The 'Gelf' Malayalee.

Everyone knows Nancy, who writes at Reflections. Mom of two, exuberant and perpetually young at heart, all her loyal followers knows the names and hobbies of her beautiful daughters like their own. For example she could write about a simple power cut in her home so interestingly, that by the end of it you’d realize that power cuts are actually fun. She turns around any situation into a party. Each and every post of hers has left me smiling and feeling better. After some persuasion, I got her to write a guest post on my blog. Yay! She was busier than a bee all these days due to personal reasons, which I hope she will put it up on her blog soon, but she remembered my request . Thank You Nancy !

 I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I did… !

The Gelf Malayalee!

In the 1970’s & 80’s a tiny state in South India witnessed a mass migration of its people to the gulf countries. The discovery of oil and shortage of man-power in the gulf was like a prayer answered for  many young men faced with bleak job prospects in their home country.

Every man took whatever job he got, worked hard and sent home almost all the money he earned to pay up debts, to educate and to marry his siblings off into good families. After a decade or so the family woke up to the fact that he was also unmarried and scurried around to find him a suitable girl. They got him married to a nurse/pharmacist/physiotherapist[select any one] and sent both back to the desert. Both husband and wife worked day/night shifts, scrimped & saved to educate their children + send money to their folks back home, all the while aware that they were better off than many of their countrymen.

The way the post is moving you can be forgiven for thinking I’m kind of glorifying the Gulf Malayalees’[GM] achievements. Seriously I’m not. Oh all right maybe a little. But my post is not about their trials and tribulations in foreign land….it is about a few traits all the Malayalees living in the Gulf share whether they like to admit it or not;-).

#So jumping right in, let’s start with food…..the Gulf Malayalee’s eating habits did not undergo any major transformation because he was living in the Middle East[ME]. Rice and the usual curries were made in his kitchen as traditionally as it was made in his tharavad[family home]. His only weakness was Kentucky Fried Chicken. He never, ever got fed up of it. He ordered it for birthdays, anniversaries, when guests dropped in, for farewell parties, in fact he is even known to carry KFC home when he went on annual leave. The next time you travel in a plane from UAE/Qatar/ Kuwait/ Bahrain/Saudi to Kerala and happen to smell KFC, remember you heard it from me first;-).

# As soon as the GM got his residence visa stamped, his first priority was to get a driving license. His first car was a sturdy, practical model because at that point owning a car itself was a huge achievement.  But as time passed he unconsciously nursed a secret desire in his heart. In his eyes the ultimate status symbol was a Mercedes, which of course was way beyond his means. So he did the next best thing. He bought a second-hand Mercedes and proudly drove it around till the end of his stay in the ME. Not much has changed even today…..his children who are all grown up now have a thing for 4 wheel drives mainly Prado & Range rovers.

# Another dream the GM worked hard to achieve was his ‘own’ house back in his home country. He lived frugally and saved hard to make this dream come true. No matter what his job in the ME, the house he built for himself came under the category of mansions. It would have a huge hall, 3-4 bedrooms with ‘attached’ bathrooms & 2 or 3 kitchens depending on his means. Not to forget all the light fittings, plumbing material and sofa/bedroom sets he carefully cargoes in from the Gulf. Now for the saddest part…..this house would remain unused for the better part of the GM’s life. By the time he decides to go back to live there for good, his children would have settled down elsewhere leaving him & wife to use just 1 bedroom & kitchen with the rest of the house shut off to avoid further wear and tear.

#Another peculiar quirk of the GM…….he talks nostalgically of his hometown every chance he gets; how he climbed trees, bathed in rivers, walked 8 kms to school every day, how his home town was the best and how he yearned to go back. But that’s all he does….he just talks. When it comes right down to it he delays his going back using every excuse he can find. Simply put, he is afraid to give up this comfortable life and start all over again. But he’ll never, ever admit this, not even to himself.

Other regular quirks associated with GMs’…

# At any given point he’ll boast about the number of visas he has taken for others and how they prospered because….only because he took their visa and made their life.

#The GM’s luggage when he went home for vacation was sure to contain among other things huge tins of Nido, Tang, Galaxy Chocolates, Reynolds pens, Fa Soap, Nivea cream, Yardley Powder, Axe Oil and countless bottles of Tiger Balm to distribute among relatives, friends, neighbors, the church priest, the village doctor, the midwife who helped bring him into the world…..the list is endless.

# Unless he was a professional, nobody back home knew what exactly he worked in the Gulf as…..he could be an office boy, carpenter or a delivery boy slaving day & night for his Arab boss but when he went home on annual leave he wore a gold chain thick as a rope around his neck, a gold bracelet adorned his wrist and heavy rings on his fingers that everybody assumed he had a great job in the gulf.

# Before the Gulf Malayalee goes back to his home country for good, he makes sure by fair means or foul his children too are well-settled in the same place he made his life. It’s another story that the children are eyeing US, Canada and even India[something GM parents simply cannot comprehend] to settle down…

Like I said, that’s another story.

Does anybody want to agree/add value/defend the subject of the post???

Anybody who knows a Gulf Kashmiri/Gujarati/Bengali/Tamilian can also give their take:-).

[This Gelf Malayalee claims to be no expert on the subject and writes[tongue-in-cheek] based solely on personal experiences & hearsay.]

Three years an Ambivert.

Dictionary sends me a new word and its possible meanings each day to my inbox. Most of which obviously I dint know existed, because otherwise you would have seen them extensively splashed across this blog. Today they sent me a word, ambivert.

According to dictionary, Ambivert is one whose personality type is intermediate between introvert and extrovert. As soon as I read it, I knew I was one.

Basically, I am not an introvert. I do not sulk in a corner of a party hall. I do not stew in my worries or success. However, at the same party if someone asks me to dance I may need a diaper. And that, my friend, is a quality of an ambivert. If you think about it, most of us are. Remember our teachers? They scream and yell at us all year. And the day our parents are called for the meeting at school, they are all sweet and extremely well behaved, and our parents are like ‘ You better stop talking about your teacher like that…she is a female version of Swami Vivekananda …just look at her!’ and there she is, saree clad with a halo circling around her head. On other days when she yells the saliva droplets travel at the speed of light to reach the backbencher’s nose, and there are fumes instead of the halo. So she is the best example of an ambivert. It can also be technically defined as- intelligent situational smartness or the lack of it.

We, ambiverts, are basically the convertible type. I mean, when we encounter negative criticism, we transform ourselves into extroverts. Whereas when there is a general knowledge quiz, we are introverts, or even invisible! We are completely flexible and this does not mean that we have no character or backbone; it just that we are chameleons in human form, newly christened as ambiverts! 

My almost-three-year-old was an introvert until he was one and a half. He would sit on my lap, wishing that nobody looked at him or pulled his cheeks. Later he became an extrovert. He would just walk into parties and transform into a tiny party animal. He wouldn't even turn to check if we were still around. Now he is almost three, and is in nursery. His teacher tells me, ‘He is so cute he doesn't even cry or yell over here’ and our neighbors say ‘what a cute little guy you've got.. We don’t even get to hear his voice…he is the silent type isn't he? You are so lucky!’ My husband and I are completely speechless at this stage and we just pretend to agree as our eardrums are already partially damaged by the person in question.

My sunglass is now in three pieces, most of my hair pulled out from its roots, the furniture broken at the ends, torn, spat on or scratched, you wouldn't believe that our walls were once white, some dresses have chocolate/sketch pen marks that refuses to go, and when he hangs from the sofa headrest upside down (that is how he watches TV), he gives me a feeling that he was Mowgli in his previous life. My eardrums are insensitive to smaller sounds now, as when he is a fraction of a millimeter away from me he yells ‘Ammeey’ into my ear which I could have heard had I been in space.

 But at parties, he is the kind of boy anybody would love to pamper and cuddle with. He puts up this innocent look and angelic smile, the combination that floors many female toddlers. And by ‘floors’ I meant, that when nobody is looking it is possible he could literally FLOOR them. That is how one displays the quality of being an ambivert. 

There is another word called antevert. According to the dictionary, it is a verb used ‘to displace (the uterus or other body organ) by tipping forward.’ It was when he tried to antevert me that I ended up in the labor room.

Image Courtesy:Google images.

Give me a high five... I turned FIVE !

March 2009. 

I was working at a MNC in Bangalore, as a software programmer. Even so, I was on bench. Bench is defined as that situation in an IT industry, when the organization pays you to stay away from their projects. Like my Mom who was at a point ready to pay me to shut up and stay out of the kitchen. However I got a workstation assigned to me that involves a revolving chair whose ability to revolve was completely baseless as there was no John Abraham sitting in the adjacent cubicle. In fact there was a malnourished guy, who was also so short that he looked like a 7 year old. With such people around we should have opaque cubicles and chairs that do not allow us to look around. The computer assigned to me was prehistoric, and looked like a front load washing machine. The only sites we got to browse were the portals of that very organization which otherwise we wouldn't browse even at gunpoint. Those were orkut days, Mark Zuckerberg was still in college, whatsapp was not conceived yet and Yo Yo Honey Singh was still roaming around with his Bio data and nursery school light music video on Mumbai Locals.

 I was newly married, my husband worked at a firm whose CEO was charged with corruption and sent to jail and future looked completely bleak for them. Global recession was at its peak, some of my friends on bench where I worked were fired without any notice, and my career was basically hanging from the edge of a cliff. We started our wedded life thus, on a ship which hit two icebergs at once.

But then for newly married couples none of this matters. We could drink just water and live in a mediocre house like it was a Beverly Hills mansion as long as we had each other. It was one of those days when I came across some popular humor blogs. Simple everyday events and conversations were so hilariously written. I started going to the archives and read between the lines. Then the thought came to my mind, why not start a blog of my own. Why should mankind be spared from my literary torture? In fact the characters in my family were the rarest of the rare in terms of temporary insanity and other matters. I dint even need to hunt around for topics to write or improvise on existing ones. And hence the blog was born. 

However I was too naive to blog anonymously. Instead I used my real name, email id and photograph. The blog became a topic of conversation and content scrutinized at marriages and baptisms. Many active bloggers of that time quit. There are a few who survived and even found their way into my friend’s list on Facebook. I even won a contest, received complimentary hampers, participated in tags, found some great friends, and somehow the inspiration to write some rubbish or the other continues to this day! I mean my will to torture people just ceases to diminish:-o

The consistency of my blog can be mainly blamed on some loyal readers who liked the stuff I wrote. They never missed to comment. They did not write ‘Hey great post! Mind-blowing! Breathtaking! Nice! Creative! Magical!’ after every post because it wasn't any of those. They shared their thoughts with me rather than indulging in compliments. And they complimented me genuinely when they felt I deserved it. And these are the people who helped sustain this consistent ride, so if you have any problem with the content of this blog, please blame them. Do you see the top 25 culprits on either side? And they inspired me with their own blogs, which were equivalent to reading full-fledged best sellers. They taught me how to be unique in one’s own style.

       Thank You !

And the ones who have always taken pride in my blog, and often been my subject to tease or quote, were my parents and the hubby. They have always been there, and with simple comments and loving gestures, were the pillars of my existence in this journey .Without the hubby’s jokes, or those blunders that happened really frequently, it would have been difficult for me to update so often!

So, my blog turned five and counting! Who would have thought that the outcome of the devil’s workshop on a bench could actually last this long! I hereby take this wonderful opportunity to thank all the people of that company who kept me on bench and on the verge of unemployment for so long, that I woke up and realized that blogs were fun, unlike software codes. I also thank Microsoft Word for your eternal patience, putting up with all my horrible spellings and grammar.

 I am also immensely grateful to all the neon shoes wearing females, who thought that I was some narcissist who overused Microsoft Word, instead of ogling at the pink lipped, gel headed gay boy at the cafeteria. Last but not the least; I thank everyone from the auto driver who dropped me at Dairy circle and charged me half my month’s pay, the neighbor who peeped through my kitchen window, and the stray dogs of Bangalore that ruled the streets, for being unintentional inspirations to various posts of mine that finally adds up to 181!  ( I used a calculator for that one. I have only ten fingers)

I've heard my family casually talk to others about my blog. I must say that nothing can be a bigger reward than realizing that the people I love are proud of me, this being one of the reasons. And it has steered me along for five whole years, with plenty of support from peers on blogger.

It was indeed an amazing journey, because I did not start the blog to win contests, or become famous. Something I started as a time pass has become an extension of me, and it has become a place where I can be honest without getting fired.

Picture courtesy: Google images.

The true colors of Holi.

It’s been an awfully long gap between posts here, and even though no one really noticed, there, I brought it to your notice. I dint update this space for past two weeks because whenever I think of something to write all I can think of is some random rants. 

March is not the best month of the year for me, so far. I also think Holi brings out the true colors of some people.

A colleague who thinks if he says something with a smiling face anything rude will sound sweet, a friend of decades showing her true colors, unexpected hurtful comments and misunderstanding coming from all possible directions, my whatsapp has witnessed it all this month. Suddenly I am that line on the periphery of the dart board, where all the darts eventually land. I suspect that everyone thinks that I am responsible for that missing plane! People, honestly it’s not me, I am praying for its safe arrival too so stop throwing your dirty socks at me.

Long ago when things went wrong I succumbed to my couch with a tub of ice cream watching F.R.I.E.N.D.S episodes back to back. It is still an effective therapy. It makes my problems appear insignificant. My favorite character Phoebe, whose father was in jail, mother committed suicide, twin sister a porn star and no education or a secure job was so happy! None of these issues are applicable to me and I am so grumpy. :-o

I have to refrain from saying a lot of things here, because I am not anonymous. Everyone from my neighbor’s dog to the security at office knows that I blog. So even though I am locally popular as a blogger, this popularity is not really anything to do with the writing, it is more like being scrutinized word by word, line by line and being interrogated inside lifts, grocery bays and parking lots.

So on the whole March is a mess. And there is a missing plane which proved to the whole world that our ‘technology advance’ is limited to face recognition and fingerprint scanning on smartphones. Both of which doesn't work if you wear too much make up or suffer a cut from dicing vegetables. Beyond that, there is just thin air. We are just a race who thinks we are great but a whole jet with 239 people is gone and we are still looking up at the sky, mouths open.

And then some people resort to facebook to make jokes about the missing jet and create cartoons out of them. Is it possible to replace those 239 persons on MH370 with these inappropriate facebook jokers and some others from my hit list? Just asking. Because in that case, we could just stop searching.

Hope you guys had a happy Holi! Mine was colorful too, colors mainly being black and brown. 

Don’t ask.

Image courtesy: Google.                                                                                                                              

How to cure the 'Lazy Husband' syndrome !

It all started with a TV remote. In the times of Doordarshan or DD-1, there was no need of a remote control and it was somewhat easier to agree with parents. And then there was DD-2, the first ever reason why we disagreed (over the TV). However, when we switched to the 8:00 pm inevitable English News on DD-1, we got up from our chairs and pressed the tab on the right side of the TV monitor and came back to our seat, thus burning about 3 calories. And this was celebrated by Doordarshan by playing the most depressing tune in the history of music as if it was a prelude to the equally depressing people who were about to read it. So the TV never got us addicted to it, thanks to the sad jingles, programs, outrageously fashion retarded cast or the grief stricken anchors none of which changed since Independence.

Later, the TV started swelling and eventually bursting with channels. It also made twice the number of disagreements as there were people in the family. More differences, more rooms, more TVs and lesser compatibility. Earlier all I had to worry about was Mamta Kulkarni or Manisha Koirala who may do the most inappropriate act, at the most crucial time (when parents were around). But now I flip channels completely warned and aware that anyone from Sunny Leone to Dora the explorer may strip at any point of time. It is impossible to watch TV with kids L

Weekend trips to the Electricity, Water and Telephone offices to pay bills, register complaints etc. were replaced by online portals, and now there are apps so that trip is saved. But when we did drive to the office and stood in long queues, we were taught the value of time, money and most importantly patience. As a bonus, few calories were also burnt without our knowledge. Similarly, we don’t need to go to the railway station to book a ticket; it is done by gliding those fingers on the phone. But this website gives us the real feel of actually driving to the railway station on an exhaustingly sultry day. That’s our very own IRCTC. It teaches the internet generation what it is to be in a queue, and wait patiently under the scorching sun until we are given a seat in the Waiting List Number 786. Everyone from our internet generation should book a ticket in IRCTC to learn some moral science.

Trips to the library are completely avoidable as we can read them at our convenience on the tab. In most cities there are facilities to get groceries delivered at our doorsteps so no need to go there either. Pizza is delivered to my couch, and tomorrow it may be delivered to my mouth. Washing machines, dishwashers, blenders and food processors do most of the cleaning and chopping. A lot of work is thus reduced.

We used to set timers on cameras to click family pics, now there are remote controls to do that as well. Movie tickets are available online. At least 95% of bank transactions and school fees are paid online. Clothes and shoe shopping is booming on websites. And I look at the jammed roads and wonder…Where are all these people going?

Basically, the reasons our parents had to get off that chair and do some errands do not exist anymore; which is why we need to work out and eat right. However a certain someone at home has not worked out since last five months. Each day there was a new reason not to do so. I wonder there is some app on iphone which generates ridiculous excuses every day? Otherwise how on earth is it possible to come up with ‘There is a dog on that route which I suspect has rabies?’

It is really tough to inspire people and get them to do something for their own health. And it is tougher to inspire them on a daily basis, as there are lesser inspirational stories than there are excuses.

Here is my million dollar idea for the existing Nike-iphone app that counts calories while walking. Hubby WAS a regular user of this app, when he used to walk, long ago when Atal Behari Vajpayee was the Prime Minister.  This can be upgraded for an additional feature: When the user does not use the app on a certain (lazy) day, the iphone should just shut down until the next day. The ipad should synchronize the same command and shut down as well. Nothing cripples men more than this. And I am sure the fear of the phone shutting down will get the laziest of men run for their lives health. All the ladies who have excuse generating husbands will thank iphone for this...at least I will.

So as I was at my desk thinking of productive ways to get the hubby to exercise, somewhere else in the world, Nike came up with another brilliant idea. Someone designed new running shoes the laces of which will tie on its own. This is the same person that constructed an elevator to his gym.

  

My equation with Chemistry ( #ConditionSeriousHai ) !

Teenage is probably the most underrated phase of a person’s life. All the physical and mental variations and a ruckus of hormones, ultimately makes up a weirdo or in other words, a teenager. This was also the time when ‘Look at Leela aunty’s son. He is a topper in whatever he does’ rang in my ears even when my Mom was actually telling me to eat. Leela aunty and her son were marked in red, bold and underlined, and highlighted in yellow on my hit list ever since I can remember. And this is one woman I avoided like plague because she was bothered about my very existence. Apparently her son scored just 96% and topped the district or even the country but Leela aunty was wiping her nose in distress, because her #ConditionSeriousHai.

And I remember that day when I came out of the exam hall after the twelfth grade Chemistry exam. The question paper was very simply set with direct questions. Basically, I was not born to study Chemistry. As simple as that. Now if you want to inject organic and physical chemistry into my head that is not designed to accept this type of data, it is your call. This was my attitude all through the chemistry classes, chemistry tuition classes and chemistry entrance tuition classes. After that load of  chemistry equations and theories were dumped aimlessly into my head, I still could not balance an equation correctly, whereas my classmates did it in a matter of microseconds. Apparently Leela aunty’s son balanced equations with his left hand when he had to used his right hand at dinner.

So as I walked out of the exam hall I heard peals of laughter and my classmates discussing the question paper with beaming faces. I could almost see a 99/100 written across their foreheads. However diplomacy is the key to coexist with competitive parents. So when Papa asked how the exam went, I replied it was ‘okay’. By saying that, neither did I confirm that I would pass with flying colors, nor did I say that it was difficult and invite hell’s wrath. It was a situation of mental equilibrium. When I reached home everyone was not actually looking forward to see me because Leela aunty had howled from the top of her roof that her nerd of a son was throwing things around saying it was a ‘sub-standard’ question paper and he wasted his year for nothing. So basically this moron’s #ConditionSeriousHai.

The reply ‘It was okay’ to any question that was aimed at me related to exams kept the parents waiting for the results so that they could pounce on me. This means, that two months till the results came I could live peacefully in my house without it being converted into a T-Rex's nest. However, I tactfully avoided appearing at any get-together or Sunday school, as a measure of precautionary self-defense against suspected nosy aunties. Those two months till the results came was a period I needed to be extra careful. After the results are published the war takes a different turn altogether which may involve major bombing from all possible directions but that is a totally different story. Meanwhile, Leela aunty was silently having a party in her head, as her son’s batch mate was likely to hit rock bottom. And I tell you, there was not one but lots of Leela aunties around all whose #ConditionSeriousHai.

 If I tried hard and managed to get a mark more than her son, I am sure Leela aunty would have attempted suicide. So, my decision to stay within the average pool and never leaping out of it was in a way saving the life of Leela aunty and her son whom I doubt wore diapers at night.

Ten years down the line, I am doing just fine without learning Chemistry, just like Leela aunty’s son is after mastering it. The bottom line is that we will all be just fine regardless of our take at the Chemistry paper.

So Leela aunty, chill, have a Cadbury 5 star.  

This article was written for Indiblogger Cadbury Five Star contest - Condition Serious Hai. 

Truly, madly, IDLY !

You can say all the jokes you want about South Indians, but we will never ever stop eating Idlis. Not for the whole world. No amount of Rajnikanth-kolaveri-kerala nurses unfunny jokes can dissuade us from our traditional food, which continues to be a top favorite across all age groups- from toddlers to politicians. Oh and we are also tea drinkers. It keeps us awake and

and alert you see. It is one of the reasons behind the percentage of South Indian students that knock at the gates of IIT, and the ever increasing theft rate elsewhere  ;-)

Coming back to idlis, even though its batter is available in every nook and corner, it cannot be compared with what we grind at home. The color, smell and everything about it is different. It could probably be because the stores may use baking soda for fast fermentation which is a practice we never do at home. Anyway for bachelors and newly-married-cooking-retarded people (that’s me around five years back), these batter packets are a blessing.

It was on my first grocery shopping trip post marriage that I found out about the idli batter packets and I rejoiced like I won the lottery. I was not even aware of the existence of such a thing mainly because before marriage, I never went grocery shopping. Secondly, hot idlis frequently appeared at the dining table and taken for granted in no time. Thirdly, when Mummy and a housemaid of twenty years are at the kitchen there is no room or reason for a third person to intrude and investigate. Fourthly it was better to eat and leave rather than staying back to ask questions and invite trouble.

It was years later when our baby came into our lives, we started to forego anything that came in packets. This included masalas, batter, processed snacks and other stuff. And then as necessity is the mother of pain-in-the-neck, our next trip to India saw us returning with a brand new grinder. Lifting the grinder weights regularly has made me a mini Mary Kom in terms of biceps. And then came the real trivia. Idli batter is no joke. If you want to make it successfully you need to brush up those math lessons which are collecting cobwebs in some corner of the brain(?). Sixth grade flashback - remember that lesson in ratio and proportion?

So Raw Rice: Urad Dal: Fenugreek = 2:1:(1small spoon). Well, had I understood mathematics in its raw form during my school days, I would have four cooks in my kitchen today asking me what I’d like to eat for dinner. Well, I’ll choose not to talk about what could have happened and focus on not learning mathematics come what may. It takes a while until you can understand that, this formula when followed religiously does not yield soft yummy idlis. Sometimes it can bite on your back by producing idlis that can also be used as stones at the Secretariat march. Idlis are made by ‘experience’, which I would like to rename as ‘sheer luck’. The silver lining of going through all this pain is that, once you grind the batter and keep for fermentation, and it fails at the box office, the same can be used to make dosas. Dosas always come out crisp and yum even if the batter is not in a good mood. This saves me from a lot of batter related stress.

The first time I made idlis, the ones on the lowest rung of idli mould drowned and died.  This was celebrated as a family joke (initiated and marketed by my sister) that my idlis committed suicide. I am secretly planning to throw an idli at her one of these days. 

After a while I mastered the art of making “poo polathe*” idlis. That feeling of licking clean a plate of soft idlis is a form of emotional bliss that can be experienced only by South Indians. Well these idlis are so light on the tummy that it drives us to drink an extra cup of coffee or grab a few biscuits by 11 a.m., but that is not a downside.

So as I sat around pretending to be a master chef, and at other times singing from the rooftop about my newly found culinary skills, somewhere in the background, summer gave way to winter. I found out the hard and bitter way that batter does not ferment in winter. And it is exactly at winter when you really want to devour hot idlis and tea! It took me a lot of effort to stop myself from running to the nearest store and grab a pack of idli batter!  I googled all the culinary blogs and found some real gems which had tips about making idlis in winter. Muscat is as of now at 16 to 20 degrees, which is too cold for idli batter. I tried the water bath method, and then placed it in the oven with oven lights on throughout the night for around 12 hours in total. In the morning I woke up like a mother hen eager to check on her eggs. I opened the oven, and the batter vessel...and... eurekaa!

February. Cool Monday morning. The golden rays of the sun seeped through the window. The birds tapped and murmured against the glass windows. The doves flew past fluttering their wings. The cool breeze tickled the curtains. The coconut oil solidified. On the dining table was the casserole. In it was hot 'poo polathe*' idlis bathing in steam. There was some coconut chutney and a cup of tea for company. Pure bliss. 

*super soft

Picture courtesy:Google

Selfies for Dummies!

Recently when I went shopping, I saw a lot of girls clicking selfies completely oblivious of the surroundings. I was relieved because I thought I was being weird and narcissistic by clicking my own pictures all day. However for most guys this is something they don’t comprehend. Why blame them when even our spelling godfather Microsoft Word does not get it!  I just want to say …Dude we depend on you for all our spellings…update yourself!

Well for all those husbands/boyfriends/brothers/fathers out there who don’t understand what a selfie is, here are some insights.

A selfie is a self-portrait. Like you most probably believe, we DID NOT invent this word; it was included in the Oxford Dictionary from year 2013.

      We do not ask you to click our pictures anymore, and torment or embarrass you. When we are clicking a selfie, if you feel embarrassed you can just move out of the frame and act like a stranger. We will be really grateful.

      Most selfies are taken in restrooms. This is because corporate and mall restrooms are well lit. Do not complain, as you are probably waiting somewhere checking out some hot chics, or in the worst case inquiring when Apple is releasing the next iphone.

      A selfie is harmless. It hardly costs anything. We don’t even send our selfies to you.

      You may think why we need a selfie when there are mirrors everywhere. You are not expected to understand this.

     With selfies there is no dearth of profile pictures.

     Almost anyone looks like a celebrity in selfies.

     Selfies relieve us from stress and uplifts our confidence like no other.

      It is the most loved feel-good activity, after shopping and cupcakes.

      It is foolish to think that women who click a lot of selfies are self-obsessed. Yeah we are, but it is still foolish to think like that.

      If we click a lot of selfies it doesn’t mean that we are selfless.

      Selfies are not clicked only when we are wearing something new. Even a school uniform is reason enough.

      Selfie experts can pose like it was Dabboo Ratnani who clicked them by not showing their extended hands which holds the phone. This is no ordinary feat. 

      A good selfie involves some financial risk . Chances of the phone falling down when we are adjusting our hair cannot be ruled out. It is not a child's play, and moreover, it is not silly. 

      A selfie that turned out very well may not even need to go under the editing knife! It is a real time saver!

      Selfies with friends rejuvenates friendship and keeps memories alive. We do not lose patience if we have to click countless pictures just to make sure everyone looks good. When everyone agrees on one, that is one of those moments when we have bonded for life.

So next time she takes a selfie at the mall, or takes more time at the restroom, you know what to do. Just stop asking and keep walking. 

The great Indian CAR-ste System.

Recently a very amusing encounter happened between an Audi and a Nano at Trivandrum. Apparently cars do not respect each other based on their make. Well here is what really happened. A family was driving home in a Nano. They did not give way to the celebrity vehicle Audi that was following them, because the signal was red and there was no choice for the Nano but to stay where it was. Apparently the Audi got fast and furious that the Nano did not hold her skirt and bow down as it was supposed to. Further things got lame and silly when the Audi driver got out of his car after overtaking the Nano and manhandled the Nano driver who was travelling with his family. Poor Nano was publicly reminded that the road was the ancestral property of the Audis and the BMWs, and that traffic signals were not applicable to them. And that Mukesh Ambani does not enter Reliance offices by swiping his id card. You need to have polarized vision to read unwritten, but pretty obvious celebrity vehicle rules, my Nano friend! 

As for me this is like watching the CARS movie, or a long drive with the hubby, whose mind is full of car politics. For example when we used to drive a Maruti Swift in India, he used to give way to Honda Accord to overtake but not to an i10, because apparently i10 dint have what it takes. May be i10 needed to grow up and become a Honda Accord or something. Other Maruti Swifts with brighter colors and better alloy wheels would not be spared either. And let’s not discuss Nano! This was one of the startling revelations about him I learnt post marriage because till then all the trips I ever went were with Papa and Mummy during which even bicycles overtook us. So after understanding car politics I was like Wow! These guys do not have ANY right to mock us girls, just because we go green eyed when somebody turns up in a brand new dress or handbag. They have mean car politics going on in their heads! Untold dark secrets of stupid car politics!

For the uninitiated, the car-ste system is something like this. The Big B travels in a Rolls Royce because it is old,rich, handsome and elegant just like him. His granddaughter travels in a Mini Cooper, because it is small and cute, and also showcases the brand of the family she belongs to. Salman Khan drives a Range Rover as he is a ‘young’ sporty bachelor, and that’s also something which can kill innocent people on the streets and get away. Other rich businessmen and celebrities drive BMWs, Benz and Audi variants. All other cars, invariably Maruti and Hyundai hatchbacks are owned by honest, taxpaying aam aadmis. And there are classes there too.

Then there are the spoilt brat cars. For example the Ambani kids drive the Aston Martin, some NRI kids of Kerala under ten years of age drive the Ferrari and other rich kids of the Middle East drive Lamborghinis and Porsche, a regular sight for us commoners. And when they race through those lesser travelled roads near the airport, a 5:00 pm weekend sport of rich teenagers, regular cars either stop or reduce speed and shift to a side as a sign of reverence. Or fear.

People choose cars by how it makes them look among others. If you drive to a fancy restaurant in a normal car, the security may gesture you to park outside, but if you go in a shiny SUV, he will open the door for you and park it too. 

In an Indian arranged marriage if the groom comes in a top end car then he is considered to be a great catch by the bride’s nosey relatives. Whereas if the bride arrives in a luxury car, the guy is considered to be lucky and any flaws associated with either of the couple will be conveniently overseen. What if the bride is a notorious college dropout? Her father gave her Audi Q7 as dowry wedding gift…! Instantly she is elevated to sainthood.  

Flashback to year 2007.

I was in Mumbai on a project, with five others, trying to cross a busy road. We stood by the zebra cross trying to make eye contact with speeding drivers for at least fifteen minutes.

Me (to friend): “Let’s start taking baby steps, until we reach somewhere near the center of the road. Then at least somebody will let us pass… come” I took two steps.

A lorry was coming slowly.

Friend: “Hey if you want to die then target that Benz, not this lorry. Atleast the news of your accident will sound cooler.”

P.S : I always had such awesome, 'caring' friends. I still do. Thank you very much J

The year that was - hits, misses and growing old.

While working days are like HD videos played using a dial up internet connection (buffering…buffering... buffering…YAWN), vacation days are like a movie when it is fast forwarded 32X. More so, if it is Christmas. A fun filled masala entertainer with frequent intervals to eat high calorie food in large quantities with zero guilt and maximum gluttony. Back in Oman now, wondering where to place all those shoes I bought during my shopping spree at Cochin, and the extra kilos I gained around my waist. And by that I have been denied the right to even look into any shoe shop for the rest of the year. So 2014 will be the first year of my life I will be not be lusting after shoes. It’s not a resolution or anything, just a decision enforced on me. 

Let’s see!(evil grin).

2013 had been an okay kind of year. It was not good for me, or my batch mates, as we all turned fat, lazy and a year older. Our kids also became naughtier. Looking back, I remember being in a large group of friends, whose whereabouts are not known to me now. How a person who came to school with me can be in a place where there is no internet, I sometimes wonder. But it is not about internet. It is about the efforts we take to keep in touch. And this effort originates from genuine friendship. All other show offs and fake pretense die in time. And I lived to turn thirty to establish this shocking revelation which is already known even to small children.

Everyone who turned thirty now knows what betrayal feels like. Some friends walked away from my life for good, leaving me distrusting anyone who crossed my path. If I had 40 friends when I was 18, and even during my 20’s, I have like five friends now, to whom I don’t open up for the same fear of betrayal. But true friendship exists and at thirty realization dawns clear and most of us almost know who will stay and who will not. We are all judges at our own courts. 

2013 also took away a major portion of my hair. I dread the thought of combing it these days, as that’s when whatever is left also falls off! Anyone else turned bald at thirty? Please let me know!

2013 also marked certain other changes. Loud ringtones irritate me like no other. (Earlier I used to be loud myself so these ringtones were insignificant in comparison). I also can’t stand the fact that any person in my address book that uses whatsapp appears on my whatsapp list. This includes the shopkeeper at whose shop I gave my pressure cooker for repair, the plumber of the building where I stay and the sales person at a retail store who promised to call when there is a sale. And we wonder why people still swear by BBM.

I have also stopped screaming in potentially painful situations like paper cuts, knife cuts, and other minor accidents.  I also do not alert the neighborhood if I discover a spider in my bedroom.

2013 was also the year when some of my best clothes started showing their age. They are either pale, faded in patches, or the fabric has given way to anomalous spaces. They are still too good to be worn at home.  As such they now occupy a backseat in my wardrobe, and have grown hands and feet themselves, thus pushing the newer ones in such a way that once the wardrobe is opened it rains clothes (giving my spouse a false impression that I have too many of them). He is very unlikely to believe the hands and feet story theory.

Coming to think of it, I have the Joey syndrome now. Every birthday I am like ‘Why, God, Why me!!?’ and I dread to death those number candles.

Even though it is a depressing fact that we are not growing any younger, it’s a solace that nobody else is. 

And whenever I feel low, I think of Priyanka Chopra. 

She is older than I am.

 Buhahaha ;-)