Mothers. Daughters. Trying Times.

This morning at a friend's home.

Friend holding forth on freedom for women:  Nonsense! Orange, did you watch that lawyer on TV blaming the poor girl. It's all about what women wear and what they did and what they said. It's all rubbish. We should go out and castrate them! All the men. What do you say?

Me: Um uh... even poor Himself? (Her husband)?

Himself looks up from his sausages and mashed potatoes to grins at us.

Friend: Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! That's what I have always loved about you; you have such a sense of humour.

Himself: From my point of view, it looks more like a sense of horror.

Friend: Chee chee, you keep quiet, we are having a serious discussion, aren't we, Orange?

I must tell you that this is an old friend, we have known each other from when we were babies and so we are both extremely accepting of each other's foibles. She accepts my lack of concern about everything, drags me for my haircuts, collects my clothes from the tailor, shouts at my maids when they take advantage of me and generally looks after me while I love her for her great big generous heart and listen to her discourses on her latest fad.

Himself (before I can retort): Sure. You’re discussing and she’s trying hard to be serious.

Friend: Ayyyyyyoooo, kadavule, kaapaathungooo!

In the midst of this, friend’s teenager hurtles down the stairs on her way out of the house. Friend undergoes a transformation into Ancient Volcano Goddess.

AVG erupts and spews molten lava:  What ARE you wearing? 

I can’t see anything wrong; she’s wearing jeans and a lovely black top.

Daughter: Ma, don’t start! Pa, is there anything wrong with what I’m wearing?

Himself, suddenly deaf buries his face in his mashed potatoes.

AVG: Turn around. I can see your butt. 

Daughter:  You can see my jeans, Ma! My butt is inside them.

AVG now erupts even more magnificently: GO AND CHANGE!

Daughter bursts into tears and runs up the stairs.

Himself: These are good mashed potatoes.

Halfway up the stairs to comfort Daughter, I stop and pour some ice cold water on AVG  She stops spewing but stands wreathed in smoke trails and muttering: Girls these days!

I'm not a parent, so I cannot presume to comment on the rights and wrongs of this.

But this I know - we must change. 

When the rain comes

O, when the koel cries

Then the earth softly sighs

Her gentle, fond goodbyes

To retreating blue summer skies

O, set the bells to ring

Come with open heart to sing

When dark grey clouds wing

Your way and rain they bring

O, from the madly waving crops
To the pirouette of the drops

The rain dances on the hilltops

Through every field and copse

O, the monsoon music floats

From those laughing paper boats

When every field with water bloats

Rain fills the world with moats

O, as water falls and falls again

Flooding right through every vein

This sweet singing heart so plain

Ever rejoices with the rain

Random thoughts

• Much as I love my hometown, the thought of working there gives me the heebie-jeebies.
• Much as I like working in the big city, the thought of not being at home in the next room when my parents need me makes me tear up.
• Much I like to think of myself as decisive and independent, the thought of making sense of the above two turns me into a confused, worried heap of nerves.
• Much as I stay away from Malayalam movies, the thought of missing Pazhassi Raja is unthinkable.
• Much as I detest the itch in my throat, the thought of gargling makes me shudder.
• Much as I would like to live healthily, the thought of giving up ice cream, chocolates and biriyani upsets me.
• Much as I insist that I know myself, the thought of deciding what I want proves a tad difficult at times.
  

Maybe, I'm wrong

I weep for what has happened to India. I weep. And I wonder. I wonder whether I'm wrong.
In the last few days I've been told that I am wrong
1. To disagree with the idea of military rule, anywhere and for any reason.
2. That I think we can praise our brave soldiers without belittling our Olympic Gold Medal Winner.
3. That I just can't stomach the -' but the power was cut and they couldn't have watched the TV'- excuse used by news channels for broadcasting tactical operations, when all head honchos of news channels obviously carry blackberrys or iphones or nokia nseries or some high tech phone on which they can surf the net and watch all news channels.
4. That I think a certain news editor on a prominent channel was annoying and insensitive in the way she used her bulldoze-the-politician-tactics on relatives of victims to get appropriate sound bytes.
5. To think that anger can be expressed without every sentence being a wish to kill someone.
Maybe, I am wrong.

Mac tagged me

Many weeks ago, Mac tagged me. He wanted to give me an excuse to write, or maybe deprive me of my excuse not to write. It worked. It took some time, but it worked. I kept hearing him in my head; 'Hey Orange, tagged ya!'. I tried ignoring the voice. Tried really hard. But to no avail. It kept popping up most unexpectedly. Well, like I said, it worked. Here I am, meekly doing the tag.

I am: Not what you think I am.
I think: Too much. I tend to overanalyse everything.
I know: I should get back to writing more often.
I want: To travel more.
I have: Some really great friends.
I wish: I could drive.
I hate: Losing sleep.
I miss: You.
I fear: Many things. Salamanders, dark nights, dentists and the list grows.
I feel: At home in Chennai.
I hear: The music of the spheres.
I smell: The aroma of jasmine on the rain drenched night breeze.
I crave: This one's easy - chocolate.
I search: For the truth hidden within myself.
I wonder: Where I left the candles. Every time the power fails, it's the same story.
I regret: Not going home more.
I love: The rain.
I ache: To see the monsoon clouds rolling in.
I am not: What you think I am. Really.
I dance: I do?
I cry: I do!
I don't always: Do the right thing.
I fight: When I shouldn't.
I write: For myself.
I win: Sometimes, when I lose.
I lose: Very rarely.
I never: Want to hurt anyone.
I always: brush my teeth with Himalaya Dental Cream. It's a toothpaste like no other.
I confuse : Mostly myself.
I listen: To voices in my head telling me to do a tag.
I can usually be found: At work.
I need: My family.
I am happy about: How happy my eldest niece is.
I imagine: The worst. Always.

Home?

On the flight back to Bangalore, the day after Christmas, I struck up a conversation with a group of vacationers. Somewhere during the conversation one of them asked me whether I was going home after a holiday. I was amazed at the vehemence with which I said "No".

I live in Bangalore. I like Bangalore. I love Cochin. Cochin is home.

Rosie & Delilah

Why, I don't really know, but January 1st always finds me a little pensive. I find myself going over past events, not just those from the year immediately past, but from years long gone by.

Yesterday, I found myself thinking of two friends from school, and the time I spent with them in and out of class. They were totally unlike each other. One was tall, slim, attractive and stylish with an inherent dignity. The other was clumsy, sulky, extremely untidy, given to sudden temper tantrums and very unfortunately, not too bothered about personal hygiene. The first was friendly with the 'in' crowd while the second was the class outcast. It would have been difficult to fond two teenagers who were so different from each other. But, as it turned out, finally, they did have something in common. Both of them ended their own lives, each one deciding, for various reasons, to kill herself.

The first girl, I'm going to call her Delilah for the purposes of this post, was a girl I was friendly with. I admired her for her composure and serenity. I was and still am, the noisy one, ever the extrovert, quick to discard all pretence at distant dignity and make instant friends and definitely never very calm or serene. I tend to admire the quiet ones, the ones who claim silence as their birthright, the ones who surround themselves with their own dignity, the ones who are what I could never be. And so, I admired Delilah.

The second girl, let's say Rosie, was also a friend. I do remember laughing and sharing jokes with her while we were in middle school. But once we reached High School, she started to become more and more withdrawn, and even just sitting down in her seat, she gave off this aura of sullen, silent, rage. Such pent up rage. It used to explode out of her once in a way. She found herself a seat somewhere in the back and was consistenly at the bottom of the class. There was one miraculous month in which she scored such high marks that she was among the top five in class, but very soon returned to her habitual spot. It wasn't that she was stupid. That's just the way she was.

I don't know whether there was anything much we could have done for Rosie. For one thing, teenagers are not exactly sensitive compassionate souls. For another, they just don't know how to deal with anything or anyone who is different. I mean, there we all were, trying so desperately to look just like one another, act just like one another, and just belong. Life threw us a Rosie who was totally different from us, and guess what we did? Just pretended she didn't exist. All of us. Without exception. We didn't talk to her if we could help it. Teenage girls can be cruel. Somewhere deep inside me, whenever I think about her, I feel guilty.

I lost touch with Delilah, almost within a month of leaving school. On and off for a few years, I heard about her from common friends. And then I heard that she had taken her own life, over a failed love affair. I don't think of her often, but when I do, it is with deep sadness.

All these years later, I remember these two girls so clearly and when I do think about them, I just hope that life has given me the wisdom to realise that sometimes, serenity and rage are just each other in disguise.

The library at home

I'm back at home for Christmas and as usual, I've been browsing the bookshelves trying to find an old favourite. I didn't find the book I wanted to read, but I did spend quite a lot of time among the shelves looking for it. The library is still unfinished really, because I haven't been able to decide the look I want for it. Cozy and comfortable, definitely, so I think I'll stick with terracotta tiles, just like I did for the kitchen and pantry.

Here's what I see in my mind when I plan the library.

My grandfather's bookshelf, which I love, for the old books.

Armchairs with soft cushions, just the right kind for chatting and lolling about in.

The lavender and beige carpet with the roses.

Large floor cushions, tempting my guests to flop down on the floor and read.

On one wall my cousin's painting, which she painted for my mother many years ago, in sunshine yellow and summer blue.

A bank of wooden shelves against one wall, for all my books.

A small wooden step ladder for taking down books from the top shelves.

A writing table, with a hard-backed wooden chair.

My grandmother's small wooden cupboard, for keepsakes and diaries.

Window curtains of cream and dull gold, with accents in red.

Framed photographs near the study door.

One large blackboard for scribbling.

What I'm not sure about

Whether I should leave the tiles unpolished.

Am undecided about having a TV in the room.

I don't know when I'm going to get around to doing this, because I need to take time off for it. Which is not going to happen for a few more months anyway, at least until the job is no longer a new job. I'm just lucky I got time off for Christmas. And I'm enjoying the festivities at home. I hope you're all having a great holiday too. Merry Christmas!

Making up my mind about Bangalore

A couple of months ago, I had a conversation with the friend of a friend, during which he asked me whether I liked Bangalore. That conversation set me thinking about the topic and I realised that I didn't really know the place. What worried me at that point was that I wasn't sure I wanted to get to know the place.

A few days ago, I came across the same chap, and sure enough, up popped the same topic of conversation. This time around, I actually had answers. And more important, I had started to like the place.

What I didn't tell him, was that his enthusiasm for the place had intrigued me enough to put aside my scepticism for a while. It wasn't that he was shouting praises of Bangalore to me. In fact, he was the first Banglorean who understood that I perceived it as a style driven city, all form and no substance. But unlike the others, who had enumerated all the positives of the place (most of which I viewed as negatives), he didn't try to convince me. However, the little that he said about it, he said with a contented smile, and it was clear that he loved the place. At some point during that conversation, I started to feel I needed to do some rethinking. My logic was simple, actually. Here was a witty, charming, and altogether interesting person, who really liked the place. There just had to be something to it. Maybe, just maybe, I was wrong. Maybe, I should put away my stubborn reservations and start trying to like the place. It's really not very often that I admit, even to myself, that there's a possibility that I was wrong, but in this case, that's exactly what happened. And I started giving Bangalore a chance.

I am glad I did.

The little boy

it's his footsteps
i miss
the most
the run to the door
sandals flapping
hops
through the door
sweet smiles
bright eyes
stories
of school
and cricket
oh, it's his hugs
i miss
the most.

I love being an aunt

Yesterday, I became an aunt again. The newest member of our family seems to be in a hurry since he made his appearance one month earlier than expected. For the last 24 hours, a little baby in an incubator has occupied every thought of mine. I will have to wait until I can make a trip home to see him.

I love him already, my youngest, littlest nephew.

On why

Just thought I’d explain why the Orange Fling has no relevance in my life anymore.

The last couple of years have seen a lot of changes in my life, on all fronts – home, job, love – every which way I looked, I felt like I was somewhere on the edge of a change. Somewhere in the middle of it, I started this blog. I needed it. It helped me. To some extent, the blog and the friends I made through it helped me through the changes.

But now, that phase is over. My life’s not an orange fling anymore. It’s more a neat shot of single malt. Yes, there may be days when a stray post will make it to this blog, but it will be a stray post.

There will be a new blog, because I’m going to keep writing, just not right now. A shift to a new city and a new job is a time consuming affair. I’m just way too busy running around trying to find a place to live, the best route to get to work, the best deal on a fridge and so on, to be able to write.

I like my new job, and am getting used to the new city, though it will take me some time to decide whether I like it or not.

Once I settle in, I’ll start a new blog. Just give me some time.

For everything there is a season; and a time for every purpose under heaven

A new city. The old me.
This is the season for change.

One of the changes in my life is going to be the winding down of 'The Orange Fling'. It's done me a world of good and there may be a time when I revive it. Or start a new blog. Maybe. For now it's adieu.

I'll be around reading and commenting. Just not writing.

Missing Jimmy

ONE MISSING BLOGGER!!!

Last seen posting about his mistress Ms. Reaper.

A picture of macabre death with scythe included in said post.

Calling for everyman and woman, gypsies and tramps, vagabonds original and not,

to launch search party.

Any news from anyone who has seen and heard from him will be welcome

and rewarded with eternal gratefulness in new post.

My father knows

My father knows many things. But when I was in the seventh class, I knew something that he didn't. I knew that he knew the office.

At least, that's what I told Sr. Antonio, the nun who taught us Hindi, and who almost gave up teaching, and went into a silent cloistered existence, all because of me. I don't really blame her. If I had to teach me Hindi, I would have given up. Just given up.

The exercise had Sr. Antonio, pacing up and down the front of the class (thank you God, for a crowded class, with closely set bench rows, which prevented teachers from walking down to the back of the class), throwing out English phrases, which we were supposed to translate. There were some deeply complicated phrases, but in the interests of preserving her own sanity, she gave me an innocuous sounding "My father goes to the office" and recognising that here was a simple phrase that even a dolt could tackle, I answered triumphantly, "meri pitaji daphthar ko jaanthe hai". (rama, I beg of you, do not, DO NOT, point out all the things wrong with that sentence. I have quite a bad inferiority complex as it is.)

I think that was the turning point in the relationship between Sr. Antonio and me. She decided then that I was definitely going to drive her insane, and proceeded to figure out whether she could turn the tables. She almost succeded. She definitely succeeded in making me cry into my pillow every night. I still loved school. It was only the hindi and painting classes and the associated nuns that troubled me.

But you know how life balances these things? Well, it was in the ninth class that Mr. Gupta, God Bless the man, and all his descendants for the next seven generations, came to teach me Hindi. Mr. Gupta was the Hindi teacher at Small Big Brother's school.

Mr. Gupta's style of teaching was so different from Sr. Antonio's. He started the session with a five minute short discussion on current affairs (in English, whew!), and then picked two phrases/words from our discussion to base the subsequent Hindi class on. The second day he came in, sat down, and began, "So sad, Lord Mountainbatten died today" . I just fell in love with him, and was determined that I would do my best for this darling of a man, who cared enough about teaching an arrogant, ignorant, little girl, that he would lay himself open to ridicule. If he was willing to trust me with his less than perfect English, the least I could do was return the compliment. The result was perfect understanding and a diligent student.

After the next test, I came away wanting to dance and sing out my marks to the world and more important, I came away leaving an open-mouthed Sr. Antonio. I had won the battle. She was just never the same again.

My father, of course, never having known that he knew the office, continued going to the office.

P.S. I switched to French after the tenth.

My mother wants to go out

My mother has been house-bound since this January. For the past couple of weeks, she has been thinking about venturing out. Somewhere. Anywhere. I'm happy. I hate it that she is confined to the house. But I'm also worried. Every place she goes, there would be steps to climb. The state I live in is extremely unfriendly to old people and to the physically disabled.

I know she would love to go to a bookshop, but all the good ones are on roads with uneven pavements. On MG Road, the pavements are a foot higher than the road and would involve strenuous effort on her part to climb them. An impossible feat, in fact. Visits to most hotels and restaurants are out of the question. Even if they are not on the first floor, at the top of a steep flight of stairs, we would still have the pavement obstacle to cross. I came across Paresh Palicha's blog on accessibility, which must have been started with the purpose of tackling this issue. It seems the author lost interest in it. I found it interesting, and the last post informative.

Paresh uses a wheel chair and it made me wonder how he negotiates this city that we both live in. It really strikes you just how unfriendly we are to the less than able when you go to the railway station. It's a nightmare, really. I worked away from home for a year, and my parents used to come visiting regularly. The railway stations at both Ernakulam and Trivandrum used to cause us nightmares. A journey used to involve climbing those overhead crossings that all railway stations in India are famous for. The steps are uneven, and worn smooth in places. You can actually lose your footing if you are not careful. The platforms are unevenly paved and if you do not watch out, you can trip and take a bad fall. The level of the platforms are so much lower than the bogey floor that you have to swing yourself upwards into the train while holding on the sidebar at the door. The toilets on the trains are so cramped and difficult.

Yes, I do want to encourage my mother to take a trip outside the house, but I just wish it was easier to deal with. I worry about it, and then i worry that if she senses my worry, it will have a detrimental effect on her confidence. As you can see, I am back to my favourite pastime - worrying.

There does not seem to be any public action in this regard. The Standard Rules on the Equalization of Opportunities for Persons with Disabilities are comprehensive, but this seems like a distant dream in India. If any of you know any organisation which is involved in canvassing for increased accessibility in public places for the physically disabled, please do let me know.

Sometimes I love hospitals

On a day like today, I love hospitals. They seem like such friendly places. Of course, it helps when your older and only sister is with you every moment of the check up. It also helps that the surgeon is your not-so-little-anymore-cuz. Anyways, the tests are over. I have been checked. Ultrasounded. Palpated. CLEARED!!! And been told NOT to fret, fume, freak or in any way frighten myself or others!

The lump has behaved itself. Follow up check up in August. And then once a year.

:-) And it helped so much; all of you being so encouraging and supportive. Thanks!!!

The Lump and I

Going for a check up. The lump that I do not like to think about needs to be checked by a surgeon so that everyone is sure it has behaved itself and stayed cool. I'm a coward, especially when I think of being sick. I worry. Oh how I worry.

The lump and I have got to know each other well over the last eight months. When it thinks that I have forgotten it, it makes its presence felt with the slightest of twinges. Sometimes, it's a series of twinges, as if it has had a good day and is doing a little jig to let me know that it owns a small territory in my left breast. Kind of a territorial dance.

I will be spending next week being poked and prodded with gel all over me, having cold hard probes imaging my insides. Hospitals are not on my list of favourite places. Mammogram rooms, ultrasound cabins and other sundry scanning rooms even less so. They frighten me. But, and this is quite a big BUT, spending three or four days there is preferable to having out-of-control cells growing in my body.

I worry.
Oh how I worry.

Friends just know...

Birthday's are funny things. They're supposed to make you feel one year older, but in my case, they end up making me feel about four years old. As my youngest niece keeps telling me, I'm good at deceiving myself. But the nicest thing about today (other than all the food I am going to hog at lunch today) is that it suddenly dawned on me that there are so many people in my life who remember my birthday. Makes me feel special, really.
And today, my oldest friend sent me a forward, which unlike most forwards, really captures the essence of our friendship. This friend is someone who has laughed, cried, shared teenage angst, shared grown up troubles and joys, and grown up with me. I thought the mail she sent was a perfect birthday read, and would like to share it with all of you.

A different friendship poem:
1. When you are sad -- I will help you get drunk and plot revenge against the sorry bastard who made you sad.
2. When you are blue -- I will try to dislodge what ever is choking you.
3. When you smile -- I will know you finally got laid.
4. When you are scared -- I will rag on you about it every chance I get.
5. When you are worried -- I will tell you horrible stories about how much worse it could be until you quit whining.
6. When you are confused -- I will use little words.
7. When you are sick -- Stay the hell away from me until you are well again. I don't want whatever you have.
8. When you fall -- I will point and laugh at your clumsy ass.
9. This is my oath..... I pledge it to the end. "Why?" you may ask; "because you are my friend".


And always remember....
when life hands you Lemons,
ask for tequila and salt
and call me over !!!!!

Hug someone today

Yesterday, I was cleaning out our old home. Or trying to. There are so many books and papers still left behind. My dad's cupboard is full of files. Birth certificates, School certificates, Degree certificates and so on. There were also four really old files full of what seemed to be letters. You know me, the curious one, so I sat myself on the floor and started to read. They were letters that the four of us had sent home during our years away at college. Would you believe it? There's a whole written record of my days at WCC. My dad actually thought this was worth keeping, safely in a file, in his steel cupboard!!! It touched me deeply, knowing that he cares so much about us. And grateful that he kept the letters, because, twenty years down the line, they're fun to read.

I know that somewhere packed away along with my college books in my old trunk, there will be a stack of letters that I received from my parents while I was away. It was a routine every morning - running to the letter rack to check if there was anything. The joy when one found a letter was indescribable. I used to feel that I was back at home for those few minutes, sitting at the dining table, talking to my folks.
Letters bring you closer almost a physical closeness. It's like looking at the moon when you're in love and thinking that someone you love is looking at that same moon. I remember getting a card from an old boyfriend who was travelling in Kenya, saying something about the African stars and the Kenyan moon missing me as much as he did. Sigh!!! It's nice to be young and in love and get letters. Well, it's nice to be in love any time, though now I prefer more practical demonstrations of love - no moon or stars, the nearest Chinese restaurant is always a better bet. Receiving and sending letters, now that is something I still adore. I don't write too often, the ubiquitous e-mail has taken over. But once in a way, yes, I still sit down on a quiet Sunday morning and write letters; to aunts, to friends; to people whom I love and miss.
There is something about letters, really. When I saw this ad for Australia Post, it made me feel like sitting down and writing. Maybe tomorrow morning will be another letter writing Sunday.