I frequent a departmental store which has one swinging door to enter and exit through – you know the type you push from either side to open? Around this store you have two five-star hospitals, three or four offices of MNCs, and one of the top management schools of the country. Why are these details important? So that you know the type of clients that visit this store.
You’d expect a minimum level of courtesy, manners and sensitivity from such people? Wrong.
Every time I go there people are walking in and out of the swinging doors never once holding it open ever so slightly for another person to enter or exit but letting that door swing back rapidly right on their face if they are not careful! If they have to exit, it does not matter who is on the other side – senior citizen, child, pregnant lady or a someone carrying a child – it is the same. Push the door and let it swing back without even looking back.

When I mentioned this to a young person he laughed and said “chivalry is dead and the feminists killed it.” Chivalry, who said anything about Chivalry? True there are fewer damsels in distress today needing knights in shining armours to protect them. They are quite capable of taking care of themselves, thank you. But what has that got to do with simple courtesies and good manners from either sex - why throw the baby out with the bath water? Holding doors open may have been part of chivalrous behaviour but it is as much simple manners and good behaviour. I expect that in women as well as men. Are those dead too? That would indeed be a sad day for humanity. If anything they are needed much more today than ever in human history.

One smartie even told me that it is a cultural thing . We don't do such things in this country. Men always walked in first and women came behind. Yes they did but it was in those days when danger lurked everywhere and men went first so their women and children were not exposed to it. How do you argue with someone who doesn't even know this? There may be hundred arguments in favour of bad behaviour but good behaviour needs no justification - it is just the right thing to do, period.

To be ‘considerate and caring’ – is it only for the girl scouts? Not for the rest of us? At school one of the first things we were taught was to let others pass and not rush. Older girls always ensured that the teachers and children got out before them and the younger ones picked up the habit soon. It seems to me that nobody teaches them these things today. In fact I have seen some parents telling their children to rush and push out of international flights in order to get to the immigration counters first – they show them how to do it by their own example. Getting up even before the flight has come to a complete halt, opening overhead storages, blocking walkways – name it. And it is n’t just the labourers coming back home who block the area around the luggage carousel making it impossible for others even to look if their boxes are there – many of them work in MNCs and have impressive degrees. After a long haul flight everyone is eager to go home but elbowing, pushing and blocking are not the best of solutions to expedite matters. Granted that the facilities and services at the airports are pathetic but we make it worse for ourselves with our behaviour. Put a seemingly gentle and soft spoken Indian in a situation like this and see his worst come out – ‘it is “me” against the rest and I am getting it whatever it takes’ seems to be the attitude.

This generation is highly competitive and they want to be ahead of every one everywhere. Try waiting at any pedestrian crossing without an automated signal or a policeman and see how many vehicles slow down to let you pass by – even if it is a school-going child or a senior citizen trying to cross the road - not just the buses and autos driven by the choicest boors but the plush ones driven by uniformed drivers and by smartly dressed yuppies of both gender. We are all in a hurry and there is no time for meaningless delays - meaningless as they are not going to help us get ahead in our career or finances. It is no excuse that others are like that and you'd be a fool or (the even more descriptive) "loser" to try to be different. I don't know. I'd rather be rated a 'loser' than lose my manners and be a winner.

While I can at least understand ( not accept) this behaviour in the above situation, I cannot understand it at a super market or a multiplex cinema hall. Here there is no hurry to get out but simple apathy and lack of manners. Funnily the doors of the auditoriums in this cinema hall in Bangalore has no stoppers. So invariably the door keeps swinging back and people push it and get out and let it swing back in your face. I always hold it for the next one to pass but the next one just walks through and then I am left holding it forever or until someone observant comes along . Young college girls and boys, yuppy men, older gentlemen, middle aged ladies – no distinction. No one thinks of the next person in line. It is I, me and myself only.

Today’s life is on the fast lane and we all seem to be hurrying from one thing to the next all the time. But it is sad if consideration, courtesy and good manners are the casualties in this race. Life may be short but not so short that there is no time for simple courteous behaviour towards one another. Meantime I will still stand holding doors while people nonchalantly walk past. After all , as the wise one said:
The test of good manners is to be patient with bad ones.

I am continuing this meme at the behest of Shefaly and really loved doing this one. Thank you Shefaly.

What’s your favourite table?
Actually it is not a table but the courtyard at my grandma’s place where about 15 of us sat down to eat together , laughing, bantering and sharing. It was not about the food at all which was mostly simple home - cooked stuff; but it was about the feeling of togetherness, belonging, love and security.
Otherwise it would have to be the one at the Taj resort Laguna Maldives – for the food, the wine, the service, the ambience. It was in part due to the Bangaldeshi waiter who would decorate my table with flowers that he gathered from around the island – made me feel like a queen.

What would you have for your last supper?
I eat every meal with such avidity and relish that you may suspect that it is my last supper. Hehe.
mmm...I think it would not be so much about ‘What” I’d have as it would be about “who” I’d like to have the last super with. I’d like the last meal to be with all my loved ones and all those I need to make peace with. (Of course I’d pay with my credit card so numbers should not matter!)
There’d certainly be wine, lots of it. There would be cheese. All types of salads and the most sinful desserts. I don’t care much for the Entrées or the piece de resistance – can be pasta or bisi bele baat (anyway I am not eating it!)
And there would certainly be a last cup of TEA!

What’s your poison?
Tea of course.

Name your three desert island ingredients.
Pepper to season the fresh berries I might find to eat. ( as well as to spray on attackers)
Tea ( to kick start my brain so I can think up ways to get out of the place)
Honey – to add to my tea ( oh we like to do it in style even on a desert island), to eat and to use as sunblock and medicine against insect bites.

What would you put in Room 101?
Sambar, I guess! ( doesn’t need elaboration if you have checked out my previous post)
And perhaps elephant yam ( such a pain to cut)

Which book gets you cooking?
Tarla Dalal’s recipe books especially the photos.

What’s your dream dinner party line-up?
Great conversationalists, not fussy about food and people with whom I can relax and enjoy.
If it was a group of bloggers, I’d like to invite The RationalFool , The Doc , Shefaly, Maami and Paul. People who’d satisfy all my criteria and how I’d love the brilliant arguments and discussions that would be guaranteed. Of course with the doc and maami around there would be enough of laughter too. And Paul,it would be on the porch of a house by the riverside. :)Please get your favourite drink along or name it.

What was your childhood teatime treat?
Might have been some kind of bourbon biscuit but my favorite was bun with butter and jam.

What was your most memorable meal?
A dinner party at Schloss Leopoldskron in 1990 during the Salzburg Seminar. Husband was a participant in the seminar and family was invited to this dinner. This was the house of the Von Trapp family in the film "sound of music'. The place defined the meaning of “awesome” to me, food was good and company was excellent, from all over the world.
Another was with a very dear friend at an Indian restaurant in Henley-on- Thames. It was one of my happiest meals.

What was your biggest food disaster?
Every time I try baking a cake, it is a huger flop show than the previous time.

What’s the worst meal you’ve ever had?
It must have been some of those early meals cooked by me when I was still learning. Although none so bad that I can remember the details.

Who’s your food hero/food villain?
There used to be an American television show called ‘Yan can cook’ – used to love the show and the way the host talked, chopped, stir fried and cooked. He made it all seem such fun.
Food villain – May be Mother in law? for having set such tough standards? ;)

Nigella or Delia?
Neither. Haven’t watched/ read either.

Vegetarians: genius or madness?
Neither. Purely chance and circumstance. And whether one feels the need to change it. May be it requires a bit of madness to do that.

Fast food or fresh food?
Fast food when hungry and desperate . Otherwise fresh food, any day.

Who would you most like to cook for?
Certainly not husband or siblings ( for reasons see the previous post). Perhaps for Manuel , the portuguese friend I referred to in this post who gave me an entirely new perspective on how to approach food – be it while cooking or while consuming it.

What would you cook to impress a date?
I better not cook if I want to impress anyone. :)

Make a wish.
I wish to have a meal prepared by Anatole in company of Bertie Wooster and Uncle Fred . Of course while Jeeves is still in Bertie’s service. There would be lot of trouble with Bertie, me and Uncle Fred. Without Jeeves, who is to get us out of all the mess?

I’d like to pass on this delicious meme to anyone who would take it up but specifically to
Doc – who I know is a foodie and will give a delicious twist to all the responses.
Jane Turley – who is not particularly fond of the kitchen, if I may put it mildly. So she is bound to come up with some preposterously humorous responses.
Nandita – who has such a mouthwatering food blog and hence an appropriate target.
Souvik - who loves to experiment with food.

Thanks souvik for taking up the tag so promptly and for a wonderful post.

Doc dissects it here.

Nandita's post here.

When I was growing up, meals at home entirely consisted of Tambrahm home food. For lunch (eaten around 9 a.mon working days and around 10 a.m on holidays) we had rice, sambar, vegetable and buttermilk; Dosas, idlis, upmas and adais were for evening tiffin and dinner menu was sambar or rasam with rice and curd rice. Variation was only in the vegetable and the type of Sambar. The menu varied on festival days with special dishes to mark the respective occasions. Chapatis were still not accepted as a substitute for rice and bread was only eaten if you were ill. This was the 1960s and 70s. Chaat counters were available in a few restaurants which also served north Indian food that tasted suspiciously like South Indian sambar and kootu disguised under North Indian Spices.

After marriage I moved to Calcutta and as a new bride, I was invited to meals by many of husband's friends and colleagues where I was introduced to dishes with fancy names like Alu mattar, Channa masala, Bhaingan Bhurtha,Palak paneer etc and the food at the Chinese reataurants of Calcutta. My sambar-ravaged taste buds woke up to hitherto unknown pleasures while tasting spices other than chilli and pepper. I loved them and craved them and began to eagerly wait for dinner invitations! Once they started dwindling, I armed myself with a few Tarla Dalal recipe books and quickly learnt to make a few of my favourites and decided to surprise the husband and the father-in-law with a lunch menu comprising entirely of these divinely delicious dishes.
Come lunch time and I made a production of it. I waited till they were seated at the table to unveil the dishes expecting a few audible signs of excitement and delight. All I got was a puzzled expression as the duo inspected the spread. And then the husband blurted out: "Looks very nice. but where is the food?"
"What, What do these look like -clay models of food?"
"No, I mean our food, like sambar, rice and all that."
I could have killed them with just a bit of poison in the Sambar next time but I resisted and simply said:
"Sambar does not go with this menu and yes, there is rice in the pulao and some plain rice."
There was ominous silence and the normally hearty eaters pecked politely at the food and fell with passion on the rice and curd.
The barbarians, philistines, Food fascists, Culinary Chauvinists - I could have gone on a la Captain Haddock but I was a new bride remember and rather young, and it was two against one. So I endured it all with a smile.
Anyway I lived on left over food for the next two days while cooking (no prizes for guessing) Sambar , Rasam and vegetables for the rest of the family.

I decided that the family I married into are culinary cowards who refuse to eat anything that their mothers did not recognise as food. But over a period of time, I have come to realise that almost everyone of my relatives brought up in Tamilnadu prefers the sambar, rasam, vegetable menu day after day after day without ever tiring of it. They actually think that it is the best kind of food in its taste, variety and nutrition! Last year I went on a holiday to the U.S to a cousin's place hoping to finally get away from the tyranny of sambar and rasam as this cousin has lived in the U.S. for over 20 years. I was secretly hoping to try out American and Mexican and whatever-else kind of food but imagine my dismay when my cousin assured us that we would get "our food" every single day. Her kitchen looked like a replica of her mother's in Bengaluru, well stocked with all the ingredients and when we went out to eat, we went to places serving Dosas and Puris! When my son comes back from his trips abroad, relatives of my generation are usually concerned about what he did for "food". I am tempted to tell them about the existence of "food" other than sambar, rasam, kootu, curry but then I do not want to offend their sensibilities so I tell them about the availability of our "food" almost everywhere in the world these days.

I read other blogs and people talk about experimenting with cuisine from all over the world and wonder how they got so adventurous. In my family people go to five star hotels and order Dosa from the menu (and that is what we have at home for breakfast about 3 days in a week.) They can claim to have eaten Dosa in Dubai, London, New York and San Francisco! Ask them about the local cuisine- they never tried it but mostly lived on salads and yoghurt and by the time they come back they exhibit serious symptoms of sambar withdrawal!

I sometimes think that to my family, food is not just a thing to tickle our tastebuds, satisfy our hunger and provide nutrition. It is much more than that - it is a relationship that links them to their roots and more specifically to their mothers. It reminds them of their mothers and childhood and gives them a sense of comfort and belonging.That is why it is important for them to be able to see it, feel it and taste it in a certain form so they can finally feel that they have come home. When I was newly married I noticed that even though the dishes were similar between ours and my in-laws', there were minor variations to the recipe and I was urged to follow them strictly. Being a bit of a rebel I once made Morkozhambu the way my mother makes it and was politely but firmly told that it tasted good but they preferred it the way my mother in law and her mother in law made it.
In the west they have one day to celebrate their mothers but for generations, men of our family have celebrated and honoured their mothers at every mealtime by recognising as "food" only what their mothers fed them. Everything else is just decoration on the table.

Happy mother's day!

There is a new TV serial of the Ramayan. While channel surfing I arrived to watch it during a moment of intense drama and stopped. It was the moment when Bharath had come with about half the population of Ayodhya to request Ram to return and take charge of the kingdom. Ram looked extremely intrigued and fascinated by everything - you know the kind of expression that firangs have when you bring them to an Indian wedding? Somewhat lost but aware that the proceedings have enormous significance to others and not knowing how to react? I seriously think he is hearing the story of the Ramayan for the first time or he still cannot believe that he got the hero's role. Lakshman - now this guy reminded me of this cricketer, the brat Sreesanth, alternating between anger and tears! Bharath has a great hairstyle and Shatrugan is really good looking.

At this point, my son walked in and said "As if Ram looks like that!"
I turned to him and asked if he had seen Ram and he replied "No, I grew up watching Arun Govil as Rama. And this actor is so different."
I remembered then that I grew up thinking that Krishna looked like N.T.Rama Rao. This actor (who later became the CM of Andhra Pradesh), played the role of Krishna in every mythological film in Tamil. Apparently he played various other Gods too in Telugu films with the result that everyone began to think of him as a living God. In the mornings, we used to find a lot of buses full of shaved heads around T.Nagar club - people who came for a Darshan of NTR garu immediately after visiting Tirupathi. Such was their belief.

So it required a major adjustment for me when handsome and young Nitish Bharadwaj played Krishna in BR Chopra's TV Serial of the Mahabharatha. Initially it seemed like blasphemy and imposture but he looked so much better that I decided that Krishna, my favorite mythological character, is more likely to have looked like him than NTR.

We are so used to imagining our Hindu Gods in ways that artists envisioned them and gave life to them in their art that if Ganesha were to come down with a normal face, we might ask for an identity - preferably a ration card. It might be rather disappointing if any of the Goddesses looked less beautiful than Aishwarya Rai right? And the bluish black Krishna and Greenish blue Ram might get eliminated in the first round of audition for their roles and might lose out to someone who looks like N.T.Rama Rao.

Isn't this in a strange way a reflection of the nature of Faith itself? We make up our own mental version of a God and we begin to believe in it and depend on it so much that we are unwilling to let anyone give a different version, even if it is better and more true and hence more beautiful. At some point our belief becomes more important than Truth itself. I guess that is when it stops being Faith and becomes Fanaticism.

Meantime on the screen Bharath is walking away with Rama's sandals on his head and Rama has the same bewildered expression - It appears as though he is wondering where he is going to get another pair of sandals in the forest and whether he can manage barefoot for 14 years.

Rendezvous 11 a.m at the bookshop. Then off to the meeting followed by lunch and finish off at 3.
This was the arrangement with the friend and I had planned for the day in careful detail working backward. I had cancelled all other activities normally scheduled between 10 and 4 and left home at 10 so as to be at the bookshop by 10:45. At 11:10 I get a message from the friend: "on my way. Should be there in 15 minutes." And then she arrives at 11:45 telling me that she thought she'd have a haircut before coming and got delayed at the parlour. We are already 15 minutes late for the meeting and we still had a 30 minute drive to the venue of the meeting. So more sms es and I am upset because I don't like to be late anywhere but friend assures me "relax, it is just 30 mins delay ya, nobody minds it. Happens all the time." And by the time we arrive for lunch after the meeting it is already 2:30 and at 3:30 we are still talking about ordering dessert. Meantime I find friend sms ing and ask her if she has other programs for the day. "yes" she smiles. She is attending an exhibition at 4 and catching a movie in the evening. I tell her "we might still be here at 4." She says, "yeah, that is why I am messaging the guy to say I will be there a bit late!"

Here I am cancelling everything for the day for making it on time for one meeting and lunch. I hurry through my morning, avoiding everything that could possibly delay me (including washing my hair or applying eyeliner or checking my emails) and arrive 15 minutes early for the appointment only to be sms ed and made to wait an hour. The friend is actually getting more out of the day by packing in an unscheduled haircut in the extra 45 minutes she gained by delaying the appointment. On an average day, I find that she manages to get a lot more done than I do. Where I schedule 4 things for a day allowing enough time between the activities so as to make sure I make it on time, she schedules 6 or 7 things so closely and still manages most of it with delays everywhere. But isn't she gaining this extra time by taking away from others' time? For example, Why did I have to waste 1 hour of my day because she was having a haircut?

I can see that she gets more out of the day with this overscheduling of hers- somehow juggling everything with a few minutes' delay everywhere. But I wonder why it is necessary? Isn't rest an integral part of the day's schedule too if you are to enjoy all the activities? I think this desire to want to do all of them is also the result of the inability or unwillingness to prioritise and decide what is essential and what is not. Why not have it all rather than having to give up something?
I know someone who starts her day at 5 a.m on weekends and hops from one activity to another all through her weekend and then goes every few months to a meditation camp in order to de-stress. I asked her why she could not use one day of the weekend to rest and sort herself out in order to meet the stress of the week ahead. She looked at me like it is an alien concept in an unbelieving way: "you are asking me to stay at home and do nothing and mope around? It is so pathetic ya."
I don't know. What seems pathetic to me is this need to constantly run from one thing to another in order to escape being alone with oneself. Or may be I am just too contented with my quiet life to see what I am missing out on. Or may be I AM pathetic!

All I know is that my time is as important to me as yours is to you, even if I may do nothing with it. Overschedule yourself by all means but if your 24 hours isn't enough for you don't borrow mine - my time is too precious to be spent dealing with your delays. I can think of other important things to do in that one hour - a nap for example!

Ok rant over . Now are you wondering about the title of this post? Well,it makes me feel so much better to know that I may not be a freak but a monochron. Hey I said Mono chron NOT a moron, ok?! Now who is a monochron?
" Monochrons prefer to do one thing at a time, working on a task until it is finished, then, and only then, moving on to the next task. To a monochron, switching back and forth from one activity to another is not only wasteful and distracting, it is uncomfortable.
Polychrons are different. They love to work on more than one thing at a time. To a polychron, switching from one activity to another is both stimulating and productive and, hence, the most desirable way to work."

read more here.

My mom's uncle was a Village school headmaster and in his retirement he was a great hit with pre-adolescents. The very same kids who sought him as children suddenly began to avoid him once they reached adolescence. Reason? He would be seated with his entourage of adoring kids showing them card tricks and magic. Suddenly he would catch an older boy passing by and ask him "which standard are you in? eighth? Ok,now translate this sentence into English: "vandikaran Mattai trit trit trit enru oatinaan*"
The poor village boy would not know how to translate the act of goading the bull dragging the cart, nor would he know how to translate the trit trit noise into English! And he would go red/ purple in the face about the humiliation in front of his younger cousins and siblings squealing with laughter at thatha's imitation of the Bullock cart driver. Trit trit trit, they'd go.
But Sami thatha would hold him close and tell him "see, you should not get discouraged by such questions. If someone asks you what is the English word for kathirikai** you should say "constantinople" without hesitation. - 'kathrikaiku Englishle ennanu keta constantinople nu sollidanum. bayapada koodadu'
And he would further add, 'presence of mind, confidence and alertness are important. If you go for Indian Civil Service interview they will suddenly ask about the number of steps in the staircase you climbed to get to the interview hall...'
I have no idea if they really asked these kind of questions in an IAS interview those days but that is what Sami Thatha said and I would believe anything he said.
His repertoire of tricks, trivia and jokes was awesome. And he used to know and sing so many songs, such as those sung during marriage, the bangle ceremony for a first time mother-to-be called valaikapu and death. These songs were not written down but usually passed down the generations orally. I used to adore him but his own children and other grown ups in the house did not care much for him with the result he took all that he knew to the grave without anybody caring to inherit that knowledge he possessed.

As a child it was a mystery to me that adults did not think Thatha was a super hero and they treated him as a joke. Once I became an adult I became like them too finding these old people's sense of humour rather clichéd and tiresome. Have you noticed that old people across households crack the same kind of jokes:

Family discussing wording of their son's wedding invitation card. Boy's sister says 'Let us make it clear that they should avoid presents'
Boy's grandfather: Make sure that the printer doesn't print it as "avoid presence" Then there will be no one at the wedding.
Brother and sister exchange glances grinding their teeth in exasperation.

Boy preparing for their exams. Retired neighbour enquires: "studying hard? or hardly studying?" with a wicked smile.
Although your instantaneous response is to wring his neck, the appropriate response is to grin and bear the torture and remember that you will hear it again before the next exam.

Sometimes people who seem rather stiff in their 30s and 40s suddenly acquire this kind of sense of humour when they reach their sixties. Looking around and seeing this kind of transformation in some acquaintances, I imagine if I might be in their shoes ten years from now although I see this happening more among men than women. I wonder if it is a sign of male menopause. So I listen patiently when a retired uncle tells me in the middle of a match telecast about Rangachari's career best of 5 for 107 against West Indies at Delhi.

It is tough trying to keep pace with the changes in a fast paced world and feeling comfortable in it. It is tougher if you have lived in small towns all your life and suddenly thrust into a big city and its ways in retirement. Sometimes I see these old couples floundering among the aisles in supermarkets trying to figure out their way. The other day I was at MORE super market (which used to be Fabmall before the management/ ownership changed.
Uncle about 65 walks in, attired in khadi dhoti , short khadi kuta and a cloth bag and asks the girl at the cash register where Fabmall is.
The girl replies "no Fabmall, it is More now.
Uncle: Yes, I know this shop is called MORE but where is the Fabmall that used to be here.
Girl:It is closed.
Uncle: But it must have gone someplace. Where is it?
Girl: Fabmall closed.
Uncle: But,...(mutters to himself in Tamil: I don't understand what you are saying and I don't know Kannada 'Neenga solradu enaku puriyalai enakku kannadamum teriyadu'
So I step in to explain in Tamil that Aditya Birla group has bought over Fabmalls and changed the name to More. Uncle's face brightens with a smile of understanding as he wonders: "oho, these guys are so rich that they bought over the shop and the name too!"
And he goes on to wonder more:
"And your Tamil, you speak it so fluently and with the right pronounciation!!"
I take leave of him with a smile. he stands there wondering that a huge chain of shops was swallowed ovenight by another chain and that he would find someone speaking Tamil in a Tanjore accent in this big city.
Wonder what other fascinating discoveries he made standing there after I left.

I see me there, in his shoes, a decade from now - all you nice young people, be kind to me and my queries and my jokes. It doesn't take too much to be kind to an old person.




_______________________________________________________________________________
* - Vandikaran - the guy to drives a bullock cart; mAdu - bullock; to oatify - is to drive/ to goad something to move forward; trit trit trit - beyond translation.

**- Kathrikai - Brinjal

***- Thatha - grandfather

I saw a telugu film Stri which was screened on DD around International women's day. It was the story of a woman hopelessly in love with a womanising, alcoholic, gambling, good-for-nothing guy. She forgives him every time he commits a crime and tries to get him out of it, even when he sets her hut on fire while she is sleeping inside because she refuses to give him her chain which he demands for a prostitute he is enamoured with. The villagers save her but she risks their goodwill by refusing to testify against her lover. Even when she finds him with the other woman, she only blames her for trying to steal her husband while she is willing to forgive him. In the end she is about to be handed over to the police for helping him steal some cargo from a boat hoping he could have a fresh start. In her heart she knows that he would take the money straight to the prostitute while she would suffer beatings in the hands of the police. The film ends with her saying "But once he has spent the money he will have no one to go to and he will come back to me as I am the only one who really loves him."

I was angry, furious and in tears. Why was this woman shown in a favourable light? Why did this film win awards? Why was it shown in International film festivals? Was she someone to be admired? Was she a woman to be celebrated? Is this a celebration of the all forgiving, suffering, masochistic Bhartiya Naari? A perpetuation of the culture that deified Nalayani?
We all know it happens around us everyday - in the lives of our domestic helps. We know it happened in the years when women were helpless and dependent. And sometimes even to educated working women today. The other day a relative was telling me how her colleague puts up with an alcoholic husband who has lost his job and spends half her money so she has to struggle to make ends meet. Apparently when he is sober he is the most loving husband and she feels helpless to leave him, especially now that he is jobless and has no one else. She blames it on his circumstances. She consults astrologers in the hope of the stars changing and bringing miraculous changes in their life.
Why can't she see that he is exploiting her kindness and leave him and realise that is the only way he will come to his senses?! It is not a show of strength but one of weakness - one that is not willing to let go and help him seek professional help. Or do such women enjoy a sense of power in being there when they come back destroyed every time? If so, they both need psychiatric help.

Why do we need to showcase films that celebrate such doormats? I agree that it celebrates the capacity of a woman to love and forgive. But I think the need of the hour is to tell women to stand up for their rights and not be forgiving of such criminals. The girl in Stri is so drunk with her suicidal sacrificial tendencies that she requests the writer she meets on the boat to write her story. For what? Immortalise her stupidity? Does she expect to acquire the status of a Sati and be worshipped for her lack of self worth and sense?

I remember being brought up on a diet of such stories of sacrifice and masochism. Women burning themselves like camphor and sandalwood, like a lamp that destroys itself while spreading light all around. And it seemed such a romantic thing to do. Americans have a nice word for this : "losers." This is precisely the kind of anger that I feel when I see representations of Paro ( Devdas) and Lolita ( parineeta). Romanticising women treated shabbily by men. Women smothered by possessiveness - as if they are objects to be owned. At least you can justify these characters by saying they are from a period where the role of a woman was perceived differently.But Stri? Today? It is not enough to have laws against abuse and facilities for education to empower women. Women must rise above these stereotypes and empower themselves. And can we expect some help from media in putting an end to idealising doormats? Bring on the Chak de s and Dor s please. Stri s are passé and we can manage quite well without them in the sisterhood.

This post was set off by a post I read this morning in Jhumoor Bose's blog.
In a survery that she conducted for an IBN live article among her friends, colleagues and readers, 56% said the reason why a woman shows off her cleavage was because "She likes looking hot and wants to feel good about herself" and the second was 18% who claimed "She wants to keep her man on his toes by reminding him that she can get any other man she wants". From the use of the third person it seems that most people responded according to their perception of why someone else would want to show off their cleavage. I am not sure how many would flaunt their cleavage themselves, assuming they had one. In these surveys among educated people it is also the way the questions are worded that determine the response. Of the 5 questions asked, 4 had negative connotations in the sense that they implied that she was doing it for the sake of someone else and only one, the one that got 56% response was for her own sake. In today's politically correct world, that is obviously where most of us would like to find ourselves. After all those who took the survey are people who can read English and internet savvy which means people from the top 1-10% of the population.

Personally I have no issues with people who indulge in cleavage display as long as I am not forced to join the club. They can show but I am not looking. If they feel good in a particular kind of dress, so be it. But I do find it funny when they justify this under the label of empowerment. How exactly does the display of parts of one's body qualify as empowerment? Because you have the power to buy those uplifting bras that are awfully expensive (I am sure) or because they have large breasts or because it makes you obsessed with the way you look and what you wear, or because you can handle the lecherous stares of men without being bothered by it? What about all those women who wear it because their men like it, they want to look good for the sake of someone else - are these also a signs of empowerment? Is being enslaved to a concept of what constitutes "looking good" a true sign of empowerment? And finally how come people who are visibly empowered - the ones running countries and corporations and the ones who are entirely in control of all their decisions and their lives don't feel the need to make a statement of this by showing off their figure or curves?

Early feminists discarded the bra as a symbol of objectification of a woman - they didn't want to pad or prop up their breasts in order to look good. It was liberation in more than one sense. But how does the entrapment of your body in some numbers dictated by the fashion world constitute liberation? An added irony is that the very same people who support cleavage-display when the mammaries are aesthetically showcased , object violently to breast-feeding in public, the primary purpose for which they are there! So what is it? breasts can be shown but nipples are a definite no no? If you are about to tell me that a cleavage doesn't constitute display of breasts, a cleavage does draw one's attention to the breasts whether it was intended or not.

And finally, it is scary. Scary that 8% among this elite who took the survey thought that women show off their cleavage because they like men to lech at them. Here is a country where women have to prove that they did not invite rape. Here is a country where society judges you on your dress norms when you have been the victim of eve teasing, physical assault and rape. We have to walk among them, their bad looks and bad intentions. Is the display of one's cleavage worth risking all this? Are our women empowered enough (in terms of laws, self-defence and societal understanding) to handle this jungle and its creatures? Is it that difficult to look good, confident and empowered without a public display of one's mammaries? or is that what differentiates looking "hot" from plain vanilla "looking good"?

P.S: For those of you who are getting ready to throw stones at me, I am not judging anyone. Nor am I advocating the Burqa as an insurance against men with evil designs. I am just trying to see if as a society we are cleavage-ready. And to get your opinions on an issue which I don't seem to understand. How many of you parents are ok with your adolescent daughters in a low neck dress? How many of you men are ok with your wife/ daughter wearing a cleavage displaying dress in a mall for instance? Would you feel fine if they wore such tops to work? And ladies, are you truly comfortable in such dresses or is it just peer pressure? I sound totally clueless, ya? Blame it on generation gap, agelessbonding notwithstanding.
I'd be very interested to hear the men's views on this. I am saying this not because I think a man decides what a woman should wear but because I know some men who say that they love to watch a woman's cleavage but they would not like their own family to dress that way.
Anonymous comments are acceptable as long as they are not obscene or offensive.

Looking in the basket for onions, my eyes fall on a bag of tomatoes left to rot and I quickly rush to suppress the evidence. I tilt the trashcan a little, place the incriminating evidence in the bottom of the can and tilt it back so it is covered. Just to be sure I take an old sheet of paper and cover the contents and hope she won’t notice. My hope is short lived. A few hours later comes the dreaded question:
“you left the whole bag of tomatoes in the basket and forgot about it? Why didn’t you keep it in the fridge? You just buy, let them rot and throw them”
I pretend not to have heard her, all the while seething inside. Why the hell couldn’t she have kept it in the fridge? or told me they were outside? It is almost as if she waited for them to rot so she could score over me.
Sound familiar? Your MIL/ SIL has done that to you or something similar? Ok, not the same thing in this case. It is NOT my MIL or SIL ; it is my maid, my domestic help.
When you have had someone working for you for over 20 years, I suppose some amount of role confusions happen.

Just because I trust her with the house in my absence and tolerate her eccentricities in consideration of her loyalty, she has begun to assume more rights than she is entitled to.
I do not believe in constant supervision and tolerate a little shoddiness once in a way because I understand that her job involves doing chores that we try to avoid the moment we can afford it. Cleaning/ dusting etc. can be fun and cathartic if you don’t have to do them for a living and in someone else’s house. So I don’t make a fuss if I find dust in some places; I just pick up the duster and clean it myself. And some days while I would have happily lived on left over food , I make the effort to cook for her. I do it because she is there working in my house when it is lunch time and I also do it because I feel it is my responsibility to see she gets her nourishment as it is her only meal of the day. No big deal – just a sambar and a vegetable with rice.

I do not know if I have sent the wrong messages to her with my attitude and behaviour. Of late I think she suffers from a delusion that I look upon her as the mother in law I don’t have. While she will implicitly follow orders if it is from the male members of the household, she will always have something to say if I ask her to do something.
“Yellamma, use this polish for the brass things.”
“No ma, this is no good. I will use pitambari powder. And I will do it tomorrow ”
“Why not today?”
“Today is tuesday.”

What has tuesday got to do with polishing a vase? She thinks she is a pundit and I am some vagabond gypsy unlearned in the way things are done. Don’t cut your hair on tuesday, don’t plant something on new moon day, don’t pay money on friday.

“Water those pots in the balcony. they are drying up.”
“Oh they aren’t drying. I water them on alternate days so their roots will get stronger.”
“says who?”
“Oh, I was brought up on a farm and grew up with plants. As if I don’t know.”
(With a sigh I water them myself after she has left for the day.)

“Can you give a bath to Munni?” (Munni is my 1 year old hyper-active dog)
“No, She might catch a cold if I give her a bath in this weather. May be tomorrow if there is bright sunshine.”
“Ok, can you get her brush?”
“How do I know where you have kept her brush. You keep it all over the place and forget.”

And this is when I snap and tell her “ So that is why I pay you. Please go and find it.”

She is stunned. This is not how the game is supposed to go. She knows that she has crossed a line and the game is over. It is back to the employer/ employee relationship. At least for the moment.
Next day, I start boiling milk. Something distracts me – a phone call or door bell and then I forget the milk and go sit with a book or wander elsewhere. In a few minutes I smell burnt milk and come back to the kitchen. Only to hear her mutter:
“You do this every time . I rushed when I heard the milk rise up but it had already boiled over on to the stove.”
Sigh. Mummy returns!

I know I have to lay down the rules. I have to dispel her delusions rather than play along. My husband sometimes says that I am in an abusive relationship with her and feel helpless to get out. But she is old and she may be unhappy in another house where she will be treated like a domestic help. People tell me how lucky I am to have someone as loyal as this. 23 years, they say they don’t find people to stick around for that many weeks. And they see that I leave my jewels all over the place and they remain there untouched. And if my son has chicken pox or jaundice, she prays to the village goddess as a proxy for her employer who doesn’t “know” any of these things. When I grumble about her impertinent ways to my aunt, she tells me that I do not know how lucky I am. She should know because she has had three maids in the past three months.

So ok. I decided to cut her some slack and exercise some patience for the sake of all the pluses she supposedly brings to the job. But last week she stayed back one night when I was alone and sick. And I realised a scary truth about her. She watches the Saas-Bahu serials in Tamil and Kannada with total involvement and she has a television in her house with cable connection. And here I am , totally ill-equipped to audition for a daughter in law’s role, never having lived with a mother-in-law.
The choice before me is clear – fire her forthwith or pick up some DIL offensives and counter manoeuvres by watching them myself. Since I have been counselled against the former, I think, just to get my revenge, I will watch a couple of them over the week end and launch a pre-emptive strike on monday.
Can’t wait to see her expression. Bwahahaha.*

P.S.: As the tranquiliser was taking effect, I heard a distant voice say: “she seems to be under severe stress. Will be alright when she wakes up.”

I know weekends are not meant for one to sprawl on the couch and watch TV. And if you still insist on it like I do, it is at your own peril as you will be treated to the most boring programs particularly during the day. On the so called entertainment channels it is usually the replay of the saas-bahu serials or one of those singing competitions – every channel has its own either to select the Golden voice of India or the Indian idol or the Chotey Ustad or Li’l champs and their regional versions. There is a lot of good singing, even more of drama and glamour and hype and plenty of tears in the elimination rounds. What is distressing about these is that many times it is not the children but their parents who cannot handle it when their child is eliminated. The extent of the pressure this must put on the kids became clear when a little girl stopped her song midway and announced that she wanted to leave the competition. Reason: the previous week another child had been eliminated and on hearing this her father had a heart attack and had to be hospitalised. Fearing a similar fate for her father were she to be eliminated in future rounds, the girl decided to opt out of the competition.

Why can’t the parents be a little more relaxed about these contests and their results? After all their kids are on television, they are selected to perform because they are among the top 30/40/50 contestants. Isn’t that good enough? Of course it would be great if their child tops but there can only be one winner right? Does this make everyone of the others a loser? And it is not like it is the final concert for them – this is just the beginning and if they do not see realistically where they stand vis a vis the best, how can they improve?
And if parents do not have the right approach to a competition, how can they inculcate in the child a sense of balance in the face of failure and to learn from every failure.
I understand that it is natural for a parent to feel that their child is the best but then to work oneself to a heart attack when the child loses?

If this is the case with a singing competition, one can imagine the kind of pressure on children when it comes to studies. No wonder bright kids who feel that they have not lived up to parental expectations commit suicide. An article here in the Times of India today says “In 2006, 5,857 students — or 16 a day — committed suicide across India due to exam stress. And these are just the official figures”. And I assume it must have increased in the past two years. And what is even more scary is the what the president of the Counsellors association of India says:
“for every student who commits suicide, there are 10 others who have attempted it.”

I do not have any figures from the past to compare and decide if there has indeed been an increase in the number. It could be true that the percentage of teens breaking under examination stress is the same or even less considering the total number of teen population today. And it may also be true that all these may not be cases related to examination stress. But we do have these numbers now and we do know that at least a large proportion of these happen around the time of examinations and results. And today’s parents are more educated and more informed and more conscious about parenting. Some children perform well under pressure but most don’t. And why should there be this kind of pressure anyway? So that they can be called “Ravi ki ma”? have you seen that Bournvita advertisement? I think Ravi ki ma should go get a life and have her own identity than try to get it vicariously through her son’s achievements.

Is it possible to help these children overcome their stress with some support from the teachers and parents? Or is it our examination system that needs to be changed so that there is more continuous assessment rather than assessing a one time performance in the board examination? It is also sad that the 12th standard children have multiple pressures from the board exam, the entrance examinations for IITs, Engineering/ medical colleges and what not. This is really the most difficult time of their lives. Certainly this stress can be eliminated by using the board results as the criterion for admission. or let there be no board exams . Let the children finish school after 12 years and then enter college based on a competitive examination depending on the discipline they choose.

All that means government and committees and many years to decide. in the meantime, whether it is a school exam or a competition we need to impress upon the children that it is important to give one’s best but there is life beyond the results, however bad they are. And it is important to learn from one’s failures and not be devastated by it or run away from it. And this shows the complete failure of our educational system to build their personality and to instill in them the ability to
“dream--and not make dreams your master”,
“think--and not make thoughts your aim” and above all
“meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same”

Oh first we must teach these to the parents so they don't get heart attacks if their children do not top. SIGH...

On March 8th I saw a couple of Bengali films on Women – ‘Charitra’ which focused on the issue of rape and 'Diu konya' which showed the success story of two women who changed a poverty stricken hamlet into a prosperous community through their spirit, initiative and hard work. The films were part of a festival sponsored by justfemme.in , a women-centric online magazine. Please visit and join hands in their endeavour by writing on issues you feel strongly about.

Rape can be traced to several underlying causes – sexual frustration, perversion, an act of revenge and as an exercise of power. The revenge and power elements are born out of the social stigma that attaches itself to the victim of rape. She is considered ‘defiled’, ‘fallen’ and unchaste. She is a symbol of dishonour for the family.
So if you want to shame the family rape their women. If you have a caste dispute, go rape their women and subdue them and show your power.
If the community thinks a woman has not been following their rules, punish her by rape and have her head shaven off. She will be brought in line.
If a man rebels, rape the women in his household and mangle his pride forever.

Ok all this happens “out there” not in our families – more in uneducated, caste- dominated societies steeped in prejudices . We are educated, urban and more broad minded . So what is our attitude towards a rape victim?
We all show the right reactions when a rape is reported – we are outraged, we condemn the criminal and agree that he deserves the harshest punishment . We feel sorry for the victim. If we encounter one in the course of our daily life we would help her as we would any disadvantaged person.
I don’t wish this for my worst enemy but just for the sake of this discussion, if it were to happen to us or someone in our own family, would we be able to treat it as an accident and get on with life as before? Can the husband treat his wife with the same level of respect and love or would it somehow be tainted? (remember the film Ghar?) What about the rest of the inner family and extended family? Would they treat her without any reservations – would she still be treated as the Patni , the Grihalakshmi? Or does an accident somehow make her less of a woman. In the film, a victim who has been accepted by her family is asked this question if everything is normal between her and her husband and she breaks down and says : "no, what is broken doesn't get mended forever." The equality is gone. She is somehow inferior.
How many of us would go public and report the case? and how many families would think of family ‘honour’, sisters and sisters-in-law to be married and try to hush it up?

Among other dimensions of rape, the film explored if it is the besmirching of her character which makes rape so terrible for a woman even more than the physical violence she experiences. This actually works in two ways – first to keep all women submissive and if she is a victim, to keep her quiet for fear of social stigma.

What are the normal noises one hears from the ‘system’ when there is a rape?
Girls who dress with modesty don’t get raped.
If you are too aggressive you tempt men to rape you thereby exercising power over you.
A woman invites rape by venturing alone in the dark in lonely,less frequented places.
You cannot control what others do but you can be careful for your own safety.

Standard devices for keeping women submissive and dependent. When I was growing up, I constantly heard this statement on why a women needed to be extra careful :
Whether the thorn falls on the cloth or the cloth falls on the thorn , it is the cloth that gets torn so protect yourself.
The tear that they were referring to was the damage to one’s reputation and consequent damage to life.
It is bad enough that she has been physically violated and subjected to a crude form of violence. But she must prove that it was not consensual intercourse , that she did not do anything to invite this . And even after all this she is deemed a “fallen” woman – fallen from the high standards of chastity that a woman “must” have. She is defiled - she has to live with the stigma of a fallen woman.

And to prevent rape, we want to restrict the movement of our women - don't walk here, don't stand there, don't dress like this or that, don't go out after sunset, don't , don't, don't. It is simple logic that you cage the animal that poses danger to others but here we let the animal roam freely and cage the potential victims. Restrict a woman’s right to walk freely, talk freely, laugh freely and dress as she wishes.
Elementary, huh!

When a policeman asks a rape victim , as in the film, “what were you doing there alone at that time?” should we not be turning back and asking him why people should fear to go to any place when we have a paid police force. Isn’t every rape in a dark alley a sign of failure of the police system? If I have to stay locked in the safety of my house after dark why do we have the police? To provide security to the ministers ? Is the legal system all about punishment after the crime?

If you see the reports of rape there doesn’t seem to be any common reason – the victims are from all age groups, all social strata and there are cases where girls are abducted from outside their houses and taken to these lonely spots and raped. You can observe all the don’ts and still end up being a victim because it is not about what and who you are; it is about who THEY are.

So why bring up issues about a woman’s character when she is the victim of rape? Why does an accident have to become a lifelong cross she has to bear? The way a society views a rape victim can itself go a long way in helping her - to heal, to get back to her life with less emotional trauma. Above all it will encourage them to come forward and report the cases and not suffer in silence and also ensure that the animals are brought to book. And detach the notion of honour from rape and you take away the sense of power that these perverted men derive from a rape.

In the 60s , Jayakantan wrote a story called “Agnipravesam” where a college girl is raped in a car on a dark rainy evening . On seeing her state when she reaches home, her poor widowed mother immediately senses what has happened. She takes her in and simply pours water on the girls head; then she tells her to treat the water as fire and feel pure again and forget the incident.

Agnipravesham indeed - being through the horror of a rape is worse than passing through fire and surviving it. She is a victim, a survivor and there is nothing dishonourable or fallen about her. If anybody should feel fallen, it is the entire system because every incident of rape is a sign of the failure of a system to protect its constituents.

Some of us friends were discussing the new trends in baby names. First it was Arvind, Aditya, preeti and Neha; then it was Sachin and Rahul and Priyanka and Aishwarya.All these seem passé now so we wondered what was the decade’s flavour. There seems to be a preference for unique names rather than the names of popular heroes. Achintya, Bhadraksh, Adiyaman, Poongkuzhali, Aghanasini, Ahladita, Anarghya are just a few of the new baby names I heard recently. All so beautiful and sweet sounding but some are such twisters even to the Indian tongue. Imagine what might happene to Achintya and Ahladita where Padma can become bathma and mohan become a Mowgun! Recently I asked someone what his daughter’s name was and he said Ahila which I thought was Ahalya but it turns out that the child’s name is Akhila! Now some of these Anarghyas and poongkuzhalis are kids of NRI parents. I shudder to think of their fate in American mouths. They cannot pronounce simple names like Usha and kamala without making them into oosha and Camilla so why even think of names like Samarapungavan or Gnanambika. Mince meat is the term that comes to mind immediately – If you are a Tamilian think of what Udit Narayan does to Tamil in his songs. Kapisch?

I had a classmate in college with a really beautiful name – Tamizharasi. It means Tamil Queen but invariably the north Indian girls converted it to Tamilarisi making it Tamil Rice ( arisi: rice; arasi: queen)
If that was the result of inability to pronounce or ignorance of the language, there have been wanton abuse of names in the name of love . People try to shorten official names into short, cute (?) ones for daily usage and in the process end up distorting them. In our family and among our acquaintances and friends we had some classic examples of beautiful names totally annihilated:
Karpagam – Cuppu ( cuppa?)
Shivapriya – sheepri ( baa baa)
Padmini – Puppy (woof woof)
Kowsalya – Cow see ( mooooooo)
Meena lochani – Low chee ( can it get lower than this?)
Baghirathi – Baki or Bagee ( balance of what?)
Radhakrishnan – Rakittu/ Rockettu ( high flier indeed!)
and the Srinivasans who became Cheeni (cho chweet) .

And then there were those names that made you an easy target for ridicule among friends when they wanted to settle scores. There was a boy in the neighbourhood with a lovely name : Lokabhiraman. But when his friends wanted to tease him he became Lokapi (low kaapi?) and sometimes kakapi ( meaning crow shit in Tamil). Then there was a boy with a majestic name like Kulothungan ( the name of a famous Chola king ) but people insisted on calling him Clothu as if he was a piece of fabric. And Poor Savithri in our class was always called Savi one or Savi two but never Savi three.

I am not a great fan of shortening names and mangling them . But I must admit that I was impressed when I heard about two sisters named Ramya and Ranjini whose father shortened them to Rum and Gin! I bet you have seen similar creativity applied while destroying names. Please share.

As a child I do not remember being photographed much - of course we had the occasional group photos where we sat in the order of height or stood like a line of suspects for an invisible witness to identify. The photographer never asked us to smile - he basically fiddled with his camera until he could get the entire group in focus and then clicked. My first photo as an adult was in college - I needed a passport size photo for some reason I cannot remember. It could have been for a hall ticket or something. In a scary dark room, the photographer asked me to sit on a bench, covered his head and the camera with a dark cloth. He stuck out the left index finger and asked me to look steadily at it while he clicked. And he forgot to say 'smile'. So when the prints came out they had me looking very worried as if I might lose that precious finger entrusted to my care, looking steadily and sharply through the darkness.People who saw the picture never ceased to wonder what had engaged my attention so much - whether I was seeing a UFO land. It was unfortunate because for several years later whenever I needed a passport size picture I was told to make copies of the aforementioned much to my chagrin - but then who would give me another twenty rupees and make another set? I was not applying to be a model or anything - it was just for official records.

Fortunately this photo was not considered adequate when my in-laws - to - be requested a photo of mine for circulation among their relatives when my marriage was arranged. So I received a fresh photo allowance of Rs.30. This time I had to get it right in order to make the right impressions with the in-laws. A lot was at stake. After all, first impressions matter, don't they? So I went to a shop run by a friend. It turned out ok although my idea of a smile seemed to be to look as if I was trying to hide an oversized toffee on one side of my mouth. The right side of my mouth was drawn a couple of inches further but overall it was considered my 'natural' look and worthy to be passed around among total strangers without biasing them towards me. If there were jokes about that look I never heard about them - so far so good.

Then came the marriage album - the mother of all horrors. A group of well meaning friends had got together and bought me a make-up set to be used for the occasion and what was missing in it was supplied by a friend who was a Bharatanatyam artist. So in the June heat of Chennai I painted on foundation and 'rose' powder and eye liner and came out looking like a kathakali artist during the nischayatartam ceremony - the eve before the wedding. It was as well that the sweat wiped it off my face after a few minutes. My natural horror look was adequate for the occasion in stead of adding colour to it! Whether cosmic forces worked in my favour or it was a result of seeing me in full make-up - the main photographer fell sick that night. So there are very few photos of the wedding itself, mainly taken by a friend who ran out of film midway through the ceremony!

And then the real painful saga began - job applications, driving licence, passport, bank accounts - everybody needed a photo or three of them. I tried leaving my hair open, putting it up in a bun, removing my glasses, looking right, looking left, looking pensive, looking amused - but nothing worked. I always looked like it was the last moment before something exploded on my face - 'good bye dear life' look.

I needed to break the jinx and so I requested anita, friend and an excellent photographer to take a few pictures. She has a magic touch of transforming the most mundane scene into an amazing picture and I felt I would be more relaxed with her. Being the sweet gentle spirit she is,she readily agreed. So we were all set and happily smiling and then she picks up the camera and aims and there I freeze at the very moment she presses the shutter. 'One more time', I beg. Again, the same sequence of events. Again, again, again until she finally gives up. Either I contort my face all the time which no one notices because of my dazzling personality or this happens only when within a distance of a few feet of a camera lens. I look around and see young kids hardly out of their cradle smiling beautifully and confidently into a camera and it makes me more depressed. Why do my pictures look like cartoons of my face - exaggerating all the flaws?

The only comfort in all this is the thought that bored officials in several dark government offices just need to look at my pictures to burst into a smile and begin to count their own blessings. Probably this is the reason why I have NEVER had any problem with government offices - they see my picture, smile and then cover it immediately with the stamp 'approved'.

'Being different' may be a great tagline for advertising products and films but not for the human species. You may be different or even special but sorry we prefer normal in our systems and societies - 'normal' as we define it, 'normal' as in being able to conform to our practices. We have no use for people who cannot 'fit in' - if you are a rebel and question we ostracize you, if you cannot cope we exclude you. We, as in our systems do not exist for you.You have to make the effort. We don't have to explain anything - things have "always been done like this" and it has worked for 'normal' people. Too bad if you are different.

Tare zameen par? - Thanks but no, thanks. we don't have use for stars on this earth. Let them stay where they belong - out there, far from us. or let them become like the rocks on this earth and earn the tilte 'star' if they can excel in our systems.

While watching the film and seeing the struggle that creative young child has to put up against the system that makes no effort to understand his needs, and how he longs to break free, I was reminded of a recent mail from my friend Chitra. She had this to say

Hi Usha

Indira who is the founder of Poorna school (where my daughter studies and son did his school finals from) read this story in our last parents teachers gathering and said this story was the trigger to start Poorna 15 years ago.

I downloaded it for my reference and it hit me hard that nothing has changed from 1918 to 2008.

Read it, if you havent and if you can write about it in your blog, please do. Indira and I would truly appreciate it.

Many of you may have read it - but I reproduce the story - Tagore's "The Parrot's tale" (totaakaahinI):

Once there was a bird. It was an utterly foolish bird. It sang songs, but did not read the scriptures. It flew, it jumped, but did not have the faintest sense of etiquette.
The King said, ``Such birds! They are of no use at all. They only eat the fruits in the orchards and the royal fruit-market runs a deficit.''
He called the minister, and commanded, ``Educate it.''

The King's nephew was given the responsibility of educating the bird.
The scholars held long discussions, the subject being -- ``What is the reason behind the foolishness of this creature?''
The conclusion was: much learning could not be stored in the tiny nest that the bird could make with just chips and twigs. So, first of all, it was necessary to build a good cage for it.
The scholars got amply rewarded and went home merrily.
The goldsmith started building the cage. The cage turned out to be so exquisite that everyone under the sun rushed to see it. Some said, ``Education indeed!'' Others said, ``Education or no education, at least the bird has got the cage! What a lucky bird!''
The goldsmith got a bagful of rewards. He set out for home cheerfully.
The pundit came to teach the bird. He took a pinch of snuff and said, ``A few books won't do.''
The nephew summoned the scribes. They copied from the books and copied from those copies and made an enormous mound of such things. Whoever saw it, said, ``Bravo! Learning is going to overflow!''
The scribes got cartfuls of rewards. At once they rushed home. None of their descendants faced any poverty ever since.
The nephew was always busy, doing endless number of things regarding the surveillance of the precious cage. Repairs were quite frequent. Apart from that, there was the washing and the cleaning and the polishing of the cage. Everyone admitted, ``Sure signs of improvement.''
Many people were employed and to supervise them, many more people were employed. Each of them got a handful of coins every month and filled their chests with them.
They, their brothers, sisters and cousins began to live in great luxury and happiness.
The world lacks many things; only fault-finders are there in plenty. They said, ``There are improvements of the cage all right, but nobody cares for the bird.''
The words reached the King's ears. He called the nephew and said, ``What's this I hear, dear nephew?''
The nephew said, ``Your Majesty! If you want to know the truth then call the goldsmith, send for the pundits and the scribes, summon the repairmen and their supervisors. The fault-finders cannot make both ends meet and talk nonsense.''
The situation became crystal-clear to the King, and a gold necklace adorned the nephew's neck.
The King wished to see for himself the lightening speed at which education was proceeding. So one day he came to the education center with his entire entourage of friends, companions and courtiers.
As soon as he reached the entrance, there arose a chorus of bells and drums and harps and flutes and lyres and lutes and cellos and violins and cymbals and mandolins and trombones and bassoons and harpsichords and clavichords. The pundits swung their pig-tails and started chanting hymns at the top of their voices. The repairmen and the laborers and the goldsmith and the scribes and the supervisors and the cousins greeted the King with a huge uproar.
The Nephew said, ``Your Majesty! What do you think?''
The King said, ``Amazing! This is a non-trivial amount of sound!''
The Nephew said, ``It's not just the sound Your Majesty, there is also a non-trivial amount of money behind it.''
The King was extremely pleased. He started back. He came out of the front door and was about to ride his elephant, when a fault-finder, who had been hiding in a bush, yelled, ``Your Majesty! Have you looked at the bird?''
The King was startled. He said, ``Oh! I forgot. I didn't see the bird after all.''
He went in once again and told the pundit, ``I want to see your method of educating the bird.''
And he saw it. Very pleasing indeed. The method was so overwhelming compared to the bird that one could hardly notice the bird. It seemed it was rather irrelevant to look at the bird. The King understood that the arrangements were faultless. There was no corn in the cage, no water either. Only heaps of pages had been torn out from heaps of books; and with the tip of a pen, those pages were being stuffed into the bird's mouth. There was no room in the mouth for the bird to squeeze out a cry, let alone a tune. It was really a terribly pleasing sight.
This time, before mounting the elephant, the King ordered the ear-pulling expert to pull the fault-finder's ears severely.
In a rather respectable and predictable way, the bird became half-dead as the days passed. The guardians understood that the situation was hopeful. But still -- as its bad habits were -- the bird looked at the morning sun and flapped its wings in a very objectionable manner. Some days it was even found to make an attempt to break the rods of the cage with its sickly beak.
The administrator said, ``What audacity!''
Immediately, the blacksmith came to the education department with bellows and fire and hammer and chisels. His hits were absolutely spectacular! An iron chain was manufactured and the wings of the bird were cut off.
The King's relatives shook their heads gravely and said, ``In this land, you see, the birds are not only stupid, but ungrateful as well.''
Then the pundits came with a pen in one hand and a spear in another and did something which one could really call education.
The blacksmith became very well-to-do. His wife got gold ornaments. The administrator gained a title from the King for his alertness.
The bird died --- no one knew when. The infamous fault-finder spread the news, ``The bird has died.''
The King called the nephew and asked, ``Dear nephew, what is this that I hear?''
The nephew said, ``Your Majesty, the bird's education is now complete.''
The King asked, ``Does it still jump?''
The nephew said, ``God forbid.''
``Does it still fly?''
``No.''
``Does it sing any more?''
``No.''
``Does it scream if it doesn't get food?''
``No.''
The King said, ``Bring the bird in. I would like to see it.''
The bird was brought in. With it came the administrator, the guards, the horsemen. The King felt the bird. It didn't open its mouth and didn't utter a word. Only the pages of books, stuffed inside its stomach, raised a ruffling sound.
Outside, where the gentle south wind and the blossoming woods were heralding spring, the young green leaves filled the sky with a deep and heavy sigh.

Translation courtesy:http://www.parabaas.com/translation/database/translations/stories/gRabindranath_parrot.html

Yes Chitra,nothing much has changed from 1918 to 2008. And shall we make a wager if it will in the next 90 years? Unless we have many more Poornas and Ram Shankar Nikhumbs

A few months back I wrote about a problem that was weighing down my legs literally and my battle with matters of the flesh, actually matters that were building my flesh. OK it has been four months since and I went for the review. I cheerfully explained to the doctor how I had fought temptation during these four months staying away from chocolates and chips and how I did not miss my daily walks and more importantly, my leg pain was a distant memory. Finally I had nothing to be ashamed of when he asked me to step on his torture instrument, the scale. What has weight to do with shame you ask? While I am not obsessed with being thin, it does feel a bit greedy and selfish when you know you are building up more fat layers than is required to keep you warm in weather like the one in Bangalore - I mean what with people living on just one meal (not even square, sometimes just a small circle of chappathi or a sphere of ragi or rice ball) in parts of this very country. And don't ask me how, but it does seem like you are somehow responsible for their deprivation.

Anyway, I stepped confidently and waited smugly for felicitations to gush out of the physician's mouth. Nothing. He went back to the table and started writing on my sheet and then went on a panegyric about my excellent blood pressure levels. But what about my weight - that for which I had made so many sacrifices- all through the diwali/christmas/ new year time, hadn't I abstained from sweets and cake and wine? And it must have helped that I was down with viral fever for a couple of weeks - people normally lose weight after these episodes, don't they? So this was the moment when my physician should be tell me how proud he was of me and pin that gold star on my file; and yet, here he was solemnly writing out the prescription. Something was wrong with the script or he didn't get it.
So I asked, "erm, what about my weight? aren't you happy?
He looked up and said 'yes, you should start doing something about it."
I looked at the sheet and there it was the number: 68.5!
4 months of torturing my flesh and all for 1.5 kg!How? what?I mean,how?

An article in the WSJ here speaks of incentives for weight loss by monetising it. The startegy involves contracting with someone to pay them a certain amount ( quite significant) if you did not lose specified kilos in a specified period. The obligation of payment is assumed to act as an incentive to lose weight.
Well, these people who came up with the theory don't know me. I would rather pay than be under compulsion to do anything. And in any case what do you do if you are blessed with a system like mine that won't metabolise a normal diet and stash it under my skin in layers. Starve? Move to Somalia?
I think I know what to do about this - NOTHING. yes, you heard that right, Nothing.I am going to embrace this figure (yea pun intended) and feel comfortable about it - apparently this is the comfortable body weight for me as I feel good, have no discomfort in any part of my system. I eat balanced and healthy meals. I go for my walks and can climb 5 flights of stairs without panting. So I guess the ideal is not for me and my body has its own standards. Like they say, 68 is the new 58 for me now. That is it, end of story.

I may never fit into chic clothing which I anyway don't fancy and may not look like the groom's sister at my son's engagement but guess what? When there is a famine, I will have reserves to last much longer than the lean and hungry types and that is what the game is all about - survival of the fattest!

Recently I received a wedding invitation which clearly mentioned - 'we request your valued presence on both the days and request presents in blessings only.'
A couple of days before the wedding, I received a call from another friend who had also been invited and she wanted to know if we were planning for a gift as a group. I pointed out that no gift was needed as their preference was stated quite unequivocally in the card and that we ought to respect it. But this friend was shocked that I intended to walk in empty handed and insisted that we check with the rest of the group. Finally I decided to take a bouquet as a compromise and it turned out that almost everyone had come with some gift or other - it seems that no one really believes that the couple mean it when they say something like that in their invitation.

Most of us know from our experience that there is nothing called a perfect gift for someone else unless it is close family or friends and you know exactly what they would like. Many times we end up picking up decorative pieces without even a clue about what their house looks like. I assume most people would prefer doing up their house according to their personal taste rather than be compelled to use assorted gifts that have been randomly picked driven by someone else's budget and taste.And in any case there are too many vases and clocks and tea sets after a wedding for one family's needs and they need to be given away or re-gifted.
So why do we insist on wasting money when someone has clearly requested not to bring a gift? We feel embarrassed to be empty handed when we go up to the couple to wish them. And we also know that no one else will take such requests seriously (as it happened at this wedding I was talking about) and you may end up looking like a fool.

So how do we make people stop this? How do we word this request so they know we mean business? One couple I know had stated that all gifts would be donated to charity and they would prefer if cheques were made in favour of a particular charity. Apparently there were two boxes at the entrance to the hall and everyone dropped their gifts/ cheque in the appropriate box and walked in empty handed to wish the couple. Brilliant idea, I thought. I don't know what others thought especially the ones who had insisted on taking expensive gifts. But I guess you have to do something like this if people do not understand simple instructions in plain language.

In case you are aware of any other effective means of communicating that you really want only their presence and blessings, please share them with me.

P.s: While on the topic of gifts, Paul has a lovely post here (actually all his posts are lovely and thought provoking) please check them out.

I tried connecting to the net earlier this evening when I noticed that the link and data indicators on the modem were off.It has happened before and when reported the guys at customer support asked me to switch it off , wait for a while and switch it back on and it was back to business. I pride myself on a being a smart computer user and prefer to fix known problems myself where possible. I tried switching the modem off a couple of times but the problem this time seemed more complex. So I called customer support. After dialing 1 for English and 2 for Internet related problem and 2 again for modem problem, I was informed that I was about to be connected to a service executive and that the call was being recorded and may be used for their internal training purposes. Finally a human voice was heard enquiring politely about the nature of my problem that had caused me to brave the call. I get frazzled dealing with pre-recorded voices. Basically I am the type who, when faced with a problem, likes to dial the number, state my problem and have it fixed asap. Not for me an IVR system - 'if this, press this else, press that' and so on. (It is actually worse with telebanking where you have to enter 13 digit account numbers and card numbers apart from having to listen to an enthusiastic voice telling you about all their innovative products which you most probably don't need)

Anyway where was I? Ok, I finally got a kind, human voice assuring me that it was all going to be fine but only if I would permit him to place me on hold while he went away to investigate the problem. As if I had a choice! And so he went away while I was being enticed with possibilities of a ticket to Bangkok or a new smart Swift car if I paid my bill on time. After I had heard this over 20 times in continuous succession, there came another human voice thanking me for waiting and repeating my problem in accurate detail.
Am I speaking to Mrs so and so from number such and such, modem model such and such and is this the nature of the problem you reported?
(What next? will I be asked to swear on the Bhagavad Gita?)But I only said "that's correct."
This was the conversation that followed:
Voice at other end (VOE): Are all the four lights on the modem on?
Me: No, the link and data ones are off.
VOE:Did you recently make any changes to your computer and modem connections?
Me: No.
VOE: Other than the modem do you see a small white box?
By now he was speaking to me like a fireman trying to rescue a three year old locked inside a bathroom with a gun. Clearly enunciating every word so there is no misunderstanding.
I wanted to ask "you mean the ADSL inline filter?" but I was beginning to enjoy this so I played along. "yes, the white box, it is there."
VOE: can you see that there are three points for connection?
Me: (without even bothering to look at the box) Ya line, modem and phone.
(if only he knew the number of times I have plugged and unplugged these while moving the laptop and modem between rooms)
VOE: Now please don't remove anything but just check and tell me if there are cords leading from all three lines.
Me: (Hey, stop being so condescending. Don't you make allowances for basic intelligence when you deal with customers? Check if cables are connected indeed. what next? check if power is switched on?)
Bending under the table,pulling out the white box and staring at it in shock, disbelief, shame in that order.
(into the telephone)The cord connecting to the modem has fallen off.(possible suicide attempt? fallen off, ha!) I've connected it now. Thank you very much.
VOE: ( displaying no obvious emotion) please connect the modem and tell me if all the 4 lights are on and confirm that your net connection is working madam.
Me:(very subdued and distracted) yes, I have, they are, it does. Thank you.
VOE: Thank you for calling customer service. Have a good day.
And I bet they filed the recorded conversation for the training session titled "customer may always be right but not always bright."

Anyone for a training on making a complete idiot of oneself while leaving evidence in a recorded conversation?

"If it ain't broke don't fix it "- Sound advice which I have followed with respect to everything I own including my body. I managed to add 12 kgs to my normal weight without so much as a clue until my legs protested about the excess weight they had to transport. Even when the doctor showed me the counter on the scale, I demanded proof that his scale wasn't faulty.Well, the same goes for my skin and other body parts too and I have a good excuse for this negligence - I am allergic to most products in the market.

Recently I got a good lecture from my sister on my negligence with supporting evidence in the form of dark patches on my back and arms, apparently caused by exposure to sun and extreme dryness. She decided to take control of the matter, went and made a mix of gram flour and turmeric. I was supposed to mix this with curd and apply on all the tanned parts and I was led to believe I would become like Aishwarya Rai. I did as instructed, waited for a few minutes before washing and looked. I looked again. No change. I turned to her with a gloating smile and told her: "see, I told you, nothing works." She gave me a look she reserves exclusively for champion idiots (and me) and explained that I had to keep doing it until the tan disappeared. She packed a kilo of the stuff for me to carry to Bangalore. She reminded me to use it daily and as a motivation reminded me of an impending family function where I would be wearing saris when I might wish that these dark patches were not there. This is serious , especially when one has relatives who start conversations with comments on one's appearance ( 'have you lost weight?', 'you look bloated, menopause problems?' 'have you been sick - your skin looks terrible') Oh no, I must do something about this. And pretty soon. Cannot ask them to postpone the muhurtam until the patches are gone.

So every morning I make the paste and smear it all over and sit on the stairs ensuring that the paste doesn't leave tell tale yellow marks and ensuring that Munni does not have access to me - she loves curds and starts licking the paste off my arms. It is a messy affair but I endure with patience and persevere. As Bertie Wooster would have said, "I'm not absolutely certain of my facts, but I rather fancy it's Shakespeare--or, if not, it's some equally brainy lad--who says" that a thing of beauty is a job forever or something close.

It has been a couple of weeks now and when I scrutinise areas under treatment they seem to preserve status quo ante. Forget looking like Aishwarya Rai; I'd be glad if i looked like her mother in law! On the contrary, I seem to have gained a few pounds. Any expert out there who can confirm my suspicion that it is all due to the absorption of all this fat from curd? Actually you don't have to be an expert: just confirm. I just need an excuse to fend off my meddling sister when she gives me the third degree for having discontinued the treatment. And if anyone mentions the "black" patches at the function, I am going to use the "racist slur" trump card.
MWAHAHA.....

Most of us need external validation for our usefulness and we measure it by something tangible which may range from a simple heartfelt 'thank you' card to a big bonus and promotion. One's professional life affords more opportunities for feeling useful and one does feel a reduction in one's worth when one has given up employment. I mean who thanks you for a meal well- made and served timely day after day or for just staying in the house and attending to the dhobi, courier, mailman, veg vendor, carpenter, plumber, electrician while they roam the world doing worthwhile things? The only recognition you get then is by being identified "Mrs. So and so" or 'so and so's mom'! I have personally felt rather useless since I gave up my job and there are times I have judged myself deadwood. It can be quite frustrating when you don't feel you are contributing anything to society and that you are nothing but a consumer of goods and services provided by others. One doesn't realise that it is possible that one can still make a difference to others by just by listening, by being supportive or by being non-judgemental - by just being there. So it was quite a surprise when someone recently explained to me how I had made a difference to his life when he had hit rock bottom. I was confused and asked him what I had done to deserve this kind of gratitude and he said "you were there, you did not crtiticise me and you did not give up on me."
He was thanking me for NOT doing anything - I had no idea that you could make a difference to someone simply by not doing anything. A bit like "They also serve who only stand and wait."
And the irony is that he did not realise how much he had boosted my sagging self worth by telling me this - He made a difference to me too!

If this sounds a bit like the chicken soupy stuff that you receive in email, it was indeed an email from a friend this morning that provoked me to write this post:

A teacher in New York decided to honor each of her seniors in high school by telling them the difference they each made. She called each student to the front
of the class, one at a time. First she told each of them how they had made a difference to her and the class.

Then she presented each of them with a blue ribbon imprinted with gold letters, which read, "Who I Am Makes a Difference."

Afterwards the teacher decided to do a class project to see what kind of impact recognition would have on a community. She gave each of the students three more
ribbons and instructed them to go out and spread this acknowledgment ceremony. Then they were to follow up the results, see who honored whom and report back to the class in about a week.

One of the boys in the class went to a junior executive in a nearby company and honored him for helping him with his career planning. He gave him a blue ribbon and put it on his shirt. Then he gave him two extra ribbons and said, "We're doing a class project on recognition, and we'd like you to go out find somebody to honor, give them a blue ribbon, then give them the extra blue ribbon so they can acknowledge a third person to keep this acknowledgment ceremony going. Then please report back to me and tell me what happened."

Later that day the junior executive went in to see his boss, who had been noted, by the way, as being kind of a grouchy fellow. He sat his boss down and he told him that he deeply admired him for being a creative genius.

The boss seemed very surprised. The junior executive asked him if he would accept the gift of the blue ribbon and would he give him permission to put it on him. His surprised boss said, "Well, sure." The junior executive took the blue ribbon and placed it right on his boss's jacket above his heart.

As he gave him the last extra ribbon, he said, "Would you do me a favor? Would you take this extra ribbon and pass it on by honoring somebody else? The young
boy who first gave me the ribbons is doing a project in school and we want to keep this recognition ceremony going and find out how it affects people."

That night the boss came home to his 14-year-old son and sat him down. He said, "The most incredible thing happened to me today. I was in my office and one of
the junior executives came in and told me he admired me and gave me a blue ribbon for being a creative genius. Imagine. He thinks I'm a creative genius. Then he put
this blue ribbon that says: "Who I Am Makes a Difference, on my jacket above my heart. He gave me an extra ribbon and asked me to find somebody else to
honor. As I was driving home tonight, I started thinking about whom I would honor with this ribbon and I thought about you.

I want to honor you. My days are really hectic and when I come home I don't pay a lot of attention to you. Sometimes I scream at you for not getting good enough grades in school and for your bedroom being a mess, but somehow tonight, I just wanted to sit here and, well, just let you know that you do make a difference to me. Besides your mother, you are the most important person in my life. You're a great kid and I love you!"

The startled boy started to sob and sob, and he couldn't stop crying. His whole body shook. He looked up at his father and said through his tears, "Dad, earlier tonight I sat in my room and wrote a letter to you and Mom explaining why I had killed myself and asking you to forgive me. I was going to commit suicide tonight after you were asleep. I just didn't think that you cared at all. The letter is upstairs.
I don't think I need it after all."

His father walked upstairs and found a heartfelt letter full of anguish and pain. The envelope was addressed, "Mom and Dad."

The boss went back to work a changed man. He was no longer a grouch but made sure to let all his employees know that they made a difference. The junior executive
helped several other young people with career planning and never forgot to let them know that they made a difference in his life...one being the boss's son.

And the young boy and his classmates learned a valuable lesson. Who you are DOES make difference.

Send it to all of the people who mean anything important to you, or send it to the one, two, or three people who mean the most. Or just smile and know that someone thinks that you are important, or you wouldn't have received this in the first place. Remember that!
I give you a blue ribbon.

WHO YOU ARE MAKES A DIFFERENCE,
AND I WANTED YOU TO KNOW THAT . . .

So why am I posting this here? So you all know that every time you read my posts and take the time to share your thoughts, opinions and comments you make a difference to me. Go pass the blue ribbon to someone else.