Humor – Page 34 – Nourish-n-Cherish

The Corn Field

I wonder whether you have asked folks for directions in the rural areas – you know, the kind of places where you wait to take the mid afternoon bus to get to the village market for groceries. Nestled deep in nature as they are, the directions will almost always contain some landmark of man-made proportions. There is a large statue by the village square: opposite that is a post office and from there, you can wait for an hour for the local bus to take to you to the nearest town. Like that. Most times, of course, the man-made landmark is also hideous to see, but that is not said out aloud, for folks are usually proud of their landmarks for one; and for another, they are probably the work of some artist who is the relative of the local postman’s nephew.

Urban folk that we are, in our local little suburb, our landmarks tend to embrace nature I find. We refer to the single patch of nature in our midst as our crowning glory. That is our landmark. The field where ravens caw, chats chitter and frolic among the resplendent sunflowers and the corn. It is simply known as The Corn Field, though the resourceful farmer there also grows squashes, pumpkins, tomatoes and bright, neat rows of flowers.

Many a time, we tell one another, ‘I am going to walk down to The Corn Field.’ Yes, we are proud of it, and I have expressed gratitude for having this son of the soil tend it so marvelously for us. How else would our children know about the beauty of growing and consuming healthy food? Many have been the evenings when the son and I have stood mesmerized by the work on the field. The farmer there has offered the little fellow a ride on his tractor as he bumps along sowing seeds and getting it ready for the next harvest. This field, is one of the most fascinating things in our semi-city/suburban life. We get to relive the magic of life through the kind farmer’s efforts, and he knows it.

As I set off one evening to The Corn Field, my heart was filled with longing. I’d had a rather long day and I was waiting to see the bright sunflowers in bloom.

I wanted to just watch the sun go down over the field and sigh at the beauty in that small patch of land. As I approached, there was something off and I was filled with a deep sense of foreboding. For one, the farmer had left the patch without re-cultivating corn for a bit longer than is usual. For another, I saw a signboard there. I knew that little thing. It means another spot of nature has been sacrificed on our relentless march to civilize and inhabit the world. “No no please not this one too!”, I cried as I half ran to the signboard. Right enough, there was a sign board indicating that the land was going to be used for building another 800 flats and I gasped.

So many times, I had enjoyed explaining to our children about the farm, sharing with them my half baked knowledge about crop rotation, tilling and watering. What would happen to the ravens, sparrows and numerous birds who visited the place? Would we lose the sweet sound of birds twittering too? There would be no need for the hideous scarecrow that does a pretty poor job of scaring away the birds anyway.

Everything would be gone for another set of buildings closely clustered together. Could we not leave this one patch as an Ode to Nature?

Buddha in a Lotus

International Yoga Day is approaching and consequently there was an intense discussion amongst our diverse group, that involved yours truly foraging in the murky forests of my Indian-not-at-all-devout-Hindu upbringing and serving up dubious explanations. As we leaped and scoured the real and mythical worlds alike, the venerated Vanars would have been proud to see us. We started with lofty enough topics, but ended up – well, see for yourself where we ended up.

The discussion started with Yoga-in-the-park for International Yoga Day. Why must it be so early? said a colleague and I sympathized. Regular readers of this blog know that I am not at my brightest in the mornings. I am best left alone to peek out from behind my coffee and quickly pull myself back into the cup, peek from the c., pull back in, and then slowly, like a snail, venture out into the world.

I deplored the state of affairs in India and how we deify the early-riser and leave the poor late-risers feeling somewhat inferior and catching up with the early-risers for the rest of the day. We traipsed around early morning rituals and temples and why meditation in the first place.

Just as I was patting my back on the spiritual plane the discussion could reach from the lofty stepping stone of Yoga, it slid straight down the slide to idlis, dosas & sambhar. It was like playing Snakes & Ladders in the thick Madhuban forests, I tell you. From the spices of the foods, it was but a natural stop at yogurt.

After moving to the USA, I like flavored yogurts such as strawberry or apricot yogurt, but I also told them about the slurpilicious plain-yogurt and rice. There was a sticky moment when folks could not see the appeal of plain yogurt against the Apricot yogurt, but I scored a goal by bringing up mango pickles.

When you bring yogurt and rice up to a South Indian at lunch-time, she can’t but help talking of mango pickles. Other colleagues of Asian origin chimed in with durian and jackfruits, and we all sighed collectively at the exotic fruits and tropical vegetables of the East. Some bright person then said something about lotus roots and another said that Buddha sits in a lotus.

Spiritual-plane-wise, we were getting back up from the hard fall into dosa, sambhar and curd rice territory, so I felt I had to wade in.

“For some reason, the lotus holds a special place in Indian Mythology”, I said.

I turned and looked at the awed expressions on my co-conversationalists, and this gave me the confidence to plunge on. It is a knack. When people expect something profound from me, as if they are making up their mind to see whether or not I am intelligent, I say something like this and dash all hopes.

“Most goddesses I know like to sit in one. Although the lotuses I have seen are pretty small – I don’t know how goddesses sit comfortably in them. “

“Really? Goddesses sit in lotus too? I don’t know much – I have seen some pictures of Indian Goddesses, but never saw that – maybe hard to make out from the saree and all, but Buddha I know.” said a colleague who has taken the Myth of the Mystical East to heart.

I summoned up the picture of Saraswathi and Lakshmi in my visual eye. I don’t remember seeing their saree flowing over their lotus seat. I mean, they were caparisoned in beautiful garments and jewelry, but the lotus was apparent too. I have never seen the saree flowing all over the lotus hiding it from view. Have you?

Somewhat befuddled, I prodded on. “No, I am pretty sure the Goddesses sit in lotuses. I do remember seeing some stylistics paintings of Buddha in a lotus, but mostly he is under a Bodhi tree, looking happy, right?”

This must have been interesting to watch, if it wasn’t me, sinking deeper and deeper into the mire. Anyway, neither of us backed down, and both of us were equally sure of our lotus occupants. The birds stopped twittering to watch the great philosophical debate. Apricot yogurt or plain yogurt with rice: Which one would emerge the victor?

“Really? I don’t know. I have always seen Buddha in Lotus Asana – except for some statues in Pier 1 Imports, of him lying down.” said she.

Wait a minute. I knew what was going on. I observed, deduced and felt that faint feeling of relief and comprehension dawn on me and the birds twittered again. I asked, “You mean the yoga posture Buddha sits in? Lotus Asana?”

“Yes! Isn’t that what you have been talking about? “

“Oh when you said you couldn’t make out the lotus in the Goddesses, you meant, you couldn’t make out whether their legs were truly crossed in Lotus Asana with the saree and all that?”

“Yeah.”

And then, I laughed as I told her that I was talking about the seat in which the goddesses sat, although, I conceded they may have been sitting in lotus asana too.

So, both of us were right. You can have apricot yogurt or plain-old-curd-rice-with-mango-pickle. Yes, in the Lotus Asana, if you like.

Maybe that will remind us to be truly humble while talking of Lotuses or anything else. We are, after all, a fraction of the small blue dot in the Cosmos, like Carl Sagan said.

http://www.brainpickings.org/2012/12/10/pale-blue-dot-motion-graphics/

Now, if you will excuse me,I need to practice my half-lotus position for International Yoga Day.

The Solar System, Some Dinosaurs and a Birthday

Conversation was flourishing yet again at the breakfast table. The clock ticked on unmindful of the parodies and paradoxes being played out at the very moment. There was time – 6 minutes and 23 seconds before the big horn was blown and all children boarded the car and raced towards their scholarly duties. This time in the morning is the most fraught with tension, melodrama and hilarity. For instance, one time the daughter sighed an identifiably 10-year-old tenet that Monday mornings were tough with P.E, gym and all classes packed into the day. It must be particularly hard for her, for she knows how to take relaxing-over-the-weekend to ridiculous extremes.

“Don’t worry .. you can sleep soon in the afternoon.” said the wise toddler opening his mouth way bigger than it needs to be opened for 3 pieces of cereal to be spooned in. The cereal made it in, but the milk did not. The wisdom-dripping sister sighed and passed the milk dripper a napkin.

“I don’t have nap time in my school unlike yours. Amma – he thinks I have time to sleep in school!” said the affronted sister.

“Well..how is he to know that? His school has nap-time. You go to school, therefore it must have nap-time.” I said.

“Yeah – Pre-school. They don’t even agree to call it school yet. Pre-school! He has 3 breaks, 1 nap, 2 play sessions and 4 go-to-the-loo’s in his time-table.”

Say what you will about the toddler, he rallies. His brief confusion about how there can be schools and universities without nap-time occupied his mind for a few seconds and he said, “Oh! That’s okay – when you become small like me again, then you can sleep in school.”

3 minutes and 40 seconds.

Another howl from the older sister. “I don’t grow small again, I become bigger.”

“Yes, but I will also become 5 years old.” says the brother.

“That doesn’t even make any sense!” she says to me again. I nod.

Say what you will about ambition and planning, the toddler has it right. When asked what he would like to become when he grows up, he says, “I want to be 5.” At 10, his sister must seem like a wise-rishi to him. When she tells him about flip bars (https://nourishncherish.wordpress.com/2015/05/18/guess-what-flip/) and running 9 rounds during P.E, his mind boggles. The magic of her age, size and tenacity seem formidable. He cannot even aspire to such greatness, and he settles for being 5 and becoming a fire-fighter like his favorite cartoon character.

These age-related discussions always have her puzzled. She has tried explaining the concept of time, solar system, evolution of dinosaurs and mankind to him (subject to another blog, for it was fraught with theories bound to make philosophers and scientists squirm in their seats and graves).

One time he told her that when he was small, she was in my tummy. “How is that even possible? I am older than you, lil broke-head.” she says tussling his hair and he replies. “Yes I know. But when you were small and then smaller, you were in amma’s tummy.”

“Yes, but you weren’t even there.”

“Yes I was.”

“NO! You weren’t. “

“Yes I was. You was in Amma’s tummy rember?”

“I remember.” (Maybe she is a rishi after all, could Rishis remember the time in their mother’s womb? I must check)

“Yes…then I was a small boy.”

“You are a small boy now. You weren’t even there when I was in amma’s tummy.”

“Then where was I?” he asks in confusion. He looks at me for answers. I am flummoxed. I suppose I look like a dinosaur to him and have lived eons in comparison, but how was I to answer the #1 existential question that has wracked mankind for centuries?

Earth goes around the Sun Dinosaurs roam the Earth The Clock is Ticking — Earth goes around the Sun
Dinosaurs roam the Earth
The Clock is Ticking

Luckily, it is time to herd everybody into the car and I welcome the confusion.

To make matters worse, his birthday rolls around in May, while the rest of us have it in the fall. School (Fine – pre-school) starts in the Fall, and so he patiently waited while all his friends had birthdays. “When will my birthday come?” became a common question mixed with the notion that birthdays mean he will get older, his sister younger and my tummy flatter. (Well, alright alright.)

Unable to bear it any longer, I told him that it takes a full year for the Earth to go around the Sun, and when that happens, his birthday will come. Patiently, for months, he waited and spoke about his birthday every time he saw a picture of the Solar System.

Well, the Earth made it around the Sun and the son’s birthday is finally here. Happy Birthday little Tucky! (https://nourishncherish.wordpress.com/2011/06/07/welcoming-tucky/)

Happy GroundHog Day

A busy January rolled into February.

I see you rolling your eyes, nodding your head and saying, “Well, do Januaries roll into April?” Probably making a side note as to how the unhinging need not have happened so soon and so on. But as I stepped out on a walk, that is exactly how I felt. Cherry blossoms that usually start peeking out in March and filling out with beautiful scented flowers in April already seem to be scenting the beautiful air. After a brief spell of rain in December, the clouds have moved on, leaving behind green hills and cherry blossoms in January. The days have a magical quality about them that makes staying indoors seem like a shame.

You can, therefore, understand my wanting to utilize the gorgeous day over the week-end to step outside and go to the park with the family. I huffed and I puffed, but the family, behaved like reluctant groundhogs and burrowed themselves deeper into the earth and refused. Imagine my surprise the next day to see that in a fit of gallant enthusiasm, the husband and daughter had prepared a picnic lunch and had it packed and ready. I could have swooned if a passing sofa had not lent me its sturdy support.

After the picnic, we took a short walk by a pine and eucalyptus tree lined path. We stopped to peer down at the marvelous surroundings when a biker told us all about some prehistoric rocks that we could find if we kept going.

“I can see dinosaur?” asked the breathless toddler all-a-twitter, whose curriculum now includes dinosaurs. I hated to break it to the fellow that he was a few million years late at chancing upon dinosaurs, but we settled down to see a groundhog instead.

Anything that requires stopping and peering down at something is always a huge hit with the son, who will willingly stop at every daisy or squirrel. So, the groundhog really was a bonus, though a bit of a step down from a dinosaur. To see a groundhog on Groundhog day was exciting.( Shh! It might have been a mole. I am not the best at distinguishing species.)

I also read this article that said that in earlier times, Groundhog Day was not simply a day to welcome Spring, but also to eat groundhogs.

http://time.com/3685895/groundhog-day-history/

Err …. Happy GroundHog Day was exciting enough for us. I am in no hurry for Happy Dinosaur Day.

Cacophony for Biophony, Socialization for ?

The day was cloudy and cold as I stepped out for a walk. As I neared a spot where there are wide grasslands, I paused here and there to see two warblers, an American robin, a goldfinch, sparrows, and blue-colored scrub jays. It was as I was panting near what I thought was a red-breasted robin that it struck me, as to how much biophony has reduced in the areas of our habitat. I am no ornithologist. In fact, I am a bird who is seldom right about birds – for all you know I may have been watching two sparrows, a bunch of bullfinches, some doves and a bluejays. You see, birdwatching is a hobby that requires patience, and I start to hum before I am properly stationed with the binocs. That would hardly do to the elusive birds waiting for peace and quiet before emerging from the bushes and so on. No sir. You would not find me waiting with a pair of binoculars behind any tree for the life of me. That kind of joy requires patience and I know best of all, that I am as restless as a hummingbird. Despite this, I love watching birds when they are not shy enough to stray across my path. I love their peckings and their cooings and their general sense of industry.

I listened to the bird calls for a few minutes and thought about how much I miss the sounds of birds. The only sounds we hear often is the Angry Birds background music that is both irritating and jarring from some multi-media entertainment channel. We have truly substituted cacophony for biophony. What is biophony? A word I was interested to learn about as I listened to this recording of noises in a California forest over the past 10 years.

http://ww2.kqed.org/news/2014/10/16/listen-as-a-california-forest-grows-quiet-over-time/

It has happened so gradually that many are oblivious to the change, and now happily go on with their lives. Save for a pang now and again, we don’t set aside another thought to the missing birds in our life.

In other news, I read recently that children exposed to inordinate amounts of screen time are less tuned to reading people’s emotions and acting accordingly. Apparently, they miss subtle body language and facial clues, and blunder on to make things worse.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/09/08/how-screen-time-affects-kids_n_5765568.html

If we ever need to get a peek into what society will be like when that transformation happens completely, all one needs to do is seat themselves in front of any appalling soap opera on Indian Television. The maudlin entertainment pulled my attention when the parents or parents-in-law were here several times. There the heroine is: impeccably groomed, dressed like she is going for a party, to receive her abusive husband or to confront angry relatives or something-that-will-ensure-she-cries-buckets-in-minutes. But there is something else here for us to observe. She babbles on completely ignoring the cues that are emanating from the person she is conversing with. There is nothing but brooding silence, or desperately angry vibes that are coming from the other person. Of course, no good can come from this, and pretty soon, everything thuds to a stop with an explosion of sorts. (The same thing could have happened with a man, but Indian TV prefers crying women.) The glycerine acts immediately and there are tears and dubious sentiments on culture and I gag (once again) in the confines of my home.

This saddens me. Is this not what society is headed for if we lose the ability to study the subtle hints that body language gives us? I truly can’t think of a bleaker future than one where we regress to live like folks in Tamil TV serials. If you had told me that we would have to adopt the babboon-way-of-life again, I would have been less sad, for we might have evolved into humans once again.

The problem is that, it will be a slow process, one in which one generation of parents finds a subtle change in their offspring and another change in the generation after that. We may, in the meanwhile, categorize these mystifying changes to a generation gap and only realize three generations later when a great grandparent talks about a time when he used a subtle cue to decipher a situation.

Just like we cannot bring the biophony back, what if we cannot bring one of our most useful social skills back?

The Stud, The Husband & The Illusion of Control

Sometimes a short step away from the daily humdrum is all it takes to rejuvenate one. That is what we did as we nestled into Mother Nature’s arms with hot tea, scrambled eggs and a view of a scenic lake with some of our friends. As we saw sign-posts for Lucerne and Nice, I told the children about how beautiful Lucerne in Switzerland was and there, I saw a sign-post saying, “Welcome to Lucerne – The Switzerland of America” I am not sure what the sign meant, but it was enough to get us laughing. The Switzerland of America is not a happening place.

On the way back, we decided to go in for a horse riding adventure. Well, as far as adventures go, I am not sure Throttle, Stud, Mary, Peanut and Hummer could provide much, for they were the sweetest, gentlest horses I ever met. Not that I hobnob with horses much, my equine knowledge ranks somewhere along with acupuncture pressure points – which is to say negligible. But the daughter is a great fan of all things equine and so, there we were, 4 children, a friend and I, taking a saunter on a ranch with horses. The husband was staying behind with the son.

It is true that I am not one of those effervescent animal lovers. I love reading about them, I like being around them if they are tame enough and keep their distance from me and I would hate to see any kind of cruelty directed toward them, but there you are. I don’t cuddle and nuzzle up with dogs, I don’t frisk about with cats. I patted my horse with the same reserve. I was told his name is Stud. He was a tall, chestnut colored horse with gentle eyes. I asked the trainer if he is mischievous, for I have not the faintest idea as to what I will do if the horse decides to ‘take off.’ I was assured that tall and hulky as he is, he is as gentle as a lamb and wouldn’t run if I wanted him to. (I had no idea then how prescient those words were.) I patted him with a sigh of relief, for though I am not friendly with very many lambs to know the extent of their gentility, I do like them. I can now say truthfully that I made eye-contact with a Stud and he reciprocated with a gentle nod of the noggin. I was moved, and when moved I resort to saying things like ‘Come on dear! That is lovely dear.’ The husband thought I was referring to him and looked up quizzically, but I shoo-ed him off. I had another Stud to attend to. An equally gentle, calm stud albeit silent. Silent but communicative hloke.

We learnt the basics of steering a horse and getting it to turn left and right and so on and set off. Me, on my dear Stud, and the others on theirs. As long we were on the dirt track, there was no problem at all. Stud kept a steady pace and walked happily enough. The lady who was guiding our little procession (let’s call her Equena shall we?) then decided to take us on a bit of a wilderness saunter and off she went from the dusty path. Stud was all enthusiasm and snorted and neighed affectionately as he made after her. I was glad too – I like flowing rivers and green meadows spotted with wildflowers. I was just getting into the steady rhythm of bumping along and taking in the scenes, when the bumping-along stalled. I looked down to see what the matter was. Stud had made for a succulent grass patch and refused to budge. His nostrils were flared, his eyes drooling and he was tugging at the grass. “Come on dear. Now now. “ I said. But for all the attention Stud paid me, I could have been talking to the grass. I nudged him subtly. By now, our little troop of troopers had gone ahead on their horses, while mine was eating heartily.

Equena turned around after a few minutes and saw what I was grappling with. “Well – give him a strong one on the sides and make him move.” she said. I gave him a feeble one, and Stud showed me who is horse and grazed on.

“Umm..maybe he is hungry, should I let him eat first?” I asked her.

Now, I shall divulge a small nugget of equestrian wisdom: Never let on that you are not in control of your horse to others. Only your horse should know that.

Equena snorted disbelievingly. Stud snorted sincerely. I was sitting there thinking that I could really do with some snort-training, when Equena came up to me and said. “Honey! Look at me. “ I did.

“Not you! The horse.” she said and continued. “Let’s get on shall we?”

“Now honey!” I was working hard at keeping my gaze away. It is the polite thing when your Stud is getting a dressing down in public, what?

“I am now talking to you honey.” she said pointing at me. I looked at her obediently. “You are in charge of the horse. Don’t slacken for him. He has just been eating his fill in the barn. He doesn’t need any more grass. Show him who is in control!” she said.

Her words inspired me. Stud was in for it. I was going to show him who was in control. “Come come my dear! “ I said kicking it gently. Then, I kicked a little harder. Stud gazed up at this newfound discipline and shrugged – I know what you are thinking. I can see your skeptical eyes boring into me telling me that horses don’t shrug. But I tell you they do. Especially a horse who is deciding whether to act like a mule or a respectable horse. He thinks – shall we have some fun with this novice rider, or shall we go on and lure her into a false sense of control? I know this part of the thinking process so well. Being a mother makes you sense these sort of things in a jiffy. Luckily for me, the gentle soul that Stud is, decided to lure me into a f.sense of c.

The rest of the trail was spent in variations of the following:

Come on dear

That is quite enough you’ve had to eat

Please please! No need to eat now. Let us go.

Go on. Go on dear. I will let you eat plenty in a few minutes.

Don’t graze now. You just ate a tuft of grass.

When we finally tumbled back to the barn, I had had quite enough with the food talk. The husband was standing there and smiling in exactly the same way that Stud smiled when tugged away from the grass.

“You guys hungry? There is a Mexican restaurant that doesn’t look like much – but the food is pretty good.” said the husband by way of greeting us.

“How did you know that?” I asked.

Stud shrugged. I mean: the husband shrugged. I truly am getting the stud and husband confused, aren’t I?

“So what do you say? Shall we go now, or after dismounting the horses?” he said with another Stud-like grin.

I like gentle souls. Especially, those who lure me into having an illusion of control. “As soon as we dismount the horses.” I said firmly, the light of decision-making gleaming upon my shoulders.

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 …..

The Dishwasher Chronicles – Part 1

Our dishwasher was an old one. I suppose it did its job, but its noise was inversely proportional to its efficiency. Speaking of noise and efficiency, I remember a maid we had once who treated the dishes with the same crashing nonchalance. There too, the noise and cleanliness were inversely proportional. The lady was a force to reckon with and neither the vessels nor the people stood up against her. She once scared the bejesus out of my sleeping brother causing him to leap like a salmon from the floor to the couch in an elegant upward arch at 6 o’clock in the morning. (https://nourishncherish.wordpress.com/2006/08/01/salmon/) My father, a brave man, once mustered up the courage to tell her he could hear the dishes crashing even without his hearing aid. I gave him a bracing cup of coffee afterward and told him how proud I was to be his daughter and all that, but I don’t think it affected her or the dishes in any way.

On a related note, when you plot the state of wakefulness in the household, there are a bunch of continuous sinusoidal waves like this:

So, I suppose when you interlace them together, you get a pretty good picture. Between visiting maternal and paternal grandparents, 2 children (1 toddler), Molly & Sally the fishes, the husband and I, the state of wakefulness in the house in a somewhat hazy positive at all points in time. To further elucidate, If we were to have an owl as a pet, it would be hard put to find a time when it thinks it really is night. For there are late sleepers, early risers. And just to make things interesting, there are folks who sleep early, then get up at midnight and stay up for a few hours. I am telling you, we house all varieties of sleep monsters.

I know you think I am driveling (dishwashers, maids, sinusoidal waves, owls: what next?), but bear with me for a moment. Let’s back track to the d.washer model. The problem with the poor thing was that it did not have the option to let us program the time at which it was welcome to start crashing the dishes. The dishwasher was so loud, if we actually had a couple of bulls stampeding into the china cabinet looking for a cup of tea or some bears trying to nip food from the kitchen, they could have done so under the cloak of secrecy hiding well behind the dishwasher’s sounds. The dishwasher running in the kitchen meant that nobody could hope to get a word in to each other in terms of conversation and all thoughts of enjoying a quiet television show was out the window too. Basically, the only way one could get quiet time downstairs was to camp out in the backyard with the kitchen door firmly closed, but that can be hard when one is also looking to keep warm and comfortable. All in all, a hard spot, you’d agree.

So, then I hit upon the best solution available: I would load the dishwasher and make a general announcement that the last person to come upstairs must switch it on. Every person who went upstairs afterwards, scoured the area and passed the baton to the people remaining downstairs. Usually, that worked pretty well, unless the last person (no points for guessing the most frequent offender) forgot to switch it on. Worse still, there were times when I would switch it on as I was the last to leave and still find the dishwasher hadn’t finished its job because the husband would have popped out of bed after that to get milk for the baby, and switched it off.

Every time something like this happened, there was mayhem the next day. Remember I told you it wasn’t a very efficient one? So, I’d wash the dishes almost clean before putting them in the dishwasher. I will not do them perfectly clean, because the dishwasher has to work no? As I write this, I realize I have been a priceless ass and that I could have just washed them all myself and be done with it. But I don’t get to write this blog if I was efficient like that. Anyway, the point is that, whether or not the dishwasher ran, the dishes looked pretty clean.

But the dishwasher being an old model was also primitive in it’s operations. There was a large dial on the control panel that slid all the way to ‘Off’ as the dishwasher worked its way through. If the dial was halfway through, you were warned it was not done properly. Then, you sounded like a hurt werewolf on full moon night, evacuated the residents out of the kitchen and switched on the dishwasher. If you got no talking done during the entire hour that it crashed about, that is punishment enough to make one remember to switch it on at night what? We had a few interesting moments when it was revealed the son as a baby had learnt how to rotate the switch and we had therefore let the dishwasher rewash dishes unnecessarily on a number of occasions.

After a series of these punishing days, we were goaded beyond tolerance. We complained sorely for a few years. And then, with the speed that it takes for lightning bolts to strike (just a few weeks), we went in for a new dishwasher.

The daughter and son said their goodbyes to the d.washer in a touching manner.

I shall continue the new dishwasher chronicles in my next blog. I suppose I don’t very much like the idea of leaving the readers hanging from the cliff like this: do the dishes get washed in her household or not?Hang Tight folks. Hang Tight.

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