Slowly, it crept in. On last sunday, my blog turned one!
What began as an update on my life in france for R, on A's insistent became a blog. And somehow, I have managed to keep it up through various moves and upheavels and illness, through unemployment and employment!
Many thanks to all of you who took time to visit my blog, leave a comment or email me. Can't tell you what it meant for me.
Special thanks goes to Debashish of Null Pointer, who held my blogging hands through all things tech on my blog through email and chat and when all failed, took my user id and password and did the changes himself! Inspired by him, I hesitantly began a bengali blog but it proved to be a still born. Debashish still hopes that I might restart it soon.
I left a moderately successful job, a very full social life to go to France and found myself in isolation. Even when I picked up the lingo, I still couldnt find a job. I wasnt too great as a house wife either. So blogging came to my rescue. A having set me in the blogging way, must have rued his decision when the dirty dishes piled up in the sink and laundry in the basket and I cooked abbreviated meals, all my concentration focussed on Blogging.
For very long time I was extremely shy about my blog posts and quaked everytime I hit the 'publish' button (I still am a bit shaky about it). There seem to be so many wonderful blogs around with so many intelligent matter. Not just a bored-housewife-blog. But each time some one wrote something to me, I felt better. So imagine my surprise when I was got quite a few emails from readers of my blog when I left france for India. Well, thanks!
Some of my favourite blogs -
Daniel Brett because once he wrote about Kolkata and because of Sabuj Neer;
Rezwan - read his blog and you will know why I like it.
Instant kaapi - for being nice to me in my early blogging days!! haha.
Null Pointer - See above for explanation
Bongo Vongo, Solilokey, Infinitelimits.....
Like all good things, this too will come to an end, someday...but not just yet. I am not through with it. No way!
Monday, November 29, 2004
Friday, November 26, 2004
Barriers to entry
I arrive on Tuesday, my first day, well ahead of 9.30am, get a 'visitor' tag and fill in the visitors' roster, at the entrance, guarded fiercely by efficient security staff. I wait at the reception for the bosses who usually smartly march in a bit late, in their crisp shirts, reeking of expensive aftershave. My boss is the first to arrive and he beckons me to follow him into the work area. I have not taken two steps when I am stopped by the security at the door to the work area. 'Madam, you can't go in with a visitor tag'. Back to the reception, I sit and study the wonderful photos on the wall, eye the visitors and refuse numerous offers of coffee. Then arrives the Secretary to the CEO, a very smart lady whom I had mistaken earlier for the creative head. She says she had no idea that I was joining. More apologies and hemming and hawing. I read the papers - ET, TOI, HT from cover to cover.
Then boss-ka-boss arrives and speakes to secy to CEO. Then i am finally allowed to enter, two hours later.
In the afternoon, secy calls me, no, sends regal summons. I am handed a voluminous form to fill up along with a couple of papers to sign - I won't do this...I won't do that etc. I duly fill up the form, hesitating at have you suffered from any of the following and lists out a huge number of serious illnesses. Not yet, but all things are possible.
I go downstairs to return the cv to the secy who incidentally has the nicest and largest office. 'No. Please put in a photo and return', she says. 'But that will take time', I say, since I am all out of photos. 'That's OK. You can have it clicked at our digital studio'.
Come Wednesday, I have my photo clicked in a studio with all sorts of strange lights and many adjustments and nodding of head and posture changes. All this for a passport sized photo of my face. The photos are uploaded to a PC, the owner of which didn't have time to breathe, let alone print my photos. So, the day passed.
Next morning, the usual suspicion at the entry when I once again sign the visitor's roster. But hey, I found some passport photos of mine, in which, like always, I look like an escaped convict. So the appointment letter is not far away.
I begin the day, wondering where could I place the lovely frame (a diwali gift) with our (A's and mine) photo. Where would it look best? What else could I keep. I cut short my reverie to plunge into the bewildering world of pitches and presentations and a 1000 abbreviations. The day is nearly over when I ring up (meekly), the royal seccy, all a tremble and dare to, like, Oliver Twist, ask for more - my appointment letter that is. What??? (I can well hear her scream in her mind),
- You have been given a desk, a phone (but no STD connection),
- an email id (but no PC).
- Didn't some one come and take the exact spelling of your name for your OWN visiting card and you want more????
She doesn't ofcourse say all this. 'Not today', comes the reply. That doesn't surprise me in the least. Somehow, I knew that was how it would be.
Friday is holiday and so I will hopefully get it on Monday.
Then boss-ka-boss arrives and speakes to secy to CEO. Then i am finally allowed to enter, two hours later.
In the afternoon, secy calls me, no, sends regal summons. I am handed a voluminous form to fill up along with a couple of papers to sign - I won't do this...I won't do that etc. I duly fill up the form, hesitating at have you suffered from any of the following and lists out a huge number of serious illnesses. Not yet, but all things are possible.
I go downstairs to return the cv to the secy who incidentally has the nicest and largest office. 'No. Please put in a photo and return', she says. 'But that will take time', I say, since I am all out of photos. 'That's OK. You can have it clicked at our digital studio'.
Come Wednesday, I have my photo clicked in a studio with all sorts of strange lights and many adjustments and nodding of head and posture changes. All this for a passport sized photo of my face. The photos are uploaded to a PC, the owner of which didn't have time to breathe, let alone print my photos. So, the day passed.
Next morning, the usual suspicion at the entry when I once again sign the visitor's roster. But hey, I found some passport photos of mine, in which, like always, I look like an escaped convict. So the appointment letter is not far away.
I begin the day, wondering where could I place the lovely frame (a diwali gift) with our (A's and mine) photo. Where would it look best? What else could I keep. I cut short my reverie to plunge into the bewildering world of pitches and presentations and a 1000 abbreviations. The day is nearly over when I ring up (meekly), the royal seccy, all a tremble and dare to, like, Oliver Twist, ask for more - my appointment letter that is. What??? (I can well hear her scream in her mind),
- You have been given a desk, a phone (but no STD connection),
- an email id (but no PC).
- Didn't some one come and take the exact spelling of your name for your OWN visiting card and you want more????
She doesn't ofcourse say all this. 'Not today', comes the reply. That doesn't surprise me in the least. Somehow, I knew that was how it would be.
Friday is holiday and so I will hopefully get it on Monday.
Tuesday, November 23, 2004
Jinx Broken
If you have been following my periodic whines about my enforced domesticity in my blog, then you will be relieved and share (hopefully) my elation. I have found myself a job in a top advertising agency in Delhi, as an account supervisor for their development sector projects! I began today, after exactly four years (24 November 2000 to 23 November 2004).
Am rusty...but loving it!
Am rusty...but loving it!
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
A belated sad, lonely diwali post
One more diwali post. But not that joyous, noisy occasion where we willing burnt money, added to the already dangerous levels of pollution burst our ear drums god knows why sort of a diwalil post. A sad, wallowing in self pity, lonely, only lit by thin candles, quiet sort of a post.
I always enjoyed diwali. First as a kid (a scaredy-cat), watching Ma lighting and bursting from a distance. Later on, with enormous energy and enthusiasm I'd get everyone togther, bully the residents of our building to cough up for our diwali funds, buy the crackers and general have a great time (but always the scaredy cat, I and my co-organiser, would be the first to leave the crowded terrace and hide under the water tank as soon as the first cracker was burst).
This year, however, diwali was a very low-key affair for me. Alone with the in-laws. They were happy and content with each other's company. I was somehow all lost, all by myself (A is away in France). We lit some diyas and candles, m-i-l handling the downstairs and f-i-l and I the upstairs terrace bit. We found half a string of tiny bulbs. We got a very sleepy kid (2 boys have rented the mezzanine floor - but at any given time, there are usually 6 to 7 boys and usually all new faces!) to hoist it up on their terrace. Then we went back to our regular pattern of T.V, T.V-dinner, more T.V and then bed sandwiched between our neighbours, Nowlakhas on the left and Guptas on the right kept bursting all through the night, and chose to burst them in front of our gate. And there were the others behind our house. I wallowed in self pity ....then slowly the smell of barud (gunpowder???) or whaterver it is they use to make crackers permeated indoors from all sides and we set up a nice concert coughing. And always one after the other, never all together. I buried myself deep in my razai and yet I thought, the pillow, the mosquito net, the bedsheets smelt of barud. My eyes hurt, I thought I was gasping for breath. Will we all be found dead tomorrow in our beds?
Funny, I never noticed the noise, the barud, the pollution, the smog and not to mention the sheer waste of money going up literally in smoke while so many starve, before. Sigh!
I always enjoyed diwali. First as a kid (a scaredy-cat), watching Ma lighting and bursting from a distance. Later on, with enormous energy and enthusiasm I'd get everyone togther, bully the residents of our building to cough up for our diwali funds, buy the crackers and general have a great time (but always the scaredy cat, I and my co-organiser, would be the first to leave the crowded terrace and hide under the water tank as soon as the first cracker was burst).
This year, however, diwali was a very low-key affair for me. Alone with the in-laws. They were happy and content with each other's company. I was somehow all lost, all by myself (A is away in France). We lit some diyas and candles, m-i-l handling the downstairs and f-i-l and I the upstairs terrace bit. We found half a string of tiny bulbs. We got a very sleepy kid (2 boys have rented the mezzanine floor - but at any given time, there are usually 6 to 7 boys and usually all new faces!) to hoist it up on their terrace. Then we went back to our regular pattern of T.V, T.V-dinner, more T.V and then bed sandwiched between our neighbours, Nowlakhas on the left and Guptas on the right kept bursting all through the night, and chose to burst them in front of our gate. And there were the others behind our house. I wallowed in self pity ....then slowly the smell of barud (gunpowder???) or whaterver it is they use to make crackers permeated indoors from all sides and we set up a nice concert coughing. And always one after the other, never all together. I buried myself deep in my razai and yet I thought, the pillow, the mosquito net, the bedsheets smelt of barud. My eyes hurt, I thought I was gasping for breath. Will we all be found dead tomorrow in our beds?
Funny, I never noticed the noise, the barud, the pollution, the smog and not to mention the sheer waste of money going up literally in smoke while so many starve, before. Sigh!
Thursday, November 11, 2004
A Comparitive Study of the public transport of a few metro cities in India!
(Despite the ambititious title, this post is a very narrow comparison based on a few interesting experiences of the blogger)!
Kolkata first, but ofcourse: I once shared a cab with a punjabi colleague of mine, a recent import to the city of joy. His directions to the driver, in bengali, had me in splits! I had to explain to him rule No. 1: Most cabbies in Kolkata are bihari and speak hindi. Rest of them are mostly sardarjis who are at ease in either hindi or bengali and then there are a handful of bengali drivers. These last ones are ofcourse the ones who are never going you way. Hail a cab and when he slows down, tell him your destination and he will say that he is going in the exact opposite direction.* Without fail. If he is, then why slow down? But slow down they do. Once a cabbie slowed down and when I told him where I wanted to go, he said 'Seat-i nei, aabar jaabey' - No seats and yet she wants to go! Thats when I noticed the seats had been taken out leaving a small bit for the driver and obviously was on its way to a repair shop.
* I don't mean to be sexist when I refer to the cabbie as 'he'. In my 12 years in Kolkata, I have seen only one lady taxi driver - Sharan Kaur who took to driving to support her family after her cabbie husband's untimely death. Incidentally she also runs a flourishing driving school.
Mumbai next: Last month, when I was in Mumbai for a week, I had to extensively travel by cabs. The first thing I noticed was like everything else in Mumbai (at least when compared to Kolkata), how gung-ho the cabbies were. They never tried to cheat me or take me on a long convulated route despite their knowing that I didnt know a thing about the Mumbai roads. They charged the exact fare, one even hailed an auto for me which would be an easier and more economical mode of transport for me given the fact that Ganesh Chaturthi was in full swing with crowds making their way to the sea front for immersion of the various Ganesha idols. I had to take a train from VT which was quite a distance from Juhu, where I had put up, especially given the Ganesh festival. Everyone I asked had a different and equally complicated route for me. A taxi driver solved the problem. He suggested the easiest and shortest route and I reached VT with loads of time to spare. And yet he could have made a packet had he suggested he'd drive me there himself. I would have certainly agreed and would'nt have been any wiser.
But the best part undoubtedly was the way they spoke. 'Sister, tum yer karo, woh karo...', always using the informal 'tum' and never the formal and more correct 'aap' used elsewhere!
At a crossing near Mahim Church, a woman approached me saying she needed money for a kafan (shroud) for someone one recently departed. I ignored her as best as I could since the lowest denomination I had was a Rs. 50/- note. She whined away as I guiltily looked the other way. As our cab pulled away, the driver informed me that this woman runs a racket and only last week she angrily returned a Rs. 50/- note back to a sethani (rich lady) saying it was too little. Phew! And here I was wondering what the cabbie must have been thinking about my easily blowing up money on cabs and none to spare for the needy!!
And now Delhi: The auto drivers here are cheating me left, right and center. And yet I have little option because I am unfamiliar with the roads. Funnily, here in Delhi, where hindi is the preferred language, try saying 'Dahina/Dayan' (right) or Bayan (left) and they get confused.
'Right Kahiye naa' (Say 'Right'), scolded my auto driver when did'nt follow my 'dahina' and we missed a turning and got stuck in a godawful jam.
And lastly, Bangalore: Some years back, when I had gone there, I was cheated by every single auto and cab driver who refused to take me on the normal fare (as told to me by the locals). Exasperated, I let it out on one auto driver who replied in accented english 'Sorry madam, but we gotto make a living, no?! He said it so simply and so charmingly, that I glady paid up!
Kolkata first, but ofcourse: I once shared a cab with a punjabi colleague of mine, a recent import to the city of joy. His directions to the driver, in bengali, had me in splits! I had to explain to him rule No. 1: Most cabbies in Kolkata are bihari and speak hindi. Rest of them are mostly sardarjis who are at ease in either hindi or bengali and then there are a handful of bengali drivers. These last ones are ofcourse the ones who are never going you way. Hail a cab and when he slows down, tell him your destination and he will say that he is going in the exact opposite direction.* Without fail. If he is, then why slow down? But slow down they do. Once a cabbie slowed down and when I told him where I wanted to go, he said 'Seat-i nei, aabar jaabey' - No seats and yet she wants to go! Thats when I noticed the seats had been taken out leaving a small bit for the driver and obviously was on its way to a repair shop.
* I don't mean to be sexist when I refer to the cabbie as 'he'. In my 12 years in Kolkata, I have seen only one lady taxi driver - Sharan Kaur who took to driving to support her family after her cabbie husband's untimely death. Incidentally she also runs a flourishing driving school.
Mumbai next: Last month, when I was in Mumbai for a week, I had to extensively travel by cabs. The first thing I noticed was like everything else in Mumbai (at least when compared to Kolkata), how gung-ho the cabbies were. They never tried to cheat me or take me on a long convulated route despite their knowing that I didnt know a thing about the Mumbai roads. They charged the exact fare, one even hailed an auto for me which would be an easier and more economical mode of transport for me given the fact that Ganesh Chaturthi was in full swing with crowds making their way to the sea front for immersion of the various Ganesha idols. I had to take a train from VT which was quite a distance from Juhu, where I had put up, especially given the Ganesh festival. Everyone I asked had a different and equally complicated route for me. A taxi driver solved the problem. He suggested the easiest and shortest route and I reached VT with loads of time to spare. And yet he could have made a packet had he suggested he'd drive me there himself. I would have certainly agreed and would'nt have been any wiser.
But the best part undoubtedly was the way they spoke. 'Sister, tum yer karo, woh karo...', always using the informal 'tum' and never the formal and more correct 'aap' used elsewhere!
At a crossing near Mahim Church, a woman approached me saying she needed money for a kafan (shroud) for someone one recently departed. I ignored her as best as I could since the lowest denomination I had was a Rs. 50/- note. She whined away as I guiltily looked the other way. As our cab pulled away, the driver informed me that this woman runs a racket and only last week she angrily returned a Rs. 50/- note back to a sethani (rich lady) saying it was too little. Phew! And here I was wondering what the cabbie must have been thinking about my easily blowing up money on cabs and none to spare for the needy!!
And now Delhi: The auto drivers here are cheating me left, right and center. And yet I have little option because I am unfamiliar with the roads. Funnily, here in Delhi, where hindi is the preferred language, try saying 'Dahina/Dayan' (right) or Bayan (left) and they get confused.
'Right Kahiye naa' (Say 'Right'), scolded my auto driver when did'nt follow my 'dahina' and we missed a turning and got stuck in a godawful jam.
And lastly, Bangalore: Some years back, when I had gone there, I was cheated by every single auto and cab driver who refused to take me on the normal fare (as told to me by the locals). Exasperated, I let it out on one auto driver who replied in accented english 'Sorry madam, but we gotto make a living, no?! He said it so simply and so charmingly, that I glady paid up!
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
The joys of going to a 'camp'
(I am currently staying with a friend T, in Delhi.)
Dia, T's 6 year old was driving everyone crazy with incessant chatter about her forthcoming 'Camp'. The minute she saw me (after nearly a year), she screamed "Su aunty, I am going to a camp", and proceeded to name a string of places she possibly couldn't see in a day's time and be back home by 8pm! The 'camp' incidentally was a day trip to a farm and a bird sanctuary.
She went on and on about things she had to take to the camp. "Mamma, when are you going to buy my things for the camp?", she asked a zillion times before T read the camp notice and told her that children were not supposed to bring any food. (This is really funny coming from Dia who seems to be on a perpetual hunger strike!).
Soon she was back with "Mamma, when are you going to buy me snacks to take to the camp? I can take snacks, can't I?" and without waiting for an answer, came up with a big list of things to buy - chips, chocolates, cola, toffees and not only for her but for her 4 year old brother as well. His camp was a day later. Finally, someone took her to buy her 'snacks' which she proudly carried around in a plastic bag. This brought T some respite.
Next morning, she came up with a new one. "Mamma which bag shall I take to the camp?" She went on and on. Poor T. Sunday was her only day off from work and she was loathe to rise early. She held Dia off as long as she could with pleas of "in 10 minutes" while Dia danced around alternately shouting 'camp' and 'bag'!
Some one stood on a stool and brought down a variety of bags kept in an cupboard. She rejected each one saying "this one is too small" or "this one is too big" or "not this one, its a suitcase" or "this one's not mine" etc. Finally, she selected the usual back pack she took to school each day and put her precious snacks into it and carried it around.
"Are you excited about the camp", I asked her. (Such stupid questions adults ask). She shrugged her shoulders as if to say its no big deal. And then added sagely "If I don't go, then the 400/- will be wasted and so I must, don't you think?"!!!
Dia had to report at 6am at her school, monday morning. She got up, dressed and drank her milk (a real ordeal for her ma on normal days) in no time and left for the camp.
Tiku, whose camp was on the following day, too was excited about his, but not very vocal about it. He was content to occasionally go through his 'snacks' and try to eat some of it and had to be told that he would have nothing left for the camp.
The house seemed so silent and empty that morning, after Dia had gone to camp, Tiku to school and T, to work. But that silence ended when a tearful Tiku returned from school with tears in his eyes. "Su aunty, (he said in his adorable raspy voice), "Camp cancelled. Teacher said so" and without waiting for my reaction ran to his grandmother and then to the bathroom where his grandfather was taking a bath. He beat his little fists on the door till his grandfather stuck his head out to receive the tragic news.
In his distress, he bacame what he rarely is: extremely quiet. There was little we could do to console him. It was grandfather who finally saved the day by reading the second notice. "It says postponed and not cancelled. It means it will happen later". Tiku smiled, wiped his tears and cycled away madly in celebration, round and round the flat. He would not eat his snacks and agreed only when his grandparents promised to buy him more for his camp!
Dia was picked up at 8pm from her school by T. She was very chirpy but strangely silent about her camp. In between eating and complaining about the itching on her waist, she fell asleep. The tight band of her track suit which she wore all day made her mid riff all itchy. She had blisters on her heels as T discovered when she took off Dia's shoes who was fast asleep by then.
This morning, Dia had a day off. I asked her how the camp went.
"Not good. We went to a farm where we had to sit quietly. Then we went to a bird sanctuary where there were no bird. Then back to school and ma came to take me home", she dissmissed the 72 hours of pre-camp excitement and 14 hours of camp in a couple of sentences!!
Dia, T's 6 year old was driving everyone crazy with incessant chatter about her forthcoming 'Camp'. The minute she saw me (after nearly a year), she screamed "Su aunty, I am going to a camp", and proceeded to name a string of places she possibly couldn't see in a day's time and be back home by 8pm! The 'camp' incidentally was a day trip to a farm and a bird sanctuary.
She went on and on about things she had to take to the camp. "Mamma, when are you going to buy my things for the camp?", she asked a zillion times before T read the camp notice and told her that children were not supposed to bring any food. (This is really funny coming from Dia who seems to be on a perpetual hunger strike!).
Soon she was back with "Mamma, when are you going to buy me snacks to take to the camp? I can take snacks, can't I?" and without waiting for an answer, came up with a big list of things to buy - chips, chocolates, cola, toffees and not only for her but for her 4 year old brother as well. His camp was a day later. Finally, someone took her to buy her 'snacks' which she proudly carried around in a plastic bag. This brought T some respite.
Next morning, she came up with a new one. "Mamma which bag shall I take to the camp?" She went on and on. Poor T. Sunday was her only day off from work and she was loathe to rise early. She held Dia off as long as she could with pleas of "in 10 minutes" while Dia danced around alternately shouting 'camp' and 'bag'!
Some one stood on a stool and brought down a variety of bags kept in an cupboard. She rejected each one saying "this one is too small" or "this one is too big" or "not this one, its a suitcase" or "this one's not mine" etc. Finally, she selected the usual back pack she took to school each day and put her precious snacks into it and carried it around.
"Are you excited about the camp", I asked her. (Such stupid questions adults ask). She shrugged her shoulders as if to say its no big deal. And then added sagely "If I don't go, then the 400/- will be wasted and so I must, don't you think?"!!!
Dia had to report at 6am at her school, monday morning. She got up, dressed and drank her milk (a real ordeal for her ma on normal days) in no time and left for the camp.
Tiku, whose camp was on the following day, too was excited about his, but not very vocal about it. He was content to occasionally go through his 'snacks' and try to eat some of it and had to be told that he would have nothing left for the camp.
The house seemed so silent and empty that morning, after Dia had gone to camp, Tiku to school and T, to work. But that silence ended when a tearful Tiku returned from school with tears in his eyes. "Su aunty, (he said in his adorable raspy voice), "Camp cancelled. Teacher said so" and without waiting for my reaction ran to his grandmother and then to the bathroom where his grandfather was taking a bath. He beat his little fists on the door till his grandfather stuck his head out to receive the tragic news.
In his distress, he bacame what he rarely is: extremely quiet. There was little we could do to console him. It was grandfather who finally saved the day by reading the second notice. "It says postponed and not cancelled. It means it will happen later". Tiku smiled, wiped his tears and cycled away madly in celebration, round and round the flat. He would not eat his snacks and agreed only when his grandparents promised to buy him more for his camp!
Dia was picked up at 8pm from her school by T. She was very chirpy but strangely silent about her camp. In between eating and complaining about the itching on her waist, she fell asleep. The tight band of her track suit which she wore all day made her mid riff all itchy. She had blisters on her heels as T discovered when she took off Dia's shoes who was fast asleep by then.
This morning, Dia had a day off. I asked her how the camp went.
"Not good. We went to a farm where we had to sit quietly. Then we went to a bird sanctuary where there were no bird. Then back to school and ma came to take me home", she dissmissed the 72 hours of pre-camp excitement and 14 hours of camp in a couple of sentences!!
Tuesday, November 02, 2004
To Rename or Not, that is the question.
An old quote begins what's in a name? A lot I should say. It gives me pangs and twinges, has me flinching, wincing and has me experiencing other assorted emotions. I am referring to the name of my blog. When I began nearly a year ago, little did I know that I'd be soon zipping around with no fixed address and living out of my suitcase. Earlier all my zipping around was within France. Then I found myself in Delhi, in Noida, in Gurgaon, Kolkata, Bhubaneswar, Mumbai and a week in France thrown in for good measure, all in the span of 6 months. And today, I depart for Delhi, again, where I will be, until further notice.
So, obvious choices for blog names are :
1. No fixed address. But Kaizad Gustaad (of that unsavory incident of the death of a production person on the mumbai train tracks fame) has already written a book of short stories by that name.
2. Variations of the Notes theme:
- Notes from everywhere (baaaaad)
- Notes from allover (not quite right that one)
- Sukanya's Notes (boring)
- Notes from my suitcase (??)
I do so envy people with clever blog names. I can't think of one. Didnot when I began, cannot even now. Notes from France. How boring, how obvious. Once I did a google search and apart from my blog, I got a million other results including Nuclear Notes from France.
I am not exactly techno-phobic, just a bit slow on all things techno and so even linking to a meta blog takes a lot out of me. And if I should rename my blog, would I have to go to all those places and make changes? Err...on the other hand, "Notes from France is now from India" is not such a bad name is it? Kind of (hopefully) grows on you, with time. And I can always add another country to it, wherever I should happen to be going next: is now from Africa, Australia etc. etc.
So, obvious choices for blog names are :
1. No fixed address. But Kaizad Gustaad (of that unsavory incident of the death of a production person on the mumbai train tracks fame) has already written a book of short stories by that name.
2. Variations of the Notes theme:
- Notes from everywhere (baaaaad)
- Notes from allover (not quite right that one)
- Sukanya's Notes (boring)
- Notes from my suitcase (??)
I do so envy people with clever blog names. I can't think of one. Didnot when I began, cannot even now. Notes from France. How boring, how obvious. Once I did a google search and apart from my blog, I got a million other results including Nuclear Notes from France.
I am not exactly techno-phobic, just a bit slow on all things techno and so even linking to a meta blog takes a lot out of me. And if I should rename my blog, would I have to go to all those places and make changes? Err...on the other hand, "Notes from France is now from India" is not such a bad name is it? Kind of (hopefully) grows on you, with time. And I can always add another country to it, wherever I should happen to be going next: is now from Africa, Australia etc. etc.
Monday, November 01, 2004
Doll's House
Pipi Longstockings sits with her long legs stretched out with fat sagging Garfield (too many spin cycles in the washing machines) by her side, staring happily at the world. These two are the only toys I have had in my entire life and naturally, am possessive about them. But unlike R, whose love affair with dolls and toys started as is normal, in childhood, I got my first toy, a Garfield on my 17th birthday given to me by a class mate. The idea of owning a soft toy till then was a silly one, to me. Not to say I didn't admire them and rushed to cuddle them when I could lay my hands on any. But to actually possess one. Whatever does one do after you have cuddled it a few times?
Pipi, my other acquisition, was a present from A, my newly wedded husband. He got it from Stockholm on one of his frequent business trips. (Incidentally, the French version is called Fifi since Pipi in french means "piss")!
As a kid, I rarely ever played with dolls. I don't think I owned one or if I did, those were given to me by people who thought it was the easiest gift to give to a 'girl'-child, much as we settle for an aftershave or ties for male cousins or friends. R on the other hand, had so many dolls and assorted paraphernalia...dolls tea sets, dolls clothes and what not. But I had none. Why? Did I opt for non-doll toys? As far as I can remember, whenever Baba and ma went out for the evening, they'd return with a doll for R and a book for me, always a book, a gift I very happily waited for and spent many a happy evening with my nanny, knowing that though ma was going out, there'd be a book for me at the end of it. But we are not talking about books here. Dolls it is. Why didn't I even one? I played with R and her dolls but always as a sidekick! I was the doctor who suggested painting spots using nail polish on her dolls - duli, cookie and Mimi! They were suffering from chicken pox after all. I was the one who made a whole in the head of the boy doll (these were the ones made of thin molded plastic without detachable heads and limbs) and put in some marbles (he had accidentally swallowed them) and cured him by simply turning him over so that the marbles fell out.
R was so attached to her dolls that her baby cot would be cramped with all of them. And she kept them, lovingly tending to them even when they had lost limbs and only the body and head remained. Once while travelling with a grouchy Uncle, I and R had a mini-tiff (often vicious whacks and pinches), and I coolly threw out limbless Mimi out of the window and felt very smug but as we sped farther and farther away, my guilt increased and so I told Uncle in a very small voice that a doll had fallen out. Imagine his disgust when he had to stop, go way back and retrieve a limbless, cheap plastic doll and what's more not being able to say a word about it since we were, after all, children of a colleague.
During Christmas in the small oil town where we lived, a Santa would come riding on a fire engine clanging the bell and dole out gifts to all kids who would assemble in a large hall inside the club house. The gifts would have been suggested by and paid for by the respective parents. I went to this only once and was very disappointed when both R and I received dolls. R, later in a fit of rage threw mine out of the window where it landed in the gutter and lay forgotten till baba brought it in one day holding it at arms length by its pony tail!
Apart from these, I can't seem to remember anything else about dolls. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that my parents decided that dolls were not for me? Its true I loved reading and didn't make any fuss about not having any dolls. But then I wasn't given any dolls to play with. Those were for R. I got books and more books. By the time we left Assam to go to Bhubaneswar, baba had to make a large wooden crate to fit my books. And I was only 10.
After my doll-less childhood, in this ripe old age, okay, middle age, I have two and even though I don't keep them with me or tend to them (R bathes them periodically, dries them, puts them to sleep at night and covers them with tiny blankets, yes she does and sits them up in the morning), they are very precious possessions of mine. I make sure no kid gets his/her adorable grubby paws on them and Garfield at least, is such a magnet for one and all. Whenever a kid visits us, I rush and put them both on top of a wardrobe and warn my mother not to give it them, even if only to play!
Psychiatrists and psychologists, you have a new angle. Now you can add the absence of a doll figure in childhood to your list of possibile causes to a host of ills, imaginary or otherwise!
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