Fishy Chronicles 4: Rapprochement

Fish took a helicopter ride to the burbs and stayed the night. They called it a rapprochement.

This morning they insisted on joining me for a walk at a new garden I had discovered. So I helped them on with their suits and we drove to the grounds and began walking. After 7 minutes, Fish cussed and demanded I stop.

This is a fictional series of Fish that catch up with their erstwhile owner and seek more adventure. They previously escaped the suffocating environs of a middle class fish tank to travel, broaden their horizons and spread their fins in every sense. 

"Why?" I asked.

"You're taking pleasure in the oddest things!"

"What are you talking about?"

"You see that old lady in the blue sari?" They pointed at the thin elderly lady who just passed us by. I had indeed noticed her and felt a feeling of angst when she quickly walked past. I watched her till she took the turn and disappeared. I turned to look at the Fish, who were watching me keenly.

"Well, what of her?" I said.

"You've been spending the last 10 minutes trying to overtake her!"

"What... What rubbish!" I hated that they were so perceptive.

"Quit comparing yourself to the world!"

"I'm not!"

"You are!"

"Are we going to continue this walk?"

"If you stop chasing old women and keep pace."

"I won't lose any weight at your pace."

"None of that! You know we love every jiggly bit of you. Let's go and make fun of the other walkers." And they marched off into the middle of the path, making other walkers jump out of the way.

Sigh. I'm not lying. Attaching pictures to prove I was at the park.

I couldn’t locate the lady in blue, but by then I was enjoying my time with Fish. And, yes, we did make fun of some joggers.

The joggers spot in Mumbai's suburbs
(Photo by A. Peter)

A cricket game in motion in Borivali
(Photo by A. Peter)

Fishy Chronicles 3: The Dream

Fish at the window
(Illustration by A. Peter)

Last night I dreamt of Fish.

I thought I saw them peering at me through the window.

But when I opened my eyes they weren't there. It was a full moon night, some clouds cuddling the moon. 

Maybe another day.

Fishy Chronicles 2: A Quiet Day With My Book

One of those days when you want quiet,
a mug of tea and a book to read.
(Illustration by A. Peter)

Fishy Chronicles 1: Fish Call

So Fish and I missed each other by a set of fins in blue, blue freaky San Francisco.

I shacked up with an ancient boyfriend, because I didn't want to run through all my travel money at once. Fish messaged me pictures of their dinner. I stared sadly at my cold Mac burger.

Fish said they had a great view of the sea from their five-star hotel. They had followed their expat buddy from Colaba to SF. For those who don't know, Colaba is the Manhattan of Mumbai. More charming, I'd say.

This is a fictional series of Fish that lived with the narrator for years and finally decided to spread their wings... elsewhere. They are astute, intelligent, fun loving, adventurous and extremely loyal to their friends.  

Fish miss the narrator in San Francisco. They call her to gloat about their travels and they have words with the narrator. But all ends well.

I think they wanted to rub salt in my wound. Hence the call. It was hard to hear them all speaking at once. I wondered how Garl understood them. It was the strangest name I ever heard. Was it Carl and I had heard it wrong through the bubbles? Surely Garl was rich enough to afford the Fish a better phone line to speak on. After all, Garl, from Britisthan, had a seafacing suite at the Taj Colaba and apparently lacked for nothing. And it looked like my ex-posse of scales and fins didn't either.

"Why did you leave me?" was my first question when they paused for breath. I hadn't got over them leaving me.

They had threatened to leave many, many, many times, but I had thought they were being their fishy selves. But when they disappeared, leaving all their old clothes and my trappings behind, I knew they wouldn't return.

After a long silence, I heard a murmur. "Wanted to spread our fins. Time was passing us by."

Who had said it? It sounded ungrateful too. I had given them the best corner of my home. Got them the best airsuits money could buy, took them on my travels and even custom-built a mobile fish tank so that we could navigate Mumbai traffic. I had had to build it with a nephew, who howled with laughter when he heard Fish had left. It had made me feel worse.

I held on to my temper. I still wanted to hear them and keep the contact. "You didn't even leave a note!"

"Yeah. Norbert..."

"Norbert, the drunken mosquito?"

"He hasn't touched liquor since your rum cake. It gave him a headache of epic proportions."

"Have you been reading books? Your vocabulary seems to have improved," I said grumpily. They seemed to be on a roll. I thought they had had the time of their lives with me. Apparently not. "What about Norbert?"

"He said to make a clean break," Dimitri said softly. He had been my favourite of the fish. "It would let you heal... eventually."

I hopped with rage. Silently. I kicked over a chair and tried my luck with the sofa. OUUUCCCHHH!

It had been what Genie, my erstwhile househelp, had said. That it had been the best way for them to go. I had become too clingy.

"So!" I said tearfully. "So why are you calling me now? To rub Garl in my face? To show off?!"

There was silence and I cut the call.

After I had had a stiff walk around Jay's creepy neighbourhood, I had to run the last 20 minutes to his flat at breakneck speed because I thought I was being chased by a pervert. I cursed myself even more for leaving home without my phone. I had hurled it into a corner after the call. I couldn't afford a new phone in expensive America. I had to find that dabba phone and give it mouth to mouth.

I did find it. Under the fridge. With Jay's help I got the phone out and he put it together.

I stared at the screen, trying to figure out what to make of it.

In the few hours I'd been away, Fish had called 53 times and sent me several messages. I dreaded reading them.

I needn't have.

There were 30 messages, all the same. "We missed you. You were our Sun, sea, surf and ocean. Home and heart was with you."

-- AP

23.10.18

******

Golden Gate Bridge in the distance.
(Picture: A. Peter)

Fish suggested visiting the Japanese Tea Garden. It proved soothing. And I met more fish. Beautiful, charming, peaceful Koi. (Picture: A. Peter)

A Pagoda/temple at the Japanese Tea Garden
(Picture: A. Peter)

 The JTG
(Picture: A. Peter)

 Japanese Tea Garden. Beautiful place to walk about. Bought tea and small bits of crockery as souvenirs
(Picture: A. Peter)

Lord Buddha in a serene pose at the Japanese Tea Garden in San Francisco, California
(Picture: A. Peter)

Death

6 March 2016

Death is everywhere
You are prepared,
you say

It sneaks in
and 
steals your father
and your mother
and your brother
children
uncles
and aunts

Suddenly
you are unprepared 

Nothing you know
feels like Death

Do you really want to call?

You write to say
you'll call

But you don't
didn't 
haven't

The words 
crept into my mind
and whispered 
"We wouldn't have minded
being unspoken." 

An obituary: A lived life

Arwa Penna, the author, poet, traveler, blogger and serial nut, has died aged 90. According to one of her few surviving friends, her last words were that death had taken its own time.

Work was her life and unspectacular in every way. But on retiring she began to travel, a taste of which she got during a three-year break from work. She trekked the Himalayas and ghats of Western India and travelled well into her 80s, resulting in books on travel, poetry and fiction, almost all of which was vigorously rejected by publishers.

Some of her poetry was published, but not well received. She was, as she said in an interview with the Telegraph, “Over the moon it was published, grateful for the crumbs of fame, and eventually crushed by the rejection and derisive criticism it attracted.”

After being widowed, she embarked, with some surprise, on a series of ‘indiscretions’ with men, all notably younger. As she said of her Syrian Christian self, “When I was young, I was repressed and inhibited. Strangely, in my dotage men seem to find me interesting, which is hugely flattering. What’s the harm in a pleasant distraction.”

The longest such distraction was a pint-sized Tunisian, a financial whiz and already in possession of a wife and a brood of children. The pair met frequently, sometimes in other countries, something Arwa attributed to keeping her on her toes, physically and emotionally.

She was a supporter of equal inheritance and property rights for women and equal rights in the workplace. In the 36 years of her career, she did not get a single promotion. A manager, later a friend, attributed it to her ‘voluble’ and ‘aggressive’ nature. In almost all the companies she worked with, she attempted to join their trade unions, perceived as a threat by their respective managements. One newspaper group, the Bombay Pavwalla, blocked her every application/attempt to join the union. The matter was taken to court and so fiercely fought that it proved to be the company’s undoing. It was eventually liquidated and the case was closed just before Arwa reached retirement at age 58.

Arwa’s constant fights with management, however, stole the shine from her real achievements. She got them to help nearby villages generate electricity, implement organic farming methods and helped create a crude form of co-operative farm insurance.

Arwa’s intense quirkiness came out in her writing and most aspects of her later life. At age 51, she embarked on a hiatus, trekking in the Himalayas, living off herbs, fruits and food offered by kindly villagers, sleeping in the rough, swimming the ice cold rivers and rejoicing the death of her menses.

At age 54, she broke her leg while running down the stairs at Dehradun railway station for a train to Bardhhaman, following which she decided to return to Mumbai. And get a job.

A number of consultancies led to a senior editorial role at an investment bank, where she managed to get a series 16 certification, something that had eluded her for more than 18 years in the industry.

At her retirement, she was gifted a gold-plated ball point pen and a copy of Jeffrey Archer’s Honour Among Thieves, both of which prominently sported price tags. She was not sure if the title was meant to mean anything. The book she had read before. She attributed the price tags and book choice to the careless attitude of modern corporates and the plastics manning them.
  

Eggs galore

Photo: A. Peter 

Saw this yesterday, on my way back from my walk. 

Yesterday was another light day where I was able to dash home a tad early and present myself at the walker's park. The eggs on a bicycle is not a common sight in Mumbai, but I have seen these fellows ride their bicycles, swaying dangerously, with larger stacks of eggs. 

I think this is going to be one of those sights that will disappear soon. I'm trying to catch, among other things, the tempos carrying milk cans and cows strolling the streets. I remember trips to Mumbai where they'd be sleeping in the middle of busy roads. It has not been a common sight for many years, but I think the beef ban in Maharashtra may make them think differently. 

#milk #milkcans #beef #beefban #mumbai #jogger'spark #eggs #APeter

Saturday, Piku, Bombay Velvet, a surprise birthday party

After  a drought of good movies, some good ones came to Mumbai in a rush. I was lucky to catch one.
The first was Piku. Nicely

done. The anxieties of an ageing parent and the frustrations of a carer. I could empathise. I think the movie's a hit.

And on Saturday I tried to catch 'Playing it cool'. The show was cancelled. So I sadly bought a ticket for Bombay Velvet. I yawned and toyed with the idea of leaving, but had paid Rs300 for the ticket. Stiff. So I dreamt a little, saw popcorn jumping hoops and cold drinks running toward me with arms outstretched.

The guy on my right thought it was boring and rued the waste of Rs300 to a friend on the phone at the interval.

The two kooks on the left couldn't stop commenting.  I think they were hoping for racy, but the movie fell short.

After which I was late for a friend's 50th birthday party, which was smashing. Lots of noisy kids, alleviated by a wicked game that involved blowing balloons and bursting them by sitting on them. Harder than one can imagine.

Biker babe

Saw my rickshaw driver staring at this lady getting on to her bike.... and I was hooked too. It's an Enfield Bullet. It is a big, heavy, manly bike and guys generally riding this are making a loud statement. Sort of like the roar the Harley makes. Not many women ride these big birds. I was so impressed. (18 May 2015)

 I stared at her too.... till I lost sight of her. Go gurl.

Sigh. Meri number kabhi ayege  

Pictures that speak

In the last few days I have been tidying my cupboard, looking through old photos, trying to take pictures of old ones of my mom and her friends to post on Facebook.

Some years ago my sister left her photographs with me. She was moving countries and her home had been sold.

And while I always see the torn plastic packet I've stored them in, I rarely look at them. I do look, and then stop. It hurts too much to look at pictures of my parents. Not that I don't want to remember them, it's too hard. I still don't look at pictures of my dad's funeral and I haven't looked at the CD of my mum's.

Last week I opened the steel cupboard to look for something and decided to have a look at the photos.

There were pictures of my parents and of my brothers when they were in their 20s. My nephews as young babies and a lot of blurred ones. Hard to look at but difficult to throw away. You see, I've lost all the negatives -- a series of house moves, thefts at my parents' home. Yes, sometimes thieves like to steal photographs. Especially when they are related to you.

Now more than ever I look at the few pictures I have of my parents as young people and wonder why I can't see them that way -- with dreams, more interesting than those of any of their children, especially while remembering my dad's stories of his youth and the pranks he played.  Each time I look at pictures dating to the 1950s and 1960s I wonder why they got lost and why we haven't got around to 'finding' them. If that makes any sense.

My mum (extreme left). I don't know who the others are. This is probably before she married and when she worked as a nurse in Bahrain. c.1950s. I am in awe of her when I look at this picture. She was intrepid, for sure.

My parents on their wedding day in front of my father's home in Kerala. I'd previously said it was my mother's home, but an elderly cousin who attended the wedding ceremonies said this was my grandfather's home. The house now is more modern, but essentially looks like this with no changes to the windows and doors. Only a coat of paint.

Break at Kihim

Early this month some friends of ours, their families and we caught the ferry and went to my sister-in-law's beach house in Kihim, just outside Mumbai.
It was riotous and very enjoyable, if one ignores the itch I developed after returning.

The lane behind the house. All very picturesque. 

 'Flying Penguins' following our ferry. People held out biscuits and chivda hoping they'd swoop down and eat out of their hands. I saw one seagull sitting on the top of the ferry and enjoying the breeze.

Sisters, S and K, checking out their early morning beachside selife (12 April 2015).

 Love apples. Stolen from next door. Plenty of mangoes on nearby trees...all still hanging where we left them.

 My first evening at the beach, alone. (11 April 2015)

 Walking on the little lane toward Kihim beach.

A rooster and his family. 

They saw sand for the first time.

Kerala

A strike in Kerala, a 'samaram' (November 2014). I think that's a church in the background. 

A movie theatre in TVM

A single screen movie theatre in Thiruvananthapuram (November 2014). I was charmed by the building and surprised a single screen theatre could brave competition from multiplexes. But this is Kerala, everything is possible. Saw two movies in two days.

Street views

On my way to work one day in 2014. Near Jogeshwari, Mumbai. There are some pictures crying to be taken. This was taken during the rains.

The aroma of onions

This was written at end 2013.
..................................................................................

I'm sitting at my work table, and for the last couple of days i've been thinking that there's food stored in the drawers of my table. Though there's also the niggling thought that it's actually the onions and garlic sharing space on the window ledge, level with my ear. complicated seating arrangements, right?
My husband is always unhappy about the way i keep house. I would eat something that has recently expired. He would throw it out a month before. and so on and so forth.
But with the recent spiral of onion prices, we ended up watching onion prices carefully, reminds me of my parents buying gold ornaments when i was a kid, and then going off to the wholesaler and buying two kgs of onions and potatoes. The only problem is when they start rotting.
On 24 December we went into overdrive... we were cooking mutton for the larger family and so bought 3-4 kgs of onions and another 3-4 kgs of potatoes and a kg of garlic. Half of the onions and tubers went into the mutton curry.

The cook (pure veg) likes to add potatoes in whatever vegetable she's making. It's edible only when she does. And we only keep her on because she's been able to stand me for the last five years. So, now, we're down to a couple of large potatoes from last year's batch. We still have a watermelon and a couple of apples from last year. We're both silently wondering who will peel and dice the fruits and serve it to the minions.

My husband is so worried of the waste... what if the onions rot. So he lays them down on the bedroom window ledge. This is the bedroom my mother slept in when she was alive. We have yet to move into it and the bed is now sagging under the weight of my oven,  cake mixer, their packaging, curtains that need washing, papers - his and mine, a leather folder that has some more papers etc.

A few months ago, my husband also tied a clothesline between the TV stand on one wall and the curtain rod on the opposite. His only worry seems to be that people can peep in and see that we are drying our clothes in our bedroom.

The window ledge, a very broad one, now holds a large basket with about 2 kgs of onions and a large quantity of garlic and wafting all about... a pungent smell. The smell reminds me of my early days at the Times of India.

The paste up artists would buy onions in kilos and store them in lockers next to the draft board. The smell so pungent,  some days so welcome and fragrant and, on others,  when the skinny horny artist told me to stand near him and proceeded to skewer my breasts with his elbow, tortured.

It ended one day when I was told I had to put the edition to bed early. I ran up with the layout and explained it to the artist. Ran down to work on the articles. After I'd sent it up electronically, I ran back up to check and sign off the layout.

The layout was a mess. Pasted in the wrong places,  with no resemblance to the layout. It was when he insisted on me standing next to me and poked my breast in the process that I roared that he'd pasted crap on the page and I could do it with half a brain. I was close to grabbing his collar and trying to wrestle his blade from him when the Malayali supervisor slid between us and begged me to go back to my floor and return in about 20 mins. After which I found the page beautifully made... and signed off quickly.

That night my best friend, and working at Economic Times at the time, told me I had quite likely incited a strike and that none of the paste-up guys would work with me again,  and that my useless temper had got the better of me.

Needless to say, I didn't sleep a wink that night.

I returned next day, glumly climbing the stairs to supervise the layout, and had a few guys crowding my table and chatting.

I'd become famous. And a tad popular.  And I realised I came to adore the guys upstairs.

Also breast poker became very careful thereafter.

My obituary

I got this idea after reading Veena V's obit. I enjoyed readin her's and writing mine.

An Obituary

Arwa Penna, the author, poet, traveler, blogger and serial nut, has died aged 90. According to one of her few surviving friends, her last words were that death had taken its own time.

Work was her life and unspectacular in every way. But on retiring she began to travel, a taste of which she got during a three-year break from work. She trekked the Himalayas and ghats of Western India and travelled well into her 80s, resulting in books on travel, poetry and fiction, almost all of which was vigorously rejected by publishers.

Some of her poetry was published, but not well received. She was, as she said in an interview with the Telegraph, “Over the moon it was published, grateful for the crumbs of fame, and eventually crushed by the rejection and derisive criticism it attracted.”

After being widowed, she embarked, with some surprise, on a series of ‘indiscretions’ with men, all notably younger. As she said of her Syrian Christian self, “When I was young, I was repressed and inhibited. Strangely, in my dotage men seem to find me interesting, which is hugely flattering. What’s the harm in a pleasant distraction.”

The longest such distraction was a pint-sized Tunisian, a financial whiz and already in possession of a wife and a brood of children. The pair met frequently, sometimes in other countries, something Arwa attributed to keeping her on her toes, physically and emotionally.

She was a supporter of equal inheritance and property rights for women and equal rights in the workplace. In the 36 years of her career, she did not get a single promotion. A manager, later a friend, attributed it to her ‘voluble’ and ‘aggressive’ nature. In almost all the companies she worked with, she attempted to join their trade unions, perceived as a threat by their respective managements. One newspaper group, the Bombay Pavwalla, blocked her every application/attempt to join the union. The matter was taken to court and so fiercely fought that it proved to be the company’s undoing. It was eventually liquidated and the case was closed just before Arwa reached retirement at age 58.

Arwa’s constant fights with management, however, stole the shine from her real achievements. She got them to help nearby villages generate electricity, implement organic farming methods and helped create a crude form of co-operative farm insurance.

Arwa’s intense quirkiness came out in her writing and most aspects of her later life. At age 51, she embarked on a hiatus, trekking in the Himalayas, living off herbs, fruits and food offered by kindly villagers, sleeping in the rough, swimming the ice cold rivers and rejoicing the death of her menses.

At age 54, she broke her leg while running down the stairs at Dehradun railway station for a train to Bardhhaman, following which she decided to return to Mumbai. And get a job.

A number of consultancies led to a senior editorial role at the Royal Bank of Scotland, where she managed to get a series 16 certification, something that had eluded her for more than 18 years in the investment banking industry.

At her retirement, she was gifted a gold-plated ball point pen and a copy of Jeffrey Archer’s Honour Among Thieves, both of which prominently sported price tags. She was not sure if the title was meant to mean anything. The book she had read before. She attributed the price tags and book choice to the careless attitude of modern corporates and the plastics manning them.

A manner of hell

I want to tell you about a lady I know.

She meets me everyday and has a one-sided conversation most days. I think she just wants to be heard and I'm listening.

I asked her if she could help me for a few evenings and she told she'd have to ask her mother-in-law. After a while, she told me that if her child was not attended to, she'd not be able to.

I feel sorry for her sometimes, when I remember her life is worse than mine.

When I met her, she told me that she had been married seven years and only recently had had two children. At the start of the marriage, her husband lived in Goa and her mother-in-law insisted she needed someone to help her in her household chores, so she had to stay behind in Mumbai.

So the young lady became the family servant, cleaning, cooking, washing the clothes of her sisters-in-law, their husbands and children and working for a living.

All the while, her mother-in-law told neighbours and friends that the daughter-in-law was not bearing grandchildren for her. On a trip home, the young lady told her mother about what was happening at home and that her husband didn't seem to want to be a spouse or have children or take her with him to Goa. And she refused to return to Mumbai.

After a couple of months, her husband went to the village to get her back and his mother-in-law advised him to try and make his marriage work. He did all that he promised.

And the young lady had a baby. A girl. And her mother-in-law was upset. She told all her neighbours that she wanted a boy and what would she do with a girl. One of her daughters shouted at her for constantly putting down her daughter-in-law for not having a child... and when she did have one the mater was quibbling about its sex. 

The second child was a girl. And there were more laments. But my friend told the family she wasn't going to have any more children just to aim for a boy.

My friend told me, her first meal of the day is usually past 2pm. Most of the time she is living on very sweet tea. After everyone else has had theirs. Apparently that is cheaper than a meal. I am not sure how she produces breast milk if she is unable to eat well. After she's done housework for all the extended family members and her own, she eats something.

All of what she earns (very little) goes into the household and paying for her mother-in-law's frequent pujas. She recently had to have a big do for her daughter's birthday because the family and neighbours expected them to splash out on a party. She said she was distressed at having to spend money she didn't have on people who didn't value her or her daughters.

She says she's usually angry when she goes home after work, because no one has helped with any chores and she sees her baby usually sleeping, unwashed and and in food-stained clothes. Some days she bangs the unwashed pots in anger, but she is never able to say anything about her situation. Once she asked her mother-in-law to do a spot of sweeping and was told, 'look whose being my mother-in-law'.

Hell is closer than we think.

Speaking of pregnancies

At our friend's place, we noticed the discus (a breed of ornamental fish) were laying eggs. At first we thought they were unwell. Three fish kept hugging the corner of the tank. The owner of the fish showed me which was the male. I realised all our fish were females. And I've got an ardent admirer in my fish tank. Thought it was male, but now I know it's not. And I'm not sure if one is still discovering it's sexuality.

At first I did not think much of fish. We didn't share a wavelength. Until we got ours and I started noticing them and their quirks. And I developed a liking for one particular fish. He/she waits for me in the corner of the tank, bites the others if they come to me for a petting, and isn't afraid.

I pet them everyday... and I'm wondering is there more to this.

The egg laying session at the friend's tank had me showing the kids where the eggs were coming from... the owner's wife found it disgusting. It was all new to me. The eggs will probably be eaten, eventually. We'd lost some of our fish to the breeder's urge to have several new frys... is that the correct word?

But in the process, we lost several of our fish. I'm a little upset when he takes them away, because the few occasions we've had new fish given to us by others, they usually never get used to us. They are always wary. And of course, they die. Faster with the fish breeder.

We recently lost two fish because the oxygen machine gave way at night, while we were asleep. It was hard. One of the fish that died was from our first batch of fish in 2009. Just before my mom broke her hip and things were never the same.

We'd called that fish Sandra. Now I know George is not really a boy and I should perhaps be trying to call him/her Georgina. Likewise for Obama and the Nawab. The husband tells me that fish breeder tried to make the Nawab have a family, but apparently wasn't co-operative. As was the other fish that was taken from our tank. He came back big and bulky, but now i realise he wasn't a male.

 

Ona sadya

On Sunday we were invited to a friend's home for onam. It's late for several reasons.
 
The immediate family were tired this year and wanted to ply their energies into the matriarch's 71st birthday the next week. So we all pitched in and made a malabari biryani. The biryani took several hours and i felt sorry for the cooks. There was a main cook. My husband, and two main helpers, his sister and sister-in-law, and three children and me helping with the rest. I had been peeling and cutting the raw materials for the mutton's marination early in the day and later chopped a salad, split the cashews, fried the popadoms, and generally hovered and tasted and had cold drinks and whiskey-laced drinks at regular intervals. I'm never considered a great help on these days. But i and the kids did our best, cleaned, wiped, cut whatever we were asked to do. 


The burner was small, there were too many cooks in the broth, the kids got hungry and ate the nuts, cold drinks and and finally found the biryani too spicy, which is strange, because it is not supposed to be. But I'm no expert.

I don't know what's fun about cooking. The only thing that happened was that the 'able' women were in the kitchen, sweating and tiring themselves out. The main chef was sweating a lot, and worried about the biri. And, in the end, the rice didn't cook. We finally settled down to eat at 11.40pm and then the kids found the food too spicy and wasted much of what was on their plates.
 

After we divided the leftovers and left, it took us another week to get to the leftover biri. We steamed the first lot in the biryani vessel and had it on the Sunday. We had the next lot the next Sunday. To tell you the truth, I'm sick of leftovers.

Now this onam, there were four women cooking. And cooked chicken too. It was celebrated late because these two families (related to each other) went to kerala to attend their grandmother's 100th birthday. So they finally had an onam celebration with in-laws and children and fish.

All the men behaved slyly, and went into a room to drink. I, the sole female boozer, had a spiked coke. I'm not sure what was in it, but it was strong. Despite telling the host I was okay the way I was, eating starters and generally enjoying female company, he just didn't believe I could be happy and replete sober.

After the first sip, i remembered why I like to mix my own drinks... and why I like to have them at home. I drank it slowly, first wondering if i should pour it into the tulsi plant in the tiny balcony. But then i noticed the gods on the pot. How many times had I been there and never noticed them. I worried that the tulsi would wilt and die and the family's luck would turn bad. So I looked at the other plants and then I sighed and had my drink very slowly and with lots of diet coke. My husband later told me I should have gone to the kitchen sink and thrown it away when no one was looking. I am slow.

I stayed away from the chicken curry... and refused to sit at my designated spot -- the leaf was loaded with food. What did they think I was... an elephant?

In any case, I'm worried about being considered a boozer. The men felt i absolutely had to have my drink. And the women were uncomfortable about drinking with me... and I uncomfortable about drinking in the company of disapproving (well-hidden) teetotallers. The kids made it sound worse. One slyly alluded to my 'drink'.

In any case, the spouse and I have decided on a few excuses for the next time he and his friends intend to have a drink. I'm going to say 'my-fish-are-pregnant-and-need-me-sane/I'm sick/on medication/having a headache. Take your pick.  

Three movies

I saw The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel today. I'd wanted to see the movie for a very long time, but even i was surprised that i had something to smile at in the end. It was better than i expected.

It has been a string of movies for me this week. I saw Lunch Box at Infinity Malad on a weekday last week. I've been trying to catch movies in the early part of the day, the tickets are cheaper then, but have been finding it tough to get out early. I'm usually in a rush, managing the entry and exits of the maids, my bath and breakfast, all at one go. Husband says that after my mum died, I'm even willing to let the maids in when I'm not at home. Don't have a choice. The dust doesn't respond to magic.

Well the movie was quite moving. It hammered in that i was growing older. I felt old. My friend Mala meets me and tells me I've grown old. When did this happen. How? I was always determined to feel like a child. When did I start feeling like a +40-year old. Is it bad? Will it kill? I'm hoping to overcome this affliction, perhaps it's just me. But I've been realising i have no friends... they are all virtual and not quite there. They are bogged down, busy, far away. I'm wondering that if I retire soon, I may want to die early.

The funny thing about the movies is that I want to see them. I find myself trying to get out the door and in time for the movies, almost like an appointment. everything else can wait.

The dull weeks are the ones that don't have a movie I'm interested in. The mall has started boring me. Including the bookstore.

The movie moved well. Surprisingly for a Hindi movie. Sometimes there are uncomfortable spaces and pauses. Facts that don't meld. Nimrat Kaur was good. I was discussing this with Sra and we found her responses to Sajjan very much spot on. We could almost feel the anticipation when she was preparing to meet him. I just don't understand why she needs to smell the clothes she has to wash everyday. Anyone?

The theatre was full that day. but i had to listen to an inaudible but noisy commentary from the couple next to me. The boy sat next to me and poked me several times in the chest... until I shoved his elbow off and he apologised. The other young man wanted to sit on my lap. When i described the two to my husband, he scolded me for not sitting in an aisle seat. Really, what was I thinking. I should have held on tight to the chap on the right and continuously elbowed the one on the left. It will probably improve the movie experience for me. depending on how heavy the fellow on the right is, of course.

The Prisoners. The theatre was empty. It now fills me with a little fear to enter such a theatre. Especially if i spy one lone man sitting in the last row. For the first 10 minutes I'm wondering if I'll be tackled from the back or the side. How will i fend someone off if I'm too busy tucking into popcorn or a cold drink. Maybe i can freeze his nose off with all the ice cubes noisily swimming in the coke. And then there were more people walking in... but no women. sigh.

Anyway, this was good too. In a very different way. And a hanging end. When you watch the movie, you'll know what I mean.

And today The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, which made me wonder why Indians sound so bad in foreign movies and even in the interests of authenticity their accents never seem to be researched or genuine. I left it feeling that there was hope when one becomes older. It might be different.

Mom

I don't remember when i last wrote. I know it was before my mother died.

There i said it. On my own.

The year has divided itself into before mom and after. And i still cry when i think of her.

Some days she's all i can think of. Her wrinkled soft skin. Us calling her the security officer of the house. I wonder how many cycles there are to grief, and why i have to go through it so many times.

When my father died, it took me very long to get over it. I wonder if i still have. I have stopped crying when i think of him, and i can now look at his pictures. I can't look too long at mum's.

Winding down, packing up the pieces. Wondering what to do with her things. Her clock beeps at 11.44pm every night. If i'm working in the room, it sends a shiver down my spine. The sound is so unexpected, reminds me of my mum trying to sleep but always staring at the back of my head.

She always looked as though she wanted to say something, tell me something, but never did.

When i was young I asked her why she had five children. Couldn't she have stopped at the first three. I thought they could have done better keeping their family small.

Some days when i think too much, i understand that there's a karmic cycle somewhere. I'm in it too.

 

Onwards to heaven

Yesterday we woke up to find some men from the next building standing in a corner and talking quietly. 

After about an hour, the maid asked me what was happening. I was clueless.

A little later a police van came through the society gates, and about 6-7 policemen disappeared into the building. One even brought his little son and made him sit in the police van. School holidays and nowhere to go? Husband told me it was not a good way for a young child to pass his time, as there would be many bad things and situations he'd be witnessing.

Afterwards, husband told me the watchman was called to an apartment in the next building to break open a door and they found the head of the household hanging from a fan.

Apparently he was suffering business losses and was under a great deal of stress.

The kids from all three buildings were not allowed to play outside until evening. I don't think anyone really explained what happened.

I can't place the gentleman. I see his son going to work every morning. I don't know what his wife and other kids look like. I've lived here 14 years and i don't know anyone or anything. I don't know what makes anyone tick.

Just the way I knew and didn't know V.

Several years ago I had a friend and colleague, V.  Always smiling, full of activity. Working on a Phd. We'd known each other a few years. Knew she was married. We teased her often about being a pucca mumbaikar, but still old-fashioned enough to wear a sari to work everyday.

One day she turned up with a black eye. She was worried we'd say it was her husband. It was actually a door.

And one day, in March, she was no more. We came in to work and were told she had committed suicide.

On her neice's birthday.

Why? No one knows.

Everyone at office was distressed. Could it also have been because we realised we knew very little about V?

We went for the funeral. Saw her tense husband do the rituals.

We met her mother and sisters... shattered by the turn of events.

A colleague wrote an article on suicide. We never spoke about her. We rarely do. I remember her. I've got pictures of her, but that's about it.

Candy so dandy

 

This is my entry for The Fifty-2 Weeks of 2013

 

Chocolates. Sweets, desserts, etc etc.

In my childhood, it was a forbidden treat. For numerous reasons. My father was somewhat diabetic, my mother was a nurse at a dental clinic. I staved off cavities, till my 30s. I blame my mother ;)

If someone was mean enough to get me a box of chocolates, my mum either gave it away or, if we were visiting India in the near future, kept it for my cousins.

In my second year of college, my father bought a box of chocolates for my friends. He was a little upset when an uncle bought me another. I think dad had visions of me overdosing on sweetness, perhaps not sharing the chocs and eventually becoming a sugar hoodie.

I love Ogden Nash… for his quirkiness. I love the idea that someone can make nonsense of something as serious as poetry. Making reverence stand on its [his, perhaps] head.

It was when I met Mala in college, we discovered a singular passion for food and chocolates.

Unlike mine, Mala’s parents would send her back to college with a holdall full of the wicked stuff. And we didn’t share. We would get into her room, and she’d say, ‘what do you want today. Snickers, Mars, Kitkats, Twix’. And we’d start. The sugar high was delicious. We behaved badly. Jumping on beds, ransacking the holdall, gulping down large bars of chocolate like there was no tomorrow.  Didn’t realize being a choco barbarian was such fun.

And at exam time… it wasn’t coffee for me, but the constant crunch of Ravalgaon hard boiled sweets. Mahesh’s piece brought it all back for me. I’d buy a bag worth. It wasn’t expensive then, else I may have baulked. It was a real cheap thrill and I’d get a huge rush. I don’t remember if it helped me study.

Marriage was bliss. My husband travelled. Post marriage I ballooned. Why? He bought so many sweets.

Rum balls from Fluries. Varieties of mysore pak from Bangalore. Sweets from Mysore. Gajak from Rajasthan or MP? The place of interest we visited in Bangalore many years ago? An incredible icecream shop.  

In recent years I’ve asked him to stop. But I’m always hoping he’s got edible stuff in his bags.

Candy so dandy, no?!

To pee or not

Do fish pee in water?

I thought i'd ask the fish, but have been holding myself back. The chances of getting a false answer are very high.

I told them the tank stank, often.

Genie's on strike. I'm alone.

Fish no fun at all.

No more tall glasses of lemonade at my elbow... or lemon tea when I'm sick.

Genie called the cook recently. Not sure what he wanted. Naughty cook's attention?

Mud reviewed

I was curious. What did everyone else think of Mud?
Apparently, much more than me.

http://www.forbes.com/sites/johntamny/2013/05/05/matthew-mcconaugheys-very-pedestrian-mud-why-do-film-critics-love-it-so-much/
http://www.digitalspy.co.uk/movies/review/a477459/mud-review-matthew-mcconaughey-sucks-you-in-as-southern-fugitive.html
http://insidemovies.ew.com/2013/05/03/matthew-mcconaughey-mud-tye-sheridan/

 

Mud

Unlike my slow self these days, I bathed quick, ate my medicines, food be damned and ran out of the house.

Managed to reach the theatre with minutes to spare. But what do i find? Kids/senior citizens and the general public. The mall was full! Didn't anyone have a job? I'd arrived on mad house Tuesday. Never, never, never, promise me, never, go for a movie to Inorbit, Malad, on a Tuesday. Apparently, if you sms Vodafone you get a ticket free for every ticket you buy. I was squeezed into a queue with kids holding two mobiles and trying to buy their friends and moms tickets. Offer not valid for those watching movies on their own, sadly.

Worse, I had a senior citizen leaning on me. He made every effort to touch, even with my bag wedged between us.

At the counter I could stand it no longer. I pushed him back and told him to give me some space. I bought my ticket and rushed in. I was annoyed and irritated. Later I asked myself why, as this is something that happens all the time. Should have sprouted rhino skin by now. Then I remembered a school friend, who'd have probably asked me if he should have been younger.

Chennai was bliss. Lived there a couple of years in my early 30s... and no one wanted to touch me!

While waiting, I wondered about the line up -- Iron Man 3,  in 2D or 3D, Shootout in Wadala (a definite maybe), Bombay Talkies (maybe), Aashiqui (NO), and seeing the silent trailer of a new movie on Gippi. It's about a chubby girl who suddenly becomes hip, after years of being sidelined. It's a Karan Johar product and I may end up seeing it when it releases.

Saw Mud, eventually. And it was mud. I'm glad I did not drag the spouse to watch it. Since there was no action in it, save at the end, he may have cursed me for it.

I don't know if it was the little boys that did it, or the lousy role Reese Witherspoon had. I didn't even stare at Mathew's muscled body. But, i wondered how he didn't get gas eating only canned beans. And where did that endless supply of cigarettes come from? The boys weren't buying it for him. Director, cut? He re-engineered (better than new) a motor-less boat. All by someone who may not have gone to school, or even taken a calculator apart. I'm not even sure what engine he's had experience with. It didn't come up. How did his shirt stay so clean. Where did the writing pad and pen come from? Aha!

The plot? You will have to watch it for yourselves.

What did I eat? Breadtalk stuff again... apple weem, creamy chicken, and a couple of others. But, my heart and mind were focused on the shawarma sandwich at Maroosh. Maybe next time. And after watching Matthew McConaughey, I'm wondering if a gassy can of beans might have been fun!

New fish on the block

So there are new fish in our tank.

Rather another oldish, smallish tank, with semi-new fish and two shrimps, sharing my mother-in-law's bedroom.

She was annoyed and indignant... standard behaviour when she has to give up more space to furniture or a member of the  animal species. She doesn't seem to mind humans very much.

After being scolded for inadvertantly wishing my brother-in-law's fish dead as a result of being poisoned by primer, paints and peeling plaster... not to forget the workmen, she acquiesed and has now promptly forgotten them.

Husband and I have been feeding the fish frenzy... we've been reminding each other to feed, clean and remember to switch on and off the filter for the smaller fish tank. On the weekend, brother-in-law comes in to give us 'gyaan' on why we should keep the light switched on in the tank. He says it's for their emotional well-being and physical growth. The thing is they seem to be the same size as the day they were introduced into the tank.

 

I don't get it. At the bottom of the ocean or the river bed, there is no light, so why would you want to light up their lives in a tank? What good is it going to do them? At best, they'll develop a human body clock and want porridge at the crack of dawn.

 

Hell, they may even want to speak into a cell phone.

Seriously, staring from the top of the tank... I think the light scares them silly. Or it could just be me.

We also get lectures on what we are doing wrong with our fish. Classic case of my-kid-is-better-than-yours.

My sister-in-law once told me that the minute her husband comes home, the kids are at the door, welcoming him, but he's staring at the fish tank -- doing a body count.

In the week the tank made its appearance at chez nous, we discovered a small tetra (he calls it a tetra, I'm going with it until I know better) with a hump on its nose. We asked BIL about it. There's been silence. I think he's wondering if it's a growth. Or whether we slipped him a new one.

He came one day with rocks in his hand. Apparantly he wanted his pair of shrimps to be able to hide. One has been out of sight since it came here. The other loves the attention. Will try and post some pix later.

A chauffered fisherwoman

Last week I was waiting for a bus (yes, I travel by public transport J especially after rickshaw fares became unaffordable) and saw an interesting exchange.

Saw a fisherwoman, gold and green bangles upto her elbows. I noticed her because she’d come on a chauffeur-driven bike. She’s also the lady from whom my husband buys fish. Apparently she’s quite the businesswoman. She’s installed her daughters-in-law in the fish market, spread out near her, and those naïve enough to do business on her turf are soon missing. Chased off with a sweet word, no doubt. For a few years now she’s been selling masala-coated fish, ready for the frying pan, or if you wish, already fried. All this probably explains her gold bangles. Or, as most of Mumbai’s masses do, they could be the Rs100 variety.

I’m guessing she ran out of fish at her stall and got on to the bike and scouted around for someone selling pomfrets. She stopped near me, zeroing on the guy with an aluminium tub on his head, asked him if he had pomfret (poplette) and proceeded to bargain him down for about 10-12 large ones. In frustration he finally agreed to her price. I’m not even sure he was aware she had a shop in the market! In any case, after she’d chose about 10 of his choice fare, she lowered the price even more… and I missed most of the exchange where she quietly explained why she was giving him less. After a look of shock, he started smiling and scratching his head. Then told her to take whatever she wanted.

I’m all admiration. She’s an impressive businesswoman.

Resolutions

10 Jan 2013

So today, after a week of working from home, I decided I had to make it more professional by wearing my watch and gold bangle.

An overriding fear… that I will forget what the outside world will look like, is up to, etc. etc.

I was thinking more of how I’d emerge into the world, not having tweezed my beard, hennaed my hair and pairing a nice top with some stained but comfortable pyjamas - a salwar to an Indian woman.

I’m bored to death with the lack of contact with other co-workers, find the watch too heavy on my hand, and have given up changing my earrings, my only effort at being feminine.

I’m also exchanging sad emails with colleagues, have just read Nick Clegg has a onesie on the Telegraph. That bit of news is telling. What has become of journalism when the scribes are obsessed by the Deputy PM’s choice of inner wear. Btw, I had to look up ‘onesie’ J

I’m worried, that I started the year this way. It’s going to be just as boring every other day! I’m still not going to attempt a resolution!

A pound of flesh

16 Jan 2013

A pound of flesh? I have an inkling of how birds take theirs.

In the first year of my Masters at Mumbai University, I was living at Pandita Ramabai Hostel, Gamdevi. I spent most of my time with my friend Mala, who at that time was a BSc (third year) student. We’d been best friends for three years. Apart from our friendship, we also shared a toilet.

Our hostel was built in the 1930s and had rooms with stone balconies, built around a central courtyard, so that you could feel the rain and sun and not have to suffer a voyeur's stare.

On the second floor, the two three-seaters had attached bathrooms that also had doors opening into communal passages, allowing others to use them as well.

One day Mala and I were horsing about in her room, as her roommates, Jayasree and Susan, weren’t around. We spotted a sparrow’s nest, with a couple of sparrows flying about the balcony. After a while, we started running after them, jumping and trying to touch the nest. We did this for a while and got bored, probably going to the mess after that. Food was always on our minds.

After a few months Mala and I weren’t quite friends any more. I suffered a series of setbacks, in terms of friendships, university, etc.

Sometimes I found the toilet we shared locked, intentional or unintentional.

Sometimes I felt something fall on me, while I was having a bath.

Sometimes I heard little pinging noises.

One day something hit me. I wouldn’t have noticed, but for the sharp sting. I looked up and saw two sparrows flying about the high ceiling. The birds had managed to enter through a gap leading in through Mala’s balcony and into the common/attached bathroom.

Nothing quite made sense until I heard, and saw, the tiny bit of concrete hit the bathroom sink and bounce out. And I realized the birds were throwing little stones at me. And they’d been doing it for a number of days.

I’m not sure how the pebble-throwing stopped, but after that I’d enter the loo very carefully, look about and then have a bath.

Mala has no recollection of the bird-chasing or of having been hit. But she has had a good laugh imagining it all.

What is this if it isn’t a pound of flesh, eh? I’m a firm believer in animals (read birds) remembering (and acting on their) grudges. 

Fifty Shades of Grey

So I went to the mall a few days ago and bought some books.

Mostly for kids, who likely won't read them.

Yesterday I started reading again after months.

I was rummaging my bookshelf for books to send to my sister, and realised I hadn't completed Fifty Shades of Grey. Who wouldn't finish reading a book full of sex?

I had started reading it and stopped. Started again after a few months and stopped at the same place. I decided it needed a rest.

At the bookstore recently I noticed the sequels and wondered if I should have been picking them. I settled for a book on grammar.

Now I feel Fifty Shades of Grey and its sisters have a better chance of a cursory reading than The McGraw-Hill Handbook of English Grammar and Usage. I'm not sure how the Economist Style Guide would have fared in the midst of all this.

                                           ****** 

Addendum (28 July 2022)

A few years after buying the book, I changed jobs and mentioned to a work friend that I'd started reading this book twice and it was clear I was not (probably never) going to finish it.

"It's just great! What's wrong with it? "

"I hate that the woman's a doormat and letting this guy do these things to her. Why is she going along with it?"

"Nonsense. The guy is so sexy." I should have asked my friend what she liked about it. She looked like her mouth was watering, and she'd swoon -  right there in the train station, while waiting for the 7.36pm Ladies Special. So I believed she liked it. I like broody silent guys in romance novels too... Colin Firth types, and Jamie Dornan, but... "Go back and read it again. Properly! You'll see." She flicked her fingers at me like I had to move out of her way, hurry back to the book, and take up where I couldn't get past.

I watched as she grabbed the pole of a bogey of the moving train and jumped in, effectively ending our conversation.

                                           ****** 

#jamiedornan #colinfirth #romancenovels #ladiesspecialwesternrailways #fiftyshadesofgreyfilm #mumbaitrains #fiftyshadesofgrey #sexy #sex #grey #love #crazylove #loveinmumbai #mcgrawhillhandbookofenglishgrammar #englishgrammar #nonfiction #personalessay #mumbaicommute #thethingsfriendssay

                

Visitors. Change

Had visitors in Mumbai over the weekend.

Things have changed. For me too.

I tried to take some days off from work and was told that I couldn't because it was a busy period. I get that, results season and all.

On Friday I visited my friend S (who flew in from Chennai). and had a good day. I was able to get that day off and spent almost all of it talking.

The friend she was staying with cooked a fantastic lunch and in the evening we spent three hours more chatting in the garden. It had a wonderful breeze, which N said was cool all year.

I was seeing my friend after more than a year. She's always in great shape and conscious of the importance of treating your body like a shrine. does yoga and eats carefully. Though that day we demolished nearly two tubs of icecream, without regret. Everytime she, another friend and I travel together, S is at the peak first and SA and I are crawling uphill and gasping for breath.

I've seen this at Pune's Sheniwarwadi. Try walking up the steps to the top of the fort. S was at the top in minutes. I felt my lungs were on fire and my heart ready to jump out of my mouth. As the steps were steep, towards the top, I was sitting on each step, waiting a bit and then crawling on to the higher step. SA was more dignified. She struggled on upright!

This time S & I talked about feeling and looking older. I'm often thinking about ageing and old age. My body is older, but I think my spirit now feels it is in its 30s. A couple of years ago I'd have said it was that of a giddy teen.

I attribute the downhill to stress and stress. And not doing enough for myself.

The next day I picked up my nephew from the airport. Welcoming him with a cold, courtesy 'Mumbai's changing climate'. I've started using that excuse, how else do you explain it? How else do you explain an irrational virus or a random one?

The first day I fed him porridge for breakfast (because he told me he liked it) and the second morning i managed to burn his omlette. I wonder if he will return.

After packing him off at the airport yesterday, I realised I hadn't taken a single picture of him. We were meeting after five years. BAD!

I told my husband about it and he said it was an indicator of how much my interests had taken a major backseat. We have three cameras at home... and until a few years ago I would always pull out a camera to take pictures of people, angles, things, shadows, visitors, thugs at railway stations, a sunrise. My husband has often scolded me for taking pictures of people on the road, saying I might be a victim of road rage. I remember visiting my nephew and his brother for holidays and taking endless photos of them. They were my sweethearts - always will be.

With the digital age, there are times I'm scratching my head and wondering why things can't be simpler. I know it is, but when you have a computer crash and all the pictures go down a digital drain, a certain lethargy creeps in.

Maybe you could give me some interesting advice.

Performance anxiety

The title get you?

Well i've been thinking about it for a while.

I sent my friends and family the blog's link and then i stopped writing.

One, I didn't get feedback.

Two, I started questioning the need to write the blog.

But i find writing these, sense or senseless, cathartic.

So, i'm going to plough on anyway. plow on? someone correct me.