The Midget Diaries

For Thatha

2012-01-22T23:16:00.003-05:00

Locked away inside
is an untold story
of cheating fires
and peaceful surrender

tales lost
under folds of care
kicked aside by hurried feet
and garbled words

digging deeper
funny anecdotes
grown in black rain
breathe new life
to a wrinkled story.

How do you tell the story of a man who's never been to college yet has read Nalayira DivyaPrabhandham twice and could talk to you for hours discussing Kamba Ramayanam?
How many stories can one tell of a wonderful Grandfather who lived to tell many a funny tales to ease troubled minds yet forgot to tell the most important one of his own valour and kindness and left behind aching hearts?

You don't.

You just try to love life as he did and hope your stories are as funny as his.

Reading Challenges 2012

2012-01-19T12:34:00.001-05:00

Well, because I barely have anything else on my plate and one needs to do sth for the 37 hour days I have :)
On a serious note, unless i take part in challenges I don't seem to read new genres/authors.
And a challenge makes me keep track of the books i read so I can tell my Appa that i beat him coz Appa reads like there is no tomorrow and it is hard to keep up.

Award-Winning-Books Reading Challenge hosted by Gathering Books
Aiming for Silver Medal.
South Asian Author Challenge hosted by S Krishna's Books

Will sign up for more challenges as soon as the rest of the mind gets affected by insanity!

12 Habits for 2012

2012-01-11T18:20:00.008-05:00

Well because it is oh-so-passe to have resolutions :)

January - Write atleast 2 posts per week ( i haven't posted in the first week but I'm pulling most of these from my posterior, and hence it shall be so :)

February - Wake up early every day.

March - Stay off Facebook and other blogs ( i spend way too much time reading other people's blogs to write my own)

April - Go to bed early. No later than 10pm.

May - Introduce kids to new cuisines once every week.

June - Limit TV to 2 hours/week

July - Take kids to a new place: park/museum/activity center every weekend.

August - .No eating after 8pm. Make sure dinner is done by 7pm.

September - Build a scrapbook, atleast a page a week for each of the kids

October - Provide food for soup kitchen every week.

November - Go for a date night/coffe with The Mr once a week

December - Incorporate 31 days of Giving into the life and include the kids in it.

Now to get The Mr to sign off on this.

P.S: Inspired by Katie at http://intentionallykatie.blogspot.com/

How it all began...

2012-01-09T00:24:00.000-05:00

It's hard to count the number of times I have written something down here only to delete it letter by letter. Bloody backspace key. I wonder if I would do so much striking out if I were to write by pen on paper.
But darling daughter, it is always tough to write about you...to you...for you.
Somehow i feel tongue-tied and I want to run upstairs and sit by your bedside and listen to your loud breathing...just to make sure that I am not dreaming.
That my Maya is not an illusion but mine to hold, to rock, to giggle with and at times to argue with too.

I have been wanting to write down your cute antics, the way you still say 'Siglan' and not 'signal'...the way you believe volcanoes spit smiley faces and how when you go to Africa to see one both you and the volcano will exchange spit and you'll come back with smiley faces. Seriously if I didn't hear it with my own ears, I would assume somebody was making all this up.

I love that you can always sense that I am frustrated and angry...at times I am too pig-headed to notice your charming way of making me come out of that rut. I am sorry. This year I hope to change that...mind you, i say hope, there are no guarantees. Well when 'a girl who refuses to grow up' has a daughter who is just like her, it does seems like two 4-yr olds are squabbling over a pink unicorn :)

As a young woman I carried this image of myself as this perfect mom...i have no clue what the characteristics of that 'ideal mom' is but everyday I beat myself up for not being worthy enough to wear that badge...but this past weekend changed all that.

Mayalou, I maybe a grouch at times; I might scream at you over a glass of spilt milk and send you off to your room when you grumble about my parenting skills; I might very easily get frustrated when you say 'One last question' for the millionth time and refuse to answer it; I might make you cry by not buying those $40 sparkly shoes at the mall; I might not read you that 5th story at bed time but I know I've done good when I see you build fairy gardens and believe in magic.

Because Maya dearest, you are Magic!

Letter to ether

2011-04-19T17:45:00.000-04:00

Dear God,

I miss you terribly. Funny thing to say to you, since I see you everyday when Arya smiles his one-toothed smile at me. I feel you everyday when Mayalou hugs me tight and whispers, "love you amma". As much as your love pervades my entire life, I miss our conversations.

Is this what happens to every relationship?
We are delirious in love; we hug, we kiss, we touch as we pass each other in the hallway, we call each other silly names, we have something to say even when we turn in our sleeps.
And then we slowly get comfortable.
We finish each other's sentences...and then slowly we know what the other person thinks so we stop finishing those darn sentences.
We let them hang in mid-air...motionless.

Slowly even those fade away...We no longer feel the need to talk, as we just know what the other person thinks. We inch farther and farther apart in our quest to be closer together intellectually. Spiritually.
We stop the silly names. We are labelled now.

You - Escape artist.
Me - Whiner

Finally we fall deliriously out of love and all that remains is Silence.

and in that silence, i begin to talk. softly, slowly, wistfully...

"Dear God, I miss you..."

CSAAM April 2011 - how to be strong?

2011-04-01T11:18:00.000-04:00

Well, not everyone knows how paranoid I am about someone abusing my children. Every night as I tuck them to sleep, I whisper a promise to protect them with all my might and wisdom and then I cry inside because I am scared that despite all my over-protection, some slimy hand would still get through those tight fences.

I have already talked about my story once on this blog. I barely scratched the surface but going deeper means disrupting family peace and breaking fences that were mended. I have no strength to do that...not 23 years later.

Now, my Implet is very exuberant and outgoing. She readily smiles at strangers, is willing to play with them. How do I tell her to differentiate between good touch and bad touch without making her distrustful of everyone in her life?

And at times, I have asked her to hug family & friends much against her desire to do so. Some situations tend to be very sticky. Especially when you're visiting India after a year or two and your daughter refuses to go near her Uncle/Aunt for some reason, do I push her ? And if I tend to hold her too close, I am labelled as 'too-American'; over protective and I am told since I grew up in the same town and turned out so well so will my daughter and that she won't get cooties just by touching family.

Sigh!

All I ever want is to keep those bad apples away from my kids.

Where do I draw the line? How do I draw the line without pushing my loved ones away?

If I have realised one thing in these past 3 years of being a mom - I can do right by my kids. Or I can work towards appreciation from my peers & family. But I will never, ever get both. And doing right by them wins hands down. Any day.

I am trying to hold them close yet not suffocate them with all my adult fears and paranoia. It's not as easy as it sounds. I want them to run around free, chasing butterflies and come to me with aching legs. Yet I constantly worry that if I am not close by, someone would pluck their wings and they would crawl to me with aching hearts instead.

The Mr is an awesome Appa...he makes us laugh, gives the best bear-hugs and can calm us- mother & her brats- when we are agitated beyond control.

My first lesson in parenting was to trust him with our kids - trusting him to protect them from a bad word as much as from a wrong touch.

My second lesson which I am trying hard to teach myself and the kids is - our bodies are not objects of shame. I did sing 'Shame shame puppy shame' initially to The Implet, because, let's face it that's what I was told. That's how I grew up. And maybe that's why when I was first molested I didn't shout coz I felt ashamed. I felt it was my fault.

There's a difference between shame and privacy and somehow one always has linked the two inextricably.

I am learning and trying to teach her that they need not be. If she sees me naked, I shall not be ashamed and she shall not be reprimanded for the same. But I try to respect her privacy and teach her to respect mine. We are still not there yet, completely. [She asks me to close the door and stay outside until she's done her work on the potty but one needs to shout N times to stop her from barging into my bathroom. Selective learning!]

But most importantly, I am learning, as her Amma, to trust her instincts as much as I do mine.

This is my first post for this initiative.

If you would like to add to the discussion or know somebody else who would, please note that we welcome entries

a. mailed to csa.awareness.april@gmail.com OR

b. posted as FB notes and linked to Child Sexual Abuse Awareness Month Page OR
c. posted on your own blog with the badge and linked to the main blog OR

d. linked or posted on Twitter tagged twitter.com/CSAAwareness OR

e. sent via some/all of the above methods

The list of topics is available here. Anonymous contributions are accepted and requests for anonymity will of course be honoured. Please remember to send in a mail with all necessary links or just your input to csa.awareness.april@gmail.com so that we can track your contribution and make sure that it is not inadvertently lost or something.

U can also support it simply by adding the logo of the initiative in your blog’s sidebar. Grab the below code to do so

http://csaawarenessmonth.wordpress.com/” target=”blank”>http://csaawarenessmonth.files.wordpress.com/2011/03/csa-logo.jpg” alt=”" />

New Year Resolution that never left paper

2011-03-16T12:18:00.000-04:00

This New Year I was watching Monk and when Randy Disher talked about his epiphany, I had mine too -
Happiness is a choice.
Two and half months later I am yet to make that choice.

Life intervened.

I am not saying I never tried. There was this one week in mid-Jan when I was really relaxed and smiled my way through everything. Even when I didn't want to smile I atleast did not growl and grunt.
But it stopped with that week.

Maybe I'll have better luck rest of this month.

And to help me with this, everyday I am going to post something I am happy about, thankful for in my life.
Yes yes, one of those zillion boring snippets of my life but then I don't want to be this 'angry young woman' self for the rest of my life.

I fail to enjoy The Implet counting cracks on the pavement and instead concentrate on the fact that she's wasted 10 minutes of my time when I could be elsewhere... doing what you ask? chores, what else!
I fail to pick up Paco who's trying his best to climb up my leg and instead stare into the laptop and whine about how I am always running to catch up.
I fail to appreciate The Implet's new found tastes in food and instead gripe that she refuses to eat what I cook and hence making my life difficult.

In short, there are just too many moments I fail to appreciate and treasure for what they really are - Life's gifts to me.

So here's to seeing the glass half full - always!

2011-02-28T13:29:00.000-05:00

Where does one pour all those frustrations that keep welling up inside every passing day?
If I write it all here, am I done with it completely?
Or am I just recycling one frustration for another nagging worry?

What if someone I know and love reads this and judges me?
Why should I be judged at all on the basis of what I am feeling when I am penning a blogpost?
Why the *hooting funk* should I care if someone judges me or not?

Just because I am a mother, why am I denied swear words?
Why the funk(not a spelling mistake) can I not scream without making sure it is PG-3 rated?

Is what I am saying too personal for a blog?
Am I airing private dirty laundry for all to see?
Am I being a bad spouse? Or worse a bad mother?

Why is it so important to be a good mom? Who made that distinction- good vs bad?

Maybe, we all are just differently-abled mothers.
Some can do cartwheels on thin wire while balancing two kids, a career and a big family circus.
Why is it wrong to NOT be that someone?
Why do I beat myself up even when others don't?

Every morning it is a task just to look at the mirror and say,"You're a good mom", especially when there is a toddler outside the door screaming "Amma I want playdoh. I won't drink milk. You're not my best friend. Give the baby to the doctor. I don't want it. You are my best friend not the baby's"

It's not just hard. It is frickin' impossible.
And on such days, all you want is someone, just anyone to say, "You're doing a good job. The louder she screams, stronger is the proof that you're doing an excellent job"
When such comments are not forthcoming, when you have to bait and wait for someone to notice that the babies are well-fed and not just with leftovers, that there is cake to be had for dessert, that someone's perfect Strawberry Shortcake birthday present was found and that too on Sale, it kinda feels like a chore.

The baby can't say it cause he can barely gurgle. But even he is vociferous when I am late to nurse him.
The Toddler cannot stop saying how much I am making life difficult for her when I refuse to read the 15th story of the night.
The Mr assumes I know that I am a good mom.
The parents feel I am doing a great job but if only I would scream less at the kids, if only I would do this...

Raising kids is a lot like sleeping on rose petals...not all that romantic as it is portrayed out to be. After a few minutes, you realise you don't want those petals sticking to your bare skin, you don't want that smell, however intoxicating it might be. you just want to get up and lie on a bare floor.

I want to get out of this Motherhood bubble and lie down somewhere else.

I love my two brats...love them to bits.
But I want a break once a while.
Most importantly I don't want to be judged for wanting that time out.

Defrosting forgotten tales

2011-01-24T17:20:00.000-05:00

Winter walked into the jungle as stealthily as a tiny pair of feet climbing up the ladder for some forbidden cookies. All was quiet in the Griz household...well , almost. Little Miya crept noiselessly out of the cave, holding tightly to her coat and scarf. Her big eyes got even bigger as she looked at the winter wonderland all around her. The snow was thick and untouched as if someone had spread a brand new white blanket all over the grass. Miya gingerly touched the snow, afraid her paws would leave brown stains on the crispy white snow for all to see. The snow was cold to touch ; she put a handful in her mouth and shrieked with glee. A shiver ran down her spine and with one last look into the warm, dark cave she ran towards the Moonbeam lake, leaving tiny paw-prints in her wake.

Why was a bear cub prowling alone on a winter night? It all began on the last party of Fall, the one Mama Griz threw every year for her friends before her entire family went into hibernation. If there was one thing that Miya regretted, it was not having tasted snow. Ever. Being a bear cub and having your bedtime much before Fall came to a close did nothing to help either. Every Spring when Otto and Adhee talked about snow-ball fights and skating across Moonbeam lake, Miya just sat grumpily on her cushion. Even the picture of a tall Giraffe skating on his bum across a frozen lake wasn’t enough to make her smile.

But this Winter it would all change.

The moon shone brightly, lighting up the ice spectacle that was Moonbeam lake. Miya gaped at the frozen lake, spellbound at the many shiny icy crystals on the overhead tree branches. Just as she edged closer to the lake, a flash of red streaked past her. Miya stopped in her tracks clutching her scarf tightly. Was that Mama Griz who had come in search of her? Was it that pesky Adee and his buddy Otto, trying to scare her? She made a mental note to tell Aunty Gif how much a brat her son is, inspite of his cute giraffe looks.

"Hey! Are you here to skate too?"

The voice shook Miya from her reverie and she fell with a bump on the snow. There in front of her, all bundled up in red hat and coat was the coolest Penguin she has ever met. Well, ofcourse not having been outside in winter ever before Miya didn't know it was a penguin.

She stared at the stranger.

"Where are your skates? No problem, I have another pair. Want a hand?", the penguin asked, reaching out a hand to help Miya from the ground.

"what...er..who are you?", asked Miya having finally found her voice.

"Oh! Sorry to scare you like that. I am Pingu, a penguin. I live on the other side of Moonbeam lake. I always come here in winter to skate. My dad feels skating is not for penguins, but I love it. So I sneak in the dark to skate. And you?", said Pingu, all the time twirling on the frozen lake.

....to be continued

P.S: As the title suggests, this is a story I started last New Year and left lying in my Drafts for want of a better spark/time/moment. This year my resolution is to write more, preferably get published but write regularly. You can all see how that is going, since I get on the blog only now and that too with an incomplete story. But if I don't push, I will never fall off this couch of inertia so this is all you get.

HAPPY NEW YEAR 2011!

mother of 2 = time for nothing else

2010-11-22T22:51:00.004-05:00

When Life grabs you by the throat and proceeds to strangle you mercilessly, you fight with all your might to stop the imminent death...you scratch, kick, push and try to cry out loud but there is only so much you can say with all that pressure on your throat. With physical assertion getting you nowhere, you resign to your fate and lie still, eyes closed. Not a whimper or a whisper, just Silence. And Darkness. In that moment of darkness as numbness takes over, you feel the pressure ease. You breathe...laboriously but breathe nevertheless.

You open your eyes and the journey begins. One more time.

Tamizh Rhymes for Tulika Blogathon

2010-06-17T12:49:00.003-04:00

Growing up in a household of aunts and cousins there was never a shortage of rhymes or stories. When we ran out of steam, Thatha just made one up to entertain us. Ever since Maya learnt to gurgle we've been singing Tamizh songs and rhymes to her, some were run-of-the-mill ones that we picked from books but most were specific to what I heard while growing up.

My favourite ofcourse is the song we sing to teach them words. The first sounds we teach the baby(atleast in our home) is "Aakku" and "Ingu". The reason being these sounds are close to the gurgling noises and cries the baby makes.
The song is the kind where you can keep adding to it as your imagination soars...it's all about cuddling up to your baby and making her feel loved.

Ingu ingu-nu solli
Elavan thoppukku sendru
sola maambazham thindru
solli valarntha kiliyo?
chendo? sura kozhuntho?
sotrukku vaartha nei thuliyo? [Thatha's fave line: Are you the drop of ghee in my food?]
kattu karumbo?
kanno? maniyo?
theno? thinayo?
thevittadha thellamudho?
paalo? pazhamo?
paagupadatha sarkkarayo?

I still remember the way Mayalou used to practically chew off Thatha's and Achi's faces as they held her close and sang this to her. Every morning after her bath I would lay Maya down next to Achi and she would just keep talking or singing to her. It never mattered what the topic was, as long as there was someone to talk to her Maya was happy...actually she still is, except now the roles are reversed. She wants someone to listen as she yaps non-stop :)

Around 2 months when the babies start to look around and try to flex their fingers, we sang the following rhyme, making flower gestures with the wrist for the baby to see and maybe learn(eventually).

Thaa poo thamarai poo
thaayar kuduthathu shenbagha poo
maampoo maathulam poo
maatha thoduthathu malligai poo
poo poo, puliyam poo
ponnu mudinjathu pichi poo

Once they've mastered flexing and moving their wrist everytime they hear the song, we move to the next rhyme. Spread your left palm, and then tap it with the right forefinger as if a spoon is tapping a plate.

Athai athai nei oothu
aari pochu naa maaten
Chithi chithi nei oothu
sindhi pochu naa maaten
innum konjam nei oothu
enakku konjam nei oothu

[Loose translation:
Athai athai pour some ghee
(athai answers)It's gone cold, so I won't
Chithi Chithi pour some ghee
(chithi answers)it is spilt, so I won't
Give me more ghee
Give me more ghee]

It's kind of hard to write Tamizh rhymes in English. So once I find time to write in Tamizh, I will add the other songs.

when words are never enough....

2010-05-08T04:30:00.001-04:00

Everyone in town knew our home. A newcomer to the hamlet just had to follow the sound of laughter and it would lead him straight to The Storyteller. Nobody knew where his stories came from but he had a tale for every occasion and for every emotion. Some claimed he wrote them himself; others felt The Goddess of Stories lived on his tongue. I made him open his mouth one night but all I could see was a pink tongue. No sign of any Goddess.

"Did you eat her, Thatha?" I asked.
He just laughed aloud in his inimitable style...his wrinkles dancing to the tune of his infectious laughter.

Every morning he woke up before dawn, bathed in the brook outside the house and said his prayers sitting under the banyan tree. Except for a steaming cup of coffee, he ate nothing until his prayers were done. The routine never changed, in sickness and in health. But before even the first morsel of food was tasted, a crowd would mill around him begging for stories. Thatha always said yes.

There was magic in his voice...the kind of magic which brought Kings and Gods to life and made them sit amongst little children and every day folks; the kind of magic that was a soothing balm to troubled hearts; the kind of magic that lived long after the story was told. But he wasn't just a storyteller. He wove baskets as colourful as his tales, knitted scarves as soft as his touch and cooked delicious meals that made you wish you had another stomach just so you could eat some more.

His stories guided me as I grew wings and flew to fancier abodes. Far from a sleepy hamlet I created my own stories but they lacked the Magic his had. My Princes sulked on paper and the elephants could barely lift their trunks. I whispered to them, sang to them but nothing could make them come alive. What did the Storyteller sprinkle over his stories?

Finally, one day I packed my bags and made my way back to The Storyteller's village. A silent town greeted me. No laughter to guide me to The Storyteller's abode. I sat under the banyan tree and waited. Hours stretched into days, still no sign of him.

Where do the stories go when The Storyteller is no more? Do they turn into the mist that takes him to Story heaven? Do they weep for their master and then shrivel and die? or do they lie forgotten until someone calls to them for comfort?

I closed my eyes as a gentle breeze caressed me. The banyan tree whispered something in my ears. When I opened my eyes, I saw a small boy sitting in front of me, a yearning in his eyes. I smiled.

"Once upon a time, in a sleepy hamlet, there lived a magician. A magician who can spin a tale out of thin air..." A small crowd began to gather around and soon a ripple of giggles spread across the town.

Storytellers don't die. Not as long as there is someone to tell a story.
His story.
Our stories.

P. S: Dedicated to the only storyteller I ever knew. I miss you, Thatha.

Trying to shout...silently

2010-04-12T10:20:00.000-04:00

It's not that I don't visit this page. I login every single day, write a paragraph and then diligently delete it letter by letter. Everything sounds so contrived and forced, of late. Am I writing for my pleasure or for an audience?

I guess that's the problem with blogs. It all starts with you and then slowly the lines blur and it morphs into a being kept alive solely for an audience. Or maybe not. I don't know.

Did I tell you I am caught in intricate web spun by an illusion I so lovingly created?
Well, now you know.
Most days all I want to talk about is how funny and beautiful the world looks when seen through the eyes of an exuberant toddler. She is more witty than I imagined she would be, making us laugh even when all we ever want to do is tear our hair out and run far away from the mess.

I would love to talk about the way my heart flutters everytime The Blob kicks, be it for Dora's voice or Mayalou's laugh. Or simply because Amma decided to sit instead of walk around 24/7.

By the time I try to choose between the stories I have running in my head, the moment passes me by and they cease to be pertinent...to the rest of the world atleast. So I remain silent.
One day, I might decide to wake up from this dream and tell it all.

For the moment, I plan to sit on the couch, watch Maye do her Robot dance while shouting "Amma padathe. Chidamakumayee padathe" and feel The Blob join the big sister in a new fangled version of the tap dance.

Reading Challenges 2009 - Update

2009-12-25T16:18:00.005-05:00

Orbis Terrarum Challenge - Completed
March - Dec 2009

My Father's Paradise by Ariel Sabar (Iraq)
The Boy in the Striped Pajamas by John Boyne (Ireland)
The Scent of Sake by Joyce Lebra (Japan)
Half of a Yellow Sun by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie(Nigeria) ****.5
The Swallows of Kabul by Yasmina Khadra (Algeria)
The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje (Canada)
Climbing the Stairs by Padma Venkatraman (India)
Genghis Khan - Birth of an Empire by Conn Iggulden (England)
The No:1 Ladies Detective Agency by Alexander McCall Smith (Scotland)
The Reader by Bernhard Schlink (Germany)
God grew tired of us by John Bul Dau (Sudan)
In the time of Butterflies by Julia Alvarez ( Dominican Republic)

War Through the Generations Challenge : WWII 2009 - Completed

The Zookeeper's Wife by Diane Ackerman
The Reader by Bernhard Schlink
The Boy in the Striped Pajamas by John Boyne
Climbing the Stairs by Padma Venkatraman
The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Schaffer and Annie barrows
The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro
The Pale View of the Hills by Kazuo Ishiguro **
The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje

New Author Challenge 2009 - Completed
25 New Authors

Purple Hibiscus by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie ***
Dumbfounded by Matt Rothschild **.5
In the time of Butterflies by Julia Alvarez ***
The Zookeeper's Wife by Diane Ackerman **
The Hours - Michael Cunningham **
The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd ****
The Book of Lost Things by John Connolly ****
Boomtown - Chang's Fireworks factory by Nowen N Particular **
Climbing the stairs by Padma Venkatraman
Maya Running by Anjali Bannerjee **
My Father's Paradise by Ariel Sabar ***.5
The Boy in Striped Pajamas by John Boyne ****
The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro ****
The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje ****.5
The Friday Night Knitting Club by Kate Jacobs ***
The Scent of Sake by Joyce Lebra **.5
The No:1 Ladies Detective Agency by Andrew McCall Smith ***.5
The Woman who would be Pharaoh by William Klein **.5
The Reader by Bernhard Schlink ***
The Swallows of Kabul by Yasmina Khadra **.5
A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine de L'Engle **
Oscar Wilde & A Game called Murder by Gyles Brandreth ***
The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Schaffer and Annie Barrows ****.5
Genghis Khan, Birth of an Empire by Conn Iggulden ***
God grew tired of us by John Bul Dau ***

The truth is I lost track of the books I read once I stopped writing reviews :(
Aaargh! How tragic can that be?
This is what happens when you have no one around to discuss the books and you tend to forget all about the story within minutes of reading it.

3 more books from the Ladies Detective Agency series
Knit Two by Kate Jacobs
Harry Potter 6 & 7 (one needs familar words between heavy books)
Trollbridge by Jane Yolen (it can never be boring)

Becoming my parents' daughter

2009-10-23T22:36:00.005-04:00

Everyone knows motherhood is tough. That it takes as much out of you as it gives...both in time and joy. One invests so much time and energy into being that perfect mother - the kind who bakes cupcakes on Saturdays just because it is Saturday, who stays awake late into the night folding onesies and stitching fancy buttons on a costume - there are moments that one forgets to be a daughter.

Why?

Why is it engrossing to discuss cow dung with the tot than answer questions on how the day was with the parent? Why is it so hard to let go of little things when it concerns your child? Why is it harder to understand someone you've known for more than two decades while you're completely in-sync with a 21 month old who can barely string two words together? Does motherhood erase all signs of being a daughter once?

As the peer pressure of young, vibrant do-it-all moms rises, the doting daughter slowly fades into the background...with occasional glimpses once in awhile to buy a certain bag, listen to an old tale, touch a burning forehead, share a joke over phone...or simply smile every morning instead of the usual complaint about the wrong sippy cup in the toddler's hands.

Being a mother is all about loving someone unconditionally.
Being a daughter is about letting that someone love you...unconditionally.

In the Land of Butterflies

2009-10-18T14:36:00.002-04:00

It was a quiet afternoon in the Azalea kingdom...the kind of quiet that lends itself to mind-numbing chores and pointless conversations; It is also the kind of quiet that makes one restless - a strong yearning to launch oneself off this state of inertia. And if you entered the Royal nursery that's what you would find Princess Mei doing...trying to jump off The King's arms and fly into the skies on a new adventure.

The King and The Queen sang a dozen lullabies, the baby made raspberries at them. The court jesters juggled apples and colourful balls while the maidens twirled satin ribbons but Little Princess Mei just yawned at them. Then she curled her tiny fists, puffed air into her roly-poly cheeks and SCREAMED!

WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

The Azalea kingdom rocked and came to a complete standstill.

No one knew how to calm the baby and put her to sleep. Lady Chance was not in town to bestow gifts and The King was not the kind who believed in Magic either. Her Highness just sighed and hugged herself to sleep in an armchair. His Royal Highness looked at the tiny bundle in his hands. He had conquered the lands, he had reined the raging seas but how can such a fragile being hold him prisoner? Are those spells swirling in those beautiful dark eyes?

As an expert storyteller he weaved many a wonderful tale of grandeur and adventure...of Princes on stallions and talking elephants and finally he no longer had any new yarn to spin but the baby in his arms giggled. Her tiny feet kicked him in his chest asking for more.

He gently caressed her curved earlobe, a trait she takes on from him. Princess Mei looked into her father's eyes and cooed. He closed his eyes and hummed softly. His gentle melody slowly grew in depth and soon found a reply as tiny colourful butterflies silently flew in from the forest. They circled above The King and Princess Mei and the only sounds in the room were the soft flapping of their wings.

Soon a mellow calm descended into the room, embracing its occupants in a velvety hug they had long desired. In that moment of sublime tranquility as the last of the butterflies came to rest on her arm, the Little Princess made her peace. Her tiny fingers firmly clasping his hand, Princess Mei was finally sound asleep, a playful smile still on her lips.

The King sighed.

The Date

2009-10-01T22:50:00.004-04:00

She felt her life was sprinting away from her as she scrubbed baby food off the kitchen floors and folded baskets of laundry. Wasn't she more than just a mother? She read books, sang songs and was more than capable of holding a conversation on any topic under the sun for over 10 minutes.

Yet here she was making sure the carrots and peas did not touch each other on the plate, arranging onesies and pajamas by colour and looking under crib and beds for fat, green worms to make soup with.

She needed a date. No, not need, wanted. Yes! that's the word. She WANTED a date. An evening with her husband; two adults enjoying a peaceful meal away from bibs and babble. A date was set, after frantic phone calls a reliable babysitter was found and the baby was informed. As long as the carrots and peas didn't touch, she didn't care two cents about dates.

The Day finally dawned. She spent hours in front of the mirror rehearsing what she would say at dinner. She felt like a teenager going on a first date. An evening to reminisce about Oscar Wilde and Balzac, of red wines and candle light...an evening as a young, intelligent woman.

"So guess what? I am sitting on the couch reading an article on Eezham and she comes and takes the mouse and says, 'Amma , whatyoudoing? elp?' Then she picks up my book from the table and goes ' This libaly book.' "

He smiles at her fondly as he refills her wine glass. She hardly notices the twinkle in his eyes as she continues,
"Oh my God! Yesterday she sang the entire ABC song. I swear, it was the sweetest thing I've ever heard. No other 20 month old I know can say ABC much less sing it. And then, did I tell you she can completely dismantle our remote and hide the batteries and act as if she doesn't know what we're talking about? and today she..."

He leaned back in his chair.
This was going to be a beautiful evening.

Note: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to moms folding laundry or scrubbing floors is completely intentional.

Book Review

2009-09-15T21:56:00.005-04:00

I'm losing count of the books I've read, so trying to jot them down as crisp as possible...

My Father's Paradise by Ariel Sabar (Iraq)
- Brilliantly researched and wonderfully written. Loved the snippets of History he had sprinkled throughout the book. This book is totally engrossing and made me put it down each time with a really heavy heart. It did make me realize that casteism manifests itself throughout the world, in some way or the other...In the way European Jews looked down on the Middle-Eastern Jews or mocked their language. PICK IT UP!

Maya Running by Anjali Banerjee
- Young adult novel. No points for guessing why I picked it up :) It did turn out to be a really sweet book. There were a couple of stereotypes, like Maya's cousin who visits Manitoba from Calcutta or the 'cool' dude liking the 'nerd' girl part. Liked the twist and the resolution. Good book to read between some heavy clunkers :) But I guess my best moment with the book was when Mayalou picked it up and said, "Lie-berry book. Chaami!" and she would proceed to touch the picture of Ganesh on the cover and press her hands to her eyes...sigh! I kept renewing the book just to see her do that :)

The Boy in the Striped Pajamas by John Boyne (Ireland)
- Poignant, heart-wrenching story of a young German boy whose father is sent by the fuehrer to take charge of Auchswitz concentration camp. The story is told from the point of view of 9 year old Bruno, who pulls us in with his innocence and then breaks us apart as he sets out on his one big adventure before leaving camp. Somehow, the horror of Holocaust as told by a child is even more scathing and unbearable, especially when you realize those tender hearts are just incapable of recognizing Evil. Finished it in one setting and then cried more rivers watching the movie.

The Scent of Sake by Joyce Lebra (Japan)
- Well-researched book on the Japanese sake brewing families. Their traditions, how business and family are one and the same unit, the role of women in business - every single nuance including how cooking rice is an art is brought to us through the character of Rie...the head of the Omura household. Simple narrative. Somehow I feel, if 'Toss of a Lemon' by Padma Viswanathan was a few hundred pages shorter I might've given it a shot. Coz between the two, the only reason I finished this book was because it was smaller. Otherwise they deal with the same kind of non-plot : the life of the matriarch of a family, how she affects those around her directly or indirectly. Plus I guess I was courious about Japanese culture and not so much about Indian caste system.

Atonement by Ian McEwan
- I don't think I have a right to review this since I did not complete it. I couldn't go beyond half the novel. Can't really put my finger on why. Maybe because I didn't gel with the precocious 13 year old Briony Tallis, the style of writing(which I later read used metafiction and such like of which I haven't really heard of before) was making it really, really hard for me to concentrate on the story. twice I started the book, dropped it on page 23 or some such and then tried to pick it up again after a week. Finally gave up. Still can't understand why it was shortlisted for Booker?!

But yeah, found out many interesting books using the literary device metafiction from wiki. I've seen the movie 'Everything is illuminated' and I liked it. So maybe, it isn't metafiction but Atonement I dislike :)

The No:1 Ladies Detective Agency by Alexander McCall Smith
- Awesome Dawesome book. Hilarious, unputtdownable and Mma Rawotse is just too darn wonderful :) Light reading but it is in no means 'fluff'. Throughout the book, you get to know Africa, Bostwana in particular, and what keeps the fire alive in every African. This is the first book in the series and I can't wait to read all the ten.

Challenges covered: New Author, Orbis terrarum, WWII.
(Note to self: Check challenge blogs to find out if the challenge is still on or it's over and done with)

If Adolf Hitler

2009-09-09T22:12:00.002-04:00

...hadn't invaded Poland,
...didn't try to exterminate Jews,
...had discarded concentration camps in favor of exiling Jews from Germany

would the world have recognized Josef Stalin for the cruel dictator he really was?
Did we ignore one genocide in favour of another...because we didn't look closely behind The Curtain?

Lost and Found

2009-09-03T22:41:00.005-04:00

In moments of unbridled joy
Under waves of unseen blessings
I see you.

In screeching lights
Under voiceless blankets
I hear you.

In endless greens
Under wisps of blue
I lose you.

In the minutiae of Life
Under a mound of Oblivion
You find me.

Work + Love = A Life in Balance

2009-08-18T21:51:00.004-04:00

I love my job. I really do.

Ofcourse love has never stopped me at earlier jobs to post while on office time.

But this time it's different.

I love it even more to get back home early.

Why?

Because, now there is a tiny (well not so tiny) wisp of an angel who runs to the kitchen as I open the back door...who stops by the fridge as soon as she gets a glimpse of me. She then proceeds to ignore me and chant, "A B C D O I P" while I walk in and sit on the sofa.

But the moment I say, "Amma-kku hug", she drops everything and runs to me to disappear in my arms...I would die a thousand deaths just to be born again in that moment.

For now I just clock my 8 hours and zip home...to be loved.

One. Two. Thee. Fie. Siteen*

2009-07-05T23:01:00.004-04:00

I know. I know. I know.
Why am I here now when I've made it clear in not-so-many words that I like it elsewhere...under mounds of new opportunities and responsibilities? But then you see, I don't exist much if I don't talk to myself and this blog is definitely an extension of me. Sometimes I love to think it is Maye but let's not kid ourselves here...she is in a league of her own!

Speaking of the devil-in-disguise, I am here solely because I need to jot down the little cutesy things she does before they start to crawl under my skin and merge with the fat cells and I remember it just as another added baggage of motherhood :) I tried to scrapbook but let's face it, the only patience I have in store I shall use it to not scream at a wisp of a baby who feels orange juice is the next best thing to perfume on Amma's work blouse!

The Fourth of July saw us trotting around outlet malls like any immigrant patriot, scrounging the sidewalks for that one lucrative deal which would be available practically all through the year if only you kept your eyes open. The Implet, tired from all the shopping, promptly fell asleep in the car and remained asleep much into the late evening. The Mr didn't want her to miss her first Fourth of July fireworks, so I walked in to wake her up. Until then I hadn't realized the best way to wake a sleeping Mayalou was to lie next to her, rub her back and whisper 'I love you'. She lifted her head up slowly, smiled at me and cuddled up to me saying 'I louyou'. Sigh. Bliss!

We somehow made it to the venue on time and watched a splendid display of fireworks, splendid by small town Nashua standards. Maye giggled, shrieked and clapped her hands as much as she could. The Mr and I kept pointing to the sky and repeated the word 'Fireworks', hoping we will hear a cutesy version of it, like 'Piewo' or 'Piewok'. [Sidenote: She can't say the 'eff' sound often. So it's Pan(fan), Pish]

So we're sitting in the car after the show and I turn back and ask her, "What did you see, Maya?"
And she says, "Bubble light!"
I just gaped at her. I am still trying to come to terms with it. Who would've thunk her little mind can marry two completely different concepts to explain whatever she had just witnessed?

Gosh darn it! That's the best someone has ever described fireworks to me.
I would have loved to brag about it to moms with kids who've outgrown their little baby-ish innocence, but then I want my invites to home-cooked meals to remain intact. So decided to blog it and keep a note of it somewhere in ether to rub Maye's siblings' noses in, should they just say the boring 'fireworks' at 18 months.
Seriously! Fireworks?
Long live BubbleLight!

* That's how we count now :)

Two Civil wars. One Book.

2009-05-18T23:10:00.004-04:00

I just finished the book 'Half of a Yellow Sun' by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. Imagine a smiling stranger walking upto you with a bouquet of flowers and a basket of fruits. As you stop to take in the heady aroma of fruits and flowers, as you slowly press every fruit trying to choose the ripest one to savour its delicious sweetness, a fierce blow hits you in the head. Before you can steady yourself, another strong punch rocks your foundation, your deep rooted faith in love and humanity... and that is Adichie's book.

The Nigerian Civil War wasn't something I was very familiar with before now. But the author makes you suffer the pain of the country through the experiences of her protagonists, as their idyllic life is shattered in one quiet afternoon. I liked this book more than her previous novel 'Purple Hibiscus'. There are no loose ends, the characters are well etched, not essentially rounded, but that makes them more believable.

More than anything else, this book bothered me because the Srilankan - Tamil Civil war came to an end yesterday. The suffering of the Srilankan Tamils is closer home, and it irked me to no end when none of the big news channels here in America carried any information for weeks on end. How come there are no activits protesting the civilian casualities the way so many people feel for Darfur or Palestine? And when I say activists I am looking for non- Srilankan Tamils. Why is it not a genocide when another minority is attacked under the veil of rooting out evil? I don't support the LTTE. They are a vile and terrible organisation and it is a good riddance. But sometimes what we fail to understand is when the righteous ones remain silent, the weak will follow whoever has the loudest voice.

The book is awesome. I feel for what the Nigerians had to go through. But I feel more for what the Srilankan Tamils are going through now. In some way, they are indeed my brethren. All the Tamil Nadu politicians who cried hoarse from rooftops about Eelam are now awfully quiet, either revelling in their election victory or contemplating whom to blame for the loss.

I sound so hypocritical blaming the politicians. I would press the 'Publish' button and then go back to the safe cocoon of my life. Holding my baby girl in my arms, smelling the coconut oil in her hair, nestling in the strong hold of my husband, drinking a glass of clean water, everything is a certainty in my life. And I feel ashamed I have all that and all I do as my part is shed a few tears while reading news and watching a mother howl for her lost loved ones.

Maybe it is people like me who let these atrocities and injustices continue.

I do nothing. I just sit and feel. Pain.

This Mother's Day

2009-05-10T00:09:00.002-04:00

I pledge to

wake up with you at 7.30 A.M to answer the kukol's call...smiling!
look at the food on the carpet and my clothes as food art and treasure them for your creativity.
make chasing squirrels as higher priorty to folding laundry.
sit with you to watch the moon rise and count the stars.
count my blessings by the number of times you smile and not the things I have. Though an iphone wouldn't hurt, you know!
read stories aloud to keep the monsters under the bed happy.
not kiss away your pain but give you the strength to accept the disappointments.
rejoice in your victories, even if it is as small as spelling your Amma's name right. We all know how difficult it can be!
give you the freedom to grow wings and fly. And I promise to wait by the window with a cup of chocolate milk!
be true to Kumari, even if most days she takes a backseat to being your mother.
be happy being your mother. There's nothing else more exciting!

But most importantly, I pledge to be not just the 'Mommy' you love to hug but also the Amma I long to be!

* kukol - Maye's name for sparrows, ants, squirrels :)

Cookie creases

2009-05-07T16:03:00.001-04:00

Note: They won't be 55 word reviews, as contrary to popular belief that takes longer to write than full length essays :)

The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro

- Awesome read. The book is more a character study than drama, through the eyes of an English butler as he takes a few days off to drive around the country side. The priorities in a butler's life, the unwritten codes of conduct, their expectations from their Masters, all brought out beautifully by the author in his simple narrative style. The climax was poetic. Added sensory bonus: Imagining Anthony Hopkins driving the car and narrating his entire life to me. Priceless!

The Swallows of Kabul by Yasmina Khadra (Algeria)

- Written under pen name by Algerian author Mohammed Moulessehoul, this is the first in a trilogy on Islamic fanaticism. The book is set in Afghanistan under Taleban and is about a prison guard and an educated couple whose lives are completely changed by a chance meeting. The precise writing punches you in the stomach with the destitution and hopelessness that it brings to light. Not that you hadn't read about what happened under Taleban but the stark picture he paints was so painful, I had trouble getting the burkha-clad women off my mind for days.

Boomtown: Chang's Famous Fireworks Factory by Nowen N Particular

- I picked this YA novel just for the intriguing name of its author. Sigh! I wish I could say the same for the novel. First of all, I couldn't gel with a 40 year old narrator for a book aimed at teens. The book started very well, with interesting characters that made Boomtown a fun place to be. There were even pictures of streets and buildings to make it all authentic. However in his zeal to conjure up quirky townspeople, the author let the plot take a backseat...for a really long time. For most of the story, we just keep meeting new characters throwing hen grenades, having a slug parade and scaring the bejesus out of the narrator. After a point, I closed the book and didn't pick it up until after 2 weeks and even then it was because I really wanted to know if there was indeed a plot. The author seemed to have had a sequel in mind as at times he talks about how things worked out for someone, or how he was surprised in the future but we never really hear it because it is like he says, 'another story altogether' :) I never thought I'll ever say it but I think if the author had trimmed his creative outbursts and settled on a few quirky people with a solid plot, this story would have been really good.

Oscar Wilde and A Game called Murder by Gyles Brandreth

- This was a really fun mystery story set in the Victorian period. The author fills the story with real and imaginary characters who lived during the period and were friends with Oscar Wilde. Made an interesting read as along with finding out the identity of the killer, one is taken on a ride through Victorian London, with insights into the life of people then. A good book. I quote Wilde time and again but never in my wildest dreams did I realise he was gay till this book. Something about the way Wilde talks about other young men in the book made me google him for the first time and boy! was i surprised. Now I want to read the Wilde's biography by the same author.

Ok I can't go any more. Will talk of the other books later.

Challenges covered: New Author, Orbis Terrarum

I was absent

2009-05-06T11:00:00.002-04:00

because Blogger wouldn't let me login due to some cookie issues. It was too much effort to clear cache, delete cookies blah blah. So instead I just munched cookies and read :)

So there, now you know.

Yesterday -

2009-04-24T21:45:00.003-04:00

I cooked veg Hakka noodles for lunch. The Mr and The Implet were much impressed.

Then I made veg. korma and chappathi for dinner.

Chappathi from scratch.

I felt very domesticated.

Today - Kitchen closed!

Both lunch and dinner - Eat out & Take out!

Now I feel alive. Totally!

A smack from Joe!

2009-04-09T21:42:00.008-04:00

April is apparently National Poetry month. I haven't really signed up for any of those write a poem a day marathon. Thankfully :) But when I can, I decided I shall try to post a few verses. It's been ages since I wrote a decent poem, plus the fact that all ideas seem to hit me after i've hit the bed, do nothing to improve the quality. This is my first attempt. And yeah ignore the punctuation, I'm extremely bad at it :)

For prompts go here.

Prompt: Routine

Not the alarm

or the milkmaid.

Not even the neighbour's

crazy dog

or the sparrows it chased.

It has always been

"Ammai Kaapi!" -

her very own wake up call.

"Ammai Kaapi!"

Some years on the sofa,

bleary eyed and in pigtails,

a hot tumbler of foaming love and

the lost slumber easily forgotten.

"Ammai Kaapi!"

Moments on a plastic chair

and one last gulp

trickling down the throat

like appa's advice -

a melancholy slow march.

Twenty years later

"Ammi Kaapi!"

Another day, another wake up call.

She looks at her smile,

sinfully delicious.

Her tiny hands reach out

from the crib.

Who changed the alarm?

55 WBR - The Orbis Terrarum Challenge

2009-04-08T20:46:00.008-04:00

I decided to do the Orbis Terrarum Challenge this year. I know, I can hear you complain that for a person who hates writing reviews, I seem to sign up for too many challenges. And no, the Implet isn't any well-behaved either but a girl needs to make life interesting, however miniscule the change maybe :) Please to read the rules if you want to take part.

The English Patient - Michael Ondaatje (Canada)

Totally deserves the Booker prize. A tad slow to start but keeps you engrossed once you’re in. A captivating story told in the non-linear style and filled with vivid imagery. The desert never looked as beautiful as through the English Patient’s eyes. Every character’s quirks and the way they relate to each other wonderfully captured.

Climbing the stairs - Padma Venkatraman (India)

A brilliantly written YA novel. Set in British India during the freedom struggle of the 1940s. Every habit/tradition of the Indian Brahmin household is explained in a matter-of-fact manner with no propaganda whatsoever. Loved it for bringing Chennai to my living room. Life through Vidya’s eyes is truly beautiful, even if painful at times. Awesome!

Genghis Khan - Birth of an Empire - Conn Iggulden (England)

The historical fiction that takes you on a horseback ride to

Mongolia

, makes you shiver in the bitter cold and long for airag, however atrocious it may taste. No little detail of the tribal lifestyle is missed. The book gives a whole new perspective to Genghis Khan and what it takes to be an emperor.

Challenges covered: Orbis Terrarum, New Author, War Through Generations (Climbing the stairs)

Besotted with Dark Chocolate

2009-04-06T17:06:00.006-04:00

It's been raining all afternoon. I've been sitting on my couch, munching dark chocolate and melting everytime the camera looks into Surya's eyes and Sudha Ranganathan croons 'anal melae pani thuli'. Sigh.

Romance is not just the flowery verses or the passionate kisses. It's the tingling sensation in the back of your spine as he casually tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and walks away. It's the sound of fluttering butterflies in your stomach, as you see him walk towards you, his eyes never leaving your face.

Sigh. Sigh.

Dark chocolate, rain, me and Surya :)

Repeat song : 'anal melae pani thuli'

Lost in Mail

2009-04-02T21:00:00.004-04:00

Dear You,

Today I missed you. I missed that email that you promised aeons ago but is yet to see sunlight. I miss our senseless banter about everything and nothing. I tell myself I am not the Sun in everyone's universe yet I long to be atleast like the non-existent Pluto who gets a mention once in awhile.

I am writing in a public forum as I know you will realize this is for you...you who keeps even smiles and not just tears private. I love to live my life on a stage- some parts atleast make for excellent ratings, I'm sure. It might not sound like the best idea but hey! I am not the smart one here :)

The reason I write to you is it makes me sound intellectual even when all I am blabbering is some emotional balderdash. You take all the silliness out of my ambitions; the scars from slaughterhouses may not disappear but you show me how to overlook them and move on. Smiling. It is not easy, it never is but you taught me how.

For all that you never say or do, you still make a difference. To me.

And that is why I write. Even if you don't.

Love

Nyah & The Balloon Herder

2009-04-01T13:25:00.004-04:00

The day dawned as beautiful as it can ever be for six year old Nyah. She and her Papa spent the whole day at Solberg Airport watching thousands of hot air balloons lift into the sky, like huge colourful marshmallows. It was the most breathtaking scene Nyah had ever witnessed. Also the fact she didn't have to share her darling Papa with her baby brother was an added bonus. Not that she disliked him but sometimes she wanted her Papa just for herself.

Then Papa had bought her the prettiest red balloon and the day just went from beautiful to Fantabulously Greatest Day EVER! Well, it was so until now. Nyah looked wistfully at the sky at a red speck fast disappearing into the dusk. A lone tear fell on her cheek. One moment she was holding onto her red balloon and the next, a strong gust of wind had stolen it from her small fingers. Her Red Balloon.

As she looked into the slowly darkening sky for the miraculous re-appearance of her balloon, her sad eyes saw a flickering light in the distance. For a moment Nyah forgot about her balloon and looked at the light, which much to her surprise seemed to be coming towards her. Could it be a shooting star? She opened her mouth but no words came out. The small light grew bigger and bigger and finally came in through her window, tumbling onto the floor with her.

Nyah stared in disbelief at the girl on her floor. Can girls fly? Before she could open her mouth and call for her mom, the intruder spoke.

"Water...please...water", she gasped.

Nyah finally sprang to life and got her guest the glass of water on her table. She wanted to run for help but something about the girl made her stall. She looked at her guest as she gulped down the water. She was a chubby little girl, not much older than Nyah, with a pair of pigtails tied with the flashiest pink ribbons. The girl wore a plaid skirt and white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Everything about her was plain and ordinary if only Nyah could ignore those glowing wings on her back.

"There you go. Thanks for the water," said the girl. "My name is Mayalou. I'm a herder in Loonydom."

"A what? From where? Why are you in my room?" Nyah couldn't stop the questions.

Mayalou smiled. She walked to the bed and plonked herself on it. The soft cushiony mattress moved with her and she started jumping on it.

"Hey this is fun! Whee!" shrieked Mayalou. "Can I do this again?" she asked Nyah but jumped more before there was any answer from her host.

Nyah stood flabbergasted by the door. She looked at the chubby girl jumping on her bed

"Whoopsie! Whee! Come, join me" shouted Mayalou.

Finally the little girl in Nyah gave in and soon both the girls exchanged information as they tumbled and rolled on her spring mattress.

"I am Nyah. I am six years old. I love..."

"balloons," finished Mayalou.

"How do you know that?" gasped Nyah.

"I told you. I am a herder of balloons. When The Master saw you cry as your red balloon left you, he decided to send me down to cheer you up.”

"Really? A balloon herder? Not a fairy?" Nyah tried her best to come to terms with all that she was hearing.

"Oh no! Me? A fairy?" Mayalou laughed till tears started streaming down her face.Then she continued with her story.

"Who would want to be a boring fairy? Life as a balloon herder is much funner. You see every single balloon that flies into the sky is brought home by herders like me. We nurse them, play with them and finally send them back down to another little kid."

“What games do you play with the balloons?” asked Nyah. The story was getting more interesting. Maybe she can go with this herder girl to that Loony place.

“We put them in a room with a huge fan and as they try to fly away we catch them. They love jokes so we tell them jokes and make them giggle. But these red ones are too silly. At the hint of a joke they would burst out laughing, and then we would spend hours stitching them up and filling them with air. The red ones are too much trouble, if you ask me.”

Nyah laughed aloud imagining a red balloon bursting open with laughter. She longed to see how the herders went about their jobs.

“Can I come with you? I want to see Loonydom. Papa can take me and baby in our old Chevy.”

Mayalou sighed. Sometimes she wished kids just didn’t believe in fairies and gnomes and balloon herders. But where would she be, if everyone thought a torn balloon was trash? It was kids like Nyah who kept her alive, in their hearts.

She gently took Nyah’s hands into hers.

“I’ll make you a deal. Next time you get a balloon, whisper your name into it as you set it free and I’ll come and visit you. Maybe I’ll bring some friends along and we can jump on this bed?”

It wasn't what Nyah wanted but she didn't want to lose her new friend. So she smiled and clapped her hands in glee.

“I’ll send you a balloon tomorrow.”

Mayalou smiled and slowly climbed onto the window. With one final wave, she flew into the dark sky and soon all that Nyah could see was a dull, flickering light.

Just like that, the day turned beautiful once again.

Post-Script: Maya loves balloons. Any given day, you can find atleast one balloon in our house. This story sounded a lot better when I told it to her. But when you write it down weeks after it was originally thought, all those lovely ideas don't sound as good. I guess she wouldn't mind :)

Whisper in the woods

2009-03-19T13:22:00.004-04:00

Everyone has a story to tell. Some tell it quick while others grapple with the plots. Some stories are easy to tell and easier to forget, and others linger in your hearts long after the spoken words have dissolved into ether.

Then there are the untold ones- the ones that slip between the pauses and the sighs and get lost in the crevices of life. Stories that never see the light of the day for fear of rebuke, of finding love in a bowl of soup and losing it for chopsticks. Tales of desires, ravenous as werewolves on a full moon night, starved on a diet of empty beds.

These are stories that go unnoticed...stories that remain hidden till someone softly whispers their names. Like now.

what it is being twirled around the littlest pinky...

2009-03-02T17:54:00.005-05:00

It's not easy going to bed at 12.30 A.M, waking up at 3 A.M to feed someone who just doesn't get it that she really does NOT need milk, trying to somehow get few more hours of shut-eye but still hearing the mumbled chatter from the other room and finally giving up the fight and just waking up...I don't know how I do it but most days I wonder why I do it...

Every morning as soon as you wake up, you stand in your crib and call "Amma" loudly. And when I act deaf and don't get up, you switch to your soft voice and coo "Ammi, Ammi" wth your arm outstretched to reach me... could this be it?
Nowadays when I come to pick you up, you smile ever so sweetly and say, "Amma Kaapi" and I see myself in you...maybe this?
After months of feigning nonchalance to everything I try to teach you, you looked at your favourite Pluto, pulled his ears and said "Bluto". Oh! how I trilled for hours on the phone to everyone I knew...how about that?
The way you close my mouth when I sing you a lullaby and then continue humming 'Hot cross buns' or just coo 'lalalala' in your own tune...this should be it!
How you run to the door every morning and stick your face to the glass pane as you watch your Appakins leave for work and then tell your grandparents on the phone, "Appa aapeas"...

I can go all day and still not have the best reason. And when I lie exhausted next to you after one of those middle-of-the-night meltdowns and you try to push me off the bed in your efforts to cuddle closer, all I can think of is the long sleepless night and your really stinky milky breath. But then you do something that completely takes me by surprise - you wrap one arm around my neck and smile. A smile I could die for...all while still asleep.

That I guess is why I want to do all of this. Again. Forever.

Save my heart! Save your sanity!

2009-02-24T20:47:00.004-05:00

February is Heart Health month. Mr.Monk just told me. So I shall have a cathartic rant session with my blog and hope my heart gets back to feeling all rosy and robust soon.

Being a good mother, not a great one, just a simple good mother is an extremely tortuous task. More so because you happen to be your worst critic.
I hate the fact my friends/neighbours don't drop in for a cup of tea. It's always me who has to go and meet them unless I call them all for dinner/lunch. Not that I don't want to do it but I'm still trying to manage a toddler who thinks she is on wheels and running a smooth family. I guess I am looking for re-assurance that I can be a mother and entertain friends albeit in a small way.
I hate it even more that when no one has heard from me in weeks/months it is still upto me to call and update everyone on my life or lack thereof. [Everyone who calls me might feel that way but unless they all start a blog and post so, this shall be the universal truth.]
Why is it so hard for people to understand that I do not want parenting advice? I carried her for 10 months and 5 days and went through a 55 hour labour to bring her out safe. I think I can manage now. Suggestions are a lot subtler.
The next person I meet for the first time at a social gathering whose opening line is, "So was yours Cesarean or 'normal' delivery?" will be answered with the equally important query, "So was the sex last night reverse cow-girl or just 'normal' missionary style?" Seriously! Unless we are random strangers sharing a compartment in Southern Railways trying to get through the journey with the secret knowledge we will never meet come morning, I shall not talk about birth stories or my innermost fears at our first meeting. And Cesarean is also frigging NORMAL! I didn't deliver her through my mouth.
Just because I am a stay-at-home mom doesn't mean I am not stressed. I feel it is too much to expect me to be understanding ALL the time of a working woman/man's stress. Try to differentiate one 'Amma'( I want biscuit) from the next 'Amma' (I need new diaper) to the very next 'Amma'( I just called chumma) and still wake up smiling for the 12 midnight 'Amma'.
I love you all - my family, my friends, my support group - but at times you all get on my nerves...just like I rub you all on the wrong side any given Sunday!

2009-02-21T23:18:00.002-05:00

I wanted to write a long letter to Maye...one of those beautifully crafted emotional types letter thingy...full of sagely wisdom, witticisms and such. That's when I realised, writing a letter to your daughter on a public forum, makes it just that, 'a crafted piece'. As much as you try to justify its sincerity, it is still a performance on stage done mainly for applause and so I gave up. Someday, I'll emerge from under the dirty diapers and mounds of laundry and pen it down the old-fashined way. Till then, I shall write and re-write it in my head as I slowly drift off to sleep.

Now I'm tired.

Let me sleep.

55 WBR - Three many books to list

2009-02-18T11:36:00.004-05:00

The Secret Life of Bees - Sue Monk Kidd

Bee-autiful. The no-frills writing brings enough tenderness to this strong emotional tale of a teenager’s search of her mother’s past in the backdrop of racial tension. Like the scent of the earth hours after the rain has stopped, Lucy lingers on your mind long after her story has been told. That is an extraordinary feat!

The Book of Lost things - John Connolly

An incredibly engrossing find. With its insane twists to every known fairy tale, the story hooks you from the moment David hears voices till his adventures end. There are moments of morbidity but which coming-of-age story isn’t? Author could’ve toned down portions on adult David’s life. It made one miss the high of the adventure.

The Hours - Michael Cunningham

Why Pulitzer? For a very thin book, it took me ages to finish. The style of writing was too convoluted for me to grasp the crux of the novel, if any. Too much importance on kisses between girls/women for some arbit reason. Liked the way the three characters come together. An ordinary read for me.

55 Words Book Review - Purple Hibiscus

2009-02-13T11:54:00.003-05:00

Okay since I had been postponing writing reviews for a long time, I tried to make it interesting by doing it in 55 words. That way it serves as a writing exercise for me too.

Purple Hibiscus - Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

The coming-of-age tale of fourteen year old Kambili. Powerful, lyrical prose that brings

Nigeria

into your living room – the scents, sounds and tastes. But apart from Kambili and her tyrant father no other character is strongly etched. Jaja’s and her mother’s actions sudden and unexplained. The climax leaves an insipid taste. Yet I loved the book.

Read for New Author Challenge

To read a review that starkly differs from mine go to Ramya's page.

Karma Sutra - A modern day fable

2009-01-29T00:08:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time in WinterWonderland, there lived a littleGirl who refused to grow up, which was just as well because grown-ups never did anything fun. The littleGirl lived with a littleBoy she played games with. Ofcourse, being just the two of them and lots of snowy emptiness, they just played indoors. Soon a littleBaby joined their tiny household and made it one giant funhouse!

With each passing day the littleGirl found herself swamped by feeding schedules, waste management, and The Holy War against the common cold epidemic. The littleBoy spent his time minting money to sponsor the littleGirl's activities. So when did that leave them with time to play? Never.

The littleGirl wondered if this maternal gig was really for her. She missed every bargain sale which let me tell you is really bad for any girl. And then there were those lost drives around an empty town for a midnight icecream and snoozing under the covers until the Sun was high in the sky. Plus all work and no play would make even theCreator grouchy.

Sometime the littleGirl wished she was surrounded by a bevy of servants and nannies...people to take care of her every whim and the littleBaby. Then she would have ample time to sprawl on a couch and watch the littleBaby play while someone else attended her. Oh! how she longed for an extra hour of sleep. She cribbed, sighed and cried for a miracle.

Then one day the littleFamily went to a party. After hours of nonstop music, some mundane conversations and lots of great food they came home tired but giggly that they still had a social life. Unbeknownst to them another guest had tagged along - a very stinky virus from a very bad cough.

First the littleBaby decided to befriend the guest inspite of her mother's Cold War. The littleGirl followed her with the A Big Flu. And just like that her dream came true.

As she sat quarantined in another room, the littleBoy did everything for his littleBaby and his littleGirl. And he did it great. The littleGirl couldn't kiss the littleBaby, or hug or touch. If she did have to carry her she had to wash her hands twice and wear The Ugly Mask. The littleGirl now did have all day to sleep and laze but the chills and aches did little to help her along that way.

As she watched the littleBaby babble to the littleBoy, she realized what she had once thought as overwhelming was all she ever wanted...to hug the littleBaby, smell her milky sweetness, change her diapers, listen to her laughter, have a mock fight when she bites...she wanted it all.

She wanted it ALL!

Moral of the story:

Be wary of your deep desires. They just might come true and bite you in the ass!

Writing Workshop

2009-01-26T13:25:00.006-05:00

Two weeks back The Mr came home early from work and I rushed to our local Barnes & Noble bookstore for the weekly writing group. Alas!They had disbanded months ago and I returned home quite crestfallen. Somehow I thought meeting my long lost friends would help resurrect the dormant writer.

I came back and found a few short stories I had written at my last few visits, as late as Feb 2007. To appease my broken heart, I shall post couple of them and assume I wrote it just now :p

Prompt: Write a scene in which shoes figure prominently.

The Shoe Fairy

Did you know you could see a person's entire life just by looking at their feet...their little dreams tucked behind their worries, their fears and their prejudices, all as clear as the overgrown toe-nail?

In my twenty years I've seen them all. Like Rajammal, the English teacher at a famous school in the city. She came to me every fortnight to mend her sandals...Sandals that were an imitation of the original, bought from one of those dime-a-dozen pavement stores that have cropped up all over the city. Bad leather that bit into her flesh as she ran to get onto the 7.40 A.M bus, already brimming with half the city in it.

By now there were more stitches made by me than by the original shoemaker. I asked her to throw it away but Rajammal insisted there were few more lives in them...her tired smile telling me what she left unsaid. Money that could be saved and used elsewhere.

Then there is Vikas, the neighbourhood Romeo. Oh! He never sets foot into my shop, but would instead park his bike under the tree and stand on the pavement waiting for his girl. One look at his shoes with those funny check marks, I knew this was a boy who knew no struggles.

I always knew Vikas' girl had come by the click of her heels on the stone. I've always wanted to hold those shoes in my hands, feel the softness of pure leather, admire the workmanship that crafted those wonderful straps...straps which elegantly caressed those feet. How did one maintain balance and grace while walking on such thin heels?

Every month those feet were caressed by a different pair of shoes; flat-heeled red shoes in March, those chocolate brown sandals in April, embroidered silk shoes I never thought existed but in story books...she had them all.

Then one day, those feet entered my shop...my gunny sack covered floor with a tarpaulin for a roof shop, my two-by-two pavement shop...the Shoe Fairy entered it. I looked up at her face as she dropped a plastic bag at my feet.

"Amma wants these fixed" the angel said.

I opened the bag and the worn out, brown sandals of Rajammal stared right back at me.

Why I am so silent...

2009-01-26T12:27:00.003-05:00

Okay, to tell you the truth, as the last few posts were on books I got scared this was turning into one of those book blogs (I love some of them, I swear!) and it would repel the meager readers I have who come here to read my convoluted views on life told in meandering sentences and then I would lose what little incentive I have to blog and thus the world would lose another one of those pompous voices. Phew!

Also ever since The Implet turned one, life has just not been the same. She recently started walking and the second I turn away from her, she's trying to climb onto the entertainment console and pull the TV down. Which is highly entertaining if the darn TV didn't cost so much. No! I'm not worried about her getting hurt. Should I be worried about that?

But the most important reason is I hate writing reviews. Somehow the charm of a book is lost when I try to dissect and articulate all the things I liked and all the characters I didn't. It doesn't sound as nice as a loud book discussion. But when you sign up for challenges, like one mundhiri-kudukkai, you've just invited trouble home. So I guess all you lovable people just have to plow through posts on books and somehow find gyaan somewhere :p

Thank You Secret Santa

2009-01-07T13:40:00.007-05:00

I received my gift in the last week of December. However, I couldn't post about it with all the work I had in store for The Implet's first birthday. Thank you Kate for a wonderful gift!

Much Thanks to Dewey and Nymeth for organising the book swap.

My loot:

Peppermint Cocoa - this was awesome!

The Ordinary Princess by M.M.Kaye - an used book which makes it double good!

Book Lover's Calendar for 2009

Thanks once again Kate!

And I'm sorry for this late posting :)

Commercial Break!

2009-01-07T13:31:00.000-05:00

What Kind of Reader Are You? Your Result: Literate Good Citizen You read to inform or entertain yourself, but you're not nerdy about it. You've read most major classics (in school) and you have a favorite genre or two.
Dedicated Reader
Book Snob
Obsessive-Compulsive Bookworm
Fad Reader
Non-Reader
What Kind of Reader Are You? Quiz Created on GoToQuiz

The Zookeeper's Wife - Book Review

2009-01-07T12:47:00.006-05:00

It's hard to read a book about Holocaust and be objective about it in the review. Somewhere down the line you realize you're too angry/emotional to form a single coherent sentence. And when a book can affect a non-Jew so, I sincerely feel for those millions mourning their losses. Nothing really is going to make it even.

Have you ever watched those Dicovery Channel documentaries? On Einstein or Newton? There is a voice in the background which narrates the story, and as the story moves along there are small snippets of conversation with contemporaries from that period or other historians who've researched the story.

Imagine the same for the book. Diane Ackerman is the narrator, the Warsaw zoo in occupied Poland is the setting, and Jan & Antonia Zabinski, the actors of this war story. Initially I was put off by the documentary style of storytelling but as the story progressed, I got pulled in and was completely mesmerised by Ackerman's storytelling prowess.

There's a lot of pages devoted not just to the temperament of the hidden Jews but also to the mood swings of the animals under Antonia's care (There's an entire page listing the different kinds of beetles). As humans we tend to judge every catastrophe by the human loss registered but never give a thought to the countless animals lost in the struggle. Through Ackerman's words, we come to see how Antonia thought of everyone who had come under her wings for protection, both human and animal.

One hitch I faced is Ackerman's use of some really big words; I needed the dictionary to understand some of the sentences. As poetic as the prose may sound because of those words, I felt I was being slowed down trying to understand the author when the story is much more interesting.

That said, this is a powerful book bringing to light another page from our sordid bloody world war past. I would strongly recommend this book to anyone wanting to read more about The Holocaust and WWII.

Read for : Jewish Literature Challenge & WWII Challenge

Dumbfounded - Review of Sorts

2009-01-06T17:18:00.004-05:00

Sometimes the best way to read a book is to just pick it up and start reading.This book is the best advocate for that truth. Seriously! I walked into the library and the first book I set eyes on was this one - nice blue jacket and a kid in an Afro. I picked it up and I don't regret it one bit.

This is a memoir by Matt Rothschild, one of those 'affluent' kids of the huge Rothschild clan. But this book is not about the luxuries in life or of upper-class snooty behaviour. The author recounts his childhood, growing up in New York City with his grandparents, his quirky neighbours, the schools he went to and a possible reunion with his mother.

The book is quite fun to read, flows nicely and is emotional in parts and highly entertaining as a whole. I guess the fact I had no expectations for this book made all the difference in my appreciation for it.

This is for the Jewish Literature Challenge.

Powerless in Nashua

2008-12-17T16:54:00.004-05:00

Yes we lost power for a day but I spent it cloistered with random strangers in a crowded shopping mall exchanging horror stories of power outages in India. *gasp* Such things do exist :)

New Year Resolutions. Newer Resolutions

2008-12-17T15:56:00.007-05:00

Being in New England pushes you to the edge, daring you to jump off the cliff of wintry boredom, if only to see stars when you hit rock bottom. This winter I plan to do something less dangerous but still a lot more fun. I've decided to sign up for a few Reading Challenges.

The first is War Through the Generations: World War II hosted by Anna(Diary of an Eccentric) and Serena(Savvy Verse and Wit).

The challenge is to read atleast 5 books on World War II from Jan 1st - Dec 31st 2009. The books can overlap other challenges.

I've already read The Book Thief but maybe I'll re-read it next year.

I just picked the ones that intrigued me from the WWIIReadingList:

The Zookeeper’s Wife by Diane Ackerman

Atonement by Ian McEwan

Behind Enemy Lines: The True Story of a French Jewish Spy in Nazi Germany by Marthe Cohn and Wendy Holden

Climbing the Stairs by Padma Venkatraman

Becoming My Mother’s Daughter by Erika Gottlieb

Obasan by Joy Kogawa

The second challenge is New Authour Challenge 2009 hosted by Literary Escapism.

I'm taking it up because all the books I'm reading for the WWII challenge are by authors new to me, so might as well kill two birds with one stone.

Only hitch with both the challenges is the entire 'book reviews' part. Ofcourse, the success or failure of these challenges depend on how well The Implet behaves and how much The Mr chips in so I can read and write :)

A place called nowhere

2008-12-11T20:39:00.002-05:00

Sometimes a memory is just isn't enough to fill the void.

The picture on the left is of Neduvalavu, the small compound where I spent the best years of my life. I've already written about my grandparents' home. But you can never talk enough about your home. Or can you?

The second house on the left with those steps and railing is the monstrosity that used to be our home. Infact it was a twin house; we shared walls with Chettiar achi. Chettiar thatha owned a dalda store I think. It looks all cemented but when we were growing up it was more a gravel and mud alley. Quite appropriate that our favourite game used to be 'Kall?/Manna?'[Stone?/Sand?] The other houses look the same since 20 years ago. Maybe a fresh coat of paint on some and lots of cobwebs and cracks on the others.

This picture on the right was called 'paLLaththu veedu' because you walked down into it. Everything about this house is unchanged from outside, except maybe now you can nolonger swing your legs from the thinnai. The colour is same, even the old electric box is still there.

This is also the house where Amma spent few years of her childhood... so it is doubly sentimental. One summer vacation when I was 4 or 5, I danced my lame-ass version of bharatanatyam for the old ladies in this house. Another time [this time a different family had moved in] I stood in rapt attention watching house flies sniffing/eating Baygon Bug repellant and falling dead. Gaah! what is with childhood and fascination for death?

The spot in front of this house is where we played hopscotch most afternoons and evenings. We played cards and talked nonsense sitting on the thinnai. The ex-Thasildar's house is opposite this house. He had 2 grand daughters. In 2005 when I went with The Mr to look at this place one last time before my flight to USA, I met the younger sister. She recognised me and we exchanged

stories by the anthimandarai plant. This year I learnt that she is no more. There was a history of mental illness in their family and the house remains dark :(

These steps led one to the small one room loft Sankari chithi lived in. the loft was on the roof of paLLaththu veedu. Monkeys used to come and sit on the parapet wall making the climb up a true adventure, for a 6 year old :) There was no ceiling fan and we, my cousins and I, spent many a sultry afternoon trying to make our own stories as the heat became unbearable.

A huge drumstick tree used to stand in the yard by the steps. Amma recollects that's where they used to tie their cows when she was young. When we lived there, we collected resin from the drumstick tree and tried to use it as glue, precious commodity for trade and make-believe upma :)

This time around, the trip to Tirunelveli was more painful because of all the changes we, The Mr and I saw. Most of the places from our combined childhood had either disappeared altogether or undergone a complete facelift that there was nothing more to tie us to it. Of course, there still were many wonderful spots but chances are they too would be gone by the time we make our next visit.

I guess what bothers me most is that Mayakins never got to see the house I grew up in. Chances are she might make her own memories and they might not necessarily involve popsicles for 50p, bench tickets at Ratna talkies or kothu parotta stalls. I think it's time I stopped hoarding memories for the both of us...because sometimes memories just ain't enough!

P.S: Tomorrow is my Achi's bday and I couldn't have timed this any better.

insert creative intelligent-sounding title

2008-12-09T23:04:00.000-05:00

This is going to be one of those posts that has no great beginning, meanders in the middle and you just can't wait to get to the end. So there.

The bloody New England weather cannot make up its mind. Seriously! How difficult can it be? You either snow and be a warm 20F or shut up and stick to freezing rain. I cannot take anymore of this 42F at 10 A.M, plummeting to 15F mid-afternoon, rain at 6 P.M that becomes a slurry at 8 P.M. Aaaaaaarghhhh! It is so DARN difficult to dress The Implet in this weather.

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We went to the mall today as I had to return a bunch of items. Well, The Implet maybe just all of 11 months but man, she is quite 'expressive' when it comes to her anger and disappointment. Since it was just an 'errand run', I did not stop anywhere to play with her or talk with her. Neither did I pick her up from the stroller when she asked me to. After 2 hours when we finally came home and I held her, she just wouldn't stop hitting me, accompanied by dagger eyes and a really pissed 'blahgaboojoodo'. If this is what I get in her infancy, I shudder to think of her teenage.

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Oh!Oh! I saw WALL-E! It is awesome dawsome, super shnooper.

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I want to fight...the kind where I can be furious, rude, sarcastic and have the winning arguments that makes the other person cower or shut up or both. I don't know why I have this urge to be really spiteful. Especially this being the season of giving and forgiving. Anyhoo, maybe I should just start an anonymous blog and pour my heart out and then maybe delete it :)

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I want to read Thamizh books. I've suddenly got a craving to read Thamizh poetry, Hindu mythology and folk tales. Only catch being there aren't many on the internet and my grandpa claims he is too old to tell tales now...especially over the phone. Damn! Double damn! I think I should just ask Appa to parcel books to me. Or if there is someone in the blogging world who has a few Thamizh books and wouldn't mind starting a chain where we send each other books by post... wouldn't that be wonderful?

Wait! I already started a so-called mail-chain. I need to check on the status of The Travelling Poet.

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Oh yeah, I am 28, going on 8!!!

Yover and Yoyt!

Comfort food

2008-12-05T13:03:00.005-05:00

It doesn't take much to make comfort food.

Ingredients:

1 big bowl of curd rice

1 plate of maa-vadu

10 cousins

1 thatha to tell stories

1 achi to roll the curd rice into balls

Optional: A cool summer breeze and mosquitoes for company.

Off my chest

2008-11-17T23:23:00.003-05:00

As a new mom...oh wait! Am I technically a 'new mom' when The Implet is already 10 months old? Whatever.

One of the worst aspect of being a new mom is fielding all those questions thrown at you...by family, friends and random strangers who pop from the woodwork at every party/get-together.

And one of the irritating questions is about breastfeeding.

Conversation 1 with Random Stranger(Mom of toddler)

RS: How old is she?

Me: 9 months

RS: So you are breastfeeding her right?

Me (perplexed) : Yes.

RS: Aah! No wonder. Give me your chubby cheeks.

Conversation 2 with Friend after 2 years (Mom of toddler, mom2be of second child)

F: So how old is your daughter now?

Me: 10 months

F: Are you nursing her still?

Me :Yes.

F: Oh really?. I stopped by 10 months. My doc said i should stop by 8 months.

Me: Good for you.

First, I can't understand how where my daughter puts her mouth is anybody's business but mine and hers. Second, as much as I am open to volunteering information to my good friends and family, I draw the line at 'breastfeeding' being the conversation starter with complete strangers.

Seriously, what the hell is wrong with a more generalised, "What does your baby eat now?" It gives me the opportunity to either open or close the door on my nursing expeditions.

(I still can't get over the fact that RSMom's first question after being introduced to me was on breastfeeding.)

To me breastfeeding is personal. It's not easy and I don't want to be judged as either a bad or good mom based on somebody else's parenting ideal. A mom who doesn't breastfeed is NOT a bad parent. And one who does until the kid is 2 ain't cuckoo either. It's their kid, their time and their decision. I am not in their house and they are not wearing my shoes.

Sigh.

Maybe I am making a mountain out of a molehill. But this whole Motherhood shebang is too darn tough I tell you. One moment you are all euphoric having been bestowed the cutest 4-teethed smile for a piece of wafer. Next moment you realise you've turned extremely sensitive, bordering on hallucinating that every person talking to you is judging you as a mom.

I am irritated and downright angry that no one is around to talk about something completely inane as books or movies. I don't want to talk about The Implet simply because she is my everything. She is ALL I see, breathe and live every single day. And I don't want it any other way. Maybe it makes sense to you or maybe I'm just a crazy idiot.

Sometimes as I close my eyes during the wee hours of a new day, I silently pray I never think of Motherhood as only a synonym for sacrifice. Of all things held dear.

Two weekends and Two books

2008-11-17T20:14:00.006-05:00

This blog needs a revival. A re-birth of sorts, if you may.

And now is the time to do it. As the blog turns 4.

Ever since The Implet jumped into my lap I've been short on time.

And patience, but we shall not get into that.

In those initial months while the Munchkin munched through my breasts, I lived on the 'little grey cells' of Hercule Poirot. Every single Christie that our local library possesed was re-visited and devoured. And when the sleep deprivation got to me, P.G.Wodehouse elevated my spirits. Apart from this couple, there were more.

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time

-- Interesting concept. Liked the story being told by an autistic boy. But not too thrilled by it. Felt it meandered a little towards the end.

Animal Farm

-- Read for the second time. Loved it as much as the last. So did The Mr which made it all the more enjoyable. [Any book that offers conversation fodder between me and The Mr earns brownie points]

A Thousand Splendid Suns

-- Khaled Hosseini impressed with his inimitable prose style. Heart wrenchingly sad and beautiful. Maybe not as crisp as The Kite Runner but since there were no child abuse I liked it a wee bit more.

Haroun and the Sea of Stories

-- My first Rushdie and I liked this one. Wonderful Fantasy. One day when The Implet cannot escape my clutches I shall read this with her. Hopefully.

Unfortunately I don't remember the rest of the novels.

Anyhoo, that was then.

This is now.

After being out of touch with the blogging world and the literary world, I re-entered both by foraging for information on book blogs. Boy! Have I been living in a rat-hole or what?

There are too many book-bloggers out there but for now I've settled with my college junior who taught me to Waltz and Tango - Ramya and her Bookshelf.

Balzac and The Little Chinese Seamstress by Dai Sije

--Simple prose written in an engaging style. Loved it and finished it in one sitting last Sunday. [In my world, if I don't finish a book on weekends while The Mr and The Implet bond, I never will.] Coming back to the book, it is all about re-education during Mao's rule of China. The book has intrigued me enough to look for more China/Mao book on my next visit to the library.

The Book Thief by Markus Zusak

-- Absolutely loved it! It's set in Germany during the World War II and I've always been a sucker for stories about WW2. From the book's unusual narrator, to the setting, to the humour weaved into the pathos, everything about this book is beautiful. I picked it up last morning and couldn't put it down until I finished it this afternoon. Of course, The Implet hasn't been too happy about the book eating into her playtime with her amma and tried her best to tear it apart.

I put the book down at midnight and made my way upstairs to bed but in vain. Five minutes later I was back down, sitting on the steps and reading about the hidden Jew. And in my dark living room, Liesel Meminger came alive as she read slowly and softly to Max. Powerful and lyrical prose!

That's all I have folks.

Oh! I went and signed up for a Christmas Gift swap at this blog. It is for book bloggers. I shall claim I am a blogger who loves books and I qualify too :p

See you all sooner than later :)

And my non-existent vote goes to

2008-11-03T23:06:00.006-05:00

Why?

He talks sense...a lot of it.
His speeches definitely fire it up :)
The most aesthetically pleasing reason when you look at the competition :p

Best of all, like he says, "I will never forget in no other country on Earth is my story even possible". How true. God bless America and everyone else too :)

Sprinkle some Golden Magic

2008-10-15T20:30:00.007-04:00

The early morning sun noiselessly creeped into the nursery, its long golden hands trying to nudge the inhabitants awake. Princess Maya slowly opened one eye and peeked; Did her toy horse just twitch and try to push the Sun's hand away? Or did Missy Pig flutter her wings? Now she was fully awake.

She got up and tottered to the edge of her crib to check on her animal friends. No, the animal carvings on her crib rail were just that...wooden and unmoving. She stretched her tiny hands towards the window to catch a fistful of the sun. Maybe if she rubbed their back with the sun, they might just wake up. Just then the door to the Royal Nursery opened and in walked Little Princess.

"How's my little sunshine today?" cooed Little Princess as she lifted Princess Maya off the crib.

"Great!" answered Princess Maya, "I just want to go out and play in the garden. Let me down. Now!"

Afraid she was going to drop the squirming baby, Little Princess held onto her tightly as she danced her way to the divan by the window. She laid Princess Maya on the divan and proceeded to tell her the story of The Raven and The Owl while dressing her in clothes appropriate for royalty.

Littlest Princess gave her mother an exasperated look.

"Can I go to the garden now? I am all dressed." she said and tried to wriggle from her mother's arms and out the window. Little Princess pulled her back and smiled sweetly, "There! Look how pretty you look. Now we need to go for breakast with your father. You know how he dislikes being late for The Royal Court".

Princess Maya shouted, "But, but I want to climb that tree and pull all that grass and, and..." Why wasn't her mom understanding what she was saying? Little did she know that all that her mom ever heard was "Goojibooji boo gaaga baaji" in different tones.

Maya looked out the window, at her favourite mango tree and the crow sitting on it and sighed, "Isn't there anyone who can understand what I say?"

"I can" said the crow.

Princess Maya stared at the crow and then she smiled. She knew the Golden Sun was magical. If only she could sprinkle some on her mom.

"Wait for me. I'll be back" she crooned from her mother's arms. The crow smiled back at her and winked as the tiny hands disappeared behind the door.

While you were sleeping...

2008-10-08T15:57:00.006-04:00

I can't remember the last time I had a really sound sleep.

Wait! I do remember. It was the night of Jan 3rd, 2008. After finally realising that the baby was in no hurry to make an appearance, they gave me some sleeping pills and I was knocked out flat. After that I haven't slept. Period.

No I am NOT exaggerating. All those who very sweetly suggest I 'sleep when the baby sleeps', are welcome to take my imp home and try to do the same. It just ain't possible. Primo, really tiny babies seldom sleep for 6 hours at stretch. Secundo, when they do sleep soundly, it is truly 'soundly'. They snort, whimper, smile, laugh, cry....in short they make such a big deal out of soft noises that you end up sitting awake and staring at the li'l bundle. (To all those who claim they get no calls/emails/blogposts on time - I am one helluva sleep deprived Mommysaurus.)

Thirdo (I do not know Spanish, so excuse) you just aren't sleepy when they are asleep. Like now. The Imp is finally in bed and she would be taking her power nap for another hour or so but for the life of me, I am unable to sleep. I tossed and turned, wrote 2 posts and 2 stories in my head, made a to-do list for The Mr to tackle and finally gave up.

It's like the bedtime song I sing to her, 'Kaalamithu Kaalamithu' from the movie 'Chithi'...as a girl you get to sleep only at birth. I guess my time to sleep is over and done with. Somewhere down the line, without my knowledge I must've grown up. Darn it!

There are lullabies to be sung, cookies to bake, stories to share and dances to swing to...sigh. I don't think I'll be sleeping any time soon. What if she 'grows up' while I am sleeping?

Happy Birthday Duck!

2008-09-28T12:45:00.003-04:00

"I'm late! I'm late! Oh my God! She's going to have a fit", screamed Silo as she ran towards Granny's house with a huge cake in her hand. As she scampered across Evergaldes, the zillion beads on her back made a loud trinkling sound making her running partner, me, giggle with delight.

Are you wondering why we are running with a cake in hand? Or why the porcupine is having so many beads on her quills? Well today is...no wait let me start at the beginning.

It all started one late summer evening by the shores of Lake Mochassa. Let me see, there was Yuri, Gif, Boaz,Silo and me. Griz was getting ready for her slumber party so we excused her and Duck was nowhere to be seen.

Well, you see Duck was like that. She disappeared now and then and over the years we had learnt to let her be. It wasn't that she hated our company, though Gif claims at times we do ruffle too many of her feathers. Anyway, it must've been the cool breeze from the lake or the setting sun sending many golden ripples our way, we just knew we had to have a party.

"Let's have a secret party for Duck", I said.

"Does that mean we keep it a secret from her?" asked Yuri.

Gif half-opened her eyes and gave Yuri a look as if to say 'Where did you land from'. Now Yuri was this Chinese panda born to a Japanese dad who had just come to our jungle and everything was new and fascinating to her. Infact, the other day....wait! That is not important. Let me get back to my story.

"No silly. We do everything as a suprise and then call Duck. Then we hide in the dark and..." Before Boaz could complete her sentence, Yuri jumped in, " We hide so Duck comes and sees there's no one and goes away. And we eat the cake? Right?"

"NO", we all screamed in unison.

Sigh. Multi-cultural friendships are tough, I tell you.

"We hide and when Duck walks in we scream 'Surprise' and then celebrate her birthday. Got it" said Gif.

We could tell Yuri was confused but the darling that she is, she offered to bring her Mom's Firecracker Pakodas for the party.

Of course, it being a surprise party we HAD to tell the whole jungle. Thankfully Dee was not around to listen to the yapping monkeys. Hours were spent at Mango Mumpteen finalising the plans for the party. Tiny, the elephant offered to hang the banners across the banyan tree and we were all for it until we realised it was a surprise party.

Silo was in charge of the birthday cake. And that answers why Silo has the cake in her hand. As for the beads, she decided last evening that she needed to make a fashion statement. We spent all this morning stringing every single quill of hers with beads and now we are late for the party.

I still feel beads are not for porcupines but who listens to me??

Just as we reached Granny's home, Gif walked out.

"You guys are late. What took you so long? Silo what are those things hanging all over you?"

Silo gave her a glare and walked in, shaking her beads as she passed us.

Completely out of breath, I managed to gasp, "So is Dee in already?"

Gif winked and replied, "Well she is not a Princess for nothing. We just sent an entourage led by Griz to bring her."

I smiled at her and sat on a toadstool. It was going to be an awesome party. I just knew it. So why don't you guys join us in wishing Princess Dee a very Happy Birthday!

Writing Exercise

2008-09-24T21:19:00.006-04:00

scooters, vacation, fall.

Those are the words blogger cites as examples for labels. Why not bicycles, work, winter? Or gum, crap, swindle? Why have labels at all?

Anyway I tried to write 51 word(or less) snippets for each of the labels to keep the blog alive. And the limerick on Fall is dedicated to Maya's little monkey doll :)

scooters...

I have always hated scooters. The sound they made when kick-started was like a demon coughing on his meal. As a kid you either stood in front of the driver trying not to step on his toes or sat uncomfortably between the two seats. The Butt of All Pain – yours.

Vacation…

What is not to love about vacations? Whether they are short breaks from school/college or the long one for all eternity, we always tend to look forward to them. Or do we? Are vacations an escapist’s Utopian ideal? If Death is indeed a vacation, how and when does one return?

Fall…

I am an orange loving monkey

And they call me an Orange Fronkey

I dance on a rolling ball

Never ever do I fall

And I’m in love with your pet donkey.

We miss you...

2008-09-23T12:25:00.003-04:00

Tom Brady. We really do.

Sigh.

*shakes head despondently and marks calendar for 2009 season opener*

On a Friday morning in the jungle

2008-09-19T14:37:00.000-04:00

Griz slowly opened her eyes. Sunlight was streaming into her cave slowly, bringing to focus the cluttered mess that she'd closed her eyes to for some time... really long winter. Empty bottles of honey strewn everywhere, blankets in every hue and pattern, a rolled up Haaz taking over half the bed and a tiny bundle of cubs at her feet. Griz wondered how she ever got any sleep all winter.

Gingerly she climbed out of the bed, making sure she nudged no one on her way out. A nippy spring day greeted her. The jungle looked different from the image in her memory. Well wouldn't it when you sleep through an entire season? Where was everyone? Griz looked around to see if anyone had come looking for her and left notes. None were to be seen.

Then she remembered; Princess Duck was planning to fly South for winter. Sigh! I guess a pair of wings made one a globe-trotter while an unruly coat of fur just took you underground. Gif and Gef should be at their new home. Did Gif really paint her walls green like she wanted to? What were Zeb and Boaz upto? Did they really colour their stripes purple? Griz could imagine the headlines: "Zebras make fashion statement at Jungle Fashion Week". What was the latest drink at Mango Mumpteen? Did Rodney finally go on a diet?

Griz realised she had slept too long and missed most of the action. Could one really be present and yet be absent from it all? Should building a new life always exclude the best bits of the past? Can't there ever be a stop at Mango Mumpteen on the way to Honey Market?

She looked back into the cave. The fur ball that was Haaz was twitching under the bright morning light. Somethings can't be swept under the carpet; maybe grape juice stains were just the art the carpet needed. Maybe somewhere in between all the spring cleaning and fur-trimming and honey hoarding, a small drink with Zeb can be had. Or a dance with Princess Dee. Or even an evening with Gif exchanging stories. Maybe.

Griz smiled endearingly at her cubs. A long season of overhaul was in store and it all starts with a firm kick in the butt. For her brood.

You know you're a NEW MOM when

2008-09-06T20:46:00.001-04:00

you still waddle to the bathroom...8 months AFTER giving birth :)
the 7 AM grocery shopping becomes a blessing!
The Mr's offer to load the dishwasher once a week makes him a Superhero in your eyes.
less baby food and more frizz makes it a 'good hair day'.
a spontanoeous night about town with your girlfriends needs a 2 week notice.
a date night is just an excuse to slouch on the couch and snooze before you hit 'Play' button.
'Baby is sleeping' replaces 'I love you' as the most romantic 3 words you ever want to hear!

Postcards from Chennai - 1

2008-06-29T12:44:00.005-04:00

For Vee :)

All amateur chotos (li'l niece can't say 'ph'. Now neither will I :p) taken by yours truly while taking Maya out for a walk.

The only reason the pictures look remotely pleasing is because, it rained last night.
Everyone looks lovely after a shower. Even Madras :)

Wanted immediately

2008-06-24T01:14:00.003-04:00

A Boeing Jet

to transport The Littlest Princess' Family Circus :)

Home is

2008-06-19T10:39:00.001-04:00

where the other 'green' can take us :)

And then they stopped listening...

2008-04-17T23:12:00.004-04:00

Last November this blog crossed the third year mark. A day to be fondly remembered and celebrated was eclipsed by a tummy. A really BIG tummy. After all, one does claim to have a real life, right?

Er...um...yeah.

Truth be told, this blog was more an escapist's refuge than an artist's studio. I wasn't anonymous, so I didn't really bare it all. But at times, under layers of fiction and verse, a few home truths did peek out. Some of you might have read the undertones but most of you decided to keep your thoughts to yourself. I thank you wholeheartedly for it.

It made me reconnect dots to form a newer, better picture; it provided a laugh track for my lame jokes, a punching bag for my rage, a sponge to soak up the tears and open arms when silence said it all. This blog turned out to be the best friend, when my best friends couldn't be by my side at that moment. Well, why shouldnt it do so? After all, I've been wonderful company too, right?

Ahem.

Unfortunately, I shared only my disappointments and delusions with the blog. When things were stressed and beyond salvageable, I wrote funny stories and depressing verses. When things were sunny and joyful, I was outside living it; the blog a figment of my imagination. Why should I justify myself to a blog? It doesn't really exist, right?

Wrong.

The other day, I found myself free of chores for a couple of hours. A gold mine, under the given circumstances. But instead of taking a nap as I should have, I sat reading through my archives. I laughed, cried and laughed some more and I thought to myself, 'Darn it! This woman writes really well. At times.' (Well, i don't fish for compliments. I just dish them out myself :)) I can be a narcissist in my own blog, right?

Right.

Thanks to this blog I made some really wonderful friends. Most of whom I haven't met but who I know are just as wonderful, beyond all this ether. Thank you. You know who you are, so I am not going to list names. (Truth is I am scared in my current sleep-deprived mode, I'll miss someone and they'll stop visiting the blog to write lovely comments). I also thank the the few invisible friends who drop by now and then.

Most importantly, thanks for supporting me all these years. In this age of 15 minute fame, 3 years of virtual existence is a huge milestone. Especially for a little girl who refuses to grow up. I've dusted the bike for a whole new ride but it's going to be shaky start. Hoping you'll stay with me even if I meander a little bit.

Here's to another edition of The Midget Diaries.

Mistress of the Basket

2008-04-13T22:38:00.003-04:00

Nothing ever is the same once you've jumped off the cliff. Or picked up a wailing baby. The Man felt no different. Princesses may appear magically but sadly there's no magical way to satisfy all their needs.

The entire kingdom was turned topsy-turvy the moment Princess Maya arrived. The best carpenter in the kingdom was beckoned to build the sturdiest and yet the most wonderful looking cradle in the world while the Royal seamstress was asked to weave soft sheets of silk.

The Man paced outside the nursery with the baby as The Little Princess tried to create a whole new world inside. The baby in his arms crinkled its eyebrows and The Man could sense a cry forming. Princess Maya let out a soft whimper. Just when he thought he couldn't hold off any longer, the door opened and he stepped into the nursery.

The Little Princess and her bevy of helpers had truly outdone themselves. The cradle was a masterpiece crafted in rosewood, and the sheets were as soft as satin. The Man softly laid Princess Maya on her bed.

The moment she touched the bed, Princess Maya wailed. The Man held her tight; the Little Princess rocked her back and forth but no avail. Princess Maya just couldn't be pacified. The Queen and The King rushed in to help, but all the lullabies in the world weren't enough to soothe the tiny baby. The Man and the Little Princess looked bewildered.

Then The Man rushed in search of the Royal seamstress. Maybe cotton would be softer. The Little Princess ran to the Royal garden. Maybe a nightingale's song would quiet the baby. The King walked up and down the room, nodding his head as that's what he did best. While they each tried to find a solution, the Queen held Princess Maya and tried to rock her to sleep.

Minutes passed into hours. But Princess Maya hadn't slept a wink. The Little Princess slumped into The Man's arms, unsure of what to do. The King was snoring in a corner, next to a broken basket. The Little Princess used to play with it as a kid. An exhausted Queen slowly placed the crying baby in the old basket and flexed her arms.

After a few minutes as she bent down to lift the baby, she found Princess Maya fast asleep, her tiny hand tightly clasping an old blanket. The little one had drifted to sleep in the comforting smells of old wood and worn down wool.

Little Princess smiled at The Man. Raising a princess wasn't a new tradition to be learnt. It was simply forgotten and need to be remembered.

Who makes the mundane, magical?

2008-04-09T22:57:00.003-04:00

You

Image Right

2008-04-02T22:55:00.010-04:00

Hidden in every fold
is the reason
to live another day.

Through the third eye

2008-03-26T23:27:00.004-04:00

We got married in 2005, right around the time when Anniyan hit the theatres. You know, how most poignant moments in movies have something dramatic associated with it to not-so-subtly point out its importance; like waves crashing against rock, thunder or 100 violins screeching nonstop.

Well, our married life didn't have any of the aforementioned. Though at times I think thunder and rain would have suited it quite beautifully. The only music CD I bought as I crossed the Atlantic was the Anniyan soundtrack, especially since it had a song to my name. Everyday after The Mr went to work, I would sit with a plate of toast and omelette and watch Becker re-runs on TV. Right after Becker, I would pop the Anniyan music cd, get into the kitchen and cook lunch. A simple meal of dal, rice and beans would take me a good 2 hours to cook as one had to spend 30 minutes between taking the dal and placing it in the cooker, reminiscing about Madras to an invisible husband.

It's less than 3 years since we've been married but The Mr claims it feels like 30. Can't blame him. When you're married to a woman who speaks dime to dozen any given minute and now you have a 3 month old who takes after her mom in that aspect, every second seems like a lifetime.

I digress. Anyway, the point of the post is, i don't have many photographs of our life in that one bedroom apartment. There was never an urgency coz there was always a lifetime to click snaps. But whenever I listen to Anniyan songs or hear the soundtrack of Becker, I feel myself looking in on our life then, as a series of snapshots in sepia tones; of a starry-eyed girl lugging 2 pounds of sugar and 2 pounds of flour up a steep climb to bake her newly-wed husband a birthday cake, waking up to the sound of birds and The Mr walking in with coffee, cuddling up on the bean bag, sitting on the floor and watching 'Anniyan' on the internet...so many moments made lovelier by a wonderful soundtrack.

Our voices.

Identity Crisis

2008-03-20T22:29:00.005-04:00

I've been trying to write a blog about me for the past 2 hours. A post that does not talk about Maya, my motherhood or sleep-deprivation much less in the same sentence. All I could manage was that first line.

I've always wanted to remain Kumari. I told The Mr pregnancy doesn't take away Kumari. Motherhood is just another facet and it shall not rule my life. Or my blog.

The toothless smiles, the gurgles and the coos, soft kicks of her tiny feet, the way her little fingers hold onto my dress as I try to place her in her crib, her beautiful eyes and the way they light up when I pick her up, her cries for me....she is mine. All mine.

That is why this post makes no sense. Coz I realise, there is no longer any me left. I am all hers. I am Maya's mom and that's who I will be. Now. Always.

And you know what, it's wonderful just being her mom.

One Giant Disappointment

2008-02-14T13:02:00.003-05:00

Well, I couldn't get to it any sooner. Not when one is mourning the end to a 'perfect season'.
The Superbowl came and went. Gosh! I still can't believe we didn't win it. The pressure and strain of going 18-0 finally took its toll. Damn the perfect season.

This so reminds me of the tortoise and hare story. But I guess deep in my heart, I just knew this was coming. Especially when you see I-have-no-idea-what-to-do Eli Manning pull a Bradyesque 47 second drive before halftime to tie the game against Cowboys, you just know Superbowl isn't going to be a walk. It wasn't as thrilling as their regular season matchup and if I wasn't so invested in the Patriots, maybe I would've enjoyed the game. The Giants brought everything to the table and were truly deserving winners.

The NE Patriots lost to the underdog by 3 points. The irony of it is not lost on me.
Aah well, maybe next year we would go 18-1, with a 4th Superbowl title. Till then I shall watch re-runs of Moss and Brady touchdowns :)

A Teeny Tiny Adventure

2008-01-11T18:25:00.000-05:00

The Man and the Little Princess were pretty content in their little kingdom. But content doesn't make for excitement. Being the adventurous kind they went looking for it and found it in the words of the famous magician Asillem,

"Deep in the jungles of Rubalo lies The Magic Diamond which can grant wishes. The diamond hangs around the neck of a parrot which is in a golden cage atop the Banyan tree. The only catch is the tree is invisible. However you can see the tree if an animal or object would ram into it at great speeds. Ofcourse, I can only tell you where the tree is expected to stand but to make an invisble tree appear depends on your smarts"

On the outskirts of the kingdom they ran into a small donkey which offered to carry them to the jungle of Rubalo. As payment the Little Princess was to give it three drops of her blood every night. The Man was sceptic that such a skinny donkey can carry both their weight. But with no one else to guide them, even an overambitious donkey was a help one didn't want to lose.

Armed with nothing but their wits and a donkey that claimed to understand incomprehensible directions, the couple set out in search of The Magic Diamond. At their first rest stop, the Little Princess gave the donkey three drops of her blood as promised. The group fell asleep in a run down shed, each one caught in their own dreams.

Sunrise found The Man staring at a sturdy mule instead of a donkey. Looking at his bewildered face the mule answered, " Well this is old magic. The Little Princess' blood will transform me to aid you in this adventure. Trust me, we'll reach Rubalo soon." Every night, the donkey drank three drops of blood and grew into a bigger and stronger animal by morning. After weeks of travel they finally reached the jungle of Rubalo, sitting on a huge mountain elephant.

The elephant staggered its way towards the glade where the invisible tree's roots were and stopped. The Man asked it to run to the glade at top speed but the elephat just shook its head.
"Run headlong into a tree I can't see? Sorry Your highness, that wasn't part of the deal. I only offered to carry you to Rubalo not break my head."

For the next 55 hours The Man and the Little Princess prodded, poked, pushd, cajoled and begged the elephant but to no avail. The elephant stood its ground and refused to budge an inch. Crestfallen and tired from the effort of pushing an elephant, Little Princess sank to the ground; disgusted with the turn of events The Man flung his sword at the glade and sat next to the Little Princess.

As the sword flew into the glade, it hit something and fell to the ground with a thud and a huge Banyan tree sprung to life before their eyes. Wonder and happiness writ all over his face, The Man looked at Little Princess and they both hugged each other in silence. Leaving her side, The Man slowly climbed up the tree and came down with the parrot in its golden cage. The Little Princess slid her little hand in between the bars of the cage and removed the diamond from the parrot's neck.

The second her hand clasped The Diamond the parrot spoke,
" As you both know this diamond grants wishes. But both of you need to wish for the same thing. You cannot tell each other what your wishes are. If you wish for different things, the diamond will break in two and the magic will fail."
Saying this the parrot disapeared from the cage. The Man and the Little Princess made their way back to their kingdom on the elephant.

Sun rays caught in the Diamond grinned back at the two expectant faces. The Magic Diamond lay on top of a silk cusion in the palace. The Man and the Little Princess looked at each other, closed their eyes and made their wishes. Was it a second or a timespand, no one can tell. Silence in the room was like a heavy blanket. And piercing the blanket came the wail of a little baby.

The couple opened their eyes and found a beautiful baby girl lying on the silk cushion; an heir to the throne. Little Princess looked into The Man's eyes and smiled. Magic was not in the diamond but in two minds that thought alike. Magic is the smile on the littlest princess' lips.
Magic is Maya.

Snowy tales of nothing

2007-12-15T23:13:00.000-05:00

Sometimes it is just not easy to write...not when you want to tell it all and yet wish all could be said in just a word.

Tired? That's a no brainer.
Happy? Most of the time.
Breathless? Hell yeah!
Hungry? ALL the time
Sleepy? One loses sleep just trying to turn the belly around.
Excited? You betcha! Just 20 more days to go.
Restless? Aaaaargh... 20 LONG bloody days to go!

Why do moms and kids live in diferent timezones? As a kid, I made every working day for Amma tortuous with my extremely slow reflexes and crazy demands. Amma had to go through a minimum of 5 stories to get me from my bed to the gates of the Daycare centre.
Best part : She could not repeat any story.

I've blabbered nonstop to my kid; from fairytales to crime thrillers, sang lullabies and peppy numbers dangerously off-key, recited my entire day, complained about The Mr, even threw in a bribe of a trip to Australia to meet her Aunt ~D. No change in status. Darn it! The little brat refuses to budge. My eviction notice is gathering dust on the coffee table while the trickster keeps kicking and head-butting me from within.
Note to baby: Oh! you are so grounded from the minute you're born!

Anyways, I am off now to spend the next 30 minutes in finding that elusive "Comfortable" position to sleep in. Irony of it is, the minute I find it, I need to use the bathroom :(

Notes on a Diaper -2

2007-08-14T20:45:00.000-04:00

Month Two

By now the Calvins and Harry Potters on your book shelves have sold their prime real estate to pregnancy books written by condescending doctor-moms who just want to bore the living daylights out of you. Every page has an advice specifically written for the mother, so you make it a point to go to the nearest bookstore and buy the lucky husband his own copy of “So you’re going to be a Dad”. Then you spend the rest of the night reading it and laughing your head off while the husband snores till kingdom come.

As for hint #1, it still hasn’t made an appearance. But fret not, there’s always hint #2 to make life sexier than ever before.

Full length mirror - $20
Sexy Black Dress - $35
The Look in the smitten husband’s eyes – Priceless.

Sigh, just when you thought you could actually handle this pregnancy thingy, in walks Ms.Obnoxious Nausea, wearing 5 inch stilettos [the ones that you can’t manage to crawl in much less walk] and with an evil laugh that stays with you throughout the day. Your sense of smell increases exponentially that you can give the bomb squad dogs a run for their money.

And that’s when you realize that making out in the kitchen can no longer be steamy…not when you can smell the coconut oil you poured down the drain a month ago.

Notes on a diaper - 1

2007-08-12T23:39:00.000-04:00

First Month

The second you find out there’s a little life growing inside you, you want to get up on the rooftop, do cartwheels and scream at the top of your voice, “I’m pregnant!”. But of course, since such shenanigans aren’t really appreciated by all much less by the belly-resident, you settle for a meek “Yippee!”

The next second you want the baby. I mean, if Kunti can just mumble a few words in sanskrit and have a baby, why shouldn’t you? Apparently, giving birth without blood and pain ended with Karna. So much for miracles of science, bah!

Anyway, common sense and familial pressure insist you wait a minimum of 15 weeks before you paint the neighbourhood with pictures of your growing belly, but seriously who can wait that long? So you spend the rest of the month coming up with creative ideas to break the news to people in as subtle a manner as possible.

No! Wearing a bulky sweater inside a shirt, in mid-May is not entirely a bright idea. Nor is rubbing your flat (well, almost flat) belly in a crowded subway.

P.S: As I found out, writing subtle blogposts on colour Blue also ain't really a hint :p

Who Blue my Life?

2007-07-31T17:53:00.000-04:00

Some people claim to know the precise point when their life turned topsy-turvy; the poignant moment in time-space continuum that is the mother of all life-changing moments.

But I don't.

Was it the moment I met you? No, it can't be because the only thing I remember from that day is the colour of your shirt and my saree. Maybe I do remember the conversation, and the tears that followed but i prefer to act dumb now. I remember just Blue.

Was it the moment we celebrated my birthday? Naaah. You forgot to buy flowers and a card but managed brownie points by walking in with a chocolate cake. But all I see is turquoise blue skirt twirling in my mind's eye and a blue bowl of potato pancakes batter.

Was it the moment we celebrated our anniversary? No, it can't be. We almost weren't going to until I reminded you the date was not a week away. The blue-green shirt and the blue saree partied under a bright blue sky. Maybe I do remember the taste of oysters and lobsters. Then again, maybe I don't.

Some people claim to know the decisive moment when everything in life made perfect sense.
I don't.

Maybe it was when my world turned Blue.

Graffiti on the wall

2007-07-16T16:22:00.000-04:00

One "Oh @#*%" is enough to screw up a 100 "Atta Girl!".

Sigh.
Wish I didn't have to learn this the hard way :(

Hero Hero...Heraadhi Hero

2007-06-20T12:21:00.000-04:00

Disclaimer 1: I - am dark skinned, wear flowers in my hair, am comfortable in sarees, like Kamal, adore RAJNI, consider Madras the best place to live, speak and live Tamizh. If any of the above doesn't make sense to you, don't read further. Thank you and have a good life!

Disclaimer 2: This is not a review. If you want a good one, please read Balaji's, KayKay's, Filbert's or HawkEye's.

Staro Staro Nee SuperStaro!

Sivaji rocks big time! There is no other actor, and I mean NO ONE who can carry a movie with such style as Rajni does. Every frame is lit by Thalaivar's charisma and style. When he does his signature walk with the helicopter in the background, man it is just mindblowing! I almost lost my voice screaming "THALAIVAAA" throughout the movie, much to the amusement of The Mr who sat quietly and watched the movie.

Digression1: I still can't fathom how he can sit like that. The entire theatre was rocking as if a jolt of lightning hit them and screaming hoarse for the Teakada scene and this man sat quiet as if he was watching the ocean. Reminder to self: Said person is husband! Forgive him :p

Mottai Boss is the sexiest and handsomest I've ever seen Rajni look after 'Thambikku Entha Ooru'. My biggest gripe with Shankar was he didn't give Mottai Boss more screen time. Seriously, he just rocked the scene.

I loved the movie. One of the cleanest movies in a long time and it provided wholesome entertainment. Just the "Athiradee" and "Style" songs & Mottai Boss covered the ticket price, the rest were bonuses :)

If I wanna take cudgels against anyone, it would be Shankar and Sujatha for the screenplay and script. Who ever told them Rajni movies don't need a strong story? You don't need a complicated story yes, but even a simple story of revenge of a woman scorned can be elevated to Himalayan heights, if only it is water-tight and solid. Like Padayappa. And seriously he could have done away with that silly truck fight scene and it would have made the movie a li'l crisper in the second half.

But then again, I got to see Thalaivar in his most STYLISH avataram yet and I will definitely thank Shankar for that :) I can't wait for this weekend. The Mr promised to take me to the movie once more. The movie is worth watching multiple times just for Thalaivar's Ishtyle!

Enna thaan sonnalum, Rajni padathula irukkara gethu vera entha padathukkum kidayathu.
If I may plagiarise Kamal's dialogue in PKS, "Rajni padam partha anubavikkanum, arayakoodathu" [If you watch a Rajni movie enjoy it, don't analyse it]

My life is not your news to share

2007-06-06T20:00:00.001-04:00

Fine!
Don't talk to me. I mean I know I left you in the lurch, ignored you citing many reasons half of which were not true while the other half could be true, if only you would look through my glasses. No, I haven't found anyone else. Except The Mr but he is out of town now.

No that is NOT why I am here. Seriously! I am capable of so much more than that.
Err...no I didn't mean that. Nope, not that either.

Anyhoo, you see 'Life is Beautiful'. Aaargh! I am not talking about the movie, i am saying my life is beautiful. Yes, technically i should share it with you, what with you being my soul mate even if you are in a public domain. No, I don't think you are the reason why people judge me as insane. They knew I am one even before they decided to meet you.

No I am not embarassed by your lack of wit, or by your silence. I understand you're troubled by my lack of sense and obscene idea of 'keeping in touch'. I will change. Err, is that really my 123rd promise? Sorry, I am a li'l weak in Math.
Ok, fine that is indeed a lame attempt a humour.

Will you please forgive me? No I can't write a poem now. I have to go out for dinner. Yes I am having a ball of a time with The Mr out of town. Yes I miss him. But he is hogging at Red Lobster, Orlando right this moment, so I have a right to have Upma and Sambhar at a friend's place while watching 'Devil wears Prada'.

Yeah, I need to crib to you about a few collagues, coupl eof bad movies and also talk lots of a few lovely books. Not today. Maybe tomorrow. Or this weekend.

I love you. No one else. No The Mr won't read this. Hopefully not.

P.S. : The title is what I wanted to tell this guy at work who was talking about what is happening in my life to someone else when I was not around. And the come right back to me and talk as if nothing happened. Anyways, I tell myself am TOO HAPPY to bother :)

In which I try to rhyme...

2007-06-06T19:43:00.000-04:00

Deep in the jungle of Grandma's lore,
Loud and wild was Rhonda's roar
In a twist of quirky fate
Rodney was away on a trip of great taste
Leaving Rhonda to do many a chore!

Now Rhonda ain't no mean girl
She can make many Rodneys, around her paw, twirl.
While The King is away
The Queen has the lair in her sway
She is indeed The Jungle's Royal pearl.

Disco beats were heard far and wide
Out came the jungle, in feathers & hide
Everyone was on the dance floor
From Trendy Gef to Lefty ,the Boar
While Rodney sat in conference, eating his pride!

And then there were more...

2007-05-21T20:12:00.000-04:00

Writing posts as bullet points makes for a fun timepass.
The desire to write is inversely proportional to the time allotted to it.
I claim I am insanely busy, but in retrospect I realise I am just insane.
Sometimes I wish they would just postpone 'Sivaji' release to September when I will be in Chennai and can watch it with 'like-minded' citizens :)
The Mr plans to disown me for that movie as I want to stand up and shout "THALAIVAA!" in my loudest voice. How else can you watch a Rajni movie, pray tell? :D
Miss the 80's..wish I never grew up :(
The bliss of buying a packet of roasted peanuts for 50 paise, sitting on the cement doorstep of your house and watching the world pass by is unparalleled with all the luxuries of a first world country. Or a progressing third world country which easily forgets its past :(
I miss Madras, even more Tirunelveli.
Life is beautiful. I can't agree more. But I miss home, I can't deny anymore.
"Baleilaka' is one song that makes me smile and cry at the same time.
I miss Inji morappa in Virudhunagar station, Guava at Sattur, Kovilpatti Kadalai mittai, Nellai Town Iyer hotel kuzhal puttu, Rajeswari Amman koil pujari splashing theertham on my face, Friday Santhoshimatha poojai prasadam, running barefoot chasing your cousins, wearing pavadai-thavani, one strand of jasmine flowers, sitting under the hand-pump for a bath, kootanchoru, susiyam, thoothuvalai dosai to cure your cold, Athai's Thai Segu& Sodhi, Soma Akka's Egg curry, Kumaresh Anna's bus stories, Megu Periamma's Ulunthan gali, Achi's kanji & Inji lekiyam, Jeya Periamma's cauliflower fry, Jan's beautician experiments, Raja's Chilli Chicken & Chicken Fried rice thrust through the bars of a moving train, Vasu Periamma's murukku, Karthiga's vengaya pakoda, Thalavai's Sundakkai story, Amma's Maida burfi & murungakkai theeyal,Appa's attempts at coffee, Sankari chithi's rava upma, Raji's kadi jokes, Nambi's wisecracks, Kala chithi's puli kuzhambu, Kavi's nakkal, Manicka Chithi's sambhar & avial, Ranjith's paintings, Maavadu, Neer-thanni, idli upma, thengai mittai, son-papdi, feeding cows that come to your doorstep, Sornachi's booming voice, early morning padhani in palm leaves, Nongu, Koozh Vathal batter, puli thanni & pori-kadalai thovaiyal, Garlic rasam, Ratna Talkies Murukku, Kothu parotta & Salna...
I want it All. I want it Now.
Note to Self: Grow wings but don't grow up!

Love in Sweltering heat

2007-05-21T13:45:00.000-04:00

Love is beautiful. It sounds contrived but seriously, it makes so much sense to me, especially now as I find myself lost in her. Some say The One is the reason for my existence but they are folk who haven't seen her. To me she is The One; the beginning and end of everything.

She has one of those wonderful smiles that lights up the entire space. No wait! That's another one of those contrived sentences picked up from a book. I looked over the shoulder of a girl reading a novel the other day and the line caught my attention. Why does Love make me so happy and light yet brings out the worst of my poetic self?

How long have I been in love, you ask? From the moment she smiled at my antics I've been smitten. Last week, I pushed a lock of her hair, more a tease than a taunt. She smiled indulgently and pushed it back behind her ear. On some days when I am at my naughtiest best, I pull her dupatta but the second I see her biting her lower lip in a struggle to wrench it from me, I give up. She looks so vulnerable it pains me.

And I know she misses me if I am not around. Take yesterday for instance, it was the hottest day in Madras. Not a soul was out and nor was I. I did have my duties to attend to but I preferred cooling my heels inside than venture in that unforgiving heat. But she was out, my unlucky angel, draped in a cotton salwar which unsuccessfully did nothing to ease the heat. Her eyes, usually bright and lively, were dull and looking towards the distance, as if searching for someone. Who else? Me, of course.

For a moment, I thought I should go and swoop her in my arms and relieve her stress but my work was not in that area. If someone knew I was working places not in my schedule, I would be in serious trouble. So I stayed at my spot and just looked. Tomorrow, I can meet her. Oh! How I long to surprise her when she least expects me.

I couldn't sit still all night. I roamed the streets, singing and dancing, making the neighbours smile in their sleep. Somehow in Madras, noone ever begrudges my singing or dancing! The day finally dawned and I ran to the bus stop to meet her, knocking a couple of bicycles on the way. I'll treat those kids later. As I arrived closer to her, I stopped dead in my tracks. She wasn't alone. And she wasn't looking out for me either. She was holding hands and laughing with another man. My angel with another man?

I stood rooted to my spot and stared at them. I saw the silly boy take out a letter from his pocket and give her. That's when something snapped within me. A mad rage filled my mind and I charged towards them and snatched the letter. "Nobody gives a letter to My Love", I snapped and rushed away.

As I walked away, I heard my angel shout, "Aiyyo, somebody catch hold of that paper please!The wind just blew it away". I turned back and watched as they tried to grab the paper from my hands. I smiled.

Incomplete

2007-04-18T10:28:00.000-04:00

It's been raining incessantly here and I don't know about you, but rain always makes me mushy, sad, nostalgic, happy, silent and whole...all at the same time. Which is ofcourse why I write poems on incompleteness :)

Little slips of paper
Floating wisps
Of life;
A bridge across never
for you & me

Black & brown eyes,
Deep, dark wells
Of emptiness;
A streak of light
across every scar.

Liquid Sunshine Showers
Downpour of lies,
Excuses and shackles;
Silent whispers
Of a parched life.

From the dust-laden shelves

2007-04-09T17:54:00.000-04:00

Ever since it was destined that I should spend 1.5 hrs in the train, I've been reading. Nonstop.
There's nothing that a whiff of the pages of a book won't set right, esp if the book is 'Shantaram' or 'Pride & Prejudice' :)

Reading Lolita in Teheran – Azar Nafisi

A beautiful book of memoirs. Freedom is not free and not all revolutions bring about a welcome social change. With the Iran Revolution as its backdrop, this book brings to light the quality of life under the new regime. And she does that simply by discussing books – or the length to which one has to go just to read a good book. I loved the memoir because it made me feel as if I was part of her clandestine book group, reading those banned novels and trying to form my opinions on morality and like.

This one definitely needs to be re-read as I had not read most of the authors she talked about. I just finished ‘Washington Square’ by Henry James and I need to read the others from the class before I pick it up again.

The StoryTeller’s Daughter – Saira Shah

‘Twas the season of memoirs and this is a pretty neat book on how Afghanistan just disintegrated. The fact that no one really knew what was happening inside and how the rest of the world didn’t really care is well brought out in this book. I like Saira’s narrative, her longing for that homeland which coloured every story her father told her, her reluctance to accept that the Afghanistan of her stories didn’t exist and the brutal reality of what is now Afghanistan.

American Chica: Two Worlds, One Childhood – Marie Arana

This is my favourite memoir of the lot, maybe because it didn’t deal with so much futility as the other two did. It is a happy memoir and Marie’s refreshing style of narration made it all the more interesting.

Cellophane – Marie Arana

This is a hilarious novel by Marie Arana. Her style is like this breath of fresh air on a hot humid day and you just don’t want to put the book down lest something interesting happens while you’ve been away. You are one with her characters; you live in the hacienda with Don Victor, you float over Amazon when he does and when the characters fall in love, so do you! Pick it up, you will not regret it.

Sleeping with The Devil – Robert Baer

If you are someone who loves political intrigue and if you liked the movie ‘Syriana’ then you must read this book. When I finished the book my only thought was, “Man! America is the only nation to blame for most of the evils that plague us now”. Now I need to pick up his other book, ‘See no Evil’.

Washington Square – Henry James

Brilliant prose. Excellent characterization. This is the first novel of his that I read and I definitely like his style. Of course, the nice thing about reading in the train is striking conversations with random strangers. This woman who sat next to me proceeded to talk animatedly about the movie based on this novel and how much she liked it. Like I said before, I need to re-read Azar Nafisi’s book to check if my interpretations match with any of hers.

Life of Pi – Yann Martel

This is a nice book. I mean, I liked it upto a point but then somewhere towards the end I got detached from Pi Patel. I liked his metaphors a lot and his descriptive narrative was quite good. And I totally loved Richard Parker, I don’t know why. But all that philosophy towards the final chapters put me off [I agree the philosophy strain is there throughout the novel, but in the end it got my goat]. This was one of the few books The Mr and I had in common, so after a long time was able to discuss/debate about a book with someone.

Since Wiki talks of a plagiarism controversy, I am searching for the English translation of Scliar’s book.

Love, Pain, and The Whole Damn Thing – Doris Dorrie

This is a collection of 4 short stories by the German filmmaker; stories with a quirky sense of dark humour. You should give this book a shot. I am trying to get hold of her movie.

Brief Encounters with Che Guevara – Ben Fountain

This book is a collection of short stories set in countries in the midst of a social upheaval/civil unrest and has nothing to do with Che Guevara. Except maybe one story about a person who knew someone who was a lover of Che. Interesting setting for stories and that seems to be the undoing of this book, at least for me. I didn’t like all the stories and I didn’t complete a few because the ‘story just didn’t move’. Guess one needs to be in an Utopian frame of mind for this one. You can read it once.

Interpreter of Maladies - Jhumpa Lahiri

I absolutely love this book. There's a beauty to the way she introduces the characters and leads us through their stories. Every story is just a snippet of their lives and makes one long to know more. I tried to read 'The Namesake' but the same narrative that i liked in this book didn't click in the other. Or I was reading too many Lahiris in one shot it made me withdraw from Namesake. Maybe another day.

Undomestic Goddess - Sophie Kinsella

A li'l mediocre compared to the Shopaholic series. It has its moments but they are few and far in between. Yet, it is the quintessential chick-lit to balance some heavy reading, so I won't complain much :)

In between all these, I also managed to re-read Potter 5 & 6 for the Nth time, Malgudi Days and few more chick-lit that are better forgotten :)

If you do pick up any of the book I've talked about, do please ping me for a discussion. Muchas Gracias!

Writing Workshop - X

2007-03-29T21:26:00.000-04:00

I've been fairly regular to the writing workshop since January this year. I guess, I definitely needed the job to channel my ideas :) I have atleast 4 stories to post here but I want to start with the one I wrote tonight. Everyone liked it and also I loved writing this one :)

Prompt: "What's the most you've ever paid for something you didn't want?"

This should be fun, I told myself as I picked up The Pocket Muse. It was a small hard bound book in blue-grey with a black spine. 'Endless Inspiration' , the caption claimed. Considering how little I had written in the past few weeks, I felt I could do with some outside help.

"That will be $30.99, Ma'am," said the cashier. Man! It sucks to be in Canada*. I went home, cleared the coffee table and placed The Muse on it. Now it will beckon me everyday, willing me to write instead of being a couch potato.

Two weeks passed.
"Aren't you going to atleast open the book?" asked The Mr, amusement writ all over his face.
"How do you know I haven't? You're anyway never home in the mornings," I countered, though I knew he was right. I've barely gone past the spine.
"I need a new notebook and a fountain pen. I write better with fountain pens." With that I picked the book and moved it to the study. who ever writes sitting at the coffee table? Plus he rarely walks into the study. I can write undisturbed.

The next evening when The Mr entered the study, I was at my writing desk with a beautiful green fountain pen and brand new Van Gogh leather journal by that famous boutique. He stood over me as I calligraphed(is that a verb?) my name - 'Pon. Chidambarakumari'.

"Looks like your name will need a new book all by itself," he joked.
"Very funny," I smirked.
"So how much did all this cost?"
"$10"
"Really?"
"Plus another 20 odd dollars" I mumbled under my breath and then added, "Creativity is priceless," my voice a tad shrill.

The Mr smiled an all-knowing smile and walked out. I opened The Muse. The 'About The Author' section ran for some 4 pages. What? Who cares about her? Show me The Muse, woman! Realizing this wasn't going to work, I closed the book and re-opened it on a random page.

Page 82: 'Second Follow Up Notice from The Department of Procrastination Prevention'.
I wrote it down neatly in my journal. I shifted myself in the chair, draped my legs over the left arm of the chair, closed my eyes and just sat there. In Anticipation.

The next thing I knew there was a loud noise. I opened my eyes and found the journal on the floor. I must've fallen asleep. I picked up the journal and looked at the prompt. What kind of lame ass prompt is that? And they paid her to publish this? I arranged the journal and The Muse neatly on the desk and walked out. I needed new cushions for the chair.

A pair of silk cushions, a new Feng Shui book, Art for the wall, 2 CDs of inspirational Bach and a box of cookies later, I was back where I started. The Mr greeted me with a raised eyebrow, as I entered the living room. Darn it! How does he do that?
I cleared my throat and announced, "I am going to be a painter."

* Writer's License.
The Missus says: Treat piece as fiction.
The Mr says: Fiction? What about the Muse which is gathering dust since last year :D And the incomplete 'paintings' piling up in the corner of our study?

The Intellectually Snobbish Bitch

2007-03-26T14:41:00.000-04:00

I hate to be judged. More than that, I hate to be judged wrong, wrong by my standards. If you have to judge me, please to look into my ‘Personal Guide to Judging Kumari’ and pick the adjectives I have marked in Red.

Seriously.

I know I am a bitch. Or an intellectual snob, if you please. I can make polite conversations to you about the weather, the global warming, the shameful exit of the Indian Cricket and on why it is morally wrong to throw stones at them for the same reason though deep down you just know that even stones aren’t enough.

So as your colleague, I can make those customary grunts, fill the pauses in your monologue and nod in agreement when you cry, ‘Death to BCCI’. And when you proudly claim, “I don’t read. I just can’t sit through 100 pages’, I don’t know if I should laugh or cry.

How can I talk about the bloody cold and unpredictable New England weather for the entire tenure of my job? How can you work in a prestigious educational institution and NOT read? You don’t have to have read Henry James but darn it! You must’ve read Chandamama or Indian Folk tales.

Ok, so everyone needn’t be an avid reader. You could be interested in something else. Sports? Politics? Movies? I can discuss anything but I will not entertain arguments for the sake of arguing. When you judge me as a difficult person within 2 minutes of a conversation because I ignored your provocation to start an argument, I only find it funny.

Being a Tamizhian does not automatically make me anti-Hindi but talking to a North Indian who harps on it at every lunch definitely makes me want to be one. That is what I call myself now. And No, just because I understand Hindi will not make me answer your questions in Hindi. I’d rather use a language common to both of us. After all we are not in the heartland of India and not-speaking Hindi is my birthright as much as you claim it is yours to force it down my throat.

When my husband cooks and packs lunch for me, I do not automatically become a ‘Lucky woman’. Does anyone ever call my husband a lucky man just because he gets home to a clean house and a sparkling toilet? We both work and we both share responsibilities. It’s a relationship. Not drudgery.

Nowadays I avoid the Desi gang at work during lunch. I realized it is impossible to make conversations with people who haven’t really moved out of their little rooms in India. I am not stereo-typing Desi men. Hell no! The Mr is a Desi man and he is miles apart from all this and I am not saying this because I am married to him.

Yes, I devour 10 books in a month, from poetry to philosophy to chick-lit. The Mr finds it funny and awesome in the same vein. He doesn’t read so much or so often. He calls me the book worm but he also listens when I recite Frost’s ‘Fire & Ice’ and quotes it back to me on a different occasion. This from a man who has to be reminded of his own wedding anniversary :) He sits with me on the grass to listen to the Jazz Quartet and absolutely adores their rendition of Maya Angelou’s ‘Phenomenal Woman’.

Like him, there are so many other Desi men and women who’ve made an effort at something new, gave it a shot and then made a decision. You don’t have to read Shakespeare but you have to read something, just anything to get ahead. Else all that will be left is fluff.

It’s not that I am incapable of liking people who don’t read. But I am definitely incapable of making conversations last. The people in my life, who don’t read but I still adore are the family I was born into and the friends whom I knew much before polite conversations mattered.

When I meet new people, on the T or at work, there should be a common point for us to go ahead. For me that common point is ‘interesting conversations on Life’ not about the latest sale in Macy’s. Though I agree that would be classified as informative: p

So what I am trying to say in this highly convoluted manner is, ‘not reading’ is not something to be proud of. Hey, if you have something else up your sleeve, I am okay with it. I give you the benefit of doubt and will sit and listen. But I am not weird just because I can read something other than requirement specs.

Like Oscar Wilde says, "All of us are in the gutter but some of us are looking at the stars." And that my friend, makes a huge difference.

When a paper tiger meets the real Wild Cats

2007-03-25T21:20:00.000-04:00

It is fun being a writer. Even an amateur one at that.
It's much more fun attending Writers' Conferences and meeting up other kindred spirits.
And it's most fun being the only Afro-sporting Desi chick with the longest name one can never get a tongue around :D

Saturday morning I attended the Writers' Day organized by the New Hampshire Writers Project at Manchester, NH. It was an interesting event and I learnt quite a deal about publishing, which in a nut shell is , "ain't easy!". Picked up many business cards though am not sure how many will bear fruit, but since everyone who got the mike talked about the merits of 'networking' to make it big in Writing,I walked around like a hungry hound, devouring any scrap of paper with a name scribbled across it :)

The Keynote speaker was famous Children's Book author Jane Yolen. Ok, I shall be truthful, a blog being an online diary et al. I really didn't know who Jane Yolen was until I heard her speak on the podium that day. I am impressed, ever since. She is an awesome speaker; very witty with repartees hugging her sleeves. She hails from a family of writers and she doesn't like JKR :p [As much as I love Harry Potter, I do agree with what she had to say on JKR]. The rest you can read here.

She answered all our questions jovially and I bought one of her fantasy novels - TrollBridge and had her autograph it to the heroine of my fantasy novel - Shireen. Now if only i can somehow pull myself to finish that story :(

Why it is imperative to have a girlfriend in Office...

2007-03-20T16:30:00.000-04:00

So you can communicate laughter through your eyes, every time the bald, middle aged desi ~S asks, "Do you mind my teasing Kumari?" and you answer "I don't mind you at all!" and the sarcasm bounces off him.
To let you know that you have smudged your kajal.
To exchange comments on how much weight one has lost/gained and the subsequent diet plan to follow.
To label anyone who thinks too much of their weight as 'crazy' and laugh mindlessly at us falling in that category.
So you can know if that particular pair of trousers makes your butt jutt out or not.
To have that someone who will whisper if your bra is peeking or if there is VPL and also lend you her jacket.
Bitch about our respective boyfriends/husbands, as the case maybe and then go home and the hug the same Bugbear for all that he is not :)

Most important reason is because MAN ain't the same twisted-DNA!

Yit Yees Ya Vonderfool Day!

2007-03-12T15:46:00.000-04:00

I yam werry werry appy.

I guess, Yit yees wone of those days, like Ammukuttz says.

Do you have such days, when you wake up all light and fluffly and you just know you can’t help but smile at everything and everyone? I do and on such days, it is best not to look for reasons but just be…drenched in moments of silly happiness. A shower of dew drops.

- When the ‘Partha Mudhal Naale’ song from Vettaiyaadu Vilayadu plays on the CD player and your foot automatically taps the acceleration hoping to take you to a different level.

- When your Manager meets your wild crazy grin with an equally wild smile.

- You step onto the platform and the Red Line zooms in to pick you up.

- The mails in your inbox are NOT spam for a change.

- Having ‘I am taking a break’ conversations with your 17 year old cousin across seas, exchanging your life’s best kept secrets for a glimpse of her life’s ideals, which ofcourse never happens.

- Categorizing fundamentally flawed inane dialogues as precepts of great import.

-Swaying to ‘Chennai-600028’ moozic as the tests run to success

- Looking into the mirror and finding the sparkle in your eyes.

Like Ammukuttz claims, ve are crazy veemen.
Let us be.

Song playing: Saroja Saman Nikalo from Chennai- 600028

The Travelling Poet

2007-03-06T12:54:00.000-05:00

Update 1: For Shub & others - Please take part. I don't want anyone to "write" poems as much as I want to read your favourites. So if you like Frost, fill a few pages with his 'Fire & Ice' & 'Meeting & Passing' else pick from Maya Angelou. Or Jim Morrison's works(Oh yes, you can add songs too :p). It's your call. So pliss to join!!! If you can read a poem/song and have legible handwriting, you are automatically IN :D

Update 2: Interested folk don't forget to mail me your address/p.o.box where you want to receive the book. I don't know how long I should wait, but i'll keep proposal 1 open for another 10 days. I plan to send out the book for proposal 2 by next week. Hopefully.

Spring is hiding behind frosty Arctic winds and there is no giant Red paint brush to colour the grey routine.

Idea: Talk to Ms.Soup

I've always wanted to have a penpal but was too lazy to write. Later in life when I did write long & dreary letters, not emails but letters, it was vastly ignored or answered over phone/internet. Bah! The curse of the unromantics.

When Mint started her CD-Exchange tree, I was too late and missed out on joining the bandwagon of revellers. But the idea got stuck in my head, like the image of a shirtless Daniel Craig on the beach :D

Anyhoo,after ‘intense brainstorming’ of 2 minutes, we’ve come up with the concept of The Travelling Poet.

Proposal 1 :

It is a book of Poems. Buy a pretty book and in your own handwriting pen down a few of your favourite poems. You could add couple of your own original verses too, if you like. Choose any one person from the list (I am assuming there would be a list of enthusiastic romantics) and send it to them. Spend the rest of the month waiting for your personalized book of poems :)

This ain’t really ‘traveling’ but atleast everyone gets a book of poems.
Ofcourse, once there is a list in place, I shall publish just the names (only names and not addresses) here and you can mail me the name of the receiver you've chosen. I will send across their PO Box#/Address. This way I can make sure everyone receives 'The Poet'.

Proposal 2:

I shall start the book with my fave poems and send it to anyone in the list (we might not have a list at all). The receiver then adds his/her favourite choices and sends it across, this way the book travels across the globe. How romantic! So the book can find you more than once if two different persons decide to send it to you and I guess we can send it to ppl not in the list as long as they promise to keep it on its course.

The points to note with this idea are :
who keeps the book in the end? -- I would love for it to come back to me :)
how do we keep track of its course? -- Maybe start a new public blog just for that.

Coming to the million-smiles question, Any Takers?

Please to leave a comment or mail me at nkeats@gmail.com!
Danke!

Happy Birthday Abhooobear!

2007-03-06T09:28:00.000-05:00

It's that time of the year again... when I miss Bitsy-Pookums like never before :)

Sigh

Another year away, another b'day celebrated as perfect strangers across miles. Hope you had a great time on your special day.

Missing you.

HIPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAY dahlin'!
Louve you :D

I Remember

2007-02-21T16:00:00.000-05:00

This is an excuse of a song(more a verse) that I wrote on request. Jax, the requestor(?!!) will be composing the music for the same. Why? Well he is much more musically inclined than a head-banging girl penning verses that can never ever be sung :D

This is just version 2 of the "song"[Jax will mail you ver 3!]. I already have an idea for penning a chorus and modifying the lyrics to make it fit the suit of tunes. But that is for another day.
For now, this shall be.

I remember the shine of your eyes –
In the sunlit waves
Rushing towards me,
Caressing my feet.
A tease, a taunt;
Whispering invites
to a new world beyond.

I remember the tinkle of your laughter –
In the pattering of raindrops
On my window pane;
Wanting to join my conversations
Of Keats & Doors
Discussed in the same breath.

I remember the calluses of your hands –
In the pebbles in our garden
Mindlessly kicked around,
As I walked in circles,
Searching outside
For all that I lost within.

I remember your absence –
In the pain of silence
emboldened and enhanced,
As we remain lost
in a kaleidoscope of images
painted by our dreams.

Useless Truisms #543

2007-02-21T15:43:00.000-05:00

The harder you try to rationalize Life, the stronger the absurdity of it all hits you!

-- They don't pay me for this, so let me get back to work.
This is just to let you know I am alive :D

Royal Pain

2007-01-29T21:16:00.000-05:00

Do you know the Rodney legend? You don’t? I guess you weren’t there when Granny told us the story. Ok, let me start at the beginning.

Now, we all know every jungle must have a king. Or is it that every King must have a jungle? I get confused around that bit. Anyways, Rodney was the said King of our jungle and like any self-respecting King he spent all his day under the Banyan tree surveying his subjects.

One never knew if he was sleeping or watching the world pass by with his eyes closed. But I suppose Kings have an All-Seeing Eye which made them act detached from the world yet stay on top of matters in some mysterious way.

On her first day as a Queen, Rhonda woke up before dawn and went to the MoonBeam Lake for a swim with her sons. While Rhonda prepared an extensive grocery list, Rodney wrestled his cubs, Zizou and Mooza for the benefit of a few gazelles a mile or so away.

By mid-morning, Rodney’s Royal duties took precedence. He walked around the Banyan Tree twice, stared at the gazelles and dared them to run. When they gave him no second thought he sat down quietly under the shade of the Banyan, half closed his eyes and began dreaming about lunch; A juicy piece of Beef steak.

Rhonda spent most of her morning preparing a scrumptious meal fit for a king – beef steaks, lamb patties, chicken kebabs, vegetable au gratin to balance the meat and a big chocolate cake to round it all off. Rodney sniffed the air. Something delicious was moving his way. He peeked through one eye and saw Rhonda walking slowly towards him, the plates laden with all his favourites. He got up, shook his golden mane and let out a happy roar.

Thus a routine was set. Every afternoon, when a loud roar reverberated through the jungle, everyone knew it was lunch hour. An invisible clock was set in motion and even Harry the Hare stopped checking his watch.

A Royal pattern emerged; the wild river whimpered into a soft stream over pebbles. Rodney stopped his walks around The Banyan and spent most of his days on his tummy and the rest on his back while Rhonda led the pride on various expeditions across the greens. Soon his tummy grew as big as his mane and he could no longer wrestle Zizou nor lie on his back.

That’s when Rhonda devised her master plan. She would not clear Rodney’s bones after his lunch. It would be part of his Royal responsibility to keep his seat clean and to make the journey to the trash pit by their lair. Rodney listened to his wife half-asleep, wondering if he could pass a bill to stop all wives from wasting precious time on responsibilities when it could be spent watching the rhinos play catch. Yes, that would be his crowning achievement and he would be hailed King of All Jungles. As Rodney smiled at his idea, Rhonda romped to the lair confident her plan would work.

Funny, how the ways of the jungle are. Rodney preferred staying on his tummy to the Royal Responsibility and he just let the bones pile up. But he couldn’t bear to stare at the dirty bones, so he turned around and took an undue interest in the Margosa orchard on the other side. With his back to the mound, he neither noticed the growing pile nor the family of rodents that moved in and grew large with the mound.

The rodents grazed his rear end as they shunted between the bones and their hovel. But Rodney, who was now as big as the Banyan itself, was too lazy to move a paw to remove the cause of the itch. If only someone would come to his aid. He looked at the wild boar walking into the orchard, opened his mouth to call, and then decided against it. And so they remained, the rodents, Rodney and his grazed rear end, all in perfect harmony; Till Rhonda threw a fit.

It was when she cleared the bones and chased the last fat rodent from under Rodney’s tail, she saw it. A big red sore on Rodney’s back. Rodney was fast asleep, when Zizou returned with Augura, the jungle doctor. One look at the sore and Augura gave Rodney a thwack as loud as his roar and said, “Rodney! You maybe the King of the Jungle but you still have to scratch your own ass!”

Reviving The Jungle

2007-01-22T00:24:00.001-05:00

Honey Coated Reflections

Dawn crept into The Jungle as quietly as a teenager sneaking into the house after curfew, sure-footed and smooth. While everyone else continued their slumber unmindful of the new beginning, deep in the jungle someone stirred awake. Griz got out of bed, rubbed her eyes and made her way slowly to the pantry. There was just a week before The Great Slumber Party and she needed to double check her stock.

Blueberry Marmelade that Haaz licks off the bottle? Check
Raspberry jam? Check
Frozen salmon? Check

Frozen salmon in the jungle you ask? Now I know you won’t believe me but you see, Griz knows someone who knows someone whose ancestors were from Alaska and that’s how she knew how to save salmon for a wintry evening snack. Of course, it is a secret and the only reason I know it is because I was there when Griz did it.

So can we please forget the salmon and get back to the story?
Griz stared long and hard at the row of shelves. Something wasn’t right and then it hit her – Honey! How can one go to bed peacefully knowing there was no honey to wake up to? She looked into the cave; Haaz was on his back, his rotund belly doing a rhythmic dance of its own. Realizing he was not going to wake up in time, Griz rushed out towards Elephant Grove for that one bottle of perfect honey.

If you’ve ever been to Elephant Grove earlier, I am sure you would love the walk. First you passed Emeralda Square, the luscious pasture where Griz met Duck and exchanged stories, then came the MangoMumpteen, the hippest hangout joint in the jungle where we met every evening for a drink. Ofcourse, Gif & Gef missed the last one as they were out gallivanting as usual. Them giraffes can't keep their necks in place, if you ask me. But yeah if you ever want to drown your sorrows in a mango martini or throw the cause of the sorrow into the barrel, then that’s the place to be!

Now Griz didn’t like walking alone in the jungle, much less early mornings when there was hardly a robin out. Dawn was growing stronger and the few rays of sunshine that escaped the huge green canopy above hugged their dews, bringing a sparkle to the entire jungle. But nothing seemed to shake Griz from her goal. She walked a straight path to the Grove to catch Ms.Bumbles before she sold her best honey to someone else.

As she passed the MoonBeam Lake, Griz paused to take a drink. She leaned towards the blue waters and looked deep into her own eyes. First thing she noticed were the gray hairs on her fur. The dark circles around her big brown eyes weren’t adding much glamour. The more she stared at her reflection, the more faults she found; a little nick there, a cleft that would’ve looked better on Haaz, the baby fat she never lost…the list was endless and soon she forgot all about the honey.

The Sun rose higher, the jungle got louder but Griz stayed rooted to her spot caught in an unbreakable spell. She stared deeper into her brown eyes and saw them slowly dissolve into the blue ripples of the lake as the wonders of the lake swam into view. The green moss bed at the bottom, fishes in every possible hue wiggling their tails in an aquatic choreography, the water lilies trying to reach towards the heavens…she saw it all, for the very first time.

And then she rolled on the bank and laughed and laughed till she cried. That’s Griz for you. Do you wonder if she really made it to Ms.Bumbles and got that jar of honey? This is what she told us that evening, “You know what Zeb? I found my honey at the bottom of the lake that morning. All I needed was a change in perspective.” I nodded my head absent-mindedly as I looked at Griz through my third martini glass. Geez! Griz did look twice her size from this angle. Guess I need to change of that perspectush now. "Duck, will you order another martini for me please?"

The AFC Thriller

2007-01-21T22:26:00.000-05:00

Gosh! I don't have any more nails left to bite.
What a cliffhanger game it was!!!

Both the teams played well and thanks to them, this game truly lived up to its hype. Peyton Manning and his Colts truly deserved this win. The Colts stood their ground, came back in the second half and made this a memorable game, worth every single minute. We hope they come back with the SuperBowl.

Great game Patriots! We can come back next season.
I guess like they said, it is indeed Peyton's time, afterall :)

Congrats COLTS!

Treacherous Beauty

2007-01-18T11:59:00.000-05:00

With the ice storm finally arriving at New England, life has been anything but warm.
Yesterday had to walk in 7 F which felt like -3 effing F!

Of course as wonderful as the sparkling trees look, shining under early morning sun or late evening street lamps, the enveloping coldness leaves a frozen lump of a heart that hardly cares for those subtleties.

I miss my camera a lot, as I couldn't click anything :( But found some pics in BBC site tho' they are not of New England area. Here is a pic I picked from BBC. For more click here

Lights On New England Patriots!

2007-01-14T21:40:00.000-05:00

At the end of the day, how tough you stay the entire 60 minutes is what matters.
We Prevailed.

Go Pats!

P.S: I just hope LT doesn't find this 'non-classy' too :D
P.S2: Tom Brady looked utterly butterly delicious in the post-game press conf. The Missus runs to escape the Mr's kick :p

Temple of Bare Naked Ladies

2007-01-12T11:18:00.000-05:00

Every day I wake up 15 mins before my alarm, just to make sure the scream doesn't ruffle The Mr's dreams.

Hmm...the above does sound romantic but it ain't the truth.
Most days I do wake up before my alarm but mainly to switch it off lest it drills a big hole in my head. But some days I am so sleepy, I just lie half-awake waiting for that familiar but frustrating tone, to signal the start of another busy day.

But ofcourse, I don't get out of the bed immediately. Please! I don't heed to commands from living beings, why would I change that rule now for an alarm clock?

From 5.45 to 6.15 am, I lie in my bed wondering if there is a loophole in the time and space continuum which would let me sleep till 9.30 and yet be present for the 10 o'clock team meeting. By the time I realize my groggy greycells are not going to crack that problem, it is 6.45 am. I jump out of bed, make coffee, finish my shower and get ready in 15 odd mins and then spend another 5 mins in pulling The Mr away from the bed.

Finally we leave the house 2 mins later than the scheduled time and barely make it to the Lowell station with a minute to spare to board the train. And trust me, I need a medal just for that. It's one thing to make me climb flights of stairs at Egmore station but another when you make me do the same in the Land of Escalators. Seriously! why can't the darn train rumble away from the track closest to the door?

Anyhoo, me digressesses.

After some 50 odd minutes in the train, with my nose buried in a book I reach North Station where there is a mad scramble of feet, ipods, laptops and bags to reach the T before the next person. Another 10 odd minutes later, I am inside the Red Line on my way to Harvard Square.

I am not really a huge fan of winter. But as you cross the Charles river, and glance at the few skyscrapers peeking out of the early morning mist, you do appreciate the grey landscape. Some evenings when I leave early, I can catch the Charles river whispering naughty secrets to the Boston skyline, making her blush a beautiful pink hue, that slowly dissolves into the wintry darkness.

The best part of the day ofcourse, is when I cross the big black wrought iron gates and step foot into the courtyard of the temple - Harvard Yard. What you experience inside the gates is a world different from that outside. Students shuffling between dormitories, brown squirrels scampering around in a game of Catch, the not-so-occasional Oriental tourists clicking zillion photos of the yard in their digital cameras and the quintessential fitness freak jogging in 20 deg F. And standing guard over these subjects are The Trees.

Something in the manner those trees tower over the space, their empty branches reaching out to the heavens in a silent prayer, makes me want to just close my eyes and pray with them. For everything and everyone. In the 5 minutes it takes to walk across the yard, I manage to forget the chores I have left behind at home, the work I have in store at office and the tiring commute which brought me there in the first place. Coz for those 5 minutes, the world belongs to me and The Green Priestesses.

If I am lucky, like I was yesterday, I could see the trees forming a beautiful silhouette with an inky blue sky as the backdrop. A picture so surreal(to use the an adj overused by Americans) your mind registers it only as an aberration of Nature.

And then the day ends.

'Appy Noo 'Ear

2007-01-09T11:34:00.000-05:00

2007 dawned quite unceremoniously in our humble abode. But it didn't walk alone; it came in with an important lesson.

The Story:

Of late, I had come to believe soft cotton shower curtains in pastel shades with pretty purple flowers are the stuff New Years are made of. And what better time to make it happen than on the eve of the commercialized Birthday of a Saviour? But New Year was still a week away, so my latest purchase lay on the bedroom floor, cuddled inside its plastic shell, unmindful of the kicks we gave it every morning on our way out.

Yes, not once did it occur to me that I should pick it up and put it in its place. Where do you place a new Shower curtain anyway? Especially when I plan to send it to its home on the rod in 7 days? So I let it lie there and every time I passed it, I longed for the day I could unwrap it and let the whole world behold its loveliness.

And then 31st December came knocking. Now I am not really the 'Make Resolutions And Then Forget Them A Week Later' girl. I am more a 'No Resolution is as good as No Resolution' woman (Did you get it? I coined it just now). But being in a new country and having a newer job must have softened my insides coz at 10 pm I decided I shall become Ms.Organized Wonderwoman. After packing off The Mr to buy some chocolate cake, I whizzed around the house in my imaginary wheels, picking up stuff and shoving them down cracks and corners I never knew existed in my house :)

In 1.5 hours, our tiny home was as clean as it could possible be. Nothing on the carpet, or the sofa or the chair or the bed other than what is supposed to be there. I was so proud of my achievement, I helped myself to an extra slice of cake.

New Year. The day I can disappear behind cotton extravaganza. I walked into my bedroom and that's when I realised something was not right. The floor was clean. No plastic bags on the floor begging my attention. When did this silliness happen? I spent the next 2 hours searching every closet (an act made simpler by the fact that were just 2 to search), every shelf in the house. I even checked my pantry. Yes, you have no idea what I am capable of.

Did I tell you that I can remember the pretty flowers on the white frock that I wore for my birthday as a 7year old? I even remember the big green suitcase we used to have when i was a kid. I used to sit behind a make-shift tea-stall built with that suitcase and other trunks in Thatha's home at Tirunelveli when I was 2 and everyone had to buy coffee from me every morning.
Ironic but i just couldn't remember where I kept that stupid shower curtain.

So New Year didn't exactly go the way I planned and I returned to my moldy curtain. Three days later as I walked down the Supermarket, I knew where my shower curtain was. Just like that. Between aisles of canned tomatoes and colourful pasta, I found what I thought I had lost. I rushed home, dropped the bags at the door, ran to the bedroom and dug deep under the bed and found my shower curtain, neatly wrapped. Of course, 10 minutes later I realised what
I really needed was milk - the one item I didn't buy.

Un-Moral of The Story:
If at the end of a day of cleaning, you can't find your husband, then Organization is not for you.

Happy New Year Folks!
This has been in my draft for too long and i just found the time to post it. Kindly Eshus!

Runaway Train

2006-12-28T13:24:00.000-05:00

You cycle back ferociously, unmindful of the many voices wanting to know how difficult your exam was. All that matters to you is that it is the LAST exam. You'll be home in 2 days.
You run to the wing, scream for joy like Shammi Kapoor and throw every possible item you can find into your many suitcases.

1 hour later, you are lugging your bags to the gate stopping every 5 seconds to hug someone goodbye. Miraculously you find a rickshaw to take you to the Front gates and once you approach those old buses that would take you away from the dump of a desert you called home for 5 months, you look around wistfully for an angel to haul your heavy suitcase onto the roof.

All done! You heave a sigh of relief and take your seat between your friend, her heavy bags and the girl you wish you didn't have to travel next to, with one last look at the sand storm brewing behind you.

You reach Delhi hours before the schedule and knowing your luck has never been good that semester, you offer to be the one who will sit at the station baby-sitting luggage while the rest of them try to pulverize the Delhi Bazaars.

Two Wendy chicken sandwiches later, you are all inside the dirty train, legs sticking out over piles of bags and turning a deaf ear to that silly gal screaming aloud about her AC compartment, you close your eyes and think of Chennai -- Home to a cup of steaming filter coffee!

By the end of the next day you can't bear your own stink. You wish you could walk around half-naked instead of in the cotton salwar-kameez. Damn the moralistic society! You check your watch every 10 minutes for the insipid train dinner- a sign it would all be over in the morning.

You wake up somewhere around 5 am to avoid the traffic at the bathrooms, brush your teeth, borrow face wash from your friend to clean the grime off your face and try your best to calm the hornet's nest of hair on your head. After struggling for 10 minutes you give up, knowing your parents would still recognise you. Somehow.

And just like that, your perception changes....you feel the wheels under you, chugging in slow motion as if caught on rolls of chewing gum. You look through the window and see the dirty Cooum spreading her fragrant arms towards you in welcome. You smile despite yourself, realizing how much you've missed it all - the crowd, the arguments, the sweet smell of jasmine and the brown teeth of the jasmine seller, the food, the constant complains about the humidity, the rush of waves at Marina beach, amma's coffee...you've missed it all. For too long.

You step on to the platform looking for those 2 familiar faces in a sea of people, cursing yourself for not being tall enough to look beyond it all and then you hear your name being called out. Against all din. And you know it. Nothing matters anymore. You're home!

Post Script: And that's how I felt when I walked into Duck's apt in San Diego. After years of floating in ether, it was home coming all over again. Thank you Dee! You're the best :)

The Midget Diaries

For Thatha

Reading Challenges 2012

12 Habits for 2012

How it all began...

Letter to ether

CSAAM April 2011 - how to be strong?

New Year Resolution that never left paper

Defrosting forgotten tales

mother of 2 = time for nothing else

Tamizh Rhymes for Tulika Blogathon

when words are never enough....

Trying to shout...silently

Reading Challenges 2009 - Update

Becoming my parents' daughter

In the Land of Butterflies

The Date

Book Review

If Adolf Hitler

Lost and Found

Work + Love = A Life in Balance

One. Two. Thee. Fie. Siteen*

Two Civil wars. One Book.

This Mother's Day

Cookie creases

I was absent

Yesterday -

A smack from Joe!

55 WBR - The Orbis Terrarum Challenge

Besotted with Dark Chocolate

Lost in Mail

Nyah & The Balloon Herder

Whisper in the woods

what it is being twirled around the littlest pinky...

Save my heart! Save your sanity!

55 WBR - Three many books to list

55 Words Book Review - Purple Hibiscus

Karma Sutra - A modern day fable

Writing Workshop

Why I am so silent...

Thank You Secret Santa

Commercial Break!

The Zookeeper's Wife - Book Review

Dumbfounded - Review of Sorts

Powerless in Nashua

New Year Resolutions. Newer Resolutions

A place called nowhere

*insert creative intelligent-sounding title*

Comfort food

Off my chest

Two weekends and Two books

And my non-existent vote goes to

Sprinkle some Golden Magic

While you were sleeping...

Happy Birthday Duck!

Writing Exercise

We miss you...

On a Friday morning in the jungle

You know you're a NEW MOM when

Postcards from Chennai - 1

Wanted immediately

Home is

And then they stopped listening...

Mistress of the Basket

Who makes the mundane, magical?

Image Right

Through the third eye

Identity Crisis

One Giant Disappointment

A Teeny Tiny Adventure

Snowy tales of nothing

Notes on a Diaper -2

Notes on a diaper - 1

Who Blue my Life?

Graffiti on the wall

Hero Hero...Heraadhi Hero

My life is not your news to share

In which I try to rhyme...

And then there were more...

Love in Sweltering heat

insert creative intelligent-sounding title