'Spot-fixing' curtains.

Plumbers, carpenters and technicians help us recalculate the number of days that constitute a week. Like for example, the washing machine breaks down and laundry basket is looking more like a garbage dump. Suddenly the realization that some important clothes are in them dawns and then calls to the retail guy ends up either to the voicemail or the line is forever busy. After calling like n(n+1) times the retail guy lousily answers the call, in a tone which makes you think that you are begging to be cast in his next movie. Then he says he will send his men to fix the machine in two days. Another two days and the wardrobe seems to look empty, the laundry basket is not visible anymore- it remains buried under a heap of clothes. One begins to wonder about the scarcity of clothes in the wardrobe. Then you call again and he says, Madam you don’t work on a weekend, do you? Call on Monday! There, and before you know it, another week and soon, one month and a thousand phone calls are wasted.

No fortunately that did not happen with me, something worse did. So two weeks ago we moved into this new apartment, and have set up everything except the curtains. We took window measurements ourselves and bought rod and curtains and ever since had been waiting for someone to fix it. So firstly we were given the number of one Joseph, who wasted one week by postponing unprofessionally saying ‘In another two days’ and after which he refused to answer our calls. I intelligently tried to call from my mobile, thinking he would pick up but he was cleverer than both of us. This guy did not have the courtesy to call back, and so we started looking for someone else.

 We gathered details of another guy who fixed the curtains for a neighbor. This guy promised to come the next day and yes he came today by noon. One hungry looking guy to fix curtains, rods and holders for three rooms and four double-curtains. Usually a helper comes with such people to help with the tools but there were none in sight-no tools either. Not to mention that he looked frail and undernourished to even hold the curtains properly using both hands. However we noticed that he wore frameless spectacles, Casio watch and carried a very modern phone. The first impression he made was to borrow some basic tools from us. For all the phone calls and the number of days wasted, a weird kind of patience had come to us and we decided not to underestimate. So he started one side of the window where he took measurement and made a mark on the wall to fix the holder.

Then he set up the holder, tilted shoddily almost at a 45 degree angle from the floor.

I should mention here that my husband is not a quick tempered person. Unless and until provoked to his core he doesn’t bother about anything or anyone other than family or his electronic possessions (not necessarily in that order) and lives perpetually undisturbed in his own world of wires, cables and gadgets.

Hubby: ‘What is this?’

Stupid malnourished guy (SMG): ‘What sir?”

Hubby: ‘ Cant you even see for yourself what you have done! If the holder is tilted the entire curtain will be tilted…do I have to tell you that?’

SMG: ‘Oh come on sir this holder and all will not be seen outside once the curtain comes!’

Hubby: ‘Okay then!  You can leave! We dint get this curtain for free, we paid for it and we expect you to do a good job of it’. 

**I think this is a total decent response, because if it was Papa in this situation he would have made SMG pee in his pants or cry like a baby. If it were my grandfather he would’ve said enough for this guy to abandon everything worldly and go to the Himalayas to meditate**

But SMG had conveniently ignored the conversation as his stupidity took over him and he climbed on the other side of the window to fix the next holder. He placed the holder somewhere at the edge and turned to ask, ‘This angle okay, sir?’

Hubby: ‘What ! Don’t you even have the basic scale to measure the angle?’

SMG: ‘Oh we don’t carry that for such things Sir’

Hubby then took his phone and called the neighbor who recommended him and talked about how the wall was damaged. Neighbor of course was not helpful and finally SMG packed and left. Seriously if it were me I’d just shake the ladder he was standing on. Well considering his approximate weight to be around 30 kilos I could have done that easily mind you.

And so he left, leaving the hall in a total mess with screws and curtains (newly and carefully bought) strewn around. Sob. Screws can easily excite my toddler who at present can’t tell a tool from a biscuit so he may as well swallow them, so I need to clean up the place and make sure there is nothing lying around. That’s how to invite a calamity to the house you see. Sigh.

Well we need such people around to realize the value of professionals.

An open letter to Moms-to-be...

Dear Mom-to-be,

Congratulations! I am a working mother of a one year old, with my husband by me and all my folks back in a different country. Needless to say, I am pretty much pulling it off on my slender shoulders.

When I announced my pregnancy, I got three types of responses from my loved ones. The first, were the ones who said ‘Yipee my baby is a Mommy!’ and blew kisses and wishes to express their joy. The second, were the ones back at my hometown who expected me to be pregnant the next day of my marriage, but are nevertheless relieved in some way. The third was a weird kind who exclaimed…’what the hell! Are u mad?’ making me feel like a teenager.You may get more responses which don’t fall under these categories, but the idea is to stay normal and smile, which is very difficult to do, with all the hormones playing havoc in your system. Nevertheless do not judge me as a person born to be a mother, because I was the one who never touched or held a baby before. I was that kind who stayed away from them due to possible risks of mishandling, as babies are soft and unstable and I believed it took professional training to hold them properly without hurting them. But let me tell you, once you have one of your own, it just comes to you.

The next stage after the announcement of pregnancy was to tackle free advices flowing in plenty from friends and relatives across continents. For me this was a tricky part, as a few people who already have kids’ resorted to scare me about how life will be a total mess once the child is born. Then they went on to say how they couldn’t go to the toilet because the toddler is uncontrollable even for a second, and about the infant who cried all night. They also talked about cancelled vacations, flight charges that kept increasing, expenses, deteriorating health and figure, and whatever it takes to make me regret it. These are basically sadistic people who aren’t happy how their lives turned out to be after their baby arrived. The idea is to ignore these comments, it’s not bad after all, there will be sleepless nights, but you can always sleep when the baby sleeps and bring her to a routine in six months. Babies fall sick, like we do, and it is a passing phase as they recover faster than us. All the more babies are fun, and in a strange way we wish that they slept when they are running around hyperactively, and when they are asleep we wait for them to wake up because it just gets plain boring.

Then came a time when I was overfed by random people. This comes with respect to a traditional belief that a pregnant woman should eat for two. Any vulnerable woman believes this, as she doesn’t want to take any risks when it comes to the health of the baby. But here is the jinx – a tiny little baby is not going to eat a plate full of rice and curry. Eat a bit more than what you normally eat, avoid eating out, include more vegetables, oats and milk, and you are done. Try to include spicy food as well during this phase, so the baby will be tolerant to it. Avoid the ghee roasted stuff which is lovingly brought by your Indian relatives, because you will not see them around when you are crying on the weighing machine, looking longingly at the wardrobe of beautiful clothes you will never fit into. These ghee roasted goodies are a brutal attempt to make you fat, you know:-P

I had this rare blessing to be pregnant almost at the same time when some of my closest friends were in their family way as well, so our skype discussions, emails and long chats helped us immensely. In fact we had similar ‘situations’ and even had solutions for each other. This camaraderie was a boon to us when we almost turned mini gynecologists ourselves. Sometimes people who are at the same phase as you can help you more than your mother who was last pregnant almost three decades ago. The labor remains the same, they may say, but everything else is different, I can guarantee. However there is no one but your mother who will understand your deepest feelings.

Later, you will see people showing fake interest about your due date, diet etc which till date has no explanation, and there will be no shortage of free advice. Pick a person – friend, doctor or your mother and go by their opinions whenever you have a query. Like they say, too many cooks spoil the broth, so gracefully ignore the rest.

You will always have an intuition as to how to deal with a situation in motherhood. It will be unique to you and your baby and should shake up the courage to follow it. It will always be the right thing to do. Because when a baby is born, a mother is born as well.

Have a safe delivery and a healthy baby J

With love.

Semiya Payasam for Dummies - Happy Onam!

It is Onam. The time of the year when my friends at Kerala wear traditional attires and pose away to glory and hog on Onasadya. As if it wasn't enough they take pictures and upload on facebook, turning their NRI counterparts go green with envy. Well I should say that Onam is as huge over here, thanks to the malayalee population. Yesterday we were at the supermarket and they were even selling stuff we think will be available only in Kerala! I was surprised.

More importantly I was on a mission. To make a payasam. Semiya payasam, For the dummy that I am in cooking this one was a very appreciable task I tell you. Usually I never leave any stone unturned to praise myself(blogging is one of the ways I achieve that).

So if there are any dumbos in cooking who is reading this, here goes a Semiya Payasam recipe, just for you!

(I followed the recipe from Mariasmenu. You can get the actual recipe here.)

Stuff you might need:

Semiya/Vermicelli -  200gm 

Milk – 2 litres. ( I used low fat milk- full fat milk is usually used in making payasams, but I used low fat so that something goes wrong L)

Sugar/Condensed Milk

Initially, I brought the milk to a boil and kept it aside. In another pan, I roasted the vermicelli until it turned golden brown. After some time my son who was sitting in the kitchen chair playing with some spoons wanted me to pick him up, so the rest of the cooking was done with one hand and him on the other- no it doesn't make any difference to the payasam.  Then I took a non stick small pan, added some ghee, and roasted the cashews and raisins. The raisins bloated up, and cashews turned golden brown and the I let it cool and ran to do some errands. The kiddo wasn’t happy with me concentrating on the stove when he actually wanted me to play with his blue helicopter.

Later I was back, and added the milk to the semiya , and kept stirring. I guess if the stirring is skipped, the semiya gets stuck or may even form lumps at the bottom which might provoke my husband to say ‘See? I told you to stay away from the kitchen’ and me wanting to pull my hair out. I checked the recipe and it said, “cook till the semiya is fully done”. Okay so when is that gonna happen? Will anyone specify when to know that the semiya is done? You are a programmer, get logical, my head said. I took a look at the picture in the recipe. It showed a payasam, all creamy, with semiya floating on top. Okay that means, when the semiya is done the milk will get thick and semiya will float. So the stirring was continuously done till that was achieved. My son wanted to stir too, but I advised him to wait until he gets a wife who is as good at cooking as I am. After that I added condensed milk and kept checking it for taste and thus consumed atleast a quarter of the payasam myself in the process.

Later thankfully the semiya floated and milk got creamy and I added the raisins on top. It looked beautiful and I immediately took a few pictures on my mobile and sent them to few contacts on whatsapp who ‘Oooh’ed and ‘Aah’ed at them..I  have amazing friends you see.

So that’s how I celebrated Onam. Today we have booked Onam meal at a very elegant Kerala restaurant. We are getting a parcel for my maid as well. My one year old’s lunch is not decided yet. The sad thing is, it’s a working day today and I will miss all those movies. Its okay…to be in a different country and being able to celebrate Onam itself is a blessing. I am content. *burp*

Happy Onam to one and all!

Weekend Dejunking!

Lately, I’d been basking in the success of my previous post, as it had become a runaway hit. Thanks to my sister who wrote it, and to Roshan Radhakrishnan the premium blogger at Blogadda who chose it as the Saturday pick of the week . My blog was thus bestowed with a much needed rejuvenation and attention. That is the benefit of having siblings who write well, and are kind enough to contribute (succumbing to torture).

Well, two weeks down the line I was still refreshing my page for any comments that might be waiting in the pipeline when realization dawned on me that it is time to update it.

So the update from my side is that, we are on the lookout for a bigger apartment here in Muscat and ALMOST landed one. We are in queue and may or may not get the flat. But if at all we get it, the thought of shifting from here had my head spinning. Two years it is, since we moved in here, and I cannot remember the last time I cleared junk out of this house. Well in all the two years I was pregnant for nine months, and now my son is one so you can’t expect me to clear the junk. My husband is totally unaware of any junk in the house, obviously because he is unable to identify junk from everything else, including me. I usually do not let my housemaid do any clearing, as she may clear out our degree certificates saying they were invalid pieces of paper.

A well deserved long weekend came my way and the super enthusiastic me kicked off the cleaning ritual starting from my husband’s cupboard where he stored some papers and boxes. Holy Cow. How many keyboards are a person expected to buy in his lifetime? No prizes for guessing, as I am unsure too. I got countless boxes in which these wireless keyboards came from. Not to mention other boxes of hard disks, USB, tie, trimmer, router, mobile phone, camera , dishtv set top  box, and only God knows what. It looked like a warehouse of Jumbo Electronics. When I cleared the boxes, there was enough space in the cupboard for him and his friends to sit and have a beer. I proceeded to the next. There I found old magazines, at least 20 newspapers, dvd covers with no dvd in them, blank paper to name a few. Those were cleared too. 

It took me a whole day, but the outcome was fulfilling. The house felt lighter, the room looked bigger, the ac seemed to be working better and the overall feeling of tidiness was unexplainable. I haven’t started with the wardrobe yet, but once I do I am sure to find a lot of junk there as well. I hope to carry only the useful stuff if we are lucky enough to get the flat! 

On a different note - An incident happened last week when on a public forum a NRI woman insulted our country and its culture. I couldn’t control myself and wrote a graceful yet strong reply to it, and this woman started throwing brickbats at me using foul language. After reading that, my palm was sweating and forehead burning in anger and the feeling of revenge started engulfing me. I composed imaginary replies to it in my head. Later I asked myself… well foul language is a mirror to the upbringing and culture of a person. My parents wouldn’t be proud of me, if I replied to it on the same note, right? So I left it at that and did not respond. That person tried to email me repeatedly saying that she left me a message on the forum, thus provoking me in every way possible. I refused to respond. I even stopped thinking about it, except now ;-) By the way, Happy Independence Day, you guys!

So to sum it up, this weekend I cleared the junk off my cupboards ...and from my head. 

What did you do?

Anecdotes from my encounter with Life. - A guest post.

After three years of relentlessly torturing my readers, I decided to give you guys a break and requested my sister, Anjana Jaison for a guest post. She is basically an Electronics and Instrumentation Engineer, residing at Chennai, India. She is one person who will laugh at all your jokes - even the PJs. This hysterical laughter is her trademark, and she is solely responsible to have encouraged many people who started their efforts to be funny with poor jokes, and are now human versions of sheer boredom. Ironically, she has a good sense of humor herself :-| 

She also has a good vocabulary, a good command over the language but will not admit to any of it. She is also very good at Maths and English - the basics are right in place. She cannot make a drawing or a simple sketch, no not even a straight line. She has directly inherited the culinary skills from my Mom, and some of the most unforgettable treats for my taste buds were prepared and served by her. 

So here goes her first guest post on my blog, after months of requests, threats and torture. 

                                                                    That's us! 

******************************************************************************

So I finally give in to the sibling’s torture and decide to write a guest post for her blog. No, I have not written before apart from the 140 character limit tweets. So please bear with me!

Here are some of the biggest lessons from my life…

1.       It never rains, but pours.

Have you had a bad hair day? I’ve had lots of it. Some days I feel I might even have a no-hair day. These are days when you seem to have woken up on the wrong side of the bed and others when everyone around you seems to have woken up on the wrong side of their beds. The ones when the other queue seems to move faster and as soon as you move to that one, the counter closes for an hour long lunch break. Everything seems to go downhill from there… You might even wonder why all the bad stuff seem to come together. But that’s the law of nature. When it decides to screw you, it does a total good job of it. Murphy, the world’s greatest philosopher said: “If anything can go wrong, it will…and at the worst possible time”.

2.      Necessity is the mother of invention.

No truer words have ever been said. You think you can’t jump over a wall? Maybe. But if you are chased by a dog, it just comes to you!

I used to be a very quiet person. Then one particularly difficult day, I realised that no one will talk for me, and if I have to save myself, I have to open my mouth and talk for myself. Although the disappointment at suddenly being alone was great, it taught me an important lesson. It all seems hard till you really need to do it and you have no other go. The worst of times actually makes you strong. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

3.      Food is the biggest healer. Ever.

Do you console yourself by thinking that time heals all wounds? I don’t. Cos I know that time doesn’t heal all wounds. For me, food does it. I overeat when I am sad. I overeat when I am happy too, but, that’s another story! So, I have been going through a rough phase for the past one year. Yeah, you guessed it right. I ate my way through it. And now I am 10 kg heavier but I don’t worry about my troubles anymore. Cos now, I don’t fit into any of my clothes and have to worry about what to wear the next day!

4.      Move on.

I am notorious for dwelling in the past. I just can’t let it go. Regrets are my favourite past-time. I think about what should have been, could have been, shouldn’t have been and what ought to have been and anything else from what is to be done right now.

Living in the past, robs today’s happiness. By worrying, you are letting the past cripple your progress, when you actually just need to move on and do what is to be done next.

Moral of the story? No one cares if you are miserable. So you might as well be happy!!! Simble! :P

5.      “By the time a man realizes that his father was right, he has a son who thinks he's wrong.”

I am sure you don’t like to admit this. I don’t too. But then, this is one of the things you get to learn the hard way. Yesterday, I was screaming at my 7 yo during the morning rush (that’s when she eats my head for breakfast), and realized with horror that the words that were coming out of my mouth, were my mom’s! Verbatim. I bet at least some of you have experienced this. After the initial horror has passed, you realize that your mom/dad was right. And then on, you are desperately waiting for the kid to grown up and have kids, and realise that you were right!

6.      One man’s food is another man’s poison

I am sure all of us have experienced this in our lives, in various degrees.

An example: Papa: “Sardines? They stink up the whole place!”

Me: *GASP* *hurt* “How can you say that? They smell/taste heavenly.”

You get an idea!

Apart from the very literal translation, there are other examples too:

Friends: “You like Azharuddin?? :O What are you? Blind?”

Me: “What do you mean by like? I LOVE him!!”

Get the idea?!

Apart from the jokes, yes, I adored the man. I even wanted to marry him! Stupid desires of teenage! An uncle consoled me thus when he got married to his second wife, “Don’t worry mole… He is a Muslim. He can marry thrice. You still have hope.” That stopped the tears for a very long time! :D

7.      Never judge a book by its cover.

My first impression of people always changes and most often for the better. But unfortunately, by the time you realize that most people are like white-washed graves, it is always too late.

I have also learnt to have my own opinion of people/things, no matter what my friends thought of him/her.

And about judging people, I am careful now. The Universe has made sure that I go begging for help to every person I had underestimated/biased against, for no particular reason.

Corollary: A mule dressed in a tuxedo is still a mule! :P

8.     Assumption is the mother of all fuck ups!

I assume a lot. A LOT. Almost 80% of the things that happen in my world, happens in my mind! If someone doesn’t answer my call, I assume that they are mad at me. In my mind, I make up possible reasons for them to be mad at me. Then I go ahead and have a conversation with them in my mind which consists of mostly heated arguments. By the time, this person wakes up from sleep, sees my call and calls back, I am mad at them for being mad at me and for calling me names in my imagined conversation!!! Of course, they have no idea why I am cranky!

The typical story of “Borrowing a jack”!!! Those of you who have not read the story can read it here: http://www.skywriting.net/inspirational/stories/wanna_borrow_a_jack.html

If assumption is the mother, comparison must be the father. Comparison is the root cause of all agony. I have looked at my problems closely. I had to. When my assumptions were getting out of hand!

I realised that every mental agony is, in one way or the other, caused by a comparison I made. This must be the best realization that I had in my entire life. This however, did not stop me from making comparisons from time to time. Nothing good comes of it though. After all, life is all about accepting yourself the way you are, and being happy with it.

9.      Laughter is the best medicine.

Someone in office said that I have the weirdest laughter she has ever heard. Once upon a time, I would have been offended by that. But now, I have seen enough in life to take it as a compliment. Because, if you take the time to look around at the kind of problems people face, you will realize that being able to laugh itself is a blessing. Yeah, I do have a weird n loud laugh. But it never fails to make me feel better. It is not a laugh if you don’t do it heartily.

10.  The best trait that can ever be inherited is the habit of reading.

Enough said!!! Keh diya na, bas keh diya! :P

The non existent culinary gene.

You know there is something called a culinary gene.  It is transmitted from the mother to the 'receptive' child in her womb. Unfortunately in my case, I’d been on indefinite strike when my Mother was trying to bestow those good genes and hence I was born (there was no other choice), and grew up to be a disgrace to every female in the family- in terms of cooking of course ;-).

Everyone takes food for granted. Because as far as the Indian male expectation goes, in every house, behind the relentless smoke and the stove there should be a female figure whose efforts will always be overseen. Everyone comes to the dining table expecting food, and never was it broken - everyone gulped down whatever was there, sometimes found absurd reasons to complain, washed their hands, burped and left. Noone cared about the number of onions that had to be peeled, washed and diced which were to be added in the right proportion and sauted for the right amount of time which was an important ingredient of the curry they ate. 

Later when I swapped roles to become this female figure who was expected to feed her family, I realized the actual pain behind the smoke and the stove. The effort from peeling an onion to making a curry, or rather the basic rules of cooking that one is expected to be born with. Being a south Indian, Idly is our staple food. Hot steamy idlis are a typical breakfast, which is also a convenient option when there are guests in the house, primarily because idly doesn’t need a lot of recipes or basic cooking knowledge to make. You have to pour the idly batter in the idly mould, close lid, and wait until the whistle comes or 15 minutes whichever happens first. 

When we were at Bangalore, all I knew was to make Dosas, which surprisingly came well for me - thanks to the days I sat at the kitchen holding my plate, eyes set on the tawa, mouth open and watery ,watching my Mom make paper thin Dosas with a touch of ghee. Droool..

Later I heard that Idlis were even easier than Dosas. Here is how one can easily mess up a day’s breakfast. So the idly mould was there, I smeared oil on it, and poured the right amount of batter and closed the lid. After fifteen minutes, I switched off the stove and opened the idli maker only to find the top row idlis to be in an edible form. The middle row was watery and the entire bottom row of idlis drowned ….and died.  Which means, there is something else to it - knowing how much water to pour inside the idli maker, that is what. Well, no one told me that did they?  (I am that female who missed the gene, remember?). Post this unfortunate incident, my mother and sister were so devastated … that they started feeling good about themselves. Knowing that there are people who can mess up something like idly which people like them can prepare in their sleep, boosted their self confidence at my cost.

But there is a determination factor to many things I did so far. So I went ahead and kept trying. Idlis soon became something I could make without errors. Even the bottom row, mind you!  Pepper chicken, channa, daal and even fish curry (after so many failed attempts, and no my husband hadn’t left me still) . Yes I have come a long way, but I am far from being an expert. Very far, that is. With work on one side and a toddler on the other, it is rather difficult to find time, but most weekends, I try something or the other to brush up my non existent skills. Isn’t that good enough? I even posted a cutlet recipe couple of months ago! I hope no one tried that out:-P

Anyway now I am determined. I am never going to be competition to my mother, grandmother or my sister in terms of culinary skills, but I will score a ‘not bad’ rating with hubby. Just wait and see, all of you jokers who are laughing at the screen now!

A triangle of errors...

It was a cold rainy evening, when finally the hustle and bustle of a busy life seemed to part and Annie succumbed to a deserving solitude. She sat by the raindrop studded French windows, lost in thoughts. 

Thoughts,  which dint matter to her anymore.

Winding back to her college days was the last thing she ever wanted to do, but somehow the rainy evening took her to the doorsteps of that hostel room, the room which was undersized for two, which stood testimony to the rants and laughter of many friends. Especially, Diana.

She was still in touch with Diana, who wasn’t her roommate but her best friend. They shared every random thought that came to their minds. They were inseparable soul sisters who stood firmly by each other come what may. However it hurt when some people told her that Diana was not the person whom she thought she was.  But for her, it was like telling her that she was adopted. On those days when she fell sick, it was Diana who burnt the midnight oil checking on her, and made her rice soup..the days when Diana was a motherly figure to her. The least she did was to save Diana a space in her heart, right next to her parents and siblings, and established that water is sometimes blood thick.

She remembered that fateful morning when a casual conversation with the jovial and very mature batch mate Shilpa, led to a serious argument. The verbal argument may have stopped, but it continued even after she went back to her room, in the form of text messages. Of all the spiteful messages exchanged, she remembered that one message which came from Shilpa:, “Everyone knows about the affair Diana has with your classmate. But you don’t. And you call her your best friend?  Lol You don’t know you are a laughing stock yet”. It’s been at least 13 years since she got that message, she changed at least 5 mobile phones since and the message is long gone, but she remembered every word of it. She never questioned Diana and thus be the suspecting moron who doesn’t know that any relationship is built on trust. Or was it?

She recollected bits of instances when she felt Diana knew this classmate too well, but pretended not to take notice. She remembered the phone calls Diana made in her room and how she tactically ended them as soon as she entered. It happened too often to ignore. Was it friendship then, by any means? The fear of losing Diana to misunderstanding was huge and scary. But the thought of remaining a fool for the sake of losing someone was cowardice.

13 years. 

She remembered how it was she who started the argument with Shilpa and lost a good friend forever.  Thoughts whether she should try to make up with her stormed in her head, as the rain poured heavily on the window pane. Finally she made up her mind. She opened her laptop and typed a breezy, yet honest email to Shilpa fighting back any ego that came her way. Within a couple of days, came a heartwarming reply. Shilpa was equally touched and wanted to get back with her. Tears welled up her eyes as she read through Shilpa’s letter, and she assumed that she too must have cried as she typed it.

Annie closed her laptop, sat back and heaved a sigh of satisfaction that now she has no enemies as far as she could remember. Unless she wanted to create one. There is Diana and Shilpa. Continents apart, but they are there. It was a refreshing feeling, one that she hadn’t felt in a long time.

She closed her eyes, but sleep was not in the vicinity. Thoughts of being betrayed lingered in her heart. Did Diana hide the most important things from her and talk behind her back… when all she had was her and trusted her like no other? It was unbelievable. Or perhaps she dint want to believe it . Diana would never do that, would she…? She was caught in a whirlwind of contradictions. Is it the geographical distance that is making her doubt her best friend?  Shilpa was mature as a person, and even during an argument wouldn’t say anything untrue. All odds were against Diana. All those little incidents she ignored without questions. She couldn’t imagine being laughed at. She cried.

As she wiped her tears, she felt the rush of a fresh onset of thoughts in her mind. That Diana might have thought that she wouldn’t approve of her affair, and kept it secret for the fear of losing her. May be, Diana thought she was too precious to lose. May be. As the rain subsided, she lay back on that chair and noticed the clear sky. She breathed in the moist, fresh air and slowly drifted off to sleep.
 

The food path to happiness!

Its been over two years since I was uprooted from Bangalore and replanted in Muscat. I hated everything about Muscat initially, because I believed that Bangalore was an incomparable place. But then there is a destiny factor which plays the protagonist in our lives and we are the supporting actors who adhere to it. So two years down the line, I still miss my friend s in Bangalore, but I cant complain about Muscat too.

Although it took us long to settle down and find an amicable group to connect with, we found a cool place to hangout couple of miles from our home, quite early on. It is Camilia Turkish Restaurant, where we get the best Turkish Shewerma and Grilled Chicken, ever. I am not saying it is the best in the world ONLY because I haven’t been to a lot of places outside India, and hence do not have the proof enough to say it.

Now Camilia is the best thing that happened to us I must say. Every week, we have dinner there atleast once. To top it, we also get fresh juices ! What else does one need in the scorching Gulf summers!

Camilia is also reasonably priced, has open air as well as roofed air conditioned space, and very friendly staff. Although it is a casual outlet and one wouldn’t choose it for a birthday or anniversary dinner, hubby and me are happiest at Camilia and would prefer it over any high profile restaurants around. My one year old also enjoys the hot French fries they serve with the chicken!

So what I am trying to say is, wherever destiny takes you, just find a good place to hang out and most importantly to EAT, and you will be happy.

Here is a picture of the salt and pepper mills at Camilia – can these get any more creative? How cute! 

High School Gags...

It was one of those glorious high school days when we, a gang of nine brats popularly known as The Notorious Nine, were walking from school to the bus station at noon, after a boring three-hour extra class during the weekend. We were all the typical uniform wearing, hyperactive students who left no stone unturned to enrage teachers ,parents and peers alike. 

Among us, my friends Sandy and Ancy (names changed to protect my head their privacy :D ) were healthier than the rest of us.

As we walked, Ancy went on to announce, that since she and Sandy weighed significantly more than the rest of us, the school will declare two days leave in the event of their unfortunate demise.

 This declaration however, did not go down well with the rest of us. I screamed, ‘WHAT?’ . However Ancy kept walking completely ignoring my tone of speech and expression. The others of the gang rolled eyes at her. However, she kept chewing her gum, pretending to be completely oblivious to the air of terror around her. Well no one actually cared about the demise part, but the worry was for the two days she deserved, unlike one day which is the usual trend. Sandy also kept walking, nodding her head as if to acknowledge the praise she was bestowed upon.

I couldn’t control myself, when I asked her…”Then what about me…and Nimmy..and the others ?” She patted off some dust from her skirt, casually ran her fingers through her hair and said, ‘One day maximum, if it is not on a weekend’. I felt highly insulted and humiliated than I would’ve felt if I actually died on a weekend. 

The shortest and most malnourished member of our gang, G, then looked up, and asked in a low voice, ‘ And me?’

Ancy looked at her pitifully, up and down, and famously replied after a few seconds,

“Hmm… Five minutes silence, at the most”. 

Inappropriate Monologues.

Ten days into the month and finally I got to sit down to write a few words of how beautiful the last week of my life had been. Firstly, my parents landed on the 5^th of June, and in the next two days I was completely blinded by homemade chocolate cake. I can very proudly say that except for one piece I donated generously to my maid and another which I hesitantly gave my hubby, the rest of the cake has safely landed in my otherwise flexible tummy. However I do not feel even a bit guilty, because like my sister says, I am also sure they serve these in heaven.

Second reason I am happy about is that I completed one year of parenting, or in other words, my son turned one. My parents almost cant see me yet, as they are drowned deep in the whims and smiles of my little one. We also hosted a party for close friends, during which we cut the cake, played games, danced and ate a sumptuous dinner.

So before the birthday party, on Aaron’s actual birthday, we went to church in the morning, said thanks to the Almighty for the countless blessings, and at noon, we’d invited two of my previous housemaids to join us for lunch. I did this from a good intention, because I was sincerely thankful to them. So post lunch one of them showed no signs of leaving. As soon as she came she started talking about her diabetes problem which we showed concern and listened curiously. But her symptoms and hospitalization story went on and on until we could no longer hear her. Mummy, who actually is a good listener tried to change the topic by talking to my son in between but she paid no heed to her attempts. I tried going to another room and calling my mother on the landline which was in the living room,(so that she gets up to answer the call and the conversation would be disconnected) but my brutally innocent Mummy failed to read my intentions and asked me to answer the call K

Finally around 45 minutes of exaggerated details from her fasting and post brandial sugar count -to her doctor -his experience and family- to his mother tongue and expertise-to her hospitalization charges and treatment- to her daughter starving in sorrow, to the sandals which was stolen at the hospital. She left no stone unturned and then changed the topic.

 To suicide. About a girl she knows who apparently looked like me, and her husband who (obviously) looked like my husband

 ( **when people lie, they say some details which goes too far and makes the most tragical stories funny**** )who had a shaky marriage and then my looakalike committed suicide leaving behind a two year old. Remember, she is talking to my mother. I watched Mummy’s face going pale and at this point, I stood up and left the room and started planning an evening walk so that we could get rid of this calamity in human form which had settled down in my living room. I talked to Papa who was in another room checking emails and told him that we could go and check out a new residential building which had come up in our area. I convinced my husband also into this, and got dressed all of which took about 20 minutes and went to the living room again to hear her still describing about how my lookalike was found breathless after hanging from the ceiling fan in such great detail as if she was an eye witness. If I asked her where the lookalike got the rope to hang from, she’d detail that also, with route maps.  

Trying my best to cover the sheer desperation and anger I said, ‘Arent you guys done with this topic yet..? Remember it is Aaron’s birthday? ’…with a fake smile, winking at Mummy in between sounding as sweet as possible. That’s when she snapped back..’Anita if you don’t want to listen , you just don’t listen…I am talking to your mother’. If she weren’t that old lady who once cooked food for me while I was pregnant, I would have thrown the furniture at her.

Some people just don’t know what to talk, when and where. Leave housemaids, we can forgive her thinking she is not educated.

 On one auspicious day of my sister in law’s wedding we left to the parlor early morning with the wedding saree and jewels. Giving away a bride is a sentimental ceremony, more than just a celebration. Our home was crowded with relatives who had come from near and far, and the atmosphere seemed to be heavy with anticipation and prayers . In thirty minutes and atleast fifteen phone calls, we reached the parlour where the beautician who looked a bit sophisticated waited. 

It took around two hours, to be done with the saree, hairdo and jewels, during which she subjected us to details of all the road accidents she had experienced so far, first hand or otherwise. She also described that the corpses she saw in the accident the week before dint have heads and also the pool of blood on the road, in millilitres. I wondered, if she spoke like this on a wedding day, what would she speak about at a funeral?

Can it get any more weird?

I am sure everyone had their shares of experiences with people who are educated or illiterate, who just cant decide what to say and when. People whose tongues are faster than their heads. I can but boldly say, that education has nothing to do with knowing what to talk. What do you say?

Bad, bad teacher!

This post is dedicated to the weirdest creepiest female I was a student of, around half a decade ago.

To begin with, she had this odd fashion sense. Her pencil thin frame was usually clad in saree- draped in sheer carelessness sans any effort to look neat. She was also supremely short for an average Indian adult, and this made her look comical- but mind you if you smile around her she will scare the daylight out of you using ultrasonic expletives. She complemented the bandage of a saree with pointed high heels which she obviously considered very funky to be wearing in a college where one has to walk in kilometers to go from one classroom to another. The annoying noise that her heels made could be heard from the nearest railway station.

When she entered the classroom, the sound of her heels automatically transformed the normal working of our brain to a state of numbness wherein we were reduced to vegetables which can read and write. As soon as she left we reverted to our normal state. Whenever she gave us a problem to solve, she walked amidst us creating an air of fear and sometimes casually banged her wrist on the desk- which caused a minor myocardial infarction to the student whose desk that was. 

Again, her vocabulary in English consisted mainly of the word ‘man’. ‘Come here, man’ ‘Get lost, man’ ‘What the hell is this man’ ‘Get out man’. And mind you, ‘man’ was not used for men alone. Once she told me, ‘ You Anita ! Get me a chalk, man’ K

The primary reason why she was weird was the explosive temper which could give any Shaji Kailas protagonist a run for his money. The subject she taught was associated with a lab – and hence this semester was a painful slow death for any student aspiring to attain a degree.  To get her signature on one chapter of the record book was mission impossible; imagine getting it for all 21 chapters and appearing for the lab exam where she will be there with her devilish grin and eagle eyes to get any prey she can lay her hands on. If at all you complete an experiment at the lab, document it and go to her for signature, she glances through the pages and if there is a micron of a correction she hurls the record book outside the staff room. The wailing students were supposed to pick them up and run to grab their anti depressants. The area outside her staff room was appropriately nicknamed ‘runway’ because the flying record books always crash landed there. The students actually formed a queue and stuck themselves to the wall so that there was enough space for the flying saucers.

Once she was joking to another teacher in the staff room and smiling..yes I caught her smiling! I continued to wait happily in line for my first experiment, when the boy standing ahead of me handed over his pen to her for signature, and to his fate the pen did not produce enough ink for her to carve her much anticipated signature and it went flying out of the window. The guy cried ‘My Pierre Cardin!’ out of an instant gut and he has not been allowed in her class or lab ever since. Well, when the pen went flying, so did I, straight to my hostel holding my record book tight to myself. That day I called home and cried to my parents blaming them for sending me to a place where there are villains for teachers. However I made it a point to never be a victim to her outrage and learnt my experiments in depth and wrote them accurately.

Another very appreciable quality which she possessed was her relentless ability to curse. Once a guy talked in her class and she cursed him, his parents and ancestors and even subjected him to further humiliation when she expressed her desire to see him around writing arrears for the next seven years. And on her last class before the exams all the other teachers wished us good luck...whereas she expressed her sincere wish that all of us fail her subject and wait at her desk again the next year.

Finally the day came when I went with shivering hands and feet to the University Lab exam. I got an experiment which I was not an expert on and started with a doubtful mind. The external was a man in his 40s and was a kind person. Madam Cruella De Ville sat next to him, looking at me as if to find some fault as she learnt from my expression and body language that I was doubtful. Unfortunately the tiny screen did not show any output when I heard the creaking of a chair being pulled back. I turned to look at her coming towards me. My fingers were literally shaking. She said, ‘Okay Anita, so see you again next year, same lab’ accompanied by devilish laugh. Other students looked at me pitifully, when tears started gushing out of my eyes. I dint say anything and continued to work on my experiment. However it did not give any positive signs, and I proceeded to my second experiment for which I got the desired result. But Madam Adamant was stern on her decision, and gave a smirk as I proceeded out of the lab. Needless to say I was torn apart.

However the graceful Almighty not only passed but also gave me good marks for her theory paper and lab. The 40 something normal external professor gave me marks for the experiment I did correctly and also reduced for the one I dint, but adding up record book marks and internal marks I got a decent score. I do not know how long she continued in that institution after I graduated seven years ago, but wherever she is, I remember her and feel pitiful for the students who get suicidal under her guidance.

Wherever you are, I dedicate this song to you, Ma’am, and I really mean it!

Happy Mother's Day.. :-)

Pondering over topics to write and repeated threatening the sibling for a guest post dint work out quite well in my favor. So here I am, yet again to scribble some flash back just to update the blog and of course, to bore you.

I had a pet cat when I was in tenth grade. That is, just a couple of years ago ;-) No I dint fail in my other grades, I am just trying to say that I’m in my sweet sixteen :-D 

The cat’s name was..err…let that be a family secret. Anyway it roamed around my house, inside and outside, much to the dislike of both my parents. We fed and played with him (it was our maid who confirmed that it was a  ‘him’, and not a ‘her’). One fine morning, my pet went absconding, leaving a trail of broken hearts – oh wait just a heart that’s mine. We searched everywhere in the neighborhood but in vain. For a year or two after that, we mourned his death anniversary sometime in August. I always loved cats despite it being a totally useless creature. The cats in my Mom’s time, in early 60s and 70s used to catch mice and do its bit. But these days all they do is to watch TV.

My cat’s biological mother also used to be in our compound, but that one was egoistic. It dint accept any food we gave as it hurt its pride or something. It saved that food for its other kittens. Commonly seen walking on the wall, this mother cat barely meowed or showed any signs of hunger. However she had some stalkers-I will talk about her moral side in a separate post, dont worry :D I am sure this poised creature was a  celebrity of its kind. However it seemed to be impressed by the fact that its son, our pet was fed well and taken good care of.

Yesterday, I took my baby out for a stroll and found a cat with its two kittens having brunch in a garbage can. I kept looking at them- a family of cats having snacks in total harmony. That was when two dogs also decided to have brunch at the same place. As the dogs approached the kittens, the mother cat pounced on the dogs like a tiger and the dogs fled bawling. The super Mom returned and continued to purr by her kittens .

Yesterday was Mother’s day. The mother instinct is obviously not a human trait. Its a known fact that Moms actually possess super powers when it comes to the security of her offsprings. Imagine the sea of pain undergone by the mothers in our country whose babies were taken away just because they were females. Or the plight of expecting mothers who are threatened to be burnt alive with the child if they deliver a girl. 
Well we are human beings- so called superior species with brains, religions, laws and rules-that’s exactly why we are like this. I’m sure the cat I saw yesterday dint care about the gender of her kittens. She’d protect them anyway.

Happy Mother’s Day.

Handwriting Impacts.

Does a person’s handwriting say something about him?

Yes and No. For example, Mummy’s handwriting is beautiful and exceptionally neat. Her grocery list looks better than my University Record book. Like her handwriting, she is also systematic, aesthetic and creative. So this handwriting speaks a lot about her I would say. But then take my Papa’s or husband’s handwriting and going by the pace and illegible letters, one might think they are terrorists. But they aren’t – because you should not compare them with terrorists and insult terrorism ;-)

I have inherited just one good thing from all of my predecessors, which is Mummy’s handwriting.** and extending the story of inheritance -  a rare genetic combination of  low attention span, carelessness, short temper and a plethora of genetically transmitted diseases from every other unhygienic ancestor**.  :-) Anyway my handwriting came in handy to my friends who wanted me to write their names on their new notebooks, to write the date and day on the blackboard at school, or the project statistics on the white board at my previous office. Moreover one teacher at my college said that evaluating my answer sheet was a pleasure as it looked neat with outlined diagrams and neat elaborate answers *though she dint mention whether the elaborate answers had any connection to the questions asked*.

But does handwriting really matter? It really does.

So recently, my little one had a fever accompanied with cough and nose block. We took him to the pediatrician, who was well qualified, well behaved and doesn’t prescribe medicines just for the heck of it. He was our favorite until recently he prescribed a cough syrup for our son, and also said ‘This is a seasonal cough. Not severe, so better refrain from antibiotics. I will give you this one, it is for infants’. So we took the prescription to the pharmacy where the pharmacists are usually seasoned readers of doctor’s handwriting.

 And the pharmacist said,’ Amoclan? Its an antibiotic!”

We: But its for our ten month old and doctor specifically said its not an antibiotic!

He: This is Amoclan, it’s a powder to be mixed in water, its taste is not baby friendly, and it is an antibiotic.

We did not buy the medicine and decided to check with the doctor again. Two days passed by and meanwhile the cough got severe. We got an appointment with the doctor again and checked the prescription.

Doctor:’ It is Ambolar Syrup, not Amoclan. ‘

We: K

Okay so Ambolar syrup it was, the label itself had the dosage instructions for babies of every age. May be because we are educated people, and because God was gracious enough we saved ourselves from a wrong medication. What about others? The illiterate, the poor or those in emergency? Couldn’t this have caused more serious issues?