This and That

New Year Thoughts

2012-01-01T10:01:00.001+05:30

Yet another new year comes like a bright trophy placed on the shelf of your life. As you observe its shiny face, you resolve to keep it clean and shining always – knowing all the while that it will collect the minutiae of time and stand undusted like its brothers beside it. That is the wonder of the human spirit – to find new hope despite evidence to the contrary.
Like the two faced (literally) god Janus, I look back at the year that has been relegated to the back row, and like most people see the pain that it offered. Then I dig up memories of good times to make it fair. Next, I find comfort in the thought that both have taught me and made me stronger and wiser (which is just a nicer way of saying older). I’ve burnt many cookies before I learnt to get them right, by which time the kids have grown up and cookies are not the most important things in their life. It is like somebody said, “experience is like having a comb after you go bald.” or something to that effect. Still you marvel at the comb and try to use it on others who prefer an unkempt hairstyle. Sigh, one never learns!
Some joys have been simple, while others have been exciting. My plants have flowered. My children have blossomed. The earth remains, albeit the worse for wear. My work has been appreciated. I have work! Everyone loves me. I still shun medicines, but remain healthy (touch wood). I travelled to new places. Took up new challenges. I have my limbs and faculties, a nice home, a loving family…. The blessing are countless – some deserved and most not. Right now I think the greatest blessing is my heritage. Indian culture, beneath all its stains and corrosions is pure gold. Many wouldn’t agree. All I can say is wait till you are exposed to some others.
As I peer into 2012, like Janus’s second face, I see that it will also be a period offering an assortment of experiences. But the taste of the rotten nuts will not linger, nor will the sweetness of the candy. Here’s wishing everyone a wonderful time this new year.

Debubblefy

2011-11-30T22:22:00.000+05:30

It is what many of us do and love doing. Done to release stress or to combat boredom, many consider it the height of gratification. All you need are your fingers and the plump surface. You can do it by yourself or along with a partner. The Japanese have made it an art. There are songs about it and virtual avatars of it too. Why, it has even been used in Fashion. Few can deny the appeal of the bubble wrap or resist it either.
Of course, its primary function is to pack fragile objects, but its poppability accounts for its popularity. My staff room New Year gift exchange parties invariably found some of us bursting the bubbles on the packing at the end of it. Wild horses or even the most delicious food couldn’t drag us from the frantic gaming. Aficionados of the sport who did not get one would be magnanimously allowed to share a sheet. There are those who pop the bubbles in a random fashion, while others are more meticulous, completing a row or a patch at a time. I have heard of people laying down whole sheets and rolling around on them or driving a car over them. Apparently, if you ball up the bubble wrap and press down on it, quite a big bang happens. Another method is to twist the wrap and wring it to produce a rapid round of pops. I for one don’t prefer this way – it is like swallowing your milk chocolate rather than nibbling at it. Whatever the method may be, the popper does not give up until the very last bubble has been killed. And then you run your hands over the vanquished blisters probing for signs of life. It has been found that on leaving a deflated bubble wrap for a while, some bubbles breathe in remaining bits of air and struggle back to feeble life.
Apparently, the word ‘bubble wrap’ was initially a trade name and then it became generic. And at first it was designed to coat walls. An interesting idea, since your walls would be as entertaining as anything else. I am an unabashed bubble pop fan. Once an acquaintance, who was otherwise occupied, left his little daughter with me for a day with the dire warning that I was a ‘teacher’. ( Parents often do that – treat us as if we were explosives) I tried to interest her in games, colouring, stories and cartoons and failed. However I found a kindred spirit in her as we held a bubble wrap on either side and burst it together. She is grown a bit now, but when we meet, we both remember sharing an afternoon of simple pleasure.

Competition

2011-04-08T12:42:00.007+05:30

Competition has been synonymous with life from the beginning of time. Survival of the fittest is not merely an adage. Your being alive to read this is because one sperm got ahead of a million others. The plant that grabbed the space, sunlight , water and nutrients from brother seedlings is the one that stands sturdy. The lion that leads the pride got to the head by vanquishing competitors consistently. That was not effortless. Like it or not, aggression is natural. Natural aggression is involuntary or instinctive. However, the competition that we humans get involved in, complements our natural potential for aggression with complex social and psychological motivation. Now, more than ever, competition rules us.

Unlike the pie-throwing games of the West, our Indian mud-slinging contests lack hilarity. We voters watch as politicians and candidates sling mud on each other, since it is the assembly election season. Accusations are answered not with explanations, but with counter accusations at the opponents and it dawns on the common man that all parties are equally bad and all politicians are malodorous digestive effluents. Gone are the days when parties promised equal opportunities. Now they appease vote bank masses and lure with ‘offers’ of television sets, computers, absurdly low prices and an assortment of freebies. It is a sale out there! My neighbor in Kasavanahalli complains that she hasn’t enough space to keep the 50 kilos of rice (each) that three opposing parties had distributed. One would think that such aggressive campaigning would burn these guys out. But they seem to be enjoying the gamble, as they are thick on epidermis and thin on values. Besides, the bounty at the end of the battle is worth the filth-trek.

Competition is omnipresent in our daily lives, whether one is a corporate-slave, entertainer, millionaire, pen-pusher, student, job-seeker, banker, parent, or a T.V. channel. Ranks, deadlines, targets, exams, investment, ratings are all adrenalin-triggers that steer you towards the push-and-shove routine of aggression. One would think that people would prefer peaceful pursuits to break free from their stressful duties. Strangely that doesn’t happen. We choose to watch/take part in competitions and reality shows even when we don’t have to. Why, you want to be the first one to get off an aircraft or get on board. Where there is a queue, there is a scramble to be the first; and when you get there, a perverse feeling of one-up-manship - especially on seeing the peeved looks on those behind. Temple queues are sports arenas where all kinds of contests happen to get there. You have the very physical pushing maneuvres: the Elbow, the Heave, the Tug, the Resist Stance, the Block, the Return Push and often Verbal Abuse. Another means to win, is using the influence of the temple staff much to the chagrin of those who invested several hours and energy on the aforementioned sport. Yet another is to dole out cash legally or otherwise to gain access.

Sports reveals fascinating aspects of competitive thinking . Supporters switch to primitive mode as they cheer, jeer, pray, despair, boast, gloat, cry, grin or make sacrifices. My Paki driver, eager for the Cricket World Cup Series, had talked of nothing else for the past 2 months. This quiet, big man turned into a chattering boy as he enlightened me about the historical moments of the game, the scores of the teams in past, his predictions about players and teams – his discourses were punctuated by claims that it didn’t matter who won “Jeet aur haar to hota hein, nafrat ki kyaa zaroorat?” It was a morose man that drove me in silence the day after his team bowed out. I tactfully refrained from commenting on the tragedy. But it did seem unnatural not to mention it at all. And so I asked, “Kal match dekha, Kya?” And the floodgates opened. I caught some words in the rapid hindi that flowed- haraam, bewakoof , were two of the highest frequency. The gist of his tirade was that his team had deliberately given runs, dropped catches and scooped their own balls into the Indian fielders’ hands… “Shaayad, match fix kiya hoga, paisa liya hoga.” And I murmured in my fractured Hindi that I was sure that wasn’t true and that it must have been a bad day for them. While I felt that it is better to be a Loser than a Perpetrator, he preferred to think of his team as Unprincipled rather than Incapable. In sports, perspectives are relative. It is interesting to watch the match after it is over and listen to the comments about what the captain did, didn’t do, should do or should have done. Now Dhoni is God (of course, secondary to the Great God Sachin in the cricket pantheon). But if India hadn’t won (shudder!), we’d be baying for his blood and finding a million mistakes.

Teaching, I thought, was a vocation where competition found no role. Teachers co-operate rather than compete. In teaching, it isn’t about yourself, the students are the priority. And if teachers were a competitive lot, we’d have written the AIEEE or some such competitive exam and become something else. I was wrong.

With competition like this, I wonder what we classroom teachers will need to do to prevent losing our students . To learn more about this delightful young lady, look here.

NY Post

2011-01-08T09:30:00.003+05:30

I know this is belated. The computer was convalescing on New Year's day. I did write a post when it recovered, but it looked too pessimistic. Given the unpleasantness of a cruel December, my thoughts and post were infected with cynicism. It being unfair to spread the contagion among my readers(staunch, though few), I scrapped it.

Now that the excuses are done with, let's get to the business of a new year. Knowing myself too well, I never made resolutions. My mind sneered at my weak will whenever it contemplated the concept. Last year, unnoticed by the mind, I 'thought' I'd do somethings. No, I didnot 'resolve' or write them down, but merely thought that I might, maybe, possibly, if I felt like it, if I got time, perhaps try to do a few things like, you know.... ahem .... embroidery or ...ummm....French and.... baking??? And what about finding work? The audacity of such aspirations awakened my cynical mind into sneer mode sending me slinking away.

At the end of 2010 I look at the pillow embroidered by ME in 5 different stitches. I can't believe I've completed ten lessons in French and started a course in German.
I found work teaching in a college. And today I am trying out Garret's Cranberry Upside down Cake. So I have every right to hold my mind by the collar, look it in the face and shout, "HAH! Now What can you say, you ugly, pathetic, good-for-nothing creature?!" The mind shouts right back at me, " HAH TO YOU! Those terrible cookies and awry embroidery??! And TWELVE months to complete 10 lessons??! Shame!" Yes, I admit it is not ideal, but I will use these tiny achievements to put some muscles on my distrophied Will.

Having time-bound goals keeps you not just going, but going forward. So my thoughts for the next year include maybe accelerating the snail's pace of my French learning. I could continue with the German. Will I ever learn to crochet? Can I possibly make terracota jewellery like I've always wanted to do. WHen will I finish reading the humongous Devi Bhagavatam that I started months ago? Well Iam not thinking of the kilos I have to shed'

My readers, I'm sure have will power made of sterner stuff than mine. You can do it. Stretch out. Take that piece of paper. Get up. Find that pen. Go on write your goals and put it up where you'll see it. I'd be interested to know them too.

Wish you a fruitful and action-packed 2011.

Saving The Aunties

2010-11-26T22:27:00.004+05:30

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Being called 'Mom' is way better than being called an 'Aunty'. In fact Mom is as positive a moniker as Aunty is a negative one. While Mom conjures up images of loveable, respectworthy, and nice, Aunty brings to mind a plump, interfering and obnoxious figure. This is mailny because (Indian) films and ads portray the Aunty as a crude, criticising or match-making busybody. So much so that, the Indian habit of showing respect by using the A word has turned into one of disrespect. So my shock at being called Aunty is not age-related, but image-related

One of the biggest compliments I got as a teacher was when a sixth standard student accidentally referred to me as Mamma. It was as if an honour had been bestowed. Whereas being called Aunty, leaves one cold. The other day I read a post by a young lady that did some aunty-bashing.The writer assumes that an aunty assumes that a young person is arrogant, perverse and slutty if she speaks English, goes to work and has male friends home to fix the taps. This is probably how all youngsters typecast Aunties. I think of each Aunty in my acquaintance, and try to check her against the prototype given above. None matches. It's too bad that we cannot live up to the expectations.

Now is when I express my apology to all the women that I called Aunty for the last twenty years and all the men that I called Uncle, too. And a word to youngsters: Wipe that smile off your face; youll be there before you know it.

Priceless Surprises

2010-11-16T15:09:00.004+05:30

In life, as in art, surprises break the tedious lack of variety. If it weren’t for them we’d chaff under the boredom of routine. Surprises are nice when they are pleasant, like when a tail end not-so-great batsman scores a century for your team - leaving you thrilled or when you find an old student’s comment on your post and feel a warm glow in your cardiac area. They can be overwhelming, as when your present student gifts you a Chanel perfume or when you find a 10 KD note tucked away in an old handbag.

Some surprises are so predictable. Don’t you feel distinctly unexcited on having a cake again for your birthday just like last year……… and every other year? It’s like a poet put it, “Poor, dear, silly Spring, preparing her annual surprise!” It is strange because the absence of the cake might just leave you disappointed. The mind is a strange thing. It craves novelty – at least mine does. Which is why I feel at loss when asked what I’d like as a gift. How would I know? However I do prefer being asked rather than be given some electronic gadget over which I have to feign excitement. (I think I should correct and say that the female mind is a strange thing.)

The element of surprise and creativity are great in a marriage. It isn’t only the love notes in the lunchbox variety. As the couple settle into familiarity that borders on routine or contempt(can’t say which is worse), the ability to surprise (still) with a teasing smile or even a rare flare of temper can make some waves that offer respite from a deadly inertia. Opening the door to find your not-hirsute-anymore husband do a dance step for you might seem silly, but the shared humor and memory could be a strong building block.

Of course, there are the nasty ones too – like when a married, 24 year old girl addresses you as ‘Aunty’ and you turn around to see who the aging person is and then realize it is you yourself – that’s a nasty surprise, a terrible shock actually. The only consolation is that she calls your husband ‘Uncle’.

Now you know what trigered this post. Humph

The Driver

2010-10-31T19:18:00.001+05:30

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“My father was from Punjab and my mother is from Himachal Pradesh”, he said in surprisingly good English. “I respect people from Kerala,” he continued, when he found that I was from there. “They are very united; they and the people of Goa and the Bengalis. You know? In Kerala there is 100% graduation,” he said, and I was too tired to correct him …… on all counts. I had nothing to offer to return the compliment. I mused that the only good I knew about contemporary Pakistan was the cricketers and Mr. Sania Mirza – both whose virtues are dubious, come to think of it.

The previous night’s lateness and the comfort of the AC made me drowsy. But the frequent warning e mail forwards about taxi drivers drugging women commuters with chemicals in the air freshener kept me awake. And this guy was a Pakistani. Copies of his work permit, ID card and pages of his passport were displayed down the back of the front seat. ‘Feroze’, I read and the photo of a much better dressed, much younger Feroze stared back at me.

“Our teacher insisted on our writing within the four lines and my writing was very neat. Aaj to bacche log sab computer mein hi likhte hain,” this he said when he learned that I taught English. “You know these British people don’t know English grammar they speak English like a Mumbai fellow speaks Hindi. One my customer, a British fellow, said Whoshe – no verb ‘is’!” - That really impressed me, I mean how many people remember that is is a verb? And how many notice its absence? I had kept my responses to the minimum, he being Pakistani and all.

A month ago I had asked everyone I knew to arrange an Indian driver to take me halfway across the country to my new work place. I remember with shudders the two previous drivers, both Malayalees, who left me stranded in no-taxi-land. Yet when I got this new driver, my nerves shrieked on learning he was a Paki. It took days for me to not feel uneasy in his vehicle.

Now I rely on his promptness, appreciate his silence when he knows I prefer it and listen to his occasional opinions in the haven of his taxi as we speed across the desert heat - an Indian and a Pakistani, shelving a history of mistrust and animosity.

Before I got out at my door, Feroze gave me an AC mechanic’s card – “My friend,” he explained, “ Sab cheez – AC, fridge, washing machine - sab repair karega. Madam, aapko chaahiye tho telephone karo.” And then he added, “Pakistani hein, lekin achha aadmi hein.”
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Puzzle d

2010-09-25T21:30:00.001+05:30

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I am happy am I ?
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Tread-Mull

2010-09-16T21:48:00.002+05:30

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I remember fondly our first treadmill which was kept in the bedroom. After inspiring an inaugural trot it never troubled anyone in the family. It lent itself to holding drying towels and doubled as a shoe rack. We even felt sorry to give it away to a friend who was diagnosed with cholesterol.

Then we welcomed diabetes home to stay and the doc shook his head, gravely predicting doom unless we exercised more. Walking was recommended. The desert climate being what it is, none of us wanted to expose ourselves to being baked, frozen or liberally dusted. That’s when Treadmill II entered our home and our lives. It took its ugly place in the sitting room, facing the TV. This one was swanky with a veritable dashboard and dials to indicate the user’s pulse rate, speed, distance run and calories burned. By now the children had grown to become figure conscious, calorie-counting individuals. So the device got used frequently. But it wasn’t the adults (who needed it) that were using it. Our initial enthusiasm waned – not very surprising- that. But sporadically Guilt would needle us out of comfort.

The treadmill is a dreadful thing to me because of the sheer boredom during its use. Many methods were suggested to overcome this. Someone said reading was good, but it only left me off balance as I tried to turn pages or got lost in a book. ( The manufacturers would do well to design a page-turner fixed to it. ) My son was all for listening to music on an MP3, while treading. He even loaded some of my favourite songs. But I hate noises invading the free spaces of my ears and then taking over my brain. I guess I am not an earphone person. Whatever the method, I could not stop myself from counting while walking. I’d count in 2’s, then in 10’s or 20’s; I’d count the seconds or the distance units or the calories till the numbers crushed my head and still I wouldn’t…. couldn’t stop. 25 steps meant one cal and that took 20 secs if the speed was at 5. I’d close my eyes and the numbers danced against my eyelids and the steps sounded an unceasing, strident chant – 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10; …1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,20……….. The terror cannot be described. After such a deadly onslaught of digits, I’d escape from the monster and avoid it like a society lady avoids her worst rival…. until Guilt intervened to bridge the chasm again.

That’s why I loved being in India. One sweats so much; simply existing burns calories and every morning a walk to 2 or 3 temples keeps you fit and well informed of all the gossip and in touch with the neighbours;………. ah yes in touch with your soul too. So returning to the daunting presence of the treadmill was far from pleasant. My husband listens to the Suprabhathams while on the treadmill, but I’d hate to associate the lovely prayers with something so hateful. Watching TV from the TM, you have to step up the volume to nuisance proportions. But one day I watched a Funny Home Video show while walking and I’d finally found the ideal walk/count-forgetter. You don’t need to follow the script and so the TV can be on mute even. And despite the silliness, you laugh over people tumbling off sleds, babies making faces, dogs clowning about………..at the end of an episode you find you’ve laughed through 1 ½ kms and 100cals.

Yesterday there were three back-to-back episodes that I walked through…… which is why I’m nursing the blisters under my feet.

Ouch

'Quick' And 'Easy' Cookies

2010-05-19T12:56:00.001+05:30

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My culinary skills are restricted to south Indian meals. When the occasion demands I do attempt vadas and neyyappams with some success. Baking is a world I’d not ventured into much, due to the initial enthusiasm getting doused by trays of burnt offerings. I stayed content and passive, blaming my oven’s inability to regulate temperature.

The interest was rekindled with my impending trip to India. I wanted to bake something for my children who live there. My mother used to bake a variety of goodies for me when I was young and the guilt at my own laziness impelled me. Armed with the results of my search for quick and easy cookies, I got ready after many days of putting off. The raw materials were all there except for brown sugar which a commenter claimed gave the cookies their chewy scrumptiousness. I have a thing with recipes, I never stick to them. So I decided that caramel would be a good sub.

A small problem arose when I started beating the caramel into the butter. The entire thing solidified into a rock island in the moat of melted fat. Why hadn’t I thought of this simple phenomenon of physics.. or is it chemistry? My electric mixer, in a coma ever since it was given to me as a wedding present, came out of its dusty box and then began its battle with the rock. Apart from splattering oil all over the kitchen counter, it made no dent in the solid mass that mocked our efforts. A weaker spirit would have dumped the entire stuff into the garbage at that point.

Pushing aside despair, I boiled water in a pan and placed the bowl of indomitable geographical formation in it and stirred and stirred and stirred. Which was actually impossible because the caramel had coated the insides of the bowl and the spoon. Meanwhile the presence of egg in the mixture posed the danger of turning into a sweet scramble. I played with the thought of going at it with a hammer and chisel, but the bowl being glass deterred me. Meanwhile my arms and fingers hurt with the unaccustomed exercise. So I went for the electric mixer again. Only, the cord wasn’t long enough. I then searched for an extension cord among the never–used tools and equipment and got the mixer going. By now I was surprised by my own tenacity to subdue the rock. Until then I’d never really understood the concept of climbing a mountain because it is there. With me, the mixer and heat, I felt I could coax the stubborn thing into submission. Don’t ask me how long it took or how much fuel I spent, but slowly the glacier began to melt and turn into a beautiful creamy consistency. My delight was tinged with dismay to find that now the sauce like substance had begun to thicken into a puddinglike form while the lumps of caramel persisted. I added water, which is probably a sin among bakers’ cults, and continued beating till I got tired of it. I stirred in the dry ingredients just like the recipe said. The dough was supposed to be dropped on to the tray by spoonfuls. That was not possible, now that it was too solid. So I made it into balls and baked them. If they burnt as usual, I knew I’d kill myself.

I'd have put up a pic of the result of my efforts if I knew how to. I even took a photo with my new digi cam :D [What kills me is the thought that someone searching the web for a Q&E cookie recipe will land on this blogpost :)] Anyway the cookies looked great since the chocolate chips melted and gave it a marble appearance - though that was never intended. They were like marble not only in appearance; but then what are teeth for? All these melt-in-the-mouth food weaken the pearly whites I tell you. Eating a cookie brought back memories of a childhood toffee called kamarkatt which defied dental power.

Of course the kitchen counter and stove and the walls are splattered with food, the cord of the mixer got burnt on the stove, the beaters are broken and the gas is over, but I did have an adventure &good fun. Besides I’ve invented the world’s first Caramel Chip Cookies!

I think.

Don’t tell me such cookies already exist. And please don't tell me caramel chips are available in packets................

Post script: I got brown sugar and baked another batch. They are all packed in my box and tonight I leave for India where I haven't got net access. So good bye and good health until Sept.

Id Lee

2010-05-11T18:06:00.005+05:30

Some things/people that have merit are ignored. They miss the applause and the honors and remain unknown, unsung. In fact very often many that get the kudos don’t really deserve them. A lot of self- promotion is required in order to be considered for awards and recognition. A person who finds joy in doing what he does well won’t need a citation to feel thrilled. It is the duty of the award givers to notice excellence and honor it.

That is why I feel guilty. I committed gross neglect by making a list of Woman –friendly items, without including the Idlee. This food item is one of the greatest inventions to help Indian..er….South Indian womankind despite its yodellike/Chinese-sounding name.

Its virtues are many. Cooked in steam and done in five minutes, 16-20 at a time, it is a quick-cooking, low fat marvel. It also contains enough proteins and just enough carbohydrates to keep one healthy and fit. It can be had steaming or not so hot with a variety of accompaniments. It can be recycled into various forms as well.

Having said all that, I remember the time I hated Idlees. My mother would make dosas just for me on Idlee days. Then marriage happened and guess what the staple breakfast was at my husband’s home…..Yes. And then children happened, by which time I’d got less stupid and at an early age I trained the kids to relish the Idlee. Ever since she has been a dear friend. So now life is good. With an Ultra grinder and frequently replenished store of sambar and podi, what’s there to worry?

So here is my Ode to the Idlee:

She lies in repose, a pillow fluffy
Her contours like a young girl's cheek
Unkissed, blushing, soft and rosy
That's Idlee - most modest and meek.

She may seem quiet, humble and shy,
Not glamorous like rolls or cheese
But her appearance doth belie
A wholesome nature, sans grease

She's good for the lazy and busy
She's good for the fitness freak
She's even good for the toothless
So three cheers for the Idlee!

I even have a cute joke in honour of this heroine:

An Iyer and a Britishman were travelling together. The train left Central at 8 pm and at 7 am it was at Vijayawada.
The Britishman had a sumptuous breakfast served by a butler in livery , but the Iyer opened the top box of his 4-compartment steelcarriage and ate two idlis.

Lunch at Waltair station (as Visakhapatnam was then called), was a heavy meal served to the Britishman by the Railway Refreshment stall, but the Iyer only opened the second box of his tiffin carriage, pulled out 4 idlis and ate them with relish. The Britishman was curious as to what was happening, but being a Britishmam, kept his upper lip stiff. But when the scene repeated during dinner at Berhampur, he could no longer contain himself, and enquired, " Sir, what are those white things you have been eating all along? "
The Iyer said, " Sir, these are called intelligence tablets. We South Indians can live on them for days together. "
Britishman: " But how do you make them ? ".
The Iyer described the raw materials, and processes.
Britishman : " Can you please give me a couple?-- you need not give them free. I'll be happy to pay whatever price you quote. "
The Iyer thought and said," Actually I have only three more of them left for breakfast but since I am going to my relative's place, I can spare them for you. But they will cost you 20rupees each ".

The Britishmam paid up immediately, happy that he was so lucky. Next morning at Howrah station as they were about to part ways, he asked, "But tell me sir, are you sure you have told me the entire process without leaving out any details?" . Iyer said "Yes, I told you all details".

Britishman, "Then why are those damn intelligence tablets so costly?" The Iyer said, “See, you took 3 last night and already they started working!"

*'Letheward'

2010-04-22T03:35:00.002+05:30

There was a time when ………

……. tuition was for duffers
……. couples got married to become husband and wife
... couples got married
……. kids had two parents
……. people were scoffed for saying that we would buy water in the future
…….no one believed that technology would facilitate seeing the speaker on the other
end of a telephone
…….. parents were not afraid of their children
……… a chocolate was a treat
………. soap was not called ‘bathing bar’
………. terrible accidents/ disasters happened to unknown strangers
……… a hand sanitizer was not necessary
……… children played cards or carroms on holidays for fun
……… children played for fun
……….passengers talked and shared food on a train
……….passengers looked at each other on a train
……….Kerala was cooler than Madras
……….brinjals were innocent
……….an ambassador was a car
……….'damn' & 'sexy’ were bad words

*Lethe

'Wearing A Work Of Art'

2010-04-12T14:04:00.006+05:30

I am a great fan of the sari. As a child I watched, fascinated as my mother or aunts draped, pleated, tucked and pinned away at theirs. Those days it was a pleasant pastime to drape a cloth over my shoulder like a pallu and keep patting it into place just like the pretty ladies of the house. This love turned sour during my college years as the sari was made compulsory by that esteemed institution. Enforcement can make one hate the pleasantest of things. If aerated drinks were made compulsory, we’d all insist on water. But I must thank my alma mater for teaching me to wear a sari to perfection within minutes.

The dresscode in our school offers ample liberty in the absence of one. Thankfully, teachers are a sensible lot and never turn up in beach or party wear. Through the years, users of the sari on a daily basis in the school dwindled to two – the principal and yours truly.

The grievances against the sari are many; the sheer difficulty in wearing it, the impossible mission of walking in one and the paraphernalia of matching clothing required, the lurking suspicion of loose ends and unintentionally revealed skin (deliberately uncovered skin needs to seen) are nothing compared to the task of keeping them starched and ironed . In spite of these horrors, I love donning saris, crisp cottons in summer and pure silk in winter. It is the concept of the blouse that I find encumbering (is there such a word?) It must have been an evil tailor who made that item of clothing a must, like The Joker releasing contaminated cosmetics in Gotham City.

Anyway, I was pleasantly surprised to find that a book on saris is doing the rounds

I hope it will not meet the fate of Loose Cannon’s …er… sorry Shashi Tharoor’s take on the matter. The furore among the females that it aroused forced the poor man to offer an explanation. [ I wonder why Taroor does not join Bollywood as an actor. He looks pretty enough and it wouldn’t be hard to pack on some packs.] I sympathise with him though; most of what he says is misconstrued and he gets pounced upon. And like him, I feel it wouldn't be too much to do for the Indian woman to wear saris oftener.

During my trip to China, I wore salwars and was the only one in the entire population to do so. Of course, I did stand out like a sore thumb (thumb is actually quite a good comparison), but I got to be a minor celebrity, with the Chinese wanting to get photographed with me, feeling my plaited hair, aaahing at my nose stud and ooohing at my bindi. I wish I'd packed some saris.

2010-04-09T11:03:00.000+05:30

Little hands
Clutch my finger
As I lead through safe pathways

Little hands
Tug at my fingers
To lead in untrod ways

Little hands
With time
They lose
Their trusting touch on mine.

Little hands
Now grown
quite big
Pointing far away

Those fingers long
They grab and pull
I cannot but relent
And enter that heart,
That lovely heart
That's taken mine away

(I found this among stuff written long back)

Yellow, Yellow, Dirty Fellow

2010-03-30T01:00:00.003+05:30

It is often said that, No news is Good news. Such a situation, in this age of communication, seldom happens. The converse is however, true: Good news is No news. The dailies, periodicals and broadcasting media thrive on bad news – bombs, scams, scandals, crime, crises are all magnets for eyeballs. Election time brings a televised crossfire of mudslinging between rivals which is a little more dense than at other times. The entertainment pages are rife with scoops about celebrity couples headed for splitsville and who is jumping into whose bed. The readers’ interest fades when an affair ends in marriage, only to revive at hints of brewing trouble. I am reminded of the delightful Oscar Wilde who wrote, "I really don't see anything romantic in proposing. It's very romantic to be in love but there's nothing romantic about a definite proposal. Why, one might be accepted! One usually is I believe. Then the whole excitement is over. The very essence of romance is uncertainty.”

The lively portions of history books are the war periods. Peaceful reigns are boring with wells getting dug, roads being made or irrigation canals being built.

Bad news is sensational. The detailed report of the TISS rape victim in the TOI brought forth a volley of protest from the public. The editor’s half hearted apology, defending the tabloid's deliberate attempt to ‘create awareness’ through explicit description of the victim’s experience sounded hollow. The real purpose of the item was served – the spate of protest was proof enough. What is strange is that the conclusion of such cases seldom see the light of day. What happened to the culprits? Well, who has the patience to follow the course of (in)action? Public memory is short-lived anyway and other sensational happenings distract them.

Anybody can capitalize on the public’s appetite for the unworthy it seems; you have iplplayer-fake/real bloggers providing the inside commentary on the titillating itsies and bitsies about players, managers, owners and glamour girls at the ipl circus. The idea apparently changed their life, going by the thousands of comments that the webpage attracted.

The interest in the negative, morbid as it may seem, is quite natural, for nothing can equal it in terms of shock/ excitement value.

Nnooli

2010-03-17T09:55:00.014+05:30

Heroes don't have to be those in the limelight. Like Nnuli the petite, topless, don't-even-know-how-many-years-old relic who swept our largish compound. Her four foot figure beside the gate, with her broom over her shoulder was what one saw while stepping out of the house. This never failed to elicit utterances of irritation from the conservative individuals that considered the broom an inauspicious sight. My mother would beg Nnnooli, in vain, to lose the broom when people set out. Nnooli would then declare that her broom was an instrument that kept places clean and nothing could be more auspicious than that. I suspect she deliberately took her stance by the gate with her broom at exactly the time when people entered or exited or perhaps the broom had simply become a part of her anatomy.

The only clothing that this pint sized woman wore was a yellowing white cloth around her waist, it covered her from waist to calf. Her polished brown skin was always clean while her graying hair was ever rough and unkempt. During the monsoons when she hugged her slight body against the cold, I'd risked suggesting that she wear a blouse only to receive her angry protest against modern styles which she believed were uncalled for. So you can imagine what she thought about footwear. Happiness, to her, was a basin of gruel from rice harvested in the family fields and pieces of dry fish to go with it. She lamented the lack of both since the fields had long since changed ownership and fish was taboo in our household. Of course she could have lived in her own house, across the road and eaten what she wanted, if her drunkard and insane son, Ayyappan, hadn't beaten her out of it.

Ayyappan beat not only his mother, but also his wife and infant daughter. But to Nnnooli he was her dearest son. Whatever she got, she gave him until my mother started a post office account in her name. Nnnooli did have another son, Koran who had run away to Malaaya several decades before. The story goes that he had sent her a letter from there. Unable to read, she had given it to her then master to read it and it just got lost. The master's flippancy did not anger her, nor did the tragedy of a long lost son defeat her. She simply believed that he would come one day and when her property was divided among her children, she insisted that a share be retained for Koran too.

Nnnooli's sparse attire was not because of shortage. Her wooden box, which she cleaned regularly and scattered with naphthalene balls, was full of new mundus, thorthus and veshtis. These she wore when she went to Tirunnavaya every full moon day of Karkkidakam to perform the rites for departed souls. Once my parents and I took her to the Guruvayur temple about 2 hours from our place and she got lost in the crowd. Our search was futile and we were desperate. We had no idea if she had money on her, besides she was illiterate. The police was informed. We returned home, not knowing what to tell her crazy son. And who should be waiting at the gate with her broom, but the delightedly smiling little old Innooli! We hugged her in relief while she proudly related how she had asked her way around, hopped into a bus, demanded the conductor to take her to Valancherry even without payment.

I loved to watch her work, eat or bathe, and sometimes would ask her to sing her old songs. With a laugh she would favour me with the tuneless strains of quaint songs of bygone days, the words strange to my young ears. Occasionally she spoke of her husband Krishnan whom she had married as a child, loved much and lost. She reminisced about Krishnan's mother and her patient efforts with the playful child that Nnooli was. She would intersperse her chatter with imitations of people, including me. Whenever I left home to hostel or later work and even later to my husband's place, she would have one request - naphthalene balls for her wooden box. She once asked me for a nose stud and I got her one with a red stone. She didn't have a piercing. But the day she got it, it shone bright on her reddened nose. Apparently she had pierced her own nose with the stem of the stud! The nose ring and a gold chain on her bare bosom made her even more beautiful.

Nnooli was ageless, but as the years flew by, she began to get disoriented. Her sweeping went on the whole day. She would rescatter the leaves that she had just swept and sweep them all over again. She would shake her broom at the drumstick tree for shedding its leaves and shout loud curses at it. She had a store of the choicest bad words for the hapless fauna that my poor mother had to hear through the day. She would scold the weeds that she pulled out, daring them to reappear at their own peril. She ignored my mother's entreaties to her to have her meals on time . Her work had become her life, her eyes recognised the soil and the grass and the dry leaves. And when she looked at us or her family, it was as if we were strangers.

It got so bad that the broom had to be wrenched out of her hands and she was taken to her own house. Without her work, Nnooli's life probably had no meaning. She ate less and less each day. Her body that had never had an ounce of extra flesh became thinner than ever. That was her condition when I arrived home for the holidays. I went to her house and she lay there like a child, a white cloth around her waist, the nose stud and gold chain sparkling against her burnished brown skin. Ayyapan's wife told me that Nnooli kept talking solely about my brother, me and my parents. I sat by her and she was calling out our names, but she looked at me with unknowing eyes. They told her who I was but it made no difference. I realised that for, her Anu Thambratty was some one else who had watched her eat and requested songs and got her naphthalene balls.

That evening she died. My mother gave the post office savings which Nnooli had instructed be used for her funeral. Of course there was much more remaining for her children to share as always.

I don't know why I think of Nnooli as a hero. I don't know if this post has done justice to her .

I look at the compound of the house and see it overrun with weeds and scattered with dry leaves as if they too missed Nnooli's scolding endearments

Heroes 1

2010-03-08T08:04:00.016+05:30

A composition on ‘a person you admire’ was one of my favourite assignments whenever I got a substitution period in school. Despite the staleness of the topic, I felt it would help students to think beyond themselves and get a perspective on admirable qualities, besides finding a role model that they could want to follow. I’m sure the students considered me a spoil sport, depriving them of a free period to play x and zero or pen fights or chat.. All of them invariably chose Gandhi or their mother or Mother Teresa. Not that these great people were less than admirable, but the choice seemed so much like Priyanka Chopra’s inability to find any other hero.

For a long time my hero was Helen Keller. Her tenacity despite multiple disabilities amazed me. Her exhortation ‘Keep your face to the sunshine and you cannot see a shadow,’ always inspired me. And this was coming from a person who never saw a face, sunshine or shadow. Maybe Keller appealed to me because from childhood I had been infinitely grateful for my eyesight. My prayer for myself to God has always been to retain my vision, for when I’m old and have throat cancer or some such horrid disease, I’ll be able to read books and forget the pain.

Years later I happened to watch The Miracle Worker , the story of Ann Sullivan, Keller’s teacher, and I found another hero. This woman was just twenty when she was appointed to teach Keller, who at that time not only suffered physical challenges, but was also wild and given to terrible tantrums. The education of the disabled being in its infancy, Sullivan devised her own method of correlating sensations to words written on the palm and the vibration of the vocal chords. Keller’s mind opened to language with the gush of water on her one hand and w-a-t-e-r spelled out on her other one. Ann Sullivan was as relentless a teacher as Helen Keller was a tireless student. Sullivan showed me the true purpose of a teacher.

Of course, Gandhi, you are the greatest for me; but then today is woman’s day and all….....

Be Nice To Momma

2010-03-02T15:22:00.001+05:30

There are some things that never should have been invented. No, not firearms or even the atom bomb for they are not used on a daily basis. The deadly creations that drive mothers like me to frustration are right there in your home, used everyday.

The most exasperating is the MP3 with ear phones. Once the child is plugged shut, he gets impervious to anything, especially entreaties and even shouts to bathe or have meals. And if it is to clean his room I suspect he deliberately plays deaf. No mother can rest assured that her offspring won’t be in an accident with his ears stuffed and not hearing vehicles.

Cargoes irritate me no end. Washing an ordinary pair of trousers itself is a pain, what with four pockets to go through. So cargoes with their numerous pockets is pain multiplied. Besides it is an argument initiator- you, trying to make the child realize how sloppy he looks while he, insisting that comfortable is cool.

Cool is a nice word but there are some words whose inventors must be struck dead. I hate ‘whatever’ ‘Yeah Right’ and of course the four letter ones that I find so disgusting. I also dislike the use of other bad words which has become so common. Sarcasm (whatever, yeah Raait) becomes insulting when it is cliched and devoid of humour and vehemence (four lettered) is uncalled for. If these were used infrequently and appropriately, they might be really expressive and meaningful.

So children, chuck those earphones, dump those cargoes and scrub that dirt off your mouth. Be nice to mama

His Roses Bloom For Me

2010-02-03T12:25:00.000+05:30

I look at the man in the driver's seat beside me, remembering the first time we met at our wedding. Not having seen or talked, let alone written to each other,there wasn't a shadow of romance between the two of us. We were strangers.

I had watched my parents share their interest in literature, art and philosophy. They talked to each other all the time . Discussions on the Bhagavad Geetha to Bertrand Russel enlivened their conversations. They were very much in love. I never heard my father utter a harsh word. He complimented Amma on her cooking, embroidery...on just being her. While for Amma, my father was her life. So I entered marriage with my own preconceived notions of sharing and loving.

The man I married never read anything but the newspaper and office reports. He did have a colourful vocabulary that he used to describe drivers who blocked his path. He ate the food that I dished out in silence except when it did NOT appeal to his taste buds. He too may have had notions of a happy marriage that I couldn't live up to. I have had my days of rage. Besides, I disliked wifely 'duties' of housekeeping while he hated my whistling.

My husband never gave me roses or discussed poetry. But he admired my abilities and encouraged me to take up challenges - whether it was speaking at seminars or organising events. I grew to respect his judgment and strength. He never talked about kindness, but showed it in the most unexpected moments. He may never admit it, but I realise that he needs me and hates my absence. He worries about me when I am on my own (though I can take care of myself) and takes pains to prevent hassles. I have to drop hints the entire month before my birthday, but I know that he believes I was born for him!

Marriage, I'd been told, is all about give and take. That always sounded nice and balanced. Experience taught me that it was anything but. For sometimes you give more and at others you get more. Who knows, maybe the sum total is a neat tally. But then who is keeping accounts? And who cares? Because by then one realises that often giving is as enjoyable as receiving.

Bringing up our children drew us even closer. I wonder if any other couple enjoyed their children as we did. I watched him saying no to their requests sometimes and showering them with tenderness at others. The laughter and pain that we shared over and with them bound us as one. Of course there have been times when the bond was stretched, but we always snapped back together to find understanding and mutual respect.

Two decades have gone by all too fast. Now our children are away and come to us during vacations. New faces people their world. We have only each other most of the time. He comes home to me with a happy smile and my heart sings too. He still watches TV shows or studies management journals, while I do crosswords or read. There still isn't much conversation or discussion; only the unspoken warmth - probably the same that my parents expressed. When we go out, he still cusses other drivers. I don't flinch anymore. I look at the man in the driver's seat beside me and I wonder, when did I fall in love with him?
.

Past Imperfect

2010-01-15T18:28:00.000+05:30

As a child I….

…….imagined that 4 had married 5, and 6 was their baby.

……..thought the meaning of yellow was ‘beautiful’.

..…….believed that Anon was a person.

…….yearned to wear out my hawai chappals and Natraj pencils to stubs instead of losing them always.

…….dreaded that my father had a secret family stowed away somewhere.

….. made up my mind to work in a chocolate factory when I grew up.

...…wondered why God wouldn’t or couldn’t speak.

..... loved to play in the servant’s quarters with her children.

……couldn’t understand why I didn’t speak Hindi though I was a Hindu.

…… drew horizontal strokes in a drawing class which earned me a big cross and a bigger zero. My art teacher, Mrs. Daniel, didn’t know that I had tried to draw the wind.
It still hurts.

.... hated the story of the ant and the grass-hopper.

Caveman Logic

2010-01-11T11:33:00.000+05:30

It sounded cute when Sehwag said that he supported the Srilankan team, because the team he sided with always lost. He said that it was a superstition. It isn’t just Sehwag. Inexplicable notions prevail in a twilight zone even in the midst of enlightened humanity, surprising as it is in this age of logic. Hotels in the most technologically sophisticated cities don’t have a 13th floor. Blind beliefs are said to have originated in an era when man was utterly under the control of nature. What he couldn’t explain, he attributed to divine forces. Perhaps coincidence froze such superstitions into facts. In which case the people of today shouldn’t be superstitious at all. We all know that isn’t the case. So there is, probably, a fascination in our nature for the mysterious and fantastic.

Beliefs that defy reason are cute, like Sehwag’s or sinister or downright irritating. The most irritating are forwards that tell you not to break the chain of time-wasting, useless, communication. The more victims you palm off the inconvenience on, the more good fortune you will gift yourself. Even more annoying are the threatening ones that damn you with horrors unless you follow the orders. The worst is when senders who never drop a line otherwise pass the buck to you. Yes, all one has to do is hit delete, but then you know……… So I forward these mails to my children and their expired accounts AND to the sender ;) Fortunately my children aren’t as vicious as I am.

It is strange though, that life offers some strange experiences. Once on a Board exam day the bulb went out when I switched it on as soon as I woke up. Then the lamp went out when I lit it. While setting out from home who should be in the lift but Mr. Iyer from the 8th floor ( Malayalees see a solitary, male Tamil brahmin as a portend to trouble). I knew that these were not signs, I merely noticed them. That day it happened that the school bus driver who took me and the candidates to the exam centre took a wrong turn and we lost our way. It was an hour of desperate phone calls and anxiety. We finally reached the centre after the exam had started, the staff there were good enough to hurry the students through the formalities and herd them to their seats. I know it is only coincidence. I’d said hi to a lone Mr. Iyer a hundred times, light bulbs blowing a fuse and a cold wick are common too. So there is no need to see a paranormal meaning in the occurance. In fact, it was one of those students who topped the subject that year!

Superstitions are followed all over the world. The Chinese have theirs about certain numbers, the Irish have their four-leaf clover, the Americans spit on their baseball bats. New ones that appeal to youngsters are still cropping up. Sportsmen, actors, clowns, tycoons, all have their good luck rituals. And I have my lucky pen.

New Year Post

2009-12-31T22:39:00.000+05:30

Happy New Year to all :)

Enjoy your Karma. Try to.

The Party

2009-12-15T21:14:00.001+05:30

I celebrated last New Year with a potluck dinner at our friend's place. The group was made up of my husband's college friends and their families. Potluck was a misnomer since one of the wives had called each of us to plan the menu and allot dishes. Actually celebrated is also a misnomer since the New Year found me flat on the friend's daughter's bed, missing the general cheer at the countdown and all. No, I did NOT get drunk. This is what happened:

.

I wake up early; and all that cooking after a day at work left me a little sapped of energy. I dolled up in record time, packed the food and set out, albeit drooping, for the party.

Actually party is also a misnomer for the ladies all congregated and what could be the topic of the day but recipes! I did try to contribute..... to keep awake. This went on for.....oh quite long. My effort to speak about monkeys or snakes was futile. Cook-talk refused to loosen its grip over the group. Finally the talk turned to other things. Beauty treatments. This just might be interesting. I thought. The discussion, at first rambling, soon focussed on hair colouring and then to henna.Everyone grew lively, shedding new light on the ingredients and procedures for making the henna concoction. Imagine my dismay at powder, grind, mix, add and stir creeping back into the territory like some Pak soldiers into Kargil. They seemed to have a life of their own and a mission to overpower (me). Meanwhile the potency of coffee powder in the mix as opposed to tea and the cleansing effect of lemon juice, the shine enhancing qualities of castor oil were all thoroughly debated and exhaustively studied. Again I tried to talk about robbers and Adnan Sami's intestinal bypass. However the looks I got turned suspicious at my red rimmed eyes. By this time I was so lost, I couldn't have found my voice if I wanted to scream.The chat then meandered to craft work, I wished I could shut my eyes.

Escape... That's what I needed to do. No one noticed as I wandered towards my friend's daughter's room where the children had gathered. Actually children is a misnomer too.(Am I repeating myself? Excuse please - the whine of a yearning-for-sleep individual is as inebriating as wine itself) So children is a misnomer too, for they had all grown up into college-going youth. Ah youth - the fount of new thought, that dynamic mix of energy and enthusiasm. Their company would infect me with life or at least life enough to keep gravity from getting my eyelids.

No sound could be heard from inside. I turned the door knob and entered the room to find the youngsters lolling around on the chairs and floor watching TV. What I saw on TV froze my blood! On the screen was a fat black man and a blonde woman going "mmmmmmmmm that is sooo ggoood! Aaaaaah..... mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm". My shock at finding the youth engrossed in the blonde's ecstasy over a chocolate cake did loosen the persistent embrace of sleep. I sat on a vacant spot on the bed next to a friend's daughter who resisted my attempts at conversation. Ah these youngsters - they are entitled to an attitude or maybe she didn't want to talk about the fun stuff in her college and her aspirations and even whether she thought Simon was actually a good guy or.... anyway to cut a long story short, I shut up again- I'd become an expert at this and the silence in the room was broken only by the fat chef and blonde stuffing some obscene looking meat with stuff and slathering it with fat...

Sitting on the bed hadn't been a good idea, for coupled with the stillness of bored youngsters, it was an ardent invitation to Sleep who kept stroking me with tempting hands. The problem was that whenever I sat and dozed my mouth would automatically open and my neck would absolve itself of its responsibility to hold my head up; with the effect that I would get transformed from a dignified lady into an ungraceful lout. I hate it. Having presented this ugly side of mine on aircrafts, buses, during speeches, concerts and sundry other occasions, I had extracted a solemn oath from my daughter never to let me be seen as Ms.Revolting. She, being a concerned and law-abiding person and she being in the room with me, in fact seated on the floor right opposite me, took it on herself to wake me the moment my mouth went into fly-catching mode. She would say something that ended with 'Amma',- the last said in a piercing and sharp shout that forced my eyelids open in shock. So it went...
Nod nod...AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
"He's adding so much butter AMMA" and I would jerk upright.
In 2 minutes again I'd go nod nod nod... AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
"The woman is so dumb, no AMMA?" And my eyes would fly open again.
After many such rousing attempts, persistence died within both of us. My daughter simply ran out of things to say. I was past bothering - I could appear as clumsy as Sandra Bullock at her worst for all I cared. The gaps between Nod and Wake grew shorter and shorter, just like labour pain. Keeping awake had become sheer torture. So I abandoned propriety, snuggled on the bed between the wall and somebody's backside and surrendered to bliss.

The ending is a happy one though. This year's party call has come. And I've watched so many cooking shows and searched so many cooking sites and memorised so many recipes. Can't wait to show off.

Suffering Told

2009-12-06T09:47:00.000+05:30

Most of us love to complain.Untold suffering seldom is, they say. Be it the boss or the systems and policies at the work place or the inefficient civic authorities or a disappointing movie ... the list is endless. While teaching class twelve I had to get students to write letters of complaint. It was disturbing that they were never expected to be taught to write a thank you note or a note of appreciation. No wonder we are a nation of whiners - see, I am whining about it now.

The pleasure that we get from grumbling is cathartic - you get the offending matter off your chest. The act also unites people who have had similar experiences. Many whine sessions involve people competing to relate the greater grievance. If someone actually addressed our grievances, and we had nothing to be miffed about, I think we would be really miffed!

Sometimes we simply want a sympathetic listener who will take our side. And some people just don't get that. I was once whining to colleagues, about my weight gain. 'Even a tiny piece of cake gets converted into a tyre on the waist,'I said. All I wanted to hear was that I looked good despite a tyre or two. That's when this chemistry teacher earnestly explains to me that energy intake to the body that is not used up is mostly stored as fat in the fat tissue.The conversion efficiency of food energy into physical power depends on the form of energy source - type of food and on the type of physical energy usage, that is which muscles are used, whether the muscle is used aerobically or anaerobically. He continued explaining that the efficiency of muscles is rather low: only a small percent of the food energy is converted into mechanical energy. This low efficiency is the result of only a tiny percentage efficiency of generating ATP (whatever that is!) from food energy, losses in converting energy from ATP into mechanical work inside the muscle, and mechanical losses inside the body. These depend on the type of exercise and the type of muscle fibers being used. He then began to draw - maybe the molecular structure of a fat tissue or something - but stopped on seeing my face.

I was in tears.

There are those who give advice and practical suggestions to overcome a problem. These creative problem solvers don't get it that the whiner isn't asking for a solution. At least my husband doesn't(get it). Like the time when on returning from a parent-teacher meeting, I went on about how exhausted I was, how belligerent the parents were, how useless it was to talk to them how I was the last to leave only to find the bus gone, how I had to wait for another vehicle,how other teachers' spouses had come to get them, how sore my throat felt and how bad my head ached. Without taking his eyes off the TV he suggested, 'Make some tea and take a Panadol. You will feel better.'

My sudden sullenness did bewilder him - after all, he had tried to help, hadn't he?

A little cribbing isn't a dangerous thing but sometimes it becomes excessive. Constant complaining must be some kind of disease and what's more, it can be catching. So beware.

Crime In Rhyme

2009-12-02T19:28:00.000+05:30

CREEEEAAAAK!

A footfall steals!

A torch beam

writing white on ink.

The taut night,

About to snap.

Quick glances

To check the blackness,

a busy clock

a restless tap

slumber rumble.

Furtive fingers

at the door

THUMP! CLATTER!

Lights come on,
Thief! Thief!

There stands

Guilt in person,

Chubbiness stained in chocolate

Caught raid handed

Beside

The open cookie jar.

*******

Funny Bees

2009-11-26T07:24:00.000+05:30

The following are utterances that were unintentionally humorous. Besides being erroneous, they offer the mind absurd images. Correcting them would be sinful!

(sharing a recipe) '.... then you chop the onions and smash the potatoes.'

'....add the chopped tomatoes and caspicum.'

'There is a force is There.' (a physics teacher long ago)

'Anu, you became so darky, you were so fairy.' (A North Indian relative.)

(Sitting down at the dining table) 'mmmm .... food! I am ravishing!'

'Bejaavo! Bejaavo!' (the P.E teacher who got locked in the gym. Mallu, of course.)

'I talking. He talking. Why you middle middle talking?' (another P.E teacher from another S.Indian state.)

'Kuch kuch hota hein.' ( My good friend, a Hindi-disabled physics teacher, looking into the eyes of the hindi speaking electrician, trying to explain that something weird happened each time some equipment was switched on)

'I am sure we will have good mammaries that we will go to and go back to.' (from a speech at a seminar)

'Her penis lost.' (from a student's note book.)

'The Nair families of Kerala followed the matriarchal system.' (a goal at my own post)

Gilding Lilies

2009-11-17T11:42:00.000+05:30

Liberty is a myth. Rousseau was so right when he said, ‘Man is born free but everywhere he is in chains.’ Women are too.

They have clamoured for liberation the most in recent times. And their struggle has borne fruit too. They are free to walk shoulder to shoulder with men and partake in the same opportunities of employment as well as enjoyment. They don’t have to bow to unnatural social expectations any more..... or so I thought, until a visit to a beauty parlour shook my complacency. Every section of the establishment was full, and ladies were waiting their turn. Ah the torture that they endured has to be seen to be believed. Pouring hot wax on body parts, ripping hair off the skin, cooking the face, gouging out blackheads, squeezing ripe pimples, pulling the hair – ! Besides the women spent hours with their faces or hair painted with chemical cocktails. A killing bill strikes a final blow. It may seem ironical, but I seriously think that the burqua could truly liberate a woman from these social evils, if she took to it of her own accord of course. Sarkozy be da.... be denitrified.

After spending so much time and money and suffering such agony, the women come out pleased and confident that they look like every other woman. Like soldiers in uniform, they all sport straightened hair that looks brittle enough to break, bleached clean-shaven faces and long nails that would be the envy of any rakshasi. Fashions do come and go but the concept of beauty has itself changed beyond recognition. Compare a Ravivarma beauty with a size zero glam golliwog. But perhaps that would be an unfair comparison. What I’m trying to say is that there was a time when a woman’s face was her fortune, today we would probably recognize a starlet by her belly button. Maybe I exaggerate, but I find I myself prefer an underclad Shreya to a clothed one! You cannot blame me for losing my balance – all this while I thought I was firmly rooted in tradition.

Indians had an absurd fixation on fair complexion. Now they've dropped it despite the tireless efforts of fairness cream ads; only to replace it with a height fixation. Won't women ever find happiness in the way they are?

The experience in a hair saloon in China was more pleasant. There young, pretty male attendants (not all Chinese men have protruding teeth!!) did the hair of the women customers and females (not necessarily young or pretty) attended to the male customers’ head. They concluded the session with a shoulder massage and they even cleaned out the ears. In the west beautifying could be disastrous, the result of the treatment is more gruesome than the treatment itself – just look at the botox injected and silicon implanted specimens. And poor poor MJ. Sooner than later these beauty (????) trends will capture the Indian mind no doubt.

Years ago it was rumoured that the consecutive Indian Miss World and Indian Miss Universe was a deliberate strategy to open a market in India for international cosmetic companies. Those words seem prophetic. The girl who sold jasmine garlands in the street corner has shut shop and is now working in – would you guess – a beauty parlour.

Like Some, Like Some Not

2009-11-08T14:30:00.000+05:30

I hate those animal shows on TV in which men pounce on each other and pummel for joy. Near naked bodies that look like maida kneaded with rosemilk fill the screen in all their repulsive glory. I am repulsed even by women that wrestle. And I thought women could look graceful doing anything. Come to think of it, there are several positions in which women don’t look graceful.... like a dentist’s chair or the beauty parlour. But I digress. The wrestlers boast and swear while a crazed crowd cheers maniacally. I’ve been told that most of it is mere drama. I am sure many people enjoy the fights, but they don’t appeal to me.

Some reality shows like ‘You’re fired’ (..or is it called The Apprentice?) disturb me, for the competition is nasty and the situations unreal. Viewership shoots up when ill feelings among participants escalate. The show turns into a monster that feeds on candidates’ greed for fame and fortune. There is even a show where a bachelor picks out a bride from a pool of wannabies (who would want to be?). Production companies grow fat on the desperation of the candidates and the morbid curiosity of the spectators.

As for sob operas – the less said the better.

The kitchen is not my favourite place, but I love cookery shows. I can’t explain the penchant; perhaps it is a vicarious delight to watch someone else chop, fry, bake and serve. I do dislike the stupid anchors of some of these shows who ask the chef inane questions and repeat whatever she says and generally yak away needlessly.

Some ads irritate me while others amuse. The docomo ad with a fellow who gets a change of seat on a flight always makes me smile. “I’m taking a shower, I’m riding in traffic..’ is another that I find cute. The boy who eats while working out earnestly and the infant asleep on her dad’s stomach seem true to life. I like the reliance one with Hritik as the pied piper. My most favouritest ads are the ones with babies – I love their plump feet, their tiny pink toes, crooked smiles (with or without teeth.), their wobbly gait…Oh, I just love babies.

The most funny are party song scenes from old movies. You have a room full of people and the jiltee looks daggers at the jilter who has become another’s sajna/ni and sings about toota dil and bewafaa and pyaar ki nashaa – and nobody is the wiser. Never fails to cheer me.

Bees In The Bonnet

2009-10-26T12:54:00.000+05:30

The other day we were talking about the traffic snarls in Bangalore. “Once the Metro is made, the road congestion will reduce,” someone said. Something seemed wrong in that sentence. The subordinate clause was okay, it was the principal clause that felt like a morsel of rice with a stone in it. Wouldn’t it be better to say, “…the congestion will decrease.”? On referring, I found that the two are more or less synonymous. But decrease means to cause something to become less or to become less. Whereas reduce means to cause something to become less . (There are several other differences as well but I refrain from teaching. ) After that I have noticed people using the two as and where they please and the stone gets my teeth each time.

Less appears to be a harmless little word, but it can increase my blood pressure. For one thing it is often used with countable nouns where fewer would be correct; as in there are less organizations that promote eco-friendly drives. My OED says that ‘less is now commonly and more increasingly used with plural nouns instead of fewer’ but it also adds ‘this is still thought to be incorrect English and careful speakers prefer fewer’. Call me outdated, but I writhe to see The Hindu being careless. (What’s more, even the computer doesn’t show it as an error.) But what gets my goat is the use of lesser. It is like saying worser or betterer. Less is already in the comparative degree. An –er isn’t required. Granted lesser is used to refer to something that is not as great as another. (Do go to that delightful book, the dictionary, for the pleasure of words)

Everywhere we see the use of the double comparatives or double superlatives such as she is more stronger or she is the most strongest. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrgh….. need I say more? Of course Shakespeare did write, “That was the most unkindest cut of all.” But then I will allow Bill anything.

Brainwave!

2009-10-12T19:13:00.000+05:30

Instead of writing "Smoking is Injurious to health" or even "Gutkha causes Cancer", if they wrote that it causes hairloss or baldness, people would get scared into dropping the habit.

Speech Ability

2009-10-05T14:39:00.000+05:30

"Gaaldhi gauldhi gaaldhi gauldhi gaaldhi gauldhi....", went 3year old Sivakumar a.k.a Gopi, peering into a book open on his lap, copying his elder siblings who were booklovers all. Gopi hadn't yet learnt the alphabet,but he so wanted to read just like the others. Gopi's gibberish was a preamble to the gift of the gab that he achieved later. Now in his 80's, Gopimamma or Gopes to us nephews and nieces has a colourful vocabulary which would require a separate post to explore.

Succeeding generations have inherited the vibrant lexical competence. I have a cousin who as an infant made a new language with grammar, lexical sense et al. Each of her sentences ended with a 'la la' refrain. Here's a sample:

Babootamma boo tata lala
Ammu Angi opi lala .

The meaning:
Babootamma = Babu's mother
boo = train
tata = go
Ammu = (a proper noun referring to her)self
Angi = Babu's baby bro ( his gurgling sounded like 'annnggggi')
opi = carry
In short; Babu's mom go in a train, I shall take care of the baby.
No wonder that she later became a University topper and now rubs shoulders with the acronym worthy.

Another cousin in infancy was the epitome of innocence, with his deep dimples and soft, quiet ways. When he began school he got along well with his teacher, Miss Martin. He kept asking her if she had a kangutty. She finally asked him what it was. Murali offered to show her and proceeded to pull down his shorts to enlighten Miss Martin. The fellow had invented the word. And now it is a er- family heirloom(?)As for Miss Martin, I'm sure she remembered Murali to her dying day. Today he has 2 brats of his own.

When all my cousins and I went to schools from the same house, there were many secrets to share. We were then adept at using the 'p' language- wepee weper apadepept apat upusiping thepe lapanguapage. This enraged the adults naturally. Another habit which I use even now is anglicising by adding a 'fy' to vernacular, like edukkafy, kulikkafy, koluthafy.

I suppose every family has lexical heritage of its own. But will such histories be made in future?

Puzzling Thoughts

2009-04-28T12:14:00.000+05:30

Whoever said that Variety is the spice of life should be made to shop in a supermarket. Having to choose from an aisle-long range of products will send him scurrying to erase those misleading words. Spice of life, indeed!

Gone are the days when you could pick up the favourite moisturizer or tried and tested toothpaste or familiar cereal. Now you stand in front of the shelves agonizing over Dove Fresh, Dove Body Silk, Dove Extra Dry, Dove Deep moisturizer, Dove Energy Glow, Dove Pro Age… When all I want is my ordinary Dove moisturizer, which has apparently become extinct. Choosing a cereal is pure torture for you’ve got to calculate the ratio and proportion of ingredients, price, weight, nutrients, in Low Fat, Low Cal, No fat, No Cal, Hi Fibre, Bran, Fruit and Nut avatars. Mental sums were never my forte.

Indecision is me when faced with a choice. And invariably, I regret it once the decision is made. Like the other day at a coffee outlet, the Philipino waitress at the counter gave a string of options in an accent I couldn’t comprehend and even if I did, wouldn’t have known what they were. So when she stopped to take a breath at the third recitation, I said that I wanted that. ‘That’ turned out to be Latte Vanilla something and it turned out to be milk with vanilla flavour yyyukkk! It wasn’t even cold and I HATE MILK.

I wonder how people choose mobiles from the sea of brands and varieties. Fortunately I don’t need to choose mine. Aamir Khan sells only Samsung. Besides my mobile needs to telephone or message people. It doesn’t have to sing or calculate for me. Youngsters, I find know every feature, price, pixel and byte of every gadget. One can only imagine their dilemma.

If the market muddles one so, think what life has to offer. Choose your destiny, Your decision today decides your life tomorrow these are the mantras one hears often. No flowing along where life takes you. Every turning point adds to the burden of choosing, always leaving regret of what might have been. Frost wrote a poem on it.

For my mother education was an escape from an early marriage – she could study till she failed. Her parents, I suspect, were eager for that so they could get her married. My mother studied desperately for obvious reasons. In my time too a girl was expected to graduate and then marry. Post graduation and a career were post marriage; provided all agreed. A marriage to a suitable boy found by the elders. Their criteria were family background, job and tolerable looks. The couple were then left to discover differences or similarity in tastes, interests, opinions, attitudes etc. And if one got a Latte Vanilla the girl simply got accustomed to the flavour, added some ice and even cherished the richness of the milk and the texture of the cream.

Today’s girls have so many options that seem more attractive than (drab) matrimony.
So when they do settle down, do they have to choose among all the features available on the candidates and zero in on the ‘right’ one. And then do they expect the person to function faultlessly? (It could be a Latte Vanilla situation) Is it as practical as that or is there something more romantic like chemistry or physics? I presume that men have a worse time making a choice (considering the range of lovely girls that is wider than the range of boys – men are all the same, aren’t they?). But in terms of happiness with their choice they must have more satisfaction – because females are so good …….or is it because males are easy to please?

I can't decide

Tears - 1

2009-04-26T22:48:00.000+05:30

The plant grows and grows.
Untame, rebellious.
The Man with his strings
Gathers wayward limbs,

Clumsy, he bunches
The happy young branches
That shoot off and stray,
That can’t grow his way.

The string goes round
the protest of escaped fronds.
He tucks each leaf under
Within bounds of his order.

Tears for the Man, he’s done his duty
Ne’er a thought that wildness holds beauty.
Tears for his hands torn; they bleed,
From the angry thorns of his own seed.

Celebration!

2009-04-20T18:47:00.001+05:30

Peel, wash, cut, chop,
Slice, dice, rinse, drop (oops)
Open, close, search, find (yyess)
Scrape, add, mix, grind…

Simmer boil cook shake,
Look smell feel taste (mmmmm?????)
Season splutter pour fry,
Cool store pat dry…

Wash clean wipe drain,
Sharpen open squeeze strain…

Peel wash cut some more
Slice dice till hands get sore
Open replace, don’t forget
Or you’ll waste time when you cook next….

Simmer boil cook wait
Speed up! you are getting late!
Hurryspinrushdrip
Spilltread eeek slip
Crashbang broken glass!
The kitchen floor is now a mess.
Sweepwipegatherthrow
Faster! Faster! Don’t be slow…

Look, It’s gone half past six
Don’t succumb to hysterics.
The bus will come in ten minutes!
Must doll up in three minutes…

RING! RING!! RING!!! RING!!!!
Dash and grab the blasted thing
Greet, smile “Oh thank you,
And HAPPY VISHU to you too!” (pant pant…..)

Written last Vishu after keeping the Kani, and (surprising myself by)preparing a sadya of FOURTEEN items.... on a working day.....single handed!!

I did learn from that mistake.

Utter Disaster

2009-04-01T13:30:00.000+05:30

My Cambridge English Pronunciation Dictionary tells me that the Gan in Gandhi and rhymes with the Gan in Gander.And so the 'correct' pronunciation is Gan-dee! The same goes for Ganesh too, only worse:it is supposed to be Ganish. I wonder why we Indians don't correct the foreigners.If their tongues can manoeuvre tortures like Alzheimer's or even February, they shouldn't find Gandhi a challenge. But we have let them call Sachin Sash in and condoned the mistake for ages. I've always known that grave dangers lay in store. And my fears were confirmed when at the Oscars Danny Boyle thanked Weak Ass 'Sroop for penning Q and A!! I did not watch the movie but have heard that the man has done enough damage to the name of India.

And we mock the poor Mallu who calls the Pope 'Pop' - at least he makes some sense. Come to think of it, while an Englishman knows only English, a North Indian knows English and Hindi. A South Indian Tamilian knows English Hindi and Tamil and a Mallu knows English, Hindi, Tamil and Malayalam (if not more languages). No wonder we roak.

The Alarm Clock

2009-03-09T19:12:00.000+05:30

If there is one thing worse than being woken up, it is being the Waker. Wakerhood in most households falls to the lot of the lady . The husband and children entrust her with alarming them out of sleep. Why does this have to be an unpleasant duty?

When the kids are babies you waaait for the little bawler's eyelids to droop and close, cover him and tiptoe out to get to your work or some sleep. So waking the child is the last thing you want to do. This instinct to let sleeping brats lie gets etched into your psyche. But as they grow up and need to be woken, it is a joyless duty that one does (ok, next to cooking.) For the child may be a brat all his waking hours, but in sleep he looks adorable, with the tip of his tongue sticking out a little and him curled up like a defenceless chick. Only a diabolic nature could enjoy snatching this little bundle from the arms of slumber.

There are those who would swear by the application of cold water on the sleep-warm visage. But my heart is not stone. It is made of nice soft cardiac muscles of low melting point. One invents ways to make the exercise endurable. In this regard I am quite an expert, having done diligent research and varied experiments. And I submit the findings for posterity.

A day begun in happiness is a happy one throughout. This premise has led me to create what I call the tune technique. In this you treat the sleeper as a musical instrument, select a peppy song, pretend that the keys are in all the ticklish areas of the specimen. Now begin playing the song. The music and laughter will wake without disrupting any body's mood. A word of warning: keep away from kicking distance. This works only with little children.

As the years go by you look for more sedate ways. The next method that I present is perhaps the most pleasurable. You cuddle down close to the sleeping child and stare at him , occasionally murmuring wake words. I swear the stare can physically penetrate sleep. The danger here is that you may yourself fall asleep. And then it is all your fault that the day goes awry.

My quest for novelty continued. And there was this phase of reading rousing poetry like 'Where the mind is without Fear...' or speeches like 'Awake, arise my countrymen'. This , while highly enlightening to the Waker is rather ineffective although one hopes that the words will filter into the sleeping head by some strange osmosis.

Time flies and the Board years are on you. Plans and timetables and tests and marks and tuitions and nerves invade the domestic scene. Sleep for your child is reduced to mere naps. And who else to do the needful? My latest method is to read out the Physics or chemistry that the offspring has planned to study that day. The reading should be bright or dramatic or irritating enough to get him out of bed. A monotone would push the fellow over the edge into the deepest slumber. Of course you risk being surveyed with irritation through most of the day but then you do learn some. How else would I know the delights of supercooled liquids and Huygen's principle?

Next month by this time my son and I will have seen the last of the exams and the last of my wake up calls. An alarm clock will take my place in the exams of his future. The thought comes with a strange pang. I won't be needed like I am now............................................................................

AHA! I spoke too soon. I've just got a message from my daughter from far away Hyderabad:Amma, do me a favr. I need 2 complete 3 asgnmnts & 2 prsntatns. Am taking a nap. cal me in an hr in case my alarm doesnt wake me.

Does anyone know any nice wake up messages??

...And Laid Him on the Green

2009-02-15T17:25:00.000+05:30

Talking about his farewell party, my son said that his teacher had sung, 'This little shining light of mine, Angle let it shine...'This reminded me that as a little child one of my favourite rhymes was ' Mary Mary koikondery, how does your garden grow?' and my favourite game was 'Ice Boys'. Only years later did I figure out that they were 'Mary, quite contrary' and 'I Spy'. likewise SJ once insisted that his biology teacher taught him about 'edges and shells'. As it turned out the teacher was referring to 'adjacent cells'. Of course everybody has heard the one about a child who shocked his father when he repeated his Math lesson, "2+2, son of a bitch, is 4." It appears that the real words were '2+2, sum of which is 4'! The strangest of all such erronous utterances is my father's. He used to sing us the prayer he chanted as a schoolboy. And it went: Krishna kambi kumbae tudala tudala tudala, timrutha tommy prepae... It was not a strange language - it is English. When decoded it goes: Krishna can be compared to the lord to the lord to the lord. And the rest (timrutha Tommy prepae) still remains a mystery.

I found later that such misunderstood utterances actually have a name; they are called mondegeens . You will find more instances here

I also learned that mondegreens shouldn't be confused with soramimi which is what Benilava is.

A witty Ditty

2009-01-30T06:39:00.000+05:30

I found this poem in an old newspaper. Today is Martyrs' Day so I thought I'd share it:

'Hitler and his Black Shirts
riding for a fall,

Musso with his Brown Shirts
Back against the wall,

De Valera with his Green Shirts
caring not at all,

Three cheers to Gandhi
with no shirt at all!'

Republic Day Thoughts

2009-01-27T06:09:00.000+05:30

Usually the flag hoisting at the Indian Embassy here is early in the morning. We would start out from home before it was fully light, distribute flags for the students to wave, stand in the icy cold desert winter watching and waiting for the ceremony to begin. It felt good to endure the discomfort, reminding me of the extremes that my country men suffer to guard the nation.

Was this year's 9a.m. ceremony symptomatic of something? Besides it was bright and warm too.

The embassy had asked for 25 students from each Indian school. I wasn't surprised to find that no arrangement was made to accommodate them. So all had to squeeze together and try to get a glimpse of what went on. Seeing the tricolour unfurl and flutter, the shouts of Bharat Mata Ki Jai always make me emotional, and in the afterglow I forgot to be annoyed with the officials. I also forgot to frown at the late-comers, important people of the Indian diaspora, who swept in past the barricades to occupy reserved spots, for I was more aware of the 'common ground rather than the differences'(I've just read Mandela).

Hot breakfast distributed free by Mughal Mahal hotel awaited us. The students were given priority and they stood in proper lines - that was good. There are pretty trimmed bushes at the embassy grounds and the base of each was white with discarded plates - that was bad. Reading the India special supplement of the local newspaper was distressing. Some columns said that it was the 59th anniversary while another said that it had completed 60 years of being a republic. One claimed that it was 58 years. Is this confusion a result of thoughtlessness or too much thought?

As the Charge de affaires read out the message to the nation given by the President of India, I overheard a lady say, "Hey he copied it yaar. Same same thing Pratibha Patil said yeshtaarday." I felt nice that Indians did listen to the president's address so closely.

Jai Hind!

The Test

2009-01-17T07:15:00.000+05:30

Breathless sighs
through parted lips,
Eyes half closed,
Moving fingertips.
Bite marks
Scratches
Swish of sheets.
Sweat and stain
As bodies strain.
A secret smile
Aah - that's good!

tick tock
tick tock
urgent haste
tick tock
tick tock
faster faster...
screaming bells
and then release

Socks to pull
And strings to tie
As pens are shut
secretions dry.

Greetings

2009-01-01T06:22:00.000+05:30

Happy New Year!
Hope 2009 will offer peace and stability in the world.
On the personal front, I feel excited about starting out on new ventures.

Incidentally it is also my blog's first birthday. The result of my daughter's persistence, This and That has given me satisfaction. Not being the most systematic person, I used to write stuff and leave them around. Thanks to T&T, they are nicely kept together.

I also got to meet many people and more importantly, new perspectives. I made friends and even frightened (albeit unintended) at least one away [ in my daughter's words 'pissed him off'- (very expressive)- something I've never done in real life. ] I roped some of my students into the writing circle as well.

The blog has been great for my ego (or is it vanity?) too. I even received a very exclusive award (not the usual forwarded and 'foreworded' kind) which had an impact that the prize giver could not have imagined.

I've been asked about the name Materialmom. My identity as a mother keeps me safe and gets me respect automatically. And Material is opposed to spiritual. Also the Material girl keeps re-inventing herself. My blog has done that for me. The thoughts on this blog are my brainchildren and hence I am their Materialmom.

My! I do sound like a teacher, don't I? Sorreee

The Making Of 'Comfort Zone'

2008-12-31T05:48:00.000+05:30

An elaboration for those who understand and those who don't understand the poem.

It is in man's nature to seek comfort and a secure life. He, therefore, treads the beaten path. A point is reached when he is ensconced in a safe and comfortable life. And then if he looks back, he realises that he was paying the price - he had bartered adventure for security.

Reading about Matsuo Basho, the Japanese Haiku master of the 17th C put these thoughts into my mind. For Basho was a man who lived life on his own terms. A teacher, he refused to be tied down to a sedate life and chose to satisfy his restless spirit. Clad in his simple straw shoes, unencumbered by possessions, he wandered North, east and west to see his country and find fodder for his poetry. Throughout his wanderings, he attracted students and won their admiration.He was a hyohakusha (a wanderer). I felt that the English meaning didn't quite express the wanderlust and restlessness of a wild spirit. Hence the use of the Japanese word.

There are times when you feel suffocated by the comfort of routine. While the world can do without another school teacher, it needs people who will care enough to reach out to those in need. Life is a gift. There is only one life and what have you done?? You have remained inside the haven of your safety shell; the soft beneath untouched by hands that reach. What have you seen in this wonderful world? You have remained in the darkness of your cocoon.You had wings to fly and what did you do? Afraid to flutter them, you have aborted your growth. Blind to your own beauty. What have you learnt? You had little adventure, you made no mistakes.

Comfort Zone

2008-12-15T06:50:00.000+05:30

It is warm in here,
Dark and cosy,
Insulated from hands that reach,
That probe and find the soft beneath.

Dead to the tug of ties,
Larval oblivion pacifies.
Unscorched by heat
Nor cooled by breeze.

While outside winds wander
And light reveals,
The worm grows wings,
Fated to flutter impotent-
A hyohakusha in a cell,
Too late to tear the wall.

Inside,
In the swelter,
The blinding darkness,
The cushion of comfort
Stuffed into airways,
Gasping to die -
Aborted in the cocoon.

Speechless

2008-12-06T16:57:00.000+05:30

Words fail.
Simply unable to express the shock, the tragedy of seeing my country being raped, my brethren getting killed.
This is one wound that time won't heal.

Emerging Enlightened From Fifth Standard

2008-11-21T18:58:00.000+05:30

Just two terms in fifth standard and I’ve learnt so much! The education has been multilevel – ethical, practical, creative and.... relentless.

Here are a few lessons that the 10 year olds taught me.

We were describing experiences in a railway station. That was the exercise given in the reader. Few had seen a train or a station. So I switched to an airport - and the response was resounding. But they spoke only about things that they bought at the airport – chocolates, cookies, juice, toys and one smart boy said books ( my repeated talks about the wonder of books and reading gave him an idea what would please me.) Wanting to turn the discussion to other things, I told the class that I loved to observe people at the airport – their clothes, appearance, behaviour... when Kevin in his high pitched voice said, “ Ma’am I think you were staring and that is not polite.” – and down dropped my sails…

Once we were doing Ruskin Bond’s 'A Face In The Dark', the story of a person meeting a faceless boy in the woods. This man runs in terror and reports to the watchman at his residence the scary sight. The climax of the story is the watchman holding his lantern to his face and asking, “ Was the face like this?” And the person is horrified to see that the watchman also had no features on his face. I had expected the class to experience the thrill of fear, the mystery of the supernatural. I’d expected wrong. They had a more down to earth doubt – How did the watchman speak if he didn’t have a mouth???

Entering class five is like stepping into the tower of Babel. Everyone speaks, not bothering if anyone listens. The sight of a teacher triggers cacophony. There are those who remind you that you have to give a dictation or collect the worksheet or give back the corrected work or take the recitation test or something. There is a bunch that offers service- to distribute the books or collect the homework or clean the blackboard or write the names of offenders. Then there are requests- Can I go to the toilet, I want to drink water, Please give us games, May I read first… But the majority enjoys complaining – That boy pushed me, She took my pen, Stuti is copying the homework from Wafa,You didn’t give my book after correction, I don’t have place to sit, She spoke in Malayalam, He speaks Tamil all the time, Walid said a bad word, He said shut up, He called me dog… It is a practical exam in patience I tell you!

The other day Aditya who has the loudest voice said “Ma’am Walid used the F word!!” The ‘oooh’ that followed inspired him to repeat the accusation even louder . Obviously Aditya was enjoying the added pleasure of uttering the prohibited word with total legitimacy. I had to do something before he spelled it out. So I turned on the guilty Walid with an angry frown and threatened him with dire consequences if he dared to repeat the crime. I then felt compelled to give a short talk on abstinence from uttering bad words. “Shame on all those who use filthy language,” I launched into the tirade, “The words you use show your culture. If you use such words, it shows that you are uncivilized (they had just learnt that word) Such small children, using such bad words…!.” I couldn’t complete the scolding. Aditya bobbed up like a @#*!@# Jack-in-the-box asking(shouting), “WHEN WE GROW OLDER CAN WE USE BAD WORDS, Ma’am?” It took a while for me to untie my tongue and put it back into my big mouth which was already occupied by my foot - shoe, stocking and all.

Logic is supreme for these children. If the masculine gender for mistress is master then the masculine for Countess should be Counter. And a female monk should be monkey??

There are so many more enlightening experiences that happen in that room. I need to jot them down before they slip from my mind. But then I am too preoccupied in experiencing those experiences

Strike that Ass and Where's your Butt?

2008-10-25T03:33:00.000+05:30

"John has only two balls," the teacher said, trying not to blush.

She was not discussing the strange need of the adequately equipped John to be superhumanly endowed.

That was an English teacher giving an exercise in the use of although. (Although John had only two balls, he gave them both to his brothers.)

And that teacher was me.

I can see the textbook- makers chuckling as they write such sentences for the poor teacher to handle in a class of thirty boys and girls.

Perhaps it isn't the textbook makers who are the villains.

Language has changed so much that unless you are alert, your words may sound suspicious. The fall of a word from innocent to obscene gives rise to unintended vulgarity and giggles in the class. A teacher has to step cautiously around formerly clean words like gay, come, bush, hole, pussy, D... ... you know. Besides the media, the songs and writing to which the adoloscents are exposed promote the new, not-so-clean meaning rather than the original.

Teachers of old had to only mind their language. Now even gestures convey multiple meanings.When I taught my daughter in class twelve, one day she came home embarassed and told me not to show my finger at the class. You see, I'd had this habit of counting out points on my fingers. I never noticed that a finger stayed up as I waxed eloquent on a particular point!

Every generation of students has a teacher who organises 'kiss contests'. But the GK teacher in my staffroom created an 'earthcake' when he threatened to screw the students who didn't perform well in the 'kiss'. Of course, what he meant was that he would put pressure on them to do well.

Sometimes you realise, too late, how your instructions sounded in class. After assigning tasks, I would ask my students to 'do it silently' or 'do it together' or worse, 'do it with your partner'.

The worst was yet to come as I smiled wisely and advised, "Keep doing it till you get it right." And then there were snorts that just couldn't be suppressed. That's when I wanted the earth to split open and swallow me up.

I thought I'd learnt never to put my foot in my mouth ever again.

But yesterday I blanched to hear myself say to the eleventh standard student -
" Strike that 'as' and where's your 'but'?"

The Fable Of The Greedy Goat

2008-09-17T19:19:00.002+05:30

Once upon a time a goat
Lived beside a castle moat.
To chew and eat was the sole purpose
Of this Capra Ae-gag-rus*.

So all day long she would chew
and eat and chew and bleat and poo,
Till one day, in sunny May
She found the meadow had gone gray.

For she'd consumed at such a rate
Seeds hadn't time to germinate.
Gone was all the greenery.
She'd eaten up the scenery!

The goat was now in great despair
She searched for morsels everywhere.
Then she saw the royal clothes
Drying in the wind outdoors.

My lord's corset, My lady's skirt.
The princess's blouse, the prince's shirt
Were objects of the goat's munching,
But the maid's scream cut short her lunching.

Soon the culprit was taken in,
And sentenced for her evil sin.
Thus the tale of our heroine
Ended at the guillotine.

Now gentle reader, learn your lesson:
If you are a glutton, you'll be dead mutton.

* Capra Aegagrus - scientific nomenclature for goat

A Town Like Valancherry

2008-08-27T20:21:00.000+05:30

The remote Kerala village of Valancherry where the ancestral home is situated has grown into quite a town, thanks to 'Gelf' prosperity. Its claim to townhood rests on the numerous shops that have sprung up.

In the not too distant past there used to be the curly-wurly kallu (toddy) in white letters on black boards with translations of the word in every language. (Obviously it was a much sought after thirst quencher.) These boards have been replaced by Bars and Beverages boards. And in place of chaaya kadas (tea shops) that sold pittu and kadala, you have Chaaynees hotels that sell Manjoorie and cooldrings. There are also Backeries that offer pups and doughnites.

I remember the time I went to a Valancherry shop looking for lip gloss. The salesman regretted that he didn't have lip gloss. "But we have steel glass", he said brightly. Another time the local tailor suggested sewing on lice on the fleets of a dress. But the time I was struck dumb was when a shopman offered to show nipples when I went looking for pickles!

During my stay at V town this year, I was eager for similar jocularity. But was sorely disappointed, until I spied a bollboard that advertised 'Bizarre Management Course'... Perhaps the Biz had something to do with Business?? But more intriguing was 'Romantic Laundry'. Now who can explain that???

Blog Troubles

2008-08-20T19:04:00.000+05:30

‘ @#&*’
‘#@x!’
‘ *&^%#@!’
My limited/ dormant/ passive vocabulary of bad words is exhausted.
I’ve been using them fluently while I try to post. The reason is my slothful, sluggish computer and the capricious net connection. They abscond when needed and the work has to be redone all over again. Leaving me , the epitome of patience , in a fit of fury. Proof of these failures can be seen in my previous post which is with neither title nor conclusion. ( How shameful!) As for commenting, it is a torture on the nerves.

Worse is that my blog dashboard buttons appear in Arabic! Guessing and clicking is no fun. Besides I have erroneously deleted what I wanted to keep and posted what I didn’t want to , thanks to illiteracy of the Arab tongue. I’ll scream if someone tells me to make a change on the language bar. Because I have. In vain.

While in India, I got a Tata Indicom connection, beguiled by Kajol’s ‘wow, now, how’ ad. But that was a mistake. Infuriatingly ssslllowww!

Now that I’ve vented my anger it feels better. But don’t blame me if this rant appears on my blog.

2008-06-29T22:06:00.000+05:30

During wifely get-togethers I always feel inadequate. The conversation seldom appeals to me and my contribution never appeals to anyone present. I don’t know a diamond from a zircon or a Pajero from a Prada. What’s more , I don’t bake or barbecue, or straighten my hair or read Femina. My self esteem dipping, I question my feminity. I am proud to be a woman and I hate to be a freak.

But my gender identity is reaffirmed beyond doubt when I go shopping. I simply love to do that.( not the grocery type). I go shopping with my friends and browse along. We compare prices, inspect the quality, marvel at the variety, get excited about the new arrivals, fall for discounts and have a great time. We try on footwear, recommend tops, exchange tips on crockery – And we cement our friendship. The lingerie section is our favourite. These intriguing items leave us intrigued. It is fascinating to see the feathered, sequined, padded, lacy, transparent varieties. None of us buys one .But our expeditions are never complete without giggling and marveling at them.

Little do men understand the womanly passion to shop. They don’t know that it is a mission of fantasy. It is a noble endeavour to gather information to be handed over to others of the Sisterhood. It is a Sacred Duty!

It takes feminine logic to know that when you enter a shop to buy sandals, you don’t have to buy them. You can leave the shop with that lovely dupatta instead (which was never on the agenda and for which you have to shop to find a suit to match.) The male morality does not recognize the sin of getting lured into buying something that is overpriced however much you adore the item. They assume that just because you rejected the sari with big flowers, you should buy the one with the small flowers. The wisdom of buying a top that is small for you so that you may feel compelled to reduce is beyond a man’s comprehension. Hence it is very important to never take a man along when you go shopping.

Very early in my marriage I learnt this lesson. My husband would expect me to have a shopping list and buy what was there on it. How foolish! He would tag along and look at his watch after just 3o minutes. Then he would sigh dramatically. Then glare angrily. When I ignored these childish displays, he would begin getting palpitations and I really don’t know how he managed to get smoke to come from his ears. When he proceeded to become a public nuisance, I would have to leave. Soon he willingly agreed to stay at home when I went to the shops. But (I think just to kill joy) he would send my son along. The son is worse. It is a wonder how the chromosomes can carry behavioral features. The fellow would hover around murmuring and grumbling, until I got him to sit in a cosy corner with his mobile or MP3. But he has this terrible tendency to make big eyes when the bill is given and harangue me about spending such amounts for ‘stupid stuff’.

My daughter, now she and I are of a feather; only we tend to stray from the sane path when we get together. I remember some of our adventures at sundry malls. The time when we took a set of skimpy dresses (which she would never be allowed to wear) to the trial room and laughed as she tried them on. It is amazing how models manage to keep them on or get themselves into such clothes. Not to mention the complicated strings and contraptions

Marital Accord

2008-06-18T22:03:00.000+05:30

Matrimony and Arguments make strange bedfellows. But the two are inseparable. What’s a marriage without its healthy share of shouting matches? It is ok as long as it doesn’t turn nasty. Believe me it can. The couple may end up saying things they never meant. So despite its okness, arguments are better avoided. In my role as Materialmom, I distribute unsolicited advice to the young and the less experienced on how to do that.

Usually an argument has its origin in unconnected factors such as a bad day, a bad mood, a headache, deprivation or just about anything else. The signs of an argument are easy to discern- a frown, raised voice, rude words…. Once you detect the signs, be alert. Decide that you will not contribute to the quarrel. Deliberately adopt the body language that is opposite to that of the partner. If he (read she if you are a male)) frowns, you appear calm; if he shouts, you speak softly; if he is rude, you be extra polite. Now, this may seem too submissive, but it isn’t. Bide your time and later when the snapping dies out and he is feeling sheepish, you can remind him how childish his behaviour was and how mature yours. Besides when you have a bad day you may be the one shouting. ( make sure that your partner reads this post so that he /she will know the ideal response.)

The trick is not to get provoked. Let your partner’s harsh words fall off you like water off a duck’s back. Don’t get soaked by them. You can do this by understanding that your partner needs to let off steam and is too upset to understand what is really bothering him. So don’t take criticism personally. Even if you are the reason for resentment having things out in the open is certainly better than the cold and silent treatment. In such cases explain your behaviour/action and then shut up.

When you swap words with your partner it is not just a temptation, but an obsession to have the last word. But never insist on that for a) there is no last word in an argument. b) silence is the best last word. In fact during a war of words, the less said the better. Reticence is a virtue. Imagine your partner throwing barbs at you. When you don’t bite the bait, he would scream in frustration while you would have the last laugh and your dignity.

I know that many youngsters are frowning as they read this. I understand their longing to rebel- because I’ve been there and I’ve done that. Two decades of the real thing have convinced me that one stoops only to conquer. If you get involved and emotional you are in for tears and trouble. ( Sometimes tears do wash away a lot of accumulated frustrations.) When you stand outside yourself and watch a shout scene being played out, you find that it is but a laughing matter.

Vacation Plans - In Credible India

2008-05-31T10:14:00.000+05:30

Phew!! The last of the marklists and report cards are done. Enough of racing against an unreasonable deadline. I don’t want to count another quarter or convert another score to grade. My family has tolerated my rude snapping and hurried cooking with noble patience. And after the storm of work I stand among the debris of question papers, answer keys, files, marksheets and sundry papers like a tired soldier on a bloody battlefield.

The summer vacation has arrived. But no lazy days ahead as I prepare to go to India as usual. The thought brings a thrill of excitement, a smile of anticipation. The monsoon must have set in and as the aircraft circles to land at Cochin, the fond and familiar sight of coconut trees glistening green will greet my hungry eyes that have survived on a diet of dull desert. But before that there is lots to do. The house must be prepared for 2 months of orphanhood. I tackle the fridge first, once it is bare there is no cooking . :)
Then all the objects have to be covered or packed away lest they get caked with dust.

Then there is shopping and packing. Just about everything is available in India today. Still I buy all sorts of things for family and friends. With chocolates, food stuff, cosmetics and clothes adding to the 90 kgs allowed for our three tickets, a lot of my stuff will have to be dumped.

The next two months will be a whirlwind of trips to relatives and temples. Again I will go to the bakery. I will buy twenty packets of miscellaneous eats- one for each house I visit. Again I will pull my unwilling children to meet uncles and aunts, drink innumerable cups of tea, cuddle the newest arrivals in the family, sit by bedridden seniors with an ache in my heart. Again I will go to Guruvayur to unburden one year’s worries while Guruvayurappan with his impish smile lets me find my way on my own. We share a unique, lifelong relationship- Krishna and I. Again I will go to the Vadakkumnaathan temple around which lies the town of Thrissur, originally Thrisiva Perur. This Siva temple is so large, so uncrowded, so peaceful and so beautiful that it calms the mind and invigorates the body. By the time you complete one pradakshinam (circling of the temple) you will have worked up a massive appetite. An astute man sells hot roasted peanuts outside.

But too soon the beauty will pale, the thrill will pall : the powercuts, the mosquitos, the hartals, the absconding servants, the rotten rain, the petrol prices all will take their toll until I will be glad to go away. :(

Next June again I will plan my vacation. Again I will consider Singapore/ S.Africa/ the US/ Egypt or some exotic spot. And again I will settle for India.

Yes, I know, I deserve the mosquitos .

Ran(dumb) Thoughts

2008-05-16T22:00:00.000+05:30

I have noticed that ......

....Maths teachers wear geometrical print. (Biology teachers go for the floral and leaves motif.)

.....most male bloggers post their photos on their profile. Females seldom do.(How little things have changed!)

.....people who are not attractive in their youth look better as they grow older. ...and vice versa. ( There, you have an aspect of relativity.)

.....Mr.Right is every girl's dream, but Mr. Always Right! is a horror. (Murder in such cases, as in euthanasia should be legalised.)

.....s_ _t has replaced God. ( I exclaim, 'O God'. My kids say, 'O s_ _t'.)

.....people defecate in the open in Chennai. (Rajnikant can solve the problem with a single fiery dialogue on sanitation in his next movie.)

......there is a link between one thought and the next. (Ref the previous two points for evidence.)

.......what is 'reason' to a student is an 'excuse' for a teacher. (Been there, done both.)

.......appearances are deceptive. (Just because John Abraham looks dumb, he doesn't have to be dumb. I know all the young girls will lynch me for that.)

.......it is more practical to be pessimistic. (A pessimist is always ready for a crisis, an optimist is taken by surprise.)

........what you've got is just as wonderful as what you might have got.

Teacher As Leader

2008-04-28T06:21:00.000+05:30

I was at this workshop on Teachers as Leaders - Beyond the Curriculum. There were about 300 teachers from different Indian schools.
Instead of going ahead with the workshop, there was a needless inaugural ceremony with several speakers. Thankfully the speeches were short and not too bad, except for the host school principal whose pronunciation was bad and style was atrocious. She thanked the 'cheerman' for organising the event. She valued the 'apawrchoonty' to get away from the 'moondane' into the magical and she was sure that she would have 'good mammaries' (of the talk) that everyone would go to and go back to... Albeit the embarrassment, it lightened things for me ,the eternal fault finder.
Some teachers of the host school then sang a song (shudder). It had been penned by one of those poor souls (probably forced to do so). Teachers are pathetic creatures, expected to be clerk, mother, counsellor, policeman, spy, choreographer, editor, songwriter, and much more.

The content of the workshop was not new, but the perspective was. The resource person, who vaguely resembled one of my back seat boys made us do this mind exercise which actually blew my mind. Besides, the introspection that followed the session uncovered several shortcomings that I had closed my eyes to. Of course my friends and I did pass notes and giggle at the nonsense responses of several teachers. But it was a holiday well spent.
Few agreed with me though. Some delegates felt that crowded classrooms, absent infrastructure, profit oriented management, overworked(and underpaid) teachers are not really conducive to teaching, let alone 'transforming the students by creating magic in the class'. The majority found the day a waste because they could have spent it at home(doing what? cooking?), because it was boring and most because the tea was bad and lunch was worse!
Later pondering on the teaching profession, the words of Malvolio (Shakespeare's Twelfth Night) came to mind. "Some are born great, some achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon them. Teachers seem like the fool Malvolio - bearing the cross of nobility that is thrust upon them... because people love to hate teachers - students write nasty remarks about them on orkut, the parents criticise them.. Teachers can't demand or protest because they are 'noble'. It is sad but true that schools have become 'teaching shops' and society refuses to respect individuals who trod the path not taken. Parents still force children to learn subjects that they have no aptitude for or interest in. As long as this scenario prevails, teachers are destined to be leaders in the confines of a cage.
Despite these dismal thoughts I am happy I chose to be a teacher. I am so glad I didn't have to work in a bank or something, counting currency endlessly. What can be more rewarding than staying young at heart, being surrounded by youthful energy, learning something new each day?!

Ennui

2008-04-19T17:49:00.000+05:30

Dead sobs fled from yawning graves,
Exiled spirits, banished into ennui.
Pang and spasm each aching lub-dub as
Raped heart in silence screams,
Entrenched within parched sighs.
Soul soaked in tears unshed
Stained in sorrow's sad dye.
Inky blood to burn each cell
Oozing puss of pain -
Naked, numbing pain...

Prayer

2008-04-15T05:40:00.000+05:30

My first memory of praying was as a child in No.6, Sarangapani Street - the house my grandfather built, where my cousins and I grew up. The pooja room was on the top floor of the 3 storey structure - what we kids called the 'up-up-stairs'.

Every evening at dusk we would be sent up-up-stairs to light the lamp and say our prayers aloud. I can see the deerskin that my grandmother used to sit on, I can smell the oil and vibhuthi, feel the softness of the silk of a swami's dhothi treasured in a pretty carved sandalwood box. I see the pictures of lovely goddesses and pretty gods. Among them also the image of mother Mary and infant Jesus, kept there for the benefit of Jacob our boy servant sent from a Kerala village.

The lamp-lighting and prayers were invariably punctuated with quarrels and they ended with a hurried '...shanthi shanti shanthi'.

After the prayer session, all would run down the narrow stairs. I cannot recall what excitement awaited, but the running happened. Being the littlest of all, I was rather slow and therefore left behind. That is when fear took over. Shadows loomed and the little girl was sure one of them was 'boochandi' come to do evil things to her. Terror squeezed her breathless as her feet stumbled down the stairs. All the while she sang at the top of her voice, half to take strength from the noise, half to appear brave to the others laughing at the bottom landing.

I remember sidling up to my grandfather one night as he reclined on his armchair, preparing his betel leaves. I asked him why we had to pray every single day. He probably thought it was blasphemy, but proceeded to explain, " Have you watched the wheel? Any point on the circumference keeps going up or down as the wheel moves. But look at the centre - it stays unmoved whatever happens to the wheel. People who pray are like the centre of the wheel." Grandfather's reply left me disappointed. Why was he talking about wheels?

When I went to my parents during the vacation, I'd listen as my father sang bhajans in his inimitable way . I'd lie on my mother's lap and doze off. My mother often said that it was 'ashreekaram' - inauspicious - to sleep at dusk during prayers. But even today prayers induce sleep, especially in the evening.

Adoloscence came with doubts and questions. Did I really think that god sat and answered prayers? Why pray for stuff when you can work and get it . Yes work was worship.

Time and tide didn't wait; child bearing brought humility and faith. "Please keep my children healthy, wealthy, wise, happy, lucky, goodlooking, smart, efficient, useful individuals. May they get the good that they deserve and deserve the good that they get...." thus went my prayers. I felt quite smug with my 'complete 'prayer. It included all that they would need....... or did it? I remembered Tithonus.

Tithonus, a character in Greek mythology had prayed for immortal life, but he had forgotten to ask for everlasting youth. So the unfortunate fellow was destined to live endlessly, an old old man while his wife,the lovely Aurora- Dawn rose with renewed youth every morning. ( The poem by Tennyson is a must read)

So the tale of Tithonus led me to total surrender as I told god that he knew what was good for my children and may his will be done. Only give the strength to face the tests.

Today I realise that individuals cannot know peace unless there is balance all around. And my brief, but momentous prayer goes: Give, this day, peace - Shanthi... Shanthi....Shanthi.

I have come full circle.

I cannot hope that the power of prayers, the vibrations they create will bring peace between communities or balance in nature. They may not make terrorists less terrible or corrupt people honest. They may not even make a hostile person amiable or a hurt heart heal. All I can do is nurture peace within me and among the people I meet.

Ring Out The Old

2008-04-07T20:07:00.000+05:30

Another academic year has come to an end.The board students have been led through the exams and sent off into the world.The week before my exam was a nightmare of drilling as we,teachers shuttled between our new batch of tenth and twelfth and the old ones that came to clear doubts and revise. Julius Caesar and ode to the west wind were coming out of my ears after days of going over and over the lessons with groups of students who landed in school during the study holidays.The Salmans and the Murtuzas cursed Shelley and Coleridge in colourful language, with genuine feeling and correcting sheet after sheet of exercises, I found myself cursing CBSE just as vehemently.

Some of the questions they include are incredibly dumb and I feel foolish teaching students to write telegrams and messages.... imagine in this age of mobile phones!! Then there are the jumbled sentences designed with the sole purpose of torturing children.What is being tested is beyond my understanding.English in its functional avatar is unattractive. Creativity takes backseat as children turn into mark machines.

So my 7th standard was a delight to teach. At that age the students don't have airs and attitude. They actually take English seriously and are eager to learn. Inhibitions they don't have. Real teaching-learning happens. I'll miss them.

The new set of students are already occupying my mind. The tenth and twelfth students have completed a month of class. This year I teach class 5 also and that is going to be an adventure. Right now they are enjoying the novelty of using pens for the 1st time.I'll see what life has in store for me in the months to come

Lost Post

2008-04-06T06:29:00.001+05:30

(To be recited like Piggy On The Railway track)

One little blog post
Sitting on my blog,
One nice comment had just come along
'Click', said the little mouse
In a careless hand,
Off went the little post
Comment and all....

That's as cruel as a nursery rhyme can get.
Boo hoo ... and I'm too lazy to write it all over again..

If....

2008-03-31T14:11:00.000+05:30

If the tongue didn't have taste buds................

we wouldn't have to cook.
we wouldn't require a thousand spices.
we wouldn't consume bad fats, colours, processed foods, sugar, redmeat, rices.
there wouldn't be fast food chains
or restaurants
or parties
or ice creams
or chocolates
or cook books
or cooks
or food festivals
or food.
Ramsey wouldn't hound poor apprentices.
Yan Kan wouldn't cook.
Rachel Ray wouldn't shout so much (or is that asking too much?)
people wouldn't be obese.
there wouldn't be diet gurus
or liposuction
or intestinal bypass
or aspirin.
cholestrol and triglyceride wouldn't be so common.
cardiologists would get days off from work.
fisheries wouldn't be depleted.
birds wouldn't experience hell on factory farms.
birthdays wouldn't require cakes.
There would be no pepsi
so there would be no pepsi ads.
the khans and cricketers wouldn't get that income.
the ad world wouldn't have slogans like thanda matlab...
language wouldn't have some priceless idioms
like ' you can't have your cake and eat it too'
or 'the proof of the pudding is in the eating'
or delightful neologisms like eye'candy'
or delhi belly.
smart alexis, me, wouldn't be calling the taste buds a mixed curse
or calamity in disguise.

So what am I trying to do??

I am trying to plan a lesson on conditional clauses.
But I would really like it if I didn't have to cook.

To Whosoever It May Concern

2008-03-14T20:57:00.000+05:30

I've been tagged. So here goes.....

First, the rules:- Post the rules on your blog.- Share six non-important things/habits/quirks about yourself. -Tag six random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs.- Let each random person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their website.

Out of the very many irritating habits of mine, here are six.

1. I baby talk with my kids (one is almost out of college and the other will soon be entering one) . I know it is disgusting. But I had begun to do it to irritate them. Now they talk right back at me in the same way and it has become a habit. (I must stop it before they get married. I'd hate it if my spouse baby talked with his mother.)

2. I bite my lip a lot when I concentrate on my work.

3. I count all the time - the steps I take on the treadmill, the seconds at the traffic light, while waiting for food to get done, the rings after I call someone on the telephone, when the computer takes time to follow instructions.........

4. I wake up at 3 a.m and enjoy working while the whole world sleeps. Of course I'm good for nothing after 8p.m

5. I never give compliments and I feel terribly uncomfortable when I receive one.

6. I hate to throw things away, which is why I have cartons full of them - from stuffed toys & baby clothes to seashells & expired medicines

Five Great Women-Friendly Ideas

2008-03-13T16:59:00.000+05:30

Move over diamonds - today's woman needs better friends.

It was March 8th and I was thinking about great ideas that had helped the Indian woman. I came up with five; shortlisted for their frequency of use, number of users, energy consumption and lack of adverse effects.

Number five on the list of GWFI's would be the restrooms at petrol stations.
Travelling long distances on the road used to be great fun for the men and kids. The Indian ways allowed them to answer nature's call in more ways than one - what with the fresh air and leafy bushes. Who needed privacy when freedom called. All the while the women squirmed in discomfort. Downright unhealthy I tell you. Whoever thought of restrooms on the road deserves the Mr.Considerate Crown.

Coming fourth is the moisturiser. The modern woman works in conditioned climes that leave her skin dry. This is a major toll-taker. And coming to one's help is the trusted cream or lotion that soothes, quenches and revives the epidermis. You can't have enough of it. Moisturise, moisturise moisturise. And moisturise. I'd swear by Dove.

The third GWFI is the handbag. This wonderful article is a boon to women who are expected to carry , apart from currency, id card & licence, also biscuits for the kids, panparag for husband, saridon/gelusil/ lozenges for the family, bindi, safety pins, address book, mobile, keys, pen, post it notes, tissue, perfume, vicks vaporub, rubberbands, hairclips, spare glasses, bills, lists, sanitary pad, towel, handkerchief, comb, lipstick, lucky draw coupons, bandaid, air/train tickets, cheque book, postage stamps, nailfile, scissors, dry cleaners' receipt, photo of husband, children, father, mother, self, loose change, thread, needle, moisturiser etc. And the etc could be a page long. If it is a young mother's bag , add to these : feeding bottle, diapers, spare baby clothes, wet wipes, baby powder, lotion, bonisan, rattle, squeaky toy and much more.

So let's hear it for the lady's bag; it is truly a wonder like its owner.

In the second place is the pressure cooker. She is simply priceless. She saves time and fuel . She retains nutrition. Her new and improved shapes have raised convenience to artistic heights. Hugs and kisses to my dear dear friend. Mmua mua

The winner, hands down, is however the strong , the stable, the silent hero. In the words of a great :) poet.......
He's there when I want him
He never complains
He takes all my dirt
And never shows st(r)ain
He stays in the background
He's never seen
He's my dear, dear friend
My washing machine.

But the show doesn't end. Ideas are waiting in the wings. Here are some of mine: mixie with silencer, sari with pockets, a treadmill that will turn fat into power to run itself, deceptive armour that will stun bottom-pinchers on buses (like the sting ray), lights in handbags so you won't fumble for things, things that will speak up when you search for them, DNA with the fat fixed genes removed and height enhancing ones added, hair that stays on scalp, hair that drops off arms and legs, body parts that defy ageing and gravity, body fat that will fuel vehicles, repellants that actually repel pests (not only of the bug species), roads that can be crossed, a single meal a da............................ SSomebody sstop me

Occupational Hazard

2008-03-03T19:57:00.001+05:30

One thing I'd not known would be part of my work
Is the mountain of correction that I'd rather shirk.
I spend many painstaking hours bending
over essays and answers - never ending.

Poring over writing so bad or so tiny
I end up with pain in my eyes and my spiny.
I tear my scant hair in agony to see
Mistakes aplenty, fearless and free.

My simmering rage fanned to fury,
I could hang those brats sans judge or jury.
Grammar mistakes and spelling errors,
Utter nonsense and other terrors
take away the best part of my life,
God! I can't take it - this wretched strife.

But the worst of all these terrible tortures
is when students continue to take language to slaughter.
For returning the marked work, I against hope hopen
they'll heed the correction, their eyes wide open.
But Alas! The saddest torture for a teacher
is that they persist in writing answers all fractured.

So release me, dear Lord, from these tiresome travails,
I'd prefer much rather to lie on sharp nails.
God, when will Thou deliver me from the miseries
of changing the blasted ei's into ie's?

[ This was inspired by Ogden Nash's poem, This Is Going To Hurt Just A little ]

Holiday Blues

2008-02-22T23:40:00.000+05:30

Its a week's holiday on account of the country's national and liberation days.

I look out and the sun glows white like it thinks it is the moon. There is a dust storm that's been on for two days now. You breathe in dust, walk in dust. The dust gets into the house and covers every surface, frustrating your efforts at cleaning. The 7 holidays stretch out with nothing to do. Braving the dust and cold winds is not attractive. I think back to my childhood holidays in India.

When our schools closed for summer, all my cousins, my brothers and I would descend on the bungalow on the hillock in the rubber estate where my father worked. My mother would pack goodies in picnic packs and all of us kids would burst out of the house, run among the tall green green trees, walk across the primitive bridge that swung dangerously, and jump into the small rivulet of clear clear water in our petticoats or shorts. We passed happy hours laughing and playing in the cool water as the sun warmed us. Hours later the maid would come to fetch us. And we trudged back home tired and ravenous.

In the evening, my father would tell us stories of Soorpanekha or Bheema or some vivid character as we chewed on salty steamed corn. A Kathakali and music enthusiast, my father was a great story-teller. His was no bedtime story of the west. He brought alive the figures that peopled those tales and we laughed at the antics of Hanuman, wept with pity for the young Dhruva, got angry with the mischief-maker Kooni, felt awed by Bheeshma's pledge..

We acted out these stories or performed dances and songs before the appreciative audience of my parents, neighbours and sundry servants. We played cricket(with commentary), ran after the calves, fought with each other over a piece of Cadbury's chocolate, got our hair and bodies oiled and stood together without a stitch of clothing, drawing pictures on our oiled bellies. We read books, we sang bhajans, we played cards, we blew bubbles, we followed frogs, we lay together on mats spread in the hall and giggled when we were supposed to sleep ....

I look up from the key board as I write this. My son sits alone with a tin of pringles on the sofa playing a computer game and watching Shahrukh doing the OSO dance for the nth time. My son is happy.

Then why am I feeling sorry for him?

Flirting Tips

2008-02-16T18:13:00.000+05:30

Another Feb 14th has come and gone. I missed the controversy that the Indian people cook up every year as Valentine's Day approaches. This year there was none of the usual condemning of western culture and accusing them of infiltrating the Bharatiya sanskar.The Saudi Govt did ban its celebration in that country- a great loss for the red rose exporters. My spoilsport school begins the Annual Exam on this date every year. So boys and girls have no time to exchange candy or love-notes; they are busy trying to pass chits and copy, outwitting the eagle-eyed invigilator.

So that's where I was on 14th- in XB, supervising. I'm neither eagle-eyed nor vigilant, but have mastered the art of looking like Iam. So with the strict expression in place, I let my thoughts wander...

They strayed to the significance of the day and went on to the topic of flirting- tips for girls on how to flirt. Here they are:

Flirting is an art,a game.
It's Cupid's arrow's other name.
Every dart carries a flare -
a sexy pout or a brazen stare.
So budding flirts must coach your faces;
never mind that your teeth are in braces.
Teach your lips the flirty action,
your nose to flare in subdued passion.
Don't worry that your hair grows in traces,
as long as you have curves in the right places.
And if your legs are shapely and long,
the attraction is bound to be strong./ the boys will come panting along.

I had got till that when I was called to give extra sheets,putting an end to the profound musing.

These thoughts are the result of keen observation, not my own experience. I never flirted.

Stars

2008-02-10T17:06:00.000+05:30

The other day I watched Taare Zameen Par and wanted to thank the director for pushing the issue into our faces, into the Indian mind. Kudos also for allowing the child to steal the show.

Be that as it may... Despite the good intentions, the plot is overoptimistic. I've seen many parents and haven't found any who accept that that their child has a problem. Actually dislexics are not so uncommon. Colleagues will not change their mindset. Not so fast anyway. In short the life of a dislexic usually remains a solitary nightmare.

So why can't teachers be like Amir's character. The answer is simple. They are simply not trained to handle such cases. The BEd course should be equipping a teacher to do so instead of / along with the history of education and statistics.All that a teacher can do is identify the problem and inform the counsellor or parents. In a class of 30-40 students it is not fair or even possible to give time to slow learners. Even if an attempt is made it can't be consistent.

The film also left me wondering- What if Ishan hadn't won the prize? What if Einsein had not figured out the theory of relativity? What if Da Vinci had not painted? Why do we as a society admire only the larger-than-life achievements? Why don't we acknowledge the simple conquests, the everyday miracles? Would Ishan's parents have loved, respected or cherished him less if he hadn't been great at something? Should parents expect their children to bring in results? I wonder and I find solace in Gibran's words :

'Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let our bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.'

Another reason why teachers can't be like Amir's character (whats his name?): No teacher I know can do cute bumshakes like he does......

Stop! Don't even imagine it.

Ode To The Board

2008-01-14T21:35:00.000+05:30

Read this, and see if it rings a bell.

Oh still Black Board,
Thou solid presence in the class.
Thou on whose back words amass
Like sparks from the wand of the chalk-
Yello and pink and blue and deathly white
Make facts and figures come to life and talk.
The living dates lie dead on your side
Like people that are born, grow and die in a day
To be erased and forgotten in time's tide
Thou who died yesterday,
Will be there tomorrow
But live for today.
Be thou, still,black presence,
The spirit of my restless mind.
With the past erased, unworried in the future
Living but for the present.

PS: If Shelley were to read this, he definitely wouldn't think that his winter would be followed by such a spring!

My Ruler

My ruler is a funny thing
Yes, it's made of pliant plastic.
No, it's not brittle, or even straight
Definitely not metallic.
My ruler does not rule me,
It takes so many shapes.
It measures up my right and wrong,
It caters to my faith.
Others have rulers so rigid,
their feelings all neat and straight,
Their passion dead, their senses numb
Lives tied to a lifeless fate.
Go on, take out your ruler
Stand tall or short- as it dictates!
I'll use my magic ruler
Its rules are what I state!

Here was a Table , When comes another? A Parody of Mark Antony's Speech

2008-01-14T21:19:00.001+05:30

Sisters and Brothers of my staffroom,
Lend me your eyes.

I come to mourn the loss of our Old Table,
not to praise it.

The evil of things present remain while they live,
The good is oft remembered when they are gone.
So let it be with the Old Table.
The Noble Madam has sent us new tables.
As they are new, they are sleek and attractive.
And attractive we do find them.

Sit I to write in the Old Table's memory
It was a friend, sometimes shaky and ugly to me
But Sreekumar has given us new tables
And Sreekumar is an honourable man.

I write not to show ingratitude to Birbal and the rest
But I write what I do feel.
It had held up many books and files for years
whose numbers did the general mess increase.
Was this a cause for discarding the Table?
Yet we all said it should be discarded.
And sure, we are all honourable people.

You all did know that the Table
stood ten years in the staffroom
And ten years did it serve us well (...er...?)
Did this in the Table seem dispensable?
When the teachers have partied
The Table hath held up the food.
Dispensability should be made of weaker stuff.
You all did need the table once, not without cause-
What cause witholds you then, to mourn for it?

O Judgement thou art fled to heartless beasts and the teachers have lost their reason!

Bear with me. My heart weeps for the Table lost somewhere,
And I must pause till it come back.

------------------

Written on the occasion when handsome New tables replaced the rickety Old one.

KEY:-

Madam- Principal.
Sreekumar- School Manager.
Birbal- Carpenter.

I give you the original

My Best Friend

2008-01-12T08:48:00.000+05:30

He's there when I want him
He never complains
He takes all my dirt
And never shows st(r)ain
He stays in the background
He's never seen
He's my dear, dear friend
My washing machine.

Time Management

2008-01-11T16:34:00.000+05:30

In my own small world of the workplace and home, I've had vast experience and as I dive into its depth I pride myself on my brilliant inovations and profound theories.

I fear that such life-changing discoveries will die with me and so leave to the world a legacy to enlighten generations of women (men too?). Read on to obtain these gems of wisdom.

Law Of Time Management For The Indisciplined Individual
The question of time management arises only when you've got to do things that you don't want to do. You will find time for the others.
The law states : Never do early what you can do in the eleventh hour. This is based on the premise that pressure enhances mood, perspective, speed and efficiency in work. This is true while making question papers, cooking or correcting answer scripts.Take the case of preparing a qp. I've tried doing it a month ahead. I read and discard a thousand questions, passages, and sentences for being insipid/boring/long/short/ too easy/ too tough... My capacity to find fault is endless. Long hours have I spent on the net searching and researching stuff that will interest or provoke my students. I try to make the perfectest qp.I draft, cut, edit, polish, redraft until I know it by heart.

During and after the exam, I look at the students for the brightness of eyes, a smile of pleasure, a frown of deep thought... but they only look bored.

When I make the qp just two days before the exam , it gets made.The students are not bothered either way if it is an interesting passage with thought provoking questions or insipid ones. Ditto cooking.

While cooking (God, How I dislike it!), If I start early,I take double the time to walk to the kitchen- what with reluctance and all-,stare into the fridge, curse the notion of four meals a day,think of better things to do, close the fridge, open it again (you've got to), plan a menu, get the required stuff (hate to touch the cold veggies /frozen meat), peel the onions (aaargh), cook, clear away, wash (aaargh aaargh aaargh). Are two hours in a furnace with watering eyes and burning nostrils worth the effort? The food disappears, leaving more dirt and dirt-clearing work.
Cooking in the last ten minutes (yes, I've timed it)is more efficient, fast and practical.

I run to the kitchen, chop whatever I grab, and let the pressure cooker (mua mua my dear friend) and the fire do the work and presto the job is done. The point being one has no time to savour the misery and self pity. With speed cooking I've discovered the smart , innovative me. I've served chutneys without garnish, sambar with a single tomato, cheat-the-kids-pizza, payasam without pista. Hey it's healthy, saves time and money. Besides, the food is hhot and there are no leftovers (you haven't had time to make much, remember?).

So begone Benjamin (Franklin).

Time

2008-01-11T08:52:00.000+05:30

Time - That sly villain that creeps up behind
Scattering wrinkles as he passes me by
Crow's feet and calories and pain in the knees,
Grey hair and bald head - all in slow degrees.

Time - He robs babies from under your nose
Their puppy fat and crayons and tiny pink toes
The toy cars and teddies - oh where are they gone?
It is that rascal, he's been stealing along.

Time- Well... he isn't that bad after all-
He's gifted this young man who's grown quite tall.
Yes, Time has taken my baby away
But he's left me a lad who lights up my day.

Sure, Time has snatched my little girl too
But he's given me a friend to share all I do,
He's blown my tender bud to a flower
A new Me with wings to travel afar.

Ah my friend, Time, you've tied me in knots
But I'll find a way to straighten my thoughts.
So go on, continue your relentless flow
I'll steel myself for every blow.

Laun(dry)

2008-01-10T07:46:00.000+05:30

In my capacity as materialmom, I intend to enlighten the young and the uninitiated with practical wisdom.

Here is a drop from the deep well of my experience.

Your husband is getting ready for office and he shouts for clean socks. A good wife would produce the required item magically, the faint smell of detergent and wardrobe freshener lingering on it.

But you, being a bad girl, had left all the used socks piling and washed it all together- and now they are all still wet.

What do you do? What to do? Never one to panic, you pull a pair out of the washing machine-TGTM- put it into the microwave and start it up. (ooh how smart you are, girl!!)......... 'uh oh', you go as you open the oven and look at the two melted blobs- the darned things are synthetic.

What to do? Whattodo?? Now it is time to panic as your husband shouts again. You run to the machine and pull out two more- wonder of wonders- they are matching ones again. You repeat the microwave action, setting for a shorter time at lower heat. You pray to Ganesha, the obstacle remover before pressing the button. You wait, holding your breath. The bell goes and you open the oven door to find perfectly dry socks and take it triumphantly to your husband.

PS.1. A conventional oven gives better results though you'll need a little more time.
PS.2. Use only in emergency. Don't waste power.
PS.3. Even better would be to train the spouse right at the beginning to do his own laundry and never to shout orders at you.