Saturday, March 31, 2012

Wordpressed

***

Okay, I'm moving my blog to Wordpress too. Not because I think WP is supercool but because my comp seems to have developed some bug which is preventing me from opening Blogger, GTalk, and google.com (google.co.in opens though). Either Kapil Sibal has done something or it's just destiny and whatnot. Anyway, over the past few weeks, I've been wanting to blog and not being able to do so. Considering the very limited time I have on my hands right now, I don't feel like wasting it on trying to fix this problem which is what any other sane person would do. Instead, I'm simply going to create a new blog and hope that this one doesn't stop working too. I'm so brave.

So here's the address: http://mediumboss.wordpress.com

Please update the link on your respective blogs. Also, I'm not able to comment on any site powered by Blogger. Whataybeauty. If you are a technowhiz who wants to help out a half-crazed brownie with computer problems, please feel free to write in to brownie.gounder@gmail.com. I tried to install all sorts of virus/trojan remover nonsense on my computer to get rid of this problem and it has only made my already sad computer sadder still. Unfortunately, I'm not Ghajini to keep trying.

I'm writing this from M's Mac *sniff*

 Bye, bye, blogspot. I'm breaking up with you.  

Thursday, March 15, 2012

Life as Charlie Chaplin

***

I sometimes think that if someone fixed CCTV in my house, they'd get the feel of watching one of those black and white Charlie Chaplin movies. You know, the ones where he's whizzing around jerkily doing a hundred things within a minute. That's right, folks. My mum left on Sunday and we've been on our own since then. Cooking, cleaning, laundry, and of course, taking care of GBM who is increasingly doing her best to make my belief in karma stronger. 

I don't think I'm going to have the time to write my lazy blog essays any more. I'm going to quickly  put up many snapshots onscreen like Times Now and talk fast Arnab Goswami.

So here goes:

GBM wants to flip over and sleep on her tummy these days. Only, she hasn't yet figured out how to put her head down once she's flipped. So she acts like a blind puppy and start wailing till we flip her back. And then of course, she will go back to doing exactly the same thing again. 

5.30 AM- I give up on trying to sleep again and begin the day. 

I put one load of clothes for washing.

I make tea.

I make chutney.

I cook vegetables.

I soak the rice.

I knead the dough for chappatis (for dinner- see, how mega prepared we are!).

I boil milk and put off one spoon curd for...err, making more curd.

I boil eggs.

I cut vegetables for tomorrow's lunch (applause).

GBM is up. I feed her.

M cleans the wash basin, soap dabbas, buckets etc.

We put GBM on the mat. She flips over and is all smiley.

M and I are delighted with her smiles....and then we notice she's happy because she's taken a big dump all over the mat. 

M cleans the mat. 

We clean GBM together.

I clean the dirty clothes.

M oils GBM.

I bathe GBM.

M dresses GBM.

I feed GBM.

I clean GBM's gums. 

M makes dosas.


We take turns looking after GBM and eat breakfast.

I fold up yesterday's laundry.

I hang up the newly washed clothes. 


In between, of course, GBM has done susu a hundred times and we've cleaned her bum responsibly.


M soaks dal for tomorrow's lunch sambar which he will make tonight. He's also in charge of making today's dinner.


The time is 10 AM. M leaves for office. 

I collapse on my beanbag (M's gift for my 26th birthday....could not have come at a better time).

There is peace.

For a while, anyway. 


Wednesday, March 7, 2012

What GBM Did

***

GBM turned to her tummy for the first time when she was three months and a week old. Since yesterday, she's been doing it every time we put her down and marveling at her own achievement. She's also trying to crawl very hard and making Sharapova-like grunts while at it. 

GBM likes being taken to the balcony and enjoys watching the Neem and Mango trees right outside. During this time, we're not supposed to talk to her because she's having a quiet, philosophical moment all by herself.

GBM's current favourite song is a 500-year-old Malayalam lullaby called Omana thingal kidavo. One day, when she was extremely cranky, the song came out of my mouth in desperation. I did not even know that I knew it. It calmed her down instantly and works like magic every time I try it. She gives me a wide, gummy smile to show her appreciation. 

GBM had doubled her birth weight when we took her to the doc's for her 3.5 months vaccination. She's now longingly looking at everything we're eating and making swallowing movements with her own mouth. This makes me wonder if I should introduce solids to her at 4 months (the current WHO guideline is 6 months). 


GBM's hair is now so long that she even got a knot in it! M, who believes his daughter is made of porcelain, was distressed because he wasn't sure if a baby hairbrush would be soft enough for his baby's head. I'm sure he'd have taken her to the ICU if he could have to have the knot removed. We finally took it out like a pair of masterly eye surgeons.


GBM's klutz mother has finally learned to bathe her. GBM is very peaceful during bath time, so klutz mother's nerves aren't doing too badly.


GBM does not like it if M and I talk for more than  ten minutes without involving her. She demonstrates her disapproval by throwing a fit.


GBM is going to make her debut in the colony at the Holi celebrations tomorrow. I am ridiculously excited about this and have already picked out her frock and all. M is going to carry her because he's tall enough to hold her up if the other little kids decide to splash her.

GBM makes a laughing sound now. It hardly lasts for three seconds but we all try for three hours to see if we can make her do it again and again.

GBM is now howling. Time to go.



Wednesday, February 29, 2012

A Bad Story

***

Everybody these days knows how to write a good story. This is because everywhere that everybody goes, there are people who will tell you the ten steps you can follow to become a genius. There are even brain gyms that you can go to in order to become one. So really, there's no need for me to pontificate on how to write a good story. You've probably written one yourself. Or maybe several. You've printed them all out and you've put a copyright line on every page so that nobody steals your story. Even if nobody ever reads it. 

Writing a bad story, however, requires a special kind of talent. The ability to go through with something even though you know it's garbage. It is actually very like garbage because the stench of its wretchedness threatens to blow up all over you, but you have to tie up the ends and take it someplace else. In a bad story, you don't name the people. They usually just go by pronouns. She sat by the window, staring at the falling raindrops. Or He walked along the beach, counting the stars. In a bad story, people are usually doing things with feelings ten times over what you feel in real life. They are walking around with over-sized feelings. The sleeves of those feelings are falling off the shoulders of its people. So they all look a little funny. Odd. 

In a bad story, nothing ever happens. The writer thinks this is clever because in real life, nothing ever happens. But this isn't true. In real life, a lot happens. You can get run over by a bus on your birthday. But the writer thinks a story like that would be too melodramatic. It would lack...what is that word? Verisimilitude. Ah. So instead, the writer will write about a man or a woman, a boy or a girl, doing nothing but thinking. Thinking profoundly, intensely, so seriously that every line, every word, is a badly made burger. Everything is spilling out of everywhere. 

The people in the story are always unhappy. They normally don't eat breakfast. Or sit on the potty reading harmlessly. No, they are like disturbed wasps. They are like angry cats. They have no use for happiness because that would mean they are just ordinary. And are partial to onion chutney just like everybody else.

The people in the story often die. Of slap-worthy causes like boredom or disenchantment. They kill themselves poetically. The blood will spiral out of them like a song. Or they will die innocuously. Ironically. Dying ironically is fashionable in a bad story.


The writer of the bad story thinks the story is haunting. Very few people will get it. The story was torn out of the writer's rib cage. It came from the heart. It came so suddenly and so easily that it must have been inspiration. Not the other painful answer- it may have been imitation. 


The bad story sits like curdled milk in the heart of the writer. Nobody wants it. The writer does not want to throw it out. Surely, it can still be made into something else? Something more. Something everyone wants. And so, the people in the bad story will go on waiting. They will not be allowed to die. The irony of this will escape the writer. 


Then, many years later, the writer will come back to the bad story and laugh. The writer is now a doctor. Or maybe a professor of English. 'I can't believe I wrote this!' the writer will smile. And then, the bad story will be put away within the pages of a dog-eared book. Wishing to be forgotten and remembered all at once. The people in the story will now relax. They are finally at rest.




 
 

Monday, February 13, 2012

Retirement Plans

***

One of the favourite topics for conversation between  M and I is retirement plans. Yup, we're both ready to throw in the towel, ride into the sunset, invest on dentures and what not. On some days, when M is tired of staring at his Excel sheets and graphs and I'm tired of intense Facebooking, we start talking about what we'd like to do in life once we have saved up enough and GBM has either run away from home to become an engineer or disowned us for having bad haircuts. 

M's ambition is to become a maid. Before we got married, M told me that he finds housework to be 'therapeutic'. I remember telling him that that would be true if one were in need of therapy. This is why we got married in the first place. Yin-yang. Anyway, M believes that a couple of hours of domestic work in a few houses would not only pay for his upkeep, it would also keep him cheerful. Since he won't have an alcoholic husband beating him up and taking away his salary at the end of the month, this is not such a bad plan.

My dream, on the other hand, is far from the realm of the mundane. I want to be a spiritual guru. When I was working for CM, a proposal came from the Swami Nithyananda people to adapt the mahan's work into children's books (don't gasp- his books, not his videos). My then boss asked me to go through his work and tell him the feasibility of it. When I read the books, I was amazed by the swami's talent. He could say absolutely the same thing in a million different ways and make you believe that he's actually said a million different things in a billion different ways. 

As a writer, I was inspired. I figured out that all you need to sell your book is a cover photograph with kunguma pottu on your forehead and curly hair on your head. There will always be earnest people who want to buy your bullshit to fertilize their minds if you do this. I told my boss that though I tremendously enjoyed reading the books, we probably didn't have the resources (i.e., I wasn't going to trouble already troubled teenagers by creating more swami books for them to read) to go ahead with the project. Besides, it was always risky to get associated with godmen and such like. A couple of months later, the Nithyananda video was leaked and my boss was impressed with my foresight. Which makes me believe perhaps I am a spiritual guru with third eye after all. The easiest way for me to become a bestselling author post-retirement will be to make a slight change to my facial makeup and I'd be set till I leave for my heavenly abode.


We also make joint-retirement plans. Like opening a restaurant or desserts-only place. This is probably a result of having watched too much Masterchef Australia because I still can't tell apart all the dals. Why eat dal when you can eat fish is something I'll never know the answer to. (Incidentally, my other ambition is to become a Bengali because they are probably the only folks who eat fish even if there's puja and all.) Anyway, since M is the type who likes growing his own herbs and I have impressive work experience as a waitress (I waitressed during my student year at Brighton- see, I even have foreign credentials), we might actually do this. I have brilliant ideas for restaurant themes and everything. I'm very tempted to put them down here but you just have to wait. Decades from now, you'll be seeing us in TOI's Page 3, baby. 

I'll become so famous that everyone would want my spiritual blessings and my fish recipes when I'm in my deathbed. But me, I'll hang up a sign that says 'Dying. Do not Disturb.' over my bed and shut my eyes singing 'Oh, oh, oh, wondercake'. And that would be it.


Boy, I can't wait to retire. 





Friday, February 10, 2012

Happa Shappa

***

So wazzzzzzuuppp with me? I wish I could tell you I'm just back from backpacking all over Portugal. But obviously, by the time I'll be able to do that, I'll be comparing notes with M on joint pain. What I did do though was watch Season 4 of Dexter once again. Because stupid Landmark didn't have any other season and M just got whatever was there. But it was well worth it because Rita Morgan gets killed at the end of this season and she's undoubtedly one of the most annoying characters ever. I'm so glad she's gone, golden hair and all.

I may not be going backpacking, but we go for family drives and all, you know? Our Saturday routine is to take GBM out for an hour's drive and stop at Brownie Cottage (yes, really) for coffee and brownies. It's the high point of my social life and I look forward to it with great enthusiasm. Apart from this, I go for long walks in the evening and I've realized that I actually enjoy chit-chatting with neighbours and such like. I'm not really as anti-social as I prided myself to be. Cha. 

I've managed to finish half of The Emperor of All Maladies. It not only traces the history of cancer but traces the history of medicine itself. Without sounding all Gupta-Age, of course. When I got back home after my surgery, I watched a Youtube video of a C-section just so I could understand and remember all that had been done to me. When reading the book, I couldn't help but wonder how terrible my own surgery would have been without anesthesia or antibiotics.  Phew. I felt very connected to the past and all.  Very Hegelian, you know? How we're all part of a flow that started somewhere and will go on forever and forever till some spoilsport meteor decides to end it. And Bruce Willis fails to save us.

The rights for one of my picture books, Power Cut! has been bought over by Oxford University Press,Pakistan. I did not marry a Pakistani man, but I've done my bit for aman ki asha. Yay. My short story is also appearing in this anthology:


It's not out yet, so no need to form midnight queues and all, okay? But be excited.

M and I celebrated our anniversary last month. I sent M out for a lunch and movie all by himself (since it'd be too intense for GBM to chug along for all these activities). Getting to spend some alone-time was his anniversary gift. So romantic we are.

And what was mine? 

A diamond nose stud.


Wednesday, January 25, 2012

The Boy on the Burning Deck

***

Uncle OT or The Visitor as he's known to some, sent me this link
to a news article from The Guardian and asked me if I could do a post on what I thought of the subject. Looks like he's been mailing other bloggers, too! (I get the vague feeling of being back in composition class in school!)

The article is on obedience and why it's not necessarily a good thing in children. Ah well. To start with, I'm not a big fan of studies like these. Ten years down the line, it's very likely that someone else will find out that obedience makes your heart last longer or gives you a third kidney. But in any case, since I'm a parent and all and therefore qualified to be opinionated, I shall air my views.

Obedience works on hierarchy. Basically, somebody who is bigger/richer/older tells someone else who is smaller/poorer/younger what to do and expects the latter to follow those instructions because the former knows better (by virtue of being bigger/richer/older). It's a different thing when this is an employer-employee situation because the employee is paid to obey (even then, we must Facebook at work). 

As far as obedience in parenting is concerned, it is all about someone who is bigger and older telling someone who is smaller and younger what to do. As children, we're all taught to obey our elders and we're also duly made to read a hundred moral stories in which an annoying boy called Ramu with a neat haircut wins a medal for being obedient. But life is rarely as simple as a Ramu story. 

Funnily, the value of disobedience was taught to me by none other than my mother. When I was in Class I or so, we had this story called The Boy on the Burning Deck in our English reader. Now the actual story has a war background and all, but the story in our reader was simply about a boy on a ship who was standing on its deck because his father had asked him to do so. The ship bursts into flames for some vague reason and the father dies off. But this painful boy, instead of escaping when given a chance, chooses to stand on the deck and die because his father told him to stand there and not move. As five-year-olds, we were all expected to burst into tears at the death of this very noble child. My mother, after explaining the story to me, told me very clearly that in the event of a fire, she hoped I wouldn't be an idiot and stand somewhere just because she'd told me to. 

When we talk about how important it is for adults to cultivate obedience in their children, we assume that the adults in question are wise individuals who know and understand the world. Sadly, this is not always the case. Age, in my opinion, is rarely a qualification for wisdom. Everything around us ages, including the furniture, and one does not automatically become wise by defeating death one extra year. If this had been the case, we wouldn't have so many old people spending a good amount of time calculating the number of minutes by which their morning coffee was delayed because their modern daughter-in-law woke up only at 6 AM. Unless a person actively chooses to grow from life, the years do nothing to his/her intellect. Old people are just like young people. Some are wise, some are not. Some are painful, some are fun. 

Similarly, with parents, not all parents know what's best for their children just because they are parents. I'd like to distinguish between good behaviour and obedience here. Good behaviour is to do with social interactions. A child who insists on keeping his/her shoes on and jumping on somebody's white couch, in my opinion, deserves a whack (okay, a very light whack AFTER you've told the kid to geddofff a million times...don't call Childline yet). Good behaviour is necessary to cultivate in children because otherwise, we'll have a world full of unbearable adults whom we can't even whack. An intelligent child will figure out pretty quickly that good behaviour often works in its favour if the parents are supportive, appreciative, and exhibit good behaviour themselves. 

Obedience, on the other hand, works on the principle of threat and becomes a personality trait. It is a 'do-this-or-else' hierarchy and if the child falls in line all the time, it simply does not get the chance to think for itself. A well-behaved child needn't always obey what his/her parents say. Likewise, a poorly-behaved child could very well take up Engineering because mommy told him to.  As parents, we all have an idea about what we want our child to be. This is not wrong. But it's equally important to encourage the child to figure out what it wants to be. When you become a parent, your entire world shrinks to that of your child's. You are forever occupied in trying to do your best for it. For your child, however, the world is expanding and you are increasingly becoming irrelevant. This is inevitable and should be so. Even though I consider myself to be pretty broadminded, I'm quite sure GBM will someday shock and scare me by wanting to do and doing things that I wouldn't have done myself. It would be okay in her world and not okay in mine. And that should be okay.

When a child is old enough to have opinions (and even my two-month old has opinions on which part of the house she wants to tour), there will be instances when disagreements occur. But even if you disagree, do it with respect. Be willing to consider the possibility that your child might be right even if you don't understand how. Parents are often dismissive and forget the fact that children remember. If you are not willing to consider your child's opinion because s/he is a pipsqueak, remember that you are setting an example for the child who will not consider yours because you are an old fogy. And worse, you might bring up a child who does not value anybody's opinion.

I thought back to my own childhood when OT sent me this link and tried to imagine what my life would have been like if I'd been obedient and listened to everything that my parents, teachers and elders had told me. I concluded that I'd have been an unhappy Physics school teacher who had no clue about her subject. 

Moral: When there is a fire, get the hell out of there.








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