Author: nourishncherish

Whimsical Writer – Articles, Novellas Voracious Reader – Fiction, Non-Fiction, Children’s Books – anything really! Childrens’ Stories – Live in a World of Pure Imagination Writing Classes – Novel Writing & Science Writing for Children

Happy 134th Birthday

Google has certainly taught me about the relevance of a number of days I would not have registered in my otherwise dull life. I wonder why they did not tell me yesterday that March 10 1876 was the day Alexander Graham Bell invented the first telephone.

http://memory.loc.gov/ammem/today/mar10.html

I brought it up, since I am sure everyone has had the illuminating experience of corresponding with these automated telephones. I had an interesting encounter with one of these yesterday, and I might have considered not cursing the phone on it’s birthday. I don’t think I might have gone so far as to get a phone shaped cake with 134 candles on it, but I certainly would have been kinder in my criticism.

I pick up the phone to talk to a normal person, and I was, as expected, received with an abnormally crisp tone. Listening to the tone with which the message started, one would have thought, the machine senses how important this phone call is, and is certainly going to put me straight through to an Indian in a call center rightaway. Life can be cruel that way.

It launches into its melodrama without further ado.
IF YOU ARE STANDING WITH THE PHONE, PLEASE FIND A PLACE TO SIT, THIS COULD TAKE A WHILE. IF YOU HAVE NOT USED A RESTROOM IN THE PAST 30 MINUTES AND YOUR BLADDER USUALLY POUNDS WITHIN AN HOUR, PLEASE HANG UP AND USE THE RESTROOM.
You get the gist. Now, I am twiddling my thumbs waiting for the operator to pick up. The machine senses that I am getting complacent, and pounds me into action. My senses pick up like an accelerating porsche on an empty road, while I listen to the choices offered.
IF YOU LIKE ICECREAM PLEASE PRESS 2
IF YOU LIKE BADAM CAKE PLEASE PRESS 1
IF YOU LIKE CHOCOLATE PLEASE PRESS 1

Readers might be confused that the second and third choices viz. choosing badam cake and chocolate implore you to press 1. I state that merely to drive home the point that it does not matter what you press, the choices are only to sharpen your outlook. Merely testing to see if you are alert. Sometimes people fumble into a drooble riddled sleep induced by inactivity, and that causes delay to the others callers in the queue, because the unfortunate operator, now not only has to wake himself up, but also wake the customer up.

The system, meanwhile continues relentlessly.
PLEASE NOTE WE RECORD PHONE CALLS TO ENSURE QUALITY ASSURANCE.
PLEASE STATE YOUR NAME
Damn it
SORRY! I DID NOT GET THAT. PLEASE STATE YOUR NAME
I am randomly jabbing things on my keypad to see if anything works as a shortcut. #)0

The phone sees what I am trying to do, and laughs mirthlessly. I can hear it boasting to its co-automatic phones that today another customer joined the long lines in the telephonic Hall of Punishment by trying to jump the system
PLEASE STATE YOUR NAME
All right – Julius Ceaser Cleopatra Masilamani
I AM SORRY. DID YOU SAY <all right july cider clear mass ill>?
NO! Julius Ceaser Cleopatra Masilamani. * inwardly cursing that at this rate cider or no cider, I will be ill by July.*
PLEASE SPELL YOUR NAME

I would have bought a towel and thrown it into the arena in a dramatic gesture symbolizing that giving up is better than this, had it not been for the thought that I would have to undergo the previous 20 minutes again, no matter when I start. I summon all the inner strength that is the hallmark of the homosapiens and hold on.

The system then tries horrendous music, cheesy dialogues, mildly affectionate – “YOU ARE AN IMPORTANT PERSON. JUST NOT IMPORTANT ENOUGH FOR US TO CONSIDER. PLEASE DO NOT THINK YOU ARE BEING IGNORED BY ALL, JUST BY US.” etc at me. I hang on. If anything, we alphabet soup names can hang on. No way are we repeating our kindergarden syllabi over the phone again (A is for apple, B is for Bat)

Finally, a tired sounding human voice breaks in. I could cry with relief and joy. The rationale is, if you are willing to put up with this much, you must really be interested in talking. So, they put me on hold while they transfer me to the relevant department.

Happy 134th Birthday Dear Phone.

Happy Women’s Day

Happy Women’s Day to all you wonderful women out there.

I have been getting lots of mails telling me people are proud of me because I cry when I am sad and laugh when something is funny. Also, my hugs are supposed to be fused with the magical healing touch. Bruises heal themselves. I wonder how I broke the cup the other day with all these abilities I possess. Maybe, I did not hug the shards of the broken cup hard enough.

Apparently, all this makes me a wonderful woman. I also eat when I am hungry – I suppose that makes me more human.

The mails I am receiving also tell me as a woman I don’t quite know my power or capacity – I agree. Once when I was around a decade old, my friend and I had a dosa eating competition to which my sister unwittingly offered to be the dosa maker. I did surprise myself, and lost by a small margin, but my dosa competitor was a year older than I was.  I don’t think the sister has learned to view the dosa tava with the same benevolence since. If I remember right, I groaned all evening clutching my stomach in a wonderful show of feminine bravery.

Which all brings me to the question, do Men have a day dedicated for them?

There is an International Men’s Day. It is celebrated on November 19th, and was started as recently as 1999 – almost a century after their Women counterparts started celebrating themselves.

Frivolous as the content of this post is, I do hope my female brethen are uplifted from the horrors of misogyny inflicted upon them by men and members of their own creed. I’d like to end this post on this note (Seneca)

Dum inter homines sumus, colamus humanitatem

As long as we are human, let us be humane

“I am going to read a book”

A lot of non-retired folks I know dream of retirement. The quiet mornings, the relaxed lunches and the walks.

The retirees I know are in one of two phases.
1) Yearning to get back to work where they miss the hustle and bustle of a daily routine, and just can’t get used to the fact that nobody is expecting them at an office when the clock strikes. I call these withdrawal symptoms and hope they would get to the contentment stage without causing themselves too much harm.
2) Relaxed, like they’ve surfed the turf before. The looks on their faces tell you they’ve seen the turbulence and rode out the calm. It is now their time to sit on the beach and watch the waves idly lapping the shores. Contentment poring out of them in short.

I dream of retirement too. Yes, so what if I am young? The promising youth looks forward to his future does he not? Many a time, when the early morning doesn’t look enticing to me, I fantasize that I would absolutely loll in bed when I retire. I would get up and stick my tongue out at the alarm clock and tuck myself back in with glee. The rooster can retire when I retire for all I care. I might even dropthe alarm clock in a pot of oil, and cover the pot with a mattress after switching the thing off, that is. Purely from a closure point of view.

Just when my fantasies really take root, I find a disturbing article telling me that older people need less sleep. Why?! I thought old age was the second childhood and all that, and I remember being told to sleep for a solid 18 hours or a number near there.

http://www.webmd.com/sleep-disorders/news/20100201/less-sleep-normal-part-of-aging

To top this, I come back from a the retiree’s paradise – Garden Island of Hawaii, Kauai. The whole island is full of migratory retirees, who spend the harsh Winter months in the warmenvirons of Hawaii. One couple stayed next door, and they gave me a dose of my paati and thaatha in shorts on the beach.

After the usual courtesies have been done with, I ask the thaatha, “So what are your plans for today?”

I should probably tell you at this point that our plans included, among other things a 5 hour round trip drive to a Canyon, with 3 trails to see, 5 different waterfalls, a trip to the beach, some serene walks in the forest followed by a Hawaiian dance performance Luau or something. In other words, packed is the word. If we’d had another half an hour, we’d have thrown in a coral reef exploration program alongwith Scuba diving or snorkeling. But we were firm, we were going there to relax, and relax we shall. No Coral reef explorations. Just relax!

Bear me while I give you a feeling of a no interruption narrative, I’ll ask the Thaatha again,
“So what are your plans for today?”
“Oh, I am going to read a book.”

I have that look on my face where I am waiting for the sentence to finish. I am leaning my neck forward and waiting for the remaining, and then realise that good ol’ thaatha has finished his plans. There is nothing more to the day. He does not plan to save the planet today or crack his back overcoming some imaginary roadblock. He just plans to read a book.  Lovely!

Life is one vast canvas

I like blogging. For one, whatever I come up with, I have a place to post it. Sometimes, I even tamper with my own laws of sense and publish things as frivolous as a poem on life and it being a vast canvas and all that. Not that I feel like Wordsworth, just that I don’t feel like getting my word’s worth when the head is a chock full of worries!

Life is one vast canvas.

Some strokes make a pretty picture.

Some strokes make it bleak.

The bleak ones leave you feeling weak.

Just when you think it can’t be tweaked,

Another stroke you’ll paint

Now if that ain’t making you faint

Guess what? You are a saint

For the bleak canvas just turned

Into a riotous canvas

Full of colour

Full of joy

Full of life’s essences

The vast canvas evolves.

The Flower State & Grain

AS several of my readers know, we spent the past few days in a place where, we are told, it is against the law to bring your worries. We didn’t. We succumbed to the island. We’d been to Kau’ai the Garden Island of the Haiwaiian chain. This vacation was different by all standards. For one, we rented a condominium, and ate delicacies cooked by moi on several beaches. Bows and accepts thanks gracefully for variety of picnic food provided.

Since we were going to the Garden Island, the husband thought it prudent to buy a flower sounding rice. We were going to the Plumeria flower state after all. Jasmine rice. Basmati doesn’t sound like Hibiscus or Jasmine. But Jasmine – sounds exactly like Jasmine doesn’t it?!  

It is at this point that I feel obliged to explain the difference between Basmati and Jasmine. When one is looking for long grains that separate from each other easily, Basmati raises its long slender hand. If one is looking for cuddly affection between the grains, you go for Jasmine. Jasmine being Jasmine, it stuck together like glue, and puliodare/pulao were ruled out. I peered into the boiling pot and saw something white and gooey emerge from the effervescence. After some time, a sticky mush emerged. Luckily I had taken some curry powder with me.

On day one, it was some vague mixture of curry powder, rice, tomato and onions.

Day two was a very interesting variation (vague mixture of curry powder, rice, tomato, onions and bell peppers).

Day three was a different league (vague mixture of curry powder, rice, tomato, onions, bell peppers, carrot and peas)

And so the rice scaled loftier reaches of creativity, till one day we found ourselves ditching the carefully prepared food packets for a restaurant. The food in the restaurant sent us scurrying back for a vague m of c.p, t and o the next day. The curry gods were appeased and the sun was shining on the beaches again.

This was our first time to Hawaii, and I must say it felt great to shed our jackets and socks for lighter clothes. While there, we discovered a number of folks who accompanied migratory birds to Hawaii from the snowy reaches of the Northern United States, and actually made Hawaii their home for three to four months at a time.

A totally different mindset I confess, not to mention how curious I was to find out how they made a living. The same kind of feeling I have when I gasp at large mansions and wonder how they clean it! My curiosity was all the more since there were young folks with small children who did the same thing.  Hawaii is by no means cheap, and I found myself gasping dramatically at some places (like that wife in the Sati Leelavati movie when she hears the ticket cost for the whole family to Bangalore for a week-end.) What do these people do for money?

I wish to set the record straight here, that I have been known to display decency, and kept my questions about their livelihood to myself. I must admit though, that this question is still eating my brain.  Well, maybe Pinocchio’s nose longer grows longer when he lies, but mine seems to be growing with the constant activity in the brain from this quarter. I found myself guessing the options with the husband for such people, while pushing the over-priced, under-cooked pasta on my plate, and came up with nothing that looked feasible.

The moment I figure out, have no mistake folks, I am packing those bags. I almost had my toe and fingertips bitten off by frost-bite today because I forgot the socks and the heavy winter shoes with the glove and the earmuffs! That won’t do. It just won’t. Jasmine rice or no, I am going to Hawaii again!

Aloha! Hou are uou?

Aloha! Haaiiiaa! Hoau are uoou?

I am back from the vowel islands. I imagine the vowels one day complained bitterly about the tough task of holding the consonants together.  Only five of them had to do the unsavory task of holding 21 consonants together. I wouldn’t be too happy about that if I were a vowel myself. So, the vowels decided to vacation for a bit in Hawaii. They realized they really don’t need consonants and just took one or two per word to give them a taste of their own medicine.

Oahu, Maui, Kauai, Poipu, Kileauea, Waimea, Mauluhia settled down happily ever after.

Seriously, after the first few times of this alphabet soup, I found myself tongue-tied (not in the sense it is usually used, but like this.)

Then, the trick revealed itself, and after that, Kauai was one sweet song with the coconuts. All you have to do is pronounce every vowel in the word. So, K-a-u-a-i phonetically sounds like Kawai. Maui sounds like Mow-ee. See?

Anytime you get up on the islands, you get the satisfaction of getting up at the crack of dawn. Getting up at the crack of dawn fills one up with a sense of purpose like nothing else does. For one, Hawaii is two hours ahead of us, and for another, one gets up to the crowing of the rooster. The roosters there are a confused lot. Somewhere along their evolution on the island, they  forgot their purpose. I tried to study their activities and noticed that they spend their time loitering around and crowing everytime they look at the sun. As a result, no matter what time you get up, the rooster crows and you feel like the whole day stretches in front of you. I like those roosters.

When I am up late, and charging about like a raging rhinoceros in the morning, it would be nice if we hear the rooster crowing, and play that back to those sticklers for time.
Exactly, what are you moaning about? I got here at the crack of dawn!

You can tick people off squarely with the rooster logic. Also, you can set your clock by the roosters like this.

I will be there at the 50th rooster crow on my farm.

Not one person could find fault with that. I wonder why I am not consulted on important matters such as these. Anyway, one does not dwell on these things.

One instead tries to remain mentally on the shores of the best beaches of the World, soaking in the sun and building sand castles.

Image courtesy: The Husband.

Joy cometh in the Morning

Faced with a sunny week-end and finding ourselves alone(rare event) on Sunday, the husband and I undertook a run together. We ran a distance – I shall withhold critical information such as distance, route information etc. For one, I don’t want to shrivel up in shame when an ultra marathoner visits, but I do want to feel good about moving those muscles again.

The husband and I did an urban run i.e. we made sure we ran where loads of cars with quarreling couples in them could see us. Strategy is important. If we are doing something,  we might as well get the World to sit up and take note what?

We played a little game of what people would be talking about when they saw us. By the end of the run, we could broadly classify folks into 3 categories:
1) Either couples goaded one another, saying – “Look at those people, that’s why I am asking you to run with me.”
“What do you mean? Are you saying it is because of me that you aren’t running?”
“Of course it is because of you that I am not running”
“Let me get this straight – so your pot belly is my problem?”

These couples probably spent the rest of the journey scowling at each other, not knowing about the half dozen pooris we tucked into last week-end or the vadas we polished off the week before.

OR
2) The couples looked on with a smirk on their faces as they called us losers running in the sun like this when aloo gobi and parathas await them at home or in the park. To those folks, I have nothing at all to say. The Doctors will do the talking. (now, that was mean huh?)

OR
3) The couples were happy to see us run, and waved at us with genuine joy.

The sun peeped, the muscles moved and Joy cometh in the morning.

Sculpture Lessons anyone?

I don’t mean to boast, but seeing that I have many multi-million dollar talents about me, it is a hard choice to let the world sail by, thinking I am a normal person who just enjoys the way I am.

We had a class in School titled S.U.P.W meaning Socially Useful Productive Work. The term evidently evolved over the ages seeing that the youth in schools were wasting time wandering around campus, chatting and planning practical jokes. Not at all giving any sense of comfort to the Teachers who were looking upon us as the torch bearers of the next generation and all that.

The students were social beings alright – why we couldn’t keep shut for five minutes even when in line! But there was a line drawn when it came to being useful. So, the educationists had to come up with making us socially useful. The problem was useful as we were, our efforts almost always weren’t productive. (Some harsh critics used the word unproductive.) That is how the authorities  decided that we have to buck up and do socially useful productive work.

I dabbled with various activities in my career, and the parental abode still bears the painful onslaught my creativity unleashed on it. You would find checkered beige coloured tables adorned with a blue tablecloth embroidered with pink, orange and red flowers. I have already remarked on the sweaters that the brother had to combat. Had my parents’ love for me been any less, these fine works of art would have jostled for space in the attic where all the inorganic trash reside in the home. But they did not – they “decorated” the house.

My diverse career in the Arts, among other things, included Sculpture. I made a statue. If we had digital cameras then, I would atleast have a picture of this eyesore. We used film prudently those days, and photographs were reserved for special occasions, and tried to cram in as many members in the vicinity as possible. Rare photographs have only 5 people in them. The long and short of it is, there are no photographs of this beauty. A pity.

My father came and saw it, and hemmed and hawed when I asked for it to be brought home. It was modeled after a lady reading. My mother even posed for me one day when I came home depressed. My statue was looking nothing like what I intended. She sat on the floor with her legs stretched out. I realise now that nobody reads like that. Do you sit with your legs outstretched, sitting at right angles with no back for support and read with your feet sticking up at right angles? No. But that is what my statue did.

I call it a cruel cut of fate, one that set me back by at least 104.3 million dollars had this masterpiece made it to the great annals of art. This goes to prove that the right place at the right time makes a world of a difference. Please read this link to see the news item about this particular statue by Monsieur Giaccometti fetching 104.3 million dollars.

http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052748704259304575043591716903152.html

Image below.

I am no connoisseur, but this eyesore would have given stiff competition to mine. If this was worth $104300000, I don’t know what mine would have fetched.

Anyway, life goes on despite these scars, and I look on the positive side as always. Anyone needing Sculpture lessons can contact me, since Monsieur Giacometti is no more.

Mile Sur Mera Tumhara

Did you hear about the new Phir Mile Sur Mera Tumhara video? I headed on over to watch it – all a-twitter I must tell you. This song like “Hamara Bajaj” was a defining one for an entire generation.  Doordarshan played it over and over again, and I never once tired of it. My lips were ready to smile, and even had the angle set on them, I just had to spring it on when it started.  I was actually humming the song before starting the video.

Then it started.  Groan! I can’t say it was entirely bad, but I have a distinct preference for the old one. It has all the Bollywood/Collywood/Jollywood heavy weights, light dressers and banian-bicep shows that you can think of, and the tune s—s! The transitions felt jumpy even to me. I had to come scurrying back to find the old one – midway through the new one, for there was another aspect, the thing just went on and on, like people had nothing better to do. Well, maybe we don’t, but we’d like to retain the illusion we do.

I was really glad to see this video – the one that has tucked away good memories in my mind

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gstRrEmTcBc&feature=related

This one delivered – even after all these years.  The seamless transitions, when the beat and language changes, are amazing.  So many people from different walks of life, different landscapes and languages.  It gave me goosebumps to feel the fabric of India as we knew it through that song again. Looking at the noticeably younger faces of Revathi, Hemamalini, Big-B, Mithun Chakra, Kamal, Lata Mangeshkar, some Cricket player (I forgot his name) etc, felt like looking through an old kaleidoscope.

I can forgive Doordarshan all those hours of “mourning” when someone died and  countless “Vayalum Vaazhvums” now that I saw this video again.

Update: I originally thought the unedited version got released by mistake, given that each one had their own ego trips and screen time where they could pick their abaswaram, and pet movie songs.

Also, no different walks of life concept at all – no Sports, no Science, no advances in IT. Nothing! This is like AB’s drawing room view of India and Five star hotel beaches. In a country full of throbbing hearts, every heart beat alone in the video – by the rocks, by the beaches. Unattached, desolate and painfully slowly.

Why didn’t the Chinese think of it?

Chopsticks have always intrigued me. They look disconcertingly similar to knitting needles. Now you knit up in your mind the old wizened lady lovingly using both her hands, sitting in a rocking chair by the fire and knitting a warm sweater. I hate to dish it to the old lady like this, but you only can use only one hand, use both needles and knit the same beautiful sweater OL. Go on old lady. Try. Try like the dickens. How does that sound?

That is exactly what eating with chopsticks seems to me. You are given two condiments, you have two hands. Simple? Not simple. The technique is simple, any child brought up on Chinese food in a Chinese setting will tell you how easy it is to use chopsticks. All you have to do is grasp the sticks like this.

Then, move finger number two by using finger number one as the lever/rudder. (When you are trying to keep the sticks afloat in a bowl of watery soup, you are allowed to use the word rudder). Let’s get back to technique now that the use of rudder has been explained.

During the entire process, finger number three is jammed between the sticks, and is expected to move in the same angle maintaining a level of parallelism with finger number two. Never mind that finger number 3 is screaming for respite by now. That demand cannot be met. Ignore finger number 3. It can start acting up midway through the process, and you will be stuck with a finger-chiropractor, soothing function back to it. Don’t worry, it is a part of life. I realise there is no such profession as a finger-chiropractor, so if you would kindly tell me the name of one such specialist, I will gladly update the post.

The trick is to be firm with finger number 3. Show it fingers number 4 & 5 as a method of consolation. Fingers 4 and 5 are in a worse state. They can’t move remember?

Also remember that while one is fiddling with these sticks in the soup, the soup is turning cold. Not to mention the odd contours on the face as lines of worry and concentration contort it into a horrible frown. One would think, that not being able to function with chopsticks will have sent the author home hungry and dejected, with a new sense of purpose – learning to use the sticks before the next soup stop.

Not so…not so! Mere technicalities like chopsticks don’t deter me. I creased out the lines of concentration, ironed out the frown and put on a smile. I then attacked the soup like this.

People were looking at me with awe. Pretty soon, I could see folks cast me the envious look. Their eyes screamed the obvious “Why didn’t the Chinese think of it?”

I refused to wipe the smug smile of my stupid face, and went on eating like this, till a waiter who was charging about the vicinity like a racing bull, stopped in his tracks. You know how these cars screech when they sudden brake? Something like that.

“Next time – fork okay? I give fork okay?” he said.

I shrugged – I’d already mastered chopsticks now, who cares for forks?