Smile Please Madam

We went to a friend’s house to congratulate them on their newly wedded status. They showed us their wedding album. It was a tastefully done coffee book with pictures that didn’t garishly shock, but rather sublimely blend. The pictures showed the bride and groom laughing into each others eyes looking lost in love and there was a picture of their silhouettes walking on the sands of Kovalam beach hand in hand. At the wedding ceremony the people were not even looking directly at the camera. The photography was brilliant and the lighting natural. The album brought a tear in my eye. A tear of abject jealousy and self pity.

‘That sucks!’ I said swallowing back more tears. ‘No, I mean it really sucks’ I tried explaining to the visibly perturbed hosts. ‘Not your album, but ours.’

‘Oh, come on…I bet it is awesome. We must see it sometime when we are your place.’

Both Pi and I cried in unison, ’Nooooo!

I shuddered thinking of the photos and the cameraman from hell (or rather Triplicane). On the album cover was my face, almost murderous, and around the photo was a message in golden letters ‘Heven shower blissings on the happy coupple.’ Next to mine was Pi’s face with his eyes closed…hoping no one could see what he saw.

If he hasn’t burnt them already, Pi guards the photos like a crazed watch dog. His figure not being a perfect ten during those days, made him protest vehemently against the cruel treatment given to Brahmin bridegrooms. ‘Sorry, you can not wear a shirt and the poonal (sacred thread) over that. You will have to go bare-chested.’ they said.

‘Can we wait for a year longer to get married? I could go to the gym or convert to Christianity.’ he begged.

Unfortunately no one even considered it; Pi had to pose without a shirt. I believe the constipated look on the guest’s faces was actually shock mingled with sympathy for me.

So there he was consciously half naked exposing chest hair to open fire and there I was telling him how his tummy was making the priest jealous as I poured some ghee into the flame. At that time, the the cameraman would call out loudly, ‘Madam, look here madam. Can you smile please? Tilt head towards him please and point that little pinky towards the Jupiter if you don’t mind. And while you are at it, could you move to the right so we can get the mapilai’s (groom) love handles in our frame.’

When Pi tied the mangalsutra, the camera guy made me shake hands with Pi and pose. *Click* At first I thought it must be the first kiss equivalent of Indian weddings, but later when he made my brother shake hands with Pi after my brother poured puffed rice into the flame, I was a little confused.

Some things perplex me to date. First, why should there be a videographer in a reception? Second, why is there a band on a stage singing ‘Gemini Gemini Gavani Gavani?’ Third, why should there be a reception at all?

On Pi’s insistence, who was now more comfortable in his Sherwani, I decided to stop making faces at the cameraman. ‘It’s alright. Just deal with it today. Cooperate with him so you look good in the pictures.’

‘Madam, don’t grin. Please look here. Smile saar. Saar, look here saar. Aiyoo Saar, here here!’

‘Ok, who hired this moron!’ Pi was livid.

Video guy would pull people who were in the middle of greeting us and rearrange them beside us and make them stand straight and look directly into the camera while he rolled his video camera to take action shots. The camera guy clicked a still picture to accompany the action shot just in case we missed who presented that plastic tea cup set.

Ohm… Ohm… Ohm! Slow breaths. There will be an end to this. All I have to do is believe in it.

I protested against the filmy poses and he finally gave in. If I lived to tell this tale, I want to retain some dignity. Not a single wild horse was going to make me hold Pi's cheek with one hand and throw my head back in coy abandon. I told him not to bother with any graphics and just do a simple album and video. 'No frills pa.'

‘Aiyoo, how is that possible madam? For all that money, you will have to get all this only no?’ I considered handing him all my jewelry to disappear with the photos forever.

He wanted to do real time computer simulation and dazzle the crowd. It definitely was a crowd puller as we turned around and performed a fake puja to the screen behind us; he morphed the screen with an image of Thirupathi Balaji Yelumalai Venkatesa of Govinda Govinda fame. The audience could see all this and we had no idea what was happening. As we offered flowers to the screen and folded our hands in devotion, the crowd was yelling how close I need to go to the screen to get the flowers falling in the right angle. Next we had to stand with our side profile to the camera. We were being flown to Singapore on this Honeymoon Airlines with our faces sticking out of two windows, one behind the other. Even they were prudent not to get us booked on adjacent seats.

After a few days 3 humungous albums in sets of three and 3 sets of DVDs arrived at the door in a truck. I left my copy back in India giving the airline-baggage-limit excuse. If they ever needed an extra bed, it would come in handy. My mom teared up as she watched the video for he 10th time on the same day. Now I realized who this was for.

Shudder.

I had no courage to watch the video for the longest time. When I finally did in the company of a few drinks and persistent friends, I was pleasantly surprised to see most of our footage replaced with Simran and Surya’s dancing. Then there was the whole computer graphics deal that would put Spielberg to shame. My head splitting into ten and forming a little trajectory into Pi’s eyes. It’s quite possible I actually performed that stunt under those circumstances. I wish he could have turned me into Kali mata with blood dripping from the corners of my mouth and tongue sticking out. Oh well, that wasn’t necessary. From what I saw of myself in that red saree, I came close.

A year later back in India, just as I walked into my parent’s house, I saw a gigantic laminated picture of the both of us looking completely hassled in our wedding garbs, hanging on the wall. The very picture I detested as my hair was all frizzy and Pi was er... fat. Horror of horrors!

‘The nice fellow that he is, Popular Studio guy presented us with two such laminated pictures, for free!’ my mom gushed. ‘The other one is at your in-law’s.’

Leave the Rest to Pi

Last night we were at a friend’s place for dinner. The friends had invited their other friends to check us out. We were still on probation to secure an extended friendship. If we appealed to the other friends, Pi and I could potentially be invited into their inner circle and could be privy to all the local scoop. We would also be laughing at inside jokes like- ‘He is like an orange juice’ that seemed to take the crowd by storm.

So I had obviously hyped up my resume (best cook, best gossip magnet, best social skills etc) to even get an invitation here. I was also at my best behavior- laughing at everything the host said, commenting on their cooking skills, letting them win in a board game. I could see sparkle of approval in the other people’s eyes and a tinge of pride in the host’s. It was going pretty well and this time even I didn’t see it coming.

We had finished eating (which could be taken as a sign) and Pi went on to inquire about this person’s work, trying to make small talk and look positively interested. The guy just started his monologue with genuine passion and just when he was about to launch into further details, Pi’s eyes glazed over and as we all watched, he went off to sleep.

Not sure if we might have to pack up and leave Pittsburgh or live with bad reputation, but I do know one thing. I am pissed! Let me explain why I seem to be over reacting to something perfectly normal as someone sleeping after a good dinner. If there is one thing I would like to acquire from Pi, it would be his sleeping sickness. In close contention were eating disorder, obsessive controlling disorder and a big nose. I already have the big nose, so there!

I am cursed to be a light sleeper and I have known to wake up with a start if someone coughed in Nigeria. I could drink all the warm milk I wanted, use lavender scented eye patches, read History and listen to Chopin…but after a whole hour I would be agonizing over sleep while Pi would be waking up another light sleeper in Nigeria with his snores. I normally end up getting a headache with all that lavender smell and sound effects. It also takes a very patient benevolent soul like me to ward away any murderous thoughts during these trying times. It would be still fine with me if Pi needed some sort of ambience to drift off to sleep- soothing music, dimly lit room, a rocking bed, nagging wife… something that would validate the act. My hubby can sleep like a baby the minute his head hits something soft like the granite kitchen counter top. His claim to fame is sleeping at a rock concert in IIT (Sarang), next to speakers no less.

So it probably shouldn’t come as a shock when I tell you he drifts off mid-sentence when we have guests at home. Now it wouldn’t worry me under normal circumstances. It definitely seems fair enough to show displeasure when the aforementioned guest happens to be his most annoying friend, who could potentially be the reason why he has developed this trait in the first place. The friend takes this as a sign from Pi and makes himself comfortable, insisting on sharing his escapades with me… all night long (emphasizing the ‘long’).

Obviously last night was not a lone incident. Pi has dozed off in other people’s houses, sometimes in their couch in sitting position (if they are lucky), or sometimes in their master bed in diagonal sleeping position (if they are unlucky). “So, this is your new bed, eh? Let me see if it feels comfor…..zzzzzzz… Snoooooorrrrrreeee… burrrrr… brrrrroooom… vrrrrooom”… and very soon he launches off the alien mating calls.

Here’s one more disturbing fact. None of our friends have shown any concern or disapproval. They are either too polite (remember we are talking about my friends) or pretty pleased to get Pi out of the way. Personally, I shall take that as a compliment, thank you!

Huh, What was that again?

I am convinced that I should have developed into a high-profile, Armani-wearing, Jaguar-driving executive by now. After blaming my high school math teacher, my crooked teeth and my rotten toe nails for not becoming the highly successful person I should have been, I have finally realized where the true problem lay. In my Fake American Accent (FAA). The last time I was giving a presentation, I was more focused in figuring out how to pronounce ‘route’ …rowt or root? By the time the word presented itself in front of me, I was so exhilarated by the possibility of masking my Indian accent that I forgot what point I was trying to make. So with a painful expression, I ended up drawling, 'I just had a Rowt-canal.'

I am screwing up so bad that the whites have started to think my FAA is actually the way we Indians normally speak. Then an Indian colleague comes along and confuses them even more by saying this is actually the British Accent because the British taught us how to speak English during their extended stay in our country.

When we first came to USA, we had to repeat words twice and spell out our names. Frustration crept in pretty quick and we changed the way we spoke and shortened our names. ‘Hi, table for two…the name is Sue!’ But there are some of us who are stubborn and stick to our roots (or maybe routes). We continue to spell out the 14 letters of our last name…D as in David, A as in Adam, H as in Jesus…and by the time we are done, we have the all the biblical names covered and the person typing the name gasping for breath. ‘Sorry’, I say (not feeling apologetic at all), 'My parent’s way of teaching me the alphabet.’

It always helps to try and fit in, to enable the majority to comprehend you so that you can be sucessful in half the time it takes for a person repeating words. The intention is to be global, but in the end of the day we get drawn to the people with whom we can converse with ease and poke fun of their FAA. Hence for most part, Indians hang out with Indians, Chinese with Chinese and Mallus with Mallus.

When I am with Indians, I don’t stop talking- all the time thinking that the universe might vanish without hearing what I have to say. But with the Americans, I am unusually tongue tied, busy forming sentences in my mind with the FAA. When I catch myself saying something in my Indian accent, I correct it immediately making it look even more preposterous. I squirm and to cover up, I reach for the cookie and stuff my mouth and keep nodding. So for most of the conversation I stick to -Sure! Awesome! Yeah! Kewwl! and of course, the universal hahaha!. So Americans think I am dumb at the best and psycho at the worst.

I do not impress anyone anyway. So I have made up my mind. I am sticking to what I am comfortable with. I will speak like an Indian, with pride. After all, I need to give the Americans a chance to be global. If they don’t understand my English language, they’ll at least get my body language. *finger shooting up*

Gori tera gaon bada pyara

Just like everyone else (except of course Sonia Gandhi), I arrived in America to do my masters. Yuck, not really. I wasn’t a part of any kinky slave trade. Rephrasing, I came to the United States to study like the throngs of other Tam Brams. I saw more eligible bachelors in Gainesville, Florida, than I ever saw in Tamil Nadu. I tidied up my horoscope and brought out the best jasmine strand and waited to be wooed by the ultimate pick-up line, ‘Which college did you pass out of?’

But alas, the desi boys were busy savoring the culture and trying hard to fit in. The same eligible bachelors spent majority of their waking day walking in slow motion, gawking at American couples making out (from a safe distance of 2 feet). Slow motion became motionless when a particular fair lady came bouncing along in what could be construed as a ‘shimmy’ in India. Most of our boys suffered from acute eyeball-to-lowball syndrome. Every endowed female of the Caucasian clan could only avert her gaze so much 'coz wherever she looked, she saw a Desi staring at her popping cleavage. She would have to smile if there was eye-contact, thus pushing our brethren into the deep abyss of sleepless nights and lone activities. Lord was to be praised if even one guy had his window facing the apartment swimming pool. Some brave ones would venture into the pool only to drown in estacy of being in the same body of water as the body of blonde and eventually be saved by his trunks turning into sails. This happened for much of the first semester. As you might have guessed, my jasmine flower strand just withered away in abject despair. I started to question my decision to come to the United States.

By second semester, a few rude shocks shook our men to reality:
1. The girls didn't care much for the 3 inch thick glasses, VIP designer frenchies and open mouths.
2. The girls didn’t make idli-sambar
3. They didn’t smell like their mom
4. They couldn’t integrate or for that matter differentiate
5. They owed a lot of themselves to their surgeon.
6. They weren’t female. (Some guys were lucky not to reach that point of discovery)

(Oh well, other than #1, everything was a manifestation of my imagination combined with natural flair for over-emphasizing.)

Just when the desi guys frantically turned to their mothers for procuring the vendakka curry recipe that would definitely impress me, I met Andy.

Stay tuned.

One Desperate Soul to Another

Pittsburgh social life is looking up for us. FINALLY!

I replied to a plea on the internet. I will keep you posted on our budding friendship.
I've copied this guy's post and my reply follows:

Looking for friends (Anywhere in Pittsburgh)

Posted on: Friday, 29 June, 2007 12:28

Hi,
I will probably get a lot of flak for this post but this is really a final ditch effort to find some decent friends in the Pittsburgh region. Over the last few years, my wife and I have had a tough time finding friends who are sophisticated yet warm. We either find people who're too snooty or pretentious or those who are gauche and inflexible to living a life commensurate with the ways of the US.

We're looking for friends who:

1. Are active, fun and sophisticated.

2. Are not parochial.

3. Are perfectly bi-lingual in English and Hindi.

4. Are interested in travelling and learning new activiites.

5. Are between 25-35.

If you know what I mean and are nodding empathetically, you're the kind of person we want to meet. If you're confused or annoyed because you think that friends are not meant to be mail-ordered, I completely understand. Please accept my apologies and disregard this post. My aim was not to offend anyone. It was just an easy way to find friends that share the same tastes.

_______________________________________________
Look No Further

Dear friendless in Pittsburgh,

My husband and I have moved to Pittsburgh from Chicago and we are on the brink of moving back if we don't find friends in this area soon. I just dropped my packed bags when I saw this post of yours. We nodded so much that we are on tranquilizers now. We are the right people for you and you wife to hang out with. And here’s why-

We have credentials and would qualify for all the points-

1. We are very active. Hubby channel surfs while lying on the couch and drinking beer (actively multitasking) while I am actively thinking on how to throw the TV while he blinks.
Regarding fun, we laugh at appropriate times when one says something that is perceived funny. Like your post.
I am not sure if owning a pair of shoes qualifies for sophistication, but I assure you we wear shoes. Hubby has stopped spitting on the roads ever since Bihar stopped exporting paan. (Of course, this was to also to be flexible to living a life commensurate with the ways of the US)

2. You can be rest assured we are not parochial since we are not entirely sure what it means.

3. Except 'parochial', I think we know all the words in English, even 'bi-lingual'. Sadly, my hubby needs subtitles to watch Hindi movies. Damn it! I knew this trait in him would pose a threat to our social life one day!

4. We love traveling just to eat pretzels offered in airlines. We are mostly constipated from this indulgence. We don't mind learning new activities as long as they are geared towards somehow getting ourselves featured in the Limca Book of World Records. We are in the process of making dinnerware from earwax.

5. For the first time I feel good about my age. Thank Heavens I am not 23 or even 24!

Please consider our application and let us know at the soonest if we made the cut. We are in dire need of friends and I am not kidding this time.

P.S. - You both are invited to dinner anytime. (Hope this brings out our warm personality)

Sincerely,
Hubby and I

Theta's curse

Theta is a cleanliness freak. He is the reigning champion in fact; the whole world of clean freaks idolize him and Cleaners Digest ran a 10 page article on his sanitized undies. It is rumored that Theta will achieve the coveted Godliness stature in just another year; the only man to even venture into this program through the cleanliness track. He frets and fumes at the sight of a little thumb print on his sparkling wooden floor and will spend 30 agonizing minutes wiping the print off with some sort of liquid that will banish fingerprints, but will not alter the shade of the wood. We all watch in awe when Theta wipes off a dust particle from his balcony railing the minute it disembarks. The fact that he also manages a full time job elsewhere perplexes many. Dust Particles Mafia, in their grimy underworld, have allocated an award of 6 million USD if any of their kin set foot (or whatever they use to move around) in Theta’s house. If they can stay long enough to take pictures of his living room, they would be decorated in the Hall of Stain.

Theta starts losing hair (which he promptly picks up and discards) whenever he knows guests are to arrive in his immaculate abode, especially his good friend Alpha. Alpha is careless and absentminded, has no regard for spotless washbasins and leaves colorless fingerprints on the wall below his switch boards. She washes her hands and doesn’t even wipe the basin clean afterwards. She sits on his sofa and doesn’t spray Febreeze at 5 minute intervals. One day she walks in, offers to make Aloo Gobi and while carelessly mixing the vegetables laden with turmeric and masala, she flings a whole dollop of sabzi from the tawa to the carpet in the dining area missing the linoleum floor of the kitchen completely. Mortified Theta managed to keep his calm under circumstances. He was wheeled back from the hospital within a week of surviving a cardiac arrest. Then he promptly ran over to Walmart, bought the best carpet stain remover that claimed it could remove all conceivable stains from beetle nut spit to Dinosaur blood. But there was no mention of turmeric stain. Theta found the out the hard way that Stain removers don’t lie. He then spent a fortune on a kasmiri rug with stain protection to cover up the yellow mark. He has, since then, banned Alpha from cooking in his house, much to the joy of everyone concerned.

The incident was long forgotten and recently Alpha arrived in Chicago to stay over at Theta’s. Alpha was home alone that morning and deciding to show some appreciation for their lasting friendship, she embarked on a cooking spree. Palak Paneer sounded like a great plan. She boiled the spinach, taking utmost care not to spill anything anywhere. She meticulously cleaned up every box of condiments touched so that there is no evidence of her ever cooking there. Nothing could go wrong. She was going to break the myth of her being a cooking disaster when she cooked at Theta’s place. She brought out the mixie to grind the palak. She turned it on…

She didn’t know how it happened, but 2 seconds and a horrifying noise later, there was bits of palak everywhere! Not just in the mixie, but on Alpha’s face, on the floor, on the counter top, on the sofa, on the artificial flower arrangement and on his TV. Old memories came flooding. She also remembered breaking an egg on his cell phone by mistake. How come these things happen only in his house, she worried. Alpha felt she should have tied herself to the corner of the house and stayed there for the whole day licking a bone. Luckily now that he had moved homes, there was no carpet involved. It’s all wooden floor. Easy to clean. So Alpha spent the better part of the afternoon using up all his kitchen towels and cleaning liquids. She felt satisfied at the sparkling result while every muscle in her body ached. She would get allergic reactions at the sight of palak henceforth.

Evening arrived. Small references to depleted paper towels were made and dismissed quickly much to Alpha’s relief. Palak paneer, made out of remains that was lifted off the floor and extracted from Alpha’s nostrils, was immensely enjoyed by Mr. and Mrs. Theta. They licked it all off and asked for more. Alpha sat smug, exonerated from her secret crime.

Suddenly, out of the blue, Theta gasped loudly looking skywards, 'What the F*** are those things on the ceiling? Oh Man! Jeez, I never saw anything like that before! Is my roof getting fungus?!!!’

Alpha looked up and saw it too. Huge chunks of dried-up spinach were suspended like stalactites. Dammit! If only she knew where to look, there would have been sufficient quantity of Palak Paneer.

Now the world talks of their friendship in past tense.

La Symbiose à Paris

If you haven’t understood your Biology lessons in school, here is a chance. My second day in Paris will be able to elucidate these topics with examples.

There are various categories of symbiosis seen when two organisms interact:

Parasitism, in which the association is disadvantageous or destructive to one of the organisms and beneficial to the other (+ −)

So here I was wondering as to how I managed to convince myself to come to Eiffel Tower when I was having a great time shopping at Champs Elysees when I was interrupted by an Indian guy asking me to take a picture of him in front of the tower. Obviously I obliged. He felt obligated to take a picture of me in the same location with my camera, making me stand with a hand on my hip and my head slightly bent for studio quality photograph. I obliged to his obligation. That’s when the story went downhill... or rather, up the tower.

I started to wander around the base of the tower and wherever I turned, I met him by sheer coincidence of course. ‘Can you take a photo here in front of that statue?’
‘Now let me take yours. Give me your camera.’

‘Oh look, it’s you again. One more photo please!’… and then so it went on forever.

That explains my extreme emotions in certain photos. So I ran amok to try to flee from the Photo-Nazi when I was confronted with a superb idea. I decided to climb the stairs instead of taking the elevator as a means of escape. Seeing his bulk in person and through the lens, I was pretty sure he’d find a more sedentary prey to continue with his Eiffel Tower portfolio.

In five minutes of running up the stairs, I heard unmistakable panting and puffing. ‘Do you know I am a Sri Lankan? Huff..Pufff.. slow down. I want a picture taken here on the stairs!’

‘Wait, let me take a picture of you in my camera and send it to you by email. Isn’t it so cool that we found each other to take pictures? ’

That does it! I sprinted ahead, crouched behind a dustbin and didn’t move for 30 minutes straight. Yes, at the cost of looking suspicious to people wanting to throw trash. That’s when I lost him much to my utter delight.

BTW, when you do have time after escaping from self obsessed Sri Lankans, do look out of the tower. It’s got a great view with no openings to throw yourself out of!

Mutualism, in which the association is advantageous to both (+ +)

Back in Champs Elysees, a Chinese guy stopped me in the middle of the sidewalk and asked me if I spoke English. Very wary that it might be for some money, I replied in affirmative. Maybe I liked being asked for money. Gives me kicks that people think I do have money. Especially decently dressed individuals like himself. But he didn’t ask me for any cash. He gave me some infact. 330 Euros in hard currency. He asked me to quickly put the sum in my pocket lest someone notices. I was about to thank him and skip away into the sunset; but like all sweet deals, there was a catch to this one. I was asked to buy this particular wallet from Louis Vuitton (for which he had a sample) for him. I get no commision in this deal and I could very well be arrested if the notes were counterfiet. But in some whim, I agreed to carry out this weird request. If he had asked me to take a picture of him, I might have screamed. This way, I thought to myself, I get to go inside the swanky LV store and actually buy something. I could walk out of the store for one block with a Louis Vuitton bag in my hand. Hah! This is great!

Before you conclude I am quite an abnormal person, he did mention that he wasn’t being let into the store and I had heard rumors that stores in Paris were known for their snooty behaviour. Helping the hapless and walletless was my prerogative.

So I walked in effortlessly and stayed in the store for an hour admiring the disgusting purses locked up behind glass cases some billed at 20,000 Euros. I took my own time as I had to keep our Chinese man on his toes. Hopefully he was breaking into a sweat thinking that I actually ran away with his money from some underground passage. After going from one sales rep to another, I was finally handed the wallet in forceps to check. It was then neatly wrapped in some box and placed in a LV bag. ‘Ma’am, credit card or cash?’

I needed cash so the thought of using my credit card did occur, but I decided against it imagining it would hurt me more than the store if that money was actually fake.

As I walked out, I could see him waving to me across the street excitedly, at the same time suspiciously looking around. Anyway, I handed the wallet to him asking him to check if it was alright. He grabbed the bag, thanked me quickly, threw the packaging, pocketed the wallet and walked away real fast. A little perplexed, I was glad to take the empty bag home.

If you ever buy a fake LV from Chinatown for 10 bucks, remember Alpha and thank her for that prototype that she provided to make your purse look like an exact replica.

Chinese people were having a tough time entering the store.

Commensalism, in which one member of the association benefits while the other is not affected (+ 0)

I saw Arch De Triomph at the far end of Champs Elysees and decided to get a closer look having come this far. As I went closer, familiar music engulfed me. ‘No way! No freaking way!’

Abhishek, Lara and the croonies were here too. Second day in a row. My stars were aligned perfectly and literally. Same clothes, different venue…the song sequence continues. I was hoping to let Aby baby know about my plans for the next day so I could see him again. Sigh!

But I Love Their Sandwiches

Day 1.

‘Indian?’ asked the equally Indian looking lady behind the Subway counter.

I nodded and smiled genially.

Day 2.

‘Try this Southwest Chipotle sauce. Bahut accha hai.’

I nodded and smiled genially. I ate sandwich with Southwest Chipotle sauce.

Day 3

‘Have a cookie. Rakh lo beta. No, no, I am not charging you for that.’

I couldn’t believe this. Me, who doesn’t even win a single pepsi can in lotteries, is getting a free cookie from strange Indian lady. I ate sandwich with Southwest Chipotle sauce and free cookie.

Day 4

‘This sandwich is on me.’

Woah! Hold it lady. Next you’ll give me your shop and I don’t think I can handle this business. I ate free sandwich with Southwest Chipotle sauce and free cookie.

She came and sat next to me , 'Beta, where do you work? What is your caste?'

‘Brahmin? That’s ok. I think we can adjust.’

‘You must meet my son. He owns this store. Have you seen him? He is 45 and we are having a hard time finding a bride.’

I broke the news of my long standing torrid affair with my husband expecting an uncomfortable apology and maybe another white chocolate macadamia cookie for peace.

She got up and walked off unceremoniously. Luckily she didn’t grab the last bit of the cookie that was being stuffed in a hurry.

That’s when I realized I was her investment, a risky one at that. It would have been better if she was selling Amway products. I could have at least thrown a few curses and walked out in a huff. A 45 year old? Aiala!! Wonder if Botox is the way to go.

Strange encounters with Subway women don’t end there. So as you would have guessed, I stopped going to that place. I wouldn’t have been able to deal with the trauma of not getting free stuff anymore. I tried another Subway joint. Again an Indian lady behind the counter. Much younger and hipper. She spoke incessantly without ever letting me interrupt her for what I wanted on the sub. ‘Err..I don’t want those onions.’

‘Forget that, what I was saying is my husband comes to work at 5 pm. Till then I have to run this store. For a graduate from NIFT, I don't think I deserve this. I was better off attending parties in Delhi. Now I have three kids. I know it doesn’t look like that…..’

I got to eat what she thought was good for me. Even as I ate, she managed to leave her work to somebody else and continued her yak sessions with me. I munched on my lunch and she spoke about the travails of living in the US as a bread-wali. 'Imagine what my friends in Delhi must be thinking of me... yada yada... zardosi sarees...yada yada...'

Today she couldn’t get off from her duties (silent prayer of thanks), so she quickly ran towards me and slipped her phone number.

‘Give me a call. We should go on a date on Sunday.’

Whatever it is, I better get busy looking for another Subway restaurant in the area.

In case you are missing my writing

As if writing on my blog was not enough, I was invited to write on Desi Pundit. Check this out only after you are done feasting your eyes on the porn because if it was that worth it, I would have written a separate post to alert you (it's on the top right corner).

Since Ash is the only contributor in DP who seems to have taken the onus of scanning my posts to see if any are worth linking, I have to make sure she doesn’t go on vacation. I must thank DP for sending a few clueless travelers my way who only have to take one look at Draupadi and run for the nearest exit.

Life stamped

Only the once-wannabe-serious-Philatelic will relate to this post. The rest of you, what’s new?

As a kid, you needed a hobby to answer the question- What is your hobby? There was no other hobby other than stamp collecting that easily came to everyone's mind. Collecting abuses was not a serious pursuit as uniqueness was generally frowned upon. So stamps it was. Collecting them was not the hard part. You pillage, plunder and steal and before you know it you have three assorted boxes full of stamps of various origins containing diverse saliva. The two of the three boxes are in your friend’s house for the time being (till she dies a premature death). You owe 90% of your collection to your uncle who has been looking for his stamps to date.

It’s the categorization and organization that gets tricky. Now to trade stamps, you need to be able to display your wares in a professional manner. Sitting in boxes, under the bed, they end up getting stuck to each other in the heat and no one in their right frame of mind would exchange stamps with you. You dream of filing them all in a fancy album, carefully labeled with notes of the origin and history of each stamp. The exciting world, past and present, lies before you in the form of tiny bits of paper with serrated edges. You coax your parents to buy you a stamp book and they threaten to stop your weekly subscription to Amar Chitra Katha. So you use up all your pocket money to buy this album and curse Amar Chitra Katha for having such a strong hold on you.

The air in the room fills up with excitement when you actually are able to put your plan to action sorting them into different countries- Bharat, India, Malawi, Danmark, etc.. Then you put them in tiny covers and label them while they wait to get displayed on the album as their final destination. A rare Japanese stamp of a panda bear keeps you occupied in admiration for some time. You know it’s rare coz none of your friends have it. A circular one, a triangular one and you know you are probably the most sought after Philatelic in the parts. A smile.

Blue, pink, orange, yellow, green... these guys are so unoriginal. One more of these pesky little queen stamps, you just want to scream. Ok here goes..aaaaaaaaagggggrrrhhhh! How come you have too many Indian stamps? Way too many. No sucker wants to trade your 35 paisa Gandhi stamp with their Madagascar butterfly one. Wonder if these family planning stamps are really spreading the message? Or are they being delivered at the same rate as the babies? Who is Deendayal Upadhyaya and why is he important enough to be made a stamp of? Oh look, here’s the Leonardo Da Vinci one. Muah. Stick it next to the Mona Lisa. How cool!

Ouch your back hurts a little, your vision gets slightly blurred. Now you mechanically start distributing stamps without taking personal interest in them. Soon you start clubbing continents, as the space on your bed has become limited. Your brain is saturated and drained at the same time. You are at it for the last 12 hours and you aren’t even half way done. Numbness ensues and quickly you start gasping for breath. You look at the clock- its hours past midnight and if you don’t stop this now, you will probably throw them all out of the window in disgust(keeping a few rare ones of course). Overdoing things has always been a biggest cause of waning of exuberant interest that was once displayed. You are completely spent and bored out of your wits. With the last ounce of energy left, you clear the junk off your bed before you stagger and hit the pillow. Another day passes with only half your desires fulfilled.

Life is like collecting stamps. You collect little dreams, ideas, thoughts; some hackneyed and some rare. You want to compile those ideas, make an scrap book of your thoughts and implement a plan to realize those dreams. As you begin to execute them eagerly, you sometimes get tired, breathless, abandon interest and before you know it, you are 60. It’s time to retire. Time to complete that stamp album.

King Uncle

Chandamama (a magazine you would buy for your kids in the hopes of making them pious individuals1) carried the story of the king and this ghost. It was very intriguing, partly because it was an interesting read and partly because the spirit (as in ghost and not vodka) in the book was illustrated to be scary & sophisticated. But Doordarshan, in their zeal to keep kids from getting petrified, made Vetaal look like a cross between a polar bear and Manpreet Brar2. It wasn’t as scary as seeing Manpreet Brar as a whole. Vikram aur Vetaal series gave my Sunday afternoons a completely different meaninglessness. One hour of self imposed torture. I actually loved to watch vetaal who spent too much time in the beauty parlour, but none at the dentist. King Vikramaditya was either under the influence of something very potent or he didn’t bribe the historians enough to portray him as an intelligent and capable king. Who in the right mind would spend half his life in the graveyard with a guy who loved cuticura powder and yellow eye shadow? Maybe he loved the vetaal stories as much as I did. Here’s a hilarious account3 of the series.

The reason for my post is not about recounting my experiences of enacting the whole Vikram aur Vetaal bit with my unsuspecting brother. I would drag him out of bed, sling him on my back and throw him to see if he flew. The ending to this story is very traumatic with my mom locking me up in the balcony where I only felt it practical to learn flying and then teach my brother.

Here’s the real raison d’etre. In his hey days, my uncle was a chief engineer for the Narmada Valley Project (Please please, let’s not get all riled up against my family. He was only getting paid handsomely for it). He got to stay in the Narmada valley. Now you’d think that’s not a big deal. It isn’t till you hear that he gets to stay in King Trivikramasena’s palace4 on the banks of river Narmada in Madhya Pradesh. The name didn’t ring a bell till my dad told me that his other name in the vetaal community happened to be Vikram. I was in raptures when we were slated to meet uncle and his family for summer vacation. My brother was too little to understand the thrills of staying in such a historically significant locale. Maybe he was smart enough to know that this vetaal thing was probably hooky, a figment of someone's imagination to make Chandamama sell. All he could care about was the servants who’d bring a golden wash basin to bed and brush his royal teeth with diamond bristles. He makes the likes of Anna Nicole Smith pale in comparison. I was certain that my uncle wouldn’t be sitting on a throne, but I never broke that news to my giddy brother. In fact, I did something I would come to regret. I encouraged him. I told him stories of a raging war against neighboring king in which King Uncle came out victorious to the cacophony of conch noise. His white elephant had tusks as big as the slide in the park. And of course, our Queen Aunty would spend idyllic days in the palace gardens (that’s the only thing that happened to be true).

My brother couldn’t hide his excitement in the train. He told the co passengers that he was on the way to meet his King Uncle and that if they happened to be on the same train on the way back, he would reward them with a few pearl necklaces that he’d bring from the treasury. My parents shot worried looks at each other. I was amused no end. Co passengers pulled his cheeks.
My uncle and aunt came to receive us at the station. One look at them and my brother completely lost his marbles. His wails competed with that of the conch din he had been made to envision. My uncle was taken aback by this sudden display of affection. Through his sobs, he made it clear that he wasn’t interested in traveling with a crownless king. Amused, my uncle said he had left his crown at home (er..palace) as he had to come incognito to escape from the enemy’s eyes.

Part two of my brother’s displeasure took place in the parking lot when he saw a car instead of a horse chariot. So to appease him, we took a detour to Ujjain where we hired a tonga (horse cart) to take us around the city; all the while my uncle had to pertend to be the king. I think that reconciled my brother a bit as we didn’t hear much of his howling till we reached home.

The palace- It was just fabulous. In my scheme of trying to goad my brother, I had downgraded my own expectations of this place. Not one of the huge castles with moats and canons, but a really humungous bungalow capable of accommodating only the royalty. A palace of a king who ruled small kingdom. The scene took us back a couple of centuries even though the palace was renovated with modern amenities. Red carpets and wood paneling still dominated certain rooms. Ornate chandeliers and unexplored rooms. Manicured lawns with dancing peacocks. Huge balcony with a painting-perfect view of river Narmada flowing in the backyard that housed scampering monkeys whose granddad probably made faces at the brave King (or found the ruby in the fruit). King Vikram may easily have spent days standing here watching the sun set across the river, wondering if he should accept any more fruit from suspicious vendors.

There is something to be said of places that are not made into museums and are left for you to discover. There is something to be said about running along the river to find a graveyard. There is a lot of be said of imaginations and transporting yourself to an era you have always wondered about.

The best part of the palace was the basement that was converted to my uncle’s office. An oversized mahogany table and chair that only looked proportional to the size of the room. An enviable library with topographical maps lining the walls. A scaled down model of the controversial dam with my uncle's imposing presence completed the picture. ‘Saab, aapke liye chai5,‘ the servant chimed in. He truly was a King uncle. My brother beamed with pride as uncle lifted his non-golden cup of steaming tea.

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Latest Update: Since I was just 10 when we went to visit uncle, I wanted to validate my memory and gather more information about this palace of King Vikramaditya. So I called my cousin in DC as King Uncle happens to be his dad.

Me: Cousin bro, where in MP was that Vikramaditya’s palace…where you guys lived?

Cuz: Vikramaditya? You mean, the vetaal king?

Me: Oh oh, don’t say a word. Ok, break the news. Was he even a king?

Cuz: It was Maharaja Holkar’s summer palace in Barwah.

Me (very very disappointed, especially since I wrote a whole freakin post on this Vicky fella): But papa told me it was King Vikram.

Cuz (mocking laughter): Your papa was probably pulling your leg. King Vikramaditya’s palace wasn’t too far off, if that is any consolation. It was in Ujjain. You probably did feel the chill of the vetaal while you were there.

Me (feeling more cheated than my brother would have felt, considering I believed it all along. Damn the power of believing what you want!): Is Holkar a decent king? I mean, did Chandamama have stories about his greatness?

*sulk*6

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1. In my case they forgot to hide the Harold Robbins
2. For people who aren't google educated, Manpreet Brar is a model, VJ and looks like a well bred horse (Google won't divulge that info)
3. Zap is a crazy blogger whom I used to frequent long time ago when he was in Rediff. He couldn't handle the fans and so he escaped. Thanks to vetal, I found him.
4. It is normal to allow Govt. officials to stay in renovated palaces during their tenure.
5. Sir, tea for you. ( I am pandering to my international and Tamil audience)
6. Still sulking

The what-if diaries of Missus Alpha Missra

February 14, 2000- Happy Balentines Day! Sigh. The reason why I was completely bowled over by Rossan was when he made a portrait of me by spitting chewed up tobacco on the wall of our Fluid Mechanics lab. He’d chew and then spit, chew and spit, c&s, c&s (sitting at a distance of six feet on a rocking chair)- till he created that masterpiece which I believe has become a holy spot for lovers from all over. Ross has actually changed a lot since marriage. He’s not as romantic anymore. No flowers, no greeting cards, no portraits, no nothing. I think this is due to the lack of boring moments such as the Soil Mechanics class here in the village. Not a dull moment here. When I am not watching the grass grow, I’m making babies.

April 20, 2000- I thought I should keep a diary just to document my life here in Goriteragaon, Bihar. It also gives me an opportunity to keep in touch with English and mainly keep track of my kid’s names- Manipozhi, Thalaiarazan, Kodaiazhaghi, Manmathakunju and the last one is Maangaoorga…(yeah, I protested against Bihari names and I prevailed. Made sure there is no ‘v’ in the names so that they won’t have trouble pronouncing them. A name like Vamsh in Bihar could be easily mispronounced as Bums).

Regarding keeping in touch with English, I guess it’ll come in handy when we take that vacation with the kids to Patna next month. I still remember when I set my foot in this house and Ross introduced me to his parents. He told them that I was a Trasportation Engineer and that I would make roads in Bihar as soft as Hema Malini’s cheeks. “Teeransportassan? U ka hai babuwa? Bahu sadak banayegi? Humri naak katwani hai ka!“ (Daughter –in-law will make roads? And cut our noses?)

Hema Malini’s cheeks do not have truck traffic on them, I protested quite worried about the high standard that was being set. But that was the last time I heard of Transportation Engineering.

May 3, 2000- I should continue to nag Ross to stop eating paan. It causes stains on his shirts and the amount of Surf I use is causing my monthly Hashish/Ganja budget to dwindle. On my insistence he stopped whistling at other women or having sudden urges to draw portraits of them. One step at a time.

I will never forget the wedding reception when everyone danced to “Khaike Paan Banaras Wala” and I jumped on the dance floor too only to realize everyone else stopped doing what they were doing and started staring at me. Must learn to keep emotions under control here. Seems like people get scandalized easily. And somehow my mother-in-law being pregnant for the 20th time hasn’t shocked a single soul. Strange! By the time I have all the names of his family members down, 7 more are born.

May 15, 2000- My parents tell me that my US cousin gets up at 5 am, goes running for some 2 kms, washes her car, cleans her own bathroom and cooks food in the evening. That’s too much work. Udders are easy to clean than undercarriages of cars. Oh, I forgot to tell you- I got a buffalo for my birthday that I named Anti. The in-laws thought I would get excited and jump up and down at the sight of Anti, but I was very indifferent. I would have preferred a cow.

August 22, 2001- My brother-in-law just got abducted and got forced into some marriage (looks like the parents of the women will do anything to procure slightly educated guys- or guys with educated sister-in-laws) . Wait till the abductors find out BIL is gay. In-laws bummed about dowry situation. Even in my case, my dad refused to give them the Kinetic Honda or the old Onida TV. So they are cursing their fate and I have a feeling that grandma-in-law is probably going to get a heart attack any moment. Ok, need to go and access situation and be ready to wail loudly if deemed.

May 30, 2006- I long ago no riting. So much hapening Goriteragaon. Anti die. Little cry. Happily new cow buying and name of cow giving - Anti. I is loving cow. But died buffalo getting up from died and becoming live. Socking and screaming. Not good I tell. Not good for two animals keeping name Anti. So I giving new name for old buffalo- Buffalo formerly known as Anti. As a Tam Bihari would say- Udderly kilebbur!

A love story that started with La loo (French for toilet)

Some years ago in college, Building Drawing class-

Professor: What is this I say, why is there no toilet in your house plan, eh?

Student: Sasura pagla gaye ho ka? Oo ka hai ki humra Bihar ma, khetwa hi humra sandas hovat. Ab ismein hamri ka galti hai? (In Bihar, we use the fields)

I laughed and looked back. That is when I noticed Roshan Mishra. He blushed, the color of his face fighting to dominate the color of his paan stained teeth. Gabbar Singh of Sholay fame is rumored to have been modeled after our Rossan Missra. ‘Arey o Chamakchalo! Coming to home?’ he called out to me.

I turned around quick and didn’t dare to look back.

But the romance had blossomed even before the seed of the fateful apple tree was sown. I was duly sent flowers to my hostel signed- I love you.- Roshan Mishra.

Ewwww! (Every successful romance starts with utter disgust, said a wise man, who obviously didn't account for Roshan Mishra or hungover Cupid)

Then I got a greeting card which I regret not preserving for posterity. It said something like- I love you. You looking very cueit in the pink dress. Ware today.- Roshan (I am VP frend)

Yikes! He’s getting all cozy now and he also threatened me with the VP link. Rabri devi, ma, meri raksha karo! (Save me!) Why do I have to look so cute to Biharis in particular? Why does my laughter have to have that Jhumritalaiya ring to it? Bhy, I mean why? I need therapy now!

Pink salwar-kameez was pushed to the bottom-most part of my shelf with a hazardous warning scribbled all over it.

But he had full faith in his charms and my weak melting heart. Next thing I know, I got a gift. A framed pencil sketch of something that was supposedly me. I have to admit, it wasn’t as bad as his building plans. It was in fact, way-off-the-charts better than me.



My friends were moved to tears. They urged me to consider going with him to the land of Laloo and help propagating the Mishra family in hopes of increasing the literacy rate in Bihar by a whole percentage (I do realize that is a lot of kids). My so called friends also called me ruthless and bought me ‘Unlearn English in 30 days’ so that Ross and I wouldn’t have comoonicassan (rhymes with Kamal Hassan) problems.

Somehow, heartlessly so, I didn’t choose the life that would have fetched me fresh warm buffalo milk on daily basis, but I did read the book (which explains my English today). In Ross’s honor, I have taken to backpacking because when I stay in tents, I have to go out to answer nature’s calls. Just like in Bihar.

Planes, cabs and elevators

Lately I discovered my ability to use time effectively when stranded in an airport for 5 hours.

1. I took the escalator up and down (maybe 10 times) till I got a call in my cell phone from Pi asking me not to come back and sit next to him. ‘Act as if you don’t know me.’ That’s easy considering I just found out he flunked in English while in 3rd grade. Makes me worry about the other things he has managed to keep away from me just to get married.

2. Went into a watch store and tried all the available watches on display. The fact that I left my own watch hanging there somewhere shouldn’t deter you from trying this. Along the same line, I tried all the creams in Body Shop till I passed out due to overpowering stench.

3. Next, I spent some time in the bathroom making sure the lipstick I smeared in Body Shop didn’t look like I kissed a leaking drainage pipe. Actually going to the loo almost made me miss a flight in Amsterdam once. Flash back- When my turn came to use the booth, there were probably dozen ladies waiting (cross-legged) for me to be done and get out soon. Doing part wasn’t hard. Getting out was coz I couldn’t find the freaking flush, try as hard as I may. In a 3X 3 space, I searched every potential hiding place. I did jumping jacks thinking there might be some motion activated sensor…but nothing at all. It just wouldn’t flush. I spent close to half hour in panic when I heard some rude knocks from people convinced that I decided to change my address to this loo. Finally I decided to brave the crowd and explain situation and forbid them from going inside. When I opened the door, I heard the flush behind me. Who the heck invents these things?!!!

4. I talked to random people hoping they are either dentists or tailors staying very close to me in Chicago so I can use their services. Most of the times they turn out to be people stressed out about the delay in flight. So they stress me out too.

We finally reached Chicago at midnight, stressed and tired. The last thing you want to deal with is an over-friendly cab driver with a Russian accent who feels he is required to make conversation to get paid.

Cabbie: Ho Ho Ho! (might be moonlighting for Santa Claus when it is December in these parts) Wherzzz arzz you comeen from? (that’s not the drinks, but thick accent) Izzz zoo colzz ouzzz heeya , wozz zooo zzooo? (It’s so cold out here, what to do?) Ho ho ho!

From now on, I will give you translated version (or whatever of it I gathered). The preview was for you to realize how irritating it was when all I heard was a buzz and heckling laughter at the end of every sentence, graciously sprinkled with ‘what to do’ and ‘you know’.

Pi: Pittsburgh. The weather was great there.

Cabbie: Why come back here? Stay there only. (Remember to add 'Ho ho ho' after every sentence and ‘What to do’)

Pi (polite laugh)

Cabbie: What do you do Miss, other than spend all his money?

Me: (his money? What the heck?!) Ahh, I nag him too.

Cabbie: Of course, of course. Must tell you joke about women, pardon me , what to do… (some MCP joke for which Pi laughed politely again)

Cabbie: Lizzzzin to this joke….(something about horse and George Bush)

Pi (polite laugh)

Cabbie: I am sorry. I should put music but I am bothering you with my chatter.

Me (music to my ears. I nod furiously. Yes! music music)

Cabbie: This joke was so funny, so funny that a bartender gave me free beer when I told him this (tells another joke about something only Pi understood as he laughed politely again.)

Me wondered if bar tender’s idea was to get him piss drunk so he could pass out on the floor quickly.

Me: O Cabbie, what about the music?

Cabbie: She didn’t understand my joke and hence couldn’t take the insult. Ho ho ho! I know you will ask your husband in the night to explain all the jokes and next time I meet you , maybe you will laugh.. ho ho ho! (Goes on to tell another joke)

I was quite mad by now. Pi was chilling out and laughing at the right moments. Must ask Pi if some cabbie had scarred him in childhood. Why was he feeling so obligated to humor him? Someone tell him that this guy is not his Father-in-Law.

Me: Ok, tell me some interesting jokes about your passengers. Oh, but you may not have any because you don’t even let them talk. Ho ho ho!

Cabbie (to Pi): She talks too much. How do you deal with her? She is saying I don’t let her talk. My God. What to do! You know women are like that only. My wife…(another joke)

I kept mum for the rest of the journey to preserve my sanity and conserve enough energy to get home and stagger to the bed.

Pi: That’s our building.

Cabbie (pulling over): Ok fine, I will trust you Mister. If she had said it, I would not have stopped here.

Pi pulled out some money for the cabbie as we got out.

In the elevator,

Me: Why did you have to give him such a huge tip? I have a freaking headache because of that nut.

Pi: I was impressed. He was the only one who could keep you quiet for sometime, insult you and not get slapped.

An Ode to thee

Thanks dear. In response-

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Here's a little secret
I invested in you

The little things I buy
The small bills I pay
Is like watering a plant
That’ll bear fruit one day

You eat Ramen noodles
You pig on Nacho cheese
Your student way of life
Has made cooking a breeze

My in-laws are in awe of me
My parents give me sympathy
‘If you had let us arrange things,
We'd have found you a crorepathi.’

My friend's husband buys her
Coach bags and Prada gloves
Look, my little brother
Has gone and bought a house

But patience, I said to myself
And nagged you to the core
If you take another year
I'll fling the TV from the door

Folks, it’s the time to celebrate
My patience has finally paid
Six years of waiting
Now my dividends are made

You’ve landed a great job
Maybe you'll finish that thesis
Can't wait to blow your money
And yes, I love you to pieces!

Few of My Favorite Things

If I sat counting the number of times I have watched The Sound of Music, I might eventually fall asleep. The reason could be due to the fact that it was the only video cassette my parents possessed. When we lived in Andhra Pradesh, we didn’t have cables running through our primitive dwelling (or so called colony) and hence didn’t even get Doordharshan. Apart from my family, Dev uncle owned a TV. But without a VCR, the TV served no one. So 34 movie deprived colony folks would cram into our living room and my dad would screen ‘The Sound of Music’ with pride. The audience was thrilled and would clap every time someone said something- even when Captain Von Trapp was telling the teary eyed Maria to shut up.

They came diligently the next Sunday and they were treated to ‘The Sound of Music’ again. By the third round they had gotten over the novelty of a television actually working in these parts and paid rapt attention to the story and characters instead (while ooh-aahing over Salzburg). It took them some five more sittings to finally give up on the movie and look for other avenues of entertainment like climbing trees.

During New Years, the club house boasted of showing a new movie. ‘Not Sound of Music’ was printed on the flyers. People flocked eagerly and when the screen showed the breathtaking Alps and a little speck that quickly grew in proportion to look like Julie Andrews, the guests wanted to ship my dad off to Austria. The truth was that the organizers wanted to get the movie ‘Sita aur Gita’, but as luck would have it, there was some last minute betrayal. Hence my dad was their last resort.

But I was hooked to the timeless story of the seven children, their lovable governess, the stern captain and mostly the immortal score that was so pivotal to the movie. As a kid, I was enamored by those children. As a teenager, I was lusting after Christopher Plummer (like I said, I wasn’t exposed to any other man). I got quite intrigued by the story and poured into books on the World War and Hitler’s Nazi army. When I was 20, I was jealous of Maria because the guy I had a crush on, told me that he wanted to marry a girl just like her. As much as I may, I could’t stitch clothes or sing.

To this day I watch the movie when my heart is lonely. I still insist on crying.

'My favorite things' is my all time favorite. I won something for singing this song at a school competition. I might have been the only contestant or I might have been studying in a ‘hearing and speech impaired’ school, I don’t recall. I couldn’t get enough of 'Do Re Me', and in an effort to shut me up, my parents recorded my rendition and played it back to me. It did the trick.

Kala and I became very good friends as we bonded by singing ‘Maria’ mimicking the different high-pitched shrill nun voices. It was late at night in her house and her parents came running to the room thinking we were killing her cat.

I was inconsolable when I turned seventeen coz I could no longer croon -‘I am sixteen, going on seventeen’ with that conviction anymore. Innocent as a rose? Who was I kidding! No longer timid and shy and scared. Men, beware as I embark.

One of the best times I had during my Himalayan expedition was singing ‘The Hills are alive with the Sound of Music’ on the top of my lungs when I was surrounded by the snow clad Gharwal peaks on all four sides. I could feel what Maria felt in those hills. On top of the world. The rest of my team seemed to be freezing as they were clutching their ears with their gloved hands. I think am ready to visit the Austrian Alps. My practice ought to be thorough by now.

One day, completely throwing me off guard, a certain special someone sang to me ‘For here you are standing there loving me, whether or not you should.’ Reciprocating this romantic gesture, I laughed. Real hard.

I’m thankful to the movie and to my parents for shoving it down my throat. I still feel the lump. Thanks also to a friend who got me the DVD and CD a few years ago. Man, if one movie can give me so many nostalgic moments, I wonder how much more interesting life would have been if my parents had something that resembled a movie collection.

Move before the walls collapse on me

It’s normal for me to come back from work and get surprised in some way or the other. No no, not the husband cooking for me, lighting candles and putting garland on my portrait kinda surprise. That sorta thing will surely facilitate my name becoming a part of statistics for heart attack deaths. I was talking about pleasant ones like someone parking their car on my spot. I look forward to this. I rub my hands in glee, park my car in some public spot that I find after 20 minutes and a mile away from my apartment, lug myself back in the snow to the place where the culprit has parked his car. If you think this is too much work to derive pleasures from, stop bothering me in the middle of my narration. So I look around hoping the owner doesn’t suddenly appear when I am getting to the best part of the deal. I pull out my weapon- disgusting orange stickers that were handed to me by the building Supervisor, old man Jim. I peel them off and stick them liberally all over the car and proceed to my apartment feeling satisfied.

Old man Jim gave a stack of these stickers to calm me down once when I complained about the 100 bucks a month that I pay for the building parking. If I wanted exercise that bad, I would be giving the money to the gym, I argued. He said the building covered their basis and that it wasn’t their fault. Yes, there is a nondescript sign behind the bushes that says-… wait let me go closer to check what it says- Not Public Parking. Violators will be towed at their own expense. Apparently towing companies weren't told. The stickers would do the trick, he said. The stickers are really difficult to remove and can cause public humiliation. It says- Illegal Parking- Can be Towed. I wonder why I still see cars with scraped off stickers on my spot every day.

Yesterday I got back from work and lo!.. no stray car (sticker seemed to have worked at last) and so I glided into my spot and was wondering what I could do with all that extra time I had saved. As I was thinking of ways, I stepped into the elevator and tried to hit the 5 button after the door closed. It (the elevator) decided to retire from services just after I had walked in. The sinking feeling was not mental… the elevator actually was going below the first floor and came to a jerking halt. Swell! All my life I had been waiting for this moment. Now I can press that red button that says ‘In case of Emergency’ without feeling stupid. With trembling fingers, I gingerly pressed the button fully expecting the earth to split open or worse, my hubby materializing from somewhere and smacking my hand in admonishment. Nothing happened. Maybe I should give it some time. Meanwhile I pressed the ‘Alarm’ button. I could hear a bird chirping in Alaska, but I didn’t hear any alarm going off.

Maybe I ought to panic at least now. Oh wait, I had a cell phone. I called Pi sitting on the fifth floor not aware of his wife’s captivity in the Venus flytrap. He said he would try getting me out. Try? Is that the word he used?! I asked him to get the fire department here for my rescue operation. They would know how to break open the door and would have the required equipment. I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t look as handsome as a fireman.

I could have called them myself, but then I had to use all my cell-phone charge in letting my friends know about my plight in the hope of getting them concerned. When they started talking about their dinner plans and recipes, I was beginning to be concerned if they were friends in the first place. Anyway, as I hadn’t heard from hubby and was beginning to form thoughts of him partying with his friends, I thought of something that I could do to salvage this situation. I pulled out my lipstick and touched up my makeup. Eventually Pi would get hungry and they would save me and there might be local press. I better look good.

After an excruciating hour, I heard a faint knock and Pi asked me if I was still there. I screamed, ‘Do you think I had that much alcohol to just evaporate? Is the Fire Department here finally?’

I heard some pushing and shoving of the door and old man Jim’s drunk voice, ‘Hope you have a magazine to keep you busy. Hahaha!’

‘I wish I had planned this, Jimmy. I would have even brought some chips and coke and done some accounts while I am here.’ I was convinced that the building authorities had a problem only with me. I am the center of some building politics here. Victim of hate crime.

After what seemed like a complete waste of my time, the door slid open as I was sitting on the elevator floor twiddling my thumbs. No cameras straining to catch a glimpse of me, no neighbors standing with flowers, no CNN reporters, not even the friggin firemen. Just drunk ol’ Jim apologizing and feeling pleased with himself as I climbed out of the elevator shaft from somewhere between the basement and the ground floor. Life went back to being sucky just when it seemed promising.

This time I didn’t bother getting on the other elevator in spite of Jim’s assurance through his drunken teeth. Took the stairs. Fancy how nature conspires in making sure I get my daily dose of exercise.

Married to a Dumbo

‘Oh, Kundi told me that Bra is working in the same company as Boobs.’

I put the TV on mute and perked up my ears. Bra seemed to take centerfold of the otherwise geeky conversation with liberal sprinklings of Pinky, Lollipop and Grape. Shocking revelations indeed. My boyfriend (now hubby) was into something I had no idea of. This went a step further from the borders of kinkiness.

After this freaky phone conversation, I was all ready for a confrontation when he gleefully told me, ‘Guess who is coming down to visit us? Condom!’

This was the heights! To think IITians were a bunch of respectable folks who wouldn’t bring ‘that’ up on the second day of the relationship. And what a cheesy way to broach the topic.

Before I could call my girlfriends and weep, I was told that Condom was actually a guy who went to IIT with Pi. That was nickname given to him by his seniors as he brought some condiments from home. Yes, condiments became condoms.

So I will admit that we did have dinner with P-balls who didn’t flinch as he introduced himself. I will also admit that I don’t know his real name as it was never mentioned. My guess that it might be Prasad Balasubramaniam was of course very premature and juvenile. So I refrained from any more takes on his name especially after he assured me that his balls weren’t pea sized. Good to know, I guess.

Actually these days I am finally comfortable calling them by their nicknames with a straight face even in front of their wives, everyone except this guy called Romeo. Can you even fathom how that must be going for his wife? Me calling him Romeo is far from her troubles. Imagine a bunch of adult guys looking at him in the eye across the table in a dimly lit room going,’ Romeo, would you like some dessert?’

It’s not a very funny matter. They don’t recognize real names anymore.

‘Who Rajesh?’ ‘Rajesh Jayaraman? No, do not recognize him.’ What is the nick name?’ Oh Tampon?! Of course, he is my roomate and chaddi-buddy!’ (Note that chaddi-buddy is a great ad line for Tampax)

I believe it is a tradition, a passion and a full time hobby for many in IIT. The freshie is named, shaped and sent to the world as a different human being after four years. If only Victoria Secret knew that IITians were also involved in shaping a bra.

Say you are fed up of your given name. Now who wouldn’t be if you were named something like Karthik. How boring! You have seven other Karthiks in your class and you have no identity anymore. The other Karthiks don’t even look half as good as you. Time for a name change, but you can’t think of something that would do justice to your admirable, stunning personality. Your best bet- join IIT Madras and put the onus on your wonderful seniors. Be rest assured, after much deliberation and analysis, the best brains of India will congregate and confer upon you the name that will supersede any dull name that your parents spent months conjuring up. You will be aptly named ’Dumbo’.

I bet IIT-JEE has a case-question (this is taken from the 1997 paper)

You meet a guy called Srinivas Konchiluri on campus while you are happily farting with your friends. He is a freshie. He is wearing a peacock green shirt and laughs at everything you say even if it not funny. He is from Little Flower School, Hyderabad and says he plays in a Telugu band. What is the nickname you would give him? (2 minutes- 20 points)

Answers like Cheenu or Konchi will be the end of you. You might get a half decent score if you come up with LTTE- no relevance to the points mentioned in the question, but he looks like Prabakaran.

I am no expert in this field so I’ll refrain from coming up with the answer that would surely bag you the coveted seat of the IIT. I didn’t even make it past the first technical question. I went the easier route; I bagged the not so coveted husband of the same IIT.

Poorer by a day, richer by memories

I remember Chandu uncle having an animated discussion with Pi during our wedding reception. Anu aunty, looking gorgeous in her saree and the diamond mangalsutra, returned my curious look with a smile, ‘Oh, your uncle just found out that Pi is doing Phd. in Northwestern. They are bonding.’

Yes, of course! I should have realized. An alumnus from Northwestern University, Chandu uncle sure did have a few things to talk about. I overheard something about the Department, back entrance, corridors, west wing…and more specifics. Pi had to think twice to recollect and ascertain the exact location of the department water-cooler. I remember thinking that uncle does have a good memory considering he graduated from the institute during the late fifties. He went on to stay in Chicago for seven years after which he went back to India to complete his Phd. in 1974.

‘You both must visit Chicago when you come to the US,’ my request was rewarded five years later.

When I met the couple during Abhay’s graduation party recently, I thought the only way I could get uncle and aunty to undertake the long drive to our house was to lure uncle into a tour around Evanston and the Department building of Northwestern for an up-close look. His eyes lit up.

While we regaled uncle and aunty with tea and some snacks that I put together in such a hurry (hoping that the taste will be erased from their memory soon), I could see uncle was in the edge of the sofa and was definitely raring to go down the path of nostalgia. He kept glancing out of the window and admiring ‘his Evanston’. We decided not to test his patience anymore and jumped into one car to take the tour with someone who proved to be better than any GPS.

‘We have to go to 706 Washington St.’

Washington Street? Hmm..I think it comes to the left.’ I tried acting like an expert of this area.

‘No, I know exactly where it is. Keep going on Chicago Avenue,’ uncle instructed and Pi diligently followed. ‘Next turn right in 0.3 miles, yeah, the street after Main. Stop here!’ We were ready to bet that uncle did some homework with an Atlas before coming here. Our first stop was the apartment he lived as a student with a Chinese guy. ‘He used to cook some crazy stuff.’ The red brick building still stood in that corner waiting to be photographed 50 years later.‘ Everything looks the same. But I don’t remember this book store.’ We saw and vintage Plymouth parked on the street and Pi asked uncle if he remembers the car.

Pi, like a true resident, in his zeal to show Evanston told uncle that he was going east on Main Street to hit the scenic vistas of lake Michigan. But no, uncle was not done yet! ‘Pi, go left on Forest Avenue please. It will come now. Let me be your guide today.’ Sufficiently amused and getting the hint that we were not to mess with uncle, we played along in this Treasure Hunting game. Wasn’t much of a hunt as he knew exactly what he wanted to see and where we would find it. This time we stopped at his foster parent’s home. It was a bittersweet moment. He stood at the gate and looked at the house fondly while a surge of memories overpowered him. ‘I would walk from that apartment you saw and come here every Saturday. It was harder in the winters. I loved coming here and to share my stories with these lovely people who were like family. They had a separate dish for me as I was vegetarian.’

‘Like they have for their pet?’ Aunty was quick to add good-humouredly.

‘Yes, like that.’

It wasn’t hard to envision young uncle in his twenties shielding himself against the brutal winds, walking a mile to this house and eating salad from a doggie bowl. All this imagery was in black and white of course.

‘We should knock’, I suggested hoping for a grand reunion.

‘I don’t know. My foster parents are no more. Their kids are scattered all over. Nobody in that family stays here anymore. But I did keep in touch with one of their daughters and we visited them when we were in the US last time.’ I felt a lump in my throat.

As we were taking photos in front of this house, some of Pi’s lab mates walked by. Quite shocked that we were posing in front of random houses of no architecture significance, they gave us a polite smile that was packed with confusion. I was proud to introduce my uncle as their super-senior who shared the same institution. We left them gaping and drove to the next attraction of this unique tour- his second apartment, very close to the University near Clark St.

He swore that’s exactly where it was supposed to be. ‘Are you sure uncle?’ Yes, the disappointment was very evident. Not everything is permanent, I thought with remorse. That building was brought down to facilitate a newer construction. I wanted to see uncle jumping out of the car again. Running to the building with glee, stopping to reminisce and relate stories of this place as well. Then I wanted him to whip out his camera and ask me to take pictures while he posed in front of the building with aunty. I couldn’t get enough of it.

‘That’s Phoenix restaurant. I used to eat a lot here.’

‘Oh, we love it too.’

Glad some things haven’t changed.

He wanted to check out his professor’s house where he spent a lot of time. This was difficult to find, as they changed the roads a little and threw uncle off a little. Uncle was retracing his steps from his apartment to figure out the exact location and when he finally found it, it was pure happiness. We had difficulty keeping up with his fast strides. It was like 20 years had been wiped off his age. ‘This is the lawn I mowed many times. They’ve changed the entrance a little. But it still looks the same.’ His professor passed away of cancer he told us.

What’s a tour of Hardwar without taking a dip in the Ganges? We walked into the annals of History with every step we took in the corridors of his alma mater. Been to Pi’s lab umpteen times, but never felt goose bumps before. Many great scholars like uncle who walked this hallway are after all ‘kids in the candy store’ who would get excited at the glance of a window that used to be their lab once upon a time.

There it was, in front of Northwestern University - the exact place where uncle took the very first picture in the US, way back in 1957. I have seen that picture. We decided to do an encore in color. We constructed the bridge between the past and the present right there. No Civil Engineering feat, this. The bridge just had a couple of grey hairs, a wife, a niece and nephew, a car and an accurate memory.

Having studied in a graduate school in the US myself, I can’t imagine what it must have been like 50 years ago. Can’t imagine what it must have been without the scores of Indians we hang out with now. What it must have been to travel in a ship and not complain about airhostesses. What it must have been to communicate with family without emails. What it must have been like to share stories of your country with an older American couple sitting next to a fireplace or mowing their lawns. What it must have been to call this your home and them your family. What it must be to come there fifty years later to see them all gone. What it must be like to find the few things that have withstood the trials of time and stand testimony to a memory that you once lived.

For letting us experience all this, we thank you Uncle and wish that you will accompany me and Pi 50 years hence as our guide to Evanston when we come back to collect pieces of memories to fill in the blanks of our mental scrapbook. Happy Seventieth Birthday!

If you thought my Tamil is bad now...

I was born to parents who communicated through sign language. Both could speak and hear clearly, but different languages. Dad would rub his belly and mom would take a cue and cook for him. Mom would point at the neighbor lady and dad would buy my mom that saree. It went on for a while till they could take it no more. Dad couldn’t stop my mom from cooking every time he had amoebic dysentery or my mom didn’t know how to tell dad that the neighbor lady was stealing their mangos without having to receive the 20th saree of the same kind. Ok, they had poor enacting skills, so? Slowly, they started learning each other’s language and much to our mortification, came up with a hybrid language with some Hindi, Telugu and Bhojpuri thrown in for a good measure. This legacy, they would part to their children. Hence, the Pure Linguistic Gods didn’t shower their blessings on me when I came out wailing in adulterated Hebrew.

I was made to believe that the funny language spoken at home was Tamil. Moving like nomads around the world, and not getting anywhere close to Tamil Nadu helped my parent’s case.

What is your mother tongue? Tamil- I would say, innocently. ‘No wonder your Hindi sucks’, my north Indian friends would be quick to point out. ‘Well, at least I know Tamil,’ I would brag. Ppppfffft!

Leaving Mathura, we skipped over to Algeria. Still I thought I knew Tamil…every word of it. And an added language to boot; I knew how to count in Arabic after spending two years there. Algeria being a French colony, I learnt some French too. ‘Parle-G?’ Went around Europe and America and learnt a few more languages- American English and British English.

After this international stint, we were dumped in a forest in Andhra Pradesh… Manuguru (if you have heard of this place, you are probably a bear). My brother and I were a novelty in our little school. ‘Ohh look at those two belting out sentences in English with their cute accent.’ Laxmi’s mom told her to become my best friend so she could learn some English. In a year, I was speaking Gult and Laxmi learnt, ’Ware is the Paappar?’, which was more English knowledge than I had at that time.

But I still knew my Tamil was impeccable.

Fast forward some more places/ languages and we landed in Madras. Now to put my Tamil to some use.. finally! Having studied in Central schools throughout (except in phoren), I was a little apprehensive when I was admitted to a private school where 99.9% of kids recited Thirukurals and knew all about Rajani Kant’s contribution to Tamil culture. The 0.1% consisted of Jiggar Gupta and his Marwadi brother and sister who were the only non-brahmin, non-Tamilians in the whole freaking school. I suspect Jiggar knew the Thirukurals too.

From a dozen Tamilians that I met all my life till now- to a sudden truck-load of them. My Tamilness was put to test on my first day in Eighth Grade when they asked me, “Iyera, Iyengara?”

'Yemandi, adhi?' I asked in my Gult English. Had to figure out from nanagaru that we are Iyers. ‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’ I realized, Madras is the only place you will need to know that kind of info.

Classmates fell off the chair and rolled with laughter when I tried to talk in Tamil. 'Say- That old man is walking!'they would cajole whenever they needed their ribs tickled. What they spoke seemed to come out of that foreign movie I had watched long time ago where Kamal Hassan was the hero. Must be Iyengars all these people, I wisely concluded.

Next came the dreaded second-language selection. Big Deal..I’ll do the same thing I was doing all along. Hindi second, Sanskrit third language. With that safety net, I had changed 9 schools so far and managed somehow to stay above the water. But no, Avvaiyaar had probably put some curse on this school. There were only two options for me- Tamil second, Hindi third/ Sanskrit second, Hindi third. Hindi was clearly not the favorite subject around. It’s not like they were going to teach me Tamil from scratch. People, at that time I didn’t know ‘ka’ from ‘ga’ in Tamil. Actually to this day, I don’t.

Further investigation (my mom) informed me that I have no clue what Tamil is and it will be difficult learning it now. Current Mood: Cheated.

At least I had some head start with ‘Rama Ramau Ramaa’… So there I sat, with my Tamilian classmates in my first Sanskrit class. A priest walks in with dhoti and kudumi (tuft of hair tied in a knot). In fact, I was told he moonlights as our Sanskrit sir. Slightly shocked, I rose as everyone rose. As if they drank some elixir of life, all my dead looking classmates began to chant loudly ‘Guru Brahma, Guru Vishnu…’ with the same dead pan expression, but in a sing-song fashion bobbing their heads up and down. Next he sat down, started pointing at people and making them recite ‘Guru Shabda’. You- Hari Shabda. And you- Mrignayani Shabda.

Shabdas came to these cretins like sarcasm comes to me. Un-fucking-believable!! What Sanskrit was I learning for so long? ‘And you new girl with boy’s name- say Rhishi shabda.’ I couldn’t believe this was happening to me. ‘Sir,’ I said meekly, ‘I know only Rama shabda… and I can’t sing like that.’ The worse was yet to come. Sanskrit sir knew not a word in English or Hindi. I had to communicate in Tamil. Somehow, I should have chosen to sit in the Tamil class itself.

I almost packed my bags and left to Never-never land when the Hindi miss walked in. ‘Main aapka Hindi adhyapika hooon,’ she stressed in Tamil accent. Thankfully she carried the rest of the conversation in Tamil. I opened my book to ‘Meri Abhilasha Hai’, the first poem in the 5th grade CBSE book with the picture of kala hiran (black deer) on the cover. I remembered every picture in that book. Insult! It was like flunking, going back three grades with a teacher who could very well learn Hindi from me. Me, who had to learn Social Studies in Hindi in one our previous habitats. My Hindi speaking skills impressed no one. Knowing Hindi in Madras was like knowing how to swim in the Himalayas. FYI, English miss spoke in English. Phew!

The only way to escape ridicule in Tamland was to call myself a Kannadiga. As long as Jayalalitha didn’t know. It was easy to pose as one as my dad hails from Bangalore. Illiba bitbidi enmadhuthaidiya nimajji….and they were all sufficiently convinced and impressed. My Hindi, along with my Telugu and Arabic atrophied while signs of improvement in Tamil surfaced. I stopped referring to people as inanimate objects. Appreciated subtle nuances of difference between pallikoodam (school) and palligoodam (lizard hole). Arasi (rice) and arasai (group). Magesh and Mahesh- actually they are the same thing. “Vazhai pazham vazhukki kizhavi oruthi vazhiyil nazhuvi vizhundhal” got me admitted to the hospital for sustainable tongue injuries while twisting it beyond its capacity. Never again! Who the hell decided that 'zh' makes complete sense to be pronounced 'iLL'?

As long as you can speak to auto drivers and shop-keepers, Tamil is easy. The minute you have to talk to thorough bred Tamilian Inlaws, it becomes one heck of an ordeal. I’m still learning. Mastered yennai and ennai recently. One is ‘oil’ and the other is ‘what’..Don’t know which is what.

Next, we moved to Mangalore and there I promptly became a Tamilian again. Gotto do it! Live the life of a language refugee!