Pointers to Oriya Boys Marrying Mallu Girls

Matrimony is an adventure – a whole lot of fun, unexpected surprises and of course a great deal of romance. Entering the arena requires gladiatorial courage, spontaneity and a huge, strong yet soft heart. Interstate marriages could be the next level in the game demanding finer skills to meet strange challenges. As everybody knows, forewarned is forearmed. Being a Mallu woman, the writer has intimate gyaan about her species and what they would appreciate in their men, whether they be Mallu or exotic. So here are some tips from the mare’s mouth, especially for Odisha boys.

Tip 1: Since packaging is the first step to impressing, we shall begin with appearance – in other words clothing. Never dress sloppily. Classy, which translates into very expensive, but doesn’t look it, will do. So even if it is a sweat shirt and jeans, you need to get the best – after all she deserves it or you in it. And kindly refrain from wearing thick gold bracelets = that would require impossible amounts of love to accept. And shoes are quite the deal fixer. Remember they speak volumes about your taste and class. However the Mallu girl would probably turn up in frayed jeans and tees that have seen many summers and maybe even the signature bandana if she had her way. I know, life is not always fair.

Tip 2: If you have a nice smile, use it sparingly – to dazzle.

Tip 3: You may hate doing it, but read Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen or at least watch the BBC serialized version. You are free to have an honest opinion of the classic, but you simply must know the difference between being a Darcy and being a Collins. Speaking of books, it would be smart for all malekind to read some chicklit or watch a few chickflicks; despite the silliness, it would be a ready reckoner in the chemistry and feminine fantasy department.

 Tip 4: Entering a Mallu family would expose you to two categories – the uncles/aunts and then the cousins. The former can be handled like all uncles/aunts around India. Your polite behavior and good academic/ career record will take you half the way to acceptance. In order to get you there 90 percent, you will need to know the Mallu tongue – at least a few basic words initially. 100 percent acceptance will have to wait as it involves a couple of years…. or ten…… and a few babies too. The cousin brigade could be more difficult. They are guaranteed to laugh at you behind your back or even in front of it. They will surely speak in Malayalam with an English word or two thrown in to simulate consideration for the outsider. Worse, they may just clam up and drown you in embarrassing silence. You would instinctively make an effort to appear enthusiastic and interested in the nightmare situation. Don’t. Mallu cousins can detect fake 10 miles away. Here is where a little prior homework from your part will help. Get to know them singly- either personally or online. Take care not to be too friendly – they’ll run away. Dropping a line or two, not regularly, but fairly frequently would suffice. You should then be able to gauge and find the ones who will stand by you when you face the clan as a group. One member of the set who is beside the writer now insists on including a sure shot winner tip – ‘gifts and treats to the cousins,’ he guarantees, ‘ will have them eat out of his hand’ The writer wouldn’t recommend this measure as it reeks of spot fixing.

Tip 5: If you think that handbook – Learn Malayalam in 30 Days will help you with communication, think again. You will never get the references that the family lapses into or laughs over. The thing to do is rent some DVDs and watch Mallu movies, I know that Mohanlal looks like the pestilence and Mammooty is ancient, but grit your teeth and watch their classics - A small sacrifice that will enable you to know what people are talking about and not be completely lost. So that’s it for this module. I hope these suggestions will be useful to all Odisha boys getting hitched to Mallu girls.

Coming up next – Do’s and Don’ts in Gifts and Tact - How to Use It [If time permits] 


POST SCRIPT - I don't know why blogger html wont put this post in paragraphs. Perhaps a Mallu girl will help.

New Year Thoughts

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

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

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. He only felt offended by that remark and insisted that Immorality, and not Incompetence had caused his team's defeat.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

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

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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

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 being given 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, 26 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