The contest for the laziest on the Planet

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We Malayalis pride ourselves that we're the laziest race on the Planet.

As far as we could get away with it, we would avoid work. "Why put off till tomorrow what we can place on someone else' head today?" is our motto.

This particular trait is rubbed into us from early childhood, as we watch our elders devise methods to skip work. The whole educational and employment systems are ridden with loopholes to help us escape. In college, students discuss which is the best day to go on strike. The day with the toughest sessional exams scheduled gets the vote. Not to mention there was no valid reason to go on strike at all.

Recently I had a debate with a friend on which of us is the lazier. The contest ended in draw because both were too lazy to argue for ourselves.

In Kerala, I resigned myself to my fate as a lazy Malayali, much higher in stature to all other peoples of Earth. But Bangalore opened my eyes. Wide.

The auto-drivers in Bangalore sit at their driving seats all day if possible, as if they get paid for sitting idle. If by chance a pedestrian requests a ride, the rates per kilometre skyrocket, till the poor guy decides to walk all the way rather than have his throat cut. The autowallah continues to idle, relieved that the disturbance is gone.

The guy who 'apparently' washes cars vanishes with the car keys once every week. When he returns them, he wears a sparkling smile as if to say, 'the innards of the car are gleaming as much as my smile'. You tip him generously only to find within minutes that the car doors were not even opened that day.

The gardener and the garden are strangers. He waters the plants once in a hundred years or so, holding the water hose as if it is guillotine. The tender plants collapse under his murderous touch and never rise again. When he was called in for re-potting, the plants did not survive another day.

The part-time maid has more visitors every week than all the residents of this apartment and the next put together, and she cannot come to work when she is suffering from their visits.

One should learn punctuality (among other things) from house painters, but only in the evening. At five on the dot, the paint brushes drop from their hands, even if the window requires just two more strokes.

None of these people in the examples above, I should stress, are Malayalis. Nor have they ever been to Kerala. (In case some of you Kerala 'lovers' want to accuse them or their great-grandfathers of breathing the Kerala air sometime in their life.)

My intention, with this blog post, is to warn other Malayalis that we no longer own the pedestal of Laziness: we are not the laziest race on the Planet. Be ashamed! We have tough competition and if we aren't trying hard enough, others would snatch the trophy away from us.

The contest is on. Are you ready to oust Malayalis as the laziest species on the Planet?

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GOD

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Sharing part of a recent conversation with a friend. I found the thought beautiful.


Yes, I am worried too. 
They used to worry me a great deal earlier. 
And I used to do nothing but worry. 

But there is something we can do.
We can convert our concerns into action items...

I found out that when I put my worry into words like you did, 
Share it with everyone and then all of us get behind the goal,
It somehow works out.

As long as we are thinking and not giving up, things will happen.
We need to have a clear goal, believe in it and 
do everything possible towards it.
That always works for me.

When I give up, nothing can save me.
If I don't do anything and worry, nothing can save me.
If I don't have a clear goal and try to do a lot, I achieve nothing.

Sometimes my ego gets the better of me
And convinces me that my success is because of ME.
My greatness, my exceptional luck.
Then I get stuck where I was. 

When I give up that thought, things start moving.
Whenever I set goals, take action and believe in them,
It works like magic.

Maybe that is GOD...

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Aren't we all hypocrites?

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I know I am. Not always. Maybe.

I pretend to treat everyone as equal, but expect them to keep their place.

I say 'This is awesome' when I actually mean, 'This looks quite ordinary, but it will be unkind of me to say so.'

I say 'You've done a good job' when what I actually want to say is, 'It could have been better but it is not for me to point out your flaws.'

I say 'You've done the right thing' when I think 'I wish you had done something else.'

When my son asks me, 'Why didn't you let them do that?' I am such a coward to admit, 'They annoy me and I don't want them to do that.'

I say 'It looked excellent' when I mean 'I am sorry I did not get time to look at it.'

I say 'Everything's great,' because I don't want to tell them how awful it actually is.

This doesn't mean that whenever I say something is good, I don't mean it. There are times when I say 'it is awesome' and I mean 'it is awesome.' It's all very complicated.

When I see kids declare on their profiles, "I hate hypocrites" I want to laugh. And I want to tell them, "You don't know who a hypocrite is. We all are. If you hate hypocrites, there won't be anyone left to love."

But I don't because they will find it out. Sooner or later. 

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Nasty (and then some) thoughts for the day

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1. I wish Rain and Sun would not play hide and seek with each other on days that Moms have to take their kids outside, away from home, without an umbrella, without an auto in sight, on the highway, without a roof or a tree nearby to keep the child's head out of rain.

2. I wish the auto driver bloke, who tried to take advantage of the fact that I had a child with me and it was drizzling rather well with a heavy likelihood of pouring plenty of cats and dogs, would have sat at dinner tonight and said to himself, "Had I agreed to take that wet woman and child for twenty rupees less, I would have at least that money in hand." Yes, friends, I cursed him in my mind after the incident that he sits in that greedy seat of his, and gets no further trips that day.

3. I hope the family with the black car, whose child is in Kindergarten, and their driver would have a delightful week ahead of them for being kind enough to offer lift to the wet woman and child who were perfect strangers to them.

4. I wish the traffic police would come up with a foolproof strategy that requires auto drivers to start their meter and charge the passengers only the amount displayed on it, without demanding a fortune as if the responsibility of bad roads lies with the passengers.

5. I hope my little one has a blessed and happy life, and that no one exploits his innocence, for saying to me today: "Amme, because you were frustrated over not getting an auto, I prayed to Ambotti and see, Ambotti has sent an auto to us."

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Unpredictable?

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"Children are so unpredictable." I've lost count of the number of times I have heard (and used) this statement. I suppose that is because our 'predictions' are based on adult standards, and not children's. If we are able to keep our grown-up madnessses and irregularities aside, and raise our expectations to their level, we would discover that their actions and reactions are quite simple and straightforward! True, as a parent, that is one of the most difficult things to do.

Take the example of my friend, who decided to teach her daughter verb conjugation. The little one was often confused between 'want' and 'wants'. After explaining the theory, they played a game where the little girl has to complete her Mom's sentence.

It went like this.

Mom: "I..."

Daughter: "...want a toy!"

Mom: "Good. My friend..."

Daughter: "mmm... wants chocolates!"

Mom: "Excellent. You're picking up very fast. Grandma..."

Daughter: "...wants to see me!"

Mom: "Mamma and Dadda..."

Daughter: "mmm... want... a baby!"

Mom: "Wha-???!!"

*

My son is probably one of the best examples of an 'unpredictable' child. My blood pressure would shoot, my cheeks burn and I will be ready to explode when I know he is going to misbehave, only to discover that my heart had gone into overdrive pumping all that blood in vain. He would be 'unpredictably decent' (as per my standards) that day. 

Like the day his friend from next door, C, came to our house. I called my son to me while the little girl was watching TV. Knowing the tiffs between the two, I warned him not to start one, and to let her watch whatever she was watching. He said: "No. I will go and change the channel. I want to watch Cartoon Network." (She was watching Pogo, I think.)

I was sure within three and a half minutes, the girl would cry and run off to her home. I delivered a quick lecture on behaving, good manners and such, which he gave scant attention to. I sighed and resigned myself to what would follow, as he went to her.

As I watched in surprise, he went near her, took the TV remote and asked gently, "C, can I change the channel? We can watch Tom and Jerry in Cartoon Network."

As my jaw dropped, the little girl nodded and said, "Yes."

*

Writing was not an area my son was keen on. He admitted very frankly to me that he preferred playing or drawing or watching TV to writing. But his teacher says he needs "more writing practice" so what am I to do?
I ask him, don't you want to read?
He says, No. It's okay. I don't want to learn to read.
So I resign myself to the situation: I will have to fight with him whenever I have to make him write.

One day we were at our seats, finishing one activity for school. He had to write 2 lines about his friend. I asked him what he wanted to write and helped him with the spelling. There was a knock on the door and it was the very friend whom we were writing about.

"We were writing about you," I said to him.
My son showed the book to the friend, who is a few months older than him. The friend looked at it and slowly read aloud: "he - is - my - best - friend."

I was delighted and praised him for reading it so well. My son burst into sobs and said he wanted to "learn to read fast too". Surprised, I suggested gently that trying to write and read a little every day might be a good idea.

There is nothing more to be said, except that these days when he gets back from school and after 'play-time' with friends, he comes home, takes out a notebook and starts writing words, sometimes asking me how to spell them, sometimes not.

As a parent, every day is a surprise. Every day is unpredictable. 

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The Friendship Phenomenon

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If God had wanted man to have a hyperactive social life, he would have created virtual Social Networking when He created mankind, don't you think?
Yes, I thought so too.

Granted, when He started there might not have been enough people around to create a 'network'. He did spread the seeds of socialising enough to make us "Social Animals", but the Social Beasts and Monsters we turned out to be in a few thousand years of existence must have been a real shocker to Him.

Yeah, I'm talking about you, Facebook. What beasts you are turning us into! What monsters you are pulling out of the deepest and darkest corners of our hearts. What weird beings you are awakening from their safe slumber inside our minds.

We meet a lot of people in life, right from the womb. There are some who accompany us in our journey through life. With some, we're expected to part ways and move on after a while. Now imagine the whole lot of people we've known over the years sitting in our living room, staring at us? Intimidating. And what if they all start chattering?

Some people in life are meant to be kept at a distance. To their credit, many of them know where they should stand. But some don't.

Till a short while ago, I was naïve enough to think that after I find a few close, old friends, there was nothing much to do on Facebook. Maybe we'll just keep each other updated on our progress in life, I thought. I never realised this 'making friends' thing was an outward bound spiral that had no end.

Doubt not, I am an active Facebooker. But there are things that make me squirm in my seat. Like, the people who stare at me from the right frame, whom Facebook claims are people I must know. Common friends: three thousand and twenty five. I am just saying. Yes, I know them. But I tell myself, let them send *me* a Friendship request first, then I will accept. Nothing is going to make me send one to them.

Then there are Walls. What happens on the Walls do not really stay on these walls. Cold wars originate because of these public writings on the Wall.
Because one of them forgot to add an 'LOL' or a smiley to the end of their comment.
Because some thought they were still buddies they were twenty years ago and can still pat the other on the back and say nasty jokes aloud.
Because they thought the owner of the Wall can take a light joke in the right spirit.
Because someone forgot to respond to a comment on their status update.
Because someone posted a picture of you in your high school and tagged you without permission.

I know what makes me uneasy, and why. I also know that it is not going to stop me from visiting Facebook. I also know such a thing either doesn't exist, or don't have much significance in a place like Twitter. And I also know that when such things happen I will close my eyes and pretend it never happened.

After all, if the bus stop is too far and there is no auto available, you gotta walk all the way.

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To Anna or not to Anna

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We human beings are in general an uncertain lot. We do not know what we want at any point in time. We only believe 'this' is what we want.

We believe that there are two sides to any situation. We also say that instead of looking at the situation in question we should be looking at situations that have even greater importance.

We have an opinion on everything we know about. We have even more opinions on things we know nothing about.

We say that we should not talk, but act. But we talk and debate and argue about it - of all places in virtual networks where we cannot even see who we are talking to.

We say it is our decision, we are not influenced by anyone. But if someone stands before us and delivers an impressive speech we follow him eyes shut.

We hate bad men and bad circumstances. We want to wipe them off the face of the Earth. But when we are face-to-face with them we react just as a billion others would.

We expect people to practice what they preach. Even when we know that every juncture, every situation, every act makes people change, daily, and no one is today who they were yesterday.

We say History repeats, but when it does, we forget that we are not the people that History had seen the last time it visited.

We claim that we are not influenced by the 'results', what matters is only the action and the intention behind the action. But when the most vocal part of the group rises in our defence, we are tempted to believe that is the actual result.

We believe we are a very mature lot. Nonetheless when we get to be part of a child's adventure we rush headlong into it without thinking.

We like to convince ourselves that facts like age, caste, or dress do not define a man. Yet when the man rises above us, we make discreet observations on his age, caste, dress, shoes and the company he keeps.

We human beings are an eternally confused and unthinking lot...

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Mobile phones are personal

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... as personal as a personal diary. Or if possible more personal than one.
Only a person who uses it for personal purposes truly understands the personal nature of the personal mobile phone.

I hope the message has been properly rubbed in. The truth is that many of us do not appreciate that another's handset is not for us to explore.

A couple of months ago, a boy who sat next to me at a wedding, a total stranger, held out his hand for my handset: "Can I see it?". Too surprised to say a word, I handed it to him. He turned it this way and that, quickly figured out how to unlock it, and started hunting for games. Gosh. It was awkward, to say the least. The moment you unlock my phone you are hit with a number of reminders and notifications and such luxuries that I need to survive. I would not want my vulnerabilities so displayed in the open. No one would. Not to speak of the state secrets I carry within the gadget. He was clearly used to playing games in great many types of devices and knew exactly how to locate them. Luckily for me, his grandmother noticed him fiddling with it and told him to return it.

I remember being curious about handsets when they first hit the market. At the time, people used them only for making / receiving calls (true to the name 'phones'). It was okay to be curious about a new handset and probably look at one. As soon as SMS-ing became a craze, looking at others' new handsets meant running into messages you should not be seeing.

Little boys these days have learnt to play games in their parents' high-end devices, and have discovered that every new handset contains a better and more thrilling game than in the previous model. They know more about mobiles (as they used to, once upon a time, about cars) than their parents do (they sure know how to embarrass us in public with those model numbers and mobile jargon) and believe it their right to borrow from adults and play, showing off their game-finding skills to their peers.

I do not know how long I can hold on to this belief that little five-year-olds should not borrow their parents' phones or anyone else' phones to play, even when they become six-year-olds or ten-year-olds.

For the time being, I declare that mobile handsets are the owners' personal property and it is as unique as the person's Unique Identity, and borrowing it even 'just to see it' is not recommended.

Of course, all this opinion may change in a few months...weeks...days? I have seen my son eye my phone when I leave it unattended on the table...

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Out in the open!

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Active twitter users in this part of the world would recall an incident that happened about two months ago. A huge twitter wave rose in favour of a Mumbai-based woman whose desparate tweet (observed five days after she posted it) sparked the fear that something bad may have befallen her or her family. Indian Twitterers used every tool in their power to get more information about her, resulting in one of them arriving at her doorstep in a few hours, along with the police (and perhaps the media). She was safe, and the story about the origin of the tweet turned out to be too personal to be discussed in public.

It was not tough to locate her. Her Twitter was linked to her blog. On searching her name, Google helpfully brought up her Facebook account, among several others with the same name. But it was easy enough to figure out which was she. Her complete postal address was available. Her previous tweets revealed the name of her lawyer. In short, a lot of information on her was splashed on the Internet, most of it by herself. Her name and address were posted over and over on Twitter by new people joining the tide of concerned well-wishers. Some of them removed the tweets afterwards, some didn't. A few days after the incident, her Twitter account was deleted.

In this particular case (even though it is debatable), the information was used for a cause that everyone believed to be noble. But isn't it as easy for someone with criminal intentions to gather our information, to locate us and arrive at our doorstep? With the boom of social networks, everyone leaves information about themselves lying around. If you want to know where someone is at the moment, check their Twitter Timeline. The chances are high that they are 'the mayors of a certain location on foursquare' or 'at the airport' or 'at the cinema' or 'doing shopping with XYZ at the Mall' at the moment. If you want to know their past, check their Facebook 'Info' and the entire history is spilled out for all to see.

Sounds far-fetched and paranoid? Have you checked how much of your details (past, present and future) are easily accessible to the public?

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Women and the art of Listening

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Women have sensitive and keen ears. They don't have to look around to know that their fiancé or husband is approaching. A short beep of the horn that totally skipped the ears of everyone else present, the gentle whirrr of the engine as his car glides down the drive, the sound of him pulling the hand-brake, the unique sound of his bike, a short step as he comes up the stairs, or a distant cough - she would hear it even when she is engrossed in her favourite TV program, teaching the children or absorbed in anything else.

Mothers have sensitive and keen ears. She is attentive to the smallest argument involving her baby even if it happens two floors below her house, she does not miss to hear a scuffle when her child is playing outside, she has enhanced senses to hear his distant voice calling her. She is ready to throw herself out the balcony at the slightest sound of her child's sob. She strains her ears to the sound of his play and laughter even when she's working.

Daughters have sensitive and keen ears. When her parents are ill, her ears will be tuned to a sound from their room. When she is behaving against their wishes, her ears act as the sentry who warns her they are approaching.

Women have very sensitive and keen ears.

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The irony of human life...

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Every other day in the newspapers we read about breakthrough researches in medicine, of finding cure for chronic illnesses, of methods to prolong life and retain youth. Human life, it would appear, is very precious.

In the same paper, pages 1 to 3 would be splashed with news that disturbs us no end: a child stepping on a live wire lying on the street on a rainy day, a wall collapsing on an old woman, a boy lost in the drains. Incidents (tantamount to murder?) that reek of carelessness, insensitivity, disregard for human life: the very same precious life we were talking about prolonging and preserving. Someone might have noticed the wire lying loose, the dangerous wall, the open drain. No one did anything because it wasn't their responsibility. Or because they didn't know who could help. Or because they thought they'll do it tomorrow.

It depicts the clear distinction that intelligent people have known for centuries: between the group of people targeted in the health pages and those generally featured in the accident columns.

Between those lines lies the irony of human life.

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The One Thing*

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Strange how things happen right in front of your eyes and you don't notice until others start pointing.

The water level must have been rising for some time now. I noticed the crowd leaning against the railing and idly wondered what they were up to. It was then that I saw. The water was looking different, higher, rough and agitated, and lashing against itself.

The people seemed disinterested: they were observing it and making comments as if it did not concern them at all, casually standing with one foot on the lowest rung, a picture of relaxation. Within no time, the water would be kissing their feet. But there was no anxiety in anyone's faces except mine. I watched them as I walked swiftly to my room. On one hand, their unconcern could mean good news - maybe they knew something I didn't. On the other, it could mean they were not yet aware - if it were possible! - of the extent of the danger.

There were familiar faces in the crowd. Faces from my past. I hesitated, wondering if I should stop and talk to them, or at least wave to them. I had passed through the periphery of their vision, but time had erased the familiarity from their minds and the memory from the corners of their eyes. They would not recognise me unless they looked right into my face.

I opened my door. There could not be another room as untidy. Clothes tossed on the bed, shirts and kurtis hanging from nails on the wall, books carelessly stacked on the shelf, paper and writing pads scattered on the table, dirt on the floor. Through the open back door I could see water lapping against the wall as it rose. We were going to be stranded somewhere. I began rummaging through the things on my table. 

The water reached my door. In a few minutes, it would be inside and soon up to my neck. I would have to join the others and see if there was a plan. My hands rested on my notebook, the one in which I scribbled my thoughts, my stories, my writings. I picked it up. I need to write, wherever I am.

I waited a moment for the water to enter my room. When it wet my floor, I would return to the others. To my surprise, it never came in. The water had started receding, as swiftly as it came. As it went back to its normal level, I was still clutching my notebook to my chest.

I would not be able to take anything with me where I go. But if I am given a chance, if I am given ten minutes to pick up one thing along, I would perhaps seek nothing more than my notebook.


*Title inspired by the blog Do you know who you are?

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There's no such thing as Liberation

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We take too many things for granted - even when we know we're taking them for granted. We assume the next two days we're going to work on this project or that, finish this chore or the other, take our children to the park or the zoo. It takes only the suggestion of an illness to topple that confidence, to bring to surface the terrifying certainty that the next two days we're going to be invalid and all our beautiful 'well-laid' plans gone down the drain. No words can explain the emotion if that invalidity is expected to stretch for a lifetime.

We're constantly bound to our plans... or they are bound to us. We're also bound to a lot of other commitments, people, places and things. Some of them cast their chains upon us. Some too tight. Some too rigid. Some too powerful.

When we say Liberation - Women's Liberation and such - we are talking about breaking these chains. The people, specifically, that bind.

Imagine for a moment (if you could) that we have broken free from the first level of oppression. Imagine that we are beyond female infanticide, domestic abuse, sexual harassment and such atrocities that question human rights and dignity. Imagine that the world has been cleansed of these crimes.

Assume there is no man or woman to stop you from anything. As a woman you're free to walk, to roam, to fly, to rule, to manage, to lead, to learn, to do (almost) anything a man does, and more.

How long do you think you'll do it? Let's face it. After a while, as the novelty wears out, you'll be pulled back. Your home, your family, your husband, your child - they are the branches of the tree that's you. A woman can't really imagine herself without them. Without them she is a bare trunk, with amputated limbs. Without them, she is an empty, troubled piece of nothingness. They're forever bound to her, as she is to them. They are her responsibilities that she believes cannot go on without her.

Even if there is no one to harass her after dark, she wants to come home early.

Even if the maid cleans up and cooks every day, she wants to oversee the activities.

Even if the sick and old in the family can manage themselves, she wants to make sure they are warm and comfortable.

Even if she gives no damn about the society, she wants to make sure no one speaks ill about her and her family.
Even if no one cares whether she is around or not, she wants to make sure everything is just as it should be.
Not for anyone else. But for herself.

Even if there is a robust support system on which she could lean as she pursues her dreams and aspirations, there is still a magnet drawing her back. Sometimes it is called guilt. Sometimes it is called love. Sometimes it is called responsibility. Sometimes it is called belonging. Sometimes it is called the sense of ownership. Sometimes it is called struggle.

We're in a prison within ourselves. True Liberation means breaking free from the chains, from the wall we've built around us: Freedom from everything that makes us Women. Everything that signifies the essence of being a Woman.

And believe me, none of us want that kind of Liberation.

Therefore Ladies, please go back to your seats and carry on with your lives. 

There is no Liberation happening here. Today or ever.

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The Art of tackling the vivaha sadya

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Seriously. It is an art, that most people master by the time they are seventy or something. Some exceptional folk become experts much before that, but for many, it is like appreciating paintings - we love paintings but we don't know enough to pass an intelligent opinion on them. Such is the case with the Malayali vivaha sadya: We love them and claim that the payasams are the only reason we attend weddings, but we do not know how to tackle it. 

If you are not a Malayali, even a lifetime would not be enough to master the art of devouring the sadya, unless you're determined and dedicated. I remember a few bewildered Kannadiga friends at a Malayali wedding (about fifteen years ago, in Thiruvananthapuram) seated before their untouched sadya, holding a lemon and whispering to me, "What are we supposed to do with this?"

Let me start at the very beginning. The vivaha sadya begins where scene-2 depicted in this post, ends. The art of pushing through and snatching the vacant seats is one of the first lessons of vivaha sadya. Even the biggest hall in the history of Malayali weddings are not equipped to handle the rush. Many disappointed faces can be seen exiting the hall, after their futile search for a chair, hoping for better luck next time. After all, experience is everything. They position themselves by the entrance, ready to burst in when the doors open for the next sitting.

The lucky ones (and you can tell by their broad smiles, as they adjust their deranged sarees or crumbled shirts) wait in their seats at the table. (They are the ones who undoubtedly always win the musical chair competitions across the world.) The caterers quickly place banana leaves before them.

Once you are seated, you are allowed a few micro-seconds to look around to see if you recognise someone and wave at them before turning back to your banana leaf. In the next few fleeting minutes, a number of men (women haven't yet ventured into this area, I presume, but I may be wrong) pass before you, plopping different pickles, upperis, thorans, kichadi, pachadi, aviyal, pappadam onto your banana leaf. You do nothing but wait. You can sample the curries or take a bite into the pappadam while you wait. But realise, the waiting is essential.

Next comes the rice. You sit forward. Your patience is about to be rewarded. You are ready to start the race, err, I mean, the rice. As soon as the rice falls on your banana leaf, you make a partition at the middle. Close on the heals of the rice, come the parippu and the ghee. This part is important: don't look up from your rice unless it is to see how close the next server is, and what he is bringing.

You have to concentrate on mixing the rice, parippu and ghee with pappadam and sending it on its way down your throat. However, your concentration must not be such that you do not notice the caterers passing before you. You should keep gesturing 'yes' or 'no' otherwise you will find sambar dropped on top of your rice - and you had not even asked for it. It may also happen that the payasam will pass by because you didn't say 'yes'. If you are relatively inexperienced, you would not know what it is that they bring. You would not get time to ask what it is, receive a reply, ponder over it and then say 'yes.' Such delays and light conversation are not welcomed (by the servers). The knowledge comes over time, so 'wait, suffer and learn' are the only things to be done.

The payasam comes in between. If you know the course of the sadya very well, you can tell exactly the minute at which it will be brought, and you will be ready with a gap in your rice to receive it. The different payasams (there may be two or three) also come together with half a minute between them. The more the number of payasams, the more prosperous are the hosts. There was a time I thought the payasams signified the end of the sadya and was surprised when more rice was plopped on top of my double payasam mix. (That sadya was a disaster I would rather not remember.)

You should also gulp down the water in the plastic cup quickly because then you can ask for the payasam or moru or rasam in it, if you like. You can ask for all of them in the cup, except that you don't get three cups, so the gulping down must happen fast, as soon as each arrives. If by mistake your plastic cup falls on the floor, you are doomed. It is not likely you will get another one.

It is important to keep up with the others. When the sadya is over (the signal being the folding of the banana leaf), people from one end start rising. You really don't want to be found sitting alone slurping your payasam, when the next set barges in for their food. So you see, even though you are absorbed in your food, you also pay close attention to the servers, the (eating) status of the others and the general atmosphere in the hall. 

It is very difficult to come out of a wedding sadya without showing traces of it in your dress/saree/shirt. But again, with experience, you will learn to dodge the right way at the right places at the right times, and come through with your clothes stainless.

Everything about tackling the sadya lies in precision and rapidness, which, as I mentioned, come only with experience. 

As for the lemon mentioned above, I suspect it symbolises (among other things) the fact that life most often gives you lemons, and it is all up to you what you choose to do with it. Some people take it home and make lemonade, some make lemon rice, some throw it away when they leave the marriage hall, some say 'no' when they are offered the lemon. Think and act responsibly where the lemon is concerned.

Any mistakes in the above narration may be attributed to my lack of expertise, even after years of attending vivaha sadyas.

As I said, it might take a lifetime...

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Flowing with the current

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All of a sudden you notice the current. It was always there, of course.

You had been floating downstream. You thought it was the wind that carried your sail. If, indeed, you thought at all.

That you are picking up pace was not cause for alarm. Not yet.
You hear a low rumble. Yes, you are seeing new things and hearing new sounds now.

The rumble seems quite far away. But you know it is important.

The tree trunks leaning across the river... were they always there?

Suddenly you're afraid. What does the sound mean? You stop breathing and prick your ears. The roar is approaching. Are you heading to the top of a waterfall? You look back. Were all those tree trunks important? Were they the ones you should have clutched when there was still time, when they were within reach?
There are no more trees ahead. There is not even a straw to grab.

The current has become quite strong.

You did not seek the shore when you could. You did not reach out for the trunks when you could.

The roar ahead could be anything.

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The Lone Tree

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There is no wind, no rustle of leaves. The darkness is absolute. A thousand insects are at work as they are every night, playing the same notes over and over and over again.

All of a sudden the Lone Tree bursts into flames. A golden hue flickers all around. A gentle whistle breaks the stillness of the night.

The others, alarmed, roused from their sleep, crowd around for a better look.
There is no sign of a fire nearby, the dampness would not allow one to be lit.

They watch, fascinated. A tree is on fire right before their eyes - yet its leaves on which the hungry flames lick are still green, its trunk is still healthy and young. It is in no pain, in fact its eyes glow with suppressed ecstasy.

One of them cautiously leans forward, curious and frightened, reaches out to touch the fire and pulls back with a gasp. The others cower in fear. The flame that caressed the edge of its branch was warm, but not enough to singe.

They gape at the Lone Tree. Join me, it seems to be saying. 
They do nothing but stare. Some of them step back at the invitation. What they don't understand scares them.

"Join me," the tree says, "Experience the Joys of Self-immolation."

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How to get the point across

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5-yr-old: "Dad, I want that... mmm... long thing... what is it called?"
Dad (distracted): "Which? What?"

"Tell me the names of some fruits."
"A 'long' fruit? Let me see... "

"No, not long. Just name some fruits."
"Well... apple, orange, banana,..."

"Okay. It's not a fruit. Tell me the names of vegetables."
"Long ones?"

"No. All vegetables."
"Tomato. Brinjal. Onion. What else is there? Potato?"

"Ah! Yes! Potato. What is that long thing made from potatoes?"
"French fries?"

"YES! French fries. I want French fries."

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Summer Diary: The Woman in White

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The old woman, draped in a crumpled white cotton saree, sat absolutely still. The pallu carelessly pulled around her and dug into her waist showed no sign of ever having encountered pressing irons. Her glasses rested on the edge of her nose. A woman older than she was sprawled on the sofa, fanning herself. A young man sat watching cricket on television. His sister was turning the pages of a magazine without seeing anything.

Dusk had fallen. There was nothing to do but wait for dinner. The old woman in white hugged her arms, eyebrows raised in concentration, her eyes surreptitiously drifting here and there, all around her. She would look up when spoken to and sometimes grunt a reply, clearly not approving of the disturbance. She would wave her hands at times, like a traffic policeman flagging vehicles.

About half an hour passed thus. The youngster shifted in his seat as the match progressed, deep intakes of breath giving away the fate of the team he supported. The flip-flap of the newspaper fanning the older woman, the lazy rustle of the magazine in the young woman's hands and the groans of the ancient fan provided the background to the television commentary.

A subtle change came over the woman in white. She remained immobile but her eyes narrowed and began darting with rapt attention. Her fingers rubbed against each other, to warm up for the final act. Slowly, she drew her feet closer to her.

Slap!

The older woman stopped fanning and stared. The youngster muted the TV and turned around. The young woman gaped.

Her eyes betraying a suggestion of glee, the White Woman opened her closed palms and slowly pulled out something small and black between her thumb and index finger. With a triumphant face, she held it out to the others for a second before flicking it away.
"Darn mosquito!" she said.

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The Pros and Cons of Summer vacation

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1. Rise late. The only reason one should rise at all is that one can go out and play till it's time to go to sleep again. Well, almost. Because Mom keeps intervening (shouting, yelling, torturing) with calls to have food (three times a day. Imagine!), to bathe, to sleep, and to do all those boring things you thought you didn't have to do when school was out.

2. No homeworks. Mom might say the teacher has given writing work for the holidays, but everyone knows she's bluffing. No teacher ever gives homework for Summer vacation except when you're very old, like 15 years or something and are in 10th or 12th.

3. Indoor games means watching TV. When one is tired of football, cricket and badminton, and even bey blade (if that's possible), one can indulge in indoor games. Like watching Pogo, Cartoon Network, Disney, and other channels whose names one cannot even spell, let alone read.

4. You miss your Best Friends. When the friends you like best have gone to their parents' hometowns, you learn to get along with the ones you despised till last month. Well, one can't always choose one's companions, and has to make do with whoever and whatever lies around. Life's gotta go on.

5. Visits and visitors: Not sure whether this is pro or con, but vacations surely mean a lot of people travelling hither and thither. As long as one gets to play what one likes to play (indoor and outdoor) it matters not where one is. When one is in places like Mumbai or Kerala, Mom's calls for bathing matches or exceeds that of her calls for food. (See #6)

6. Bathe, bathe, and bathe. Though one dislikes interruptions while playing, sometimes the interruptions turn out to be games themselves. Especially in places like Mumbai and Kerala where one yearns to bathe in cold water (unlike Bangalore) once every ten minutes. One gets to stand under a tap in the garden or pour water on oneself from a hose pipe without fear of catching a cold or fever. Even better fun if one of those untimely rains decide to descend.

7. Eat junk food, when not eating Mom's brain. If one eats the latter too much, Mom immediately thrusts a four-line or a square-line or a double-line book to one's face. To pre-empt such a situation, just tell Mom, "I will have some snacks and watch TV while you finish your work," and all is well.

8. There is no such thing as end-of-play-time. There are only pauses, before a fresh start.

9. Birthday parties are more fun. The number of kids at the parties will be less and one's roles are more significant than during the rest of the year when the bigger kids sideline the smaller ones.

10. Sleep time. One can play and watch TV and resist sleep as long as humanly possible. 'Humanly possible' means till Mother collapses over her computer keyboard.

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Ghosts of LOCs past

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The maid was sweeping the floor, making wide arcs with her broom. I was surprised to observe that even at the end of the process, there wasn't anything in the dustpan. In a house where the five-year-old always manages to throw things around (objects that are precious to him, and garbage in my eyes), and where there is a perpetual thin layer of dust on every piece of furniture, a spotless dustpan was out of the question.

I accused her of not cleaning properly - of not crawling under the bed and peeping under the table and pulling out lethargic dust-bunnies or other misbehaving undesirables hiding under them.
She said, I did check under the bed and sweep well. There weren't any.

It simply wasn't possible. My argument was, though she cleans the house daily, there should be something for her to gather. There should be something visible - a certain acceptable amount, not more, not less - in the dustpan. Every day. Crumpled paper, dust, black hair, grey hair(ouch!), broken pieces that were once toys, pencil tips, eraser crumbs, dirt, whatever.


Our brain has this uncanny, unnecessary and annoying ability to pull out metaphors from the past and toss them right to our face. We can almost hear it chuckling as it does so. So it was, when I thus spoke to my maid, I was stopped short by a voice (inside my head?) reprimanding me for not unearthing - hold your breath - enough defects from an unsuspecting developer's code during a Code Review (CR).

The sky ripped open with a flash of lightning, the scene before my eyes rolled back, the maid vanished, and I saw myself perched before my PC, lines after lines of code (LOC) scrolling up and down before me. I was straining my eyes sweeping between the lines and over the lines, trying to bring hidden faults to light: logical, analytical, syntactical, grammatical, typographical, nonsensical or any other that I could jubilantly ("eureka!!") make a note of in an excel sheet, categorise them as Major, Medium or Minor as per my whims and fancies. There is this N:1 ratio that wise people invented in the last century: for every N Lines Of Code, there should be at least one defect. I am sure it is based on the undisputed fact that nobody is perfect, so nobody's programming code has the right to be perfect. The overall number of defects at the end of the CR hangs in a delicate balance: if the number is too large, the program is not well-written and the developer is in trouble. If it is too low, it does not mean the program is well-written, but that the review was not exhaustive enough. Which was why my eyes were peeled for the evasive crumbs of programming defects, to sweep them into my dustpan of an excel sheet.


If my maid threw extra pieces of paper or sand into the dustpan (even if she had to bring them from her home for the purpose), I would have been satisfied. On the other hand, since the program code could not be changed to insert bugs (because the version-control repository would record the modification along with the name of the mischief-doer), the only thing to do was report non-existent or impossible bugs. Like this:

"The comment on line 143 does not follow coding conventions." - Minor
"It is better to give the '{' in the next line." - Minor
"There is an extra space between the end of code and the semicolon." - Medium
"An extra couple of blank lines between two blocks of code!" - Medium
"If the program forgets to perform NULL check, there will be a series of crashes." - Major

If, by chance, we found a real bingo Major / Critical defect (a potential crash, a suicide bomber or a hidden grenade), we would split it into one major and 2-3 medium defects, even invent a few minor ones, so that the overall ratio of CR defects would remain 'as expected', without any harm to the coder or the reviewer.


"There has to be defects concealed in all these hundreds of square feet of code," I said.
"Eh?" said the maid.

Jolted back to the present, I stared at her for a second and said, "Why don't you sweep the floor again, you might find something."

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