Tag: Life

Carwaas Saar Carwaas Carwaas!

I got into a friend’s car and they both apologized for the mess in the car and removed one toy from the seat. I cringed. Everything else about the car was spotless. No rubber-bands and dried leaves on the floor, no spare jackets on the seats, no books peeping out of every pocket – not even a chocolate wrapper on the floor and they apologized for the mess. I made a mental note to compose something proportionate when I gave them a lift. I don’t think mere words are enough. The cars interiors and exteriors have led to intense arguments about what is a reasonable mess quotient for a car in our family. Ever the sensible voice in the family, the daughter suggested that we take an adventure of sorts and get the car cleaned by going to that fun car wash down the street. So, off we went jibber-jabbering the whole way.

The automatic carwash is the one thing that had my eyes positively popping out in all directions when I first came to the US. Perhaps I have told readers about my brother and his love for vehicles on wheels. For refreshers, please hop on over to his blogpost – if that doesn’t convince you about his love for vehicles, I don’t know what will

http://my-unused-mind.blogspot.com/2010/01/falcon-to-burgeran-autograph.html

Point is that as long as I was with him, I had to just take my vehicle and go wherever I was going. He’d have it cleaned, he’d fill the petrol tank (except on one occasion that I shall blog about soon), turn on the ignition and hand over the vehicle to me with a longing in his eyes. I would then get on and simply move-it with a wave to the dear fellow. Moving to the US has altered all that. There is no brother at hand to take care of my car for me. The car needs washing, I wash it. Sigh! From the opening paragraph it is all too clear that I am not doing a stellar job at it either.

The daughter and I enjoyed the carwash and on our way back I couldn’t help telling her about how I felt when I went for my first carwash in the US.

“You mean – you have never seen an automatic carwash till you came to the US? You’re kidding right?” she said incredulity dripping out of every syllable. I then explained car washes to her as done in India.

A carwash in India has as many flavors as the spices and the industry thrives on a number of best practices. Only none of them are documented.

The marketing slogan used is:

Saar Saaar Saar Saar – carwaas saar carwaas saar carwaas

Volume:

Adjusted to traffic and surroundings. Decibel levels should allow for marketing slogan to be heard inside rolled up car windows.

Location:

Some places I know have “saloon caarwaas”, “jest fast carwaas” and regular deals. The saloon carwashes are the ones done with foaming soap and water. While this is done with a regular service, the owner has the option of sipping tea (hand-delivered with a finger in your cup) or leaving the car there. Best done with reliable dealers or mechanics, for we all know that spare parts are hard to come by.

As for the Jest Fast carwaas variety, I’ve seen them done in minutes while waiting for the traffic signal to turn green. A bunch of guys throw some water on the car and another bunch climb on with towels and scrub clean. One time the signal turned green and the guy on the front windscreen was not done yet. He kept wiping while the impatient mistress honked to let him know. This guy should be identified and recruited by any organization worth its salts, I have always maintained. For Rs. 5, he simply wouldn’t let a bird dropping go. He scrubbed and scrubbed. He screamed to the driver – “Madam – keep moving! I will scrub and then jump off at the next signal. Don’t worry!”

So, the lady drove gingerly with this guy squatting on the hood and scrubbing the windscreen with all his might. It is a pity I hadn’t a cell-phone to snap a picture with me right away, but I shall always, always carry that image with me.

As expected the daughter guffawed at the whole story and said she preferred the automatic variety. I was not so sure.

The Best Laid Plans of the Brave & Hopeful

She was 3 and 1/2 years old when we first sat and watched a movie together in a movie theatre. The movie was Ratatouille. That was the daughter and that is if you don’t count one failed attempt. I don’t count that because I placed it on the record that she was not ready for a movie at 8 months. A Baby Einstein airing – possibly, but a Tamil movie definitely not. The husband, mother-in-law both insisted that she would fall asleep within seconds of the movie starting. Of course, nobody listens to the mother, who was not interested in the movie in the first place, and off we went. I hear the movie was good. I was there for the title sequence and then for one song that she liked to shake her bum and dance to. The rest was spent in the corridor next to the tea and coffee vending machines on the floor. One vendor felt so sorry for me; he actually came and offered me a free samosa. He started it. After that, there was no stopping me. In regular intervals, I went for samosas, tea, coffee and ice-cream and still the crowd did not come pouring out of the theatre. Which was when I thought of a topic that would immensely help Tamil movie makers – Brevity. The movie wore on for 3 hours and not a moment of background music time was wasted. I wasn’t even in the theatre and I had a head-ache.

Given the scar of events past, one would think I would hesitate to brave a movie with Tucky clocking in at a year old. I did hesitate. But Disney Pixar’s pull is far too great. After considerable thought, we selected the 10:15 p.m. show of ‘Brave’. With a one year old, sleep times are unpredictable at best. So, I hung onto his eyelids from early evening onwards and made sure he did not sleep. Then gave him a warm bath laced with sweet vapors to soothe and soothe like no man has ever been soothed before. Never one to leave anything to chance, I played him some Mozart as well. I must admit Mozart makes me incredibly sleepy too. So, I was yawning football sized yawns by the time the movie started, but little Tucky was fast asleep and I was hopeful.

I wonder whether you have seen great strategists in action. I have heard of them. Now, I mustn’t boast, but we certainly gave the best of them a run for their money at that theatre. We took in a bulky carseat because I wasn’t going to tickle a sleeping dragon just when ‘Brave’ was starting. I had with me to use at a moment’s notice the following:

1) Thermos Flask with warm milk

2) Blanket to tuck and pat

3) I couldn’t really use the Mozart music as people might have noticed the difference in sound tracks in the theatre.

Finally, no tumbling into the best seats for us. I carefully selected an aisle seat ready to take flight to the corridors at the slightest whimper. (We are extremely conscious of people’s experience of a movie and don’t want to spoil their shows with crying babies)

So, there we were – trailer after trailer came on and just when I popped off to sleep myself, the movie started. I wonder why – but just before the movie starts, they give you an eerie minute of silence that completely ruins the plans of the parents of sleeping babies in carseats. See – the constant drone of noise is the trick. Just keep up with the trailers and the music and the baby sleeps on. Why introduce a moment of suspense before the movie?. Then, the slightest noise seems jarring. No one consults me while doing these things – sigh! After all those hours of Mozart and sweetening soothing almond oil showers, he stirred when the movie started after this tense moment of silence.

Without hope there is no life. I continued hoping that he’d fall back to sleep, but he gave a great chuckle and an energetic giggle at a horse on the screen and settled down to watch. I exchanged a meaningful glance at the husband and we agreed to stay as long as he kept quiet. I must say, the dear was absolutely charming. He watched it like he understood the storyline perfectly. Clapped when people cheered, laughed when people laughed.

Towards the very end, he grew a bit antsy at which point a warm milk bottle was shoved into his mouth and he watched with interest again after that. It helps that the movie was only 90 minutes long. That was the story of his first movie.

 

What the Well Dressed Man is Wearing

After my recent appearance at the first birthday of my son, I am now qualified to submit a piece on ‘What the Well-Dressed Man is Wearing’ or rather what the woman is wearing. I posed for photographs, like my lead fashion designer said, “Red carpet style”. I can see some of you tutting and asking me where my humility is.

Allow me to explain. But before I start, tell me whether you have ever worn a curtain before.

In my chronicles so far, I have mentioned some talents about the mother. She is an amazing cook, excellent teacher at Maths and impressive with solving calculus problems while stirring the sambhar. (There have been times when I would ask her about a particular problem that I was having difficulty with, and she would nod and say she will help me out later. All the while making chappatis with speed and efficiency machines would kill for. Then a few minutes later, she pipes out the answer. She’d have tackled the problem in her mind. That in Algebra or even Trigonometry is okay, but in Integration & Differentiation is another ball-game) I digress.

Point is she has another hobby – sewing. We were often at the receiving end of her experiments with cloth. It goes with the free calculus package.

I still remember the time I went visiting the sister in college. There she was, out in the big, bad world by herself. (The big, bag world had barbed wires on the fences and on the tongues of the nuns overseeing the place, but still) I traipsed into her room wearing a skirt stitched by my mother, and hugged her friends who had come up to our home in the Nilgiri Hills a few weeks back. They pampered me (the little sister) like they always did, but they kept looking at me with quizzical expressions on their faces. It was a few minutes before one of them made the connection. Never one to hold back, she piped, ‘So that’s where I’ve seen it before. Isn’t this the curtain in your living room?’ I was aghast. I was shocked. I told her in a loud, firm voice that the curtains were still in the living room, and she was welcome to come and see them. And in a smaller voice acknowledged that the remaining cloth had been put to use by the mother. You see I tried my best to not wear that skirt at home when the pattern matching algorithm is blatantly simple, but I never thought someone would remember the cursed things a 100 miles away.

I am still a little scarred with complimenting people on their choice of curtains. I do it of course, if the curtains really lift the mood of the room, but with a little twinge of fear that gnaws at the corner of my heart.

So that is my claim to fame in the fashion department. I’ve worn a curtain. Have you? From there to wearing a dress that has the world turning their heads is bound to get to anyone’s head what? Anyway, here is the algorithm to ‘What the Well-dressed Woman is Wearing’

Step1: Get a brother-in-law who is not as fashion demented as yourself and your husband.
Step2: Get the brother-in-law to marry a girl who is not as fashion d as yourself and your h.
Step3: Leave the rest to them.

That is what I did and I must tell you the awesome twosome have done a wonderful job thus far on making us look as little like curtains and bedsheets as possible. The clothes are always stunning, and this time came with a best present of all (the gift of their time and presence.) They are here a-visiting and that is one among the many reasons I have been dawdling on the post frequency.

T is for Temperature or Thermometer

I have about as many thermometers as a respectable hospital should have. Yet, everytime somebody in my family runs a temperature, there is a mad scramble for thermometers. We will scoop up a dozen and thrust the infernal things under children’s arms, into their mouths and now even the ear. The scene always starts out as either the husband or I feeling the forehead. Then, just to show off, I will guess the temperature.
“Must be 100.5”
The husband thinks it is 99.6. Precision. That is what we are going for in thermometers.

We look at the pile of thermometer sticks lying and select the newest looking one.
Beep
Beep
Beep
“Why does this thing show an ‘L’? Can’t it just show a – or something, so I am ready to start? What is this L?”
“L is for Love Amma” The daughter pipes in.
“Just put it fast- fast.”
One can hustle me, but one cannot hustle a baby. He needs time to smile at you, grab at the thermometer that you are trying to thrust through his clothes and play tug-of-war with it by which time the ‘L’ has gone on the display and your temperature has risen a wee bit too.

The next time, Iappease the baby first; give him a thermometer to play with, and then press:
Beep
Beep
Beep
Wait for the ‘L’ and fumble through baby clothes again. You place the thermometer there and see an amused looking baby chewing one thermometer and looking patronizingly at the glowing one under his arm.

The one in his mouth gets wetter and finally the underarm thermometer glows and shows 99.5.
“This must be wrong. He definitely feels hotter than that!” I declare. I wonder if people remember the episode of Everybody Loves Raymond where Debra falls ill with the kids and Marie checks the right temperature by kissing the forehead (like that, only not half as impressive)

We repeat the exercise with Thermometer#2 and under the other arm (You want a reason for switching the arm. Fine! Here it is: What if the cold tip made the spot colder than it is.) This one shows 96. Now that definitely can’t be right.

“He isn’t colder than he is supposed to be you dimwit, he is hotter.” I say directing a cold stare at the thing.
“Just put that one away – everytime this happens we say we will get rid of the useless ones and we just manage to accumulate more and more thermometers.”

So, I gingerly place it separately. My crawler leaps at it and takes it to his mouth. He just manages to draw two large slurps out of it when I realise that that was the thermometer right under his feverish arm a minute ago. Not cool.

Attempt #3:
I get the ‘L’ and the L for Love girl takes it to her arm. “I don’t have a fever – I’ll check if this one works and then you can use it.” she says helpfully.
Which seems like a sensible idea, only that this particular thermometer is precision itself, and it reserves its act for once a day. After that no matter how often you press, you only hear the beep, and no display.

By attempt #5, we get a reading that can only be partially right since we have a very impatient baby on our hands. HE does not like having sticks stuck under his arm and is intent on removing it every 3 seconds. Still we get a reading of 100.1.
“Close enough.” I say and start towards the fever reducer, when the exasperated husband says he is going to buy another one to check properly.

Sigh!

PS: Tucky is fine now and we added a fine model thermometer to our priceless collection

 

The Samosa Love Triangle

If you read my entry on the footwear in the cruise carefully, you will see that a Samosa figured. Namely that we were looking forward to having the hot samosa while aboard the cruise. There are a few memories that rankle you – titillate you days afterward. The hot samosa is one such.

Launching then, into the story of the samosa.

There was a point in the proceedings when the daughter and I were left to ourselves and the remaining party went for a walk. Of the party that went a-travelling to see the sights of London & Scotland were two babies under the age of 1. The 10 month old was my son (the compulsive crawler), the other was my dear nephew who was 5 months old at the time. That sweet little baby had not yet learned to crawl. He lay there quietly on his back uttering a gurgle or two now or then, cooing and smiling like a 1000000 watt bulb. I swear to God, his is the first smile I’ve seen that is so all-consuming. When he smiles, his whole being lights up and happiness pours out of every pore. Bless the dear – may he be happy always.

While on the walk, the parent committee decided it was best to change the diapers. Tick one job off the list. Efficient use of time. Two stones in one throw. I had no idea that changing diapers could be classified as bragging material, but apparently it is.
After a longish walk; we met the diaper braggers and walked around for another hour or so. It was at this point in the story that we decided to rest and take in the sights of London by taking the cruise.

Always brilliant when it comes to pairing experiences with taste, my brother and his wife said the samosa is a must on the cruise and deftly swerved into a place and bought the hot samosas. The cruise had barely started when the babies got hungry too. The million watt smiler was easy – he just migrated towards his mother and gave her one of his heart-breaking smiles. That is all it took for his private milk bar to open up for business. The crawler was now ‘on solids’ and needed fruit. So, I looked for the diaper bag and it wasn’t there. Gone!

The husband and I exchanged looks. The husband & brother exchanged looks. The sister-in-law and I exchanged looks. Then we all exchanged looks. The result of all that looking was that we nominated the first prize winner of the Diaper Bragger Contest to go and get the diaper bag from wherever they so efficiently changed diapers – a good 2.5 miles away from the next cruise stop.

That was how the husband missed the thrill of watching footwear on the cruise. As for me, I gave a noble reason for not diving into the samosas (I said I did not want to devour hot samosas while the husband was off diaper bag hunting). I decided to eat with him later. We got off at Greenwich and the vigilant sister-in-law having done justice to her samosa decided it was time to clean up house. Consequently, the first trash can in Greenwich (that beautiful spot that calibrates the World clock) bagged the lottery of our trash.

So, there we were a good two hours later. Nothing but bull-headed self control (and love for my husband) kept me from the samosa and nothing but love for the samosa kept him running with a diaper bag in tow towards us. You know how it is. In our heads now, the samosas had miraculously heated themselves to an ideal edible temperature and were sitting pretty on a plate. It did not help that the brother and his wife kept talking about what a wonderful taste it had and how it was just the right size. Among samosas, these apparently belonged to the royal family. The moment we met, we knew that our hearts may beat separately, but they ache for one thing : Samosas.

If ever there was a nasty jar, it was this: The blasted samosas were missing!

Remember the looking scene when we discovered the lost diaper bag? That was nothing. Magnify the proportion of disbelief a hundred fold. We looked at each other like we’ve never seen one another before. Then one after the other, we all looked into the bag to see if there was some crevice where things were hidden. Nothing. At one point I thought the bag had a sneaky samosa-eaten guilt look about it.

When I finally pulled a bag of trash, the mystery was solved. The sister-in-law, her nose still dripping with the smell of samosas, sniffed in the bag looking for the trash bag. Her nose naturally went for the samosa bag and she tossed that in the trash instead and saved all the trash for the little crawler to inspect.

SIGH!

PS:Interesting fact, did you know that the Chicken Tikka Masala was Britain’s national food? Right through our trip there, the one thing that stood out was the number of Indian restaurants. There we would be – a small town, you know the whole population fits on a backstreet around the length of a longish dinosaur. Then, you see the main street has 5 Indian restaurants. It is almost like every Indian family felt compelled to extend their kitchen out into a restaurant.

Ships, Trains & Feet

I have been trying to jot down my memories of the London Scotland trip before it fades away in memory. So here goes installment 3 of the series:

The cruise on the Thames River is beautiful. The pamplets don’t lie. They tell you to watch for London Eye on the left, the London bridge up ahead, Westminster Abbey on the right etc.


I just have to look down from my screen and I can visualize the cruise – how cool is that?

Cut. Now zoom your lens out to the next shot.

The train ride from London to Edinburgh is breathtakingly beautiful.

I just have to look down from my screen and I can picture the whole train ride again. Cooler than the cruise or what?

London may have been dripping with History and the buildings and statues spotting the city vying for your attention like they have been for centuries. But what attracted me was at ground level. The English countryside may have been as charming as a painting as the train charged past it at 120 miles an hour. What I remember is again the ground basics.

Here’s another one….

Let me elucidate. I spent an inordinate amount of time looking at people’s footwear. I don’t suppose anybody has studied the footwear of the English as much as I did. If you ask me whether clogs or boots or molasses were the latest in fashion, I will not be able to tell you. You know how it is – the mind is preoccupied. The eyes are seeing the roses, but not taking them in. That was me. The very epitome of motherly vigilance. My baby learnt to crawl a few weeks before the trip to the UK. Once mobile, there was(is) nothing to stop him from practicing EVERYWHERE. He would try to slip himself off the stroller, try to jump your shoulder, claw his sister (Who incidentally does an impressive job of carrying him) – anything to get crawling.

Imagine my chagrin, therefore, when we walked into the cruise with a hot samosa in my backpack just waiting to be devoured, and looking forward to a peaceful cruise; when the whole thing was upset by a baby wanting to crawl near the refreshment booth to boot. Obviously it was no fun being strapped into a stroller or being carried when one’s immunity needs building up by licking the carpets of cruise ships, flights and trains. So, I let him crawl. (See how I worked in an illusion of control into that sentence? ) Whether it was just my feverish eye I will never know, but not one of the potential tramplers seemed to be under 200 pounds in weight. I stood there looking sulky and watching the little thumper pick up dirt from the carpet while the beautiful sights of London passed me by. My daughter said ‘Don’t worry Amma. I will tell you the list of things you missed.’ and sat down to enjoy her icecream by the window. I saw the most muddy pair of shoes I have ever seen in urban areas aboard that ship, and obviously those were the shoes that most attracted the crawler. The man in the shoes was a very sweet man with a bristling moustache and said, ‘Don’t worry – the dirt is clean!”


I must have bent and picked him up 2^16 times in the whole cruise. Some exercise.

The same scene was enacted on the train ride from London to Scotland. The book I had planned to read on the train(I know!) lay forgotten on the abandoned seats while the daughter, son and I manned the dirtiest zones of the train. The cleanliness factor was upped a bit by the fact that the chosen area was near the restroom and nothing but a motion sensor controlled sliding door to hamper progress. The motion sensors were obviously at a height taller than my baby and the whole time people would walk through the door assuming a free passage only to find a baby lurking at stamping distance. I only picked him up at the rate of 255 times an hour for 4 hours.

If I hadn’t practiced on the cruise, I might have had a sore back, but since I aced the pick up act, I sailed through looking triumphant and bronzed ready to take in the sights of stockinged legs of men in kilts at Edinburgh.

 

 

Dragon Rider, Horse Whisperer & Stroller Mesmerizer

Couple Struggle and look for Stroller Counselling

Life for Londoners took an amusing turn on this cold day in April as they watched a couple struggle with collapsing a stroller on the London subway. The usually good team hit unexpected snags and delayed pedestrian traffic as they moved over to the corner to enable rampaging Londoners to proceed during peak commute times. When interviewed later, the harried looking couple apologized for the trauma it caused fellow commuters. Fellow commuters, when interviewed, said the act was among the best shows of comedy they’d witnessed on an earnest and stern working day and many said they planned to laugh over the whole thing at home that evening.

In case people missed the fabricated news item – there it is. The unfortunate couple mentioned is us and the stroller was not ours. Being parents twice over and aunt/uncle multiple times over gives us a certain over-confidence when it comes to handling strollers. I mean how hard can it be? There is a lever there – push it down along with the button here and down it goes. Collapse – small and easy. Then you tuck the beautiful thing under your arm like an umbrella, competently hold your baby in the other and stride forth with your shoulders straight and your chin set to face the challenges of the World. Right? Wrong!

Just as we were leaving for a spot of sight-seeing about town, the brother and his wife(bless them) handed us their stroller and nudged us on. ‘Go on – it is small, quick and easy’ Ours being in the garage still, we gushed our thanks out and carried the stroller down 2 flights of stairs. I then pushed the thing about and it went. It took me a few minutes to realise that strollers have personalities. You read of horses and dragons training their riders – The Dragon Rider, The Horse Whisperer. No one talks of The Stroller Mesmerizer – but they should.

Just goes to prove that looking innocent and standing by the door isn’t always what it seems. It did not seem to like taking directions from a new stroller pusher. So, it would exert its personality and show you whose boss. I’d try to make it turn left to cross the road or something and the stroller would want to do nothing more than observe the pebble on the right. We coaxed and cajoled the beautiful green stroller and strolled along the beautiful streets of London (I find complimenting a stroller works.) I must also come clean and say the stroller was not the preferred mode of transport for the one person capable of sitting in one and half the time, the stroller gulped and set aside its pride and ferried assorted bags instead of a baby.

Marengo(Napolean’s illustrious war mount) would have been upset if Napolean got excited by a pig, when he was doing the important work of ferrying his rider into battles wouldn’t he?

It was the same with the stroller. I mean if I were a stroller and my rider showed visible signs of excitement at a painting of a horse while sitting on me, I’d be pretty upset which is what my little one did. Which is why I don’t entirely blame the stroller for acting up the way it did. But boy! Did it give us a shock? There we are: charging along the subway looking to catch the blue train home. Just before we took an escalator down, we stopped to fold the stroller. I hung the baby under my arm and pulled 3 bags from the stroller and hung them on various spots of my body.

The husband then tried to collapse the stroller. I watched him for a few minutes and then started doing the best thing in the world. Giving directions.
Just collapse it.
There must be a lever on the right.
No? Then, there must be one on the left.

The key thing to do while giving dumb instructions is to ignore the exasperated looks of the receiver. When beads of sweat appear on a cold London evening, you know you got to help. So, I upped the stupidity quotient of the instructions.

Check under the seat.
Maybe, the rain shield is blocking the folding mechanism.
Here, let me hold the stroller while you look under the wheels.
Does this one have a gear? It did say Sports Model.

Pretty soon, the daughter decided to get in the action. So, the three of us pushed, grunted and shoved. I took on more movable parts of the stroller apart for convenience and the daughter saw something bend. So, we all heaved and pushed. We got the thing to collapse after 12 long minutes and were still left with the rain cover, the cup holder and something else in our hands separately. We turned our heads to find a commuter smiling at us and saying, ‘Oh you know – you needn’t have gone through all that, you could have just taken the elevator there and rolled yourself right on to the train.’

Duh. Next time. There is always a next time.

Never awaken a sleeping tiger cub…

Every time I step aboard a flight, I admire the space utilization measures the flight designers have taken. I am not sure that aero-dynamic designs appeal to me as much as the food trolley cart design or the way those trolleys slide neatly into closets designed for fitting one. If it was possible for a machine to compress us all into capsules and place us in an economy seat; I am sure the airline industry will be the first to embrace and implement such a strategy. The food trays, the trash compactors, the restrooms – they all seem to be tailored just about your outer seams. I think they expand and contract too. I mean when I go alone into the restroom,there seems to be just enough elbow room for me. When I go with my baby to change his diaper the same closet somehow takes on more space to allow for an inquisitive infant springing forth from my arms to ‘explore the surroundings’ and still not eject us out the door.

The most recent trip with my family to London and Scotland were done with the following as hand carry:
Daughter : 1 count
Infant son: 1 count
Diaper bag: 1 count
Backup diaper bag items in suitcase: 1 count
Spare clothes for all involved: x+3 count (I may be partially OCD, but I have seen a baby with nothing but a diaper on my travels because he wet his dress and vomitted on the spare one within 3 minutes of the flight taking off)
Stroller : 1 count
Car seat: 1 count
Laptops: 2 count
Book + Kindle etc (I am optimistic that way)

I can’t begin to explain the hash we made of things before settling down. The husband would deftly shove the suitcase in bin 2 , then pile our coats before placing the laptop bag and hang on the bin handle to close the bin, only to find that 10 minutes later, I’d want the backup fruit from the suitcase lodged at the bottom of the whole pile. The poor man may have grunted a couple of times, but it was lost in the melee. We were clearly spilling over our surroundings with just one person’s food. To think they served a whole flight full of people without tying bibs on anyone; not to mention spilling food on themselves or anybody else is amazing.

Another point to consider is that usually in flights, I rely on a combination of books and in-flight entertainment systems to tide me through the tortuous international travels, but this time I could have travelled on a bullock cart stowed in an airplane and I might have had had an easier time managing my little one. At one point when he slept, I squished myself into the seat without waking him up and tuned in to the in-flight entertainment with disastrous consequences. This I tell you after standing at the back of the flight near the restrooms for 2.5 hours continuously. So, you can imagine how relieved I was that he fell asleep. The details are still foggy, but somehow while plugging the ear-phones on, my sleeping little one managed to tie his shoe lace into the whole thing. This is the exact moment when the stewardess thought would be a great time to serve food. So, now I had the exit row seat with the in-flight entertainment screen pulled out, a sleeping infant with his shoe laces inexplicably tied to my headphones, the bassinet carrier open for placing my food tray on and a glass of juice in my hand. A more peaceful domestic scene one cannot see on flights. The stewardess flashed a partly sympathetic- partly ‘Good – now stay that way’ smile at me and moved on with her bulky trolley.

Then, the baby kicked in his sleep. I wonder whether you’ve seen these you-tube videos with card packs flopping down. Some poor soul spends hours building a castle of cards and then pulls one card off the beginning and the whole thing flops down nicely. It was like that.

Peaceful scene -> baby kicked in his sleep -> Kick tugged at ear phones and flopped earphones on eyes -> Eyes temporarily hit with ear-phones involuntarily moved hands spilling o.juice on adjoining areas,but deftly avoiding sleeping infant -> Avoided sleeping infant, but hit husband just when spoon with dal and basmati rice to hit tongue -> Basmati rice flying in flight with varying degrees of speed for the accompanying dal.

A loud silent roar erupted from the husband, but he managed to contain it. One does not awaken sleeping tiger cubs even if one’s basmati rice flies into the overhead bins of nearby flights.

To cut a long story short, we emerged victorious, if slightly dirty and stained from the flight. Anyone wanting to see me or my family are most welcome to come and visit me at home. I am happy to entertain!

PS: I loved this picture of the sleeping cub – so here it is.

All in a Smile’s Day

Some good intentioned soul in our workspot decided that what we all needed was a couple of laughs and some more joy in our lives. So, they decided to bring in some clowns into the place.

The clowns walked in to our office spaces and started doing their act. You know clowning around. The problem being they’d been told not to make too much of a noise. So,they shook their heads and waved their hands around while trying not to hit their own nose. The poor blisters could not have walked into a more dead suite than ours. I haven’t told you this before. But everybody on our extended team looks very serious as they try to accomplish whatever it is they are accomplishing. If they browse, they have a keen, analytical look while browsing. If they are working, they look keener and analyticker.

Now I want readers to focus on the clowns clowing around trying to get us to laugh without making a noise that is. It was like watching an oyster trying to drown.

Not to mention that since these clowns were bustling around in the office areas, they were accompanied by security officials. Never have I seen a more bizarre scene. Building security training hones character traits such as looking glum and bored. Additional points for the downward trending on the lip.

Clown training, on the other hand, harps on the enjoying life and laughing bit.

I remember an adage – something to the effect of: Share your sorrow and make it half, share your joy and make it double. Nuh-uh. I beg to differ. When I saw the clowns lunching together in a conference room, they looked positively sullen. I don’t blame them. It must be rotten trying to get folks to laugh by smearing your nose and having a security guard accompany you at all times while doing so.

I don’t know what the employers of the clowns are going to do to get them to smile again.

Heralding the Vegetable Orchestra Era

Something tells me this is going to be the next ‘in-thing’ at South Indian Brahmin weddings:
Chinese vegetable orchestra
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/newsvideo/weirdnewsvideo/9138002/Chinese-brothers-create-orchestra-from-market-vegetables.html

Let us list the potential positives:
1) It has vegetables and no meat. “We are very chaste you know?” a Meenakshi Maami or Chachu Maami will proclaim as they swallow a burfi whole (with the silver lining).

2) The first set of weddings to have it will be talked about in glowing terms till the next wedding has the same thing. Then, that wedding will talked about in glowing terms and so it goes.

3) I am sure paying these artists will be expensive and therefore, tie in nicely with the unnecessary-exorbitant paradigm. Maybe James Band can diversify his talents in the direction. Who is James? And why his band? (Please go here for answers: https://nourishncherish.wordpress.com/?s=James+Band)

In short, James Band was the illustrious band that performed at my brother’s wedding, confused music with noise and received glowing tributes from one and all.

4) There is no active participation of the audience required. One can flit like butterflies or flies near the show, smile vaguely and flutter away towards the edible end of the hall.

5) In general, we like things that knock the wind out of ya. This one has wholesome yams & potatoes.

6) It has a wind instrument touch to it that appeals to South Indians – one can make it loud and also ignore the artistes and turn to look at the cut vegetable show on the side. A simple Google search throws all of these different things one can do with vegetable cutting. I must also point to the fact that weddings now have a vegetable show where one is allowed to go and see the creative pursuits of the wedding contractor’s vegetable carver. Of course, the v.carver is never there to see/hear the appreciation, but a true artist does not wait for them apparently. He has the next set of carvings to get to.

Given that our food decoration wonders stop at the star-shaped carrot like in the dish below(The mother made the dish for the Cancer Institute Foundation fundraiser, but we were tasked with decoration and we pulled off the only thing we are adept at ), we can but marvel at the ingenuity while listening to the vegetable band:


7) The whole lot of the ‘instruments’ can make its way from Srinivasa Maama’s wedding to Vaidyanatha Iyer’s wedding and then morph into kootu at Pataamani maama’s daughter-in-law’s seemandham.

It will be nice to be able to look back at this post a few years from now when the vegetable orchestra is the in-thing.