Short story – Page 7 – Nourish-n-Cherish

Mt Whitney – Part 2: The Pizza and the Bear

It was the night before the hike up the Mountains to Mt Whitney. The husband and two friends had arrived at their hotel after an uneventful journey taken photographs of their backpacks.

“We will be back in 16 hours – max, 17 if we slow down due to fatigue!” said the husband. They were to leave at 3 a.m. so as to be able to make it back to the trail head before sunset. “Expect to hear from us well before 8 p.m.” were the exact words if I remember correctly. I wished them all luck and went to bed. Usually, I only need to think of that beautiful, restorative nurturer of the soul (sleep) and off I go feeling sleepy. Within minutes, I can barely stifle my own yawns. (I just yawned as I typed this out, if you have trouble believing me) Yet, this time I tossed and turned. I was unable to sleep. Could it be the excitement of the upcoming hike for the trio, or worry or a mixture of both, I could not tell, but there I was messaging him at 2 a.m. and waking them all up. When I finally flopped to sleep a little after 4 a.m. I had received a note from them saying they were about to lose connectivity and from now on, they were one with nature.

It was easy to imagine them sighing over the stark beauty, breathing in the fresh mountain air, singing as they walked up the trail and watching the sun rise over the mountains.

The husband, however, hotly denied this state of euphoria. “Did you know I threw up within an hour of starting to hike?” he said with an unpleasant look on his face. I tutted and said that a gulp of the fresh air might have been the key. To which, he eyed me like a lizard eyes a fly and said there wasn’t much air to gulp. The high altitude was affecting each of them differently and every time they attempted to walk slightly faster, they clutched their heads and sat down. To hear them talk of the Diomox (high altitude sickness pill), is like hearing a child talk about candy during Halloween. A warmth infused with definite longing, and gratitude at the bounty. The mountains were good enough to make each of them succumb to this high-alt-sickness at different points in time though and they could help each other out. The silver lining.

Now, I have worked long enough in the software industry to know what to expect when people tell me that they expect something to be done in a day. I mentally make a note that it could, possibly, be 3 days, or more. Yet, I did not apply this logic to the hiking estimate that the three software engineers came up with. When they said 16 hours, maybe 17, I was liberal enough to give them 18 hours. The clock was now ticking on to 10 p.m. and there hadn’t been a peep from them. It was already 19 hours and the first twinges of anxiety started to manifest themselves. I swiftly diagnosed it as hunger and ate a piece of cake, 2 biscuits and drank a cup of milk. It was, as I was polishing off the milk, that the husband called. He said, they were 2 miles from the trail head and that they had grossly under-estimated how long it could take on the way down. He tried to sound upbeat, but there was no masking the fact that he was enervated. None of the waspishness in his comments, no smile lingering behind the words. Just a sober line saying he expects he is 2 miles from the trail head. Most uncharacteristic and caused me to furrow the brow.

One of his younger hiking pals had run down earlier and was, therefore, able to give us spotty information. But it had truly been hours since he had seen them too. I settled myself down to just wait for a few minutes, make sure they got themselves into the right car and headed back to the hotel. Another friend of ours was a tower of strength as he relayed information from the trail head to us. He even managed to find a GPS tracker on the phone the trio was using. Apparently, he had the same misgivings that I had when I heard their voices at 10:30 p.m. He said he would be much more peaceful if they just got back. Slowly, we watched the GPS tracker move away from the trail head going far away from the designated trail in what seemed to be a large circle. Could they have be delirious and therefore, not able to see where they going? We had no idea and worse, could do nothing. We were miles away watching a signal bobbing up and away from a path they were supposed to take.

The one who had run down all the way was back at the trail head with a welcoming pizza for sustenance. It was now 20 hours since they started and the parathas had long since disappeared.

For one moment now, I would like you to switch claws and start thinking like a bear. There you are, sitting by yourself, just waiting for Winter to come, so that you can start hibernating and be done with this gnawing feeling of near-constant hunger. Food gathering in these drought-hit times is challenging. You have had enough of bees and fast disappearing trout in the dry streams and rivers. There you are minding your own business and pondering on Life and whether good food has its place in the Meaning of Life, when the most deliciously esculent smell wafts up your nostrils. Is that cheese? With a whiff of garlic, and oh…some mushrooms too? That tomato sizzling under the cheese, over the fresh pizza crust – heavenly, simple heavenly! How some smells can convey how hot the food is, one never knows, and this bear was not waiting to find out. And so, it was with the friendly neighborhood bear. He smelled the pizza miles away and made for the car in with his tongue hanging out. He probably was higher up the mountains than the h and f were when he picked up the smells, but he beat them to the car face down.

In between GPS signals and maybe, lost, hikers, there was a thrilling bear adventure tucked into the whole thing. The pizza had to be taken back to the hotel, the windows of the car opened and aired out before taking the car back to the trail head for the h and f. One will never know whether a bear would have reacted better to Indian foods or Pizza. It is an experiment for whoever tries Mt. Whitney next.

Finally, after 22 hours of hiking, we heard from the h. and f. They had made it back. (Don’t ask anything more for now. Don’t dream of doing this pesky hike! )

Soon, all the right people were in the right cars, the bears were deprived of a most enticing pizza and the hotel room welcomed them.

Mt. Whitney was truly in the bag. The joy would come later – long after the intestines gorged out everything it had taken in over the past 96 hours in restrooms along the way. A short while after the Facebook post was out and had gathered an impressive number of likes. About the time, folks thumped them over the shoulder and hankered to hear their tale.

P.S: Our friend has written about the journey here, and he is also the one who gave me the pictures for the Mt. Whitney posts:

https://www.facebook.com/notes/krishna-srinivasan/hiking-mt-whitney/10152822684056613?pnref=story

Parathas @ Mt. Whitney

The pace of life in the nourishncherish household has been peaking. The husband, in a dash of mid-life madness decided that what he wanted most was to add to his resume, the fact that he scaled the tallest peak in the contiguous United States, Mt. Whitney. Hikers apparently prepare for a few months (with at least a few hikes in high altitudes), but the husband and his friends don’t set much store by what people usually do. So, in their typical fashion, they went ahead and attempted the peak after 5 weeks of ‘rigorous training’ on a hillock by our house. It is a bit like jumping in the middle of the ocean and navigating through the rip tides on the firm knowledge that you can swim in the deep-end of the pool in your local pool, even when the lifeguard was not on duty. (I exaggerate as usual) But like our friend said wisely, you only get to be young and stupid for so many decades of your life and so, there they were.

I have observed this multiple times with the husband. When I ask him to take a packed lunch for example, he scoffs. He not only scoffs, but also shrugs his shoulders in a manner suggesting that it is only old maids, elderly aunts and mothers who think of food and packing and all that. Not cool guys like himself. He is a man who will hunt for food, rouse his primal instincts for food gathering or stop at a sandwich place. But to give the man his due, I have never seen this cool attitude towards the food linger once the Biriyani packets are opened at picnics. There are some egotists who would turn away from the Biriyani thinking back and reflecting on the hurtful statements hurled at the Biriyani earlier in the morning. Not so with the husband. All trifling misunderstandings with Biriyanis are shelved and he is the true example of the bigger man. He shows that all biriyani-related ill-humour earlier that day is water under the bridge and tucks in with joy and enthusiasm. The biriyani is happily settled in the stomach and the smile of contentment is happily displayed on the man. All is well.

Characteristically, when I asked him what he planned to do for food during the hike, he scoffed. I suggested Idlis (steamed rice cakes) because I thought idlis were a good food to take on hikes (they are starchy enough, steamed and relatively dry). But more importantly, I thought ‘Idlis on Mt Whitney’ would make a good blog title. The husband snorted loudly at this. I then prudently suggested Bread and Jam. It is easy to handle, light, and there is sugar in the jam which can be critical when they planned to hike for 16 hours non-stop. He poo-ed and pa-ed and that was brushed aside too. I told him to forage berries for himself on the barren mountainside and set about packing Biriyani packets for their drive a little haughtily. It was then, that his friends (3 of them planned to hike together) intervened and said it might not be a bad idea to take some parathas (Indian breads). I still think my bread and jam idea was better, but ‘Parathas on Mt. Whitney’ sounded like a pretty good blog title too, and I let it go.

So, off they went with the biriyani, parathas, an unhealthy dose of over-confidence, a seemly dose of comradeship and a good dose of adventure to conquer the King of Peaks, Mt. Whitney.

Our friend has written about the journey here, and he is also the one who gave me the pictures for the Mt. Whitney posts:

https://www.facebook.com/notes/krishna-srinivasan/hiking-mt-whitney/10152822684056613?pnref=story (the link may only work for his friends)

Did they do it?

Read on in Part 2, for it is a thrilling tale: Do bears prefer Pizza to Parathas? We may never know.

Happy All Hallows Eve

Did you know November 1st is Saints Day? With Halloween around the corner, I thought it might be fun to see how the word evolved. So, here goes:

November 1st is All Saints Day

Therefore, October 31st is All Saints Eve

October 31st is All Hallows Eve (‘Hallow’ also means to make holy or respect greatly and hence, synonymous with Saints)

October 31st is All Hallows Even (It is the evening after all)

When you try to say ‘Happy All Hallows Even’ about 30 times in 2 minutes, you get at ‘Happy Halloween’. (I suggest you try the exercise in private.)

All this is fine so far, but if you are unsure as to how All Saints Day got associated with ghosts, ghouls, spirits and ugly decor, please check out this news item that walks you through the progression of Halloween over the centuries.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/10/28/forgotten-history-of-halloween_n_6062236.html?ncid=tweetlnkushpmg00000067

In the meanwhile, two diabolically different worlds are coming together in the household this year for Halloween. A perfectly poised Hermione Granger (replete with the fake British accent) from the Harry Potter Universe will boss around 3 year old Lightning McQueen. Uncharacteristically, for Lightning McQueen, he will listen humbly and follow unquestioningly all the directions that Hermione sets forth for him. So what if the Harry Potter Universe is still using floating candles and speaking Latin, while Lightning McQueen is off touring the world and racing big-time? Who said there should be no collision between fictional worlds?

Speaking of fictional worlds, it is time for us to peek into that lovely forest with all the animals to see what they are doing to celebrate Halloween. Halloween In The Jungle is now available in the iBook store. Tango Tiger, Oby Elephant, Biso Bison, Percy Parrot, Zebo Zebra and many more join in this adventure to make Halloween a success in the Jungle. Please grab a copy, and listen to the story while sipping some pumpkin juice from Farmer Hasalot’s pumpkin patch.

https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/halloween-in-the-jungle/id928925386?ls=1&mt=11

The Jungle is a busy place with Halloween approaching, eerie orchestra sounds, pumpkin juice and lemonade stalls, spiders at work. You must feel just a little bit compelled to chip in, right?

The Jungle is a busy place preparing for the Halloween Party

Happy Halloween! May the force be with you!

Dishwasher Chronicles: Can Birds Roar Like Lions?

I read somewhere that these great and wonderful kings of yore were excellent orators. They probably approached their troops the morning before the war and enthused their troops with words dripping with honey, infused with rage, that sent their blood pumping with pride, so they performed their best on the battlefield. We cannot, in all honesty, lay any such claims when we sent the poor husband off to wage a war with the Dishwasher company, but we tried.

The fact that the dishwasher had tested our patience was evident:

https://nourishncherish.wordpress.com/2014/09/24/the-dishwasher-chronicles-part-1/

https://nourishncherish.wordpress.com/2014/09/30/dishwasher-chronicles-part-2/

https://nourishncherish.wordpress.com/2014/10/08/dishwasher-chronicles-part-3/

Not only were tempers short, but festivities abounded. There was Krishna Jayanthi, Vinayaka Chaturthi, Navarathri, a couple of full moons, a couple of new moons and all the days of waxing and waning moons in between. Every God had to be appeased, and every blip in the lunar cycle acknowledged. What was one to do? How does all this affect dishwashing you ask. If ever there was a race to determine the maximum variety of dishes cooked, I am sure the sturdy South Indian family will lead the race with a resounding burp. Festivals provide ample opportunity for the palate to be challenged and rewarded. Consequently, the dishwashing load increased. It did not help matters at all that in the 2 months since installing the new dishwasher, the repairmen had clopped into their house with large horse-like feet twice with little to show. Much like horses, these men, left their shoes on as well. The slight pursing of the lips of the parents-in-law may have been lost on them men, but they were not lost on me.

All in all, there was sternness in manner and reproach in tone when telling the husband clearly that he must throw his weight about and create a ruckus. His parents did their best to buck him up. They told him that their generation did not stand for such namby-pamby nonsense as polite calls to customer service. He was urged to gain inspiration from such sturdy souls as his uncle.

“Remember Kichaa Maama?” said the mother-in-l.

“I thought you didn’t like him much.” said the husband smartly for he seemed to know where the conv. was leading.

“That is not the point. Kichaa mama achieved things.” There was pride in her voice. Kichaa Maama’s mother could have learnt a thing or two on feeling proper pride at her son’s achievements.

“Who is Kichaa Mama?”I asked, nibbling a persimmon, from the sidelines.

The husband shot me a dirty look that said, “Et tu Brutus?”

It was just the cue that the parents-in-law were waiting for. They tripped over themselves explaining. This Kichaa Maama’s middle name was ‘Follow-up’. He was also a close relative: only twice-removed-on-the-paternal-side and once-removed-by-marriage-on-the-maternal-side. He never quailed at simple things such as customer service calls. Apparently, no atrocity of service was left to simmer in kitchens like this. He called and called them again. (“You mean, he made a pest of himself.” said the husband in a brooding low-tone. This slur on Kichaa Maama was ignored for the moment)

They were dealt with firmly in letters to the CEOs by that uncle. CEO’s, apparently, reacted much better to customer complaints than customer service representatives and this legendary uncle had received new items as replacements in his firm dealings with companies. Legend has it that he once received a new television set from the CEO personally. I am thinking he received a set of AA batteries for his trouble sent personally by the CEO’s secretary’s assistant.

The husband had a martyred look about him as he slunk out to call the customer service department that day and live up to the dubious precedent of Kichaa Maama.

The day wore on and the husband adroitly avoided all calls from home. The first words to greet the tired warrior as he stepped into the home were: How did the customer service call go?

The man grinned somewhat sheepishly and I knew what happened. There were things I am sure that the husband would like to imbibe from Kichaa Maama, but yelling at customer service representatives was not one of them.

“I did try.” said the endearing man. “But, the image of a sad customer service rep earning a regular paycheck to talk to irate customers all day long rose before me. What do they care about an Indian man whose house is filled with dirty dishes?”

“So, what? Did you even try to tell them that this was the third time that all this is happening?”

“Yes. Yes. I did. “ said he rather pained and stung that he should not have mentioned the trauma the household was in. Another repairman will come to take care of things anytime between 9 a.m. and 5 p.m. before the next full moon. (I exaggerate, but this time he did not even get a shorter window in which to make ourselves available. Really!)

“Let’s go for a walk.” I said hurriedly before proper admonitions were forthcoming. It was clear that the man was incapable of having a customer service rep reach for their earplugs, so why harp on the point?

“Did you let them know that there are upset people in the house?” I asked when we had reached the safety of the sidewalk lined with trees whose leaves had started changing colors to welcome beautiful Fall.

The husband laughed and said that he did start off in an irate tone of voice, but then he thought of the poor lady’s life. “I mean, she has a life and we have ours. Her job was to note down complaints and take care of them. Two sentences into my call, I think she sensed my reluctance and I started laughing. I told her that everyone was upset and she said very fairly that she understood our situation. So, she noted it down in her comments that, we are upset, and that it has happened twice already – so, the CEO knows the nourishncherish family is upset over the dishwasher.” said the man, a smile quivering over his lips.

Sigh. If a bird tried to roar like a lion, could it?

Dishwasher Chronicles - Can birds roar? — Dishwasher Chronicles – Can birds roar like lions?

P.S. The third set of repairmen clopped into the house looking like Laurel & Hardy and this time spoke with great Spanish comedian authority that the slider was the problem. All in all, all the innards of the dishwasher have now been replaced. We walk gingerly around it, just in case. Friends suggest a tribal dance to appease the Dishwasher Gods.

P.P.S.: Last night, the dishwasher knew that the saga around it was coming to an end and made a weird noise like it was thudding shoes around inside. Please keep your fingers crossed.

Dishwasher Chronicles Part 3

I have always wondered how it must be to be an agriculturist. What if you had fields of coconut trees and jackfruit trees? How do you detect from the outside given the rough and tough exterior of the produce if it is ready for harvest or not? Let’s take coconuts for example. Do you gaze up at the trees and think, “That big one over yonder looks big and green enough, so it must be ready.” . Then, you go fetch some ropes, hoist yourself up there and sever it from its tree and plop open its head.

What if, after all this bother, you find it still has another week before its prime time? You can’t seal it closed again and attach it back to the tree, can you?

Examined from this angle, I suppose, the plight of modern dishwasher users is better than that of a coconut farmer at harvest time. Though, the methods are the same.

You still need to hoist yourself at a safe distance from the dishwasher to determine whether it is done or not, for the only way to find out whether the dishes are done is to plop open the dishwasher. If it is not done, you run the risk of having the dirty or partly clean water give you a splash. All the controls and progress indicators are set on the top panel which slides out of view when the dishwasher is closed remember? I must say, the husband is the most skilled at this among us. The rest of us baboon around till there is water on the floor and are still unable to see how much of the task remains.

As was so often the case, the dishwasher stopped midway through and the husband’s skill-sets were increasingly called upon. Initially, he was able to tell us how much of the cycle was done. He would say, ’23 minutes remaining’, so just switch it on again, or ’46 minutes 30 seconds left, let’s just do the dishes’ and dash away from the premises for an (ahem) important meeting. But later on, he professed ignorance. I don’t think this kind of degradation of service is acceptable anywhere. How can you go from giving the exact number of minutes and seconds remaining to nothing? There was much murmuring and looks-exchanging at this.

The parents-in-law accosted him one morning and said enough was enough. Either he shouted at the person he got on the phone, or they would call the nice fellow who came last time and assured them in Spanish about the parrots-liking-green-tea and ask him for explanations. The husband looked cornered – there were three belligerent-looking blokes/blokees demanding explanations or a new dishwasher. He buckled and said he would do his best to shout at the customer service representative.

I caught his eye and couldn’t help smiling. The husband may be the head agriculturist if ever we become coconut farmers or jackfruit orchard owners. But he shall not be the one shouting at the coconut if it is not yet ripe. I gave him a much needed cup of coffee from a cup picked up from the dishwasher and sent him on his war.

I have a sneaking suspicion on what happened on the call and this, I shall share, with you all in the next blog entry.

Dishwasher Chronicles Part 2

The gleaming stainless steel dishwasher made its way home after a 2 week waiting period. There was great rejoicing in the house when we switched it on for the first time, since we could not hear it. The previous dishwasher was an autocratic leader. When it spoke, no one else could. This was a problem because that meant we could only use the dishwasher between the sweet hours of 2 a.m. and 5 a.m. (we have a gamut of late-sleepers and early risers in the household who just don’t get the beauty of a long night’s sleep), and since there was no timer, the autocrat was ousted. But as with the end of every regime, there was euphoria initially followed by a period of wistful thinking and even yearning for the old dishwasher. If only ousted monarchs stayed to watch the wistful periods, they might have died happy deaths, but since most of them were taken in bloody coups, the chances of that were slim. So, it was with our dishwasher.

Every night, I washed the dishes almost clean and then placed them in the new dishwasher to completely clean, set the timer to start 4 hours later, smiled triumphantly at everyone in the room and went to bed. Things were marvelous the first few days, we ran the dishwasher right through our conversations and there was not even a beep and all the stake holders were happy. Things started to crumble toward the end of week 1. The grim period was about to begin.

You know how in the old dishwasher, we knew right away whether it was allowed to complete its job or not because the dials were so prominently placed – like bright large bindis on a broad forehead?

The Expressive Dishwasher (Not the primitive one!)

The new one, had the controls hidden, so there was no way to know whether it had done its job. Absolutely poker faced. Now, one was stuck with the joyful task of identifying the almost clean ones to wash again. The only possible way to know was by feeling the dishes. Looking at the dishes were a fat help because they looked almost clean. The first few times we figured the dishwasher had stopped midway through, we had already put away more than half the dishes. I don’t know about you, but none of us in our house have eidetic memories. In fact, it isn’t far from the truth to say that we give as much attention to the intensely-dull tasks such as putting away the dishes as a well-fed cat does to a caring otter. http://www.themarysue.com/indifferent-cats/ Given this, how was one to find the dishes that were almost clean and put away?

There were brilliant suggestions to ascertain the ones that were in the dishwasher when it decided to go belligerent and stop working on us. “Smell every cup” said one with a long nose, “Just look closely” said the one who forgot to wear spectacles, “Maybe we should try to pat every cup and examine the tissue paper we used to see whether it needs cleaning” said the environmentalist. So, we’d wash all the cups and plates again to make sure.

After the fifth time, the husband took command. He placated the dishwashing public. His spirited speech to remain calm was heard and he contacted the service desk. A repairman would be sent between 8 a.m. and 12 p.m. said the appointment. So, the house waited for the men of action to arrive.

The father-in-law is a man of practical talents. He has a way around fixing the odd things in somewhat odd-fashions, but they work. He also takes a keen interest in seeing how things are fixed. The mother-in-law knows her limits in this realm and prudently keeps away, but feels obliged to point out to her husband that he must fearlessly question and prod. Luckily, they don’t know English and the Spanish speaking repairmen did not know Tamil. One shudders to think of the outcome had they understood each other. I formed a loose sort of dam between the spate of questions from the household and them. “Why was it broken? Is the connection to the water-hose done properly? Do they really know how to fix it? They look young, they look like they eat chips a lot, do you think they will ask for juice? If they ask for coffee, we need to buy a can of milk in the evening. When you are at it, also buy tomatoes.” I have to marvel at the ability to fit a grocery list into the proceedings when one is questioning means and methods of dishwasher repair.

The sliding rack was the problem said the knowledgeable men and though question arrows were splicing my back (Are they sure the rack is the problem? What if the cup area was the problem? How did they know the rack was the problem?), I bore the arrows painfully on my back, asked them civilly to drink up a cup of orange juice and sent them on their way. There was talk about me being a softie and not being brave enough to ask them all the questions, but one cannot please everybody. You either pleased the d.repair folks who displayed something like brute strength when they lunged the rack out of the dishwasher, or you pleased the parents-in-law who shot grocery lists at you during dishwasher repair. Not both.

To save you all from the events of the next few painful days, I implore you to go back and read paragraphs 3,4 & 5 again. The husband, this time, was asked to take a firm stance and ask for a different set of repairmen, but really, what could you ask to see? Their poly-technic certification? What if their degree, if they did have one, was for repairing washing machines, but they picked up dishwashers along the way? You were fighting a losing battle with this and he knew it.

The second pair decided that the spine of the dishwasher was the problem. It pushed the rack out and that is why the dishwasher stopped working, they said. If it stops again, ask him if he will change the dishwasher for us, asked the parents.i.l. I tried telling them that these people had no clue whether the company would replace the dishwasher or not and that would be a different call to make. I could see my rationale was not being received well in their mind. With this, I seemed to have sunk even lower in the efficiency department. I went upstairs for a brief moment and I came back to see a thriving session of puppetry and dumb-charades flourishing between The Spanish and The Tamil. They managed to ask him their question and he was managing to smile at them and answer them something. I think he was saying, “Parrots also like green tea, have you tried giving them coffee? You should see their faces then!”

But everybody was happy and the second set departed. Before the third set came in, there was positive yearning for the old dishwasher. (At least, it just made a noise and if you did not have to watch TV or talk when it did its work, it did a marvelous job!) . Our dishwasher’s psyche was taking a beating and dishwashers from next door were ready to come and give the one in our house a hand.

To be continued: Dishwasher Chronicles Part 3 …..

Rainbow Dash

I was waiting to break into my new running shoes. Like a child waiting to play in the rain, I cast loving looks at the shoes every now and then and vowed to get up early the next morning and go for a run. Maybe my excitement rubbed off on my toddler son, but he was up before the lark and waiting for me by the shoes before my run. “Amma. Thum Amma Thum. Thunning Amma Thunning. Shoos thunning.”

(Lexicon: Thum: Come, Thun: Run, Shoos: Shoes)

My shoulders sagged a bit, but he had an enthusiastic-puppy-look about him and so off we went. The pair of us running with a stroller in hand. It was my plan to bundle him into the stroller a little way in and then run. But the fellow had plans of his own. He ran with his little steps by my side. I could walk, but he insisted I thun with him. So, I than. For this pace of running I needed no running shoes, but it was wonderful. He kept running, then squealed and stopped to see a passing truck. We ran again. A few feet on, there was a pile of dry leaves. We both jumped in there, squashing the leaves and listening to the crackle under our feet. This run was not going to be measured in terms of distance, that much was certain. We crushed the leaves underfoot till a yeti couldn’t have gotten a crackle out of it anymore. We ran some more and spotted a children’s park nearby and made for it. We chased birds, played in the swing and walked back – the toddler a spent force, but still refusing to sit in his stroller.

As we walked back that beautiful day, the sun burst forth with a few well chosen sprinkles of rain and we walked home under a glorious rainbow that the child said was ‘Ennow Tash’ (‘Rainbow Dash’ is the name of a pony princess or some such thing that he is forced to watch with his older sister. This famous Rainbow Dash has a wiki link: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rainbow_Dash#Rainbow_Dash) I am sure this will become a problem later, but for now he is proud he knows about Rainbow Dash, the pony princess.

When I read this article about an artist collaborating with her 4 year old son, the story warmed my heart. It reminded me of that run that became a rainbow dash and how what I planned turned into something far more meaningful just because I was willing to let go. Maybe, if we relinquish control more often, we will find joy in different ways.

http://busymockingbird.com/2013/08/27/collaborating-with-a-4-year-old/

The Lost Heart

Through nobody’s fault, I found myself in a state wanting to submit an entry for the 3-minute fiction contest on NPR with an afternoon to spare. Add a production problem at work, 2 unbathed children playing with mud and a hose in the backyard, and a hungry family to the mix and you have the components for story-telling complete. Obviously, I was using all of this as a perfect excuse to not sit and write something. But the husband would hear nothing of the sort and shoo-ed me away to write. The theme was to write a story in which a character finds an object that he or she has no intention of returning.

I wrote out more than a few stories. I had almost decided on this one, but the daughter was so disgusted by the story, that she would not let me send it in. I have written a good many stories for her age group over the past few years and she has always been my trusted reviewer and critic. I love discussing my writing with her. Sometimes, the insights she offers can only come from a child her age and yet seem far more reasoned than I had supposed from someone her age. So, I honored her and did not send this one in, but decided to put it up on my blog instead.

The Lost Heart

This story is about a young girl called Fibrill who found a heart. A human heart.

The object repulsed her, but she bent down and picked it up anyway like she usually did. This time, a longing engulfed her. The mass felt alien to her hands, but she persevered. She could give it to her mother and maybe that would make her happy. Yes that was it. She ran with the heart in her hands. She was running along the clouds as fast as her legs and the dead weight of the heart would allow her to. But the heart was not dead yet. It was still pulsing and throbbing.

As she burst into the kitchen through the back-door, her mother looked shocked. “What is this?”

“A human heart! A human heart….can you check if it is alive?”

“Oh dear. I wonder who is missing it. Give it to me.” said her mother rushing to her side.

Her mother touched the edge of her nose. She saw the familiar transformation as her nose turned blue and the electric blue from her nose tip spread to all the nerve endings in her body. “Fibrill! Give me the heart right now. There is still hope left.”

The shot of blue pulsed through the heart and Fibrill’s inside, but this time Fibrill did not part with the heart. It was her heart now.

The man, whose heart it was, lay limp on Earth below.

The daughter did not know the word, but I told her that the word she was looking for was ‘Morbid’. Her expression said it all. Never one to hold back, she said, “Amma – you usually write things that make people happy, how could you write this?”

“Didn’t this make you happy?”. I love needling her.

“No way! This makes no one happy. A heart is lovely – like this! ” she said indignantly and drew me a heart on a post-it note. I must say that is the way I like hearts too. Beautiful and full of throbbing love.

Please let me know what you think of the story.

PS: Ideally, I would have loved to finish the story differently, but the requirement was to have the person not return what they found.

Chocoleg Law Enforcement

It was one of those days when I was beginning to ask myself why we have made life more complicated in an effort to make it simpler. I was just tutting and clicking my tongue when I saw this news article. This child wrote a letter to the Vice President with a possible solution to the gun control problem. He suggested making bullets of chocolate.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/05/14/joe-biden-letter_n_3271533.html

How marvelous! It need not be chocolate, but it could be bullets of a different nature: a stinger rather than a killer. The bullets of the killing kind can only be obtained in limited quantity after intense background checks and so on.

If chocolate bullets work, why not Lego blocks in police chases?

Imagine this scary criminal heading out. He is prepared: his car is ready and he grabs his gun. He decides on wearing his vibrams since it ought to help him if it comes to a chase on foot. Of course, he hopes there will be no chase at all, but hopes and dreams turn out quite different from real life. This criminal is about to learn this hard truth very soon.

After the deed is done, he sees that his worst fear is coming true. The police cars are clobbering him. A hot chase later, a patrol helicopter appears on the scene and it starts raining down Lego blocks.

http://news.cnet.com/8301-17938_105-57572674-1/lego-spill-tangles-up-west-virginia-highway/

There is no way for the car to maneuver. What does he do? What does he do? He glances at his feet in desperation. The vibrams. That is what he must do, he has to go for a run.

The Scary criminal laughs and grabs his gun to take off on foot and what happens?

OUCH! Running on lego blocks hurt man! Ask any parent who has trod on the things at the middle of the night, and they’ll tell you. Left with nothing to do, he whips out his gun and starts shooting. For a second he is triumphant and then realizes that the gun has done nothing but spurt a fountain of chocolate.

“FATE!” he exclaims and throws down his gun as he stubs his toe on a Lego block of hideous proportions.

The criminal is caught and the watching populace cheer at the ingenuity of the operation.

Give a few minutes for a heli-based giant vacuum cleaner to suck up the lego blocks and spray water on the chocolate rivers to wash off the cars and life is beautiful once again.

Do you see any problems with using chocolates and legos for preliminary law enforcement? I quite like the idea.

Gandhari says ….

Gandhari says…..
(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gandhari_(character))

When some things are repeated often enough, we have the capacity to believe them. I could genuinely believe that I was being the sacrificial tree while giving up my eyesight because my husband was blind or I could finally tell my version of events.

(Loud sigh)

Here goes: I did not really proclaim that I would forever lose it. What I did was have a row with him one evening. We were sitting in the orchard and trying to fall in love (with each other of course) when we heard an unusual sound – probably a peacock. Now everytime we hear a sound, Big D has a way of asking me what it is, and how very lucky I am to be able to see everything. Now really! It is hard to fall in love if one half keeps whining about how unfair it is to him that he can’t see a rainbow. I can’t see a rainbow either. I mean rainbows are elusive and subtle. To hear him describe it though, one would think it occurs every evening and looks like this. (Image courtesy Google search)

It isn’t true…I tried to tell him, but he decided to turn a deaf ear. Also, every evening talking about rainbows was a bit much. So when he took off about the bird and connected it to rainbows, I lost it. I screamed and spat and said I was going to tie my eyes too, just so I could talk to him without having to assume there would be rainbows in the sky every evening.

I always knew Big D was cunning, but what he did next had me stumped. When my mother-in-law, Ambika, came up, he put on his most demure face and said that I was going to give up my eyesight so I can feel the way my dear husband does. If I looked surprised – who could blame me? Before I could explain, the vile woman summoned the royal guards and loudly proclaimed she is blessed to have a daughter-in-law like me and now she could rest in peace knowing her son was in good hands. Next thing I knew, she was making a court announcement of my deed.

Every time people came and congratulated me on my large heart, I seethed. If it is hard for the townspeople to ignore what others think of them, you can imagine how much harder it is for royalty.

Incidentally, Ambika lived a good many years afterward, and had a way of describing what she saw when we walked together in the palace gardens. In hindsight I saw Big D’s obsession with rainbows: Ambika described them with such tender words, letting the descriptions hang tantalizingly, sometimes dripping with poetry. I found myself sighing to her that I wished I could see them, even if I knew she was fabricating them. Sometimes, one has to be blind to see the truth.

Only Grandpa Vyasa saw through my plight. He came up to me one evening and told me something to the effect of “Annoying now, legend later”.
Easy for him to say was the general thought then. He sensed it in that eerie manner of his and continued, “Remain blindfolded and you will be spared many a sad sight. Not only that, you will go down in the history of mankind and be talked about for generations.”

The lure was too much. I gave in. What still saddens me though, is the one time I decided to open my blindfold and look around, it was to see my foul son – that blot on humanity. That too I did for the sake of the legend.

Glad to have that off my chest! How does the rainbow look?

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