Tag 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*

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

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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.

The breaking point

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Sigh! Breakages are an inevitable part of life with the Lord & Master. If something is breakable rest assured he will break it for you sooner than later. Okay, I do admit that is a slight exaggeration of facts. But writers or even bloggers, are allowed to deviate from the truth a wee bit to catch the attention of the public, aren’t they?? Umm…. Assuming that there has been a resounding chorus of ‘Yes!’ (down with the nay-sayers) and that attentions have been well ‘caught,’ I will now move on to matters breakable.

In the soon to be twenty-nine year long journey with the L & M, I have lost count of the number of cups and glasses that have regretfully met their sad demise at his hands. I am sure there are more of them awaiting their turn albeit a trifle nervously and resignedly. Not all the king’s horses, not all the king’s men can put them back together once the deed is done. Not that they, the king’s men and horses that is, have ever offered to, only to be proved wrong and having to retire all red-faced. Just that being the smart one that I am (Razia says so) I figured it out all by my lone self ages back.

Now wait a minute. WHAT are you thinking?! Stop right there and do not let that wild imagination of yours (its gotta be wild if it is anything like mine!) run amok and develop the ‘negative’ of an angry L & M throwing cups and glasses around, into a clear ‘photograph’ because nothing could be further from the truth.

For one, the L & M can easily be included in the baa-lamb category, someone who wouldn’t say ‘boo’ to a goose. Not of course that he gets to meet any of them socially. So the truth of the matter of whether he will or won’t say boo if a goose were to walk up to him remains unverified. But I certainly can vouchsafe for the fact that he does not say ‘boo’ to even Nibbles our kitten in spite of the fact that she is someone who begs to be boo-ed at being under the mistaken impression that human hands and feet have been specially created by her Maker solely for the chewing pleasure of kittens.

The second and more clinching evidence is that yours truly is as good a Miss Goody Two Shoes as any you have come across. Besides she is also Patience Personified and would scarce give the L & M reason to stomp around flinging cups and glasses in every direction. Of course it is entirely another matter that Miss Patience Personified herself, if provoked sufficiently and long enough, might switch to the Durga-Mode of Destruction without much ado.

Coming back to the topic at hand, my reaction to a cup or glass meeting its destined end at the hands of the L & M is above reproach. When it happens, I merely mutter under my breath, ‘So what’s new?’ and flashing him a smile (which has unfailingly captivated him for said twenty nine years) I convey to him the soothing message that all is not lost. He still can overcome this inborn ‘talent’ of breaking things frequently and move on to become someone who does so only infrequently. After all, being empathetic is second nature to me. Thereafter I quietly go about my business of sweeping up the debris. But, most of the time it is the chagrined L & M himself who does the gathering of splinters and depositing of them in the dustbin.

My exemplary behavior (ahem, ahem) is as far a cry as can be, from the way his mother, my esteemed mother in law, may her soul rest in peace, would have behaved  if the glass/cup-breaker happened to be her dear beloved daughter in law. Oh well, I admit I have gone a lot overboard there while describing myself in her eyes. Be that as it may be. Once it so happened that I upset a glass of water while laying the table. I still cringe (and have nightmares to this day) remembering the look of utter scorn she gave me, making me feel the Worst Worm Ever that crawled the Earth. If I could convert the look into the spoken word, it would have read something like: ‘Oh my long suffering soul! To think I have foisted this nincompoop on my darling boy!’ I had silently gone about the job of undoing the damage of a wet tablecloth and mopped up the water on the floor, even as I tried not to flinch from her unforgiving stare.

The results of the breaking-spirit of the L & M presented themselves as excellent opportunities for me to take revenge on the dear mother-in-law’s unforgiving ways. I mean look at the gall of the lady. She spawns a butter-fingered son, foists him on me and then glares at me for upsetting one measly glass of water! Ha! All I had to do from the beginning was copy her to perfection, put on a longer suffering face, sigh theatrically at the L & M and say, ‘There goes another one of my precious cups. Just my fate!’ But hells bells, what are a few broken cups and saucers or even glasses or whatever between husband and wife or even family members? Errr… especially when the L & M has to dig into his own pocket for buying new ones. Hyuk hyuk hyuk. And pray who minds getting new things? Not me, for sure! So, break on, I say! (Not exactly. But you know what I mean)

Everything said and done, I have not yet revealed how most of the breakages happen. Take a look at the picture below:

Note the perfect way the L & M has managed to keep his cup at the very edge of the table. It beats me how he can achieve such perfection in a very nonchalant manner. I mean, imagine how hard you and I would have to concentrate to get the same effect. But, not the L & M. He is past master at his art. It comes oh-so-naturally (I told you he had a natural talent) to him that once he is done (or at times even in between sips) with his tea or coffee or Bournvita (Yep, he is Borunvita Boy), he keeps his cup/mug in exactly this position.

I have devoted hours of thought in trying to understand the source of this ability of the L & M. Perhaps it is the yoga he does every morning. Where you and I would dump the cup/mug more to the centre of the table, afraid that it might fall and break, he casually places them as in the picture above. But of course it means that either he or some other innocent passerby comes along and sends it crashing to the ground. Though it increases the chances of having yet another broken cup on my hands, I am secretly proud of this talent of his and am amazed enough to ask him time and again: “HOW do you do it?” All I get in return is a mysterious smile …laced with a little sheepishness. Oh well.

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.