I've been looking for newer and more intense yoga sessions to try out. Sis has been telling me about the Bikram Yoga sessions that she goes to, and as with everything else that she tries, I wanted to try this one too. Bikram Yoga is a specific sequence of 26 postures and 2 breathing exercises. Each posture is held for a long time, typically half a minute or a full minute. The entire sequence takes about 90 minutes, and is practiced in a studio heated to about 40 degree Celsius and 95% humidity.

This was the first time I tried Bikram Yoga, and though I was very enthusiastic about it last night, I began to have slight misgivings in the car. After all, 7am is core sleep time for me, and here I was, dressed up and speeding towards a superheated(feels like!) studio to pull and stretch. Phew.

It was really amazing to see how many people were willing to torture their bodies for fitness. Most were dressed in just speedos or shorts. In comparison, I was dressed like a bridegroom. Track pants and t-shirt and all. Well, they knew what to expect and I didn't. We proceeded to sign up for the session. I got a wholesome student discount for 10 sessions(after the lady at the reception had incorrectly identified me as Sis's husband. As is my wont everywhere). The receptionist/instructor seemed a tad too enthusiastic for someone who woke up at 6 am on a Sunday. You know the type:

Situation: Dust-filled room with all possible allergens in the air.
You: Ahhhhhchooo!!
She: OMG!! you have a fantastic sense of humor!! ROTFL!! The perfect person to have around on a weekend morning!!
You: What the heck!!(to yourself).

Entered the heated yoga studio. All eyes were focused on the overdressed newbie. I could see them all in the mirror, grinning at me. I just pretended to ignore them all(what more could I do!!). A few minutes later, the instructor entered the room. All her sense of humor was gone, I noticed. She started us out on the pranayams. Told us to do it with a smile on the face. Instantly, there was a wide smile on my face(Cakewalk, I was thinking). The regulars were smirking(Newbie, they were all thinking).

Then the instructor started us on the stretches.The stretches were nothing new - I had done them all before. But at a rate of a few thousand per second. I really started feeling the stretches and bends when they were held for a long time. Muscles that were dormant for the past decade or so started waking up, screaming in agony. I broke out into a flushing sweat. I broke each posture atleast a couple of times, wiping the sweat off my face(useless, for it came right back). By the first interval, I was already in curse mode, cursing Sis for telling me about this routine, cursing the sadistic instructor, cursing the Adonises who were grinning at me in the mirror. And of course, me, for waking up so early on Sunday to sweat and torture my poor body.

Yoga is supposed to increase energy levels and stamina. Soon into the second set, there was a soft thud. My hands had slipped and I had fallen face-first onto the mat. And I had no energy left in me to even sit up. My heart was threatening to stop if I did so much as inhale another breath. While I was contemplating this terrible deadlock, I heard the faraway voice of the instructor asking Sis whether her bro was alright. Sis nodded through giggles and her own gasps for breath while I stared morosely at the instructor. She told me to keep my head above the heart, but I was too muddled up to think. Ultimately I settled for a "heart inside ribcage" position. I am, nevertheless, proud to report that I missed only about 2 minutes of the 90-minute session.

The floor postures were relatively easier, but still taxed the elasticity limits of tendons and other things that made their presence known only recently. I suspected that the clock in the studio moved slowly, but my watch concurred with the wall clock. Sigh. I was one happy soul when the instructor finally left us in shavasana(an apt name for the posture. I was already a corpse. A sweating corpse). A few minutes later, I picked myself up to follow Sis out of the door. Every single joint was quivering.

Back home, Sis advised me to "listen" to my body. I am - my body is wailing. But one thing is for sure - I'm going back for more. I just love challenges, and I'm sure my body will rise up to the challenge in no time. If you're enthusiastic about Yoga, do try this out. Meanwhile, I'll go and lick my Yoga injuries.

Replies to comments may be a little delayed. Even my fingertips are sore.

The last three posts didn't sound like me, right? Right. I wasn't all that idle this past week.

Divya asked me to write an entry for the Express Yourself Contest on Sulekha. Honestly, I didn't want to, but decided to write anyway, just to humor Divya ;). But things just got so interesting and addictive, that I wrote not just one, but three entries. I have cross-posted those entries below(There. Now you can't accuse me of self-plagiarism!!).

Caveat: The threads of these entries are true, but the narrative is highly "masala-cized". Couldn't help it.

There are so many talented writers out there, and honestly, I felt that some of the entries surpassed mine in quality in content. Nevertheless, I am humbled by the judge's decision to award a runners-up trophy to Dangerous Embarrassment. Heart-felt congratulations to all the winners and participants. The winners and trophies can be found here. Divya, not at all surprisingly, won in the poetry category with this superb entry.

So much so for blowing my own trumpet :D. As Divya said, many more people who write here at blogger should write at sulekha and take EYCs by storm. Yes, Sleeping Devil, you. Please? :)

Did you notice the abnormally huge number of links in this post? I just did!!

I was very shy and quiet as a child. Like any other child, I too used to get into violent fights and brawls, but only with those kids who were very close to me. The outside world would see me as a docile young kitten with a mild temperament and impeccable manners. So much so that when Mom told others of the thrashings sis was subjected to at my hands, they thought Mom was a habitual liar(Mom dropped the complaining habit soon after). No, I wasn't doing it unconsciously. I quite often went out of the way to be polite and nice to people. This habit of mine put me into a discomfiting situation one fine day. I should have seen it coming.

Every summer, we used to make a trip to our native place in Kerala. It used to be a whirlwind tour, visiting our aunts, uncles and cousins, as well as those of our parents. Since we were the only members of the family outside Kerala at that time, at each home, we were given receptions befitting royal visits. Mango and jackfruit delicacies at every home(Mom used to carry a strip of Digene in her purse permanently. We used to pop one into our mouths each time we came out of one house, before going into the next one).

This happened when I was ten or eleven years old. We had gone to visit my grand-aunt(Mother's aunt). She was known throughout the extended family to be an excellent cook(Relatives visiting her home used to time their visits to coincide with lunch or dinner. She was that famous). So off we went to visit her, empty stomachs and all. As expected, there was a delicious spicy fragrance greeting us at the gate. We eagerly went in and greeted grand-aunt, and after the customary greeting, she invited us to sample a seasonal delicacy that she had made for us. This was where it all started.

Mom and sis accepted immediately, whereas, for some strange reason, I decided to play the decent guy. In a very formal and polite vein, I declined(the plan being that she would insist, and then I would accept. And then polish off whatever was placed in front of me). I had not accounted for the informal and unrefined(albeit loving) attitude of these people who lived in the beautiful countryside, far away from the polished etiquette of city life.


She said, “Looks like our little boy is not hungry. It's ok, you both eat. Come on”.


And I sat there watching my mom and sis gorge on the delicacies, while I had to be content with the smells and sights of the delicacy being devoured. Aunt couldn't get why sis was laughing her head off. Years later, to this day, the story is recounted at every family function, embarrassing me to no end. But one thing is for sure – I have learnt my lesson!!

Embarrassments seem to follow me around. Most of these situations are my doings – situations that I create out of my own naivety, stupidity or carelessness. I curse myself when I fall into such situations, but who do I blame when embarrassments are gifted by those around me!!

Case in point. Couple of years back, my uncle used to stay and work abroad. Aunt used to attend college in Bangalore, commuting to and from our home. She used to visit her in-laws place in Chennai every couple of months, and my cousin Deepak or I used to take turns and accompany her on the trip. Aunt is the jolly kind who has no qualms in coming down to our level and clowning around with us. Therefore, we used to take every chance to go with her on the trip and have loads of fun.

This particular trip happened during the summer vacations, and since both Deepak and I were free, both of us set out to Chennai with aunt. I even laughed at Mom when she cautioned us against all three stepping out of the house together (I clearly remember taunting Mom for her superstitious beliefs. Ayyo). We reached the station in time to find that the railways, in all its wisdom, had assigned two seats on one side of the aisle and the third on the other side. Deepak was already smirking when he saw me settling down on the lone seat across the aisle. He turned his attention quickly to the happenings on the platform, while I sat quietly and sulked. Aunt attempted to cheer me up, but nothing was working – I was sullen.

There was a Chennai maami sitting next to aunt, and aunt was being checked out keenly. Aunt had been to a friend’s wedding previous day, and had her hands anointed liberally with mehndi. She was also wearing some jewellery since she was going to her in-laws place. Maami put two and two together and was soon whispering into her husband’s ear. The husband looked grumpy, but after some skillful cajoling by maami, came to me and told me that maami would move over to where he was sitting, he would sit in my seat, and I could sit next to aunt. After some compulsion, I agreed, mumbling my thanks.

A few minutes after I had settled down, maami looked over and smiled at us. I smiled back. And then maami dropped the bombshell – “You are made for each other. How long ago did you get married?” Aunt and I looked at each other in shock and confusion, while Deepak burst out laughing. While aunt was, in between bouts of laughter, explaining the situation to maami, I was hoping that the floor of the compartment open up and swallow me up. Sadly, Indian Railways does not offer that facility on its trains.

Embarrassments happen to me on an hourly basis. When embarrassments happen in the company of strangers, in most cases, you could attempt to save face by putting on a nonchalant expression as if to say “This is no big embarrassment, I infact intended it this way”, whereas there is no scope for such maneuvering when embarrassments happen in the company of friends and family. Could embarrassing situations turn out to be potentially dangerous? They could, as I found out on a family outing.

My sister visits us from the US every year, and when she does, we hit our familiar sightseeing circuits in Bangalore like Lalbagh, Bannerghatta National Park, etc. Nowadays, we choose destinations based on my niece’s age and choices. This year’s demand was to see Bannerghatta, so that was where we went to. There is a general perception in my family that I am very careless (not entirely uncalled for, in my opinion, but which I nevertheless, for ego-sake, fight tooth and nail). Simple incidents like dropping a pencil are enough to trigger this off (“You are very kher-less”, Dad thunders. “Tch-tch”, mother goes. Sis giggles in a way that only gals can, ripping off the shreds of self-respect that I am clinging to). This trip was a spectacular demonstration of my carelessness, and provided much mirth to everybody involved, except me and the other party involved.

Strolling around the park, the other men-folk had their hands full carrying essential items like bags of chips, biscuits, “etc”. The girl-folk ran off to point out the animals and giggle some more. The women-folk were engrossed in issues of their own. So the niece was left in my care, and we strolled around contentedly, hand-in-hand. I am usually a quiet person, and so is the three-year-old left in my care. So we strolled around the animal cages, just watching the animals and birds, not talking much. She would sometimes run ahead for a closer look at the animals, then come back, take my hand, and off we would go. Over time, unbeknownst to any of us, my niece and I were separated from the group.

A little while later, I grew conscious of many people watching us as we strolled through the exhibits. The holiday crowd was most families around Bangalore. Women briefly glanced at us before averting their eyes, while the men looked at us with a snigger. I sniggered back, wondering what was wrong in walking a three-year-old kid around animal cages. The sniggers and averted eyes followed us around. At long last, I saw our group at a distance, and hurried us along towards the family.

They were grinning too. Hey wait a minute, who was that holding on to my sister’s hand? Was that my niece?? I turned to my left side to see who was holding on to my hand, and horror of horrors, it was a girl of seventeen-eighteenish!! It all came flooding to me in a minute – I had taken some random person’s hand and strolled on, without realizing that I had separated from my niece. The kid had found her way back to her mom, while I cavorted through the zoo with a stranger on my arm. What’s worse, the girl realized what had happened only when I jerked my arm away in shock and confusion. Instant reaction – she started weeping. It fell to my mom and sis to comfort her, while dad had to calm down her livid father who had arrived at the scene.

And I stood there red-faced, unable to say a word. And just as things were calming down, I heard a lady whisper to her friend “The boy and girl are lovers. They came to the park to roam in each others’ company, and now their parents have caught them together”. Oh no, the ignominy. I am careless.

Ever since I took my driving test, Abhi has been badgering me to write a post on my experiences. I seriously doubt that the request comes from a genuine desire to know, but here goes, all the same.

Dad had made it amply clear to me that I would graduate from washing the car to driving it, only once I turned 18 AND gotten atleast a learner's license. Eager to take him up on his word, I went to the RTO on the day I turned eighteen and applied for the learner's license. I had to produce every document like my birth certificate, telephone bill, water bill, ration card, passport, SSLC marks card, PUC admission letters and what not. I had taken along my grandmother's birth certificate too, but very surprisingly they didn't ask for it. Finally, I was ushered into a room to take the written test. The written test had impossible traffic situations like smiling traffic policemen, BMTC buses driving on the correct side of the road, pedestrians crossing at zebra crossings and green signal lights. There should have been a fourth option that said iv) Hahaha. Then I would have flunked the test. I finished the test and handed it over to a person who looked like Mr. T. N. Seshan, who informed me that I could now drive, but only with a person who was licensed to kill, sorry drive, on Indian roads.

I had a queer way of driving back then. I never used to know when to change gears, and used to rely on Dad to tell me. Therefore, when I went back for my driving test in 30 days, I took Dad along too. Fortunately, Dad was allowed to come with us on the test. I changed gears whenever Dad coughed, therefore, save the examiner thinking Dad had tuberculosis or something, no other damage was done. The final phase of the test was reversing the vehicle inside the Yeshwantpur market. I saw fleeting images of fruit and vegetable vendors leaping out of my way and yellow musambis flying into the air(as seen in the rearview mirror), Dad coughing like a chronic smoker(signalling me to apply the brakes before the car was fully wrecked) and the examiner shouting and flailing his arms to ward off certain death. Need I tell you what the outcome of the test was?

I subsequently passed the four-wheeler test, then went in for the two-wheeler test. The examiner had no doubts about wanting to accompany me on the ride. He told me to ride up to a certain point, make a U-turn and come back. I went up to the circle, signalled and turned perfectly, and came back. I was so euphoric that my eyes were totally clouded by tears. Due to this temporary loss of vision, I completely missed the RTO building entrance and went to the next building, wondering where the examiner and other applicants had disappeared suddenly. Disqualified for missing the target. My friends, watching the test from vantage positions outside the RTO, fell off their perches laughing at the sight.

For my California driving license test, I was forced to learn a 200-page booklet by-heart. Here everything is played by the book, by numbers. They even specify blood alcohol levels that designate you drunk or not drunk(We operate differently in India, right? If your father wears white khadi, gold bracelets and knows a lot of people in high places, then you're not drunk. Alternatively, if you are stopped near Windsor Manor, made to blow into a policeman's face, and the policeman falls down in a faint from the alcohol fumes, then you will be charged for drunken driving. I see some of you smiling..). There's absolutely no humor in the exam paper either. In India, for example, we have questions like:
6) You are driving in your car and you spot a cow near a zebra crossing. According to traffic rules,
a) You have to politely wait until the cow has crossed the road.
b) The cow has to let you cross first, since you have a car and the cow does not.
c) The cow cannot cross at zebra crossings; cows can cross only at cow crossings.
which send you guffawing, startling all the other test-takers and T. N. Seshan look-alikes. 

In the US, all the questions are serious. For example, questions like:
2) You want to make a left turn at an upcoming intersection. You must
a) Put on your left turn indicators.
b) Put on your right turn indicators.
c) Put on your headlights.
make you sweat in the middle of a California afternoon. Thus, it was no mean feat that I managed to scrape through the test.

The driving test was very formal(an atmosphere that I am unaccustomed to, and which I particularly detest). My time-tested techniques like making eye-contact and smiling met with cold, blank stares. Other than accidentally sounding the horn(causing the entire neighborhood to jump up in surprise) and forgetting to change the gear from reverse to drive after parallel parking(causing the car to shoot backward and scare the wits out of a dog-walker and the examiner), there were no major mishaps. Not exactly flying colors, but I still managed to get through the test. I'd prefer Indian driving tests any day.

Lastly, I'll leave you with a little anecdote about how Abhi gave his two-wheeler test. With two years of rich illegal driving experience under his belt, Abhi appeared at the RTO one morning, bright and overconfident. Since the bike offered no guarantee of starting again if switched off, I was deputed to guard the bike while the other guys and girls positioned themselves at vantage points along the route to cheer him on. Tests started, and in a while, it was our hero's turn to show off his riding skills. Donning his leather jacket and helmet(like an overdressed Bollywood villain), Abhi set off with an overconfident smile. According to eyewitnesses, less than a minute had elapsed before our candidate disturbed a pack of dogs squabbling over some scraps of food. Assuming that he was a new dog in the fray, the pack turned on him in a trice. What a sight it was to see our knight rider roaring full speed toward the RTO, a pack of mongrels snapping at his upraised heels. Though he broke all the traffic rules possible within a 200-yard route, the kind inspector decided to grant a license to the lucky bugger. Maybe there was a comedy quota(like sports quota) for licenses that I didn't know of.

Yesterday was yet another of those cross-country trips. Thankfully, this time, I don't need to rush back. Whopper of a 24-week vacation, complete with a thrilled niece, chechi, chettan and parents. So it was in that jolly mood that I got on to the flight yesterday. Nothing could dampen my spirits. There was the jolly old lady ahead of me in the boarding line who kept dropping her carry-on on my foot. Each time I smiled at her. To my credit. I smiled at the racist flight attendant(she smiled only at white Americans. I am neither white nor American. Duh. As if I care). I picked out a row that had a plug-point underneath, so I could use the lappy. White Americans grouped me with the Afro Americans, and the Afro Americans grouped me with the Mexicans(bloody immigrant, they must be thinking). Gujarati belles grouped me with lecherous bachelors. In short, the seat next to me was empty. Out came the lappy and off came the shoes. I was going to enjoy this flight. Sadly, no material for a blog post(Nowadays I scan every situation for potential post material. Is this an incurable condition, doctor?).

In the seat pocket in front of me, there was a small booklet that explained what to do in case of emergencies. The illustration was hilarious. There was a strip showing what to do in case the flight crashed over mountains. Once the plane crashes, smiling air hostesses will tell you what to do. Smiling passengers near the emergency row will remove the emergency door, and smiling passengers are expected to get out of the aircraft. Everybody smiling. A happy ending huh? The same thing goes for water landings. You smilingly don your life jacket, rip out your seat cushion, and wait in line to exit the aircraft. After ensuring that everybody has gotten off, the plane will sink. And instead of waiting for the sharks to come and get you, you smilingly swim about in your bright orange life jacket. Until some smiling ship crew come by to pluck you from the water.

Smirking, I put down the booklet and settled down to watch an old Malayalam movie on the lappy. One of the revolutionary movies from Mollywood. This is the earliest movie that I remember, in which the villain is not killed by a combination of multiple gunshots and several stabs with a kitchen knife(the villain, in fact, gets to live). I just love watching these old Indian movies. Makes me laugh until my sides hurt.

In this one, the heroine is a Mallu pop singer. Ever heard of Mallus singing pop? Hahaha. All the "pop" songs were remixed Malayalam devotional songs. Especially pulluvan paattu(songs sung by a particular tribe whose traditional occupation is to appease the snake God Nagaraja). In a fit of rage, a supporting actor says so to the "pop" singer herself. In line with the script, she took it very coolly. I would have eaten him up.

The hero has not one, but many shades of negativity. As in so many other movies, in this one too, the hero is armed with supernatural powers. The script-writer is on a roll, getting the hero to outwit a dozen national security agencies and a couple of international intelligence organizations. I didn't know CBI provides security to Mallu pop singers. Eye opener for me.

Apparently all cars in Kerala are parked unlocked, with the keys in the ignition. Full tank of petrol. Maybe it's a law for all car owners to carry spare fake number plates in the trunk. The hero never has a problem stealing a car and travelling across states. Auto drivers are well-behaved, and the auto fares are always in denominations of Rs. 10, 20, 50, 100, 500, 1000 or 5000(The first auto driver is always ready to go where the actor wants to go. All actors just alight from the auto, pay and walk away without worrying about change. Bangaloreans are allowed a laugh here).

Fight scenes are excellent. The villains patiently wait in a line behind the camera until the hero is ready to deal with them. Four villains at a time(what do you think? The hero has only 2 hands and 2 legs). The goons are all obese, coconut oil-covered and menacing, but that doesn't deter the hero from throwing them into the air at regular intervals. Four of them piled one on top of the other don't hurt the hero, but a perfunctory slap by the hero opens up wounds on these goons' faces. From which magenta-coloured blood flows copiously. When most of the work is done, a single jeep-load of policemen arrive, sirens screaming(like some of your managers, huh? wink wink). 10 policemen alight from the jeep to herd the 9 goons into the vehicle. The Inspector personally commends the hero's actions(stopping short of the President's Bravery medal. I don't know why), and then all 19 people leave in a single jeep(Lugging 9 obese goons and 10 petite policemen, it can still be driven like a Himalayan rally vehicle. Rounding corners on two wheels and splashing water). All vehicles in the movie have screeching brakes. Somebody should talk to the guys in sound effects. Stopping vehicles sounded like neighing horses being reined in in the middle of a 160 km/hr gallop.

Climax scene was no less funny. The hero is holed up in a house, with policemen surrounding the house with assault rifles. At regular intervals, the hero comes out on to the balcony to threaten the policemen with a puny  revolver that has 6 bullets. All the policemen run for cover. Ultimately, the police commissioner realizes that the pop singer is his only hope(The mike is mightier than the sword? Sorry, bad joke), and brings her to the hero's hideout. As the heroine walks towards the house singing a soft song, policemen slow march behind her(the way they march when the Prime Minister is inspecting the guard of honour). Throw in some little children dressed in white, holding candles(I remember they made me do this when I was 5 yrs old, for a Christmas play in school. The baby Jesus was just born. The wax melted and fell on my hand and I ran off the stage screaming. Mary and Joseph were rolling on the floor laughing, while the 3 wise men were shouting for the stage hand to bring down the curtains. The crowd was in splits). While the hero is captivated by the song, the policemen overpower him and disarm him of the revolver and supernatural powers.

In the conclusive scene, all the supporting actors are crying. The hero apologizes to the heroine. The heroine apologizes to the hero's mother. The villains apologize to the supporting actors. The supporting actors apologize to the hero's uncle. The hero's uncle apologizes to the hero's friends, who break the chain by apologizing to everybody in the room. Apologize for what? I don't have a darn clue.

By the time the movie was over, the plane was already lining up for final approach into San Diego. Yay, my vacations are just beginning. Am going to have a lot of fun.

Stay safe, stay happy and come back to the blog often. Ciao.

The yarn factory is decked in black again. I don't like this at all. My friends running away from me one by one.

God's will is one thing, your will is another. God's will you could do nothing about, but your will, well, that's something we all could have done something about.

Here you leave us to ponder over the times we all spent together; painful memories with jagged ends.

Ever the comedian, you revelled in making us laugh unto tears; but here your final act leaves us confused and deeply hurt.

You shared your joy and fun with your friends, yet you chose not to share the pain.

Whatever troubled you so much as to run away from this beautiful world, I hope it's troubling you no longer.

We'll remember you forever.

God Bless.

I swear to God we need to have more of these days. No, I didn't mean we need Mother's day every month. You know, in addition to Father's day, brother's day and all that, we need to have more days like younger sister's day, elder cousin sister's day, neighbour's married sister's younger child's day, and well, you get the drift. Then I would not have to wander the blogosphere searching for inspiration to write a post. Or deliberately put myself in avoidable situations, in the (sometimes) vain hope that it will yield a blog story. All I would need to do is ask Google who we are honoring today, and then write a post on them. Voila, a post is done!! Nevertheless, instead of wistfully thinking of things that aren't here yet, let's make the most of what we have - Mother's day 2009.

It's still the eve of Mother's day in the part of the earth where I now live. For once in my life, I'm not late in wishing Mom(thanks to Sleeping Devil's reminder!!). Mother's day is not mother's day, 8000 miles away from your mother. But I will adjust by sending Mother's day wishes to Amma's representative in the US, my sister. Will she go into fits of rage when I do that!! Ha ha ha. The most I can do without sounding somber is to pen down some memories from past Mother's days. Read on, gentle readers, it's better than not posting at all, aye?

My earliest memory of Mother's day is of April 10th in 1989(No, I didn't get the date wrong. Keep reading). We were in school(Last day of school before vacations set our souls free). Well, we were all sitting around like blind men in a Multiplex, not knowing why there were no rhymes today, and why they weren't letting us go home. Turned out somebody in the school was planning a surprise for our class teacher. In walked her son in a crisp white Naval uniform. He had come to wish his mother, since he would be out at sea in May. He had got flowers for her and cookies and chocolates for all of us. Oh the plight of our teacher. From docile young kittens, we went to marauding beasts, fighting for the goodies!! I think I also knocked off his naval seaman's cap while lunging for a chocolate. I'm sure, like me, she wouldn't forget that day(but maybe for conflicting reasons).

Cut scene to a Mother's day some 2-3 years later. Sis had finally heeded the call of the world to replicate Western traditions at home(She was sometimes so rigid that we sometimes celebrated English festivals in a way that would put England to shame. For example, we hung out our well-decorated Christmas star long before chaste orthodox Christians even contemplated the idea. And took down the star somewhere in September or October after Christmas). Anyway, she heard of Mother's day somewhere and decided we would celebrate it at home. She recruited( conscripted would be a better word) me into her scheme. Long before Mom returned from her evening walk, we decked up the dining hall, made up some delicacies and got some gifts for Mom(the money for which I pilfered from Mom's piggy bank) and waited with bating breath(I was waiting with a slurping tongue. Surely Mom wouldn't eat up all those delicacies herself, no?). Mom came, we surprised her, and boy, was she surprised. She flew into a rage. Sis got an earful for wasting money when Dad was struggling hard to earn for us. I escaped, partly because I was the younger child, and partly due to the fact that I had disappeared from the crime scene when Mom's face started turning crimson.

Another memory of Mother's day is the one we set up for my colleague's Mom. It was the summer after Mom's mom had passed away, and I didn't have the heart to remind mom and sadden her. So I didn't go home that weekend, instead I teamed up with my colleagues to wish our colleague's mom. The girls planned and timed it down to the last detail(like when the streamers and balloons should enter the house, etc). Guys are usually not good at this - they lose focus after a couple of days and then end up celebrating something else. So, on the big day, we gathered at our colleague's home and laboured hard at the cooking, cleaning, etc(aunty kept the house like a museum, so I volunteered to clean. All I had to do was drink coffee at regular intervals). Everything ready. Phone rings. Aunty calling from crowded Kankanadi railway station. Our mentally retarded colleague had booked Aunty's ticket to their native place that day and dutifully forgotten all about it. We ate all the food ourselves(which would have happened anyways), burst the balloons, and went home. Aunty came home a few days later and cleaned up the mess. She won't forget that Mother's day in a hurry.

Well, these are all that came to mind at the mention of Mother's day. One thing is for sure, I'll call up home tonight and wish mom. And that card to Sis, I'm sending it right now. Muahahaha.

Here's wishing all the Moms of the world a very happy mother's day!! Ciao.

A friend(hereafter referred to as P) asked me to write a story for a cause. "Maaaaaan", she said in that southie-displaced-in-the-north-cluelessly accent, "for once do something good". She has given up a lucrative career in the Philips-Siemens-LG-etc-world to further the cause of eradicating child labour. They do this by helping young children get adopted by humane families who give them a good education and three meals a day. And loads of parental love(Of course there was this family who "adopted" a young girl and then made her do all the menial chores. The organization intervened in time, the girl has since been rescued and lives with a loving NRI family, and the earlier couple safely locked up as the government's guests). Their work is so hard, so tough and so noble that it commands respect and admiration from the rest of us. They are assured of a centrally air-conditioned duplex flat in heaven. I told her so in as many words, but she growled over the phone. "Stop joking, Sree. You make fun of everything under the sun!!" Now why does everybody think I'm trying to be funny! After a barrage of indignant protests, she agreed to calm down(agreed to calm down. She was not yet calm), but in return for some help to the organization. "Anything", I said, mentally beseeching Lord Vighneshwara to raise some obstacle in her thought process, and Lord Anjaneya to give me strength to carry out her commands(just in case Lord Vighneshwara decided to ignore me). "Write a story", she suggested, "in support of the child adoption cause. That way the cause will get some publicity". "Ok", said I, "the theme is child adoption, so can you give me some adoption stories or experiences that I could build up on?" "No", she rejoined most helpfully, "I cannot reveal such information to outsiders".

So in the middle of final exams weeks, in the midst of a raging flu(I will keep mentioning my flu until I get enough sympathy from readers), I went to my creativity corner(the corner I go to, to type out my blog posts), put on my thinking cap(figuratively) and sat down to write a story. Somebody very very close to me is adopted, so with his(Hahaha. You thought it was a girl, right? Hey no no no, I'm not that either!!) permission, I set out to base the story on his experiences. I had to cut out the truthful parts of the story in order to introduce drama and suspense. And voila, the story was ready. Here was the story that would propel me to writers' fame and glory, make readers cry and wail, and ensure that every homeless child is adopted and child labour existed only in history. 

Just one small problem. I sent the story across to P and waited with bated breath for her to come online and read it. She came, dutifully said hello, and said "Hey I'm reading the story now. Wait". She called me in a few minutes. "Sree Sree", she said. Deathly silence followed. Tension was palpable(Like when one has applied to American universities for a Masters and awaiting decisions. All those who can relate, raise your hands. Yes, I see a few hands). More silence(stop worrying about the phone bill, folks. She uses a VoIP phone). And then she broke the silence. "Sree, you better go back to writing about tsunamis and typhoons and earthquakes. I will find somebody else to do this". "Hey tell me na what's wrong, we can fix this up". "No Sree, tumse yeh nahin hoga". "Come on, P. Tell me what's wrong. Just to know". 

And then came the torrent of words. What do I know about child adoption? Do I think it's all dramatic and filled with action? Do I think child adoption happens only after earthquakes and tsunamis? And did I even think of writing about child labour, even though she harped on it thousand and one times(in her southie-displaced-in-the-north-cluelessly accent)? She knew that "You were stupid, but not to this level". And all that.

:(

I have since re-written the story and sent it across to her. Cut down on theatrics. No sentiments and gruesome situations. Hope and love springs up from every paragraph. Let's see what P has to so say about this one. If she clears this one, I'll post it soon enough. And then let's further the cause.

On the sidelines, a faithful reader(sensible_girl@*****.com) wants to know why most of my friends(and doctor!!) are female. There's no reason why. It just happens to be so. More importantly, I don't write about my guy friends, so how would you know. This question reminds me of a particularly harrowing two months last year. There was this friend of mine who went and told my parents that I was in love with a girl, and was planning to elope with her soon(which, I don't have to tell you, was a lie. A girl loving me? Oh please). Dad and Mom went ballistic. Dad asked me the same question then - "Why are most of your friends female?" What do I say!! The two months until I left for the US were hell. Things got so bad that I ultimately had to beg Dad to screen my calls. Dad tried his utmost to keep me safe. He questioned every female caller(he already knew the ones who called on the home phone) meticulously(The credit-card-seller girls were questioned so thoroughly that they started wondering whether Dad was in the sell-credit-cards-over-the-phone-to-random-people business himself). Mom was so worried that she was even planning to get me married off("so that he would settle down with one girl", but the plan, as you know, never took off). So, sensible_girl, the answer is - I have friends of both kinds. Ok? That's all for now.

Stay cool, hot summer month ahead. Ciao.

Me..

Aspiring computer scientist. Aspiring writer. Aspiring Nat Geo traveler. Aspiring musician. Aspiring pilot. Aspiring chef. Yes, I'm constantly growing up.

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