Nourish-n-Cherish

Last week, my 10-year old nephew, Siddu, got a Casio G-Shock watch worth $100. I heard all about it from his mother, who also sent me this mail justifying the purchase. This was no mean purchase and there is a history that goes with it.

The following is the list of justifications offered by Siddu regarding why it was absolutely mandatory that he owned one!

Our comments are in blue.

1) Adarsh and Prabhman had G-Shock watches. Atleast Adarsh studies well and tops the class, I guess he deserves it, BUT Prabhman always gets marks that are lower than mine…even he has one.

2) When we went for the Scout camp, the guys with alarm clocks on their watches used to get up on time and they were so mean that they did not wake me up….I got up only when Sir came and called. So I need a watch with an alarm clock! (Psst: He still needs to be shaken up at home to get to school on time, though the alarm clock has arrived)

3) I lost watches before ( he lost 2 worth Dhs 10 or 20 each!!) because I had to remove them for PE class or cricket practice! I would leave it somewhere and not find it. With a G-Shock, it is for ‘Sportsman’ so I don’t have to remove it each time. Even if a cricket bat ‘got it’ or I did a ‘dive for a catch’, it won’t break.

4) For athletics, you can set the timer for races….I depend on someone else to do it for me ( to check if Sir is timing me right). I can try and beat my time each time!
My sister claims I could have become a far better athlete had I been given a G-SHOCK by my father. I was the more athletically inclined one in the family, and hence this comment.

5) It has a back light that is so smart…it works like a torch. In case I get stuck alone in some dark mountain also, I can use it to see. He needs company even to go to the next room at night!!!

6) If I want to know the time in California or London, I can use this watch. Remember last time you were checking the time for a phone call for your office, you checked on the Internet…next time you can just ask me.
My sister wanted to know the time in Vienna for a conference call. Yeah next time she can JUST ask Siddu to plan her international conference calls!

In the light of all these justifications, he got it for the following reason : He was given Dhs 100 as pocket money for his scout camp. He brought Dhs 92 back ( he bought a packet of Lays Chips, a juice and Bourbon biscuits with Dhs 8 , he explained ) and said

” Amma, I saved up for my G-Shock. If Maama gives me pocket money ( he gives him Dhs 5 a week), I will save that also and pay for it. It costs Dhs 146 ( Adarsh said so – the penultimate source!) …so how many weeks of pocket money should I save?”

My sister’s heart melted for keeping track of his expenses, for thinking of saving for something he wants and for being honest. As a reward, he got his G-SHOCK. As it happened , his dad selected a better model in the range and paid Dhs 375 instead of Dhs 146…….this model has a cool blue dial and a better shock absorber!!!

I wait with bated breath for the First Person of Indian Origin to bag the Olympic gold in Athletics, and if he happens to be from my family – what more can I ask for?!

I am not a huge fan of movies. Every once in a while, a movie comes along, that brings about the following conversation in our household:

Man of the house: Saumya…..I’ve played the movie. Could you come and watch it?
Self: I can see it from the kitchen, while I am loading the dishwasher.
The titles start, and the man of the house glimpses in my direction, and he cannot even see me, so, how could I be watching a movie?: Can you come here now?
Unfazed, I reply that I can hear the conversation while wiping the floor.
Man of the house: GRRRRRRRRRR….No, this time you are coming here and watching it properly.
Self: What’s the BIG Deal??? I don’t enjoy movies as much as you do – so you go ahead, I’ll join you in a moment.
10 minutes later, the tone hints on exasperation: For heaven’s sake, come here, and watch the movie.
Self: Okay, okay…am almost done. I just have to <insert 6 totally unrelated, mundane task list here>


It is at this point in the proceedings when you can see a grown man pull a grown woman from the kitchen, and switch off the kitchen light. The grown man then follows aforementioned grown woman closely to ensure no u-turns are taken, and plays the movie. Usually, I sulk for the first few minutes before getting immersed in the movie. Invariably, I end the movie by thanking him for making me watch the movie. You see, my husband undertakes great pains to select movies I like and am sure to enjoy. I really appreciate that – I really do! He not only knows my taste, he actually makes me enjoy my life.

After scene above was enacted successfully on Friday night, we sat down to watch Al Gore’s documentary: An Inconvenient Truth.

Let me just say this: my thought process has been altered. I don’t think I see the world with the same eyes anymore. To those of you who have not yet seen this movie, please do so as soon as possible.

We owe it to ourselves, and our children.

The headline screamed in the fertile districts of Trichy and Thanjavur as a wedding took place between the Beautiful Girl & the Naughty Boy. In what has been termed a Made-for-each-other match, the beautiful girl and the naughty boy have remain wedded to each other for over 36 years. The Naughty boy still retains his boyish charm while playing peekaboo with the beautiful girl who stole his heart eons ago.

To those wondering about the context of the post: here is some light.

My father, being the fun-loving guy, was given the title of “Naughty Boy” this morning. At about the same time that he was gloating about his new title, my daughter proclaimed that my mother is a “Beautiful Girl“. And that is the story of love between the Naughty boy & the Beautiful girl. My daughter loves playing peekaboo with her grand-parents. So, now I envision them youngsters (chinnan jirusugal) playing Peekaboo at home. It is the beautiful girl’s job responsibility to tag the little minx along, while looking for the naughty boy in hiding.

After all these years – a headline that resounds true!

I am at training. The building nearby has lots of windows facing mine, and every now and then, I end up looking at the slides of the presentation passing up the interesting insights I’ve gathered by looking at the neighbouring offices. I have the information, that no amount of HR effectiveness can gather.

For example, I now know that the bearded bloke in the office on the 14th floor, and endowed with a window office drinks too much coffee. He needs to cut the caffeine. I saw him drink 3 cups in the afternoon yesterday. I pardoned him thinking it must have been a stressful afternoon. Now, he is already on the second cup – that is way too much!

The attractive lady in the office next to the bearded bloke has a fantastically decorated officespace. Now, you know where her time and energy is going. I even saw her tidy up her desk this morning.

There is another person who keeps glancing to the right wall while working. I am not suggesting there is a television hosted there. It might well be strategic acquisition plans or telephone numbers. But even though, I tried cocking my head to 33 degrees, and increasing the height of my chair to catch a better snapshot, it is a bit hard. So, I am going to go with the Television idea. OR I could brand her a narcissist in my mind, and assume a mirror filling the right wall.

The office above the bearded bloke and the attractive lady has been empty for 2 days in a row. What sort of employee takes time off during the holiday season – huh? huh? huh???

Gosh……I really need to be paid for stuff like this.

What a paradox that ‘Candy’ and ‘Candor’ sound so similar, yet mean entirely different things. In fact, could there be such a thing as Candid Candy? Interestingly, these two words are etymologically different. Candy traces its origins to the French word, ‘Candi’ and the Arabic ‘Qandi’ made from crystallised sugar ‘Qand’. Maybe that is the origin of names for the Indian sweet Kalakhand too.

Candor, on the other hand also traces its origin to French – ‘Candeur’ and Latin ‘Candor’. Candor implies the absence of sugar-coating, or an honest opinion.

While I value candor, I love candy, and I need both in my life.

Yesterday, as I made my entry into the station, I stumbled upon a former colleague. It has been around half a decade since we had seen each other, and the hour’s journey was not sufficient to catch up. As we were chatting about what happened to various people’s lives, I realised that the particular project we had been colleagues in, was different in many ways. First, it was pulled through against enormous odds and second, most of us were practically living at the Bangalore office for almost 2 years!

So, when I did start talking about the various folks from the project, and the paths each had taken along life, it was certainly interesting. Much like pollen, we had scattered to various corners of the globe, and I suddenly realised that the only thing I remembered about folks were the good qualities in them. The friendly chatter, the kind hearted, the selfless. I am sure that there would have been unpleasant qualities that I’d have cribbed about when I was “in” the situation. As time passed however, only the happy moments stayed.

Though I have not stayed in touch with many them, there have been many a moment when I have thought about each of them. I am sure the converse is true, and the thought that I can go to some of them any time I need to, is comforting enough.

I stepped out of the train, and a person was looking at me intently, before hesitantly asking me whether I was working in Company ‘X’ 7 years ago. I nodded and found that he was the project mate of my best friend.

Well….well!

I am told it is a tradition. Somehow the news of Bush releasing 2 thanksgiving turkeys the day before Thanksgiving makes me really sad. Not for the fact that the turkeys can now live, but for the fact that when sitting down for Thanksgiving dinner the next day, you can visualise that it is remarkably similar to the birds that took flight yesterday.

I try to rationalize that when people are served processed meat, they are not thinking about the animal in question. Fair enough: how often do we think of the condition of the cows when drinking milk? Had we lived on the farm, and Bessie the cow was not feeling well, or wanted a walk instead of giving milk, we might have let Bessie out on the pastures before approaching her when she feels like giving milk. In the store, there is just reduced fat, lowfat and whole milk. Bessie might have been sleeping when the milk was taken from her – but, we don’t know that, and that absolves us of waking a cow deep in slumber.

So now my question comes back to relating the animal to the meat on the table. Do people do that, and when they do, does it trouble them or not? I am just trying to think of the meat-eating thought process here. Any insights are welcome. My vegetarianism from birth has endowed me with only 1 view.

Eyes large as saucers, voices as vehement as can get, we demanded:

“Who/What gives them the right to throw out processed, dry foods, and that too at Bangalore airport?”

The group, gathered around a table with sumptuous food, demanded between tasty mouthfuls. It was actually quite an effort to sound affronted when every movement sent a divine taste surging through the tongue. But, we are all known to be a determined lot, and piqued we were.

The topic under discussion was that one of my aunts was forced to leave behind much of her belongings at Bangalore airport. The “sambhar podi“, and the various dried powders that can be mixed with boiled rice were all thrown out, we were told by our every chagrined parents. They had heard the news from one of their neices, who must have sounded quite convincing, because it actually prevented them from carrying too many things. We discussed the possible causes, criteria used by the airport authorities in such cases, and sounded rightfully indignant about the whole process.

Later that afternoon we placed a call to the aforesaid aunt, and tried to learn the magnitude of her losses. Come to think of it, my mother started out on quite an apologetic note while asking about it. She explained that she had a tube of Bengay in her hand-carry by mistake, and was forced to throw that out in Frankfurt airport. That apart, some other food packets of hers, were placed in check-in baggage, instead of the hand-baggage. That was all there was to the whole story!

I cannot imagine how many rounds this story must have made, before reaching my parents in its current shape! Every story-teller tied their own ribbons and balloons to the story. Soon the story took its current form:

A monstrous team was out on a vicious rampage at Bangalore airport, stripping legitimate travellers of their chutney mixes, and filter coffee.

I can’t help remembering the cartoon we used to see on Doordarshan about the balloon that burst in a house. Soon, the story takes on epic proportions before police arrive on the scene fearing a violent gunshot crime-scene, only to find a disappointed little girl, looking quite sullen because her balloon burst!

I am now seriously wondering the basis on which religious wars are fought. Most of our religious books were passed down through generations by word of mouth before getting penned as books. So, we use the combined imaginations of centuries to take offense against another form moulded by centuries of … imagination!

I do not wish to belittle the achievement by stating it as another marathon. Nevertheless, yesterday my husband finished another marathon along with 2 of our close friends.

The arduous hours of training, the “interesting” pain(Yes – he does state that the wrenching pain is interesting!), the accompanying medal were all taken in the spirit of a true sportsman. While volumes get written about the marathoners, nothing gets written about the support groups (in this case, a sturdy troupe comprising of the 3 wives, 1 toddler and a teenager). So, I have decided to pen the support experience.

Through the training sessions and the carb-loading phase prior to the Marathon, the support group has no mean task. There you are, with your unswerving loyalty to your loved ones, dishing out all the wonderful dishes. There is the potato fry (just the right shade of golden with the crispy texture), the fluffy rice and the creamy soups. On the subject of potatoes, I could swear they mock you from the frying pan, and just would not stop enticing you till the darn dish is over. I could feel the extra burden during the carb-loading phase. The only thing I can thank God for, is that the carb-loading is a short span of time. I ran a pantry in the kitchen serving hot dishes every 3 hours. You could judge by the loose pajamas I wore that day to make room for the extra carbs.

All the carbs safely tucked in, the marathon day arrived. While the runners braved the early morning weather to venture into the first part of their marathon, we, the supporters braved the roads and got together with bananas, apples and baked potatoes at the Mile 18 touch-point. I had mild butterflies in my stomach, just hoping that they will be fine and running sans injuries. Already, we knew one of them had an injury and had slowed down. At this point I could tell you that no amount of carb-loading prepares you for the elated sensation you get when you see one of your close friends running towards you in steady strides. You want to tuck into some baked potatoes for support, but you refrain. One must have self-control!

We stood watching groups of people run by. The plan was for us to give the runners a boost at Mile 18 with baked potatoes and bananas, and then head to Starbucks to get a boost for our hoarse throats and proceed onto Mile 21 and then to the finish line. It turns out that there was a mis-reading, and that the Mile-18 point was indeed Mile-15, and we had missed 2 of the 3 guys.

We are a sacrificial lot, as mentioned earlier, and we decided to forgo the Starbucks visit, and dash it to Mile-21. We checked our watches, and sped away as fast as our cars would take us without drawing the attention of cops. During this particular ride, my toddler decided to fall asleep. So now, we parked at the 21-mile point, lugged a 2-year old on my shoulder and legged it across a Farmer’s market cum bakery exhibition (I swear the temptation never stops!) to cheer the boys on. Guess what, they just left!

We now had the dubious reputation of chasing the marathon runners by car, and they were leading!

This was no time for dilly-dallying. Decisions had to be made, and fast. We decided to look askance at the wafting smells of baked products, and got back into the car, determined to get to the finish line before they did, and guess what?

WE DID! HA!

We reached the finish line ahead of the runners, and managed a decent photo shoot at the very end at least!

Great job guys: No mean feat. I am proud of you all!
Good job support group: No mean f(e)at.