Monday, May 30, 2005


Midnight is the time when profound thoughts strike me.
Is orange the color named after orange the fruit or is it the other way round?
why is yellow not called banana or banana not called yellow then? How about apple and red???
No matter how childlish the ponderings are, they are indeed thought provoking.

Sunday, May 29, 2005


My yearning to create a better work space made me paint the office room. The room has an inaccessible wrought iron balcony that stages some fake flowering plants to add that splash of color. I tried to bring that hue in. After our thirty minute pondering over the color pallettes in the paint section, I ended up with a creamy orange shade, which looked more orange than creamy when applied to the walls. But warms colors have a thing about them and I liked the way the room turmed out. The color in the balcony tied up with the color inside but my quest for creativity prompted me to think of a border to go around the top of the wall. I asked for a few suggestions and did'nt find any strinking or challenging enough. I googled "office space wall paper borders" and came up with an exhaustive selection, but none of them pleased the discerning eye in question. A thought flashed across my mind, unconvincing in the beginning but appealing as the time passed by.
Fast forward to a four rung ladder, a bunch of talkon brushes and acrylic paint in bright hues that define windows paired with a semi seasoned hand that makes things appear a lot easier and an enthusiasm of a three year old, Bill gates' windows adorn the now colorful office space. The prime colors add the required splash and voila, the place becomes complete. The arched window with the wooden blinds and the wrought iron balcony and the microsoft windows that seem to pop on the wall stage the same thing. What is that word? color!!!

Tuesday, May 10, 2005


Before my Paradigm takes word form, I really need to ponder over the Tense. Grammar "tense" that is.
Once, when I was in seventh Grade, Seshakka told me something remarkable while teaching me Algebra. "If you don't use it, it'll get rotten (she referred to my brain) just like flour goes bad after a while".
What words of wisdom? It has taken me a decade and a half to understand what she actually meant.

I notice a lot of "tense fluctuations" in my writings which never happened a year ago. Well, it took me an year to actually start writing, and the flour got bad.
Reason enough to do this writing more frequently may be I can stop if from turning even badder:-))

Saturday, May 07, 2005


The first vision I have of her stays alive in my mind after two years and would stay there for years to come. A six pound something bundle of joy with a face so transperant that her green veins shine thru her skin. Small face the size of an orange, large eyes the size of almonds. She was as tiny as it can get and her eyes travel the length and breadth of the room aimlessly, without focus. A thick layer of hair covers her head and scantily spreads on to her forehead. Her complexion is a much coveted pink.
The icon arrives with a bang. The little soul that changes the way I look at life. The large eyes, the innocent looks, the wonderfully cute hands and feet.
She grows up wearing pink overalls, denim skorts and colorful trinkets in her wiry hair. She talks way ahead of her peers. At one, she calls me Bushulu and binds herself a big more tighter to a cord of my heart.
She is a quick learner, a prodigy a bit of sunshine, a beam of moonlight that brightens my life. I play with her, sing with her and try to be a real friend. She slowly connects to me.
She is two now, conversing and thinking sense and calling me "bushulu" with a tint of love in her tender voice. Her big eyes batter their eyelids in the amazement of talking to a fur toy and my heart skips a beat.
She is not mine, but she is mine in a strange way. A way that leads straight to some secure corner of my heart. She just needs to bat her mile long lashes, and my heart skips a beat.
Sivany the sweet lil angel that changes the life of her mom and her God mom is a subject of fascination that makes my life sweeter.


Your calls don't last as long as they are awaited.
Your talk tells me the untold.
Your chuckle reminds me of a child that knows no manupulation.
You seem to be a hero in your own right, a magic that has touched our lives.
You made your mark felt, without actually making an effort
You made hearts miss their beat, you made unknown, "unheard" of people
support you without asking them for it.
You are stupid sometimes and sometimes stubborn
You change lives, you change decisions
you create havoc and confusion.

She paints a picture about you
with vague words forming imaginarly lines
on the canvas of my mind.
I try to get her sketch!
I use some seen visions,
I imagine some unseen
I form a picture
not perfect but pretty
not pretty but pure.
My not perfect, not pretty but pure image
that speaks intellegence and spells innocence
appears before me when I hear your
sometimes confused, sometimes confident
and sometimes confusing voice.

Sometimes a pressure, sometimes a pleasure
you are like the experience of a new mother.
You come in and write another chapter in my life.
Another feeling to be felt, another bond to be built
You sometimes irritate me and sometimes amuse me
but never cease to amaze me.
You are unpredictible, I never know when you heal the wound.
I never know when you make it.

You tell me you are not as attached to me as I am to you! But You make me feel good.
May be because I acknowledge it and you don't. May be because I see the vulnerable little boy when I see you and you see a confident young man when you see yourself.

This unexpected addition to my life, this unasked attention and bondage add a shade more to the color of my heart.
I know not what it is! If it is just another of the many forms of affection, or
a flimsy tag of relationship that binds me to you. I know not if is my love for her or my love for you that reflects my feelings!

You strengthen a spirit, you weaken an emotion. You inflict a pain, you enhance a happiness. your every reaction refreshes like a breath of fresh air or leaves an uneasiness linger behind.

You say rediculous, outrageous, idotic things but you get away with them.

Your every careless word masks a feeling, your every sweet gesture unveils a truthfulness.

I fail to understand if your attraction lies in the way you are or the way I look at you. I feel like hating you, like ignoring you but I fail.

Sometimes bitter, sometimes sweet, you bring with you a whirlwind of emotions and enrich my life with another facet of love.

Friday, May 06, 2005

Meaning or less.

The cul-de-sac curls like a lazy serpent.Pegions make funny noises. Roses wither and fall on the red bark below. Kids roam about leisurely on their bykes. An occassional screech of tyres cuts thru the scilence. Majestic houses seem to fall on each other probably due to lack of support or lack of space. A woman walking a dog, a man jogging on the side walk. Trees that shake gently, tall and short, big and small. green lawns, yellow lawns, kempt lawns, unkempt lawns. The view remains the same with minor alterations. Days roll by. The arched window with the wrought iron frame unfolds a new world before me.Yes, The view remains the same but changes the way I look at it as days roll by.

trying to rhyme.

I sleep turning and tossing,
And wake up a wreck.
I make an attempt to live
Another day with a meaning.
No matter what the day brings
Or means, or gives,
I still try to live it
I still try to love it.
Words and words form a void
that I try but fail to avoid.
Empty thoughts cross my mind
Just empty thoughts, nothing refined.
I attempt to create the magic of verse
And write a limerick longer
Than four lines.
Thanks to my silly brain
That composed this silly whatever.
If not it'd have been and
I'd have called this day
Another day down the drain.

Wednesday, May 04, 2005

Renaissance Man

Nana was the renaissance man. He was cool enough for me even when I was fifteen. I think that is the time when I actually started realising how intriguing the man was.
I'll check with amma and update his date of birth. Nana was a very fair complected, fine looking gentleman, with silvery gray hair by the time I knew him. He was tall, and well built. His face was austre, always neatly shaven and he never grew a mustache. Amma's nose looked somuch like his, and my nose looks somuch like amma's. So I inherited the nose from him.
Nana loved music dearly, among the other things in life. Our visit to his house, was always marked with his performance on veena. He played the instrument with absolute comfort. Nana had beautiful long fingers with long nail buds, an artistic hand as Cheiro would classify in his pamistry books. The pink finger tips of his left hand became brownish black from all the playing on Veena. He was immemnsely excited about music. The mornings I spent at his place were pleasant with a promintent Carnatic singer performing on his tape recorder. when I hear M S Subbulakshmi sing "Bhavayami Raghuramam, I remember some very precious memories of my childhood spent in Nana's house.
Nana spent a lot of his money on music and Homeopathy, his other passion. His clinic was filled with "Metria Medica" volumes neatly arranged like in an Attorney's office. I once remember him telling me that he spent over one lac INR on his homeopathy books. That was a prohibitive fugure for me, and I should admit, I honestly did'nt know the number of zeros in a Lac at that time, I was that young or that bad with numbers. The figure, however convinced that this man was ellocos about his hobbies.
Nana loved and just loved animals and humor. He would narrate jokes and chuckle uncontrolably. He loved watching wild life on TV and would always used to tell all his grand children to tell him when they spot any animals on TV. He smoked a pipe for some time, but smoked cigars all the time. He once told me that he started smoking cigars when he was twelve. He had some disease and smoking cigars was the cure. (funny, right??) I used to listen to his stories with dialited eyes and utter disbelief.
Nana did a lot of cool things. He worked for a government organisation, practised Homeopathy during weeknights and weekends and learnt music with a vengance. His close friends were his veena and mridangam teachers who were his age group. He loved finger food and snacks that nani made during the afternoons. He had the sweetest tooth I had known. Nana had his flip sides too. He had an obsession for cleanliness that often made his grandchildren hate him. "No food in the bed room" he would insist. I remeber once he traced a carbon paper folded and preserved the wrong side in my english text. He would take the paper out, fold it the right side and reprimand me strongly for doing such a foolish thing. (Well I am givng out many secrets about my IQ, Lol) I definitely though he never tried to sugar coat his opinions. I appreciate that quality of his now, but back then, I though he was a wee bit grumpy.
Grumpy or handsome, artistic or funny , Nana was defintely a strong influence on me. He spoke prestine english, but the way he said "garals" for "girls" and warald for "world" always made me smile. I used to correct him sometimes. He would just smile and pat my head lovingly but he never grew out of saying "garals" and "warald"
These two pronouciations become infamous in the anals of our family history and we still lovingly remember how he pronounced them.
Nana's last years were a stark contrast to his life. After He retired form his services, He and Nani used to live in the same town. He practised homeopathy, his serious hobby for quiet sometime.
One blazing May afternoon, Nana came to my place with Nani. His shirt was'nt tucked for the first time ever. His black shoes that shone all the time were matte. He looked haggard as he stood in the entrance. That was the last healthy image I had of him, standing tall and stout, and confident.
No one discussed it but I realised that Nana lost his money in some investments and more than his money, he lost his vigor for life and sadly enough, his health. Nana stayed with us the rest of his life, for about six years. He was paralysed for a brief period and he recovered, but never completely. His meaty shouldres slowly became emaciated, his frame became sleek and his straight forward ways of expression became meek. He would sit in solitude for most of his time listening to some artist performing on AIR or reading his Metiria Medicas. It was such pity that his Homeopathy that cured all the ailments we ever had in the household, failed to cure his ailment. Probably because it was more mental than physical. Nana was emotionall, physically and fincancially dependant on his daughters and that toned down all his pride and love for life.
Nana was still the same old man at heart, he would still enjoy humor and wildlife and he read his newspaper every morning stilling in the easy chair on our side yard.
He smoked cigars and played cards in his leisure with santu and geeta. He was still meticulous about his things and never let anyone of us hadle his precious belongings.
I should dedicate numerous blogs to talk about this renaissance man. The man who loved and gave without counting. I have a lots more to say about him but for now, I should say I am one of the luckiest garals in the warald to
have had a grand dad like him.

Monday, May 02, 2005

Greenest thumb on the block.

Before I blog about the thumb, I need to blog about the thumb's owner.
Let us call her Tia.
Tia has a remarkable thing about her, that is her style of walking. she sways elegantly on the side walk, does'nt matter if she is in a track suit or a business suit, her walk always has a sharp expression and femininity to it.
Tia is all what a modern woman is! A working professional, great mom to three handsome sons and an excellent homemaker. Now we'll talk about her famous green thumb.
gardening seems to be a serious passtime for her. I was always amused by the way she made it look like cake walk. While I toiled in the backyard trying to find a perfect place for my button rose, Tia would sway in and point me a place.
"Look at that spot in the corner, that'd be perfect!" she'd exclaim, and I being one of the dummies in the "gardening for dummies" agree meekly.
Her garden advice is always right. If she aske me not to plant mums in the front yard, she does so for a reason. The plants she shared with me and planted in my backyard always thrived better than the ones my family planted.
Her backyard bustles with peaches and roses. Strawberries are picked seasonally, peach preserve is made from the outrageous yeild of her peach trees and slender white roses adorn her breakfast table most days of the week.
Her honey suckles always grow stronger and bloom better, her apples are juicier and her Dhalias are always brighter.
Tia has the greenest thumb on the block and her simple but effective style of gardening is proof. Whether it is her swaying "cat walk" or the Calla Lillies that bloom in her backyard, this woman has style that is paired with a secret spell she uses on her green friends.

Saturday, April 30, 2005

When I have started

....speaking anout photographic memory, Why shoul'dnt I just go ahead and recite (read type) a poem from my third grade??
Thanks Sr. gracy, your teachings prove effcetive after so long ( I do't want to mention how long, in fear of feeling old)

Little fairy comes at night,
Her eyes are blue , her hair is brown
With silver spots upon her wings
And from the moon she flutters down

She has a little silver wand
And when a good child goes to bed,
she waves her wand from right to left
And makes a circle over her head.

And then it dreams of pleasant things
Of fountains filled with fairy fish
And trees that bear delecious fruits
And bow their branches at a wish

Or aurbors filled with densy secnts
From lovely flowers that never fade
Broght flies glitter in the sun
Glow worms shining in the shade
Or talking birds with gifted tongues
For singing songs and telling tales.

Does the ending seem absurd? I wish there was a way to double check how well I remember the poem.
I should add that the line "Or aurbors filled with densy secnts" makes a lot more sense to me know, after knowing what an arbor actually is.

Maggie cuts her hair.

Any ICSE students who passed out ICSE during 1992-1998 will know what I am talking about.
I do not have a photographic memory, but Maggie, straignt from my seventh grade english text, was a living, breathing character for me back then.
"maggie cuts her hair" was an exerpt form a book called "The Mill on the Floss" by George Eliot. I wish I'd remembered the actual name of the author. George Eliot is her (yes, HER) psudonym.
So Maggie and her Brother tom and a bunch of aunts and uncles and her dad came into my life one pleasant morning. Our english teacher Ms. S taught us the lesson in an unforgettable way. This little girl maggie attempts to cut her hair(and actually succeeds with the help of her Brother Tom) She just does it not to look good or anything, She does it for validation, for making her uncles and aunts and her family think that she was clever.
I realted to Maggie. I probably did a lot of things for validation, for approval and for impressing others. Does everyone do it or is it just me??
Anyhows, Maggie left an impression on me. I still remember her form late early 90s and I think I will for sometime to come.
Now I know what I need to read next - "The Mill On the Floss" by George Eliot.
I know it is going to stir a lot of childhood memories, and that should probably generate a lot of nostalgic blogs.
Maggie sets her impression on a 12 year girl, long enough to sustain it through her twenties, by just cutting her hair. I wish it were that simple to make a lasting impression on someone's mind.

Cheek bones.

I read it in Allure this week about creating the illusion of cheekbones. Then I see some actress on TV wondering how to get her cheekbones "exposed" she sucks her cheeks in a pouts..but the coveted cheekbones fail to appear on her chubby cheeks. Then I read reviews about the oscars and somebody opines that Gwyneth paltrow's face is not as angled as it was before (from her post partom weight gain)
Ok, so what is it about cheekbones? Is it really as "in" as cleavage or botox infused lips?? Well, Then I see Malika arora Khan on the small screen, performing a steamy item number with our very own Shahrukh khan and the thing that stood out in her was not her pencil thin bod or her scandalous outfit. CHeekbones ofcourse! Her brown face looks so enigmatic with a sharply curved jawline and Cheek bones. She did'nt have to suck her cheeks in. She just had to purse her lips and pout. Lo and behold, you see one of the classic faces that had graced the silver screen. (I somehow find her teeth funny though! Ya, Jealousy thy name is woman)
Waheeda Rehman, Demi moore and Liz hurley are some names that come to mind when I think cheekbones. They really do make a difference and that's why they are so in.
I look at my five year old snap in search of cheekbones, I find them and actually find myself a lot more defined than I am today with my full face.
Next time I see someone striking somewhere, I'm sure to look for that angle, that structure that makes anyone's face a piece of art. If I have to look for them on my face, I better read Allure again.

Friday, April 29, 2005

On starting somewhere.

Have been lazy for the past four days. I did something else instead of what I was supposed to be doing. Have just painted my nails. I rediscovered a shade from my nailpolish stash. The one that I thought would be too garrish on me a couple of months ago. This one looks like my holy grail color , the one that is neutral, sophisticated and matches all my moods and outfits. For a change I am stacking a couple of diamond rings on my left hand and after trying that bare Escentuals hand creme in ULTA, I think, I really have diamond ready hands. I am so much for neutral nail colors.
Speaking of colors I always thought pink is My color, and probably white too. I get more compliments when i am in pink and or white. I should make a conscious effort to incorporate these colors into my wardrobe.
I looked at Max the other day, (when he put his 100 ponds on my feet and asked me to pat him. He looked majestic with his chocolate fur and auburn eyes) trying to find a perfect word to describe his color. Well, how can a chocolate lab be described, other than the word chocolate. I duuno. But I want to find another way of describing his deep hue. I think he is such a handsom guy.
I look at the hollyhocks in the backyard, blooming with rigor, Their color can be described as a burgundy maroon. I look at them and think of describing them differently. Probably calling them the color of afully ripe pomogranate seeds or red wine that I tasted in the vinery the other day.
How can I describe the color of the lawn in our front yard for instance, ya, Green ofcourse. But I really want to find another way of describing it, something that captures the true essence of grass. Just not able to do it due to lack of creativity.
Am trying to describe the colors of some glimmers and glimpses for terry. I hope I'll be able to do a good job ( I need to get over the writer's block before I can attempt in the first place)
Trying to describe the Beetle CD player I have on my computer desk now. It is a bright matte yellow for most of us. For me it is palomino. Don't ask me what that means. It is the exact color of the palomino Dooney and Bourke hand bag I own and never use, in fear of ruining it.
Well, well, well, I wrote today and that is what matters. I just read my blog and am surprised at all the non sense I'd writeen. I think I am capable of it, well, I just proved it to myself and that is a reason enough to believe that I am capable of it.

Monday, April 25, 2005

Have a hunch.....

For all things positive. I have seen somuch of positivity today in a dear friend's life that I am convinced that this is the start of a series of positive things in progress.
Let's see if my tarot cards are telling the truth:-)

Sunday, April 24, 2005

Lest you be judged.

Was immensely irritated by all the judgements M passed this noon. Boy, when will people grow up???
People grow up, grow up!!! It is time you did.

On winning and losing.

S comes home with a long face, obviously disappointed about the lost cricket match. He was blaming the umpire.
Sweet lil S, I believe you when you say so, but why are we not mature enough to accept defeat with grace????
(reminds me of how I though my Geography teacher Ms.Shilpa was partial towards a particular guy in the class which made me second in performance all the time:-, but hello, that was fifteen years ago!!!)))

On the exitement of......

....Recognising a composition as rag Kedar and actually being right abou it. The thing to feel proud about is that I remember a couple more songs that are based on this raag. Achievement enough to feel better about myself. I am taking music much more seriously now. Mrs. M, here I come!!!

On love of music.

Music had been an integral part of my being. My memories of singing go back to my preschool days. Thought I never knew or have any documented evidence of how well I sang, I for sure know that I was'nt very bad at it.
My breif stint of learning carnatic music started when I was twelve and ended when I was twelve and a half. At the risk of blowing my own trumpet, I should say my teacher was considerably impressed by the way I sing. Inspite of liking music and singing jingles and movie songs seriously ,I never felt drawn towards learning music as an art form.
My music teacher, an old man who walked with a hump, had a full head of white hair that almost resembled that of Pope Benedict paired with a non chalant face. His lessons were precise and professional but he was'nt animated or articulate about what he thought. His compliments were bland though his complaints were straight forward and outright rude. Needless to say this man was an ordeal that I went thru three days of a week. One day, amma probably thought she was forcing me and told me to stop learning if I wished to stop.
The following class, I went to him and told him that I was quitting. He rigorously shook his head and said okay and left without giving me a chance to react. No matter how much I hated sitting thru the class, I was disappointed by the way he walked out, not caring to ask me why I was quitting!!!
I never knew what I quit until after a decade.
The silver jubilee year of my life made me make some decisions to commemmorate it. Some wise and some foolish ones. The foolish decision was that I decided to get my ears double pierced and the wise decision was that I decided to pursue music as an art form.
The teacher I went to was nothing like the teacher I learnt carnatic music. She is an articulate lady who makes animated conversations and made Hindustani music look like a cake walk. She shows her approval with smiles and narrates interesting anecdotes about a particular raga or composition. I have realiesd that music is a natural part of me and I look at it as a form of self expression. I sing while doing laundry, while cooking, while gardening, in the shower and while I am doing daily chores. I listen to music all the time and am doing that even when I am writing this blog. I am convinced that quitting my carnatic class 12 years ago was one of the biggest bloopers of my life. I look back at my life in a "what if" mode.
What if I had continued learning with that old man???
I'd have learnt for 5-6 years of my life, dedicating a major part of it to learn, practise and master the nuances of classical music. I'd have enriched my life, felt the theraputic influences of music on my life, I'd have been a better person, more assured of what I am and what I want, I'd have had the satisfaction of doing someting worthwhile with the most important years of my life and ofcourse I'd have sung like my little sister, sometimes for an audience and sometimes for myself. I'd have also, probably, influenced my peers to experience the magi of music.
It pains my heart to see the five year old student who comes to learn Hindusatani. I am just about two decades late, but I am glad that I did'nt make it any more late than what it was.

Saturday, April 23, 2005

Buffai's wisdom.

My hardly two year old niece is a prodigy in her own right.
She sings songs and actually converses anf thinks fluently in our mother tongue.

My sis was in the hospital to deliver her second child.

Buffai and her father wait in the corridor.

Buffai looks around, spots an aquarium and goes closer to get a better look.

Some of the fish have huge fins that are tangled.
"they don't brush their hair ever, that's why it they are tangled, they need to buy a comb" Buffai seemed to explain to her dad.

a Kid's perspecitve.

Over heard on the bus (while I was coming back to my town, crossing the river)

Son: (about 4 years old) points to the new bridge that was built on the river and goes "Mom, Look a rainbow!!"

****The arched bridge is a treat to watch!!!****

Mom: "That is not a rainbow son, that is a bridge!!

Son: (pauses for a while, cogitates and wonders aloud ) " why does the bridge look like a rainbow???"

Mom: It just looks that way (is confused and could'nt give any better answer!)

a few minutes pass and I was waiting for the little guy to say something.

Son: "mom, so a bridge means a raingbow right???"

I was amused and chuckled loud enough without realising the mother was looking in my direction. I look at her and out eyes meet.
We exchange a smile.

A boy named Happy.

Happy bought a lot of happiness into the household. I remember the exact moments when he was born. I was seven and akka was 9.
I did'nt like Happy the first time I saw him. A 10 pound something bonny baby wrapped in a homemade quilt.(that grandmom made out of her irritatingly soft voil sarees) He was not given a name yet. He looked in all directions and could not hold his eyeballs for more than 10 seconds without squinting. happy was absolutely bald with no trace of hair on his head. He had pronounced features and a cute pouty mouth and a complexion that became the envy and admiration of his elder sister's friends within no time.
Happy was a very happy baby. He was the attention grabber every where we went. People used to take him from amma's hands in temples, movie theaters and restaurants. He was cute as a kitten and a button and my eyes shone with pride every time a friend came to visit and could'nt get over his natural charm.
Happy was a menace once he became a toddler. We slowly started discovering he is a left hander. He ate from his left hand, played soccer with his left foot, banged into his peers' faces with his left fist.
Happy used to sing "ayeyya suku suku" from Junglee and looked like a mini Shammi kapoor.
Happy started growing thick, black curly hair. His cherubic face was framed with a square jaw and a perfectly sharp nose. His lips were pouty, baby lips dripping with innocence.
I remember an outfit he wore and the way he looked in that outfit. A blue and white striped sleevless T with matching shorts. His chubby biceps bulged at the seams of the shirt and his fat feet looked like they were carved out of marble. Happy had a particular fascination with little babies and he thought they were dolls. Amma saved a couple of babies from his iron fists on a couple of occasions and decided to buy him a doll so that mothers around the neighborhood, including her own sister that had the little baby, accepted her into their circle.
Happy had an imaginary blue puppy in his world and I ised to make him do everything he would otherwise never do by promising him that his cute little Blue puppy will be his birthday present. Happy loved icecream and playing with water like most of the toddlers his age and he had a face bursting with expression. happy was also fascinated about having a mustache and I sometimes used to sketch black mush around his face to make him happy.
Santosh my happy brother is 21 now, officially an adult and is atleast 5 inches taller than me. He speaks a lot of sense about books and movies and computers (he is a computer engineer) he has a tan face now, filled with numerous pimples (just like the way I was sometime ago) and his square jaw ans sharp nose still stand out in his face. You can miss him in a crowd and get annoyed when he offers his left hand for a handshake (out of sheer habit). But talk to him, get to know him and understand what he really is and you will love him as much as I do.

Confessions of a God knows WHO.

"The edges are not done well enough" I think to myself while I say "awesome job" aloud. I am obviously trying to make my friend feel good, but my passion for perfection never lets me overlook miniscule details.

"The floor could have been cleaner, the performance could have been better, the direction could have been more creative, the ending of a particular movie could have been more sensible, Kavita Krishna murthy could have sung that song with more expression, Aishwary rai could have been a little more real (Ahem, do men find her appealing?? ) How can Ekta Kappoor be so senseless in her plots?? Why doesn't Santu put more hours pracitising his RC? why does Geets never read anything? Oh my god, somebody ask sarat to brush up his grammar, he is driving me to the wall with his communication skills.
These are a few things that cross my mind in an average day. Linda Goodman says Virgos are critical, Virgos are perfectionsits. But more often than not, virgos are self critical too.
I should admit that I fail to distinguish between being critical and being perfect sometimes. I never can never wear an uncordinated PJ with a Tshirt though I don't make any public apperances in them. If a dress fails to convince me that I look good and most importantly comfortable in it, it never sees the light of the day. I hate when people scratch when they write, I hate it when someone is not professional enough on SA RE GA MA and I hate it when Annu Malik thinks he is the next best thing that has happened to Movie goers and music listeners after Kishore da and sings his own compositions (which are plagarised half of the times and are plagarised so not convincingly) I hate it when bhoomika chawla doesnt lip sinc well enough to convince us that she sang the song. I hate when aloo is not fried evenly or when the seasoning in the dal is over roasted.
I painted the room downstairs and could not do the edges any better than my friend. I do not sing any well or equally well as some of those bad participants in SA RE GA MA. I do not pronounce any thing any better than my music teacher (and I think to myself why in the name of God does she say Pralhad for Prahlad??) I do not co-ordinate my interior decoration any better than all of my friends. I don't usually make sure every miniscule spot it the grout has disappeared before I remove my gloves and put away my cleaners. I am not perfect, I am not the person who does everything the way it has to be done.
I like harmony in my sorroundings. I consciously avoid talking gibberish. I think I am mostly considerate and empathetic about people's views and shortcomings. Then why do I always spot out the hair strands on someone's livingroom carpet and the wrong usage of articles in someone's day to day conversations??
Am I being a perfectionist, a critique or a hypocrite???
Am I just being who I am or trying to be who I'm not??
Am I confused, depressed or being hard to please??
Am I being reasonable??? Am I ?????

Thursday, April 21, 2005


He wakes up early in the morning. You are wrong if you think he'll fall into the category of "early to bed, early to rise". "Working" is the theme of his life. Actually, you can look at him as a young, handsome man with a generous dose of sensitivity, sensibility and a sheer passion to find something to do, every second of his waking hours.
He grabs his morning cup of tea and no, he doesn't watch "Good Morning America" or read the wall street joural (he subscribes for it and reads it in the loo!)while sipping his tea. He heads into the backyard and attempts to make some minute but needed changes. The cactuses are replanted, the roses pruned or the weeds pulled. He fertilises the lawn, feeds the shrubs or sweeps the concrete. No no, he's not a gardener, he's just passionate about gardening.
He comes in. cleans his cup 99% of the time. He grabs a paper towel and tries to clean the sink. He casually reaches for the surface cleaner, sprays it on the island and makes sure the grout is as clean as it was when he bought his house. He wipes the wooden floor, takes the garbage out, cleans and scrubs his tub every other day, washes and irons his towels like a pro, makes sure the mirror above the sink doesnt have any splashes from his brushing or shaving. He dusts the railings and blinds, vaccums the carpet, mops the floors and polishes the cabinets. His front porch is always immaculate, his clothes are always pressed though his toilet seat is not always down. He is not a house keeper, but he is just pasionate about housekeeping.
He works with computers. He develops programs, writes user guides, designs graphics, manages people over the phone, works odd hours to co ordinate with his off shore team mates, stretches his limits, meets deadlines, makes presentaions and plays clean politics. He finds time to educate all and sundry about the latest developments in his field, counsels techie wannabes, boosts ambitions, forwards resumes and sometimes ends up helping the resumes find a suitable job. He is definitely not a robot, he is just a workaholic.

Tuesday, April 19, 2005

Memories of a School girl.

Being in an all girls school was a great relief. It was nice to be away from boys. there were scandals, but those that cropped out of insecurities and ego problems.
The open terrace that overlooked a humongous barren ground stirred a lot of emotions in the young teenager. Stray cattle grazing, street children playing marbles and lots of weeds met the eye when I looked at the expanse of the ground. The building was very retro, located on a height. One of the classrooms I studied had the railway track overlooking the window. We had a pleasant view of our town from the windows. Everything looked picturesque and peaceful. It was probably the way I looked at it than the way it actually was.
The biggest delight was to see girls everywhere! Big, small, the ill dress, the well dressed, the good , the bad and the outright rude. It was a treat to watch white and green clad girls all about the place.
This place did'nt look even close to how St. Anns looked. The majestic school building, the portico with a statue of virgin mary, school kids reflecting their status and their culture. Girls in pony tails and perfectly manicured fingers, guys with ironed uniforms and small time mopeds, a huge bycycle stand, rickshaws, cars and two wheelers that flood the campus once the day ends, well maintained lawns, roses and marigolds that bloomed in unision, cute faces, huge trees, the teacher quarters to one end of the premisis, the restrooms that were thrown away form the main structure, water taps that were buzzling with noisy queues, screams that echo in the air, birds chirping at a distance, srushes, loveletters and infatuations, SPL elections, strict teachers, funny teachers and weird teachers, early morning pravers, PT classes on fridays, long lunch breaks, guys skating in the corridors, textured walls, cathedral ceilings, huge windows, tough competetions, heavy books , boring classes, Gujjus, punjus, bongs and mallus, Busses that came from ILTD, ONGC and Dowleiswaram....the list goes on.

Browny the dog and Geeta the brat.

Browny was never a poodle. We thought she was one. She was a furbaby with an attitide. I later on discovered that she was a sheep dog.
She was an extremely arrogant pet (I heard that sheep dogs are very aggressive!) but her appearance was a contra entry to her attitude.
Her fur was not wiry like the pomeranian Ceaser (Seezu for all of us) that lived at the end of our street. She had extremely soft fUr that tangled at the drop of a hat. Amma used to periodically cut her fur to keep it managable and trim her hair around the eyes to make her vision clear.
Browny never let anyone pat her unless she wanted them to and she never wanted anyone to look at her, let alone pat!
Browny was extremely finiky about what she ate. She loved idlis and got restless at the smell of them. She did crazy things for a dog. She ate raw cabbage with great relish and she begged for coconut. The cutest thing she did was ate corn on the cob with perfect precision. ( I hope animal activists dont sue me for mentiong all the things she ate, but in my country this is the way pets eat, thought they do not eat all what Browny ate, they do eat food that the household cooks and not some pet food packaged by pedigree)
My friend Avi thought Browny would have an identity crisis as she is a "she" and she has a boy name. Well, I'll talk about Avi again.

For now I have to talk about the brat. When I look back now, Geeta and Browny had a lot of things in common. Geeta had the same naive appearance and the same not so friendly attitude. She was extremely finiky about what she ate. She was small and cute just like browny and both of them were brats.
Browny used to get into a sumo wrestling kind of fight with the pillows. I never figured whether it was some kind of a passtime for her or she was just venting out her frustrations:-)
Geeta always meddled with people, always forced people to react to what she did. She never let any one ignore her. She was first to get on to every one's nerves. Browny bit people all the time, she barked uncontrolably at people and kids who were scared of her, she lived her life like a lion though she was just a little doggie that looked like a lively stuff toy.
Geeta and Browny came to mind when I saw Sea biscuit and Toby McGuire on screen the other day. Art immitates life, and sometimes you find striking similarities between humans and animals-)

The sPiscean.

Amma coined this title for me, specially to address the new person in my life.
'what does your spicean say???" she used to ask me casually.
She was extremely good about giving nicknames (I'll discuss that in another blog) but sPiscean stemmed form two words, the actual word and the word Picean. This guy's zodiac is Pices and his father is a spice merchant - so the word spicean. I thought it was extremely clever of her. (yay I did, and I was 18 yrs old if you are wondering how old I was to think my amma was clever!!!)
So Spicean, the guy who swept me away by my feet is all what a teenage girl would want in a boy or a boy friend to be more precise, though I never admitted it to myself that it's have been nice if he were my boyfriend. He had remarkable features and chuckled everytime he wanted to laugh or even smile. He had a child like quality about him that left me extremely fascinated. He had been a tremendous influence on me and I had shared some of the best and worst years of my life with him. I really wonder why I never took his proposals seriously! (worth another blog)
So spicean is this , that and what not. I look back at him , not as a crush but a person who taught me what unconditional love is. We did'nt speak the same language, we did'nt come from the same background and we did'nt meet in a proper way. We just bumped into each other and it all happened.
I always count him somewhere in my list of blessings. Time has changed a lot of things, but I still smile when I think of my Spiscean.

What can be done???

My fascination for spectacles dates back to 1996. I was this independent , working teenager employed by the largest employer in Asia. I took a lot of pride in what I did though it was just answering questions on a bunch of madly ringing phones about train timings and punching platform tickets and marking the hour issed with a reynolds pen.
I was working on night shifts and decided that it was time I get my eyes checked.
Without much ado, I went to get them checked. To my utter delight I was prescribed glasses. (though the power I had was almost normal) They probably made me look twice as wise as I really am, or twice as appealing. My love affair with specs started at that time.
A few months passed and I was sick and tired of a frame sitting on the bridge of my nose. I slowly fell out of love with glasses.
Ok, a few years passed and my love was born again. This time in 2001 in a totally different piece of land. I got my first pair of glasses here and then my second and then my third. The doc says I have astigmatism. I never wear them when I am supposed to wear (that is when I watch TV and drive) but I alway carry them to the movies. I have a glasses curse though. I lost my third pair of glasses a couple of days ago. I need to trace them out. I need to go to the movies soon. Valentina is going to ask me to accompany her sometime soon.
Teens became twenties and my fascination for glasses has not died out a bit. I wear them for all the wrong reasons, forget them in the wrong places and always end up choosing the wrong styles. Movies and glasses are married though and I am convinced that they are:-)

Che sara sara.

"che sara sara" she crooned in full throated ease.
This third grader had a lot of attitude. Brown , short, short tempered and frail are a few words I can use to describe her. Something about her hair made me wonder if amma picked her up from the nearby anglo community. She had supersoft hair, always tangled, Rock starry looking. It was light auburn and every time I saw some pop singer on TV I was invariably thinking of this girl.
The similarity does'nt end with the hair. She sounded like a pop star too. (in terms of attitude that is!) I do not have any problem in admitting that she was good at what she did.
Her performance on stage was remarkable. Her hair was piled into some kind of a knot, a very unkempt knot. She was probably meddling with her hairdo backstage. (well, how long can a third grader wait for her turn without being upto something???)Red lipstick applied carelessly to her mouth made her look funny. I think she wore a red and white saree in Kerala style. (Her mallu Sister's influence)
"Che sara sara" became her signature. She sang this one left right and center. She won many hearts, bored that many souls (myself included) and made a statement about herself. This independent, confident litte girl had an aura about her.
My many blogs will be talking about the memories I have about this little one. She is really a star for me.