Words in a waltz

It's Only Love

2010-07-31T10:08:00.007-05:00

Of all the things that are overrated in life, the one that strikes me every so often and irrevocably so is love. Of course, if you’re madly in love with someone and truly believe you can’t live without them or that your world will come apart if they turn their back on you, you might say I’m completely out of whack for saying so. Or you may think I’m alluding to idolatry, or lust, or any of the repercussions of love. But no, I’m not, and I could take off on a whole new tangent with my inferences on those.

Then again, I may have agreed with you if I was still a teen. I know the topic has been done to death already, but like most dreamy, romantic teens, I too imagined a love life that would color my world a glossy hint of rose, and pored over love song lyrics to the minutest semasiological degree until there was nothing left to decipher in them if one kicked and tossed them over and about. I had even picked some ideal life partners in a roll over the span of a few teenage years -- among them was an uncle (whose divorce with my aunt years later completely astounded me), a cousin’s husband, a Hollywood actor, a singer, and a news reader. And even before I had the acumen to pick out the virtues and have related reveries, I used to admire the on-now, off-now bond my grandparents shared.

My grandpa kept a diary all his adult life, recorded daily goings on unfailingly, without wincing over even the most mundane or menial of occurences, including my grandma’s ceremonial, weekly oil baths. The insiders’ joke, if you will, was that my grandma spent a little over 3 hours on these baths. My grandpa had returned from grocery shopping one summer afternoon, to find that the door was double-locked, and the sound of water running in the bathroom was booming through the walls of the house. Anticipating the worst in terms of appetence-inducing waiting hours, he traversed several kilometers to my parents’ home, requesting my mom to serve him a good lunch and some buttermilk to wash it down with. I may have missed observing them when they were younger, and living on their own; and that perhaps was a good thing. As they grew older, the unrest that plagues middle-aged couples had come to settle a bit, according to my mom. And even though they bickered over the most preposterous issues everyday when they were well into their sixties/ seventies and staying with us, the essence of their togetherness was very unique. They wouldn’t eat without sharing with each other, and spent their evenings on a park bench, holding hands and grinning and bearing the other's exegesis on topics ranging from the price of milk to the roguish demeanor of the youth. These evening walks were possibly as ceremonious as the oil baths. My grandma would spend an hour getting dressed -- her one-a-day signature Kanjeevaram with color and motif co-ordinated jewelry, her silken white tresses braided and complected with jasmines on a string, and the edge of her ‘pallu’ held lithely in her quivering right hand. And then they’d fight over her being over-dressed for an evening walk, and she’d question if he was capable of walloping thieves with his Japanese walking stick.

But years hence, I began to comprehend the mystery behind her pent-up rage against him, feeling a sense of pity and exasperation at the same time. She had borne 14 of his children, year after successive year, and had had virtually no time to recuperate or get a hold of her reality. She was uneducated, had no thirst for acquiring any form of knowledge, incapable of fending for herself, and that externalized into an in inexplicable inertia when it came to caring for him or her own children. There was no real depth to the love between them, and it was more of an inevasible onus toward a liaison to hold together until the last breath. And of course, familiarity had bred some mutual regard and contempt to trudge along with an on-now, off-now spirit.

Well, needless to say, as much as I like to deny it, I have since grown up for what it’s worth. Even though I have no distinct measure to prove it by action. I grew up, fell in love, and married the man who ruled my dreams and desires. I am happily married and there is more than enough love and respect between us to sustain us for a lifetime. But love doesn’t manifest in the form of golden confetti over a sparkling rainbow or isn’t something we proclaim to each other everyday, holding the butterflies in our stomachs. Love is an underlying theme that steers the focus on to the bigger picture. And I think that love is overrated because it is not the only binding factor for companionship. I think love is a path to self-discovery for partners, and if not for the quixotic trip I went on at the outset that made me teeter just a little before I warmed my feet up for the gravelly path ahead, I’d have been an all-submissive lover, losing myself and my balance in the process. I think love should make one realize they’re alone, and not that they’re together with someone. That then is love in its purest form, mellow and moderate and exuding a sense of tranquility as opposed to a chaotic tampering with the energies of each partner. Love is not all fairy-tale fluff and kiss and yell from the rooftops. Love should translate into other forms of emotions and then it is love in its entirety. And perhaps, just perhaps, when I grow up a little more, I’ll have something else to add..

Stretching the Sketchyaddle Spaces

2010-07-31T10:07:00.000-05:00

There are some words that cannot be defined in a single breath or phrase. Like heartbeats, they contain a life, a world within them. Chancing upon them, for instance, is something that cannot be subsumed within the wings of the etymology of serendipity. A word that I’m thinking of right now, which construes a range of overlapping sensations by itself, is sketchyaddle. It’s the perfect word to describe what’s on my mind tonight: the lopsided, fragmentary nature of conversations one has with people these days. It’s almost as if there is a coterie of chosen ones ordained by a twisted force above or below, to keep busy at all hours of day and night; and a clique that runs nearly parallel to this one, of ones who are busy at all hours of day and night, obsessing about their own lives and its joys and sorrows.

Paul Simon hit the nail on the head with his innuendo about dangling conversations and superficial smiles. It’s true, we’re stuck in a sea of dangling conversations and superficial smiles. Colons and commas and ellipses flap and float around in everyday relationships, online or offline, leaving so much unsaid and unfinished. Superficial smiles embellish even the grimmest of word exchanges, rendering them virtually meaningless, or get replaced by sighs and soughs. And it often takes hours, sometimes weeks, of planning to fix up such a conversation with someone. The business of being busy or preoccupied is quite the rage, and the dreaded red dot is permanently affixed with certain names. Sometimes, even the green dots are indifferent to nudges. Hypomnesia is the order of the day, and the most convenient excuse. The folks who belong to either group forget about unfinished conversations and the half-baked words used within the span of those with alarming regularity. But sadly, they forget that Facebook, like a hawk, is watching and clocking their every move, unless they’re adroit enough to erase the timeline of activities on their pages. They are so busy befriending friends of friends of fourth cousins twice removed from maternal or paternal sides that they forget they had a conversation going, or a commitment to one, with a first order friend. They are so heavily focused on themselves that all they can say to a conversation opener is “Hi, doing good, thanks.” Where does one go from there? There’s no colon, comma or ellipses hovering around there. It’s a cul-de-sac. There’s no cue even in that fancy, delusional smiley at the end to take it forward. Of course one might assume in all fairness that they might be busy, or preoccupied, but that still doesn’t explain the cavalier air, because they don’t come back at a later hour or day to check on you. Infact, they never do, unless you go to them and revive the path to the cul-de-sac all over again.

But the red dots and green dots don’t stop with the online interactions. People are seldom ‘green’ offline too. On rare occasions, conversations do take on from where they’d been left, months hence. Rudimentary etiquette crawls its way through to these encounters, prompting the quintessential conversation carry-over question, “So, you were saying..?” But even that dissipates with the onslaught of awkward pauses or like the bubbles over coffees. Sometimes, a newly arranged rendezvous can light up a new spark, and fill out the trail of vacuum from before. A new window opens up, a new chapter gets written, and suddenly there is no need to refer to old connotations. But it’s ephemeral, like a measured sweep of fresh air before cinders of dust start to swarm in and defile it.

In my quest for all things sketchyaddle, I came upon Norton Juster’s quote:

"And when I'm writing, I write a lot anyway. I might write pages and pages of conversation between characters that don't necessarily end up in the book, or in the story I'm working on, because they're simply my way of getting to know the characters."

So, even in a storytellers’ fate, unfinished conversations must fall. There are few things as it is that assuage grander thirsts, when one is traversing the one-way streets abound. A fulfilling conversation, like a cup of coffee that sustains its 80 degree warmth until the last drop, is as recherche as good things can get. Maybe if we enjoyed the ride without worrying about blocks and jams, we’d be freer. Freer for the better, to learn to let all things sketchyaddle just be, like the opaque silk of a dimlit twilight sky that harbors no stars or silvery moonlight, but is irreplaceable and incorrigible all the same. Freer to look for satiation within, and harness the power of the self-sufficing, overworked mind.

The Nuances of Nostalgia

2010-07-29T07:13:00.002-05:00

Nostalgia, as they say, isn’t what it used to be. With all the manner of Facebook groups centered around Proustian themes culled out from the 90's pages, there’s nowhere to turn for those who spent their early childhood years in the 70s. Of course there are groups that discuss Doordarshan shows and such, but it makes one wonder if it’s merely going to transmogrify into a cult that will be hence reminisced as the Facebook Group of Doordarshan Nostalgists, even as Facebook wanes and makes way for a new networking site, which will possibly be called Videobook..and the charm of what the group aimed to achieve to begin with will be lost in the chase.

It’s hard to let a sepia-toned memory go by placidly, especially at a time when one is faced with innumerable vicissitudes of novelties that come unannounced and leave without warning. A friend recently initiated a nostalgic mission of sorts, a series of mails where we log some of our fondest or most bizarre school memories. It’s been nothing short of amazing to discover how amnesia has struck each of us at different points. Each one’s version of an episode is just a little different from the other’s, and each one knows more about the workings of the other’s teenage mind. I have also discovered that there are varying degrees of selfdom involved in all this recounting of things past. There are certain instances where selective amnesia comes into play, where one only remembers the incidents one was involved in. At other instances, one demonstrates an acute-edged sensitivity in that the sentiments and thoughts of the other are finely accentuated. The mystery that still shrouds this analysis of sorts is the fact that one will never know how grown up one feels about one’s teenage years. As teens, we probably assumed a sense of maturity, and while some of the decisions we took in that spirit retain their gravity years hence, some do leave a callow taste in the mouth. One suspects we will never feel grown-up enough, and the emotions that fill out the expanse of the thinking mind today will space themselves out soon enough, leaving vacuous trails for newer sensations to take over. Every year, every decade has its zeitgeist, and it’s rather astounding how phenomena acquire newfangled forms and mitigate the idiosyncrasies of the older ones, as if mockingly.

In music and art, the nostalgic wheel perpetually turns over. There is always a yearning for the olden classics, the desire to revisit jagged-edged frames from the black-and-white era. We can’t stop talking about old melodies, trends, books and pictures. They don’t make them like they used to, we lament. On closer inspection, I find that it’s more to do with the congealing of our own definitions of feel-good stuff over time, than the lack of desire to explore newness. We grow old, never failing to hold on to the childish streak, needless to say, while adjusting our postulations and beliefs as we go along just a little, leaving no scope for malleability whatsoever. And bits of reminiscences of how we liked things, as opposed to how things were, flow embedded in a stream of consciousness spout of thought, every now and then.

At the same time, the wheel that perpetually turns over allows for an alliteration of sorts, making nostalgia fashionable at calibrated intervals. Strains of old melodies begin to reverberate underneath the thrum of newage beats, and in the manner of Millhauser-esque projections, farthingale gowns would possibly make a comeback in variegated forms, even as women, in all their pencil-heeled glory, deflect the onslaught of pettiskirt exigencies gracefully. Updos are reinvented every so often, while the silken splendor of long, open-ended tresses reigns seasonally. Old classics are retold, remade, and with each attempt it seems as if a new vista for learning has been opened, a new perspective acquired, new eccentricities lit up. And at the bottom of every resurgence, the yen for holding on to something that belonged strums constantly, manifesting in the manner of nostalgic storytelling trips.

I remember a chain email that was doing the rounds many moons ago, that talked about ageing and social, musical, and artistic timelines. It said, “You know you’re growing really old when you’re surrounded by ‘youngsters’ who believe that Uptown Girl came from Westlife.” That is as scary as scary can get, but I think I’ll go play Joel, among Dylan and maybe even Flatt & Scruggs from grandpa’s 'playlist,' in loops so my five-year-old won’t grow up oblivious to what gilds nostalgia in her mommy’s world. For all I know, she may care more for the candyfloss rainbows of today, but gold may just become the new sterling silver, as cycles go.

Lederhosen and the Path of Self-discovery

2010-07-27T09:30:00.000-05:00

Lederhosen. The word brings a smile to my face, despite the fact that it also makes me twitch in discomfort. Well, the thought of these German hiking pants with shoulder straps sitting snug on a man’s body as he takes brisk steps down a walkway can make anyone flinch just a little. Especially if you’re a woman who appreciates a well-toned male body whose gait is just a wee more kingly than manly. But I digress. I haven’t really sat down and imagined a man with a well-toned body walking briskly in his Lederhosen. I was referring to the discomfort that stems from reading Haruki Murakami’s short story by that name, which is rich with so many emotional layers, so many metaphors for our lives that it has got me thinking. It is the story of a Japanese couple separating over a pair of German hiking pants.

The woman travels to Germany to spend time with her sister, promising, as requested, to bring her husband a pair of lederhosen back as a gift. She finds herself in an unusual lederhosen shop that sells only to men who wish to buy a pair or two for themselves. Her challenge then is to bring back a man who is approximately of the same build as her husband, so he can try the pants on and see how they fit. Uncannily as it were, she does end up finding a man who looked exactly like her husband (save his skin tone), from the receding hairline, to the shape of his legs. Observing this man as he tried the lederhosen on, all frisky and cocky like a little boy with a new toy, she realized so many things that she’d been unsure of, about her own self as a person, and it all began to gradually coagulate into something solid, something crystal. And it dawned upon her that she, infact, simply hated her husband. And she decided to divorce him.

It brings us, ofcourse, as readers, as readers who anatomize every turn of sentence, every underlying sensation and try to comprehend in all that the grimmest of semblances with the workings of our own minds and lives, to a state of trance. The dots that connect daze us and make us wonder where the beginning was and how it snaked its way to the end point as it were. This particular part of the story got me thinking about how, when in a seemingly extraneous instance, new light is shed on an aspect of our lives and the veil of mist gets lifted..a new strain of emotion dips itself into the still waters, and makes us fathom the depth of things. It could be an exchange of words with someone, on a day long past that seems to make sense of a sudden, in the most unlikely of situations one finds oneself in. Or the things that one believed accounted for one’s virtues, seem to evanesce with time, and one has evolved and risen above all that, for the better. This need to soul-search, discover oneself, bash oneself over one’s flaws, seek and restore the righteous spirit, reinvent oneself..becomes a routine mission when one is stuck in a complex web of emotions and relationships. Not that the realization comes when one sets foot in the web, of course. And then, the idea of a couple separating over a pair of lederhosen doesn’t seem so bizarre anymore.

What I also took away from this is that we do have the predilection to find cues in objects for grander things, like reality check barometers. And I don’t just mean the objects we surround ourselves with, where keys to many memories are locked in. An object we’re never seen before could become a synergist for change. And that change, against the odds of resolve and fragility of heart, will come to make more sense with the passage of time.

There are few writers who can make us ruminate and reflect long after the strike of their words has abated. What Murakami can do with his writing to his readers’ minds is best left unsaid, like the interpretations of the endings of his stories. It should suffice to say that in the process of reading writers like him and looking within, one learns to tune out the sounds of the imp of the perverse and the angel of righteousness at the required times and yet attain a balance on the tightrope walk that makes perfect sense to one, while it may seem like the most eccentric of things to the rest of the world.

A Brief History of Boredom

2010-05-08T23:04:00.000-05:00

Two, maybe three, curves of crinkled skin around the eyes. Eyes like steel, eyes that stop you in your peering tracks, evincing little to no emotion. From where you sit, you can't tell whether there is anything hidden in those crow's feet to be deciphered. Do they make up for what the eyes don't reveal? You don't know. You look outside, for a change in scene. Color fills your eyes, and with color an array of sensations comes gliding through. There is more meaning in the concrete on the road, in the ripples on the lake than there is in the eyes of a human. You snicker momentarily, and allow these sensations to fill you, sweep you away like a cool breeze swishing past countryside fields. On the television, freckle-faced monks expound on Buddhist doctrines and the Dalai Lama speaks loftily of individualism and separate peace.

"Be your own land, seek no other refuge."

You hear the words, but your ears, like touch-me-nots against the brush of hasty fingers on an early summer day, close in on the words just before they can be processed. What good is such wisdom if there is nothing sensible left to be desired in your life? Relax, you tell yourself. You are possibly stretching it a bit too much. It's not that bad yet. You have more to be thankful for than most others. You ought to count your blessings. And the only way to make peace with things that you cannot change is to stop seeking fulfillment. To put a cap on the nearly beast-like hankering after satiation. To learn to feign contentment. To fill the bottom of the blimp with dust so the inflation becomes inescapably constricted. To rein in the urge to seek recourse.

***

You find your therapy in cooking. Stirring a ladle in a pot of coddling broth refreshes your mind. The satiation we talked about earlier -- for you, it comes from cooking. There is no need to adjust the levels of the dust. Like lungs that feel cleansed after taking fresh morning air in, your senses come awash when you cook. The aroma of spices, the color of rich-textured condiments, the feel of crushed mint, or curry leaves in your palm, the sight of ingredients leeching into one another, taking on amorphous forms and cleaving into the nuclei of each other to present perfectly well-balanced outcomes..excites you. You lose awareness of your surroundings. You are the pot, you are the fire. You burn, you sear, you hold it all together. You are salt, you are water, you are spice. You don't like to sample the food. That would make you weak. You are strong. You don't succumb to temptation. You do instead to perfection.

***

Silence can be tricky. Sometimes you pine for it and at other times it can get asphyxiating. Silence fills the room again. You skim the space for shapes that can talk. Objects that you see everyday appear different. There are finger prints on the glass there, dust sits placidly on a surface here. There are no scratches or clefts in these objects that would allow a peek into the past. Oddments stand still as reminders of the past, but those stories have been revisited so often that your mind is suitably numb to their significance. They are now a part of the past that adorn a present family room. You seek disarray in the orderliness, to see if something will give, but nothing does. Everything has been fitted into a stretch of space and set up to function like clockwork. Things come, things wither away, but there is no real manifestation of anything new.

It strikes you now that perhaps there is nothing in those crow's feet for you to read into. There is nothing left to discuss, nothing to say. Everything has been accounted for, really. Love struggles to find its interstice through the frayed texture of the marriage, and manages to get a peek here, a wink there. Even in the unraveled entirety of this unit called family, there is a symmetry that keeps you going, it was built in and it abides. If one slows down, the other paces up. There is the wife, there is the husband. There is the friend, there is the companion. There is a human, and there is a human. There are toothbrushes, and there are combs.

***

What do you do when a problem is its own solution? You seek parallelisms in movies like "The Burmese Harp" and in books like "Le dernier été de la raison." When you think you have your finger on something, things change momentarily in your life. A blink of time when those steel-like eyes deliquesce and reveal something - a grimace, perhaps, or an ephemeral sign of happiness? Maybe a new dimension would append itself to the allegedly unraveled entirety of the family unit, making words like 'caring' and 'feeling' sound less vain. You endure. You hold it out for just a bit longer. Until another movie or another book comes along.

***

Writing completes you. When you write, you forget about the ladle and the pot of coddling broth. You forget about space and time and blimps with dust at the bottom. You become one with the milieu. You glissade across the furniture in a room or the blades of grass in a garden, culling words that float freely, and plant them on paper. You can write about the plangent strains of select Raags and the dissonance of common arguments. About the complexities of relationships and the candor of "being your own land." About manuals for living and elegies for the dead soldiers that Mizushima honored by offering modest burials and prayers. About hope, as in Yekker's brief, eager moments when he saw eyes peering into his bookshop and about the despondence of the seemingly punitive world.

You choose instead to write insipid, claustrophobic accounts of slices from your life, and call them puissant names.

***

The zilch, nada, zip that needs to be rearranged after the decimal

2010-01-09T18:51:00.001-06:00

So the new year began on a chilly note and persistent shivers. The worst season for illnesses of all forms, including the inertia that plagues the mind. Creativity is an underlying mosaic that swirls like paint stirred by a blade of dried grass on a slab of brain cells. The ideas are constantly evolving, and through the sneezing and sniffling, some words appear and morph into mercury-tickled monsters. Three books wait to be finished, and some phrases stick out, urging one to follow through. But white days bleed into gray evenings and just like the barren trees, there is a sense of stunted growth, a feeling of something amiss, a great loss that needs to be mourned. Winter is a wretched time of the year, and I completely submit to it like most others. But there are little highs, and one ought to feel thankful and blessed.

The mind harks back to Julie & Julia, the in-flight entertainment on Qantas on the way home from the other continent while the little got her beauty sleep. There is nary a difference in the way Julie felt about her life and the way mine is. I suppose I am meant to derive inspiration from what she made of it and steer the wheel with more elan and skill than I am with these white knuckles. I think there was some semblance of an idea there, something that implored to be pursued, but I seem to have lost the fire that stoked it up to begin with.

This leads to the presumption that one is not surrounded by folks who push one to one's farthest limits, egging one on as one falls and bruises oneself. Well, since there is more truth in that than a sense of assumption, it must be a fact. Everyone is always busy, always uninspired and seldom available. Everyone wants to feel otherwise, but who is going to take the lead? Everyone wants to be approached and encouraged and supported, but er..isn't there a slight technical problem there, given how everyone shuts off and becomes unavailable? And everyone complains about that! Everyone is tired of being bored, being ignored, not being talked to, spending too much time waiting for something to happen, wasting precious hours Facebooking, being unable to make a difference in the world, being preoccupied a lot, being overcommitted, underused, unused, useless, or slaving for someone or some company that isn't their true love. So, who is going to change all or any of that? Random friendships are hard to sustain, but true friends are harder to hold on to. So one supposes the strength then should stem from within, or some such place unbeknownst to anyone.

So, while I go look for the fire within, I hope the few who care to stop by and read about my mundane, lackadaisical, inactive life will feel the pinch and get upto something themselves. Er..I so ought to get a life, and Rocket Singh could possibly help me rearrange that hollow called zero.

A Rule, a Rigmarole and a Heartbeat

2009-12-28T09:26:00.003-06:00

I have never been one for following a preset schtick or schedule, although my little girl has taught me the art of trying to dabble in it so as to simplify life. But like I said somewhere, I have spent about half my life trying to tone with convention and the other half defying it and at this point in my life, I go back and forth between the two. And in keeping with that, I have decided to put down a list of resolutions for the New Year. Nothing big, really, and if one is not careful, it could end up as yet another piece of post-it on the refrigerator, blinking brightly at one at the outset and losing its glow with the passage of time.

One of the things on this *list* is to slacken up a bit and not let the little things work the heat on the nerves. Especially the little things about the little one. So, a new vista opens to motherhood and I'm all set to fall right in and maybe even do a tap dance.

While we're on the topic of slackening up, we did the unthinkable yesterday. We went to the movies to watch the 3 Idiots in action, with the little one in tow. I put all my apprehensions to rest about that one, and it worked, like magic. Although it wasn't easy to explain to her why some forbidden words were being used by grown-ups, but we're getting there. So, after five years of non-movie-goer status, the hubby and I went for it, and he has even suggested we do it again. As one grows older, with life slipping away like sand through the fingers, one realizes that one has built walls and turned rock-like. The little pleasures of life come to mean little and one is always looking for the bigger picture, which, sadly, is often blurry and elusive. So one goes after it with increasing degrees of passion to only end up getting more frustrated. The slackening up mantra is critical for anyone, according to moi, who is going after the mirage of the big picture and losing focus on the little things. And something as silly and trivial as turning the guilt faucet off and letting the little thrills of enjoying a movie on the big screen as a parent spill over instead, can work wonders for the confused mind.

Even with cotton plugs in her ears and being blindfolded intermittently, my little one was patient and tantrum-free through the entire 2+ hour span, and my heart swells in pride over that. It's a little thing, perhaps insignificant in the pool of things that matter, but it still keeps the pool swirling and that makes mommy and daddy happier.

And as often happens with such things, the mind harks back to the days when my parents took us to the movies, and bought us the salted peanuts in paper cones to nibble on, before popcorn became the popular choice for movie-time snacking. Of course when the movies were for adults-only, I would be baby-sat by sis and bro, but those instances are few and far between in the memory. I think of all the things my mom gave up because of me, and how it never occurred to me as unrealistic then. How inconsiderate I often was about those things and how much I am able to fathom now, although to little avail. All just mottled time sheets in my mother's life as a homemaker, to which she has little access herself, thanks to the receding memory power. And putting thoughts down for now is only a way for me to be able to relive them later on, when the little bird has grown wings and taken flight to another nest, to live another life. It's in the knowledge of that truth - that my life and my thoughts will only be as significant to her as my mother's were to me - that the spasms of motherhood tick and beat. And yet those too will remain crucial in my own mind, my own memory, and learning to let go will be a lesson learnt only in the long run.

So, another day rolls and before the year closes in, the everyday song has to be sung and the little pieces put together in the hope that the puzzle will be solved a little more before inching towards that big thing called success.

And so..for he's a jolly good fellow and she, a jolly good lass..

Letter from the Down Under

2009-12-23T22:14:00.000-06:00

When we set out on our sojourn to the Southern hemisphere last month, a blend of emotions was stirring inside of me. I was apprehensive about the littlest of things, like moms traveling alone with toddlers are wont to be. The 13-hour stretch of our flight to Auckland from Los Angeles, to begin with, was the toughest to tackle. I was well equipped with in-flight entertainment activities, that wasn’t my point of concern as much as was the possible onset of ear ache in my little one, and the repercussions of her being held in a sedentary state for that long. Although she is a seasoned traveler by now - she has been accruing frequent flyer miles since she was a seven-month old baby, every consecutive year leading up to her present frightful-fours stage - one never knows what to expect from a four-year-old on a long journey. And it’s not easy on the mom either, being suspended in thin air - atleast until the point that one reaches Maori land anyway, where, should one take a peek out the window, the wholesomeness of the tufts of white fluff will blow one’s mind. And yet, the restive mind refuses to acknowledge and take in the splendor of the scene, merely waiting, with twitchy feet, for a glimpse of the land below.

It’s amazing what revisiting a place can do to one’s mind. The place, it would seem, has grown with one, having taken on new forms and dimensions. The mind tenderly absorbs this newness and as new wisdom spills over, new memories scaffold themselves onto the old ones, making the growing up seem uncomplicated, although if one closely read into the embossing, it would occur to one what a simple thing such as the sight of a big cloud could come to mean to one over the years. This time around, I had grown enough to come to appreciate the elegance of the “Ao”, in the land of the long white cloud, the big “Aoteorea.”

The Maoris have many other fascinating stories associated with their wonderful land, which in itself embodies the true spirit of anything that is isolated - the “motu,” green in all its glory, and ringed in by an infinite bubble of turquoise. Although our first stop was the heart of Auckland city, which is as vibrant and vivacious as New York or Chicago during the holidays, minus the slick and slur of snowfall and frigid tempertatures, needless to say. The bubble of turquoise heaves and folds at the harbor on one side, and quaint little street side shops entice visitors with their wares, of light-glazed Paua shells, jades in Koru motifs, symbolizing new beginnings akin to an unfurled silver fern leaflet in the Spring, and bones in Hei Tiki carvings, for fertility, loyalty and good luck. The Sky Tower holding out to the long white clouds above in the middle of the bustle of Queen Street beckons from a distance. Mrs. Higgins Bakery, considered the makers of Kiwi land’s best cookies, Giapo, the gelato people..all going about their business briskly and efficiently as ever, like magnets, hemming passersby in, who with their flared nostrils take in the essence of cinnamon and fruit. And if you’re a big girl, in tow with a little girl, you can’t escape the lure of the Plain Jane boutiques like Shanton’s, or Valley Girl. My little, of course, wanted to try on a random hat and a beanie and sunglasses and color-splashed scarves for her beach time - merrily oblivious to the fact that “beach time” is rather elusive where she lives, and even if it does come, it will take several months of waiting in the hopeless, wretched cold. And there’s hardly an eyelid that doesn’t bat at the sight of the jolly ol’ fat man sporting his classic white-fuzz, standing tall and “humungous,” to steal from my chirpy little tracker, bang in the middle of the city, atop Whitcoull’s. We stood in awe of his brand new avatar, elbowing our way through the hordes of modish city workers, clicking away from various angles and distances, trying to capture an entire sensation in a few frames to bring home for daddy. Her smiles had reached her eyes at this point, and I stood there wondering if every expression of uninhibited emotion from a little heart could be trapped in a frozen moment as opposed to a digital contraption, so it could be thawed and experienced wholly, like fingers flicking through cinders of warmth from wood burning bitter-blue in a fireplace on a later, chilly day. Just then, her chatter about writing Santa a letter and sticking it in the folds of his concrete attire shook me up straight. We spent the rest of our city time ogling at wayside eateries with their summer awnings fluttering in the drifting Westerly, trendy art galleries and their window displays, smiling warily at city slickers who in turn were staring at the silly mommy-child duo posing for pictures at every nook and corner, visiting the penguins at Kelly Tarlton’s, and shopping till we dropped.

Riding back home on the 258, the succulent aftertaste of kiwi-chocolate gelato driving me insane, I was keyed up about a different kind of frenzy that was to unfold - my baby niece’s big fat cross-cultural wedding. The revelry and merry making lingered on for days, from lassis to cocktails, and payasams to kheers. We sported some coy smiles as we put our best Bhangra foot forward dressed in our six-yarded Kanjeevaram gloss, and admired the flushed, burnt-adobe edge that the snaking, coiling mehndi designs lent to our hands for days after. And once the exhilaration of all this had wafted past, we were ready to hit the beaches and roll in the meadows, quite literally.

We went to the famous Honey Center on Highway One, where the curious little cracker learned how to tell the Queen Bee from her drones, and where we sampled some delicious fruit-honey preserves.

At Wenderholm Park, we lazed around in the pohutukawa glade picnic area, walked along the beach, admired the Couldrey House and its lush gardens, and stole some picturesque frames from the Whangaparaoa Peninsula lookout on the drive back into the city, but not before stopping at Red Beach for some sun and sand, and dining at Arun’s with our Kiwi hosts who had smoke coming out of their ears as they relished every bite of Tandoori fare. And of course we pulled over when a lush green meadow rolled, and animatedly clicked away as the world famous New Zealand sheep foraged about languidly.

In the days to come, we discovered the multicolored, motley butterfly families at Butterfly Creek, fed milk in bottles to baby lambs on buttermilk farm, flinched as we came up close with alligators, rode on the Red Admiral Express, observed Alpacas and miniature Welsh ponies in action, and jumped with our hair up in the air on Curly’s trampoline..all while dabbing on dots of SPF 50+ and smoothing it on our faces, hands and legs, as the dazzling Southern Sun warmed our shoulders.

We also discovered the magic of Hot Water Beach in scenic, pristine Coromandel, filled our crocs with shells from the shore, sampled authentic Feijoa & ginger liqueur, pigged on spinach-corn-feta quiches, and took in the classic countryside scenery with the notable traveler’s passion of a lifetime to come.

We drove around the city several times after, around Mission Bay and its marvelous bungalows overlooking the sea, across Harbour Bridge to the North Shore, to charming ‘burbs like Lynfield and TeAtatu, and shopped at our favorite malls that had taken on new annexes and stores over the years, on Thursday evenings. We dug our teeth into luscious golden Kiwi fruits by the dozens, the velveteen floss of Movenpick by the buckets, gave in to the temptation of fudgy-wudgies many times over, and of course, as no tourist experience is replete without it, were suitable hungry for the large fries at Mc D’s every now and then, in typical Yankee style. And now we are back to the blizzards of the mighty Midwest, but Sheryl Crow’s soak up the sun number still pulsates mellifluously ‘neath our taut, tanned skin..

Because...I'm the mom!

2009-05-03T20:53:00.007-05:00

When I first heard about this tag, initiated in my circuit by Shankari, I wondered how the gargantuan joys of motherhood could be compressed into five little nuggets. Then I read her note, followed by Pragya’s, and realized we were merely skimming the surface of an abyss for the purposes of this project. I also realized that motherhood, as big as it is as a collective phenomenon, a Zeitgeist passed down through generations of mothers, is unique, just as every child is.

So, even though I sit on groupthink ledge with two of my favorite mommies and dangle my feet at the world, I will reflect on the five things that I love about being a mom by looking beyond the mirror and gazing deep into my little one’s eyes, which, to me, is like getting a print screen of her mind’s eye - there is no subterfuge to fret over, the world’s atrocities are too faraway to cast their ghastly shadows in there.

The first thing I love about being a mom is that I have fallen in love with life, with my husband, and with myself all over again. Not to mention my own parents. From the day I found out I was going to be a mom, to the months that led up to the birth of my angel - this red, wrinkly, blotchy, bundle of joy that I laid my eyes own and started to cry inconsolably, I had been chiseling away at my inner self to create an entity I wanted to become. The very knowledge that I was going to become a mom helped me push myself to traverse the fringes of womanhood…and in due course, I was brimming with such ferocious love and motherly instinct that I was ready to take charge of not only my little angel, but to also care more for my husband, to nurture my little family. I have since also transformed into a more placid, enduring, and selfless (even if faintly so) person. I have embraced life wholly, realizing that its blessings are far more valuable for me to cringe at the challenges it throws, or thump my fists against the wall every time a dream is shattered, or a plan goes askew. I love my own mother, my father, and my husband for better reasons now - I am able to see through the haze of follies and foibles that shrouds us all, and appreciate them for being able to give beyond measure, for taking on their roles with such sincerity and for being able to adapt to every situation effortlessly. Parenting is the toughest job in the world, yet they make it seem like a breeze and fill me with a sense of pride, and a sense of resolve owing which I am able to keep on, sometimes in tandem, and at others, in the lead.

The next thing I absolutely, truly, deeply treasure about being a mom is the knowledge that I am the center of my little one’s universe (although it may only be transient), and I do swell with pride knowing that the reverse will always be true. I love being loved, being looked up to, being constantly sought for help with tiny tasks, for answers to life’s littlest questions, for approval of the smallest dares, for a sense of belonging, for shelter, for comfort, for pity, for more love and more caring each day. I also love, despite the momentary spasm it thrusts in my veins, being toppled over for daddy to take on the “one I love most in the whole wide world,” mantle, in a spur-of-the-moment decision. I like sharing that center-stage with him from time to time, and I often envisage the time when she is ready to wed…when daddy will take her in his arms and waltz across the room, their feet tapping gently; then pausing in perfect harmony, the floor a mere sheet of gauze under their feet… as I look on with tears of joy rolling down my cheeks, making puddles by my feet. That is my one unselfish reverie, for I admit I am the be-all in the others, and daddy is merely a spectator, cheering us on.

Being a full-time mommy, and a hands-on one at that, has taught me to practice as I preach, to mind my demeanor at all times - as I am constantly being observed, emulated, and analyzed. I love that all of this has grounded me in more ways than I could ever imagine, and enhanced my levels of perseverance. It has also made me realize just how much there is to learn yet, and how much more to give.

Another thing that I love about being a mommy is that I have reaped the rewards of going all out and doing things the way they were done in grandma’s time. No shortcuts will do. No reverberating gadget lulling her to sleep - I love singing golden-olden lullabies and ruffling her hair softly till she dozes off; no Domino’s or Partypallooza-Hot-Spots taking care of her social needs - I love organizing play dates and involving her in every aspect of it - be it making cards, making pizza rolls, or stirring up that lemonade; no store-bought ready-to-bake/eat/ingest/digest stuff - I love baking cookies and cakes from scratch with my little one, with flour in our hair, chocolatey goo on our aprons and eggshells peering from the ridges of the whisk; no ready-to-microwave food, as I love cooking fresh meals for her. The joyfulness that stems from doing all this cannot be condensed into words. It should suffice to say that I often find myself bursting at the seams with the satiety that brims over.

Last, but certainly not least, comes the aspect of motherhood that overwhelms every mother so completely that there is no sensation possibly in the entire world that could override it. It is the power of endurance that comes from deep within when our children are sick. We are ready to relinquish food, water, sleep and everything else that matters in the framework of material existence, in order to care for them. There is nothing more agonizing for a mother than to watch her child writhe in pain, cry, feel hurt…without being able to do anything about it. The past month was a harrowing one in our household, with ghastly virals assailing us and relapsing at the fall of every dusk, and especially in the case of my little one, complications manifesting in brutal forms, nearly toppling over one another, leaving us feeling completely blanched out and helpless. And if it wasn’t for this miracle called motherly instinct and the power that comes with it, I would have been a hopeless nerve-bundle of misery. Right from the early colic days to phases where common and unpredictable illnesses have struck, I have stared right in the face of anxiety with an ever-distending threshold for endurance, sitting constantly by her side…touching, feeling, watching, sensing, caring, and praying.

Motherhood is wearisome, but there are rewards, and they’re bigger than life. There was a time when I couldn’t wait to hear her say “I love you, mommy,” and have her cover my face with butterfly kisses. When, as a month old baby, she would clasp my hand, I would foresee the day when she’d slip her jumpy, tiny hand into mine as we’d approach school. We have been there and done all that by now, and I’m only glad to have traded in my self-absorbed, headstrong, Trendy-Jane-of-the-hour life in exchange for a current and very happening “frightful fours” phase. And those butterfly kisses that wet my face, they’re still what keep me going - they wake me in the middle of the night and boost my energy to heed a nightmare’s calling, play sport at dress-up by wearing macaroni necklaces while tackling a zillion other household chores, or say, put my thoughts down like this.

Afternote: Thanks, Sha'ree, and Prags, for letting us take a peek into your worlds as mommies, and of course, to the one who initiated this beautiful project.

Allium Sativum – For the Love of Garlic

2009-02-16T22:28:00.000-06:00

What could possibly go well for an incorrigible romantic, when love is in the air, and the flu, having taken its toll on the rest of the household, decides to assail one on the eve of V-Day? A lot, if you can momentarily forget about the raging fever that threatens to pound on your nerves, fluff up those pillows however feebly, slink quietly under the duvet, and relinquish the vapors of Vicks for a bit to take in the invigorating aroma of plump, lush cloves of garlic hitting a ghee-laced pan, intermingled with a hodgepodge of spices that not only make you go “Hmm…” they also clear up those sinuses and work a new magic on that inflamed pharynx.

Garlic has possibly never been associated with romance before, and to that I say - what a pity, what a laugh!

The affair this Valentine’s in our little household was intense and rather heated up, thanks to the pungency of garlic. For someone who’s always been an advocate of natural remedies, a stanch devotee of grandma’s recipes for homemade cures, it was only natural that I heed the husband’s pleas to make me a hot pot of garlic-magic. That’s not to say I otherwise trust his culinary abilities to appease my gourmet instincts; but this time I had little choice, thanks to the dreaded viral. So I gave in and the consequence was nothing less than dramatic. And in true drama queen fashion, I blew him a passionate air-kiss across the hall before curling up under the covers again to beat the flu blues and assuage my quickened pulse.

I can’t quite put my finger on it - but I reckon I was rather besotted with the idea that the husband, who’s barely shaken the flu off himself, would so completely involve himself in a stirring up a comfort brew for me on V-Day, instead of hopping over to the Soupery and grabbing me a bowl of chicken-noodle soup and sourdough bread. I’d never seen a man so passionately go over a rigorous self-taught, self-made method of creating a special concoction in the good old iron skillet, with the customary wooden ladle…with a sense of conviction, a manner of such flawless clout over the utensils, the spices, the herbs and the kitchen itself. All my memories of my dad venturing in the kitchen are tinted by the letters in my mom’s A to Z instructions written daintily in a vinyl-bound recipe diary. And I’ve had the husband cook for me on other occasions, but I have been conveniently absent during the course of it. So this was quite a revelation - indicative of sorts that love can, at times, be as fiery as most Indian spices. Although he refused to divulge the secret ingredients, I was able to gather a sense of what had gone into this excellent bubble broth, even with the clogged up sinuses that only started to let up as the taste buds actually took all the flavors in.

And my little one added extra zing to our affair with the rasam by animatedly scouring for, and handing me the special “soup” spoon. Not that it stopped me from slurping up the last driblets at the bottom of the bowl with my tongue, table manners be damned. While the flu is presently petering out, I survive on love and leftover garlic rasam. And the best part is not even that - it’s how, in all my South Indian glory, I have come to refer to it in my head as “ro-sh-oom” while the Madras-bred-Bengali husband eloquently says - your r-a-ss-a-m’s ready, baby. That, my dears, is my idea of the perfect Valentine-s - even if the only allusion to class and style is in the half-spent bottle of dessert wine picked up from a wayside winery in the Fall that stares back at one from atop the buffet table.

(Don’t care that much for the reek of fine garlic? Well, I might just be able to elaborate on that once I emerge smelling mentholated, fresh out of my natural eucalyptus clearing bath.)

Coe-ism and the Goodness of Gloating

2008-09-08T21:18:00.001-05:00

Luckily, in my case, I have managed, by writing, to do the one thing that I always wanted to do.

Jonathan Coe

It’s not often that you come upon a writer better known for a particular kind of writing attempting something different, like Coe with his first stand-alone novel, “The Rain Before it Falls;” and managing, with those words, to simply take your breath away. The more the writing offers you a vista to reflect on its impact, or in some minuscule way, a repercussion of its impact, on your own life, the more you tend to delve into the writer’s mind, the structure of his thoughts, the flow and pattern of his words - until you reach a point where you begin to comprehend in all that the grimmest of semblances with the workings of your own mind and the manner in which you choose and place your words in a sentence. I do that more often than not. I have started, in fact, cataloguing the words that affect me in the most profound manner and one of my pastimes, when I’m quite simply out of ideas or have inopportunely sold my Muse to the Devil for some indolence, is to go over these words and see if they can inspire me to take a cue, or at the least, motivate me for a while.

For instance, Coe’s words, “…All she could see, in fact, was the formlessness of jumbled buildings, trees, skyline…” have left me completely besotted. Not only do I see myself think like that, and rake over the thoughts in my head to express their import that way, but I also see his brilliance for what it is. About saying little about something immense, for Gill, the character he was alluding to with those words, goes on to realize she couldn’t possibly describe the fogginess of her vision to Imogen that way, but would have to begin afresh, with “the haze that blurred the line of transition from rooftops to sky,” perhaps, or the “sky’s barely perceptible gradations of color, from the deepest to the palest of blues.” Coe’s attention to details, to the little intricacies that form characters and their thoughts, their stories, is brilliant.

If only we could all retain the merits of our writing through a novel, or any piece of work embarked upon with a ragingly high interest level, and fold in to the pitfalls of low will power or self-assurance half way along. It may be said, of course, that these detrimental qualities bleed into other parts of our lives too, and we may be more pathetic than we think; for we cannot write with the kind of sustained brilliance or even tolerability we are thought to possess, nor can we keep a hobby for longer than a week, a day, or a few hours. Patience, as they say, is key. Of course it’s another matter that motherhood leaves you with little of it. But to stay focused as writers, I do believe, as incongruous as it may sound, we need the power of words. So for all that talk about detaching oneself from the rest of the household, or civilization, in whichever order, to sit at a desk and type away everyday, here comes the new mantra: READ. And allow yourself to be so immersed in the process that you begin to imagine you’re not a molecule less cooler than the writer who is making you go weak in the knees, and you begin to produce reams of fantastic text.

If your ego needs a boost, read a mesmerizing writer and imagine you’re them. Nothing gets to your gut like a little gloating does.

Mad, Mad Mommy!

2008-09-07T20:27:00.001-05:00

One of my favorite quotes from one of my favorite women, Erma Bombeck, goes like this: “Insanity is hereditary. You can catch it from your kids.”

With all the manner of things my toddler gets up to, I fear nothing but the worst - of course, we have insanity running in every iota of our beings, notwithstanding who gave it to whom; but with all the free-time I now get from her being in pre-school thrice a week for four hours on each of the days, I have accomplished much less than I have in all these three years - with her tugging at my sweats as I went about doing chores, yanking my hair as I try to have a make-believe sane conversation with someone giving me work over the telephone, or even just miraculously finding the wrong time to take a pee on the carpet or get up to something equally obnoxious, as I try to gobble down a hurried lunch before I take the garbage out, pay the bills, drive through the pharmacy, make a quick stop at the post office, pick out some over-bought groceries, or simply breathe. If this is insane, I don’t know what is.

Lately, I have been reading a lot of mommy-blogs and I was horrified when I saw this on one: “Do you ever feel like having babies ate your brain cells? Well you might be surprised at the reality! You might be right. We will talk about it and discuss what you can do to stop suffering from Momnesia.” The blog post went on at length about the issue, and said, “Kathy Peel, author of Desperate Households, will discuss how to keep our household balanced.” I cannot remember the last time I felt like I didn’t have Momnesia. Yet, I keep a household, my job, and myself, somewhat balanced. I wonder if Kathy Peel could peel the layers off and tell me I’m not a Momnesiac, when in fact I am!

I am also, I’m afraid, one of those really persnickety moms – and tend to fret over the littlest of things – will her clothes be too crumpled by the time she gets to school? Will she remember to use her best manners while conversing with the teacher? Will she spill her drink at snacktime and make a sloppy mess? Will she ask to be excused for potty-break at the right time? Will she weep and wail again? (Okay, about the weeping and wailing, we gave each other a healthy competition the first day she went to school – the hubby is certain I won hands down – but hey, I am still learning the steps to the happy dance when the house is quiet without Little Miss Muffet for a few hours!) Insanity, again. I often wonder if my mom felt the same way when she sent me off to school the first time. Or is it different with moms who have experience doing the same thing over and over again with their other children? Or do all moms, as a general rule, lose their sanity in the post-natal depression?

I had readied myself for a long time for the separation anxiety. I assumed I had roughened up a bit. But the first few days, beginning last month, were the toughest - I couldn’t bear the thought of having sent my child away with a bunch of strangers to a strange room with too many rules and too much to learn and do. I remember how often I’d crave a little me-time, even if it meant finding time to dust the cobwebs, Pledge-clean the furniture, or mop the floors - and when I did get it, I was clueless. The sudden quiet, the house in perfect order - everything just the way I’d have given tooth and nail to have - but I didn’t want it that way anymore. I noticed I was also looking slightly better, my hair was kempt, I’d relinquished my sweats for something wearable on a morning walk, and I had time to savor a cuppa every morning - without a bother. Yet, I felt as if I was lost. But now I’m coping better - of course, if you discount the time when get back in after putting her on the bus, get into a sudden frenzy and make a gazillion calls to hire cleaners to help clean the already-somewhat-orderly house, and by the end of the fourth hour, realize that I have skipped breakfast, and coffee, haven’t had a shower, haven’t loaded the dishes, haven’t flipped a page of the Sly-Fives BookClub pick, haven’t made the bed, or made lunch, and that I have exactly three minutes and a half to fix everything, including myself, to run down and pick her up. I am forced to conclude that insanity and I have an unbreakable bond - and my life is nothing without - a little disarray, a thing amiss here, a thing kaput there, a lot to do and very little time, and above all, a little madness.

I am a mad, mad mommy. And boy, do I love it!

Harnessing an Idle Mind

2008-07-16T11:36:00.002-05:00

That something can actually come from taking a lackadaisical approach to get past the blind(ing) alley is no more surprising than being in the blind alley itself. After moping desolately over a rejected manuscript (yes, our first in the stack!) and a spell of unproductiveness (if you discount the work deadlines week in and week out), I decided to take things under control - by doing nothing. From active blogger to blog-hopper, and active net freak to tarrier, my status had relegated way below the nadir. But what came of it?

I found my guiding chi. I gave outline and form to the ideas in my head. I stumbled upon some really cool blogs, met some very interesting bloggers (online)…FunHonee was born, then I happened upon the CBC...and before I knew it, I was milking my misfortune and caramelizing it. Could the obstinate crossword not solve itself thus? I wonder. But I digress.

Amid all the idling, I raked up old scribbles and notes from a creative writing class I took years ago. I was reminded of something my tutor in NZ had mentioned - about writers' cars - when you hear a jangling, roaring engine and see clouds of smoke billowing into the air as the car zooms past you at say, 7 mph, you know there's a writer in it; lame bumper sticker notwithstanding (Write Turns Only?) I can’t say that of my car, unfortunately. But that is by no measure a sign that I’m raking the moolah.

Why then, would anyone in their right senses think of writing as a career option? I cannot really answer that, but speaking for myself, I can say that it satiates my inner passion. When I sit at my computer and stare at the monitor, while I hold on to a thought that was sparked by a long-forgotten memory that came rushing by; or a reverie that was so surreal I couldn’t bear for it not to be true; or an unputdownable book I read that overwhelmed me; or a little life lesson I learned from my little girl…and the words come pouring out, aligning themselves within the perimeter of a Word Doc., the pleasure I get is hard to contain in words. Then I am not myself - my joy is not spent in portions, nor does it carefully shroud sorrow. What I experience is like something out of a Ruskin Bond story - the richness of mirth enhanced by the presence of a pure, untainted goodness. Like little Biniya felt when she got her Blue Umbrella.

But what of the writer’s block? Well, when you set foot in the field, you are forewarned of the repercussions of locking yourself up in an airless room for hours trying to get some words out. You’re not allowed to let a writer’s block weigh you down. It's in all the avant-garde books - sit at your desk everyday and hammer away at the keyboard - even if the words make no sense or need multiple revisions and underlined bluepencilling. The pros swear by it. And then, in consecutive pages, they steel you for the spate of rejections you are bound to garner - may as well sit to write when the words come out right, and minimize those chances, right? But no, everyone from Stephen King to JK Rowling to George Lucas insists on following a routine.

Lucas, who sat at his desk for eight hours everyday to create Star Wars, said:

'A writer is, every waking hour, constantly pondering scenes or structural problems. I carry my little notebook around and I can always sit down and write. That's the terrible part, because you can't get away from it. I'll lie in bed before I go to sleep, just thinking--or I'll wake up in the middle of the night sometimes, thinking of things, and I'll come up with ideas and I'll write them down. Even when I'm driving, I come up with ideas. I come up with a lot of ideas when I'm taking a shower in the morning.' "

I have those times too - an idea comes to me when I'm daydreaming, driving aimlessly, staring into space through rain-beaten windows, playing with my little girl, concocting a new recipe, sipping my "adrak chai," and so forth...perhaps somewhere in the ridged folds of these writerly Bibles, they forgot to add, "SuperMoms - hold on to that thought when it comes, for you can only get to it when the baby has been fed, burped, bathed, washed, read a story, played with, washed, cleaned, washed, cleaned, fed, washed, cleaned, read a story, and lulled to sleep.” But that’s when you’re this close to yanking your eyelashes out and fist-thumping the walls. With time, you realize that’s no impediment, really, once you get the hang of it- once you learn, sans the presence of the power of Tai-Chi in your life, to multitask and stick to your commitment to the family, and the pen.

I have received note from the editor who called my manuscript names before tossing it out the window, to stylize my other collection of children’s stories to suit multicultural tastes. But that’s what I had in mind with the first one, but never mind.

Hackneyed as it may sound, idling can sometimes lead to positive things. Taking the time to think, re-strategize, re-prioritize…stopping to listen in on a whisper, to the lonely cricket on a windy evening, a song that you’ve listened to a zillion times or to the music that drones in your head…taking a long walk by yourself, reading a book you left at half, breathing deep to take the essence of a blank moment in, reining your emotions in once in a while, pausing to look for signs, or even groping for new signs, scouring the Internet for inspiration, and heeding the buzz of an idea that has been marinating in your pickled head for a while, and actually doing something to revive it…can actually get you somewhere.

So if you’re anything like me, I urge you to continue to try…to find your guiding chi. Ponder. Blink. Pause. Breathe. Lounge around. And eventually, you’ll WRITE!

LOVE, silly!

2008-07-07T22:54:00.004-05:00

Only when one is ready to remain insentient do the shards of memories come in so fiercely. Like sheep traces on dew-laced grass in the backyard that slip away in a subservient pattern with the arrival of the high winds. In fuchsia-tinted fragments, of times when a bottle of Merlot, a half-spent, scented candle from Auroville, and noodles hurriedly topped with lemon zest for gourmet appeal - meant love was in the air; when a midnight phone call, the initial, awkward embraces at the airport, and even well-timed silence...cut warmth through the nerves, the skin breaking into goosebumps...all screamed "love."

Are these memories merely good enough for the scrapbooks? To hold a grip on the fragments, as the fuchsia bleeds, corrodes, and makes way for sepia-toned wistfulness? Does that happen with age? Or can one, at an early stage, by detaching considerably from one's emotions, by steeling oneself to become adequately unfeeling, master the art of feeling the power of love resonate in every gray-tinted moment?

One can, if one looks through an abraded pince-nez, experience the sensation without as much as losing one's mind over, for what it's really worth. But often, the "objects in the rear-view mirror are closer than they appear," and so on it goes...

If one takes love at face value, it can manifest in the most mundane of ways and take one's breath away. It could be changing the baby's diaper in the middle of the night, taking patiently in the pounding on the dough, the clanking of the dishes and the muffled sighs and grunts over nothing in particular, or something as trivial as flipping the dial from BBC to an oft-repeated episode of Sex and the City when one enters the living room looking like half-dead Riding Hood at the end of a long day...

Love, my dears, is overrated. Candle-light dinner? Seven years (no itch), one baby, and an unfathomable-lot-in-between later, I'll take my precious me-time ANY day...Where's the love? It is in the music, in the blanket that mysteriously swathes me on a chilly night, and in the moments that I get to sit with myself and just take in the silence, smiling at the smithereens of memories and fleet of dreams...

Still Sits the Muse No More...Like a Frayed Fiddler, No More...

2007-08-31T16:26:00.000-05:00

What, one might wonder, could someone write about being nowhere. Unhinged doors flog you in the face as you walk farther and farther into this unfathomable expanse of nothingness. There are no signs, no mileposts, and worse, no speed limits. And accidents, if any, could happen by running into discolored, jagged-edged flashback frames, and the spasms will come from knowing that they harbor little or no nostalgia.

Sitting at my desk, however, I manage to recall some snapshots of note that have hit me lately - an Indian woman, Nimisha Tiwari, who killed herself and her two children by dousing their bedroom with gasoline and lighting it on fire; the lesbian priest, Tracey Lind, who made the list for the Episcopal bishop of Chicago; a teenaged, Indian-American boy, Ian Iyengar, who makes musical instruments from recyclable items, makes music for audiences, and donates all proceeds to charities; a City Council committee that advanced legislation allowing dogs in outdoor cafes (although the luxury is soon going to be stolen by fierce Fall winds and the wonder that is Windy City winter); and so forth. Some utterly disturbing, some that elicit a smile, and generally, a strip of headlines that simply march past one’s groping eyes and dissolve into the seemingly multichrome depths of a flickering screen.

Somewhere in the background, the words – “Can one person change the world?” – hound me. What could I possibly do? I begin to ponder if there is a set of rules somewhere in the ribbed folds of the active gorgeous go-greens, and going by the rigidity it must entail, I wonder whether picking up litter, and trying to recycle as much as one possibly can meets a part of the hoi deka logoi. But there must only be this much an army of one can accomplish, I shrug, and move on in my mottled span of cognitive dissonance.

Then I recollect a full moon night - somewhere under the silvery skies, a fatigued mother feeds her chipper child concocted nighttime stories with supper, little peals of laughter crumble into the air…but these grudging glimpses soon wane away, leaving me with a sense of heavyhearted trance. The coherence in my stuporous mind, if any, is evinced by this unintended stroll through a deserted memory lane - one that reminds me that stories, as have been for ages, can simply be woven around the most prosaic of things - a dimmet sky, the faces of characters penciled out of amorphous clouds, and their shuffling movements chased, for dialogues. I realize there’s a story waiting to be discovered everywhere, even in the middle of being torn between different places and times. If every sky, turn of season, change in direction were a “ba,” like Nonaka and Takeuchi refer to as a notion for providing a space for the accumulation and dissemination of knowledge forms, then one could tap into these everyday pockets, and allow new discoveries and realizations to coalesce with what they offer, and build stories around them.

I fluff up my cushions, unruffle my feelings, and in an imaginary, hazy distance, while an ancient basswood guitar is strumming the blues, with the mesmerizing strains of “Sweet Home Chicago…” drifting in the air, I realize that my thoughts are home, even if I feel like an aimless drifter mostly.

What, one might wonder, could someone write about being nowhere? About being steeped in nothingness…when inspiration has gone on a Spartan diet…and when, as if creativity doesn’t thrive ably on eccentricity, it craves to subsist on insanity…? All it takes is for a distant memory, like a spark, to happen by. And stories suddenly ignite an unlit mind, where the Muse once sat still…and words, like thunder-triggered raindrops, start to fall. Freely.

Of Nothing in Particular, Till Something Specific Arrives...

2007-06-09T13:17:00.000-05:00

Every so often, a new scintilla of hope flashes by, like a gull that reaches higher than the mast of a riverboat you’ve been tallying it up against, if you’ve been jaded enough, that is, to keep an eye on a seagull and a riverboat on a humdrum evening by the lake, where the river opens itself. Aim higher, everyone always said. And if it was upto Bach, the mast would be put to shame, no? But I digress. I am not a seagull. I am just a little person with big dreams. So, when this hope was adrift, I took a ride on its wings. And discovered I could paint (again) and turn bakerwoman to whet those frosted buttercreamy appetites. But now, the ride is over, and until the next one comes, I will have to write fancifully to make you wonder why I’m not hopeful about what I can do best, which is write, and why I’m pining for other things, elsewhere. Such is life. You think you have it all, and then you’re taken by a sensation that completely topples your thoughts - it makes you think you have to have more than you have, because you’re smart enough to have some more. So, you chase one dream after another…till another comes along and catches up with you. If there is an iota of time that slips into the chasm between dreaming and chasing, I will sit down in a bookshop with my coffee, and post another piece on something else, which I think will be better than this one, from my *ahem* new Macbook.

On writing the very words that fail us...

2007-03-21T21:28:00.000-05:00

That dreaded rub “writer’s block,” as they say, comes, and goes. For us, it comes, and stays put. Much has been written about it, and about overcoming it. But no, it doesn’t budge. And we’re thinking, why not write about the sufferance itself.

We do have stories in the head, some waiting to be told, some forming, some timorously holding back, even though we know they’ll lead us to murky waters if we don’t heed them. Some stories date back to a conversation we listened in on a journey, in the elevator, at the supermarket, or perhaps a forbidden nook of a bookstore or library; some of lost loves; some that are closer home, or belong to us and only us; some painful memories from a distant past; some dreamy desires we stow in the depths of our hearts for an unspecified future…but where are the words when we need them? Like flurries, languidly afloat, evading our reach…and swiftly melting away when touched, with a sudden quirk of luck.

But it’s what ensues in the everyday that needs regard, if you ask us. Every single day, there are instances that move us, irk us, bring a smile to our face…some plain old uplifting gestures from friends, dear ones; a few ingenuity-lined sparks, which come from the most unexpected quarters --- of new acquaintances, old friends we’d given up on; words and actions that our little girl surprises us with --- if we look, there’s something, if we pause to listen, there’s something, or if we just take time to breathe, perhaps, something will come of it. But no, the show must go on. We go on with our repetitive routines with such an indefinable intensity and unshakeable allegiance that everything ceases to matter. Or, keeps from invading our territory that we so gratefully regard, as if our world would collapse if a smile were to be smiled or tear to be shed for the actual veracity of their stimulation. So, with the show, wearing its aggressive obverse and flaunting a gazillion banalities that shroud a nondescript, yet normal existence, going on briskly; and life, in the background, happening at its own normal pace, where is that iota of sensitiveness or just retentiveness, to tell you what or how we feel, in so many (or so little) words?

No visions softly creeping, no seeds left while we’re sleeping, not even a tinge of the real sound of silence that could stop us short, and inspire in us the notes with which to describe our race to live a non-life.

And Another Year's Gone...

2006-12-25T22:33:00.000-06:00

Turning a year older didn’t quite affect me the way I’d imagined it would. In the days that led to the big day, I kept reminding myself of the age factor, and kept wondering if I’d accomplished at least a little something to boast of. Yes, there have been some fruitful endeavors - not the kind that’d attract the paparazzi, if you know what I mean. But just those deep, inner realizations of growing, and learning, as a person. Evolving as a human, as a mom, as a wife, as a daughter, sister, aunt, friend. And even inching towards a betterment, somewhat, as a writer. (The columns ensure that, however infinitesimally). And hey, the coursework’s all done, the GPA’s a full four, so that counts too, doesn’t it?

The birthday was fun, and the days that've followed haven’t exactly been as bleak as Chicago’s winter either. Yet, there’s a feeling of deficiency, an incompleteness that lingers on. It’s hard to elucidate in so many words, especially in layman’s tongue, as it were. What comes close, if, is what one feels when one eats dry toast for breakfast and there’s not even enough decaf to wash it down with. The parchedness of life in the healthy lane - a wryness that even the most peaceful inner feelings cannot wipe out. If being healthy is being happy, then a healthy life should be measured in spreader-fuls of butter on toast, and teeming pots of coffee, complete with the caffeine, creamer and sugar, as liked, not needed.

That said, it’s time to finish off the Zin, and, perhaps, open a new Merlot to usher in the New Year. And as always, hope’s afloat. Or so we say...

Season's greetings, everyone! :)

Welcome, Snow...

2006-12-02T00:16:00.000-06:00

The first storm -
dainty wisps caressing
a wind-ruffled earth.

Brown Shoes...Make it!

2006-11-26T12:34:00.000-06:00

...sorry, Zappa, but they do. Well, here's what I stole from Macy's Black Friday sale. No, not STOLE, as in thieved, sillies. Priced at $6.97, this was a steal all right. And after wading my way through an ocean of eager-beaver-shoppers, I finally landed on the second floor of Macy's and found that this was the last pair they had left in my petite (okay, diminutive) size. So, what'd you expect? I grabbed it and raced to the counter, and then out the door.

So that solves the big problem of how to keep my feet warm all winter. Unless, of course, I stumble upon the foot spa (muchly, highly, expectedly) under the tree! :)

A Luncheon to Remember...

2006-11-23T17:11:00.000-06:00

This dates back to a little before our grand comeback, but it's important enough. So here goes...

So we routinely check our school mail on Friday night, and there it was - gawking at us - a mail from one of our favorite professors, telling us she was in town for a paper presentation at MAPOR. Ecstatic as that made us, we fixed up a luncheon date for Saturday, and the brutal cold, a missed exit, a delayed train ride, and a challenging six-block walkathon notwithstanding, we made it in time. Over lemonade, ginger cookies, apricot-hazelnut rolls, and a California Grille panini, we confabulated about this, that, and our impending research plans. Which, by the way, need to be sallied forth asap, given that her retirement is scheduled for the summer.

So while we go off to do some research on how to kick start our plans, we hope you'll be good.

We're back!

2006-11-23T16:55:00.000-06:00

After eons of dallying and dithering, we've finally decided to make a grand comeback.

So here's to more words, and their waltzes.

(There's still time for the New Year to ring in, so we reckon this is strategic comeuppance enough! That said, and enough said...)

...Holy, smoky turkey! We don't remember the last time the sun kissed us this heartily. A 60 degree day in the middle of November, in the windy city? Yes, we're not kidding you. The kids were out in the park, the heat turned off, the windows thrown open, and had it not been for that slight, very slight, nip (to remind us to cuddle around our loved ones this Thanksgiving), we may even have frozen our tee before slipping it on. Like we do in the summer. (Okay, pull those brows back down, and snap those jaws back on now, come on!) And while we save that as (fiesty) summer story fodder, let's direct you to what else Tom said about today.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! :)

PIPPO SONG

2006-11-21T07:58:00.000-06:00

BIG PIPPO croons, and DOGGIE dances to, the infamous LILON KING song...yes, that's our little one, getting mighty excited about her new found internet pastime. We figured there's no harm in dancing with the dog once in a while! :)

Smiles for Tears...

2006-11-03T16:21:00.000-06:00

"...And when the stars are shining brightly in the velvet sky,
I'll make a wish, send it to heaven, then make you want to cry,
the tears of joy..."

~ Savage Garden

Today it is nothing beyond a strident spasm that lasts exactly the span of a single sand grain dropping down the hourglass. And then it is merely a muffled whirr in the ears, till the tears well up and dry out on their own, in perfect harmony with the submerging lump in the throat. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I think it’s true. Motherhood, like ageing does sometimes, mellows one. And heartache doesn’t seem to hurt as much as it used to.

There used to be a time, when love came wrapped in the silken smokescreen of pain. The entire world spoke of its ills, yet one, in all one’s unassuming, juvenile glory, embraced it, and beamed, sitting pretty right on its shaky periphery. And then the books, music, movies, conversations, growing up, work, friendships, more lost love, more love, poetry, more conversations, travel, caffeine - a bunch of random dynamics, like compost, nurtured one’s maturity, allowing it to bloom like a bonsai in the pounding depths of one’s heart.

I do not know whether it is the outcome of that, or the sheer need to overcome heartache because one loses time, as time gets more and more precious as one moves on, and one finds that one owes it in a gazillion ways to the very people that cause the heartaches. But all this explication doesn’t exactly suffice to take one by surprise. One grows, and learns, and unlearns, and grows. But what baffles me is the way that motherhood cankers one’s selfishness away. Sure, volumes have been written about a mother’s unconditional love, but mothers still need something for themselves. Be it a moment’s peace, a new possession, or something more fancy, like a surprise gift. Yet, it is possible for us to separate our own needs, our wants, our desires, our likes, and our life in general, from those of the ones we love; and I don’t mean spouse and children alone. How we are able to do it is as enigmatic as anything else in the universe, if one looks at it that way. Givers can’t always be takers, perhaps.

I shall keep from delving further and gashing at the phenomenon just so all the mothers in the world can get another round of roaring applause. And I am not exactly speaking from a motherly standpoint. It’s just that the dilemmas and despairs that life throws at one don’t really bring down the tears anymore. The tears are better saved for the nicer things in life. Like joy. And for that, one has to overlook the overwhelming power of heartache and wring out the little things from one’s life that make one smile. Or cry. And may be that’s how we do it.

'neath Pooh's Pointy Yellow Shoe

2006-10-24T20:34:00.000-05:00

Okay, we seem to be on a roll. Kindly bear with our coolness factor :-D

We were asked to imagine a terribly messy room (or even a house) full of clutter. The nature of the mess or clutter was left to us to decide. The point is, there is such an awful lot of it that the owner/resident has disappeared into the mess. Yes, disappeared. We were asked to write about how he/she got into this predicament, speculate on how or whether he/she will ever get out of the mess...this, a take off on our own Stuffaholicism piece below. Ahem.

***

He’s pudgy, he’s strong, and his hold’s tacky as glue,
I feel asphyxiated, someone tell him, this Pooh!
It all began, whilst trying to find Barbie’s pink purse,
I slid on ducky’s slithery back, and got hit by a curse;
ooh, aah, ouch, does it hurt… ‘neath Pooh’s pointy yellow shoe!

Yes, that’s how it all began, really. And I’m done making rhyme. I know it’s a little off the wall, but what isn’t, these days? (Especially given that we’re always looking at things from the other side). It was a routine Sunday morning, and I had started to stack some deserted Lego blocks in their haven, the translucent cherry-tinted plastic sack that had assumed many of their shapes, swelling here, and scrunching there, over time. Let’s face it – it wasn’t an ordinary task – there were many blocks to stumble over. And for all one knew, a whole new pile of them was building up elsewhere; besides, it was impossible to accomplish this task without wondering where Barbie’s pink purse had mysteriously vanished, or why Froggie shrieked even before being nudged. Anyhow, I was doggedly going about the task, and I heard her yelp “Fall Oun, Caefool,” (read fall down, careful), from the other room. I darted and barged in there to see that she was, in fact, cautioning Pooh, and not me. I had carried Barbie’s teacup unknowingly on my scrunchie, and she noticed it instantly. So Barbie somehow came into the picture, and then I embarked upon another mighty task – to put her kettle and teacups in order. Of course, I had had a vision that morning that a mauve saucer was hiding under the couch, and it turned out to be true. I shrugged at the thought, wondering why I couldn’t envisage where the purse had taken cover.

I decided to explore the disarray that had swathed an otherwise orderly room with its shadowy, threatening veil. I looked under Eeyore’s belly, the broken red vase, by the shredder, behind the bookshelf – all in vain. Suddenly, an orange ball with a buck-toothed rabbit on it, came plummeting down from nowhere, and knocked me off. I could swear that the rabbit was laughing and mocking at me, but it didn’t seem to be of extreme importance at the time.

I woke to an untraceable tract of darkness, but it didn’t take much light to figure out that I had shrunk. Considerably. I was certain it wasn’t a dream. I yelled and howled for help with all amain, but to no avail. Hours have gone by, and not only have I not found the purse yet, I have also been unable to figure out where exactly I am. I have since ambled about, and feasted on morsels of “Number 3” arrowroot cookies, and smidgens of cherry puffs and fruit drops, but there’s no water in sight. For the first time I’m wishing that she spill some juice on the carpet. It has gotten grubby out here, but I genuinely hope he doesn’t decide to vacuum and siphon me off. My hair, which is precisely all of 4 strands and a half, has gathered much dust and salt.

Well, I’m nearly getting used to this. It’s quite an escapade, if you ask me. I think I’m going sightsee and have some fun afterall.

{BLANK}

{BLANK}

{BLANK}

Darn, I lost you. You see, I was turning around the corner of Lilo’s tail end, wondering if I should make a right to get to the singin' rockin' aquarium, and then, of a blaring sudden, he landed on me, in one big swoop. I had heard some faint drone of him “Popetty-Pop”ing and a round of tiny-handed applause, but I hadn’t imagined Pooh would choose poor little me to tread his next weighty step on. His shoe has this logo stamped on its underside, and I think I’m wedged in between the flanges. I really need to get out of here. The twinge is killing me.

Don’t just sit there and stare at the diminutive script. GO GET YOUR MAGNIFYING GLASS NOW AND GET POOH OFF. And meanwhile, it would help greatly if you could croon a mean “Help is on its way…” I can still hear, YOU SEE!

Recollections of a Stuffaholic

2006-10-24T20:32:00.000-05:00

Our contribution to a month of reminiscences...

Today I reminisce a time in my life when I was a stuffaholic of sorts. I still am one, but I have metamorphosed somewhat, and acquired a curious new form over the years. That came rather mellifluently with age, I think. Although, I’m not sure it’s a pragmatic thing.

Anyhow, when I was a little girl, about seven, or eight, I had an interminable fancy for stuff - stuff like stamps, coins, pressed flowers, leaves, cashews (tucked securely in their shells), and a few other material things I cannot seem to summon up at this moment. The urge was formidable all right, but the resolve was rather weak. I used to go around demanding exotic stamps from well-traveled relatives and family friends, and after a high spell of stacking them in different places I deemed fit at different times (an old plastic pencil-box that looked like a Cadbury’s bar; and the inner pocket of a glossy lamination-sheath in my mother’s recipe diary, are two special niches that come to mind) and flaunting them to dreamy-eyed friends, I would give up and move on to the next novel idea.

I had started to amass a small coin collection, and would often brag to my friends that a part of it had been handed down by my grandma as a legacy - which wasn’t far from the truth, only, it hadn’t been handed down so much as it had been beseeched, hankered after and acquired. (My grandma was an obstinate old woman). Of course, I had some ‘overseas’ coins too, and they were all bundled together in a turquoise-and-fuchsia hued, flower-speckled China silk pouch my grandma had given me, and stowed away in my mother’s almirah, beneath her silks, which always smelled of sandalwood. (Miraculously so, as there was nothing even remotely associated with sandalwood around, at least not visibly).

Then came the flowers, and leaves - not quite an outlandish collection to boast of, but I’m quite positive they all had a sentimental value, however minuscule. Some bougainvillea, and roses from my best friend’s garden, and some citrus, passionfruit and gooseberry leaves from the only garden in the community that also housed a beehive. They would be pressed between the pages of my favorite books, like Masha and the Bear, or one with cheery poems and limericks, called “Happy Thoughts.” (It had come as a surprise gift from an uncle, all the way from the Peter Pauper Press in New York).

And then there was the most exciting activity of all - every summer, there would be an unstated competition for collection of cashews. There were about six cashew trees in the neighborhood, and the biggest of them all stood in my neighbor’s garden. A strapping, grumpy woman, she was known to be rather hostile to children (and adults too, in general), and the right time to sneak in would be the afternoon, when she’d take her post-lunch siesta. I remember sneaking in there with my little plastic bag, clambering up the tree in a trice (I knew all its branches, nodes and safety handles closely), and counting how many were within reach. I would then end up devouring one or more irresistibly juicy cashew apples, and meanwhile, my friends, who were apparently shrewder, would have picked a dozen more cashews. The norm was to hurl the cashew apples recklessly about after the cashews had been pinched off. These cashews were then stowed away in tin boxes in our respective kitchen attics, and on one chosen day, they would all be counted, and the shells roasted, in a small garden fire, under the supervision of an adult who was considered wacky and wild enough to be a part of the squad. The winner would get a fruit picked fresh from the garden, or, on occasion, a pencil or a sharpener. And obviously, losing one too many a time would dissuade me, and I would be ready to make a fresh start elsewhere.

And so on and so forth, there was always something new to enthuse my little mind. Of course I never stuck to any one thing, and relentlessly kept at acquiring several fractionary collections, through the years. I have a few oddments of this and that left somewhere, but nothing substantial or of paramount merit that I might hand down to my little one as a bequest someday. And rather contrastingly, I find today that it’s impossible to lay my hands on a single stamp or a quarter even if I rummaged the entire house, and my flowers and cashews are exclusively store bought. Perhaps I wasn’t cut out to be a collector of stuff, and perhaps I’ve grown into a stuffaholic that likes stuff, and likes to reminisce stuff. The latter, well, at least when I’m expected to.

Cloyingly Yours

2006-10-24T20:28:00.000-05:00

Taking off from Richa's suggestion that the idea in the "Cherry Crest" piece below could be extended to the whole inanimate world in general, the unvoiced, this poem gives voice to our favorite unvoiced spice, CLOVE.

In transient, yet evocative memories,
I swarm in, and infest her senses.
With a wanton-winged aura, I taint her fingers,
like catyrpels, on wet picket fences.

Pepper is fiery, its creepers snaky,
inflicting even, on stately teaks.
Cinnamon is numbing, cardamom feisty;
cumin smokes, coriander tweaks.

Mustard’s too mild, turmeric, too acute;
fennel, nutmeg, fenugreek, asafetida,
they all brim with an acerbic clout,
parching the gullet, singeing the viscera.

Be it summer - hot and humid,
or winter - frosty and dim,
I remain evergreen, and lucid;
the rest - mere dust-trails on the dipper rim.

And now, to stir out of my resting shell,
serenely wait, and grip my chapeau.
The chill’s heralding a sickly spell,
while the heat bids a coy adieu.

I shall burn, wither into smithereens,
I shall bop in the mortar, by my troth.
I shall soothe aches, and be the means
to rid the flu; I shall simmer in a broth.

She needs me, and I, her;
I’m clove - I reign supreme.
As her one-stop elixir,
I soothe, heal, and make her beam.

And with a wanton-winged aura
I shall taint her fingers.

For You, Cherry Crest.

2006-09-20T09:34:00.000-05:00

I know it wasn’t the latest of trends. Then again, aren’t you people daubing all sorts of colors on your hair these days? Okay, I would perhaps have fared well had there been a Halloween costume extravaganza for bookmarks. But there aren’t any contests for bookmarks, except maybe, the implicit race that takes us to the end of one book, and onto the beginning of another. And that’s not even a race, as we are, in essence, competing with you, and with your books. Anyhow, I digress. I was talking about my good old faithful pelage - the cherry-red, fuzzy crest I proudly sported all these years. She complemented my washed-out canary hue rather well, and I always thought we looked good together. And now she’s gone.

She had quite a life --- wouldn’t you say? Fancy at times, with spells of plain pensiveness stretching into grubby expanses of time, like say, when I was left squashed between sides of Either and Or. I may well have been sheathed in warmth, but she had to endure being exposed to the cold, floury air, while the void, or occasionally, the night lamp, peeked at her mercifully, as she merely dangled in despair. I always knew when she was jovial - she sent an electrifying buzz down my spine. It was on those special occasions when you stroked her lovingly, or spiffed her up by brushing her gently, to rid her of all that dust. It’s a pity she didn’t get to learn much like I did, but she was just grateful to be there. However, she saw more of the world than I did, albeit transitorily, in airports, parks, buses, trains, stations, cabs, rickshaws, cars, on rooftops, and just about everywhere. And knowing her diligence, that must’ve done her a lot of good.

And so we cruised along our life’s journey, even though we would be stuck in eerie, unfathomable places for exceedingly long periods. There have been some mishaps along the way too, and I was never going to recount them if it hadn’t been for her passing. There was a time when we were traversing the great Abandon, and you accidentally spilled coffee on her. I’m sure the Iyer man could’ve waited till you sponged her up, but he continued to relate his tale and you kept stepping forward. Finally, when you retired that evening, and relocated me, she was taut with the grip of the desiccated stain, and the most I could do was commiserate with her. That night, my thoughts drifted between Sufism and self-reflection, and I decided that it would be best if I remained your loyal servant, especially considering I was a rather recent (a decade old) acquisition, and you hadn’t otherwise mistreated or abandoned me. And then I began to ponder about what you owned before my time, but I gave up because I didn’t want to feel blue anymore.

Then we re-visited some tomes, like Siddhartha, Jonathan Seagull, Swami and His Friends, and sauntered around for a while in the endearing folds of the Wodehousian classics. I especially liked embracing the sweet fragrance of those dried, pressed rose petals in Tuesdays with Morrie, and I’m sure they mean much to you, for reasons I shall not delve into. And then we were in a poignant mood for a while, navigating the likes of Orchard on Fire, The Bookseller of Kabul, and that made me reminisce similar feelings evoked by the likes of Cast Two Shadows, Possession, or say, Amsterdam, in the past. But we kept going, and we laughed with Meera Syal, Townsend, Bombeck, Barry and so forth. We traversed places with the Iyer man, Ms. Bird, Tania and Bernadette, Naipaul and a few others. Of course, we had our edifying stints with the APA Manual, HBR editions, Deal and Kennedy, Rourke, Wimmer and Dominick, and several others. We also went on poetic quests with Brosky, Bogan, Dickinson, Atwood and scores of others, and I must make a special mention of Speech O’er Spilled Milk here, it was something else. And somewhere along the way, I had mustered a competitive spirit, what with that fashionable fuchsia-toned, leather-bodied, shiny new adversary entering your life.

I roughed it out, and experienced, on many an occasion, the wretchedness of being disregarded. I was left moping desolately in a shell of lovelorn Haiku for eons, and had no sense of time, or word. The only way I could tell dawn from dusk was when my pelage glowed in distinct lights. Finally, you took me to a place filled with magic and mystery – the depths of Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell, but before I could revel in my new-fangled destiny, you bequeathed me to the librarian who seemed to be in a bit of a hurry. She noticed me, and beckoned to you, but in a scuffle with the drop-box window, she rived me at the pelage. You nursed me, and tucked me cozily inside the Brand Positioning layers of Semenik, and I had my first encounter with Miss Magenta. I pored over her every pore, and noticed the tiny pair of doves she had etched on her in gold, like a gleaming Monsterrat amidst an isle of pristine pink. She wore a pretty ponytail, bound stylishly with a band of jagged-edged pelt. I must confess I was a trifle edgy and gauche being around her – she was soft, supple, and fresh as a daisy in that summer garden you took me to, bound in Marquez. But a tightening seized over us, which may well have been the work of your dainty fist, and I suddenly felt snug and secure (if you discount, of course, the fact that I was overwhelmed with feelings of being rather archaic).

That night, I bore an ache in my heart that no words can explain. My dearly beloved pelage passed - I had to let her go; it was inevitable, almost. She had endured a mutilation that was beyond repair, and the glue would perhaps have made her more and more discomfited. And the fact that there hasn’t been much of a breakthrough in paper surgery only made it worse. Today I recalled all those precious moments we shared, and I miss her a lot. She was my true crowning glory, and the little verse on friendship I carry on my hunch, I shall dedicate to her.

And now to us - we have many more words to imbibe and many more opuses to peruse. I really hope we can remain friends for a long time to come, and I have no qualms in letting Miss Magenta steer you through when I need some respite. I may be old, freckled, and wilting, but bear in mind, I have many friends (all your books are my friends), and I know more than you think (in my clan, age does bring some wisdom). Those Glimpses by Nehru, or say, those perplexing insights by Russel that you’ve passed up, I know them all. I know all about the beautiful russet woodpecker feather you had slipped in The Selfish Giant, and forgotten about. You need to allocate some more rapid movements and workouts for me, to help me stay fit; besides, learning, like hope, is a good thing. Well, I actually don’t mind staying here momentarily - Julie Ross is a delight, as are babies.

I’m not one to pompously display favoritism for genres, but I want to share one of my well-veiled secrets with you - I’ve really liked Ring Lardner, Bo and Albom, and needless to say, I like sports (I know you’ve been on and off with this). Do you think you could take me out to the ballgame, sometime? Oh, and you need a manicure.

Facing the Music

2006-09-14T16:24:00.000-05:00

Raked this one up from the archives of a certain 'Humor Month' theme. Don't come telling us how to behave, now! Har har!

The act of crooning into an unsteadily set up microphone, for an audience of bespectacled, burned-out forty-plusers in the community was not exactly my idea of shooting into stardom overnight. Sure, there’d be other kids, but the most they’d get up to would be booing. Even at the tender age of six, I had it all neatly schemed out and strategized - there would be a red carpet, an audience of hundreds, a panel of the most esteemed judges, and of course, apart from a glittering tiara studded with diamonds and rubies, the grand prize would be an elegantly wrapped gift box with hordes of pricey goodies in it. I would be dressed in the snazziest, trendiest outfit, Cinderella shoes, and shimmering stars would cascade on me as I took stage, not to mention be proclaimed sole winner. In retrospect, I don’t think I pictured there would be other participants at all.

So when my mom proposed the idea to me, I refused downright. What infuriated me further was that the only judge they’d chosen was my friend’s dad - who, in my six-year-old mind, hadn’t the faintest knowledge of music, because, as I knew it, they seldom listened to any. In fact, he had once chided me for humming a perfectly melodic rhyme, as he was listening to a commentary of what he’d claimed to be the most crucial cricket match yet, on radio. And I certainly didn’t want someone like him, who couldn’t tell a donkey’s gun throat braying from a cuckoo’s sweet cooing, to call the shots. Besides, I was cut out for bigger things, and couldn’t care less about petty, local contests held in the vicinity of my own house.

Anyhow, my poor mother had to cajole and coax me into it one way or another - primarily because it was her way of encouraging me to showcase my talent, although it did occur to me that she cared more about being accepted in immediate social circles. So she made many promises - and the one that eventually lured me was the prize - she said she’d taken a peek into the stock, and the winner would get a stainless steel (it was the rage then, mind you) compartmentalized snack tray, a tall, sleek glass with my name etched on it (to drink Complan out of, she said), and a box of expensive chocolates. I couldn’t resist the offer, and so I jumped right in.

As fate would have it, I was the first contestant, and my entry had to be melodramatic. First, I tripped over those precariously connected wires, nearly fell off the rickety dais, and after I’d finally pieced myself together, the mic made an earsplitting, screeching noise and I was asked to move aside. I was sweating profusely and was feeling so intimidated that I wanted to flee. But they somehow managed to put things in order, and I finally had my chance. Sparing minor hiccups, I’d performed rather confidently, given my parents’ apprehensions, and couldn’t wait for cricket-crazy crackerjack to announce the results. Of course, I had declared all the other participants void, and my mom too had nodded, seemingly in agreement, when I had called a couple of them unmusical and plain raucous.

After what seemed like a yearlong wait, the results were finally announced, and I had won the second place. I was morbidly disappointed, and marched up rather hesitantly to accept the prize. My mom was waiting for me with open arms and a bar of Cadbury’s. I, on my part, was way too eager to rip the pack open - and when I did, I found a compartmentalized tray all right, but only with a few junky toffees scattered carelessly about. And before my mom could realize the enormity of the situation, I was back up on stage, demanding the organizers why I hadn’t been handed that glass to swig my daily dose of Complan from. My poor mom had probably gone underground by then, and even as I looked around with tear filled eyes, I noticed that crackerjack was laughing his head off, and then, of an abrupt sudden, my priorities shifted. And all I wanted was to hurl that tray at him and howl ragingly into his ears till he turned deaf.

A New Leaf Turns

2006-09-14T16:18:00.000-05:00

Our first attempt at a Sestina...ahem.

I watched as twilight hummed its way about,
draping itself across bittersweet skies.
I sat with my ear to the howling winds,
as trees fought them, effete and uneasy.
Blowing callously, tweaking leaf by leaf
they teased - heralding fall, or swaying clout?

Even as I wondered about this flighty clout
the trees, to imperious tunes waltzed about;
lured by the fallacy, each flailing leaf
they ceded to skulking vows of the sun
Like reflections of missions uneasy -
countless hopes, dismissed by destiny’s winds.

Sewn to life’s lubricious subtleties, winds
of change, seizing our lives with a brazen clout;
stippling our fates as we rise and fall, uneasy,
their ploy leads us to contemplate about
ephemeral triumphs under the sun -
the same light that nourishes every leaf.

Thus, it must take many a trusting leaf,
to deem fine, the spite of the gusty winds,
akin to our naïve Geoid, about the sun,
as He quells Her tenderness with much clout,
leaving little for Her to muse about,
as she smolders in His splendor, uneasy.

In this carnal cycle, albeit uneasy,
trees evolve - in spring, turning a new leaf;
in summer, they flourish and go about
life, unbeknownst to the infernal winds,
possessing upon their resolve no clout;
unto autumn yielding, under a waning sun.

Like a sudden stir, a flash of the sun,
vagrant leaves beetling on trees uneasy,
had deciphered the syllogism of clout.
When one heeds there’s much to learn from a leaf;
while drifting aimlessly in shifty winds,
embracing change is what life’s all about.

To wake each day to the clout of the sun,
to go about life like impetuous winds -
timeless quest - like an uneasy fall leaf.

What Do You Suppose Buber Thinks?

2006-09-01T17:24:00.000-05:00

It seems like such a terrible shame that innocent civilians have to get hurt in wars, otherwise combat would be such a wonderfully healthy way to rid the human race of unneeded trash.
~ Fred Woodworth

One may well adapt the connotation of combat in the above wise precept to cold wars, so to speak, in the light of some recent appalling occurrences. An online network of aspiring, extremely gifted writers that functions perfectly well, sparing the occasional hiccup (seldom, unfortunately, brought on by the creative, mad spark; and rather habitually, by basic human vices, like ego, jealousy, and insecurity), was contaminated with unnecessary flotsam and jetsam. Hence the allusion to combat, which, I’m happy to report, has successfully expunged it all away.

Shakespeare & Company is more of a religion to those who belong in it, and less of a ‘network.’ The fact that it is run by two highly qualified, and proficient Indians notwithstanding, we’ve come together as one, leaving our ethnicities and qualms behind, to read, write, experiment, take risks, break rules, make mistakes, learn from each other, and most of all, to have fun doing so. And I’m sure Mary Lou Cook would be happily perched atop our groupthink fence on this (and enjoying a tea too, perhaps, as art, unlike creativity, is to learn which mistakes to make, as well as keep, and can certainly be discussed and comprehended over a cuppa; ah well, don’t be bemused to see Scott Adams by her side). Some of us write for a living, some don’t; but we all share a common love for the English language. We write on specific themes, we offer and receive critiques (some helpful, some not-so-helpful), we revel in our own little puddles of glory and we take pride in our creations as a general rule. And given that we are first a group of humans, before we are wordsmiths, there’s bound to be a tiff here and a spat there. But we live, and we learn. (Of course, the callow, unmilled ones have taken the proverbial walk out, leaving much to be desired). And being a group of humans, first, as it were, we possess (we are not taught these things at a special school on the slickly scythed lawns of the Queen’s parlor) a basic idea of courteousness. And once we lose sense of that, we lose ourselves and everyone around us - no rocket scientist cipher this - you behave insolently and you’re damned - just a way of the world. For those of us that have been fortunate enough to be closely associated with our dear leaders, it is not untrue that we have, at one point or another, imbibed their values, and whetted our own. We all have our bad days, and we all wrestle with our writer’s blocks, and so forth. But, at the end of the day, we’re all just contented to have read something that touched us, stirred us, inspired us, amused us, or plain enlightened us. Some of us have real names, some acquired, and some taken on, but it hardly matters, given that we respect the written word and do not disrespect the pen that slings its ink. To create and fashion a work of (he)art is not to let the body or the soul suffer, nor let the hourglass define its bounds and beyond, but quite simply to let joyful labor orchestrate the path for it. (At least Gyorgy believed so, and he was super successful).

Well, before we take the high road [JJ - no, we’re not stooping to abominable levels, but I think a little snickering wouldn’t hurt, so let’s indulge a wee bit before we grapple with the kink :)] I would like to forewarn the unapprised about some mysterious, new-fangled facets of this group:

1) If you’re a student, a mother, or say, a banker, already in the USA, go to the nearest Starbucks and grab your Tazo Chais before logging on to the network. Also, leave a dime behind, which will eventually go towards funding a stealth Shakespearean pocket money scheme.
2) If you’re elsewhere, and have a keen interest in the workings of the American Embassy, google the term “Green Card,” for, google is what can turn you into an instant scholar of all things. Then write a pantoum, or say, a sestina about it. If you cannot, too bad -- so blame it on the complexities of composing such verse forms, and join the devil in a conga in the abyss of your idle mind.
3) For everyone else -- all poets, thinkers, readers, and writers of prose in general -- come and get free publicity for your work on the network -- the internet and its walls have ears, and well, eyes, a nose, and a mouth too.
4) If you’re any of the above, and are, for some queer reason, taking a jab at a quack Sherlockian expression, it is important that you gauge your proximity to the fire -- it could wuther and burn you down to a crisp.
5) Last, but not least, if you are even remotely aware of the meaning of the word literature and how it relates to civility, do not, under even the severest of conditions, heed the Zoetropes, or the wares they endorse.

Har har, har-de-har. Onwards now to the pair of what-nots, and many more fun, creative things to come. Here’s to Shakespeare & Company, and a jumbo group-hug awaits Pragya and JJ for conceptualizing, building, and nurturing it. Here's also, to new beginnings, and new successes.

That said, I believe that one is never too young, or too old, but can get by, and can indeed be glorious if one hasn’t unlearned how to begin. And I wonder what Buber thinks.

Hues of Love

2006-07-28T17:53:00.001-05:00

Come, color me
with the rainbow of love
let them fervid
violets and reds
effloresce in our
garden of ardor

let no tick, or trice
of togetherness
draw itself
to the blue depths
of passive malaise

but if a motley
of sallow indigos,
greens, and yellows,
coalesce in
our devoir…

would that be
as eerie
as a clockwork orange?

Writer's Block

2006-07-27T20:21:00.000-05:00

I traverse moments
of endless barrenness,
yet my head feels
heavy as a rock, with the marl
of bagatelle.

I wake from the torpor
rive it at the seams
watching, as a pastiche
of ennui, flaking, falling
succumbs.

I hasten, I scribble
on the debris
of writer’s block -
fealty abides.

Baby steps...

2006-02-27T21:36:00.000-06:00

Enchanted, I look on. She turns away, beaming at her success still, and then, tottering a little, grabs quickly on to the edge of the coffee table. An array of emotions manifest all at once on her face - fear, joy, sorrow. I smile, even as I grind my teeth together in horror, and cheer her on. It works, like magic. And she goes all out for more, and more. And with each encore, she looks at me, as if to check on the pride in my eyes, and flashes her dimpled-cheek smile. These, to put it mildly, are moments I live for, die for. What’s so special about a ten-month old crawler learning to stand on her own two feet, you ask? It’s in knowing that for nine months even before she came into this world, you only knew she possessed those feet, and then, when you saw them, and re-checked their authenticity, they still were practically useless. Then came the action - flapping, kicking, raising up, and slowly, crawling. Yet, those little booties, they never got dirty. And now, suddenly, it’s time for shoes, albeit pre-walkers. And believe me, the pleasure that derives from seeing her dressed up feet really is second to none. Well, sentiments aside, I guess it’s plain simple for moms to glorify every bit of progress their children make, and delight in all the fudge surrounding it - even if it’s something as flat as cleaning dirty shoes to a shine (although I’m yet to reach that stage).

Well, that is not all. She can now ‘talk’ a little, and to me, most of her garbled up words, appear to bear meaning contextually; even though her dad swears he cannot comprehend the head or tail of them. She displays her approval and disapproval alike with much ease, and just the other day, she nodded her head very heartily in commendation of the tang of a rather spicy Indian curry. Speaking of spice, her palate is now an extended one, and she relishes hot, sweet, and a dash of sour too. No basic mashed vegetables and boring bland food for her!

Next, she’s going to walk, and then, she’s going to start to have actual conversations with us. Until then, I’m going to have to make do with the smart and sweet shots she takes at these, prepping her up, watching her constantly lest she hurts herself badly, egging her on, and all through, guessing what thoughts are crossing her little mind. Motherhood is wearisome, but there are rewards, and they’re bigger than life. For instance, those butterfly kisses that wet my face, they’re what keep me going - they wake me in the middle of the night, and boost my energy to shout hurray, enact teddy-bear-turn-around, or say, put my thoughts down like this.

Pull up 'em Sox!

2005-10-19T09:54:00.000-05:00

It's here finally - the day all of Chicago'd been yearning for, for 46 long years. The Sox, having clinched the AL championship, are headed for the big win, and it's not only Reinsdorf's loyalty that's in the news. (Well, just like it's not just the South Side that's blasting off the firecrackers and spritzing the confetti). Several, and by several, I mean near-countless, Cubs fans have made the divine discovery that it's the game they're really passionate about, and, having made a halcyon shift overnight to Camp White Sox, are cheering relentlessly for them. And yet, no one in their sanest senses has the time to drop jaws. But that's not what really matters - it's just all the jubilation, the sense of belonging, perked by the flow of the bubbly, that's strung so many strangers together as one in an otherwise asocial, chilly city that strikes a chord.

It's in things like these, no matter how worldly or trifling, that one still finds the small joys of life. That's not to say one doesn't care about the bigger things. Whether you're going to cheesedip your nachos, fire up the grill, or simply order pizzas this Saturday, don't forget to send some to those in need. Go Sox, and spread the cheer!

A slice of my life

2005-06-29T11:10:00.000-05:00

They thwack me every now and then like monster punches. A hearty chuckle, meaningless babble, squinty eye rolls, and strikes, although to no avail, at stiffening a wobbly neck, by my little angel – all these make me more mawkish than I already am, inflating my pride. Until the day my girl was born, I foolishly believed that my life’s greatest accomplishments comprised of such things as getting my first piece of work published, my first job, and turning entrepreneur. Of course, marrying my love was the list topper. But in retrospect, I know I was wrong. When my little angel came into my life, this list turned into a mere has-been, like flaccid broccoli in a day old salad. That’s not to say I am not proud of those feats as a part of me, but it’s only that I’m more fascinated by who I’ve become after my transition into momhood. I now watch her grow, and recall the first time I held her in my arms. She was asleep, and wore the most serene look I’d ever known a human to have. I sat admiring her little toes and fingers, furtively checking if they were all intact. Her tiny puckered lips, button nose, dainty eyelashes…everything seemed so magical, and I couldn’t stop beaming. Soon, her shrill wails filled the walls of the room and there I was – completely overwhelmed, and ready to take charge and mother her, just by plain instinct. Then came the harrowing times – sleepless nights were not exactly on my ostensibly perceptive mind, and I found myself hankering after respite all the while. I couldn’t quite resign myself to the fact that life had changed, and that everything had to revolve around this tiny creature that had taken our lives by storm. But today, things are different. I’m brimming with such ferocious motherly love that I know I can go nights, or days on end with no sleep at all. I can diaper her with my left hand, and doll her up with the right - at the same time, I can put her to sleep simply by breathing heavily (that must, surely, sound like a hushed sing-song to her), and unearth a tiny pink sock in a closet full of zip-sized gear, in a flash. My little angel exemplifies my happiest moments, and her innocent smile perks me up like sunshine on a gloomy day. Her sense of wonderment and curiosity stuns me, and through her I now want to learn about the world all over again. I can’t wait to hear her say “I love you, mommy,” and have her cover my face with butterfly kisses. When she clasps my hand and refuses to let go, I foresee the day when she’ll slip her jumpy, tiny hand into mine as we approach school. But for now, I’m only glad to have traded in my favorite pair of slim jeans and well-kempt hair in exchange for some very melodic gurgles. Yes, I’ve fallen hopelessly in love with a very tiny person, and she barely knows it yet. This is my life’s newest reality, and I’m loving every slice of it.

The mother of all comebacks!

2005-05-13T19:09:00.000-05:00

It’s amazing what a teensy, blotchy, red, wrinkly newborn can do to your life. Days begin, bleed into nights, and you won’t have the foggiest clue. Sleep is fleeting, your ears relentlessly resound that shrill bawling, and self-grooming becomes a far-flung dream. There’s seldom time to do anything but heed to the little one’s wails and whimpers, and the house seems, of a sudden, to have filled with an ocean of clothes and papers. Outings are limited to quick trips to the baby store, and stirring out of the house as and when you please is strictly taboo. Diapers and wipes fill up the closets, and the layette brims with tons of similar, zip-sized baby gear, sending you into a tizzy. Social life is limited to incessant tiffs with the other half, mostly over nothing (this, of course, is blamed on the hormones and the inexorable postpartum blues). Despite all the groundwork you did beforehand, this new responsibility turns your life topsy-turvy; and amidst all the frenzy and turmoil in your mind, you somehow end up devoting every iota of your being to this new creature that has become the hub of everything. It would be lying to say that you don’t miss being pregnant - although bouts of those guttural mood swings and that undying lethargy do continue to live on. Now, as a brand new momma, I can’t help but hark back at the days when I had to waddle my way about like a dodgy-podgy penguin, when I would try and fail each time at dressing my puffed feet up with matching pairs of socks, and when I would easily wolf down those extra servings of dessert, as ‘I had to eat for two,’ amongst other things. Even as my little angel tries to make sense of the world around her, I find myself smiling in the face of stress and the future wondering what kind of parent I am going to turn out, in the long run, to be. And although I miss so many things that make up the average Jane’s life, I’m over the moon, and I feel so complete - darn, I’m a mom! And as ‘giving birth is little more than a set of muscular contractions granting passage of a child - then the mother is born,’ I so want to hail Erma Bombeck.

Football fever

2005-02-07T08:19:00.000-06:00

On Sunday, amid all that Superbowl fervor, millions of Eagles' fans went back home with a rather heavy heart. But there was music in their souls to keep them warm nonetheless. Paul McCartney performed during the half-time show, taking them down memory lane with some old melodies (although the choice of songs is being dissected and hashed silly over.) Yet, one can barely deny that "Drive My Car," "Live and Let Die" and "Hey Jude," were most superior in rendition and selection, merely considering he was filling a controversial half-time slot that'd left the world in cold shock last year.

Let whiners complain, and mourners weep on...what if the Patriots weren't exactly your kind of winners, at least you got some beers, and treats for the ears!

The science of shifting

2005-02-03T10:59:00.000-06:00

If you’re looking for a winter warm up that will scald your feet, fry your brain cells, char your patience, and burn your pocket crisp, you just have to move homes. How you accomplish the actual task depends, among other things, on how many landlords’ whims and wiles you’re willing to endure, and how fast you can crunch numbers without reaching for an external computing device, because chances are they’ll escalate with the batting of an eyelid. Of course, if you’re among the fortunate few that are at the mercy of an agent, then you won’t have to worry about the latter. But then, this blessing is one in disguise, beware. You’ll have no control over your mind, and will be stripped of the right to choose the best home for you and your family. The agent will do all the talking, brainwashing and deciding. And then, the figures will be inclusive of, but not limited to, a sly commission that goes straight to the agent’s wallet from the landlord. If you’re left with any dough at the end of it all and are benevolent enough to give up a meal or two, then you might consider recompensing the agent for all the numbness s/he inflicted on your mind that you cheerfully obliged to all those crazy commands.

Let’s assume you aren’t among those privileged few and that you’re on your own. You begin by listing out the criteria that will make a home best suited for you and your family. And clearly, since the men won’t always concur with the women, expect a verbal war or two there. Once that’s out of the way, you’ll have to shortlist the homes that match your criteria; but let’s face it - this is a rather rare occurrence, and so, you’ll have to do a match and scratch. Compromise is the key word and the sooner you comprehend its importance, the better it gets. Then you make the pleasant phone calls, and it is suggested that you write every bit of information down, including the time of the call, the duration, the quoted price, the offers, the required documents - the works. It pays to remember the name of the manager/ assistant/ agent you speak with (Shakespeare might have to bury his thoughts about names, sigh.) Then you set out on the site seeing, and it would be wise to leave your jacket or coat in the car, since the costs will set your sweat glands working overtime anyhow. And then, you inspect every nook and cranny, look for defects, extra storage spaces (evidently, this comes from the woman), garage space (and this, from the man) and generally take mental notes of anything interesting you might discern (or uninteresting, for that matter.) Finally, with all your stars aligned in the apposite places, if you happen upon your near-perfect new haven, you have to go through an entire sign up procedure that requires extraordinary math skills, legal parlance proficiency, and powerful vision. Math skills for obvious reasons, and the effective vision coupled with a thorough grasp of legal dialect, might come in handy for conscientious interpretation of those puzzling clauses and terms that are conveniently put down in fine print. You also need to carry all documents that pertain to your existence in that province, and endorse your motor skills, marital status, professional standing, wages, and savings. Once the paper work is done and over with, you embark upon the mammoth modus operandi of packing, cleaning, moving, unpacking and some more cleaning. And if you happen to pack up your snow boots accidentally, you'll need additional quirk of luck with the tiptoeing.

Kismet kibosh?

2005-01-31T16:33:00.000-06:00

Somewhere in Illinois or its bordering states - Indiana, Wisconsin, Iowa, Missouri, or Kentucky is an ill-fated individual (I leave the gender totally up to your wild imagination) whose fancy dreams of reaching out to the stars from a magic carpet on bagging a few million bucks at the lottery have been crushed forever. And the individual, in all possibility, is entirely oblivious to the recent goings-on that have so sealed his/ her fortune. The winning Lotto numbers 14 - 23 - 24 - 36 - 37 - 50 were drawn on January 31, 2004 and the ticket in question was sold at a Gas Station in Frankfort, IL. Sure, there’ve been scores of crafty souls that have come forward with the wackiest of tales and feints to claim ownership of the prize. Some, according to the grapevine, have offered to fetch the ticket in once their trash has been sorted out, few others have miserably recounted having tripped and fallen soon after buying the ticket, thus losing sight of it while they braced themselves to stand up in one piece, and some others have even dared to show up with carefully glued bits of paper simulating the numbers in sequence. But the actual winner is missing, still.

The $14 million Illinois Lottery jackpot expires at midnight today if no one comes forward with the real winning ticket. And if it remains unclaimed, it will be the biggest unclaimed prize in Illinois Lottery history. Following which, the money will become part of the Lottery's contribution to the State Common School Fund. To own a gold mine and not know how to quarry, ugh. And then, there’s the freak that left behind a $1300 tip for a $33 pasta meal he gorged on at one of the city’s restaurants. Seems to me like Spartan’s gone on a rather long, nice walk.

That bitter blue funk

2005-01-13T17:49:00.000-06:00

One would never have imagined savoring a temperate 60+ on a routinely bleak January day in Chicago. All the snow had begun to thaw, the skin felt revitalized. Yes, implausible as it may sound, the mercury decided, of a real sudden, to upsurge yesterday, and the entire city was abuzz with a curious summery spirit. The city’s full fleet of snowplowing trucks was well rested. Heaters were turned off, windows were thrown open, long coats and fleeces were relinquished, children were tricked into believing it wasn’t winter after all - the only thing amiss was the sun.

It’s all back to the good old icy pavilion today. Rain, sleet and snow have filled all the city’s pockets, and the salting down of all slick streets and sidewalks has resumed. Snow ban parking regulations are back into effect, woolies are out of the closets, and heads are back in their hoods. Kids have resumed their snowball fights, and fireplaces are ablaze again.

Yet spirits seem unfazed, and the city seems more alive than ever. Perhaps because there’s a certain security in the wind chills of the windy city. Winter, evidently, is fortifying all the same, and winter blues, but a delusion. All it takes to beat the cold emptiness is a little convivial warmth. Or a piping hot tomato-basil-bisque, if you will.

Another day, another year...

2005-01-02T01:07:00.000-06:00

Another year rolls in, this time sombre and solemn, as parts of the world still teeter between a state of utter morbidity and the littlest hope of renewal from a catastrophic blow. Candle light vigils, prayer sessions and moments of quietude marked the eve of the New Year across the world. Although hubby and I didn't exactly partake in any of them at the given hour, our thoughts and prayers kept coming back to the victims, their loved ones and all those who did manage to survive, but are barely living. We ushered the new year in by simply being together, and doing our measly bit to aid the hurting and the needy. We found our peace at the temple at daybreak, and were moved immensely to see the efforts of so many strangers manifest in multiple ways to help the grief-stricken. We hope sincerely that the new year will mark the beginning of very many upheavals yet to come for all of the world. Peace and happiness to all of you.

And this one's especially for Marg, who has flown oceans away from a perfectly sunshiney land she calls home to one that's barren, to work with World Vision staff in their endeavors to help victims of the tsunami. May God bless you, and keep you, my dearest friend.

More on local Tsunami relief endeavors

2004-12-30T16:34:00.000-06:00

More and more local groups are advancing their Tsunami relief endeavors.

* Sujatha Peradeniye, a monk at Blue Lotus Buddhist Temple in Crystal Lake, has initiated a fund to help people in Sri Lanka. Contact: 815-444-8915 or 815-451-2864.

* Indonesian Disaster Relief Fund is accepting contributions through Charter One Bank 400 S. LaSalle St. Chicago, IL 60605

* Jewish Federation of Metropolitan Chicago has established the Jewish Federation South Asia Tsunami Relief Fund. Checks should be made payable to Jewish Federation of Metropolitan Chicago, 1 S. Franklin St., Room 703, Chicago, IL, 60606. Online donations can be made at www.juf.org.

* The Evangelical Lutheran Church in America is collecting International Disaster Response funds that will be directed through Action by Churches Together to victims across South Asia. Donations can be made through an ELCA congregation or directly to: ELCA International Disaster Response P.O. Box 71764 Chicago IL 60694-1764, with "South Asia Tsunami" on the check's memo line. Credit-card donations can be made through the ELCA Disaster Web site, www.elca.org/disaster, or by phone at 800-638-3522.

* The Council of Islamic Organizations of Greater Chicago is accepting cash donations at CIOGC - 330 E. Roosevelt Road, Suite G5; Lombard, Illinois 60148. Checks should be made payable to “CIOGC” with ‘Tsunami Relief’ in the memo portion. Secure online donations may be made at www.ciogc.org

Some other agencies involved in relief efforts:

* The Consul General for Indonesia - 540 N. LaSalle St. Chicago, IL
* Royal Thai Consulate - 700 N. Rush St. Chicago, IL
* The Consulate General of India - 455 N. Cityfront Plaza, Suite 850 Chicago, IL. Call 312-595-0412 for details.
* Tsunami Relief Fund c/o International Bank of Chicago, 208 W. Cermak Road, Chicago, IL 60616
* Catholic Relief Services - Archdiocese of Chicago, Attn: Tsunami Relief 155 E. Superior St. Chicago, IL 60611
* BAPS CARE International 4N739, Illinois Route 59, Bartlett, IL 60103. Call 888-CARE-881, or visit online at: www.BAPSCARE.org

In other news, Patus Ltd. of Tel Aviv and Chicago has donated thousands of its Odorscreen products to enable Tsunami disaster workers as they battle the pervasive stench of death and decay. Odorscreen, an Olfactory Perception Altering Gel Compound is for application under the nose, and ostensibly works by modifying pungent smells to users for as long as two hours, helping them breathe fresh as they toil amidst reek and heat in Tsunami-affected regions.

Tsunami via blogdom

2004-12-29T12:18:00.000-06:00

In wake of the Tsunami, as much as I'm all choked up to be able to say anything, I'm awed, and completely overwhelmed by the abundance of texts on the disaster, especially by bloggers. Blogs seem to be proliferating by the hour, and blogdom, in fact, has suddenly emerged as the hottest conduit through which people the world over are seeing the tragedy unfold.

The one blog that's become the hub of all Tsunami-related information is The South-East Asia Earthquake and Tsunami blog, among whose warm-hearted architects is my friend Peter. The SEA-EAT blog has even been written about, here, and here, and I'm certain, in scores of other places.

Some other blogs that struck a chord:

AlwaysWoW
BolehTalk
Brand New Malaysian
Cheese and Crackers
Crossroads Dispatches
Extra Extra
Petaling Street Project
Screenshots
Sumankumar's yak pad
The Command Post
VBCity Blogs
World Changing

On a side note, one can't help but wonder why Aristotle ever said "Nature does nothing uselessly..."

Tsunami relief and prayers

2004-12-29T12:07:00.000-06:00

A compilation of various agencies involved in providing assistance to victims of the deadly Tsunami.

For Chicagoans - The Hindu Temple of Greater Chicago in Lemont, has initiated relief efforts for victims of the tsunami. To talk to someone at the temple about helping, the number to call is 630-972-0300. To partake in prayer sessions, one might visit any of the Hindu temples across the city, including Bartlett, ISKCON, and Aurora.

What's in a name?

2004-12-21T19:01:00.000-06:00

In a communications law course such as mine, one ought to be thorough with all aspects of the law and where the finest lines are drawn. One learns, for starters, of the importance of identification, among other elements, in a defamation case. For instance, to say all lawyers are thieves does not create satisfactory identification for the purpose of a defamation suit. The reason being that the group could be so big that no one plaintiff could say they suffered a personal injury. However, to say that all lawyers in the firm of "Dowee, Cheatem and Howe" are thieves would satisfy the identification element because the number of lawyers in the firm is finite and each one of them would have a potential defamation claim.

I wonder if the philosophy would hold any good if one of these folks were to cross legal frontiers:

Dump Rat - garbage people
The Touch Up Guys - car repairs people
William the Concreter - builder
Dr. John Looney - psychiatrist
Haley Rainey - meteorologist
Earl E. Bird - head of an animal rights group
and
Dr. Charles Paine - chiropractor

There’s much in a name, after all. And ‘justin case’ you’re wondering still, it’s also the name of a high school instructor somewhere. Now let’s hope he’s a good guy.

Birthday hoopla

2004-12-14T23:09:00.000-06:00

I didn’t mean to abstain from writing in this long, but frankly, trifling tittle-tattle about the man who’d made the under-bridge his home, or the kid that’s begun selling pieces of coal to stuff stockings of daft little imps with this Christmas, had to be eschewed, as there were bigger things happening, like turning another year older, which I did, this past Saturday.

I had such a merry time that I have trouble recounting it all in bits. I woke up to a deluge of gifts from the hubby, and got swarmed with chocolates, paper cards (yes, they still make those, and if you ever get any, it would only be by the minutest quirk of luck), surprise gifts, phone calls, emails, sms-es, a world full of love and care, and a mammoth dark chocolate cake that I’m still drowning in.

I will be back, once I’ve wolfed down all of the cake, and looked back and figured out what I’ve accomplished in the last year that makes me better, or wiser, if little. I’d have loved also, to burrow out those loving reminiscences of birthdays bygone - of hand-made cards, letters, gifts, gift wraps, jaded pictures (many in sepia tones), all packed with the warmth of loved ones - and squirreled safely away in those rusty, squeaky iron-cast containers back home (for the less informed, these are gargantuan storage units, complete with lock-and-key, and one might find them in the attics of most Indian homes). But I’ll have to make do with the sweet memories for now. Okay, I really have to be off before I get any mushier. Besides, the Godiva Goddess also beckons.

Apogee

2004-12-11T00:25:00.000-06:00

Tender vine grows
embracing the bricked walls
as if it’d kindly assessed
the planes of their house

Stained glass windows
deliquesce in moonlight
reflecting a twilight blue
off an unfathomable sky

Inside, on the scarlet sofa
they sit, arm in arm
sipping their herbal teas,
gauging their love’s depth.

For mates' sake!

2004-12-06T18:11:00.000-06:00

And you thought doing time is solely for the depraved, and the deprived. Not only do these cons share a joint, but they’re now also having their cake and ale…no wait, they’re serving us cake and ale. What a way to be back in carnal circles, isn’t it, Martha and mates?

To give or not to give

2004-12-02T13:52:00.000-06:00

Ringers and Shriners flock the stores even as we wade our way through holiday wishlists. Okay, some of us are busy gifting ourselves. Anyhow, we couldn't help but hark back to this from a class discussion on persuasion - is using guilt as motivation, ie., like Salvation Army Christmas Bell Ringers, or Shriner’s Paper Sale do; depriving people of rational choice?

Food for thought?

"Men can be moved to action by suggestions and pressure in the fringes of their consciousness."

"Hidden persuasion, like any other 'evil,' is dangerous only when it becomes the chronic or predominant pattern of behavior of an individual or group."

While you mull this over in order to rationalize, at the least, please hail Haiman. But that's not to say don't give this holiday season. Reflexive responses notwithstanding.

Take me out to the ballgame

2004-12-02T00:12:00.000-06:00

If you thought Bruce Springsteen’s Fenway foray was received with bounteous adulation, wait till you see a Wrigley ballpark full of Jimmy Buffet’s ‘parrotheads’ croon and sway. Cubs President Andy MacPhail has indicated that the Cubs are exploring possibilities of holding rock concerts at Wrigley Field every other year, beginning as early as Labor Day weekend 2005.

Singer-songwriter Jimmy Buffett, a stick-in-the-mud Cubs fan, is likely to do the opening honors. Even if it’s half as true that Buffet, who has already sung the anthem at Wrigley, has his way about curses, he might just rest the Cubbies’ curse, of enduring the longest drought spell since a World Series win. Well, at least a bunch of Bostoners swear that Buffet’s concerts at Fenway Park helped rid the demons that had stalled every effort by the Red Sox to snatch a World Series championship since 1918.

But to be able to rock Wrigley, the Cubs have numerous hurdles to cross --- their already precarious relationship with Wrigleyville residents could get further tweaked, or worse, the curse reversed. It might happen, it mightn’t, and as the Cubs might say, ‘wait ‘til next year,’ chappies.

Smokes for Soldiers

2004-12-01T23:45:00.000-06:00

Aside from shortage of food supplies, the scarcity of cigarettes in Iraq has several soldiers imploring domestic producers to ship them some free smokes. And as if efforts by R.J. Reynolds Tobacco Co. to satisfy them aren’t enough, someone closer home is organizing to funnel free Camels and Marlboros to the front lines. For the first remote broadcast of his WSCR-AM (670) morning show, Mike North will amass cigarettes to be sent to soldiers in the war zones overseas. His “Smokes for Soldiers" campaign will be kicked off on Dec. 9 at Jack's Restaurant, Skokie. Score listeners will be requested to donate packs, or cartons, if they will, of cigarettes. Is it plain ironic that North himself is a non-smoker, and that Jack’s is strictly a non-smoking bistro?

Well, while at that, health officials aren’t exactly touched by the gesture either. Even as more and more troops are lighting up the pipe, blaming it on the tension, tedium and loneliness that life in a battlefield can bring, health officials fret that they will have to combat lung cancer, or heart disease down the years, when they're back home, and narrating war stories to their grand kids, perhaps. Amidst roadside bombings and grenade strikes, soldiers are ostensibly in for a bigger hazard, say experts, and this one, ‘can’t be stalled even by the best of weapons or shields.’ Ah well, holy smoke, or whatever.

Season's greetings!

2004-11-24T10:37:00.000-06:00

With fall in, a new leaf has surely turned. Much has transpired for the wines to flow…nature has bathed herself in the most flamboyant of auburns and rouges, Maachu Picchu has been rediscovered at the Field Museum, the Red Sox have brought us that sweet tang of victory the Cubs quite couldn’t, pumpkin patches and fog machines have churned out the spookiest Halloween yet, and whilst all the blessed folk have apple picked, hopped orangeries and vineyards, gone fall color watching, and slept an extended hour of bliss as the clock backed up, the holiday season seems ebullient as it rushes in with a crimson speckled cheer. Snow-men, starry lights, purple skies, popcorn pops, stocking-fuls of surprises, and cranberry strings up that tree are waited upon with bated breath, and a ravenous passion. One almost lusts after the flurries now…and as those frost bites are balmed, wood burned bitter blue, warmth caressed, luscious grapes firmed, the perfect tangerine skins grated for pastry garnish, plush wreaths hung, paper cards sought, new possessions bagged, and lest I forget - the turkey stuffed, here’s wishing all you kindly souls a most glorious holiday season!

My fair tale

2004-11-02T09:58:00.000-06:00

Snow-pearled roses
kissed my dainty toes

Blue depths glimmered
as they cradled the crescent

Blustery winds caressed
my soft, black hair

Diamonds glazed
my earlobes, and neck

Silky satiny rouge flowed
after my perfect frame

Spotlights flared
my every path

I danced with the stars
why, I was a Princess

The world was meek
beneath my feet

My shoes were gold
my wine, in crystal

When I woke
I smelt only Folgers,
and a rusty alarm

But my Prince,
he still gazed
right into my wet brown eyes.

The Art of Living?

2004-09-21T10:45:00.000-05:00

Imagine waking to several dawns spaced over every few months in a land unknown. Giving to it your fullest, and perhaps, in the minutest form of selfishness, even satiating your wanderlust in the bargain. Following your dreams. Living life the way you deem fit, not the way you can best. How many of us can do it unconditionally?

We dined with these friends of ours and only just found out they’re moving – to far, far away. From this land of many opportunities to one that’s barren, in every sense of the word. Where there are no words for trade, riches, or even the most basic of amenities. Only several connotations for people-to-people, heart-to-heart, in all agony. To envisage an opportunity-filled future for its hapless citizens. To work. To make it happen. To give. To learn. To explore. To satisfy.

Even with a prearranged move to a modern city, secure and in all its glory with its buildings, peoples and facilities, we often find ourselves consumed in worldly worries, typically those that concern our own well-being. Would it be absolutely outrageous if we just took off on a mission one day? To be with those the entire world has disregarded, to reach out to them, lend them a hand, and make a modest, if at all, difference in their lives? Would we do it even if we’d found in it our calling, our life’s work, our very life? Or would that simply be outlandish?

Pickle-sick

2004-09-15T16:26:00.000-05:00

I’m almost a perpetual soppy cornball these days. Well, not so much ‘these days’ as ‘eternally since I can recollect.’ And I reckon not that it’s simply me, or something exclusively to do with my mawkish genes. It’s just this endemic that is so broadly rampant among Indians in these shores that are inherently and effusively so lachrymose. And all it takes is a jar of home-manufactured pickle to rev the melancholy up to its paramount state. Yes, this is also the exact cause of my misery.

It’s not like we don’t get pickles here in all sorts, styles and sizes for a meager few bucks. It’s not even like we have to drive miles away for those, although, if we did, there’s a fair chance we’d come upon a wider array of assortments of not just pickles, but all condiments of the like with a potential to bring home closer to us. It’s just a daffy little obsession we seem to have about home made food. The thought of our moms toiling in the kitchen for hours on end just so we could get a slice of their connoisseur cooking drives us wild with nostalgia. And the first bite out of a pack of homemade pickle can well satiate us to the extent of having had a heavy home meal, eaten right out of our own hands, lip-smacked and relished to the last bite.

Just the other day I received a parcel of homemade pickle, and pizzazz, if you will, from an aunt that flew in. And I am torn between savoring them to my heart’s content, and scooping just a little out everyday so I won’t have to be faced with empty jars one day, of a sudden. I am content on some days just stealing a look at them; arranged in fine order in the refrigerator. On others, I make do with a whiff or two. And even with strength of will so strong, some days turn out to be dreadful, and I feel like I’d die if I didn’t devour a bite or two. So I indulge and repent, and so forth. What I’m now left with is a teensy residue at the bottom of one jar. I look at it and mope desolately. And I gaze skyward, hoping to see an airplane that’s, perhaps, strictly carting pickles from home about…

Who's your daddy?

2004-08-05T14:56:00.000-05:00

With all the manner of reality shows thriving by the hordes, one is bound to get bemused about who’s betrothed to whom, who ate worms to whet whose whim, which hunk turned out as the true stalwart, which tyro got hired, and which, fired, and last but not the least, whether they were all twins, quadruplets, or simply from different planets. First there was a bunch of adventurous freaks trying to win a princely treasure by traversing plains and mounds tinged with high-profile jeopardy, then a compatibility check for a bunch of ex-classmates that moved into the same house, a sexual orientation sensitivity probe for a damsel in distress, seeking her prince charming, an over-the-top private peek into the everyday life of a newlywed celebrity couple, and then an excruciating obnoxious-fiancé test for a pretty young thing, among scores of others.

Makes one wonder - just how far will the makers of these dare-all bare-all shows go to entice viewers? Does a “wife-swapper” thingamajig sound like the sort of regalement young minds have been aching for? And will they be able to relate even remotely to a young lady that will soon be seen in bigger dilemma, as she attempts to discern which of a dozen-odd of men is actually her father? Is life not reasonably real enough? At this rate, one ought to be mighty wary of cameras and any other gadgets that seem even faintly iffy, no matter where one is. Imagine waking up to a hidden camera in your living room, or worse, in the bath. In this ocean of borrowed mommies and recycled daddies, one wonders whether the offspring are theirs to keep, or loan to yet another goofy reality act.

Sun, sovereign

2004-08-03T17:20:00.000-05:00

When summertime dawns
honeyed skies bleed
on thirsting lives

Gardens bask in the briskness
bearing their blossoms out,
as if in gratitude

Seas beckon the crescent
in dimpled laughter,
swelling with pride

No hazy obscurities,
nor gray clouds,
shall quell the Sun’s splendor

Even when darkness descends
and angst abounds
His stars rouse and light the depths.

Dust busted

2004-07-31T22:30:00.000-05:00

There’s a new health hazard doing the rounds, and I might be falling victim to it even as I key this in. No, we’re not talking about any form of bacteria, amoeba, or viruses. In fact, it’s something you never envisioned would cause you harm, and it’s not even plenteous enough to scrutinize or gauge. It’s all those teeny-weeny motes of dust that sit pretty on your computer, the telly, or the music system. Recent research conducted on this breed of dust that collects on electronic devices has it that the chemical residue found in it could pose a perilous threat to your health.

In a report published by Clean Production Action and the Computer TakeBack Campaign, two groups involved in environmental and health issues studies as related to computers, researchers assert that possibly, dangerous elements of brominated fire retardants are showing up in dust samples swiped from computers. This research implies that the most widely found instance of these substances, commonly used fire prevention compounds known as polybrominated diphenyl ethers, or PBDEs, have been found to cause health problems in lab animals. The report's contention that PBDEs, which have been shown to present reproductive and neurological risks to animals used in lab tests, remain persistent in the environment and contaminate food supplies, animals and humans, seems to be even more crucial. The study of PBDEs was apparently based on 16 samples of dust collected by the Computer TakeBack Campaign and Clean Production Action from computer monitors in public locations across eight states, including university computer labs, legislative offices and a children's museum.

Even though Dell, HP and IBM – three of the world’s largest PC manufacturers, offer PC recycling programs, the number of PCs they recycle is still at a low, claim researchers. Dell, it appears, has proscribed the use of PBDEs in all its products since 2002, and has worked closely with groups such as the Silicon Valley Toxics Coalition, a champion of the report, to help endorse the recycling process. Yet, analysts reckon that the United States trails behind Europe in exercising endeavors to reduce human exposure to these toxic substances - the European Union has already issued a directive that all PBDEs used in consumer electronics have to be eliminated by 2006.

For someone that’s already learned of a freakish, novelty ailment named CRI (Computer Related Injury) I must confess I wasn’t exactly unnerved by this one. But for now, I’m hoping someone unveils special dust busters to save us from this modern malady.

Of old friends and new

2004-07-15T18:31:00.000-05:00

I have a new friend. He’s in his fifties, if you count the years. But he’s considerably young where it counts, as it should, at heart. We meet on the ride back home, every evening. We discuss movies, music, food, books, art, and what have you. And once the words start rolling out, slicing acutely through the air around us, buildings, people, and other automobiles seem just a hazy whirr, and even his salt-and-pepper hair doesn’t stand out. If anything were to disrupt us at all, it would have to be my own fidgety manners, of tossing my hair back and forth, or perhaps, fingering my nail enamel.

I’ve always been fascinated by older people. Many of my closest friends are about a decade older than I. There seems to be an anomalous connection that binds us together. I sometimes wonder if it’s the essence of springtide I apparently convey that acts as the coalescing force, beckoning them to revive their own youthfulness through me, or their sagacity and sophistication that urges me to seek enlightenment in them, thus augmenting the appeal factor that’s ostensibly at large here.

Wisdom, they say, doesn’t essentially come with age. Experiences are what make us who we are. And ever since I have embarked rather curiously upon my tradition of befriending older people, I have endured the realism of all their experiences, as if just being with them and partaking in discussions with them made up for my not having lived life their rational way. I have imbibed their philosophies like a pitcher plant would suck in its prey; made mental notes of all their words like a jeweler would tuck warily, precious stones in his wares; and consulted them when I was in dire need of advice and guidance. My perspectives, on their part, appeared to change, and my foresight, to sharpen. Even though I haven't exactly glided over all my problems and dilemmas all the time, I have learned to treat them differently, and I have always taken pride in connecting with these good old folks.

But I like to believe there has been a reciprocal balance also. When I spoke animatedly, if at all, and inadvertently so – considering the mood swings and attention span one usually associates with my contemporaries and I – to them about the fads and fashions of the times, or say, hip and happening gizmos, or simply juicy hearsay, I like to believe they were warmed, if little, by the playful, lilting joy that is usually thought of as deriving from, to put it wackily, juvenile-chatter.

In any case, I draw enough solace from the fact that life seems richer, fuller, and more meaningful, with them. And they do seem to acknowledge my being a part of theirs. Or at least, they strive to make me feel so. And that in itself is a thing to delight in.

Birds of a kind

2004-07-11T21:27:00.000-05:00

For the Chaudhuris and the Chakrabortys, with love.

We’re a boisterous, bathetic bunch, us Indians. Even so when we, like they say, gang up, in these shores. My head is still reeling with all the chirpy clatter that filtered through every cranny in the house this past holiday weekend. This chronicle is a tad late in the coming, as you can see, but my voice had gotten somewhat hushed, and not just in a manner of speaking. I’m not quite sure if it is the dearth of din in the neighborhoods that we suppose needs fixing, or the dynamics of a sudden surge of long-lost camaraderie that comes to play. But whatever it is, this energy is rather compelling. It brings out the talky and touchy traits in even the most reticent of us.

Coming now to the magical four days we spent with our most charming companions. There wasn’t any ice to break at all, to begin with, even though some of us were relatively new to a close-knit team that had roots dating back to two decades or more. The scheduling of our first rendezvous was an earful in itself. And it didn’t take more than half hour to ready ourselves to convene. The table was set, the delicacies spread, and the silverware, laid out, all in a jiffy. The luncheon, however, lasted three full hours, and in retrospect, I don’t actually remember what the menu was. What I do recall, however, is the conversation. It wasn’t all that topical, so to speak. In those three hours, we relived our entire childhoods, adolescent years spent completely oblivious to the grown-up life that was to come, and all within the safest confines back home, complete with the food we gorged on, the way we fussed about every spice and flavor in all savories we were offered, ordering our moms to add a bit of this and reduce a bit of that, and how, on ageing and entering wedlock, we had realized that we’d still remained the same self-proclaimed food connoisseurs, the difference being, we were the ones to bear the brunt of a meal gone wrong. We exchanged tips on correcting some of those cookery blunders, how to quick-fix several tasty bites, recipe novelties, and favorite specialty restaurants, among many other things, never mind that one husband (the others were, sadly, at work that day) or better half, to use an Indian colloquialism, was part of the tête-à-tête as well. He cooks just as well, and besides, like he said, he's the official food taster in his own distinct manner. And then when weekend actually rolled in, there were the long drives, sightseeing trips, dine-outs, dine-ins, barbecues, fused with simply extended hours of nights that bled into dawns, all packed with six glib voices crying to be heard and heeded to. We discussed olden days of glory, careers, travels and travails, new-found hobbies, movies, songs, snippets, celebrations and events that not all had been a part of, and entertained ourselves with plain, idle gossip as well as sweet reminiscences of eras bygone. We hardly slept, ate and laughed too hard, and lived every moment as heartily as we only, till now, could dream of. Home felt homelier, the homesick soul, lighter and merrier.

One week later, the walls still resound the spirit of our kinship. The ears are abuzz with snappy snippets. The heart aches for the rhythm of our uproar. And I have no plans of getting any less nostalgic any soon. Now, that would make our next reunion seem even farther, wouldn’t it? Unless, my pleas for an encore get heard right away. Listening, my dears?

Fahrenheit fever

2004-06-30T20:11:00.000-05:00

Well, if you’re not Harry Potter, the only other persona it pays to be these days is Michael Moore. His Fahrenheit 9/11 ignited waves of heat around the country when it finally opened on Friday amidst dissent from several conservatives. Michael Moore not only won accolades for it at Cannes, but is also now being pitched as the creator of the world’s most fetching documentary yet. A wonderfully woven lattice of fact and fiction and subtle, yet evocative insinuations, it is packed with plenty of laughs, dreadful satire, and some very unsettling moments. But the flip side of it all lies in the verity that the manner in which even the most genuine of facts are presented in a film, can often provoke twisted inferences.

The film is a livid attack on the Bush administration’s handling of the September 11 attacks, and the aftermath, but also has a curious comic angle to it. Michael Moore blames Bush for not having heeded to the warnings of an impending Al-Qaida attack on the United States, in August 2001. Instead, says Moore, Bush spent about 42 percent of his early tenure as president on vacation. The nuisances that began right after his litigious election to office are portrayed as having primarily heralded adverse times for Bush, leading up to stress and a peculiar lack of brass, which he’s ostensibly known to have beaten by taking time off on the ranch, chopping wood, or just having a good time clad in his ritzy cowboy outfit, while speaking into the camera preposterously. He is shown glued to his chair at a Florida classroom reading My Pet Goat to a bunch of kids for seven minutes, after being informed that a second plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. Links between the Bush family and the Saudis are spoken sardonically of, and Moore even mentions that some members of the bin-Laden family were allowed to leave the country after Sept. 13, sans even the nominal of formalities and rounds of questioning. At another instance, Bush is shown in a solemn anti-terrorism mood on a TV clip, and then scoffed at as he makes an almost quicksilver transition, beckoning the camera to watch his golf drive.

The latter half of the movie focuses on Iraq, its sovereignty, its people, several laymen and children that were killed ruthlessly by a war that was unwarranted in the first place, as Saddam was not in possession of weapons of mass destruction at all. There is also an elaborate clip that features an Iraqi woman hurling curses at the callous, unfeeling aliens that slaughtered her innocent family. Moore sweeps the tragic mood further into the American territory itself, with gruesome pictures of soldiers being killed, and also singles out a middle class family that lost their son.

All things considered, Fahrenheit is still going strong and promises to be a poignant picture for the average American soul. Without doubt, those in the pro-Bush camp are destined to find it outrageous, and those in the anti-Bush camp are most likely to gloat, but those in the middle must watch it in order to construe what it means to them. There may be good movies, and then bad, but the upshot of this one, like every other, indubitably lies in the eyes of the beholder. Either way, the Moore cronies are smiling.

Blubber blah-blah

2004-06-27T20:04:00.000-05:00

I used to belong to the Slenderella brigade, at least till a few years ago. I was even told I dress just as dainty. My mom had to jostle food laced with the healthiest of ingredients and purest of ghees down my throat, and if a smidgen of that stuck somewhere, it used to be, I am told, around the arms (never mind that it seldom showed). I used to be taken to the nearest weigh station every so often, as if I were a commodity at the grocers that needed to be checked if it were as bulky as it’d been paid for. And even if the scales revealed an upsurge of just about a milligram, it was much rejoiced and a feast would be readied, the larger part of its significance lying in the fact that I, indeed, needed to swell some more. It’s not that I was a bad eater, but rather a fussy one. I never ate my broccoli or carrots. It was junk fodder that reigned supreme on my self-assigned nutritional regime.

With a built that slim, I enjoyed the edge that many others strove for --- easy shopping, and easier locomotion. You see, I could wiggle myself into the tiniest of spaces and get to where the obese couldn’t, in one sweep. Perhaps I was even able to lay my hands on the most craved-for item at a sale, before anyone else could. I am certain I have been damned a time or two, and I in all likelihood, may have sworn back, albeit silently, at those butterballs --- why grow extra large if you can’t handle it?

I’m afraid I may have to eat those words up now. I am no longer a Slenderella, but somewhat providentially, I’m not obese, just yet. I am, what some people allude to in these parts of the world as, a Lilliputian whale. But I have moved up the size ladder considerably, and I cannot shop at the teenage boys’ section for, say, a corduroy jacket anymore. I still am in possession of one such, and I last wore it at a time that I do not seem to recollect very pleasantly. It was early fall, and I was heading out to dinner dolled up in semi formal eveningwear, rather unequipped in itself, to keep me even slightly warm. I’d worn the jacket at first, but as I got out in the open, I decided very bravely to relinquish it. A few yards down the block, I sensed an acute need for something to shield me against what I thought was a sudden, curious dip in the temperature. Apparently, the temperature had been steadily low all day long, and I hadn’t the wits to know so. The frost was biting rather brutally into my skin, but since I’d made the decision to move ahead even with some very sensible words of caution, going back on it meant getting the ego bruised. So I endured the wrath of the winds somehow, and acquired some fiery frostbites in the bargain. I haven’t worn the jacket since. And even if I did try it on, it wouldn’t fit me at any rate. I’ve puffed up since.

The price I’m paying is bigger than you can imagine. I have now to undergo a laborious regimen nearly everyday, a requisite for the Lilliputian whales. I have to work out regularly, go easy on the cheese, and eat oil-free or fat-free food, whichever suits the situation best, and hold off on anything that's categorized confectionery, or is even remotely saccharine. The Indian diet, rather fatefully, doesn’t co-operate very well with this schedule. To add to it, the Oberweis cows seem to jeer at me each time I go by their ‘udderly’ inviting ice-cream parlor. The cheesecakes, the Indian sweetmeats, Irish coffee (it provides in one glass all four of the enemy food groups --- alcohol, caffeine, sugar and fat), the pies, they all seem to have jumped up the bandwagon too. But I am resolute, or so I like to believe. Even if I do indulge in a scoop or two of the Oberweis fat-free ice-cream specialties, I tell myself, I shall not cede to the temptations of the rest of the greasy fare. I have not only to stay off them (which isn’t as easy as it sounds, especially with a sweet-tooth like mine) I have also to jiggle into that jacket, and hordes of other summery outfits that are up for sale presently. Right, the creams of them are at the teen girls’ turf at The Gap (although I did, brazenly, pick up a ‘large’ tee this evening, but let’s look forward to a substantial shrink, in time). But for now, I’m hoping the gulab-jamoons (flour drops deep-fried in ghee and doused in sugar syrup, for the unacquainted) I wolfed down this noon won’t come further in the way.

Hair’s the real deal!

2004-06-24T20:53:00.000-05:00

If you think judging people by their shoes is vogue, wait till you look up their heads. You see, it’s not what’s in it that they’re concerned with anymore, it’s what’s on it. And even with the trendiest pair of Cinderella shoes on, you can be outright ostracized if your hair isn’t bouncy, colored auburn, ginger, burgundy, violet or whatever goes with your skin tone, layered and fringed just enough at the front so it accentuates your dainty forehead, thereby steering lookers on to those deep, expressive eyes so enchanting, they’re bound to get lost in them. A trusty sentiment empowers them, and before you know it, they’ve put you right on top of a pedestal strictly reserved for the elite. Hair, mind you, is your only crowning glory.

Now, I belong to the excruciatingly-dull-hair-battalion. The moment my fertile head spawns follicles long enough to touch my shoulder, I have to go in for the routine snip. Longer is not better in my case. There are these fond memories I have from an age bygone, when I actually did have a longer, shinier, bouncier, fuller bulk firm on my head. And being agonizingly bored of the monotony I wore my hair with, I couldn’t help but go wacky and do a perm. Lock in some frizzy curls, I told my hairdresser, they’re all the rage. After bathing my head in what stunk like a poopy pigpen for hours on end, she rinsed it with some generous amount of water (soft water, I hope) for another few hours, and by the end of the day, I was poorer by a grand or so, and richer by fashion. She seemed delighted with her job, but I was hard to please. I stayed locked in my room for days, and the only outsiders that were allowed to check in on me were a handful of close friends, the kind that took you for who you were deep within. Gradually, by the time school finally reopened, I had begun socializing a bit. The opinions I received, which may well have been far from the truth many a time, were varied. Being a bad judge of friendly critique, I began venting all my rage by not heeding to the hairdresser’s pleas. Oil it everyday, never shampoo without conditioning, don’t wring the water out, don’t blow dry, and don’t sunbathe, she had said. I did quite the opposite. And the result is what I bear on my head today. A lifeless, lackluster, and lacking-class-in-every-strand-mane.

Once the swirls wore themselves out, I suddenly realized it would be wise to make up for length by what I had in a somewhat restored straightness. So I went in for the shorter, chic look, and made sure the hairdresser I chose was the most sought-after in those expanses of town. It worked like magic for my ego, and I sported my short new style with a newer confidence. The reviews weren’t as bad either, and they seemed genuine to an extent.

But the years rolled on and ageing brought with it a curious kind of wisdom. I began refuting and defying the ways of the world. I couldn’t care less about the hottest Chinese herbal hair formulae people trotted the globe looking for, or that special creme made exclusively for the coloreds. I had slogged quite a bit to prove my mettle at school and the career that ensued, and was convinced society had taken me for what I am by the truest measure of brain power (now how much that equals is another story, but it suffices to say I’m not wholly harebrained, pun most certainly unintended) and everything but hair-value. So I let it grow, longer than shoulder length. While it wasn’t too tough to tame for that special evening out, or a surprise get-together, I had newer problems to tackle --- dandruff and slight split ends. I was forced to hit the shears, and it's only good I determined never to experiment again, for, I haven’t looked back since. I feel comfortable the way I am, in wearing a clean, squat hairdo (never mind that it looks mostly unkempt on normal days) and a confidence that exudes considerable élan to survive. At least, I can get away with slipping into my comfy flip flops to the grocery store at times. Proper hair-care, I’ve realized, is the most astute skill to possess in these times. Warm oil, shampoo, condition, blow dry, head up, and you’re ready to take on the world. Unless, you still want to splurge on those à la mode Anne Kleins. I’d say, go for both.

Mr. Bell, are you listening?

2004-06-24T11:44:00.000-05:00

I detest answering machines. Absolutely. And I’ll never understand why they’re there in the first place. I mean, if the big idea is to shun some of those nincompoops out there, with no business to do in your life, why have them leave you messages? And if your hassle is that a dear one might ring while you’re away, why put the supposed through an episode of queasiness, compelling him or her to give an ad lib discourse, especially at the commanding of a stupid machine? Besides, what good’s caller id anyway, and why pay extra for it? I’m sure there are a gazillion other ways to ward unwanted callers off, and protect the poor known ones. At least I’ve heard of some.

I can get extremely edgy when leaving messages for people. The ‘beep’ to me is nothing less than a knell. And the darndest thing is being utterly helpless and entirely at the mercy of a soulless device, with no options whatsoever, to erase, modify or re-talk your message. Once said, it’s sealed, like in Pandora’s box. And the long wait for the return call nearly trounces me, almost always. And most often than not, it’s because I’m aware I’d sounded like a complete idiot, and also because I’m aware most people know I know I sound like one. And now that I’ve said so, let me offer something in my defense --- the real tele-cons that follow aren’t as bad, really.

Now just the other day I was assigned a voicemail-box at work and even as I choked at what was to follow, I could tell the flashing neon was daring me. I was required, as norm is, to tape an outgoing message. Honestly, I’d rather they gave me the pink slip than put me through the horror. Nonetheless, I tried to give it my best shot, but listening back, I can confidently vouch for the hideousness of the solo incantation, so much so that I’ve already alerted my friends and family of the repercussions of attempting to call me for when I’m away. Unless the big idea is to disown me, and now I just might learn when that happens.

First, I meant to try it the conventional way --- 'Hi, I’m such-and-such, such-and-such at the such-and-such department. Sorry, I’m away right now and hence unable to take your call. Please leave me your name, number and a detailed message after the beep and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.' But suddenly, something occurred to me --- won’t they know who they’re calling in the first place? So then I decided to go with just the latter half, 'Sorry, I’m away…' Wait. Aren’t I not taking the call since I’m not at my desk? Cut, cut. All I need to say is, 'if you’d like to leave me a message, I’ll return your call soon.' Unless, I just say, 'there’s the beep, and you know what to do!'

Now if you think that’s effortless, you haven’t heard me. After hours of rehearsing, taping, erasing, and re-taping, I finally managed to caw something out meekly. Days have passed since the ordeal, and I haven’t received a single message yet. But I’m hoping it’s more because I’ve remained glued to my seat and answered most calls, and less because callers presumed my phone had had a rat-attack. But then, ever since I’ve begun working on actuality-libretto for radio announcements we’re seeking to produce, I’ve been thinking --- perhaps I should start reviewing my status quo on this particular vocal exercise. Maybe if I tried harder, I’d sound more like I used to on the voice-overs I did whilst at the advertising agency, and less like a guinea pig that squeals and struggles to make its way out of the maze at the psychological research lab. Oh, and if you’re wondering how dissimilar it can be after all, whether voicing a readymade script, or cootchie-cooing a monologue into a silly telecommunications contraption, let me tell you, it’s a lot easier handling the ridicule of a bunch of humans than getting logged and timed by a cheeky little chip fitted into the mind’s eye of someone’s telephone.

Strangers on a train

2004-06-15T22:09:00.000-05:00

There’s more than an obvious, enigmatic charm in riding on the Metra. It’s a whole new world out there. And I don’t just mean the pretty, young executive woman with the dream-like peaches-and-cream complexion and a curiously crease-free skirt; or the plump managerial male with a receding hairline glaring at you like a halo over his head, and a beer belly that he adroitly covers with his glitzy leather bag; or the school goers nearly buried under their gigantic backpacks, with secret compartments that precariously hold together their life supplies, love letters, unsolved puzzle books, and perhaps, candy, or empty pages and inkless pens -- but what visibly showcases their surreptitious personae are their daring designer tattoos -- and their trendy i-pods that seemingly reverberate the very rhythm of their well-claimed lives; or any of the other strangers one is bound to come across -- some uniformed, some dressed in just the colors that appear to reveal their states of mind, some just barely attired, or accounted for by their outer shells. It’s not the foible of the flawlessly manicured air stewardess that tries to pass up any contact with the metal poles, lest her dainty fingers get soiled with the reek of ageing rust, which amuses me. It is exactly the opposite. I tend to believe she fears not that; but rather the thought of her own plush self-essence that might permeate the new world. Likewise, the little Japanese family of nieces and aunts, conversing animatedly in a dialect strictly their own, seem not to worry of a credence in the new order, but rather of the new order intruding their purportedly secure existences.

With all the intricate details of so many lives thrown into a cosmos bunged off the world beyond, there’s far too much going on, and all at the same time, to be able to imbibe every fragment, and yet remain restless or wary. Much like the words of quintessence that brim over from the book of wisdom in a way that you seem to begin to fathom, but eventually lose yourself in just a portion of the knowledge, resulting in a mélange of half-hearted redress and restiveness.

Yet, in all this disarray, there seems to be a sense of stability. We are no more unfamiliar than we are unified, trusting together the heaving haulage to lead us to our destinations, and believing in a transitory acquiescence of the several mysterious souls aboard. There is no more wanton than there is wont, no more known aliens than there are unknown allies. Among these varied voyagers of everyday, nothing is said, yet everything seems acknowledged. Where diversity rules, even a weird new world is haven.

Sissy to sassy

2004-05-25T16:41:00.000-05:00

I’m not much of what you might call a ‘sporty’ individual, except, I’m a biking maniac. A self-confessed paper tiger and acrophobic, I tend to circumvent looking down, when, say, aloft a tall building; if I marshal up the guts to get there in the first place, that is. ‘Tall,’ in my dictionary, puts the ceiling on ten feet, or thereabouts. But I’ve grown a lot from the debut-on-airliner days, wherein, looking out the window at the Goliath fluffy clouds would send me into such a tizzy-dizzy that I had to be whisked away in thought or physical proximity, whatever worked swiftest; never mind the fact that the person flanking me was at best a complete stranger, bound by no minuscule obligation whatsoever, even if you alluded to it by that proverbial humanitarian spirit, to watch over me.

Anyhow, here’s the lesson that brought about the afore-hyped ‘elevation,’ and pumped up the so-called chutzpah I parade around with these days. Well, standing a few feet away from a solitary lighthouse and looking down a knobby pohutukawa tree on a stark cliff atop the northern tip of New Zealand wasn’t exactly the kind of exercise for a psyche like mine. But I endured it, in all consciousness. This spectacular extremity of the Kiwis’ landscape, I learned, whilst there not too long ago, bears great historic and spiritual significance. The much acclaimed pohutukawa is the Reinga, or ‘place of leaping’ in Maori mythology, where the spirits of the dead plummet off the headland and descend the roots of the 800 year old tree, and go down into the underworld, to return to their traditional homeland of Hawaiiki. If only it were that uncomplicated for us lily-livered creatures. Providentially enough, though, my attention was instantly sidetracked by the merging of two mighty oceans, a roaring Tasman Sea and an all the more powered Pacific. The resulting collision was such a maelstrom of waves that it did little, if at all, to nurse the trepidation. But a strange, liberating sense of freedom and space had overcome me by then and before I could take anything in, I got ushered back on the bus, only to be taken on a further exhilarating ride along the vast expanse of what they call the ‘90 Mile Beach.’ Therein, I gathered, the sky-high waves can actually be as unpitying as they seem -- no human that ever tread a few yards into them had come out alive. Neurosis status, you ask? At freezing echelon, by then. Nonetheless, with the ears still resounding the yowling of the deep, an even more hair-raising trip over the shifting sands of the Te Paki Stream followed; and the colossal west coast sand dunes were just round the corner. I had only just taken a good look around, when I was summoned and handed a ‘boogie board’ to lie on, stomach down. Just as I readied my panic-stricken mind for what was to come, the sudden prospect of having to go down that steep sand dune positioned like that, made me bawl my lungs out. I found myself behave like a child that’s being flung into thin air, I wailed and whimpered. But the guide wasn’t going to let me go simply --- it was really de rigueur, he said. He dragged me to a smaller, less daunting mound of sand and backed me up with some good grounding. So what ensued was my real turn to hit the real sand.

I stood there and witnessed many rollovers and mishaps and became more convinced my kismet would be no different. People were being hurled like lumber on planks, and when they’d touched bottom, they appeared to have casually separated from their boogie boards. I was prepared for the absolute pits. Clenching my fists, I lay down on the boogie board, like a goat ready for its sacrificial ceremony. With my compassionate family cheering on and a gentle prodding by the guide, I was sent gliding down...eyes shut, nerves twisted, brain numbed, heart pounding, voice muted, I landed at the base, slightly bruised and utterly exhilarated to be alive.

Surely, you’ve figured how knocked out I was, but droll as it may seem, I did go back and forth on many more rounds. Like all’s well that ends well, it took a few adrenaline-pumping sashays down some gigantic sand eskers to turn me into a daring, outdoorsy freak. Needless to say, my life hasn’t really been the same since. Aside from being a triumphant boogier, I have also taken a crack at a few other activities that are clearly the terrain of the stout swashbuckler in these parts of the world -- skiing, for instance. And just as I’m recounting this, I’m being called on to prime myself for an impending countryside crusade. The phobias, incidentally, have gone on a teensy escapade by themselves --- they’re out flying a kite!

Gesundheit!

2004-05-19T14:05:00.000-05:00

There’s no telling what a silly sneeze can do to you…especially when you’re a baseball star. All Sammy Sosa had to do was unleash a couple. And the Cubs are paying for it, right through their noses. A sneeze happens, it is said, when the inside of your nose gets tickled, and this tickle sends a message to your brain, to a 'sneeze center,' to be precise. The ‘sneeze center’ passes the message on to all the muscles that have to work together to bring out a convoluted sneeze. Now these muscles, mind you, are a team in themselves. The stomach muscles, the chest muscles, the diaphragm, the muscles at the back of your throat, the ones that control your vocal cords, as well as the eyelid muscles.

Imagine the impact of two such drawn-out sternutations on muscles like Sosa’s. They straightforwardly bestowed him with a sprained ligament in his lower back, and a spot on the ‘disabled’ list. He missed Sunday's game in San Diego, after, what the media has been promulgating very anxiously as ‘two vehement sneezes,’ triggered pangs of twinges in his back. Dr. Schaefer, the Cubs' orthopedic specialist, examined Sosa before Tuesday's game against the Giants, and tests exposed a sprained ligament.

An epidural or two to alleviate the inflammation and stabilize that stressed lower back, it is hoped, might just about get him back in shape. But then, as hard as Sosa swings, one wonders if he needs to slacken for more than a couple of weeks in a row. Dusty Baker and his men are sure keeping their fingers crossed…and all one can hope in these times of adversity is that they don’t, consequently, come down with peculiar cases of Distal or Proximal Interphalangeal (read finger knuckle/ middle) joint injuries. Bring on the panacea, Dr. Schaefer!

Cleanliness is so next to Godliness!

2004-05-18T11:24:00.000-05:00

Home keeping is grisly business, more so if you’re a cleanliness freak like myself. Spring’s long gone, and I haven’t wrapped my rounds of tidying up yet. I continually find dust wading its malevolent way back into every nook that I, with poise believe, have scoured through. Trust me, I have tried putting the trendiest of gadgets and brushes and wipes and sprays to use, with every knack that any living human of my tribe could ever possess. But dust - there simply is no busting wholly. It takes a certain allegiance coming from a resolute fighter, to triumph over.

Then again, I do have my precincts --- I cannot lug that brawny vacuum all by myself to all those remote attics and wicked crannies. And that’s when I forlornly think back to the good old Indian broom - handy and robust all the same. I am wary of using gloves, but cannot get my hands to stroke all that grime directly. I still reminisce the initial days, when I was fraught with living down the olden days of glory, when I used to lead a laidback, easy life, courtesy my maid. Invariably when I have to empty the trash. I loathe the very thought of carrying soggy, rotting vegetable peels, smelly leftovers and soiled tissues to the disposal unit, cleaning the baskets, and lining them with fresh plastic. My poor maid took care of all that very painstakingly, and my involvement with all that garbage was limited to just filling it up.

Sometimes the routine gets so dreadful that I end up having all that dirt ramble through my dreams. Those soapy spots on the bath mirror, those bolshie little specks of dust on the telly…they come to haunt me one way or another. Unsurprisingly, I can truly relate to Monica of F.R.I.E.N.D.S and Jerry of Seinfeld, albeit I’m just short of a clinical disorder; and I don’t shy away from admitting so. Also, I’ve come to understand that there is, indeed, an indubitable boon in this, contrary to what many outside the clan would rather suppose. One doesn’t have to fret about germ-infestations or unsanitary conditions when one is a cleanliness maniac. No guilt trips or sullied scruples either. Come winter, spring or summer, the mop always beckons…

Fatherland of an architectural revolution

2004-05-05T23:07:00.000-05:00

Hassle-free jaunts are virtually few and far between when you dwell in a windy city such as mine. But some perseverance and a dogged mind can actually take you places, pun very intended. This I say, after we braved the blustery weather thrown at us along with intermittent showers, last weekend, to go on a tour of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Home & Studio, in Oak Park. And once there, we forgot all about the bleakness of the conditions, and focused instead, on marveling at that piece of organic architecture, or 'frozen music,' as Wright used to allude to it.

The 'horizontal' prairie style does have a strange propensity to make you feel one with nature…the red earth adobes, the verdant walls, low windows, and low roofing…appear cleverer and more practicable than the taller, dramatically ornate, Victorian style buildings. Not that I’m a trained architecture appreciator or critic, but it just seemed too palpable too ignore, or resist. Sent to an uncle's farm in Wisconsin to work and learn in his teens, Wright, we were told, became fascinated with nature and developed profound reverence for it. It was there that he began to ponder the theory of integrating architecture with nature. He is supposed to have told his apprentices, "Study nature, love nature, stay close to nature. It will never fail you. Whether people are fully conscious of this or not, they actually derive countenance and sustenance from the 'atmosphere' of the things they live in or with. They are rooted in them just as a plant is in the soil in which it is planted."

Now to some notable facets of the interiors --- the living room with a distinctly shallow fireplace, which centers the building down, the master bedroom with windows designed like the Japanese kimono, a noticeably huge attic in the kids’ play room, transformed into a balcony, and the natural light inlets, among other things, were effusive tell tale signs of Wright’s exceptional inventiveness. Wright believed that a building was not merely a place to be but a "way to be"; it had to reflect its surrounding and the people who would be using it. And he explained a beautiful building as, "more than scientific - they are true organisms, spiritually conceived; works of art using the best technology." The studio entrance was adroitly hidden by a mass of metal-sculpted storks guarding the ‘bible’ of architecture, as Wright apparently liked to bamboozle his visitors. But once you’ve made your way in, everything’s clear and within a direct field of vision. And it was in there that we learned, Wright not only designed buildings, but developed complete, cohesive environments: from the structure and the landscape to furniture, fixtures, fabrics, as well as ornamental accessories. As our guide pointed to the infamous hand stroked copper urn and a tall, lean, iron vase as proof of just that, he was considerate enough to mention we could buy replicas at the gift shop. There were scores of layouts, drafts and sketches secured in safes, vaults and shelves, some even pinned on the walls of his personal library. As I couldn’t decipher those lines and curves, I will safely say they were works of a genius, all right. Once out of the place, I could tell a wave of concord had descended upon the group, even as we were ushered into the gift shop. Conscientiously scanning the exhibits, I found all the crystal, metal and wooden knick-knacks too pricey for my curio collection. I had to make do with a couple of postcards, instead. Of such infinitesimal pleasures is a prudent living made. But if knowledge and travel-fanaticism are any yardsticks to go by, I'm now richer by more than a million. Besides, my dream house just got envisioned as well, prairie style, of course!

A storm undone

2004-04-27T11:55:00.000-05:00

As hoary clouds slid back on the sky
twisters flogged, up, center, and down
sign posts, broken, rubble, splashed, faces, murky
harked back in all nothingness, ‘you’re not alone...’

A calm then descended, somewhat hush, yet risky
with trees latching on to their youngest leaves,
flowers wet, yet stiff-necked, appearing less shaky
roaring, and grappling, the lake still heaves

Fancy cups clank, and brim with life potions
resolute to stir the empty souls, back to their wits
and even as I grope around for sanguine signs,
Nature smiles, wielding a new spell, bonding the bits

E for Eenglis!

2004-04-20T17:01:00.000-05:00

One of the penalties you've got to stomach for not signing up on the Do-Not-Call list is struggling to say ‘no,’ and that too, as politely as humanly possible, to geeks who try to woo you into a subscription for a newsdaily you have no use for except to blot the oil off ‘pooris,’ (okay, if I had to painstakingly Americanize it, I’d go with deep-fried wheatflour crepes) or a vacation to a place that you’ve either already been to, or are too broke to afford. I have tried many a time to ward these telemarketers off, in vain, but it is with sheer pride that I divulge I’ve rid of some with a dose of gracious goading. All in all, I have had some utterly amusing experiences with these sales callers, for instance, when I was once perceived as a teenager with no decisive power of her own, whatsoever, and asked if my parents were home. But there’s been worse, here’s how:

Me: Hello?
Her: Helloo…hallooooo…er…hellooooo ma’m, I am calling frem the X-magazine uffice
Me: Yes?
Her: We are uffering a sepcripshun for $X a week for the furst X munths to all new custemoors…and…umf…
Me: Oh, that’s nice! But I’m really sorry, I’m not up for it right now, maybe another time.
Her: Ma’m? Wut you say? Halloooo ma’m…I am calling frem the X…
Me: Yes, I got you lady. I am really sorry, I am not quite interested in your offer for now. Is there anything else you’d like to ask me?
Her: Wut! Wut you say! You spik eenglis?
Me: Yes, yes, lady. I DO (trying to hold on to the last few strings of my sanity)
Her: Wut, ma’m!! You spikking wut, I dunt get you…wut you say?
Me: Hey lady! I DO speak English and I s-a-i-d, I d-o-n-t h-a-v-e the tiiiiiime to read any magazine…so, there, sorry! (almost losing it…)
Her: Uh…you wut say ma’m, our uffer too goody, all custemoors taken in your area.
Me: Oh, I’m sure, but duh, sorry again…now if you don’t mind, I’d like to say bye!
Her: Hallooooo…ma’am…(feebly)

I, my friends, do speak some English, and it does not transcend the discerning powers of any of my American fellas, believe me. Well, at least when I say ‘let’s make a move,’ they do, in all their dervish spirit, shake a leg or two, understanding clearly that I don't, infact, mean 'let's go now.' So looking back, I wonder if I did the right thing by emphasizing my knowledge of the English language to this woman. Perhaps I should’ve burbled something in a dialect that would’ve been unfamiliar territory to her, and fairly indigenous to me.

'twixt I and thou...

2004-04-19T15:09:00.000-05:00

Martin Buber, for the unapprised, is the legendary philosopher whose work on the correlation in I-it and I-thou, virtually revolutionized the domain of interpersonal dialogue and communication. I have come to be totally besotted by his thoughts lately. The intricacies of his words and the perspectives they spell out - there's much, much more wisdom obscured in them than there seems.

For instance, with this excerpt from one of Buber's writings, one professor posed us a very intriguing challenge - to fathom the essence of what he meant:

"Nothing can refuse to be the vessel for the Word. The limits of the possibility of dialogue are the limits of awareness..." "Things remain the same, they are discovered once for all."

We had to ascertain whether, by saying so, Buber actually implied that all information has been in the universe for all time, and only when we recognize it does it become relevant for us as individuals, or not.

I reckoned that according to Buber, all information has existed in the world for all time – and events, signs and signals make us aware of those. They may not even be something extraordinary, but merely what goes on time and again, just what goes on in any case. Buber's belief is that, 'becoming aware' is not limited by just getting to know an 'other.' It could be related to an event, a stone, a plant or an animal...something can always be communicated to us, somehow, and thus - "Nothing can refuse to be the vessel for the Word. The limits of the possibility of dialogue are the limits of awareness."

In retrospect, I'm still speculating - while that may have been true, to borrow Buber’s words, in a ‘primitive’ world that was meagerly equipped; what about all the newness and inventiveness in today’s rather modish world? Haven't there been changes in the way we see and perceive and respond to our world at all?

Buber has further explicated that, language, as a symbolic communication medium, is independent of the dialogue between man and man and is understood as expressions of universal ideas existing in themselves. Does that make language static?

While you chew over that, just remember...“The waves of the aether roar on always, but for most of the time we have turned off our receivers..."!

In life's orb

2004-03-29T17:34:00.000-06:00

When the wind hums
its mellifluous tune
leaves listen intently,
flowers dance, and proliferate.

High on divine nectar,
butterflies flail
spent and disoriented,
yet gleeful in a moment’s choice

Waking the trees, birds chirrup,
tranquilly enough, brooks ripple,
rainbows spill their tinted allure,
soaking the earth’s parched skin.

A sense of freedom
unshackles her clogged soul.
Tousled by nature’s destiny,
all life settles in her spindly shell.

Of springing ahead

2004-03-24T14:36:00.000-06:00

When spring sets in, my mind invariably dwells on the burst of life it brings to the world. I love to watch the sunlit ripples stirring the stillness of the lake, trees burgeoning with their brand new leaves, dewdrops lacing tender blades of grass, and flowers beaming diffidently at the bees…I love to hear the birds redeeming their lost voices, to dance with the sunshine on the streets, and to gaze at butterflies painting the air in a color cascade…

Then again, summer is enchanting too; the monsoon, refreshing; and winter, fortifying. There seems to be a strange, inexplicable joy even in the repression of the sun, the saturation of the rains, and the ire of the winds. With each changing season, nature ostensibly forwards one loveliness into another…there's no prairie lovelier than a red autumn leaf, and no cricket chirr cheerier than a running brook. Nature never closes in on anything, it only heralds new beginnings, and new hopes. Makes me wonder...if, abidingly, we kept the green bough in our hearts evergreen…perhaps the singing bird would come?

Green is in the air...

2004-03-18T00:30:00.000-06:00

...and spring’s not in just yet!

Today is not just any day, especially if you’re in New York, or Chicago, and of course, Ireland. It’s the reviving of an ancient culture. The mention of St Patrick’s Day makes one conjure up images of a bunch of Irish revelers painting the town red with their procession. But there’s much, much more than just that. Legend has it that St. Patrick, the Patron Saint of Ireland, became a celebrated missionary of the Christian faith in Ireland at a very young age, in attempting to turn around the people of Ireland from paganism practiced before 6th Century A.D. In the 1760s, Irishmen serving the English paraded through the streets of New York, proclaiming the beginning of the celebrations in honor of the Saint, during the month of Lent. And there has been no looking back since; New York draws more than one million spectators each year. And Chicago is not too far behind. The parade goes on here too, in all its grandeur, and then the Chicago River has attracted more and more people for the past 43 years, by indefatigably turning a resplendent green just for the St. Patrick's Day celebrations. The hype is more apposite than it seems, as they say the green hue of the river is strikingly similar to the greens of Ireland; and the dye they use is actually orange! Well, if you think this is a real avant-garde marvel, who is to explain the perfectly coordinated tap dancing?

Winter woes

2004-02-22T09:54:00.000-06:00

Wisps of snow alight fine
as they swathe us
in a still embrace

Floating through hazy air
our thoughts congeal
yet white and stray

Let no one, or no gray angst
break the resound
of our hope’s sweet song

Sleet, frost, please be gone
all we covet
is one drop of sun.

Outset

2004-02-21T21:45:00.000-06:00

I used to be quite content as a struggling writer, sitting snug in my own little world, a sprightly jazz town in America, torn an ocean or two away from my homeland, India. But when I sheepishly told people I wasn’t into web logging, though I’d made the transition uphill, from scribbling on paper to keying on the computer, they almost always dropped their jaws. I heard them speak of the phenomenon as one of the hottest conduits for people that can string a word or two, to let the world in on their talent. Still in wonderment and somewhat edgy, I took my baby steps and signed up here as a lark, but have pledged since, to get into it seriously. I don’t know how less hackneyed a manner I can put this down in, so I will go ahead and bore you stiff. I will blog about the things I’m fond of, like books, poetry, comics, communications, advertising, movies, baseball, tennis, cricket, children, gardens, art, biking, crafts, music, people, skiing, the world, the Internet, food, nature, travel, crosswords…(essentially in higgledy-piggledy order) and basically anything that piques my curiosity. I might not be the kind of writer bloggers are unanimously known to be, but when I look back someday, I will perhaps be happy to learn this was how I'd steeled myself for the challenges of technophilia. Welcome anyway, this is where my words are in a waltz, and my mindspeak, in sync.