Are you a morning person ?

Image Courtesy: Here 

Morning people can't sleep for a second after the first ray of the rising sun hits the earth.  Then there are others, like me, who believe in the power of sleep. 

Our world is changing. People are trying harder to pretend to be broad minded, they are keeping their racist thoughts in their heads, and are openly gay. Morning people haven't made any progress in this department, and they  continue to taunt us happy sleepers with their narrow minded judgments. We should understand that choosing not to wake up early morning is a personal choice, which Ms.Deepika Padukone should consider making a video about.  Everybody has the fundamental right to sleep.

There are some myths morning people have about the normal ones, which call for some serious busting.

1.      Normal people are testimonies of poor upbringing.

 We were brought up very well; we get more things done waking up late than you guys. By the way what do you do waking up so early? Read the newspaper; listen to the news on TV, watch birds – none of which qualifies for good upbringing because you are judging sleeping people while doing all of the above. Whereas we sleep longer giving our bodies much needed rest and rejuvenate our skin cells in the process. If you notice, we have lesser dark circles around our eyes.

2.      Morning people are fresh.

LOL.

3.      Women must wake up before the sun does.

This is a concept that is as old as Adam and Eve, and those who agree with it should have been there in the Eden Garden (not the stadium) with them. These people were born so ridiculously late, that waking up early does not justify this unforgivable delay. Please go back to your times.

4.      Time Management.

I am supposed to reach office before 8:00a.m and mark my attendance using fingerprint system. Every day I reach around 7:59 a.m, hyperventilating my lungs out. Had I woken up earlier and walked to office before time, I’d never enjoy this incredible thrill of the machine recording my time 7:59 a.m. Have some adventure, people. Run. Laugh.  Have some sense of accomplishment.

5.      Rush.

About that. It burns calories. Contrary to popular belief, rushing through things does not make chores half done or anything. If you can do it, you can do it fast without compromising on quality. We are planning to take things slow when we are on wheelchairs with hair that has fifty shades of grey.

6.      Always Right.

Morning people think that they are always right. May be it has something to do with the first golden rays of dawn that is screwing them in ways they don’t know. Some guys bring out the sarcastic devil in them by saying women are always right, but my dear friends, the mere thought of someone being always right itself is not right.

7.      Ancient Proverbs.

Early to bed, early to rise, well you know it. Most successful people around the world have either been college dropouts or annoying back-benchers perceived to have no future at all. It is a valid assumption that they did not wake up early in the morning to meditate.

I could go on and on, but you get the drift. Do not feel guilty because you do not enjoy early mornings. Do not regret to have overslept. Live and let live.

Wait. It is a working day tomorrow. I have to sleep now so that I can wake up late. Okay, then.

Mirrors Don't Lie.

One fine Saturday morning I dragged myself from bed to the kitchen hoping to find milk in the fridge. I noticed that the lights were on in the living room. I wasn't surprised, as my husband cannot sleep a minute post dawn irrespective of when he slept or what he drank the previous night, or what day of the week it was. I opened the fridge and this very familiar nostalgic tune that emerged from the living room immediately caught my attention.

 It was our wedding reception video.

Unlike the wedding reception/whatever videos of all you people reading me, mine is not something I am proud of. The first time I watched this video, two weeks after my wedding reception, I cried inconsolably and vowed never to watch it again, ever. Seven years later here we were, back on that stage wearing something so hideous that it does not even have a name. Where we found such atrocious clothes, is a question among other things, I am planning to ask God when I meditate in the Himalayas.

The video was playing, guests walked up the stage handing us nicely wrapped gifts (clock, casseroles, and bed sheets of course) and smiled proudly at the camera with a sense of accomplishment on their faces. I admired how some ladies in my family had amazing sartorial choices, that they looked good even in a seven year old video. I then moved my glance back to where the spotlight was on. ME.

I do not understand what transpired in the head of this moron, who recorded the video that day. The camera settings, post processing, ancient grudge, criminal revenge, no brains whatever reason it is that made us look like lepers. Revisiting this video gives me a fresh bout of low self-esteem. I tell you, I looked better at my kid’s classmate’s birthday party last week than when I was a bride six years younger!

I look back at my school days, the photo albums from those times. It is all so incredible…I can’t stop looking at them or show them off to others. Was it because we wore uniforms instead of self-inflicted, detestable clothes? I do not know. Is it because the cameras were simpler and even a layman could take pictures without making the subject look like a monster? May be.

Was the wedding a wonderful day? Yes it most definitely was.

Does the cameraman deserve to go to hell? He most certainly does.

Image Courtesy: Here

I was still at the living room in my pajamas, disheveled hair and bad breath. My husband looked at the TV monitor and smiled amusingly at me. I returned a frown and a noise that sounded more like a roar. He looked around anxiously to find any possible flying objects. Some part of the screen got blurred; I realized I needed to wash my eyes. I walked straight to the washroom and noticed that most of my hair was somewhere from 30 to 50 degree angle to my head. I looked closer and realized that I looked better straight out of bed in a mirror that dint have any settings in it.

You moron cameraman, I will hunt you down some day. I will not be flossing that day.

When Drama Queen becomes Busy Bee.

It has been a busy month with school admission of my little kindergartener. Added to it, the emotional turmoil I went through because of the whole new environment he had to cope with. The thing is, everyone else in my house seems to be robots and none of these feelings are applicable to them. And that makes me drama queen. Well, it feels good to be the queen of something.

Image courtesy: Here

When my little fears and very reasonable nervousness are misinterpreted as drama, I can’t help but remember my maternal relatives, who have invented the whole concept of reality drama. They can terrify you just by laughing. The reverberations of this laughter can send ghosts with the most obnoxious laughter running back to their graves in shame. When they are collectively judging someone else, often mild tremors were reported, significant enough to be measured by a Richter scale.  You must have heard a quote that says one should never judge a person by their relatives. Right ? If not, just keep it in mind ;-)

So where do we draw the line between regular and drama? I am really curious to know WHO draws this line, because I am capable of coaxing that person into increasing the threshold. A feminist would say not to be ashamed of your emotions; tears are shed by normal human beings with feelings. A feminist will also slam the man who calls you drama queen because you cried at your son’s kindergarten. So, I am not a feminist and I feel ashamed of uncontrollable tears. But if my tears dampen the enthusiasm of the kid, then it is a totally different problem. The kid began to think that this was not a fun place and something real bad was going to happen. I exited the scene with my son looking lost. Just then, another kid ignited the loose end of a chain of explosive crying. In two minutes when I peeped into that classroom, all the kids were in tears and looking at each other for more inspiration. One of them took it real hard; he kicked his school bag and tried to escape. I may not blame him that is exactly how I feel some days at office, the difference being there is a laptop instead of a school bag.

The teacher, about my age, (which is 19) and the assistant teacher looked completely in control. If people got paid by the patience they required from them on the job, then kindergarten teachers would be paid highest. However our society decided that surgeons be paid the most even if the people they work on are already heavily sedated and surgical procedures are painfully quiet. Oh, well.

So things have been smooth in the kindergarten classroom ever since and the kiddo is now worried only about his clothes and has to deal with the mild disappointment that he is not allowed to wear his Lightning McQueen watch to school. This dial of this watch is so huge that it looks like a time bomb; hence I have forbidden him to wear it to school. Other than this minor glitch on the dress-up front, everything looks fine for him.

So during the admission paperwork and first-day tears, there was my hubby giving me NO support at all, and criticizing me all along for being edgy. And that is too much adult talk for a person who once cried like a baby in his sleep. I can’t think of another night in my life when I laughed so hard that I couldn't sleep till morning. 

My pretty shoes, my pretty pretty shoes!

Last Friday after an occasional purchase, I walked down to the mall parking area where hubby and kiddo had agreed to meet me after our separate indulgences.

‘What did you buy now for XX Rials?” He exclaimed, before I could say anything.

No, he does not have any telepathic capabilities. Our evil bank gave us spouse credit cards and whenever I use mine, he gets a message.

‘Shoes’ I mumbled, arrogantly and not making eye contact. Obviously he thought I bought a car.

He did not say a word, or remind me of the number of existing pairs (he knows better), we just drove home.

The next day we were out again, this time I was wearing THE shoes. After walking a bit inside the mall, I felt something on my toe so I removed the shoe and knelt down for a closer examination. Blood. The pointed toe red shoes which I thought was crafted to perfection had made me bleed. I also noticed that my toe nails had overgrown as I don’t remember trimming those in the last three years. I squeezed my toes back into the shoes and started walking in slow motion careful not to limp.

All women know that when she sees blood on her toes, the whole world abandons her and instantly she is all alone. She can’t tell her parents, as their response is programmed to ‘In addition to the 678 existing ones?’ be it clothes or shoes. She can’t tell her husband due to obvious reasons or the kid in my case, who can’t understand the concept of secrecy or bribery yet. Now all she has are her friends on whatsapp. One of them assured that once I trim my nails it will be fine, another suggested that I walk in it more often so it will stretch a bit to make more room for my chubby toes. However both of them told me to suffer in silence and not to drive because the right foot is kind of important in automatic cars. Also, I don’t wear shoes while driving and it may expose my wound to potential audience in the front seat who are waiting to pounce on crucial law points like this.

At the parking area, I pretended to be tired so I could explain the slow walking. I almost baby walked straight to the passenger seat.

‘Are you not driving? Why did you get a license then? When are you going to drive? Why did you take car driving lessons?’ 

Other versions of the above questions kept coming and I finally said,

‘My feet hurts’.

He got into the driver’s seat and we drove out of the mall.

Meanwhile I bent a bit low and flashed my phone torch on the bruised toe ( I admit I shouldn't have done this). The blood clot near the toenail now looked so red that it actually matched with the shoes. I sat up and carried on the pretense.

‘What happened to your feet?’ He asked.

I am a crappy liar, so as I was trying to assemble some words to make a believable line, when he asked that earth shattering question.

He: ‘I hope it is not because of the XX Rial shoes’.

Me: ‘What? No! What makes you think that?’

He: ‘Nothing’. He made a straight face.

Straight face meant that HE KNEW.

As soon as I reached home I placed my beautiful pair of red shoes in the shoe rack. I also trimmed the toenails even though what really needed trimming was the toes. I wondered how he guessed so quickly that my new shoe hurt. Well, the price obviously hurt but one can’t run into conclusions about moderately overpriced, yet beautiful shoes.

God knows what else that bank tells him besides the details of my shopping bills.

Spouse credit cards are evil.

Six years and counting !

It may seem that writing software codes for a living is the most mind-numbing thing a person could ever end up doing, as it does not involve creativity. Software codes are not so bad, I tell you. They are kind of high-maintenance and all that but people who do it are not dead inside. I am a living example of that because six years ago, when there was a recession globally in the IT sector, I was stuck idle for over six months in a reputed IT company without any projects in hand. That was when my blog was born.

Programmers get extremely creative when they are on ‘bench’ (not literally). They do interesting things like, err…start a blog! Meanwhile, numerous projects came, new stuff learnt, changed roles, changed employer and shifted to Oman,  moved on to another domain, however the blog remained true to its origins and never made an attempt to improve. I started with mundane blabbering and six years later...voila ! I am still doing that ! The highest point of my blogging journey was reached when I won Rs.10,000 in a Yahoo-Dove contest, back in 2011. Later many contests came and I chose not to participate because it was not my thing. I am still bad at writing when a topic is given to me, because my mind just refuses to focus. It wanders a lot when I write and my blog is evidence. One may not find any logical connection between paragraphs of a post. Well, that is who I am, not that I don’t like prizes that they announce for contests. ;-)

So in September I was interviewed by a friend who works at Deccan Chronicle and it appeared in the Kerala edition. I saved it for five months to show off on this day!

This month I wrote a little something about my son Aaron, and his love for corduroy pants (you can read it HERE), concluding the blog by mentioning Dulquer Salman, his idol. Well, the star himself read it and messaged me on Twitter! I am enjoying all the envy coming from Dulquer fans :D

So as I complete six years on Blogger, I fail to find enough words to thank my husband, parents, sister and cousins who are the pillars of this blog, for the unswerving encouragement they have extended to me over the years. All my friends and bloggers-turned-friends, who never fail to leave a comment, be it on Facebook or on the comments section – you guys are my rock. Everyone else who have kept visiting this space  - thank you , please visit again...it is okay to not leave comments!

So as my blog turns 6, I just want to tell all my readers to just keep reading…who knows, one day I may actually improve my grammar!

Kindergarten admission is not a child's play.

Image Courtesy: Here

There is no right way to select students from a pool of application forms into a school which has limited seats. Every school has their own little algorithm they follow to ensure that quality students get selected. This algorithm can be biased, illogical or downright ridiculous but one cannot do anything about it. You don’t like it? Okay Bye.

My friends who are settled in different continents across the world gave me really interesting insights about admission processes they know about. Sadly for us in Muscat, the algorithm to selection of students to Indian Schools is a bigger secret than the secret ingredient in KFC chicken. All we could make out from this yearly unpromising ritual is that kids who have a sibling already enrolled in the school stand a better chance, which effectively means that we have gone back to the dreadful times from the Bible wherein first-borns are screwed big time. 

If my son came to know about this  he’d probably ask me ‘Amma why did I have to be born first? Why? Why?  WHY???!!’ and I will probably say ‘Excellent question’.

Some schools resort to customized skill tests and friendly interviews and rate children based on their performance in the same. This process starts a lot of stress and pressure on parents, because the chances are that the kid will refuse to disclose anything including his name at the interview. We all know kids do not give a damn about social norms. They also display extreme intolerance to interviews. They know all rules in the book to freak us out. Oh well we are all freaks anyway.

In some countries the authorities ask the parents to produce their payslip and tax returns with applications. Schools that are so concerned about the earnings of parents should also run a background check on them just to ensure that they are not smugglers or members of any underworld mafia gangs. After going through brochures of different schools and their fee structures, I am convinced that this is how normal hard working, straight forward individuals become business minded, tax evading people who usually end up above the law. I have also heard of schools that give preference to double incomes, so that hidden charges (without receipts) that crop up from nowhere can be met without too much fuss. Other schools do not consider kids whose mothers go to work, because some of the age inappropriate projects and assignments are meant for parents. Like we haven’t suffered enough already.

I am making my son continue in the same school where he went to nursery; however this school has classes up to KG-II only. The Indian Schools admission results (first draw) did not come in favor of him, so we are waiting for second draw results. This is not fun, I tell you.

The person who cares the least is none other than the primary applicant, my beloved son. He wants to go to a school which has a swing in the playground it seems. If only it could be that simple!

Corduroy trousers, tee shirts and other ultimatums.

There are few things my toddler can’t live without, one of which is his brown corduroy pants.  I remember buying it from a store at the mall on an impulse. My three year old instantly fell in love with the trousers and there was no looking back. Until then he never cared about his clothes but it was the corduroy that woke the sartorial devil in him. Stepping out of the house meant these very pants to Aaron. Other pants were worn when it went missing (I may have something to do with temporary disappearances), or if it was still wet from laundry.

 As I am a working Mom who loves to shop and hangout with him at every possible break, I took him everywhere since he was tiny.  I never had my parents or any relatives babysitting him, so I am used to going to trial rooms with him in a stroller, and as he grew older and started yelling ‘Mama shame shame puppy shame!’ I started trying clothes on top of the dress I wore. I involve him in my every shopping trip and seek his opinion about new stuff I pick up; he gives me honest (sometimes really brutal) remarks. Thank God, toddlers have a way of making everything sound cute. He always gave a close look at the dress or shoes and at me before voicing his professional advice and thus, he grew up being a little fashionista himself. As long as he is not tired or sleepy and if he is wearing his favorite pants, he is good company.

No compliment can be more genuine than the one that comes from a child, so he makes my day whenever he compliments me. In every crowd or TV show he identifies the shirts that look like those of his Daddy, or a bag that looks like mine. Wearing his father’s shoes when he is not around and looking at the mirror is only one of his favorite activities.

Like a lot of other little boys I know, Aaron is also a tee shirt lover. He does not like wearing shirts with collars and buttons. So today, I ironed his denim shirt and waited for the ruckus to begin. I paired it with his favorite corduroy strategically. However this did not go down well with the kiddo who understands strategies better than me. Usually hubby gets him dressed in the mornings, so as expected, arguments started between them over the shirt. Hubby gave up and left the scene. I tried to convince the predetermined toddler, but the water works had already started. Aaron walked across the room, wore a wrinkled red tee on his own and sat on the sofa happily, with his school bag, trying his best to ignore me as I walked past him. I made generic statements on how denim is cool but no favorable reaction was seen.

I refused to back down. After all, I ironed the denim shirt and I did not want my efforts go wasted. I lured him back to the bedroom and told him a little secret. What followed was a smooth and happy change in clothes, and his father was shocked to see him in front of the mirror checking out the denim shirt and looking happier than ever.

Dulquer Salmaan, my son's
favorite actor.
Image Courtesy: Here

Hubby asked me, ‘Oh My God what happened here?’

‘I told him that Dulquer has a denim shirt too and that he looks exactly like Dulquer when he wears it’.

Thus potential rampage was effectively evaded, and our week began on a happy note, thanks to Dulquer.

On a different yet very valid note, I wish all my readers a Happy Women’s day. I don’t want to brag or anything, but only a mother can get something like this done without declaring war or offering bribes! Cheers to all women!

Between the lines!

I got the Oman driving license in November which was already announced from the rooftops, I can almost hear it still echoing from the mountains. My trainer bid me goodbye, his role handed down to the guy who had been trying to speak louder than me since 2008– my husband ;-) 

I must admit I miss my trainer.

Trainers in car driving are the ones whose jobs, by any means is no less hazardous than that of a suicide bomber. They have to focus, be patient, behave, teach and stay alive at the same time, not necessarily in that order. To achieve the staying alive part, one may forego at least one of the expected skill set – patience. My trainer’s voice and the subsequent reverberations can actually cause an accelerator to push on its own. However every time I had to be blamed. How mean is that?

Car training sessions are also the times one is expected to cry internally. The guy terrorized me to such an extent, that even tears were scared and shut themselves in. I held on to the steering wheel like one would hold on to a piece of slab just before falling off a 17 floor building. The suspense thriller may make one sit at the edge of the seat, but if I did that, there would have been more reverberations which could have resulted in opening a dam of tears.

My trainer taught me during the office lunch break, which was coincidentally his lunch break too. I’d have my lunch only after the session, which meant that I’d be dying from starvation during the session. However, my trainer prefers on-the-go lunches and juice. Which is chicken shewerma wraps with mayonnaise and salad. Drooling was not allowed. This means I had to stop two types of fluids from erupting 1.Tears 2.Saliva. I should also be alert and set my eyes on the road and play the traffic signs book and roundabout rules in the background. There are no prizes for guessing who gets paid at the end of this session.   

Image Courtesy: Here

However when the vacancy of a trainer was occupied by the husband, I did not expect that things could turn around for worse. This time I dint have to worry about stopping tears. It has been my strongest weapon since 1932. Now I have to keep my eyes on the road, focus, reach the destination alive AND talk back. I mean how is this expected from me? A little chat with my friends revealed the shocking fact that all husbands go crazy when women drive. I fail to understand this overreaction, because we do not get paranoid if they don’t move even a single muscle when yelled at or even if something is thrown at them when there is cricket on the TV. The situation is in control because I stopped listening a long time ago. I can feel the drama inside the car but can’t take it serious enough. This is a guy who cannot notice a change in hairdo or a dashing new dress but can pass a comment about the strand of eyebrow hair on the carpet.

The real challenge while driving in Oman is the basement parking in our building. Parking here is like taking a driving test every single day of my life, because 1. Basement is really dark and creepy 2. The lines between which we are expected to park = total width of the car.3. After lines there are pillars to ensure that we pay for our mistakes. Guess what, the husband makes me reverse park there. This is exactly like going to the labor room and telling the doctor that this procedure is not painful enough, I want to do it in a way I can actually feel it. The silver lining is that there is a reverse sensor, which has kept me sane since the whole ordeal started. I cannot even begin to think of the times people drove without reverse sensors. How is one supposed to see what is behind the car, when managing whatever is in front of the car itself is so hard?

It has been three months, the pillars are fine, and the car has survived some scratches. The building maintenance guys maintain that it is not ‘dark’ it is called ‘ambience’.  The scratches stand testimony to the days I reverse parked in this snake and ladder maze.

And in life, you cannot escape the lines. You will end up reading or parking between them.

Hypocrisy has a new identity.

Image Courtesy : Here

During my teen years, I was such a die-hard fan of Aamir Khan that I had posters of him on my bedroom walls. It was a magical time before bad boys became cool, so yeah we liked chocolate boys then, the ones with pink lips and lesser facial hair than a new born baby. Aamir kept doing his goofy acts Mills & Boon romance and slapstick comedy and all the girls were happy. Slowly but steadily, a strange wind of social reform blew over him and there was no turning back. Aamir Khan got enlightened under the game changing tree of Bollywood when he realized that his role in this world is to impose his opinion on a nation he thought had no persona of its own.

I don’t distinctly remember when I stopped being a fan because his focus was diverted and with each passing day he looked more and more like some sort of a Bharat Ratna wannabe.

Meanwhile, in a parallel but steady track, SRK was scoring with his signature pose and coy smiles and like millions of girls in India, I shifted loyalties too. Well, what did you expect I did not sign some kind of YRF contract with Aamir Khan fan club. Aamir Khan's opinions and his movies with morals kept instilling in our nation, a feeling that he is an intellectual. Everyone else who made movies for entertainment looked like complete morons.

When he wore only a transistor in the poster of PK, he was getting into the skin of his character, but he is entitled to his royal opinion about Sunny Leone who usually wears more clothes than him. He did a whole movie about idol worship and thinks he can change an entire nation, its ancestors and a religion that was born a million years ago.

I did not like PK for two reasons. One, it was preachy. Two, I don’t care about what Aamir Khan thinks about my religion; so why like a movie that propagates Aamir Khan’s opinions and enhanced lips?

Basically everyone is entitled to their opinions. Aamir Khan voiced his utterly hypocritical view on AIB roast as well. Next thing you know he will make a movie about humor that is not his type. I watched the three videos of AIB at least three times each. I shared it to everyone I knew who’d appreciate a good laugh. But my opinion on MY blog after watching each of the videos three times is nothing like Aamir Khan, the self-proclaimed voice of young middle aged India judging it without even watching it once. If Monica Geller’s parents can coin the term ‘pull a Monica’ we have every right to call ridiculous hypocrisy ‘pull an Aamir Khan’.

The house maid who does not turn up regardless of giving a speech earlier about how she never misses work, the friend who betrays after building up a lot of trust, that girl who scores record breaking marks despite promising that she dint even open her book, the girlfriend who cheats after threatening her boyfriend of dire consequences if he cheats on her – are all different shapes of Aamir Khan.

How to deal with the Aamir Khans in our lives, you ask? Let’s take a hint from Shah Rukh Khan. IGNORE and keep doing what you are doing. It is pretty much working for him; I think it should work for us too.    

The only plausible explanation.

The cool mornings and windy winter evenings continue to pamper us sun-burnt people of the Middle East. We make the most of this climate, which visits us only for a brief period and later gives way to THE SUN (and not summer as they call it in other parts of the world).

So on a cool sleep-worthy weekend, we went on a walk at the Muscat Festival grounds. I sacrificed my precious afternoon nap for this, so this festival better be worth it, I thought. Luckily for them, it was. It was also good to see families laughing away the stress and spending quality time with each other without those lines of stress on their foreheads… they may have applied anti-ageing cream, we’ll never know. And there were also people in Disney cartoon costumes walking about the park posing with the kids which was a blessing to all parents who had come just to let their hair down. The kids were also overwhelmed in knowing that they had come to the same place that Mickey Mouse chose to spend the weekend. My son accepted the bribe and even agreed to eat dinner.

There were donkey, horse and camel rides. Donkey rides were available for toddlers and young children. My son was terrified of the donkey, but agreed to take the ride if I joined him. He probably didn't notice the tired face of the malnourished donkey which could die the moment I even think about sitting on it. Camels looked too tall for a smooth (peaceful) ride and I refused to take it so we were even. No animals were harmed at the festival grounds.   

Of course there was a place where we could shop for authentic stuff that are usually not available at malls and branded stores. This time I skipped that area because experience has taught me that if I buy something, I’d have to pay for my sin by carrying the bag myself hours inside the festival grounds resulting in sore hands and thus bringing back the lines on the forehead. I missed my son’s stroller. I used to dump all my shopping bags in it. Sigh. Around forty five minutes later I started craving for a stroller myself.

Image Courtesy: Google Images.

One of the iconic crowd puller shows at the festival was the motordrome,  otherwise called the ‘Wall of Death’ wherein four motorists rode their bikes at high speed in a metal dome structure, defying gravity and senses of the onlookers.  My son got so excited that he wanted to ride his tricycle inside it. Sometimes the motorists rode so close to each other and sent waves of ecstasy through the crowd but it left me rather terrified. I told hubby ‘I may not be looking sometimes, okay?’ (I think he chose not to hear me). 

I covered my eyes with my hands. Watching through the gap between my fingers was reassuring. That was when one of the motorists started waving at the crowd with both hands. I watched him with sheer disbelief and exclaimed ‘Look at this guy…don’t you think this is too much? May be he lost the will to live or something’.

And hubby replied ‘Yeah, he is married’. 

With love, from Thiruvananthapuram.

One lazy day, as I browsed through channels on TV I came across this white guy on an international food channel, probably on his first visit to Kerala, saying that kappa(tapioca) and red fish curry is his ‘comfort food’. I almost laughed aloud. Comfort food it seems. That is MY comfort food my friend, yours is bread, I thought, with a typical bigheaded grin. And this grin is typical of Mallus, as we are known to take immense pride in our food. And our ego comes from the fact that even though the world eats bread for breakfast, we Mallus eat bread only when we are sick or dying.

You may think that on a map, Kerala looks like an strand of onion that fell out of your Biryani, but remember, this is God’s own ‘country’ and we have diverse slangs and cuisines across districts. I was brought up in the capital city, Thiruvananthapuram, and had a tough time communicating to an earlier housemaid from Calicut. There was nothing common in the Malayalam we spoke to each other; sometimes I had to use Google Images to make her understand vegetable names. Not to mention the number of situations Google decided to get naughty when I searched vegetable names on it:-/

I married a guy from Cochin and that turned out to be something like ‘2 States’. This household makes me question my proficiency in Malayalam. When Cochin people get angry or frustrated, they say ‘Manga Tholi’ and scratch their heads/bang their fists. ‘Manga Tholi’ translates to mango peel, and why they swear with a reference to the harmless and actually delicious mango we’ll never know. But for me, this is highly amusing. :D I still laugh when I see Cochin characters in movies tearing their hair apart and saying ‘Manga Tholi’. Another distinct feature of people in Cochin is that they look down on Thiruvananthapuram, our slang and food.  They also migrate to Thiruvananthapuram in large numbers for jobs, to attend good colleges, schools and for better living in general. Because Cochin has only malls, more malls, and a whole load of Manga Tholi ;-)  

Seafood, especially the red fish curry traditionally slow cooked in a mud vessel brings us all together, despite our differences, which is a feat accomplished earlier by the Janashatabdi Express. Even hard- core non-vegetarians (majority of the population) enjoy the purely vegetarian sadya on the banana leaf, complete with four payasams. A true blue Mallu will lick his fingers when he finishes the last payasam. And that is how it is done. We also intend to invite Oprah Winfrey for Onam to eat a full-fledged sadya with fork and spoon.

Image Courtesy: Here

Sadya in Thiruvananthapuram is different from other places as we have a special item called Boli with Aripayasam (Paal Payasam). My husband hadn’t heard of Boli till he married me. And he claims to have eaten Sadya! How ridiculous is that? Pity, I say. Firstly, living up to age 27 without knowing the awesomeness that is me, and secondly, not knowing Boli? Sigh.

Now Boli is a traditional sweet, served with payasam for Sadya.

Boli and Payasam: Image Courtesy
Here

This is a unique item mostly known and enjoyed only in Thiruvananthapuram. And that is my idea of comfort food, my friends. I eat it with my soul. I have attended innumerable Hindu weddings for it, without any idea about the bride or the groom. 

This Christmas, Mummy Boli and Payasam at home and needless to say, it was the best thing about Christmas. I invite all my friends reading this, to try this delicious dish, if you haven’t already. 

We forgive you for hating Thiruvananthapauram.

The pre-Christmas pickle.

December 14, 2014.

Hubby had to leave from Muscat to his home on emergency, which left me and Aaron in quite an unforeseen situation. Our tickets were booked for the 19^th of December and we had four more days to go. 1. I had to manage work, home and Aaron alone for four days. 2. I had to control him at the airport alone on the day of travel. 3. I had to pack our stuff and keep a tab on the weight 4. Last but not the least, I had to calm down.

On the first night without the hubby I realized that I was not a brave parent. So we slept with a small light on, so that any ghosts, thieves or serial killers wandering in the corridor may find us sooner than they intended to. For a three year old, ignorance is bliss and he is a testimony to that. He ate, drank, watched TV and slept peacefully. It was me who stayed awake till 2 am trying to hear imaginary noises.

After successfully staying alive for three nights (yoohoo!), came our last day before flying off to our vacation. It was an extremely busy day at office, but I took a few moments off to check-in online and I logged on to the airline website. The website was sophisticated well designed and had all possible options an airline website could provide. I was impressed.  The air hostesses on the cover page of the website looked like they just fell off from heaven. I clicked on the link ‘Online check in’.

I entered the confirmation number from the ticket only to get a message that said ‘We are unable to check in using this number. Please contact customer care’. My heart raced.  I called up customer care and the conversation went like this.

Me: ‘Hello?’

Useless female 1: ‘Hello, Good Morning, This is Airline office. How may I help you?’

Me: I have two tickets tomorrow on your flight  XYZ. I am unable to check in online.

Useless Female1: ‘No problem Ma’am. Please give me your ticket number’

Me: “It is 12345.”

Useless Female1: ‘I am sorry Ma’am your ticket was cancelled five days back. You may want to book ticket again at our revised ticket rate’

The revised rate of the ticket looked like the approximate net price of the aircraft.

Picture courtesy: Here

Me: “This is ridiculous! My husband had booked three tickets, and he cancelled only his ticket. Just his. My son and I are travelling tomorrow!”

Useless Female 1: “Madam, we have refunded the amount of all the three tickets”

Me: “ WE DID NOT request cancellation of all three tickets!

Useless Female1: “Hold on, Madam, I will pass your call to the concerned Department”

Why did this female answer the call if she was not the “concerned” person? From the way these people handled airline booking I dint think that anybody was really ‘concerned’.

Useless Female 2: “Hello, Madam, you should know that the entire amount for all three tickets was refunded, you have to purchase ticket again”

Me : “What the hell are you talking about? Does it occur to you that unless it is mentioned explicitly you cannot cancel tickets at your own discretion?”

Useless Female 2: “Then you have to talk to that person who sent the cancellation number!”

Me: “What do you mean ‘THAT PERSON’. Who is THAT person? Do you have someone who can solve this issue? A phone number you can give ? How responsible are you?”

Useless Female 2: “We can’t do anything about this Madam…”

I disconnected the call. I had emptied the fridge, packed and informed all my colleagues. Our minds were anticipating this trip for months. That’s not all. To make matters worse, I wished my colleagues a happy new year in advance as I was going on vacation, and now I dint know how to undo any of that.

This was a kind of pickle I did not expect to be in the last moment. I could somehow explain the situation to my parents and Aaron, but showing up at office another day, after broadcasting my itinerary to everyone as if I was going to Malibu was beyond me. I quickly made plans B and C in my head, one of them being taking my laptop and working behind the office Christmas tree. Meanwhile I logged on to another website to check if there were any other flights available for the 20^th of December. And there was one at a reasonable fare.

Finally when the aircraft touched down my home grounds, I felt a sense of accomplishment. I took immense pride in myself, for all the things that happened in the last moment and how we managed to see through it. It was like a Christmas suspense thriller with a Bollywood climax.

I am now back from a blissful vacation. J

Thank you, Jesus, for the strength. May be next time you could consider giving me surprise tests at other occasions and not Christmas. Just saying.  Hope you had a great birthday!