Top to Toe

I was running out of shampoo.

So my poor father, to whom I assigned the task of getting it, memorised the name of my regular brand and went to this Margin Free store near our house. Not seeing the product anywhere on the shelves Acha walked up to the manager and asked for the shampoo by name.

Garnier Foot balm? No, I don't think we stock that, came the prompt reply.

How can I

Get my lil imp to brush her teeth?
She used to let me brush her with my finger. Then we bought her a lil green toothbrush, then came the finger brush… but all in vain cos the lil one is absolutely terrified of putting the said objects in her mouth. Huff!

She’ll happily hold it in her hand, watch me brush my teeth with my brush and paste, laugh at the paste frothing in my mouth and gleefully turn to brush her plastic fish! Aargh!

White toothpaste? Blue toothpaste? Pink Barbie Princess toothpaste? Uh-huh… nothing doing. Now looks like even the finger is out cos I dabbed some paste on my fingers and tried to brush her with it. And madam took offence.
Sigh…

Get her to not play with the intercom?
Especially when she walks into the room in full conversation—aah haan; illa; ha ha ha; yeah; ok-ok;sukhamaano and lotsa gibberish—an out and out imitation of her dad or me on the phone?

Get her to stop whacking my lipstick?
And colour not just her lips but her cutsie cheeks and nose too?
She knows it isn’t enough to just rub that stick on her lips, she knows it should make a colour there…
She knows it’s not enough to put the deo bottle under her arm and look at her mom go ‘pshhh’ she knows it has to be opened and then the magic happens…

Make her stop throwing pens and pencils in a rage?
Well, can’t blame the lil one here… not when she’s been given pens that have run out of ink and pencils with broken nibs. Obviously, the great artist in the making will get into a fit if expected to make invisible ‘creations’. Especially when all around her, others are doodling on newspapers solving sudoku, crosswords and other puzzles.

Encourage a peaceful bath time?
First we fight to get into the bathroom. But one look at the water-filled tub and madam is inside. Then comes the tug-of-war for the mug. (I’m too lazy to get another one). Next is shampooing her hair. Water anywhere near the head is taboo. And last, getting her to stop playing with the water, finish her bath and get out of the bathroom.

Oops. Almost forgot the debacle of Pia wanting to and me trying to stop her from: squeezing the bottle of cream, eating/licking the cream, and then both of us applying cream, getting her dressed, combing her hair.

Can I sigh again?

Ulp...

My little daughter is growing up -- and so fast!

I don't want her to grow up so fast...
I'm still enjoying her as my lil sweetiepie baby...
I'm still enjoying the patter of her lil feet as it unsteadily yet relentlessly romps the house...
I'm still enjoying holding her teeny-weeny hands in mine...
I'm still enjoying her burying her face into my tummy...
I want more and more of her hugs and kisses...
(come to think of it, I should hug my parents more often)
I'm still enjoying her face lighting up when she spots me...

But growing up she is...
And when I'm out shopping or something, I seem to miss the lil one more than she misses me...
Just yesterday, I went out for more than two hours, came back thinking i'll be smothered by the lil one, but where...

She gave me a huge hi, a hug, a little snuggling and then promptly went off with her aunts and cousins to the park!

Humpf!!

Oye summer, summer oye!!

It's an ad jingle on Disney channel, based on the Oye lucky lucky oye tune and advertising their latest programmes for the summer.

It's quite a catchy tune alright, and no wonder my lil one likes it...

But in this depressingly boiling heat of summer, the words make my already high temperature soar to newer heights. It's only my baby dancing away to glory in front of the TV that makes it worthwhile. Actually, these days, my lil angels' antics make many many things worth the while.

Hair-raising experience

Been giving the lil angel haircuts myself for quite some time now, but this summer the heat has been something terrible and so, though I gave her the usual haircut, I wanted to clear the mop of hair on the very top of her head. The madam sweats like anything and a nasty cold just added to my determination to take her to a parlour and give her a proper haircut.
So after two days of preparing her with nice didi will cut your hair and how smart the angel will look and taking her through the entire procedure of how this nice didi will first wrap a cloth around her, then comb her hair, then use scissors and snip snip snip off her hair and how my munchkin will finally look like a smart girl and a cute girl, we reached the parlour.

First shock: no didi. Uncle will cut baby’s hair. ULP!!!
Well, gotta give it to the lil one, she swallowed her dislike n distrust of uncles in general and allowed herself to be seated and draped. (well, her amma and appu-chacha were right there on either side of her)

Second shock: Uncle sprayed water on her head. (Amma did not warn me of this and I hate water anywhere near my face anyway…) And my, what a howl ensued…

Halfway through the screeching session I lost half my determination and started trying to convince the ‘uncle’ that a patchy job was acceptable if only he would wrap it up.

But Appu and the uncle were in no mood to surrender—so the lil angel wailed and screamed and howled. I’m sure she wanted to thrash about too, but Appu was holding her tight.

And I was ready to cry myself. I felt like such a traitor! I’d promised her only didi would cut her hair, and I didn’t do anything when they said otherwise. And then the guy goes and sprays water. Why oh why did I forget that? Tch.

And to top it all, the munchkin has a nightmare and screams out venda venda (no, no) in pure anguish. So we pat her and hug her and put her back to sleep. Then in the morning we broached the subject delicately, ask her why she cried.
“Uncle”, replies the darling, lips pouting and her face all sad... Gulp…

But one good thing is the lil one has been in a far better mood after the haircut. The heat dissipating at least a little, the mood also seems to have bettered. Whew…??

Different strokes

I never used to like that ad for Pears soap--the one where this little girl walks about the house with her eyes closed and looking for her mother. I especially used to hate the way the girl keeps saying chehela instead of chehera and mele liye instead of mere liye.

My grouse being that she was too old to flaunt such a lisp!

But my lil angel loves that ad--the way the 'chechi' and the mummy hug each other. And each time the ad airs on TV, my lil angel will hunt me out, repeat the words aapka chehela mele liye lucky hei and plant me with a bear hug and sometimes even a kiss. She literally melts while watching that ad and now, because of my kiddo and her bear hugs I too look forward to that ad.

Sigh... No wonder they say a child in your life can change your life...

The bat bogey hex be on you

People/organizations who schedule official meetings on a Sunday should be shot. Or maybe those agreeing to attend these Sunday meetings are the ones who should be shot?

Sunday is a holiday. Why will people not acknowledge and respect that?

The curse of the wives, wondering how to shop for necessary provisions and get those ‘things to be done’ done, be on these nincompoops.
Bah!

Early morning giggles

The little one burst into fits of giggles early in the morning—in her sleep. She was moving about and making small sounds and I was moodily thinking that she was going to wake up for the day, when she started laughing. It was the cutest thing I ever heard. Lasted only about six, maybe seven seconds, but it sure made my day, alright.

Then during her noon nap, madam woke up after sleeping an hour or so, saw me lying beside her, called out to me and demanded that I hug her. Which I promptly did. Tried getting up after a while, only to be clamped firmly back in place by the lil angel. And she fell asleep again, hugging me. Ooooh…

What a con job

Since bloody when have filmmakers been expected to provide for the artistes they hire? Why are the makers of Slumdog Millionaire being harassed, both by the parents of the actors and the media, for ‘disregarding’ the upbringing and welfare of the youngest kids in the film? Whose kids are they anyway? Is there no onus on the parents to provide for the welfare of the kids they have conceived?

First there were reports on how the ‘kids’ were provided far less than the minimum income an artiste in Britain would earn. Duh!! I’m sure the kids and their parents, whether illiterates from slums or not, were informed of just how much they would be paid. I’m also sure that the ‘loving parents’, true to the Indian tradition, haggled for the money too.

Then came reports of how what they were paid have all been spent already and how the filmmakers should have considered paying the kids enough money so they could buy themselves a house. Duh and double duh!

Man, that’s a joke and a poor one at that. How can the media readily print such stuff as legitimate demands by the actors or their parents?

And now there are reports of how the filmmakers had actually provided for the education of the kids, held discussions with the parents and set up a Trust to cater to this need and so on and so forth.

Sheesh! Just because the film has now hit the limelight any news is worth carrying, is it? Even if it is the most ridiculous and unimaginably embarrassing accusations? What happened to verifying facts? Is that no longer a journalistic dictum? Don’t reporters and editors need to even wonder nowadays what the other party concerned has to say about the whole issue?

Huh! Journalism has gone to the dogs, for sure. And probably some of the first to take it there are organizations like the Times of India and Malayala Manorama.

PS. Oh sure, I worked for Malayala Manorama. But if anyone thinks I upheld the stuff they consider ‘newsworthy’ (I'm talking about the newspaper) and the way they handle it, you’ve got another thought coming.

Bee – hive – honey – money – tsunami

A single bee will visit 500 flowers to make one gram of honey, read a snippet on Animal Planet or some such channel. I started calculating and got to somewhere around 5000 when Appu finished his calculations and said about 1000 bees visiting 500,000 flowers to make one litre of honey.

And man, in a few minutes, smokes out the bees from their home and hearth, pilfer their food and render them homeless, not thinking for a moment of the solid effort that went into the making of that hive, the honey… nothing.

Imagine hovering in and out of flowers of all sizes and colours, draining out nectar from them, storing it, then moving on to the next one for days on end with a hope of collecting enough food to sustain them and their offspring, only to find that in a matter of a few minutes they are totally deprived.

Like an earthquake shattering lives all around, like a Tsunami wreaking havoc…

I’m glad I don’t like honey all that much. But the sight of two alcohol bottles in my kitchen, filled with honey instead of the original IMFL, has started to bother…

Zingg…ing…ing…ing…ing…

[Is the sound of my ears ringing]

Learning sign language will soon be a necessity—for those going pubbing especially. [And for all I know, it is probably the ‘in’ thing among pub goers] The decibel levels of the music played is so darn high you can actually hear a ringing sound in your ears even half an hour after leaving the place.

But what is actually expected of you? Go with a gang of friends then sit there smiling at each other while downing drinks? What about conversation? Isn’t that which keeps pepping up the mood? And how can you have decent conversation when you have to cup your hands and yell into the ears of the person sitting next to you?

So while Appu and I sat side by side and kept ‘yelling’ at each other a friend who was with us kept looking at us and smiling. [I had given up yelling across the table at him once my throat started aching.]

But to my complaining the guys remarked how it’s never been much of a problem with them, cos after a few drinks they reach a certain level where they only have to look at each other to know what they are thinking and generally have a good time.
Oh boy!!!

Fucking for virginity

‘Fighting for peace is like fucking for virginity’
So says the message on a Zippo lighter that Appu got gifted by his friends. It’s a Vietnam war memorial. So some poor soldier actually used that thing to light his cigarettes while doing his best to stay alive. What that guy must have gone through to come up with something like this is beyond my* imagination.

I wonder if he survived. But if he did, how did his lighter end up getting refurbished and getting sold as a memorial? Maybe he dropped it. I hope he dropped it.


*Made the mistake of showing this post to Appu. His remark at what the soldier must have gone through: Probably a lot of grass.
Pfft.
And since Appu on a roll will not stop at one comment; and glares and frowns are lost on the chap, he went on to remark that the lighter has a scratch which he believes is the mark of the bullet which ricocheted off the lighter and thus saved my ‘poor soldier’s’ life.
Double PffT.

Tring, tring

The phone rings. I notice it’s a local landline number and answer it wondering who it could be.
“Hello… crack… brr… kirk… to Thrupti?” a male voice asks.
“Thrupti? I’m sorry, you have the wrong number,” I reply.
“Wrong number hei?”
“Haan.”
“Thrupti nahin hei?”
“No.” Duh?
“Then may I know who is on the line?”
HUH?!!?
Now why the hell does he wanna know that? So I ask him and he promptly replies:
“Ok Ma’m. Sorry ma’m.” and hangs up.
Sheesh!!

Here’s looking at you, kid!?!

Read Brida by Paulo Coelho. Read the first quarter at a stretch. First impulse after putting the book down was to grab the mobile and call/SMS people to tell them to get a copy, the book is brilliant.

Then I slowed down, thought I’d do that after completing the book.
Well, aren’t I glad I didn’t jump the gun.

The book read like one of our many Hindi movies—a neat story, or in this case ‘line of thought’, but bad treatment. Especially that Casablanca line – ‘Here’s looking at you, kid’ killed it. Just killed it.

Quite unlike a Coelho! In fact this is probably the first time I’ve come off feeling like this after a Coelho!!

There seemed to be too much of a Christian – anti-Christian element about the book. Sure, Coelho often touched upon the subject, but there was always a certain subtelity that would make you smile to know what he was getting at. But this was too much in the face. Not offensive, personally, but just too obvious.

Brida is good. Especially the beginning. The first half is revelatory and quite thought provoking, but it just didn’t carry till the end. The second half is too fast and abrupt. The second half also reminded me of Angels and Demons, and The Da Vinci Code, where I felt Dan Brown was writing all that stuff with the sole intention of creating a ruckus/controversy. Indeed, it felt as though the first part of Brida was written by Coelho while Dan Brown took over in the second part.

Maybe like the author says in the book, the complexity of certain rituals [mentioned in the story] has a simple solution hidden in them. [Maybe there was a hidden message in those parts that I found humdrum!]

But…

Found it to be a little too filmy… Tch.

PS. But somebody please read it and tell me how you felt.

Queues

I hate queues. Not for the vast number of people ahead of me, but for that one horrible woman standing right behind me!

Why is it that people cannot respect their space? Forget cutting into my space, but how can you compromise on your own little space? How comfortable is it to have your bulging belly bump into my behind? Or risk that 99.9 per cent chance of my hair blowing into your face? And why won’t you realise you bumped into someone when you do? Sheesh!!

The other day, I’d just about finished last minute Christmas shopping and was standing in queue to pay the bill when this girl and her pal come stand behind me. Whoa! I could feel her hot breath on my neck. I turn around meaningfuly, but madam just glances in my direction and is busy chatting to her pal. Then her elbow jabs me in the spine and I turn around again. Madam is still busy and happily unaware of the discomfort she is causing. A few more breaths down my neck and one more jab of the elbow and I lose it. I tell her to please move back a little. She looks me as though I’m some kinda moron for not wanting her so close to me. Ugh!!

Then the last day I was standing in queue at a (wedding) buffet when this ghastly woman kept bumping into me in her hurry to get at the food. Not once, not twice, but sigh… oh so irritatingly many times!

I gave her a ‘look’ (and my looks are quite famous for their meanness)—in vain. I half turned around and growled (literally)—dame didn’t even notice. And as if all this wasn’t enough to rattle anyone, the ‘lady’, and her mom standing behind her, try to push their way into my place when I moved aside to let someone cross the queue. Aaarrgghhh!!!

Country Bumpkins.