I look at the man in the driver's seat beside me, remembering the first time we met at our wedding. Not having seen or talked, let alone written to each other,there wasn't a shadow of romance between the two of us. We were strangers.
I had watched my parents share their interest in literature, art and philosophy. They talked to each other all the time . Discussions on the Bhagavad Geetha to Bertrand Russel enlivened their conversations. They were very much in love. I never heard my father utter a harsh word. He complimented Amma on her cooking, embroidery...on just being her. While for Amma, my father was her life. So I entered marriage with my own preconceived notions of sharing and loving.
The man I married never read anything but the newspaper and office reports. He did have a colourful vocabulary that he used to describe drivers who blocked his path. He ate the food that I dished out in silence except when it did NOT appeal to his taste buds. He too may have had notions of a happy marriage that I couldn't live up to. I have had my days of rage. Besides, I disliked wifely 'duties' of housekeeping while he hated my whistling.
My husband never gave me roses or discussed poetry. But he admired my abilities and encouraged me to take up challenges - whether it was speaking at seminars or organising events. I grew to respect his judgment and strength. He never talked about kindness, but showed it in the most unexpected moments. He may never admit it, but I realise that he needs me and hates my absence. He worries about me when I am on my own (though I can take care of myself) and takes pains to prevent hassles. I have to drop hints the entire month before my birthday, but I know that he believes I was born for him!
Marriage, I'd been told, is all about give and take. That always sounded nice and balanced. Experience taught me that it was anything but. For sometimes you give more and at others you get more. Who knows, maybe the sum total is a neat tally. But then who is keeping accounts? And who cares? Because by then one realises that often giving is as enjoyable as receiving.
Bringing up our children drew us even closer. I wonder if any other couple enjoyed their children as we did. I watched him saying no to their requests sometimes and showering them with tenderness at others. The laughter and pain that we shared over and with them bound us as one. Of course there have been times when the bond was stretched, but we always snapped back together to find understanding and mutual respect.
Two decades have gone by all too fast. Now our children are away and come to us during vacations. New faces people their world. We have only each other most of the time. He comes home to me with a happy smile and my heart sings too. He still watches TV shows or studies management journals, while I do crosswords or read. There still isn't much conversation or discussion; only the unspoken warmth - probably the same that my parents expressed. When we go out, he still cusses other drivers. I don't flinch anymore. I look at the man in the driver's seat beside me and I wonder, when did I fall in love with him?
.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Friday, January 15, 2010
Past Imperfect
As a child I….
…….imagined that 4 had married 5, and 6 was their baby.
……..thought the meaning of yellow was ‘beautiful’.
..…….believed that Anon was a person.
…….yearned to wear out my hawai chappals and Natraj pencils to stubs instead of losing them always.
…….dreaded that my father had a secret family stowed away somewhere.
….. made up my mind to work in a chocolate factory when I grew up.
...…wondered why God wouldn’t or couldn’t speak.
..... loved to play in the servant’s quarters with her children.
……couldn’t understand why I didn’t speak Hindi though I was a Hindu.
…… drew horizontal strokes in a drawing class which earned me a big cross and a bigger zero. My art teacher, Mrs. Daniel, didn’t know that I had tried to draw the wind.
It still hurts.
.... hated the story of the ant and the grass-hopper.
…….imagined that 4 had married 5, and 6 was their baby.
……..thought the meaning of yellow was ‘beautiful’.
..…….believed that Anon was a person.
…….yearned to wear out my hawai chappals and Natraj pencils to stubs instead of losing them always.
…….dreaded that my father had a secret family stowed away somewhere.
….. made up my mind to work in a chocolate factory when I grew up.
...…wondered why God wouldn’t or couldn’t speak.
..... loved to play in the servant’s quarters with her children.
……couldn’t understand why I didn’t speak Hindi though I was a Hindu.
…… drew horizontal strokes in a drawing class which earned me a big cross and a bigger zero. My art teacher, Mrs. Daniel, didn’t know that I had tried to draw the wind.
It still hurts.
.... hated the story of the ant and the grass-hopper.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Caveman Logic
It sounded cute when Sehwag said that he supported the Srilankan team, because the team he sided with always lost. He said that it was a superstition. It isn’t just Sehwag. Inexplicable notions prevail in a twilight zone even in the midst of enlightened humanity, surprising as it is in this age of logic. Hotels in the most technologically sophisticated cities don’t have a 13th floor. Blind beliefs are said to have originated in an era when man was utterly under the control of nature. What he couldn’t explain, he attributed to divine forces. Perhaps coincidence froze such superstitions into facts. In which case the people of today shouldn’t be superstitious at all. We all know that isn’t the case. So there is, probably, a fascination in our nature for the mysterious and fantastic.
Beliefs that defy reason are cute, like Sehwag’s or sinister or downright irritating. The most irritating are forwards that tell you not to break the chain of time-wasting, useless, communication. The more victims you palm off the inconvenience on, the more good fortune you will gift yourself. Even more annoying are the threatening ones that damn you with horrors unless you follow the orders. The worst is when senders who never drop a line otherwise pass the buck to you. Yes, all one has to do is hit delete, but then you know……… So I forward these mails to my children and their expired accounts AND to the sender ;) Fortunately my children aren’t as vicious as I am.
It is strange though, that life offers some strange experiences. Once on a Board exam day the bulb went out when I switched it on as soon as I woke up. Then the lamp went out when I lit it. While setting out from home who should be in the lift but Mr. Iyer from the 8th floor ( Malayalees see a solitary, male Tamil brahmin as a portend to trouble). I knew that these were not signs, I merely noticed them. That day it happened that the school bus driver who took me and the candidates to the exam centre took a wrong turn and we lost our way. It was an hour of desperate phone calls and anxiety. We finally reached the centre after the exam had started, the staff there were good enough to hurry the students through the formalities and herd them to their seats. I know it is only coincidence. I’d said hi to a lone Mr. Iyer a hundred times, light bulbs blowing a fuse and a cold wick are common too. So there is no need to see a paranormal meaning in the occurance. In fact, it was one of those students who topped the subject that year!
Superstitions are followed all over the world. The Chinese have theirs about certain numbers, the Irish have their four-leaf clover, the Americans spit on their baseball bats. New ones that appeal to youngsters are still cropping up. Sportsmen, actors, clowns, tycoons, all have their good luck rituals. And I have my lucky pen.
Beliefs that defy reason are cute, like Sehwag’s or sinister or downright irritating. The most irritating are forwards that tell you not to break the chain of time-wasting, useless, communication. The more victims you palm off the inconvenience on, the more good fortune you will gift yourself. Even more annoying are the threatening ones that damn you with horrors unless you follow the orders. The worst is when senders who never drop a line otherwise pass the buck to you. Yes, all one has to do is hit delete, but then you know……… So I forward these mails to my children and their expired accounts AND to the sender ;) Fortunately my children aren’t as vicious as I am.
It is strange though, that life offers some strange experiences. Once on a Board exam day the bulb went out when I switched it on as soon as I woke up. Then the lamp went out when I lit it. While setting out from home who should be in the lift but Mr. Iyer from the 8th floor ( Malayalees see a solitary, male Tamil brahmin as a portend to trouble). I knew that these were not signs, I merely noticed them. That day it happened that the school bus driver who took me and the candidates to the exam centre took a wrong turn and we lost our way. It was an hour of desperate phone calls and anxiety. We finally reached the centre after the exam had started, the staff there were good enough to hurry the students through the formalities and herd them to their seats. I know it is only coincidence. I’d said hi to a lone Mr. Iyer a hundred times, light bulbs blowing a fuse and a cold wick are common too. So there is no need to see a paranormal meaning in the occurance. In fact, it was one of those students who topped the subject that year!
Superstitions are followed all over the world. The Chinese have theirs about certain numbers, the Irish have their four-leaf clover, the Americans spit on their baseball bats. New ones that appeal to youngsters are still cropping up. Sportsmen, actors, clowns, tycoons, all have their good luck rituals. And I have my lucky pen.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
The Party
I celebrated last New Year with a potluck dinner at our friend's place. The group was made up of my husband's college friends and their families. Potluck was a misnomer since one of the wives had called each of us to plan the menu and allot dishes. Actually celebrated is also a misnomer since the New Year found me flat on the friend's daughter's bed, missing the general cheer at the countdown and all. No, I did NOT get drunk. This is what happened:
.
I wake up early; and all that cooking after a day at work left me a little sapped of energy. I dolled up in record time, packed the food and set out, albeit drooping, for the party.
Actually party is also a misnomer for the ladies all congregated and what could be the topic of the day but recipes! I did try to contribute..... to keep awake. This went on for.....oh quite long. My effort to speak about monkeys or snakes was futile. Cook-talk refused to loosen its grip over the group. Finally the talk turned to other things. Beauty treatments. This just might be interesting. I thought. The discussion, at first rambling, soon focussed on hair colouring and then to henna.Everyone grew lively, shedding new light on the ingredients and procedures for making the henna concoction. Imagine my dismay at powder, grind, mix, add and stir creeping back into the territory like some Pak soldiers into Kargil. They seemed to have a life of their own and a mission to overpower (me). Meanwhile the potency of coffee powder in the mix as opposed to tea and the cleansing effect of lemon juice, the shine enhancing qualities of castor oil were all thoroughly debated and exhaustively studied. Again I tried to talk about robbers and Adnan Sami's intestinal bypass. However the looks I got turned suspicious at my red rimmed eyes. By this time I was so lost, I couldn't have found my voice if I wanted to scream.The chat then meandered to craft work, I wished I could shut my eyes.
Escape... That's what I needed to do. No one noticed as I wandered towards my friend's daughter's room where the children had gathered. Actually children is a misnomer too.(Am I repeating myself? Excuse please - the whine of a yearning-for-sleep individual is as inebriating as wine itself) So children is a misnomer too, for they had all grown up into college-going youth. Ah youth - the fount of new thought, that dynamic mix of energy and enthusiasm. Their company would infect me with life or at least life enough to keep gravity from getting my eyelids.
No sound could be heard from inside. I turned the door knob and entered the room to find the youngsters lolling around on the chairs and floor watching TV. What I saw on TV froze my blood! On the screen was a fat black man and a blonde woman going "mmmmmmmmm that is sooo ggoood! Aaaaaah..... mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm". My shock at finding the youth engrossed in the blonde's ecstasy over a chocolate cake did loosen the persistent embrace of sleep. I sat on a vacant spot on the bed next to a friend's daughter who resisted my attempts at conversation. Ah these youngsters - they are entitled to an attitude or maybe she didn't want to talk about the fun stuff in her college and her aspirations and even whether she thought Simon was actually a good guy or.... anyway to cut a long story short, I shut up again- I'd become an expert at this and the silence in the room was broken only by the fat chef and blonde stuffing some obscene looking meat with stuff and slathering it with fat...
Sitting on the bed hadn't been a good idea, for coupled with the stillness of bored youngsters, it was an ardent invitation to Sleep who kept stroking me with tempting hands. The problem was that whenever I sat and dozed my mouth would automatically open and my neck would absolve itself of its responsibility to hold my head up; with the effect that I would get transformed from a dignified lady into an ungraceful lout. I hate it. Having presented this ugly side of mine on aircrafts, buses, during speeches, concerts and sundry other occasions, I had extracted a solemn oath from my daughter never to let me be seen as Ms.Revolting. She, being a concerned and law-abiding person and she being in the room with me, in fact seated on the floor right opposite me, took it on herself to wake me the moment my mouth went into fly-catching mode. She would say something that ended with 'Amma',- the last said in a piercing and sharp shout that forced my eyelids open in shock. So it went...
Nod nod...AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
"He's adding so much butter AMMA" and I would jerk upright.
In 2 minutes again I'd go nod nod nod... AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
"The woman is so dumb, no AMMA?" And my eyes would fly open again.
After many such rousing attempts, persistence died within both of us. My daughter simply ran out of things to say. I was past bothering - I could appear as clumsy as Sandra Bullock at her worst for all I cared. The gaps between Nod and Wake grew shorter and shorter, just like labour pain. Keeping awake had become sheer torture. So I abandoned propriety, snuggled on the bed between the wall and somebody's backside and surrendered to bliss.
The ending is a happy one though. This year's party call has come. And I've watched so many cooking shows and searched so many cooking sites and memorised so many recipes. Can't wait to show off.
.
I wake up early; and all that cooking after a day at work left me a little sapped of energy. I dolled up in record time, packed the food and set out, albeit drooping, for the party.
Actually party is also a misnomer for the ladies all congregated and what could be the topic of the day but recipes! I did try to contribute..... to keep awake. This went on for.....oh quite long. My effort to speak about monkeys or snakes was futile. Cook-talk refused to loosen its grip over the group. Finally the talk turned to other things. Beauty treatments. This just might be interesting. I thought. The discussion, at first rambling, soon focussed on hair colouring and then to henna.Everyone grew lively, shedding new light on the ingredients and procedures for making the henna concoction. Imagine my dismay at powder, grind, mix, add and stir creeping back into the territory like some Pak soldiers into Kargil. They seemed to have a life of their own and a mission to overpower (me). Meanwhile the potency of coffee powder in the mix as opposed to tea and the cleansing effect of lemon juice, the shine enhancing qualities of castor oil were all thoroughly debated and exhaustively studied. Again I tried to talk about robbers and Adnan Sami's intestinal bypass. However the looks I got turned suspicious at my red rimmed eyes. By this time I was so lost, I couldn't have found my voice if I wanted to scream.The chat then meandered to craft work, I wished I could shut my eyes.
Escape... That's what I needed to do. No one noticed as I wandered towards my friend's daughter's room where the children had gathered. Actually children is a misnomer too.(Am I repeating myself? Excuse please - the whine of a yearning-for-sleep individual is as inebriating as wine itself) So children is a misnomer too, for they had all grown up into college-going youth. Ah youth - the fount of new thought, that dynamic mix of energy and enthusiasm. Their company would infect me with life or at least life enough to keep gravity from getting my eyelids.
No sound could be heard from inside. I turned the door knob and entered the room to find the youngsters lolling around on the chairs and floor watching TV. What I saw on TV froze my blood! On the screen was a fat black man and a blonde woman going "mmmmmmmmm that is sooo ggoood! Aaaaaah..... mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm". My shock at finding the youth engrossed in the blonde's ecstasy over a chocolate cake did loosen the persistent embrace of sleep. I sat on a vacant spot on the bed next to a friend's daughter who resisted my attempts at conversation. Ah these youngsters - they are entitled to an attitude or maybe she didn't want to talk about the fun stuff in her college and her aspirations and even whether she thought Simon was actually a good guy or.... anyway to cut a long story short, I shut up again- I'd become an expert at this and the silence in the room was broken only by the fat chef and blonde stuffing some obscene looking meat with stuff and slathering it with fat...
Sitting on the bed hadn't been a good idea, for coupled with the stillness of bored youngsters, it was an ardent invitation to Sleep who kept stroking me with tempting hands. The problem was that whenever I sat and dozed my mouth would automatically open and my neck would absolve itself of its responsibility to hold my head up; with the effect that I would get transformed from a dignified lady into an ungraceful lout. I hate it. Having presented this ugly side of mine on aircrafts, buses, during speeches, concerts and sundry other occasions, I had extracted a solemn oath from my daughter never to let me be seen as Ms.Revolting. She, being a concerned and law-abiding person and she being in the room with me, in fact seated on the floor right opposite me, took it on herself to wake me the moment my mouth went into fly-catching mode. She would say something that ended with 'Amma',- the last said in a piercing and sharp shout that forced my eyelids open in shock. So it went...
Nod nod...AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
"He's adding so much butter AMMA" and I would jerk upright.
In 2 minutes again I'd go nod nod nod... AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
"The woman is so dumb, no AMMA?" And my eyes would fly open again.
After many such rousing attempts, persistence died within both of us. My daughter simply ran out of things to say. I was past bothering - I could appear as clumsy as Sandra Bullock at her worst for all I cared. The gaps between Nod and Wake grew shorter and shorter, just like labour pain. Keeping awake had become sheer torture. So I abandoned propriety, snuggled on the bed between the wall and somebody's backside and surrendered to bliss.
The ending is a happy one though. This year's party call has come. And I've watched so many cooking shows and searched so many cooking sites and memorised so many recipes. Can't wait to show off.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Suffering Told
Most of us love to complain.Untold suffering seldom is, they say. Be it the boss or the systems and policies at the work place or the inefficient civic authorities or a disappointing movie ... the list is endless. While teaching class twelve I had to get students to write letters of complaint. It was disturbing that they were never expected to be taught to write a thank you note or a note of appreciation. No wonder we are a nation of whiners - see, I am whining about it now.
The pleasure that we get from grumbling is cathartic - you get the offending matter off your chest. The act also unites people who have had similar experiences. Many whine sessions involve people competing to relate the greater grievance. If someone actually addressed our grievances, and we had nothing to be miffed about, I think we would be really miffed!
Sometimes we simply want a sympathetic listener who will take our side. And some people just don't get that. I was once whining to colleagues, about my weight gain. 'Even a tiny piece of cake gets converted into a tyre on the waist,'I said. All I wanted to hear was that I looked good despite a tyre or two. That's when this chemistry teacher earnestly explains to me that energy intake to the body that is not used up is mostly stored as fat in the fat tissue.The conversion efficiency of food energy into physical power depends on the form of energy source - type of food and on the type of physical energy usage, that is which muscles are used, whether the muscle is used aerobically or anaerobically. He continued explaining that the efficiency of muscles is rather low: only a small percent of the food energy is converted into mechanical energy. This low efficiency is the result of only a tiny percentage efficiency of generating ATP (whatever that is!) from food energy, losses in converting energy from ATP into mechanical work inside the muscle, and mechanical losses inside the body. These depend on the type of exercise and the type of muscle fibers being used. He then began to draw - maybe the molecular structure of a fat tissue or something - but stopped on seeing my face.
I was in tears.
There are those who give advice and practical suggestions to overcome a problem. These creative problem solvers don't get it that the whiner isn't asking for a solution. At least my husband doesn't(get it). Like the time when on returning from a parent-teacher meeting, I went on about how exhausted I was, how belligerent the parents were, how useless it was to talk to them how I was the last to leave only to find the bus gone, how I had to wait for another vehicle,how other teachers' spouses had come to get them, how sore my throat felt and how bad my head ached. Without taking his eyes off the TV he suggested, 'Make some tea and take a Panadol. You will feel better.'
My sudden sullenness did bewilder him - after all, he had tried to help, hadn't he?
A little cribbing isn't a dangerous thing but sometimes it becomes excessive. Constant complaining must be some kind of disease and what's more, it can be catching. So beware.
The pleasure that we get from grumbling is cathartic - you get the offending matter off your chest. The act also unites people who have had similar experiences. Many whine sessions involve people competing to relate the greater grievance. If someone actually addressed our grievances, and we had nothing to be miffed about, I think we would be really miffed!
Sometimes we simply want a sympathetic listener who will take our side. And some people just don't get that. I was once whining to colleagues, about my weight gain. 'Even a tiny piece of cake gets converted into a tyre on the waist,'I said. All I wanted to hear was that I looked good despite a tyre or two. That's when this chemistry teacher earnestly explains to me that energy intake to the body that is not used up is mostly stored as fat in the fat tissue.The conversion efficiency of food energy into physical power depends on the form of energy source - type of food and on the type of physical energy usage, that is which muscles are used, whether the muscle is used aerobically or anaerobically. He continued explaining that the efficiency of muscles is rather low: only a small percent of the food energy is converted into mechanical energy. This low efficiency is the result of only a tiny percentage efficiency of generating ATP (whatever that is!) from food energy, losses in converting energy from ATP into mechanical work inside the muscle, and mechanical losses inside the body. These depend on the type of exercise and the type of muscle fibers being used. He then began to draw - maybe the molecular structure of a fat tissue or something - but stopped on seeing my face.
I was in tears.
There are those who give advice and practical suggestions to overcome a problem. These creative problem solvers don't get it that the whiner isn't asking for a solution. At least my husband doesn't(get it). Like the time when on returning from a parent-teacher meeting, I went on about how exhausted I was, how belligerent the parents were, how useless it was to talk to them how I was the last to leave only to find the bus gone, how I had to wait for another vehicle,how other teachers' spouses had come to get them, how sore my throat felt and how bad my head ached. Without taking his eyes off the TV he suggested, 'Make some tea and take a Panadol. You will feel better.'
My sudden sullenness did bewilder him - after all, he had tried to help, hadn't he?
A little cribbing isn't a dangerous thing but sometimes it becomes excessive. Constant complaining must be some kind of disease and what's more, it can be catching. So beware.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Crime In Rhyme
CREEEEAAAAK!
A footfall steals!
A torch beam
writing white on ink.
The taut night,
About to snap.
Quick glances
To check the blackness,
a busy clock
a restless tap
slumber rumble.
Furtive fingers
at the door
THUMP! CLATTER!
Lights come on,
Thief! Thief!
There stands
Guilt in person,
Chubbiness stained in chocolate
Caught raid handed
Beside
The open cookie jar.
*******
A footfall steals!
A torch beam
writing white on ink.
The taut night,
About to snap.
Quick glances
To check the blackness,
a busy clock
a restless tap
slumber rumble.
Furtive fingers
at the door
THUMP! CLATTER!
Lights come on,
Thief! Thief!
There stands
Guilt in person,
Chubbiness stained in chocolate
Caught raid handed
Beside
The open cookie jar.
*******
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