The stereotypical man rates low on finnickiness. That's what all the "Know Your Man" books and chiklits will tell you. A man can finish his shopping in half the time it takes a woman to do the same. A man dresses for an occasion in quarter the time it takes a woman to dress. A man can choose a gift in a second while it takes a woman hours to do the job. Each time I receive an e-mail on gender -benders along these lines, one of my eyebrows shoots up ( yes, I belong to the 1% of the total human population who can raise one eyebrow at a time) and stays put. Reason - this Quintessential Man thing does not happen in my house.
When out shopping , I am always the one to finish first. From shopping for clothes to shopping for groceries, from buying CDs to buying house -warming gifts , I find what I want far earlier than my husband does. And then,I wait for him. Ditto on dressing up. I am ready and waiting for His Immaculate Self to finish his wardrobe. Waiting, as any chiklit worth its salt will tell you, is a man's burden. While the Woman preenes and fusses over herself and takes 'forevah' to dress up , the Man patiently waits.
Talk about trading places
In close to thirteen years of togetherness, the waiting role has always been mine. Curiously enough, this role reversal had never struck me. Until last week at the book lending library where, with a protesting babe on my hips I picked a book in under five minutes and he consummated his search a half hour later!! This time WE waited. This had to be discussed. Back home, I quoted copiously from emails and chiklits and laid bare that we lived a contrary life. I am a conformist, I said. From now on, you wait while I shop/search/preen, I declared. I want the Quintessential Man, I cried.
Then he started his discourse on Choosy People. Some people ( he has no gender bias, bless his heart) are just more choosy than others. They first research the subject, consider options, compare the favourites, evaluate the opportunity cost in choosing one over the other and then swoop in for the decisive act. Due diligence must precede all decisions. To the non-choosy, to whom due diligence is just a word ( two words, rather), decisions are never problematic. Like with me, their eyes zoom into the category they wish to buy from, quickly scan the options on display, cursorily compare the salient features and just inky-pinky-ponky the favourites. Bingo, the decision is made. By the Law of probablility half such decisions are bound to turn up duds, but with such a vast experience in dealing with duds, a new dud will not cause a stir, he declared.
In conclusion, you are breezy in your decisions, while I am not. I am finnicky. He had concluded. I had no more resources to plead my case of the Quintessential Man. I had lost the case. He made his point and with the quiet satisfaction of a man who has made a point and reduced his quarry, that too his wife, to a state of tongue-tiedness, he returned to his actvities.
"Does that explain why YOU married ME and I married YOU?". It was not an innocent question. In fact , it wan't even a question. It was my conclusion.
I may have lost the battle, but you see, I won the war।
Monday, July 21, 2008
Friday, May 23, 2008
Things they don't tell you .......
It is that season of the year again when you step out of the house and see a pregnant woman. A friend of mine, who is herself in her third trimester, says she has the same experience these days. She sees Preggies everywhere as well and not just in the mirror or at the hospital. So I know it’s not my eyes. In my close acquaintance, there are two more women who are all set to deliver in a month or two. Come to think of it, last year this time, yours truly was very pregnant as well. Does this point towards an annual spurt ( no pun intended) in procreative activities around September-December ?
While everybody claims to know that a baby is a lot of work, there are many things they don’t tell you in prenatal classes and pregnancy guides. For instance, how many of you to-be-mothers know that motherhood gives you the unique opportunity of seeing all hours of the day and night? One-thirteen, Two forty-seven, Five Fifty-two, Three twenty four ( all AM, mind you) , you see all of them when your bundle of joy arrives. If you have an active toddler at home along with your newborn, like my friend Rakhee does, you’ll see the same hours in day time as well (PM, this time around). Roundabout the time I was beginning to stay awake at odd hours, my mom-in-law comforted me that this erratic non-routine will only last for three months until the baby acclimatizes with its environment. The thoughts racing in my head were “ Three months ?? As in three times thirty days??? As in three times thirty times twenty four times sixty times sixty seconds ??????????”. There is a lesson here as well, ladies. You may think you won’t be able to do it. But you will.
Lesson two. How many of you know that for a long time after the baby gets home you’ll be sleeping with a light on ? In the beginning it’s futile switching it off as the moment you do, the baby will start to cry and you’ll have to investigate. Can’t do that with lights off, can you? Aditi had a nasty habit of regurgitating through her nose after a feed. Not always , but often enough for me to get up panicking after a couple of winks to check on her. Now, even though she has gotten over that phase, there’s a zero watt bulb glowing peaceably in the dark while we sleep. Oh, by now we could sleep even if our bedroom were to be lit like a submarine.
Lesson three. How many of you have been told you’ll have no use for the undergarments you are using now and will have to shop for new ,BIGGER ones ? Ones that’ll look strange while you lie them out to dry on the clothesline in your bathroom. At a quick glance, you may mistake them to be your mom’s before realisation strikes that you’ve beaten your mom in dimensions. And, that ladies, is not such a pleasant realization. On a recent shopping expedition to buy a ‘healthy’ range of undergarments, I saw a Bridal Range of my favourite brand . Out of habit, I asked to see it. The sales girl almost snorted at me and said, “Not your size. The biggest here are one size smaller”. I walked away with my hammocks ( yeah, aditi could use them as hammocks) with all the dignity I could muster.
Lesson four. Most of you would know this. That there’s really no place for passion when there’s an infant sleeping next to you. If there is a sudden attack, you either postpone passion for a more opportune time ( like when the grandparents come visiting and want the little one with them day and night) or get on with it pronto. You may not have the time or opportunity to let passion run its entire course.
All the same, Lesson Five is that it is superfantabuloustic to have your baby around. Tiring, exhausting it may be. But like my sister-in-law says, it is an “unparalleled privilege”. To have to stay awake day in and day out, to have to wear tents and hammocks instead of normal underclothes, to sleep with a light beating in your eyes.
Ladies, I’m not being sarcastic. Lesson Five is what this blog is all about.
While everybody claims to know that a baby is a lot of work, there are many things they don’t tell you in prenatal classes and pregnancy guides. For instance, how many of you to-be-mothers know that motherhood gives you the unique opportunity of seeing all hours of the day and night? One-thirteen, Two forty-seven, Five Fifty-two, Three twenty four ( all AM, mind you) , you see all of them when your bundle of joy arrives. If you have an active toddler at home along with your newborn, like my friend Rakhee does, you’ll see the same hours in day time as well (PM, this time around). Roundabout the time I was beginning to stay awake at odd hours, my mom-in-law comforted me that this erratic non-routine will only last for three months until the baby acclimatizes with its environment. The thoughts racing in my head were “ Three months ?? As in three times thirty days??? As in three times thirty times twenty four times sixty times sixty seconds ??????????”. There is a lesson here as well, ladies. You may think you won’t be able to do it. But you will.
Lesson two. How many of you know that for a long time after the baby gets home you’ll be sleeping with a light on ? In the beginning it’s futile switching it off as the moment you do, the baby will start to cry and you’ll have to investigate. Can’t do that with lights off, can you? Aditi had a nasty habit of regurgitating through her nose after a feed. Not always , but often enough for me to get up panicking after a couple of winks to check on her. Now, even though she has gotten over that phase, there’s a zero watt bulb glowing peaceably in the dark while we sleep. Oh, by now we could sleep even if our bedroom were to be lit like a submarine.
Lesson three. How many of you have been told you’ll have no use for the undergarments you are using now and will have to shop for new ,BIGGER ones ? Ones that’ll look strange while you lie them out to dry on the clothesline in your bathroom. At a quick glance, you may mistake them to be your mom’s before realisation strikes that you’ve beaten your mom in dimensions. And, that ladies, is not such a pleasant realization. On a recent shopping expedition to buy a ‘healthy’ range of undergarments, I saw a Bridal Range of my favourite brand . Out of habit, I asked to see it. The sales girl almost snorted at me and said, “Not your size. The biggest here are one size smaller”. I walked away with my hammocks ( yeah, aditi could use them as hammocks) with all the dignity I could muster.
Lesson four. Most of you would know this. That there’s really no place for passion when there’s an infant sleeping next to you. If there is a sudden attack, you either postpone passion for a more opportune time ( like when the grandparents come visiting and want the little one with them day and night) or get on with it pronto. You may not have the time or opportunity to let passion run its entire course.
All the same, Lesson Five is that it is superfantabuloustic to have your baby around. Tiring, exhausting it may be. But like my sister-in-law says, it is an “unparalleled privilege”. To have to stay awake day in and day out, to have to wear tents and hammocks instead of normal underclothes, to sleep with a light beating in your eyes.
Ladies, I’m not being sarcastic. Lesson Five is what this blog is all about.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
The Phenomenon of MPMK
We are eight cousins on my mother’s side. While we don't have any striking physical resemblances , there are some character traits so deeply ingrained that a trained psychologist could pick us out in a crowd. For instance, we all fancy ourselves to be above -average singers and are always to be found humming a tune under our breath. All of us have been up on stage in school, college, workplace or residential association meetings to sing [without ever being hooted off it, if I may add]. A more recent, more resilient bond that ties us is our uncompromising hatred for Shah Rukh Khan. We are the Order of Those that Loathe SRK, our revulsion for the man so deep that we look upon those who like him as being intellectually juvenile. Cousin Rara announced to her betrothed Rahul,’ You must promise to hate Shah Rukh Khan or else not marry me”. Those two went on to marry and while Rahul may not outrightly hate Shah Rukh, he will sure think twice before saying one nice thing about him.
But what strikes me as truly awe –inspiring is our bond via Mazha Peyunnu Maddalam Kottunnu (MPMK). MPMK is a Malayalam comedy flick directed by Priyadarshan and released sometime in the late eighties. Each of us would have seen this movie at least ten times. But if it were to play today on any vague malayalam channel, you can bet we’ll be tuned in. The lines from this movie are a part and parcel of our daily lives. Ask any one of us why we did what we did and you’ll most likely hear “Just for Horror” ( a la' Mohanlal in MPMK). Ask any of us how far it is from Point A to B, and you’ll hear , you guessed right, “Kilometres and kilometers”. Could we conceive of talking about faking accounts without borrowing from that famous lecture on cement manufacture and sale by Jagathy Sreekumar where he says “ In India , lot of cement there. ACC cement, Birla cement, Shankar cement, cement here there everywhere. This one farty rupees for one chaack cement is cheating”. And anyone who cooks up fake accounts can only be a “KALLAI”. What else ?
When my husband Hari ran into Priyadarshan in Chennai, he introduced himself as an MPMK junkie. Apparently, the creator of this masterpiece was fazed. No one had ever told him that MPMK was their favourite film. Beat that ?
At the time of writing this, I'm in Trivandrum enjoying a quiet, lazy day. The jingbang is on its way home. Cousin Baby, the IT whiz, is due to arrive in a couple of days from Bangalore with his architect-turned - homemaker wife Dhanya and their four year old daughter Mythili. Cousin Chechi ( that epithet ‘coz she is the oldest) who is a doctor, arrives from Vizag a week later with daughters Sreedu ,Jaanu and hubby MR Nair who is a Commander in the Indian navy. Next to come would be Rara and Rahul, also with the navy in Vizag. Rara's brother Miju who is Ph.D-ing in Canada and my brother Gopal , a doctor in Sharjah and his family would be sorely missed at our jamboree. Completing the quorum would be our youngest cousin Unni who just passed his 12th and his sister Karthika, an engineer with Infosys, Bangalore. After the initial hugs and hellos, how are you-s and my-job-sucks-does-yours, as soon we settle down on the worn out sofas in our parents’ homes and breathe in the once stifling, now relaxing Trivandrum air and start to unwind, the first sentence out of someone’s mouth will be “ You cannot stay another minute of the today in the house of my wife and daatter. GET OUTHOUSE”. If he is in any doubt of his prowess at comedy, Priyadarshan should come to one of our kudumbayogams.
Hail MPMK.
BTW, if you were in alien custody for this long or are Greek or German and hence unaware of the phenomenon of MPMK, I suggest you beg, borrow, steal (you could also buy) a DVD today and experience the best, undiluted Malayalam comedy ever…
But what strikes me as truly awe –inspiring is our bond via Mazha Peyunnu Maddalam Kottunnu (MPMK). MPMK is a Malayalam comedy flick directed by Priyadarshan and released sometime in the late eighties. Each of us would have seen this movie at least ten times. But if it were to play today on any vague malayalam channel, you can bet we’ll be tuned in. The lines from this movie are a part and parcel of our daily lives. Ask any one of us why we did what we did and you’ll most likely hear “Just for Horror” ( a la' Mohanlal in MPMK). Ask any of us how far it is from Point A to B, and you’ll hear , you guessed right, “Kilometres and kilometers”. Could we conceive of talking about faking accounts without borrowing from that famous lecture on cement manufacture and sale by Jagathy Sreekumar where he says “ In India , lot of cement there. ACC cement, Birla cement, Shankar cement, cement here there everywhere. This one farty rupees for one chaack cement is cheating”. And anyone who cooks up fake accounts can only be a “KALLAI”. What else ?
When my husband Hari ran into Priyadarshan in Chennai, he introduced himself as an MPMK junkie. Apparently, the creator of this masterpiece was fazed. No one had ever told him that MPMK was their favourite film. Beat that ?
At the time of writing this, I'm in Trivandrum enjoying a quiet, lazy day. The jingbang is on its way home. Cousin Baby, the IT whiz, is due to arrive in a couple of days from Bangalore with his architect-turned - homemaker wife Dhanya and their four year old daughter Mythili. Cousin Chechi ( that epithet ‘coz she is the oldest) who is a doctor, arrives from Vizag a week later with daughters Sreedu ,Jaanu and hubby MR Nair who is a Commander in the Indian navy. Next to come would be Rara and Rahul, also with the navy in Vizag. Rara's brother Miju who is Ph.D-ing in Canada and my brother Gopal , a doctor in Sharjah and his family would be sorely missed at our jamboree. Completing the quorum would be our youngest cousin Unni who just passed his 12th and his sister Karthika, an engineer with Infosys, Bangalore. After the initial hugs and hellos, how are you-s and my-job-sucks-does-yours, as soon we settle down on the worn out sofas in our parents’ homes and breathe in the once stifling, now relaxing Trivandrum air and start to unwind, the first sentence out of someone’s mouth will be “ You cannot stay another minute of the today in the house of my wife and daatter. GET OUTHOUSE”. If he is in any doubt of his prowess at comedy, Priyadarshan should come to one of our kudumbayogams.
Hail MPMK.
BTW, if you were in alien custody for this long or are Greek or German and hence unaware of the phenomenon of MPMK, I suggest you beg, borrow, steal (you could also buy) a DVD today and experience the best, undiluted Malayalam comedy ever…
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Of SuperMoms and Child Prodigies
I am surrounded by super moms and child prodigies. Engulfed, deluged, swamped by them. Upper floor, same floor, next block, the next city, no matter where I go, I find them. I am beginning to wonder if the problem lies with me. Do I attract them ?
Sample these: These are SuperMoms on their offspring.
( for easier comprehension, this group will hereafter be referred to as SMOCP - Super Mom of Child Prodigy. PM stands for Poor Me)
SMOCP :: “My Ananya started talking when she was just eight months old. Does Aditi talk?”
(aditi is in her tenth month and all she does is make noises)
PM:: “ er…. well, she makes noises that sound like acha and amma”
SMOCP:: “ Only now? My Ananya could point out her father in a crowd and say Daddy when she was 9 months old”
( At this point, I stop contributing to the conversation)
SMOCP:: “ My Tarun could tell rhinos from hippos when he was nine months old
PM (in bug eyed wonder) :: “ Wow, he could vocalize that well at nine months ?”
SMOCP:: “No, silly. I meant he could point out rhinos and hippos in his animal book when he was that young. Can Aditi differentiate between animals ?”
( How can she when she tears any paper that comes within tearing distance. No animal book will last more than ten minutes in my babe’s hands)
PM:: “Emm… actually, no. Not yet. Isn't she too young to be learning from books? ”
SMOCP:: “ No way. My Tarun knew the alphabet by the time he was one.”
( A geek as been made)
SMOCP:: “Tanya is the class topper, you know. She has always topped her class wherever we’ve been posted”.
PM:: “That’s nice. Which class is she in now?”
SMOCP :: “LKG”
(!!!!????????? How many years did this girl spend in her LKG?)
SMOCP:: “Bala is a very balanced child. He takes everything in his stride. His teacher says it comes from good upbringing”
(Lady, I’ll have you know self praise stinks and so do you. Oh, if only I had the guts)
SMOCP:: “ As it is, Darshana used to be the first in class to finish maths tests. After she joined Abacus, she takes no time at all. She just whizzes in and out. “
( Ramanujan could have learned a few tricks from this one)
SMOCP:: “ You MUST watch Craig imitate Suresh Gopi. Come here Craigi. Do your Suresh Gopi act for this aunty”
At which Craigi obediently launches into “just remember that SHIT”, the hand gesture and all. At which his mother bursts into peals and peals of laughter and applause. At which point she realizes you are not ( as you are only recovering from your shock) and looks at you menacingly. At which you obligingly break into applause.
Now sample these : Super Moms on themselves.
( note: There’s an ongoing competition on whose delivery was the swiftest and the most painless)
( SM for SuperMom)
SM:: “ I just had a slight pain and went to the hospital only because it was nearby. The doc examined me and referred me to the labour room. Almost as soon as I went in, I had the baby. Took next to no time and wasn’t all that painful really”
( are you KIDDING me????)
SM:: “ My labour was so easy, I was in through one door and out through the other. And my baby was 4 kilos”.
( HELLO? No woman can deliver a 4 kilo baby JUST like that!)
Then there’s the baby birth weight , length and a whole gamut of other parameters to be compared. Who delivered the baby with THE ideal weight, THE ideal length and THE ideal head circumference.
Breastfeeding is a topic that whips as much fervour as labour.
SM ::“ Tommy was exclusively breast fed until he was one year old”
(O…k… But exclusively ? Until one year?)
SM:: “ I nursed Arya until she was four. That’s why she is so fair”
(FOUR????? And what is this mystery connection between breast milk and fairness?? )
The lot is energized when I let slip sadly that Aditi weaned herself off, without any effort from my side, in her ninth month.
SM:: ” Only for nine months. That’s nowhere near enough. Don’t you know breast milk enhances the child’s brain, eyesight and blahdiblahdiblahdiblah ?
( yeah right. complexion too)
Push presents are another hot favourite.
(Here the Super Girl talks about her Super Man. So the acronym is SGOSM for Super Girl on Super Man. PM remains)
SGOSM :: “ Giri took me to Switzerland three months after Yadu was born. He wanted to compensate me for the trauma I went through.? Did you guys getaway someplace?”.
PM:: “em…….”
SGOSM :: “ Amal brought a solitaire ring to the hospital. But I told him a diamond ring just does not compare with the pain I had to endure. What did Hari get you ?”
PM:: “ mmm… you know… I delivered a week before due date. He wasn’t really prepared”. ( I’m good at making pathetic excuses)
Strangely enough, a lot of these women are reasonable, humorous and thoughtful human beings. But on the topic of their offspring, they are maniacal in their attempts to prove their prodigiousness. This dichotomy puzzles me.
Thankfully, there are sane voices in this melee`. Women who admit they suffered post partum depression. Women who tell you to take it easy if your child wants to be weaned ahead of the prodigies. These are the women who listen while the other lot prattles away.
The real Super Moms.
Sample these: These are SuperMoms on their offspring.
( for easier comprehension, this group will hereafter be referred to as SMOCP - Super Mom of Child Prodigy. PM stands for Poor Me)
SMOCP :: “My Ananya started talking when she was just eight months old. Does Aditi talk?”
(aditi is in her tenth month and all she does is make noises)
PM:: “ er…. well, she makes noises that sound like acha and amma”
SMOCP:: “ Only now? My Ananya could point out her father in a crowd and say Daddy when she was 9 months old”
( At this point, I stop contributing to the conversation)
SMOCP:: “ My Tarun could tell rhinos from hippos when he was nine months old
PM (in bug eyed wonder) :: “ Wow, he could vocalize that well at nine months ?”
SMOCP:: “No, silly. I meant he could point out rhinos and hippos in his animal book when he was that young. Can Aditi differentiate between animals ?”
( How can she when she tears any paper that comes within tearing distance. No animal book will last more than ten minutes in my babe’s hands)
PM:: “Emm… actually, no. Not yet. Isn't she too young to be learning from books? ”
SMOCP:: “ No way. My Tarun knew the alphabet by the time he was one.”
( A geek as been made)
SMOCP:: “Tanya is the class topper, you know. She has always topped her class wherever we’ve been posted”.
PM:: “That’s nice. Which class is she in now?”
SMOCP :: “LKG”
(!!!!????????? How many years did this girl spend in her LKG?)
SMOCP:: “Bala is a very balanced child. He takes everything in his stride. His teacher says it comes from good upbringing”
(Lady, I’ll have you know self praise stinks and so do you. Oh, if only I had the guts)
SMOCP:: “ As it is, Darshana used to be the first in class to finish maths tests. After she joined Abacus, she takes no time at all. She just whizzes in and out. “
( Ramanujan could have learned a few tricks from this one)
SMOCP:: “ You MUST watch Craig imitate Suresh Gopi. Come here Craigi. Do your Suresh Gopi act for this aunty”
At which Craigi obediently launches into “just remember that SHIT”, the hand gesture and all. At which his mother bursts into peals and peals of laughter and applause. At which point she realizes you are not ( as you are only recovering from your shock) and looks at you menacingly. At which you obligingly break into applause.
Now sample these : Super Moms on themselves.
( note: There’s an ongoing competition on whose delivery was the swiftest and the most painless)
( SM for SuperMom)
SM:: “ I just had a slight pain and went to the hospital only because it was nearby. The doc examined me and referred me to the labour room. Almost as soon as I went in, I had the baby. Took next to no time and wasn’t all that painful really”
( are you KIDDING me????)
SM:: “ My labour was so easy, I was in through one door and out through the other. And my baby was 4 kilos”.
( HELLO? No woman can deliver a 4 kilo baby JUST like that!)
Then there’s the baby birth weight , length and a whole gamut of other parameters to be compared. Who delivered the baby with THE ideal weight, THE ideal length and THE ideal head circumference.
Breastfeeding is a topic that whips as much fervour as labour.
SM ::“ Tommy was exclusively breast fed until he was one year old”
(O…k… But exclusively ? Until one year?)
SM:: “ I nursed Arya until she was four. That’s why she is so fair”
(FOUR????? And what is this mystery connection between breast milk and fairness?? )
The lot is energized when I let slip sadly that Aditi weaned herself off, without any effort from my side, in her ninth month.
SM:: ” Only for nine months. That’s nowhere near enough. Don’t you know breast milk enhances the child’s brain, eyesight and blahdiblahdiblahdiblah ?
( yeah right. complexion too)
Push presents are another hot favourite.
(Here the Super Girl talks about her Super Man. So the acronym is SGOSM for Super Girl on Super Man. PM remains)
SGOSM :: “ Giri took me to Switzerland three months after Yadu was born. He wanted to compensate me for the trauma I went through.? Did you guys getaway someplace?”.
PM:: “em…….”
SGOSM :: “ Amal brought a solitaire ring to the hospital. But I told him a diamond ring just does not compare with the pain I had to endure. What did Hari get you ?”
PM:: “ mmm… you know… I delivered a week before due date. He wasn’t really prepared”. ( I’m good at making pathetic excuses)
Strangely enough, a lot of these women are reasonable, humorous and thoughtful human beings. But on the topic of their offspring, they are maniacal in their attempts to prove their prodigiousness. This dichotomy puzzles me.
Thankfully, there are sane voices in this melee`. Women who admit they suffered post partum depression. Women who tell you to take it easy if your child wants to be weaned ahead of the prodigies. These are the women who listen while the other lot prattles away.
The real Super Moms.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Thank You for the music
It was a class trip organised by the students. Since most of us were kept on a tight leash by our Dads, there wasn't much spare change to go into organising a gala event. Horrendous, our HoD turned the other way as he 'simply did not put up with such frivolity'. The batch had already had a class tour sponsored by the department which, according to Horrendous, was more than enough. So there we were, emptying out pockets and counting the change. Deciding to forego trips to the city and the occasional movie for one final class trip before the final exams. When you want something very badly, the entire cosmos conspires to bring it to you. Thus, despite the heavy cash crunch, we found hotels to stay and a cosy little mini van for transport, which not only contained the eighteen of us and our luggage, but also left space for Sanju's guitar and Chris' carry-along gym. We were off.
It was fun from the word go. There were no chaperones , just us classmates and our spirit. Soon after we left city limits, out came the beer bottles and the cigarettes. The girls in the batch - we were only six of us- did not complain. What the heck ? Minal was the first to finish the bottle, she outboozed the guys!!! Then of course, there was dancing and singing and hooting and heckling. Ever tried group dancing in a mini bus ? Each time the bus braked the lot in the aisle would fall back like a deck of cards onto the rear window - Paul first, on him Minal, on her Joe, on her Shiv, on him me, on me Tara, on Tara Sanju and on Sanju , the mighty Chris. We had to peel Paul off the window after that. We voted unanimously on Chris occupying the rear guard, as the man could easily bear our combined weight and more .
There wasn't one dull moment. When the dancing and singing stopped, we ate. When we stopped eating, we snoozed on each other's shoulders. There in that mini van, a couple of relationships blossomed. Romancing couples found ample time and privacy to engage in activities that romancing couples usually engage in. Sanju would play for them, ostensibly for all of us, but his songs were for them. Dedications came thick and fast, for Sanju was an awesome singer. He could weave magic on his guitar. Even Chris broke into a sonorous "Malaika, naku pende, Malaika" .Sanju had touched the hidden romantic in the hulking Kenyan. As quick as a wink of the eye, a day passed, then another, and it was time to head back. We partied twice as hard on the way back making the most of each moment before we reached Horrendous and our text books.
About 50 kms from the Univ, at five o'clock in the evening, our mini van's overworked, tired engine folded up. It clean quit on us. Considering the van was the only one we could afford on our babybootystring budget, it didn't really surprise us. What worried us, though, was the curfew at the Women's Hostel. Quarter to seven was the final cut off and if we made it later than that, there'd be hell to pay. We'd stretched the Warden's patience to the limit as well, you see, and it didn't help that she was Horrendous' wife . It was an unfamiliar route and we were quickly making and remaking plans to head home and fast. The locals told us about jeeps that ferried people . Off we went in search of them and whatwith the Cosmos and wanting something badly and all that, we found them. But it was nearing nightfall and the drivers were on their last trips. Sixteen of us found place in three jeeps, while Sanju and I were dumped into a cargo jeep along with baskets full of live chicken. We were the smallest and thinnest of the lot, so the logic was that we'd take the least space and cause the least damage to the poor birds on their way to slaughter.
The journey began. This time it was our jeep driver who sang along with Sanju and his guitar. Between the two of them they sang about love, friendship, Jesus Christ, nature and sex. "He may be drunk, but he sings great", says Sanju and then BANG. That was all I heard. I remember falling on the hard ground and rolling . I was rolling, hitting against things and rolling again. When the rolling stopped, there was only blackness. Blackness and pain. My arms were on fire, there was something poking painfully in my chest and my mouth was full of what tasted like blood. Terrible, torturous pain. Then as abruptly as it began, the pain ended . I could see nothing, feel nothing. But I could hear Sanju's guitar in my head, the tunes he strummed.
When I came to, the setting had changed. There was no road, no pain, I was on a comfortable bed in what looked like a hospital. There was no one near me. Just some machines and the whirring noise they made. The doctors came soon. They looked into my eyes, poked me here and there and took copious notes . I saw a familiar face at the door- Sanju. Probably waiting for the doctors to leave. He came in after they left and perched himself on a chair next to me. I wanted to ask him what happened, but I couldn't speak. He told me I had tubes running through most parts of my body, including my mouth. That there were some ten tubes he could see from where he sat. Apparently, I had been very badly injured. He showed off his immaculate self " Hey , lucky Me. Not one stitch ". The cheeky bastard. But I was touched he came. Sanju left after singing some of my favourite tunes. I must have recovered some after Sanju's visit because all my friends came trooping in after that. The docs had told them that I was never to be left alone. But it was Sanju and his music that relaxed me most. I'd wait eagerly to listen to his guitar.
One day some tubes came off. They said I could eat. They asked me to speak and to try and move my arms. They told me I was found unconscious with a fractured arm, a fractured jaw and two broken ribs that tore into my heart. Bad accident. I agreed. Apparently, there had been a two-day long surgery after which I was in and out of consciousness for a week. Many a time they thought they'd lost me. But then my heart would let out a feeble beat and they'd start working on me again. 'A miracle', my doctor said. "Its a miracle you held on ".
My friends kept coming to see me and kept my spirits high. But Sanju's absence worried me. When I mentioned it, my friends changed the topic or looked at the ceiling or just hemmed and hawed. I wanted to see Sanju and thank him for his music. I was sure it was his guitar that kept me pinned down on earth while I was unconscious. But I never saw Sanju ever again. For he had died in the accident - on the spot. He hit his head and bled internally to death. I remembered there was not a scratch on him when he came to see me. I should have been aghast when I heard about his death, strangely I wasn't. I was incredulous, of course. After all, I'd seen him, he'd talked to me, he'd sung for me. Vaguely as I could, I tried to pin down the days that Sanju had come to the hospital. They said I was unconscious all those days. In and out of consciousness. My injured heart would weaken and want to give up. Then he'd come and sing and strum his guitar and get it to beat again. So many times.
I got well, left the hospital, wrote the exams and miraculously passed. I couldn't throw my convocation cap in the air as I was still only on the mend. But everyday I doff my cap to the energy that kept my dead friend alive so I could go on to live. And everyday I say a silent prayer for the soul of my friend who must surely be singing wherever he is...........
[ this is not an autobiographical blog. neither is it fiction. the road accident, the trauma and the paranormal experience are real life experiences of a friend]
It was fun from the word go. There were no chaperones , just us classmates and our spirit. Soon after we left city limits, out came the beer bottles and the cigarettes. The girls in the batch - we were only six of us- did not complain. What the heck ? Minal was the first to finish the bottle, she outboozed the guys!!! Then of course, there was dancing and singing and hooting and heckling. Ever tried group dancing in a mini bus ? Each time the bus braked the lot in the aisle would fall back like a deck of cards onto the rear window - Paul first, on him Minal, on her Joe, on her Shiv, on him me, on me Tara, on Tara Sanju and on Sanju , the mighty Chris. We had to peel Paul off the window after that. We voted unanimously on Chris occupying the rear guard, as the man could easily bear our combined weight and more .
There wasn't one dull moment. When the dancing and singing stopped, we ate. When we stopped eating, we snoozed on each other's shoulders. There in that mini van, a couple of relationships blossomed. Romancing couples found ample time and privacy to engage in activities that romancing couples usually engage in. Sanju would play for them, ostensibly for all of us, but his songs were for them. Dedications came thick and fast, for Sanju was an awesome singer. He could weave magic on his guitar. Even Chris broke into a sonorous "Malaika, naku pende, Malaika" .Sanju had touched the hidden romantic in the hulking Kenyan. As quick as a wink of the eye, a day passed, then another, and it was time to head back. We partied twice as hard on the way back making the most of each moment before we reached Horrendous and our text books.
About 50 kms from the Univ, at five o'clock in the evening, our mini van's overworked, tired engine folded up. It clean quit on us. Considering the van was the only one we could afford on our babybootystring budget, it didn't really surprise us. What worried us, though, was the curfew at the Women's Hostel. Quarter to seven was the final cut off and if we made it later than that, there'd be hell to pay. We'd stretched the Warden's patience to the limit as well, you see, and it didn't help that she was Horrendous' wife . It was an unfamiliar route and we were quickly making and remaking plans to head home and fast. The locals told us about jeeps that ferried people . Off we went in search of them and whatwith the Cosmos and wanting something badly and all that, we found them. But it was nearing nightfall and the drivers were on their last trips. Sixteen of us found place in three jeeps, while Sanju and I were dumped into a cargo jeep along with baskets full of live chicken. We were the smallest and thinnest of the lot, so the logic was that we'd take the least space and cause the least damage to the poor birds on their way to slaughter.
The journey began. This time it was our jeep driver who sang along with Sanju and his guitar. Between the two of them they sang about love, friendship, Jesus Christ, nature and sex. "He may be drunk, but he sings great", says Sanju and then BANG. That was all I heard. I remember falling on the hard ground and rolling . I was rolling, hitting against things and rolling again. When the rolling stopped, there was only blackness. Blackness and pain. My arms were on fire, there was something poking painfully in my chest and my mouth was full of what tasted like blood. Terrible, torturous pain. Then as abruptly as it began, the pain ended . I could see nothing, feel nothing. But I could hear Sanju's guitar in my head, the tunes he strummed.
When I came to, the setting had changed. There was no road, no pain, I was on a comfortable bed in what looked like a hospital. There was no one near me. Just some machines and the whirring noise they made. The doctors came soon. They looked into my eyes, poked me here and there and took copious notes . I saw a familiar face at the door- Sanju. Probably waiting for the doctors to leave. He came in after they left and perched himself on a chair next to me. I wanted to ask him what happened, but I couldn't speak. He told me I had tubes running through most parts of my body, including my mouth. That there were some ten tubes he could see from where he sat. Apparently, I had been very badly injured. He showed off his immaculate self " Hey , lucky Me. Not one stitch ". The cheeky bastard. But I was touched he came. Sanju left after singing some of my favourite tunes. I must have recovered some after Sanju's visit because all my friends came trooping in after that. The docs had told them that I was never to be left alone. But it was Sanju and his music that relaxed me most. I'd wait eagerly to listen to his guitar.
One day some tubes came off. They said I could eat. They asked me to speak and to try and move my arms. They told me I was found unconscious with a fractured arm, a fractured jaw and two broken ribs that tore into my heart. Bad accident. I agreed. Apparently, there had been a two-day long surgery after which I was in and out of consciousness for a week. Many a time they thought they'd lost me. But then my heart would let out a feeble beat and they'd start working on me again. 'A miracle', my doctor said. "Its a miracle you held on ".
My friends kept coming to see me and kept my spirits high. But Sanju's absence worried me. When I mentioned it, my friends changed the topic or looked at the ceiling or just hemmed and hawed. I wanted to see Sanju and thank him for his music. I was sure it was his guitar that kept me pinned down on earth while I was unconscious. But I never saw Sanju ever again. For he had died in the accident - on the spot. He hit his head and bled internally to death. I remembered there was not a scratch on him when he came to see me. I should have been aghast when I heard about his death, strangely I wasn't. I was incredulous, of course. After all, I'd seen him, he'd talked to me, he'd sung for me. Vaguely as I could, I tried to pin down the days that Sanju had come to the hospital. They said I was unconscious all those days. In and out of consciousness. My injured heart would weaken and want to give up. Then he'd come and sing and strum his guitar and get it to beat again. So many times.
I got well, left the hospital, wrote the exams and miraculously passed. I couldn't throw my convocation cap in the air as I was still only on the mend. But everyday I doff my cap to the energy that kept my dead friend alive so I could go on to live. And everyday I say a silent prayer for the soul of my friend who must surely be singing wherever he is...........
[ this is not an autobiographical blog. neither is it fiction. the road accident, the trauma and the paranormal experience are real life experiences of a friend]
Thursday, March 6, 2008
What happens to the stars in your eyes ?
You start your life with so many stars in your eyes. Regardless of what you see around you, there is an unbound optimism that life will treat you specially. That , you deserve to be treated specially, differently, simply because you are you. On the rare occasions that you do contemplate on the future, in those heady days of adolescence and teenage, it always looks bright, promising and fulfilling. That's the beauty of being young. The absolute, true innocence that is the quintessence of youth.
And then your future meets you head on. You can't stop the onslaught of time. Well, at that point, you don't want to stop time. In your mind, the life ahead is so full of promises you are positively impatient to grow up and get there ! And one day, you do. Like that good-looking lawyer in Allie McBeal said "we've grown up from people with bright futures to people who should be living their bright futures'! He says it when he is diagnosed with brain tumor and shortly afterwards, he dies. Well, sigh !
For the rest of us who don't die and are left to dwell (read , duel) on Earth, real life springs many surprises. Not all of them pleasant. What you always took for granted may play truant and what you never imagined may just happen. Life is actually best to people who never think ahead, never dream. They may never experience the ecstasy of ambition fulfilled, but they also never suffer the agony of ambition thwarted. (shameless plagiarisation from P G Wodehouse, a far far evolved mind than mine). There are times when you feel that would be the best way to deal with what Life deals you. Take each moment as it comes. But alas, have you a few gray cells, and that becomes impossible. That is just how we are wired. Dreams fulfilled, part-filled, never filled...... And then the stars begin to fade.
As the starts fade, you start seeing Life from a different angle and you meet a very important character in your life. One whom you never met in the 'heady' days. You don't extend him an invitation, but in he walks through your front door and takes firm position on the best couch in your living room. He doesn't butt in your life, just remains there. He shares a mutually exclusive relationship with your stars. As the stars fade and fall, you start seeing him clearly.
In the early days, you may resent him. For his presence, for his refusal to leave. The constant presence. The constant reminder. And then you can ignore him no longer. When you are forced to take cognisance of his existence, you take the first step and offer a handshake . You introduce yourselves. He says, "call me REALITY. that's what others do".
As the days go by and you grow older, mature, you will find yourself seeking out this friend. He becomes your touchstone. And you pray you never lose sight of him, that you are never without his advice. For, by then, all the starts would have left you.............
And then your future meets you head on. You can't stop the onslaught of time. Well, at that point, you don't want to stop time. In your mind, the life ahead is so full of promises you are positively impatient to grow up and get there ! And one day, you do. Like that good-looking lawyer in Allie McBeal said "we've grown up from people with bright futures to people who should be living their bright futures'! He says it when he is diagnosed with brain tumor and shortly afterwards, he dies. Well, sigh !
For the rest of us who don't die and are left to dwell (read , duel) on Earth, real life springs many surprises. Not all of them pleasant. What you always took for granted may play truant and what you never imagined may just happen. Life is actually best to people who never think ahead, never dream. They may never experience the ecstasy of ambition fulfilled, but they also never suffer the agony of ambition thwarted. (shameless plagiarisation from P G Wodehouse, a far far evolved mind than mine). There are times when you feel that would be the best way to deal with what Life deals you. Take each moment as it comes. But alas, have you a few gray cells, and that becomes impossible. That is just how we are wired. Dreams fulfilled, part-filled, never filled...... And then the stars begin to fade.
As the starts fade, you start seeing Life from a different angle and you meet a very important character in your life. One whom you never met in the 'heady' days. You don't extend him an invitation, but in he walks through your front door and takes firm position on the best couch in your living room. He doesn't butt in your life, just remains there. He shares a mutually exclusive relationship with your stars. As the stars fade and fall, you start seeing him clearly.
In the early days, you may resent him. For his presence, for his refusal to leave. The constant presence. The constant reminder. And then you can ignore him no longer. When you are forced to take cognisance of his existence, you take the first step and offer a handshake . You introduce yourselves. He says, "call me REALITY. that's what others do".
As the days go by and you grow older, mature, you will find yourself seeking out this friend. He becomes your touchstone. And you pray you never lose sight of him, that you are never without his advice. For, by then, all the starts would have left you.............
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