In Confidence

Book Tag: You're It!!

2005-06-03T11:41:00.000+05:30

Mandar tagged me. And although I stopped playing tag quite a while back, this one looks like a fun game so here goes…

Total Number of Books I Own: Don’t tell my mom this, or she will kill me! Roughly about 450 or so. Ranging from utter trash to sublime literature, I have enough fodder for a couple of generations of silverfish.

Last Book I Bought: This was Undue Influence by Steve Martini. Typical page-turner, somewhat in the genre of dear old Perry Mason, only the morality is greyer and the humour, much darker. Has been classified into holiday/travel reading.

Last Book I Read: In the Company of Cheerful Ladies by Alexander McCall Smith. The latest in the series on Precious Ramotswe, a delightfully engaging lady-detective (she calls herself that!) in Botswana. Starting with the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, this is a series to read every time you want to reaffirm the existence of goodness and kindness. Simple, straightforward and charming. (It was a re-read.)

Five Books That Mean a Lot to Me:
Let’s see. Five books that mean a lot to me. Hmmm.
1. To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee: Simple, yet profound. I found this book in a pile marked to be given away. I was all of twelve and completely believed in Boo Radley. Even now, many years later, every reading reveals more nuances and Scout continues to grow up with me.

2. The Lord of the Rings Trilogy by J. R. R. Tolkien: The ultimate Quest trilogy. Fascinating characters, extraordinary landscapes and great writing make for a tale that can be read and re-read over and over again.

3. Midnight’s Children by Salman Rushdie: An eye-popping, magically real look at Indian history and the Indian psyche.

4. Misconception by Naomi Wolf: A classic feminist text about the gender bias that exists even in the field of gynecology and obstetrics. Through her own experiences of carrying and delivering two kids, Wolf recounts the myriad ways in which the American health system stumped her. Interesting, enlightening, and frightening.

5. Sophie’s World by Jostein Gaarder: This book is here for two reasons. Firstly, Gaarder is Norwegian, and this appeals to my Scandinavian fascination. Secondly, philosophy is an enchanting subject. This book combines the beauty of philosophy with a creative narrative that entertains as it teaches. An allegory, a lesson plan, a great story and a mystery all rolled into one.

There are tons of others. Kundera, Douglas Adams, Amitav Ghosh, Mahashweta Devi, Vikram Seth (especially Golden Gate!) Margaret Atwood, Roald Dahl, Christie, Erle Stanley Gardner, Enid Blyton: so many friends to spend a lonely night with. All dear, all delightful. Best part is there are always so many more to discover! A veritable candy shop for the mind!

Why siblings make more sense than Nike!

2005-06-02T14:28:00.000+05:30

I’ve recently been sharing stories with friends and colleagues of the merits and demerits of having siblings. My single-kid friends always protest loudly when I say that kids with siblings are better behaved! (Giving truth to my statement with their loud protests, nevertheless!) Yet, I sincerely believe that having a sibling is a healthy way to learn some important truths in life. Like this one: Just do it!
This I learnt when pretty young. My sister was two; I was 6 and a half. She was beginning to be very pesky and I was starting to realize exactly how pesky she could be! I was proud of school (those were the days!) and enjoyed the whole ritual of packing pencil-boxes and books and stuff. One day as I packed my pencil box, she reached out and grabbed an eraser. Now that was fairly normal. But when she proceeded to slobber all over it in typical two-year-old fashion, I lost it, and made my first and last mistake in this category. I threatened to beat her. Really, I only threatened! Next thing I know, she was bawling her head off and babbling in that endearingly pathetic way that two-year-olds have: "Nandu beat!" Of course, seeing the apple of her eye in such abject misery, and bearing witness to the creator of that misery pushed my mother over the edge and I got soundly whacked! I also learnt my first lesson: Just do it! (Especially if you're to bear the consequences anyway!)
Really, who needs Nike when we have siblings?

Through Four Doors

2005-05-27T19:00:00.000+05:30

My grandfather was in the I.C.U. for two days this last week. The same place where my gran died. There is a corridor there, leading up to the actual ward. It has four doors. From the icy cold of the waiting room where you take off your shoes to the actual ward, you walk through each of those four doors. Each door is a new level of pain and self-knowledge. And many are those who haven’t dared beyond the first. Choosing to urge on their braver relatives, and keeping themselves back in the relative safety and cold of the waiting area. For although the temperature grows warmer, few can endure the coldness of the soul that descends when the fourth door shuts.
At the end of those four doors, pain and indignity rule. Loved ones who stood tall and proud, shake and stutter. Warm hands turn cold and clammy. And I’m not even talking about the sick.
Back in the purgatory of the waiting room, near and dear ones huddle together for warmth and comfort, making periodic, and lonely, trips into the perdition that lies beyond the four doors. And on each of those trips, they whisper silent prayers. Let it be quick. Let there be no more pain. Let me never be here.
I made many trips up and down that corridor in those two days. Whoever’s up there now knows me really well. Thanks to those four doors.

Sanjeev Kumar and Darth Vader

2005-05-23T17:09:00.000+05:30

I watched Star Wars: Episode III over the weekend. I almost cried at the sadness of it all. Someone somewhere once said that the turning of good to evil was a grand thing. A thing to be gawped at, awestruck. In Anakin Skywalker’s transformation to Darth Vader, it was awesome, but sad, heartbreakingly so.
And in a strange way it reminded me of Trishul. I’m sure purists will be offended by the comparison, but the whole father-son parallel in the two movies is hard to ignore. In Trishul, the dynamics are different, the situation and issues more mundane, but the father-son dialectic is almost as powerful. Also I like Sanjeev Kumar with his arms intact! (For those who don’t get it, think Sholay!)
Which brings me to the only grouse I have with George Lucas. I mean, seriously, where are the mothers and daughters? Few movies and books, if any, graduate beyond the bittersweet dynamics of daughters growing up in their mothers’ shadows. But fathers and sons are everywhere! So are mothers and sons, for that matter! Complexes, compulsions, obsessions, power struggles, are all familiar territory in many fictional dad-son, mom-son relationships. Yet, I’m looking for a strong, realistic portrayal of a woman and her daughter. Not sentimental, but strong. Not bittersweet, but tangy as mint. Not pallid, but passionate. Demeter and Persephone qualify, but aren’t there any others?
Maybe I just haven’t found the book or movie that is out there. If you know of one that might pass this test, do let me know. Until then I’ll go on feeling sorry for poor Darth Vader and even poorer Luke.

The Intolerable Brightness of Choice

2005-05-19T16:41:00.000+05:30

Sometimes, just sometimes, in moments when I’m blinded by the sheer brilliance of choices offered me, I long for a simpler life. One with more certainties. It manifests itself as a longing to read Christie and Dickens, even Erle Stanley Gardner. A longing for a world where all equations can be worked out the way we solved them in school, without the messy, bleeding edges that real life offers.
Times like this, I can almost believe that it would’ve been better to be born in a poor family, be expected to fetch water, cook food, wash vessels and clothes and not speak/study/love/question. Be married off at 16 to a man who may or may not care, bear children, raise them, and die. All without an iota of doubt that this was what my life was designed to be. That it was all fated, and like a good movie, it played to the end.
Unfortunately, the circumstance and time of my life don’t permit such an easy formulaic film. Instead like a new director, with a brand new camera full of film, I wander in a daze, trying to capture every exciting picture, every tantalizing sound, without knowing what the film will turn out to be. So when I periodically sit back in the darkness of my mind to review the rushes, the sheer brightness of choice blinds me.
I can write the story, I have the resources, it’ll be a beautiful film, if only I can allow myself to see clearly. But the brightness blinds me and I continue to film on a wing and a prayer.

Of koyals and gardens

2005-05-17T14:06:00.000+05:30

This morning, as I took a shower, I heard the first koyal of the season. Aai used to say; koyals mean the rains are coming. I stood under my little rainfall and listened as this particular koyal went completely crazy announcing the beginning of the end of the summer. And I thought to myself as I came out of the bath, that there would only be a little more time to gorge on mangoes before they disappeared for another year.
Yet, when I come back to the kitchen, fully dressed and hungry, the floor is covered in green mangoes slowly turning to gold. The transformation as exciting as the change to autumn colors, yet far more succulent and promising. My granddad tells me they’ve come from our trees back home in the native place. The trees Aai planted.
In front of our medium-sized house back in rural Karnataka, my granddad and grandmom had lovingly planted a garden. My granddad had planted flowers and shrubs, mogra, shevanthi, the fragrant mallige. My grandmom was far more ambitious. She had chosen to plant 3 mango trees, a drumstick tree and a couple of chikoo and guava trees. My granddad argued over the time and effort it would take to raise trees. But, she preferred the profound to the prosaic and ultimately prevailed.
This morning, as I bit into a piece of golden sweetness, I thought of the last time we were at the house, swinging in the hammocks between the mango trees. I remember the peacock my dad photographed one early morning, coming over the wall to enjoy the shade. And I think of my grandmother who saw far into the future.

How do you know?

2005-05-11T14:53:00.000+05:30

Someone recently said to me, “If we survive apart for the next year, then I’ll know for sure that we’re meant to be together.” And set off a small thought parade in my head. How do we measure love? Or the honesty, the sincerity, the very truth of a love? How do we know that the love we have, the somewhat-mundane regular love we’ve settled into, is the one great love story of our lives?
Some people, like the friend I talked about, measure it in years. If we last for so long, we’ll last forever. If we’re still together at New Year’s then we’ll always be together. We’ve been together for six years; we wouldn’t have survived if we weren’t meant to be. And yet, in all these statements, the time is only incidental. We’re willing to allow time to be the arbitrary and supposedly fair judge of the worth of a relationship because we know no other.
Some other people, measure love in the grandness of a gesture. He proposed to me under the stars and the ring was gorgeous! I knew right there it was love! Yet, a gesture is only a fragment in the tapestry of a relationship. And even grand gestures become boring if you have them everyday.
Still others measure love by what it does to them. She makes me feel great. He makes me feel beautiful. Yet, any great relationship does that. We have friends who make us feel complete and whole, parents who make us feel intelligent. What then?
I’ve said every one of these things too. And yet I know I fall short of describing why I believe in the worth of my relationship. I know because of all this and more. I know because it makes even the mundane, quaint. I know because it could be a day, a month or a year, and we’d be together because we chose to be. And there lies the key. I know it’s true, great even, because I choose it every single day. Not because I can’t live without it, but because I live with it when I could live without. Because existentialism is easy and trust is much harder.

Beginnings and Endings

2005-04-29T14:14:00.000+05:30

For anything to start, something first needs to end. A colleague, well-loved and admired, leaves today to take off on a whole new journey. In the gaggle of goodbyes and good wishes, I’m wondering if something of me will stay with her. We haven’t been the best of friends, but she has been a very good mentor without ever meaning to be. She is kind and sweet and very very adult. The kind of daughter every parent wants, and the kind of friend anyone would be proud of.
So as she leaves today, I’d like to wish her happiness. May her every morning be bright and lovely, her kitchen always full of delicious smells, her arms full of loved ones and her bags full of memories. And as she climbs on that plane into the future, let the regrets and sadnesses of the past fade into oblivion and may she look down on a landscape smoothened by beauty and love. Dearest L, may you find every joy you look for. And a little more. You definitely deserve it. Godspeed and God bless.

Do I ever cross your mind?

2005-04-22T13:12:00.000+05:30

Am listening to Ray Charles’ last album, Genius loves company and feeling wistful.
I want to go dancing across the landscape of your mind in an uninvited moment and leave that lingering ache that makes you call me and say almost nothing.
The dancing, however, must wait for a more opportune point in time. There are things to do, places to go, clients to talk to, and storyboards to write.
I’ll just have to put up with you dancing through my mind.

An exciting life? No, Thank You!

2005-03-31T17:16:00.000+05:30

Last December, one fine Wednesday, I took a rick home from Andheri and this rickshaw driver wouldn't stop talking! He asked me my age, marital status, my parents' work, even my sister's age. In return he told me that he lived in Dahisar with his mausi, was 30 years old, a graduate and earned between 500-1000 bucks a day. Then he asked if I wanted to stop for chai!! I politely said, no, thank you, and tried to see how I could cushion my fall if I were to jump out of a running rickshaw!!
Then, of course, he bowls a googly. He asks me for my name. Now I remembered all those scary stories that girls tell each other at pyjama parties about people stalking you and stuff. So I thought I'd give him a false name. My name, I said, is Radhika. All seemed well until he exclaimed, "Arre! Mera naam Krishna hai!" I died!
Thankfully, we were already near home, so I jumped out, paid him and walked away as fast as my little legs would go!
Phew!! My life is more exciting than i want it to be sometimes! :) And on days like today when nothing exciting happens, I remember days like that one and am happy for a boring day.

Quizzing for joy!

2005-03-28T18:02:00.000+05:30

Just came back from a rather fun office quiz that had been arranged for a bunch of newbies. :) I love quizzes. This, of course, does not mean I'm good at them. In fact, more often than not, I don't know the answer, and when I do, I tend to blurt it out completely out of turn much to the annoyance of the teammates!
Come to think of it, I'm not very good at singing either, which is another thing I love. Ro will constantly discourage my singing along to anything, even a song from a rickshaw movie like Raaz or Tere Naam, which shows how bad it must sound to others. (Coz it sounds just fine to me, mind you!)
Luckily for me and my loved ones, I don't love any dangerous stuff like racing or hang-gliding. I mean with my track record for being bad at such stuff, I could end up killing someone!
What worries me, and could in the future worry others, is my budding enthusiasm for cooking. Have to find out where Mom keeps the cleaner fluid, so I know what to avoid!

Remember When...

2005-03-24T16:05:00.000+05:30

I’m a sucker for nostalgia. Start a sentence with “Remember when..” and you’ll have me hooked. So I was paying attention when someone recently said, “Remember when you used to post everyday?” and was suitably ashamed. So here I am. Why was I away? Mainly because the brain was on a blink and I could only think of monosyllabic words; boredom and too many hospital trips can do that to you.

Anyway, that particular “remember when..” reminded me of other, more pleasant “remember whens…”
Like, remember when

the only fun stuff on T.V. was Giant Robot and Fragglerock?
pencil boxes with magnetic clasps were the über chic accessories in school fashion?
you only got music on cassettes?
Thums Up was the ultimate Cola?
it took ages for a letter to get to America and you had to scream down phones to be heard in Allahabad?
a girls’ sleepover was fun and exciting?
we gossiped through the night and couldn’t stay awake in math class?
we sneaked down to the baking-room for a chat and were caught by snoopy Sr. S?
we first met? Our first meal together?
we walked down Marine Drive in the rain?
you surprised me by coming unannounced on New Year’s Eve, all the way from England?

Our only weapon against the passing of time, memories, trapped, like an insect in amber, in all those remember whens.

Swimming the sea of matrimony

2005-03-02T14:12:00.000+05:30

A friend got married this Monday. The evening was lovely and she looked gorgeous. The flowers everywhere, the fairy lights, the general bonhomie of the reception was enough to make me long for just such an evening, all my own. Until, I realized that in this case, more than any other, the ‘morning after’ could make for far more than a headache!
I’ve always looked at matrimony as a deep, blue sea. And as friends and family will attest, to me the metaphor is more than terrifying. I’m phobic about water, and I must admit, more than a little frightened of the uncharted waters of marriage and all that it stands for. Which is why I watch on amazed, excited, yet afraid, as people all around me dive cleanly off the safe springboard of singledom into the churning waters below. Disregarding distance, time, age and geography, they seem to be single mindedly determined to thrash their way to the other side.
Yet, like while waiting on the side of a pool on a hot summer day, I can already imagine the cool waters, the sudden falling away of my body, the grace of the water enveloping me kindly. I can see how fun and enjoyable it can be, and I want it. And I’m afraid.
Around me, couples swim through the waters in their own fashion. Some are loud and sloppy, like the neighbor’s kids. Some pass by quietly and methodically, swimming with the economy of experienced swimmers, paying bills, feeding kids and attending functions without missing a stroke. And then there are the golden couples. The ones who swim like they were born to it. I watch them as they swim like Olympic synchronized swimmers, graceful and free, together yet apart. And as when I watch them on TV, I wonder if I could ever do it.
My family and friends behave much as they used to at the swimming pools of my childhood. They urge me to take the plunge, endorsing the pleasures of marriages, the wedded bliss of cliché. And I dither by the poolside, by turns, tempted and repelled, fascinated by the cool blue and terrified by the depth, waiting, as always, for someone to hold my hand and smile away the fear before we hit the water.

On Pain

2005-02-25T13:42:00.000+05:30

I’m in pain. My arm persists in behaving in a strange and perplexing manner. Starbursts of pain snake their way from my right wrist to my shoulder regularly in an irregular manner. Drugs have been taken, bandages have been wound and relief is eagerly awaited.
I am always impressed by how solipsistic physical pain makes me. The stabbing awareness of a body is never stronger. Every nerve, hair and muscle quivers with the possibility that it too might impinge on my consciousness like the pain-creator of the moment. And I restlessly fidget inside the shell, all at once uneasy at what it means to inhabit such a frail container.
Of course, I know the pain will not last forever. And yet, my mind argues, what is there if there is no pain? It is only the other side of immense pleasure my body affords me. And it affords me the same awe at what wonderful things our bodies really are. And always, it reminds me not to take it for granted.
And sometimes, it gives me something to write about.

A nugget of wisdom

2005-02-24T18:54:00.000+05:30

I always thought pretty women were pretty silly when it came to men. Found unexpected support in this quote attributed to Katherine Hepburn. Must watch The Aviator. Cate Blanchette won the BAFTA for this role and gets my vote for the Oscar as well.
Now what did Katherine Hepburn say? She said, "Plain women know more about men than beautiful ones do."
What say? Dis/agree?

Musings

2005-02-23T15:41:00.000+05:30

It's one of those days when there is too much work and the details simply crowd out everything else. I'm looking for ways to justify my existence.
Words on the net. Smiles over the coffee table. Hugs through the phone.
Thank God for technology. Saving us from ourselves.

Raw Mangoes

2005-02-22T15:32:00.000+05:30

It was a hot summer afternoon. Hot only as an Indian summer can be. The adults were all gently slumbering in the dark, cool confines of the house. And we were outside, under the mango trees, keeping the drowsy dragonflies company.
The mission was simple. Get as many raw mangoes as we could before the guard or the dog from the neighbouring yard found us out. Our mouths watered from sheer anticipation and we could taste that eye-squinting tartness even as we looked up at the bounty.
There were five or six of us. My sister, a couple of cousins and I. As the youngest of the company, my sister and I had the easy tasks. We were to hold out our dresses to catch the falling mangoes that were to be picked by the boys. Everybody was convinced of the importance and solemnity of the task. And so we set out. Trying to be as quiet as mice, and giggling like crazy.
The ground was warm under our feet, but in the shade of the trees it was cool and pleasant. One of the boys quickly scrambled up a tree, as we, the city cousins, looked on at his monkey-like ease with awe and wonder. And soon enough, there were mangoes falling from the skies. We scrambled around trying to catch each one.
We’d collected about ten before we heard the guard yelling. The boys shinnied down the trees, the girls gathered up their skirts and we ran. Laughing till our sides ached, we tumbled higgledy-piggledy into our own yard, no longer bothering to be quiet. Collapsing in a heap in the verandah we split the mangoes between us. Someone ran to get a knife and some rock salt. And soon enough we sat in a circle, our eyes gleaming with triumph and laughter and our mouths filled with sourness.
Once in a while, on afternoons when I’m busy being an adult, I’ll remember the taste of raw mangoes. And as the sourness fills my mouth, a gladness creeps over my heart and makes it all easier.

Men, cats, and feminists.

2005-02-21T21:34:00.000+05:30

Men, to me, are like cats. You can’t really own or understand a cat, and you can’t ever say it depends on you. Men are like that. You keep getting these insights into their character but they never quite end up giving you a composite picture. Here, especially, the whole is more than the sum of its parts.
Yet something about them is wholly entrancing. Their funny way of looking at life like a race to be run as swiftly as possible. Their incomparable ability to ride a hobbyhorse to death, especially if it’s a sport! Their habits and smells. They’re so completely different.
I remember how I once said in a feminism class, that the only reason women needed a man was for the sperm, everything else they could do themselves. I can’t believe I was so incredibly naïve. I still believe a woman can and should achieve anything she sets her mind to. Yet, I also believe that men and women complement each other beautifully. As equals, they are capable of creating strange and sparkling worlds that allow both to achieve their highest potential and to love one another as friends and soul mates.
My fellow feminists have given up on me. I’m hoping like hell they’ll find their match. And when they do, I’ll be able to say, “I told you so!”

Life is a fairy tale.

2005-02-18T19:00:00.000+05:30

Am sitting late at work. Originally for a conference call, which has now been scheduled for Monday, and now because I’m waiting for a call from the boyfriend about where to meet for dinner.
As I wait, Mandar walks by and declares, “Life is not a fairy tale.”
Isn’t it? I always thought it was. My teachers and bosses have almost always been either wicked ogres with black teeth or gentle giants with soft hearts. One of my friends is almost certainly an imp. And one of my colleagues is a pixie. Chechi is the old woman in the shoe who took care of all the kids.
My parents have always been the royal couple in charge of the kingdom, and my sister is Rapunzel. The boyfriend, of course, fits Prince Charming to a tee.
As for me, I’m the ugly duckling.
Unfortunately for us though, the ogres have to be active for us to be heroes. What say, Mandy?

This is what Mandy said in the comments :) It's way too good to stay there!
Imagine if a Prince Charming was told by his Project manager: "Hey prince (somebody told me that you were the best of the best of the best), before the clock strikes 12 tonight, go dance in that ball with cinderella, mind that you come back with one of her glass slippers -- you will need them -brief you tomorrow. Hmmm, and before you go to that ball, there are those fire breathing dragons in the north to take care of. I don't want any more fires there. And yes, pay a visit to the neighbouring kingdom - its king is hostile to us - and win that archery contest. And just before lunch I have scheduled you for a duel with sir kill-everybody-in-sight. No, I don't have anyone else who can do the job. And while you are at it, bring me the treasure from across the wide sea. And don't forget you have to do a performanace appraisal of your horse and your squire. And brief them both about today's missions. Anything else? Ya, don't forget to shower and shave before turning up at the ball and pick up a bouquet of red roses for cinderella on your way to it. Come early tomorrow - We have to tackle the dragons in the south and I guess you will have to use that glass slipper to do something about Cinderella - tell you tomorrow.What will poor prince charming do?Life, I maintain, is no fairy tale.

I'll let him have the last word on that! :)

Shopping for self-control

2005-02-18T14:53:00.000+05:30

Hello everybody, my name is Nandita and I’m a shopaholic. There I’ve said it. They say acceptance is the first step to recovery; I’m trying to accept.
Yesterday, I left work early with the good intention of going home, clearing up my room, putting my books in order and pigging out on some TV. (The nuns at school always said, good intentions pave the way to hell, and so it was.) My sis called up and asked if I’d go shopping to help her find something for a friend’s birthday. (The nuns also said that if temptation beckoned you asked Satan to get behind you. I tried it, but he just pushed me in!) So off I went to shop for my sister’s friend.
We returned home with a couple of tops for my sister, a vase and some flowers for me, and nothing for the friend. I really need help.
I’ve been known to buy completely useless stuff when I’ve had a bad day at work, or I’m feeling a little unappreciated, or I’ve fought with my mum. All of which happens pretty often since I haven’t yet published an award-winning novel! And the stuff is really useless. Believe me. If anyone knows of a use for a small wooden elephant, a pouch too tiny to hold a key, tiny, really tiny, earthenware pots or a muffler, (Yes, I live in Bombay. No, we don’t have a winter.) please get in touch.
My matchbox-sized room is overflowing with candles, which I love but cannot bear to light because they’re too pretty and it’s just too hot to put off the fan. My cupboard runs over with clothes that I bought off the street without realizing that I was a size too big to fit into them. Also clothes that were in fashion for about a week. And clothes that just don’t appeal to me any more. All of which look too spanking new to pass off as garbage to my mom! I sincerely believe there is a cosmic law that causes clothes you no longer like to never fade, dirty, tear or otherwise be affected in ways that makes it easy to let them go! What makes it worse is that it works in the opposite way for clothes you really love.
I’ve also bought books that are relatively useless, yes, that is possible. Like the cookery books I bought at the Strand sale. They were cheap, the pictures were delightful, but I doubt I’d ever have the strength of mind or the inclination to cook up a Coq au vin, or a Duck in Bearnaise Sauce.
Writing all this down has made me depressed again. I mean, have I no self-control? Where is my will power? And, why don't they sell that at a sale? It would make everything better. :)

Remembering Aai

2005-02-17T15:14:00.000+05:30

I miss Aai, my grandmother. She passed away almost two years ago. Yet once in a while, I’ll hear her voice, crystal clear and imperious. Like a ghost limb aches.
Most people who knew her would’ve called her a character. She was short, plump, very talkative and used to having her own way. Her special ability lay in making friends of people. My family jokes that she was so persuasive, she’d get the breeze to run errands for her if it were possible. Yet, her persuasiveness stemmed from her charm and her innate love for people. She loved getting to know new people, was insatiably curious and went out of her way, if necessary, to make them feel comfortable and welcome.
She wasn’t very educated, and I remember she’d say that I’d told my third-grade teacher that she was “only a housewife,” although I’ve never recalled that incident. Her tact and diplomacy though were legendary. Familial disputes, disapproved love affairs and marital discord were only some of the issues she solved with her loving advice and canny wisdom. She’d brew a cup of tea, bring out some homemade chivda, and settle down to talk. No matter who you were, you found an audience with her. The maid, the garbage man, the newspaper delivery boy, all were known by name and address and were part of the social circle.
If she found out that you liked a particular delicacy or enjoyed a certain fruit, it would always be there waiting for you when you arrived. She taught me to care and be understanding. (In the summer, I was warned not to let the afternoon postman leave without offering him a glass of water and a ladoo.)
Old-fashioned and traditional though she was, she wasn’t afraid of accepting the new or the modern. She single-handedly supported my mom through her academic career and fearlessly, though with a teary eye, let me travel abroad, study and work to my heart’s content. She was excited about everything we did and most of my friends knew her better than they knew my parents.
She was human, mind you. She had her faults. She was stubborn when she saw fit, she could emotionally blackmail you to a tee, gossiped nineteen to the dozen and unfailingly ignored her doctor.
Yet, what accomplishments she boasted of! Despite having passed only the fourth-grade, she worked her own company for a while, traveled all over the world, looked after a joint family with a soft heart and a stern hand, got over 5 couples married (4 random, and one runaway!), and still had time to laugh and feed a couple of dozen people at a time.
When she died, people came from everywhere for the funeral. They talked about how she had let them into her heart and her home, helped them in times of need, and fed them unforgettable meals. In her sixty-eight years she’d transformed almost as many lives, if not more.
For me, she’ll always remain that warm, laughing presence that greeted me after school with a hug and a bite to eat. Who always had helpful advice for everything from math problems to boy trouble. Who told me to hold my tongue, keep my temper, work hard and stop using big words she didn’t understand.
That’s why I didn’t call this a eulogy.

And what do you want to be when you grow up?

2005-02-16T15:26:00.000+05:30

I’ve always wanted to be a teacher. Back in school, when I was made Monitor, the only reason I enjoyed it was because it let me play teacher with real students. (Some people say it’s also because I like the sound of my own voice, but I’ll let that pass.)
I worked for a year or so teaching Literature and Communication Skills, and enjoyed it thoroughly. Why? It combined some of my best skills with some of my best likes.
I love being able to create that perfect “Aha!” moment for my students where in a flash of insight they go from incomprehension to understanding. I love the opportunity of holding a disparate bunch of people together and giving them an experience in 48 minutes (that’s one lecture at the college level!).
I’d like to believe I’m not too idealistic. I’m sure people got bored in my lectures, found them irrelevant and trivial. Yet, for the ones who found them relevant, I hope I made them interesting and challenging.
One senior professor once told me that only those people made good teachers who enjoyed that “chalk ka nasha.” I know I did. Then why did I leave? Well, it’s difficult to make ends meet on a Rs. 5000 salary, especially if your ends, like mine, are rather expensive.
Yet, today, two years down the line, I find my withdrawal symptoms becoming unbearable. I’m dying to feel the exhilaration of walking into a new class at the beginning of a new year and making things happen. I miss the intoxication that comes from making a hundred wide-eyed, over-eager people laugh. I miss the excitement of teaching a class that is involved, attentive and hanging on my every word. I especially miss the sheer pleasure that comes from telling a tired class that they can take the rest of the day off.
Wish I could take the rest of the day off.

Is that for me?!

2005-02-15T11:02:00.000+05:30

I love getting presents! Yet, more than the actual thing that is given, I’m excited by the potential of that package. Colourfully wrapped, complete in itself, it promises to be anything your mind wants it to be. That square package could be a remote control to the neighbour’s noisy TV. That smooth, round gift could be a rolled up sweater, a ball of yarn or even one of Atalanta’s apples. That rectangular box could contain a dozen long stemmed roses, a pair of beautiful shoes or a new set of shelves for your library.
Often though, we suspect or guess what it is in that split second between receiving and opening a present.
Yet, sometimes, if we’re lucky or blessed, we’ll be truly and happily surprised. We’ll look into that colourful box and see in it not just the thing that is, but the things that it means. We’ll see thoughtfulness and love, care and attention, longing and desire. We’ll see the time spent on the selecting of that gift; we’ll see the meaningfulness of our own lives.

Existentialists beware; I was lucky and blessed last night.

Have I told you lately?

2005-02-14T23:35:00.000+05:30

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, — I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

—Sonnet 43 from The Portuguese, Elizabeth Barrett Browning

How can you improve on something so well said? And what more can you give a loved one?
Happy Valentine’s Day. Hope the tumult that is love finds a way to ruin every well-ordered life.

Wear the old coat, and buy the new book.

2005-02-14T10:50:00.000+05:30

My first post. What better way to start it with than a comment on my passion: books. Actually, this blog was inspired by Mandar's blog on book buying. Funny things, books, they create connections everywhere. Worlds within themselves, they offer solace and comfort, amusement and cheer, advice and wisdom, and that best present of all, memories.
I remember being rewarded with a book every time I did something my parents thought was right or perfect. I remember lying on my stomach on rainy afternoons mentally devouring thin cucumber sandwiches and root beer with the Famous Five. I remember the Rushdie I received as the first present from my boyfriend. I remember the surprise Neruda I got by FedEx from my most thoughtful friend.
Today, books are my refuge. My place of calm. My friends in need. I love the smell of a new book, warm, and tempting. I adore the feel of an old book, with little notes in the margins or a dedication on the front page pointing a ghostly finger at an earlier life and owner.
Yes, I buy them by the tons. But what the hell, my old coat still fits and I won't need a new one for a while yet.