This is how a tiny little angel (from the pre-k class I volunteer) with cherub cheeks, hailing form the country of Pyramids and Pharos, wrote her name on her art work, post a mile long vacation to her homeland.
A M L A S
:-))
Tuesday, February 01, 2011
Meaning
Today, I was introduced to yet another joy of facebooking - Controversial comments! Ahem, and I apparently made one such disgusting, demeaning and un-parliamentary (so what does this word mean anyway? something that is not appropriate to use in a parliament? - if so, why do they often compare ours to the fish market? I wonder aloud!) comment about women belonging to a certain state. I looked at one of these wedding pics a dear friend posted, looked at the stunning bride and said in all genuineness, that "Malyalee girls are hot!" Before I go further, I just have to acknowledge that I am not the kind of person that would say something nice or otherwise without meaning it. I had the good fortune in recent years, though I was mentored by a school of Malyalee Nuns in my childhood, to realize that these women are well read, well bred and good-looking all at the same time.
Enters a man who e-shouts at me - that the OCCASION doesn't warrant such comments and I should 'understand' this as a 'woman'. At first I thought there was some miscommunication - since the ever wordy yours truly who cannot say a simple phrase in less than 500 words happened to reply in all the lengthy glory, which contained a lot of negations to convey an utterly positive observation, as a response to the friend's playful feedback to the alleged unparlimentary comment.
Then, I panicked - I think - ever so slightly, since what my general physician said about my recent jaw pain and doc's visit was ever so slightly true and I do, in reality have some mild anxiety that comes as a side effect of having a over active toddler and a job that offers no fiscal benefits and loads of physical deficits, or because I have this OCD of a guilt complex that only a fellow sufferer of 'middle child syndrome' could empathize with.
I read and reread and then took the aid of the kid sister who chanced to call at the same moment when the concoction of ever so slight panic and middle child syndrome occurred. "The dude got offended by your "Hot" comment she offered which put me in a 'lack of reaction' mode. I could not, for once, figure if I had to laugh my heads off or feel sorry for the self appointed etiquette police on planet Facebook.
My brother once came home, post the 'Slumdog' fever, form a trip to a shopping strip in San Francisco and related to me a story about a co-shopper, who walked to him, confirmed that he's indeed Indian, and told him that "The hot little thing" in Slumdog is giving him sleepless nights and in his 'halo effect' mindset and said that he wants to go to India and fall in love with all the women! My brother managed a thank you I guess - and came home and told me the story as if he were Aishwarya rai's brother and was just relating to his sister, the extremely memorable and endearing compliment a very enthusiastic fan had urged him to convey. He didn't see anything unparlimentary about the words, hot OR little thing - and neither did I. I am thankful - since, had he been the self appointed police of 'saving the grace of Indian women' the guy would have though very highly of the Indian Gentry :-D
I feel the necessity to mention here, that on a site like facebook, where every one and their neighbor's forefathers have more friends than humans I'd ever seen in my three decades of living, you say a thing and it gets noticed more often for what it is perceived to be, than for what it is. I have this extremely funny younger friend who finds endless humor in 'gay' related statuses and comments. Though I am not a whole generation older, some of his observations come across more as 'cheeky' than funny. Like I said, I have an OCD guilt complex and often wonder how a 'fighting with the sexuality, still in the woodworks person' might get effected by that humor. I once happened to watch a telugu movie that was a mega hit in it's times for a comedy that ridicules speech impediments. By a strange twist of fate, we watched it with a neighbor that had stuttering issues and I could not, for the life of me, get to understand how a full house could go into a mass hysteria of laughter that is aimed at a handicap. I am probably in the minority and would be branded as a 'holier than thou' snob but Back on track - I would personally not make humor targeted at a certain group, but I do have the dignity to keep my opinions and judgments to myself when I am not asked for them and when the said 'comedy' is being expressed on people's own walls and blogs. So, why would anyone get offended if I called a certain group of women 'hot' in a space other than his, under a picture other than his, and a senior, well respected, head on shoulders member of the same fraternity seems to have taken it as a beaming compliment?" I fail to understand.
Like some wise soul opined in one of her blogs recently - "that people attach their own egos to what is being said - and seldom take things like they are meant to be, or it is just the fact that we are so engrossed in finding faults with every thing we set our eyes on, that we forget our boundaries of grace. I say that being judgmental is the worst thing anyone could do - and I just did that worst thing by saying what I just said. But Hey, I am trying to make a point here - meaning, like beauty, lies in the eyes and mind of the beholder.
Enters a man who e-shouts at me - that the OCCASION doesn't warrant such comments and I should 'understand' this as a 'woman'. At first I thought there was some miscommunication - since the ever wordy yours truly who cannot say a simple phrase in less than 500 words happened to reply in all the lengthy glory, which contained a lot of negations to convey an utterly positive observation, as a response to the friend's playful feedback to the alleged unparlimentary comment.
Then, I panicked - I think - ever so slightly, since what my general physician said about my recent jaw pain and doc's visit was ever so slightly true and I do, in reality have some mild anxiety that comes as a side effect of having a over active toddler and a job that offers no fiscal benefits and loads of physical deficits, or because I have this OCD of a guilt complex that only a fellow sufferer of 'middle child syndrome' could empathize with.
I read and reread and then took the aid of the kid sister who chanced to call at the same moment when the concoction of ever so slight panic and middle child syndrome occurred. "The dude got offended by your "Hot" comment she offered which put me in a 'lack of reaction' mode. I could not, for once, figure if I had to laugh my heads off or feel sorry for the self appointed etiquette police on planet Facebook.
My brother once came home, post the 'Slumdog' fever, form a trip to a shopping strip in San Francisco and related to me a story about a co-shopper, who walked to him, confirmed that he's indeed Indian, and told him that "The hot little thing" in Slumdog is giving him sleepless nights and in his 'halo effect' mindset and said that he wants to go to India and fall in love with all the women! My brother managed a thank you I guess - and came home and told me the story as if he were Aishwarya rai's brother and was just relating to his sister, the extremely memorable and endearing compliment a very enthusiastic fan had urged him to convey. He didn't see anything unparlimentary about the words, hot OR little thing - and neither did I. I am thankful - since, had he been the self appointed police of 'saving the grace of Indian women' the guy would have though very highly of the Indian Gentry :-D
I feel the necessity to mention here, that on a site like facebook, where every one and their neighbor's forefathers have more friends than humans I'd ever seen in my three decades of living, you say a thing and it gets noticed more often for what it is perceived to be, than for what it is. I have this extremely funny younger friend who finds endless humor in 'gay' related statuses and comments. Though I am not a whole generation older, some of his observations come across more as 'cheeky' than funny. Like I said, I have an OCD guilt complex and often wonder how a 'fighting with the sexuality, still in the woodworks person' might get effected by that humor. I once happened to watch a telugu movie that was a mega hit in it's times for a comedy that ridicules speech impediments. By a strange twist of fate, we watched it with a neighbor that had stuttering issues and I could not, for the life of me, get to understand how a full house could go into a mass hysteria of laughter that is aimed at a handicap. I am probably in the minority and would be branded as a 'holier than thou' snob but Back on track - I would personally not make humor targeted at a certain group, but I do have the dignity to keep my opinions and judgments to myself when I am not asked for them and when the said 'comedy' is being expressed on people's own walls and blogs. So, why would anyone get offended if I called a certain group of women 'hot' in a space other than his, under a picture other than his, and a senior, well respected, head on shoulders member of the same fraternity seems to have taken it as a beaming compliment?" I fail to understand.
Like some wise soul opined in one of her blogs recently - "that people attach their own egos to what is being said - and seldom take things like they are meant to be, or it is just the fact that we are so engrossed in finding faults with every thing we set our eyes on, that we forget our boundaries of grace. I say that being judgmental is the worst thing anyone could do - and I just did that worst thing by saying what I just said. But Hey, I am trying to make a point here - meaning, like beauty, lies in the eyes and mind of the beholder.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Original!
"Hey Alex*- how are you? " I inquire enthusiastically as he comes and pulls a chair opposite to mine.
"You remember me?" he asks - without looking surprised!
"Of course I do!" I add wondering if he remembers me.
He lookes like he remembers me, or may be he doesn't care to remember... or care to remember if he rememberes!
He has that same carelessness about him - but a tenderness masked in that carelessness.
He pulls a sheet from the pile that is stacked in front of me.. I try to help him get it without rummaging the stack. He shoots a look at me with his mouth pursed tightly and his eyebrows knotted and pulls the sheet with all his might. I let go in fear of tearing the sheet into two. He lets out a carefully concealed smile but quickly goes back to his grumpy expression.
I get lost in the things I need to finish at the table - and when I look in his direction I let out a little shriek...
"What are you trying to do?" I ask him without sounding too bossy! "This is not how you do it!"
He shoots back that same disdainful look at me. A look that I try not take personally. He pauses a couple of seconds and holds on to the craft work tightly.
" I want to do it my way!" he almost yells.
" Your way?" I question back helplessly. Looking at a supposed snowman - that looks like a pile of unclean dishes with food drying on them. The embellishments that need to go on the snowman are probably dumped into a pool of glue and scattered with the hand. The hat stuck to the center with some feathers that are soaked in Elmer's washable glue.
I give up. I cannot really win with this kid! He has a very strong mind of his very own.
"All done" he smiles and walks with careless aplomb to put it on the drying rack.
The Following day:
"Hey Alex! How are you this afternoon" I question like a hyper door to door salesperson.
He doesn't answer. He just looks back at me with a pouty mouth and knit eyebrows. I smile and he makes a silly face at me. I look to my sides to see if anyone noticed his making fun of me.
"Never mind!" I say aloud. " DO you want to come and make a penguin?"
He doesn't answer. He grabs the sheet and attempts to cut the outline.
I look away to help the other kids at the table.
By the time I look back he has what looks like a Halloween ghost cut-out in his hand, instead of the "rounded at the edges" rectangle.
"let me trim it for you" I offer.
"NO" he yells. "This is his hair" he say pointing to a horn like protrusion on the 'supposed to be penguin' craft work.
Then he glues the eyes to make it look like a couple of belly buttons stacked in the center of the stomach.
"My way" he pouts mischievously.
"Is this a monster you made here?" I ask in funny mockery.
"It is a penguin silly" he snaps back and glides to the drying rack.
The 'supposed to be penguin' leers through a row of actual penguins grabbing my attention just like this little guy does in a class full of cute toddlers.
"I want to do it my way" I over hear him saying.
He is a menace, but an original menace!
God bless creativity!
:-)
*identity changed!
"You remember me?" he asks - without looking surprised!
"Of course I do!" I add wondering if he remembers me.
He lookes like he remembers me, or may be he doesn't care to remember... or care to remember if he rememberes!
He has that same carelessness about him - but a tenderness masked in that carelessness.
He pulls a sheet from the pile that is stacked in front of me.. I try to help him get it without rummaging the stack. He shoots a look at me with his mouth pursed tightly and his eyebrows knotted and pulls the sheet with all his might. I let go in fear of tearing the sheet into two. He lets out a carefully concealed smile but quickly goes back to his grumpy expression.
I get lost in the things I need to finish at the table - and when I look in his direction I let out a little shriek...
"What are you trying to do?" I ask him without sounding too bossy! "This is not how you do it!"
He shoots back that same disdainful look at me. A look that I try not take personally. He pauses a couple of seconds and holds on to the craft work tightly.
" I want to do it my way!" he almost yells.
" Your way?" I question back helplessly. Looking at a supposed snowman - that looks like a pile of unclean dishes with food drying on them. The embellishments that need to go on the snowman are probably dumped into a pool of glue and scattered with the hand. The hat stuck to the center with some feathers that are soaked in Elmer's washable glue.
I give up. I cannot really win with this kid! He has a very strong mind of his very own.
"All done" he smiles and walks with careless aplomb to put it on the drying rack.
The Following day:
"Hey Alex! How are you this afternoon" I question like a hyper door to door salesperson.
He doesn't answer. He just looks back at me with a pouty mouth and knit eyebrows. I smile and he makes a silly face at me. I look to my sides to see if anyone noticed his making fun of me.
"Never mind!" I say aloud. " DO you want to come and make a penguin?"
He doesn't answer. He grabs the sheet and attempts to cut the outline.
I look away to help the other kids at the table.
By the time I look back he has what looks like a Halloween ghost cut-out in his hand, instead of the "rounded at the edges" rectangle.
"let me trim it for you" I offer.
"NO" he yells. "This is his hair" he say pointing to a horn like protrusion on the 'supposed to be penguin' craft work.
Then he glues the eyes to make it look like a couple of belly buttons stacked in the center of the stomach.
"My way" he pouts mischievously.
"Is this a monster you made here?" I ask in funny mockery.
"It is a penguin silly" he snaps back and glides to the drying rack.
The 'supposed to be penguin' leers through a row of actual penguins grabbing my attention just like this little guy does in a class full of cute toddlers.
"I want to do it my way" I over hear him saying.
He is a menace, but an original menace!
God bless creativity!
:-)
*identity changed!
Thursday, January 06, 2011
Soft spot
A few years ago, when Titanic made all the hoopla after it's release, my then fiance called me up and told me how moved he was with the movie. I vowed to watch it with him, and thus, didn't really care to watch it till a couple of years later when we became a couple. Zack and Rose became these larger than life icons of true love and I did sit up and notice Leonardo DiCaprio and of course, Kate Winslett, the porcelain skinned, wholesome beauty. By wholesome, I don't mean chubby. I just mean that she is the perfect balance of a woman who didn't look particularly emaciated or perfectly beautiful. She was this tender, believable and lovable young lady with whom a free spirited boy like Zack would have fallen in love.
I noticed them, and then, like my usual self that cannot be in awe with a single thing for long enough - moved ahead with my life. I have a problem when people ask me what my favorite movie, actor, color, dish, restaurant or book would be. I don't pick favorites I say - or I just say that my favorites depend on a lot of things. For instance, if you ask me what my favorite color is, I'd say - My favorite color on the walls of my living room would be a minty, saga green and on my finger nails would be a nude, pinkish beige and on a sari it would vary from a delicate, organic off white to a deep, enigmatic navy blue. So - you get the idea! I cannot understand when people say their favorite actor is Shahrukh Khan or Paul Newman. I always like to keep my favorites unlocked so to speak. I like a lot of things and why I like them depends on a lot of things, so, I should give Leonardo DiCaprio the credit of holding my attention for a decade into noticing him all because of his one portrayal - and probably his debut - as a mentally challenged brother to a painfully young Johnny Depp. "What's eating Gilbert Grape" is a story that unfolds so realistically on the celluloid, and the raw talent of Leonardo only adds to the depth of the soul of the movie. If I am ever asked what acting means to me, I'd refer to that outstanding performance by Leonardo.
Like I said, I am very non-committal about favorites, but the DiCaprio lad haunts me from time to time. On one such haunting episodes, I googled him recently to find out that he is older to me. So - I can officially declare Leonardo as an actor who is my semi favorite. You might wonder why his being older to me would entitle him to that honor in my books - it is because I look at every one younger to me with an almost motherly attitude - probably because I was only the second oldest in a gang of a couple of dozen cousins and I grew up with these little siblings and cousins around me. So for me to be in awe with someone, that someone has to be older - so luckily for Leo, he still holds that 'soft spot' owing to his year of birth! LOL. My superiority complex would not allow me to look at anyone younger to me with a 'admiration' quotient. I only look at younger people with an older sisterly or motherly quotient.
I named my Nook e-book reader Leo. I'll probably own a sexy car one day and call 'him' Leo. If I get a chance, I'll name a baby boy (other than mine) Leo. Like I said, I don't believe in fanaticism...I just semi believe in it!
Sunday, January 02, 2011
Aptitude
We all seem to have it for certain things and lack it for others. Like I did for color. I had this huge aptitude for color. Actually color and words - and lacked it for spelling. Actually, spelling and numbers ( more for numbers). Right from my first grade, I knew my problem area. I seldom attended the Math class - mentally that is - and the few times I attended it, I didn't make heads or tails out of it. I hard wired my brain to refuse all data involving numbers so it was the biggest academic ordeal to by heart the multiplication tables and even till date, I take the aid of a calculator to do simple arithmetic. I spent the better part of my life hating numbers and proudly proclaiming to be a math atheist but when I look back now, I feel that it was just a mental trick I played on myself due to lack of understanding for the subject. There came a time in my academics when I couldn't afford to not like numbers and it is then that I kind of developed an aptitude for them only to shun them for ever after a deviation in my undergrad to language and literature.
Now I see a "mini me" in the making. My little daughter. She can sit and color and paint and write the alphabet and sing and dance for ever - but when asked to write the numbers, she doesn't refuse to learn but never really learns them the way they are supposed to be learned. "But I want to be an artist" she'd announce and whine and sulk till I let her get away without writing the numbers for me. Determined to make her develop an aptitude for numbers, I employed the logical half of the marriage to teach the kiddo some numbers - it resulted into a "Indian parliament in session" kind of scenario in the household for the past so many days. I see an otherwise cool dad rising his voice and an otherwise peace-loving child getting into wild argument and name calling. Helplessly, I intertwine and give the little lady and ultimatum that if she doesn't learn it form me, I'll look for places that she'd learn it from (read boarding schools)
I still am not successful to make her love numbers as yet, but it is a public promise that I shall - very soon! So all this drama gets me to think - Is there really something called aptitude, or is it just a pretty mask to disguise the laziness to learn things that need more than a quick scanning?? The answer is pretty simple if one ponders about it - just like we blame our mood on things we don't want to do/not do - we do take the pretext of aptitude as well. I once told a very intelligent friend of mine (who happens to be an Ivy league grad and Fellow in technology - that I am technically challenged and I don't really care for it) all this, during an internet chat! He was quick to bite back - "how can you use a medium so fondly and not like it?" he asked! "Liking something is all about making an attempt to know it for what it is" - I hold on to these words like a talisman, and the more I thought about what he said, the more similarities I found in prose, poetry, technology and numbers. writing a computer program is like writing a classic piece of poetry and solving a math problem is like creating characters in a novel - all these acts require brains and creativity. Come to think of it in a "knowing something before loving it perspective - how could I have loved the person I married if I had not made an attempt to know him in the first place? Right?? - Right! - so does aptitude really exist? May be it does - and so does determination, concentration, grit and conviction. I might never enjoy numbers as much as I do words, but that need not be a reason for being ignorant about numbers - so I'd say, inclination should rule over aptitude. It is said that we use only a minuscule part of our brain - may be we can increase the usage a wee bit more and we might not really have anything that we'd not enjoy. And the' girl things' and 'boy things' we divide tasks into is also a hopeless stigma - that is probably the reason why I love women who can repair a computer and men who can make yummy food.
I look back and regret why I didn't love numbers, and why I didn't pay heed to my intensely mathematical sister when she chased me around to teach me exponents. I'd have had a beautiful relationship with them and solving number problems would have probably taught me a thing or two about life itself - as a compensation I promise myself - I'll not let my daughter be a slave of aptitude. She'll know all and do what she loves the most - even if it means that I need to pop in a Tylenol for that stress induced headache to argue with a logic-less toddler over logical numbers. It's all in the game of parenting, living, making mistakes and learning!
Now I see a "mini me" in the making. My little daughter. She can sit and color and paint and write the alphabet and sing and dance for ever - but when asked to write the numbers, she doesn't refuse to learn but never really learns them the way they are supposed to be learned. "But I want to be an artist" she'd announce and whine and sulk till I let her get away without writing the numbers for me. Determined to make her develop an aptitude for numbers, I employed the logical half of the marriage to teach the kiddo some numbers - it resulted into a "Indian parliament in session" kind of scenario in the household for the past so many days. I see an otherwise cool dad rising his voice and an otherwise peace-loving child getting into wild argument and name calling. Helplessly, I intertwine and give the little lady and ultimatum that if she doesn't learn it form me, I'll look for places that she'd learn it from (read boarding schools)
I still am not successful to make her love numbers as yet, but it is a public promise that I shall - very soon! So all this drama gets me to think - Is there really something called aptitude, or is it just a pretty mask to disguise the laziness to learn things that need more than a quick scanning?? The answer is pretty simple if one ponders about it - just like we blame our mood on things we don't want to do/not do - we do take the pretext of aptitude as well. I once told a very intelligent friend of mine (who happens to be an Ivy league grad and Fellow in technology - that I am technically challenged and I don't really care for it) all this, during an internet chat! He was quick to bite back - "how can you use a medium so fondly and not like it?" he asked! "Liking something is all about making an attempt to know it for what it is" - I hold on to these words like a talisman, and the more I thought about what he said, the more similarities I found in prose, poetry, technology and numbers. writing a computer program is like writing a classic piece of poetry and solving a math problem is like creating characters in a novel - all these acts require brains and creativity. Come to think of it in a "knowing something before loving it perspective - how could I have loved the person I married if I had not made an attempt to know him in the first place? Right?? - Right! - so does aptitude really exist? May be it does - and so does determination, concentration, grit and conviction. I might never enjoy numbers as much as I do words, but that need not be a reason for being ignorant about numbers - so I'd say, inclination should rule over aptitude. It is said that we use only a minuscule part of our brain - may be we can increase the usage a wee bit more and we might not really have anything that we'd not enjoy. And the' girl things' and 'boy things' we divide tasks into is also a hopeless stigma - that is probably the reason why I love women who can repair a computer and men who can make yummy food.
I look back and regret why I didn't love numbers, and why I didn't pay heed to my intensely mathematical sister when she chased me around to teach me exponents. I'd have had a beautiful relationship with them and solving number problems would have probably taught me a thing or two about life itself - as a compensation I promise myself - I'll not let my daughter be a slave of aptitude. She'll know all and do what she loves the most - even if it means that I need to pop in a Tylenol for that stress induced headache to argue with a logic-less toddler over logical numbers. It's all in the game of parenting, living, making mistakes and learning!
Saturday, January 01, 2011
Newness.
It was very exciting starting new academic years. I'd wait for the class teacher to arrive and then know more about who else would teach us. It was a mad excitement to cover our books, get our school supplies and get ready for newness like never before. There was this anticipation to make things work better than the previous year, to score better and to learn better and to secretly wish that the teachers would love me better than my previous year. It was like a magical new beginning with a promise of freshness with no mistakes at all.
Much like New years now. A new year - tough it is just a mark of a new calendar - kindles a lot of hopes, aspirations and ambitions big and small. New ventures form in the grey cells. New hopes sprout in the form of firm resolutions - like wanting to rise before the sun, yearning to lose the flab around the midriff or giving up junk food or wishful thinking to learn to play an instrument or revisit Algebra and figure out why it really was a challenge back in school days. New years day sees the temples overflowing with devotees who flock around the Heavenly father to convince him to be on their side for the year to come. "New" - the buzz word becomes ubiquitous in all hearts and minds thereby encouraging new hopes. The second day of a brand new year dawns and the squeaky clean shine on the new year tarnishes ever so slightly - It isn't that new any more. Resolutions still go strong till about the time Valentine's day hurries in. The hopes, aspirations and expectations start exiting slowly but surely. The magic is gone, along with the newness. When the newness goes - most things lose magic - Cars, electronics, homes, fashion, food and even relationships. That is probably the reason why most magazines I read have "ten ways to put the zest back into your marriage" or "top three mistakes you make to drive your partner out". As a child I read a self help book that claimed to teach the readers how to stop worrying. "Live in day tight compartments" it said - urging the readers not to look beyond any give day. The idea is to make the most of the day you have on hand and not worry about what might happen ten years form now. In a similar fashion - if we probably start looking at each day as a new day, we'll have the zeal and the grit to make the most out of a brand new day - the one that is fresh without any mistakes - chances are we'll have a new hope each day, every day and the resolutions will stay put through mother's day, father's day, 4th of july, labor day, haloween, thanksgiving and Christmas. We'll not really have to wait till the magical new year to put some pizazz into our lives. Each day is new, each minute, each moment - enjoy responsibly - live fully, entirely!
Much like New years now. A new year - tough it is just a mark of a new calendar - kindles a lot of hopes, aspirations and ambitions big and small. New ventures form in the grey cells. New hopes sprout in the form of firm resolutions - like wanting to rise before the sun, yearning to lose the flab around the midriff or giving up junk food or wishful thinking to learn to play an instrument or revisit Algebra and figure out why it really was a challenge back in school days. New years day sees the temples overflowing with devotees who flock around the Heavenly father to convince him to be on their side for the year to come. "New" - the buzz word becomes ubiquitous in all hearts and minds thereby encouraging new hopes. The second day of a brand new year dawns and the squeaky clean shine on the new year tarnishes ever so slightly - It isn't that new any more. Resolutions still go strong till about the time Valentine's day hurries in. The hopes, aspirations and expectations start exiting slowly but surely. The magic is gone, along with the newness. When the newness goes - most things lose magic - Cars, electronics, homes, fashion, food and even relationships. That is probably the reason why most magazines I read have "ten ways to put the zest back into your marriage" or "top three mistakes you make to drive your partner out". As a child I read a self help book that claimed to teach the readers how to stop worrying. "Live in day tight compartments" it said - urging the readers not to look beyond any give day. The idea is to make the most of the day you have on hand and not worry about what might happen ten years form now. In a similar fashion - if we probably start looking at each day as a new day, we'll have the zeal and the grit to make the most out of a brand new day - the one that is fresh without any mistakes - chances are we'll have a new hope each day, every day and the resolutions will stay put through mother's day, father's day, 4th of july, labor day, haloween, thanksgiving and Christmas. We'll not really have to wait till the magical new year to put some pizazz into our lives. Each day is new, each minute, each moment - enjoy responsibly - live fully, entirely!
New Beginning
Wishing all my supporters, cheerers, well wishers and all the world wide web a wonderful New year Ahead :-)
Monday, December 27, 2010
Having, Owning, Sharing and Cherishing.
A pair of makeshift sliding doors made out of MDF sit on the groove of the little cube like cupboard that houses her precious belongings. But behind the sliding doors, a very cherished bottle of nail enamel - half used, thick and slimy form all the use, sits almost like an idol meant for worship. The eleven year old's awe for painting nails makes this her most prized thing for a good year to come, till the remnants of the bottle get thinned with acetone again and again and again, and till the last drop of the varnish gets used on her tiny nail buds. "Waco" reads the name on the bottle holding the pinkish mauve nail color sprinkled with generous flecks of gold. "Waco"! - she wonders what it is supposed to mean! The sliding doors open and close numerous times in a day, Just one bottle of nail paint precedes all happy pills and potions.
*********
Candy usually means the hard candy - the hard boiled, dyed sugar marbles wrapped in cellophane paper and twisted and tied on either end. Sometimes she'd get to eat a whole one and at other times, she'd share them with her siblings - carefully wrapping the candy in a handkerchief and biting it over the kerchief so as to prevent contamination. When her dad's friend gets them a whole box of cocoa chocolates - it naturally becomes the treasure she'd waited to cherish all her life. '5 star" the golden wrapper reads - and the Advertisement she's watched all her growing years plays back in her mind reminding her of the caramel and the milk chocolate sleeve on the top. She gets to take one full bar to school - and all she does the whole day would be looking at the wrapper and thinking twice to open the bar. At long last she'd carefully cut open the chocolate, nibble on it, taking the tiniest possible bites and once the chocolate is enjoyed, she'd flatten the wrapper flat and tuck it in between the pages of her heaviest text book, much like a trophy of good times. The lucky girl lived in the times of moderation.
********
The kids flock around her humongous luggage. The festive season of Diwali shines through the high rise's numerous windows in the form of tiny electric lamps stung into breathtaking garlands. The gifts keep pouring in - Silverware, fine chocolates, dry fruits, hand poured candles and idols of Indian Gods and Goddesses. They are religiously opened and admired, and then the hoards of chocolates end up in plastic boxes, neatly stacked in the refrigerator. Most of them get distributed to maids and guests, but somehow, they seem to magically multiply. The three little girls that flock around her luggage seem oblivious to all that finery of snacks. She thoughtfully opens her luggage and takes out the gifts. "The Diary of a wimpy kid" comes out and the oldest of the girls lets out a shriek. Then the dolls, the dresses and more fine chocolates. The shrieks fade, the gifts fade too...losing their allure in no time - till the maid comes around, collects them and tucks them away in the cupboards busting at seams with all kinds of toys, crafts and art supplies. She gazes through the abundance, remembering "Waco" and "5 star" - and feels blessed to have belonged to a time of moderation and cherishing.
********
There must be a reason why women of all shapes, sizes, backgrounds and ages list shopping as a favorite pastime, and she is not exempt from the demograph. When she spots the hoarding announcing the "All India arts and crafts Exhibition" she silently sketches a plan to visit and convinces her sister to follow suit. The ladies drag their back sides and bags stacked with green paper, being the self proclaimed Art connoisseurs they are. The exhibition oozes promise. Hand carved wooden figures, painstakingly detailed art work on palm leaves, richly embroidered saris showcasing the dexterity of artists that never see the light of glory for their talent, hand knit bead spreads that take months to complete and still cost only as much as a couple of meals in a moderately upbeat eatery, toys made out of paper maiche, paintings of gods and goddesses, almost in a life like form, detailed by hands of mortals that struggle to fill their bellies - the whole display looks like an irony - the sad tales of artisans that are masked by the enormity and beauty of their craftsmanship. The sisters pick a thing here and a thing there - stopping at the kulfi stand to get a quick refreshment after a long shopping trip. She picks a matka - filled with kulfi and sealed on top with a bandhni printed fabri, tied together with a golden lace. Just as they step out and get ready to cross the road and head to the car - tiny little hands grab her dress and pull them downward yelling at her to give them the kulfi. "give me" give me" the shrill voice shouts and she lifts her hands up in air in reflux - confused as to what is happening. She looks at the child, perhaps a three year old boy, dresses in shorts and shirt a couple of sizes too big for his frame and sporting a dirty pile of hair pulled back into a pony tail. She realizes what he is asking for, and hands him the kulfi. The boy lumbers away with glee as a couple of little kids chase him for their share. An onlooker form an auto rickshaw looks at her and smiles - She returns it back and looks in the direction of the kid - "cute guy" she says aloud. "It's a girl" her sister adds.
She looks back thoughtfully - and feels blessed to have existed in a time of moderation - that perfect spot in between having too much and having too little;-)
********
And one more to go ....
The couple defines 'good looking' to a tee - tall and slender guy with a grin so bright, you'd think he had won the lottery and a petite, dainty lady to his side with dirty blond hair that is pulled back into a neat ponytail. The bonny little girl changed hands between her mom and dad like a victory trophy while they held her closed to their hearts and smothered her with hugs and kisses. The little girl, looking like a baby GAP model, flashed her toothless gums and traveled so well across the proverbial seven oceans. she made gurgling sounds and instantly rewarded onlookers and admirers with a smile that would drive all the stuffiness of flying in a humongous trap of an aircraft miles up the sea level. I passed by them every time I hauled my own little bundle to the loo. The baby sat there on her dad's lap with her eternal smile. We got down our flight, the couple waited ahead of us to get into the limo service to go back home - probably in a divine ploy to have their stork deliver the little one on the eve of Christmas - the most magical day of the year! My eyes met with the dad's and I couldn't resist paying my genuine compliment to the baby GAP model - "she'll walk on the ramp one day" - the dad smiled his brightest, and thanked me, reflecting the same genuineness. They got into the limo as the driver held an open door to the little lady and her daddy.
I know how it is to deliver a child - they say kids that are not delivered the biological way are delivered straight out of the parents' heart....Actually, I shouldn't say they say it, since I saw it first hand as this ebony cherub with thick knotty hair and the cutest face ever paced back and forth in her parents arms - marking the stark difference in their epidermis and displaying the invisible cord of love that bound her to their hearts - a cord so strong that it dragged them all the way from Livermore, CA, USA to some unknown, unnamed village in Ethiopia, Africa where some unfortunate mom and dad renounced a lucky little soul to enjoy the bliss of being born in some blessed parents' heart on the other side of the globe.
One child at a time - God give them all loads of love! Amen!
*********
Candy usually means the hard candy - the hard boiled, dyed sugar marbles wrapped in cellophane paper and twisted and tied on either end. Sometimes she'd get to eat a whole one and at other times, she'd share them with her siblings - carefully wrapping the candy in a handkerchief and biting it over the kerchief so as to prevent contamination. When her dad's friend gets them a whole box of cocoa chocolates - it naturally becomes the treasure she'd waited to cherish all her life. '5 star" the golden wrapper reads - and the Advertisement she's watched all her growing years plays back in her mind reminding her of the caramel and the milk chocolate sleeve on the top. She gets to take one full bar to school - and all she does the whole day would be looking at the wrapper and thinking twice to open the bar. At long last she'd carefully cut open the chocolate, nibble on it, taking the tiniest possible bites and once the chocolate is enjoyed, she'd flatten the wrapper flat and tuck it in between the pages of her heaviest text book, much like a trophy of good times. The lucky girl lived in the times of moderation.
********
The kids flock around her humongous luggage. The festive season of Diwali shines through the high rise's numerous windows in the form of tiny electric lamps stung into breathtaking garlands. The gifts keep pouring in - Silverware, fine chocolates, dry fruits, hand poured candles and idols of Indian Gods and Goddesses. They are religiously opened and admired, and then the hoards of chocolates end up in plastic boxes, neatly stacked in the refrigerator. Most of them get distributed to maids and guests, but somehow, they seem to magically multiply. The three little girls that flock around her luggage seem oblivious to all that finery of snacks. She thoughtfully opens her luggage and takes out the gifts. "The Diary of a wimpy kid" comes out and the oldest of the girls lets out a shriek. Then the dolls, the dresses and more fine chocolates. The shrieks fade, the gifts fade too...losing their allure in no time - till the maid comes around, collects them and tucks them away in the cupboards busting at seams with all kinds of toys, crafts and art supplies. She gazes through the abundance, remembering "Waco" and "5 star" - and feels blessed to have belonged to a time of moderation and cherishing.
********
There must be a reason why women of all shapes, sizes, backgrounds and ages list shopping as a favorite pastime, and she is not exempt from the demograph. When she spots the hoarding announcing the "All India arts and crafts Exhibition" she silently sketches a plan to visit and convinces her sister to follow suit. The ladies drag their back sides and bags stacked with green paper, being the self proclaimed Art connoisseurs they are. The exhibition oozes promise. Hand carved wooden figures, painstakingly detailed art work on palm leaves, richly embroidered saris showcasing the dexterity of artists that never see the light of glory for their talent, hand knit bead spreads that take months to complete and still cost only as much as a couple of meals in a moderately upbeat eatery, toys made out of paper maiche, paintings of gods and goddesses, almost in a life like form, detailed by hands of mortals that struggle to fill their bellies - the whole display looks like an irony - the sad tales of artisans that are masked by the enormity and beauty of their craftsmanship. The sisters pick a thing here and a thing there - stopping at the kulfi stand to get a quick refreshment after a long shopping trip. She picks a matka - filled with kulfi and sealed on top with a bandhni printed fabri, tied together with a golden lace. Just as they step out and get ready to cross the road and head to the car - tiny little hands grab her dress and pull them downward yelling at her to give them the kulfi. "give me" give me" the shrill voice shouts and she lifts her hands up in air in reflux - confused as to what is happening. She looks at the child, perhaps a three year old boy, dresses in shorts and shirt a couple of sizes too big for his frame and sporting a dirty pile of hair pulled back into a pony tail. She realizes what he is asking for, and hands him the kulfi. The boy lumbers away with glee as a couple of little kids chase him for their share. An onlooker form an auto rickshaw looks at her and smiles - She returns it back and looks in the direction of the kid - "cute guy" she says aloud. "It's a girl" her sister adds.
She looks back thoughtfully - and feels blessed to have existed in a time of moderation - that perfect spot in between having too much and having too little;-)
********
And one more to go ....
The couple defines 'good looking' to a tee - tall and slender guy with a grin so bright, you'd think he had won the lottery and a petite, dainty lady to his side with dirty blond hair that is pulled back into a neat ponytail. The bonny little girl changed hands between her mom and dad like a victory trophy while they held her closed to their hearts and smothered her with hugs and kisses. The little girl, looking like a baby GAP model, flashed her toothless gums and traveled so well across the proverbial seven oceans. she made gurgling sounds and instantly rewarded onlookers and admirers with a smile that would drive all the stuffiness of flying in a humongous trap of an aircraft miles up the sea level. I passed by them every time I hauled my own little bundle to the loo. The baby sat there on her dad's lap with her eternal smile. We got down our flight, the couple waited ahead of us to get into the limo service to go back home - probably in a divine ploy to have their stork deliver the little one on the eve of Christmas - the most magical day of the year! My eyes met with the dad's and I couldn't resist paying my genuine compliment to the baby GAP model - "she'll walk on the ramp one day" - the dad smiled his brightest, and thanked me, reflecting the same genuineness. They got into the limo as the driver held an open door to the little lady and her daddy.
I know how it is to deliver a child - they say kids that are not delivered the biological way are delivered straight out of the parents' heart....Actually, I shouldn't say they say it, since I saw it first hand as this ebony cherub with thick knotty hair and the cutest face ever paced back and forth in her parents arms - marking the stark difference in their epidermis and displaying the invisible cord of love that bound her to their hearts - a cord so strong that it dragged them all the way from Livermore, CA, USA to some unknown, unnamed village in Ethiopia, Africa where some unfortunate mom and dad renounced a lucky little soul to enjoy the bliss of being born in some blessed parents' heart on the other side of the globe.
One child at a time - God give them all loads of love! Amen!
Second Look.
I'd been a regular to my homeland, in all these years of being an immigrant US citizen, and every time I go back, my home here ceases to exist. I go back to my childhood home, and in a strange way, I relive my young/teen years again. I marvel at the cluster of coconut palms that guard the roads, the song like accent of my native land, the enormously peaceful river Godavari and the three bridges that connect my home town with the other side of the river. It suddenly strikes me - the beauty I grew up with for a good couple of decades, which never really stuck me the way it does right now. I look at the land overlooking the river and the three bridges and suddenly have this urge to own a vacation home there - for the view beats the Golden Gate view in the sought after neighborhood of Fransisco - May be it really does, in its own right!
As my car passes the school I attended, the picture folds and unfolds a lanky, awkward teenager in long braids and bright acne. I relive the days in a flash and something inside my soul stirs. As I look out of the window of my car, I see numerous pictures flashing before me, a couple of dogs sitting high on a bale of hay, crows landing on buffaloes, bright smiles of kids from the slums with matted hair and soiled clothes - but the smiles obliterate all the dullness of their existence. Vegetable vendors that hawk their goods in high pitched voices and house wives that flock around them bargaining, handpicking the veggies that satisfy their pallettes. Loud hymns from the nearby temples that amalgam with traffic noises, trying to drown them in the sounds of stupid devotion. In all this bedlam, the peace of being in a small town prevails. The breeze from the river makes it mark with the humidity. My skin renounces moisturizer and embraces an unmistakable glow making people wonder if I'd had an expensive facial, my hair bounces with vitality, just from getting rinsed in the elixir of the river water and my whole being responds to the land of my birth- my destiny!
As the renowned poet urged - Ye Desamegina, yendu kaalindina, Ye Peethamekkina, Yevvreduraina...pogadaraa nee talli bhoomi Bharati ni! - It only comes naturally here, without wanting to do it for the sake of doing it~!
As my car passes the school I attended, the picture folds and unfolds a lanky, awkward teenager in long braids and bright acne. I relive the days in a flash and something inside my soul stirs. As I look out of the window of my car, I see numerous pictures flashing before me, a couple of dogs sitting high on a bale of hay, crows landing on buffaloes, bright smiles of kids from the slums with matted hair and soiled clothes - but the smiles obliterate all the dullness of their existence. Vegetable vendors that hawk their goods in high pitched voices and house wives that flock around them bargaining, handpicking the veggies that satisfy their pallettes. Loud hymns from the nearby temples that amalgam with traffic noises, trying to drown them in the sounds of stupid devotion. In all this bedlam, the peace of being in a small town prevails. The breeze from the river makes it mark with the humidity. My skin renounces moisturizer and embraces an unmistakable glow making people wonder if I'd had an expensive facial, my hair bounces with vitality, just from getting rinsed in the elixir of the river water and my whole being responds to the land of my birth- my destiny!
As the renowned poet urged - Ye Desamegina, yendu kaalindina, Ye Peethamekkina, Yevvreduraina...pogadaraa nee talli bhoomi Bharati ni! - It only comes naturally here, without wanting to do it for the sake of doing it~!
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Ga ga for Grisham.
I was always intrigued by fiction - but somewhere down the line I stumbled upon Short stories in my teen years - I think a one named "Cyclone" By the Indian author Raja Rao and ever since, my love affair with short stories had continued. In a fiction writing class a few years ago, I'd churned out some pathetic short stories and actually believed that they were "The New Yorker" material. Anyway, in the process of writing stories, I was introduced to the annual volume - BASS, short for Best American Short stories. During that class, I might not have really learnt how to make it to the New Yorker - but have come to appreciate short works of fiction more that their longish counterparts. I was selective, actually, I am selective about what I read - since I have this allegedly offbeat and upbeat taste if my friends and siblings are to be believed - and I am convinced that they substitute these adjectives for "weird" and "strange" to keep me happy. The opinions are opened for debate.
Back on track, I think Jumpha Lahari earned not just the Pulitzer, but my immense respect for her short story series "The interpreter of Maladies" while I opine that Chitra Divakaruni is more a mediocre writer. For my weird and strange taste, I need the author to charm me with his/her insight and observation into human hearts, minds and psyches.
Now, when I explore my leisure with a book in hand, seated in the huge window of a high rise, while my senses gaze through the infinite skyscrapers in South Mumbai - I feel kind of blessed, to have a chance to look at human ways through the eyes of John Grisham. I crossed paths with him a few years ago, when I read a book named "The Client" that I chanced upon. I remember the graphic of the cover, the place I read it (in a plane form NJ to SFO) and many other things surrounding the experience - but I sadly forgot about the plot, the characters and the author. John Grisham, this tall, lanky, shrewd looking lawyer didn't really charm me with his brains up until now. The only lukewarm thing about reading his book was he made it a cake walk for me. It was a book about some legal battle- and that's what I thought he wrote all that time and conveniently crossed him off of my ga ga list.
Grisham's Stories of Ford County lets my mind romance with the often overlooked, ugly, naive,sly, stupid and manipulative side of the human mind. he kind of reminds me that beneath all the barriers, skin colors and languages - there is one thing that binds us all humans - and it is that way we are from the inside - the pretty and pretty ugly sides we have that are camouflaged in glorious outsides and stories. I'd not read enough to say this is his best work - but this series of stories remind me of a native movie director cum author that wrote short stories in a regional language - that I again chanced upon during my last visit to my country. Just like Grisham, the local talent Vamsi worte unforgettable stories around scarily real characters hailing form the Lower Godavari region that I hail from. Though these series are set a world apart form the Ford County in southern US, they speak the same language of human nature.
I kind of feel overwhelmed to write all that is passing through my mind as I cross path with Grisham again - but I felt the necessity to record this awe while it is fresh. Mr. Grisham took my admiration for writers, observers and short stories to another level - so much so that I feel a twang of pride in this silly blah blah as well.
Tuesday, November 09, 2010
Welcome Home!
This little dude - probably a year old?, was shaking his backside and clapping to a bhajan that was being played in my sister's apt lobby. The proud daddy leaned on the wall of the lift and smiled away to glory as I stopped and paid complementing attention. The mom came out and called the little one "Vivan - c0me back" but our mini govinda paid no heed. I said in my most genuinely smitten tone "He is adorable" The mom gave a quick glance at me and turned away.
I tried not to grin too much - the lift opened and I jumped into it - the doors shut as if to protect me from the humiliation.
What's up with people? Can't they smile and say thanks to a kind word??
I tried not to grin too much - the lift opened and I jumped into it - the doors shut as if to protect me from the humiliation.
What's up with people? Can't they smile and say thanks to a kind word??
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