Mamas and papas

The husband casually mentioned the p-word a few weeks ago, on one of our weekend drives to some place for lunch. We haven’t had too many existential discussions thus far, so I thought all was going well.

Back when I was a child, there was no parenting. You were born, someone ended up looking after you (in my case it was grandma, great grandma, assorted uncles, aunts, a few good neighbours) and one day you went to school, and before you knew, you were out of it. Now, it’s about “What’s your parenting approach going to be like? Hands on or hands off? By the book or improve? Traditional or modern?

“So when are we going to discuss parenting?,” he piped with much glee. I shuddered at the thought. I never thought he would bring it up, and I seriously believed it was going to be a case of whatever mommy says, goes. And why not? Even the supreme court justices seem to propagate that one must always listen to ‘the wife’.

I wasn’t nervous without reason. The husband’s idea of parenting includes, among other things, a second Play Station controller that I have always been an unlikely candidate for, a trip to Mc Donald’s (or was it KFC?) when the child is six, and a sustained anti-lauki, anti-karela and anti-padval campaign.

Suddenly, I had visions of the kid ordering a triple cheese burger with extra fries and coke on its first outing (the husband’s idea of a healthy meal) and me bursting a capillary at the table. Or the child learning to use a Play station controller before he/she learns to read or write. Worse, the child rejecting vegetables at the table and demanding hot dogs.

The whole vegetarian thing, which so far has been rather cool with the husband might soon become a bone of contention in our relationship. Okay, when you marry a man, you marry his habits, not his family. But when you have a child with a man, some of those habits are likely to be passed on. My point is, who decides what to pass on?

Here is my “god please don’t let this pass on” list

1. Imagining ants, cockroaches where there are none and making desperate attempts to gas them, believing they will multiply into millions in minutes, invade your body and destroy you.

2. Not being able to look at footwear that hasn’t been perfectly aligned, and aligning them at every given opportunity

3. Hoarding clothes and things one hasn’t had any use for in years.

4. Announcing that one is starved, making one’s plate with much flourish and admiring and sighing at it, but eventually eating four hours later.

5. Wanting a backup of twenty bulbs, ten packets of chips and peanuts, ten toothpastes and toothbrushes, innumerable shaving gels and aftershaves, “just in case”

This is what I wouldn’t mind being passed on:

1. Being good at cleaning up after a meal

2. Taking the garbage out

3. Efficiency at sink duty

4. Never raising your voice when with a lady.

Which brings me to why do men get married? Answer: It’s their only chance to look good. And fatherhood just rounds it off so well. Oh well!

Mera naam Meru

Somewhere between the time I was officially banned from driving (read six months ago) by the husband and other loved ones, thanks to being visibly pregnant, and when I actually imposed it upon myself (read a month ago), I got inducted into the Meru clan.

First a few admissions. I hate being driven. I can barely tolerate the husband, I am extremely critical of friends’ drivers, I’ve had a rough time with drivers that I hired in the past (the last one burst many a blood vessel for me; please do not hire him if he ever comes to you). Also, I am not one for hiring cabs, as I hate being on hold, or having to explain common-sense directions to nincompoops. I am a get-up-and-go-kinda girl. I hate waiting or being waited upon.

Since my own paper had written reams about the Meru some time last year, I figured, no testimony quite like home, and took the plunge. What I didn’t bargain for is that a good eight months have passed since that article. And in these months, a lot of s&*%@t seems to have hit the ceiling. Their backend has completely collapsed, and the front end is nothing much to shout about, as most of the cabs have faulty air conditioners or are battered by bad driving. I want to know how some of the drivers qualify to even be there on the road.

But since I live in no-cab zone and sitting in an autorickshaw can only mean one thing, considering how pregnant I am, I resigned myself to Merugiri a few weeks ago. Little did I realise that I had just ensured myself an unlimited supply of Braxton Hicks (false contractions for the uninitiated or non-pregnant). Starting with calling in for the Meru every night for the next morning, being caller number 40 most times, holding on endlessly (they don’t believe in frequent flier programs) only to be told, “ Sorry, all slots are full, why don’t you try again tomorrow morning?” Repeat.

Forget thinking happy thoughts. Forget coming to office unruffled. Forget beginning the day with happy men. When you are in Meruland, none of the above is happening

So if he is not complaining about the ‘trophik’ on SV road, or whining about you not wanting to take the ‘highbay’, he is chatting to his village brethren either on the phone, or across the street, whenever another Meru passes by or braking recklessly, even as you point how pregnant you are.

The three good men that redeemed it for me, and I wish to thank them in print—were drivers Mohammed Jamal Shaikh, Ramesh Shirsat and Alwin Pinto. The rest, and their syrupy BPO service, which is all words and no play can take a walk. Seriously, if I had a free pizza for every time a Meru was late, I’d be a pizza baroness by now.

There, I have said it. Now someone please sue me. Or make me believe that the system works.

Power of three

Okay, if I am getting too much into the baby zone, let me know and I will quietly withdraw. In any case, if you see me disappear from this page rather abruptly, I would have checked into Breach Candy hospital for the whole birthing business, just so you know. I will, of course, try to make it not so abrupt, and say my good byes nicely and all that, but babies these days seem to have minds of their own even before they come into this world. I am just keeping you, dear reader, in the loop. When you are in the nine month-zone, you never know.

There I go being batty and losing focus again (true to what they say in those books). What I actually meant to talk about was my baby shower. To cut it short, there were 20 people who showed up, the cats had a wild time with the pink and blue balloons, though initially, they were entranced by the visual, as though it was a space ship. Once they figured that all it took was one touch of a claw to render it to shreds, they were happy all over again, as also with the multiple footwear that had parked itself at our entrance, each of which displayed nesting possibilities.

So purr so good!

But, as it turned out, the auspicious day was also marked by three other events fighting for attention. Two IPL matches, the Spanish Grand Prix and Man U Vs Man City at the Barclays Premier League.

The husband hadn’t uttered any sounds of such parallel action when I first announced the date. But after he guesstimated the restlessness of the guests, most of whom arrived on time, he created a parallel entertainment zone. The fact that my shindig began at 6 pm suited the couch potatoes fine.

So there were two clear groups—one that stuck to the brief (came to the baby shower, hung out with mommy and baby, and did baby shower things, like talk to mommy, ask suitable and unsuitable questions, act interested in what you have to say, nibble at the eats, and such like)

And then there were the ones that hung in the recreation zone. So there was much screaming –the Man U husband lost all sense of decorum since best man and Man U supporter was there for company. At some point, there was an ousting of the men when the women decided that watching Kolkata Knight Riders destroy themselves (for the 12th time) was a cooler option, counter plotting by the husband, who thought our sangeet DVD with all its embarrassing moments would be a neutral entertainment option..) and finally, rampant betting against KKR—of which, it turns out, I am the beneficiary, as the spoils have been directed towards contribution for the baby cot—which, by the way is frigging expensive, as are most baby things and having a baby.

So baby or no baby, when sport wants to steal the thunder, it always can..

Jenny from the block

All a girl needs is five kinds of friends. One that knows style, one that knows books, one that knows money, one that knows food and one that knows men. If you have a friend that scores four out of five, you have hit the jackpot. Like I did, with Jenny.

Okay, so she can never give a satisfactory answer (at least according to her) to the utterly unimaginative, “What do you do?” or worse, “Where do you work?” query. She doesn’t have a real job (read doesn’t get a pay cheque which comes attached with a salary slip that constantly reminds her how much she has sold your soul for). She will probably never make it to Lotus Notes or KRAs or any such trappings of working in an organization, but she’s got what it takes.

She knows people (she has that sixth sense), clothes (she is a trained designer), money (although she doesn’t make too much of it), taxes (at least ways to get the husband to save them), food (she is the only carnivore who can make also love to vegetables) …and she knows a good deal when she sniffs one. Plus she knows men—she is as much a guy’s girl as a girl’s girl—one of the few people I can have a long (read more than five minutes) conversation with on the phone.

Her high-achiever brother, the cross-dressing son of a friend, the stubborn karigar who wants his way, the gay neighbour, the laidback husband, the cool brother-in-law, the boisterous uncle, the spirited grand-dad (who died recently), the rough-edged husband of a friend—they all rely on her for advice or just words of wisdom—though sometimes she pretends to be on the receiving end just to humour them.

Jenny has also spent a large part of her life negotiating with doctors—she is a rheumatoid arthritis patient who goes into surgery with nonchalance—each time to replace a major bone in her body. After a knee, a hip and a neck surgery, she might be scheduled for another knee, shoulder and elbow replacements in the future, but that has never deterred her from being a yes-girl to life.

So we meet.. and exchange notes—about the extremely lazy but golden-hearted men that we have married, their extreme incompetence when it comes to money or matters that involve paperwork, their extreme similarities (of falling asleep on the couch at 3 am), their extreme idiosyncrasies (being uber-attached to tattered pyjamas and cold-cuts) their extreme unreliability as far as keeping time or finding directions goes. What binds them is they love us to bits, are among the ‘few good men’ left and have never been disrespectful to women (known or unknown).

At 5’ 10, she is amongst my tallest, most elegant girlfriends. I have never seen her sloppy, or have a bad hair day, even though she doesn’t really have an‘office’ to go to. Her logic is, why dress up for others? She says it like it is. She’s my kinda girl.

Pink or blue

I am not about to join the pink chaddi brigade, nor do I subscribe to colour clichés, but I had to tell you this. For the last few months, my posterior has been the subject of much discussion amongst near and dear ones. Well, that should itself be strange, as my anterior is where all the action is—by now, I am so obviously pregnant—my belly makes an entry ten seconds before I do.

Fact is, they are all trying to predict if it’s going to be a boy and a girl. And the most ridiculous thing that I have heard—right from the mother-in-law to a radio-jockey friend is this—if your ass grows madly out of proportion, it’s a girl. If it stays as is, it’s a boy. And my pert ass shows no signs of being out of shape, so I am mortified that the illegal alien inside is a boy!

For all those who say, what difference? It’s god’s gift! (although I am still wondering at what point did god get involved?) Of course it would make a difference. Of course dealing with another man in the house (however little) is going to take a lot out of me. I am just tired of making the men in my life look good—either it’s the father or the brother or the husband or the son (if it turns out to be a boy). It seems like lifelong labour, with no perks, really!

A girl, on the other hand is a breeze to handle and pretty much grows up okay, whatever the circumstances. Okay, I am not being biased here, but how many women do you know who really really need a man to sort them out? I can’t think of anyone. How many men? Well, practically the entire population!

So, from an utterly selfish point of view, I would like a girl.

And I want her so bad that I am utterly at a loss for boy’s names. Even though my posterior says that it’s a boy. I am at a loss for imagining if he’ll have my unruly mop or the husband’s low-maintenance one. Whether he will have my bronze skin or the husband’s fair one. Whether he will inherit my dimples. Or the husband’s fetish for salami, hot dogs and gaming (shudder!).

It’s just that boys have too many issues. They have to be seen doing the right thing, playing with the right toys (usually guns or extra terrestrial objects or something equally violent), wearing the right colours, having the right friends (a smattering of alpha males that they can look up to and some that look up to them, just to keep their fragile egos under check), eating the right food (it’s not cool to eat healthy or organic—they might as well coat their intestines with garbage right from the start—an exercise the husband is eager to partner in), have the right vocation, even the right voice (imagine sounding like Sachin Tendulkar!), grow tall (even I have issues with short men, at five feet nothing), be a man… the list is endless!

Dear god! I hope you are listening….

Plaintain paradise

Recently, on a trip to Goa on our anniversary, at a seaside hilly resort called Aldeia de Goa, nesting in my friend Vasu’s house, I was struck by a nostalgia wave when I spotted what was a plaintain sapling in her garden. It stood there in all its glory, battling the sea breeze, displaying its miniature fruit already. Hmmm, I thought, you can take a south Indian to Goa, but you can never take the plaintain (used interchangeably with banana) out of a south Indian, I figured. Trust the banana to give you your daily dose of calcium and potassium, provide instant energy, and always be accessible to your wallet, recession or no recession. You can add it to milk-shakes, porridge, muesli, and start off your day on a energy-high. You can rely on it any time of the day to abate the sugar low—its form lends to the most hygienic consumption—no washing or chopping required, hence it suffers minimum damage by human hands.

Like all self-respecting Dravidians, I have done my fair share of the plaintain cuisine, and continue to do so when I visit the mother or she visits me (it’s a bit high maintenance for my patience levels currently, when my pregnancy-laden hunger pangs override the desire to work too hard to make a meal happen). But one childhood favourite which she often makes for me even now is the dry plaintain and aubergine in tamarind gravy. Yum!

It is true. Every part of the plant is consumed—the leaves are exotic receptacles for food (even though they might now be used to line silver thalis and whatnot). The fruit is eaten ripe and raw, the flowers (vazhapu) made into cutlets, pitlai, poduthuval and sambar, and the pseudo stem made into pachadi or a poduthuval.

Dad was the resident expert at growing them in our backyard when we were kids (he claimed we had nine varieties, although I couldn’t really tell the difference or the finer points of each). All we knew that each weekend, he spent hours in the backyard, figuring out innovative home-grown fertilizers to make his plaintain paradise thrive.

While raw, skinning, chopping, cooking of the plaintain is a bit elaborate and requires a certain knack and finesse. There are also certain anti-staining precautions to be taken, especially as the juices that exude are not particularly discerning about leaving a mark on your clothes or body parts. And if you are amongst the microscopic populace that can skin, detangle and chop the plaintain pseudostem to tiny bits, each a perfect cube, you are king.

“Give us this day our plaintain chips” was a regular childhood stunt when the stuff on offer at the dinner table didn’t have enough sex appeal, and had to be jazzed up with the regular, chilli or pepper laden variants. Nowadays I spot the ‘microwaved’ or ‘non-fried’ variants at super markets, and frankly, I think it’s a scam. What are plaintain chips if not fried in coconut oil? There’s a guy close to our office, next to the Sitladevi temple who used to make them every day for years, but on my last visit, I couldn’t spot him. Informants on his whereabouts will be suitably rewarded.




Banana pseudo stem (Vazhatandu) pachadi

Ingredients:

A foot-long banana pseudostem

One cup buttermilk, diluted

Juice of a small ball of tamarind (less than the size of a lemon)

Haldi, hing, jaggery, salt to taste



For the gravy:

Green chilli, rai, coconut, one teaspoonful of raw rice


Method:

Chop the pseudostem into fine bits. (This is the trickiest part, as it involves slicing into ½ inch thick rounds, detangling the threads that connect them to one another using a spiral action of your finger, and then piling up the sliced rounds and chopping them into tiny squares)

Soak the chopped pseudostem in a bowl of very dilute buttermilk to retain its whiteness (else it tends to darken)

Drain the pseudostem off the buttermilk and cook in small amount of water with haldi, salt and some tamarind juice.

Grind together one green chilli, one teaspoon mustard, one teaspoon washed rice and add the paste to the cooked mixture. Add a pinch of hing and a piece of jaggery. Bring to boil.

Temper with spluttered mustard seeds and a red chilli.

Bol Bedi Bol

I am not a cricket fan. IPL or no IPL, my life goes on at pretty much the same pace as before. But once in a while, when I take a break to step into the recreation zone (where the husband, the cats, the airconditioner and all the entertainment gadgets are housed), I can’t help but sum up the goings-on and usually make a hasty retreat, sometimes in less than fifteen minutes.

I notice Mandira Bedi, sans noodle straps and sari, chic new haircut, trying to infuse as much bubbly quotient into the insipid proceedings of the IPL (well, I know enough to tell a good match from a bad one). I like what I see. I like her hair (I always like women who experiment with their hair), I love her clothes and accessories and I don’t really give a damn about her cricket quotient. Forget what everyone else has to say—I believe that any average person watching cricket, whether it is the building watchman or the people at work or the Ranji trophy player next door is always laden with statistics. She obviously cannot compete in that department, and why should she?

I am aware of all the criticism she has had to deal with. “What does she know about cricket?” Or “She’s just a trophy on the show..” and “How dumb can she get…?” blah, blah, blah… I wonder why she is at the receiving end of so much hate mail. It’s not that the men backstage are an effusive bunch, brimming with pizzaz and repartees that Bedi sticks out like a sore thumb. They are so not.

I grew up in the era of test cricket, when dad and his beer buddies usually congregated at one person’s house and got wasted for five days while the wives bickered in the background. I was the ten-year old that passed the nibbles and water around then. It was a time when there were real men at the box—even though I was too young to sift the men from the boys. ML Jaisimha, Venkatraghavan, Abbas Ali Baig, Tony Greig, Richie Benaud, Geoff Boycott, Mansoor Ali Khan Pataudi, Asif Iqbal ((dishy Imi was very much on the field back then) had enough gravitas, humour or drool quotient to last the entire five days of the test matches and no one was complaining. You never needed a Mandira Bedi then (noodles or no noodles).

But what do we have now? Kris (yeah!) Srikanth with his tedious sense of humour, Ravi Shastri (who incidentally loves the sound of his voice so much that he actually repeats the same thing, twice), Mohinder Amarnath (deadpan uninterrupted), Sanjay Manjrekar (less deadpan), Sunny Gavaskar (who for some strange reason is never sunny side up), Sidhu (whose Sidhuisms are also getting tedious) or Ajay Jadeja (umm.. ohh..) .

Ahem! I now understand why Ms Bedi is important in the scheme of things. No wonder then, that despite all the flak, the channel always brings her back. In any case, I’d rather watch her than any of the men off the field.