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!

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~!

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.

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??

Sign language!

Aarti is very very inquisitive about a lot of things - from why Dog mommies give up their puppies to human mommies to why the moon stalks us every where we go. In this process of q and a - she spots the tiniest possible signs on all things from crayola boxes to car seats. "amma - what does that sign say?" she asks me - and I'd say, it says - keep it away form eyes (the sign on my straightening iron)

This afternoon she came up with a sign - she grabbed the first crayon from her art box, pulled a paper out of her daddy's copier and quickly swiped her hand across the paper. Then she got some tape and glued it on all sides to the door of her room.

No prizes for guessing what she banned from her room!

:-))

Sounding like Suess (Dr)

Candy Brigandy is a gal with cool,
She's the homecoming queen of senior high school!
But as her name suggests she's not really sweet
That's the reason why her title is a cheat!
Not the title of "Home Coming Queen"
But the one that is given in the naming routine
While she shut her eyes and cried with her might
In the hospital located south of McBright.

Candy Brigandy is pretty but sly
She broke the hearts of many a guy
That fell flat for her outward charms
Blissfully unaware of her inward Alarms!
Alarms of being fully in love
With her own self deeming herself above
All the earthly creatures falling for her charms-
Blissfully unaware of her inward Alarms!!

Enter Randy Fernandy, the guy with guts
Who called Candy Brigandy a total klutz.
A kluts with words and numbers and hearts,
a klutz as well at science and Arts!
For Randy Fernandy was a total nerd
Complete with Glasses, looking absurd!
But Randy Fernandy didn't care for looks
His world was bright with stacks of books!

Candy-Randy war began with a bang
With either party forming a gang.
Candy's gang had bangs and high heels
Randy's gang loved automobiles
Not the ones that are fancy and fast
But the physics of the autos - fancy and fast!
Randy called Candy a brainless Bimbo
Candy called Randy a Geeky Robo
Candy's gang called Randy's a bunch of Whacko
And Randy's gang called Candy's IQ lacko!

The town of McBright which was normally dull
The town of McBright that slept to a Lull,
Got a nice big makeover over Candy-Randy war,
The news spread like fire, wide and far!
The whole town looked like taking sides
And fighting the war of Beauty-Brain divides.
The town of McBright that was normally dull
Sprang to life like a hunting seagull.
The war of beauty and brains took off
And the McBright town had its buttons to on from Off!

...To be continued!

Loving

Loving -
The skin I am in.
The acne scars,
Redness!
The sun tan,
Fine lines
Leaving the evidence
Of Expression.
Loving -
The thoughts that generate
In the grey matter.
Lofty and silly ones alike.
Loving -
Being a daughter, wife and mom
A reliable friend
A reliable person,
For that matter!
Loving love handles,
Ponch - that protrudes
Like a trophy of motherhood.
Loving everything within and without!
For it is one action
That makes the journey worthwhile
The Pains and pleasures memorable!

The pursuit of -----?

When I was in fourth grade, we were asked to write about an essay titled "Myself". Our class teacher, sister Mercy gave us some tips on how to approach the subject on hand. It was amusing how all of us followed her instructions to the last tee and just now, while writing this, I had realized how alike we all sounded. Anyway, the grand finale of divulging all about myself was what I wanted to become when I grow up. In simpler words, we were asked to write about our ambition. I don't very well recollect what every one else aspired to be, but I wanted to "Go to Space" - It was probably the influence of a certain astronaut of Indian origin that made me think so - but I most certainly wanted to "Go to Space" LOL. Then, a few years down the line, I was asked to write exclusively about my ambition in a second language class. I came up with the punchline ending first, before I really thought what I wanted to become when I grow up - I was probably a writer already, but I said I wanted to be a Lawyer - just because I had this cheesy line ending all the blabber - " ....and I'll prove that Justice is not something that could be bought!" (Grin) So anyway, I was on the road to manipulate my ambition for getting an applause or a few extra marks that would make me the class topper. Or, may be - just may be, I did not really know what to become. On another occasion, I said I wanted to be a mathematician when my math teacher asked the billion dollar question. I didn't know why I said it, since I could not make peace with numbers and equations if you'd threaten me of third degree torture. Then for the best part of my middle and high school, I wanted to be a surgeon. My best pal got so influenced by me that she wanted to be a surgeon too.
Reflecting back, I realize that I never really wanted to be what I am now. It was just destiny or lack thereof that I feel so awfully comfortable and content in my 'homemaker' cloak of invisibility form planet ambition. There is one thing that I consistently did all these years - write and then think and then some write - so, though I want to be a hundred things from a photographer to a chef, I have this one passion that followed me from my childhood and that is what I am doing as we speak. While my peers make hefty pay packages and join themselves in the 'power couple' club, I, for the love of God, sit at my dining table and write - a job that doesn't pay me a single shilling - but gives me this immense satisfaction, and the more I think about people who work in the jobs they don't enjoy to make the money they don't need - the more I feel proud of my choice of doing what I love. I feel that having the opportunity to do what you want is a luxury. Like some one said, if your passion becomes your job and you get paid for it, you are God's own child. So what is all this mad rush about making to world class universities or employers? What is the pursuit? How many of us really do what we like without bothering about what we get paid for it? Some of us do for sure - that explains the fire fighters and preschool teachers because both are among those over worked, underpaid, "labor of love" jobs. But how many of the parents applaud a kid if he/she says she'd want to be a preschool teacher or a fire fighter?
I recently asked a couple of high school kids in my social circle as to what they'd want to be. They both wanted to be Doctors. Why highschoolers? The KG kid I know, who doesn't yet know what being a Doc is except for wearing a fancy white coat and looking down childrens' nostrils and throats also wants to be a - you guessed it right - Doctor! With the highschoolers, I'd asked - "So none of you wants to a lawyer?" and the dad of one of the kids replied - "Yeah, Lawyers! - they get paid exorbitant amounts" - I smiled and nodded my head in two three four directions and inwardly pitying the kids who'd probably choose pay over a pay off. That probably explains why every body and their neighbor's family tree wants to be in the well paying Engineering and Medical fields. I am yet to meet a kid who wants to be a teacher or a Librarian.
The other day Aarti came to me and announced that she wants to be an artist. I said "you can be what ever you want to be" - and I meant every word of it. Research shows that people with the least salaries are the happiest. So happiness is not directly proportional to the pay check. It is one thing to be a doc and enjoy doing what you do and another thing to be a doc for the fiscal benefit it offers. They say the state of AP, India, has more Engineering colleges than students who could fill them - so technically, all you need to get an engineering degree is sources who could fund you. How many of these people really like what they are pursuing? or know what they are pursuing for that matter? This trend probably explains all the frustrated, unemployed, mediocre professionals we have in our country. Why is it that no one wants to be an archaeologist, or a curator - or may be a stock broker? May be, they are being guided by guardians who, like primary school kids, manipulate their ambitions to impress with a punch line business card or a hefty bank balance. Everyone in this word from life giving doctors to grave digging undertakers pursue one thing in life - Happiness, contentment or security - and the only way to get to it is really, wholeheartedly, thoroughly enjoy what they do to fill their stomachs.
I am happy doing what I do - whether I get paid in currency or not - and I am blessed to realize that what I do makes me happy!

Butterfly

Our little critter-
Is a friend of the flowers,
She comes with her dainty wings
Fluttering like the lashes of a baby!
Someone shut me
From traffic, people and chores
I need is a tete-e-tete
With the queen of colors.
she lifts herself, with a pro like ease!
Glides in the air
Oblivious, triumphant -
About her life changing journey
From creepy and crawling
To Pretty and startling!
She devours the blooms
Letting me devour
Her beauty in return.
Our little critter
She is the friend of meadows
Punctuated with creeks
And lush green bushes.
Someone shut me
From thoughts, tasks and duties -
All I need is one long look
At Freedom on wings
At the magic of metamorphosis!

Coming back.

I'd been hopelessly horrible in keeping up with blogging but you just have to believe me that I write in my mind- ALL THE TIME! - yeah, it is worth yelling that I do ;-) Some of the topics I'd pondered upon in my mind's blog ranged form very profound to utterly shallow. For instance, recently one of my uncles turned 60 and he wrote to all his well wishers saying he doesn't feel a day older than sixteen. I kind of relate to him now. A decade ago, I'd not have understood the downsides of aging, thankfully or otherwise, now I do. I kind of know why people stick to being 16 and don't understand why they are treated as old, ancient, uncool or dated. The person inside remains the same - the outward appearance changes and so does the way people look at you.
Age seems to be a ubiquitous topic every where. From peers wanting to know who among them is the youngest or oldest and feeling like they'd conquered Mt.Everest if they are young, to people saying Aishwarya rai looks old and ragged in Robot, opposite the ever young Rajnikanth - the talk about aging is everywhere reminding us that we are younger or older or just plain 'past prime.' I had the pleasure of meeting a particularly proud young thing in the recent past who seems to not get over how young she is - (she is legally old enough to consume alcohol BTW)
and I wonder why being young entitles oneself to feel so proud and accomplished. At twenty one, I was running a house hold and wondering if my future son would look like Aftab Shivdasani and don't recollect being proud of being twenty one. In fact, I was oblivious to my age. I think a decade passes in a flash and only a couple of flashes ago I was this language loving school girl with an endless fascination to strap sandals. Somewhere, somehow, I don't think I'd aged over sixteen from within though I seem to be more at peace with myself now than I was then. That being said, I feel like a very sane, sensible and savvy sixteen year old with stray grays in my crowning glory. So why is the stigma of age attached to Homo Sapience? Is it because age comes and kicks collagen out of your epidermis and makes you look a lot different from how you feel or is it because you are not just as fast or as healthy or as active? Is looking good everything in life and staying young the only way of looking good?I don't know answers for these though many women are probably seeking answers in their Derm's office with the aid of Botox and face lifts!
Say, we have no concept of age and no one acknowledges the outer signs of aging - will the world still want to hide their numbers and wrinkles under potentially harmful procedures? One can only wonder!

In my highschool days, I read a poem written by a very famous poet and social reformer that hailed from my home town in India. He grieved -
valibharmukha makrantham
Phalitenam Kitam siraha
Gatrani Sidhilayente
Trishnaika Tarunayathe.

Loosely translated from Sanskrit to English this means -

The face is conquered by wrinkles
The hair has succumbed to greying
The body is in ruins
But The Yearning stays youthful.

The poem got me very deep in thought. Here, the poet talks about how his yearning to be beneficial to the society is still in its prime while all his body shows intense signs of aging. Yearning - which more of a mental thing stays eternally youthful. So, though I was at a ridiculously young age to even admit to the fact that aging is the inevitable destiny of all living beings, I did drive home the fact that the heart goes beyond aging. Into my thirties, I am now aware of it more than I ever was since I see little shadows forming on my alleged 'million dollar smile' a few years ago. I count the years pass by and in a way, mourn the steady loss of youthfulness, but I still give a double take at a cute guy, or get all worked about painting my nails and going on a shopping trip. So, technically, I cannot put an age on my heart. I can just say, the my heart has no age and so does my mom's who will be sixty next year or my Grand uncle's who's one of the most handsome men I'd seen and is a good half century older to me.

It is very unfortunate that age and maturity are not proportional. I'd feel proud of being mentally mature than physically young notwithstanding how old or young I am - and that should be the hallmark of a beautiful person. The robust complexions and great metabolisms can take a chill pill since they don't really make a difference to any person in the long run. They'll all pass - but the inside will remain, the creases on the mind and heart - the creases of jealousy, selfishness and vanity are the ones that undermine our worth - not the ones that form on our bodies.

Never a Superstar

Here's a link to Harsha Bhogle's write up on V V S Laxman - info that threw light on the artist and the muse - the artist of Words and the muse who's lauded as an artist. An impressive work - either way!
www.cricinfo.com/magazine/content/story/480388.html