“This is it?? The end?!?”

I nod my head…I don’t know whether I have strength enough to face it.

 “Of all the people I never thought you’d leave me!”

 I know. I never thought it would come to this.

 “You say…everything has been arranged…When did you plan all this? Cant believe you were getting ready to dump me”!

 I hang my head down…and stare at my feet. I feel like a traitor.

 “Oh! With the holiday season…it’s going to be so sad. I will feel so pathetic with all the merriment around”

 I owe an explanation. I finally find my courage and try to speak up. My voice sounds squeaky. I have tears streaming down my cheeks.

I love you. I always have. You have helped me grow. But sometimes…just love wont do. The mind wants more. You have been a part of me for such a long time. But I need to move on. You are my first love…and you’ll always be. You helped me figure out who I am…listened to my crazy stories…gave me confidence. I need to do this. I want something new. Can’t you understand? Won’t you please try to be happy for me?”

  That’s when it hit me…the vase I mean.

 Then the watch, a tumbler, books, a pillow…and a pen stand which hit the bridge of my nose!

 Two hours and lot of tears later….

 Resignation…sadness…and a hint of understanding….

 “I know you have made your decision. Nothing I say will change it. So, just go. Best of luck! I will miss you.”

 I am grateful for the love and understanding.

 We hug each other and kiss goodbye.

 [In real stories with real people…the ending is never so neat. But  livejournal was very understanding]

What a corny story, you think? Well, I agree…but you know me!

 Crux of the story:

 Yeah, I turned traitor too. After 2years, 8 months and 5 days of togetherness…I am finally moving on. You don’t need to be an Einstein to guess I have moved on to wordpress.com. Nothing much has changed…the name is the same…all the old posts are there and the content will not change either. New URL: http://parijaatha.wordpress.com

I am just doing this as people kept complaining that they can’t leave their blog URL without being too obvious about itJ

 I won’t go down the beaten track of thanking you all for being a part of this beautiful journey. But I d hope you all know how I feel.

 See you all there.

There are 8 families living in our apartment building. An Afro-American couple, a single white guy, a Chinese couple, two college students, a white family, a Nigerian with his blonde wife, an elderly Indian who lives alone and us-Together we  have representation from all age groups and race.

 We exchange smiles if we happen to meet on the stairs but we are not overtly friendly with each other. The Nigerian is quite friendly. He maintains a vegetable garden and distributes vegetables to everyone. But overall we just mind our business. This suits me fine. I find it very taxing to fake friendliness. If you live in an Indian-dominated area, you will be constantly invited to kitty-parties, get together parties or you are expected to be friendly with everyone around. I think that’s a fun life…but I don’t have the temperament to live that way.

 Yesterday evening, when I was just heating the tava to fry some eggs…the apartment started shaking- An earthquake! Saif and I look at each other...and then Saif immediately ran out to check what’s happening. I turned the gas off...and followed him. The Nigerian guy was running out with the kid. Near the steps, I saw the scared faces of all my neighbors. We looked at each other with worried faces….and then giggled self consciously. The single white guy took a look at my pink fluffy slippers and gave me a smile. We were too scared and self-conscious to make small talk.We all stood there in silence. Many people had come out of their apartments and neighbors were meeting for the very first time.There were people on the streets asking whether everyone was ok and I could hear a few excited voices making uncomfortable jokes.

 
I suddenly remembered reading about the San Francisco 140 yr earthquake circle. Every 140 years SF is hit by a major earthquake and we are due again for a big one. Two weeks ago I had laughingly told my mom about it. She had replied “Be careful!”…and we both had laughed at how ridiculous that advice was! When the earth beneath you shakes… you just can’t be careful!

 I ran back into the house to get a coat. Saif came back. It was over. Saif hugged me and quipped “There is an earthquake and memsaab is worried about her new coat!”

 
I called my mom. It felt great to listen to her calming voice. I was shaking. My first earthquake was over.

 Later I thought about the scared faces of my neighbors. Maybe I should get to know them better.

I am like Marianne in “Sense and Sensibility”. I sometimes unfairly think that people who don’t appreciate things as intensely as I do...shouldn't be allowed to enjoy it at all!!!

So I find it hard to share books, music/movie CDs and anything wonderful I happen to come across. So to make amends…I am writing this post. I am sharing something which has brought a lot of joy and beauty to my life.

 But let’s start from the very beginning-

 It is amazing to think how small things can alter your life. Sometimes random choices we make...bring so much happiness into our lives. When my husband was furnishing our house with basic amenities (before I joined him) he bought a radio alarm for our house. Little did he know that it would become so much a part of our lives.

 Everyday I wake up to the sounds of the radio (mostly KQED).  Radio is oddly more comforting than the TV or the computer. TV is chatty and frivolous whereas a laptop is the all-knowing guru (I have a feeling that my laptop secretly looks down on me!) But a radio…ah! the radio is your friend. Its not just entertainment or information, it’s about comfort.

 When I am tossing around desperate for the last few minutes of sleep, a part of my mind is listening to the radio. When the program ‘California report’ starts, it is time to wake up. I get up, make and drink my cup of tea listening to the traffic report, three minute interviews of authors and musicians and lively debates on “the Forum”. But my favorite show definitely has to be “Perspectives”.

 Perspectives is a program that runs for 3 to 4 minutes(at around 7.37am) where people  like you and me talk about life’s lessons , love, fighting cancer, death, farming, war, people they know and love...just about anything that moved them and changed their you guessed it right, perspective.

 I remember the first program of ‘Perspective’ that I heard. It was called the “Letters from the Holocaust” and was by a lady called Elisabeth Statmore. She spoke about how her heart still grieved for the young lives lost in the Second World War. One line “I grieved in the privacy of a young child’s anguish…” particularly touched a chord in me. By the time she was done...I felt tears stinging at the corner of my eye.

 The next episode which stands out in my mind is about “Gay Flamingoes”. It just as witty and amusing as it sounds..and with his wry humor the narrator makes an excellent argument for gay rights!

 Slowly I began to recognize the regulars-Richard Swerdlow, Micheal Ellis, Brenda Payton, Susan Dix Lyons etc….

 These were opinions of strangers I have never met. But more often than not, I find myself agreeing with them and nodding my head at some similar experiences. For example a guy spoke about how the flowering weeds on Highway 101 brought joy to him while stuck in an endless traffic jam. It brought back memories of evenings on Hosur road-sunsets….flowers on the dividers and how evenings would melt into the darkness of the night in a cacophony of horns and radio stations.

 A guy talks about the woes of the cell phone;  Another man talks about “Schadenfreude”-  German for that guilty pleasure one feels about somebody else’s undoing; A woman talks passionately about being a Giants fan irrespective of whether her team wins or not; Someone talks about how his neighbors supported him during his partner’s death. An American woman talks about how guilty she felt when she met a dislodged Iraqi on a hot afternoon; Another woman vehemently talks out against sagging pants and another man called the president a lame duck!!!

 
Some of my favorite pieces are “Deafening Silence” by Erica Gies; “December is the hottest month”, “Johnny, I hardly knew you” and “Pet Sitter” by Richard Swerdlow, “Peaches of Brentwood”, “Just one?” by Karen Stephen, “Preserving the beauty of the wood”, “Baby Frog”, “All in the family”, “Get a dog”…

 But more than anything else, I am gladdened by the thought that there are people who are passionate about things….that there are hearts untouched by indifference; People who think independently and express themselves strongly and beautifully!

 You can hear these programs at Perspective.

It’s Wednesday afternoon. He called in sick. We lie on the bed…and look outside the window. The sky is clear. I am grateful for this feeling of content, a warm bed and the color blue. I think to myself that this hot Wednesday afternoon...will remain in my memory for a long, long time.

 He is listening to some show on the radio. I am reading “Interpreter of Maladies”. I have read it many times.....yet I simply read along. I notice how the words curl…I read them aloud in my mind...and they sound nice.I wonder whether she made it all up…or were they true stories she wrapped in pretty words...and made a book of  lovely intimate afternoons?

 I know I shouldn’t write about this afternoon-it’s too intimate, too romantic…but instinctively I know, I will. Its like a poem…you have to write it. You have no say in that. But, it’s not a poem. It’s just a lazy afternoon in October.

Lethargy takes over.I close the book…and I close my eyes. I remember smiling.

 I doze off. When I wake up, I see his face and a naughty ray escaping the blinds...and grazing his cheek. I smile at this pretty picture. I doze off again.

 After a while…he pulls me into his arms. I mumble “Go, make tea!” He mumbles something incoherent and sleeps again.

 At the back of my mind…I hear a voice saying “wake up…it’s so late…” but I stubbornly ignore it. A part of me is sad...that this afternoon will melt into a rosy evening and then dissolve into an inky night.

 I feel my hair spread all over the pillow. I am curled up like a cat inside the maroon razaaii. A single strand of hair is tickling my nose...but I’m too lazy to move it aside. I knew I would change nothing in this moment… not even that ticklish strand of hair.

 The aroma of boiling tea...invades my slumber. I smile…and I shift to his side of the bed. It’s still warm. After a few minutes, he comes in and says “wake up lazy bones!”

 Yes, I will remember this afternoon for a long time to come.

There is a saying in Kannada which roughly translates to “Some people when they have nothing better to do, amuse themselves by sitting on an ant-hill!”

 I feel that it’s a perfect description of my attitude. Every time, I think I’ll never write things which might upset people. But then when I sit to blog, I am tempted to get on people’s nerves by writing controversial views!

 So here goes:

 SCENE 1:

 We are in a fancy restaurant. The ambience of the place is mind blowing. We laughingly discuss that a heavy meal here would cost us a month’s rent. The waiter looks down on us as we carefully pick the cheapest items on the menu. The food is mediocre and so is the service.  By the time we finish our meal, the waiter has made us feel ashamed of ourselves…

The waiter gets the bill. My friend picks it up and automatically tips him 10%.I argue; I lose. I’m told it’s the norm.

As we leave, I have a very strong impulse to kick the waiter in the shin .I don’t; like my friend I’m timid …and well, it isn’t the norm.

 SCENE 2:

 Vijay, Kishan (my younger brother) and I are lazing around in Coffee day (M.G.Road). Kishan is enjoying his chocolate cake. Vijay and I decide to take a look inside Bombay store. We ask Kishan to pay the bill and join us inside. We give him the cash…and head inside Bombay store. Later we found out that my dear naïve brother had tipped just Rs 2/-!!!(Well, he was just out of school…was his first time at fancy coffee shops)

 We have avoided that Coffee day ever since. A part of me argues that I shouldn’t be feeling guilty. Two coffees and a cake…that’s not much to serve!

 But I still don’t dare! We made Kishan feel so guilty…that he has joined the “better tip more than be a jerk” group.

 SCENE 3 to 100:

 Saif and I argue every time we go out for dinner. Great waiter gets 10%.Lousy waiter gets 10%.

 SCENE 101:

 We are in a fancy sea side restaurant. We are the only non-whites and we are made to wait really, really long for our order. After our dinner Saif tips her generously. We argue till we reach home.

 I have seen the scene in Reservoir dogs (while nodding my head like crazy) and I have had this argument with so many people…and I am yet to find anyone who can give me a convincing argument.

 I have a confession to make. For all my venom spewing arguments, I always tip. Not because I want to…but I don’t want to be called bad names. I want to break free…but I’m too darn scared!

 My stand on this topic:

Tipping is a personal thing. If I think the service was excellent...then I can be generous with the tip. If I think it was crappy, then I should have an option of tipping less or not tipping at all without being made to feel like the scum of the world.

 Now tipping is more like “hafta vasooli”. You are giving them money so that they don’t spit in your soup…or that your friends and family don’t burn you at the stakes!

 Arguments I have had:

Argument 1:

 They earn very less. So you tip them.

 Counter-Argument:

Your house maid earns a lot less. She cleans your dishes, mops the floor and probably washes your clothes as well. How come you never feel guilty while refusing to give her a raise?

 By the same argument, if you know a tailor who has no clientele at all-will you tip him for stitching your trousers?

 What about the vegetable vendors? How can you argue about his high prices? Come on, he can hardly make ends meet!

 Argument 2:

 They do the dirty job of cleaning up after you…how would you feel cleaning somebody’s coffee cup which has two cigarette butts in it?!? SO you tip them…

 Counter-Argument:

 OK! So do you tip your proctologist? (Very, very cheap joke…I know that!)

 Argument 3:

You tip them so that they don’t sneeze in your soup the next time you visit the restaurant.

 So do you tip your doctor for not sneezing when he is examining you? And that’s pure blackmail! If you won’t complain about this…you shouldn’t complain when the mafia don calls you up the next time!

 Argument 4:

 This is the only job people without a graduation can take…

 Counter-Argument:

 Well, the guy who became a doctor worked very hard for it. So did the music teacher. So did the guy who drives the trucks!

 And they are still working hard at their jobs…who will tip them?!

 Argument 5:

 It’s a very difficult job. They are on their feet all day…

 Counter-Argument:

Cardiac surgeons have such work pressures, that they tend to have high risk of blood pressure-do you tip them?

What about the guys who work in the mines? Who will tip them?

And the dancers? They are always on their feet…you have to tip them!

-------------------------------------------

 Bottom line is that I’m not against tipping. I believe that I shouldn’t be made to feel guilty for not tipping an average/lousy waiter/waitress!!

 Tipping is like charity. It’s should be your decision.

 I have been there done that. If a guy took me to dinner…and didn’t tip, I would consider him cheapskate. My parents told me it was the right thing to do, I had never questioned it. Now, I have second thoughts about it.

 I invite your thoughts. In fact I want to be convinced that I am wrong and tipping is actually the right thing. Because, if I’m right…I have tipped enough to buy myself a pair of Gucci boots!!

We were in a nearby dhabha having an early dinner. Since we didn’t care much about the emotional travails of some bahu on the Sony TV, we entertained ourselves by observing the people around us.

 Balding bachelors who sit hunched  while they concentrate on devouring the food; Newly wed Punjabi couples with the wife wearing bangles up to her elbows, tight jeans and very bright lipstick; men in shorts with fat wives and noisy kids; couples who have food without uttering a single word to each other….you know, the usual stuff!

 On the next table, there was an elderly lady with a baby. She was unkempt, wearing an old sweater and  a shawl and had a very prominent mustache (for a woman)! More than anything she had an aura of sullen dejection around her.  After a few minutes, a lady in a chudidhaar came around. As she spoke to the lady, I found to my delight that they were kannadigas! I like overhearing conversations...if their conversation is in Kannada...so much the better!

We surmised that the younger woman was the daughter-in-law (D-I-L). She was trying to convince this lady to eat something. But this lady was adamant. She wouldn’t eat where she didn’t know what utensils they had used! The D-I-L tried every reasonable argument in the book. To our surprise, we found out that she too sported a very prominent mustache…Saif was convinced by this time that they were far relatives of Veerappan!

 But all jokes apart…I was thinking of the situation. The daughter in law was trying her level best to handle the situation. It was clear that she wasn’t very fond of her MIL…but she was trying to be civil...though her eyes screamed exasperation!

The mother-in-law, set in her ways…was probably here as a full time nanny who still thinks that women should cook at home no matter what! I would love to take sides…but I have to be fair and say...it’s nobody’s fault. It’s a generation gap.

After a while the husband walked to the table carrying the order. At least he was clean shaven!

Scene 2:

I walk through Cuesta Park on my way to the gym and I am treated with wonderful views- kids rolling in the grass, People posing for their family pics, people jogging, playing volleyball and lots of people taking a stroll with their dog/kid!

 I regularly meet an elderly Indian lady and we exchange smiles. She is usually well dressed, a brisk walker and very cheerful. One day when we stopped to exchange pleasantries…I found out that she spoke perfect English, travels alone and loves California.

 A few days back I saw her discussing spiritedly with an elderly American. Then I thought about the woman in dhabha. There are a lot of elderly Indians who are game to explore and try new things. The other day, I saw another elderly Indian woman happily eating her slice of Pizza.

 May be I was too quick to judge. May be its not generation gap...maybe its just a person’s attitude!

 Some of us choose to roll with the times; some of us go the dinosaur way!

Time and tide waits for none. So said a wise guy. He obviously spoke from experience. Alisha Chinnai and Anu Malik crooned and croaked (respectively) the same darned thing but I kept changing the channel.Sadly my good taste in music made me miss a valuable moral lesson!

 But people like me don’t care much about learning from other’s mistakes.Infact we don’t care about learning even from our mistakes!

 I have a plethora of short comings. But having a total disregard of the concept of “time” tops the lists followed very closely by a very high degree of self-worth!

 Last Sunday, these two qualities of mine joined hands to mess my day up!

 But to understand this mess-up…you need to know the history-

 I have always loved dancing. Its one of the few things, I am not terribly bad at. . I grew up doing “thumkas” to bolywood numbers in my room. You have heard this crap from me a dozen times…but I am reiterating the fact to justify being proud of my dancing skills!

 Just before I left hp, I had danced along with two others to the song “khaike paan banaras wala” from Don. It was an impromptu dance...with hardly any practice at all.

But somehow everybody ended up liking it! It was my first public performance (in front of 70 odd colleagues including my boss...and section head)...and I was still riding high from that experience.

 Anyways,these past two months I have been taking “bolywood dance” classes and it has been great fun. Hindi film songs have the most vivacious, lively steps...and being free form...gives you the greatest scope to express your style and individuality!

We were learning a dance routine of nearly 7 mins with two songs. First 3.5 mins was for “Aaj ki Raat” from Don and the other half was for “Beedi Jalaile” from Omkara.

 The steps were full of thumkas and jhatkas! I was younger than most of the participants in the class. Everybody was nice and sweet. There were one or two good dancers, but secretly I thought I danced better than most! Ah!the elusive quality called humility!

 Last Sunday was the D-day where we would do the routine in front of our family members. We had decided on the costume-black pants, black top and a colorful chunni tied to the waist.

Needless to say I was going cuckoo with excitement. I heard the song again and again to know all the nuances of the song, practiced in front of Saif...and one late evening even did half a dance in the park where we go to play badminton (Luckily no one saw me making a fool out of myself)!

 The day before the show, I practiced again wearing my full costume. After Saif applauded my efforts...I proudly told him “Tomorrow, you’ll see me kick some ass!”

 Next day I got up early and got ready. I didn’t want to be late this time. I still had 1 hr to spare. So I watched Robin Williams’s stand up comedy videos  on youtube ! By that time Saif got ready...and well after having breakfast we just had 20 mins to spare. The dance was at 11.30 am.

We were in our car at 11.15am...and just when we were leaving Saif remembered that he had not gotten the camera. Since I had dreams of sending the pics to family and friends…and even posting it on my blog, I made him go fetch it.

 The dance class was just a 5 minute ride from my house. But to our dismay the road leading to it was blocked due to some “Art and wine festival”! Saif made a left turn and to our dismay we got stuck in a traffic jam. The road was totally jam packed with cars of people trying to find parking space. ! I nervously looked at my watch as the minutes ticked away. The nervousness slowed changed to frustration...then anger...rage and finally panic! My immediate reaction to any such situations is to burst out crying...but I couldn’t afford to mess my mascara up. So I sat there cursing everyone and everything….stomping my foot…and wringing my hands!

 After what seemed like eternity…we made our way to the dance class. We were ten minutes late. They had already started…and were midway through the song. They all looked pretty in black. But I didn’t see any point to stay there any longer. I rushed back to the car tears rolling down my eyes (composure-not my strongest point)...Saif slowly turned out of the parking space...and he didn’t know what to say. He just drove aimlessly. By this time my giant tears had done their work...and my cheeks were streaked with mascara...the eyes red…and the nose well-red and drippy! I looked at the side mirror...I looked like Dracula’s bride!

 We have never reached any place on time. Till now...it was always fun getting lost or getting stuck. But it felt really bad to miss this dance thingie; it was nothing spectacular or life-altering but just something I had looked forward to from two months. After bragging so much about being good…I didn’t get to prove it.

 Anything sympathetic at that point would have led to another bout of crying. With an intuitive understanding of this Saif decided to leave tact out of the conversation. He grinned and said-

“Finally...it was your ass which got kicked...huh?”

 That made me giggle in between sobs...and I totally feel for the Mexican woman who gave me a terrified look from the curb while the signals were changing… I looked like a character out of some Ramsay productions!

 So as to make up for the lousy start I had for that day...Saif took me on a shopping splurge.

So by the end of the day…I was recovering from having my heart broken! It was then that I realized the healing powers of shopping. A few hours of shopping will cheer me up irrespective of what the set down was!

 I will join the next session of Bollywood dancing. Hopefully next time I will make it on time. All my friends…will be thinking that I have finally had my lesson in punctuality.

Well, don’t bet on it!

 Moral of the story- Don’t cry with eye make-up on! You wont make a pretty sight!

When I can’t think of anything to blog about it…I have to just look back at my past...I always find some embarrassing story to narrate!

 I studied in a college where the crowd was considerably primitive. I have heard that it has vastly improved now...but back when I was a student …all it took a girl to get noticed was to have short hair or wear some western clothes!

Well, I did wear jeans and I also wore my hair extra short. So, thanks to my hairstyle, I was a “noted” girl in my college.

 Sadly it wasn’t anything fancy. No guy ever wrote me a poem…or compared me to the moon. What it meant was that...I was well known among the “huDuguru” by which I mean the Mechanical engineering students. Since they had very few girls in their class (2 girls)….they had elevated all the gals in the E&E dept to “mAAL item” status!

 In Hindi movies it is Aamir Khan or Akshay Kumar who sings droll songs and teases a girl. But in real life and particularly in my college…most guys who teased me looked like…let me be polite here and say they didn’t look like any bolywood hero...but they did look like some of the comedians!

 
Anyways, there was a dedicated bunch of hoodlums who concentrated their whistling, rude comments, jeering, tailing, saluting …etc on me.
I somehow found it in me to avoid giving any reaction to their taunts…though my two friends would get pretty mad. My friend, Adlin even threatened to stone a guy if he continued teasing me! But the more I ignored them…the more they tried to break me...

 
So one fine day…we finish our class…and pass these guys by. One very dark guy goes-

“chaNNagavle…ChaNNagaVle…anta yaako saaytheeya…oLLe sooorpanakee thara avLLe!”

(Loose translation- “why the hell do you think she is pretty? She looks like a she-demon!”)

 Most self respecting gals would have choked that dark guy to death or cried their hearts out at this cruel attack to their vanity. But I just couldn’t stop laughing…the way he said “sooorpananki” instead “sHoorpanaki”-I found it hilarious!

When a guy calls you a she-demon and you kind of agree with him-you know you have hit new levels of rock bottom!

 After the effect of the powder wanes away and the kajal gets all smudged…I can give any she-demon a run for her money! For those who need further proof check out my pic in “kya style hai”.

 Sometimes…after waking up…when I look at my reflection in the mirror…I can still hear that guy go-

“SooooooooorPanakee!!!”

 PS: After many years some guy sent me a message in Orkut apologizing for all the pestering they did back in college! But my self-image has been wrecked forever ;)

There are some people whom you get to meet…they are like shooting stars. They don’t stay long in your life…but they add that little amount of glamour and wonder to your life.

 The other kind of people...who stay by your side, be there every time-to support you...to hold your hand, cheer you…and pick you up when you fall (and never forget to laugh about it in front of others)-they are the people who make our lives so worthy of living. But we being the ingrates we are….we rarely appreciate the love and concern that is showered upon us.

 I will now stop BSing and come to the point. I have written about so many people…but today I am posting this blog about my dearest friend-Smitha.

 Today is Smitha’s birthday. This is our 12th year as “best friends” though we have practically known each other all our lives. (We studied together from LKG).

 One of the first movies we saw together was Sunny Deol’s “Ziddi”. The fact that we still remained friends…tells a lot about our love for each other.

 We have stuck together  thru our “we love Salman Khan” phase, silly crushes, bad hair days…and some really bad choices. She is the only soul who is brave enough and crazy enough to go shopping with me for jeans. Imagine answering the question “Does this make me look fat?” a zillion times in one evening…She always managed to keep her composure...and lied sincerely!

 We were foodie friends. Cursed with enormous appetites…we both would enjoy masala dosa + hot coffee in GTR or a few plates of chat. We have seen each other thru crazy dieting…and then eating binges. Never have we judged the other person for eating her n^th plate of paani-poori! ;)

 We are as different as night and day…literally! She is fair, curly haired and adorably cute…and well, I like to call my complexion sun-kissed...but who am I trying to kid!
She is pragmatic…I’m flamboyant; we both are dreamy but she is more grounded than I am. She is more generous and understanding and caring than I ever could be. Sometimes I feel that the only common personality trait between us is our love for plunging neck lines ;)

 [Guys chill! She is happily married…]

 We used to lie around…and dream about knights in shining armor; Sing film songs loudly atop ch.hills…go for long walks and crib nonstop about why we don’t have boyfriends or why our hips are fat magnets!

 For nearly 5 years she was the first person I would see in the mornings as we used to go to ch.hills for our morning exercise! Just like me she thinks Shah Rukh Khan is wonderful…and that adds greatly to our friendship. We would rest after climbing every 30 steps…and talk about inane stuff. Smitha had a huge fan following among the “uncles” in ch.hills...I would indulge in “maja tagolodu” (enjoying her sufferance) as she tried to ward off her aged fans!

 We didn’t exactly dance around in bath towels crooning “piya, piya”…but we compensated for it by singing Prema loka songs in the backseat of Vijay’s car!

We used to call her “chikkamma” when around good-looking guys(Idea was to make them believe that she was much older than them)...and sing “Anjali...anjali” when she left her hair open (she has crazy curly hair).

 There are other things which made our friendship successful. We both were short and stocky. A friendship between a fat girl and a skinny one-is a rare thing. We both have the same build…so there was no size envy! And we both are not very tall...so we cursed all tall, slim girls…and loved each other!

 And you can tease Smitha as much as you please...she can laugh it off. She is very non-judgmental and can sometimes be surprisingly spunky!

 She was the “heroine” in our gang…which meant that the only person who had some “girlie” qualities! There was a time when somebody had told her that she looked like Madhuri Dixit and she had actually believed it…but then I had believed it when people said I’m like Kajol-so cant really blame her. Girls believe anything flattering…even if it’s an outright lie!

 Anyways…I can never really do justice to all the fun I had with Smitha…or how great she is...or how much I love her. So won’t bother making this post any longer.

 
Happy birthday Smitha Aunty!

All men are children, and of one family. The same tale sends them all to bed, and wakes them in the morning.

-Henry David Thoreau.

 I have always liked that quote. And now it makes more sense to me than ever.

 Aren’t we all just children in grown-up clothes…worrying, dreaming and hoping about the same darned things?

 Then why do we build walls and make fake distinctions among people?

 In a world which is getting xenophobic by the day, it’s a relief that a small but growing group of people have chosen to look beyond petty differences and give love a chance. And I’m proud to be a part of that group.

 
I am talking about people marrying people from different caste, language, religion, color, race…

 To impress you all...let me throw in some examples-

I am a kannadiga- Brahmin. I married an Assamese-Muslim. My husband grew up in Delhi...so when he thinks of hometown he thinks of Delhi and not Guwhati. This means that we converse only in English. Religion or language has never seemed like a problem to us (touch wood!)…at least so far.Of course we indulge in “you northie!-you southie!!” kind of arguments but that’s a given!

Since Saif is agnostic and I like to believe that God exists (but not that only Hindu God exists)…and is benevolent (and probably lazy) we get along fine.

 My friends here B and R-She is a Christian and he is a Hindu. In their puja house, there is a picture of Ganapathi and there is a small statue of Christ. Ganapathi and Jesus don’t seem to mind each other’s company at all.

 My friend is marrying a Christian Punjabi. Another friend is a Gowda who is marrying a Brahmin. My classmates recently got married. He is Christian and she is a Muslim.

 Our Family friend married a Keralite. And they stay in Dubai. Their 8 yr old kid speaks Malayalam with the father, Kannada with the mom/grandma, Hindi with the nanny and English with anyone who doesn’t know the other mentioned languages!

 My neighbor is a Scandinavian blonde. Her husband is a Nigerian. The blonde’s sister is married to an Indian.

 My Mexican gym partner is married to a Rajasthani.She wears sindoor but she dances like a true Latino!

 Uffff…I am tired!

 What I’m trying to prove with all these examples is that…it really doesn’t matter.Language, religion, region…don’t really matter in a marriage.

You are still going to fight for the remote!

 In India, it’s still difficult but it’s slowly changing. In the age of nuclear families and health food craze...it matters less  what God your spouse believes in…it matters more whether he likes his juice with or without pulp!(If you have different choices in juice…you’ll be spending a lot of money on juices…and cramming your fridge)

 Tell me honestly...if you had the option of choosing between

 a)      a Girl who doesn’t believe in your God

b)      Believes in your God but also thinks Tusshar Kapoor is the best

 Whom would you choose?(I know reality is not that simple or silly...but I couldn't resist giving that crazy example to irritate V)

 Of course it’s nice to have a spouse with whom you can converse in your native tongue ; who celebrates the same festivals you do. But there is a sense of adventure in marrying someone from a diff region/ religion. The scope for diversity multiplies!

 And you know...it helps. My family now avoids generalizations when talking about Muslims since their SIL is one...and they know he is not a bomb throwing maniac. And when we have kids…they’ll know English, Kannada, Assamese, Hindi…and won’t get into the “X language is better than Y” mindset.

I have become broad minded too. Now I am getting to know the rich cultural diversity of the North-eastern regions of India. My husband is still grappling with the idea that all South Indians are not “Madraasiiis” but a few years of punching will get him to accept that fact!

 It’s important to be proud of one’s heritage; to take pride in one’s culture. But that shouldn’t  stop us from appreciating other cultures…and frankly…the gene pools need mixing!

 I think that it’s downright silly to believe that there is a soul mate for you and that soul mate should be of your own religion /caste and speak your language…for you to spend your life with them!
It’s difficult enough to find someone of your wavelength...lets not complicate it further by adding meaningless conditions.

 And for all those examples people give about conversions and forcing you to follow their customs….the problem is not in the religion, it’s about immaturity. A person who truly loved you wouldn’t force anything on you!

In India, a marriage is a family decision and that makes it so much more of a complication. But isn't it time for us to get rid of the shackles of narrow minded, fear-based decision making?

 Of course I do not suggest marrying someone just because there from different region/religion/race. I suggest that one should keep their options open. That’s all.

 Two adults who look each other in the eye and say -“I love you. I will take the chance of spending my life with you. I hope we won’t bore each other.  Everything else be damned!” are destined make a hit out of it.

 And just to hear my husband say “howda kane!” in a very weird accent…is worth it all!

Every Thursday, there is a ballroom class in YMCA. Lilting tunes of Ira Gershwin echo in the corridors while couples circle around the hall in each other’s arms. Every month a new dance is taught-Waltz, Foxtrot, Bolero, cha-cha-cha…

 I don’t take those classes as its  couple classes (Saif can’t make it on time) and you can’t waltz alone unless you are in your bedroom. But sometimes I like to stand at the door and look at the dancing couples. They really look happy; cheer each other when they execute a step or laugh when they trip…even the men don’t look like their wives dragged them there. For me...dancing evokes love in a way nothing else does. As I see it...you don’t dance unless you want to. A couple may go walking for health reasons or go traveling –for the love of the adventure. But to dance, arm in arm...you can’t do that with someone you despise!

 What I find surprising about that class is that most of the couples are forty somethings…To me as an Indian that’s a welcome change from what I have seen back home.

 Back home, a middle aged couple rarely touch each other. Their expression of love takes the form of duty. She takes care of him…he works hard and provides a home, security and they seem satisfied with it. One might argue that different people express themselves differently. Or rather “some people can’t express”.

 That’s an argument I don’t buy. One cant hide light; neither can one hide it when someone is in love. You naturally want to look at your object of desire…and touch and make sure that it isn’t just a part of your imagination.I dont expect people who are married for twenty years to gush and blush...but to feel uncomfortable to touch each other...that's weird!

 I have never seen holding hands, hugging…or even loving glances exchanged between middle aged couples. In fact that kind of behavior is frowned upon. I find it funny that we Indians expect a couple to pretend to be just platonic friends unless they are in their bedrooms. I do not say one should “make out” in the public. But I don’t see how hand holding or hugging can harm anyone. Most middle aged couples have the heavy air of boredom or irritation around them. Its only natural that their  children grow up to be emotionally stunted and unable to express themselves!

 I know that the passion ebbs in any relationship as it ages…but I do not know why we think it’s a virtue to mask the tenderness we feel for a loved one! A forty year old in America still finds the time and energy to dance with his wife…so why cant an Indian?

 In India, you ask a middle aged man to say something nice about his wife...he will say something like “she is a good mother”…or “she is a good cook”…or something like that. It’s not defined by loving …its duty bound.

 We like to take a higher moral ground and claim that our divorce rates are so low…we like to look down on public display of affection…call the westerners brazen and what not…Lets stop for a while and ask ourselves this-

 -Is the divorce rate so low because everybody has found marital bliss or is it because divorce is still a dirty word?

-Don’t we constantly compromise our ideals of love to cater to the call of duty?

-Couples who live to celebrate their 50^th wedding anniversary…is it not likely that they have divorced each other in mind…finding excuses like children, society, security to avoid  the bold step of seeking an actual divorce?

 And it’s not our culture if that’s what you were thinking. Krishna sang beautiful songs and danced around with Radha. Shiva and Parvathi expressed their mutual love by dancing.

Expressing one’s love in any way...is important in sustaining that love.

We Indians were not always this pathetic. Husbands were known to buy jasmine for their wife on their way home. They would share paan after dinner usually in the veranda. How did we spiral down into this mind set that love is our common enemy?

If I had my way...I would make every couple dance arm in arm for ten minutes a day. Even just holding each other in an embrace will do.

 Let’s not be proud of how many years we spent together. Let’s ask ourselves how many years we spent in love.

Vasuki has written about his barber shop experiences. Reading it brought back memories of my visits to the beauty parlor. As I started to jot it down, I realized that I had a lot to narrate.

So I have divided it into three parts.

 As a kid I remember visiting a beauty parlor called “the Golden Flower”. It was run by a Tibetan immigrant. Back then most kids sported a hair cut called the “Chinese cut” and so did I. That cut was able to give any kid a dumb look.( See pic for further proof)

 Till my high school, I wore my hair long. So I never really went to the beauty parlor. One hot afternoon, I got so fed up with my waist length hair…that I went to the parlor and asked her to cut it short. For the next 9 years I wore my hair very short. Boy cut, blunt cut, mushroom cut , veg cut-been there done that. That meant regular visits to the beauty parlor. Golden Flower had closed and I experimented with a few beauty parlors. In one such parlor...the woman almost cut my ear talking about some carpet sale…but then that’s a whole different story!

Finally as any fashion conscious girl in Mysore I ended up going to “Kim Fa”.

Hairy tale 2: The Kim Fa chronicles

 Now a guy goes to the salon...gets his hair cut, maybe an oil massage, exchanges pleasantries...and goes back home.  But...it’s very different for women. During my college days I would go to the beauty parlor with my friend. It meant going there and waiting for hours; noticing the ‘characters’….reading gossip magazines...discussing new fashion trends...and generally commenting on every other women in the room.

I have seen her convince a college student that Mehendi being herbal and natural was bad for your hair. One should only use L’Oreal!

 The beauty parlor had a lot of Tibetan woman who as hair dressers would roam around with expressionless faces; their faces spoke of weariness... One can’t have a sunny outlook towards life when one waxed and threaded women day in and day out.

 There would always be a long waiting list in Kim Fa. We would sit and read Cosmopolitan and giggle at the deliciously scandalous topics…and listen to the tall yarns woven by Kim for her gullible customers. And the broken English and Hindi of these women…were things sitcom laughs were made of! None of them spoke in Kannada. They would rather make fools of themselves speaking in English and not make sense than talk in Kannada!

 Hairy Tale 3: A hair cut in fellini dream

 Once I started working in Bangalore, I shifted to a smaller beauty parlor. I could no more afford to spend whole evenings waiting and watch other women getting fleeced. This place was in Chamundipuram...an old ramshackle place. It looked more like an abandoned studio specializing in horror movies. A poster of a very fat Manisha Koirala and a very dumb looking Sonali Bendre picture adorned the entrance. If you were undaunted by the impressive bulk of overtly made up Manisha and entered the parlor...you would notice the oldest surviving piece of furniture-a sofa of unrecognizable color. It must have been lying there from Ice ages...at least all the stains seem to suggest that. Standing beside it were two huge empty aquariums. Not too far fetched to imagine that tenants of these aquariums are now in fish heaven. On the other side are two mannequin heads. Some person with a taste for horror movies had drawn black eyes and macabre lashes on these dolls.

Then you would see a curtain...and you knew that in biological warfare...this curtain would be your weapon of choice.

 Having such a set up...it’s only natural that these women didn’t have a large clientele. So they earned their pocket money by mailing out newsletters. Their work was to glue the stamps and mail them. So many Saturday evenings I would go for my hair massage, I would see them gluing stamps on the newsletter. Sometimes, in the middle of an oil massage, smell of oily pulav would torture my nostrils. It meant that the assistant was emptying her lunch box.

 That’s what I miss most about India…these nook and corners….tawdry, crude and cheap but charming.

Nageshappa was a good man. Most people who knew him vouched for the fact that he was a decent man. No one ever seemed to have any complaints against him. His wife was content. He was not the best provider…but he was mild mannered and nice with kids. Even his in-laws couldn’t find much fault with him. He was just a shy, ordinary man.

He worked in a small travel agency.He was not their best employee…but he did his work promptly and rarely called in sick. In a crowd...you would never notice him. His life was mundane-going to his office…and coming home from office. In short, he was just one among the mass...nothing unique or special.

 He caught a bus everyday to his work and returned the same way home. His wife worried about him.Traveling in crowded buses day in and day out…is very tiring. But with the rising petrol prices and the traffic, they had no option. But Nageshappa never seemed to mind. He went on living his life and taking buses to wherever it was he had to go.

 The ladies of the bus route 2,2a and 2b didn’t have such a nice opinion about him though. Nageshappa always managed to offend one lady or another. He leaned towards the lady in front of him; his hands would “accidentally” touch the lady standing beside him. He always managed to get near the middle of the bus…where once the bus got crowded he would have a lot of women to pick from. When the ladies complained he always countered that the bus was too crowded or it wasn’t intentional. One spunky college girl had even slapped him. All the curses and vile words…only seemed to egg him on. Complaints to the conductors went unheeded. Some times the conductor would ask him to go back towards the men’s section but that was it. Next day, Nageshappa would be back to his travel time hobby.

 Most women avoided him like the plague. They called him a pervert and cursed his ancestors. But there was always some newbie who would naively go and stand beside him…only getting wise after being pinched, rubbed against or leaned on.

 One day…while trying to get into a bus, Nageshappa slipped and fell. He was run over by a bus. Ironically it was a “ladies only” bus.

 His wife mourned. People who knew him said that such a mild mannered man shouldn’t have met such a sad end.

 But for the ladies who took routes -2,2a and 2b, his gruesome death under a “ladies only” bus seemed apt. There was something like poetic justice in this world after all.

Teenage-That time of your life when you can look like a clown and still feel like an emperor!

Red pants, multi colored waist coat with floral prints, big red beaded necklace…oily face…oily hair-and aaaah the pose!!! What was I thinking???

I can give any 80’s South Indian heroine a run for her money!

I had burnt all my embarrassing pics...somehow this gem escaped. Now I'm finally in a place where I can look at myself and have no delusions about my looks! (There was a time when I used to blame the lighting/camera/angle for the way I looked in pics)

What amazes me is that…I was confident enough to pose in that get up!

I looked like this…and wondered why I never had any boy throwing himself at my feet!

Back then I had a lot of questions relating to my love life(or the lack of it).After looking at this pic...I know the answers to all of them.
 

The first thing I recall of hearing as an infant is the sound of splashing waves-Hypnotic and persistent. It was strange as we did not live on the seaside. I was born in a small town in the middle of nowhere and though we had enough to eat and clothe ourselves we could not afford to take trips to the seaside.

I was jealous of all people who had ever seen the sea. I couldn’t believe their casual attitude. I convinced myself that it was the allure of the forbidden fruit. For a person who lives along the sea side, the sea becomes just a part of the scenery...like you never notice the tree in the backyard. But for a person who has never experienced the vision of the sea…the sea is more than just water…It’s a dream in blue.

I would lie on my back and look at the blue clear sky…and imagine it to be the sea. I could almost see the waves; I wore blue most of the times; I fell for gals who had blue eyes.

I read about the open seas…watched it on the neighbor’s B/W TV. I knew every single detail regarding the seas. I wanted to be a sea-faring nomad…sailing from the blue-green Pacific to the steel blue of the Atlantic to the ink blue Mediterranean Sea.

I believed that we all came from the oceans…and we are still a part of it. That is why…when our hearts are broken we shed tears-a part of the ocean we carry in our hearts.

And it was not all fantasy. I was aware of all the logical facts too. I found it fascinating to know that the reason for the blueness of the seas was not that blue was God’s fav color or that He had great aesthetics but because the red photons of the incoming light were absorbed by the water molecules. Or the fact that Atlantic Ocean is S-shaped and the saltiest of all oceans. Almost all the ancient civilizations (except Mayan and Incas) saw their day in glory around the Indian Ocean. When people were falling in love with women, success and power I was romancing terms like Permafrost, Coriolis Effect and monsoons!

In my teens I first took a trip to the seaside. My imagination had not done justice. When the first wave washed over my feet, I was hooked. I majored in oceanography…moved to the sea side when I was 28.I have seen all the oceans and the seas. I proposed to my three wives on the beach and left them because they didn’t understand my love for the sea and learnt all my life lessons while learning how to ride the wave. I also became a professional surfer winning three medals…and now I fight against marine pollution. And the view of the ocean, still takes my breath away. One day hopefully, I get to take my last breath…in front of my one and only true love-the ocean…

I was wrong when I was young. When one truly loves something...the object of your desire never becomes a part of the scenery.

2) I love playing antakshari. In fact I was so crazy about it...that I could play it all by myself (left hand vs. right hand).I love singing. I tortured my brother with my constant renditions of soulful ghazals. Even now, I sing nonstop when we are on a long drive.

3) I cry a lot. As a kid I was called “ganga- jamuna”. I cry whenever I watch “Mughal-e-Azam” or read “Bridges of Madison County”. Full moon, a soulful poem, animals dying in movies, raised voice….everything makes me cry!

4) I was stood up on my first date.I got over it by reading a trashy M&B novel.I consider that the best thing to have ever happened to me.I taught me that I can either choose to laugh it off and move on..or whine and become bitter. Now,I can laugh at most of life's mean tricks. And whatever happens there are a lot of trashy novels to help you out.

5) I couldn’t read time for a very long time. I was very afraid someone would find out and make fun of it. For a very long time that was my dreaded secret. As a kid I also liked hiding under beds/tables and pretending to be invisible.

6) I am very easily startled. I am scared of sudden noises and sparks. I am very scared of crackers. . I am also very scared of crocodiles. I believe that in one of my past lives, I was an Egyptian who was devoured by a crocodile!

7) I love tea. I can drink a lot of tea and still wish for one more cup. Other than drinking tea the other things I do a lot are laughing, talking and reading. In fact you’ll never catch me without a book. I also have the habit of reading 5-7 books at any given time….

8) My most prized possessions are my blue diary and my brown diary. They are full of lines I liked from books or movies, thoughts…descriptions of sunsets, Zen poems…and dried flowers.

So do tell me what you think…and I invite all of you to pen random facts about yourselves.

For many of us the most overwhelming day in our life is the day we realize our mediocrity. The realization is frightening and also in a way a relief; Frightening because it’s against what our ego wants us to believe and relieving to know that you will never be crushed by high expectations.

 To know that you will never be the best thinker or writer, swimmer, performer…nothing! You are forever the person who’ll clap at other’s achievements…if that is not overwhelming...i don’t know what is! The only consolation is that you are in the company of most of humanity…

 This depressing train of thought occurred to me when I was wondering what I want to do with my life! I am 24 years old...and I don’t have a plan. I do not know what I want to be!

I don’t even have the distinction of being the worst at anything either. Just average at everything!

 I worked as an engineer for nearly three years where most people told me that I am wasting my talent. I agreed with them then...but if I were smarter I would have asked what ‘talent’ they were referring to.

I thought I could write….now, I am not sure. There are so many who write better than me. When I think I am being funny...people get offended. When I try to be imaginative….people simply doze off.

 I love dancing. But one can’t become a gardener because they like gardening.Moreover I look like a square trying to move…so no! Dancing can be a hobby...not a vocation.

 Many people who know me think I will do great in front end jobs...but people who know me well know it’s not true. I am awkward with people…and I constantly offend people with my straight talk.so that’s out too.

 I can sing...but I'm no nightingale. I can paint…but i'm no Michealangelo…I can talk...but talking a lot doesn’t mean talking well.

 I had read somewhere-

 Though we all set out to conquer the peak…there comes a time when we stop for breath…take stock and realize that we may never make it to the top. Wisdom lies in not complaining and learning to appreciate the view you have and not envy the view someone else has.

 Maybe I should heed my husband’s advice and become a dog walker.

Some things have no names…and that’s their beauty…they refuse to be enchained to any particular definition. So I won’t call it friendship. But I have to write about this person.

 I will not call him a friend as friendship is based on a firm feeling of liking and comfort. . There were patches of liking between feelings of irritation, curiosity, admiration and the feeling which makes you want to pour your drink on that person!

 It is not important how we met…its enough to know that he was my colleague. He was also an aspiring director…a very talented photographer, a rebel, an egoist and over all a very weird man.

 
We would meet during coffee breaks and after office hours. We spent insane amounts of time in the canteen discussing movies. He would also talk about relationships, psychology and hair gel (he is the vainest of men)…and photography. But it was when he spoke of movies…then he had me mesmerized. He would talk about long shots, deep focus and camera angles. It was like listening to fairy tales.

 He had very strange ideas about life. He was cynical and almost always rude! I being a person who likes to believe that I am a creature of mystery...his supposed insights into my mind irritated me. He didn’t believe in romance or love or friendship.

He would give me lectures about how I should stop being so blunt about my thoughts. He used to say rude things about my writing. .He would say you can’t write about anything you haven’t experienced! He would ask things like “the lovers you wrote about...did they make love (he used the three letter word instead) often?” or something equally shocking.

 He could discuss openly about any embarrassing thing .I am an outspoken person myself…even then I would blush and mumble and get embarrassed.

He would laugh at my “forever/true love” notions. Or he would talk about hair gels.

When a  pretty girl passed us by…he would totally stop talking and look at her till she disappeared. He is the only man who is totally unapologetic about it.

 There was one day when we took a walk around our office campus. It was almost twilight and it was beautiful and serene. I don’t remember what we talked about…but that was the only time when we didn’t irritate each other.

 The first movie he lent me was  Fellini’s “La Strada”. To me the movie didn’t make sense. It was weird and the characters were idiotic. I hated the movie and told him so. He laughed and said he expected that and gave me a movie called “Nights of Cabiria”.  The movie was about a stupid woman who never loses faith and is very romantic and trusting. When I told him that I liked this movie better than the first, he said that it was becoz I identified with the heroine. To date that comment annoys me.

He gave me some more movies to watch. Whether I liked them or not I noticed that they stayed with me. I constantly thought about those characters.

 Till I met him..I saw movies as a means of escape…a realm where people sang to express themselves, where human story telling reached its pinnacle. He showed me that movies can be art..it can be a story…or a painting…a movie can  be breath taking…sometimes becoz of the story and sometimes the way its told. I thoughts movies were something I lost myself in. He taught me that they can also be places where you can find yourself.