I hope they serve wine in Heaven

When I started working with Dr. Dileep Padgaonkar about two years ago, I remember being awestruck. His persona was towering. For the first few interactions, I could barely manage more than vehement shakes of my head to his questions and his expectations, coupled with a smile that I hoped camouflaged how overwhelmed I felt.

And soon, as it happens with all interactions, I got used to everything. His impeccable manners (he would always offer me water or tea at his beautiful home), his immaculate diction, his love for all things French, the language and the wine, and even his forgetfulness, and anger. 

He was on the board of several initiatives, and the more I sat in meetings with him, the more I learned. He was a gifted orator, much of what he spoke on stage was extempore, and his sense of humour was as wicked as it could get (especially when he was taking digs at politicians). 

I also got used to his vulnerability. 

He was an extremely busy man and would often expect that I undertake a responsibility wholly. But he would never be elusive about it, accepting that I would be doing him a ‘favour’ by taking on the task.

When I think vulnerability, one evening in particular comes to mind, when he asked me how I had managed to compile sixty documents into one. I said, “It is very simple, really. We just select all, and copy, paste. Control A, C and V.” He said, “No, no. Just wait. I need to note this down”, which he did. Soon after, he went to his laptop and took another tutorial from me. The moment he mastered it, he beamed but recovered quickly and very seriously said(in his archetype baritone), “Well, you see, I don’t understand technology.” 

He was an exceptional editor, who could spot a minuscule mistake in a document. But he was also someone who’d forget to read emails, or see text messages and call agitatedly demanding an explanation. 

Sometimes I would, in frustration, wonder about the man behind the persona - the real Dr. P so to speak. I remember that I’d complain to my colleagues about him and say, “I only need one perpetually irritated old man in my life and I already have my dad.” 

Looking back I realise that I had indeed turned him into a father figure. I made concessions for him, taught him tricks with technology, and always responded to his irritation with calmness. 

In September last year I began helping him clean up his old interviews, stories and profiles for a book, and discovered that what my generation knew of him was just the tip of the iceberg. I read through and edited more than sixty transcriptions of his work from 1967 onwards. The men he’d met, the leaders he had interviewed, the things he had seen and reported about - and I was even more awed by him. 

But by this time, I also knew him as someone who would be quick to render an apology for calling at an inappropriate time and who would empathise with my domestic conundrum...someone who I thought hardly smiled, but who’d crack an innocuous joke and defuse a situation. 

By the time our collaboration had ended, he had been humanised completely. 

I don’t know where he is right now, but I sure hope they serve wine in Heaven. That, I know, will make him smile.

Dr. Dileep Padgaonkar, 72-year-old former consulting editor of the Times of India died in a hospital in Pune this morning. He had been unwell for some time.

Born in Pune and educated at St Vincent High School and Fergusson College in Pune, he went to France and studied for a doctorate at the University of Paris-Sorbonne.

In 1978, he served with the UNESCO at Bangkok and later in Paris in different capacities with its Information Section. Earlier, he was the Paris correspondent of the Times of India and later, after coming to India, became its editor. (Source: NDTV.com)

The worst part about growing older...

No... Its not the weight gain around the midriff or the beginning of wrinkles, or the greying of hair (everywhere) or the weakening eyesight that is the worst part of growing older...

What pains me most is people you've known and loved, who were older than you, and now older even more, kicking the bucket and leaving you with memories and nothing more.

Aunts, uncles, grandparents, teachers, even icons (MJ, Prince, Whitney Houston etc.)...people you'd thought would be around just because they always were.

Death is inevitable but when it become a deluge, thats when you know that it is also an indication of your own ageing. I remember my dad calling me many years ago (when he was my age), shaken up after a friend of his died of a cardiac arrest in his office - all he said was, "Its begun."

I didn't understand it then, but I do now.

Animals Lovers, Please Stop Your Lip Service!

Lately, I am seeing too many posts on social media of pedigree dogs being put up for adoption (either the owner is moving, or having a baby, or is unable to handle an animal) or posts on abandoned dogs looking for a new home.

I am not an animal lover - in fact I have a "oh they're cute but as long as I don't have to look after them" attitude (exactly the attitude I had before I had my own kids..but thats another story) - and yet, I would never abandon a pet once it becomes part of the family. 

We have an adopted beagle who was tested upon at Ranbaxy laboratory for three years and as a result, has many health issues. He is not my favourite person in the house - because he has discipline and anxiety issues, he poops and pees on all my furniture whenever he likes (so he's moody as hell too) and howls to kingdom come (as if he is just upset that the family is sleeping) jolting me awake at 3 am on many a nights. 

Yet, I would never abandon him. Coz thats plain INHUMAN.

So all you animal lovers out there - alongwith sharing pics of the pet that needs a home, you should start sharing pics of those heartless owners who 'buy' them and abandon them for the silliest of reasons. 

STOP being 'nice' to such adults! 

Shame them. Let them know that there is no excuse to love someone and give them away. Would we ever do that with our children?

Stop paying lip service! Raising a ruckus when you find strays ill treated on streets is one thing - how many FIRs are filed against an owner who wilfully abandons their pet? Isn’t that cruelty to animals too?

And if you truly love animals, campaign against breeding of dogs... 

Educate people on how to love an animal - not his/her breed... Street dogs are just as smart and intelligent, they just don’t have the ‘beauty’ of a pedigree...

Owning a pet is not for your pride, sometimes it is (as it was for me) to give a needy animal a home (our dog had been in 4 homes in 3 years before he came to us...and he's been with us for 3 years now), and to share love with another living thing and God's creature.

How to Dress like a Mommy Once your Daughter turns Teen

It wasn’t too long ago when I had a conversation with a friend about the clothes I wear; we would meet often at a club, restaurant or a party and she’d comment on how well I carried what I wore “at my age”; which simply meant, early 40s, not a thin woman by any standards, and definitely not shy.

A short tight skirt has been a standard fixture in my wardrobe since I was 16 years old. I love my skirts – and while the midriff has become fleshier as I have advanced in age, I work very hard to keep the butt and legs in shape.

My children (daughter in particular) were used to seeing mommy in such clothes when they were younger. I maintained decorum and never wore a skirt to school, but could never wear kurtis as most mothers do at school events. Back then, my daughter would show me off. “My friends love you because you’re so cool,” she’d say. “Their mothers don’t dress like you, mama.”

But all that changed when she turned 14 and suddenly became aware of what ‘mommy wore’.

Suddenly I was dressing too loud, too bold and ‘not my age’. My distressed jeans raised eyebrows (not in appreciation, let me quickly clarify), and so did dresses and skirts. Seeing my teen’s reactions, I began dressing down and tried hard to change my wardrobe to start dressing ‘like a mommy’ when we hung out together.

The next two years were tumultuous because it mattered to me to consider her feelings. I could not be insensitive to her even though I knew that it was the roller-coaster ride her hormones were on that governed her moods and responses. And so I did what was needed.

So here’s my list of do’s and don’ts for all you mommies whose girls are soon going to be at the mercy of their hormones:

1. Don’t wear spaghetti straps unless you cover yourself with a shrug or jacket. (They’d prefer you wore a veil but never mind…)
2. Distressed jeans and butt-hugging skirts can be stored away for a few years.
3. Do NOT show off that tattoo; if it’s on your wrist, wear full sleeves!
4. You can wear kurtis and long tops; in fact, the longer, the better.
5. Bid goodbye to low-back and backless shirts. You’re a mommy now!
6. They love you in saris but will complain about the navel-baring, deep-back blouses and sundry other oversights.
7. You’ll often hear: “Why can’t you just dress like other moms! Sheesh!” You must respond, “I’m trying!”
8. If you have a piercing, then God help you!
9. Do NOT dress in your own genuine style especially around a boy they have a crush on.

As mothers of teen girls we will realise that it is a passing phase and the easier we make it on them, the easier, in turn, we make it on ourselves.

Two years hence (she’s 16 now), we are both comfortable with what the other wears (I am not a fan of her flaunting the midriff in a western outfit, but then, it’s her style) and she has grown to accept her mother’s quirkiness. Peace and harmony have been restored on the wardrobe front.

The small sacrifice in toning down our dressing style pays rich dividends… because one day, when you discuss the issue with her (and seek her permission to write this personal account), she will, in her nonchalant way, tell you, “But I’ve always loved your sense of style!”

Outwardly you’ll say, “Thank you,” and inwardly, “Hallelujah!”

This post first appeared on www.fashion101.in

T for Tuesday. T for Tolerance

I’ve read every argument for and against the comment Aamir Khan made. My consternation is that those who support his right to free speech haven’t asked the relevant questions. Did he personally face any intolerance? Were his rights (free speech, free movement etc.) violated before he made this irresponsible and highly generalised remark that got the Twitterati gunning for his backside?

Answer all likely is ‘No’.

Now read a story on tolerance …

My father was a young man of 20 when he moved to Kerala in 1967 – straight from a tiny village in Haryana. He worked hard, set up a miniature business and built his dream house in Kochi in 1990.

When we first moved into the house, the tiny chapel across the street from us was one of those typical ‘tiny’ chapels, where devotees would come, light candles, pray and leave.

No one can remember when it became popular.

I’d left to pursue higher education by ’91 and my parents cannot remember when the chapel began having their Tuesday Mass on a loudspeaker (these days they have a few rounds of cracker bursting after every Mass), or when they collected enough money to buy out the ‘Ice Factory’ next door to us, demolish it and construct a huge building in its place.

The crowd at the church is so huge during their Mass, especially the two that are held in the evening, that the crowd spills on to the road. Members of the congregation park their vehicles haphazardly, and increasingly in front of the gate that leads into our house.

My father, who is now in his sixties, has to go out and request people not to park their vehicles in front of the gate. For, if he is returning a little late from office, he cannot get in to his own house, or if he wishes to step out, he cant until the Mass is over.

On many occasions, he has been abused by the ‘devout’.

“You’re a Hindu so you can’t understand.”

“You are an outsider, don’t interfere.”

“I will park my scooter here. Let me see what you will do.”

He met the main priest and requested him to intervene because father is a heart patient (had a bypass surgery in 1999) and would need to access the exit to his own house to go to the hospital if something were to happen. The only thing the priest said he could do was ‘request’ devotees to maintain civility. Nothing more.

It didn’t work.

Last year, the whole family had gathered up for Diwali when on one such Tuesday evening, my brother and his wife were stuck outside due to the vehicles parked in front of the gate, blocking access completely. In fact, they were stranded in the middle of the 40 feet road because vehicles were double and triple parked.

We coaxed our father to call the cops. Meanwhile we stood outside the gate, waiting for the Mass to end and congregators to come back to their vehicles. Two young men who claimed their scooter apologised when we asked them why they’d parked in front of the gate and scuttled away.

Within minutes, several of them returned to pick their vehicles. Some smirked at our outburst, some argued with us, some abused us. That evening, we experienced what my father had experienced several times in the past.

The cops (like a Hindi film) came much later and after listening to us had only this much to say – We will send our patrol vehicle next week and please put a ‘No Parking’ sign on your gate.

Father told them in chaste Malayalam that the previous ‘No Parking’ sign had been stolen by someone. But he heeded their advice, and a few weeks later, he had a sign painted on the metal gate.

Hasn’t helped.

Intolerance is everywhere – from residential complexes that deny homes to persons of certain religions, to the clarion call Raj Thackeray gave a few years ago against North Indians living in Maharashtra. None of it perturbs us until we see intolerance up close and personal…

It instills fear…

…. when the local councillor tells my father to stop his ‘campaign’ or it would become a ‘communal’ issue….

…when my father, who has lived 48 years in a State, made it home, learned its language, adopted its culture and cuisine, is called an ‘outsider’….

…when raging ‘devotees’ threaten him all because he wants access to his own house…

Even when we fear for my parents’ safety in the light of such threats, all my father has ever said is, “No beta. People are not so bad.”

I ask Aamir Khan if he has ever had to face an iota of what my parents are facing to this day.

And yet, they’ve never discussed even in a passing conversation, “Should we leave?” On the contrary, the question my mother often asks is, “Why should we leave? This is our home.”

And that my dear Aamir is how an average Indian thinks. India is home. To my parents, Kerala is home. (Forget leaving India, for people like us, moving out of Kerala is unfathomable…so rooted are we in our identities!)

What you said is your opinion and you have every right to it. If only you had not generalised the intolerance faced by ‘Indians’. Who are these Indians, and are you one of them? Do they all want to move?

Just as you used diligence and research before every episode of Satyamev Jayate, I wish you’d made a well thought out statement, based on facts, not sentiments, and certainly not based solely on the ‘news’ we are fed by media houses.

If you had voiced your opinion and followed it up by saying something that conveyed this >> Yes, Kiran and I discussed the issue, BUT, India is our home and we have no intention of moving - you’d have given people like us more strength.

We are dismayed because you did Indians a disservice and reduced the intolerance debate to a mere generalisation. You are not anti-national, but you’re an irresponsible celebrity who had no qualms using a platform to voice your generalisation, that is neither based on a personal experience nor ground realities.

To conclude the tolerance story - last year, on this very day (26 November), my father suffered a massive heart attack. Due to timely intervention, he was virtually brought back from the dead.

Luckily for us, it was not a Tuesday.

Are you from Kerala? Killer!

I first wrote this as a status update on Facebook but decided later that the subject warranted a blogpost. So here it is - 

I was at a Vegan Fest over the weekend, a flea market in its second edition in Pune trying to promote handmade soaps made in Kerala, when an 'educated' family stopped by at the kiosk. They picked the soaps, and I saw the young, 20 something daughter's eyebrows touch her hairline. She promptly put the product back and informed me rather flamboyantly, "We are boycotting Kerala because they are killing dogs." 

You may have heard about the controversy of dog culling in Kerala - if not, then read all about it here... 

I took the pains of explaining to the family that most regular citizens of the State neither supported the culling of dogs, nor did they step out of the comfort of their apartments and bungalows to go around killing stray dogs themselves. At this point, I imagined my parents, both in their 60s, running after dogs on the street outside our Kochi home and just the thought was ludicrous!

Since they looked at me as if I had personally caught and killed a few myself, I assured them that I was an animal lover and had adopted a dog from a laboratory (that had conducted numerous pharma tests on him), giving him a home when no one wanted to and despite all his health issues.

They raised their eyebrows again and asked me questions about his breed and age etc. They said, "We are vegans, so we cannot support this..." By 'this' I understood that they meant that they cannot support the purchase of a product from Kerala. 

At this point, my 16 year old who was standing behind me whispered to me, "Mom, they actually think all Keralites are killing dogs?" I had to answer her question too because she is a dog lover and one of the reasons why we adopted ours.

I assured them that the culling of dogs was a massacre and it is certain that not EVERY Malayali or EVERY Keralite endorsed it. 

But this educated family was firm.

"We went to Kerala in February. There was not a single dog on the streets! Kochi was the worst" and saying so the girl made that 'I'm going to throw up now' face.

They didn't buy the soaps, and that did not perturb me as much as their sweeping generalisation about all the citizens of the State did. I was also quite astounded at how the 'educated' in India think! This family actually thought that the WHOLE STATE, men, women, children and the elderly, each citizen was out there - murdering dogs!  Like, we wake up in the morning and decide that today we'll kill 3 strays for breakfast!

It was so grossly unfair! For an inhuman act by a few, can an entire State be branded killers, (which includes my 2 year old niece)? Isn't it is unfair to blindly label the other peace loving citizens of the State as killers and mass murderers? 

Stray dogs are a menace that are going to become a bigger problem than garbage in our cities and towns. Killing them is not a solution and we all know it. But branding everyone from Kerala a killer is not a solution either!

I urge you all animal lovers and vegans out there -  Stop this discrimination and stop judging a fellow human being merely for belonging to a certain geographical area. We are also 'living beings', aren't we?

A conversation with Dad

Dad called me the other day, as he usually does. I was sounding tired and truth be told, I have been working long hours lately. We had the following conversation, produced verbatim:

"You're sounding tired. You should take it easy."

"Yes Pa, I will."

"You're not young beta... By the time you get to my age, you will be burned out."

"Hmm..."

"You're already 42. At your age, you should let up."

"Im not 42!..."

"Huh?"

"My birthday is in January, and until then no one can say Im 42. Im 41 till then..."

"Oh ho... (laughing uproariously).. Ok... You're 41 but you have to learn to take it easy."

This conversation is so special to me because my dad is not the kind who likes to 'encourage' laziness or tardiness... To him, work is worship and it surprised me to hear him tell me to take it easy...which also means I am doing something right... 

From being reprimanded by him as a child for reading too many books and having too much fun, I have finally graduated to being his prodigal daughter. 

Sometimes I hate my job...

We all live in our own private hells. 

As I spoke to a gentleman this evening I was left pondering over the following questions: Can parents ever get over the loss of their child needlessly - to a road accident? Dreams, hopes, all crushed?

And what is worse? 

That someone from a newspaper calls you to talk about your decision to donate your child's organs and she may also need a photo? 

Or that she may be so sickened by the thought of even asking those questions and noting their answers down in a note pad that she may want this story reassigned to someone else? 

How is this reporter going to talk to the mother of that 18 year old tomorrow? 

Sometimes I hate my job. And I live in my own private hell knowing that I have stoked wounds that are still fresh.

On the highway

It's amazing how the sights and sounds
you attempted to capture in the day
change character when darkness descends

The trees, the ponds and wells
ancient temples and sprawling churches
paddy fields and pools of water

coconut trees and a cloud-laden sky
bananas, apples and oranges hanging from ramshackle roofs

newest cars parked inside sprawling bungalows
school children with neatly combed hair, backpacks and eyes that light up when they see the camera
tiny courtyards of little houses;
dark, mysterious interiors that hold secrets of lives like yours and mine
disappear into thin air,
replaced by rows after rows of houses and shops; indistinguishable, continuous,

lit so bright that you can see inside;
the man in a mundu, seated on the floor watching television, lights dancing on his hairy chest,
a boy kneeling in front of the altar, looking upwards, palms joined...

temples look like haunted houses, the sky dark and starless, 

bright red flags of the communists

triangles and rectangles, on strings and poles,
blend with the road 

appearing briefly when a speeding vehicle's light reflects on them -
less menacing, subdued and almost subservient...

It is true  

somethings die and somethings come to life
when darkness descends on the highway

The Look

I ponder over the look
that didn't exist
Or did it...

The song he chose
was as harmless
as his accidental touch
Or was it...

The conversation ebbed
replaced by a comfortable silence
though our hearts were in a tizzy
Or were they...

His unabashed invitation
adulation, appreciation, adoration
were sincere and honest
Or were they..

I still ponder over the look
that didn't exist
Or did it...

Spending time with our Parents

When my mother-in-law passed away a few years ago, the primary feeling, as we drove towards the town in Andhra where she'd lived the last few years of her life, was one of helplessness. My husband, not very communicative, has never expressed his true feelings upon the demise of amma but I do know, the feeling of not having spent enough time with her, of not having had the chance to say goodbye...these feelings were predominant in his mind.

About two years ago, a very dear friend lost his father to cancer.... He was due to visit his father just the day before the demise and suddenly, it was too late. He felt a deep sense of regret and remorse, for not "being" there...

For those of us, who live away from our parents and loved ones, in other cities, or other parts of the world, the 'fear' of losing a parent, of not being able to say goodbye, is a real one. It multiplies over time, as we watch our once formidable parents, age little by little...losing the "My Daddy/Mommy Strongest" title, and turning into frail beings. 

Calling them "elderly" was the first step I took towards the recognition that my parents were ageing.

And so we do what little we can, in their twilight years - not just for them, but more I feel, for ourselves.

We spend more time flying home to them to tend to them when they fall ill. There was a time when we HAD to move - to another town, another city, another country, as our dreams awaited us. They were young and capable of looking after themselves, and it was they, after all, who taught us to chase our goals!

We spend more time talking to them over the phone; some calls are just periods of silence, yet we don't hang up. There was a time when we would not even call once a week - "Too busy, too much work, too tied up, too bored (what will we talk about?/we talk the same stuff every time!)"

We now spend more time discussing their health, trips to the doctor, medication advices etc. There was a time when their concern for our health would irritate us; "Yes maa I will eat on time...don't worry.... You don't know HOW much I have to study!"

We never miss a festival; we fly home and make sure the whole "family" (our siblings and their spouses and children) gets together. There was a time when making a trip 'home' for a festival meant taking leave from work, and having to compromise on a holiday with the spouse and kids; then, the choice had been easy.

It isn't so today.

Some days when I hear my mother's exhausted voice on the other end of the line, I know its not enough. It breaks my heart, because my choices in life and many other circumstances took me away from 'home' since I turned 16. 

But I also know that we can never make up for lost time. We can only reach out and do as much as we can today. 

And hope as hell that we can live with that knowledge long after they're gone.

A lost Bf and a friendship

A message that brought back a flood of memories; of shared passion for music and books, of innocent teenage years, of gifts galore, of long chats on the phone, of stolen kisses...

When I wrote back to him, I knew that we would meet - after all that we'd shared when I was 16 and he 21 - a lunch date to catch up on the lost years of conversation and happenings in our lives was a given.

Today, we met.

Like long lost friends.

There was no discomfort.

My anxiety vanished the minute I saw him and we started talking.

We spoke about our lives. And when the conversation veered to books, and music, we were 16 and 21 again.

Thats the magic of friendship!

As we departed, he turned to me and said, "I often wondered what happened to you... Now I know.."

So here's to celebrating the return of a boyfriend from yore!

Guns Roses n I

Circa 1988.

We are travelling in a car in Delhi; my cuz sitting up front with the driver, me behind. And he keeps replaying 'Paradise City', looping the tape back to the beginning and stopping exactly when the guitar takes over. Just the clear, strong sound of the percussion vibrates through the car (it was equipped with the state-of-the-art Sony system) and as much as I liked to believe then that it was irritating, I can admit now, that I turned into a fan that winter evening in Delhi.

Guns n Roses. I got hooked to their music and yes, I do have the cuz to blame!

In the all-girls convent I went to, most of my friends were listening to Wham, Madonna and the like. Pop music was 'in' and I found myself strangely alienated because I loved hard rock, a bit of metal, soft rock and I also listened to the popular music of the time.  But if there was someone in class who had tapes of GnR, Aerosmith, Deep Purple, Iron Maiden, Metallica, Bruce Springsteen etc, it was me.

And it was, yes, you guessed that right, all because of the cuz!

Circa 2012.

When I first heard that GnR were coming to India on a three city tour I was instantly transported back to those days, when we, the first of the MTV generation, would sit glued to the idiot box watching videos of songs we'd only heard before! And we saw Slash actually strum those chords, and Axl, well...Axl...the archetypal bad boy of the 80s and 90s, was irresistible. His voice, his long locks of hair, his....well...suffice to say that if you loved hard rock, you'd definitely like Axl.

And here was this opportunity presenting itself to me. All I had to do was find someone to babysit the children, travel to Mumbai and decide what to wear!!!

So after much hemming and hawing, I finally made it to the Guns n Roses, Appetite for Democracy tour, Mumbai concert on 9th December.

I watched him for three hours. strutting about on the whole stage. He hardly stood still, kept running about, kept singing, kept entertaining us. But what struck me real hard is that he has mellowed. This was a not-so-hyper Axl, so different from his younger avataar.

Yes, 25 years can age anyone, and it is not easy, not easy to watch your icons look old-er; not easy to see their long locks disappeared somewhere, not easy to see the bags under the eyes, the sagging chin, the expanded waistline.... Somewhere it makes you aware of your own aging.

His voice still sounded the same....and he still held us in thrall the whole time! The way he looked at us and said, "I've been waiting 27 years to come to India"....and while I thought, "Oh Gosh! Why didn't you!!!" my knees turned jelly...

I walked out with a lump in my throat and a resolve, that I will allow my children to see their idols and icons perform LIVE any opportunity I can 'afford'. Because we must be able to live the experience of our adulation in its entirety. 

Low Cost No Frill Experience Served Hot...

I have been flying since I was 6. Not only on cloud 9, but flying, literally, on aircrafts, and it is only recently that I have begun loathing the experience.

I took my first flight when I was 6, from Cochin to Bombay and was overjoyed at the attention I received by the airport staff (even though I was flying the (in)famous Indian Airlines - the only AIRLINE in the country those days), the bag of chocolates I carried back with me and the first row seat that was reserved for me! The most exciting part was to open the table from the handrest rather than a seat in front of you - which was so 'regular' and 'passe' to my young mind!

So technically I've been flying for over 3 decades (if you're good at Math, you'll know my age)...and many of these years have been spent flying the national airline Indian Airlines with its cantankerous air hostesses, its unpalatable food and its peculiar "Aeroplane" odour.

For the longest time, I'd squirm inside the aircrafts tottering between wanting to throw up after smelling the 'food' or even the canned orange juice they'd be serving, and trying to eat the stuff or ignoring it as the hostess slammed it down on the table...

Most often I'd give the whole package a miss because as a child, the food was not important, the experience was! Needless to say as I grew older, the food seems to have become more important than the experience....

As a child I flew IA because they were the only airline ruling Indian skies, as a student because they offered a student's discount and as a married woman because they offered an Armed Forces discount. After a few years, when economic viability was not a concern (for the shortest period in my life) I took to flying Jet Airways and loved it so much I would think "If I fly it has to be Jet, else I won't fly at all!"

Unfortunately for my 'flying' dreams, the economics of travelling took over my life as there were no more "discounts" I could avail (not being a student anymore and becoming a mere civilian), and as my presence in all the family weddings became essential and required me to fly up North to my erstwhile home and favourite city (saddi Dilli) more than just a couple of times a year. Add to that parties, and general get-aways, vacations to meet mom and dad, or pay a 'flying' visit when they were hospitalised or the like started to take its toll on our annual travel budget.

Soon we realised that I was spending more on travelling by air every year than on our investments and savings. This led us to quickly shift gears and thought processes (in that order) and I began viewing the so called "low cost no frill" (LCNF) airlines in a new light.

Heck! So what if they didn't serve any meals on board? "All I wanted to do was get from point A to point B. I could eat before boarding and after disembarking" I told myself secretly envying the Jet(airways)setters and the Kingfisher(s)...

Spicejet was the first LCNF I flew. Not bad I thought. Yes, they were not serving any food (only water and cookies on sale), the travelling gentry was well, lets say, used to travelling Haryana Roadways buses before their 'first flight' and the leg space was dismal (didn't matter much to me because I am five feet nothing). But...I was saving money and that mattered!

Over the years I've sampled them all - Indigo, Go, Air Deccan - now Kingfisher Red, Sahara - now Jet Lite/Konnect, can never figure which one is which any more and was quite happy that they'd managed to rise above (get the pun?) the LCNF tag and started serving free water and smiles (in that order), and also selling food onboard.

All was well in my Utpoic paradise even as I thanked God for my height (or lack of it - people like me seemed to be built for LCNF leg space), bought exorbitantly priced insipid sandwiches onboard and adhered to the 20kg baggage restrictions, until I flew Spicejet again, very recently on a long haul (by Indian standards) flight from Pune to Kolkata.

This is what I wrote in my diary:

"So its official now. After having given up leg space inside cabins, baggage allowances and hot gourmet (!) food I am also required to give up on FOOD altogether on low cost airlines. The flight I am on doesn't have any vegetarian fare and I have to make do with a lime juice (or have a cold spinach-cheese sandwich the sight of which makes me nauseous).

According to a Spicejet cabin crew member they carry very 'limited' numbers of food packets for fear of them getting wasted and because they are a low cost airline they avoid that!

It doesn't matter to them that off the 189 passengers that can be accommodated on their Boeing 737-800, 12% of who may have placed their orders online, the 80% may be HUNGRY for all of the following reasons:

1. It is a long haul flight (if you take into account 1.5 hours prior checking time, 5 hours of the flight itself and all the rest of the 'inadvertent' delays)
2. It is a "lunch time" flight
3. The flight IS late for crying out loud!

After fooling us into believing that we could have 'hot gourmet food' as 'buy-on-board' options, we will be denied that too just because they've decided that 150 passengers don't want to eat on a 5 hour flight!!!!

Its not enough to have a full wallet. You'll still go empty stomach when you fly LCNF!"

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!

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!

Mother's Day thoughts

I call her my miracle baby.

To first time parents the very conception and eventual birth of their prodigy is nothing short of a miracle.

To me, 'miracle' took on a whole new meaning. Because at 36 weeks of gestation as I basked in the satisfaction of a natural birth (thanks to the yoga I'd undertaken throughout my pregnancy under the expert guidance of an elderly loving lady who ensured I didn't miss the attention or adoration of my mother as I grappled my first pregnancy, a full time MA course in Journalism and the distress of Harish's transfer on a frigate in the light of the Kargil war)....I was in for a rude shock.

My gynae in Cochin (where my parents live and where I thought I would be most comfortable having my first born), a robust Catholic woman looked at my latest ultrasound and declared, "Your baby is in breech and won't move at this stage. Go home, take rest for two weeks and we will plan a C section after that. Decide on a date according to stars etc...thats how you Hindus do it...."

To me, it seemed like the end of the world. Throughout my pregnancy, like any first timer, I'd debated, discussed, researched and done all I possibly could to figure out if I should have a natural birth, an epidural induced C section or simply go under GA and have the baby... Thanks to my yoga teacher, my mom, aunts, granny and other well wishers I'd decided that I would prefer a natural birth because recovery would be much faster etc....

And now, this baby was ditching me! After 8 months of yoga six days a week including the shoulder stand and pelvic exercises, was I to go under the scalpel?

Sarvanasana

I cried loads and buckets...and did the next best thing - called my yoga teacher in Vizag. She was shocked too but gave me a suggestion - Do shoulder stand (sarvangasan) 4-5 counts three times a day for two weeks (the time given to me by the doctor). She promised it would help although she didn't say how.

By this time, my huge tummy made it impossible to do this asana without taking the support of the wall. But I tried to do it as diligently as I could.

In just about 2 weeks, one day I felt unbearable discomfort as the baby seemed to go crazy ... tossing, turning, kicking...and what not! Mom was concerned as she placed her hands on my trembling tummy, soothing my aching body, whispering to the baby...placing warm water bottles to help ease the tremors.

The next morning all was calm and apart from the occasional kicks, I felt nothing.

Two days after that I walked into the doc's clinic to 'decide' on the day when she would surgically deliver my baby. She checked me physically and asked me to take an ultrasound immediately.

Minutes later she announced, "Its a miracle! The baby has turned... It never happens at this stage of pregnancy...." and went on to tell me that babies use up all the space inside the uterus by this time and have no space to move let alone turn around ....

Ten days after that, my water bag burst in the hospital where I'd gone for a check up. In six hours, our bundle of joy was in our arms.

Today she is over 11 and we fight. A lot. I crib. She back answers. I rave & rant. She gets mad. But, we make up. We listen to music. We sing aloud. We cook. We dance and most of all, we love...

On nights such as this one, as I cuddle her to sleep, I marvel at how she is as tall as me now and has a shoe size larger than mine...when 12 years ago, she was a speck, a cell, a being I harboured for a few months...a little person who was born 2.6 kgs, pink, healthy and perfect in every which way! I wait, excitedly, for the first zit, the first crush, boyfriend, kiss....and I pray that she and I continue to love each other this way forever...

I also thank God and her for choosing my womb...for making me experience the joy of being a mother...for making me HER mother!

And hey, I cannot thank God enough for gifting me the mother I have - loving, patient and ever forgiving. There's a lot I have learnt from her and a lot I still have to emulate.

This Mother's Day, here's three cheers from one mother to her own mother, and to her child for making her a proud mother.... Life's come to a full circle....

I can't speak Marathi but I do love Maharashtra

Long ago I wrote a post on the regional rhetoric that some politicians in Maharashtra were indulging in. I was unhappy not only because technically I am a North Indian living in Maharashtra but I am also a hybrid of our beautiful multi-cultural country.

But those were the days when my love affair with Pune had only just begun and soon the rhetoric faded into the background. The salubrious weather, the friendly people...there was so much so beautiful about this new city we'd chosen to call home.

I was so busy soaking the vibrancy of the city that I didn't realise I'd lived here for four years and committed the biggest faux pas of all - hadn't learnt to speak Marathi.

My work involves meeting people from all walks of life. So while some days I am leaving harried footprints in the corridors of the municipal corporation, on other days I am sipping tea in the air conditioned comfort of the district collector's office.

All this while - from the peons to the officers I met, no one was uncomfortable with the fact that I couldn't speak Marathi, although I could understand a lot of the local dialect.

When close friends or well wishers quizzed me on the progress of my language skills, I reassured them that I was on my way. Soon I had promised myself I would be able to speak like any Puneri.

Imagine then my shock and indignation when during a meeting with an IAS officer (a Maharashtrian) I was asked to read a letter he'd written in response to the issue I was sitting in his office and shamelessly raising (much to his annoyance), and I informed him apologetically that I could not read Marathi, he actually ridiculed me for not learning the language!

What irked me was that he, an IAS officer who'd chosen to join the cadre of his home state and not serve the citizens of another state (may be because he doesn't know any other Indian language) had no idea that I am a North Indian who was born and raised in Kerala, had Tamilian neighbours, Gujarati and Punjabi friends and married a Telugu speaking guy, and can speak all the languages of these regions in addition to my mother tongue Hindi and English!

Needless to say, my pride and ego propped me up against his tirade and I informed him rather haughtily that I was able to get by with Hindi and English even in Maharashtra. 

And even as I uttered the words with a I-don't-care-who-you-are demeanour (while I was seething inside), I knew what I'd said wasn't true. I was making a genuine effort to learn the language and I'd often try my limited vocabulary on unsuspecting souls...simply because I love languages!!! 

Now, I am pissed off and unsure. Do I let his ignorance get the better of me, or do I ignore such nasty and unbecoming remarks?

Or better still, do I barge into his office and tell him what I really think???