Two cats, a husband and a baby: Love, actually

It took a nine hour date to seal the deal.  All of which was spent sipping a single malt (Glenmorangie, 12 years), talking (some), listening (a lot) and watching a Don DVD (of course, the old one, what were you thinking?).

Now if you know my attention span is worse than that of my 20 month-old, that must have been a big deal.

It happened when it didn’t matter whether or not it happened. I was, at that point, having the greatest love affair of my life – the one with myself. Yes, I am gorgeous, but it took me a long time and many wrong guys to fall in love with myself. When I finally did, along came the one.

I found many shallow reasons to write him off. The fact that he looked too young (I thought at that point that he was the younger sibling of the girl who introduced us). The fact that he had an American accent (diplobrat=American schools=funny, mixed up accent of no fixed address). The fact that he couldn’t cook. The fact that he couldn’t remember the last book he read. The fact that had never watched a play. The fact that he didn’t play any real sport. The fact that none of his friendships dated more than four years. The fact that he was technically, an alien in my city.

And then I found one solid reason not to. The fact that he totally got me. The fact that he made me laugh. The fact that he still does.

Now, many of you may find the sense of humour thing a bit overrated, but it is the one thing that can keep a marriage going. And when the baby comes, oh my god, you need it real bad.

I don’t understand very long engagements or very orchestrated ones. The best marriages I know are where neither party has officially proposed or been proposed to. He chickened out on proposing to me at an Indigo brunch, where he set the mood for me to expect it. Only to do so in the cab ride back home. It was funny.

He: May be we could do this forever.

Me: You mean brunch?

He:  No, I mean us.

Me: Ha ha, you are funny.

He: Is that a yes?

Me: Well, okay.

I reminded him it was a good thing I wasn’t into rocks and bent knees and all that jazz.  He thought that made me cooler.

A year and some later, we were married.

Four years, four mistresses ( a PS2, a PS3, a PSP and an Xbox), two cats and a baby later, I am still enjoying the ride.

Happy Valentine’s day to all.

Hitch or miss

I don’t understand engagements. I don’t know what the big deal is about Shilpa Shetty and Raj-whoever getting engaged. I mean, think about it. They have been going around forever, buying cricket teams, villas, posing for covers, throwing diamonds and whatnots at each other with amazing regularity. And now they announce they are getting engaged. “That’s it?,” I feel like asking. “Gimme more!,” I feel like screaming.

Friends tell me engagements are about making the relationship official. May be I have a different viewpoint, but to me, the minute you announce to friends and family that you are seeing someone, it becomes official. If you think you need to peacock yourself with finery just to announce this, well, that’s your problem. Funnier is when someone says that X is engaged to be married. I mean, what else can you be engaged for? Saturday night dates? Chauffeur services? Photo ops?

Still others tell me it’s an occasion to party. You can’t possibly throw a party just because someone is your girlfriend/boyfriend, so you get engaged. This is also one way to ensure that someone else pays for the spoils and you get lots of presents. Methinks this is a very practical reason.

I am always suspicious of people who get ‘engaged’. Makes me wonder if it’s their way of buying time, or keeping that window open. May be it’s like saying, yes, I want to commit, but I can only come half way. May be it is a more extricable situation. After all, calling off an engagement is far easier than calling off a marriage.

But then there are a whole bunch of them ladies who are deeply concerned about ‘the rock’. How else can they wriggle that out from their boyfriends, they wonder. I feel like telling them to learn something from Sushmita Sen and buy your own. Besides, there’s only so many fingers you have. Unless, of course, you are the ‘much ado about a rock’ kind of person, which I guess a majority are.

And then there are those who decide to spend the rest of their life with a childhood sweetheart, and since they obviously can’t marry at age 20, they get engaged. Till someone (usually parents) tells them that it has been ‘A very long engagement,’ and then they move on to level two.

A friend of mine had a north Indian equivalent of an engagement a couple of years ago, called ‘roka’. The word makes me squirm — its literal meaning is ‘to stop’. She explained it was to stop the boy from straying or running away. Why don’t we just ask the concerned parties to wear placards, or to be more subtle, a chain with a pendant that says ‘Taken’ or some such? Cheaper, isn’t it?

What I still don’t get is, people in their blooming thirties and forties who get engaged. I mean, what are you waiting for? The next botox session?

Sweet nothings

Last week, the mother asked me when ‘my diwali’ was. I was nonplussed, but I realised quickly that she implied that since I was now married to a ‘north indian’, her Diwali and my Diwali were on different days. I found her question out of place since reams have been written about why I will not change my name, or adopt a karva chauth and why festivals are non-negotiable, and how ‘my Diwali’ will always be ‘my Diwali’. The infant, when he grows up, will probably have a bonus Diwali (‘his’ and ‘mine’), if he cares for it, and if he doesn’t, too bad!

*****

I still remember my childhood, when we were all woken up at 4 am, slathered with oil and then scrubbed clean with gook, made to wear new clothes, suitably haldified (you did that to everything new, to neutralize all evil), and then dispatched to different neighbourhood homes with a thali full of mithai and savouries. Now, of these, the north Indian homes were rudely awakened from their slumber on a day when it was clearly not Diwali, so they just looked at you in a funny way and mumbled, “But Diwali is tomorrow!” We were so embarrassed, that soon, we refused to go on mithai delivery duty to these homes. We felt like aliens who just celebrated Diwali on the wrong day. We were too young, and MNS was not around.

****

It’s rangoli time. I love rangolis. They are more festive to me than anything else. They transpose me to an era of innocence, although, even then, it was like displaying your best footwear. Or bindis perhaps. As children, we did the whole geru thing, the simulation of a mud floor with this brown mud-like block, wetting it and evening it out, drawing the rangolis, sieving the colour-base mix and packing it in a muslin thingee, before you let it fill in the outline. Sometimes, we even made the rangolis freehand and didn’t use a grid. That was a sign that you had arrived. Hierarchies were clearly established in this collaborative exercise, and I stood somewhere in the middle. This time, it was just about the mother and me, and things were much simpler — she is good with the big picture, I am better with the details. She draws the outline, I fill in the colour. It’s a classification we have made peace with.

***

I was a bit ambivalent about what to do with festival text messages. Now, I do a blanket ignore, since I figured, if people have just copy-pasted a vanilla template, I needn’t bother about composing individual replies. (May be there are vanilla reply templates as well). I figured, it’s easier for people to send out blanket SMSs than to reply to them, so that’s what they do. Send. So they are absolved from replying. I do neither, and wonder if I am anti-social. May be I am. But you would be too, if you get a message that reads: “May millions of lamps illuminate your life with endless joy, prosperity, health, wealth and happiness forever.”

Or this one: “May this Diwali light up new dreams, fresh hopes, undiscovered avenues, different perspectives, everything bright and beautiful and fill your days with pleasant surprises and movements,”

Whatever!

Art of not giving

It's funny when friends get married and then you have the typical wedding post-mortem conversations. A friend of mine recently got back from his honeymoon, and we got chatting. Since both of us had fun weddings with zero politics, the big thing to discuss was the presents. One thing we had in common was the utter apathy of some present givers towards the present recipients.

Since he had four times the number of invitees, he was stuck with more presents (read more ugly presents). I have already macro-analysed mine many columns ago—what took the cake were two exceedingly ugly vases (one of which the cat thankfully broke and the other has been sent to the mother’s) and some random photo-frames, toilet kits, make-up, lamp shades, crockery and tea-sets (one of which was a toy set I’m quite sure, and gifted by mistake). I really think the time for the gift registry has arrived in India, and if someone doesn’t do something about it soon, I am going to turn entrepreneur for sure.

A common phenomenon at every wedding is gift defaulters—the ones who eat, shoot and leave, and don’t bother to bring anything, because they think no one is keeping tabs. But they are wrong, because weddings are all about lists and even excel sheets (yes!), and one is taking notes. So I know what you didn’t do, cheapskate!

I decided to get into the mind of the gifter and was surprised by how many types there were:

1. There are those who play safe (I find that sensible), decide what is the amount of cash you are worth, put it in an envelope, seal it, give it, and forget about it.

2. There are those who either think cash is impersonal or are embarrassed to let you know how much they think you are worth, so they ask you what you want. Better still, they take you shopping soon after.

3. Some will ask you what you want beforehand and get you exactly the thing.. hurrah!

4. Some will angle for a house invite, so they can check out what you don’t have and give you that. Except that you have to do the work.

5. Some will ask you what you want and get something totally different and make you wonder.

6. Some compulsive gift shoppers will spend hours hunting for the one thing you might like, personally gift-wrap it, and bring it (this populace is shrinking)

7. There are those who, for months after your wedding still keep telling you, “I still have to get you your wedding present,” and not do anything about it. They will also keep throwing possibilities at you, and even if you bite, nothing happens.

8. There are those who keep blaming you for never telling them what you wanted, and hence depriving them of the privilege of giving you a present.

9. There are the cheap recyclers who recycle something old, something they got at their wedding, wrap it back, and gift it to you. The clue to this is big packages. Bigger the package, more the chances of it being recycled.

10. And finally there are those who don’t gift, and don’t care.

Yours, mine and ours

It was my first Diwali as a married woman (whatever that means, but I am constantly reminded that it is). All these years, Diwali meant being awakened at an ungodly hour, dousing oneself in sesame oil, then scrubbing it all off in the ritual bath, wearing new clothes and then each one of us then dispersing to knock on neighbours’ doors at 8 am with the traditional mithai thalis. As kids, we were ever too happy to do that, as we felt that the stuff we got in exchange was always more exciting. That done, we would have breakfast, and then go back to sleep, only to be rudely awakened once again by relatives who came visiting at the dot of lunch hour without prior intimation. This happened year after year unless someone had passed away in the family tree, which meant we had to be in mourning (sometimes we didn’t even know who it was). Even when I moved out of home and was living by myself, I had to report to the mother’s for Diwali duty, and no excuse was good enough. You just showed up and did what was asked to be done.

The husband on the other hand has been largely untouched by tradition, having led the life of an ambassador’s son in Bulgaria, Ivory Coast, Greece, Paris, Germany and other parts of the world and returning to India at the ripe old age of 25. Technically that would make him a non-resident Indian for the most part, who had a less demanding mom than mine, which insulated him from all things ritual. The only way he knows festivals is when he is reminded of them by others. Like when he gets invited to a holi party or when his sister texts him, “It’s rakhi next week, so save up..” Or now, when I tell him, “It’s Diwali, we have to go to the mother’s” or “It’s Ganpati/Gokulashthami/Dussehra/whatever, so the mother has sent goodies for us..”

So unlike any other year, this year, my Diwali was finally mine to do whatever I wanted with it. And if I hadn’t been working on the day, I would probably have spent the day watching DVDs or reading or sorting paperwork (which seems to be an affliction).

Strangely, I felt ritually bankrupt and missed my mother and her non-stop banter from 4 am.. “Do this, do that.. have a bath… dress up …go to X’s house….get ready… blah blah blah..”

I was bereft. I wanted someone to tell me what to do. And the husband was the least contender for the job. He was just happy that he had more couch time, and irked that the couch time was interrupted by sound effects of firecrackers. Unfortunately, my maid is Muslim, so has no Diwali connection, unlike the previous one who would have been aghast to see me in my sleeping shorts at 7.30 am.

So I just did my bit — had a bath, lit a diya, gave the maid a present, wished the mother, replied to all the festive text messages (which I normally never do), wore silk, set out for work, and wished everyone I encountered a Happy Diwali!

It felt good.

Honey, I shrunk the Ganpati

On Sunday, I got back from my mom’s house post the ganpati festivities, feeling like an elephant goddess myself, after all the modaks, the kheer, the appams and the til laddoos(the last one got added to the menu this year..)

Every year, a day before the event, my mum brings out the little silver Ganesha from her silverware box, where he spends the rest of the year with bowls, plates, cups, trinkets, coins and all things silver. The day he is brought out, a throne is made for him, where he is nestled on a bed of flowers, dhruva (type of grass he fancies) and other things floral or green. He gets further smothered with the akshata and the tulsi and things showered on him by the family and visitors.

The pundit arrives, does his fast-forward puja, grabs his bag of goodies and makes way for the next house, and we feast for the rest of the day. The next day, the ganesha is stripped of all the décor and goes back into the silverware box to hang out with lesser mortals.

It wasn’t always like this. Years ago, when we were a bunch of rambunctious kids, we had real idols very year—tall and grand, with the works. Mom, the impeccably diligent one, always did her bit, but dad was not exactly fastidious about aarti timings, and had issues with leading public processions (and the job was non-negotiable, as chief male member). That it ate into his TV time was another matter. The brother, next in line for the coveted role didn’t see the point of taking showers to earn the prasad, or do the puja—he didn’t think a shower made him any more holy. We girls would happily do it, but we were told it was not ‘our domain’

And when it came to the immersion, the men went missing. So ever so often, the ganpati would come home in a bag and leave in a bag.
Soon, mum had enough. No way was her idol going to be treated like this. She took matters in her own hands and announced that we were going silver!

Of course, now my family can join the eco-friendly ranks, as we are not contributing any plaster of paris to the environment… but somehow, Ganesh Chaturthi has become less festive… when he gained metal, the elephant god seemed to have lost some of his buoyancy and charisma. Sometimes, it is hard to even spot him, amidst all the flowers and garlands and tulsi leaves and dhruvas (special type of grass that the ganesha likes)

But everyone is happy. Me and the sister are happy, as all we have to do is eat (after prostrating of course). Brother is in foreign shores, so he just messages “What’s cooking?” and sighs in nostalgia. Dad is relieved that he is under no performance pressure— the pundit has been outsourced to do the needful. As for mom, she is the chief choreographer who has complete control and is in a good place. Even Lupooh Singh, the cat is ecstatic, as it ensures him unlimited access for a day and a half to dhruva and other things green and floral, that he loves devouring to a point there he gets a tummy ache.

As for the ganesha himself… he hasn’t complained yet.

My family and other paparazzi

Surprise, surprise! At a recent wedding reception of my cousin, the discussion point was not my singledom or my ‘settling down’. It was my column!

Practically everyone worth his grey moustache or bald pate or diabetic eye or bypassed heart had something to say. And it was all very interesting, as none of them, except one, may be had anything to do with the print/publishing/journalism industry.
They were all readers! That magical, mystical species.

Aunty No. 1 said she knew who idli-face was.
Uncle No 1 accosted me in front of my dad, and said in his I-know-what-you've-been-upto voice, "Did you know she stole your cigarettes?”
Dad and I had the last laugh.
Aunty No 2 told me she never knew I was so traumatised by my hair. She also said she was happy I made women look good.
Uncle No 2 said he was proud that I gave maximum footage to my mother and not my father. I stared at him.. what paper was he reading exactly?
Uncle No 3 moaned that his vendor gave him HT minus Café (Marketing, are you listening?), so he still hasn’t read anything, but gets regular ‘updates’.
Uncle No 4 said DNA gave him a better deal.
Uncle No 5 said he likes the way I spice my articles up, and that he was very proud of me. Spice? Now wait a minute. Now what was that about? Didn’t he know that in the case of our family, truth is stranger than fiction.
Uncle No 6 wanted my visiting card.
Uncle No 7 dropped names of big daddies in HT and asked me if I knew them. I mumbled something about ‘I will, when I have the time’.
Prim and propah Aunty No 3told me her kids also tried smoking and quit. She was amused that an independent woman like me still gets vishukanni from my mother.
Uncle No 8 wondered if Café was going the Bombay Times way, because he saw Pooja Bedi in a bikini on the cover(!). He gave me a mini lecture on how HT should maintain its niche by not doing so.
Uncle No 9 felt that I had finally arrived, as I was working with none other than Khalid Mohamed, and reminded me how he had got me inducted into his film reviews. (Go KM, go!)
Uncle No10 felt that I should be writing my travelogues in the paper, we should be doing more sports features and less gossip.
Uncle No 11, a paper expert wanted to know more about our press and our gsm.
Uncle No 12 dropped some more names.

What baffled me was there was nothing from the ‘young ones.’ Obviously, no one is reading (knock, knock, marketing!). I began to wonder if ours was a geriatric paper.

But what intrigued me the most was that no one asked me who was the significant other I refer to.
May be I had drawn my boundaries of ‘space’ a little too tight. May be there's too much of the 'don't mess with me' hangover I seem to have left behind.
Ho hum!

Bringing up mother

“Are you coming to get your vishukani?”

My mum shakes me out of my slumber on a Sunday morning. It is Vishu, and I am Tam-Bram, so get the picture? “Uh…okay, I guess…” I managed to mumble.

Being summoned into decision making in a somnambulistic mode isn’t exactly good for me, but mothers will be mothers. So I make the trudge to the land of wilderness, and am suitably rewarded with some cash, some silver and a fruit hamper.

Only that, to earn it, I have to first view it through the mirror, and prostrate in front of the deity. “Don’t look at it directly,” says the mother, in all innocence. I don’t have the heart to tell her that I have taken in the spoils the minute I entered the house, and I know all that is on offer.

So I do as I am told, eye the spread in the mirror, and make my baksheesh for the day. Hmm, that was easy.

But then the rituals are not always so rewarding.
On one particular day every year in early January, I think, post pongal, there is always a rude awakening by the mother (or a ceremonial call, these days). I remember it so vividly. It is five am. “Whhhhat happened?” I stutter, shaken out of my bone. She shoves a plate in front of me, lined with balls of various rice preparations. “Come, we have to go to the terrace and feed them to the crows,” she says. There is more—in the form of an enticing couplet sung to attract the crows to your morsels. May be I am a really good daughter, but I do remember croaking into the sky at wee hours of the morning to seduce.. a crow?

Some questions pop in my head: 1) Why do crows wake up so early? 2) Why bother art-directing food for a scavenger? 3) Why is my mother such an enthu cutlet? 4) Am I so low-life that I have to sing to a crow?

I ask none of them. Because I know there is a larger plan. Apparently, the crows are our ancestors, and this is one way of giving back to them. I think, if I had my way, I would invite my grandparents for dinner, instead of this crack of dawn apportioning of food. But I don’t, so I do as I am told.

There are also miscellanous smaller rituals –like wearing a turmeric stained thread for a good husband (there goes my t-shirt, I think). Or “keep this vibhuti under your pillow,” or “say this mantra eleven times..” and more such.

Once, she outdid herself when she handed me a “blessed coconut,” asking me to swirl it around my head three times before taking a shower. And to do it for eleven days or some such.

Only that I noticed aliens breeding on it after the third day, and never touched it after.