A Condensed Version Please!

I would hereby like to thank James Band and the Nadaswaram party for the sore throat they have gifted me with - One that reminds me of the thumping music at the wedding every waking moment. Any attempts at 'Baa Baa Black Sheep' sound like 'Bray Bray Black ..' almost a month after the proceedings.

The wedding hall was filled with people - small talk filled the halls, and James Band and the nadaswaram were playing at full pitch whenever they got the opportunity to perform. People had to shout to make themselves heard to the person sitting right next to them. One would have thought that the effort would have kept people quiet. But it takes sterner stuff to get South Indians to keep quiet. As the sound of the talk increased, the nadaswaram crew made the band sound louder. Apparently, the duty of the band was to drown out the cacophony or any unceremonious sound.

Fact: The band itself may be construed for cacophony was evidently not thought about when the tradition was "made".

I have already mentioned about how the south indian wedding is high on the ritual factor - read, boring. Essentially, the average guest is left with the option of staring open mouthed at the wedding proceedings in Sanskrit, while the sastrigal & groom pound at the rituals. The groom mostly looks ready to flee given the slightest chance, while the priest is holding him back with an almost sadistic pleasure and gloats over the power he exercises over the couple.
It goes like this:

Om . blah blah blah blah blah blah-yae namaha
Om . blah blah blah blah blah blah-yae namaha
*Pour ghee into fire*
Om . blah blah blah blah blah blah-yae namaha
Om . blah blah blah blah blah blah-yae namaha
*Wash your fingers*
Om . blah blah blah blah blah blah-yae namaha
Om . blah blah blah blah blah blah-yae namaha
*Pour ghee into fire*
For 6 hours.
Not to mention the fierce fire we have going, in front of which the bride and groom sit. No fans are allowed for obvious reasons near the fire. Probably, that is the reason the groom sits with his chest bared and his transparent dhoti. But it beats me why the bride is seated near the same fire with the stuffiest of silks. These traditions had no mean point I tell you - either it was a bare-all or a wrap-all!

Malai Maatral
Description:The groom and bride, in those early days, were barely teenagers when they got married. The couple were carried by the maternal uncles to exchange garlands at one point. This was a chance for people who the maternal uncles were and the children probably enjoyed the break by throwing garlands at each other perched on their uncles shoulders.
Fact: This should probably be done away with, considering the couple is now in the prime of their youth, with glowing muscles and a couple of hours each day at the gym/dining table as the case may be, and the uncles are complaining more often about arthritis and moaning muscles themselves!

Kannoonjal
Description:The laddoo throwing is another part of the proceeedings that could be done away with. The purpose was originally intended to introduce the important lady-folk of the family. With 20 directly-related aunts and 35 indirectly-related aunts and 45 indirectly-direct-related aunts and 55 directly-indirect-related aunts, it was important to show who was who.
Fact: Now, this is no more than a laddoo squishing, bad bowling experience, not to mention the mess created by stamping one of the infernal things and spreading the joy!

Bullock-cart symbolism:
Sometime in the 6 hours on stage, one encounters a point when something like a stick is placed over the groom's head and the bride's head. What this symbolizes is this: just like a bullock cart can only be pulled when both the animals contribute equally, so too is marriage. Both the groom and the bride must shoulder their reponsibilities to carry on a smooth life.

The point being this: There are so many rituals, and non-stop chanting, that the symbolic ones, or the ones that bear meaning are either missed or glossed over. The "getti melam" could be used to identify the significant ones, if they didn't keep asking for a getti melam every 2 minutes.

Kattu Saadam:
Those days, restaurants were rare and almost non-existent between villages, and carrying food for the journey was important.
Fact: No offense to the food really - but this tradition is an absolute must to be done away with. Who wants to eat dried up idlis when you can stop at Saravana Bhavan for a steaming meal instead?! Why can't we wrap up the proceedings the previous day and get back to our lives?
Interesting aside:
We stopped for eating at a restaurant (since we needed to drink coffee and use the restrooms anyway!), and the younger generation was absolutely thrilled to find that in the melee of leaving, we had left the idlis & the rice behind - yippee! The fathers were privately happy too, but refrained from saying anything inappropriate, lest the mothers construed it as an offense to their own cooking! The looks thrown by the mothers to the children was clearly not one to mess with!

"What is wrong with idlis?" they demanded.
We chuckled saying - "Nothing, just glad they aren't here!"

We tucked into naan, paneer curry and 8 different types of Dosas at a suave restaurant, and left quite happily!

After so many weddings, there wasn't one person who was able to cogently explain the symbolism and meaning behind all the rituals. The ones who did attempt invariably love their voices too much and refuse to stop explaining! Soon, one's curiosity to understand the proceedings is fast overtaken by an urge to strangle the person "explaining"! Finally, my mother told me to look it up on the Internet - which I did, and found a whole world of satirical writings on the South Indian Wedding! (But this link gave a brief explanation) http://www.sawnet.org/weddings/tamil_vedic.html

Since, each tradition has morphed into a status symbol, the unnecessary expenditure has increased manifold. If we were to tabulate the necessary vs unnecessary expenditure, the unnecessary far outweighs the necessary! 3 day weddings are the norm - even though it is not a village where the families use this as a chance to make merry for a week!

By the way, what do we say to the colleague who asked: "So, you guys exchange vows is it?!"

Happy New Year!

Gods, Animals and the Wedding

Chidambaram was cut off from the rains. The headlines for all of the previous week said nothing other than terrorist scares in airports and roads being washed off in the heavy rains. The venue of my brother's wedding, Chidambaram, was marooned people said. It turns out that the roads leading to Chidambaram were little more than mud roads that were coated with tar. The rains washed the tar with them, and tiny bridges had disintegrated.

We found out around 2-3 days before the wedding that Chidambaram was accessible after all. Yet, the source of my brother's apprehension had nothing to do with washed away roads, or the wedding itself.

He had been recently informed that his portraits were to be mounted in all prominent locations in Chidambaram. "WHAT? WHY?" my brother had demanded rather alarmingly, but he was brushed aside. This was to be grand wedding, and no embarrassment was to be spared! There were posters and billboards to spread his fame - replete with his degree, job title and office name. I can't quite explain how much fun we had at his expense on this account.

He tried everything from growing a moustache in the last minute to pleading with his fiancee to take the billboards down. The moustache achieved little apart from making his nieces assume it was a fake moustache and making him look like a badger with cat's whiskers.
And so, he was forced to shave and we arrived in Chidambaram bearing with us the man most wanted in the town by the looks of it. The billboards welcomed us all the way from the railway station. We helpfully pointed to the man in question everytime we stopped to ask somebody for directions while the groom squirmed in his pants!

The billboards were a little ghastly considering our family has never been anywhere close to fame. We revelled in the mundane and kept newspaper clippings in files accessible in the drawing room cabinets amidst a flurry of other papers, of the times when our names did appear in print. The less fortunate who blundered into the territory of how well the children of the house had done were treated to the frayed clippings along with a guided tour of the medals hanging in the showcase. But that was the extent of fame we had achieved. To see larger-than-life billboards with my brother's photograph on it was a bit overwhelming. One thing I hadn't noticed in earlier photographs was that the bride looked positively fat. Not that there was anything with being fat, just that I had had quite a hard time imagining her with the photographs and the various descriptions I'd received from everybody else - I was the only one in the family who had not seen her, and I was really eager to see her. When I did see her, there seemed a reel-real life disconnect on multiple levels. The photographs I had seen earlier looked nothing like the posters and the posters looked nothing like the bride in person.

I just had to reconcile the matter before I could immerse myself in the wedding. I mounted a mini investigation into the matter pronto. It turns out that the photographers of Chidambaram were quite bright. They had with them the latest tools of digital imaging and were waiting for an opportunity to showcase their talents. A perfect opportunity presented itself with the wedding posters. My sister-in-law had given a photograph in a salwar kameez. The photographer decided that the subject should have been dressed in a saree. Instead of taking the simplest route, namely asking for a photograph in saree, he morphed the image - he transplanted the face over the image of a person dressed in a saree. The saree clad woman's image he had taken was on the larger side and resulting image was what had greeted me
in the streets of Chidambaram - and that my folks is the advantage of having folks with digital imaging tools in a town like Chidambaram.

Now that the photograph mystery had been laid to rest, I devoted myself to the remaining aspects of the event management. One thing that I really liked was that there was a poster at the local bus station manned with an information desk - all our relatives could find directions to the wedding venue as soon as they descended from their buses. An elephant was to garland the groom on his arrival. I was half expecting a band - except that the only available band in town apparently refused to be up in the wee hours of the morning. The groom's nieces & nephew spent the entire 11 hour journey from our hometown to Chidambaram fantasizing about the elephant and the horse-drawn buggy that was to be used for the procession. The nieces confused the proceedings for a circus in their fertile minds, because
they asked if a clown would be available on the premises. I assured them there would - and what's more, the clown would be their favourite Uncle. My brother wasn't happy!

On arrival, they felt letdown when they were informed that it usually takes a week to bring an elephant from one of the nearby temples and because of the rains, this part of the proceedings had to be dropped.

Let me be frank - South Indian weddings are higher on the ritual factor than the fun factor. In fact, the grumpier elders frowned on any sort of merry-making. There was a solemn ceremony at a nearby temple. Every available God was petitioned to bless the couple in long-winding sanskrit phrases and at the end of the whole event in the small temple, everyone looked ready to cry. We were determined however to lighten up the mood as much as possible. The moment the horse-drawn buggy was available, we went crazy at my brother's expense. To date, I have never seen a person look so embarrassed. He ascended the chariot looking extremely uncomfortable and tugged at his nieces and nephew for comfort. There was a band playing music. The music was even discernible once you cut out the noise. There was a jeep ahead with flashlights helpfully focussed on my brother, as though he needed any more attention in his life at the moment. To make matters worse, the traffic that was easing along were all
peeping through windows to take a good look at the subject. There were fireworks in front, and we were hoping that the firecrackers wouldn't frighten the horses. I voiced my concerns regarding this to my brother on his perch in the chariot, and his embarrassment quickly mingled with an acute sense of foreboding. To add to his misery, the nieces and nephews on the chariot were egging the horses to go faster. It would have made a dashing sight to see my brother galloping along swiftly through the dense streets of Chidambaram, making the cows move aside in a hurry and have the elephant race the horses.

But none of that happened, that would have made things finish too quickly. The horses walked on slowly and the motorised chariot at the back was set to move at the slowest speed possible.

Because of, or in spite of the band, I had an overwhelming desire to dance. The band had christened themselves James Band and performed aboard a tram. The band sometimes confused melody with volume, and we found ourselves yelling over all the din to talk to the person right next to you. However, the band did its best to bring about a festive atmosphere. I started to dance with my husband, and discovered something. All people, old and young, the serious and frolicky, the men and women everybody had an urge to dance. The moment my husband and I abandoned all reservations and started jigging on the streets, hordes of relatives joined in. Our reasoning was that, no matter how badly we danced we can't attract more attention to ourselves than the old bird atop the chariot with spotlights focussed on him and half a dozen brats for company! My mother, who was always a stickler for self-control herself swayed the crowds with her dance number and my father felt compelled to join in, once his sweetheart started dancing.

The only saving grace was that the entire camaraderie took place in a town where we were hitherto unknown. The preparations, the wedding atmosphere, the histrionics of the day before the wedding - something we will remember for a long time, and definitely not something we will let my brother forget in a tearing hurry!

The bride and groom were given the night to mull over the proceedings and prepare for the intense wedding ahead.

The maverick conforms!

I attended my brother's wedding, and had a very good time. I have already been dubbed a black sheep by the rest of the extended family. While numerous maamis pointed out with displeasure that I was not following tradition, my close family was just glad to see that I didn't pack a pair of jeans in my wedding wardrobe, and were absolutely thrilled when I wore some bangles! It is all about setting expectations.

The day I did wear a saree, dozens of people took it upon themselves to impress upon me the graceful look a saree alone can give. One particular aunt declared while pinching my stomach lovingly - "See! How beautiful and graceful a saree is? It is the most decent of attires too!"

Our traditional wedding attire is a 9 yards saree. If ever there was a more confusing manner in which to drape oneself with 9 yards of stuffy silk, please let me know. I would like to see it. My sister and I wore the whole 9 yards for the wedding. Our cries that the girl is the only one who should be in a wedding attire were obviously ill-founded because we found the gasp emanating while voicing such a sentiment the loudest of all. This gasp knew no economic nor educational barriers. So we relented. We dressed like road rollers and steamed about the wedding hall. It took us all of twenty minutes to traverse twenty feet because after every 3-4 steps, some lady would take it upon herself to "rectify" the saree. They would tug at the pletes near the legs, pull near the hip and clasp the saree near the shoulder. Within minutes of the proceedings, my sister's saree had reached such a sorry state of affairs, that the only option open to her was to whisk my eldest aunt who was an expert at 9-yard-saree-tying to redo the effort.

Now for a bit of family background - my sister is the elder one between us. So, she gets to do the honours whenever a sister of the groom was called for. Since the 9 yard textile mill ream draped around her showed every indication of rolling itself back into a ream again in public, she went to the dressing room with my aunt. My brother, meanwhile, was looking quite harrassed during the proceedings and silently sent pleas for some company on the stage. I went up to the stage partly to give him company, and partly to save my own saree from the self certified 9-yard-saree-rectifiers. I must have looked quite happy chatting on the stage. Everytime I scanned the crowd from the pedestal, folks would mouth - "Where is your sister?" I would mouth something undecipherable and cock my head towards the dressing room. Immediately, they would shoot off like a bunch of rabbits. This got a bit boring after the 102nd time, and I decided to go the dressing room myself till my sister actually finished dressing.

I went in to find my great aunt looking very harrassed and upset. She was pushing past 90, and bustling around tying a 9-yard saree must have been an effort by itself. My sister and aunt immediately accosted me, and asked me how come the main event of the wedding was reached soo soon. The sister of the groom was mainly required for the 2 minute event when the groom ties the "thali" around the bride. The groom ties one knot, and the sister of the groom ties the remaining two. This event was usually preceded by an hour and a half of mantras and followed by another 2 hours. I explained to them that there were nowhere close to the thali event and my aunt could take her time and relax. Now remember, I mentioned all those people scuttling off like rabbits? All these people had taken it upon themselves to summon the sister of the groom. "Sister of the groom wanted!" they would announce loudly, and peek in to make sure things were going along smoothly. This had made my 90+ aunt extremely nervous and she was quite stressed that the wedding was being stalled because of the saree!

Finally, after half the folks had seen my sister standing like a passenger taken aside for checking at an airport terminal, with a 90 year old lady running around her, she was dressed and we ascended the stage together.

My mother glowed with pride - she had achieved the pinnacle of her dreams. Her maverick daughter had conformed! Her son's wedding was a success.

"How does one use the restroom in this?" I asked.

Sona-Mina-Tina

My grandmother was a vivacious character for her time and age. The mother of nine children, each with their own character like the Navagraha gods - it must have been a humongous task holding the family together. Add to the mix, my grand-father, and you have a gripping sitcom that could run for decades.

My grand-parents lived in the village with their brood. It fell on my grand-mother's shoulders to procure provisions, feed the family, feed anybody who comes begging and feed the constant barrage of visitors (my grandfather was known for his generosity, and many a mendicant has eaten my grandma's cooking). Monthly once, she and her friends would undertake the journey to the city and buy provisions for the month ahead. Inventory management and reorder levels were second nature to these maami's.

Meenakshi Maami, Visalam Maami (my grandmother) and some other maami. (My father regales these stories to us, and I forgot the name of the third maami.) It can't be too difficult to guess - we South Indians like to think complexity stems from length and scoff at variety and modernity. So, you can pick Lakshmi maami or Jayam maami - both are equally probable. Let's pick Jayam Maami for the purpose of this story.

These maamis had all the zest and fervour that three hip girls in any bar of today would display. But, they carefully concealed it behind 9 yards of saree each. I can readily imagine the horror of equating my paati to a hip girl in a bar - but, I mean it in a very positive way.

Which other mother of nine would hurriedly finish her monthly purchases in a blurry hour or so, and go charging towards the Sona-Mina-Tina theatre complex for a back-to-back 3 movie marathon movie-watching adventure?! (Note: No movie was considered worth the money if it was shorter than 3 hours and 15 minutes!)
"Ayyo, Visalam, puli vaanganum" (We must buy tamarind)

"Parava illai Jayam - ennutta irukku, naan tharaen. Padam aarambichuduvan" (Oh come on Jayam, I'll give you some, the movie is going to start!)

Once in the theatre, they would watch a movie per theatre. An MGR movie in Sona followed by a Gemini movie in Mina and a Jaishankar movie in Tina.

The trio would then trump home with all the purchases where the kids would be waiting with their hearts a-flutter! You see, they would get to hear the stories from the three adventurous dames, who escaped into their fantasy world for all of a day! After lunch, the kids from Meenakshi Maami, Visalam Maami & Jayam Maami would gather around their mothers. I would like to imagine a setting like a village school sans desks and chairs. All the children looking up eagerly to hear the story.

Apparently, my grand-mother's brood being the largest, she got the honour of primary narrative lead. In loose translation, it would go like this:
Visalam: blah..blah..MGR came and he was just rescuing Saroja Devi, when that nasty fellow came!

Meenakshi: Oh .. that fellow! One day, I would like to capture him - what a rowdy element he is!

*The kids knew the choice adjectives must all refer to the most preferred villain of Tamil Cinema at the time - M.N.Nambiar*

Visalam: And then, MGR ran with his sword just before that horrible fellow touched Saroja Devi and started fighting him. He pushed him to the floor and ...

Jayam: Ayyo Visalam - he runs with the sword in the Gemini movie with K.R.Vijaya tied to the tree illayo? In this one, they fight over the upturned drums right?

Visalam, after a moment's contemplation, may or may not agree with Jayam maami's point, and proceed. Nambiar must have been the villain in all the three movies, and it must have been rather hard remembering the one in which he fought fist-to-fist, and the one where he put up a valiant sword-fight.

The resulting story essentially had all three movies tied haphazardly with various elements of drama and villainy suffused to form a murky liquid! Any director would have killed for the script - an entirely new movie would have arisen from the effort.

Yet, it was M.N.Nambiar who tied all these narrations together. The quintessential villain in over 1000 Tamil movies - he must have had a thousand curses directed at him every time he stepped onto the screen. It was hard imagining this man, who was the object of every maami's source of apprehension in those movies, was the pious Aiyappa devotee that all the Maami's approved off in real life.

A tribute to M.N.Nambiar - Tamilians would hardly have savoured the movie experience the same way without this personality!

The Tale of Three Fabrics

** To be read in the context of Indian reverence of the Silk (Pattu) **

Cotton looked decidedly dull in his lumpy lack-lustre attire. He yearned for his moments of fame. In one of Cotton's more thwarted moments, he had defined fame as being photo-worthy at South Indian weddings for himself.

Cotton had learned from the moment he had sprouted that his life was to be plain. Cotton tried to take on vibrant colours and shocking patterns while weaving. Time passed- things changed and fashion trends favoured Cotton - cotton was fashionable! However, the more people wanted to wear Cotton in the hot plains of India, the more Cotton's obsession grew - he wanted to be accepted as wedding attire in South Indian Tamilian weddings.

Cotton cursed Silk and swore at it, to no avail.

He tried various angles of argument:

"I come from crop"

"I look brilliant"

"I make you as comfortable as it is possible to be when you are sitting in front of a huge fire in the 90 degree heat!" he wailed. But, he was dragged out - left to lament and comfort himself in the 90 degree heat.

Wool, meanwhile was definitely more revered in the colder regions, but could not match up to Silk either. "Very useful", everybody conceded, even the freshly fleeced sheep shiveringly acknowledged that wool was a fine material. T'was the age of the dawning cinema - Tinsel town had started shooting all the garish songs in the colder reaches of the mountainside. Suddenly, film crews floated to the coldest regions to shoot for songs featuring men and women dancing around trees. Wool looked on with yearning - his moment was fame was just there, he thought. The Bollywood film stars flocked to the cold wrapped in the best woollen with a hot cuppa tea in their hands. Every single strand in the sweaters of Hema Malini and Sharmila Tagore preened themselves when the camera cried - "One two & three!".

What should happen?! Oh the cruelty - the disdain of being discarded just before prancing in front of the camera in silk was too much for the woollen to bear.

"I am not going to keep you warm when you come running back and put me on again", thought the sweaters grumpily. A representation is what is needed wool decided. The Wool Positive Publicity Committee was set up and spent years trying to get people to see the sense behind seeing film stars dancing in front of mounds of snow with nothing but a thin silk saree. Things changed - soon, actresses did start appearing with warmer clothes, but they cut straight through wool, and went to trendy leather jackets.

And so, you can still hear wool whimpering about unfair treatment when you pass by. Wool's hidden desire was to attain fame through the camera. But its wishes were sadly ignored. Another grumpy fabric.

Silk meanwhile apparently had everything going for him. He had roads built for his comfort and transport. Royalty flocked to him. Not a single function - big or small went by without silk it seemed. Yet, silk was the unhappiest of all. All he yearned for, ever, was to be left alone.
There were those who had few silk clothes and brandished them for every function. The old silks would lie wanting nothing more to be left alone - right next to the crisp enthusiastic cotton or the woollen waiting for a glimpse of the outer world. But no, the humans would unfailingly parade the same silks around everytime. It mattered not that every memory of themselves would be in one of the same silks - it was silk and that was all. One could practically see the silk fibre yawning in the photographs.

So, it was that Silk remained unhappy too.

One day, the three unhappy fabrics opened up and talked in the almirah - a mix may change the mindset they said.

And that is the story behind the Cotton Silks & Cotton wool and the Silk wools! Every fabric had a little bit of their urge satisfied. People ventured to appear in Photographs with fabric other than silk for once.

John McCain won!

It was a well fought race - both players had positives and negatives that were objectively weighed by the voter turn-out and the decision was clear. In the hot presidential election between John McCain Vs Obama, John Mc Cain won!

I don't know what the headlines are telling you these days - but this is the verdict.

Pink post-it notes belonged to Obama and yellow post-it notes belonged to McCain. The electoral base were the 3-4 year olds in my daughter's classroom (where else?!) They were being taught the process of voting and it served as an exercise in counting too. I asked my daughter who she voted for - she launched into a recap of the decisions behind her friends' choice of colours. They had evidently not taught them about ballot secrecy!

My daughter's friend chose pink because she was wearing a pink jacket. Most of the boys shied away from pink because they thought it was a girl's colour (Poor Obama - he might have been prepared to take on the tax laws and the health care system, but he didn't know that was coming!)

Finally, they all got to count and decide the winner. Fourteen had chosen yellow and ten had chosen pink. So, it was decided that John Mc Cain won the presidential race.

Looking forward to a good tenure under Obama's leadership,

Yours truly.

A tribute to Michael Crichton

I feel saddened by the death of Michael Crichton. Is it the selfish thought that I would not see another well-researched book intertwined with his fine imagination again? (well, after the one scheduled for release in May 09). It may well be the case.

Nevertheless, here is my tribute to a fertile mind - thank you for all those hours you transported me to another world - a high-paced, adventure filled world in which I would never belong , but one to which I can escape in the confines of my mind.

Happy Diwali

Diwali is a time to be happy with friends and family. I am delighted to say that I had a fantastic Diwali. We spent the week-end in the refreshing company of friends who have come to mean family, and children whose innocence and love is like having a pick-me-up tonic (when the day starts at least!).

I am glad to inform my readers that I did not make any sweets or for that matter any savoury. In fact, we had a lovely lunch with rasam and koottu (And no - no payasam either). It is not that I do not like sweets or "karam" - I like them. I just cannot see the rationale behind sweating for days on end standing in front of the stove, with aching legs to boot.

So far, everybody without an exception has wished me a Happy Diwali, and asked me what I made. The pressure to "make" something for Diwali is beginning to show on my tired brow. I did what my family likes best on Diwali - I had our friends over, and we had a fantastic dinner. We had my daughter's friends over and enjoyed the company of the kids, dancing and playing with them. It just did not involve sweets.

But I learnt an important lesson this Diwali - "I did not make any sweets at home" is not a satisfactory answer. After every call, I hung up with the implied disappointment voiced over my lack of "motherliness/domesticity" for not producing a sweet factory. It is the right thing to do, even if one particularly does not enjoy it. It is the right thing to do even if it means undoing your loved ones efforts at the gym over the past few weeks.

I am glad to say this though: I made us all some memories that would bring a smile any day.
Here is wishing you all a very Happy Diwali!

Economic Upheavals

The economic climate has been bad. Inflation is up and things are not looking good on the sensex fronts. When such trends play out for longer intervals in time, everybody feels the pressure.

Droning on about Economic ratios and sensex points means nothing to drive the point home. We (my sister and I) have explained the economic upheaval using the effects it has had on the life of my 12 year old nephew living in Dubai. Granted, he is not one of the impoverished, malnourished lads - but he has problems too.

Case 1 :Canteen money for breakfast

Once in a while, when he is a good boy and the moon rises in the morning, he gets 'canteen money'. This means he gets Dhs 5 to buy his breakfast from his school canteen instead of home food. He is usually very excited on these days. Till last year, he said, this would give him

2 mini pizzas - Dhs 2 @ 1 each

1 cutlet - Dhs 1

I juice- Dhs 1

Savings - Dhs 1

Then the juice became Dhs 1.50 , the cutlet became Dhs 1.50 and the savings were gone. He was upset but he could live with that. Recently, when he got the fiver, he started to wail ."Oh please increase my allowance. I can't eat with Dhs 5. The mini pizzas are Dhs 1.50 each and the school has reduced the cheese on it." Apparently, he has to either let go of the juice or the cutlet! He had Physical Education in the morning-so he would be "hungry and thirsty"!

Such opportunities present themselves merely to satisfy the sermonic yearnings every parent harbours. The parent can talk on about their pasts, and how handling money is a privilege that one must thank the Almighty for. Reminiscing is also allowed - one could talk about the number of "Priya" sweets a 10 paise fetched earlier, and talk fondly of the coin, now missing from circulation.

Once the preaching/pretending-to-listen ceremony was wrapped up with, a decision was reached to increase his canteen money to a princely sum of Dhs 7.

Case 2 : Birthday presents

Said nephew wanted to buy his best friend a birthday present - a Parker Pen. He window shopped, shortlisted the pen , noted the price- Dhs 20. That is 2 months worth of pocket money. So he saved up for 2 months , put his Dhs 20 in the wallet and asked to be escorted to the shop. And voila, the pen was now Dhs 24!! The poor guy was flabbergasted and said 'Amma - I can't buy the pen. The price went up and his birthday is next week. What to do? ".

Which God grants two admirable opportunities in a week to a parent?! The sermon was modified, delivered and wrapped up with the ceremonial extraction of promises for ongoing good behaviour.

He was given Dhs 4 for the pen.

Line Leaders & Gate Holders

We had a parent teacher conference this morning. I learnt a bit more about their day than the information I pieced together based on her stories.

Reading between the lines, the class spends half their time moving between various places in the campus. The most often visited spot being the restroom. Apparently, they form a line to go from the class to the restroom and back. There are restroom breaks before and after the following activities:
1) Play time (twice a day)
2) Nap time (once a day)
3) Snack time (twice a day)

I try not to work out the number of minutes wasted in getting all brats lined up to go over the entire exercise, but cannot help admiring the teachers.

Now, all this talk about restrooms and forming lines leads somewhere - like as I would to bore you with the bowel movements of 3-4 year olds, the line-forming itself has an interesting story that I hear everyday.

Apparently, there are two coveted positions within the class:
1) Line Leader
2) Gate Holder

Line Leaders:
The Line Leader is assigned the task of standing in front of the line, and gets to "lead" the children to the restroom or playground. The days my daughter is conferred the honour is an important day in her life, and she regales her experiences with zest. I found out that the line leader is the first to follow the teachers wherever they go. The line leaders are decided on round robin policy.

Gate Holders:
There is a gate separating the playground and the remaining classrooms. The gate holder is the person entrusted with standing with their backs against the open gate to make sure the gate does not swing on anybody else. This post too is determined using the round robin policy.

I like the way these positions make children feel valued and treat their responsibility earnestly. Soon, she would grow up, and there would be competition for any sort of leadership position. Before that happens, I want to cherish this sweet wisdom of round-robin policies to give everyone a chance to lead.

Security & Me

I appreciate security. I appreciate the notion that I can go about my business dealings in a secure, risk-free manner.

Nobody can access my Pre-tax savings. I have been accumulating reserves paycheck to paycheck. I sit like a mother hen and imagine it grow. Considering imagination is the only course of action open to me now, it is a pretty good occupation to indulge in. Nobody can access my Pre-tax savings, not even myself.

I have been slacking with reimbursements and claims. As I groggily started my day, I decided to attack all of the 'Pending' items on my to-do list. Transit claims, expense claims - the works.
I enter the site with determination. The site believes in security and so do I. It prompts me for a user id and password. Determination slowly turns to trepidation: This is where the trouble usually begins - each one asks for a different userid/password combination. I try to keep the passwords along the same lines, since there are atleast 8 different systems in the company I work in, dealing with different aspects of my life. The problem comes when each system requires me to change my passwords at varied intervals.

System 1 determines changing passwords once every 3 months is good enough, while system 3 wants it to be on a monthly basis. System 2, on the other hand, does not really care whether I change my password or not, as long as it is 32 characters long and has atleast 2 numerals irregularly spaced every 13 characters, and has atleast one special character to boot along with a rather simple requirement that the letters used cannot all be lower-case or upper-case. And it really only asks that you don't start the password with a capital letter.

I finally hit upon something - I appeased all the password Gods and dutifully complied with all the rules. I saved the passwords cryptically in my drafts folder. And for somebody to get to my drafts, they had to plunge into the very depths of my brain, and and use advanced data mining techniques for connections and links to mundane details in my life, before they could find the password.

I had the system under control. Till it was determined that keeping one's email for too long is risky business too, and implemented a 30 day rolling deletion policy on email. One fine day, my drafts which contained the goldmine of information was deleted, without a trace of retrieval!

So, here I am enjoying a perfect day mailing random system administrators about my imperfect memory, and requesting system resets. They comply and remind me: I must only remember not to use any of the last 8 passwords I have ever used on the site. Given that I don't remember any of the passwords, is there a way to tell me which are the 8 I previously used, I ask innocently.

The Birthday Chart

The year 2001: I stood in the tiny telephone booth - I felt like a performing musician. I had one hand acting like a earplug to zone out the background noise. Only it wasn't the orchestra I was blocking out, it was the street noise. I must also mention that my "audience" comprised of one bored tea delivery boy waiting for the telephone booth owner to noisily slurp the last few drops of the steaming tea. I was palpably excited about making an overseas call to my fiance to wish him a Happy Birthday. I may have been a "very successful software engineer" in my parents eyes, but I was still a dutiful daughter to parents who shouted into the phone. I suppose in their minds, a louder tone somehow speeded up the conversation.

The call connected, and my heart raced, just a trifle slower than the meter. I wished my fiance a Happy Birthday, and asked him eagerly whether he wore the shirt and tie I had picked out for his birthday. I visualized a suavely dressed engineer with a smart creased shirt, and tie in sunny California. He semi-truthfully lied that he did. (He said he didn't wear the tie, but crumpled the shirt enough for it to pass off as less than formal. ) Years later, I found out that the shirt I had lovingly picked out for him was in a colour he did not particularly admire, and I also found out that the only time he will sport a tie is at our wedding! My loving-husband-gift-giving story had started off with a bang.

Year 2002: I did not yet have a car of my own. So, I hitch-hiked with my cousin and furtively bought a gift and kept it hidden for several weeks before springing it to him. I watched the gift gather dust on the leftmost corner of our closet well above the average human-bring's reach. I hadn't yet wisened up to "returning" something meant as a gift. But Time will take care of that.

Year 2003: This time, I decided to use my father's most trite advice. (The way to a man's heart is through his stomach.) Just a gift wouldn't do, a hand-made cake is what is needed I decided. So, I made a cake, and called our close friends and cut the cake. I was smart this time, and got him to return the gift I bought.

Year 2004: I managed to successfully glean any attention away from his birthday by being wholly pregnant and having my baby shower/seemandham etc the next day. He will be cutting a cake along with me for the baby shower wouldn't he?

Year 2005: By now, nobody has any expectations to either impress each other with gifts or home-made cakes or store bought cakes for that matter.

Year 2006: Health conscious was the word. No sweets we decided, and we had the birthday cake replaced with a brownie. (My daughter really wanted to eat brownies)

Year 2007: Here is a post linking his 'birthday celebration'. In short, we did everything but celebrate HIS birthday and landed up spending the afternoon with my daughter's classroom having decided to celebrate her birthday in class instead. Ah...sweet practicality! AS for the gift, it another story!

Year 2008: We mutually agreed that I would take him along and buy him something he likes. Mr. Practicality came swinging by, and while I took my little one to a class, he went and bought something on his own around the time of his birthday. I suppose the Gajjar Halwa from last week-end doesn't really count.

I don't like the idea of this post. If I were to graph it out, I'd probably be snorting in his general direction somewhere down the line. Ah well.... Hubby, you will always know the sounds emanate with love!

Happy Birthday Dear Husband!

I'd love an encore

Yesterday we attended a Tamil Light Music concert by S.P.Balasubramanian and his troupe. Lead singers were SPB, Chitra, Sailaja and an emerging talent, Srikrishnan. I had multiple sound tracks going on within the auditorium. My daughter said she too knows how to sing, and sang - "I am a Kangaroo, and I don't live in the zoo..." to a backdrop of K.S.Chitra's national award winning rendition of "Paadariyen, Padippariyean". Luckily, I got my daughter's musical genius to stop manifesting itself too much. She stopped singing early enough to avoid an unceremonious armed bodyguard escort out of the auditorium of her disgraced parents cheered on by piqued fans. I hushed her into silence by promising her a complete concert dedicated to no musician but herself the moment we get home!

Chitra stole the show, in my opinion with her genius. Her unassuming self was so evident, and yet she swayed the whole audience with every single one of her performances. At some pitches, I felt my ears vibrating with joy, and she smiled through them all - she did not even seem to be straining herself. There was one person who loved her career - one could see it in her passion to sing. Her "Ovoru pookalumae solgiradhae" song which won her another national award, evokes an array of emotions in me every time, and this time too, I was left yearning for an encore of the number.

A new talent emerging in the South, Srikrishnan also performed last night. If ever there was an award for an image/voice disconnect, I would recommend Srikrishnan. Somewhere in the baggy suit that walked onto the stage was a nervous thin lad. He kept falling at people's feet asking for their blessings, and bending over forwards in deep bows. I sometimes felt a suspension thread from the ceiling was needed to pull him backwards just to remind him of the equilibrium involved in standing upright. And then, he sang.

He had a fantastic voice, and delivered difficult songs with great ease. His Tamil diction was pardonable, even likeable because of his voice. The only song where I could not bear it was "Kaalangalil aval vasantham".

When Chitra and Srikrishnan sang a medley starting off with Chitra calling for "Lord Krishna", her musical cries reached an all-time high and the auditorium watched awed. Krishna, Krishna Krishna - she called with devotion and piety dripping from her voice. It was sort of ironical to watch the puny Srikrishnan standing trembling beside her.

SPB as usual stunned the audience with his persona, his voice, his humour and his involvement of the crowd. His sister performed too, and though my friends did not seem to like her, I thought she was quite good too.

My husband likened it the concert to a good cup of coffee - you are left thirsting for just a little bit more, and the taste lingers on as you yearn. Though I am not much of a coffee lover myself, I agreed.

My Leave Saga

The context : I need to take time off for my brother's wedding.

Not that I am jealous of others who have a lot of leave at their disposal (specifically my siblings who both seem to have picked countries where leave is abundant!), but here is my leave saga. Patience is a virtue. Though people who have been witness to my outbursts of anger scarcely believe this when I say it, patience is a skill I have acquired, and use it rather sparingly. I lay waiting like the Ibex hunters in the snowy Himalayan ranges. Apparently, in the snowy stretches of the Himalayas, over 18000 feet above sea level, the sure footed Ibex graze. Slaying an Ibex requires more patience than skill. It was this strategy I used. One wrong foot, and my entire wedding presence could be in jeopardy.

You see, for the past week, my mind has been in a restless uproar. How do I get leave to attend this wedding? Even if, for a moment, we don't delve into the depressing depths of leave disparities between the developed nations of the world, I was walking tight rope here. I had tight deliverables and low leave balance.

I also think this a right spot to cite statistics regarding leave, just to make you people realise how tough life is(Source: a friend's blog whose source is an article she read in Via magazine)
Japanese have an average of 17.5 days per year. The French who gave us the word 'Leisure' - get 36 days and take 94 percent of them. In England one gets 24 days vacation time. Dubai gets 30 days with a paid ticket to their exotic destinations, and food coupons to dine in, and resort packages to stay in while on vacation. (Okay, I exaggerate, but I am allowed to do that!) US get 10-15 days off, and what's more, on average people only take 11 days of that.

So I am justifiably piqued (in my opinion of course!) I digress. Let me get back to the saga of my leave. Like a child promised a candy for good behaviour, I did my best with a smiling face, and my entire being worked tirelessly towards the service of the organization. I ignored slights, and brushed off the hard times I had to endure. I delivered projects ahead of time, I waited for my boss to be in a good mood before springing the request on him. I was rewarded - aah, sweet manna of heaven! I got oral approval for leave. When I commence the New Year, it would be to a new beginning with zero leave balance. (But one does not dwell on the depressing, they dwell on the happy thought that there is a vacation to look forward to!)

And with that, I would like to give the signal to all concerned to go ahead with your plans. May the wedding preparations begin!

Education for Life

I read an article in the Times comparing the number of school days for children in the USA against the number of school days in other countries such as Korea, Japan, china, India, Australia etc. No surprises there - US ranks amongst the lowest in the world. Now thanks to the fuel escalation problems, a few schools are contemplating the move of reducing the week to have more hours per school day for 4 days, and reduce the totals number of school days from 5 to 4 per week. I am not sure I could stop with just outlining a few problems with this approach, but I'll try not to ramble on...

1) Regardless of the number of hours spent in school, children are still left with one whole day apart from the week-end twiddling their thumbs and thinking of "recreational activities". I have my serious doubts whether the studious teenagers would dedicate their unsupervised time and energy to finishing up their homework or additional research.

Holiday Homework
Every vacation, we left school with the familiar brown coloured sheets detailing our holiday homework. The holidays would start, and the holiday homework would find itself buried in my room and mind. In my mind, it would raise its head every now and then reminding me about the unfinished work as the holidays went slipping by. My intentions were good, but there was just not enough time! I had to pick berries, gather materials for our toy-house construction, cycle all over campus, read Enid Blytons and cook up adventures in my mind to solve. Before you knew it, it was the last week, and I was scrambling to complete my holiday homework. Countries may be different, but I am guessing children universally would dilly-dally till the last moment to do any work. I very much doubt that children would spend Friday toiling over their schoolwork while their parents are at work. My guess is it would still be done only on Sunday night afer giving considerable strain to parental nerves!

2) The parents would have to arrange for care for the children on this day. Companies are not giving us 4 day work weeks, they would still expect employees to be present on Fridays.

3) This point is the most jarring one. In a separate study comparing vacation times among US, Britain, Australia, France and Japan, US ranked the lowest. The number of Paid time off in the USA seems to be close to the lowest in the developed world!

I am uncomfortable with this. I thought Education and schooling was meant to prepare you for life! This model teaches children to expect a lackadaisical 4 day work week, and then when they start working - BAM! We strap them to their jobs and whip without a vacation!

I found this amusing piece of news today:

http://www.the-leaky-cauldron.org/2008/8/27/wb-files-suit-over-hari-puttar-film-title-in-india

A Bollywood movie titled "Hari Puttar" is scheduled for release. Puttar, as in 'Son' in Punjabi, and Hari - the usual Hari. Guess what Warner Bros is suing about? It sounds like Harry Potter!

Heights of CP

I sat back and watched with a supreme sense of satisfaction. It seems like just talking about the lack of medals for India was enough to get us not one, but three medals!

I know the perfect solution to more Olympic medals. We need to talk more - ha ha!
PS: CP means Cheap Publicity!
PS1: I am very sad that the Olympics is coming to an end. It seems like 2 weeks of a treat flew past. Two weeks where we marvelled the endurance and performance of athletes regardless of their origin. Two weeks of human beings at their competitive best.

Next week, things will be back to normal again. The memory of the Games fading from our midst like a smudged water-color painting. The once firm contours blending into each other - still beautiful, but not as striking when we think back about the Olympics and smile.

Anand's Comment on the Olympic post warranted a separate blog entry by itself. So, I've posted his comment as an article.

Anand says:

Let us take swimming for instance. You need great swimming pools, researchers who understand fluid dynamics, companies that excel in fluid dynamics and continuously push their R&D to develop better swim suits, private companies that are willing to fund swimmers during their training and great universities that are willing to hire such swimmers into their program and nurture them so when they are in their mid 20s - they have a post swimming career in place.This is a heady concoction - which is available may be in the G7 countries of the world. Of course, I was surprised to see Coventry is Zimbabwean [of course she spent her last 6 years in Auburn.Cavic is Serbian only for olympics. He is a thoroughbred Californian. The other great swimmers from the non G7 countries seem to have gone to Ann-Arbor or Cal.Basically at this level of competition where the difference between #1 and #10 is less than half a second - infrastructure is EVERYTHING. I can extend this argument to Track and Field as well. San Jose Mercury News carried a story about why Jamaicans rule in Track and Field - it went back nearly 40 years to SJSU. Their athletic program took nearly 30 years to start yielding results. Of course a lot of the research support I mention is now available to those athletes too, who also train a lot in the US.If anything, I am totally convinced that to be anywhere near the top in any of these competitions, you better have the entire infrastructure to support you. When would India grow enough to create such support? Not anytime soon I think. If someone spent $200m to build a fantastic T&F center or a swim center - imagine the ruckus it would create right now. Only when the basic needs of the common man are met, can and will India think of esoteric acts such as excelling in sports come into being.Yes, there are random acts of individual brilliance that bring medals to much smaller countries - which will happen in India too. But as a system that generates medal winning athletes olympics after olympics - I would be very surprised if I saw it happen in our lifetime.

Anand further pointed us to an article written by Amit Verma

http://indiauncut.com/iublog/article/india-doesnt-need-olympic-pride/

The silence of the Moon

It was a long day. There were a number of interesting events today, but I'm here to report none of that. I sat in the car, in silence. I knew the lack of conversation was all my daughter needed to fall asleep. She had had a tiring day too, and had been extra active for the past 6 hours. I glanced across at my husband holding the steering wheel, and then looked out the window. It was either the full moon, or close to the full moon.

I felt strange, sitting there watching the trees go by, the cars whiz past. The clouds moved - dark gray clouds, but it wasn't supposed to rain. How much one relies on the weather forecast, I thought idly. It was beautiful to watch the moon peer in and out of the gray clouds. Just as I thought some clouds were moving fast enough to eclipse the whole moon, the moon would slip out again. I watched the moon looking for a smile when it emerged. But all I saw was the bright moon with the same dark spots. I wondered about how we overload our thoughts and yearn for other things to change. Just because I wanted to find a smile is not going to change the moon's contours to be a smile. The moon is the moon - reflecting sunlight, moving around the earth and awarding a peaceful moment to anyone willing the take the time to notice it.

I just sat and watched the moon slip in and out of the clouds the whole way home. I am trying to find the word for my feeling - but then I realise I cannot describe it. I couldn't remember the last time I spent time just looking at the moon. Is peaceful the word? I am not sure, but it felt good. I watched as my husband stopped at the traffic signal - my daughter had slept.

I loved the for 7.2 miles in the silence of the moon.

A Leap Yearly Affair

It happens every leap year without fail. There is a sinking feeling, a feeling of great shame. As the second most populous nation in the world marches into the Olympic arena along with every other countries (some hitherto unheard of), the Indian in me cowers. I know of the feeble attempt we will manage, and feel terribly sorry to see the tiny contingent who has made it to the Games.

What do we lack?

Political will for sure. The making of Sports as an industry for another. Sports have to be made enticing enough to want to make people pursue them as a career. The prime-time in the life of an athlete is a short span, and if the industry surrounding this spurt does not sustain such talented individuals, few people would make the choice. There have to be careers for those who excel - as trainers, as team co-ordinators, as people who can be given the responsility to contributing to decisions in ways that touch not just their lives, but those of others who have the honor of representing the country. Cricket has achieved that, and I think it should be the same for other arenas too.

My husband and I were chatting about this, and one viable option would be to have a roadmap to win 5 medals in the next Olympics, and then make a career path for aspiring athletes. Make the infrastructure ready and available, hone skills and inspire people to succeed.

It is not difficult to achieve once the commitment is made, just difficult to overcome the reluctance to commit.

Aah ... Camping

We had been camping last week-end - a bunch of moms from Kee's class thought of it, and all-in-all eight families went camping. IT was only for a night, but it was enough to have me reeling for days. I am just recovering!

The camp grounds were far enough from civilization but close enough to the wilderness for us to get a sense of rugged adventure. From the top, we could actually see the city lights glittering at night, and I must say it made a melancholy sight to be sitting there in the tent peering out at the city lights down below. The tent itself is a masterpiece - a small package, that, when erected properly rooms a family of three or four with ease and relative comfort. We had the foresight of 'selecting' our tent site on a slope that had a 11.3 degree inclination and I must say we enjoyed the night slipping down the grade and getting back up grumpily and hauling ourselves back up again - sleeping bag, pillow, torch, night light, cell-phone, Kee and all. And try all of this on a full stomach and aching limbs, and I've sketched out comfort for you. Oh yeah - it was great fun - I spent half the night giggling as we picked ourselves up and 'moved north'.

I see some eyebrows raised when they read 'full stomach!' - you see, we were a bunch of Indian families. While we may have forgotten some things like nightlamps and flash lights, do you think we forgot food? We had food fit for a king and his army - ordered from a fancy restaurant and brought to the summit with heating trays and candles. A complete Indian meal with Shrikand for dessert. If we couldn't do justice to it, it was because we had too much tea, cookies and brownies for snacks! And of course, we had a HEARTY breakfast the next day - samosas with bread, butter croissants - all in the name of feeding our kids.

Speaking of the kids, they had a blast - running around, hiking (three year old kids actually did 1.5 mile round trip hikes, can you believe it?), 'rock climbing' and of course falling and getting hurt. Our campsite was on a gradient as previously mentioned, and every second minute a child was toppling over. I found it quite amusing to note the varying reactions to a fall. Girls generally seemed to summon folks from neighbouring camps with first -aid kits for all their din, while most boys brushed themselves off and just toppled over again with no second thoughts! There was a tap at the site, and every once in a while a harried parent would be seen shaking their heads in disbelief, wringing their hands and pulling an unwilling child from the tap.

The highlight of the trip were the racoons - they are food lovers, and come scanvenging for food near campsites. They don't have fear of any kind towards humans, and quite a few times the whole populace was grimacing with wild gestures, only to see the racoon get more and more convinced that this was the place for a wholesome meal! (I actually have a pic of everybody shooing the racoons, and it really looks comical )

Eight kids and their families on a hillside with a raccoon to boot - that's what I call a fun vacation!

The Cine's got them all!

All things Strange and Wonderful

All things Wise and Foolish

All things Bright and Beautiful

The Cine's got them all!

I went to a cinema theatre last week. Those who know me know that it is an event worth blogging about. Somehow, the cinema theatre has never appealed to me. I have always left the theatre with a headache (Dolby/fantastic sound systems, too many speakers) and blurry eyes with the humongous images that always seem too close for my liking! The Indian theatres had the added disadvantage of letting a tiny bit of urine smell 'waft' in through the opened doors after intervals. All in all, never enjoyed the theatre as much as curling up at home and watching the scenes I like and skipping the ones I don't. I have the dubious reputation of watching whole 3 hour feature films in less than 15 minutes ( I hate violent scenes, I don't like fights, I don't care too much for most of the songs, and would rather fast forward an unnecessarily maudlin scene - That leaves the titles, which I don't watch anyway!)

Anyway, we made an event out of the movie outing, and made sure my daughter did not take a nap in the afternoon, so she would fall asleep soon, and set out after an early dinner. As we were walking towards the theatre explaining the many virtues of popcorn to my daughter so she gets excited about the experience, what should happen, but she tripped and fell. Luckily, she hardly got hurt.

My daughter is a sweet-heart but a fall just jolts her! She cried and exercised her vocal chords considerably. I went and asked the theatre manager (TM) for ice and a band-aid. Guess what?

She donned one of those falsely sweet tones - "You know...I really would like to give you one, but, yeah, we aren't allowed to do that"

Me aghast: Why? It's just some ice and band-aid!

TM: Yeah, I know, but we aren't allowed to do that.

Me: May I know why?

TM: Yeah....for the risk of being sued

Me: *Laughing inwardly* Believe me, I have neither the time nor the inclination to sue over some band-aid and few blocks of ice!

TM: Yeah - I know, but I really can't

Me: Yeah...okay (What?! "Yeah" does get to you after a while!)

Anyway! I spent the first half an hour of the movie trying to soothe her, and put her to sleep. Well - no points for guessing what happened next. Turns out, only the first half hour of the movie was supposed to be watch-able by even less stringent standards than my watchability guidelines outlined above. So, I came home with a child who had body pain because of the fall, a bad head-ache and blurry eyes to boot. Not to mention a hoarse throat with the rather vehement criticism on the way back!

Sigh - I remember why I don't like theatres!

In memory of Raga

In every child's life, there are few teachers who make a true, lasting impression. In my life, the person who tops the list is Raga (Mr.G.Raghavan) Raga was one of the few teachers who could make children love a relatively tough subject like Mathematics! Weekly once, 1 half of one class would be dedicated to story-telling. He would take a story, and elongate it over weeks, while having children wait eagerly in pin-drop silence for the next point in the story. He had mastered what took ages for television to figure out. He would stop the story at a critical juncture, and have the class waiting for the remaining part of the story the whole week! What better method to have a child wait for Maths classes? He had such compelling story-telling abilities that entire generations of students were spell-bound with his stories.

It takes special ability to teach children, and most of all make every child feel important and valued. He was gentle, kind and no matter how good or bad you were at the subject, you never felt unwanted in his class. That is what separates a good teacher from a stellar one. At a boarding school, a teacher metamorphs into a surrogate parent, and as housemaster and Prep School head, he was the father figure to hundreds of children as they struggled to settle in to boarding school for the first time.

Raghavan uncle and my father started life at Lawrence School, Lovedale as bachelors sharing a single bedroom apartment. Over the span of three decades, life moved on, they had children, and we all grew up together. Monsoon vacations in the pouring rain, playing board games and listening to the whooshing sound of the rain, and of course my father and him rattling on in the back-ground. Vacations, school years, leaving with a glistening teardrop as they dropped children off in college, marrying them off, and finally both of them retired as grand-parents from the school.

I visited him a few months ago. The image was shocking. I had never known Raga to fall ill - 'Sunny' is the word that best describes him. He had survived one bout of cancer, and he looked pale and thin. He started talking, and I could hear the same old Raghavan uncle again. As he carried my toddler daughter, he said - "My god! This is Kutti Saumya, Mr Balasubramanian - I feel like I am in my thirties again carrying her as a toddler."

I still remember one incident - I was all of seven years old. I had come to write the Entrance exam for Lawrence. There was a column for my father's name, and I had confidently filled out - "Mr.K.Balasubramanian (Late)".

Mr. Raghavan was supervising the test. He called me aside, and asked me why I had written "(Late)" near my father's name. I explained to him that everytime one wrote their father's name, one must write '(Late)' (Both my maternal and paternal grand-fathers were no more then, and everytime I saw my parents write their father's name, they had always added '(Late)'!) He then laughed heartily, and explained that you append '(Late)' to a person's name only when they are no more. My father and he had their laughs about this incident for years. Decades later, I still laugh everytime I recollect this incident.

Yesterday, Mr.G.Raghavan lost a battle to cancer. It is with the heaviest of hearts that I append "(Late)" to Mr.G. Raghavan's name. This time, I am doing it correctly, just as he lovingly explained to me all those years ago - but it doesn't feel right. He lives on in the hearts of thousands of children, and will never really die.

Ideal workspot

What are your expectations of an ideal work-spot/ professional environment?
Top criteria for me would include:
Challenging work (Just the right amount too!)
Ownership
Good Team
Good Manager
Flexibility
Proximity to home (The last two for work/life balance)

Business Ventures

When I was growing up, my father kept on harping on three business ventures:

1) Seven Star Saree Center

2) Anand cycle mart

3) Bama tuition center

Seven Star Saree Center:This venture originated in the endless love of Indian women for clothes. His plan was to have sarees from 7 major brands in the store (Garden Vareli, Calico .... I forget the remaining brands) He spent endless hours designing the showroom (the showroom design and his ideal house design somehow merged in the designs, and I am sure had it put to paper would have looked like a five star hotel that doubled up for a shop or a house!)

State of project: Somehow the sizzle for this died down, but not without running its course of a decade worth of "planning".

Anand cycle mart:This venture was planned because of the high expectations set by my brother with respect to his academic ambitions as a boy. He drew far greater pleasure in tinkering with his cycle than in sitting with a textbook! Actually, my brother is a gadget-junkie, and used to fiddle around with anything new. I still tease him that he must have started concentrating on the academic front only when he realised that his income as a cycle mechanic is not going to pay for all his fancy gadgets!

State of project: Thankfully, this business venture plan was put to rest in a few years time, when my brother became a chartered accountant.

Bama Tuition Center:

(Creative title origin: first 2 letters from Mother and father's first name)

State of project: I regret to inform you that this venture even now sporadically raises its head in our home, but by and large the frequency has come down from everyday to every month or so.

I have my share of business ventures too!I wanted to start a potato supply business when I worked at Infosys. The seeds of thought were planted in the fact that almost evey dish at the Infy canteen had a generous serving of potatoes! Masala dosa, aloo poori, potato bonda - you name it, and there would be some portion of it containing potatoes!

State of project: Abandoned when I moved away from the Infy Bangalore campus

Tea Stall at BART:This, I know, is a sure shot! You see, 80% of BART commuters in the Fremont line are desis. Please tell me who would hesitate to buy a few bondas/bajjis in the way home after a tiring day and journey!

State of Project: Current, meaning discussions still rampant

I am sure everyone has some crazy escape mechanism to think of when evaluating one's own life. Let's hear all your fantasies.

A new pair of Jeans

To the rest who did not know! I am wearing a new pair of jeans.

Though new clothes don't exactly require an occasion anymore, I am still a little girl when it comes to wearing new clothes. I love them. When we were growing up, new clothes were worn only on festivals, birthdays etc. I remember my birthday falling close to Diwali, and both occasions being satisfied with one set of clothes. To this date, I exhibit a certain reluctance to release new clothes without an occasion.

Regardless, I wore a new pair of jeans without any occasion, and as I was running towards the station, some friendly stranger called me, and told me I looked really good in my jeans. "Thanks!" I beamed, before realising how on earth she knew. For one thing, there is little way of telling whether a pair of jeans are new, they all look the same. Could it be the glow on my face?! I had run a little ahead before it struck me - I must have forgotten to remove one of those infernal tags! I had removed three of them, but had forgotten the fourth.

So, there it is for the rest of the world who did not know - I wore a new pair of jeans today! Glad to have got that of my chest :)

I pat your back, you pat my back

Disclaimer:This post is not aimed at any set of individuals or corporations. It is months of diligent observation culminating in this highly unscientific post that many can identify with, and yet nobody can quote.

Primates have been known to use this technique. This technique has undergone Darwinism, and is perfected by few in work environments and offices across the world. I'm fuzzy on the specifics, but most scientific findings are fuzzy on some level, and just define fuzzy better, so here is my theory.

People with a high talk to work ratio indulge in this technique for survival. In general "talk to work" ratio is also related to "talk to volume" ratio. The louder you are and the more indignant you sound, the more convincing you sound. In a cubicle farm, a marginal achiever with a high talk to work ratio, and a voice that has a high bass quotient can be viewed in different ways. For people with the MBWA (Management by Walking Around) syndrome, it is a sure strategy to pull attention towards oneself.

People who fit into this elite bucket, congregate in groups every once in a while to pat each others backs. This associative behaviour is required for a sense of belonging, and a sense of fortification on one's stand and technique verification. While in the gathering, one also has the opportunity to gather irrelevant points of problem areas in other teams. This hitherto irrelevant information can then be wielded to one's own advantage in another gathering.

Such behaviour finds itself being rewarded because the higher echelons of said organization themselves would have indulged in this to get ahead of the breed. A candid self appraisal should let one know whether any of the techniques need to be perfected if one wishes to surge ahead.

Once ahead, one would think the club member would shift allegiance to the next higher level group, but this is a technique that needs constant practice. So much like a pregnant waistline, the sphere of influence expands. In order to do this, one must spend time in multiple circles patting each other's backs, talking more, talking louder and achieving less. This only means the Talk to work ratio just got higher, while still maintaining a knowledgeable aura.

Good leaders are charismatic speakers - I rest my case.

Run Away!

"Amma - why isn't appa home yet" asked my daughter while we were reading her bedtime story last night. I answered her saying her father was held up at work. When she persisted, I explained that her father had a bug, and that was why he was late.

"Then he should run away right? Ms Chato said if you see a bug, you must run away! Is it a snake or a small bug?" (Ms Chato is her teacher)

I did not explain that running away from a bug in a software engineering department is not going to bring you any accolades in your career.

I laughed, and enjoyed the sweet fragrance of innocence that the scent of childhood bears.

Perspective

I had the strong urge to not cry - I could feel the pressure of the welled up tears against the blood vessels surrounding my eyes. There was a lump in my throat that had no business being there. I suddenly wished for the familiar confines of my bedroom where I could let my tears flow on unbridled by the demands of maintaining a public facade. My mind raced and stood still at the same time. I thanked God, my stars or destiny (whatever name you could call it) for the life that I am enjoying compared to those I had identified with in the mystical world of fiction in the last few days.

I was reading 'A Thousand Splendid Suns' by Khaled Hosseini. I could see it was difficult writing this book - the author uses two voices throughout the book - that of Mariam and Laila. Using two voices, and maintaining the tempo through out the book is a daunting task, but one well accomplished by Khaled. I felt like the luckiest woman alive for the life I am leading. For my loved ones, some of whom may be separated by more than a thousand miles, but all connected through the feeling of unity, of sharing some things in the past/present together.

"You like big words Laila, don't you? Let me give you one - Perspective" says Rasheed in the book. That statement said it all. My little worries, minor irritants - both human and otherwise seem fine.

Olympic Torch

Morning:

Today I get to witness the Olympic torch relay in San Francisco! I am so excited seeing the crowds milling on the street with flags, and the crowded trains. There are loads of buses carrying police forces from nearby Richmond and Oakland areas. I feel slightly disturbed by the protests - to me, the Olympics is the human unifying spirit, and should not be marred by anything political. I already feel slightly dumb at not having brought my camera - but, my friend has, and I am sure we can take some pictures. I feel this is the closest I have ever gotten to anything "Olympic", and I am filled with a strange sense of excitement.

Hope the event passes smoothly!

Afternoon:
I went out with my friends - I was so excited. The streets were milling with people - protests in different hues and flavours! Some people got up in the morning, and put on their protest hats, and began randomly protesting. I think they just forgot that the protest was against the Olympic torch. A majority of the protests could be classified against China, pro-Tibet, pro-Human rights etc. But there were some protests to 'End the war in Iraq', 'Darfur' and 'Free Burma'! Free Burma from whom?! This protest took the cake though : a bunch of stark naked guys turned up, apparently calling for legalizing nudity in an Olympic Torch relay ceremony!

Of course, by the time I post this, you all would have known that San Francisco city officials changed the route, and actually had the torch bused to another route, and had the relay pass the torch every fblock or so. The closing ceremony was cancelled citing the protests, and the whole episode was all-in-all a dampener!
http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2008/04/09/MNDS102IIM.DTL&tsp=1
The olympic torch hid behind the police, and was safely moved by bus from one point to another, and only made it out in the open to streets heavily armed with police as spectators, and did not even mark the event with a closing ceremony - this for the only run in the North American continent.

Evening:
Hard to describe my feelings since I did not get to see the torch - a once in a lifetime experience for sure, and was snatched away from the thousands of people waiting patiently for the torch to appear!

Another week-end went by:

Another week-end went by:
I felt strangely tranquil this week-end, an inner peace if you could call it that.
It could be any or a combination of all these things that contributed to that particular feeling:
1) I was excited because of the new dish I was preparing - I tried making vegetarian lasagna. Everytime I try something new, I behave like a child looking forward to cutting their birthday cake - eager and enthusiastic.

2) It may be because the cleaners came and rummaged through the house, and left it looking squeaky clean! The immense satisfaction I feel looking at a clean house, when I haven't passed out doing the cleaning, cannot be compared to any material pleasure in the world. I am not the only one - my daughter was so thrilled with the "cleaner uncle" around - a trip to Disneyland could not have made her happier.

3) I had a shelf which I was thinking of disposing, thanks to the closet overhaul the dear husband did with the closet organizer - the cleaners took it to their apartment to use. Boy, did that feel good?!

4) The trees in my backyard have now started sprouting flowers, and I even saw the first green apricots appear. Have I told you about this squirrel? He appears frequently in the epics of the cat and the squirrel enacted in our home at regular intervals. He is also overfed! The first time I moved into our home, I watched on idly as this little guy tottered on the fence, and ran up the fruit trees. Slowly, the bloodbath started. The greedy one, did not spare a single fruit. We were competing to lay our hands on fruit before he got to it. I am determined this time: that squirrel needs to go on a diet. I am taking all the apricots and freezing them this year! He can content himself with the plums in my backyard, not the apricots!

5) Spring meant that I could get up late on Sunday, and go to the park for a run, and play in the park in the middle of the day!

Aah....lethargy! How I miss you!

10 Things

Archana tagged me, I hemmed and hawed, because I did not want to answer the question. I was happy just letting life lilt along. But, I did tell her that I would answer her tag, so here I go.
Ten things I want to do in the next 10 years -- hmm. There is no priority here, just mentioned as I think of them.
1) I want to read more varied works - lots of books spanning different subject areas.

2) I want to learn Carnatic music. I may not have the best voice in the world, but I love it, and there is no harm in trying.

3) I want to learn swimming very well. It has been my dream since childhood, and I finally managed to fit myself into a swim-suit - though, the way I wear one is probably the most unsexy way any swimsuit can be worn. Regardless, I love swimming, and want to get better at it.

4) I want to be a person who is able to embrace myself for who I am. This has more to do with building a sense of overall achievement in all spheres of life. Sometimes, I tend to fall into the drag of a uni-dimensional lifestyle, and lose out on the big picture.

5) I want to undertake at least 1 academic course in the United States

6) I want to be able to spend more time in my daughter's activities - ideally, I would like to volunteer at her school for one afternoon every week. What better way to understand her world? This is a totally new ballgame for me, and I need to understand her world. Right now, this seems like a long shot, but I am hoping that I can eventually do that.

7) I definitely have to find a way to understand the economics of different things, and also how they tie into a cohesive whole. I know bits and pieces about the stock market, about interest rates, about forex reserves and exchange rates. I still don't understand the ripple effects that one produces on another.

8) I want to be a good parent - I want to be a friend, guide and disciplinarian all rolled into one. I find this an especially daunting task, since the world my daughter is growing up in, is very different from the world I grew up in. Point #6 maybe a sub-task of this one in that sense.

9) I want to excel in my profession.

10) I want to be able to do all of the above!

When I started out with 10 things, I found myself thinking really hard to come up with a list of 9 really! Anyhow, thanks Archana!

The Colourful House - By the daughter of the colour blind father

I like how furniture can set the tone of the home. I love the way you can transform a dull home to a vibrant place with the right colors and the right furniture. Furniture complements a house. Everytime I walk into Ikea, the interior designer in me springs to life, and my mind buzzes with possibilities.

Here is my pet peeve - the interior of my parents beautiful home never looks good in my eyes because of the ghastly furniture. Bookshelves littering the house, each one a different colour, dimension and size! Unnecessary tables, that once served their purpose.

I sound harsh, you may think, but what house boasts of a green dining table, with a pink stool near a maroon fridge? Which house boasts of 3 sky blue almirahs, sharing the wall with a yellow shelf (70 by 30) and a parrot green shelf (65 by 40)? Oh, and I did forget to mention the bright blue tiny almirah with a white archaic typewriter on it!

The furniture was not always like this - our house did have stately furniture at one time. The furniture grew old, as it is expected to after 30 years. The sheen was gone. One day my father called in a handyman and handed him our dining table, and asked him to relaminate it. "What colour sir?" asked the man innocently, and my father assured him that he left it to his fine
judgement, and any colour was okay with him. The handyman left with a sense of satisfaction - he liked green, but none of his customers seemed to have an eye for green table-tops. Secondly, the table wasn't going to live in HIS house - and that my friends is the story behind the green table-top!

One would think that this bad experience would have shaken his trust in humanity, and subsequent furniture transactions would be handled with more care. This is where you under-estimate my father. He may be a whiz-kid with stocks, never once making the same
error in reading the balance sheet, but when it comes to furniture, "Egregious" is the word I would choose.

He had our house painted, and while at it had another idea - why not paint the pale shelves? He asked the painter about the colours he had remaining. "From the painting of this house sir?", he asked, his face dripping with innocence. My father was taken in by this simple soul who was willing to give away paint that he had remaining from other jobs. He flushed, and told him to use any paint he may have remaining.

The painter and the aforesaid handy-man were thick pals no doubt, and the handy-man had probably thrown a drink on the house at the local pub that he had gotten rid of his green laminate. The painter not to be out-done used his bright pink paint on the stool, parrot green on one shelf, bright yellow on the other shelf, bright blue on the small almirah. Word is that the local drunkards had a party unheard of in the parallels of Uppilipalayam town Panchayat - it was all on the house, paid for by the painter.

This is how the house looked after the dining table and paint jobs:

The sky-blue colour cupboards have another story. Appalled at the uncanny choice of colours by the benign painter, my father decided to normalize the equations by painting the remaining almirahs the same colour (his favourite colour: sky blue)
So, that's how our house looks now.

Now, please tell me your impressions of this house's furniture, and join me in my appeal to have the book shelves replaced with woodwork for Phase 1.

India Trip: Food

I know why Indians are a religious lot. I know why we pride ourselves on being a secular nation. We love food. We have many festivals, all of them involving a special culinary adventure. I have heard various statements relating to food in my life, and some award winning statements bring a smile to my face everytime without fail.
1) Oriyas eat a lot of sweets, but nobody gets Diabetes.
2) Parattas without ghee is like a king without a crown.
3) Any food made as an offering to God, if consumed does not result in weight gain.

The third statement explains why we first offer everything to God, and then eat. Any undesirable effect the food may possess is negated when it is taken with God's blessings. I have an aunt (bless her), who came to stay with us for a while. This was the period when my mother was posted in a different place, and having this Aunt around was helpful in many ways. When she left for her hometown, we waved her good-bye wearing pants two sizes larger, and had gone in for a sturdier vehicle to support our weight. We attributed the new vehicle to a better financial position, and did not try to tick off God by saying the extra weight from his offerings caused the previous vehicle to break down under the strain of the extra fat!

Back to my India trip: We dedicated one evening to the delights of Delhi - we crammed in Moomos (steamed vegetable rice cake - nope not vegetable idli, this one had spring vegetables stuffed in maida flour. I shall try making this one, and post the recipe soon), and Pani Puri followed by a round of parattas fit for a crown wearing king. We then crammed ourselves into the car with a driver who was slightly intoxicated with the food, and drove home using the safety rules outlined in the previous post.

By the end of the trip, my tongue was begging for respite. I love the flavours of good food, and had many a good meal at the hands of friends and relatives - Thank you all, now will you please help me stand up?

Traffic (absolutely) Rules in Delhi!

We had been to India for a glorious vacation. This time we travelled a lot apart from the customary visits to relatives. We had been to Delhi, Agra and Jaipur in the first week. During my stay in Delhi, we travelled a lot by car, and it gave me a chance to observe the traffic.
Here are some traffic rules you might find useful in Delhi.

1) When you have trouble deciding whether you want to turn right or left, switch on the emergency blinker. This will warn other vehicles on the road, that you may turn right or left, and the onus to keep safe shifts to the other vehicles on the road. I find this most helpful, since both sides blink when the emergency blinker is on.

2) Stopping at red lights is considered belittling, and your driving capabilities are scoffed at by other drivers. While driving through red lights, it is prudent to sound your horn.

3) There are atmost three signals in a radius of 25 km where you really need to stop at red lights, and any localite could enlighten you about which ones to stop at for a red light. At such signals, please do not make yourself an object of ridicule by stopping before the line. When you do stop, you need to stop almost midway through the signal - that alone gives you the power to surge ahead before the light turns green.

4) Parking is a right - you may park alongside the curb (not cool!), or in the middle of the road, sideways perferably hindering other traffic. It does not matter as long it is not a very busy road. If it is a very busy road, the only risk you run is getting shouted at more vehemently. There was a time when I found a camel drawn carriage parked sideways on the National Highway. Many times, I found lorries parked diagonally across the road, since that was the most convenient method to unload the goods at the back. Traffic found a way of needling along despite this.

5) While it is useful for the car driver to have a clear view of the road, it is more useful for the vehicle to transport as many people as possible from point A to B. I saw various instances where there were 5 adults sitting in the front seat of a car. Unfortunately, I did not have time to count the number of children. I am assuming the gear change is achieved using a complex rhythm that involves nudging the correct individuals for gear shift. Push Bunty for gear 3, pull Bablee for reverse gear etc.

6) Roads are built for the convenience of the users. Rules are an unnecessary hinderance. For example, if there is a divider on the road built with the intention of having the left side for traffic flowing east, and the other side for west flowing traffic, it does not mean that east flowing traffic has to use the left half and the west flowing traffic has to use the right half. Since the right half is more appealing, all traffic can use the right half, leaving the left half free for parking vegetable vendor carts, and chaat carts.

7) Animals on the roads are not restricted to dogs, buffaloes and cows. Camels and elephants are a common enough sight. So much so that my daughter started asking to see tigers on the road! I couldn't help laughing at her question when we showed her the Delhi zoo as we passed it. Her mind buzzed for a fraction of a second and quipped "Why?"

8) Rear view mirrors are meant to be folded in, lest they get damaged by other vehicles on the road. You can use other mechanisms such as asking folks in your car to look out, or simply turn your head in all directions everytime you want to make a turn.

A pat on the back to my brother and brother-in-law who drove us all around safely in Delhi. It is far more difficult than we imagine!

Life comes a full circle

I made my mother take leave one day. My mother worked in a school that required her to sprint to the train, and then hop, skip and jump onto a rickety bus. Cold, mist, rain - she weathered it all every day for 18 years to give me this life, and I am eternally grateful to her. Taking leave was a privilege she rarely indulged in - she saved all her leave for when we fell ill, she fell ill, or for a family function.

I made her apply for leave when nobody was ill, and nobody was visiting. Here's why: I used to go to school, and we had a maid who would bring me hot lunch in the afternoon. I was okay with the arrangement. After all, I liked the maid, and I liked my friends with whom I sat on the grass while eating. But here is the thing - for all my friends, their mother brought their lunch. So, I yearned to see my mother bring me lunch. I actually dreamt of seeing her walking down the long, winding road that we could see from the hilltop in our school. She did one day - she took leave and brought me lunch. I can still envision the scene - she wore a purple saree with pink flowers(Amma - that katthiripoo saree Appa bought from Calico) the pallu hanging clumsily of her shoulder over the sweater. A gold medal wouldn't have made me happier that day. I boasted to all my friends that my mom brought me lunch!

I took my daughter to the saloon, and gave her a haircut. Her hair required no special handling now - all you had to do was draw her hair back, and clip on a hairpin. For the past month, every other day in the evening; she tells me how nicely I comb her hair. Her father manages she assures me, but she feels her hair is "flooppy" at the end of the exercise.

"Can you comb my hair for school one day?" she asks. I answer I can if she gets up before I leave. That seldom happens.

Another favourite question of hers is if I could drop her in School one day. In her little mind, she probably has the probability calculated, and figures if her hair can't be combed, getting dropped in school is an even farther shot, and doesn't even bother asking this question as much.

Today, I indulged in both - combed her hair AND dropped her off in school. I could see the pride in her eyes, as she walked into the classroom, and beamed. "My mommy came today", she announced, and introduced me to all her friends.

As I went round and round the parking lot looking for a place to park my car at the public transit terminal, it felt totally worth it. I loved spending the morning with her - life does come a full cirle!

Pink nail polish is good for health

For those of you who wear nail polish, I would like you all to start wearing pink nail polish. There are rich health benefits to pink nail polish. To those of you who don't wear nail polish, I suggest starting off with pink nail polish. All non-pink nail related problems could disappear, and your nails could once again come to the pink of your youth and prime.

Okay...Okay I am coming to the story. My daughter and I went strolling through the aisles aimlessly one rainy day. She walks up to the cosmetic section, and picks up pink nail polish. I asked her why she needs nail polish in the first place. Her face had a serious expression while she explains:

Amma, I need this pink nail polish because it is good for health!

Everytime I pick up vegetables, fruits or any produce, she asks me why. I explain that I am buying it because it is good for health. I guess she thought it was a use-it-for-all-occasions type of statement - sigh!