I've been promising to write this post for a long time now. Just to clear any doubts, I am not pregnant again, I am still recovering from the first one.
Disclaimer: Extreme content, reading of which may cause shock, blackouts and a possible gut wrench.
Double Disclaimer for the Pregnant Girls: Don't read this. If you're still reading this, beware, content may induce labour; keep your emergency contact informed.
It's been about four years since I found out I was pregnant, was a hormonal bitch, ate anything and everything that came my way, grew from being a huge cow to an enormous whale and then finally popped. I wish the popping bit was just as easy but no, here come the gory details. Have I mentioned before that I remember everything about my delivery? And no amount of watching birthing videos and burying your head in 'what to expect' can prepare you for this. For one, 'what to expect' makes childbirth sound easy and never tells you about the bitching pain that is labour. You'd think popping the baby would be the most difficult part right? Newsflash, it isn't.
Let me take you through what happened that day.
At about 11:30 at night, on the 15th of Dec, I felt an acute pain. But it came like a flash and was gone. When you read so much about pregnancy, you automatically analyse symptoms and then come to the conclusion that it is false labour and there is no need to panic or rush to the hospital. It could also be gas and to save yourself embarrassment you call it false labour and stay put at home. Half an hour later the pain came again, don't worry I won't be taking you through a half hourly tour of my ordeal. From about one in the morning (16th Dec) it became a little more frequent, so I decided to go to the hospital, just in case. I was very sure that the nurse would send me away saying it was false labour, but instead I was given a hospital gown, after being thoroughly prodded.
I thought,'This is not bad, the baby should be coming out maybe in another hour or two, tops'. Wrong again! The pains were now getting rough to handle and I was crouching like somebody had punched me in the stomach. I heard a few women in the labour ward screaming, like they were having Rosemary's baby and not their own.
I decided to remain calm, not cry, not scream and have a dignified birthing process. All of those things when right out of the window when the doctor decided to induce me with a drug from hell. You see it was twelve o clock in the afternoon, I was supposedly having frequent contractions since one o clock that morning and nothing really had progressed in eleven hours. That means, the doctor saw that I was not in 'enough' pain and decided to give me some more.
After twelve o clock, I am sure I was in hell and all the nurses and doctors were the minions of the devil doing his bidding, by ignoring my cries and pleas for the epidural. I actually begged for it, I am not making this up. Every time I asked for the drugs, my sheet would go up, there would be some prodding and a curt 'Now is not the time'. I think they were waiting for the time of the Blood Moon, the reverse eclipse, to offer me as a sacrifice. I kind of knew that at some time during my labour I would be reduced to a crying and screaming state, but begging, that too for drugs, now that was the low point.
And then there was this lady in a bed next to mine, who was moaning; the sounds were like sex noises but the labour ward, if anything, can definitely not turn you on. After about 20 minutes of some more moaning she was whisked away to the delivery room to have a baby! Here I was, the screaming, begging lunatic, with no sign of a baby coming out in the near future watching a slightly moaning lady being taken to the delivery room. 'She needs to be in more pain', I thought.
Anyway, at four o clock, after four hours of relentless labour, and still no baby, I heard the word,'epidural'. I was taken to the delivery room and pricked in the spine, but was way too exhausted to feel any pain. Then I felt this cool flow throughout my spine and the pain was magically disappearing. The doctor then tells me, that I would not be receiving a 100% epidural only 75% so that I would be able to cooperate with the nurses when it was time to push the baby out. I thought, 'Oh 75% can't be that bad, what is 25% of pain, should be alright.' Wrong yet again! This party keeps getting better.
The epidural gave me some relief though and I was feeling better. Of course, being in no pain is always a wonderful feeling. Santhosh came in around that time, he drove from Bangalore and came straight to the hospital; When he saw me all the blood drained from his face. It probably looked like the hell hounds got me but I was actually now relaxed and feeling rested, some drugs are just wonderful. I don't think he would've lasted even one minute if he had seen me in the state I had just come out of. If he stayed longer I am sure he would be in a hospital bed being treated for extreme shock and probably nausea.
Now that the idiot doctor had given me only 75% of the epidural, after 2 hours the pain was back. That pain was now concentrated on the left side of my hip, because it was supposedly reduced to 25%. It was so terrible that I thought my pancreas and left kidney would be coming out along with the baby. The screaming, crying and begging started all over again and went on for another three and a half hours.
What happened in those three and a half hours and the miracle that is birth, in my next post.
Friday, June 07, 2013
Wednesday, June 05, 2013
Coffee Shop Talk
Just when I thought I'd be posting regularly here. Oh well, old habits die hard. Also, I think this old blog needs a new look. It's oh so coffee shop, all beige and warm and so cosy that you can sit there all day lost in a book drinking a large cup of extra hot coffee that will last you long enough to keep you contained in the chair which is actually a mini couch. Err, I'm sorry, I guess I am in love with coffee shops and small cafes and that is why I haven't had the heart to change the way this page looks. And these kind of ruminations give rise to uncomfortably long sentences.
Do you enjoy your melancholy time in a coffee shop or have had that now lost pleasure and miss it? I know I have and do I miss it. Come to think of it, my daughter and husband are both gone during the day, I can brew myself a mean cup of coffee, I have a fairly comfortable couch and books all around. Why then do I not get that "feeling". Do you know what I'm talking about or is this just nonsensical babble to you. I know I'd be happier reading my book in that coffee shop than at home. But nowadays, that coffee shop is a far cry even though one just opened next door (I'm not making this up) and the majority of my reading is done in the public transport and my comfortable bed which puts me to sleep before I have read two pages, ok maybe fifteen, but that's not enough reading for a day.
One year, which was a long time ago, I was at Starbucks almost every weekend, eyeing my favourite chair while I waited to get my coffee and sandwich. I didn't think Starbucks made the best coffee, but it provided me with the most suitable ambience. It had the lovely smells, the best couches, tiny enough to be cosy and large enough not to be stamped on while the new guy goes scouting for a seat.
Have you heard about the "Starbucks Posers", apparently they are the ones who bring their work to the coffee shop, drinking their coffee and pretending to work. I hope we bookworms are not on that list.
Today as I was just getting out of the mall, I saw the familiar lady against the green background. I know there is no Starbucks in Oslo, but there was no mistaking this lady. I had to make a choice between picking up Kicky from kindergarten and checking out the newly opened coffee place. Of course, I was going to pick Kicky. I checked the Internet once I got home and it was true. Starbucks was here.
Does that mean I am going to be have a tryst every weekend with a tall, extra hot, cappuccino? Not likely, but it warrants one visit for old time's sake.
Saturday, January 26, 2013
Running in Slow Motion
I have started running again. Yes again. Believe me, if I had a fancy phone that would track my runs and publish it on Facebook, you would be getting my progress report complete with miles run, calories burnt, average speed and how far I've travelled around the world with my running; Kavisha has now travelled from Oslo to Timbuktu in 18 days, 23 hours and 57 seconds. That's just an illustration I don't run that fast. And why Timbuktu, for one it has a nice (read funny) ring to its name, don't you think so. I'm sure it's a lovely place and all, but I'm ashamed to admit that in my younger days I thought it was a make belief land. I can't be totally blamed though, if we were annoyed with someone we'd tell them to take a flight (actually a "flying + profanity rhyming with duck") to Timbuktu. "Timbuktu" was the new "Hell"; so can you now see the logic of it being mistaken for a make belief place.
So yes I was running for about four months till it got too cold to run outside; I am a master at making up excuses. At -15 degrees and slippery ice, people are still running outside here, I say their brains need to go under the scanner.
About 5 months ago when I heard the couch groaning and the phrase "I have nothing to wear" was fast becoming a prophecy about to come true, I got desperate. I was not yet ready to give up on my gastronomic indulgences, so when I stumbled on a running plan that promised to get me running for 30 minutes at the end of nine weeks, I thought, this is what I need. There were so many podcasts for this programme, I was getting dizzy with choices. Do I pick Laura with the nice and encouraging voice, or Dmitri who made a certain dictator from the world war 2 look like an angel. Yeah, I picked sweet Laura who understood my pain and urged me to keep going even though my legs were on fire and there were paramedics on standby thinking I was going to have a heart attack.
It was almost the end of summer when I started running; of course we have summers here, for a whole two months! My first run was, obviously, excruciating; I had to run for a whole minute at a stretch, followed by seven more of these minutes with recovery walks in between. And if your behind has been as much on the couch as mine has, that minute can be the worst minute of your life. But sweet Laura egged me on and told me that everything was going to be alright; I had no choice but to believe her.
Did I mention summers here are not always sun and hay, there is rain too, lots of it. And guess what, yes people here run in the rain too. I was inspired, and ran in the rain as well and was soaked right down to the last piece of clothing on my body. But I kept on, along with Laura, feeling exhilarated with the rain in my face and literally every inch of me (err... are the Laura references getting a little too gay, I'll stop)
While I was running outside I was under the illusion that I was running like the wind. And why wouldn't I, my heart was almost beating out of my chest, and my legs were just short of going up in flames (coyote and roadrunner style). But when temperatures started to drop I took to running inside a stadium, which has featured in an Olympics (yes, winter Olympics) and is about less than half a sprint away from my apartment. It was in there that I realised I wasn't actually "running". My "running" was at best "jogging", that too in slow motion. Inside the stadium which has a circular track, there were some people going past me more than three times in one lap. Either they were three spawns of the same mother or it was one person just running "fast". Not to be disheartened I told myself that I was still a newbie runner, with extra baggage, which is a huge slowing down factor.
There will be a time when I will run like the wind; if that's even possible, but isn't it oh so poetic.
So for now, I am going to pretend to be the fastest runner there ever was, for the half an hour I run for, breaking my own small records and probably a little bit of the ground I run on too.
Friday, January 25, 2013
Spring Cleaning
So two days ago I decided to do a little bit of spring cleaning. Well it's not spring yet, it's just that I decided to spring right off the couch, in what seemed like months, and decided to clean. Hey I clean my house, superficially, whatever meets the eye and my damned allergies. You can't lie to your allergies, they know when you haven't got the vacuum cleaner running for a while. Also, the couch doesn't lie, talk about truth fairies. That deep imprint in one of the cushions, what I like to call the warm spot, is going to stay a while; you can say the couch is now probably scarred for life.
I was actually missing a few things, like my old phone; which I am keeping alive (barely) only because it has all my contacts on it; and I haven't managed (that means too lazy) to transfer them to my new phone. Ah my new phone, touch screen and all. If you've been an owner of a touch screen phone for a while now don't feel bad for me, my phone is new (that means better), so let me enjoy the sweet taste of technology.
But my old phone is the damned epitome of 'superhero can't die'. Fallen down the stairs, on the road, flung against the wall, which now has a dent, and in a pot of boiling water (don't try it, that's a sure shot way of killing your phone); also the last bit didn't happen to my phone I just added it for dramatic effect. But you get the picture, the incredible hulk of phones, only blue.
Like I was saying, my incredible hulk phone was missing. If you're thinking, I could've just called it and found out, wrong answer. There was no SIM in it and so untraceable. Among other things I was missing writing instruments too. I don't know if it has happened to you, but no matter how many pens and pencils we bring into the house they always, I mean always go missing. Do the elves now need them for their paperwork? Or is there another fairy for these things, who's just taking them and not leaving us any change.
Also, Kicky has been asking me for a week now, "Mama, where is my lemon? Have you seen my lemon?" Apparently she wanted to cook it for me, in her kitchen, yum. Of course its plastic, I am not eating cooked lemons for dessert.
Now if you have so many things missing and a 3 year old's incessant questions about her lemon, something needs to be done. Best place to look, in and under the couch. I moved the couch first, with my bare hands and feeling a bit like Mr.Incredible, and well what do you know. There was my phone, still charged and working; I mean I could view my contacts and set it up as a timer for when I'm baking, old phone = new kitchen timer. Along with it I found, Kicky's lemon, a little dusty but with one good wipe was good to go into the pot. There was also a very dry ball of blue fondant, which was now definitely past its expiration date and not on my list of missing things. Once the dust bunnies under the couch were exterminated, it was time to look into the couch. It's probably a bit like a prostrate exam, which I have just heard about btw, you strip the couch naked and poke and prod the insides till you find something. And yes, I did find pens, pencils, change (there must be fairy after all), crayons, hair clips (which also always go missing in our house) and dried fruits and nuts (something was having a party in there).
After cleaning and solving the case of the missing things (talk about two birds), it was time to get back on to the couch. The cushions switched places, so I could sit where I always sit, do what I always do and also give the underused cushion a "face lift", now that's ironic.
Sunday, January 20, 2013
And Another Resurrection
This blog could start a whole new religion at the rate it keeps being resurrected. Oh, I am allowed to say things like that. I have braved Sunday masses, dissected conspiratorial sermons and endured so called charismatic retreats, the ones where people start talking (read insanely babbling) in spiritual tongues.
So my attempt to start a food blog was not very successful; that means I have been too lazy to write, but I will call it lack of inspiration. I still cook though, I have to, I have a family to feed i.e my husband and toddler. The latter though will hardly touch anything I bake and most Indian food gets a suspicious look and a condescending sniff; sometimes it comes with a "What is that?" asked with a crinkled nose. But meat is devoured devoutly whatever the cuisine.
The last time I was here, I was telling you about my wonderful pregnant adventure. It's been 3 years since I was last pregnant, and no, I don't miss being in that state. In fact, I was supposed to write about the whole baby being born thing and I will. But if you are pregnant or planning to have a baby, I suggest you don't put it on your reading list. I do not fall into the category of women who has forgotten the birthing ordeal or who believes in the divine miracle that is birth. In a way it is a miracle, but far from being divine. If my husband was strong enough to be in the birthing room with a video camera I am sure some of the scenes would be reminiscent of The Exorcist, complete with the spitting and swearing and the rest of the gooey stuff.
And here are some facts for the record, even though my facebook page tells my life story:
1. Kicky is now 3 and going to school - I know she was just a baby when you last saw her.
2. Kicky is Innika, and if I haven't yet told you the story of why we call her that, I'll just post it as an entry on this blog.
3. I am yet to shed the weight I put on during my childbearing months, all 20 kilos of it.
4. We moved, yet again; but countries this time. We have been in Oslo for about a year now and have learnt to enjoy ourselves at -15 degrees.
5. Also 22 degrees is now hot, not warm, hot.
6. I watched 3 Bollywood movies in the cinema in 2012 in Oslo; an all time high over the past 10 years. People change.
7. Ek Tha Tiger was on that list of movies; no, I didn't have a lobotomy.
8. Resurrecting this blog was not a new year's resolution. I don't remember the last time I made a new year's resolution, and I haven't resolved not to make new year's resolutions.
I think that's quite enough facts, any more and I am going to sound like a self indulgent female canine; but isn't that the whole point of blogs. Until next time, ta!
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
The Pregnancy Diaries: The Cookie Monster
Did you know that when you're pregnant you mysteriously turn into the cookie monster? I lived in denial for a few months but when my doctor told me that I needed to go on a diet, that too while pregnant, I had to admit it. On the pretext of "cravings" and "I have to eat for two people now", the cookie monster demanded chocolate chip cookies at midnight and BLT Sandwiches for breakfast; of course it all depended on what the baby was asking for at the time, I couldn't ignore that could I. Now if you think the cookie monster was just being a complete ravenous pig and randomly stuffing its face, you're wrong. There were phases, like on some full moons the monster had to have its steak 'blue'.
Up until two months I had no cravings at all; well it was already a month before I found out I was preggers and the month following that the fact that I was preggers was just sinking in. So when you're starting your 3rd month it's perfect for cravings because now everyone's been given the "good news" and with the hormones working full time everyone's just better off doing what they're told i.e supplying the monster food everyday.
It started one day with a bar of Cadbury's Fruit and Nut, which was innocently picked up during grocery shopping. The next day another one mysteriously found its way into my handbag; it must've hopped in at the bakery while I was not looking. These bars then started showing up at my house and to destroy all evidence of its existence were promptly devoured. Then when I would run out of stock (these bars sometimes got lazy and just stopped showing up) the husband would get a call to pick up some on his way back.
This phase lasted about 3 weeks and then I went cold turkey on the Fruit & Nut bars; no more chocolate for me, it was time to bring on the meat. In the month following the Fruit & Nut phase, the demographics of domestic herbivores reported a sharp downward trend. Before 'Vegetarians R Us' and PETA could stage a demonstration in front of my house I switched to Biriyanis, mostly Chicken but since the fowl was also consumed with huge amounts of rice I didn't look so bad. I didn't eat the biriyanis everyday though I wanted them. One night I had cooked soggy dal for dinner, yet again, (When all you want to do is sleep after getting back from work, soggy dal it is. I didn't sprout an extra pair of hands that looked like ladles when no one was looking) and of course one look at it made me crave for my new found love, biriyani. So hubby gets a call to pick up biriyani on his way back from work. So while he was eating the soggy dal that I had so lovingly prepared I was wolfing down the biriyani. I did save him some leftovers though.
If anyone knows what you want to eat when you're pregnant, its Mama. Without my asking I would receive parcels of the yummiest Mangalorean food. She would generously send enough to feed even my neighbours, but we all know where that went. There were 'Garios', fried balls made of primarily jackfruit pulp and rice flour; 'Patholis' which are steamed rolls that come in two versions, one out jackfuit pulp, rice flour and coconut and the other out of jaggery and coconut wrapped in a rice flour paste. Also, Mangalorean preparations of Pork and beef were sent my way every other week; there was PETA ready to strike again. Everyday the cookie monster religiously raided her fridge and made sure that these parcels of love (and loads of calories) fulfilled their purpose.
But all of your pregnancy cannot be one huge gastronomical party. Enter the husband. Though I was taken out for gelatos (double the cost of an ice cream but healthier and less fat you see) at night and Italian whenever I heard Pavarotti on the radio, I was made to eat my fruits. Now bananas and oranges are the low maintenance ones, you take the whole fruit to work, wash, peel and eat, done. I had no qualms about these, these I would put into my lunch bag with a song. And if you're thinking what else can piss off this old gal, I'll tell you, its the Pomegranate. For everyday of my pregnant life I have eaten on an average two pomegranates, not because I loved them but because my husband made me. And no, he was not the one painstakingly peeling the damn things and packing them into the tupperware. One morning I went to work with what I thought was my pristine white shirt, not realising that my shirt looked like it had got the measles, there were pomegranate juice squirts all over it. After that I had to wake up an hour earlier than normal because you have to peel these things with either no clothes on, which would prompt my maid to run away from the job with no notice at all or at a meter's distance which made the peeling process quite impossible. Almost everyday I had nightmares of a giant pomegranate shooting its arils (yes thats what the things inside are called) at me in a white shirt. At the rate I was eating this fruit there was a slight chance that I would be giving birth to a baby covered with arils and would have to later explain them as birthmarks. That year pomegranate sales were at an all time high and my local fruit vendor apparently built a mansion and bought himself a Harley.
You'd think a person can eat only so much and I probably broke records which I didn't know of. But what better time to do that without feeling guilty eh? Now if I ask for ice cream at midnight it'll be received with an incoherent mumble and a possible kick in the shins.
Up until two months I had no cravings at all; well it was already a month before I found out I was preggers and the month following that the fact that I was preggers was just sinking in. So when you're starting your 3rd month it's perfect for cravings because now everyone's been given the "good news" and with the hormones working full time everyone's just better off doing what they're told i.e supplying the monster food everyday.
It started one day with a bar of Cadbury's Fruit and Nut, which was innocently picked up during grocery shopping. The next day another one mysteriously found its way into my handbag; it must've hopped in at the bakery while I was not looking. These bars then started showing up at my house and to destroy all evidence of its existence were promptly devoured. Then when I would run out of stock (these bars sometimes got lazy and just stopped showing up) the husband would get a call to pick up some on his way back.
This phase lasted about 3 weeks and then I went cold turkey on the Fruit & Nut bars; no more chocolate for me, it was time to bring on the meat. In the month following the Fruit & Nut phase, the demographics of domestic herbivores reported a sharp downward trend. Before 'Vegetarians R Us' and PETA could stage a demonstration in front of my house I switched to Biriyanis, mostly Chicken but since the fowl was also consumed with huge amounts of rice I didn't look so bad. I didn't eat the biriyanis everyday though I wanted them. One night I had cooked soggy dal for dinner, yet again, (When all you want to do is sleep after getting back from work, soggy dal it is. I didn't sprout an extra pair of hands that looked like ladles when no one was looking) and of course one look at it made me crave for my new found love, biriyani. So hubby gets a call to pick up biriyani on his way back from work. So while he was eating the soggy dal that I had so lovingly prepared I was wolfing down the biriyani. I did save him some leftovers though.
If anyone knows what you want to eat when you're pregnant, its Mama. Without my asking I would receive parcels of the yummiest Mangalorean food. She would generously send enough to feed even my neighbours, but we all know where that went. There were 'Garios', fried balls made of primarily jackfruit pulp and rice flour; 'Patholis' which are steamed rolls that come in two versions, one out jackfuit pulp, rice flour and coconut and the other out of jaggery and coconut wrapped in a rice flour paste. Also, Mangalorean preparations of Pork and beef were sent my way every other week; there was PETA ready to strike again. Everyday the cookie monster religiously raided her fridge and made sure that these parcels of love (and loads of calories) fulfilled their purpose.
But all of your pregnancy cannot be one huge gastronomical party. Enter the husband. Though I was taken out for gelatos (double the cost of an ice cream but healthier and less fat you see) at night and Italian whenever I heard Pavarotti on the radio, I was made to eat my fruits. Now bananas and oranges are the low maintenance ones, you take the whole fruit to work, wash, peel and eat, done. I had no qualms about these, these I would put into my lunch bag with a song. And if you're thinking what else can piss off this old gal, I'll tell you, its the Pomegranate. For everyday of my pregnant life I have eaten on an average two pomegranates, not because I loved them but because my husband made me. And no, he was not the one painstakingly peeling the damn things and packing them into the tupperware. One morning I went to work with what I thought was my pristine white shirt, not realising that my shirt looked like it had got the measles, there were pomegranate juice squirts all over it. After that I had to wake up an hour earlier than normal because you have to peel these things with either no clothes on, which would prompt my maid to run away from the job with no notice at all or at a meter's distance which made the peeling process quite impossible. Almost everyday I had nightmares of a giant pomegranate shooting its arils (yes thats what the things inside are called) at me in a white shirt. At the rate I was eating this fruit there was a slight chance that I would be giving birth to a baby covered with arils and would have to later explain them as birthmarks. That year pomegranate sales were at an all time high and my local fruit vendor apparently built a mansion and bought himself a Harley.
You'd think a person can eat only so much and I probably broke records which I didn't know of. But what better time to do that without feeling guilty eh? Now if I ask for ice cream at midnight it'll be received with an incoherent mumble and a possible kick in the shins.
Friday, April 08, 2011
Cricket Fever
Last week I caught Cricket fever, I was definitely running a temperature, couldn't eat (now that's a lie), couldn't sleep and most definitely that week my blood was blue; just that week, I am no princess. So obviously I had to ignore my blog and concentrate on the eleven men, 22 actually, playing the game.
What is it about India-Pak matches. The energy is different, the tension is super high and no matter what, your team cannot lose. You're thinking, "They can't lose this match man!", no one ever says, "They have gotta win this one".
I was at the stadium when India played Pakistan in 1996 at Bangalore. I was 16, (ok I would turn 17 that May, but till then I was still 16), cricket crazy, in love with the Indian cricket team and when my Dad told me that he had tickets to the Quarter final I did back flips and somersaults followed by what can only be described as an ancient tribal dance to please the god of love. This is all figuratively speaking of course, I don't know how to perform somersaults or back flips.
Two days before the match Dad tells me that he has to be in Madras for a meeting; who the hell schedules meetings when India is playing Pakistan in a World Cup! I thought what a jinx, I probably overdid the tribal dance bit. But I was not going to go down easy, I told Dad (and the god of love) I am going to watch the match no matter what (even if I had to dance naked). I assured Dad that he had nothing to worry about, I was capable of taking care of myself and if anybody tried anything funny I'd pummel him to death with my Coke bottle (the cola drink that is, not the illegal substance). To remind you, that year the official drinks sponsor was Coca Cola, though I don't think anyone remembers that; Pepsi was still on top after the "Nothing official about it" campaign they ran.
So on the 9th of March 1996, a zitty teenager with a limited fashion sense sporting a beret (I needed a hat didn't I), a summer dress and a pair of shoes that looked like work boots, (the guy who sold me those said they looked chic, the ruddy illegitimate offspring of a spurious father), was all set to watch India take on Pakistan in a World Cup quarter final. That day was surely something special. We cheered the Indians and booed the Pakistanis, empty coke bottles were used as percussion instruments, I hugged strangers because that's what I do during world cup matches and was just short of performing the tribal dance again. And yes, India won the match and it looked like the whole stadium needed to be sent to the loony bin and when I walked out of the stadium it seemed like the whole of Bangalore needed a trip to the loony bin as well. This is what I'd call a crazy atmosphere; people dancing on the road, some semi nude, fire crackers being burst right in the middle of the road with ongoing slow moving traffic and swarms and swarms of fans screaming their heads off, nothing intelligent, just screaming, most people couldn't get over the shock of India winning the match. Among all this, I was floating. It was surreal, there was frenzy everywhere and I was smiling like a damn fool (I must've looked pretty darned stoned) and floating.
Nothing much has changed since that world cup to this one, except that I am not a teenager anymore and I lost the beret right after that match; the work boots were mistaken for dinner by my dog one day, and since I hate wearing shoes with my heels and toes showing they got thrown out. Other than that I am still a cricket crazy girl and was bordering on delirium when India took on Pakistan once again in the World Cup. When the Indians came on to bat we were cheering and screaming so frantically, Kicky thought that her aunt and Mom had gone quite insane; but after we showed her the hand routine that follows a 4 (yes, the char run ka ishara) she joined the madness as well.
Towards the end of the match however my nerves were a ruddy tangled mess; how do these players manage to look so calm. I just couldn't watch the last few overs of the match and nearly had my t-shirt for dinner. The things these games make you eat! But all was well in the end, India ruled once again, my t-shirt just seemed a tad chewed on and I screamed so loudly out of joy that my husband still can't hear out of his left ear.
If that's what a semi final could do to me, then the final would have to send me to a hospital. I chanted the rosary after a 15 year sabbatical and the virgin probably said a hail mary herself. After the first half I had a headache from all the tension and praying and needed a cup of tea. The praying was resumed after the break and when it seemed like it was not working I went back to chewing on my clothes. I guess the chewing worked because India won the cup. I guess I'll keep my chewed on clothes as a souvenir, it could be the lucky charm for the next world cup.
What is it about India-Pak matches. The energy is different, the tension is super high and no matter what, your team cannot lose. You're thinking, "They can't lose this match man!", no one ever says, "They have gotta win this one".
I was at the stadium when India played Pakistan in 1996 at Bangalore. I was 16, (ok I would turn 17 that May, but till then I was still 16), cricket crazy, in love with the Indian cricket team and when my Dad told me that he had tickets to the Quarter final I did back flips and somersaults followed by what can only be described as an ancient tribal dance to please the god of love. This is all figuratively speaking of course, I don't know how to perform somersaults or back flips.
Two days before the match Dad tells me that he has to be in Madras for a meeting; who the hell schedules meetings when India is playing Pakistan in a World Cup! I thought what a jinx, I probably overdid the tribal dance bit. But I was not going to go down easy, I told Dad (and the god of love) I am going to watch the match no matter what (even if I had to dance naked). I assured Dad that he had nothing to worry about, I was capable of taking care of myself and if anybody tried anything funny I'd pummel him to death with my Coke bottle (the cola drink that is, not the illegal substance). To remind you, that year the official drinks sponsor was Coca Cola, though I don't think anyone remembers that; Pepsi was still on top after the "Nothing official about it" campaign they ran.
So on the 9th of March 1996, a zitty teenager with a limited fashion sense sporting a beret (I needed a hat didn't I), a summer dress and a pair of shoes that looked like work boots, (the guy who sold me those said they looked chic, the ruddy illegitimate offspring of a spurious father), was all set to watch India take on Pakistan in a World Cup quarter final. That day was surely something special. We cheered the Indians and booed the Pakistanis, empty coke bottles were used as percussion instruments, I hugged strangers because that's what I do during world cup matches and was just short of performing the tribal dance again. And yes, India won the match and it looked like the whole stadium needed to be sent to the loony bin and when I walked out of the stadium it seemed like the whole of Bangalore needed a trip to the loony bin as well. This is what I'd call a crazy atmosphere; people dancing on the road, some semi nude, fire crackers being burst right in the middle of the road with ongoing slow moving traffic and swarms and swarms of fans screaming their heads off, nothing intelligent, just screaming, most people couldn't get over the shock of India winning the match. Among all this, I was floating. It was surreal, there was frenzy everywhere and I was smiling like a damn fool (I must've looked pretty darned stoned) and floating.
Nothing much has changed since that world cup to this one, except that I am not a teenager anymore and I lost the beret right after that match; the work boots were mistaken for dinner by my dog one day, and since I hate wearing shoes with my heels and toes showing they got thrown out. Other than that I am still a cricket crazy girl and was bordering on delirium when India took on Pakistan once again in the World Cup. When the Indians came on to bat we were cheering and screaming so frantically, Kicky thought that her aunt and Mom had gone quite insane; but after we showed her the hand routine that follows a 4 (yes, the char run ka ishara) she joined the madness as well.
Towards the end of the match however my nerves were a ruddy tangled mess; how do these players manage to look so calm. I just couldn't watch the last few overs of the match and nearly had my t-shirt for dinner. The things these games make you eat! But all was well in the end, India ruled once again, my t-shirt just seemed a tad chewed on and I screamed so loudly out of joy that my husband still can't hear out of his left ear.
If that's what a semi final could do to me, then the final would have to send me to a hospital. I chanted the rosary after a 15 year sabbatical and the virgin probably said a hail mary herself. After the first half I had a headache from all the tension and praying and needed a cup of tea. The praying was resumed after the break and when it seemed like it was not working I went back to chewing on my clothes. I guess the chewing worked because India won the cup. I guess I'll keep my chewed on clothes as a souvenir, it could be the lucky charm for the next world cup.
Monday, March 28, 2011
The Pregnancy Diaries: The Queen of Bad Times
Pregnancy can be hard; not can be, it is hard. The first four months were particularly hard for me. If you think I spent mornings with my head steeped in the toilet bowl, then you can spare the "I know how it feels" speech. Actually, I belonged to the group who saw no morning or evening sickness.
But that doesn't mean I didn't have any aversions. One particular brand of instant noodles made me go green and extremely nauseous. So while the whole family would enjoy a Sunday evening snack of instant noodles I'd stand in the balcony, which didn't overlook the pool but a huge dumping ground for garbage, waiting for everyone to finish and destroy all traces of the nauseating factor before they called me back in. Actually the foul smell emanating from the garbage was much more appealing than the instant noodles at that time.
Another nauseating factor was a particular brand of my sister's perfume. One day she was strutting around the house wearing this perfume and I was watching a food show whilst suddenly feeling extremely nauseous. It was either the food show or the perfume. The poor girl got told off for wearing the perfume, which I actually loved before and was sent to her room; what?! only until I was done watching the food show. Another time she was getting dressed for a party and there was that nauseous feeling again. She had worn "the" perfume. The poor girl stayed put in her room the whole time until her friend came to pick her up. That perfume was probably FedEx'ed to a tribal woman in Timbuktu. She didn't want to tick me off again and be resigned to the fate of being jailed in her room a third time.
Nausea is one thing; but being hormonal is a totally different streak. To compensate for not having any morning sickness, my hormones decided to have the cake and it eat it too. Now normally I do tend to get a little cranky and I have to agree that there is definitely a hint of nastiness in my nature. But the pregnancy hormones cranked up these things to a whole new level. The Queen of Bad Times had arrived. Who bore the brunt of these hormones? First the husband of course; I thought he'd divorce me at the end of nine months. I was actually surprised at how nasty I could be. Any question he asked was always returned with a retort, nothing witty, just plain mean.
Him: Are you feeling alright?
Me: None of your business
Him: Are you going to work today?
Me: None of your business
Him: Do you want me to pick you up from work?
Me: Just stop asking me stupid questions ok!
At first he'd ask me why I was behaving like a total lunatic. That would be met by a long winded speech on insensitivity, ignorance and how men had the best deal in all of this. But he learnt fast. I was still the lunatic but he took it in his stride and would not say a word. It's a wonder that he didn't go insane at the end of it all; all that pent up frustration I was causing him was definitely not easy to subdue.
My immediate family were not spared 'the horror that was me', either. One night my brothers, sister and a couple of their friends were home. At about one in the morning I was woken by this raucous laughter. And with that the hormones too were ignited into top gear; I tried to sleep but couldn't and the laughter in the room didn't seem to stop. So I went out and politely asked them to keep it down. Once I went back and tried to settle in, there was more of that laughter. They received a second warning. Though I heard hushed tones for about 5 minutes after the warning, the decibel level gradually kept going up, with more laughter. Feeling totally awake now I went out into the hall and started watching a movie. By now, actually, the anger had died down and I was enjoying the movie; oblivious that a bunch of youngsters were huddled in the bedroom too frightened to come out to the kitchen for even a glass of water. A year later, my sister tells me that when I had come out into the hall that night they were all scared. I was the nasty preggy witch who was ready to have them for a midnight snack. For lack of space one of them had to actually crash in the hall; but they decided to adjust themselves in the bedroom, packed like a tin of sardines, rather than endure my wrath and be eaten alive. This was the sort of monster I had turned into.
Luckily for me and all around me, the hormones settled themselves in about four months time. I was turning back into my sweeter, calmer self; oh ok, that's a lie. But I was definitely less nasty and hubby had now stopped wearing his protective armour. Also, the little cross and holy water under my pillow were now gone. And they told me it was to ward off nightmares and help me sleep better.
But that doesn't mean I didn't have any aversions. One particular brand of instant noodles made me go green and extremely nauseous. So while the whole family would enjoy a Sunday evening snack of instant noodles I'd stand in the balcony, which didn't overlook the pool but a huge dumping ground for garbage, waiting for everyone to finish and destroy all traces of the nauseating factor before they called me back in. Actually the foul smell emanating from the garbage was much more appealing than the instant noodles at that time.
Another nauseating factor was a particular brand of my sister's perfume. One day she was strutting around the house wearing this perfume and I was watching a food show whilst suddenly feeling extremely nauseous. It was either the food show or the perfume. The poor girl got told off for wearing the perfume, which I actually loved before and was sent to her room; what?! only until I was done watching the food show. Another time she was getting dressed for a party and there was that nauseous feeling again. She had worn "the" perfume. The poor girl stayed put in her room the whole time until her friend came to pick her up. That perfume was probably FedEx'ed to a tribal woman in Timbuktu. She didn't want to tick me off again and be resigned to the fate of being jailed in her room a third time.
Nausea is one thing; but being hormonal is a totally different streak. To compensate for not having any morning sickness, my hormones decided to have the cake and it eat it too. Now normally I do tend to get a little cranky and I have to agree that there is definitely a hint of nastiness in my nature. But the pregnancy hormones cranked up these things to a whole new level. The Queen of Bad Times had arrived. Who bore the brunt of these hormones? First the husband of course; I thought he'd divorce me at the end of nine months. I was actually surprised at how nasty I could be. Any question he asked was always returned with a retort, nothing witty, just plain mean.
Him: Are you feeling alright?
Me: None of your business
Him: Are you going to work today?
Me: None of your business
Him: Do you want me to pick you up from work?
Me: Just stop asking me stupid questions ok!
At first he'd ask me why I was behaving like a total lunatic. That would be met by a long winded speech on insensitivity, ignorance and how men had the best deal in all of this. But he learnt fast. I was still the lunatic but he took it in his stride and would not say a word. It's a wonder that he didn't go insane at the end of it all; all that pent up frustration I was causing him was definitely not easy to subdue.
My immediate family were not spared 'the horror that was me', either. One night my brothers, sister and a couple of their friends were home. At about one in the morning I was woken by this raucous laughter. And with that the hormones too were ignited into top gear; I tried to sleep but couldn't and the laughter in the room didn't seem to stop. So I went out and politely asked them to keep it down. Once I went back and tried to settle in, there was more of that laughter. They received a second warning. Though I heard hushed tones for about 5 minutes after the warning, the decibel level gradually kept going up, with more laughter. Feeling totally awake now I went out into the hall and started watching a movie. By now, actually, the anger had died down and I was enjoying the movie; oblivious that a bunch of youngsters were huddled in the bedroom too frightened to come out to the kitchen for even a glass of water. A year later, my sister tells me that when I had come out into the hall that night they were all scared. I was the nasty preggy witch who was ready to have them for a midnight snack. For lack of space one of them had to actually crash in the hall; but they decided to adjust themselves in the bedroom, packed like a tin of sardines, rather than endure my wrath and be eaten alive. This was the sort of monster I had turned into.
Luckily for me and all around me, the hormones settled themselves in about four months time. I was turning back into my sweeter, calmer self; oh ok, that's a lie. But I was definitely less nasty and hubby had now stopped wearing his protective armour. Also, the little cross and holy water under my pillow were now gone. And they told me it was to ward off nightmares and help me sleep better.
Friday, March 25, 2011
The Pregnancy Diaries: Genesis
All of us love the 'how it all began' stories. "How did you two meet? Tell us how it all began. Did he propose?" No no he didn't; my next door neighbour with two wives and a stump did. Of course he proposed, begged and cried too; at least I'd like to think the last two were true. But I am not going to bore you with the story of how we met now, maybe another time.
Almost two years ago, while summer was just setting in, that 'time of the month' didn't come by. I was really really late and without even taking the pregnancy test, a little nagging voice told me that the oven was already baking a little bun. But I didn't want to believe it. So I took a pregnancy test, feeling quite nervous. The test showed two pink lines, which meant there was definitely a bun on the way. Still couldn't believe it; sometimes these tests can turn out all wrong and secretly this is what I was hoping for. Hubby was handing me out congratulations with a broad smile on his face and I looked, well, rather upset. Don't get me wrong I love kids and at that time, if the kids weren't mine even better. You just had to hand the crying baby back to the parents after having had a great time playing peek-a-boo and this little piggy with them.
There were two aspects to my emotion. One, it was totally unexpected. Everything that was supposed to be worn was worn. We could attribute this to a latex malfunction. Also counting back it should've been the 'safe period'; I think no such thing exists and the term was probably coined by a lazy guy who didn't want to get the rubber on.
Two, I had been up, close and personal with babies; I knew how they functioned. I had been there and done that, when you have 5 siblings it's difficult to not get involved. They poop, eat, cry, sleep not necessarily in that order; the crying usually precedes and succeeds the other activities. Bringing up a baby needs a lot patience, energy and sanity; all three attributes very questionable in my nature. So mine feeling upset was really not abnormal. See, already wearing thin on sanity.
However, just to be absolutely sure, I took the test the next day as well. And what do you know, the two pink lines promptly appeared. It was like the stupid little pee stick was mocking me; wanna go again sister, we'll be right here. So I made the call to hubby to tell him again that the two little pink lines had made an appearance and that I was definitely pregnant. He was not able to contain his joy. I think he was already thinking of hideous baby names, dreaming of an angelic quiet little bundle that he look at for hours, who'd catch hold of his finger and fall asleep in his arms. Clearly hubby had no clue what he was signing up for. He had probably seen little ducklings following the mother duck everywhere with the father duck making only a guest appearance. Probably it was the case of "someone else's kid" with fathers he'd seen, when the baby cries it is instantly handed over to the mother.
The next thing we had to do, to be triply sure, since we'd taken the home test twice, was to visit the doctor. I had some faint trace of hope that I was not preggers and that the home tests were past their expiration date; the pee sticks were probably snickering now; dream on sister. Once inside the doctor's room there were a lot of questions followed by a lot of prodding in the area below my waist. When it was time for the internal exam (which involves no pen or paper) I felt like I was punched in the guts, literally. I must've died for two seconds. Definitely not a great start to a "magical" pregnancy, I was just violated by a huge rubber gloved hand and it was legal.
Congratulations were in order again. This time I was undeniably, positively, surely pregnant. Now based on data provided by me to the doctor before all the pressing, jabbing and digging began I was now 8 weeks preggy. 8 weeks? I told the doctor that that was just impossible. On the date she suggested, to get the bun rolling, it would have taken a miracle like an immaculate conception or sex with a stranger; both not my style. Hubby probably threw me a sly sidewards glance, this doctor was making me look bad. I told her categorically that I was not in the country at the time and was also without my husband, so this was quite a preposterous suggestion. She seemed to laugh suggestively; I think my frown made it clear that I was not the swaying type; also one who had made it through a really long long-distance relationship. hmmph.
Sensing that my hormones were kicking in already the doctor quickly suggested that I get my first antenatal scan done. In the scan room there was some more prodding and there on the screen was this tiny dot; that teensy speck was my baby. Now these scanners are highly intelligent and can calculate a whole lot of stuff themselves. A report was instantly generated which was then handed over to my doctor. Looking at it my doctor said that I was 4 weeks pregnant. I told you I did not cheat.
When we went home hubby and I were looking quite fondly at the little speck; there was our baby. I had warmed up to this after all. On reading the report we came across the Date of Conception. Now what exactly was this doctor trying to prove, I thought to myself. The report suggested a date when I was in my hometown and hubby in Bangalore. Thankfully my hubby trusts me completely so no deep dive into the errant dates were necessary.
Until now this has been our great unsolvable mystery. So as to how it all began, we have no freaking idea.
Almost two years ago, while summer was just setting in, that 'time of the month' didn't come by. I was really really late and without even taking the pregnancy test, a little nagging voice told me that the oven was already baking a little bun. But I didn't want to believe it. So I took a pregnancy test, feeling quite nervous. The test showed two pink lines, which meant there was definitely a bun on the way. Still couldn't believe it; sometimes these tests can turn out all wrong and secretly this is what I was hoping for. Hubby was handing me out congratulations with a broad smile on his face and I looked, well, rather upset. Don't get me wrong I love kids and at that time, if the kids weren't mine even better. You just had to hand the crying baby back to the parents after having had a great time playing peek-a-boo and this little piggy with them.
There were two aspects to my emotion. One, it was totally unexpected. Everything that was supposed to be worn was worn. We could attribute this to a latex malfunction. Also counting back it should've been the 'safe period'; I think no such thing exists and the term was probably coined by a lazy guy who didn't want to get the rubber on.
Two, I had been up, close and personal with babies; I knew how they functioned. I had been there and done that, when you have 5 siblings it's difficult to not get involved. They poop, eat, cry, sleep not necessarily in that order; the crying usually precedes and succeeds the other activities. Bringing up a baby needs a lot patience, energy and sanity; all three attributes very questionable in my nature. So mine feeling upset was really not abnormal. See, already wearing thin on sanity.
However, just to be absolutely sure, I took the test the next day as well. And what do you know, the two pink lines promptly appeared. It was like the stupid little pee stick was mocking me; wanna go again sister, we'll be right here. So I made the call to hubby to tell him again that the two little pink lines had made an appearance and that I was definitely pregnant. He was not able to contain his joy. I think he was already thinking of hideous baby names, dreaming of an angelic quiet little bundle that he look at for hours, who'd catch hold of his finger and fall asleep in his arms. Clearly hubby had no clue what he was signing up for. He had probably seen little ducklings following the mother duck everywhere with the father duck making only a guest appearance. Probably it was the case of "someone else's kid" with fathers he'd seen, when the baby cries it is instantly handed over to the mother.
The next thing we had to do, to be triply sure, since we'd taken the home test twice, was to visit the doctor. I had some faint trace of hope that I was not preggers and that the home tests were past their expiration date; the pee sticks were probably snickering now; dream on sister. Once inside the doctor's room there were a lot of questions followed by a lot of prodding in the area below my waist. When it was time for the internal exam (which involves no pen or paper) I felt like I was punched in the guts, literally. I must've died for two seconds. Definitely not a great start to a "magical" pregnancy, I was just violated by a huge rubber gloved hand and it was legal.
Congratulations were in order again. This time I was undeniably, positively, surely pregnant. Now based on data provided by me to the doctor before all the pressing, jabbing and digging began I was now 8 weeks preggy. 8 weeks? I told the doctor that that was just impossible. On the date she suggested, to get the bun rolling, it would have taken a miracle like an immaculate conception or sex with a stranger; both not my style. Hubby probably threw me a sly sidewards glance, this doctor was making me look bad. I told her categorically that I was not in the country at the time and was also without my husband, so this was quite a preposterous suggestion. She seemed to laugh suggestively; I think my frown made it clear that I was not the swaying type; also one who had made it through a really long long-distance relationship. hmmph.
Sensing that my hormones were kicking in already the doctor quickly suggested that I get my first antenatal scan done. In the scan room there was some more prodding and there on the screen was this tiny dot; that teensy speck was my baby. Now these scanners are highly intelligent and can calculate a whole lot of stuff themselves. A report was instantly generated which was then handed over to my doctor. Looking at it my doctor said that I was 4 weeks pregnant. I told you I did not cheat.
When we went home hubby and I were looking quite fondly at the little speck; there was our baby. I had warmed up to this after all. On reading the report we came across the Date of Conception. Now what exactly was this doctor trying to prove, I thought to myself. The report suggested a date when I was in my hometown and hubby in Bangalore. Thankfully my hubby trusts me completely so no deep dive into the errant dates were necessary.
Until now this has been our great unsolvable mystery. So as to how it all began, we have no freaking idea.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Baby's First Words
All mothers secretly hope that their baby's first word will be Mama and some get lucky. Some are quite ok if it's not Mama as long as it's not Dada as well.
My little one decided that her first word would be Dada. Her Dada was obviously ecstatic, his little one had shown her allegiance; but that bubble soon burst.
We went to the supermarket that weekend and Kicky the attention seeker that she is, called out to the shop assistant, "DADA, DADA, DADA". The shop assistant looked quite bewildered, possibly a little shocked. Kicky actually looked like his groupie with her hand sticking out, waving frantically at the shop assistant while jumping up and down in the trolley seat. Had her Dada been there he would've rushed to the scene thinking that his darling girl was looking out for him. I on the other hand was trying to push the trolley to the other aisle as fast as I could; I didn't want her claiming someone else to be her Dada.
But then it didn't stop there; one night at a restaurant a young chap seated behind our table had to endure a barrage of "DADA's" every five minutes. The first time, he indulged in a little baby talk, the second time he smiled and threw in a monkey face, the third time he just smiled, the fourth time he tried to ignore her but she was persistent and he just about managed another smile, the fifth time he looked like he was going to have a fit; this is what a garrulous 8 month old with a limited vocabulary (one word to be precise) can do to you.
For a few months all the men she came in contact with were 'Dada' (which definitely made me look bad)
After 'Dada' the little one's palaver moved to Papa, Baba and finally... finally... hallelujah... Mama! Till then I had to endure the "Oh, she loves her Dada, she says Dada. That's so sweet. Does she say Mama yet?"
With gritted teeth hidden behind my polite smile I had to answer, "No, not yet". And then, "Oh don't worry, she'll say Mama sometime. But look at that eh, she said Dada first". Some housewives need to get a life.
So like the Dada episode, even 'Mama' was not as straightforward as I would've wanted it to be. One morning she came to me saying "Mama, Mama" with the sweetest voice. I hugged her and said,"Yes Darling, Mama is here". Then the sweet voice turned into desperate cries 'Mama, Mamaa, MAMAAAA', she was also pointing to her bottle of water. So 'Mama' was now water and me. I thought I had it all figured out, whenever I heard her say 'Mama' I would confidently hand her her water bottle, when one day she pushed the water away. She kept crying saying 'Mama' with the frequency going almost ultrasonic, I thought the neighbourhood's dogs would come barging into my house. The crying just wouldn't stop. I tried a funny dance which always makes her laugh, nothing; tried making funny faces which I figured turned out to be scary when she started crying even more. Toys were thrown against the wall and her favourite Pooh bear was just short of being crucified. By now I was sure that a vein had popped somewhere in my head. And then, what I can only call a maternal hormone intervention (I think some people call it mother's instinct) saved me; a bottle of milk stopped the incessant crying. So 'Mama' was now water, milk and me. Excellent! This is what I needed to complicate my life some more.
Since then my little blabbermouth's vocabulary has grown, thank goodness. However adorable it may sound, four rhyming words rambled over and over again can induce acute hemicrania; migraine anyone?
My little one decided that her first word would be Dada. Her Dada was obviously ecstatic, his little one had shown her allegiance; but that bubble soon burst.
We went to the supermarket that weekend and Kicky the attention seeker that she is, called out to the shop assistant, "DADA, DADA, DADA". The shop assistant looked quite bewildered, possibly a little shocked. Kicky actually looked like his groupie with her hand sticking out, waving frantically at the shop assistant while jumping up and down in the trolley seat. Had her Dada been there he would've rushed to the scene thinking that his darling girl was looking out for him. I on the other hand was trying to push the trolley to the other aisle as fast as I could; I didn't want her claiming someone else to be her Dada.
But then it didn't stop there; one night at a restaurant a young chap seated behind our table had to endure a barrage of "DADA's" every five minutes. The first time, he indulged in a little baby talk, the second time he smiled and threw in a monkey face, the third time he just smiled, the fourth time he tried to ignore her but she was persistent and he just about managed another smile, the fifth time he looked like he was going to have a fit; this is what a garrulous 8 month old with a limited vocabulary (one word to be precise) can do to you.
For a few months all the men she came in contact with were 'Dada' (which definitely made me look bad)
After 'Dada' the little one's palaver moved to Papa, Baba and finally... finally... hallelujah... Mama! Till then I had to endure the "Oh, she loves her Dada, she says Dada. That's so sweet. Does she say Mama yet?"
With gritted teeth hidden behind my polite smile I had to answer, "No, not yet". And then, "Oh don't worry, she'll say Mama sometime. But look at that eh, she said Dada first". Some housewives need to get a life.
So like the Dada episode, even 'Mama' was not as straightforward as I would've wanted it to be. One morning she came to me saying "Mama, Mama" with the sweetest voice. I hugged her and said,"Yes Darling, Mama is here". Then the sweet voice turned into desperate cries 'Mama, Mamaa, MAMAAAA', she was also pointing to her bottle of water. So 'Mama' was now water and me. I thought I had it all figured out, whenever I heard her say 'Mama' I would confidently hand her her water bottle, when one day she pushed the water away. She kept crying saying 'Mama' with the frequency going almost ultrasonic, I thought the neighbourhood's dogs would come barging into my house. The crying just wouldn't stop. I tried a funny dance which always makes her laugh, nothing; tried making funny faces which I figured turned out to be scary when she started crying even more. Toys were thrown against the wall and her favourite Pooh bear was just short of being crucified. By now I was sure that a vein had popped somewhere in my head. And then, what I can only call a maternal hormone intervention (I think some people call it mother's instinct) saved me; a bottle of milk stopped the incessant crying. So 'Mama' was now water, milk and me. Excellent! This is what I needed to complicate my life some more.
Since then my little blabbermouth's vocabulary has grown, thank goodness. However adorable it may sound, four rhyming words rambled over and over again can induce acute hemicrania; migraine anyone?
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Valentine's Day Diaries
You'll find me reminiscing a lot on this blog, because lets face it a housewife really doesn't have much to tell you about her mundane activities.
But well, some days are less mundane, like Valentines Day when your husband surprises you with flowers, wine and chocolate. Cliche, cliche, cliche, I know! But I have to hand it to my guy. Since our dating days he has not once failed to send me flowers on Valentines Day. And he calls himself the quintessential unromantic chap; the unromantic chap who made a long distance call on one Valentines Day (VD){Yes, I know it also stands for Venereal Disease, but I am gonna go with it} and played a love song on the guitar for me. Those were the days huh? The guitar is now in a store room, probably the home of a few rodents, copulating while making some sweet music.
Though I have a romantic streak in me, when it comes to VD I really hate showing any enthusiasm. So one year when I received cards and flowers, I wanted to send something back; long distance relationships are hard, I had to show I cared. I reluctantly went to the card store, with vain attempts to hide myself while in there; where the hell are you going to hide a large frame such as mine in a 4ftX4ft store. Also on VD and the run up to VD the "love" section of the store is all red, complete with hanging hearts and a huge board that says "VALENTINES DAY CARDS AVAILABLE HERE", only the disco lights and flashing arrows pointing towards the cards are missing. What can you do, stand at the "Sympathies" section and attempt to chose a VD card? So the best way to do it is eeny meeny miny moe; three cards, a quick payment and a swift dash out the store. A close look at purchases later revealed that I actually hd a naughty card suggesting sex, one with poetry that I just couldn't understand and a red X'mas card with a fat Santa on it. Oh well, so much for my ingenious card picking technique. And these fabulous cards showing him how much I love him, reached him exactly two weeks after VD.
Another year, I decided to be good and send him something that would actually reach him on VD. So I went online and ordered him a bottle of wine, chocolates and a rose also I think. I know this sort of thing is a big NO NO for guys. They hate this stuff; but given my limited resources these were things I could afford. Also, I had it sent to his workplace, another big NO NO. He was quite shocked to see this huge package for him, and since it didn't mention his first name he was going to send it back. The courier guy and he were probably shoving it back and forth at each other when the former asked the latter to confirm his mobile no and it matched with the one on the package. So my Valentine was now confused; surely his girlfriend could not have sent him something already; it was too early.
Now that we're married there are no more trips to the match-box sized card store; you'd think they'd want to make these stores bigger, but no, while choosing cards you're also trying not to brush against the creepy guy who's looking at a card that reads "You make my pants ping".
So with cards not an option any more, and learning from my previous disaster of a gift, what can you gift a guy on VD. He can get away with flowers, wine and chocolate, though he does have the option of diamonds; and I have to choose from platinum cuff links, silk ties and single malt whiskies. No fair, no fair, not with my depleting finances.
So this VD hubby walks in quite late at night with a bunch of lovely red roses, a wine bag that has my favourite wine and a box of chocolates. He was hoping to take me out to dinner as well, he got brownie points just for thoughtfulness. Now I was actually quite surprised that he remembered it was VD and how the hell did he manage to procure a lovely bunch of red roses at that time of the night. There are exactly 3 florists on the drive between his workplace and home. The first place he tried, the florist had no flowers, zilch, all sold out. The second place, there were about a dozen desperate looking men scavenging the florists place for flowers; they looked like hungry vultures apparently. One guy asked the florist what did he have left and he said that there were only pink flowers. The man jumped at it and said, "Any colour will do man, I just need flowers, any flower, any colour, please just give me flowers". The men looked like their lives were on the line. So seeing no hope here hubby moves on to the next florist.
The florist tells him that he's lucky because he just had a bouquet cancelled. The next minute another desperate looking chap walks in only to be told that hubby took the last bunch. He begged him for just one flower from the bunch and seeing his pitiful state, trying to imagine what would be in store for the poor chap if he didn't oblige hubby generously gave him a flower and also offered more. But the chap was happy with one, insisted on paying for it and went out a relieved man. My hubby spoke of it like he saved the chap's life.
I really don't know what the fuss is all about; but then I got my flowers, wine and chocolate. I am still waiting for my diamonds.
But well, some days are less mundane, like Valentines Day when your husband surprises you with flowers, wine and chocolate. Cliche, cliche, cliche, I know! But I have to hand it to my guy. Since our dating days he has not once failed to send me flowers on Valentines Day. And he calls himself the quintessential unromantic chap; the unromantic chap who made a long distance call on one Valentines Day (VD){Yes, I know it also stands for Venereal Disease, but I am gonna go with it} and played a love song on the guitar for me. Those were the days huh? The guitar is now in a store room, probably the home of a few rodents, copulating while making some sweet music.
Though I have a romantic streak in me, when it comes to VD I really hate showing any enthusiasm. So one year when I received cards and flowers, I wanted to send something back; long distance relationships are hard, I had to show I cared. I reluctantly went to the card store, with vain attempts to hide myself while in there; where the hell are you going to hide a large frame such as mine in a 4ftX4ft store. Also on VD and the run up to VD the "love" section of the store is all red, complete with hanging hearts and a huge board that says "VALENTINES DAY CARDS AVAILABLE HERE", only the disco lights and flashing arrows pointing towards the cards are missing. What can you do, stand at the "Sympathies" section and attempt to chose a VD card? So the best way to do it is eeny meeny miny moe; three cards, a quick payment and a swift dash out the store. A close look at purchases later revealed that I actually hd a naughty card suggesting sex, one with poetry that I just couldn't understand and a red X'mas card with a fat Santa on it. Oh well, so much for my ingenious card picking technique. And these fabulous cards showing him how much I love him, reached him exactly two weeks after VD.
Another year, I decided to be good and send him something that would actually reach him on VD. So I went online and ordered him a bottle of wine, chocolates and a rose also I think. I know this sort of thing is a big NO NO for guys. They hate this stuff; but given my limited resources these were things I could afford. Also, I had it sent to his workplace, another big NO NO. He was quite shocked to see this huge package for him, and since it didn't mention his first name he was going to send it back. The courier guy and he were probably shoving it back and forth at each other when the former asked the latter to confirm his mobile no and it matched with the one on the package. So my Valentine was now confused; surely his girlfriend could not have sent him something already; it was too early.
Now that we're married there are no more trips to the match-box sized card store; you'd think they'd want to make these stores bigger, but no, while choosing cards you're also trying not to brush against the creepy guy who's looking at a card that reads "You make my pants ping".
So with cards not an option any more, and learning from my previous disaster of a gift, what can you gift a guy on VD. He can get away with flowers, wine and chocolate, though he does have the option of diamonds; and I have to choose from platinum cuff links, silk ties and single malt whiskies. No fair, no fair, not with my depleting finances.
So this VD hubby walks in quite late at night with a bunch of lovely red roses, a wine bag that has my favourite wine and a box of chocolates. He was hoping to take me out to dinner as well, he got brownie points just for thoughtfulness. Now I was actually quite surprised that he remembered it was VD and how the hell did he manage to procure a lovely bunch of red roses at that time of the night. There are exactly 3 florists on the drive between his workplace and home. The first place he tried, the florist had no flowers, zilch, all sold out. The second place, there were about a dozen desperate looking men scavenging the florists place for flowers; they looked like hungry vultures apparently. One guy asked the florist what did he have left and he said that there were only pink flowers. The man jumped at it and said, "Any colour will do man, I just need flowers, any flower, any colour, please just give me flowers". The men looked like their lives were on the line. So seeing no hope here hubby moves on to the next florist.
The florist tells him that he's lucky because he just had a bouquet cancelled. The next minute another desperate looking chap walks in only to be told that hubby took the last bunch. He begged him for just one flower from the bunch and seeing his pitiful state, trying to imagine what would be in store for the poor chap if he didn't oblige hubby generously gave him a flower and also offered more. But the chap was happy with one, insisted on paying for it and went out a relieved man. My hubby spoke of it like he saved the chap's life.
I really don't know what the fuss is all about; but then I got my flowers, wine and chocolate. I am still waiting for my diamonds.
Monday, March 21, 2011
The Resurrection
Resurrection is not a myth after all. Two years ago I think the writer died while the lunatic has been getting loonier and the bibliophile has stayed true and now has a groaning bookshelf.
So what happened to the writer in the past two years?
A brief history:
1. Lost 17 kilos with a lot of determination and sacrifice; no food, no booze.
2. Got knocked up; there is no such thing as a safe period
3. Gained 20 kilos; that was the effect of the pregnancy, though the baby was just under 3 kilos, the rest was just me.
4. Had a baby; a gorgeous little girl who is living up to her alter ego 'the little monster'
5. Quit my job; said bye bye to the corporate world which I used to complain about anyway but to be honest had an empty feeling inside for quite a while after that.
6. Finally resigned to the fact that I am now a housewife; though I can't say it, the word 'housewife' gets stuck in my throat. So when people ask me what I do I say "Well I 'just' quit my job"; 'Just' has now been almost a year.
7. Moved houses; (not our own, clarifying because everyone keeps asking me that)Moved to Electronics City in Bangalore which believe me is anything but a city, the postal address is Doddathogur Village, so yeah we have moved to a village. You can actually see butterflies around here and sometimes hear a pin drop. Occasionally the silence can drive you crazy.
8. Took on a new job as Full Time Maid with no pay; and someone will have to really list down the benefits for me. If another person says 'the joy of watching your child grow' I will run after them with my rolling pin and beat them to death.
9. Joined a Yoga Class; in the hope that I will shed the 20 kilos that I piled on during pregnancy I now spend and hour in the morning discovering muscles that I didn't know existed; contorting my body into unimaginable postures.
That was in short the writer's life in the past two years. Hope to keep writing more often now. So until the next time, ta ta.
So what happened to the writer in the past two years?
A brief history:
1. Lost 17 kilos with a lot of determination and sacrifice; no food, no booze.
2. Got knocked up; there is no such thing as a safe period
3. Gained 20 kilos; that was the effect of the pregnancy, though the baby was just under 3 kilos, the rest was just me.
4. Had a baby; a gorgeous little girl who is living up to her alter ego 'the little monster'
5. Quit my job; said bye bye to the corporate world which I used to complain about anyway but to be honest had an empty feeling inside for quite a while after that.
6. Finally resigned to the fact that I am now a housewife; though I can't say it, the word 'housewife' gets stuck in my throat. So when people ask me what I do I say "Well I 'just' quit my job"; 'Just' has now been almost a year.
7. Moved houses; (not our own, clarifying because everyone keeps asking me that)Moved to Electronics City in Bangalore which believe me is anything but a city, the postal address is Doddathogur Village, so yeah we have moved to a village. You can actually see butterflies around here and sometimes hear a pin drop. Occasionally the silence can drive you crazy.
8. Took on a new job as Full Time Maid with no pay; and someone will have to really list down the benefits for me. If another person says 'the joy of watching your child grow' I will run after them with my rolling pin and beat them to death.
9. Joined a Yoga Class; in the hope that I will shed the 20 kilos that I piled on during pregnancy I now spend and hour in the morning discovering muscles that I didn't know existed; contorting my body into unimaginable postures.
That was in short the writer's life in the past two years. Hope to keep writing more often now. So until the next time, ta ta.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
The 'English' Boy in Striped Pyjamas
Since I have been in the history mode mainly World War II, watching documentaries and reading books, I thought I'd watch 'The Boy in Striped Pyjamas'. This is a movie based on the novel by the same name and is set in WWII.
The story was good and I think the director did a good job of capturing the emotions of the characters. But, they all spoke in frigging English accents.
Now, when we were kids and watched the Sound of Music, it really didn't matter. I was oblivious to different accents. When you're 7 you assume that all westerners have a weird, or being more polite, a different accent than you do. I couldn't tell who was British and who American, they all spoke English!
So while Julie Andrews strutted her English accent and Christopher Plummer was oh so American, I couldn't tell the difference. I assumed all Austrians spoke that way.
But now, in this time, Directors strive for authenticity and the audience wants it too.
Imagine watching a documentary with Hitler speaking in a thick southern American accent!
In Schindler's List, they may not have had the perfect German accents, but come on they didn't sound English or American except for the ones who had to.
Accent trainers are in the profession for a reason, use them.
The story was good and I think the director did a good job of capturing the emotions of the characters. But, they all spoke in frigging English accents.
Now, when we were kids and watched the Sound of Music, it really didn't matter. I was oblivious to different accents. When you're 7 you assume that all westerners have a weird, or being more polite, a different accent than you do. I couldn't tell who was British and who American, they all spoke English!
So while Julie Andrews strutted her English accent and Christopher Plummer was oh so American, I couldn't tell the difference. I assumed all Austrians spoke that way.
But now, in this time, Directors strive for authenticity and the audience wants it too.
Imagine watching a documentary with Hitler speaking in a thick southern American accent!
In Schindler's List, they may not have had the perfect German accents, but come on they didn't sound English or American except for the ones who had to.
Accent trainers are in the profession for a reason, use them.
Back and Wiser?
Where was I all this while? My usual excuse is busy with work, but it's true. I was busy doing extra office work which also included writing, though the kind which would people like me to sleep and give a mini-orgasm to business consultants. Oh don't worry no erotica involved, just boring sales proposals, which surprisingly I didn't think I had the knack for. Now that this talent has been discovered, I am just taking on extra work and ruining my weekends. Aren't I the 'Drama Queen'! So, I did not ruin all my weekends, just a couple.
In my spare time I have been buying books and reading them too. Have been hooked to history books now and I can't get enough. I am now slightly wiser and feeling a bit more intelligent, now that I have gathered more knowledge. Beware, don't say the words 'World War', 'Jews', 'India' (though India is not connected to the former two) when I am within earshot. I promise to talk so much that your ears might just bleed or worse fall off.
We all have phases don't we? I am now in the history phase and while I am there I want to read all the history I can get my hands on.
Well, just thought I'd show some signs of life here and write something, my blog has been quite lonely.
In my spare time I have been buying books and reading them too. Have been hooked to history books now and I can't get enough. I am now slightly wiser and feeling a bit more intelligent, now that I have gathered more knowledge. Beware, don't say the words 'World War', 'Jews', 'India' (though India is not connected to the former two) when I am within earshot. I promise to talk so much that your ears might just bleed or worse fall off.
We all have phases don't we? I am now in the history phase and while I am there I want to read all the history I can get my hands on.
Well, just thought I'd show some signs of life here and write something, my blog has been quite lonely.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Book-Crazy Woman
Am I actually a bookworm or a bibliophile. I’d say I am both. Of course, it began with being a bookworm because our parents introduced books to us (my siblings and I) at a very young age. Thankfully I didn’t quite get to being the nerdy kind, you know the ones who shut themselves up in their rooms, parents worrying if the kid is a super genius or simply smoking pot.
I am ashamed to say that when I was a kid not all of my books remained in the condition I received them in. Some of the binding came off, I used to dog ear the pages and some were torn in fights (I want to read it! It’s my book! Give it to me! Rip!). Some consolation those were the little picture books (not that I am making an excuse, but definitely not intellectual reading).
Our uncle once sent us this huge (when we were little the book really looked gigantic) Book of Fairy Tales which had Alladin and the Genie on the cover and came hardbound. Oh, the thrill of getting that book with lovely pictures inside. It’s now stored away in a box full of books at my Mum’s and though it seems a lot smaller now it’s a lovely book.
Also as kids, most birthday presents would be books, mostly encyclopaedias (now you know why I am so intelligent eh?) These gargantuan books were just spectacular and of course Mom would make sure we took good care of them. No dog-earing and no food around these books.
When we grew older summer holidays would be spent at the library, of course no one saw the value in buying a whole set of Nancy Drew and Hardy Boy’s for a couple of ‘Teenage Investigator Crazy’ kids (Kavan (my bro) and I). So going to the library and borrowing books seemed like an inherent and almost scary quality in us. We would sometimes finish two books in a day and go and borrow more and sometimes the librarian in the public library would shoo us away and would tell us to return the next day only for more books.
The crazy book buying began when I started working. To start with I would scour the various book carts sold by vendors on the shopping street. And I must tell you I have found some old books in very good condition, one of them author-signed, some of them hardbound and for a bloody cheap price, obviously because no one else wanted them.
When I could afford it I’d go to bookstores (the fancy ones) and buy my books. Though, that doesn’t mean that I don’t visit stores which sell pre-owned books anymore. I love the look and smell of old books. London has a quite a few of them and when I’ve been there it’s been an absolute thrill. I can spend hours in bookstores, which is probably annoying for some people who want to just get done with the book shopping right away. If you want to buy books in a hurry, don’t take me along, I’ll never want to leave.
And yes, I am very very possessive about my books; if my family didn’t know better they would have packed me off to the loony bin. So it’s no surprise that I absolutely hate lending my books (and if any of you have actually been lent books by me, consider yourself very lucky). I’d rather buy you new books (haven’t done that yet, but you never know) than you lend you mine, what did I tell you about me being an absolute lunatic. And same goes for borrowing, I don’t borrow anymore, I just buy the book. This trait has developed over the past few years now and yes it is definitely eccentric behaviour; ‘Kav, can I borrow your book?’ ‘Err, umm, well, I don’t think so.’
Of course, my close friends do understand this perfectly and now they have just stopped asking. Some of the cheeky ones threaten to raid my bookshelf in India while I am in London and though I know that will not happen, my whole body twinges by just the thought of it. Now you must be thinking an appointment with a psychiatric should definitely be in order.
I wonder if my condition is rare, but then I am sure there is probably a small percentage of ‘Bibliophilic’ behaviour in you as well.
When I am buying books I prefer buying hardbacks than paperback because they look so gorgeous. Nowadays since so many books are being made into movies I refrain from buying the ‘Movie Picture’ cover and buy the original instead (though I have some with the picture cover, had no choice).
I always check my books for any fault, what if there are torn pages in them, or the cover is bent because some idiot could not put it back in the bookshelf right.
So given all that I have said above, We all know what the verdict is, don’t we? An eccentric, bordering on loony, bibliophile.
I am ashamed to say that when I was a kid not all of my books remained in the condition I received them in. Some of the binding came off, I used to dog ear the pages and some were torn in fights (I want to read it! It’s my book! Give it to me! Rip!). Some consolation those were the little picture books (not that I am making an excuse, but definitely not intellectual reading).
Our uncle once sent us this huge (when we were little the book really looked gigantic) Book of Fairy Tales which had Alladin and the Genie on the cover and came hardbound. Oh, the thrill of getting that book with lovely pictures inside. It’s now stored away in a box full of books at my Mum’s and though it seems a lot smaller now it’s a lovely book.
Also as kids, most birthday presents would be books, mostly encyclopaedias (now you know why I am so intelligent eh?) These gargantuan books were just spectacular and of course Mom would make sure we took good care of them. No dog-earing and no food around these books.
When we grew older summer holidays would be spent at the library, of course no one saw the value in buying a whole set of Nancy Drew and Hardy Boy’s for a couple of ‘Teenage Investigator Crazy’ kids (Kavan (my bro) and I). So going to the library and borrowing books seemed like an inherent and almost scary quality in us. We would sometimes finish two books in a day and go and borrow more and sometimes the librarian in the public library would shoo us away and would tell us to return the next day only for more books.
The crazy book buying began when I started working. To start with I would scour the various book carts sold by vendors on the shopping street. And I must tell you I have found some old books in very good condition, one of them author-signed, some of them hardbound and for a bloody cheap price, obviously because no one else wanted them.
When I could afford it I’d go to bookstores (the fancy ones) and buy my books. Though, that doesn’t mean that I don’t visit stores which sell pre-owned books anymore. I love the look and smell of old books. London has a quite a few of them and when I’ve been there it’s been an absolute thrill. I can spend hours in bookstores, which is probably annoying for some people who want to just get done with the book shopping right away. If you want to buy books in a hurry, don’t take me along, I’ll never want to leave.
And yes, I am very very possessive about my books; if my family didn’t know better they would have packed me off to the loony bin. So it’s no surprise that I absolutely hate lending my books (and if any of you have actually been lent books by me, consider yourself very lucky). I’d rather buy you new books (haven’t done that yet, but you never know) than you lend you mine, what did I tell you about me being an absolute lunatic. And same goes for borrowing, I don’t borrow anymore, I just buy the book. This trait has developed over the past few years now and yes it is definitely eccentric behaviour; ‘Kav, can I borrow your book?’ ‘Err, umm, well, I don’t think so.’
Of course, my close friends do understand this perfectly and now they have just stopped asking. Some of the cheeky ones threaten to raid my bookshelf in India while I am in London and though I know that will not happen, my whole body twinges by just the thought of it. Now you must be thinking an appointment with a psychiatric should definitely be in order.
I wonder if my condition is rare, but then I am sure there is probably a small percentage of ‘Bibliophilic’ behaviour in you as well.
When I am buying books I prefer buying hardbacks than paperback because they look so gorgeous. Nowadays since so many books are being made into movies I refrain from buying the ‘Movie Picture’ cover and buy the original instead (though I have some with the picture cover, had no choice).
I always check my books for any fault, what if there are torn pages in them, or the cover is bent because some idiot could not put it back in the bookshelf right.
So given all that I have said above, We all know what the verdict is, don’t we? An eccentric, bordering on loony, bibliophile.
Monday, February 09, 2009
Valentine's Day and Divisive Rogues
Seems like everyone is eager to celebrate Valentine's Day, (and though I find it a little corny) why not?
Muthalik was on the news saying that he's going to send a memo to colleges to "ban" Valentine's Day.
The Roman Catholic Church, ages ago declared this day (February 14th) a holy day in honor of various Christian martyrs named 'Valentine'. Well, there are a lot stories connected with how the 'Celebration of Love' coincided with this day. But today in our world, it stands as it is, a day to celebrate love (corny phrase again)
So, why are people like Muthalik keen to ban a day which may as well have significance for a person of a religion which is not Hinduism.
Hindu wives fast for their husbands, is it not for 'love' they go without food or water for a whole day?
Rakhi is another festival to celebrate love between brothers and sisters, another Hindu festival.
So, if you are not a Hindu, then is the only other day to celebrate love in India going to be banned for you?
Will Muthalik and the likes of him ban everything that is not related to Hinduism?
Next time you know, no Christmas and no Id!
We have celebrated all sorts of festivals. During Diwali all of us are excited about bursting crackers and lighting the house with diyas.
During Id, I am at my friend's place hogging biriyani and participating in their celebrations.
And I am sure most of us Indians have done so too. We have probably celebrated a festival that is not essentially part of our "Culture".
So why are goons trying to divide us and rampage a day which is all about love.
Cupid, Kama, Rati, Eros and Venus may be part of our world's mythology. But weren't they all created for a reason?
Muthalik was on the news saying that he's going to send a memo to colleges to "ban" Valentine's Day.
The Roman Catholic Church, ages ago declared this day (February 14th) a holy day in honor of various Christian martyrs named 'Valentine'. Well, there are a lot stories connected with how the 'Celebration of Love' coincided with this day. But today in our world, it stands as it is, a day to celebrate love (corny phrase again)
So, why are people like Muthalik keen to ban a day which may as well have significance for a person of a religion which is not Hinduism.
Hindu wives fast for their husbands, is it not for 'love' they go without food or water for a whole day?
Rakhi is another festival to celebrate love between brothers and sisters, another Hindu festival.
So, if you are not a Hindu, then is the only other day to celebrate love in India going to be banned for you?
Will Muthalik and the likes of him ban everything that is not related to Hinduism?
Next time you know, no Christmas and no Id!
We have celebrated all sorts of festivals. During Diwali all of us are excited about bursting crackers and lighting the house with diyas.
During Id, I am at my friend's place hogging biriyani and participating in their celebrations.
And I am sure most of us Indians have done so too. We have probably celebrated a festival that is not essentially part of our "Culture".
So why are goons trying to divide us and rampage a day which is all about love.
Cupid, Kama, Rati, Eros and Venus may be part of our world's mythology. But weren't they all created for a reason?
Monday, February 02, 2009
Snowy London
Can you see the snowfall? Taken from my balcony.
The road I live on. Yeah, on some days you'll find me in a corner bundled with up a duvet donated by a kind soul!
The road I don't live on but have to walk everyday to get to the station.
Snow capped trees
The road I live on. Yeah, on some days you'll find me in a corner bundled with up a duvet donated by a kind soul!
The road I don't live on but have to walk everyday to get to the station.
Snow capped trees
Winter Wonderland
I wish I could say that "I looked out of my window this morning and the pretty sight of a snow covered London welcomed me."
Let me the kill the romanticism here. On Monday mornings I can barely drag myself out of bed and once I realise that it's past even my "buffer" sleep-in time, it's all rush rush rush.
So, no time to look out of the window and enjoy the beautiful morning view.
When I got out of my apartment building this morning I was in for a pleasant surprise. It had snowed quite heavily during the night and everything was covered in snow. Londoners tell me that London has not experienced snow like this in about twenty years; so yippee, I am glad to see London like this.
It looks really very 'Christmas'sy; like pictures you would see on a Christmas card. Trees covered with snow and swaying in the gentle breeze.
Lot's of people were capturing the beautiful sight on their cameras and mobile phones.
Too bad I have no pictures to post, but if I do manage to click some photos will surely post it on here.
Lovely sights apart, getting to work today was just short of hell. Packed trains and delays. Not to mention nearly breaking my old hip because of the slippery surface. I had to walk funny just to keep myself from falling.
Oh well, never mind all that. When I looked around me this morning there was one song, oh ok carol, which kept playing in my head, 'Winter Wonderland'
"Sleigh bells ring, are you listening,
In the lane, snow is glistening
A beautiful sight,
We're happy tonight.
Walking in a winter wonderland."
It sure is lovely around here; of course if you're all warm and cozy and looking out the window.
Let me the kill the romanticism here. On Monday mornings I can barely drag myself out of bed and once I realise that it's past even my "buffer" sleep-in time, it's all rush rush rush.
So, no time to look out of the window and enjoy the beautiful morning view.
When I got out of my apartment building this morning I was in for a pleasant surprise. It had snowed quite heavily during the night and everything was covered in snow. Londoners tell me that London has not experienced snow like this in about twenty years; so yippee, I am glad to see London like this.
It looks really very 'Christmas'sy; like pictures you would see on a Christmas card. Trees covered with snow and swaying in the gentle breeze.
Lot's of people were capturing the beautiful sight on their cameras and mobile phones.
Too bad I have no pictures to post, but if I do manage to click some photos will surely post it on here.
Lovely sights apart, getting to work today was just short of hell. Packed trains and delays. Not to mention nearly breaking my old hip because of the slippery surface. I had to walk funny just to keep myself from falling.
Oh well, never mind all that. When I looked around me this morning there was one song, oh ok carol, which kept playing in my head, 'Winter Wonderland'
"Sleigh bells ring, are you listening,
In the lane, snow is glistening
A beautiful sight,
We're happy tonight.
Walking in a winter wonderland."
It sure is lovely around here; of course if you're all warm and cozy and looking out the window.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Die-'not'-eating
Oh well, I am not really dying, but since I have been on this diet I have had these bizarre cravings.
This afternoon when I walked home my flatmate was making herself a scrumptious salad sandwich. Just the smell of lettuce was making my mouth water. I wasn't eying the carb-laden bread itself but just the salad, yes, just the salad.
Now that seemed like an extremely healthy meal which I would definitely not put into my Saturday lunch menu. Weekends are for indulging. So while breakfast could be anything from omelets with cheese and sausages and bacon, lunch would be a delightful herb-filled burger or spicy chicken couscous. My mouth waters so much when I think of the chicken couscous I used to make; not to boast or anything but it was really really good.
So if you're wondering why I can't have salad when I am on diet I just can't. I am living on food packs which have all the nutrition and though I feel starved sometimes, I am actually not.
The other day a colleague at work was eating an apple and man, did I want that apple. I used to include apples in my usual fruit shopping because they are good for health and not particularly for the love of the fruit. While I would finish all the other fruits in the basket, the apples would remain in my refrigerator for weeks always going beyond the 'eat-by' date.
But now, I wish I could have just one bite of an apple. Or a bite of some crunchy lettuce and rocket salad. At least now I am craving for healthy food, so the diet is having some good effect after all.
This afternoon when I walked home my flatmate was making herself a scrumptious salad sandwich. Just the smell of lettuce was making my mouth water. I wasn't eying the carb-laden bread itself but just the salad, yes, just the salad.
Now that seemed like an extremely healthy meal which I would definitely not put into my Saturday lunch menu. Weekends are for indulging. So while breakfast could be anything from omelets with cheese and sausages and bacon, lunch would be a delightful herb-filled burger or spicy chicken couscous. My mouth waters so much when I think of the chicken couscous I used to make; not to boast or anything but it was really really good.
So if you're wondering why I can't have salad when I am on diet I just can't. I am living on food packs which have all the nutrition and though I feel starved sometimes, I am actually not.
The other day a colleague at work was eating an apple and man, did I want that apple. I used to include apples in my usual fruit shopping because they are good for health and not particularly for the love of the fruit. While I would finish all the other fruits in the basket, the apples would remain in my refrigerator for weeks always going beyond the 'eat-by' date.
But now, I wish I could have just one bite of an apple. Or a bite of some crunchy lettuce and rocket salad. At least now I am craving for healthy food, so the diet is having some good effect after all.
Free to Go; Case Dismissed!
This is what happens after all. You commit a crime, you are granted bail and in all probability you will be let off because let's face it, our judicial system will pass judgment only when elephants start to fly and when I win the Miss Universe competition.
In recent news, the Mangalore pub attackers have now been granted bail. They were apprehended only because the media made this headline news.
The pub owner himself was apprehensive about filing a complaint against the offenders. I don't blame him. Pitting yourself against goons backed by political parties is not the wisest thing to do. Well, yeah all of us know that in India you can expect to be safe from your local petty thief but not politicians.
And not only politicians, the police as well. News archives bear testimony to crimes against women committed by the police; rape, molestation, harassment, the list goes on.
Santhosh once told me of an incident that his friend narrated to him. His friend was studying in Delhi at the time. For dinner he went to this Dhaba, I think around the outskirts of Delhi, and next to him sat this policeman who was armed. While he was making small talk with the policeman a van passed by and a girl was shouting and screaming out for help. He of course asked the policeman about why was he not doing anything about it, shouldn't he go and save her. The policeman said, "Kya saab, honge kuch MLA ke bete. Hum kuch nahi kar sakhthe." (Translation: What Sir, these people are probably the sons of some MLAs. We cannot do anything about it.)
So, politicians and their offspring have a free hand and can have anything and anyone they fancy. Santhosh's friend was of course really shocked, but the policeman was unperturbed. It was just another ignorable incident on his beat.
When I heard this story I was shocked too (more for the reason that things like this actually do happen and are not just dramatised in Hindi movies, where three out of five movies would feature a damsel in distress screaming 'Bachao, Bachao' (Help, Help) from a moving vehicle filled with nasty men) and was relieved that this sort of thing was not known to happen around Mangalore.
But I can't be so sure anymore.
Today, the politicians have attacked women in a pub in the name of morality. Tomorrow they might go a step further and commit more heinous crimes with the knowledge and assurance that they will be bailed out.
Are our leaders going to do something about this? Oh wait, most of our 'leaders' already have criminal records. And they know that they are "free to go".
In recent news, the Mangalore pub attackers have now been granted bail. They were apprehended only because the media made this headline news.
The pub owner himself was apprehensive about filing a complaint against the offenders. I don't blame him. Pitting yourself against goons backed by political parties is not the wisest thing to do. Well, yeah all of us know that in India you can expect to be safe from your local petty thief but not politicians.
And not only politicians, the police as well. News archives bear testimony to crimes against women committed by the police; rape, molestation, harassment, the list goes on.
Santhosh once told me of an incident that his friend narrated to him. His friend was studying in Delhi at the time. For dinner he went to this Dhaba, I think around the outskirts of Delhi, and next to him sat this policeman who was armed. While he was making small talk with the policeman a van passed by and a girl was shouting and screaming out for help. He of course asked the policeman about why was he not doing anything about it, shouldn't he go and save her. The policeman said, "Kya saab, honge kuch MLA ke bete. Hum kuch nahi kar sakhthe." (Translation: What Sir, these people are probably the sons of some MLAs. We cannot do anything about it.)
So, politicians and their offspring have a free hand and can have anything and anyone they fancy. Santhosh's friend was of course really shocked, but the policeman was unperturbed. It was just another ignorable incident on his beat.
When I heard this story I was shocked too (more for the reason that things like this actually do happen and are not just dramatised in Hindi movies, where three out of five movies would feature a damsel in distress screaming 'Bachao, Bachao' (Help, Help) from a moving vehicle filled with nasty men) and was relieved that this sort of thing was not known to happen around Mangalore.
But I can't be so sure anymore.
Today, the politicians have attacked women in a pub in the name of morality. Tomorrow they might go a step further and commit more heinous crimes with the knowledge and assurance that they will be bailed out.
Are our leaders going to do something about this? Oh wait, most of our 'leaders' already have criminal records. And they know that they are "free to go".
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