ToDay in Bits

Today, I attended a seminar on Indian Writing in English. No comments on speakers. I left the seminar midway considering that much of the knowledge they were imparting was lifted straight from any book on the topic. The papers presented were not introducing any new insight. I came out. Standing near my car, I looked for car keys. I was a common sight. A woman-standing near car/scooter with a hand in the big handbag-misplaced keys-confusion writ large on face-thinking maybe I left the keys on the reception desk. But here is the twist. An old beggar who came near me, said some incoherent words about needing money to eat a meal. I glanced at him-was in two minds-whether to shoo him away, or to give a couple of coins. I still could not locate car keys, but my hands located my change pouch, thought its his kismet, took out change for 5 rupees. He refused, he actually refused. Said he wanted ten rupees. He wanted to eat daal-chawal from a hotel. I was angry, I told him, “Go to a gurdwara, they would feed you. Go find some work.” He said, “I’m running fever, blah blah blah.” I wanted to get rid of him. Took out ten rupees, handed over to him, he went murmuring some blessings. The moment he left, my hand touched my car keys hiding away in a corner of the handbag. Providence?? As I sat in the car, I eyed three rickshaw walahs, standing there watching the whole tamasha. My mind churned out a fear. Wouldn’t these rickshaw walahs think , “It is so easy to make ten rupees. Whats the use of our rickshaw pulling?”
I was a bad example.
Cut.
Reversed the car. Ran the AC full blast. Suddenly saw the fuel indicator and it was on below zero. Oh my God! How did it happen? I’ m never this negligent. What if I run out of diesel and there is no filling station nearby? As it is, filling stations are acting pricey about selling a tank-full of diesel. What a nuisance I would be to my currently crusading qunbaa!
Cut.
I reached that blind right turn near my house, screeched on the brakes, and barely managed to escape hitting a golden Scorpio coming from the opposite side without caring for any ‘keep to the left’ rule. Within seconds I gained my composure and rolled down my window. The other fellow too did. I was angry as it is, and then I saw a cigarette stuck in his fingers and a cell-phone sticking in his hand. Whew, he was talking while driving. I was about to come out of my car and stand on the road to abuse him, but then I changed my mind. Got hold of the bhenji act, thought of not getting down on the road (imagined someone imploring, "Paon zameen pey mat rakhiyega, mailey ho jayenge..." though I was in my sports shoes) and willed him to come out of the car. He seemed to be a spoiled brat with his costly glares and spiked up hair - there are such samples aplenty in my city. I pushed my hand out of my window and gestured him to come. I doubted he would. But wow, very obediently he came. I gave four big pieces of my mind, one after the other, to him in chaste, angry, loud Punjabi. He acted equally angry. I managed to be the louder of us two and dismissed him with a shake of my head. He kept grumbling expletives but nonetheless got the message and climbed back in his baap-wali-scorpio and reversed it. I went my way, he went his way. I went abusing him in my mind for being a reckless irresponsible youth; he drove talking to the same someone on his mobile, probably making fun of a ‘woman-driver.’
Cut.
One thing is clear after today, I CANNOT carry open hair for an entire day.
Cut.
It was my today in bits.

Sehar

Yeh daagh daagh ujaala, yeh shabguzida sehar
Woh intezaar tha jiska, yeh woh sehar to nahi.

-Faiz Ahmad Faiz


(This black smeared light, this night ridden morning
This is not the morning that had been waited for)


Delhi weeps the tears of blood,
Islamabad cries and bleeds...
Whose God is happy?

We could not share our joys,
We have lived nursing our suspicions,
Isn't it time for us to unite in sorrow?

For Sanity's Sake

Writing it in the middle of the page does not automatically make it a poem. It is just a jumble, a confusion of words.

The sound of blasts
drowns
the rumble of hearts breaking
joints cracking
cries of faiths bleeding…

The religions swell,
in the name of a God
who sits in his heaven
pretending all is well with his world.

Tyres-meant to
take us places,
burn in our necks
to char away
the foundation
of our existence.

Trains-meant to take us
to destinations
become burial grounds
and crematory fires
of life.

How long will be
till we realize
the answer lies in us
to value our own selves
to value the lives
around us.

Till we wake up-
bombs will blast
fires will blaze
children will cry
pyres will burn
Life will be desecrated everyday.

Akhiyan/Eyes

It was a couple of days ago that Parry Singh (incidently, I have two blogger friends sharing this name) left a comment on one of my poems and expressed his wish to 'make it into a song.' I had just smiled it away thinking that my poems or whatever they are, are not lyrical enough to be sung. I keep my Punjabi poems away from this blog because not all the friends visiting this blog understand the Gurmukhi script.

Nonetheless, he took the trouble to email me the musical version of my words two days ago. I was wonderstruck. My poem perhaps is not very great, but his gesture took my heart away. That you thought of giving music to a Punjabi writing means a lot, Parry. I request all my friends to go to his post and listen to this and to leave comments there. It is not very lengthy. Even if the words are in Punjabi, you would definitely enjoy his music. You can read the text of the poem here.

The Monster Slayer

It was the beginning of the swimming season. Five days into it, and Jai and Rasan resumed their early morning swimming lessons when their exams finished. Jai did not want to go into the pool without Papa –his idol, his friend, his philosopher, his guide, bah! Rasan was to get into the big pool because she had already graduated from the ‘Training pool’ last year. We had even thrown an elaborate party in celebration of her “cap-change”. In case you don’t know, the beginners are required to wear red cap and once they graduate into the big pool, they can wear any colored cap. So, she had been into the big pool with a bang the previous season. But this season, she insisted, presumably for Jai’s sake, and I know for her own sake too (she found big pool too overwhelming this season I guess) that she would stay in the small pool for a day or two. I gestured her to move into the big pool because I was sure she would not be able to overcome her hesitation once she got too comfortable in the small pool. She grudgingly moved into the big pool and Jai, among other trainees was in the small pool. I had been keeping a hawk-mom’s (I am sure there are hawk-pops too) eye on both of them in their respective pools. These were the days before the submarine started invading the pool. After a while, Rasan started to do what the kids call “bubbling” and Jai was just busy splashing water but he was kind of morose with no Didi to share the little things with.

A little while later, I saw him come out of the pool. He was running towards me, sans his bath robe, shivering in the morning cool and running real fast. Before I could even start worrying, he was by my side. With his teeth chattering, he said, “Mama I am not going into the pool.” “Why, Bachhu?” I asked him. He said, “There is something in the pool.” “Something like what?” I thought he was making excuses to stop swimming already. “ Possibly a leaf, Mama” said he, vigorously nodding his head to convince me. In his Punjabi, it came out to be, “Shayad koi patta shatta hai,” And opened his eyes wider to convince me. I said, “Yes, Beta, with so much of wind today, the surrounding trees must have shed some leaves and one of them might have gotten into the pool.” He insisted, “Noooooo, the pool is dirty. There is something moving in it.” Now I know it is not, the managers of the pool change the water every now and then and I know there is a treatment plant working for these pools; and the season had just started. I tried to send him back. He refused to go. I planned to threat him with dire consequences, but gave up the idea before a tussle could ensue - with me coaxing him back into the water and he refusing to budge an inch and thus making a family show of extreme mushy-crushy love. I finally told him to go get his bathrobe from the peg and get into the washroom to change. I was angry with him. We both remained sullen and swollen faced. Finally Rasan finished her swim and came along. I did not talk to him all through the way because I had woken up at 5 am for God’s sake to take them to the pool, and all I was getting in return was a sulky kid complaining of funny things. During the day, however, we kissed and made up.

Next day, upon waking up, he categorically refused to get ready to go to the pool. I said, "Okay, at least come with us to the pool." Reluctant and suspicious that I would again ask him to get into the pool, he obliged upon the promise that he would not be forced to go the pool. I thought, we will cross the bridge when we come to it and laced the comment with Tere ta waddey waddey wi jaangey between my teeth. Off we went to the pool. I tried one last time. He put his little foot down, “No I am not going to the pool.” Rasan said, “Ok, I will go to the pool with you and see what’s the matter.” I didn’t like the idea because it gave Rasan a chance to avoid the big pool. But Majboori ka naam chota pool. Reaching upto her ears upon tiptoe, and very secretively he whispered, “Ok didi, I will also show you those sea monsters too.” She said, “Ok, I will see what’s bothering you.” I eavesdropped upon their conversation. And chuckled to myself, “Wow, SEA monsters in the swimming POOL! Only mera munda can invent them.” She got into the pool with him and remained with him and kept talking to him while he splashed. The coach came and found her swimming among the trainees and told her to shift the pool. She rarely gets into argument outside home. She did not try to disobey or explain. She moved out. Jai was again left alone but now he seemed to have come to terms with his monster buddies in the water. (He has never forgiven the coach since; and keeps calling him Khadoos with a double K) He now splashed water around, enjoyed himself and came out laughing. What sister-therapy Rasan gave him, I have no idea. But I am grateful she did.

Thank God for her. What would I do without my wonder girl, my super-heroine?


Cartoon courtesy-

http://www.quietmuse.net/images/wgirl.jpg

A Day That is Me

It is a beautiful tag created by Thought Safari. I salute the spirit of the originality of this tag and its creator. It requires me to tell what kind of a day would I want to be.

S.M.A.R.T., I am honored that you thought of me while tagging friends onto this beautiful and creative one. Here I am.

I would want to be a balmy winter day, when you wake up early, before the sun rises. You want to go back to bed but rather would tie up the jogging shoes to go run out on the abandoned road. On the way back, the sun starts to shine, promising a warm me. You come home and after a warm shower, take up a book to sit in the sun, listen to the FM radio, open a book long pending completion of its reading; and then surrender to the languor introduced by the warmth of the sun. A loved one then comes to wake you and finds the book lying inverted on your chest. You then give him/her that look which is reproachful but inviting. You sit and talk about things happening in your life and also of things to come.

As I progress, the sun goes down, bringing a little chill in the air, and you take the chair inside the room. And then I merge into the night.

I think Sujata, Pinku, Gazal, RiverSoul, Vinay, LifeBegins, Oreen, Majaz, and Manasa would enjoy doing this tag. Tell us what kind of a day would you like to be?

I request Sujata, Pinku and Manasa to add their wonderful clicks to the tag write up. Majaz needs to do this tag because she needs a change from the Zardari bashing that she has been reveling in lately. LifeBegins, I want you to do it asap, no grace time. Period. You need to be punished, he he he. Gazal, girl you have not done a tag in ages, so before someone else tags you, let me take the opportunity to do it. I know you did a self picked tag today, but an imposed tag is a different fun. You want to break the head of the tagger, you want to yell at her and you want to tear your hair off your head. How would you have all this fun doing a self picked tag? Vinay and RiverSoul, you are requested to write poems in response to this tag. Oreen, you will do it in your own inimitable style. Pigs, poems, pilgrimages - all allowed.

Do I sound like a Bhenji who has given the homework? But then, remember Once a Bhenji, always a bhenji. But it is okay, no time limits, take your time.

Thought Safari, did I do justice in passing it on??

And Jab We Met

That weekend we were to meet Pinku and Parry. They were breaking their journey in Chandigarh on my request on their way to Delhi from KairiGhat. We were to pick them up from Tribune Chowk. How will we identify each other? I wore a sharp yellow kameez salwar and told Pinku on the phone that when you look around, the prettiest female will be Mampi. Hehehe.

Sure enough, she located me across the crossing with the prettiness factor being the biggest hint. There she was, in a white kurta and jeans, with a bag slung over her shoulder; and with her was Parry, in a cool kurta and jeans himself, sweating profusely and with more luggage. Brave couple! Welcome to Punjab. Pinku has a sweet voice like that of a bird. Parry has a million dollar smile. Mahesh was waiting near the car to say hi to them. A perfect Bong Couple meeting a Perfect (errrrr???) Punjabi Couple-thanks to the blogworld. Jai was upset at having to squeeze himself in because he wanted me to go back to my seat in the front which I had given to Parry. Me and Pinku sat on either side of the back seat. Jai thought he was being squeezed in too tightly in his usually comfortable seat. He also took a great exception to our constant chatter. Rasan giggled at his remarks and told Pinku not to mind what he said. They both talked about other things. P and P had been in the bus for a couple of hours . And I knew they would be hungry. So, first things first, we went to eat at Aroma’s and had great fun catching up with each other’s lives. Not even once did we have those awkward moments you have while meeting someone for the first time. Six people - four cuisines- Rasan talking nonstop. (I have never seen her so animated with someone she is meeting for the first time) Usually Mahesh also takes time but he too was soon friends with Parry. He later commented that Parry is a cool guy.

We planned to go to the Chattbir Zoo but ParryAnka were short on time, so we decided in favour of the lake. It was a hot, sunny day that we had to brave. But we were all excited. Basically the aim was not sightseeing; it was to talk our hearts out. Jai constantly acted the spoil sport. He is one hell of a possessive guy. I often joke to Mahesh that he is stealing you away from me. Usually it is the husband who complains that the children are stealing the wife (in mother) away from him. Hopeless, that’s what I am. Hehehe. The lake, the heat, the crowd and then we started to walk away from the crowd. Talking about our lives, our jobs– we walked on. And boy, I was in for a surprise. On the foot of a lampshade was written a sentence in Punjabi. Parry stopped on the way. Read that sentence aloud. I was left gaping at him. “What? You can actually READ Gurmukhi?” I mean it is understandable for someone in India to understand Punjabi, but for a Bengali to read Gurmukhi, it’s amazing, it’s stupendous, it’s actually impressive Yaar! Pinku had earlier told me that Parry had lived in Punjab as a child owing to his father’s transferable job, but it was splendid to see him remember the script. He told me that he had worked on it consciously. How many people do that?

More talk, more dekho around, and suddenly a young man about 23-24 yrs old came. Said, “Excuse me, Ma’am.” I thought it was some student from the past. He said, “You look wonderful.” I was stupefied. What is this? He read my mind and immediately let the cat out of the bag lest he should be slapped, or in extreme circumstances, the lady be flattered enough to jump into the lake. Pointing at his friends he said, “Well, I had been dared by that group of mine to go tell the lady in the yellow that she looks good.” I said, “Well, you actually made my day, thank you.” And we all laughed. The talk freak that I am, I told Parry-Pinku that it has happened once before with me.

I was in M.A. II and we had been invited as guests to the welcome party of the MBA I semester by some friends in that department. The whole of the big University auditorium was full. The MBA deptt’s party used to be one to be enjoyed. The invitation was rare and much coveted. Obviously, we were really honored to be there. A set of giggling, unassuming type of girls, that’s what we were. Freshers of the new batch were being invited to the stage and asked to do weird things. There was this guy Abhishek, not Abhishek Bacchhan yaar. This one was a short, thin childlike boy who was told to give a flower to the prettiest girl in the hall. There was a stunned silence in the Audi. Now who would he go to? Jiske pas bhi jayega, maar khayega. And can you believe it? He came straight to me. Arrey, lambi lambi nahi chorh rahi hoon. Sach mein aya. I was flattered, scared, embarrassed. I was nowhere close to what the MBA people would call pretty. Well, nobody in their right senses would go give the flower to a plump girl in a 6-metre kameez salwar with full sleeves, spectacles on the nose, a thoroughly studious look and absolutely no experience in receiving flowers. The game required him to bring the girl back to stage and gift her a pen. Now that part was okay, I needed a pen anyways. I went with him to the stage, and courageously brought back the pen. I was not exactly on cloud nine, but flattered I definitely was. Because that was the first and the last flower I ever got from a guy. After the function, he came to me and said, “I hope you didn’t mind. Well you seemed safest to give that flower. You see, I knew who you were. My dad is Principal in ….. College, and he knows your mom (Mom was then Principal in another college in the same university). So I thought I would go give you the flower, and later apologize. I hope you dint mind ”

Mind? Were you kidding, Abhishek?

Coming back to Pinku, Chandigarh and Parry (poor dears, they got to hear this story then and there), our meeting was soon going to come to an end. Parry was expecting his dynamic friend P whom he had told that he was in the city. I tried to threaten him with dire consequences because I had planned something else. But then I had to abandon my Punjabi ways because “the friend” had a more towering personality than me and Mahesh put together. As soon as she came, I accepted my defeat and let them go. With a heavy heart of course. Because I had planned some more hours in their company, but then friends are friends, and friends need to be with friends even if the friends are with other friends. Sob!Sob!

The meeting with this blogger couple is definitely the beginning of a bond that is beyond regions, beyond languages, beyond limiting factors that divide people.

Amen!

Pinku's post on this meeting is really wonderful. Parry has taken these pictures and they both together have proven how powerful people's backs can be !!

My Joy Knows No Bounds

Some get one,

Some get two

I got three, nay four.

Yipeeeeeee.

What do you do when three of your fellow bloggers, all better than you, and the ones with a wider perspective covered in their blogs, consider you worthy of the Brilliante Award 2008? You feel overwhelmed, teary eyed and touched. Yes, I am all three. To a cynic, awards like these might not seem as significant as they sound, but to a person like me who is being endorsed and being read by bloggers with greater styles of their own, it means a lot. It means that I was remembered when these fellow bloggers were making their list of the blogs that they thought could qualify for the award. And it is a lovely feeling. Inexplicably discreetly invited me to her blog to show me the award, Abha asked me if she could(yeh bhi koi poochne ki baat hai ji?), and Mandira simply added me to the list of her awardees. Reliable sources have reported that Roop was also considering me for the award but she decided she won't award me if I had already been awarded that. However, in my bout of lack of humility, I count the "award not given" but "considered-given" from her too. The height of humility, self awardation. (Is there a word like that?)


Thank you all four of you.

After accepting the award, I would read the rules of the award ceremony.

This award is for blogs whose content and design are brilliant as well as creative. (my design is horrible, I am sure, but I think my benign friends conveniently ignored that)
The purpose of the prize is to promote as many blogs as possible in the blogosphere.
1. When you receive the prize you must write a post showing it, together with the name of who has given it to you, and link them back.
2. Choose a minimum of 7 blogs (or even more) that you find brilliant in their content or design.
3. Show their names and links and leave them a comment informing they were prized with ‘Brilliante Weblog.’
4. Show a picture of those who awarded you and those you give the prize (optional).
5. And then we pass it on!

All Checked...

I share the list of the blogs that I feel are a quality read and worth spending my time on:
And the awards go to (in no particular order of hierarchy):

Pinku-For bringing out the innermost turmoils of human soul, for offering a myriad view of all that she witnesses around her.

SidhuSaheb-For being a sensible user of his blogspace.

Majaz-For her simplicity, for the fire inside her that is wrapped up in tradition and yet is so effective.

HowDoWeKnow-For the honesty, the contemporariness in her blogposts.

Sujata-For adding colour through her camera, for awakening my own wandering spirit through her travel accounts.

ThoughtSafari-For being so unique, for sharing the journey of thoughts with us.

Phatichar-For scaring me with his brilliant stories.

Roop-For jolting us from the complacency about many issues through her banalities blog and Unchaahi blog. For being so passionate about her cause. I add her here, because I really really admire the way she puts up the problems and their resolutions and her rage in between.

ManInPainting- For the mesmerising sculpting that he does with his words.

Devaki-Her style always leaves me wondering about the top quality content she presents-in a very organised and balanced fashion.

and

Imp's Mom-For being a strong mom and sharing herself through her blog.

Well, I know I am well past the 7 blogs limit, I wish I had added more. But they all remain linked in my blogroll and honor my blog with their presence.
For me, all the blogs I visit are really enchanting. I am always impressed with the subjects you all choose, and the way you all present them. I guess everybody who is expressing herself/himself here through words deserves this award. Thank you all for spreading cheer and hope.

POOL SPOOLS

Swimming is not tough. Remember I told you? Well, it is all about kicking your legs and moving your arms and breating rhythmically. That’s it. Only I occasionally forget to breathe inside the water and end up doing a lot of Jal Neti. As a result, my nasal and throat passage these days works smoothly like a toll managed highway.

And the moment I kick my legs and move into the middle of the pool (the small pool ji), I forget to move my arms. If I manage to remember to do both the things, I forget to breathe. The moment I realize that I have to breathe, I manage to shoot up to the surface to breathe. The neighboring swimmers (all learners, majority of them kids below 10) suddenly get alarmed and scared thinking I am in some emergent need of aid. Well, I usually search for air in such a frantic way that they seem to be ready to call the lifeguard. They stop only when I manage to communicate some consolation with a head bobbing up and down in the water. That ensures them that I am alive. So much for humanity in the pool.

If I do manage to breathe, and start to move forward with the speed of a submarine inside a tub; I end up recalling some funny event of my life and start giggling inside the water. Obviously I cannot giggle and swim in one go.

Well, swimming IS easy, only if you supplement your regime with good diet and consumption of a lot of water. Diet, I manage at home, but the water I consume these days is the water that I (accidentally) drink inside the pool; while breathing or trying to breathe. Only when I come out of the pool with a protruding tummy do I realize that I have had more than my quota of water for the day.

Stop saying EEEIIIKKKSSS.

Recycle

These days
the complaints
do not automatically
shift to
the communication department.

Melancholy
does not by itself
get converted to
giggles.

The rubbish accumulates;
The migraine pinches.

It hurts to know
the recycling unit
in the brain

is not working 'normally.'

Viral, Queues and Queen

On Friday, I took an off. Not because it was the release of Singh Is Kinng and I wanted to watch the first day first show. I told you, I m not those types. I took the off because I had viral fever. Waiting at an old doctors’ old styled clinic, I smsed all my friends and M a message, here it goes:

Puri Botal na sahi, Kam se kam ek jam toh ho jaye,
Milna na sahi, dua salaam toh ho jaye,
Jinki yaad mein hum bimaar padey hain,
Kam se kam unhe zukhaam toh ho jaye.
.
.
Oye haal ta puch lo….

And in the purest spirit of responding to the chappal chor shayar’s shers, my dear friends sent me sms’es and M called. The two hour wait, yes the whole two hours of wait at the doctor’s even in this 21st century, became a little tolerable amid a sweating session, rising body temperature and tiresome body ache. Finally two benign patients saw my yellowing eyes and deteriorating condition, and requested me to skip their turns in the queue purely on compassionate grounds. Taking cognisance of their insistent enthusiasm in letting me reach the doctor’s altar, I complied. The doc saw me, declared I was a gone case of viral fever, told me strictly to stay away from work, prescribed the meds , charged his fee and sent me home.

So what is the big deal, you would ask. You were sick, you were told to rest.

No, here lies the twist.

Only I didn’t go home. I consumed the first dose of meds and headed to the WestEnd Mall in response to my little family’s enthusiasm to watch Singh is King this weekend. I thought, abhi nahi toh kabhi nahi. To the utter dismay of my driver, in about 15 minutes of taking the medicine, we were cruising through multiple traffic jams in blistering heat. Yes, we reached the Waves Cinemas to buy tickets. Never seen such an adarsh patni, adarsh maa even in the K serials, right? Such a sacrifice !!! So mushy?? Okay okay, leave out the crying part for later.

For the first time in my life, I saw Punjab’s essentially male - crowd civilized and queued-up even in the sun. I wanted to click a discreet picture for you to prove my point, but I didn’t have enough energy to argue in case someone chose to exercise their right to object. So I let my phone remain in my handbag. And exercised my privilege of going in a separate queue meant for women (which had only me) and went in. Oh boy, inside was a different story. At 12: 30 pm any given day in such a mall, you won’t see such a crowd. What I was looking at was a motley crowd of rustic, first time visitors to the Westend Mall. They were everywhere, in the corridors, in the elevators, on the escalators. And my brilliant brain immediately told me that Singh was again going to be King, this time in theatres. I was so proud of my Kurta-Payajama clad non-turbanated pendu’s.

I reached the Box office and there was a queue, and actually people standing in a queue. I stood in one too. No, I didn’t exercise my right of being a woman this time. There was this guy who first analysed my queue from his own from the left side, crawled towards ours and then sheepishly tried to fit into ours. I was secretly wary of anyone with any mal-intentions trying to sneak into our queue. The moment he tried to poke his pathetic existence into our queue, I knocked (in the spirit of knocking on a door) with my cell phone on his shoulder. I actually wanted to prick his conscience with a pin, but I did not have a pin and his conscience was not too visible. Surprised, he looked back and I said, "Excuse me, but there is a queue here.” He said, “Yeah, I just have to enquire.” I said, “Yeah, so come in a queue.” He didn’t know, of course, that the lady was running a fever. He again said, “Madam, ticket nahi lena hai; enquire karna hai.” I said, “Yeah, so come in a queue.” I was reminded of my dear friend and colleague N’s words, “Once a bhenji, always a bhenji.” I think he heard my brain tick with these words. Shrugging his shoulders in an I GIVE UP BHENJI tone, he went back. My turn came and I bought tickets to Singh is King. Oh, I forgot to add that by now, I was sweating even in the strong AC due to the medicines as well as exertion. I still had 101 fever if not more. Such Devotion. Akshey Kumar, Are you reading??

CHINA-GIVE WAY...INDIA COMETH

Oye China ! Thou be a super-power? We Care not! We be on the way...the faster way... our budding Hockey players are cutting the grass yet. They will be done in a few years. Then they will play in these grounds. Off with your astroturfs, off with your technology, off with your hyperactive players. Tremble China tremble. Nothing will then save you. No stopping for us.

Hail India !!! (And Mampi stretches out her arm to do the 'Hail' action)

AS THE WHOLE WORLD CELEBRATED BEIJING OLYMPICS OPENING CEREMONY, THESE GIRLS WERE SERVING THE NATION IN THEIR OWN WAY.

Fitting Into a Swim Suit

No, it is not a hard thing to do. I thought it was. M had been pestering me to learn swimming for physical fitness and as a survival skill. I had been trying to cajole him into letting me postpone it to next summer. He himself is a reasonably good swimmer and has an extremely fit body. That is to conclude that I was and still am the only bad apple in the family of shiny and fit apples.

So, one fine morning, he called up, gave me an ultimatum, ordered me to bunk work and go to the Speedo showroom to buy a swimming costume. Swimming costume and me? M, you cannot be serious after my successful attempts to skirt the issue. Swimming costume – to me, was a sexy, revealing outfit that you wear to swim and sometimes to flaunt a good body. I neither knew swimming nor did I have a good body to show off. Before buying a swim suit, I thought it was a good idea to buy a bathrobe to wear over it. Though I didn’t bunk work I did go to Planet Sports that day and asked them to show me the biggest swim suit they had in the form of something that would cover me from head to toe. The salesman saw me, smiled patronizingly and said, “Ma’am, the maximum covering types in swimsuits available with us are the ones that cover half your legs and half your arms.” Pooh, life is full of compromises. I thought, “Okay let it be.” I argued that I had seen those full bodyskins that make you look like a seal. “There was no way we would be getting it here in our store,” said the salesman.

“Yeah, all of them have gone to China for Olympics, right?” I still thought he had that full body suit and was hiding it somewhere in the store.

He led me to the section where these wonderful swim suits hung. My inner voices started to yell all at once, “Wow, wish I could wear this, wish I could wear that. Umm, no this won’t fit. Umm no, this is too small. Hai, this is nice.” and I picked up a plain black zip-up kneeskin (mine is closest to this one. Wonder why Speedo has not put my kneeskin on their website) , and the biggest size in this style and also one smaller than the biggest- just for the sake of my ego satisfaction. I moved towards the trial room. On the way, I called up M and gave him a detail on the selected swim suit. Was it hot that day, and was I sweating that day! It was a struggle to wear cotton clothes, and to try on a swim suit was an ordeal. I wanted to curse M loudly for having made me go through that tiresome and lousy job in the middle of the afternoon when I should be sitting home reading blogs. The godforsaken AC of that store was working, but the trial room was, well trial room and they wanted to try the patience of everyone, so the AC settings in that part of the world seemed to be set to a minimal. I will save you the details of the struggle; I fit into both of them. I mean I fit into both, tried one after the other. Just clarifying lest you should think I had to put both of them to fit in.

Now, that was a small ego-boost. Elated, I called up M.

Conversation from inside of the stuffy trial room into the phone:

“Wow, I fit into both.”

“Try one size smaller than the smallest that fit you. I m sure you would fit into that too.”

In Punjabi I said, ““ਠੀਕ ਠੀਕ ਲਾ ਲੌ” it roughly translates as “Now come on, let’s stay within limits.”

“Okay, leave it. I will go with you to the showroom and then you try it.” Oww he is such a darling.

I smsed him the details, style number etc and he promised he would also have a look at a Speedo showroom closeby.

Next day we returned together to the same PS showroom and he suggested me to take two sizes smaller inside the trial room and try them on . I was aghast, “No way. I am not doing it. I m not even going to try swimming. I look like a black whale. Moreover it’s no fun spending so much on a swim suit for a person like me who has not even stepped into a pool.”

“Go on; let me see how it fits.”

Now it was a relatively cooler day. Partly because now my self esteem was two sizes larger, given that at least two decent swim suits had fit me. Encouraged, I tried this smaller one, wow it fit me. I chuckled audibly to myself. M was standing outside; he wondered aloud what was so funny. I opened the door slightly, let him in and told him to see for himself. He saw it from this angle and that. Not that it was very hard to do, because there were hardly any angles to look at , for everything was conveniently rounded off. But he was happy that it fit me. I secretly suspected that he was happy that I found myself not impossibly fat anymore. I was even happier than him, though what I was seeing in the mirror was nothing even remotely close to a flattering image. We finalized the swim suit and off we went. I am glad M didn’t allow me to buy those bazaar chaap swim suits that come in bold prints with long slacks that cover your legs, almost looking like kameez-pajami–sans-dupatta inside the water.

On the way back, M declared, “Half the battle is won. You will learn swimming in no time."
What a faith!!! An incurably contagious faith that he wears on sleeves the way people wear their hearts!!! I started to sneeze immediately upon being badly infected with it in the car. As a result, now am trying all sorts of antics in the swimming pool that is only 3 and a half feet deep. I need to tell you all about so many other pool happenings. That is for the next time. Reason? - A badly frighten(ing)ed reader, my friend Hardly Phatichar says, “aap toh kishton mein likhti hain”. (You write in instalments.)

METTLE

ਰੁੱਖਾਂ ਵਿੱਚ ਹੀ ਏਨਾ ਜੇਰਾ ਹੋ ਸਕਦਾ ਏ
ਕਿ ਕੁਹਾੜੀਆਂ ਨੂੰ ਵੀ ਦਸਤੇ ਬਖ਼ਸ਼ ਦੇਣ...


Rukh'han wich hi eina jeira ho sakda ey
ke kuhaa'rhian nu wi dastey bakhsh dein...


Only trees can have the mettle
to grant helves to axe - heads...

(Read recently somewhere...)

Ishmeet's Music

R wants me to put Ishmeet's music on her blog.

Ishmeet is No More

I am hurrying up the kids to finish their morning rituals of getting ready and eating breakfast. Just before I am about to go drop them at the bus stop, my mother- in- law tells me that last night, Ishmeet expired. Shocked, I am unable to register the news. She, on her part, has to decide about whether the singing program she is organizing in her college is going to be held or not. I have to decide what to tell the kids. I ultimately decide not to tell anything to them. Just when I call their van driver to pick up the kids in time, he informs me that the school is closed. That the vans will not be picking up kids. I call my daughter’s class teacher to confirm and she informs me that they will be going to school, but there is no point sending children to school.

Ishmeet was the alumnus of R’s school – a recent one. R adored him. When he had reached the finals of Voice of India, and needed votes of people to help him win, R simply told me to sit on net, use all my email ids and go on voting every single day. I don’t like reality shows, I despise the hot exchanges of judges, and I hate the disappointed looks on the singers’ faces when they are told they sung badly. I hate the sound of dreams shattering on stage, on camera and I cannot stand people trying to make money and audience deriving a morbid pleasure from the debris of broken expectations. But I recall that I had told a few of my blogger friends to support him because R wanted him to win. That was and is the only reality show I ever saw. I recall how R somersaulted atop the bed with sheer joy the moment she came to know of his victory. I asked her, “Would he come to know that his school mate, a little girl is risking breaking her neck because he won?” She giggled, said she didn’t care. She was crazy, she was shrieking, she was mad with happiness. I was happy for her. Her dad was happy for her.

How can I tell her now, that he is no more. She has a bond with him – she is his fan, like many others. I finally tell her, she is shocked. Her first words are, “I feel like crying mama.” Usually she doesn’t express her sadness like this. When she says these words, I know her throat is choked but she won’t cry because she cannot know if she is to cry or not. In a state of daze, she changes from her school uniform into her home clothes. She is not happy about the school being off today – she usually is not happy about not having to go to school. She takes up her abridged copy of As You Like It that she borrowed from her library yesterday and sits. Then closes it, says, “Mama, I don’t feel like doing anything.” I tell her to take a nap. But she won’t, I know she won’t.

May Waheguru give his family and parents strength to bear the shock. May his soul rest in peace . R is repeatedly saying, I cannot believe it. We all cannot.

I Went to Miss Punjaban Pageant...2

Here is the second and final part of the Beauty Pageant experience.

The anchor, remember that damsel in westerns?, came and spoke Punjabi with an accent. On camera she would speak Punjabi, and off camera she would start speaking Hindi. I wanted to speak in the collar microphone they had pinned to my dupatta, “Oye, someone tell this female to speak Punjabi like a Punjaban.” Incidentally, did I tell that the mic they had pinned on my dupatta kept pricking me with those harmless but irritating little electic shocks they give in Siberia? (Okay, it was a big gapp, they never gave any shocks in Siberia.) It was the channel people’s revenge on my big mouthedness. LOL. Now I am again overdoing it, they in fact, gave me all the respect due to me.

Another thing about this fashionista - she kept forgetting K’s name. She kept asking his name again and again from him and made it visibly known that she had a trouble remembering it. Somehow I felt very sorry for his ego. I mean it might have been okay if she had forgotten mine or Capt D’s name, but forgetting a singer’s name was really bad. He is not a very great hit but then three or four of his very decent songs have been a blast. He would have liked it if she had cared to remember his name. At the end of the show, when she once again forgot or pretended to forget his name about 4th time, he smiled and whispered to me, “No problems, every dog has his day.” I liked it that he was so cool.

We all sweated, partly due to the sultry weather, partly due to a hot and closed environ, and partly due to the sharp, hot camera lights. The best part in the entire show was Sachin, the makeup assistant with a tireless trot and a wonderful smile. The moment the director shouted a number, he would run towards us. Number 1 was Capt D, I was number 2, and K was number 3. Sachin was a cute boy, very smart, very attentive and very accommodating. I tried to bully him into using my tissue but he provided us all with our individual pieces of very soft muslin cloth which he insisted on using on our faces. Before every shot, he would come running and would dab the ‘required’ person’s face with his/her cloth. “Required” because if it was No. 1’s turn to ask question, he would be freshened up for the camera, otherwise he would wait till his turn came, and so on and so forth. But we were all welcome to add to the question, which we all gracefully avoided just so the person asking question should have a free hand.

Okay, the girls started off, with the cue. On the yell of “action” they would walk towards the camera, stop on a round rug. Most of them would start with “sahsshri akaal ji” (they should have been saying “Sat Sri Akal Ji”) though we were fine with a ‘good afternoon’, or’ hello’ instead of a wrongly pronounced greeting. But they wanted to make it sound like a typical Punjabi setting, though some of them looked like they had walked the sets off the K-serials with their fake jewellery. A few wore traditional Punjabi jewellery but unfortunately knew nothing about it. Some of them were just out of school, some were the students of 11th or 12th grade, a few were there after their graduation, one was a law graduate, another an experienced lecturer. And I wondered what their dreams were, and if they were going to be realized. Except that they were not clear about their dreams. Whenever a question veered towards, “why do you want to participate in this contest?” they replied with, “I want to do charity”, “I want to do something for orphans,” “I want to do something for child education,” and the staple, “I want to promote my culture and heritage.” But if I asked what a maun (ਮੌਣ) is, they cut a sorry figure. Now, maun in Punjabi is the top brim of a water well and any girl who wants to represent Punjabi culture, should know what it is. Because well-sites were the women’s entertainment before the times of the Kitty Parties. If I asked one to name the Desi-months of the Indian year, she was lost.

All the while I was wondering, which culture are they going to represent, they are a lost generation themselves. They come here and try to speak their own language in an accent that wants to pretend they are Phoren-returned. They want to say proudly that they cannot write in Punjabi, and at the same time, we find they do not know how to write a straight sentence in English. Hindi is out of question for these girls. How do we expect them to represent a culture and at the same time be well versed with the Indian realities in the global context? They have dreams alright, but no efforts directed towards reaching for those targets. They want the stars to drop in their laps but they don’t make an effort to reach out.

One of them said “joking is my hobby”. Please ignore the bad English. It comes straight from their bio-datas. The singer K asked her to crack a never-before-heard-joke. She related a godforsaken joke which blooped up badly. I ended up laughing hysterically simply because I didn’t know what to make of the joke, but thankfully the girl never came to know why I laughed. I hate to be a part of that cruelty issued from the judgment chairs in reality shows though the organizers did try to spur us to give out a little drama. I didn’t tell him, but I know I am a very boring person and would not enact any drama for anything- not at least on stage or camera.

Lest you think that all of them were there just with looks and make up, let me tell you that some of them came up with really brilliant answers on female-foeticide, social problems, and laws concerning women. There was this pretty girl, very simply but elegantly dressed up in simple Punjabi attire. She, in her bio-data had written that she had a story to share on why she wanted to be a part of this pageant. (Basically we took the questions from their areas of interest as mentioned in their introduction in their entry form). She fell in my lot. I mean I was the one to ask question, I crossed my fingers and asked her what it was. She said it was personal but she would share it. I was amazed at her courage. She said, “When I was conceived, my mother was pressurized to abort the baby in case it was a girl because there were already two girls in the family. Somehow I survived. Through this contest, I want to show the world that I m the same foetus which might have been aborted.” I wanted to ask her if it was her mother who saved her, but then I thought she might cry on camera. I let her go and gave her the maximum points – for her courage, her presentability, for the way she carried herself. I hope to find more about her later.

Then, there was this girl whom I asked, if you were to be reborn, would you like to be born as a Rakhi Sawant, a Mayawati or a Maneka Gandhi. She chose Maneka Gandhi and in detail told us about her work for animals. It was brilliant; the way she responded was confident and very positive.

I was sorry for some of them who deserved far more than this. One of them was a wonderful singer who had earlier appeared on live shows on TV and made a great advertisement for herself when her turn came. But we forgave her that, after all she is a child of 18-19. All three of us thought that she should concentrate on singing and not waste her energy elsewhere.

All through, there was no AC; I wondered why the channel was pinching its pennies. If only they had rented a Kitty hall in some hotel, everybody would have been saved a lot of time, energy and water, because I could actually feel sweat running in streams down my back. On top of that there was the makeup which had finally found its way in the tissue papers and that cute muslin cloth. I asked for a mirror to touch up my lipper. An assistant came and asked what I needed, D said, “Madam ka makeup dubara kar do”. That smart assistant was baffled. He said, “Kya breakup kar do?” I was crazy with laughter. I said, “Rehney do, tumhara qusoor nahi, garmi bahut hai.” He was genuinely puzzled, went away nodding his head and we all couldn’t help bursting into laughter.

I must mention those three cute girls; I think they were assistants to the director. They sounded very sensible, practical and pleasant. Every few minutes, the organizers would turn the pedestal farratta fan after the director called CUT, K was sitting onto my left and the fan was to his left. Every time the fan was turned on, he would be lost in his thoughts, his papers would fly away and he would look helplessly at them. The spot boys would gather his papers and then the contest would re-commence. I was reminded of Uncle Podger’s antics. D needed spectacles to read but he did not wear them. I think he did not want to look old by wearing them. As a result, all the time he kept making tentative guesses on what might have been written. Some of these guesses were really really wild, irrelevant and funny. I was giggling inaudibly all the time at his plight.

At about 5, we were done with the entire grilling process and were looking like sweaty, shiny, grilled but hungry chickens ourselves. Then they fed us with some greasy poories with chanas and a sugary cold drink. So much for the beauty…

It was a great learning experience for me - in terms of human communication, human psychology and the working of TV shows on sites away from TV Studios. The crew was, all in all, a very supportive, energetic and decent one. The one thing I am happy about is, the judgment was fair and was valued; otherwise the channels are sometimes known for promoting their own favorite candidates and pushing them through the pliable judges.

I Went to Miss Punjaban Pageant...

I participated in Miss Punjaban Contest-2008 today.

This is what I can say after spending one hell of a grueling day in the chair of a judge of a beauty-talent show audition. A regional channel of Punjab is organizing a gala (so they say) show and they had invited me to be one of the judges. At the moment, after spending about 5 hours in front of sharp camera lights, I am totally zonked out. I wonder why I go to such events again and again. I had done one such exercise before too, and had learnt my lessons quite well. After receiving a beautiful memento with my name printed on it, I had then vowed never to be a judge in a beauty show but there is a nerve in me that starts to twitch the moment I am invited to this job again. The reasons, I believe are that I find such programs as a forum to suggest the youngsters what they need to do and what they need not to do in such contests. Judging from what I am writing, by now, I bet that many of my friends perhaps believe that I have been an erstwhile Miss Punjab, or Mrs Punjab or even Miss India or Mrs India. No, no, no, no. I have not even been in close proximity to a venue holding such events, thanks to my strict parents who nipped any such talent in me in its bud. Just kidding. I never HAD such a talent. I have had just the gift of speaking and a big mouth which comes in handy while adjudging others on stage. How this channel got my name as a judge is anybody’s guess. They are about as famous as I am. LOL.

Okay, coming back to today’s event. It was one of the four- or perhaps five auditions to shortlist aspiring Miss Punjabs. I had no idea who my co-judges were. Later I found out that one was my old acquaintance, an ex-army officer - Capt D, now serving with the Government of Punjab, and the other was a moderately known Punjabi singer named K. It was a tortuously sunny day. When I reached the venue, I found out that all the watches around had been requested to forget that it was the stipulated starting time of 10 A.M. which had been postponed indefinitely. There was this pretty girl who was getting made up by the makeup artist. The moment she turned towards me, I was amazed to find her dressed up in westerns, with tight slacks and strapped up shoes. With a gaping mouth I turned to Capt D who was waiting for his turn for makeup. “Is SHE going to anchor the show?” I meant, is this what the beauty pageant for Miss Punjaban has come down to? Talking arrogantly, she made me realize that I had been one of the ignominious beings who had rejected her in favor of Japji Khaira in another semi-final of a Miss Punjaban show. And in the same arrogant tone, batting her mascara'ed eyelashes, she kept telling, well that is when I had begun my “career.” Ignoring her, I concentrated on the questions I was going to ask the contestants. Then Capt D sat in front of the makeup artist. The makeup didn’t make much of a difference to his face, but he was given the impression that he has been brightly made up. This made Capt D a very happy man.

Then came my turn to be happy. I sat before the makeup artist, conveniently forgetting that I cannot carry any kind of makeup ever. There are two reasons for that. One, in the month of July, there is no way that my make up would not bleed with the sweat. Second, that I cannot carry any kind of make up at all at any time. I wipe off my kajal with my sleeve accidentally and end up having black lines on my cheeks. Okay, I’m not that stupid, but yes I do tend to forget that I’m wearing kajal. The only thing I can carry elegantly is lip colour. So there I was, my face getting layer after layer of makeup, my eyes getting painted, my cheeks getting re-formed and my crooked nose getting a beautiful shape. (Remember Stephan Leacock’s With the Photographer?) Then the make up artist applied lipstick. And then I saw the mirror and then I gave out a subdued “EEEIIIIWWW, my lips are not that thick”. He said, “Madam this is the look.” I said, No way, you have made me look like a TV personality, I want to look like the humble teacher that I am. Kindly give back my lips the shape that they have.” The makeup artist was annoyed, but he was one of those jolly types. He wiped the lipper off. I heaved a big sigh of relief when I saw the results of the re-application. Back to my original self. I pinned up my dupatta, and as soon as I had finished, poof, the power vanished. Not mine, but the cooler, the fan and the exhaust fan stopped working due to a power cut. And then began the sweating. I looked at the makeup artist with the “See, I told you” look and he said, “Here is the tissue, don’t wipe, just dab.” Like the delicate damsel I’m not, I obeyed him.

I heard a diesel generator being turned on and the power was restored. Soon my adventurous spirit had the better of me and I tried to locate an AC room. Well, you got me right, I had contacts. Not in my eyes, but in the college that was the venue of the contest. So off I went to the Principal’s office. Was she happy to see me, and was I embarrassed to be there in that painted mask of a face I had on my shoulders. But she said she understood and we caught up with the old times when she was a lecturer and I was an honors student. Meantime a wicked messenger from the organizers came to tell us that we were getting late and we should start. Wow, as if we were holding them from starting it. By now, it was 1: 00 PM. I wanted to yell, “What becometh of my lunch, you wretched fellow?” But then my senses returned before he could yell back, “Lady, we are on a cliff hanging for our dear life, we gotta finish this event in time, and all that you can think of is your lunch?”

We came to the hall, took our seats and waited. Being the only woman in the panel, I was made to sit in the middle. What a scene! There was the beauty between two beasts. (I hope none of the two is reading this). The channel team took a bite, or byte, or bit… I don’t know how they spell it but they sound like they are going to give us a “bite of some food”. This bit was to speak good good things for the channel for about 30 seconds. Honest, I have never watched the channel. I confessed this and they were aghast. But I told them I watch cartoons all right. I counter-questioned them, “What is the full form of your abbreviation” and they giggled, “Even we don’t know”. Wow, they get paid by this channel and they don’t know the full form of this one-of-the many-three-letter-channels floating around. Then I decided to stop embarrassing them and sat quietly. However, I tried to be neutral by telling them that I m keeping my fingers crossed about how this event turns out. All three of us introduced ourselves to each other and then started the contest.

I m totally tired now, so it is to be continued….

Reality is that I didn’t want this post to be too long ;)

Life

Life is

fast evolving as

a roller coaster ride

on the graph of time.

The crests touching the skies,

the falls leading deep down

into the abyss

below the earth.

The Child on the Road

The child was barely 11 months old. She sat in the middle of the road to my place. She was clad in a thin frock, she had dirty patches on her skin and her nose was running. Her eyes had big blotches of kohl. A small Ziploc bag having 5 or 6 mangoes was lying close to her. There were a couple of pieces of Indian bread (roti) wrapped in a piece of cloth lying next to her.

I was coming by car, I saw her from afar. I thought someone with her would pick her up just in time. I stopped the car very close to her; there was that fearless look in her eyes that you associate with innocent ignorance. There was enough space for me to drive by her , but I was afraid I might hurt her in case she suddenly lunged towards the car. I came out of the car looking for the mother, or a possible guardian, which I presumed was a beggar. Finding none, I picked up the child as lovingly as I possibly could. There was a little room on the side of the road. I make her stand there and sat near her, asking where her mama was. She was dazed, she didn’t even cry when I picked her up. I touched her cheek, I m amazed it didn’t take much effort to touch her dirty cheek though I am always finicky about my kids being always clean. Then I picked her mango-packet and placed it next to her. As I went to pick the pieces of bread, I saw a scooter coming from the other side. The young boy might just have crushed the bread and rode off. I almost bullied him into stopping and picked the bread, wrapped it in the piece of cloth and placed it next to the child. My car in the middle of that small approach road - I sat with the girl, painfully aware that in case she was an abandoned child, I would not be able to leave her like that and go home. In that split second, I tried to weigh all the options I had, in case I had to do something about an abandoned child. Once again, I tried to look for someone who had left her there.

I wondered, hungry myself, who could have the heart to leave her like that? Meantime a waif of a woman, carrying another infant, a girl less than 2 months, on her side, came there. I was so angry that I wanted to slap her. I think I was louder than I normally am, “ Kaun hai tu? Yeh teri bacchi hai? (Who are you? Is this child yours?)” She had an expression of a dog just kicked. Sheepishly she pointed towards a gate, “ Haan, woh main wahan se kapde lene gayee thi. (yes, well, I had gone to get clothes from there)” There meant two girls standing near a bike. I guess those girls had promised her some garments some other day and today was the day of the fulfillment of that promise. I was least interested in her donors. “Tumne bacchi ko beech sadak mein bithaya houa tha, koi kuchal deta toh? (You had made the child sit in the middle of the road, what if someone had crushed her?) She again mumbled an ashamed answer. My anger was mounting up, I don’t know why. I almost shouted at her, “If you couldn’t take care of her, why did you give birth to her?” Immediately I regretted having said that. If she had a choice, she wouldn’t be a beggar. If she had a choice, she would probably not have given birth to a girl child. After all, then she would have had the choice of Pre-Natal Sex-determination.

Seeing me shouting at that woman, a man came towards me. He tried to add fuel to the fire. “A couple of minutes ago, when I came with my car, she had made the younger one sit in the middle of the road.” I was so full of my own wrath that I hardly paid any attention to him, which I know he didn’t like.

I wanted to yell at her, “If the wheels on the road leave her alive, the predators roaming about won't. She would be raped, maimed, abused and left to bleed and die. Why did you leave her alone on the road?” But I didn’t say that. I just said, “Dhyan rakha karo is ka” (Please take care of her). My voice was sounding more like a request than an angry shout I had meant it to be.

Buddies?

Who is a buddy?

A friend, a companion, a soul mate with whom you are comfortable. With whom you can laugh, cry, shout, yell and do anything to your heart’s fill. Well, we get so many mushy mushy emails everyday that describe buddies. Any definition that I give will possibly be totally inadequate.

Well, this is not what everybody seems to think. Last night, I received an email about bio-engineered buddies. So horrified was I after going through their website that I kept thinking for a long time if it was for real because all kinds of forwarded mails are doing their rounds on internet. And I kept wondering why 'this product' has not been banned. I was told later that the Customs departments of Qatar and Oman have not given passage to their packages. I wanted to post a picture from their website but then I couldn’t muster enough courage to do it.

The shock that I got on reaching their homepage is nothing as compared to the one that I received upon reading their FAQs. Their comparison to infants was something that snatched the beats out of my heart. We, the human beings, are admittedly the most intelligent organisms on earth. We can practically do anything. But do we really need to have these? Is it not a sample of our sheer crassness and callousness? Where is our aesthetic sense? Where is our quality of being human, whither humanity?

Or perhaps I am over-reacting? Maybe, but I had to share it with all of you.

Well, the manufacturers are able to market them means there are buyers who have placed orders. Or at least people are interested in buying these Genpets.

With Apologies to the not-so-bad Cops

About 6 years back, I and G, who is a mother of two boys and is far fitter than me, used to go for a walk in our upcoming locality in our then mall-less, multiplex-less city. I call my colony upcoming because the civic amenities of a planned city were still far from it - people still had septic tanks instead of the regular sewage; in the name of water supply we had our own motor pumps and water tanks on rooftops; and the roads were maintained not by the government but by the elected governing body comprising of the colony elders. The apologies of roads would be in perpetual repair. On the days it was not raining, it would be dusty all over, and on rainy days one would have to jump over puddles with extreme dexterity. But city it nevertheless was. After all our postal addresses proudly carried the name “….city.”

Adjacent to our colony was a village. Yes, a proper village with its buffaloes tied outside. Complete with a hand pump that blessed itself for not being in Pakistan and thus having been spared its life simply due to its invisibility in the times of Sunny (Deol) Bhaaji’s Gadar-rage, dung cakes neatly pasted on the house-walls, open drains running adjacent to houses, carefree people sitting on home-woven single beds (manjies) out on the roads and enjoying the dust rained by vehicles passing them by. However, this village had hopes of being converted into a city sub-urb. Since our colony had congested roads, I and G used to walk in the open spaces (read broken roads) offered by a newer colony ‘cut’ between the village and our colony. Still we were happy because we could walk for those wonderful 55 minutes in complete absence of heavy traffic.

Now in a small area, you get immediately noticed if you are a pair of fast walking females in your walking shoes - moving fast enough to look like you are rushing to outdo the fire engines to put out a fire somewhere. Also if one of the pair (not me :D) is in tight jeans- considered totally out of sync with the dress code of the area that inhabits women in kameez salwars and their heads demurely covered with dupattas. We knew that we were arousing uncalled for curiosity. It was their problem, so we would ignore them in the hope that they would get used to us walking past them every evening, and with time, things would be okay. However, as they say in the vernacular proverb, the cat can nevertheless see the pigeon even if the latter covers its eyes.

There were some chits of boys, about 12-14 years, who would hang around some recording shops, cheap salons (I mean naii di dukaan), or even by the wall of the gurdwara that fell on the way. Every time we passed, they would pass some unkind comment which we couldn’t hear because we used to be engrossed in our own chat. They would also, on their part, try to pass it in such a low voice as to give them a perverse satisfaction of having passed a comment to two ‘females’, and at the same time the pleasure of not having been heard and thus saving them the reprimand from us. One of them went on to declare rather boldly, "go on walking, you wont slim down.” (ਜਿੰਨਾ ਮਰਜੀ ਤੁਰ ਲਓ, ਪਤਲੀਆਂ ਨਹੀਂ ਹੋਣਾ) I felt like turning back to give him a nice heavy slap on the face. Did it matter to them if we were almost their mothers’ age? However, we thought that we could not stop walking if their attitudes were different, and even with our Amazonian looks, actions and spirits, we could not go on fighting every offender on the road and thus waste our precious walk-time and much needed energy.

However, you cannot go on pretending everyday that you are not bothered. And we were bothered big time! One day, we saw two Punjab Police cops armed with wireless devices, perched on a white bullet patrolling our area. Those were the days when the PCR (Police Control Room) bikes had just started to do rounds of the cities in Punjab. I think my eyes must have had that shine of hope when I looked at G, and suggested, “Girl we can go to these PCR cops and report about those boys; at least they can warn them.”

G is the older and wiser of us two. She cut me down with, “Yeah sure, they will take care of those comment passing boys, who will take care of them?”

By 'them' she meant PCR Cops.

(ਆਹੋ, ਇਹ ਉਨ੍ਹਾਂ ਨੂੰ ਰੋਕ ਲੈਣਗੇ, ਫੇਰ ਇਹਨਾਂ ਨੂੰ ਕੌਣ ਰੋਕੂ?)

:(

Tag-Monsoon Showers

IHM had tagged me to this fun tag. I love doing tags, as long as I can handle them. This one asks me to take up a book closest at hand, open page 123 and write the lines six, seven and eight. The one closest at hand is Dan Brown's "Deception Point." Yes, it is the writer who gave us "The Da Vinci Code." However, he wrote "Deception Point" two years earlier to that bestseller. Anyways that is not what the tag is about. Let me not digress. Here are the lines:

Sexton felt an anger simmering. Now Tench was putting words in his mouth. He tried to counter, but Tench was already talking.
'So you're saying, Senator, for the record, that you would do away with the agency that put men on the moon?'

(Sedgwick Sexton is running in US Presidential elections, Marjorie Tench is a Senior Advisor to the President. They are in the middle of an important debate on CNN.)

The story is about a face saving device adopted by NASA during a presidential election, and the subsequent ruckus created by the higher ups resulting in multiple life-loss. Senator Sexton's USP (as he thinks) is the criticism of the overtly fund-guzzling NASA. He tries to prove that all that NASA has done is to take tax-payer's money and give nothing in return in terms of research and results. NASA is forced to vindicate its side, and it majorly misleads the sitting President who is painted very honest and upright. Incidentally he is running for a second term. This reminds me that thankfully Bush Chachu cannot have a third term. It never fails to amaze me that America, with its super omni-wisdom about the rest of the world, could be fooled into having a person of his IQ as its own President; allowing him a second term was absolutely outrageous.
The main character is Rachel Sexton, White House Intelligence Analyst and estranged daughter of the senator Sexton. She is sent by the President on a fact-finding mission. Suitably, she meets a handsome scientist at the Arctic base where she has gone to verify the authenticity of NASA's supposed discovery of an out-of-space-rock with proof of Extra-Terrestrial life. As reality dawns on her that it is a case of extreme scientific forgery involving a greater stake, she tries to make the findings known to the President. Then starts a struggle against a master plotter.
It has, in the typical style of the author, a lot of information that does tend to hang heavy at times, but which is necessary for the reader. Dan Brown is excellent at designing the plots and creating consistent characters. The leading characters are not just good looking bimbos. They are highly intelligent individuals with that edge over lesser mortals like us. It surely makes an interesting read.
Thank you IHM for tagging me on this for it has given me a chance to share one of my summer readings. As becometh a tagged, I must not let this torture stop. Hence, I tag Maverick, Gazal, MIP, Oceanic Mirages, Thought Safari, and Ramanujam. And of course, I would expect you all to tag at least 5 more unsuspecting beings.

Thoda Pyaar Thoda Magic

We are not a first-day-first-show-watching-family. We are not even a movie going family. I remember, when I had gotten married to M, he said, “Don’t expect that I would, like a newly-wed, take you to cinema halls for movies.” Not that I had lost much with that because I did not use to go to cinema halls to watch movies anyway, though I used to be very fond of movies. Good old TV had been enough for me. So, like a good wife eager to impress, I said, “Yeah, its okay”. Later I realized that it was NOT okay. Because, I must say, I secretly resented him watching a movie with his gang and having the cheek to come home and tell me the story when I would ask him how it went. While I understood his concern of not exposing me to the smoking-jostling-pinching-leching motley male-crowd [as if I was the only desirable female around :)] at conventional cinema halls of a small city, I would feel bad at having been denied the opportunity to watch a movie on the big screen, even if for a justified reason.

He is, now, a changed man. His love for movies remains intact, and it has also now conveniently enveloped me and the kids. Wow, how come, you would say? Arrey bhai, what with the PVR cinemas with their plush interiors and luxurious ambiance – he would like to take us to movies every single day of the week. We three, me and the kids, act like spoiled brats and would never say no. At one point of time, during R’s exams last October, we saw two movies in a row. In a joint family, this becomes embarrassing sometimes, because the parents are not movie goers. The last movie they saw in a cinema hall after even-they-don’t-remember-when was Chak De, that too when we could sell it, through kids, to Daddy and Mama as a movie promoting hockey. But they know their son well, and hence just smile when they see us merely giving him company to the cinema hall. Ek Abla Naari aur uske Becharey Bachhey !!!

Oh my god, how I digress !!!

What I had started off with was to share that we went to see Thoda Pyaar Thoda Magic today. And to think it had gotten released only yesterday. Kids had been looking forward to it. Though I would have preferred to watch Sarkar Raj, yet I, for their sake, said yes to watching it. And I am glad I did. It is such a cute movie. I guess 50 percent of the hall was populated by kids who went home happy after watching Rani play the angel. Her smile, her eyes, her impishness, all wield the magic. R liked her skirt. Normally she says a pre-paid ‘NO’ to long skirts. Saif, in the role of a hardened-heart, matter-of-fact-business tycoon, looks great; the four kids do their jobs well in their roles. I would recommend it to all the parents with kids to go watch it with the kids, the time spent with them in the cinema hall would be worth it.

And I would ask the kids in adults to go watch it – just so they come out of the cinema smiling. After all love alone is not enough, one needs a little bit of magic in life, even if the magic IS of love.

'Nimakh' Transliterated - I

This transliteration of the book Nimakh is an attempt to address the many requests of our non-Gurmukhi reading friends to help them enjoy the unique experience of experiments done in Punjabi Haiku by Amarjit 'Sathi' Tiwana. He gave his gracious permission when I spoke to him about this. I present the first installment of the haikus from the book. Though an effort to capture the phonetic sounds of Punjabi has been made, this transliteration may still be far from perfect. So, please feel free to ask questions about any typical Punjabi word. I have tried to give in italics a few words I thought might pose problems for persons not familiar with Gurmukhi and typical Punjabi.

1. Harmandar parikarma
Maapey teikan mattha
Bacchey wekhan machhiaa’n

2. Kirat kareinda
Mailey bastar
Nirmal hatth

3. Rahi guacha bhaal
Akhaa’n banh’ke maa’n
Kheidey bacheyaa’n naal

4. Bacchey paondei khilli
Ikko wehrey khedd’n
Kuttey kukkad billi

5. Tankaa’n tey aswaar
Jango’n mudian asthiaa’n
Dhakkia’n fulla’n naal

6. Hukam karey sarkaar
Laa’o pulaa’n tey naake
Lehar na langhey paar

7. Pattjharh dhal’di sham
Score board tey siffraa’n
Khaali kheid maidaan

8. Chutti wali talli
Bacchey ghar nu challey
Jhulley peengh ikkali

9. Uchhi sakht chattaan
Treirh che uggya ghaa
Patthar andar jaan

10. Ambar nitt udaar
Magghar maah musaafri
Karey koonjaan di daar

11. Raagi karey riyaaz
Taanpurey tha’an sangat
Pakkhey di aawaz

12. Dhaley dupehra suttey
Manji uttey baapu
Manji hethaa’n kuttey

13. Mudh mudh chakkar laawey
Hatth ghadi di sooyi
Veila hatth naa awey

14. Chaayee dhund chufeirey
Gurudwaarey jandi
Bebey ‘neyrey ‘neyrey

15. Vagh reiha daryaa
Jithey paani peitla (shallow)
Othey uggeya ghaa

16. Pind che goli challey
Guru nanak di foto
Kandh tey tangi hilley

17. Harhya janda ghar (harhya – flooded)
Wicchey jaan khadaoney
Battakh balley geind

18. Mehak vihooney
Diary de wich
Sukkey full

19. Laggi ann pakaa’n
Pehli roti maa’n ne
Chidiyaan de layee rakhi

20. Dhal’hdi sham
Safeideyan de saaye
Door… pind takk

21. Sarad sanghni dhund
Vekhdeyan ee ho geya
Udd’da panchhi gumm

22. Maa’n pakaavey roti
Bacheyan wali choti
Baapu wali moti

23. Taarey tim timaondey
Ikk ikk kar ke raat nu
Airport wall aondey

24. Mela bharya poora
Roye guachi baccchi
Kuchhad wich katoora (Kuchhad – in her arms)

25. Baddlaa’n wich jahaaz
Jheel dhundh ‘cho aondi
Koonjhaa’n di awaaz

26. Ho pattey tey aswaar
Nikki bhoori keedi
Kardi nadiya paar

27. Bhaado’n challi langh
Rukkhi’en patt haryawley
Badlan laggey rang

28. Pattjhad aye
Bebey di fulkari
Dhupey suknee payee

29. Sardi layee tyari
Nikk sukk rahi sambhaal
Furti naal galehri (squirrel)

30. Bebey chakki jhoyee
Daliye andar dana
Bacheya koi koi

31. Jhaadaan wich samaadh (jhaad-bushes)
Jaye wassey pardes
Chadd pittra’n di yaad

32. Ikk dooni dooni
Bachha padhey pahadey (learns tables)
Beebi kattey pooni

33. Nighi dhupp chadhi
Icicle di weil
Tupka tupka jhadi

34. Nighi dhupp siyaal
Kar manji da ohla
Maa’n sukaavey waal

35. Raat chan’ni langhi
Pattey pattey tey payee
Tupka tupka treil (dew)

36. Chulhey wicho’n dhoo’an
Guru gharo Rehraas
Sandhya hoye vidaa

37. Pattjhad aye lathe’y (fell)
Rahiyaan pairien khadkan
Rang birangey patte’y

38. Chaddar uttey bhoondi
Baapu sutta taan’h (stretched)
Rakh sirhaney khoondi

39. Sarghi booha kholey
Dhupp chall kea a rahi
Lakh croraa’n meel

40. Chaala’n maaran
Satth che bacchey
Chappad daddu (chappad – village pond)

More in another post...

Tag-Monsoon reaches North

~NM and IHM had tagged me on this. I am late on this. But here I am. And the hardworker that I am, I worked as hard on this one as I had on the previous one. From what I have learnt about the tag thing till now, one is to infect more bloggers. In keeping with the tradition, I would love to see others doing it.

I'm: what I look and express and experiment with.

I think: of family first.

I know: I am capable of doing much more than what I am doing.

I want: a lot from life including more adventure, more love, more peace of mind.

I have: the best guy in the world.

I wish: to give the best to my children and husband.

I hate: being helpless in any situation.

I miss: living in a village.

I fear: loneliness.

I feel: God has been very kind to me.

I hear: from my maid that the world will end in 2012.

I smell: of my favorite perfumes - I mean one at a time.

I crave: reading all the time, sugar post-meals usually, indulgence occasionally.

I search: for myself. I also look for ways to make my people happy.

I wonder: whether honesty begets honesty.

I regret: having lost dad when he was needed the most.

I love: being needed and being myself.

I ache: to go to Australia again.

I care: for almost everybody around me.

I am not: selfish and that is not good for me.

I believe: that everyone is basically good.

I dance: to bolian in traditional Gidha and total desi punjabi beat songs on the dance floor. However, the situation is "kee kariye nachna aonda nahi"

I sing: for Mahesh (only he can stand my singing).

I cry: mostly when hurt and sometimes when angry.

I don’t always: judge people right or guess their age right and this has landed me in hot soup sometimes.

I fight: anger and fat in the same order. And I usually fight for a cause.

I write: my heart out.

I win: friends.

I lose: battles with Mahesh.

I never: doubt that there is goodness in world.

I always: take people on their face value.

I confuse: tiger sharks with bull sharks.

I listen: to ghazals and quwallies while on a brisk walk.

I can usually be found: on the net, or in my room with a book, or cleaning up mess after the kids.

I am scared: of losing my loved ones.

I need: to invest in a very very good laptop with all the good features; and in one real big portable hard disc to store all my music at one place.

I am happy about: meaning so much to so many people around me.

So much of I and I. Well, that is entirely what this tag is about. And now I sneeze and pass the infection on to
1. Roop
2. Sidhu
3. Jasdeep
4. Devaki
5. Monika
6. Parry
7. KJMK
8. Thought Safari
9. Pinku
10. Guri

Since this tag has been doing rounds in the blog-world for quite a few weeks now, I m not sure I am the first one to tag you all. So, in case you've done the tag, ignore this. Otherwise, finish the homework in time to avoid facing dire consequences.
This means "please do it".
I would be honored to pass it on in case any other friends apart from those linked here want to do it.

ਸੱਚ / Truth

Initially I posted only the original poem in Gurmukhi script. For those friends who know Punjabi but cannot read the script, I am transliterating it in Roman. I have dared try a working translation. Hope it makes some sense. There was some problem in spacing. So, I just ended up giving different colours to the three segments.

ਇਹ ਝੂਠ ਹੈ

ਕਿ

ਸੀਤਾ
ਅਗਨ ਪਰੀਖਿਆ ਮਗਰੋਂ
ਜ਼ਿੰਦਾ ਬਚ ਗਈ ਸੀ ।

ਸੱਚ ਤਾਂ ਇਹ ਹੈ
ਕਿ
ਹਰ ਯੁਗ
ਹਰ ਜਨਮ
ਹਰ ਵਾਰ
ਅੱਗ ਦੀਆਂ ਲਾਟਾਂ ਵਿੱਚ
ਸੀਤਾ ਦੀ ਰੂਹ
ਸੜ ਜਾਂਦੀ ਰਹੀ ਏ;
ਸੀਤਾ ਦਾ ਦਿਲ
ਫਟ ਜਾਂਦਾ ਰਿਹੈ;
ਸੀਤਾ ਦਾ ਮਨ
ਮਰ ਜਾਂਦਾ ਰਿਹੈ;
ਸੀਤਾ ਦਾ ਮਾਣ
ਟੁੱਟ ਜਾਂਦਾ ਰਿਹੈ ।

ਹਰ ਯੁਗ
ਹਰ ਜਨਮ
ਹਰ ਵਾਰ
ਸਿਰਫ਼
ਸੀਤਾ ਦਾ ਜਿਸਮ
ਅੱਗ ਵਿੱਚੋਂ ਸਲਾਮਤ ਨਿੱਕਲ਼ਦਾ
ਵਿਖਾਈ ਪੈਂਦਾ ਰਿਹੈ –

ਸੀਤਾ ਦੀ
ਮਿੱਧੀ, ਸੜੀ, ਮੁਰਦਾ ਰੂਹ ਦਾ ਮਾਲਕ,
ਹਰ ਯੁਗ
ਹਰ ਜਨਮ
ਹਰ ਵਾਰ
ਮਰਿਆਦਾ ਪੁਰਸ਼ੋਤਮ ਅਖਵਾਉਂਦਾ ਰਿਹੈ ।

For those who know Punjabi but can't read Gurmukhi:

Eh Jhooth hai
ke

Sita

Agan Parikheya magro'n,
Zinda bachh gayee si.

Sach ta eh hai
ke
Har yug
Har Janam
Har vaar
Agg dian laatta'n wich
Sita di rooh
sarrh jandi rahi ey;
Sita da dil
fatt janda reha ey;
Sita da mann
marr janda reha ey;
Sita da maan'h
tutt janda reha ey.

Har yug
Har janam
Har vaar
sirf
Sita da jism
agg wicho'n salaamat nikkalda
wikhayee painda reha ey –

Sita di
middhi, sar'hi, murdaa rooh da maalik
Har yug
Har janam
Har vaar
Maryada Puroshottam akhwaonda reha ey.

Says who?
that
Sita

survived the Agni Pariksha

The truth is
that during
Each era
Each birth
Each time
In the flames of fire
Sita's soul
burns to ashes;
Sita's heart
tears open;
Sita's mind
dies a hundred deaths;
Sita's pride
suffers a thousand cracks.

Each era
Each birth
Each time

saw
emerging alive out of fire
only

Sita's body.

The owner
of

Sita's crushed, burnt, dead soul
in
Each era
Each birth
Each time
has been known as
Maryada Purushottam.

...And I thought I was Smart !!!

Jai is becoming very finicky about his food. Does not want to drink milk, does not want to have his usual big bowl of curd, sometimes he would say a plain no to food.
These problems are not new to me. Rasan has gone through the same phase and I think I have tackled it efficiently. She had started to skate at Jai’s age. With such extra physical activity a growing child needs extra nutrition. She would eat with a little bit of convincing. This one, however, is a tough nut. He goes for tennis in the mornings and swimming in the evenings. (Alongwith Didi, of course). I was worried that with the continuous taxing routine, he might grow weak. Despite trying hard to convince him why certain foods are good for him, I was only partly successful.
The other evening, I was talking to the swimming coach about Jai’s progress in the pool. He said Jai needs to develop stamina in order to be a good swimmer. So I thought the time had come to use another strategy. I told his coach to chat up casually in the pool with the lad about importance of good food. I fed the coach about the fact that Jai hates Protinex in milk and wants only Rooh Afza. Everyday Rooh Afza is cool, but not very nutritious. A spoonful of Protinex in milk might help with his protein intake.

After about an hour, when my little man came out of the pool, he said, of course in chaste Punjabi, “Did you see me? I did a hundred breadths today.” I said, “Yeah, yeah I saw you doing great in the pool.” While Rasan did her tenacious lengths of the big pool, I started talking to Jai.
“I saw your coach talking to you in the pool.” (The truth is that I was away to my regular walk outside the stadium)

“Yeah,” he tried to dismiss the topic.
“And what did you two talk about?”
Again in chaste Punjabi.
“Well, just this and that” (actually he said, “Bas eh oh”)
“Ahaan, Even then, tell me what all did you discuss.”
“About food, you know.” Okay, so he was opening up.
“Wow, what? Did he tell you to eat something special?”
“Yes, he said you can eat anything, Just DO NOT drink Protinex in the milk, cos it tastes bad, b-a-a-a-d-d,” and he made a face that is simply not explainable in words.

Wish I had clicked him.