6.8 on the Richter Scale

It was a particularly harrowing week. A massive presentation to a Client – 3 campaigns, 14 scripts in Hindi with translation in English (for our Canadian client), reviews and re-reviews, copiers failing at the last minute, frayed tempers, another attack of low blood pressure etc.

Was really looking forward to the weekend to vegetate. And not only because Durga Puja was just around the corner. My first pujas in Delhi.

A and I were just getting into the proper mood Saturday morning. Newspapers strewn all around, morning tea, TV blaring out full volume…none of the frenetic weekend-get-house-in-shape plans.

Suddenly, I felt the floor beneath me sway alarmingly. God, I must be blacking out, I thought. I looked up at A and before I could say a word, he said, yes the floor, infact the apartment was swaying. Earthquake?? I ran barefoot to the door and opened it. Through the banging covers of the meter boxes, I saw our neighbour run out with his three-month baby in his arms, his wife behind him.

RUN, I shouted to A. We joined other residents streaming onto the alarmingly swaying staircase. God will these stairs never end? (We are on the 11th floor). Low Blood pressure and weakness forgotten, I ran for my life and picked up so much speed that I left A atleast three flights behind me. Normally he being much bigger than me outpaces me easily even at his most relaxed pace.

Finally, thank dear god, we reached the ground floor and found a huge crowd from all the 8 buildings out in the open. Along with the sheer relief of having made it, I found that I was dressed in a faded, worn out horrible nightie, which last night I had worn inside out. Everyone seemed to be dressed for a Sunday brunch. I hid behind a pillar (all fear of the pillar descending on my head forgotten) and hissed at A, “Give me your T-shirt. NOW”. I hastily put on his T-shirt, A poor thing was left bare chested in his boxer short which he wore with great aplomb. I lurked behind parked cars till everyone felt it was safe to get back.

Back we found the papers flapping in the fan, the cups of tea where we left them, cold and the TV blaring surrealistically some Hindi-remix with gyrating nymphets. As if to confirm what we had just felt, we switched on the news to find it was 7.5 on the Richter scale.

The panic just wouldn’t go away. What about the aftershocks? Was it just my low BP or panic or both which made me think that everything was shaking?

Why did we take an apartment so high up? Why? I asked A.
Put on some descent clothes and give me back my T-shirt, was A’s curt response.

We left after couple of hours to my in-laws’. Their bungalow seemed infinitely safer.

Now, I can sit back and think (not without a sense of rising panic), about Saturday morning. And how in those crucial moments, all I thought of was me, me, me. I was impatient with other slow runners on the stairs and horrors, I raced ahead of A. And even after making it safely, what I wore seemed more important. Some one (I don’t know who) said that it’s the hour which reveals the man / or woman. Revealed quite a bit about me - selfish, self centred and idiotic and terribly relieved that till next time (Gurgaon is a seismologically active area), despite that half an hour of terror, it was just an interesting tale to tell and re-tell; The embarrassment of being seen in horrible nightclothes, the mission-impossible feel of racing down the stairs.

Just a few weeks ago, my boss was talking about impossible choices. If one was faced with a situation where one had to save one’s spouse or child, what would one do and then live with it? We had a heated conversation, with the women all saying, the child, obviously. It was easy to say such things when our future seemed secure. Faced with ones mortality, I found that the over-riding thought was me, me and me. As reports keep coming in, of children buried under the debris of their schools, villages wiped out, homeless and helpless people waiting for relief, days after the quake, in freezing temperatures, I realize how lucky we’ve been. Gurgaon is one of the three seismologically dangerous spots in India. It could have easily been us. Dear God.

Blog Day 2005 Bash

I have been so busy (bad excuse) that I have been posting less and less. And luckily I managed to check Rezwan's blog and learnt about Blog Day 31st August 2005.

In one long moment on August 31st, bloggers from all over the world will post a recommendation of 5 new Blogs, Preferably, Blogs different from their own culture, point of view and attitude. On this day, blog surfers will find themselves leaping and discovering new, unknown Blogs, celebrating the discovery of new people and new bloggers.

And this made perfect sense to me since I have not really made any sort of effort to go beyond the few blogs I know and like.

Here are my 5 blog tags:

Aref Adib Pictorial blog (mostly) with really cool posts on look-alikes by a Iranian in the UK.

Entelechy Indian blog, by Radhika Nair residing in the UK -- well written, intelligent, thoughtful. A Must Read.

How to Learn Swedish in 1000 difficult lessons An American in Sweden.

Philobiblon Aussie Journalist in the UK...to be read particularly for her Femme Fatale Friday posts where she lists new blogs or new posts, by women.

Michael Chu's Cooking for engineers - great recipes, great layout, need I say more? Go check it out, particularly when you are feeling hungry.

Notes to myself

I am trying to make the most of living in this nice house, while it lasts, after ignoring what I had for 7 months.

So, I am sitting on the verandah. Both of them. Front and back. Reading, cutting my toe nails, staring at the trees and the enjoying the nice pattern that the white cows dotting the field, make. And frequently stopping my sitting-on-the-verandah-and-enjoying-life to feel very pleased about sitting-on-the-verandah-and-enjoying-life. And also, wondering (frequently too) why didn’t I ever do this more often.

Cant concentrate on the serials on the TV. I just lie on the bed and take in the big spacious bedroom size. Thank god I didn't trim the curtains into a smaller size to fit nicely over the air conditioner that's just under the window. (God knows how I tried to but just couldnt find the time). The new appartment has big glass windows and the long curtains will be useful. All I have to do, is to take out the plastic clothes pin that I used to shorten the curtains! Hehe!!

I decided to do some packing yesterday (Sunday) and while at it, kept sighing over the size and number of built in wardrobes.

Am bathing in a different bathroom each day, (having stuck so far to the one with the master bedroom). And why not? The one in the guest bedroom is so nice and big. Sigh! Where are those little prints that I thought I’d have, a potted plant or two. In the bathroom, did you say? Yes I did. So what. Its my bathroom isnt it? So what if I havent managed to and so what if the three plants that I own have never flowered. But they are not dead. The only seem to grow vertically.

We had surprise and very welcome showers suddenly, yesterday afternoon. So we did an impromtu and very silly drenching in the rain…And infact, both of us went upstairs to the terrace. It was so silly, so pointless and so very fun. I did a little hop and a jig and caught people staring at me (three storeyed house is not really so high) and the roof was slippery. So I just …well…got drenched. First time the two of us have been up there. 4th or 5th time for me … oh to hang clothes to dry, to check on the TV antenna and once for a early morning walk. A goes up there whenever there is water shortage (to check on the tank) and once well to find a dead bird floating around in the water tank.

I make mental notes to buy a roll of film to take photos of this place.

But…moving into a new house, new place etc is in many a new beginning, start of something new. Life will continue very much as it is now unless I stop whining and start doing some serious time management, but till then, I can always postpone everything I have been meaning to do and havent been able to, till I move into my new place. As if, overnight, I will become this efficient person wonderfully balancing home and hearth. Silly isnt it? But well that never stops me from making more notes, in that crowded space that is this head of mine, on how things will be…..


(PS – I spent a huge amount of time making timetables during my school days, that always excited me and took up most of time, than the actual studying which I found rather irritating and getting in the way of dreaming up wonderful schedules where everything was so fine. Old habits, die hard. Even today, planning about balancing home and hearth, right down to minutest detail is so much more fun than actually doing it)!

Moving…again!

(Be warned...this is full of general purpose whinning).

Its time to move again. Our landlord has, very apologetically, served us notice. You have been gentle tenants but I’ve got a great job offer and I am returning. I do hope they don’t notice the ugly gaps in the plaster that we, the gentle tenants will be leaving behind. A handyman had clumsily hammered gaping holes to affix nails for the mosquito nets.

That means another 3 weeks at the most. Sigh!

Am I sighing because it was too short a stay at a place, though rented, felt like home? Or am I sighing because I couldn’t make into a ‘home’?

By a ‘home’, I mean a home like our moms had. Everything ship shape, everything in place, neat and tidy. Not a speck of dust, spotless floors, refrigerators and cupboards filled with nourishing food, clothes laundered, ironed and folded away in drawers and wardrobes, green verandah where I sit in the morning coolness, sipping my first cup of tea.

Instead, there is a pile of unwashed clothes in the laundry basket (plastic one, because in 6 months, I couldn’t manage to buy myself a wicker one I so wanted). And the clothes keep piling since it was only today that I managed to find myself a good dry cleaner. God knows when I will actually be able to give those clothes to the cleaners.

I sit in my drawing room (and not a drawing cum dining mind you), a large room and stare at the pleasant effect of the glass windows framed in dark wood, yellow drapes and the assorted paintings on the creamy walls. And then I look at the divan where Rabindranath Tagore sadly looks at me, framed but not yet hung since I haven’t managed to find time to drill holes, (the neighbourhood handyman would mean more cracked plaster).

Alongside Rabindranath lies two of my paintings of rural France. I had copied them out of a Babar book and painted them, in my idyllic days back in France. Having brought them back with me, I framed them and shyly showed them to a friend who said, “looks like done by a 5 year old”. Ouch! It was a near perfect copy of the one done by a famous illustrator.

The brown cushions on the armchairs are all creased, as we, A and I have sat in all the chairs at one time or the other and yet have never plumped them up properly.

The shoes lie in a heap on the floor of the scarcely used 3rd bedroom. I have, often made a mental note of arranging them neatly in the empty chest in that room. Argh! My mind is saturated with all the mental notes I have been making.

Piles of old newspapers lie all over the round dining table, yes the one with the cracked but never replaced glass top. Anyhow, the papers at least cover up the crack rather nicely!

My verandah is brown as ever. Except the flourishing wild green growth of a plant I didn’t buy nor plant, underneath the white bouganvillea which stubbornly remains brown and bare.

And yet all around are me, are beautifully kept houses. Through the open windows, I can see marvellous arrangements of knick-knacks (knick-knacks? Wow. It took me two months to buy three drapes and one more month to put them up)!! Who are these Mary Poppinesque characters with perfect, spotless houses and domestic wheels churning with clock work precision?

Its dinner time. And I am hungry and tired, having spent the day looking at houses. I realise that there is no rice. Forgot to make rotis. There is some bread. I know there is. But spoilt in this humid heat. OK. We can buy some. And yes, get me some milk, I tell A. Atleast I can have some cereals for breakfast tomorrow….a pleasant break from constantly missing mine since there is usually nothing to eat in the mornings.

I wanted to put up the rattan screens (‘chik’ to those who know), a wicker lamp would have been a nice touch. A white, glass topped wrought iron table amid foliage and me amid all that. Pipe dreams. Ah well! Minimalistic is so stylish, I console myself.

I sigh because of the evenings I didn’t spend on the verandahs, of the walks I didn’t take in the rose strewn little park opposite, the meals I didn’t cook in the smart kitchen, for the laundry I didn’t keep in the wicker basket I never bought, for the spare bedroom I never converted into a workspace for making papier mache objects which I never made, for the alter I never bought for my gods who sit patiently atop a cabinet left behind by the landlords.

Just as well. Had I done all that….I would have been too well settled and would have been loathe to leave, wouldn’t I? And having said that, I stumble among the empty water bottles lying next to the bed, lie on my bed, lumpy because of books and pens I left behind when I rushed off to work this morning, angrily pummel my naked pillow (the pillow cases have been washed and are still hanging on the clothes line) and say goodnight!

Eyes Wide Open…or trying to

We had pitched for a mammoth ministry project last year and although we had been on the verge of getting it for the last 4 months or so the contract’s arrival getting postponed at the last minute, circulating one ministry department to another. Even before we signed the contract, we were called for an all day session with the various state departments, us being the ‘chosen’ agency!

A small team of us went to a review meet of this ambitious project (considering its scope and pan India coverage). This was our first meeting of this kind, in presence of the state representatives, 1 from each state. This exposure would be good for us since our work would take off from here. We had a small presentation scheduled at the end of the day. And our team was looking forward to the various questions regarding the project, media and our role.

The meeting was held in a large plush auditorium of a prominent chamber of commerce. After the inaugural address by the Joint secretary, a rather efficient, businesslike lady, the day was spent in a review of the progress of each of the state on a number of issues concerning the project. But as it turned out, it was a forum for airing their concerns and less of progress.

I sat back enjoying it all. Unity in diversity – the much touted line about India was in full display. How wonderful it was. Everyone working together for this ambitious project – the target audience of which would be the entire Indian populace! But very soon it degenerated into an unintentional comedy.

The distinguished panel of IAS officers, the joint secretary, World Bank representative and other senior officials had to fend of ridiculous queries. Often we found them, cynosure of all eyes up on the dais, trying to suppress a giggle!

Esteemed Panel (EP): “Have you received the instruments?”
State Representative (SR) 1: “We have received cartons. We do not know what is in them. How can we sign the receipt?”
EP: “Well open them. Or simply write that you have received cartons”.

SR2: I have received 8 fax machines and I need only 6.
SR 3: Sir our instruments are being sent to the godown and not to us. We want them delivered to our doorstep.
SR 4: Ours is a new state.

EP: How many people have you recruited?
SR 4: None. Ours is a new state

And then there was this lonely lady from Rajasthan who sat in an empty row all by herself. Her progress report was the worst. After a long session of saying no to every question asked, she nearly broke down saying she was the only person in her department and couldn’t cope with the work load and do everything by herself!

And so on...


Lulled The air-conditioned comfort of the auditorium, the participants lolled into various states of relaxation – the blinkers, the nodders, the glazed eyed ones, and the lean back into the chair and fast asleep ones! They roused themselves quite fast enough during the 2 tea breaks – and the sumptuous lunch.

Post lunch, most people were in the state of advance coma when an announcement regarding the reimbursement of travel vouchers brought a sudden flurry of activity. State representatives rushed out with indecent haste to have their claims settled. Finally it was our turn to present. We waited for the questions. But none came. There was pin drop silence. Not a single question was forthcoming, despite the panelists prompting the participants.

The director then brought the proceedings to an end, but before that he had to halt the mass exodus. He spoke to the gathering in slow, clear manner, enunciating each syllable, repeating each point several times, much like a teacher does to a naughty, fidgety, kindergarten class. Maybe, the director shouldn’t speak to them as if they were slow learners, I thought, as he gave slow clear instructions for a report, repeating each point several times.

“Any questions”? He asked.
“When will you send us the format”?
“What format”?
“For the report you want”.
“But, I just told you the format”.

And again he repeated it while we sat fuming. Can’t believe we spent an entire day listening to the woes of fax machines and post creations and who would pay for toner cartridges etc.

I found myself extremely drowsy, somnolent, terribly fatigued and above all, overpowered by a sense of apathy. I just wanted to sleep. Didn’t feel like work at all. And couldn’t care less. Much like workers at a government office!

I tried avoiding the glances of my colleagues from the direct marketing and media sections. They had wasted an entire working day to listen to the fax and PC woes. I was busy counting my blessings that I hadn’t insisted upon the presence of the creative teams as well. Had they come along, I am sure they would have mutinied at the idea of them working for this project when the contract finally arrived, 8 months after we pitched for the project and 4 months after we had been told we had got it!

Book Tagging

I am trying to get back into my 4 books per week schedule but with little success. Its been more like 1 book in 2 weeks. Blame it on work and home pressures. If it sounds like I did little but read earlier, that’s not true. I ran a home (everything and on my home and no domestic help). And any one who thinks running a home is no great shakes – well Try it. And for those who run their homes smoothly and brilliantly…well don’t tell me. I will forever hate them (yes pure envy).

Total books I own: Too many to count. But alas they are back in Kolkata. Here I have around 20 or so.

Last book I bought : Eragon (Inheritance, Book 1) -- by Christopher Paolini

Last book I read : Eragon. Am reading The White Mughals and Kriya Yoga (a little bit of each…no wonder am making bad progress).

Books that mean a lot to me: 1. The Diary of Anne Frank (although it was too traumatic for me to re-read it). It was given to me on my 13th birthday and that got me started on my own journals – a habit which I still maintain to this day after so many years and 22 diaries.

2. Through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carrol– Amazing.

3. Jane Eyre for Mr. Rochester and Pride and Prejudice for Darcy..but ofcourse.

4. The Century after Beatrice by Amin Malouf – One of the things I am grateful to France, for ever. I wouldn’t have heard about him or the book ever, and that would have been my loss, entirely.

5. My Name is Red by Orhan Pamuk

6. The entire Terry Pratchett discworld series

And I am sure there are others, which can’t think of now and will remember as soon as I post this.


I have to, I believe tag five people and have them (don’t know if they will) do this on their blogs (but here goes):

Rezwan – This should be interesting
Parth
Sougata
Ashwin
Runa

That makes it 6....more the merrier??

The unedited version

At last it happened. My first shoot. No I have not turned actor / director over night. It was my first shoot as an account supervisor. And I was the only one from the servicing team. This was the best way to learn the ropes, according to the boss man.

The shoot was in Mumbai. The minute I stepped into the balmy airs of Mumbai, I felt a rush of happiness. People say that friends make all the difference. If you have great friends, even a dull as ditch water place can become heaven. But I don’t really know anyone there and yet, I have always loved Mumbai. 2nd to Kolkata ofcourse. I am sure people might disagree with me and say, right, what do you know about Mumbai. I don’t. My trips are hurried affairs and I stay at nice places and usually do a spot of shopping, a bit of partying before leaving. Predictably I don’t have go through the usual problems of a congested metropolis and all the associated problems.

There were a few ‘problems’ though:-Problem # 1. There was no car to pick us up at the airport although we had asked for one. Our prosaic client, travelling with us, shooed us into a cab and off we went. Problem # 2 On arriving at the hotel, we found that their computer system had broken down and they had no records of our reservation on mail. So we had to wait endlessly. Problem # 3 – The car that we had booked for the day had in the meantime, come to the hotel and missed us (we were stuck in a traffic jam) and gone. So I blew my top and wonderfully. And immediately subsided and felt very sheepish, almost apologetic when seeing the hapless staff of a hotel famous for its inefficiency. It’s easier to rant at someone who is not so polite. Here, in contrast, all of them were shuffling and cringing, which made me feel really bad. So subsequently, I apologised (yes), to the first person I had screamed at – a trainee. God why do I do these things?

After we had checked in, our client, an elderly, but really smart lady told us to go and eat at “Mahesh Lunch House” famous for its sea food. Infact she even gave us directions. So we did. And how. We had rawas fish tandoori, manglorean prawn curry and crabs on a bed of garlic. And even bravely used the pincers (I think that’s what they are) to crack the shell. A messy affair but worth the trouble. We could barely walk when we were done.

We then went all the way across the city and beyond to the check out the studio. The shoot was scheduled for the next day. I sat in the front while our client and my colleague, at the back of the hired car. After a while, the whole car reeked of garlic. I looked everywhere to find the source. And then the client too smelt it. Egad. It must be my bag. Some garlic had fallen onto the bag. I quietly put it down on the floor. And the smell went away. But then my cell rang. And I had to pick up the bag to take the call and viola! There it was again – the strong odour of garlic. And so it went till we reached the studio. But not before I gave a lengthy explanation to the client about our lunch and the garlic and my bag. Thankgod, the client was rather sweet about it. Much later, back in our hotel, my colleague told me, it was her burping which was responsible. And somehow, each time I picked up my bag, she let a burp slip out. And she had a hard time controlling her laughter at my lengthy explanation.

The studio was marvellous. From outside it looked like an ugly warehouse with a gate which anyone can miss as we did. As soon as we entered, we had to go through a huge arched gate with CENTRAL JAIL written on it, complete with a huge iron door with a wicket gate. A must prop for countless Hindi film where either the villain or the hero and sometimes both come out of, and ask the havaldar for a ‘bidi’. The central jail led to a school, an ornate period house, a village chowk, a petrol pump, a temple, and a row of shops and more, all within!! This studio was at the end of a long straight road which came to an abrupt end at a river. Later on, the director told me that it belonged to Haji Mastaan and he had conducted his notorious smuggling operations right from here. I immediately had visions of men in ugly polyester suits with flapping collars (height of chic in the early 70’s) flashing torches at each other at the dead of night and saying “Sona aa gaya, Boss.” (The gold has arrived, Boss). Quite the ‘visionary’, me.

There was some shoot going on. Some elderly men were lounging around – they were playing the roles of village elders. One of them even had a bit role in our ad as the head master!

Next morning, the studio was a hub of activity. Very chaotic, at first glance. But as the day progressed, the team marvellously created classrooms, village scenes and an entire live market scene with complete shops and vegetable vendors including goats and chicken. The goats were, later on not used and some one took them away. The chickens however were covered by a wicker basket and kept up a lively squawking. Loads of children in school dress and village characters lounged around. Very colourful. Things magically appeared. When I said that we needed crystal salt for the shoot and not the refined one, hey presto! 2 bags appeared within minutes. Our client pointed out mistakes in the Tamil sign board of the school. Painter, some one yelled. A chap appeared with a pot of paint and brush and made the changes immediately. I pointed out that we needed a pregnant lady. “Pregnant lady needed”, yelled the director and ohe of ladies was rushed to the make up room and re-appeared looking pregnant. “She needs to look more pregnant”, I said. “No problem. One more cushion,” yelled the director.

There was one person from the production unit, dedicated to serving us. Apparently it the norm. But I was very uncomfortable. I had to just stand up and he’d come and shift my chair to wherever I went. He followed us with stand fans and gave us umpteem cups of tea and coffee and nimbu pani and any thing else we wanted including cajoling us to partake in the lavish breakfast and lunch spread. At one point, the chickens under the wicker baskets got really agitated, when some one discovered that one of them had laid an egg. Our faithful attendant immediately took it out and later served it boiled to our creative director.

The main actor, a character actor from Bollywood had his own attendants too. But he was a very nice, genial chap who was doing this ad for us for a nominal fee, this being a small budget, social service TV ad. Best of all, he had no airs and graces. After every shot, he would sit in own special chair that his attendant would set up, wherever he was. He had his lunch with us but on his own special crockery and he had his own air conditioned room, which he very graciously invited us into, in between shots. Infact, after he had done his scenes and had changed and was leaving, we remembered that we needed some close-ups. He immediately obliged.

But for the rest of the cast, the children, the shopkeepers, the villagers, things were different. They were ready and made up when we arrived in the morning even though their shots were scheduled later in the day. They had to find their own place to sit. And ate their lunch together after we had finished ours.

My job was to make sure that all the desired elements were in place. The right type mix of communities, young married couple (our target group), smart but non-urban children, pregnant lady etc. I also had an impromptu role as a singer. The spot was being shot simultaneously in Hindi and Tamil. There was a Tamil language expert on the set and he was trying to fit the Tamil lyrics in the meter and I had to sing the Hindi lines to him over and over again. Then he read out the Tamil lyrics and I wrote them in Hindi and sang it back to him to fine tune it!! I was quite thrilled with my linguistic skills. But that joy was short-lived when I saw the lead actor in action. He hadn’t seen the tamil lyrics till the very last minute. The Tamil expert read out couple of lines to him, he memorised it on the spot and acted it out and it was canned. And then he moved onto the next line. He took less time than me and had little problem with it!! I was impressed.

The director watching the proceedings from a monitor and gave his directions seated far away. I however, preferred to be at the scene watching everyone. Unfortunately, I was targeted by crows and had to rush off, not once, but twice to wash my hand and my head (ugh) in between shots. Our faithful attendant told me that it was good luck (to have a crow crap on you). Naturally, this kept me preoccupied. So when the boss SMS-ed to ask how the shoot was progressing, I wrote back “OK”. He later called to ask what did “OK” mean? Either I didn’t like what I saw or I didn’t understand what was happening. Oops.

And finally, when the shoot was nearly over and the crew were packing up, one of the lead characters, a pretty lady came up to me, looking very different sans make up, in jeans and a shirt (she played a young small town mother in the ad). She said she had recently come to Mumbai and was looking to make a career in movies. And moonlighting in commercials. Then she pulled her chair up closer to mine and said she wanted to play a police woman or a doctor – character roles in movies and definitely not a heroine, because that would involve making a lot of compromises (not being well connected in the film industry) and could I put in a word for her among directors I knew. I knew none. But she said it with so much hope that I found myself saying, I certainly would and if I were to shoot another ad film, I would certainly get in touch with her. She stood up and in a very touching gesture, bowed with hands folded in a namaste and thanked me and left.

I was very tired and could barely talk on my way back to the hotel. But I was happy. Everything had gone off well. The classroom shot, the community shots – in the market place and at the village chowk, the children playing, and whole lot of others and in two versions – Hindi and Tamil, all in one day including the sets (I had seen a bare studio just 24 hours earlier). The fairly large amount of footage would now be edited to fit into a 40 second spot to be aired on aired on TV. It will, I am sure be a great spot, but obviously, I will always cherish, the unedited version, the one I saw being shot!

Get cool quick schemes

I am running out of words to describe how hot it is. Outdoors, my skin feels like its being broiled. And when I return home, no matter how early or late, as soon as I enter, I can feel the heat weigh down on me. I have little recourse but to switch on the air conditioner for longer than I intend to. Am dreading the electricity bill.

This was a long weekend, with Monday a holiday for Budh Purnima. And for the first time, I was not really looking forward to it. Office with its central air-conditioning seemed such a better alternative!

We decided to see a movie on Sunday so that we could spend the afternoon – the hottest part of the day away from our hot apartment. And so we did, even though it meant dragging oneself off after a heavy Sunday lunch at 4pm to go to the nearest cinema hall, some 15 minutes away. We returned home at 9.30 after spending a pleasant evening watching a movie and a sumptuous meal. The enitre area was very dark. But we weren’t really worried. We have a big inverter and till date, there never has been an all night power cut.

I decided to check on my plants –a nightly routine, when I saw my neigbour sitting on her terrace fanning herself with a hand fan. She told me that the power had been coming and going since 4pm, a good 6 hours or so. There seems to be some grid failure. And as a result, her inverters too were running low on charge. I rushed indoors to tell A and we decided to switch off the fans and sit out in the verandah, which we did till, the mosquitoes drove us indoors. Inside the heat was too stifling. We opened every single window and door in the hope of cajoling in some of the coolness outside but the bed was really warm. Little of the coolness came in. Instead the mosquitoes did, and in hordes. The power came on and we ran to shut every door and window and switch on the AC. And just as we are about to retire in relief, the power went off. Again we opened the doors and the windows and so on and so forth.

A decided on an old Delhi trick – sprinkling the mattresses with water and laying down on it. Even the lazy swishing of the fan made the room much cooler. I had never heard of a thing like this and was understandably very reluctant. A lay down on his side of the bed, oohing and aahing about how wonderful it was and that sort of convinced me to try the same. That gave us some relief. We both kept mugs of water next to the bed and kept sprinkling more water on to the bed.

We have been trying all sorts of get cool quick schemes including drinking gallons of liquid and nimbu pani and eating light lunches, filling up buckets, before the water in the overhead tank gets too hot), keeping the shades drawn etc. And now I am nice and cool, having hit upon the ultimate cool idea….have sneaked off to office, citing work!

Meanwhile, the bunch of people working on the transformer thingy (bang opposite our house) has swelled in numbers. They have been at it since early morning and yet, no sign of power. And I have a guest coming to visit me this evening…

Perseverance Pays

Its that time of the year again. When the birds decide to rear a family. I guess they decide on it and then build a nest and then try for a family and then lay eggs, hatch them and rear their little ones. And their success rate must be 100%, no infertility. None has been reported. So far. How else does one explain the self confident tearing hurry and the tremendous nest making activity. Their birdly body clock ticking away loudly inside their tiny bodies.

Back in Kolkata, a group of crows would every year, select a ledge inside our verandah to build their nest despite all sorts of intervention from us – mainly me, (my parents being of the more tolerant variety), and once their babies hatched, they flew away till next year and so they continue, to this day.

Not many Crows around here in Gurgaon. Instead, there are pigeons who make quite a racket, flapping their wings against our bathroom door and throwing up ghostly shadows against the frosted windowpanes. But they keep their family rearing activities out of sight. Not so with the Mynas. One tiny but extremely tenacious pair has decided to use the funnel of our chimney (not the ones which go above a fireplace, but one of those new fangled things that goes over a cooking range) which sticks out of a hole cut into the kitchen window. I was startled by the clanking noises inside the funnel and found out that they had decided to build a nest in it. And being the vicious animal that humans are (should not generalise like this; perhaps its only me), switched on the chimney so that it immediately expelled the pathetic little twigs that they had put in. The minute I switched it off, the birds were back. So back and forth it continued in the morning as I was getting ready to leave for work. I left instructions to have the mouth of the funnel boarded up with some netting. The tiny little birds fought valiantly and pecked our maid Kusum on the arm, and she immediately feigned extreme injury and refused to do any cleaning that day. This morning, they were back again.

Robert Bruce said that if at first you don’t succeed, try and try again. True. The birds haven’t heard of Robert Bruce but they are trying and trying. I can of course be really bad and switch the chimney on after they have built the entire nest. But I wont. Can’t help but admire their tenacity. Soon, a baby myna or mynas will fill the chimney and kitchen with their tiny cheeps.

Perseverance obviously pays.

Madam you have killed them!

'Madame, aapney to inhey maar hi dala'. Madam you have killed them. Aghast, the mali told me. Mortified, I listened. My little garden dead before it could bloom?

I had been meaning to button hole the mali into getting me a small garden started on the balcony. The thing was, I could never manage to catch hold of him, although he came to our house daily to tend to the garden downstairs. One fine, rather hot day, he turned up to accompany me to the nearby nursery. R was visiting me then. The two of us hopped on to a rickshaw while the mali followed on a bicycle.

At the nursery, I asked for plants which would be easy to maintain. I was shown three which according to the nursery chap, didn’t need much watering. Just plenty of sun light. We hoisted them onto the rickshaw and came home. A and I dragged the plants three flights up. The mali told me that he would come later and replace the pots with bigger ones and more fresh soil. Fine. In the meanwhile, I checked them regularly and ocassionally watered them. The red bougainevilla sort of crumpled. Too much water I thought. And stopped watering it altogether. The white one grew vertically. Three long upright twigs with three white blossoms at each end. The third one some tincopanna or something like that…would be all droopy and curly each evening and would miraculously revive when I watered it. The red one never recovered. And yet, the dried buds remained firmly affixed to the stems. I would however check them each night, before going to bed. I would talk to them (saw that on a TV sitcom), tenderly stroke them, mentally sending "grow and blossom" messages. One large balcony, three small ugly pots, three plants in various stages of death and decay. Never mind that. There were really precious to me.

I asked my neighbour (the president of the local kitchen garden owner’s association) as to why my plants were dying. Add manure. Really? Easier said than done. Where and how. How come the road to my office is full of hale and hearty bougenvillaes – no one ever waters them and they are under strong strong sunlight. And manure? Not many cows around either.

And that is when the mali came up to check on my plants. “Apney to maar hi dala”.
- But I was told they don’t need water.
- That’s only after the leaves have grown. Once the flowers appear, water them every alternate day. Not before that. Ek balti paani pilaya. Literally, they drank a bucket full of water. He left strict instructions to water them thrice a day. And sure enough, the tincoma grew and how. The white bougainevilla sprouted baby leaves. The red one resisted. As if withdrawn in an injured silent protest. But I still have hopes for it. It has now three new leaves. No sign of flowers yet. The dried up buds still clinging on fast like little blood clots.

The mali has since then repotted them, added fertilizers. He said that maybe I should get more plants. And he could accompany me to the nursery.
- How about today?
- No, am busy. But maybe next weekend?
- No I will be busy. Ok, how about the weekend after that?
- Madame, why don’t you tell me which plants you like, he said pointing to our neighbours gardens.
- Eeps…but don’t I have to ask their permission?
- Well, I AM the garderner out here. And I do all the trimmings and repotting. So its really in my hands.
- Really?

Well, now I have a good mind to take a leisurely walk among the wonderful houses all around with even more wonderful garden, note down the house numbers and make a note of the plants I want. How about that?!

When we lived in the middle east, plants were rather expensive. She would always be on the lookout for plants...a rare sight in the desert and if she ever saw a nice specimen, would think out loud of getting down from the car for a wee bit and grabbing hold of it, to take home. She never did. Back then, R and I would immediately shoot down any such idea of ma's...what if the owner ... some irate sheikh would find out and run after us? I am doing much of the same aren't I? No irate sheikhs out here though...


This morning, I found, to my delight, a small greenish-reddish blob on the tincoma (I am sure I have the name wrong)....it wont be late now, that my balcony will be a bright splash of colours!

Fatehpur Sikri

Took R to Agra this weekend. Enroute we stopped at Fatehpur Sikri(My second visit).

Royal Quarters
On my first visit to Fatehpur Sikri, I had learnt all about the Diwane-e-aam and Diwan-e-khas where Akbar met his courtiers and general public respectively; the dais in the middle of a small pool from where Tansen sang, I imagine, to a rapt Akbar; the X-marked blocks where people stood and moved when Akbar played “pacheesi” from a balcony above.

The three palaces of his three wives - – the muslim wife Roqaiya, the christian Mariam (her rooms where in the form of a cross) and the largest of them all – Jodha Bai’s mother of his only child Jehangir. Infact the last was a complex in itself – with a temple, summer and winter palace, courtyard etc. The palaces of the other two were really large rooms in comparison. Felt a bit sad for the childless (and perhaps) sidelined 1st two wives. Then there was the pillared and wall less “panch mahal”, where the wives did their own thing on each floor. Visions of the three wives ‘doing their own thing’ and studiously ignoring the other, popped up and had me giggling. Perhaps they were all rather friendly.

The mighty Jalaluddin Akbar, with his visions of religious harmony and who after Ashoka was the only other Emperor to rule over a such a vast empire, the guide told us, was a very short, rotund and fellow. Despite his undenieable greateness, the thought of him sprinting in between the three palaces has me in splits! Or were the wives summoned?

The guide informed us that the now bare walls were once bejewelled and gilted, gouged out by some one or other in India’s chequered past. It was difficult to imagine the dusty bare floors were once covered with persian carpets and cushions on which lolled (even more difficult to imagine, given the stifling heat) resplendent royals in heavy brocades and silks, heavily jewelled. How was it back then? Courtiers and guards, villagers and royalty, servants and mastersand amid all that, the mighty Akbar.

As our guide rattled out the history and geography of it, it all seemed so idyllic. School rooms for children, a maternity block, a khwab mahal or dream palace, a meena bazar where the royals shopped. The architecture was a pleasing melange of persian, muslim, christian and hindu motifs. Domes and lotuses, jain carvings and crosses all co-existing in splendid harmony for over 400 years.

Here and there, one could see some vibrant shade of blue of some wall painting that somehow survived. The other survivors were the aqua marine blue tiles on top of Jodha Bai’s summer palace. It looked strangely out of place. Everything else was red sandstone and bare walls. And then suddenly some blue.

And yet, today, the place was so desolate, so forlorn, so abandoned.

The guide was very informed but he was very keen to show us around and then move on to the next group and so we were really rushed and in a short while, found ourselves at the exit. The only thing I took back from the place was the terrible terrible emptiness and silence. Not even the hordes of tourists and eager guides could fill that.

The Prayer area (for the lack of a better word)
The other side was the prayer area. The entrance was through the smaller gate (quite big actually) – the one used by the royalty to get inside the enclosed courtyard which housed the mosque and the dargah of Salim Chisti. The mighty Buland Darwaza – the highest gate way in Asia which was used by the public during his time. Not so any more. Everyone uses the smaller entrance.

Childless Akbar had been to Ajmer and the guide told us that he had even been to Vaishno Devi (don’t know the authenticity of that one) but in vain. And then he dreamt of a sage, a ‘baba’ who lived atop a hill in Sikri village. He came and met him and was blessed by him and soon, Jehangir was born. Salim chisti’s descendents – the 16th generation, still live inside.

We went out to the other side to take a look at the Buland Darwaza. The granite was really hot and we had blisters but I had to take a look at it and that meant braving outside to get a full view of the highest gateway in Asia. The throngs of tourists and hawkers and the heat and dust and the centuries of grime some how made it less grander…a pity since it was and still is the a magnificent piece of architecture.

The huge doors were studded with horse shoes of people who prayed for the recovery of their sick horses and the outsize ones stuck by Lord Curzon. On both my visits, the guides pointed them out underlining the fact that no horse has hooves that size!

Pathetic little urchins, dressed in rags, ran among the chattering tourists, trying to sell their wares. One even ran after me, insisting in English, “I’ll wiat for you”. As I walked in between the tombs of the chisti family, another kid, a little girl in a torn frock, bare feet on the hot granite block, shaved head dotted with scabs tried to sell me something else. What a sad decline in the mighty grandeur of Akbar’s empire.

Like the last time, the guide stopped at a seller of chadars and flowers…there were others dotting the courtyard each guide had obviously a pact with each one.

I was a bit irritated at his insistence of buying the most expensive chadar to drape over the mazar of Chisti. House of god is free to all, after all. Isn’t that how its supposed to be?

‘Chadar nei dena to rumal hi de do sister’. (Buy an handkerchief if you don’t want buy a shawl). Aur dhaga bandho (and tie the threads) – baba never fails. And when your wish is fulfilled, come and open it or feed two needy people or fakirs. ‘But my wish hasn’t been fulfilled’, I asked him.

Never mind, baba bula hi lega (Baba will call you back).

Perhaps he did. R had mentioned going to Mathura and the Taj instead of Fatehpur Sikri and the Taj. It was me who decided in favour of FPS!

Perhaps, Baba ne bulaa hi liya. (Baba really did call me back).

Grass is always greener on the other side?

Seems so. Its been ages and ages since I have blogged. Forget blogging, its been ages since I have had the time to even think of blogging. Each night I somehow manage to crawl upstairs and collapse on my bed and spend a night plagued by nightmares of things I haven’t done or that needs to be done.

I wanted a home of my own, where I am free to do as I please. I wanted neighbours I could speak to. Above all, I wanted to be home, in India. I have all of those. Its been three months since I have moved in to a lovely place. All balconies and large airy rooms, a huge terrace to enjoy evenings with friends. How often had I dreamt of my proper drawing room, balconies overflowing with greenery. And yet, my house is still not ‘done’. M-I-l has helped by doing up things in my absence. R who is visiting us, has redone it a bit more…but still its so bare. My balconies lie empty. I managed to get three potted plants and haven’t yet figured out the watering schedule and so they are wilting.

Got a cook and daily help, after a few failed attempts. This one is the third one. I haven’t been able to instruct her properly and so she generally has a ball in my absence. Sunday is the only day we meet and that too if we are staying in!

I had it all planned out ….I would get up in early (I was, till recently, an early bird), sit in my lovely verandah and enjoy my morning cuppa and catch up on the news. I somehow manage to crawl out just an hour before I have to leave for office. Tea is a hurried affair. The morning paper arrives indifferently and the paper man chucks it expertly from three flights below all rolled up tight with a rubber band. Anyone sitting on the verandah risks being hit on the head with a loud thwack!

So, all the while, governments are falling and new ones being made, Tsunamis hitting and all sorts of casting couch scandals breaking, I carry on unawares in the bewildering world of proposals and pitches and review meetings and briefs.

The glass top on our new lovely dining table cracked from side to side. Already. Mosquitos (which were absent) in Jan, when we had moved in, are back with a vengeance. We have managed to get a hammer, nails, mosquito nets….but don’t know when we will be able to string them up!

Neighbours are very nice and friendly. But I have to repeatedly turn down their requests for tea and coffee since I am always meeting them on my way to work. My neigbour downstairs, I have exactly thrice, twice when I was locked out returning very late at night and had to wake them up to remove the padlock on the gate. I did get a chance to meet them at holi. But then it was a very brief civilised sort of a polite meet.

We haven't decided on a car yet. In our brief conversations late at night or in the mornings, before I leave for work, we swap notes. How about this one? No, no not fuel efficient. OK. How about that one? Too expensive. And so on and so forth. Cash or finance? AC or non AC? To have or not? Upshot of all this is, that on good Friday, a holiday, I had to come to office for work while A left for his parents and I found out that there were no cabs available. All drivers had gone on leave on the long holi weekend. So, we, A and I spent our first holi in India, apart.

My days in France seems so idyllic in comparison. I had all the time in the world to cook, paint, blog, walk about, watch movies, do yoga, visit places, museums, parks..

After what seems an eternity, I can leave early for home this evening. Or so I thought. Our electricity got cut off this morning due to some mix up. The landlord had paid the earlier bill and although our electicity has been restored, we need to show the recipt by tomorrow morning. And that bill will be faxed to me (at my office) late tonight. So…I am stuck in office anyhow.

The trouble with chapatis....

A long time back, I was invited for lunch at a school mate’s home for lunch. It was my first average UP lunch. Average in the same routine, normal, daily, 'rozmarra'. Simple tasty vegetarian food with chapatis served hot off the 'tawa'. Soft and hot. Her mother served us one by one. I just loved the idea. But that was not how it was at home. Us bengalis are rice eaters. Ofcourse now a days, many of them, us included have switched to the more healthy rotis for dinner, but alas our cook made them in advance and kept them in a casserole.

Things were different at my in-laws. They are long time residents of Delhi. Proverbial 'dilli wallas'. M-i-l made dinner in advance but rotis came hot off the 'tawa' during dinner. After I got married, it was my turn to make the rotis. I did state that I could make rotis. Very grandly at that. They even turn round when I roll them out. Is what I said. That proved to be my undoing. First of all I couldn’t roll them out quickly enough while one was on the tawa. I had to roll them all out in advance and then roast them. What took m-i-l 5 minutes, took me well over an hour to do.

But that lasted only during my brief visits to India.

When I returned for good last May, things really got serious. Every night was an ordeal, for me and for the rest of the family. I routinely turned out tough as leather, half burnt, half raw rotis. A and f-i-l bravely ate them but m-i-l was rather more vocal about it. Especially since she had a bad tooth. There I was every evening, sweat running over my forehead and into my eyes, in the terrible delhi heat, rolling out one horrible chapati after the other. My m-i-l was quite at her wits end how to teach me to do it. But after a while, even she gave up. It did seem that I was spoiling each and every roti on purpose and finding new ways to do it. The dough would stick to the rolling board, sometimes it would fall onto the floor. When I finished, there was atta all over the place. The tawa was burnt to cinders. And I was sweaty and hot and bothered and the family were chewing leather!

And then we shifted to our own place in Gurgaon, just A and me, believe it or not, the very first night, my rotis turned up light and fluffed up perfectly. And the sad part was there was no one to see them. I had to call A to witness this minor miracle. But obviously its not the same thing as his nonchalantly saying ‘Yes, yes, great’! Not content with that, my parathas turned out well too.

M-i-l understandably finds it hard to believe…

Reality Check

I was looking through my agency's archives of creative work when I came accross an anthem for something about an universal education effort or something like that. It was a short video where bright eyed, healthy, happy children poured out of their clean homes and ran across verdant fields, past crystal clear streamsbags on their shoulders, going to school. Our ex-PM made an appearance in it as well, at the end. 60 short second of a glorious vision of India.

Just then I got an email. It was from R about her recent trip to Jharkhand. It was about children and schools but a different sort. From a different world. Not one that was dreamed up in a plush ad agency but thought of by some enterprising, courageous people without the backing of any PM and in the real world where the everything was not shining and in technicolour.

R had gone to some villages in Raniswar block of Dumka district in Jharkhand with some friends who had been invited by an NGO called Santhal Pargana Samabay Vikas Samity to ask for some guidelines and assessment of their work.

Four months ago, a local businessman has set up this NGO that has been running coaching classes for the villages of the block.

There are no schoolrooms. Classes are conducted under a tree or in the open fields or a patch of green. How idyllic it sounds doesn’t it? Children studying in the open, under the clear blue skies. Well yes, except when it rains. The village is inundated and all the dirt roads turn into a sea of mud and slush.

The teachers are volunteers, mostly students who give 2 hours from their daily routine (7 to 9 am), totally free. There are a few government run schools where teachers rarely turn up and yet collect their monthly pay. Ironic isn’t it when real work is being done for free while others are paid to sit idle!

The secretary of the NGO said that there are countless other hamlets like these atop the surrounding hills who are even more distant from development, facilities and outside intervention.

There are no investigative centres or pharmacies and the adivasis have to trudge miles to the nearest doctors who hoard free medicines and sell it to them. The majority no wonder, are resigned to their fate and ofcourse, the will of god. These adivasis understandably, have no clue about their basic rights as citizen of this country. It’s a wonder that a brave few have decided to take things in their hands and find solutions. A small start but a brave one, surely. It heartening to note that there is no political opposition, yet.

I wonder, will any of these kids ever know that there is a campaign afoot somewhere education for everyone...probably not. The film is no doubt gathering dust in some archive in some office, somewhere...in India.

If one were to believe in destiny...

Everything moves along to some little understood cosmic reason...an easy explanation. Yet some things are just too coincedental.

Like our moving into our own place in Yes! We moved in last week to Gurgaon, close to my office.

A had first heard about this place in October when I had not even thought that one dy I'd be working here, let alone staying. Once I joined work, house hunting (when I found the time), became a top priority. The 80km up and down communte was killing me and naturally, this was the first place I saw. A was away in France then. I really liked it at first glance. But the in-laws pointed out that it was simply too large for just the two of us and would be terribly hot in summer and cold in winter being on the second and top floor. Not to mention the water and power problems which appartments in building usually don't have.

I mentally wrote this place off and tried to check out a few other smaller appartments but each had a serious drawback. The landlords rang up frequently, negotiated and renogotiated the lease, all the while when we were actually looking for other places! And all the whiile, this house waited patiently, empty, beckoning us! As if it knew that we'd land up there eventually. And so we did! One fine day in Jan (last week actually), after having commuted what seemed a million miles, I signed the lease, couriered it off to the landlords, hired a van, piled in our worldly belongings and viola! Here we are.

2 of us, 3 bedrooms, 3 bathrooms, 3 balconies, a lobby, a kitchen, a drawing room and a terrace...all are, our stuff neatly unpacked and put away in the numerous built in wardrobes.

The landlady's siter lives nearby and is our contact for most things about the house and Gurgaon. On our first meet (back in november when I had come to see this place for the first time), she told me in passing that her sister, the landlady was to work in the very same agency but had been called when it was too late. By that time they had decided to shift out of the city. Last week, I casually mentioned this to my boss. What? her? God! We really liked her but and wanted her to join but we were too late in getting in touch with her.

If she had got the offer in time, she wouldn't have moved. But it was too late. I moved in to her job and her house!!

PS- one of the first things I did after moving in was to hang up my two painting and a terracotta fresco that I had picked up in Crete. It is in a greenish antique colour (fake ofcourse). And rummaging through the stuff the landlord had left behind, I found another terracotta plaque (not cretan, very Indian) but in the same greenish antique tinge! I hung it up too..

Hmmm....do you hear the hmmm, hhmmm, hmmm, hmmm theme of the twilight zone playing in the background or is it simply work pressure thats making me see things when there aren't any??!!

Alls well that smells well?

I have just returned from my first official trip. I had gone to Gandhidham in Gujarat for some research work on salt. My first such trip in years. It was hectic but great. This trip led me to a new 'acquisition' - my own cell phone. Yup. So late, in 2005. I have never used one, never felt the need to and was amazed at how much people talked and talked into their cells. And I felt irritated that they carried it around everywhere and stopped conversations and meetings to take calls. They carried it in their pockets, in thier palms, hung it around their necks and most often stuck between their shoulder and ears. I started using A's ancient one (he is very attached to it) when I started work, confusing our friends no end. 'Oh you have got the cell today', A's friends would say, on finding me taking their calls and vice versa. Not to mention the amount of comments it drew - what is it? A murder weapon? Where did you get it? You got it in 2000? Don't you mean 2000 years ago and so on and so forth, remarked my colleagues who like people in France, spoke constantly on their colourful, slim, glitzy cells which did everything including, I suspect, cook their dinners!I got mine on the penultimate day before my trip and was bewildered with the many user-friendly options. And I must admit, I felt sheepish and guilty when for no reason whatso ever, I had this terrible urge to call A up and give him a blow by blow account of my progress through the airport!

My flight reached Ahmedabad around 9pm feeling incredibly foolish at the amount of warm clothes I had worn and carried with me. It was a pleasant 27 degrees! I took a car to Gandhidham where the biggest salt producers in India are located. The roads were simply fantastic and we covered the distance of 480km in 6 hours flat and despite couple of halts. A member of the reseach team travelled along with and this lessened my apprehension about travelling alone in the night in the company of an unknown driver. But I couldn't relax because thed driver played some really horrible music at ear splitting levels and I couldn't even complain sicne we didn't want him falling asleep at the wheels. I was really thankful about one thing though - my choice of a non-AC car despite having a budgetfor one. With an AC car, we would have had to keep the windows rolled up and boy did the driver have a B.O problem. Had me gagging in the backseat. I sort of solved the problem by pulling down my cap right down to my nose (Well I did say I had gone prepared for the cold...and having got my cap along, it was easier to simply wear it)!

We reached Gandhidham in the wee hours of the morning and by 10am, was out with the research team meeting the salt producers - big, medium and small. At each place, we were offered some godawful tea, terribly sweet and smelly (buffalo's milk) and refusing it would be bad manners. I was really dehydrated since all I could do was take small sips of the tea. (Water was ofcourse a strict no-no. Couldn't afford the loosies while on the road). At our fourth stop, our host, contrary to the custom, didn't offer us anything at all till we were nearly at the end of our discussions when he suddenly shouted to someone 'Where is the juice?'. Aah. Juice...never was a more wonderful word spoken. But it took its time coming. The minutes ticked by. The conversation flagged. We racked our brains to think up things to ask. Not finding any, went through our old questions. Every now and then, someone would rush by with something in his hand and we would all look expectantly at him. But no it was not the juice. At one point we even got up to leave but the host pleaded with us to wait. Finally, finally, some one came in with three glasses and set it down in front of us. I shot out an arm and downed the entire juice in one gulp only to realise that my colleagues hadn't touched theirs. They were picked up their glasses only when the host too was served. oops. But I was past caring. Orange juice never tasted so delicious.

At the end of the day, I was pooped beyond exhaustion and although I had the whole night to catch up on my sleep, was prevented from doing so by a fly that had got in god knows how in the clean and beautiful hotel room. Every once in a while it would alight on my forehead, nose or face and wake me up. I spent the better part of the night swatting it away.

I left for Ahmedabad at 6am which on hind sight was a mistake since we reached the airport at A'bad by 1.30pm and had to cool my heels till 8pm. The driver was a very polite young chap and shyly told me about his future plans - he had just gotten engaged to his sweetheart back in his village in Punjab, saving up to buy a truck, like his father. He told me about the tourist attractions in Gujarat. He insisted that I should visit the Akshardham Temple right next to the airport. I realised I had been unnecessarily apprehensive about travelling alone with at the begining, as I drew in the airport. Just as I had finished signing the bill and handed him the money, he asked me what perfume was I wearing. Something I picked up in France. Nothing expensive, just some deo. Why? Madame, you had left your sweater on the front seat yesterday and I smelt it. It was so nice!

Eeeeps. The idea of this young man (howsoever nice and polite, sitting there sniffing away at my sweater gave me heebie-jeebies) and I was so glad that he mentioned it to me (if at all) at the end of our journey!

As the year draws to a close

Wishing everybody a Happy and safe 2005.

Death by CNG

The legend 'Je roule en gaz naturale' (I run on natural gas)is a common sight on buses in France. I now see it often here on the Delhi buses. Propelled by Clean Fuel. Or nearly the same thing. With slight variations. Proppelled / Propeled / Propelled etc...
Clean/kleen/clin/klin; feul... U get the picture.

Some however solve the problem by using the hindi version. So long as they are using CNG or clean fuel which helps to reduce pollutions, I dont mind. Occasionally someone gets it right but I always prefer the desi versions. They have me laughing away heartily. Whatever!

This wrong or rather innovative spelling of common english words are a common sight. And this was one of the first things I 'noticed' on my return from France, in May. How good it felt to read this hodge-podge english. One I remember in particular, when I went to an area filled with car repair shops. There were signs all over for 'Dainter and Painter'. Perfectly comprehensible to someone who knows hindi. It means one who repairs dents and does paint jobs. (A desi version of the americanisation of certain words...why write colour when color will do)?!!

Back to CNG - I get a cab to drop me home from the office on late nights (which has become a permanent fixture in my life).

One night, on my long ride back home with only my thoughts for company, the driver busy navigating through the crowded roads (even at that hour), I found the back seat falling on me everytime I shifted or leant forward. I turned around and found an enormous CNG cylinder filling the entire space just behind the seat. The driver confirmed that the car was indeed running on CNG from that cylinder.

Eeeeeps! And I was sitting with my back to it. Suddenly, I could hear all sorts of ticking and clicking noises coming from the till then silent cylinder.

I kept imagining it exploding. Images of me sitting with my hair and clothes burnt popped up. Don't be silly. It it were to explode, me, the car, the driver and the cars alongside on the road would be history. I wouldn't feel a thing. Instant Nirvana. Stop it. STOP. Get a grip on yourself girl. And so on, it went till I reached home, which it seemed would never come.

I somehow managed to sign the car slip and put in the closing meter and a very shaky signature and I dashed out with indecent haste. CNG, clean or not, is funny, from a distance only! Death by pollution (from non-CNG cars and buses) now seem an infinitely preferrable process.

My family and other animals

(Warning - this post is full of typos...am typing at great speed, post work)!


As far as family is concerned, here in Delhi, it is just the in-laws and me (A is away in far away France). But we have plenty of animals to keep us company, none our though!

Foremost comes the monkeys. They come and go as they please and usually wreak havoc in our garden, breaking stuff, uprooting plants and plucking and throwing away half eaten guavas. Once they climbed over the neighbours newly painted grills and got paint all over their paws. They sat, started at their palms and tried to very human like, get rid of it by rubbing it on walls and tree barks but in vain. It remains, another, sign of the human encroachment into what was once, their domain. I used to watch their antics from the safety of our screen door. But now the novelty has worn off. Especially since their newest trick is to leave a bit of excreta in our backyard. This has upset f-i-l's afternoon snooze on the terrace. Face to face, these monkey are vicious. Our 65 year old neighbour Mr D, in bed with steel shafts to mend his broken leg, is witness to their calculated savagery.

Squirrels bound up and down the trees by the roadside and on to our terrace, busy in whatever that squirrels do...squirreling away something or the other in some nook or cranny and once, with disastrous consequence, inside our meter box which is fitted onto one of outer walls, in the garden. One hot summer night, at the end of a particularly taxing day, when the heat had all of us in frayed tempers, the power went off with a loud bang. Luckily for us, m-i-l had just stepped out of the bedroom where we couldn't hear a thing because of the hum of the air conditioner. We ran out and found the meter box in flames and neighbour crowded around it. The electricians were summoned (at exorbitant rates, it being past midnight), found a nest of squirrels inside the box, burnt to cinders. They had been squirreling away nesting tufts in anticipation of possible a baby?). Luckily for us, we found out in time. Otherwise we would have no escape route since the wall was next to the main gate which is also the only way out of the house. The squirrels had apparently learnt to open the meter box with their tiny paws. We have, since then, put a squirrel proof lock on the box.

A is petrified of cats, having been attacked by a cornered cat in his childhood. He usually keeps away from neighbourhood cats who pick and choose various houses, lawns, cars for reposing at various times of the day and year. One cat has chosen our home to have her litter - 2 adorable balls of fluff. She gets them to the security of our enclosed backyard for the night. Often we hear pitiful mewing of a kitten stranded half way up a treeor a parapet when ma arrives and leads it down with a firm shove by its nose.

I get up very early to get ready for office when it is still dark. I open the door and find (A, beware), the curious kittens sitting poised outside the screen door, head at an angle watching me moving around inside! They are so adorable, especially when they chase their little tails but mama is so protective. She bares her fangs (or canines?) and sets up such a hissing if I so much a turn to look at her little ones.

A wont be thrilled to read this but we are hoping to put the cat family to good use. Of late, m-i-l's tiny lawn is being dug up nightly by large sewer rats - bandicoots. Where do they come from? Why do they dig up the lawn is such a mystery to us. M-i-l asked a gardener for help. He sent one of his minions to clear up and block any entry points and spray the lawn liberally with gamaxene powder. Add to it the fact that we found the kittens playing with a large dead rat had us all complacent that we had tackled the rat problem! Alas, no. Next morning, the lawn was as dug up as ever, the rats clevery digging up the non-gamaxened patches so that it was a merry check board of holes and white powder. These rats are obviously too large even for the mama cat, since the holes continue to merrily appear.

Then there are the indoor pets - the cockroaches, who are a bit subdued thanks to the magic chalk marker. One has to just run this chalk across counters and other places and viola! Every morning, I walk into the kitchen and dead cockroaches crunch underfoot. Yukh..but its a solution. Lizards are in hibernation, I guess.

Neighbourhood dogs choose the front of our gate for their nature's call.
There are little sparrows and finches twittering about in among the tress at home, too clever to be caught by the ever patient cat and its frisky kittens. The ugly pi-dog has given birth to the most adorable set of pups and she has chosen the dry partially covered drain just outside our gate to keep them in. She takes them out one by one occasionally and during feed times and then she puts them back! All in all, very animal friendly, we.

Agra Revisited

I went to Agra with the in-laws, last Saturday. I was looking forward to a break (after only one week of office) and happily gave up catching up on precious sleep to re-visit Agra.

When one thinks of India, Taj comes to the forefront among all the other imagery associated with India, much as Eiffel Tower is to France and the Statue of Liberty is to New York or the Colosseum, to Rome. And yet, Agra itself is such a pathetic, crowded, squalid city and the traffic, Oh god. It has to be the worst in the world. The only traffic rule is that there is none. All sorts of vehicles, small, medium, big, driven or pulled by various animals, rickshaws, cycles go as they please, turn right or left, make a U-turn any where and at anytime as they please. Sort of like a reverse Caucus Race (Like in Alice in Wonderland where all the animals started running whenever the felt and stopped whenever they felt and some one, eventually, won). One would never know that within its chaos is some of the most beautiful monuments in the world.

Our guide, kindly lent to us by our host, knew all the routes to the scenic spots but he had never actually been inside any of them!! This would be his first time. The Taj in your backyard, it seems, is no big a deal!

First stop was the tomb of Itmad-Ud-Daulah, Nur Jehan's father, Jehangir's father in law and Shah Jehan's grandfather. Fore runner to the Taj, it is built in red stone with inlaid marble work. The gates, lawns, porticos, water tanks all were very stately and yet graceful in the inherent geometry in their architecture. Read in a plaque there, that ultimately, it reflected the poetic refined soul of the powerful iranian who lay entombed.

Sikandra, Akbar's mausoleum, was even more beautiful. Similar to Itmad-Ud-Daulah, it was grander in size, as indeed befits the mighty Akbar. Herds of deer were grazing nonchalantly among the trees, peacocks paraded disdainfully, their magnificent fan tail hidden from view.

The arched domes had vestiges of the splendour that it had once been. What vibrant shades of blue, green, with intricate gold patterns, no two alike. And half eaten away, corroded, defaced. What a pity. In sharp contrast was the hall in which lay Akbar's tomb - bare walls, a plain marble slab for a tomb of the mighty Akbar, who, centuries after Ashoka was the most powerful ruler, India ever had.

The sun was setting and there was hardly anyone around. As I was walking, a deer startled by something, ran across the portico, its hooves clattering noisily. It gave these graceful leaps and bounded away. It was so beautiful, it was as if I was transported back in time.

People can now, for some 600 odd rupees, view the 'Taj by moonlight' for five days in November and December, 2 days before full moon to 2 days after in each month. We were lucky to have reached just after purnima or full moon but we couldn't stay in Agra till 9pm since we'd have to drive back to Delhi. We did the next best thing. That is to have a 'dekho', anyway.

We reached around 6.30pm. The sun had set, there were no stars in the sky, the moon not yet fully risen and all lights switched off.

The Taj was a haunting, ghostly white, all its intricate jali work a play of shadows. It was ethereal.

And although it was still very crowded, no one was immediately visible in the darkness. An occasional flash of a camera would light it up and then it would subside into shadows. It was so poetic. I guess everyone felt it too, because for once, there was near pin drop silence from the usually noisy Indian.

It was as it was meant to be - an epic of sadness, a tomb in the memory of a beloved; viewed by a desolate, brooding Shah Jehan from his prison cell in the Agra Fort accross the Jamuna, pining for his Mumtaz Mahal.

Faced with so much beauty and the sheer brilliance of the artistry, one felt very humble. Felt very silly with our usual preoccupations of our mundane little lives to which we attach so much importance.

"Pichey murkey nahin dekhtey, Taj ko" (We don't turn to look back at the Taj), said our guide, citing a popular / local custom (?)...but I simply had to. Everything else I have seen, pales in comparison.

I couldn't help rue that little did they know - Itmad-Ud-Daulah, Akbar, that just a few decades later, a kindly invitation to an english trader to the court of Shah Jehan, would signal the begining of the end of this once mighty and glorious empire.

Anniversary Blog!

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!

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.

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!

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!

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!

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!!

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.

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!