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.