A letter to my granddaughter
Dear Ritika,
I just received a message from your dad. He said you had got a first class for the third consecutive year and it is a rare feat in Cambridge. He was going for your convocation ceremony with Anju(your mom) and little brother Anantya. When you receive my letter, they might have already reached.
I do not have words today to tell you how much happiness you have brought the whole family. We feel so proud of you. Your ‘dada’(grandfather) if he had been around would have said, “Ritika has fulfilled my childhood dream of studying economics in a prestigious college abroad”. I don’t think he ever shared this with you because you were very young when you went away to Singapore.
When children do well, the credit for their success goes to their parents as well. Both Anju, and Bunty have been terrific parents. I have seen your mom take care of you as a child and she was the best. Every single moment of her life she was concerned about your health, education and extremely careful that you grow up to be an honest, brave, bright and confident girl. These are the values you are going to carry forward in life. Your dad has worked hard for the family to be able to provide the best possible for his children. I am writing this to you as a parent who brought up three wonderful children and I know from my own experience what it takes to bring up children and set them on their path to success and then let them be.
As a grandmother I can share a small experience from life. People who succeed in life and lead happy lives are the ones who are kind, generous, share and reach out to others. Families that remain united are the ones who not only share happy moments but also stand up for each other in times of distress. I don’t know whether I have been able to put it across properly but always remember to take care of your loved ones wherever you are and whatever you do.
I will wait for you to come to Delhi so that I can give you a small present and a big hug. Your aunts, uncles and cousins send you their best wishes and loads of love.
Love,
Dadi
“I could not help but write on mom’s behalf. Unfortunatley my mother suffers from Alzheimers. She cannot write nor can she speak. However, it was as if she was writing and not me.”
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Monkey school
Recently, there was a story in the newspapers about government school space being auctioned to private builders. The officials felt that a lot of school buildings were lying vacant for a number of years and if sold the land could be utilised for other purposes.
It sounded a bit strange because only five years back I had heard a horrific description about a government school from a close friend. She had retired from a government school where she had taught for more than 25 years.
The school she described now has a brick building, however, I still would like to share what she told me about the plight of these government-run schools in Delhi.
Monkey school
It was a school with a difference. Here, children and monkeys studied together. While the students sat on the ground, monkeys attended classes sitting on treetops, right above the teacher’s head. Much to the children’s chagrin, while they had to concentrate on serious class work, the monkeys had a rollicking time, jumping from one branch to the other. During recess the primates would charge towards the school bags, feel out the tiffin boxes and scrape out the remains. They would also take out geometry boxes and often escape with the contents.
Interestingly, this was no village school, in the interiors of the country, but a government run school, in an area, bordering a posh South Delhi colony.
“After the lunch break, we were showered with rulers, pencils, rubbers, empty boxes and even sharp objects, from above. My students sitting on treetops were asserting their presence”, an amused, Ms Veena Kayastha told me with a smile. Ms Kayastha had taught in the school for a number of years. Now retired, she was sharing her teaching experiences in government schools. “When the sun would become strong we would move the black board to the coolest corner under the tree.”
However, she was lucky to get her home science class shifted to a shed that had an asbestos cover. They left behind their four-legged, exuberant friends, but they had to contend with the sweltering summer heat. In the makeshift classroom, that had a capacity to accommodate 45 students, now sat sixty girls.
The girls came from very poor families. Some had the will to learn and improve themselves. But most of the time they did not succeed due to family pressures.
“Looking after their families was their main priority. They had to finish all domestic chores before coming to school. Some did not find time to eat, bathe or even comb their hair. I remember, my favourite student, Sharmila. A frail and weak adolescent, she frequently came to school on an empty stomach. Often some one from the teaching staff would take her aside and buy her tea and biscuits”, Ms Kayastha recounted.
In another incident, a child with very high fever was sent back home. The next day her father confronted the teacher, “I would rather see her dead than lying around in the house”. The teacher was stunned by the inhuman reaction.
Ms Charu Kumar, a senior teacher, in a government run school, in East Delhi, had a similar experience.
She cited the example of seventeen-year-old, Arti, a new pupil in her class. A quiet and reticent child, she refused to interact with her classmates or teachers. Over the months she looked more and more insecure.
Finally, the principal was informed. An inquiry was made quietly and it was found that she was ill-treated by both her step-mother and father. She was forced to do all the housework before attending school. Though her grandfather was interested in her education, her tyrannical father constantly threatened to get her married off.
“A petrified and insecure Arti, was scared to interact. She constantly lived under the fear that her father would pull her out of school on the slightest pretext,” explained Charu.
Fortunately, the Principal intervened and Arti moved in with her grandparents and completed her education.
Thus, any law enacted towards Right to Education, will remain a mere paper tiger, till the time the Girl Child is treated with contempt.
It sounded a bit strange because only five years back I had heard a horrific description about a government school from a close friend. She had retired from a government school where she had taught for more than 25 years.
The school she described now has a brick building, however, I still would like to share what she told me about the plight of these government-run schools in Delhi.
Monkey school
It was a school with a difference. Here, children and monkeys studied together. While the students sat on the ground, monkeys attended classes sitting on treetops, right above the teacher’s head. Much to the children’s chagrin, while they had to concentrate on serious class work, the monkeys had a rollicking time, jumping from one branch to the other. During recess the primates would charge towards the school bags, feel out the tiffin boxes and scrape out the remains. They would also take out geometry boxes and often escape with the contents.
Interestingly, this was no village school, in the interiors of the country, but a government run school, in an area, bordering a posh South Delhi colony.
“After the lunch break, we were showered with rulers, pencils, rubbers, empty boxes and even sharp objects, from above. My students sitting on treetops were asserting their presence”, an amused, Ms Veena Kayastha told me with a smile. Ms Kayastha had taught in the school for a number of years. Now retired, she was sharing her teaching experiences in government schools. “When the sun would become strong we would move the black board to the coolest corner under the tree.”
However, she was lucky to get her home science class shifted to a shed that had an asbestos cover. They left behind their four-legged, exuberant friends, but they had to contend with the sweltering summer heat. In the makeshift classroom, that had a capacity to accommodate 45 students, now sat sixty girls.
The girls came from very poor families. Some had the will to learn and improve themselves. But most of the time they did not succeed due to family pressures.
“Looking after their families was their main priority. They had to finish all domestic chores before coming to school. Some did not find time to eat, bathe or even comb their hair. I remember, my favourite student, Sharmila. A frail and weak adolescent, she frequently came to school on an empty stomach. Often some one from the teaching staff would take her aside and buy her tea and biscuits”, Ms Kayastha recounted.
In another incident, a child with very high fever was sent back home. The next day her father confronted the teacher, “I would rather see her dead than lying around in the house”. The teacher was stunned by the inhuman reaction.
Ms Charu Kumar, a senior teacher, in a government run school, in East Delhi, had a similar experience.
She cited the example of seventeen-year-old, Arti, a new pupil in her class. A quiet and reticent child, she refused to interact with her classmates or teachers. Over the months she looked more and more insecure.
Finally, the principal was informed. An inquiry was made quietly and it was found that she was ill-treated by both her step-mother and father. She was forced to do all the housework before attending school. Though her grandfather was interested in her education, her tyrannical father constantly threatened to get her married off.
“A petrified and insecure Arti, was scared to interact. She constantly lived under the fear that her father would pull her out of school on the slightest pretext,” explained Charu.
Fortunately, the Principal intervened and Arti moved in with her grandparents and completed her education.
Thus, any law enacted towards Right to Education, will remain a mere paper tiger, till the time the Girl Child is treated with contempt.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Palmist's Bakra
(Happy new year! Hope I can get more readers and followers in the new year. Once again posting a story written several years back.)
Palmist’s Bakra
“Your luck is changing”, I was told by the man sitting under a fancy canopy in the premises of Jai Palace Hotel, in Jaipur. He was the local soothsayer. The moment we saw him in the evening, my daughters and I, decided to take a peep into our future and check out his palmistry skills.
“So you have three children”, he said. I interrupted, “No, only two”. My daughter, Shubhi, tapped my shoulder, “He means Snowy, the dog also”. The man did not look happy; he peered into my palm more closely. “You have a good imagination,” he tried again. “Yes, I do some writing”, I replied. He now looked more confident, “I will say the year 1990 saw a great many changes”. “Hurrah”, screamed Shubhi. “It was the year I was born.”
He was right for once. It was the year diapers came back into my life once again. For the next ten months, I got no sleep, carried a baby with a listless maid to my workplace, tried very hard to write a good copy and got the maximum frowns from my editor that I nearly chucked up my job. Also, my husband traveled 115 days to America, happy to escape the baby’s wails at night. Indeed, it was an eventful year.
“In 1995 you were accident prone,” said the palmist. A slight discrepancy here, I noted mentally. I had been prone to accidents from the day I went out with my husband for the first time. There were no speed breakers for him and it seemed the road belonged to his Highness when he drove. I often clutched on to the seat and the door handle and closed my eyes. In fact, life became accident free in 1995, when I put my foot down and a driver was engaged.
“You are lucky for your husband. You have brought happiness in his life,” remarked the palmist quite gleefully. “Yes he complaints there is too much of it now”, I nearly said aloud. “And also the mausis”, butted in my elder daughter, Sonali, cheekily.
He, poor husband, cannot cope with the gang. His phone bills are mounting. Only last night, he was just about to begin snoring when pal Rita called up to ask, “Does Diwakar know anyone in Cadbury. You know Anjudi’s brother-in-law’s cousin’s grand child needs a job very badly.” He is equally at a loss when well-meaning friends Nita and Kalpana drag him for a dance while Sonali insists she could part with her dollar allowance to keep him off the floor.
“Your daughters will do wonders for you,” continued the man. They already are. My credit card just bounced. Sonali shops for Indian summer and winter in California and Californian summer and winter in India. Inquire about her grades; her answer is “Mom leave me alone. I am not a nerd.”
Shubhi acquires a distinct American accent when sister Sonali is around. People ask me, “Was she born in America?” Not only that, her room turns upside down. There is blaring music on all the time. The twelve-year-old has been taught the American life-style. It takes a good deal of time to undo the damage and soon elder sis is back in India, with another shopping list, and some new American slang words.
“After Jan 15, your career will take off”, said the palmist summing up the session. It has taken off in a subtle way. My editor in Singapore is not responding.
By the end of the palm reading session, I could tell the palmist without even looking at his palm, a thing or two. Tonight, he was going to eat malai kofta, dal makhani, and laccha paratha, followed by some kheer, at the Five-Star, Jai Palace Hotel, and not some tasteless home-cooked food prepared by his wife. For, he surely had reason to celebrate. He had palmed us off Rs1500 for a thirty minutes session and we were not his only clients for the evening. There were several other “bakras” waiting outside in the queue.
Palmist’s Bakra
“Your luck is changing”, I was told by the man sitting under a fancy canopy in the premises of Jai Palace Hotel, in Jaipur. He was the local soothsayer. The moment we saw him in the evening, my daughters and I, decided to take a peep into our future and check out his palmistry skills.
“So you have three children”, he said. I interrupted, “No, only two”. My daughter, Shubhi, tapped my shoulder, “He means Snowy, the dog also”. The man did not look happy; he peered into my palm more closely. “You have a good imagination,” he tried again. “Yes, I do some writing”, I replied. He now looked more confident, “I will say the year 1990 saw a great many changes”. “Hurrah”, screamed Shubhi. “It was the year I was born.”
He was right for once. It was the year diapers came back into my life once again. For the next ten months, I got no sleep, carried a baby with a listless maid to my workplace, tried very hard to write a good copy and got the maximum frowns from my editor that I nearly chucked up my job. Also, my husband traveled 115 days to America, happy to escape the baby’s wails at night. Indeed, it was an eventful year.
“In 1995 you were accident prone,” said the palmist. A slight discrepancy here, I noted mentally. I had been prone to accidents from the day I went out with my husband for the first time. There were no speed breakers for him and it seemed the road belonged to his Highness when he drove. I often clutched on to the seat and the door handle and closed my eyes. In fact, life became accident free in 1995, when I put my foot down and a driver was engaged.
“You are lucky for your husband. You have brought happiness in his life,” remarked the palmist quite gleefully. “Yes he complaints there is too much of it now”, I nearly said aloud. “And also the mausis”, butted in my elder daughter, Sonali, cheekily.
He, poor husband, cannot cope with the gang. His phone bills are mounting. Only last night, he was just about to begin snoring when pal Rita called up to ask, “Does Diwakar know anyone in Cadbury. You know Anjudi’s brother-in-law’s cousin’s grand child needs a job very badly.” He is equally at a loss when well-meaning friends Nita and Kalpana drag him for a dance while Sonali insists she could part with her dollar allowance to keep him off the floor.
“Your daughters will do wonders for you,” continued the man. They already are. My credit card just bounced. Sonali shops for Indian summer and winter in California and Californian summer and winter in India. Inquire about her grades; her answer is “Mom leave me alone. I am not a nerd.”
Shubhi acquires a distinct American accent when sister Sonali is around. People ask me, “Was she born in America?” Not only that, her room turns upside down. There is blaring music on all the time. The twelve-year-old has been taught the American life-style. It takes a good deal of time to undo the damage and soon elder sis is back in India, with another shopping list, and some new American slang words.
“After Jan 15, your career will take off”, said the palmist summing up the session. It has taken off in a subtle way. My editor in Singapore is not responding.
By the end of the palm reading session, I could tell the palmist without even looking at his palm, a thing or two. Tonight, he was going to eat malai kofta, dal makhani, and laccha paratha, followed by some kheer, at the Five-Star, Jai Palace Hotel, and not some tasteless home-cooked food prepared by his wife. For, he surely had reason to celebrate. He had palmed us off Rs1500 for a thirty minutes session and we were not his only clients for the evening. There were several other “bakras” waiting outside in the queue.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Survival skills
(Another one from my old collection)
Survival skills
"You need a number of skills to survive as a wife and mother”, remarked Mrs. Krishnan, a business colleague’s wife. She was a little over forty, and an interesting shopping companion on my trip to Chennai. However, I found her statement a bit strange. I had then been married for six months, thus, glowing with the ignorance of a bashful, newlywed wife, I nearly said aloud; “I am a smart Delhi girl and can handle any situation”. .
As if, she could read my mind, she smiled and then realizing I had picked up a Kanjivaram for my sister-in-law, said, “While you also shop for the husband’s sister, no problems. Let the more expensive one be for her.” Indeed, that was the first survival skill I acquired and the rest of them came over the years - some easily, some quietly and some after great perseverance.
However, one critical skill, I fell upon by chance. One mid-night, I realized I could simply conjure up a dish that could feed any number of hungry Bridge players. The head count that night had gone up from five to ten.
To the cooked mutton curry I had added a dozen-boiled eggs and some garlic tomato sauce. The dish, I served as, “mutton-in-egg gravy”.
However, the same delicacy was another night produced as “Mutton Goulash in red pepper sauce”. Along with the eggs, I had added some boiled potatoes and lots of freshly grounded black pepper. The dish was a great success with the spouse and his fifteen cronies, who licked the last little bit of sauce off their plates. And I was crowned the “Empress of Mutton Goulash”.
Of course, to keep the title, I had to churn out many more such dishes, for many such evening get-togethers and for many unaccountable years. Thus, cooking for people in multiples of five became my forte and one of my greatest survival skills.
Another skill that crept in quietly was indifference to noise. The baby’s blabber, cartoon network and banging of the utensils in the kitchen were all a part of my evening schedule, while I merrily typed my story (news article) on my dad’s portable “Olympia”, surrounded by the din.
However, the most important survival skill I learnt was when my daughter, Sonali, turned sixteen. Cleaning up her room, meant, following loads of instructions from her. Finally, I gave up and decided to let her have the “space” she so much craved for.
It was a victory of sorts but for a short time. With half her clothes, books, cushions and shoes on the floor, an unmade bed, music cassettes and CDs strewn all over her room, she had just enough “space” left for her toes. Not a dull one, she was quick to remedy the situation. She put her younger sibling, Shubhi on the job. The trade-off was fifty rupees for clearing the mess.
Now, with Sonali thousands of miles away, in college, the just-turned thirteen has moved into her shoes. Unfortunately, her survival skills seem to be sharper than mine. Perhaps, to match her skills, I need to go back to Chennai, for a refresher course from Mrs Krishnan.
Survival skills
"You need a number of skills to survive as a wife and mother”, remarked Mrs. Krishnan, a business colleague’s wife. She was a little over forty, and an interesting shopping companion on my trip to Chennai. However, I found her statement a bit strange. I had then been married for six months, thus, glowing with the ignorance of a bashful, newlywed wife, I nearly said aloud; “I am a smart Delhi girl and can handle any situation”. .
As if, she could read my mind, she smiled and then realizing I had picked up a Kanjivaram for my sister-in-law, said, “While you also shop for the husband’s sister, no problems. Let the more expensive one be for her.” Indeed, that was the first survival skill I acquired and the rest of them came over the years - some easily, some quietly and some after great perseverance.
However, one critical skill, I fell upon by chance. One mid-night, I realized I could simply conjure up a dish that could feed any number of hungry Bridge players. The head count that night had gone up from five to ten.
To the cooked mutton curry I had added a dozen-boiled eggs and some garlic tomato sauce. The dish, I served as, “mutton-in-egg gravy”.
However, the same delicacy was another night produced as “Mutton Goulash in red pepper sauce”. Along with the eggs, I had added some boiled potatoes and lots of freshly grounded black pepper. The dish was a great success with the spouse and his fifteen cronies, who licked the last little bit of sauce off their plates. And I was crowned the “Empress of Mutton Goulash”.
Of course, to keep the title, I had to churn out many more such dishes, for many such evening get-togethers and for many unaccountable years. Thus, cooking for people in multiples of five became my forte and one of my greatest survival skills.
Another skill that crept in quietly was indifference to noise. The baby’s blabber, cartoon network and banging of the utensils in the kitchen were all a part of my evening schedule, while I merrily typed my story (news article) on my dad’s portable “Olympia”, surrounded by the din.
However, the most important survival skill I learnt was when my daughter, Sonali, turned sixteen. Cleaning up her room, meant, following loads of instructions from her. Finally, I gave up and decided to let her have the “space” she so much craved for.
It was a victory of sorts but for a short time. With half her clothes, books, cushions and shoes on the floor, an unmade bed, music cassettes and CDs strewn all over her room, she had just enough “space” left for her toes. Not a dull one, she was quick to remedy the situation. She put her younger sibling, Shubhi on the job. The trade-off was fifty rupees for clearing the mess.
Now, with Sonali thousands of miles away, in college, the just-turned thirteen has moved into her shoes. Unfortunately, her survival skills seem to be sharper than mine. Perhaps, to match her skills, I need to go back to Chennai, for a refresher course from Mrs Krishnan.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Mobile syndrome
(While going through some old collection of documents on my computer, I found an interesting piece I had written on my niece, Pallavi. Interestingly, she is now a bright and outgoing journalist, however, a lot about her temperament remains the same.)
All that I could see in the cot was a dash of jet-black hair, and two twinkling eyes. I instantly nicknamed her Tuk-Tuk. She was my one-day-old nice and her nani’s first grandchild. And before we realised, our toddler, Tuk-Tuk, had grown up into a charming and endearing Pallavi.
However, all was well in the family till the time a well-meaning and generous dad decided to present his only child with a mobile on her nineteenth birthday. “When you are getting late in college, you can call home and inform. It will help keep mom’s blood pressure in check,” he told her quietly. Ofcourse, ‘daughter dear’ had other plans.
In no time friends had been informed and a get-together organised. “I am celebrating my birthday. Now you don’t need to worry, you can contact me so easily,” a slightly confused mom was told. Soon the young lady was out in a new Shopper’s Stop outfit with a swanky mobile in hand. And the rest is history.
After some months, watching my sister’s plight, I decided to intervene. “Don’t waste so much time on the mobile. You also need to study,” I said, trying hard to sound casual.
“I am not gossiping mausi. There are sometimes serious issues to be sorted out. Now see, my friend is in the library, and I need this particular book,” I was told politely.
However, only the other day, I had overheard her telling a friend, “Why don’t we leave Jane Austin’s heroine alone, Darcy fellow is most irritating. You know he reminds me of Amitabh Bacchan in Deewar. Aren’t you near the PVR complex? How about getting tickets for that Aamir movie.”
As a last resort, nani was put on the job. “Drill some sense into her head,” my sister said. Now, no one can disobey nani and within minutes a beaming nani informed us, “She has promised she will not talk on the mobile till her exams are done”. Yes, she had managed the impossible. The mobile had stopped ringing.
My sister was relieved. Interestingly, Pallavi didn’t appear to be missing her mobile. But things looked too good to be true. Meanwhile, I did a bit of snooping around and found that the mobile had been turned on the vibration mode and an SMS message only required the nineteen-year-old’s well trained fingers. However, she had kept a part of her promise and I decided not to interfere and upset the tranquility of the household.
Recently, after she recovered from an appendices operation, her surgeon confided, “I have seldom seen a patient like Pallavi. We had barely wheeled her into the recovery room and there she was all wide awake.”
Pallavi swallowed the compliments graciously. But we knew intuitively that the answer lay elsewhere. Afterwards she owned up that it was the shrill ring of the doctor’s mobile, in the recovery room that had woken her up so completely. For once, we could not reprimand her.
Surprisingly, the family is still optimistic. “It is only a passing phase”, says nani trying to pacify a perturbed mother. I call it the ‘mobile syndrome’. Meanwhile, her friends, amused by her new obsession, have nick-named her ‘Pallavi Mobile’.
All that I could see in the cot was a dash of jet-black hair, and two twinkling eyes. I instantly nicknamed her Tuk-Tuk. She was my one-day-old nice and her nani’s first grandchild. And before we realised, our toddler, Tuk-Tuk, had grown up into a charming and endearing Pallavi.
However, all was well in the family till the time a well-meaning and generous dad decided to present his only child with a mobile on her nineteenth birthday. “When you are getting late in college, you can call home and inform. It will help keep mom’s blood pressure in check,” he told her quietly. Ofcourse, ‘daughter dear’ had other plans.
In no time friends had been informed and a get-together organised. “I am celebrating my birthday. Now you don’t need to worry, you can contact me so easily,” a slightly confused mom was told. Soon the young lady was out in a new Shopper’s Stop outfit with a swanky mobile in hand. And the rest is history.
After some months, watching my sister’s plight, I decided to intervene. “Don’t waste so much time on the mobile. You also need to study,” I said, trying hard to sound casual.
“I am not gossiping mausi. There are sometimes serious issues to be sorted out. Now see, my friend is in the library, and I need this particular book,” I was told politely.
However, only the other day, I had overheard her telling a friend, “Why don’t we leave Jane Austin’s heroine alone, Darcy fellow is most irritating. You know he reminds me of Amitabh Bacchan in Deewar. Aren’t you near the PVR complex? How about getting tickets for that Aamir movie.”
As a last resort, nani was put on the job. “Drill some sense into her head,” my sister said. Now, no one can disobey nani and within minutes a beaming nani informed us, “She has promised she will not talk on the mobile till her exams are done”. Yes, she had managed the impossible. The mobile had stopped ringing.
My sister was relieved. Interestingly, Pallavi didn’t appear to be missing her mobile. But things looked too good to be true. Meanwhile, I did a bit of snooping around and found that the mobile had been turned on the vibration mode and an SMS message only required the nineteen-year-old’s well trained fingers. However, she had kept a part of her promise and I decided not to interfere and upset the tranquility of the household.
Recently, after she recovered from an appendices operation, her surgeon confided, “I have seldom seen a patient like Pallavi. We had barely wheeled her into the recovery room and there she was all wide awake.”
Pallavi swallowed the compliments graciously. But we knew intuitively that the answer lay elsewhere. Afterwards she owned up that it was the shrill ring of the doctor’s mobile, in the recovery room that had woken her up so completely. For once, we could not reprimand her.
Surprisingly, the family is still optimistic. “It is only a passing phase”, says nani trying to pacify a perturbed mother. I call it the ‘mobile syndrome’. Meanwhile, her friends, amused by her new obsession, have nick-named her ‘Pallavi Mobile’.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
NRI squabbles
“Hey! Mom, what’s up?” said Sonali over the phone, from California. “Nothing much. Just went out for a walk. Now plan to check the mail,” I said casually.
“Good to hear that. I’m so happy you are going for morning walks. You know the latest research at UCSD says morning walks release happy hormones that help the brain function better. You will be able to write better and….”
“Um.” I replied. “Are you listening to me. That is your problem, you never will give full attention to anything. What are you doing any way?” she asked angrily. “Just trying to spread the bedcover with the other hand”, I admitted guiltily.
“You are a clean freak. With Shubhi around you will any way have to straighten it out ten times during the day. Why can’t you to do one thing at a time?” she snapped.
It was nine in the morning for me but time for Sonali to get into bed. So before she grew crankier, I said quietly, “If dinner is over, drink something hot and sleep. I am sure you have a morning class.”
“No, you don’t bother. Mom I am not a school kid. I have to work on my term paper,” she retorted.
“Oh! Sorry about that. You know I am bit confused about the time difference,” I said, trying to bide time.
“But you always forget so there is no point telling you. Put Shubhi on the line”, she commanded.
“Sure. I will knock at her bedroom door”, I replied, happy to hear her change the subject. Moreover, I have encouraged this sibling bonding. A lot is achieved during these special sessions between them and it makes my job all that easier.
However, as luck would have it, Shubhi did not respond. “She is not opening the door. Sonali, call up an hour later”, I said.
“What are you saying. You let her sleep till ten in the morning. Usko, ap kuch nahin kahte. You would have given me hell. Mujhko toh eight O’clock utha kar painting class bhej dete the. Shubhi is thoroughly spoilt. Mom do something right away,” she said angrily.
“No. That is not true. She goes to school very early and then her tennis classes are extremely tiring. So on Sundays, I leave her alone,” I said, trying all logic.
Unfortunately, that did not pacify her. She snapped back, “Mom, all the kids do that. I find it difficult to take physical strain because I never played outdoor games. I want Shubhi to do everything.”
“And by the way, did you get to see the list of Classics I had given her?” she inquired. “Instead of buying Goosbums, she better spend money on quality stuff”.
By now I had lost my patience. It was time to exercise my parental rights. “Sonali, how were mid-quarter grades. Sorry, I always forget to ask the relevant stuff”, I said in a voice dripping with emotion.
“Mom can’t hear. The line is getting bad. I think it is the new card I am using. Let Shubhi sleep. Will talk next week. Bye.” The phone had gone dead.
“Good to hear that. I’m so happy you are going for morning walks. You know the latest research at UCSD says morning walks release happy hormones that help the brain function better. You will be able to write better and….”
“Um.” I replied. “Are you listening to me. That is your problem, you never will give full attention to anything. What are you doing any way?” she asked angrily. “Just trying to spread the bedcover with the other hand”, I admitted guiltily.
“You are a clean freak. With Shubhi around you will any way have to straighten it out ten times during the day. Why can’t you to do one thing at a time?” she snapped.
It was nine in the morning for me but time for Sonali to get into bed. So before she grew crankier, I said quietly, “If dinner is over, drink something hot and sleep. I am sure you have a morning class.”
“No, you don’t bother. Mom I am not a school kid. I have to work on my term paper,” she retorted.
“Oh! Sorry about that. You know I am bit confused about the time difference,” I said, trying to bide time.
“But you always forget so there is no point telling you. Put Shubhi on the line”, she commanded.
“Sure. I will knock at her bedroom door”, I replied, happy to hear her change the subject. Moreover, I have encouraged this sibling bonding. A lot is achieved during these special sessions between them and it makes my job all that easier.
However, as luck would have it, Shubhi did not respond. “She is not opening the door. Sonali, call up an hour later”, I said.
“What are you saying. You let her sleep till ten in the morning. Usko, ap kuch nahin kahte. You would have given me hell. Mujhko toh eight O’clock utha kar painting class bhej dete the. Shubhi is thoroughly spoilt. Mom do something right away,” she said angrily.
“No. That is not true. She goes to school very early and then her tennis classes are extremely tiring. So on Sundays, I leave her alone,” I said, trying all logic.
Unfortunately, that did not pacify her. She snapped back, “Mom, all the kids do that. I find it difficult to take physical strain because I never played outdoor games. I want Shubhi to do everything.”
“And by the way, did you get to see the list of Classics I had given her?” she inquired. “Instead of buying Goosbums, she better spend money on quality stuff”.
By now I had lost my patience. It was time to exercise my parental rights. “Sonali, how were mid-quarter grades. Sorry, I always forget to ask the relevant stuff”, I said in a voice dripping with emotion.
“Mom can’t hear. The line is getting bad. I think it is the new card I am using. Let Shubhi sleep. Will talk next week. Bye.” The phone had gone dead.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Fads to burn fat
There is so much unhappiness all around after the terror attacks that I want to share with you a funny piece that I wrote during my creative phase some years back.
Fads to burn fat
"To be trim means feeling great. Imagine you can get into all those lovely clothes you have put away,” remarked, my daughter, Sonali, the ‘trim-one’ in the family. The teen-ager’s latest fad was a twenty-four inch waistline for herself and a “well-sculpted mom”.
However, going for morning walks was something I could never do. All the methods tried by my mother had failed miserably. Finally, dad had summed up, “It is still night for her, don’t waste your time.”
Unfortunately, years had flown past so quickly. With school finishing, basketball sessions were over and in College, only nerds went for Physical Education classes. Of course, the PE teacher at the end of the year had a novel way of dealing with us. The ratio was two ‘chakars’, nearly 3 kms, around the college compound, for a single attendance.
Honestly, how and when I acquired the extra six inches, I do not know. So when the ‘trim-one’, pushed me into an exercise regime, I decided to let life take its own course.
The going was simple. Ten minutes on the stationary bike, where I read my latest Anita Desai, another twenty on the treadmill, watching MTV, and later some weights of all sizes and shapes. But my luck soon ran out. At the end of the first week, perched on the weight machine, I could see the needle swing swiftly to the right. “Cluck-cluck” went Suleman, the instructor. I had gained an extra three pounds.
“What have you been eating”? I was questioned severely. “The usual meals and a bit of snacking,”I, replied tactfully. “Aren’t you following our diet plan,” he demanded. “Morning black tea and two biscuits, breakfast a slice of brown bread and some fruits, for the main meals eat a bowl of salad and vegetables, no cereals and no snacking. And pay for the diet plan tomorrow,” he went like a tape recorder.
And in one stroke my food plate had been emptied out. I had just picked up kulfi from Nathu’s and my kid cousin had brought home a chocolate truffle cake. “What a waste of a happy life and such good stuff”, I felt, simmering with anger. While the family gorged on the delicacies, I sat in a corner with a dish of red, green and white tasteless strips called food.
A week without doughnuts, Chopsticks and Dominos seemed like eternity. One night I felt so deprived I sneaked quietly to the fridge, and devoured a large piece of chocolate cake. The result was so satisfying that I was forced to make small changes.
Now, during the day it is strictly Suleman’s diet plan and after mid-night my own. Of course, I carefully avoid the weight machine and pretend not to notice Suleman’s confused looks when he watches me on the twister. But, I am not the guilty party. After all, Suleman never did specify a diet plan after mid-night. My only worry is upsetting my ‘trim-one’. May be, for her sake I will try again. Not now, but a month before she returns home for vacation. Till then, the future “well-sculpted mom” can continue with her nocturnal binge.
Fads to burn fat
"To be trim means feeling great. Imagine you can get into all those lovely clothes you have put away,” remarked, my daughter, Sonali, the ‘trim-one’ in the family. The teen-ager’s latest fad was a twenty-four inch waistline for herself and a “well-sculpted mom”.
However, going for morning walks was something I could never do. All the methods tried by my mother had failed miserably. Finally, dad had summed up, “It is still night for her, don’t waste your time.”
Unfortunately, years had flown past so quickly. With school finishing, basketball sessions were over and in College, only nerds went for Physical Education classes. Of course, the PE teacher at the end of the year had a novel way of dealing with us. The ratio was two ‘chakars’, nearly 3 kms, around the college compound, for a single attendance.
Honestly, how and when I acquired the extra six inches, I do not know. So when the ‘trim-one’, pushed me into an exercise regime, I decided to let life take its own course.
The going was simple. Ten minutes on the stationary bike, where I read my latest Anita Desai, another twenty on the treadmill, watching MTV, and later some weights of all sizes and shapes. But my luck soon ran out. At the end of the first week, perched on the weight machine, I could see the needle swing swiftly to the right. “Cluck-cluck” went Suleman, the instructor. I had gained an extra three pounds.
“What have you been eating”? I was questioned severely. “The usual meals and a bit of snacking,”I, replied tactfully. “Aren’t you following our diet plan,” he demanded. “Morning black tea and two biscuits, breakfast a slice of brown bread and some fruits, for the main meals eat a bowl of salad and vegetables, no cereals and no snacking. And pay for the diet plan tomorrow,” he went like a tape recorder.
And in one stroke my food plate had been emptied out. I had just picked up kulfi from Nathu’s and my kid cousin had brought home a chocolate truffle cake. “What a waste of a happy life and such good stuff”, I felt, simmering with anger. While the family gorged on the delicacies, I sat in a corner with a dish of red, green and white tasteless strips called food.
A week without doughnuts, Chopsticks and Dominos seemed like eternity. One night I felt so deprived I sneaked quietly to the fridge, and devoured a large piece of chocolate cake. The result was so satisfying that I was forced to make small changes.
Now, during the day it is strictly Suleman’s diet plan and after mid-night my own. Of course, I carefully avoid the weight machine and pretend not to notice Suleman’s confused looks when he watches me on the twister. But, I am not the guilty party. After all, Suleman never did specify a diet plan after mid-night. My only worry is upsetting my ‘trim-one’. May be, for her sake I will try again. Not now, but a month before she returns home for vacation. Till then, the future “well-sculpted mom” can continue with her nocturnal binge.
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