Change: Blog. Employed. Solvent. Wife. Daughter in Law.
Sister in Law. Fitness Freak. Wiser.
Uniformity: Polo.
Sunday, September 1, 2013
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Solace in the Old. Distress of the New.
Familiarity is said to breed contempt.
To be honest, I always wondered what the person who created this supposedly enlightening quote, ACTUALLY meant by this. Even though noted scholars (self-proclaimed ones, I’m sure), defined this idiom as the more you know something or someone, the more you start to find faults and dislike things about it or them.
But what if the person who coined this confusion in my head, actually meant it to be really just plain and simple? Not liking anything that is Old at all. For example – Bread. No one that I know likes old, mouldy bread. Unless it’s converted to French Toast (the actual reason behind the existence of French Toast, by the way) Do you?
Again to be honest. I actually prefer the former meaning.
There will never be anything contemptuous about the smell of old books, the warmth of a familiar embrace, the comfort of the old blanket, the glee of meeting a long lost friend, the use of an ink pen, the clickety clack of a typewriter, the smell of your mother’s cooking, or even just feeling and knowing the oldest form of love you, as an individual, would have ever known - that of a parent’s.
The New, on the other hand, causes my skin to crawl. Like the onset of an allergic reaction. Meeting someone I haven’t met before causes me so much of distress, I’d rather run a mile away (I am THE laziest person I know) than face him/her. There exists so much of unwanted stress. The obligation of making small talk. The struggle to find something to say. Uncomfortable silences. Attempting to keep in touch. Discovering at a later date all those faults in him/her. And in the end ALL that effort went to waste. The same goes for someTHING New as well. Like a fashion trend. Or a new pair of shoes. (They should have Statutory Warnings on them - Beware! They BITE!!)
The New just makes me want to hibernate in the Old.
Which makes me wonder.
What was I like when the Old was New at some point? Tolerant, perhaps?
To be honest, I always wondered what the person who created this supposedly enlightening quote, ACTUALLY meant by this. Even though noted scholars (self-proclaimed ones, I’m sure), defined this idiom as the more you know something or someone, the more you start to find faults and dislike things about it or them.
But what if the person who coined this confusion in my head, actually meant it to be really just plain and simple? Not liking anything that is Old at all. For example – Bread. No one that I know likes old, mouldy bread. Unless it’s converted to French Toast (the actual reason behind the existence of French Toast, by the way) Do you?
Again to be honest. I actually prefer the former meaning.
There will never be anything contemptuous about the smell of old books, the warmth of a familiar embrace, the comfort of the old blanket, the glee of meeting a long lost friend, the use of an ink pen, the clickety clack of a typewriter, the smell of your mother’s cooking, or even just feeling and knowing the oldest form of love you, as an individual, would have ever known - that of a parent’s.
The New, on the other hand, causes my skin to crawl. Like the onset of an allergic reaction. Meeting someone I haven’t met before causes me so much of distress, I’d rather run a mile away (I am THE laziest person I know) than face him/her. There exists so much of unwanted stress. The obligation of making small talk. The struggle to find something to say. Uncomfortable silences. Attempting to keep in touch. Discovering at a later date all those faults in him/her. And in the end ALL that effort went to waste. The same goes for someTHING New as well. Like a fashion trend. Or a new pair of shoes. (They should have Statutory Warnings on them - Beware! They BITE!!)
The New just makes me want to hibernate in the Old.
Which makes me wonder.
What was I like when the Old was New at some point? Tolerant, perhaps?
Friday, April 23, 2010
Spurt! Cough! GASP!!
There’s something about excessive time on your hands that makes you WANT to do a lot of things but also temporarily reduces you into a coma like state where you end up doing NOTHING worthwhile.
Which is exactly what has happened to me.
So this is me, poking my head out of this coma like bubble that surrounds me, for a gasp of fresh air.
My vacation in the Andaman Islands was fabulous. I have returned as a Brown Beach Bum, with sympathetic glances from all those around me, including my over critical mother. Those glances scream ‘TAN!!’. My deliciously lovely boyfriend (it seems juvenile to use the term boyfriend but manfriend really just sounds like dog to me), on the other hand, thinks I look ‘healthy’ with some colour on me. Living under the same roof as my mother, has subjected me to the application of tan removal gunk on myself, which she thoroughly monitors. I, on the other hand, will never understand hers or the greater section of this country’s baleful view of fair being beautiful. It is just easier doing what she tells me to do rather than willingly subject myself to her constant nagging. She is actually quite a sweetheart. I just like to complain a lot.
Those of you on my Facebook friend list have the opportunity to view my vacation photo album. For those of you who don’t, this post will be followed by some pictures attached. If there’s paradise in our country, it’s the Andaman Islands. Next stop for me… Spain…well…hopefully.
During the course of my vacation, I was accompanied by Haruki Murakami’s ‘The Elephant Vanishes’ and Elizabeth Gilbert’s ‘Eat Pray Love’. While Murakami’s short stories calls for a huh! (the novels are more captivating), ‘Eat Pray Love’ was intensely visual and written in conspicuous detail. Needless to say the latter was relished with great fervour.
Being back in Bombay, after a quick stop over in Gurgaon (where the deliciously lovely boyfriend resides), is comparatively dull. Dullness, which is all too consuming, has reduced me to a pile of goo. A state which I am happy to be in, since a lifetime of employment and responsibility stands before me. So until the next post, have the pleasure of viewing the following photographs.
Xoxo
P
Which is exactly what has happened to me.
So this is me, poking my head out of this coma like bubble that surrounds me, for a gasp of fresh air.
My vacation in the Andaman Islands was fabulous. I have returned as a Brown Beach Bum, with sympathetic glances from all those around me, including my over critical mother. Those glances scream ‘TAN!!’. My deliciously lovely boyfriend (it seems juvenile to use the term boyfriend but manfriend really just sounds like dog to me), on the other hand, thinks I look ‘healthy’ with some colour on me. Living under the same roof as my mother, has subjected me to the application of tan removal gunk on myself, which she thoroughly monitors. I, on the other hand, will never understand hers or the greater section of this country’s baleful view of fair being beautiful. It is just easier doing what she tells me to do rather than willingly subject myself to her constant nagging. She is actually quite a sweetheart. I just like to complain a lot.
Those of you on my Facebook friend list have the opportunity to view my vacation photo album. For those of you who don’t, this post will be followed by some pictures attached. If there’s paradise in our country, it’s the Andaman Islands. Next stop for me… Spain…well…hopefully.
During the course of my vacation, I was accompanied by Haruki Murakami’s ‘The Elephant Vanishes’ and Elizabeth Gilbert’s ‘Eat Pray Love’. While Murakami’s short stories calls for a huh! (the novels are more captivating), ‘Eat Pray Love’ was intensely visual and written in conspicuous detail. Needless to say the latter was relished with great fervour.
Being back in Bombay, after a quick stop over in Gurgaon (where the deliciously lovely boyfriend resides), is comparatively dull. Dullness, which is all too consuming, has reduced me to a pile of goo. A state which I am happy to be in, since a lifetime of employment and responsibility stands before me. So until the next post, have the pleasure of viewing the following photographs.
Xoxo
P
The Andaman Islands
.JPG)
Please note that all rights for the photographs and texts on this blog, unless otherwise mentioned, rests with the author.Please do not use without permission.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Love and Marriage. A Blind Institution?
With a cup of cold ‘kaapi’ to beat the sweltering heat in Bombay, my mind churns along with the air conditioner and with the conversation I had earlier in the day with my mother’s family friend who came to visit us today.
Draped in the colours of a widow; sporting a short, rather funky for her age, haircut and with wrinkled fingers, protectively holding on to her peg of whisky; I mistook her for someone with modern ideologies until the following words spilled out from her mouth and washed away all the new found respect I had for a woman, who proudly lives independently, in a remote city, half way across the country, at the age of 77.
“Darling! You have a MBA degree. Do you know other such educated, ‘ripe’ Bengali girls for a possible match for my grandson?”
I choked on the water I was drinking, as I processed the question. What proceeded was my face producing its unique smile and I replied with a firm 'NO'. No ‘ripe’ friend of mine is coming anywhere near her pansy grandson who gets his grandmother to be his life partner pimp. I was about to retort with a more subtle but equally rude statement when my mother, being my mother, recognized the afore mentioned smile and quickly changed the topic to marital scandals in the family.
Which, in turn, reminded me of the conversation my aunt wanted to have with me, which she began with ‘Marriage is an institution….’
Shaadi.com; SecondShaadi.com; Marriage Counseling; Self-proclaimed Matchmakers; Horoscope Matching; Matrimonial Advertisements, Pre-nups; Divorce Settlements; Infidelity; Impotency; Wife Beaters; Rapists; Sexless Marriages; Same Sex Marriages; Nagging Mother-in-laws; Child Custody Battles…This unfortunately is what constitutes the institution of Marriage.
What happened to keeping things simple?
Like just loving each other and supporting each other and being companions for the rest of your lives.
I honestly believe in the above mentioned fact. I also believe in one more fact.
‘Hubby-to-be! Keep your mouth shut and your credit card ready!”
:-)
Xoxo
P
Draped in the colours of a widow; sporting a short, rather funky for her age, haircut and with wrinkled fingers, protectively holding on to her peg of whisky; I mistook her for someone with modern ideologies until the following words spilled out from her mouth and washed away all the new found respect I had for a woman, who proudly lives independently, in a remote city, half way across the country, at the age of 77.
“Darling! You have a MBA degree. Do you know other such educated, ‘ripe’ Bengali girls for a possible match for my grandson?”
I choked on the water I was drinking, as I processed the question. What proceeded was my face producing its unique smile and I replied with a firm 'NO'. No ‘ripe’ friend of mine is coming anywhere near her pansy grandson who gets his grandmother to be his life partner pimp. I was about to retort with a more subtle but equally rude statement when my mother, being my mother, recognized the afore mentioned smile and quickly changed the topic to marital scandals in the family.
Which, in turn, reminded me of the conversation my aunt wanted to have with me, which she began with ‘Marriage is an institution….’
Shaadi.com; SecondShaadi.com; Marriage Counseling; Self-proclaimed Matchmakers; Horoscope Matching; Matrimonial Advertisements, Pre-nups; Divorce Settlements; Infidelity; Impotency; Wife Beaters; Rapists; Sexless Marriages; Same Sex Marriages; Nagging Mother-in-laws; Child Custody Battles…This unfortunately is what constitutes the institution of Marriage.
What happened to keeping things simple?
Like just loving each other and supporting each other and being companions for the rest of your lives.
I honestly believe in the above mentioned fact. I also believe in one more fact.
‘Hubby-to-be! Keep your mouth shut and your credit card ready!”
:-)
Xoxo
P
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Travails of The Indian Rail
Being the ‘Artful Dodger’ involves hoisting/carrying luggage while squeezing through a sea of human flesh and dodging the occasional sleazy grab/pinch or the elusive pickpocket.
Requiring Potty Training involves having to squat in the train ‘toylate’ perfectly without toppling over or touching ANYTHING which is an art by itself.
Practicing the art of Meditation involves deep breathing, while resisting the urge to kick the talkative, over smart Bihari vomiting his views on the upcoming IPL.
Snapping at the loud, talkative group at 3 AM in the morning.
Being well equipped with a good read, a couple of good movies on the laptop but more importantly Gelusil, Fresh Ones, and Lifebuoy Hand Sanitizer.
Turning a deaf ear to the symphony of snores emitted from the ‘dead-to-the-world’ co passengers.
Super strong stomach muscles helps to keep dismal train food down, while pretending not to notice a co passenger’s protruding, pussing (about to pop out any second and land on the afore mentioned dismal food) horn.
Realizing in astonishment that people still purchase Bollywood movie cassettes.
Trying to remain astonished even though the annoying, leering male co passenger will blast the damn music at the maximum possible decibel that his rather ancient portable player will cough out.
Day dreaming and pretending the lower side berth of the train compartment is a hut complete with a water bottle holder, an electrical socket point and a gigantic window overlooking the beautiful countryside landscapes.
Recollecting that another word for train compartment is also ‘bogey’.
Enjoying the thrill of hopping off onto every obscure station that the train stops at including one that is called ‘Igatpuri’.
Surviving acute and newly acquired hunger pangs by snacking on junk food and proceeding towards complaining of a stomach ache.
Happy (smirk) Journey!
Requiring Potty Training involves having to squat in the train ‘toylate’ perfectly without toppling over or touching ANYTHING which is an art by itself.
Practicing the art of Meditation involves deep breathing, while resisting the urge to kick the talkative, over smart Bihari vomiting his views on the upcoming IPL.
Snapping at the loud, talkative group at 3 AM in the morning.
Being well equipped with a good read, a couple of good movies on the laptop but more importantly Gelusil, Fresh Ones, and Lifebuoy Hand Sanitizer.
Turning a deaf ear to the symphony of snores emitted from the ‘dead-to-the-world’ co passengers.
Super strong stomach muscles helps to keep dismal train food down, while pretending not to notice a co passenger’s protruding, pussing (about to pop out any second and land on the afore mentioned dismal food) horn.
Realizing in astonishment that people still purchase Bollywood movie cassettes.
Trying to remain astonished even though the annoying, leering male co passenger will blast the damn music at the maximum possible decibel that his rather ancient portable player will cough out.
Day dreaming and pretending the lower side berth of the train compartment is a hut complete with a water bottle holder, an electrical socket point and a gigantic window overlooking the beautiful countryside landscapes.
Recollecting that another word for train compartment is also ‘bogey’.
Enjoying the thrill of hopping off onto every obscure station that the train stops at including one that is called ‘Igatpuri’.
Surviving acute and newly acquired hunger pangs by snacking on junk food and proceeding towards complaining of a stomach ache.
Happy (smirk) Journey!
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Oh Calcutta!
You smothered me for 18 years but you knowingly harboured a rebel. The sounds of the Leftist Movement, Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose, the Naxalite Movement and Rabindranath Tagore resonate through you.
Speckled with political graffiti representing anything from propaganda to limericks to witty banter. Adda sessions over ‘cha’ involving the exchange of freestyle intellect. From Para Cricket to Para Pujo.
The dying but resplendent Victoria Memorial. The largest and the oldest Indian Museum. The evergreen Maidan. The ancient Howrah Bridge. The more contemporary Hooghly Bridge. The brave Ganga flowing slowly but surely.
College Street with the notorious Presidency College and the Calcutta University, overrun with used bookstores. A potpourri of literature and text books. The radiant Park Street. The haunt of fine dining and nightlife.
From Satyajit Ray to Aparna Sen. From ‘Goopi Gyne Baaga Byne’ to ‘Chokher Bali’. From Bankim Chandra Chattopadhay to Kazi Nazrul Islam. Lasting impressions forever left in the soul.
From Rabindrasangeeth to Baul. Music to the ears.
The Statesman. The Telegraph. Anandabazar Patrika. Your eternal stalwarts.
The Kolkata Book Fair. The Dover Lane Music Festival. The Kolkata Film Festival. They come to you once a year and leave us gasping for more.
Durga Pujo every waxing moon in the month of ‘Ashwin’. You vibrate with the beats of the ‘dhak’, the priest, always just skin and bones, melodiously reciting mantras and the ‘dhoonuchi naach’ performed by the married women, all within the elaborate ‘pandals’ that are temporarily sprayed all over you. And the ‘bhog’. Food of the Gods. Literally.
Cricket at the proud Eden Gardens with the smell of fish fry and cigarettes lingering in the air. Football in the Maidan with screaming, hard core fanatics. Golf at the Royal Calcutta Golf Club for the old world Calcuttans, peppered with the urban youth. Equestrian Races and Polo matches at the Royal Calcutta Turf Club for the hoity toity as well as the quintessential gamblers.
From Macher Jhol to Rossogolla. From Mishti Doi to the urban Katti Roll. From Mughlai to Momos. From Rahmania to Azad Hind Dhaba (made famous by M.F. Hussain, mind you). From Park Street to Tangra. A gastronomical wonder.
From ‘shari’ clad women with thickly laden ‘shindoor’ on foreheads and red and white bangles clinking on their wrists to opinionated tie-n-dye kurta and ‘dhuti’ clad men with the occasional monkey-cap.
The Bengali belief in homeopathy, Marxism, fish, sweets at every excuse, education and politics palpitating at every corner of every street.
Colloquialisms often heard. ‘Bhadralok’ for gentleman. ‘Dhop’ for stuff and nonsense. ‘Backside’ with reference to behind something. ‘Pleej’ for please.
Founded by Job Charnock, the ‘Land of Kali’, pimpled with trams and the Metro and freckled with black and yellow ambassador taxis, it is in You that I will forever be rooted.
Speckled with political graffiti representing anything from propaganda to limericks to witty banter. Adda sessions over ‘cha’ involving the exchange of freestyle intellect. From Para Cricket to Para Pujo.
The dying but resplendent Victoria Memorial. The largest and the oldest Indian Museum. The evergreen Maidan. The ancient Howrah Bridge. The more contemporary Hooghly Bridge. The brave Ganga flowing slowly but surely.
College Street with the notorious Presidency College and the Calcutta University, overrun with used bookstores. A potpourri of literature and text books. The radiant Park Street. The haunt of fine dining and nightlife.
From Satyajit Ray to Aparna Sen. From ‘Goopi Gyne Baaga Byne’ to ‘Chokher Bali’. From Bankim Chandra Chattopadhay to Kazi Nazrul Islam. Lasting impressions forever left in the soul.
From Rabindrasangeeth to Baul. Music to the ears.
The Statesman. The Telegraph. Anandabazar Patrika. Your eternal stalwarts.
The Kolkata Book Fair. The Dover Lane Music Festival. The Kolkata Film Festival. They come to you once a year and leave us gasping for more.
Durga Pujo every waxing moon in the month of ‘Ashwin’. You vibrate with the beats of the ‘dhak’, the priest, always just skin and bones, melodiously reciting mantras and the ‘dhoonuchi naach’ performed by the married women, all within the elaborate ‘pandals’ that are temporarily sprayed all over you. And the ‘bhog’. Food of the Gods. Literally.
Cricket at the proud Eden Gardens with the smell of fish fry and cigarettes lingering in the air. Football in the Maidan with screaming, hard core fanatics. Golf at the Royal Calcutta Golf Club for the old world Calcuttans, peppered with the urban youth. Equestrian Races and Polo matches at the Royal Calcutta Turf Club for the hoity toity as well as the quintessential gamblers.
From Macher Jhol to Rossogolla. From Mishti Doi to the urban Katti Roll. From Mughlai to Momos. From Rahmania to Azad Hind Dhaba (made famous by M.F. Hussain, mind you). From Park Street to Tangra. A gastronomical wonder.
From ‘shari’ clad women with thickly laden ‘shindoor’ on foreheads and red and white bangles clinking on their wrists to opinionated tie-n-dye kurta and ‘dhuti’ clad men with the occasional monkey-cap.
The Bengali belief in homeopathy, Marxism, fish, sweets at every excuse, education and politics palpitating at every corner of every street.
Colloquialisms often heard. ‘Bhadralok’ for gentleman. ‘Dhop’ for stuff and nonsense. ‘Backside’ with reference to behind something. ‘Pleej’ for please.
Founded by Job Charnock, the ‘Land of Kali’, pimpled with trams and the Metro and freckled with black and yellow ambassador taxis, it is in You that I will forever be rooted.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Empty but Heavy
To,
Those who read the following, let it be known that that this post originates from the depths of a saddened mind and the heaviest of hearts.
Mani – The greatest matriarchal figure I have ever known. The only source of unconditional love I have had the greatest fortune of receiving. My memories of you will always be intertwined with the soft fabric of your creamy white sari; the tinkling of your gold bangles; the shuffle of your rubber chappals; your soft, blue rimmed eyes shining with intelligence and knowledge; the taste of pure love in the crisp ‘Nimkis’, the fluffy ‘Loochis’, the orange sweetness of the ‘Jeelipees’ you made for me; your enthusiasm at my birth, captured forever in old photographs; my only association with a grandfather I never had the chance to get to know better; your 19th century rules and regulations on hygiene that I will never be able to understand; the closest proximity that I have reached to history, that being your presence before the greatest figures of Indian History –Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose and your ability to always know what was going through my mind without even being my own mother. Even though you never lived to receive your ‘putul’, your only earnest wish from me, I’d like you to know that as soon as I can I will fulfill your only request. Today I performed a short ritual for your soul to rest in peace forever but this, I want you to know, will never be the last goodbye. Mani, you will always run through my veins, my very being.
Reuben – Warm, kind, generous and loving. The one with the brightest smile and the most unique giggle that will always ring in my ears. Remember the day we first met, long before AIESEC, in the TT room of your Boat Club apartment? The way you tripped when you saw me and your apologetic smile when we were being introduced? Memories of you will always be associated with your blue and white basketball jersey; the wire rimmed spectacles that always suited your face; bunking college and wandering aimlessly through the city of Madras with the rest of the gang; hours spent in my PG, Breakpoint and ‘My Kinda Place’ and other such inconsistent places; those few weeks we had in Kolkata; conversations with your charming parents and warm sister at Udita; the uncanniness in the similarity of the warmth in your and your family's smiles; heart to hearts with your sister which involved your occasional tid bits; tea on Park Street; driving through the City of Joy with Rolf in your large hearted Zen; cajoling Apache and our last chat on Facebook. I never even had the chance to give you one last hug or even say goodbye. Till I visit you in your final resting place, please accept these words as my hug.
Every time a memory of either of you slips sneakily into my humdrum life, I will ache inside. Forever filled with the regrets of not keeping in touch more or not calling more often or even doing things differently, I will now be able to see through the foolish and shallow world we live in and try and emulate your greatest qualities in order to be the person I want to become.
Love you forever, Mani.
Miss you, Reuben.
From,
A grieving granddaughter.
A stunned friend.
Those who read the following, let it be known that that this post originates from the depths of a saddened mind and the heaviest of hearts.
Mani – The greatest matriarchal figure I have ever known. The only source of unconditional love I have had the greatest fortune of receiving. My memories of you will always be intertwined with the soft fabric of your creamy white sari; the tinkling of your gold bangles; the shuffle of your rubber chappals; your soft, blue rimmed eyes shining with intelligence and knowledge; the taste of pure love in the crisp ‘Nimkis’, the fluffy ‘Loochis’, the orange sweetness of the ‘Jeelipees’ you made for me; your enthusiasm at my birth, captured forever in old photographs; my only association with a grandfather I never had the chance to get to know better; your 19th century rules and regulations on hygiene that I will never be able to understand; the closest proximity that I have reached to history, that being your presence before the greatest figures of Indian History –Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose and your ability to always know what was going through my mind without even being my own mother. Even though you never lived to receive your ‘putul’, your only earnest wish from me, I’d like you to know that as soon as I can I will fulfill your only request. Today I performed a short ritual for your soul to rest in peace forever but this, I want you to know, will never be the last goodbye. Mani, you will always run through my veins, my very being.
Reuben – Warm, kind, generous and loving. The one with the brightest smile and the most unique giggle that will always ring in my ears. Remember the day we first met, long before AIESEC, in the TT room of your Boat Club apartment? The way you tripped when you saw me and your apologetic smile when we were being introduced? Memories of you will always be associated with your blue and white basketball jersey; the wire rimmed spectacles that always suited your face; bunking college and wandering aimlessly through the city of Madras with the rest of the gang; hours spent in my PG, Breakpoint and ‘My Kinda Place’ and other such inconsistent places; those few weeks we had in Kolkata; conversations with your charming parents and warm sister at Udita; the uncanniness in the similarity of the warmth in your and your family's smiles; heart to hearts with your sister which involved your occasional tid bits; tea on Park Street; driving through the City of Joy with Rolf in your large hearted Zen; cajoling Apache and our last chat on Facebook. I never even had the chance to give you one last hug or even say goodbye. Till I visit you in your final resting place, please accept these words as my hug.
Every time a memory of either of you slips sneakily into my humdrum life, I will ache inside. Forever filled with the regrets of not keeping in touch more or not calling more often or even doing things differently, I will now be able to see through the foolish and shallow world we live in and try and emulate your greatest qualities in order to be the person I want to become.
Love you forever, Mani.
Miss you, Reuben.
From,
A grieving granddaughter.
A stunned friend.
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