Every so often I come across individuals who have been given the finest opportunities life can afford, yet behave like frogs stuck in a well. Education has no impact on them, interacting with diverse cultures and personalities has no impact on them. In short, with the best kind of exposure, they rigidly stick to their prejudices.
A jarring news item that came to my notice today.
http://www.hindu.com/2009/03/14/stories/2009031454830100.htm
Appalling as this sounds, the news item goes on to say that a 28 year old software engineer in Bangalore threw his 4-day old daughter in a well because he "did not want to have children"! A number of questions arise:
1) Why did he indulge in the act of procreation without protection if he felt this strongly about not wanting children? Surely, a 28 year software engineer in Bangalore has heard of birth control! It does say that he tried to convince his wife to abort, but she refused, and they seem to have gone on after that.
2) Why was a post-graduate education wasted on this individual? Clearly, education has done nothing to educate him on moral grounds or otherwise.
Everytime I come across something like this, my heart aches. An innocent life that so many people yearn to have in their lives, wasted in a moment's rash behaviour.
Rant over, but ache continues....
Friday, March 13, 2009
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
The Perfect Envelope
The mind cannot concentrate while that obtrusive thing is there. It doesn't really occupy much space, but when it is there, you cannot concentrate on what you are doing, till you have made the darn thing disappear!
If you've used Outlook with the new mail notification envelope set to to 'On', you know exactly what I am talking about. 
The tiny envelope can permeate your most deep thoughts and make you zone out of them in a jiffy! I have tried turning the notification off, only to have some harried person sneak up to me behind my back and bellow - "DID YOU SEE MY EMAIL?!" After jumping a good foot in the air, I then sheepishly acknowledge that I turned the notification off, because it was disturbing me.
Then, I realise, it is better to be interrupted with the yellow envelope than with an actual 6 foot tall person hovering over me literally. I am always seated while the person is standing. The craned neck gulps involuntarily, and it may be construed as a sign of weakness in case there were email wars being waged, with tiny words as swords on the battlefield of an email template.
I found that constructing complex rules and moving them to a different folder helps - the notification does not appear, but people always seem to find a way around my rules. I would say: If sender personality like 'bullfrog' and mail subject is unsavoury and if contents not terribly important to saving world then move to 'Folder I might get to later on'.
Invariably bull-frogs break the system: they alias themselves to be vermin, or spice up the subject to make it sound like it needs reading and end up popping up in my icon area anyway.
I suppose it would be nice to sit and read automated notifications every minute if one had nothing to do. But given few of us have such luxuries, I spend hour upon endless hour cursing the relentless interruption, and admiring the perfect envelope icon!
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Oscars
I watched Oscars like millions did. Some random points that came to mind:
I did clap when Slumdog Millionaire reaped in the awards, but the logical side of me couldn't concede that the movie was worth 8 of them. I would call it a nice enough movie, but just that. Not great, not wonderful - tad better than mediocre. Another example of how right place at right time far outweighs merit.
And then, of course some "Body" comes along and does an illogical thing, and basks in the narrow glow of publicity it brings. They gifted the children a concrete house and claimed they are working for the upliftment of conditions in slums. My head reels - how?! By moving the children who already made some money to a concrete house? How does that equate to "working for upliftment of slums"?
I loved the way Danny Boyle jumped up and down like Tigger in Winnie The Pooh when he won his Oscar. It was a helpful reminder that we all have a child in us, and sometimes takes hard work finding it.
I watched with amusement as the cameras rolled on the best dressed women. I couldn't help comparing the style to the women in South Indian villages who tie a hard knot with their "ull-paavadais" just covering their breasts and dropping down below their knees, as they took a bath in semi-privacy (a term used for not bathing in a closed bathroom - say at the well, or in the courtyard in their homes)"Ull-paavadai" is the inner skirt worn underneath a saree.
Almost all the dazzling clothes were of the same bathing-in-courtyard style, and most of the colours were the same tried and tested variety. But, speaking with a sense of negative fashion IQ , I am not the person most suited to make judgements I am afraid. After all, I still hold the unique honour of selecting all my wedding sarees in 2 hours and not wearing them even once ever since!
I scoured the crowd and found only 2 women wearing a pair of glasses, but the same was not true of Men. Are men more comfortable with glasses or are women more self-conscious about the bespectacled image?!
I did clap when Slumdog Millionaire reaped in the awards, but the logical side of me couldn't concede that the movie was worth 8 of them. I would call it a nice enough movie, but just that. Not great, not wonderful - tad better than mediocre. Another example of how right place at right time far outweighs merit.
And then, of course some "Body" comes along and does an illogical thing, and basks in the narrow glow of publicity it brings. They gifted the children a concrete house and claimed they are working for the upliftment of conditions in slums. My head reels - how?! By moving the children who already made some money to a concrete house? How does that equate to "working for upliftment of slums"?
I loved the way Danny Boyle jumped up and down like Tigger in Winnie The Pooh when he won his Oscar. It was a helpful reminder that we all have a child in us, and sometimes takes hard work finding it.
I watched with amusement as the cameras rolled on the best dressed women. I couldn't help comparing the style to the women in South Indian villages who tie a hard knot with their "ull-paavadais" just covering their breasts and dropping down below their knees, as they took a bath in semi-privacy (a term used for not bathing in a closed bathroom - say at the well, or in the courtyard in their homes)"Ull-paavadai" is the inner skirt worn underneath a saree.
Almost all the dazzling clothes were of the same bathing-in-courtyard style, and most of the colours were the same tried and tested variety. But, speaking with a sense of negative fashion IQ , I am not the person most suited to make judgements I am afraid. After all, I still hold the unique honour of selecting all my wedding sarees in 2 hours and not wearing them even once ever since!
I scoured the crowd and found only 2 women wearing a pair of glasses, but the same was not true of Men. Are men more comfortable with glasses or are women more self-conscious about the bespectacled image?!
Thursday, February 19, 2009
For a country as vast as India, I find few authors of merit, especially in the children's genre. In fact, after R.K.Narayan, I can think of few others who I can genuinely claim I enjoy. This for a country with the second largest population in the world, and probably the largest English speaking population in the world!
Why the disconnect? Do we lack imagination - I think not! Do we as a people still feel that books are best written by a different race, or is it that we don't see books as a valuable source of income? It is the latter I would guess. The copyright laws that are in effect in India as as effective as a dog told not to scratch his you-know-what on the side wall! The moment a book is out, and it shows any promise of being a partial success, we have printing presses queueing up to churn out cheap copies. It is no doubt then, folks prefer to bottle up their creativity with a hard cork screw than to let their family go hungry and stand outside restaurants waiting for scrap food!
If J.K.Rowling were born in India and tried an Indian publisher, I don't think she'd be living in any 5 bedroom mansion anywhere! More importantly, I don't think she would have taken the step of being jobless for a year to churn out a book. There are no social security payouts to carry one through lean times. Pretty much relatives, who would make sure they run in with a vigour of a Kerala-style oil massage what a thorough waste of time it is to frivolously indulge in creative writing!
On a serious note, I recently read several Indian authors, including Booker Prize winning authors and remain unimpressed. I realise it takes a long time for an occupation to mature, and it is slowly but surely getting to a point when people don't think of Engg & Medicine alone as viable careers.
Why the disconnect? Do we lack imagination - I think not! Do we as a people still feel that books are best written by a different race, or is it that we don't see books as a valuable source of income? It is the latter I would guess. The copyright laws that are in effect in India as as effective as a dog told not to scratch his you-know-what on the side wall! The moment a book is out, and it shows any promise of being a partial success, we have printing presses queueing up to churn out cheap copies. It is no doubt then, folks prefer to bottle up their creativity with a hard cork screw than to let their family go hungry and stand outside restaurants waiting for scrap food!
If J.K.Rowling were born in India and tried an Indian publisher, I don't think she'd be living in any 5 bedroom mansion anywhere! More importantly, I don't think she would have taken the step of being jobless for a year to churn out a book. There are no social security payouts to carry one through lean times. Pretty much relatives, who would make sure they run in with a vigour of a Kerala-style oil massage what a thorough waste of time it is to frivolously indulge in creative writing!
On a serious note, I recently read several Indian authors, including Booker Prize winning authors and remain unimpressed. I realise it takes a long time for an occupation to mature, and it is slowly but surely getting to a point when people don't think of Engg & Medicine alone as viable careers.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Happy Valentine's Day!
I am sure my Biology teacher still remembers my gifts with the pencil. I am probably the benchmark in that teacher's mind, and let me tell you being a benchmark figure in anything is satisfying! I can readily imagine how many pupils would have been spared the agony of redoing their cockroach drawing, because all the teacher had to do was close their eyes and visualize the cockroach on MY page. Instantly, I could make people look like Michelangelos. How many people can live up to that boast?!
I seemed to have passed some of my varied talents in the field to my daughter. When the tummy was bulging and I was wondering which genes of mine I would like her to have, I am quite sure I hadn't asked for this one to come from me - but apparently it has. A while ago, my daughter proclaimed to her Aunt that she had drawn her a picture, and my sister being who she is demanded that the groaning masterpiece be scanned and sent to her. I complied - I mean nobody EVER wanted to see my pictures, and if somebody wants to see the offsprings, the proud parent can't be stopped! So, there it was sailing through the cables under the misty waters waiting to be revealed.
Here it is: it is a wrench giving it away free on the Internet like this, but one can't be selfish.
Quick as a whip, my sister's exuberant interpretation made it across.
There are fire-crackers on top...shows celebration time
There are hearts...shows that she loves us all
Two little faces with a mop of hair...shows the kids celebrating
A red dustbin...shows that you clean up after you celebrate.
All the colours ....shows how interesting and colourful life really is!!!
Modern art can be interpreted in multiple ways, but really I think she was way off!
1) The dustbins are cupcakes - you need food during a celebration!
2) There aren't only 2 happy faces, there is a sad one too stuck in the corner to make all sorts of people make up our world
3) And, the sun was drawn in two places - high up and below somewhere. That should symbolize the rising and setting of the sun! Just the same way that the celebration starts so too must it end.
While I was explaining this to the husband, the artist pops up in her classic tone, and says:
"Actually, those are not crackers - they are trees! "
"So, what is that thing on top of the trees?" I ask
"Those are fountains!" "Oh ... and the hearts say you love us right?" I ask pleading for her to endorse at least one intepretation of ours. She does no such thing and scoffs at me and declares - "Those are flowers - some are heart shaped, but there are trees, fountains and flowers with sad and happy faces!"
And, that is the artistic touch of the future! I think the whole family needs to attend some classes in Art.
Having said that, we sat down last night after dinner preparing Valentine Day Cards for all of my daughter's friends in her class. While I joked about how I did not classify the activity as important enough to rank high up in our list, I enjoyed it all the same. It made a nice change from the regular. She drew little pictures in every card and wrote out her name arduously. She particularly liked to draw Saturn for some vague reason, and I must say, it was one of her better attempts at drawing. (That is saying something!). So she drew Saturn on a couple of cards. I am not sure whether Cupid and Sani "Bhagawan" have any qualms, but if they did, my daughter just took a brave stab at attaining mythological peace.
More than the cards and the drawing, I like to think of Valentine's Day as a day of love - I am pleased to hear that similar sentiments are being voiced elsewhere too. Instead of marking a day for lovers, it is nice to mark a day of love for all your friends and family.
So, here it is: Happy Valentine's Day - may Love spread and eradicate the darkness of hatred!
Thursday, February 05, 2009
I like being a sandwich!
I like being a sandwich!
The daughter had a chest phlegm and a cough. We heard vivid descriptions of her friend, drinking 3 coloured medicines everyday! She has red Tylenol in the morning, purple Tylenol in the evening and pink Tylenol at night. As a parent, I can intepret this to mean 3 different medications, possibly anti-biotics, for a bacterial infection, and further that the said friend was coughing like her. So, off to the Doctor's office she went.
"Good Evening Honey! How are you?"
"I'm fine!"
"So, do you have any little brothers and sisters", asked the Doctor by way of making conversation, and probably checking to see if they were any more minions waiting to be treated.
"No...just me"
"But, you know I have a little sister - she is 3 and half in India. And I have another sister - but she is 5 and a half" (My nieces, and yes, the "half" components of their age are very important. )
"So, she comes home and regales the conversation, and says - "I am in the middle, like a sandwich!"
I join in and tell her, I am in the middle too. I have an elder sister and a younger brother, so I am a sandwich too!
"Yeah! I like being a sandwich!!" we yelp and the doctor rests easy in her knowledge of my four and half year old's 3.5 and 5.5. year old sisters from a different continent and we are happy being the middle layer of a sandwich - it is a complex world!
PS: And all, this conversation has made me hungry. I think I will go and make myself half a sandwich (the half is very important!)
The daughter had a chest phlegm and a cough. We heard vivid descriptions of her friend, drinking 3 coloured medicines everyday! She has red Tylenol in the morning, purple Tylenol in the evening and pink Tylenol at night. As a parent, I can intepret this to mean 3 different medications, possibly anti-biotics, for a bacterial infection, and further that the said friend was coughing like her. So, off to the Doctor's office she went.
"Good Evening Honey! How are you?"
"I'm fine!"
"So, do you have any little brothers and sisters", asked the Doctor by way of making conversation, and probably checking to see if they were any more minions waiting to be treated.
"No...just me"
"But, you know I have a little sister - she is 3 and half in India. And I have another sister - but she is 5 and a half" (My nieces, and yes, the "half" components of their age are very important. )
"So, she comes home and regales the conversation, and says - "I am in the middle, like a sandwich!"
I join in and tell her, I am in the middle too. I have an elder sister and a younger brother, so I am a sandwich too!
"Yeah! I like being a sandwich!!" we yelp and the doctor rests easy in her knowledge of my four and half year old's 3.5 and 5.5. year old sisters from a different continent and we are happy being the middle layer of a sandwich - it is a complex world!
PS: And all, this conversation has made me hungry. I think I will go and make myself half a sandwich (the half is very important!)
Thursday, January 29, 2009
What do future anthropologists do?
Anthropologists are forever finding evidence on some tablet or inside some godforsaken cave, telling us all about life in the era. I mean when we see caves full of paintings showing tigers being strung with a sleek bow and arrow, we know that the cavemen weren't launching supersonic jets, followed by rockets to the moon and just dumbing themselves down in the paintings! They really were slaying tigers with sophisticated weapons of their time such as bows and arrows. Then, as time went on, people discovered the funny thing that starts with an 'h', that essentially is between drawing and script writing, and used that to depict what was going on. Mythology grew from a combination of bad paintings and imaginative minds. There was some record-keeping albeit one left more to imagination than to facts, but something!
The clay tablets yielded slowly to the tree bark, and the cryptic grew more descriptive. The three barks became parchment rolls and then the Chinese saved the day by coming up with paper. So far so good - you see paper, you can figure out what is written there. You see a tree bark with a sign engraved
Z *big heart sign* X, and can figure out that Z loves or loved X, and was daft enough to proclaim love on a tree bark, after probably getting his or her hand chiseled a couple of times with the rough stone used to engrave their undying love. But, we still know what happened, so long as the bark survives, we know that Z and X were in love at some point.
The printing press and full blown books were a blessing. Suddenly, everything you needed to know about any nook and corner of the world was available in some book somewhere. Great! Then, you did not even need books to get information, all you needed was access to the net. E-reading became cool. Now as we move on towards paperless functioning, a most disturbing thought just struck me, and I do not wish to be taken frivolously here. I am as serious as a rabbit running from a fox on a wintry night can be.
What if future historians are like me? It could very well happen that one gene triumphs in the coming generations and that gene is my technology retarded gene, couldn't it? It is not that I can't operate technology - I just can't keep pace. By the time, I figure out how to use the remote to change the setting on one contraption, the remote changes, or worse the contraption is gone! Let me think of some gramophone records that my father prided himself on - in fact, I reluctantly got him to get rid of the foghorn after decades, knowing that we could never listen to another gramophone record again, and the space is better used in conserving the tape recorder for the next 2 decades, before it too meets the same fate?!
So, some songs that were only there in the gramophone records no longer exists, same for some songs on tape too. You get the picture. Now, with the internet, and the blogosphere, most news and creative writing as moved to the e-medium. What if future generations are unable to retrieve these great gems of the era- voltages may change, servers change, the electronic medium destroys just as soon as it creates!
Well, I suppose the graffiti on the world heritage sites would still tell us who loves who, but what if future archaeologists only get the Harry Potter books, and believe life was that - they have no method of knowing it was a fantasy world?!
I haven't even started on the Modern Art phenomenon yet. If those were the paintings left for interpretation, I can barely imagine what it would come out as.
Pray tell me what you can make out of this?http://www.milesmodernart.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/04/modern-art-41108-24x48-w.jpg
I can almost hear you sigh that if these are the kind of gems of writing the future is missing, they are better off without it! But I stand by my notion that 50 years from now, when there is no paper, record retrieval will be all the more difficult, and a blip in Earth's history - 500 years later, that era might well be a dark one
PS: Ahhhh..hieroglyphics that is the "h-word"
PS1: How curious it is that I typed this blog out, and then couldn't connect to the net to publish it, and had to snuggle up to the husband to help me?
See what I mean and what I fear for?
The clay tablets yielded slowly to the tree bark, and the cryptic grew more descriptive. The three barks became parchment rolls and then the Chinese saved the day by coming up with paper. So far so good - you see paper, you can figure out what is written there. You see a tree bark with a sign engraved
Z *big heart sign* X, and can figure out that Z loves or loved X, and was daft enough to proclaim love on a tree bark, after probably getting his or her hand chiseled a couple of times with the rough stone used to engrave their undying love. But, we still know what happened, so long as the bark survives, we know that Z and X were in love at some point.
The printing press and full blown books were a blessing. Suddenly, everything you needed to know about any nook and corner of the world was available in some book somewhere. Great! Then, you did not even need books to get information, all you needed was access to the net. E-reading became cool. Now as we move on towards paperless functioning, a most disturbing thought just struck me, and I do not wish to be taken frivolously here. I am as serious as a rabbit running from a fox on a wintry night can be.
What if future historians are like me? It could very well happen that one gene triumphs in the coming generations and that gene is my technology retarded gene, couldn't it? It is not that I can't operate technology - I just can't keep pace. By the time, I figure out how to use the remote to change the setting on one contraption, the remote changes, or worse the contraption is gone! Let me think of some gramophone records that my father prided himself on - in fact, I reluctantly got him to get rid of the foghorn after decades, knowing that we could never listen to another gramophone record again, and the space is better used in conserving the tape recorder for the next 2 decades, before it too meets the same fate?!
So, some songs that were only there in the gramophone records no longer exists, same for some songs on tape too. You get the picture. Now, with the internet, and the blogosphere, most news and creative writing as moved to the e-medium. What if future generations are unable to retrieve these great gems of the era- voltages may change, servers change, the electronic medium destroys just as soon as it creates!
Well, I suppose the graffiti on the world heritage sites would still tell us who loves who, but what if future archaeologists only get the Harry Potter books, and believe life was that - they have no method of knowing it was a fantasy world?!
I haven't even started on the Modern Art phenomenon yet. If those were the paintings left for interpretation, I can barely imagine what it would come out as.
Pray tell me what you can make out of this?http://www.milesmodernart.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/04/modern-art-41108-24x48-w.jpg
I can almost hear you sigh that if these are the kind of gems of writing the future is missing, they are better off without it! But I stand by my notion that 50 years from now, when there is no paper, record retrieval will be all the more difficult, and a blip in Earth's history - 500 years later, that era might well be a dark one
PS: Ahhhh..hieroglyphics that is the "h-word"
PS1: How curious it is that I typed this blog out, and then couldn't connect to the net to publish it, and had to snuggle up to the husband to help me?
See what I mean and what I fear for?
Monday, January 19, 2009
When America becomes Mine
I noticed a number of times when I have been granted ownership of the vast landmass of America, including its culture, population, interests and quirks.
I find any objective questioning and/or reasoning can grant me ownership.
All I have to do is hang on to my mother's hand and question why on earth she is preparing Payasam for the n-th time, and she would say her voice dripping with incredulity - "In YOUR America, you may do it differently, but we make payasam when the son-in-law visits. "
"Yes....but this is technically part of the same visit, we just went out yesterday! Besides, do remember that I am very much an Indian citizen. Should I show you my passport?"
"I cannot serve food without sweets when the sons-in-law are here!" she would voice in a tone of finality, and go about gathering the ingredients anyway.
"There's another thing! Why do you have to serve? People can perfectly serve themselves!" I say to no one in particular. But since I now own all of America, why should I worry about who serves anybody else food?
When I am not visiting India, I can still feel rich anytime! All I have to do is call home. 70% of the time, It would be the occasion of some festival. We don't begrudge any of the 3500 Gods/Goddesses their birthdays, or anniversaries or the general tendency to want to keep awake through the night. There is of course a special sweet dish to mark every occasion, and all I have to do is ask the reason for that particular savoury on "X Jayanthi" or "Y Krittikai" and immediately America becomes mine!
In MY America, I don't have to do anything - except get to work early in the morning, slog through the day and jog back home for a back-to-back session with classes and children and the dishwashing and the cleaning and the cooking.
I find any objective questioning and/or reasoning can grant me ownership.
All I have to do is hang on to my mother's hand and question why on earth she is preparing Payasam for the n-th time, and she would say her voice dripping with incredulity - "In YOUR America, you may do it differently, but we make payasam when the son-in-law visits. "
"Yes....but this is technically part of the same visit, we just went out yesterday! Besides, do remember that I am very much an Indian citizen. Should I show you my passport?"
"I cannot serve food without sweets when the sons-in-law are here!" she would voice in a tone of finality, and go about gathering the ingredients anyway.
"There's another thing! Why do you have to serve? People can perfectly serve themselves!" I say to no one in particular. But since I now own all of America, why should I worry about who serves anybody else food?
When I am not visiting India, I can still feel rich anytime! All I have to do is call home. 70% of the time, It would be the occasion of some festival. We don't begrudge any of the 3500 Gods/Goddesses their birthdays, or anniversaries or the general tendency to want to keep awake through the night. There is of course a special sweet dish to mark every occasion, and all I have to do is ask the reason for that particular savoury on "X Jayanthi" or "Y Krittikai" and immediately America becomes mine!
In MY America, I don't have to do anything - except get to work early in the morning, slog through the day and jog back home for a back-to-back session with classes and children and the dishwashing and the cleaning and the cooking.
Friday, January 09, 2009
The Chilli Effect
Green chillies always bear the brunt of a sore person's temper at the food table and rightfully so in my opinion. There are certain cooks and cook's assistants who cut all the vegetables and the chillies in exactly the same dimensions. While I like to see vegetables cut a certain way, there are certain types, especially chillies that I like to see stick out! It is also for this reason, that I don't take endearingly to the chilli hidden in the omelet or the oothappam. That to me is guerilla warfare.
When I am having lunch, you can visualize a person who stuffs food in the opening where usually the mouth resides. One day if my nose were to shift downwards, I would be in a sorry state indeed. I gape at the computer screen, and immerse myself in the mundane-surfing routine that my lunch time allows me to do.
So, you can safely assume that I am not on a chilli-weeding routine while tackling my lunch. I might catch a peek of the dangerous thing if I were expecting it, but the hiding in batter/egg variety freaks me out. One minute, I am stuffing the faithful mouth, and the next I am shooting up from my seat with the green from the chilli and the red from the taste coursing through my veins and bursting forth in pink spurts on my face. My nose inexplicably starts watering and so does my mouth. When the nose and mouth do that, the eye feels the compelling need to keep them company and before you know it, you have liquid leaking from all the open pores in the face. I feel my ears turn beetroot, my tongue refusing to quiet down, my hand reaches for the tissue - one for the eyes and another for the nose, because obviously once can't do for both.
I once read somewhere that drinking hot water quietens your tongue quickly. Nope - now you have the hot water and the burning to deal with! Sugar doesn't help either. And no, I don't think honey with warm water would help. What would? Time perhaps.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
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!
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!
Monday, December 15, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
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.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
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!
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
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.
Thursday, November 06, 2008
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.
Monday, October 27, 2008
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!
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!
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
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.
Friday, October 17, 2008
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.
Friday, October 03, 2008
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.
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