laugh to live

Don’t laugh out loud

What’s that weird face?

Are you being sarcastic?

What is that you are wearing?

Farts and burps are not funny

Stop it, people are looking

Did you just snort?

There are many things in this world I am grateful for

But most of all, on the absolute top of my list

Are my people,

Who have the common sense

To see humour in little things

So the big things become simpler

Lighten up, light up

Watch the chip on your shoulder melt away
Religion, status, inclinations, borders exit
Where humour exists

#Humouristheonlyway

One little change

I assume
You presume
and thus ends a beautiful relationship

I judge
You react
and thus ends a wonderful friendship

I argue
You defend
and thus ends a brilliant idea

The end would never be
If only
I heard
and you listened
I spoke
and you reasoned
without prejudice
without preconception
without bitterness

Stay open, stay happy.

Wiring change required

A friend posted a random video and as per form, I clicked on the link and watched it.
Another friend commented on it saying the video came across as vaguely weird to her, she was unable to express her thoughts in words and we had a discussion.

The video portrayed a woman walking down a busy lane post sunset. A bunch of well dressed, beer guzzling romeos follow her, eve teasing happens in full swing till she turns to one of the guys and freezes. The future molester/ rapist freezes and in a shocked tone of voice asks the other guys to stop and desist ... because she is his sister.

So the question is, does one stop eve teasing only because one has a mother or a sister or a wife at home?
Or does one stop eve teasing because it is just plain disrespectful to another human being?

A woman should be respected for being. Not for being someone's someone.

Major re-wiring of mentality is what we need.

Carrom Stories

I come from a large family. A family that believes in getting together at the drop of the hat and food, food invariably plays a large part in all our gatherings. But this, is not about eating, it is about that other very important ritual that unfortunately has ceased being as important.

Carrom was not just an indoor game for the Amoors. When we visited our grandparent’s home (which was every other weekend), it used to become a battle ground. Tactics were made, teams were decided and the air burnt blue with curses and victory cries. Pride was taken in polishing and cleaning the ‘Olympic sized board’. Lights were adjusted and fixed so there was adequate lighting but no shadows. Fans were placed at a strategic distance so the players did not get uncomfortable under the hot asbestos roof whilst making sure that the flow of wind did not play havoc with their aim. Food and water was supplied at regular intervals. Coin-boys and girls were chosen (the little ones who would pick any coin that fell on the floor, would help with powdering the board with the ‘finest quality boric powder’ and generally play fetch).

My youngest uncle was a much sought partner, because when he got hold of the striker, the opposition might as well go out for a stroll. He cleaned the board with finesse and cleared shots that looked near impossible. My other uncles, brother and appa were pretty good too. All in all, it is safe to say that we littlies never had a chance in hell in playing a full game when the elders were at it. Though just watching them play was an adrenaline rush. And sometimes, when we got lucky, we were taught tricks of the trade.

My appa had invested in a similarly large Carrom board at home. Every evening, a bunch of my brother’s friends would come in and play the game. It was a riotous affair. Sometimes appa and I would team up against my brother and amma and play for hours. Some of my happiest memories stem from those hours of Carrom.

Then one day, it all stopped. I have no clue why. We still have large noisy family gatherings, we still have my brother’s friends dropping by… but somehow, Carrom is not part of our lives anymore… and it makes me melancholic.

When we went for our annual vacation last month, Ankita got hooked to Carrom again. Sriram and Ankita and I played some games. It all just came back in a rush. The moods, the arguments, the sheer joy of playing a beloved game so long forgotten… and I know I want it for my girl and her cousins and friends. I want her to understand the intense joy of playing together as a family, as part of a team.

Do not think at me like that

I have come across so many men, good well educated men who would go out of their way to help a woman in need, who take good care of their girl friends, sisters, mother.... and yet, yet they do not think twice about discussing a woman's anatomy in the basest of ways, just because she is a celebrity or a complete stranger who "is dressed provocatively" or voices her thoughts or is "aggressive"...

Is it wrong to appreciate beauty? Absolutely not. 

But is it wrong to objectify it? You better believe it. And it is not appreciated. At all.

Dear men,

When you look at me

And discuss my anatomy

With friends, with yourself

I hurt.

It makes me want to cringe and cover

and shy away.

You may say you are educated

and respect women

But really, think

Be honest with yourself first

Weren't you the one

Who laughed at the juicy ball joke?

Did I ask for it?

Like a violator would justify it by saying

Maybe I deserved it because I wore a tight t-shirt

Maybe I deserve it all.

It is time to wake up

And understand

I am not just an object

I am a person just like you

Yes I have a beautiful body

But I have a mind too

Don't look at me

and see flesh.

Look at me

and see me.

bricks and stones

Call me a racist

Because I have a religious symbol for a tattoo

Call me cruel

Because I will not bring the stray home

Call me stubborn

Because I do not want to look at things your way

Call me any name

Because it is not going to matter

As I am, what I am              

And my reasons are my own

My heart has bled

My back has bent

My eyes have dried out

So dear friendly advisor

Owner of saccharine tongue

Time for you to go

Because I am, what I am

And my reasons are my own

writing for one person. me.

the problem with having a hobby that is also your profession is that somewhere down the lane, you stop thinking of it as a hobby and it becomes work.

words used to be my best friends
now they are colleagues.
temperamental and moody
sometimes stuffy
sometimes nice
sometimes good for a gossip
sometimes ready for a joke
always there for the client
but never just there
for me
and i feel abandoned.

wise mouth, shut up please

it is nice sometimes
to not hear a voice
that says wise things

it is nicer still
if the voice is yours
and it perennially got you in trouble
because of its apparent lack of connect
with the working part of your brain

it is even nicer
because you really do not like how your feet taste.

i liking this bucket baba business very very

http://bucketbabas.blogspot.in/2013/08/3-hours-with-6-year-old-be-scared-be.html

have fun.
toinks.

The what ifs

Life is full of yes-es and no-es
and a few what-ifs

The yes-es have their own stories
The no-es, their own endings
But the what-ifs,
they are like undigested food
stuck to the craw
arising occasionally
as acid burps.

here we are again, doing what we do best - talking to oneself

when there is absolutely diddly to do
the mind works in strange ways

there are dialogues being exchanged
that are waiting to be made into stories
there are memories flashing by
waiting to be spoken about
there are conversations happening
between people who need to be in touch

when there is absolutely diddly to do
the mind works...
but the lazy body,
the lazy body finds a comfortable couch
and browses through mindless thrash
avoiding the to-dos
and the really should have already been dones
while wallowing in the fugue
created by having diddly to do.

Split wide open

For the first 16 years of my life, my mother put in a lot of effort (albeit with a lot of moaning and swearing) in braiding my hair into two neat long plaits. Every single morning she would appear magically by my side with the paraphernalia for war against curls, knots and stubborn daughter. The ruckus that followed would usually send my dad to dive behind his newspaper and the brother to spout caustic comments. The disinterest in the plaits was a front, because hey, I had the longest pigtails in town and I was very proud of them.

Then, I grew up and college beckoned. It was time to wave goodbye to pigtails and there was only one way around the problem … the hair had to go. So, one bright summer day, I gathered my savings and went and got a solid length of my hair chopped off. This did not mean I went and got a mushroom cut or anything because:

a.      I lacked the guts (proprietary mothers are VERY scary creatures)

b.      As mentioned earlier, I was secretly quite fond of my plait

Through early morning camps and mad college schedules, my hair maintained its health and never gave me much trouble. This was primarily because I never ventured beyond the staid yet sturdy plait, but was also because my lifestyle then, was pretty much all about 3 very important things – me, me and me. I was reasonably religious about my hair care routine – massages, washes and the occasional trim. My hair grew at a respectable rate and most days, we had a happy ending.

Then came the era of what I like to call temporary insanity.

The colouring, the moving cities and the total lack of ‘me’ time lead to major hair loss. Long plaits were a thing of the past. I thought I would end up going bald. Was even contemplating tattoo designs for my bald pate when Dove saved people who know me from a fate scarierthan bald witch meets Godzilla.
 

So now that the hair fall had stopped, I was beginning to have dreams of regaining my rightful title of the local healthy plait contest winner, when horror struck. I had split ends. Horrible, ugly curse that made the ends of my hair look like a much abused broom.

Not. Happening. At. All.

Thankfully, there is a Keratin God and I suspect she goes by the name Dove.

The new Dove Split End Rescue System with 1/4^th moisturising milk claims to bring the split ends together and give up to 4x less split-ends.

Directions to use the Dove Split End Rescue Shampoo:

• Apply to wet hair, lather and rinse. In case of contact with eyes, rinse thoroughly.

• And be logical and follow it with New Dove Split End Rescue Conditioner (apply to wet hair, rinse thoroughly)

I have been using it for over 2 weeks now and I am slowly beginning to see the revival of my hair. It makes me feel all warm and nice to think I would soon be able to go back to what suits me best – a long, healthy plait…(uhm, just don’t tell my mother I said this though)

Go on and get yourself the new DoveSplit End Rescue System, long hair or short… healthy hair matters. 

kiwi drainex unclogging my brain

Someone asked me the other day if I believed in God

And I automatically went into the one Supreme Being spiel

Someone asked me the other day if I believed in God 

And the question remained with me

So, what is God to me?

Good music that gets me to sway automatically

Food that makes me go mmmm

A beautiful face that catches my attention

Laughter that is uninhibited

A river, a mountain, a rambling ruin

Birds that fly for the joy of flying

That puppy whose entire body vibrates when I give him a belly rub

Anything and everything that even for a moment makes me forget me

That is God to me.

when you got to write, you got to write

i cannot dance
i cannot sing
i lead a quite
existence

a brilliant blue
nor an orange hue
will ever announce
my presence

when i leave
no drums will roll
nor curtains fall
to mark the occurrence

i leave no mark
i leave no sign
i come and go
as i please

i may be a shadow
i may be a sign
i may also be
your release.

there. there. i knew today was lets write some stupid poem day. why do these words even come in my head when i don't get them myself is beyond my understanding.
but i had to get them out. or they would just go round and round in my head making me irritable and dizzy.

it is like a disease. this mad rush of words that cause a traffic jam in my brain.

Hairy tale with a happy ending!

Most days I would joke about the stack of hay I call my hair, but never on hair-wash day. On those days, I go into deep mourning. The large clump of hair in the drain should not hurt so much… but damnit, it does. Each time I run a brush through my hair, I avoid looking at the brush, or the floor.

My mother sniggers and gives me the ‘I-warned-you-so-looks’. I have been colouring my hair for almost 10 years now… coating my scalp with chemicals… I was begging to lose hair, according to her.

 Initially it started out as being a fun thing to do… something new that could be tried. Now it is a struggle against time and the ever present grey. Each time I colour, my hair ends up being more brittle and dry. It has come to a point wherein I seldom leave my hair down. It is constantly scrunched up in a rather untidy bun.

Occasional hair spa treatments (occasional = once a year in mother speak) leave the hair manageable for a couple of days, but then we are back to square one within a week or two. Things really got to a head when my maid complained about the amount of hair she found each day while cleaning. Disgusting… this after I confined combing to one corner of the house…

I was all set to wage major war on my wilful mane when a friend suggested an easier solution. She asked me to use the Dove hair therapy’s Intensive roots treatment. She promised I would see visible hair fall reduction in 2 weeks time. Since I did not have anything to lose, I went and bought myself a pack…

Since time is a constant constraint, I am usually wary of anything that takes beyond a couple of minutes to use. Thankfully, this product aces the timer and it is really simple to use, here is how you do it:

·       Wash hair as usual and towel dry it

·       Break the nozzle of one vial and apply the lotion directly on your scalp (make multiple partings in your hair to get an even application)

·       Massage gently to ensure the lotion gets in to the roots

·       Leave it on and style your hair as usual

·       Use one vial every two days and in two weeks, you will see a marked reduction in hair fall

Dove hair fall rescue intensive roots treatment is non sticky, non greasy. It has a pleasant smell and is so, so easy to use.

I read up a little more on exactly how it helped and found out that Dove hair fall rescue intensive roots treatment contains Trichozole active with ginseng and soy protein. These ingredients essentially work against natural enzymes and prevent them from breaking down the follicle glue thus reducing damage at the roots, helping to lock the hair firmly in place.

2 weeks down the lane, my hair fall has reduced drastically. It said on the box that the treatment targeted root action for superior hair-fall reduction and stronger hair… and I believe it now.

Personally, it is a mini miracle! The Dove hair fall rescue intensive roots treatment has worked for me and how!

Since my friend did my hair a favour, I think it is only fair for me to share the secret with other women. So if you have:

Hair breakage – When little strands of hair break off from the middle or
Hairfall from the roots – When longer strands of hair fall off directly from the roots…it is time to wake up and listen to the distress signal sent out by your hair.

Do yourself and your hair a favour, go buy a pack of Dove’s Intensive Root Treatment. It is an investment that will make you love your hair.

 * This post was initially posted on Dove Blogs - Share a Secret Campaignand therefore, you must, you simply must check this out:

http://www.dove.in/en/Products/Hair-Care/Dove-Hair-Fall-Rescue/Hair-Fall-Rescue-Treatment.aspx

Free bird to Mommydom

“I used to be a lot of things... for now, I am just a mother, trying to: watch her mouth, catch up on sleep, avoid accidentally killing baby.” I wrote these lines some four years ago, but most of it still stands true, except the last bit. Now, I try to avoid the ‘baby’ accidentally killing me.

I started my career as a writer, a few million years ago and that is what I remain till date, though, there have been many things that have changed over time. I left my much loved city - Mumbai and moved to a not-so-loved – Noida, all in the name of love. Someone older and wiser once said: Love is not just blind, it is also very dumb.

I do not like older and wiser people very much.

I cribbed and moaned about the culture difference, the lack of proper junk food, the way people spoke. I missed the mountains and the sea. I missed my friends and the ability to just be me. And then, the powers that govern all such things, thought it best to grant me a boon. Maybe they wanted me to stop the daily diatribe of vile nonsense or maybe they felt sorry for me… and our little girl arrived.

We named our daughter ‘Ankita’, primarily because it was option two, since option one, which has always been my personal favourite, was unanimously rejected by everyone in the family for being a very unladylike name.

At this point of time, I would like to take the opportunity to twiddle my thumbs and give a definitely unladylike snort … for if there is anything remotely feminine about the little tyke we call our daughter; I will eat my words without any seasoning.

People say motherhood changes a person. Well of course it does, there is no point in arguing over that fact. After all, who can remain the same after putting in 24 hour shifts a day, seven days a week, without a break in sight? Initially it was the feed – clean – burp – change - put to sleep cycle… now it is feed – bathe - send to school – finish homework – do ALL the assignments – monitor television time – accompany to various activity classes – etcetera etcetera…

In this mad rush to be a good parent, somehow, somewhere, the individual went AWOL. The person who once lived for treks has not been on one for almost five years now.

Side note: That is the real reason for all the extra weight one tugs along these days (this is my story and I am sticking to it).

The skin has gone to the dogs and the hair… its best we do not even talk about it. My hair has never been my best asset.

Actually, that is not quite true. I inherited thick, curly, relatively healthy hair from my mother. She worked really hard on it, bless her. Hair care was the highlight of Sundays. As a result, I spent the first two decades of my life with really long, shiny black plaits.

Then came the era of madness = colouring.

I put chemicals on my hair; it reacted by losing all lustre.

I cut it and treated it; it forgot it was supposed to be curly and settled for being something in between wavy and straight.

And then, I moved base to the land of hard water. The era of falling hair dawned and it was all compounded by motherhood.

Conditioning became an afterthought, saved for special occasions like anniversaries and birthdays. The usual hairstyle became an ugly bun and hair fell at an alarming rate. But there was no time for any grooming, so there was really no point in cribbing about the whole deal.

With no time for any kind of grooming, my only hope now lay on the tattoo I plan to get on my bald pate… unless of course, my latest experiment pays off. It was something a friend shared and I pray to all the keratin Gods it works …

* This post was initially posted on Dove Blogs - Share a Secret Campaignand therefore, you must, you simply must check this out:

http://www.dove.in/en/Products/Hair-Care/Dove-Hair-Fall-Rescue/Hair-Fall-Rescue-Treatment.aspx

the butterfly lion

... its a book, by Michael Morpurgo.

its a beautiful, simple book that talks to you about hope and miracle, of kites and love, of strange houses and butter scones and a school boy's need for freedom.

In my quest to stock up on books for Ankita, just in case she loves books as much as her mother, I have managed to:

a) stumble upon hitherto unread authors

b) bought more books than there is space in the house

but what the heck no? you can never have too many books. and am still not hooked on to reading online.

What re flop?

I realised, my language sucks donkey's balls.
Do you know of any place I can buy hearing nanny monitor for the daughter?
She is picking up strange strange words and phrases.
When asked aisa kyun kar rahi ho tum? she says, and very seriously, kyunki saas bhi kabhi bahu thi.
hmpf.
only i am allowed to have foul language in house.

i love the metro

Just love it.
Metro has made delhi accessible to me.
I pledge my undying love for the Delhi Metro.
Chalte raho!

mamma blogs

here:
http://realbeauty.yahoo.com/uma-iyer

apart from that, i am reading this book called the bad dog's diary by martin howard (thank you gaya tree). it is howlarious.

no wonder i love dogs.
okbye

gully seher mein re maaro ghaghro re ghumiyo

prabha and her husband atul are visiting us. completely awesome time we are having. especially prabha and me. we love ourselves some gossiping sessions sans husbands and baccha. also, i am discovering delhi with them. went to chandni chowk and bought a fancy soorma daani. the dukaanwala insisted i put the soorma on then and there. for a couple of very scary seconds, i thought the guy was trying to scoop my eyes out, but he managed to lagao soorma, and it didn't look half as bad. so full points to the man and full money also because i bought the whole schmoodle.

from there we went to the paranthewali gully. i am very glad i am used to eating in seedy looking joints. i am also gladder that i had had no breakfast and it was almost lunch time, so i didnt get second thoughts. the place is stuffy, filthy and full on crowded. BUT. BUT, those guys sure know what they are about. we chose to eat paneer parantha, aloo parantha, dal parantha and pudina parantha. prabha ordered the rabri parantha. i thought she was being extremely brave. only later we realised she had, for some reason, thought rabri = ragda. luckily for her, the parantha turned out to be amazingly yummy. only, it does not qualify as a main meal, it is a dessert. the choice of paranthas was a mile long ranging from the regular to the absurd (khurchan parantha anyone? or maybe you'd want a sample of bhindi parantha? or nimbu?). the lassi deserves a song written on it... "aye mere pyari lassi, tujh mein meri jaan fasi" types.

then we went to the red fort ... which was closed for honest tax paying citizens of India because some vvip was due to arrive on a visit. so sweet. after all, we are here to oblige and visit again at their convenience. atul was especially very sweet about the whole thing since he had had a similar experience at the Taj the previous day. he would have loved to meet the vvip and tell him exactly how cool he found them.

then we went to dilli haat in an auto. that had a meter. and the driver WANTED to go by meter. in delhi. will wonders never cease?

there is a metro line right upto dilli haat. super freaking awesome. considering how much i love the place.

now i am tired. and i have sent the visiting couple to see akshardham. later in the evening we plan to do some more ghooming.

happy days are here again.
and my comfort salwar kameez has suddenly gone tight on me.
the price you pay for all that happiness.

tchya men ...

so we went to goa. again. it is such a lovely place. i plan to retire there you know, like some 40 million others... buy a small plot of land near the sea, open a shack, not do much, eat a lot, go for walks and hang out with the locals. i love the goans. love them, almost as much as goa itself. i love the way they smile, i love the way they talk and i absolutely love their quirky names. met a boy named beauty and a girl named august. so sweet and unassuming both of them. like their names. and then, there is the sea. ssssssighness...

i want to retire tomorrow.

maaya maya yo, maaya maaya yo, maaya maya yo ...

Delhi in Mumbai mode

After cribbing about the lack of rain here in Delhi, I have been forced to swallow my words with a few hundred litres of water.

What baarish man.

Love it.

Though, there is a baadh like situation. And I should be feeling bad and all.

Stupid excesses.

Now I cannot even freely announce I love the rain.

Big OUCH and one tight slap

The husband and I were riding through the NH 24 last evening. As Sri was trying to avoid riding alongside a UP transport bus (spitting, puking passengers + mad crazy drivers = stay away), we noticed a couple of teenagers flying kites alongside the highway.
I saw sri waving his hand across his face and the next instant something sharp cut across my face.
It was the string or maanja from the kites.

It hurt big time, but we couldn't stop to see how bad it was / to squash the idiotic brainless morons who were responsible for it. It burned like hell (God knows what they put in maanja these days, I know glass used to be one ingredient earlier). Got home and cleaned it with dettol then went and got a tetanus shot.

So here I am today, with a slash across the jaw line starting from mid chin to an inch past my left ear. Bloody ugly mean looking thing.

Mugs asked if it looks like grilled chicken, I told her it looks like someone took a dagger to me.
She thinks that sounds glamorous.
I think the look goes with the new fancy dress I picked yesterday.
Bold and the beautiful wot?

On the side note, if I ever catch sight of anyone flying a kite anywhere near a busy road, the person is going to be roadkill.

Poetry in motion?

I am not a football fan. Inspite of coming from a sports crazy (which essentially means cricket and football) family. My father, brother and sister in law follow their respective teams obsessively.
Me? The only two footballers whose name I remember is Pele and Maradona. One because I was asked a GK question (Black pearl = who?) and the other because my brother went on and on and on about the "hand of God".

Zizou ... Beckham ... Rooney ... Ronaldo ... huh?

I have a vague recollection of rooting for Cameroon, sometime way back. Don't ask me why. I cannot remember.

Now though, I think I want Holland to win. Ekdum dil se, dil se want to win.

Because when they are on the field, they remind of Nagpur ka Santra Barfi.
Anything THAT orange, gets my vote.

One drip, one drop

... and we are done .

I don't think we should even dignify it by calling it the monsoon season.
And to think i bought a perfectly lovely umbrella for ita.

She uses it while she showers. Smart kid, learns fast.

Bloody nonsense.

somethings, are meant to be forever

like the teeth in all our pictures. they have to show, they have to be the most commented about.
like the food mania that descends on us each time we walk down Ram Maruti road, Thane.
like the inner bitch who surfaces to crib, claw and disintegrate every issue and person when we are together.
like how time flies when we are gossiping.
like the look that passes between you that only you get and she gets and so does she.
like the pain you feel is reflected in the panic in her face.
like the smile you have thinking about juvenile cracks.
like the joy of saying fulao, fafad and laftof.
like being in one place at one time.
like dragging a scooter and a bike and planning devastation for the ones who dared to puncture our tyre.
like spending a lot of time cutting, pasting, painting stuff and finding immense peace in it.

true. somethings are meant to be. somethings, are just home.

Catch 22

Alzheimer's has made us do many, many things. All of them, painful and degrading to the sufferer. It has made us feel helpless. It has made us feel sick.

Yesterday, its mayhem reached a pinnacle.

It made us feel like losers.

We have decided to let go. We have decided to let nature take its course rather than cutting appa open and inserting more tubes in him. We have chosen not to try and extend his time on earth by means of artificial support.

We have chosen. And it hurts like hell. To give up the fight.
But it had to be done, for him, who suffers every day.
For her, who lives in vain to see him get up and be normal.
For us, who watch him die one little bit everyday.
Damn you, you horrible blasted disease. DAMN YOU to the deepest corner of hell.

blog block

its been one of those months... where you have a lot to say, but cannot be bothered with typing them down.
there really ought to be something like kiwi drainex to unblock this block.

Beautiful lines

♫ These were the status message of someone in my chat list. The words are so, so simple and yet, so, very beautiful.

The dead can hide beneath the ground and the birds can always fly, But the rest of us do what we must in constant compromise... So I have become the Middleman. The gray areas are mine. The in-between, the absentee - Is a beautiful disguise. The gray areas are fine. The "I don't know," the "maybe so" - Is the only real reply.

Coolest, ever

The other day, my brother in law had come over. He used to be with the Indian Army. He observed ita for sometime and said, "she is excellant commando material."

curious.
fearless.
free-spirited.

:-)

Needless to say, I treasure that line more than any other compliment my baby has received till date.

junk food in delhi is depressing

only aloo aloo every where
not a sandwich to see

pav bhaji is murdered

ragda pattice is tikki
no concept of the teekha chutney
the pav, is sweet
dhoklas are a soggy mess
and dosas have stuffings of paneer
no sabudana wadas
and no chikkis
only fruit chaats and momos
and some fruit beer.

Face of India

an idea, waiting to happen.
think big, aim small
try hard, or not at all
future bright, future sharp
a vision clear, straight from the heart
a photo, an opinion, a word, a blog
Thats what Face of India is all about.

and so i thought

that once ita goes to school, there would be a little peace.
only now i get it.
it takes more time to get her to go to school and me to work than it ever did before.
and she insists on reading her books. which is quite hilarious actually. sri has recorded it. i am hoping he would remember to upload it before her graduation.

One moment is all it takes

There are a lot of things that are not going right. Apart from Murphy working overtime and PMS just dying to do its bit, life has been pretty miserable.
Until this morning...
When I received an SMS from someone I consider worthwhile with news that is more than worthwhile and then a little later, as I sat on the 17th floor of an otherwise boring building, a parrot came flying by and sat @ the window sill.

Life doesn't seem so bad at all.
In fact, it suddenly feels beautiful.

One moment
in time
Where the sadness
fades
And sunshine
breaks through
Life smiles
for me and for you.

This one, is for hope

The New Year began with a fart. Literally… and then continued to its logical end, in the potty.
For someone like me who believes in the significance of beginnings, the year 2010 looks like a load of shit.

My father in law has lost bladder control and Alzheimer’s has further stolen his ability to contain the refuse from his intestines. It means a lot of washing and cleaning and mopping. It means a lot of aggression and violence and shouting. It means a lot of heartbreak and tears and frustration. It means a lot of patience.

Sri and I have the luxury of (somewhat) peaceful nights by virtue of having a room on another floor but my sister in law has survived last year on almost no sleep. She has morphed from being the eldest daughter, the apple of his eye … to the primary caretaker, a mother to her much loved father.

It has been a tough journey for all of us, more so for her. But she is holding up. There are occasional slips but she manages to bounce right back. She is not someone who would joke and smile and talk shop. She does not even try and find a humorous angle to the whole thing. She just is and I am proud of her. Because with people like that around, beginnings don’t matter, nothing does… love survives all odds and if its not triumph we achieve, we would have at least tried our hardest.

Not a Goddess
Not a saint
Just an ordinary girl
A symbol of hope
Her name means peace
And that’s what she is.

its the season to be merry eh?

so i can't concentrate on work, coz hello! Its Christmas time. Have you any idea how gorgeous Bandra, Hill road would be just about now?
They would have stalls upon stalls full of christmas decorations and trees ...
Stars and Angels and Shiny disco balls :)

They would have plum cake and marzipans and those milky chocolate thingies...

There would be people shopping and laughing and having fun ...

And then, when your feet beg for mercy, you could halt by that udupi joint there and have garma-garam pav bhaji or walk down to band-stand and have chana jor garam.

And listen to the sea.

sigh*

Its the season to be merry...
so have bought myself a tree
and some fancy decorations
a length of tassels
a bit of candy
some friends
with the promise of wine
have hired a cook
for some chole puri
Its the season to be merry
and so, i am going to be.

aatiiiishooo.

tip toe
past the door
they had some cases
1...2...3..4...

hush hush
don't say it loud
it is catching
you'll join the crowd

clean clean
cover your face
wash your hand
don't breathe in my space

paranoia
like diarrhoea
is a stupid thing.

swine flu giving me the whine flu.

Advantages of being a mumbaikar - 1

most mumbaikars know about a lot of festivals, whom it is celebrated by and more often then not, they participate in them all.

it must because of the bhel-puri that exists there...

but being the capital and all, shouldnt they celebrate or atleast understand them? most people here don't get gudi-padwa or an easter or pongal or pateti ... kya flop people hai I tell you.

Time flies

ankita will be 2 tomorrow.
she can talk (oh man, can she talk), she can sulk (for hours) and she knows what clothes she wants to wear.
How did my little baby morph into a teen so quickly?

her first joke

was giving ita a bath this morning and she points to these tiny mural-like things in the bathroom tiles and asks me, "amma, yeh kya hai?"
i say, "pots."

she looks at the pots for a while and smiles and says, "pots ... pots ... potty pots..." and laughs out loud.

what joy it is to know your child is going to have same to same nonsense sense of humour as you.

Confusion

There is this thing that has been bothering me for a while now. I just can't seem to come to a logical conclusion, therefore, if there is anyone out there who understands these kinds of things, do explain.

Hindus believe in rebirth, right? So what is this having shraadhs for the departed souls (years and years after they have departed?)
I have heard that when a soul leaves the body, it moves on to higher spheres based on the karma it has managed to accrue. This journey takes a long long time. But does this long long time mean it takes decades before a soul is brought up for judgment before Chandragupta? Does that then mean that a soul is in a state of limbo where it cannot come back and it cannot go up either?

Also, what happens to the theory that the soul is actually a body of energy?
If several thousands of souls are in the waiting line, how can new births happen? Because as we know (or at least have by-hearted in school) that energy can neither be created nor destroyed ... and that it can only come back in another form?

the questions may sound absurd, stupid even ... but they are there and i really wish someone could help me understand them.

you know it is time when

... you write in your head
and then every single thought vanishes the minute you sit down to type it down.

you know it is time then,
to retire and ask someone nice to give you pension.

Terrible twos

the dreaded tantrum phase is here.
and i am ready to tear my hair out.

i have always been proud of the way ita has been 2 steps ahead of schedule ... just hadn't bargained at the terrible twos starting 4 months early.

Jai Hind

just that.

i do not know why i love india so much.
i just do.
probably more than anything in this world.

must be some past life thing.
must have been major kraantikaari types.
who knows.

cheerio~

i am my mother

the other day was this lakshmi pooja at home. the vaadyaar came early and generally harried us till we sat down for the pooja.
post pooja, amma asked if i wanted to go and visit this old granny types and take ashirwaad.
i said yes and left with amma, amma's friend and ankita.

it was when i got there and removed my slippers that i realised that i had worn my ghar ka chappals.

all my life i have never understood madrasi maamis wearing lovely silk sarees, beautiful bangles with gajra in their hair wearing hawai chappals.
and there i was, in ditto ditto position.

verdict schmerdict...

i don't watch tv, usually. this evening i had the misfortune of having both time and remote at hand.
was generally surfing through the news channel and mentally patting myself on the back for avoiding nonsense serials and even worse news reports when i stopped to hear one report. this one was about a young girl who was raped in the home she was staying in. this girl is mentally challenged. apparently, the courts have deemed that she be allowed to keep the baby conceived during the rape.
some people were hailing this as the specially-abled people's right to motherhood.

how nice. take punch.

1. does the girl even understand the enormity of the responsibility?
2. is it right to put her through the pain and trials of pregnancy and child birth?
3. does a mentally challenged girl have the ability to take care of a child?
4. if the child is to be put up for adoption... then does only giving birth mean motherhood?

i do not support abortion. in most cases.
i believe that -
if you have been stupid enough to forget protection, you deserve to be stuck with quadruplets.
if the protection fails, then you take a decision and i hope to god it is to let the baby live.

but if you are raped ... i don't see how a woman would like to keep seeing a reminder of the gruesome event for the rest of her life, not in the mirror, not in her eyes ... but in her child.

and to let a girl who possibly cannot think for herself through it is freaking atrocious.
if you really wish to fight for something, go find the guy responsible and castrate him. sick creep.

maybe i didnt hear all of the news and have not got all of the background right. but it irritated me so i had to type this down. it was that or take the shotgun to some innocent's head = the husband, my most likely/handy victim.

ok goodnight.

cirlce of life.

as i was washing ankita's clothes, i realised my mom still washes mine, whenever i go to mumbai.
amma, you are cool, but i hope ita doesn't harbour any hopes regarding me picking after her 20 years hence.

i got a new keyboard, one of those that make thak-thak-thak noises as you type. love them. totally love them. my first keyboard at rediff was like this one.

rahul razdan sent me an ibibo card that said "gaavaat naveen pakhru aalela distay" (literal translation with neelu phule twang = in the village new bird has arrived).
meera and mugdha and i used to maaro this line super lechorously if we happened to see any new girl/guy/generally long long ago.

it rained 2 days ago. my baby and i had a lot of fun getting drenched and dancing on the terrace. we used to do that sometimes in mumbai. i hope ita remembers to have fun.

Not quite but thanks anyway

my friends think i am stressed after reading the last post. i am not. well, maybe i am, but can't do much about it now can i? like sheetal says, if we talk like turtles, we ought to be shelled.

thanks for worrying though. it makes you want to fight back to know there are people who are backing you all the way.

meanwhile, ita says tars pretty confidently. that is stars for you. but i quite like the way she points out authoritatively and says, "amma, tars."

Because he is not ours anymore.

Why can’t they leave me alone? Why don’t they just take their fancy stuff and smart mouths and get the hell out of here? Why do they have to plague me thus? What have I done to deserve this? Save me … help me … someone, please …

Ravi, you hold his hands, Shyam… legs. His nails are too sharp, they need to go.

Ganging up on me are you? You think because you are three you will get away with anything? Come on you sons of bitches, let me show you what I am made of. I might go down, but I will go down fighting.

Oh man, that hurt! Hold his hand tightly will you. God, the fellow has a mean kick. Where did he learn to fight like that? Ravi, stay away from his head … he will head butt you all the way to Chennai and back. Steady now.

Take that… and that. Ha! Bet that one hurt. Hey, wait a minute, why are you covering my eyes? I can’t see. Why are you pulling at my clothes? Stop it. STOP IT. Help.

Quick, hand me the scrub. Look at all this filth. There must be layers and layers of it. Ugh. Pass me the water. Yeah, get me the towel. Steady now, I am not going to hurt you… relax, relax, re …OWW! I see stars! Pretty blue ones.

What is the world coming to? Why are you cutting me up? I have never ever hurt you guys … I have never even seen you before. Why are you helping that woman undress me? Oh the shame … oh the shame … fie on you people. A pox on you. May you burn in hell …

I have never heard such foul language from him before. By struggling so much he is only hurting himself. Why can he not understand that?

Because he can’t understand us Maya …

Damn it man … he is my father… he acts like he doesn’t know me anymore

That’s because he doesn’t. He is in his own little world now where none of us exist

Thank you so much Alzheimer’s … thank you so bloody much.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
First hand experience has taught me to be scared of this dreaded disease. Mortally completely scared.
Often, sri and i discuss about what would we do, if we found ourselves forgetting ourselves. And most often than not, we end with a pledge, which might not be the right one, but for us, it sounds fine.
The pledge to end it before the disease ends everything else.
I have never had a stand as far as mercy killing has been concerned. Now, I do.

Absolutely nothing

... makes me feel better than a cousin dropping by, who just happens to love food and books.

got gift = one graphic novel = yay.

ate food = at chocolat AND big chill = wow.

thank you god for the three best things on earth. blueberry cheese cakes, books and matching wavelengths.

why am i doing this?

wallowing
self pity
probably two words that i detest most in this world. i am not a kind person and i seldom mince words, not a trait i am particularly proud of, but that is what i am. so why am i expected to live amidst people who do exactly that and why the hell am i killing myself by being polite?

damned if i know.

polite.
it IS the word i hate.

someday soon the dam is going to burst and there is going to be a very bitter exchange of words. i can feel the pressure building. i just know it is going to be the beginning of the end. and i dread it. dread it because i know me. i know when i constrain and strive and struggle against my most basic instinct, i end up spewing venom. and it is driving me mad.

did i mention i hate polite? and kind. and good. oh boy, do i detest good or what. screw it. there is no point in this mindless ramble.

Checked Chaddis and Unchecked Elastics

Ok, i am writing this post in lieu of my friend, lets call her Jugs (to protect her identity and all), as she cannot write about it as she is a very nice human being who does not laugh at other people's misfortune.
It is all essentially bull crap because the witch would laugh at her own flesh and blood given an opportunity. But still.

Jugs is very maako types, you know, the kinds that would rather climb mountains and kick ass than play dress up. So our Jugs is into this Jujitsu stuff where she gets to jump, punch and generally make people quiver. So the other day, one of her fellow students, who just happens to be a fortyish man, has some issues with his track pants. The firt time they slip, the instructor asks him very kindly to stop flashing his ahem, half moons to the class. So half moon man pulls his pants and everything goes back to normal. They learn new techniques to bash people. They have to practice these new moves. Jugs is looking for a sparring partner and thats when she noticed that the track pants had played truant again. She caught sight of some yellow and red checked chaddis* before she quickly turned and choked on her own laughter.

She called up to get it out of her system. I thought I would help by posting it here, to exorcise it completely. I am so considerate.
Now I hope one of her fellow students read this.

* colours changed to protect identity as well.

simply the best

you are light and nice
just spiced right
with a little bit of pickle
you are the best diet
dear curd rice, dear curd rice ...

on hot summer days
i crave for you
on stomach upset days
i'd kill for you
dear curd rice, dear curd rice ...

some say its boring
some say its typical
but the need for you
is very very physical
dear curd rice, dear curd rice ...

little kids to toothless aunts
thayir saadam fans, them all
no pizza, no pasta, no samosa pavs
gimme gimme, the only thing i wants
dear curd rice, my lovely curd rice...

- tambrahm girl.
ps: preferred pickle = vadumaangai.
ok bye.

aanan paanan aanan paanan

meera and i have this habit of absorbing retaining the most ridiculous of songs. and the songs have the annoying habit of taking over my head ever so often.
the one doing the rounds for the past couple of hours is:
"lekar tujhko jaaonga dulhan
aanan paanan aanan paanan
chand katola laaonga dulhan
aanan paanan aanan paanan..."

i have only met one other person who knows the songs we do, that would be tithir, gayatree's friend.
does anyone out there have this nonsense habit as well?

Very foul

a. pms
b. bad cold
c. horrid cough
d. tooth ache

so, if you have a death wish, disagree with me today.

Not so long ago

i used to be mortally scared of ghosts and such. ask mugs or prabha, they'd tell you what a fulltoo fattoo being i was. i would rather not drink water at night for the fear of having to getting up to pee in the night. i never ventured into dark corners, avoided places that to my mind, looked haunted, shat bricks after watching *****all serials like shh koi hai ...

but that was before. now i can do all of the above and not die of palpitations. because of ita. it has nothing to do with maternal urges or anything, just the thought that she is gonna pick on my nervousness and i am loathe to letting her grow up like that.

last evening, sri's driver was attacked by 4 armed hooligans. they hit him on head several times with the butt of a country made rifle and took off with his mobile, watch and wallet. the entire loss can be summed up to roughly 1,000 Rs.

the incident occured not 5 minutes walking distance from our house, in a crowded residential area at 9.15 P.M.

i am back to being scared.

why i love holi

I love holi. Absolutely, completely, totally, love it. Here is why:
Colours
Bura na maano holi hai attitude
Jalaoing Holika
All that water
Dancing to the tunes of the dhol
Bawdy songs, bawdier jokes
Everybody looks the same under all that goop
Warm bath after a round of thorough dunking is heavenly
Warm food is even better
A nap feels just right
Gujjias

and such good photo ops.
superk.
Happy Holi children.

i don't know what to say

... but baby, sometimes love just ain't enough.

... and sometimes long distance support ain't enough either.

Unwound.

i didn't climb a mountain
i didn't climb a tree
but i feel a lot better
i feel free

we didn't talk of troubles
we didn't go on a spree
but i feel lighter
i feel free

bring on the worries
bring on the woes
i am ready for the battle today
3 months down the lane, who knows ...

sometimes taking time out for doing nothing but eating junk, reading junk, venting and watching a tv serial for hours together with kindred souls can be more therapeutic than a week's vacation in an expensive place.

this one's for me.

after a long, long time ... i am going to do something utterly completely totally selfish.
i am going to take time off and do what i want.
money be damned.
for two days, i am going to be uma. just uma. no wife. no mother. no responsible adult.

yay.

Jai Mata Di

Went to Vaishno Devi and have just one word to say : OUCH.

Tagged... by Soo

I’ve been tagged by Soo to do the sixth picture meme, so here goes:



This picture was clicked on Bandstand, Bandra, Mumbai sometime in March'04.

Meera. Mugdha and I were meeting up after Mugdha's shaadi. She was visiting us from Hyderabad. And she had a new digi-cam. And all three of us wanted to be in the picture at the same time. We were drunk on the joy of being together, the sea, silliness.
The episode resulted in a whole series of absolutely mad pictures. This is the one where I have been almost completely elbowed out by Meera (in green and red).

I tag:
Mugs
Maddie
Sri
Austere
Andy
Gaya Tree

This is what you have to do:

1. pick the 6th picture from your 6th photo folder.
2. tell the story around it.
3. pass it onto 6 other people you like.

A huge blackboard

"its like your brain is a blackboard with lots of things chalked down on it ... and then, this giant hand with a giant duster just rubs it all out ..."

thats Alzheimer's for you.

bastard disease.

Ankita Puraan - 3

All my life (well almost all my life), one of the biggest issues I have had is with my hair.
I have grown them, I have had them trimmed, cut, coloured, massaged, streaked and so on and so forth ... but I have never ever been truly happy with them. They have always been too thick, too unruly, too nonsensical to be of any use to mankind. Ok, womankind. Oh alright, me.

It must be karma of some kind.
Ita has all of 7.5 hair on her head and she is almost 7 months old.

Now what do I do with all the cute clips I have bought?

Ankita Puraan -2

Dharam sankat situation has happened. We have 3 names and we like them all.
Meghna
Krita
Ankita

Both the grandmothers like Meghna. So does Kannan, the uncle-in-law.
Krita is different and both sri and I kind of like it.
Ankita is preferred by all three aunts and the maama. And us, of course.

We thought we still had days to decide as we sauntered into the lawyers office.

The adoption deed had to go in with the name.

And so, we had a grand total of 30 seconds to decide what she was going to be called.
Yes, the lawyer was very scary looking. Like Amrish Puri in Damini, minus the oily hair... and the bad guy part. So it was that we went to file our papers with our lawyer and came back with our daughter's name. Ankita.

I just hope she doesn't hate us for not calling her Krita or Meghna. Because now, after 3 months, I kind of like Meghna better than Ankita. Go figure.

All ours.

Today is a good day. Actually, a very, very good day. Special day. Nice day. You get the picture right?

The daughter is finally all ours. The court has granted us custody.

Till the time the lawyer's assistant came up and told us to collect the final deed, I hadn't realised that there was a vague nagging fear, a fear that ita would be taken away from us... didn't realise that at a sub-conscious level, I was scared to death. But thats all over now.

Ankita Sriram Iyer. My baby ... the bane of my existance, the love of my life is mine. All mine.
Ok, "ours" as sri would insist on me saying :))

Ankita puraan

I started keeping a diary (the old-fashioned kind) during my initiation period as a mother. This is one of the first write-ups…

7th April 2008

ANKITA – Empress, one with auspicious marks.
Our daughter… our hearts, as they say are forever destined to walk out of our bodies.

We brought her home on the 10th of March 2008 from Missionaries of Charity, Delhi. Today, she is already the apple of everyone’s eyes; the grandparents, the aunts, the assorted neighbours. Ankita or ‘ita’ as we call her, is an absolute joy, except when she is sleepy and doesn’t know how to go to sleep; then she is a cranky, pain in the backside.

As I write this, she lies here next to me in an outrageously big fluorescent green shirt, dreaming. I always wondered why parents dress their kids in such awful clothes … now I know.
It could either be because the child is being so squirmy/crabby/ touchy that the parent picks the first set that is within reach OR the child, very considerately throws up/does su-su/potty at the exact moment the parent has finished dressing it up and hence are forced to do a: A ill-fated fashion disaster or b: Resort to point 1 which is to grab the first thing available to sight. There is one other reason, probably the biggest one. Gifts.

The minute people hear about so and so having had a baby, there is an influx of clothes in said person’s place. Now there are a few sensible souls who send the parents thoughtful gifts, like vitamin tablets but the others … baby sets, booties, jackets, socks and so on … in colours they think are cute (or stereotyped by the cruel marketing focused fashion police) – pink for girls, blue for boys.

Do you have any clue how a pile of pink looks to someone who last slept Lord knows when, has a howling infant waiting for her bottle and the flask has played deserter again? YES … like a strip of digene.

So the parent does what anyone with frayed nerves would do. Forage for anything that is not in pink (or blue) – clips, shoes, bibs, nappies – and put them over the antacid representing apparel.

From now on, when you see babies dressed like they are from Saturn … do not blame the parents. Give them a smile, maybe even a pat on their back. Beget some good karma. When you have a kid of your own; you will need all of it.

I thought we were smart. The day before Ankita was to come home, we went and got her a bunch of clothes in blue. So, now when we take her out, she is either dressed like Britney Spears with dark hair or gets mistaken for a boy.