tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248256452024-03-08T00:07:02.171+05:30The World According to MERound. Loud. AliveAtomicGittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266072580833457854noreply@blogger.comBlogger182125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24825645.post-4430170052743914852020-07-12T19:41:00.002+05:302020-07-12T19:41:15.345+05:30The Mothers<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Some one once said that the women of my house were like the moon: they wax and they wane. <br />
In youth they grow fat and full, prompting comments of excess and ignominy.<br />
In age they shrink to half their already diminutive size, worrying the others with their inexorable decrease.<br />
It's true. <br />
In their youth their expend all their glow to light up the world around them. And in their old age, find within themselves a light that nothing outside could match. <br />
Always, always, they were up in the sky<br />
Looked upon by all that came into a dark world, looking for light.<br />
The women in my family<br />
They are like the moon. <br />
They are there even when you can't see them.<br />
And I carry their light in my bones<br />
As I wax and wane.<br />
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AtomicGittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266072580833457854noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24825645.post-45725359376826029572020-06-02T01:40:00.003+05:302020-06-02T02:26:08.515+05:30What I talk About when I talk about Writing- Part 1<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
6<br />
That's how many times I began a sentence on this bank page and deleted it.<br />
<br />
The screen with its helpful delete options glosses over my failings. It is, in fact, gritting its teeth at my unfortunate honesty. "Did you really need to undo all that I did? Couldn't you allow them the illusion that these were the first words you placed here? Do you have to show them how lost you are?"<br />
<br />
The Screen is right. She is efficient and looking out for my best interests. If she were in charge, there would not be a word out of place, and the lines would flow effortlessly, and no one would know of the detours taken and the bridges burnt. No one would see the flaws that shaped the piece.<br />
<br />
But the Screen is not human.<br />
She doesn't understand, that the ending of a story is not the story. That effort can be beautiful. And that sometimes, it is all that counts.<br />
If it was easy, it wouldn't matter as much.<br />
<br />
Language was created because once upon a time there was a woman (yes, probably a woman-- we are expected to explain ourselves more often than our counterparts) who was trying desperately to manage the turmoil inside. She learnt that when you can put words to the chaos, it becomes tangible, manageable, defeatable. The confusion gets exorcised into the vessel of the word, and then you have the satisfaction of crumpling up the offending page, pummeling it with the force of your emotions. (I admit, hitting the backspace button is not half as satisfying.) And, as is the nature of things, from necessity grew invention. When she found what words could do for pain and rage, she began to use it for other emotions-- doubt, fear, joy, uncertainty, hope, love. Words were our keys to a world we were not allowed to inhabit. In time we realised, the key became the world.<br />
<br />
As a writer, and consequently a professional-level over-thinker, you realise that words must be chosen carefully. They spell the difference between different realities known and understood, experienced and imagined. Like an artist picks pigment, like a chef picks flavours, the writer picks words. She eyes their shape and colour, sniffs at them gingerly, weighs their heft in the hollow of the palm, gives it a shake to check for juice, and a quick lick to judge it's texture. Meticulous as harvesting magic herbs, the writer fills her basket. She then lays out her tools and sits in front of the enchanted page, attempting to create, to placate, to aggravate, to assuage. To pull out from her insides the truest form of her voice. And perhaps give voice to a truth she is still discovering. Because ultimately, the act of writing needs you to take something out of yourself.<br />
<br />
Nothing is ever perfect. But every once in a while you stumble across a moment that is so close to the ideal, that is as addictive as it is elusive; a moment where, like providence, the pieces fall into a pattern closest to perfection that the author-- for once-- feels satisfied. Feels worthy. The words come streaming out like a pent up breath released in freedom. A sigh escaping in satisfaction. Or bright happy bursts of laughter and twinkling eyes. It rushes out like it was waiting for you to open the door, open yourself. Like it was waiting to greet the outside ever since it took shape. Sometimes the words are born to be released. And sometimes you need to tear them out and the mass clings to your insides, dragging bits of tissue and bone and blood as it makes its way outside, fighting the light with the ferocity of a hundred betrayals. As it finally lies on the pristine page, the splatter bleeds back into the shape of the letters and the author heaves in air into her gaping body and mind. Like there was never a fight.<br />
<br />
The Screen clicks its teeth. This is inconsequential. What is the ending?<br />
<br />
Nothing is perfect. Definitely not truth or its telling. But all writing is an attempt at truth. And the truth means nothing by itself. The truth is true because of the lies it overcame. Your words ring true when it is the closest to your reality that reality could be. The words make the truth. The words you didn't use make the truth. What you are makes the truth, just as much as what you could have been. And when you write, for a short while, both those Yous sit side by side, converse and create worlds.<br />
<br />
The Screen is unimpressed.<br />
<br /></div>
AtomicGittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266072580833457854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24825645.post-45900237988823378632020-05-31T21:22:00.000+05:302020-06-02T01:41:07.159+05:30The Body in Quarantine.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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One afternoon</div>
<br />
Your hands tell you stories you hadn't bothered to read before; the crisscrossing lines it's own strange calligraphy. You remember the scar you got when you fell off a bus. And the other scar right next to it where they put in the needle for the IV.<br />
You read the furrow that has dug itself into the base of ringed fingers. You smile at the seat carved into the side of you middle finger by pens and pencils and ideas that pushed into your skin with the stubbornness of a young child that wants to be carried. Your read the braille of the callouses that sprouted from carrying bags and baggage. You frown at the smoothness that has replaced the tough cliffs of your fingertips. And that is just the hands...<br />
<br />
Another evening<br />
<br />
The arm flung across the shoulder in a comfortably contorted self-indulgence debates what curve can carry a new mark.<br />
May be on the left rib? Just to poke fun at Adam?<br />
My stomach gurgles with indolence. That will involve finding a rib.<br />
Oh hush<br />
And as we contemplate scarification, my knees let out a sarcastic creak.<br />
The knees are teeming with memory and rebuke. They are permanently darkened by too many falls. Do you really need more scars? Don't you have enough already?<br />
<br />
Well those scars were not by choice. <br />
<br />
Parts of my body are pointedly silent.<br />
My arm shifts.<br />
<br />
The knees creak crankily. A scar is a scar. A pretty one won't make a difference. See look at your poor shin down here-- cut deep by the sharp edge of an enamel bathroom fixture your dropped by mistake. <br />
My left shin is indifferent. Yeah well, things happen. We are ok. Right, right leg? <br />
Hmm? Oh sorry I had fallen asleep. Now I am all tingly. <br />
The feet twitch with caustic candour. <br />
She does that a lot.<br />
The body nods and murmurs agreement.<br />
<br />
Hey, I am right here!<br />
<br />
We know, comes the chorus.<br />
<br />
Late night<br />
The spine nudges me out of sleep.<br />
Sorry I woke you up.<br />
It's alright. I wasn't really sleeping.I was trying to trick myself into quiet.<br />
There is a long beat of silence.<br />
So...<br />
How long do you think we will last?<br />
Longer than we should. Longer than we can bear. <br />
Are you alright?<br />
Yes. No. You?<br />
Not really.<br />
<br />
There is a long beat of silence again.<br />
<br />
Early morning<br />
I realise the rest of the body had been feigning sleep too. <br />
My eyes spy the weak light through the curtain and close themselves tight.<br />
My body holds on to the night.<br />
<br />
My toes whisper a squeaky question in the cocoon of the blanket.<br />
Will we survive?<br />
My feet hug each other in the dark.<br />
My lips chew themselves for comfort.<br />
<br />
Something will.<br />
<br />
The body stays silent. I give it time.<br />
It needs to learn to live with just me.<br />
The throat heaves out a huff of dry laughter.<br />
We have always lived with just you.<br />
<br />
The eyes cannot deny the light anymore.<br />
<br />
I am here.<br />
<br />
We know. <br />
<br />
<br />
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AtomicGittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266072580833457854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24825645.post-70414278678462866012020-05-13T00:20:00.001+05:302020-06-02T01:41:40.456+05:30Lady Lazarus. aka What it feels like to come back to life.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The blog has been dormant, and the fact that I attempt resurrection mid-pandemic is woefully cliche. But, as a wise woman once wrote, cliches are cliches for a reason.<br />
<br />
Things happened. Too many things. Too few. Too fast. Not fast enough. In the churning confusion of hitting the ground running, it feels like I had steeled my Self into a tightened knot of kinetic survival-- not standing still enough for the muscles to unlock and the blood to flow. All of this feels abstract, I know. But what I am trying to say is, there was no room in me for the World. I could not invite it in. It spoke in a startling tongue and hit me too hard with its blinding flares. I hurtled through existence, trying as far as possible to have no more inner spaces for outer worlds to rampage.<br />
<br />
But the world, like love, like life, seeps in through the cracks and fills you up no matter how many shutters you bar. There are secret passage ways to the core and my traitorous soul was and is too greedy for life. She was raised on curiosity and recklessness, and she knew now how to fight for what she needed. And she needed me to give in. She needed me to break.<br />
<br />
I bleed quicker, now. Burn faster. Hurt easier... perhaps this is healing? When the scar tissue softens and the callouses fall off, so I can be foolish and soft again?<br />
I will not pretend that I am ready for The World According to Me. I will not claim any sense of completion or closure. I cannot promise fidelity and constancy. But I do recognise in me a small twinge, a spark which just might be coaxed into flame.<br />
<br />
<div>
I am willing to try again. And The World According to Me, just might surprise me pleasantly. I am, as always, in your care.</div>
</div>
AtomicGittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266072580833457854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24825645.post-17310809530274831072019-09-11T00:42:00.000+05:302019-09-11T00:42:37.650+05:30Onam 2019<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It is Onam.<br />
I ought to be home.<br />
I ought to be running into the embrace of my mother's warm gaze, long before her arms close around me. I ought to be hearing the comfort of my father's voice bubbling through the paan that he refuses to give up. I ought to be breathing in sunlight and salt filtered through petrichor and tea.<br />
I ought to be home.<br />
Home is a strange name to call a place I have barely lived in. My memories are cultured in the petridish of distance. My tongue clatters awkwardly foreign around the syllables and sounds of my land (though my 'L's always betray my origins). I am forever the outsider inside. Forever the traveller stopping by. Forever carrying 'home' in a backpack.<br />
But it is my birthright.<br />
No label, no paper, no misguided order can erase the roots that go deep into ourselves. My blood carries the sweetness of tender coconut water, my bones the stubbornness of teak, my flesh the pliancy of banana stem. When I land on that soil, the ground greets my feet like a mother kissing a newborn's feet, welcoming me home.<br />
<br />
I have what so many of my countrymen are being denied. I have what so many need to prove to be able to touch. I have something that no one ought to be able to take away from you. I have it.<br />
And I am not everyone<br />
<br />
How can I go home, when so many cannot?<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</div>
AtomicGittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266072580833457854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24825645.post-46789381462598514792019-09-03T08:11:00.000+05:302019-09-04T03:41:48.554+05:30Permission to Speak<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Words<br />
Words were the only things you would accept<br />
and so I mined words from every corner of my being.<br />
I poured a flood of words at your feet<br />
and then warmed them with more words<br />
like glowing embers<br />
like hope<br />
I threw words in the air like colour,<br />
red as the blood in my veins,<br />
red as the blood I would give you<br />
if you would ask it of me.<br />
red as the dawn that won't be denied<br />
and red as the haze before my eyes<br />
<br />
Now<br />
The embers have burned out.<br />
the flood has turned into poison mud<br />
clogged with the carcasses<br />
of words that died of heartbreak<br />
bloodless and cold.<br />
<br />
And you stand rooted<br />
in a murk of my making.<br />
What can I say to you<br />
when there is nothing left of paradise<br />
in my song<br />
what can I give you<br />
when all the words have grown empty<br />
as hollow hope<br />
<br />
I am sorry<br />
My words are hubris<br />
My flaw is innocence<br />
What can I give you now?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
AtomicGittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266072580833457854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24825645.post-24029238069980282712019-08-03T01:06:00.000+05:302020-06-01T01:25:09.578+05:30Thoughts after Illness<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My body is soft<br />
like old-fashioned mochi<br />
pounded into a semi-fluid comfort.<br />
missing all the pleasing angles and panes<br />
that would deem it beautiful.<br />
Or strong.<br />
<br />
It is a deception this mochi softness.<br />
My body is tough.<br />
Like over-chewed chewing gum<br />
that will make your jaws ache<br />
but will deny you the comfort of an end.<br />
<br />
My body gives the best hugs.<br />
No sharp bones or hard muscle;<br />
Because it is built to absorb<br />
shocks and pain--<br />
both mine and others'<br />
<br />
My body is formed like the blot of ink;<br />
that drop of paint<br />
that fell on the page<br />
and formed its own shape.<br />
Spread itself out to cover<br />
as much as it could,<br />
claiming room for me.<br />
<br />
My body<br />
wraps itself in malleable layers<br />
around me,<br />
protecting me<br />
in its fierce softness<br />
that swallows every horrible thing<br />
said about it<br />
by me and by others,<br />
and refuses to buckle.<br />
It fights daily to keep me alive<br />
intractable in its mission;<br />
Every scar willfully obscured<br />
Every ache denied.<br />
<br />
And every once in a while<br />
when it falters<br />
in its illusion of sovereign protection,<br />
It stutters and stumbles,<br />
bewildered by its weakness<br />
like a flower discovering gravity,<br />
like a child discovering<br />
that it is not loved by everyone<br />
Or an adult<br />
Discovering she is loved.<br />
The mochi softness folds in on itself.<br />
waiting for the storm to pass.<br />
Waiting for me to say something.<br />
<br />
My body--<br />
small<br />
soft<br />
imperfect<br />
and mine.<br />
You are not what I wished for<br />
I am not what you wished for<br />
We are what we've got.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
AtomicGittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266072580833457854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24825645.post-44714906007784651652018-09-30T02:49:00.002+05:302020-06-01T01:32:41.850+05:30The Long Way Home<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">12th May 2018</span></b><br />
<br />
My writing desk is right next to the large sliding window--the view is dominated by a large teak tree that has decided to be the last stand against concrete infraction. Two other nameless trees across provide some aid in this endeavor, but it's the teak tree that is the hero. It's leaves and swatches of sky stand undefeated by the buildings that are closing in, providing nests to a multitude of bird families, and bird song and leaf-rustles for those who will listen.<br />
<br />
A particularly brave lady-sparrow lands on the railing, sees me looking, and takes flight.<br />
The owl shaped wind-chime tinkles a quite farewell.<br />
<br />
My house, it is lovely. Small but airy. And resourceful. I know that is a strange word to use to describe a house, but nothing else captures the ingenuity that creates storage space <i>and</i> an additional bathroom, <i>and </i>makes room for all those pointless knickknacks that you know is technically clutter but is actually love. This house is caring. It goes out of its way to do all sorts of special things just for you without making you feel beholden. It makes room-- for you, and yours. Gives you private little corners to talk to yourself with impunity. Light, quite space that welcomes your music, your laughter, your sighs. Dark, soft edges to rest your head and nurse your heartaches. Cool soft shades to cushion your falls and failings and disappointments. This house is sanctuary.<br />
<br />
Forgive me the digression. I was proud of this house.<br />
<br />
This house was home.<br />
<br />
It's barely half-way into the year but, there have already been so many good byes. To people, to places, and to homes.<br />
<br />
One of the quirks of the NRI, and later the hostel existence is that it lulls you into thinking that you are good at change. That your knowledge of inevitable leave-taking makes you impervious to the pangs of parting heartache. You are the champion of renouncement, the queen of disengagement. The flower that lets go of its fragrance with a smile. A pro at goodbyes, and quick, clean exits. Like the snip of garden scissors on a green stalk.<br />
<br />
There is a certain fatalistic acceptance of the ephemeral nature of every home, but the wabi-sabi of the sentiment comes with it's unique brand of desperate, contrary possessive happiness. Love, even. Every detail becomes that much more. No, that's not right. It's more a sense of ripeness-- it is not a question of amplification, rather a sense of fullness, complete in and of itself. Everything is exactly as it should be.You have the tasted the fruit at it's sweet, ripe, best, saturated with the moment-- a perfection that comes from not trying. Savored, loved, remembered, and finally let go. The letting go is important. Anymore and the moment will fade, wilt, corrode. The traveler knows this.The wind knows this. That's why they only carry what comes along.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately I am not the wind. And I have not traveled enough.<br />
This house was home. And now it isn't.<br />
<br />
The sun has set.<br />
I cannot make out the leaves of the teak tree in the darkness. I suppose we all need to a take a break from fighting. The bird song has been replaced by cricket symphonies and the occasional skittering of some unknown being.A curious mouse, with a sense of self-preservation that signaled an early demise, pokes its nose into my room through the window, sniffs twice and makes a quick retreat, to both our relief.<br />
<br />
The clicks of my keyboard echo in the room. The little knickknacks that I know is clutter (but is actually love) have all been cleared, packed, sent away. There is little here that reminds me of what was, and so the good byes are easier, friendlier, bloodless. The air is breathless with the heat that foretells a thunderstorm, and the window is the only respite from the oppression of the inside. The fan whirs vigorously, letting me know it's trying it's best to keep me breathing.<br />
<br />
The writing desk is unchanged though.<br />
Quiet and comforting, it stays like that friend who comes to see you off at that deserted station in the middle of the night. An unintrusive solace that tells you that you can go on and go in peace. A small mercy that lets you feel less alone as you step out into an indifferent universe.<br />
<br />
This house was home.<br />
<br />
Perhaps I could not achieve the perfect ripeness that would have made this parting painless, but this house is wiser than I.<br />
<br />
The cab will arrive in a few minutes and the house has said its goodbyes.<br />
I shut the last windows and close the front doors-- The Nun and the Slut as I call them, based on their willingness to open-- the chalk-board name plate I attached to the place catches my eye. The faded vestige of my name clings to it's dark face. Perhaps I am not the only one that will do the missing this time.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b>29th Sept, 2018</b></span><br />
<br />
There's no writing desk in this room, but there is a large window. A lot more trees, a lot more sky. A firmament that is confident of it's unchallenged sovereignty. My cousin tells me Fall weather when it's not raining is the best. He is right. The Canadian geese make lazy glides across the platinum sky, assured of a swathe of welcoming wetland. The backyard is usually graced by grazing deer who have shelved their fear of mankind till the next hunting season. The little dog, who is pure love in a canine form, pops its snout into my computer screen, reminding me that my hands are for petting.<br />
I listen with half an ear, to the chatter from downstairs, just so that I know when we are supposed to head out.<br />
<br />
This house lets me think it is home.<br />
It lends me its strength and nurses my bruises. It does not pretend to be anything more than it is. But it is so much more than it seems. It's not mine, but it's there for me.<br />
<br />
There are as many homes as there are friends. As there are loves. As there are stars in the sky.<br />
May be in time, I will find the wisdom to live this truth. But it seems there's still a long way to that place.</div>
AtomicGittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266072580833457854noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24825645.post-7612694374632388442016-11-12T16:47:00.000+05:302020-06-01T01:37:36.342+05:30Bite-Sized Thoughts: Biryani<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Biryani" target="_blank">Biriyani</a>: Indian mixed rice dish with its origins among the muslims of the Indian subcontinent. It is popular throughout the subcontinent and among the diaspora from the region. It is generally made with spices, rice and meat. Wikepedia.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><br /></i></span>
I don't really remember the first biriyani I ever ate, but do remember it was contraband. I was living with my grandparents, my mum and my then-baby brother, and we had a shrine in our house. So non-vegetarian food could not be brought in. I believe it was Eid, and a lot of my grandfather's patients would offer biriyani which had to be turned away. One particular lady was especially persistent and made the smart move of appealing to the ever-hungry grandchild. I remember Karthyani, our house-help, smuggling in the large banana-leaf wrapped parcel. Gorgeous, masala-ed chicken biriyani that scented the entire room when it was opened. And I sat in the outside kitchen and ate it. I have no idea what it tasted like. In fact, I am pretty sure it didn't taste as great as it smelled. But I still remember its orangey spiced glow in the dim light of the kerosene lamp, and the feeling of getting a very special, forbidden treat.<br />
<br />
It was during my M.A studies that biriyani transformed from special treat to staple diet. Being in <a href="https://g.co/kgs/xwnmcr" target="_blank">Hyderabad</a> had something to do with it. The traditional Hyderabadi Biriyani, in my opinion, is tame and limpid in comparison to the tawny thalapakkatu biriyani of Chennai, or the bright and feisty achari biriyani of Delhi, or the deceptively delicate Malabar/ Thalassery biriyani. It was the other, more primal Hyderabadi biriyani--the kalyani-- that appealed to me. She was the raunchy, foul-mouthed, full-bodied heroine of the biriyani scene-- hot, dynamic, and usually way more than one person can handle. The proprietors of the Superstar, a local eatery, had perfected the kalyani biriyani to create an unforgettable palate experience. Sorry for the digression, but it needed to be said. However, the best M.A biriyani memory starred a far more docile protagonist. Hyderabad House supplied a non-descript but tasty Hyderabadi biriyani. The biriyani was a gentle and comforting fare, and had rescued us from hunger on multiple occasions. You see, HH delivered affordable food long after other establishments decided to call it a day. It is one such occasion that comes to mind whenever I think of the beloved dish.<br />
<br />
Second semester at Uni was a companionable pandemonium. For starters, the university was renovating the hostels. Consequently we were living with construction noise 24/7 and opening windows turned your living quarters into the first half of 'Interstellar'. In a Hyderabad summer, this meant we were being baked alive in our rooms. Secondly, we thought we had finally figured out the cafeteria system, and foolishly bitten off more than we can chew. The general chaos of a full course load was heightened by one particular course 'The Early Cantos of Ezra Pound' taught by the amazing but exacting Prof.R (It literally cost a batchmate her right arm to finish the course. And she still did not receive an O grade). Those who had avoided this Scylla fell to the Charybdis of another course titled 'Aesthetics', whose succinct title should have given them a clue. In six months, we had picnicked at the edge of despair, practiced echoes in the gaping void, and had had staring matches with the abyss. And all this had made us closer. Misery loves company, after all.<br />
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During the month of the submissions, the hostel took on the appearance of a post-apocalyptic, art film. The entire floor had taken to working in the relatively cooler corridors. Consequently, if you walked in, you would see rows of bleary eyed, haggard women hunched over laptops between piles of books and laundry wracks, stirring only to slap away mosquitoes or shoo away the errant dog. Sleep-deprivation was compounded by round the clock construction work, bloodthirsty mosquitoes, and the fevered knowledge that the deadline was fast approaching (and in some cases, too long past to pretend a technical glitch with emails). We lost track of meals, surroundings-- never time, because that slipped from between our typing fingers too quickly. <br />
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One step away from a psychotic break, someone had the sense to suggest food. By then of course the mess had shut its doors. What place would deliver at this time? Hyderabad House! Let's eat biriyani tonight! This baton of hope was passed along with the tube of odomos to each student in the corridor. Miraculously, a phone with balance, charge, and network was located! A mass order was placed and our flagging spirits gained some buoyancy. We typed furiously on our term papers counting the minutes and the word count.<br />
No man had ever received as warm a welcome as that surprised delivery man. Cheers and cries of appreciation filled the air. The biriyani is here! The biriyani is here! As the delivery man stumbled off in a pink haze of female gratitude, we proceeded to distribute the bounty. And the unthinkable happened.<br />
Two packets were missing.<br />
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Note to anyone who values their good health: Never enrage a hungry woman.<br />
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The miraculous phone was retrieved from where it had been tossed in happiness. Angry fingers jabbed out the number and people took turns berating/lecturing/ guilt tripping/ abusing the receiver until he finally begged them to stop so that he could deliver the biriyanis again. In a great show of solidarity, no one ate until the missing biriyanis arrived. An outsider might ask, why didn't you just share. No. There is a principle to these things. It's like the Alexander the Great and the bowl of water story. Besides, who shares biriyani, dude!<br />
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When all the parcels finally arrived, we made the delivery man wait, gave him a lecture as well and then sent him off. Biriyanis in hand, we gathered together in a reasonably cooler room, planted ourselves in whatever space was available and opened our fragrant parcels. An uncharacteristic silence fell upon the group as each of us savoured our individual treats.<br />
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Like that once upon a time biriyani, I don't remember how this one tasted either. But I remember the image of all of us sitting on the floor, shadows under our eyes, books all around and smiles on our faces. We were so happy with our small mercies.We were so young, so ready, so sure that all it took was hard work, and that all we needed was a plate of hot food at the end of the day.<br />
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Some guy said, "In small measures life may perfect be.". I think he meant plates.<br />
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AtomicGittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266072580833457854noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24825645.post-59659684869647852582016-03-06T23:41:00.000+05:302020-06-01T01:38:40.741+05:30Roots and Rituals<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Sifting through the past couple of entries, I realise I have been gravitating towards traditions and rituals. Which is ironic because, I am not particularly ritualistic. But I think it is because of this that I find it necessary to talk about the few rituals I do follow. They feel so singular. And the thing about rituals in my family is that they are largely coloured by personal preference. Consequently, the symbolic gravitas of the ritual is largely submerged in the family bonding. This is best captured in a tradition that is unique to my family-- the biannual <i>Devi Pooja</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Twice a year, the ancestral abode hosts a two-day event of piety and devotion, which doubles as an unofficial family reunion. This tradition is close to the heart because it was my grandparents who initiated me into it. The <i>pooja </i>was there before them, obviously. But it was in their time that the doors were truly flung open. Everyone who could would come. It was in their time that the trust was formed to conduct the <i>pooja. </i>And when they passed on, the rest of the family realised that the <i>Pooja</i> didn't happen just by itself. Then, of course, the whole thing became a semi-formal affair with sponsors, and a second maintenance fund, and a whole lot of paperwork. But all that doesn't stop it from having its unique brand of familial strangeness.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The <i>pooja</i> is technically about paying respects to the Goddess, but for us I believe it is more about paying respects to a great grandmother.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Legend has it that the earliest forbearers of the family were childless and the resident Namboothiri was in danger of being kicked out of the Menon household in favour of a more fecund gentleman(check out the Nair matriarchal system for clarifications). In desperation, the couple set out to pray for children to the benevolent <i>Mookambika Devi</i> and began a journey to Kollur. Given that this was 500 years ago, give or take a few decades, the trek was an arduous one, to say the least. Several miles into the journey the Mister and Missus paused in their trudge to partake of refreshments.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Look! A young girl on the wayside! Such a radiant child! She doesn't seem like an ordinary sort of girl. Hello. Oh look, you have hurt your foot! Poor dear! Where did you come from? What? You have no family? Oh you poor thing ... Wait-- perhaps you are the answer to our prayers.We have no children, why don't you come with us, little one? </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The girl murmured an assent and she was hoisted into the caravan. (This was, of course, long before randomly picking up children off the pavement became a criminal offence.)The couple returned home in high spirits. They were thrilled with their foundling. Mother and father ushered her into an antechamber, the<i> machu</i>, to freshen up and went about preparing a hot meal to welcome their new daughter.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The banana leaf was laid, the payasam prepared, but the girl was yet to come out of her room. Maybe she was feeling shy? Mother went up to her door and called out, but received no reply. Once again she called her, only to be greeted with more silence. The reticence did not seem normal. The mother entered the room and promptly fainted.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">For in the place of the little girl, there now remained a short sword and shield and a long length of blood red silk.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">What could this mean?</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">That night the Goddess appeared in the elder's dream,. She was pleased with the love that the couple had offered her in her guise of a child (pedantic aside-- <i>'Durga'</i> can also mean nine year old). To reward their kindness, She declared that no woman born of the line will ever be childless, and that She will stay on in their house, fulfilling the role of their adopted family. In return, all She required was that a daughter of the house keep a lamp burning for Her. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">'<i>Muthashi'</i> is the malayalam word for grandmother. <i>Muthashiyar</i> is what my family calls the Goddess. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The house has been around for 500 years or so. Before you archeological hair-splitters get on my case let me clarify, it has had it's fair share of renovations. It's present state is largely the work of the Madras grandfather-- the head of the household two-three generations past. After the inevitable property divisions and such, the original <i>ettukettu</i> had turned into a <i>naalukettu </i>with a single open courtyard called the <i>nadumittam</i> in the middle of the house rather than two. Madras grandfather took it upon himself to rebuild the partitioned property into a habitable dwelling.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">When my grandparents moved there, the house had no electricity, running water was possible only in a couple of rooms, the entrance from the road was perched at the peak of steep steep steps that no car could navigate, and a kingdom of bats ruled the mysterious attic. They poured their meagre savings and their love into making the house habitable again, and getting <i>Muthashiyar</i>'s <i>pooja</i> back on the calendar. It is the pattern they put into place that is still being followed now.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The nearest family representative, and others who can make it earlier, arrive a day or two before the big day. To them falls the task of organising whirlwind clean up, making sure the resident civet cat (which has ousted the bats to great extent) has not strayed from it's domain in the attic, delegating the acquisition of the pooja items to the ever-smiling and hard of hearing Kanakkarai, picking up groceries and back up items for the next three days, ordering pedestal fans for the sweltering May sessions, managing last minute repairs to the house, and clearing the yard to construct the make shift shamiana where lunch is served on the two days of <i>Pooja</i>.My grandparents-- grandmother in particular-- were famous for their hospitality and went out of the way to make sure anyone who attended the <i>pooja</i> felt welcome and well fed. (Our family believes the clearest way to make some one know they are loved is to feed them silly.) The food was so systematically supplied that for the longest time, the attendees actually thought that their hundi donations went into the funding of the meal. In reality it was the fruit of our the hosts' painful budgeting and stringent economies. At times my grandparents had to forego food to serve the guests. Thankfully now it is taken up by another branch of the family.That said, the organisers need to eat. The uber-efficient Karthyani is a cook of superlative skill (it is ironic that the only thing she consistently fails at is coffee/tea brewing and maggi making) Under her care, we are always one step away from a food coma. Menu planning is a special part of the <i>pooja </i>run up.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Sleeping arrangements are another interesting quirk of the pooja process. Mattress airing (sometimes repairing) and pillow location are tasks specific to the pooja preps. Then, there is room allocation. The older people, the recently injured (yes, this is a usual category), and little children too spooked to go upstairs, are put in the ground floor bedrooms (the ones with actual beds). The rest of the able-bodied folk fight for the privilege of sleeping on the <i>thekinithara</i>. Everyone loves the TT. Why? It's cool even in the most scorching summer, the open <i>nadumittam</i> just across guarantees ventilation. (Unfortunately, it also lets in mosquitoes, but what are tortoise coils for?) The new sons or daughters in law, and the menfolk who can climb stairs/lost out on the <i>thekinithara</i> are shifted to upstairs bedroom. And once the bedroomers retire, the mattresses are spread out on the TT, the lights turned off and every one lies down... and talks, and talks, and talks. By the time the talking finally moves into a symphony of snores, it is time to wake up. The bathrooms-- which are always case studies for the Law of Marginal Utility-- need to be negotiated so that everyone is bathed brushed by the time the sun is out. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">As <i>Pooja</i> day dawns, the first task is getting the <i>prasasadam</i> of the <i>Ganapati homam</i> at the <i>Kaavu</i> near by. Meanwhile, the hanging lamps and flowers are added to the sanctum sanctorum. By 7:30-8:00 the first guests begin to arrive and the bad-tea service begins. Socialising has to be carried out while keeping an eagle eye on the door way for the arrival of the priest. This is an actual task because by the time the gentleman arrives, the house will be chock a block full of people. Once he enters the <i>pooja </i>is officially begun. The interim is punctuated by standard exchanges and sights like </span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">-Everyone telling everybody else that they have grown fatter or greyer (apparently offensive personal statements are favourite ice breakers)</span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">-Older people accosting younger ones with demands to recall their name ("Hello XYZ! You have grown so fat! Do you know me?" *Awkward pause*)</span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">-Young people being recruited for lamp lighting, <i>prasadam</i> distribution, errand running purposes,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">-Little children risking death by trampling</span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">-People getting up to date with each others lives. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Through all of this, is the running theme of returning home to Muthashiyar.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">There are three <i>pooja</i>s per day-- two in the morning and one at night. And each <i>pooja</i>'s completion is signal by series of three bells. At the third bell, the devotees line up to pay their respects to the deity, pass the camphor lamp to each other and partake of the <i>prasadam</i>. Disband and reassemble when the next set of bells ring, and then the big lunch with the <i>prasadam</i> <i>paayasam</i> as dessert . The family members take turns to serve each other and make sure the older people who cannot negotiate steps are served inside. There is a short lull after the lunch break where the tired nap, the reunited chatter, and the industrious infrequent visitor make quick jaunts to other places they haven't been to in ages. The organisers meanwhile take this opportunity to take stock, check finances and quickly pick up missing essentials to meet the needs or demands of the later arrivals, and arrange transport for return trips for those who need it. The evening <i>pooja</i> begins with the lighting of small earthen lamps all around the house to mark the <i>Karthika</i> star. The morning's rituals are now carried out to the background score of <i>bhajan</i>s being sung and the chanting of the <i>Lalitasahasranamam</i>--The Thousand Names of the Goddess. Disbanding happens faster because there's no group dinner on offer , plus it's late and everyone wants to get home. Once this happens, we regroup, discuss the days events. We share the myriad changes in the regular <i>pooja</i> goers, <i>pooja </i>highlights and eat ourselves into a stupor. But the stupor will have to be put aside, in favour of accounts. Expenses and donations need to be tallied, and bills organised. Inevitably we end up with a ludicrous figure that defies mathematics. Eventually we put it aside and all fall asleep. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Day two follows the same pattern only we now include a trip to the bank to keep aside whatever was collected in the donation box in the Trusts account along with the few donations to the scrawny maintenance fund. Everyone is busy gathering phone numbers, talking about how they really have to get back, how it's such a shame the house is shut up for the rest of the year. By the end of the afternoon pooja most of the out-of-towners would have left and the evening pooja will be very sparsely attended. That evening's prayers have a quieter tone, everyone is aware that we have to leave and the talk is tinged with regret and distraction.Inevitably, it all winds down. The accounts are finally tallied. The donation and payment amounts put into their respective envelopes, the mattresses piled away. The fans returned, the cooking vessels put away, the lamps dismantled, and an unsettling, sombre quietness curls arounds the walls... the house knows it's going to be alone again, forgotten again, waiting again. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Work's crazy! Holidays are sparse and saved for that special trip to some exotic place. The kids feel so awkward in Kerala. There is this other thing that's happening at that place. The bathrooms in the house are so old! October-November? Ooh Thanksgiving! </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Everyone's got somewhere to be. Even me. Somewhere inside me there is a nine year old girl who knows there is another unaging nine year old girl who waits in the Machu, for someone to light a lamp. And I can't face either of them. And that's why I am writing this. Muthashiyare, I miss you. I am sorry I can't be there to light you your lamp. And as I sit alone in this lonely world, I wish I could have you hold my hand across the rungs of the <i>machu</i> door as I have so often imagined you doing. You must feel lonely too.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">But I am thinking like a mortal. God is not confined to a room. And Muthashiyar is above such pettiness. But I am glad I have a ritual that gives me a grandmother to go back to, long after my mortal one passed on. Insufferably human as it is, it makes me feel better. And I imagine that Muthashiyar , indulgent and tender, finds our games and little dramas entertaining enough to not grudge us our human fallibility. Thank you for being there.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I will come home soon.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Recommended Aside-</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1KUXGRxjPNQ</span></div>
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AtomicGittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266072580833457854noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24825645.post-22824574409072592742016-01-03T19:25:00.001+05:302016-01-04T00:17:51.646+05:30Only Seven Miles From the sun<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I wanted to do a New Year's playlist, but 2015 was too chaotic a year to deign to fit into anything as organised as a list.<br />
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In truth, 2015 wasn't the nicest year. It was a like maths problem. Technically all the numbers tally and the answer ought to be clear cut, correct even. But, if you were like me, the path to all those answers was a lot of frustration, tears and not a little heart ache. And at the end of all that effort, what you thought was the right answer was... not.<br />
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It's not easy being positive through an unreasonable year. </div>
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2015 refused to let you figure it's rhythm-- mixing the sweet languid thumps of a jazzy blues tune with discordant dubstep, and shifting gears to smooth R'nB then jerking you into an unfamiliar reel; with every intention of making you fall in an undignified, broken heap. </div>
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2015 turned me inside out. It broke my heart.</div>
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But it also put steel in my soul and warmth in my heart.</div>
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While kicking me around, 2015 also assuaged my fears and reaffirmed my ideals on multiple counts. I am earning, I am finding my feet, I am learning, and I am moving. </div>
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A wise woman once told me never to give myself completely. She also observed that it is impossible to be anything other than you. In the midst of all the madness, for the first time I am truly on my side. The world is too big, too beautiful to let one weight pull you down. You learn to carry it, run with, in time forget it. And remember that there is so much more. That there is love, opportunity, hope and forgiveness. And that is, <b>The World According to ME</b>.</div>
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I come out of 2015 tired, but ready. Like the song goes-- <i>The battle's almost won, we are only seven miles from the sun.</i></div>
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2016, let's go.</div>
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AtomicGittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266072580833457854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24825645.post-64684338940460032522015-09-14T20:59:00.000+05:302015-09-15T21:29:02.876+05:30Ten Things that Ought to be Appropriate on a C.V<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I completed my Ph.D! Yay!<br />
And now I am unemployed.<br />
Crap.<br />
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how the joke is always on you.<br />
But cynical self-pity aside, the end of student mode presents a new set of challenges. The stipend, however legume-like, was something. And unless you wish to continue the ignominy of parental support into your 28th year, it's time to make changes. Consequently, you scrape up the remains of your self-worth and attempt to create the ticket to a paycheck-- your C.V.<br />
But, apparently all the things that really matter, don't mean squat on that document. All it wants to know is what paper you wrote or how many organisations you worked in-- basically stuff that anyone could do.<br />
Such gross homogenising makes one wonder how anyone became someone.<br />
<br />
In light of this glaring lacuna in the C.V ethos, the Author proposes ten items that should feature in her alternate biodata.<br />
<br />
1. Wrote and completed a ph.d thesis while actively planning her wedding. (And carried off both tasks pretty well, though I say so myself)<br />
2. Did not die of depression despite the terrible nature of her thesis topic.<br />
3.Focussed on writing the Research Methodology paper even as India was raising the World Cup at Wankhede. (See--real dedication!)<br />
4.Got an O grade in Rajiv Krishnan's course. (That's the equivalent of the Padmasree, Nobel Prize and the Booker Prize combined. May be throw in a Purple Heart for the bruises-- both on pride and arms/wrists.)<br />
5a.Was vegetarian for two years while living in Hyderabad-- the Land of Biriyani-- and travelling to a middle-eastern country.<br />
b. Stuck to a diet for three weeks while in Kuwait. With my mother's cooking around. (Imagine the tenacity and strength of will involved!)<br />
6. Learnt to cook in Hostel. When Maggi was NOT banned.<br />
7. Can swear fluently and viciously in three different languages, not including mother tongue.<br />
8. Excels in spontaneous yarn spinning, short notice dance choreography, script writing, and party planning.<br />
9. Have played a cat, a dragon, a monster and a man. (How's that for versatile!)<br />
10. Has an excellent sense of humour and is eternally optimistic.</div>
AtomicGittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266072580833457854noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24825645.post-8917180361744203942015-09-13T22:20:00.000+05:302015-09-30T00:04:54.122+05:30The Great Menon Wedding IV: Lights, Camera and a lot of Action<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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An Indian wedding is incomplete without its modest million megawatt worth of lighting.<br />
<br />
The author comes from a tasteful stock. 'Tasteful' can be a problem,however, when it involves one fastidious father with big plans and a mother who was discovering her finicky side. Dismissing the offers of the multiple wedding event managers who had begun slinking around the place since the hall -booking, the Pater decided on a customised home-decoration program. In the year of 2011, when the house was officially warmed, we had incorporated the moulding and baking skills of the local potter and created three tiered terracota lamps in the style of the indigenous <a href="http://www.vilakku.in/images/gallery/thooku_vilakku_b.jpg" target="_blank">thooku vilakku</a>. The aesthetic success of this innovation was only marred by the practical impossibility of actually lighting the lamps (oil-spillage, spilled-oil slippage, chances of fire,the occasional burnt hair-do). The Pater envisioned a rectification of that loss via the magic of wire and low-maintenance bulbs. The situation was furthered by the presence of two able henchmen: the Amazing Viju Chetan-Jenson Chetan duo. Originally drivers by trade, their repetoire of skills is diversified by their extensive network of contacts. You want something done, they know some one who can do it. Enter: the electrically talented Shailesh.<br />
<br />
An acquisition of the intrepid Viju Chetan (whose exploits and efficiency require another post for proper examination), Shailesh is the kind of guy whose brain works in terms of circuits. Anything that can conduct electricity is his cup of tea. In fact it is his penchant for cups/glasses/tumblers of Teachers that brought him into contact with Viju Chetan who moonlighted as a beverage corporation employee. It is the possibility of an extra pint that lured Shailesh into the land of work. The problem was that his affinity towards circuitry ran alongside a very short fuse. A little pressure ( can be anything- the weather, Lalettan's new movie bombing, the shape of the parippu vada he had that morning, you get the idea) was enough to have him go off in a huff to nurse a comforting pint in the loving arms of the local beverage.co. And if it wasn't something that got his dander up, it would be simple commitment-phobia. Too much familiarity with a certain task makes our man feel antsy, resulting in the hero disappearing with nary a "it's not you, it's me." Viju Chetan, having seen our flighty bird through many a drunken ramble, was aware of these failings in an otherwise brilliant mind. Consequently, Shailesh's employment also saw the advent of the Relay Vigilance Commission. At no point of time was Shailesh left unsupervised and the supervisor usually sat in front of the exit braiding wires to further impede escape plans.Thus Shailesh was secured, grumpy or otherwise.<br />
<br />
The unforeseen consequence of all this constant vigilance was that the invigilators tended to get too involved in their charge's charges. While Viju chetan was still able to keep his head in the face of such electric snares, and Achan was able to tear himself away occasionally, Jenson Chetan succumbed to it's charms like plastic near static-charged fabric. He would stay on long beyond his prescribed duties, way past his home curfew, all for the excitement of seeing the lights come to life. His family was not pleased.<br />
<br />
Neither was the Mater.<br />
While she had given the project her blessings in the beginning, its never-ending nature, the constant tea-service and, most importantly, father dearest's growing obsession with the lighting story to the exclusion of all else, began to tarnish her view significantly. Furthermore, all the circuits and wires were not helping with turning 'humble home' into something suitably wedding-like. To give credit where it's due, the house by itself was lovely enough. But 'enough' is never enough. Also, the winds of change had spawned disarray. The newly minted cupboards had unleashed a revolution of forgotten bric-a-brac, which now emerged from their camouflaged corners demanding space. The freshly delivered Dakshina mundus and mundum veshtis vied with the new saris for wardrobe space. The changed curtains left behind old shades which hung around and got in everybody's way. Thankfully the books fit into the new bookshelf. Sort of.<br />
<br />
To add to this chaos, the pater had also envisioned the recreation of a childhood curiosity to liven up the house. The courtyard to be more specific. In his multiple treks to Sabarimala, that beloved pilgrimage centre that inspires so many faithful hearts and swamps so many railway charts, my father had seen devotees commence their journey by building miniature temples out of tender banana stems. These creations, he said, were bonsai versions of the actual sanctum sanctorum of the temple, mingling delicacy with detail and creating an ivory toned delight of perfect symmetry. Yes, he could be persuasive. The idea of a little shrine at the foot of the mango tree did carry a sweet rural appeal and the project was approved with mild smiles.<br />
Apparently, as we discovered later, the Pater was giving the truth a little makeover when he said 'little'. When the thing rose in the middle of the lawn... let's just say it was no midget. Plus the refuse from the construction work flooded the yard removing any vestige of decor or decorum. It was a fraught moment when mother dearest came upon the scene. She had a knife in her hand, you see.<br />
<br />
Caught up in suppressing these unruly uprisings and dragging father dearest back from circuits and plans for miniature temples, the mater had to admit that house and hall decoration will have to be outsourced. It is in this vulnerable interval that the parents make the acquaintance of Pavanai and Co. from Atham Wedding Planners. (Note: Don''t. Go.There.)<br />
Well, the parenthetical aside kinda says it all.<br />
Lulling us with glib talk of superlative flower arrangements, accurate replicas of the invite motif, and correcting us on the right kind of jasmine to be used for decking the bride(Coimbatore, if you are interested), the Atham sharks gave us every impression of efficiency-- an illusion if there ever was one, as events proved. We live and learn. As brides go, I was a rather easy going type and only had two requests from the duo. 1. A light and slender garland unlike the generic type. 2. A bouquet that did not look like a cauliflower. Pavanai and Partner were not impressed. Piece of cake! We'll even take up the Mehendi program just to show you how awesome we are. When the Mehendi lady turned up an hour late, and rushing to go, and not doing such a great job, it ought to have given us a clue. After all the swagger, on the wedding day I was presented with standard issue garland that any idiot bride could have carried and a bouquet that went out of its way to look like a cauliflower. As for jasmine, not only did we not get the 'right' variety, we got them so late that for a while we were facing the possibility of a deflowered bride. They did deliver on the motif replica, though. A perfect copy. Only it was bright, bubblegum pink. The final assessment was <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SA1VJ33AkCw" target="_blank">this</a>.<br />
<br />
While we may have miscalculated on certain aspects, we struck gold in the photographer category. And anyone who's ever been in a wedding knows what a coup that is. Ani from Vijaya Studios brought the best of clicking and courtesy to the wedding quickly turning into a crowd favourite. Besides his natural amiability, and admirable competency, he also carried the added charm of nostalgic sentiment since his father, the Vijayan of Vijaya studios, was the photographer for the parents' wedding.<br />
<br />
Two days before the arrival of our first guests, the lights finally came to life, much to the relief of all parties. All said and done, they looked gorgeous! We didn't even notice Shailesh making a run for it. Following quickly in the heels of the lighting flash, the white temple grew on our front-yard, while Viju chetan, the Pater and I made detailed pick-up and drop schedules. The guests started coming in and the grooms-side became more tangible presence-- occasionally in rather inopportune moments like the unavoidable bridal photoshoot. This pre-event period saw certain exciting developments like the arrival of 100+ wedding favour fans which needed to be knotted (a task that was assigned to the girlfriends-- they were given fair warning.) and a particular set from the groomside walking off without waiting for, or informing, the hapless pick-up person who then began a set of desperate to calls to every available number imaging the worst that can happen to non-mallus in Kerala. They were located eventually, safe and unrepentant. $@*^! By the time the Mehendi day dawned, the entire 'team'-- that favourite collective noun of the Trichur natives-- was so pumped we could have run a marathon, and won. Combine the best of a roller-coaster ride and chocolate and you get the wedding high. <br />
While I started out the wedding saga determined to be the one bride in the history of weddings to have fun at her own wedding, I realised that, if you are involved in your wedding there is no way you can not have fun at your wedding. Yes, no one is paying attention to the couple. And no, you don't get any rest. And yes, you will definitely face things you didn't plan for. And yes, you have fun anyway. There is so much positive energy, so many sincere good wishes, such sweet memories made, it makes everything worth it. Surrounded by family and friends who go out of their way to make your wedding spectacular, whether it's in the form of a spirited antakshari competition, or song and dance performances put together in the span of an evening, or skits created through online back and forths between overworked aunts and uncles, you are reminded that you are not alone in the effort and there is so much love in the universe that we are just trying to transmit to each other. At some point of time, you forget to think of things in terms of what they are worth and instead in what they mean to you. And there is a difference between the two.<br />
<br />
At the end of all the wedding prep, the author has come to the conclusion that, if there were more wedding themed parties, there would be fewer weddings ( And, consequently, fewer divorces, if you think about it.) But a wedding is so much more than a party. The whole wedding shabang is structured to teach, in small doses, the skills necessary to handle what is essentially an unchartered journey with a virtual stranger. The clarity to know what you can expect, the drive to see it through, the patience to sit out the difficult parts. And most importantly, it is to teach the two inadvertent parties to this madness-- the bride and the groom-- how to love. The enormous effort that goes into the making of such an event can only be pulled off if there is enough love to smooth the way. Love is a verb-- it needs action. The act of a wedding defines the parameters of the marriage it inaugurates. It sets the tone for the music you can make together -- it may not be what you were expecting, but it will be something extraordinary, sharps, flats and all.</div>
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______________</div>
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AtomicGittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266072580833457854noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24825645.post-34908604901879860812015-05-01T18:12:00.004+05:302015-05-05T06:05:42.656+05:30The Great Menon Wedding III: Digging the trenches, Donning the Armor<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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There comes a time in every uncertain bride's career that she simply forgets to be uncertain.<br />
And that usually happens during shopping.<br />
<br />
Selecting the exact shade you are sure your aunt will look good in, or reassuring your mother that no, her mundum veshti was not 'goldy-gold', or sending your prospective thalam bearers<sup><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=24825645#1" name="top1">1</a> </sup>and cousins saris that you spent hours considering, reconsidering and reassigning lends a purpose and clarity formerly lacking in the bridal mental make up. But shopping for others-- even if it is just getting the buckets and bedding for the make shift quarters (so reminiscent of hostel)-- is always fun. It is shopping for self, usually such a simple task, that is the true test of the bride's mettle. The bride learns quickly that she had better find her opinion soon, or be bombarded by advice from everyone and their uncle. One valuable lesson learnt from the entire wedding saga is that whether or not you know what you want, you arrive speedily at what you don't want. This righteous firmness takes snaps into shape after the first... or fifteenth... time you are accosted by a shop assistant who is doing everything in her power to shove that garrish Grendel born of an evil copulation between gold and chimkis onto you. So the next time someone shows you something you are not sure of, you immediately discard the option regardless of whether it is the fastest moving thing on the market. Consequently, the bride becomes more collected and less of a whiner, as the Mater would attest, and miscellaneous trousseau items get dashed off the list in less time than it takes to get your hair done-- which, by the way, may not be as quick as you'd imagined.<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=24825645#2" name="top2"><sup>2</sup></a> (That said, buying your wedding sari is a whole other kettle of fish. It is not unusual for the bride to tarry Hamlet like over the yellow one or the pink one or the red one or the magenta one... Godammit!)<br />
<br />
Newfound decisiveness helps negotiations because now there are none. Or so the theory goes. Your tailor might agree, your appointed beautician might agree. But your family and friends, unfortunately, have not been educated on this axiom. Consequently, no matter how much you protest against renovating your perfectly decent bathroom, you father will go ahead with it. But you do get some kind of twisted justice when the guy screws up and you are left with a faulty door after months of delay on the work itself. I have to admit I was not above some catty swipes at the disgruntled dad. Thankfully, the Father was not involved in the shopping proceedings and therefore we could avoid either one of us turning into the Holy Spirit.<br />
<br />
But not all the refurbishing was unwelcome. The arrival of remains of hostel-life in the form of 4 huge cartons made erstwhile avoided cupboards imperative. A quick sweep of furniture marts brought home the rather ironic fact that the state with the highest literacy rate had no demand for bookshelves. Introducing the effervescent Aniyan. Literally bouncing with energy, this little man must share some DNA trait with the coffee bean (he even looks like one). Bursting with ideas for 'dros' (drawers) and 'grews' (grooves), his innovation also extended to furniture transportation. Brilliant as my father is, he did not plan for the contingency of having to transport large bed/cupboards to an upstairs bedroom. If you are familiar with Ross Geller's <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n67RYI_0sc0" target="_blank">'Pivot' situation</a> you will know what I am talking about. Consequently, said item made its way to its destination through windows, over balconies, navigating pesky tree branches and dodging the occasional coconut. A little rope goes a long way. All this over the top furniture moving did throw a momentary spanner into another project underway around the casa. Which follows in the next post.<br />
<br />
See you there. And yes, wedding preps can seem never ending.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="1"><b>1 </b></a>For the uninitiated, or the non-mallu visiting my blog for the first time, the one semblance of ceremony that the Malayalee wedding indulges in is this rather quaint custom where the groom and the bride are escorted to the hall by the loving and lovely ladies of the bride's side (ostensibly to invite, but mostly to intimidate I think). Something like a desi bridesmaid, if you will. Of course in the normal wedding this retinue is comprised of any random female standing around, preferably young and unmarried so that the rest of the onlookers can indulge in the favorite pass time of wedding-attendees: match-making.<sup><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=24825645#top1">↩</a></sup><br />
<br />
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="2"><b>2 </b></a>Of course this hard won confidence is blown away like a shanty in a cyclone when you enter the grooms'side of events. You are constantly worried whether you'll do the wrong thing, or worse, say it. And you have absolutely no idea what they have in mind. Consequently you are walking in the mist on a potential minefield and absolutely unwilling to do anything to disturb the universe. You retreat into the path of least resistance and stay there. Until, of course, you get so dehydrated under the weight of heavy lehenga and the equally heavy make up and come very close to making the reception truly unforgettable by almost passing out on the dinner table. But we'll save that story for later. Or not.<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=24825645#top2"><sup>↩</sup></a></div>
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AtomicGittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266072580833457854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24825645.post-34233758587562168882015-04-20T01:08:00.000+05:302015-09-13T22:53:52.724+05:30Patience<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
When they met,<br />
She held two minutes of silence,<br />
And threw them at him hard.<br />
They smashed into smithereens of conversation.<br />
He had good reflexes.<br />
Her aim was always off.<br />
<br />
He said take your time.<br />
Then hurry up.<br />
(No, he didn't listen to Kurt Cobain.)<br />
She was never slow.<br />
But then again how fast can you go?<br />
She had never.. you know..<br />
Well.<br />
Closed her eyes and touched<br />
the right hand.<br />
Then opened them and looked at the scenery<br />
Still the same.<br />
<br />
Bad phonelines, casual endearments,<br />
Never his name.<br />
Except when she was angry.<br />
Or anxious.<br />
She can't tell the difference anymore.<br />
No, she can. Can she?<br />
Can't she?<br />
Won't she?<br />
<br />
Look at the moon<br />
For answers.<br />
It's cloudy.<br />
<br />
Change music tracks.<br />
And wait for the train.<br />
It's a song she heard a long time ago<br />
On another record.<br />
She sits still in the cloudy moonlight<br />
<br />
<br />
She feels in the dark<br />
for the silence she threw at him<br />
The shards cut her words.<br />
She glues the pieces together<br />
Creating new shapes with the shapeless<br />
And waits for him to notice.<br />
He has no eye for lines.<br />
Or what's between them<br />
<br />
The track changes,<br />
The links break and join with each turn,<br />
Purple twilight windows<br />
Shade a paper moon<br />
Carrying a note she can't read.<br />
It's a long way to the moon,<br />
But you can't tell that to a train.<br />
<br />
Rain.<br />
<br />
Pats her on the back<br />
In tune to a lullaby<br />
Heard and long forgotten<br />
(on purpose?)<br />
So long ago<br />
Like the cloudy moon<br />
That signs mutely<br />
of unfamiliar familiarities.<br />
Like old photos exhumed<br />
With moon rock faces<br />
Blotchy with fungal craters.<br />
Hold your head between your knees<br />
And breathe.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
He finds her hand in the dark.<br />
With the jolt of an accident,<br />
He's been searching too.<br />
They are not sure what they've found,<br />
Between moonshine and memory<br />
There's still a long way<br />
To the moon.</div>
AtomicGittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266072580833457854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24825645.post-20013427790792984622015-03-29T07:19:00.001+05:302015-09-13T22:58:50.902+05:302014 in a Playlist<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The year 2014 had all the characteristics of a long-running seinen manga series. It starts out at a breakneck pace, then skates at an aggravating 30 km/hr and then accelerates into hyper speed leaving you reeling from the inertia when it comes to a stop. In fact, the momentum of 2014 carried you a long way into 2015 before you realised the temporal shift. And I might have strayed from my metaphor a bit. Before I descend further into incomprehension, here is what 2014 sounded like.<br />
<br />
<b>January</b>: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P7kzsM05Yso" target="_blank"><b>Sympathatique- Pink Maritini</b></a><br />
<i>...Je ne veux pas travailler...</i><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://lyricstranslate.com/en/je-ne-veux-pas-travailler-i-dont-want-work.html-1" target="_blank">Lyrics translation.</a></span></i><br />
<i><br /></i>
On one hand, your deadline is getting uncomfortably close. On the other your reading list is far from comprehensive and your writing feels reprehensible. There is a 99.9% guarantee that your thesis will be unread and that the 0.1% that would flip through it would have a great laugh at the giant joke that is it's academic credibility. Not the most encouraging state of affairs or mind. Worse so, when your folks are under the misconception that you are at least halfway done. Made still worse by the fact that you are getting married in three months.<br />
Right.<br />
It's all going down any way. Let's just close our eyes in ostrich-like denial, eat cake and hope to forget.<br />
<br />
<b>February</b>:<b> <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KSuB4t3q_dA" target="_blank">I can see clearly Now- Jimmy Cliff</a></b><br />
<i>...Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind...</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
A change of place and the bolstering presence of the indomitable mater pumped life into the flat-lined writing and made the thesis more possible and the deadline less like an death sentence. Apparently, multi-tasking really gets the creative juices flowing. Having something to divide your attention puts an end to obsessing over the writing process and gets you writing instead. Apparently juggling wedding tailoring, invitation print collection and review and trips to multiple family conclaves and writing 200 pages of theory centered thesis, textual analysis, check-listing sources and maneuvering around the MLA handbook rules for citation gets the job done. Dinner was punctuated by summaries of pages written and wedding projects completed.<br />
Naturally, the one person who knows my thesis better than me is my mother.<br />
<br />
<b>March</b>: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cDK3c7WyyaI" target="_blank"><b>Thaka thaka- OST Neram</b></a><br />
<i>...neram poraa...*</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
My deadline is the skinny guy in the video. And the Vetti Raja that is the wedding waits around the corner. 'Nuf said. Back to writing.<br />
*Translation: Not enough time.<br />
<br />
<b>April</b>: <b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O71fetlkCZo" target="_blank">We are the Champions- Queen</a> </b>and <b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WS4Mev_vRAc" target="_blank">Maangalyam OST Bangalore Days</a></b><br />
<br />
We allow ourselves a slow-motion walk as we exit the admin office post-thesis submission, only to run double time to to make it for the wedding and the madness that precedes it. The Wedding (the capitals are warranted), featuring the amazing organisation skill of the Pater-Mater duo, was made super by the presence of friends old,new, and awesome without exception, and further brightened by family whose degree of amazing defies description. Thank you. Your supernatural, extra-brilliant kindness makes the world a wonderful place.<br />
<br />
<b>May: Frog in my Throat- Resham George<span style="font-size: xx-small;">. Recording unavailable</span></b><br />
<i>...I lost my voice to a frog in my throat.. Whyyyy?...</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Post Wedding, travels and visa application, the reunion with spouse is blighted by the worst throat infection in the author's life. It was like the strep had waited all these years just to rev up to throat-closing virulence; consequently freaking the hell out of the Mister who is now under the impression that the Missus is a wilting violet. He got to try out the 'in sickness and in health' clause early on. *Cough, Khakh khahh, cough.*<br />
<i><br /></i>
<b>June-July: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WVEDDbyZNN8" target="_blank">Grey Sky Eyes- Carbon Leaf</a></b><br />
<i>...you welcome me in with your veil that's so thin, but your mystery continues to grow...</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Post-Wedding and way past pleasantries, we find ourselves wondering what exactly is the deal with the other person in the story. While Mister has the healthy distraction of occupation, the student fresh out of school has little to ponder than the working of this newly acquired curious specimen.<br />
Thankfully, intervention in the form of a beloved aunt who contributed editing work and other distractions saved both sanities. Meanwhile, the academic door remains ajar with a conference in the horizon. Paper time.<br />
<br />
<b>August: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sJQYoGyEtDs" target="_blank">Lemon Tree- Fools Garden</a></b><br />
<i>...wasting my time I got nothing to do...</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Ok fine, there's this one conference paper. But protracted stasis especially after the flurry of activity that preceded the isle of calm, or the desert of joy as it were, has a way of messing with your equilibrium. You start waiting for something to happen and sip lemonade. But nothing ever happens... and you wonder...<br />
<br />
<b>September: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wt35Tdj3hoI" target="_blank">We are One Tonight- Switchfoot</a></b><br />
<i>... I don't want to lose the common ground...</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
A return to the motherland becomes a site of social rehabilitation. A complex maneuver comes into play requiring one to navigate around fledgling relationships. Relearning how to learn people, can be quite a challenge. To take in their differences without becoming defensive of your own is emotional rocket science, especially when you try too hard. But the common ground brings us together and we remember that this is not a competition. We are on the same side. And we are just dreaming out loud.<br />
<br />
<b>October-November: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SvrW9XkkCGk" target="_blank">I have a life that's Good- Lennon and Maisy</a></b><br />
<i>...two arms around me and heaven to ground me and a family that always calls me home...</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
When you are mostly on your own for at least 8 years and suddenly get a two month stretch with your family where you are free to give and receive full attention, you experience a full-body vibration of goodness that you now recognise as something very special and very very rare. This feeling brings out contradictory emotions. You realise that regardless of whatever you've told yourself so far, you do have something to lose. At the same time, you realise whether or not you have anything else, you have this.<br />
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<b>December: Sthirata nahi nahi re-Sadashiva Brahmendra</b><br />
<i>...manasa sthirata nahi nahi re...</i><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> <a href="https://sujamusic.wordpress.com/2013/05/10/sthirata-nahi-nahi-re/" target="_blank">Lyrics Translation</a></span><br />
It was a long and dark December, as Coldplay put it.<br />
<br />
The confusion of a rescheduled viva flowed into the awkwardness of a conference bristling with academic celebrities. The buzz of daily mundanities is cut by a soft voice which speaks gently of death and suddenly there is a crack in mirror of your mind. All our annoyances seem so small. All our joys so petty. Our triumphs so guilty. How do you contain loss so profound it isn't really assimilated into your pysche? A living laughing memory beside the fatal knowledge that she is gone. Even a long life can be very short. Death is always more difficult for those left behind-- they have the difficult task of returning to the land of the living.<br />
<br />
<br />
2014 was a landmark year. The kind of year that Dickens used as a model when he wrote "It was the best of times and the worst of times." The short span of 365 days stretched our erstwhile untested limits and we come out of it winded but wiser. 2015 looks to be a gentler year, and let us hope with Browning-like optimism that the best is yet to be.<br />
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Live long and prosper.</div>
AtomicGittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266072580833457854noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24825645.post-83420895220865084842015-03-28T15:41:00.003+05:302015-03-31T04:55:31.627+05:30Er...Um... I'm back. Heh heh heh *Sheepish Shuffle*<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i><b>The Creator</b> has given <b>the Author</b> one page time to make her case. The reader sits as jury.</i><br />
<br />
The next worst thing after an accusatory glance induced guilt trip, is the non-accusatory, understanding-face induced one. And <b>The World According to Me</b>, has perfected the art. (Taking lessons from the Mater, behind my back, are you?)<br />
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Following her release from the Thesis-Defense, The Author has been attempting to retrieve her lost writing habit since late 2014. There are at least five initiated posts to corroborate this statement. However, the incredible high of being on a vacation-- a real one, not a quick set of snatched holidays where most of your contraband fun is adulterated with guilt or the thought of the aggravated work load on return-- effectively wiped out any writerly conscientiousness. And hence, aforementioned five posts remain in production. And every shamefaced click back to Blogger's doorstep saw an abashed retreat. The New Years Playlist, stayed unplayed, the latest update of Dr.Ames's Diagnostic manual remains dormant, the Wedding Saga episodes await conclusion... The Author confesses the sins of the past, in hopes that they may not be repeated and grows wiser.<br />
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Freedom is a heady drug, that makes time behave outside the laws of man-made physics. Given the nature of 2014, this temporal anarchy is in character. However, time is an ocean of our creation, as much as we are fish in that endless sea. Some say time is linear, others that it is cyclical. The Author believes that direction is pointless and we make the best of what is given to us and take direction from our surroundings (This may also be because she has no sense of direction) Freedom is Eden, but as a wise teacher of Shakespeare once said, Eden is for exile or holiday, one cannot live in Eden. It is time to return. <br />
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And <b>The World According to Me</b>, smiling and brilliant as always, calls the Author back to the land of the living, leaving behind her lotus-eating days. To misquote the Bard, <b>The World According to me</b>, must be peopled. Won't you join us?<br />
<br /></div>
AtomicGittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266072580833457854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24825645.post-43362843351957086782014-11-10T14:59:00.000+05:302015-03-29T01:33:54.763+05:30Notes on a pen<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
There is some thing so romantic, so sensuous about a much loved pen. It's weight resting ready against the middle finger. Its thorax indented by the tight embrace of relentless digits that held it in the tight grip of passionate inspiration until the fingers themselves changed and grew callused grooves to fit. Its nib gathers to a point the suspense ridden trepidation that kept it hovering a full minute above the page before descending with a reckless or defeated sigh on the pristine smoothness of page. The smooth body holds the remembered warmth of pursed lips pressed to it in thoughtful contemplation, It carries the scars of feverish bite marks left behind by a particularly meaty idea that needed to be wrestled into submission. The stains of sweaty fingerprints from punishing examinations cling to it's glossy skin. It is almost a living thing -- this carrier of memories .Witness to the words let fly, held back and the ones that ought to have been. And just like the human being, a pen too has character.<br />
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I think it all began with the period films- the Victorian men and women scribbling away furiously on creamy parchment, the elegant plumes of their quills executing a scratchy flurry of pirouettes.<br />
I used to fill obsolete notebooks with scribbles just to watch the long wand of my pen dance and sway over the page. And then there was my grandfather with his beautiful handwriting sloping across lines in a smooth glide.Whether ball pens or ink pens, his pens were meticulously maintained and treated with utmost respect. I still remember the battered beloved stic pen he was using on the day he passed away.<br />
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My grandmother was an inveterate writer. Letters, stories, lists, notes, asides, all dashed away in the pale blue of her favored ink. She was the one to introduce me to fiction; pushing a battered but beautiful copy of hardbound <i>Jane Eyre </i>into my eight year old hands. And then having spirited discussions on the characters and plot line. She also started me off on the artistry of writing with her innocent yarns about cousins hunting down a missing pair of spectacles all written in her sweeping cursive over sheets of rough unruled paper. She was the one who unwittingly introduced me to the dignified but sweet-natured Hero pen which started me off on my love affair with fountain pens.<br />
<br />
Have you ever noticed that when you use someone else's pen, your handwriting becomes a little like theirs? The weft and warp of your knit cursive adopts the slants and curves of the predecessor. The sweep of the inked letter seems to call back for the familiar hand, putting our upstart penmanship back in its place. The pen can't let go as fast as the fingers that grew cold without them. And so, one sunny afternoon you collide with a sheaf of letters penned in a beloved hand and realise that your hand is not the same anymore. It is stained with the indelible ink of memory and love, seeping under the callused epidermis to color the canvas of your character.<br />
<br />
Pens aggravate. They break when you least expect it and break your heart with it. Run out of ink at the worst time possible. Leak all over your hand, ruining anything in the path of its outburst. They become inconsistent and boorish leaving you no choice but to let go. They make you fall in love with their smoothness and leave you wanting when you realise it is an understocked/limited edition piece. But pens console too. They let you weep out your frustration in jet black spurts of hurt or in a long stream of unchecked eulogy. The comforting friction of nib on page eases the ache within, letting it flow out your fingers. The careful ritual of cleaning, refilling and drying that aged fountain pen is a mode of meditation of what is, was and will be. It mandates deliberation, checks the excess, crafts the thought. The pen demands that you give what you write enough room to breathe and give yourself time. And most importantly, the pen marks the journey that your writing took-- it shows the checks, corrections, the blotches, the over indulgence in metaphor and adjective that you had to scrap. Contrarily, if you have chosen to put something down in irretrievable ink, it must be that special. My paternal grandfather always used any random stub of pencil, or an errant ball pen for his everyday businesses. It was only years after his death, that a vintage Sheaffer fountain pen was retrieved from the safe, secret place in his back drawer protected from the mundane scrawl of habit.<br />
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Animism holds that an inanimate object can carry a spiritual fingerprint, a soul if you will. Or perhaps, I am entirely too enamored with the written word and the vehicle that carries it. In either case, I have learnt too much from pens and their lovers to ever take them for granted. It's a special thing to be able to love an inanimate object minus the materialistic edge, to endow it with a spirit beyond it's wood, steel or plastic bodies. Especially for an observer whose major preoccupation is deciphering human attachments. But then again, there is nothing that can't be given a deeper meaning-- something an old faulty pen, found in a back drawer along with moldy papers taught me.<br />
<br /></div>
AtomicGittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266072580833457854noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24825645.post-58820267398849516472014-11-09T22:54:00.001+05:302015-03-29T01:32:06.727+05:30Memoirs of a Meesha<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The origins of facial hair are quite obvious: early man had bigger priorities than fashioning a razor. And the origins of the removal of aforementioned facial hair are also quite obvious: Supporting a certified biosphere on ones face could not have been comfortable.And it must have been a rather virulent biosphere indeed to warrant the steep leap of faith involved in applying sharp item on soft face- especially with the high probability of surprise mountain lion/cave bear attacks causing a fatal slip of the hand. (But then again, in the event of such a surprise, better ear-less/nose-less than lifeless.)
In either case, the true mystery lies in the genesis of the mustache. What induced the freshly shaving man to leave behind patches of hair on his face? Is it because applying the razor under his nose also took off inches from it? Was it to conceal his deplorable dental condition? Or to strain the water of its questionable additions as he sipped from the river? Or was to mutter expletives into its dark fronds, safe in the knowledge that CaveMama can't hear or see what you just called her cooking? The practical uses of the bit of fluff may still be within the scope of our imagination, but the cultural and symbolic significance the mouth-wig achieved within the course of civilisation is beyond logic! Instead of coming up with hair-brained ideas let us hear it from the horse's mouth. I present, the distinguished mouthpiece of the man-kind: the Moustache!
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiATiFzPVaO3bQgxZqXxgSMgw03Y5h-UWOZxARDS5hz02LfPGKEeSrayJx9PPGdOi8n6liz0JW19IK8V73nmy2ygZH6_69XzKM38IkWwvh1Zk3SrVSx3Of1JL0hmhsZOCYSJWVErw/s1600/mustache.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiATiFzPVaO3bQgxZqXxgSMgw03Y5h-UWOZxARDS5hz02LfPGKEeSrayJx9PPGdOi8n6liz0JW19IK8V73nmy2ygZH6_69XzKM38IkWwvh1Zk3SrVSx3Of1JL0hmhsZOCYSJWVErw/s200/mustache.jpg" height="144" width="200" /></a></div>
Behold! I am the moustache! Observe-my glorious crest descending in a swaggering incline of inky black ending in perfectly symmetrical nifty, upward curl. Magnificent am I not?And it is not merely my considerable beauty that underscores my opulent charm- civilisations have been supported on the sturdy loop of my dark wings!<br />
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Let me describe the illustrious history of this lustrous specimen.The first mouche to sprout up in the archives adorned the lips of a Scythian horseman riding across a wall painting. Following which they began popping up everywhere. Apparently it was total rage with the Mesopotamians, who often teamed it up with flowing beards. Sure the Egyptians still walked about bald faced,but what can you expect from them-their gods had animal heads forgodsakes!In India the virulence of your mustache growth symbolised great vigour. Young boys waited impatiently for us to grace their upper lips. Facial-hair deprived men sighed in sadness wishing for a better fate (it is a wonder they didn't drive themselves to <a href="http://www.gq.com/blogs/the-feed/2013/05/today-in-manhood-turkey-offering-mustache-transplants.html">this</a> option) while those graced with our flowing presence caressed us lovingly. And women, the poor dears, were so overwhelmed by our obvious glory they couldn't bear it: they literally ripped us off their upper lips. (They may give you some other story, but now you know the truth);A hairy upper lip was a sign of virility, dynamism and what the patroness of this blog would call 'dudeness'. But, as a great man once said, uneasy lies the upperlip that wears the crown.Our hairiditory magnificence was a source of jealous pride.With our beauty came the curse of honor.A half shaved moustache was the height of insult.Lesser men envied those blessed with our glory, resenting our dramatic presence. Bloody feuds were fought over insults thrown at our regal splendour.<br />
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Through most of twentieth century we clung tenaciously to stiff-upper lips and were lovingly smoothed by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hercule_Poirot">brilliant detectives</a> and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Magnum,_P.I.">PIs</a>. We graced the dashing smiles of dandies who <a href="http://www.doctormacro.com/Images/Gable,%20Clark/Annex/Annex%20-%20Gable,%20Clark%20(Gone%20With%20the%20Wind)_09.jpg">frankly didn't give a damn</a> and were waxed eloquently by iconic <a href="http://www.antiquity.tv/wp-content/uploads/2010/01/dali-portrait-photo.jpg">artists</a> who dallied with the very creme de la creme of the age.We were broodingly combed by philosophers who went <a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/1/1b/Nietzsche187a.jpg" target="_blank">beyond good and evil</a> or lent sternness to others with <a href="http://www.heidegger.org/images/heidegger.gif" target="_blank">weak mouths</a> or lay in glorious state upon the lips of <a href="http://a2.files.biography.com/image/upload/c_fill,dpr_1.0,g_face,h_300,q_80,w_300/MTE5NTU2MzE2MjgxMjc1OTE1.jpg" target="_blank">some who believed they had a superior mission</a>. We<a href="http://www.nndb.com/people/855/000031762/groucho2-sm.jpg" target="_blank"> bracketed</a> and<a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/0/00/Charlie_Chaplin.jpg" target="_blank"> augmented</a> comic relief. We were, perhaps, the most dynamic fashion statement a man could make.But such an age was too glorious to last.
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The 21st century saw a baldfaced betrayal of the Mustachio Creed. No longer embraced by the mainstream, only a particularly confident or careless upperlip would acquiesce to carry our weight. The metro sexual male found other outlets for facial hair grooming, like the detestable chin fungus called a "soul-patch" (more like a soul-blight) Beards of different sizes and shapes began to return to the face, but the poor mustache began to be seen as a mark of provinciality--doomed to the likes of Texan steerherders or Mexican wranglers. Even our stalwart patrons, the Malayalees, are beginning to withdraw their support, moving towards a clean-shaven look rather than the favored face-ornament of yore. Even the proprietor of this blog is only allowing this lament because her father happens to sport a particularly virulent mouche! We are forced to perch precariously on available upper lips, forever wary of the blade.<br />
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Weep ye mortals-- not for the fallen mustache, but yourselves. We used to be enough to mark a man's manhood. It didn't matter if you had the cheapest car, or whether your daughter worked or if your son took up fashion designing, or if there are people kissing in front of you-- your mustache would have established your credibility. Now what will the poor man do to prove himself?His security, once so prominent and worn bravely in the middle of his visage, now flounders in the face of so many new things, exposing his vulnerable upper lip to everything!<br />
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Perhaps, it is inevitable. We could not have protected the substance of manhood forever. It is only natural that the cycle turns and the baton is passed. We learn to enjoy the few months when we sprout on young lips and lead our charges into shaven puberty and decline with grace. We only hope that our replacement will be as tangible as we have been. Mankind is a wayward race, easily distracted and ready to take offence. They have outgrown us, but we hope that they have grown up in the process.<br />
We thank the kind readers who have patiently listened to our plaint</div>
AtomicGittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266072580833457854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24825645.post-53656021185027965952014-10-11T15:12:00.002+05:302015-03-31T00:29:15.422+05:30The Great Menon Wedding II:Roots and (Photo) Shoots aka How to Get into The Wedding Spirit.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div>
The problem of stepping into a wedding that you were never planning to have, is that you aren't really prepared for the choices you will have to make.<br />
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Following the tremulous 'yes', my parents had slid into a comfortable bonhomie reminiscent of the iceberg after it sunk the Titanic. However, I had been grossly blinded by the parents' appearance of chilled out equilibrium. While I was aware of my parents' burning urge for a marriage in the family, I began to realise that the heat of their matrimonial ambitions could sear rhinoceros hide! The Pater, who is given to exaggeration, blithely aired plans of a thousand strong wedding guest list and expeditions to unknown corners of Kerala and the Deccan Plateau to run the invitation gauntlet. But my amused smile shriveled into an incredulous 'huh?' when the mild Mater began to pull out bulging folders labelled 'invitation card options', 'wedding favors', 'decor', 'bridal hairstyles' (and I thought she had made her peace with my <a href="http://atomicgitten.blogspot.in/2008/04/hairy-tale.html" target="_blank">maenad hair</a>) <i>'blouse patterns' </i>(!). Ostensible research.Oh dear...<br />
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<div>
Sensing peril, I began to observe their routines more closely. Where Achan would once shun the telephone like hostel chutney, he now spent valuable minutes on the line collecting phone numbers to dial in still more phones. Besides conferring with various cronies regarding infrastructural cornerstones like the catering and transport, housing and lighting, Achan was also willingly venturing outside and visiting acquaintances-- both highly allergenic tasks for the subject. Amma who used to spend her online time on progressive pursuits like <a href="http://materialmom.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">this</a>, now spent her days watching videos like <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G-gQRM1Q7b8" target="_blank">this</a> (nice song, though). Where we once had stimulating intellectual conversations on poetry, politics, books and family gossip, talk now inevitably veered towards sari colours, thalam arrangements flowers and inevitably the groom (the last item usually some advice prefixed with a "please don't"). And when we weren't talking about wedding planning, my economically conscientious mother would disappear into the bowels of Mysore Silk Emporium and return laden with booty with nary a wince at the bill. It was when my father and I got into an argument regarding the hypothetical wedding jewelry that I knew for certain that as a responsible adult it was my duty to lead them back to their sane and sensible selves. Some one needed to step in and pick up those slackened reins!<br />
<br />
Which was exactly what I had planned to do... but...well... We have a way of getting swept away in the flow of things-- especially if it is less 'flow' and more 'tsunami waves'. Besides, if I was going to get married, I was damned well gonna have a say in the freaking thing. And I was never in a thousand years going let myself become <a href="http://i.ytimg.com/vi/_Cv2I3uNiys/hqdefault.jpg" target="_blank">this</a> kind of a bride! (there were dangerous thoughts in this direction) Consequently, I got involved in my own wedding. A decision I was sure I would never make. Ah hell, I wasn't planning on getting married to begin with, it was about time I got with the program.<br />
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Having become the unwilling protagonist of this wedding saga, I was now called upon to make several decisions for which I was ill prepared. For example: What colour wedding sari do you want? Er...<br />
Spare me your calumny you mocking mockers! It is apparently the most crucial piece of knowledge for a prospective bride. The wedding shade is the one colour to rule them all-- the jewelry, saris to be given as gifts, even the stage settings were subject to the Great Pigment. Seriously- it's a big deal! Yeah, I didn't know either; much to the frustration of all interested (which waseveryone I knew, irrespective of age or gender) Other subjects of infinite importance in the wedding scheme included possible blouse tailors, the best options for d-day beautician and what kind of shoes. Besides this, the bride has to make her peace with certain truths:<br />
(a) She will have to put off reading the complete works of Haruki Murakami or even <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/10357575-1q84" target="_blank">one small little novel</a> in favour of socialising.<br />
(b)She will have to sit still and smiling for looooong stretches of time.<br />
(c) She must be well dressed full time. (mostly because her mother is revisiting her daughter's pre-cognitive days where she got to try every look she fancied on unsuspecting, compliant baby)<br />
(d) She will be called upon to pose for innumerable photos, in ridiculous poses*. And she must do so graciously. (The wedding phase also saw the return of the Mater's favorite phrase from my childhood: "Don't make a fuss")<br />
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Needless to say I was much happier to take care of transport coordination, room list tallies and invitation printing and inviting. The last, only when permitted-- it is apparently bad form to invite people for your wedding yourself. Which makes some circuitous sense since your wedding is mostly your parents' project, whether or not you try to make it otherwise. The guest list is like the Humanities discipline, it is flexible and ever growing. In fact, as evidenced in a cousin's wedding, it continues to expand right up to the wedding day. While I can't generalise, most South Indian wedding guest lists do not work on the overly simplified notion of inviting only close family and friends. Oh no. Anyone on the family tree with a valid address was a candidate. I remember in my naive past my observations on weddings were marked by incredulity at the logic of inviting people one barely knew to ones own wedding. The fact is. that's how you get to know them. I had the opportunity of meeting such lovely people while running the invitation gauntlet it made the wedding worth it. Of course, there were those I won't recognise ever again as well, but the fact remains the wedding was an affirmation of roots and the far off shoots sprung from these forgotten ties.You see, the rhetoric of parental duty has deep roots in a very simple urge-- communal bonding.<br />
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Forget all the middle-class morality discourse about marriage being a social obligation. What it really is, is a chance for parents, family and friends old and new to get together, call everyone they can think of and throw a really big party. It is a chance to open doors, renew bonds, make memories of every kind and generally have a whale of a time. And the easiest way to appreciate this, I discovered, was to stop thinking of the wedding as your wedding. Rather, think of it as the one opportunity to show them how it's done and do it right. The minute the perspective changes, you are suddenly free of the self consciousness and what we Mallus call <i>chammal** </i>and <i>challupu***</i> of being the center of so much unwanted and unprecedented attention. Your attention shifts from their attention and you finally see things for what they are-- a chance for your family to cut loose. A time for you to hang out with your friends, giving them a venue to reanimate friendships. An opportunity to be happy and make happy.And I was determined to be the one bride in history to have fun at her own wedding. And this wedding would definitely go down in history.<br />
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Next up, the getting the wheels running for the Big Knot<br />
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* The photographer we finally settled upon was that rare breed of clickers-- polite, efficient and likable. A large reason for this was because he smiled so apologetically every time he requested a certain pose, and that the final album was quite lovely. To his credit, viewing the shots later proved that the poor man had had to use all his skill to make the bride look passably nomal-- the subject had failed spectacularly at point (b).<br />
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** Roughly translated as embarrassment. <br />
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***Another form of extreme embarrassment and shame. Use the retroflex 'l'-- All you linguists out there, you know what to do.</div>
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AtomicGittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266072580833457854noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24825645.post-9732471617474484362014-07-23T17:29:00.000+05:302015-03-31T00:29:15.434+05:30The Great Menon Wedding: Introduction<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>Yes, there was no Christmas post last year .There was also no New Years playlist.</i><br />
<i>Easter bounced by in a flurry of fluffy omelets and dust -bunnies. </i><i>Spring gaily sprang into Summer </i>(which, somehow, seems to be going on forever...) <i>All</i> <i>passing without comment.</i><br />
<i>(By the way, A belated Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, Happy Easter and any other festive occasion I missed)</i><br />
<br />
<b style="font-style: italic;">The World According to Me</b><i> has been languishing in prolonged stasis- a state that I sincerely wish to remedy. However, the world around me was and is performing rigorous cartwheels, somersaults, high tragedy and comic farce . And we are not merely describing the political-social entertainment that has been the trend of 2014. </i><br />
<i>In either case, I wish to remind myself and my faithful readers (most of whom have given up on me already) that this blog<br />a) exists<br />b) is still active. albeit irregularly.<br /> And while I may become as erratic in my updates as some of my more distinguished brethren seem to be, I assure you, <b>The World According to Me </b>is never forgotten. And just to make my sincerity clear...</i><br />
<h2 style="text-align: left;">
Parents of a Marriageable Age.</h2>
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While my views on marriage have been widely publicised within the blogsphere and any circle that has come within a meters radius of self, my idealism did not take into consideration the presence of two very radical variables: my parents.The fact is, my parents were ready for marriage at least five years prior to the Great Event. And while sterling individuals in every count, they are not above some emotional strong-arming. To err is human. Long and rather unpleasant story short, I decided there wasn't all that much to lose. As a wise woman once put it, don't run, you'll just die tired. Once the difficult task of wrapping ones head around a previously inconceivable future is taken care of, things become surprisingly easy. It also helps if the man you decide to marry is not half-bad. (in case the man in question is reading this- understatement is the new black). But I am ahead of myself. </div>
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The prospect of possible nuptials brought about some disconcerting knowledge. A cursory self-assessment revealed that I was not only a pathological friendzoner, I was also as dense as stale doughnut. A cousin of mine was narrating the meet-cute of a relative who met her spouse at an airport. There they were, two strangers at the baggage carousel, unaware of cupid's quivering arrow racing towards them. The guy accidentally picked up her bag and in the confusion and the exchange of sheepish grins their eyes met, a lot of sappy violins played and the rest is history. Now, If the same thing were to happen to yours truly, the hapless hero would be summarily yelled at, glared at, derisively laughed at and dismissed as nincompoop and/or thief. The sound you hear in the background is romance staking itself in the chest. Bottom-line : I wouldn't recognise a pass if it danced the hula in front of me wearing nothing but a neon sign.<br />
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It was glaringly apparent that any <a href="http://www.shakespeare-online.com/sonnets/116.html" target="_blank">true-mind marriage that dear Will espouses</a> would happen only through parental liason. Having had twenty-six years of exposure to my particular brand of cluelessness, the parents were not surprised. In fact, they were chafing at the bit.(To those individuals unfamiliar with the concept of an arranged marriage, it's not the slave trade it's made out to be. Honest. In fact, for individuals like self, it is often a helpful modus operandi.) No sooner had the grudging 'yes' passed my pursed lips than the progentitors (and one sibling) jumped to the task of finding Mister More-or-Less Right with rabid enthusiasm. Apparently, my parents were waaaaay past marriageable age.<br />
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A note to all children, if you think you know your parents-- you don't. They are like three year olds , one minute they are obsessed by a certain shiny object, the next they sprint off in the opposite direction. But again, I am ahead of myself.<br />
<br />
The <strike>man </strike>groom hunt was a rather entertaining exercise given that half the candidates that cropped up were hilariously unacceptable. (A notable specimen openly stated that his only qualification was his enormous wealth. Another said as baldly that he had nothing to declare but his optimism) The other half was further whittled into nothing by astrological mismatches. And the few that remained were comfortably shot down by my father and brother. Mother on the other hand tended to have a very liberal view of human fallibility and age appropriate hairlines. So, they plowed through multiple possibilities drawing blanks. Meanwhile, I let out a relieved sigh-- it didn't look like I'd be getting married anytime soon.<br />
<br />
Right.<br />
Less than a year later, I was handed a proposal worthy of consideration. My parents pulled the carpet from under my feet in more ways than one. Not only did they actually locate a possibility that had both mental acumen and enough hair on his head (a rare combination, as the hunting logs proved). They also blithely hummed consent to someone who was only half-Mallu and didn't even speak the language! This after years of demanding that the female offspring refrain from even looking in the general direction of a non-Mallu male. Is there no certainty in this world?! Apparently not.<br />
<br />
Thankfully, I was saved the indignity of the long walk-of-chai service, popularised by so many movies. The acid test came in the form of a rambling conversation with the hapless he where the author made no attempts to tame her loquacity. At the end of which, the candidate did not keel over and die. Rather, not only was he still lucid, he was still pleasant! A real sign of endurance, if any. Apparently, my parents (and one sibling) did know what they were doing...<br />
In either case, cute half-Mallu boy seemed worth the effort and he on his part seemed ok with throwing caution to the winds and his lot with mine. Consequently we got engaged. The family smiled in satisfaction. "We've got her half-way, now we just need to get her married"</div>
<div>
And that is a story for the next episode of The Great Menon Wedding. <br />
<br />
Statutory Warning: Posts that follow in this series will be longer than average. After all this is no average mallu wedding. Keep your glucose close at hand.</div>
</div>
AtomicGittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266072580833457854noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24825645.post-16047027593266286242013-12-15T21:38:00.000+05:302014-10-09T21:09:26.269+05:30Stepping up to Plate<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Food is one of the most innocent pleasures available to the human experience.It's a pleasure that does not detract from anyone else's happiness (except of course when Nigella Lawson makes it a point to eat chocolate cake on screen) A foodie and food share an uncomplicated, undemanding relationship, refreshing in its simplicity. And here I state the obvious--<br />
Atomicgitten loves food.<br />
Apparently this trait had it's beginnings at the author's genesis itself. At one week's age, the only thing that got some reaction out of generally indifferent baby was the prospect of feeding. And then came the long wails at twilight because she was bored with milk and wanted solid food. Mother dearest realised quickly that the easiest way to quieten bawling baby was to stuff food down her gullet. Unfortunately for the baby's waistline, the trend continued far out of babyhood; but that can be the subject of another post.<br />
<br />
Moving out of home territory ought to have laid a damper on my gastronomic hedonism. Fortunately for me, I seemed to find great cooks wherever I went. So much so that my tastes only grew more fastidious and my repertoire of eating more broad-based. (Though it must be said of the Mater that, when she deigned to accommodate these demands, her skills proved more than ample to the task.) If it wasn't poor <a href="http://gitler.blogspot.in/" target="_blank">Gitler</a> who had her lunches usurped by us marauders, it was Kutty who was lucky to get a bite of her home cooked lunch after it made the mandatory pass. Then there was poor sweet Chitra Aunty who smilingly ignored our shameless gluttony and catered generously to our vethakuzhambu/sambar sadam/dosa/filter coffee greed. Life was a lovely thali waiting to be licked clean.<br />
<br />
B.A passed into M.A and the age of shamelessly finishing off somebody else's lunchbox or 'dropping in' at a friend's place right in time for a meal came to a sad end. But the heavens continued to smile upon on my palate. I was gifted with a room-mate who was all but born with a frying pan in her slim hands. Besides being a certified expert in all things fashionable, <a href="http://curryandgratin.blogspot.in/" target="_blank">Rikosama</a> is also a chef of formidable skill. And while she is always more than happy to do all the cooking herself, we realised that the only way we could establish a mode of demanding food off her was to participate in the process in one capacity or the other. Hating dish-washing and having had a couple of tussles with prep work on a few occasions, the author took on the sous-chef role and enjoyed slicing, dicing, icing, flipping, dipping and generally tripping on the whole food extravaganza. Along the way some of the cooking knowledge seeped into my food steeped cranium but nothing enough to alarm. Trips home were punctuated by amused surprise and ill-concealed disbelief on the part of the family at reminiscences of hostel happenings.<br />
<br />
It was only when the Mater took a spill in the bathroom and was rendered shorthanded that the author's culinary talents came to test. It was generally understood that my skills covered the broad spectrum of multiple styles of egg, instant noodles, sandwiches and the occasional curry but whether this could see us through a month and a half of sustenance was suspect. Besides, whatever skills I might have they could not hope to reproduce the palato-orgasmic nirvana that Amma dished out and lesser mortals with shoddy vocabulary deemed to call just 'food'.The first 'proper' meal was partaken with some ill-concealed fear, but my mother and brother gamely bit the bullet and emerged minus food poisoning. The most surprised person was the author herself. Apparently all the gastronomic goodness she had been imbibing had accumulated not just in her love-handles. In the middle of receiving, she had also learnt to give.<br />
<br />
We are presently in the season that emphasises the joy of giving. And after finally getting to the other side, the author can confidently guarantee that the joy of feeding is just about as much as eating itself.The author has been blessed with the company of several exemplary chefs in her life. It has not helped her waistline, but it does remind her of the enduring goodness of life, which I believe is a lot more important, if not attractive. A full belly goes a long way in easing the pain of existence. And with such exemplary examples of generosity, the author hopes that her plate and what she plates can prove as full of goodness as those she has had the good fortune to partake from. </div>
AtomicGittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266072580833457854noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24825645.post-92090389597298188692013-10-31T11:38:00.001+05:302014-07-24T10:27:51.043+05:30The Many Loves of AtomicGitten<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<h4 style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><i>Certain changes have occurred in my small universe. Singular, I am. Single, I no longer am.</i><i>The majority of my acquaintanceship received this revelation with shock and/or disbelief. Some even asked for proof. But, long story short (for a change), they had to finally accept the facts. Which is when the condolences began to pour in. To the guy in the picture. </i><i>Incorrigible friends aside, the advent of an official partner demands that I lay to rest all the tendres I nursed in my passionate heart till date. Not that there were hoardes of exes--I AM fastidious-- but the few that were, were loved enough to warrant a real farewell. And what better place to pay tribute than the dear blog? So, in ascending order of intensity of affection, I present:</i></span></h4>
<h2 style="text-align: left;">
<b>The Many Loves of AtomicGitten</b></h2>
<div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*For the purpose of brevity all fictional beloveds will be excluded from this list. Sorry Tamahome. And Jamie Fraser. And John Thornton as played by Richard Armitage. And Benedick. And Darcy. And Colin Firth as Darcy. And Scott Summers . And Alladin. And Rick O Connell from The Mummy. And-- Ok enough.</span></div>
<div>
<b style="font-size: small;"><br /></b></div>
<b>Devon Sawa</b>: <br />
Mostly for his sweet, friendly and utterly glah-worthy <a href="http://nino-baby.typepad.com/.a/6a0134871fb943970c013488b07c73970c-800wi" target="_blank">cameo</a> in <a href="http://www.blogger.com/"><span id="goog_559282060"></span>Casper<span id="goog_559282061"></span></a> circa 1995. An all-round good-guy, endowed with occult mystique (what with being a ghost and all)-- what a combination.He was a noble spirit with an endearing vulnerability which could even render a <a href="http://data.whicdn.com/images/9697389/tumblr_ljmpu1fj831qcp3ggo1_500_thumb.gif" target="_blank">decidedly creepy line</a> cute. Plus he was blonde! My eight year old soul was dazzled.<br />
This affection stayed steady until a combination of age (his), and awareness (mine) brought home the fact that he had a gap in his teeth. And apparently I was fastidious about dental work. Though this shift may also be attributed to the next great love that came my way.<br />
Which was--<br />
<b>Aravind Swamy</b>:<br />
Somewhere along the multiple Independence and Republic Days with their inevitable re-telecast of the Mani Ratnam masterpiece <i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roja" target="_blank">Roja</a></i>, the author began to realise that the protagonist was quite a dreamboat. Aravind Swamy in <i>Roja</i> was everything a hero aught to be. Not just a pretty face but smart too, he packed a potent punch with poignant civilian bravery and the ability to <a href="http://123tamilforum.com/imgcache2/2011/08/ArvindSwamyRojaMovieStills-1.jpg" target="_blank">romance a girl right off her small-town-feet</a>. Plus he he had a sense of humour--The thirteen year old heart fluttered. Said thirteen year old heart was even willing to overlook facial hair, until he began losing head-hair and gaining paunch. And the author could never stomach a paunch in her love interest.The caprice and shallowness of youth perhaps; but such is life.<br />
<b>Percy Bysshe Shelley</b>:<br />
The original wild-child, "Mad Shelley" swaggered into my heart with literary pizzazz and a lingering note of loneliness in his voice that made one want to sit down with him, talk to him, and unwittingly fall in love with him-- even when one knows he is bad news. After all, a man must be a special kind of amazing to write something like <a href="http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ode-to-the-west-wind/" target="_blank">this</a>. But his bigamy, questionable notions of fidelity and universal notoriety placed insurmountable impediments in the path of our true love. That, and the fact that he was dead. It wouldn't have worked out anyway.<br />
<b>Pablo Neruda:</b><br />
I dare any woman with a beating heart to read <a href="http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-xvii-i-do-not-love-you-as-if-you-were-brine-rose-topaz/" target="_blank">this</a> and not feel anything. Or<a href="http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/clenched-soul/" target="_blank"> this</a>, for that matter. I believe I have made my case. But, to misquote Bob Dylan, he was born in summer and I was born too late. Sigh... <a href="http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/tonight-i-can-write-the-saddest-lines/" target="_blank">Tonight I can write the saddest lines</a>. But I will resist the urge.<br />
<b>KK</b>:<br />
Any man who can melt knee joints with just the caress of his crystal voice, is a formidable contender for a woman's heart. And mine was forfeited with the first soaring note. Watching KK live in concert was one of my biggest mistakes; it rendered me a drooling idiot for days to come. A voice like the brush on an angels wing (ok, a little hyperbolic there) and enough energy to power a medium sized district combined with a pleasant personality and a sense of humour made him the complete package. Plus, he was Mallu! That too from Trichur!-The parents would be pleased. Unfortunately, he was also married, with two kids, and nineteen years older. Dammit. And now I sit and hum '<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fyzB9HSlC6A" target="_blank">Tadap Tadap</a>'.<br />
<b>Tom Hiddleston</b>:<br />
As his deadly, underhand charm-- evidenced in his adept wooing of Catherine Valois in <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_jwZbBLTCKE&feature=player_detailpage" target="_blank">The Hollow Crown</a>-- would show, Tom Hiddleston seems to be <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=48DRGDiKo2U" target="_blank">burdened with the glorious purpose</a> of turning you into a puddle of mush before you can say "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hHia1zu_YNI" target="_blank">St.Crispin's Day</a>'. Not only is he talented, well-read and funny, he also does <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J5pkbjMw5ZU" target="_blank">impressions</a> and <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b_ubVVnWglk" target="_blank">talks to the cookie monster</a>! Oh can a man be more adorable? A few months of frenetic youtube-stalking later, I find he has a girlfriend. Oh the pain. I soothe myself with the sound of his <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AvL1IjU43I0" target="_blank">poetry reading voice</a>.<br />
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: left;">
:<b>Gael Garcia Bernal</b></div>
There is very little defense against raw talent and an ability to incinerate your thought processes with one <a href="http://image.toutlecine.com/photos/k/i/n/king-2005-18-g.jpg" target="_blank">scorching green glance</a>. Combine this with intelligence, social consciousness, an endearing streak of self-deprecating humour and the<a href="http://www.filmofilia.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/Gael-Garcia-Bernal.jpg" target="_blank"> most unexpected smile</a> on a face that can go from <a href="http://www.filmzone.it/pictures/20101123/gael2web.jpeg" target="_blank">impish</a> to <a href="http://images.movieplayer.it/2003/07/20/gael-garcia-bernal-in-una-scena-di-the-king-20460.jpg" target="_blank">the opposite</a> with the flick of an eyebrow, one might as well raise the white flag. It also helps that the first time the author clapped eyes on him <a href="http://i133.photobucket.com/albums/q80/trungcang/h1/1-189_zpsceb7c458.jpg" target="_blank">he was riding a motorcycle</a>.<br />
While his face alone is cause enough for mindless admiration, what truly ensnares is his astounding talent. To watch him perform is an awe-inspiring experience leaving you fascinated with not just what you watch, but also the passion that fuels such intensity. And it is fairly obvious by now that the author has a penchant for the passionate, talented and charismatic.<br />
Just when her blood decided that his was the gaze that would electrify the corpuscles, he got married to his co-star<i>. </i>Ah how shall I cool the fire in my blood? And here I thought you would help wean me away from my undying affection for the last person on this list...<br />
<b>James McAvoy</b>:<br />
In an alternate universe we are busy redefining romance and making all our acquaintances amused with /irritated with/ sick of/sigh wistfully at our obvious affection for each other and our dazzling cuteness.<br />
But, this is not an alternate universe.<br />
James McAvoy was love at first movie (Which wasn't even one of his best movies); watching <i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Becoming_Jane" target="_blank">Becoming Jane </a></i>demolished any hope that I can escape cupid's nefarious plot (damn that fat baby). His entire filmography and most of his interviews later, I remained smitten. Not even the embarrassing <i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bollywood_Queen" target="_blank">Bollywood Queen</a></i> could cool my ardor! <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=atEwBxGVkCU" target="_blank">So</a> <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yY3JxKPC0y0" target="_blank">much</a> <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WWKPIS8-4HE" target="_blank">talent</a>, so much <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P7jB2RE92MY" target="_blank">charm</a> and the ability to twist your heart into unimaginable shapes just with the glint in his blue, blue eyes... sigh.. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l80is3pDDKM" target="_blank">he was my sunshine</a>.<br />
And now, I can never go to Scotland.<br />
Should our paths cross, he would obviously fall head over heels in love with me and I will be responsible for breaking up his marriage. Better by far that he lives in ignorant bliss, while I carry this brand in my chest. As Auden so sentimentally put it, "If equal affection cannot be,/Let the more loving one be me."<br />
But there is always the alternate universe.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>And so, I lay to rest my erstwhile loves in the hope that reality proves infinitely superior to my imaginings. True, the poor man has an up hill task, but my line of work tells me that people have a tendency to rise to a challenge. And with that gauntlet thrown, I return to my stewing thesis.</i></div>
AtomicGittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266072580833457854noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24825645.post-85892499080474940212013-10-27T13:12:00.002+05:302013-10-27T13:12:29.888+05:30Observation-3<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>Many thanks to <a href="http://fenneldiaries.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Rikosama</a> and <a href="http://sulfiasanthosh.blogspot.in/" target="_blank">Moongoddess</a> for their part in these insights</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
A logical progression of inferences:<br />
<br />
A woman's intelligence is not directly proportional to her choice in men.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
A woman's intelligence is not directly proportional to her relationship status.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
A woman's intelligence is not directly proportional to her logical conclusions.</div>
AtomicGittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266072580833457854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24825645.post-55832249278151509442013-09-24T15:13:00.001+05:302013-09-26T00:35:32.737+05:30Memories of Midnight<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
In the isle of my loneliness<br />
I chew the fruits of my grief<br />
which taste of nothing<br />
and fill my mouth with ashes.<br />
<br />
Alone in the darkness<br />
I find myself imagining<br />
the darkness of your eyes<br />
and the comfort they bring.<br />
<br />
What curious darkness<br />
glows in them,<br />
to show me a way out of mine?<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
AtomicGittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266072580833457854noreply@blogger.com0