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Here’s wishing more peace and happiness to everybody on Diwali.

Most people know I have the patience of a hen sitting on a reluctant egg to hatch with creative projects. In fact, it is documented legend – I have cut off sleeves, necks and diameter from projects in my youth. Aah – youth. The enthusiasm of youth and the euphoria of new wool would cause me to make statements such as: “I am going to knit a full hand sweater for my father”

The father beamed, the mother held judgement. Once the armies saluted the effort, I would start on the ambitious sweater. I liked knitting, I just thought my father was rather large for a teenager to knit a full hand sweater for. As time went by, the sweater would grow…..quite slowly, since there were more pressing demands on my time, such as thinking about nothing. (It is surprising how many hours of youth has been spent in this fulfilling occupation!)

The sweater would slowly and steadily morph into a half sleeve sweater for then then short and lanky brother.  I am not sure about the psychological scars one gets from wearing sweaters knitted by elder sisters as a hobby, but the brother bore them well. I am not sure he would take kindly to them now, but then, he was a star. He was so intent on getting out there and playing that he wore anything.

This time, our creative pursuits were Diwali oriented. The daughter and I played with Rangoli this time around.

Then as though playing with the powders weren’t enough, we had to mess around with the pulses. I actually stepped out and bought Masoor Dal for the Diyas. Now, I have 2 pounds of masoor dal with no recipes to boot. But, the rangoli looked good.

Happy Diwali all of you! And please point me to recipes using 2 pounds of masoor dal, while you are at it!

I am brimming with pride. I am now a gardener par excellence. See the fruits of labour in our little patch? It could be argued (with merit of course!) that I did nothing towards the venture other than provide a square foot of land in the garden.

However, my links to the greatest feats of gardening are close. I had a friend in School, whose parents won the Annual Best Garden of the Year award in the Nilgiris Flower Show for many years in a row. I have walked in that garden and admired the roses. I am an authority when it comes to admiring flowers. Like art patrons are essential to Art, folks like me are essential to gardeners, what?!

If plants could move, I have no doubts that they would have happily fled my backyard in search of wetter pastures. In fact, I firmly believe that the untimely showers which wreck a day in the park for some are because my plants yearned for water.

I am not an insensitive person- far from it, just forgetful. If I heard the grumbling, I would have been on top of the case, watered them to floods and generally nursed them till they yearned to be left alone. As it turns out, these lovely trees and plants are remarkably quiet. So, I have gone for days, letting an apricot wilt away wistfully, while the pines in the backyard nearby shed their dew on this tree to keep it from shutting down. I know a phenomenal amount about insects in plants (that is to say, I can see them sometimes, but don’t know what to do beyond that)

For this tomato though, the seed was planted by the youngest, and the water fountains were turned on the by the eldest in the household. I am the proud presenter of the rich tomato – completely organic, since I know nothing of sprays or fertilizers.

The partner is a force when it comes to lyrics. He can master the most complex of them in minutes. He can correct A.R.Rahman on Raakozhi when he errs. He strides onto stage, and mesmerizes judges with his dazzling power over them. (Well…he strode onto stage once, and had them reaching for their earplugs in a trance)

Yet destiny hasn’t made him a music magnate for a reason. He can’t sing Baa Baa Black Sheep with a tune to save his life. But thanks to his love for lyrics, I try every once in a while to understand the meaning of the songs.

Last week-end, fresh from a concert that he loved, he was so full of enthusiasm to expose me to the nuances of the finer music he had enjoyed, that I gave in. The daughter and I had opted for a quieter evening at the bookstore, and looked relaxed when the concert troupe came in.

After much badgering and my whining politely about preferring to sleep, he held my eyelids open, and made me listen to some of the songs. I don’t get it. I JUST CAN’T fathom WHY people put themselves through it. In 5 minutes, my brains were exerting a definite pressure to overflow from their walls. My ears were ringing with the jarring (you know, I really have to use the word music here, but I can’t bring myself to write it – all right, here goes…)

My ears were ringing with the jarring music (Gulp)

As if that weren’t enough, a bally group of musicians stood at the public transit and belted a horrendous cacophony that is stuck in my already fragile brain.

Peuan-pa-pap-puean-peuan-pa-pap-peauan-pa-pa-paeaun

I mean there are things a soul can take, and things a soul can’t take.

What the world needs is a means for peace and quiet. Yet, what it gets is gems in philosophy such as
“Boy-u-na payyan
Girl-u-na ponnu” (A quirky number that has apparently grabbed the attention of Tamil society in no small measure)

Exactly the kind of sentiment that one sees on Shaadi.com. Incidentally, an advertisement of Shaadi.com is now prominently displayed on the public transit terminals in Desiville, US. Maybe the
“Peuan-pa-pap-puean-peuan-pa-pap-peauan-pa-pa-paeaun” band can perform at the reception, while the

“Boy-u-na payyan
Girl–u-na ponnu” song plays in the background for the wedding.

That would be an interesting wedding – what?!

I have reached an exalted mental state. My mental maturity is shining through my every pore. Pretty soon, I might have people congratulating my way of life, and how they strive to emulate me and so on.

Allow me ….

I walked into the kitchen with a full-ish afternoon lunch stuffed into the intestines and the cuds doing their fair job. I needed a spot of liquid to soothe the upheavals of polishing a liberal lunch. In short, I had fire bells clanging and the firemen were picking up their hoses.

I walked in to the kitchen to see a fairly sad looking apple – it had a note.

I think the apple climbed out of the bowl it was placed in with the note “Free”, struck it out and wrote $10 on it. I mean, there are things a self respecting apple cannot stand. To be given away free at this age, and a note to go with it can’t have been a happy experience. So, I imagine, it climbed out, wrote $10 on the note and slipped back looking innocent and withered.

Now is the entry for the mature self to enter the pic. I picked up another stick-it note and wrote $10 on it, and stuck it there. Satisfied that I spared the apple the ignominy that couldn’t possibly have been shared among fellow apples, I started back.

Now, I just have to find a way to give the apple away for free.
PS: I meant to put the post up yesterday! Now, the apple looks older, and just a little bit more worried at being consumed free or not.

I challenge you to find a single bloke who has visited the parents’ home, and hasn’t seen the photographs of the daughter of the house sitting with the President of India. The show runs for 2 hours and 12 minutes and is accompanied with a full theatrical demonstration of all the words spoken by the President. Usually, excellent coffee is served during the interval.

You see, the sister won 4 medals for various activities from the then President of India, R.Venkatraman. He then called for her after the ceremony, and sat her down to see what kept her ticking, and all that. The sis’ was given a new red-and-black dress for the occasion, and the photographs and medals occupy a somewhat better position than the sons and daughters of the house. It isn’t everyday that the President hobnobs with the children of teachers.

The photographs themselves can be used for toothpaste advertisements, teeth whitening etc, but the President declined from going after fame in that direction, so the opp. was dropped. I remember what a great deal it was to have the President visit our School. There were black cats streaming all over the place, and everybody was checked. I almost had my priya sweets removed from my body. Quite scary I tell you.

The father was given the unique honour of signing the cards needed to present the guards with, to allow people access to the auditorium. Never has anybody approached the man with such a compelling need to get signatures from him, and he came forward with his most gallant attempt, and signed his full name, all of 23 consonants and 15 syllables (okay…..but it’s a long name!) It wasn’t till he signed the 502nd card that he started questioning his decision to sign the full name.

The President landed on the grounds, and we dutifully sang the national anthem, the guard of honour with the right click, shoes all polished, the works. It is something of a memory. The chance to see and shake hands with the President is one so unique.

I wonder why there is a controversy about President Obama addressing the children of the nation.
http://www.npr.org/blogs/thetwo-way/2009/09/coming_up_president_obamas_add.html
The most common complaint seems to be that he will push forth his propoganda. I ask you – to what end? When these children are old enough to vote, he might not be in the President’s office any longer.

Turns out the President only said what parents hoot everyday, but now the country is just hoping that coming from the President’s mouth, the children would listen.http://www.whitehouse.gov/MediaResources/PreparedSchoolRemarks/

He said children should make the best of life’s opportunities and learn to live responsibly. Where’s the propoganda? All I see is many more proud families who can show pictures of their children with the President.

What a coincidence? I have been meaning to write about Facebook for a while now, when New York times runs this article

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/08/30/magazine/30FOB-medium-t.html

I quote from the article above:
Things fall apart; the center cannot hold. Facebook, the online social grid, could not command loyalty forever. If you ask around, as I did, you’ll find quitters. One person shut down her account because she disliked how nosy it made her. Another thought the scene had turned desperate. A third feared stalkers. A fourth believed his privacy was compromised. A fifth disappeared without a word.

The exodus is not evident from the site’s overall numbers. According to comScore, Facebook attracted 87.7 million unique visitors in the United States in July. But while people are still joining Facebook and compulsively visiting the site, a small but noticeable group are fleeing — some of them ostentatiously

This piece aligns itself with the sort of news I was recently criticizing. “If you ask around” – this had me dished. How was I supposed to ask around – on Facebook?! Clearly, people are quitting the site. How would they answer me? The stress made me want to update my status.

This statement is of course the crowning glory:
But while people are still joining Facebook and compulsively visiting the site, a small but noticeable group are fleeing — some of them ostentatiously. (Uh….duh….scratch. So, are people joining or are they quitting?)

But, I shall interpret this prolific link to read that many people have been quitting Facebook lately. I have felt like an aging dinosaur, pummeling myself into thinking that by spurning Facebook, I would lose touch with my friends, and like the dinosaurs unable to adapt, roam in a physical world, where the only contact was through Facebook, and water only the virtual kind. Sad, speechless….well….you get the drift.

Don’t get me wrong, but Facebook felt to me like a big “Oops!” waiting to happen. I accepted anyone wanting to reach out to me, and before I knew it, I had a whole lot of friends from all my associations – kindergarten classmates, tea stall mates, college bonda mates, colleagues in the various companies I have worked in. Everytime, I attempted to post a message, I was baffled. What on Earth will I tell all these people that will interest them all at the same time?

Feeling sleepy?
Want to drink Tea?
Wants to step out

The problem with all the messages I did want to put up was that, it felt like a yearning. If I was already drinking tea, I wouldn’t put that up, I’d be busy sipping my tea. If I went out, I would not stop to update my Facebook status, I’d be out the door.

The only time I felt a status was warranted was when I finished running a half-marathon. But, I think the World will agree with me here when I say that, that seems like an awful lot of trouble to go through in order to put up a Facebook status.

So life passes me by, and the stress of not having anything to say gnaws at me ……….

PS: Another link: Recruiters screen facebook too! http://msn.careerbuilder.com/Article/MSN-2035-Job-Info-and-Trends-More-Employers-Screening-Candidates-via-Social-Networking-Sites/?sc_extcmp=JS_2035_home1&SiteId=cbmsnhp42035&ArticleID=2035&gt1=23000&cbRecursionCnt=1&cbsid=d1afeba127564100aae4334a5fe432f0-305904617-w6-6

This day that age.

“You know what?” the words barely left my smiling lips, when I had the attention that any teacher would kill to have from just one student in his class. I was flustered. I would have to admit it was embarrassing to have somebody pay this much attention to my words. After all, most times I was trying to get the selective hearing dad and the don’t care-unless-its-sports brother to listen to something. Most attempts were feeble bleats erupting every minute for several hours. And then start afresh again after a bite of the energizing and sometimes impressively finish with a grand finale before somebody twitched a ear in my direction. When this sentence (I know, that was barely a sentence!), was met with an impressive

“Yes tell me” with the body leaning forward, I was taken aback. The face glowed with appreciation, and I found I had forgotten what I really wanted to say. Just the warmth of the reception to my sentiments were enough to soothe the soul. I hastily ushered the fellow in to my favourite ice-cream store with gratitude and bought him a rather impressive banana fudge ice-cream. What’s more I presented him with a hideous tie (with love!)

Turns out the fellow doesn’t like ice cream, and seldom wore ties. So, we decided to get married.

My husband – this day that age.

This day this age

“You know what?” I hollered at the breakfast table. *Ignore*
A minute later: “You know what?”
“Huunh?” or similar sounding grunt. IT’s hard to reproduce, and a lapse into some important program on TV

If ever there was a soul of determination, that’s me. As many times as this happened, I never quit saying “You know what?” I finished at an impressive 8 times before I decided to throw in the towel. I threw my hands up in desperation and sighed for good measure. That did it.

“Huh…..what?” said the husband turning towards me. His eyes glazed, his mind still wandering in the meaningless forest of the previous advertisement selling fresh juice from the mushy murks of some godly place. I gave up.

“Never mind, I forgot what I wanted to say”, I said.
“Oh okay”

Since both times I forgot what I really wanted to say, it can’t have been that important!

Festivals are for a time of harmony. The old family spirit, the smiling pictures – the “totadoin” music in the background. Yet, I am still waiting to witness one festival where the mother of the household is not looking like a frazzled lump with a ready lampoon hoisted at the end of a javelin stick waiting to scorch through your insides if you don’t make way for the steam engine(that’s her) while the vadai is being fried, and before the appam needs to be turned over.

By the time, the family sits down for the meal, several feathers are ruffled, there has been at least one meltdown, especially if it involves smart-aleck daughters. Then, there is the whole post-meal sensation where the outlines of the layers of intestine have merged into an amalgamation of jaggery, oil, butter, vegetable oil, turmeric, a large shipment of rice with lentils washed down with curd. The final slurp does it.

Now, after a bustling 4 hour ordeal to whip up a meal such as this, one would expect to push the chair backward long enough for it to creak and stretch into a raised bed. What we would really look forward to doing is gently massaging the stomach area. It would help if somebody could do the same with your hair and play some lullabies. OH NO!

The bustling mother is now bustling at 80% speed owing to the bulk of food still occupying the abdominal area, but she bustles all the same. The dishes need to be cleared away, the dirty dishes washed, the remaining sweets tucked away….

Why? I ask you why? Why do these festivals have to be this way? Take Krishna for example, is he going to refuse to step into a house where gulab jamuns are missing from the list below?
Krishna Jayanthi:

• Seedai
• Patta Naada
• Theratti Paal
• Aval
• Kunzhi aapam
• 7 cup cake
• Vadai
• Payasam

In my opinion, we would be doing ol’ Ganesha a favour by reducing his calorie intake instead of this:
Vinayaka Chathurthi:

• Vadai
• Payasam
• Aval
• Kunzhi aapam
• Modakam

But as always, the genii of the world go unheard….

PS: This is also my 200-th post.