Category Archives: memoirs

Naming children

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Finding names for your new-born or as yet-unborn child is an activity that gives immense joy and satisfaction to new or about-to-be parents.  Of course tradition, culture and that much touted respect for elders, whose every whim and fancy you are supposed to meekly indulge, all play spoilsport to this innocent pleasure. But then trying to snuff innocent pleasures and transform the young to jaded elders as early as possible is the aim of society as far as I have observed.

It is believed by many that being born under such-and-such asterism means the baby’s name has to start with a certain alphabet. Belonging to a particular religion/caste /whatever automatically puts some names out of bounds for you. Then there is numerology to confound things even further. If you are a believer or are forced to comply, you will end up tying yourself in knots trying to find a name that appeals and also generates the right number for all that luck waiting to be gathered into your baby’s folds (or is it yours?).

We, the L &M had no such criterions to consider. So, even before we had decided when we wanted our baby to arrive, we were blithely discussing what we could possibly name the one who would make that eventual appearance.  The L & M had a few suggestions. I had only one. I don’t know (to this day, because I never asked) on what he had based his selection of names. As for me, I wanted my children (oh yes, I had decided I wanted two of them) named after ‘qualities’ rather than any Gods. Yeah, I know many of the qualities are attributes of the same Gods whose names I wanted to avoid. That was okay. Didn’t those qualities describe humans too?  NOT for me any of those popular and ‘so obviously associated with Gods’ kind of names.

So there we were with a few names from the L & M and only one name from me for a male child and a few more from both of us for a female child. It so happened that the L & M too liked the one and only name that I had put forward for a boy child. Pretty soon we were agreed and settled on the name for a girl child as well. No prizes for guessing what that ‘only’ choice of name had been for the yet to be born conceived senior son.  You can read about my cosmic connection to the name Vivek, here.

I had assumed at the time that the nickname would be a derivative of the actual name.  But the L & M had other plans.  He chose Ruby as pet name for the first born.

Errr… Ruby?  (To myself I thought, ‘Why Ruby? Did he have a girlfriend by that name who he wants to remember forever?’)

Yeah Ruby, very firmly replied the L & M.

But… isn’t that a girl’s name?

Of course not!

I detected a slight belligerence in the tone. So in the typical bhartiya nari style, I backed off and said not another word. After all, my other choice had been accepted. I couldn’t possibly clear this point with him (Why Ruby? Why? Why?) after he so very nicely agreed to my choice. One should be grateful for the offerings, right? Yup, that had been bhartiya nari inculcation at work again behind that thought. So I gave in gracefully.

Soon the inevitable happened. It was during my last trimester that the Mother in law out of the blue dropped a bomb-shell. Our first-born had to be named after his paternal grandfather.  Ahh, do I see a ‘what’s wrong with that?’ stance on the part of many out there reading this? Yes, I will tell you what is wrong.  She already had three grandsons to her credit, courtesy her other sons, by the time I stepped into her house. Her very first one already carried his paternal grandfather’s name. Her next wish had been for a grand-daughter and to name her Lakshmi.  I decided not to mind and to make the adjustment if at all a daughter was born to me. But just a few months into my pregnancy, her eldest daughter-in-law made her wish come true. My niece was named Lakshmi. In fact the brother-in-;law also added his mother’s name to it, an added bonus. MIL was happy and contented, or so it seemed.  Why the sudden order masquerading as a request, out of the blue? (That’s a longer story, not to be told here)

I expected the L  & M to inform his mother that we had made our decisions. But of course I was being quite naive. Not many Indian men do anything of the sort. Mother says, sons obey. Society does not think that as odd, instead the sons are praised. I have never understood how that is any different from listening to your wife. But mothers think so, sons think so and Society too thinks listening to the wife is the nadir as far as a man is concerned.  I realised I was expected to accommodate the MIL’s wish. But I was damned if I would.

The strange thing about Indian in-laws is that they isolate the daughter-in-law soon after she is accepted into the house with so much pomp and fanfare, but in spite expect her to fall all over the in-laws and worship, love and cherish them.  How foolish.  When they have it in their power to wind the daughter-in-law around their little fingers and make her dance to their tunes, the in-laws prefer to behave like out-laws and still expect to be treated like Gods, with utter devotion. Crap. Of course at that point of time I had not yet graduated to viewing such behaviour as crap. I was still at the stage when you believe all your obedience and ji haanjis will get you some goodwill and succeed in eventually opening some closed eyes and hearts to your true worth.  Did I say crap already? Okay here it is, once more. Double crap.

So there I was being treated as any daughter-in-law commonly is anywhere, like an outsider within the walls of home. (Oh puhleeease, spare me the exceptions, I know they exist. Remember I am at the age where I aspire to be an MIL soon.)  But I was still expected to accept with gratitude, a name thrust on me for my own child for no reason other than to show where power actually lay. Control, was the issue.  Inside me was conflict, the need to remain the true to form, the ever obedient daughter-in-law whose worth would be accepted some day in true filmi style and contrasting it, the need to speak up for my desires.

I very gently pointed out to the L  & M. Though my parents hadn’t put forward any conditions for naming the child (like hell I would entertain them if they had), but, what if they had? Am I not the eldest in my own home? They probably have their wishes about their first grandchild. Would he have agreed? To those of you who are horrified on hearing this, we belong to a matrilineal community. Our husband’s family actually has no role to play in our lives. But all your Bollywood movies, the K-serials etc are fast catching up and the MILs in our community are trying to cash in on the fad.

The logic in my argument was self-evident. But some mothers have arsenal with them which they don’t hesitate using to their advantage. All they have to do is talk of how much they have done (the oh-so great sacrifices) for them and the sons, all guilt-ridden, become putty in their hands.

Anyways that’s how things stood, a guilt-ridden husband and a conflict-ridden wife of his. Am I doing the right thing? Should I just give in? Of course not, why should I? What good did giving in get me so far? Who cares anyways. Let them name him. In whatever name he is still my son. But I I do care. I wish to name my child. Why must I buckle under the pressure?  It went on and on inside my head.

The L & M in the meantime was trying to get me interested in combo names, names with a part of the departed father-in-law’s name added to them. I was not buying.  Silence was my only answer.  The day of naming the baby dawned bright and clear. I was in poor health after my delivery, so was not part of the arrangements. I got ready and when it was time they told me to sit on the low wooden seat. The baby son, twenty-eight days old, was put in my lap. I don’t remember very much of what happened that day. There was tying of thread around the baby’s waist, putting glass bangles and other things like that. Finally someone told me, ‘now lift him up and whisper his name into his ears’. I looked around, my eyes searching for the L & M.  My eyes could seek his permission, if it was okay to call the name we had chosen, together. He was busy and here people were hurrying me. I lifted my baby son close to me and whispered in his ear,

“Vivek, Vivek, Vivek”  Thrice, as instructed.

The rest of the ceremony went on. Surprisingly in the hurry-burry, no one asked me what the name was until a little while later. I was about to get up, the ceremony having gotten over, when my cousin smote her forehead with her hand and said,

“Ayyo… forgot to ask you. What IS his name?”

“Vivek” I answered.

When she heard my answer, the sun literally set on my MIL’s face.

If you think that is the end of the story, you are wrong.  She waited almost six years to pull strings to name the second born.  Life became hell for me over the issue, that I gave up. I was given two names to choose from. I kept clear of one of them, the name of a Hindu God and chose the other. I don’t know what Vishakh exactly means. Perhaps one of you can enlighten me. I have tried infusing it with meanings of my own. But anyways, the second-born seems happy enough with it and shudders at the name I had in store for him, Vinay (a quality again, meaning ‘humble’).  So perhaps it was all for the best. Oh, by the way, the second-born’s pet name was also chosen by the L & M and does not derive from his actual name. But I am not at liberty to reveal it. So shh…..

I hear of so many couples who long to name their children, but are ruthlessly brushed aside by autocratic elders. Some couples do get out of it by naming the children according to the elder’s wish at the naming ceremony and using their own choice in the certificates.  But I ask you, where is the need for all this? Why can’t you just let the parents name their child? What happiness do the elders get by being autocratic?

Let me wind up with a funny story. This happened while the L  & M was posted at Sevoke Road. One evening, I went to visit Mrs A. K. Singh, wife of the L & M’s colleague. I was knitting a sweater for the L & M under her tutelage. Since I intended to continue my lessons for some more time, I requested that she send the sahayak (helper) to inform the L & M that I would be late returning home.

The man reached our house (which was at the other end of the lane) and told the L & M that memsahib would be late returning. Then L & M suddenly remembered something and called after the departing man,

“Ruby udhar hai?” (Is Ruby there)

“Hai Saab. Baandhke rakha hai,” (Yes sir. Tied up) replied the man.

When the sahayak was back at Maj A.k. Singh’s home, he said to Mrs A. K. Singh,

“Saab ne Ruby ke bare mein poocha.” (Sir asked about Ruby)

My ears perked up at the mention of Ruby and I lifted my head questioningly.

“Aur tumne kya kaha?” (What did you say) asked Mrs A.K. Singh.

“Maine kaha, koi fikar nahi Saab, baandhke rakha hai.” (I told him not to worry. She is tied up)

I burst out laughing. So did Mrs. A.K. Singh.

We explained to the puzzled man that Saab had only wanted to know if his son Ruby was here.  The man had been under the impression that the Saab, worried about the memsahib’s safety was making sure that the Major’s huge German Shepherd, Ruby by name, was tied up.

The visitors

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Crows getting the initial share of the feast prepared on the first death anniversary (of the L & M’s mother).

In the old days, these crows with the grey band around their necks were chased away from such offering. Only the fully black ones were allowed to partake of the feast. It was believed that the dead returned as the latter to accept the lovingly prepared food. The crows with gray band were referred to as kalla-kaakka (liar crows) which made us children ask the (inevitable) question if the fully-black ones were ‘satya-kakka‘ (truthful crows)?!

Times have changed. There are fewer crows and it would not do for anyone to fuss and insist that only one type of crow is welcome. May be that’s why the kalla-kakkas of before are welcomed by most, accepted as the form the dear departed souls have assumed to return and accept their offerings. Or maybe it is the departed souls who have made the compromise. Anyways, nowadays you find both types of crows are welcome to peck at the food lovingly prepared in honor of the dead souls.

But today we had another unexpected visitor apart from the expected crows: a hungry old woman.

Lessons from Luci

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23

Who would have thought a day such as this would come?  I have been wound round a puppy tail, not to mention four puppy paws, muddy at the best of times, with nails to boot and made to dance to puppy tunes as opposed to iTunes which till recently provided the music for the only-in-the-mind dances of mine. It is days since I have written anything except incomplete pieces lying scattered here and there in the crevices of my mind. Have you tried writing or reading when your pup is barking shrilly into your ear (that they are ringing), “Come and play with me! NOW!!!” ?! So all I do these days is post pictures of a puppy in its myriad moods and actions.

Since I have to dance attendance (Yup, I seem to be doing a lot of dancing for someone with Plantar fasciitis) to said puppy on her outings, I also get to click outdoorsy stuff like sky, clouds, flowers, leaves, birds, butterflies and such. But don’t be deluded into thinking that, that is an easy job. It is not. Not with a puppy who has taken into her big strong-boned head, with which by the way, she butted my nose today morning much like her Master with his elbow (What’s with everyone aiming for my poor and pretty nose?) years back, that my sole attention belongs to her and to no one or thing but her.

That’s Luci for you, just as demanding as giving. I love that.

Before stepping out on those outdoorsy jaunts for the poohs and the pees to be safely delivered where they belong, I don’t forget to take my camera. No, no, I don’t want to photograph her doing her ‘job’. Time hangs heavily on my hands while she looks around for the perfect spot to do her thing. You know dogs, unlike humans, happy to be doing their job everyday at the same pot in the same spot, like a bit of variety. So while Luci noses around, I utilize the time to click whatever catches my fancy. The beautiful blooms and flitting butterflies and the sky are ever ready (well, not the butterflies, the flitterers that they are) to present their countenance to me to be captured while I wait. So are ferns, leaves, dragonflies and such.

It is rummy how I have begun appreciating Nature more with Luci on the scene. I never knew this tiny garden of mine was visited by as many colorful butterflies as I see fluttering around. And birds! Crows, mynahs, treepies, brown-headed barbets, koyals, king-fishers, and some more whose names I know not. There are so many kites circling, gracefully gliding, sometimes sitting like statues on the coconut trees. How come I had never noticed them all before?

With so many subjects to choose from, I aim to put (rather, stretch) the capabilities of my point and shoot camera to good use. But Luci is having none of it, not if she can help it. There I’d be on my haunches aiming for that perfect click of the pretty bloom, when she’d come gambolling, leaving her digging and rolling on the mud aside to jump on me and sometimes climb all over me.

“What are you doing? What are you doing?” her tail seems to ask, as it wags nineteen (perhaps more) to the dozen.

If I push her aside and try focussing again, she jumps on the plant, bites off the precise bloom I had been focussing on. Talk about possessiveness. The next step of hers is to make a try for the camera. Can you imagine what a Labrador pup’s strong jaws and teeth can do to a flimsy camera? It is one of my worst nightmares. In my mind’s eye is a terrifying picture of finding my camera in bits and pieces with Luci presiding over the remnants with a quiet contentedness of having achieved what she had set out to do. It actually gives me sleepless nights. Before I turn in for the night, I check off items on my fingers and make sure that they are beyond her reach: my glasses (no reading without them), the iPod, cell phone, camera and my library books. Only after making sure that they are all safe do I slip into the land of the Nod.

So you can imagine with what speed I move from the squatting to the vertical when she jumps on me, forgetting all click worthy subjects for the moment as also my age and the accompanying creaky joints. But I am proud to say that I once clicked a picture sitting on my haunches, one hand focussing the camera and the other holding a frisky three and a half month old Labrador at bay. Perhaps I should have looked for a job in the circus all those years back. Hmmm… Anyways, from now on, I am going to include that in my bragging rights. And don’t you dare tell me the picture could not have come out well. It did too, totally shake-free.

Pups (or may be Labrador pups) are very intelligent and JEALOUS. At least Luci is. She does not like my attention being held by anything other than herself. Butterflies are difficult to capture with a point and shoot camera at the best of times. But I have managed to do my bit with a lot of patience (which I have in abundance) and a pot full of good luck as well. After all the butterfly has to decide to stand still for a second at least. Enter Labrador pup into my life and clicking butterflies has become an uphill task. Butterflies flit like nobody’s business. It is almost like they are singing, “Catch me if you can…”  (in this case with the camera of course) like in the famous song about the boxer Muhammed Ali.  Just at the moment my patience is going to be rewarded from somewhere comes Toofan Luci and chases the butterfly away!

I don’t remember our first dog Goofy holding me to ransom in this manner. Or perhaps I was too busy bringing up two human pups of my own that I did not have as much time for her or she for me for that matter, she being the fan of the Martians in my house. Pah! Do you remember the race I won with so much difficulty, a once in the lifetime thing? When the Martians return home, Goofy used to be all over them. Me? She’d raise her head and give me a look as if to say, “Oh, it is you? Back eh? Welcome home.” And back she’d go to whatever she had been doing. Grrr…. In fact even when I returned home after an absence of a month, it is the L & M who had been with her and had been away only as far as the airport to get me who got most of the attention. In fact I used to ask the L & M to wait outside the gate and step in only after she had given me my rightful share of tail wags and licks.

But Luci?

She is the lamb to my Mary. Wherever I go she goes. She waits outside the bathroom while I am inside. She walks beside me each step of the way when I take clothes out of the washing machine, put them on the line, and take them back inside. She is at my feet while I read or surf the net (maximum time allowed is half an hour at a time). When I call her, wherever she is (unless of course she has something in her mouth she wants to hide from me knowing the ticking off she would get as also the object being unceremoniously yanked out of her mouth) she comes hurtling down so much so that I am worried she will push me down and break my bones one of these days. And what when I come home from an outing? She has eyes and ears for no one else till all her welcoming routine for me is over. And what I give in return, she accepts without any show of ego.

I believe that was what I had been looking for all my life and crazily enough, I was looking for that sort of love and devotion and acceptance in human beings. To love with your whole heart, what do humans know of it? To accept love with the whole of your being, what do humans know of that? Humans ration out love and what’s more, they don’t even know what to do with the love offered and showered on them. The grace and delight of acceptance and wholehearted giving is alien to human understanding. Do you see my poor battered hands? They are gifts of love from her.

The house is suitably warmed

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Have you heard of Sambar Chicken la Vishakh? Well if you haven’t you just have. And right above is the visual. I know, it is not a good enough picture by my standards. But that is the only one I could click before the family attacked it with gusto. As the name suggests, it was conceived and cooked by the junior son.

Recently, the sons, senior and junior have taken to cooking big time. Time and again they call me up, either to draw on my culinary expertise now dying a slow death or to update me on theirs, new born and raring to go. From the calls I had gathered that the sons were now interested and were fast becoming good cooks. I found that it was not even necessary that I be around to give them tips; the net supplied them with excellent recipes galore. Visions of the L & M and I relaxing while the sons toiled away in the kitchen and served us a tasty meals rose dancing before my eyes frequently cheering me up considerably.

The day they arrived, the sons made known their intention to cook their special dish for us while on the way home from the airport. The senior son would make fish curry and junior the chicken dish. I beamed.

The L & M is a big zero as far as cooking is concerned (though very good in all other work), except for scrambled eggs, coffee and tea etc. Of course, one day he did surprise us all when he came up with what we still refer to as his masterpiece, the chicken roll. He had watched the roadside vendors in action and giving to it his own personal touch come up with his own delicious version, wnning over the admiration of the household. It is a minor matter that he gets shredded chicken masala, chapattis etc pre-cooked.

Coming back to the kiddos, a day before leaving, the junior son made Sambar Chicken la Vishakh for us. I had been sceptical about the sambar masala in a chicken dish. In fact when I had heard it the first time over the phone, I had been horrified.

“No no NO! You don’t use sambar masala for chicken!”

But he assured me his friend who had given him the suggestion to add sambar masala had assured him that it contained all the necessary spices, so ought to turn out well. And indeed it had come out very, very tasty. Oh boy was I to find out just how very tasty! The L & M and the senior son also gave nods of approval after tasting. I am sure many of you are eager to have the recipe. Watch me closely:

First I marinate the boneless chicken pieces in a mixture consisting of turmeric powder, red-chilli powder, sambar masala, ginger-garlic paste, salt and a little lemon juice AND EGG YOLK (Updated on 30/11/11)). Now I keep it aside for an hour.

Next, here I am slicing onions and capsicum. Then, I heat a little oil and sauté sliced onion and capsicum with a wee bit of salt till just cooked. The marinated chicken pieces are shallow fried till done and mixed well with the sautéed onion and capsicum slices.

Tada! Sambar Chicken la Vishakh is ready.

I am sure right now you all have your favorite drink in your hand already. If not go and get it and just dig into the plateful of hot and spicy Sambar Chicken la Vishakh. 

Isn’t this the loveliest housewarming party ever (even though I say so myself?) The house is suitably warmed now eh Vivek, Ruchira? Sorry veggie people. Nothing new to offer you right now.

Pssst! The senior son got away without making the fish curry. Now I have to wait one whole year before I can taste it! *sob sob*

Maveli

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This here is the re-post of an old blog written on 4th Sept 2006 at Yahoo 360, the year I had started blogging and when Goofy had been with us still.


“Amma, someone’s at the gate!” says the junior son.

“Where’s Goofy??” he asks and adds, “He is already inside the gate, with his cycle!”

“Inside? And on his cycle too??” I ask surprised.

Who could it be??

I walk out, after asking him to lock up Goofy, our dog.

I find the man parking his cycle.

“What do you mean coming inside like that??” I ask him. I am abrupt most times with strangers who flout decorum. “There’s a dog here!!”

He parks his cycle, smiling deprecatingly. I relent seeing the old man.

He is selling winnows.

I don’t need any. I tell him so.

But he walks up to me, folds his hands and says,

“Amma please buy one! It’s Onam and if you buy something it will help me and my family. My wife is unwell and we need the money so much.”

He looks tired.

He folds his hands again and says,

“I have not had even water since morning Amma. I am trying to sell at least some”

My heart bows down with weight.

I have been out shopping yesterday and my refrigerator is stocked full of goodies that will last me for over a week. Mother Hubbard’s larder is full.

The unfairness makes me want to cry.

There must be more like him out there, trying to make both ends meet for just a square meal a day.

Tomorrow is Thiruvonam, the most important festival day for all Keralites and he is trying to collect as much as he can. Perhaps he has a grandchild too. Or maybe it is just for the medicine for his wife like he said. I wouldn’t know. I am glad he is not begging, but trying to earn his living with dignity.

I don’t need any winnows, yet I buy two of them. I don’t even know if the price he quotes is above the usual. I don’t care.

I walk inside with the winnows on the pretext of getting the money.

Instead I walk to the kitchen and make tea for him.

With tea I walk back only to find that he is a diabetic and cannot have sugar. I go in and make a second cup without sugar. No, he doesn’t want anything to eat, he says, in answer to my question.

I watch him sitting on my doorstep drinking the hot tea;  a small dark man, in a shabby mundu and faded shirt, salt and pepper hair, a little bald.

A thought comes to my mind, is he Maveli?

He finishes his tea, folds his hands in a namaste and leaves, pushing the cycle along.

I cannot shake the thought. Had that been Maveli come to my house in the guise of a man selling winnows??

I will never know for sure, will I??


The loser in a flashy car

Posted on
23

I was brought back to the present from my realms of fantasy by the exasperation that communicated itself from the way the Lord and Master was honking. We were on our way to the library and had just crossed the Edappazhanji junction. It was a Saturday morning and there were quite a few vehicles on the road. I was about to tease the L & M as to what he gained by honking in this manner when there was no place to move ahead when I noticed something. Three cars ahead of us, there seemed to be enough place to play football, as the private bus conductors are wont to tell passengers when asking them to move ahead and make space for more. Hmmm…..

In front of us was a black car, ahead of it an auto rickshaw and still ahead leading us all was a flashy red car (What is it with me and flashy red cars? Read another incident here). What poor “leading” the undecided Flashy seemed to be doing! To move ahead or not move ahead, to go to the extreme left or stay on the middle of the road, to crawl or rush… all these seemed dilemmas tormenting Flashy that morning. The one thing Flashy seemed sure about and determined not to let happen was let anyone overtake in spite of the fact that Flashy itself was not in any hurry to get anywhere. The ample free road space ahead of it was proof enough for that. Sigh, some weirdoes are like that, neither will they move forward nor let others go.

The by-now-impatient Auto who was right behind Flashy started honking with annoyance. Taking a risk the very next time that Flashy eased a bit to the left, Auto surged ahead, leaving Flashy behind. I laughed as I watched Auto merrily moving ahead. But the L & M was not amused. He wanted the Black to do the same so he could follow suit and drive away without dilly-dallying. Flashy though, was having none of it. Its erratic pattern continued. Black was not the adventurous type, or so it seemed and so followed more sedately, like an obedient child. But even obedient children have their moments. As soon as the ‘procession’ turned right and entered the road leading to Sasthamangalam junction, Black rebelled and raced ahead, dodging Flashy narrowly.

Not it was us right behind Flashy who continued imitating sometimes a giant red snail and at6 other times a hare, but a road-hog nevertheless. The L & M was totally pissed off by then. At the next opening he got he revved up to overtake. As he drove past, he gave the man driving Flashy a disgusted, what-the-hell look. The fellow glanced, saw us moving past and immediately decided he did not want to let us get ahead of him. His attempts to retain his “leading” position was foiled because by then he had let himself go too far to the left and found himself being hindered in his effort by a parked truck.

Not to be one to be outdone, Flashy soon caught up with us. The road widens when it nears the Sasthamngalam junction. The brainless idiot that drove Flashy, in true filmy style, literally pushed us off the road and parked Flashy right in front of us. Then he swaggered out. By then L & M had the window on his side down and was asking him what he meant by stopping his car like that in front of ours. Not enough to own swanky cars, one should know basic rules to be followed on the road. How about letting those behind overtake when you feel like crawling?

“Ohh.. is that so?? Oh really?” said the man in a threatening manner, walking up to the window on the L & M’s side.

“Yes,” said the L & M, “That’s one of the basic lessons they teach you when you learn driving.”

The man made more noises of ‘Oho?’ but started walking back to Flashy. He opened the door and just before getting in, pointed to me and said,

“Aduthu irikunnundallo oralu. Padippichu kodukku drivingum rulesum!” (There is someone sitting next to you. Teach her driving and the rules)

I was livid. What a loser!

What he said was harmless enough. But that he said it enraged me. I had been silent, a mere spectator during the exchanges. The man could not even accuse me of glaring at him because my huge sunglasses covered more than half of my face. The argument was between the two people driving. Why the hell should I be mentioned in any manner whatsoever?? Aren’t men capable of fighting their battles without dragging women present or absent, into it? Fights between men it seems are not fights if a barb is not fired at the women in some way or other. Do you think the man would have made any remark if it were a man sitting in my place?

This was a classic example of what I spoke in my post, “Where you insult man by insulting all women” Of course this one did not involve use of abusive words. But the flashy red car not withstanding the man was cheap enough to needlessly refer to me before banging his door shut and driving away, his cheap victory. It amused me to think of the way he walked back and made sure he was on the other side of Flashy and ready to flee before he fired his salvo.

As we drove our way, I remarked to the L & M,

“He probably did not like my sunglasses.”  :|

Ringing up Razia

Posted on
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I don’t know how or when the idea got itself firmly entrenched into my mind that I fall in the category of nincompoops. Dirty work must have been afoot during my formative years, selling the idea of my nincompoop-ness so strongly to the gullible little mite that was I that I seemed not only to have  swallowed it hook, line and sinker but also continued to thrive on the belief for years to come as well.

Fun they say,  starts at forty (or fifty as the case may be; these things change according to which decade you yourself are in). Yes sir, in my case it certainly did start at forty, which was the decade when I took a second and closer look at myself and decided that I was not a nincompoop after all. I even discovered that I had brains, just like the rest of the populace, and wonder of wonders, I was not bad at putting it to use either. I could even put it to better use than some of the said populace, in spite of the corrosive rust. Still, old doubts lingered and niggled like wiggly worms, raising their heads at frequent intervals.

Such was how things stood when the sun dawned bright and clear on a new morning today. I had earmarked it as Looking Through and Discarding Unwanted Stuff Day. The previous night, I had procured a plastic folder from the Lord & Master, to store necessary papers. The L & M has a ready supply of such things; one only has to ask and like a magician he will conjure up necessary items from the many storage spaces under his command (Read of one such here).

So the morning found me all set to do some Clearing Of Stuff. Browsing through some of the accumulated materials, I found this small bit of yellowed paper with a phone number scribbled on it. Memory was triggered. I followed it up from there and believe it or not, within minutes I was talking to Razia, my old classmate, also room-mate from more than three decades back. Sweet, simple, ever-smiling Razia. We have been in the same class and hostel for a year of school and two years of college (PUC).

I was beside myself with excitement and so was she. I had so much to tell and so had she, so we jabbered on. But what stopped me in my tracks was when she said, “You were such an intelligent girl!” Errrr… What was that again?? Intelligence and I were not things I have heard in connection with each other. I was simply amazed. I wondered what she was talking about.

“I have even told my children about you, my intelligent friend from the past…” she said once again touching the same fact.

She had harped back to the topic a few more times that I was forced to confront it (in my mind) and so simply had to ask her.

“Huh, I was intelligent?? In what way??”

“We all used to study for hours together and you… you used to read works of fiction!”

I laughed out loud about that. Yes, I used to do that. I lived inside my books those days. I remember Biju whispering to those sitting around the dining table.

“Look, look, here she comes with a long face. I am sure the beroine in her book has had a break up with the hero…”

Razia was not done though. She said,

“You used to get up in the mornings before us and study for a while. That is all the studying you ever did. And yet, you scored good marks…”

Ohhhh….. that sort of made me intelligent. I smiled. It also brought  back memories of another friend remarking, when the PUC results were out,

“What! That girl has a first class?? But I have never seen her studying!”

Of course it only meant that I did not join the rest of the girls who studied in candle-light after the lights-out at the hostel. My sleep used to be (still is) dear to me. If I feel sleepy, I sleep. Period. Keeping my eyes open till 10-30 p.m. (or was it 10 p.m.?) was a Herculean task as far as I was concerned. What I used to do was, as soon as the nun in charge finished her rounds, I simply jumped into bed and was lost to the world in no time. It did land me in trouble the odd days the nun decided to take a second round.

Razia was actually shocked to hear that I am a homemaker and not a career woman. I couldn’t help but smile at her genuine amazement. I was reminded of the time another classmate from post-graduation days remarked, “What?? Shailaja stays at home? But we all expected her to have a career!” When word got around to the in-laws about this, you bet my stock worth sky-rocketed. Sigh, my school and college mates seem to have more faith in me than I have in myself. The same goes for my online/blogger friends. I am overwhelmed most times by their response and belief in me. I am humbled and thank you all.

Getting back to Razia, she wanted to know if I wasn’t feeling bored with time hanging heavily on my hands. Then I told her about my blog/writing. Her response?

“Of course you used to write those days too!”

Huh. I used to??! I had no idea, other than what I used to tell my diary about the books I read.

“I still remember the one about the conversation between the different vegetables. The okra said something to the potato… I so enjoyed reading that”

Dear, dear readers, I have no clue what she was talking about. I wished with all my heart I could go back in time and see what it had been that enthused Razia so much that she remembers it to this day.

How wonderful it is meeting up with old friends! You learn new things about yourself. I must say hearing Razia I was filled with wonder. How come I never knew that I was so interesting? That I was so admired? How come I had always thought that I was a duffer? Of course I know part of the reason. In a home where standing first in rank was the only criterion for being judged intelligent, I never stood a chance. And God forbid if your rank slipped beyond 10 (which mine did as years went by and the disenchantment grew) especially when not even the fact that you were good in certain subjects earned you a good word. Everything crumbled to dust before the rank mania.

Today is a wonderful day, when I could talk to an old friend and hear from her magical things about myself that I was not aware of at the time, find it difficult to believe still. I have been asking myself the whole of today, “Was she really talking about me?

Thank you, Razia. I am glad I followed up on that number on a crumpled bit of paper and eventually landed up speaking to you. You really made my day!

Updated to add:

Razia says I had been vociferous advocate of homeopathy (“Mother says homeopathy is best“). She also says while they all lathered their faces with various creams and lotions I refused to do so (“Mother says such artificial things are bad for your skin“). To tell you the truth, I am amazed, I cannot believe I said such things! And to think that my mother always thought of me as a disobedient, wilful child who never listened to her!  :lol: