Erratika

Paper n Pen

2010-03-23T06:51:00.000-07:00

Those were the days when I could put my thoughts into words only with the help of pen and paper. those were the days when I could take down lecture notes (sans shorthand) as fast as the teacher was talking.

But now, five minutes of writing with a pen and the hands begin to ache - just a lil. continue the effort and the protest becomes prominent. Pause to think of that apt word and the whole thought process goes for a toss. And what's more, the new wave of SMS words read funny on paper.

Any additional thought that pops up calls for arrows going all the way up and down the page or asterixes dotting the work here and there, and numerous prayers that it all makes sense when you read it at a later date.

Today, it's all about computers. Microsoft Word.doc helps put up an excellent, well-laid out, well-planned idea / thought.

Neat, justified, underlined, italicised, and bold. All additional thoughts can be inserted at just the right places; no arrows to follow and loose your way, no asterixes to confound you.

Tch. But why then, do I still miss the pen n paper? And the oh so cute 'PS'?

One Big Idiot

2010-02-03T03:08:00.000-08:00

Looks like Chetan Bhagat wrote 5 Point Someone and then forgot the story.
(That we did too is another matter entirely)

For if the author is to be believed, then from now on those who have studied in engineering colleges, have fallen in love with professors' daughters, had to deal with nasty profs, tried flicking question papers, etc had better not write about it or make films on it.

Those were the only similarities I could find between the book and the movie 3 Idiots. Oh, and that the professor's son killed himself cos he didn't clear his exams and the prof thought it was an accident. (So next time any of you wanna kill yourselves, here's the deterrent: you'll have to pay royalty to Chetan Bhagat.) I still haven't figured out why the filmmakers have bothered to mention the author's name at all.
And Mr Bhagat wants more credit? Ha!

PS. A supposed Chetan Bhagat die-hard fan insisted: "oh the movie is much better than the book. I watched it thrice."

PPS. The movie rocks.

Top to Toe

2009-09-26T12:29:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-20T07:00:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-05-06T22:29:00.000-07:00

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!!

2009-04-11T00:04:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-04T13:05:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-31T04:56:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-28T23:01:00.001-07:00

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

2009-02-16T19:28:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-16T19:24:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-16T19:23:00.000-08:00

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…

2009-02-16T19:21:00.000-08:00

[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

2009-02-16T19:20:00.000-08:00

‘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

2009-02-16T19:19:00.000-08:00

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!?!

2009-02-16T19:16:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-03T21:04:00.000-08:00

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.

Starch tales

2008-10-15T13:31:00.000-07:00

Mom starched my pyjamas and top!!!

She actually starched them!
Who starches comfy, cosy, snuggly pyjamas you wear to bed?

Husband has issues with his Tees being ironed.
Imagine his shock at hearing my mom starches pyjamas.

Starched and ironed pyjamas.
Stiff as a board.
Surely one would feel like a corpse in a coffin?

I wouldn’t know.
I washed them all over again.

It’s raining, it’s pouring

2008-10-15T13:30:00.001-07:00

So starts my daughter’s nursery rhyme
And so it happened today.
It rained, it poured
And thunder came rolling this evening.

Was out shopping,
Knew it would probably rain
And it just had to.
Had had enough for the day
Was thinking of heading out of the shop
Getting homeward bound
When the rain announced itself oh so mightily.

Brilliant lightning streaking across the sky;
Shimmering momentarily;
While thunder boomed in tandem.
A worthy partnership
Especially with the accompaniment of icy cold rain.

Loved walking in the rain—raindrops pattering the feet
An umbrella shielding the head
Wet feet, wet clothes, cold seeping the body
Rain bouncing off bus tops, pouring down umbrellas
People racing droplets, waiting out the rain
Loved it.

To be or not to be

2008-10-11T11:38:00.000-07:00

“I’m not such a great Tamil film fan,” I said.
Big mistake. I got a earful.
“But it’s basically because I don’t understand the language all that much,” I tried to justify.
Bigger mistake. I got another earful.

“Who is Surya?” I asked. To another friend a few hours later.
Biggest mistake. Got bombarded with gasps and exclamation marks for the next two days. From her and another common friend who got into the melee. [Ya, we were texting each other]

If you still haven’t figured out, the context here is Tamil films. While one fan/friend accused me of being arrogant when I said I wasn’t familiar with the language [‘cos I’m a Mayalalee and the least I can do is know the neighbouring language] another was utterly disappointed. I tried explaining my predicament but in vain.

I can follow a Tamil film to an extent—I can catch on to most of the dialogues, I can understand most jokes, I can follow the story pretty well, but when it comes to the climax, you’ll find me more or less lost most times.

Case in point, I loved the movie Alaipayuthe. Loved the songs, loved the actors, loved the story and the way it was weaved scene by scene [I’m talking about the bike – ambulance scene here], loved the witty one-liners [uh… most of them] and just about everything about the film. But to date I haven’t figured out the conversation between Madhavan--Aravind Swami and Aravind Swamy—Khushboo. That was the climax. It was these dialogues that gave meaning to the movie; put the film and the lives of the characters in perspective… So…

I love the cinematography in Tamil films. I‘m awed by certain camera angles and frames and colours within the frames. I love the songs and the dances. And the choreography in some of the song sequences is a class apart. I love the way they powder up their heroines to make them look absolutely glamorous. Even Malayalam heroines who would otherwise either look drab and pretty normal or over ‘painted’ in Malayalam films look classy in Tamil films.

Honestly, I’m awed.
Hmm… and I still claim I’m not a fan !!!

Why blame the victim?

2008-10-05T12:49:00.000-07:00

Soumya Vishwanathan, a 26-year old TV journalist, is shot dead at 3.30 AM in Delhi.

The police have no clue what could have happened, no eye witnesses have come up so far and just about everything is speculation…
I feel shock and dismay at the pretty young thing’s murder.

But there is fuming rage when I think about Sheila Dixit's frivolous remark—that it was ‘adventurous’ on the part of the victim to drive home alone at such an hour. Dixit, a woman herself and the Delhi CM at that, should be slapped for even thinking in such terms.

Why blame the victim when as CM you can't provide safety to the citizens? How much better would it have been if Soumya was murdered in her own house?

But to call driving home from work adventurous (whether the blasted woman clarifies that she meant for both men and women) is merely an outrageous attempt to hide the truth—that the city is not safe at all for anyone. That there is NO law and order situation in Delhi, or just about anywhere in the country, for that matter.

Tomorrow, maybe a businessMAN driving home late could be killed. Will that also be termed adventurous on the victim's part? And two days later another MAN could be killed. Does it make the crime any less heinous if a man were so murdered?
When will this stop being everything else and become an issue of addressing the law and order situation of the state?

Then to go on and say employers should address the safety of employees doing late night shifts. To what level, I ask? In a state where there is no law and order, how difficult is it for a gang of rowdies to ambush a vehicle that has the required escort and 'background-checked', clean driver (as in the case of call centres in B'lore, Pune etc) and kill, loot or rape?

This is just a game of passing the buck. And anyone who falls for such a cheap game should also be shot—point blank.

Vijay Mallaya should be shot

2008-10-05T03:36:00.000-07:00

The king of good times indeed. Darned idiot has ensured that I and many others like me don’t have any good times, thanks to first, him ranting about fuel surcharge for airlines and demanding that it be levied from the passengers; second, him buying out the low cost airlines—Deccan and converting into a darned expensive flight. Huh!

And the blasted man charges passengers for Air Traffic Congestion too!! Huh? What did I do except fly the dumb flight? Charge the stupid government for that. I’m already paying my taxes, aren’t I? How, may I ask, am I responsible for the government not maintaining the airport properly and adding more runways and ensuring that the air traffic is not so congested? And even when airports are privatized, (and mostly run by airline companies) the airlines people themselves complain how the ground staff is not competent enough to handle heavy traffic!

So I have to end up paying for their own incompetence, is it?

Justifying the congestion surcharge, Mallya said: "we need to cost a flight ... when we block a time for a flight, say between Delhi and Mumbai, it is two hours. But it turns out to be three hours due to start-up delays and landing delays. That additional cost has to be recovered."
He said the surcharge was meant "to highlight the problem of congestion. .... I don't care whether we call it a surcharge or some other thing. The passenger is going to pay for it".
http://www.expressindia.com/news/fullstory.php?newsid=83772

$(%^_) @#(%& blooming arrogant idiot

Now here is what the Federation of Aviation, of which Mallya is a member has to say:

The ATF price in India is Rs 37,800 per kilolitre as against the international price of Rs 21,400 per kilolitre, which is about 77% higher (at December’06 prices). ATF prices for domestic operations in India are unduly higher than international benchmarks – resulting in a tremendous financial burden on Indian carriers.

Following the dismantling of the ‘Administered Price Mechanism’ (APM) effective April 1, 2001, the prices of ATF in India are based on the “International Import Parity Prices”, and directly linked to the benchmark of Platt’s publication of FOB Arabian Gulf ATF prices (AG); and do not relate to the actual cost of producing ATF in India. ATF prices for domestic operations also include Freight charges from Gulf to India, Customs Duty of 10%, domestic transportation and other charges, Excise Duty of 8.16% (including cess), Sales Tax (levied by the State Governments) averaging across the country at 23% as add-ons to the AG prices, besides the Oil Companies’ markup. Even though the ATF supplied at Indian airports (both for domestic and international operations) is not imported into India but is the product of crude refined in Indian refineries from imported crude, the 10% Customs Duty is taken into account in fixing the prices of ATF supplied to the airline operators.

There’s more bugging stuff if you care to read at http://www.fiaindia.in/index.htm

So why doesn’t the FIA and King Mallya go and do some serious haranguing with the government over all this? And throw his weight around to do some good for the janta for a change. Blasted blooming idiot.

The Holiday

2008-10-04T11:24:00.000-07:00

Starring: Cameron Diaz, Jude Law, Kate Winslet, Jack Black

Saw the movie on HBO today and loved it.

The story is about two women who break up with the men in their lives and decide to switch houses (one stays 40 kms away from London, the other in Los Angeles) cos they so badly need a break [pun intended] and get over their respective loser men.

Well, of course, they both have to go and fall in love again and all that, but the movie is quite decent and pretty entertaining. The scenery is awesome, Diaz’s LA home is sooperb, the London countryside is breathtaking… [So is Jude Law, by the way]

But the best part of the movie is the two kiddies, their tent, and Mr Napkin Man. Such adorable cutsie-pies…

I feel like the Reader’s Digest Quotable Quotes section!

2008-10-04T11:23:00.000-07:00

I still can’t figure out how I get unnecessarily embroiled in major counseling sessions, where of all things, I am ‘advising’ people, sometimes perfect strangers, on how to get over their problems and move on in life and so on and so forth.
[HA! If I could follow half of my advice as easily as I’m giving them I’ll be a much better person!]

That in itself should be funny enough, but funnier is the way I should sound. I remind myself of the Reader’s Digest Quotable Quotes section! Some amazing quotes, some not so amazing ones, some that u can’t really figure out for sure but mostly, none of which you will remember by the time you finish reading the Digest.

Sigh…

Sometimes I think I should write down all my quotes… [Some of them are quite good, though I do say so myself, and some are pretty gross, I admit…] Then I can glance through them once in a while and pep myself up or something. Or the next time I’m into a ‘session’, I can put them in front of me for reference…

But no amount of advice or counseling is going to help unless the person is willing to make some changes in his/her life. More often than not, people are so caught up in feeling sorry for themselves and are so loving wallowing in that self pity that they only want others to listen to their sob stories and sympathise…

Ugh… Sad that is…

But sadder maybe is the fact that I’d wholeheartedly jump right into the counseling boat the next time someone shouted for help too.

Stuff I’ve ‘counseled’ on:
How to fall in love
How to get over a break up and move on
How to get over the marriage fear psychosis
A lengthy discourse on maintaining fidelity in marriage

Hmm… maybe I should publish a book. And title it ‘Mutton Soup for the Soul’. A friend, who just recently called me an Agony Aunt, and I were discussing the possibilities of coming up with quotable quotes and getting it profitably published.
So hey,
WANTED: People who desperately need to be counseled.
Any issue, any concern, will cease to be a problem once you’ve been counseled by ME.

PS. No offense to any person living or dead whom I have uh… ‘counselled’. This is a sarcastic post against myself and there is no intent to hurt any sentiments, even that of myself.

Amma, Ini-amma, Nonamma, Onini

2008-10-02T12:13:00.000-07:00

All four names are used by my Lil Naughty Angel (LNA) to refer to me. When she calls me what depends on her mood and mine.

If I am glaring at her for doing something exceptionally naughty, LNA will smile and grin and repeatedly call me ‘amma’ till she manages to elicit at least the thinnest of smiles from me. Then she will promptly do her naughty deed once more. [!! I’m still flabbergasted at this. !!]

When she keeps chanting Amma-amma-amma is when I know LNA wants me to do something for her. Usually it is to pick her up and take her gallivanting around the place; or when she wants something that is ‘no-no’ for her; or when her nursery rhyme has stopped playing for the wee three seconds that it takes to jump from one clip to another…!

LNA refers to me as Ini-amma when she doesn’t spy me around for more than the few minutes allowed for me to disappear from her line of vision. (Ini-amma is the shortened and manageable version of ‘Rohini-amma’ by this one-year-old. So is the case with Nonamma.) So she will go to her grandparents or whoever she is with and keep repeating Ini-amma, to mean she wants to be taken to me. [cute, na?]

Nonamma is when the lil naughty angel is pampering me! She will hug me and shower me with kisses and ‘allow’ me to play dumb tickling games with her when she is in this mood. And the term Nonamma will also be interspersed with Amma and sometimes Ini-amma.

Onini is Rohini—nothing more nothing less, except for that R—in all its authority. It is used sparingly, and only when LNA knows for sure I am in a good mood, for she knows that she shouldn’t be calling me by name.

But little does the little one know that the moment she calls me Onini in that tone of hers, I’ve melted. No matter what foul mood, that Onini of hers can put my heart and mind and soul at ease, and how!

Deepika rocks!

2008-10-02T12:11:00.000-07:00

For a first timer, Deepika Padukone is awesome in Om Shanti Om.

At no point did I feel she was gawky or stiff or overdoing anything. Thought she was a complete natural. She oozed the right amount of emotion where emotion was required; she was perfect in the first half, as the superstar living with a painful secret, and more than perfect as the craziest fan who doesn’t so much wannabe a famous actress. There was no overdoing of anything anywhere.

[On the other hand, where did the poor thing have a chance for it, when all of the overdoing was being monopolised by SRK? Tch.]

That she could render the ‘ek chutki sindoor…’ scene in two entirely different ways (one full of emotion and one comical) was quite impressive. Not that other actresses cannot do it, but that as a first timer she did it so smoothly.

Ah… that’s the word I want—Smooth! She’s confident and smooth. No rawness about her anywhere.

[Oh all right, I saw the movie only very recently—almost a year late. And those of you who cannot remember the scenes mentioned, may of course watch the whole movie all over again, provided you can suffer SRK and his antics!]

MEN!!!

2008-03-18T03:28:00.000-07:00

“Men are so practical!” I looked up at my sister-in-law’s flabbergasted face, waiting to hear why she had uttered the remark in that particular tone. “I’m so glad I have a daughter and not a son,” she adds. Hmm… curioser and curioser, think I. “R’s mom passed away,” she says, “and they are donating her body to the medical college!!!”
Eeeks…
(R is chechi’s colleague and when his mother was admitted in the hospital with a stroke, chechi and another colleague [of the feminine gender] went to visit the family in the hospital. Only to find that the mother was in the ICU and her family—R, his brother and father—were at a hotel room. “What are you guys doing at the hospital?1?” was R’s comment when the ladies called to find out their whereabouts.)
So…
“Oh how nice,” remarked a family friend who is also a diagnostician. Then seeing the looks on our faces she adds, “I mean, they are giving away the body for dissection…”
Yewh…
It was the mother’s last will that her body should either be harvested for its organs or that it should be donated to the medical college. Since the organs have to be donated within two hours of the person’s death and that was not possible in this case, the body was donated.
“How can you wish for something like that?” was another remark that the body donation issue elicited. “How will the children be able to sleep in peace knowing that their mother’s body was lying in God knows what condition in some hospital somewhere?”
Erk…
Before handing over the body to those concerned, the father and the sons took the body for a drive in the ambulance. They took their mother to the places she had lived in in the city.

Time, time, time...

2007-12-03T00:54:00.000-08:00

There are times when I wish somebody invented a certain something that could record your thoughts. Oh, only when you want it to, of course... otherwise, uh... all those millions of thoughts getting recorded is a lil too risky, what? heh heh.
So... this certain something would proceed to record thoughts when told to and reproduce them as text (paper or electronic) as and when required and oh momma!! it would be so much easier to maintain my blog. I could blog away when I'm feeding my baby, when I'm washing her soiled clothes, when I'm cooking... oh the possibilities are immense, I say.
Hasn't anyone invented such a certain something yet? tch tch...
And if someone has, and I'm the one who's out of date, do lemme know somebody.

Amma

2007-11-08T06:26:00.000-08:00

Amma (mother)!!! My two-month old daughter still ain’t old enough to call me Amma of course, but I refer myself to her as such. And man… the feeling the term invokes in me is nothing that the many baby books and Internet websites talk about at all. In fact, I figure in the other extreme—the term infuses in me the weirdest of weird feelings.

More than anything else, I’m amused—b’cos I still don’t feel like an ‘Amma’…then there is joy—understandably…then a sense of responsibility…a feeling of protectiveness, of warmth, a deep sense of affection and tolerance…and then there is fear—fear that I might not be able to live up to the gravity of the term Amma…

And at times when my lil angel looks up at me and grins with utmost devotion and admiration in her eyes… Jeez…I feel so, so unworthy of it.

Sweet revenge

2007-10-13T04:54:00.000-07:00

Farhan Akhtar’s remake of Don was being telecast on TV today. Since I liked the slick way in which the movie was shot and had missed the beginning last time it was telecast, I duly set a reminder on my mobile and was waiting eagerly for the D-Day.
Well, D-Day arrived and instead of the beginning of the movie, I was busy cleaning the behind of my little daughter!! With her coo-ing and aah-ing at all the wrong moments, I was woefully and loudly elucidating my predicament to my lil angel, when from the dining room came my mother’s voice: “From now on, my daughter, this is how things are gonna be most of the time. And this, from your mother.”
That shut me up quite fast, I must say, though I couldn’t help but grin from ear to ear at the glee and amusement packed in Amma’s voice.
But then, I looked at my daughter and I’m sure a “wicked” twinkle lit up in my eyes. “Har, har, har… My day will also come,” said my mind and my heart.

Sigh… what a high…

2007-10-11T08:22:00.001-07:00

Here I was looking at my new born baby girl and getting a high cos she stopped crying and fell asleep as soon as I took her in my arms. And I was sure nothing else could make me feel like I was feeling then. But that was ages ago. For the past couple of days my lil angel has been guaranteeing a terrific start to my day. She’s been giving me the widest, brightest and most fantabulous toothless smile ever the moment she wakes up and spots me. Sigh…

My Guardian Angel(s)

2007-08-09T07:04:00.000-07:00

From a very young age, when my mother sat with me and made me repeat dainty lil kiddie prayers after her, she used to make me pray to my guardian angel to be with me always and to keep me safe. As I grew older and started saying my own litany of prayers I began to forget my poor little guardian angel. Not that I stopped believing, oh no… I still ardently believe in that angel who grew up with me, constantly at my right side, urging me to always do good and crying softly when I wouldn’t heed.
But now, as I sit at home expecting my own child to come into the world any day and spending hours reading or embroidering or sleeping while waiting for the D-Day, my parents attend to my every iota of need.
My mother: Ghee in the morning (“it’ll help during labour”), kurunthotti kashayam at night (“it strengthens mother and child”), carrots to munch on (“cos it’s good for the baby”) and chocolate cake (“to keep hunger pangs at bay”), and all this without a single hitch to her daily routine of preparing breakfast, lunch, dinner and what not.
My father: Ensures there are fruits in the house at any given time of the day or night, battles traffic and rain to go all the way to the madding city and buy health drinks for me, minute by minute enquiries as to whether the baby is moving and how I’m feeling…
It’s been more than a month now since I’ve come back home… And every night I thank the Lord for giving me my dear guardian angels—my father and my mother.

PS. But brothers are of a different league… If it’s not to call up and enquire whether I feel like eating anything special, it is to bug my head off about resting my hand on my bulging tummy—“It’s harmful for the baby,” insists my ‘kid’ brother!! Brothers will remain brothers, I guess.

The genuineness of it

2007-08-09T07:02:00.000-07:00

Most people who are lauded as saviours of the world; people who apparently go about doing good for others; who selflessly work their butts off making others happy, do it because they like the praise and the gratitude that invariably follow such actions. Take away the glory and the admiration and they start grumbling. Peep into their houses and the very act that they claim to do selflessly is preceded by a long list of complaints, grumbles and curses. Behind the beatific smiles that adorn the lips of these selfless personas lie a household submitted unwittingly to a heap of verbal and non verbal show of irritation. The servants get a brunt of it, the children get it, the spouse gets it, even the curious fly that buzzed in to see what’s going on gets hit with it.
But the beaming smile that shines at the praise and adulation that invariably follow acts of good deed—now that’s genuine.
Disclaimer: This view is totally and entirely intolerant and prejudiced and that’s how it’s gonna stay for some time.

Sell your ideas—they’re totally acceptable

2007-07-17T09:57:00.000-07:00

That’s what the fortune in my Orkut home page said today. Now that’s a brilliant idea for sure. Cos who would not want their ideas and opinions to be heard or read or seen at least… Sell my ideas—brilliant. But how in the world do I let them or the world know that I’m more than willing to sell my ideas? World, I hope you get in touch with me regarding this. Soon…
:+

Five minutes of non-stop rain

2007-07-07T02:47:00.000-07:00

Everybody’s writing about the rains these days—the romance, the nostalgia, the slush, the slime and the devastation. When it started raining, at around 11 this morning, I rushed to the door—more for the chance to get wet in the shower than to salvage the laundry—only to be shooed back inside just as quickly. (Being seven months pregnant also means getting used to being denied quite a few of the good stuff in life.)

So my mother ran like mad, plucking near-dry clothes off the clothesline and rushed back into the house. She paused long enough to catch her breath, then turned and bolted the door only to realize that the rain had come down to a trickle and in another couple of minutes it stopped.

Bursting into a laugh Amma exclaimed: “Chey… ithenthoru mazhaya. Manushyane kaliyaakkunno?” (What a rain!!! It’s making a fool of us.)

Flit, flutter, fly, butterfly

2007-07-07T02:40:00.001-07:00

It was true what my brother said. It had been ages since we saw a butterfly. This one was of the typical kind of the species—fairly big, with blue designs adorning its dainty black wings. It was a pleasure to watch its fairy-like movements as it flitted from flower to flower savoring the different kinds of nectar at hand. Then the rain played spoilsport, shooing us all away—us inside the house and to the wafting smell of hot coffee and the butterfly, hopefully, to a safe spot.

Then today, as I sat on the veranda enjoying the cold moist early morning breeze, there came another of those fairy creatures. Flitting in and out of flowers and leaves it finally settled down to suckle contentedly from a big yellow flower that showed all the promise of gently rocking the butterfly to sleep as it nestled within its satiny petals.

Words

2007-07-07T02:35:00.001-07:00

All this while, I was yearning to write. Thoughts and ideas—some definitely profound, some frivolous—were flooding my mind, urging to be let loose. But now, just as suddenly as this blog was created, I have nothing to write about. I am drained. In a sense, words fail me… And that too is life.