in Pursuit of Happyness

The other day, mom was sitting at her cubicle staring at the monitor when the CEO walked by.

Having worked for companies where the CEO was a shadowy presence - rumored to be working on his tan in the Bahamas with trophy wife no. 6 - it’s always somewhat of a novelty for mom to see the founder and CEO of her present workplace pace the hallway, tossing ideas into the air at the same speed he checks his BlackBerry.

“How’s it going?” he asked, stopping at mom’s desk. “Everything OK?”

“Yes …,” answered mom slowly, suspiciously wondering if he was about to throw a project her way.

“Are you happy?” he asked instead.

The shock must have registered on mom’s face because he lingered, as though her answer would make a difference in his day.

“Y-yes,” stammered mom, trying to recover her composure.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” replied mom, flashing her best Colgate smile.

As the man walked away to attend to matters of corporate importance, mom’s initial reaction was to speed dial dad and bark over the telephone, “The CEO just asked me if I was happy. When was the last time you asked me about my feelings?”

Instead, she pulled myself together and continued to stare at the computer monitor, pretending to be v-e-r-y busy in case he walked by again.

“What is happiness?” she mulled. “Is it a state of mind or a feeling? … Why does chocolate make me happy when I know it’s bad for me? … Can happiness be maintained or is it an elusive state of mind - here one moment and gone the next? … Would I be happier holidaying on the beach or in the mountains this winter? ….”

Far from achieving a state of bliss, such metaphysical pondering merely resulted in a throbbing ache in her temples – a condition that could be alleviated only by a steaming cup of syrupy-sweet cardamom tea from the vending machine in the corridor.

Back at her work station a few minutes later with her belly sated and the headache at a reprieve, mom thought about the most frequently asked question directed at her ever since she started working - “How do you like your new job?”

Everybody she’s recently come in contact with (bar the newspaper delivery person and the milkman who start their day earlier than she does) has asked mom about her job. “It’s nice,” she replies, without going into any specifics. Maybe what these people really want to know is, “Are you happy?”

So, after a lot of thought - which involved another walk to the tea vending machine for inspiration - mom arrived at the following reasons that contribute, in a small way, to her happiness quotient at work.

1. Given the average age of the work force, there are days when she feels she’s back in college. She watches young women blush over something their male co-worker said. She sees couples coyly sharing food from the same plate in the cafeteria. She hears single girls giggling and whispering on the cell phone in the restroom or discussing a prospect who replied to their profile on Jeevansathi.com. The only difference from college is that everybody’s better dressed and the men have actually bothered to shave before showing up in the morning.

2. Nobody butchers her name anymore. After hearing variations of her name from non-Indians for years, mom no longer has to repeat herself or cringe when people address her by first name.

3. She can wear whatever she wants to work without worrying about a human resources representative photocopying the dress code page from the Employee Handbook and leaving it on her desk with the “No denims” policy highlighted in red.

4. The reaction on people's faces when they find out how old her older child is. "Oh, quite old!" said a guy doing the math aloud. "You mean me, right?" mom teased. "No, no ... your child, I meant," he replied, trying to salvage the situation. I'll bet!

5. As if it’s not enough that the CEO actually walks the hallways, he uses abstractions such as “Fun” when he talks of employee engagement. (Most corporate communicators will point out that using the terms “fun” and “CEO” in the same sentence is an oxymoron.)

6. Compared to mom’s former company’s top-level management whose approachability factor - despite their declarations of an open door policy - rivaled that of the Sai Baba’s, some of the top people in this company are not above mingling with the masses, especially at lunch time in the cafeteria.

7. Generous vacation time, flex time, Diwali bonus for no reason, offsites and parties every quarter on company dime – what’s not to love?

8. Did I mention the unlimited cardamom tea in the vending machine, accompanied by complimentary cookies?

There, it’s your turn now - what are some of the reasons your workplace brings a smile to your face? (Aw, come on, there has to be at least one!)

The beginning of the end

I wish I could say that the reason for this blog hiatus is because mom is busy settling a new family member in. But the big news from her side is that after a year's sabbatical, she’s back in the work force. After driving 60 miles a day in her previous position, mom’s new workplace is a hop, skip, jump away from home.

The biggest blessing - aside from the paycheck, return of self-confidence, feeling of usefulness, etc. - is that dad is home. While mom’s gone for nine plus hours a day, he answers the doorbell for the courier guy, Bigflix guy, other random doorbell ringers, decides on the dinner menu and instructs the cook, ensures the children are fed after school and done with their homework, shops for groceries and acts as mom’s chauffeur by ferrying her to and from work.

Given the unconventional work hours (11 a.m. onward), mom starts her day with yoga classes in the morning. Bending and stretching after breakfast makes her feel better when she goes up to the chaatwala at work and orders a fried dish and gulps it down with a glass of freshly-squeezed musambi juice.

After suffering, yes suffering! as a vegetarian in U.S. cafeterias, mom is grateful for the subsidized Indian buffet spread and sandwich counter at work. The men behind the counter may not wear gloves, but they're willing to customize the food (mirchi kum; butter beda) and apt to turn the other way when people help themselves to a cup of yoghurt or rice from the buffet bar without paying the full meal price of Rs. 40.

A big jug of complimentary buttermilk arrives at noon in the break room, and three kinds of biscuits (salt, sweet, 50-50) are available all day to complement endless cups of masala tea, hot chocolate, badam milk, coffee and hot milk.

Despite distractions, such as hot samosas on rainy afternoons and impromptu birthday parties thrown for co-workers, mom does manage to get some work done - just in case you're wondering.

Evenings are spent wistfully glancing out the office window to watch the sun disappear behind buildings, and by the time she reaches home, the kids are yawning and rubbing their eyes. Mom’s own eyes start to droop after dinner, and she gratefully hits the sack, only to start her day at 6:30 the following morning.

School holidays allow her the luxury of spending an extra hour in bed until the maid rings the doorbell, but despite her tight schedule, mom now understands why some RNRIs are reluctant to go back.

"Who will leave this aaram zindagi and go back, yaar?" declared a Bay area-returned neighbor.

A few weeks ago when she was jobless and had nothing to lose, mom would've raised both hands and half her body in the air.

But, now, as she looks at the flowers in her lawn (courtesy the gardener), surveys the somewhat clean house she returns to (courtesy the maid), slides behind the wheel of a car that's been hosed and wiped down (courtesy the car cleaner), and tucks into the warm dinner that's laid out on the table each night (courtesy the cook), mom feels she almost knows what the neighbor means.

She'll probably raise only one hand in the air now, rather slowly.

The sound of silence

My darling Terri,

Much as I hate to admit it openly, I’m getting used to life without you.

It’s a strange feeling to not suffer from guilt anymore. I have to constantly remind myself that I can stay out late shopping, dining, partying, because there’s no one tugging at my heartstrings, waiting for me to come home.

After 13 years, it’s a new found feeling, and I can’t say that I really enjoy it.

You see, I loved doing things for you. Of course, I complained, but I miss boiling your morning egg, rolling out your lunch and dinner rotis and drinking my evening tea without you prodding me to take you for a walk.

I miss cupping your warm snout in my palm and dodging your licks as I tried to kiss you on the tip of your wet nose. I even miss that dank dog smell that was both disgusting and comforting at the same time.

With you gone, my love, I feel dispensable. I have quit jobs for your sake, refused dinner invitations and exotic vacations since it meant leaving you behind. And yet, I never felt resentful because you had a way of making me feel as though I were the only one who mattered. Perhaps all dogs have this innate gift. I would have to adopt another pet to know for sure.

“When can we get another puppy?” the children ask. I browse Web sites such as this to look for another dog, but the lure of future employment puts a damper on my pet plans.

“Who’s going to watch the dog if I start working?” I reply, citing brutal work hours in India as an excuse. “Besides, our yard isn’t fenced in; I don’t know how to potty train a puppy; we can’t leave him/her in a kennel if we go anywhere; I don’t know what the quarantine laws in the U.S. are if we ever go back."

“But why can’t Appa watch the dog if you go to work?” the children reason. “He’s home!” Your Appa refuses to be drawn into the discussion, using stubborn silence to convey his opinion on the matter.

Despite his reservations on pets, we took the children to the CUPA shelter last week to make a donation. The children and I shared similar levels of excitement as furry puppies beckoned and licked our fingers through the cages. More than a dozen years ago, on a visit to a similar animal shelter, I brought you home, Terri. I was young then, reckless, lonely in a new land, and confident that my new husband would indulge my whims.

Older now and less reckless, I stood surrounded by polite dogs at CUPA, ignoring the children’s squeals of “Please, please, please, can’t we get a puppy?” We fed the dogs biscuits and bread, laughed at the antics of the puppies, admired the limpid eyes of a cow tied nearby, and marveled at the positive energy of the three-legged residents who had lost a limb.

At the end of an hour, I pried the children away from the puppy enclosure and dragged them back to the car amid protests and whines. We wished the dogs well and drove home empty-handed.

I unlocked the front door when we returned, only to be greeted by silence. You may never come back to me, my darling, but loneliness, my old friend, has.

- Mom

Ghar ki murgees

Normally, visitors call before dropping in. But this duo showed up at our doorstep one morning and took the "Welcome" sign on the doormat rather literally.

They pecked at the glass door until mom opened it, and immediately strutted into the house unafraid. Where did they come from, wondered the family.

Before the house filled with chicken droppings, mom lured them out by squatting on the floor and calling out to them. They ran toward her like eager puppies and started pecking at her chappals.

“Feed the kolis rice, madam,” urged the maid.

“But aren’t their beaks sharp?” asked mom, sticking her rice-filled palm at them tentatively. “Won’t it hurt?”

“Of course not,” laughed the maid.

Ouch! Obviously the woman was trying to get her revenge on mom - chickens aren’t half as gentle as dogs.

Yelping, mom scattered the grains of rice on the floor and the birds cleaned up in a jiffy before proceeding to eat the sewer roaches, stray ants and dead flies stuck on the door sill.

“Are these your chickens?” mom leaned over the fence and asked our immediate neighbor, wondering if her Sunday lunch had escaped.

Apparently, they're vegetarians. "Call security," the woman suggested.

Mom ignored her and spent the better part of the morning watching the duo's antics until the children informed her that the birds had escaped from their friend's yard, a few doors down.

"Are they (gulp!) going to eat them?" asked mom.

"They're pets," she was reassured, as the owner was located and informed about the errant birds.

Mom's feathered friends left soon thereafter. As she walked around the block late that evening, mom fervently hoped that the aroma wafting down the street was not chicken-related.

Pay it Forward

Mom hasn’t read the book yet since she’s on a watch-it-first-read-it-later spree. The movie is captivating enough for her to want to read the book, but wouldn’t you know it, our local library doesn’t carry the title.

“So what? Just buy the book,” some of you might suggest, but mom is against buying paperbacks, especially one-time reads, when there’s a functional library nearby. (Yup, she’s cheap that way.)

The film is based on the premise of showering kindness on random strangers. A fifth-grader takes his social studies assignment of “changing the world” seriously and decides to make a difference in the lives of three people. He then hopes that the three people he helps will repay their debt by helping three others, who will, in turn, help three others and thus keep the kindness chain unbroken until it impacts as many people as possible.

The boy starts out by lending a helping hand to a homeless drug addict. He then connives to have his lonely teacher and alcoholic mother fall in love, and finally extends his kindness to save a classmate from bullies on the playground.

Helen Hunt plays the alcoholic single mother who works two jobs to support her son and her habit. She delivers her dialogs with the speed of a semi-automatic – a trait mom found rather annoying while watching her in “Mad About You.” She also looks her worst in this movie, dressing like a hooker with streaky eye makeup as she waitresses in a strip club.

Mom never noticed Kevin Spacey much before, but his role as a burned, scarred teacher who is afraid to love in this movie drew her attention. Despite a never-changing expression on his face, the man makes love to the camera in a subdued, controlled manner, never revealing his emotions but smiling secretly to himself. Each time Helen Hunt throws herself at him, he moans softly and pulls away, leading one to believe that there are men out there who can resist the allure of a semi-dressed, willing woman.

As a large-hearted man, the pedantic teacher falls for a recovering alcoholic and restores some of her dignity. On her part, the woman overlooks his scars and discovers the person hiding underneath the puckered skin.

As a shining example of her own random act of kindness, mom would like to start by adopting a dog.

Ahem … is her spouse listening?

Where is your natewe?*

Mom is always in a quandary when people ask her where she's from.

When non-Indians ask her, the answer is easy - "India," she replies confidently. The confusion sets in when she's probed further or when fellow Indians ask her.

The city she called home for the first 23 years of her life doesn't feel like home anymore.

"What do I say?" she wonders when confronted. "Should I start by saying that I grew up in the north but am originally from the south? Does that make me a pseudo North Indian as opposed to a pucca South Indian? I can't claim to be from Chennai either since I wasn't brought up there. What about the 13 years I spent outside India? That's not really 'home sweet home,' but I want to go back. Bangalore is still too new to call home and I'm not sure I want to live here forever. Darn it, can't we just talk about the weather instead?"

In a nutshell, mom feels at home neither here nor there.

It's as I always suspected - the woman is a freak from another planet.

Anybody else feel like a dhobi ka kutta?

*Natewe for the unsuspecting is actually "native" in Southenglish.

Can you hear me now?

Muchas gracias to all the wonderful people who voted to keep me alive virtually through this medium. You have excellent taste, mes amis.

To all others who voted for mom to write instead, tsk, tsk.

As a wise person once said, “If you want something done right, do it yourself.” I’ve been gone but a week and look at the condition of this blog already – sappy, soppy, corny, sentimental mush.

This is not my style, folks! How much rona-dhona and melancholy can one handle? At this rate, how do you expect me to outsource my blog to mom? Our writing styles are markedly different, and frankly, I prefer my own. I suspect she does too, although she’d rather fondle a lizard than admit it. Besides, the woman isn’t witty enough to think of another name for this blog.

I see I’m left with little choice than to hang around until rebound pup arrives. My chappal stealing and chappati hogging plans in paradise have to be on hold for the moment. Sigh!

But I hope to resume regular programming soon now that mom has announced to the universe that her heart and hearth are open. She has started looking for a suitable replacement. “It’s not a replacement. No one can replace my Terri. We're only adding to the family,” she quickly justifies. Sure, lady, whatever you say, as long as you keep the melodrama to a minimum.

Anybody out there know a pre-owned dog that is up for adoption? When she wasn't looking, mom used to come across notices posted by desperate dog owners trying to find a good home for their canine companion due to a divorce, death in the family, a move abroad, dander allergies, etc.

Mom claims she has no energy to train a pup and would rather adopt an older, housebroken dog who is gentleness personified and is happy to stay indoors and warm the flooring. In other words, she’s looking for me in a different avatar.

But knowing her (better than she knows herself), she's just as likely to fall for the first fur ball that tumbles into her lap and peers into her eyes, wagging its tail as hard as a turbo engine.

Can someone throw this woman a bone?

Haal-e-dil

Apun ka choice

Please look to the right and cast your vote.

Alone again (Naturally)

My darling Terr,

I waited for you in my dreams last night, but you never showed. Perhaps, as an anonymous commentator mentioned, you’re too busy stealing chappals and eating chapattis? Will you meet me tonight, if only for a moment?

I woke up late this morning because nobody nudged me awake at 6:30, demanding to be let out. The house is empty without you. Nobody trips me in the kitchen, nobody comes rushing when I rustle the bread wrapper, and nobody waits expectantly when the aroma of hot rotis fills the air.

It’s strange to look beside the refrigerator now and find an empty corner instead of your food bowls. I listen for your footfalls on the stairs when I’m in my room, expecting you to poke your head around the door to see what I’m doing.

There are moments when I get a whiff of you around me, and I inhale deeply to fill my lungs with your memory. I was poking in the refrigerator this morning looking for yoghurt when I swear I heard you sigh behind me. I talk to you constantly, hoping you can hear me.

Terri, I’m so sorry for all the times I shouted at you. I’m sorry I was rough with you and jerked your leash hard on purpose. I’m sorry I called you “Stupid dog” whenever you peed in the neighbor’s house. I’m sorry I smacked your bottom when you ate things you weren’t supposed to. I’m sorry I cribbed about walking you. I’m sorry for all the moments I wished I didn’t have a dog tugging ay my heartstrings. And I’m sorry I didn’t take you to the vet when you looked sick. I really thought I could wait another day.

I didn’t expect you to collapse writhing on the floor around midnight. Do you think I can ever forget how you dragged your body to the first floor, to be in my room as you breathed your last? Did you see me hover over you, listening for a heartbeat? Did you hear me call you, asking you to wake up? Did you taste my salty tears as they spilled over you?

I’m sorry, my love, my darling heart. If you were here, you’d lick my tears dry and push me gently with your wet nose, urging me to get up and hand you a treat.

Thank you, my first-born, for enriching my life in countless ways. Are you waiting for me at the Rainbow Bridge? Look for a small white dog named “Lily” from my childhood. She knew me for almost as long as you did.

Forever yours,
Mom

Goodbye, my love

He’s gone.

My foot warmer, vacuum cleaner, plant fertilizer, garbage disposer, pest controller, blood pressure regulator, 6:30 a.m. wake up caller, walk motivator, security guard, conversational ice breaker, chappati beggar, chappal stealer, unconditional lover, soul mate of 13 years is no more.

Terri has left the building.

Betty looks, Veronica personality

I’m not sure why an American actress was picked to play the lead in a movie set in 19th century England. Reese Witherspoon does justice to her role in Vanity Fair, but is there a dearth of talent in England that a Hollywood actress had to play the part of an English woman?

One wonders why filmmakers frequently overlook homespun talent in favor of foreign skill. Gwyneth Paltrow in Emma and Yul Brynner in The King and I come to mind, as does Jessica Alba in The Sleeping Dictionary. Closer home, Katrina Kaif (I use the word “talent” loosely here) serves as an example, along with a miscast Lisa Ray in Water (How many Indian widows look like her, I want to know?)

Perhaps director Mira Nair was simply trying to cash in on a major Hollywood star’s popularity at the box office. Whatever her reasons to cast Reese, Vanity Fair works for me on almost all levels, including costume, location, supporting characters and narration.

I haven’t read the book yet, but the movie is set in a time when English ladies wore low-cut, shapeless gowns, and attended soirees and tea parties to keep themselves occupied. Having watched and read many period dramas, one wonders how society ladies managed to stay in shape despite no exercise other than a leisurely stroll around the park. With housemaids and butlers in attendance, the women seemed to have no outlet for their energy other than gossiping while fanning themselves furiously at balls or playing the harp or piano, and taking up needlepoint.

The protagonist Becky is unfortunate enough to be born into poverty. What she lacks in pedigree she makes up for with an astute mind, and financial insecurity as an orphan mold her into a sharp go-getter who uses her feminine wiles to sleep her way out of penury.

The shrewd opportunist marries a charming rake despite loving only herself and money, and tries to carve a place for herself in genteel society. In the process of climbing the social ladder, she alienates her gambler husband, young son and her only real female friend who’s a maudlin contrast to strong-willed Becky.

The calculating character reminds me of a woman I know. Beautiful without being overtly seductive, talented, extremely brainy and charming, she seems to have the world at her feet. And yet, her delightful demeanor belies a devious, cunning mind and extremely sharp talons that she regularly unsheathes on people unfortunate enough to be outside her clique.

While most women tend to keep their distance from her, men are attracted to her like bees to honey. In spite of being married to a uxorious man, it seems as though a deep-rooted insecurity drives her to seek attention mostly of the masculine kind, which she greedily laps up before moving on.

She’s a sight to behold as she makes the rounds at parties with tinkling glass and laughter, stalking certain men and chatting up others, all the while making sure their wives don’t feel left out, much like Becky does in the movie. It’s a talent she was either born with or cultivated somewhere along the way.

Truly, if there were a finishing school that churns out such social charmers, brilliant actresses who use their slick minds as the only medium, the wallflower in me might be tempted to sign up.

Wouldn't you?

Ados Pados

In addition to possessing such myriad talents as gift buyer and wrapper, dog poop picker-upper, newspaper put away-er, toilet roll changer, underwear folder, light/fan/hot water heater off-er, pantry stockist, bed maker, etc., mom can now add another qualification to her considerable kitty – cake tester.

It came to our recent attention that our neighbors own a chocolate store at a mall. Last night, the couple asked if my humans were available to stop by poolside after dinner to test a few cakes that were going to be introduced at the store shortly.

“We’d really appreciate your feedback,” they said. “Hope you don’t mind.”

Mind?!! Hello, does a dog mind a bone? Does a smoker mind cigarettes? Who in their right mind would rather watch television than participate as a cake tester, especially when the chocolate is imported from Belgium?

As soon as the kids fell asleep, mom and dad made their way to the pool and joined select neighbors to sample three different kinds of cake and answer a brief questionnaire describing their preferences.

“Would you be willing to participate in future testing sessions?” the hosts wanted to know.

“I wouldn’t mind,” answered mom.

Mind, my foot!

Sugar, in any form, turns her on. Sugar, combined with flour, butter, eggs and flavoring leave mom positively orgasmic. Throw in the word “Free!” and you have a woman writhing in ecstasy – all this before the product even reaches her mouth.

As the humans walked home with leftover cake slices for the following day, mom thought of all the neighbors she's had so far, from the Konkani aunty who lived next door and made the best fried modaks to the pakkath-aathu maami in Chennai to the frank "We’re-trying-to-have-a-baby-and-I'm-ovulating" neighbor in the U.S.

Mom's thoughts lingered, in particular, on the blond guy who lived along the same row as the ovulating neighbor. The night before we left the country, mom saw a side of him she had never seen before.

The man stood in his driveway with a can of beer, waiting to let his cat in. A light breeze rustled the oleanders bordering our lawns. Soft music wafted through an open garage door. As he stepped out of the shadows, mom drew her breath in sharply.

Clad in a pair of boxer shorts and nothing else, not even slippers, the man stood silhouetted against the night sky. Moonlight bathed his body in a silvery sheen, dancing off his golden hair and the wedding band on his finger. As he moved and stretched his bare torso, the pale light outlined his rippling muscles, highlighting every crease on his washboard stomach.

Despite herself, mom stood transfixed, wondering if she had unknowingly lived next to a male underwear model the last few years.

She never caught his name, but the man will forever be etched in her memory as a David.

Paws for a cause

“Come here, Choti,” urged the kindly animal shelter caretaker doling out glucose biscuits from a tin can to the prancing dogs around him. “Don’t you want one?”

Little Choti wagged her tail and struggled to keep pace with her taller peers, dragging her deformed hind legs along the concrete floor.

The assorted puppies in a nearby enclosure let out shrill yelps, demanding their share of treats. Mom turned her attention to the clamoring curs who jumped up and licked her fingers through the iron grates. “Let me out of here!” they all seemed to say, while a baby buffalo and a white calf calmly chewed cud and surveyed the din from their side of the corral.

A lot of people I know may not classify a visit to an animal shelter as the ideal treat on one's birthday, but mom is the kind of person who’d rather be cooing at canines and domestic animals than indulge in retail therapy at the closest mall. Therefore, when her sister-in-law asked her if she would like to accompany her to the CUPA shelter in Hebbal to pick a new member for her family, mom jumped into the car with as much excitement and giddy anticipation as the devout reserve for a place of worship.

As they alighted from the car, a welcoming party ran up to greet them, gently poking their wet muzzles into the bag mom was carrying, and sniffing out the cookies she had brought them.

“Hello,” she said, stretching her palm out in acquaintance. Mom was duly rewarded with a light lick and a tail wag as the canine committee accompanied the visitors inside the complex.

“We don’t have any purebred dogs. OK?” warned the supervisor, leading the humans to the puppy pit. About 20 fluff balls of assorted sizes and colors huddled together, some on a dog bed, a few on the wet floor, amid empty steel bowls and puddles of urine, poop and vomit.

Palm-sized puppies slept in cages. Piled one on top of the other, they rooted against their littermates for warmth. Month-old strays of various shades of brown and black looked at the visitors briefly before yawning and settling back for a nap. “We don’t know anything about these pups, so there’s a 50-50 chance that they might not make it,” explained the person in charge, urging potential adopters toward hardier, older pups.

Presented with an array of choices, each one as adorable as the next, the humans stood in front of the kennel surveying the puppies. “Remember, they choose you,” mom recalled reading somewhere.

As she stood in front of the enclosure thinking about the day she brought me home from a similar place, a gangly puppy with lopsided ears threw himself against the yellow bars of his enclosure, clawing to get out. Furiously wagging his tail, he lunged for a biscuit that mom held out, toppling his companions who were similarly begging for treats and attention.

“He’s pretty cute,” the women decided, watching the five-month-old’s antics. He wasn’t the best-looking pup of the lot, neither was he the most graceful, but he possessed a certain charm that convinced mom’s sister-in-law to bring him home.

“What do you think, Terr?” asked mom as I greeted the new family member on arrival. The puppy cowered and stuck his tail between his legs as I licked him on the nose.

Relax, little one. You’re safe and in a loving home now.

Happy rebirth day! May your new life be markedly different from the one you left behind.

Bleddy Love: A brainless bore

“I’m going to New York tomorrow,” announced mom grandly one evening, giving her family the impression that she was indeed making good on her desire to go back to the U.S. to buy underwire brassieres for herself and dainty sandals for her six-year-old.

Before the family thrust a shopping list at her, mom clarified that she was going to be in New York vicariously. “I’m only going to watch the movie, guys,” she said.

The next day, while the rest of Bangalore seemingly commuted to work, mom and five other ladies from our housing complex hopped into taxis to drive an hour away to the closest multiplex to catch a 10:15 a.m. show.

“This feels so decadent,” thought mom guiltily, watching people with grim faces and ID badges waiting on the road to board a bus or fighting their way through traffic. “Who goes to watch a movie at 10 in the morning?”

Apparently, the students at the college down the street from the multiplex did, for the ticket counters were packed with boys and girls who had skipped classes.

New York was sold out thanks to these truants, so the ladies were left with little choice than to watch a parallel-running show instead. “Only 60 bucks, ya. So cheap!” they justified, as they groped for their seats in the darkened theater to watch Kambakkht Ishq.

Less than two minutes into the movie, mom distanced herself from her brain. As Akshay Kumar strutted on screen in snug pants, she wondered where exactly his mass appeal lay. Was it in his voice that sounds like he swallowed a frog, or in the perma-leer on his face when he looks at women? Could the attraction lie in his bulging biceps or in his golden, hairless chest?

For the amount he makes per film, the man even mispronounced Denise Richards’ name, after sharing screen time with her. Clearly, his attention, while she sat on his lap and rubbed herself against him, was elsewhere.

The movie had as many holes as a sea sponge has, and mom sat through the entire film with a tub of popcorn in her hands, periodically popping kernels into her mouth every time she yawned.

135 excruciating minutes later, she streamed out of the hall behind the teeny-bopper crowd, praying that the men in the audience - little more than boys really – would treat women far more respectfully that the hero-molester does. (The hero gropes and assaults the heroine in a group song in Venice and she predictably falls in love with him by the end of the film.)

“Well, I didn’t go to New York. I went to L.A. instead,” announced mom when she returned home, referring to the city Kambakkht Ishq is shot in.

“Are you going to New York next week?” the children asked a little too eagerly.

"Why?" sniffed mom suspiciously.

"No, these chocolate doughnuts you got us from the mall are nice, but next time get glazed ones," they replied, licking their sticky fingers.

For now, mom has elected to stay home. She has yet to recover from the sight of Amrita Arora's pockmarked cleavage, which was on ample display throughout the film.

Song of the Wind

Having heard much about the power of yoga for body toning, mom signed up for classes earlier this year in Chennai.

“I have to lose weight; I want to lose weight; I must lose weight,” she chanted, as ardently as the priest at the neighboring Ganesha temple intoned the evening prayer.

Despite being born under the sign of the lion, mom possesses none of the animal’s agility, energy or endurance. Physical activity, other than occasional lovemaking, bores her, and she’d rather watch the grass grow than sit through a game of tennis or cricket. To tell you the truth, the woman bears a close resemblance to an Indian buffalo in manner and bearing – she’s slightly slow on the uptake and most reluctant to mooooove once she rests her derrière in a comfortable spot.

A few months ago, a family wedding in the offing finally stirred mom out of her lethargy and motivated her to join a couple of maamis in the neighborhood every evening for what she thought would be light stretching and deep breathing.

“Close your eyes, inhale and bend down while exhaling,” instructed the yoga master instead, watching maamis of assorted bulk tuck in their jingling mangalsutras and guts and bend forward to touch their toes.

“Saar, saar, teach some exercise for arthritis/spondylitis/high blood pressure/sugar, no?” the maamis would beseech, while mom requested tummy toning asanas.

One evening, the master asked the ladies if they were ready for an abdominal exercise that would greatly reduce their girth.

“Yes!” shouted mom, who saw no deflation in her spare tire even after three months of twisting herself into pretzel and challah bread shapes.

A maami of a certain age raised her hand. “One doubt, saar. Is it all right to do it if you’ve had a C-section?” she wanted to know.

After assuring the woman that the exercise would have no bearing on her C-section surgery, performed approximately 25 years ago, the master asked the women to lie down on their mats.

“Tighten your stomach as much as you can,” he told the maami closest to him. Holding a chair for support, he stood on the woman’s abdomen and proceeded to knead her stomach with his feet, as though he were playing the piano with his toes. “This is called abdominal jogging,” he explained to the group. “Very effective in reducing potbellies.”

Mom watched horrified as the woman closed her eyes and allowed herself to be stimulated in such fashion for a few minutes.

“How does it feel?” asked the master when he jumped off the woman.

“Wonderful!” she gasped.

The master then proceeded to knead several other maamis similarly before he reached mom’s mat.

“Sir, I don’t think I can do this,” she suggested weakly.

“Nonsense! Look at the others, they all enjoyed it,” said the master dismissing her fears. “Even C-section maami didn’t object.”

“Yes, but sir …” protested mom, unable and unwilling to stomach a grown man’s body weight on herself under such circumstances.

“OK, I’ll put only one foot on you,” said the master. “We can try the advanced technique when you’re more comfortable.”

Mom closed her eyes and clenched her belly. She felt the master’s heel through her shirt.

“Ready aa?” he asked and lightly pressed her belly button.

A sudden roar filled the room, sounding exactly like the revving of the master’s Yamaha motorcycle parked outside.

“What the ___?” thought mom, before she realized that the sound was emanating from her - the pressure on her paunch had quite literally released the wind out of her.

The master recoiled from her body; the maamis in Shavasana lay still as corpses as mom, unable to regain control of her gluteus maximus, expelled the intestinal gases from her body in fits and starts like a coughing engine.

“Sorry,” she whispered to no one in particular, thankful for the sea breeze that blew into the room and the incense sticks lit under a photo of Sai baba.

Just as her face turned the exact shade of her ruby red T-shirt, the master mercifully called for the class to end. Even before the Om vibrations receded in the room, mom gathered her mat and ran out the door. When she reached the far end of the street, she heard a low rumble behind her. Clutching her stomach in dismay, she stopped abruptly, startling the stray dogs snoozing in a corner.

Mom need not have worried.

It was merely the master’s Yamaha, firing up to take him to his next destination.

Accident ho gaya rabba rabba

Since she started driving, mom has discovered that no two driving days are alike. There might be little to no traffic one day, while the same route at the same time the next day might take a good hour to navigate.

“It’s not that hard to drive here,” says dad. “You just need to figure out the traffic patterns.”

“You mean the traffic here follows a pattern?” asks mom, firmly of the opinion that India needs skilled transportation engineers as urgently as she requires bakers who can make authentic bagels instead of pandering a bun-with-a-hole-in-the-middle for a hefty price.

Most drivers seem to carry a death wish on their heads, which explains why so many of them leave their brains unprotected and travel with their helmets swinging from their arms.

For all the chaos that reigns on the road, one would expect accidents to happen as often as power cuts in the city. But to our immense surprise, we’ve only witnessed a handful of accidents in the last year.

The latest one occurred yesterday almost in front of mom’s eyes. As she waited behind a long line of honking vehicles and irate drivers on her way to the grocery, a mob gathered out of nowhere and began running toward the collision.

A car had rammed into a bus full of passengers. Nobody seemed injured, but there was a lot of shouting and jostling as gawkers quickly surrounded the two vehicles in idle curiosity.

It never fails to amaze mom to see the number of men in India who stand near tea stalls doing absolutely nothing. While the women seem busy and are always going somewhere or doing something, the men seem preoccupied mainly with their balls. It's almost as if gravity pulls their free hand southward, and one suspects these men would be genuinely bewildered if they were forbidden from seeking comfort in their crotch.

When the vehicles collided, some of these very same men loosened their grip long enough to run to the scene. In a matter of minutes, the mob swelled to a few hundred people, making it impossible for mom to gape from the comfort of her car.

So, she did what anybody would do in a similar situation - she drove away.

It was not the collision that unsettled her even though she’s come close to being mowed down by a bus herself. What frightened mom was the mob and the melee, capable of stripping a crashed car and its dazed victims of money and valuables.

“What do I do if I find myself in an accident?” she asked dad.

Never having been involved in one in either country, my humans are clueless. If they were in the U.S., mom would have waited for a cop.

What should she do in India other than pray?

55 (give or take a few) Worder

It’s wet, messy, smelly and cold.

She hates the way it drips down her body, making her want to wipe it away before it dries to a flaky, itchy trail.

And, yet, despite her utter revulsion, she endures it. In fact, she’s the one who initiates it - every single time.

Do you know what I’m talking about?

Mom proposes, dad defers

The humans went out to lunch. Together. With no children to interrupt their attention every 3.5 seconds.

Now such an event may seem ordinary to you if you’re blessed with a spouse who enjoys spending time with you, but for mom, a couple outing is the equivalent of a hormonal teenager spending time with an adult magazine behind closed doors.

In fact, she is still pinching herself at her good fortune, because the last time mom was alone with dad - outside their bedroom, that is - they went for a movie after much arm-twisting on her part.

As with most good things in life, this "date" was completely unplanned. It started with mom getting heartburn in the morning after regurgitating the previous night’s dinner of spicy chickpeas.

Craving non-Indian food for lunch, she crossed her fingers and asked dad, as casually as if she were commenting on the weather, if he wanted to go out that morning. “You know … go for a drive … maybe grab some lunch on the way?”

With heart hammering, she waited for him to veto the idea. Instead, he surprised her with an “OK, where do you want to go?”

Perhaps dad’s ready acceptance was the result of a recent spat between the humans over … um … er … what the hell was it about anyway? … that resulted in both parties avoiding each other for a few days.

Maybe the cold shoulder and the dry spell got to him, or maybe the spicy chickpeas were irritating his stomach lining as well. Whatever the reason, dad not only took his wife out, he also made conversation that extended beyond his habitual, “Hmmm.”

The humans headed to a restaurant that came with high recommendations. “You simply must go there,” gushed a friend, setting up lofty expectations of lip-smacking Continental food.

The place was filled with expats and the menu looked promising, but after a bite of her aubergine dish, mom wondered if the nondescript dosai place they had passed on the way might have been a better option.

It probably would’ve been a lot cheaper too, for when they were presented with the bill, the restaurant had inflated mom’s Rs. 70 dish to a whopping Rs. 250.

“They probably just made a mistake,” said dad. Mom had her own theories, but for the sake of marital accord, she decided not to voice them.

After lunch, trying to push her luck and prolong the “date,” mom suggested they drive out of the way to a grocery store called Spar. “They have a big liquor section,” she added quickly, before the frown lines formed on dad’s forehead.

Built with NRIs in mind, Spar is everything a Nilgiri’s or a Reliance Fresh is not. The first time she went there, mom had to keep reminding herself that she was still in India. Smiling expats wheeled their carts around saying, “Excuse me,” when they had to pass; the aisles were wide enough to accommodate might-is-right NRIs who leave their manners behind at the Frankfurt airport; and the staff made an attempt to guide shoppers instead of delivering the standard “Gothilla,” when asked for help.

As usual, mom came home loaded with stuff she didn’t really need. More importantly, she came home smiling. No, dad didn’t buy her roses as she secretly wished, but he did reach for her hand instinctively as they crossed a busy intersection, and didn’t object when she fiddled with the radio channels in the car.

What’s that?

Why, yes, it did rain that day.

Why do you ask?

Judging a book by its cover

A book on AIDS?

Normally, mom would’ve passed by without a second glance. “Aiyyo, too depressing,” would’ve been her excuse before moving on.

However, a chance encounter with a flame-red jacket stopped her in her tracks at the local library last week.

AIDS sutra rang a bell. A distant bell that evoked Sonia Faleiro’s post last year on her essay being one of the 16 stories in the book.

An avowed fan of Sonia’s reportage, mom devours her writing - courtesy her blog - as greedily as a hungry cat laps up milk. Some of her profiles, such as the series on bar girls, domestic servants and farmer suicides have moved mom to tears, despair at human suffering intermingling with admiration at the author's mastery of prose.

As expected, Sonia’s exposé on police brutality toward sex workers in her essay, "Maarne ka, Bhagane ka," does not disappoint. Like all other chapters in the book, her feature is also raw, honest, sad, terrifying, insightful and compelling.

What else can one expect from contributors such as Rushdie, Desai, Dalrymple, Seth, Dé, etc.? Sonia deserves her spot among the stars.

Chalti ka naam Mummy

What Chennai couldn’t do in 11 months, Bangalore accomplished in a few days.

The city, known internationally for its infamous traffic, forced mom to get behind the wheel of a car.

Of course, circumstances also played a part.

“Look, I can't take you shopping every single day,” remarked dad after a second run to the grocery store in two days. “I can take you out every 10 days or so, so plan your purchases accordingly.”

“Like hell I will!” thought mom, picking up the car keys in a huff the next afternoon and driving to the closest home store, determined to burn a hole the size of her ego in dad’s pocket.

People on the road honked at her, she forgot to change gears, her car stalled at a red light, but mom was filled with a sense of accomplishment when she returned from her maiden trip.

Since rediscovering a little of her former independence – the rest will follow as soon as she lands a job – mom finds that she is no longer afraid of the road.

She’s not the problem, you see? It’s the others out there who don’t know how to drive.

Men on two-wheelers are clearly suicidal; truck and bus drivers consider their vehicles as a phallic symbol; auto rickshaw drivers are savvy opportunists; and chauffeurs, a rude and belligerent lot with bad hygiene.

It took mom a few forays outside her gate before she started using the horn. The first time, she cruised in first gear behind an old man herding his goats home. “Oh, look at the babies; how cute!” admired mom, not wanting to signal her presence and frighten the herd.

The impatient driver behind her - a chauffeur, naturally - did not share her sentiments. He brought the bucolic scene to an abrupt end by leaning on his horn and scattering the goats in confusion, before roaring off in a cloud of dust.

These days, mom uses the horn judiciously. Unlike most other drivers, however, she’s not raring to go at red lights or trying to pass slower vehicles. When mom honks, she's trying to convey a message. It’s this mild mannered, genteel woman's way of saying, “F – you!” to all the bad drivers out there.

She thinks her mother would approve.

The Gods must be Crazy

Grandma: “How do the kids like their new school?”

Mom: “Anu doesn’t have a class teacher yet.”

Grandma: “Oh, why don’t you apply? You can teach English or French. It’s a wonderful opportunity.”

Mom: “Grrrr, Amma, why do you bring it up every week? I don’t want to teach!”

Grandma: “Foolish child, just think, you’ll get two months off every year, you can eat lunch in school for free and ride with the children on the school bus. It’s so cushy; it’s almost as good as a bank job.”

Mom: “Ma, one should like teaching to be in the profession. I believe you should have a flair for it. It requires dedication, patience and …”

Grandma: “What nonsense. You think all teachers are like that?”

Mom: “Exactly! That's why certain people should never teach. Besides, I can earn more if I join a corporation.”

Grandma: “Yeah, right, as though the corporate world is knocking on your door offering you a plum job. (Muttering under her breath and walking away) Srinivasa, when will this girl learn?”

Perhaps the gods heard grandma’s plea, for mom received the following e-mail from a recruiter this morning:

Position: Marketing Ex.
Type of Job: Selling broadband through Vsat to the various corporates in Kabul
Must possess a valid Passport, And excellent Communication Skills (English- Spoken)

Suddenly, that teaching gig is starting to look mighty tempting.

Maid-to-order

The best part about living in a housing community, mom was told, was that there would be no dearth of household help. “If one maid leaves, another one will take her place,” friends and relatives told her.

Thus reassured, mom moved into her new house under the impression that the line of women queuing up outside our door would be as long as the one outside a local ration shop.

We soon found out that what these well-meaning people omitted to mention was the quality of people knocking on our door offering their services.

“You want me to work for how much?” some of the domestics exclaimed in disbelief. “The people in that house pay Rs. 3,000. That’s the going rate here, goththa?” they informed, highly offended.

“See what I said about the cost of living in Bangalore?” muttered grandma, deftly dispatching women who arrived with such tall claims.

“Mein kaam karoongi, didi,” one applicant informed mom. “Pay me whatever you like. I never overcharge my fellow north Indians.” Upon learning that mom hailed from the south of the Vindhyas, the woman diplomatically replied, “So what? We’re all Indians, aren't we? Ham sab ek hain.”

The next morning she sent a friend in her place. “Treat me like your mother, beta,” the elderly woman said, huffing and puffing as she climbed the stairs to the bedrooms. “So many stairs in your house, baba! I can only do light housework as this is my first job.”

Another servant maid brought her eighth-grader along and set her to work downstairs while she cleaned upstairs. Mother-daughter duo cleaned four bathrooms, swept, swabbed and washed dishes in 10 minutes, setting a world record in Domestic Olympics. They also left a few faucets open and a trail of body odor in their wake.

The duo's replacement fared no better.

“Do you speak Tamil?” asked mom.

The woman nodded and replied in Kannada.

"Did you sweep the porch today?"

The woman nodded even though she had forgotten to.

“Did you take out the trash?”

Of course she hadn't, but she nodded.

"Wait a minute, did you just clean the bathroom with the kitchen sponge?"

Mom was graced with another nod as the woman returned the dirty sponge to the kitchen.

"Here's your money for the last 10 days and a little bit extra. Please don't come back, OK?"

The maid nodded happily. "See you tomorrow," she said on the way out.

"You just need to find the right match," neighbors cluck in sympathy.

Such a person does exist, two of them in fact, who left our house sparkling and smelling of citrus rather than body odor.

Unfortunately, they don't live in this country.

Back-to-School

On the first day of school, our resident first grader awoke and declared, “I had a nightmare that I missed the school bus!”

My poor darling. Perhaps now is not the best time to tell you that there’s something called an exam nightmare that never ends, no matter how old you are. Just ask your 85-year-old great grandmother.

Points to ponder:
1) Do people in the Western world suffer from the same nightmare, or are they only bothered about walking naked down the street?
2) Does the condition affect Indian men also or is it mostly confined to women?

More Bang for the buck

After checking with our new neighbors we learned that the average wait for a BSNL connection in the new house ranges from 30 – 45 days.

The humans were flummoxed. At this rate, they'd be forced to make civil conversation with each other instead of retreating to their respective corners with their laptops. Grandpa was duly requested to use his clout, and after a short wait of five working days, the humans were reconnected to the virtual world.

The question du jour directed at my humans is “Settled aa?” Kind neighbors want to know if they need help, relatives visit with fresh vegetables and food, and the doorbell rings ever so often with strangers asking, "Madam, driver beka? Maid beka? Cook beka?"

Perhaps it’s the glorious airconditioned weather in Bangalore, or the squeaky-clean community they now live in, or the new townhouse they moved into with lizards outside the house as opposed to inside, or the fact that they moved countries exactly a year ago … whatever the reason, this time mom has unpacked all 143 cartons and is trying to turn her house into a home.

“We have too much stuff,” frowns dad, referring to anything non-electronic. “Let’s get rid of half the things,” he proposes, as mom frantically clambers to rescue her brass Ganeshas, ceramic vases, papier-mâché knick-knacks and terracotta figurines from a cardboard box marked “Trash.”

For the first time, the humans find themselves living inside a gated community lined with barbed wire fencing separating them from the nearby halli residents. Uniformed security guards patrol the streets day and night with nothing to do other than crack their knuckles or adjust their black caps.

“They should get Dobermans instead,” suggests mom, as she spies the security guard on her street picking his ear or checking out his reflection in a parked car.

Where before mom would nag the children to “go outside and play,” she now begs them to come home at least during meal times. With a swimming pool, tennis and basketball courts on site, minimal traffic and lots of company, the children prefer to spend time playing outdoors or in friends’ homes.

“Only young people living here,” observed grandma as she walked around the complex, “young” referring to anybody below the age of 50.

At night in bed, the family listens to the thunderclouds rolling outside and watches the palm trees swaying in the breeze. “Do you guys like it here?” asks mom, in between swatting tenacious mosquitoes.

“It’s cool,” says Anu, which probably translates as superlative in tween vocabulary.

Perhaps the family's feelings can best be summed up by its youngest member who declares, "I want to stay in Bangalore, I never want to go back to India!”

Chokri needs naukri

It's not from a lack of trying that mom is still filling out "Occupation: Homemaker" on official forms in triplicate.

It's been roughly nine months since she contributed anything of value to this household, other than made-from-scratch banana/apple pancakes drizzled with honey as a breakfast treat on Sundays. A cursory browsing of jobs on employment Web sites paints a grim picture of available openings in her field.

"See? That's why you should do computer courses," says grandma helpfully. "How much did I ask you to at least do an MBA when the children were younger?"

Mom’s inbox fills every day with mass e-mails generated by placement agencies addressed to “Dear candidate,” offering positions in every field but her own.

"What is expected CTC, ma'am?" recruiters want to know even before they say hello.

"C-what?"

"Cost to Company."

“What exactly does that mean?” asks mom, convinced that it's a marketing term like USP that's used ubiquitously in India.

It turns out, CTC is a fancy term for 'compensation' in acronym-loving India. When mom indicates what her expected CTC is (which is considerably lower than what a dollar-earning janitor would make) she never hears from these recruiters again.

One placement agent got back with the following job offer: "Ma'am, we're looking for attractive marketing professionals to market our product in Chennai and Bangalore."

"What product?" asked mom suspiciously, when she heard that "attractive" was a prerequisite.

"It’s a famous whisky brand. We’re India’s largest …”

“Sorry, I’m not interested,” mom cut her off, irritated firstly that the woman was offering her a sales job she wasn’t qualified for, and secondly, for asking her to peddle a product that tastes like Waterbury’s Compound.

Interviewers so far have fared no better. “Would you be able to work from Chennai for three days and from Bangalore for three days?” asked a director. “Of course, we’ll give you Sundays off.”

“Where was your father working?” another interviewer wanted to know. “What about your father-in-law?”

“Tell me about yourself,” asked a Human Resources manager, drawing an Om on the paper in front of him before taking notes. When mom launched into her qualifications and work experience, the man stopped her mid-sentence and said, “All that is in your résumé. Tell me about yourself. Where does your mister work? How many children do you have? What are their ages? First one boy, second one girl aa or first one girl, second one boy aa?”

So far, other than her age, mom has been asked every red flag question that featured in a harassment training program she attended at her last workplace.

“See how tough it is to survive in India?” pointed out grandma. “Take my advice and do what my neighbor’s sister-in-law’s cousin’s daughter does. She moved back from Atlanta and now teaches at her children’s school. You can ride the school bus with them, have lunch on campus and the children might even get a discount in the tuition.”

There’s just one problem with that picture.

If mom could teach, her five-year-old would be reading by now instead of flipping through picture books. Not only that, she might even be wiping her own rear end after using the potty.

Jaani Dushman

Usually, when one looks for a home in India, one pays attention to the neighborhood, proximity to work-school, size of the bedrooms, state of the toilets, and the water and power supply situation. Some people may even consider Vaastu compliance.

Mom looks for none of these.

When she walks into a home, her gaze invariably falls on the floor. She isn’t particular about the flooring material or its color; instead, her sharp eyes scan the surroundings for lizard droppings.

“Eeeww, gross!” she exclaimed in one house as she gingerly stepped over the porch. “Yikes!” she yelled in another house as she opened a closet. “Hmm!” she sighed resignedly in a third house as she inspected a bathroom.

“Why are you standing outside?” asked dad from the foyer of a brand new bungalow to let with a servant room and a two-car garage. “Have you seen the house already?”

“I’ve seen enough,” shuddered mom, pointing to an offending dropping between dad’s feet. “Look at the size of that. It was made either by a rat or a lizard the size of Terri.”

“I will show you best house saar,” said a realtor confidently last week, striding up to a freshly painted house with a dark green lawn and an entryway set in speckled granite. The doors opened to reveal an open kitchen as large as the one in the humans’ former home, along with the perfect alcove to fit the piano they had lugged across the seas.

Gleaming tiles beckoned mom, and after a cursory glance at the entryway, she raced inside to admire the woodwork in the kitchen, complete with frosted glass cabinet fronts and recessed lighting.

“Look,” pointed grandma, opening a drawer under the hob. “They’ve installed wire baskets instead of wooden shelves. Very sensible. That way you’ll have less cockroaches.”

“Madam, please note Aquaguard unit is already there,” pointed the realtor. “Also, hot water geyser in kitchen.”

Leaving grandma to inspect the rest of the cupboards in the kitchen, mom and dad flitted through the three rooms and a study, noting the abundant storage, split airconditioners and sunlight streaming into the rooms.

As dad discussed trivialities with the realtor, such as the rent and deposit, mom joined grandma who was still admiring the wire baskets in the kitchen.

“Tamilian owners only,” commented grandma.

“How do you know?”

“See? There’s a tulsi plant in the garden.”

Too preoccupied to argue about Tamilians owning copyright for tulsis, mom bent down to open the cabinet under the sink. Reaching for the brass knob, she recoiled in horror, for there on the knob and on the floor under the sink, were remnants of a lizard lounge bar - the worst she had seen so far.

Mom’s screams reverberated through the quiet neighborhood.

Blabbering incoherently about the dimensions of the droppings and their sheer multitude, she was escorted to the car with a shawl wrapped around her shaking shoulders.

“I’ll get back to you,” said dad grimly to the stunned realtor standing on the sidewalk.

As the car pulled into the main road and merged into bottleneck traffic, mom composed herself. Stifling her sobs, she noted a vein throbbing in dad’s neck and the determined set of his jaw as he stared resolutely ahead, refusing to make eye contact with her.

“The neighborhood was nice though. No?” she placated, trying to gauge the extent of his aggravation.

No response.

“The house was also nice, but it didn’t have a puja room, and there was no mirror in one of the bathrooms. I'm not sure it would've worked for us ...” she trailed off, looking out the window the rest of the way home.

Chatting in Chennai

It was a meeting she had looked forward to and willed to happen for a few years now.

“I can’t come to Bangalore on Tuesday,” mom informed dad. “I have a very important meeting I can’t miss.”

“Why are you standing in front of the closet and staring at your clothes, mom?” asked the children last week.

“I have a very important meeting,” muttered mom, sorting through her clothes and disdainfully rejecting every single garment.

“What important meeting?” asked grandma, sensing the anticipation and trepidation in mom's voice over the phone. "Job interview aa?"

Job interviews are passé. Mom had a rendezvous with Rads!

E-mails were exchanged between Lakshmi, Rads and mom to meet at an outdoor coffee shop despite the heat, daughters in tow. As usual, Lakshmi was the first to arrive, and mom sauntered in fashionably late after changing her outfit at least three times and still unhappy with what she wore.

Rads tunneled thru' thereafter with warm hugs and infectious exuberance. Much like her online persona, she’s a bundle of energy - a complete contrast to mom’s bovine personality. One can easily imagine Rads as a dancemasterni, cracking her whip at truant teens and gently encouraging pudgy matrons to call upon some semblance of grace while shaking a leg.

Accompanying Rads was a demure cherub with a shy, ready smile, remnants of baby fat on her arms and thighs just begging to be squeezed. As their mothers rightly predicted, the two girls didn’t utter a word to each other the first hour. Missing from the group was Lakshmi’s daughter who was home with a stomach bug, and less than an hour after she arrived, Lakshmi was paged to return home and deal with a sick child.

As the weather cooled, the little girls warmed up, their bellies sated with French fries. Kicking off their shoes, they tore through the establishment, chatting with waiters and leaning over banisters, while Rads and mom sat under trees lit by fairy lights and talked about things-that-women-can-talk-about-for-over-two-hours-and-not-be-bored.

It was while the three women were chatting about blogging and the virtual audience that Lakshmi and Rads made a passing reference to dealing with unwanted attention online. “Wow, I thought only The Mad Momma had trolls,” blurted mom, as she listened in wide-eyed wonder to the two women recount their experiences in dealing with virtual venom.

This has left me shaken. Frankly, people, I can’t tell you how disturbed I am by this phenomenon. It saddens me to the point of shaking the very foundation of my self-esteem and confidence. Maybe I should take grandma’s advice and give blogging a break, while looking for a more fulfilling hobby, such as social work.

Four years of an online presence and what do I have to show? I am almost ashamed to admit it: not one nasty comment; not one testy troll.

Do you people have any idea how isolated I feel in social situations with fellow bloggers? Really, what does one have to do to get some attention around here?

Crème de la community

“I wouldn’t even want to live here for free,” shuddered grandma as she stood alongside mom on a manicured sidewalk in Palm Meadows, Bangalore, and surveyed her surroundings.

Having heard much about the upscale NRI bastion, mom had decided that a trip to the garden city would be incomplete without a look at the exclusive neighborhood.

“Kahaan jaana hai, madam?” security stopped her at the front gate.

“To the rental office,” fibbed mom. “I want to see if there are any houses to rent.”

“Come back tomorrow,” waved the guard dismissively and watched until the car backed up and left the premises.

Mom returned in less than an hour with a friend who lived across the street. Apparently, Palm Meadows security is a little lax with pedestrians. Evening walkers and domestic help glide in and out of the neighborhood on foot with no questions asked.

“What did you say the rents were?” whispered grandma, looking around and noting the community’s resemblance to a Southern California suburb with swaying palm trees, wide streets, cookie cutter houses and mini vans parked in driveways.

“Don’t worry, it’s beyond our budget,” mom reassured her. “We’re only sightseeing.”

“Good,” replied grandma, “I’d never fit in here, and I’ll feel so odd to visit you.”

Indeed, in the 10 minutes they spent in the neighborhood, nothing other than the proliferation of brown faces around them reminded mom of India. The streets were clean enough to roll in, dog walkers with Ziploc bags picked up after their pets, made-in-U.S.A. children glided by on roller blades with helmets and knee pads on, and grandma was the only woman in a sari as far as the eye could see.

“Why can’t the rest of the city be as clean?” wondered mom as they made their way to the upper crust clubhouse.

“Sorry, members only, ma’am,” said a polite employee at the entrance.

“But I really need to use the restroom,” entreated mom, hopping on one foot. She was duly directed to a ladies’ room that smelled of potpourri instead of phenol. Piped-in music played softy in the background as mom sank down on the seat, and she noted that the bath tissue was so soft it felt imported.

Later that night, mom called her children in Chennai to tell them about the sights she’d seen.

“Why can’t we live there, mom?”

“Because it’s too expensive.”

“Aw! Can we move there when you both get jobs?”

“We can go visit,” said mom brightly. “I’m sure we can somehow find a member we know.”

“But the place sounds just like home,” drawled the children.

“Exactly,” said mom, “it doesn’t feel like India.”

“So?”

Mom paused to search for the right words.

What's the point in living there?” she muttered softly, unable to explain herself further to the children whose roots are still in another country. “It just doesn’t feel like home India.”

Musafir hoon yaaron

The upside to being unemployed and a home renter, versus being a cubicle prisoner and a home owner, is the ability to pack up and move, either on a whim or after deep thought.

Less than a year ago, when my humans decided to disrupt their children’s lives and move to India, simply because they felt like it, they were both gainfully employed and paying a hefty mortgage.

10 months into their Indian adventure (yes, that’s how mom sees it, as an adventure) with neither a job nor any other form of security blanket, the humans have decided to move again - simply because they feel like it.

“Arrey, you guys just came here. You’re moving already?” asked an acquaintance. “All that packing and unpacking. Oof, baba, I don’t think I can do it,” shuddered the woman.

The school principal handed over the children’s school leaving certificate asking, “Husband getting a transfer aa?”

“Yes,” smiled mom, lying through her teeth.

“Has he at least started looking for a job?” asks grandpa worriedly over the phone. "The cost of living in Chennai is lower; you'll realize it as soon as you move."

The humans know little about the city they’re moving to. As the majority of its inhabitants, my humans will also be outsiders, fighting their way through mind-numbing traffic and communicating in languages other than the local one.

“You said the weather’s nice there, mom,” the children exclaim. “Then how come they have lizards if it’s not hot?”

Can you guess where we’re moving?

Thiruda Thiruda

From what The Hindu reports in the city section, it looks like chain snatching is still the numero uno pastime of petty thieves on bicycles in Indian metros such as Chennai. In fact, the enterprise seems to pay such rich dividends that the more seasoned chain snatchers have now upgraded their getaway vehicles to motorcycles.

On any given day, right alongside murders and sexual assaults, one reads of women being "relieved of" their chains while walking along a busy street in broad daylight. (Standard newspaper jargon usually states that "a woman was relieved of her chain," rarely using words such as snatched or stolen. Does the use of the word "relieved” suggest the chain was a burden to begin with?)

“One can never be too careful these days,” shuddered a buxom aunty at the monthly ladies association meeting. Discussing the gall of a "badava rascal" who snatched her friend's 10-sovereign gold chain, she nervously tucked her thick, rope-like mangalsutra, weighed down by innumerable safety pins, into her ample bosom, and declared, “You just cannot trust anybody.”

“I have two thaalis,” another maami shared. “A regular one, and one I use expressly for my morning walks.”

“See, if you wear a salwar kameez, the chain won’t be so prominent with the dupatta covering your neck,” a third lady chimed in, contributing her two paise to the discussion.

“Er … maamis," said mom, when she could get a word in edgeways. "Why don’t you just leave your thaalis at home? That way you won’t invite trouble, no?”

Shocked silence ensued.

Normally loquacious maamis were rendered speechless, until one of them pointed in the distance and asked, “Isn’t that Karpagambal maami? Let me go ask her when she returned from the U.S.”

Suddenly, all the ladies professed an unusual interest in Karpagambal maami’s U.S. trip and departed like a herd of elephants, leaving mom standing all alone by the watering hole buffet table.

Reaching for a paper towel, she noticed a solitary, plump, golden brown medu vadai left on the tray, looking as forlorn as her. Quickly glancing around, mom pushed the idlis on her plate aside and picked up the crispy vadai.

In a crowded room, in broad daylight, a tray was relieved of its last vadai.

Gastric grief

On occasional mornings, mom wakes up to little gifts I leave for her on the bedroom floor. Gifts that she claims she can do without, such as bodily emissions I cannot hold until morning.

The only reward I get for leaving these gifts is a mild reprimand, for which I have the mosaic flooring in the house to thank. Believe me, the reaction was a lot less gentle when such offerings were discovered in prime carpeted areas.

Given my tendency to ingest what mom calls as “garbage” and I claim as “food going waste,” combined with a slower metabolism due to my advanced age, mom awoke this morning to find the bedroom floor saturated with the entire contents of my stomach and bladder.

“What the …?” was her initial reaction as she rubbed her crusty eyes and surveyed the room, which had not one unsoiled corner. “Terri!” she yelled, turning toward me, arms akimbo. “Out!” she screamed, as I heaved and threw up what little was left in my stomach.

To cut a long story short, and to fast forward several bouts of vomiting through the day, I seem to have an acute case of indigestion.

“It’s normally associated with eating cow dung,” the vet pronounced as she inserted a fat syringe into my leg.

Ever since we moved to India, I’ve discovered a local delicacy found aplenty in our neighborhood. “You’re disgusting, Terri!” sighs mom, yanking my leash when she finds me dipping into this roadside delight, equally flavorful whether it’s freshly laid or baked in the sun.

Disgusting, indeed! What would she know, this woman who picks a plate of steamed Brussels sprouts over spicy buffalo wings?

Mom’s equally indifferent to another neighborhood delicacy I discovered on a recent beach outing – juicy, gelatinous clams washed ashore by the waves. Too impatient to pry the shells apart, I swallowed them whole, ignoring fine sand on my tongue and savoring, instead, the saltiness of the crustaceans.

“Do I not feed this dog enough?” wonders mom in dismay as she watches me scoop up empty milk sachets, bread wrappers, leftover sambhar and chutney bags on the road faster than her brain can instruct her hand to pull me away.

You see, there comes a time in a dog’s life when he tires of eating boiled eggs and spongy bread for breakfast, rice and dal for lunch, Marie biscuits for tiffin and steamed vegetables with rotis for dinner.

The canine body craves variety, which is why mom has taken to ignoring the gleaming, silvery fish with vacant eyes and pieces of juicy bone that my friends, the crows, occasionally drop over our compound wall as they sit on the coconut trees with their catch.

“The next time he gets indigestion like this, just give him some ice cream,” advised the vet, as mom settled the bill for a grand total of Rs. 150.

“Excuse me?” asked mom, still reeling from a $3 bill for medical services rendered.

“Yes, yes, regular ice cream. Try vanilla,” the woman replied.

Give me a few days to recover, and I might start competing with the kids on Friday nights for ice cream. Vanilla, did she say? At this point, I’m ready to try any flavor, as long as it’s not (bleah!) green tea or broccoli.

That's where even a dog, self-respecting or otherwise, would draw the line.

Oh Happy Day

Ask mom about the happiest day of her life, and she'll tell you that it wasn’t the time she stood first in class, won her first prize or became part of the hallowed cool chick clique in school.

Nor was it the day her friend’s handsome older brother made eye contact with her or when the scholarship results were finally announced.

It wasn’t even the day she lay on a birthing table with sweat pouring down her face and squeezed a watermelon-sized baby out of a lemon-sized hole.

Ask mom, and she’ll reply without hesitation that it was the day she woke up at the crack of dawn and sat on stage next to a man who gave her goose pimples by his mere presence.

“Did Appa go down on his knees and ask you to marry him?” her five-year-old Disney/Barbie addict wants to know as she looks through her parents’ wedding album. “Did he kiss you?”

“You don’t kiss in Indian weddings,” replies mom.

“Then I’ll get married in America,” her daughter firmly declares.

Her son’s reaction to the wedding pictures is quite different.

“You have so much makeup on, you look like a clown, mom,” he says quite frankly.


Scintillating Sands
Radiant Rads