Thanks to nature and technology

The good cop is traveling and the bad cop is at helm. RRJ is finding negotiations to be tougher than usual. Things haven't been that bad either, the five minute drizzle got a unanimous response of 'no school' and at the moment the bad cop and RRJ are in agreement about the utilities of the imac's wide screen. Peace prevails on day one.

Water water everywhere

not a session of play. Doing water colours instead. Love the medium but never get the paintings anywhere close to what I would like them to be.

Statics

Sitting with the distribution of the final marks to assign the letter grades I felt Pamela Anderson describes the marks distribution of my class perfectly. Can you guess why?

Vanity scare

It is a strange situation when people tell you who you remind them of. I mean not just “ hey you looks so much like your father/mother” but when they compare you with some public figure. Apart from appearing downright silly and thoroughly embarrassed I can’t deny that any such comparison does appeal to my vanity as I quickly pass my fingers through my naturally highlighted hair, flutter my lashes and tilt my head that little bit which makes me feel I look very lady like. But of course comparisons rarely have such happy endings, there are lots of figures out there in the public eye who you would rather not look like, which strangely brings me to the last lecture of the course that I was teaching last semester.

As the last lecture of any course nears its end, specially one having a large class, besides feeling a sense of huge relief and complete exhaustion there is this heavy feeling that I get. In response to, perhaps the realization that it is all over, forty-odd hours spread over three and a half months of interacting with each other. It is a funny thing, this togetherness.

Anyhow, walking down the corridor I was flipping through a bundle of little notes which I used as a quick weekly feedback in which students wrote what they understood, what they didn’t and anything else they wished to convey. So this was the last bundle that I had in my hand. Some comments were unbelievably sweet, some were nice and then some very matter of fact. Reaching my office I put the last lecture notes in the drawer and sat down with a loud thump. Reading the second last note which was the sweetest so far, I was all choked up and so very close to getting all weepy, all that was needed a gentle nudge in the right direction. Very expectantly I flipped to the last note. The last line read out: by the way you remind us of Jenice of ‘friends’. I just couldn’t help it and burst out laughing loud. My vocal chords ready to produce the weepy sound earlier got totally confused by this sudden change in emotion and ended producing an absolutely perfect hysterical laugh which Janice would have been very proud of.

Mindlessness and all

The rate at which I distribute a piece of my mind these days, I am worried I will be left with none of my own. I am not alone it seems, after work RRS and I sit and discuss over tea and cake who all got a piece from us but of course I seem to be leading way ahead. The other day this discussion got interrupted by a strange request from a person who is most certainly not our best friend. After a little deliberation it was free for all. United we stood with pieces flying left, right and center. In the end RRS wasn't sure if I had been too generous after all. In any case what was gone was gone. At such times I sit and wonder, why people have to be themselves and why don't they just let us be.

Identity in crisis

Somewhere near madhya kailash this morning:
RRJ: spells out a name: M..... V.E.R.M.A
RRS: hmm.... sounds like a malayali name.
RRJ: yes, she told me she is malayali
RRS: and what did you tell?
RRJ: I am englisher

Portrait of a mother

This is how I appear to my son .......

Sifaarish

Don't know what I resist more, asking for recommendation letters or writing them for others?

I quote

Hunting for a quotation for the class before the mid-term exam came across a nice one: “ Examinations are formidable even to the best prepared, for the greatest fool may ask something that wisest can’t answer”. As expected students thoroughly enjoyed being referred to as the wisest or was it us being called fools.

The next one that caught my fancy was “Its ok to kiss a fool, its ok to let a fool kiss you, but never let a kiss fool you”. Very sex and the city type wisdom but for some strange reason made lot of sense.

"Show me a woman who doesn't feel guilty and I'll show you a man." Totally agree, if there was one behavioural difference betweens the genders that I had to pick it would be this one.

Then I saw “Wise men make proverbs, but fools repeat them.”

Cricket talk

On the dining table, RRS and myself having a relaxed chat is not allowed in the house. In the sense that RRJ feels the need to make his presence felt. At suitable intervals we are informed things like which team he is playing for at the moment and what score his team has made so far and how it compares with the other team's performance etc. etc. It can also be something related to the cricket that is coming on TV.

And when he finds that our conversation is not getting derailed enough he puts in a question or two which requires more than a aha, oh no, hmmm, wow from our side. The other evening:
RRJ: Achcha, Rahul Dravid is a fast bowler or a spinner?
RRS: Rahul Dravid? I think he is a slow batsman.

Coming of age

In spite of the heavy competition for the things that manage to tip off the daughter’s balance, the winner for years has consistently been the sight of her mother’s kitchen. The pattern broke this time during her last visit to her parents when the daughter ventured into the prohibited area, that of her mother’s bedroom. It was an act of bravery indeed but armed with a moist cloth and a sense of detachment the daughter waded through the chaos and tried to get just one shelf in order. It wasn’t easy to not fly off the handle looking at what all was stored but then it wasn’t as difficult as she had always imagined it to be. Some time passed, the arranging continued and her parents and husband waited for the meltdown to begin any moment. The daughter didn’t let anything distract her until the shelf was done, a pebble in the rocky mountain, but the pebble was in its place now. Smiling she turned and her eyes fell on a small dusty cover less book lying under the bed. Pygmalion. On the yellowing page in blotted hand was written: To DB, the best student of class IX for her excellent academic performance. The daughter, just like the time, stood still. In her mind the images went by: a small kid in a half sweater wearing cute little boots, big eyes and lot of kajal, hair in a complete mess, startled. Click. Two plaits turned and tied, midi dress, standing tall next to her brothers, squinting to avoid the bright sun. Click. In salwar kameez, dupatta tied near the waist, on a crooked podium, position first, representing gargi house in some athletic event, head held high. Click. Grandfather talking about his brightest child: her mother, who could do everything so well. Click.

The daughter tried to think of her mother when she received that book as a prize. Would that girl be able to imagine that she would have children and amongst them a daughter who will take the longest of times to see her as a person to be valued and appreciated. Shamefully long time of thirty six years.

Are you listening?

During the summer vacation, happened to meet one of my father's colleagues who has known me since I was a child.
"So what is his name?" looking at RRJ who was upto some mischief at a distance.
"R" and as is usual, trying to fill the gap in the conversation, I added, "he is very naughty. Doesn't really listen to me at all".
"Haha ho ho, funny that you say so. I mean, do you remember any day, when you listened to what your parents had to say?"

It seems like I am paying back for my misdeeds from then on. In fact somedays I wonder if anyone actually pays heed to what I say. Forget about others, do I listen to myself? You needn't have the sharpest of brain to know that the answer is a resounding no. It is too hard to follow all those detailed instructions and let oneself be managed at the sub-micron-scale. Haah, but no getting away from me you see, now I have got the phone setup so that it rings every now and then reminding me of my own instructions. In the middle of a conversation over coffee, I check my ringing phone and it asks me, "blabbering?".

Getting mushy over BB

Another smashing weekend full of sports. Love the intensity of the basketball game we have these days on Friday, Saturday and Sunday evenings: it is as serious as it gets. Being a team sport we are lucky to have a great bunch of people to play with. People who can’t be bothered about the dark clouds ready to pour down any minute, people who have to appease a bunch of crazy kids with candies to get a chance to play, people who cancel their plans for a relaxing getaway and then there are some who drive back long distances to be just in time for the game. To one and all…..hip hip hooray!

Why?

Today would be the third day in last three weeks that my outfit at work is saree! I am kind of locked in my hide out lest my friends spot me and demand a reason quite justifiably.

The circle of course

In the last five years of teaching, I have figured out one thing very well. No matter how hard I try, every course has three distinct phases: “Oh, I love to teach and the students, just phenomenal” which slowly changes to “ Hmmm…I have to teach and really the students are just about okay” followed by that painful period “when will this torture end and students…..gosh…. I don’t know what is wrong with them!”. The roller coaster at the moment is at a high and yes, you are right, I do love to teach.

The big rocks

I don't remember which book of our reasonably big self-help collection talked about these big rocks that you must deal with every week to keep the work-flow moving, but since then I have been calling things-to-do as rocks. These rocks are not at all rock like though, in the sense that they grow with time to enormous sizes in my mind. Funnily though the minute you start to deal with them they shrink so quick and fast. What I am trying to tell in so many words is that just kicked one big rock out of my way. Feeling rather light, happy and telling myself, "life rocks"!

A PJ

It has been the best lunch hour ever. Well spent in figuring out who do I write like, thanks to the link from Rahul's blog. If you have never had the experience of rolling-on-floor-laughing, you will have it now. Out of the 32 posts, yes I have been busy, I have managed to dent the following reputations:

Started the blog writing like Bram Stoker (of 'Dracula' fame, wiki tells me).
David Foster Wallace (7)
Dan Brown (6)
Cory Doctrow (5)
James Joyce (oops that's a serious hurt) (3)
Stephen King (2)
Nabokov (2)
PG Wodehouse (how mean the software can get, really!) (2)
One each written like HP Lovecraft, Raymond Chandler, Kurt Vonnegut. Ha ha ho ho, even you Edgar Allan Poe!

Pace battery

Pakistani cricket is a bag full of surprises. I mean one day you hear Younis Khan, their batting mainstay, getting banned for life, then next Shahid Afridi of all people, who was not even in the test squad, named as the test captain. One test into the series, he retires from test cricket and Younis Khan’s ban for life is withdrawn. It all seems so unpredictable and bizarre. Mind you this is the state of their international cricket so what happens at their domestic level is anyone’s guess.

In all this mess what amazes me is the alarming rate at which they churned out absolutely fantastic fast bowlers year after year. I started following cricket about the time when Imran Khan was coming in and out of retirement. At that point Wasim Akhram was in his prime. Short run-up, awkward action with no final big leap in the air but my god what a bowler! I remember how Srikkant used to look like a rabbit waiting for his end, a few short balls aimed at the chin and it would be matter of minutes before he would be on his way back absolutely clueless of handling Wasim. That 1989 series is of course famous for SRT’s debut but along with him it was debut of Waqar Younis. Those in-swinging yorkers were such a thrill, batsmen had limited options: either get your toe-nails crushed and get out LBW or let the ball dig out the middle stump. Next in line came Shoaib Akhtar who was too self obsessed and perhaps his own worst enemy but again a tremendous talent. I don’t remember anyone between him and till Mohammed Asif arrived in the scene, who was just too good to be true. Gentle relaxed pace of run-up and amazing accuracy, pace and ability to swing both ways. Of course the cart got a bit derailed with doping charges, possession of cocaine followed by an unpleasant spat with Shoaib Akhtar. Umar Gul in the meantime took over and yesterday I saw another new kid in the block, Mohammed Amir. The way he toyed around with Simon Katich and finished him, he is definitely here to stay. While it was sad to see that Pakistan has to have their home series in England but the sight of the pack of these fast bowlers hounding for Aussies is just plain awesome. It can make you happily forget the drubbing you receive while presenting Murali with 800th wicket as a farewell gift.

Reminds me of that ‘refugee’ song “panchhee nadiya pawan ke ……….” meaning that birds, river and breeze don’t know boundaries, it is only human beings who are aware of them. I would like to add that even bowling talent knows national boundaries. Otherwise how can you explain this huge difference in talent right across the border?

Some colour

My lunch of non-diary, non-tomato pasta looked so pretty, I had to take the picture.

A thought for the pod

Finally, I could get a whiff of the raw garlic in salad. Mmmmmm....yum. It has been now almost a week and a half since I started to lose my sense of taste and smell. Mealtimes were becoming like a chore that had to be taken care of which is completely unlike me. I love food. For all my claims to be a pretty robust system, in last couple of months I have my fair share of illness. I guess non-semester time is the only time when such collapses are not as disruptive and body is kind of keeping that in mind. The good thing is that some of those extra kilos have shed but the bad thing is that the little paunch was not part of those.

Coming back to garlic. I just love the taste of raw garlic. Not by itself but what it does to hummus, guacamole, bruschetta and even coconut chutney. Off late since I got this cute little wooden cutting board (from Currimbhoys at Adyar signal) which is used only for cutting things to be eaten raw we are having salads regularly. One of the favourites is capsicum, cucumber, tomato, a pod of garlic, little mustard oil, salt, little sugar and a little lime juice tossed together. A sprinkling of powdered pepper in the end. Makes an absolutely delicious combination. I think it tastes even better if the veggies are cut in thin regtangular shapes and tomatoes in a shape that is quarter of a slice, if only I knew the name for that shape.

The bug and the book

It has been one strange week, RRJ got an awfully sticky bug last rainy thursday, then I got it and finally out of familial obligation RRS is now dutifully sick. While it was my turn, I was kind of happy to lie in and do nothing other than enjoying Lisbeth Salander's exploits. I liked all the three books. In the beginning I thought Lisbeth Salander had a striking similarity with Sue Grafton's Kinsey Millhone (another favourite of mine) so I was pretty smug when half way down the first novel the main guy picks up a Sue Grafton novel to pass his time. Feels good to have your silly notion get endorsed, however vaguely that may be. Back to the books, very strong women characters who kick asses: a lawyer, an industrialist, a computer wizard, a chief editor of a magazine, a police officer and a few more of them. The pace of the books is pretty fast, only minor hold-ups when the hero gets laid. None of the strong women could resist his passionate-about-work charm and are eager to to be in his team as well as his bed.

The trilogy is centered around an investigative journalist who gets help from LS to come out of the deep shit he was in. With the second book the focus shifts to LS and her past which was full of abuse. While she tries to get even with all concerned on her own, the journalist can't let his friend fight it out all alone. Pretty engaging style of writing and as in most crime fiction the good wins over the bad. So yay!

In the dumps

Minor change in plans: instead of dressing up a bit, going out for a nice (note I don’t write romantic anymore) lunch and most importantly taking an FBworthy family picture, on our 11th, the bug has got me. Sniffling, coughing I look a picture of plans gone all awry.

Okay, world cup finals today. Not as super-excited about it. Will try to see a bit of it if this groggy head is up for it.

Ah, oh, oh-no!

Germany is out! Hung dry. First. Minor tantrum and major over-reaction. Second. Impending unavoidable chit-chat with a wolf in sheep's clothing. Three. Perfect day.

Reality check

As a kid whenever I heard "Hindu Muslim Sikh Isai, Apas mein hai bhai bhai", I always wondered why it had to be stated like that, wasn't it obvious? Even riots and all make you think that they are instigated by politicians for their own survival and largely hoodlums participate in it. I have grown up since then. Had an inter-religion wedding in the extended family. It was boycotted by the bride's family. Not a single soul from her immediate family.... felt really sad.

WC-III

Oh the Germans! They have proved it that you can be a man and yet when you have just the goalie and the goal in front of you, you can still wait and give a gentle pass to your team mate who is in a better position to make a goal. It is possible to control the urge to take a shot at the goal from a position which has a near-zero projected area in view. And they have been doing it consistently since their first match against Australia. Must be to do with the coach Joachim, you know the one who dresses girlie. Lastly, Klose's clinical finish...... just magnificently neat.

Sorry for Argentina though, I liked them a lot. But then I guess the thought of Maradona in nude on the roads of Buenos Aires was weighing on the players' minds too.

To have or not to

A BBC correspondent’s desire to have another child, a fourth one, led to a rather passionate discussion amongst us on if we as the plunderers of mother nature have lost our right to be a mother, biological one, ourselves. The reason that the lady in question gave was that she loved babies. Is that so inadequate a reason?

I feel that given the available resources, which are different in different countries, governments can provide a broad guideline as to what is a manageable average number that a family should aim for. Beyond that it is everyone’s personal choice if one wants to have one, more or none as long as one can provide them a decent upbringing.

It doesn’t need the sharpest of brains to figure out that the earth would definitely be a better place if we just remained animals all along, with no health care that unnaturally supports us to live longer, no buildings to live in, no books to read, no vehicles to travel, no electricity, no clean water to drink etc. etc. Basically everything that is a manifestation of our difference from animals comes at a cost to mother nature. Can we strive to sustain everything that makes our life perfect but take away the right to satisfy a basic human desire to have our own children?

Teething troubles

It was all working out well, that is, theoretically. A van was arranged for the commute to school with the hope that parents would head to work without starting the day exchanging choice words in the bedlam on the road in front of school and RRJ would finally realize his dream of parent-independent commute to school. We had a great run with car pooling last 1.5 years but with new schedules when the idea of a van came up, it just made perfect sense to every one at home. Then it was Monday. Early morning start, RRJ in the van looking a bit apprehensive, in tow his amma just to check out how it feels to go to school again and two more kids heading to another school. We made it in good time of course because we were lucky with two signals and the third one was nicely violated. Amma made some appropriate noise which was met with a stern look from RRJ. We were dropped in the outer fringes of the bedlam and then before I knew RRJ was sucked in through the gate and I got a “ no parents inside” yell. The van dropped the other two kids and then gave us a ride back. Amma didn’t have to struggle to find the driver’s complete disregard for the concept of waiting for signals, traffic rules, and the lack of ability to estimate time required for different activities that are part of his job. If the morning sequence raised some suspicions then the afternoon pick up was the clincher. Suffices to say we reached home an hour and a quarter later for a 3 km distance. Amma had accompanied in this journey as well and didn’t need any more convincing. Evening was spent discussing with another parent and a second chance was agreed upon. Next day, we started earlier, traffic looked okay and all was well, then for lack any excitement the fellow takes a narrow by lane! The only purpose it served was instead of going on a traffic-less, straight main road we got stuck in a narrow by-lane with a lorry coming the wrong way. Amma just did deep breathing while the driver blamed everyone for botching his brilliant plan and tilted his van like a dog ready to pee, while the lorry nudged past. Great start. We reached in time of course, RRJ reached the suction zone and I headed to office. RRS was informed that driver’s services must be discontinued and instead he must do the chauffeuring till an alternate arrangement can be made. In the afternoon RRJ coming out of his class spots me with a questioning look, “driver?” and then he spots RRS. You could see his expression change first to disappointment and then to anger. We had sabotaged his plans: wonderful wait of an hour in the hot sun followed by the fun ride back with an imaginative man at the steering-wheel. While the anger abated Amma wrote down numbers from the vehicles standing outside the school and started calling them. “Call after 4:30, busy with school pick up”. Good! Responsible! In the evening after two three attempts a reasonable person answered. After the negotiations amma tried, “can I come along the first few days”? “Sorry madam, space ille”. So this is the what you don't see you don't know game? Hmmmm…. little does the fellow know that it is not so easy to get us off his back, RRS has already decided where he will wait in his car to follow him till the very bedlam epicenter. The rest of the week is holiday, so the drama unfolds only coming Monday.

Are, atithi phir kab aoge?

It is funny how the home starts looking and feeling like a home just in time before guests arrive. Stuff gets cleaned, stuff gets arranged, stuff gets repaired, stuff gets bought, fights get resolved and people become their homely best.

WC-II

The gentle, controlled and skillful play by Messi was the highlight of the fantastic Argentinian win against South Koreans. The self-goal put the Koreans on the back foot from quite early on but the match was far closer than what the final score-line suggested. On the whole we could definitely do with some more scoring in this world cup, it has been quite dry and dull so far. In the hope of raining goals in the German match, it was raining German tears as Serbia created history. Is it just me or the German coach does dress a bit girlie?

Koi smart koi dumb

In our regular coffee place,“ no change for 1000 rupees, can you pay by card please?” The card never came back and the fool I am, I never noticed until the e-statement reached me this morning. Someone has been on a shopping spree. Seems to be a first timer as thankfully it all adds up to within 5 thousand rupees in two weeks. Could have been so much worse. Blocked the card but wondering should I go and give an earful to the coffee shop staff or just forget it as a stupid, expensive mistake.

The R-word

Seeing children actively participate in religious activities makes me very uncomfortable. I wish parents, if at all they must influence, would let the child see themselves being religious and let the child choose for herself. To me it seems any child who follows religion because of her parents would follow the same religion irrespective of the religion type. Wouldn't it be wonderful then to have the common factor of all religions, the value system, to be passed on rather than what makes a religion distinct from others, the rites and rituals.

WC-I

With each match of the world cup, RRJ finds the playing countries on the globe. And we get to see the tiniest of countries, so tiny that their names don’t fit the space available on the globe, having made it there. Hugely depressing. Turns out we are participating after all, that too in each game! The jabulani soccer balls have the their latex bladder made in India. Hmmm... I want to cry now.

Happened to see the German match against Australia. The unearthly hour and my rotten mood could not get in my way of thoroughly enjoying the superb game that Germans put up. An absolute delight.

Legging it

Football time! Planning to catch most of the action this time. Awesome field gold in the opener has rekindled my interest. Turns out my old favourite Ronaldinho has been given the boot, time to move on. Thrilling, in a scary sense, to see Maradona after all these years of exploring various means of getting into trouble, finally donning the hat of Argentenian coach. Going completely bally in the sidelines during a reasonably cool match. God… the thug he looks now, hard to believe what he was capable of with his foot.. uh ..oh ..ok hand too. My eyes are of course on Italy, they invariably manage to have some eye-candies to offer.

A moment that passed by

Rain-washed trees swaying to the gentle tune of the breeze seem to be living the moment. The unbelievable heat, the sweat, the dust all forgotten and washed away. Curled up in the cane chair, running her finger over the patterns of weaving, she looks around. She feels blank, her fingertips a little cold and strangely numb. Vulnerable and not quite herself she feels the emptiness, the void in her. Wondering how it must feel to rest her head on a warm shoulder, or receive a look, removed from the details of living, meant just for her, or hear a word of appreciation that she matters. A tear drop finds its way down to her chin. Wiping the wake behind the warm drop, a smile curls her lips up, indulging in self-pity never fails to amuse her.

Cricketers of yore

Friday night would be spent on phone strategising every aspect of the impending match for at least a good 30-40 minutes. That would be my father and his good friend getting mentally all geared up for their upcoming match on Saturday mornings. It meant a lot to them and if you could only hear and not see them you would in all probability think they are professional cricketers playing in an important tournament, exchanging notes (not the green ones) before the most crucial match. Such was the enthusiasm and the intensity week after week. It was difficult as a kid not to get influenced and land in the cricket field to watch these much talked about matches.

For all his laziness during the weekends, my father would be out of the house at a reasonably early hour for the matches. As and when we (my brothers and I) would get up we would trickle in the cricket field to watch these men in whites. Average age of this faculty team would be between 40-45. Early morning heavy jute-like dark green mat would be rolled out on the pitch and nailed to the ground. More often than not I would have missed the toss and the early overs. My elder brother (SB) on the other hand usually would be there early enough because he at a pretty early age had been spotted and recruited as the official score keeper. SB apart from being very good at it had this keen interest in passing on the family tradition to me. In his own unique way of training me, he would all of a sudden give me the job of scoring with minimal instructions. And every ball bowled would make my heart leap, as data had to be entered at three different corners of the sheet: in the records of the bowler who bowled, in the records of the batsman who faced and in the records of the team. At the end of every over while everyone relaxed I would be frantically adding those extra dots that I missed here and there looking in my split vision at the invisible stick that SB had in his right hand. To compound my troubles, once in a while the referees would lose count of the number of balls left in the over and I would hear a yell “how many left?” I would rattle off a reasonable number hoping the bowler wouldn’t remember otherwise. Some of these old guys had perfectly nasty memories when it came to the count of the number of balls they had bowled.

While some of these faculty club members had immense passion for the game, invariably they would just about be able to garner eleven of them on a given day. Such were the dire straits that any new hiring of the institute would be checked out very discretely for their interest in cricket and joining the club and curiously enough even their marital status! Much to the club members joy an occasional new comer would start off with great enthusiasm. But to their dismay only to loose all of it the day he got married. Even such desertions were taken in stride and an approaching season was prepared for with great gusto. Bats were shopped and brought to the home of the member who kept the kit. The edges were taped with those thick sticky tapes one uses to bandage to prevent the edges getting injured. Coloured grips were rolled on to the handles. Then some slow impacts were made on the blade to open up the stroke. Even a newly arrived baby would get jealous of the amount of caring these cricketing equipments received. Baba would be seen in front of the long mirror sometimes shadow batting, perfecting his stance and what not. Even a book on cricket coaching was bought at some point so that every shot in the book had been looked up.

Since getting enough people on board was a difficult job in itself getting someone to referee the whole day was asking for the moon. So a workable solution in the spirit of the game was to have someone referee from the team that was batting. This of course led to some tricky situations specially in the matches between the faculty and the staff. Faculty, the scrupulous intellectuals vs the wanting-to-get-even-at-the-field staff members. While the faculty team would never give the benefit of the doubt to the batsman since it was their own teammate, the staff team would have no such things weighing on their minds and would freely interpret every rule of the game to their convenience. You would not be off target if you conclude that by the end of the match most of the faculty members would be disgruntled with each other’s decisions, the staff would be making merry. It is anyone’s guess who won most of these hotly contested matches. Then all these men would pull out those big iron nails out of the ground and the dark green mat would be rolled, wickets would be slid under the mat, two men per wicket on either of side of the mat would carry it back to the store room. In the hard work of carrying the heavy mat back together they would forget their differences and all would be well till the next time. In the night post dinner, the match would be dissected and bisected over the phone. The turning point, the most crucial over, the most important wicket , that elusive correct batting order and a lot of patting each other’s back would take place.

About my father’s game in particular:

The dismissal: every year in ninety percent of the matches, he would get out the same way! There were ‘lbw’ years and there were ‘run out’ years and then there were years he would get bowled week after week. It was an incredible case of consistent performance

The appeal: after years of seeing our father play, finally myself and my younger brother came to the conclusion that our father’s strongest weapon was his appeal. He would scream so loud and gesture so animated that even the unscrupulous referees found it hard to turn him down. It was easier to face a disgruntled team member than let down this old man.

The bruise: I still remember seeing the bruise my father got on his thigh. Coloured purple, a circle with the shape of a key at the center. The bicycle key which was in the pocket over which he got hit. While we oohed and aahed at the perceived pain, we could see the pride in his eyes. His love for the game pretty much stamped on him.

Magically ours

The doctors sometimes touch on topics they rather not. RRJ and I were about done with our visit to the paediatrician which was largely spent discussing about the frequency of his vomits and colour of his potty and how I should collect some of it and rush to the labs with in half and hour or keep it in the fridge (!!) if we can't make it to the lab etc. when the doctor shifted her focus from RRJ to me. "So what about you, have you thought about a second child?" Of course we have thought about it and in a how-impossible-it-would-be kind of way. So I told her just that. "Don't do the mistake I did", "You had another one?" "No I didn't". It was rush hour in the clinic and we had to give way to the next patient so I couldn't really see if she winked after saying that or she really meant it.

I am sure what followed next happens to all parents and I am quite definite that they all are as unprepared as I was. So on our way back on scooter, RRJ was sitting in front of me, I was doing the breathing exercise I recently learned from a friend and there was a general lull in conversation as we scootered along.
"Amma, how did I suddenly come, was it like a magic?"
"Magic meaning?" Amma trying to buy some time there.
"You told I was born in 2005 and I was not there before, how did I come suddenly?"
"Haaan.... that? You came from my tummy?"
"Are you lying?" in a very stern voice.
"No I am not" Amma breaks in to a nervous giggle.
"Then how did I come in your tummy? Magically?"
Amma starts to laugh now, even though she does not like to laugh at people when they are not trying to be funny.
"Well, it was almost a magic"
"You are not telling me properly"
Amma parking the scooter,"so will you take medicine before or after the dosa?" Long live the art of distraction which again is something Amma is not too comfortable using. Clearly Amma needs to have a relook at her list of dislikes, there are far too many in there.

Please make me cry

Seeing Sandra Bullock in news for her win at Oscars followed by troubled relations with husband, I was reminded of her movie that I saw during my student days: Hope Floats. While it is rated to be a very average movie, I absolutely loved it. And I seriously think I liked it so much at that time because it gave me a chance to cry when I was in desperate need of one.

Perhaps it is ironic but to be happy, energetic, blissful and not too touchy what I need is a hearty weep on a regular basis. Works like magic. Not only the tear ducts get a thorough cleaning, but more importantly it acts like a cleanser for my soul, clears out all the clogged emotions specially the negative ones and restores general well being like nothing else. But the thing with things that you want to cry about is that they can happen any time, they don't wait when you have the essentials like time and the privacy. Growing up you get to know that at such times all that you can do is to shrug it off. The little snub that was so unexpected, or the insult that went through your heart, the rude/ nasty others or the rude/nasty yourself and sadness of all kinds. While one would like to shed a tear or more for each, but it is never an appropriate time. It all kind of adds up and multiplies in the look out for a trigger. If people around me are lucky then I catch a movie before I catch them. A movie which creates those moments which tug at my heart, tug it strong enough to open up that fat and big bundle that lies somewhere deep inside. That bundle which needs to be cleared every now and then for me to regain my ability to take things in stride, be sporting, be hopeful and start off all over again.

Dangling conversations

“What a day,” husband said to his wife as they happened to reach home at the same time from their respective battlegrounds that people usually refer to as offices. Wife had kind of guessed, that frown, you can’t mistake it for anything else. Their four year old child though seemed to have had a better day at day care than usual as he walked ahead chirping, “bhaiya, aal izz well”. Good, at least the family was doing a good average. As they walked up the two flight of stairs “I just can’t understand, how can people be so unreasonable?” Wife tried to listen carefully, she was pretty tired herself as she had a two hour class in the afternoon. Which was good in a way as she was more inclined to listen than speak, an absolute rarity of an event. The details poured in, the careful listening continued and the frown kept growing in stature.

The wife being the ranting kind of the two and completely challenged in the skill that most human beings seemed to be blessed with, that of empathetic listening, tried her best to keep quiet a little longer while her mind frantically searched for an appropriate response. Boom! Before she knew she had already launched into her usual response to any such situation, which is, how the husband could have handled it all so much better, what he could have said and what he shouldn’t have and all in all how it was he who is responsible for his present state of frustration. Points must be awarded to the husband though, in spite of all these good 15 years or so of togetherness and knowing each other he still manages to look completely taken aback by her responses. He regained his senses and muttered, “ can’t even tell anything without getting some expert advice.” And the frown, oh my! Wife knew her exit line “ time for me to run”. Off she went to the stadium and on her way urged herself to run a few extra rounds. Now here we use the term ‘running’ pretty loosely but then it is a free world and the wife has every right to choose the pace she wishes to and call it running if she wishes to. We will go by her word on that. If she had run x rounds last week then this week she completely outdid herself by running 2x rounds. And those of you who are the curious and suspecting variety, no x was not zero, nowhere near zero. By the end of all the running rounds, the two-hour class was ancient history, the blunder was modern history while the present looked like full of fresh possibilities as she headed home.

Taking off her shoes sitting next to the husband she peeked into the cryptic crossword the husband was trying, looking still quite cross. Aah the wife could spot one anagram. Phew! Frown relaxed a little and husband was glad to start all over again. Blah blah……he went and the wife listened, this time completely done with 2x rounds she managed to remain you know what. Then he ended it all with “……what is one supposed to do?” There was a pause. “Do you want me to answer that?” The husband stared in disbelief yet again!

Planned thoughts for food

My plunge into the serious business of getting food ready on table dates back to graduate days in US. Even though it was just for me, I was new at it. So starting from downloading recipes from net, getting the raw material etc. till the final act of licking the plate, I was wholely and solely responsible. And I absolutely loved every aspect of it, of course loving it doesn't necessarily mean that I was good at it but it was something I hugely looked forward to. Over a period of a decade or so, the scenario is a lot different as we have a cook. My involvement in cooking, ignoring the occassional thing here and there, has pretty much reduced to planning the menu and maintaining the list of things to be bought. Still, I myself don't believe, there were days I would dread the arrival of our cook at 6:30 in the morning as I wouldn't know what to tell her to cook! Then I had enough of myself and sat down with a pen and paper, chalked down a plan for the week.

Monday
BF: Dosa and a watery aloo-jeera-sambhar powder curry
Dinner: Rice, Fish curry(Bong/Mallu), Alu-Cabbage/Cauliflower/Lauki

Tuesday
BF: Idiappam+Chola curry
Dinner: Chapati+leftovers

Wednesday
BF: Oats porridge
Dinner: Rice, Daal (Yellow mung/Masoor/Black masoor), Bong veg prep (Pumpkin+radish+carrot+spinach)

Thursday
BF: Idli+coconut chutney
Dinner: Rice, daal, sabjee (bhindi/beans/beet-root), fish fry

Friday
BF: (Dosa+chutney)/Rava upma
Dinner: Chicken biryani/eat out

Saturday
BF: Bread-omlette
Lunch: Chicken biryani/eat out
Dinner: Chapati, small rajma-like bean (hugely popular), Alu-Methi/Posto

Sunday
BF: Oats porridge
Lunch: Largely left overs
Dinner: Non-indian (non-dairy pasta/chilli-chicken/soup-bread/pad-thai)

Has been working out pretty well. The rest of the family is yet to figure out the pattern. Of course we do allow some transgressions but by and large sticking to the plan. Spontaneity, woh kis chidiya ka naam hai?

Do I exist?

Seeing the pictures, here, what do you feel?

Count is five

That time of the year has come when I take out my gun and fire 21 shots in the air to salute the mother's all around for their bravery and courage in handling their little one's birthday parties without batting an eye lid. Here I have been hopelessly panicky since last few days. While I know kids won't care about the food and they know how to enjoy by themselves, it's of no help. I am beyond reason at the moment and only when it is all over that my palpitating heart will regain its normal beat and we will start packing our bags for a short break in Kerala. Would be conducting exam on sunday but at the moment conducting anything other than a party for kids seems like a cake walk. Oh cake! Must run to get the no-dairy microwave-cake started.

And they complete a single

You and me.

Being not very good with words or comfortable about writing in general, starting a blog was not exactly the most natural thing to do. It was what one would call a spur of the moment decision, there was nothing to lose. Turned out to be a good one. A delightful distraction for someone so miserable (a year ago) dealing with all kinds of nonsense. More so as writing didn't come easy, words didn't come out in a flow, more often than not didn't make any sense, not even to me. The good thing about time though is that it flies and a year is complete. With it while being miserable is not the default state anymore, the blog continues to be a delightful time out from the usual running around.

13 to 5

The dangers of introducing a kid to calculators too early. In the night, with lights switched off-
RRJ : Amma, what is 0 minus 9
Amma: Hmmm, it is minus 9.
RRJ : But it should be 0, no? You have nothing to give.
Amma made some poor attempts at explaining the concept of negative numbers intuitively
RRJ : What is 3-5+2?
Amma: 0
Amma waited for the silence to break but slowly the dark room was resonating with snores from all corners of the bed. Amma also joined the chorus.

On the pathway in front of daycare
RRJ : Why is my tamil not so good?
Amma: Because Achcha and Amma don't know how to speak tamil.
Amma was a little apprehensive if she was asked the same question about Hindi, Malayalam or Bangla.
RRJ : When I become a big boy I will know tamil very well.
Amma: Yes of course.
Amma bade a hurried bye and ran to her office.

Chance pe dance

"Jhoom baraabar jhoom baraabar...." sang Shankar Mahadevan and I sat listening, tapping my toes to the beats while hundreds danced all around. Yes, the same me who has been craving to have a dance party for the longest of times. Now, if you know me you will not hesitate to agree that I am not exactly the partying kind. One who appreciates the night life of a big city and given a chance would go for discotheque-hopping all night but that surely doesn't disqualify me from having a thing for flinging my limbs around to a catchy tune. Tapping my toes I was wishing I had short sight or a terrible memory for faces so that the people all around were just a blurred mass of humanity. No students, no colleagues, no specifics please just a general blurred mass of humanity.

Songs passed by, frenetic tapping continued. Then it was that quick look at watch which told me it is now or (whe)never. Naheen naheen... yeh naheen ho sakta....I ran to the dancing zone like Jaya Prada hearing the dafali and joined the gals, that was it. I was transported to the days of open air discotheques of IITK dancing to 'humma humma', navratri-dandiya in Pune, dancing with friends in our kutti flatlet in TIFR, ceilidhs in Glasgow. RRJ also joined us after some time while kurta clad RRS couldn't be stirred out of his seat. Only until much to RRS's relief RRJ declared the need for attending nature's call, the big one. No outing is ever complete without that. While the boys made their way there was no stopping us. It was fun to have fun and just in time I knew how.

Touching base

It is never quite clear to me why, but it is incredibly invigorating to meet people who have known you well in the past. They seem to connect with that part of oneself which is not particularly obsessive about the current worries, definitely less opiniated, and most certainly a lot more accommodating. It is fun to relive the good moments and mentally extrapolate the image that you had of them before the meeting to what they are now. December had quite a few of them, 6-7 in person and 3-4 on facebook. Varying from family who have known me ever since god knows when, friends who I knew as 10 year old to people whom I first met 10 years ago as RR's better half.

About meeting spouse's friends there are two very characteristic features. First one, when introduced you are assessed and judgment is passed: you are too good to be true or what was RR thinking. Never neutral. The second one is that every next meeting is further confirmation of the initial assessment!

And yes finally I met the first person, my cousin, who thought RRJ's allergy to milk is a blessing in disguise. Already vegetarian and recently gone off milk as well she gave me all this information which has really soothed my worried soul. Today's oats porridge though milk less as usual had reasonable calcium content, with lot of powdered sesame seeds and almonds. For a change the healthier option tasted better too!