A Halloween to remember

Rise dear ones,

For I now have a story to tell my grand kids. And oh! what a story it would be. On a cold winter night, the kiddos on the floor, a few lying down and another few sitting up right (inherited from their Grandpa Mr. Upsi, whom I have never seen lying lazily on a floor) near the fire place, me on a wooden rocking chair that creaks every now and then. A warm cozy place it would be. I might even add in a few tidbits to keep the story sizzling. But for now, for you my three readers, I present the actual facts. Fiction down the drain.

So last night, the night before Halloween, I felt bloated (too much of pooran poli or methu vada, I couldn't' tell) and nothing, nothing but a jog, could ease my bloated self. It has nothing to do with watching too much Julia Roberts/Sandra Bullock/Renee Zellweger flicks, where the heroine runs a mile or two, to clear her heart and mind of life's brutality. They come back, sweating and take a warm shower and the next scene you know, they are as warm spirited as a cup of warm cider on a cold winter night. My wanting to jog had nothing to do with it of course. (yes, we have netflix account and movies come and go, like the milkman of yesteryear's).

At this point, I would like to let the readers know that it has been quite a while since I jogged and quite a very long while since I had had a night jog. Mr. Upsi gnawed at my decision, but by now, he has accepted the eccentricities of his lovely wife. Ha, the sweet travails of couple hood!

The little one was fast asleep by now. I changed to my jogging out fit (which is nothing but track pants, white Tee and sneakers. Not that you are interested in my attire, but a story needs to be wholesome). Opened the front door and a cold gust of wind swept my face. It is October, for Lord's sake and no sane person jogs at 8:30 pm on a cold October night. When I was little, I wanted to prove to the world that I was different. And then I grew up. Didn't know whom in the world I should be proving to and what for. But sometimes the streaks of childhood surfaces like flotsam. And last night, maybe, I thought jogging at night would prove something. Its either that or I need to shed my insanity once in a while to keep my sanity.

So anyways, reminding myself of a determined bull ready to knock the rodeo off, I braved the cold and started warming up. Then slowly gathered pace and momentum. Before I knew it, I was running six miles an hour, along the dark alley ways and down the path. The trees loomed larger than life, the clouds dark and gloomy, evoking a tangible sense of danger. The kind of night where one is sure that the battle between orcs and beasties are in full swing in the sky. Or as if Hogwarts school is in full frenzy (now that Dumbledore is so popular).

Everything around me was eerie and creepily quiet. Not a single soul around. But only evil spirits hanging out, grueling Horcruxes and having a vile ball of a party.Thoughts of ghosts, specially of a desi kind, white saree clad and feet a foot away from the ground and long hair, crossed my mind. I keep my desi roots, you see, even when it comes to deathly hallows.

But I kept the pace. One brave woman, I was.

And right then, when I was about to take the bend, I saw the silhouette of a brooding figure, holding on to a dog. The figure half seated on the lawn that joins the pathway. An illusion, perhaps? But a nanosecond later, I knew this was for real. Right there, I was going to be battered blue and dead. Racing pulse, pounding heart. I let out a loud 'help'. Nothing came out at first, but a faint shortness of breath. And then, on top of my voice, gushing with all force and might, and with a thick mallu accent, I shouted 'yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeellllppppp'. I never knew that would be the first word one would let out when face to face with death eaters. Not an 'AAAAAAAAAaaaa" or "Ammmmmmmaaaa". But an "yeeeelp"!!

The figure leapt out. It was a she with a dog (didn't stay longer to find the gender of the dog, you story-poopers!) The lady apologized 'oh I saw you coming and didn't want to scare the hell out of you. My dog was a little nervous". Or something to that effect. I couldn't clearly hear her, forI was still running.....running for my life....away from her. The dog was howling, and I muttered a 'sorrryy.....I afraid of dogs'. Liar. As if it was just the dog I was afraid of. I ran home like there was no tomorrow.

Stammered for a second on how to narrate this whole escapade with Mr. Upsi and Grandmom. "You know what happened", panted a slightly shocked me.
"what? chased by a ghost or a dog?", asked Mr. Upsi, eyes still fixed on the football game. Faint sound of Grandma's laugh heard on the background.

Second thoughts on Mr. Upsi having an office affair with a blonde and having me out of the way, through this attack? Did he hike up my insurance premium? (Here, I blame the netflix movie over dose.)

"Ok..this is what happened", and I narrated the works.

A slow evil smile dawned on Mr. Upsi and I said "ayayyay.....happy spooky Halloween. I was kidding. LOL, you believed me, didn't you? Jee. HOHAHA."

Grandma looked skeptical. To believe or not, that was her question.
======

Now - Ini, Mini, Miney, Moo (names of my grandkids)-- tell me, did Grandma make up this story?

An overdose

Work, as if
you don't need the money

Love, as if
you've never been hurt

Dance, as if
no one is watching

The sound of music

History has a strange way of repeating itself. Doesn't it?

Take for instance the Upsi household. On most mornings of any given holiday or weekend, the house blares of music. It is in the background when Upsi cooks, fights with Mr. Upsi, plays with her little one and when the family dines.

And then the other day, after putting her little one to sleep, she was preparing the weekend brunch, humming to a long lost tune, when a gust of nostalgic wind found its way through a little crack on the kitchen window sill and brushed her ever so gently. At the drop of a hat, she can wade to distant lands, back to her home, back to where the first rythm of enchating music was taught to her. Back to her place where the hills are alive with the sound of music.

Both on her paternal and maternal side, music was worshipped and sought of as a passion. Most everyone in her family could decently hum a Karnatic keerthanam and discuss the raga it is based on. Well, almost most. Her father lacked the trait to an extent of family disgrace. Put any music on and he would choir with absolute lack of co-ordination. His beats are always misplaced and chords never threaded. Simply put, he was a shame, the black sheep of the family's boasted music lovers. He appreciated music whole heartedly, but you could tell -- it was not his true love.

Now, Upsi's mother, she is a different story all together. Music put her at ease. Hushed her babies, nephews and nieces and now her grand babies and grand nieces with lullabies and, instilled the passion for music in them all. She has a melodious voice, but not enough for the crowd to go wa-wa-wa.

All the kids in the family were taught music. Irrespective of how they sounded. There were no second thoughts.

Geetha akka, daughter of Sharma sir who housed near the Hanuman Kovil, told her grandmom about the music teacher of the locality that they moved to, after Upsi's father got a transfer. Calls were made within seconds after grandom reached home back from her daily temple visit.

It was anyways the month of October, Vidya-aarambham month. Easy enough to choose an auspicuous day to start the first paattu class. In the wee hours of the morning, Upsi and her sister were violently shaken from their sleep and bathed in the freezing cold well water.

Lamp was lit and after kneeling down, they were off to Viswanathan Sir's class.
'Sa...Pa....Sa..., repeat after me', V sir.

They repeated and a second later, Upsi roared with laughter at their horrendous vocal. Noise, not music. She was hurridely hushed by the family elders. The silence that ensued after they reached home and the news of their loss was passed around; it felt like there was a death in the family. To not let the word out that the sisters were such pathetic singers, Viswanthan Sir was kajoled to come home and teach them. Harmonium was brought from Karunakaran's musical shop.

Looking back, I think, the grand elders thought that the prospective grooms' family for the sisters would be looking for a melodious voice in the girls. That they might be asked to sing. Pheww! How wrong!

All that Mr. Upsi asked on their first meet was about some damn project she was working on, which she had no idea herself.

Anyways, V sir came twice a week, and also taught violin to their Mamma. The sisters had to be dragged from their evening game of seven tiles and hide and seek; ushered for a qucik wash and then one of them would get the folded mat from the pooja room, hold it in her armpit and lay it on the floor. Weary from the game and hating the whole world, especially their mom and grandmom, for making them go through an hour of Sa-Pa-Sa, they expressed their wrath through their music. Their mind was tuned to the game outside, that when Chithra yelled after putting all the seven tiles back, they would suppress their happy grins.

"concenrate on the pallavi and anu-pallavi. not on the noise outside", V Sir.

"you both should get up early every morning for the saadakam, practice the raaga, only then will you improve".

Summer holidays were worst. V Sir's schedule was changed and he would come in at noon (sisters nap time) or in the evening right bfore Chithrahaar on DD. Upsi and her sister, tom and jerry on every other matter, united for the musical cause. So if one of them is particulary sleepy and wanted to nap five minutes longer, the other would lie that she is in the bathroom and an unsuspecting V sir would wait.

And oh, how could I forget that particular day when V sir came ater 2 weeks off. Ater gulping down buttermilk, he asked if they practised every morning.

Pat came the non-chalant reply from the sisters, 'yes sir. we did'.

Upsi bought the harmonium and her sister got the mat. They were about to put the 'shruthi' on, when two cock-roaches jumped out of the reeds chamber of the harmonium.

The sisters squealed. Two week thick dust was dusted off and cockroach killed by the 6 year old cousin who happened to be around.

They learnt karnatic sangeetham for five long years.

The older cousins have flown the coop and the little cousins are still learning, back home. One among them stopped a few weeks ago when board exams intervened. Nobody has seen him that happy. Pointless to mention, none of Upsi's gen could sing.

But, it is hard to uproot something you are so familiar with right from your childhood. It becomes a part of you. Kind of inseparable. It might lie dormant, but boy, it would resurface one day! Sometimes with a vigor hard to quiten down.

For, Upsi is now seen running behind her little one, asking him to sit down on the mat - cross legged and facing her. And she goes, "Kannna......sa-pa-sa", repeat after me.

And an unsuspecting Kanna looks backat her and giggles.

Recital

I could write about
how I watch her moves
hawk-eyed.
On how being the first woman ever
just doesn't cut for me
You got big shoes to fit in,
no doubt Ms. Patil.
Show us what you got
Lead us fair and brave
and then we'll append
the XX chromosome,
heck! not a second sooner.

I could write about Dr. Kalam
"Salutations to you, Sir!
Your presidency was well revered.
A mighty heart, I concur
and when you step down,
I stand up and applaud
goose-bumps all over
In the end, I started combing my hair,
Kalam-way."

I could write about -
of wanting to be home
to be with my lil one
'cose he is growing up
taking short flights
a baby step away each day
when all I really want,
is to nestle him close
before he flies away.

I could write about,
Will and Bill
who came & complicated
my work days,
with rules and regs
that I dreamt of OSHA
for a while.

I could write about S & P,
moving away from their crescent cove
I'll miss them,
more than words can tell.

Heck, I can even write about
gosh oh gosh!
of wanting to feel a little-little one
in my tummy again;
and why the practical me,
should wait.

I could even write about my first crush,
his Kathakali performance
and Yanni's concert.

I could write about,
longing to be back home
by the river Periyar.
where I could stop and smell the flowers,
so to speak.

I could write about the testing times
when spirits hit rock bottom ,
and a part of me
got buried deep.
when life was a bitch
and coffee, a saviour.

But I don't.

Instead:

I watch the Dallas rain
at 11:00 in the night
trickling down the pane.
On an instinct I move
and check on,
the two guys in my life
sleeping side by side,
arm on arm.
I rest my head
and watch them content..

all's well in the Upsi-world.

Sense and Senselessbility

Stupidity, as it is, runs in her veins. How else would you explain this - when asked by her then co-volunteer a month before her grad school began, whether she brought a notebook; with a puzzled look, she thought for a moment and replied, "no, no notebooks. I brought some text books related to the courses I signed up". The co-volunteer, I bet, still has his parties rolling with that making rounds.

Oh, before I digress, I ought to tell you how she ended up with that volunteer work in the first place. Two free months she had, before her grad school kicked in. And if you thought she opted for volunteering out of humanitarian concern, a sense of supporting her brethren - you are mistaken. Not that she can in any way be deemed otherwise. But truth needs to be told, however unfair it sounds. After just a week of getting up early just to make breakfast for her then new husband, waiting on him to come in the evening and relieve her of her misery and boredom - she realized quickly - way too quickly that - that is not her cup of tea. Kneading Golden Temple atta while humming a song at 4pm daily, didn't quite cut out for her. She dreaded idle time, more than she had ever realized.

With the thrift store brought suit ironed and perfumed, she attended the interview and sent a thank-you note later that evening. JK* replied that he was impressed and his team is positively thinking about the hire and that the decision will be made relatively soon. What? They are not even paying, for Pete's sake! She decided to forward JK's mail to her Aunt (an US resident of three decades), asking her plainly if anything made sense and whether it was actually an American way of rejecting the candidate. Thirty minutes later, she receives a mail from JK: "Dear Ms. Upsi, I assume this was an actual error and you really meant to send this mail to your "Sarasu Mammi". And no, our rejection letters are different. You mentioned your availability as of so-so date; we look forward to having you on our team. Regards, JK".Two days later, the firm got a volunteer who smiled as if she needs to use the loo the next second, every time she met with JK.

Salads were ordered every time she went with her team for a lunch-out. They praised her for such healthy eating habits. The fact that she had tough time synchronising knife and fork remained untold. She gasped, seeing salads also being cut before being stuffed. However hard she tried, knives slipped every time she cut lettuce and baby spinach.

Only when that Korean girl made entry to the team was she relieved. All of sudden, she had an air of superiority. And joined the roaring team when Candice (real name Can Wu-Zu), pronounced J C Penney (the clothing outlet) as Jec Penney (like in Mc Donald).

Then the classes kicked in and the first semester saw her crying and wanting go back and join the Government college for Women in Pathanipura, Kerala. She just couldn't make head or tail of what her professor (particularly that one Prof. with such thick accent ) was lecturing on, forget the jokes that had the whole class rolling and she just sat there smiling, trying to fight back the tears. There were no Indians in her department whom she could confine her woes and bargain sympathy. Plans to befriend fellow Indians that swamped the Computer/IT dept was dropped since the timings and interest levels never matched. So while the class took lecture notes, she nodded and scribbled...something. The hubby, to put an end to her wails, gifted her a tiny weeny recorder. She was too shy to use it at first - turning it on when no one was looking and immediately hiding it in her pencil box (yeah). The class begins informally at times, discussing basket ball and baseball for an hour and she got tensed since the recorder runs out of its 45 minutes life span.

Stupidity never left her. It continues to thrive; all she hopes is a hope of not having passed it onto her little one. God, please let the little one take after his father on just this area. (Lord at Guruvayoor is constantly sought).

Things that her co-workers (all American, no desi) take for granted as part and package of their lives, completely throws her off guard at times, stamping the "stupid" seal over and again.

Her job is to ensure the safety and health of the staff. Her reports often end up with.."your safety and health is our highest priority and we strive to achieve that in every step of the mentioned process". She realizes that a pinch of stupidity will cost a life. She cannot go wrong. Not this time, because there might simply be no next time. And with the best of faith, she takes the step ahead.
===============

ps: this post is dedicated to the responsibility she was recently bestowed with.
*JK: A very learned professor and ever so humble - I have high regard for him and he helped me much in my job hunt.

Am I pregnant?

All people in general have an inherent ability to irritate. Let's call this as an "irritability quo". Any given day, it is hard to determine this irritability quo, unless say you are the subject's husband/wife/mil/close friend or whatever. But you see what I am saying.

So after about five diaper changes in four hours that have you gagging and a very stoic husband who has no time to breathe ever since he enrolled for a MS program; lets say you are simply grouchy. Since the little one has not started speaking yet, he is spared of his mom's volcanic eruptions. That leaves a very-busy husband and an equally confused MIL at the receiving end. The husband, simply put - doesn't understand why the wife is so cranky. Now the word "cranky" which sounds normal, even funny in any other given day is elevated to level Orange when the subject is testy. So even though the husband keeps the lil one entertained and out of his grumpy mom's nose; the subject still finds - an orphaned underwear not IN the laundry basket and an empty mug with two day old coffee stains in the home-office room - that sets the irritability quo in alarming tones.

With such choreography set, the subject gets to her office later than ever. Which is when her good friends down in the administrative office, calls her for a cup of coffee and a little chat.
And they go, "ah...Upsi..coming late to work these days huh.."
"you are pregnant, aren't you?" foll lowed by roars of laughter.
"hahhhoohhaaa......trying to get pregnant?".......again roars of laughter.
"the little one is....14 months, right..yaya, he needs someone to play with"
"so, Mr.Upsi is at work late too huh"....more laughter.

She stomps out of the coffee room and pick up the vibrating cell. It's her friend calling to check on the little one and Upsi replies, "oh, little one is better. much better, though he is still not eating well. but I am feeling so under the weather, took a sick leave yesterday and had two Tylenols every four hours" .
The friend, "ahhhhhh Upsi.....you are not pregnant, are you?"

I tell you, the next person to ask that question is going to get from me.

A filling Philly feeling

A minute's look into the conference flyer and I knew I was going. The place was PA, two hours drive from Washington DC where my family abodes.

Afterall a conference is an integral part of my self-study arena wanting to be watered and nourished. Convinced the boss. Should have known when to stop because my 'excitement' to be on top of this new state-of-the-art technology was contagious and the boss hurried to make travel arrangements and reservations for two. Slowly treaded that I would infact like to travel to DC and then join him later at the conference. And also I would be staying back in DC for couple more days and fly back later. This is where I feel like hugging the boss.

So the next few days were in frenzy reserving hotel ("yes MaryAnn, I would like a baby bed and an extra bedding. No, there are no guests. Just me. yes, this is how I stay") and packing bags -- mine, my little ones and hubby's. Yeah, he decided to join the row -- paid food and stay, so why not? ofcourse I can afford a single ticket to DC, he said. Plus how will you damsel manage alone in a flight with the little one? So the orginial plan of having my mom baby-sit the little one while I am at the meeting, was dropped and replaced by hubby. A few phone calls later, hubby's friend in NJ decided he would drop in and visit us while we are there. The said friend called later and said his brother wants to meet us too. Why not!

Last minute packing and realized that the bag has sun tan lotion and flip flops, but not a single professional file on the topics to be covered at the expo. Oh well!

Six day conference & expo was cut short to four days. Last two days had repetitive topics I found out. The boss readily agreed. And I spent a total of seven hours at the conference hall(no exaggeration there guys...ok ok...five hours then) during those four days . Ducked out early from the first day meeting and found an equally embarrassed boss in the hotel lobby. On the second day, we accepted our real motives and saw the boss merrily chatting with the hubby and playing with our little one. He talked about his walk to the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall tour. Had my exercise, he said. Good for you, I replied. Couple hours and a latte later, we had our exercise too.

While listening to a talk, I slowly eye the people around and count the Indians. About four of them in their late forties and fifties. And two around my age. On a coffee-scone break, I lazily walk the aisle and this lady I though was Indian approached me. She is a Srilankan, working in Hawai as a consultant in our field with certifications I envy. A very humble mother of three teenage kids , we talked and she advised on the road I am headed to. Thank you, N. You left an impact and passed on the Prometheus torch.

Out from the meeting and in the park, I saw the father and son rolling in the grass and giggling. Witnessed an young man I married five years ago, loving his son with a passion. A passion that has engulfed the two guys on a lifetime bond. Son, I hope you will always take care of your father and reciprocate his undying love for you.

And when the night set in, we fine dined in the twilight under a dusky sky, with a tired little one snoozing in my arms. We watched the tourists of all colour, size and shape pass by. Exchanged hearty smiles. World seemed to be a nice place, after all.

For three days and three nights, we forgot those worries that spice up our lives and swayed at the music the street singer played with a longing heart.

Listen now, for Philadelphia holds a secret charm. About six years ago, this is the place I had my first kiss. (Shame, shame, shame -- proclaiming such personal anecdotes on a public front - Grandmom's voice echoes and I hush). And oh yeah, I am still married to that guy. So we drove down the market street to see the house we once dwelled. Hush now, no more, the voice echoes. And I do.

When the parents joined us in PA, we played rummy late into the night, making innocent fun at each other. Dad and hubby left and a day later, mom and I with my little one took a Chinatown bus from Philly to DC. Joined by more family (sis and co) in DC. We had fun and more fun. And in the night, it was always rummy time.

When the day came for us to leave, I saw Dad and his eyes begged for me to stay a little longer. My daughter came for this meeting you see, and she is spending couple of days with us - he told his friends. He is a proud father, I can tell. Proud of his two daughters and what they stand up for. He still urges us to go further. Beyond that horizon, never to be afraid of taking life's little risks. That it is okay to fall and resurge. And that no matter what, we are in this together. Mom and Dad together indulged us above and beyond. Mom cooked and cooked, until we yelled her to stop. We felt like two little girls again, when they took us to the zoo and called us over "look loook, a tiger!". Dad and mom, it is never enough -- but thank you. For you guys, a thousand times over.....

Express lane

Life comes at you fast. A few things get thrown your way. You pause for a moment. Smile at how far you have come in life. How little you know. And that there is so much more for you to learn. A potpouri of all these. Life moves on again.

You are in the car with four of your female colleagues -- aged 45 and above. They joke, half of which you don't really get, but you laugh out loud anyways. Then they converse about edible panties. You take a minute to realize what it really is -- a cookie? bah....maybe.....jeee! amazed that such a thing really exists and that you didn't have a clue. Blame Victoria for keeping such secrets. And the 55 year old throws in, "Ha.. Upsi might have 3-4 of them. look at the way she nods". You stop at the lights, comment on the weather. Life moves on.

You are back from work early and decide to make baturas. With chole. While kneading the dough, you think about the first time you made baturas. You being the new bride wanting to impress your man. Wanting to get into his heart through his stomach.
Calling India, waking up Amma from her sleep, just for the recipe. "yes Amma, we are fine. No, no, just called. Want to make baturas. yes -- just for the two of us. No, no friends coming. OK. About two spoonfuls of flour, yeast and yogurt, water, salt. OK".
You measure exactly two spoonful; yeast and the rest dive into the flour. Wait patiently for two hours for the dough to levitate and overflow. Nothing happens. Infact you wonder if it has shrinked in size. You put a damp towel over the dough, keep it inside the oven and a little later turn the oven lights on. Nothing.
By that time sun is already up in your hometown and your Amma is online querying about those baturas. "No amma....it has not risen yet." Argument ensue on how you religiously followed her recipe, to realize that you used just two table spoons of flour.
Amma laughs hysterically -- "areee budhu, I was just saying "about 2 spoons" and I meant the bigger thavi* (malayalam for *spoon) that we use in home, not a table spoon".
You empty the golf-ball sized dough from the bigger pot (you used the biggest pot available in the kicthen, because you know, the dough triples its size) into a smaller one. The dough you have is enough to make one batura , atmost two, if you can afford to stretch it. Half the dough gets stuck in the rolling pin anyways.
Five years later on a Friday afternoon, you make delicious baturas. With chole. Sliced raw onions and lemon on side. Life moves on.

And then at times, you want life to stand still. The moments not to pass by.

Like when you delivered your little one and held him close to you for the first time. Sweet pure love! How life seemed perfect and so did everything around it. You blink your eyes and your little one magically turns ONE. And in the night, you pick him up from his crib to your bed and snuggle him close to you, wedged in your armpit that fits him in so cozly.
Wishing time takes a break, come back after a while, just so the feeling lingers before life moves on again.

Sass-Bahu series

The birds can wait. While the bride takes the test. The upcoming visit of the mother-in-law that is. She will be home in four days time to be with her son and oldest bahu. *Drum roll*

Oooeie Ma...I wish someone gave you a heads up and warn you on whats in store. . In the following months you are home, taking care of the little one - you may want to grip onto something before you faint and chant more mantras in a day than you have ever in a year.

The tip of the bahu-berg:
-- She cuts her hair whenever she is bored of life in general (the webcam was angled to look like she always had gorgeous thick hair)

-- Back from work and also on weekends, she laze around in shorts and sleevless Tees (it was the mosquitoes in Hyderabad that made her wear salwar kameez and chunni wrapped over. I know, I know, you assumed the West didn't deter her dressing codes)

-- Ildis and dosas visit only on weekends, if at all. Else it is bread, bagel and cornflakes (now you know why your son pounced on the medhu vadas and gobbled idlis last time he visited)

-- Week day dinners are made in a jiffy:- parathas and masalas give way to wraps and grass (the recipes you gave her were recently dusted after your tickets were booked)

-- Clothes pile up and when her bra is worn two days in a row, she loads the washer to its max capacity. She also forgets to fold immideately from the dryer leading to a crumpled wrinkled mess. And that she thrusts to your son's face and cries, "nobody helps me round the house"

-- Your son prepares the morning tea while she snores away, snuggled with her little one. She even have the nerve to comment how bad the tea tastes sometimes

-- She argues. Loudly. Fiercly. Hold on to "her" views dearly. Takes in defeat with resentment. Loudly. Fiercly. *repeat repeat*

-- Puts music on high on Sat/Sun mornings. Silly dance. All in the name of entertaining her little one.

-- Not keen on wearing her thali/mangalasutra if it doesn't go with what she dons (Someone please bring in some water and sprinkle the ma-in-law's face)

But there is hope....

Muse on the mate

Had a chat with my to-be co-brother. Nice chap and we get along really well. He was checking to see how I was managing with the little one, with Mr. Upsi working/holidaying in India.
"You missing him, huh?"
"Well I do. But you know, these breaks do good to our relationship. Kind of recharges our lives"
"ooh..okay"
Bang! Wrong statement in a very wrong time to a guy; when he is dying to meet his fiancee and tie the knot for honeymooned wedding bliss.

Bet he found it odd and hard to beleive that there was no mushing with him being away.
He said, "yeah...four to five years from now, I can see that happening for us too."

On the evening stroll before winding up that day, I had no music to whistle and the little one was fast asleep in the stroller. I had the vast wide sky above me, with the sun about to set and the birds chirpin, nesting for the night. Perfect time to muse.

I miss him dearly. In the wardrobe, for a brief moment, I smell his clothes and sigh a long longing sigh. I look forward to cuddling with him and guttering out my day's event while he checks his mails over a chai. He doesnt seem to listen, but I always end being wrong.

But. I seem to like these breaks. Not because it makes the heart grow fonder. Not just because of that. It gives me more my-space and my-time. I become selfish, much self centered.
And this didnt happen after four-five years of togetherness. Much before that. A little after the mehandi faded and little before the taken-granted phase.

In a very silent way, on times like these, we both get much accomplished. One of them being acceptance of each others values. We both take the pillion seat and realize how much our lives are interwined. How the thought of seeing each other again tickle us.

Things change over a span of four five years. But you still want the fire to kindle.

Come back soon, S. The lil one and I wants you back more than ever.

Dear God - if you can't make me thin, please make my friends fat

Donot remember exactly when, maybe a decade ago. But I stopped munching the banana chips and listened. But in a hometown where three quarters of the population pinch you baggy chubby cheeks and say "iyooo Kutti (oh, baby) - you are so hollow. how will amma ever find a groom for you?", there was no need for second thoughts. I continued with my banana chip binging.

Then came love, marriage and a baby carriage. Studies and a job tailed along.

Somehwere along that fast paced lane, my Mexican roommate introducted me to Gym- 101. She would do crunches, crouch into a ball shape and spring right up, all the while inhaling and exhaling at regular timed intervals. And me! I didn't have a clue where to start. Thread mill seemed easy and all I did was gently walk on it, while my neighbours huffed and panted. Tried hands on yoga pilates in the comfort of my home. While my video yoga guru inhaled air from the outskirts of Australia with the ocean breeze genly waving her plated hair, I inhaled my living room air and realized that the stained sambhar dishes need to be washed. You see, she promised a table top flat abs and the needed curves in three months. I had to admit - it felt good, especially with the slow music flowing in the background. I felt rejuvenated, with all the body muscles stretched. Plus I like the way she musically worded - 'one vertebra after another, slowy rise from the child pose. Now gently push your tail bone and lean across to your sides". Occasionally, roommate would find me asleep in the shavasana - dead pose - on the yoga mat and woke me up. I told her I was meditating and not to bother me. She went her way, but woke me up nevertheless, when the meditative snoring disturbed her.

Priorties and preferences changed. Prayed to God for other favors (401k and low mortgage rates); told Him that the flat stomach could wait, seriously.

Anyways, its been a while since I devoted time to tone up the body and feel myself healthy again. New Year is round the corner and resolutions need to be dusted upon. So here I go - another two weeks of guiltless indulgence in cheese and chocolate, pizza and panacotta, rasa malai and much much more....

But come Jan1st, I go green, nah not the envy green but the healthy greens. Thats my resolution for '07 - I go green! yay!

Return flight

From India to US.
Kissed him and my little one.
Going home or is it home I just left behind?

With what shall we bless this child?

I want to let you know that your daughter is safe. Beautiful smile she has, and I chose to believe that she looks like you. Past two days I just thought about you and today I let go.. If only it were that easy for you to move on. Time heals, but not your wound, I know. Yeah, you will always be on the look out for her, until your last breath. At the end of the day, when you are too tired, with not much energy left to cook the dal – you will think of her, whether she is fed stomach full – and then you drift off to sleep, if sleep ever comes.

The full moon sky does not ease your pain, like oil on burning flame, your heart longs to hold her close and never let go. They say your child is born under very lucky stars, to be adopted by them. But I curse the stars you were born with and the dark scary night in the alley, when the satanic lustful rogue forced on you. Your cries quaked the street, but none rescued.

Yes, yes, I know you had her for sixteen days and finally left her in the doorsteps of the orphanage. And you waited until dawn when the door opened and she was taken in. The wait seemed like eternity and you came a hundred times to take her back, but each time you kept asking “what will I offer my child?” When death was the final call, you abandoned her there.

Last night, I offered her a piece of bread. And your daughter took it, shredded into two with her tiny hands and offered me half. I took her in my arms and hugged her warm. We stayed liked this for sometime and I whispered to her that you love her true.

I want to tell you more and more, but my eyes wells up and my throat is dry. Why are your eyes so dry and blank? I am telling you again and again – she is fine and happy too.
---------------
With what shall we bless this child?
With a smile like light,
With eyes, large and wide,
To see every flower, animal, and bird,
And a heart to feel all that she sees.

Hairy tale

Curly hair. Not the drop dead gorgeous curly. But the oh-so coconut oiled curly. Native of mallu land. Its in the genes I guess. American colleagues showered praises on my curly locks, until they saw my wedding album where every other mallu aunty had curly hair. To the point that they would come to me and say, "Upsi, I was at the mall the other day and saw this girl from India. She had curly hair. Should be from your part of town".
Hold on, lady. We don't ride elephants to school. And no, snake charmers are not in every street. Curry powder is not from curry seed. Likewise, every mallu is not curly.

Vanity got the better of me. I wanted Chin Yung Sang's hair. How simple their life must be. Went straight to Sayuri Saloon and asked for a perm.
"Such lovely curly hair, why do you want to straighten it". Whaaaa?! At this rate you will soon go out of business, mam. Shouldn't you be saying I would look pretty with a perm?
Sayuri took into cutting my hair, with three type of scissors in her apron - the tiny one to trim strands behind my ears, squirted water on my hair every now and then, clipped and unclipped strands - focussing and attending to the minutest detail of my hairy head. Thank Heavens! I am in good hands. Amazed with her proficiency, I sat there and watched her work my hair and also my reflection in the mirror. Her and myself in the mirror. Back and forth. For fifteen minutes I did this, oblivious to the strands of black curly hair falling off into the floor.
"eh..huh....I dont want too short"
"you will look pretty with short straight her".
"ah..okay" . Ofcourse Sayuri should know. Her salon wall is embedded with so many certificates I cannot clearly read. I squinted my eyes. Ah, one is for the best hygienic salon in the street, I think.

I was ushered into the perming area before I knew it. Hot iron press and some more hair press. I was done. Give way world, for the new me is here. I watch myself in the mirror. Hair cut short above the neck. Very very straight. Very very short. Hmpf..not bad. Loved my new look. 70 bucks (holy crap - hubby's words) plus 5 for Sayuri. Rushed to pick up hubby back from work. Reached 15 mnts early and waited in the lobby. Any other day I would have made a scene for making me wait. Not this day. Not when everyone was looking and smiling at me. Ah!!
He came, little shocked (for a couple of minutes) which gave way to a smile, then a grin and a little hearty laugh -- ah! so he is pleased too!

So whats the problem, you ask. What was the post about? Whats the huge deal? Why did I make you read this? ha.
------
You see., I lack the insight - the power or act of seeing intuitively,; the act of seeing into a situation.

I had to take a shower. Shower I did and viewed I did in the mirror. Horror of horrors! Whatever hair I had was back curly (curlier than it originally was). It was short. I looked demented. An hour later when the hair dried, it puffed up too.

Very short very curly very puffy very mallu hair. And a very demented look.
And oh, Sayuri also shaped my eye brows - arched my brows a little too much that my face looked surprised all the time. Hubby took pictures plenty to sent to friends and foe. Cousin in India - he enlarged the picture and says he use it to scare crows and hush wailing babies.

There ends my story.

Paralleled

1996 Chevy Cavalier. My first car. Pre-owned by a black guy in cornrows with blue beads. He gave me the keys and said,"chicken tikkka masaaala. I lovwe it".
All I need to do now is learn to drive. Dad offered and I accepted. For four days I drove on all the streets, 5 miles radius from our home. Just a few honks from old women and teenagers every other day. But I was doing good. Fifth day I hit the Interstate and took the next exit. Back to those old streets for a couple more days. I was doing very good. Perfect, infact. Except the parallel parking. I just couldn't do it. Period.

In theory, all you need to do is to drive parallel to the spot you want your car to be parked. Brake. Turn the steering clockwise. Rear view mirror and reverse into the spot. Half way through, steer anti-clockwise and drive. Adjust - reverse and drive, drive and reverse. Car should be parallel parked by now.

Ah! If only I could do it. I couldn't reverse into the spot however much I tried. Dad got out and waved his hand in time for me to steer the wheel into the spot. Then I did it perfectly. But Dad's not allowed to wave during my license test. Anyways after about 20 parallel parks, with dad standing out and waving his hand in time for the reverse, I managed on the 21st time.

The day arrived. I went to the licensing office and waited for my turn. Shook hands with Mr. Martinez and we went for the ride. Tested the indicators, wiper and I drove. Stopped at Stops. Indicated my turns. Now the last straw - parallel park. Need to parallel park between two cones without hitting them. Hit them both and came home.

Booked for the second test. Mr. Martinez and I. Fast forward to the parallel parking. Hit one cone and came home.

Dad and I devised a plan. The driving and parallel parking test areas are open to the public. We went in the night and marked a red stripe on the lamp post (near the curb where the cones are placed) wiith a sharpie.The moment I see the red stripe on my rear view mirror, I have to reverse steer the wheel. And I paralled parked beautifully. HA!!!!!Thank my Dad profusely for the million dollar idea.

Third testing day and it snowed that morning. The red stripe was nowhere to be seen. Hit both the cones and came home. Threated to leave home if mom and sis continued their suppressed grin. Movies with car driving heroines were banned. Applaused the Philadelphia transit authority for the new bus route to my college.
That night I tied a small red ribbon on the lamp post. Rain or shine, that ribbon should be in place.

Fourth round of my drivers test. Marty and I are friends by now. The testing route is stamp marked in my brain by now. Reached the dreaded spot. The ribbon fluttered in the wind and I reversed on its first sight on my rear view mirror. Paralled parked perfectly. Marty and I hugged. He was sincerely happy. A week later my license arrived. The family celebrated.

Fast forward some years :-
The other day Mr.V complained about Mrs.V's failed attempt for the license. He was wondering if I could teach her to drive.

Holy Cow! or is it Horny Cow!

An after lunch seista. Sis and I were exhausted after the fight for Balarama (mallu kids zine).Grandma falling asleep in the bed while reading the newspaper. Radio blaring old mallu movie songs. Neighbour dog barking as usual for no reason. Beevi, a mid aged Muslim woman who comes home for sweeping and laundry, was finishing up her work. She has a loud, very loud commanding voice. She loves to sing and sings out loud while sweeping, cleaning and washing. Cyclists in the streets ring their bells in appreciation.

Our house is one among the four within a huge compound. On the streets outside you will find stray dogs and homeless cows. One of the doors from our dining room opens to the back porch. A few yards from the back porch, Beevi had hung the cloths on the line to dry.
It was like any other Sunday 2pm. Beevi changed her clothes to leave for the day and came out of the kitchen. Blaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!!

There was a cow - front legs plus half of its body in our dining room. Holy Cow! Beevi was speechless, for 2 seconds. Then she yellled; we came running, neigbour dog stopped barking and the neighbour kids plus their moms came out of their houses.

The compound gate was left open by the milkman, and this cow found her way from the streets to our dining room. Now this cow had never been inside a house in her entire life. The cow didnt know what to do. We didnt know what to do. Every body else was having fun, including the dog, which apparenly broke the chain and was staring tongue-out.

The cow somehow got out of our back porch and was running into the graden, but got stuck between the clothes hanging in the line to dry. Twenty seconds went by; clothes fell on the ground and the cow came out with a bra hanging on its horn. By this time, two kids were rolling on the sand laughing their guts out. Dog started barking again and the cow ran towards the compound gate with a bra in her horn, out into the streets.

Quarter mile north of our house is the town junction -a busy one with an auto stand, bus stop, medical shop, bakery, a mechanic workshop, plus an umbrella and shop repair shop .

Beevi confirmed that the cow was headed north. She confirmed next day that the junction-waalas found out where the bra belonged. We didnt care to figure out who took the bra out.

Tear drop or a long stare?

if you cross the street
and saw me passing by,
would you know me friend?

and when the sun rise and sets
and the days pass by
when our guiding stars
differ in miles
would our path ever cross?

when I am by my self
with sense that years put in
I know not if I'll still be same
but if I smile still the same
would you know me then, my friend?

untold stories, that will never reach me
glorious heights, that I'll never be part of
wait. maybe it will - when the gentle breeze
caress my hair;
I will stop,
and breathe in the moment.
I'll think of you then.

and when I lay, with a life accomplished;
would you come then?
a tear drop or a long stare..
would you know me then?