never have good hair days. My locks have a life of their own. They don’t subject to the rule of comb or brush but go any which way they like. I pull it into a hair band and am left with a bushy raccoon tail in the back and a suddenly small-sized oval face in front. Not good at all. Now if its wet it hangs comparatively limply and immediately begins metamorphosing to wayward tendrils by the time my hair is half dry. Hairdryers take too long to dry my hair and leave it brittle so I dry it the natural way – by leaving it as is. Not that drying and styling help, my hair is simply too stubborn for that and since I don’t hold with chemicals much, gels are out of the question. On those days I envy the straight, sleek looking hair I see around me and wonder whether I could ever look so chic.
Still it does have its good days when it does all that good hair is supposed to and I can walk about showing it off – but usually that is in winter and late at night so I don’t have much of an audience but it does warm the cockles of my heart when it behaves so. I have had a lot of people over the years ask me what I do to make the hair the way it is – they want to know what oil I use, what shampoo, whether I use henna , curds, chocolate sauce, eye of newt or anything else. I tell them I wash it daily and that’s about it. No one believed me – they attributed it to my being from Kerala where it is rumored that all the women are richly hair-endowed. I suppose I could have come up with a recipe for a fake foul-smelling concoction involving lots of preparation that could then be sold – ultimately it would cause the women involved to wash their hair daily anyway and voila – the results would be there for all to see. But silly me I stick with the truth and get no credit at all…
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Lonely lady
“My husband is solely responsible for bringing in $400 million in revenue for XYZ Software every year” said a smug Mrs. M. I swallowed and fixed my polite smile on my face while trying very hard not to roll my eyes. This lady is my neighbor and the mother of my 4-year old daughter’s best friend. Otherwise I wouldn’t be listening to her brag for the umpteenth time on what a success her husband is. Actually I would rather listen to that than to her description of her latest acquisition of jewelry. She goes on endlessly about how great life was in Switzerland where she lived for seven years and which constitutes the highlight of her existence.
Initially I used to run and hide when I spotted her waddling gait far away. Unfortunately the main path for walking has no trees to afford even a shred of cover and crouching behind a bush simply was not elegant and therefore I frequently had to endure the lady’s bragging sessions. I tried sarcasm but it flew over her head. I tried barely veiled threats and they would escape her completely. What I couldn’t do was be downright rude and tell her to can it!
Later, however I began to think about the reasons that could be behind her behavior. She had a husband who was never home – she single-handedly raised two children who are about a decade apart in age. She ran the house and took care of her husband’s parents when they were ill. She, in short was lonely and also left with handling the responsibility of the children all by herself with no help from an absentee husband. So she had to brag to cover her insecurity like she tried to hide her rotund figure behind black clothes always or like she combed over the glaring bald patch on the center of her head. She had to constantly reassure herself that her husband found her good enough and therefore she told us all about how he ate only home-cooked food and thought she was the best cook in the whole world, about how she hardly ate but probably had a metabolism problem else how could she possibly put on weight but anyway she would become slim soon when she joined a gym. Her stories were poorly constructed camouflage devices to hide from the world the sordid state of her soul. Her lack of confidence, her fear that her teenage son’s rebellion would never end, the loss of the beauty that she once had – all of these together turned her into what she is now. I don’t think I can ever befriend the woman, she is still selfish and can be really mean on occasion; but I find her an object worthy of sympathy. Her life could not be very easy and her loneliness was too palpable to ignore. Maybe next time I won’t hide behind someone’s car when I see her walking my way. But probably the day after that I will ...:-)
Initially I used to run and hide when I spotted her waddling gait far away. Unfortunately the main path for walking has no trees to afford even a shred of cover and crouching behind a bush simply was not elegant and therefore I frequently had to endure the lady’s bragging sessions. I tried sarcasm but it flew over her head. I tried barely veiled threats and they would escape her completely. What I couldn’t do was be downright rude and tell her to can it!
Later, however I began to think about the reasons that could be behind her behavior. She had a husband who was never home – she single-handedly raised two children who are about a decade apart in age. She ran the house and took care of her husband’s parents when they were ill. She, in short was lonely and also left with handling the responsibility of the children all by herself with no help from an absentee husband. So she had to brag to cover her insecurity like she tried to hide her rotund figure behind black clothes always or like she combed over the glaring bald patch on the center of her head. She had to constantly reassure herself that her husband found her good enough and therefore she told us all about how he ate only home-cooked food and thought she was the best cook in the whole world, about how she hardly ate but probably had a metabolism problem else how could she possibly put on weight but anyway she would become slim soon when she joined a gym. Her stories were poorly constructed camouflage devices to hide from the world the sordid state of her soul. Her lack of confidence, her fear that her teenage son’s rebellion would never end, the loss of the beauty that she once had – all of these together turned her into what she is now. I don’t think I can ever befriend the woman, she is still selfish and can be really mean on occasion; but I find her an object worthy of sympathy. Her life could not be very easy and her loneliness was too palpable to ignore. Maybe next time I won’t hide behind someone’s car when I see her walking my way. But probably the day after that I will ...:-)
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
faith
My father was of the opinion that the intellect is not sufficient to grasp all reality. I was in disagreement with him. I was proud of my intellect and headstrong as well. I told him that if there is no reasoning or logic behind things, how can I accept them? He would counter with the argument that logic and science simply could not explain many of the world’s mysteries and it definitely could not explain faith or spirituality. His favorite explanation was of a pair of tongs. The tongs can be used to grasp an object but can it grasp itself?
I believe I was somewhat wrong and he was somewhat right. There certainly were areas gray enough that could not be reasoned out by me. I haven’t figured out the explanation of faith either. Faith is sort of like believing in advance not asking for proof. I used to have it long back and it has suffered greatly since. But my dad had it till his dying day. He always believed God would help him and most of the time, even to me it looked like he did get help. I wanted to believe completely but something always kept me back from doing so.
My father married me to a man who is very like me intellectually. He does not believe in fate or karma or asking a higher power for help. He doesn’t pray at all but he believes in God. He says that we are each to do the best of whatever we can and must try to be self-sufficient. He thinks praying is like asking for favors and also that faith is like a crutch which could make us too dependent sometimes. My mother and brother certainly take the faith bit to the opposite extreme relying on God to do everything and not doing anything at all but still worrying. So I come in the middle and try to work out what makes sense and I have yet to come to a conclusion.
It could be that we are all instruments of a higher power whose purpose in life is preordained. We have no foreknowledge of it so we move ahead blindly secure in the thought that whatever happens is for the best. It could also be that we are all images of God and are required to use our gifted abilities to make choices and live life in a guilt-free and happy manner. It could also be that we are stumbling along making mistakes and learning from them just like mice in a laboratory and God is watching the fun. I have no answer and have instead a sneaky feeling that finding the answer to this may actually solve the riddle of life ;-)
I believe I was somewhat wrong and he was somewhat right. There certainly were areas gray enough that could not be reasoned out by me. I haven’t figured out the explanation of faith either. Faith is sort of like believing in advance not asking for proof. I used to have it long back and it has suffered greatly since. But my dad had it till his dying day. He always believed God would help him and most of the time, even to me it looked like he did get help. I wanted to believe completely but something always kept me back from doing so.
My father married me to a man who is very like me intellectually. He does not believe in fate or karma or asking a higher power for help. He doesn’t pray at all but he believes in God. He says that we are each to do the best of whatever we can and must try to be self-sufficient. He thinks praying is like asking for favors and also that faith is like a crutch which could make us too dependent sometimes. My mother and brother certainly take the faith bit to the opposite extreme relying on God to do everything and not doing anything at all but still worrying. So I come in the middle and try to work out what makes sense and I have yet to come to a conclusion.
It could be that we are all instruments of a higher power whose purpose in life is preordained. We have no foreknowledge of it so we move ahead blindly secure in the thought that whatever happens is for the best. It could also be that we are all images of God and are required to use our gifted abilities to make choices and live life in a guilt-free and happy manner. It could also be that we are stumbling along making mistakes and learning from them just like mice in a laboratory and God is watching the fun. I have no answer and have instead a sneaky feeling that finding the answer to this may actually solve the riddle of life ;-)
Sunday, February 10, 2008
My chair...
I just finished painting a chair. There's nothing spectacular about that surely. But for me it helped in so many ways. First of all I know nothing of painting or chairs except that you need a brush for the first and a seat for the second! So when I thought I was fed up of the ratty looking old cane chair relegated to the back portico, I decided to just go ahead and do something about it. Off I went to the hardware store where I got some sandpaper, paint, thinner and a brush. The brush was not the absolute right size but that was all they had. The chap didn't know if I would need wood primer for an old chair and was confused when I asked. One obliging customer in the shop told me I didn't need it - and I thought it didn’t matter -at least the chair should be usable for a while longer and its an experiment at best. I wasn't sure about the varnish and reasoned that it could only be applied after the paint and so deferred its purchase.
Then I got home and pulled out the old chair to have a good look. It was faded, bleached a washed out color because of all the sun that hit it. Black discolorations suffused the back of the chair which had intricate crisscrossing patterns. I tried my best to sandpaper out the black mould but most of it still stuck and the back of the chair was too impenetrable to my scrubbing. So I decided to simply paint it as is. I started off and soon began to enjoy myself thoroughly. It took me 3 days to finish one coat since I devoted only an hour or two to it everyday. But already the chair was looking so much better. With added zeal I put on another coat of paint and the chair was magically transformed. I wanted to make it perfect and spent hours making sure every spot; every twist of the twined rope, every crevice in the patterned back was touched with paint. The chair looked absolutely wonderful to my eyes – I reveled in the sight of it.
The whole point I am trying to make here is that the medium was immaterial; it was the action that got me results. I have always been afraid that I could never finish what I started. My initial enthusiasm and passion wanes faster than a sprig of jasmine. I am always afraid of making mistakes. But this time I simply took on a new task without thought of success or failure – I would simply do it. I also finished the task to perfection with not a drop of paint on my portico tiles. It felt very good – a simple thing in truth but an eye-opener for me to let myself be and do anything that comes naturally and to do so without the fear and anticipation of failure.
Then I got home and pulled out the old chair to have a good look. It was faded, bleached a washed out color because of all the sun that hit it. Black discolorations suffused the back of the chair which had intricate crisscrossing patterns. I tried my best to sandpaper out the black mould but most of it still stuck and the back of the chair was too impenetrable to my scrubbing. So I decided to simply paint it as is. I started off and soon began to enjoy myself thoroughly. It took me 3 days to finish one coat since I devoted only an hour or two to it everyday. But already the chair was looking so much better. With added zeal I put on another coat of paint and the chair was magically transformed. I wanted to make it perfect and spent hours making sure every spot; every twist of the twined rope, every crevice in the patterned back was touched with paint. The chair looked absolutely wonderful to my eyes – I reveled in the sight of it.
The whole point I am trying to make here is that the medium was immaterial; it was the action that got me results. I have always been afraid that I could never finish what I started. My initial enthusiasm and passion wanes faster than a sprig of jasmine. I am always afraid of making mistakes. But this time I simply took on a new task without thought of success or failure – I would simply do it. I also finished the task to perfection with not a drop of paint on my portico tiles. It felt very good – a simple thing in truth but an eye-opener for me to let myself be and do anything that comes naturally and to do so without the fear and anticipation of failure.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Me and driving
I am terrified of driving. Its a physical fear akin to the fear of heights. My knees tremble, my heart races and I am short of breath at the very thought of driving. I have driven a few times in my life and actually did not find it bad. But each time I stop for a while I cannot get myself to do it again. The fear kicks in anew like this nasty disease that doesn't go away. The idea of going in traffic scares the life out of me - I imagine all kinds of scenarios where my mind refuses to work and I am stuck on a busy road at peak traffic time!
I do not have a license now - I let mine lapse and never bothered to get another one. I have a driver and have not felt the need to go through the process of re-learning everything just to subject myself to Bangalore traffic. But that being said I have to admit that the expense and my driver's very frequent tantrums drive me up the wall often enough to consider being completely independent on that front now and again. It sounds so silly when I write it down - how difficult can it be? There are innumerable Bozos on the road - why can't I nerve myelf to do it?
Well, for one I ahve never felt comfortable while driving. The car does not feel like an extension of myself but rather like an alien I am trying to subjugate. If I look to my left mirror while changing lanes (ha - in Bangalore no one changes lanes - they go how they want), my car moves left - if I look at the right mirror , my car moves right!! Ridiculous but true. Parking is another nightmare if I have to reverse into a space.I have this weird theory that right and left have the opposite meanings when I reverse - so I have to stop and think what to do before I go ahead - it does sound too awful for words when I write it down:-(.
Also I have no love for the clutch - why in God's earth do I have to deal with that? I never remember to press it when I press the brakes and so the engine shuts off dutifully. I absolutely hate that! My right and left legs simply refuse to work together in coordination which is why I am dance-challenged as well I think. I asked my husband whether we could go for an automatic and he siad if I don't learn to drive a stick-shift, I might as well not bother and why not use the two perfectly good cars here instead of selling one and getting an automatic? He has a point I admit but I can't even bring myself to try :-(
I wonder if there is any therapy for this?
I do not have a license now - I let mine lapse and never bothered to get another one. I have a driver and have not felt the need to go through the process of re-learning everything just to subject myself to Bangalore traffic. But that being said I have to admit that the expense and my driver's very frequent tantrums drive me up the wall often enough to consider being completely independent on that front now and again. It sounds so silly when I write it down - how difficult can it be? There are innumerable Bozos on the road - why can't I nerve myelf to do it?
Well, for one I ahve never felt comfortable while driving. The car does not feel like an extension of myself but rather like an alien I am trying to subjugate. If I look to my left mirror while changing lanes (ha - in Bangalore no one changes lanes - they go how they want), my car moves left - if I look at the right mirror , my car moves right!! Ridiculous but true. Parking is another nightmare if I have to reverse into a space.I have this weird theory that right and left have the opposite meanings when I reverse - so I have to stop and think what to do before I go ahead - it does sound too awful for words when I write it down:-(.
Also I have no love for the clutch - why in God's earth do I have to deal with that? I never remember to press it when I press the brakes and so the engine shuts off dutifully. I absolutely hate that! My right and left legs simply refuse to work together in coordination which is why I am dance-challenged as well I think. I asked my husband whether we could go for an automatic and he siad if I don't learn to drive a stick-shift, I might as well not bother and why not use the two perfectly good cars here instead of selling one and getting an automatic? He has a point I admit but I can't even bring myself to try :-(
I wonder if there is any therapy for this?
Cooking delights
I love cooking. There are endless ways to do things with a limited set of ingredients. Finely chopping onions instead of coarsely chopping them transforms a recipe instantly. Grinding them and letting them brown over slow heat takes longer and tastes completely different. Fresh coconut can be made into a masala paste with cumin and red chilies and it is miles away from golden roasted coconut ground into a masala paste with the very same cumin and red chilies. I feel free to let my imagination have its way and enjoy the whole process so thoroughly that it stops being a chore and instead is relaxing. But of course that's not for everyday cooking - its for those days when some inspiration hits me and I head for the kitchen to try it out. Sometimes I don't have to taste at all - I can even figure out if the amount of salt is sufficient from just the aroma. Some other times even before I make something I know its going to turn out very well because I feel like making only that dish and nothing else on that day. The best stress buster though has to be kneading dough. I take out all my anger and frustrations on the dough and they turn into the most melt-in-your-mouth parathas in the world (talk about transformations!) My husband must count himself lucky because he not only gets great dinners, he also has a wife who’s not fond of eating and therefore stays irritatingly slim no matter what ;-)
Monday, February 4, 2008
Invisible
The little girl was invisible. She always faded away. No one could see her or hear her because she was so quiet. Her favorite place to hide was under the corner table. The table itself was so small that no one noticed it or thought it big enough to be a likely candidate for a hiding place. She could fit in just right under it. Curled up with her chin touching her knees she would weep silently. Even she did not know why she felt so alone or why she felt the need to hide and test if any one would notice. Her sister and brother were out there somewhere and she was the middle one who lived in a world of her own. She always dreamed and loved living out the stories that she read every day. For her, her life began only after she read her first book. The endless possibilities in a story, the way the words wove together and took you to a place far away, and the way the characters seemed like friends who understood – all of these made reading her favorite means of spending time.
Deep inside she was always a little sad. It was hard for an 8 year old to figure out why she felt that way. What was it in her life that kept her from smiling with all her heart? She had a safe life and she was good at studying. In fact that was her only noticeable trait - the one thing that kept her from being unwanted in her family. She had always felt that her elder sister got a lot of attention because she demanded it and she had a temper to match. Her younger brother was the darling of both the parents because he was the only son. She used to believe that the only thing more unwanted than a middle child was one who also happened to be the second daughter!
So she tried to be invisible. It wasn’t very hard. She was a no-problem child, the kind no one ever notices but simply pats on the head and says “what a good little child” and promptly forgets. She would be remembered at meal times and when it was time to get ready for school. She had no special attachment to her brother whom she thought of as the usurper of whatever rights she had had till that point. She was scared of her sister who could command her to do anything. Her parents were blissfully unaware of her problems. They thought that food was the most important thing in life and therefore if you overfed the kids, you were doing a great job bringing them up. Again her siblings loved to eat whereas she hated it – it was almost like she wanted to distance herself from a family that didn’t understand her. And she continued to be invisible…
Deep inside she was always a little sad. It was hard for an 8 year old to figure out why she felt that way. What was it in her life that kept her from smiling with all her heart? She had a safe life and she was good at studying. In fact that was her only noticeable trait - the one thing that kept her from being unwanted in her family. She had always felt that her elder sister got a lot of attention because she demanded it and she had a temper to match. Her younger brother was the darling of both the parents because he was the only son. She used to believe that the only thing more unwanted than a middle child was one who also happened to be the second daughter!
So she tried to be invisible. It wasn’t very hard. She was a no-problem child, the kind no one ever notices but simply pats on the head and says “what a good little child” and promptly forgets. She would be remembered at meal times and when it was time to get ready for school. She had no special attachment to her brother whom she thought of as the usurper of whatever rights she had had till that point. She was scared of her sister who could command her to do anything. Her parents were blissfully unaware of her problems. They thought that food was the most important thing in life and therefore if you overfed the kids, you were doing a great job bringing them up. Again her siblings loved to eat whereas she hated it – it was almost like she wanted to distance herself from a family that didn’t understand her. And she continued to be invisible…
a haunting melody
I have this song I love to hear. I cannot say why I like it exactly. It is a song about love but normally that doesn't mean much to me. But this singer's voice tugs at my heart unbelievably. My eyes fill up unknowingly. How can there be so much pathos and passion in a voice? I listen to it and visions of all the romantic moments in my life flash past in my mind - not only romantic moments but courageous ones, sad ones - indeed all the moments when my heart was totally involved. To have such an effect on a person, the song has to be pure and the voice as well. I am sure that if I get to know the scene in whichever movie this song comes from, I will be sorely disappointed. I know that if I know the details of the personal life of the singer I will be disappointed. I want to know nothing but the song itself and I don't want to mar its effect by trying to know more.
I wonder whether others have this same experience - I am sure they do. There must be some song that plays in your mind when you are at your lowest - something that pulls you up and inspires you. There will be some song that can kindle romance instantly. To each his own then and to the power of music :-)
I wonder whether others have this same experience - I am sure they do. There must be some song that plays in your mind when you are at your lowest - something that pulls you up and inspires you. There will be some song that can kindle romance instantly. To each his own then and to the power of music :-)
Friday, February 1, 2008
Being beautiful
She was not beautiful but she always wanted to be. She remembered being considered cute when she was small because of her wide eyes, fair skin and curly locks. She grew out of it and was used to hear her father and mother not saying anything about her appearance. When all of her friends’ parents would take pains to help make their children look their best, her parents would tell her to wear whatever fit. They would get her good clothes but her opinion was never asked and usually she was too thin to do those clothes justice. Most of the time she wore her sister’s hand-me-downs and sometimes even her brother’s hand-me-ups because she the scrawny middle child and her younger brother and elder sister were stout kids and outgrew their clothes really quick.
As she grew older, she felt more strongly that her appearance lacked something. Her mother was beautiful and she longed to be like her. Her father frequently said that neither her sister nor she could come anywhere close to her mother in looks. The sensitive little girl took it to heart believing it to be true. Never could she accept a compliment on her looks without doubting its sincerity even after many years.
She blinked at her reflection in the mirror snapping herself out of the reverie and smiled at yet another memory. This was years later when she was in college. She was out walking with a guy. He hadn’t impressed her at first when she thought he wanted to spend time with her for not quite acceptable reasons. Later, she felt he might just want a friend and she gave the guy a chance and trusted him. He never let her down and grew to be a friend whom she could count on. This particular summer day early on in their relationship when they were walking, things were a little different. She had just bathed and was looking as fresh as a water lily. Her hair was her best feature – it was gloriously thick and reached halfway down her back. She didn’t like it when it was left open because there seemed to be too much of it. She patted at her hair distractedly and hoped deep within that she didn’t look too shabby. They walked on chatting aimlessly and sat down on a convenient rock in one of the valleys that dotted the campus. Suddenly he had this funny look on his face – he opened his mouth, choked a bit and said in a soft voice – “you have the loveliest lips I have ever seen”. She jumped up startled and muttered some nonsense before bolting away. Years later she still remembered this because it was the first time she felt beautiful in her life and the memory always brought a smile to her heart as did her reaction to it at that time. In the years that followed her reactions to other compliments ranged from disbelief to discomfort but never acceptance.
Slowly she came back to the present as she sat at her dressing table. She picked up her brush and stroked her hair and wished that perhaps one day she could love herself enough to feel beautiful.
As she grew older, she felt more strongly that her appearance lacked something. Her mother was beautiful and she longed to be like her. Her father frequently said that neither her sister nor she could come anywhere close to her mother in looks. The sensitive little girl took it to heart believing it to be true. Never could she accept a compliment on her looks without doubting its sincerity even after many years.
She blinked at her reflection in the mirror snapping herself out of the reverie and smiled at yet another memory. This was years later when she was in college. She was out walking with a guy. He hadn’t impressed her at first when she thought he wanted to spend time with her for not quite acceptable reasons. Later, she felt he might just want a friend and she gave the guy a chance and trusted him. He never let her down and grew to be a friend whom she could count on. This particular summer day early on in their relationship when they were walking, things were a little different. She had just bathed and was looking as fresh as a water lily. Her hair was her best feature – it was gloriously thick and reached halfway down her back. She didn’t like it when it was left open because there seemed to be too much of it. She patted at her hair distractedly and hoped deep within that she didn’t look too shabby. They walked on chatting aimlessly and sat down on a convenient rock in one of the valleys that dotted the campus. Suddenly he had this funny look on his face – he opened his mouth, choked a bit and said in a soft voice – “you have the loveliest lips I have ever seen”. She jumped up startled and muttered some nonsense before bolting away. Years later she still remembered this because it was the first time she felt beautiful in her life and the memory always brought a smile to her heart as did her reaction to it at that time. In the years that followed her reactions to other compliments ranged from disbelief to discomfort but never acceptance.
Slowly she came back to the present as she sat at her dressing table. She picked up her brush and stroked her hair and wished that perhaps one day she could love herself enough to feel beautiful.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
A houselift
The house needed a revamping just like her life. All of five years old, it looked lovely when they first moved in. She had taken great care choosing the fixture, every piece of furniture, the lovely stone, glass and wood showcase in the hall, even the ends of the curtain rods were just the right shade. Her curtains were lovely with a rich look – all the shades she had chosen were muted, beige and shades of brown with a little line of gold running wherever she could manage.
Today, the house looks shabby. Crayon drawings and marks are all over the walls interspersed with patches of brown where in spite of her best efforts, the children have managed to stick something nasty, usually chocolate. The sofas are in a pathetic state with the upholstery coming apart and the heavy drapes would do with a thorough cleaning which simply cannot be done at home.
Her mind feels like the house. Once upon a time it sparkled, each facet throwing off a light of varied hue. Now it was badly in need of polish – occasionally a spark would show to remind her of how she used to be. Her thoughts lie scattered like the toys that she keeps picking up. Her smile is as faded as the sofa cushions. Her eyes have long ceased to shine merrily and instead look inward for some kind of solution to her need to clean up her life.
The house can be put to rights with a paint job, new sofas and the threat of capital punishment on any tendency to crayon by the kids. But what of her life? Can one buy new thoughts? Can one mix and match desires with actions? A fresh breeze of air blew in the window making tendrils of her hair tickle her face, teasing out a smile. Why, not? , she thought. Why can’t I think anew, change my mind’s contents to what suits me, why can’t I get the sparkle back in my life? I will simply go ahead and do it all – fix my house, fix my life. I will not be afraid to go far in my bid to find myself – I will not be afraid to go too close either – she smiles as she thinks all this and the day begins to take on a new glow.
Today, the house looks shabby. Crayon drawings and marks are all over the walls interspersed with patches of brown where in spite of her best efforts, the children have managed to stick something nasty, usually chocolate. The sofas are in a pathetic state with the upholstery coming apart and the heavy drapes would do with a thorough cleaning which simply cannot be done at home.
Her mind feels like the house. Once upon a time it sparkled, each facet throwing off a light of varied hue. Now it was badly in need of polish – occasionally a spark would show to remind her of how she used to be. Her thoughts lie scattered like the toys that she keeps picking up. Her smile is as faded as the sofa cushions. Her eyes have long ceased to shine merrily and instead look inward for some kind of solution to her need to clean up her life.
The house can be put to rights with a paint job, new sofas and the threat of capital punishment on any tendency to crayon by the kids. But what of her life? Can one buy new thoughts? Can one mix and match desires with actions? A fresh breeze of air blew in the window making tendrils of her hair tickle her face, teasing out a smile. Why, not? , she thought. Why can’t I think anew, change my mind’s contents to what suits me, why can’t I get the sparkle back in my life? I will simply go ahead and do it all – fix my house, fix my life. I will not be afraid to go far in my bid to find myself – I will not be afraid to go too close either – she smiles as she thinks all this and the day begins to take on a new glow.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
waxing
I am a woman who hates waxing. There are many reasons for this aversion. Firstly, it’s painful beyond belief to have someone pull the hair on your arms, legs & worst of all underarms by the roots. Secondly, it’s not cheap. Thirdly, the effects are too transient and the whole exercise has to be repeated regularly. Let me go over my points in more detail.
Experts say enduring pain is a question of mind over matter. If you control your mind, you can control your body and hence intense pain can be blocked even during torture (from accounts of world war prisoners). So I apply this principle diligently to the matter of waxing. I never cry out – I always manage to contain the pain but it still hurts like crazy and that has not changed in the years I have been subjecting myself to this wonderful system of hair removal. The second point is to express my misery at actually having to pay large amounts of money to endure this pain in spite of not being a masochist by any stretch of the imagination. The third point is my real bugbear – this self-induced means of hurting myself and my wallet for the specific purpose of achieving diva-like smooth skin is further compounded by the much-desired smoothness lasting for about two weeks. Worse , then follows a stage where you can see incipient dark beginnings of hair popping all over the place but you can’t do anything about those because they are too small!! And post that, you reach is the ape-look-alike stage by which time you gleefully submit to the waxing yet again.
I must be an incurable optimist. Otherwise why would I do this over and over again with the futile hope of seeing the hair growth diminish and at least after a decade, hope for minimal hair on my arms? The funny thing is that I am no means a person who dresses up royally or spends money on cosmetics. Most things don’t agree with my skin so I leave it as it is. I don’t go into a tizzy over having my hands and feet baby-soft or obsess over whether I have a bag to match ever outfit. This depilatory tendency of mine is just because I like looking and feeling smooth. That surely is not too much to ask of God, is it?
Experts say enduring pain is a question of mind over matter. If you control your mind, you can control your body and hence intense pain can be blocked even during torture (from accounts of world war prisoners). So I apply this principle diligently to the matter of waxing. I never cry out – I always manage to contain the pain but it still hurts like crazy and that has not changed in the years I have been subjecting myself to this wonderful system of hair removal. The second point is to express my misery at actually having to pay large amounts of money to endure this pain in spite of not being a masochist by any stretch of the imagination. The third point is my real bugbear – this self-induced means of hurting myself and my wallet for the specific purpose of achieving diva-like smooth skin is further compounded by the much-desired smoothness lasting for about two weeks. Worse , then follows a stage where you can see incipient dark beginnings of hair popping all over the place but you can’t do anything about those because they are too small!! And post that, you reach is the ape-look-alike stage by which time you gleefully submit to the waxing yet again.
I must be an incurable optimist. Otherwise why would I do this over and over again with the futile hope of seeing the hair growth diminish and at least after a decade, hope for minimal hair on my arms? The funny thing is that I am no means a person who dresses up royally or spends money on cosmetics. Most things don’t agree with my skin so I leave it as it is. I don’t go into a tizzy over having my hands and feet baby-soft or obsess over whether I have a bag to match ever outfit. This depilatory tendency of mine is just because I like looking and feeling smooth. That surely is not too much to ask of God, is it?
Monday, January 28, 2008
a bit of pain
There is some pain in every life. It is always so. I think that my pain is greater than yours or someone else's but that may not be so - the pain may simply be different. My pain is my son. He is 7 and very cute. He will no doubt grow up to be extremely good-looking. But he loves too much. He has a big heart and is far more childish than acceptable. He does not know how to calibrate his affection or his anger. He talks too little and not all of what he says makes sense. I keep telling him"Speak properly - don't act like a fool - stop doing this". I know it sounds awful. And today he was making such a hue and cry over a missing button that I completely lost it in the morning. I spanked him hard and told him to stop screaming about a goddamn button. And I felt like crap. My mother, the oracle went on and on about how she doesn't know how his future will turn out if I continue like this - how he will never improve if I spank him - how God only knows what will happen to him. I told her he is too dumb to have any future and please keep quiet.Then I apologized to my son and he says " I am sorry Amma" - and we hugged for a long time.
I keep trying to figure out what I did wrong with him. I have been too impatient but would that cause hyperactivity or a lack of speaking ability ? Maybe - I don't really know. What I do know is that I long for a day I can leave him on his own with the knowledge that he can take care of himself completely.I wonder why I can't accept him as he is instead of looking at him as a walking reminder of how I failed as a mother. How do I explain that I am angry at myself for failing him and I can't face him because I can't face myself?
I keep trying to figure out what I did wrong with him. I have been too impatient but would that cause hyperactivity or a lack of speaking ability ? Maybe - I don't really know. What I do know is that I long for a day I can leave him on his own with the knowledge that he can take care of himself completely.I wonder why I can't accept him as he is instead of looking at him as a walking reminder of how I failed as a mother. How do I explain that I am angry at myself for failing him and I can't face him because I can't face myself?
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Complexed
The women in this complex give me a complex. I have no clue how most of them seem well-informed on the most inane means by which to waste money. I had to attend a birthday lunch of a neighbor yesterday and while she is very down-to-earth, most of the rest of the guests were of a species that can best be described as the version 1.1 of the female since the basic version which I belong to needs to get too many upgrades before qualifying for 1.1 status. These women don't just get clothes stitched, they get them custom-made - hence they don't go to tailors but to designers :-(. They also have impeccably neat homes whereas mine resembles a painter's dream (drug-induced!) and would put Salvador Dali to shame. My kids have actually destroyed the walls (its not like I have not tried stopping them but live-in maids when I was working did the trick - what have they got to lose if the kids want to crayon the walls to death?) and I don't allow any of my actual friends to come home for sheer shame. Back to female version1.1 - they talk about manicures, pedicures, all kinds of waxing and blueberry cheesecake (I love that part :-)) and of course sex. It would have been fine if they just came out and talked about sex directly but its kind of oblique and pops up in unwarranted moments. As in "you have a cold? - is your husband back from his trip to ’x’ (take your pick - London, Paris, Bangkok, New York...) - well, then go have sex - I guarantee your cold will not last the night”. You get my drift? I have to mention here that I did not make up the aforementioned conversation at all - it actually happened! The only thing I've learned from this is that 1.1 is definitely not backward compatible - I feel like a complete freak but on the bright side look at what I get to write!
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
mornings in Kerala
The very air in Kerala is soft and lazy. The countryside is always sleepy. A number of men will be sitting idle at every bus-stop and tea-shop that you see. They will watch you with disinterested expressions – that is unless you are a relatively okay-looking woman in which case they will ogle you mercilessly even when you are covered from top to toe. The fragrance of fish cooking in coconut oil combines with the smell of wood smoke creating a very heady combination (at least to my senses). You will hear snatches of music being played through loudspeakers in front of temples or maybe the sound of a scratchy radio pouring out of a barber shop which where all the men go for a bit of political gossip which happens to be the mainstay of men in Kerala. You will also see so much greenery that your eyes are spoilt for choice. The sun’s rays beating down will be mitigated by their passage through coconut fronds leaving you with pleasant warmth and plenty of dappled shade to walk in. You unconsciously smile and relax and breathe deeply.
Monday, January 21, 2008
My palm tree
The window where I sit when at work at home looks out onto the front lawn which has a huge palm smack in the middle. Its a young growing palm, very beautiful in a prickly kind of way. To me it always looks happy. Its leaves look like fans and are always turned to the sun. It waves its arms about happily with every passing breeze and goes positively bonkers when the wind and rain lash it . Sometimes I just sit and sip some tea nad watch the palm and it has a very soothing effect - if I ever write that novel of mine I will dedicate it to my very own palm tree :-)
Sunday, January 20, 2008
How does one relax? I can never let go of whatever it is that's keeping me in knots to relax completely. I jsut got a massage and am feeling rather drowsy but all through the massage the only thing I was thinking of was how odd it felt to be lying down with too little on. I was too conscious and couldn't relax sufficiently for the massage to be of much benefit. I have often wondered what is it that makes me hold tight to inhibitions instead of letting go - is it the lack of trust in others or some deep seated insecurity within me that doesn't want any else to see a weak or less than perfect side? This affects almost every aspect of my life - and I wonder how can I be free of this desire to be perfect or at least of the shame I feel in being less than perfect
Friday, January 18, 2008
a kind of beauty...
Is beauty so blinding that every other fault becomes acceptable or invisible? I find that quite often this is so. Take the case of a famous Bollywood actress here in India – undoubtedly she is beautiful – looking at her is as restful as looking at wonderful scene out of nature. Her features are perfectly symmetric and altogether her form is very pleasing to the eye. But she can’t act for nuts. She can’t talk for nuts either and her high pitched giggle is intolerable. I cringed when I saw her on Oprah. I have seen wooden cupboards that can do a better job at acting. My four year old daughter can definitely beat her hands down. Her eyes are gorgeous but without expression of any sort save the “I know I am beautiful” look. She tries to look like she is in love and she turns out looking constipated. She tries to act like she is happy and she looks like she’s grimacing because the smile never once reaches her eyes. And yet she is idolized by millions and her movies are usually super hits. I cannot see why it is impossible for everyone except a few of us to perceive her lack of talent. But I do have to mention that the few movies this lady has done for the Western audience have fallen flatter than a pancake thrown from a 10 storey building. So there’s at least hope ….
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
a friend
I have a few friends - a few people whom I have given that title to because they mean a lot to me. I hope that I mean a lot to them too. I have often prided myself on my judgement and congratulated myself on being able to discern a good friend amidst a crowd. I have trusted people whom no one else would and I have seen the good in some though it was hiddden rather deep and all in all have been extremely lucky in keeping most of the friends I have made over the years.
But I have erred a few times - a couple of times in college and one more recently. This friend meant a lot to me. I found time to think about him in a day filled with office and home and untold small tasks to be taken care of. I tried to put up with the moodiness ,the frequent shutting off from me and have more than once considered throwing the whole friendship out of the window because it seemed not worth my time at all.But whereas I have no patience with anything else, with friends its a different matter. Their problems are mine - I want them to be successful even more than I want it for myself - I rejoice in their every victory - I don't think my blood relatives have inspired that kind of love in me because these are my chosen ones. But this last friend did not deserve anything like that because he never understood it - of course it was my fault for judging wrongly but it still hurts. Hurts on many levels and so I let go - bye former friend - one of my mistakes and maybe a setback when it comes to making new friends.
But I have erred a few times - a couple of times in college and one more recently. This friend meant a lot to me. I found time to think about him in a day filled with office and home and untold small tasks to be taken care of. I tried to put up with the moodiness ,the frequent shutting off from me and have more than once considered throwing the whole friendship out of the window because it seemed not worth my time at all.But whereas I have no patience with anything else, with friends its a different matter. Their problems are mine - I want them to be successful even more than I want it for myself - I rejoice in their every victory - I don't think my blood relatives have inspired that kind of love in me because these are my chosen ones. But this last friend did not deserve anything like that because he never understood it - of course it was my fault for judging wrongly but it still hurts. Hurts on many levels and so I let go - bye former friend - one of my mistakes and maybe a setback when it comes to making new friends.
an adjustment of love
I recently saw a program on TV in which some numerologist was being interviewed. I know neither his name nor how he came to be so – I caught only the second half of the programme. Usually I have no belief in numerology, and indeed that part of what he said was still open to doubt according to me, but what he said about a few other things and the way he expressed himself was very interesting. He mentioned many aspects of his trade and also said that there are many times in life when options open up and we fail to recognize or utilize them. This was said mainly in the context of marriages, by which I mean arranged marriages of course. According to him a person has a few instances in his or her life where he or she can possibly get married. If these are ignored, then desperation kicks in and as one’s age progresses, almost anyone of the opposite sex begins to be considered good enough.
That is something I have observed happening to friends and family around me. Moreover, he said that love alone cannot be the basis of any marriage – without looking at horoscopes and family backgrounds, the marriages do happen but they don’t last. Also, marriages are successful with just adjustments and have no real need for love in order to be viewed as stable or happy. These statements will have a lot of people protesting but there will be an equal number somewhere at various homes smiling and nodding if they hear this. I will continue later …
That is something I have observed happening to friends and family around me. Moreover, he said that love alone cannot be the basis of any marriage – without looking at horoscopes and family backgrounds, the marriages do happen but they don’t last. Also, marriages are successful with just adjustments and have no real need for love in order to be viewed as stable or happy. These statements will have a lot of people protesting but there will be an equal number somewhere at various homes smiling and nodding if they hear this. I will continue later …
Monday, January 14, 2008
evolution
Each person's individual spiritual evolution happens at a different pace. By spiritual evolution , I mean the gradual awakening of a sense of peace with oneself and an understanding of if not the meaning of life at least the purpose of one's existence. It is my belief that when one goes through that journey, one develops qualities like patience, slowness to judge or criticize, a lessening of ego and a feeling of kinship with everyone. Without any of these , the entire spiritual journey becomes meaningless.
For these very reasons, I don't hold with using spirituality as a weapon or religion as a cause for conflict. Religion is meaningless by itself - if the individual does not evolve ,it does not matter what his religion is - why make religion such an excuse to do the most base actions?We can do away with religion entirely in fact if we bother to attempt to recognize our own godliness.
For these very reasons, I don't hold with using spirituality as a weapon or religion as a cause for conflict. Religion is meaningless by itself - if the individual does not evolve ,it does not matter what his religion is - why make religion such an excuse to do the most base actions?We can do away with religion entirely in fact if we bother to attempt to recognize our own godliness.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
for our kids
I tell all my friends that I am not a good mom but I am a great wife ;-).I say so because I lack patience, I get irritated at the slightest annoying trait like whining which my son does in abundance while my daughter is stubborn to the point of no return. But I realise that that's not the only charecteristic that is required. I do have fun with them at rare moments and I hope they treasure that once grown up. My husband is a very dedicated dad and the favourite parent any day.While normal days find me at my wits' end wondering how to communicate with my son and forcing him to sit down for a bit and write or read, the days they are sick, I become a total mom. I can neither eat nor sleep - I am grouchy but unable to take a break. The past 30 hours saw us taking care of my daughter non-stop. It was her fourth birthday on Friday and late at night around 1 o'clock , she started throwing up.It went on all night and continued till 5 the next evening - not one of us had a minute's rest. My head was exploding with pain and lack of sleep but i managed to keep her somewhat active despite her dehydration because seeing her lie quietly with a blank expression broke my heart. She could not drink even a drop of water without instantly vomitting and she lost a kilo overnight. Poor kid - after trips to the doctor and trying out various home remedies she stabilized sometime least night and drifted off to sleep. We took her back to the doctor for a final check up ( he was thinking of admitting her to the hospital since she was dangerously dehydrated ) and he said she would be okay for the night. After soem 6 hours of solid sleep I woke feeling refreshed and with no memory of the hard hours we passed.
That's what parents do. We can't help it - I may not be a good mother but I am a mother - someone who cannot think of herself first. Being a parent brings one out of the constant state of obssession about what the world thinks of one or how to impress everyone or how to make sure that every detail of one's appearanceis just right - not that any of that is wrong but being able to rise above it is definitely a step forward in evolution. Hurrah to all parents :-)
That's what parents do. We can't help it - I may not be a good mother but I am a mother - someone who cannot think of herself first. Being a parent brings one out of the constant state of obssession about what the world thinks of one or how to impress everyone or how to make sure that every detail of one's appearanceis just right - not that any of that is wrong but being able to rise above it is definitely a step forward in evolution. Hurrah to all parents :-)
Thursday, January 10, 2008
why help at all?
I have this really annoying habit of helping people when they need it and they have an annoying habit of forgetting it and getting my back. Why do I continue to do this ? Maybe I have a death wish of sorts. Maybe I secretly like being kicked (yeah right).Not really, the fact is I am a softie and I really do empathize with people.And I also get hurt when they don't respond in kind. One would think that as I grew older, I would've learnt
not to trust anyone but in only that one area, I seem to be an eternal optimist. Take the case of my wonderful neighbour S. She is a real piece of work. I know she manipulates everyone but I can't say no when she asks for help. And I find that I lose out each time. She always asks for my maid when hers doesn't turn up and in order not to burden the lady, I tell her to leave half my work undone and go help her out. And in return S tries to lure her away with more money :-). But do I learn? Certainly not - Arians are known for being dumb that way ...
not to trust anyone but in only that one area, I seem to be an eternal optimist. Take the case of my wonderful neighbour S. She is a real piece of work. I know she manipulates everyone but I can't say no when she asks for help. And I find that I lose out each time. She always asks for my maid when hers doesn't turn up and in order not to burden the lady, I tell her to leave half my work undone and go help her out. And in return S tries to lure her away with more money :-). But do I learn? Certainly not - Arians are known for being dumb that way ...
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
chilly mornings
The mornings here have become chilly.I get up and look out my window at a blanket of mist over all the greenery and the houses. Its lovely weather if you look at it a certain way (as in not including the allergy & coughs my son suffers through the entire winter). I love sipping hot ginger tea and dreaming in this weather. I love wanting to sneak under my quilt and settle against a mound of pillows to read some fantasy book about dragons ( I absolutely love dragons :-)). I love sitting quietly and peering at my inner thoughts. Sometimes its lovely just to sit and be still.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
How does it feel?
I often wonder what falling in love is like. I would like to know so that I can compare it to my experiences so far and determine whether I have, to date, ever fallen in love. This may sound weird but how does one make out? What are the charecteristics to look for? Will there be background music, some kind of electricity or any such tangible things involved? Or will there only be shared laughter, a look of longing ( I am sure I would not recognize it even if served to me on a bed of lettuce), a wish to see that person over and over again? I am neither totally practical nor a complete dreamer - I feel like a useless combination of the two sometimes. My life has flown on expected lines. I was raised with the notion of the uselessness of such things as beauty and love. My mother was a true beauty in her younger days - sculpted features, amazing bone structure - breathtakingly beautiful. She used to tell me that it did not do anything for her - she would rather have had anything else. I was never beautiful , so I did not understand what she meant at all. As to love, no one in my family ever talked about it - it was not the done thing.I was married off to a suitable chap ten years ago, again there was no question of love, only acceptance. He's a really nice guy but whether I have fallen in love I do not know - I do love him beyond a doubt but I don't remember falling. So its the urge to experience that dangerously delicious free fall that I am talking about. How does it feel?
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Perennially confused
I am into my second day of not going to work and I am going nuts. I thought my son, who has learning difficulties and some integration issues would need my attention and working was my way of running away instead of facing that unpleasant reality. I don't like imperfections - if I make a dish that is rather less than my usual standard (of excellence ;-)) I throw it rather than serve it to anyone - if I think I may not be good at something, I won't even attempt it - these are not qualities that I am proud of but they are mine nevertheless. So I was unable to be a good influence on my son. I kept thinking if learning was so effortless for me, how could it be difficult for anyone else, especially my son?!! In any case since he needs a lot of one on one time, I thought (well it's always the mom's fault, right?) that I'd do freelance corporate training instead of software engineering (which I think i'm just okay at , anyways). It will take a couple of weeks to set up and I am sure I will be climbing the walls in frustration in the mean time. I am so not cut out to be a mom - I worry a lot but have no clue what to do with them - I think as they grow older I will be a real gem of a mom but now at this age I have nothing to say to them except "Stop crayoning the walls - do not cut your sister's hair - please stop tearing the sofa - eat your food you ungrateful brats - I can't wait till you have brats of your own you li'l monsters" and the like :-).
So I am confused - why do I think I should be at home more when I feel I am really not of much use here?Why cannot I stick to the resolution of blanking out all other thoughts and worries when I work? Sheesh - I need to have my head examined - I think I sabotage my own career without thinking ...
So I am confused - why do I think I should be at home more when I feel I am really not of much use here?Why cannot I stick to the resolution of blanking out all other thoughts and worries when I work? Sheesh - I need to have my head examined - I think I sabotage my own career without thinking ...
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