Youth in Indian Politics

Way back in 2004 I wrote a post on my now-defunct blog Vivify about how I was not opposed to a little bit of nepotism in Indian Politics, because the advent of young blood into the arena would surely do the country some good.

After the astounding victory of the Samajwadi Party in Uttar Pradesh on March 06, 2012 being credited solely to the dynamic four-time Chief Minister Mulayam Singh Yadav's 38 year old son, Akhilesh Yadav, I feel like Nostradamus...(except for our obvious age difference!)

No, seriously, barring the biggest exception of 'em all Rahul Gandhi (who I may add did work very hard in UP - but clearly failed to create any impact; despite hogging ALL the media attention with his dine-in's, run in's and what not, while Akhilesh got small mentions for his bicycle yatra), who is highly misguided and has fallen into the same trap as his grandmother (being surrounded by a coterie that ill-advises if and when it does), the other young guns have done quite well. 

I am all for young blood in Indian politics. In a democracy that is 65 years old, the average age of our 'active' politicians hovers way above that mark and it IS time to change that! 

To the list of Jyotiraditya Scindia, Omar Abdullah (who hasn't done very well as the CM of J & K, but who still qualifies to be on this list!), Milind Deora, Sachin Pilot, Rahul Gandhi, Akhilesh Yadav, Madhu Goud, it would be prudent to add Priya Dutt (daughter of Sunil Dutt), Supriya Sule (daughter of the formidable Maharashtra baron - Sharad Pawar) and Agatha Sangma (daughter of ex-Lok Sabha speaker, P A Sangma) as the rising prodigies.

May their tribe grow, and in 2014 when I go to cast my vote I would want to choose a 30 or 40 something to lead my constituency with the vision and boldness that only comes with youth.

Meanwhile, this is what I'd written way back then...

Catch 'em young
Much is being made about the foray of “young blood” into the Indian political arena this Lok Sabha season. The “routinely” responsible media of the Nation has gone crazy trail blazing these young political wannabes, making predictions, coming up with eager opinion polls, predicting, interviewing and the works…in short, making celebrities of them. I think it is indeed a step in the right direction, not the media’s glare on them, but the augmentation of such new entrants. Why?

Because

1.India needs “young blood”; translated into normal parlance means, youthful, energetic fervor, young men and women with enthusiasm, commitment, vision, passion, zeal and a spirit for adventure, for dynamism, with the ability to bring our country to the new world order.

2.I think that in a country where “politics” is considered a taboo career option for the youth, where the term “politician” is equated with one-upmanship, treacherousness, and political ambition with slyness, dirty dealings…it is very heartening to know that these young men have decided to take on the baton. Yeah, even Rahul Gandhi ;-| ….who I might add, was always projected as the reluctant warrior. His coming of age may coincide with the desperate hanging on of the Congress Party to the Gandhi name, yet, this time, he does come across as happy in his new shoes.

3.Maybe this baton is being pompously passed on from one generation to another. Maybe these future political honchos have, in fact been carefully groomed to take over the reins one day (as if it were the family business). Maybe it is nothing but nepotism and partisanship. But would it be possible for a young man or woman, hailing from an average (read undistinguished) family, to bear the cost of contesting the Lok Sabha elections as they are contested today? Would they have the opportunity to grow into ‘leaders’ or get noticed as ‘party workers’? Would the average gentry (read voting junta) trust these youngsters? I agree that it sounds like a pathetic argument, but given the benefit of their ancestry, the years of collective political wisdom and experience in their families, acceptability and in a way, contest-ability will come easy for them.

4.The brighter side is also that it will take them at least 15-20 years of political hobnobbing, or more, to learn the games, tricks, shrewdness and wickedness that politics brings in its wake. Until then, these, our chosen representatives will actually have done our country some good! And by that time, a new generation of political wannabes will be ready to take over.

We need a young political force. On behalf of Gen Y2K, I do firmly believe that we are more motivated, we work harder (at least as much as we party or more), we are more focussed, more tech savvy, more aware of our duties and responsibilities as citizens and less inclined to corruption and deceit than the generation before us.

Don’t mean to offend you mom and dad…but it is a fact all thanks to the glorious media revolution of the 21st century.

So, why should we get stuck with 60+…”experienced, seasoned” politicians? Isn’t it time that the young be given a fair chance? 


In the ideal world, all youngsters would be given a fair chance, irrespective of their gentry, ancestry, caste, creed, SEX (no girls contesting...except for Mehbooba Mufti Mohammed, but would she qualify as "young?").... But then we would have to call that world Utopia, right? In this real world, this is as real and fair as it gets.

I say three cheers for all of them, Scindias, Abdullahs, Pilots, Deoras and Gandhis.

Freedom at 55 - Palani Amma

She is 55 years old...and she had the guts to run away.

I dedicate this post to Palani Amma, my maid of two short months, PalRaj's wife of 38 years, mother of one, grandmother of two and one hell of a gutsy woman.

It happened almost a week ago... She came to work as scheduled, as she did every morning at 7 am. Looking back it seems that she was a bit anxious that day... And why not...she was a bird about to take flight that morning..breaking the manacles of a forced matrimony; one that she had endured and survived for thirty eight long years.

Going back to that morning...she had seemed tense and in a hurry to finish off the assigned chores. She even asked me for some money. Unfortunately, I was out of change and could not give her the petty Rs 500 she wanted. If only I'd known why she wanted the money I would have readily parted with the Rs 1000 note that I had. Anyway, she left my home at 9 30 am and that was the last I saw of her.

PalRaj, her husband rang the doorbell at 6 30 pm, asking to speak to his wife. When I told him I hadn't seen her since 9 30, he asked me if she'd told me where she was going off to. I realized something was amiss. He told me that she'd left the house unlocked, taken her clothes, her gold, most of the cash, some utensils and all the grocery. He looked worried and I asked him if they'd had a fight that prompted her to go away. He acknowledged that they had been arguing a lot lately. I did not make much of it assuming and telling him that she would probably have taken refuge with his daughter, who lived nearby, for a few days...perhaps for a change, or perhaps because she was genuinely upset with him.

He returned the following morning carrying the news that she was no where, not at their daughter's or friends or relatives... She had disappeared. Now I was worried. Where could she have gone?

A migrant from a remote village in Tamil Nadu, amma (as we fondly called her), had come to Delhi with her husband 35 years ago. Although she had been here so many years, her Hindi was awful and she had very little knowledge of the geography of the city. I requested him to lodge a police complaint. He refused.

He refused! 

He claimed to have been good to her, all his life, fulfilling her desires and demands. He bought her sarees, one recently that cost Rs 7000, all because she insisted. Yet happiness eluded them. She was fond of roaming the colony more than earning a living, he said. He would not waste his time trying to locate her because she'd left him. He insinuated that she had left him because he was an old man and she was younger, much younger.... He had been out of a job, and she had perhaps left him for someone who would provide her better comforts....

I was aghast. How typical! How Simple! How quickly he accused her of infidelity, his wife of 38 years!!!!! 

Later that day, I received a call from his daughter, who apologised on behalf of her mother for leaving me in the lurch. She said, "Madam, please don't curse amma... She went away, back to the village to be with her brother because my father ill treated her. She could not take it anymore and she could not tell anyone either or he would have found out and beaten her. Papa had come here and he knows that she has gone back."

This is the story of womankind...and of man, who would rather slander his wife of 4 decades, in public, than take responsiblity and admit his shortcomings. She marries him and becomes his property. He can beat her and ill treat her at will. If she retaliates, she gets beaten more. If she breaks free, she is labelled a whore on the look out for a better prospect.

I absolve you Palani Amma, acquit you of the baseless charges your spineless husband made against you. I am glad you broke away. I don't know what your compulsions were, why you tolerated him for 38 years...but you have finally escaped. You are on your own now and I have to woder how you will support yourself. Yet, if you have gone away, not once caring to look back, it must mean you are better off now. I hope you find happiness. Your courage and mettle will be an inspiration for many.

Palani Amma made it back to her village in District Erode, safe and sound, three days after her departure.

11 September 2003

A Train Journey I shan't forget

This post was written in February 2004... One month short of my son's first Birthday when I had made a trip to Kerala from Delhi on the (in)famous Trivandrum Rajdhani.

Making a train journey can be tedious. And if you have to make a looooong one, (about 38 hours), with two little kids for company, you've just about had it. AND if the train gets delayed due to "unavoidable circumstances" in the typical Indian Railways style, you can very well imagine the plight.

It takes serious effort to maintain one's cool...coz

1. You may be blessed as I was, and have the worst set of co-passengers ever possible, who can be bickering, uncooperative and unreasonable.

2. There is a four year old hyperactive kid who wants to swing betwen berths like Tarzan, causing a rise in the blood pressure of many. No problem with that except that she happens to be your daughter.

3. There is also one sweet little toddler, who is his calmest best during the day, but howls the night through, making you, his mom, stand ouside the periphery of the compartment, for most part of the night, sweating profusely (totally defeating the very idea of travelling by an Airconditioned coach), singing a baritone lullaby hoping that he shuts his mouth and his eyes (in that order) and knocks off so you can catch a wink or two....

4. The food on the train, the mighty Rajdhani, is atrocious and your daughter howls through the journey demanding Maggi Noodles, Rajma Chawal, Macaroni.....just to make your life a little more miserable.

5. Whatever you have carried, (which makes up for a LARGE part of your luggage), your children refuse to eat....turning you into an expert at 100 m dashes, rushing in and out, getting off at select stations where the train halts for an unbelievable 5 full minutes....while you look for that milk/chocolate/snack vendor (or whatever is the latest demand), get to him, pick up your stuff, pay for it, glance apprehensively at the train, the watch, the signal on the platform while he gets you your change...and make it to the coach.....just in time.

Through all this, you find one particular gentleman looking your way too often, watching... He seems to be waiting for you at every station to board the train...coz he only boards after you do, when the train is already in motion. 

He is there, sitting up while you try in vain to put the baby to sleep.... You see him as you cross his berth to get to yours balancing the sleeping baby on a moving train, trying not to hurt the child (You don't want to make any wrong moves lest he wakes up!!) coz you see his lights switch off after yours, as late as 2 am (It is strange because on trains for some reason - lights switch off as early as 930 pm). 

He begins to feel like a shadow...coz when you take your girl to the loo for the thousandth time, and turn around after she is through, he is right there.

Then he finally approaches you and says, "Ma'am, I just wanted to tell you that you are a very good mother. You are handling your kids so well. You are being so patient and caring. Its great."

And leaves you dumb struck. You mumble a quick "Thank you...." coz actually you don't know what to say....

Should you be rude to him and snap, "Who asked you?"...coz this may very well be the latest pick up line! But you know its not...coz he compliments you and minds his own business thereafter... Nothing further... 

You arrive your destination and scan the crowd for him, but he is not there. He is the angel who disappears after his job has been done - watching over a hapless mother with two children :-)

Yes. The Lord does work in mysterious ways!

Joy of Giving - Card 16 - Experience

I have always battled weight issues. As a child I was thin. But somewhere along the way as I grew up, weight became a problem. I have written a lot about my weighty problems and my struggles... Have reproduced two of them at the end of this post.

I am still overweight. On the scale. I say "On the scale" because I look like I have only flab on my body, but fact is I have a lot of muscles too. I have excellent stamina and capacity for hard work (physical labour).

All this is thanks to my workout regimen.

I have been an avid gym goer for the past five years and although I haven't lost as much weight (on the scale) as I ought to have, I have lost oodles of inches. It has helped elevate my confidence and made the clothes I love wearing, look a whole lot better :-) Recently I have also added Yoga to my routine, three times a week.

So when I, before I left for the XMas vacation, picked this card for the last week of the year, I was happy. Happy because I would get to share the secret of my fitness regimen with my friends. And perhaps inspire somebody to take up an exercise routine they find comfortable.

If you knew the story of my fat-fit-fat-almost fit life, you'd wonder how someone as lazy as me even gets to the gym almost 5 days a week and works so hard that most people are in awe of the workout routine I follow.

I will cut the long story short and simply say, I decided that I was okay with the fat on my body (a lot of it is genetics, a lot to do with stress and and a lot more to do with unhealthy eating habits), but I was not okay being unhealthy. The prevalence of diabetes and heart disease in my paternal family, the struggles my mom had endured running to hospitals while my dad lay in the ICU recuperating from a heart attack (and eventually a by-pass surgery), the medications, instilled in me a resolve to do something to remain healthy.

So I, the one person who completely loathes routine of any kind, made a lifestyle change. I decided that I would do some sort of physical exercise at least 5 times a week, for as long as I live.

Thus came into picture my gym - world famous in Pune - Talwalkars. I have stuck to the regimen and although I took a short sabbatical a few years ago, I got back to my gym with gusto as soon as I felt my stamina depleting.

I don't need to spell out the benefits of a workout. But I will say to all my friends out there who have a reasonable excuse to skip any sort of workout regimen (be it a gym, daily walks, a treadmill at home, yoga, pilate, dancing, swimming, aerobics or what have you) just like I did for many many years, we need to incorporate exercise as an un-missable part of our lives.

Lifestyle change. Any sort of exercise routine must be made part of our daily lives - not something we do because we want to lose weight before a wedding in the family, a party or some such "special" occasion. It should become like that cup of tea/coffee in the morning that we cannot do without. It should have a space in our lives, much like the time we take out to commute to our workplaces, or the time we spare for TV viewing everyday.

To indulge in some sort of exercise routine simply means to spare some "me" time; time for ourselves. As a woman I know that most of us refuse to take time out to pamper or indulge ourselves in the smallest ways possible. So sparing 1-1.5 hours everyday for a workout may sound impossible. But it won't be impossible if, as I mentioned earlier, we make it 'part' of our lives. Like the 8 hour sleep we need. Or the four course dinner we HAVE to make for the family. Part of us.

And the need to spare some time for exercise also includes the men. Health is definitely wealth regardless of our genders.

To conclude this ramble, I raise a toast to the Card of Week 16 and hail it as a MUST DO for all of us! Hope you follow it too...

Leaving you with two snippets from my old blog on the same subject. The first one is inspiring and the second - well...it is about the "excuses" I believed in before I thought enough is enough!

2 December 2005 

Nearly all of us will accept that we overlook our personal health and its upkeep. Giving into a temptation once in an odd way is acceptable. But most of us eat unhealthy food out of sheer habit than necessity. Incorporating a work out into a full fledged routine is an arduous task too, given our lack of time. So we end up battling the cellulite deluge.

Most of us give up. Fat is not good for our self esteem and confidence. But it is EASY; easy to accept, easy to live with, easier to grow.

Take me, for example. I am a working mother of two who has had to fight the bulge ever since I can remember. As a child, my mother enrolled me in a dance class that helped me keep fit. As the pressure of excelling academically grew, I stopped training in Bharatnatyam and grew in size. My height just refused to beat the mark it is at even today.

In college, I managed to keep a 26 inch waist and a 46 kilogram weight, perfect for my 5 feet one inch petite frame, only because I survived on one meal a day. It took its toll on my complexion which my north Indian relatives blamed on the tropical south Indian sun! 

Then I got married. For many years I tried hard to get into a work out routine. But it never worked out! And hell, how was I to keep away from food when I was cooking it? My battle with the bulge was back with a vengeance. All hell broke loose when I became pregnant with my first child.

Needless to say, I haven’t been able to turn back the hands of time since. Two kids later and numerous efforts at “diet control”, dieting, fad diets and once-a-year dance stints with Shiamak Davar have yielded nothing. I have reached a weight that I hate to comprehend even to myself.

That I belonged to a family with a history of diabetes and heart disease, failed to make me overtly conscious or instill a fear of the inevitable. I took shelter under the advise my gynecologist sister-in-law offered me, that a 10% increase in body weight after child birth was considered normal for women. 20% for two kids. I was a little over the 20% mark but I reckoned it was not something to lose sleep over or avoid the lip smacking strawberry pastry for. I realize now, that by merely taking cover, I was not taking charge.

Cut to the present.

The easy routine at my work place has seen me frequent a gym at least thrice a week. But the results are yet to show. Because I lack the motivation to work out as much as I can; I am willing to skip it on the smallest pretext. I also lack the self control required to say NO to a cheesy pizza or the regular rajma-chawal. It is also slowly dawning on me that as I grow older, not only will this fat become a permanent entity; it will certainly get added onto. It is scaring the hell out of me, but….just not enough.

I am not happy with the way my weight is, but I am willing to compromise. My complexion is not that bad! I guess I have also gotten used to people telling me that I am not that fat; and that I carry my weight well. As my husband always says, (which I think all husbands who love their wives say, even at the cost of sounding like liars and fibbers) “a little fat looks good on you.”

Quite frankly, who in the world wants to question such love?

One year after I wrote this, I turned my life around by sparing one hour at least 5 days a week for MY health and happiness.

Believe me, its do-able!

Joy of Giving - Card 15 - Guardian Angels

When I came across this post from my older blog I thought it is perfect for the Joy of Giving Card 15. Simply because, the feelings have remained unchanged since I first wrote this some time in 2008 (and have only grown) and reproducing this one also helps me bring one of my heart felt posts back from the gallows where it lies defunct in a blog manager I can no longer access.

So this is my Thank You note to Mama, Mami, Vimala didi and Anandhi. You have meant more to me than 'family' as I was growing up and even these words actually fail to express what you meant to me...

The golden moments in the stream of life rush past us and we see nothing but sand;

the angels come to visit us, and we only know them when they are gone.

 George Eliot (1819 - 1880)

Sometimes a life time can pass by before you have the chance to tell a few special people what they mean to you, how they have influenced you, how they have made you feel…and how very much you miss them.

I don’t want to lose this chance…because I completely agree with Mr Eliot, and want to tell my Angels, I know you.....

I was a difficult child growing up…spoilt thoroughly by my parents who doted on their first born. Apparently, as a two or three year old, I would refuse to sleep at night, and my parents would pop us in the car, take me on a LONG drive, until I would fall asleep…which could be for an hour or more. That’s in 1976, when cars were few and fuel was some paise to a litre.

My birthdays were celebrated in STYLE. My parents would call everyone they know, and the guest list would often run into a hundred plus. The party would be lavish, with catering and the jazz of a wedding celebration. The spectacle continued as my brothers arrived and was brought to an end when we grew up and started demanding our “private” parties with friends.

My wishes were almost always fulfilled unless they were particularly absurd. I made my first trip abroad as a 16 year old, part of a package tour to Singapore for 10 days, ALONE. My dad did not blink an eyelid as I travelled unaccompanied, with 1000 USD CASH in my hands to spend. I had the most rollicking time of my life!

My parents never raised a hand on me… I don’t remember my mother ever shouting at me, even though I bunked classes at Junior College to go for a movie. I was allowed to drive my dad’s car at 18. I would fly to Mumbai (from Cochin) unaccompanied for vacations, as young as 6 years of age.

Guess I should stop it now. But you get the picture anyways, right?

Through all this pampering and lavish upbringing, it was easy to get carried away. I could have turned out like most of my cousins, talking money and status all the time; treating people without money with contempt. I could have made jewellery, clothes etc the pre occupation of my being. I could have decided to marry rich, enjoy the riches, because riches made you who you are…in “that” world.

But I turned out different and I can only attribute that to my Guardian Angels.

They kept me grounded…with their simplicity. I grew to appreciate people for who they are, not what they wear, the car they drive (or don’t drive), or their jewellery. I grew to understand the importance of education. I saw that happiness was not in possessing material goods. It was in being satisfied with what you have. People see me as a down-to-earth person without hang ups. I give the credit to my Guardian Angels for helping me become so.

They inspired me with their intelligence…and their hard work. I was committed to prove I could master Mathematics, my academic Waterloo throughout school, and come out with flying colours at the Class X Board Exams, only because of the guidance and inspiration I received from them.

They flattered me with their praise as I would make knick knacks out of things, or laud my drawing/painting skills in front of their own guests. They celebrated my happiness on winning Elocution at school as much as my parents did (may be even more).

They took me in as part of their family, just as they did my brothers later on. On Navaratri, I would deck up in a ‘pawadai’ (traditional ankle length skirt) and place a string of jasmine in my hair to serve the guests. During Saraswati pooja, I would place my books at the altar in their home. I was part of their wedding celebrations and knew most of their relatives by name.

I would eat at least one meal a day (if possible) at their place and if given the opportunity would have loved to have a sleep over every night. My day would be incomplete without meeting them and pouring out the day’s events to them (preferably over a meal).

I could do all that, because we lived in the same compound, housing three homes and a commercial establishment. As time went on, the Didis got married and moved away. Mama and Mami (Uncle and Aunt respectively, in Tamil) continued to share that home where we would pop in time and again, to grab small chatter, and certainly Mami’s delicious hot ‘kaapi’.

Mama passed away a few years ago, and Mami does not live in that house anymore. For me, a trip to Cochin is incomplete without dropping in to see Mami and grabbing a meal there, followed by kaapi. I miss Mama and can only imagine how he would have pulled my leg or played with my kids. I still remember his full bodied smile as he would mercilessly pull my leg by mispronouncing my (best) friend’s name, knowing how irritated I would get.

I have the sweetest memories of a happy and carefree childhood, brought to life each time I meet the family, as they animatedly discuss my idiosyncrasies as a child. It is like going through LIVE memoirs of my early years…making me thank God for handing me over to this family.

Thank You falls short for what I wish to express. And yet I will say, THANK YOU my Guardian Angels.

A Tale from Gastronome

Every country has its food habits. And every country has its guest etiquettes. The geographical distinctness of our vast motherland has allowed different cultures to thrive within its fold. Apart from the variation in cuisines, the treatment to guests also varies. I have the unique distinction of being a north Indian who was brought up in the furthest corner of south India and who subsequently married a south Indian. My insight into the way guests are treated in different parts of the country stems from my experiences.

In north India for example, it is considered detriment to the image as a welcoming host if their guests are not treated to foods cooked in clarified butter, with more than the required peppering of spices or sweet meats prepared with refined sugar and garnished with dry fruits. Not a thought is spared for the unfortunate guest who may be on a diet, may be unused to such food and may therefore be unable to digest it. This hospitality called ‘khatirdaari’ in Hindi is an essential part of the north Indian’s guest etiquettes, especially amongst the Marwari / Baniya communities and Punjabis.

Down south in a typical Malayali Christian household, breakfast may consist of steak, rice, the traditional sambar, poriyals (curries), idlis/puttu, chicken curry, prawn curry/fish curry, with an egg dish thrown in. I considered this to be a layout of mammoth proportions and as a child growing up in Kerala, I was often amazed by the sight. As I would take my seat at the dining table, I would imagine my friend and his family to be gigantic gluttons.

Sometimes it is the quantity of food he is expected to consume rather than the quality or variety that makes the guest feel like he is trapped in an underground mine. It happened to me when my husband and I dropped by at my sister-in-law’s place for lunch many years ago. She is married to a Telugu and had at that point just given birth to her twin boys. That my sister-in-law lived with her own parents-in-law had not seemed like double jeopardy to me. I have smartened up since then!

A brief background to the episode will be prudent here. My hubby and I were newly weds. As mentioned earlier, I am a north Indian and hubby from the south of India. Apart from the differences in our language and culture, we were often cross examined on the food I cooked. I was accused by his relatives of feeding my tam-bram (tamilian brahmin) husband rotis and chappatis, while my own set of relatives pitied me for switching to rice as staple food. That we were a multi cuisine couple who enjoyed rice and rotis just as well as pasta and falafals, could never be fathomed by any of them.

Anyway, so getting back to that afternoon, since I was a new bride, my sister-in-law’s in-laws took it upon themselves to introduce me to Andhra cuisine and the manner of eating it. I was forewarned by the authoritarian father-in-law that leftovers would mean disrespect to my hosts. As soon as we were seated on the dining table aunty (mom-in-law) served each of us an enormous plate of vegetable biryani. I used to be a small eater then and half way through the biryani I felt rather full. But I endeavoured to finish each morsel remembering the ominous warning I had received at the outset of the meal.

When aunty cleared the plates, I heaved an inward sigh of relief knowing that I had passed the test with flying colours. As we indulged in more small talk, aunty placed another plate before each of us. I looked up at her and wondered why anyone would serve dessert in a dinner plate. As I gloated over my table etiquettes and their lack of it, I saw aunty walk in with a few dishes. To my horror, the dishes did not contain varieties of dessert, but an entire meal.

Thereafter I was lead through the course of a proper Andhra meal that consisted of an unbelievable quantity of rice; Rice with pickle, followed by rice with curry, rice with sambar, rice with rasam and lastly, rice with curd. By this time, I was smilingly stuffing each morsel of food down my gullet and cursing my small appetite. I managed to survive the attack on my stomach, but only after I had firmly refused the curd-rice-with-mashed-banana combination. Despite my south Indian upbringing, rice with banana constitutes a meal faux pas for me.

This onslaught was followed by dessert consisting of four gulab jamuns. I was too shy to refuse the plate and looked beseechingly at my hubby. He performed the superman act and reminded aunty in Telugu that a bride could only eat so much. Despite uncle’s protests, I managed to get away with two gulab jamuns.

As we bade farewell to the in-laws and in-laws, I thanked God for my stupendous gullet control that held me in good stead till we reached our hotel; where I threw up the afternoon’s effort, literally down the drain!

Sweet Memory

I wrote this a few days before the second one arrived into this world. I am glad I found it in the pages of a diary and as I reproduce it, I can't help but smile over and over again....
April 05, 2003.

She squeals in absolute delight. She stares at the screen, totally enthralled - wide eyed, jaws dropped open. Her giggles echo through the tiny darkened room.

It is my sprightly three year old; not in a cinema watching a cool new animated flick, not at home watching her favourite new-kid-on-the-block, Vivek Oberoi. She is watching the monitor of the ultrasound machine that is projecting pictures of her little unborn brother.

A pair of eyes, a mouth, hands, legs, fingers, toes, a steadily beating heart...she is soaking it all, under the expert guidance of the friendly doctor. The pictures are hazy...a lot of black and a little white, but so full of life!

"Mama, its Abhir!", she exclaims, eyes twinkling, as they travel from the monitor to me and back, savouring every glimpse.

We have named him Abhir; made aware of his sex as soon as the doctor could identify him. She has been waiting patiently, for the last eight months, to hold her little sibling; the little baby she hopes will share her room, her toys; and we hope, her joys and happinesses and her life.

And to think that we had the power to say NO to it all, like many couples these days do. More than one child sounds like hara kiri to many and the excuses range from being socially responsible citizens of the country (by not adding to the vast population), to the more practical - we can't afford one. Growing up with siblings has been a significant part of our lives, my hubby's and mine, and we wanted our first born to revel in the same feelings.

The time has almost come. We are almost there; nearing the days when his wails will ring in a new beginning in all our lives, especially our daughter's.

Tonite I will whisper a little prayer of gratitude to the Almighty for bestowing upon me the joys of parenthood. The look on her face that I saw today will be etched in my mind forever.

Road accidents

Ever witnessed a road accident? I can't sleep for nights on end when I hear about a road accident death.

It happened again, yesterday, when we received the news of the death of an officer my husband had served with on INS Rajput over four years ago...a young, able bodied, "mast", full-of-life, father of two little ones, husband to a graceful and petite young woman, in a road accident...in Mumbai over a week ago. A friend gave us the news...and this is all we know. How, where, what about the family....all a mystery.

And yet, I can imagine the horryifying way he must have met his end...coz my hubby and I have been witnesses to two road accidents, one in which our effort managed to save a human life, and the second, we were too late. The young man was dead by the time we noticed his body lying in the middle of the road as we were returning from a party late one night.

His mangled body, the way his limbs had ripped apart from his torso, twisted, the way his brain lay splattered all over the tar road and the pools of blood that started to flow from the immobile body.... We'd been unable to sleep for many many days after that...and each time I hear of a death in a road accident, my mind goes back to that horrifying scene from five years ago.... The young man who had lost his life was just about 24 years old. He rammed his bike into a tractor trailer parked by the side of a busy industrial route. He was not wearing his helmet...because we found his helmet hung around the handle. The tractor had no tail lamps to warn that it was parked there. There were no street lamps too. The young man must have been at a reasonably good speed because the impact of the crash was all around. All the factors, multiplied together, and kaboom....ageing parents from Chandigarh lost their son, the Indian Navy lost an officer, a sister lost her brother....

Was the end of life meant to be so simple? A flash...and gone!!!!! How fragile our human body is...and look at how we treat it sometimes...little realising that when it matters, at that decisive moment, our muscles, bones, flesh...will fall apart like a pack of cards....

The man was not a very dear friend...an aquantaince really, but I keep thinking of the family he has left behind....of the little kids, the oldest a little over 6..... And these thoughts will dominate my mind every time I will get behind the wheel and try to nonsensically overtake that bus or car, or drive at break neck speed to make it to the appointment on time, or try stupid stunts like answering the mobile phone or fiddling with the airconditioning or changing the music channel.....or until the news of another death, of a friend, relative, acquaintance that brings back those horrible memories and make me swear that I will behave decently on the road. 


If I still forget it all, it will be ofcourse, just until I get knocked down someday and become a statistic.

Why don't we humans ever learn?????



2004

Breathing Space

Too many young couples I have interacted with lately have used the term “breathing space” likening it to THE elusive factor in their intimate relationships. They complain that their partners do not allow them liberties to do things as they please. They lament the idea that their partners do not understand their need for “space”. “She does not let me be....”

After we were married, I smothered my husband with myself. I looked forward to spending all my time with him. I would even insist that he accompany me on our bi-monthly veggie shopping sprees. I simply wanted to be with him, reading love poems to him while the rain poured outside, cooking his favourite pasta, spending lazy sundays playing Scrabble, going on long bike rides across the rolling hills, or grabbing a late night meal at a 24 hour Coffee Shop.

I felt over powered by my love for him and I know that he felt the same way too. We rarely spent any time with friends. All we wanted was to be together. Somehow. Anyhow. Anywhere.

While he allowed me to drag him to the Cinema to catch a boring flick like An Interview with a Vampire, I tried to digest the raunchy and colourful medley of Telugu cinema. Even though he does not care for relatives and the baggage they entail, he understands why I have to be part of every ceremony we are invite to. We compromised. We adjusted.

Ultimately, if you love someone, you would be willing to surrender yourself to them; without insecurities and inhibitions; without any qualms or ego.

The Oxford Dictionary describes breathing space as “time to rest between periods of effort.” Unfortunately, in intimate relationships, one can never rest, and the effort must never cease. It’s the only way to make a relationship work.


November 2006

Song of birds

These days, I wake up to the sweet song of a cuckoo bird.... Some days the notes of its song are sweet and melodious and some days, relentlessly sharp and strained. Yet, I enjoy it tremendously because the song of a bird is an alien auditory treat for me.

Even as a child, I don't ever remember paying attention to the song of birds. Perhaps because I grew up in a land that is famous for one type of bird alone...the crow.... Everywhere you go in Kerala, you will hear them "caw".

As a child, I distinctly remember a crow snatching a sandwich from my hands as I stood munching in the balcony. The feel of its claws on my fingers is a sensation I remember to this day. I guess thats where my fear for birds started. I also remember my mom lamenting the assaults wreaked by crows on her drying mango slices (for that mmmmm pickle).

I am reminded of an incident from school, when I was in class VIII or IX; an incident that makes me smile to this day!

One afternoon I returned from my lunch break to find my wallet missing from my desk. Yep, at that age, I was very careless with my belongings and often misplaced my things in school. (I hope my daughter who recently joined FB is NOT reading this!)

My wallet contained the pocket money for the week. I was panic stricken and upon my friends' suggestion, decided to seek permission from the English teacher due to take her class during that period, to launch a search for my missing wallet.

The English teacher, Ms Dolores was not the most popular in the school. She was infamous for her temper and tantrums and the inconsiderate manner in which she dealt with the students.

As soon as I began the story of my missing wallet, Ms Dolores gave me that omnipresent irritated look.

"What's happened?"
"Miss, I have lost my wallet. I want to look for it. Can you excuse me from the class please?"
"Wallet? Who took your wallet?"
"I don't know Miss."
"Why don't you know?" (I could almost hear the grrrrrrrrr in her mind!)

Addressing the class, she asked, "Does anyone here know who took her wallet?"

One hand went up. In all seriousness, Satya, who always strived to live up to her name 'truth', stood up and said,"I know Miss. I saw a crow taking her wallet."

"A crow?"
"Yes Miss. A crow."
"Which crow?"

At this point, the entire classroom broke into laughter. Next thing I remember hearing voices from here n' there shouting,
"A black crow Miss."
"A crow with feathers."
"Martin Crowe."

Needless to say, Ms Dolores quickly gave me permission to look for my wallet within the school premises. Not before she made the naughty girls stand outside the class for the rest of the period!!!!!

(June 2007)

Sixty Seconds

It is a hot summer day. The sun is blazing in all its glory. Traffic on the roads is heavy. A lethal combination; sweat, heat and the traffic…. Situation fit for angry outbursts and decreased patience. In the midst of all this, a car breaks down. You are right behind it and curse under your breath, because you will miss the green light as you try to back off from the tail end of the broken down car.

While you battle it out with the steering wheel, the driver of the broken down vehicle alights. He is old. He looks almost one hundred years old. From the passenger side, his spouse gets off. She also looks atleast a hundred years old.

They are stuck in the middle of this extremely busy intersection with a huge car, (a MUV), perspiring, wondering what to do. Cars pass them by, some honking at the interruption, some oblivious to their plight, most knowing that they need help, yet, simply driving away.

As you sit in the air-conditioned comfort of your car wondering what could be done to help them, you see a young man on a scooter race towards the zebra crossing just as the light turns red. He parks his scooter, gets off and walks towards the couple. Conversation ensues and soon the old gentleman is behind the wheel, while this young man pushes the car, deftly maneuvering it to the side of the road.

The activity takes a little over a minute. As the couple thanks him, the young man runs to his scooter and waits for the traffic signal to turn green again.

One minute of a little sweat to help someone in need. That is all it takes. One minute. Sixty seconds.

How many of us would have risen to the occasion, like the young surd did, on that hot and humid August afternoon in the heart of the Capital?

Origin of Species - Darwin...watch out!!!!

Unwittingly, my four year old son has been getting lessons about the ‘ORIGIN of Species’.

Conversation 1, verbatim, about 6 months ago:

Dad: “Oorja, do you remember when Abhir was born in the hospital? You were the first one to hold him.”

Oorja: “Yes. He was in Mama’s tummy, right?”

Abhir: (In wonder) “I was inside Mama’s tummy?”

Conversation 2, verbatim, about 3 months ago:

Oorja: “Abhir, you were not there for my 2nd Birthday party. You were in mama’s tummy.”

Abhir: (Shocked) “I WAS IN MAMA’S TUMMY?????”

Oorja: (Matter-of-fact)”Yes.”

Abhir: “How did I come out?”

Oorja: “Hmmm… I think the doctor cut open mama’s tummy. Hai na, maa?”

Abhir: (Surprised. STUNNED.)

Conversation 3, verbatim, a few weeks ago:

Abhir: “How did I come in to your tummy, Mama?”

Mama: “God put you there.”

Abhir: “Okay. Was I a big baby or was I a small baby inside your tummy?”

Mama: “You were a small baby and you grew.”

Abhir: “But, HOW did I come in to your tummy, Mama?”

Mama: “One day I thought I wanted to have a darling little baby boy named Abhir. So I prayed to God and asked him to put ABHIR inside my tummy.”

Abhir: (Eyes popping out of his sockets) “Really? You asked God to put Abhir inside your tummy?”

Mama: “Yes darling. I did.”

Abhir: “And God gave you?”

Mama: “Yes. He did.”

Abhir: “Was it Krishna?” (the God you prayed to…?)

Mama: (Immensely relieved that the topic was changing) “Yes.”

Our daughter went through the motions after we conceived him; watching my tummy grow in size, feeling his kicks, and finally seeing HIM on an ultrasound before he was born. Somehow, we did not have to EXPLAIN it.

Even though the birds and bees conversation is a few years away, explaining to my son how he came in to our lives was serious stuff.

I only hope that we handled it well.

"Girls go to college
To gain some knowledge

Boys go to Jupiter
To become more stupider"

Words of wisdom I heard my daughter repeat as she played the clapping hands game with her brother; while her brother, oblivious to the indirect reference being made to him and his kind, babbled along trying to parrot the words.

For my part, as a responsible mother I did what I should.......corrected the grammar!

Beauty or a "Beast"?

A few weeks ago, at the beauty parlour, a young girl walked in and had the following conversation with the attendant.

“I want to thread my eyebrows and upper lip. Will it hurt?”

“Is it the first time you are getting it done?”

“Yes.”
“It will hurt a bit…”

“Ohhh!”

“Don’t be scared. I will try to do it as gently as possible. Do you want to get your hands waxed too?” asked the attendant noticing that the girl had a lot of hair on her arms.

“No. My mom said only threading. I am in class VII… She said I should start waxing when I am in IXth.”

Class VII! Wow…I thought to myself. A beauty regimen at such a young age! The incident brought a flood of memories.

Following a regular beauty routine was never a very exciting prospect for me. As a teenager, I never felt compelled or pressured to resort to waxing my hands and legs, or undertake any of the beauty enhancing services available. The quarterly trips to the beauty parlour were strictly for haircuts.

I attribute the feeling of satisfaction and contentment with the way I looked to the fact that none of my girl friends were actually doing it. None of us felt that we looked inadequate with facial hair…or underarm hair. As a matter of fact, for many years I related the clean shaven underarms of my mom’s Kitty Party friends, visible through their sleeveless outfits, as something that you did after you became like them: married, with children and husbands!

How and why I succumbed to the regular beauty treatment trap is a tale in itself.

The first time I was given the feeling of inadequacy with my body hair, was when an aunt commented upon it. This aunt was a close relative and that year we had assembled for the marriage of her son, my first cousin. Along with dictating what each of us should wear at the wedding and the miscellaneous ceremonies, (so we wouldn’t end up embarrassing her in front of the “other party”), she remarked to my mom about the “hair” on my face and hands…. Sure I was taken aback! “Who the hell does she think she is”…was my first thought.

My mom, a woman who cannot be coerced into doing something she did not believe in, laughed the comment off. But the aunt pursued the matter saying that “girls in Bombay start all this really early…” (which meant that since we lived in a little town called Cochin, we were unaware of the ‘latest’ trends).

Then as it happens during all weddings…the ladies were going to the beauty parlour to fix their hair and get their faces professionally made up. I dragged along because I’d nothing better to do at home! At the parlour, my aunt remarked to the attendant about how I was 17 years old and was still not following a beauty regimen. I was embarrassed to say the least. Soon a discussion on the “small town mentality” began…and since my mom didn’t come along, I had no ally to turn to.

I don’t know why I turned to the attendant and told her that I wanted the works. Perhaps it was to spite my aunt. Perhaps it was to prove to her that ‘small town girls’ can be hep too. Perhaps the rebel within me had been shaken to attention.

Cut to this day. I am stuck with monthly trips to the parlour, whether it fits into my scheme of things or not. The sight of unkempt body hair ensures that I rush to the parlour whenever the need arises.

So when I encounter young girls willing to explore the secret of smooth hands and legs, or clean, shapely eyebrows, I am almost tempted to stop them. Because they have no idea what they are getting in to…for the rest of their lives!

The worst sin toward our fellow creatures is not to hate them, but to be indifferent to them: that's the essence of inhumanity.
George Bernard Shaw (1856 - 1950), "The Devil's Disciple" (1901), act II

One evening while I sat enjoying a leisure cup of Mocha at a café, I spotted a young man, barely in his teens, selling cheap maps. He was dressed the way most young street vendors are; a bright pink shirt, old blue jeans two sizes too large, and blonde, streaked hair. He had been trying to catch the attention of customers at the café, through its glass panes.

He was thrilled at one enquiry made by a man in his early 40s, who, through the glass panes, inspected the map of Pune and asked him the price. He said Rs.40, which the man inside the café found too steep. He bargained and finally the deal was made at Rs 30/- a piece. The conversation took place on either side of the glass window through gestures. The man inside the café instructed the vendor to wait for five minutes while he had his coffee.

Soon this man was joined by another friend; and as it always does, a conversation over cups of coffee can just go on and on. However, this young man was waiting on the other side of the glass window, leaning against a lamppost when he could, refusing to let the man go out of his sight for fear of losing his customer. After 15 minutes of patient waiting, he tried to attract the attention of the man inside the café, to no avail. Obviously, the conversation was very captivating and the coffee, for 55 bucks a cup, truly enticing. In the meanwhile, the young man looked about him, and we made eye contact. I saw a strange sadness in his demeanour...as if...as if, he was ashamed.

After 20 minutes, he was about to go, when I made eye contact with him and gestured him to come to the entrance of the café. I asked him the price of the maps, and bought four. He thanked me and added, “ghar mein bahut pareshaani hai.” Until then, I’d assumed this was going to be my good deed for the day.

But his statement left me ashamed. How can one human treat another this way? What irked me the most was that the seemingly educated and surely economically-sound man from the café made a deal and then ignored the young man as if he did not exist! Ignoring a beggar at a traffic intersection is different, but this young man was merely trying to earn a living. It just wasn’t fair!

It seems to me that the more educated we are, the more insensitive and uncaring we become. Are kindness and humanity virtues lost forever?

I started blogging soon after my son was born in 2003. I was introduced to it by a dear dear friend who watched me as I struggled with two little children; time-strapped, sleep deprived and low on morale. 


He started my first blog http://vivify.rediffblogs.com for me and I took it from there.


In 7 years there is a lot I have written that lies trapped in an interface I can't access anymore.


Thought I will publish some of my posts here. As I am off on a brief vacation, I thought this would also be a good way to keep my blog going. I wrote this on February 20, 2006:

Circle of Life

"Age: that period of life in which we compound for the vices that we still cherish by reviling those that we have no longer the enterprise to commit” – Ambrose Bierce

Past: “Why don’t you eat chicken? I don’t think you should make such a fuss about garlic in your food. Girls should eat everything that is cooked at home.”
Present: “I don’t know how you can consume the carcass of an animal. It is against our Hindu tradition and philosophy. And garlic? Whoa! I just can’t stand the stink.”

“Old men are children for a second time” - Aristophanes

Past: “Don’t be such a sissy. A car is a car. If you can drive a Maruti (800) then you can very well drive a Contessa.”
Present: “I just can’t drive a long car. I am unable to make the right judgment. I am so used to a Zen you know.”

“Youth is a blunder; manhood a struggle; old age a regret” – Benjamin Disraeli

Past: “Why aren’t you first in class? Can’t you work harder? How come x has better marks than you? You are simply lazy.”
Present (to his grandchild): “Oh I was such a lazy fellow in school. I hated doing my home work. My dad used to tell me that you are no good. If only I had studied! You must study. Ok?”

“Years steal
Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb;
And Life’s enchanted cup but sparkles from the brim” – George Gordon, 6th Lord Byron

Past: “Why the hell did you go to the Bank? To embarrass me? Don’t you know I hate it? If you want to get something done, just call the peon from the office. Don’t repeat it again.”
Present: “I need to withdraw some money. Can you go to the ATM and do it for me? Actually I get so confused by the instructions that people in the queue get impatient and I am embarrassed.”

I have witnessed the evolution of my father from a strict disciplinarian and task master to someone I can now relate to. However, I am also watching him grow old and lose his fortitude.

Even though I am aware that this is the circle of life, I hate to see my papa grow old.