Mrs Goody Two Shoes - I

It was easy. I mean, a married young girl, with a rhes-spectable husband and warking in a rhes-spectable office. Finding a house in a rhes-spectable society was easy. And soon, I was surrounded with Mrs Bhasin, Mrs Reddy, old Mr Nagaraj et all. I had become thee 'bahu' of thee society. Now, being this kind of a bahu means something, to other people. The mornings start with taking the garbage out, which is normal, except that it is also chit-chat time. All the Mrs Everybodys are there and I start my day with a sugar-sweet "Namaste aunty, everything well?" "Arrey beta, how can everything be well? Your uncle has constipation and I have been telling him..." Tick, tock, tick, tock... I am already ticked off. "...and then the maidservant got those leaves and I made that curry..." interspersed with "Yes, aunty", "No aunty", "Right aunty", "I'll definitely try aunty".
This morning ritual ends with the husband lovingly calling for tea, that is for me to make tea and serving us both. I run off to the kitchen as part of my expression of wifely love and devout devotion,conscious of the the aunties' eyes following me with "what a nice sweet girl, even in this modern day" and your husband's eyes welcoming you with "what a darling you are".
Well, for anyone who thinks this is easy, it's not. You need to be a good player to keep the reputation going. It's like, that one day you take one puff in office and everyone goes, "Wow! You do that? Doesn't your husband say anything? Does he even know?" And up goes your fully constructed image in smoke.
So this one day was my pitfall, among many many more pitfalls to come. I kept the door of my flat ajar and while trying to get the mess that is our home in shape, which was because I was trying to find some papers I needed for office that day, I shouted, well actually, screamed, "Honey, can't you please make some breakfast? Anything?" Now, the husband is very kind and warm, just a little clueless. He, in his bewildered state, was even making his way to the fridge to manage something, when one Mrs Aunt walked in. "It is not my business, but why make poor boy cook early early in the morning. What will your saas say when she hears of this?" How on earth will my saas, thousand miles away, even KNOW? Unless... and I quickly shot a few glares to the husband, just in case.
A little while later, there was steaming puri-sabji-halwa on our dining table, courtesy aunty. She left me with a "poor girl, she doesn't have anyone to teach her values" look and a, "It is your husband, no. Handle with care."

It's just a little rain

Bangalore greeted the rains with a sigh of relief today. Judo and I were just about sitting down to lunch when the formidable army of clouds marched upon us. The winds began to whistle through the streets and we stood and watched the magnificence of it all. It is amazing how, in an instant, the heart can do a flip and be unconditionally happy. When everything turns grey, and the storm comes to bang the door shut before you could run to it. You have to hurriedly get the clothes you had put out to dry off the clothesline. Then it would drizzle, through the leaves, on the awnings, in the little rivulets. You would make yourself a glass of hot chocolate, then curl your toes in and just sit there with a book, and a smile.

Who are these, golfers?

You know what, I think there is one divide, only ONE, between people. There are people on two sides of the barbed wire that skirts the golf course. There are those sporting caps and golfing clubs, with caddies trailing along. They with their refined walk and refined talk. With their English tea and cigars. With pearl earrings or Gucci tees. Then there are us, riding in an auto by that wired, around 100 ft high fence, looking lustily at the greens, wondering what life is like out there, being jolted back to reality when the auto hits a bump or ducks into a pothole, and quickly returning to our Rs 3 coffee and occasional Rs 20 ice cream treats. We get too busy running around in our faded slippers. Just once in a while, in those stolen moments, we think about those green outfields, wondering what lies in those rolling stretches, under those cool caps…

A day in the life of ... me

I just thought, after much thought and deliberation, that instead of thinking and thinking and thinking about what to write, I’ll just write. Write just about ANYTHING that occurs to me. Like the first thought is, I don’t want to think about what to write for my newspaper, every single day of my life. Maybe that’s also because lately I haven’t been able to think of any great or good, or even anywhere close to good, ideas for stories. (You can say I am ideatically challenged right now.) But that apart, they are always restrictive. I mean, there is one peg that you are supposed to follow. There is this one omnipresent (I just used that word because it seems quite imposing) idea and you have to generate a story about it. You can’t really just pen down anything and everything that comes to your heart.

So what did I do today? Or, what do I do everyday? I wake up around 9.30 a.m. – just about the time that the maid is to arrive. I brush and get fresh, make myself and hubby (if he’s at home coz he can be at office) two cups of tea. Sit with the newspaper and after a little while, switch on the television. The morning seems to be waking up slowly for me, with the sun pouring in first, maybe tiptoeing in. Then it stretches and gently puts her feet down, slips on her pink slippers, sits on the lovely cream-coloured cane chair, folds up her legs with the warm, warm tea and newspaper.

So, the day has begun. Then I cook, unless there are enough leftovers, or there is a food review I have to do. Like today I had to review a Kerala cuisine that Jamavar at The Leela Palace has laid out. Chimpu also came along and we had an absolutely quiet and peaceful afternoon together. The chakka payasam – payesh made with jackfruit – was just amazing! Add to it the fact that I just drool over jackfruit.

(In between all this I try thinking of the story ideas in the league of the good or great ones or follow up some little ones that I have.)

Then, we are off to office. It’s the daily grind. Tini’s chirpings and chat. After a while I realise that there is hardly anybody I can talk about a book about here. Rishi does his funny things and keeps us happily entertained. Poonam’s our fashion guru(mata) and Sangeeta’s the quiet, smiling one, although she is growing up fast for sure and somehow seems not too happy with me. Seena’s what we used to be in JU. Then there’s Ram and Jagan. And then of course, there is the boss. Ravi. Joshi. The days he is good, it takes us a little by surprise. The days he is bad, we keep our fingers crossed and pray we survive the day unscathed. Well... sometimes, he does seem human, and you might even understand why he is behaving totally like the clichéd idea called ‘the boss’.

Back home around 10.30 p.m. And after dinner it’s a heavy, very satisfactory dose of F.R.I.E.N.D.S. Three back-to-back episodes, interspersed with flipping the channel to Sex and the City. I absolutely gorge on them. ‘Friends’ has been with me since I was in high school. Sex and the City is a more recent addition.

Bangalore is a cool city. I am gradually getting used to it and I even know many of the roads around.

(This was basically a diary entry written in early March)

Broken

A pall of gloom has settled all around. After the panic, fear, shock, anger, outrage, it was time for all the emotions to congeal into one black mood – a despondent, miserable kind of a feeling that will not leave us anytime soon. We, who are lucky enough to live, will go about our normal chores, but every moment will be a fight to be normal again and not be the psychologically scarred people that we all have become to some extent.
The terrorists are educated, and I mean, in many different things and ways. And the best (worst) part is that they believe so strongly in every bit of that education – the training, the cause, the faith – and they are dedicated enough to die for their mission. They really have a reason to live and die for.
It would be a blessing if our politicians had even one ounce of that dedication towards our country, and to the job they are supposed to do. What our politicians don’t realize is that the country is their responsibility, the country is their office, running the country is their job. They are employees of the government and also of the people. The salaries, perks, incentives and favours they get are for them to run the country safely, smoothly, in a progressive manner.
I’m not ruling out the responsibility of common citizens, but what I’m saying is that the citizens are that much more helpless as the politicians are powerful; and the common man has to struggle every day for his/her survival. Our politicians are inept, incompetent, self-centred and full of empty promises. They don’t do their jobs properly and there is none among them who could inspire or motivate the whole country.
There is not one leader in this country of a billion who the common man can look up to and follow. The terrorists, on the other hand, have plenty to take as examples. So, how can the common man, rightly skeptical of all the leaders in the nation, shake off the fear and be invigorated to take action, to come together as citizens and fight for a cause?
Without anyone to be guided by, we have been left stripped in the face of grave, unknown danger.
The citizens need to know what are the government and intelligence agencies doing to be prepared better to handle such situations, and, more importantly, to prevent such tragedy striking again. We want answers and we want action.

The Visionary

Iksha. Meaning sight. I took the name upon myself, took shelter under it, for its beauty. It seemed to exude an aroma, a halo even. I thought, "I would like to be Iksha, whoever she was." It feels nice to be an ageless, timeless shadow, flitting through time zones easily. (Time zones would also mean from the artificially cooled interiors of a cold, cold office to, say, on the Ganga's ghat .) So, as Iksha, I want to see and see through. See all. To see the world in a larger sense than through my own restricted vision.

A Whole Mew World

I love cats. I've always wanted them as pets and after a few tantrums, my parents (they are such sweethearts) let me have innumerable of them. Actually, we had generations of them. And all of them were darlings. They successfully melted baba & ma's hearts and the three of us cared for them like they were little kids in the family.

Let's start with their names... Mini, Puchki, Kali, Spotty, Betku, Ms Marple, Jhumri, Pushu, Moti -- they were the most pampered of them all.

Mini was a regal feline. We just stopped short of addressing her as "Her Majesty". She was snow white with golden fur on her head. She made sure she was always clean, ate only select fish & sweets from the best sweet shops, snacked on Nahoum's cheese biscuits and carried her "mattress" wherever she went (to avoid sitting on the floor of course). She even knocked before entering a room (trust me on this!)

Spotty's a dainty darling, very feminine and shy. She likes staying cuddling up to us all the time.Moti appeared on our wall one night. We had finished our dinner and she sat there looking so forlorn. I decided to give her a piece of fish. She took it and dissapeared down the road. The next day (night), she was sitting huddled up on the same spot, same time. She was never late or early. Gradually her meals included lunch, then breakfast and then snacks, too. She had her kittens in our "chhota" (small) garage (that place has become the cat's maternity ward ever since), and she would take a stroll with them in the evenings up to our front balcony, call us and proudly display her children.

Betku (one of Moti's offspring) loved showing off her antics. Jumping sideways or as high up as possible, rolling over, doing what looked like a jig.

But what they all have done best is teaching us to love, teaching us that love can only multiply. When they looked at us, we could see their devotion, affection, helplessness without us, their attachment to us. The way they followed my father around while he was gardening, or kept my mother company while she cooked. And while I studied, they sometimes dragged out a book, opened it(!) at a random page and sat staring, mostly at me, sometimes at the book. Puchki once chewed on a page since it was playtime and I, with my exams round the corner, couldn't give her and her ping-pong ball company. Only Spotty's with us till now. I miss them. I miss how they ran to greet me when I came home from school, college, work. My little friends.