Mother's day

A remarkably peeved creature is wrested from the depths of my being, thereby ending approximately nine months of expectation and wonder. What gender will the child be? Will he or she bear striking resemblance to me or will those odds tilt in the father's favor? Will he or she be blessed with hypersensitivity to peanuts or keen math skills? Mole on left side of the neck or predisposed to Parkinson's? There are no algorithms to predict the permutations of what characteristics and quirks will arise from the tangled web of chromosomes. Like I often repeat to my children "You get what you get and you don't get upset". Birth melds mother and child in a delicate dance of love. This bond is in no way rigid and is instead, dynamic and stretches infinitely to accommodate growth. Minds are bent out of shape and preconceived notions are questioned and discarded. People argue that a mother's love is boundless while the child's love waxes and wanes like the whimsical moon. Or is it that mother's love is restrictive, bound by fear and expectations and a child's love is pure and gentle? "Everything changes but change itself. Everything flows and nothing remains the same. You cannot step twice into the same river, for other waters and yet others go flowing ever on"- Heraclitus. Change is indeed the only constant and maternal love follows the same rules. It adapts, expands and grows. Just as choosing from the tangled web that shapes cells into living, breathing individuals is impossible, so is picking the right experiences that will shape them further into capable human beings. So, instead of trying to unfairly sculpt that which is meant to be set free, let's grow in tandem, child and mother, seeking experiences and freedom, instead of anxiety and captivity. Happy mother's day!

On Children

    Kahlil Gibran

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.

Untangled

"Rapunzel, O Rapunzel, do let down your hair...."

Soft and gentle, caressed by mother. Safe and snug in her arms, dreaming in black and white. Hazy, incoherent dreams. Her needs are small, hunger to be satiated and discomfort alleviated. Safe and secure in the knowledge that all she needs to do is whimper and her needs will be met.

Tentative steps on wobbly legs, curious and questioning eyes ask "How far does this string of yarn go?" or "How does this snowflake taste?" The first voices of dissent are heard but all it takes is a toothless grin or a pucker and her wish is someone's command. Toddle, wobble, smile, giggle, pucker, look, touch, smell and taste....her small world is a playground.

"Amma, why must I grow my hair?" "You may cut it after you get married child. A nice young man will come asking for you and whisk you away on a carriage, but you must make yourself worthy of him. You must learn how to cook, clean, keep yourself spiffy and learn how to sew and darn. Don't forget to keep your grades up because you must learn to be independent too" "I will not marry Amma. I wish to be free" Mother smiles and indulges "As you wish" and she bounces off to make a mud pile with legs spread and skirt pulled up. Hair falling on her face and tongue sticking out in concentration. Carefree and dreaming of dragonflies and warm sunny beaches. Dreams in technicolor, unmarred by reality.

Shy and awkward with silences abound. Afraid to meet someone's eyes and quick to blush. Her reticence is taken as acceptance. Ravaged by insecurities and ridden with guilt, she comes to expect nothing but heartache and confusion. Are you a friend or a foe or just a bystander? She retreats into her shell time and time again and yet peeks out when her heart heals. She struggles to save the light within her, the flower to be nurtured against the forces of nature and will.

Life goes on in this vein with new worlds, dimensions being added and choices being made. Bombarded by expectations or burdened with being a peacekeeper. Until one day, the withered flower in her heart blossoms once again. She realizes that she is the fulcrum and does not need any other support. She comes into her own and discovers her potential. Her hopes and dreams that have been buried come into the fore. Released thus, there is a peace and acceptance of all that is the past, the present and the future. Nothing matters except for the peace within. She cuts her hair.

"Rapunzel, O Rapunzel, do let down your hair...." "I cannot for I've cut it short. I cannot heal the world or its insecurities. I cannot be patient and kind and understanding. I cannot be politically correct and accepting of your faults. I cannot listen to you and stay protected in this castle. I want to feel the grass under my feet and make my mistakes. I need to stop grooming my hair and use that time to play and explore. I need to live. Please leave me be."

Parental Guidance

Parenting is like your very first roller coaster ride. Here you are, cruising along serenely with nary a care in the world, sunlight shining on your face and sharing a laugh or two with your partner. You have your first child. Before you know it, you are inching your way towards a reasonably high altitude. You look down and a bit of unease weighs in. You laugh it off nervously, telling yourself that it is fine, really. Millions have done it before you and lived to tell the tale. What's the worst that could happen, you ask yourself tentatively. The coaster reaches it's first height creakily and totters over the edge, maybe with a twinge of regret at subjecting you fine folks to what will unfold shortly. You peek over the edge, concerned. After this briefest of reprieves, all hell breaks loose. There is really no gentle way of putting it. Eyes are pulled out of your socket, your stomach frequently hits the roof of your skull, your face and other body parts are consistently re-arranged. You are screaming your guts out (at least what is left of them), clawing at your poor partner. You question your sanity more than a few times, you feel like you are flying one minute and come crashing down the next. You appear at the very end of the ride, eyes wide open, looking a bit crazed with maybe a facial tic or two thrown in, clinging to your partner for dear life. You climb shakily out of the car and swear never to do it again. If you are one of the lucky ones who were among the first in line when common sense was doled out and among the last when masochistic tendencies were, this ride will be fondly relegated to "Orlando trip 2012" on your Facebook timeline, peppered with many likes and happy comments. There are of course the others who come back for seconds when bad sushi has been given a free rein to their innards. Sometimes, multiple times. You won't see many pictures on their timelines. They simply don't have the time or the gumption to do so. The facial tics have also multiplied exponentially, it is not a pretty sight.

You can tell parents apart in a crowd. They don't make eye contact. If they do, they fix you with a stare that says "Don't you dare mess with me". They communicate like Mani Ratnam's characters do, via staccato mumbling. They are spent, out of breath and know all too well that long attention spans are actually well practiced tune-outs. They are shifty, constantly looking over their shoulders. Their clothes sense is at best described as odd since they wear what happens to have made the laundry that week AND managed to dodge the hot pink tights thrown casually in with the white load. Their eyes are bloodshot with many hours spent in the ER with tiny objects that have magically made it into various orifices of the human body. They are very well read, with honorary degrees in biology, finance, speech decoding and advanced computer skills with diplomas in electrician tech, plumbing and advance cleaning mech. Don't smirk, do YOU know how to take the hot pink out of white clothes? Hmmmm, I didn't think so. They are photographers, short order cooks, magicians who have a varied repertoire from making boo-boos disappear with a kiss to vanquishing under-the-bed monsters with a frying pan, party organizers and guidance counsellors. They are blessed with a tough hide that does not take it personally and smiles benignly when things such as "I hate my family", "Why did you guys have me?",  "You people are so lame. I wish I had better parents" or even "I HATE my life" are said and have a practiced nonchalance when doors are slammed on the face.

So, whether you are sitting at your child's first violin concert, desperately deleting old photos to make room for the new while nudging your exhausted partner awake (the dimmed lights have lulled them to a deep sleep and the snores are too loud) or lazily contemplating Project Earthling Procreation for the very first time, I have only one thing to say....don't climb on that roller coaster car if you are not the adventurous kind. Your innards will definitely thank you. 

A New Year State of Mind

A time to reflect, revel, ruminate, rejoice, refresh, resolve. A time when some amount of joy and peace penetrates the most jaded mindsets. When the stoniest of hearts finds a flicker of love for their brethren. A time when two things stand out clearly, family and friends. All else fades into a distance. Warmth pervades our souls like a cup of soup on a cold, cold day.

Like a candle that starts a chain at a vigil, we congregate and spread the love. We reflect. We resolve to change our views or our direction in life. Of all the promises made, the most sacred are the ones to ourselves. Yet, we seem to need collective goodwill across the globe to fan the wings of our commitments. Unwittingly, we become a small part of a greater whole.

Differences cease to matter, foes become friends. Hallucinogens take away pain and frustration and for a while, one feels young, fresh and hopeful. This is a beautiful time of the year. If only we could keep this spirit up for the rest of the year, we wistfully opine.

We gather our friends and family close to each other and vow to keep them close as the ball drops and we countdown to a new beginning. We look to this day as a fresh slate, to turn a new leaf or to flip a switch on. Everyone needs a second, a third or a fourth chance at something. A fresh new lease at life or just to be thankful for all our blessings.

We know that this feeling might get squandered soon into the year, the fiercest of resolves might splutter and die out by spring and melancholy can seep in like cold fog by the morning rush-hour. Yet we keep the spirits up and party hard. For this feeling is heady, something that we cannot get enough of.

There are many beginnings through the year. Days, months and seasons begin. Yet none causes quite the ripple effect that the new year brings. It is as if an invisible hand wipes slates clean all the way from the far east to the far west, across time zones.

So, here's to new beginnings and happy tidings. May the new dawn bring a smorgasbord of experiences. May a greater consciousness prevail.

Happy New Year

Existential

And, one day, I realize that I am but a curious blend...........

Who am I and why am I here? Am I really just a jumble of chemicals working in mind-boggling unison? What is the point of this endless waking up, working and sleeping routine? Am I here to prove some evolutionary theory or is there a deeper meaning to it all? Is my place in this world just a chance event or was it predestined in some way? Am I a part of my own small universe that randomly collides with other similar universes, attracting and repelling on a whim? These are all questions that flit across the mind screen with alarming regularity these days.

I find myself attracted to things that I never thought I would be and being passionate about things and causes that I might have previously just given passing thought to. I am pulled by an invisible cord in directions unexplored. My mind is on fire with myriad thoughts cascading through. Yet, my world is calmer than it has ever been. I am able to see things with a clarity hitherto absent. Controlled madness probably sums up this growth spurt the best.

I find myself being more than just curious about my ancestors. They are suddenly not just names but  forces that pull me into worlds unknown. They are missing pieces in the puzzle of my life. I quiz my parents relentlessly about Sita paati, Chandramoulee thatha or athanga paati. I collect stories and tidbits with rabid enthusiasm, stories that I want to share with my children. I feel regret that I did not glean anymore from people who have already passed. Doing rituals like "shrardham" takes on new meaning.

I realize that being rooted to the past thus is strangely comforting. It gives my branches the nourishment and strength to reach out to the sky. Everything in this universe comes from something, be it a song that arises from a musical note, a masterpiece that starts from a brush stroke, or conviction that starts from a small thought. I too, come from a mix of tangibles and intangibles from the past that shape themselves according to the world around me. This is what I will pass on to my children, who will carry the torch forward. It is intensely humbling when I think of myself thus, merely a small link in this chain.

And, one day, I realize that I am but a curious blend of my parents and my children. 

A short rant

Hey you! The girl in the awkward high heels with bunions and fallen arches. Yes, you....with the face and hair aged by unfair expectations, chemicals and heat. Do you realize that your breath is shallow from holding it in so your bulges don't show? The bulges that are a reminder of meals that have been missed or eaten in haste. Your falsely whitened teeth try to hide the nicotine stains, a habit picked up to fight the weight battle and spurred by insecurities. You in the creative wardrobe, mixing and matching designers and colors so it appears that you have new clothes on every single day. You with the painted talons that get in the way of living your life freely. You soldier on daily with repeated onslaughts to your body and soul, trying desperately to fit your square peg into round holes. You who finds substitutes to fill the emptiness that results.

Stop and think whether the reflection in the mirror is your own. There are places to see, languages to be learnt, boundaries to be shattered, planets to be saved, children to be nurtured, peaks to be climbed, books to be read and written, strays to be rescued and beaches to be walked barefoot on. There is a life to be lived in comfortable shoes and clothes. Wear your body with pride. It is your very own unique stamp on this universe. Step out of those uncomfortable clothes and expectations and breathe......

Battered

The color, a pristine white. The consistency, soft fluff. The quantity, more than anticipated. The result? Perfect malli poo-like idlis. These, accompanied with getti chutney, molaga podi-nalla yennai and fragrant sambar is the equivalent of a symphony orchestra playing upon your taste buds. Add degree kapi to this and gastronomical nirvana is attained. Sorcery of this high order was required in those days by the lady of the house to make sure that her sour gent sang a happy tune at the breakfast table (OK, more like a satisfied grunt) and felt sufficiently charged to leave the comforts of his Bombay Fornicator to go face the world (I'm positive that I got your attention now. Now go Google it).

The perfect idli batter has to be the holy grail of all Tamil households. It is the stuff of legend and closely guarded family secret recipes. It is the reason why many a homemaker is celebrated for her kai pakkuvam and others sidelined as also-rans. It is amazing that something with just two ingredients (rice and urad dal) can reduce many a new cook to tears. Here, I share my journey from making tear-stained, concave discs to the aforementioned delights that are equated to the jasmine flower, a string of which would grace the lustrous single plait of the successful lady who managed perfect idlis every single time. She wore the flowers like a crown to match the smug smile on her face.

Cut to me, a decade or so ago. Wet behind the ears, eager beaver cook raised among culinary greats and married into a family of hall-of-famers. I thought that I had the idli thing in the bag, thank you very much. I mean, how difficult can making idlis be? I've eaten them all my life. Quite simply put, I was dead wrong.  After the first few disastrous results, I figured that it was possibly because I had a humble "Oster" grinder and not the sophisticated "Ultra" grinder. So, hubby bought me one. I tried and failed miserably once again. I changed the kind of rice used (turns out that one needs idli rice to make idlis. Duh) The idli Gods started to smile upon me. It was not a fully benign smile, more like a small crack on a stern facade. My idlis started to become convex but were nowhere near perfection. I let go of my ego and started asking everyone for their recipes, even the close-mouthed mistresses of perfect idlis. They tried to dodge my keen questions, but I persisted until I gathered every last secret ingredient and every last secret tip to make my batter rise like a phoenix out of the ashes of my pathetic idli making efforts. I tried every ingredient under the sun including cream of rice, flattened rice flakes, cooked rice and even corn flakes. I kept my batter covered with old blankets and sweaters to keep it warm. I let it rest in a pre-heated oven and sometimes in the furnace room on top of the dryer while it was being used. I used my ingredients in every ratio and proportion possible, skills that would have made my middle school Math teachers proud, yes, even the ones that had given up on me for good. The idlis started resembling what I had eaten many years ago and yet something was missing. They just were not fluffy enough. I thought in desperation that it had to be because I had the misfortune of living between the arctic circle and the Tropic of Cancer. My husband however, categorically said that we could not move and muttered something under his breath about not getting what idlis had to do with latitude.

So, I persisted. I endured long monologs from ladies who claimed that they only had to cast a passing glance in the direction of the batter for it to erupt like Mount Vesuvius out of the vessel and flow out into the plate kept underneath. I sighed in envy at a friend's ease at feeding an army of hungry junta with idlis made from the very last drop of batter, perfect from start to finish. Needless to say, I was never picked to bring idli-sambar for any pot-luck and was relegated instead to bringing dessert while my poor deprived family bore the brunt of my sub-par idli making. One fine day however, my idlis started getting good, then better and finally a day came when my husband grunted at the breakfast table. I thought that I was hallucinating and ignored it. Then, he grunted again. Could it be, I thought. "Idli supera irukku", he said. I fainted with happiness and once recovered, I got ready to buy a fresh jasmine string to adorn my short bob. This would be the happy ending to my story, complete with a rousing ovation and subsequent encores had it not been for the recent healthy revolution. "Did you taste the idlis at Sangeetha's house?",  my friend mentioned at the last get-together. "She makes it with quinoa, brown rice and horsegram in the ratio of....."  As Vadivelu would aptly say at this point, "Shaba, kanna kattudhe!"

Dachau

I find it hard to sleep the night before I am to visit Dachau. My mind slips into consciousness and out. Dark dreams in shades of grey color my sleep. A deep sense of foreboding fills me as alight from the train into the bahnhof. The town is somber and filled with elderly people with kind eyes.....eyes that are filled with understanding. However, I am reluctant to make eye contact as I board the bus that will take me to KZ-Gedenkstätte Dachau....the memorial site of the first and most important concentration camp of the Third Reich. An eerie silence greets me when I get off the bus. Trees line the cobblestone pathway leading to the site. As my shoes crunch on the path, I close my eyes and can hear the marching of feet....both the military precision of soldiers and the nervous shuffle of would be inmates. My heart clenches with fear. I hear raucous laughter and light hearted chatter. Confused, my eyes fly open and are greeted by a group of school children visiting on a field trip. I drink up this sight of youth and hope, who are on their way to embrace possibly the darkest part of their nation's past.....it is impossible to move forward without a deep understanding of what precedes. Lost in thought, I come upon the road that originally lead to the gates of the camp. Rail tracks are partly buried in the sand and I see the commandant's quarters at a distance. I come upon the wrought iron gate with infamous words  "Arbeit macht frei" on them. As I enter the grounds through the gates, I shiver and tears begin to flow. Mere minutes into the museum, my mind shuts down, unable to rise above the oppressive sadness that fills the air. Floor to ceiling posters detail the political climate preceding the rise of the Röhm Putsch, timelines encapsulating Hitler's regime, personal accounts of inmates who survived the camp, visual and descriptive vignettes of unspeakable horrors committed by humans on fellow humans.....my eyes read every word and yet not one registers. I walk around like a zombie with images and words swirling in my mind.....like photographs in rapid succession from a camera gone wild. I come upon a section on poetry written by inmates of the camp....words written on forbidden paper with forbidden stubs of pencils. Fresh tears flow as I read one written by an eighteen year old to his mother, who probably never got to read those words of complete despair....thank God. There are uplifting tales of brotherhood, of humanity in the face of horror. They are but a bleak streak of color on a desolate canvas of sadness. A short film concludes the tour.....more senseless words and visuals. I cannot bear to walk over to see the living quarters of the inmates (of the many rows of sheds, only one is kept intact). On the walk to the exit, I see a wrought iron sculpture showing stick human figures grotesquely caught on barbed wire. With every step taken away from the site, my heart lightens and I realize that I have not taken a single photograph for remembrance. I reach Munich and go straight to church, where prayer soothes mind, body and spirit.

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Disconnected

But Siriously, what did we do before the advent of the smart phone? Well, we had to write with a pen (not stylus, you techies!) on paper, for one. Remember those address book/diary/planner thingies....wonder what happened to all that cheap plastic/leather and paper? Oh, I'm pretty sure they are still in your home.....flew back from China after being morphed into another useless possession. We used those to keep track of important things in our life. We would take notes on a notepad and stop at a gas station or convenience store for directions. We would wait to get home so we can connect with family and friends over the land line. Now we just bark at our phones. A while ago, when the first Bluetooth earpieces were the in-thing, my MIL and I were out on a walk. She saw this man pacing around in circles, having an animated conversation with what appeared to be himself and with a very sad face said..."Paavam, avannukku yenna prachanaiyo, let me pray for him!" Wonder how she will react now to people yelling in helpless rage at their phone while the phone replies in gibberish.


This talking personal assistant is a bit worrisome though.....my offspring talk for hours to the phone and the phone replies patiently, albeit with attitude. Just to put this in perspective, when I ask how school was, they reply in monosyllables. The line thins between the human and the robotic and the robots are winning, at least in my home. We have more gadgets in our home than we do windows.......a bit disturbing if you ask me. Hand-helds are changing the way that we socialize, even becoming our security blankets in an uncomfortable situation. Awkward pauses in conversation are a thing of the past....people just whip up their phones and disappear into a personal virtual world and come back, for want of a better word, re-charged. In everybody's defense though, it is easy to get lulled into believing that the phone is a real person, because even I find myself talking to the phone a lot these days. However, the other day I asked if it would like to talk about feelings and got the following reply..."I'm not sure I understand....would you like me to run a web search for that?" And then, I remembered that many men were possibly behind programming the smart phones. Droid! I didn't just say that, but come to think of it, somethings are still comfortingly familiar!


Addendum: I found this hilarious and pertinent to the post...Enjoy!

Couch on the curb

Autumn Movement by Carl Sandburg

I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.

The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.

The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes, new beautiful things come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind, and the old things go, not one lasts.

Thoughts on autumn are rather morose, always with a sense of doom at the upcoming winter. The carefree days of summer have come to an end and apart from the brief, breathtaking splendor of fall colors, bleak days of winter await. The days are alternatively beautiful and warm or cool and blustery. One never knows what to wear or how the day will unfold. It is a time of chaos, confusion and sleep pattern changes with the end of daylight savings time. Jackets are sent to be dry cleaned, flu shots are taken, summer clothes put away and nuts stored for the winter. Amidst all this, there is an urgent need to de-clutter, going through closets, shoe racks, garages and sheds.......letting go of things not needed to make room for other essentials. This happens twice an year, in spring and in fall, and no sight is more representative than the couch on the curb.

There it sits majestically, patiently awaiting its fate in the hands of the clean-up truck.  It's an ugly old thing, often wearing coffee and wine stains or results of an ironing mishap (or two). It sports runaway springs which have lost the battle against incessant trampoliners and sag-lines which indicate seating preferences of the family that owned it. It is sometimes a relic from the distant past, which reminds us wistfully of days bygone and styles we fondly refer to as being retro. It weaves a story like no other....of TV dinners, first stolen kisses, gazing contently at a newborn sleeping peacefully in arms, life altering announcements, lonely dates with a tub of ice cream, riotous gatherings, conversations, sport rivalries, huddling in a blanket and watching a horror movie and quiet cuddle times. It encompasses the emotional roller-coaster of a life well lived. Yet, here it waits, abruptly cast away from being the silent spectator of that very life. The decision to do away always comes with some measure of sadness even as the delivery truck is awaited with excitement....the harbinger of new, furniture and memories alike. Bittersweet is the word that comes to mind.

Change in seasons and in life can similarly be bittersweet. Even as greenery turns to desolate nothingness, it provides us with a sensational swan song of wondrous pigmentation. For most of nature, winter is a time of rest until rays of sunshine hug closer to the earth and life cycles are renewed in spring. In the human world, life still goes on in earnest. We are layered, cold and sun-deprived. Yet life goes on at a frenetic pace, seldom slowing down and never stopping. If the world will not pause around us, can we instead pause within for a self-check? If we are ensconced in our own small universes of personal highs and lows, how can we open our consciousness to new and extraordinary experiences? How can we enrich our lives and take it from mundane to miraculous? We do get so comfortable in our own personal spaces, beliefs and routines, often unbending to the new and unfamiliar. Maybe its time to pause, reflect and put the old familiar couch on the curb. As with everything else in life, magical experiences and subsequent memories await.

I don't do movie reviews, but......

Spoiler alert: Please don't read if you plan to watch Ra.One or 7aum Arivu.

Randomly Accessed nonsense.....

Correct me if I am wrong, but Shahrukh Khan refused to do "Enthiran" with Shankar and one year later made this film???? The mind boggles! So, was he trying to make a superhero movie or a convoluted love story? OK, I will keep this simple...the story was non-existent, the jokes were inhuman, the Tamizh speaking and noodle eating made me want to cry, the dialogs made me want to be an ostrich and bury my head in the ground, SRK had a bad-hair-first-half-of-the-film and in the second half, was perched uncomfortably on the roof of his house in a tight superhero suit, Thalaivar's cameo was painful (he is niceness personified, but he must now know when to draw the line), Dalip Tahil made me wish that I was blind and deaf, Sanjay Dutt and Priyanka Chopra could have spent their time more wisely, who the heck tailored Shahana Goswami's suits and did her hair (shudder!), the CG looked good, Kareena looked awesome and Arjun Rampal looked brooding and delish. Maybe Shahrukh should have stuck to formula and made a movie about how a geeky scientist lands a smoking hot girl in the first place. This could be set in a chateau in the alps and/or Amsterdam, with dreamy looks and great song picturization. Just when the audience is wading in sugar syrup, Arjun Rampal could have come in and created some brooding and delish ruckus, followed by tears. Then, Amitabh and Jaya could have been the wise and elderly matchmakers with saccharine smiles who unite the couple in the end. Everybody say "Shava Shava!" Seriously though, Ra.One could have been a truly fun flick if some semblance of focus had been maintained.....what a shame!

Making sense of it all....

I am fine for the first five minutes of the film, blissfully counting Surya's six-packs and enjoying strains of peaceful Mohanam, that seems to be the popular scale for most east-asian music. I'm only mildly flummoxed at a certain Pallava prince leaving for China one fine morning because his teacher felt it was a good idea.....I tell myself that this is the 6th century and possibly the era of following instructions from teacher implicitly. Then, said prince starts to teach the art of Kalari to the people of China and somehow becomes much revered Karate/Kung-fu master who accepts poisoned food from his hosts because they don't want him to leave their land. I marvel at the speed at which I become brain-dead. Then, there is circus type buffoonery and some very half-hearted romance between the lead pair. This brings me to Shruti (of the Hassan fame): she is a lissome lass who has her mother's delicate features......very pleasant to look at until she decides to go spoil it all by opening her shapely mouth and talk in Tamizh. At one point, she lambasts some elderly scientists who mock all things Tamizh by speaking in chaste VJ/RJ Tamizh....the irony! Surya (and six-packs) don't disappoint, except for a very questionable choice of wardrobe. However he looks lost, as does most of the cast and by now most of the audience as well. The villain (appropriately called Dong Lee) is, to put it kindly, a blight on the face of all villains. For one, he actually looks cute in an eastern kinda way. Also, he does not actually do anything per se....just looks weirdly at random people who then do his bidding. Where is the scar on the face, the feral look in the eyes and the snarl, I ask you? Ding dong wears street clothes and looks pretty....even item girls need to shake a leg to get paid! By the time Biowar and scientific references roll around, I am comfortably ensconced in a coma. Key concepts are explained via Google searches and Wikipedia,3-D images of DNA strands are visible through regular microscopes, genetic memory is jogged with injections and immersion in a liquid chamber and I truly don't bat an eyelid. At this point, you could have told me that I am dear Moammar's long lost daughter and I would have cheerfully agreed, even marveling at the striking resemblance. It is all genetical, or is it genital? Pardon me ladies and gents, my neuron's are truly fried.

Inexpli-cable

The joys of cable television are many. Food channels tell us what to eat, do it yourself channels tell us how to build, design channels tell us how to design, Fox tells us not to like democrats, CNN tells us just the opposite, nature channels tell us that there is life beyond the TV screen (a life that we are unlikely to see outside the TV), fashion channels teach us to distinguish between real and unreal bodies, teen channels show us how our children are going to look and speak like in their tweens and teens (insufferable brats who complain loudly about how lame most things and their parents are), preschool channels train our youngest to watch the tube, so that they have a long attention span only for watching TV and maybe take a leak or two in between (at this rate, how are they going to get potty trained, I ask you?)  and, when we are in our sleep deprived mental dead zone, shopping channels tell us to pick up our wallets and order things that no sane person would buy. Sports channels tell our boys that it is OK to plonk themselves in front of TV for hours on end in smelly boxers, scratch their privates, cheer loudly with profanity, drink plenty of beer (not light beer, because every light beer manufacturer claims that all the others are watered down. So, just to be safe, no light beer) and ogle appreciatively at thin, well-endowed girls with long legs. "Women's" channels teach our girls how to read tripe, how to balance their checkbooks, how to get in touch with one's self (whatever that means), what designers to buy from, what celebrities to gush over, how to unfairly raise expectations about their future mates (who are presently watching aforementioned sports channels), how to get therapy when their boyfriend dumps them, and most importantly, how to cry at the drop of a hat. 

So, we live in homes that we decorate many times over, depending on the current trend. We save to buy cars which depreciate as soon as we leave the dealership. We spend thousands on electronics, which get outdated in a few months. We spend even more on fashion must haves and then pay a home organizer to organize them into a small closet, away from our spouse's eyes. We try out new recipes on our brand new Calphalons, burn the food consistently and then buy new copper pans to hang pristinely on our pot racks. We buy Williams Sonoma bakeware for our see-through glass cabinets and then go out and eat everyday. Following this, we take out expensive gym memberships and be disappointed that we need to actually work-out to reach our fitness goals. Alternatively, we realize much to our surprise that watching toned bodies work out sweatily on TV is not as satisfying as we think and actually makes us reach for that bag of potato chips or that tub of ice cream much faster. We have children because it seems like a good idea at the time or we desperately need the tax break and then stress out when we figure out that they have a mind of their own. We chide our kids for watching too much TV or gaming incessantly and promptly spend the better part of our evenings watching "Jersey Shore", spending hours on Facebook trying to find out what our "friends of friends" are up to or gambling online with 1,034,000 to 1 odds.


Newspapers and magazines proclaim that the sense of well-being is at an all time low but, don't panic dear readers....there is always therapy, Oprah or this guy.........

Label Libel

How we label every minute, every hour, everyday......we perceive and sort every person who crosses our path and every event that occurs in our lives. It is this facet of human nature that I find supremely fascinating. Our senses define who we are, what we see, hear, smell, touch and taste. We are constantly bombarded with information through these senses every second of our consciousness. How we process this information is vital to our cognition and our cognitive ability is directly proportional to our survival. This primitive instinct that makes a child cautious with fire when burned once or teaches her the difference between red and blue, takes on a different turn in the real world. Let's face it, we are not exactly hunting for food or fighting another tribe for our lives or livelihood. Instead, we now socialize for business and pleasure and sure as heck don't take any prisoners. So, people are branded and sorted before the first hello's are uttered and this is the same whether it is at a business meeting or at a school parking lot.


Pushy, inept, capable, pretty, trustworthy, polite, vile, promiscuous, clumsy, uptight, loud, skinny, creepy, detailed, vociferous, energetic are all words that we use to describe one another. We are pressed for time and take a mere few seconds to judge and classify. Just like the labels on products, the labels that we use on one another stick for ever, and like some product labels, they are not very accurate.....it is all a matter of perception. It is just like our brain relies on light reflected from an object to form an image, our thoughts about someone or ourselves seem to rely on these reflected labels. It is not always a personality label that is stamped on....some are pre-existing, like religion, race, color or ethnicity.


So, what will happen to these labels on judgement day? Will the Type A's be impatient and the fidgety be nervous? Will the dramatic throw a tantrum and the inhibited cry silently? Will the selfish gather their kin and the honorable gather the young and the sick? Will the romantic be holding hands and the witty be spreading cheer? Will the aggressive get a better seat on the bus to beyond? Will the talented get selected or will the resourceful? Will the angry be angry and the obnoxious still so? Will the overconfident be confident and the reticent huddle? Will the deceitful try and cheat and the selfish, plunder? Will the venomous spew and the lewd feel lascivious? Will the bewildered be confused and the spiritual be praying softly? Will the efficient be making lists and the orators making a speech? Will the punctual be on time and the eager be ready? Will the shopaholic make one last purchase and the compulsive complete one last routine? Will the pleasant, smile and the belligerent, scowl? Will the great divine embrace us all in exactly the same way or sort, classify, label and judge?

RIP Shammi Kapoor

I have been terribly sad the last few days. In Shammi Kapoor's passing, I feel as though I've lost a favorite relative. Let me clarify that I am NOT a die-hard fan.....he was before my time and my first filmy crush was actually Mithun Chakraborty (please don't judge me...I lived in Kolkata during those tender years). My dear dad is a big Mohd. Rafi fan and I actually heard songs picturized on Shammi Kapoor before I ever laid eyes on him. When I saw some of his movies much later, I was not impressed. I liked the sauve and posh Shashi much better. Raj was too fake-happy and Shammi was just plain kooky, given to dangling death-defyingly in a bathrobe from a helicopter and crazily flailing his appendages about and daring to call it dancing. Everything about him was over the top....his dress-sense, to his dialog delivery (remember those lips that would form an "O" no matter what emotion he was professing?), his body language to the intensity with which he gazed upon his girl.


However, here I am, unable to stop watching all his evergreen songs on You Tube since his death. It occurs to me that one cannot think of Shammi Kapoor as a separate entity....it is always in tandem with songs in Rafi's voice. Rafi's songs seemed to flow through Shammi's body, to the extent that Shammi would articulate every line of any given song with a gesture, a flick of his head or something totally outrageous and unexpected.....if I had a penny for every time that he flipped his head to gaze at his girl upside down or seemed to stretch impossibly with one hand clutching a tree trunk and the other reaching out......classic Shammisms!


I realize that my sadness has a lot to do with memories of "Chitrahaar" and "Rangoli" on TV, of writing down lyrics of these songs and attempting to sing them (My buddy C introduced me to this particular habit and for a long time, we both maintained notebooks with indexed lyrics....completely redundant in these Google days, of course), of closing my eyes and letting the lyrics and music seep in, lost in juvenile fantasies. It is a sadness of a childhood lost to adult pursuits, of memories of innocent times when boy met girl, boy "phasaoed" girl, they sang some memorable songs, boy fought the villain Pran and everybody laughed happily in the end.


RIP Shammi Kapoor, thanks for the memories!

Cough, Splutter, Choke....NOT yet another car related blog

It feels strange to sit in front of the computer and let my fingers find their way around the keyboard again. It has been a good two months of rest, relaxation, self-discovery, bonding with loved ones and of course, the ever present laziness. Long absences are disastrous for a blogger, I discover.....one must contend with familiar insecurities at a whole new level. It is debilitating, to say the least. So, I will stop here with hopes that....wait, since when have I had nothing to say?


Just returned from good old Chennai. Yes, I have finally made the change from referring to the city as Madras....I cannot fight the inevitability that Chennai is VERY different from Madras. There are flyovers galore (which incidentally haven't made a dent in the traffic), there are cars everywhere (mostly call taxis or unmarked cars for hire), apartment complexes vie with mega malls for vertical space, instead of political posters on the walls, there are beautiful paintings celebrating Tamil Nadu's rich heritage, Aadi maasam is relatively quiet with the "mike sets" restricted, the ubiquitous statues around town are all golden hued (though I am happy to report, still adorned with bird dropping), there is Metro Rail worming  its way through the city and adding to the general chaos, and did I mention the brouhaha surrounding the new assembly building? As a non-political observer, I am of the opinion that the above matter is akin to uncastrated domestic male cattle excreta, and that's that! However, it is comforting to note that Chennai remains true to its roots in one respect....blending the traditional with the modern seamlessly. Only here can we have madisaar mami's (who will think nothing of donning less traditional wear on a "foreign" trip) walking toe to toe with micro mini clad girls (who incidentally might oil their hair, wear paavadai and go to the temple on Fridays). In my humble opinion, no other city in India comes even close to Chennai in this respect. Oh, and the auto drivers are still great conversationalists with topics ranging from gas prices to nuclear warfare....all in colorful Madras Tamizh (If they start referring to it as Chennai Tamizh, I will humbly hang up my hat, I swear to you!)


Now, back in the good old US of A and grappling with familiar uncertainties...from letting go of the pottu because it clashes with my jeans, morose festival days because "pakkathaathu" Claire mami did not put "feet kolam" on Krishna Jayanthi day or because Deepawali is just another work day, suddenly preferring cloth rags to paper towels, to making moar kuzhambu/paruppu usili combination regularly. For a few more days, the American way of life (especially the excesses and the shallowness) will feel very strange and comical, until school starts and I am thrown into the fray head-along. A gradual acceptance will follow when I appreciate all the good that this wonderful country has to offer, this country that my children know as their home.

Local Positioning System

On a recent road trip, I was thinking how cool it would be if the GPS voice (christened Susan and her male counterpart as Bob by spouse) was customized to speak in dialects that are closer to home for most of us. So, here goes....


If she were called Sharada, she would speak Tambram. Every road trip would begin auspiciously with "Vishnu Sahasranamam" in the background with temple bell sounds interspersed. If we make the mistake of ever starting in rahukaalam or yamakandam, the trip would start with a parihara mantram. Even if the route called for making a left, Sharada would say "Bagawane prarthichundu valadu kai pakkam thirumbuda! Cholrenoliyo? Namma periyawaa yellaam appidi thaan cholirrukkaa sasthrathle". After making a few right hand turns and finding yourself back at the same spot that you started, she would give you the signal to go left, albeit reluctantly. I am pretty sure that early Tambram explorers figured out that the world was round in this auspicious way. After taking you to Vinayagar kovil first (sounds of "setheru kaayi" breaking will erupt from the console), Anumaar kovil, Perumal kovil and few others, she will put you back on track with "Nanna vendindiyo da Ambi? Road trip ippo kshemama irukkum. Chant with me.."Aigiri Nandhini..." The drive of two hours will thus take approximately nine hours to complete.


For the Delhite, it would be Balbir Singh ji saying "Aap chintaa hi naa karo ji, mein hoon naa ji? Aapko ji, bilkul sahi jagah par pohchaadoonga ji. Vahe guru da khalsa, Vahe guru di fateh!" The console will be adjusted to say "lefet" when we actually have to go right and vice versa, for every one knows that Delhites are a bit direction challenged....they will hold out their left hand and say "Agli gali pe right maar lo aap ji aur bas dus mint mein pohonch jaoge ji." If a Delhite is to be believed, every destination is only "dus mint" away and rightly so, for they all believe that Delhi is a small island situated very far from the rest of the country. No wonder when you tell them that you are from Hyderabad, Chennai, Trivandrum, heck, even Bhopal, the response is always "Achchaa aap madraasi ho ji. Badi achchi saambur banaate ho aap log ji."


The bambaiyya Bob will actually be Balraj Khedekar and will start every trip with the tutari, dholak and lezims playing with the war cry "Jai Maharashtra". Optional feature is Lavani dancers flitting across the screen with a burst of mogra incense filling the car. Alternatively, he could be Babu Bhai who will say "Abhi kyaa? Tere ko ekdum fit pahunchaa dega apan, maaloom kya?" and if you dare disobey his commands, it will surely be "Abey O shaaney! Mein tere ko kyaa bola aur tu kya kar rela hai? Jyaada shaanpatti ki to kaan ke neechu chamaat khaayega....kya? Chamaat! Eh, Babu bhai ke saath dadagiri? Tapka daalega mein". The problem with either Balraj Khedekar GPS or Babu bhai GPS is that once they go into a rampage mode, it might take several hours for them to calm down. Also, Khedekar bhau will flat out refuse to take you to any non-Hindu locations....big problem.


However, I am ever so partial to namba Sakeela akka from Chennai-upon-Kouvam who will replace the posh Susan's "Please drive to highlighted route" with "Aiye oru dabba sonna piriyaadhaa? Soththu kai pakkam thirmba sonna peechaan kai pakkam thirmbare? Unnakellan yentha kasmaalam license kuduthuchu? Aiye....vanduduchchu paaru caare otta.....kayithe!" This model comes with a special addition....when a rash driver cuts you off, Sakeela will bellow "Inna, oottule soluttu vanttiyaa? Moodevi! Vekkam, maanam soodu, soranai yethaachchu irukka? Porikki Naaye! Thodappa kattai pinjurum solliten!"


(This post is dedicated to brother S for planting the seed of thought..........many thanks for the inspiration!)

A Vanity Affair

So, I had time to kill and went to the mall yesterday. I was minding my own business and quietly reflecting on how the price of an item of clothing disproportionately increases with the decrease in the amount of cloth used to make it or how girls' shorts and tees are getting shorter and smaller by the nanosecond and boys' shorts and tees longer and more baggy...are boys becoming more modest or girls getting hotter (pun unintended)? and other such oddities of the the retail world, when I am approached by a saleswoman from one of the cosmetic counters. "Would you like to try out the new skin and make-up line from our company? There is a free gift with every purchase." "Why not?", I thought to myself.


So, I am asked to sit on the most uncomfortable swivel barstools. The lady turns on all the lights and brings out a rather large mirror for me to look at. Now, I am fairly average looking, but a mirror that size is daunting to say the least. She goes on to say that you have "uneven skin-tone", whatever that means, and several "dark spots". You are also beginning to get some fine lines near your eyes. Did she just say "lines"?! Calling them "fine" certainly did not make it any better. "Product X will help with the skin tone, Product Y will take care of the lines and Product Z will erase all the dark circles under your eyes." So saying, she applies all three to my face. I grin sheepishly at her and say that they all feel and smell the same....like Ponds Cold Cream. I have that at home and use it everyday. She is not amused.


So, she continues her monologue while slapping many different gooey concoctions on my face and tells me "Look, I have made-up the right side of your face now. Compare with the unmade side and see what a difference our products make". I peer into the mirror, I squint at my half-made face, I move real close to the mirror, I also get off the stool and look....I don't see any change. I still look spectacular, I say to her. A bit exasperated with me now, she says "We have the perfect set of products for our most discerning customers.....its called the Ultra Mega Miraculolicious Goop. Tell you what, I will make the whole of your face with this and throw in some freebies. I will also give you a ten-day supply so that you can use it in the comfort of your home and come back to purchase when you are ready....and I know that you will come back for more! We have had such success with this line". She continues to talk and apply my new make-up for the next half hour while I'm being lulled into a deep sleep by her monotone. When I awake, I realize that its almost time to pick-up offspring at school. I hurriedly collect my items from the lady with promises to be back when the products run out and leave.


So, spouse returns from work and does a double-take at my new and supposedly improved face. I think nothing of his "peiy aranja" look or the fact that my offspring walked past me at pick-up today until I retire for bed. I almost have an aneurysm when I look at my reflection in the mirror.....let's just say I was reminded of the dearly departed Michael Jackson and his famous song "Thriller" at that point. After scrubbing the make-up off , I apply my trusted Ponds Cold Cream.


So, I don't know about you, but I'd rather look like myself....uneven skin-tone, lines, dark spots and all, than pay a whole lot of money to look like Michael Jackson's ghost!

Of love or the lack thereof....

What is this love anyway? Merriam lists some nine definitions of the same, ranging from "strong affection arising from personal ties" to "unselfish and benevolent concern" to "attraction based on sexual desire" to "holding an opponent scoreless in tennis". This is my feeble attempt at demystifying the word for our times.....


Is your man texting you five times a day (at least)?
Is he your friend on Facebook and does he "like" all your status messages?
Does he call you a few times a day at least to check on you and/or tell you how special you are?
Does he buy you flowers on the day that you make "paruppu urundai moar kuzhambu"?
Does he inundate you with sweet little notes and/or expensive gifts?
Does he get along with all your friends?
Does he rub your toes and get you a warm blanket when you are stretched out in front of the TV after a long day?


These are sample questions that might be on a poll in a woman-centric magazine. This being a PG rated blog, let's not address the poll that might be in a men's magazine. By now, the astute reader would have guessed that I'm not talking about tennis (the rest of you will catch on eventually). As the world goes hi-tech, love, an already complex emotion, only gets more so. When you are in love, you tend to show-off.....a lot. "Look at what I have and look how he expresses love for me" seems to be the mantra today. We really don't need to use binoculars to spy on our neighbors a la Sowcar Janaki in "Bhama Vijayam". Our female neighbors (both real and virtual) are very forthcoming in this regard and no detail is spared. Sample status messages "Its a Tiffany and Hermes birthday. My husband is beyond..." or under a picture of a two dozen roses "I got roses today. Why? Because its a Tuesday, that's why! My boyfriend so rocks!!!" or even "I got engaged on Friday to the most amazing man and cannot stop looking at my x-carat ring, set in platinum. Sigh!" Chances of seeing similar updates on a man's page are pretty slim, even non-existent. How did we get from "Does your mate whack you on the head with his club and drag you by your hair into his cave? Hubba, hubba, you lucky devil!" to "Did your partner propose to you on a yacht, off the coast of a private island in the Carribean? You lucky diva!"? Some pretty clever marketing, that's how.


What is love to me? It is a man walking his children to school in a downpour, carrying a bright pink umbrella or another who quietly does the dishes every night after a hard day at work or a man who tends to his ailing wife without complaint for fifteen years. Maybe its just me, but these things sure seem to last a whole lot longer than many dozen red roses. 

Yudha Kandam (Spring)

This is an excerpt from a chapter in the well known saga Allegrayanam that deals with the war between  Allergy Sufferer and Outdoor Allergen.


Once upon a time, Allergy Sufferer decided to take a walk outside his home. "The sun is shining, the birds are singing and the flowers are blooming", he thought, "What a beautiful day for a long walk!" Thus thinking, he slipped into his very comfortable walking shoes, wore a light jacket over his walking clothes and stepped out of his home. Alas, his good walking intentions were foiled by several sneezes and through the haze created by his watering eyes, he beheld the evil Outdoor Allergen. "Aha! So we meet again, O heinous one", the Allergy Sufferer said loftily, "I challenge you to a duel unto death". "Bring it on", said the Allergen with an unpleasant gleam in his eye.


And so, the Allergy Sufferer went into his home and came fortified with his allies Claritin, Zyrtec, Nasonex, Patanol and Benadryl. Allergen merely laughed and blew some grass pollen into Sufferer's face. This caused severe blows to the Sufferer and along with continuous sneezing, he had to now contend with itchy, red eyes, itchy, runny nose, congestion and post-nasal drip. He was forced to retreat a few steps and convene with his other allies Claritin-D, Allegra-D and Sudafed. They advised him to go all the way with Deltasone, Nasonex and Alrex. Allergen sighed, "When will Sufferer understand that he stands no chance against me?" With a twinge of sadness, he loaded up his ammunition of tree, grass, flower and weed pollen while idly reflecting on the sheer uselessness of weed pollen as far as mankind is concerned, and fired.


Sufferer felt the effects right away...his eyes swelled shut, his nostrils closed up and his head started pounding from the pressure. Forced to inhale through his mouth, he was consumed with hacking coughs as the pollen entered his lungs. Faced with this onslaught, Sufferer did what any self-respecting person would do....beat a hasty retreat to the safety of his home. However, unbeknownst to him, at his home was Outdoor Allergen's twin brother Indoor Allergen waiting to start his assault on Sufferer's already weakened Immune System.


"Ha Ha Ha Ha", the twin brother's laughs boomed jarringly on Sufferer's already jangled nerves, "Serves you right trying to take on the two of us at once". "Achooo!", replied the Sufferer weakly while reaching for his inhaler and retreating to his bed , "This is not the end. We will battle again. Achooo!".
Gesundheit!

Cirque Du Jour

Getting desensitized to news media does not happen overnight....it follows a long winding road which starts with promise and ends with distaste. For some, it starts with morning news shows in the nineties, through which wide-eyed ingenues drank up sights and sounds of a new and exciting world. Not ones who cared for mindless soaps, they get hooked instead to these vaudeville style shows that for three hours would give them a slice of americana. So, they go through a plethora of emotions at the OJ Simpson trial, the Oklahoma city bombings, Princess Di's divorce and subsequent death, Mother Teresa's passing, a sheep called Dolly, Jon Benet Ramsey's murder, the Unabomber, the Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa run chase, the Clinton-Lewinsky saga, Ricky Martin fever, Columbine, El Nino, the tragedy of Flight 800 and the Y2K non-event among many others, with the whole nation.

Then the 2000's roll around and the shine begins to wear off a tad. There is a realization that news is cyclical. The Gulf war and Saddam Hussein gives way to Iraq war and Saddam Hussein to Afghanistan and Osama Bin Laden to Libya and Gaddafi, Somalia to Darfur, Bill Clinton to Gary Condit to Eliot Spitzer to John Edwards, heck, even the McCaughey septuplets in 1997 to the Suleman octuplets in 2009. In a bizarre dance, the people and places change but the news in essence remains the same and news reporting seems more sensational. Add celebrity news to this melee and it only gets worse. The 21st century ushers in the new era of "being famous for being famous" with hall of famers like Paris Hilton, Richard Hatch, the balloon boy and others. This is also the time that weather emerges as a serious newsmaker, unleashing earthquakes, tsunamis, hurricanes and tornadoes at the drop of a hat.

These days, there is a reluctance to watch any TV in the morning, except a quick weather watch to decide how to clothe the kids for school. World news is too depressing and the lesser said about local news, the better. Mornings must be positive and joyful so that the feeling reverberates through the whole day and news certainly does not help this cause. Has news has gotten more disturbing or has tolerance for it declined? Why this reluctance to switch on the TV today when every news channel will be talking about Osama's death and why the saturation with the royal wedding or Heidi Montag's multiple surgeries?

Why be upset at the news-makers when the news itself is so disturbing? They just hold a mirror to our face every minute, every hour, every day. If anything, they try and inject some humor into the whole thing. If not for media circus, Lindsay Lohan would be just another loser and the royal hat fashion would be just another faux-pas.