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Puzzler

2012-02-10T00:21:00.000-08:00

Her eye balls trace the scene that flashes past her through the moving train. She slips into deep thought, her characteristic deep thought and almost looks through everything that passes in front of her eyes. Her brain works incessantly, spinning one thought after the other. The train comes to a gradual halt and the doors open to let passengers in and out. She doesn't seem to notice it. She's still looking out of the window. The lush cushion on her seat lets out a ruffle as some weight compresses it. Her thoughts come back to reality. She hears a rustle of the news paper from beside her. Reluctantly, she looks askance to catch a glimpse of the person parked next to her. She almost turns back to gaze out of the window - but her brain starts registering the features of the person next to her. Deep, hypnotic gaze and a smile that flashes perfectly aligned teeth. Lush blonde hair, gelled and combed back to reveal a broad forehead that frames perfect features. She realizes she's staring at him and in embarrassment, flashes an unsure smile - not the one that she usually gives. She somehow suspects that he wouldn't smile back.

But he does - his full lips part to reveal the perfect set of teeth again - his skin, a rugged red and some tan on the sides of his cheeks manifests tiny little light brown freckles with the clarity of a HD television. Visions of her colleague photo-shopping models flash in her mind - but doesn't imperfection have it's own charm? May be it does - her own teeth for instance - one of her front teeth ever so slightly overlaps the other giving her smile a character. Her thoughts drift back to reality and she realizes he's till smiling, looking at her and she keeps guessing if he'd had veneers to make his teeth look so perfect.

"Metro sexual?" - "Nada - may be not! - look at the faded jeans, wrinkled plaid shirt - probably bought off the clearance rack of Old Navy" - her mind starts spinning the usual tales about the people she comes across.

"Lovely day outside" - the usual conversation starter is thrown her way.

'Oh, yeah!" - after yesterday's 40 degree Fahrenheit, who'd have thunk?" she replies.

He lets out a chuckle and repeats "who'd have thunk really?"

"That's one thing I'd learned about bay area weather" - as unpredictable as the alignment on a slot machine"

As the comparison she just made registers in her mind, she lets out an unexpected sigh. Her words again - her thoughts and her words, a hopeless tangle of confusion except for her.

"Slot machines?" - interesting comparison. My dealer days hunt me where ever I go - no escaping Nevada and the casinos I guess" He prolongs the conversation.

" You are a dealer?" she questions, with a slightly raised left eyebrow trying to recollect where she'd heard the word first.

"I was"

"Ohh!"

"In Vegas - Excalibur!"

"Ever been to Vegas?" he questions her.

She nods her head in a negation.

'I disdain gambling! - all sorts of gambling"

"Ouch" he mocks - "then you must be disdaining dealers as well?"

All she could let out was a nod of the head in negation - "nope - all professions are created equal" she quips.

She makes mental notes again - look at him and tries to guess his age.

Thirty two, Thirty one, twenty nine??? figures keep shuffling in her mind like those scrolling numbers on the display of a gas pump and finally settle at thirty three.

He must be thirty three.

He 'used' to be a dealer - which means that he is in a different profession now. He seems to know the meaning of "disdain" - the word that committed to her memory since her high school days, and he reads the "Wall Street Journal" - the newspaper that clashes with the faded jeans, wrinkled plaid slacks and the braided tan leather belt he is wearing.

The train comes to a sudden halt this time, almost with a jerk. Her right wrist slightly rubs on his hand as she tilts forward and then back - reacting to the sudden stop, and looks at the contrast of their skin tone - like a beautiful painting in the palest of flesh tones and a light brown tan. She pulls her hand away and apologizes.

"phew - that was a nasty halt" - and then he adds - "I hope you are okay" - "my back seems to ache ever so slightly from the jerk"

"I am fine" she manages - and then, for the first time, notices the color of his eyes!

Her mind goes back to her thoughts again - "the perfect color!" "Eureka - it yells - like it had made the next ground breaking discovery in physics" - and then she lets out a mental sigh - Only if she could swatch the color and hunt it down for her bed room.

Her mind lets out a mental laugh! - "I am mental" she professes to herself the millionth Time.

Could they get any greener? She is suddenly reminded of the lush fields in the Alps - a scene that haunts her ever so often, Alps! Her favorite place on earth. The lights go off in the cabin and come back on in a couple of seconds bringing her back to this world.
"Oh My God" I hope it is not a break down - and looks like we are stuck in the tunnel" She hopes aloud.

As if to answer her question, the public announcement system kicks off with static, and the whole lot of what is being announced flies right over her head. "What about the appointment?" "What about the flight I need to catch in the evening?" Her mind keeps shooting worrisome questions to herself.

"Hey there" - his gentle tap on her shoulder gets her back to the situation.

While slapping her forehead with her palm, she rests her elbow in her lap and lets out a deep breath.

"So what as the driver announcing?" She asks him in a mutter, with her palm still on her forehead.

"Is your head okay?, do you have a headache?" his questions seem ignorant and irritating.

"I am holding my forehead for my bad karma - the bad karma that got me stuck here in the middle of an underwater tunnel. You know, we as a culture believe in karma for every single thing in life and then, we believe our fortune is written on the foreheads"

"Well, relax hon" He adds, it is a technical glitch with the engine and they are working on it and hoping it would not take too long"
"So it is going to take long?" she questions, her eyes dilated to the size of goldfish he has in his aquarium back home. Her deep brown pupils have a much lighter ring inside them that makes her eyes look like they are lit from within. He takes his time to study her face as she was not completely facing him so far. He could only glimpse at her profile. Her lush black hair frames a broad forehead - her painter's nose anchors high cheek bones and ends right above a pair of plump lips. Her skin has no imperfections - just stray fine lines under her eyes. Her skin tone has a warmth and a coolness with shades of yellow and pink contrasting on her lighter tan complexion.

"Mediterranean?" "Spanish?" "Armenian?" He lets out the series of question words without meaning to.

"But is it going to take really long?" she cuts him off.

"My guess is as good as yours" he grins - trying to lighten the situation.

She goes back to cupping her forehead with both her palms now - resting the elbows on her messenger bag that she pulls onto her lap from the side of the seat.

"Are you not up to any time sensitive stuff in the city?, I mean, are you heading to the city or elsewhere"

He smiles again - reminding her that she's not really gotten over how perfect his teeth are.

"How does it matter?" "What is!" he purses his lips now with a sly smile dancing on them.

"What do you mean by what is?" She wonders.

"It is what it is - why worry about things that are out of my control?" I'll see what I can do about stuff when I know for sure that I can do something about them"

"Aha" she says in a sing song way. "How do people end up with such cool nerves?"

A wailing baby's cries fill the whole compartment - that is when she looks around it - there aren't many people in here. It is not the rush morning hour when the suburbia travels to work in the city. Except for the mom with the crying baby on the other end of the compartment, an old couple opposite to her and two young men sitting two rows in front of her in seats facing hers - there isn't anyone else.

And then she hears a low snore right behind her - she looks back to see a heavy, middle aged man with a pot belly and shiny bald head bent to one side of the seat in deep and noisy slumber.

"Everyone around me has calm nerves - how can someone sleep when the train is halted and a baby is crying and the air is filled with a vacuum cleaner like buzz coming from one end of the train?, Lord, you gave me the step mom treatment with these thoughts and tangles" She drifts away into another viscous circle of worry. Worry - her second nature.

He looks at her fingers that are poking through her hair showing off tips of perfect nails painted nude, her palms still cupping her forehead. There is no sight of jewelry on her anywhere - except the huge pearl studs on her ear lobes and a juvenile looking watch on her right wrist with some weird hand signs painted in primary colors and florescent accents. She catches him staring at her watch, rather amused.

"I know what you are thinking - this is not a toy watch. Do you know Swatch? - the Swiss brand? This one is designed by Manish Arora for Swatch. The graphics of hands are actually "mudras" - hand work done in a classical Indian dance"

"Indian" He says with great confidence in his guess.

"If what all people thought I am is to be believed, I have a very common and universal face" She adds. But, I am from the sub continent - yes!"

"You resemble the actress in Slumdog Millionaire -what's her name again?" He asks!

Her full throated laughter resonates in the whole compartment. The baby starts wailing yet again. She bites her tongue and shrugs her shoulders, turning back to the mom across the compartment and mouthing a "I am sorry"

"That is the lamest comparison I'd heard in my life" She turns to him and says. 'How many Indian actresses do you know anyway?" Or Indian people for that matter?"

" I met a lot of Indians as a dealer in Excalibur - once a lady about fifty - looked like a socialite, decked in diamonds the size of pebbles on pebble beach even offered to take me back home" He pauses and clears his throat - "as an employee in her husband's hotel venture in Kolkata, I suppose. My colleagues even joked around saying that she looked like she had a thing for me" he mentions.

"Hmm..." she pauses - not knowing where the conversation is treading. " I could shift to the other seat if you want room for yourself" She adds - the compartment is practically empty.

He smiles again - flashing his impossibly perfect teeth. "Do you have a book to read?, game to play or a cell phone to speak to someone while you wait?"

"No such luck" she sighs. The book I have in my bag, I'd read only two hundred times, I don't really look up to playing games on my seldom charged cell and we are stuck in the tunnel - which means we are strangled on a desert island with no contact to the outer world"

"Aha" he mocks - " no looking up to two things already in twenty minutes of knowing you"

"I don't look up to a lot of hyped things in life"

"Like?"

"Relationships, wealth, ambition"

He looks at her, a long, lost look - not knowing what to decipher from her statement.

"So how long have you been dumped?" he fishes.

"Excuse me?" her face becomes stern and her lips purse in concealed irritation.

"My bad - sorry! - as you are, so you see! A dumped soul but cannot help rejoicing in the assumption that the whole world is dumped alongside!"

His statement, ever so slightly tickles her curiosity but she refrains from asking questions and appearing interested. Instead she ignores him and pulls out a pad from her messenger along with a ball point pen with the little click mechanism in the bottom that makes the point appear for writing. She holds the pen in her right hand and clicks on it's end with her thumb in lost thought.

Then she scribbles something in beautiful, small cursive.

He peeks in to see what she has written.

"A dumped soul but cannot help rejoicing in the assumption that the whole world is dumped alongside!"

" I hope you acknowledge the source where ever you reproduce it! - the statement is my intellectual property"

She looks at him and flashes a delicate, heart warming smile.

"If and where ever I use it, I'll acknowledge it. I also look down upon people who steal - and that includes stealing of intellectual property"

"There goes number three in the hit list" he teases - "so apart from disdaining things - what else do you do in life?"

"I think, I dream and I worry!"

"and you look down upon stuff!" he adds seriously.

"Don't we all look down upon one thing or another in life? - Don't you look down upon anything?"

"Hmm...let's see! Do I look down upon things? Of course, I do!, If you want to know what things I look down upon, you need to know me better. I am one of those men of few words you see - I like being discovered instead of flashing red lights for attention."

"Very funny" she says - frowning. "I need to do something and can use an empty seat for myself"

She gets up swiftly with the messenger and moves to the empty seat on the other side of the isle, the one aligned with the seat she just left. He looks surprised seeing her in her full length. Somehow he assumes she is petite. His gaze quickly shifts to her feet - small dainty ones on her tall and toned frame with feminine curves, tucked into flat strap sandals. Her toes painted the same nude color on her fingernails peep through the straps. A dainty toe ring on her her second toe adds the unexpected twist in the plain Jane sandals.

"Thanks for the window seat" he smiles playfully and scoots towards the window only realizing that it is pitch dark outside and there is no use for a window really.

The snoring of the man behind his seat amplifies in his ears. The conversation with the 'slumdog' lady didn't really make him hear the sound effect from behind. Now it interrupts his trail of thought.

Unknowingly he looks at her side and finds her scribbling something on the note pad. She is lost in her world and doesn't notice him looking at her.

He remembers her laughter when he compares her to the slumdog star. Now he sees why. She's is lighter, much taller, slightly plumper and probably older then the actress. She probably looks like a tan, ethnic Meryl streep - the same cheekbones and broad forehead, with expressive, smiling eyes.

Five feet seven? Twenty nine?, Thirty two? - his guesswork goes in circles.

Definitely five feet seven. May be thirtyish - give or take a couple of years. Or may be she has a deceptive way of dressing - her conservative navy pull over and dark indigo jeans cover every inch of her skin, leaving only her wrists exposed. The lack of makeup adds an unusual freshness to her face. Almost like a compliment to her completely covered body, her bare skin gives out clues about her. Easy going, confident and simple.

He scoots to this end of the seat now and leaning over to her he says softly "That was a ridiculous comparison"

She looks at him questioningly and then smiles ever so slightly. "Thank God" she says in her softest voice, conscious of the other passengers- you seem to agree with me alright!" and digs her face right into the note pad, scribbling away!

The compartment resonates with a sudden bang. She shudders at the sound looking scared. She looks at him in helplessness, and he senses the mistiness in her eyes. "What could that be?" she questions in a whisper, looking like a petrified toddler that heard a monster story. He suppresses the urge to tease her by saying something funny. "I think we are okay - may be we are being delayed, but we are okay" he pauses and adds "I suppose." He bends over to her and says it would be better if he were next to her to answer all her questions and if she'd mind joining him on his seat. "I am not going to harm you - I promise!" he says pinching on his neck with thumb and pointer. She looks lost for a second and then shifts to his seat. The young men sitting in the opposite seats facing them give her curious looks. She gets a little conscious in their gaze but ignores them.

"I can go to the front car and check to see what is happening" he offers. may be there is a delay. The train is halted past forty minutes and according to the announcement it was estimated to be fixed in half hour.
"Thank you" she replies - "But don't bother going all the way to the front of the train now, may be they'll announce something soon. Let's wait and watch!"

"As you please" he agrees like a obedient child.

"If you don't mind me asking and if you don't plan on answering in abstract sentences, I'd like to ask you something - may I?" he inquires playfully.

She forces a smile on her face. "Only if I want to but please ask" she adds.

"So are you getting late for something?"
"Yeah - an appointment with a friend in Union square - I need to pick my bags from her apartment a few blocks away and catch a flight to Canada at night - I need to attend for something very important there"

"Work?" his curiosity increases.
"It's actually personal" she cuts him off. Sensing her discomfort in sharing her information and slightly worried that she might shift back to the other seat, leaving him in solitude with the snoring sound from behind him, he purses his lips into a smile.

He lifts his right hand up, crosses his fingers and says - "You believe in prayers?" "Yes I do, completely"
"So here's a prayer for the Indian maiden" He says, deepening his voice like a radio commercial, closes his eyes and murmurs something peacefully. She looks at his serene face and closed eyes - lush lashes framing the eyelids like a fringe on a curtain and smiles gently. "This man is something else" she says to herself.

Her face brightens to see the static in the announcement system. The technician's voice apologizing for the inconvenience, briefing about the drinking water available in the first car. He announces the predicted delay in perfect ambiguity - "We are doing all we can to quickly and safely transport you all to your destinations" the voice rattles - "But in the current situation, it might take at least a couple of hours to be on track - or hopefully less" and then with more profuse apologies the announcement shuts off.

"Holy $&!T!" one of the young men swear from in front of them and punches the seat before him - "This effing $&1t gotta roll on". She avoids looking in that direction but notices that they sound a little intoxicated. She observes from the side of her eyes and sees sinewy arms with a colorful Medusa tattoo and multiple piercings on the face of one of the men and thanks God for making her shift back to this seat next to him.

"Couple more hours, or less - who knows how it is going to unfold?" She says to him.
"When is your flight?"
"right before Midnight tonight - but I need to be there by 9 pm to check in" she says.
He peeps into her bright Swatch to catch the time - 11:30 am.

He looks a long, hard look at her and chuckles like a child. "Missy, you have a whole half day of time ahead of you - even if we reach the city in close to three hours, calculating the delay and the journey time, you'd still be there by 2:30 pm. Thankfully, we have the washrooms here - so what are you so worried about?" he questions.
"About the unforeseen - who knows how long it takes - it is of paramount importance that I reach Canada by tomorrow" she mutters sadly, her eyes tearing up again.

"Now - it would not be very gentlemanly of me to coax you to tell me all your agenda - so, let's make the best of the wait - aren't you glad you have me beside, just to keep company? - Imagine being alone in the seat with the tipsy hot dudes with seeming anger management issues sitting across you, the man snoring behind and the baby wailing at the end of the compartment - and oh yeah - the pretty looking old couple holding hands while the lady sleeps on her man's shoulder - How would being alone here amid all this action would have made you feel?"

"Lonely" she answers, looking through him. Suddenly realizing that he is probably the proverbial window that opens in a dark room.

"So how do you want to kill these three hours?" - "May I suggest a visit to the wash room to water down the frown on your face? and then some refreshments" - he pulls out a carton of saltine crackers, a couple of apples and a Caprisun pouch from what looks like a slightly over sized back pack perched next to him. "May be he has a flight to catch as well?" she wonders but refrains form asking questions.

Why can't I write? - 1.5

2012-02-05T20:44:00.000-08:00

Ever since the last "Why can't I write?" ponder - I was constantly thinking and looking for inspirations to write. I had an intense story shape up in my mind - probably set in early 70s, in some remote town in India. - I think the knowledge of visuals and fashion that I acquired from the movies of those era would help me whip a nostalgic tale. It is indeed hard to imagine and that makes me wonder how J K Rowling or Stephanie Meyer churned a whole series that inspired a generation of writers and readers alike. So, apart form the idea to write a short story, I also thought about many other things that I wanted to write about - recipes, parenting vows, growing pains in the process of being in the new role as an art teacher - and then of course about something very spiritually philosophical - all these ideas sprouted and withered - well, some are frozen in the sprout state and might become seedlings soon but it puts me back to square one when I sit to put my thoughts. So, this would be an attempt to write - which means that it is not going to talk about anything in particular ;-)

I am not much of a movie goer, or telly watcher - but there is something about dramas and daily soaps that traps the most disdaining of audience. I was trapped too a few months ago, when my sister visited and started watching a daily soap that had a title which was the length of a marathon. The characters were either too good or too bad - none believable. They all looked like caricatures. I did a mental roll of eyes all the time I watched but there was no stopping me from watching it - so in the classic spirit of one thing leading to another, I started watching another serial that debuted in the same channel - a story that told an unusual tale of love that reaches over generations. A young accomplished doctor finds love in her much older senior and the journey unravels the many hurdles of this unconventional relationship. The sensible viewer in me was charmed and it helped that the leads were very talented and the narration was very believable without women dripping in jewels and business tycoons of men buying industries and aircrafts with the same ease I shop for groceries. My next logical step as an internet savvy viewer was to find if the lead actor had a facebook page - no prizes for guessing he did ;-) and that search added another like to the "growing as we speak" popularity of the actor. This page of the actor, in the evolving stages, with a few likes felt like a class room discussion. He posted statuses asking for daily feedback on the episodes and many viewers from across the globe and social circles participated. The addiction prone soul that I was, I was addicted to treading the way of that page to diligently give my long, painstakingly observant reviews. It fed the yearning I had to think and to write. The trap that the soap caught me in seemed hopelessly small when compared to the lure of the FB page. Soon, the page unfolded to me the many vows of social networking and sadly, the page turned out to be a drama pit - an unfortunate mess of unruly, impolite and utterly ill mannered group that attacked the actor for the technical flaws the soap had and every time there was a sad twist, the group wailed in mass hysteria, yet again dragging the actor into it and putting words into his mouth by interpreting the statements made by him the way they wanted and attacking him because they did not like their own interpretations:-D At first I was surprised to see the level of immaturity people have, then I was shocked and finally I was disgusted to no end which promptly drove me out of the page into a never return road. I still tread that way, just to see if by some magical words or wands the page got back its charm. The other day the actor posted a condolence message about a director friend of his who passed away. The condolences poured in profusely and amid all that sadness, there came a man who disapproved - and disapproved in high octane drama filled verbal attacks, the number of "likes" the message got. He probably had a point - How can someone like a condolence message that spoke about someone's passing away? I paused for a moment and thought - have we all gotten way too holier than thou or are we just falling into a circle of "attention seeking" by being those self appointed messiahs of internet etiquette? There were clarifications from some people as to what those "likes" mean and they don't demean the departed soul. The man who raised the objection went in circles, attacking with one verbal weapon after the other and that probably put a permanent "the end" to my hanging on that page. I would personally not "like" a sad message - but who am I to tell what people should like and what not? Internet seems to give me a peek into the psycho analysis of the homo sapience. I encounter many forms of stupidity - some mild and some intense - I bite my tongue every time I am tempted to put forth my two sensible cents and move on with my life. I am probably one of those "I don't care if it doesn't affect me" types - but I did learn a valuable lesson in the process. People talk what they want to talk - no amount of convincing them to see things through another angle, a possible sensible angle will coax them to oblige. Sometimes, I tell a silent prayer to shield me from committing such peccadilloes of life.

Why can't I write?

2012-01-31T23:07:00.000-08:00

It was in third grade - in Sr Gracy's class that I discovered my love for writing, ever since it was nurtured by many good teachers that crossed my path and of course with my own appetite for writing. I used to look for topics to write and ponder upon, often getting cues from my older sister and her home work. The first time I learned about picture essays - I was thrilled to no end. It just intrigued the thinker in me to weave words around a picture. Often in mid term exams when we used to be shuffled to different classes to write our tests, I used to find myself amid seniors - and then, peep into their language question papers to see what they were asked to write about. I knew it as a child, that I was born to imagine, to write and to articulate the many thoughts that crossed my grey matter. It was easy back then, almost effortless to write, since I was borderline over confident, considered myself an ace writer and had an immense interest for books. I would write limericks on the go, amuse my friends with my verses and boy was it great for my ego when the little girls and boys clamored around me before language exams to get some jump- start openings for possible essay topics that would be asked in the exam. I was a celebrity in my own right - a little soul that basked in the glory of self love.
When my sixth grade language teacher asked for me in the class after reading the original essay that I wrote in my mid term test, it put a whole new life into my love for being original. "except for a couple of spelling mistakes" she said "you did so good on the essay" - it was about books that I pondered upon, keeping the words in the limits of good grammar and structure. It was in a class of 54 that I alone wrote this essay, the rest of them wrote what they committed to their memory form the notes the teacher gave.

Then the yearning to describe, to write more and to express emerged. I used to describe faces - from Albert Einstein to Amithab Bachchan. I used to write essays about fur babies and summer vacations. In that phase, I used to collect quotes - examined them and tried to give them my own take. I was greatly influenced by the excerpts from classics that unfolded in my English texts. Character analysis was my forte. I remember writing in detail about the introspection Dr. Christian Bernard goes through while performing the first heart transplant surgery. The line between thoughts and words was obliterated and to an extent, I guess, the line between words and wisdom. I used to interpret poetry, write my own utterly crappy lines in an effortless, incessant flow and somehow, it all seemed to be nothing less than masterpieces.

And then, I grew up - I majored in Literature and owing to a full time job, never really had a chance to attend any of the correspondence classes that were conducted by the university. I took aid of school teachers, study guides and my own language intuition to face the tests of knowledge. Somehow, miraculously, I completed my undergrad in literature with decent scores. In the meanwhile, my writing was confined to letters - the snail mail version of the nineties. Letters to my high school from another city, a few to my local friends (I think it helps when you are a teenager and you love writing) and to a cousin that was a pen friend of sorts. Writing letters was a ritual that I took immense pride in. I would buy eclectic note pads, use fine felt tip markers and etch my feelings in perfect cursive - another part of my writing that I loved to pieces. I know, I am probably sounding like a borderline egotist - or may be a full fledged one - but all in the name of "love for writing"

So, the blog came into being post matrimony. But somehow the spontaneity to write depleted as I grew older. I would wait for the perfect idea to cross my mind - sometime for months together - since I became more conscious of what I would write about. May be it was lack of confidence in my own thoughts or an ambition to sound sophisticated, I looked to write about profound, thought provoking things. Often, ideas come to me in the most unlikely moments - the short phase of semi consciousness before sleep, while backing up my car in a school parking lot or while shopping for green groceries in the local store. Something totally unrelated would come and hit my mind and then a wonderful idea would bloom - "Today I'd write about parenting" I'd make a mental note "Today I'd write a steamy love story filled with passion" "Today I'd write about negotiation" - my mind would jump from one empty thought to another and finally when I log into my virtual space to record my thoughts - an endless abyss of emptiness shrouds my mind. In the meanwhile, the love affair with the word building blocks continues. Finally, after hitting a good two and a half decades of calling writing my passion, I think, I am making an attempt to give it my best. A thought might hit, and the thought might not really be a hit but I still vow to write - be it about endless egotistic chatter in the name of writing, or just meaningless words, strung in a desperate attempt to look lovely. "WHY CAN"T I WRITE?" my mind shouts back at me - I'll shut that question off for now - and for a good time to come. Here's hoping, while drifting into the infinite loop of thinking, that, this question would always find an answer when ever the non-writer attempts to over come the writer's block.

Jan 26

2012-01-26T22:18:00.000-08:00

Republic days were fun when I was a kid. The school used to have flag hoisting and back at home, we used to religiously clamor around our portable black and white television with present always static to watch the parade near India Gate, Delhi. The capital city used to unfold it's idyllic charm on me with fog filled skies and everything around it seemed to be in great harmony, just like the parade itself. It was fun to be patriotic and serious business. There were a few songs I learned during that period of time that sung about the glory of Mother India - and even at an age under ten, it used to give me goose bumps and an adrenaline rush to my brain with the unmistakable sensation of patriotism. The week's Chitrahaar used to air all such songs and me with my limited knowledge in Hindi used to grapple hard to remember the lyrics for my bathroom singing - with the same set of reactions from my body - the goose bumps et al.

I look back and see that I don't seem to love my country as much as I did as a child. I mean, I am proud to be Indian, proud of it's rich culture but the innocent and sincere pride that housed in my heart every time I read about a freedom fighter or heard patriotic music is no where to be seen in my adulthood. I sit and ponder as to why! Is it because we get to take things for granted as we grow up or does the exposure to the world make us more out of tune with the things around us? I don't know if it is making sense - my pointless ponder and questions there of, but do we really take things for granted as we grow old? - do things change or do we change?

I am out of touch with the kind of hoopla they have in the current day to celebrate National holidays so I wishfully think that there is still the same kind of patriotism that the current generation experiences watching the parade and hoisting the flag in educational institutions. Are Gandhi, Patel and Bhagat Singh still the glorious heroes of our past or did we substitute them? Does the telly still play retro reels of a black and white era hero singing the praise of "mere desh ki dharti sona ugle, ugle heere moti" and does such kind of music still give goose bumps to kids in the maiden decade of their lives? I can only wonder on the other side of the hemisphere.

Love for country apart - The republic day of my 20th year got me a surprise that I can never ever forget. Towards the end of noon on Jan 26th, the post man came and knocked on our door with a telegram addressed to me. I got the door, signed for it and tore it with trembling hands as to why and who had the urgency to send me a telegram out of the blue. To my relief I discovered it was a greeting telegram and wondered who was sending me birthday wishes in January. The telegram read

Sincere greetings for the republic day. Long live the Republic.

And under it was a name that rang a bell...not a name that jumped at me and said - "okay, it is such and such person". It took me a couple of seconds to recognize the not so familiar name to surface to my active memory. It was from a high school class mate. Needless to say, me and my whole gang of friends (come to think of it, I always had very few friends in life - I had a lot of acquaintances but only a very few friends) had a hearty laugh. The same republic day that brought lofty thoughts and raised heart beats became a mere "National holiday" in the matter of a decade! And, in my defense, I can just say that the friend in question is not a die hard "Desh Bhakt" himself - he just took the advice of a mischief maker to keep sending greetings to the one you love just so she doesn't forget you while she is back at her home town. Sometimes it is a wonder how people look at us - we don't even know they are looking at us in a certain way be it with love or with loathe - but we do leave imprints - perhaps surface scratches or even deeper wounds on the hearts who take us to heart with varied emotions. We can only wonder why!

And sometimes I wonder, if we just take all kinds of things for granted as we age. At that point in time, I'd just laughed the telegram off - but I look back and think if it made sense just to reciprocate the greeting and the thought behind it without ridiculing it.

May be, We seem to change. The things around us remain the same! :-)

Bag it!

2012-01-19T23:44:00.000-08:00

When I was in fourth grade, my grandparents visited Shirdi, the temple town of SaiBaba, which wasn't as popular then as it is now. (Their prayer room used to have a life size framed art of the spiritual guru in a mystical, monochromatic look.) When they came back, they bought me and my cousins little gifts. My brother got a wooden bullock cart toy and my little sister got wooden utensils for her kitchen role play and my older sister and I got Bags - brightly striped ones, made with canvas like cotton material in red and yellow! It was then that the 'seed' of my fascination for bags came into being. In that bag, I used to carry my books to school. Often times I used to wonder how the stripes were quilted together, also introducing me to the awe of color and pattern. I did, ever since, continue my very committed fling with bags. During my school days, when I used to visit my grandparents in their town, I used to sit in the front porch of their busy street looking longingly at cotton handbags that hung in the windows of the hand loom store that was bang opposite my grandparents' house. "Haryana Handlooms" the hoarding read. Knowing the place from my geography lessons the shop sold me dreams of owing a colorful, thick and luscious bag made of the softest natural fibers in a distant land up north that had fancy salwar suits and light skinned ladies with long, healthy braids. As I grew older, into a teenager and moved out of town to attend high school, my mom bought me an oversized purse like book bag in a stiff PVC material. I loved it then, only to realize a back pack would have been more age appropriate. I still love it though! :) Then the annual visit to the industrial exhibition in Hyderabad used to up my hopes for acquiring handbags in the same enthusiasm as an art connoisseur would acquire antiques. I remember falling flat for a fur (hopefully faux) bag in one of those stalls and bargaining for it till I crossed the sensitive limits of bargaining and got told off by the shop keeper. I remember muttering an apology and flashing the meager contents of my purse in an attempt to tell him that my bargaining skills weren't meant to disgrace his business acumen. It was not until I landed my prized job before I turned eighteen that I could fund my pretty petty love for bags - even then, sparingly. Mid nineties weren't today definitely, where a hundred rupee not still carried a lot of value. Having a steady income as a central government employee did do wonders to my confidence and love for bags and thus, bags were acquired in periodic intervals. I remember buying a beautifully embroidered velvet bag with resin trim that created a little tempest in the ticket booking office of the railway station in that little town - Lady colleagues swooning over the design, men colleagues inquiring about the shop I bought it at. I did end up giving it away to a cousin that fell for it. I seemed to like off beat bags, shapeless sacks, often over sized ones that overpowered my then lanky frame. I was told by numerous young men that my bags attempt at making me look a) old, b) odd, c) fashion challenged d) all of the above! But I guess I'd been the off beat minimalist all my life that liked organic looking stuff. I used to craft envelope like bags out of burlap, sew formless sacks out of soft cotton fabric (thanks to the sewing skills I picked up in my mom's craft school) and then tote them around like a model with attitude on a sizzling ramp - except that my choice of bags made people notice me for the wrong reasons. Like any other young and available woman might do, I did attract my share of prospective suitors that used to make calls on my office phone to try their luck at putting me down by making funny remarks about my then dull, jaded and distressed looking bag made of the muddiest possible earth toned suede patches. I took tremendous pride in that bag. It carried my sketch pad, a magazine, a book and other paraphernalia, mostly chewing gum, lip balm and a little coin purse. It was supposed to be a cross body bag. Since I didn't really like wearing it like a messenger bag, I remember making a knot at the top of the handle to shorten it's length. I think, that alteration didn't really help with the general look of it anyway ;-)

In the meanwhile, I did yearn and long for a genuine leather hand bag. Once during my visit to the city, I went around the bustling busy streets looking for a genuine leather handbag. On that fateful trip, I learnt all I could about PVC, the vinyl that was sold in most places as genuine leather. I learned how it smelled, like artificial something as opposed to the rich, intense smell of leather (Did anyone check out the new Fendi fragrance? wasn't it supposed to have a leather note? - don't quote me on that though :-P) And finally, when I found the perfect shade of the perfect leather bag in a perfect little store, I walked out sans the bag as it was only four times the price of what I intended or afforded to spend on it. Not until my hubby bought me my first little flap bag by Nine west did I own something in leather.

My migrating to the USA put a whole new life into my handbag fetish - thankfully, I never really looked
at an LV or even a Hermes Berkin, ( except the beautiful black one carried by Hina rabbari Khar, Pakistan's looker of a minister) as something drool worthy. I have some branded bags, mostly the ones I'd strategically purchased during sales and in outlets but as I grow older, I realize that a brand is just a hype around a name. I would still get attracted to the burlap sacs that bring in my rice from the grocery store. Once in a while, I save the bags in a hope to transform them into a handbag adorned with some abstract cross stitching in bright yarn. I pick up the bargain deals in handmade bags embellished with mirrors and shells on the busy streets of Mumbai and wear them proudly on my trips to the mall, grocery store and the school pick up and drop off. A bag has come to mean a lot to me - a lot of symbolism, like the baggage I choose to carry. It makes me feel prepared to face the world, to feel self equipped. It symbolizes to me the very different take I have on accessories in particular and fashion sense in general. I might one day, very soon, renounce leather - one of my favorite materials along with silk only as a vegetarian that doesn't want to kill life for vanity. I might do it one day, I might not! But my burlap fascination will last me a long time to come. I know, I know - it might not make a particularly great statement about my style - but it does, hopefully make a unique one.

Fiction

2012-01-16T22:32:00.000-08:00

Here's a little piece of a characterization that dawned upon me in one of those Eureka moments;-) This is going to be an utterly cr@PPy first draft - so please bare with any mistakes:)

*********************************************************************************

She looks through the window of the passing train that comes to a gradual halt on the platform. The tinted windows of the compartment lends its jaded color to the scene outside. Licensed porters running and boarding the train, chai wallahs, newspaper vendors - the whole world seems to be concise into that narrow and long strip of concrete. She gets up absentmindedly, lifting her handbag and small suitcase. Her young face shows signs of fatigue from the long journey. A beautifully dull red dress drapes her like a silk valance on a sunny window. She grabs her book by one hand. "Anna Karenina" the title reads. One could say she is a forlorn soul from the inside though her bright face with acne scars that replace a blusher begs to differ. Her intense gaze looks like it is protected by a pair of thick, pronounced eye brows. Her hair is pulled back into a neat braid without even a wisp falling on to her face. She is effortlessly pretty - perhaps beautiful!

She carefully places a foot on the platform, walking briskly and disappearing into the crowd. The place doesn't seem to have changed in the past couple of years. She was eighteen when she left this place, now she is all grown up pushing on 21. She walks out of the station, looking past a sea of faces - she doesn't seem to notice any of those. An auto wallah comes to offer his services. She gets into the auto and gives him some precise directions. The auto lumbers forward with a few jerks and merges into the bedlam of the cosmopolitan traffic that seems to embrace two wheelers, expensive auto mobiles and generously sprinkled pedestrians with dirty, noisy and open arms. A constant and loud sounding of random horns from random vehicles interrupt her thoughts. She looks out peacefully, and stuffs the book into her over sized quilted cotton handbag.

Her face freezes when she sees him driving past her on a scooter.
"Had he seen me?" She ponders in her mind. He didn't seem to have changed much - the same hair style, cleanly shaven face and a under-confident look that is plastered onto his face like a permanent fixture. "Kalidas" his name flashes in her mind. She resists the urge to bend forward and look back not wanting to call for his attention. It seems pointless now. A young man of 20 may be he was? Layers of the past unfold in her heart. The same under confident, diffident lad that used to borderline stalk her. Walk behind her till she reached her class room. It took some time for her constantly pre-occupied mind to actually acknowledge the face that followed her like a shadow day in and day out. May be it helped that he used to study in the same campus - May be he just came to see her instead of doing what ever he was supposed to do. The fact that irked her more than his stalking was his tagging along with a friend while he was on his "silent admirer form a distance" stalking period. Besides she knew that the outward appearance of hers is only half as alluring as her mind. She took great pride in her thoughts, her views on life. She thrived more in the fact that her eighteen year old mind fathomed deep, thoughtful ponders. She would thus, generally disapprove any attraction that seemingly came from the way she looked. She wanted a man to talk to her, to be charmed by her gentle ways - her simplicity of thought and no nonsense approach towards everything.

One day while she walked to the college, he stalked her the usual way with the usual clean shaven, under confident look on his face. She fought her urge to look back when she heard brisk steps past her shoulder. She increased her already march-past like gait. He jumped right in front of her holding a letter in his hands. her intense gaze pierced through his scared face - her eyebrows knotting in disapproval. She resisted the urge to open her mouth and reprimand him. But then he didn't budge. Against her own will she had to open her mouth and manage to say something clear and loud - she tries to recollect what she said to him and then lets it go. But he - the already, hopelessly infatuated lad had a new fond attraction towards her. Her voice - that sounded like a soothing waterfall - he perhaps had a glimpse into what she would have wanted him to fall for - her personality, her character and strength. She walked past him and hurried into a run to safely escape to the comfort of her classroom. She didn't look back to see the clean shaved, under confident face colored with an awe like never before. "You kill me" He exclaims under his breath and goes his way only to come back yet again with renewed love for the maiden!

"Kalidas" - his name resonates in her mind that is reminiscent of the past...."Wait a minute" Her mind questions her - "What's his real name?" "What is the name of the most sincerest, albeit irking admirer you had?" She lets out a little gasp..she had not known his name at all! "Kalidas" he was christened by her because he sends a book with the friend that he used to tag along to one of her friends. A book that was filled with juvenile, broken sentences in random languages that professed his sincere, undying love for her. She skims through it, letting out a little chuckle, a muffled laughter but not one bit of what he aims to get out of her - LOVE - she couldn't buy into any of those sentiments.

The day she had to go talk to him, she had to ask another friend to come along - she didn't choose to talk to him - his friend came and begged her to come and say what she wanted to say directly to him. His anticipating eyes, slightly misty, were fixed on her gorgeous face - her full lips mouthed some seemingly distant and cold words "Leave me alone" "Why do you stalk me?" And then, an urge - a folding of hands before him to let her be in peace. She turned back without letting him react - suppressing a want to look back and watch for his reactions. She never saw him again - up until now. "What could his name be?" she wondered - What did his face tell his name was? Then she considered her own name - "Shanti" - she thought it was ironical of her uncle to have chosen that name for her -the restless soul that jumped from a ponder to another. Her thoughts reflect back on her reactions to Kalidas - did she ridicule him since he was all over her? How else could she have dealt with a love that she could never return? More nicely? More softly? She couldn't find an answer to her questions.

May be it shall take her some loving and some heart break to address some silly queries her mind pops up once in a while.

FAQs

2012-01-02T21:17:00.000-08:00

Last night, just as the sleep goddess came to grace me by gently drifting me into divine slumber, a touch of brilliance flashed in my semi conscious grey matter - FAQs - frequently askable questions that is! I resisted the urge to get up and record my brilliance :-D and thankfully unlike most of the midnight profundities that come and go in semi sleep, this one spark stayed with me all the day, marinating in my endangered mind and thus, the pretext to skip blogging with something called "writer's block" doesn't happen todaySo back to where it is supposed to be - FAQs are the other version of the FAQs we have for others every where we go from businesses, to service organizations to individuals. These versions of the questions are the ones that we as people should keep asking to ourselves from time to time. My interaction with some specimens actually nudged me to think of why and how we need to do a little interrogation with ourselves time and time again, just to keep the stupidity quotient of ours in check. So here goes my desperate attempt to not be one of those specimens I encounter on a day to day basis - Ladies and Gentlemen, presenting the Frequently Askable Questions. May be you can insert your own answers in the brackets.

*What are the easiest things to have?
(Opinions and excuses)

*Why are people nice to me?
(More often than not, I'd want to believe that I deserve it - but the actual reason is that people are nice to me because they are well mannered and nice people to begin with and it is good if I respect that fact and reciprocate that niceness.)

* Why should I be nice to nice people?

(Because nice people are getting fewer and fewer and being nice to them encourages them to continue to be nice and shall probably inspire many others to take the same road.)

* Why should I not shout at soft people?

(For obvious reasons. If you are a submissive person, it doesn't mean that you have a tattoo on your forehead that says "come and walk allover me" - it is not an accomplishment to vent your frustrations on nice people - if we are humans enough, we should use that energies to bully bullies :-D

*Why is it much easier to pass judgement on others while being blissfully unaware of my own faults?

(Because, I as human am susceptible to a self love called "Ego". My ego rules my world and makes me blind to my own shortcomings, and just because I don't notice my faults, they don't cease to exist)

* Am I a hypocrite

(Yes, I probably am)

*Why do I extend my judgement skills to little kids?

(well, just because I don't discriminate)

*What is my statement mannerism?

(smile? ignoring others? rolling eyes ever so slightly when I see someone in good clothing, cars or homes?)

*Why am I curious about other people's lives?

(Probably because I am a miserable low life myself and I can know more about others and a) judge them as show offs b) be jealous of them and make lowly remarks to put them down c) I don't have anything better to do with my time)

*Why do I take all the efforts to make someone feel bad?

( because I am jealous of them)

*What stops me from recognizing someone's accomplishments and paying a genuine compliment?

(a) My self love which warns me that saying something nice to others will make them look down upon me b) I just don't see much of appreciable work around me c) ignoring others' good qualities makes me deal with my own lack of them.)

*Why don't I say sorry or thanks as often as I am supposed to say?

( a) I am impeccable and I don't need anyone's favors b) I don't have a habit of apologizing for others' mistakes and thanking for what I rightly deserve to get.)

* If there is one thing I can do - what will it be? Will it be for myself? for my family and friends? or for the world? Will it be for revenge and hatred or for love and kindness?

*Why do I behave like I am here to stay and I why don't I realize that I cannot take anything that I accumulate with me?

( Because I am a fool!)

*Why do I rewrite rules for myself?

( for my own convenience.)

* Why do I overly defend something I do or say?

(May be the pesky conscience is flashing a "guilty" flag!)

* Why do I see negative things around me more than the positives?

(because I am a negative person)

Well, there are some more that skip the mind at the moment - but I shall one day, make a laundry list of positive FAQs inspired by the wonderful people I ran into :-D

Keep the FAQs rising and keep finding the answers. God Bless.

Newness

2012-01-01T22:47:00.000-08:00

Honestly, 2012 doesn't feel like a New Year. My family was here last night - we waited till 12 midnight, cut the cake and did the celebratory kick off of the year with something sweet and then everything magically seemed to have settled into a harmony. There were no resolutions made, since I know I am very prone to breaking them - instead I thought I'd approach the New year with a normalcy and a little effort to be as productive as I can be. So, internet time should be curtailed to blogging instead of Facebooking or Youtubing! The biggest challenge of my day to day chores is to scour the dishes - I seem to enjoy the chopping and cooking, but cleaning is a totally different animal - and when the cleaning involves dishing, it is a nightmare of the first order. I have a momentary block to reach out for the dirty dishes - and then I ignore it and reach for them - pumping foam onto the scouring pad and wiping away the pots and pans - Boring I know - both dishing and blogging about it like it is para sailing where you get to see an awesome view of the world below while defying gravity! :-D Okay, back on track - I had to mention dishing because, today I seemed to have consciously not let any of them pile up in the sink - the moment something hits the sink to be cleaned - it is cleaned. And considering the fact that I cooked three meals for 8 people today - I am awfully proud of the "operation dishing". As mundane as boring this exercise seems to be, it did drive home a point to me - when you do things when they are to be done, the effort taken to do them seems to cut into a fraction of how much tedious it gets when you procrastinate it. Imagine - one deep sink, piled up with pots, pans, dinner plates, water cups, mugs, cutlery - some of them tilting and overflowing the sink in an odd angle - the sight seems to make the whole surrounding a mess - forget the surrounding - the whole house a mess. When they are promptly attended to and put away, I was amazed at how vast the whole counter top and the kitchen looked and how well kept the home seemed. So, the very obvious lesson reinstated itself into my little brain today. Do what needs to be done when it needs to be done. Did I tell you, I am always preoccupied. ALWAYS - my mind is so volatile, extremely infidel if I could say so. It keeps jumping from a branch of thought to another - almost like a monkey haywire in a banana grove. Thoughts keep coming into my mind without a break - so I do have an attention span of a five year old when it comes to staying in the moment. Sometimes I drag my grey cells to be in the moment. It tires me since that is going against my core. So, I thought - may be all connoisseurs of arts like reading, writing, sculpting, singing, painting and the whole nine yards are actually thinkers? Okay, why should I be partial to arts? All science professionals as well are thinkers - the architects, scientists, programmers, mathematicians, teachers - you get the idea! The other day, I had this funny thought that crossed my mind - I wanted to say out loud that I am a "Thinker" - and just for a flash of a second I paused and thought about what being a thinker actually means. And, to my disbelief, I immediately discovered that being a thinker doesn't mean much at all - being a Doer is what walks away with the cake. The other day I was pitching in my language love saying that the best of ideas are futile if they are not articulated! - may be the best of ideas are futile even when they are articulated - not until and unless they are executed. So from dishing to blogging - my expectation for 2012 is as simple and complicated as it can get - "Keep thinking, and keep executing what you are thinking as you are thinking. The heap of teaspoons that end up in the dish don't end up there anymore. I slather them with soap, rinse them to a shine and place them in the caddy to dry - only hoping that the debris of thoughts that pile up in the mind would be handled in a similar fashion.

I don't do the dishwasher - (LOL) sounds funny but what I meant to say is that the dishwasher somehow complicates the already complicated task of dishing. :-D

Here's wishing a wonderful 2012 and may 12/12/12 come and go - making a ridicule of itself!

God Bless.

DeGeneration.

2011-12-28T23:52:00.000-08:00

The disdainful walk,

The chewing of gum

As a statement of rebellion.

Bullying their way

Through discussions

Opinions and observations.

Monkeys on hormone high

Making rudeness their language.

Vandalizing etiquette

Walking over manners.

Are these attributes of Juvenileness

Or just a general Attitude

That cusses with profanities

And calls it the language of coolness?

From when did politeness and respect towards others become so outdated??

Nostalgia

2011-12-27T22:29:00.001-08:00

Being a small towner had its great advantages. Almost every one I ran into knew my father. People were friendly, neighborhoods were closely knit and the peace and quiet of being in a suburb prevailed. going to school in a manually pulled rickshaw was a lesson of life too..though it seems almost inhuman now to think of one man riding a carriage of half a dozen kids back and forth from the school that was in the literal outskirts of the town :-) I used to sit at the end of the coupe, looking out longingly at wall posters of movies, graffiti and the random cattle grazing on the sides of the road. Streets were not as busy, people weren't either. School was the crux of excitement - it opened me to a vastness that figuratively found place in my heart. Huge campus, neatly stacked building and a portico overlooking a painstakingly nurtured garden of roses and lilies. The one thing that held my attention for the biggest point of time was the statue of Mother Mary, holding Jesus Christ. It was built with great aesthetics, looked like a shallow cave paved with stone bricks on the outside almost feeling like a shell in which Baby Jesus was cradled. I used to walk into the premises, eyes fixated on the statue - observing the Anglo Indian teacher and sisters that stopped by to say a silent prayer. They used to close their eyes, move their lips in a hushed prayer and bring their wrists upto their shoulders in a mesmerizing movement. The little girl in me was endlessly charmed, to a point where I used to do a funny and incorrect copy of the movement. I was too young to understand religion but Jesus was making his impact on me surely and slowly.

There used to be random questions to my parents - how do you guys look at sending your kids to a Christian Missionary School? Don't you think they'd be brainwashed? etectera...I am eternally thankful to my parents for not letting narrow outlook curb our development as human beings. I was raised as a staunch brahmin kid moderately following all the rituals of Hinduism but that didn't curb my love for a foreign faith that unfolded in the school campus. A dainty and long cross with Jesus adorned the wall, above the blackboard - and I subconsciously used to gaze at that cross while thinking about a math problem or cooking up an imaginative essay. Christ felt like a person in the class without actually being there all the time. I started believing that he existed in the little chapel, in the nooks and crannies of the campus and the Christmas season only reinstated that belief. The fattest of the kids used to get into Santa grab, there used to be hours of entertainment after the much dreaded half-yearly tests and the follow up of a substantial vacation always got the kids excited. The nativity scene used to be played with tennis rackets tied up at the back , cascading with sheer fabrics. A Jesus doll used to be placed in the center with the whole entourage performing in a trance. I used to get goose bumps just like I get now as I go back the memory lane. There were readings from the Bible, songs sung in the praise of the Son of God - the sound and the silence resonated with pure bliss - the bliss of faith. Christmas was a world of its own in the school in the little town. It was a phenomenon that enthralled a little girl to no end. It was a celebration of faith and love, it was indeed the most wonderful time of the year.

Fast forward a couple of decades - it almost feels like Christmas chased me and unfolds to me its many facets and angles. This experience is worlds away form that little idyllic setting but the spirit that it rekindles gets back a part of my childhood. Shopping malls and parking lots overflowing with patrons of Jesus, in the spirit of giving - under all the glitz and glamour of oversized Xmas trees and holiday grab - the spirit of the season seeps into my heart, magically transforming me into an eight year old that moved her hand clumsily around her shoulders. I stuff my shopping cart with random presents - toys, activity pads and a teddy bear for my little one, a hand written note for my love, Espresso maker for my best friend, skincare for my girlfriends on the wrong side of thirty, cook books and baking paraphernalia for my budding star chef God Niece, digital picture frame for a elder brother figure of a friend, Hello Kitty accesories for the kid's best friend, Lightning McQueen for her little brother, Ornate costume jewelry for the bracelet lover friend and odds and ends for the house keeper, the ballet teacher and the neighbor. I pause and think - what has Christmas come to mean for me? Did it really change much from many years ago? I ponder for an answer. I walk out of the cozy mall, busting at seams with the spirit of giving disguised as merchandise. I see volunteers ringing bells and making small talk at the entrance as they open door for Patrons that come to shop. Bits and pieces of the stories of generosity that flash on my comp screen around this time of the season pop up in my heart. I tuck a few dollars in the collection bin, and walk out only to see an overflowing bin of brand new toys donated for the toy drive at ToysRus. A warm feeling floods my entire being - the blinking lights shine in the background with busy shoppers hauling loads - I see them all in red and white and as slightly over weight - with kind smiles and loving gazes...Christmas emerges as more than a religious holiday, The spirit shines through, the trail of thoughts halt - a smile breaks on my pensive face - What do you want for Christmas? Pick something for under the tree, the significant other says...I politely turn down the offer, I seem to get more than I ever ask for during this time of the year - I get to sense the love, the spirit and most importantly, the feeling of being a child again:-)

To be continued.

2011-11-06T22:40:00.000-08:00

I grew in a time age and place when being nerdy was the best thing a kid could do. Geeky kids who scored the most marks were teacher's pets and the envy and admiration of classmates. The first ranker would get the highest pedestal of respect in the class. So, it is given that a good report card and place in the top 5 ranks was every parent's dream. I do not recollect my mom sitting with me and making me do my homework - she would just check it at the end of the day, and that too till I was in middle school. Good result on the report card was mandatory though or else the kid would be lectured clear and loud about starting a cottage industry to sell appadams which is equivalent to the present day mom's threat of working in Mc Donalds. Running around in the streets with the pretext of playing was the recreation. There was no ballet, art or tennis involved in our day to day routine and hauling a bag load of books back and forth from home to school was the only activity - amid all this expectation on academics, I strayed on to the path of color, sketch and paint. One fateful afternoon in my second grade, it clicked to my little grey cells that I could actually recreate, or attempt to recreate the painting of a little girl in a frilly dress and a bonnet that adorned my notebook cover. I promptly began to draw on a piece of paper - the teacher, who was filling in for an absent colleague, walked to my table, looked at the picture and asked if I drew it. My hazy, unformed ego was flattered and thus the self taught, mediocre, imitation of an artist came into being. Ever since, I tried to copy the images of Gods and goddesses on the complimentary calendars that decorated our blah walls. Sometimes they turned out good, sometimes bad and at other times they were down right ugly - but who was paying heed anyway about the quality of those sketches? Art was my escape, it was my fulfillment. It was a bonafied testimonial to my self discovered talent. I was at it consciously, subconsciously and every level of consciousness in between.

In the meanwhile, many assessments came and went and there was the pressing pressure of academics as usual. I think somewhere down the line, the integral part of art in a child's life was totally undermined. Actually, it did go unnoticed till it dawned upon me that, though I am a self taught artist, I had it in me to teach the same technique to my child and see her appreciate art if not excel at it. Now I started teaching little kids - as little as 3 something and it does sound very ambitious and pressing to teach a barely 4 year old the nuances of art - but believe me,

Self worth

2011-10-13T22:19:00.000-07:00

I once tagged a family member as the most intelligent person I'd known - this intelligent person in question is a one digit ranker in the famous IIT JEE, attended an Ivy league school on full scholarship and finished his PhD and went to become a very sought after researcher in his field - all from the humble beginnings of a small town boy from India. Now - this most intelligent person I know came back to me saying that he is not the most intelligent person I know - in fact one of his seniors from IIT who happened to go to school with me is the most intelligent person I know. Well, the person I'd mentioned as intelligent is a very straight forward no nonsense person and would not waste time in false humility. So that got me thinking! I had the good fortune to know another older person in my social circle who basically does not have any illustrious achievements to his kitty and barely talks sense in his egotistic conversations - I am sure, he would rate himself as the most intelligent person I or anyone who knows him knows! Complicated indeed! So what is up with how we rate ourselves? Well, my ponder attempts to unearth this mystery. Let's put it this way - I thought I was a good singer till I heard those little kids in the reality shows sing - I thought I was a good writer till I read the numerous talented bloggers on the world wide web and I thought I was a good artist till I saw some amazing works of art by budding students in an art gallery. When we are a the proverbial frogs in the well - we are the rulers of the well...but we are in such ignorance that there is a whole world that exists beyond our little well. Let me not boast too much about how mature I am for my thirty four year old head - but I do think that I's seen enough of the world to rate myself humbly - and truly humbly. As this special species of homo sapience, we are susceptible to immense self love. When my five year old plays 'angry birds' on TV - she talks about strategy - she blabbers in a mock sophisticated tone trying to teach me the strategy of knocking those 'green piggie thingies' (as she calls them) and every time I win - she duly takes all the credit - "Look" - she exclaims, her face beaming in all that self appreciation "Good, you listened to me - that is the advantage of following my strategy" (did I tell you she has a good blabbering vocab that the language loving momma is proud of) - the other day I told her that she needs to read bigger syllable words like a friend of hers - my point was not to pitch another little girl against her but to tell her that it is always a good practice in life to acknowledge someone who is better than us and try to learn from their example. The toddler got mighty upset. I had to explain it to her that we are not and we cannot be the best in every thing. Between my little girl and my most intelligent relative, I could pretty much figure it out - that it comes naturally to all of us - the art of appreciating ourselves and rating ourselves as the best human beings in all walks of life - but what we need to do is cultivate a sense of how legitimate our self determined self worth is - I only wish that comes naturally to us as well - but alas - it doesn't. When our vision of the world is smaller, our image of ourselves is larger than life - and as our vision of our words expand, we come to realize that we are not spinning the world and what we are is a bird dropping in an ocean:-) How we love ourselves is inversely proportional to how much world we have seen. So the next time we come across, a pompous, self loving egotist - we don't need to put him in his/her place -we should just take mental notes not to transform into those pompous, self loving egotists. After all - rising above the self love is what makes us live a better life and spread the love.

Ponder

2011-10-08T23:25:00.000-07:00

This is going to be a very hilariously ironic blog for a overly verbal and vocal person like me, but just for the fun of it, I want to attempt to ponder on the 'expression in action' thought. I think it is a law of physics that opposites attract and to me, attractiveness lies in using fewer words and more actions. Years ago, as a student of language, I used to wonder why my writing instructor used to insist on "Show - Don't tell" exercise while writing. So, instead of saying a flower looks red, the writer should show the hue - probably by describing the hue and not using the word red - tricky isn't it? But then I ended up reading a short story by a creative director of a successful ad agency - The story deals with an abduction. The writer told the whole story without using the word abduction or any of its remote synonyms. I don't know how much of the craft of writing I picked up there - but I did end up being a good reader - my workshop had changed the way I read - not just mere words but the world around me as well. But like I said, this is going to be an ironical blog - so I should admit that I love finding words for people. I am usually the one who supplies words to people who stumble with finding the right word to describe or express something. But ironically, I also realized that in this super fast era of mobile phones and SMSing, we did end up being more about talk and less about action. There is eloquence every where - there is better copy being written for sales pitches. FB status messages baffle me for the kind of articulation this generation has. Just about every thing around me from user manuals to best sellers got better in the craft of words. Ever read Steinbeck? The first book I read of him left me so immensely charmed because of the choice of words. They are so simple and not as flowery or articulate as, say, J K Rowling - while I do not mean any disrespect to Ms. Rowling and her super human spin of imagination and craft of words, I just mean to drive home the point that sometimes, it is not how you say it - it is more about what you are saying. I just hope that this era of communication doesn't take away from the more profound 'action' part that is more essential than anything else. I used to write essays in grade school - we were graded more for the craft of words than the thought or the passion for a given topic. There are hundreds of people around us that do things for us - they might not really open their mouths and tell us how much they love us or what we mean to them - but in their most sincere way, they would pack our lunches, tip toe while we sleep or may be pray for our well being and bask in our smiles. There are millions of little expressions of love that are not captured and condensed into words that miss our notice. There are less articulate people with more intense emotions that bloom into simple actions of love and affection. In fact, there is more action in this world that goes unnoticed than the words that get the royal treatment. We as a generation, have bit into the 'articulation' so much that we are just shutting our minds to things that are unspoken. I think that all eloquence in the world cannot hold a candle to a sincere action. I am guilty as charged for talking more than acting - which I think is the down fall of the world today. May be, we should all focus more on doing things than talking about them - may be we should stop and feel the love that is being expressed in little acts. Helping hands are better than praying lips, thoughtful actions are better than beautiful words:-) Ironical? Indeed!!

This and that.

2011-10-05T22:07:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, it becomes hard to write. The ideas cross the mind and vanish into oblivion within no time. There are people who inspire to think, to love and to rebel, there will be stories to tell, opinions to express and observations to record but it just becomes hard to write. Which kind of makes me wonder if having a routine and a commitment to be answerable is the only way one can be at their productive best. But blessed are the self motivated, self committed folks - the few of those folks who change the world for people like me. God bless their grit, their tenacity to outdo themselves and their love for living a meaningful life. On that note, to the few regulars here, I wish to apologize for not taking the blog seriously, since I notice that my quality of life improves when I ponder aloud on the world wide web.. It is almost like a soul searching monologue that the leading lady rattles in daily soaps. When I don't write, I feel a part of me missing from my being, so I hope to keep my commitment to write, as often I can, as much as I can. Thanks for the time you invest in my ponders and for the said and the unsaid comments - unsaid comments as well - since I believe they'll reach me somehow and make me better at my mediocre thoughts.

Much has happened over the course of the past few months. There were constant ponders in my mind's world about my choice of being a stay at home mother, the world around me, the art of raising kids, the tact of avoiding arguments and and most importantly, the life skill of knowing and understanding the people that make your life. Aarti had started her regular school as a kindergartner. It is just so liberating to walk out of the house early in the morning and to see little children marching to school like ants. Parents walk them - there is so much promise in the day when you look at it through that scene - children who have no sense of time pausing to jump in the puddle formed by the sprinkler on the sidewalk or to pluck the random dandelion to wish upon. Almost all of them look so happy to be marching to school. Some ride their colorful bikes and some come on their roller shoes, and once the bell rings, the whole scene comes to a hushed silence. I walk back home thinking about all the lessons that my little girl would get etched onto her mind in the process of growing up and finding something meaningful to do. I make a mental note to introduce her to classic reads, to make her paint and sing and to do all I can as a mother to make my little one give her personal best to her life. I read to her, I help her to read and instruct her diligently about washing hands and saying thank yous. But I see that no matter what I teach her, the things she learns are the ones that she sees me do. She doodles all the time, just like me - she likes nail polish, is into cooking and when she talks to kids younger to her, she uses the same words of endearment that I use and imitates my mannerisms to the tee. parenting is indeed a very serious job - we unknowingly leave so many scratches on their tender minds and leave them to live with that damage. I have to admit that I am being much more careful about what I say and how I say it in my daughter's ear shot - which makes me second guess myself about what I say out of her ear shot - like they say - a child gives birth to a mother! :-)

On a different note, I also realized that there is an element of good in every bad we notice. Sometimes we are so hard wired to see things in our perspective that we don't really see things for what they are - we especially do this mistake when we deal with our close associates - friends, spouses, parents. And when the mind is seeking the things that it doesn't like, it sifts through a lot of good to get to that little bad that is left back. when we look at what is not working for us, we just magically become partially blind - which causes great distress to ourselves than to anyone else. We confidently forget that there is so much in us that might not be liked by the people around us. I was just thinking - how blissful this world would become if we are a little more open in our mind's eye to look at things the way they are than to attach our own baggage to it. It is an exercise we all need to consciously practice.

And as a conclusion to this aimless ponder, I just wanted to say that envy seems to be the resident ruler of all vices. There is so much of it that I see in the world. I read somewhere that it is that fine art of counting another person's blessings. I see people who get insecure about other persons' achievements and accomplishments and take it as an insult to themselves. When each of us are concentrating on what is served on our plate, we'll have a hearty meal and a healthy mind. As much as we try to be better, we are all humans - but the uniqueness of being a human is that you get the opportunity to make a choice - a better choice, a sensible choice! I think if we look at others' happiness as our own, we have arrived. Or at least, we should stop looking at it as our misery. I hope that no one ever stoops to a level where they find happiness in someone else's misery.

Phew...that sums up the overly corny entry - Here's to a hope to find the inspiration and the will to write - regularly:-)

Journey

2011-08-19T02:36:00.000-07:00

When thoughts pour out

Without a care,

No traces of mistrust

Just a will to repair -

Little peeves

Come peeking out

Letting you gaze

Into my world.

I wind down the window

Of my automobile

Facing the other side of the road.

While you steer away

In the opposite direction,

Window still wound down -

We look at one another

With reassurances galore.

Our journeys

Take the same road

You to this end

And me to that....

But there comes a time

When we come face to face

And we magically see

The destination we are set to reach.

For such moments my friend

Thanks to the high Heavens.

Thanks to whatever it is

That bestowed me with you.

Ponder

2011-08-12T00:38:00.001-07:00

As I age, I notice - that what we talk speaks a lot about who we are and while we talk, we actually put a display of our thoughts - like a scan of what we would go through in our minds while we speak. And in my day to day life, I see them all around me - People who talk like they mean it, talk and don't know why or what they talk, people who talk sense, nonsense, people who talk out of their hearts and then some who do through their backsides. Here's a run down of the specimens in my research.

The weather reporter - I know of a person, a sweet, diffident one - that comes to me every time we cross paths and gives me an analysis of how I look. The person would walk to me, greet me in the sweetest smile and tell me how I look for the day. "You look tired today" "You look dull" "You look really fabulous in dangle earrings, you should wear only dangling ones" "You look pretty today - keep wearing this top" " you gained weight from the last time I saw you - you look fat" - the report goes on and on - mostly like a under enthusiastic weather reporter reading out the daily forecast. The only problem I have with the reporter is that on an average day, unless I am sedate on pain killers, I do know if I feel or look dull, fat or tired. I don't need a reminder of how I look every time someone sees me, (specially, if that someone sees me on a daily basis) -as to what kind of a look I am wearing for the day - chances are, I peeped into the mirror on my way out of the house and even if I didn't, my look for the day will not effect the day in anyway.

The Quiz Master - The quizzer needs to know it all - and at once. In the first meeting, the quizzer would ask you how old you are, why you are that old, how much your husband makes, how much you paid for your new refrigerator, how often you clean your house etc....if you give the quizzer answers to all those questions - the quizzer will quickly encroach your privacy and ask you questions you might not ask yourself. The quizzer's main focus in life is 'others' and the no stone is left unturned till you let it all out. The quizzer, more often than not, tests your patience and your ability to get away with ambiguous answers and your knack to be politically correct. The quizzer has no respect whatsoever for your privacy.

The Butcher - You could use the term "Dockers" loosely for a dress pant - but not in the presence of the butcher - your every word will be dissected to fine pulp, pulverized to no end. The butcher's aim in life is to look for inconsistencies, mistakes, grammatical errors and low IQ levels in the person he is talking to and then attack them with a sharp as a butcher's knife criticism. If you post a general observation about terrorism - the butcher will quickly come in and smack you down for posting an observation and not really joining the anti-terrorist squad and laying your life down for the cause you passionately talk about. If you repeat wise words of a wise man - the butcher will still come in and tell you why the words are not worth being uttered by a wise man in the first place and then as to how much useless it is to repeat them by giving his own take on the said quote.

The wannabe stand up comedian - This specimen doesn't mean any harm - the only aim in his/her life is to pull humor out of every situation to make them look like messiahs of sense of humor. They want to be the life of the party, the pride of the group but somehow end up making irritable comedies of their own self. Sadly, they end up hurting feelings as well sometimes - all in the name of God blessed humor.

The Know All - from rocket science to Vedic texts, from para sailing to pet care - the know alls are walking, talking search engines that have enormous knowledge at their finger tips. You tell them about an observation made a couple of minutes ago - ofcourse, they had seen it, been there, done that, nailed it. Go figure...and most importantly, keep shut!

The parrot talker - Most of the time, you have a difficulty understanding what they are trying to say. The parrot talker has a halo effect around his/herself that leads them into believing that they are being this profound, though provoking conversationalists - but for the most part they lay eggs right left and center - they do provide a lot of comic relief though - from the more spiteful specimens.

The a$$ - This specimen walks away with all the awards - this is the one that has no consideration for the feelings of anyone - including children - and in his/her most vicious and vile self can call a child in glasses as an old man or make fun of a handicap with a trademark condescending humor. The a$$ handpicks topics of discussions - the ones that are sensitive and can cause discomfort to others and goes ahead making his point and crushing hearts and feelings in the process. The a$$ (animal, not body part BTW) will point out your shortcomings in a sadistic way and smiles contently as the people around them sigh in despair.

I have more that I should record, more thoughts that hit me. Shall probably revisit this - but this is an attempt to come over the writer's /thinker's block.

Aim

2011-06-14T01:49:00.000-07:00

Taking lazy turns

Around bustling isles,

Steering way through

Busy streets,

Steaming veggies, brewing tea!

Changing sheets

And dusting furniture,

Teaching alphabet, singing lullabies,

Cooking meals and pruning shrubs,

washing clothes, scrubbing tubs

Reading poems and writing blogs -

It lingers through little tasks

Triumphs in errands

And thrives on wee joys,

My Ambition - or lack thereof!

Connection

2011-05-28T01:21:00.000-07:00

"Trains are liable to make up or loose time" the painted foot note read - on the little black board she used to write the arrival timings of the trains in that small town Railway station she worked in. She would look at the sentence and cringe. "loose time!" "loose time"? Really?How could a picky language lover tolerate the confusion? But no one ever seemed to notice it like she did - or no one ever seemed to bother if they'd noticed it in the first place. Till he came in to the picture on a bright weekday. The crowd thickened around her counter window- but he waited- till he got a chance to come closer to speak to her from the other side. "But it has to read Lose, Not loose!" He pointed out. She looked at him with immense interest, almost like she had found a voice resonating with her own. Almost as if she was in shock to realize that there was another person existing in this world that looked and noticed the little things the way she did.
"It is painted that way" She offered her explanation, her acne accented cheeks which were already red from the inflammation turned a shade brighter as she spoke. Her perfectionism making her wonder if he thought she'd painted the letters that way. She suddenly remembered the way one of her uncles asked how stationary was different from Stationery when she was in primary school. She remembered how she felt insulted that he'd think she'd not know. This young woman, all of eighteen was a lover of all things perfect and Her language topped the charts.
"Just saying!" He smiled. With a twinkle in his eyes and disappeared into the busy platform. She looked in his direction and smiled without her knowledge.
"What are you so happy about?" A colleague's question brought her back to the moment and she got back to her work in the enquiry counter.

*******

"Is the east bound train coming in anytime soon?" A familiar voice made her look up from the book she was reading. She was in her night shift and the relatively free schedule of trains allowed her to dig into books. She looked to find him again - her face broke into a beaming smile.
"oh, you? How are you"
"Very well!"
"Yeah, the train will be here momentarily"
"Thanks - By the way, what keeps you so engrossed?"
"Oh- this book" She lifts the book into her hands and flashes the cover.
"Anna Karenina?" Nice read. Heavy, tragic - but nice read!"

"You read it?"
" I think I did!"

"You read a lot?" Her heart was racing now. There is a connection with this person.

"I am bound to. I teach"

Now she got up from her seat.
"Awesome!" She squealed in joy.

"Don't tell me you teach English"

"Yes, my dear! I do!"

"Grade school?"

"Graduate school!"

"No kidding - So tell me we can discuss 'Paradise Lost'

"Sure we can. Tell me when and where?"

She wanted to say "Right here, right now" but contained her excitement and said whenever you can spare some time.

********

Now it was obvious he loved her. Like his own, and how would a hopelessly romantic eighteen year old not love him back? They were walking back to a nearby coffee shop to get refreshments.

"Get something" he insisted. " I think I am okay" she excused herself. She was lost in the way he sang to her on the platform - a divine hymn singing the glory of Goddess Shakti. She got off her schedule to meet him on the platform while he waited for a train to arrive. They both sat on one of those benches planted into the concrete of the platform, oblivious to the world around them. From a distance, it was an amusing scene - for no bystander would understand what connects them so intensely as to make them lost in each other on a busy platform with all the hustle and bustle thrown in.

The train arrived and his guest who was passing through the station, got off the train to wish him. "Meet my friend" - he would introduce her to the guest. "Meet Daya Mata - the head in our Ranchi headquarters - he told her, as she joined her hands to greet the guest. He was heavily into spirituality and meditation - one of the other aspects that intrigued her to no end.

"I am dropping you home" he confirmed as the train took away the passing guest - without asking her if she wanted him to.

"I'll take the bus" She insisted.

"Follow me! No arguments"

They drove home on his motorbike - lost as ever in their own world.

***********

He drove to her home with the copy of his Thesis. Read it - you'll love it" He offered. And then he asked her to come over to meet him at his work - in the nearby Degree college.

She walked to his work - found the college peon and told him that she was here for the English professor.
"Sir told me Miss" The peon would flash a grin. "Please wait while I get you some tea" He'd walk her into the staff room and offer her some tea.

"There you are" He said - with unmistakable joy in his voice.

" I hope the peon recognized you"

He pulled a chair to sit next to her and lowered his voice to a mock whisper "I told him there would be a girl looking for me in the evening - A strikingly gorgeous and poised one"

His love and awe for her out did the collective efforts of the all the boys who hit on her. His words made her feel beautiful and confident.

She managed a silent embarrassed smile.

"What are you smiling about? You know right? - You are a very pretty and sensible young woman, and I wanted to warn the peon beforehand so that he would get ready to lose his heart"

Her smile stretched from ear to ear...is it not enough that this man taught her ' Paradise Lost' and made her discover Milton? Is it not enough that the man connects with her like magic and sings to her and awes her with his outlook on life and endears her with his gentle kind ways? Is it not enough that he charms her with his intellect?

She collected her notes that day and walked home feeling like a pageant winner.

***********

It is their usual place of meeting. The coffee shop opposite the railway station. A man walks to him and wishes him

"Good afternoon professor, what brings you here?"
"I had to meet some friend passing through"

The man looks at her and recognizes her.
'So, she works here with the Railways?" the man asks him.
"yeah she does - what might interest you is that she is a student of literature as well"

"My daughter is a student of literature too - the man adds. It is endearing when daughters take up their fathers' passions"

She understood the misconception going through the man's mind and attempted to offer a clarification.

"Yeah, it is endearing - he cuts her off" and hurriedly takes leave of the man saying he has some work to attend to.
She follows him while saying bye to the man they just met.

On her way back home, sitting behind him on his motorbike, she asked him
"But the man thought I was your daughter - it is funny though, one of my traffic controllers called me the other day on the network line to give me some work related info and he assumed the same thing as well - telling me he was your student and he never knew that I am your daughter, it seems the other day he saw us in the coffee shop together."

"What did you say to him?"

" I told him you are my daddy's friend. You know what was funny? He was telling me how handsome you were in your day. Funny cause I think you are hands down one of the most interesting and handsome men I'd met so far"

He let out a loud laughter.
"Thank you I guess?"

"But anyway, why did you not tell this man I wasn't your kid?"

"Because I feel you are mine"

She smiled to herself - one of those beaming smiles that bloom on her face when she is in his company.

And they drove back home lost in one of those conversations.

Work in progress...

2011-05-13T13:56:00.000-07:00

She roams around almost lazily in the Magnificent cathedral - looking at the stained glasses the depict the life and times of Jesus Christ. The visitors go about the expanse, animated, letting out sighs of awe. The scene looks like a vintage motion picture sans dialogues. Her eyes rest on a sculpture. Jesus - bleeding while surrounded by his followers. Numerous candles light up around the scene, giving it a 'back in time' feel. She gathers her scarf around her elbows and picks a candle to light. She reaches out to a shining candle nearby and dips the wick into the gentle flame. The warm glow illuminates her face - a generous forehead letting out tell tale signs of a jump start of the process of aging when looked at in that illumination, Calm, peaceful eyes and a perfect nose that stands out and anchors the features. Her lush hair falls back in a tight braid while wisps of deep black hair escape and cascade onto her cheeks. She is effortlessly beautiful, dressed in a dull cotton tunic and a pair of conservative indigo jeans. Her face has no traces of makeup, the only aspect of adornment that competes with her absentminded smile are the generous solitaires she wears on her large earlobes. The off white knit scarf around her neck falls on to her bust while covering every inch of her long and slender neck. It is hard to say if she has any more decorations - fabric covers every inch of her body. Her tender feet nestle on the cool floor of the cathedral as she presses them hard into the surface in an attempt to cool the warmth the hurt sculpture of the Lord creates in her. The corner of her eyes get misty. She lets our a little mock cough...a reflex that comes out when she realizes the moistness in her eyes. She clears her throat and slily wipes her eyes in a make believe attempt that looks like she is wiping a grain of sand away from the tip of her lashes. The enigmatic smile plays on her full lips all along.

She finds a seat on the bench. and lifts up to look at the endless ceilings. It is hard to believe that it is middle of the day with the all powerful sun frolicking at his hottest, brightest best on the outside - the dark expanse of the inside of the cathedral has no traces of artificial lighting. The stained glass accents glow in the darkness along with the nimble wicker of the naked flames from the candles that are lit around. She is lost in a trail of thoughts again - drawing comparisons of how the inside of this dark place of worship with little flecks of light coincides with her own inside. Little flecks of thought shine in her gaping, empty heart. She is transformed into the past...a past that comes and gets her a decade and a half later.

Ponder

2011-05-07T01:51:00.000-07:00

She limps up the stairs with a pot of water on her hip, her sari pleats tucked into her waist. She stops for brief moments, as if to gather strength to take the next step. Her eyes have a ring of grey, giving away the age which she denies by going about like a machine running on fuel. She carefully pours the water into a stainless steel drum and repeats the drill. On random days, when her luck fails along with the municipality water supply, she does this chore to make sure there is enough water to drink and use around the house. Her younger days aren't any different. She wakes up before dawn to cook for a big family, packs her lunch along with the others' and takes a public transport to go to the school where she teaches. Her evenings are filled with household chores and cooking and cleaning after grown up kids. Now she is retired. Old enough and worked enough to rightfully deserve a 'retirement'. She keeps her lips zipped and her hands and mind busy. Never waits for her daughters in law to chime into the chores. Diligently cooks, cleans and feeds an ungrateful family that should, ideally, take care of themselves and then take care of her as well.
Her service is the tip of the iceberg.
"Take it if you like it" she'd offer her every worldly possession from saris to accessories. "Do it your way" she'd withdraw, when family decisions are being made. "Let me take care of that" she'd volunteer to wipe the butt of a grandkid.
Her daughters in law afford the luxury of PMSes, boredom and break from the kids in forms of shopping trips while she works like a machine that could have been fortunate enough if she were an actual machine, that she could break down and stop working from the overuse.
The pampered sons and daughers in law think they deserve it, think they are so good that their mom is all over them slogging her last bit of energy off, repaying them for their worth!

**********************************************

If there were a human form to anger, ego and selfishness - this has to be THE man. He'd gamble, drink, womanize and come home to a dreading family that hides behind the doors when he smashes his dinner plate into the wall just because the fish isn't done right! His wife would weep silently while the sons and daughters follow instructions to the q, not looking in the eye, not questioning, not rebelling. He'd have it his way - shouting at the pitch of his lungs and making the house a living hell. The last time he comes home with an overdue bill at the local bar, the son pulls out the money earned from tutoring and pays the dues. The daughters cook and clean while the wife silently suffers the atrocities of holy matrimony. He specially makes it a point to show off in public as to what a dread he is to his folks and how much respect he commands and how disciplined his family is.

Little does this monster of a person know or realize that it is their love for him that makes them endure his eccentricities and to question a person and put him in his place, it does not take a whole army and ammunition - all it takes is a little giving up!

*****************************************************

The boy lives with a purpose - to love the girl. He has eyes only for her. He yearns for nothing except to give her what makes her happy. Smiles, cards, chocolates, flowers, gifts, reassurances - you name it! She chases a goal, a mirage, a nothingness - which makes her blind to the emotion, to the pure love that is being served to her on a platter. She doesn't look at the love, or may be she doesn't care to admit - for her world lies elsewhere, an elsewhere where there is everything but love. She admires him, acknowledges him but when it comes to realizing how lucky she is, she fails - she moves ahead in life, leaving a shattered heart that holds her in its every little piece. She gets what she wants, but will never live to realize what she threw away was a million times precious than what she chased.

************************************************************

The worst thing in life is not lacking it - it is lacking the realization of having it.

Value

2011-05-05T22:19:00.001-07:00

Hey you - I am asking you!
What matters?
More than a smile that comes your way
When thoughts of despair doom your day!
What matters more than
A bellyful of grub,
Dreams to be - small but meaningful.
Does a closet of full of clothes
Define your inside?
Like the words your speak
Or thoughts you think??
Adornments, sparkly and shiny
Don't take away from the filth within.
What matters more
Than a friend in need?
Than a helping hand,
When you are hurt and pained?
A shoulder to cry
A word of love
That'd take the turmoil away!
A conviction to speak
And not be afraid
Of telling the truth
Or supporting it!
What matters more?
Than a non-judgmental take
On things you might not like
Or do yourself!
Does anything matter more?
Than being yourself
And loving and giving
What you can spare??
What matters more than a good deed
A kind word?
A caring seed
For folks around you?
What really matters
Is spreading the love
Not driving cool cars
Or fighting big wars!
The bags of money,
The heaps of wealth..
All stay back
What matters is health!
A healthy mind,
A healthy thought
What matters more
are battles fought
To fight our egos
To kill our selfishness
To be a Samaritan
Of humanness -
Is what matters more than
Having it all!

Verse

2011-05-05T17:37:00.000-07:00

Your thoughts that follow
Like a persistent toddler
With separation anxiety.
Your Emotions that cling
Smothering my existence.
Your words echoing
In the abyss of my heart
Your never-felt touch
Mocking me of the lack.
Your love that was there
Without ever announcing itself,
Or impacting me,
Like the way your absence does.
Dreams of you
That take me back in time
Leaving a void in my present.
Where do I live?
In the non-existent past
Or the painful present??

Melancholy.

2011-05-04T23:54:00.000-07:00

I sift my thoughts
Through the debris of the past
A heap clumped
with the moistness of my tears
I gather cysts of pain
Malignant, life taking -
Know not what they would come to mean.
I dig the graves
Of buried hopes
Cry over the remnants
And mourn the loss.

Is this getting them back?
Or letting them go?

Speechless.

2011-03-27T05:17:00.000-07:00

She finds words
like luck in loads.
To translate a picture
into strokes with language.
She finds words
Like swift sharp swords
To haul attacks
At atrocities.
She finds words,
Like simple codes,
To put forth her thoughts
Of everyday life.
She finds words
To feign her feelings
To mask, to conceal
And confuse the world.
Alas...she finds not
A single letter
To tell Him
How much it hurts
When the love
Emerges out, piercing her heart!

Curiosity

2011-03-04T20:40:00.001-08:00

In search of answers

looking for them -

In grass, side walks,

Flowers and buds.

In critters and bugs

Trees and bushes!

In search of answers

While lumbering around -

In bloomers and suspenders,

squeaky boots and pom pom caps!

Till the bloomers bloom into formals

And then the transformation of

Question and answer sessions

Take unexpected turns

Looking for them in people -

Their ages, lives, their homes and dreams

Inquisitiveness takes an ugly twist!

Ah…the pains of growing up:-)

The Plea.

2011-02-06T17:33:00.000-08:00

This review contains Spoilers.

I got some down time, finally, to watch Guzarish, the film that I'd been wanting to watch all these days. Sanjay Bhansali intrigues me as a director. I saw his debut "khamoshi" and noticed him for his keen observation skills and sensitivity to the handicaps that exist around him. It was a failed but laudable attempt by a new kid on the block, brave enough to questions the 'song, dance, fight, cry and happy ending" sequence of commercial Bollywoood cinema. If my friends' observation of my taste being 'weird' is true, I seem to like cinema that addresses more than entertainment. I do enjoy the mindless dramas or romances that Indian cinema churns out, but I love directors who look beyond what meets the eye and make attempts to put forward a message. Who ever said that cinema is meant only to entertain and not to preach or teach or invoke thought, is, according to my humble and honest opinion - wrong! I see the influence of cinema all around me. People imitate the style, the dialogue and even the mannerisms of the characters that are created and depicted on the silver screen and we all do, consciously or otherwise, get influenced by the medium, which collectively, can effect the face of the society we live in- so to present a deep, thought provoking subject is a very laudable attempt in an industry where most movies are made with an intent to succeed at the box office.

Guzarish, or a plea - touches the sensitive subject of "mercy killing" or Euthenesia as it is popularly known. According to the House of Lords Select Committee on Medical Ethics, the precise definition of euthanasia is "a deliberate intervention undertaken with the express intention of ending a life, to relieve intractable suffering*

To come back to the plot, a slightly plump Hrithik Roshan, who plays a quadriplegic (Ethan Mascarenas) tied down to his bed, but not tied down by his spirit, counsels the hale and healthy brethren that calls him for advice and teaches them a thing or two about love, life and living, through the medium of a radio show. Aishwarya Rai plays his extremely diligent nurse (Sophie D'Souza) of twelve years, who'd not taken even a day off from her work during this period. Enters Shernaz Patel with her theater-trained performance, as the buddy and lawyer( named Devyaani Duttaa) of Ethan Mascranecas , and it is then and there that she takes away form the dumb looking Aishwarya with her out of place costumes and expressions. Aishwarya, I'd opined earlier, and I do again, is a woman India should be proud of - but not by any stretch of imagination is she an actor that is watchable. In the scene in which she confronts her husband that conveniently appears at the fag end of the movie, to make the 'marriage' of the leading characters possible, Ash displayed acting skills of an armature - and pulled the movie down with all her might and main. I am not critiquing her costumes or the scripting of her character - to me, Aishwarya is not born to act - and she seemed to not have learned form all the experience of being mentored by directors like Bhansali and Ratnam. She falls as flat as ever!

Back to the plot, the movie, for dealing with a sensitive and controversial subject like Euthanasia, didn't evoke the thought or emotions that I anticipated. This is coming form a movie goer that could cry at the slightest provocation, and I am surprised that no scene in the movie spoke to me in terms of sensitivity. The student's character played by Aditya roy Kapoor is worth a mention for his very natural acting skills but again, the character is not molded to its true capacity.
Bhansali is known for his grandeur both in terms of sensitivity and sensibility, but his movie is more like a first draft that would have had a great potential if it was worked on the way Bhansali is known to work on. Hrithik shows the shades of the actor in him which is a pleasant and powerful change form the star we usually get to see. The rest is mediocrity at its best. The soul of the film is flawed and so are the characters and the execution. The sub plots that walk in and out at their will are loose ends that leave the audience with a lot of questions about the love and rivalry aspects of the protagonist's life.
There are a lot of layers to the person that is Ethan Mascrenas and those layers are meant to be manifested in the numerous relationships the film portrays - but none of them kindle the underlying warmth or passion the director envisioned. There are a few scenes that attempt to steal the show - like the one in which Ethan refuses a hug saying he has enough attachments and the one in which he opines to have undergone 'Chinese torture.' All these moments lack the depth the intensity of the subject demands.
I shall remember Guzarish as a brave and expensive attempt with unnecessary ostentation that distracts the viewer from its soul. It is like the beautiful statue of a woman - breathtakingly beautiful, but lifeless and lacking personality. All it displays is the sculptor's skill and attention for detail. All else fades in the glory of the visual.

*courtesy - Wikipedia.

Orientaion.

2011-02-01T01:05:00.001-08:00

This is how a tiny little angel (from the pre-k class I volunteer) with cherub cheeks, hailing form the country of Pyramids and Pharos, wrote her name on her art work, post a mile long vacation to her homeland.

A M L A S

:-))

Meaning

2011-02-01T00:01:00.000-08:00

Today, I was introduced to yet another joy of facebooking - Controversial comments! Ahem, and I apparently made one such disgusting, demeaning and un-parliamentary (so what does this word mean anyway? something that is not appropriate to use in a parliament? - if so, why do they often compare ours to the fish market? I wonder aloud!) comment about women belonging to a certain state. I looked at one of these wedding pics a dear friend posted, looked at the stunning bride and said in all genuineness, that "Malyalee girls are hot!" Before I go further, I just have to acknowledge that I am not the kind of person that would say something nice or otherwise without meaning it. I had the good fortune in recent years, though I was mentored by a school of Malyalee Nuns in my childhood, to realize that these women are well read, well bred and good-looking all at the same time.
Enters a man who e-shouts at me - that the OCCASION doesn't warrant such comments and I should 'understand' this as a 'woman'. At first I thought there was some miscommunication - since the ever wordy yours truly who cannot say a simple phrase in less than 500 words happened to reply in all the lengthy glory, which contained a lot of negations to convey an utterly positive observation, as a response to the friend's playful feedback to the alleged unparlimentary comment.
Then, I panicked - I think - ever so slightly, since what my general physician said about my recent jaw pain and doc's visit was ever so slightly true and I do, in reality have some mild anxiety that comes as a side effect of having a over active toddler and a job that offers no fiscal benefits and loads of physical deficits, or because I have this OCD of a guilt complex that only a fellow sufferer of 'middle child syndrome' could empathize with.
I read and reread and then took the aid of the kid sister who chanced to call at the same moment when the concoction of ever so slight panic and middle child syndrome occurred. "The dude got offended by your "Hot" comment she offered which put me in a 'lack of reaction' mode. I could not, for once, figure if I had to laugh my heads off or feel sorry for the self appointed etiquette police on planet Facebook.

My brother once came home, post the 'Slumdog' fever, form a trip to a shopping strip in San Francisco and related to me a story about a co-shopper, who walked to him, confirmed that he's indeed Indian, and told him that "The hot little thing" in Slumdog is giving him sleepless nights and in his 'halo effect' mindset and said that he wants to go to India and fall in love with all the women! My brother managed a thank you I guess - and came home and told me the story as if he were Aishwarya rai's brother and was just relating to his sister, the extremely memorable and endearing compliment a very enthusiastic fan had urged him to convey. He didn't see anything unparlimentary about the words, hot OR little thing - and neither did I. I am thankful - since, had he been the self appointed police of 'saving the grace of Indian women' the guy would have though very highly of the Indian Gentry :-D
I feel the necessity to mention here, that on a site like facebook, where every one and their neighbor's forefathers have more friends than humans I'd ever seen in my three decades of living, you say a thing and it gets noticed more often for what it is perceived to be, than for what it is. I have this extremely funny younger friend who finds endless humor in 'gay' related statuses and comments. Though I am not a whole generation older, some of his observations come across more as 'cheeky' than funny. Like I said, I have an OCD guilt complex and often wonder how a 'fighting with the sexuality, still in the woodworks person' might get effected by that humor. I once happened to watch a telugu movie that was a mega hit in it's times for a comedy that ridicules speech impediments. By a strange twist of fate, we watched it with a neighbor that had stuttering issues and I could not, for the life of me, get to understand how a full house could go into a mass hysteria of laughter that is aimed at a handicap. I am probably in the minority and would be branded as a 'holier than thou' snob but Back on track - I would personally not make humor targeted at a certain group, but I do have the dignity to keep my opinions and judgments to myself when I am not asked for them and when the said 'comedy' is being expressed on people's own walls and blogs. So, why would anyone get offended if I called a certain group of women 'hot' in a space other than his, under a picture other than his, and a senior, well respected, head on shoulders member of the same fraternity seems to have taken it as a beaming compliment?" I fail to understand.
Like some wise soul opined in one of her blogs recently - "that people attach their own egos to what is being said - and seldom take things like they are meant to be, or it is just the fact that we are so engrossed in finding faults with every thing we set our eyes on, that we forget our boundaries of grace. I say that being judgmental is the worst thing anyone could do - and I just did that worst thing by saying what I just said. But Hey, I am trying to make a point here - meaning, like beauty, lies in the eyes and mind of the beholder.

Original!

2011-01-10T00:24:00.000-08:00

"Hey Alex*- how are you? " I inquire enthusiastically as he comes and pulls a chair opposite to mine.
"You remember me?" he asks - without looking surprised!
"Of course I do!" I add wondering if he remembers me.

He lookes like he remembers me, or may be he doesn't care to remember... or care to remember if he rememberes!

He has that same carelessness about him - but a tenderness masked in that carelessness.

He pulls a sheet from the pile that is stacked in front of me.. I try to help him get it without rummaging the stack. He shoots a look at me with his mouth pursed tightly and his eyebrows knotted and pulls the sheet with all his might. I let go in fear of tearing the sheet into two. He lets out a carefully concealed smile but quickly goes back to his grumpy expression.

I get lost in the things I need to finish at the table - and when I look in his direction I let out a little shriek...

"What are you trying to do?" I ask him without sounding too bossy! "This is not how you do it!"

He shoots back that same disdainful look at me. A look that I try not take personally. He pauses a couple of seconds and holds on to the craft work tightly.

" I want to do it my way!" he almost yells.

" Your way?" I question back helplessly. Looking at a supposed snowman - that looks like a pile of unclean dishes with food drying on them. The embellishments that need to go on the snowman are probably dumped into a pool of glue and scattered with the hand. The hat stuck to the center with some feathers that are soaked in Elmer's washable glue.
I give up. I cannot really win with this kid! He has a very strong mind of his very own.

"All done" he smiles and walks with careless aplomb to put it on the drying rack.

The Following day:

"Hey Alex! How are you this afternoon" I question like a hyper door to door salesperson.
He doesn't answer. He just looks back at me with a pouty mouth and knit eyebrows. I smile and he makes a silly face at me. I look to my sides to see if anyone noticed his making fun of me.

"Never mind!" I say aloud. " DO you want to come and make a penguin?"

He doesn't answer. He grabs the sheet and attempts to cut the outline.

I look away to help the other kids at the table.

By the time I look back he has what looks like a Halloween ghost cut-out in his hand, instead of the "rounded at the edges" rectangle.

"let me trim it for you" I offer.

"NO" he yells. "This is his hair" he say pointing to a horn like protrusion on the 'supposed to be penguin' craft work.

Then he glues the eyes to make it look like a couple of belly buttons stacked in the center of the stomach.

"My way" he pouts mischievously.
"Is this a monster you made here?" I ask in funny mockery.

"It is a penguin silly" he snaps back and glides to the drying rack.

The 'supposed to be penguin' leers through a row of actual penguins grabbing my attention just like this little guy does in a class full of cute toddlers.

"I want to do it my way" I over hear him saying.

He is a menace, but an original menace!

God bless creativity!

:-)

*identity changed!

Soft spot

2011-01-06T22:19:00.001-08:00

A few years ago, when Titanic made all the hoopla after it's release, my then fiance called me up and told me how moved he was with the movie. I vowed to watch it with him, and thus, didn't really care to watch it till a couple of years later when we became a couple. Zack and Rose became these larger than life icons of true love and I did sit up and notice Leonardo DiCaprio and of course, Kate Winslett, the porcelain skinned, wholesome beauty. By wholesome, I don't mean chubby. I just mean that she is the perfect balance of a woman who didn't look particularly emaciated or perfectly beautiful. She was this tender, believable and lovable young lady with whom a free spirited boy like Zack would have fallen in love.
I noticed them, and then, like my usual self that cannot be in awe with a single thing for long enough - moved ahead with my life. I have a problem when people ask me what my favorite movie, actor, color, dish, restaurant or book would be. I don't pick favorites I say - or I just say that my favorites depend on a lot of things. For instance, if you ask me what my favorite color is, I'd say - My favorite color on the walls of my living room would be a minty, saga green and on my finger nails would be a nude, pinkish beige and on a sari it would vary from a delicate, organic off white to a deep, enigmatic navy blue. So - you get the idea! I cannot understand when people say their favorite actor is Shahrukh Khan or Paul Newman. I always like to keep my favorites unlocked so to speak. I like a lot of things and why I like them depends on a lot of things, so, I should give Leonardo DiCaprio the credit of holding my attention for a decade into noticing him all because of his one portrayal - and probably his debut - as a mentally challenged brother to a painfully young Johnny Depp. "What's eating Gilbert Grape" is a story that unfolds so realistically on the celluloid, and the raw talent of Leonardo only adds to the depth of the soul of the movie. If I am ever asked what acting means to me, I'd refer to that outstanding performance by Leonardo.
Like I said, I am very non-committal about favorites, but the DiCaprio lad haunts me from time to time. On one such haunting episodes, I googled him recently to find out that he is older to me. So - I can officially declare Leonardo as an actor who is my semi favorite. You might wonder why his being older to me would entitle him to that honor in my books - it is because I look at every one younger to me with an almost motherly attitude - probably because I was only the second oldest in a gang of a couple of dozen cousins and I grew up with these little siblings and cousins around me. So for me to be in awe with someone, that someone has to be older - so luckily for Leo, he still holds that 'soft spot' owing to his year of birth! LOL. My superiority complex would not allow me to look at anyone younger to me with a 'admiration' quotient. I only look at younger people with an older sisterly or motherly quotient.

I named my Nook e-book reader Leo. I'll probably own a sexy car one day and call 'him' Leo. If I get a chance, I'll name a baby boy (other than mine) Leo. Like I said, I don't believe in fanaticism...I just semi believe in it!

Aptitude

2011-01-02T21:31:00.000-08:00

We all seem to have it for certain things and lack it for others. Like I did for color. I had this huge aptitude for color. Actually color and words - and lacked it for spelling. Actually, spelling and numbers ( more for numbers). Right from my first grade, I knew my problem area. I seldom attended the Math class - mentally that is - and the few times I attended it, I didn't make heads or tails out of it. I hard wired my brain to refuse all data involving numbers so it was the biggest academic ordeal to by heart the multiplication tables and even till date, I take the aid of a calculator to do simple arithmetic. I spent the better part of my life hating numbers and proudly proclaiming to be a math atheist but when I look back now, I feel that it was just a mental trick I played on myself due to lack of understanding for the subject. There came a time in my academics when I couldn't afford to not like numbers and it is then that I kind of developed an aptitude for them only to shun them for ever after a deviation in my undergrad to language and literature.
Now I see a "mini me" in the making. My little daughter. She can sit and color and paint and write the alphabet and sing and dance for ever - but when asked to write the numbers, she doesn't refuse to learn but never really learns them the way they are supposed to be learned. "But I want to be an artist" she'd announce and whine and sulk till I let her get away without writing the numbers for me. Determined to make her develop an aptitude for numbers, I employed the logical half of the marriage to teach the kiddo some numbers - it resulted into a "Indian parliament in session" kind of scenario in the household for the past so many days. I see an otherwise cool dad rising his voice and an otherwise peace-loving child getting into wild argument and name calling. Helplessly, I intertwine and give the little lady and ultimatum that if she doesn't learn it form me, I'll look for places that she'd learn it from (read boarding schools)
I still am not successful to make her love numbers as yet, but it is a public promise that I shall - very soon! So all this drama gets me to think - Is there really something called aptitude, or is it just a pretty mask to disguise the laziness to learn things that need more than a quick scanning?? The answer is pretty simple if one ponders about it - just like we blame our mood on things we don't want to do/not do - we do take the pretext of aptitude as well. I once told a very intelligent friend of mine (who happens to be an Ivy league grad and Fellow in technology - that I am technically challenged and I don't really care for it) all this, during an internet chat! He was quick to bite back - "how can you use a medium so fondly and not like it?" he asked! "Liking something is all about making an attempt to know it for what it is" - I hold on to these words like a talisman, and the more I thought about what he said, the more similarities I found in prose, poetry, technology and numbers. writing a computer program is like writing a classic piece of poetry and solving a math problem is like creating characters in a novel - all these acts require brains and creativity. Come to think of it in a "knowing something before loving it perspective - how could I have loved the person I married if I had not made an attempt to know him in the first place? Right?? - Right! - so does aptitude really exist? May be it does - and so does determination, concentration, grit and conviction. I might never enjoy numbers as much as I do words, but that need not be a reason for being ignorant about numbers - so I'd say, inclination should rule over aptitude. It is said that we use only a minuscule part of our brain - may be we can increase the usage a wee bit more and we might not really have anything that we'd not enjoy. And the' girl things' and 'boy things' we divide tasks into is also a hopeless stigma - that is probably the reason why I love women who can repair a computer and men who can make yummy food.
I look back and regret why I didn't love numbers, and why I didn't pay heed to my intensely mathematical sister when she chased me around to teach me exponents. I'd have had a beautiful relationship with them and solving number problems would have probably taught me a thing or two about life itself - as a compensation I promise myself - I'll not let my daughter be a slave of aptitude. She'll know all and do what she loves the most - even if it means that I need to pop in a Tylenol for that stress induced headache to argue with a logic-less toddler over logical numbers. It's all in the game of parenting, living, making mistakes and learning!

Newness.

2011-01-01T19:51:00.000-08:00

It was very exciting starting new academic years. I'd wait for the class teacher to arrive and then know more about who else would teach us. It was a mad excitement to cover our books, get our school supplies and get ready for newness like never before. There was this anticipation to make things work better than the previous year, to score better and to learn better and to secretly wish that the teachers would love me better than my previous year. It was like a magical new beginning with a promise of freshness with no mistakes at all.
Much like New years now. A new year - tough it is just a mark of a new calendar - kindles a lot of hopes, aspirations and ambitions big and small. New ventures form in the grey cells. New hopes sprout in the form of firm resolutions - like wanting to rise before the sun, yearning to lose the flab around the midriff or giving up junk food or wishful thinking to learn to play an instrument or revisit Algebra and figure out why it really was a challenge back in school days. New years day sees the temples overflowing with devotees who flock around the Heavenly father to convince him to be on their side for the year to come. "New" - the buzz word becomes ubiquitous in all hearts and minds thereby encouraging new hopes. The second day of a brand new year dawns and the squeaky clean shine on the new year tarnishes ever so slightly - It isn't that new any more. Resolutions still go strong till about the time Valentine's day hurries in. The hopes, aspirations and expectations start exiting slowly but surely. The magic is gone, along with the newness. When the newness goes - most things lose magic - Cars, electronics, homes, fashion, food and even relationships. That is probably the reason why most magazines I read have "ten ways to put the zest back into your marriage" or "top three mistakes you make to drive your partner out". As a child I read a self help book that claimed to teach the readers how to stop worrying. "Live in day tight compartments" it said - urging the readers not to look beyond any give day. The idea is to make the most of the day you have on hand and not worry about what might happen ten years form now. In a similar fashion - if we probably start looking at each day as a new day, we'll have the zeal and the grit to make the most out of a brand new day - the one that is fresh without any mistakes - chances are we'll have a new hope each day, every day and the resolutions will stay put through mother's day, father's day, 4th of july, labor day, haloween, thanksgiving and Christmas. We'll not really have to wait till the magical new year to put some pizazz into our lives. Each day is new, each minute, each moment - enjoy responsibly - live fully, entirely!

New Beginning

2011-01-01T01:36:00.000-08:00

Wishing all my supporters, cheerers, well wishers and all the world wide web a wonderful New year Ahead :-)

Having, Owning, Sharing and Cherishing.

2010-12-27T14:54:00.000-08:00

A pair of makeshift sliding doors made out of MDF sit on the groove of the little cube like cupboard that houses her precious belongings. But behind the sliding doors, a very cherished bottle of nail enamel - half used, thick and slimy form all the use, sits almost like an idol meant for worship. The eleven year old's awe for painting nails makes this her most prized thing for a good year to come, till the remnants of the bottle get thinned with acetone again and again and again, and till the last drop of the varnish gets used on her tiny nail buds. "Waco" reads the name on the bottle holding the pinkish mauve nail color sprinkled with generous flecks of gold. "Waco"! - she wonders what it is supposed to mean! The sliding doors open and close numerous times in a day, Just one bottle of nail paint precedes all happy pills and potions.

*********

Candy usually means the hard candy - the hard boiled, dyed sugar marbles wrapped in cellophane paper and twisted and tied on either end. Sometimes she'd get to eat a whole one and at other times, she'd share them with her siblings - carefully wrapping the candy in a handkerchief and biting it over the kerchief so as to prevent contamination. When her dad's friend gets them a whole box of cocoa chocolates - it naturally becomes the treasure she'd waited to cherish all her life. '5 star" the golden wrapper reads - and the Advertisement she's watched all her growing years plays back in her mind reminding her of the caramel and the milk chocolate sleeve on the top. She gets to take one full bar to school - and all she does the whole day would be looking at the wrapper and thinking twice to open the bar. At long last she'd carefully cut open the chocolate, nibble on it, taking the tiniest possible bites and once the chocolate is enjoyed, she'd flatten the wrapper flat and tuck it in between the pages of her heaviest text book, much like a trophy of good times. The lucky girl lived in the times of moderation.

********

The kids flock around her humongous luggage. The festive season of Diwali shines through the high rise's numerous windows in the form of tiny electric lamps stung into breathtaking garlands. The gifts keep pouring in - Silverware, fine chocolates, dry fruits, hand poured candles and idols of Indian Gods and Goddesses. They are religiously opened and admired, and then the hoards of chocolates end up in plastic boxes, neatly stacked in the refrigerator. Most of them get distributed to maids and guests, but somehow, they seem to magically multiply. The three little girls that flock around her luggage seem oblivious to all that finery of snacks. She thoughtfully opens her luggage and takes out the gifts. "The Diary of a wimpy kid" comes out and the oldest of the girls lets out a shriek. Then the dolls, the dresses and more fine chocolates. The shrieks fade, the gifts fade too...losing their allure in no time - till the maid comes around, collects them and tucks them away in the cupboards busting at seams with all kinds of toys, crafts and art supplies. She gazes through the abundance, remembering "Waco" and "5 star" - and feels blessed to have belonged to a time of moderation and cherishing.

********

There must be a reason why women of all shapes, sizes, backgrounds and ages list shopping as a favorite pastime, and she is not exempt from the demograph. When she spots the hoarding announcing the "All India arts and crafts Exhibition" she silently sketches a plan to visit and convinces her sister to follow suit. The ladies drag their back sides and bags stacked with green paper, being the self proclaimed Art connoisseurs they are. The exhibition oozes promise. Hand carved wooden figures, painstakingly detailed art work on palm leaves, richly embroidered saris showcasing the dexterity of artists that never see the light of glory for their talent, hand knit bead spreads that take months to complete and still cost only as much as a couple of meals in a moderately upbeat eatery, toys made out of paper maiche, paintings of gods and goddesses, almost in a life like form, detailed by hands of mortals that struggle to fill their bellies - the whole display looks like an irony - the sad tales of artisans that are masked by the enormity and beauty of their craftsmanship. The sisters pick a thing here and a thing there - stopping at the kulfi stand to get a quick refreshment after a long shopping trip. She picks a matka - filled with kulfi and sealed on top with a bandhni printed fabri, tied together with a golden lace. Just as they step out and get ready to cross the road and head to the car - tiny little hands grab her dress and pull them downward yelling at her to give them the kulfi. "give me" give me" the shrill voice shouts and she lifts her hands up in air in reflux - confused as to what is happening. She looks at the child, perhaps a three year old boy, dresses in shorts and shirt a couple of sizes too big for his frame and sporting a dirty pile of hair pulled back into a pony tail. She realizes what he is asking for, and hands him the kulfi. The boy lumbers away with glee as a couple of little kids chase him for their share. An onlooker form an auto rickshaw looks at her and smiles - She returns it back and looks in the direction of the kid - "cute guy" she says aloud. "It's a girl" her sister adds.
She looks back thoughtfully - and feels blessed to have existed in a time of moderation - that perfect spot in between having too much and having too little;-)

********

And one more to go ....

The couple defines 'good looking' to a tee - tall and slender guy with a grin so bright, you'd think he had won the lottery and a petite, dainty lady to his side with dirty blond hair that is pulled back into a neat ponytail. The bonny little girl changed hands between her mom and dad like a victory trophy while they held her closed to their hearts and smothered her with hugs and kisses. The little girl, looking like a baby GAP model, flashed her toothless gums and traveled so well across the proverbial seven oceans. she made gurgling sounds and instantly rewarded onlookers and admirers with a smile that would drive all the stuffiness of flying in a humongous trap of an aircraft miles up the sea level. I passed by them every time I hauled my own little bundle to the loo. The baby sat there on her dad's lap with her eternal smile. We got down our flight, the couple waited ahead of us to get into the limo service to go back home - probably in a divine ploy to have their stork deliver the little one on the eve of Christmas - the most magical day of the year! My eyes met with the dad's and I couldn't resist paying my genuine compliment to the baby GAP model - "she'll walk on the ramp one day" - the dad smiled his brightest, and thanked me, reflecting the same genuineness. They got into the limo as the driver held an open door to the little lady and her daddy.

I know how it is to deliver a child - they say kids that are not delivered the biological way are delivered straight out of the parents' heart....Actually, I shouldn't say they say it, since I saw it first hand as this ebony cherub with thick knotty hair and the cutest face ever paced back and forth in her parents arms - marking the stark difference in their epidermis and displaying the invisible cord of love that bound her to their hearts - a cord so strong that it dragged them all the way from Livermore, CA, USA to some unknown, unnamed village in Ethiopia, Africa where some unfortunate mom and dad renounced a lucky little soul to enjoy the bliss of being born in some blessed parents' heart on the other side of the globe.

One child at a time - God give them all loads of love! Amen!

Second Look.

2010-12-27T08:17:00.000-08:00

I'd been a regular to my homeland, in all these years of being an immigrant US citizen, and every time I go back, my home here ceases to exist. I go back to my childhood home, and in a strange way, I relive my young/teen years again. I marvel at the cluster of coconut palms that guard the roads, the song like accent of my native land, the enormously peaceful river Godavari and the three bridges that connect my home town with the other side of the river. It suddenly strikes me - the beauty I grew up with for a good couple of decades, which never really stuck me the way it does right now. I look at the land overlooking the river and the three bridges and suddenly have this urge to own a vacation home there - for the view beats the Golden Gate view in the sought after neighborhood of Fransisco - May be it really does, in its own right!

As my car passes the school I attended, the picture folds and unfolds a lanky, awkward teenager in long braids and bright acne. I relive the days in a flash and something inside my soul stirs. As I look out of the window of my car, I see numerous pictures flashing before me, a couple of dogs sitting high on a bale of hay, crows landing on buffaloes, bright smiles of kids from the slums with matted hair and soiled clothes - but the smiles obliterate all the dullness of their existence. Vegetable vendors that hawk their goods in high pitched voices and house wives that flock around them bargaining, handpicking the veggies that satisfy their pallettes. Loud hymns from the nearby temples that amalgam with traffic noises, trying to drown them in the sounds of stupid devotion. In all this bedlam, the peace of being in a small town prevails. The breeze from the river makes it mark with the humidity. My skin renounces moisturizer and embraces an unmistakable glow making people wonder if I'd had an expensive facial, my hair bounces with vitality, just from getting rinsed in the elixir of the river water and my whole being responds to the land of my birth- my destiny!

As the renowned poet urged - Ye Desamegina, yendu kaalindina, Ye Peethamekkina, Yevvreduraina...pogadaraa nee talli bhoomi Bharati ni! - It only comes naturally here, without wanting to do it for the sake of doing it~!

Ga ga for Grisham.

2010-11-11T05:15:00.000-08:00

I was always intrigued by fiction - but somewhere down the line I stumbled upon Short stories in my teen years - I think a one named "Cyclone" By the Indian author Raja Rao and ever since, my love affair with short stories had continued. In a fiction writing class a few years ago, I'd churned out some pathetic short stories and actually believed that they were "The New Yorker" material. Anyway, in the process of writing stories, I was introduced to the annual volume - BASS, short for Best American Short stories. During that class, I might not have really learnt how to make it to the New Yorker - but have come to appreciate short works of fiction more that their longish counterparts. I was selective, actually, I am selective about what I read - since I have this allegedly offbeat and upbeat taste if my friends and siblings are to be believed - and I am convinced that they substitute these adjectives for "weird" and "strange" to keep me happy. The opinions are opened for debate.

Back on track, I think Jumpha Lahari earned not just the Pulitzer, but my immense respect for her short story series "The interpreter of Maladies" while I opine that Chitra Divakaruni is more a mediocre writer. For my weird and strange taste, I need the author to charm me with his/her insight and observation into human hearts, minds and psyches.

Now, when I explore my leisure with a book in hand, seated in the huge window of a high rise, while my senses gaze through the infinite skyscrapers in South Mumbai - I feel kind of blessed, to have a chance to look at human ways through the eyes of John Grisham. I crossed paths with him a few years ago, when I read a book named "The Client" that I chanced upon. I remember the graphic of the cover, the place I read it (in a plane form NJ to SFO) and many other things surrounding the experience - but I sadly forgot about the plot, the characters and the author. John Grisham, this tall, lanky, shrewd looking lawyer didn't really charm me with his brains up until now. The only lukewarm thing about reading his book was he made it a cake walk for me. It was a book about some legal battle- and that's what I thought he wrote all that time and conveniently crossed him off of my ga ga list.

Grisham's Stories of Ford County lets my mind romance with the often overlooked, ugly, naive,sly, stupid and manipulative side of the human mind. he kind of reminds me that beneath all the barriers, skin colors and languages - there is one thing that binds us all humans - and it is that way we are from the inside - the pretty and pretty ugly sides we have that are camouflaged in glorious outsides and stories. I'd not read enough to say this is his best work - but this series of stories remind me of a native movie director cum author that wrote short stories in a regional language - that I again chanced upon during my last visit to my country. Just like Grisham, the local talent Vamsi worte unforgettable stories around scarily real characters hailing form the Lower Godavari region that I hail from. Though these series are set a world apart form the Ford County in southern US, they speak the same language of human nature.

I kind of feel overwhelmed to write all that is passing through my mind as I cross path with Grisham again - but I felt the necessity to record this awe while it is fresh. Mr. Grisham took my admiration for writers, observers and short stories to another level - so much so that I feel a twang of pride in this silly blah blah as well.

Welcome Home!

2010-11-09T06:13:00.001-08:00

This little dude - probably a year old?, was shaking his backside and clapping to a bhajan that was being played in my sister's apt lobby. The proud daddy leaned on the wall of the lift and smiled away to glory as I stopped and paid complementing attention. The mom came out and called the little one "Vivan - c0me back" but our mini govinda paid no heed. I said in my most genuinely smitten tone "He is adorable" The mom gave a quick glance at me and turned away.
I tried not to grin too much - the lift opened and I jumped into it - the doors shut as if to protect me from the humiliation.
What's up with people? Can't they smile and say thanks to a kind word??

Sign language!

2010-10-30T19:13:00.001-07:00

Aarti is very very inquisitive about a lot of things - from why Dog mommies give up their puppies to human mommies to why the moon stalks us every where we go. In this process of q and a - she spots the tiniest possible signs on all things from crayola boxes to car seats. "amma - what does that sign say?" she asks me - and I'd say, it says - keep it away form eyes (the sign on my straightening iron)

This afternoon she came up with a sign - she grabbed the first crayon from her art box, pulled a paper out of her daddy's copier and quickly swiped her hand across the paper. Then she got some tape and glued it on all sides to the door of her room.

No prizes for guessing what she banned from her room!

:-))

Sounding like Suess (Dr)

2010-10-25T23:46:00.000-07:00

Candy Brigandy is a gal with cool,
She's the homecoming queen of senior high school!
But as her name suggests she's not really sweet
That's the reason why her title is a cheat!
Not the title of "Home Coming Queen"
But the one that is given in the naming routine
While she shut her eyes and cried with her might
In the hospital located south of McBright.

Candy Brigandy is pretty but sly
She broke the hearts of many a guy
That fell flat for her outward charms
Blissfully unaware of her inward Alarms!
Alarms of being fully in love
With her own self deeming herself above
All the earthly creatures falling for her charms-
Blissfully unaware of her inward Alarms!!

Enter Randy Fernandy, the guy with guts
Who called Candy Brigandy a total klutz.
A kluts with words and numbers and hearts,
a klutz as well at science and Arts!
For Randy Fernandy was a total nerd
Complete with Glasses, looking absurd!
But Randy Fernandy didn't care for looks
His world was bright with stacks of books!

Candy-Randy war began with a bang
With either party forming a gang.
Candy's gang had bangs and high heels
Randy's gang loved automobiles
Not the ones that are fancy and fast
But the physics of the autos - fancy and fast!
Randy called Candy a brainless Bimbo
Candy called Randy a Geeky Robo
Candy's gang called Randy's a bunch of Whacko
And Randy's gang called Candy's IQ lacko!

The town of McBright which was normally dull
The town of McBright that slept to a Lull,
Got a nice big makeover over Candy-Randy war,
The news spread like fire, wide and far!
The whole town looked like taking sides
And fighting the war of Beauty-Brain divides.
The town of McBright that was normally dull
Sprang to life like a hunting seagull.
The war of beauty and brains took off
And the McBright town had its buttons to on from Off!

...To be continued!

Loving

2010-10-20T01:45:00.000-07:00

Loving -
The skin I am in.
The acne scars,
Redness!
The sun tan,
Fine lines
Leaving the evidence
Of Expression.
Loving -
The thoughts that generate
In the grey matter.
Lofty and silly ones alike.
Loving -
Being a daughter, wife and mom
A reliable friend
A reliable person,
For that matter!
Loving love handles,
Ponch - that protrudes
Like a trophy of motherhood.
Loving everything within and without!
For it is one action
That makes the journey worthwhile
The Pains and pleasures memorable!

The pursuit of -----?

2010-10-19T01:42:00.000-07:00

When I was in fourth grade, we were asked to write about an essay titled "Myself". Our class teacher, sister Mercy gave us some tips on how to approach the subject on hand. It was amusing how all of us followed her instructions to the last tee and just now, while writing this, I had realized how alike we all sounded. Anyway, the grand finale of divulging all about myself was what I wanted to become when I grow up. In simpler words, we were asked to write about our ambition. I don't very well recollect what every one else aspired to be, but I wanted to "Go to Space" - It was probably the influence of a certain astronaut of Indian origin that made me think so - but I most certainly wanted to "Go to Space" LOL. Then, a few years down the line, I was asked to write exclusively about my ambition in a second language class. I came up with the punchline ending first, before I really thought what I wanted to become when I grow up - I was probably a writer already, but I said I wanted to be a Lawyer - just because I had this cheesy line ending all the blabber - " ....and I'll prove that Justice is not something that could be bought!" (Grin) So anyway, I was on the road to manipulate my ambition for getting an applause or a few extra marks that would make me the class topper. Or, may be - just may be, I did not really know what to become. On another occasion, I said I wanted to be a mathematician when my math teacher asked the billion dollar question. I didn't know why I said it, since I could not make peace with numbers and equations if you'd threaten me of third degree torture. Then for the best part of my middle and high school, I wanted to be a surgeon. My best pal got so influenced by me that she wanted to be a surgeon too.
Reflecting back, I realize that I never really wanted to be what I am now. It was just destiny or lack thereof that I feel so awfully comfortable and content in my 'homemaker' cloak of invisibility form planet ambition. There is one thing that I consistently did all these years - write and then think and then some write - so, though I want to be a hundred things from a photographer to a chef, I have this one passion that followed me from my childhood and that is what I am doing as we speak. While my peers make hefty pay packages and join themselves in the 'power couple' club, I, for the love of God, sit at my dining table and write - a job that doesn't pay me a single shilling - but gives me this immense satisfaction, and the more I think about people who work in the jobs they don't enjoy to make the money they don't need - the more I feel proud of my choice of doing what I love. I feel that having the opportunity to do what you want is a luxury. Like some one said, if your passion becomes your job and you get paid for it, you are God's own child. So what is all this mad rush about making to world class universities or employers? What is the pursuit? How many of us really do what we like without bothering about what we get paid for it? Some of us do for sure - that explains the fire fighters and preschool teachers because both are among those over worked, underpaid, "labor of love" jobs. But how many of the parents applaud a kid if he/she says she'd want to be a preschool teacher or a fire fighter?
I recently asked a couple of high school kids in my social circle as to what they'd want to be. They both wanted to be Doctors. Why highschoolers? The KG kid I know, who doesn't yet know what being a Doc is except for wearing a fancy white coat and looking down childrens' nostrils and throats also wants to be a - you guessed it right - Doctor! With the highschoolers, I'd asked - "So none of you wants to a lawyer?" and the dad of one of the kids replied - "Yeah, Lawyers! - they get paid exorbitant amounts" - I smiled and nodded my head in two three four directions and inwardly pitying the kids who'd probably choose pay over a pay off. That probably explains why every body and their neighbor's family tree wants to be in the well paying Engineering and Medical fields. I am yet to meet a kid who wants to be a teacher or a Librarian.
The other day Aarti came to me and announced that she wants to be an artist. I said "you can be what ever you want to be" - and I meant every word of it. Research shows that people with the least salaries are the happiest. So happiness is not directly proportional to the pay check. It is one thing to be a doc and enjoy doing what you do and another thing to be a doc for the fiscal benefit it offers. They say the state of AP, India, has more Engineering colleges than students who could fill them - so technically, all you need to get an engineering degree is sources who could fund you. How many of these people really like what they are pursuing? or know what they are pursuing for that matter? This trend probably explains all the frustrated, unemployed, mediocre professionals we have in our country. Why is it that no one wants to be an archaeologist, or a curator - or may be a stock broker? May be, they are being guided by guardians who, like primary school kids, manipulate their ambitions to impress with a punch line business card or a hefty bank balance. Everyone in this word from life giving doctors to grave digging undertakers pursue one thing in life - Happiness, contentment or security - and the only way to get to it is really, wholeheartedly, thoroughly enjoy what they do to fill their stomachs.
I am happy doing what I do - whether I get paid in currency or not - and I am blessed to realize that what I do makes me happy!

Butterfly

2010-10-12T15:02:00.000-07:00

Our little critter-
Is a friend of the flowers,
She comes with her dainty wings
Fluttering like the lashes of a baby!
Someone shut me
From traffic, people and chores
I need is a tete-e-tete
With the queen of colors.
she lifts herself, with a pro like ease!
Glides in the air
Oblivious, triumphant -
About her life changing journey
From creepy and crawling
To Pretty and startling!
She devours the blooms
Letting me devour
Her beauty in return.
Our little critter
She is the friend of meadows
Punctuated with creeks
And lush green bushes.
Someone shut me
From thoughts, tasks and duties -
All I need is one long look
At Freedom on wings
At the magic of metamorphosis!

Coming back.

2010-10-12T00:41:00.000-07:00

I'd been hopelessly horrible in keeping up with blogging but you just have to believe me that I write in my mind- ALL THE TIME! - yeah, it is worth yelling that I do ;-) Some of the topics I'd pondered upon in my mind's blog ranged form very profound to utterly shallow. For instance, recently one of my uncles turned 60 and he wrote to all his well wishers saying he doesn't feel a day older than sixteen. I kind of relate to him now. A decade ago, I'd not have understood the downsides of aging, thankfully or otherwise, now I do. I kind of know why people stick to being 16 and don't understand why they are treated as old, ancient, uncool or dated. The person inside remains the same - the outward appearance changes and so does the way people look at you.
Age seems to be a ubiquitous topic every where. From peers wanting to know who among them is the youngest or oldest and feeling like they'd conquered Mt.Everest if they are young, to people saying Aishwarya rai looks old and ragged in Robot, opposite the ever young Rajnikanth - the talk about aging is everywhere reminding us that we are younger or older or just plain 'past prime.' I had the pleasure of meeting a particularly proud young thing in the recent past who seems to not get over how young she is - (she is legally old enough to consume alcohol BTW)
and I wonder why being young entitles oneself to feel so proud and accomplished. At twenty one, I was running a house hold and wondering if my future son would look like Aftab Shivdasani and don't recollect being proud of being twenty one. In fact, I was oblivious to my age. I think a decade passes in a flash and only a couple of flashes ago I was this language loving school girl with an endless fascination to strap sandals. Somewhere, somehow, I don't think I'd aged over sixteen from within though I seem to be more at peace with myself now than I was then. That being said, I feel like a very sane, sensible and savvy sixteen year old with stray grays in my crowning glory. So why is the stigma of age attached to Homo Sapience? Is it because age comes and kicks collagen out of your epidermis and makes you look a lot different from how you feel or is it because you are not just as fast or as healthy or as active? Is looking good everything in life and staying young the only way of looking good?I don't know answers for these though many women are probably seeking answers in their Derm's office with the aid of Botox and face lifts!
Say, we have no concept of age and no one acknowledges the outer signs of aging - will the world still want to hide their numbers and wrinkles under potentially harmful procedures? One can only wonder!

In my highschool days, I read a poem written by a very famous poet and social reformer that hailed from my home town in India. He grieved -
valibharmukha makrantham
Phalitenam Kitam siraha
Gatrani Sidhilayente
Trishnaika Tarunayathe.

Loosely translated from Sanskrit to English this means -

The face is conquered by wrinkles
The hair has succumbed to greying
The body is in ruins
But The Yearning stays youthful.

The poem got me very deep in thought. Here, the poet talks about how his yearning to be beneficial to the society is still in its prime while all his body shows intense signs of aging. Yearning - which more of a mental thing stays eternally youthful. So, though I was at a ridiculously young age to even admit to the fact that aging is the inevitable destiny of all living beings, I did drive home the fact that the heart goes beyond aging. Into my thirties, I am now aware of it more than I ever was since I see little shadows forming on my alleged 'million dollar smile' a few years ago. I count the years pass by and in a way, mourn the steady loss of youthfulness, but I still give a double take at a cute guy, or get all worked about painting my nails and going on a shopping trip. So, technically, I cannot put an age on my heart. I can just say, the my heart has no age and so does my mom's who will be sixty next year or my Grand uncle's who's one of the most handsome men I'd seen and is a good half century older to me.

It is very unfortunate that age and maturity are not proportional. I'd feel proud of being mentally mature than physically young notwithstanding how old or young I am - and that should be the hallmark of a beautiful person. The robust complexions and great metabolisms can take a chill pill since they don't really make a difference to any person in the long run. They'll all pass - but the inside will remain, the creases on the mind and heart - the creases of jealousy, selfishness and vanity are the ones that undermine our worth - not the ones that form on our bodies.

Never a Superstar

2010-10-09T23:19:00.000-07:00

Here's a link to Harsha Bhogle's write up on V V S Laxman - info that threw light on the artist and the muse - the artist of Words and the muse who's lauded as an artist. An impressive work - either way!
www.cricinfo.com/magazine/content/story/480388.html

Child.

2010-09-29T14:13:00.000-07:00

Great Things
Come in little packages?
Pin straight, stark black Hair
Cascading onto the forehead,
Framing a tiny face.
Little hands and feet,
Almost dangling
Out of over sized tees and shorts.
Power packed attitude
That punches in the palm
With a puny twist,
When asked for a Hi Five.
Sorrow filled tiny eyes
When the discovery
Of not bringing the lunch Dawns.
Monkey like gait,
Laughing, screaming,
Making havoc on the way
Sly, sassy, little kid
That touches the heart
With his lack of manners
And abundance of mischief.
Great thing, tiny package
A tot that is hard to be missed!

One more.

2010-09-06T23:35:00.000-07:00

Birthdays were always fun - and this one is no different. I'm taking a deep breath and thanking God for all the blessings and great friends he sent my way:-)
Happy B'day to me~!

Number

2010-07-29T16:11:00.000-07:00

The day I was ten and six
I loved sparkly things,
Lady bugs, drops of rain
Painting nails
reading books.
The day I was ten and six
I sang in the shower
loved splashes of color
collected earrings
wrote love notes to my lover.
The day I was ten and six
I stopped to watch the world pass by
I laughed and cried
watching comedy and tragedy
on screen and off of it.
The day I was ten and six
I was a girl woman.
I dreamed of my home
my kids, my chores
I wrote poetry and prose
and loved solitude
as much as I loved crowds.

Time passed, I became ten and six
twice over.
I am a woman girl
still loving bumble bees and lady bugs
sparkly trinkets
nail lacquer, well written books
Still smitten by my lover
Still singing in my shower.

ten and six or thirty and two
You just stay you.
The count-up of age is just a number
It might apply to your laugh lines
and hair density.
But
The inside remains the same.

Ponder

2010-06-05T14:45:00.000-07:00

Ten years ago, when I was a newcomer into adulthood, marriage and this country, I was looking at things in a different paradigm - by things, I mean all things in general and kids in particular. I'd always been more compatible with people out of my age group and the older group of friends I have in my friends' dads and moms is evidence. My vibe with kids was great too. The curly haired, dimpled cutie that lived in our neighborhood was an instant draw towards me. I used to babysit her while her mom grappled with a younger kid and a career path. So, this little one, let's call her Farah, was like a roommate of sorts, sharing my living space and the secret to the stash of treats in my pantry (that existed to cater to all the little ones that I baby sat, out of sheer admiration for kids) Farah's personality was as vibrant as the color of her auburn tresses that cascaded down into Shierly Temple curls. Her middle Eastern descend contributed to her glowing complexion and soulful dark eyes. She was a very confident kid, that was not afraid of speaking her mind out. Once I let her into my house, she'd walk into the kitchen, open the pantry door and demand for a cookie or a candy. "Give me a treat" she'd command, and I'd follow her cues and give her what she wanted. Her confidence came with a fearless streak of curiosity. She'd look around the house and touch and hold everything, including my fine china that was displayed with pride in my "easily accessible by a five year old" kitchen Island shelf. Little did I know about the concept of child proofing.
Farah was an easy definition of a brat for all the neighbors. I was probably too young and immature myself that I'd actually expected a five year old to have impeccable manners and 'under-wraps' curiosity. I was borderline judging her and joining force with the 'holier than thou' mothers around me. For a good couple of years, I'd expected kids to listen, not yell, not demand and not throw tantrums when things don't go their way. It was probably the product of the influence of moms who either thought of kids in two categories, namely - their kids and bad kids, or moms whose child raising experiences went to college along with their kids, or young women like me who weren't moms yet.
And then, one day, in a telephone conversation with a relative about some bratty kid, I said it. "Kids are not dolls - how can we expect them to stay at one place?" I was far from being a mom, but the wisdom dawned upon me that Farah wasn't a brat- she was a kid and kids don't understand the concept of impressing others with their best behavior at all times. If I'd want a cookie at someone's place, I'd not ask them for it - I'll probably wait and get disappointed but would not ask, since I am aware. Since I am an adult and probably since I know how to pretend to not want something.
I say one thing to all moms that label kids - That " It is never a kid's fault. If a certain kid in the school comes and says an utterly rude thing to someone - firstly it might not be what is sounds like. Secondly, the kid is probably parrot talking from what falls in her ear shot. And from my own experience, I had realized that, more often than not, it is not the parent's fault either. In the process of growing up and assimilating all the data dumped onto their tender brains throuh what they see and hear - kids say or do inappropriate things. If an older kid is particularly pesky, I'd probably point fingers at too much pampering, but we never know why they say what they say. So my golden rule with kids is "Never Judge" I'd heard adults who brand kids as manipulative or attention seeking. If a little girl shows interest in dress up or feigns a bottle brush as a mascara wand, it doesn't mean that she'd grow up to be an attention seeking man eater. It is just an innocent process of growing up or at the most, the double Xs in her chromosomes.Many of us probably look it it as the latter if it is the fruit of our love - Sad but true!
In my early years of education, I was a pathetic student. I remember a teacher branding me as a ' lazy fool'. I was too young to understand what it meant then, but those words ring in my ears after a good quarter century. I grew up to be a school topper, but somehow, the "lazy fool" managed to stay fresh in my memory. They didn't cause me any damage - They could have.

If someone wise had opined that children are like God, they had meant it in the same exact sense that children are free of malice, pretense and presumptions. So, the ones that are all grown should step out of their malicious, pretentious, presumptuous shoes and take a second glance at what they are evaluating.

Farah moved out of our neighborhood a few years later - for many, she might be the bratty, ill mannered child. For me, thankfully, she'll always be this exceptionally pretty angel in a child's disguise.

This and That!

2010-05-18T23:18:00.000-07:00

These are really individual blogworthy, thought worthy topics - but I'm determined to put these across before they fade just as soon as they emerged - so here goes the ponder hodgepodge.

After a long long, really long, ( did I mention that it was very long?) time, I actually got to watch a full length bollywood movie, in all it's mushy glory. The movie - named "Pyaar Impossible" means "Love Impossible" in literal translation, dwells upon the thought that people just get attracted to each other based on looks and love cannot actually happen if someone doesn't have the first recommendation in the form of looks. While the though on which the movie is built sounds pretty convincing, I beg humbly to differ and not attach the stigma of looks to love, since, in my own radar, I'd come across men and women who were not conventionally handsome or pretty, but still managed to attract a whole bunch of the opposite sex towards them. Any relationship cannot sustain upon the foundation of good looks (for long!) So unless you are a teenager, or mentally a teenager, you should not take the thought very seriously. Whether you are a babe loitering around in scandalously short dress (to work) or a dude with over sized geeky glasses and overgreased hair - Love is never possible nor impossible based on the length of your dress or the thickness of your glasses, Period. So, the thought the movie is based on is semi flawed. Priyanka's character is totally flawed. She is shown as a self made, successful professional but fails to reprimand her six year old daughter when she puts her nannies through borderline torture too good to tolerated even when it comes form a light eyed, cute little girl. May be it is the mom in me over reacting, but I'd lose my credibility as a person if I let my little girl get away with calling someone "froggy" or "my slave".

As much as I hate to admit, and given my hard to please criticism, I should give the credit where it belongs and agree that Uday Chopra, for once, came across as talented. After all, he has the same genes as his dad and older bro. It seems the dialogues and script were written by him and that's where the amateurish streak comes into play. May be I should just let the compliment be and not dilute it.

Finally, I cannot believe, that I actually watched the movie, squinting and oblivious to the six course meal that was being prepared in the background while I watched away at my friend's place. The Hollywood type chick flick was all I needed to call my weekend relaxing - thanks to the gang who took care of Aarti while I forgot my surroundings.

On a different note, I did get a chance to feel 25 again since Aarti went on an extended playdate which actually became a sleep over/live over for a couple of days. Sarat and I had our usual spiritual talk on the way to a friend's - which happens every time we get a chance to be alone. So the topic this time around was 'Karma"

The concept of Karma baffles me. While on one hand we say kids are like God, on the other, countless kids across the globe are put through abuse I cannot fathom or put in words. This was my question for the spiritually enlightened other half - "why does God put kids through this?" Why cannot someone bare the fruits of his or her Karma once they are grown and actually understand the profoundity of the ways of the world as we perceive them. The answer was pretty convincing - God does not put anyone through anything. It is just the choices we make that put us in situations. So, the person who is harming a child does it out of his free will - and God doesn't have control over someone's will. So folks, Choices it is - Between Good and Bad and Evil and Divine. So may be, if each of us is more introspective about the choices we make, may be the world can be a place free of child abuse.

I was also a bit creative, dusted my SLR and took some pics that might revive my pic blog, if I can get past the inertia.

Ego

2010-04-20T22:18:00.001-07:00

I, Me, Myself
Oblivious to all else!
Making the world revolve
Around one little "I"
Or what I like
And What I believe!
I, Me, Myself
And my religion.
My love for power
And loathe for all else.
My little self
Occupying the center stage
While there are wails
Of pain and hunger-
Of plight and Fear.
I, Me, myself
And what benefits me
Me and Myself alone.
Love and lust
All for myself -
Shunning all else.
One day, this I, Me, Myself
and My love for power
Shall probably be replaced
By the power of love
That looks beyond
I, Me, Myself
And embraces all else
As my own!

JLT

2010-04-16T03:08:00.000-07:00

Clusters, bunches, collection
Of thoughts
To ponder upon
No will to write
In sight!

iFad

2010-04-08T02:14:00.000-07:00

I saw this being touted in our hallway, my kid brother showing it off like Heidi Klum would walk in the Angels ensemble, complete with wings ;-0
I must admit, it was smaller and lighter than I thought and I could dump my idea to buy a kindle for this hot new dude on the block.
The iPad could be at these finggertips pretty soon.
To buy or not to buy!
Decisions, Decisions!! ;-)

Versatile

2010-04-06T11:47:00.000-07:00

You step into the world
Eyes cringed form the bright light around.
One look at me,
And my emotions flow
Unveiling my inmost joys
From the windows to my soul.
You wail from the slightest pain
Your routine shots
Or the piercings that I vainly put you through
To dangle little diamonds of joy
On your earlobes.
The hurt from your wounds
Inflict onto my heart
And my emotions flow yet again
Unveiling my inmost discomfort.
Ah, the dual role of tears!

The Ginger Spring Angel

2010-03-28T22:59:00.001-07:00

The weather around the bay was perfect. I, for the first time had to get rid of my hoodie in three bitterly long winter months when I ventured into buying seedlings for our vegetable patch. The surroundings looked like Thomas Kinkade's suburban work of art, with the pleasantly shining sun creating a halo like effect on all the buds and blooms around. I walked into the Nursery section of the humongous home improvement store - only to stop without my notice to watch a little angel run past me to the floral display in the front of the nursery - A lanky little figure with red curly hair which was a shade darker than her bright orange spring dress that flowed around her svelte frame. Fuchsia sleeves and sash around her outfit matched perfectly with her rosebud like lips. Little freckles, more like smudges than spots formed arches on either side of the bridge of her nose that was as chiseled as it could get with a slightly upward tip. Her eyes were the most dazzling Azure blue and if she weren't as young, I'd not have, in a million years, believed that the color was naturally occurring.

This was an Angel - her spirits as fiery and wonderfully wild as the color and curl of her bright hued hair. If I wasn't imagining it, I think I saw a whisper soft halo moving with her like a focus light. At one point, the Angel bestowed upon me the chance of meeting her eyes - I smiled - probably in awe - and she smiled back, flashing a row of perfectly imperfect pearly whites. A smile so genuine could only come of Angels. Thank god Tinker Bell is a Disney creation. If she were real, she'd have turned as green as her outfit with one glance at this work of art. There wasn't anything missing here - except, perhaps a pair of translucent wings - thanks to my appetite for imagination, I could see them right there - placed perfectly on either side of her cascading tresses.

The creator is so thoughtful, he let me have a glance at one of his masterpieces, not just a glance - but a glance with a hint that came in the form of a blue and green butterfly pained on her left cheek bone. She probably didn't need that black cord and the dangling fuchsia heart pendant, or it was another cue from the creator as to how she got my heart tangled onto her, or those animal print accented boots that made a tinker like noise when she ran around the nursery. Her whole family was there - but none of them seemed as divine or as smitten or aware as I was of this little Angel's aura. May be, the ability to spot Angels among humans is as rare as Angels themselves.

She got on to the pile of foul smelling potting soil bags and threw her hands up in the air - shouting " I am the Queen"

Indeed, she is the Queen of free spirit and pure innocence - and The fairy that came to me holding the torch of God's unmatched talent. Sometimes He acts silly. He outdoes himself and confuses me with where I should focus my attention. I walked back amid the Scenery like afternoon, blind to all else, except the divine charm of the little girl that crossed my way and blessed me with the joy of beholding, admiring and appreciating my heavenly Dad's creation.

Depicted above is a raw sketch on microsoft paint - I know I can never ever imitate Him - but I do hope I made my emotions reflect in my ponder!

Prayer

2010-03-27T22:37:00.000-07:00

Let me have you in my heart
Not just when I need you
To solve a problem.
Let me think about you
And feel your presence
In every moment of my life -
Not just when I need your presence!
Let me feel you and your saving hand
On my back - not just when I need to be saved!
My father in Heaven
Let me be close to you
Not just when I need to be held close!

Craziness

2010-03-27T22:30:00.000-07:00

Even if feelings are plucked out

and crushed under the shoe.

If sentiments are mocked

and looked down upon with rediclue -

Between being happy and being together

I choose being with you!

Verse

2010-03-08T00:26:00.000-08:00

Do you see someone Smiling at you?
May be someone is shedding a tear
In some inexplicable pain.
Do you feel it??

The tender hand that shines your shoe
Or the table of the street side cafe
That you just sipped your Masala Chai at -
Munching hot samosas and giggling with your friends!
Do you notice the callouses on the hands
That need to actually practice Alphabet?

The plea of a dainty tone
High pitched, almost like a cry!
Begging for food -
Or just begging you to buy
The magazine, the trinket bag
Or the bunch of greens!
Do you hear? Or do they fall
Into a deaf ear
Stuffed with the plug-ins
of your sleek iPod??

You may feel you are too little
To actually bring about a change -
To lend a hand or an ear
Or just flash a smile to
mock that tear!
Feel not that you can't change
For Change comes
Slowly, surely
Like the seasons -
From Cold to warmth!
Once you learn to
Stop and see
Or hear or feel -
You start to heal!
Stop to notice - to step out of yourself
Your selfish self!!
You'll probably touch a life
Save a childhood
Or Just
Spread a hope!

Memories

2010-03-05T18:43:00.001-08:00

This one is stuck in my head from my childhood days. Don't know where I first read it or how it is so strongly embedded into my memory - Weird!

Abide with me; fast falls the eventide;
the darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide.
When other helpers fail and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, O abide with me.

2. Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day;
earth's joys grow dim; its glories pass away;
change and decay in all around I see;
O thou who changest not, abide with me.

3. I need thy presence every passing hour.
What but thy grace can foil the tempter's power?
Who, like thyself, my guide and stay can be?
Through cloud and sunshine, Lord, abide with me.

4. I fear no foe, with thee at hand to bless;
ills have no weight, and tears not bitterness.
Where is death's sting? Where, grave, thy victory?
I triumph still, if thou abide with me.

5. Hold thou thy cross before my closing eyes;
shine through the gloom and point me to the skies.
Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee;
in life, in death, O Lord, abide with me.

Oldie, but Goodie!

2010-02-22T19:28:00.000-08:00

Failures are stepping stones to successes! - Anonymous.

Belief

2010-02-21T20:38:00.000-08:00

When all else shun support
You come and stand by me
You take my cares away
And guide me with your light.
My Heavenly Father -
Be my friend
My guide!
My greatest strength
And hope .

When Life throws a Lemon at you -

2010-02-20T16:16:00.000-08:00

Get a magarita (virgin one if you are a teetotaler) , cut the lemon into half - and enjoy away! - Aarti's mom

Losin resolutin

2010-02-18T22:42:00.000-08:00

They say that just around V'day, the resoultions go to the dogs ....sometimes what they say is true!

Happy valentine!

2010-02-14T00:55:00.000-08:00

May there be love all over the world - Love and just love!

Happy Valentine.

This records

2010-02-11T23:29:00.001-08:00

The best birthday yet - celebrated according to Aarti's specification. Am hopelessly tired and dizzy to blog further - Here's a promise of a revisit!

Double Promise - as Aarti puts it.

And I have

2010-02-11T01:50:00.000-08:00

Backlogs that I'll clear with a LOVE theme!
Pretty soon ;-)

Growing Up!

2010-02-11T01:42:00.000-08:00

The apple of my, the joy of my life - My little princess with dimples and shampoo commercial hair, my sunshine, my moonlight - answer to all my prayers, Our daughter Aarti turns four - I turn a year too as a mom!

:-)

Bliss called Swiss.

2010-02-06T23:49:00.000-08:00

Open the window -

The world around is one big

Effortless, ubiquitous scenery.

Waterfalls entwine into mountains

Making love to the lush foliage

Punctuating every other view

That feasts the eye.

Lakes are friends with meadows

Hanging around together

And gurgling with glee.

Green is a different shade,

A brighter shade, a livelier shade!

Who says he is not partial??

Open the window

Look through it.

The world there is one big Canvas

Painted with loads of love,

Perfection unfolds

In every blade of grass,

In every bump of the land.

The air feels crispier, the wind swifter

Lulling the mind into an eternal bliss -

A vision so pretty

That Angels should dwell there -

Fairies should toil there

Sculpting every detail.

No human invention

Can ever recreate the magic

No human heart

Can ever forget the magnificence

Of God's own country -

If there is one, this should be it!

Giving, getting and every thing in between.

2010-02-05T01:55:00.000-08:00

As a child, It felt like winning a bumper lottery when I received gifts from my family and friends. That's probably why I vividly remember the neon yellow snap clips my neighbor decorated in my oil doused braids when I went to give her candy for my Birthday. It was a tradition I looked forward to, distributing candy in school and in the neighborhood on my birthday and whenever someone gave me something, even it was as trivial as a pair of trinkets, It made my day. Getting gifts was a joy to the highest degree. My older cousin, who came and stayed with us for over a year to complete her teacher's training, used to get me little rhinestone studs, flip flops and nail polishes when she came back from her home town. Receiving them made me so happy that, a couple of decades after getting them, I still remember the joy my cousin brought me with those little stuff.

As a little girl, the gifts fascinated me - but as I grew up, the thought and the effort surrounding the event of buying and receiving gifts shifted to the front seat. This day, my daughter got some of the most expensive gifts whose value would be a thousand times more than all the gifts I'd gotten through my childhood and early adulthood. The sorry part is that she might not remember any of them this very day, let alone remembering how she felt receiving them.

Gifting is not about the expense involved - it is a very emotional experience sine it takes a lot of thought and effort to think of something for someone in a world paced at light speed. Unfortunately, many of us fail to understand this. That is perhaps why we see even grown ups throwing tantrums and complain about how something they'd received was cheap, easily available or downright crass. Since giving does not have anything to do with the value, it does not in the least mean that you could gift a pack of glue-on Hollywood pink plastic nails to a couple of grown up, autistic guys - no I did not imagine this, it was an actual happening in my aunt's friend circle a few years ago. A thoughtful relative of the guys went back to India from a visit to the US and lovingly brought them a pack of glue on nails, in Hollywood pink. I would not have believed this if I'd not seen them being handed over to my aunt's daughter by the guys' mother, along with the story of how she got her hands on them.

Thinking of gifting is like thinking of loving. I once sent some strands of fresh water pearls to a lady I know. When I sent them, I thought about the recipient with lots of love and wanted to send her something as a token of my thought. I later on learned that the person's daughter made fun of those pearls as the cheapest thing I could have sent them since pearls are available in abundance in their city. I was not angered listening to that - I was hurt. I did not have an occasion or a need to send it, I just had a reason - my love.

On an other occasion, I opened a gift for one of my nieces - a Hodge podge of things - used pencil cases, crayons, yes - used snack boxes - thrown into a careless pile, much like we throw things into a waste basket. This is not a person that cannot afford a few rupees to buy a box of crayons. She lived in a upscale neighborhood and was well off. And not being able to afford doesn't entitle us to gift used items when we are not at a charity drive. A simple card with an honest wish costs and means a lot more than the most expensive of gifts we can ever receive.

To be continued.

Dated

2010-02-03T23:08:00.000-08:00

My blog address is way too cryptic and twentyish. I actually named it after how my hubby and I were called by two little toddlers in our group. Now the toddlers are young girls and Teteet and Uffu are past twenties. LOL. Last night in my insomnia, I thought of some alternates.

www.pronetogoodfortune.com

This has a history. I am better known as lucky in my cyber friend group. Urbandictonary.com has a lot of filthy meanings for that but the above phrase stuck as very cool to me.

www.randomwrites.com - since I don't seem to write about anything in particular.

www.wordcocoon.com - yeah, I said I am metamorphosizing in my blog. So this has to be a cocoon.

www.madcapmusings.com - Self derogatory - not trying to be overly modest or anything - but I sometimes get startled at my own audacity of actually writing crap and inviting people to read it:-))

www.hundredlittlehopes.com - I think of a hundred things to be - the latest one is wanting to be a teacher.

www.boredword.com - I see that I write a lot when I am bored.

www.doodlinletters.com - mindless drawing like blogs - kind of like doodling in alphabets instead of lines.

I think that teteet and Uffu (distorted forms of Sarat and bushu) need to retire - they are way too
cheesy, childish and dated!)

Fine Font

2010-02-02T23:27:00.000-08:00

A conversation between me and my little girl in the isles of walmart.

She:" I want to get out of the shopping cart."

Me: "You can get down if you won't run here and there and not ask me to carry you."

She: "I won't run away and I will walk by myself."

I pull her out of the cart.

Not long afterward, she asks me to carry her on my hip.

Me: "You agreed to walk by yourself. I'll have to put you back in the cart."

She: With a panicked expression on her face, arguing in her most questioning voice "When did I agree? I did not agree. What does agree mean amma - is it something bad??"

Me: - No words.

Recent Read

2010-02-02T21:14:00.000-08:00

I have a problem choosing books to read, like I have a problem choosing movies to watch. I have become a very non adventurous reader and movie goer of late as I don't want to spend time on what I might not like. Yeah, complicated! But once in a while when I stumble upon something and mindlessly pick it up, and enjoy it - it is a cue for me to go back to being adventurous with my book choices. Pieces of Happily Ever After is one such book that I picked up from the new arrivals section of the library. It is the first piece of fiction I'd read since late summer. A perfect, chick book, very down to earth without being Mills and Boon(ey)

I love the cover graphic as much as the book. And the title and the flow, and the believable protagonist. It is time I get back to my adventures in book reading.

Invasion

2010-02-01T22:55:00.000-08:00

I am a vegetarian by choice - I emphasize the "choice" part all the time as my being raised as a vegetarian or being born into the brahmin community doesn't really play a part in my being a vegetarian. I had umpteen opportunities to bite into pieces of artistically marinated hens and lambs but they never enticed me enough and I wear my semi animal activist, herbivore badge quite pompously. I say "semi" since I am not yet in the league of Maneka Gandhi or Amala Akkineni. That reminds me of the time when I caught Ms. Akkineni being interviewed for her contribution towards blue cross, Hyderabad. I was at a friend's place and her dad immediately opined that organizations like blue cross make no sense in a place like India since we have a lot of people dying of hunger and Amala should focus on people and not low life animals - he didn't say low life but it was so strongly implied in the way he emphasized the word animals. His statement shocked me then, but as I grew older and wiser, I realized that in a place where the life of a person has no value - God save the animals. Anyway, I traveled across the oceans and came to a different world and started looking at animals through a different paradigm. Animals are living beings - not human beings - but they live, they experience pain and are limited by their bodily functions when compared to their human counterparts. Here animal right activists take their passion to a different extreme but hundreds of animals are still abused and left to die, or killed for sport. I condemn all kinds of killings, be it animals or humans or fetuses - but what about the pests? The insects? The ants, mosquitoes and the roaches and rodents?? Can they be killed? Is it not violence to spray insecticide on the robust little wormy things that camouflage so well onto my freshly sprouted rose stalks and distort my flowers? Should "all out" be banned? Okay, may be they cause and spread diseases the mosquitoes, so killing them might not necessarily be covered under animal/insect violence. How about Ants? The tiny black things that epitomize to humans the virtues of team work and hard work? How about hundreds of them in every nook and cranny of your pantry, invading every possible food container, penetrating magically into jars that allegedly keep even the air out?? How about ants on your kitchen towels - parading under the warmth and moisture of a wet kitchen towel? You get the idea - so these hundreds of ants marched into my pantry for the first time in years of living i n this house, and made me a non- animal activist. I still exercised 'options' such as the ones below.

1) Vacuum them and empty them into the trees.

2) Use a broom and a dust pan and sweep them out.

3) Transfer all food items into air tight jars - including the ones that come in storable cartons.

4) Re-caulk all hair line cracks in the shelving where colonies could be established.

I lost my battle with ANTS.

I did not have a choice. I had to empty each and every container in the pantry - that was all the three hundred and thirty three of them and spray some evil thing that claimed to smell like roses and kill ants on contact. I had to rip off my old contact paper on the shelves, re line the shelving, clean and disinfect the whole area and rearrange the groceries, condiments and spices the true legacy of an epicure. It took me 48 hours, two trips to Walmart, a day of allowing triple bonus TV time to my over manipulative toddler and arthritis like pain in my knees, ankles and knuckles to possibly win a battle over a mob of black ants.

I am still an animal activist - "semi" that is - which allows me the right to fight a laborious battle to drive away an invasion.

:-)

Steel Unicorn - part 2

2010-01-29T23:07:00.000-08:00

One thing about the Unicorn awed to me to no end - he was the perfect contradiction to the whole entire family. Tatha was as cheerful as it gets and so was grandma. My own mom, Half a decade older to the Unicorn, wasn't bad either when it came to words like humor and cheerfulness. I sometimes wondered if Unicorn was found in some village fair, abandoned by an unwed mother? - The only thing that made me believe that he was indeed blood, was his nose - which looked every bit my nose's predecessor. The resemblance was so obvious that I'd noticed it the moment I could make sense of the things around me.

Tatha's house consisted of a cart load of characters - good, not so good and in between. Dammu (short form for Damayanthi) was a radiant young woman in her early twenties. She had the complexion that matched dad's extra strong filter coffee and eyes that bent ever so slightly upward, giving her the animated "bambi" look. Her braid was wholesome. It had the circumference of a grown up wrist. her waist tapered and peeked out of her Sari folds, showing off her perfectly chiseled midriff. Dammu was every bit a beauty, I could not help but wonder why she washed dishes and clothes in Tatha's house instead of taking the next train to tollywood - Dammu's fairy land. She used to tell me stories of the films she used to watch, which were too many to keep count. Sridevi was her favourite movie star. She often used to match her velvet bindi with her saree - kind of like a tribute to her matinee idol, she once told me. Dammu was liked by one and all looked thru by the Unicorn and loathed by a couple of people that frequented to tatha's house - Kamalamma the crooked smiled cook and Seethalu the retired maid in her late sixties for personal and professional reasons respectively.

Environmentalist.

2010-01-28T21:56:00.000-08:00

I tread on the leaf laden side walk -

Feet tucked into my Birkenstocks.

Carrying a bag that proclaims

" I am not a plastic bag either!"

Toting locally produced

Organic greens.

As I tread along, I pass by

A pretty little thing, with spidery long legs,

Sherly Temple waves

And Victoria Secret bod.

I turn back and look askance

giving 'Going Green' a whole new meaning!

25/01 - What really matters??

2010-01-28T20:21:00.000-08:00

So much for creative publicity - A recent publicity stint for a leading cosmetic brand previewed a seemingly thought provoking question. to rethink "What Really Matters?"

Many things crossed my mind. Friends, health, family, peace of mind, reaching out to others, giving our one hundred percent to things that we take up, sharing our fortune - the list went on.

I promptly logged into the link after a lot of soul searching.

here's what the questionnaire was about!

1) What do you think about public nudity?

2)What's your favorite body part?

3) Ever gone skinny dipping?

4)Make up or clothing?

5)Ever dreamed you were naked in public?

So what is the rethinking all about anyway?? Just a way of making much about nothing? ahem...wearing nothing???

For 24/01

2010-01-28T20:19:00.001-08:00

Over heard by Moi

"It takes a lot of immaturity to fall in love. Once you are all grown and mature, you are looking at someone more in terms of how they fit you than how beautiful their eyes are!"

Thought of the day

2010-01-26T19:14:00.000-08:00

the sincere devotee loves God deeply whether he is nonactive and silently meditating on God, or in the midst of a whirl of outer activities. He is awake in God during all hours and in all walks of life. He does not become so deeply engrossed in material duties as to be oblivious to the inner state of divine bliss.

Paramahansa Yogananda (1893 - 1952)

Source: God Talks with Arjuna: The Bhagavad Gita, Page: 318

It takes an undying passion

2010-01-23T23:50:00.001-08:00

Passion for cleanliness - to keep the house clean at all times.

Passion for family time - to keep the kid away from TV.

Passion for fitness - to fit into the pre-preg jeans.

Passion for devotion - to not miss daily prayers.

Passion for Love - to understand the significant other's schedule.

Passion for laughter - to keep the funny side up at all times.

It takes a lot of passion to keep up New Year resolutions:-))

Block on the block

2010-01-22T19:00:00.001-08:00

and it doesn't really care if you are a writer or not:-))

Appearance.

2010-01-21T22:41:00.001-08:00

I have a thicker saturation of melanin

Under my epidermis.

That doesn't change me

From being the human I am.

I was held the way you were

By my heavenly father

Before he dropped me into my mother's womb.

I have not the painter's nose you sport.

But my features are not the benchmark

Of the person I am.

The iris of my eyes are a deeper shade

But I see the world just as well as you can.

My Hair might not be tresses of silk

But the frizz does not distort my brain.

Give me a chance

For I might not have the first recommendation

That comes disguised as beauty.

Look in and take a glance

My inside is lighted with a clear conscience.

Your appraisal is only as deep as my skin.

My character has unfathomable depths.

My integrity does not get tarnished

By my dark skin.

I still am the same species as you are.

Judge not, because I appear ugly.

My soul shall still live

Long after the beauty you care about perishes.

This day - a gift from the heavens.

2010-01-20T22:37:00.000-08:00

The rain drops hit the window pane and slither down in asymmetrical curves, obstructing the view of the outside. The weather becomes dark but the chill from the down pour warms your heart as you try and look through the haze. The air is filled with a crispness as sharp smells linger around - smells of nature, diffusing into the electric atmosphere - and how many time have you listened to people mentioning the smell of wet earth? It is no surprise - since the essence of the life giving mother earth penetrates so well into the nature when cold drops pierce into her chest with needle like precision. She doesn't seem to mind though, since they infuse into her the elixir of life. Every thing looks magical with crystal clear drops of water playing the balancing game on them - on the leaves, in the grass and even on the patio furniture. The whole image springs to life. The soothing sound of water running through the gutter adds the perfect audio to a divine visual. No wonder peacocks dance at the sight of clouds and the plants and trees rejoice in full-hearted ease as they wash themselves and show off their gleaming greenery. Little puddles collect on the pathway, tempting kids to jump and splash the water - rain seems to inspire people and nature alike. Leave the umbrellas in the holder, take your hoodies off, let the chill shake your spine and the showers from heaven drench you wet in their allure. Practically or just in thought - showers transform the inner self and take nature lovers to a state of ecstacy. Keep the Prosaic away and just let the creation be the cure.

Back log - 18-01-10

2010-01-19T23:29:00.000-08:00

Go away,

Let me rest.

Let me get you

Off my chest.

Leave me alone

Let me calm down

Don't laugh at me

Let me not drown -

In the heat you generate

In the plight you create

Go away

The restlessness -

Go away.

The Audience

2010-01-19T22:55:00.000-08:00

This could as well be titled 'The Appreciation' since the whole point of having an audience is wanting an appreciation or in other words, applause. If we didn't have people to look at our homes and ooh and aah about our dresses and accessories, we'd probably not own any decorations or embellishments ruling them out as waste of time, money and effort. There are things we do for ourselves - like wearing pretty undergarments that we don't particularly parade in - but when we wear flashy jewelry, drive luxury cars and carry brand name bags, we are looking for a lot more than just a 'feel good factor' and that dear people, is an audience, and an appreciation from them. Blogging, more or less, is like wearing "your attention please" kind of clothes - kind of like the fire engine red paired with bright plaid patterned Salwar that I owned as a teenager. Eventually, I realised it's shock value and handed it down to a five year younger cousin. If I wanted to feel good and record my numerous feelings, I'd as well do it in one of those journals that come with tiny locks and keys. Instead, I chose to write my journal and invite strangers into my world of thoughts - because I want to be appreciated and applauded. An artist paints - if no one ever tells him how good his art is, he would lose interest and give up his craft. Same goes with teachers, singers, bloggers' and anyone who wants people around them to tell them how wonderful they are. That's probably why the celebrity blogger wrote how excited he gets when the comments keep coming. Whether they are good, bad or ugly, getting a feedback always excites people. That's probably the reason why preschool teacher constantly shriek in high pitched voices and compliment generously when they are around their pupils.

My little girl performs her songs when I tell her that our visitors are going to clap for her. Much like I blog more the day I find comments when I log in. But if wanting compliments is human, looking around and complimenting is something beyond being human - as much as we like getting noticed, we disdain drooling over some one's work and being vocal about how inspired we are about the dish someone made or the picture someone clicked - that's probably why they say limitation is the best form of flattery. You like something, you put a poker face and act like you can do it in your sleep and turn your back and copy it. That is the biggest compliment we give to someone without letting them ever realize it. It is sad and in a way funny. So when everyone and their neighbors' whole family tree is blogging, who actually goes and reads all this overload of crap generated and who actually has the time and the thought to say something nice?? Some folks have it in them, the generosity to bestow their compliments upon the things they see around them notwithstanding the mediocrity of what they see - that probably makes so many bloggers, singers, artists, film directors and each one of us who look for an approval. I think appreciating creates creativity and that's the reason why an inspiration is always, in my book of judgement, rated high and above the creation. Even a super human like Hanuman needed a reminder of how strong he was when he ventured to fly over the ocean to seek Sita. They say that God created human beings since he wanted someone to appreciate what he created. He wanted someone to sing his hymns and marvel over his workmanship. That being said, we mortals are just a chip of the good ole block. The other day I had my cousin come over, who took me to many of her favorite blogs and appreciated all their creations and pictures with genuine awe. Had the bloggers known how much their work is appreciated, they 'd most definitely fly over the oceans and seek all their writing or whatever aspirations.

We put up a show - we should however, stop and notice the shows that our peers put around us and vocalize our awe. Then appreciation would be an epidemic and creation would be abundant!

New Look.

2010-01-17T07:44:00.000-08:00

It was about time to change the blue/gray background to something more soothing in blue/gray.

For regulars who are used to my previous template, pl feel at home. I despise change but something about trying to be a morning person wants me to change the template - okay, that was a crappy explanation - do I even need to explain?? LOL.

WANTED

2010-01-17T04:49:00.000-08:00

What do you want? Can you answer this question in a blink? The answer that comes out in a blink is probably what you really want. Or do you feel so content that you don't feel the need of anything? Okay, Let me ask the question to myself. Do I feel so content that I don't feel the need of anything?? Hmm....let's see - I am well fed, well clothed, well decked in my closet which has only a handful of "I feel and look comfy in this" outfits, handbags big and small and no, thankfully no shoes since I am not a shoe and car fanatic. Spending money on these two is a Nah, Nah, no no. Anything comfortable and convenient(ly priced) serves the purpose. I might want some eyeliner since it spruces up my non existent eyes - but I love my pale mountain dweller eyes since I am too lazy to put on the liner. So anyway, what do I want?

It might sound crazy, but I want more concentration in my prayers. It should be the planetary movement in my natal chart that I am intensely spiritual these days. The other day I spotted the most unusual sight in Macy*s - an idol of Lord Krishna hand created by Lladro, which had a price tag that felt like a hand grenade dropped onto my head. Okay, Lladro, 'The Lladro' figurines that the idle and the idle rich hoard in their led lighted showcases and curios. I think I recollect reading in a gossip mag (in my teenage years, borrowed from Higgin Botthams, while working with the Indian Railways) that our own SriDevi (from Bollywood) collects Lladro figurines. A few years down the line, I had my first brush with the figurines - ofcourse I did not notice the prices as I was busy fascinated by the detail of the figurines - I probably noticed the price tag on the Lord and Saviour, the narrator of Bhagwatgita and the inspiration behind thousands of Annamacharya songs because I wanted him in my Mandir.

So what do I want?? Materially, Lord Krishna, mesmerizingly sculpted by some mightily talented unknown Spaniard - and spiritually an imaged etched on my soul - etched with devotion that rises above all material stuff.

What Irony!!

Jan 15th

2010-01-15T20:34:00.000-08:00

Makara Sankranthi is a south Indian festival that marks many things. The most important one being the entry of Sun into Capricorn. This event is considered particularly auspicious and it is supposed to bring along with it loads of prosperity and peace to everyone - here's hoping there will be no more calamities or mishaps in the world. Here's hoping peace to all the victims and survivors of Haiti and here's also hoping the world will rise and reach out.

Make donations - cash, kind, any kind! Keep the world in your prayers. GIVE - that is the only thing you take with you when you leave the world - what you GIVE. What you don't shall stay back right where you left it!

Peace to All.

For Jan 14th

2010-01-15T01:24:00.000-08:00

I was caught up with people in Planet Pandora in a never before 3D experience.

More about that shortly, in todays's blog entry.

Follower

2010-01-13T23:59:00.001-08:00

" Please don't follow me this way" I gently snapped at my little girl who stalks me form the bathroom to the kitchen to the living room, tracing my footsteps. As much as I love her, her clinginess gets to extremes sometimes - specially on days like these when her Baba is out of town.

" I need my space" I added - like she'd understand what I meant. And when I went upstairs to get something, the lil brat over took me - knotted her eyebrows and snapped back quiet triumphantly - "Why do you follow me all the time? I need my space"

I smiled, since I couldn't cry!

:-)

Cheating

2010-01-12T23:37:00.000-08:00

But here goes my entry for today - my 'at least one line' thingie!

Time

2010-01-11T21:43:00.000-08:00

From one step to the other

You glide and take it away

The present, the youth

The moments, the years.

You don't stop -

Let me catch up and run with you!
While gathering

Memories

And wishfully

Wisdom!

Philosophy.

2010-01-11T00:39:00.000-08:00

These filling of pots and pans

Heaping the plates

Emptying.

These cares and comparisons

Peer pressures and problems,

Selfish thoughts, actions

Controversies and manipulations

Starting from the moment

The sperm shoots into the egg

And going on till we breath our last

Where does the realization of

Our real self

Feature in this madness??

Where does the effort to

Connect with our conscience

Come across in this craziness??

Prayers

2010-01-10T03:19:00.000-08:00

Just had a bloggable thought about prayers.

This will be revisited.

Not on time

2010-01-09T00:27:00.000-08:00

But this still is counted as a blog entry for Friday Jan 08th :-)

Quote - "we all seem to have an idea of how other people should lead their lives while our own lives are far less than perfect"

Masterpiece

2010-01-07T23:03:00.000-08:00

Most alluring windows to the

Most mysterious soul.

Raven tresses falling

Playing peek- a- boo with

Perfection personified.

If Beauty can be defined

A look at this picture does it.

You are a creation

That put His talent to test!

Day 6 - verse

2010-01-06T23:45:00.000-08:00

Frozen in the winter chill

Covered with snow and ice

Burried under the numb earth

Waiting to sprout and take a breath

Thoughts of love like spring bulbs

simmer under the cold heaps

Brewing colors of hope

To welcome green foliage

Of Togetherness!

Day 4 - Quote

2010-01-05T18:23:00.001-08:00

Forgiving saves the expense of anger, the cost of hatred and the waste of energy - Unknown.

Day 4 - keeping in touch.

2010-01-04T18:10:00.000-08:00

The world wide web is the greatest invention of all ( may be the second greatest since I need to grant it to the Wright Brothers for the greatest invention ever -just a personal opinion open for argument! LOL) since it shrunk the world into a little neighborhood. All I need to do is punch a few keys and I am shooting across an instant message to my sister in Mumbai and gathering all kinds of information from all sorts of sources and shopping for missed souvenirs in a Venice based e-commerce site. Cool. Huh? But what is it about those letters that have ironed folds tucked away some where in a shoe box, as a trophy to the bygone days? The letters with yellowing corners and scratched handwritings feels like an emotional DNA of the people that mean a lot to me. Each letter presents to me a drug like ecstasy and transforms me into my childhood days. I rediscover feelings felt, joys experienced and friendships made and forgotten, buried under the debris of growing up.

Most importantly, it presents to me the effort each and every one of them carry with them and the anticipation, love and affection that was communicated from the sender to the receiver and back. I had a stash of stationery and stamps that were replenished at regular intervals. I spent a small fortune on cards - cards that conveyed sorrys, thank yous, love yous and thinking about yous. Each important occasion was marked in my agenda. I didn't miss any one's birthdays or important holidays and New years. The cards were mushy, the messages long and the time effort and cost involved were cumbersome (for a child/teenager's pocket) and that is probably the best investment I'd made in myself and my people. Today, snail mail stands as a testimonial of love, patience and caring. For the New Year, I made a few quick calls to my immediate family and chilled. Then it came to me like a flood - the great event of buying New Year cards to every one in the family and friends list. The pain to look for apt descriptions that would reflect my feelings for the receiver and the corresponding verses that I'd write to make them more personal. Then I logged into my numerous email accounts and wanted to send a group email to all my friends. Shamefully enough, some of them were long out of touch and I thought I'd be uncomfortable to pop out a random, generic New year wish. So, I looked through the list and sent messages to friends that mean a lot to me. I wrote clumsy little messages - but I made an attempt to detechnicalize myself and make an effort to tell them that they were in my thoughts - and that I think beyond me myself and my blood.

My friend Avi calls me on my b'day every year. It doesn't matter if he's in Timbuktu, or laid off or broke - he calls me. He speaks a couple of sentences but the impact lasts till my next b'day. Relationships are a great thing. Love is what bounds them. Effort is what keeps them alive. I hope we can all take a moment in our lives and ask after our old friends, send them little messages for major occasions and keep the thread of love strong. It need not be laborious snail mails and mushy messages - as I've said the Internet reduced the planet to a cozy neighborhood and if you are out of contact with people in your contact list - something is seriously wrong with that picture.

Day 3 - Holding on, letting go!

2010-01-03T23:19:00.000-08:00

My expandable trinket bag was a pretty peacock blue, with a full blown peacock feather on the front and a zipper that expanded it from half inch to 4 inches to tote toiletries, hair bands, travel supplies etcetera. The inside had a mesh pocket opening in the center and a flap with loops for lip glosses, tooth brush, q tips and such. I was very fond of it. Enough to have hid it from the eyes of my niece who seems to have my kind of fetish for all girly things. She kept asking for it time and again and I kept postponing saying I'd give it to her once I head back home - secretly hoping she'd forget about the bag by the time I make that homeward bound trip.

But she didn't forget. And I had to let go of my pretty bag, albeit forcefully.

During my last trip to India, I had a similar situation with my mom except that I was in the receiving end. I insisted and fought to bring home with me a cute little gift box containing ylang ylang incense, patchouli and Jasmine scented candles sculpted into pretty little roses and miniature incense holder with hand painted elephants rising their trunks - sounds pretty. Isn't it? And the box in question migrated from my sister's stash to my mothers, so fairly enough my mom resisted giving it to me but finally gave in.

We all seem to have things we cannot let go of - favorite bags, junk jewelry, collectibles or even less valuable day to day stuff like our magazines and Tupperware that you use to send the neighbor your homemade cookies. We all seem to get attached to non living things like our houses, clothes and stuff and overlook the broader spectrum of things that actually matter like a little girl's smile when she gets a much coveted make up bag or a friend's eyes lighting up when you let her keep the handbag she borrowed.

I saw the Movie 'UP" where Mr. Fredricksen, a balloon salesman, uproots his whole house in search of an unfulfilled adventure he plans with his deceased wife. Finally he takes a U turn, loses his home and his dream adventure to unite a giant bird with her chicks. "It is just a house" He exclaims when his house falls off.

Stuff remains stuff. We don't bring any of it when we come to this world, we shall not carry any back with us. There are things to hold on to, things to let go - and sooner or later what matters the most is how we feel and how we make others feel and not what we have.

Day 2

2010-01-02T22:50:00.000-08:00

Why do kids talk so much? Or do I have a specimen on hand??

Aarti seems to have one question after another. Once about rain drops running diagonally across the car window and once about why a certain kid on the street is walking home alone, what his name is, what his mom's name is, where he lives and if he is walking alone since he actually got lost!

It gets a little too much sometimes but I can never figure if it is more of fun or stress to keep listening to the puppy like yapping in the background.

Children talk perhaps, in the process of growing up and understanding the world around them. Then I looked into myself and I realized I am much like my little girl, except my yapping is all in my mind. My mind engages itself in a incessant monologue - once thinking over about what to make for dinner and once to introspect my actions and words. Sometimes it is writing mental blogs and at times it is singing to itself trying to remember a lyric from my teenage years. So the yapping is probably a universal attribute except that we are not as free spirited as a kid to keep talking out loud.

Right now at this very moment, my mind speaks to me, the incessant monologue and asks me how I am going to over come the invisible blocks I see to keep procrastinating my blogging - now that I vowed to write everyday. I just do what I do when Aarti launches her unanswerable questions. "What do you think?" I ask my mind! The answers unfold as I write everyday.

New year wishes.

2010-01-01T17:40:00.001-08:00

Here's hoping all good things for all people around the globe - and hoping for the cliched but the much needed World peace.