cold cold day

Temperatures have dropped with a vengeance. I remember looking forward to the winter, cosy evenings, warm cups of tea and jammy scones. And I still love the cuddling up in front of the TV with a hot, post-supper drink or meeting up with friends in the warmth of the fire/heating in the evenings. But what is one to do with the dreary, dull, grey and intensely depressing day?

I know, I know, you are going to come right back and say well, the day is for working, for earning the rewards of the evening. But every once in a while, one needs that much needed break, a peek out of the window or a stroll by the street. And when all you see around is bare, icy coldness, you do think, inspite of your firm resolve to love the winter, just for a split second, 'oh! where did the summer go?'

Favorite things

The year is tip-toeing to an end. I cannot believe with what incredible speed 2008 appears to be flying past. It's been a great year in so many ways, and a disappointing one in so many others. Perhaps no year can be truly great for everything - no that would be too much to ask for.

As we grind to a halt for the holidays, and wish each other season's greetings, I am delighted to share with you the little bundles of deliciousness that make my days happy and contented!

Sparkling spidery webs

Lights on Regent Street, London, this year.

A surprise of a shower!

I am given to understand that baby showers are not as popular in Britain as in America and India. In America, the mum-to-be's best friend organises the shower, and in India, the vallakappa ceremony is organised by her family. But what if you are lucky enough to have best friend and family rolled into one? And they decide to treat you to a surprise baby shower, full of fun and games, as well as a traditional ceremony? I'd say, a girl couldn't ask for more!So that is how I spent my Sunday evening. I was told that we were going to some friends' place for a pre-Christmas get-together. So it was rather surprising to see all my buddies gathered around a lovely fire with cheeky grins on their faces! Great spicy Indian food, lots of games, loads of laughter and cute presents - one of the best Sunday evenings I have ever had! And I have to thank my best friend, my wonderful hubby for it. I have some very pretty green and red bangles to show for my evening of fun! Really, I couldn't ask for more!

Must say just this

I have been horribly busy juggling work, ante-natal classes, the sense of urgency that arrives with the beginning of the third trimester and a back that is incapable of supporting the increasing weight of the bump. And I am sure that everyone else is occupied with their hectic schedules of life, dropping kids to nurseries and schools, handling irate bosses, dealing with the financial crisis that has hit absolutely everyone, and just keeping life on track. We have no time to stand and stare, to worry about politics, religion, ethnicity and the like - we are too busy dealing with life.

And then this happens.

By this I mean what is happening in Mumbai. And what has happened before in Delhi, London, New York, Madrid, Karachi and so many other cities around the world. And when this happens, you stop in your tracks, and wonder, WHY?

What on earth is going on in their minds that prompts them to do this? What gives them the conviction that they can wage 'war' on innocent people, who are busy minding their business? Is this the new form of warfare, where anything and everything goes, where each one fends for herself/himself, where parents leave for work every morning not knowing if they will come back home to see their children?

We have become an insensitive, hardened mass of people. Every time something like this happens, we talk about it for a few days, and then get on with life. When it happens in a country far away from us, we dismiss it as the 'usual' stuff that happens in 'that part of the world'. We don't care - not really.

The one thing that has come out more than anything else for me from this episode of unimaginable tragedy is that human beings are a selfish, parochial lot. We try very hard to convince ourselves and those around us that we are 'civilised' and 'world citizens', but deep inside, we care only about ourselves. Not just those who are unleashing this terror - they are obviously doing it because they care only for themselves and their beliefs - but each one of us, because we just couldn't be bothered enough, since it is happening to someone else.

We are happy that we can still continue to discuss the weather.

And the financial crisis.

And the irate boss.

Not to forget, the ante-natal class.

Me is...

falling in love with petit filous

guzzling clementines by the dozen

dreaming of daal makhni

very tired, and very excited

unable to focus on inedible stuff

perpetually running to the loo

imagining patterns in stretch marks

supposed to have glowing skin and hair

wishing I could see glowing skin and hair

pampered a lot by loving hubby

looking forward to the mat leave

wobbly and walking like a duck

completely off balance in the underground

very nervous about the birth

very excited about the birth

again thinking of something to eat

bending over dangerously to see my feet

Paris

Few other places in the world are visited with such great expectations. Literature, cinema and popular imagination have built Paris up as a city out of this world - the spatial equivalent of art and refinement. Did it live up to our expectations? Lets say, we went with our eyes open, with minimum baggage of expectations, and quite liked what we saw.


A and I had a restful week in Paris. We decided to be non-touristy tourists. We didn't go mad trying to cross sites off our list of things to see, and enjoyed each day as it came, selecting what we wanted to do based on what we felt like doing. And we enjoyed ourselves to bits.

Outside and inside

Outside

Inside

A day of surprises!

The shrill sound of the phone. Darkness. Warm, soft quilt. That phone again. As A jumped up to grab the receiver, (we are always nervous about early morning calls, as I am sure everyone else is) mother dear blurted out a whole list of questions and instructions on the other end. Nothing surprising there. Oh sod it, I went back to sleep without even bothering to ask what the fuss was about.

Thirty minutes later, (or was it over two hours?) my mobile rang. Private number calling. I toyed with the idea of cutting the sound and resuming the sleep. Something made me answer it. And I am so glad I did. That call brought the wonderful news of my friend's wedding. Perfect beginning to a long-awaited day. The most delightful surprise I could have expected on the phone I'd say!

A said that 31st October 2008 has come by pretty quickly. I disagree. I have waited for this day every single minute of the last two months. To see the baby again. I have imagined this day and pictured it several times in all kinds of different ways. I am prepared for everything that I see on the screen.

Am I? Was I? Were we prepared for what we saw? The baby is well, kicking about and playing. We were the shocked parents-to-be. This thing is for real. For REAL. This baby is coming sometime soon to live with us, mould us, challenge us and get moulded in return. Nothing of the kind that happens in movies happened with us. We neither held hands not looked lovingly at each other. We left the hospital in silence and headed straight to the coffee shop. There we sat, very excited, very nervous, very very surprised. And very very happy. And by the time the coffee disappeared, we were smiling uncontrollably!

There is something about weddings and births that touches something inside of you. I think it is the fact that they are both, in their own ways, affirmations of life, and of love. 31st October 2008 will always then be the most surprising day, lovingly experienced.

soft creativity from last weekend

I have finally got down to putting this up here only now. Being technologically unsavvy is such a mighty handicap. I am learning, but the pace, unfortunately, is tediously slow.
These granny squares were super simple to crochet and I made this tiny baby scarf in one day. Considering that this is my first crochet project, I am extremely thrilled. The next mission is to figure out pattern 8 'soft waves' from Jan Eaton's 200 Ripple Stitch Patterns. Everyone seems to be making it in all kinds of wonderful colours - why am I still not being able to figure out dc2tog? :-(

Fear not, I shall work it out, even if I have to sacrifice an entire weekend towards the acquisition of this critical knowledge. Only problem is, A is already sulking.

Exploring, but only just

How socially mobile are immigrants? What is the 'immigrant's penalty'? How long does it take for an immigrant to become the social and economic equal of a native? What is education's role in promoting equality? Some very interesting questions of this kind were raised and discussed during a recent seminar. While no happy answers were available for the 1st generation of immigrants (it takes them about 20-25 years or a full generation to become the 'equals' of natives), the news was much more positive for the 2nd generation. Although it could be said that the research findings are in line with common sense, I think it is about time that issues of social justice with reference to the rights of immigrants are debated more openly and without the ever present sense of 'controversy'. Clearly, if there is an 'immigrant's penalty', there needs to be a debate as to what constitutes it in the British society. Is it a matter of cultural differences or is it discrimination disguised as market selection? More importantly, why on earth are we not talking about these issues?

To highlight the dismal situation of this end of the human rights debate in the British context, the organisation that presented its research findings was a US-based migration think tank. There is no such similar organisation in the UK. Over a more general discussion about community cohesion in Britain, some of my friends strongly believed that racism does not exist in the UK and that it is a more American phenomenon to talk of social integration. How can we say, when we haven't even made the effort to find out? Research may validate your hypothesis or throw up surprising results, but is it not important to explore?

Dilli ki sardi

Talking about winter, we have had the most lovely sunshine lately. Reminds me of the hazy, lazy winter afternoons in Delhi in a friend's backyard on a charpai, knitting, chatting, discussing political theory and consuming mind-boggling quantities of oranges. I do believe those are some of the most beautiful memories in my mind's warehouse.

Too many times now I have exclaimed to those around how familiar this weather is to Dilli ki sardi. It is obvious that I miss Delhi, but I am unsure exactly what it is that I miss - the people, the friends, the family, the familiar air, the ability to merge in the crowd unnoticed, or just the fact that it is home.

Walking with shadows

Baby J, At and I have fallen into a bit of a habit. Every Thursday, we go walking in the garden by the river behind our apartment complex. There is something lovely about this bit of the riverside - it is frequented by small children followed by their ever-excited dogs, enthusiastic babies who want to experiment with slides in the most innovative ways, and young people enjoying a pint and a half by the quiet river. This particular evening was made a shade more beautiful by the haunting shadows. Change is visible everywhere, the trees are changing colours, children heading back home from the play area by five in the evening, and the grass is covered by reddish-brown leaves that go 'crunch' under your shoes. Yet there is a positive warmth to the setting sun, the promise of a hot cup of tea and a welcoming, cosy bed. There is the promise of warmth in the severity of the cold winter.

Joyful flutters

The economy is in shambles, there is fear on the escalators and an eerie silence on the City roads. I am, however, conspicuous by the big smile on my face and the song on my lips.

You see, apart from the twinges of sorrow that I feel for the global financial system and its resultant crisis, and the dent that it has made in everyone's finances, including mine, I really couldn't care much for it right now. I know, I know, how politically incorrect of me, but please allow me to explain. My life has been taken over by some very exciting flutters! I can feel the baby move!

I sat through a conference yesterday, wondering what on earth was the point of seven different speakers all extolling the virtues of handheld learning - oh get on with it, we know it's great, tell us who's gonna fund the damn thing. As one of the speakers ended her rather unending session, soft music filled the room and it was interesting how silent everything was, except for the gentle music (I firmly stand by my belief that the audience had gone to sleep though my colleague thinks they were deep in personal reverie - what's the difference?) Anyways, just then, something like a big butterfly decided to move about in my growing belly! It was like someone nudging from inside, saying hello (I'd like to think!) and perhaps even dancing to the music! What a fantastic experience!

The rest of the conference, as you might guess, was a blur. Amongst the many videos and presentations, all I could think of was - the baby is moving! I would only like to be able to share it with A, I wish he could feel what I can, but for the moment, this delightful experience is only for me to savour! :-)

Western parochialism

Last night I made a big mistake. I am talking BIG. After a long hard day of work, I wanted to unwind and relax. Instead I saw Paul Merton's Journey through India. I have since successfully begun to doubt my ability to make good TV-programme-viewing decisions.

Why are people in the West so keen to look at India as the land of snake charmers? And when they can't find any, they will go to any lengths to locate one and then broadcast to the world their single-minded view of a country whose cultural and civilizational dimensions are perhaps beyond the comprehension of its own natives. By all means talk to the very interesting naked sadhus and innovative entrepreneurs - but do not claim that that is the 'real' India you are showing to the world. That is just one tiny screenshot of the mega-movie called India. How does a pot-smoking sadhu become a 'real' Indian and not a busy housewife juggling different chores in the streets of Karol Bagh? Just because the West wants to see exoticism, it does not imply that its particular view of a country is the real / authentic one.

On the other hand, it amazes me to find that Indians themselves fuel this voracious western appetite for exoticism. The finishing school's teacher telling our chap Merton that he should burp noisily through his meal as a compliment to his hosts, the journalist from nowhere imparting factually incorrect knowledge about Hinduism on television, where do these people come from? What makes them authorities on Indian culture and lifestyle when clearly they have got things all wrong? Or are they only playing to the audience, modifying chicken curry to make it chicken tikka masala for the British palette? Oh! the incorrectness of it all just gets to me.

Please remove your post-colonial spectacles Mr Merton and look at the country you claim to be enchanted with in its actual 'real' glory. You will find that the monkey-chasers and ever-burping guests may be real enough, but are a tiny microscopic handful of the panorama that comprises India, and that the real India is busy slogging in farms, offices, schools, playgrounds and other workplaces, trying, as people everywhere in the world, to live a happy and contented reality.

A string of flops

I knew my luck with reading material and movies was going to run out soon enough. I didn't think it was going to be so soon. Lately, precious time has been spent on disappointing books and movies - instead of lamenting about each one, I thought one might bundle them all together.

It is true that just as no good books or movies are alike in their 'brilliance', similarly, no two are identical in their inability to live up to expectations. Starting with Ms Woolfe, Night and Day was left half way. On my way back home from work one evening, with a clarity that is seldom experienced, I realised that life was too short to be wasted on clearly purposeless ramblings with neither sense nor direction. I dropped it promptly.

Since then, I have drifted disconnectedly through Marquez's Memoirs of my meloncholy whores and Maugham's Cakes and Ales. Memoirs... a bitter disappointment. It has left nothing whatsoever behind, neither pleasant memory nor agitated questions. Nothing. Maugham on the other hand redeemed himself partially by the end of the novel in Cakes... The end was worth waiting for indeed. I still wish he had kept to the tightness throughout the novel - it gives the appearance of being crisp, but is in places rather woolly.

On the movies front, I recently saw Banaras and Bachna Aae Haseeno. BAH was a mighty waste of breathe. Why do people not realise that if you want to do something different, you must do it differently? Oh well, I disliked it thoroughly and the only thought I remember gripped me throughout the movie was - how do these women survive when they are so thin?!
Banaras I am a little hesitant to trash outright because it was such a genuinely novel attempt. Treatising on spiritualism is never easy, making a film on it, highlighting its links with the hindu traditions and culture in the backdrop of the life of a holy city is a clear challenge. And while the makers of this particular movie did not pull it off entirely, in bits it was exceptional. I have never been a huge fan of Urmila - she, in my opinion, is just a shade above average. And she was good in this movie. I can't for the world figure out what prompted the film makers to cast the absolutely useless Ashmit Patel in the lead role, nor why Himesh's music was so much rubbish, but I am willing to forgive these mistakes for the attempt itself - a commendable attempt this one.

The speed of time

Can time even have a speed? Given that speed is distance by time, can the speed of time itself ever be measured? I know my good friends the physicists and engineers will probably find a solution. My non-scientific mind, on the other hand, finds time to be a complete enigma.

It is October already- colours are changing all around and the gas holders nearby are full and standing tall. Change is visible in the tiny details of dry leaves flying aimlessly with the wind and focussed commuters rushing to get back home. Winter preparations are on in full swing. Wasn't it a carefree bright summer day just yesterday?

And yet, things aren't moving fast enough. I am itching for the next phase. What a painful wait it is to slowly observe time plod along, in no hurry whatsoever. Especially when I can barely contain my excitement and eagerness to know more. Timepieces are by far the most inconsiderate objects.

Always too fast or too slow - never just right.

Anything goes

Why do people think that they can say the first thing that comes to their mind when they see a pregnant woman? I know that lots of pregnant women are flooded with happy hormones and they take all that is said in the spirit of the miracle of nature, but really, is it absolutely essential to forget all one's manners in the face of a bump?

My hairdresser seems to think anything goes. And may I reiterate that I share a purely prefessional relationship with her and so I disagree. There is no reason why I should not have given her the look (and more if I weren't so damned shocked by her lack of discretion) when she claimed my bump is a little too big for my stage of pregnancy. No, I am afraid, you absolutely cannot say something like that. Or any of the following:

1. Is your skin oily because of the pregnancy?
2. Wow you really are visiting the loo quite often aren't you!
3. I do feel sorry for you, there is such limited variety of maternity clothing out there!
4. Your life is coming to an end, better pack in as much as you can in these 5/4/3 months.
5. Do you think you will ever get back to work?
And the clincher - anything but this:
6. Are you sure you are not carrying twins???

Miss Pettigrew lives for a day

I've been having a literary adventure! I recently ordered a copy of Miss Pettigrew lives for a day by Winifred Watson, not knowing what I was getting into. The first bit of surprise were the pictures throughout the book (it really is a book with pictures, bet Alice would've skipped the trip to wonderland had she seen this!). The second was the story - what a delightfully wonderful read! I shall not say more. It is simply written, with wit, clarity and a warm insight into the human desire for happiness. It makes for a charming companion through a dull winter evening.

Decisions, decisions!

It appears that one is in the midst of a serious upheaval of sorts. There is growing pressure from various quarters to do the following:

1. Decide and take action
2. Make up your mind and do something about it
3. Take an informed decision and make a choice

In short, life has been overtaken by decisions and more decisions. To list a few questions that I have so far successfully avoided acting upon:

1. How do you want to manage your pregnancy? I don't know, last I checked, it was managing itself just fine
2. How do you want to plan the birth? Do I really need to think about this right now?
3. What's your plan for maternity leave? Maternity what?
4. Are you planning to do as many holidays as possible before you are, well, unable to? Holidays? With all this nausea?
5. Have you started baby shopping yet? umm, hmm, no!

The list actually is endless. Like it's not enough that your life has completely turned upon itself and you are congratulating yourself for surviving every single day. And that all you want to do is curl up in bed and head into slumber world.

At times like these, a foggy-headed, pregnant, irritable and perpetually tired woman needs the tight hugs of a loving hubby like A, who will take charge of all decision-making, pamper you royally, forgive you your inexplicable mood-swings, switch off all mobile phones and plan a gentle weekend break for two in a quiet cottage in Cambridge. Oh the joys of being loved undeservedly!

All by ourselves!

The guests have left - both short and long term ones. A and I have the house to ourselves after nearly a year; we are slightly unsure what to do now. The bank holiday weekend started off with a marathon cleaning spree - almost a means of reclaiming the house for ourselves. After that successful experiment, we now feel a bit better. Things are back in the places we would like to have them, the mess is self created and hence invisible to the eye.

We are also acutely aware of the fact that this peace, quiet and tranquility is going to be short-lived and that we have just about 5 and a half months of it to ourselves. And that although we are still thinking of ourselves as the 'two of us', in a few months its going to be all about the 'three of us'. This thought comes with mixed emotions. While we are excited to bits that we are having a baby, there is a part of us that wants to hold on to each other for a little longer.

We had our first scan last week and saw the little one jumping about, waving, doing all kinds of unimaginable things inside. We nearly yelled with joy. Excited and hungry, we went to our favorite Thai joint for a celebratory lunch - we just couldn't stop smiling - that little bundle of joy was our creation - we had created her/him (don't know yet) all by ourselves!

Oh, if only I could pop some champagne right now! As it is, will have to make do with orange juice for the moment! :-)

Religion, intolerance, fear and bananas

Given my present physical and mental state, I have little patience with many things that I would previously have 1. ignored, 2. laughed at and ignored, 3. silently abused the perpetrator and ignored. Since I am unable to do any of the above now, I fret and fume and drive myself into an angry frenzy. While I continue to look forward to an end to this disturbing state, allow me to narrate this one incident to you, and you can judge me as you like.

A 'friend' is staying with us at the moment. Please note, I use the term 'friend' in the loosest possible sense. This friend had previously exhibited great interest in reading, especially thrillers. Now you know that I am not the biggest thrill-seeker, but I was instantly reminded of Mohsin Hamid's The Reluctant Fundamentalist. I have recently read it and would recommend it to anyone who claims to have a passing interest in the written word and the contemporary world order. My friend claimed he was interested in both. I heartily gave him my copy.

This happened a couple of days back. In the meanwhile, I noticed that Hamid had been kept aside and his place had been taken by a suspense thriller that has accidentally found its way into my book shelves, I know not from where. I thought perhaps Hamid's style did not agree with my friend's taste and left it at that. Not everyone has to like everything I read - not everyone has to like Hamid.

So it came as a nasty surprise to me when my friend approached me a couple of hours ago and said, "Can you give me something to read, something completely in the nature of fiction, something simple and lighthearted." While I scanned my bookshelves and selected mentally a list of options, he went on to add, "and please, nothing of the kind where a Muslim bugger is telling his story." My thoughts stopped dead in their tracks. EXCUSE ME? I shouted in my head - suffice it to say, I would have had a fight then and there if I could.

While A distracted the friend with something inoffensively un-Islamic, a sequence of incidents that have happened over the last few days rushed through my mind. The mild censoring of my choice of music (Sufi=Islamic according to some), the constant reference to one strand of my ancestry, and the constant praises showered on the deep-rootedness and past and present glories of the Dravidian culture have all been adding up to this moment. In the midst of the anger and disbelief, one question bothered me most - why does it bother me so much?

So I am technically a Hindu. But to be honest, I have been brought up in such a mixed environment of religions, atheism and cultures that I truly don't care for these identities anymore. I seamlessly blend into both religious and non-religious groups. The concept of god is more utilitarian than anything else. More than anything else, both A and I believe in being and doing good, minding our own business and accepting people with all their diversities. What is so wrong with that?

Perhaps that is why I cannot tolerate intolerance. What right does anyone have to consider him/herself better than another person? You may not agree with the views of a 'Muslim bugger' but how rigid are you that you won't even hear his views? And you believe yourself to be a good human being? I am afraid, definitions of 'good' appear to be very different.

After agonising over this issue, it was decided that the only what to settle the mind and the rumbling tummy was with a banana. At least the banana doesn't care who eats it, Hindu or Muslim. And it soothes my nerves and tummy despite my questionable taste in music. I say we should have a religion based on nature, a religion that is nurturing and uplifting like Abida's singing, rainbows, bear hugs and bananas. Who knows, religion might actually be of some use to humanity then.

The reluctant fundamentalist

The back cover of this book described it as a thriller. While I don't particularly fancy that genre, something about it intrigued me and I decided to give it a shot. And I was truly rewarded for the experimentation.

How does a high flying, young Pakistani man look at the politics of the world unfurling around him? What does really matter, at the end of the day, when you close your eyes and will yourself to be true to yourself? Can the fear in one instill hatred in another? Can the east and the west ever truly understand where they are coming from, what makes them what they are?

The book is a brilliantly crafted piece of work, written in the polite conversational tone of a Pakistani host. It beautifully showcases the west from the eyes of an Asian, whose family has seen both glorious days and abject poverty. Mohsin Hamid vividly describes the coming to grips with love and life in the west and the failure of both to live up to one's expectations. If there is one bit that I felt could have been more clearly sketched out, it was the protagonist's internal conflict, why he chose to keep the beard and everything related to it. Its there for you to see and feel and understand, but its not spelt out. So you give it the colours that you see it in. Nothing wrong with that, just that I would have liked to see it from the author's perspective, given his exceptional insight everywhere else in the book.

Another little bit of interest was the tangential reference to India and the perceived threat from India. It was very interesting indeed to see things from the other side, their fears and apprehensions, in a clearly unstable world.

Does the book justify terrorism? Can anything justify terrorism? Not really, in my opinion. But it gives a powerful account of one young man's journey in the quest for self-realisation, and his decisions, for better or worse. I'm really glad I picked this one up - couldn't put it down till I had finished it.

badkismat konnection

Now I know that drooling incessantly over Shahid Kapoor and dragging your family to see the movie only because you can't get enough of his to-die-for looks is naughty, but to be punished for the naughtiness oh so severely is rather harsh - the movie is a mighty disaster. Sitting through it, one counts the number of better decisions one could have taken in life, such as:
1. Listened to one's parents more often
2. Studied more diligently
3. Saved more and not gone on that mindless shopping spree
4. Never wanting to see Kismat Konnection

Shahid, near perfect looks and fantastic dressing apart, does not know how to act. He tries so hard its painful to watch him. His comedy is so forced, so severe, it leaves one with a sick feeling in the stomach. But what good looks, perfect eye candy, every woman's dream - how sad that he is a half package.

Vidya Balan is so out of place in this movie that I nearly felt sorry for her. She looks awkward and tired, and whoever was responsible for clothing the leading pair poorly neglected the lady. Now I know that she has two and a half poses which she can carry off passably well and earn the goodwill of the critics, but the woman has absolutely nothing new to offer. She looks sad and dejected and brings nothing but under eye bags and dark circles to an ill-conceived set of reel shots.

I could go on about the pathetic editing and less than mediocre plot with a rubbish ending and horrible music but I shall spare you my thoughts just this once.

Please do yourself a favour and stick pins in your eyes rather than see this movie.

The Uncommon Reader

After a particularly boring stint of no work, no play, I decided to hit the bookstore. While the walk did me a lot of good, the merchandise has since worked wonders for my mood. Alan Bennett's The Uncommon Reader is a brilliantly tight work, funny and bold. Once I started reading it, I couldn't stop - it had to be finished. What does the Queen finally do? And of course, the love for reading, such a basic sentiment, like holding a friend's hand. The way she hides her books from those who don't want her to read and how she finds them to be mysteriously disappearing. Reminded me of the times I used to hide fiction behind the bulky, boring school books in my school bags. Someone described it as a fairy tale of adults. And I now know why. It is a delightful treatise on English literature through the eyes of the monarch, and at the same time, it is an introduction to the world of books through a quaint little mobile library. If there is one book you read this summer, it has really got to be The Uncommon Reader.

On to The Reluctant Fundamentalist by Mohsin Hamid now. Man! Am I enjoying this unplanned break! :-)

Someone at a distance

This one was an unexpectedly insightful read. The emptiness of a woman left alone by her husband for another woman after twenty odd years of marriage. Her conflict to come to terms with the reality, the helpless interospection, the furtive search for a skill she could set up her life on - simple writing at its best. Dorothy Whipple is back in fashion, and though her books are brightly covered to entice the new generation of readers, the fundamental moving forces of human behaviour remain the same - love, lust, jealousy, hatred and pride. Add to it the foolishness of a husband who, even as he is leaving his wife and home forever, knows what he is doing is wrong, and you have a beautifully simple, or shall I say simply beautiful piece of work.

Politics

Has anybody been watching the hideous drama unfolding in the Indian parliament? Somebody tell me that this is a horrible nightmare and that we will all wake up soon to realise that the world is still alright. That no longer is the common person's name used in vain in the game of politics, and the country is not bought and sold, over and over again, in the name of national interest.

I don't for a moment believe that real politics is un-dirty anywhere in the world. But it takes on its ugliest colour and most uncivilised form in the Indian parliament. How could a huge bag full of currency notes be allowed inside the parliament? How can MPs decide to take matters in their own hands and reduce the floor of the house to a stage where they execute their tamasha without the permission of the speaker? Why do grown up adults behave worse than four-year-old school children? Kidnapping MPs? Bribing them to abstain from voting? Allegations more and more disgusting each time around. Does anybody else feel its getting worse by the day?

On another note, I wasn't sure whether to laugh or to cry when an elected member of parliament asked what exactly is the connection between energy and poverty. Seriously now, my eyes nearly popped out of their sockets and for once I was thankful to the TV channel for repeating stuff over and over again - no I hadn't made a mistake, this MP who represented lakhs of people in the country was actually asking how energy related to poverty. For someone to not understand these fundamentals of economic and social development and to have the power to decide for the country - isn't something basically very very wrong here? Its quite obvious from the projections of the media and the politicians that the country believes it is all set to be a world power to be reckoned with. While that concept itself is debatable, is it at all possible for us to trust what is being described variously as the political class? Can we get anywhere at all with this dubious breed of professionals whose primary talents include wearing different hats and fabricating lies?

Of babies and wanting them

S and I caught up over a good old chat session after what seemed like ages. And we went straight for the issue that was most bothering the both of us - why is everyone lugging for our throats to have babies?

So we are both 29 somethings, dangerously close to the big three-o. Happily married, happily 'careered', happily settled - looks like thats not enough. I am in London and she is in Delhi but our problem is the same - everyone wants us to have babies and people have stopped mincing their words.

After a massive bitching and getting-it-out-of-ourselves session, we came to the conclusion that we both want children too, just not as a result of the pressure. And there is no way of knowing if we want the babies because we want them or because there is so much social pressure to tow the line. Plus the fact that we seem to have lost all our friends to the baby-brigade. What are we poor women to do?

That was where it ended with S. Meanwhile, this weekend, A and I decided to brave it and go see a friend's new born baby girl. We were all prepared to see our friends completely transformed into 'I couldn't care less about you, I have a baby now' strangers. As it turned out, no such thing happened and our decision to risk such a rendez-vous over Saturday night proved to be a good one. Mercifully, this was the first couple we met lately who appeared to have things in something close to a perspective. They are delighted and doting parents, no doubt, but they are also themselves, which is so refreshing to see.

And baby girl N is an absolute darling. She doesn't cry much, and is constantly smiling at pooh and tiger hanging from her mobile. Occasionally she will grace you with a look of pure love - oh that look is definitely to die for. When I saw K, a successful career woman, singing songs in Malayalam that I don't understand but still adore, I knew that it was pure love. S, a high-flying investment banker, was transformed into an indulging, loving father whose sole aim in life was to feed his daughter. It was over the course of the evening that I realised why we yearn so much for children, why it is said that life may well be good but it can only become better and richer with children in it. And that is perhaps why, I am truly looking forward to having some of my own some day.

a little bit of luck

What is the difference between success and failure? All other things being equal, does it not boil down to the 'something' factor - the small quirks of fate that turn things around? One can try all one likes, if it's not going to happen, it won't. And if it has to happen, hindsight will reveal perfect actions on the individual's part. Even if things were to go wrong, somehow you will be able to turn them around.

So is this a blog about destiny versus human actions? I'm afraid no. If only things were that simple. Oddly enough, I think the big picture comprises of smaller bits of both karma and kismat. Luck and hard work together make the winning combination. Seldom can one survive without the other.

So with a hope in my heart, a song on my lips and a tea cup in my hand, I am seeking a little bit of luck. Will it change my world? Who knows...

Making sense

There is something fundamentally attractive about jigsaw puzzles. Maybe it has to do with putting things together, using your hands, creating a whole bigger than the sum of its parts. Or the sheer childish fun of it.

D and I decided it was time we stopped throwing away precious weekend hours thinking of what to do and focusing on some problem-solving enjoyment. This is where we have got so far.

We are slow, but we never, ever ever ever ever ever give up! :-)

Of triggers, old and new

Many years back, when I went camping with my school mates, my dad got candy flavoured toothpaste for us all - so that we could enjoy even the rubbish process of brushing our teeth. Every time I have had candy since, I am transported to the beautiful banks of the Ganga in Rishikesh, a happy, care-free school kid, going white-water rafting with her mates. It's one of my fondest childhood memories and I only need some candy to re-live the glorious moments!

So imagine my delight when another sensory trigger removed me into a different Asian city today. A is in Bangkok, meeting some dear old friends. As I spoke to him over the phone, I could hear the cab driver shouting instructions into his cab radio in Thai. I was instantly transported to the city where I discovered myself again - the mad traffic, the lovely people, the enchanting buzzing of the air, the oppressive tropical heat and the coke with crushed ice in polythene bags- there's no place like Bangkok.

While my first love will always truly remain Delhi, if there is another city I absolutely adore, it is Bangkok. I know, I now, London is home now, and Delhi will always be home, but Bangkok is really home away from home.

After ending the call with A, I rumaged through my old photos. And this is what I found - a moment in time - the lovely home A and I made in the city that we remember so fondly.

Aafat and his friends

Aafat is my 3 week old calla lily who takes great pride in himself and his name. You do know that it stands for 'trouble' in Urdu right? Please make sure you pronounce his name correctly - he doesn't like it when people get it wrong.

Aafat is a bit moody these days. How do I know? He's getting slightly yellow around the edges and sometimes fights with the papers, pens, books, tea cups and the laptop on my desk to get some serious attention. Ac and I were a bit worried last week as we didn't want him to make himself ill. So we placed him by the window and now talk to him constantly. He seems to like this as he's getting his colour back.

Aafat also has some nice friends in the office, which helps. Eric, Ac's calla lily is his best buddy. We believe they gossip about us girls when we step out to get some tea. Aafat also finds Moufa rather interesting - surely you know Moufa? Ca's cactus? Ca decided that he needed to be named after how that particular day was turning out for her - Moufa I believe is 'not quite right' in Greek.

As we celebrated the end of the first mammoth review cycle with champagne and laughter, Aafat, Eric and Moufa too went a bit tipsy over shots of unadulterated water. Talk about demanding attention and getting it!

What we see

is what we want to see.
Big news in my office last Monday - no, there's no bonus yet. Apparently the brilliant shoe shop down the street, where you usually find all the women from the office ogling at the beauties on display in the show window and sighing at their prices, has got a sale on. Who cares that we are in the midst of one hell of a pressure cooker situation in the office - stress comes and goes but shoe sales, now that's something to stop and take stock of.
So each lady, and I mean each and every one, paid a visit to the shrine. Given that its a fairly select boutique, we were a tad worried that we might all end up in embarrassingly similar footwear - beautiful but certainly avoidable. And so, to our collective relief, surprise and nirvana-like joy, we all ended up picking up dissimilar foot candy. No two pairs were alike. Beautiful, but different. If only all the rest of the world's problems were this easy to resolve!
I overheard P telling B "oh I just love yours, but I just don't remember seeing them!" You see, we have eyes only for what we are after. And I am in love with my new acquisitions! What a shame I haven't any photos to show for it...

the sand in my hand

is nothing more than nothing. Why do we want things that don't exist; at least not in the ways we imagine them. What is the shape of a hope? What is the structure of love? What is the form of friendship? How can I touch kindness? What does hatred look like?
I heard a voice over a frequency allowing voice communication. So what was it that tied my heart in that painful knot and filled me up with an empty, watery sense of dismay? Can I hold on to that fear that filled me with tears?
No, as we grow, we find newer questions, and fewer answers. We are neither right nor wrong, we just are.

Role reversal

In the last few years, I have realised something that I now am convinced is a fact. Parents, as they grow older, increasingly become child-like, and their children have to adopt the roles previously undertaken by the parents.
The older they get, the more indecisive, dependent and vulnerable parents become. If the children assume their 'parental' responsibilities easily, without resistance, and dare I say with love, the transition is smooth. Otherwise, its trouble time.
I have increasingly been battling with this thought since mum met with an accident in January and I couldn't be with her. And now that a friend is in a similar situation, I can't help but think how life changes. And how roles get reversed before we can even understand what's happening.

chain of thoughts

So after a depressing start to the bank holiday weekend, we finally managed to rescue the bulk of it. A smashing night out in the pub, after downing god-knows-how-many pints of lager, arguing to bits about luxury cars and parental idiosyncrasies, a couple of bumps on the head and potential pub fights later we realised that we did have quite an abundance of courage. Not individually perhaps, but collectively we did well, bringing each other out into the danger-free zone. And we have some nasty hangovers to show for our reckless living on the edge.

Following on from here, it was really nice to read on a dear friend's blog a chain of thoughts which mirrored my current state of mind. I agree with T's friend G - alcohol helps! And how!

Bring on the booze! :-)

handle with care

Reality is so odd, it is seldom what it appears. Yet we often rely on 'reality checks' . How useful is a check based on a fragile notion? Is anything really worth our undying attention and single minded devotion when the sand castles of hopes and dreams provide such fleeting stability?
When someone you love is deeply hurt, and all you can think of is how you can lessen their pain, what do you do? Do you ask them to stop thinking of their sorrow and take them out for a change of scenery, perhaps to the pub to drown the pain in vodka and (cynical?) laughter? Or do you hold them close, let them cry, deal with their pain, help them wash their face, cry a little more, sigh in resignation and then take them out for a simple meal? I don't know which way is the right way. I wish I did.
My home is sad today. And so is my heart. I wish I had the abundance of strength to let the light in.

Happy days

In Oxford. 4-6 May, 2008

Thought for the day

Two thoughts really, unrelated but for their home - my cluttered mind. Have you ever looked at a word, any word, long and hard? Do you feel that after about 15-30 seconds of unashamed staring, the word stops being a word, it becomes a thing, with shapes and forms, almost like a drawing or a pattern. Lets do it together. Lets stare down

word

Do you see patterns in 'word'? Does it become an object unknown, a new 'thing' with a shape, form and existence separate from that of the 'meaning' that it generates in us when we read it, without really 'looking' at it. Do you see a curtailed sword, a 'w or d', a distorted worm, an inverted drow, an upside down prom, with connotations of all these and something more.

Next time you are reading a book, if you are a bit dotty like me, do try it. Its an amazingly disarming, humbling tool. You realise there is so much more to the obvious, layers and layers of interpretations, understandings and perspectives. Its just about holding still, and observing, for a little while.

My other thought is that I have been too selfish lately, feasting on the beautifully insightful writings of so many of my favorite bloggers without making any of my less than average contribution to the pool. Time to rectify the situation.

crossroads

I am in doubt. Don't know if I should broach this topic or maintain silence. Everyone I know has thought about it and experienced it at some level - for some it is central to their lives here - but nobody talks about it. Its taboo, not part of your polite coffee table or pub conversation. If anyone goes near it, an all encompassing, oppressive silence almost physically takes hold of the group. The question is this: Why are foreigners amost always welcome in Asia yet why are Asians so unwelcome in the West?

Don't get me wrong, I do not claim to have any answers. I seldom have them actually. I have thoughts though, loads of them, that bring no respite, only momentary attempts to rationalise.
One of them goes like this. Having grown up listening to stories of the great assimilative nature of the Asian/Indian culture, it was but logical to assume that perhaps, just maybe, we are more all-embracing, tolerant and loving people - a thought quickly dismissed given the reality of the situation - we are more than capable of horrific acts of intolerance, violation and violence.

So what could it be? I hope it is clear that I take the initial question not as a hypothesis but as a fact. So you see, the starting point of my shaky conclusions itself may be challenged. But we shall leave that to another day.

I am slowly inclined to think that the problem is actually more basic than we are ready to accept. Could it be that it is a matter of unwelcome guests? When the few western tourists go to Asia, they are a) sources of income, b) guests, for a few days, weeks or months, c) lovely people who admire our culture in case the odd one decides to stay back forever.

We Asians, on the other hand, come to the developed world for better opportunities, in plane and ship-loads. And we don't go back. So we outsiders in the West are a) a threat to the natives' jobs, b) unwelcome guests who never go home, c) culturally, behaviourally, attitudinally very different for any significant assimilation to take place, at least for the first generation of immigrants.

I have not touched upon the issue of perceptions and that is intentional. Perceptions make things subjective and we 'modern' Asians like to be as scientific in our thinking as our Occidental 'equals'. That is the assumption at least, that everyone is equal, and outdated, old fashioned concepts such as racism and inequality just don't exist. How do you explain a glass ceiling for an Asian man? You deny the existence of such a thing. You yourself try to justify the situation in several different ways, almost trivialising your experience. Looks to me like a variation of the stockholm syndrome, but it is for you to judge.

Like I said, I have no answers, and after the anger and sense of wrong fades, only the thoughts remain. And some great friends both Asian and British. What I don't have are answers to the many questions in my head.

Wives and Daughters

It has been just what was expected of it - a nice and calming read. And the reviews were right, its one of the most impressive works where character sketching is concerned. I think the book was something special because the author was able to create such amazingly real people, not good, not bad, just people, products of their circumstances.
I have quite enjoyed it, but will remember it forever because I so much looked forward to the build up to the end, and then was rudely told that there wasn't one. Elizabeth Gaskell died before she could write the last chapter. I was like :-o Unbelievable! The editors wrote what she had planned with the last chapter, the whole ending spread out like threads, cloth, scissors, needles and the embroidery frame. Its impossible to see the whole picture, the beautiful creation that only she could have designed. Without her hand, the raw material is is just that, life and meaningless.
Now that I have read two of Mrs Gaskell's works (Cranford and Wives and Daughters) I am convinced I will go back and read more.

Look what I found!

I have been looking everywhere. Have waited patiently for it. Have sought it in the daytime and in the evenings and found near misses and close lookalikes... but not the real thing.

Until today! And see what I found - not just the rainbow, but a cloud with a real silver lining!

Maybe there is still some hope after all...

Why am I here?

For that matter, why is anyone here? What is the purpose of life? T had asked me this a couple of months back and I had been sure of my response back then. I had said that we live for small day to day pleasures, the tiny highs and lows, the learning of a skill, the reading of a book, the happiness and sorrow of relationships and the bigger pursuit of blissful satisfaction through smaller, everyday events. I know I was very sure of what I said then and at one level it still makes sense. But only just about. Because I am lost just now, lost for a meaning, a purpose, a goal post. Increasingly the irritating question is beginning to eat into the assurance - the question that pales everything else into insignificance - What exactly am I doing here?

The answers in my head are making but little sense. A, my dear wonder drug, has stopped trying to rationalise this mood and gives me hundreds of hugs in one day, hoping to almost physically squeeze the negativity out. What would I do without him, my one super blessing.

I am hoping the upcoming bank holiday will help restore some peace and quiet. We're planning to get away from it all and hide ourselves in a tiny apartment by the river in Oxford. Five days to go...

Its nice and sunny, and spring's visible charms have smitten everyone. Can't wait to be bitten by the happy springtime bug.

The voice in my head...

... is that of Abida's. Many a time I don't understand what she says. But its music which touches a chord, time and again, without fail. The barriers of conventional language no longer exist when you find yourself singing, urging, praying with her. Isn't that the cruz of sufism regardless, to transcend boundaries of social constructs, to find your inner self?
This is what I have been singing silently all this week:
तू जो ऐ जुल्फ परेशान रहा करती है
किसके उजड़े हुए दिल मे है ठिकाना तेरा
ले चला जान मेरी रूठ के जाना तेरा
ऐसे आने से तो बेहतर था न आना तेरा

Nesting

Lately, we have had several discussions on this issue. A believes that I have entered the 'nesting' phase of life. I want to knit, crochet, bake, embroider and learn how to make quilts. Plus the urge to get teapots. All of this, according to A = zeroing in on the home = nesting.

So, what a pleasant coincidence it was when we came across a beautiful couple in the thick of setting up their nest. And we stopped and stared, and watched, and smiled and continued to look and be amazed. It is one of the most wonderful sights ever, the perfect partnership. You had better see for yourself and decide. I dare you not to melt just a little bit, and re-think your priorities.

News from the week gone by

It has been a week of unexpected discoveries. On my way back from work Thursday evening, I ran into an animated, giggly crowd. On looking about for a possible source of such excitement, I saw the Armani Exchange showroom display stripped of all the mannequins and instead inhabited by young men in nothing but their briefs. I must admit, I smiled, and walked on. But went back immediately to take these pictures solely for your benefit ;-)

And then there was that eureka moment yesterday when I realised why I like research so much. I love the feeling when amidst darkness, that tiny spark helps you throw light on the area that you are looking to understand. Its that 'Yeah I found what I was looking for!' feeling that makes me go back to work every single day. Its the job of a treasure hunter and I love it.

Plus I went book shopping and helped myself to My name is Red from Pamuk. And discovered fantastic crochet guides on You Tube. Brilliant stuff. Also knit one foot of a pair of booties for a friend's new born baby. The next foot is planned for tomorrow.

As things have shaped up, it is likely that I shall be able to write more frequently than has been the norm lately. Looking forward to some quality time with my computer in the evenings.

of insignificantly small things that make me smile

On my way back home yesterday, I decidedly put the book in my hand back in the bag. With a slight rush of nervousness preceding a new or long since unpracticed activity, I gazed out of the train window. It was just the day for such an exercise - 6:45 in the evening yet the right amount of light from the setting sun.

Friday evening, a week well spent behind you, the prospect of a good dinner with friends ahead - is there really anything more that one can ask for from life? As I contentedly planned the weekend ahead, the train screeched into Wimbledon. On the platform, there was a young girl sporting blue jeans and a black jacket, not interested in the 7:02 train to Shepperton, buried in the yellow book in her hand with a slight sweet smile on her face. I strained to see what she was reading. She looked so understandingly absorbed in and mesmerised by what she was reading, I wanted to know what it was. I bent forward in an attempt to catch the name, much to the wonder of my fellow travellers. The train's doors closed and I knew I had only seconds if I were to find out... I panicked slightly at the thought of living with the mystery. I had to find out - please God help me just this once and I shall never ask for anything else ever, promise!

The wheels turned slowly and my heart started sinking. It is not to be, I thought, I will just have to go to Waterstones and look at all the yellow books and see which one matches that particular shade of yellow... despair... dismay...please please please... and she lifted the book just that tiny bit to change the page... and I caught the unmistakable words as the chug chug of the wheels picked up speed and she went out of sight - A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini!

I smiled my way back home. Its one of my favorite books, a present from a distant friend, and I have loved every moment spent reading it. Good choice, girl in blue jeans and black jacket!

squeaky clean

shiny taps

singing mirror

new car smell

champagne flute

blue sky

citrus perfume

floor boards

spring cleaning

flared skirts

fruity soap

fresh wipes

green tea

silverware

new book

Diary of a Nobody

Brilliantly hilarious, a surprise winner I must say! Never thought I would laugh out loud on the underground thanks to typically dry english wit. And sometimes it was the sheer eccentricity of it, the obviously funny in the dead serious.

Loved every bit of it. Highly recommended for endless train or bus journeys - they are a breeze with this one!

Race

Sometimes I ask myself why I waste time on things I know are not going to be worth it, especially given my ongoing and endless complaints about the lack of time. I have no excuse, and shall endeavour to cook up none. It was plain boredom that took A and me to the cinema to see this movie. And it was boredom plus a sense of foolishness that accompanied us back home.

Untrue to its name, this one is an absolutely non-racey movie. The first half almost put me to sleep and had it not been for the tasteless popcorn I wouldn't have bothered to stay awake for the second half, which was better than the first half. Better than crap, that is, nowhere near tolerable, or dare I say, good.

As an aside, what is wrong with Akshaye Khanna? Why is he wasting his life doing the same thing over and over again in less than mediocre films? And Anil... why doesn't anyone tell him that one has had enough of his particular brand of middle-of-the-road comedy and that he is much better applying his immense abilities to more meaty roles? Making Anil hold a banana in one hand and have him say a corny line does serious injustice to his talent and to the intelligence of the audience.

Cranford

This is my first interaction with Elizabeth Gaskell and it was a pleasant experience in parts. The work is slow and ends abruptly. The highlight of the book is English domesticity, through wealth and not so much of it. Its a gentle, homely account of a group of spinsters with the hallmarks of the plot being knitting, crochet, lace, scones and the front-runner, afternoon tea. One most endearing paragraph decribes chasing the moving sunlight entering a room from morning till noon, and at the same time shifting the paper on which to sit on the new carpet to keep it from getting soiled. Homeliness at its comforting best in a pleasing, feel good classic.

Another life

There was a time when April felt a long way into the new year. One had to plod through January, followed by February, then March and April was on the other end of that side of the year. Not anymore. The flowers are out, the sun is shining, the leaves are back, and April in all its springtime glory is nearly here.

There has been more action happening in the last couple of weeks than was anticipated. The biggest bit was the holiday over the Easter break. Ever noticed how holidays are somehow more exhausting than regular work days? You need a holiday to de-stress from a holiday.
Like brave tourists, we were determined not to allow rain, hail, snow and extreme wind to spoil our much awaited holiday on the picturesque Isle of Wight. It was four days of fun and games, and before we knew it, we were back on the ferry to the mainland. We are now nursing sore throats, colds and flus with some happy soups and cakes. Never loved the warmth of our small little home better!I am beginning to believe that I am slightly behind life and time. It is taking me a while to get out of the leisurely pace of life of the island and cruise into the focussed charging ahead of London. At this moment I am living two diametrically opposite realities simultaneously in my head. Perhaps I will be better prepared for change next time around, or maybe in another life.