Nourish-n-Cherish

Chidambaram was cut off from the rains. The headlines for all of the previous week said nothing other than terrorist scares in airports and roads being washed off in the heavy rains. The venue of my brother’s wedding, Chidambaram, was marooned people said. It turns out that the roads leading to Chidambaram were little more than mud roads that were coated with tar. The rains washed the tar with them, and tiny bridges had disintegrated.

We found out around 2-3 days before the wedding that Chidambaram was accessible after all. Yet, the source of my brother’s apprehension had nothing to do with washed away roads, or the wedding itself.

He had been recently informed that his portraits were to be mounted in all prominent locations in Chidambaram. “WHAT? WHY?” my brother had demanded rather alarmingly, but he was brushed aside. This was to be grand wedding, and no embarrassment was to be spared! There were posters and billboards to spread his fame – replete with his degree, job title and office name. I can’t quite explain how much fun we had at his expense on this account.

He tried everything from growing a moustache in the last minute to pleading with his fiancee to take the billboards down. The moustache achieved little apart from making his nieces assume it was a fake moustache and making him look like a badger with cat’s whiskers.
And so, he was forced to shave and we arrived in Chidambaram bearing with us the man most wanted in the town by the looks of it. The billboards welcomed us all the way from the railway station. We helpfully pointed to the man in question everytime we stopped to ask somebody for directions while the groom squirmed in his pants!

The billboards were a little ghastly considering our family has never been anywhere close to fame. We revelled in the mundane and kept newspaper clippings in files accessible in the drawing room cabinets amidst a flurry of other papers, of the times when our names did appear in print. The less fortunate who blundered into the territory of how well the children of the house had done were treated to the frayed clippings along with a guided tour of the medals hanging in the showcase. But that was the extent of fame we had achieved. To see larger-than-life billboards with my brother’s photograph on it was a bit overwhelming. One thing I hadn’t noticed in earlier photographs was that the bride looked positively fat. Not that there was anything with being fat, just that I had had quite a hard time imagining her with the photographs and the various descriptions I’d received from everybody else – I was the only one in the family who had not seen her, and I was really eager to see her. When I did see her, there seemed a reel-real life disconnect on multiple levels. The photographs I had seen earlier looked nothing like the posters and the posters looked nothing like the bride in person.

I just had to reconcile the matter before I could immerse myself in the wedding. I mounted a mini investigation into the matter pronto. It turns out that the photographers of Chidambaram were quite bright. They had with them the latest tools of digital imaging and were waiting for an opportunity to showcase their talents. A perfect opportunity presented itself with the wedding posters. My sister-in-law had given a photograph in a salwar kameez. The photographer decided that the subject should have been dressed in a saree. Instead of taking the simplest route, namely asking for a photograph in saree, he morphed the image – he transplanted the face over the image of a person dressed in a saree. The saree clad woman’s image he had taken was on the larger side and resulting image was what had greeted me
in the streets of Chidambaram – and that my folks is the advantage of having folks with digital imaging tools in a town like Chidambaram.

Now that the photograph mystery had been laid to rest, I devoted myself to the remaining aspects of the event management. One thing that I really liked was that there was a poster at the local bus station manned with an information desk – all our relatives could find directions to the wedding venue as soon as they descended from their buses. An elephant was to garland the groom on his arrival. I was half expecting a band – except that the only available band in town apparently refused to be up in the wee hours of the morning. The groom’s nieces & nephew spent the entire 11 hour journey from our hometown to Chidambaram fantasizing about the elephant and the horse-drawn buggy that was to be used for the procession. The nieces confused the proceedings for a circus in their fertile minds, because
they asked if a clown would be available on the premises. I assured them there would – and what’s more, the clown would be their favourite Uncle. My brother wasn’t happy!

On arrival, they felt letdown when they were informed that it usually takes a week to bring an elephant from one of the nearby temples and because of the rains, this part of the proceedings had to be dropped.

Let me be frank – South Indian weddings are higher on the ritual factor than the fun factor. In fact, the grumpier elders frowned on any sort of merry-making. There was a solemn ceremony at a nearby temple. Every available God was petitioned to bless the couple in long-winding sanskrit phrases and at the end of the whole event in the small temple, everyone looked ready to cry. We were determined however to lighten up the mood as much as possible. The moment the horse-drawn buggy was available, we went crazy at my brother’s expense. To date, I have never seen a person look so embarrassed. He ascended the chariot looking extremely uncomfortable and tugged at his nieces and nephew for comfort. There was a band playing music. The music was even discernible once you cut out the noise. There was a jeep ahead with flashlights helpfully focussed on my brother, as though he needed any more attention in his life at the moment. To make matters worse, the traffic that was easing along were all
peeping through windows to take a good look at the subject. There were fireworks in front, and we were hoping that the firecrackers wouldn’t frighten the horses. I voiced my concerns regarding this to my brother on his perch in the chariot, and his embarrassment quickly mingled with an acute sense of foreboding. To add to his misery, the nieces and nephews on the chariot were egging the horses to go faster. It would have made a dashing sight to see my brother galloping along swiftly through the dense streets of Chidambaram, making the cows move aside in a hurry and have the elephant race the horses.

But none of that happened, that would have made things finish too quickly. The horses walked on slowly and the motorised chariot at the back was set to move at the slowest speed possible.

Because of, or in spite of the band, I had an overwhelming desire to dance. The band had christened themselves James Band and performed aboard a tram. The band sometimes confused melody with volume, and we found ourselves yelling over all the din to talk to the person right next to you. However, the band did its best to bring about a festive atmosphere. I started to dance with my husband, and discovered something. All people, old and young, the serious and frolicky, the men and women everybody had an urge to dance. The moment my husband and I abandoned all reservations and started jigging on the streets, hordes of relatives joined in. Our reasoning was that, no matter how badly we danced we can’t attract more attention to ourselves than the old bird atop the chariot with spotlights focussed on him and half a dozen brats for company! My mother, who was always a stickler for self-control herself swayed the crowds with her dance number and my father felt compelled to join in, once his sweetheart started dancing.

The only saving grace was that the entire camaraderie took place in a town where we were hitherto unknown. The preparations, the wedding atmosphere, the histrionics of the day before the wedding – something we will remember for a long time, and definitely not something we will let my brother forget in a tearing hurry!

The bride and groom were given the night to mull over the proceedings and prepare for the intense wedding ahead.

I attended my brother’s wedding, and had a very good time. I have already been dubbed a black sheep by the rest of the extended family. While numerous maamis pointed out with displeasure that I was not following tradition, my close family was just glad to see that I didn’t pack a pair of jeans in my wedding wardrobe, and were absolutely thrilled when I wore some bangles! It is all about setting expectations.

The day I did wear a saree, dozens of people took it upon themselves to impress upon me the graceful look a saree alone can give. One particular aunt declared while pinching my stomach lovingly – “See! How beautiful and graceful a saree is? It is the most decent of attires too!”

Our traditional wedding attire is a 9 yards saree. If ever there was a more confusing manner in which to drape oneself with 9 yards of stuffy silk, please let me know. I would like to see it. My sister and I wore the whole 9 yards for the wedding. Our cries that the girl is the only one who should be in a wedding attire were obviously ill-founded because we found the gasp emanating while voicing such a sentiment the loudest of all. This gasp knew no economic nor educational barriers. So we relented. We dressed like road rollers and steamed about the wedding hall. It took us all of twenty minutes to traverse twenty feet because after every 3-4 steps, some lady would take it upon herself to “rectify” the saree. They would tug at the pletes near the legs, pull near the hip and clasp the saree near the shoulder. Within minutes of the proceedings, my sister’s saree had reached such a sorry state of affairs, that the only option open to her was to whisk my eldest aunt who was an expert at 9-yard-saree-tying to redo the effort.

Now for a bit of family background – my sister is the elder one between us. So, she gets to do the honours whenever a sister of the groom was called for. Since the 9 yard textile mill ream draped around her showed every indication of rolling itself back into a ream again in public, she went to the dressing room with my aunt. My brother, meanwhile, was looking quite harrassed during the proceedings and silently sent pleas for some company on the stage. I went up to the stage partly to give him company, and partly to save my own saree from the self certified 9-yard-saree-rectifiers. I must have looked quite happy chatting on the stage. Everytime I scanned the crowd from the pedestal, folks would mouth – “Where is your sister?” I would mouth something undecipherable and cock my head towards the dressing room. Immediately, they would shoot off like a bunch of rabbits. This got a bit boring after the 102nd time, and I decided to go the dressing room myself till my sister actually finished dressing.

I went in to find my great aunt looking very harrassed and upset. She was pushing past 90, and bustling around tying a 9-yard saree must have been an effort by itself. My sister and aunt immediately accosted me, and asked me how come the main event of the wedding was reached soo soon. The sister of the groom was mainly required for the 2 minute event when the groom ties the “thali” around the bride. The groom ties one knot, and the sister of the groom ties the remaining two. This event was usually preceded by an hour and a half of mantras and followed by another 2 hours. I explained to them that there were nowhere close to the thali event and my aunt could take her time and relax. Now remember, I mentioned all those people scuttling off like rabbits? All these people had taken it upon themselves to summon the sister of the groom. “Sister of the groom wanted!” they would announce loudly, and peek in to make sure things were going along smoothly. This had made my 90+ aunt extremely nervous and she was quite stressed that the wedding was being stalled because of the saree!

Finally, after half the folks had seen my sister standing like a passenger taken aside for checking at an airport terminal, with a 90 year old lady running around her, she was dressed and we ascended the stage together.

My mother glowed with pride – she had achieved the pinnacle of her dreams. Her maverick daughter had conformed! Her son’s wedding was a success.

“How does one use the restroom in this?” I asked.

My grandmother was a vivacious character for her time and age. The mother of nine children, each with their own character like the Navagraha gods – it must have been a humongous task holding the family together. Add to the mix, my grand-father, and you have a gripping sitcom that could run for decades.

My grand-parents lived in the village with their brood. It fell on my grand-mother’s shoulders to procure provisions, feed the family, feed anybody who comes begging and feed the constant barrage of visitors (my grandfather was known for his generosity, and many a mendicant has eaten my grandma’s cooking). Monthly once, she and her friends would undertake the journey to the city and buy provisions for the month ahead. Inventory management and reorder levels were second nature to these maami’s.

Meenakshi Maami, Visalam Maami (my grandmother) and some other maami. (My father regales these stories to us, and I forgot the name of the third maami.) It can’t be too difficult to guess – we South Indians like to think complexity stems from length and scoff at variety and modernity. So, you can pick Lakshmi maami or Jayam maami – both are equally probable. Let’s pick Jayam Maami for the purpose of this story.

These maamis had zest and fervour. But, they carefully concealed it behind 9 yards of saree each.

Which other mother of nine would hurriedly finish her monthly purchases in a blurry hour or so, and go charging towards the Sona-Mina-Tina theatre complex for a back-to-back 3 movie marathon movie-watching adventure?! (Note: No movie was considered worth the money if it was shorter than 3 hours and 15 minutes!)
“Ayyo, Visalam, puli vaanganum” (We must buy tamarind)

“Parava illai Jayam – ennutta irukku, naan tharaen. Padam aarambichuduvan” (Oh come on Jayam, I’ll give you some, the movie is going to start!)

Once in the theatre, they would watch a movie per theatre. An MGR movie in Sona followed by a Gemini movie in Mina and a Jaishankar movie in Tina.

The trio would then trump home with all the purchases where the kids would be waiting with their hearts a-flutter! You see, they would get to hear the stories from the three adventurous dames, who escaped into their fantasy world for all of a day! After lunch, the kids from Meenakshi Maami, Visalam Maami & Jayam Maami would gather around their mothers. I would like to imagine a setting like a village school sans desks and chairs. All the children looking up eagerly to hear the story.

Apparently, my grand-mother’s brood being the largest, she got the honour of primary narrative lead. In loose translation, it would go like this:
Visalam: blah..blah..MGR came and he was just rescuing Saroja Devi, when that nasty fellow came!

Meenakshi: Oh .. that fellow! One day, I would like to capture him – what a rowdy element he is!

*The kids knew the choice adjectives must all refer to the most preferred villain of Tamil Cinema at the time – M.N.Nambiar*

Visalam: And then, MGR ran with his sword just before that horrible fellow touched Saroja Devi and started fighting him. He pushed him to the floor and …

Jayam: Ayyo Visalam – he runs with the sword in the Gemini movie with K.R.Vijaya tied to the tree illayo? In this one, they fight over the upturned drums right?

Visalam, after a moment’s contemplation, may or may not agree with Jayam maami’s point, and proceed. Nambiar must have been the villain in all the three movies, and it must have been rather hard remembering the one in which he fought fist-to-fist, and the one where he put up a valiant sword-fight.

The resulting story essentially had all three movies tied haphazardly with various elements of drama and villainy suffused to form a murky liquid! Any director would have killed for the script – an entirely new movie would have arisen from the effort.

Yet, it was M.N.Nambiar who tied all these narrations together. The quintessential villain in over 1000 Tamil movies – he must have had a thousand curses directed at him every time he stepped onto the screen. It was hard imagining this man, who was the object of every maami’s source of apprehension in those movies, was the pious Aiyappa devotee that all the Maami’s approved off in real life.

A tribute to M.N.Nambiar – Tamilians would hardly have savoured the movie experience the same way without this personality!

** To be read in the context of Indian reverence of the Silk (Pattu) **

Cotton looked decidedly dull in his lumpy lack-lustre attire. He yearned for his moments of fame. In one of Cotton’s more thwarted moments, he had defined fame as being photo-worthy at South Indian weddings for himself.

Cotton had learned from the moment he had sprouted that his life was to be plain. Cotton tried to take on vibrant colours and shocking patterns while weaving. Time passed- things changed and fashion trends favoured Cotton – cotton was fashionable! However, the more people wanted to wear Cotton in the hot plains of India, the more Cotton’s obsession grew – he wanted to be accepted as wedding attire in South Indian Tamilian weddings.

Cotton cursed Silk and swore at it, to no avail.

He tried various angles of argument:

“I come from crop”

“I look brilliant”

“I make you as comfortable as it is possible to be when you are sitting in front of a huge fire in the 90 degree heat!” he wailed. But, he was dragged out – left to lament and comfort himself in the 90 degree heat.

Wool, meanwhile was definitely more revered in the colder regions, but could not match up to Silk either. “Very useful”, everybody conceded, even the freshly fleeced sheep shiveringly acknowledged that wool was a fine material. T’was the age of the dawning cinema – Tinsel town had started shooting all the garish songs in the colder reaches of the mountainside. Suddenly, film crews floated to the coldest regions to shoot for songs featuring men and women dancing around trees. Wool looked on with yearning – his moment was fame was just there, he thought. The Bollywood film stars flocked to the cold wrapped in the best woollen with a hot cuppa tea in their hands. Every single strand in the sweaters of Hema Malini and Sharmila Tagore preened themselves when the camera cried – “One two & three!”.

What should happen?! Oh the cruelty – the disdain of being discarded just before prancing in front of the camera in silk was too much for the woollen to bear.

“I am not going to keep you warm when you come running back and put me on again”, thought the sweaters grumpily. A representation is what is needed wool decided. The Wool Positive Publicity Committee was set up and spent years trying to get people to see the sense behind seeing film stars dancing in front of mounds of snow with nothing but a thin silk saree. Things changed – soon, actresses did start appearing with warmer clothes, but they cut straight through wool, and went to trendy leather jackets.

And so, you can still hear wool whimpering about unfair treatment when you pass by. Wool’s hidden desire was to attain fame through the camera. But its wishes were sadly ignored. Another grumpy fabric.

Silk meanwhile apparently had everything going for him. He had roads built for his comfort and transport. Royalty flocked to him. Not a single function – big or small went by without silk it seemed. Yet, silk was the unhappiest of all. All he yearned for, ever, was to be left alone.
There were those who had few silk clothes and brandished them for every function. The old silks would lie wanting nothing more to be left alone – right next to the crisp enthusiastic cotton or the woollen waiting for a glimpse of the outer world. But no, the humans would unfailingly parade the same silks around everytime. It mattered not that every memory of themselves would be in one of the same silks – it was silk and that was all. One could practically see the silk fibre yawning in the photographs.

So, it was that Silk remained unhappy too.

One day, the three unhappy fabrics opened up and talked in the almirah – a mix may change the mindset they said.

And that is the story behind the Cotton Silks & Cotton wool and the Silk wools! Every fabric had a little bit of their urge satisfied. People ventured to appear in Photographs with fabric other than silk for once.

It was a well fought race – both players had positives and negatives that were objectively weighed by the voter turn-out and the decision was clear. In the hot presidential election between John McCain Vs Obama, John Mc Cain won!

I don’t know what the headlines are telling you these days – but this is the verdict.

Pink post-it notes belonged to Obama and yellow post-it notes belonged to McCain. The electoral base were the 3-4 year olds in my daughter’s classroom (where else?!) They were being taught the process of voting and it served as an exercise in counting too. I asked my daughter who she voted for – she launched into a recap of the decisions behind her friends’ choice of colours. They had evidently not taught them about ballot secrecy!

My daughter’s friend chose pink because she was wearing a pink jacket. Most of the boys shied away from pink because they thought it was a girl’s colour (Poor Obama – he might have been prepared to take on the tax laws and the health care system, but he didn’t know that was coming!)

Finally, they all got to count and decide the winner. Fourteen had chosen yellow and ten had chosen pink. So, it was decided that John Mc Cain won the presidential race.

Looking forward to a good tenure under Obama’s leadership,

Yours truly.

I feel saddened by the death of Michael Crichton. Is it the selfish thought that I would not see another well-researched book intertwined with his fine imagination again? (well, after the one scheduled for release in May 09). It may well be the case.

Nevertheless, here is my tribute to a fertile mind – thank you for all those hours you transported me to another world – a high-paced, adventure filled world in which I would never belong , but one to which I can escape in the confines of my mind.

Diwali is a time to be happy with friends and family. I am delighted to say that I had a fantastic Diwali. We spent the week-end in the refreshing company of friends who have come to mean family, and children whose innocence and love is like having a pick-me-up tonic (when the day starts at least!).

I am glad to inform my readers that I did not make any sweets or for that matter any savoury. In fact, we had a lovely lunch with rasam and koottu (And no – no payasam either). It is not that I do not like sweets or “karam” – I like them. I just cannot see the rationale behind sweating for days on end standing in front of the stove, with aching legs to boot.

So far, everybody without an exception has wished me a Happy Diwali, and asked me what I made. The pressure to “make” something for Diwali is beginning to show on my tired brow. I did what my family likes best on Diwali – I had our friends over, and we had a fantastic dinner. We had my daughter’s friends over and enjoyed the company of the kids, dancing and playing with them. It just did not involve sweets.

But I learnt an important lesson this Diwali – “I did not make any sweets at home” is not a satisfactory answer. After every call, I hung up with the implied disappointment voiced over my lack of “motherliness/domesticity” for not producing a sweet factory. It is the right thing to do, even if one particularly does not enjoy it. It is the right thing to do even if it means undoing your loved ones efforts at the gym over the past few weeks.

I am glad to say this though: I made us all some memories that would bring a smile any day.
Here is wishing you all a very Happy Diwali!

The economic climate has been bad. Inflation is up and things are not looking good on the sensex fronts. When such trends play out for longer intervals in time, everybody feels the pressure.

Droning on about Economic ratios and sensex points means nothing to drive the point home. We (my sister and I) have explained the economic upheaval using the effects it has had on the life of my 12 year old nephew living in Dubai. Granted, he is not one of the impoverished, malnourished lads – but he has problems too.

Case 1 :Canteen money for breakfast

Once in a while, when he is a good boy and the moon rises in the morning, he gets ‘canteen money’. This means he gets Dhs 5 to buy his breakfast from his school canteen instead of home food. He is usually very excited on these days. Till last year, he said, this would give him

2 mini pizzas – Dhs 2 @ 1 each

1 cutlet – Dhs 1

I juice- Dhs 1

Savings – Dhs 1

Then the juice became Dhs 1.50 , the cutlet became Dhs 1.50 and the savings were gone. He was upset but he could live with that. Recently, when he got the fiver, he started to wail .”Oh please increase my allowance. I can’t eat with Dhs 5. The mini pizzas are Dhs 1.50 each and the school has reduced the cheese on it.” Apparently, he has to either let go of the juice or the cutlet! He had Physical Education in the morning-so he would be “hungry and thirsty”!

Such opportunities present themselves merely to satisfy the sermonic yearnings every parent harbours. The parent can talk on about their pasts, and how handling money is a privilege that one must thank the Almighty for. Reminiscing is also allowed – one could talk about the number of “Priya” sweets a 10 paise fetched earlier, and talk fondly of the coin, now missing from circulation.

Once the preaching/pretending-to-listen ceremony was wrapped up with, a decision was reached to increase his canteen money to a princely sum of Dhs 7.

Case 2 : Birthday presents

Said nephew wanted to buy his best friend a birthday present – a Parker Pen. He window shopped, shortlisted the pen , noted the price- Dhs 20. That is 2 months worth of pocket money. So he saved up for 2 months , put his Dhs 20 in the wallet and asked to be escorted to the shop. And voila, the pen was now Dhs 24!! The poor guy was flabbergasted and said ‘Amma – I can’t buy the pen. The price went up and his birthday is next week. What to do? “.

Which God grants two admirable opportunities in a week to a parent?! The sermon was modified, delivered and wrapped up with the ceremonial extraction of promises for ongoing good behaviour.

He was given Dhs 4 for the pen.

We had a parent teacher conference this morning. I learnt a bit more about their day than the information I pieced together based on her stories.

Reading between the lines, the class spends half their time moving between various places in the campus. The most often visited spot being the restroom. Apparently, they form a line to go from the class to the restroom and back. There are restroom breaks before and after the following activities:
1) Play time (twice a day)
2) Nap time (once a day)
3) Snack time (twice a day)

I try not to work out the number of minutes wasted in getting all brats lined up to go over the entire exercise, but cannot help admiring the teachers.

Now, all this talk about restrooms and forming lines leads somewhere – like as I would to bore you with the bowel movements of 3-4 year olds, the line-forming itself has an interesting story that I hear everyday.

Apparently, there are two coveted positions within the class:
1) Line Leader
2) Gate Holder

Line Leaders:
The Line Leader is assigned the task of standing in front of the line, and gets to “lead” the children to the restroom or playground. The days my daughter is conferred the honour is an important day in her life, and she regales her experiences with zest. I found out that the line leader is the first to follow the teachers wherever they go. The line leaders are decided on round robin policy.

Gate Holders:
There is a gate separating the playground and the remaining classrooms. The gate holder is the person entrusted with standing with their backs against the open gate to make sure the gate does not swing on anybody else. This post too is determined using the round robin policy.

I like the way these positions make children feel valued and treat their responsibility earnestly. Soon, she would grow up, and there would be competition for any sort of leadership position. Before that happens, I want to cherish this sweet wisdom of round-robin policies to give everyone a chance to lead.

I appreciate security. I appreciate the notion that I can go about my business dealings in a secure, risk-free manner.

Nobody can access my Pre-tax savings. I have been accumulating reserves paycheck to paycheck. I sit like a mother hen and imagine it grow. Considering imagination is the only course of action open to me now, it is a pretty good occupation to indulge in. Nobody can access my Pre-tax savings, not even myself.

I have been slacking with reimbursements and claims. As I groggily started my day, I decided to attack all of the ‘Pending’ items on my to-do list. Transit claims, expense claims – the works.
I enter the site with determination. The site believes in security and so do I. It prompts me for a user id and password. Determination slowly turns to trepidation: This is where the trouble usually begins – each one asks for a different userid/password combination. I try to keep the passwords along the same lines, since there are atleast 8 different systems in the company I work in, dealing with different aspects of my life. The problem comes when each system requires me to change my passwords at varied intervals.

System 1 determines changing passwords once every 3 months is good enough, while system 3 wants it to be on a monthly basis. System 2, on the other hand, does not really care whether I change my password or not, as long as it is 32 characters long and has atleast 2 numerals irregularly spaced every 13 characters, and has atleast one special character to boot along with a rather simple requirement that the letters used cannot all be lower-case or upper-case. And it really only asks that you don’t start the password with a capital letter.

I finally hit upon something – I appeased all the password Gods and dutifully complied with all the rules. I saved the passwords cryptically in my drafts folder. And for somebody to get to my drafts, they had to plunge into the very depths of my brain, and and use advanced data mining techniques for connections and links to mundane details in my life, before they could find the password.

I had the system under control. Till it was determined that keeping one’s email for too long is risky business too, and implemented a 30 day rolling deletion policy on email. One fine day, my drafts which contained the goldmine of information was deleted, without a trace of retrieval!

So, here I am enjoying a perfect day mailing random system administrators about my imperfect memory, and requesting system resets. They comply and remind me: I must only remember not to use any of the last 8 passwords I have ever used on the site. Given that I don’t remember any of the passwords, is there a way to tell me which are the 8 I previously used, I ask innocently.