Jot my thought

Biwi ho to aisi

2011-10-15T21:16:00.005-04:00

Here's the thing.

I know some inter racial couples. Indian men , my friends and mostly colleagues at work, married to white women-Canadian, American , Australian. And Indian women married to non Indian men.

And I for one, am all for inter racial, multi cultural marriages. Relationships must not be limited by ethnicity or cultural backgrounds. I get that.

But here's what I don't get. More often than note, whenever I talk to these couples, here's how it goes. Indian man- non Indian woman. The husband, for one will more often than not emphasize the fact that, his non Indian wife is actually so Indian. And to be honest I am not even quite sure what he means by actually so Indian- I mean, you are Indian, if you are Indian - if you're not Indian then you're Canadian, or American or Japanese.

Anyway, I smile along as he continues to state how his non Indian wife is so Indian- like, you know, she can cook Indian food, wear a salwar kurta or a sari, say namaste to the aunties, do oil massage for the kids, light diyas for Diwali and all those other things that , I am guessing in his mind, qualify one to be an Indian. She even went to India and ate street food and did not complain about anything, he adds. Oh yes, and she can dance in a sari at an Indian wedding.

And you know, I smile along and I even think that it is nice. She is making an effort to embrace his culture.

But here's the problem. Another conversation with the same set of people and now they are talking of a the other couple. Indian woman married to a non Indian man. And they are slamming her for having become so "American" and trying to embrace her husband's culture. Huh?

You know, like decorating the tree for Christmas, learning to cook a good Thanksgiving turkey, drinking wine (huh?????), not wearing a salwar kameez enough . Basically , they say, she is losing touch with her Indian culture.

Okay, so. Non Indian wife embracing Indian culture for sake of Indian husband is to be glorified. But Indian wife embracing North American culture for sake of non Indian husband is shameful.

Because:

(a) Indian culture is the best and the only one to be embraced?
(b) Non Indian woman marrying Indian man must try her best to be a good Indian wife by embracing his culture? But Indian woman marrying non Indian man must try her best to hang on to her culture because that will make her a good Indian wife.
(c) You marry a non Indian person but then want them to be "actually very Indian" and that they do by doing a few "Indian" things even though they are really not Indian.
(c) Hypocrisy? Plain and simple.

You tell me.

Just saying

2011-09-06T23:52:00.005-04:00

Show me a power failure in India and I will point out to you the sheer dependency of people in the Western worlds, on their microwaves and their phones and their computers so that when there is a single power outage in Canada or the US, the city comes to a disruptive stop.

Talk to me in that high handed tone of an expat living within a gated community about the poverty that can be seen on the roads as you drive past in your air conditioned chauffeur driven car and I will point out the drug addicts and homeless people that line the streets of any major metro of the US and Canada.

Tell me about the corruption that seems to stick in your heads around dinner conversations with your other expat friends and how frustrated you are because it drags India down and I will remind you of the very recent financial crisis of North America.

Patronize me with your talks of the good volunteering service you provide every few days with a bunch of other friends and then talk of how you are contributing to the good of India over some expensive red wine at your kitty parties because maybe you think you owe the country that and I will talk to you about the likes of Sunitha Krishnan who after being gang raped at the age of 14 runs a woman organization that has rescued over 300 women. She's been beaten 14 times and she does not talk about that over expensive wine.

Just saying..there is good and there is bad. Across the globe.

Just saying...when you live within a bubble do not judge what lies outside of it.

Just saying...when you get on the plane to go home, you should know what to expect. You've lived it. A fake foreign accent does not change that.

So please don't complain about the pollution and the chaos and the inflation and the roads and all that jazz. And please do not think that having a life abroad now affords you the privileges of passing judgement on everything that you find wrong in India. And please do not claim that it distresses you so much because in my opinion if it really did and you really cared, you'd stay and do something about it.

Just saying.

Let there be wrinkles.

2011-07-31T17:53:00.008-04:00

Age. Gracefully. Beautifully. And proudly.

Age. Because you will.

I do not judge nip and tuck. If that is for you, that is for you. Make no apologies for it. I make no judgements.

It is not for me. I believe in ageing. I believe there is a time to be 20 and then there is a time to be 40. The mind must evolve and grow. The body must follow suit.

Also, to me defying age is like picking a battle with it. A lost battle, really. Ageing happens. It's a question of when you decide to let it show.

And it does win in the end. All you can do is delay the win.

I, for one, like picking my battles. Wisely. I pick the ones I can win. Not the ones that "look" like I win. Pun intended.

A year back, I noticed the "under the eye" lines. They arrived. At 36. At first, I was bothered. Then when I read somewhere they are also called laugh lines, I was glad.

Glad that I had laughed. With my mom- we share this rather hysterical laughther over something funny my dad may have done. My dad is hardly ever amused by it but he is a good sport. We laugh till the the tears roll down. And then we laugh again.

With my kids. We laugh. My daughter, easily. My son, not so easy to please but when he finds something that will amuse him, he will laugh. Like, really laugh. Throw his head back and laugh.

My sis and I. We laugh. We have laughed as children and we laugh as adults. I have know that laugh for over 37 years now.

My best friend and I. Over the phone, over skype, over text messages, over chat, when we come together, when we are so far way, when we are upset, when we are sad, when we are happy. Almost every time we are talking to one another. I am going to know this laugh for the rest of my life.

My friend Susan- I think we bonded over laughing. And that fact that alsmost everyone around us then hardly ever laughed. We laughed at them.

My spouse and I. We laugh. On some of our toughest days, we laugh the laught. And that tides us over.

The night I laughed because my friend Gayatri's dog was on the loose and my girlfirends and I were chasing him in our pyjamas.

When my son yelled to the whole world he had butterfiles in his penis on the roller coaster.

When my 3 year old says "cimmunks" instead of "chipmunks".

When my best friend and I swear in Punjabi.

When I break into my best Hrithik moves.

Wrinkes, shminkles! These are my laugh lines. And everytime I see them , they remind me of all the times I have laughed. And I laugh.

And so, if more wrinkles under the eyes means more laughter.

Oh please, let there be more wrinkles.

On a serious note

2011-04-19T10:41:00.010-04:00

To a friend with an incestous uncle, to victims of sexual abuse, to anyone who may have had a chance encounter of molestation....... to girls and women:

No, you may NOT
Feel me, caress me, slide your hand under my shirt.
Stare at me, as if I was merely an object of desire

Leer, ogle, push, touch
Encroach upon my space
Violate, humiliate, shame
Me although it is you who ought to be shamed

I remember now and I am angry
I am mad at having let you
I am sad for having been told it was my fault
When it was really all yours

Dress modest, they said
Do not smile, laugh, talk loud
Be invisible to the eye
Of the one that leers

But I did not want to be invisible
Why must I not be visible
This is my space as much as it is yours
I need to be seen and heard

And you did see and hear me
And then you did what you should not have done

Feel me, caress me, slide your hand under my shirt

Back then I felt a fear
And a loathing
And hate
And fear

But today all I feel is the anger
I am mad
For having let you do what you did
For having let them tell me that maybe it was after all my fault
But today I feel no fear
For I know now
It was not my wrong
It was yours

I am mad that I did not know it then
But now I do
And you can longer hurt me
Because if you do,
I will hurt you back.

Musings

2011-04-09T19:32:00.004-04:00

Wife.Mother. Daughter. In law. Lawyer. Accountant. Sister. Friend. Confidante. Spouse. Are parts of who I am. And not who I am.

I am who I am. And who I choose to be. And strive to be. And become.

Free of all I was born into being. Made to be. Asked to be. Supposed to be. Those are just parts of me.

To be me. Is to be this. Free thinking. Free of stereotypes. Confident. To speak my mind. To stand my ground. Loving. So that I can be loved. As giving as deserving to receive.

To choose. My rights. My wrongs. A few vices is not a bad thing.

Womanhood. And all that is a part of it. And to know it all. And love it all. And embrace it all.

To do. Discover. Dream. Explore. Meet. Nurture. Live. Some if this. Some of that. Always seeking.

Life via Lens- A tree with character and a a few dried flowers

2011-03-31T21:57:00.003-04:00

I love randomly discovering stuff as I am walking around the city. Stuff that is not obviously noticeable but will catch my eye. Today I saw two. The first is the tree growing on the UFT campus. Brown, leafless, devoid of any buds or leaves, branches that seem like an intricate network of veins. I like this tree. It has a certain character to it. And I am now waiting to see this tree once spring arrives. When the branches start sprouting buds, showing the first signs of life. And then in summer, when the leaf is no longer devoid but blossoming with life.

And then there were the bunch of dried flowers growing on the pathway that I take to work in the morning. Colorless, wet, shriveled up. Resolute through the long winter. Still there. Still standing. Still beautiful. These too, I will visit again when spring arrives. That will be another picture.

Life via lens- Another few happy days :-)

2011-03-31T21:43:00.003-04:00

Keunsang, Gia, Rohan and scooters

Hanging out on a tree

The Boys

Bed spread fun!

Before cupcakes get baked, cupcake mixture gets eaten.

Life via Lens- A day in the life of a 7 and 3 year old

2011-03-22T23:40:00.004-04:00

Mar 22: G and baby doll and R and Fluffy at bedtime.
Mar 21: Books before bed.

Mar 20: Scootering on Bloor street.

Mar 19: The world eats pancakes. I eat pancake mix.

Mar 18: Apparently, he's posing.

Life via Lens- A typical week day morning

2011-03-22T22:15:00.005-04:00

Morning Chai. Subway. Breakfast on the Go. Stairs. Work at fifth floor.

A day in the life

2011-03-19T23:35:00.002-04:00

I needed to start something new- a project to keep me creatively satisfied, something fun , something meaningful.

Started with my husbands idea of taking a picture a day of the kids. And so I started. And the one thing I told myself was that these would not be the typical pose for mommy pics at a special occasion or place- these would the random, spontaneous pictures of their life- moments and moods... Breakfasts, baths, friends, school, walks, sleep, tantrums even.

And it's been fun. And easy to do with the camera on the phone. At any moment of day when I remember to do it, I just click away.

And so yesterday as I downloaded the pictures from the phone to the computer, I smiled at what I saw. Rohan posing with his new scooter, Gia eating pancake mix, Rohan and his every morning big breakfast, a pose at the museum, a moment at the bookstore, fun in the bathtub. Smiles, frowns, poses, looks. Faces of a 7 and a 21/2 year old. Days of their lives. And days of mine.

Salon talk

2011-02-16T06:45:00.003-05:00

Dolly. 50 something, short stature, clear skin, short dark hair, yellow sweater, blue jeans, sneakers. Chewing gum. Small eyes, mouth like a squirrel's.

As she waxed away the hair from my legs, she talked. She waxed and she talked. Wax on spatula, wax on leg, strip on leg, pulls hair out and talks.

About her many years of marriage to her first cousin. Who was 9 years older than her. About how happy she was with him and how fabulously she got along with her mother in law since her mother in law was also her aunt. It was all one family -hers and her husband's.

She spoke of her sons who chose to live in India. The older married to a "nice girl - an only child- she's like a princess, na, pampered" "So she also doesn't want to leave India and her family. She has help at home. She was a computer engineer, then she became a teacher and now she does not work- she does tutoring at home."

"She's a very nice girl and see we get along. We live far away from each other- that is always best- we talk on the phone. When I go there to visit, we get along, we travel, we go out for dinner. She is very nice"

The younger son, she said is 29 and refuses to get married. He keeps having girlfriends, only for 6 months. "What is that? Like this, he will be like my cousin who is 40 and single and keeps changing the girlfriend.I tell my son- like this you carry on, one day you will have to find a gay man. He gets annoyed with me so much when I say that, but I say that." Wax, strip, pull. One leg done.

Why did you move from Houston, I ask? Isn't it warmer weather there?

"See now, she starts "what to do sometimes in life? My husband got a good job here with the City. And life in the US now...really, nothing..it's getting worse. No benefits, everything really expensive. sometimes, then in life, you have to make this decisions. I miss Houston. I miss the warm sun. It's just too cold here. But I tell myself, D, only 3-4 months. But I miss Houston. Oh, all my friends, you know they miss me so much. They say D, why don't you come visit us? "

She misses Houston. Home of 10 years.

"Tomorrow I have my day off" this, out the blue.

"What do you do, on your day off?" Now I am fishing. Oh, I am!

"First, I will go to the YMCA, exercise, I like that" I like that too, D. See, now it is important to stay fit, Otherwise old people always thinking this is it, now we are old. "Then I will ask my friends in Houston to give me missed call and I will call them back. Oh, they miss me so much. So many friends I have. One of then has this plan, you can talk unlimited US to Canada. so they all come to her house and use that. And they tell me everything. About everyone.I just keep talking an talking and talking" I would have never guessed :-)

"That way I am talkative. My husband, he's very quiet. Too peaceful. Also, my older son. My God, I don't like talking to them. So quiet. Too much. Only my husband will talk to me. When I say ok you talk, then will start talking. He likes it. But he doesn't talk to anyone else, only likes talking to me." 27 years of marriage.

"Do you miss your sons" Hook, line...."yes, but what to do? Actually, it is okay , it is good this way. You know, once kids grow up, its better they are on their own, You live your life, I live mine. I like it that way. And it's best that way.

Can you turn this way? I'll wax the side now. Turn, wax, strip, pull.

It's very cold here in Canada. I miss my Houston. But what to do. In life, you have to make these decisions.

Why don't trips there, I ask? Long trips in winter?

"Haan, she says, that's nice. But my poor husband , he'll be alone. Poor thing."

"he's very nice, treats me like a queen. I told him, now my big birthday is coming. Everyday I tell him, my big birthday is coming." Dolly, he says, I'll have a nice party."

I tell him, my birthday is coming.

When, I ask, is your birthday?

September.

We're in February.

Okay, she says, all done. Now I will put some oil.

Celebrate

2011-02-01T19:00:00.003-05:00

Birthdays. Anniversaries. Seasons. Life. Friendship. With balloons. And cake. For no reason. With friends. The New Year. With style. Yourself.

Love

2011-01-31T22:35:00.004-05:00

A friend. To live. Happiness. Music. Dance. Your kids. Nature. The earth. Chocolate. To drink. Good food. Travel. Shoes. Yourself. Your dreams. To read. To write. Films. Color.

Live

2011-01-31T22:31:00.004-05:00

Your life. A dream. Happily ever after. In the moment. Large. Within your means. A lie. Long. Creatively. Each day like it's your last. For yourself. A fully life. Out your passions. Your fantasy. Like there is no tomorrow. For a cause.

Nurture

2011-01-31T22:28:00.002-05:00

A friendship. A child. A plant. A dream. An idea. A thought. A feeling. The body. The soul.

Hysterical laughter at inane stuff

2010-11-20T18:12:00.002-05:00

I miss it. The hysterical laughter at inane stuff. So every once in a while, I like to think back at those crazy moments:

Gayo, me and Roohi. And one big mad dog Poali. On the road from C.P to Noida.

Susan and me. On the train from Bangalore to Chennai. Absolutely prized moments.

My sis Api and me - lots of times- growing up. In good times and bad.

Roo and me, lots and lots of times, sometimes even over the phone, which is truly hysterical.

Roo, Api and me - almost every time we three are together. Top of the charts- my rather impromptu act of Hrithik Roshans pelvic thrusts. To this day I have no idea why I did that- especially in front of two babes who will never ever let me live it down.

I laugh. Quite often.

But that hysterical laughter over inane stuff- that's something else.

We do what we do

2010-10-29T00:11:00.007-04:00

We were on the phone with each other. We talked.

We also got on to Google chat. So we chatted. While we talked. Conversation happening. Fingers typing . Messages flying back and forth.

She sent me youtube links to music videos she wanted me to watch. So I watched. While we chatted. And talked.

Then we told each other about interesting websites. So we browsed. While I watched. And we chatted. And talked.

I uploaded pictures on Picasa. And then I shared those with her. So she saw. While we browsed. And I watched. And we chatted. While we talked.

It was amazing. It was an hour well spent.

It was two best friends. In different parts of the world. Talking and chatting and watching and browsing and looking at pictures.

Me, the subway rider.

2010-10-20T22:55:00.004-04:00

Subway riders.

The aggressive ones in a rush to get somewhere. Missing a train is a cardinal sin in their books. So as they climb the flight of stairs to the platform and should they hear the train rolling in, they run. They dodge, they push, they run and sometimes they barely squeeze in through the shutting doors. The train cannot be missed. Even if the next one rolls in a minute after.

Then there are some who don't. Rush, that is. They miss a train. Even, deliberately sometimes. When it is too crowded and people are squeezing themselves in like sardines in a can. These will then choose to wait. For the next train. Just stand there , listening to their music, reading their books or kindles , doing their crossword. wherever they have to get to can wait another minute or two.

The crazies. Oh and you see them often enough. Like that guy who definitely seemed to be high. He just walked up and down the coach in slow motion, with a smile on his face. Just walked up and down, smiling, making everyone else nervous. Bloody drug addicts, they said to themselves!

The other crazies- the talkers. Talking away to themselves. I sat next to one , once. I wanted to hear. She talked incessantly for 20 minutes about a NASA conspiracy. To herself. She didn't seem like she was going anywhere. She was just sitting there talking to herself.

The office goers. Suits, pencil skirts, high heels, laptop bags, blackberries, Morning paper, Starbucks, looking forward to being at work faces, hating to go to work faces, sleepy faces, raring to face the day faces.

University students. Jeans, T-shirts, tights with boots, jeans with boots, backpacks, Tim Hortons, texting fingers on cellphones, earplugs, heads moving to music, sleepy faces, looking forward to class faces.

Mostly everyone has earphones plugged into their phones. Connected to the MP3 players or phones. Loud techno, some swaying, some rock their heads. There in definitely a lot of music playing on the subway.

An occasional mom or two with her kids. A three year old fascinated by the train. A baby in a stroller. Mothers mostly look nervous. Hoping the baby won't cry or the toddler throw a tantrum.

The there are the grade school students. They come in packs. Once in a while on their way to a field trip. Noisy, talkative- they bring the 6-9 year old energy into the train. They like standing up and trying to balance, without holding on. They like sitting by the window.

Crossword doers. Sudoko doers. Video game players.

Avid readers. Newspapers. Metro- The subway paper. News, gossip coulumns, ads. The Toronto Star. Sometimes, a Globe and Mail. Books. Mostly paperbacks- easier to carry. The Secret. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. How to be Rich Quick. Life's a Pitch. And a few magazine readers thrown in for good measure. And these days, an increasing number of electronic readers.

The tourists. You can always tell. They scan the subway map. They listen attentivley to every station that is announced. They talk about every station that passes. They look out the window. They look around. They compare transit systems of cities.

Subway riders. An interesting lot.

Subway rider- Me. I'll miss a train. I listen to music. I am a crossword doer on some days. A reader, on others. I am not a tourist. Never play a videogame. Have been the nervous mom with the stroller.

Guess I fit right in. One way, or another. But I never squeeze myself in like a sardine.

Wildflowers and a 6 year old

2010-10-03T23:26:00.005-04:00

My 6 year old went to the woods today. And brought me back some wildflowers. A bunch of white. A stem of purple. And then some random yellows, reds and oranges.

And as he handed them to me he explained how he had not plucked a single one of them. He'd picked them up from the ground. Because he felt if he'd plucked them, he'd be hurting nature. Taking away from the woods what wasn't his to take away.

And in that explanation, he had articulated my "still evolving" view on education. My growing belief that education goes much beyond the walls of a classroom. It goes into the woods where a 6 year old boy will know how not to tamper with nature.

A bunch of wildflowers collected from the ground. Report cards fail in comparison.

Blah

2010-09-19T00:38:00.002-04:00

Whoever thought of that word- genius! More so when used in the context of describing an emotion.

I have felt blah. I feel blah. Here and there. Now and then. It comes, it goes. And then visits again.

Bad hair day. Skin breaking out. Three broken nails. Nail paint chipping off. Appointment to the waxing salon way overdue. Bloating. Pants not fitting right. Nothing fitting right. Blah.

Husband getting on nerves. Arguments over little things. Kids getting on nerves. Noisy as hell. Whining. Crying. Messy rooms. Blah.

Boring mundane work at office. Annoying colleagues. Even more annoying meetings. Deadlines. Blah.

Body hurting. Calling out for a massage. For which there is no time. Missed yoga classes. Gym sessions cancelled. Blah.

Loads of laundry. Messy house. Depleted stock of groceries. Trip to grocery store seeming dauntingly mind numbing. Blah.

Load the dishwasher. Clean out closets. School forms to be filled out. Lunch bags to be packed. Breakfasts to be managed. Blah.

Yes, I have my blah moments.

Blah.

Score Card

2010-09-19T00:35:00.001-04:00

3 laundry loads on a Saturday night:1
My idea of a Saturday night:0

Stoning...... Seriously??

2010-09-09T22:41:00.002-04:00

I find it absolutely appalling that somewhere on this globe there is a woman who has been condemned to be stoned on charges of adultery. And due to intervention, for now, her stoning has been halted. What truly is appalling is that there is even a discussion around to be or not to be. And yes, I know it is not all that simple...but really? A woman being stoned to death? And there is a discussion around it.
Call me naive if you will... But I think it should be a simple thing like " No, there is no law in this world that should sanction the stoning of a woman"

You know you have a best friend when.....

2010-08-30T22:13:00.002-04:00

The conversation goes like this....

Beep beep beep beep beep beep (numbers being dailled)

Thank you for using Yak ( meaning it's an international call)

Hey, Mr Tambourine man (ring tone)

Hellllooo (sleepy , waking up voice)

Hello, sorry, is it early? (read, the sleepy voice)

Yes (read , you're in Toronto..it's 10 pm...I'm in Bangalore ..it's 7 am)

Oh sorry , ok (read, I know you have busy mornings and I get that..so go back to sleeping)

Is it urgent? (read, ...all okay? If not, tell me...I can give up few winks to talk to you)

No, No..just our usual (read, you know how we live in separate continents, oceans apart, opposite time zones, yet we talk everyday filling in each other with the minutest details of our life)

I do know I have a best friend!

Score Card

2010-08-18T01:24:00.001-04:00

Action: 1
Procrastination: 0

Moral: Just do it.

Score Card

2010-08-17T00:13:00.001-04:00

Blog: 1
Sleep: 0

Moral: If espresso has been had at an odd hour of the night leading to lack of sleep, out it to some good use- like, catching up on blogging.

Score card

2010-08-17T00:11:00.003-04:00

Yet another series of very short posts to sum up some of the situations that occur.

For eg, at this moment:

Espresso at 11 pm: 1
Sleep: 0

Moral: Do not drink espresso at 11 pm if sleep is what's next on the agenda.

Observations of the Why Why girl

2010-08-17T00:05:00.003-04:00

Why is it that you will be one of the very lucky few who will find that one soul sister aka best friend aka besty aka go to person at all times....

and
she will live at the other end of the world from you, separated by some various oceans whose names you don't even remember, by a 27 hr long flight, by completely different time zones by which I mean, her night, your day kind of different time zones.

And if you're lucky you will see her for a what will seem like very short 15- 20 days every three years.

And you will constantly wait for her sun to rise while yours sets to be able to pour your heart out to her because she is your go to person. Living at the other end of the world?

Why?

Observations of the Why Why girl.

2010-08-17T00:00:00.002-04:00

Why is it that you will have a month of absolute peace and stability , bordering even on the edge of boredom and you will begin to question the presence of excitement in your life.

And then within a week, A pipe will break in the washroom, flood the house, leading to inconvenient repairs in the house, you will suddenly be given a whole lot of work with the deadline being yesterday, your child will fall sick and be difficult, you will PMS and how, dandruff will surface, along with her friend, the pimple, bloating will happen and clothes will not fit. All at once.

I have a dark sinister secret

2010-08-16T23:34:00.002-04:00

Caught your attention, didn't it? It did. That's what secrets do. They have an allure. A pull.

First the word. Secret. I like. It's one of those words that I think was well thought of. By whomsoever it was that thought of the words. Unlike table. For some reason, I think (and it is my own personal opinion) that a table could have been called something else. More thought and more editing might have gone into that.

But secret- that came out just right. The word to the meaning- it fit.

Secret has it's own distinct sound. In my mind, its a whisper.

Secret has a life span. And it varies. Short, long and eternal.

Secret definitely has a life. And a very exciting one at that.

Personality? Now we're talking. Dark, alluring, mystical, devious, happy, joyful.

And power. To make. To break. To resolve. To hurt. To elate. To banish. To reveal. To hide.

It can definitely be seductive. Or ugly. Dangerous. Sinister. Or beautiful.

Everyone has one. Or more. But, one, at the minimum.

And the coolest thing about a secret. It finds its space. A nook. A corner. A brain cell. A thought. In your system. Heart or mind. And stays there. Safe. As it should.

And it demands to be well kept. Because it knows that if it isn't, then it will cease to exist. It will no longer be that. A secret.

Observations of the Why Why girl.

2010-06-22T21:24:00.001-04:00

Why is it that when a mother changes the millionth (or at least what it feels like) diaper, she's only just being a mom?

But let the dad get his hands on one and the whole room gushes what an absolutely amazing dad he is?

Why?

The thoughts that are thought

2010-05-22T01:11:00.004-04:00

Think of all the thoughts we think.

Good thoughts. Bad thoughts. Nice thoughts. And naughty thoughts.

Happy thoughts. That make us smile. Sad thoughts. That rather not
be thought.

A thought that's private. A thought that is shared.

Crazy, insane thoughts. Rational, sensible thoughts. Calm, peaceful thoughts. Anxious thoughts.

Thoughts that are born. Thoughts that are inspired. Borrowed thoughts.

Fleeting thoughts that come and go. Thoughts that linger. And breed more thoughts.

A single thought. A chain of thoughts.

Clear thoughts, of a sound mind. Confused thoughts of an irrational one.

Thoughts of love. Thoughts of family. And friends. Thoughts of strangers.

Remnant thoughts of the past. Thoughts of the here and now. Thought that think into the future.

Thoughts that turn into dreams. And fantasies. Thoughts that turn into a creation. Or thoughts that destruct.

Thoughts of great minds. Of artists on canvases. Of poets in poetry. Thoughts through films. Orations and books that translate thoughts.

And then the everyday thoughts of the ordinary man. And woman. And child.

The thought that are thought.

Like this one. A thought about thought.

kookie mookie shookie koo

2010-05-12T23:59:00.002-04:00

Mama ka koochie poochie. Goo goo gaa gaa shee. Bad googy hup. soni moni. Alle alle baby choochie choo. Cutie patootie too. alle alle sonie monie tootie pootise poo. poo poo. No poo poo. baby did pee. sona mona baby. doodlie doo. such a sonie monie. chotru potru .

There's English. and Spanish. Mandarin. Russian. Canotnese. french.

And then there's baby talk.

No grammar. No rules. Phonetics, bah. It just comes naturally when you're talking to a baby who has not yet been inroduced to the complicated rules of language. It comes freely. And well understood and recieved in spasms of delight by recipient.

And I if it inspired doo doo doo, da da da, is all I want to say to you.

The Uncleji that sold bras

2010-04-13T21:46:00.007-04:00

Flash back to school days. When mothers always took it upon themselves, at least mine did, to make an expedition out of buying bras for her daughter. And my mother believed that the best kind of bras were the the functional, sturdy, white cotton bras. And that the best place to buy these best bras was Indraprastha lingerie store at CP.

In- dra- prastha. Indraprastha. Indra- prastha. No matter how you say it, Indraprastha does not invoke lingerie. Nor sexy, nor lacy.

Say Indra- prastha. Now say, Victoria's secrets. Or La Senza. Now say Indraprastha again. You get the drift.

And the icing on the cake that was Indraprastha, was the bra selling Uncleji in Indraprastha.

Rotund, bald, pant suit wearing Uncleji. The undisputed king of the bra counter. No pantie or sock selling for this Uncleji. Nooooo, let the ladies handle that counter. This gent handles the bras.

Uncleji- the star salesman. With years of expertise in selling bras. Uncleji with the balding head, which he frequently rubbed. And a beer belly which he rubbed on occasion.

Uncleji with a very loud voice. The very loud voice with which he which he announced to everyone in the store and outside- haanji madam, bitiya ke liye brassiers?

And then in that loud voice, he yelled to mysterious man in a mysterious loft in the ceiling of the store that stored all the white cotton sturdy functional bras " Oye Chotu, ek 34 B dena."

Mysterious chotu in the mysterious loft would then throw down various boxes of bras in 34 B.

Cut to Uncleji. Who would then then with a swoop of his head and belly caressing hands, take the bras out of those boxes and hold them up for everyone to see. And for some strange reason , once again announce your bra size for everyone in the store and outside the store. 34 B.

And because that was not excruciating enough, Uncleji would procees to loudly announce the benefits of the above mentioned bra. Very strong, madam. Comfortable. Very beautiful. yeh detail dekhiye madam.

Acha, biitiya, abhi try kar ke aao. ....

Meanwhile, Bitiya (me) was pretending to not hear him. In fact , pretending that he does not exist. In fact, pretending that she did not exist. And that she was not currently engaged in a discussion about a bra with a rotund, beer belly rubbing Uncleji who was explaining to her that this bra is very strong.

And if that is not excruciating enough, Uncleji sizes me up. Take note now, that I am not buying shoes here. So when Uncleji sizes me up, yup, he sizes me up. One thing I'll grant him , he does it professionally. Not seedy, not cheesy. "Bitiya, aap yeh 36 C bhi try kar lo."

And then proceeds to loudly announce to mysterious man in loft and all bystanders in CP that I might , in his opinion be a 36 C. Oye chotu, ek 36 C dena.

So then I proceed to the fitting room. I can still hear Uncleji having a conversation with my mom about the benefits of the bra. I stay in the fitting room for a very long time. If I could have styed there forever, I would have.

But I couldn't have so, I walk out and Uncleji asks me if the bra fit well. And really if there was a moment when the earth should have opened up and swallowed me, that was it. Because then I would not have had to have a conversation with my eager mom and eager Unlceji about how the bra fit and how I was indeed a 34 B and Uncleji responded to say he was surprised because his assessment was still that I was a 36 C. I pretty much blanked out after that.

Next thing I remember was my mom was happy.Our bra buying expedition had been successful. Uncleji was happy. He was indeed the superstar salesman. I am sure mysterious Chotu in the loft was happy. Another random Uncleji in one corner of the store seemed happy. I have no idea why.

Me, I had added two more white, cotton, strong, sturdy bras to my bra collection. My bra collection from Indraprastha.

And I was pretty much contemplating joining the burn the bra movement.

Sun

2010-03-10T01:12:00.003-05:00

Total sun person. Not a doubt about that. Give me some sunshine and I'm happy.

Something about the warmth on the skin, the burn, even. Something , then, about sun kissed skin. The deep golden olive tan.

Something about the sun creeping in through the windows of the house. Patches of sunshine on the kitchen floor. Streaming in through the white cotton curtains.

Something about tying the hair up to feel the sweat on the nape of the neck. And earthy summer dresses. With big sunglasses and silver flip flops. Glistening sun screen.

Walking through fountains to cool down. Then laying on the grass to warm up. Cold, cold, nimbu pani. Make that two. Icecream. Popsicles. Sprinklers in the garden. And running through them. Now, cool, then hot.

Something and everything about the sun. Glorious.

NO, you may not feel me up

2010-02-27T23:55:00.004-05:00

And no, you PUNK, you may not rub your thigh against mine, Or try and slide your hand up my arm or waist or any other part of me. This is public transportation and I am as much entitled to a decent ride home as you.

And yes, the wind is blowing. And yes, the T-shirt is clinging to my breasts. And no, that does mean that you should stare at them. And that cheap, annoying lip smacking sound you are making and that funny action with your mouth you are doing at me from way over there across the street, seriously stop it , you retard.

And, no, 55 year old Uncle ji, just because you keep driving up to my autorickshaw, rolling down the window of your fancy car , raising your eyebrows at me and smiling, does not mean that I will hop off the auto and into your car and where ever else you desire me to hop into. You might have a fancy car but it's definitely not working for your delusional 55 year old sorry self. Uncleji, go home to your family. And no, you two SRK wannabes who never will be, I will not hop off my auto onto your bike too. So you might as well stop or else you will also end up as delusional as delusional Uncleji.

And no please do not $%^&* break into some choli song when I walk by, or maro some sleazy comment, or smack your lips or scratch your crotch or your bum or breathe heavy or smile or leer or or make any other kind of obscene #@%&*( gesture that only a sleazy Ahole like you can think of.

Because honestly, while you might think that by doing so, you are sending out some sexy vibe to me which shall make me feel this desire for you or whatever else it is that you think I am thinking, all I am thinking is how someone should grab you by the balls and expel you into the horrors of hell so that you rot there and die and never plague thi world again.

There, that's what I am thinking, you retarded, delusional, wannabe sleazoids. So stop.

Just some rants over the "eve teasing" (oh, so understated) scenarios in Delhi.

Hop on the sidewalk and tip toe past the pigeons

2010-02-20T19:29:00.010-05:00

It is windy as hell. I complain. It's what grown up's do when it's windy as hell. And you are on your way to a 9:45 am appointment for your 6 year old's routine eye check up at the optometrist. And then you have to drop him back home, and then get to work, and then work later to make up for the morning hours.....

'Hold my hand"..he says, "And hop."
"Hop?" Here...on the street, with so many people walking by, watching?. "Hop??", I say
Ya, mom...like, take really giant steps, and hop..that way, you won't feel the wind so much and you won't mind it and we will get to the subway fast. It's fun,"

Okaaaaayyyyy....I say, as he begins to hop.

And so I begin to hop. Hesitatingly at first. Then, with gusto. Because, really , it works. I don't feel the biting wind anymore. And I'm having fun.

And so there we are. A 6 year old boy in his spiderman snow shoes and a woman in her corporate attire, Hopping and skipping on the sidewalk, at 9 am in the morning.

"Now tiptoe", he says. "Be quiet. See the pigeons there. We can't disturb them eating otherwise they won't find their food."

And just like that, we switch. From hopping loudly to tiptpeing silently. On our tippy toes. We do the last stretch that way. So the pigeons can continue eating. Undisturbed.

"The train, the train, the train.....it's like a rocket ship. Let's pretend it is a rocket ship. Cone on, otherwise we'll be left behind. You know what I don't like. Being alone on the station. It's scary. Are we there yet? Is the next one our station. Is our station college? College Park. Why is this station called Museum. Oh, because we can walk to the museum from here. Mommmy, can we go the museum after. Why is this one called St. Patrick? You don;t know? Oh, I know like St. Patrick's day. See, I know. Is it St. Patrick's day today? Are we there yet? Is the next our station? What will the eye doctor do? Do you have cookies? I'm hungry? I want apple juice. Are we there yet.'

Spadina to College Park. 9 subway stops. 1001 questions and observations. Of a 6 year old.

We now sit in the lobby of the optometrist's office.

"Why doesn't the doctor see us now? IS it going to be longer? I remember this place. I came when I was little. Was I four years old? Was I in your tummy? I remember that machine. The lady asked to me focus with my eyes and look for a house. The eye doctors asked me to read things. That time I could not read very well. Where is the eye doctor. Mommmmmy, I'm bored. Why is that lady here? Do I eat my carrot? I'm super excited. Mommmy, I am bored. "

Lobby to Optometrist's room. 17 minutes. 1001 questions and observations. Of a 6 year old.

"Hi, Rohan", pleasant looking optometrist lady aka eye doctor.

"Hi", eager to begin 6 year old.

Wow, super coool", 6 year old checking out optometry type equipment in pleasant looking optometrist lady's office.

E, R, L, Y
H, G. T. U
H, t, w, R

The check up fares well. The 6 year old is asked to do some super cool stuff like look here, look there, follow the light , read these letters, hold this against the left eye, and so on and so forth. The chair he sits on can go up and won. Super cool. Him and the optometrist chat away. He tells her stuff. She tries telling him stuff but doesn't really stand a chance. except to slip a few words in now and then. The eyes are declared healthy. The 6 year old is happy. He gets stickers. Two of them. He declares the eye doctor trip way better then the dentist trip.

We're back in the train.

'Are we there yet. My eyes are strong. That's what the doctor said. I could read all the letters. Did I get any wrong. I don't need glasses. Because I eat my carrots. I'm thirsty. why is it called St. Patrick station. Is it Christmas yet?"

I drop him home. I head back to work.

And as I walk back the same route to the subway station, things just feel a little different. Fro one, I'm not thinking of the biting cold. In fact, when no one's looking, I do a few hops. I even remember to tiptoe past the pigeons. I don't pretend the train is a rocket ship. But I do make a note to myself to find out why St. Patrick station is called St. Patrick.

And as I sit in the train, listening to Mayer crooning through my headphones, I smile a little smile. It's just so super cool seeing the world the eyes of a 6 year old.

Immigrant Tales- II

2010-02-18T22:23:00.005-05:00

Adapt. If there's one thing immigrants too, willingly or unwillingly, is that they adapt. To a new culture, to new people ,to a new climate, to new professions, to new languages, to a completely new world. A world so different from what they have known. A world so away from the one they come from. A world so new it has to be discovered.

But adapt they do,and how. I got yet another glimpse of it today.

I watched her as she spoke to him. "You must oil your hair. See, back home, we are oiling our hair. Which is why it is not turning white. See, your hair, too white. And you are not old. Still young. And here, in the apartment buildings, you live in an apartment building , ya? the water is too hard. That is it. That is the trouble. All hairs going white."

So spoke the Pakistani beautician to the white Canadian man, while she cut his hair. And he listened, and nodded and consented as she explained why he was turning white and made references to back home where people's hair did not turn white because they oiled their hair and so on and so forth.

Meet N. Talkative N. Always doling out advice, N. Spirited N. N, in her black T-shirt and blue denims, N. With flat soled black shoes. Short hair. Maroon lip gloss.Still talking incessantly to the Canadian man, N.

"How old you must be? Not too much. Ya? See, that's what I am saying. You have to be careful. See, here, no one looking really after their hair. Just shampoo and condition, what is that? See,back home, we are oiling. And putting egg. All natural thins. No chemicals. Oil is good. And what you must do is putting some egg...not whole egg, just white part..okay, now it's done...you do, hahn, you do all I am saying and see, all white hair is gone. All the girls are thinking who is this nice young man"

Ok, bye now, you have a good day"

"Yeh gore log na, bahut inko samjhana padta hai..bilkul kuch oil nahin, kuch nahi. Abhi dekho hamare wahan, to hum log bilkul time lekar yeh sab karte hain. Chalo, threading hai? Ek minute, thoda hindi music laga leti hoon. Abhi pata nahi na doosre yeh gore clients ko pasand nahi hai to. hamare log to acha lagta hi hai, na, hindi music. '

And switching to the vernacular, and humming the bollywood tune, she turns to me. And transforms into the N I know.

To the N that has spoken to me if who she is. And the life she lived back in Pakistan. Where she lived for 35 years. Of which ten were spent being the eldest bahu in a joint family of 13. Doing what is expected a eldest bahu of a joint, typically conservative family. A simple, domesticated life of meals to be cooked, children to be tended, in laws to be looked after, marriages to be attended or arranged, festivals to be celebrated. A busy house of 13 people, N in the thick of it all.

Then, the move to Canada. For a better future and a University education for the kids. From the three storey full house to a one bedroom apartment with 4 people. From the salwar kameez donning bahu to the jeans donning beautician. From elaborate meals being cooked for a family to sandwiches packed at 6am and lunches on the go. From conversing in the vernacular to conversing in English with the Candian 'Eh's" thrown in for good measure. From "khuda haafis" to "Have a good day".

"Acha, abhi yeh shape eyebrows ka maintain karna hai..next week aa jana......

The door opens and her next client walks in "Hi Cindy, very chilly outside, eh? What your skin looking so dry? See, I am always saying to use herbal facial. Back home...

N switches. I smile.

She has adpated. And how.

Been there, seen it, loved it- Part I

2010-02-15T17:56:00.005-05:00

The masala shop at the wholesale market in Ulsoor. Gunny bags laden with spices. Laid out in no particular. Mighty mustard, the turmeric. Feiry red, chilli powder. The darker brown of the garam masala. The lighter shade of the coriander . Salt. White and pure. Pepper. Strong black.
The first snowfall of the Canadian winter. Tiny , white flakes. Blanketing everything, as if taking over. Announcing winter's arrival. Falling on the ground. Collecting. Falling some more. Soft white snow. Clean, white snow. Rooftops, streets, cars, coats- all shrouded in the white.
The bangle market in Delhi. Surrounding Hanuman Mandir. Glass, metal, colour, pattern, shimmery, matte, orange, lime green, blue, more blue, then red. The buyers and the sellers. Thin wrists, fat wrists, dark wrists, fair wrists. The bangles being tried on. One by one and then by the dozens. . The choori wallis. Spirited women. With their incessant banter. Making their sales. Almost always, you'll spot a bride to be. Looking for her choora. The choori walli will give her a dozen bangles. Shagun hai. Not a sale. A gesture. A tradition.
The flower market in Amsterdam. A narrow street lined with flowers. A riot of color. Of roses and zerberas. And tulips. Oh, the tulips. The purples and the reds and the oranges and the pinks. Flower power in Amsterdam. No pun intended.
Gay pride parade in Toronto. Along six blocks of Church street. Blocked off for a party that lasts all day and most of the night. Drag queens. Nudity. Techno. Dancing. Partying. And then some more. Gays and Lesbians. Or not. The young. The old. The restless. The party makers. The bystanders The Toronto crowd. The tourists. Wild is the mood. Costumes. Feathers. Masks. Floats. Everything exaggerated. Nothing understated. A celebration. A party.

..........I wish I may, I wish I might, I wish my wish

2010-01-28T19:21:00.002-05:00

Wish this , wish that

Wish it could have been
Wish it should have been
Wish it wasn't
Wish it were,
Wish this, wish that.

Wish on an eyelash
Or a mail van
Wish on the first star
Or a shooting one
Wish this wish that

Wish you hadn't
Wish he had
Wish this was that
Or then
Wish this, wish that

Wish fairy
Grant a wish
Wish lists
Wishful thinking,
Wish this, wish that

Cross,
your fingers
Find,
a four leaf clover
Throw,
A coin into a wishing well
Make a wish.
Wish this, wish that.

Wish it away,
Wish it true
Wish it were
Wish it could be
Wish this,
Wish that.

Oh, the wishes we wish

Self, meet self.

2010-01-24T21:48:00.004-05:00

Hi you
Me?
Yes, you

And You?
Me?

I am you.
Me?
Yes, you.

I know you?
Sure , you do.

You are?
You.
You are..
me?

I am you,
From, back then
when...

There was fire..
And passion
and desire
and dreams.

Really, Me?
Yes, you.

Back when..
Nothing was,
Not to be achieved.
Mediocrity, not an option
Compromises, not to be made.

This life
truly live it.

Back then...when
The world was for the taking..
The universe was to be unraveled,
Paths to discover
Journeys to be made

Words to be read
The hunger
To know it all
See it all
Do it all
Achieve it all

Overcome it
Fight it
Stand up for it

Be vocal
be strong
proud
Even, vain
never one among the crowd
Always ahead. or above. or away.

To meet, to love,
to learn, to grow
To talk and listen
And then some more.

To live,
And not just.
But , to live
it up....
and large.

A life. One life. This life. Lived.

Me?
Yes, you

That was me?
That was you.

So, hello, me
Hello, you.

What gives?
What's up with you?
Me?

Yes, you
From back then.. when

This is me
It's just not, back then...when.

But, hello you
And hello me

Nice to have met you
Or, really, me.
From back then....when

Stick with me
You,
Well, me.
From back then, when.

I like you.
I like me.
From back then.

I'd like to be you.
I'd like to be me.
From back then when.

Notes to a new mother

2010-01-16T14:51:00.005-05:00

"She's only two weeks old and she's constipated"
"I had to hold her legs up, and rub her tummy. She pooped. But it was hard. Shouldn't it be a softer consistency?"
"She doesn't sleep much. I finally had her down at 3 am!!"
" She likes the bottle. It's easier on me too."
"She won't stop crying. I can't figure out why"
"will it be better, in a month or two"
"I miss my old life"
"I feel, kind of sad. And overwhelmed. Is that ok?"

- Of course, it is. Yes of course, it is.

And yes, she will cry, for no reason. And you won't figure it out. And when you don;t it'll get to you. Both, the crying and not being able to figure it out.
And yes , you will feel sad, and tired and overwhelmed.
And yes, it is ok to miss your old life. When you could sleep in. Or not have to wake up in the middle of the night.
And yes, it easier when someone else can feed her with the bottle because you're just tired. And want to lay on the couch and watch mindless TV. And not have to think about the consistency of poo.

And no, you're not being incompetent. Or a bad mother.
You're just being someone who just spent the last nine months being pregnant. Getting bigger. Straining your back. Throwing up. That, and the hormones gone crazy.
Come D-day. 16 hrs of labour. The exhausted pushing, the tear, the baby, the nursing, the sleep deprivation. That, and the hormones gone crazy.

So yes, as happy as you are, that your baby's here and she's healthy and beautiful,and everyone around you is over the moon, you are also tired, sleep deprived, in pain and nursing. With a new baby to take care of. Whose poop doesn't seem right. So, yes, it is ok for you to feel a bit sad and very overwhelmed.

And, no, my dear, you didn't just overnight turn into that super woman who can miraculously sing a baby to sleep. Or calm her down when she's crying. Or know what to do when she's constipated. Or be sunshine mommy all day long.

You didn't turn into all that. You just turned into a mom. Of this little delicate baby, that arrived without a manual. Or a "sleep" button. Or a "stop screaming" one . Or an exchange or return policy!

So yes, it will take time to figure her out. And figure it out. And figure out a whole bunch of other stuff, that, right now you don't feel like you will figure out.

But you will. Because I did. And She did. Because we all did.

Because we do.

Tick tock tick tock

2010-01-12T21:46:00.002-05:00

It's been a while since I've been here! There's been no time or hardly any !

Tick tock tick tock. So much to do..so litle time.Cliched, yet true.

Between the kids and the house and the career and the desire to do so much, read so much, watch so much, meet so many, talk about so much....tick tock tick tock.

Between knowing that to do it all, is to live my life within a completely organized, planned to the tee timetable, which then the bohemian part of me completly disagrees to as being so robotic.

SO I make these little arrangements. The morning rush is the morning rush , yet I sit down with that first cup of tea. Light the incense. Gather my thoughts.

Sit on the red bench at the subway station and read. Let a few trains come and go.

Lunch hour equals an hour at the gym.

A little less cleaning on the weekends. A few extra calls to some friends.

Laundry can wait an extra day. A good film beckons.

And while there's all those bills to be sorted, right now it was just time to sit down and write.

Tick tock tick tock. Now, how do I fit the yoga in?

Monologue vs dialogue

2009-07-07T13:34:00.002-04:00

"NASA is a conspiracy. They send a man to the moon. Lies, bunch of lies. No, not true. I know. I was hired. Christmas lunch. they came over. I cooked. There was turkey. No, chicken. I don't know. She's lying. All time. It's a conspiracy. All lies. Lunch, not dinner. There was turkey. They all lied. It was Christmas. When they sent the man to the moon. Hypocrisy. Bullshit. I don't like it. Not at all. "

Pause. Long pause. Distressed eyes looking around in panic.

"No. It won't happen . No christmas lunch. they are after me. I know."

Monlogue of a woman. Sitting beside me (a seat away), on the subway.

50 something. Salt and pepper, very disheveled hair. Untidy, unkempt look. Faded baggy denims. An oversized sweatshirt on a hot day. Torn, tattered sneakers. Panic stricken eyes.

She sat there and just talked to herself. Or to an imaginary person, who lives in her head.

I see quite a few like her. On the street. Mostly homeless. or junkies. Walking the street, sitting on the sidewalk, riding the subway. Talking to themselves. Or to some ghosts of their past. Or imaginary people. I will never know. Till I talk to them. Engage in a dialogue

But they only seem to talk to themselves. Engage in monologues.

Immigrant Tales - I

2009-07-06T10:34:00.002-04:00

My first memory of landing at the US airport for the very first time with my visa in hand.

As I stood, very tired , very jetlagged, in a very long line of very tired, very jetlagged people, waiting for my turn to clear immgration, I heard a very loud, very irate voice saying "All US citizens , please step to this side and form a line here. This is for your convenience. All the "rest" , please wait where you are"!.

And there it was. Spelt out, loud, clear and very irrtatedly. The separation . Between those who belonged and those who didn't. Between the coveted US citizenship vs the Visa. Between the Americans and the rest of the world. Between those who had earned the privelege of not having to wait in a tiring line and those who had no other choice but to.

And I knew , in that moment, this was just the start. To more lines, more waiting periods. For a driver's licence. For a work visa. For a citizenship interview.

For that feeling of belonging somewhere.

Immigrant tales

2009-07-02T23:46:00.006-04:00

Color, not colour. Sidewalk , not pavement. Stroller, not pram. Grade, not class. Street, not road.

I used to shift houses. Now I move.

Neighbors do not come over to borrow a katori of yoghurt. It would be an imposition, not an opportunity to have a conversation.

More Christmas lights. Less Diwali.

Blues, grays, browns as opposed to oranges, lime greens and reds.

Driving on the right, not the left.

Home and " back home".

That feeling of belonging. Yet feeling "in- between".

The journey of an immigrant. I started mine in 1997.

It's been a long one and there's lots to tell.

Men only want to sleeping, sleeping, sleeping

2009-06-30T08:09:00.002-04:00

A hot Italian sausage , please.

Yes, she says.

How old your baby? She asks, flipping the sausage on the grill.

One. I say.

I want babies too. But difficult to find a nice man, you know. Men only want to sleeping, sleeping with woman. Sleeping, you know. Just sleeping and that's it. No good.

Yes, I say. Only have babies with nice man.

Yes, she say. I want with nice man.

Where you from? she says.

India, I say.

Aah, I am thinking Italian, she says. You are looking , from Italian.

Where are you from? I ask

Turkey. (pronounced (toorkey, in a very turkeyish accent). You know Turkey?

Yes, I say.
She smiles.

I get my passport, then I go home, She says.

Passport? I say. Oh, Citizenship?

Ya, shes says, citizen. Then I go back. Here, no life. Turkey, very good. Here, too much work, work work. everything rush , rush. And tax. Too much tax. Tax, tax, tax.

I, no like here.

Have you applied for citizenship? I ask.

Yes, she says. One year and 5 months more, she says.

She is counting.

Here, your hot dog. You enjoy.

You look good. Like Italian. Good with baby.

Thank you, I say. Grin, grin.

Well, good luck, I say. Adding relishes to the hot dog.

I will see you again. Ketchup and Mustard.

Ya, she says. Nice to talk to you.

Bye.

Conversation with a hot dog vendor from Turkey, outside Union station in Toronto. 1.30 pm , Monday afternoon.

She belives men mostly just want to sleep around, Canada has way too much taxation, and that someone who looks incredibly Indian can also look Italian.

The Procelain Doll

2009-06-17T18:04:00.005-04:00

So, I'm not really into porcelain dolls. I think they look beautiful and all that, but I have never bought one or would. Too pink and pretty, and too figurine for me. Too collectibles item.

But I did get one home with me the other day. Pink and pretty and figurine.

But this one I shall keep. Because this one has a story.

And as much as I might not like porcelain dolls, I love stories . Especially the ones that happen to me . And have real people in them.

Tuesday afternoon. Close to 4 pm. My one year old is being what a one year old will be, on some days. A difficult one year old. Refusing to play, or sleep, or sit in the stroller to go to the park. Doesn't mind being carried around, so I put her in my sling, and set out for a walk. I plan to walk around downtown, maybe browse the drugstore, try on some nailpaint, or walk into an art gallery, or a random store that looks interesting enough.

So as I'm turning the corner around my condo, I notice the store that's right there. It's always been a bit of a favorite of mine. I haven't really ever bought anything from there, except a small furry , very life like, kitten which goes "Meow, I love you" when you press a button. Enough to entertain a one year old . For a dollar.

So anyway, this store has always been nice to browse through. First off, it was always absolutely packed with stuff. Packed , as in shelf to shelf, wall to wall. All kinds of stuff. Curios, mostly. Figurines. Lamps. Some nice, some hideous. Paintings. Prints. Incense. Key chains. Tin soldiers. Toy airplanes. African masks. Calendars. Just knick knacks and more knick knacks and even more knick knacks.

And a large selection of porcelain dolls.

So on some lazy afternoons, I would grab myself a coffee and just browse the store. Talking to the Chinese owner. Looking at knick knacks. Smiling to myself over some hideous looking lamp.

And if I was really in a mood, I would name the dolls.

The other thing that always caught my attention about this store was the fact that for the last 4 years , there has always been a sign on the door. "Closing Sale. Everything Must Go". Now, that is a gimmick that some store owners use to attract bargain seekers, especially around downtown. But sometimes it really does mean that store is shutting down and they are trying to get rid of the inventory.

For 4 years, I kid you not, the sign was always on the door. And the door was always open for business. And the store never shut down.

Till the last Tuesday when I walked by. Which is what piqued my interest. There was again a sign. It read. "Store shut down. Everything must Go. " And next to it was a very legal looking, stamped document stating something like non payment of rent etc.

And although, the store was open for business, it was almost bare. Almost everything had been sold. Just a few knick knacks here and there. Few customers grabbing the last day bargains. The Chinese owner was gone. The store was really shutting down. That day.

And here I was, just by accident, standing at its door, for what would be probably the last time. So , I walked in. It seemed momentous enough an event for me. I like romanticising things, you see. For one last time, I would walk around, browse and just spend another lazy afternoon here.

And as looked around, I saw a few knick knacks that I have always spotted when I used to browse here. A few painting that I remembered seeing. Lamps, the hideous ones. And a few porcelain dolls. With their pretty dresses.

So, anyway , that is the background to what followed.

As I walked around with my daugher slung on my hip, this lady walks up to us, also carrying a little baby girl. Mothers attract mothers.

Reasonably tall, 5'7 , I should say. Hair tightly pulled back in a bun. Very neat, not a hair out of place. Fair skinned. Not Caucasian. Wearing a summery reddish pinkish, clingy knee length dress. Bit of a tummy. Post pregnancy sort of bulge. Curvaceous, full bodied figure. Light eyes. Against her fair skin, you noticed them. Light eyes.

She walked over and smiled. We said our hello's. She asked how old my daughter was. I answered and asked about hers. Mom talk.

We told each other how cute the other's child was and how hard somes days can be and teething issues and all that. I didn't mind. She was an eager first time mom and she was pleasant.

Then she turned aorund and said something to the man at the cash register. Which is when I figured she wasn't browsing through. Turns out she was married to the guy at the cash register. Who was also the guy in charge of the foreclosure of the store.

She told me the owner could not pay the rent and hence the store had to be foreclosed. Hmm, I said , "too bad'.

As she continued talking, I wondered where she was from. I figured , probably Spanish or somewhere in Eastern Europe.

See, I am curious about stuff like that. Especially being in a city like Toronto. Because mostly everyone in this sity is originally from somewhere.

This city hands you multiculturalism on a platter. And then some more. You never know who you will meet, from which end of the world. So I normally ask. To satiate my curiosity. But I always guess first. In my head. It's like a game.

Spanish. Or eastern European. I was sure. Her English was accented. Something about her face. Something about her body. Something about her husband. I was sure I was close.

"What's your daughter's name?" She asks.

Gia", and "your daughter's?' , I ask.

"Mallika"

"Oh," I say, "That's an Indian name."

"Yes" she says. " I am from India. "

"Oh, "..says my head.

I'm from India too, I tell her.

My head is reeling.

"Where, in India?" I ask.

Punjab, she says.

Oh, I am from Punjab too. I say.

And soon we are exchanging names. Jugraon, Nangal, Doomwali, Bhatinda, Ludhiana.

Me and Jassi.

That's her.
Jassi from Jagroan. A village in Punjab. Not too far from Doomwali. Another village in Punjab . My ancestral village. Where I spent many a summer, growing up.

So , N from Doomwali in Bhatinda and her daughter meets Jassi from Jugraon and her daughter , in a store in downtown Toronto, which N have browsed for the last 4 years, and which is finally shutting down for non payment of rent by the Chinese owner and the foreclosure is being handled by Jassi from Jagraon's husband.

I was wrong about Spain or Eastern Europe. I was not even close.

We talked some more, now obviously, a greater comfort level established.

And then it was time to leave. So I said goodbye and how lovely it had been to meet her . She asked me to wait a minute.

Then , she walked over to a shelf, picked up something and handed it to me.

"This is for Gia, from Mallika. "

I looked down at my hand and there she lay. The porcelain doll in a pretty white dress. With blue frills at the edges . Same blue as her beaded necklace. A wreath of pink roses in her hand. A pink heart adorning the veil on her head. Brown hair. Black eyes. Pink lips. Barefeet.

Thank you. And I left.

And as much as I still am not porcelain doll person, I think this one's a keeper.

And in my head, I might even name her.
Jassi or Mallika. Those are the contenders.

The Chinese taxi driver and the Pakistani lady.

2009-06-15T14:04:00.010-04:00

So on my way to a job interview, the other day, I hailed a cab. The driver was an older (ish) Chinese guy. Spectacled, salt and pepper hair, a very gentle, yet somewhat naughty face , with eyes that smiled, wearing a crisp half sleeved button down cotton white shirt.

Hi, I said. He said hi. 375 University, please, I said. 375 University, he said.

And normally I will strike a conversation with a cab driver because I think cab drivers have very interesting stories to tell. And are mostly very eager to talk. And I love random conversations with random people. One off's.

But since I was on my way to an interview, I was doing a last minute mental run of my resume. Then, at a traffic light, this other cab pulls up next to us and an African cab driver sticks his head out the window and with a beaming smile across his way yells to my cab driver "Give me all your money" . My cabbie, also very amused, exchanges pleasantries and then we are on our way.

"You know that guy" he starts with a heavily Chinese accented voice. "He have interesting story."

"Yes?" I say...putting away my resume. Conversation with taxi guy vs resume prep. The former wins hands down.

Turns out that the other cab driver is from Trinidad. Some 12 years ago , him and my cab driver, met, when they both came to Toronto and started driving cabs. 5 years later, cab driver from Trinidad wins the 1.1 miliion dollars lottery! 1.1 million..12 years ago..you do the math!!

So he cashes his lottery and heads back home. A millionaire.

The Chinese cab driver's life moves on.

A month ago, the Chinese cab driver meets the Trinidadian cab driver, who is back now in Toronto, driving a cab again. Apparently, and so he says, he gave all his money to his family.

"Why he do that, " continues my cab driver, in a very animated voice, "he have no wife , no children. Who he give money to?".

"If I win money, I retire. I no drive taxi "

"I retire. He, a fool. I tell him"

"He, the only millionaire taxi driver, in Toronto"

And there in lays the affirmative to my theory. Always strike a conversation with a cab driver. They have some really interesting tales to tell.

I'm hoping to hail a taxi another day which is driven by the only millionaire taxi driver in Toronto. Because that would most certainly make for some very interesting conversation.

The Pakistani grandmother.

I was hanging out at this park near where I live. Something I do , almost every evening with my daughter. She plays, I sit there, facebooking on my Iphone, or soaking in the sun, or reading a book.

Only that Tuesday evening, I was gazing at people, which is also what I do. Check out passer bys, wonder what they do, what their story is. Which is when I noticed her. Walking towards us with a stroller.

She was wearing a salwar kameez. And although you have numerous suit and sari clad women in the suburbs, it is a somewhat rare sight in downtown. So I noticed, and I smiled, and she smiled back and came and parked the stroller next to where I was.

Late 60's, I would imagine, pepper and mostly salt hair in a braid, green and maroon cotton salwar kameez with sneakers, a very approachable face with extremely soft features. She let her granddaughter, who she babysits every day, out of the stroller and sat down next to me on the bench. Eager for a conversation.

And this is her story.

She came to Toronto from Pakistan in 1973. And she had been here ever since. She talked of a Toronto (which is now one of the most multi cultural, immigrant populated cities in the world), where there were hardly any immigrants from India or Pakistan. She spoke of how there was only one (as opposed to the gizzilion today) store that stocked Indian groceries, and the stock came in on Tuesdays and if you didn't get there in time, the masala packets were all gone!

And then she spoke of being a mother and a grand mother and of being a wife, and a woman. She gave me a perspective of her generation. She said it was hard. To be a working mom of two, to run a house of four, to cook and clean and manage the groceries. She spoke of her husband being a good husband and a good father and helping out. But she also said that the brunt of the work was hers as it is often a woman's. Sort the kids clothes, figure out whether the atta is over or is it the dal, keep track of meetings at work and PTA'S at school, dentists appointments or time for immunizations.

I asked her if she was bittter about all the work she had put in. She said no. That's just the way life was. And now her son and daughter are grown up and setlled. She is retired, as is her husband. The pension is comfortable. She relaxes. Does her yoga. Long pareyr hours. Babysits the grandchildren. Is no longer always in a rush.

I her daughter's life different than her, I ask? "To some extent , yes, "she says. "But some of the battles a woman fights always stay the same , "she adds. Not offering any further explanation, smiling , expecting me to just know.

" But," she says, "I help her out with the kids. so she can stay at work. See, I didn't have any help so I had to wait till my kids were 11 years and older to pick up a job. "

"I help her out as much as I can. Make it a little easier for her than it was for me. "

She spoke of how much she missed Pakistan. Especially when she first arrived to this land of foreign people, foreign culture and way too much snow. How she even misses it now, afetr so many years. How a foreign country can never be the same as home.

How this is home now, though, and she will live out her life here.

An hour had passed. It was time to leave. We put the kids in their stollers. I let her know how wonderful it was talking to her. She smiled and said she came her often and we should meet up more. She said she would bring some homeopathy medicine for my daughter who had trouble teething. And that I should meet her here again on Monday morning.

We said our goodbyes and went our separate ways.

I was meant to meet her yesterday and get the medicine. I had a hectic day and couldn't go. That's life.

In two weeks, I go back to work and most likely will not have time to go for my evenings at the park. I am hoping to meet her again before that. And have another conversation. With yet another interesting stranger.

This one made me think

2009-06-12T13:53:00.005-04:00

Two 25 year old's. D and O. They grew up blocks apart in Toronto and met in primary school. Best friends , since then.

D was just starting out as a photographer. O had just landed a job in the financial district with a reputed investment firm.

Here they are, in the picture, in D's car. D is on the left , in the driver's seat. O is beside him. It is te Thursday night and they are returning home from having watched an NBA game in a friend's house. D is driving O and O's girlfriend back home. O's girilfriend is sitting at the back and she is the one who took this picture.

Two young boys, with their whole life in front of them. Starting off in their careers. Best friends since primary school and still going strong. Happy, dating, going for games, living their twenties. Sounds just right, doesn't it?

What doesn't sound right , then , is that three minutes after this picture was taken, both of them were dead. Shot dead.

So, then , here's the story.

After they left the game, and were driving back home, they got a call from one of their friends from the friend's condo that they had just left from. They had mistakenly taken someone's keys with them. So they turned around the car and headed back to return the keys.

It was a warm night , so they had the car windows rolled down. When they got to the friend's condo, they parked under the building and waited for their friend to come down.

Out of nowehere, a man walked up to the car, at the D's driver's side. D' barley said something like "how's it going" , before the man fired. One bullet hit D in the chest, the second hit the car and the third hit O. By the time, the ambulance got them to the hospital, they were already dead.

It's been a year since this incident. The killer was never caught. There have been no suspects. The police is baffled. It could have been a car jacking gone wrong. A junkie on the street. A planned murder with a motive.

And although it matters that justice must be served, D and O are gone. At 25 years of age. And they will not be back. Ever.

I was fairly overwhelmed after I read this story. I felt a lot of things. I thought a lot of thoughts. More than I can even pen down.

I felt sad. I felt angry. I felt scared. Threatened.

I missed my best friend. I wished we lived closer. I wish we had more time to get together and talk and laugh, like we do when we are together.

I felt protective of my kids who I think are growing up in an unsafe world.

I felt thankful for what I have. And fearful of what could be lost. And how easily and quickly it could be lost.

D and O, rest in peace.

Kudos to your friendship.

My heart goes out to your families.

And to make some sense of all this, I tell myself you are in a better place. Hanging out. Like best friends do.

The vibe of children

2009-06-10T23:16:00.002-04:00

I was at this music session with my one year old daughter. We go there every Wednesday. It's an hour long. And come Tuesday evening, I am looking forward to it.

A very talented, mother of one, local Toronto musician, N, comes along, with her guitar and strums some songs for kid ranging in age from 0- 5 years. It is a relatively open space, everyone sits on the carpet on the floor, there are various musical instruments lying around for the children to discover. Tambourines, african drums, marracas, shakers, flutes. Also, some colored scarves for the kids to throw around in the air, or on each other. Scarves of muslin cloth in blues, oranges , pinks, reds, greens.

N, sits on a stool, with her classic brown chunky boots and her guitar. She croons. Fun songs. Old Mac Donald. Speckeled frogs. You are my sunshine.

The kids sit around her in a circle. Well, some sit. Some lay, some run around, some talk, some laugh, some cry, some sing, some dance, some shout.

See, that's the thing. They all do what they want to do. So in the moment. The whole vibe of that room in that one hour is so in the moment.

And that's why on every Wednesday, I just totally love being in that room full of children. Because in that space, and in that hour, there are no agendas. There is no false political correctness. There is no pretence. There is a musician. And then there are just these little people being who they are, doing what they want.

Here, I am tired , hence I shall just start bawling at the top of my voice. And stomp my feet while I do that.

I want that toy so I am just going to snatch it from you. Then if you look visibly upset or start bawling, I will either give it back to you or run away to the other end of the room with the toy.

I am tired and sleepy and I don't really care for the music so I will just lay here and sleep. Or pretend to.

I will dance like no one is watching.

I will smile at you not because it is nice to do that but because I feel like. Or don't.

I will continue staring at your face just because it is a new one.

I willl dig my nose. And analyze the find.

I will scratch my bum.

I will now make a poop in my diaper and stink up this whole room.

I will pull at the strings of N's guitar.

I will make up my own lyrics. And sing them at the top of my voice. Louder than everyone else.

I will pull my T-shirt up and show my friend my newly disovered belly button. After which, he will proceed to do the same.

I will play that big drum and then sit on it.

I will put the shaker in my mouth.

I will eat the orange scarf.

It's joy . Sheer joy. The vibe of these children.

The stranger in my window

2009-06-09T23:14:00.004-04:00

I have known you since July 2008.
I know where you live. On the 3rd floor of 21 Carlton Street. I know that your condo had a balcony. A tiny one. Tiny or big enough to fit two foldable balcony chairs. In beige fabric. One plastic foldable balcony table, on which stands a yellowish beiegish planter that is plantless because it is used as an ashtray.

I know that every day at around noon, you make your first appearance on this baclony, sit on the above mentioned chairs, place a Starbucks coffee on the above mentioned table and smoke a couple of ciggaretes, which you flick into the above mentioned planter acting as an ashtray. I know that your balcony is your place to come out and sit on , only when you need to smoke.

I know you are tall. I am guestimating 6 feet plus. Big. Sort of in a rotund way. You have blonde hair. When you are home, you are mostly in lounging clothes. T-shirts, baggy sweatshirts, track pants, shorts. Flip flops. Always, flip flops on the feet.

Your body language is relaxed. Bordering on lazy.

The first time in the day that you come out on your baclony is when you have just woken up and risen out of bed. Clothes dishevelled, eyes sleepy, hair tousled up, expression grumpy as in "not a morning person" grumpy.

And you are definitely a morning smoker. You need your coffee and smoke as soon as you get out of bed.

And you are not an early riser. You normally get out of bed around noon.

Which often makes me wonder what you do? Like, for a living. I guess, maybe a student, with classes starting late. Or a working professional with a night shift kind of job. Those are the two most obvious ones. You could be so many other things.

Late riser, that you are, for sure.

I think you have a girlfriend. The again, she could be a friend, maybe even a sister. But I like to think of her as a girlfriend. She is there on Sundays. Aound noon, you both sit out and talk. She talks, she is very chatty. You mostly listen. You smoke a couple of ciggarettes. She, one or two. She is regular. Every Sunday, so far.

Then sometimes, there are other people. Like your friend the other day. With the 'mad scientist" look. Wearing a tie and walking out on the balcony with a bong in his hand. Smoking up, the two of you. Lots of ciggarettes that day. The rare time that I actually saw you in the evening.

Because mostly I just see you in the afternoon. When I am in my kitchen, fixing and eating my lunch. I see you sitting there. Smoking. Talking on your cell phone. Gazing blankly into space. And so, while I eat my luch, I glance at you. And I try and imagine who you are, what you're thinking, how your day has been and what you are like. And then I'm done lunch or you're done smoking and we go our separate ways.

You are the stranger. Who lives in the condo facing mine.

You are a stranger. And I have known you for the last 11 months.

My big giant breasteses

2009-04-14T22:59:00.002-04:00

"I don't have breasteses, Daddy doesn't have breasteses....but Mommy has big giant breasteses!"

5 years old's say the most crazy, funny things!!

For a season. And a reason.

2009-04-04T01:34:00.001-04:00

Inspired by a Grey's Antomy narrative that talked about the people we meet in our lives and the friends we make. The friends that eventually become a family to us, different from the family we are born into. The family we are born into is the one we don't choose. It is , of course, the one that feeds us , clothes us and eventually prepares us to go out into the world. To choose our tribe.

Tribe. I like the sounds of that. Rings of a certain togetherness.

We all have our tribes. It consists of people, we in the course of our life. At different stages . In different places. In varied ways. Some, we go to school with. The growing up years. Others, University. The formative ones. Some we work with. Bosses, Colleagues. A few we just meet. At a club. At a friends house. At the YMCA.

Destiny and brings us together. A certain connection binds us.

Of all the people we meet, some stick. Keepers.

Some don't. They are there for a reason. And a season. But, only a season.

The sifting process. Which separates the friends from the accquaintances. The friends, which then become the tribe.

I have a tribe. It is a wonderul tribe. The people in my tribe have interests ranging from art to music to art to travel to photography. Yoga, and books. Cooking, world cinema, fashion. They are talented people. In their different ways. Intelligent people. Wise. Grounded. Honest. Hard working. Real.

I am glad I have my tribe.

How cool is sausage shaped poo

2009-03-24T09:36:00.007-04:00

You need to have patience..lots and lots of mind numbing patience. You need it when when you have a brilliant film just waiting to be seen, that you have been waiting to see all week, and it is already inserted in your DVD layer, waiting to be played, to be accompanied by a glass of white that has been chilled all day and now has been poured into your favorite crystal wine glass, just waiting to be sipped, and right about now, your 9 month old refuses to sleep. No sleep...wide awake, alert eyed, cute as a bug, wanting to play. You nurse, you rock, you sing lullabies, you curse under your breatht, you hush, you shush, you try to sleep train, you shed a few tears, you scream out loud inside your head, you sing lullabies again. And finally she sleeps. And you sleep beside her. Exhausted. The film lays in the DVD player. The wine just sits.

You need to understand things will not always go as you plan....when you are just laying on your couch on a Sunday afternoon, something you very rarely do, but is what you really, ideally plan to do on a Sunday afternoon, and since today the baby is miracolously napping, you are just laying on the couch, reading this book that is absolutely brilliant and right then when you are at the most exciting part , your 5 year old yells from the washroom that he is done pooing and that he needs to be cleaned up , which you rush to do, to get it over with, so you can come back to your book, and then he insists you look at the poo because it is shaped like a big sausage and how cool is that and you have to analyze the poo with him, the big one and the little ones around it that he thinks look like meatballs and how cool is that and you stand there looking at the poo and talking about the poo and when you are done having that inane converstion about the poo and the 5 year old is cleaned up and you run back to the couch to the book, your 9 month old wakes up. With a poo in her diaper. Not the big sausage and meatball kind, but a messier, smellier , yellower kind.

You need to do what you need to do....... when both the kids fall asleep at a decent hour on a Friday night and you decide to pop open a bottle of wine which soon becomes two and after the third you decide to live it up and do a late night and watch a movie and when you finally pass out at 2 , only to be woken up at 6:30 in the morning by two very energised, very awake kids and you are now completely hung over, and in that state you have to get the two dressed to go to a birthday party , with your head throbbing and your stomach feeling funny, and you are now surrounded by about twelve other high on candy and choclate cake 5 year olds and about 4 of their younger 9 month old siblings, and you have to have conversations with other moms about kid stuff.

You need to be calm....when you are going on a road trip and you are a roadtripper and absolutely love road trips , only now you don't get to drive, which you love doing on road trips because you are sitting at the back, squeezed between two carseats, one with a 5 year old who asks at precise 2 minute intervals if we are there yet and the the other with a 9 month old who dislikes her car seat and is expressing her dislike at the very top of her lungs. And silently in your head, you are screaming at the top of your lungs, Are we there yet?

You need to give up ....trying to make the house look aesthetically pleasing because that's what you are so good at doing , however , now next to your buddhas, there is always a superhero and a teddy bear and on your intellect displaying bookself is always a Duckie says Quack Quack, If I had a Gorrilla and a teddy bear, and everytime you walk through your living room, you always will step on a squeaky toy that will squeak or trip over a hot wheels car that lies next to a tedy bear and when you reach into the sides of your couch, you will pull out half eaten candyfrom last Sunday, a few diapers, numerous crayons, lost socks, pacifiers... and a teddy bear. There's always a teddy bear!

And you need to constantly remind yourself, that one day they will leave, to live their own lives, in their own spaces, with people they will call their own, and then, when that happens, you will sit on the couch in your aesthetically pleasing living room, on a Friday night , watching a movie, sipping a glass of wine , knowing that you can sleep in the next day and then read all afternoon till it is time to get behind the wheels of your car to head out for a road trip.

And finally, you need to know that while you are cruising along, enjoying the drive, there will be a moment when suddenly you will know, that on some days you do miss analyzing the poo that looked like a sausage and how cool was that, singing lullabies, sitting between two car seats, tripping over teddy bears and attending kids birthday parties.

So maybe what you most need to know is that, this is what it is here and now, and it will be no more some day, so no matter how crazy the day, you enjoy it while it lasts.

Oh..and the teddy bear will somehow find a place somewhere in between your intellect displaying bookshelf, maybe next to the Buddhas....just for old times sake.

Am mother. Can multitask.

2009-03-18T21:38:00.003-04:00

So I'm on maternity leave for now. So I have to look for a job in August. So given the way things are these days (you know, the big R word , and all) I figure it would be in my best interest to be on top of my game. So I decided to start a little prep. Read up a few things about interviewing. So here I was browsing through a list of possible soft skills questions. This one said:
Can you multitask?

Hmmmmmmmmmm...let me see now.

I have nursed a 6 month old cradled in my left arm, and fed a 5 year old with the other hand. A picky 5 year old who wanted me to pick his spinach out of his spinach quiche. Then I have held the 6 month old in the right arm, a very fidgety 6 month old, and cleaned the bum of the 5 year old after he made very big, very messy poo. In a very small, very tiny airplane washroom. On a very long, very tiring 14 hr flight.

I have held a baby in my arms, while stirring the tomatoes for the chicken curry and pureeing the onions for the raita. I have pushed a stroller with one hand, carrying groceries in the other. Through streets laden with snow. I have done up my face, while taking to a citibank cutomer service rep on the phone held between the cheek and the ear, while keeping an eye on the 8 month old on the floor doesn't put any hazardous object in her mouth. I've had one baby in the bathtub, one 5 year old out of it, washing the former, drying the latter.

Oh yes, I can multitask. I'm a mom. I do that.
We do that.

My friend, who has directed films, dealing with everything that goes on while directing a film. Directing, thinking, supervising, managing. Then, on the break, when everyone else sips coffee, she has run to the washroom, got on the cell to check in on her baby. And while on the phone, she is pumping. Pumping with a breast pump to ease the engorgement.

My other friend, who went back to work in three months after having had her baby. Back to work where she had to attend meetings, then dash to the stationery room to pump milk, dash back to her desk to do some R& D, rush home to deliver the pumped milk for the baby, rush back to work, then leave work, dog tired, to again feed, diaper, bath, change.

Don't get me wrong. You don't have to be a mother to be a good multi tasker.

It's just that when you are a mother, you just are a multitasker.

Here's to thinking. And to best friends. And to Grey's Anatomy.

2009-03-18T21:15:00.005-04:00

I love Grey's Anatomy.

And I love my best friend for knowing that I would love Grey's Anatomy. And for telling me over and over again to watch Grey's Anatomy. And when I didn't listen, then, for getting me the DVD's for Grey's Anatomy. Then sending my 5 year old with her 5 year old to the balcony to play. And for babysitting my 7 month old daughter. And for bringing me my dinner to where I sat. All so I could sit and watch Grey's Anatomy.

And thank God for a best friend like that. Because I love Grey's Anatomy. I love the drama. I love the interplay of relationships. I love the characters. I love the hospital setting. I love the soundtrack. I love the dialogues. I love Burke and Bailey. And I love Christina and George. I love them all. Yup, even Alex.

And I love the narrative. I, especially, love, love, love the narrative.

It is a well thought of narrative.
It is a well written narrative.
And it is a very well narrated narrative.

It is a narrative that makes you listen.
It is a narrative that makes you think.
It is a narrative that makes you question.

And it is a narrative that makes you introspect.
It is a narrative that provides you an intelligent perspective.
It is a narrative that gives you an insight.
And it is a narrative that throws questions at you.

For instance, what would you do if you knew this was the last day of your life?

Think about it. I know I will.

Red Red susu in the bed

2009-03-12T13:54:00.002-04:00

Green green fairy queen
Yellow yellow dirty fellow
Brown brown let's go to town
Black black hay in the sack
Pink pink think think
Blue Blue I love you too
White White turn off the light
Gray Grey springtime in May

Just one of those days. Feeling wonderfully poetic!

Casa

2009-03-12T04:25:00.009-04:00

Today, I counted a blessing. For having a home. And then I felt even more blessed. For having three.

My home in Toronto. The first house that me and my husband bought together. The home where the three of us, Rajesh, Rohan and me moved into, last year. The home that Gia was born into, to complete us.

23 Carlton Street. Downtown Toronto. 3 and half bedrooms. Two washrooms. Open kitchen. Hardwood floors. Steel appliances. Washer Dryer.

Bright cushion covers. FabIndia. Yamini. Oranges. Pinks. Lime greens. Blues. Cotton . Silk. Changed every Saturday. To set a mood for the week.

White curtains in the living room. To open up the space. Beige, with whiteouts, in the bedroom, to darken it, for afternoon siestas. Bright colored ones in Gia's room. To liven it up.

Table mats. Chatai. Colored jute.

FabIndia bedspreads. Green to calm. Orange to awaken. Blue, for serenity.

A little temple. Sai Baba. Guru Nanak. Prayer beads.

Buddhas. 4 Buddhas and counting.

Incense. Sometimes, Nagchampa. Sometimes, Lavender or Opium. Aroma oils. Always Satsuma.

Plants. Everywhere. Living room, bedroom, washroom. Fresh flowers, now and then. Tiger lilies.

Books. Lots of books. Tarun Tejpal. Manju Mathur. Arundhati Roy. Paulo Coehlo. Marquez. Robert Munch. Dr. Suess. Sandra Boynton. Fiction. Non fiction. Stories. Philosophy. Poetry.

Art on the walls. A large Indian painting. My first art buy at an art gallery. From Dhoomimal's in Connaught Place. Art from Dilli Hart. Series of three. Tribal. A few Ikea prints. Contemporary. Kamal's painting. A recent addition. Sunils. To come.

Photographs. Lots of photographs. In magnetic frames on the fridge. Kids. Family. Friends. Memories. Moods. Emotions.

Lots of kids stuff. That gets tidied up every night. Teddy bears. Super heroes. Puppets. Choo Choo trains. Swords. Transformers. Ben Tens. Rattles. Lego. Puzzles. Bouncers. High chair.

Atta, dal, spices, pastas. Pressure cookers, pots and pans. Coffee maker, Juicer, blender, mixie. Bounty, toilet rolls, cleaners, linen spray, laundry detergents.

And music. Always, music.

It all comes together to make this home.

Then there is my parents house. Sector 37. House # 142. Noida. The first house that my mom and dad bought together. Finally , home. Not like the army houses that needed to be moved out of every three years.

The house my parents renovated last year. Their big creative project. They put their heart and soul into it. They shaped every dream they had. A kitchen like this, a living room like that. Bay windows. Bigger bathrooms. Bigger bedrooms. A veranda. Acess to the terrace, so the grandchildren can play.

Dad's den with his TV to watch National Geographic and CNN. With all his books and a proud display of his army mementos. Mom's room with her TV to watch Sony and Star Plus. With her sewing machine and ironing board.

The house that houses mom's crystal. Antiques. Hand crafted Kashmiri furntire. Mom's china cabinet. Dad's bar. With liqour bought from the army canteen.

The house that houses their memories. Of their children having gone to college. Done their MBA. Got married. Gone abroad. Had children. A house full of memories. Of a life lived. Bustling in the morning. Quieter in the evenings.

The house where now their children come home to. And their grandchildren .

The house that I moved out of to find my own. The house that I now return to, every now and then.

And as soon as I get to that house, after a very long flight from Toronto to Delhi, I know I am home. My room on the second floor. My closet. My dressing table. My favorite place, the garden. An oasis in the city. Lots of plants. Lots of trees. The magnificient palm. The little bonsais. The small tree in which the birds nested last summer. The waterfalll my dad built. The fish he added to it.

I am home to conversations with Dad. To mom's cooking. To Dad's breakfasts. To endless cups of chai . To random trips on the rickshaw to Atta market. To the joy I see in their eyes as they interact with Rohan and Gia. I am home.

And then there is the third. In Bangalore. Alpine Court. Koramangala. My best friend's home. Roohi, Sunil and Amay's home. Where I always go. No matter how tired I am of having made the long flight from Toronto to Delhi. No matter how fearful I am to undertake a trip, yet again, with the kids in tow. I go. And I'm glad I do.

Because as soon as I enter the house, I feel the energy. The creative energy. The surge. And I feel the the love. The warmth. And the joy that I am here. I feel the welcome. Real, genuine welcome. And I feel the comfort. Of being there.

I see the colors. Oh, the colors. Oranges, lime greens, blues, magaentas. All thrown in together. Without a thought to coordination. Effortlessly. By the undisputed queen of color.

The lights. the colorful twinkling lights. That magically lit up my 6 month old daughter's eyes everytime she looked at them.

Sunil's fish.

Art. Kamal's. Sunil's. Amay's.

The Fab India furniture. Tasteful as hell. The books. The Buddhas. The photographs.
The dining table, that draws people to it. That people sit around and eat. Have endless cups of chai. And endless glasses of beer. The table that makes people talk. That conversations happen around.

The kitchen. The functional kitchen. The kitchen that never runs short of food. Ever. The kitchen with the little temple. The kitchen where Roohi and me have rolled out a chatai and had the most amazing conversations. Bared our souls. Poured our hearts out. Spoken secrets. Discussed life, film, books, people, family. Laughed. Really laughed. And in doing so, created the most amazing memories. Of friendship. Of sisterhood. Of being best friends.

And the music. Always, music.

The little balcony. With the plants in their pots that the monkeys sometimes break sometimes. The balcony where I sat everyday with Gia and soaked in the Bangalore sun.

And sitting there, I know. Yet again. That I am home.

A good start

2009-03-11T12:18:00.003-04:00

Wake up early. 6ish. Before the rest of them. I lay in bed a few minutes. Just . Eyes open, mind calm, sleep slowly receding. I linger in the warmth of the rajai just a little bit more, then peel it off. Hoist myself off the bed.

Walk to kitchen. Squeeze half a lime into a glass of warm water. Sip, sip, slowly. The sourness tingles the taste buds. Tea or coffe, I think? Always, a decision I make in the morning. It's a mood thing.

Turn the cofee maker on. Set the coffee to brew. French Vanilla. Sometimes, Colombian dark roast. Tetley Orange Pekoe, if tea.

Roll out yoga mat. Position feet. Raise arms over head. Nice and long. Streeeetch. Slowly bend . Touch my toes. Up again. Hands to namaskar. Prostrate. Get into downward dog. Then, mountain pose. Back up again. One cycle of Surya Namaskar. 30 seconds break. Then, repeat. No counts. Keep going till the mind and body know to stop.

Sit myself on the yoga mat. Half lotus. Back straight, stretched. Inhale. Exhale. Slow. Inhale . Exhale. Slow. Keep the focus on the breathing.

End with the child pose. My favorite. Has always been.

Then I saunter back to the kitchen. Which is now smelling of freshly brewed French Vanilla. Mmmm. Pur myself a cup. A little bit of cream. Lots of sugar. My only sugar fix for the day. Hence, sweet as hell.

Light an agarbatti. Some days, lavendar. Others, nagchampa. Or occasionaly burn the oil lamp. Always, satsuma.

Sit on the couch. Mentally make a note of the day. Things to do, meals to make, people to call, stuff like that. Sip, sip. On some days, pick up a book. Start to read.

Then, Gia starts waking up. Soon, Rohan and Rajesh. Diaper change. Rohan's breakfast. Put on some music. Good morning world.

I am a morning ritual person. I love my morning rituals. It's my thing. It's that time of the day, which is just mine. Sometimes as short as 15 minutes. Some lucky days, longer. Whichever one, I'm just happy sto start my day that way. My way. With the cleansing of the lime water , the energizing of the yoga, the taste of the beverage, the aroma of the incense, the calming of the Pranayama.

Because I never know what the day will bring. Excitement, bad news, good news, fatigue, peace, tension.

But I do know that I had a good start.

Three mad women. One crazy dog. A rickety old car.

2009-03-04T02:42:00.000-05:00

Memories. Rock solid things. Escpecially the good, happy, crazy ones. Those are for keeps. Those are the ones the ones that find a special nook in the chambers of your head and then just lodge themselves there. For good.
Of course, the details get fuzzier as you get older, but the essence stays.
And everytime you decide to visit that little nook in your head, you remember. And you smile.
I want to pen those memories down. I want to dig them up. And smile as I do.
I want to save them before the nooks get all taken. And the details get fuzzier.
So here goes.
It is only fair I start with a very happy one. It features three mad women, one crazy dog and a seriously old car.
Like I said, the details get fuzzeir, so I am not sure why we made the trip. Was it to drop me off? ? Or pack my stuff for the night and head back to G's house? We had a purpose, I know. But it doesn't matter. Becuase I am just glad we made the trip.
We. G, me and Roo. And one crazy (God bless his soul) dog named Paoli. G's adopted stray, Poali. Sweet Poali. Moody Poali. Crazy Poali. Poali, who also has a special nook in my head.
From G's C2 in CP to my 142 in Noida.
Late night.
In G's serioulsy old, yet dependable Fiat. Oh, the memories I have of that car. All good.
Gray, I think it was. Vintage, definitely.
So we head off. I think it was Roo and G in the front. And me and Poali at the back. Well, me at the back and Poali pretty much all over me at the back.
And here's the thing. All through the drive, we laughed. Man, we laughed. At silly , inane stuff. Office gossip, life, ex boyfriends, current crushes, colleagues, silly jokes, this, that and this. We talked and we laughed.
Roo also sang. A lovely hindi song. Very seriously. And G and me laughed. We thought she was being funny. But she wasn't. And she was upset. And we felt bad. And made it up to her. And then she laughed.
We even invented a word. Mountaaaaains. We still say it. After all these years. And we laugh.
At one point, Paoli stuck his bum right in my face. He also stuck it in Roo's face. We had a dog stick his bum our faces. And we laughed. It was outright gross. But we laughed.
And if you ever had that happen to you and you were in the company of some really good friends, who have a kickass sense of humor, you'd laugh too. Trust me.
Then we got to Noida. And as the door to the car opened, Poali jumped out and ran. Away. Into the Sector 37 streets of Nodia. In the middle of the night. Like any crazy , wild , happy dog would.
And then the three of us, in our nightshirts and Pj's chased him on the streets of Sector37 in Noida. In the middle of the night. Like any three seriously crazy, mad, happy women would.
We fnally got Poali. Leashed him up.
We were still laughing.
Man, what a trip . What a night. And what a rock solid memory.
Oh, and we never ever laugh when Roo sings now. Never.

Life is short. Have an affair.

2008-12-13T18:48:00.002-05:00

Smart tagline. Controversial service.

ashleymadison.com. A dating service for single people (fine!) and more so for people in a relationship (hmmm) and even more so, for married people (now, you're talking!), looking to have an affair.

And ashleymadison.com is attracting a lot of clients. Let me rephrase that. And ashleymadison.com is attracting a lot of clients who are married, looking to have affairs. Men , women, husbands, wives. they're all there. they're all having affairs.

So I watched this show ..a talk show in which they interviewed the founder of the above mentioned service. And even though the talk show host and the audience were trying to get all self righteous on him, I really thought the man had a point. And his point was this. He wasn't promoting adultery or telling people that they should have an affair. According to him, the people who come to the website, seeking affairs, have already actually decided to step outside their marriage. His web service was merely facilitating it.

And honestly, I think, his argument is fair ! The man, even, has a point. Adultery exists. Spouses cheat. Really, married people have affairs. That is just how it is.

Why? The reasons are plenty and very varied, I can imagine. Sometimes, it is just the boredom of the many many years of being with one person. It could be the drudgery of everyday life. Nothing at all to to do with the spouse. Just someone seeking some excitement. A thrill. Something naughty. Something to make you feel 20 again. When you're really hitting 40. Sometimes, it has got everything to do with the spouse. Disinterested spouse. Boring sex life. lack of chemistry. Etc , etc, etc.

And hey, sometimes, it' just too much vodka. And a cute guy at the bar on the girls night out. Or an ex flame. A secret crush. Unrequited love from the past. Pure physical chemistry with a colleague.

Like I said, the reasons are plenty. And varied. As I can imagine are the consequences.

The choice , however, is only this. Log in. Or log out.

Red wine

2008-12-07T22:26:00.000-05:00

It's either the bottle of red wine I just downed or a brilliant realistation! But what I realised is that it's ok! Everything's Ok! Life's ok.
You just live it the best you can. In between the daily stresses of finances and clutter and jobs and kids, you just live it the best you can. And you just tell yourself, this is another day I lived and tomorrow will be better.
Because the more you over complicate it, the more complicated it will be.
You don't judge, you don't over moralize and you definitley don't over stress. Because honeslty if you give it your best shot, it will work out.
I mean, look around you. The Mumbai terror that just happened. The CNN documentary about the nuclear threat to the US in 2013. Terrorism. Poverty. And all that. We are not exaclty citizens of an ideal world. Of a world that promises you much happiness and much peace.
And given that, the peace and the happiness that you can create is for yourself, around yourself.
I am more and mroe ainclined to belive that it is a state of mind, more than anything else.
You tell yourself you are going to have a good day and then you make sure of that.
Beacause this is your life. And as a non believer in a second life, this is your only life. Your one chance at making it happen.
So you make it happen. To the best you can.
And then , for the rest of it......ther's always red wine!
nad ecxues the typos......what cna I say.... it must be the red wine!

My dose of desi

2008-11-23T17:08:00.000-05:00

I got me a dose of pure desi today! Much needed it was too, by god ki kasam!

Early Sunday afternoon. I started watching Dostana and although I don't think the film will win any critics awards, it cracked me up in bits and pieces.

Kiron Kher as the Punjabi mom and her Phoolo phallo, kher chodo! That one defintiley deserved a LOL!

John Abraham, flexing every possible muscle in every possible way, in speedos that barely covered an extremely taut butt, no laughing matter , that.

Abishek Bacchan , I like. Priyanka Chopra lookin hot. Sizzzzling Shilpa Shetty. Boman Irani with his over the top gay persona.

Then throw in not one, not two, but three love angles. Also bring in a motherless kid, an Aunty, a glitzy apartment, a few firangis and an expressionless Bobby Deol...and I had my Sunday after noon serving of pure time pass.

And then of course, what's a Hindi movie without the music. Maula, maula was lovely. My desi girl, wanted me to get up and do some jhatka, matkas!

That's what I am talking about. Jhatka matkas bollywood style was what I needed in my life.

So I decided to overdose. By following up the movie with last years IIFA's awards! And boy, was it a good idea, by God ki kasam.

As I sorted laundry, I watched Govinda dance, true Govinda ishtlye. That man, seriously, is one of a kind. And I love him for that.

And I watched Akshay Kumar doing his Singh is King thing. In true Akshay style. By entering the stage on a skate board, suspended in the air.

Boman Irani and Deshmukh at their slapstick best. Kareena, Priyanka , Katrina and Diya shake their booties.

The dhinchuk music. The glitter and glam.

The wannabe Hollywood "Who are you wearing" question on the, now environmentally friendly "green" carpet. And to that question, Govinda's non - wannabe response "Suit pehena aa, jaise aap dekh rahe hai."

The Bacchan line family line up- Amitabh, Jaya, Abhishek and Ash with their Dior, Armani, Manish Malhotra and Dolce Gabana couture!

Bollywood, Bollywood and then some more!

My indie film, world cinema watching self took a much needed Bollywood break today. And it did me good. I was entertained. Pure filmi ishtyle.

What can I say? You can take a Desi girl out of India.......

On a break

2008-11-14T17:03:00.000-05:00

Have you ever just taken a break? From all of it. From life. And not necessarily a physical break...like going away somewhere. More , in your head. Being physically present, yet not. Living the life, not feeling it, though. In a room full of noise, from your husband and the kids, yet absolutely hearing nothing. Pretending to listen on the phone. Being quiet for hours, because no one's interesting enough to talk to . Day dreaming. Watching mindless TV. Boycotting the mall. Packin up all your stuff in boxes and not missing it. Not caring that the toilet paper is almost over. Or the rice. No longer being the hyperactive busy body. No longer wanting to do stuff. Or deal with issues. Or change.
Just for now. Because I know I'll be back. Recharged. Re invented.
But for now, this feels okay. Solitary.
Peaceful. In a very strange way. What a trip!

My new BFF

2008-10-24T22:29:00.000-04:00

Paris Hilton has a new reality show on MTV. It's called My New BFF. It's about Paris Hilton looking for a new BFF. The contestants are 22 year old girls, competing to be Paris Hilton's new BFF. With every episode , Paris Hilton will eliminate a contestant , thus leaving the rest to be still in competition to become Paris Hilton's new BFF. All these girls will try their darndest best to be Paris Hilton's new BFF. At the end of the show, the last girl standing will be Paris Hilton's new BFF. A lot of viewers will tune in every week to watch this show about Paris Hilton and her soon to be new BFF.

I have no more to say.

Our spot.

2008-10-23T21:54:00.002-04:00

My best friend. She knows who she is. I know who she is. It's set in stone.

And she and me have our spots. Spot, special place, corners..call it what you will.

It all started at an advertising agency. Big , ugly chairs. Art directors, Copywriters,Client Servicing. Noise, brainstorming, chatter, deadlines. Copy, art, branding..all of that. Amidst all of that- us. And here, we made a connection. And left it at that.

Then there was a bus. A run down charter bus from Connaught Place to Noida. Cramped with sweaty office goers returning home from work, sleazoids trying to grope women, women trying to brush off those sleazoids, families with kids, college kids, shopkeepers, noise, sweat, grime. Defintely not the most conducive setting for getting to know someone.

And yet, amidst all that we would find a spot. And that would become our spot. For the next hour. Where we would talk. Office gossip. Boyfriends. Bosses. Break ups. College days. Here, we would get to know one another. One bus ride at a time.

Fast forward to 5 years later. Destiny interfered with us. I truly belive that. Because, completely unplanned, completely unexpected, completely unknowingly, we were there. At the same place. And we were meant to be there. To find again, our spot.

And find it, we did. In Tipusan ( and she'll get the drift here). Mattress on the floor against a wall in a medium sized living room which had a wash basin in a corner. Vodka, rum and coke, smokes. Painting, films, joints. Conversation. About life. About the struggles in life. Divorces. Marriages. Friendships. About the charter bus that ran between CP and Noida. About the advertising agency. Here, we were catching up. Here, we were also setting our friendship in stone. Here, we were realising that we were meant to be best friends. Realising that we were meant to be here.

Years passed. Stuff happened. Major stuff, minor stuff. Mostly major stuff. And then, another spot. This time, a more grown up, a more evolved, a more relaxed , a more " I get you" spot. A brightly colored jute chattai rolled out on a kitchen floor. Food on the kitchen counter. Vodka and lime. Rum and coke. No husbands. Kids in bed. Night time. Conversation. Conversation. And some more conversation. About marriage. About Women. Parenting. Love. Life. Kids. Family. Sibling. World cinema. Music. Friends. Fashion. Careers. the past. The present. The Future. Her life. My life. Our lives.

To be continued.

.

Soul feeding is what I'm talking about

2008-10-23T17:07:00.001-04:00

Lots of layers..lots of volume...an hour out by myself...one happy me.

Soul feeding is all it's about. Stay focussed on staying happy. De-stress. Talk to your best friend. Laugh. Wear lipstick. And some silver. Detach. Attach. Flirt. Smile. Drink a good cup of coffee. Stretch. Tone. Crunch your abs. Love your body. Cook a mean curry. Celebrate. Read.

Whatever floats your boat.

As long as you know.

Girlie stuff

2008-10-23T08:54:00.000-04:00

I'm going to get me a haircut today.
Toni and Guy , 1:30 pm.
Lots of layers, lots of volume.

Today

2008-10-21T17:04:00.000-04:00

So in the past, I would normally journal , on a bad day. If I was going through a bad phase, I would almost always turn to my diary. Vent, curse, boo hoo into the pages.
This time around, though, I decided not to do so. I shall write and I shall write- on good days, on bad days, through the happy phases and the not so happy phases. Because really, life's like that...mine, for sure.
So anyway, that thought I just had..while I was logging in...
This is really about today. A simple day.
And as I sat on my bed, with Gia fast asleep in my arms , wrapped snugly in the FabIndia blanket that Roohi has sent for her, and I watched "Eyes wide Shut", it just felt right. And there in that moment, I realised that my life is about this. About some moments feeling so good and others not so much. Today I am savouring the good ones.

The world , as I see it , from the window of my apartment

2008-10-20T12:34:00.000-04:00

Girl wearing blue skinnies, well fitting black jacket, high black boots, carrying a white umbrella. Walking in a hurry.
A long green truck, with 'Pizza Nova' written on it in bright red.
Dusko, the property manager, wearing a boring blue sweater, biege pants, brown leather shoes. Stands in conversation with a middle aged (slightly graying) man, wearing a black rain winter jacket with a red trim and white lining that peeks through the hood of the jacket. Dusko moves his hands a lot while talking. The man nodds a lot. Every now and then Dusko reaches into his pockets , yet pulls out nothing. Just lets his pocket warm his hand. The right hand. Does the left not need warmth, I muse.
Now a big white truck moves in . On the front of it, it says "Who cares when you are moving? We do" . Somewhere, a copywriter needs to be fired! Home Delivery by Avenue Moving. Someone is moving in.
Now Dusko is joined by his assistant. A very well dressed assistant. Chic. She's tall, has a well worked out body, dark black short hair tucked behind the ears ( a very no nonsense sort of haircut), fair skin. Today, she wears a burgundy tight fitting croppped jacket with a black pencil knee length skirt. Black opaque stockings and high heeled black boots. Black scarf wrapped around her neck. She obviouly dresses at leisure in the morning. Takes her time.
Something distracts me...Oooh, shocking purple. I see a shocking purple sweatshirt. It's too shocking and it's too purple. I do not even notice the person wearing it.
And now that my coffee is done, adieu, world from my window. Till the next time.

Hue

2008-10-19T23:00:00.000-04:00

These days, I'm loving hot pink.

Shopping madness

2008-10-19T13:40:00.000-04:00

So yesterday I was at Walmart. Not out of choice. It was necessity. We were out of toilet paper, paper towels, coffee, toiletries and I had held off the trip long enough.

So to Walmart we went. And like always, the trip completly depressed me. I returned with everything that I needed. And a fewthings that I did not- Irritability, a mall glazed look in my eyes, and an overload of consumerism.

And it all came from being in a place that has too much of everything. Stuff, stuff, and more stuff.

And it got me thinking this- when did we start needing so much stuff? And, really, do we need so much stuff?

Toiletries, for example. I counted at least 23 different kinds of bodywashes. And I hadn;t counted all. Bodywashes to suit every skin type, age, mood. To accomodate preferences of texture , smell, color. And not just to wash your body with. But to make your skin as soft as silk. And to exilarate. Exfoliate. Invigorate. Rejuvenate.

And Shampoo? Oh, the shampoo! For fine hair.
For oily hair. For dry hair. For fine hair that is oily. For fine hair that is dry. For fine hair that is partly oily and partly not.
For volume. For shine. For strengthening.
For strengthening and shine, but not volume. In case you already have volumnous hair.
For volume and strengthening, but not shine. In case you already have shiny hair.
For straight hair. Curly hair. Short hair, long hair.

For no hair , in order to grow hair. WOW!

Whatever happened to shampoo that simply cleaned the hair. And smelt nice. Period.

The onslaught of shampoo got to me and I hurried out of there. Coffee was next on the list and I figured that would be easy enough. Would have been, if I had only read the encyclopedia of coffees the day before. Medium roast, strong roast, light roast. Morning breakfast, french vanilla, hazelnut. Columbian, Jamaican, Starbucks (and that's not even a country.)
Oh my goodness, my mind screamed, all I want is a good cup of coffee to start my day. Can someone just label a package- a good cup of coffee to start your day. Honestly, that's all I want. A good cuppa coffee. And I am not shopper savvy enought to know whether that comes from Columbia or Starbucks or if it should be a medium roast or a strong roast.

I was done.

And so when my four year old asked to go to the toy section, I needed a minute to brace myself. For what I knew now would be a jungle. And a jungle it was. A mind numbing jungle of shelf after shelf of toys. Toys that children apparently need. Toys that parents apprently need to buy for their kids. To strengthen their eye hand coordination. To hone their motor skills. To develop their listening skills. Improve memory. Encourage imagination. Improve communication. Aid learning. Cultivate social skills.

Robots, transformers, cars, lego, magnetic logo, puzzles, blocks, magnetic blocks, rockets, guns, Spiderman, Superman, the Hulk, disney toys, Barbies, Kens, Barbies with Kens, dolls competing with Barbies, laptops, video games, hand held video games, travel toys, house toys, park toys, beach toys, toys for babies, toys for toddlers, toys for preschoolers, toys for big kids, toys for teenagers,...........

We came away with nothing.

Oh no, that's not right . We did come away with a seriously overwhelmed, overstimulated 4 year old.

Who, right now, as I write this, sits next to me , happily playing with two jars of play dough, that I picked up at the dollar store, and a wooden rolling pin from the kitchen.

And we did come away with a completely distraught, confused parent. Who is wishing that the toilet paper lasts and lasts and lasts . So the next trip does not come any time soon.

Conversations

2008-10-19T00:36:00.000-04:00

She:
I'm at a strange place. Constantly thinking. Introspecting.

Her:
About?

She:
Mostly me.

Her:
Aha. The 30's. Me, My self. Who I was, what I set out to be, what I have become.

She:
Who gets me? Who doesn't? How much I have given to another, and in doing so, what I have lost? Was it worth it? Is it worth it? Am I happy? Am I me?

Her:
I know. Me too. It's a 30's thing, I think. I feel this constant questioning in me, this quest for answers for questions, mostly about my self.

She:
It's like the other day when I was talking to him and I suddenly realised that he doesn't get me...after 18 years of being together. And yet , talking to you over the past hour, I think you do.

Her:
That, my dear, is a woman thing.

She:
And yet, he is meant to be my soulmate.

Her:
Or maybe not. It's what you percieved him to be. What he is stereotyped to be.

She:
So?

Her:
So what? He is what he is to you. But he cannot be all that. Make your peace.

She:
I think about my 20's. About being 20. I was like a leaf blowing in the wind. Happy to go where they took me . Excited to be where I landed. Go with the flow. Explore, experiment. It was all about movement. Change houses, move cities, countries, even. The newness was exciting. Everything was a challenge and challenge felt good.

Her:
And now, it's tiring.

She:
And friends. Everyone was a friend. Hang out with whoever I met. Social circles. The more , the merrier.
And now I am just weeding everyone out.

Her:
I understand. I also relate.

She:
And so, here I am , been there, done that and at the end of it, all I want is to belong. All I want is stability. I resist change.

I need roots. I want to trace back my steps. Back to my island.

A cosy home, a fire going, wine, music. A few friends. Good friends. Quality, not quantity. People I really want to know, not just hang out with.
Food being cooked, music playing, conversations, laughter, a herb garden, sitting out in the sun, reading. Simple stuff. Real stuff. No glam,no glitter, no fluff.

Her:
I get that. Completely.

She:
Is it just us? Is it age? Is it depression? It feels like the end?

Her:
It's us. And some more. Not everyone, though.

It's age. And the wisdom that comes with it.

It's definitely not depression. In fact, it's therapy.

And no, my dear, this is not the end. It's just the beginning.

What can I say? Welcome to the club.

Sadness

2008-10-06T13:02:00.000-04:00

Such a powerful emotion!

Shandy passed away n her sleep last night. God bless her little soul. At least she didn't have to suffer pain. At least mom, dad didn't have to put her down.
Shandy- the last of our dacshunds.

Me. Not in a very good place today. I feel confused today. About where I am, what I am doing here, who I have become, who I want to be. About love, life, spouse, kids, friends, home, happiness, sadness, joy and all that.

But then , this too shall pass. Or shall it?

No more!

2008-10-04T13:41:00.001-04:00

My previous post was , I think, the most honest post ever!All it said was crap! and I did want to write some more, but because of Gia getting fussy and moving around in my arms, somehow I hit the Publish Post button and therin was my blog.

But seriously, on some days,that's what it is! Crap.

And I don't want the crap. Call me spoilt....but seriously, no crap. Only good stuff.

Crap!Q

2008-10-02T18:55:00.000-04:00

It's all coming together.

2008-09-30T09:20:00.000-04:00

Someow, through the chaos, through the endless packing and purging, it's all coming together. Tommorow, they come and stage the place. And the first part is done.

Somewhow, it always gets done. Of course, there's no other option but to get it done.

The dream

2008-09-29T00:02:00.001-04:00

And what a dream. Significant in so many ways. Telling in so many others. Empowering. Teaching.
First, it was the color. Black. I was wearing all black. A color I associate with confidence. A color that always empowers me. Makes me feel more confident than I actually am feeling.

I was standing on some sort of a very narrow bridge. Not even a bridge , more a narrow cemented long platform. Narrow, very narrow. Dangerously so.

And then there was the deep dark abyss below. A very frightening abyss of which I was terrified. Petrified, actually.

Petrified of the height I was at. Petrified that I would fall, even if I let out a single breath. That a single movement, even so slight, would plunge me downwards.

And so I was standing there absolutely paralyzed.

I called out for help. And no one heard me. And all I could hear was snoring.

And for a minute I felt that this was the end. I would fall.

And then , suddenly, the energy. I saw it in the physical sense, at first. In my body. In my muscles that were so taut, so toned, so powerful. The muscles in my abdominal core and in my arms. And then I felt the energy in the mental sense. In my mind telling me that this was not the end. That this was too soon to be the end. That I could get out of this. Easily and on my own.

And from the state of being too scared of even breathing, I lifted my arms upwards, grabbed the surface above me and in one great surge of muscular power, hoisted myself up. And lifted myself over the abyss. To safe ground.

And the rush, the adrenalin rush, man, that felt good. It was what I needed.

It is what I need.

Ok Missy, snap out of it!

2008-09-16T14:14:00.001-04:00

Get your big girl underwear on and deal with it.

Change. And then some more.

2008-09-10T21:34:00.000-04:00

2008 has been about transitions. Major transistions. And here I am in, on Sept 10, 2008 finding myself at the brink of yet another one.
We are thinking of selling the condo. And as exciting as it may be, from a financial point of view, it is going to be a major change. And an even more major amount of work. Setting up the condo for viewing. Putting away stuff. Thinking of where to move. Packing. Unpacking. Moving out. Moving in. School districts. Neighborhoods.
And in between all that, two kids. The Franchise investment. Taxes. US properties.
I am feeling so overwhelmed right now. My mind does not even want to think of all this. And yet there is no option but to think of all this.
Because this is life. Had I thought, at 23, life would be all this. NO. Big NO.
And yet, at 34, it is what it is right now. And the only way I make any sense of it to myself, is that it is all going to work out and work out for the best. Am I merely trying to convince myself, I don't know. All I know is that by thinking this, I get through it. And that is what I need to do right now. Get through this.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Calm the mind. Clear the thoughts. And get on with it.
Maybe 2009 will be the year. Then again, maybe not.
All I know is for now, 2008 is what I need to tackle. Starting tomorrow.
Let the change begin. Yet again.

Ahh..cinema.

2008-09-09T14:20:00.000-04:00

Sitting down to watch "All the Kings Men".

Her and me

2008-09-09T11:52:00.000-04:00

As I write this, she is sitting on my lap, balanced between my arms. She is making those jerky movements with her arms that 3 month old babies make. And constantly cooing and drooling. She is wearing an orange onesie and dotted blue and beige pyjamas. She is smelling of Calendula oil which I massaged her with an hour ago. Her hair has grown.

Me. I am wearing my black lululemon yoga pants. Because they are the only things that will comfortably fit my post pregnancy body. A black nursing T-shirt. Nursing , as in it has these flaps you can conveniently lift when you have to nurse. My hair is dripping, since I just had a shower. The shower that followed my half an hour of swimming and sauna. My hair has grown too.

Gia and me. We are slowly, but surely getting used to each other. She knows me now. My face, that is. I am getting to know her every day. Her soul.

I call her girlfriend, and whenever I go, "hey, girlfriend", she instantly smiles and her face lights up.

She is that. My friend. My daughter. My little Gia.

And what a billiant end. She just pooped. And I must go change her diaper.

Black

2008-09-07T22:59:00.000-04:00

I like black. There is something so "out there" about black. Something so raw and then something so honest in it's rawness. It's bloody honest.

To me , wearing black just feels right. It does not feel like I am trying hard. Oh no, it just settles in. Cloaks me with an easy comort and yet exudes so much energy at the same time. It's so peaceful and then so powerful . So strong. So, there.

Just feels so right. Like an armour. Solid as hell. Bring it on kind of solid as hell. The perfect defense mechanism. A camoflage. Maybe, a mask.

It lends me the energy that I sometimes lack. Gives me the confidence that I am not sure I have. Makes me stronger. Feels like a signature.

It's definitly a friend and now, more than ever I feel very close to the color. It has come in and gone out of my life very frequently. But this time, it's back and I know it is here to stay. Because I want it to.

Let there be music

2008-09-07T22:49:00.000-04:00

Music makes me happy. It takes me away.

It lifts my soul, gets me through the day, especially through the mundane parts of the day.

I am rediscovering it.

For a few hours. Or all day. Dido. Or Anwar. Rhythm. Or lyrics. Country. Or trance.

So, let the music begin.

A lazy drunken ABBA weekend

2008-09-07T22:33:00.000-04:00

Kept Rohan home on Friday. It's nice to give hin the break from school sometime. Took him and Gia to the ROM. Gia slept through it. Rohan had a good time. I survived. So all was good. I had the cocktails to go to later in the evening- thing from Rohan's school- getting together to say goodbye to Lara's mom, since they were leaving for Norway on the weekend. Gia gave Rajesh a hard time. Refused the bottle, kept waking up, cried. Fed her when I cam back and she wa fine then. Then we watched Hancock. The only bit worth watching was how good Charlize Theron looked. rest was crap. What were you thinking, Will Smith?
Saturday, Lazy day. Syaen, Yvette Alyssa came overfor dinner. Beef curry and aloo parathas from Little India. Lots of Cosmopolitan. Lots of drunkeness. Listened to music I had downloaded befire. Dido. ABBA. Talked. More cosmopolitan. Kids made a huge mess. Everyone had a good time. Wound up late. Very late.
Sunday. Woke up at noon. Lazy for a few hours. Then cleaned up. Felt good about it . Have been not doing the whole Sunday cleaning thing . Lit agarbattis, house smelled clean. Rajesh and me talked. Then, Yevette and me went to watch Mama Mia. Across the street. Carlton Cinemas. Fantastic movie. An even more fantastic Meryl Streep. And the music made me want to dance. The mother daughter sequence - touching!

Strike One

2008-09-04T16:08:00.001-04:00

Cooked in the morning. Biryani (which turned out a bit mushy, yet delicious). Channa dal (for tommorow). Mailed Rohan's SIN card application. Uploaded cottaging trip pics to Picasa. Sorted some pics in Picasa while Gia slept. Spoke to Ruhi. Laughed till tears rolled. ( Best friends kinda laughter) Walked with Gia in stroller to her doctor's appointment. She got her first shot. I got my check up done - Pap and all that. Also got the refferal for the dermatologist- the pesky wart's time has come. Walked back. Small Iced Cappucino. Stroll around Winner's. Now home.
Not bad for one day.

Score

2008-09-04T08:20:00.001-04:00

Life: 1
Self: 0

Working on flipping that over.

Conversations with women on a rooftop under a starry sky

2008-08-27T19:28:00.000-04:00

last night , I went for a Breathe and Release Session hosted by Teji. Dragged my feet initially after a hectic evening with the kids, but finally went. At 10 pm. Cabbed it to Bloor street. Up the elevator to the 2nd floor. Apt 204. It was a nice night .

Bunch of women. Introductions. Conversations. Roti. Aloo ki sabji. Lots of dessert. A joint. more conversations.

Then an elevator ride to the rooftop. About brown shoes with blue stripes. Very striking. more when you are baked. From Payless. $20. Now, how cool is that! About Canadian winter. About how it's coming and that summer was so transient.

Stars. There were lots of stars. The city sky was clear. As if , just for that occasion. Almost knowing that a bunch of women would come up to the rooftop and look up at the stars.

Breathe and release. Seems like a new chapter.

Here and now.

2008-08-21T08:47:00.000-04:00

Here and now is what it is. This is the time. Or else it could be too late.