Sense and Sensibility

I've not been a great dresser. Not ever. And this post isn't about the great novel. It is about the dress sense of people and how it affects my sensibilities. My clothes have always been what I'd call comfortable. My friends at one point had threatened to disown me if I ever bought another piece of vegetable dyed Gujarat block printed material. I still do. I find them very pretty and, most of all, comfortable. And I can't ever coordinate my ear-rings and shoes and handbag to the clothes I am wearing. So, I tend to carry the same handbag everywhere. I wear the same set of ear-rings and almost always am wearing the same comfy footwear.

A proper down to her little toe Delhiite once asked me in typical Delhi English, "Don't mind, I want to ask you something. I've noticed that you wear the same footwear with jeans, trousers, suits and sarees. Don't you have any others?" I said, "I said, 'I have another pair at home for when this wears out. The look on her face was saying, "Oh you poor thing. I didn't think you were that hard up for money." But what she said to me was, "Here, whenever we buy a dress, we buy all matching accessories for that."

Thanks to my never ending skin allergies, I can only wear cotton, silk, or a combination of the two. In Hyderabad, I was once told by a colleague, "You don't wear synthetics, you don't know what you're missing!" And I thought "Fine! I live a sorry sad life."

I've always traveled comfy. Track pants instead of jeans for long train journeys or overnight bus journeys. Casual and comfortable. The same goes for flights. I find it amusing when people dress up in their finest clothes for a flight. My husband and I were once aboard a flight at Delhi, and I felt like a beggar. I'd just woken up, had a bath, put on a pair of jeans and a kurta over it. People were dressed in chiffons, or silks... had loads of jewellery, make up... the works. Even some men were so overdressed that I can't find words to describe what I felt. It was evident from their conversations that they'd spent the day sightseeing. It was like they became sights for others to see.

Somewhere else, maybe! But in Delhi, I've found that dressing up like that isn't exactly unusual. Most of the places that I go to, I see people dressed in totally "dhinchak" colours. There's a special pink. And on any given day, you're bound to see that pink paired with orange, yellow and the brightest blue you can see. A colleague once joked to me that people dress this way so that they can be spotted from a distance. But if every one's dressed in these colours, then how does one tell the difference?

During a college trip to Kodaikanal, that involved endless walking during field trips to study plants, I noticed that some classmates had come in flowing chiffons and high heels. And I thought, "How are they going to climb the mountains with these?" Three weeks ago, S and I went to Mussoorie. And half of Delhi was there. And believe me, it was a sight. Pinks and blues with loads of zari and stone work everywhere. High heels that were stone studded. All this for a day picnic!! And there I was... in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.

But I can't help but think: is it them? Or is it them? One more of those things that remain beyond me and my comprehension.

The male of the species

I always commented to my mother about guys peeping into autos. Just look around you. If you're a woman and you're on the road, you may look all around you, but you wouldn't necessarily peep inside another vehicle. Men do that. All the time.

I am tired of men ogling and worse still leching. Earlier this week, I took a bus back home. It was not exactly empty, but I managed to find a seat after 5-10 minutes. There was this guy. The typical Delhi local. Kind of like Salman Khan in Tere Naam... but only the variety that identifies more with Leonardo than Salman. Anyway, the tight T-shirt that shows off non existent muscles, coloured hair that needs vigourous head shaking in order to allow for normal sight, skin tight jeans... and a handkerchief stuffed inside the pocket, half outside. This guy kept staring at my chest. It must be true that most men think with their 'you-know-whats'. And then he kept repositioning himself to peer more. The thing is, one way or another they're not getting any views. But they don't know that. I come from supposedly 'conservative' Chennai and hence know nothing about being fashionable (read fashionable as showing various parts of my anatomy to the ogling public). Then this guy tried the cheapest trick in the book. He crossed his legs and stood in such a way that if the driver were to brake all of a sudden, he'd fall directly on me. Too bad for him that the driver did no such thing.

When I travel in a cycle rickshaw in Gurgaon, random guys whistle at me. This morning there was this guy in the bus. He turned his face to look at me. Then when I did the same back, he started looking away and was totally uncomfortable. Guys lech even when I am in the car with S. It's almost like it's their birthright. Once, I was traveling with my mom and a guy kept leching at her and she said to me, "Even when I am almost 60, if these looks don't stop, they probably never will". I agree. I am not exactly Demi Moore. Far from that!!

Has any of you seen women do such things? I'd really like to hear from you if I'm biased. I've seen girls teasing a supposedly innocent guy in the movies, but in real life, not to date.

Music

Music sure isn't what it used to be. Many a time, people tell me I've not moved with the times. OK, so I still listen to film music from the 50s and can sing along to most of Lata's and Asha's songs, not to forget Geeta Dutt.

In the early 90s, I remember my parents commenting on some music I was listening to. And they said, 'Is this music?" If they are, today, subjected to Himesh Reshamiyya's numbers, they wouldn't be talking about Jatin-Lalit, Nadeem-Shravan and Anand-Milind that way.

I think it's quite the same all over. Give me Abba any day. But give me Brothers Four or Joan Baez or Ralph MacTell and I won't complain.

About 2 days ago, I was traveling back home and was subjected to some song which went "Aa bhi jaa". That's all I could catch in that song... wait... that's all there was. In a lousy monotone, the guy went on like a stuck record. He must have sung "Aa bhi jaa" about 100 times in that song. I wanted to scream and jump out of the cab. What rubbish plays under the umbrella of "Super Hit Hour".

We watched Cheeni Kum and it was a pleasure to listen to Ilayaraja's old numbers reinvented. Such hummable numbers. I know I will incur the wrath of several people on blogosphere when I say this. But I will anyway. I don't think very highly of ARR's music. I find it highly repetitive. And the guy copied music left, right and centre from Western Classical music. Sorry, in my book, geniuses don't resort to plagiarism.

My Tamil music is limited to Ilayaraja's works and I hope to, someday, own all the music that the man created. I do own ARR's works as well: Roja and Bombay. Someone gifted me the cassette of Rangeela and so I own that too. But that's it. Deva is another story altogether. He will need a book, not just a mention in a blog post.

Why this random post about Music? Just like that. Because I was tortured... because I've loved the songs of Life in a Metro... because I can't get Jaane Do Na (the remake of Vizhiyile) out of my head.

Compromised

We live in DLF City Phase V, Gurgaon and because this is a DLF zone, we pay through our noses for things such as maintenance and SECURITY. On Friday, at around 3 p.m., we were informed that our house had been burgled. As we reached the apartment, we came to know that 6 other apartments in the complex had also been burgled. The burglars struck between 10 a.m. and 12 p.m. and camped away with as much jewellery, cash and forex that they could stuff their pockets with. More than the fact that I lost my jewellery, including the mangalsutra, what is shocking is that someone broke into my house, that our security has been compromised.

All the doors had been forced open using a crowbar and one of the apartments even had a grill door, which had been broken. The police claim that DLF City Phase V is such a secure zone that they never felt the need to make this a part of their beat and was never under their radar. But they are investigating this case. The agency to which DLF has outsourced security of Phase V, LE Security, has not done anything since the incident occured and when questioned by the residents, the representative walked away from the meeting saying that he is not answerable to any of us.

All the while, we have found that the security situation in DLF properites has left a lot to be desired. Over the last few years, there have been several burglaries in these properties, but nothing ever happens and everything gets brushed under the carpet. The head of LE Securities, however, gets to take his family on vacations abroad, all sponsored by DLF, for exemplary security services provided.

It is very clear that the security guards have a hand in this. It is next to impossible for someone to break open 7 doors in broad daylight without anyone smelling a rat. Moreover, it seems too much of a coincidence that the security incharge for DLF V was on leave on Friday. Quite the same way that he had been when the earlier burglaries took place.

DLF mints money at our expense. And so does LE security. We pay them month on month, and we also pay them through our losses. Because at the end of the day, they also get a cut from the loot.

I want to be able to spread awareness about this incident, about the indifference of DLF staff and LE Security. We would like to get compensated for our loss. We would like to ensure that DLF, as big an empire as it may be, doesn't get away with this. Any suggestions and help would definitely be welcome.

Baby Names

Why do some names become popular all of a sudden? I wonder. Especially in India, when we have so many names to choose from, I find it really odd that people seem to pick names from a really limited pool.

Between December 2005 and March 2007, 6 of my friends had baby boys and they ALL named their sons Siddharth. I begged my close friend to name her child something else if it were to turn out to be a boy, but no! Her husband was hell bent on naming the boy Siddharth and that was that. Imagination and research seem to have gone for a rather long walk.

A few years ago, when Pandit Ravi Shankar's daughter became a popular figure, the name Anoushka was everywhere. I had 3 managers in my team, all 3 had daughters with the same name. And now, the names Shriya/Shreya/Shreeya have become overly popular. Even my own niece, born to Sachin and Priya, is called Shreeya. And some 4-5 friends who have daughters between the ages of 0 and 5 are called Shreya or some variation of the same. Fortunately, I do have 2 close friends who've named their daughters Meghana and Dhwani.

This takes me back to a time before even my brother was born. When my mother was pregnant with my brother, my parents had to decide on names. My father is, among other things, a Sanskrit scholar. He extensively researched the scriptures to find a name each for a boy and a girl. He read the Silappadikaram and was impressed with the character of Kannagi. Further research revealed to him that the character of Kannagi was based on Arundhati.

Arundhati: the wife of sage Vashishtha, one of the Saptarishis. Arundhati had come to be known as the epitome of fidelity. The wife, who remained true to her marriage vows and followed her husband everywhere, because her job was to be by her husband's side. And to this day, the little star next to the 6th star of the Saptarishi constellation, is a reminder that she took her vows more seriously than other women in her time, or today.

As a child, I always wondered why my parents had to give us such complicated names. Today, when I think about it, I find that the names are well thought through. Not a grandparent's name to please the family, not a name that's easy for foreigners to pronounce, not a name that was popular at the time, not a name that an astrologer suggested based on my horoscope, not any of those things.

And with this post, I announce my real name to my readers (there are still those people who didn't know who I was until I told them): Arundhati.

Random Facts Replace Random Thoughts

I have been tagged! No, it isn't the Orkut kind of website I'm talking about. Wooster, my dear friend decided to take revenge on me for not spending an evening with him last weekend. But if this is punishment, I'd misbehave everyday. At least that way, I'll get my blog updated.

8 random facts about myself:

• I have been playing Scrabble since I was 3.
• I sing almost all the time when I am awake, either aloud or silently.
• I love cooking and baking and could do it all the time.
• I am extremely talkative and love learning new languages. The two do go well together!
• I have a beautiful handwriting, if I may say so myself.
• I hosted a TV show on Vijay TV almost 10 years ago.
• I make a living on the side by writing and do a lot of embroidery, but still consider myself "creatively challenged".
• My 3 personal all time highs: getting the President's Award from R. Venkataraman in 1991, receiving the Gold medals for topping the University from Prof B. Ramamurthi in 2000, having S propose to me in front of a 150 people at the Beach, Bangalore in 2006.

and here's the list of the chosen 8 who shall continue the chain:

Janani - Pretty Woman, Random ramblings.

Sunanda - Blogosphere's most wanted - missing in action.

Lipstick - more than just a cosmetic!

Geeman - loves Physics, music, and marathons

Whizkid - Life and times in Bangalore

Aaroo - Writer, trainer, HR person - all rolled into one.

Arundathi - namma Chennai ponnu

Trupti - a celebrity blogger. Love her food blog and her spirit.

There are rules too

• Each player starts with 8 random facts/habits about themselves.
• People who are tagged, write a blog post about their own 8 random things, and post these rules.
• At the end of your post you need to tag 8 people and include their names. Don’t forget to leave them a comment and tell them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.
• If you fail to do this within eight hours, you will not reach Third Series or attain your most precious goals for at least two more lifetimes.

Home!

Home Sweet Home

That's where I am headed today. This is probably the longest that I have stayed away from my beloved Madras. Six and a half months. And I am so eager to visit.

I want to

Sit and talk to Amma and Appa.
Go to the beach.
Meet friends.
Meet my friend VJ and his fiancee.
Attend the wedding of two friends who were almost family.
Shop at Nilgiris.
Eat paruppu urundai.
Savour Amma's lemon cheesecake and date bars.
Get my hair done at the best beauty parlour in the country: Kanya.

I wish S would come along. I am going to miss him. But it's Madras I'm going to. And just for 3 days. So I'm going to make the most of it.

Changing Trends

I had 3 vouchers of Pantaloons and I decided to share it with my family. I kept one for myself, gave one each to my brother and husband. On my own, I bought some things for my parents there, but the vouchers I divided among the people I knew would definitely use them.

About a couple of weeks ago, S and I went to the Pantaloons store in Gurgaon. I wanted to pick up some formal wear as I am no longer with a dotcom but with a research firm, I knew my collection of jeans and kurtis would not suffice.

I went to the women's section and was shocked to see the range of clothes. There were very few nice pastels. Browns and blacks ruled and there weren't any colours that I would have liked to try. No purples, reds, greens, yellows, pinks... I managed to pick up one light lavender shirt. Disgusted, we moved to the men's section. And right there, on male mannequins and just about all the place, I saw every colour that I may have wanted to buy. The most beautiful shades of orange, purple, pink, red and blue... all in the MEN's section. Why? Oh Why???

There will, as always, be things that are beyond my comprehension.

On a side note, a year ago, to this day, was what S and I consider the turning point of our relationship. It was at a dinner with friends at a pub in Delhi, Pebble Street, that we had our moments of truth. That we were probably more than friends. That we connected at a deeper level. So much that a few weeks later, he popped the question.

Why?

I wonder…

… about many things. Some of them are:

Why do people fill their cars with stuffed toys?
Who said stuffed toys are for girls? See the countless men that I see… all middle aged, dribing to work in a big car, just them and their entourage of stuffed toys.

Why do Indians colour their hair blond?
Especially when it doesn’t suit them or makes them look old.

What’s with the clothes that girls these days wear?
In the name of formal wear, they wear fitting clothes that show parts of their anatomy that have no reason to be exposed. Then if someone (male) looks, they take offense.

Why do people wear chudas (red and white bangles) even with jeans and a T-shirt to indicate they are newly married?
And think that is OK, but feel it right to comment on my wearing a bindi with “western clothes” or comment on how weird it is that I wear my mangalsutra the “wrong” way because in my culture, newly weds wear it that way.

Separate posts on each of these topics, someday!

Simple Pleasures: Bus Travel

"You travel by bus? Why?" I keep hearing this from loads of people. I always hated bus travel because of the nasty crowds that I had to deal with. Oh, don't get me wrong. I am not some rich couple's child who had a chauffeur driven car while I was growing up. But I lived inside the IIT campus and rode a bicycle to school and back. Cool life! I could have chosen to attempt the IIT JEE and get into it and do what most campus kids in my time did... spend 21 years on campus and then go to the US. Engineering wasn't my cup of tea in any case and I've always been the "exploratory" type. I had to start trips outside the campus because I had classes outside.


I've always been fascinated by buses. When I was all of 9 years, I'd gone to a Spelling Bee contest at Good Shepherd and the teacher sent me back with 4 other kids. All by myself... from Nungambakkam to IIT. My mother is furious with the teacher to this day and I don't blame her. But the thing was that I was this confident girl. I KNEW the bus routes very well. Even when I was just 9.


When I had classes outside, I'd ride my cycle to the IIT gate, park it there and then take a bus to wherever I had to go to. But there were times when the buses would be crowded. I had a boy's cut in those days and went to my classes in jeans and a Tshirt. I was once trying to get on to a bus and after the bus started moving, a lady was trying to make me get off because she forgot it was her stop. A guy on the road lifted me and placed me on the road. I turned around and slapped him. It was only then that he realized I was a girl. So, I've had my share of bad incidents.


I decided to go everywhere on my bicycle. If it meant attending classes in Nandanam, visiting my grandmother in Mylapore, or a friend in Ashok Nagar. I loved riding my bicycle. Chennai's traffic is also the most organized among all cities I've lived in. Safe enough for a child to ride a bicycle even on Mount Road.


For the first 2 years of college, I took the '5E' ladies special. After that, I bought my first "bike". As in one with a motor. It was a TVS Super Champ and I refuse to this day to call it a "moped". There were no pedals. It had a kick start and was as good as any other "bike".


When I moved to Pondicherry, I started French lessons. I would wake up at 4.00 in the morning and then switch on my roomie's heater and place some water and an egg in a vessel on it. I would wake up again at 5, by which time the egg would have been boiled perfectly. I'd go through my morning routine and leave at 5.45. Walk down for 15 minutes and reach the gate. Catch the 6.00 a.m. bus to town. Get off at Ananda Theatre and walk for half an hour to reach Alliance Francaise. Everything was nice about this routine... except for the fisher women and their huge baskets of fish. I would almost throw up by the time I got out of the bus. So I got my Super Champ transported to Pondicherry as well. Another post will be dedicated to my bus trips between Pondicherry and Madras.

In Bangalore and Gurgaon, where I spent the next 2 years after I graduated, I had to use the bus on several occasions. Of course, I had the bike in Bangalore as well. In Chennai, whenever I had a problem with the bike, I'd happily take the bus. PTC or MTC or whatever it is called these days is by far the best bus service that I have used in India. Many people say BEST that runs in Bombay is the best, but I find those buses tough to use. The digits are in Devnagri on the front and the side. So I always know which bus I've missed! (As Appa puts it.) It's only on the back of the bus do they have the route in numbers written such that I can read and understand.

In Hyderabad, I used the bus. I asked the receptionist at the office about bus routes to Secunderabad. And she said, "You're a Director. What will people think if you go by bus?" I assured her that the driver and conductor and the passengers would never come to know! She didn't think it was funny. She said, "I never travel by bus. Always by auto." I avoid the auto whenever possible. You're sitting through a jerky ride, and at a level where the fumes of all vehicles, especially the buses, come straight at you.

In Bangalore, I started taking the bus when I signed up for Spanish classes. I had to learn the Kannada script in order to figure out where the bus was heading. But hey, I learnt another language. (Hindi numerals will probably account for a separate post.) Back in the NCR, I am back to using the buses.

You meet so many types of people. People look at me up and down, up and down... what's a girl with a laptop, sunglasses and a nice handbag, wearing trousers and a formal top, doing in a bus? I find it amusing that they find me amusing. Delhi Gurgaon buses are filled with labourers. There are times when folks get up to offer me a seat. I still steer clear of crowded buses. But the ones where I can get a seat...mmm nothing like it. I watch the sunset in the evenings. Focus on the people on the road. Chat with the conductor if he seems a nice sort. Look at other buses to see where they go, what route they take. I couldn't have done any of this had I been driving back and forth. I'm saved the trouble of watching the road and steering clear of all the cars that are there just to run into mine.

Ah, the simple pleasures of life!

What do I say?

It has been a while since I posted anything here. Blame it on many things: a new job, the long commute, intermittent internet access at home and, of course, my new found love for food blogging.

But as always, there are so many things that I do want to write about. The commute everyday from Gurgaon to Delhi, the sand storms of summer, the hailstorms of summer, the fruits of summer, movies that we watched, places that we visited, food that we ate, it is truly endless.

I want to talk of the simple everyday pleasures – like getting a seat in the bus on my way back, especially a window seat, like watching the sun set on my way back home, like having S surprise me by driving all the way to Delhi just to pick me up. There’s also a not so everyday pleasure that I was treated to last evening – S got promoted. After all those long-into-the-night discussions about “if they don’t recognize what you’re doing, then you should quit”, it finally came through. So maybe they were paying attention.

I’m all by myself this weekend. I plan to bake some brownies and/or an apple pie. Let’s see. We have no cable TV at home and so I’m forced to watch the DVDs that we have or listen to music. I have been reading on days when I’m alone. On days when we’re together and not entertaining, we play Scrabble. I have started driving and we go on a trip a day (at least we try to). There are suddenly so many things happening. And I’m faced with the eternal – ‘so many things to blog about… so little time’.

Mango: The King of Fruits

Summer’s here. And there’s only one thing that makes me look forward to this season. That, of course, would have to be the arrival of truckloads of mangoes into each market. I grew up at the IIT Madras campus and we had a reasonably huge garden. We had 2 coconut trees, one lemon tree, 1 sapota tree, a banana patch, and 2 mango trees. One tree was of the Rumani variety and the other belonged to the Humayun clan. Rumani is quite ordinary. It is available all over Madras by end of May or early June. Humayun, however, is unique in that it is not easily available. But it is one of the sweetest and tastiest mangoes I have ever eaten.

When I was much younger, I read somewhere that the Mango is the King of Fruits and I thought, “No, it can’t be. It has to be the orange.” I loved oranges then and continue to do so. I can finish a dozen or so of them in an afternoon if no one’s watching. Amma tells me she ate 2 dozens a day when she was carrying me and would sometimes not eat anything else. Maybe that’s where I got my love for oranges. I digress! I used to think that people loved the mango only because it was seasonal. Maybe not. I think I’d eat mangoes everyday throughout the year of they were available. I love them. I, in fact, love all kinds of fruit. But the mango is special.

One mango related incident that stands out in my, and my entire family’s, memory dates back to when I was about two and a half years old. We were spending the summer at my aunt’s place in Bangalore. Appa had taken H for a movie and Amma was at home with me. She took off my clothes and sat me down on a chair in a banian so that she’d have less to clean and gave me a mango. I ate it and by the time I came to the seed, I had mango all over my face and the white banian had turned yellow for most part. Just then, the movie goers returned. I quickly hid the mango seed behind my back and turned to H.

Me: What am I eating?
H: mango

Me (Wide eyed and full of awe, he was after all the hero in my life): How did you know?

H teases me to this day whenever I sit down to eat a mango. He says, “You had ‘mango’ written all over you and yet you thought that if you kept the seed hidden, I’d never know. Innocence was your first, middle, and last name. You should have stayed that way: tiny, naïve, and innocence personified. Why did you have to grow up?”

I spent many summers in Bombay, the city where I was born and the one that has gone down in all records as my “native place”. I ate a lot of Alphonso mangoes each summer, and while I do like them, I am not crazy about them as most Bombayites tend to be. Call me a true blue Madrasi, Chennai-ite or whatever you like. My favourite variety after the Humayun is the Banganapalli mango. People make fun of me for loving this fruit as it is so common. My friends tell me that the only real mangoes are the Alphonso, or Chausa or Dusehri varieties. How do I care? I love it and truly believe in making hay while the sun shines. So, since these beautiful yellow sun kissed Banganapallis entered the market in March, I have been buying them by the kilo. I can eat just that throughout summer and not want anything else. Or maybe just mangoes and vanilla ice cream. For breakfast, I could have a Rasalu mango too. I am not too fond of mango flavoured things like mango ice cream. Maybe I got that bit from Appa. Appa loves chocolate, but doesn’t care much for chocolate flavoured things like ice cream or milkshake. Likewise, give me mangoes anyday.

Mangoes and ice cream always remind me of this conversation I had with my FPG, Anand, when I was working in Madras. Both of us were crazy about mangoes and both of us ate cereal for breakfast.

Anand: Good morning.
Me: Hey, morning. Guess what? Instead of adding banana or raisins to my muesli this morning, I added mango. It tasted great.
Anand: Oh you tried that too. You know what? We had corn flakes and milk. And I added chopped mango too. And much to Vidya’s surprise, I added a scoop of vanilla ice cream. It was heavenly.
Me: I should try that too. Ice cream in the morning. Wonder what Amma’ll say though.

And we got back to our desks to begin work. Five minutes later, I walked up to his work station.

Me: Anand
Anand: Yeah?
Me: I was thinking about your breakfast.
Anand: Hmmm?
Me: What were the cornflakes and milk doing in the bowl anyway?

There are a few mango recipes that are very typical of Saraswat cuisine. I will soon post the recipes in my other blog. Keep watching this area.

Creation!

This is the my friend's creation who entered this world in January this year, bundled in my creation. :)












This is my creation: a cross stitch blanket for baby Sid.

A celebration

Last year on the 7th of May, I wrote about The Many Incarnations of God. Had my uncle and aunt been here with us, my uncle would have turned 80 and we would have had a grand celebration. There is not a single day that passes without my thinking about him. It could be a memory relating to a dish I made, about a person we were both close to, about a book, about something on TV... just about anything.

The 7th of May is also the day that I first met S. And we celebrated our "anniversary" last evening by going out for dinner to a highly recommended Italian restaurant in Gurgaon called Italiano.

The 7th of May has always been special and I am glad that as a couple, it is a special day for us as well. My biggest regret is that S never got to meet Bappa. I wish he had. This will always be one of those things that's outside our control. But I am forever thankful for whatever I have.

The Land of Five Rivers

Last minute plans are always the best, aren't they? S and I were planning to visit Ludhiana over the weekend. My close friend from my Hyderabad days was visiting home after completing her exec MBA from IIM-A and I wanted to met her family. Having only spoken to them over the phone in all the time that I'd known her, I was very keen to meet them and get to know them.

S had work in Chandigarh the day before we were to leave, so he asked me to join him. I didn't want to pass up the opportunity. So we drove down on Thursday night. It took us 4 hours to get of Delhi and we reached Chandigarh at 4 in the morning. Fortunately, S's office had taken care of the reservations at the hotel and we were able to turn in within half an hour.

As soon as S left for the site, I tried to catch up on a little sleep, but I didn't succeed. I kept looking out the window as the cleanliness and organization of the city wowed me entirely. My friend and her brother reached Chandigarh around lunchtime and we ate at Lyons in Sector 17. After that I insisted that we go see the Rock Garden. This is one of the city's claims to fame. The garden, designed by Nek Chand, is an example of how beauty can be created from waste. Some of the items were creative. But to see tens of thousands of the same... can get a little boring and repetitive. Also, the place was meant for children and they shouldn't have allowed adults in. The entry doors are about 4 feet in height, and extremely narrow. I hit my head at least 3 times. The place is also filthy and no one has bothered to clean the place. The city on the outside is so pretty, but inside, the picture is very different. Later that evening, we drove to Ludhiana.

My friend's family could easily qualify for the host of the year award of there ever was one. We were treated to sumptuous traditional Punjabi fare... nothing like the stuff you get in restaurants. All of us talked late into the night and my friend's niece kept us great company.

The next afternoon, we left for Amritsar. I had always wanted to see the Golden Temple and this was a great opportunity. To be able to visit it with my friend! The city of Amritsar reminded me of Agra. Filthy, crowded and polluted. But the temple complex is very beautiful. The restrooms provided are cleaner than most, if not all, airport restrooms that I have seen so far.

Nothing prepares you for the beauty that hits you when you enter the complex. Spotlessly clean, calm and serene, the complex complements the temple beautifully. I just kept staring and staring at the colourful work on the gold, the lovely marble inlay and the murals within the temple. This is not what's in the pictures, this is for real. I had to tell myself that. A meal of amritsari kulcha and chhole outside the temple comples prepared us for the drive back. And the next day S and I drove back to Gurgaon. From among the list of "Places to See", I had finally ticked one off.

Cast-a-Spell

The sweltering heat had me wondering what I would do at home on a holiday... inside the house with no AC or cooler. Varun must have heard my silent crib and he sent down some rains. The weather's lovely. The heat's come down considerably and I'm enjoying it. It's just that today had to be the day when I'm home and S is at work.

The perfect weather for chai and pakodas. Or a drive... or just about a million things.

Four and Twenty Blackbirds...

The heat in Delhi is killing. More so when I have just returned from Bangalore. Physically here (and enduring the heat), but mentally roaming in what is supposed to be my native state: Karnataka. S and I took a trip to Shirali with my parents and brother.

Shirali is a small nondescript coastal town in the Uttara Kannada district of Karnataka. Most people haven't even heard of it. I have a colleague whose last name is Shirali and even she had no idea where it was. Shirali or Srivalli is home to the Sri Chitrapur Math, the spiritual headquarters of the Chitrapur Saraswats. I'm one half Chitrapur Saraswat and when my cousin decided to have his son's thread ceremony at the Math, we decided to go. I could spend time with my parents and brother, show S the Math and meet my cousins, aunts, uncle, nephews and niece. The cherry on the cake was the ride in my brother's brand new Safari Dicor. (Incidentally, we got our cars delivered on the same day. And he drove my parents to the airport in the new car and we picked them up at Delhi in our new car.)

We were traveling, as a family, for the first time in a decade. The last time we went anywhere together was in the 90s. It was fun. I realized that even if I have grown up, am independent and all that, I will remain my parents' little girl. And my brother's baby sister. H, my brother, teased me all the way from the time he saw me in Bangalore till the time he dropped us off at the airport. All of us grow up, but the key is to not grow apart I think. For a while in between, I thought I'd lost my brother... to marriage,to life, to work. Different cities, different lives... and then the lesson, that all you have to do is reach out. I remember asking him as a child, "I'm your favorite sister, no?" and his response never changed, "I don't have a choice." For as long as I could remember, I wanted to be like him... to wear his clothes... to go to his school... to hang out with his friends... and suddenly, a few years later, I wanted to be nothing like him. Life!

This isn't just about my brother, but about my parents too. There was a time when I just didn't get along with them. Everything I did was just so wrong. I couldn't make the right decisions, about friends, about academics, about interests. Then, I left home. Under the pretext of getting my higher education.That was the turning point I guess. From then on, things changed rapidly. I became a lot closer to them. I could talk to them on a level that they didn't even know I could manage. Absence must have made the heart grow fonder. Maybe I grew up a little too. We don't fight as much these days. And I cherish every moment that I get to spend with them. There's so much to learn if I just listen, observe and watch. I have come a long way from my "know-it-all" days and realize that there is so much to learn. They're the cutest set of parents any child could ever have. The ones who saved so we could have a good life. The ones who, despite the huge age difference between us, didn't let a generation gap seep in. They rank among my closest friends and confidantes today.

When I'm home, I always look at them and remember this from the nursery rhyme:

The King was in his counting house, counting all his money
The Queen was in her parlour, eating bread and honey

Appa's always been the finance manager of the household. Many of my fixations about income and income tax, I inherited from him. I also inherited my diverse music tastes and reading habits from him. How did one man, in one lifetime, manage to gather so much knowledge... it is beyond me. My thirst for knowledge and new things comes from him. According to him, I'm the biggest spendthrift in this world and I have taken after my mother (and overtaken her as well).

Amma's lessons on life continue... even today. About how to make dal or how to make the perfect pulao... about men and bosses and mothers in law. About mothers and siblings and how I must be there for my brother come what may... because he is all I will have left in this world when they're gone. About enjoying life today because if you save up for later, you won't be left with the energy to enjoy it. She instilled the love for singing in me. And she's the best cook in the entire world. I have yet to come across someone who makes the yummiest of Saraswat food, the tastiest Iyengar dishes, pizza that is almost world famous, pasta... and cakes, pastries, and the most sinful cheesecake. When I'm going home, I call in advance and place my order... is it Chinese or Moghlai this time?

I miss my parents very much when they aren't with me and am thankful for the unconditional love that only parents can give. How do they manage that? As always, I realize that there will some things that will always remain beyond my understanding.

Quarter Career Crisis

It has been bothering me for months now. And I have no idea what to do about it. I think while most people face a mid-life crisis, I must be facing a quarter career crisis. An average career lasts about 33-35 years and I have been working for 8 now. I learn new things everyday, meet different people everyday, but it is the same routine. The excitement that I earlier felt in my career seems to have gone on a long vacation.

Suddenly, the creative person within me seems to be in a tearing hurry to come out. I want to do different things. I want to start a home furnishing store since I am doing so much needlework in any case. Could that not be a lucrative career?

A couple of weeks ago, I baked a batch of chocolate chip cookies. They turned out delicious. Sometime before that, I baked a batch of absolutely chewy brownies. Why don't I start a home bakery? Why don't I start classes? I have been baking since I was 10. Why did I ignore it in between?

Under the pretext of "preparing for my career", I quit learning music. I sang last night at a restaurant. The Abba song that truly has all it takes to be "my song": Thank you for the music. The high that I got when I got off the stage was like nothing I'd felt in ages. Why did I give it up?

I've been writing for as long as I can remember. It fascinates me. From writing short stories to national level award winning essays, I've enjoyed the journey. Where did I lose touch? Why is it I don't write anymore?

These are the supposed "sacrifices" that I've made to be what I am professionally. I've had this single minded focus to make it big in my chosen profession. I started this journey wanting to be an immunologist. I landed up in management. No, not even in a biotech/pharma company. Ever so often I catch myself thinking of the "what if". My closest friends had chosen to remain in science. I envied them for being able to stick to their chosen lines. Things, today, are no different for them. I, along with my closest friends, am at the crossroads of life yet again.

What choices will we make? What will we be remembered for? What lies in store for us? We have enough to show for the 3 decades of existence on this planet. What about the remaining time? Will we have enough to show? Not to the world, but to ourselves. All I can wish for is that all of us lead fulfilling lives so that when it is time for us to go, we have no regrets.

Cross my Heart!

I was always fond of needlework, or so it seems. I remember hunting for small pieces of cloth to make handkerchiefs. Fortunately, my mom (and later I myself) had learnt tailoring from her sister (my aunt, who is no more) and did a lot of tailoring at home. So, I almost always found little bits of cloth. Also, when we were little, everyone in the neighbourhood was willing to teach us little things. I remember practising the running stitch at my neighbour's place and the lady of the house taught me how to hem. She also taught me some beadwork and I found all of it very fascinating.

My mother was usually making cushion covers and table cloths with beautiful designs. She has always been very good with colours and coordinating them. I would see her work her "magic" on matti cloth and would always wonder how she did it. I thought it was the most confusing stitch ever invented and could just never get it straight. My mom decided to get me started. Off we went to Handloom House in Madras to buy some wine red matti cloth. (The idea was to not let the messiness show.) She didn't allow me to practice with a straight line or anything... she put me on to a design directly. At that point, I must admit, I thought she really hated me. Why else would she traumatize me like that? I managed to get a hang of it and completed the entire cushion cover. This was when I was in Class 5. I gifted it to a friend (a much older friend) on her birthday and also went and asked for it back a few months later when we had to submit something for craft or SUPW (Socially Useful Productive Work) as we know it.

From that point on, I think I did a little bit every year. I took on complicated designs and took great pride in completing each one. From trying out new colour combinations to working my way on normal fabrics, each step was like an adventure into the unknown. You never know what awaits you at the end of the journey.

Whenever I made a mistake, I'd put the entire project away and not look at it for months, sometimes years. Then, cross stitch taught me one of life's important lessons. If you make a mistake, you can't let that bring life to a standstill. You have to go back, undo the wrongs and start over. If you do, what you get at the end of it is beautiful, truly a masterpiece. I took 9 years to complete work on a dress. A part of this is on the left here. The end result was so beautiful that I plan to cut off the embroidered portion and frame it.

I find this very therapeutic. I work at it when I am sad, when I'm angry, when I'm bored and when I am happy. I've gifted a lot of my work to friends and family. This is something that has truly touched my heart and my life and I felt compelled to blog about this. Thanks Amma, for being patient with me and teaching me a craft that will keep me company for all my life. I, too, hope to pass it on to someone in this lifetime.

A time to reminisce

I'm reminiscing about school after reading Pretty Woman's blog about childhood. I'm not in the mood to write much, but I'd like to put this email that I sent to my school's mailing group a couple of years ago.

In my 12 years at school, I always was part of something during each annual day. I sang every year as part of the group song team that would perform when the stage was being prepared for the next drama/event. I was in the primary school play in the 5th standard...I was to play Cinderella, and the teachers were unable to find a Prince who was taller than I was. So my classmate, Anju, took that role and I became a step sister. (This incident stands out in memory because today I'm not considered "tall" by any measure :-)))

I also played the role of Mahishi in a classical dance based drama "Markandeya". I remember going up on stage to receive the general proficiency prize with black paint on my face that year. But what I do remember most is the excitement and the preparation that went in each year. Reaching school at an early hour in the afternoon. Having Mrs. Lalitha put on make up for us. Then collecting snack coupons and attempting to eat biscuits and bananas without getting the lipstick off.

I learnt music for almost 10 years privately. But I learnt music for12 years from our music teacher too. If my music teacher at home taught me to sing with my open voice, Mrs. Lalitha taught me to use my "false" voice. At a recent get together, someone commented on my ability to sing in two voices. I think I spent so much more time singing at school that today I cannot sing in my real voice for very long. And that training in school got me on to the college choir and is now contributing to local Hyderabad entertainment at Planet M.

I think I feel pretty much the same way about art, craft, SUPW, CCA, Scouts and Guides, and sports. They're important...and we had the good fortune to learn all that in school. I still come across people who cannot thread a needle or change a light bulb, have never played a game, haven't gone to camp, haven't painted, sung, quizzed or debated, haven't read a book outside of their textbooks...and I cannot help but think...was it because they didn't go to our school?

The Road to Perdition?

One of my earlier posts, Inviting Trouble, talks about the traffic sense of people in India. I was shocked to see people ride with babies falling out of their scooters, and even more shocked to see them take babies in the front seats of their cars.

I've always wondered about how dangerous that could be. This morning, S and I were on our way to work when we got behind an Indica chugging along on the right most lane at about 25 kmph. S honked to get the car to move and we got ahead. Then the driver of the other came up, really close to us, and overtook us from the left. He cut in right in front of us and came to a complete halt. Then Mr. I-know-english-and-the-proof-lies-in-my-use-of-swear-words got out. He came over to our car and said to S, "You want to go fast, go in that lane." (That lane... was on the other side of the divider. Dude... we're still in India... physically, mentally and any which way you look at it) "Why don't you fly a plane if you want to drive so fast? What rash driving!" ( So fast? We were going at 40!) "My son almost got hurt because of you. Can I bash your car in return?" Whoa! He switched lanes without looking and had to apply his brakes as a result of which his child got hurt. Curiosity got the better of me and I looked into his car. The child was sitting on the lap of a lady (maybe its mother) in the front seat, while a maid sat in the back seat. Education is such a waste. (I use this line so often that S is tired of hearing it, but that's what comes across loud and clear, wherever I go.) S apologized for the fact that his son almost got hurt, but told him it was his fault.

It turned out that they were also headed to the same building where I work. When we reached the office, S got out of the car and went up to him and said, "Now I know how your son almost got hurt. Shouldn't you travel with your child in the back seat?" To which, Mr. Oh-I'm-so-ignorant responds with a "Who are you to tell me where my son should sit?"

Is there a God? Questions aside, I'd appeal to God to drive some sense into these idiots who drive on our roads. Teach them the rules before it is too late. If they were to learn from experience alone, it would prove way to costly.

Strange Encounters of the Arranged Kind - 3

I was truly impressed with this one, until...

When you're single, just about everyone is "looking out" for you. That they know next to nothing about you is a different thing. They only "mean well".

My cousin who is old enough to be my mother, had married off her two children and was focusing on getting me married. This incident dates back to about 2002-03. My cousin met a lady whom she knew quite well at a wedding. And the lady told her that she had an eligible bachelor son and she wasn't able to find a suitable bride for him. The "boy" in question was, indeed, most eligible. For a guy who was ranked among the top 10 in the IIT JEE exam that year had chosen to follow his heart and not the herd. That really impressed me.

He and I started exchanging some mails, started chatting, and soon he was in India and decided to come and meet me. A down to earth guy who did a lot of things on impulse, including making the decision to meet me. A post doc fellow in the US traveled in an unreserved compartment to Chennai simply because he didn't get a reservation on a weekend and he'd decided to meet me.

We met, talked, I even took him home to meet my parents, we spent an evening at the beach and he left for the station after dinner. We hit it off quite well. I was certain that despite the distance, if it had to work, it would. But there was no "love" or anything. After three months of regular correspondence (and by regular, I mean fortnightly), our man made a profound statement. "I am in the US and you are in India, I am not sure how we will work this marriage thing out." And I thought... if you didn't think I was the one for you, why couldn't you tell me directly? We knew right from the start that we were in different continents.

At that point I found myself thinking that it's a good thing that it didn't work out. No, it's not a question of sour grapes or anything, it is just that it feels good to get a sign beforehand. Imagine if we had gone ahead and if later on I'd come to know that he cannot confront a problem or talk about it. To think that with all that education, no one teaches us life skills. To the world, he was the title of Vikram Seth's novel. To me, he was another one who left an impression strong enough for me to blog about him 4 years later.

Strange Encounters of the Arranged Kind - 2

In the series of incidents around my journey along the arranged marriage highway, my second gem:

Mr. I-have-chalked-out-your-life-for-you: This one is almost too good to be true. I definitely remember how and when I met this guy. In fact, thanks to the person who had arranged this, my entire family and family's family also knew about this guy. His family credentials had been checked and while I was all of 25 (over the hill for most Indian women, right?) my cousin's uncle even pulled me aside at a family function and said to me, "Why don't you just say yes to this guy and put an end to your parents' misery?" I was angry... and as the Martian in Looney Tunes would say to Bugs Bunny, I wanted to say, "You have made me very angry... very angry indeed." But then "good upbringing" always seems to prevail. One is taught not to talk back and all that.

Finally, the 'boy' and his mother came to meet us. (I find it amusing that even when they cross 50, men are always referred to as boys when they are looking for a bride.) And everyone went to the dining area to have coffee, leaving the two of us to talk and 'get to know each other'. I have never understood how people decide, in an hour, or much less, who they will wake up with for the rest of their lives!

I was preparing to take the GMAT and I told him as much. He said, "So, you're a career minded woman. That's OK." (Oops... last heard that wasn't a crime. But will you,oh will you forgive me?) You can work for the next 3 years. After that we will have our first child. And after that I won't entertain any requests from you to go back to work again... ever! We had moved to the balcony by then and I almost fell from the 3rd floor to the children's play area below. I was so utterly shocked. I told him, "You haven't asked me to marry you. I haven't said yes. You haven't asked me if I want to have children at all. You have assumed that I'll give up my job when I have the baby. And, finally, you've taken it that my career decisions will rest in your hands. Isn't that a little too much?"

He said, "My mother always stayed home when we were kids. So my sister and I decided that a mother should always stay home. My sister also worked for 3 years after her marriage and had her first child then. And she's ket her part of the agreement and not gone back to work after that." (I love the logic. Can't beat this, can you?) I argued with him a bit and at the end he said, "Look, if you have 10 points for, I will have 10 points against, but this is not about who wins the argument. This is how I have planed my life and yours. That's it!"

Needless to say, when the cups of coffee were empty... pleasant goodbyes were exchanged and we never heard from them again!

Family’s day out!

We were out all day on Sunday. We left home early and spent the morning at the Mughal Gardens. This was my second trip to the gardens and my third to the President’s Estate. The Mughal Gardens are open only for a month or so between February and March and going there is almost like a ritual for most people here.

I enjoyed the walk in the gardens. It was a visual treat. Being able to see so many flowers in such different colours, made the long wait in the queue worthwhile. I also liked the fact that arrangements had been made for rest rooms and drinking water. What I didn’t like was the indiscipline of my fellow country beings. And people would take a plastic cup, fill it Bisleri, and wash their faces with it. Where a path had been blocked by flower pots, people thought they were at the Olympics and jumped over. What can one security guard do when there are 20 people unwilling to listen? When there were clear instructions to not step on the lawn, despite the fact that a security guard kept telling people otherwise, a whole bunch of people walked across a patch of brahmi. Shame on us!

We also went to meet a family friend who took us to Akshardham. It is a huge temple complex and I am amazed at the amount of money that has gone into building and maintaining this place. The carvings on marble are beautiful. Each pillar, each door, each ceiling is a piece of art in itself. And when they are all put together, the end result is simply out of this world. I was told this temple was built in record time in this day and age. I couldn’t help comparing this to the temples of Palitana, Gujarat. I have been there twice already and they continue to fascinate me. 1000 temples or so, built somewhere in the 11th century, on a hill. It took me almost 2 hours just to ascend… imagine what it would have taken for the people who built it. I, at least, didn’t have to carry rocks or tools, and I definitely didn’t have to build the steps to get there.

While at Akshardham, I asked my mother if the money that went into building this temple could have been put to better use. She felt that spending in the name of religion is not necessarily wasteful. A religion could die if its followers did little. There are so many things that we do which others would find wasteful, so I couldn’t say much. We talked about Palitana and about how Akshardham was made in the 21st century with so many tools, with motorized vehicles to transport materials. How did they manage it back then? Why did people build temples then? Why was it important? Was it because of their interest in the arts or their appreciation for all things beautiful? I figured that it was probably one way to leave their legacies… one way for the world to remember them, long after they left the world.

Both these places did not charge us for admission. So, it didn’t matter that we were Indians and the gentleman with us was German. But I’ve always wondered about this dual pricing in India. When you visit France, even if you traveled across the seven seas to see the Eiffel Tower, you pay the same amount to get to the top of the tower as you would if you lived right down the road from there. I wonder how I might have reacted if I had to pay 260 francs to see the Louvre instead of the 26 francs that I actually paid. I am sure that is how all foreigners would feel in India, when they find they have to pay ten times of what locals pay to see a monument.

A fun weekend in all, but one from which I emerged confused about my country. I am proud of my country, but I wish I could say the same about my fellow citizens.

Strange Encounters of the Arranged Kind - 1

Oru paattu paadu maa (Please sing a song)

A lot of people have said that to me, but I am fortunate that I didn’t have to go through this routine when it came to meeting prospective grooms. An earlier post talks of my single life and presents a mixed bag of my experiences. A woman’s life is not complete in this land until she has tied the knot… until she becomes the wife of someone. (Something tells me this completion exercise won’t stop here either… she has to be the means to let the family name go on… then get her children married… endless)

Over the years, I’ve had my share of fun with the arranged marriage set up. I must admit that I was never really against the idea, nor do I feel that one type of marriage is better than the other. And when I met these guys, I was not wasting anyone’s time… definitely not my own. But despite being practical and reasonably serious in my approach, I met every kind of man.

Mr. I’m-so-rich-I-can’t-help-it: I forget how I met this guy. Through a mutual friend I think. He asked to be introduced to me and we met. From the time we met till we said good-bye, he kept bragging about his income. About how he makes so much money that a middle class family can comfortably live on the amount he pays as tax. He asked me what perfume I was wearing. I told him it was Chanel No. 5. He brought out a package containing Davidoff Cool Water and said, “This is perfume. Not some stupid thing which you are using. At the start of the conversation, he told me about how he would be fully supportive of his wife’s career and all that. Then, towards the end of the conversation, he said, “I’d love for my wife to greet me with a cup of steaming hot coffee when I get back after a hectic day at work.” Innocent me looked at him and said, “What about her hectic day at work?” to which he replied, “That’s why I want you to stay at home… I make enough for the two of us put together.” I promptly gifted the Cool Water to a colleague the next day. I never quite liked it. Now, I’m not sure if that was only because of who gave it to me and how he said Chanel, my precious Chanel No. 5, was not perfume.

To be continued...

The Race Against Time

The alarm goes off at 6.45; my hand reaches out to the snooze button (a wonderful addition to any alarm). I rush through the morning routine so that I can enjoy breakfast with S, and leave for work with him. Yup… leaving for work together is somehow so important.

Once we’re out of the house, it hits us in the face: the aggression in this part of the world. My parents expected me to excel at what I did… academics, dance, music, art. They taught me that it was important to do well. But there was no pressure. They definitely didn’t teach me that it was OK to get ahead at the cost of other people. That stepping on others doesn’t matter as long as I get what I want.

Whenever we get out on to the roads, I can hear a song playing in my head. It’s like a modification of Ralph McTell’s song which goes like this:

Let me take you by the hand and lead you through the streets of Gurgaon
I'll show you something to make you change your mind

A pretty woman wrote in her blog about how people just say whatever comes to their minds. Out here, people don’t just say, they say and do exactly as they please. Nobody has bothered to learn the rules of traffic. If there is a roundabout, rather than go around it, they prefer cutting across. Standing in line or waiting in a queue is akin to murder! At a traffic signal, when there is nowhere to go and the signal shows red, it is not unusual to hear non-stop honking.

On some days, I take the elevator up. And that is an experience in itself. There is nothing called a queue. At times, I feel there is more order at a suburban train station in Bombay when the 8.23 fast to Churchgate rolls in. On several occasions I allowed those who came after me to get in first… even if that meant that I had to wait for the next one. When I think, “In Rome, do as the Romans do”, I also think, “If I behave the same way as these guys, what’s the difference between them and me?”

Chivalry is pretty much dead. I know that it is dying in other parts, but this is supposed to be the land of the chivalrous people. Chivalrous, my foot! If chivalry weren’t already dead in this part of the country, the people here would have stabbed it to death anyway. Forget holding a door open for you, men here will bang it shut right in your face. Come on… who has the time for this? We’re in a hurry.

Just last evening, we were at Big Bazaar finishing some grocery shopping. We had two cartloads of stuff and we’d just finished placing the last of the items on the counter. There were a couple of guys behind us in the “queue”. Big Bazaar’s billing system is such that it takes a little time to calculate the discounts after all the items have been entered. (It’s fun to watch the bill amount go down every second! Oops, I digress!) I was talking to S and my parents when I felt something very rough brush against my hand. I turned and found that Mr. In-a-hurry behind me had pushed his box of purchases all the way across because he decided he’d waited enough.

What is with the people here? Time is just as precious to me as it is to the next person. But did no one ever teach people in the north to be considerate? Or that it is not that important to get ahead in the race of life, especially if you’re doing it at the cost of others? I am not asking folks here to stop and smell the flowers, I’m only requesting that a little courtesy be extended to fellow beings.

Key learnings from the weekend

The weekend went by… and we didn’t do much. But I experienced my very first hailstorm. Fun at first, scary after a bit, but on the whole, a very unique experience.

Rains in January and February… something unheard of in this part of the country. I’d not seen rain even in the rainy season when I lived here earlier, so the sight of lightning a week ago did take me by surprise. The heavy rains over the weekend, including the hailstorm, were unexpected.

The guy in the Cadbury’s Bytes ad says, “I’ve learnt tow things today”. In quite the same way, I have learnt two things as well.

1. We don’t have umbrellas or raincoats and as a result, we are totally unprepared for a shower.


2. Gurgaon doesn’t have a drainage system. Maybe the town planners didn't expect rains at all... ever!

The Single Life

I have been meaning to blog about this for quite some time now. Someone else came out with a book.

I read about Radhika Jha’s “Chasing The Good Life: On Being Single” this morning. I came away from that article with mixed emotions. Am I to feel happy that I am not alone (or rather was not alone) or am I to feel sad that the plight of single Indian women in India has not changed one bit?

I lived alone for most part of my adult life. It was the life I wanted to lead. Not that I worried about being answerable to anyone. I’ve found that I can do that when I have to. But I’m very picky when it comes to whom I’m answerable to. My parent: yes. Someone who is considering me as a tenant for his apartment: no.

The initial years away from home were spent at a hostel. The kind with rules. I doubt I ever broke them, but I know I bent them on more than one occasion. Not without reason of course. I was pursuing two post graduate programs and picking up two foreign languages side by side. There was no way I could return to the hostel before 9 p.m. My name was entered into the late comers’ register almost everyday and Prof would bail me out. I never got into trouble, just never meant to and never did.

My house hunt as a single working woman was a different experience altogether. Nobody wanted me. Not in their apartments at least. Why? Because an opinion of me had been formed. A negative one at that. I finally found a place. Very close to my work place but not the most liveable of abodes. It may not have been what I wanted, but it definitely served my purpose. There was the usual set of rules. No boys can stay over, no loud music, no this no that. Who cared? I wasn’t the type to break such rules, so it didn’t matter. I wanted to be able to cook my own food. And this place allowed me that luxury. I hit it off very well with my landlord and landlady and they treated me like their own daughter. Sent food up at times, nursed me when I was unwell, allowed my parents to call me on their phone… trivialities you might say. But step into the shoes of a 23 year old, living 2000 miles away from home and your perception is bound to change.

Later on, I was forced to find a different place to stay. I moved 6 times in a span of 16 months. I was chased out because a good family was willing to pay more for my apartment. And at times, I ran. There was this one apartment that I took up. It was neat and compact. It even had a few appliances, but half the things just didn’t work. There was a telephone as well. And I was told that I’d have to pay whatever the bill showed. The owner lived abroad and had a caretaker for the place. My parents were visiting and I took them on a weekend trip. I just decided to get extra protection and bought a nice Godrej Navtal for the main door. When we returned from the trip, I found the metal door open and the main door was unlocked… except for my Navtal! Someone had tried to enter the apartment. The caretaker was promptly at my door the next morning asking why I had added an extra lock. I told him that that was none of his business. I also made use of the opportunity to show him what was not working. The next night, well after 11 p.m., Mr. Caretaker was at my door, completely drunk. And he claimed he wanted to know if the appliances had been fixed. He kept trying to force his way in and I shut the door in his face and locked it. The next morning, I vacated the place.

After a few months, I moved back to the city where my parents lived and just moved back in with them. My problems from that point were on were far from over and just took a different turn. (Don’t get me wrong, I had absolutely no adjustment problems as all my friends thought I would.) Everyone I came across would ask me why I was single at 24, why I was not saying yes to the many guys whose proposals for alliance my father received, why I was wasting my life.

Indians are experts at asking personal questions. Where do you work? What does your father do? How much money do you make? How old are you? I have learnt that this is just part of who we are. At a friends wedding, there was this lady sitting next to me at lunch. She asked me, “Nee Vidyakku friend a? Kalyanam aayidutha? Aathula thedarala illaya?” (Are you Vidya’s friend? Are you married? Are your folks hunting for a groom or not?). When I replied, she almost choked on her food. “Ille mami. Aathula peche edukka maattengara. Neenga venumna thedi kudukkarela?” (No Aunty, my folks aren’t even broaching the subject. Why don’t you find me one? )

I also wanted to buy an apartment. A classmate suggested that I invest in property. I always wanted to have a place that I could call my own. So, I booked an apartment and went to a home loan fair. Everything was hunky-dory. My turn came and a gentleman called out my name. I went to his desk with all my documents. He looked up at me and said, “Where’s your husband?” I said, “I don’t have one.” He looked up at me and said, “Sorry, no loan for you.” I told him I’d take him to court for making such statements. I did finally get my loan sanctioned but not before I got lectured on how single women run away with a housing loan and the house. (How? How on earth?)

On the whole, I do know that my 9 years away from home, as an independent single woman have been eventful. I've made some wonderful friends... most of them being single women. I’ve intimidated a lot of single men… some married ones too. (I've even come across an army that thinks single means available.) I know I made a lot of women uncomfortable. Most people felt threatened by my existence. Why they felt that way, I will never know. It is probably because single is different. According to them, single is dangerous… single and successful is more dangerous, but the most dangerous of them all is the single, independent and successful.