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.