Shail’s Nest

The Lord and Master (L& M) and I were walking down the aisles of Spencer’s Daily one fine day, whiling away the time waiting for the fish we had bought, to be cleaned and cut. I stepped over to where the breads were kept, eyeing the fresh batch of roti that had arrived debating whether to give in to my laziness and take home a couple of packets or be the conscientious homemaker and make them from scratch later on in the evening. Of course I don’t mean from growing the wheat and harvesting it! The very idea!!

“Shall I buy you some roasted kaju (cashewnuts)??” I heard a voice asking.

Well I have heard that voice for over a quarter century now, so I knew to whom it belonged. But I couldn’t immediately get to the bottom of who the roasted and salted cashew nuts were for. This I had to see for myself I thought as I turned in wide-eyed wonder and curiosity to gaze in the direction from whence the voice had come, which was coincidentally the exact place where I had left the L & M and moved on.

My eyes weren’t disappointed in anyway at what they found. They got the priceless chance of feasting on a sheepish looking L & M who was apologizing to a young lady who herself seemed dazed, with an almost nymph surprised while bathing sort of look. (Not my own, it’s from the Master, Wodehouse). People, I mean of the con artist kind, come in all varieties nowadays and God knows one could very well come in the guise of someone offering to buy you roasted and salted cashew nuts. So I really didn’t blame the lady. Even as I watched, barely managing to suppress my insane desire to giggle, she hastily and demurely withdrew from the scene dragging her child along, looking around frantically for her husband.

L & M looked up to see my gaze upon him and gave me another sheepish grin, admitting that he hadn’t realized that I had moved on to the next shelf in the aisle. Or at least that was his story. I was sorely tempted to give vent to silent mirth. But that could wait. This was good, extremely good. It is not everyday that I get an opportunity to pull the L & M’s extra long legs.

“So this is what you do when I take my eyes off you for a minute!” I said giving (or at least trying to give) him a censorious look.

“Offering to buy roasted cashew nuts to sweet young things while my back is turned! What next??!”

At this point I spoiled the effect completely by giggling helplessly. Sigh. I have never been good at even hiding birthday presents.

It is not easy to get the better of L & M. Quickly recovering lost ground, he came up with his rejoinder.

“Thank your lucky stars that she didn’t accept my offer and instead ran away! I would have been obliged to get her a packet of crisp cashew nuts if she had said ‘yes’!”

He paused before going on.

“Think of it. She’d take it home and when her husband asked, would have told him, a nice gentleman at the store kindly offered to buy it for her and that she accepted since she did not have the heart to refuse him!”

Once started there is no stopping the L & M.

“And what’s more,” he continued “she could easily have told me, ‘I’d like those and those and those too!’ and then where would I have been?? Being the perfect gentleman, I would have had to buy them all for her!”

I almost choked on the musk-melon milkshake right then and L & M got busy thumping my back. Phew!!

They ask me the same question all the time, every single time without fail, “Do you work??” Sometimes I wonder if it is a conspiracy. Hey let’s ask Shail whether she works. Its fun!! She might just explode into a million colorful bits one of these days and its not even Diwali yet. Sweet-natured woman that I am, I haven’t as yet fulfilled these wishes of the conspirators much to their dismay. I solemnly assure you that I am no lotophagi who I gather resided (or do they still??) somewhere in North Africa and gorged themselves silly on lotus fruits and flowers and then slumbered in total apathy. Ugh! Who wants such a life anyway?!! Not me, thank you. Goodness knows what lotus flowers and fruits taste like. Besides who wants to sleep their life away and that too in apathy when there is, ummm… music to listen to, nature in all its splendor to feast your eyes on, books to read and yummy ice-creams to eat?!

This ‘Do you work??’ is a question I handle from people in droves as it were on a day to day basis. Initially it used to amuse me no end. Then it made me wonder and now finally I am resigned to my fate. I must have ‘idler’ stamped on my countenance, though I have to admit I am no eager beaver type either as lazing around comes naturally to me. But then the other question puts this doubt to rest and throws up an entirely different line of thinking. There are those who give, ‘Do you work??’ the go-bye and directly go to ‘Where do you work??’ with so much of confidence that I am indeed a career woman. Am I supposed to feel flattered, the humble homemaker forever being mistaken for the ‘Working’ Woman??!! If I am in an expansive mood, which I generally am at all times, I reply naughtily, “At home!” leaving the questioner flustered and going ‘Oh ahh’ finding their assumption lying flat on its face on the sidewalk having slipped on that unseen banana skin.

Just the other day, I was traveling by train and this gentleman, who was my co-passenger, asked me where I worked. I did not dare joke with him, he being a senior lecturer and all that. Hence in accordance with the ways of the present world, I replied that I was not. “But… but…” he said, “You speak English!” Pardon me if I roll my eyes at this point. The ideas people seem to have about career women or homemakers for that matter amaze me no end. Or maybe he left some things unsaid, the fact that I was traveling on my own in spite of err… umm….. ahem… my advanced age!! So according to his convoluted logic, I simply had to be a working woman.

There are those suited and booted sales persons who come by wanting to talk you into buying all sorts of things the usefulness of which depends entirely on whether you are the seller or buyer. I hate clutter and don’t want to pile up unnecessary things in my house. So before they can even start off on their spiel I give my unequivocal “Onnum venda!” (Don’t need anything) They on their part ignore it and go on and on about this product and that, the memorized lines in English spilling out parrot-like, while they try to impress me, the lowly homemaker (who else would be home in the middle of the day??), while I interject a ‘venda’ here and there. When I have had enough of being polite, I firmly interrupt and tell them in no uncertain terms and in English, how they are wasting their time and mine and how I didn’t want the book or the steamer or non-stick cookware or whatever gobbledygook they were selling and why. They stop in their tracks, the sales talk forgotten for the moment. The lady speaks English! There is a new look in their eyes and then the inevitable question follows, ‘Do you work Madam??’ Shhhh, don’t tell anyone!! It’s a guilty secret that I hide as best as I can!!

Once I went to the paint shop. I got the varnish, different color paints and other things I needed to complete an art work I was working on. While paying the bill, the shopkeeper who has often seen me driving to the vegetable shop next door asked me, ‘Where do you work Madam??’ A couple of days back I was at the annual function of the Residents Association. I am new to this locality. Most everyone I was introduced to asked me, ‘Do you work??’ or ‘Where do you work??’ I stepped into Bank of India yesterday and the Manager asked me ‘Do you work??’ making my Lord and Master glance hurriedly at me and laugh a little indiscreetly. At these times, I merely smile, shake my head and say ‘No.’ The smile is optional, but gracious that I am, I throw it in for free.

This do you work question puzzles me no end. I mean, what the heck, is it not work if I cook, clean or whatever it is a homemaker does?? An esteemed blogger once nearly jumped at my throat for wondering out loud in The Non-Workers?? albeit in a tongue in cheek manner, why people insist on asking homemakers, ‘Do you work??’ when what they do obviously is work too. Housework is housework and everyone has to do it, whether a homemaker or a working woman, she pompously pointed out to me. Point noted humbly and taken in the right spirit. However it fails to answer my question. Why ask someone, ‘Do you work??’ when what she does is house-work?? Isn’t that politically and technically incorrect question?? The lady in question, obviously one of the champions of the ‘Working’ Women of the World, against whom let me hasten to add I have no complaints (so all those ‘Working’ Women who even now have silently and in unison lifted those paper weights with intent to harm may relax and get back to reading), my firm belief being to each his or her own, went on to say that people asked this question as a way of opening a conversation. Oh really?? Hmmm….. And then came an uncalled for clincher from the same esteemed blogger. “Unfortunately once you find out the person does not work somewhere I think most people simply run out of things to ask after that.”

“Billions of Bilious Blue Blistering Barnacles!! Pestilential Pachyderm! Cushion Footed Quadrupeds! ” I exclaimed on reading it, borrowing liberally from Captain Haddock without permission though I am sure under the trying circumstances I was in, he would have commiserated and gladly helped me out with more of his colorful vocabulary were he present. I went so far as to accompany it with a little war dance after suitably painting myself in a suffusion of reds and oranges, all the fiery colors, with an imaginary spear in hand. “Great Flat-footed Grizzly Bear! Bald-headed Budgerigar! The lady means that homemakers are empty-headed and don’t make good conversationalists!!” I muttered to myself through clenched teeth beginning to resemble an aubergine in color. Fortunately for me, before I could die of apoplexy, I took a second look at what she had written and started laughing helplessly. If like she says, most people run out of things to say, doesn’t it reflect on their poor conversational abilities?? I mean, be fair. Should I morph into a Career Woman just so you can find something to talk to me, especially after a stupid opening like, ‘Do you work??’ How about a simple, ‘What do you do??’ instead, with a cheerful smile plastered on, if you please!!

Don’t come closer

Now that you have gone farther

Any step nearer

Makes me in fear quiver

Once… I let you touch my heart

Draw me out of my past

You rowed me ashore

Showed me heaven’s door

In your love transformed

A new ‘I’ had formed

Pure and untainted

I was joy unalloyed

No longer alone

The world I seemed to own

Then… for reasons unknown

I was not any more your own

You had drawn a line

Ever so fine

To keep me at bay

Day after day

I knew not the reason

For the change in season

Why you built the wall

Or why I had to fall

Many things at stake

What was my mistake

Where did I go wrong

Do we still belong??

Yet… I know you love me still

This love no one can kill

Yes, you love me as before

And that love is forever more….

-Shail Mohan (July 2008)

Reposted from shail-mohan blogs @ sulekha.com

That historic (to me) day had dawned just like any other. There had been no inkling of the perfect gift that Fate had in store for me. I was returning home as usual from my evening walk at Sevoke Road Cantonment area.. Even as I neared my house, I heard this divine music wafting down from the lofty heights of the next-door flat. What a voice!! WHO WAS THAT SINGING?? I just had to know!!!! But duty called me in loud and insistent tones in the form of my little ones waiting for my care and attention. So I reluctantly stepped into my own house curbing the irresistible urge my feet seemed to have developed to gallop into the apartment from whence the heavenly voice was luring me.

My time came the next day, when I encountered my neighbors on their way back from an outing. I asked the question that had been begging for an answer. Who was that divine singer??
”Oh that!” laughed the Major Saahib.
”Haath mein ek peg ho to Jagjit Singhji ka mood aa jaata hai!” (A peg in hand and you are in the mood for Jagjit Singh’s music)

Like a homing bird, my brain had caught on to the all-important name leaving the rest of the sentence to process much slower.

Jagjit Singh.

I am an aficionado of music and have been from the time I was born. Having been born in the far south of India in God’s Own Kerala, My fascination started off with Malayalam songs, graduating to Hindi film songs and eventually swaying to the beats of English songs much to the horror of a family steeped in the sacred traditions of Carnatic music. In between came Tamil and Telugu songs not to mention a few Kannada ones thrown in from my days as a student in Mangalore. But ghazal as a music form had remained a closed book to me, remaining outside my purview but for a few sung by Pankaj Udhas. That is as far as I had got till that momentous day in Siliguri when Destiny decided it was time to step in with that perfect gift.

Jagjit Singh.

By then the brain had processed the full sentence that the Major Sahib had uttered in reply to my question. I was left confused and puzzled. ‘Peg?? What’s the man blabbering about some peg??’ I wondered. I definitely had no peg in my hand and yet I was in the mood to hear Jagjit Singh!! In fact I was all but clamoring and impatient to hear him. What rubbish, I thought and brushed the Major Saahib’s words aside unceremoniously and without much ado moved on to the next important question to which I wanted an answer. You must remember I was a novice. I needed the name of the album too.

Someone Somewhere.

Ok, I had the name of the album as well. All I had to do now was wait for that weekly trip to Siliguri for shopping, which fortunately fell on the very next day. I was all excited. At Siliguri market, I made straight for the music store. Grocery and vegetables could wait. The obliging salesman took out the album and obliged me some more by showing more music from the same singer. Someone Somewhere was what I wanted and what I took. None other. That I freaked out on the songs on returning home goes without saying. But what needs mention here is that each subsequent week found me back at the shop, buying up more and more albums of Jagjit Singh one after the other.

I had fallen, hook line and sinker!!

The first time I had fallen in love was with P.G.Wodehouse. But in almost a couple of years of finding him, the octogenarian expired plunging me into the depths of sorrow. I would never meet my first love ever again! I vowed never to go abroad. I had had the desire to do so, only to meet him. Now here I was falling like a ton of bricks for another, Jagjit Singh!! I wanted to meet him and hear him sing live, still do of course. It remains an unfulfilled dream still. Sigh.

My Lord and Master and the kiddos are certainly not fans of ghazals. That undoubtedly is a problem. The gentle soul (no wisecracks here if you please!) that I am, not wanting to impose my likings on them I patiently wait for them to leave on their various missions to office or college as the case maybe, to play the music of my choice. That is one advantage of being a full-time parent and homemaker (Catch me wanting to be anything else!!) Having the house to oneself for a few hours a day is sheer bliss. Add to it some music and its nothing but heaven. Solitude and Jagjit Singh. Can you beat the combination?? My work gets done as if by magic, and those fools need a peg to enjoy Jagjit Singh??!! As if you need anything else at all to enjoy his music, other than an excellent music system that is. The music itself is the intoxicant and you need add to that??!

I am not going into anything about any particular album or songs that I like. There are simply too many that I am baffled when asked to choose favorites among them. There I’d be musing on one and another crops up, then another and then yet a different one. It is too tough a job. Suffice to say I love them ALL. Is it any wonder that he is referred to as Amma’s Jagjit Singh by my kids??

Now I know there is this ONE question that is on all of your minds after reading this to which you would like an answer. Shall I tell you what’s bothering you guys?? I love PGW and now I love Jagjit Singh. WHAT ABOUT MOHAN?? is the silent question screaming in your minds. Yeah, him I fell in love with somewhere in between these two. Now it is time for me to get back to my dreams…. there, that’s me you see at this live concert of Jagjitji. I am lost in his music. Mmmmm…. leave me alone. Let me dream!

Reposted from shail-mohan blogs @ sulekha.com

Oh Sita Divine
Mother mine
Won’t you tell your mother
Her love to shower
On a lonely soul
Forlorn and cold…
When in anguish you cried
With her arms opened wide
She took you back home
Never let you roam.
I was not found in Mithila
To be raised by King Janaka
Not traversed dark forests
With Rama and Lakshmana.
No golden deer have I espied
By ten headed Ravana not seized.
Among fearful demons in the asoka grove
I have not grieved awaiting rescue
Yet, please put in a word
For a soul battered
Her warm bosom
To take me in
This unfeeling world
I would leave behind
Swathe myself
In her sweet smelling earth.

- Shail Mohan (Sept 2008)

Reposted from shail-mohan blogs @ sulekha.com

Money, I have heard my parents mention, does not grow on trees. I found the statement to be quite true in subsequent years, for never did I find one with money growing on it. The statement came in quite handy when it was my turn to bring up my own monkeys… err children. “Money does not grow on trees!!” I declared to them in no uncertain tones, eyebrows knit to perfection, whenever there was a clamour for things beyond our shoe-string budget. Yet after all these years, I have reason to think that my parents were wrong and by repeating their wisdom ad nauseam to my monkeys… err children, I have been guilty of perpetuating a gross untruth. Money it seems does grow on trees and in plenty too.

In some mysterious and unknown part of this world unknown to the majority of us, there are chosen ones harvesting money from money trees. It is all sheer guess work I am doing here having not yet seen it with my own eyes, not even on Discovery Channel or the National Geographic. Hence I am willing to concede a point that it could very well be money bushes or even plants or maybe vines twining merrily on supports with money hanging in bunches like grapes do. It goes without saying that the money so grown is in the form of mighty dollars, not your cheap local rupee. Cheee, how could you even think that??!!

I wonder if they are harvested annually or bi-annually. Or does the money tree (or bush or plant or vine) bloom only once in a year like the nishagandhi flower?? Perhaps it’s only once in a blue moon. If so, this must be the blue moon time. For how else is it that I find myself knee deep in requests from unknown strangers eager to offload of their plenty on a total stranger like me, living continents away?? There are a lot of things I desire to have more and more and even more of. Money unfortunately, does not figure anywhere in the list. I am, sadly so, totally content with what I have. Yet I have these strangers literally begging me to accept their millions.

Take Gloria Caldwell for instance. I assure you, I don’t know her from Eve. Sitting in a hospital bed with only a laptop for company in her last moments of her life, she writes to me whom she has never met, entrusting me with fulfilling her one final wish. She is 58 years old. No age to die as yet I know. The poor lady, suffering from terminal cancer, has been written off by her doctor and is all set to take the final plunge. Before she leaves on that final journey she wants me to invest her money, a total of 3.2 million dollars, in any organization of my choice and have the proceeds distributed annually among charity organizations, the poor and the needy. And you thought trust was dead in this world??

She is not the only one though who has approached me with sack-full of money (read dollars). Every other day I am met with a deluge of mails from good Samaritans offering me of their millions, all for free. Then there are those others who knowing how delicate this act of offering money is, tactfully and with due consideration to the vestiges of feelings of pride that may rear its ugly head putting their effort to naught, try to make it look like I have won a lottery. All I have to do to collect the moolah is to reach their choice of destination with the necessary paraphernalia, empty suitcases. Some want the token use of my bank account as a transit point, no doubt to expand the scope of their philanthropic endeavor, in return for which I would be amply rewarded with the green bits of paper.

How altruistic of all these fine specimens of the human variety to want to make me richer by millions!! Imagine such sentiments existing in the very same world where you have next door neighbors who wouldn’t give you the time of the day even if asked ever so sweetly!! The earth is indeed one lovely planet to contain such wonderfully generous people and anyone who tells me otherwise can go burn in hell. Where else will I find such wonderful people who care for nondescript old me, stranger to them, especially when the rest of the planets in the solar system are devoid of humans??

It makes me feel pretty awful about myself as a person, this extreme generosity on their part. Look at me. I don’t let any one touch my pink towel. It is mine, I say stamping my dainty foot indignantly if anyone so much as glances at it. ‘Don’t you dare touch my music CDs, they are mine!!’ I yell when I find them left lying around minus covers. Just the other day I was telling my junior son that he would not, repeat not, take the Sony Cybershot with him to his hostel. It is mine, a gift from my senior son. ‘Do you hear??’ I emphasized, ‘it is M-I-N-E!!’ And all this was happening while good souls out there were tirelessly and unselfishly trying to make me richer by millions, offering me of their plenty all for free!! Almost makes me cringe within thinking what sort of a horrible human being I am. Tears of shame and remorse at my selfish nature fill my eyes.

Tears of shame and remorse may well overflow and wash my soul clean making me a better person. But it does not solve the mystery about the money tree (bush, plant or vine). Where on Earth does it grow?? Who are the chosen ones who harvest it?? Why do they not store it in warehouses built for the purpose for their own future use?? How do they decide who the recipients are?? Is it by divine intervention that they choose whom the money should be offered to or do these mysterious keepers of the magic money tree (bush, plant or vine) use modern methods like searching the net diligently for e-mail addresses that somehow ‘speak’ to them, telling them, so-and-so is worthy and craving for the millions they have harvested?? If so they made a blooper. Sigh. There are many things I want more and more and even more of, but money is not one of them.

Reposted from shail-mohan blogs @ sulekha.com, featured in the ‘creative expressions’ category.

I am cross and positively bristling with indignation, obviously the righteous kind. Well may you ask the reason why. Don’t even dream of telling me to cool down. Ha! Would you be doing that kind sirs and beautiful madams if you were in my shoes?? More likely that I’d find red hot flame spewing forth from your nostrils, not to mention ears with accompanying clouds of smoke which I am sure would not be emanating from blowing on any cancer stick!! Patience Personified (that’s me in case you didn’t know) that I am, I am merely bristling. Imagine the bally cheek of the upstart trying to stop me from entering where I am jolly well entitled to enter. Adding insult to injury baseless accusations are also flung at me for good measure that sting to the core.

Trying circumstances is what I am laboring under right now. How would you feel walking up to your house one fine day and finding not only has the said house locked itself leaving you out in the cold but when you try unlocking it with, mind you, the original and genuine key, you also have the house turn around and accuse you of being a dangerous impostor who has been trying to demolish the house with weapons of mass destruction and so are being prevented from entering the premises. Ahhh! Now you are singing a different tune, aren’t you?? It’s like when what you considered a harmless baa-lamb turns around and bites you in the fleshy part of your anatomy when you least expect it, as Wodehouse would say.

Well that’s exactly what happened to me. Oooops no, I did not get locked out of my house, nor did my adobe accuse me of using weapons of mass destruction on it. I was only asking you to imagine the scenario because that’s exactly how I felt when I was left out in the cold by my own website. ’Error something-or-other’ says the stupid thing to me when I tried to log in. And then, unbelievable as it may seem, it accuses me in a clear-cut manner that I have been spamming my own site. Does it stop there?? Oh no baby!! It goes a step further, the dropped on its head while an infant software that is supposed to care for and protect me. It stops me in my tracks pompously advising me to contact myself to resolve the issue. Preposterous!! I was being asked to take my own permission to access my own website. Do you wonder I bristle?!!

Bad Behavior is the name of the software that is supposed to stop the nefarious activities of spammers. Yet it stops me, Miss Goody Two Shoes. Scandalous!! Hmm… looks like it is living up to its name and instead of stopping the bad guys is being bad itself for a change. Is that all?? You bet it isn’t. Not content with playing the villain, it is also being funny by asking me to upgrade to the latest version of Bad Behavior if the problem persists. Hello there Bad Behavior, excuse me, how am I supposed to upgrade to your latest version if you won’t let me in?? Gotcha there, haven’t I?? Now try and wriggle out of that one.

Sigh. It is alright to thumb my nose at Bad Behavior’s bad behavior. But it remains to be seen whether I will be allowed to post. I will just have to keep my fingers crossed and try my luck. All this leads up to one thing folks. In the future if you don’t find this site being updated with new posts on a regular basis, you know where the problem lies. Bad Behavior is being real bad. Yeah sure, you can rest assured that I’d be bristling with righteous indignation and in addition also resorting to some name calling while hopping from one foot to another mad as a wet hen. I know that’s bad behaviour but good exercise too!! *wink*

Please, no advice on what I can do to solve the problem. This is written in a light-hearted vein.

Working Woman. Interesting words that. What do they mean? The logical conclusion would be a woman who works. Woman. We all know what that means. So lets stick to the other word and find out what it means.

Work says Answers.com, is physical or mental effort or activity directed toward the production or accomplishment of something; scroll down a bit and it says the verb means, to exert one’s mental or physical powers, usually under difficulty and to the point of exhaustion. To the best of my knowledge that about describes what I do day in and day out.

But lets see how good this definition holds in real life.

We have moved to a new locality. I have just finished helping with the unpacking and tidying up. I am sweeping up the debris and move out to the verandah. My neighbor’s head pops up from behind the wall.

“Hello” she says.

“Hello” say I.

Contented chattering for some time.

Suddenly springs the question, “Do you work??”

Well, what did you think I was doing with the broom? About to jump around with it held aloft going “Hoomba Hoomba!!” invoking the Rain Gods?? (I honestly don’t know if screaming Hoomba Hoomba appeases any tribal Rain Gods!)

Now lets move to another scenario.

My husband’s friend, newly posted in to this town is coming home for dinner. He arrives soon enough and there is much talk and merry making. Dinner is served and lavish praises showered on my culinary efforts. Munching contentedly on the after meal meetha saunf, the gentleman asks, “By the way Ma’am, do you work?? My wife does you know!”

Hello, do you think I had a magic wand like Mrs Weasley for dishing up that sumptuous spread you just had??

If you think these are isolated incidents, pray let me correct that erroneous notion of yours. This is only the tip of the iceberg! I have been asked time and again if I work. Do I what…work??

I have been stumped by this repeated question, “Do you work??” “Do you work??” It’s a wonder that I still have a crowning glory left and it has not all been pulled out! Once I even looked up the dictionary to find out if the meaning of the word had changed since the time I had studied it in school so long ago. No, the meaning was the same! People’s perception of what constitutes work seems to have changed!

The aam janta seems to perceive a Working Woman as one rushing off to some distant office in the morning. She may be a bank official, a civil servant, an engineer, a doctor, a clerk, a typist, a sweeper, a construction site worker! Teachers are workingwomen too. Even the ayah in the Aanganwadi is a workingwoman. But the full time parent and homemaker is NOT a working-woman!
Why?? Coz she doesn’t get paid?? Talk about unfairness!!
I wonder if any one has coined a new name for the work SHE does??
A famous woman’s magazine for the woman of substance once had the gall to suggest that homemakers not waste (waste??)their time doing unskilled labor that an ayah could very well do and utilize their time for something better.
Ahaaaa!!!
There you have the catch! This is unskilled work, best left to the maids, huh, while you go seek higher things?! You do then admit you need someone’s help, so that you can be free to pursue your dream!! But then, that someone’s work is not worthy of respect?? So wither goes dignity of labor anyway?? The same thing was packaged in a different way when a cousin of mine told me that her husband asked her to do something worthwhile and leave such (unworthy) work to the menials. Unworthy work, right??
Well, the point is does someone have the right to prefer doing that ‘unworthy work’ (ahhh, there you use the term ‘work’ even if it is unworthy one!!) and not be asked imbecile questions like, ‘Do you work??’

The worst offenders seem to be the NRIs, friends and relatives from the US. Having shifted base and soaked in the new work culture, they seem to have forgotten or pretend to have forgotten what its like back here. They also give the freedom of choice of an individual, the go by.

Trrring…. Trrring…. goes the phone.

“ Hello Chechi! How are you??”

“ Hey Amar/ Akbar/Anthony! How are YOU??”

Blah blah blah… the conversation goes on and on. Then it hits a rough patch.

“Chechi! So what do you do??”

I scratch my head. Do??

“ How do you keep yourself busy??” the hearty voice continues.

I HAVE to ‘keep’ myself busy?!! Aren’t I busy already?? I scratch my head again.

“Well, there’s my house work you know….”

“ Arrey! But what do you do the rest of the time??”

What rest of the time??

“Chechi you must DO something! Don’t waste your time!”

Hmmm….. Am I wasting my time when I do the work I like??

I AM doing a lot of things. I get up at the crack of dawn (Hmmm…. Errr…. may be a little later). I do suryanamaaskar and some yoga; make breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the family. I tidy up after my children, do the dusting, sweeping and mopping the floors. I polish the brass and silver, bathe the dog, put the clothes to dry, fold them and iron them. I do the shopping for my home. Sometimes there is looking up of a sick member of the family to be done. Meanwhile, mails have to be answered, blogs to be read and written too. I may decide to make a decorative pot or engage in etching a design on to an aluminium sheet to be painted and either hung up or gifted away. In between I snatch a few minutes for a Sudoku puzzle or read something. Right now it’s the The Book Seller Of Kabul by Asne Seierstad. In addition there are n number of other jobs, cleaning the bathrooms, fighting the dirt in the nooks and crannies, visitors to be entertained, visits to be made, children picked up…….

Is that enough DOing, I wonder to myself as I just smile and shrug off these passionate pleas from Amar/Akbar/Antony. What they as well as the desi upadeshaks fail to understand is, I LOVE MY WORK! Period.

What I want to explain is:

I am a homemaker by choice. I thought about my priorities in life and decided that I would prefer to be a homemaker with more time at my disposal than money in the bank. Its my life and after all I have the freedom to choose what I want to do. I don’t have anything against the so-called force of working-women of which I am not a part. I wish them well in their chosen life. I respect their decision and the priorities that they have spelt out for themselves. If they can combine home and work and come out a winner, “Good for you!” is what I say to them. I will be the first one to cheer them with an “Attagirl! Well done!” But do not point your finger at me and classify me as a non-worker. I work too, you know. Unless the Oxford dictionary comes up with a new term for the work done by a homemaker, it describes what I do too! Do not give me that condescending smile or the patronizing look. I love my work just as you do yours. Remember (this is for the men too):

EVERY HOMEMAKER IS A WORKING WOMAN TOO!!

Reposted from shail-mohan blogs @sulekha.com

You killed me yesterday

when defenseless I lay

in your arms.

In love with you

longing for you

lost in the depths of your eyes

You killed me yesterday

when defenseless I lay

in your arms.

Your words

sharp as swords

sliced my heart neatly in two.

You killed me yesterday

when defenseless I lay

in your arms.

As I lay bleeding

life ebbing

you said you loved me still.

You killed me yesterday

when defenseless I lay

in your arms.

For the simple mistake

that I was no fake

just too sincere and naïve

You killed me yesterday

when defenseless I lay

in your arms.

The die was cast

and I breathed my last

but do you know I am no more??

You killed me yesterday

when defenseless I lay

in your arms.

Have you noticed yet

I am gone… though with regret

loving you still with my last breath.

-Shail Mohan (July 2008)

Reposted from shail-mohan blogs @ sulekha.com

-  A short story

She was miserable. Her heart felt heavy. The tears ready to flow. He doesn’t love me. I know he doesn’t love me. Loneliness enveloped her. Unbidden dark thoughts filled her mind. Cutting through it, like a ray of sunshine escaping the dark clouds, memories of the times she had felt so close to him stole into her mind, warming her for a moment. She remembered the oneness she felt when they were together. She closed her eyes, basking in its glow, remembering the unalloyed joy. How happy she had felt with him!!

The clouds closed in again shutting off the ray of sunshine. Why did she feel miserable now?? Her throat ached. There seemed to be something stuck there. The tears stung her eyes, threatening to flow. Does he love me the same way now?? Will he love me the same way in the days to come?? Will he leave me?? How would I even bear it if he did?? Misery spread through her whole being at the thought and made her feel more wretched. She let her tears flow. She could not hold them back any longer. She was glad no one was around. Or else she would have had to force them in for much longer.

She walked aimlessly from room to room. There was so much she had to do. Her work was piling up. But she did not feel like doing anything. Outside, it had started to rain again. She stopped by the window watching the rain. The pitter-patter of the raindrops on the leaves usually uplifted her, making her heart dance with joy. Today the sound only made her feel depressed. Why had she done it?? Why had she given her heart?? She stood with unseeing eyes trying to analyze her feelings. Why had she believed again?? She had learnt some bitter lessons early on in life. Never again, she had promised herself. My heart is mine. It shall not be given to anyone. Had she spoken too soon??

He had come along one fine day and she lost herself to him. Why?? Why did she lose her heart to him?? She had guarded it so well for so long. What had she seen in that first look to make it so special?? I want to know this man more. What made her give him a second look, then a third, a fourth, a fifth…and finally decide against odds that she wanted to know him after all?? Against all odds, it had been. The dice was loaded against her ever agreeing to meet someone like him. She had thrown caution to the winds and broken her own iron clad unwritten rules. There had been no good reason she could console herself with for doing so.

She remembered his perseverance. She had loved it. She loved the way he talked, the way he made her laugh. She had felt some unknown force propelling her to him. I want to be with him. She found herself inextricably drawn. What was it that made them connect so easily?? Was it because they laughed over the same things?? Was it because they loved to do the same things?? Was it because they had the same thoughts?? Was it because they found it so easy to talk to each other?? Was it their ability to read each other’s minds?? Or was it because they just enjoyed being with each other?? It was always heaven to be with him. He charmed her to distraction. He made her feel so alive. He made her smile. He made her feel like a woman all over. He made her love life again. But did he really love her??

Insecurities plagued her mind. Why was it so difficult for her to believe?? Was it so improbable that he loved her?? She struggled for an answer. Doubt reared its ugly head in her and the tears stung again. She did not even attempt to stop them this time. She sobbed silently succumbing to her own fears. Why was she so afraid now?? She had been so happy earlier. Why had fear intruded?? Was it because she had lost her heart completely to him?? She felt defenseless now. She had fallen in love. She had given herself up to him. She had lost control of her life. And now she was afraid, really afraid. She feared rejection. She feared loss. Flames of uncertainty consumed her every moment. Has he changed?? Was he changing?? Will he leave me?? Will I lose him?? I cannot go on. I cannot live in this uncertainty. She was being pulled apart, in all directions. It was tearing up her insides. She berated herself for her stupidity in falling in love. Why did I have to give my heart??

She stood watching the rain. The tears had now dried on her face. She felt empty. I must make a decision. I just cannot continue living this way. She felt all churned up. I can’t bear this pain any longer. She had to decide one way or other. Did she have a choice really?? Hadn’t she surrendered her heart to him?? Weren’t they as one?? How could she wrench herself away?? Wouldn’t it be like cutting her own heart in two?? How would she bear that pain?? What else can I do?? I do love him so much. I don’t know how I will live without him. She knew how empty the days would seem without meeting him or talking to him. But the unsurety of it all was killing her. I will cut myself off.

She walked to the sink and doused her face with some cold water. Her decision had been made. She wanted neither the happiness nor the pain. She would give up both. It was going to hurt so much. Today she would tell him that this could not go on. She had to leave, go back to her bland world, her island, where no feelings touched her, where she was in control. She sat there, lost in thoughts, waiting for the time they would meet next.
.
.
.
.

The phone rang bringing her out of her reverie. She dragged her feet listlessly and picked up the phone.
“Hello!!” came his voice.
Her heart skipped a beat. It sang. The sun suddenly burst through the dark clouds, lighting up every nook and cranny of her life. She could see a rainbow in the distance, its vibrant colors wiping away the grays. Her eyes sparkled. Her pulse raced. Unknown to her a smile spread across her face. Each and every cell in her body was alive. In a soft whisper she replied,
“Hi darling…”

Show-cased post from shail-mohan blogs @ sulekha.com