Celebrating 83

What could go wrong with the recreation of a historical sporting triumph on the silver screen? Well.. Everything. Cricket to many Indians is (still) a religion. And what better way to freeze the moments that went on to become a dream to chase tha to use The medium that is the next best thing after cricket- Bollywood! (Pardon my positioning of the two-I am from the South). 

This is not a review by the way,  just a fan's testimony of witnessing 2 hours and 30 minutes of pure joy after having to wait for two years to watch it on the big screen. Testimony of someone who was a little too young to exactly remember the tournament but someone who became a true 'blue' fan after that. 

Wait.. What about what people are saying....The acting, the casting, the dramatization, the sentiments, the war zone... Well, we sent Lagaan, a creation that never would have happened but for the momentous victory in '83, to the Oscars and then prayed as a nation even as it got nominated for the coveted prize. So no room for logic there too. 

And what is wrong with playing to the masses, a bit of drama when that is exactly what we witness during real India cricket matches, don't we? 

For those of us who were mere toddlers or school goers during the event and can barely remember the matches, this is our go to documentation. The reaction in the theatre to the recreation of the Tunbridge wells match sums it up all. People (yours truly included) waved flags and whistled and hooted. C'mon..we do that in every Marvel film that gets released here. And now we do have a film on a veritable 'marvel'. We won the world cup

And the casting-Kapil does a brilliant job. The accent, the voice, the stance, the natraj shot...Oops did I say Kapil.. Well he is there too. So are Srikanth, Jimmy Amarnath and Jimmy Amarnath, Sunny Gavaskar, Yashpal Sharma, Sandeep Patil and the rest of the wonderful team... And some tamil maamis who serve dosa.. Hope you get the drift. Eeks..did I let out a spoiler.. No we won the world cup. That's all! 

To me this was like a dream come true. You see, I am the type who stops watching a film like Devar Magan once the character played by Sivaji Ganesan dies.. Naturally, I stopped following serious cricket more than a decade back. So it was like back in the stands, cheering till the throat went sore or until the players walked out. Here until the credits rolled down completely.. I am after all an MCU fan. 

Will I watch it again.. Dude.. Will you not watch the Tunbridge Wells match if someone miraculously produced a secret copy of it secretly shot by an undercover BBC cameraman? So, do I have a choice??!! 

And to all those who say the film was too filmy, was too dramatic, did not have any layers to understand the story, was too blunt..etc. I just have to paraphrase Jiiva's Cheeka,

 "Arey kya pagal hai yaar log" ! 

And do I want this film to be sent to the Oscars? 

Of course not. Did I mention? We won the world Cup!! 

PS: I wrote about 80 percent of the above before even stepping into the cinema hall to watch the film. Just by watching the trailer and reading about the making of the film. Why? I knew the movie would deliver. I knew the audience would be a frenzy. I knew I would like it no matter what.. And boy was I right on all counts! 

To iron or not

Ironing clothes is a big chore. There are people who send them out for ironing and complain and some others who do it themselves and still complain. I clearly belong to the second category. 

The isthriwala... now how do we call them in English? Random searches reveal the word to be 'presser'. I wonder if it is because they press clothes or because -by my own experiences- they are hard pressed for time or simply because they handle a lot of 'press'ure, particularly during the weekends. I simply would like to use the term Ironman. Not unlike the suited superhero these men do make our lives peaceful.

Many times you can ascertain the happenings in a household or guess the season of the year simply by looking at the bulk on an Ironman's head, that is, if they are not covered with old worn bedsheets, old veshtis or simply placed inside the ubiquitous 'kattai pai'. Formal white shirts and plain trousers for men, neat salwar kameez, crisp cotton sarees, western formal wear for women on working days, blue formal shirts and plain trousers for men, uniforms for kids on Mondays, white striped formal shirts and trousers for men, shimmering silk sarees and pavadais during navarathiri and formal white shirts and trousers for men. And sometimes when you peep into a drycleaner's shop you can find cleaned and ironed travel clothes and well, formal shirts and trousers for men!

However, some people are very clear about certain things. More the muscle more pressed out and neat and new their clothes become some feel! So they send their clothes to the other side of the city or sometimes country for ironing. My friend for example prefers newpapers to be folded in among her clothes. Another prefers newspapers only in her mother tongue and sends clothes to Telengana.

We on the contrary prefer doing everything ourselves. This has resulted in four iron boxes, two for steaming, one for normal and one more for travel. Plus an ironing table. Plus Sunday newspapers diligently collected and neatly pressed to aid us. Plus a place earmarked for the above activity. Plus an app to remind us of the chore...

To cut a long story short, one morning, after a long week which included lending one ironing box to a neighbour, one box conking out and then simply unable to find the other two, we woke up to find a pile of clothes yet to be ironed with school and office hours looming ahead. Even before I could point a finger, the husband quipped, "You are the one always ironing things out, so I thought you would have done it" and takes the role of the Iron man and starts doing his work. 

Given the wee hours and the fact that I was barely able to open my eyes, I only wished I became Dr. Strange and possessed the time stone or still better....the Hulk!

Of questions and answers

I love quizzes. Doesn't mean I know the answers to all questions. A wise man once said, 'Only those who do not know the answers must ask questions'. As soon as I came across this I clung to it like a sloth to a tree and started asking questions much to the annoyance of family and friends. And not the 'what is for dinner' types. I mean real questions like what does the pale blue dot mean to why did PewDiePie take a break from YouTube.

When I was younger and more innocent I would participate in anything that vaguely resembled a quiz. I held on to certificates that was given for answering questions like how many bones are there in the human body. I would participate in sports quizzes (because I answered most questions in the auditions) and not answer a single one in the finals, naively boasting that I was the only girl in the finals not comprehending the irony and well, the ignominy of it all. This I would squarely blame my schoolmates- for calling me a know-it-all, foolishly basking in its glory not realising that in their quest to not participate, they had found a scapegate.

This continued for some years until I found the pleasure of participating in open quizzes where one can hide behind many many quizzers. The best part about these are that you can simply boast of participating because year after year after year the same sets of teams would appear in the finals. No one would even notice your blank stare in the dark auditorium. Nor would they look at your, I knew it or the intelligent nods one gives to absolutely incomprehensible questions. All in all these are quizzes where we can say the grapes are sour and quietly slip away.

Thankfully I found a group of friends as passionate as I about quizzes and as as nonchalant, and not in the least conscious about giving blank stares. Most fun is derived while guessing the answers. But looks like the quizmasters have seen through the guessing game. Even a simple question like, "What is vadacurry made of", is twisted so much and presented such that we have to recollect all master chef episodes without even realising the answer is closer home. One question in its twisted fashion was, 'How is the animal 'dhol' known down south. The twist was when the qm said it had two words. Two of us browbeat the third member when she said Chennai (sennaai), which was, well, the correct answer! We actually carry pain relief tablets for  headaches arising from simply reading the questions.

Many a times our passion has seen us get ready a whole month ahead posing question after question. We have a, you guessed it right, a WhatsApp group for that. We get the entire household geared up, plan and prepare for the day, getting the children to keep quiet as not to muddle our minds, staying out of anyone's discussion a good 30 meters away. It could affect our concentration in the prelims you see. Our target will always be to better the previous year's score by a point. We are clearly not interested in getting humiliated on stage. We are very happy to sit in the audience and watch the finals, thank you very much! Middle aged maturity showing that it is all about participation and not competing with the the younger crowd. A glorified way of saying that we don't know the answers!

Coming back to the said D-day, we in our enthusiasm once went all the way to the other end of the city only to realize the quiz was not on that day but the following weekend.

This post was inspired when one night I suddenly woke up with a question,  'why was my answer to a particular question - hitler's meesai. The search (at 2AM) revealed a game related to WW2. Still unable to comprehend why I began writing this.

Exam fever

Around anytime of the year just before any kind of holiday, ranging from summer holidays to something as measely as a Sunday, children breathe a sigh of relief. Not so much for the parents. Latest studies from my neighborhood psychologist reveal high amount of stress in adults which is related to tests and exams. No, not their physical tests and blood reports but their wards' school, college, school entrance, college entrance exams, cycle and motorbike tests, pre school activities, drawing competitions, craft competitions and craft from waste competitions. It is another story that these tests lead them to medical labs for more tests.

WhatsApp messages range from, what is the timetable, send exam portions, solve question 2A and part of 2B, please send previous years papers for class one exams, are your kids studying through the night or only in the morning or morning and night and end with some parents asking questions about a particular day's examination after the child leaves for school. Each has their own reason for such behaviour so I will not get into that.

I go through a different kind of stress resulting from the confusion of whether or not to be stressed about stress. The kids behave like they are not related to me the moment I indicate some recognition of their impending exams. All sorts of excuses are brought about, the most common being 'I know everything'. This was given up by both kids when I told them if they know everything they must answer all questions correctly.

If I ask the son to study he would either give a blank stare or say that he is hungry and start eating, taking as long as he can to finish. The younger one would suddenly remember her long lost dinosaur eraser and her star shaped sharpener and begin looking for them, for two hours that is.

Almost having given up, I, one day found a silver lining. The boy who would simply laze around instead of going down and playing with his friends would bolt down before I could begin to say the word study. Or before he could hear the S word , he would march into the kitchen, push me out and start making dosas for the family. On normal days he would delay going to bed but would fall asleep the moment he picks up his history book. Can't blame him for that though!

Daughter would do anything to procrastinate and many times would end up cleaning her cupboard, accessory drawers and would even help me fold clothes, cut vegetables or write letters to her thatha and all other friends.

I reflected upon these and have now reached another level of peace. They are learning something right? Studying the cobwebs without blinking an eye is an art I should say.

We do have our Vadivelu moments. The other day I asked the older child to study for his exams.

Half an later he was found cleaning his sister's plastic mouth-organ diligently with soap and a soft piece of cloth, measuring the amount of water used and holding the instrument up against the sunlight. As I stared dumbfounded at this new level of procrastination, he said, "Amma am using physics here".

I sat down, (con)vexed.

Socialising...

...has been the most abused term if you ask me. I can hear 'man is a social animal, humans have been socialising for many thousands of years, culture was built and destroyed because of socialising' and all that blah. It is the avatar it has taken now that really baffles me. Add to it the word media.

Instead of childhood friends, friends of childhood friends, school friends, college friends and my sister's friend's sister, we now have a wide plethora to abstain from mixing with. At least we used to know the above mentioned people. Not any more (or for the past decade). We now boast of groups.

And what groups they are indeed. School group, same batch group, same section group, close friends from classes 5,8,10,12 groups, last benchers, sitting near the window group, teacher's pets and pests, neighborhood group, same street group, same milkman group, college group, same group group, cutting college and going to movies group, cousins group, distant cousin group,  extended family group, fighting with mother-in-law group, kids' school groups, kids' separate sections group, close friends from school mothers group, office group, project 1 group, active members of project 1 group, water cooler group, apartment group, apartment block A first floor group, apartment same househelp group, running group, running women only group, running women only and unable to reduce weight group and the list extends to the 'ordering food from the same mami' group and is still non-exhaustive.

And how many people do I actually know? I have just enough fingers and toes to count!

Put me in a physical group of ten and I would talk the least and not be heard most of the time. So after a few weeks of trying I became a silent observer on social media (many years back) and then quit Facebook and none of my 500 plus friends noticed! I was a little active on Orkut (remember the time?) because I knew the people I connected with and after migrating to Facebook forgot most of the faces.

I have dutifully created accounts on Orkut, Twitter, FB, WhatsApp, Instagram, Google duo, telegram, Snapchat, hike and my friend's cousin's beta version but was so overwhelmed at the password reset emails I would get, that after checking the accounts five times an hour I finally said the grapes are sour and hung my social media boots and wear them when no one is looking.

People share anything from photos from their childhood - many of them with their eyes closed, sitting near a well and most of them being badly re-shot black and white photos-to the digitally captured and edited latest ones of their climbing Machu pichu or snorkeling in Thailand. And photos of their pets, friends of pets to information ranging from birthdays to the fact that their second cousin's chitappa's friend was the brain behind Pondy bazaar's latest look. The strangest part is that all these messages get a standard wow, super and thumbs up smiley responses.

On the road I get very confused when I see people. Most of the times I seem to know them and smile foolishly only to realise a second later that they don't know me because I belong to the the 'I see but never reply' group. I would have seen their photos  somewhere somehow and every other day but as I am virtually non-existent, they don't know me. One day I was running for my life as I tried to pet a dog which I recognised from one of the gazillion WhatsApp photos. Since both the mutt and I hadn't liked or friended each other both the dog and the owner (who seemed vaguely familiar-was it my cousin's wife's schoolmate, or her athai.. I don't know) chased me until I completed a week's running in that hour.

When I was in school, if I happened to smile at a school senior who didn't know me, I had to spend days covering my face with my thin long plaits (my school uniform was pinafore otherwise a duppata would have been most helpful) just so that I don't get laughed at by her friends who would generally laugh at anything that sounded junior to them.

Now no such problem. I don't see people face to face. I leave a comment and no one notices. Someone posts a beautiful picture and if I comment on that over phone (talk that is) after three hours they would feign ignorance or wonder at my stupidity of talking about old stuff.

That doesn't mean I don't check messages and look at photos. But having drawn a line and moving in circles within that space, I can only imagine that I know everyone and everything. Quite like Vivekh's "Enakku comissionara theriyum..." dialogue
.

"I am rarely on social media" I would boast to my friends. 'Even when I was active on FB I have never downloaded the app not have I activated WhatsApp notifications" I would regale the miniscule amount of persons I vocally get in touch with. I don't mind this kind of publicity. One, there is no public in the city to listen to me, two, who actually checks what I do.

Except of course the all knowing better half. So much so that he tells the kids one day, "Don't ever ask Amma 'What', she will zap you".

Presenting a story

The kids and I are glued to the idiot box savouring Master Chef (Australia, I would like to emphasize).

The husband walks in and after many attempts to attract his family's attention stations himself right in front of the television with a cup of coffee, that he had to make himself and inquires, "What are you all doing?"

Daughter and I stare at him even as the son cranes his neck around his father's frame to continue watching. "Appa we are watching Master Chef" quips the younger child impatiently. "They are showing a story".

He turns around only to watch chicken, quails, ducks and salmon being grilled. 'What story? And why are you all watching this? ' And you, are you going to attempt any of these?' he asks me.

'Are you nuts? From when did we start having non vegetarian food' I snort. 'Then why do you watch it?', he retorts intelligently

"It is pleasing to the eye plus doesn't smell. We can never get to have those desserts can we.. so beautifully delicious. So comforting and food that simply pops out of the plate wonderfully...' I masterchefy fluently. 'And they present a story through food", I add as an afterthought.

"I can only see three over fed men.' he says, "And that dude is wearing a pink suit... A pink suit and a purple scarf... Are you people insane?" he bellows un-gastronomically and walks off and we can hear him banging his head on the door as we continue to stare at the screen.

It is all about presentation these days.

The other day I visited a friend at her place for lunch. This lady cooks beautifully from what her Instagram and Facebook posts reveal. I eagerly anticipate this luncheon invitation and skip all three meals the previous day.

I enter her house and see her frantically photographing delicious food laid out aesthetically on the table. Even as I spot deliciousness beckoning me I can't help sensing unpleasant smell drifting from somewhere. My phone beeps and I see the food on my Instagram feed even before I get to the vicinity of the table. I salivate and congratulate my friend on her latest culinary masterpiece.

She quickly hastens me to the table before my drool spoils her elegant carpet. I wistfully look at the food even as she plonks a plate laden with some pale rice accompanied by some dispirited looking vegetables. Bewildered and a little humiliated by this extremely partial treatment I attempt to touch the photographed and already much liked plate only to receive a friendly slap on the wrist.

"Hey this is the actual food. That is only for social media" she giggles uncontrollably as I spot some cardboard beneath the tastefully arranged hyderabadi biryani. 'That will make the dish appear much better you know' she says knowledgeably. I quickly gobble up the pale rice, mutter incomprehensible adulation and scoot before she brings her much acclaimed dessert.

After this I start looking at all beautifully presented food critically. So much so that I pick and prod at swiggy delivered food until they become a mush even as the family look down disdainfully.

I still watch Master Chef though. No one is going to invite me to taste the food are they...

"I will present my own traditionally cooked story", I declare to the children and husband one day and march into the kitchen. The daughter comes with a ladle and holding it like a mike asks, 'So Amma, what are you going to cook today?'

"It is going to be a traditional platter. Vegetables cooked aromatically in buttermilk broth, lentil stew, watery lentil and tomato broth, brinjal two ways served with warm aromatic rice. And for dessert it will be rice cooked in milk and cream. All these served on fresh green plaintain leaves' I explain enigmatically. 

'We understand that you are going to make avial, sambar, rasam and paal payasam and add ghee to the rice.. But what is that brinjal two ways?' asks the husband and smirks knowingly. "It is thogayal and curry", I grit my teeth.

Laugh all they want...What do they know. Today they will discover the other side of my culinary skills I say to myself and begin cutting the vegetables.

Only that my story begins with torn plaintain leaves and ends with our ordering food from Adyar Anandha Bhavan.

To my credit I do make brinjal two ways - blackend and unblackened!

Hairy tales

What is it with boys and their laziness to maintain the mop on their heads, leave alone washing faces? Many a times my son would spend about an hour in the bathroom and come out like someone who had buried himself neck deep in sand leaving the head out in the sun. And then spend about half an hour in front of the mirror ruffling his hair making sure he looks just the opposite of yesteryear brylcreemed heroes. 

Our weekends begin with the task of chalking out a plan, that closely resembles a war strategy, to take him, drag him or kick him all the way to the salon which must now be accomplished at least twice a month. An any-time now teen that he is, this has to be done with absolute nonchalance, which is now a characteristic of his own behaviour. Seen, but not to be seen. Spoken to but not speaking. All weird gesticulations practised by his parents and sister to evoke response are now met with a non-committal stare.

I am digressing but that is the whole point of this adolescent tantrum. Quietly undoing his parents' well thought out speech on a hair cut by simply staring into the wilderness. And then the parents lose track and start talking about his birthday dress, colour of socks, disorderly school bag and start discussing with each other about who is going to get keeravadai from Grandsweets as there is no side dish for lunch only to realize an hour later that the boy in question has quietly slipped away and is now plotting schemes with his sister. The only time brother and sister are on amicable terms.

Having missed the main problem by more than a hair's breadth, it is now postponed to the following week. By which time his hair will resemble a nest with our expecting an exotic bird out anytime in the future.

These tales are common place everywhere. A few months back, a friend  called one day in the wee hours. Scrambling out of bed, I knocked down the phone, AC remote, and tried to press the buttons of the remote instead of the phone creating early morning mayhem in the process and was shooed out of the room. The call was to fix a salon-date for our sons with both competing for who has the most unkempt hairdo in the class. It is another story that our plans were already thwarted by the boys a week earlier.

Another day, I visited a friend and was ushered in by an extremely grumpy boy who looked very familiar. It was her son made unrecognisable by his new haircut. That explained the grumpiness. The friend later revealed that she had threatened him that if he didn't use a hair brush soon his hair would be brushing off the cobwebs on the ceiling, a six-footer that he is.

Wel(l)com(b)ed.

Of words great and small...

The whole world and its sister are now going organic, natural and exotic, not only in consumption but also in communication. Wherever went the days when flamboyant words were found only in classics? These days they are expressions of aesthetism, class and all-knowing superiority.

People selling wares at dastkar, santhai and the flea market (no, they are not cheap) pitch the magic words- 'Ma'am would you like to try this moisturising cream? It is hand made with a dash of ginger and honey with a subtle hint of fig and garlic". Aesthetically challenged as I am, I venture to ask, "can I use them as a spread for sandwich? My kids love honey and figs" I quietly slip away even as the vendor feigns deafness.

The older child now is extremely interested in cooking and much to my chagrin takes after his father when it comes to olfactory powers not to mention culinary skills. After months of enduring 'there is less salt in this', 'this is roasted slightly lighter than pitch darkness' and so on, he now 'master chefies' every phrase. 'Amma can I have some lentil stew', ' this plaintain curry lacks flavour and punch", 'the peanut sundal lacks the nutty flavor' and only stops when I sweetly ask him eat the sambar rice or he will receive a punch on his nose.

The lesser said about the younger child's, 'Mom, t'day's shloka sessions and the prashad were oh-so awhsom' the better. She trumps me.

Day to day life is presented with positivity and a lot of sweetness. Food is food in what whichever way you present it. The same goes with perfumes, soaps, clothing, tooth brush , pens, pencils and 'gently exfoliating' pumice stones. To me rest rooms will always be toilet/bathroom and bikes will be cycle or scooter and pooches, dogs.

I support eco friendly products but give a pass when I see 'mild smelling and organically healing' nature bars. Just call them soap dude.

Extremely frustrated over this exaggerated farrago that our lives have become, I storm out to get my sanity back and bump into my Shakespearean friend. Recently, she was given charge of 'curating' phrases for hand made soaps and she churned out lines like, 'An organic bar with nature's goodness, appealing to your inner Goddess' and the like.

I stood eyes glazed and bewildered and almost flipped at the cost of one soap bar. Her mother who was listening in with much amusement asked me,  "Are you going to buy the soap?" "Of course not! It is so expensive" I blurted.

And the wise lady quipped, "Let people who pay for it bother about understanding the slogan then!"

Point taken.

Of Tiffin boxes and the like...

The family, for the last two years, has been strictly following a no-plastic rule when it comes to packing lunch/snacks (to be returned full) for the kids. All the plastic ware (any ware) now store various items, including the ingredients from which the said lunch is made.

With lack of colour, there is now organic chaos in the kitchen. The stainless steel boxes all looking alike, one day we marched to the store, kids in tow to buy shiny Tiffin boxes. Now, a few years and as many boxes later -thanks to the lids being loose, buckles coming off, elder kid complaining about too many compartments and the younger one on the lack of it- we have now settled for good old round dabbas handed down over generations. That means similar looking boxes with uncannily dissimilar lids.

Then, there is the question of side dishes. The older child wants a separate box while the younger one wants a box in the box. Many a times the kids come home fuming because they had to suffer the ignominy of going to each other's classrooms at school as Amma had most inconveniently mixed the lunch boxes.

If that is not enough, the older child has a peculiar habit amongst his many other peculiar habits. This was discovered when one day the washing machine made an abominable noise and stopped working. Cursory investigation led to the discovery of a steel box among the clothes, not to mention the stains of sambar and a stray brinjal skin. The child had wrapped his box with the napkin and had mechanically thrown both into the machine. In the process a great mystery was solved. For many days the house help would hand over a spoon fallen on the floor, particularly after I finished drying the clothes on the line. Clumsy as I am, I concluded that the spoons kept falling down from the kitchen counter or the dining table as I couldn't see with the clothes piling mile high in my hands - It was not to be so.

All these days the boy had neatly folded his napkin around the spoon and we kept blaming his extremely annoyed sister for continuously staining the napkins with food. Looks like he just decided to get a tad more adventurous by sending the box for a wash. Adding to these are the continuous fights between the siblings, on who puts their boxes in the sink first leading to neither of them doing the said task.

Not that the plastic boxes would have mitigated any of the above. It is just that this is more healthy and entertaining!

If food gets stainless steel containers can flowers be far behind? They get a dedicated box to be stored in the refrigerator. All goes well until someone decides to take charge and make unnecessary changes.

The other day there was the sweet smell of jasmine all around the kitchen. Particularly emanating from somewhere near the stove. A good half an hour was spent in trying to locate the source. Food smelling of jasmine is not as sweet is my extremely frustrated opinion. The conundrum was solved when the cooker that was merrily making idlies was opened. The batter was stored in the box that was for many months housing flowers.

Malipoo idli anyone?

After a really, really, really..

...long time!

I don't know where to begin (again). So will start off with what currently runs in my mind. Know all these Indian authors right and how they write, right?

'...and as I was holding my mother's hand I realised that she has changed. She no longer keeps the door of our flat open when Pinky aunty keeps hers open. Must have changed after Pinky aunty stopped calling her for pujas and started having new new friends..'

"'Ok..' snapped Amma to Raju uncle who owns the local grocery store... uncle also doesn't offer me chocolates these days..''

'"Let me finish this...", Said Mom. Normally she would finish my book and then start reading hers..'

'"Where were you, I was so worried'', Mama asked her beautiful forehead creased with worry.. All my replies of, "Ma, there was a meeting.." wouldn't pacify her.

'''Give these to Kannama Akka..' Amma said one day. " But Amma..." I spluttered, "Those are my pattu pavadai and anna's Lego blocks..'. I had no answer when she asked, ''when did you last use them?"...'

Oh my God... Looks like I am turing into one of those mothers.. and hello this was supposed to be funny. Why does it read otherwise?

May be when T writes her book she'll include all these and more! And V.. he would still be building his blocks!

Back again?

The only way I can find my way back here is by writing a post on...whatelse,the kids.

A few days back V showed me his English reader and started giggling. I had written his name on that and having mentioned his section correctly, had written the class as UKG instead of class 3. T who was near by was so amused that she welcomed her older brother to her class the following day!

Cut to present...

T and V  are up to something...

T-  V (no anna here:-\ )What are you doing... Why so much confusion?

V - Hey... Do you know the meaning of confusion..

T - Yes. You remember that day when Amma wrote UKG instead of class 3 in your notebook? That is confusion!

Needless to say, the girl hasn't taken after me.

Chocolatey entertainment

As always this is a late take on something that has been written and raved about a thousand times. Movies are a good way to ward of stress. But as a policy H and I don't watch films in theaters. Actually it's been five years since we visited a cinema, so it is easy to make it into a policy! A couple of weeks back we left V with my parents and went to watch 'Crazy' Mohan's "Chocolate Krishna". Though a social play would have meant a more meaningful time spent, we zeroed in on the familiar brand of comedy the reason for which I will state at the end.

It was the well known 'Crazy' brand of comedy with the occasional display of magic thrown in between being an added attraction. The 'story' was on predictable lines and Mohan also manages to give a message at the end. What we loved about the play was its tight script and the fact that it was over in less than 90 mins without a break. Though with familiar film BGMs added to the play it did look like those famous 'film-trailers' from one's college days, it was a light-hearted time-spent. And wonders, though no one follows rules strictly not a single mobile ring tone was heard inside the hall!

Coming to the reason. It was the beginning of the third trimester and I did n't want to be left squirming with a jumping baby inside in a cinema theater what with all the sound effects and visuals. Also some time in these five years I happened to tell H that a few weeks before I was born my mother watched 'Omen'.Since H thinks the film has had a definite bearing on his wife's behavior he did n't want to take any chances with film choices for his children.

A Note to..

...all pedestrians, motorists, auto-rickshaw drivers (I have to address them separately), all those who think the whole world is a parking lot and many others.... from a fellow pedestrian, ex (for the time being) motorist and one among the rest.

-Thank you for staring at me , but that does n't mean you can flash lights on a broad day light, indicating me to move to my right when there is hardly any space to stand.
-I've struggled with a heavy bag on one shoulder and a kid on the arm and no auto would stop. Why is it that only when I don't need one all the auto rickshaws slow down and make walking harder?
-Neel Metal Fanalca is doing their bit to the city by stationing their huge garbage bins on the road turnings. But the motorists cast an angry glance at me when they turn sharply at a very high speed. I can only manage to stand a few inches farther from the bin...not any closer.
-Every time I look at the road, I get confused. When did this become a parking lot? One can walk (or try to) on the pavement, but is how is one supposed to drive a car or ride a two-wheeler between a car parked haphazardly and the electric post?
-Dear sirs (assuming sirs, by the bikes parked), I am unable to hold my umbrella straight when your bikes are parked like they were straight out of a modern-art picture frame even as the branch of a tree, lying low sways precariously as I struggle on the so called pavement, trying to avoid being splashed at by a bucket of dirty water from the nearby tea-shop. Not to mention the oncoming traffic to whom people on feet are invisible.
-And lady... I understand you want to take the right- from your car indicator that flashes 'right'. But why do you have to swirl to your left, take a u-turn (almost) on the road that is on your left, indicating right all the time? Wrong.
- To all the others who make life on the roads, a roller-coaster ride/walk/drive for many like me... It is very hard to learn one's lesson in a hospital. Take care and thank you for letting me live long enough to write this.

Some people are like this only-2

The 'park-pannata-paravasam types' (The Parking pesters!)


 I am a selfish motorist. Especially when it comes to parking my vehicle. I park in the inner-most parking space, because I want my scooter to be safe -Who cares about others getting more space to park because of my actions...
I use the center stand, even if it requires some extra effort. I don't want my scooter to fall down - Who cares about others getting more space because of this...

On one of these occasions, after having performed my selfish acts I come down from the shopping mall, child holding one hand, big shopping bag holding the other, walk towards the scooter, when a young motorist, tries to park his vehicle just behind mine...

Now, this is one of those selfless fellows who allow other vehicles to run over theirs or do not bother if their bikes fall down. The towing people have a field day thanks to such guys.

Spotting the guy about 10 meters away, I run like a mad horse (pulling the child and bag along) and telling him to -puffing - wait- panting - for me to take my vehicle away. The guy stops, waits as I struggle to remove the scooter from its space, keeping an eye and screeching when the child runs towards the road.

After a minute, I move aside, when the guy simply parks the bike in the space where he originally intended to (behind the parking space I had vacated) and walks off....


The 'edatha kodutha madatha...' types (That - is - not - your - chair-Chandler/That-is-my-seat-Joey types)


At the beach, we finally find a spot where the little archeologist can do his digging with his sophisticated tools and sit down (well almost) when a family of four or five or six with about three or four or five children, (It took me a few seconds to figure out that they were humans, this number confusion must be ignored) puts down a sitting mat, and the children on it, a foot away from us, causing us and the sand to fly. We move a good five meters away and I get a sprain in the neck by constantly turning my head, almost going in circles, to make sure that we don't get hounded again.

The 'at-you-service-or-so-I-think' types


We go to a (newly opened Dosa-Idli)  restaurant, finish our meal, wait for the bill when this guy comes with a plate of 'Paper-Roast' and deposits it on our table.

H: This is not ours
W: But you asked for 'Paper - Roast' saar
H: No..I asked for the Bill

The man, flustered, does the same at about five tables - beyond us - and then comes back to the table next to ours, because it is their 'Paper-Roast'.

The 'auto-gapla -cycle-ottara' types


We wait at a very congested junction with my 'Nermai-erumai-karumai' (Can't translate. It would mean something like I am fair and I expect you to be fair kind of thing) husband stopping the bike exactly 2 cms before the 'Stop' line and leaving about four feet on his left for a two wheeler or even an auto rickshaw to pass through and take the road on the left. The signal goes green and some thing hits V's leg. It is a bike's indicator. The motorist is in such a hurry that he leaves space for the rest of the world and comes crashing onto us...... to take the left. I don't know if he even realized, but the person seated behind him has the courtesy to apologize.

Drying clothes on a rainy day...

...is one of the most physically and mentally challenging tasks. First, the clothes accumulate, thanks to the kid running to the water and the parents running behind and all three getting wet, or to the fact that the amma ignores the unpredictable weather and leaves the umbrella behind, or to the previous days clothes that smell and feel wet like they are just out of the washing machine. Then, all of a sudden one realizes that the open space available is big enough to dry a few handkerchiefs and piles all the clothes into a bucket and carries them to the terrace on the fourth floor.

Living on the first floor despite the presence of an elevator does n't help as one still has to climb a flight of stairs, some of the steps of which are slippery thanks to the overflowing or dripping water from the terrace. After that one has to constantly look at the sky, put the clothes on the line, squint at the clouds to check if the black ones are really floating towards the said terrace or if it is only an illusion. Just as one finishes putting all the clothes on the line and comes down, again gingerly stepping on the steps, the black clouds close in and it has suddenly become dark. At this, one dashes out to the terrace again, this time with the kid coming along since he had found out that he was left behind the previous time.

One checks the clothes and tells herself that the clothes seemed to have become a little dry and carries the heavy bucket and the crying kid, huffs and puffs all the way down only to find that it is indeed drizzling outside. After a small pat on the shoulder to self, one begins to dry the clothes in the balcony and irons the half dried ones. Just then the sun comes out all scorching and one puts one's big foot in the mouth, removes all the clothes, takes them out to the terrace again, does a small jig at the sun and son, dries the clothes, comes down, and after the exhausting work, amma and child take a nap. Only to wake up and find that it is pouring outside. One looks out expressionlessly and goes back to sleep again.

It is another story that all the clothes were soggy and wet and dirty because the loose sand on the terrace had stuck to them, what with the wind blowing hard,  and all the clothes had to be washed again, and the process of drying...repeated as above!

Morning and on the road musings...

Well...one really can't 'muse' in the mornings, what with the husband and kid to be rushed off to school and office ...err...the opposite respectively. Also, one can't think when one  is accelerating the scooter, braking at vantage points, holding the standing kid tightly between one's legs, enduring the child's constant 'amma athu enna?', followed by a harried amma's don't stick your hand out, staring at brainless motorists, checking the elusive expletive just in time before it reaches the brat's ear, desperately honking and indicating before reaching the school and depositing the child. After all that, further endurance and heart-break at the little one not even attempting to say 'Ta-Ta'.

The real fun starts when one rides back home. The BP suddenly touches normal, the air seems fresh, motorists less annoying and one actually waits until a horde of buses, vans, cars, scooters, bikes, pedestrians, stray dogs pass by. Suddenly there is so much time!
                                    
On an aside...

When I scoured the city in my scooter on work, when I was all young and bursting with excessive enthusiasm - eons ago- I used to look amusedly at mothers who rode their children to school or otherwise. I remember seeing perennial frowns on those faces. I used to brazenly chuckle to myself, thinking aloud, under the protection of my helmet, "Poor women, they probably began riding only after marriage", or "Poor women, what monsters their husbands must be to let their hapless wives endure the city's noisy, polluted and risky roads" AND "Lucky me... I have mastered the art of riding...I would n't have a problem many years down the line"...

Little did I know!

You are addicted to blogging when...

...You log into your blogger account at least ten times a day pretending to write a post

...Edit posts at least ten times before clicking the publish button

...View your blog at least seven times whether or not you publish anything

...Visit a minimum of ten different blogs a day

...Visit each of those ten blogs twice

...Sneak in to blog whenever there is time, whether it is early in the morning or late in the night, or when the husband is eating

...You pretend to browse but blog all the time

...Claim that you are getting more information out of blogs than news sites

...You think of all that you need to blog so much that you sleep with the same thoughts, dream of them and wake up with the same thoughts. As soon as you get up you log in to check whether you've really created a new post

...You keep thinking of it so much that you log in to see how complete your blog is

...You are disappointed to find only ten posts. The rest are still in the head

...Looking at the number of bloggers already out there, you feel so left out that you are so charged up and spend at least ten hours a day doing nothing but blink at the screen

...You read someone else's blog, read the comments, click on to the commenter's link, read his/her blog, click their commenter's link and go link after link after link that you forget what you were actually reading first

...You want to put down a recipe, but think a cookery blog will be a better idea so create one; then you write a post about your son and want to make a collection of all those posts, so you create a mommy blog, you write a film review, think you are such a big movie buff that you create your own film blog...this goes on and on and you have blogs on sports, career, management, gardening, health and festivals. One fine day you read them all to find that each has only one post and end up collating and get back to square one - your general blog

...Change the template once in two days

...You get so paranoid upon not having written a new post today that you end up writing this.

...You leave some blank space to add if you act crazier in future

P.S: I don't know if there are similar posts on blogging addiction. Even if there are, I have n't read them. This is my own.... Oh yes...but I really want to know what others have written about their addictions...No...there can't be many jobless persons like me...or what if there are...I think I'll browse and check...no..there is the milk on the stove...it'll take another five minutes to boil..

I browse for posts, go mad as usual and after half an hour remember the milk. I kick myself thinking of all the excuses that I could give, visualize the empty almost destroyed vessel, smell for gas leaks and the stench and when I enter the kitchen the milk is not there. When did the husband come in? V is too small to do such things. I look up and down, inside the fridge, on the table and conclude that I did not put the milk on the stove at all. An hour later when I open the microwave oven to re-heat something, I find the milk there...