House"Guests"

It's a bit strange to have your parents come to your house to stay. I mean, these are the people from whom you have learnt your definition of home. You have watched them run a house, a kitchen, and you have seen what works (and what doesn't). Then of course you apply it elsewhere with your own 2 cents thrown in and create your ideal home.

Then they arrive, and they're like any other guests you may have at your place. You need to point out the dustbin's location. They ask you which way the bathroom is. You tell them which switch is for the bathroom light and ask whether they need anything else. You explain which cupboard door is a bit loose. Which window doesn't close properly. Where the salt is in the kitchen.

And then of course comes the excitement of showing them a new place which you have discovered independently of them. Where once you saw everything through their eyes, and they kept you safe and cushioned you as you learnt your way around, it's now the other way around. If they go out alone in the neighborhood you give them precise directions for coming back.

And of course if they are coming to Dubai tonight to stay for 9 days, you sit at work and suppress your excitement, blogging to tell the world you are too excited to work while you hide it from your colleagues.

Tag Taggle Toggle

This one comes from Eve's Lungs. It's the perfect tag for someone like me because I tend to live in the past. Mulling over the state of the world takes a backseat as I delve into memories and recall instances and conversations and people with clarity. So, here goes.

My oldest memory: Is boring. My mother can't believe I remember this - I toddled over to the lowest shelf of the kitchen and knocked over an entire bowl of dal, creating a mess. So I must have been less than 2 years old. Sigh...butterfingers even back then.

Ten years ago: I was finishing college and agonizing over staying on at Stephen's versus going to JNU. Ah, that tiny sphere of concern.

My first thought this morning: Not already!

If you built a time capsule, what would it contain: Not sure of the principle of a time capsule, but it's like preserving things for eternity, right? In that case, it would hold everything and everyone from my present world, except, oh...cockroaches, terrorists, alarm clocks (ironic, in a time capsule..hah) and other irritants.

This year: I turned 30 but it was the least significant part of the year. I think that's what being an adult is all about. Much has happened - I have gone back to fulltime work, my brother has learnt to live on his own, I have said goodbyes, and hellos, and generally become more of what I want to be.

14 years from now: Is impossible to predict. I live in the past, remember?

Tagging: MM (as if she didn't have enough to blog about already), A Muser, Suku, and Audacious, just to get her to blog!!! And a dear cousin who has just started blogging and is thinking of topics - Chandra didi.

Perspectives

I've blogged about my gymming experiences before. But that was before I turned 30. And about x kilos ago. So, ladies and gentlemen, the gym is back in my life. Every morning, I realise how old I'm getting when I can't drag myself out of bed to get in an hour, no scratch that, 45 minutes, of gymming before I head to work. Funny, I thought people slept less with old age. What is this? Some sort of weird sleep-while-you-can gift before insomnia and dementia set in?

Each morning, make that every other morning, make that most mornings, make that...oh well, I went today...so anyway, each morning that I go to the gym, I dress in my faded t-shirt, slightly too-long track pants (I want to buy cool new Adidas ones with the stripes down the side but somehow can't justify them to myself until I make the gym a regular habit), and sneakers that will soon - if I exercise enough - allow my toes to peep out (previous parentheses apply).

Anyway, so the other morning Anando and I were walking towards the gym, which is near our offices, when I noticed a bunch of women walking ahead of us. Backpacks, sports shoes, frumpy clothes (branded though). And I looked down at Anando and me - backpacks and assorted bags containing change of clothes, office shoes, lunch, laptop. We were all dressed the same. Happily, Holmes-like, I conjectured - "Oh look, they're going to the gym too."

Anando sighed. His delusional wife, he must be thinking. "No, they're just students."

When you start thinking students dress like they're going to the gym, you really are old.

Reflection

He checked his hair in the mirror and groaned - this Keo Karpin oil was no good, he would switch to coconut. He'd been losing hair and it had changed the way his face looked, now that he had an extra 2 inches of forehead! His gaze moved lower and, oh no, were those wrinkles? Couldn't be, he decided. It was too early for him to be getting wrinkles. He was just getting paranoid about his skin.


His kurta was crisply ironed and the gold buttons he'd inherited from his grandfather gleamed back at him, winking at his vanity as he ran his hands over them, feeling the familiar texture of the chipped design.

As he walked down to the nearby shop, he knew she would be sitting on her porch, her hair loose as she sat and daydreamed, working on some embroidery for her family. Would she even look up at him, he wondered. He would have to find something to talk to her about as he walked past. Something casual, but that would interest her. But he must remember to act nonchalant. Yes, he'd ask about her sister, hadn't she been ill lately? He couldn't remember. He really should have paid more attention when she talked, rather than thinking of a smart retort that would impress her.

His eagerness made him smile. In a corner of his heart he felt a pang for the other woman he had once impressed, successfully. But she was gone, and life carries on, he rationalised, overlooking the way he had mourned her.

He was ready, a few dashes of Old Spice, and he was all set to storm the neighborhood. He went down the stairs. They seemed higher than they had been when he was a child. Strange, he thought.

At the door, he paused, breathing in the fresh air. Ah, how wonderful to be alive! He was about to march out purposefully when the little boy stopped him. "Won't you take your walking stick with you, Dadu?"

Prove It!

Pakistan has refused to send the ISI chief to India, instead sending a "representative". How can they do this? It's making me furious. If they want us to believe that this was not an act supported by the government they need to prove by standing alongside India in this investigation. Reports of late night meetings between the Pak President, PM and Army chief sound suspiciously like a huddle, as if they want to get their "story" right.

Okay, so maybe I am pointing fingers here, but I don't care. This is no time to be sensitive to governments, only to individuals. I will never forget the sight of Major Sandeep Unnikrishnan's shocked mother caressing his cold forehead.

Update: (in response to OJ) As subsequent coverage and speculation suggests - the government is just a puppet and faced a lot of flak from the Opposition, the Army and even (annoyingly and dishearteningly) from the media - for agreeing initially without consulting with everyone. Some have apparently said that for Pak to send their Chief would be an admission of guilt. You should see Karan Thapar grill Zardari about this on IBN.

Reality TV

The city people arrive in to touch the stars - when that city turns into a nightmare, there is betrayal, anger, horror, and a fascinated magnetism for watching the same reels of blood, gore, death and hatred playing again and again on every news channel.

Images of a young man with crazed eyes - is it his expression or a red-eye malfunction - wearing a T-shirt and a backpack slung on his shoulder, fill the screen. If it were not for the gun in his hand and the blood on his face he would seem just a college student.

As I type there is some sort of operation about to be initiated - and I hope it will be successful. Media have been requested not to broadcast details, and I don't mind. I'd rather the media conspire with the law-keepers than blab it to the world (and terrorists) in the name of information.

Every news channel - Indian and international - we turned to during the long night was showing just this. The worst ever terror attack on Bombay. And the most organised. I just hope it ends soon.

Tracks of Change

If I had to mime a train's action, I'd place my palm vertically against my nose and go Koo jhik jhik jhik, picking up tempo with the jhik jhiks and putting all my energy into going KOOOO in a quick regression to childhood and train games of travelling to exciting destinations.

I sometimes wonder how kids growing up in the age of electric trains will represent trains.

A cousin's memories of childhood train rides brought back to me the wonder trains had once been. The longest train ride I ever took was 2 nights and 3 days from Delhi to Vishakhapatnam. My brother, 2 years old then, was petrified when the train let off its first hoot and refused to get in. Once in, he looked around and asked, "Where did the train go?" And so began a long journey where we even played cricket with a plastic bat & ball in the corridor.

Much later a huge group travelled to Chennai for a wedding, and my cousin and I could barely chat over the collective Mukharji/Banerjee/Sen snores that erupted all around us once night fell. Afraid that other passengers would ask us to tell our family to hush, we quickly pretended to fall asleep ourselves!

Nowadays the most train travel happens when we go to Shantiniketan from Kolkata. The first time, we went in an unreserved compartment because Singur protests in December '06 delayed our travel. We listened to bauls and also bought the famous "Joynogor-er Moa" from a vendor who boarded the train. The moas were had and we began dissecting how it didn't quite taste too good and my poor mother-in-law tried to defend her enthusiasm by saying they no longer tasted like they used to. At that point the gentleman who had been hanging on to the overhead rail near our seat with one hand and picking his nose with the other chose to inform us that these weren't the genuine article anyway and the real stuff would come a few stations later.

Last year, at Agra station I had occasion to peer in through much-tinted windows at the hyped Palace on Wheels. While I've never travelled in that much luxury, I certainly am tempted to try and plan a long train holiday to someplace to recapture some of that laidback travel. Yes, the toilets may be a deterrent and I may control my beverage intake to counter that, but I think it would be worth it for a bit of time-travel!

Serious Business

He entered the meeting with a serious expression. His forehead was furrowed with years of work experience and business worries. His business suit was pin-striped, impeccable, and perfectly coordinated with his tie and cufflinks. His hair and hands were well-groomed. He sat down and seriously started explaining what he required in their new corporate brochure. He complained that the rough-cut we had shown him was not up to the mark. He contradicted what his marketing manager had told us. He contradicted what their mission statement said. He contradicted himself. He confused us.

But me. I just giggled inside. After all, how can you take someone seriously when they wear grey socks that have purple polka dots on them.

On Shaky Ground

My taxi driver this morning was a Pathan from Pakistan, near the border with Afghanistan. The short drive was a pleasant one, because after asking if I'd mind some recorded music, he turned on a tape of Pashtun songs. It was a lilting, repetitive tune, and in bits and pieces it reminded of some Hindi film song or the other, especially from the black and white era. I think one of the main new learnings of moving to Dubai has been the chance to speak to Pakistanis, hear their political views, tap to Pashtun music, learn to make out Pathans by their accent, and to be able to think of them as people and not just an ethnic-group statistic.

And so the news of the earthquake near Quetta, which happened just a few hours before that, was twice as shocking. It's not been long enough since the last one, in early October 2005. And now, they're on their knees in a tragic repetition of last time. Three years is not enough time for people to start trusting the ground beneath their feet again.

Lights from the Darkness

When I lived in Hauz Khas in Delhi, our first donation-seekers for Diwali came from the Blind Relief Association. A young man with a happy smile and vacant eyes would be accompanied by a volunteer, and in exchange for a cotton duster and 2 tall, white candles we would hand over our donation of the year. It never occurred to me then that here was someone giving us candles who would never be able to see the light they spread.

At Diwali everyone sends wishes for joy and prosperity. Ornate and opulent Lakshmis decorate walls. Shopkeepers open fresh account books. Firecrackers cost a bomb. It's all about noise and show. But in the middle of it all, as we light up our rooms with a soft glow, as we crouch on the floor to perfect a rangoli, or gaze excitedly at fireworks in the sky, we forget how lucky we are to have the eyes to see it.

I'm in Dubai this year. So Diwali will be less of the noise and more of the lights. And as I give my ears a rest and focus on just seeing all the lights around me, I'm just going to count myself lucky that I can really see the beauty all around me.