Attire Satire

Had an important client presentation yesterday. Spent a considerable part of the weekend obsessing about what to wear and whining about need for another suit. Seriously, if I wore my pin-stripe suit again, for the 14th time in a row, my boss might give me a raise and the clients might just feel sorry for me and award us the project. Of course, couldn’t let my outfit prove my worthiness and do all the hard work. I am a woman of principles.

See, if it were a black suit, it would have been fine… no one really notices. But a pin-stripe ensemble (yellow and red) with frayed collars and a huge patch on the front is bound to make people recognize me even while they are in coma.

So Monday morning, looking all confident and ready to conquer in my new suit (purple and orange), I arrive on time… a few minutes earlier even. My boss smiles benevolently. My suit is already doing its trick. ‘Lets go over the presentation quick.’ He murmurs while we have 10 minutes to go. I seem to be in good shape and good clothes.

So we walk into the war zone and get introduced to clients and other consultants. While the others are signing the attendee’s list, I look for my pen. Couldn’t find it. I see my lip liner, eye liner, mascara (different types), but no freaking pen...not even a pencil. Frantic eye contact with boss… explain the situation with hand gestures. He hands over his only pen; I sign and give it back to him. Couldn’t he have brought two pens? Now people are exchanging their business cards. I scan my purse and horror of horrors, find mine missing. I remember forcing the last ones in my wallet on my friends just to show off. I have fifty hundred of them lying in the office that pop up at the most inopportune times. My boss hands over his card and tells me to write my contact details on the back. I take the card and give him a helpless look; he takes deep breaths and gives me the pen.

We finish the presentation without any glitches expect during the times when I had to pause and borrow a pen to write notes … sometimes writing with my fingernails dipped in mascara. Overall, I think it went well.

So I take the clients for lunch, as my boss has to leave for another meeting. They say they’ll follow. We are on the interstate and I see a toll plaza coming ahead. I pull over to the side and flag down their car.

‘Can I borrow 60 cents please? I forgot to bring change.’

The onus is all on my attire now.

More Lame Excuses

Nope, nothing! I mean nothing exciting happened during the past few days except for a few torrid affairs. I also have a chronic heart disease that unfortunately won’t kill me. Yes, the hall ticket arrived by mail yesterday. Figured I need to get back to damn studies. Pi says I can remove the winter cap I am wearing (for containing knowledge in the head) as I have nothing in there yet. It might prevent stuff from going in. Good point! It’s also not a good sign when I am still battling to find a good place to do this ‘assimilation of knowledge for betterment of society’. Of the options I have tried, sitting on a railroad track and working out problems seems like the best bet.

Home was considered as the first option, but was quickly ruled out when I realized that I can’t seem to focus with the TV on. Turn it off, you say? (hahaha* sarcastic laugh, in case you didn’t get it) Frankly, I don’t think our TV has the capability of switching off. I am also made to believe that my hubby will just self combust if things stopped moving in the TV. Pi's internal functions are controlled by the flickering and blaring of the TV. His pancreatic juices react with his food at the sight of Anna Devlantes blabbering away on NBC5. There’s proof that his white blood cells and red blood cells do their work diligently when Seinfeld takes over. He smiles and sometimes chuckles too. Proof of life is all I need to make sure that I cook some food for him too. When he moves, it's within the TV's line of sight (that's why the fridge is in the living room). If I whine, stomp, fake headaches and act as if the world will split apart, I’ll be treated to lowering of the sound from a 29 to a 23. Lord be praised! If he feels extra generous or if I have created enough noise to cause neighborhood cops to stop by, he’ll put the TV on mute while squinting to read the sub-titles sitting 3 inches from Larry King’s wrinkled nose. If cable companies are running low on profit margins, they know which house to blame. When he called me this afternoon, I couldn’t recognize his voice without the background commercials.

Hence the only place I can study with some prevailing sanity is in the kitchen somewhere between the masala dabba and the dustbin. Next thing I know, all my (borrowed) books are smelling of sambar and burnt brinjal curry. Very soon, hubby might just eat the books while making love to the TV. In the interest of protecting my books, I decided to try the public library... I mean, no TV, right?

But I didn’t account for stalkers and lawn mowers. This black lady has something against the Indian race and every time I settle down in a secluded corner in the building, she starts hurling out abuses (something about Desis not liking her hair style) and then coolly sits right across giving dirty looks. This happened three times to me. I mean, its fine.. free speech and all…but staring is what makes me slightly uncomfortable. Can’t even pick my nose in peace.

So I had to pack up and leave to another area where this man was happily ensconced on a sofa sleeping. I thought, awww…poor homeless fella. So nice that they can use the library facilities to take afternoon naps. I took another ten minutes settling down..opening calculator, pen, pencil, book1, book 2, book 3, chewing gum, air freshener,making sure cell phone works and checking the mirror. Just when I positioned myself to tackle a problem, this person started snoring. What started off as a puppy’s whimper turned into a battery operated sludge incinerator in a few seconds. Couldn’t take it anymore and this time I had resolved not to move again.

I called out ‘Sir Sir!’

He stirred. Looked at me ‘Ehh?’

‘Sir, you are snoring way too loudly. I can’t sleep.’

‘Now that you’ve rudely woken me up, I don’t think I can go back to sleep!’

Didn’t know if I should be sorry or thankful.

Oh well, he got his revenge by snorting or coughing or sneezing every 3 seconds. I was done with the library and its policy of being a refuge for random psychos. Notice humanitarian me just fell off the cliff.

I took my bags and was about to leave in a huff when good old man admitted that people had complained about his snoring before (in the same library- four times today) and that he needs to get this operation done.

‘Which one?’ my anger turning to curiosity. ‘My husband snores too when he isn’t watching TV. At nights I dream of silence and a shattered Panasonic TV.’

So we had a pretty nice conversation and I bid him farewell and moved on to my next testing ground – the railway tracks.

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!

Re-Return of the Ex

This EX. It's back as I never had a chance to take it last time (after all that fuss). The happiness didn't last for too long. Now it's in April and I am freaking out! No time left to cram it all. How can I waste my time studying, when there is so much going on around me? I have suddenly rediscovered (over the past few weeks, sitting in front of study material) my love for reality shows, photography, neighbors, interior decoration, exploring the city and reconnecting with old friends.

My only hope- knowledge transfer while I sleep.



Warning- Trying this stunt at home may lead to stiff neck as discovered by author of this blog. It is advisable to study.

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.

Interested Anyone? -Season II

Interested Anyone?, the hit show on POTP is back for its Second Season! The last one was a grand success (to my knowledge only). Every human candidate on the list got hooked up. Some are even married. (Yogi, I did mention human, didn’t I?) Ok, somehow it didn’t work the way it was intended…people protested and took matters in their own hands hoping never to be featured again. Patrix dumped Smiley and got engaged to Ash just because she looked better. Whatever it was, it worked in getting people moving. Now Alpha is considering a new set of not-so-fresh faces to be this season’s Bachelors and Bachelorettes. We hope our ‘single’ readers plunge in and seek companionship with our noteworthy candidates. Alpha is maha concerned about their lone standing in the universe especially when time is jaunting happily ahead.

Presenting to you *Tipu Sultan soundtrack*-

Leela:
Pickup line: You are priceless. Can I take a picture of you?
Expected answer: Absolutelee! Censored or uncensored?

Lee is very much single and would have settled with any random person a few years ago (yeah, even Yogi). Now she says she knows exactly what she wants- the strong silent types who like to be surrounded by local news. They look like mannequins to me. Before the desert heat gets to her and she breaks into one of these department stores in Dubai looking for the oasis in her life, we need to get her settled down quick. She can’t be running marathons and climbing rocks at this age. (Basically I am jealous, that’s all.)

Helpful hints: It’s not easy to impress her. Hmm.. that was not very helpful na? Ok, learn to solve the Rubik’s cube or be a cabbie who doesn’t ask silly questions.

Chitra-
Pickup line- “Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr !! It’s cold …. yuxtremely cold !”
Expected answer- Can I dig my nose?

Guys, proceed with caution and don’t sue me if a husband tapkos from somewhere while you are getting all mushy for her. Obviously my homework is not very thorough. But I strongly suspect she is single as she put up this matrimonial on her blog. (Wonder who does her PR! Big head, maniacal laugh, Capsicum nose!) Please be kind to her in spite of all that.

Some helpful hints: To get her attention you could dedicate a song in Radio City. She dislikes male colleagues in general and abuses them on daily basis. Not advisable to secure job in her company unless you are a masochist. Don’t bring up baby issue in your first date.


Rhyncus:
Pick up line- Wanna see my centipede?
Expected answer- *blush*

A milkman by profession who travels with a centipede. When you ask him,’ Kya bhiayya, this is water or milk?!’, he’d let his centipede loose on you. Unbelievable business acumen that!

I urge you NOT to read his matrimonial. Now I am not to be blamed if you are spooked out. I DID warn you. Now you have no option, but to buy that Vanilla flavored toothpaste and keep it near the bedside or hoard on vanilla ice-cream all night long. I heard Goofy is giving classes on licking elbows if you might be interested. In any case, please be applying soon. Last I heard, playboy playmate Synus Mucus (that takes care of the porn insecurity point), daughter of renowned insect collector of exotic Timbuktu, is in the line for Rhyncus’ hand in holy matrimony. She can cry through her nose (hence the name) and she loves diamonds. Why she is almost perfect except for one point- her morning breath smells of two dead centipedes. So hurry up gals!

Helpful hints: Buy vanilla toothpaste.

Hardu:
Pick up line- You are probably a Raffaello- someone whom I wouldn’t try, given your specs… but might end up loving you if I did.
Expected answer- Buffalo?

Hardu means ‘hard’ in Kannada just like softu means soft. I don’t want to know the origins for that name… does sound very kinky to me. Well, Hardu claims she is actually a softie with a hard shell (sorta like a turtle) and says she is not interested in love (psst..this is all for the nosy brother’s sake). But then she goes around making a checklist in the sly. Only worrisome aspect is that the brother spent all his money on Hardu’s education and is borrowing huge sums for his wife’s education. So don’t expect much in dowry. The whole family speaks in German when they have nothing better to do. The freaky part with German is you can’t tell the good from the bad. They all sound like bad words.

Helpful hints: Learn German so you both can watch Harry Potter. I couldn’t muster enough guts to see it in English itself. Also try to butter up the sister-in-law. She seems like the control freak types. Helpful hints in that regard: SIL loves food and Hritik Roshan.

Anti:
His pick up line- I’m NO Superman.
Fully expects the girls to go- Awww…you are!

I had to include him as I can’t deal with a grown up man sulking and all. He already has many women vying for his attention (in his dreams) and claims he is … (oh, he claims a lot of things that haven’t been verified by yours truly). So we’ll leave it at that. He does have a sensitive side when he poses for photos and not so sensitive side when he tries to impress women with his Hindi.

Helpful hints: Look past everything you see and you may find what you are looking for when you aren’t looking at that.

Leave your interests and whereabouts in my comment box and mention a wedding date before consulting astrologer. The couple who sends in proof of 5 love-email exchanges will get a free couple template designed exclusively for you by the exalted Chugs (if the girl doesn’t like his design, she can have him). They will also be mentioned in Desi-Pundit with appropriate links.

White, Black, Brown and Red

Now who stops at an intersection when the light is yellow? Some idiotic guy with a gleaming new red Pontiac did and he was duly rear-ended by me. It’s rather difficult to pay attention to the road when one needs to change the CD, reach for the phone and dig the nose at the same time. So like I was saying, I was forced to come to complete halt while I was trying to make it to work in decent hour. Next thing I know the darn fellow jumped out from his car, ran to his bumper and started jumping up and down, screaming expletives with flaying hands at my direction! I guessed he might be a little pissed and thought of sliding my window down and offering an apology to calm him down. Before I could even say Sorry or something to that effect, he ordered me to get off the car and check out the damage to his new car. (Who buys a brand new car in Chicago anyway?) Fine! What a bore! I got off and looked... now carefully… now squinting. Dammit! Just a teeny scratch and he was causing a ruckus for that?! ‘I need your insurance details, miss’, he demanded.

Before I could dig into my purse and throw that information on this chap’s face, a brown town car screeched to a halt with some loud jarring rap music causing the birds in Chicago to migrate. A bunch of black guys with lot of chunky silver and gold jewelry got off. Never knew rear–ending was such a serious crime that would get the hoods involved. I was done for. Someone needs to make sure Pi doesn't remarry after my death. Oh well fine, even if he does, she had better not be strutting around in my new shoes I bought yesterday.

Unexpectedly the black brothers verbally attacked the Pontiac fellow, ‘Yo wassup maan, whassgoinonhere?!!’ They ruffled him up, told him it wasn’t my fault as they had seen the whole thing. Yelled at him and told him to get going. The poor guy was so rattled. He mumbled an apology to me and sped off in a hurry. I was too numb to even thank my… well… angels. I drove off in a trance. This whole racist thing being advantageous to me was a new angle to be explored.

Today (after a week of the incident) I saw the Pontiac guy stopped at the same intersection in front of me. He looked at me with disgust from his rear view mirror. As I gathered courage, I smiled at him genially. He glanced around suspiciously and when the lights turned green, he took his ultimate revenge. He shot up his middle finger as I watched in abject horror!

Spread the love people. Happy Valentines Day!

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.

Every Thomas, Richard and Harprathap Singh

I wasn’t warned or educated about this. That book 'Living in the U.S.A.- A handbook for Indian Students' handed out generously at the US consulate had no mention of this strange phenomenon that plagues this country. Orientation sessions conducted in the campus before we could embark on the Americans, talked about ‘kallu’ not being a politically correct word for African Americans, but no… we weren’t told about this. Maybe I was supposed to know- just like that.

Robert Stafford was to be my professor. My first day in the campus, fresh off the boat, I looked all over for him in my department…searched every corner of the campus. When I was convinced that I walked into another University by mistake (possibility of that happening was high considering my past), someone said they could lead me to this elusive guy in question. I saw the nameplate. No no, he is not that guy! I have met him before. He just shares Robert Stafford’s last name. You think this Bob is his brother?

Right there I was introduced to the American nomenclature system never to recover. Bob and Robert are the same entity? And everyone must take it for granted? Nick names are official names here? Just like Bill Clinton is actually William Clinton and Jim Morrison is James Morrison? And what? Dick is Richard? Why?

Seriously, I do not appreciate such sense of humor. Why take pains to morph a perfect name to mean a male genitalia? Me wondered if I should call Office assistant Pamela, Pussy, to prove that I got the picture.

It’s a learning process. You can’t get it all down in one sitting. I can see the American parents going, ‘Since we can’t decide on the right name, let’s name her Elizabeth. Now she can choose from eleven names- Beth, Bess, Bessie, Betsy, Betty, Bette, Eliza, Lisa, Liza, Liz or even decide to keep the actual name. Halleluiah.’ Actually I feel that comprised of 50% of the American girl names right there. Yeah, it’s like playing that game- make as many words as you can from this long word.

Talking of names and games, ever tried playing the game where you think of an important person, give out a clue (initials) and answer 5 yes-or-no questions for the other team to guess the right answer?
The opposition will never win if you think of Dick Cheney and call out RC. Throw them completely off track.

Imagine if Mahmohan was called Twinkle at home (with these Punjabis anything is possible). He would be Twinkle Singh and that would not be a cool name for a Prime Minister. To make matters more confusing, my friend Harry could be Henry, Harprathap Singh, Hariharasubbramani Iyer or Xiuxiu Soong Ching-ling.

The story behind the the pillow cover and scarf

My green long skirt is a living testimony to the great quality and workmanship of our cotton fabric industry. It was probably bought/handed-down when I was 3 years old. It was a long skirt that reached my ankles, but it was not destined to remain a long skirt.

With my brother in the alleged skirt..I don't talk about my brother's dressing preferances

A single article of clothing that can make it from black & white photos to colored ones must have lived a life that would make a turtle flip inside its shell.

As I was rummaging through my childhood photo albums, I noticed one thing that remained constant. My green skirt with three stripes on the top and bottom- yellow, red, yellow. It became a knee length when I was 6 years old and a mini skirt when I turned 11. This fateful (or rather faithful) skirt kept featuring in many pictures until the photos themselves transitioned to snapshots of adulthood. Maybe my waistline finally expanded. For once, you’ve got to be thankful for that. I was quite aghast at my mom’s despicable kanjoosi! Such exploitation will be dealt with appropriately. Actually I was hiding this fact- I even saw the same tattered skirt worn in a high school play where I was a psychopath (My dad volunteered me for that role; I was a natural I believe).

Later during my college days, I would cut off five inches from the bottom of my jeans every year till it became a bio hazard (No photos of that, sorry to dissapoint you). My mom cringed; I reminded her of the green skirt trauma. This was the same thing, in reverse. Rationale being, I wasn’t growing any taller.

One day when I come home from college, I saw an ugly patch of cloth stitched to the bottom of my jeans (which had by then morphed into short shorts). The patch was faded green with three stripes- yellow, red and yellow.

Grave digger sir, a little deeper please.

Yem and Eee decided to surprise me by bringing over someone I went to school with a few years ago. They had met by chance in the Chicago temple and when she mentioned Alpha and Pi, the guy jumped up and said, ‘I know her very well. I even took a huge packet to India for her when we were in Gainesville.’

So the moment arrived. My friends waited bated breath for my eyes to light up at the sight of my old friend whom I had lost touch with. Everyone looked at me with an expectant cheezy smile, that I was finding hard to place.

He walked in. I shook his hands formally and said, ‘Hi, welcome home. Come in. I'm Alpha. What was your name again?’

Yes folks, I had a complete blackout! Power failure in the upper continent. Exactly the moment you have no contingency plan for. No escape route and a pile of embarrassment to bury yourself under. I had zilch recollection of his existence in my life. Nope, not even when he spelled out his name and said he was from University of Florida and he was the roommate of my very good friend. We allegedly met many times, once during a movie. He rattled out many common friends whom I recognized immediately. He wasn’t an imposter for sure. It also wasn't in my best interests to go around forgetting handsome guys like this.

‘He even carried your stuff to India,’ added a very helpful Yem looking completely disgusted with me now. All her plans for a grand reunion just crumbled. ‘I thought you had great memory with respect to people. You even remember the name of some obscure car mechanic whom you met just once.’

Grrr… Any need to bring that up now?

I tried feigning sudden knowledge, ‘Ah yes, I remember now. No wonder your face looked so familiar.’

Only to be booo-ed by everyone around. Such camaraderie and support shown to the hapless was to be appreciated.

‘Ask your parents, they might remember me. After all they came home and had coffee and took the stuff,’ poor harassed guy added trying to salvage the situation.

When I called my parents later, they had no clue what I was talking about. ‘What stuff you sent us?’

Ingrates!

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!

My friend S.Pam

You know, I enjoy these spam messages. Whatever they are trying to sell, guitars or sex (depending on your post), they still say a nice thing or two about your blog.

‘Your blog rocks!’
‘Wish I could write like you’
‘I am a fan of your blog.’

Boy, really? Am I sold, or what!

I mean seriously, why the heck would anyone block a little praise even if they are automated and don’t mean a thing? Spammers, you are welcome to raise my comment counter a little (now you know). Just won’t click the link like a jackass (need to remember that, though).

Thought I should bring to notice this particular spammer fella who threw me off a little. It’s the last comment on this post.

NYCGuy12 said...
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Thanks

I like the novel way in how they tie in the post with the comment, just like us real people. He tries to sell me guitar lessons just when I wrote in the post that people who don’t get enough sex play guitars. Did I deserve it or what!

Now I am sot sure what he means by ‘these days’.

These days? How long have blogs been around anyway? Not even as long as my last hair cut (need to get one soon).

Does NYCGuy12 mean blogs were so good in the sixties and the quality started deteriorating towards the seventies with the advent of bellbottoms? Does he go on to mean that by stumbling upon my blog, he was reminded of the good-olden days of superior web-logs when every Tom, Dick and Harry blogged about the Independence struggle and had voting buttons- ‘Support Subhash’/ ‘Support Mohandas’?

Or does he mean, ‘Just freaking click on the guitar site and stop analyzing the bullcrap I said about your dumb site- for heaven’s sake!’

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!

Everything's in a name

My friends are all in a different boat. A boat that is way heavier and wobbly. Yes, they are all pregnant and I am in no hurry to jump aboard just yet. First it was the boyfriends, then the weddings and now this! Next it will be the babies I tell you…mark my words!

As excited as I am, luckily for me, they have spared me all the preggy talks. One of them blogs all about it, another calls me when she wakes up at 4 am and the others feel that they have acquired superior status and I should be the one calling. So overall it’s been cool. The grossest thing I have heard is that in some communities they cook the placenta for a feast to celebrate the birth of a new born. I suggested that she ask the doc for her placenta ‘to-go’ and later heat it in the microwave back at home. I think I am scarred for life; are you guys ok?

Since I have nothing better to do, I find out what they want us to call their offspring and then make fun of the names. I have noticed one thing common among all these pending moms. They get super defensive regarding their baby’s names. There is an inherent difference between the American way of naming and the Indian way of naming their kids. After spending months and going through two divorces regarding the right moniker, the American couple decided to name their bundle of joy (hold your breath)- John. And everybody goes, ’Bravo! That’s such a lovely name.’ Oh please! I mean just how hard was that? Looking around, I may need my extra toes to count the number of Johns smiling at me right now.

Whereas the Indian couples here have a greater challenge. Their baby needs a unique, modern name. Even Menaka Gandhi or the Sanskrit dictionary shouldn’t have figured it out. Travel all over the world, to the remote igloos of Antarctica, none other should have such a name…not even that Eskimo. At the same time, the name should mean something nice in any obscure Indian language. On top of that, you need to make sure the Americans don’t screw up this one-of-a-kind name, which even Indians are probably not sure how to pronounce. So they think real hard and make their pregnant lives miserable and finally come up with – Chakthashu.

It satisfies all their criteria- No other couple could have thought of something as insane as that. I have no clue what it means, but the Americans for sure pronounce this really well and with glee - ‘Chuck the shoe’.

Gone are the days of Ramesh and Suresh. Dinesh and Ganesh are looked upon with disdain. Anu, Priya, Deepa or for that matter modern names of our times like Nikita and Richa have been swept under the carpet. Absurd and uncanny is the way to go. My cousin is threatening to name her kid Lipi (meaning ‘writing’ in Sanskrit). I just wish for the little one’s sake she doesn’t have any lip issues. I brought up my concern and my cousin started crying. Just like that! I can only imagine the stress she had to go through to get here. At least my niece will know I tried saving her.

It’s not even worth this trauma when you come to think of it. Very few kids are completely satisfied with their name. I wasn’t one of them for sure. Maybe I will take back all I said when I am in that boat and will end up naming my kid some shit- I mean Samchit!

New Year- Time to renew relationships

I got a New Year card from my brother and his new wife. Not one of those cards where you click a link and it starts embarrassing you at work with crazy music to coordinate with a mad bunny jumping up and down popping balloons as you take your mouse around. I can barely stand one of those as I am guilty of not reciprocating with equal fervor. But what I received was an actual physical card with a stamp on the envelope and a letter inside. YIKES!!! I hate it that my brother is on his way to being a cultured human being.

I can see that the hostility between the sisters-in-law has officially begun!

Num(b) Bengaluru

Seeing that my brother was indeed treated very well by the Mallus, I decided to leave him in Kerala and move on with my life. His in-laws took him around temple to temple doing ‘Thulabharam’. Practice of giving offerings that equal your weight.

My brother being a staggering 110 kgs, had forced the in-laws to rethink their strategy. They put him on a diet and went from offering sugar in one temple to bananas in the next to cow dung in the end.

Pi and I went to Madras to my in-law’s place. I was looking forward to Madras- sleeping, meeting my friends, sleeping, shopping, sleeping, getting pampered my mom-in-law and getting a nice breather from my parents and of course sleeping.

My parents surely believed in-‘Spare the bahu and torture the child’

Let me explain. I just reached Madras and I got a call from daddykins, ‘Come to Bangalore ASAP.’ Fearing the worst, I was ready to cry. My dad continues, ‘Bride and groom are arriving and you have to be here to take their Arthi.’

What the heck?! What do they do in households without a sister? What about the million aunties in Bangalore? Do you even know I will have to come back to Madras tomorrow for my visa appointment?

Hmpf! I took the next flight to Bangalore all the time thinking if this flight met with an accident, my dad will repent. It was the costliest Arthi ever and my brother gave a measly 100 rupees for this. He doesn’t get a penny from my will. Also I was thinking of suing him for the post wedding trauma (not to be confused with the mental troubles that I already had before going to his wedding).

Some background about the festivities in Bangalore and how I got tortured so far- I passed up on a weekend of fun in London with Pi and friends to be home early helping out with wedding preparations.

When I landed in Bangalore in the wee hours of the day, my mom had decided to have a ‘Sumangali Puja’ in preparation for the wedding. It’s a puja where we commemorate the women who conked off before their husbands. That’s kinda auspicious in our culture. (Pi is so encouraging that he wants to see me in that honorable list soon)

So in this Sumagali Puja, a bunch of women whose hubbies are still alive are made to do certain things… like not have breakfast till the puja is done. I was dying! Jetlagged and hungry, I wasn’t the happiest Sumangali around. To think some moms pamper their home-bound kids with yummy food when they arrive! bah! I must have snuck into my room and had a dozen of those yucky Sugar-free chocolates I bought for my dad.

The house was swarming with people, mostly related to me in some way only the holy family-tree knows. The lunch was really late to arrive. “Saar, Banerghatta traffic saar,’ was the excuse from the catering service. Some of my relatives had already fainted and were wondering how I managed to survive. I smiled a sugar-free smile.

Then they asked me to go sleep seeing my blood red eyes and droopy (but sugar-free) smile . It was 3 pm then. I walked into the obvious place to sleep, the bedroom…it was invaded by 10 random aunts discussing something animatedly. ‘Come dear, sleep here’ they said..shifting their butts a little so that I had a 2X3 area to squeeze in. I tried sleeping, but was bombarded with questions like, ‘When are you taking me to the US?’ ‘What did you get for me?’ I think it would have been ultra rude to let her know that I seriously didn’t recognize who she was.

I decided to try the other bedroom. By Jolly Jove, this place was far more noisy. All the kids were jumping around fighting and video games were being played without ‘mute’ and my other cousin was fast asleep oblivious to the sounds. Some talent, that! Even though she lives in Bangalore, she is in the same time zone as I am (at least till now). She works for a call center in Dell and whenever I get to see her, she is sleeping. At least she doesn't feel the need to screw her sleep patterns because of certain cousins who land up from far away lands. We can catch up on MSN when I get to the US.

Maybe I should try the terrace. I took the mat and a few pillows and marched upto the terrace. Found a shady location under the huge mango tree and tried to sleep. It was blissful till I realized(a few droppings later) that I was sleeping under the neighborhood crow’s bathroom.

It was 11 pm and I still hadn't found a place to lie down after having tried the storage room, bathroom, broom closet and verandah. I longed for my seat in the economy class of British Airways.

Next day at 5 am was the Nandi function when I was ready to trade my life for some sleep. THIS WASN'T EVEN MY WEDDING!!!!

‘Yaaaawwn…(might as well sleep now and compensate for my next India trip.)

Snippets & Snappets

At Mannapara, someone came up to my brother and asked, 'Sir, when do you prefer lens?'

A little confused and convinced that his inlaws were testing his power of sight, he said, 'hah! I rarely depend on lens.'

'Not good for you. You must have lens.'

'Ainks.'

Luckily for my bro, his bride walked by and told the guy, 'We will join you all for lunch now.'

Malluland

Bride is all ours now to torment. *wringing hands with glee* We’ll take her home and make her cook at 5 am in the morning in kerosene stove and grab all that gold and stove it away in our lockers. Then my mom will ask her to sweep and swab the house and I will ride my Kinetic on the floors and she will have to start all over again. Of course, all this while she will have to be in her saree. *hehehe* Note to self: Buy kerosene stove and hide servant maid.

My lovely thoughts were interrupted by my brother’s panic attack, “Guess what, I will have to go to the Mallu people’s family home in the village and spend the first night there!!! They being matriarchal and all. Could you and Pi stay with me and see to it that they treat me well?”

‘What?! Do you have to get pregnant too?’

‘Shuddup!’

‘What about dowry? Shall I bring my check book just in case they push you in a kerosene stove?’ I was worried.

My dad obviously wasn’t concerned about my brother’s safety. All he could brood about was his family name getting wiped out completely. Any assurance that my brother wasn’t going change his maiden name didn’t seem to comfort him.

Pi was kicking himself for not marrying a Mallu. ‘I could have been inheriting property from both sides! And all that gold too.’

Pi and I stayed over with the brother’s Mallu in-laws in a pretty village called Mannapara. Rolling rice fields, huge ancestral house, lovely temple, great food (couldn’t recognize any of it), sweetest people, great hospitality… time went by quickly and gaps were bridged as if they didn’t even exist.

My mom talking in Tamil with a Mallu accent thinking they understood, was amusing. The weird part was they did understand.

Ammuma (the solid granny who controls everyone and everything in that house..every Mallu family has an Ammuma who is equally strong) wanted to know why I don’t have kids yet.
‘ahem..help!’

Bride’s mom asked me if I light the lamps for God everyday. I said ‘No’. Audible gasp from the audience, but she was quick to add,’ But you have a good heart. You did the Katrina relief thing and all. That is great.’

‘Easy for you to say, aunty. You are not my mom or mom-in-law.’

‘You are just like my daughter and I will bug you to light lamps everyday.’
Yikes! This bridging gap thing was uncalled for, seriously!

Pi was treated like God had himself descended in Mannapara. ‘I leve benana jibs.’

And lo, one fella was dispatched in a jiffy and there was 6 kgs of banana chips for him to nibble through the afternoon.

‘Pi cheta, there are a dozen more packets in your room for you to take home.’

‘Wow, Scooty!’ Pi crooned looking a normal Scooty which has become a novelty to us NRIs. The Scooty was handed over to Pi to whiz around in the fields till his heart burst. He was thrilled.

So was I, as we entered the ancestral home. A 400 year old ettukattu tharavaad, complete with furniture of the yore. Ammuma’s cradle, a dresser with tilting mirrors and ornate carvings. Teakwood doors that were 10 inches thick. Dark wooden pillars that could probably fetch thousands. Ladles, brass vessels, lamps, grandpa chair… this house was very grandiose with its 40 rooms. I was glad I got to see something like this so intimately.
I loved this system where they protected and cared for their women. *sigh*

Wait till you come to our house, girly!