Tag 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.

The new year began….

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….with a crash.

This was how matters, rather the terracotta horse, stood post-crash

One down, one more to go.

Uh-ho. what have I done?

Let me try some damage control.

Where does this piece go? 

Gulp, one leg is missing.

Shall I pull a leg off the other one?

Thank God Dad is here!  I’ll lend a helping paw, Dad.

I will carry the little pieces. 

But, this one sure looks yummy. May be I better keep it for myself.

Wow Dad sure is miffed. He told me to stay out of his way. 

I’ll go play with Brownie.

And that is how our New Year began IHM :)

Lessons from Luci

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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*

Copycats, imitators and translators.

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Rambling post alert. All the finicky readers with too high standards may please take note of the fact and bow out gracefully to save precious time.

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery they say or rather said Charles Caleb Colton and the rest, the ‘they’ I have mentioned, duly have taken it up to explain away the annoying instances of copying by cats of the human variety. It might well be pleasing to those who have inordinate hunger as also thirst for flattery to have such felines mewing ‘sincerely’ around them. With no such hunger or thirst, it only gives me the heebie-jeebies and makes me break out into itchy rashes all over when confronted with them.

Decades back in school the children had a song for copy-cats:

“Copy cat, kill a rat, Sunday Monday eat the rat”

I must admit I have given much thought during tender years of childhood as to why copy-cats had to kill and eat a rat on Sunday as well as on Monday or come to think of it, why they should kill one if at all.  Probably it was linked in some way to the action of copying: something like, if you are into copying, you might as well copy your actions of Sunday on Monday as well.  The explanation could of course be something much more profound than the simplistic one I offer. But I do have my doubts regarding any profundity connected to it, as I feel the entry of the rat in the picture only proves conclusively that rhyme rather than reason prompted the making of the ditty.

Anyways, digressions apart, methinks, the tiny tots who sang the song (do they sing it in schools in the present too?) had their little hearts in just the right place. There have been many occasions in my adult life when I have been tempted to sing the song with the same unrestrained gusto of childhood, especially when I have come across certain copy-cats who frustrated me by their errr… copying nature. But, sigh, being a grown-up has it limitations. Apart from the fact that your peers are wont to stare at you askance, there is always the fear that one will be led not too gently to the nearest loony-bin and shut in thereof if one gave oneself up to unbridled enthusiasm in such matters. You see, the majority of adult humans prefer hypocritical flattery to the most harmless truth and would rather banish those who prevent the syrupy flattery from sloshing against them rather than the fount of such syrup.

Years back we stayed in a sleepy little army station, away from the hustle and bustle of the city. All of us ladies of the army unit we belonged to made trips together to the city in the vehicle provided for us, once every week. One such day a few of us finished our shopping earlier than others and were idly watching my neighbour  trying to choose from the many pastel shades of chiffon saris spread out in front of her by the overzealous salesman. She sat undecided between a light blue, a sea green, a peach, a baby pink, a lemon yellow…  Oh, you get the drift. ALL of them looked so pretty and delicious to me.  After quite some time of discontented dillydallying, she suddenly got up and declared unceremoniously that she did not care for ANY of them and wanted to check for other shades in some other shop.

“The light blue looks pretty. Doesn’t it?” I asked her. I had got one of those sudden impulses of mine.

Her forehead creased in distaste and she shook her head impatiently. That seemed a good sign in my favour to me.

“You are not going to buy it?” I wanted to make sure before taking the plunge.

“No.” she said dismissively, “I don’t want that color. In fact, I did not like any of them.”

“So, may I?”

That’s how it is with me. No dithering.  Though I loved them all, I made a spot decision to go for the light blue one. It is a fact that while stepping into the shop I had no intention of buying a sari at all.

“Yeah, sure go ahead…” she said indifferently and walked out with a friend to the shop across the street to look for more colors.

So imagine my surprise when on the return journey as the ladies clamoured to see the color of the sari she had finally chosen, she took out from the carry bag the exact shade of blue she so disdainfully had rejected and which I had got for myself.  I stared in dismay.

“What do you mean buying the same color? I even asked you before buying!” I said, finding words at last. “I could easily have bought any other color. I liked them all!”

I was in bad humor over the discovery. Call me mean or whatever, but I did not hide my obvious displeasure at the time.

“Is it the same color?” she asked in pretended surprise.  Wow. An Oscar was in order for her performance that day.

I know what some wisecrack is going to say at this point: it is an individual’s prerogative to change their mind. Sure, of course it is. But then why be devious? Why not just say, ‘I changed my mind’? Besides which, the wisecrack who says that will have spoken too soon (which all wisecracks do most always) without possession of the whole facts (to hear which wisecracks do not normally have patience).  In subsequent days, the same thing repeated itself. You see when that happens, anyone with a reasonably good nose smells a rat and it could in all probability be the very dead rat killed by the copy-cats and kept aside to eat on Monday. Ha!

Once it so happened that she tagged along with me to this particular shop I was going to. Though I resented it there was nothing much I could do about it. It is after all a free country. Once there, she fussed a lot, (she didn’t like the texture, the color, the design… it went on.), and ended up not buying anything.  I ignored the theatrics (I hate cribbers and fussers. Period.), chose what I wanted quickly in my characteristic no-nonsense way: a purple sari with tiny flowers on it. But believe it or not, the very next day she was back at the shop with her husband and bought the very same sari. Once again she put on her innocent, ‘is-it-the-same’ act for our benefit. I fretted, I fumed, but there was nothing much I could do other than exchange the one I got for a different sari.

Thereafter, Operation Shopping-in-Secrecy was strictly enforced.  Yes, I admit she could easily go around from shop to shop looking for similar stuff and still get the same one. But I was damned if I was going to make it easy for someone by letting them tag along with me. If they had to, let them copy the hard way, was my logic.

There is another set who listen to you and throw your words back at you as if they were their own.  I am simply amazed and insanely amused at such form of imitation which lacks the ability to remember the source. I call them Amnesic Copy-cats. Suppose you tell one of them that you love listening to music and you just cannot go about your work without your fav music playing, they will listen to you, but not say anything. The next time you meet them, THEY will tell you, they listen to music and just cannot go about their work without their fav music playing. Well, there is nothing new about that. A lot of people have common tastes, right? WRONG. These people neither played music before they heard you, nor will they be doing so after they make their copy-cat statement. They merely liked the sound of what you said and decided to use it as a piece of conversation. THAT is what makes it so funny.

Virtual life is no different either when it comes to copycats. As I have written here, while blog-jumping some time back, I came across one blog which was a mish-mash of material lifted from many other blogs without any credit to the originals. I found my own sentences/paragraphs too, neatly ‘lifted’ and fitted into the new exotic blog-dish served to the public as the lady’s own preparation.  But the best part was one comment I received to my own rant against it:  How do you know it is yours? Oh wow! Nobody asked that question to the copycat blogger where I saw one and all singing Hallelujah, but I am asked how I know it is mine!

I don’t know if any of you have seen this old movie with Rishi Kapoor and Kimi Katkar in the lead roles. Kimi insists that she is Rishi’s wife whereas he says his wife is dead.  All through the movie Rishi is bent on proving that Kimi is an impostor. In the last reel, his little daughter (who was in boarding school?) enters the picture and addresses Kimi as “Mummy!” conclusively proving to everyone concerned (police, priest, the lot) that Kimi is indeed his wife as she had been claiming all along. But, still Rishi shouts, “No she is not, she can’t be my wife!”  All are puzzled at the vehemence. “She is not my wife. She cannot be…” he repeats, “because… because… because… I killed her.”

Do you see the connection, how it explains why and how I know the lines stolen were actually mine? Of course I did not kill anyone! But those lines the copycat blogger lifted could not belong to her because they refer to my own experiences. And if yet some other wisecrack is going to tell me about coincidences, I am gonna say, “Go take a walk brudder (or sistah as the case may be)”.

Anyways coming back to online copycats, I have met quite a few in my time. They either lift your ‘about me’ (preposterous considering you are you and I am I), use the same words that you have coined, say they too prefer the same things you do et al. I know of agnostics who wouldn’t know the meaning of the word. Then there are those who ‘borrow’ little known or well known quotes and put it up as their own. Twitter and Facebook abound with them. Babe-in-the-woods that I was , I used to (note the past tense) think so highly of them for coming up with such cool ones, till enlightenment dawned about the copy-paste involved and the ruthless chopping away of author names.

Once I came across a 55-word story which impressed me a lot. Imagine my surprise when on one of my blog wanderings I came across the very same story in another page of a well known and admired blogger, with just minor changes! I wanted to make sure it wasn’t my imagination. So I spent the better part of my afternoon going through the blogs of the original blogger to find her story. Yep, it was there. The copycat blogger fell with a thud and crashed to the floor from the pedestal in which I had mounted them. Even though I find good stuff on their pages, I can’t help but be sceptical about their authenticity. A real pity that talent should thus have been negated.

The best of the lot falls under a different category. The person described self as a poet and claimed to have written thousands of poems. Now, that is an impressive number. I sometimes read and commented on the poetic posts of the person at a common blog-site. I did feel something was amiss… but with me. The poems seemed to go right above my head. But I did not find the fact too surprising considering that I am not an expert myself.  Like I have already mentioned here I tend to cringle and run away from poetry blogs in general though I very unjustly inflict poetry on hapless people when the mood strikes me. But with blogger after blogger dishing out unlimited praise to the offerings posted by the person I felt quite small and inadequate. I quietly slunk away after reading, failing miserably in thinking up some clever comment like the rest.

One day, when the person had yet again commented on one of my blogs, I felt I MUST return the favour and so trotted over, Hoping to make a suitably “intelligent” comment this time, I started reading earnestly and out of the blue, started singing. No, no, no. You unjustly accuse me. I hadn’t taken leave of my senses.  Reading the latest poem on the blog-site had just that effect on me.  I bet you want to know the ‘why’ of it. I found the reason soon enough. While I was reading, my brain had helpfully translated the same to Malayalam for reasons only known to its own self and I had merely hummed the translation, familiar lyrics of a film song of the early 80s. Tada! I had come across my first translator poet, who borrowed freely from rather well-known sources not his own. Imagine translating a famous lyricist’s song known to almost all Mallus, to English and passing it off as one’s own. Ingenuity (or gall) comes in various guises.

Of course they say nothing is original in this world. I certainly don’t know who compiled the statistics though. Everything has been said and done and already presented, they say. We, in the present only re-present some of them with our own touch, in our own ways. But what makes people not even try to have an opinion, a liking of their own? What’s so great about copying someone else’s work and being praised for it? Even if you aren’t caught by others, doesn’t your own heart know the truth?!

The harried man and his kitten

Posted on
26

Warning: Aimless blog ahead. Proceed at your own risk.

This warning is specially for those dudes and dudettes who fail to do their homework and read up on what this site is all about before wading into it’s murky waters. If you will let those lazy eyes move a little bit to your right you will find mentioned clear enough to the meanest intelligence that I bore (to death) readers with not only some so-called tongue in cheek humor, verse,  short stories, rant and other such, but (now this is an all important BUT) also with mere rambling prose that goes nowhere in particular (exact words). Note that carefully, rambling prose that goes nowhere in particular is what I have said, and kindly refrain from acting innocent victims later on. Having said the essential let me proceed to ramble to my heart’s content.

The Lord and Master is…..

“What?? Yet another blog on your L & M, Shail?! You posted one a couple of days back! Can’t you talk of something/someone else for a change?! Please?!” That is when you can stop long enough from wailing how women have got a raw deal in society. Gawd! (that is muttered under the breath)

Hmm… Isn’t that the thought that flashed across your mind right now? Indeed, the L & M will be the first man to agree with you on both counts, in case you said the above in his hearing. Hmm… As things stand, he is the only Martian left at home. The other two (the senior and junior sons) have like slippery eels, slipped through my fingers citing job and studies as reason to fly the coop. (Not that I am regretting any of that. Just the thought that they have taken their messy rooms with them brings a smile of relief to my face.). But methinks all that had been a ploy to escape starring in Mom’s blogs.

The sons having abdicated their responsibility, the L & M is the only one left to provide fodder to my supposed blogging, ….ummm… talents. In fact some months (or had it been years?) back I mentioned to him casually that I was going to write a book entitled (The junior son had howled in protest at the proposed name for the book), ‘The Lord & Master, the Kiddos and a Dog’. The L & M had sighed theatrically and  said philosophically, ‘Nee enthu venamengilum ezhuthikko’ (Write whatever you want).

Sheesh. Took me by surprise, the passive reaction, quite unlike the way the sons give ultimatums to what I can or cannot do. The senior was forever cautioning me against writing about him before he left home. He still does at times. Besides he thinks I shouldn’t be meeting people (in his own words), “that I have met on the net”. Talk about controlling kids! Egads, I was and am a much more open and accepting parent than he is as a son. As for the junior son, I remember the time a few years back that I went skipping down the stairs, (the calcaneal spurs had not yet made their appearance and I could merrily hop, skip and jump those days)  to the TV room in the cellar, with my favorite accessory camera in hand. The intention was to record for posterity (aka grandchildren), the posture of ananthashayanam which he assumed while watching television. On seeing me (most importantly, the camera), he had sprung up and  said in warning tones: “Don’t you dare put any picture on your blog!”

Of course all that has changed now and the Martians one and all are keen to get their share of star billing at Shail’s Nest methinks, hopefully. But right now, with only one (the L & M) available at hand to provide the necessary material, I sort of tend to harp back on him a lot more these days. So no amount of yelps of surprise on choice of topic is going to change things. That matter having been settled, let me get back (finally) to what I was saying.

The L & M is…. (this is where if you remember, I was forced to digress) a much harried man these days. Someone is hell bent on disturbing the peace of his well-ordered life-style, shaking him up somewhat in the process. What do you mean you know who it is? You know no such thing and to keep matters straight, I wouldn’t disturb anyone even if you asked me to. So there! I have been noticing two extra lines of worry on his forehead. And I swear today morning I heard him mutter to himself resignedly (even more so than when I told him the name of the book I was going to write and what its contents would be) about how there is nothing he can do about things.

In recent times, a new entrant has joined our household: Nibbles. She had been too tiny and helpless a kitten at the time of her arrival. She is still tiny by human standards, but her helplessness is a thing of the past. With each passing day perhaps feeling thankful for the roof over her head, the soft blanket, the yummy fish and the love of two doting old fogeys (she had been abandoned as a wee little kitten, in the pouring rain, in a plastic bag of all things, along with two of her siblings, who by the way did not survive) she must have felt she had to repay us in the only way she could. Being a joker, entertaining us old fogeys with her antics was her mission. If you remember, Goofy our dog had similar thoughts.

Nibbles has chosen the L & M to be the recipient of her wholehearted and devoted attention, naturally, because he spends time playing with her too. Not like me, neglecting her while tapping away at the keyboard and yelling at her if she so much as stepped in the vicinity of the laptop. Anyways… She plays hide and seek with him, pretends his hands are enemies she must vanquish.

She clambers up (and I must say it is a pretty long climb for a tine thing like her) his legs as if she were trained by the coconut tree climbers of God’s Own Country. With utter disregard for his seniority with regards to age, she teases him by pouncing from behind the curtains, tapping him playfully on his head and running away to hide. She slithers on to his lap from his shoulder and stomps all over him with tiny feet during the most sacred of times for most men, while reading the morning newspaper.

Not content with all this, she has unleashed attacks in the sanctum sanctorum of the Master, his room itself. I shall now proceed to paint a word picture of the attacks that happen there.

The pen stand is attacked and overpowered by pushing it off the study table; the bodies of the pens and pencils litter the floor of the room in a sorry spectacle. Every shoe in the shoe-stand is felled, the socks are chewed and chased in turns, all over the room, before being forced to accept defeat and surrender to the Mighty Nibbles. The dust bin is attacked with more vigor and none of the bits of papers in it are spared. They are pursued relentlessly round and round the room, aided and abetted by the ceiling fan, till exhausted, they flutter half-heartedly here and there. The wires are tentatively pulled at, sending the transistor on a suicidal mission off the table. The official papers on the table are eyed next, and that is when the L & M decides enough is enough. Just like how Goofy got an earful from the Master, Nibbles gets her share. She is chastised. But unlike Goofy who retired hurt to sulk royally behind the bushes, what Nibbles does is simply look back fearlessly at the L & M. Are you joining the game too, is writ large on her face as she watches him pick up all the fallen heroes on the floor and stacks them back in their place in the pen-stand/shoe stand respectively.

This was how things stood in our home when yesterday, the L & M walked in for breakfast with face downcast and told me,

“Tell them to send it over here.”

Well, I am not at my best early in the morning, have not been, ever since I discovered the internet. Cryptic statements that I would otherwise decipher in a jiffy, goes right above my head until and unless I have had my cup of chai. So I stared stupidly at the L & M.

“Tell the US to send it right over here!” There it was once again.

“Tell the US to send what??” I asked him. At my best or not, I like to get to the bottom of things. Why should US, if it’s the US I think it is he is referring to, be sending over to us anything at all?

“Tell them to send Irene over here. I’ll take Irene any day. They can have Nibbles in return.” said the much harried man.

Any takers from US? ;)

Note: As of now Nibbles has been missing since morning. I wonder if Uncle Sam has been eavesdropping and has something to do with her disappearance. On a serious note, we miss her awfully and hope we find her soon.  Or else I am done with kittens for a life time. Sigh! Who am I kidding? It will be probably only till the next time I see one and it looks at me and says meow.