A Sad Love Song

I happened to hear a song that I liked very much. I felt the need to translate it to English so that even those who don't know Malayalam may enjoy the lyrics. It is a rather melancholy poem and much of the alliterative beauty is lost in translation. But I've just done an exercise in translation of a more technical but equally morbid theme. So here I go....

When Death comes calling
Won't you sit a little while by my side?

So that my fingers, numb gathering embers
May come to rest, caressing you,
So that the last drop of  breath I inhale
May have the scent of you,
So that, My love, your face may lie submerged
Within my eyes that need open no more,
So that  your voice may seal my ears
That will not permit another sound,
And while my mind is still alive and aware,
May the pure, evergreen memories of you
Rain on my  head.

So that my lips, the open wounds of a kiss,
May heal shut with the sweet chant of your name.

O my love, please stay a while beside me,
So my feet may recall, as they go cold,
The paths they trod
In the journey that led me to love.

That's all I need for my remains
To be resurrected,
To rise, a shoot of grass
From the earth that buries it.

Here you can listen to the song sung by Unni Menon, Music composed by Shabaz Aman (at 4.14) and penned by Rafeeq Ahmed. And if you want a rather literal but painstakingly edited version, watch this.

I noticed the difference in the rendering by the two singers. The concluding lullaby like hum seemed to suggest putting one to sleep - an eternal one. One point leaves a question in my mind - why are the fingers numb after gathering embers? Why did the poet choose not to use the word burnt? Just a thought. Another question is why would he want to be reborn, considering he has found a love so fulfilling ? Translation presented a few dilemmas. In the original opening lines the speaker requests his love to sit beside him. In English, Please sounds like a plea, and therefore rather pathetic. I felt the man deserved dignity, not sympathy. Guilt made me introduce the plea in the penultimate stanza.  Also, in the 6th line I have used 'scent' to be as honest as the original, discarding the more fancy, 'fragrance'. Did I do justice?

Leaving you with another song by the same writer. Enjoy. (But if you'd rather savour the flavour of the earlier song, keep this for another time.) Ok now I'll shut up and leave you to the music.

Encounters

When the stand for my living room was purchased, I didn't quite like its chunkiness. My taste in furniture leaned towards delicate pieces with spaces under and around that a broom could get to. The one that occupies my home now is a broad wooden structure, a large part of it occupied by a flat screen. I appreciate its drawers, shelves, CD rack and the glass and mirror appendage to hold curios. But the thought of the dust living happily behind and beyond the cleaner's reach is annoying.

The stand redeems itself by holding a few beautiful well loved objects. They tell me stories. Tales that are happy while they are sad.

There's the clock, a little ornate, given to me by my Afghani student - a birthday gift. Here was a boy who found learning a joy. I remember how fascinated he was by the idea of a nonviolent struggle for independence that he had read about in his history books. Salem was very mature. He had to be. After school he laid tiles at the construction site with his father. After tenth his father had insisted that he stop school and work full time rather than incur expenses for education. Salem ran away from home to avoid that. Every class in our school had a sibling of Salem except when his parents had daughters. After plus two, one of his teachers got Salem a job in an office. And the first thing he did was admit his little sister in school. Today Salem is employed and  married. Three of his brothers are also employed and two of them doing U.G courses part time. He doesn't talk to his father anymore.

Then there's the collage done with pieces of glass. My friend and her son, who is also my friend, created it for me - from a broken bottle they found in front of their apartment in Kuwait.

There's the calm and peaceful bronze Budha purchased on a trip to Deolali. Fits nicely in my hand and weighs a ton. It could crack an intruder's skull (provided I can reach his head).

The ivory cow that belonged to my grandfather with its folds, features, curves and lines fashioned by an unknown artist holds mystery. All the characters in that plot are not known to me - my grandfather, the sculptor and the elephant that probably roamed the teak forests of Nilambur. They were intimately connected to it. And now the cow tries to fit into a stranger's house.

The blue pottery depicts a China man and his family and a stray dragon set in the backdrop of mountains and weeping willows  with a river and bridge in the foreground. I can only imagine their story. But seeing them, I remember our trip to China. What a grand country! (What we were allowed to see of it.) The mountains, the history and culture, the art, the ultra modern cityscapes of  Shanghai and Beijing, the picturesque temples - they left me breathless; as did their food. ( Me being a vegetarian, I couldn't appreciate the seafood aromas that scented closed spaces like eateries, or worse, an aircraft.) And Chinese babies are the cutest. With my nose stud, bindi and long plaited hair, I was a minor celebrity among the locals. Some of them befriended us with Nihows and requested me to pose for photos with them! I can't decide if it was they or we that were more delighted when they broke out into 'Aavaala hoon' or (strangely) 'Jimmy Jimmy Jimmy, Aajaa aajaa aajaa' on meeting us.

My favourite is a bowl of pine cones - rustic and natural, a reminder of my tryst with Trieste. Tagging along with my husband on his business trip, I had not heard of this place that he needed to work in. So we went there without any expectations. But as our train from Milan approached the little town, the landscape lay there simply offering its beauty. How do I describe it? Let me just say that there were trees, mountains and the sea looking their loveliest. The place seemed magical, there weren't crowds of tourists as in the other places we had just been to. Exploring the city on foot with a map and finding our destinations was exhilarating. And then we went to Miramare Castle. - The prettiest place I had ever seen, with a tragic romantic tale to go with it. We walked in the park that Maximilian had made and among the pine trees from different lands that he had planted. I filled my bag with pine cones, each different from the other. I resist the temptation to rhapsodize about the castle and its settings. Let me focus on the pine cones. Packing them in our small full cases would destroy them. So I lugged them around in a plastic bag on trains and planes and while walking around Rome, Venice and Frankfurt. I'm glad I did.

In a few days I travel again to another place that remains pretty despite age. In terms of temperatures it may be jumping from frying pan to the fire.But the ancient house with its sinking pillar, leaking rafters and peeling paint is just as welcoming and dignified as it has been for over a century or five.

Tata.

Revisiting

I stand at the familiar doorway
I'd entered so often
But something holds me back
In nervous excitement.

Within this threshold lie
Not only thoughts I owned
They also hold the happy ties,
Some remain; and some not anymore.

In these rooms I'd played
And shared my toys with friends.
And sometimes sat alone
With myself as my friend.

Inside, I know, nothing's gone,
Nor anything replaced,
And I don't know why I hesitate
To enter this happy place?

The home unchanged
The rooms unchanged
The toys and games unchanged.
What stills my hand upon the key
 is the thought,
Am I the same?

New Year 2014

Here we go again - another New Year, born pregnant with wishes, hopes and promise; adorned with fireworks and glitter, already scarred with news of rapes, accidents and dirty politics. As always, the cross section of each moment, New Year or not, stretches to accommodate the good, the bad and the ugly. And time moves on, relentless.

Notwithstanding the bad and the ugly, the human spirit endures - with a default setting that replenishes hope and positive thought. In that positive spirit, (cynicism was never me anyway) I wish that the good will outnumber and outweigh the bad this year. That changes for the better will sweep clean the 'dead habit' but will not throw away the wise and wonderful things of the past.

On a personal note, I look forward to happy events. I pray for courage, strength and efficiency. I remind myself of all the wonderful things in my life, nature, and personality.

May the world be a happy place for everyone  :)

Pointers to Oriya Boy- Part Two

I've been asked by my loyal readers reader to write the second installment of pointers to Oriya boys engaged to marry Mallu girls ( and if you didn't guess it still - the girl in question is my offspring and the boy, my future son-in-law). I have also been warned by well wishers to be dignified and behave myself like a good m-i-l should. So there is a sort of clash happening - and I need to be watchful of myself. However, I feel fairly secure in the knowledge that the protagonist of this post will never read it :)

I had promised a module on tact, but that can keep.Today I will offer tips on giving her gifts.

Before I start with that, I must mention the way she does things for the people she loves. 'Out of her way' wouldn't begin to describe the trouble she takes or the thought that goes over each of her presents. She recalls what you had mentioned at some point of time, studies your life and personality, checks your background, enlists the help of your friends/ relatives, gets to know your likes and fetishes... before she plans the gift for you. The gift itself would be unique. She would never go for something picked up off hand at a store. She would have to comb through online options, trudge through quaint streets to find the absolute fitting thing for you. And if she doesn't, then she'll simply get down to making it herself. And she will walk to the parcel place, wherever that is, and send it to you with a hand written note (no, not a printed card- that won't do at all). For all you know, she might even land up on your doorstep, gift in hand.

So don't even try to compete with her. Nor can you compete with her father, who owns her love and loyalty even though he may give her jelly beans (a chilhood favourite that she has long outgrown) or the latest cell phone (which she is not really hankering after) .

But be not disheartened. For such a stickler in gift giving, she is a ridiculously easy-to-please receiver. Her only concern is the genuine feeling behind the giving. And what puts her off is showing affection without meaning it. If she gets mad, life can turn quite miserable - for you.  It is so much easier to get presents for girls than for boys. And she does have a weakness for certain things. I  shall mention the a few:

1. Pens. You heard right. She just cannot resist them. She prefers fountain pens (do they still make them?). Even gel pens, felt tipped ones, fine points, multi coloured ink ones - all make her eyes light up. Her collection includes those that she used in school.

2. Books. Poetry, stories, comics, biographies, travelogues, philosophy, cooking...... Just keep your eyes and ears open, for the writers that interest her. Don't seek the help of best seller list in magazines or newspaper supplements, but get her to talk - not very difficult, that ;)  I don't think she would appreciate self help literature or business stuff. But it is lovely to get books for one who loves reading - you can keep getting her books, and she will melt to mush every time.

3. Books. As in notebooks.  Yeah, I know it sounds funny, but she loves those beautiful notebooks you get nowadays. She admires them, touches and smells them, but won't buy as they are more expensive than she would want a notebook to be.

4. Dark chocolate. Though you'll have to find out the percentage of dark - she won't want the all bitter variety and the too sweet one would not be perfect.

5. Gifts made by you. This may sound impossible, but they are not. All you need to do is take all the things she loves, say photographs of the people in her life or the songs she loves, and put them all together in a collage. She does get sentimental about stuff like that.

6. Your time. It is inevitable that over time, a couple takes each other for granted, the novelty begins to wear. Other priorities like career or kids consume your time and attention, pulling you away from each other. So it is essential to make time to be together and take the effort to make those moments memorable. Whether they be planned or spontaneous, spent in serious talk or flippant fun, at home or a fancy place, the time together must be spent in mutual love and respect, even though you may find many irritating things in her and she in you. Gift her those enjoyable moments.

Hmmm ... I think I got a bit serious there. Anyway, whatever you give her with love, she will appreciate it and express her appreciation openly and thank you so profusely that you will have to ask her to shut up. But that's just the way she is. So don't you go thinking you are the greatest gift giver of them all. Never be complacent. Find, create, explore new ways to please her give her gifts.

I had concerns about posting this, it being of so personal a nature. But there is a general feeling that if you give a woman jewellery, you can make her happy. If nothing, this post will educate the ignorant that there are better ways to get to a woman's heart. It may not be the easiest way, for a man has to truly understand his partner to know how to make her happy.And all men are not lucky enough to have a mother-in-law doling out helpful hints.

Having said that, let me add that emeralds or rubies would make great gifts - she has already got diamonds :D





 

A Toast ...

..... to my unwanted audience:

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Take that, spam!

Dirty Desert Rain

Dirty desert rain at dawn
You wet the dust on my tulsi leaves
And cake them brown.
They were reared with care
Watered with love
Fed with prayers.
Now look what you've done!
These tainted leaves -
What can they offer?

You descend at dawn when no one enjoys you.
You fall in winter when it's already cold,
Leaving streaks of mud
and gray brown slush
which you should have washed away.
Look at rains in other places -
They clean the leaves
And clear the dust
While all you do is make a mess.

The dusty leaves may fall,
New ones replace them tomorrow,
But they were young - the ones you killed
You think the plant gets over that sorrow?
Well, you've done the deed.
And you have left.
The why's remain -
Pointless, unanswered

Child Woman

The young lady at the airport

Her spine straight in confidence

The handshake firm with purpose

Her grace born of triumphs

A gaze backed by beliefs

Her shoulders ready for responsibilities.

And all I see is a button nosed baby.

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

.
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

The Driver

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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

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I am happy am I ?
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Tread-Mull

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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

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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

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!"