by the window sill

hens, roosters, and lazy afternoon wishes

2012-01-06T16:35:00.002+05:30

You are sitting by the window, and I am stretched out behind you.

And sunlight streams over the both of us, with the gentle warmth of a January sun.

I am trying to teach you to identify the crows of roosters and hens, as we look out for them.

For we come across these characters often enough in songs and rhymes.

And every time we did, your eyebrows would bridge trying hard to understand.

Now, after four or five times, you have picked it up easily.

And you point excitedly and say something in baby talk, every time you hear one crow.

When I get back to work soon, it will be hours like these, that I will miss the most.

This last year of a sabbatical has been wonderful, mostly because of you.

Work will take me away, and I will miss you so much.

I will miss lazy afternoons of snuggling, packed park visits, our fantastic sessions of singing and dancing, and breathlessly fielding ball for you.

And you will grow up so soon, before we know how it happened.

I can easily imagine you walking into a room as a strapping young man.

I know I will wear a proud grin. I know I will rise to give you a hug.

I will also cup your face and smack a kiss, no matter how embarrassed you are. :-)

But I only wish that I won't have to bore you, by talking only of all these wonderful babyhood days.

I wish we will always have something to do together, something to learn or play together.

I wish we always will be friends.

with one of the greatest loves that I have ever known,

your aunt, the window siller.

laughter

2011-11-17T08:48:00.003+05:30

Chintoo's eyes are tightly shut, but his eyelids are fluttering, his mouth is quivering, and his tummy is rolling. And it happens every time the drizzle outside falls hard as rain.

If there is anything more beautiful than a child's laughter, it is a child laughing fast asleep. :-) :-)

On the fence

2010-11-15T19:21:00.000+05:30

" ...between the hard, obvious things that are printed in books, and the soft, subtle things that lodge themselves into the soul."

there are people who believe in the first and some in the next, and then there is me who struggles in-between...

Pray for her sister...

2010-11-14T20:57:00.000+05:30

November 12^th, 2010:

Ray was a gloriously tall, slender, and beautiful girl. Round eyes, ready smile, and a thick, long plait, that I used to ogle every time we had a common class.

Ray was mostly shy, a “ooru ponnu” (the girl from the town), and spoke chaste tamil with a southern lilt. She mostly complained about her hostels and the pollution in Madras.

We fell out of touch very quickly, and the last I heard, she had stayed in the city against all odds to join a top MNC.

That was the Ray I knew from university, forwards and facebook.

Three days back, I brought Ray to stay overnight. I rarely bring friends home, let alone for a night stay… but after hearing her on email and phone, after seeing her in person after so many years, and after hearing her speak to the therapist, there was no way I could walk away.

I rushed her to my room before my parents could ask any awkward questions. And a shrunken and red-eyed Ray began to speak…

Like millions of Indian daughters Ray was brought up with a single-point agenda: study hard, get a good job, and don’t speak with boys along the way.

Like lakhs of Indian girls, Ray wore these blinkers to school, college, university and work.

And like thousands of other Indian women, Ray trusted her parents to bring her the knight she wanted.

But just like so many of us, she was in for a rude shock. For at the question of marriage, her education, job and career were quickly forgotten. She was expected to live in a small town and cook without complaints.

Amidst dowry seekers and horoscope matchers, there came one lone guy who was okay with her working. And within two meetings in the drawing room, and halting conversations over the phone, Ray was head-long in love. With the innocence of a teen, and the intensity of a 29-year old.

But alliances arranged by others are broken by them as well. And suddenly Ray was left mailing and calling to no reply.

Quickly forced into another engagement, beaten for honour, and blackmailed for love, the usual routine of depression, pills, hospital and therapy had followed. ~~

We are seeing a new therapist now. A therapist who speaks her tamil. A therapist who has patiently listened to her for hours at a stretch. And a therapist who understands the business of temple soothsayers and meddling match-fixers.

So Ray now gets some sleep on the thin mattress on the floor. Her eyes are no longer red and I see resolve in her, when she sits next to me today morning:

“I’m breaking this forced engagement myself. I will face the drama. I am going to meet the person I liked and clear the mess. If it fails, I will focus on my career, and adopt a child, and live well.”

As I look into her face, I know that Ray is just like you and me, she is just one of the millions of Indian women caught in the same space. Between the world of MNCs and masters degrees, and family honour and dowry-seekers.

I don’t know if Ray understands that she is breaking from her family cast. I don’t know if she realises that she will become responsible for her life. I don’t know if she can handle it all. All I can do is pray… why don’t you as well.

10 things about Ra:

2010-11-14T20:53:00.006+05:30

For every one sequence we edit, her phone will ring 10 times.
And she has to help, solve an issue, or counsel for the next 15 minutes.
If it is not a friend or relative, it is a daughter.
She has 50 daughters and a few sons.
She makes sure they finish school and go to work.
She then puts up their profiles on bharat matrimony.
There is one wedding coming up now.
She loves cooking.
She loves bells.
And she stays up to put together the sequence that was interrupted so many times, and surprises me every morning.

when life feels like geometry

2010-10-10T19:23:00.001+05:30

A walk, a bus or two, a train, a walk, a share auto, a walk down a deserted stretch (an auto if I am lucky)…. All to meet Ra, who lets me fumble around her, and who doesn’t shout when I log the wrong tape.

I come back, I do the laundry, eyes drooping, I set the alarm for 4.30. It goes off for half an hour, before I can even hear it. Very little, or no money. Nano money. :-) A crazy client. A no-budget documentary.

Day-dreams of a project on water. Endless proposal writing. A shadow of my life with Stick and Egg.

But I call my grandmother every day. I don’t waste a minute. I pick up groceries. I help a cousin. I dance. I don’t obsess. I play with Chintoo like never before.

I may leave it all, yet again. I could decide that medicine is the only way to make a difference. Eventually, I may do corporate communications, to take care of mum and dad. I may become a loser-daughter.

I don’t know anything. I don’t have any answers. “Where will it lead me?” “What am I doing?”

But I feel, like a better daughter, sister, granddaughter, niece and aunt. And life feels like a geometric diagram. Simple. Clean. Good.

That is all I know, at the moment.

dead chicken and holy cows

2010-09-24T13:07:00.005+05:30

"You have such painful periods because you eat eggs on fridays, amavasais and purattasi saturdays... it is bad, bad karma." Welcome to my family's timeless hindu traditions. "Don't even keep it at home. Give the eggs to the maid, just get it out of your fridge," fine nuances of customs are being passed down.

I share 25 per cent of my DNA with her. I love my aunt. And I keep my mouth shut.

But when my mother - who is usually introduced with her four college degrees and innovations in kindergarten education, and who recently went over to the dark side - tries to enforce these friday values, I go dizzy with blood pressure. Must be the eggs.

Two things changed me forever.

At 9, the ravenous account of my friend's X'mas feast. Eggs (I love them), roast rabbit and chicken biriyani.

"Are we not supposed to be good and not eat meat on god's birthdays," I asked. "Shouldn't we celebrate his birthday as we always celebrate good times," Angel reasoned. I could not agree more.

At 11, reading Amar Chitra Katha. Cow-killing and beef-eating was banned and vegetarianism of all shades was invented to keep hindus from Buddha's allure.

I went on to read huge tomes of Ramayan and Mahabharat, where food was fondly described in great detail. So I ran to my dad, "did princes and priests make merry at auspicious occasions with sacrifices and feasts of animals?"

"Of course," the historian smiled. He rattled off about surviving traditions where meat is still offered to the gods, of socio-political decisions in ancient India, and finished off with a reading list.

But he cannot fight for the eggs in the fridge. He cannot remember if he had lunch himself.

Errands to the butcher's shop made me a saint for several years. Acute protein deficiency reunited me with eggs, and I no longer sit with the vegetarian section at Bajji's Eid feasts. I eat with her, fervently discussing recipes.

Now, where did I start? Ah... amavasais and fridays. Well, I may become a saint again, but you can be sure that I will observe auspicious days with eggs (did I mention I love them) and biriyanis.

glossary: amavasai: no moon day; purattasi: 6th month in the tamil calendar; biriyani: ah... you must have had them.

An equal music

2010-08-01T23:22:00.008+05:30

It is said, "even in the most perfect love, you are not equals. And to meet in a kiss, one has to look down and the other up."

But friends meet as equals~

In defence of Duryodhana

2010-06-19T14:26:00.009+05:30

a translation of one of the many poems that celebrate this shade of the Kaurava prince. for a beautiful tamil original (in english script), go here. the others bear with me:

~~
the disease of suspicion-
is never in my being.
for I am a king who can respect
the friendship that flowers
between a man and a woman.

my friend must have arrived,
looking for me,
my wife must be attending,
with a smiling face.

what could the two be talking,
all this while.
what could they be doing,
all this time.

no such worries,
trouble my heart,
with a pace as steady
as my mind,
I walk back home
to find them both.

entering my palace,
a scene I see,
strange as one,
ever can be.

in my friend's grasp,
is my wife.
a broken chain
is spilling its pearls.

how well the wise spoke:
"all that you see,
is but a lie.
and all that you hear,
is mere falsehood."

but how do I tell them,
of what I have gleaned?

by speaking too much,
I would be a boast.
and by speaking none,
confusion would reign.

All I need are two words,
to put them at ease.

the pearls don't still,
for the king's crown,
the pearls call upon,
laughing on the floor.

to pick them up is quite easy,
it doesn't call for much sense.
to string them is a little harder,
calling for untiring attention.

without merely collecting,
I can string them as well.

tell me, my beautiful wife,
tell me, my dearest friend,
"should I pick them up,
or string them as well?"

~~
"edukkavo, kokkavo?"

a special wish from Mad:

2010-05-13T18:45:00.001+05:30

I wish you lots of birthday bliss,
I wish you many things at once.

And here are some examples:
an amaltas tree in full bloom,
sprigs of dainty bougainvilleas,
a swing under a sturdy neem,
chubby sparrows on a windowsill.

Peacocks with a hundred eyes,
juicy mangoes and pomegranates.

These things I wish for you,
And several more unnamed,
Dreams be dreams no more!

edukkavo? korkkavo?

2010-04-26T16:14:00.003+05:30

Bhanumathi is deep in a game of chess with Karna, when Duryodhana walks into her chambers.

As he approaches, Bhanumathi begins to stand up, a little abashed to be found thus by her husband.

An unaware Karna, on the other hand, commands of her: "Where are you going, finish the game first." And he tugs at her hip chain, mekhala, for good measure.

Bhanumathi edges away from Karna's grasp, and the chain breaks to tumble pearls all around the chamber.

As both she and Karna look down sheepishly, unable to meet Duryodhana's eyes, the Kaurava scion only asks:

"edukkavo, Korkkavo [should I just collect the beads, or string them as well]."

Tell me, does it not make him better than Rama?

The knowledge of the gods

2010-04-20T23:30:00.000+05:30

"Tell me Ammama, why were you named Fragrance?" I ask. We are discussing stars and names, and I am curious because others born under her star are named with letters G and H.

She reluctantly spells: "My father hoped I would die young, and named me after his sister who died within a month." Looking at my face, she quickly rises in defence: "he was heartbroken. I, after all, killed my mother at birth."

"Names have a strange influence of their own," she says and leaves the rest unspoken - that her grandmother raised her for many years, that her father snatched her away from her loving care for the sake of his pride, that he paid her scant attention, that he got her married to a drunkard - that the name strangles her every now and then, and that she has had to fight it all her life.

Names are a burden, I know it too well. There are expectations and dreams that I have longed to shrug away.

And then there is my aunt, robbed of her destiny, when named to match her brother. But, true to her given name, she handles every crisis that life throws her way with Grace.

Lil' one, what do I wish for you... a name that sits as light as butterfly kisses, or one that will shape your years. Neither may work, but this I hope does. A wish that everytime you hear it, it be spoken only with love.

Someday at lunctime...

2010-04-09T17:20:00.000+05:30

My mother grew up in a large, sprawling house with six siblings. Which means that I have 12 cousins whom my mother can call out to cite good behaviour.

The extended family congregates for my grandfather's annual shraadham. And after the prayers and smoke, it is time for a meal of light banter and teasing updates. It is also a time I feel very proud of all of them.

But when the men quickly disappear after food to find an AC, and the women settle down to serve themselves... I become disillusioned.

Is this my family of professors, scientists, geek techies and financial wizards? Can not even one think of serving food for the women who made them.

Maybe it is the mistake of all these women. As the firsts who had to prove that they could have paying jobs, they raced through everything.... chores, careers and children's homework.

Maybe, they just didn't have time to stop and ask, cajole and coax, or demand any help.

But then my youngest cousin brother, of his own, races between mother and aunt and demanding cousin sister to serve hot vadais.

And I know that someday at lunctime, we will make one large semi-circle - all of us cooking and eating and teasing together. Someday at lunctime...

struck a chord

2010-04-01T14:28:00.000+05:30

Jane Austen on Anne:
“She had been forced into prudence in her youth, she learned romance as she grew older — the natural sequel of an unnatural beginning”.

The Good Women of China

2010-03-20T12:41:00.000+05:30

I simply cannot fall asleep. For here I am, drunk on excitement: mehendis, dances, giggles and girl-talk.

So I pick up the Good Women of China and read a few pages until tears start dropping by.

In a strange way, I am proud that N chose me to lend her book to. But to sign on its back cover next to women who have fought for great things is a responsibility too...

So I will myself to quickly fall asleep. For there is so much to do, to make the world a better place.

And your problems just shrink in space.

tell me Rama:

2010-03-10T23:06:00.001+05:30

"Ravana took my body away but my soul was yours. Tell me Rama, is Sita the body or the mind?"

It is not easy to give a friend away...

2010-03-06T01:33:00.000+05:30

It is not easy to know that you are no longer her best confidant,
It is not easy for there won't be those nights of non-stop talking,
It is not easy to see her go, all the way around the world,

But when you know that he is worth it, you are so happy as I feel now.
And you begin to love him too... :D

the days are packed

2010-03-05T23:30:00.001+05:30

Most times when a friend falls in love or gets hitched, you get the feeling that the guy isn't really good enough for your friend.

Does he know how she never speaks about herself?
Does he know how she will weep for the beggar boy at the signal?
Does he realise just how lucky he is??

But rarely, very rarely, you get the feeling that he knows all this. And two such weddings are coming up... There are blouses to be stitched, mehendis to be organised. Scrap-books to be made and pictures to be clicked.

For its my best friends weddings, two in a row. :-) :-)

Under the banyan tree...

2010-02-23T23:23:00.008+05:30

You are the majestic banyan.
With opinions hard as the aged trunk.

Like root tips soft and reddish pink,
are sent to earth and buried within,

You keep my dreams and my words,
safe from hurt, risk and wind.

So words die in my throat,
like leaves that wither as they sprout.

You are the majestic banyan,
your arms are riding long and long,

But I am a shoot gasping for light,
a patch of blue, a voice my own.

Waiting room

2010-02-06T23:55:00.001+05:30

I am at peace in the ICU waiting area. For the doc has said the ventilator will be off in an hour. And ammama looks as fine as she can be with a box in her mouth for about 24 hours.

I must not think of how her mouth must be hurting. I must think that the tubes will soon come off. I must think of shifting to the ward.

And I continue to read Zenzele, lovingly re-reading each page for its lyrical beauty.

When suddenly this woman, whose husband is in the adjacent bed, comes to me. "Console my son," she says and leads me to him. "He is very depressed."

I am lost for words. But I say something about his father looking better today, about his improved breathing. And about his eyes opening a little.

But what I really want to say is:

To have blind faith. Blind faith that nothing bad can happen because god is in charge. That letting you down is not an option for god.

That it is important to mouth "it will be fine", even when the oxygen level drops to 20 and your aunt is shaking in fear.

And to remind the patient of the beauty of the world outside, so that they aspire for that chai on the porch in the yellow evenings.

But I only say, "go eat breakfast, you will need all your energy when he is shifted to the ward."

thank god! my dad is no fanatic.

2010-02-03T21:50:00.006+05:30

My dad is the gentlest creature I know. He moves slowly, speaks softly, loves his history books and sometimes resembles a baby.

He is a man of the world, of intellect, and of many liberal views. He is also blessed with a slow, careful reasoning, which can make even Voldemort seem reasonable.

And that is why it is very scary when doesn’t question wrong ideas: because then superstition becomes tradition; and the mediocre becomes the alternate.

And you have no words to argue even when your insides are screaming that it is wrong. For what words can you offer a seasoned professor?

All you had was a basic instinct. And now, you doubt that too.

How can someone who tells that history is written by the victor not believe in folk tales that endure civilisations?

How can the man who firmly believes that all answers lie in the grey suddenly accept the least common factor?

How can he, who taught you to trust your woman’s instinct at 10, now say that listening to your heart is worthless?

And how can he of all people say that you are not supposed to apply what you learn?

Is it too much effort to stand up for small, little things because the next big research project is within arm’s reach?

Don’t battles have to be won in everyday life? Is the political not personal?

Thank god he is vocally secular. Thank god he hates Modi.

family picture

2010-02-02T23:54:00.008+05:30

When I was eight, I drew a picture in my head; of my family:

my sis,

a red lil' brother,

dad and mum,

aunt and uncle,

my grandmother and grandfather,

and komala akkaiya, our nanny/domestic-help.

My world then was these nine people. And life was dancingly perfect at eight.

My grandmother raised me as much as my mother. And I looked up to my aunt just as my dad.

My grandfather stood me at the bus stop and my uncle ran ran on hot tar roads to teach me the cycle.

My sister was everything to me; and my brother made me feel all protective.

It all changed two years later, when my siblings, grandparents and aunt and uncle moved to the city.

There were tears, moping afternoons, more tears and oh-so-much anger against all of them.

Akkaiya too had to leave, when mum decided that she was too expensive for three people. She found another nice home.

And for the next 10 years, the only times I would feel completely at home would be on the suburban train between both sides of my world...

....praying for them with a little-known god at a quaint shrine on the way.

It all taught me to cling close to my family and avoid confrontations as much as I could. And this probably is the heart of my soul.

Today, luckily, little has changed. My sister is still my only love; and my brother, at 18, makes me feel just the same. And I follow my aunt's decisions as much as my dad's, even when I don't agree.

This is the first arc that I draw - and it is eight angles wide. The eight voices that I hear, whenever in doubt.

There are conflicts, there are tears, and there are realisations that shake my world, but nothing has changed the way I love these people.

And in that I am still the little girl of eight.

~ the window siller

check-list:

2010-01-30T22:44:00.003+05:30

don't talk too much,
don't cross your legs.

don't come too close,
or your pimples will show.

is the saree slimming?
and the bangles all gold?

is she facing east?
and the cat thrown out?

~~
but how can I fight...
and what do I say?

when it is love,
shown their way.

essential meghdoot

2010-01-27T18:39:00.007+05:30

I rush upstairs to save the clothes,
just put out in the sun,

but when I see them swaying in the rain,
after so many May-like afternoons,

I let them soak in the clouds,
for they too live in parched Madras.

In a mood for Meghdoot,
in english but of course,

I wonder how one can speak of it,
and the deep, dark cloud,
in minutes and not in laborious dance-epics,

for the passion would then dry up,
as quickly as pappadam in the April sun,

but a simple ad does just that.

so now you tell me, in just one line,
what you see in the dark cloud right up there.

~the window siller

~meanwhile, in other worlds, mukul kesavan tries to upset my perfect world. but I remain firmly colonial.

chettu, akka and ammama

2010-01-25T19:12:00.007+05:30

Last time aunt went on a trip, she reminded me my responsibilies: chettu, chaapa and ammama.

This time, the fishes are dead, and it will be: chettu, akka and ammama. And aunt didn't remind me this time.

I guess I grew up sometime this year.

My grandmother is sewing the edge of a new cotton saree as I type this. I wake up these days to music: the kut-kut of her knife on the chopping board. For you know it will be a good day.

She battles pain in her wrists, thanks to all those IVs, but doesn't give up. And she is slowly filling in her blouse, that hung loose all these days.

I am enjoying a three day break sleeping, sleeping more, and making maggi for grandparents.

Next on agenda is getting sis to eat two eggs a day. One for her, and one for lil Chintu, whose kicks I cannot feel yet. Come on sweetie, you can do better.

- window siller :-)

chettu: plants; chaapa: fish; akka: elder sis; ammama: grandmother.
brother makes rainbow inside the house.

remorse

2010-01-24T23:17:00.012+05:30

this space is my trash can. the only space where I can tell my deepest fears. everywhere else I play the parts.

films like Rocket Singh and Rock On make me very sad. for I killed my own company. and all the wonderful things it brought me.

because I didn't have the answers to all those questions thrown at me. because I had to make my family happy.

looking back I never did anything wrong. I worked so hard for I enjoyed every bit of it.

"live in reality," they said. "it is all dreams, it won't last," they shouted.
but what is real really? and what is anything without faith?
and what did they know to ask me to stop??

why did they make me feel like I did something wrong?? why did I have to do it silently, honorarily?? I think my colleagues would have actually said, "go for it girl!"

I wish I had some answers then. it is too late now.
but I trusted them to know better. and for that I feel cheated.

my only original doubt was that being girls, could we promise to be together always.

but now I think we could have worked as long as it lasted. and even if one of us had to leave, we would have faced it when it came.

but it is too late now.
-window siller

Prayer

2010-01-18T22:35:00.010+05:30

“What do you pray for every day,” aunt asks, as I open my palm. The kum kum today is red, the light red of fountain pen ink.

I wish I could tell her that until the same time last year I hardly prayed for myself. That I prayed for my sister and all the women in my life. For the goddess would know that the women could do with more blessings than you.

And all of last year I have prayed to her to make things better. She does it in fits and starts, just like I choose to work. Just when I go to her smiling about a day like sunshine, she chooses to put my piece in the snake’s mouth. And there I am sliding down its belly to the bottom right away.

~~ O mother goddess, you who stood fierce in sacred groves, before they shut you in ornate temples. You, who aremade of clay, for all things must return to the earth. You, who take the braves as consorts and protect the animals and the seeds.

To you I submit like a child: clear this confusion in my head; show my way clearly to see. Should I make happy all those all around me, people who love so dearly me. Or should I listen to the replies stuck in my throat and hold up until I feel it is all just right. ~~

prayer: the window siller; pictures: Egg.

good to know: Sacred Groves of Tamil Nadu by M. Amirthalingam; http://www.fao.org/docrep/005/y9882E/y9882e14.htm

the beast that loves potato chips & other stories

2010-01-15T23:34:00.008+05:30

The last two days have been bliss: the recreated forest, bird calls, brilliant stars, lots of A & N, and waking up to the beast licking your hand.

Yes, mine! And she eats out of them too. God bless Pepsi Co., Saif Ali Khan and all the GM potatoes. For Zoye and I have made peace. She will also drool for Hajmola-like candies and get very upset if you pretend to eat her food.

Egg arrives a day late, but determined; climbs a tree and clicks pictures. And I see her laugh, shoulders shaking, after I-don't-know-when. And hogging food at the solar kitchen.

We are like sunflowers, soaking in energy for the next six months: to tackle pressures, answer doubts, and learning every moment.

This is Pongal people, I tell you. This is. Celebrating the earth and sowing new seeds.

~~
But when Egg and I sit in an empty train, legs stretched and eyes fixed on the window ahead, we don't see villages painted black, but a scene from our first ride back home.

There is Stick, Spidey, Egg and me. Sparring jibes, clamouring for window seats, fighting over sanitizer, and laughing all the way home.

Sometimes, I wish I had never met them. Because travel is not the same anymore. Without Stick to ogle at the stars with, without Spidey to rattle for fun, and without Egg to do a “Sajna-di vari vari…”.

And when lost in the forest, cheated by an autowallah, to plod on foot singing resolutely "Chhod aaye hum vo galiyaan...", off-key of course.

An open letter to Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

2010-01-12T17:12:00.006+05:30

Dear Chitra,

Yesterday night, I had to stop reading Sister of My Heart many a time... for the tears and the lines that were swimming.

As I read them, it feels like reading thoughts, words and phrases from my head. It feels like scenes from my childhood were made into this movie.

I have watched the tamil soap, Anbulla Snehithi, adapted from your book. But nothing prepared me for the narratives Basudha carries in her head. I carry them too. Without the good looks and the secret weighing like lead.

My plot is more complex, no rubies to detest, but emotions and sentiments I cannot define. And we are fluid, morphing every moment from Anjali to Sudha and back again. And the story is still unfolding.

So I put down the book where Sudha and Ashok passionately kiss each other... a happy thought I can fall asleep with. For who knows what the Bidhata Purush has written?

But Chitra, how did you know:
of sisters of the heart,
of guilt and shame and
trying to make up... because,
your dad ought to have done more,
and of making your only wish for your sister.

can writers imagine so much,
from the cameos they have of people,
of how exactly silences hurt,
and fogs that suffocate...

When you visit Madras, we must meet Chitra. And you must then tell me, the story of the sister of your heart.
- the window siller

WTF statement of the day

2010-01-12T00:14:00.001+05:30

"I am not looking at anyone."

"But your mindset perfectly matches with this boy's," she goes on.

I look up sniffing hope. Does my mother really understand me....

"Your horoscopes say so," she finishes.

Pilgrimage

2010-01-03T19:03:00.000+05:30

I am marooned on the window sill, for the beast doesn't like me to move. Hours later, she gets tired of our unending stream of chatter and turns her head.

I grab the moment to stretch my limbs. But when one knee grazes the couch, the beast roars with a voice that leaves me trembling inside and out.

Meet Zoye - A & N's pampered baby girl and ferocious Dobberman. I am keen to win her approval, almost K-serial bahu like, for this is my pilgrimage.

I came here for answers, but I don't remember the questions anymore. And I simply sit soaking in stories: of clean energy technologies, eco-restoration projects, stories of forests across the world, and where religion is a passion for work.

And I had shut myself out of all this for a year.

N makes me noodles hashed of anything that she can throw in. And N, slouching on the jhoola, becomes an impish little brat talking of her siblings, eyes sparkling.

A patiently shows me around the house and explains electronics to a science retard.

And when asked to stay for the night, I lap the offer like Zoye her milk. Even the threat of my mum raising into alarm everyone she knows in this district fails to scare me today.

Later, walking down the beach with the wind in my hair, I tell A & N how the last rite of our usual pilgrimage would be to meet Mango Tree.

But when Mango Tree invites us for a nutty dessert, I get really scared. Mortally scared of Stick and Egg, for I am having all this to myself.

The beast is of course not pleased that I am sleeping on its couch. But Zoye, you don't have any choice now, you have to get used to me. And your scent on the couch isn't too bad either.

home

2009-12-29T23:16:00.005+05:30

My grandmother today strung tulsi leaves together for grandpa's pooja... slowly, poorly and dropping half the leaves all around.

But after weeks of battling multiple complications, after having seen death stark in her eyes so many times, after marathon hospital shifts and sleepless nights... its our big miracle.

The garland takes me back to No.1, Selliamman Koil Street... I am five again, and its time for grandmother's friday prayers.

Maybe its time to let go

2009-12-14T11:30:00.000+05:30

I have been such a useless granddaughter. wrapped in my work, jobs, friends, books. I must have learnt breathing exercises and got her to do it regularly. I must have made her walk. must have rubbed camphor and coconut oil more often. must have done accupressure. must have forced the garlic with milk. must have done more house work.

I must have learnt more about her favourite topics and chatted more with her. I was there all the while and stayed useless. I will regret this all my life. And I deserve it. for I got so much love.

"leave me dear" were the words I heard last from her. that was yesterday evening. she is fading and I am helpless.

I have always vowed to be better after every hospital visit and failed miserably. I prayed hard for a miracle again. I prayed for apollo. apollo that will service her organs with mechanical precision. apollo that saved her from near death once. But yesterday what aunt said made sense. No more pain, no more risks. just peace.

Peace from the IVs pierced all over sprinkly veins. Peace that will smooth her brows. peace from that throbbing cancerous bubble in her throat. a throat narrowed by three surgeries. peace from the dozens of tablets painfully gulped down.

I cannot see her fighting those binds. I cannot see her with the pipe down her throat. her most dreaded fear.

What Uncle Sam said comes back. Accept and let go, only then can they move head. I love you Ammama. I love you. forgive me if you can.

emergency room

2009-12-11T10:17:00.001+05:30

The wail of a baby plucked for veins, the scent of surgical spirit, the nagging beeps of central monitors, punctual piercings for vital stats. A doc nods familiarly before he goes back to his book as all children in emergency decide to cry at once. tender veins are found for IVs and fluids gush down them.

I describe our neighbours to grandmum, hoping her eyes stay would alert for a few seconds more. But the drugs take over immediately. A young man with a fractured limb gallantly gives his bed to a delirious 6-month-old. Dengue mosquitoes in the city have been baying for babies.

Few nurses, fewer beds, the doc, sacred ash on forehead, resolutely thumbs his book. Tempers fray, sparks fly, mothers weep, and grandmum coughs up phlegm. the reports finally arrive. Doc surfaces from book. He speaks to grandmum, attempts telugu humour at twilight. Is it always like this, I ask. Only worse, he grins.

Making demigods of docs doesn't seem unfair anymore.

Footnotes in my head

2009-11-25T03:25:00.003+05:30

3:00 a.m. trip to the loo:

I am fleshing a storyline in my head: must rope in that guy who shot those owlets at Nanmangalam, use local transport for flavour, get an illustration done of the travel route.

Come on, the dots illustration must move. It cannot stand there. I am wide awake now. Wait, is it a news story or a travel docu? Am I a film-maker or a writer?

Let me begin properly:

This is me. I edit news stories from about 11 a.m. to 7 p.m., sometimes 5 a.m. I used to make documentaries with my friends in the remaining hours. I used to do a 100 things in 10 mins and I used to be fine.

I asked my dad many times a day: "I want to quit and work with my friends." He screamed: "you are mad, you are a writer, do one thing.... steady job, respectable, respectable."

My dad never screams. He is a soft-spoken professor and always sweet. I must be wrong.

I did the graveyard shift for my friends. They adjusted. I love them. Sometimes we were happy, sometimes sad, mostly poor. But, oh, what fun we had.

But last year, at one point, when I could no longer answer questions of how I could manage to do this forever AND make money. I decided it was time to let go.

I must find people who are commercial for Stick. I must write in permanent black. Films are too expensive. Not for a middle-class daughter. And I must get an LIC policy.

I looked at that report but did not cut it for reference. I saw that festival announcement but did not jump. Those mails, those lists, those people... I painfully closed my eyes. I waved luck to Stick at the airport and it felt oh-so-sick.

I tried quants. I went shopping. I did family bonding. And I told myself "respectable, respectable." I had all the time to jog but I slept. My head felt rusty. Like the bhindis in the fridge, wet and stinky.

Maggie, Stick and I met sometimes. For doing books, for closing accounts. I could never do a sum to save my life but it felt like sunshine.

On a whim, months hence, we applied to a fellowship. It had history. The skies rained. My grey cells beamed. Colleagues loved me again, for I found my head.

In the long days since, for wait is habit to docuwallahs, I have tried many times. To write 8 coloumns of news print. I know I can wring it. It is in me.

But the thought of some tv journo making my a tale a 10 mins feature makes me growl. From the pit of my stomach. If it goes on air, it has my name on it buddy.

I can pop a pill for my head and hit the bed. But I have miles to go. I must become a serious birder. I must read so many books. I have to write so much, I have to learn that damn camera, I have to, I have to, do-oh-so-much....

When dad asks this time: "who are you? a writer or a film-maker?" I will say: "there was no contradiction in the first place. I write for films."

Manchurian Paratha for the documentary soul

2009-11-02T13:15:00.000+05:30

November 2009:

Dish in question: Manchurian Paratha
Chef: Maggie alias Egg
Sous chef : Window Siller
Agenda: To make something special, which will get us started on a film proposal.

Ingredients: Atta, one little carrot, four onions, vinegar, tomato ketchup, soya sauce, ginger, garlic, chilli powder, oil and lots and lots of ghee.

The dough for the paratha is made a little harder than what we make for rotis. We use a lot of oil and Egg makes them perfectly triangular. She was trained to make perfect geometric figures with the belan, pure math and no geography here.

Then we fry it until they become golden brown and all crispy. With loads of ghee of course. And cut them into square bits. Perfect squares again.

Now we dice the onions, add a teaspoon of vinegar and set them aside for 30 mins. In the meanwhile, we grate ginger and garlic and saute them in oil.

In a while, we add the onions, the thin slices of carrot, and a big spoon of soya sauce. Egg insists on adding 5-6 spoons of tomato ketchup. I would have preferred plain puree.

Now we add 1 tsp of chilli powder, 1/2 tsp of salt, and 1/2 a tumbler of water to the mixture and let the mixture boil.

When it is almost done, we add the paratha bits to the sabji, let it simmer for five seconds and serve ourselves to eat.

Some onion raitha, I suppose, will be good to go along. But we are done cooking.

Honest to good

2009-09-26T11:43:00.003+05:30

Yesterday night, I resolved to be just myself. To speak what I really really think. To be completely honest about myself. To tell Dad and Sis, the folks I relate to most, what I really feel and think.

I can no longer shut the voices in my head. It has been coming slowly... thanks to Stick, thanks to Dotty-Wotty and New Momma, thanks to Ayn Rand. But it is also going to make things very difficult for me.

The Beast sums it up for me:
There is a problem with being involved in a close relationship. It's not the fear or loss, of rejection, of being someone you're not. It's the fear of being yourself.

I am determined to overcome it and oh, am I going to be unpopular...

Cooking is probably the easiest part of marriage

2009-09-24T15:08:00.005+05:30

Sitting on Maggie's kitchen's slab,
peeling corn kernels and grating garlic,
eating until the pots were scraped clean,
riding in the drizzle,
riding back in the night with the hands held free,
and a good night hug was a pick-me-up like none other.

My fingers still smell of garlic, but I am ready to conquer the world all over again. :)

~~
And the recipie for the meal that Maggie whipped up in less than an hour:

Corn-au-gratin, garlic bread, corn soup.
(serves three)

Take two corn stems, peel the kernels and put them in the pressure cooker for about seven to eight whistles.

White Sauce:
Melt a cube of butter on the kadai, then mix a spoon of maida with it and heat it a bit.
Add a big tumbler of milk and a little water.
Mix it well and add a table spoon of salt.

When it is solidifying a little, add three handfuls of corn.
Shortcut to thicken any gravy: Mix a katori of corn flour with water, and pour the mixture into the kadai.

Now sprinkle oregano and very little basil powder.
If the consistency is smooth, the sauce is done.
Now grate a cube of cheese all over it, cover the kadai, and remove it from the flame.

Corn Soup:
Run the remaining corn kernels in the mixer until watery.
Add a little water and run it again.

Strain the mixture with a large sieve.
Add salt and pepper to taste.

Garlic Bread:
Grate a bulb of garlic.
Mix it with butter and spread on bread.
Push it into the oven and lo! aromatic garlic bread.

~~
As a little girl I thought that marriage was all about cooking. But now being around married friends, I realise that cooking is probably the easiest part of marriage. Maggie nods vigorously.

Is it getting windy or is my umbrella getting old...

2009-09-22T14:55:00.000+05:30

I am particularly melancholic today morning. I woke up to the news of two deaths among extended relatives.

Dadu, Jeeju's maternal grandfather passed away after long suffering with azheimer's and stomach ulcers. During our visit to Calcutta for my sister's reception, we had all stayed with the old couple, in their charming house in Survey Park, with ponds and birds and many hawkers.

And we had spent afternoons looking at old photo albums and travel memoirs. Of a graceful age, of their travel around the world, of friends, children and grandchildren.

Dadu was a scientist who made dolls out of coconut shells. He loved to sit in his balcony overlooking the pond.

I never got to know the brilliant scientist who helped set up the planetarium in Calcutta but I admired the man who silently filled up bottles of water to help his wife, when the household was a frenzy of festivities of which he probably registered little.

With my sister a few weeks pregnant, there is the unspoken but warm hope that Dadu isn't really gone.

Monsoon memory

2009-07-18T21:12:00.000+05:30

It was vacation time, when six school friends ganged up one evening. Hopping homes on new bikes, sharing college notes on a terrace... when it rained. poured.

With no one to check us, we played with vengeance in the rain. for all the times we were bundled up for a drizzle, for all the times we were shouted at for having got wet in the rain, for all the times we did not dare to jump into a puddle.

dancing, laughing, with music from somewhere... teasing, and then one friend broke down.

I had unwittingly reminded her of her boyfriend. they had just broken up, I did not know. but the rain cheered her up soon and we played again, though a little subdued.

as we rode back home that night, speeding on the airforce lane, much later than we were allowed, cold and carefree, wet and without a care about odd glances... it struck me at a crossing:

we were grown-up, past caring, independent and yet it was not all that I had imagined.

Adulthood brought with it, its own share of worries and pains.

Feminine handicap

2008-11-03T15:25:00.003+05:30

On the run-up to sis' engagement - which involved visits to the beauty parlour, shopping, matching jewellery, making decorations and rangolis and more - sis and I realised that we suffered from one big handicap: certain feminine skill sets.

We have so many cousins and friends for whom making a big rangoli or applying mehendi or choosing the perfect facial is child's play. But for sis and me, it involves SOS calls and elaborate google searches.

We have taken this up as a challenge and have decided to acquire some essential life skills because learning to apply mehendi or do a pedicure can actually save several thousands of rupees.

As we felt quite insufficient and inadequately prepared for life, a particular young cousin sagely counseled: "everyone has their uses, you cannot make a rangoli, so what, you get your friends the best job offers".

Lost and found

2008-11-03T14:38:00.009+05:30

My legs, my feet, all hurt so bad that I cant taken even a step without a wince. Sis' engagement went on brilliantly yesterday, though we lost and found some two lakh worth jewellery amidst tears and prayers, fought with the hotel management over arrangements and nearly choked the bride and groom (hence) with smoke and sandalwood.

We questioned all our faith in God when we lost all the jewelery that sis had carefully colour coordinated, learnt to wear a brave face and get going with the rituals, found out the strength that an extended family alone can instill at times of crisis and deposed our faith back in God when we found the jewel box intact but misplaced.

We all wore colour-coordinated clothes and I got a grand aunt got very emotional because my tissue sari happens to be an exact replica of her muhurtam sari. And here, I was thinking that I bought something offbeat! I think Jeej sneaked some of our plans to his folks, because they also came dressed in a colour theme and many of the men wore kurtas made of some paper-like material. How they rustled as they carried the "seeru" and what fun we would have had if it had rained.... hee, hee!

All those picking up of relatives, styling garlands, decorating the house, packing, talking, managing the dining hall, playing sis' page girl made me feel like Maa Multi-taskeshwari. I liked my "moggus" in rice flour and rangolis with flowers because they turned out pretty well for a first time.

I slung a camera on my neck the entire time and clicked away to glory. And when the big fat Indian family sat to watch it on TV back home, we had a huge time making fun of each other. My photographic skills need some rehab, but I am all spurred to make that home video.

Oh God, Oh God, Oh God..... please let me be six again.

But seriously, I have to get used to being grown up now - every second person asking "when is yours?" certainly helped - because I saw that I am no longer what my younger cousins are now: playing in the lawns blissfully unaware of the chaos inside; sneaking into the dining hall for ice creams and gulab jamuns; or battling parental and "relative" pressure to choose offbeat courses.

Thank God, I have an elder sis, because when she does the growing up act, I have time to get ready. But do I want to be a bride?

Mad and Silly

2008-10-29T17:00:00.005+05:30

~~
There was no flowers, the stars didn't cross,
but giggle and gurgle, we whistled a tune,
madly, silily, madly-ho!

salt tasted sour, the bitter gourd sweet,
the sun went nuts and the moon stole treats,
but we were in love, madly, silily, madly-ho!

we lolled in the hay and lots and lots played,
sailed in the breeze and said go-ahead,
silily, madly, silily-so!

so one dozen people with two hundred heads,
said lets have fun, come lets fave hun,
silily, madly, silily-ho!

so clippity-cloppity, carefully tread,
with sandalwood paste on your forehead,
for there is a ring and lots and lots bling,
nitter-natter, in-laws chatter.

Mr. Footloose and Ms. Fancyfree
madly, madly, madly-ho,
will step into the typhoon to savour the brew,
silily, silily, silily-so!

so what is up is a storm in a teacup,
a raucous ruckus, a chaos insane,
call it fate or the engagement,
but the little devil found the perfect angel.
~~

- all rights reversed to The Tenth Rasa - An Anthology of Indian Nonsense.

though I put it together, lines and phrases are borrowed from The Tenth Rasa. It is truly a book to keep. I can never write something poignant when it comes to sis and nonsense suits her best. Btw, this goes in my sis' engagement e-mail invite and she is Mad and the Devil.

Stick, Kaliveli and I

2008-10-22T22:25:00.006+05:30

Stick:
Stick and I go back ages, okay at least back to first year of college and that is seven bloody years ago!

We are poles apart - she is a pole and I am a monstrous gothic column - but we still get along on green issues and make films together. Pitifully low-budget documentaries, but still, something of a cause.

Okay, now why the name? Obvious. Why even on our recent Kaliveli trip, she had me panicked yet again thinking that I had lost sight of her. Watching out for each is an unspoken code that we have on shoots and recces. And my B.P. kept shooting up in no-signal zone until I realised that one of the poles in the distance was her.

Kaliveli:
In the meanwhile, the road to the Kaliveli (Kalu-veli in Tamil) was a slushy delight though I could see how much the wetland has shrunk. Earlier, it used to be visible from the East Coast Road, now shrimp hatcheries and paddy fields are ruining its delicate fresh-brackish water mix.

Imagine these wetlands, estuaries, lagoons and lakes and ponds all at once on a map - don't they make a fascinating hydrological system? Someday, I want to make an illustration of these water bodies, at least the ones in Madras and Pondy.

Though the paddy fields are part of Kaliveli's problems, it looked beautifully green, and we spent ages talking to the locals. The fresh air did us passive smokers wonders - we have an editor who can work only with a tobacco I.V.

and I:
And I have realised that my kurta-trousers, socks-floaters, hat-sun glasses attire works against good conversation with these locals, many of them were wearing only a komanam. Next time, I am gonna do a Tamil-films village-teacher routine. Must-remember accessory - the umbrella.

Back home, we holed in at the editor's studio to fast-track some of our work and I had my first red-bull. It tasted like cough syrup and I gulped it down likewise. But nothing could stop me from sleeping like sloshed, and Stick and the editor slitting each other's throats. Sue, sue red bull.

And Stick's jaw drop at first encounter with the species Universitias professorius was hilarious. But that warrants a separate post.

Clearing space in the head

2008-10-22T22:08:00.002+05:30

work:
If the office felt like tundra earlier (Clean and I have always considered relocating polar bears and artic foxes here for conservation) it now feels like Pluto. Jelly legs, chattering teeth and raging viral fevers just added to our merry work atmosphere.

books:
Adiga's magnum opus, which was lying unread at my desk for weeks is now in hot demand. Too many mixed reviews and reverse snobbery makes me stave it off. I am meditating on a book about cats.

home:
At home, I am no longer the favourite grand-daughter, honestly when was I? But grand pa has been seething at me ever since I started telling him off to run his own errands around the house - like to the water filter.

It has been two-and-a-half years since his femur-joint bone surgery and high time that he is up and about the house. His paunch could also do without a few metres. I don't care if he laments loudly to the maid about lack of respect in today's generation or acts a bit stiff, I am gonna teach the Air Force man a trick or two of his own.

head:
And the only good thing about my delirious fever this week is that it kept folks at home too busy with my temperatures and pills, so busy that they forgot the "you over-work" bhajan and "erratic schedules" polambal.

And at moments like these, when the sun sneaks out after the showers and bright light streams through the windows, I know I love my family the most.

This and That

2008-10-16T15:38:00.005+05:30

This makes me want to stop all my nonsense about environmental writing and filmmaking and pick up a shovel to plant a tree. Okay, i'll start with a pot maybe.

and words, here and there:

Needles and pins, Needles and pins,
Sew me a sail to catch me the wind.
Sew me a sail strong as the gale,
Carpenter, bring out your hammers and nails.
Hammers and nails, hammers and nails,
Build me a boat to go chasing the whales.
Chasing the whales, sailing the blue
Find me a captain and sign me a crew.
Captain and crew, captain and crew,
Take me, oh take me to anywhere new.
- Shel Silverstein

Autumn leaves and siblings sensibilities

2008-10-15T11:54:00.007+05:30

My sis is going to fly the nest. This realisation dawned on me stupidly late, just today morning - after many weeks of talking and preparation for her engagement - and it settled uneasily in my stomach as I woke up from one of my many dreams about her wedding.

In my dream, I was torn between taking pics of cousins singing together and decorating the hall. Should I get the hall ready and miss my cousins' singing together or catch the moment when it lasted and delay the decorations?

Some stupid dream like that and I woke up with the sick feeling that we may never get to share the same roof again. This time when she leaves, it wont be like one of her business trips around the world, when we get to know everyday, no matter whichever part of the world she is, what she ate for dinner and if she reached her hotel room safe.

There wont be any, "eM will be back in two weeks and then we will decide on the colours for the room". There wont be any e-mails about day-to-day affairs like rats found in her cupboard and brother's deploring marks. Will we then talk stuff like, "how are you?", "everyone is fine here"??.

oh my god, Oh My God, OH MY GOD!! Everything is gonna change forever and I don't want it one bit. I want her here and have become a sudden supporter of aunt's plans to get eM and Jeej to stay in our ground-floor.

Until yesterday, I was spouting all neutral comments like "Jeej needs his privacy" and "eM should be independent". No more of all that bull. I just want my sis at home.

With all this wonderful fraternal thoughts, I tried to snuggle up to her in the morning, but she almost pushes me down. Wait, what was I even thinking, she can get lost to Bangalore. Actually, Bangalore is too close to Madras, she can go to any Pallatur* and cut potlakaya** all by herself and I couldn't care less.

Pity, the wedding is six months far away.

Autumn musings

But with Diwali around the corner, some showers and a small depression in the bay, we have had some great weather, and it makes me feel all waxy, poetic and lyrical.

eM, who now has a season called autumn in her life, sends me beautiful pics - trees ablaze with yellows and oranges; a silent stream strewn and mellow yellows strewn all over her university town. Its looks like the trees have come alive just to add colour to the drab cement and concrete.

In the meanwhile, bougainvilleas are blazing pink all over my Madras, and the weather is perfect to perch by the window sill. But I am at office and I have to pretend to work. So I settled down to read Thekambattu and fell in love with their village. Wish Sunder and Sonati can write more.

Other nice reads today morning, as the boss thinks I am seriously at work, include one on writing via As I Please; and Shutter Sisters via eM.

For all in Madras, enjoy these rare bouts of gorgeous weather.

*&** are the telugu equivalents of Timbaktur and snake gourd

We are like this only

2008-10-09T17:34:00.005+05:30

No backless cholis?? How can women be stopped from following the time-less traditions of India? This ban is pro-western and anti-Bharatiya nari. It is not suited for Indian culture. Saffron brigade, where art thou?

In the meanwhile I hope Egg, trousseau shopping at the moment in Rajkot, will get some back-less cholis to wear in Chennai. My Madras is very traditional you see, you can wear back-less cholis and low-waist ghagras, and that is why we will never let the Vagina Monologues perform in town.

Book envy

2008-10-03T12:16:00.001+05:30

The problem with me as a reader is that I get too involved with any book that I read - that is I cant put a book down - good, bad or cheap trash until I know what happened at the very end.

This irritating trait has forced me to read on shuddering PTC buses (Mango Coloured Fish); when I was having a bath - seriously, when I could'nt finish the The Order of the Phoenix after a sleepless night, I propped it on the washing machine; at my first shoot (Ponniyin Selvan) and at work (You are Here). So I simply avoid taking up a book if I can. Amazing excuse, right? right.

But really, when I start reading, I start living between the pages. And that is why I envy this best buddy of mine (eM), who can pick up a book at dinner time and put it down after her curd rice. Her reading list naturally is light years ahead of mine.

Anyways, here is the list that she sends, which has set my right hand itching towards that Ruskin Bond. Seventy-five books that a woman must read, and the roll call reads:

The Lottery (and Other Stories), Shirley Jackson
To the Lighthouse, Virginia Woolf
The House of Mirth, Edith Wharton
White Teeth, Zadie Smith
The House of the Spirits, Isabel Allende
Slouching Towards Bethlehem, Joan Didion
Excellent Women, Barbara Pym
The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath
Wide Sargasso Sea, Jean Rhys
The Namesake, Jhumpa Lahiri
Beloved, Toni Morrison
Madame Bovary, Gustave Flaubert
Like Life, Lorrie Moore
Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen
Jane Eyre, Charlotte Brontë
The Delta of Venus, Anais Nin
A Thousand Acres, Jane Smiley
A Good Man Is Hard To Find (and Other Stories), Flannery O'Connor
The Shipping News, E. Annie Proulx
You Can't Keep a Good Woman Down, Alice Walker
Their Eyes Were Watching God, Zora Neale Hurston
To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee
Fear of Flying, Erica Jong
Earthly Paradise, Colette
Angela's Ashes, Frank McCourt
Property, Valerie Martin
Middlemarch, George Eliot
Annie John, Jamaica Kincaid
The Second Sex, Simone de Beauvoir
Runaway, Alice Munro
The Heart is A Lonely Hunter, Carson McCullers
The Woman Warrior, Maxine Hong Kingston
Wuthering Heights, Emily Brontë
You Must Remember This, Joyce Carol Oates
Little Women, Louisa May Alcott
Bad Behavior, Mary Gaitskill
The Liars' Club, Mary Karr
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, Maya Angelou
A Tree Grows In Brooklyn, Betty Smith
And Then There Were None, Agatha Christie
Bastard out of Carolina, Dorothy Allison
The Secret History, Donna Tartt
The Little Disturbances of Man, Grace Paley
The Portable Dorothy Parker, Dorothy Parker
The Group, Mary McCarthy
Persepolis, Marjane Satrapi
The Golden Notebook, Doris Lessing
The Diary of Anne Frank, Anne Frank
Frankenstein, Mary Shelley
Against Interpretation, Susan Sontag
In the Time of the Butterflies, Julia Alvarez
The Good Earth, Pearl S. Buck
Fun Home, Alison Bechdel
Three Junes, Julia Glass
A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, Mary Wollstonecraft
Sophie's Choice, William Styron
Valley of the Dolls, Jacqueline Susann
Love in a Cold Climate, Nancy Mitford
Gone with the Wind, Margaret Mitchell
The Left Hand of Darkness, Ursula K. LeGuin
The Red Tent, Anita Diamant
The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Milan Kundera
The Face of War, Martha Gellhorn
My Antonia, Willa Cather
Love In The Time of Cholera, Gabriel Garcia Marquez
The Harsh Voice, Rebecca West
Spending, Mary Gordon
The Lover, Marguerite Duras
The God of Small Things, Arundhati Roy
Tell Me a Riddle, Tillie Olsen
Nightwood, Djuna Barnes
Three Lives, Gertrude Stein
Cold Comfort Farm, Stella Gibbons
I Capture the Castle, Dodie Smith
Possession, A.S. Byatt

I can proudly tick off - The Namesake (still reading), Pride and Prejudice, Jane Eyre, To Kill a Mocking Bird, Wuthering Heights, Little Women, The Diary of Anne Frank, Frankenstein (I never realised it was was written by a woman) and The God of Small Things.

There is this list for men and it has some good ones like Haruki Murakami's books.

Expo spam

2008-10-02T13:22:00.004+05:30

The Big Fat Indian Wedding - Update 1.1.

I was right in lying low about the wedding expo business. Mad, Jeej, thathaya and ammama dropped by at the organiser's office to be treated to an hour long lecture about Country Club Resorts. They got the dinner set but nothing more because the other gifts are for married people only. Pray tell me, why would married people come to a wedding expo? Oh, for their kids??

Am surprised that Mad didnt roast them alive or file a PIL. My sis is after all the fire-spitting dragon who managed to get an Apollo doc state in writing that he had utterly blundered. This was when the apollo doc performed the wrong surgery for my grandfather, which was followed by a long corrective surgery and treatment at Vijaya, but that is another story.

Anyways, I must pat myself for not having fallen to these Country Club guys. They are the only people who can compete with Airtel in calling me up every three hours.

Navaratri 2008

2008-10-02T13:18:00.000+05:30

At my maternal grandmother's house, there was a navratri room. I simply called it so because there was nothing else that the room was used for. No one would use an asbestos-roofed room for anything else. The adjustable kolu stand would become an almirah for toys, unholy mills and boons that my younger aunts probably read on the sly and a lot of other junk.

The room had a nice view of the street and I used to play many an imaginary game there. I used to re-model it in my head to fit my dozen maternal cousins at least once together under one roof. Somehow, every time I scrounged this room, I would find a new old magazine or comic to while my time away with.

Once, many years after I was no longer scared or in awe of the room and simply went by force of habit and nothing to do, I picked up a small novel "the mysterious intruder" thinking it to be a detective story. I was disappointed because no murder or theft cropped up, just silly talking and walking and smiling all around. It was my first M&B. I read four or five of them later, but remember this plot so vividly. I was after all 12.

Later, when the family went through bad times and some rooms had to be rented, it was used for my uncle's business. As his employees deftly packed combs and pens, I would walk around the room trying to see if the old shelves had some corners and junk left for me. But then real estate was priceless.

Back to navratri. I never liked the room during navratri, it was no longer my secret garden. It was washed and scrubbed, the ten steps creaked under the dolls, you could'nt walk or run because there was too much rangoli powder all around; and it was curtained and filled with the lot of brightly coloured aunties and grandmothers who kept reminding my mum to send me for music lessons.

I must tell this for my youngest aunt, though there is a lot left to be desired in her, she was an ace in decoration. I still remember how she grew real grass on some damp soil and created a beautiful cricket pitch and garden with dolls.

But Navratri became interesting only when we moved near my high school and many of my other classmates. We girls would wear pattu pavadais and deck up with jewellery and go around looking at Kolus. When the singing rigmarole came, I started to nudge others and slink into the background.

By then, most of us had cycles and these evening tours became an independent social affair. There was no more tagging mums and aunts. The kolu at our school was of course priceless, with an entire hall filled with dolls of many themes and some kutcheri or programme in the background.

We continued the affair making it an annual get together during college years but now the tradition is broken. I dont remember the last kolu I saw, so today morning as I saw one at a friend's place where I was for some work, there is a wave of nostalgia. I am making it a point to visit a few other friends and my maternal grandmother's place.

It is no longer a grand affair, but my aunt, the wonderfully patient wife of my uncle, is sprucing it up each year to reach the old standards and maybe soon it will go upstairs and fill the entire navratri room.

The Big Fat Indian Wedding - Part 1

2008-10-02T13:12:00.002+05:30

When I was twelve, painted film posters caught my eye. Amul ads at 18 and glossy models at 20. But now, all that catches my eye are wedding planners, bridal collections and flower decorators. No, I am not getting married, but my dahling sis (Mad) and best friend (Egg) are.

So naturally, even some cheap A3 sized, torn poster of a wedding expo at the Chennai Trade Centre, caught my eye right on. Vivaaha it said and featured a hennaed north Indian bride. Even before I could tell Mad, Egg buzzed me that she was going for the expo. But Mad cannot just do something about her wedding just like that. Even if you have all the 5Ws and 1H clearly written on the back of your hand for thathaya's cross questioning, you cant get past his big O - opinion.

He waved us away with a, "We are anyways going to do things our way, what is the point of all this expo business?" But Mad is a style conscious bride. She fought her way and I lobbied heavily - for the car and for her fiance (JJ) tag along.

Now, as Mad is dutifully following the wedding band, albeit her own way, she is the favourite grand daughter at home. And I become the villain, for putting evil ideas in her head.

So by the time Mad told me that the car had broken down on the way back - that is after seeing the bare three stalls and one stray mehendi designer; after having to wake JJ after a late night shift to act chauffeur, after forcing uncle to join the trail, after getting brother to tag along the party under the midday sun - I decided in my best interest not to get back home in a hurry that day.

This was the second time one of my bright ideas did not take off. The first was to have the engagement at the gorgeous Dakshin Chitra (actually Mad's, but you know the dahling vs. the rebel grandkid routine by now); it was dropped because imposing toll-gate fee on guests would'nt have been very polite. So as JJ came home for dinner and wedding plans abounded over the weekend at home, I avoided all talk like prickly cactus.

It was getting difficult, not to intervene when thathaya almost hired the local ruffian-temple swindler for a priest and fixed a photographer who used Word Art on albums and forced couples to bare their teeth. But I managed to hold on.

But yesterday at office, Mad calls me to tell that JJ has won three gifts from one of those three stalls at the expo - a dinner set, a goa luxury holiday and a family trip to VGP. Whoa! "Nothing ventured, nothing gained," I bounded back home early to tell this to thathaya, but he was at puja and my better sense prevailed. Now I am waiting for my moment until JJ confirms its authenticity and tax details.

And until then, I have upped the ante against the idea of hiring traditional jewellery for the engagement from one of thathaya's entrepreneurial nieces.

Itching to write

2008-10-02T13:08:00.000+05:30

One of my most frequent day dream is to sit by my window sill, knees up and a book on the lap.
And I can listen forever to the bells of those grazing cows and gaze forever outside the window.

And all my life - a doting family, special siblings, friends who are soul mates - their lives, our anecdotes, our issues, our ideas, arguments, neighbours, work, special moments, rebellious spirits and dreams hurl down my head as word bubbles.

This is my window sill.

- itching to write by the window sill