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?

Impressions.

Browsing through the supermarket shelves, I came across a label and was taken aback. What ? A daal named after Shashi Tharoor? No way, man. I went back and read that once again. Sahi Masoor Dal . Okay now a brief relief that I dint say that aloud.

Have you ever thought through this, what if our thoughts were immediately broadcasted for everyone to hear? Wow that would have been terrifying. Literally terrifying. For example, last day when I fell down a kind lady gave me a helping hand, about whom I judged a few seconds back, ‘what a fashion retarded female’. If she’d heard that, she’d have stomped all over me when I fell down.

But when I rewind into the past I realized that I actually tend to say many such stuff aloud when I am around my parents. Well they brought me into this world and have a clear-cut idea about me, I cant fool them by talking intelligently or anything (as if I can do that). Once when I went to attend an interview with Papa, there was another office on the adjacent side of the same floor that we were, and I pointed to it and exclaimed ‘ See Papa? Spiderman Technologies !! How cool !”. Papa read it, looked at me pitifully, which made me read that again. ‘Speridian Technologies’. Okay genuine mistake. Contrary to Papa's beliefs, I got through that interview.

Mostly through the countless embarrassing and not-so-embarrassing situations I’ve been in, most of which had happened due to notions I created from the appearance. For example, a very good looking lady about whom everyone said had too much attitude was actually a simpleton. And the fat guy with curly hair and nerdy spectacles was not even close to being brainy or a foodie. But most of the time or all the time appearances and first impressions are deceptive.

Once at my ex employer’s we had training on an advanced technology. The hall was packed. Few minutes into the session I gathered that this trainer girl wouldn’t leave easy and she was determined to make each of us learn this. She even pin pointed people and asked questions from what she talked about an hour ago. This was slightly disturbing for me, as I had a very short attention span and verbal technical sessions in air conditioned rooms often made me go YAAWWWN. Unfortunately during one of those wide mouthed yawns the trainer caught a glimpse of me and in another minute I found myself on focus with her throwing a question and a roomful of eyes shifting their attention towards me. Of course I dint know the answer and some idiotic nerd answered it without being asked and he looked at me as if I was retarded. Further, I found the whole crowd asking doubts and writing notes, but she made it a point to give me a look and ignored me completely the whole day. The next day it was a hands-on session, where we actually implemented the lessons taught, on our laptops. The trainer showed us a simple example and gave us a different one to try out. She walked around us when the crowd seemed to look as though it was an Entrance examination or something, and gave me a sarcastic guffaw as she walked past my laptop. In another 20 minutes, I walked to her showing my output. She cross checked, and verified until she could find no mistakes though it was hard for her to believe that it was mine. I still appreciate her frankness because she said, ‘ Excellent. I thought you weren't listening. Good work’. *I wanted to say, 'ma'am, I wasn't listening after all'...but I dint, I just nodded and left quietly*

There were countless incidents through my school and college days where I was predetermined to be careless and stupid, but over the years they changed their impression, of course I waited until it happened in the long run. However I am okay with the first impression people make about me. Because, when I joined college Mummy was all praises for a senior girl she knew was in my college, and told me to contact her if I needed any help or books or inspiration or…oh forget it Mummy wanted me to be her. Later, after making some friends at the hostel, the first thing they said was that the person I had the reference of, was one of the most notorious girls, and not just in our college. Weeks after, I got a good idea about the girl Mummy wanted me to learn from. It took Mummy years to come to terms with this, but she later realized that her daughter was far better.

So, it is basically a give and take. I pass on mental judgments and you do the same about me.   And it goes on.

Easter : Appam and Beef Stew, anyone ?

I have fond Easter memories from my childhood. Honestly it’s the day the fifty-day long lent is “formally” broken and we hog relentlessly into chicken and beef. In the past fifty days, casual and secretive lent breaking might have happened which we shall not reveal and pretend that it dint happen.

So Easter begins with supersonic Spiritual songs piercing my eardrums in the early hours of the day. Back home, there were these few churches which were always at odds against each other, and they hire taxis and huge speakers and go around the neighborhood screaming ‘Christ is risen ! Hallelujah !”  This is a custom which actually is heart-warming and triggers off that Easter mood. However, over the years the churches were competing as to who played the loudest music. So the warm custom became a chaotic one, and a hot topic for verbal contempt among us Christians living in that area. I am surprised as to why the non Christians dint stage a louder protest against this custom for disturbing sleep on a Sunday morning. Anyway this counts as a fond memory because once one is married and written off the books, then the probability of being home for Easter is one out of a million.

The next thing to do is to go to church for the mass. This includes wearing new dress and then comparing it with that of others at the church. The Easter songs, sermon and message will happen in the background. After the mass none of the aunties gathers in circles to discuss the embroidery on the organza saree, because after fifty days of eating leaves and herbs, people are seen rushing home and hog on Appam and Beef stew as if it is an emergency. 

Post breakfast its time to watch movies on TV. The channel guys usually air a “new” movie (released two years back) which would be eagerly awaited by us cinema deprived kids.  After that comes the heavenly Chicken Biryani lunch and an afternoon nap. Later it’s a matter of a small outing and then off to school the next day.

This was our agenda for Easter, each and every year.

Years later in a different country, married and away from parents, I can only say that I remember those days very fondly. And in this part of the world Easter is not as relevant as it used to be and above all, it is a working day! Moreover, I cannot sit at the dining table expecting food to arrive; I have to cook. And clean as well. Gone are the days! But mind you it is not so terrible. I am making a special sweet this time and with the help of my maid we will make it special the way we can.

Oh I just remembered that Christ died very painfully for us on the cross and He resurrected from the dead on the third day. We are celebrating this third day as Easter - the victory of life over death. Amidst the hustle and bustle of making that special Easter lunch, did you also forget Him, like I did?

Why I'm Daddy's girl.

“I am not coming home unless you pick me” I screamed and rushed out with my school bag, leaving my parents pretending to be least bothered, with contrasting streaks of concern in their eyes.

I used to have special tuition classes for Chemistry, because this was one subject I had no clue about. And my chemistry class was after my regular school hours after which I had to board two buses to reach home, thanks to the choice of location of Papa to build our house.

So that day, I asked Papa to pick me up- because I dint want to board those stupid buses, you see. Papa, whose office was a good 25km away from home, reaches by 6 pm every evening. By then he would be exhausted, and riding that primitive scooter which has to be kick started around twenty five times and riding it in peak hour traffic for another few miles to pick me  was nothing less than trying to balance chemical equations. So he requested me to come by bus. And when I left saying that I wouldn’t and instead wait at the tuition campus, Mummy said….”She doesn’t mean any of it, will come home herself as usual, you know it”.

Evening came, and as I stepped out of my tuition class I could see Papa from a distance. I was so overwhelmed that I ran towards him and climbed onto the back of the scooter and we sped off home. On the way, I narrated to Papa about the endless chemical equations and that one equation in particular which would never get balanced and the teacher found that the formula itself was wrong. Papa nodded all the way along and laughed at my not-so-funny teen jokes keeping both eyes on the road all the way.

Next I can remember is a staggering pain in my tummy as I lay on the roadside on a  stack of gravel and I lifted my eyes to see Papa’s shoes on the center of the road. I turned around and saw Papa walking towards me barefooted. The scooter lay on the road, and so were my school bag and Papa’s shoes. By then a mighty population had already crowded us as if to catch a glimpse of the item dance I was performing. Anyway we both were okay, Papa and me suffered minor bruises ( but to all my friends I somehow managed to sound like I survived a shark attack). The wound  on my leg was slightly big and it bled a lot as we took an autorickshaw to the hospital. 

We called Mummy from the hospital and tactfully lied to her, that we are getting late as we dropped in at Margin free market midway. If not for that call, the least she usually does is to inform the police and say that her husband and daughter are missing and create chaos of a kind in the neighborhood. But we cant blame her, as it runs in her family.
By the way, let me explain how we were thrown from that scooter.As we were "speeding" at around 40km/hr, suddenly a puppy appeared as if from nowhere and it crossed the road just in front of us. You know when something is that cute, it mostly doesn't have enough brains. I do not remember what happened to that puppy or my school bag. 

As we reached home, Mummy almost broke into a temporary coma seeing Papa with bandages on his arms and me limping in a bandage clad leg. Mummy regained her senses a few minutes later and shot a long array of questions without leaving breathing space. So we explained the incident in dramatized tones, nursing our bruises for added effect. That’s when Mummy, wiped her tears and turned to Papa. “I told you there is no need to pick her up; she may say many things, but will come home”

Papa asked, ‘How can you be so sure?”

Mummy got up briskly, and said ‘Its so obvious! 99.99 chances are that she will!”

Papa gave his signature smile, turned to her and replied in a low tone, “I couldn't risk that 0.01%”.

To the most disgusting bank, ever !

I am entirely frustrated by the turn of events. It’s been two years since I left my last employer and I am still struggling to get my PF. What have I been doing for the last two years is what you ask? Yeah I had a baby and he is going to be ten months old now, but in between all that I have been communicating with either my ex employer or my bank to get things done. Except when I was in the labor room.

This bank, basically a foreign bank, had a different name two years back, when a sales guy thrust those documents in front of me and asked me to sign them on my joining day at my ex employer’s. And lo and behold, I am an account holder ! And right there was my debit card, a customer relationship number, cheque leaves all neatly arranged in a file which looked as elegant as the Brittanica. All on the same day…or the same hour that I met them! I accepted the account without questions- well why would I - when I all I care about is the salary which has to get credited promptly by the end of every month.

Six months after I put down my papers, I randomly checked whether all is well at my PF processing. Then suddenly those guys came up with an excuse saying that the PF papers require a Rs.1 revenue stamp, signed across by yours truly, which was not in my submitted forms. I clearly remember submitting that when I was in India, and it was very obvious that these guys lost it. Then it took a few ISD calls, hunting for Re.1 Indian revenue stamp in a different country, signing it across and sending it by courier. Thankfully they acknowledged the receipt of the stamp and as instructed, I waited again for two more months and checked the status when they came up with a fresh excuse- cancelled cheque leaves are required. This time, my head fuming with rage, I applied for a cheque book to be delivered at my address. Then these bank guys said that the cheque book returned undelivered (My foot!). I updated my address ( added a spacebar to the existing one) and it got delivered the second time at the same address. This process took a lot of emails, phone calls to customer service and more importantly, two good months. Again the cheque leaves were sent to them and I ensured that all the documents were in place.

I waited another four months.

Suddenly one fine morning my Papa called me and said sadly that my account with this nasty bank is getting closed as there is no activity in it for the last two years. How did Papa come to know? Interesting question. The so called super bank's primitive website does not allow country codes other than +91 to be entered in the mode of communication tab and so, I was forced to give Papa's number there. So these brainless monkeys at the bank were actually communicating with Papa on my behalf - now that's what we call a secure modern age banking. 

I called these bank people, wrote emails – crispy and lengthy, I posted grievances saying-please do not close my account, as my PF is getting processed and I have given this account number in it– nothing happened. They said that as my salary stopped coming in, they converted my account into some other type (wth !) in which it required a minimum balance. How am I to know this, you bastards? They say they gave me a warning letter to my address, that account will be closed- which wasn’t delivered (because you dint send it, you useless creatures!). And one day they just closed it; which essentially also means that my PF will never get credited. All my other efforts to get the PF went down the drain.

 I emailed the branch head, node head, communication manager, everyone whom I could get an email of and pleaded them to reopen my account as my PF will be credited into it. They replied saying no, not politely though, with enough shameless lies about the phone calls and emails they sent which never reached me. However the courier saying that the account is closed reached me promptly…how madam? Your bank is just plain spiteful and I genuinely hope it closes down and you roam down the streets begging with your resume, you know that?

Anyway what lies ahead of me is a herculean task to download a fresh set of forms, fill them, attach revenue stamp and cancelled cheque leaves of a different account number. It will again take another year to get processed. I do not know how much I have in my PF, but mind you worthless fools, even if it is Rs.1, I am entitled to each and every paisa of it - as it is the fruit of my toil - which you disoriented dumb heads wouldn't know a shit about. Then I will send you an email, my dear ex-banker. I will also come to your office when I am in India, a couple of months from now, and give you an earful. 

Tit for tat !

So it was a overall checkup for the nine month old at his pediatrician’s.  

A two year old girl came close to me and tried to pull my son - Aaron's nose. I gracefully and tactically avoided the damage by moving him away from the cute little intruder. 

Then I told hubby, “ Are you watching this or not? That kid would have pulled his nose out now. She had nails too…sharp ones”

“Ohh” came a sluggish response coupled with a yawn. “ Kids are like that. They will play and sometimes even hurt each other. Nothing to worry about”

Me: “Nono I mean to say, we should not trust him at a play school with older kids at this stage, you know”

Suddenly he sat straight, gave me a look and “ Oh I see? Then you do one thing. Buy a glass cage and keep him inside that. So no one will ever touch him and he will be perfectly safe”

 I fell silent and the day went about as usual,  the conversation conveniently forgotten.

The very next day, Aaron fell down on a mat in the living room as he was crawling. As I was in the kitchen, his rough n tough Daddy was in charge and he was eye witness to the accident. Suddenly he lifted the baby, pacified him and came running to the kitchen. 

“Should we take him to the doctor?”

Me: *casually* “Why what happened to him”

“He just fell down you know…**gasps for breath**and his face hit the floor, and a drop of blood came from his gums”

Me: “Happens. As he is teething, gums are tender now..So… every time he falls, this is bound to happen”

“No he cried, tears also came…”

Me: “Really? Then do one thing …you put him in that glass cage and keep in the living room”…. 

Well he left the kitchen before I completed that sentence.

Lent Recipe: Vegetable Cutlet.

To be brutally honest, I am a terrible cook. I am not a foodie either. I just eat to live unlike err… everyone I know. Each and every dish I ever prepared was just mediocre, nothing special and some of them I cooked soon after marriage were total flops. However by mistake a pepper chicken came out great when I was at Bangalore and ever since I don’t remember being praised or blamed for something I cooked. I received nods from my ‘victims’ which suggested ‘Yeah, it is edible’. However women are judged by their culinary skills and any other skill she has is usually overlooked. But I’ve never bothered or even strove to be a good cook, because I’ve never been interested in it. However this quality of mine is an insult of the highest degree to my Mom, grandmother and sister who have that magic in them that whatever they prepare even when half asleep turns out to be one of a kind. So I ended up being a man-woman and I am not proud of it either.

Recently I came across a few food blogs. The reason I was browsing through food blogs was that it is lent time for us Christians, and for the next fifty days until Easter I have voluntarily given up chicken and fish, which are the ones that I really love. I am allergic to red meat, and so I am living on leaves and herbs now. I have a new respect for vegetarians these days. And to stay the least, being vegetarian in the middle-east where chicken shewerma is a national food – that is the kind of temptation I have to overcome during this period. So I was checking to see any exciting vegetarian recipes which can be cooked by dummies like me. And I came across vegetable cutlet.

It was weekend, and I was all set and hell bent on making this cutlet. My husband had the double duty to take care of the baby (the other being watching TV), who’d crawled under the dining table as a sign of protest when I was making this cutlet. The little dude was not very impressed as I dint play with him all forenoon. For anyone who is going through this article right now, please note - this is not a recipe post. It is my experience of making a cutlet for the first time in my life. If you want, I guarantee that you may try this at home as it came out really well. If I can make it, then you definitely can, even if you are a robot and reading my blog.

Ingredients(Vegetables)

Beetroot – 1 medium sized

Potatoes – 2 reasonably large

Beans – a handful

Carrot – 1 large

Onion – 1 large

Other Ingredients

Coconut oil

Bread Powder

Eggs – 2 (vegetarians can use maida and water instead)

Coriander leaves

Green Chillies - 3

Garam Masala

Pepper Powder

Salt

Ginger-Garlic Paste.

How I went about it

1.       Initially, I called my mother.

She said that instead of cooking potatoes separately, you can combine them with beetroots, if you don’t mind the potatoes getting that purple color. (I wanted the end result to taste and look like a cutlet – the color of potatoes was far from my concern at that time). This will save time and energy, she added. So I cut potatoes in squares, and beetroot the way I know it (it’s okay folks no one will dig out the shape of beetroots from the final result, so chill and cut whichever way you want), and cooked in a pressure cooker with very less water and some salt for 5 whistles. I drained it and let it cool.

2.      Then I peeled a medium sized piece of ginger, few garlic pods and green chillies and put them in the small jar of the mixer. I added garam masala, salt and pepper powder also to it, made a paste and kept it aside.

3.      Then I heated a pan, poured coconut oil (just little) and sautéed the onion. When it became light, I added the paste and closed the lid and kept on low flame for couple of minutes. Then the raw smell of the garam masala disappeared and the paste was blended with the onions.

4.      I added the cut beans and grated carrot into this and closed and cooked for five minutes or so. I then checked whether they were cooked and switched off the flame and let it cool.

5.      By that time the potato-beetroot was cool, so I mashed it and watched some TV.

6.      After some time, the cooked carrot and beans were also cool and I added them into this mixture and mixed it with my hands. Yes I washed them...I mean the hands. I checked for salt and gave a little to my maid for her opinion. She gave me a go-ahead. (Don’t go too far with the salt at this stage, let it remain subtle, because eventually you have to dip them in egg and if its subtle now, it will eventually round up to the nearest salt accuracy)

7.      I tried to make a ball of it with my right hand alone, then used both hands to mould it and pressed it manually to form a circle. It did not stick to my hands and rested on the plate in good shape.

8.      Likewise I did for the entire stuff and made 15 balls. Phew!

9.      I then dipped each of them in egg, and rolled them around in bread powder and kept in fridge for half an hour.

10.   I took them after that and shallow fried them until they got chocolate brown, but not burnt.  I used very little oil. In fact I took enough oil only to fill the tiny cap of the oil bottle twice. After frying I moved them to a container with absorbent paper and it absorbed rest of the oil.

Notes: 

1. I made the ginger garlic paste at home and did not use any ready mades. It makes a hell of a taste difference (lesson learnt from my previous catastrophic experience)

2. If you buy the rusk and powder it and store in air tight container at home, that is the best. I dint have time to do that so bought ready-made bread powder for this one. Its okay, but I was not so satisfied. The original bread powder smells good and is very much different from the canned one.

3. Do not add water while cooking the beans and carrot. Just close the lid and cook on low flame. The beans can be cut thinner than that shown in the picture. ( I don’t have a food processor…sob Lbecause buying me a food processor is like buying LED TV for a blind man.

4. The garam masala used was made at home by crushing the spices in the mixer. Pepper powder was also crushed and prepared at home.

5. You can add a combination of other vegetables of your choice and avoid beetroot. I used beetroot because it gives a dark color to the cutlet and has a good flavor too. You can use cheera(leafy vegetable) also to prepare this. Cheera is super healthy and rich in iron and hence I don’t like it much. But I’d like to try with cheera next time, and check whether they taste good when disguised as a cutlet.


6. For those who are wondering what is the role of eggs in a vegetable cutlet, chill. You can use maida or all purpose flour, made to a paste in water instead. 

And there is my healthy and tasty vegetable cutlet which has negligible oil content. It is undoubtedly a healthy snack for fussy toddlers (that is if the toddler lets you make it).


 Am I cool or what! (Already soaring high in self appreciation…you are welcome too : D)

Photo Courtesy: Hubby - Abu Sandeep.

Facebook Etiquette :-)

Few things I thought every facebook user should know: 

1.       If you know me, add me. If you don’t and you have 112 mutual friends with me, you don’t need to add me out of courtesy. I wouldn’t mind it either.

2.       Facebook will not give a dollar each for clicking ‘share’ button to any of the distressing pictures you circulate around. It is only like those chain mails from the 90’s which says that if your forward the photo of Virgin Mary to 20 people in less than 8 seconds, she will appear in your room today.

3.       Do not poke me if you don’t know me. There is nothing more disgusting in the virtual world than being poked by total strangers.

4.       Seriously I wonder how people get the time to check ‘Anita’s predictions’ and the ‘Meaning of your name’. They even ridiculously go to the extent of requesting innocent people to use the same.

5.       Half of the people who share random sceneries with the tag ‘I love Kerala’ and ‘Proud to be a Keralite’ do not live in Kerala. They don’t even live in India. A few rare specimens do not even admit of being a Keralite when asked.

6.       In photos of happy-looking couples, some people post comments like ‘You both look so much like each other’. I really don’t understand how a husband and wife can look like each other. You can get away with ‘Nice pair’ without provoking people to think you are weird.

7.       There are some pictures of kittens and puppies going around for more than a decade through forwarded emails. Please do not reshare those in facebook saying ‘cute puppy’. They must be dead and gone by now.

8.       I had to unsubscribe from some people’s posts because they constantly upload youtube videos of ‘mile sur mera tumhara’ and other songs from a long time ago and say that it is ‘nostalgic’. If you upload them each and every day, it is not nostalgic anymore.

9.       All of us who have access to facebook have access to youtube as well. You can say that you like such and such songs, but sharing the link of each and every song you like, on every single day is frustrating. Nobody is going to watch them anyway.

10.   Trying to ignore the n farmville requests...now what the hell is cityville and castleville ? Please !

“Heal facebook... Make it and better place…For you and for me and the entire human race…”