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! :-)
Thursday, 9 October 2008
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, 2 October 2008
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.
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.
Friday, 26 September 2008
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???
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???
Thursday, 18 September 2008
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.
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:
- Decide and take action
- Make up your mind and do something about it
- 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:
- How do you want to manage your pregnancy? I don't know, last I checked, it was managing itself just fine
- How do you want to plan the birth? Do I really need to think about this right now?
- What's your plan for maternity leave? Maternity what?
- Are you planning to do as many holidays as possible before you are, well, unable to? Holidays? With all this nausea?
- 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!
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