Crime and punishment

Our years at school were spent dodging one punishment or the other. With the strictest of head mistresses we were prone to bumping into punishments lurking in each corner. Running down staircases was reason to be caned with a thin bamboo stick that really hurt. Shouting across to friends meant standing on our chairs for the duration of the class. Throwing stones at trees to get a fruit meant a dose of castor oil to purge our stomachs ( and considering the sorry state of our unhygienic toilets) this was a punishment we all dreaded. Our parents unlike the ones of today didn't rush to school to take up our case,we were told in no uncertain terms that we needed to deal with it ourselves and that was that. Press the issue too much and we would be told that there is no smoke without fire. Either way we didn't stand a chance.

Did that stop us from doing all the stuff that we did? No way, in fact we became rather good at getting away with it. While we didn't develop any long lasting love of our teachers,we did grow up to be a tough lot. Some scars yes but who doesn't have those. Overall we learnt to face trials and difficulty with a stiff upper lip and got on with our lives.

Today as we laugh at all that happened we tune in to this world of ours as it is today. Today if the same things happened to us,we would have spent more time at the school counsellors office or ended up in a psychiatric clinic doing therapy. Our parents would have rushed to reprimand the teacher without questioning if we were at fault. We would have changed schools all the time and thought that running away was the way to go and ended up as adults who were ill equipped to face the world,who ran away at the slightest indication of stress,we thought the world owed us a lot and that we didn't have to give anything back. We would have in short become the wimpy kids and even worse,the petulant adult. In retrospect am I glad I had strict parents,and yes I didn't enjoy school as much as some kids do today but I got an all round education on life ,not confined to academics alone and for that I heave a collective sigh of relief.

Bribery and corruption

Every now and then there is a hue and cry about bribery and corruption and everyone out shouting the other. Smacks of self righteousness but I have no issues with bribery and corruption having practised it for years in one innovative form or the other. Of course it goes under the garb of different names, motivation,gifts,rewards etc but most often than not it is used to get something or to make someone do something I want them to do. Various children have been bribed with sweets or stories anything to keep them quiet and give me some peace. Considering none of said children were mine I had no qualms about it.

Now many years later I am faced with an elderly parent who is given to mood swings and depression and being of a certain age she unfortunately cannot be bullied hence I indulge in some good old fashioned trickery. Being die hard foodies the only way to motivate us is to offer the promise of food preferably deep fried and forbidden . Being food snobs doesn't help either so it had to be home made using the best ingredients etc I am sure you get the drift. Sunday is for us the worst day of the week. The parent in question (deprived as she is of her daily dose of the most regressive but hugely popular soaps)goes into depression mode. With nothing to keep her busy the mind wanders into places we would rather it didn't. On a particularly difficult Sunday when my own spirits dipped I decided in desperation that I would cook all the food that is normally her forte ..of course I was relaxed about it and went about it with great nonchalance but it worked. The parent and her strict quality standards were put to test and before I knew it she had taken over the kitchen and the cooking. Call it underhand call it what you will but desperate situations required desperate measures and if bribery and corruption works then so be it I personally have no issues with it

Yoga giving me a headache

 Its been seven years of steady yoga practice and a few before that. Not being a morning person it's still amazing that I get up at dawn to go for an yoga class. Simply put when one lives in a hot place the way I do ,the only decent time to exercise is before the sun rises. Also the slow pace of the exercise itself,the fact that over the years I can now touch my toes and do fairly convoluted poses gives me a sense of well being. I enjoy the class but not for me the emotional spiritual and physical miracles that many an yoga practitioner waxes eloquent about. June 21st has been declared world yoga day and like all the other designated days there is a frenzy of activity. Anyone and everyone is talking yoga. While the rest of the world took the practice and made it their own in the country of its origin its mired in controversy and mistrust. If something is good talk about it propagate it but don't shove it down people's throats. Remember free choice freedom to do what one wants to do. Sadly in our country it has moved from a healthy practice to one everyone is getting tired off. Overkill has never benefited anyone or anything. Children being forced to practice yoga,never mind that yoga practised the wrong way can do more harm than good. But when you take away a child leisure time and force them to do something they may have done left to themselves one has lost them already. Surely yoga must be left to the experts.shouldnt governments govern instead of acquiring lifestyle s. Till June 21 we as a people are being subjected to overkill and the jumbled conversations of the government the practitioners and the experts is adding to the din which quiet honestly isn't giving me any inner harmony,more like a splitting headache from which I am unlikely to recover before the 21 June. And so here's to me standing on my head and chanting om 

Fear is the key

Fear is a slow emotion that creeps up on us much like weight gain. With the advent of social media and the ever loud 24/7 news channels news is all pervasive entity. Unfortunately it's never good news it's just a constant dose of violence and bad news that we can't get away from. Some may call it change and perhaps it is that but over time it leads to anger that gives way to despair and then to insecurity. Sadly insecurity breeds fear. 

Gone are the days when I walked fearlessly on the road,now I look over my shoulder constantly. Now driving is no longer pleasure it's stressful one is never sure who will box you in or who will give in to road rage. Gone are the days when boys and men were good friends and uncles and friends dads were just that. Today everyone is viewed with suspicion. The pat on the head,a bear hug have all been robbed of their innocence.

Old age was a time to enjoy the fruits of ones labor but today old people are victims robbed for their wealth,preyed upon for their vulnerability.

In this atmosphere of a changing world fear grew like a weed,slowly strangling me of my confidence.

I always faced the world on my terms,learnt to survive in a cutthroat world,I juggled many hats,bore many stresses,survived as a brave and confident woman. The age like fear crept up and before I knew it it was there like a shadow, lurking in the background waiting for a vulnerable moment waiting to pounce on an unsuspecting soul. It started with the small thing ,a few small mishaps in the car,a fe small mistakes in the kitchen,small things that could have become large issues,and then the questions start,then the small voices whisper,they ask if you're loosing it, maybe your not as sharp as before,perhaps it's a sign of things to come. It's only a matter of time before fear has won and you are reduced to a shadow of your former self and the choices are limited. Face the world and overcome fear or withdraw from the world to the safety of ones own world.  That critical choice will determine ones sanity and quality of life. Sadly it's a choice we all have to make sooner than later

Time to be

Yet another birthday rolls in and suddenly I realise that nothing of any significance has been written for ages. A sign of our turbulent times or just a sign of growing old and cynical. Not quiet sure what the reason is but it may be something as simple as having nothing to write home about. Be that as it may it seems appropriate to pen a few lines as I cross another threshold in my life.

For starters I have become cynical ( not that I wasn't before). Everyday television and newspapers give me bad news,news of brutality towards women,the sick the old and the minorities,stories of violating ones fundamental rights,news of technology taking over our lives,of not having time for people,of killings with no remorse.....haven't I said enough. When my 80+ mother laments the fate of the world,I join her in her lament ( I didn't do this a few years ago), sadly the world has changed.

Now for the good bits,it's the joys of growing old....I can for instance become a frump when I feel like it,can boss people around and most of them would put up with me (though now even age is not respected),I can live life not being answerable to anyone for my bad behaviour. The senior citizens discount is still not mine but I shall wait for it patiently.

My current joys are all related to food and gardening. My dreams are not nightmares but big succulent steaks of beef or juicy bacon and I wake up hungry and head to the kitchen. Ofcourse there is some remorse every time a mirror does what it does best,sometimes with a bit of exaggeration,but one doesn't have to look at mirrors does one?. The weighing scales are not reading right anymore but who cares,why invest money just to be told that one is fat,after all don't I have eyes to see?

All the old childhood friends have reappeared into my life and it's with great joy that memories are shared and experiences exchanged.

Once in a little while I return to a time when I was all about grooming and being smart,once in a while I remember that wit and humour were my forte but for now I am happy to slip into the twilight playing mind games on my phone( that's to keep my mind active I am told). Silly me has a long way to go but I have always loved drama and why not indulge in some on the eve of a threshold.

My thanks

As another year draws to a close and with christmas almost upon us,it's time to give thanks for all that the year brought,it's sorrows and its joys.

My memory fails me or is it that nothing earth shattering happened. Well it was an ordinary year. Thanks however are not always when bells ring and the earth shakes,everyday is a blessing and the fact that all of us stayed healthy albeit the small blips . That the mother was able to visit her daughter in her new house however painful thee journey was and however uncomfortable she was to be taken away from her comfort zone. The time spent with great grand children and grand children. The many times when my mother and I were home alone and had long discussions on life and times gone by. For he stimulating conversations the husband and I had,for the little outings we take even if it's just grocery shopping but is time spent with each other and therefore special. For the many school friends who connected again and for the meeting we planned and had fun at. For the joys that come of a shared childhood. For new friends made and new beginnings. For the little everyday miracles. Ofcourse the sorrows of loosing old friends,the shared sadness of other people's unhappiness and inability to go forward. For the challenge and goals,some achieved and some which drove me demented. For friends who enriched our lives and some sadness at relationships ending. To be able see beyond my limited experiences and to take life in my stride. For answers prayers and prayers that are still said and above all for realising that there is a god above who knows better than me what is good for me even through I can't for the life of me see his logic but nevertheless can be thankful for.

This is my thanks for the year that was thus far.

New technology

Growing up,our biggest concerns were the kind of writing books that we had,the fountain pens we used,the shoes we wore and the books we owned or read. A pilot pen was a must have for most of us but to own a sheaffers pen was like owning the latest iPhone. Out of reach for most of us it was the most sort after gadget of our time. When it came to books the girls who owned the entire Enid blyton collection were several notches above is in the pecking order. These status symbols stayed very much the same through out my childhood. Somewhere towards the end the ball point pen made its appearance. The fact that we didn't have to have ink stained hands or forget to fill out pens,incur the wrath of our teachers seemed too much of an advantage not to have. But again they were expensive and most of the kids who had relatives abroad would come to school with new ones from shores afar and be the envy of most of us lesser mortals. Fast forward a few decades and I have embraced technology and smartphones,emails have replaced all those long letters I wrote to friends during holidays and various other forms of communication have replaced the simple ones of my childhood. Our biggest fears in those days was being busted by inquisitive mothers who tried reading our diary when we were not at home but today the fears are so much bigger. Complete strangers can get access to my emails and anything I do digitally. Now inquisitive mothers I can deal with but the thought that some random stranger will read about my life is a bit disconcerting (not that my life is that colourful either) . My digital interaction border to the inane or to downright boring,after all why give anyone a reason to "follow"as its called. It was rather amusing then to watch Sony and a whole host of Internet users talking about ditching emails thanks to being hacked to the tune of millions of dollars. They were actually talking of going back to pen and paper,to writing things down etc....full circle almost. Amusing because I have a real low tech phone which when I went in to exchange for a seriously hi tech iPhone ,caused some consternation among the retail staff. Most of them had never seen a phone this old ( I rolled my eyes in despair,after all this was a ten or fifteen year old phone for crying out loud). Most of my friends find me old fashioned because I still have a physical address book that has everyone's addressed and phone numbers written down,I am not on a social network that all my friends are on and getting me to respond to phone calls is a bit of a challenge as I don't have my phone stuck to me like an extension of myself. And here I was actually buying an iPhone whic is the sheaffers of my day.

Clueless as I am about the many uses of the new phone,I have the distinct advantage of having grown up in a world where everything wasn't available at my finger tips or should that read Google?. And that being the case I have no issues reading all the stuff I can about the various experiences of phone users,I have no issues in asking my tech smart nephews on how to navigate my way around the phone and before you know it,my age and generation not withstanding,I will become pretty comfortable using the device but it's after all the fuss,the world goes back to the good old days,well I can't complain can I?,I would still be comfortable reverting to it,despite what my smart younger relatives may have to suffer.

The old order changes

It's many years since I was a young school student but as I look back on the world as it today it seems a world away ...well it actually is. For starters we simply had to speak in English and our teachers all being Anglo indian would insist on pronunciation being perfect queens English. Grammar was my nightmare but I managed ok with that too. We always spoke to friends in English and to speak in any other language was unheard of in those days despite all of us knowing atleast two other languages and being able to speak fluently. So today we have our imagination coloured by Enid blyton books and stories set in the english countryside. Slang was unheard of and God forbid one of us got hold of some slang,it meant a trip to the head teachers room and a sound dressing down.

Today some thirty or more years later I am eavesdropping on some conversation between two teenagers. They both go to English medium schools but speak in Tamil to each other and I suspect in school too. No harm ofcourse but we have over the years become a lot more regional and with it perhaps a lot more insulated from outside influences. How else would one explain why some kids don't get a joke when one is cracked or can't understand what I am saying because my pronunciation is different. Reading has been replaced by smartphones,conversations have also been reduced to chats on smartphones so while my kind still meet for tea and conversations most of our kids wonder what all the excitement is all about. We are more conscious of religion but not in a nice way,we have become more intolerant of differences and we are rules now by people in power who have no business to be in power. Crimes against small children and women have increased in a country where we were unaware of differences of gender and culture or religion. Yes as kids we were pretty cruel to others who couldn't get along with us and like all children we could be mean and downright nasty at times ,but we also made solid relationships,we valued friendships and our interactions with the opposite sex was healthy and uncomplicated. Today more students study abroad than in my time but do they know the culture of the countries they visit or do they stick to their kind even there. Do they adapt and change without giving up on their roots or do they just stay confused?. I don't really know except to say that we had to learn a lot of things and the emphasis on character building was far greater than the present stress on marks and getting into engineering or medical colleges. But well like they say...the old order changes yielding place to new

First day at school

jan of 1967 when I was ushered into Doveton corrie . Bothe my elder sisters where already in school and I was starting there for the first time. Having been home schooled until then and my interaction with other kids being minimal,it was a scary day. My elder sister accompanied me to my class room which was on the ground floor near the staff room. The class teacher was Mrs Carr. It looked like I was the only new child in the class. All the others had been in nursery together and having no clue what nursery was I blinked at the children and waited. It was time for assembly and as my sister was in senior school,she had to leave me to be looked after by Mrs Carr. Honestly the thought of being alone with all those children who stared at me was enough to set me off. I threw an almighty tantrum and tore up the wooden stairs to senior school much to the mortification of my two sisters and to the astonishment of Mrs Felix who was principal at that time. If I though the children were scary,one look at Mrs felix's face was enough to send my world crashing. My sister caught between wanting to help and having to face the wrath of the principal,was naturally hesitated  about coming to my rescue. Having to face a roomful of senior girls when one is six and home schooled,is believe me the most traumatic moment in a child's life. I bawled my lungs out threw myself on the floor and screamed like there was no tomorrow while the whole school watched in helpless fascination. Then came Mrs Carr to the rescue. Gentle,loving and beautifully calm she gathers me up in her arms took me to the staff room or I think it was the staff room (it was under the stairs to the left) and plied me with sweets and comics. Not ready to trust anyone besides my mother,she nevertheless lulled me into a happy state,regaled me with stories made school seem like a happy adventure and made me feel safe again. To this day I firmly believe that if Mrs Carr wasn't around,I would never have got an education. I hero worshiped her,she was my world. I cried when she was no longer my class teacher but if ever I had to list the people who influenced my life she would be number one. To a frightened six year old she was everything and more and nothing can compare to what she meant to me. I will always remember her face even if I forget a lot of others and to me she will forever remain one of the best memories of my days in school.

The watchman

Ramu is forty five years old and lives with his family in the outskirts of the city.or he did until he got a job in the city. Today he lives with a family and spends his day watching over their home. Why it needs watching is anybody's guess. His job is to keep random people away and to discourage people from entering the house. His only companion is a golden retriever as bored as himself.

His day starts age seven in the morning when he wakes up after a good nights rest. Most night watchman are expected to stay awake and guard the house but if the person works twenty four hours he does need a rest. He wanders aimlessly around the compound watching the neighbour awake,he sees the daily routines of the ma you houses in the vicinity and at about eight the dog will be taken for a walk. The equally bored dog who at best of times ought to be running around also wanders aimlessly hopefully looking to neighbours for a bit of a cuddle and some attention. The rest of the day is spent doing absolutely nothing. Rams doesn't see his family intill the weekend. When boredom drives him to distraction he listlessly cleans the gates,chats with the maid or exercises his legs walking up and down. He jumps to attention when the owner of the house steps out. He rushes to open the car doors for a young man capable of doing it himself but expects to be waited on hand and foot.

A small electric fan keeps him cool in the heat of the city while the family he serves lives in airconditioned comfort. Mosquitoes make a meal of him at night but he doesn't complain. After all mindless work is better than no work at all. His family needs the money,the children need an education to betterthemselves and hopefully not meet the same fate as him. Once in a while he will exercise his power by yelling at anyone who attemps to park cars in front of the house gates. He will make sure no one gets entry to the house and thee are the small pleasures that make him feel important and meet his need for selfesteem and this one day runs into another and on the first of the month his labours are rewarded when the salary is paid and he can go home for a day. Life otherwise runs its course and for that he is grateful.

A small town and a young man

Many years ago fresh out of college and ready to take on the world and change it,I asked my dad to finance a course in counselling which I was very keen to attend. My father convinced that it was just another reason to get away from home,agreed to pay for it provided I paid back every penny or got myself into higher studies....he left it open so the loan could be returned after I got a job as a counsellor 

My college mate and I had discovers this course so we set off with emotions and ambitions running high. We were all set to take on the emotional baggage of the world and set it free. Our destination was a one horse town near madras (in the last thirty years this place has become a busy little town). It was best known for it's one American missionary and the hospital she set up. Besides the college and hospital there was little else. It had a sleepy railway station where a few trains stopped,exactly two bus routes that covered the whole town and as a concession to the many young doctors that inhabited the place,there was a cinema hall. They screened English movies which in those low technology days,was the highlight of young peoples lives in that town. It was furnished with heavy curtains to keep out light,had a few steel chairs and many a stray dog wandering through the aisle even as we watched a movie.

We entered the institution that was to be our home for the next two months and for us to stay away from home was a big adventure. We had arrived by train,and found out way to the institute (which given our shelterd lives was a big achievement ). We entered a small office and were greeted by a tall gangly young man who had a grin that lit up the room. He was polite and friendly as small town people are usually and for us city people it was a welcome change. He showed us to our room and explained all the rules,meal times,class times and the left us to it.

The course mates as it turned out were mostly nuns and fathers sent by the Catholic Church which has an active family counselling ministry and was training it's staff. Having never been in the company of religious people,more so ones in habits,we were on our best behaviour,until my roommate arrived and then it all changed. She swept into the room and took over my life. She was full of fun and suddenly we were ready to take on evey one in that group.

We soon discovers that social life was at an all time low,there was nothing much to do so we did what most girls in their twenties do. We befriended the only young man on campus. We ground all manner of reasons to keep him back on campus well after his office hours. We made sure we played table tennis and basket ball,and after we had charmed our way into his life,it became a ritual to go for a Saturday night movie after class. It was always a late show as our days working in hospital were both physically and mentally exhausting. We would be ready and waiting and our little group which by now included the younger more enterprising priests ( who rather enjoyed our company while the lord ones looked on in disapproval),some of the fun loving nuns and us. It was a great group,we would walk to the cinema and at midnight walk back to campus through the empty streets of our one horse town. Late nigh tea stalls were our haunts and bacause we were there with a local boy and in the company of religios people we were treated like royalty. It was a carefree ,fun time and as a gap between graduation and higher studies it was our best time.

Our two motths soon came to an end but we came back richer emotionally,and had made some great friends who would make so much of a difference to our lives that many years later we would be able to capture that magic even though we had lost touch.

Thirty odd years later I have managed to call a couple of them and didn't even need to introduce myself. It was as if the years I between had never been. I met that young man again a few years ago and it was with such joy that we flung ourselves into each other's arms....now older with families of our own and jobs etc,it was still for us a great friendship that stood the test of time. We kept track of that young man who had made our lives so much easier in that small town by just being our friend and it's with such sadness that I remember his smile today. In the pursuit of following gods will and in serving those less fortunate than him,our young man took himself to Liberia. In the midst of the worst Ebola epidemic,his smile and cheerfulness must have cheered many a dying person and brought hope to many. Unfortunately our young man died serving his god in a place so far away from home and as the news of his death reached us,all of us girls who loved him for being him,called each other from different parts of the world. We who hardly call each other,talked again and in his death he once agin united the same girls whome he shepherded to the movies all those many years ago.

My little blue car

It was the summer of 1991 and I had just landed myself a job which I thought would do justice to my education and give me a chance to fend for myself. Most people in office then had bikes to take them places and this being a sales job it required a lot of local travel. I had never owned a vehicle no did I have dreams of owning one so I used public transport or just depended on my reliable legs to get me places. Not for long. Efficiency suffered and I was forced to get a vehicle of some kind and thus my first scooter happened . It had to be financed by a loan and was all cloak and dagger. Never having ridden a cycle even, I was at a loss as to how I was to get places. Resourceful as I am I soon found a local boy who was charmed into giving me lessons and soon I was on my way. For some ten years from them I rode that scooter of mine to every nook and corner of this city. It was a battle scared scooter. Six months after buying it,I met with a mother of all crashes which left me with concussion and the bike in a sad state of repair. But the good old scooter saw me through thick and thin. It was famous in it's own way. The mechanic who repaired it for me never knew my name but if ever I was stranded with my scooter not starting I only had to call him and mention the number and he would be there to take care of it. It was with a lot of sadness that I gave it up for a car. Not being able to afford one I had to wait a few years to get enough money and manage to pay the loan off but buying my first car was a big deal for me. It represented my ability to look after myself ,earn enough to buy the things I wanted and with not a penny from the parents. It was with a great deal of pride that I took it home to show my parents that I had done it. The parents not the kind to shower praise didn't say much but the pride in their eyes was enough reward for me. A year into the car and a bus bashed me up from behind and there I was in a mangled car furious with myself and the bus driver (who got away with it) and the police for not helping. It shook me a little and my confidence suffered a bit but I pulled myself up and then went on to become a pretty decent driver.  It was time to trade in the car for another new one . My parents had by then aged a lot by then and getting in and out of a low car was a big issue for them. My next car was decided taking into consideration the needs of my parents. After all the only or perhaps the main reason I learnt to drive was to take them around on hospital visits and general shopping tours. This time I took a tall boy car and the parents were delighted. For the next ten years this car was a second home. I changed jobs did a lot of office work parked in some car bay. Travelled the length and breadth of the city in it and in my dad final days the hospital visits became more frequent. The parents needed more looking after. Six months after the car arrived,I was shuttling one parent from hospital,while trying to look after the other at home. It was a stressful time and as luck would have it,the city which never gets any rain,had a cyclone. Water filled the streets. Two old sick parents and my car parked on the road in case of emergencies. The rain came down and the floods went up and like the old children's song,my car drowned. I watched in disbelief as the water rose and submerged my car. Helpless and lost I waited till the rain subsided and got it repaired. That little car took my dad on his last journey to the hospital. It took me to his funeral. It is a storehouse of memories,some very sad,some happy but all in all a big part of my life was lived in that car. It saw my tears and my joys. It had my clothes .shoes phone glasses etc all lying around in it. It was to me a second home. Unfortunately they don't make cars to last so ten years later today I had to give it up. Call me sentimental but I cried seeing it go for the last time out of my life. I have never cried over a car but this one was a lot more than a car. To me it was a well of all my memories and in it's passing a long chaper in my life closed. The new car is here but I am yet to give it my heart for the moment  a bit of my heart is in a little blue car which was my constant companion for ten long years....

A sentimental fool

Let's accept it the days of showing emotions (except perhaps anger) are long gone. Today I have on countless occasions met people who will keep a stiff upper lip in the middle of crisis. Yes I admire people who can keep such a strict control over their emotions but the otherside  of the argument is that it's unhealthy not to show emotion. After all the natural way to any situation is to cry in sorrow and laugh in joy or sometimes to cry for joy. I for one am a sentimental old fool and have no problems acknowledging it. I cry at all funerals even if I didn't know the person well. I cry at weddings because it's all so emotional. I cry when I hear a touching speech . In short I wear my heart on my sleeve . To me it's perfectly natural. When I loose a loved on for me it's sorrow,it's grief,it's complete devastation and for that moment my life is over and I cry for my loss. Which is why I find it so hard to go for funerals and see dry eyes all around. I accept the argument that the person has lived a good life and has found peace etc but this is about the living and their loss. What does one say to people who won't accept grief or refuse to show their emotion?. I still remember the worlds shocked reaction to Diana Spencer's death. More than the sorrow of loosing a much loved person,the shock was that the British public gave vent to their feelings. Crying openly and on the streets marked a strange turn in the emotional lives of an otherwise cold British psyche. It was a healthy change on my opinion. Emotions are meant to be felt,it's healthy to feel and acknowledge them and it's healing to give into your emotions. Ofcourse there is a time and place for it but funerals ,weddings,birth of children etc are all occasions of sorrow and joy and must be acknowledged but as the world around me chooses to be in denial,I will continue to be emotional. Call me a sentimental fool,but atleast it shows that I am sensitive.life is meant to be lived in all it's fullness and emotions are part of it

The dinner dilemma

It's an eternal dilemma for me,starting around five in the evening just after tea I start to think of what to cook up for dinner. The husband and I have this discussion with unfailing regularity but because he wants the easy way out the suggestions are always chapatti or pasta. Now this doesn't say much does it as the chapati needs a side dish and the pasta needs a sauce. It then falls on me to get creative. Once again today the suggestion was pasta with a condition attached....pls make it tasty he says (like I ever make anything tasteless). Trolling through food blogs and websites told me how woefully ill equipped I was. The closest I had to Parmesan was a very very poor relation in India being palmed off as a cousin. Having had the misfortune of eating in Europe and buying home made small farm holding parmesans which taste like heaven on earth,it's a sad state of affairs to have to settle for this local version but beggers not being choosers and all that I decide to use it. Some olives at the end of a bottle and some jalapeño peppers (yes I know that's more Mexican than Italian but we are inventing here with limited resources) make my task a little easier. Tomato the one thing that's easily available here has shot through the roof in terms of price and as a form of protest I am using tomato purée. Not for me the passata or the cherry tomato,not for me some good white wine but then again I never claimed to be making authentic food did I?. Raiding the fridge is rewarding sometimes so I find some chicken bits and some stock....now the ideas are falling into shape. I toss up some garlic and onions in well heated olive oil and throw in so,e dried herbs. Don't ask me what herbs the label has long since faded but it smelt fine to me so in it went. The aromas were kicking in so that's fine. The chicken went in next followed by olives and peppers and plenty of chilli flakes. Then I threw in the tomato purée and let it simmer gently. The pasta was cooking away merrily on the next stove and when all of it was mixed with the sauce,dinner was ready. To serve I used loads of the poor relation cheese and while it didn't do much to the flavour it did make for a decent meal. Ofcourse the final verdict rests with the husband who has developed a rather refined pallet . Well the meal is done the verdict is that it was fine and when he asks for the ingredients one can be sure it may have been just a notch above average.....the dinner dilemma for the day is over and so on to tomorrow

A few good men

Bribery and corruptions have been constant in the lives of most people in this country. Weather we like it or not we are up against it in most places. Government offices are the worst and if one has to deal with the government on anything it's sure to last a few days with no clue if the work will get done with or without the bribery. We brace ourselves before entering into these hallowed portals and come out most often than not worse off than when we went in. Which is why when one is met with efficiency and good manners ones is not sure if it's a one off or if it's the norm . However having said that I continue to believe that there are some good men in the system and when we do meet them we must be the first to acknowledge them.

My first experience is with our local garbage collector. Most of them (in the many years that I have had reason to deal with them,) are lazy,will do a bad job on most days,will insist on payment despite getting a salary and will demand that they are tipped handsomely on festival days. In India with the number of festivals we have ,this demand is almost and ongoing cycle. God forbid we don't pay up. I have had garbage pile up in my compound thanks to refusing extortion . Then we get a chap who is young,pleasant,always says thank you and good morning or atleast greets one with a smile. He is efficient and will pick up the garbage every day. Has informed us of his weekly off so we are prepared. Will never demand tips and is reluctant to accept gifts in cash or kind. He will however take a chair or some item that might be of some use to him,if we are throwing it away. He has friends in all the streets he services,the local shopkeepers are his friends and he always has a smile and a wave for everyone. Now instead of avoiding the garbage collector we actually have a chit chat most mornings.

Getting a passport is supposed to be the right of every citizen in this country but it's a nightmare for most people. For years we braved a dusty,smelly office where no one has a clue who did what. It was an office that reeked of bribery and corruption and the office boys were the collectors so to speak. The system was so miserable that every man worth his criminal salt was making a quick buck at the expense of the hapless citizen. Ten years ago in the heat of an Indian summer I braved that office and after having almost giving up,managed to get a passport. The police who had to verify our details were always there to take some more cash off us, and those who didn't pay up could wait for ages for their passports to get cleared. Fast forward to this year. I woke on the morning of my visit to the office,sick at the thought of facing that miserable lot who thought they we're doing me a favour giving me a passport. I was surprised to walk into a clean (government office are always dirty) office,air conditioned ( surprise surprise) and be passed through from one desk to the other in quick succession (the rate as which one moved in the queue was enough to put even a snail to shame) and finger printed photographed and attended to by polite and well mannered people. In shock I moved to the final step where some left overs of the previous office still ruled the roost but even that wasn't as painful as it was ten years ago. Progress at last. Well I still had to wait for the police to verify the details and that wasn't something I looked forward to. Most policemen think they are gods gift to citizens and would hang around wasting time till I paid some bribe or the other. I equally determined not to pay up,would end up wasting his time but having to prolong the agony of having the man hang around my house. Fast forward again to the present day. The cop called and fixed an appointment,apologised for being late,collected all the details and left all in a space of ten minutes during which time we had a very civil conversation on crime and punishment. I thanked him profusely . To meet a decent cop is a rare thing and I for one must put it on record that here was a very decent human being who did his job and left. I wish we had more such people in the force,perhaps citizens would be more willing to report crime.

To think that in all the years that I have lived in this city and country it's taken me this long to write about a few good men,but if this is way forward all power to the good people who exist in a badly run system

Pillar to post

Running from pillar to post isn't my favourite form of working out but I seem to be doing it more often than not. Yesterday and today have been the same story. I always wondered why we don't have systems that work despite the people who run them. Then again we have forms to fill where the information given is in contrast to what actually happens. Take for instance getting a demand draft. I filled a form which gave me options of cash,cheque or bank transfer so I choose cash since I had the money on me and it wasn't a big amount.  I reached the counter and was told that only a cheque was acceptable. When I pointed out that they hade given me an option she shrugged and said well it's not an option anymore. So I had to pay for the bank careless use of options on a form that they had no intention of honouring. Mind you I had to wait on a line for fifteen minutes before I was told about this. The next bank told me that would accept cash but the manager was on leave so I would have to use another branch. Once again the form gave the option of cash. The other branch however told me that cash was not acceptable and to add insult to injury,they would charge me a commission despite having an account with them. I left both banks in total frustration. My point is not that there is anything wrong in accepting a cheque,in face I think they must insist on it to avoid money laundering and corruption but if they give options then they must honour it. If one person in a bank tells me so thing then that should apply to all branches of the same bank. Why or why do we not have systems that work . If I was in America I could have sued both banks but in India I suffered in silence being at the mercy of banks and their shrugging shoulders.

Of childhood and memories

Many decades ago when we were children all summer holidays were spent staying at a relatives place in Kerala. Most of them were grandparents homes or homes of aunts and uncles. On my fathers side his elder sister was like a mother to all as the parents were dead by the time we learnt the meaning of grandparents so our summer holidays were spent in the homes of my aunt or uncle. My aunt has the distinction of having a son and a granddaughter with just a year between them. As children it shocked us that such a thing was possible so I had a niece who was some ten years older to me and she was more like a cousin than a niece. My aunt has a large brood of children and most of them were just years younger than my father. In face her eldest daughter was older than my mom. Now because she had some eight children,her house was overrun with children and grandchildren,nieces and nephews. It was one of those sprawling homes were children could loose themselves . Like most homes of that day it had large gardens at many levels. So if one wanted a bath one had to carry ones toilet bag down two or three levels to access a well,draw water and then have a bucket bath. Sometimes this was a ritual or rather a community activity. We would walk a kilometre or two to a bath house and while the mothers washed clothes the children took turns having a bath. The older girls always had baths together and I suspect this was their time to share confidences without being overheard by sharp eared m others. We younger ones had to wait our turn till one of the mothers decided to bath us. This was done in assembly line methods. We were lined up and soaped and washed in turns. The most miserable time was when the mother in a hurry to get the job done would soap us rapidly and move on. This meant soap got into our eyes but everyone was too busy to bother so we waited in agony till our turn came to be washed. Going to to the loo was another operation. Because those were the days when attached bathrooms were non existent it was assumed that children all had to go to the loo before they went to sleep. God forbid one wanted to wee during the night. We were so terrified that we learnt blader control the hard way.

Our meals were all mostly things grown on the land so we had to know how to dig up tapioca,yam and plantain. We were taught how to hull a coconut,milk cows(something I never learnt being terrified of cows) we hunted for wild mushrooms after the rains,plucked all manner of fruit and veg from the gardens and surrounding forests and not once did we go to a shop to buy food. It was all fresh and healthy. We had no TV or internet and the only books we read were the ones we tool from home to see us through the holidays though we never found time to read them. As the sun set we would all gather on the varenda to listen to the old people gossip and we picked up what ever news we thought was important (most times it was irrelevant) just before after dinner which was eaten in shifts(too many people for the dining table) my aunt would gather her own brood and the extended ones into a large room. She made it a point to make us read the bible in turns. Since we only spoke English and couldn't read in our native language we were allowed to listen. After bible reading we had to sing a few hymns and then my aunt who fancied herself a preacher (in the days were woman were not allowed anywhere near the pulpit) would give us a little sermon. Having filled our stomachs with food we would all start falling asleep y the time she finished but she wasn't done with us so it was prayer time. For some reason she loved to pray and would pray loud and long so much so that when she finished all her children,grandchildren and extended family would be fast asleep on the floor. She lived to a ripe old age of a hundred and three and did this prayer ritual long after her family had dwindled to two or three. Today as her granddaughter visited me after a gap of some forty years she brought back memories of childhood and summer. Today we live in hotels or guess houses even when we have relatives and I realised that an entire era of family and times together was just a memory in these times

The long and short of it

Time was when I was taken to a barber shop by my mother to do some serious hair repaire after my sisters had deemed it fit to give me a haircut....no read that as they'd took to hacking my hair any which way. They took great pleasure in using me to better their haircut ting skills but as nothing came out of it and they ended up teaching English one can imagine how dog eaten I looked. I told myself then that I would always have decent haircuts and the search has brought me a few decades later to being none the better. The thing I liked about the barber shop was the chair. The chair could be height adjusted it was comfortable and I could swing around in it. The barber always used a colourful bottle to spray my hair and the click click of his scissors was music to my ears. But the best part was how he would use a razor to trim the back. I always came out looking more boy than girl and smelling of sticky sweet perfume. To this day that wiff will bring back memories. When I was about thirteen the Chinese started by beauty parlours in the city and the barber shop soon became a thing of the past. The new parlours were a little more up market. For one they had hair dryers,those upturned egg shaped things,they had blow dryers and the girls were smartly dressed (till then only men had cut my hair). I spent the next twenty or so years making regular visits to these places which made me feel oh so grown up and smart. Haircuts slowly but surely became more expensive but more interesting too. Since most people in our country still have long hair having a short cut was a novelty and more difficult. As someone who had always had short hair it was a challenge to keep my curls looking decent and a good hairdresser was like finding a good doctor....if you found one never let them go. My obsession with hairstyles soon became a joke among my friends..it started with me hunting down a good one in the neighbouring city and taking a train there,then I grew my hair real long  just to make sure that there was enough for a hairdresser to something spectacular . When it was long enough I went to Paris,did some research and got a haircut. I remember paying 90franks in the days before the euro but even I can say that it was money well spent. I came out looking stylish and smart and till date I haven't had a better haircut.

By the time the twenty first century rolled around haircuts were becoming more and no expensive. A srilankan chain opened shop and charged an arm and a leg for a hair cut but the hairdressers were trained,had many awards to their credit and could make a clear diagnosis o n what would suit me. I fell for it and made friends with the boy who came close to making me look good. I though my quest was over. But he moved on and once again I grew my hoar got along with sub standard hairstyles and was never really happy about it until an international chain opened shop near my place. Now here was a salon that only cut hair . The whole place was air conditioned,the lobby had comfortable leather sofas,the girls at reception were so smart they made me feel positively scruffy,the hairstylist was trained in London,did a full clinical analysis of my hair,while offering me coffee tea or a soft drink. This was luxury and I paid dearly for it. At a whopping fifteen hundred quid a hair cut was not only becoming a one a month affair but also burning a large hole in my pocket,add to that a hair colour or two (this when the bag lady looked like she should be in vogue....me all grew and old) and I was watching the bank balance beginning to look like a bad hair day. But ofcourse I was paying for a lot more than just the haircut,the hairdresser and I had long chats and he would take a hour to cut my hair,wash it condition it blow dry it and there I would look so good I would always turn around to see if the person in the mirror was really me. Ofcourse that lasted only until the first wash at home and I would look nothing like my salon self.

Now all things considered I decided to grow my hair till Christmas and then spend a bit of money. But as luck would have it some one or the other kept mentioning this girl who cut hair for a hundred quid. Now where was hundred compared to fifteen hundred? And as none of them looked too bad I simply had to try out this girl and her skills. So off I went to this hole in the wall,the reception stuffed with washing machines and in tears,no air conditioning,reception girls who couldn't speak English. Curtains that had seen better days and no shampoo or conditioning. The girl made me sit in a chir she just about dusted,combed my hair out with a comb that had just been used on someone else,cut my hair in five minuted and charged me eighty quid,which is less that the tip I pay at the fancy place. Well I looked ok nothing great and maybe a bit like I did when I was ten and used the barbe shop but could I complain? I doubt it,I mean at that price what did I expect and it wasn't a bad job either. I am in two minds now. The snob in me says go back to sofistication and the practical in me says well as the look isn't very different why not use her services till Christmas and the use the posh chap only for a treat. It's hard when one has got used to the good things in life but I am going to be less of a snob,I think in times of recession,simplifying life is the key so for now,economics wins over style but who know when tempation overpowers me....will wait and see

Heat and dust

Told myself that obsessive behaviour is the first sign of boredom and that I would never succumb to it but then again I do tell myself a lot of things and not being one to practise what I preach,I tend to disregard all my own advice. The thing is I hate summer and the heat. Till a few years ago my faithful thermometer which I unfailingly picked up in different countries as souvenirs (but all of which worked to some degree....) was all I had to measure temperature and laziness prevented me from actually checking so in blissful ignorance I lived out my life in the heat and dust and complained but never got obsessed by it. The I found technology and my innocent hatred of the heat became an obsession. I check all weather websites every five minutes in the hope that the temperature has dropped. Much like people who start their morning with prayer or reading the bible I start my day checking temperature. All my conversations are about the weather. All my status updates are about weather. I am beginning to sound like a stuck record with my constant mourning about the weather and despite being aware of it I much like an alcoholic just can't seem to get over it. I have taken to hiding inside my house behind thick curtains terrified of the heat,me who couldn't pass a day without going out even if it was just to check out the fish prices or the meat available. Now obsession takes many forms and it's symptoms are varied so here are mine....I drink gallons of water,take a few showers a day despite the water being hot then I suffer in silence for a few hours under a fan and when night arrives I dive into an air conditioned room and hope to get a good nights sleep. I feel guilty when I am too lazy to water my plants, haven't planted a single vegetable (now that is good sense as nothing will grow in this heat) and my only conversation s are about the heat. Now even the blog is full of weather. Never understood what it was about the British that they were so obsessed by the weather but now I know. Unfortunately not all my family and friends are on the same page so to speak so the husband is quick to cut a conversation short when the topic shifts to the temperature of the day....the only thing not affected by the current obsession is my appetite . I continue to eat well and look forward to cooking up and experimenting with food despite my hot house of a kitchen but like all addicts to a cause I find my way around the hot kitchen and tend to make enough food every evening. Unfortunately the predictable temperature day in and day out is robbing the obsession of its novelty factor and soon very soon I may find something else to obsess about but until then boy is it hot.

The sun and his games

In the year 2014 as the year begins,the sun asks god for an long vacation. God is not pleased,the winter has just been so cold over most parts of the globe or the sun has been shining in places where he was not supposed to be and generally his behaviour has left a lot to be desired. Unfortunately sun thinks no end of himself and is getting a bit above his station. He thinks that because everyone revolves around him and because he's so bright,everyone must pale in comparison . Now god had been watching him for a while now and considering he's been on holiday for a pretty long period he was told in no uncertain terms that extended vacations were out of the question. He was meant to see summer through,after all everyone on earth needs vitamin D and the flowers need sunshine to bloom and the eart needs light and all that and this was his job description so well just get on with it god said.

Now as I mentioned earlier sun was getting too big for his boots so he sulked for a day or two and then decided he would defy god. He wasn't a team player he wanted all the attention and well he decided to have his revenge. He looked around the world and planned his campaign well. He decided that this year he was going to shine so bright that god would have no choice but to give him what he asked for. He wanted god to be on the back foot so he went to India and he started by being a nice sun shinning bright and lovely and just as everyone had settled into summer he decided to get upto mischief. On May first he launched his campaign and shone so bright that the earth warmed up and the flowers withered and people died and fell ill,but he didn't stop. He wanted god to take notice but god had no patience with spoilt childish behaviour so he ignored him. Sun continued to heat up the earth and as people especially old people and small children suffered under his heat,many people sent prayers to god to stop him. By June god was tired of the constant knocking on his door,his phone was never silent and his email box was full of prayers from an increasingly desperate people. Finally god summoned sun and told him he had to back off. His behaviour was unacceptable and while god didn't interfere in the day to day running of the planet this had just gone too far. While sun sulked and pulled a face,god summoned clouds and rain and told them they had better get to work to cool down the earth. The angles were also told to have their summer baths and the water was to be poured on earth. Everyone went off to do their bidding while cursing sun ( the angles muttered under their breadth they were not allowed to curse) and for a day or two they have been doing their jobs. Ofcourse god hasn't granted long vacations as demanded by sun but has given him a day or two off after which he is expected to report back to work but to keep the temperature at a reasonable high. Will sun listen ?. Well he is not a very happy chap is he at having his wings or shall I say his rays clipped so we shall have to wait and see what he does when his break is overa. I for one don't trust him a bit but you see I am mere mortal and one of his victims. So I wait and continue to send prayers upto heaven