A periodic forever

I started getting my periods around 1996. Or 1997. Sometime thereabouts. My parents kept it a well-guarded secret for years after, not wanting anyone in the extended family to treat me differently or indulge in difficult conversations. But, the practices I saw around me were all pervasive. Most of my extended family followed a “No kitchen, no Pooja room, no touching bed, not even the sofa, no physical contact with anyone” kind of model those days. I think they still do. Those images have stayed with me for a long time now.

For many years I didn’t believe in idol worship. Then I moved to being agnostic. Now I am a full time atheist, the kind who goes to temples to admire the architecture and then stand and stare as the Aarti takes place. But, I hesitate before walking into the kitchen that houses the Pooja area when I am having my periods.

I am an unabashed feminist. Mostly. I am part of the D&I committee at work, I try to attract all my ex-female colleagues to my place of work so we can be a more balanced organization, I worry about the lack of representation at the head of the table. I am the works. But, I carry my fresh sanitary pad well concealed in my purse from the office desk to the toilet.

Conditioning acts in strange ways. It makes us irrational and illogical, unquestioning of processes that have been followed forever (our own definition of forever) and takes us a step beyond, making us sticklers to follow those processes. Because. Because, we don’t know any other way it is done.

It explains why we don’t put our feet on books, for instance. I try to ‘logicise’ that our feet are dirty because the ground is dirty, because Indian floors always try to attract dirt so it will make the books dirty. But, really? Who am I kidding? I have been told for a long time I am not supposed to put my feet on books because books are a manifestation of “Goddess Saraswathi” and putting our feet on books is as good (or as bad) as putting our feet on the Goddess herself.

Anyway, last week was my first step towards breaking away from this conditioning. No, I don’t think I will ever bring myself to putting my feet on books because that conditioning is too strong. But, after 11 years and roughly 430 period days (adjusting for maternity) in an office environment, I found the courage to walk to the toilet from my desk with the pad in my hand, and not in a purse. Even then, I had it in the inside of my palm so it wasn’t out there in plain sight. But, baby steps.

I dream of giving my daughter a world where she goes about her period days like any other normal day, carries the tampon to the toilet in plain sight, explains to her male friends / colleagues why she looks sick, and thinks of menstruation as the most normal thing to happen to a healthy girl (even more normal than contracting a cold because a cold is really nothing to wear on the sleeve like a badge of honor).

This dream of mine is simple and doable, compared to every other dream, because it is so in my control. All I need to do is to call out ‘conditioning’ to her when she encounters it, so she doesn’t have to work it backwards after 30 years of spending life on this Earth.

Marie Kondo and the joy of pre-love

There is a lot of noise on social media about this Marie Kondo Netflix series on tidying up and sparkling joy. I haven’t watched it yet. To be honest, I got so bored of Bandersnatch that I haven’t logged into Netflix in a while now. It sparks joy in my mind to avoid that app these days.

Anyway, I do not generally agree with this philosophy of saying goodbye to things we love. Or people we love, for that matter. I hoard what I love, and I throw away what I don’t. In fact, I am such a ruthless thrower-awayer of things that I wonder if I love anything at all. Except books. And, I hear that Kondo has suggested we throw away books too. So, I don’t like her. Throwing her away from my mind now.

All this talk about love for objects, and joy in tidying up, sparks a completely different thread of angst in me. Do you know what’s fashionable these days? Pre-loving and pre-caring for things. Darn it, this phrase ‘second-hand’ has been made obsolete and very second-class, no one uses it anymore. Except for with used cars. Yet to hear someone say “My pre-loved car is up for grabs.”

I mean, even grammatically, ‘pre-loved’ doesn’t seem to make much sense. What does ‘pre-loved’ mean? That I don’t love it anymore? That it is pre- my love and I will love it once I sell it to you? That it was created before love came into existence?

And you know where it is used the most? With baby stuff. People are always selling their kids’ pre-loved toys and pre-loved furniture and pre-loved car seats. Now, I have my share of baby stuff. As soon as our kid turned 6 months, V and I promptly landed up at the baby store to purchase bed, high chair, and stroller, without any view of where we will hold it in our very Bombay apartment. While my baby is super special to me and I consider her a very unique being, she is exactly the same as 90% of the babies in this world (the other 10% I am told are raised by parents who read books like ‘How to talk so little kids will listen’). So, coming back to my baby, she is very predictable – doesn’t use any of these new-fangled things mama and papa got her with much love, and a significant pocket outlay.

So, I look at these things with anything but love. That stroller, especially that stroller. It’s this white elephant in the drawing room, only grey in color. I would willingly throw it out with the bathwater (without the baby), especially at the next person who utters the phrase ‘pre-love’. The only thing stopping me is that significant pocket outlay. I am told kids use the stroller when they are 4-5 years old and too lazy to walk, especially on holidays outside India. Maybe, I will wait till then, while building a lot of angst up every time I see that stroller next to my much-loved bookrack.

By the time I internalize the concept of sunk cost and opportunity cost at space wastage, it might become my pre-hated item. That’s at least a differentiated value proposition for a sale, for whatever it is worth.

X for X-mas

As a kid, I had a silly fascination for Christmas. There were all things right about it - twinkling stars, red and white costumes, cakes and chocolates. Conveniently for my parents, I was not gullible enough to believe in Santa Claus. Every year, I would want to celebrate Christmas, which really didn't mean anything more than installing a star outside our house. But, there was considerable effort involved in that as dad had to get a special bulb for it, fix the wiring and then tie the star out on the porch. Every evening, I would switch on the light religiously at 6 pm and admire the star against different backgrounds of the evening ranging from twilight to night, before retiring to bed, my contribution to Christmas celebration complete. Mom had the more difficult job of explaining to people why a TamBrahm family had a star hanging outside the front door, giving company to the mango leaves thoran atop the door. She did manage the situation with elan, offering a simple explanation - "Because Kavitha likes it". 

After New Year, the star and the bulb would be brought down and carefully packed, rendered to safe custody till next Christmas. Oh, wait, wait. The bulb would have another use in the September-October season. Do you remember that doll festival I spoke about here? The bulb would be installed to give company to the dolls as night lamp (yeah, the dolls sleep better with a night lamp on) during the Navratri celebrations. Quite a secular bulb, that one. 

I didn't just have a fascination for Christmas but I liked going to the Church as well in those days. My parents contributed their bit by worshipping at the Church and the Mosque as well along with the zillion temples already on their list. Perhaps, they believed that appeasing all gods was a smarter way to keep the family safe and happy than being partial to one or one set of Gods. Looking back, I can attribute my love for the Church only to the fact that it was clean and silent, unlike many of the temples I was subjected to. I had no view on the religion itself, but I had a couple of large pictures of Mother Mary and Jesus hanging in my room because they looked beautiful.

I did of course harbour the idea of a Christmas tree at home, but that was shot down with the "Don't push it too much" look from my mother. A few years back, I ended up traveling to Australia during Christmas and had my fill of photographs with big, small, wide, narrow and all-kinds-of Christmas trees as backdrop, to satiate my forever dream of a Christmas tree. But, the travel also left me with a lesson learnt hard: Don't travel to Australia during Christmas. Almost all restaurants, cafes and eateries are shut from Christmas to New Year, as the people who run those places take off to celebrate the holidays.

P. S. This post is the twenty fourth in the A-Z blogging challenge series for April.

U for Useless

I am a great fit for Bombay. I have major OCD that extends beyond just arranging things in order and putting 'em in their place. I hate clutter, am always on the lookout for throwing away items that are not useful. V is the polar opposite. He can never really make up his mind about whether to keep or discard anything, which means we have piles and piles of stuff that may-potentially-be-partially-perhaps-useful some day, things I think should walk out on their own into the garbage bin across the road right this minute. 

We had an incident once that made me realise how real the struggle is. This was Prague in 2015. We had trekked too much (by my standards) up a smallish hill and the sole of one of my shoes gave away. We managed to come down, hunt up a shoe shop before closing time (do you know they start closing at 8pm :O) and found a brilliant pair as replacement. I immediately wore the replacement, packed the old ones into the new box and tossed the box into the garbage bin nearby. V was flabbergasted. "How could you throw it away?" he asked me, as if I had thrown away an autograph from A R Rahman and not a worn out pair of shoes which it would make little sense to transport all the way back from Prague to India only to... throw it out. I tell you, between us, the struggle is real.

Anyway, despite my OCD and occasional arm twisting of V (figuratively), I still end up with a lot of the following. Hence, my life has become one long decluttering exercise.

• Papers - Bills, credit card receipts, toll bills, the works. Half the reason these stay is because I have conserved my consulting mentality in the hope that someone is going to reimburse these bills some day. The other half is because V keeps them in his wallet and keeps the wallet out of my sight. You may ask why something in his wallet bothers me. Just that, sometimes (most times), his wallet bulges so much that he stuffs them in his jeans pocket, puts the said pair of jeans to wash, and makes sure all my clothes come out glittering in damp credit card receipt paper. 

• Old apparel - Worn out shoes, dresses that have become too small are all stashed away in the far corner of the many lofts in this house in the hope that... in the hope that what?!

• E-commerce boxes - This one is my contribution and I am not proud of it. I ordered a small packet of decorations from Amazon, it got delivered in a large carton fit to hold 20 Maggi packets, and I retained the carton in the hope that it will come handy some day. That's not the only time I have done it. I hate you, e-commerce!

• Obsolete tech products - I have two old kindles, one old tablet, a dead laptop and a phone that no one is willing to exchange for the phones I vie for. And, I have no clue what to do with those. Those are times I know our civilisation is in decline, we will all drown in molten tech hardware someday.

This post has given me new hope. Once this blogging challenge is over, I am going to bounce back to clearing out the junk lying around here. It is too difficult to declutter and de-junk our minds, but surely it must be much easier to declutter the space we live in. No?

P. S. This post is the twenty first in the A-Z blogging challenge series for April.

S for Serials

I was born and brought up in Chennai, with the typical English as first language and Tamil as second language, education. I didn't see the need for knowing Hindi then, and neither did my parents. In fact, there was absolutely no discussion or confusion about what my second language should be in primary school (we had 2 options - Tamil and Hindi). The reasoning was simple - mom and dad refused to enrol me in for a subject they wouldn't be able to help with at home. But, that didn't stop us from listening to Hindi music and going for Hindi movies. The former is still manageable but imagine three pure-bred Tams sitting in the cinema hall watching a Hindi movie set in deep rustic Uttar Pradesh. Actually, don't imagine. Just think about how we didn't even have Wiki to read up the story later on. We still managed to enjoy the movies because we most often than not went for the sake of them songs. Those were the days! Anyway, I digress.

I did struggle though. I liked (still like) humming songs, and my idol A R Rahman was becoming big in Bollywood. Which means I had to, had to, hum Hindi songs. And, become the butt of all jokes in school because of those mean girls in the other sections who had Hindi as their second language, and also looked North Indian (white, you know; if you don't, read this). So, I was always on the lookout for learning Hindi words, in bits and pieces. 

And, I got the perfect tool for that in that '90s Doordarshan world, when Tamil DD didn't even have serials of its own. We used to get serials dubbed from Hindi, titles included. Which means Junoon became Pidivatham (adamancy), Imtihaan became Sodhanai (challenge), Dard became Anbai Thedi (in search of affection), Shanti stayed Shanti and Tu Tu Main Main became... I don't remember. I still don't know whether those Hindi titles really match in meaning to their Tamil counterparts, but they are still stuck to memory.

The serials themselves were not noteworthy, and if I remember right, many of them were never taken to completion. Not that my parents let me see any of them, except for those snatches in between after dinner time when I had furnished sufficient evidence of completing my homework and revisions. However, I did insist that I would watch "Dekh Bhai Dekh", which I think aired every Thursday from 9.30 pm to 10 pm. That's when DD would decide to throw a bummer. Half the time, the tamil version wouldn't get telecast, leaving me alone with the Hindi version. Which meant I spent half an hour watching Shekhar Suman prancing up and down an elaborate joint family set, while Farida Jalal would put in guest appearances on and off with some wisecracks (I think so, because the serial would have that silly laughter track running when someone said something funny).

Sundays were a different deal though. There was Shaktimaan and Jungle Book on TV and I was "allowed" a couple of hours after getting up in front of the idiot box. Do you know who my first crush was? It was Captain Vyom, of the Captain Vyom fame. Did you click through and figure out who that is? Had my head in the right place even then, didn't I? Why don't they make such gorgeous looking serial heroes anymore on Indian television?!

P. S. This post is the nineteenth in the A-Z blogging challenge series for April. 

H for Horlicks

What with the maternity recovery in progress, my mother has found a great reason to revert to her former bully self as far as my food habits are concerned. No cold drinks, no chocolates, no ice creams, no onions (really?!) - I didn't even know so many food items can be "no"ed. But, that's not what gets my goat. It is this:

Me: I am tired.

Mom: Drink Horlicks.

Me: I am sleepy.

Mom: Drink Horlicks.

Me: I am hungry.

Mom: Drink Horlicks.

Me: I am going to die.

Mom: Drink Horlicks.

For heaven's sake mom, have you secretly become the brand ambassador for Horlicks? How much are they paying you? More importantly, can you give me a cut, if you are going to force me to drink the damn thing all the time?

P. S. This post is the eighth in the A-Z blogging challenge series for April. 

C for Coasters

Have you had a crush on an object? No, don't get me wrong. I am not talking about untoward affections or fantasies for inanimate objects, just plain fondness and liking for things and a want to acquire them immediately.

I have many such crushes. I have a liking for quaint things - colourful, well designed, cutesy, arty stuff. There are times when I have craved shopping in quaint shops and hunted all over Mumbai for the perfect quaint shop that could drain me of my time and money, giving me instant gratification in return. Inordinate are the minutes I have spent at Colaba causeway and the Kala Ghoda arts festival, walking up and down the lanes and by-lanes, if not buying, at least drinking in my quaint little things. Nowadays, however, I just go onto arty websites to ape at 'em stuff and buy a few while I am at it.

Specifically, I love acquiring coasters. I have coaster families of Mumbai (Gateway, CST - the works), of nice paintings, of random flowers and so on. In fact, I once ordered a DIY kit on Flipkart (yeah, I am the poster child for e-commerce websites I tell you) and made my own coasters. Which outputted to a disgusting set of quadrilaterals, as evidenced by the look on V's face though he kept good counsel and reserved his comments, instead of earning my wrath for a lifetime.

So, yeah, acquiring coasters by itself is not a bad idea, as you would agree with me (as long as I don't experiment with DIY kits and expect love-filled reactions from the better half). But, if you are a coaster lover like me, pray answer this question. How extensively do you use the damn things? I always, ALWAYS, forget to take a coaster before keeping my brown tea filled blue mug on the side table or the center table or the dining table or... you must be getting the drift. As a result of this, I don't just get dirty looks from V anymore, but suspiciously questioning ones whenever I am on my laptop or on my phone with a lovestruck look in my eyes. He seems to be dying to tell me, "Can you please not order one more set of coasters? We live in Mumbai and real estate is frigging expensive here."

P. S. This post is the third in the A-Z blogging challenge series for April. 

B for Birthdays

When I was in school, birthdays were huge though not in a fancy, "need a holiday", way. The biggest issue I had then, funnily, was that my birthday would never fall on a working day. It falls on a day that is a compulsory off for everyone across the country. To the school kid me, that meant "no flaunting new dress when everyone else is in uniform and distribute chocolates" day. But, I was never one to be daunted by such silly challenges as this. I would wear my new dress on the next available working day, and go packing with all the chocolates. My classmates and friends would be kind enough to remember and wish me "Belated Happy Birthday" while for the uninitiated who did wish me with a "Happy Birthday", I would be ready with a "Oh no, not today; my birthday is on Independence Day" rejoinder  accompanied by a beaming smile. 

Anyway, that's not why birthdays were huge then. Birthdays were huge because we had awesome at-home parties every year, the house being decorated with festoons and balloons by mom and dad, a cake ordered from McRennett a week before and picked up a day before the birthday (Wow! McRennett has a fancy website now and is even going to start off online orders in a bit. Times do change!) And, mom would actually make samosas and batata wadas at home for the little guests who would grace the occasion. 

The guests were what made the parties awesome. It was a long list, believe me, of all my friends from school, who lived within the 1km radius of our house, along with the neighbourhood kids who I knew well (though I didn't play with, because I was never the playing kind. Sigh!). The list also included the neighbourhood adults and family members that could make it. The little guests would arrive at around 6pm soon after which the cake would be cut, gifts given and received, photos taken by dear uncle on his Kodak camera, snacks and cake polished off with some juice on the side, return gifts given and received, goodbyes said and party wrapped up by around 8pm. 

My dear friend from across the road would celebrate her birthday 5 days after mine, where the process would repeat itself with Minnie mouse cakes, a much larger gathering (she has thousands of relatives, I tell you), Fruitnik and Rejoice for refreshments and a larger house to play around in.  

I can't remember a thing fancy about these parties, no fancy outdoor location, no fancy music, no fancy themes, no fancy gifts and return gifts, but they form some of the best parts of my school memories, because we were happy then, in a silly, childish and innocent sort of way.

Two days back was the little one's one month birthday and as I hung up a few ribbons and color papers, I couldn't help but look back at my own birthday parties and wonder what kind of parties the next generation would have. Something flashy I guess? Well, as long as happiness resides, I don't mind the flash and glam.

P. S. This post is the second in the A-Z blogging challenge series for April. 

A brown paper package

It was the summer of ’95. Or perhaps autumn. One would never know in the Chennai of those years, whose best friend was the sun, monsoon only a one-day trickle that flooded not the discarded cap of a cola bottle.

I alighted from the cycle rickshaw, and sauntered home, looking forward to the weekend. Outside the door there were a lot of slippers, and inside, a lot of noise, mostly female. “That’s strange”, I told myself, as the house would usually be empty at that time of the day, save my mother with some interesting smells wafting from the kitchen.

Inside, a strange sight greeted me. My mother was sitting in the middle animatedly discussing something with the horde of neighbors who had descended upon our house, gesticulating at a brown paper package kept at the corner of the drawing room.

I looked at her, at the neighbors and at that package in the corner. The package seemed infinitely more interesting than the rest of the objects and subjects there, so I walked towards it hurriedly. “Stop! Don’t go near that box!” my mother rasped sharply. I looked around wondering why it was such a big deal, which is when the story unraveled.

The box had originated in Australia (as evidenced by the postmark) and traveled a considerable number of weeks before being delivered in our humble abode a couple of hours ago by the ever dependable India Post. It didn’t have a source address or name, but it did have a destination address and a name, both matching our coordinates. Going on in her animated voice, my mother said she suspected it could have a bomb and so they (she and the neighbors) were discussing on the best course of action to take. 

Eventually, curiosity overcame the cats in the room and the few kittens scattered around. It was decided that the package should be opened, my mother reasoning that India Post must have got wind of it if it indeed contained a bomb (Really? India Post? In the 90s?). 

So was it opened, to a dream come true for me. It was WonderLand, La La Land, NeverLand, DisneyLand all put into one. It was a brown paper package that wasn't tied up in strings but filled with my most favorite thing - stationery!!!

Colorful pens, pencils long and short, crayons and water colors, sparklers galore, notebooks beautiful, sheets and sheets of lovely paper, some really cool sharpeners, many shaped erasers - oh the list goes on! I was lost in a trance flooded by the deluge, but I did manage to have a huge fight with my mom after the neighbors left. How could she have invited the whole world to open this love of my life? Like how some people don't like sharing their chocolates, I don't like sharing my stationery. Most. Definitely. Not.

P.S.: The package was from one of dad's business associates in Oz land, as a goodwill gesture for the profits he made thanks to dad. And, it was meant for me and me only (not even my dad). He of course had not anticipated shares for the neighbors! And I never bothered to find out how random he could have been not to mention the "From" address on the package.

X for Xerox

“Excuse me, ma’am,” said he as he walked in at 9 a.m., a good half hour after class had begun. The Professor beamed at him as if he had just got her a bouquet of fresh flowers. I seethed mildly as I sat on the first bench taking down notes, as he promptly walked to the last bench and settled down, ready to start the CP (Class Participation).

He was known for this – coming in late unfailingly every day, and yet the teacher’s pet – because he would ask some complicated questions on data structures and Boolean logic and then answer those himself. There was something attractive about him, his intelligence, his non-understandable questions, everything except the walking in late, I thought, as I got on with the notes.

In a few weeks, mid-terms arrived and I was swamped with requests from all and sundry in class for my notes. Word had gotten out that I had taken some mighty notes, and the boys who had got through the course with proxy attendance needed something, anything, to clear the exams. I didn’t know how many copies were made of my notes though grapevine had it that bulk copies were made in the neighborhood Xerox shop.

After the exam, he came over and said, “Hey. Thanks for the notes. They were quite detailed.” I started. “Huh?” I asked, in what he would in later years call my tremendously rude tone, as if he had stolen something from me. “Oh! I got your notes from P. I used them to study last night,” he said with a sheepish grin. The grin was slightly killing, so I let him be, only with a modest, “The notes are nothing. You need to teach me data structures and probability sometime.” He seemed to have taken my words quite seriously, for there he was, diligently following up the next day asking when I wanted to be taught data structures and probability.

The rest, as they say, is history.

When I was racking my brains for X, and had finally landed on X-Ray, V was vehement that at least one post had to be about him. So, here it is, about my notes stealer and algorithm teacher, in fact the best algorithm teacher I have ever known in my life!

P. S. This post is the twenty fourth in the A-Z blogging challenge series for April. 

C for Cook

Bleary eyed and still sleepy, I tried ignoring the door-bell. Once. Twice. By the third ring, I realized it was a relentless pursuit that I couldn’t wish away by burying my ears in the pillow. I pulled out my cell phone that was reflecting an unholy 6.40 am. Cursing all and sundry, I stumbled out from under the quilt and got myself to the door, only to see someone all dressed up standing outside, ready to barge into the house. It took me a minute to figure out who that was and when I did, my reaction was not one akin to grace or pleasantries. That’s Push, who entered our lives two years back, Push who doesn’t go by the time on the clock or the date on the calendar, Push who feeds us every day now.

“Aaj kya banaun (What shall I make today)?” is the first question I am thrown at by Push first thing in the morning. “Make some music and some cake, and a story to go with the flow,” I am tempted to say. Controlling the sarcasm and the irritation, I remind myself I need food for sustenance as I rummage in the refrigerator for something, anything, that I can dump into her hands and get back to sleep. Then she follows up with “Yeh kitna banaun (How much of this should I make)?” I bring out the measuring cup to measure out the lentils and then count out the veggies and the green chillies… And, by then, sleep has bidden me farewell, and I am left standing all alone with Push, Push who doesn’t want to be bothered by minor things like measuring out and making standard food for two grown adults.

I walk into the kitchen after Push leaves, to retrieve the outcomes of her battles inside. It truly is a war zone, like the ones they show on Troy and Bahubali. Serving dishes lie on the side counters, covered not closed. Bottles of masala precariously hang on to dear life from the edges of shelves. The stove looks miserably bloodied with chilli powder and tomato puree. Water drips from the tap in slow motion, singing paeans to the warrior princess who was battling inside. And the cupboards – aargh! The cupboards! They are all open, every single cupboard door is open, as if someone was escaping for dear life and had no time to reign in the mad horses. As opposed to her name, Push doesn’t push anything shut. She follows a completely open door policy, and would do exceedingly well in any new age company embracing an open office culture.

And, every single day, as I walk out of the kitchen with my breakfast in hand, I ask myself, “Why do I put up with her?” But, I know the answer to that one even before I finish the question. She turns up on time (unearthly early though that is), every single day. She doesn’t take an off, unless I force her to take a holiday for a festival, or because she is ill, or just because I need a break from her. And, her integrity levels are highly abnormal for a normal human being, so much so that I can trust her with a big barrel of mangoes and know that every single one of them will be accounted for no matter how many days pass. Although, I am sure they will all be rotten by then as she would have stored them in the cooler and not shut the door!

P. S. This post is the third in the A-Z blogging challenge series for April. 

The new normal

I have never spoken much about it, but the floodgates opened today when I read this. No tribute this, nor a structured essay. It is a raw note, that may serve no purpose I am aware of. 

It was April '01. I was in school and my dad didn’t come to pick me up. Instead his friend and my aunt came to pick me up, driving down in my dad’s car. How strange a partnership, I told myself. But, I didn’t want to face reality just then, it was just a short distance home from school, and any horrible event could wait those 20 minutes. There was an ambulance leaving the apartment complex when I got home, albeit empty. Just a coincidence, I told myself and I went up home.

After that, life has never been normal again.

I was 15 when my dad died – neither here nor there. Not young enough to forget the normal and get acclimatized to the new normal. Not old enough to have already charted out a normal of my own. Well, that can be argued in different ways. Death alters the living irreversibly, no matter what age we are left at, after all.

All we talk about when someone dies is how we miss that person, how they leave behind a void, how we yearn for happy memories etc. Yes, I have gone through and still go through all those emotions. But, something more fundamental changes when someone close to you dies.

The biggest change when someone close to you dies is that nothing is something that only happens to someone else anymore. Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night to put my ears to the lungs of the person sleeping next to me, to make sure they are still breathing. At other times, I get paranoid when my mother doesn’t pick up the phone even when I call her 2-3 times in a span of ten minutes, and I promptly start calling everyone else she knows in the city to track her down. When I see an ambulance in the apartment complex, I am not able to brush it off any longer as happening to someone else; it could very well have been summoned for my house. Anyone calling me out of the blue is no longer a social call. It only means something has gone wrong with someone close to me that I am being called to be informed about.

In every scenario, in every next step, in every otherwise normal situation, death figures as a highly possible outcome and that’s how the normal changes. Living with this paranoia of facing death of a loved one again is the biggest punishment that this life has bestowed upon me. I think, no, I know that I had much rather die than live through the death of a loved one ever again. 

Whenever I am depressed with life, I tell myself that my dad’s death made me stronger, made me more resilient to face life’s challenges, geared me up for chaos and unhappiness and the transience of life. And then, the other me screams from within, “I didn’t want to be resilient. I just wanted to be normal and happy. I have no tangible use for this experience.” I have no answers to myself in those situations. Life can be led happier when there are no harsh lessons to learn, perhaps.

Most times, I feel guilty that I am not doing enough justice to my father’s memory. I do not necessarily miss him for the person he was. I only miss my own normal life that can be no more. But, seriously, think about it. It has been almost 15 years now since I last saw him in flesh and blood. Memory is a bitch, and I do not remember his smile, his facial features, his idiosyncrasies, his weird handwriting, in totality. I remember those things in bits and pieces, in individual situations. For instance, sometimes I sense the strong presence of his perfume. Not always though. 

We used to go out once every month for dinner – Mom, Dad and I. Same restaurant, same table, same orders, same waiter (yeah, they were called waiters then). A ritual.

We used to have home-made pooris and mushroom for dinner every Saturday – Mom, Dad and I. A ritual.

We would drive down to random places, right from East Coast Road to Pondicherry to Bangalore, mom and dad in the front, me sprawled at the back of the car. Random trips, no planning, no outside food. All food cooked and packed by mom, the entire journey driven around by dad. As familial as it can get.

And that’s what I lost with the death of my dad. Not money. Not a cushy life. Not that sense of protection that a male presence brings in. Because my mother has always made up for all that and been more than what my father could ever have been to me. 

I lost the feeling and sense and notion of being a family, and that’s something irreplaceable, and irreversible. That’s something that doesn’t heal with time. It never heals. And that's death's contribution to my life.

Free spirit, literally!

(post submitted to Indispire on IndiBlogger.in under the Offbeat & Personal -> Weird category)

I died yesterday, at my desk in office. The funeral was this morning in my home town. Yeah, it beats me too. In order to shove me into an electric crematorium, which will eject an urn of ashes two hours later (it is all very procedural these days), I don’t understand why my family had to spend tons of money flying me (rather, my body) to my hometown. Sentiments, apparently.

All I can hope is that some of my Jet miles were used for the flight. Wait, is that possible? Can one’s miles be used, on oneself, after one’s death? That’s a pertinent question.

I strangely feel very non-sentimental now, the antithesis of who I was, a sentimental, young fool, in life. It is an insane feeling, being detached, not just from the body, but from feelings and sentiments. For instance, I would have broken down in tears just at the sight of my mother being unhappy, let alone shedding buckets of tears and staring into nothingness all at the same time. Now, I just think she is making a big deal about nothing. I don’t like this new me, this robotic, unfeeling me, that doesn’t take her mom seriously.

My phone is lying there, almost about to die. No one is looking at it. Come on people. Get going. Charge it. Use it. It cost me 50K in real life.

Ok, I have spent too much time seeing all these tears. It is time to travel across to office to see whether it is business as usual there. At least, no one will be crying. One good thing about death is that you are so light you can travel with the wind and that too, at the speed of the wind. Since you don’t have a body to carry around, you don’t have to wait in long security lines at the airport or board rickety old buses to get to an aircraft, or get frustrated with the flight getting delayed due to air traffic congestion. The perks are attractive, I must say.

Office is looking morose. At least my desk is. No one seems to have occupied it, perhaps for fear of falling down dead. They haven’t even moved my laptop out of there. And, I know my company very well. They would have wanted to retrieve all the data ASAP. They seem to be taking this superstition thing seriously, huh!

There are hushed conversations at the vending machine, about how a girl died at her desk due to over-work. Come on! I wish I could speak to you guys and break that myth right now. No one dies of over-work. People only get brain hemorrhages when they work too hard and then go into comas. Are you wondering how I know that? I have been speaking to a lot of people who died yesterday and are hovering around, in hopes of catching a glimpse of their alive near and dear ones. One guy was a top neuro-surgeon in life. He died in the operation theater yesterday, presumably of over-work. He told me. I won’t get into the details now; we can have such in-depth discussions when you join us.

Ok, this has got boring. My colleagues are predictable. They are now fitting frameworks and structures to analyse possible causes of deaths of women my age so that they can publish a report on it. Get a life, guys. 

Let me potter around to some of my friends’ houses. Maybe, they would have moved on. 

No. No luck there either. Too much crying, too much depression. Real life is depressing me, man.

Let me go to some of the crematoriums to join my brethren in trying to figure out what exactly I am supposed to do now. I so hate this inaction, coupled with observing incessant criers.

I hope we can head to heaven or whatever place it is, where angels will welcome us and we can float on clouds and play Scrabble and b***h about humans.

Ah! Looks like dreams don’t die when we die.

The House of Music

As a ten year old, the architecture of the Sydney Opera House, or whatever piece of it I could view through a 21” television, fascinated me. Whoever builds a theater like that, with domes and half circles and whatever else my small mind couldn't fathom, I wondered. And that set of gigantic steps that led up to the entrance was quite sensational. I am not ashamed to admit that my heart did ache to lounge around the area, if only for a bit. If only, if only, I told myself, and promptly added it to my bucket list.

And, finally, thanks to V, it did really happen – a trip to the Sydney Opera House.

While I ambitiously attempt an all-encompassing write-up on our trip down under, I wanted to dedicate a post to my bucket list item.

The ferry cruising across the Sydney harbor does not give a very flattering view of the Opera House. It might be disappointing for someone who has always imagined the Opera House to be a huge structure, as it does look a tad smaller than that. But, you are just viewing it wrong. The view you need to look out for is not of the Opera House from the Harbor, but the other way round. The House has been built, I suppose, with the prime motive of enjoying views of the Harbor and the famed Sydney Harbor Bridge. It is so beautiful you don’t want to move out even after closing time. 

The theater, the real prime motive of the House, is breath-taking. We had the opportunity to walk into the Joan Sutherland Theater, and were quite taken in by the immensity of the hall. That is when you realize how beautifully this huge space has been packed into what, from the Harbor Bridge, looks like a small-ish structure. There is a smaller and cute hall (Juhu Prithvi-ish) that hosts performances by and for kids during the day. It doubles up as an adult theater (!) post 9 in the evening with cabaret dances and other apparently feisty shows.

Unfortunately, there were no interesting performances (the normal type) in the Opera House on the days we were in Sydney. Hence, we had to make do with a paid tour of the place. The tour was useful in that someone took us through everything and explained the finer architectural details and trivia. More importantly, the concert halls are not open to general public viewing. Hence, the tour helped us get an inner view of the theaters. On the flip side, there was a lot of what we thought were hyped up anecdotes and selling during the tour. For instance, the tour guide would stand near a particular stone and say, “You know what. This particular stone I am standing next to is where the architect of this building stood and breathed a sigh after completing the design. A replica of this is available for sale in our store. Do pick one on your way out.”

V and I spent most of the time on the tour discussing how we can garner revenue, if our tourism department were to organize such well-planned and targeted tours of the Taj Mahal (with photographs and other paraphernalia). Talking about the four minarets and their symmetry would be enough to make any foreigner (or Indian) cough up money with happiness.

The Opera House is a must visit, and the fact that it is free of charge (unless you want to take a paid tour) adds to the “must-ness”. Also, if you aren’t married yet, you may want to consider some of their beautiful halls with lawns overlooking the harbor, where you can host your reception. But, I am told the rent is obscenely high, so make sure you have the dollars with the zeroes at the right ends to make that happen. Thankfully, that was not on my bucket list, otherwise I would be oh so unmarried yet!

The Living

I have never been a great expresser of grief. I can’t cry for prolonged periods of time. I can’t sit stony faced without stepping out of the house and abstain from food on death anniversaries of near and dear. I actually make it a point to conveniently ignore such days and do my regular stuff, because it is very difficult to re-live a death day year-after-year.

But, I miss the ones who are dead, the ones I was close to, and I ache for them badly, sometimes for weeks together. I miss them on random days when I crave pudalangai porichukootu and thogaiyal (tam brahm comfort food), or when I want to show off my “exemplary” driving skills, and the best driver I have ever known isn’t around to see it. 

I just deal with these deaths differently. Perhaps, I haven’t started dealing with them yet. It is much easier to push the whole “dealing with sorrow” part to the corner of my mind and move on with life. It is efficient, effective and much less painful. But, then it is prolonged. And since I am not done dealing with it and can never be, the memories come haunting back at the most unexpected of moments. 

Each of us deals with death differently. We perhaps get regular visits from the dead ones in our dreams, or fantasize that they are happy in another world. I don’t know. But, I sure know that we can never guess how every other person on this planet deals with the death of their loved one.

And, it makes me “nose-turns-bright-red” angry when someone comments on how someone else they know doesn’t seem appropriately teary eyed at that someone else’s husband’s death. How can any of us know what is appropriate? With what can we benchmark such a behavior? Shouldn’t we rather be, at some corner of our heart, thankful to the Universe that we aren’t in that situation at this point of time and proceed to let the dead, and the living, be?

Death is personal, mourning life-long. We cannot build a framework around death and try fitting everyone we know in a two-by-two.

So, the next time you want to get judgmental on how others should deal with death, just shut up. Because, you don’t know the first thing of what you are talking about. And, the world has better things to do than listen to your drivel.

Surprise me. Not.

I loved surprises as a kid. I would rummage through dad’s briefcase and mom’s handbag looking for goodies when they came back from anywhere. And while doing so, my standard greeting for them would be, “What did you get for me?” Mom used to give an exasperated, “Why don’t you just tell us what you want?” response many a time, to which my defense was, “But, I just wanted to be surprised.” 

With time, I have learnt that all I am doing with that strategy is setting people up to take an impossible-to-clear test of how well they can determine what exactly I want at a certain point in time (which could be a bright pinkish hand-bag at one time, and a demure black purse the other). For, a desired gift is always a better deal than a disappointing surprise. 

If we extrapolate that logic a little further, my biggest fear with the impending wedding has been the thought of being left with 10 crockery sets and 15 walls clocks as gifts. Yeah, I am exaggerating. There are other, bigger fears to bother about, but just so you know, this one makes it to the top 3. 

The West has sorted this issue out quite well, with the groom and bride unabashedly stating what they want, leaving friends and relatives with a restricted list of items to choose as gifts. We, on the other hand, are a society that prides in mentioning “No gifts please” in our wedding invites and then getting disappointed by the countless flower bouquets. 

Don’t take me wrong, I love flower bouquets, I so do. But, how exactly do I preserve those bouquets and decorate my faraway home with them in the middle of temple visits, and lunch invitations at relatives’ houses, and getting to know my new family, and going on my honeymoon, while also logging into the remote access to check work e-mail? 

So, with a heavy heart, and after extensive “IM”ing with V, and with his explicit approval, I thought it might be a good idea to write about that Western culture we all would so love to embrace, but stop short of, only out of embarrassment at no one having done it before. 

Mini-skirts were not in fashion at some point of time in India. Women were shy to wear them because our society would look down upon them with disdain. But, someone pioneered it alright. And, now it is a rage. So, why not Wedding Registries, I pondered. And, then, I thought I should leave you with the idea so that you can give me your express opinion, before I jump the gun with an Excel list, as I am wont to do. 

Just when things sorted out in my head, I hit roadblock one. A wedding registry is not a wish list. V and I cannot put out a list of all the furniture we want at home, because those are essentials we should ideally buy at our own pace, over time. We cannot put out a list of all the fancy gadgets that we ever aspired to own, because that would be so crass and “wishy”, not to mention obscenely expensive too. So, what? Should we just put out a list of the crockery we would like to have? Oh, well, there is a near to one probability that an invitee who doesn’t read this post will gift us crockery anyway. So, this would become double counting. 

And, then, I hit roadblock two. Whom should I share the wedding registry with? I cannot insensitively send a link to everyone I am inviting, because that will almost be like forcing people to gift us something for a wedding they never intended to attend in the first place. 

And, finally, I hit roadblock three. I am not enterprising enough to be the first mover on this one. For, I have never worn a mini-skirt in my life. 

Since I invested time in writing this, and I have never understood the idea of sunk cost, I am going to post this one, at the risk of people not bothering to turn up at the wedding, being completely put off by this very transactional blog post. 

However, if you do turn up, I am going to catch you who doesn’t read my blog red-handed, or crockery-handed, if you may :)

The ideal and the perfect

This is officially my worst week ever. With unmet deadlines, defaulting vendors, confused stakeholders, hectic travel and endless arguments, I have to pinch myself to remember that I am actually on vacation. Yeah, you heard that right. And that too, with a surprisingly considerate bunch of colleagues not having e-mailed or texted me even once during the time, in any other world, this would be an ideal vacation.

Marriages are made in heaven, or so they say. But, wedding ceremonies surely were conceived in hell. And, they are here to stay. And, they are growing more nonsensical with every passing moment. And, they are giving rise to many a thriving business of sarees and blouses and return gifts and wedding invites and accessories and food and decorations and… the list goes on.

I am just back from a visit to my tailor, who, I suspect, must have been a research analyst in his previous avatar. Late last evening, he had called me with an estimate for stitching the Muhurtham blouse pegged at a staggering 25% to 40% range of the total cost of my Sari. So, I marched into his premises first thing this morning, demanding a break-up of the cost. He looked at me as if I have landed from a different planet. Apparently, brides are supposed to go crazy trying to choose the right things for their weddings and not bother about such teeny weeny things as expenses. But, yes, he did give me the break-up after much cajoling, with just a minor footnote saying, “The final cost might be 2-2.5 times the estimate. We will know once we start working on the blouse”.

And, then, there is the whole Sari business itself. I have walked into and out of 10 shops in the past two days looking for one Sari. Yesterday, I spent half an hour with a salesperson trying to understand pricing variations across Saris, all of which, to my naked eye, look exactly the same. He finally gave up any hope of my buying a Sari and turned his attention elsewhere.

The wedding invite is another mammoth affair altogether. Colors, font types, alignment, wordings, pictures… I really miss my beloved PPT pages. They are so much easier to create. And, they do make so much more sense, and can be reused too!

The next item that will come up my alley, as I have been informed (read warned), is the accessories shopping. That will involve trying to figure out, amidst multiple hues and shades of violet and green and maroon and light blue, the right colored bangles for my Saris. And, it will be another set of non-reusable stuff that will fade in color and style with time. Like it matters!

Sometimes, I wonder what the point is. What’s the point in putting so much fight into some six inane events spread across two long days trying to solemnize one wedding, when all that should actually matter is having a happy marriage?

I must be the most atypical bride-to-be in town, focusing more on the expense than on the wedding look, focusing more on the long term than on the short term. And, I am thankful the Universe made me that way. Perhaps, I will be able to drill sense into my next generation, and help them have an inexpensive wedding, yet a perfect marriage.

The curious case of the horn

Have you ever been irritated by that persistent honking from behind you on the freeway, when all you wanted to do was just unwind and enjoy the view while driving at a 60 kmph rate on the right lane?

I am precisely that guy, honking from behind. And, the day I come face to face with you who uses the right lane so pathetically inefficiently, you will be dead meat.

My love for the car horn goes back a long way. Dad used to work late hours, and we didn’t have a security guard at home those days. He would honk from two roads away when he was arriving, so that it didn’t disturb my sleep, and so that mom could unlock the gate from inside. Apparently, I would wake up instantly too. To me, the horn was a sign that dad was home and all was well with the world again.

Years later, when best friend M returned from the US, she refused to use the horn any longer. “I want to reduce noise pollution Kavi”, she said. Her resolution lasted exactly two months. I gave an all knowing smile when she started using the horn again. She grudgingly acceded that it is difficult to handle the pedestrians in India by just flashing headlights (for we don’t leave them with footpaths, and hence they don’t leave us with roads to drive on).

My own driving has involved a lot of honking, as you would have realized by now. It is just easier to press the horn than flash the light, you know. One press versus two or three back and forth movements of the light and all that. Also, largely, people don’t get as irritated by light as they do by sound. The last time I ferried mom’s US-settled cousin in my car, he looked all around to see who the hell was honking, and swore never to get into my car again when he realized I was the culprit.

So, what happens when my favorite car equipment goes for a toss? Does the world fall apart? Do I go mad? Do I stop driving?

Apparently, none of these. I have been negotiating the big, bad Mumbai roads without a horn for two weeks now. And it isn't all that bad frankly.

Who am I kidding? The moment I realized the horn wasn’t working, I felt like I had lost my voice. I felt incapacitated to do anything, angry and frustrated at first, and then resigned to my fate, making do with the resources available at hand. But, with time, that has changed.

There is a strange sense of calm in my driving of late. For, I know that I cannot honk that pedestrian out of my way and just have to patiently drive behind them till they figure out they need to move aside. If that driver ahead of me doesn’t respond to my lights flashing, bad luck, but life goes on. My mom claims I have started driving like an American. Oh, well, I haven’t cracked yet what she knows about American driving, but that is a different story.

For now, I don’t miss my horn as much as I thought I would. And, I have started to believe in M’s resolution of wanting to reduce our contribution to noise pollution.

Oh wait! What’s that happening on the road? Damn! I need to get into that space ahead, and the driver on the left is shortchanging me. Honk! Honk! What? Why is there no sound? Oops! These are the times I miss you most, dear horn. Come back to me soon please. For, I have no say on the road without you after all.

Small talk

Me: Hey, what do you think of this whole Phaneesh Murthy fiasco?

V (looking bored): Well, he seems to be the only colorful guy in an otherwise lackluster industry.

Me (really not expecting that): Umm.. yeah.. That’s an interesting way of looking at it. But, still, didn’t you find the whole thing a little stupid, especially when done twice over?

V (still disinterested): That’s quite obvious. You do have a knack for stating facts that are already staring us in the eye.

Me: Oh please. It is the art of small talk. I wish the art could be taught to some people I try having conversations with.

V (uberly tired of the talking, and gazing elsewhere): You could try that.

Me (still persisting): I read somewhere that he had sold a bulk of his shares last month. Don’t you think he saw this coming?

V (with feverish excitement): That’s bad. That’s really bad. That is very very bad.

Me: Wow! So, in this whole episode, the only point that has shaken you is the money.

V (dismissively): Obviously. That seems to be the only interesting aspect of the issue.