.
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.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
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.
Now you know what trigered this post. Humph
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
Sunday, October 31, 2010
The Driver
.
“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.”
.
“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.”
.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Tread-Mull
.
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
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
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
'Quick' And 'Easy' Cookies
.
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.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Id Lee
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!"
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!"
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