Category Archives: memoirs

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

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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

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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:

Spectacular welcome

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Welcome (to the city) and have a pleasant stay it said in big bold letters. Of course I intended having a pleasant stay. Little did I know the city itself had even more exciting plans for me.

On my way into the city, choosing an unguarded moment when I turned my head to listen to what my brother in law was saying, I felt my arm being yanked. I turned to watch with incredulity, dismay, and utter sense of loss my handbag in the slimy hands of an oily haired slimier youth, in black trousers and dirty white polyester shirt, riding pillion on a bike, and disappearing at a dangerously high speed on the highway, away from me. I knew with a helpless certainty that I was seeing the last of my bank and credit cards, voter’s card, driving licence, some cash, mobile(s), a dozen alpenliebe toffees and something much more valuable than all that. My heart plummeted to its lowest, at the very thought. There was not going to be an Amitabh Bachchan or even his Aby Baby jumping into the scene, to restore the bag to its rightful owner. Then came another realization: I was also seeing the last of the senior son’s birthday gift, my cherished possession, my i-Pod touch.

The next few hours included calling up the police control room, being directed (or dismissed?) by them to one police station, being shunted by them to another, where finally a report was written and a loss certificate issued….. in Marathi. Long live regional languages. I am sure I am going to relish the experience of waving a Marathi certificate under the noses of Mallu officials and dare them to decipher it. Some what similar to how someone from Karnataka might feel waving a Bengali certificate, a Haryanvi an Assamese one, a Tamilian an Oriya… so on and so forth. Hmm… I wonder why they don’t teach ALL the official languages plus other ones as swell in ALL schools to ALL kids, right from the nursery. It would make a lot of things easier. Wouldn’t it??

Anyways, two samosas and a glass of chaas later, after having blocked all cards and informed mobile service providers, there I was facing my next problem. How do I get inside the airport to board my return flight with no proof of identity with me? The very helpful airline people tell me a Xerox copy of some id card would do. Oh really??! I wonder which private airport of theirs they were talking of? The problem is eventually solved when I ask a card for identity to be couriered to me from home.

It is not yet time for me to leave. They city is yet to be explored. But it has indeed ensured a very ‘pleasant’ start to my very first visit here; the only metro that a seasoned traveler like me has never visited as yet in the golden-century-plus years of her life.

So here I am.

Welcome to Mumbai .

Then I remembered, my favorite comb was in the bag too.

The one who makes me indescribably happy…

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This post continues from here: Ecstasy

Rahul is his name, not the Gandhi (eek, the very idea), but Sharma, Rahul Sharma to be precise. He fills my heart with such unbearable joy that the outer me (which errr…. is considerable) is all fluid and motion, ready to dance. Now, THAT is some achievement on his part considering that yours truly is Stiffness Personified and couldn’t (or wouldn’t?) dance (not in front of anyone anyways) not even if her very life or those of her loved ones (a la Basanti in Sholay) depended on it. There you have it then, the magic of his, that makes the impossible plausible.

What is the magic this man possesses that makes a creaky jointed old me feel boneless and flexible?? What is it that makes me long to turn into a nimble footed peacock as for the dark cloud?? What is it that makes my heart so light as to soar higher than an eagle into the blue sky and beyond into the stillness of Space??

Music.

Other than the dark cloud, only music has the capacity to do that to me. But where other singers and musician at times make me plummet to the depths, the one and only Rahul Sharma without fail makes me indescribably happy, always, any time, anywhere. All I have to do is listen to him play the santoor and miraculously I rise in inexpressible joy.

Ironically enough, though Rahul brings me so much joy, he himself does not know I even exist. Well perhaps he does, as a sort of hazy face, in the periphery of the throng that make up his fans. Of course, I wouldn’t have it any other way either. What means so much to me is his music. So I am happiest being one of his many anonymous fans.

It is interesting how I came across him. Almost five years back, when I was a newbie blogger at Yahoo 360, I happened to be visiting a fellow blogger’s page. There I noticed a couple of photographs on the main page which I gave but a casual glance. People usually put pictures of family members along with theirs. So I didn’t give it much thought. Resembles Saif Ali Khan, is all I thought to myself, assuming the picture to be that of the blogger’s husband.

As Providence would have it, a few days later she and I got talking and out of the blue she asked me if I knew Rahul Sharma.

Errr.. Rahul who??

Haven’t you noticed the picture on my blog page??

Umm.. I rather thought that was your husband *sheepish look*

No no!! *laughs*

Uhh ok… and that would be??

He is a famous musician who plays the santoor and his music is out of this world.

Ohh okay… I am afraid I haven’t heard him.

Ohh you should! *totally enthusiastic*I will send you a couple of his songs. You will love them.

Alright! Thanks in advance.

I am going to attend his concert. *super excited*

Lucky you! Don’t forget the songs though.*by now curious*

I won’t.

I forgot about it. But she did not. She sent me a couple of songs (new-age music) from the album White: January (Snowfall), Silver Moon (White Lace), and listening to them, for the first time in my life I came to know what unadulterated and pure joy felt like.

As you know, (like it has happened before) I am not one to sit idly by when it comes to some music I want to have. So, I was out of my house and into a music shop at the very first opportunity I got, before anyone could say Rahul Sharma. But… but… my sleepy small-town city of Trivandrum disappointed me greatly. None of the music shops stocked a single album of his.

I was heartbroken.

My good blogger friend with a heart of gold sent me a couple more songs to cheer me up. The Bride (An Unfinished Love story) and also Russia, were both like manna to me, incomparable songs, that instantly transport one to a different plane altogether. I listened to them over and over again, never tiring.

Yet, the heart hungered for more of his divine creations. So, the next time I was in Bangalore and the newly employed son asked me where I wanted to go and what I wanted to buy, I had my answer ready: To the music shop to get albums of Rahul Sharma.

On walking into the shop and seeing the albums of Rahul Sharma displayed in all its colorful glory in front of my eyes, I got all hyper. The sobering presence of the senior son was the only deterrent that stopped me from shrieking in delight and going hop, skip and jump. I desisted from buying up all the different albums and restricted myself to just three, Maya the Illusion, Time Traveller and H2O. There is always another day and waiting only makes it sweeter.

I am not going into the details of Rahul’s personal biography. Only his music concerns me. All I want is for him to make music and for me to be able to listen to it in solitude. I don’t have favorites among his many songs. I love them all. Sunset in Shivalik Hills from the album Mountain Trail is as dear to me as songs from Pari Mahal or Kashmir.

His is the music I permit myself to listen to while I write. His is the music that gives me solace while tossing and turning with insomnia. All his songs have the same capacity of calming frayed nerves, of rejuvenating a tired mind, but most of all lifting me to heights of bliss I never knew existed, Just as I cannot describe the ecstasy of the rain cloud, I am unable to express fully the pleasure his music brings me.

Here is a video of one version of the song Destination from Time Traveller. Tell me if you like it or not.



Those interested can read about him at <a href="http://www.rahulsantoor.com/"rahulsantoor.com and also listen to more of his songs.

When parents don’t parent

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This article (Not once did she ask her son why he punched the new boy) reminded me of an incident that happened some years back. We were stationed at a place called Sevoke Road, a sleepy little cantonment area, with not much in the form of entertainment (but which place I would give my eye-teeth to to go back and live in for its proximity to nature and the quietness) for you to pass the time, unless of course you make the effort to drive up to Siliguri. The chances of that were dim considering the Lord & Master and the rest of the officers of the unit were a busy lot, busier even than the proverbial bees.

Most days, they left for office before the children had woken up and returned after they had gone to sleep. The rest of the days they weren’t there at all. So we wives and kids were left to fend for ourselves and find our own resources for amusement. This we did by visiting each other, going for walks, making trips to the market, watching movies etc. during our spare time. The nearest video parlor with its regular supply of Bollywood as also Hollywood movies, helped us with the last of them.

We, the L & M and I, were proud owners of a VCR and whoever had one in those days, invited others over to spend the day with them to watch a movie. Lunch was thrown in with some dishes being brought over by the guests too. Kids were usually thrilled by this arrangement. Apart from getting to watch a movie with friends, they got to eat a variety of things as well.

One day my nearest neighbor Mrs U requested that we make the next day (a Sunday) one such movie day. Her kids it seemed, had been asking to watch a movie since long. She would cook something and bring it over. It was fine by me. Our respective husbands were away with the Unit on IS duty. The days stretched long before us. This way, we’d kill some time on a lazy weekend and the kids would be happy too.

My sons were ten and four at the time. Mrs U had a girl and a boy. The son, older of the two, at seven was a willful boy who threw tantrums at the drop of a hat, bossed over his mother and generally behaved in an obnoxious manner. I disapproved of the way she seemed to give in to him always, sometimes even at the expense of her younger daughter, a sweet little thing of four, who was always ready to oblige and give up to her brother whatever he was demanding at the moment. Many times her son has been the reason for my junior son expressly disobeying my orders. But unlike many parents my solution was never blaming the instigator or complaining to his mother even. If he disobeyed me, my son had to face the music (mine). So it was up to him to decide what to do and choose to do it.

Anyways, movie day dawned bright and clear. Mrs U came over with the kids and the snacks she had prepared. We settled in the TV room. Mrs U’s son had grabbed a comic book from the book rack and had his face in it. The two younger ones, the classmates the bosom buddies were chattering, excited to be watching a movie together. My senior son got busy with the VCR. But the cassette wouldn’t play. All we could see was ‘snow’ on the screen.

I got up to see what was wrong. Mrs U’s son was already fidgeting in his seat, impatient at the delay. He started whining to his mother asking her why the movie hadn’t started. His voice low at first increased in volume. His mother put in a tame ‘Abhi ho jayega beta’ (Will be ready soon, son) a couple of times, after which she relapsed into silence.

The boy now started banging on the chair in annoyance in addition to vocalizing his displeasure in more strident tones. I looked up from where I was trying to make the cassette work. My face outwardly was serene but inside I was pretty annoyed at the mother’s complacence. But they were guests. I kept my mouth shut.

All of a sudden the boy shouted at his mother (just like an Indian husband shouting at his wife for things beyond her control) and in a fit of rage, crumpled the comic book he had been reading, tearing it in the process, and threw it right across the room. My children looked at him, at his mother and then back at me. For a few seconds, I pretended not to see and went on with what I was doing. Of course my intention was to give the parent the opportunity to correct the child. I didn’t want to be staring when she did that. But my wait was in vain, the mother remained silent as if it was not her problem at all.

THEN, I stepped in.

“Pick up that book” I told the boy in a nice, firm voice.

He sat surly and unmoving.

“I gave you the book to read. You cannot throw it around. Pick up the book.”

I repeated, this time in a firmer and no-nonsense tone. He did not oblige. After all, his mother was sitting right beside him not saying a word, why would he listen to me?? But this was a lesson for my children too. So I was not about to let it go. Besides which Mrs U’s placid silence infuriated me.

“Okay, since you are not showing good manners by refusing to pick up the book in spite of my asking you to, I am going to do it myself. “ I said and added, “ and also because books are not for throwing around.”

I walked to where the comic was thrown, picked it up and straightened it out.

“But since you have crumpled and torn a book of mine by throwing it in anger, you will no longer be allowed to touch any of the books here.”

The lady was still sitting mute, not saying a word.

“Why have we all gathered here?? To watch a movie, right??” I carried on. “Not just you, all the rest of us want to watch it too. Is throwing books going to make the movie start??”

I pointed to my senior son.

“That’s why bhaiyya is doing what he can…”

I pointed to the two younger ones sitting quiet as mice.

“And these two kids younger than you are waiting so patiently.”

Mother and son were both silent, staring into space: one expressionless, the other sullen. The rest had their eyes glued on me. I continued,

“If you feel this is taking time and don’t want to wait, either go back to your house or go out and play. But…” Here I paused, “you will NOT throw any more tantrums here. Is that understood??!!”

No answer. But of course it was understood because there were no more tantrums. He remained morosely silent after that.

I was younger back then. I don’t know if what I did was right or wrong. But I am sure of one thing, if kids misbehave in my house and the parents keep mum, they, the kids, will surely hear from me. There is a saying in Mallu-land that goes, if you don’t thrash your child, they will surely be thrashed by the villagers in later years. That is sort of literal translation. It only means that if you don’t punish and correct your children when they do wrong , they will in all probability learn their just lessons the hard way from strangers.

I have my pet peeves. One of them is parents who will not discipline their children or even make an attempt at it. I dislike (perhaps despise too) them for their misplaced sense of affection which makes them spoil kids rotten. Many parents want to be adored by the offspring and so do not deny them anything, dance to their every tune. They think saying ‘No’ to a child means you don’t love the child. Oh really?? What absolute balderdash.

Do they really think children have no brains?? Excuse me, you may have sent yours to the dry-cleaners, but the children have theirs in place. The minute they gather (rightly) that they can get away with anything and everything, they have branded the parent as nothing but a namby-pamby, a nincompoop who can be tied into all sorts of knots for their pleasure. Then they proceed to do just that. Oh well, if someone wants children to trample all over them, it is of course their prerogative. But they should NOT expect that the neighbors or whoever else their child comes across will love to be trampled upon by their precious kids as well.

Of course, I kept my promise and no books were allowed to be taken out of the bookshelf after that. But you will be surprised to know that during a get together at my place, Mrs U went to my children’s room (behind my back) and tried to bully my children into opening the bookshelf and giving her son some books. Why couldn’t she have asked me when she knew that I was the one who ordered my children not to open the book-shelf?? If there is something I hate more than parents who don’t discipline their own children, it is those coward parents who bully other people’s children! Grrr…..