Super Stars Are Not Above The Law! Not even me!

I swear on everything dearest to me, that I didn't coach her on this.
But my lil Oviya (all of 6) wanted to know why her surname is that of her father's, and why mine doesn't figure anywhere.
And then she tells me she wants to be called Oviya Saraswathi (my second name) Cherian.
I was so over the moon, I made a few deliriously happy international calls to my sisters to tell them this.
That's not the only reason I feel like a superstar.
She tells me when she is a grown up she will work in Qatar Today, just the way I do.
For her I am perfect it seems, because she tells me day in and day, that she is going to be just like me when she is a 'grown up' and do all that I do.
Except today, when she very wisely added, "But I won't get that yellow sticker on the car or go to the police station".
Which reminds me, I have a traffic fine to pay. Again.
The saving grace being, my daughter is a discerning little imp!

The last f**k

i received validation for a decision i took 12 years ago, and i learnt a lesson about living life to the fullest, till the very last minute.
and all from a truckload of lamb being led to the slaughterhouse.
so here i am rushing to an appointment, and right in front of me is a truck load of lamb. They are packed in tight, and i was upset wondering if they knew that was their last drive ever? and just feeling glad that I turned vegetarian a dozen years ago.
So that's my validation.

Then I saw them jostle each other, and one in particular seemed like it would fall over the flimsy barrier holding them in. And there I was thinking, "The bastards could not even get them a comfortable truck. They are literally on top of each other."
And then it hit me. They were! At least one of them managed to find some lust/romance in that sad moment, and was humping away. I was so hysterical with laughter, I almost lost control of the wheel.
So that's the lesson in life. If I am going to be led to the slaughterhouse, I am going to make sure I have one last good fuck!

comb overs

i love bald men with comb overs. so pathetically optimistic and cute, how can you be irritated with them?

radio ga ga

feeling really nostalgic about the radio.
here, as soon as i get into the car, i tune into 89.1, dubai fm, which plays hindi music. and it is not always a clear signal.
and i realise how easily we give up stuff we enjoyed, for things we think are better.
i remember vividh bharati at 7.15 am in mds. and again at 8.15 pm. and the deaf old man across the street listening to bbc news.
and then the english music station, don't remember the exact number.
now of course there is radio mirchi and all those kinds of stuff. i am sure i would be hooked if i were back home.
there is a difference however with what you hear on dubai fm. in the evenings especially, you hear these desperately lonely and sad voices calling in. and at the end of the minute or so, they seem to cheer up. i just hope the rjs know they are doing a wonderful job of being empathetic to these listeners, who live far away from home, and probably alone. of course there is one real rude rj -- gayathri -- someone should silence her!
now let me zero in on qatar's 97.5 fm. evenings are good, they play real nice selection. rj-ing is hopeless most of the time. but mornings are a torture. irrelevant stuff. about exhibitions being held in some vague corner of britain. and the then there are these real weird brit rjs who think they are being funny, but are only making asses of themselves...
give me back my vividh bharathi!

I am grateful for all these things and more...

never having lived in a war zone
my literacy
my family, despite their quirks
my friends, despite mine
my teachers
the lottery vendor who sat near my school bus stop, chasing away lecherous fellas
the neighbour who keeps my mum company
not suffering a debilitating illness or disability
my daughter's to-die-for mischievous smile
and her irrepressible curiosity
R's patience with all my eccentricities, and then some
for making my living doing something I LOVE
for the colleagues I have had over the years, who motivate, support and criticise...
to Gandhi for making my country so instantly identifiable. it gets more pronounced, since within India it is fashionable to come down on him, while world over it is the opposite
for Indian movies that entertain me so fantastically
for all the authors who have made my life so much better
for Babu who not only keeps my home, but cares for it. And by home, i also mean the people in it
for Anjalai who is so much a part of the family, I don't even know why I'm singling her out
for all the great breaks I've got in life, personal and professional

Terrorists

Ever wondered how most terrorists/criminal look like your ordinary 'man-next-door'?
Osama can pass off for that congenial old bachelor uncle
George Bush can pass off for the intellectually-challenged, but well-meaning colleague
Salman Khan can be mistaken for that cocky elder brother of your best friend
Rumsfeld, the headmaster who tries to hard to be funny, but doesn't quite pull it off
Tim McVeigh as that geeky kid in school who flunked every subject except computer science
Dawood Ibrahim is that lecherous uncle, you can't run away from quickly enough (well, not that he is not lecherous in real life, if one were to go by media reports)
Prabhakaran makes great engineering designs for infrastructure projects (different matter all together that he is in the business of blowing up these projects)


Can you think of more?

Doll's Story

R & I took O to Toys ‘r’ Us to buy her (all of 6!) birthday gifts. We veered her away from the Barbies and Barbie-type monstrosities (she has only about 2 dozen of those, and we didn’t buy a single one of it).
And not satisfied with that, we tried to get her to pick up more lifelike dolls. As she tended towards fair-skinned, blond, blue-eyed life-size doll, we convinced her that it was not as nice as the dark-skinned, brown-eyed, black/curly-haired little moppet that stood in a corner. We marketed the doll well, and walked out of the store with that… We tried dinning it into her that this doll was superior to the former. Is that racism? Are we telling her those with fair-skin and light hair/eyes are not good enough?
Or is it positive reinforcement that it takes all kinds to make the world? That the role-models fairy tales and toy-makers push ahead are not the real stuff?
I have to give it to the Americans, though. Be it Barbie, Bratz or any regular doll, they give you a choice of ethnicity to choose from.
What is really appalling is that in India, most dolls are ‘the fair-skinned, blond, blue-eyed’ varieties… now how many in India fit that mould?
I am sure some think I am making a pox out of a pimple.
After all it is just a doll! But it is more than that. It is a child's first exposure to prejudices.

Am I being judged?

I recruited a new cook-cum-babysitter on Oct 1. She lasted less than a week, and though I thought my world was falling apart, I survived the next 10 days, till I found another.
Now, my worry is -- Am I being judged?
Madam No 2, stomps into my house, starts clearing out and cleaning up my kitchen cupboards, gets all the dry goods into boxes, throws out expired foodstuff, folds every last piece of clothing in the laundry bag, arranges my daughter's cupboard...
I can live with all this (though I wonder what's the big deal about 4 week old laundry not finding its way from basket to cupboard, and so what if I have empty bottles and dry goods in the original packaging, and does it really matter if my daughter's home use, underwear and party wear are all together?)...
Though I can tolerate her attempts to organise my home, I refuse to be judged for coming home and charging right to bed for a nap, and then potter around doing nothing for an hour, after which I force myself to the gym...
When she comes back to work next week, I am not going to make excuses for taking a nap ("I wake up at 5.30 am I am tired"), not clearing up stuff ("I have a bad back"), and for leaving my child behind with her to go the gym ("the doctor insists")...
I will not make any of the above stated and the dozen other easily mouthed excuses.
What if I had been super organised, very energised, and totally not lazy? Whose loss would it have been? Hers of course!
So she can go about cleaning, and organising and papering my shelves, but I am not going to let her get to me.
PS: I have had a cleaner -- B -- for 6 years, who does a great enough job without making me feel small. He even leaves visible dust spots and uncleared garbage to make me feel better about myself. So what is her problem, huh?

Before I Die...

... Or While I Am Still Alive

I want to Learn to
* Control my anger
* Tolerate other people's quirks and play down mine
* Play one sport, that doesn't involve the keyboard
* Use Shorthand with fluency
* Parasail
* Deep sea dive
* Ride a sports bike
* Ice skate
* Speak Arabic
* Be a Better Mother
* Be a Kinder Daughter
* Be a Saner Wife
* Be a More Accommodating Friend
* Have multiple orgasms (or should the learning be by the other?)
* Please, and be pleased easier
* Carry my bulk with a bit more grace
* Answer irritating and embarrassing questions from daughter without losing my temper
* Reply without being rude to indecently inquisitive queries from absolute strangers
* Hate the Brits a little less
* Love the mallus a bit more
* Enjoy being ogled/leched at
* Ogle/lech less obviously
* Earn tonnes of money
* Save tonnes of money
* Do the above, without cutting back on shopping
* Shop without guilt or doubt
* Be less jealous of every author I read. You either have it or you don't
* Laze without making excuses for it
* Not procrastinate

(will continue rest later)

My Sister's Keeper

A new author, a new experience. Jodi Picoult's My Sister's Keeper.
Moved me to tears. Parts of the book were brilliantly written. Parts were an attempt to do so. Was a bit confused on that count.
Otherwise such a topical issue. Just thought the end was a bit too sad... it was almost like the author doesn't like loose ends, and was tying up every arm of the plot.
Still, raises so many ethical issues connected to medical research and treatment.
And of course, as always, you realise there are no easy answers, sometimes no answers at all, to most issues in life. Be it personal or professional.

Books and the people who got me into it

As all of Hardy's books, you can either be totally taken in by it, or absolutely bored by it. I love Hardy's style and plots. So daring and so beautiful. Jude the Obscure particularly pushes the limits. The trials of an unmarried couple, if I can take the liberty to simplify it so stupidly! Hardy was introduced to me by my English teacher Mrs Kamakshi when I was in Class 8. Must have been 13 or so. She gave us a short speech and asked us to identify what was unique about the speech. Only two of us in class could identify that the speech was a string of book names. Two in a tower, far from the madding crowd, jude the obscure... it went on. I had remembered the names from my sister's and father's library books.But it was only a year later that I read my first Hardy, Far From the Madding Crowd, as the teacher insisted I should. And I was hooked to it.
Then my father's friend (Kapali mama, whose children were not into books) gifted me his entire collection of Hardy and Lawrence, when he realised i was interested in these books. Old books from the '50s and '60s. Yellowed. Name written with an old-style fountain pen, bound in cardboard and canvas for longevity.
Everytime I read one of the books from that collection, it is not just the plots and words that transport me into a dream world. It is also what I imagine of the previous readers of the book. Old uncles in the younger days, reading Hardy in public and Lawrence on the sly.
Discussing the daring adventures of the heroes of these books. The poetic flow of the authors... the many friends of Kapali mama who borrowed (was my dad one of them) the books and read it under the single electric bulb in the sitting room in the late '50s.
I don't think I ever quite thanked Ms Kamakshi for nurturing my love for books, introducing me to new authors, tolerating my over-ambitious florid essays and gently guiding me towards more understated elegance. That I am still in love with books and words is a tribute to her. I don't know where she is, if she is still there. She was nearing 60 when I was finishing school in 1991.
Again, I don't think I thanked Kapali mama sufficiently either. I just greedily grabbed the books with a perfunctory 'thank you'. He is no more, but am sure he is aware that the books are in good hands, and his gesture was enormously appreciated.
Next time someone introduces me to an author, lends or gifts me a book, I better thank them properly when I have the opportunity.
While on this, I better thank my dad, who however hard-up he was (4 daughters and a sister to educate and take care of, apart from a long line of cousins who stayed with us, all on one salary), he could never say no to money that would be spent on books or studies. He can quote from Shakespeare and whole bunch of other classics. He is the one who drilled into us that no matter what you have in the wardrobe, it is what you have on your bookshelf that matters (not so politely though).
And then I should thank my sister (no 3). She made reading books hip for me. Since all other rolemodels where old and not-so-fashionable, it was the sight of my college-going sister burying herself in the classics, that kept me clear of other junk books that my friends devoured. Of course, I would sneak in a few in defiance, but never enjoyed the read.
Books. What would our life be without it?

more ways to ignore!

facebook, orkut, ims... there are more and more ways now to NOT keep in touch with people. earlier it was just not calling or not writing a letter... now the possibilities are endless. you can ignore people on chats, on ims, on scrap!

beautiful inside, my foot!

what the eff is with 'beautiful inside' bullshit. if someone told me i was beautiful inside, i would kick them where it hurts, and then curl up and moan my not so beautiful outside.
you watch tv, especially american, and you see these pseudos always referring to ugly people as 'she/he is so beautiful inside'. hang it please!
here is my take on beauty. there are these varieties of people who look good regardless of whether you love (brad pitt) or hate (aish bachchan) them. but beauty is something that grows on you. how many of you would call you best friend 'ugly'? how many parents would think their kids are butt ugly?
if you really like/love someone, they automatically become good-looking don't they?

morning mourning

I love sleeping in late. 8am is too early to be brisk. My ideal wake up hour is between 9.30 and 10. And thanks to the job I took up, which involved late hours, I could do this without guilt.
But now, I am up by 5.30 or so, and out of the house by 6.30 with my daughter. Funny thing is that I really enjoy this. I love the morning drive to her school. I like chatting with her. I feel real fresh and raring to go...
Come weekends, and it is a relapse.
Someone told me it is the owl and swan sydrome. Apparently I fall into the owl category. Who 5 times a week turns into a swan... hmmm!
Is the owl/swan sydrome genetic. Everyone in my house is an early riser. Earliest being my dad who is up at about 4 am. No one sleeps in later than 6!

Beef it up, please

Qatar Airways, will you beef it up please? Not the food, but the luggage allowance.
While most airlines give at least 30-35, Qatar Airways gives a measly 20 to passengers travelling India-ME segment, while giving 60 or so to those travelling to Europe and the US from India.
Now of course, we would much rather prefer that a light flight takes us safely to our destination, no doubt.
But here is the other thing that they are beefing up, unnecessarily.
Travelling Doha to Chennai, the meals choice was veg or beef. Excuse me! The destination is Chennai, India. Why the hell would you give beef as the only non-vegetarian choice? And not even stock enough veg platters as an alternative?
What if flights to the Middle East offer only Pork as the meat choice? There would be a jihad over that, for sure.

Age, that nasty SoB

by the end of the holiday, I was ready to come back to Doha, to my home, its comforts and the lack of it too.
what annoyed me this holiday was not the bad civic amenities, but age. The ageing of parents, relationships... everything looked old.
And it gets worse when you are the youngest in a large family...
At the airport, when I turned around one last time to say bye, it was age that gave me a tear-jerking slap.
My parents and parents-in-law, looking old and alone.
The selfish me was resentful of the fact that I will always know my parents a few years less than my sisters, and also a few years older.
I resent that my mother cannot be as sprightly with my child as she was with my niece and nephew.
But that's me. I don't only want the good things in life, I want more and more of it.

I Can Love, Too

Before you dismiss me off as a cynic...

I LOVE
The first glimpse of Madras as the flight takes a turn around the bay and heads towards St Thomas Mount. At night it glitters, during the day it looks wonderfully green
Long haul flights. Probably because I do them only for work, and hence don't have to travel economy.
The fact that I don't have to pay for BA Club World
My work, not necessarily my job

I LOVE
The smell of babies
Smell of MY baby
The non-existent wrists and ankles of newborns, and their million little wrinkles
Blowing raspberries
Massaging their tiny hands and legs and torso
The confidence with which children mispronounce words
Their total disregard for being politically correct

I LOVED
Being pregnant
Breast feeding

I LOVE
My husband running his hands through my hair, when he thinks I am asleep, but I am only pretending
Holding hands for no reason at all
Long, fast rides on the HOG, and then the static sensation on the skin long after you are off the bike
Sharing a dosai, and racing to the masala-filled centre
Cuddling
Kisses. Sensous ones from a lover. Sloppy ones from my child. A wholesome hug and a kiss on the cheek rolled into one, as only mothers can dish out.
Hugs. Of all kinds. (If you want to win an argument with me, or end a feud, just give me a hug. I will shut up)

I LOVE
Books
Charles Dickens, Thomas Hardy, Emily Bronte, Ann Patchett, J K Rowling, Stephen King
The Boss
Brad Pitt
Surya
Lost, Desperate Housewives, Gilmore Girls, Friends
Kathy Griffin and Ellen De Generes
Men with smooth. dark skin, and a ready smile

I LOVE
The now extinct Sayadeen Cafe in Doha, that served the yummiest dosais. Sob! Sob! No more!
Rasam saadam with potato fry
Filter Coffee
Adhirasam
Pongal, both the dish and the festival

I LOVE
Shopping in Pondy Bazaar and Egmore platform in Chennai and the souq in Doha
Buying cheap footwear, knowing very well it wont last
Collecting watches and pens
A good argument
Being right, always

I LOVE
The smell of rain
Sunset
The beach
A Marlboro light and vodka with a twist of lime, alone on the beach
Spending the night by the beach, at the foot of the dunes, eating idli and chutney, with friends who matter
Dancing
Sleeping naked
Bubble baths
Massages
Cooking for a group (only)
A neat house, without in anyway being responsible for keeping it that way
The smell of sun-dried clothes


(to be continued)

My Hate Rant

I HATE

• Men who lech and think they are being cool
• Men who adjust their testicles and scratch their crotch in public
• Men who wear tight trousers that gather at the crotch and rise at the ankle, and think it's cool
• Fair men who have no hair on them. Really yuck!
• Men who pee where ever and when ever they please, just because they can do it standing
• Salman Khan
• Wife beaters
• And the wife who takes it more

I HATE

• Parenting tips from people who don't have children
• Parenting tips from people who do have children
• Parenting tips... Period
• Supermoms who look down their sweaty noses at those of us who tend to relax a wee bit
• Fathers who think their parenting participation begins and ends with impregnating their wives/partners
• Parents who think rude and badly behaved children are cute and naughty! At least show your disapproval if you can't correct the child

I HATE

• Bras. More so because I can't afford to not wear it
• Frayed panties that show over hipster jeans. If you HAVE to wear those jeans, go get yourself a proper pair of panties please!
• Mismatched blouses and underskirts with sarees...
• Tall women who wear heals
• Tall women who wear long skirts. A la Aunt Hilda
• I hate cynics (and whatever this rant may sound like, I am not one)

I HATE

• Slim women who show false empathy and talk about their excess weight to those bordering on obesity
• And more so, when they are patronising enough to say, "You are just big, not fat!"
• Women who obsess about their weight so much, they can't hold a conversation on anything without it turning into "Have I gained? Have I lost?" rigmarole. Who the eff cares?
• Fat women wearing spandex. Hello? No mirror at home?
• Flat chested women wearing low necklines. That cut is only for the well-endowed please!
• Women who pretend not to gossip. Bullshit! Who really doesn't?
• Flight attendants who are mean to those who seem to hail from the labour class, while ready to drop their pants for those flying business/first.

I HATE

• People who honk just as the red turns to green at the signal
• People who honk for no reason at all
• People who keep flicking cigarette ash out of the window
• People who drive with their kids on their laps
• People who drive autorickshaws. Bloody thieves!

(to be continued)

Madras, Nalla Madras?!

Board Qatar Airways to Chennai, and know immediately I am almost home.
Lecherous men -- the way only Tamil and Malayalee men are capable of being -- drool at every female on board over the age of 12. And worse still, they think they are doing the women a favour!
They also try to pack in as many Jack Daniels as possible.
Qatar Airways once again shows its total disregard for common sense. A flight bound to Chennai, and apart from the veggie meal, the only other available is beef curry! Don't these guys do their homework?
Anyways I knew for sure I had reached home (flight landed at the unearthly hour of 3.45am), when a cop reeking of alcohol tries to thrust a 500 buck note (probably flinched from another passenger) into a traveller's hand and asks him to pick up a bottle of scotch from the duty free.
I knew things were changing for the better in some ways, when the not-so-assertive looking traveller turned him down pointblank and walked away.
Immigration was superbly efficient and quick... they really can give some tips to the sloths at the Doha airport.
Porters were very helpful and very obvious about wanting to be rewarded. Which is fine, as long as they were are helpful.
Advantage of reaching at that unearthly hour is that traffic is easy.
For the first time, no one comes to receive me, because I insisted. The travel agent's car is there to fetch me.
Am definitely home, when goofy my aged and almost-blind cocker spaniel still recognises me and brings the roof down. And my little one wakes up to fill me in on all the details (that shows her in angelic light) with me.
I am home!
PS: A counter at immigration reads Diplomats/Physically Challenged. Shouldn't it read Diplomats/Ethically Challenged? Why insult the disabled by clubbing them with diplomats?

The Same Old Fear!

It's the pre-India fear again. I am not ecstatically happy as I was a week ago. On the eve of my departure, India is more frightening than exciting.
What would one year of absence throw on my face?
Would appa's prosthetic knee have slowed him down further, making his age that much more obvious?
Would there be extra greys on amma's head, and denser wrinkles on her hand?
Would my sisters' lives have evolved so much that I become not more than an annual guest?
And friends...
Like I keep saying, though I return year after year to India, my reference point is still the year I left it for good (or worse) in 1999. Those are the memories that are frozen in my mind...
But for those who have continued to live there, there is little connection to what life had been 8 years ago.
Am I already a stranger at home? Can I still call it home? India, Chennai...
This fear never goes away. If anything, it festers, and grows deeper every year.