In my defense...

In my childhood I dreaded to say ‘I forgot’ to anyone.

 For one, I was enrolled into a Convent school where the nuns considered wearing nail polish as a severe crime. Forgetting to bring a book or an assignment was blown up into an act worthy to be reported at the nearest Police Station. When they distributed books for the academic year, they gave us two notebooks just for composition writing. One for English, and the other for second language, Malayalam in my case. So composition notebooks looked alike for everyone from first grade to the twelfth. Which also means that if you dint bring it, you cannot take another notebook and pretend like it is the composition book and save yourself a visit to the Principal’s room. Composition books were specially made to punish annoyingly forgetful students like me. However in a classroom of around 50 students there always were a couple of other miserable souls who were also brave enough to admit the same and followed me as the teacher escorted us to the Principal’s room.

Principal: ‘Hello Anita Jeyan. And others’.

(I am special you see)

Me: Good Morning Ma’am. *bowed head and held the ends of my skirt wide*

Principal, obviously not impressed by the show with the skirt, puts on a grim tone.

‘What did you do now?’

The teacher who escorted us to her room explained that according to the timetable one hour was assigned for composition writing and still we had not brought the composition book, with an expression as if she caught guns from our school bags. Principal started further interrogation.

 ‘How could you do this?’

‘I forgot, Ma’am’. I explained meekly.

‘How can you forget? Did you forget to comb your hair today? DID YOU?  DID YOU?’

I touched my head to check if my hair is okay, because she seemed to have thought I dint comb it.

‘Anita!” she screamed. ‘I am trying to tell you, that if you dint forget to comb your hair, but forgot your book, then you should reset your priorities’

Ohh. That’s what she meant. Hair is okay only. For a second she scared me.Why cant people convey properly what they want to say and stop acting like Shakespeare? I can expect some sort of straight-forwardness from a Principal, no? Anyway. The frustrated Principal sent us back to class with instructions that composition for that day could be written in the rough note (which I had forgotten, but who cares) and copied in the composition from home. The next day she wanted to see these composition books first thing when she comes to her office. She had way too much free time .

Thats my past. I continue to dwell in amnesia. When hubby drives back from the mall, I remember the most important item which was the reason I sent him to the grocery in the first place. From his animosity to any explanation of forgetfulness, I usually keep mum. Or if he finds out, I am tempted to lie in highly animated tones like, ‘ Dint you buy that? Omg what were you thinking?’

My Mom writes a Things-to-buy list and sticks them on the refrigerator with a magnet. Papa notes them down in a tiny yellow pad, in a much smaller and illegible handwriting, so that even if someone pickpockets him, they don’t crack the code of what secret vegetables he is going to buy:-/

By the way, the Principal is nothing compared to how my parents react if I told them I forgot something.

What I am trying to say is, when I forget, I want to say that I forgot. If it is not taken gently, I will be tempted to lie. If you tempt me to lie, then you are answerable to God. ;-)

Writing my way in 2013...

Hello dear folks who noticed that I was not here over a month! Others who dint, miss me next time, okay? ;-)

2012 December was one incredible vacation. Details later, but I can tell you it was nothing less than pure bliss. Except the part that I suffered a splitting headache on Christmas eve, that I spent more time lying down on the back seat of the car , parked in the church premises with a toddler dancing on my head, when the choir happily sang, ‘Joy to the world!’. Sarcastic singers, I say.

Later December 16^th happened. The wretched night of Delhi gang rape. The aftermath of riots, chaos, tears and ultimately her passing in glory to the land where rape is unknown. Been following all news and articles written on the same. However some people who blame women to have done the heinous crime of “provoking” men seems to be determined to show off the deepest low of stupidity they can stoop to. Honestly.

December 28^th. It was our wedding anniversary. I celebrated it in Trivandrum, and hubby at Cochin. Well as per our schedule it was preplanned according to the layout of a larger plan. Well we live together and work at the same office all 365 days- being geographically separated on anniversary is not a big deal. All the other days are.

So recently I was filling out a few forms, and realized that with time, I am losing my ability to write. Writing my full name using a pen on a piece of paper has become so tedious that I am sure in a few years I will not be able to do it anymore. My son will grow up to call me illiterate. Or he will think I passed Engineering through online multiple choice exams. Did I answer those five essays, four pages each and 20 short answer questions all in three hours? I mean ideally I’d take a week to do that.

 My papa saves some handwritten letters of his father and his uncle. These are some of his invaluable possessions. Those words in custom handwriting speak a lot more than what Microsoft word does. Handwritten letters have that quality of intense personal communication, achieved by the handwriting, aroma and an invisible attribute which actually makes the reader feel that the sender is actually speaking just to him. These letters are also physically saved and read over the years, just for that aroma, handwriting and a personal touch, unlike the emails we archive and never read a second time. Also, a handwritten letter is usually unique. There are no copies, and it has a single receiver, unlike the Cc’s and worse, the BCc’s of standard email.  This makes it priceless. Letters written on paper with fountain pens are really memoirs, or little personal tokens of eternal worth.  I do not know how authors of today write. I know that JK Rowling writes in her Macbook Air. So the authors of the yesteryears must have taken so much effort to write those timeless classics. Imagine the passion which went into those books, when there was no google and availability for reference was scarce.

Every year, my employer gives me a diary and calendar in the first week of January, and I routinely donate it to my parents who have the habit of writing down expenses, recipes or important dates. This year, I am keeping it to myself, and will try to note down something on it. I will not write a summary of my day to day activities, but when I go to meetings I will carry this diary and a pen instead of my laptop. I will draw those instant pictures, or reinvent my signature or do something with it, but I will see to it that I use my fingers to write, and not just to type. My idea is to draft blog posts or write ideas for a short story in it, which may not be possible, but I am determined to use it. Well that is my resolution for 2013.

During my days with my parents last month, I spent some time in my room, which is still decorated with stickers and greeting cards from my teenage years. The handwritten Archies cards of the 90’s. One of them had a black and white picture of five little girls sitting on a wall, and the caption says ‘Friends like us paint the town red!’.  I lay on my bed and looked at the innumerable cards stuck on the walls. Those were the days. Even today I can identify the handwriting of each one of my friends. The personal letters written on the cards are still fresh and real. When was the last time I received or sent a card through post? I think it was a long time ago. My son will never know what birthday and Christmas cards were… or what it was worth. He is likely to think of it as a waste of time and paper. Oh I feel sorry for him; he will never experience the joy of a greeting card.

Secret Christmas deals !

Christmas is basically the time of the year my Mom gives Santa a tough competition, in terms of hyper activeness. Baking cakes, making cutlets, distributing wine, setting up the Christmas tree and managing guests. But this time around, God decided to give her some rest and let the others run. My Mom was diagnosed with Dengue and is in the hospital now, but she is better and almost ready to be discharged. You know the hangover of a viral fever, or a flu attack, when all you want to do is just sleep. Like a log. She will go through that phase next, that is mostly around Christmas time. To know that my mother is in hospital and be an ocean apart from her is no simple deal either. Sometimes all one can do is to hold on to positivism and top that up with prayers. It works, I know it. So her daughters, my sister and I will visit and brighten Christmas day for her, yay!

Other news around here is that my son turned one and a half – and it was time for his vaccination. It happened yesterday, and by evening he became very warm with fever and it continues. Whatever happened to my plea to the scientists worldwide to make this damn thing oral?

 In other news, all my footwear are either broken or looks historic so need to pile up on that. Now that’s got to be frustrating for someone at home. Guess who ;-)

We are taking off to India (Kerala, to be precise) coming Thursday, and yes I will be going dutifully to Cochin, his place first. The silver lining is, it is also the best place for shoe and accessories shopping! Talk about perfect timing for rear and tear: D

Now here is a secret. I got this email today. I am sure, going by the subject line, my husband is not going to be too happy. 

 I opened the mail secretly, when he was not around, and found this:

No, but thanks !

Merry Christmas, everyone !

My best friend's delusions!

The fact that I am unable to hide the excitement of going home in December on a month long vacation is no news to my neighbors or the housemaid. I discussed this over and over again whenever they innocently asked me ‘What’s up?’ that now they want to get rid of me and wishes that I never came back. But who cares?  I am celebrating New Year at home..yoohoo!

I remember the days at my college hostel when I used to be slightly superstitious. Slightly. I mean not so bad enough to believe what they say about the black cat. For one, it was something about vacation planning and getting excited. My best friend always told me never to plan a vacation or a function way ahead and get too excited about it. If I did, it was most likely to end in disappointment. Initially I thought it was a joke, but she threatened me with it by her soft voice and big eyes that I believed it instantly. 
Atleast when she was around ;-)

Almost a year after graduation, I remember her verbal marriage invitation as soon as the dates were known to her. During the same call, she also banned any further discussions about it. Because the last thing she wanted was to miss me on her big day. Many times I started conversations with…’hey that hopeless tailor may mess up my blouse for your wedding…’ or sometimes ‘ my damn sandals broke…what will I wear on…”and she stopped me at that point and told me to shut the hell up. In anger, she also added that she dint care what I wore. Well I was pretty sure about that, you know.

I was a fresher who landed my first job and was at least eight months into it when her marriage was announced. A week after she announced her wedding dates, my boss called me and certain others to his cabin and discussed about an onsite assignment, which was to be at the client office in Mumbai. He said he will let us know the dates later. I went back to my seat only to churn out intelligent excuses to get out of this project. Then a brilliant idea struck me, one which most male bosses are known to comply. I made mental notes, prepared further believable lies and scripted an entire drama to perform at the boss’s cabin the next time he calls me to discuss the project.

Two days later, he called four of us again. In these two days, I was so thorough and confident about the excuse I was about to say, that I almost started believing my own lie. So we marched into the cabin, got seated and listened through the blue print and other technical stuff. Well to be honest I wasn’t listening because I am not going, no? I smirked at the three other excuse-retarded poor fellows who were going to Mumbai and toil at the client site. Then the boss stood up and gave us a verbal itinerary which had the earth shattering dates- we were to fly on the 16^th of May at 6:00 am, and it was the day of my best friend’s wedding.

Well my excuse could not be expressed when the other three project mates were present because of reasons pertaining to my ego and self-respect. I waited for them to leave the cabin. When the door closed behind me, the boss looked up and asked, ‘Yes?’

I continued. “Sir.. I have few problems back home due to which I am afraid I won’t be able to travel on the specified project dates”

The boss who was expected to be surprised and taken aback (according to my imaginary script), leaned back on his plush chair and asked, ‘May I know if it is not personal?’

I continued my robotic well-tailored speech. “Sir, actually my parents are growing old and they are searching a suitable alliance for me. In fact a guy is coming from Pune to meet me on the same day”

Boss was amused at this. He asked, "oh so is he coming on the 16^th?"

"No Sir, on the 18^th"

Long pause.

It was the time for me to use all my grey cells. I had prepared only so much, because as per the script, the boss then chose another candidate and excused me from the project and wished me a blissful wedded life.

The boss continued in a deeper voice, “Okay may be I can convince your parents to call that guy and tell him to come 4 weeks later. What is your landline number?” and picked up the receiver. 

I sweated down my shirt. My hands shivered like that of a chronic alcoholic. I stammered a lot to finally come up with, “Sir, my parents are at work now, I will ask them this, Thank you very much sir”

I got the hell out of the cabin before he asked their work numbers. When I closed the door behind me, I couldn’t feel my legs anymore and almost heard the boss banging his head in laughter.

However that was when the actual problem began to unravel itself.  I couldn’t possibly show up at the wedding which mattered more than anything else. The blouse was also being stitched for no apparent reason. I did not dare to call my bestie and break this news. I spent the next few days in a pensive mood. I am now guessing that could be when my parents actually realized that they should start the groom hunting for me, because I appeared heartbroken most of the time. Well little did they know that I had second thoughts about the design of the blouse I gave the tailor.

 Days passed and the wedding came closer. I had still not broken the news to her that I will not be there. It was just a week to go and I had my project documents and other stuff in place. I dint call her, even though she called me several times in the day and disclosed some stuff her fiancée said and we giggled.

The countdown came closer and there were just three days to go. I was at office, attending meetings back to back. I couldn’t bring myself to reality. Suddenly the boss walked in, and announced:

“Guys, slight change of plans. You will be travelling on the 20^th and not on 16^th. Tickets will be issued shortly”

I was numb by happiness for some time. However I stayed nonchalant, as expressing happiness will give the boss a different picture considering the excuse I said.

Finally I attended THE marriage, and we had the time of our lives. I flew to Mumbai three days later. The colleagues on the adjacent seats briefed me about the project during the flight, since I wasn’t mentally present over the week.

Coming to think of it, everything was co incidental. What difference would it have made if I , as opposed to the superstition, got too excited and made plans about the wedding? I may have called her every single day to discuss that. Oh and a disastrous phone bill. May be that’s what she meant by disappointment.