Occupational Hazards of being the Bride

After three months of scrutinizing the almanac, consulting pundits, mapping astro charts, checking the availability of key relatives, key venues and forecasting chum-free dates, after almost finalizing dates twice and canceling twice too, the third time the parameters were all right and the date of my wedding was fixed! The date.

I had close to six months of preparation time and in hindsight, I am not so sure that was the best thing. Six months of visualizing what it would be like, six months of anticipating, of being anxious, excited and of running, re-running and re-re-running the events in your mind as to exactly how you would want it to be.

I thought to myself, I would look up every option available to me in clothes, accessories, make up, jewelery, wedding cards, naach gana and food. It would all be under control. It was going to be perfect.

All the hard work did pay off. I had my blissful share of fluff and the frills of a wedding which I thoroughly enjoyed.

Not so blissful were the occupational hazards of being a bride, for with the wedding vows come the wedding woes!

Shopping for my stuff was tricky. I had all the time in the world and always feared I would find something better in the next place. I looked at all that the shop had to offer, shortlisted two to three, tried them on and ended up buying nothing! So we went from shop to shop looking for "that Sari" and "that jhumka" that was going to be better!

This is tough especially on fathers since they have no concept of why a blue sari with silver sequins is aesthetically inferior to an aquamarine blue sari with copper embellishments or even that certain colors are better by day and certain better by night or that mauve, lilac and beige would look really hot with sequins but not so much were they plain. Or that mauve, lilac and beige were actually three different colors for that matter.

Too much fuss.

My dad was definitely not a part of the subsequent girly stuff shopping trips. He made it through one, thats commendable.

Mother, the more patient of the two and arguably better at telling lilac from pink, was the brave companion/ critic.

When VH1 ran the "Bridezilla" series on TV, I couldn't help thinking how much I was like those brides during the pre-wedding preparations!!!
Totally high strung!

Needless to say shopping was a long haul for us, but we got past all that, albeit with three saris in the lot, that were more or less the same shade!

Sleep is a luxury that I got very little of during my three day wedding. Yes that's right my three day wedding. Needless to say the final few days to the wedding also had me sleeping at the wee hours of the morning and waking up early to some or the other mini or maxi 'pre-cursor to the wedding' function!!

The wedding is an occasion to relax and enjoy for all but the ones getting wedded. You do enjoy it but in an altogether different way, for the sheer experience that it is! Nothing short of a full fledged Bollywood film. Its literally 'Lights! Camera! Action!'

And in typical filmy style it has hazaar costume changes too! I loved the fact that there were so many clothes and accessories to dress up in. Super exciting, super stressful too. But like it is said, "no pain, no gain".

In two days I changed through clothes eight times. A scaled down version of the Lakme India Fashion Week. Run into the green room, change clothes, make up, jewelery, footwear and then run out. Only to come panting back in within an hour or so to start over. All this amidst a group of minimum of nine aunts, cousin sisters and friends in all, that constantly reminded you of the precious little time at hand and how I really needed to step on it!!!

I remember the night of the Sangeet cum Engagement, when I was to change thrice!!

It took me close to an hour and a half to get ready from head to toe in Sari number one. The sari was rather heavy and we went through hell getting the pallu right, my hair was at its slippery best and getting the hairdo right was another task! Once done, dispatched with instructions to walk slowly and coyly, I reached the podium and in hardly ten minutes was sent back with the second sari I was required to re-emerge in!!!

All that trouble for ten minutes of public appearance!! This was rich!

While one is thrilled at the number of people who actually take the trouble of making it to the wedding, the less thrilling part is remembering who is who. Extended families of the groom and the bride, the family friends, and the friends.

In my case, the introductions were a blur. By the time I was 'hello-ing' with the fifteenth "Who in God's name is this" guest, my only objective was to smile and not reveal how clueless I was! The trickiest part was when some people enthusiastically said "Remember Me??", and I would have to almost bite my tongue to stop blurting out "Hell No!"

As I was introduced to group after group, I switched to photographic memory mode and commenced visual cataloging. Mother in law's oldest paternal uncle from Trivandrum, his wife, wife's sister and husband, their two children and blah blah blah..All I registered was funny old man with cottony hair, large lady in pista green sari, lady with lot of make up in an orange and green sari, bored looking bespectacled man holding onto Tom and Jerry!

Quite a few people to smile and take pictures with too. Twenty minutes into the group photo routine and your cheeks start hurting. Towards the thirtieth minute the facial muscles are flexed enough to numb and go beyond feeling pain. By now your face is set in the benign bright smile of a new bride. With practiced ease, effortlessly you pose for pictures after pictures arriving at a state of becoming what I call the 'Picture Pro'.

And then the video. Isn't it ever sooooo annoying to be videoed while eating?

You are invariably the absolute last to eat all that yummy food which was decided over three meetings with the caterer before being finalized as the wedding menu, the feast you had lusted over and planned to gorge on at your wedding. Suddenly none of it is eatable owing to exhaustion and the constant smiling and interacting with the guests.

To top it all, just when you think you are left alone to eat, the video wala is here focusing the video light on you, making you feel like a prisoner at a jail break, caught in the glare of a watch tower strobe light. Not to mention, the diligent photographer by his side clicking away at every chomp and chew! For documented evidence that the bride and groom ate and were very much in love through that as well, he will insist that we feed each other laddoos and jilebees! How sweet!

Sure enough I had to eat the Laddoo and open my mouth wider than I would at the dentist's! Yes, he got that on camera too.

All the cribbing aside, I so treasure these pictures and videos. Three hard bound albums and five online albums full of pictures. Each and every one of them has you in it. No I don't tire looking at them. Such vanity I tell you!!

Its also highly entertaining looking at these pictures and videos of people you know, caught making weird faces on camera and of people you don't know to finally figure out how you do know them after all!!

Every time I think back on the wedding there is something to smile about that comes to mind! Its like I have the DVD of my favorite movie stored away in my memories!! To rewind, play and enjoy for the years to come!

Online not-working on Facebook

Anybody who is an anybody knows what Facebook is. They're using it too.

Why??

I mean everything was okay as long as I was finding friends and meeting strangers over Orkut. Orkut is organized, user friendly - by that I mean not only are its features intuitive and easy to figure out visually, but they are also more often than not, relevant.

And then Facebook came along.

I don't mean to do a comparative user analysis between the two, I am just here to crib about Facebook. But involuntarily I may be drawing parallels. That is not my intention, so its not my problem if you jump to conclusions.

Moving on. My primary problem with Facebook is that its chaotic, secondary problem being everyone I wish to keep in touch with, uses it more than they use Orkut.

Why???

The silly part is I have almost the same people added to my friends list in both places. Sooner or sooner the others on Orkut will discover "Facebook!!", and then I will log onto Facebook and stare at an exact identical twin of my Orkut address book. What purpose is that serving?? Address book backup number four? No thank you.

I know I know one is expected to make new friends over these online social forums, but I am just glad to already know so many wonderful people, that I have zero inclination to make the effort to stalk, hunt down strangers and cajole them into being my chuddy buddies. (Cajole? of DDLJ fame?)

And, what if they are psychotic serial killers?? Has anyone thought of that??

One other reason Facebook feels like a thorn in the flesh, is for its inherent chaotic nature that clashes with my inherent Monica Gellar nature.

There are crazy applications people add and send out to all on their friends list. I end up with vampires, zombies, potatoes, pokes, werewolves, teddy bears, eggs and what not on my page. I on the other hand have no clue whatsoever and my Vampires end up getting bitten or fed or whatever that is! Basically, I am losing at these Facebook games that I don't care about and don't know how to play!

Then there are likeness matches, tests and quizzes. I like the quizzes I must confess, but nothing else!

My home page is a clutter of text and images. There is just too much happening over there for my taste! The slew of applications and features is disconcerting, disorderly and disrequired. I know I know, I cooked it up!

Its like these million off the shelf ERP packages that are built with a million features! Whether relevant for your use or not is entirely your bane. Just put up with all the links, all the sections, the little buttons and the notifications, the messages, figure out what you really want out of all that and muster the courage to continue using it.

Its like having to roll your pants up and getting into slush to fetch a cricket ball.
Its like a buffet that's actually an orgy!

I just want to say "Hi" to my friends and keep in touch. Is that too much to ask for?? Do I have to put up with the horrors of online networking and advanced technology?

Okay okay ..I may be overreacting sometimes I think. I am making an effort to "understand" Facebook, and sometimes for crazy fun, I think its interesting. But its still not my favorite networking site. So, Ha! Ali khan?

One of my friends actually suggested she would design an e-learning package on "How to use Facebook". Noble thought. But when there is a perfectly usable, easy to understand and a zillion times less complicated alternative available, why would I want to sit through a tutorial to grudgingly become a Facebook groupie?

Why???

Because soon Orkut will be a dead site and I will have to move on?

Sigh! Okay. I give up. Bring me that tutorial Kanssan.

Fantasies of a foodie - Part One

In winters I have noticed, I always eat more than usual. But that's just an excuse, I always eat more than usual.

Food is one celebration I absolutely look forward to.

Last Sunday, was one of the most perfect days of winter. It was mildly sunny, gently breezy and comfortably cold. I slept through the morning, into the day and when absolutely satiated with sleep, smiling sleep as I call it, I woke to begin my waking day.

The customary exercising, the lovely long hot bath - another cherished fantasy, and onto the dance class.

I always came away happy from dancing. Dancing with the husband especially, is a lovely feeling!

I hadn't eaten a thing, but I was happy. It is very very gratifying when the appetite is built up, when hunger is allowed to grow and then is appeased by glorious food!!! The pleasure is almost sinful. The pleasure of purposeful deprivation.

We landed to lunch at a homely eatery. The seating was outdoors.

The enjoyer of earthly pleasures will appreciate the effect rendered by the outdoors, especially to the forms of recreation I enjoy - Eating, Sleeping, Playing, Walking, Reading, Writing, Shopping; being out under the open sky, in the sun, in the breeze simply multiplied the joy of an event.

Quick service, witty waiter, informal ambiance, hot, homemade, heavenly food. A foodie couldn't have asked for more.

I started with Chaas. The salt was just right, the cumin blended well with it, the buttermilk was not too sour, the flavor of the coriander was subtle, it was slightly tepid to seem refreshing enough on a wintry afternoon, it was perfect. It was gone in no time.

By the time it was finished, the main course was ready to be devoured!

Gobi ka paratha, alu ka paratha, dahi - super creamy, super yummy with rock salt, and aam ka achaar!!

The parathas were just right. The filling was not drowned out in the mass of the flour, you could actually taste the vegetables and the flour was non-interfering, as it should be. The covering was thin, soft and crunchy at the same time, it was the right color of brown, the melted butter and the cooked vegetables mixed in the overdone flour smelt like heaven.

It was a treat to the senses. Sight, smell, touch, taste!

I smacked my lips in glee like a wandering child that had found food after weeks of starvation! My manna!

I had no intentions of refraining to my plate alone. The husband's meal looked worthy of being tasted.

Thin, soft phulkas, hot delicious chholey, sweet and spicey kaddu ki sabzi and the highlight - cucumber ka raita!!

More chomping, more smacking of lips!!

I was comfortably full.

"Sharbat main kya hai bhaiyya?"

" Roohafza."

AAAH! That I had not had in years now!! I had to have Roohafza!

A large glass of lovely dark magenta colored sweet Roohafza was gulped down!!

No meal is complete without the dessert. I wanted the Gulab Jamun, but he had only Gajar ka Halwa. A little disappointed, but very ready for dessert, I welcomed the Gajar ka Halwa.

Made from the authentic red carrots, hot, sticky with caramel, milk and carrot juice, filled with raisins and cashews, it was the answer to my prayers!!!

Rakesh, the waiter couldn't suppress the smile. I am sure he wondered about where all that food went! I am just thankful. As long as it didn't show, I could gorge!!

It wasn't just the quantity of food that day, or its quality alone, but the entirety of the situation that made this meal one of the most memorable ones in recent times!! I was well slept, I had thoroughly enjoyed the long hot bubble bath, the weather was great, I had just danced for an hour and lived my passion, my lover boy was with me, I was hungry enough to eat a horse and I had found great food!

I got home and slept like a bear cub for three hours flat! Woke up to steaming adrak ki chaay and Haldirams instant bhel, the ultimate offering to evening hunger pangs!

Oh! Blissful Sunday!

It was so perfect, I could have just dozed off on a Charpoy right there after that lunch in the sun and shade of that winter afternoon.

One day I will. After all, life is magical only when you live your fantasies.

I am a Grandma Cat

STATUTORY WARNING: THIS ONE IS SUPER LONG
because its on my "pet" subject (pun intended) ..heh heh heh heh..I am funny no? Okay read on.

Meow!....Meow!....Meoooowwwwwrrr..!

The meowing was incessant and only growing louder! For a two month old tabby, Sundari could really meow! Her green brown clear and shiny eyes dilated to the maximum and her tiny pink mouth seemed constantly open! Warm milk and Whiskas for lunch. The crinkling of the packing was a stimulus she was so conditioned to. She knew the moment was nearing and the plate would be full soon. Food food food...!

Her tone was getting more and more demanding. Sudama was huddled up quietly next to the plates, as always. He knew she could single-handedly torture us into feeding them in record time!

Pets have been an integral part of our family. Pets brought joy to our home and eased any kind of tension. They were loving, lovable and great fun. My family once had a pet dog called Dabbu, before I was born. He died tragically in a road accident and since then as a policy my parents didn't bring home dogs. Cats ruled all the way and since age six, I have lived with pet cats.

For some years it so happened, the only pets my parents had at home were each other. And so, when I moved back in with them for a while, we decided to bring home some cats.

We got Sudama and Sundari home from SPCA (Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals). They were in an exclusive cage in the cattery, left recently at SPCA by a family that was moving cities. Both sat together like two balls of wool, one golden and one grey. Like two single scoops of ice cream, almond and black currant! Large glassy eyes staring out of a furry head that looked too big for their tiny bodies.

They were simply adorable!!

Sundari was named "Sundari", because she was just that. Splendidly beautiful! She was a healthy, furry, dark grey tabby, with stripes in black and light grey, had the most beautiful dark greenish-brown Kohl lined eyes, a soft pink triangular nose, and a white tummy!

Her brother in comparison, looked ever so slightly smaller, a pale golden brown, gentle soft brown eyes, and a thin quivering little tail on a frail body, like an antennae jutting out of an old toy jeep. He seemed to be very unconcerned with the world. Neither did we as strangers frighten him nor did our home as his new surroundings daunt him. He was in his own world and was of a detached disposition.

Sundari on the other hand, was at her nerves' ends for the first few days. She was nervous, un-trusting and irritatingly cautious. She hid and scurried like she was a secret agent on enemy territory. To reach her dish of milk, she would sneak up behind every possible object on the way to the dish and never make a straight line to it. The moment we moved to get closer, she would dart off to the opposite end of the room and hide in some inaccessible nook. Silly kitten.

Within two weeks they were settled and roamed around like they owned the place. Sundari was a new person. The new found comfort level made her confidence soar and she was transmogrified into this chatak fatak rapchik mirchi cat. As playful and naughty as ever, the little fur ball was a treat to watch. Tumbling and scampering all over the terrace floor.

Between the two, she was the bully, biting, kicking and pinning down poor Sudama after every little wrestling bout! Anything but a lady!

Poor Sudama was his same old self, just growing weaker by the day, barely eating. He wasn't interested in the games, would tire easily and though the same age as Sundari the chalu cat, Sudama looked a lot older and grave!

We took them both to SPCA, for the second course of de-worming and vaccination. Sudama, diagnosed anemic, was retained for treatment. In a few days SPCA called in to say they had lost Sudama during treatment, and were really sorry.

Needless to say we were shocked! We knew he was ill, but we never thought he would actually succumb to it. Our association with the little guy was brief, but we will always remember him fondly as the cool, level headed, mature older brother to prankster Sundari. I imagine, his illness taught him tolerance. He was at peace by himself, he was at peace getting pounded by his sister, he was at peace in his new home from day one. I get this feeling he must be fine where ever he is. May his soul rest in peace.

With Sudama gone, Sundari was the center of our attention. If she did miss Sudama, she didn't hold onto it for too long. She was the happiest little fur ball bundling all over the house, spreading joy and some cat fur occasionally! We reveled in her little kitten antics, and could watch her play and frolic for hours together! She was a curious, brave, exceedingly beautiful, spirited creature. She grew to accept us as her family. I was her mother and took pride in seeing her grow.

Her antics or mannerisms earned her a new name almost everyday! The fluffy kitten was on some days called "Pushkala" or "Pushku" for being so round and soft. She would lap up her milk with such relish, eyes closed as if to soak in the contentment, at a steady pace.. "chup chup chup chup chup chup", not once lifting her head till the dish was licked clean! And for the constant chup-chupping she was "Chuppu".

As she grew a bit older, we started letting her out at nights to explore and learn to hunt.

For four mornings in a row the lady woke us up at around 4AM with her incessant howling and meowing like someone was murdering her! In the still, calm early morning hours known as "bramha muhurtam", one always slept the best. Each morning as the shrill constant meowing started, grew and worked its way up to resound in the small enclosure of houses, I would swear to strangle her on laying my hands upon her. I pity the neighbors. But when I would see her, I just laughed. She looked so stupid and scared it made her all the more adorable. She would be perched at a high point on the roof or at an inaccessible portion of the terrace not knowing how to get back. She would meow her head off to be rescued, hitting different notes, pitching from lowest to highest and back to the lowest. Mind you she would meow all through the rescue operation till she was safe in our arms.

The opera started at 4AM for four mornings.

She was tiny thus jumped up or down to places but somehow couldn't retrace her path. And these places she got stuck at were always so inaccessible for us large, not-as-graceful-as-a-cat humans. I always had to hang upside down, anchor myself to something, or stretch my body to its limits in my "holy" pajamas, not to mention in the chill of the early morning. What all love can make you do!
It seemed simple enough that if she could jump up or down to a level she should be able to do the same thing in reverse. But she couldn't. We decided she was an awfully cute, but awfully dumb cat and named her "Buddhilla" - no brains!

Cats are carnivores by nature, but this one ate healthy. She had a fetish for Papayas! You could get her to ingest anything that had even traces of Papapya in it!! In fact Papaya-Rice was one of the standard menu items. And so we called her "Papeeta". The fruits were cut at dinner time, and she would sit on one of the dining chairs and wait patiently for us to finish dinner.

The three of us would be seated at the table and ninety nine out of a hundred times Chuppu would be on the fourth chair, sitting like a football, a little bunny rabbit with her eyes tightly closed, as if meditating in anticipation of the fruity fantasy. For that matter whenever the family sat together at the dining table, Chuppu would come plonk herself on the fourth chair. For that she was called "Fochchair".

She should have had an identity crisis with all the "name calling", but as long as the tone was the same, she knew it was her we were talking to.

One morning there was commotion in the balcony. Hissing, meowing, screeching, there was some shuffling. As I ran outside towards more hissing and snarling, I froze at a loud crashing sound!

In front of me, a potted plant lay on the floor, amidst mud and pieces of terracotta, its moss stick was uprooted and dried leaves from the plant lay scattered around it. To my left was Chuppu. I was relieved to see her safe. Her back was arched, she was standing on her toes, elevated by a good three inches, body tensed and skewed in an angle ready to charge, her tail was puffed up and pointed to the sky, occasionally waving, ears flattened and pupils dilated as large as marbles, there was a perpetual guttural growl coming from deep within her throat. What a sight she was. A spooked creature possessed by some supernatural energy.

And then I shifted my gaze to what had her undivided attention! I followed her line of sight to find between the pots, her tormentor, a brown mangy cat almost three times her size. Large flat face, torn left ear, tufts of fur missing at several spots, yellowish eyes and a butt ugly look over all.

Enter Billy Bonda in our lives.

What started out as a battle of the sexes, turned out into something quite unexpected. A typical case of "pehle taqraar fir pyaar" a la Bollywood style. Billy bonda was the street cat, worn and torn, the tough gypsy biker wooing my house bred, clean cat living a life of luxury and good manners. I did not approve.

Billy Bonda visited our balcony everyday. He played with Chuppu, patiently let her jump around, bite him and towards the end would pin her down, nip at her ear and walk away. He was a lot bigger than her, but never hurt her. They ran around, practiced hunting techniques and were gone for hours together, after several hours you would find them sprawled on the door mat in the afternoon sun. He ate up all the food laid out for Chuppu, she didn't mind. Soon she was an expert hunter and was evolving into an adult cat. I was jealous she liked being outdoors all the while with Billy Bonda ignoring her mommy. I felt pangs of possessiveness and separation at the same time.

I also wanted Chuppu to date a more handsome cat, but at the cost of sounding totally silly, in my heart of hearts I knew he was perfect for her. He taught her "cat wisdom", and was a strong experienced companion for the outer world. I knew she would be safe with him around. Over the days I grew fond of him too, and thought he was filling Sudama's place in my cat's life.

In a little more than a month, Chuppu had a visible bump in her tummy and we were just too thrilled at the thought of little 'Chuppulets'. I was going to be Grandma!

Always a healthy eater, now her appetite was touching new heights. Two glasses of milk, four square meals of mashed rice, dal, milk and desi ghee, and a small evening snack of more milk and Whiskas. A little Papaya now and then. We could tell she was carrying at least two kittens.

Already pampered to the hilt, the soon to be mommy was getting star treatment. We doted on her and she loved it. She would sprawl out just about anywhere and want her tummy rubbed, if you didn't oblige, she would let out small meows telling you to get on with it, and the moment the stroking began, her purring would start, like a scooter, she would go on till she was fast asleep. Purrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr............

She preferred staying indoors mostly and was very affectionate towards my mother and I. She always wanted to be close to us, and ensured she was never left alone. Where ever we went a bulky furry apparition shadowed us, when we sat, a grey round cushion lay curled next to us, when asleep, a wet nose occasionally kissed the toes, and a warm purring tummy would be glued to your body!

Sixty four days were up and we knew the moment was nearing. One busy morning the family was caught up with things. No one paid attention to her calls and in a while the meowing died out. After half an hour or so we noticed she was missing and thought it was her usual short walk in the sun. The longest she had been gone post pregnancy was three hours. It was almost sundown and there was no sign of Chuppu.

We gave her till the next day.

The next afternoon, I combed the entire neighborhood. Interrogated watchmen, construction workers, neighbors, pesky kids, even glared threateningly at the street dogs and cursed them mentally. But there was no sign of Chuppu.

If she were fine she would come home herself. She wasn't home and it was worrying us sick! The fact that she was so ready to deliver made her absence even more worrisome. I was imagining the worst, had gory pictures in mind, and cried from time to time at the thought of what the poor creature must have gone through. I kept visualising her as little baby that came to our house, and felt guilty that I hadn't been a more responsible parent. I just wished so hard that she were alive and safe.

The house had never been more gloomy in a while.

On day two, we tried hard to convince ourselves she was coming back, but it became increasingly difficult to actually make ourselves believe that. We just pretended to be hopeful to make each other feel better.

The second night, I was sorting my books in the second floor bedroom. I was preoccupied and troubled. I slumped on the floor and surrendered to the cool breeze floating in from the terrace adjacent to the room. It was a moment of complete peace, in the golden glow of the table lamp, when I thought of absolutely nothing, but just felt the breeze on my face. It was very soothing. I closed my eyes and let go. It helped to move on and let go of things.

I was floating in the sub conscious world, when the netlon in the window tore open.

The scraping sound was really annoying, like duct tape being pulled out of its roll. It took me a few seconds to open my eyes completely and focus. I was on the floor, in front of me was the study table against the window, the lower corner of the netlon on the window was being torn open, and a super thin version of my pet cat stood there on the window sill.

Chuppu was using her usual route back indoors. I jumped to my feet, held her with both arms to confirm she was actually there. Yes, she was!! I felt her all over to see if she was hurt! No she wasn't!! The sense of relief was immense! I was just so glad to see her alive and that she actually came back to us was just too much to handle at that moment.

I hugged her for long, until she let out a small meow in protest!!

She was just the same, minus the big tummy! She had delivered!! Where were the babies? It was just sinking in that Chuppu was back safe and sound, and now I had to deal with fretting over where her babies were, if she had managed a safe delivery and if the babies were fine.

Its not easy being a mommy to a cat I tell you.

Chuppu, oblivious to my concerns, had jumped down into the bedroom. She purred and rubbed against my feet a bit. That done, she gave me a "Get over it you Stupid Human" look and ambled downstairs. She instructed me in short commanding meows to feed her. I had to bring my mum into the picture...it was too exciting to handle.

My mum's reaction was disappointing, she just smiled and petted the cat. Maybe being woken up post mid night by a torch shining into her face had something to do with it.

We noticed Chuppu looked exhausted and frail, she kept lying on the floor most of the time. When we brought out warm milk, she lapped up like there was no tomorrow.

Once fed, she circled around us a bit, brushed against our legs and took off to the second floor once more. She paused after every three-four steps, turned around and meowed. She wanted us to come along. She had a plan. We followed.

We were lead by our eight month old super intelligent cat to a small brick enclosure in the corner of the terrace. Honestly, I lived in the house and never knew it existed till Chuppu jumped into it at that moment and vanished! We reached the corner and peered over the brick enclosure.

The sight is unforgettable. In the depths of the enclosure, Chuppu stood and licked and pawed at tiny little creatures, crawling ever so slowly. In the moonlight, and in the gleam of the flashlight, it was difficult to tell, but we counted three little crawlers. Tiny guinea pigs. Little furry worms. My grandchildren!!

She had lead us to her new-borns!

Like it is said, "Look no further, God is within you", all this while we looked everywhere but inside the house. Chuppu was home all through the two and a half days!
That felt silly and good at the same time. She had probably delivered a few hours back.

In the past few weeks, we had made four small nurseries at different cozy corners in the house, for her to choose where she wanted to deliver her babies and now she had picked a dirty brick pit out in the open!

Gawd, women were difficult to understand!

Chuppu had delivered on the day of RamaNavami and for a long time to come we called the three kittens Rama1, 2 and 3. Then there were variations - Ramanujam, Ramaswami, Ramachandran. All Rama names were tried on the little kittens till we got bored of it!

For four months after that day, we enjoyed the cat carnival at home!!! The four of them together were the most zesty, beautiful and graceful cat family ever!

As I watched the kittens grow, several thoughts ran through my head. I realised I was very protective towards Chuppu, but she never really needed it. As kittens, Sudama and she would play on the terrace with eagles circling over them, I would stand guard and watch from behind the door. They always hid behind pots or garden tools, played under the cover of larger plants, but always took care. Today she had managed to survive in the outdoor being a house cat, had befriended street cats, was a great hunter, tormentor of the rats, had mothered three kittens, raised them intelligently and was still having fun!

All without significant help from me. That was a relief.

Another one of those moments when I was filled with awe and wonder towards the ways of nature. Animals worked on instinct and nature had really prepared them well.

With time we parted ways with each single cat from the Chuppu family, one by one.
It was very painful.

The consolation was that, the last to go was Chuppu. It is terrible to part with a pet. I'd rather not dwell on the sad part. I will try to remember only the happiness we shared together.

The fourth chair has been missing the fur ball, I am sure the rats in the area are breathing easy and we have since been missing the joy, humor and contentment, Chuppu and her mad little cute family brought us.

She was beautiful, strong, loving, graceful and very very intelligent. She will be remembered fondly for years and years to come and I will forever cherish the feeling of being a Grandma cat.

Meeting the Matrimonial Alliance

As a young woman in her early twenties, educated and employed, apart from worldly day to day issues, I also had to device a coping mechanism for subtle pain points like emotional black mail. By parents.

Parents who weaved the word "marriage" into any topic effortlessly, to ensure it was ringing in my ears day in and day out, until one day we confronted each other openly and had a longish discussion on what was conspiring.

Surprisingly, both parties were very calm and clear about the road ahead.

Recently, the parents had begun entertaining alliances and had started spying on eligible bachelors, putting several conversations on hold till I was brought into the picture.

Being very liberal and open minded, they were very clear that I would marry only who I approved of and that they would be the facilitators and not the key decision makers. However, their enthusiasm was getting the better of them, and they were eager to see concrete developments on the matrimonial front.

It was their wish that until I made up my mind on who it was going to be, I would meet suitors they hand picked and sent my way, and would give their choice a fair chance too. A sucker for parental antics and sob stories, I gave in and decided to go with the flow. I rationalized that I lived in a different city, work and social life kept me very very happy and busy, an occasional meeting with a matrimonial alliance wouldn't hurt. Besides, it would keep my parents happy and I liked being non controversial.

It was going to be a date on my terms and conditions, like any other date, only it was also funny in a weird way since I would be meeting strangers!!

I somehow felt very comfortable and relaxed about it as I was certain I wasn't going to marry any of the men I met this way. I just had to meet them, chat up a little, like I was this talk show hostess, eat and drink at my favorite places at their expense, say good bye, and reject on grounds of needing more time to think, reflecting on my emotional needs and other such womanly blah blah that men didn't understand anyway. With luck I could come across as a psycho chick and scare them off!

The other personal decision I took was about sharing the expenses during the meetings. Since the men invariably flew down from another city or country, I thought if I liked the guy I would foot the bill. If I thought he was a nice guy but not my type, I would split the bill, but if the guy turned out to be a total jerk,the bill was all his.

My game plan was set and I was ready to take on the unsuspecting matrimonial men!

And so began the series of funny dates! I recount a few that have made a place in the blind date hall of fame!

The first is hard to forget, not always because you want to remember. This gentleman was on such an ego trip that he refused to admit he flew down to the city exclusively to meet me. He mentioned several other chores he had to deal with in those thirty six hours, and I got the impression our meeting would be brief. Sadly I was mistaken. The dinner date lasted from 7 PM to 11 PM and all my efforts to get rid of him were in vain.

I am not too judgmental about looks, but the fact that I was five feet three and a quarter inches tall, and still an inch taller to him in my modest two inch heels, gave him an insecure disposition in the Mumbai crowd, making me feel like the man of the evening. I was also wondering how he was going to breathe in those ultra tight tight jeans. It was a bad idea stuffing the wallet in the back pocket really.

He shared with me his life's plans for the next five years, ten years and twenty years, his deepest fears, his bouts of depression, suicidal tendencies, stories about older women fancying him, about his war dreams that were always in shades of grey and blue and other such pleasant topics that were so appropriate for discussion on a maiden date with a total stranger.

All this while eating and occasionally opening his mouth to poke around with a tooth pick! Ewwwsome view I say!

My appetite was quite dead by 10pm, but I was playing around with one Idli to keep me company through the grim date, when the young man suddenly leaned over, put out index finger of right hand and scraped the sides of the Idli to let me know it was too dry, which until that moment I had intended to eat. I also noticed uncut, unclean finger nail. That was the last straw.

Potential serial killer with bad table manners.

He did invite me to lunch the next day. Inexplicably I had come down with high fever and severe stomach ache, so unfortunately couldn't make it to what could have been another memorable date.

Then one day I met every woman's nightmare. "The Darrrlling Son". Our man went on and on about how he didn't have to move a finger while he was at home, for his mother loved him so much, she wouldn't let him work! So much so, she carried his used tea cups away, cleaned up his room for him, and cooked another meal if he wasn't happy with what was served! Oh boy! That is slavery, mildly put and I wasn't the sorts to tolerate that kind of attitude. He can cook his own Godda#*$ meal for all I care. At that moment I knew how MCPs were born. The poor lady was so bitten by the maternal bug, she wasn't letting her son grow beyond age five.

He announced he wanted us to be honest with each other and went onto discuss his previous romantic liaisons and how he was devoted to his ex-love, except he hated to see her in pink clothes and disapproved of her nose pin and multiple piercings in the ears. Why was that his business again?

Such detailed honesty I wasn't expecting, nevertheless it was refreshing to know his priorities. Besides, I was very into body piercings myself. If he was trying to send a message through, I wasn't receiving.

After sharing several other such mundane tit bits of information on his love story that was, I was informed that the relationship ended tragically. He felt cheated that she got a third piercing in the ear while he was away on a "project overseas". That was deep. Although I thought the poor girl was just trying to get a life. Clearly our intellectual inclines were on different planes.

Good bye Over grown-Momma's-boy-future MCP-psycho boy friend.

A fake accent is one of the biggest turn offs! Its all the more weird when the accent is a mix of South Indian and American! So two lines into my conversation with a complete stranger, I say, "Hey! Whats with the accent? Its not very convincing you know."

"Ummm...Living in the 'YOO ASS' does that to you, but right now I am just trying to impress you" comes the answer.

What???? I would have to be brain dead to be impressed by that!! And if that was his idea of being funny, I needed a surgically plastered grin on my face to look amused at that one!

Living in the US for twelve months gives you an accent? I understand, one has to put on an accent to make the Americans follow Indian English, but with Indians? Okay, I knew what type this one was. This one was "I lived in America and I want it to be known" types. [I mean, I spent time in different countries too, but I wasn't putting on a Russian, American, European accent in my day to day English. I just advertised it on my blog...(wink..wink..)]. Okay so, it was a bad start already.

Not only was he faking the accent, but also his self assured demeanor. Wonder what else he was going to fake ;)
He spoke a lot on how he didn't think getting married was really important, he spoke and spoke and spoke until he himself countered every argument of his against marriage!! By now, I wasn't quite sure if he wanted to get married or not, and was going to clarify, when out of the blue he confessed he wanted to be married at the earliest as all in his peer group were married. . Whoa!!! and why is that my problem again?

Too eager, confused, not to mention confusing, below average sense of humor and the accent was a turn off anyway.

Then there was the young software engineer from Silicon valley! "SF" he kept calling it. Frisco or SFO was the norm I thought. Anyway that was a new one "SF". Ah! so enamored he was with the amenities of the developed world.

"Do you know in SF there are several Indian stores, where you can get Indian vegetables, and ingredients for Indian food, also stuff from Haldirams".

How sweet.

"In SF there are big malls, where you can get everything under one roof, pre-cooked food, ready to cook food, easy to cook food. You know the vegetables are already cut and 'frawzen', so you have to only microwave it"

I have been living in a cave, how would I know?

"Where I stay in SF, majority are Indians, so the local stores sell lot of authentic Indian spices"

Okay, obviously he thought my primary objective and concern, under the assumption that I married him and moved to SF, would be shopping for 'frawzen' vegetables at grocery stores and malls to cook him up Indian meals. I am sure he meant well and was just informing me about what he thought women would be concerned with! But Hey! Women are concerned with a lot more!!!

I could go on, but for the time being will stop. I am only too thankful that I am happily married by the grace of God, and finally met my match, in every sense of the word!

My unsolicited word of advice for all the single men; most women are highly intelligent, smart and independent. They would love to care for and look after a man for the rest of their lives, provided he has the strength to be himself with her, and lets her be herself with him.

Young women, fretting over their parents urging them to meet young men. Get over it! Its not bad at all, just make it happen on your terms. Remember, it can be a lot of fun, if you can learn to go with the flow.

I speak from experience.


'Father of the Bride' is the prelude to this story.

Father of the Bride...

Daughter in early twenties, post graduated, successfully employed and independent. Logically, what comes next? Marriage of course.

It has been my experience, that most families with daughters that fit the above description exhibit similar behavior patterns during this time in their daughter's life. Make the marriage happen!!

Parents, usually retired by now, take to this task with unmatched zest! The determination, the fervor and the seriousness of the quest to find a groom is almost funny! From the daughter's point of view of course.

I do understand that they only want the best for their child. In doing so, are being dutiful parents, working to see their little baby happily settled in the conventionally socially approved sense of being settled. Husband, child, security, home and the works! It sure sounds great! And now that I am married I can vouch it feels great too, but the journey to getting here has been super hilarious!

The star comedy attraction being the over enthusiastic dad, and the sick of his enthusiasm mum.

I was fresh out of B School and into my first job, when my dad reminded me gravely that he was 62 and wanted me to get 'settled' soon, so he could be done with the last of his parental responsibilities and concentrate on his golf. My turning 23 had somehow accelerated his aging process and he insisted that he would be too old too soon and wanted to see me 'happily married' at the earliest. Preferably by tomorrow.

He wasn't exactly saying it in as many words, but he called me every day to discuss the sons of his friends, friends of friends, acquaintances, even strangers, asked me when I could take off from work, and what city I wanted to settle down in. He even made up sob stories on grandchildren dreams he was having (sic!)

He was awfully understanding, in that, I could marry any man, preferably Hindu, Tamilian, Iyer, Palakkad at that, and at least about three years older. That left me hell of a choice didn't it?

He was quick to add, that I had extremely broad minded parents (true), so he would be okay if I wanted to marry someone I met at work or play, who was not any of the above, but in that case had to be a Maharashtrian, Malayali, or a Mangalorian. If the boy was in the Indian Army, none of the specifications applied. Also he did not think highly of any of my then current or previous boy friends, so they were all out of the question.

Fortunately, we were on the same page about most of the 'requirements' and after months of emotional blackmail and long STD bills, my father and I agreed to cooperate with each other and jump headlong into the "arranged marriage" routine.

The ground rules were laid.

No chaay tray business. I would not meet the parents before I met the boy. I would not meet the boy before seeing a picture. I would meet the boy at a neutral venue, of my choice, sans friends, relatives, neighbors and/or pets. I had the veto power in any situation, and the final decision would be mine. To alliances I did not want to go ahead with and didn't have the heart to tell them so, I would convey that my parents had found a mismatch in the horoscopes and that they forbid me to proceed.

My dad agreed to it all. He really wanted me married off!

My father was overjoyed to be officially permitted to pursue his most favorite recent hobby. Groom hunting! All talks with friends, friends of friends, acquaintances, and those strangers were reopened. He sought unknown territory as well. As an immediate actionable, the paper wala was ordered to deliver Hindu and Deccan Herald along with the usual TOI. Those papers had more South Indian matrimonial ads you see. The sports section was abandoned and it was classifieds all the way.

Crosswords and Sudoku were no longer his post lunch nap reading material. He had eyes only for the matrimonial column. He studied it with more concentration than I think he did India's map during the wars as a serving officer.

Suddenly he felt the need to learn a thing or two at that dreadful thing called the computer. He never thought this day would come again in his life, after the year 2000, when he first chatted on Yahoo IM with the wife posted in Moscow, and somehow made it through that painful brush with technology.

Four years down the lane, he was yet again staring into the eyes of his computer-phobia.

Reading glasses perched an inch below eye level, nose crinkled and head tilted backwards, he would sit for hours together trying to figure out the online mysteries of the Internet! My mum the more sane member of this project, was his tutor, and focused as he was in his mission, he soon mastered the art of emailing, mass mailing, mailing with CC and BCC, attaching photographs, downloading, maintaining folders and preparing verbose word documents on his daughter's achievements :)

In the first few weeks, my father struggled to stay afloat in the deluge of emails and phone calls.

The challenge was not just the number of people, but also the nature of the numbers.

The tricky bit with South Indian nomenclature is, most gentlemen are named after gods and there is very little creativity with those few names too. There were the same names spelt differently as in SubramaniaNs, SubramaniaMs, KrishnamOOrthys, KrishnamUrthys. Then there were same names with different initials, as in, S. Vishwanathan, R. Vishwanthan and T. Vishwanthan. Then there were composite names with two parts, using the same names, as in Srinivasan Narayanan, Narayanan Srinivasan, Sundaraman Subramanian, Subramanian Sundaram. By the end of week two, my father had no clue whose son he was discussing with whom.

The calls poured in and my father braved them all, albeit with several foot in mouth moments. He must have come across as very disinterested in getting his daughter married, considering he remembered no details whatsoever from previous conversations and never dared to mention the boy's name lest he was talking to the wrong father. The problem was grave but the retired Army colonel was not a quitter. Necessity was the mother of invention, and my father invented the "Asha Wedding Diary".

Smarter and less sorry now, my dad had gotten efficient and scientific about the process. By the end of the month he had devised best practices, a methodology that called for a Level 4 CMMI certification at least. The newspapers were stacked date wise next to the computer for quick reference, the ads of interest were circled in red, the crucial details were then copied into the fat brown diary (perpetually next to the phone), under a specific category, eg: "First stage". Oh yes, the conversations with various "parties" were tracked and catalogued as per the progress they made and the stage they reached. So the diary had sections for different stages. The prospective grooms were sifted and the alliance funnel narrowed as it moved across stages.

He took great pride in maintaining all this documentation, and went through it earnestly like a Munshi checking his ledger balance.

There was an online repository as well, a folder called "Asha Wedding", that contained horrorscopes, supporting documents, such as family history, groom's 'bio data' and photographs for visual relief or lack of it.

After all parameters were considered, the case was forwarded to me. I would be intimated over the phone to check the latest lot of matrimonial emails in my inbox. These calls would be replete with hard selling. My father would glorify each alliance to no end, as if it was his personal mission to get the boy married off and not me! My head would fill with images of a suave marketing manager selling his latest FMCG product idea to the CEO across the board room.

I wasn't buying till I had seen and met for myself.

Post meeting the boy, my father would wait to hear from me. I could imagine his anticipation. Itching to know all the juicy details and to know if all his efforts had finally paid off in finding 'the one'! He was always worried I ragged the boys I met, and warned me several times to behave. I feel a bit guilty now that I had so much fun with friends and family discussing the episodes of meeting the matrimonial alliances.

If the case wasn't going anywhere, my father would go on and on about what a choosy and difficult daughter I was. He would sulk and sulk like a little boy, the accelerated aging story would be repeated and he would promise to never bother looking for a groom for me again, since I had anyway decided to not marry any of those he forwarded.

As expected, within a week there would be a fresh set of emails with photographs :) and of course this carried on till eventually three years later I got married.

But I have to hand it to my parents for making it all so pleasant and fun filled for me. I know a lot of girls my age who suffer through the "meeting the boy" ritual and have it rather difficult with the arranged marriage system. Luckily, for me it was one big comedy show! Thank you parents for being so understanding and thank you Pa for being so entertaining.

"Asha Wedding Diary" still sits snug in my father's study, hidden under a bundle of my spare wedding invitations. What a feeling it must be for a parent to see it and to experience a moment of "before and after".

I am sure he looks back at it now reliving a multitude of emotions.

The anxiety of getting his daughter married in time, the disappointment at having to go through several alliances and not finding a suitable match, the tension of waiting for her to like someone, the uncertainty of never seeing her settled, the hope filled stress that she meets someone who deserves her, the responsibility of conducting a mega event like a wedding, the sense of accomplishment at yet again providing for your child, and most of all, after all that it took, the contentment and relief that the little baby is settled happily like they always wanted!




Meeting the alliances is a continuation of this story.

God is Watching......Behave

As per the Hindu religion each day of the week, is considered to be the day of a particular God or Gods. Tuesdays are for Hanuman, Fridays for Goddess Durga, Saturdays for Ganesha, and so on and so forth.

Thursdays are Shirdi Sai Baba days and every Thursday a certain Sai Baba temple in Bangalore is thronged by devotees. I too try to visit this temple on a Thursday whenever I can. The traffic inside the temple conducts itself in an orderly and respectful manner as would most people in a holy place, however, given the numbers the temple houses, it is very commendable.

What is amusing is the traffic outside the temple. The temple is on a busy road and most devotees visit to attend the morning aarti, which coincides with the peak hours of office traffic. Needless to say there is an ever widening stream of vehicles on the road.

Observing the traffic would be like watching a herd of wild buffaloes on a rampage. Each one in a greater hurry than the other to get by.

Interestingly, as soon as this crowd passes by the raised open doors of the temple, the entire cross section of vehicles slows down, almost as if flagged down by a traffic policeman.

I realised there that God is the strongest law, in India! It has been the most effective medium of power propagation by governments for centuries now and unfortunately the most misused too.

For a brief five seconds a parallel set of vehicles almost crawl and their drivers bow in obeisance with their eyes closed. The ones in a hurry, bow in the direction of the temple with their eyes firmly riveted on the traffic ahead. Some kiss their fingers and continue driving. Flying kiss to the gods above I wonder? Each one pays his/her respects to the Gods in a manner in accordance to the time at hand. But each one does too!

Once I noticed, a biker smoking a cigarette while driving. When in front of the temple, he took the cigarette out of his mouth, hid it behind his back, bowed for a split second and zoomed past. The second he passed the temple, he exhaled, letting the smoke out and instantly put the cigarette back into his mouth.

That brief moment of control, of self discipline, of refraining from a wrong, was induced by the fear of God.

In a country where flouting rules, is as common as the Matar in Matar Paneer, there is no cheat code cooked up for God as yet.

Traffic even stops to let devotees, fresh out of the temple, with vermilion on forehead, flowers or prasad in hand, cross the road in peace! As if, we the devotees, were carrying a bit of God within us from the temple and deserved the respect.

Technically, that is not untrue after all, for we all do carry a bit of God within us. Yet it takes the physical presence of the temple of God, to make people realise that, to drive self discipline and respect for others into people!

A little bit of self discipline would mean so much more order and harmony within and between individuals. Is it too much of an asking?

Why does it take a physical entity to remind one of the divinity within oneself and within others around them. The divinity in our conscience that watches every violation made towards the self and towards others.

The conscience, a tiny voice that speaks up at the end of the day, at nights, in moments of solitude, loneliness, in moments of introspection, in moments of repentance.

We cry foul over a country and a system that has a long way to go in comparison to our recent holiday destinations abroad, a country that still does not offer amenities, facilities and luxuries to its majority. Why blame the 'system' and expect to be directed, when as a people we are too weak to accept the decrees of the system inside us.

The ultimate governing body is sitting inside us, we just need to acknowledge it more often, submit to its mandates, and for once not think of ourselves as all important. We just need to acknowledge more often that in the larger scheme of life we fit in as an ancillary and the same force that drives the universe is present within us to make us play our part in the universe. There has to be a convergence of the forces within and outside, else there will be what we see ever so often - conflict. We need to learn to submit more often.

As the author of this bit, that I am sure seems preachy at this point in time, I don't claim to be the ideal world citizen, but definitely a more enlightened one.

A seemingly insignificant incident, a traffic jam, has led me to think and rationalise. It has made me contemplate about self discipline, about double standards in following discipline, about laws and lack of it, about people and their sense of responsibility towards themselves, towards others, about God - the watchman, who is all prevailing yet acknowledged as per convenience, sadly as in the case of most law keepers.

And so, in a way contradicting myself, I say now, that even God, the most widely accepted disciplinarian, is followed as per convenience.

I have realised and care to make a difference. I can only hope that several others also have and for those who have not, it will help to remember that the policeman is within us. You can run, you can hide, but you can't escape yourself.

Choke Choke Wheeez....Haaaalp! I Can't Swim!

Ever wonder where parental judgement comes from??? From Hugo's house of horrors I should think! Today I am hydrophobic, thanks to my dad's painstaking efforts to drown me in several water bodies, under the pretext of teaching me to swim.

Don't get me wrong here...My dad's my hero. A highly accomplished retired Colonel from the Army, he is a para commando, has scaled the south pole, excels at every possible sport, especially Golf, adept at driving most road vehicles, is a great cook, grandma's favorite son-in-law, funny like how, caring husband, super hero dad, ever ready to help friends and family, at 64, sports muscles to put 20 year olds to shame, greatly loved and admired, can light up any gathering with his humor and charm, one of my role models and one of my closest pals too.


Pa, unfortunately has zero patience with slow learners.


I was three years old. I was in my new lilac and electric blue open back swimsuit from "America". It also had a merry ocean scene drawn on it, some where on my tummy, with a yellow octopus, pink star fish and a white surf board splashing in the waves. I wasn't feeling as merry though. Perched precariously at the edge of the shallow end of the baby pool, I was staring at the blue water bob up an down in the silly square pit. There were other children my age in colorful "chaddies" and swimsuits, screaming their guts out, making life hell for their parents and instructors alike. I was soon going to join their ranks. Of course there were also some that were quite calm about being dunked in water. I am sure they grew up to be nerds.


My father was trying to look his jolliest best, all smiley and grinny, urging me to jump into his arms. "Jump Asha, pappa will catch you, see water is not deep at all, aa jaao jump..its nothing to be scared of". Yeah, right! I wasn't buying it.


I was standing indignantly sporting my best constipated look. I was mighty unhappy, and was making it known. Out of the blue, I was grabbed from behind, swept off my feet and hurled towards my dad! The next thing I knew, I was in water, splashing around, screaming my lungs empty, not taking kindly to buoyancy, climbing onto my dad in a desperate attempt to get out of water. The horrible horrible "Marker Uncle" aka lifeguard threw me into the water! These conspiring adults, I tell you!


That didn't go too well at all.


But my dad wasn't going to give up was he? He was a great swimmer, his son was a great swimmer, wife was an above average swimmer. No reason, why the daughter shouldn't be.


Oh yeah? Well think again!

Eight months later, in Elliot's Beach, Besant Nagar, Chennai, my dad, big brother and I are chilling , enjoying the sunset. Or so it seemed.

Little did I know, what the next fifteen minutes were going to be. We began to stroll, casually towards the water. My brother and dad were holding my hands, one each, flanking me from either side. Our casual stroll soon became a decisive march into the water, and instinct kicked in as a warning. I could almost see what these men were going to do, but it was too late to resist. Held by both arms, I was lifted and dunked repeatedly like a vulnerable tea bag into the salty waves. Splosh! Splosh! Splosh!....

I was held there to drink up, what seemed like all the sea water the planet had to offer. The few minutes seemed like eternity. Apparently the two men thought, forcing me to face my worst fear would somehow rid me of it. Noble thought, but no thank you, next time leave the thinking to someone else.

They were kind enough to drop me off in the shallows before carrying on with their fun and frolic in the water. Soaked to the skin, evenly smeared in sand, crying, also blowing snort bubbles out of my nose, I made my way home. I wanted my mommy!! Home was two minutes from the beach. Bawling, as I waded in through the house, I left a trail of sandy water and watery sand wherever I went. Needless to say my mum was shocked to see me come home looking like a tsunami survivor. And where were the men?

Sure enough, father and son learnt a lesson or two that day from mommy dearest, on dos and donts of teaching me to swim. Lesson one - QUIT.

In the years that followed, my family was going to come to terms with the fact that some people could just not swim.

There is a certain concept in genealogy called the "recessive gene theory", wherein the predominant genes of a certain generation are held back, and not passed onto the successive generation. (No seriously, I am not cooking this one up. Go "Google" it.)

In my case, clearly, the "happy in water" gene was held back. The biology talk aside, simply put I had zero aptitude for swimming. Nada!

Recently in Pattaya, the water sports haven, it was yet again established. I was the water sports geek. The water sports nerd. The uncool water sports person.

Under sea walking was hilarious actually when I think back. I was all geared to climb down into the water, when I panicked and climbed back. Refused to do it. Then, over come by guilt at having ditched the husband who was already down under, I decided to go for it. Once in water, I was holding onto the diver's fingers like it was my last hope of survival. He wasn't going to be able to use those fingers for anything for a while. I was also subjecting the poor man to a wide range of horrifying and dastardly facial expressions. I was contorting my face, wrinkling my nose, rolling my eyes, widening my eyes, puffing through my mouth, fainting a little and basically doing my best to let him know I was dying. Or at least I was sure I was going to.

I finally adjusted to the pressure levels and started breathing easy, by this time diver boy had wriggled out of my vice like grip and handed me over to my husband. "Here! You married the crazy woman, you get clawed!"

Later, I tried all else there was to try - para sailing, motor scootering, skiing, banana boating....
No happiness. Not one bit. Maybe a sense of accomplishment at having faced my worst fears, but no happiness.

I was wet most of the time, I couldn't breathe easy, I was almost drowned and nearly dead, my muscles were rigid from balancing and not falling into the water, my ears and nose were bubbling, my voice was hoarse from screaming whenever there was scope, my hair was a mess and I also payed for all this! No happiness.. maybe little bit. But I still hate water. Period.

It has been several years since anyone tried teaching me to swim or I volunteered to have myself drowned, but It doesn't stop me from owning a smashing black, blue and silver Speedo ;)

The swim suit that will never touch water.

Travelogue - Bangkok shopping

I love shopping. All forms of it. In a group, by myself, with a friend, for family, for a friend or for a friend's friend. Obviously, I enjoy it the most when the shopping is being done for me! For women, shopping works like chocolate! Chocolate and shopping, even better! Shopping can be the result of any reason. Shopping is not an outcome of necessity.

Now, shopping off the streets has its own flavor and zest! Mostly, I enjoy that more than shopping indoors. Most street markets, have a local flavor. Locals mill about in native clothing, local musicians sit around playing something fresh and melodious, small street-food stalls are interspersed with the shops and one can literally smell and see the flavors of the country as one shops. Occasionally stop, to discover a new taste, a new art form, new patterns, and new rates even!

Bangkok is a shopping maniac's paradise! Pretty much as in India, you will find street markets (a la Causeway, Hill road, Karol bagh, Fashion street, T Nagar) organised open markets, swanky malls, more malls and the government controlled local handicraft outlets.

In Bangkok one can really bargain! And the stuff is really good. That's the best part.

There are several malls and markets that I will probably touch upon later. My favorite destination is Suan Lum Night Bazaar, in South Eastern Bangkok. I make it a point to visit it every time and will continue to do so. I discovered it quite accidentally actually.

Suffering through a very dull presentation, during the post lunch sleepy session at a training committee conference, I sat in the absolute last row chatting up with an equally bored American. He was transferring photographs onto his laptop, while he told me about this fantastic "bazaar" that he'd shopped at the previous evening.

Soon we were nose deep into a road map of Bangkok, tracing the route from my hotel to the "Suan Lum Night Bazaar". He even told me what the taxi fare would be. By the end of the presentation, my plan for the evening was set.

The gentleman turned out to be the treasurer of the training committee. I felt a lot less guilty about planning my shopping during the conference then!

The bazaar supposedly open from 7PM to 7AM only, is two giant adjacent squares stuck together by a common lane. All along the three sides of one square, are the food stalls, seating in the middle of the square and a huge open air stage on the fourth side. Its a carnival. There is food and drinks, and usually a local music band performing live on the stage. What an ambiance.
The adjoining square is where all the shops are.

The bazaar is a matrix of rows and columns. A 10 by10 matrix I think. Colorful, bright and airy.

I went berserk the first time. And it wasn't much different the second and the third time :)

The silk sarongs, silk pants, blouses, scarves, skirts. The colors and patterns. I was salivating! I wanted it all! NOW!! Oh and the silk cushion covers, bed spreads, purses, bamboo lamps, baskets, wooden masks, brass Buddhas, elephant tooth-pick holder, lifestyle goods in the most aesthetic oriental designs, handicraft junk, incense sticks in million colors and smells, pretty shoes, bags, more clothes, exotic cosmetics, aroma salts, more bags in all shapes and sizes! Phew!! I HAD to have it all!!!!

What makes it even more tempting are the prices! You get more for less. You can talk to the vendors just with the calculator. They punch in their number, and you punch in yours. It just goes on till you both like what you see. And Indians are incorrigible bargainers anyway, so I am sure the Thai markets by now, know what they're up against (evil grin!!)

Its such a rush! So many shopping bags for so little money. It is my deduction, that the greater number of shopping bags you carry, the more respect there is for you as a shopper, amongst the vendors. They know you intend to buy if the rate is right. And so, bargaining gets even simpler towards the last lap of shopping.

The first time I shopped, I ended up with SO many shopping bags, a lady actually called me in and helped me put all the bags into a 2ft by 3ft large plastic carry bag. Bless her good soul! It was a lot easier just dragging the loot around like a carcass, than balancing close to twenty stuffed carry bags, a water bottle and a handbag in two tiny hands.

I was a little disappointed that the second and third time I couldn't be as crazy a shopper as I was the first time, but I left with a true shopper's promise, to be back with a vengeance.

Mumbai ka Auto

Autos are the best mode of public transport in Mumbai, after the local trains. They are quick, efficient and aggressive. Most perfect for Mumbai traffic. Inside an auto one feels like the King of the Road. Every other vehicle yields to the auto's sly tricks and stunts. The auto never stays in one place long enough. No traffic jam can hold it still, it will always twist and turn and meander its way through stalled or moving traffic and be the first to zoom out of a mass of vehicles! So liberating! 'Course, had I been in any of the vehicles neighboring an auto, I would have a different story to tell. But that's not important.

The auto imbibes its spirit from the auto wala! The auto walas in Mumbai, are rock stars. They are intelligent, hard working and extremely conscientious. You can be new to the city and board an auto with no worry in the world of getting lost. You can be old to Mumbai and expect to discover quicker routes to getting to your destination. The auto wala will turn on the meter, take the shortest, most efficient, traffic-free route, without charging a penny more and/or making grumpy faces! Something quite alien to auto walas in cities like Dilli, Pune, Chennai and Bangalore! Especially Bangalore! I wish I could parcel auto walas from Bangalore to the Mumbai auto walas, for a crash course in etiquette and sense of duty.

Speaking of sense of duty. During the Mumbai floods, both in 2005 and 2004, and during the local train serial bomb blasts in 2006, one had to experience the service rendered by the auto wala community to really believe it.

When the public transport was worst affected and there was panic amongst people, autos continued plying till it was absolutely impossible to carry on in the rain water. During the bomb blasts, locals had stopped and busses were off the roads. There were thousands of people on the roads, with no mode of transport to avail. It was the autos that took on as many passengers as there was room for and dropped each one off to safety. Mind you, for no extra money. It was moving and inspirational to see such spirit.

There is a strange sense of pride and belonging amongst the people for its city, which makes Mumbai stand apart. There is no doubt that other metros, their culture and people have a long way to go before becoming a cosmopolitan city in the true sense, before becoming Mumbai.

Being a cosmopolitan city, is not merely about the standard of living, infrastructure, population and other such tangible statistics. Its about all of this and that little something more that Mumbai and its people have. The sense of oneness and pride, that gives them joy and hope to work towards a common mission of being happy as individuals, and as a people, amongst all the strife, rush, crowd, poverty, sorrows and day to day issues.

Mumbai, is the entertainment hub not only because it houses Bollywood, but because there is entertainment ingrained in every aspect of life in Mumbai! Definitely in autos too. While hailing an auto, most people would first mention their destination. We would first ask"Bhayya, radio hai? ".

Wizened to the needs of their clients, the default setting in most Mumbai autos, would be a powerful stereo system. In a row of autos, the one with the most interesting music would lure us in! Radio Mirchi would play and we would "dhin chik dhin chik dhin chik..." all the way home! Such joy!

In those days songs by Himesh Reshammiya, from the Salman Khan starrer 'Tere Naam' were a big hit. I absolutely loved the "Odhni odh ke naachoon"song from the movie. Apparently so did the auto walas. On several auto rides, the song has played and we never got tired of tapping our feet, bobbing our heads and singing along! The auto wala even honked to beat sometimes! Such camaraderie!

One evening, after a dreadful day at work, I got into the first auto that came along, and sullenly sat making mental notes of names to add to my "To KILL List". I was plotting on carrying a bazooka to work the next day to blow off some people from the face of the planet, better still drive a G10 over them and plaster them to the tarmac. I felt so morose and angry, I was sinking deeper and deeper into the seat, with tears welling in my eyes.

As if sensing my state, my fairy god mother, the auto wala cranked up the radio.

"Dekha hai pehli baaaaaaaar, Saajan ki aankhon main pyaaaaaar.....tanka chakan tanka chakan........" bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz "Click "
"Maine Odhni odhli yaaaar, ke dil pardesi ho gayaaaaaaa....dhin chak dhin chak dhin chak dhin chak...... "

Intuitively he stayed on the song, my favorite, our favorite! I was tapping my feet, bobbing my head, singing between sobs, we were zipping through traffic, the wind was in my hair, the ugliness of the day was left behind and life was back to normal again!!

I love the auto rides in Mumbai!