Signing Off

No no, I'm not shutting down my blog (though the past month of silence may have suggested so).

Just popping in from a very busy time at work to share some sign-off gems I received in my email:

"Yours delightfully"
&
"I remain at your entire disposal."

But I will be patient, because a client recently told me, "Please bare with me for a while."

The Doll

In 2 days, he will be in his home. The women in his family will be planning the cooking already – for though they have limited means, it’s only once in 2 years they can indulge the breadwinner of the family. It’s only once in 2 years that he can sleep and wake at leisure, not following a clock determined by construction timelines and investor stakes. It’s only once in 2 years that his employers give him a return ticket on the cheapest airline to go home for a month.

Right now, he is standing in a shiny mall. His ill-fitting, rarely used, casual clothes hang awkwardly on the lean frame. They were bought for a healthier body, when he was packing to come away to this land of opportunity. He had thought that in return for his farmland he would be a rich man. But he only creates houses for the rich, remaining on the outside. Even in this mall, he is the outsider. He smells a little – of perspiration, cement and sparingly used soap. People don’t stand too close to him. He doesn’t notice. He is looking at a doll.

She has black hair, bright eyes, and chubby limbs. Her frock is usually stained and ends too high above her knees. Her mother makes her wear an ugly pair of thick, too-loose pantyhose to cover the limbs that will offend the radical Islamic group that is in control of his village. She has asked her father, 2 years ago, to bring him a doll next time. She whispered it in his ear when he hugged her one last time as his wife looked on.

She has blonde hair, blue eyes, and skinny limbs. A plastic purse dangles from her shoulder. Her plastic pink heels arch her foot at an unnatural angle. She has a pet plastic dog. And 2 changes of wardrobe. The whole package is pleasing pink. He knows she will love the doll.

But the price. He could eat a week's meals for this cost. Should he? Perhaps she’s too grown up to like the doll anymore. He could pretend he’s forgotten and put it off till next time. 2 years later. By then she would certainly be too grown up to ask for a doll, if not to want one.

He walks out. Glad that he did not spend those dirhams. As he walks towards the exit, a young family enters. And again, he is looking at a doll.

She has black hair, bright eyes, and chubby limbs. She clings to her father’s hand, knee-high as he slows his step to match hers. She is laughing – a pure, happy sound - and her father is ruffling her hair with his free hand.

He turns around and goes back to the shop. The doll is waiting for him.

W

What is a woman?

At times a comfortable cliché. At times an unruly rebel.

Now a simple stereotype. Now a dynamic daredevil.

Shape-shifting like her life depends on it.

Over-achieving to break all barriers.

Yesterday a girl. Tomorrow a girl.

And today?

A heart. A passion. A dream. A hope. A bubble. A wall.

Love. Ambition. Forgiveness. Endurance. Patience.

Vanity. Envy. Anger. Rage. Hate.

A woman is all or nothing.



But when this happens, they reduce her to exactly one thing.

Nothing.

Wind your body...

It seems I’m terrible at following instructions. There’s this svelte, gorgeous woman in front of me telling me to raise my hand, turn this way, look that way, shimmy shimmy shimmy and shake, and stop! And instead of copying her moves, I am mirroring them, turning left when she turns right, raising the left foot when she says right, and that too, a few seconds late each time. Ands I’m not even supposed to be here. My place is on the treadmill, in the other corner. In my sneakers. Sweating off that morning donut. Not on this lovely parquet floor. Barefoot. Shaking the belly I should be working off. After all, this is a belly-dancing class.

Yeah, it’s my slot at the gym and although I have about forty thousand left feet I couldn’t resist abandoning the treadmill and joining the circle of multi-shaped women aged anywhere between 17 and 40 who’d converged on the gym for a free belly-dancing class that happens twice a week. “I can make a fool of myself for free,” I thought. Yeah, I can totally do that. I’m doing it. So I scurried off to join them.

It was tough, it was fun, it was pointless. But that was the point.

Empty Nest

So the house"guests" have left. Barring a pair of trousers that were left in the cupboard because "Those are Anando's, but they look just like Baba's. Oh wait, they are Baba's trousers. Will they fit in the hand baggage now?" So anyway, I think all that they've left behind is lots of home-cooked food and blessings - after all, we need food for the body and the soul, right?

A crucial to-do on the agenda with my parents this time was a matter of tech-literacy. From gifting my parents a digital camera to teaching them how to use it to teaching Ma how to download pictures on to the computer to teaching her how to mail them to people...it was an exercise which, fortunately, was successful. Appearing below is one of her best photos, taken when we went on the desert safari to the dunes of Lahbab outside Dubai.


The other big achievement: launching my father's blog. The man who motivated me to start writing, from whom I learnt how to compose letters to relatives, how to write to famous people seeking autographed pictures, who encouraged me to send my writings to newspapers, who promotes my writing as only a proud parent can do, who dreams that someday (soon) I will write a book, and who sent me a lovely ink pen when I declared that I wanted to write more and type less - he finally has a blog up. The intensely personal nature of the first post doesn't prevent me from telling the world about it. I don't think he will mind.

So now that the nest is empty and the fridge is full, I shall think of the next project at hand. Getting Ma to start a blog. Maybe a photo blog :) As you can see, I am always thinking of work for other people. Meanwhile, a deadline is perishing. Tata.

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.