Roots and Rituals

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 Devi Pooja.

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 pooja 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 pooja.  And when they passed on, the rest of the family realised that the Pooja 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.

The pooja is technically about paying respects to the Goddess, but for us I believe it is more about paying respects to a great grandmother.

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 Mookambika Devi 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.

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? 

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 machu,  to freshen up and went about preparing a hot meal to welcome their new daughter.

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.

For in the place of the little girl, there now remained a short sword and shield and a long length of blood red silk.

What could this mean?

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-- 'Durga' 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. 

'Muthashi' is the malayalam word for grandmother. Muthashiyar is what my family calls the Goddess. 

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 ettukettu had turned into a naalukettu with a single open courtyard called the nadumittam in the middle of the house rather than two. Madras grandfather took it upon himself to rebuild the partitioned property into a habitable dwelling.

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 Muthashiyar's pooja back on the calendar. It is the pattern they put into place that is still being followed now.

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 Pooja.My grandparents-- grandmother in particular-- were famous for their hospitality and went out of the way to make sure anyone who attended the pooja 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 pooja run up.

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 thekinithara. Everyone loves the TT. Why? It's cool even in the most scorching summer, the open nadumittam 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 thekinithara 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. 

As Pooja day dawns, the first task is getting the prasasadam of  the Ganapati homam at the Kaavu 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 pooja is officially begun. The interim is punctuated by standard exchanges and sights like 
-Everyone telling everybody else that they have grown fatter or greyer (apparently offensive personal statements are favourite ice breakers)
-Older people accosting younger ones with demands to recall their name ("Hello XYZ! You have grown so fat! Do you know me?" *Awkward pause*)
-Young people being recruited for lamp lighting, prasadam distribution, errand running purposes,
-Little children risking death by trampling
-People getting up to date with each others lives. 
Through all of this, is the running theme of returning home to Muthashiyar.

There are three poojas per  day-- two in the morning and one at night. And each pooja'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 prasadam. Disband and reassemble when the next set of bells ring, and then the big lunch with the prasadam paayasam 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 pooja begins with the lighting of small earthen lamps all around the house to mark the Karthika star. The morning's rituals are now carried out to the background score of bhajans being sung and the chanting of the Lalitasahasranamam--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 pooja goers, pooja 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. 

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. 

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!  

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 machu door as I have so often imagined you doing. You must feel lonely too.

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.

I will come home soon.

Recommended Aside-

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1KUXGRxjPNQ

The Great Menon Wedding IV: Lights, Camera and a lot of Action

An Indian wedding is incomplete without its modest million megawatt worth of lighting.

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 thooku vilakku. 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.

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.

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.

Neither was the Mater.
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.

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.
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.

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.)
Well, the parenthetical aside kinda says it all.
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 this.

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.

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.
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.

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.

______________

---

The Great Menon Wedding III: Digging the trenches, Donning the Armor

There comes a time in every uncertain bride's career that she simply forgets to be uncertain.
And that usually happens during shopping.

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 bearers¹ 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.² (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!)

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.

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 'Pivot' situation  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.

See you there. And yes, wedding preps can seem never ending.

**

1 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.^↩

2 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.^↩

**

The Great Menon Wedding: Introduction

Yes, there was no Christmas post last year .There was also no New Years playlist.
Easter bounced by in a flurry of fluffy omelets and dust -bunnies. Spring gaily sprang into Summer  (which, somehow, seems to be going on forever...) All passing without comment.
(By the way, A belated Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, Happy Easter and any other festive occasion I missed)

The World According to Me 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. 
In either case, I wish to remind myself and my faithful readers (most of whom have given up on me already) that this blog
a) exists
b) is still active. albeit irregularly.
 And while I may become as erratic in my updates as some of my more distinguished brethren seem to be, I assure you, The World According to Me is never forgotten. And just to make my sincerity clear...

Parents of a Marriageable Age.

     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. 

     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.

    It was glaringly apparent that any true-mind marriage that dear Will espouses 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.

     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.

     The man 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.

Right.
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.

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...
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"

And that is a story for the next episode of The Great Menon Wedding.

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.

Stepping up to Plate

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--
 Atomicgitten loves food.
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.

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 Gitler 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.

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, Rikosama 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.

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.

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. 

Tech Support

Apologies in advance. It started out small and then grew out of control before anything could be done. Much like the Author's gizmo-collection.

Most of those who have the dubious fortune of acquaintance-ship with the Author know that she is what is known as a "techno-dud of epic proportions". It is quite possible that her genealogy may be traced back to that particular line of neanderthals who were most loath to move away from beloved rock and stick and move on to iron tools. Whether they are phones, computers or ipods, gadgets fail to garner interest.

This ambivalence is not entirely without reason. From an early age it was drilled into me that technology was way more trouble than it was worth. This line of thought was nurtured by the fact that a) I studied in a school where most electrical implements were guaranteed to malfunction. Especially when you need them to work. b) Whenever something went wrong with the TV/ Computer and later the mobile, the first reaction of the adults was "What did you do?!"(Though in all honesty they are not entirely to blame; every once in a while we really WERE the cause.) Of course neither of these factors deterred my brother from turning into a connoisseur of electronic excellence, but he is the exception in our family's general trend of gaping ignorance in all things gizmo-like.

Perhaps the beginning of the change was when I first left home. The momentous leap from school to farway college and consequent hostel-dom made the acquisition of erstwhile avoided cell-phone inevitable. This foray into the alien practices was still limited to basic applications- bluetooth and other colour-coded activities did not register in the list of phoney skills. The mobile situation did, however, teach my mother and myself the fine art of texting. My father on the other hand remained steadfastly disinclined (in fact, it took at least 5 years and a rather troublesome episode in the airport for him to finally condescend to carry a mobile phone). Be that as it may, the initiation into the tech-world convinced the family that there was some profit in discovering the New World of gadgetry. And who better to experiment than the eldest far away.The years that followed were characterised by tenaciously typed typo-riddled texts, several backfired or missed phone calls, painfully saved and lost data, terrified panic attacks at having pressed the wrong button and thinly veiled threats of family funded technological upgrades which were constantly and firmly rebuffed. I really didn't want more equipment than I already had and went to great lengths to dissuade my parents from appliance-benevolence. I recall a sleepy afternoon, made sleepier still by my monologue on the travails of fighting off electronic instruments, when Sirgit turned around and asked me quite seriously, "Are you crazy?" I suppose to the general public such an anti-gadget stance seems strange. The fact is, these things were a necessity, and the ancestry of the the thing's circuitry did little to electrify my interest. Plus, they scared me-there are either too many buttons, or none at all!

For all my fighting against the industrial revolution of my mechanical life, in the course of eight years my family has managed to press upon me a digital camera (beloved Digi, who I still refuse to part with regardless of her obvious decrepitude), a laptop (Zephyr of the fried right-click fame, a comrade without whom my M.A-Ph.D life would be unthinkable.), mp3 players (beloved Tony I and later, when he kicked the bucket, Tony II, partner to all my journeys, rainscapades, and miscellaneous occasions that require a soundtrack- including but not limited to assignment submission, frenzied cleaning, angry walks in the middle of the night or simply the middle of the night.). A small external hard-drive (Satine of the glossy black skin and insufficient disk space for all my music), a big external hard-drive (Passepartout, named after the super-resourceful right-hand of the intrepid Phileas Fogg, but mostly because he declared himself Passport when first plugged in). And of course my sturdy Nokia (who is called just that because to call her anything else detracts from her impervious, super-toughness. It would be like calling the Rock, Dwayne Johnson.) As you can see, I have been quite effective.

This appliance-boom has also seen a congruent techno-improvement on the family side. My brother, who was never held back by the debilitating tech-fear as I was, is a certified expert on all things electronic. My mother has scaled great heights of telephone and internet competence by being proficient at not only texting and telephoning, but also at navigating the world wide web with a fair amount of confidence. Even the Pater, averse as he is to any kind of telephone related duties, has , of late begun to frame full sentences in the messaging/mailing scheme. This is a truly momentous development considering my father's typing episodes usually entail long spells of searching for the right key, getting worked-up if the screen throws something he wasn't expecting (eg: a pop-up ad, a new tab, the wrong letter.) and finally throwing up his hands in frustration and badgering one of us to write the godforsaken thing on his behalf.
But apparently things have really changed.
My Father suggested we take to chatting online.

The temptation to vigorously clean my ears and keep repeating "huh?" was the overriding reaction when my mother relayed the conversation. Several sputters later, I heard the explanation. "With the situation in Kuwait being the way it is, the officials are cracking down on the online-phone calls. The mobile keeps running out of charge and balance. This way he can talk to us consistently."

The image of my father hunched over the keyboard, forehead creased in concentration, hitting one slow, painful key at a time flashes in my mind.

When I first left home, everyday  for the first three months would see a meticulously typed text and a phone call in the evening. Every break was punctuated with extensive photo sessions and concentrated memory-making. The advent of internet facilities brought the laptop. The burgeoning work and data brought the hard-drives, and my family's unflagging and sometimes misplaced appreciation for my music- the mp3 players. And even now, a veteran of transits, moves and farewells I find myself supported, whether I want it or not. 

Robert Frost wrote "Home is the place where,/ when you have to  go there,/ they have to take you in." With some luck and a lot of love, I have been able to fashion home everywhere I went. And I have the great good fortune of incredibly reliable, albeit occasionally over-enthusiastic tech-support from head-office. But then it wouldn't be the same without that over-zealous element, now would it?

This time they got me a new phone. Oh God!

Chip off the old Banana. Extended version.

Republished after additions. Hope this is an improvement.


We mallus are inherently fruity. Hence, the incredible loneliness of the soul faced by a fruitless Mallu is self-evident. This deep angst surfaces in the deprived mallu's desperate delight in the face of such seemingly unimportant items such as coconut chutney and banana-chips. And this is all the more intense when the mallu is transplanted into a dry arid desert lands of that other Mallu-land lovingly referred to as 'the Gelf'.

Every year, the Keralite home-base faces a sharp shortage of the non-perishable edibles and snack-like as non-resident mallus flock back to their homeland. Stores are ransacked of their savories and looted of their lip-smackers; the state suffers from an acute drought of tea-snacks for months to come.But though the mixtures may go missing and the diamond-cuts kidnapped no other snack variety suffers as greatly as the banana-chip. The fruits quiver in fear as the shadow of the Gelf-returned fall upon their pliant green stalks. Bunch upon bunch of barely ripe bananas are deep-fried in coconut oil with salt to create a taste of Kerala in your desert living room. The bright gold of these gilded treats drew the marauding migrators like the doubloons that incited the plundering conquistadors.


But there are looters and bounty-hunters. The first indiscriminately haul every available flake of every available banana. The latter however are the connoisseurs who quest for that perfect, crisp, delicious chip and savor it as it aught to be. My family falls in the second category. And so our clan are receptacles of that deep race memory that flows through every mallu- the Chip hierarchy. For example, anybody knows that big bakeries never sell you the best chips. The true finds are always in the back alley shanties or in the seedy tin shops near railway/bus stations. And besides,no discerning mallu with their inherent anti-capitalist stance will ever trust a big brand. The last time I was in Mallu-land I heard a Hot Chips franchise was starting out there. I pity them. Another instance of Mallu general knowledge is that every fastidious mallu knows that Calicut is the Mecca of the Banana Chip. The crispiest, tastiest and most scrumptilicious chips are from beloved Calicut. Even my father- who hails from Trichur, and believes everything Trichurian is automatically exemplary- agrees to this. But my father was never one to bend his knees before the insolent tasty-ness of a non-Trichur chip. Besides, he had a special supplier.

The return trip from our frenetic vacations was usually a weighty affair. More than anything because of the constant worry of weight issues. The airlines being a rather fussy institution demanded that all the travelers carried only a limited amount of weight. This of course resulted in a series of weighing, tearful half-hearted unpacking, offloading of much loved items and reweighing. In our household it is imperative that every member be present at the packing arena: mostly so that my father will have enough people to order around. But in all honesty he did a great job (both at ordering and packing)- there wasn't an inch of space in those two boxes that wasn't utilised. Be that as it may, neither the airlines nor my father's edicts could deter our beloved aunt from buying half a bakery store for her darling brother to munch on far far away.
While my father- who is a big softy under all the bluster- may manage to leave behind some of these tokens, he could never say no to his mother. His mother who always had chronic knee pains.His mother who despite said knee pains would stand for hours at the old fashioned stove and fry handful after handful of raw bananas in searing hot coconut oil,bananas which she'd painstakingly sliced for the entire morning so that her youngest son can have the freshest batch.It was almost a tradition- My father would have just finished stuffing in the last maligned item and squashed the box shut when my grandmother would send up the tins of banana chips. My father would get the haunted look of a man who really really wants to say no, and then he would proceed to unzip the stuffed box and take out some of the previously unavoidable items and loving wrap up the new bulky presents.

Oh he would grumble of course. He would scowl and bluster. But funnily enough he would never tie up the box until the tins came through. And when we'd get back the first phone call would be greatly comprised of praising the chips. And the truth is, no one could make banana chips like her. Even the blessed Calicut varieties had salt issues. My grandmother's chips were perfect.

It's been more than five years since we've tasted her chips. The stroke paralysed her right-hand-side and she hasn't walked by herself since, let alone stepped into the kitchen. I remember the day my father and my uncle, his older brother, got the phone call. It is a strange moment when you realise that the adults had always been children. Their mother's stroke, coming so close on the heels of their father's demise, was the turning point where childhood living finally ended. The brothers left immediately and we followed soon after. The shock of seeing my ever active grandmother prone was quickly repressed, partly so that we could look after her well and partly because we didn't want her to think about it and mostly because we didn't want to think about it. The irony was that life,in the strangest and simplest of ways, went on.The leave ran out and the exiled had to return to their work place. And the charade of normalcy carried forward into the packing ritual. As always the boxes were packed, only this time there was little fear that they would be heavy. After all, we had other things on our mind. The last of the clothes were put in, the mandatory space check done and all was ready for the final tying up, when my aunt climbed up the stairs weighed down by parcel after parcel of chips. "Amma didn't want you to go without the chips.", she said.

We Mallus are made like our favorite food items. We are either soft and sentimental and sometimes diabetes inducing or crisp and salty going off with a loud crunch. But every part of us- from husk to flesh is stubbornly resilient. We take all the jokes thrown at us and make up several of them too. And regardless of what life throws at us, we believe that everything can be fixed or at the very least reconciled with. All we need is a cup of tea and banana chips.

Fringe Benefits

Of all my many physical excesses (and there are many excesses in the physique, I assure you) it is the cranial furr that has caused most familial strife. Coming from a stock of Class A (or should I say Class ‘Yay’) Mallus, as the female offspring, it is imperative that I follow the edict of hair-iditary long-locks. Rapunzel was the ideal to strive for. The fact that I am more on the lines of Rumplestiltskin did nothing to sway the family's convictions. Any petition for a haircut was faced with fierce opposition on the likes of an Indian parliament session, and just about as many stipulations as a government form. And, hot-blooded Mallu that I am, I endeavoured to make sure that these stipulations were almost always broken (yes, yes-Don’t ask me, I don’t understand why they haven’t disowned me either)Living in Chennai, and later in Hyderabad has convinced me that the less hair you have the less hair you’ll lose. And while long and floating is all well and good, long and bushy is definitely not. I have it from reliable sources that looking like a walking hedgerow is entirely unbecoming. And besides, where’s the fun in long hair. There isn’t really much you can do with it except may be tie it up. And since my hair takes after me, it’ll probably escape its bonds and become a nuisance anyway. It’s not like my family has anything against barbers. The concept of a ‘haircut’ itself was a family mandate. It was the amount of hair cut that raised questions and voices. But truly, I ask you gentle reader, what’s the use of getting a haircut if there is nothing to show for it? And I am not planning to pay good money for a wimpy snipper-snapper here and there. But all these perfectly sane arguments went unheard. And every homecoming was unfailingly inaugurated with a hair-raising ‘YOU CUT YOUR HAIR AGAIN?!”It was time for compromise. I needed hair-citement and they needed length. And that is when I came upon a brilliant plan.

The apple fell while I was trapped at the hairstylists’ getting a trim. There I was, draped in the dreadfully shapeless cape thingamajig (I think all barbers are supplied enmasse with Jayalalita’s cast-offs) lulled to half-sleep by the snipetty-snap of the flying scissors, when I noticed my forehead emerge like a humpback whale out of the waves of my hair. ‘Was it always so prominent?’ I wondered. A need to mask the size of the gargantuan appendage gripped my meagre but fastidious vanity. Meanwhile the hair lady had finished the miniscule trim job and was proceeding with the brush-and-fluff routine, signalling the impending end of the session. Must do something, must do something, must do something, must do- Aha! A few minutes later I sashayed out of the salon sporting a swath of hair veiling my forehead. The fringe was an instant hit with the peers and a dramatic change from my usual sedentary hair-style. Plus, the length had been retained so the Family couldn’t fault it. Brimming with fashionable confidence I alighted from the aircraft and marched smartly to my waiting parents and brother who were, I realised with assurance overflowing, staring in wonder. Filled with a sense of job-well-done-ness, I waited smugly for them to take back the usual greeting. And the first thing they said was “PLEASE GET A HAIRCUT!”

The fringe did not go down well with them. And the fact that it refused to stay down due to the burgeoning humidity and consequent frizz further aggravated their hurt aesthetic sensibilities. I realised they truly detested it when my brother, the greatest champion for hair-growth, as we have discussed earlier, offered to personally escort me to the nearest haircutting salon and see to it that the thing got shorn off. And that’s when it hit me- the best way to get haircut sanctions was to figure which style will annoy them most! And now I wait for my hair to grow out so I can try out irregular swaths or may be streak it blue or some similar hairscapade. The fringe became a learning experience in negotiation: The best way to compromise is to present a worse scenario. If you think about it, that’s how unfinished work gets completed; whenever we are faced with something we don’t want to do, we automatically find other things that must be done or should have been done earlier. The logic is slightly hairbrained, but so are humans, eh? So let’s not split-hairs and focus on the fringe benefits of dysfunctionality. Or so I tell my maligned Family who regularly tear their hair in frustration at my insanities. All I can say to them is, I might give you gray hairs but I do love you. 

The Rite

Kalyani's heart cringed at the thought of what awaited her smiling daughter. The unfairness of it all galled her fine sensibilities. Her daughter was much too young, much too happy for this!. It isn't right! she thought vehemently, as she glanced at the group of adults cosseting her little girl. She is just a child, a baby! The centre of attention laughed unaware that this attention was only because they too knew what was going to happen,and knew that she needed to be lulled into safety before the inevitable needle prick that awaited her. The injustice of it all left a bitter taste in her mouth.

Saro placed a hand on Kalyani's shoulder, "It is time, mole." Kalyani shot a pained glance at her mother and stiffened her spine. She had to do this, it was tradition. Her daughter would thank her later. The cooing group parted like the Red Sea at her approach. She shared a speaking glance with Shantam who calmly held out the tiny earings as Kalyani lifted her startled daughter in her arms. The child looked up at her questioningly for a moment, but the rising question was submerged in the deluge of trust that gurgled forth from her lips, spreading into a smile of unblemished faith. And Kalyani's heart broke into a thousand pieces: She was going to shatter that unquestioning trust today. Dredging up a smile for her daughter's benefit Kalyani walked through the darkened portals.

The Nurse looked up from her tray and smiled reassuringly. "Have you marked her?" she asked.
Kalyani managed a nod. Her daughter chose that moment to release a happy giggle, making Kalyani's knotted insides shrivel. The Nurse took one look at her tortured visage and quickly held out her arms. "Come, let me take her through this , you wait outside." Kalyani looked down at her laughing daughter and knew she couldn't see what was going to happen to her. In that moment of weakness she gave up her child, her baby into alien arms. The child laughed happily at the mild change in height, her sparkling exuberance spreading itself even into the business-like nurse who unbent enough to coo soft words to her and bounce her about. Kalyani turned away unable to face the waiting pain. As the nurse walked away, she listened against her will to the fading laughter of her little girl. She heard a door close but she could still hear the laughter, light and naive. Her daughter would be in the room now-There was another burst of laughter-they would hold her firmly so she wouldn't flinch and dislodge the equipment- a little giggle and some chatter-They would lower the needle onto her tender skin and--

SCRREEEEEEEEECCCCHHHHH!!!!!

The scream rent the air like tearing silk, all the more gruesome because of the mirth that preceded it. Kalyani's fingernails dug crescents into her palms as she willed herself not to run to her daughters rescue. The screams went on an on, first plaintive, then angry, never stopping. At long painful last the nurse returned with her crying daughter who looked up at her with her large wet eyes full of reproach. Kalyani swallowed and gathered her up in her arms trying to soothe her. I'm so very sorry kanna. So so sorry.
She cleared her throat and faced the nurse, "Did she give you too much trouble?"
The nurse, who had lost a great amount of her cool matter-of-fact calm, was trying ineffectually to recapture several escaped strands of hair. She shot a mildly desperate and partly amused glance at the crying child and shook her head in disbelief.

"Trouble? Oh madam, it is only because she didn't know what we were doing that we managed to pierce the first ear properly. The second one is definitely off! She wouldn't let the needle anywhere near her! She's going to be a difficult one! So angry, my God!"

Sure enough, one ear lobe sported a piercing much lower than the marked spot. Kalyani smiled indulgently. If at 28 days her daughter was fighter, perhaps at 28 she will be even better. If she can fight this little pain with such vehemence, may be the greater pains will be kept at bay too. Kalyani looked down at her baby daughter who had cried herself to angry sleep, the tiny golden earings glowing in the dim light of the hospital corridor and prayed for happy times.

On His Baldness. Extended Version.

This post is a reply to several queries defending my brothers hairscapades. Perhaps this will suitably illustrate the point I tried to make previously.

My brother has reached that stage in life where he is interested in his reflection. It is a highly disconcerting feeling for the rest of the family to notice the “baby” suddenly lifting weights, obsessing about oily food and haircuts, and generally being “the dude”. Most of it was alright, often good too. But it was the hair factor that killed us.
At first it was hilarious, then slightly amusing, and then completely exasperating. You see, my brother couldn’t be like other brothers and simply walk around looking like a partly denuded porcupine. Nooooo. His speciality was an obsession with his hairline. One fine afternoon, lightly dozing after lunch, the family was caught unawares when my brother announced, a la tragic hero declaring impending doom, “I’m going bald.”
We laughed and laughed. And he was very offended.
Hey, you can’t blame us! Blessed with a veritable jungle on his head, it took more than your average stretch of the imagination to notice any baldness. Everyday he’d he would point out a small indentation in his hairline and insist that recession happened (forgive the pun it was much too delicious an opportunity). It was when he began to tally hairs lost, that things began to get truly irritating. And admittedly entertaining as well. Family jokes on how he should get “Gulfgate” done, ran rampant. What was truly disturbing was that he actually took us seriously when we said this.
Several hair-brained ideas on hair loss later, we had the good fortune of going to Tirupathi. It is a known fact that one of the major prayer offerings there is one’s own hair. At the sight of all those bald heads my father had the brilliant idea of getting his son to go through with it as well (I offered, but we already know the family’s take on my hair length reduction schemes. [Humph!]). My brother had his misgivings but they were all demolished with a single sentence from the wily barber who was plying the razor. “Your hair will grow doubly thick.” He declared, pointing to his own shock of pitch black hair. Given such virulent proof, my brother bowed his head to the razor, doubts assuaged. True, the reflection in the mirror took some getting used to; but the pros outran the cons by miles. For one thing, the concept of combing was conveniently canned, as was the irritation of what another friend baldly described as “three pounds of mess” on one’s cranium. And with all due credit to the razor-man, the new hair growth did resemble a jungle (of course it always did, but in my brothers eyes there was ‘improvement’).
The gentle, logical reader may decide that this would spell a happy end to our hair-shirt days. But, as mentioned once upon a time in an earlier entry, my family –much like myself– defies all logic. My brother now spends half the year railing against his baldness and the other half requesting to go bald. And the sound you hear in the background is the hapless sister banging her head against the nearest hard surface.
You try figuring him out!

Ice-quake

Sue raised her white head from her scrabble board.
"A new one?"
“Yup. a magnificent giant! I finished one all by myself” said Raju
Kochu's eyes flashed from under her grey brows.
“Hmm... then it shouldn’t be too large.” Mused Sue, dismissing her nephew's achievement, her pulse quickening at the thought of the new challenge. Sue and Kochu were a perfectly amiable grandmothers. But their placidity unerringly evaporated in the face of frozen desserts.

It was called Earthquake.

The siege was planned. And the Earthquake shivered silently within the frozen reaches of Dasa’s Ice cream Parlour– A site of several previous battles. One fateful afternoon, bringing along their ever willing ice cream hunting squire the young Kalyani, Sue and Kochu set off to vanquish the Earthquake. Unfortunately, the price list dealt a huge blow to their morale. The Earthquake was an expensive affair and the funds were stretched. Kalyani, ever smiling, martyred her taste-bud nirvana in favour of a commonplace sundae. That matter settled, they turned to the expressionless waiter at their side.

“Two Earthquakes.” Sue declared.
A frisson of incredulity passed over the waiter’s face.
“Two, ma’am?”
‘Yes, two.”
The waiter seemed inclined to clean his ears vigorously “Two ma’am? Are you sure? Two?”
The show of disbelief shook the steady confidence of the duo. Kalyani cleared her throat nervously. May be this wasn’t such a good idea...
But Sue scoffed at those fears. No ice cream was beyond them. “Two it is!” she said decisively.
“Two it is.” The waiter agreed shaking his head in disbelief. He passed on the information to a cluster of waiter who turned in unison to stare at the trio with ill concealed trepidation.

“Er.. Sue, I’m having a few doubts here...”faltered Kochu looking at the departing waiter and his retinue.
“Oh come Kochu, where is your spirit! How can you say no to ice cream?!”
Which is when their order arrived, and promptly gave Kochu a few more gray hairs.

The Earthquake should have been called the Avalanche. One Earthquake consisted of twelve scoops of ice cream in various flavours, topped with barrels of nuts, buried under oodles of caramel, augmented by a blanket of tutti-frooti and surrounded by a moat of chocolate sauce.

And they had ordered two.

As the waiter tottered under the weight of the two mountains he carried and attempted to heft them on to the poor table, Kochu shot accusing glances at Sue who tried to look like she was totally in control of the situation. The waiter, task accomplished, mopped his brow and smiled. “The shop is open all night. Take your time.”
The minute the waiter retreated to nurse his aching biceps the duo put their heads together.

“Sue I told you this wasn’t a good idea!”
“Hey I didn’t know that this was going to be such a giant!”
“Didn’t the name give you a hint?”
“What’s wrong?” interrupted Kalyani, innocently nyumming her sundae. “I’m sure you can finish it.”

Such youthful faith revived their flagging spirits. They had to live up to their squire’s expectations. And thus it began. All the waiters had gathered to witness the great battle. While Sue systematically demolished scoop after scoop, Kochu decided to massacre the lot in one go. However, neither method nor madness spelt victory. The end of half an hour saw Sue with a frozen tongue and Kochu with a plate which looked like she had butchered an ice cream cow on it.Kalyani continued to watch, smiling bravely and giving them words of encouragement. The forged on bite after frozen bite, refusing to surrender. But when Sue’s tongue refused to feel a fork being thrust into its frosted skin, they had to admit defeat.

“Thalyani I’m tho thorry ...” Sue lisped listlessly, her voice whispering from in between the icicles that hung from her teeth.
“We can’t do this!” groaned Kochu throwing down her spoon with a splatter.

Gasp! The waiters put their hands to the mouths, shook their heads in mute sorrow and disbanded. While Kalyani tried to swallow this impossible piece of information, Sue tried valiantly to swallow one more mouthful of ice cream before her mouth froze shut. Kochu made more of a mess on her plate.

“Tho thad... all thith ithe cream ith wathted...” thighed..er.. sighed Sue.

Which is when their squire’s brilliance illuminated the hall. “I’ll run across to the store and get some lunch boxes!”

Sue and Kochu’s clammy visages thawed at this ray of hope. Kalyani was quickly dispatched to the nearest plastic dabba shop. While the duo waited with desperate hope, a waiting waiter spoke up. “Your valour is great and your daring greater still. But how could you presume to defeat two Earthquakes! A single earthquake itself is meant for twelve people!”

Sue and Kochu exchanged embarrassed glances. They could not admit that their recon work had been so faulty. Then Sue’s brilliant creativity kicked in. “Ith wath a bet!” she declared, nudging Kochu vigorously to jog her cranium.
“Wha – er... ah... yes. A bet. Our nephew...er... niece... um...uncle...I mean...”

Meanwhile Kalyani had returned to save the day. The remaining mountain of ice cream was shovelled into the boxes and the trio beat a hasty retreat to defrost their faces and assuage their bruised egos from the onslaught of the Earthquakes. To this day Sue and Kochu shiver at the memory of the ice cream King.

Achande mol

At some misty time in the forgotten days of my youth, I'd been asked to guess the age of my father. 'Sixty five!" I'd crowed, liking the sound of the words. Needless to say everyone else crowed with laughter. Today I was asked the same question and in all truth I didn't know! The thing about him is that he doesn't seem to have changed at all from that fateful day, yet he seems to have changed so much. He's one of the few constants that ever-changing life gifted me.

I remember those afternoons when my brother and I would race to the door to be the first to welcome my father home from work. The innumerable times we'd pummeled into him must have left his ribs permanently damaged. And then of course- despite the gargantuan lunch we'd consumed- we'd vie for the special morsel he'd feed us from his plate. And in all truth, he even made mulagooshyam taste nice! There were the myriad programs he would organise, the skits and the kadhaprasangams he scripted. I still remember the lines which he spent days relentlessly drilling into my rather unwilling head. My mother still maintains that had he had a hand in our studies- we'd have been topping all our classes. Thankfully he never did :P. He is an exacting person and one whose approval is a thing of great value simply because he bestows it sparingly. Which,while it commanded a healthy amount of respect from all and sundry,at the same time made him slightly intimidating. We'd think twice thrice and several more times before we risk testing his patience. In fact the only person who'd actually attempt this and escape more or less unscathed was my brother- who can charm the fangs off a serpent, so he's definitely a special case.

And now we are all different yet the same. I am an ocean away. My brother is usually studying or away when my father gets back from work. The entire pattern of our lives is different. Often we come in friction with our father and there are uncomfortable tensions. His patience is tested more times than a rich invalid. Things are so much more complicated. There are fewer shared activities, fewer common interests. Maybe it's generation gap ... At some level I suppose with self reliance there also came some distancing. And yet for all that, our father never changed. He still makes sure everything is all right- like he used to when there was no one else to do the drawing assignment. Or like he did while helping me fill out my M.A applications.

I may no longer be that tiny baby who used to sleep on your stomach. I may not fit on the sofa along with you anymore.I may seem distant and un-understandable(not just when I talk too fast). I may sound like I don't value you. I may seem irreverant and disobedient. I may never become as great as you think me to be. But the fact that you think I'm great makes me glad all the same- because you don't bestow your approval lightly. And the fact that you given me someone like you to look up to makes me a much better person. May be I should blame you for having such high standards in the people category :D.

Thank you Acha, for being you.

Happy birthday :)

On his baldness

Little brothers, regardless how much taller they are, are still little in the eyes of everyone. Ok fine- me. Which was why it was rather disconcerting to find that one fine morning he's interested in the mug that he sees in the mirror and has a fetish for hair care. It is, was and always will be the hair care part of it that leaves the hapless bystanders tearing their hair in exasperation.

You see, unlike most guys who love to splock on whatever goop they can get onto their hair in the name of "styling" my brother went the other way. Exhibiting his undoubtably hirsute scalp which looked like a black rainforest, he said-
"Chechi, I'm going bald."

It was with this small statement began a saga of mythical proportions- and an endless stream of potions and elixirs that supposedly increase hair growth. It wouldn't have beeen so bad if he had kept his paranoia to himself. But noooo. We family members had to listen to all the myriad proof of his baldness- which, if it were true, was as easy to notice as a microbe. He'd point out his side parting as the beginnings of a baldspot. If the Chinese had had the oppurtunity to confer with my sibling, chinese torture would have been more effective.

And the anticlimax of the whole business is that last week he went and shaved his head- Clean, shining, BALD.
????
Boys,Guys, Men- the mind bogles at their convoluted logic. And they call women the eternal enigma. I say - "HAH!".

Karuppan the gardener.

My parents' hometowns are home to several interesting characters. Their quirks and mannerisms can rival any Wodehousian peer. One such one is Karuppan.

Karuppan is an honorable man. He works as a gardner and general Man-Friday at my father's sprawling farm home. He lives a simple life. Work in the fields in the morning, get his wages in the evening, proceed to go get sloshed, go back home and beat up his two wives and enjoy a peaceful slumber. Yes, Karuppan is a good, ordinary man.

But Karuppan has a unique and fatal power. - he possesses the binary opposite of a green thumb. If you don't want something to grow- call Karuppan. All he has to do is trim a tiny leaf from the farthest branch of the unfortunate plant, and its growth would be blighted for life.

My father,sadly, discovered this fact through first hand experience.

Being a man of a pioneering aspect, my father was determined to bring order to the "pretty
wilderness" that adorned the premises.

"The yard is a terrible mess,we've got to do something about it."
"Hmm?Yes. Do you want some tea?"
Yes. But I am serious-- All the trees need a little pruning and the bushes need to be replanted."
"Hein? Looks fine to me."
"What fine?! You can't see the road from here!"
"Not from there, but if you bend down and twist your neck and peer from between the jackfruit tree and the mango--"
"That's it! I am going to fix it."
"But you can't do all that alone."
"Of course not." scoffed my father, "I've asked Karuppan to come."
A furitive and fearful glance passed between the rest of us. "Do you really want to do that...?"
"Yes,I do. He's handy and nimble."

"You know," said my oldest uncle. "That backyard mango tree was never quite the same again."
"And the left side sapota. Took five years for it to bear fruits again."
 "All nonsense! I'm calling him tomorrow and clearing up this mess."

He didn't notice the rest of the family shooting each other dubious glances.

At the appointed hour Karuppan turned up and the work commenced. Discarding his shirt of an indiscriminate dirt shade, Karuppan quickly shimmied up and began to unceremoniously lob off random branches of the big mango tree that stood in the yard.To the uninitiated, the mango tree is a very special part of any Mallu family lore. It gets the full brunt of sentiment. Especially when it is a very fruitful kind as this one definitely was. And Karuppan besides having the blackest thumb in this part of the world (both literally and figuratively) was of a rather chop-happy nature.

Suppressing a moan of horror, my  father rushed to curb the carnage.

"What are you doing?!" shouted my father at the figure swinging on a branch like a monkey."Get down."
Karuppan obligingly descended and stood respectfully scratching his armpit.
"What?"
"What were you doing!"my father bellowed.
"Cutting branches."
"All of them????"
"Oh no,no,no- I was going to leave a few. On the top. "
For a moment my father actually seemed to contemplate shaking the man but restrained himself admirably. "The trunk doesn't really count as a branch." he said.
"Hahaha! Very funny sir!" Karuppan grinned, displaying rows of betel stained teeth."Don't worry,I've been doing this for ages. You need to cut them so they will grow more." With that, he took up his tools, scurried up the tree and continued to chop.

My father, though always confident and and rarely cowed, couldn't help feeling a little bit of doubt at this declaration. May be they would grow back. And the man is a farmer and a gardener, he ought to know. But some deeper instinct warned him to keep an eye on Karuppan. Following this altercation my father concentrated his efforts on restraining Karuppan. With each branch lobbed off Karuppan seemed to grow more zealous. In fact, it can be safely surmised that he resented my father's insistence on leaving some more branches on the tree than he felt necessary.

By evening our yard was filled with denuded trees and their branches. Karuppan still in attendance cheerfully helped move the latter while splattering the ground with betel juice at steady intervals. Before Karupan left for his evening entertainment, my father asked him with ill concealed anxiety, "The branches... they will grow..?"
" Definitely!" Assured the able gardener, busy counting his wages," They'll be full of mangoes when you come next vacation."

Next vacation came- but there were no new branches. The next vacation came, and there were branches but no fruits.Several vacations passed with no fruition. It was only last year that we finally got a few mangoes from the tree Karuppan attacked that morning.

A few years back we'd made our house. My father, having still retained his pioneering nature, decided there must be a garden. The pots and seedlings were duly bought. And once again Karuppan was pressed into service- to dig and nothing else. He kept shooting wistful glances at the saplings and finally my father relented and let him plant a few.

Unsurprisingly- every other plant except his took root.

Recently,he'd come to our place to help with something--nothing to do with plants. During his break, armed with tea and biscuits he lounged near the garden. Mid-sip he turned to my father and said "See all my plants have grown so well!"
My father choked lightly on his tea "What? Where?"
"There, that one, between the bluebells and the cosmos."
"Isn't that just grass?"
"They are so strong and healthy."
My father took a long sip.
"You know, a lot of people say things about me."
My father took another long sip.
"And they are right. I've got magic fingers" he grinned proudly waggling his fingers.

I don't think my father had the heart to correct him.

Hairy Tale

I think it started with Rapunzel and Sohrab&Rustam.

This fascination with a feminine head of flowing,glossy locks has endured and even grown through the ages. And now it's transferred to the masculine head as well- pioneered by Mahendra Singh Dhoni,Vikram and for a while Amir Khan to name a few. My family has always had issues with my hair. Especially my father and brother. Coming from a stock of Class A Mallus, they maintain that long flowing tresses are an essential for the enhancement of female beauty. And no argument- reasonable or otherwise- can ever convince them otherwise. It's all my mother's fault of course! She's the one who set the precedent. Whenever I passionately champion the wonders of un-long hair, they merely turn and point to her.But surprisingly, or perhaps unsurprisingly,she had always been my staunchest supporter in the cause of manageable short hair. But that reprieve didn't last long.The number of things done to my poor tresses outnumber the number of things done to my face(refer to previous posts).But like my face it has remained firmly untamed. In fact, my mother actually had plans of taking me along while she tought Shelley's Ode to The West Wind. She wanted to give them a clear picture of "maenad's hair" (for the ignorant- go read the poem).

It's not that I don't like my hair- I love my hair ,I really do. It's distinctive and very like me: messy, notorious and a not a little scary. Since it's so much like me, isn't it the natural course of things that I carry forward the similarity and keep it short? I remember that glorious time when the hair-lady had made a mistake and bobbed off my mid-back trail.I didn't have to really comb it for ages! A lazy girl's dream. But then it grew...sigh. But all said and done, my hair does look nicer long. When it's short I look more like a hobbit than ever. But then it's such a bother... It seems my hairytale has no happy ends-they are all split.

And why am I writing about this? I've been charged with getting a haircut. Why am I not rejoicing, you ask? Simple- there are instructions. Left to my own devices I'd just take a pair of scissors and snip away. But noooooo. It has to be done in a system. I should go to a stylist and get a trim as opposed to a chop. And I have to make sure that it swings just so and that the "volume" (isn't that something in stereos?) is maintained and GAAAAAAAHHHH!!!!The physics, and lately the chemistry, of hairstyling-especially female hairstyling- is hair raising. The names itself require a hundred page glossary. The prospect of journeying into the tangled lands of beautiful hair makes my hair stand on end. Ah why oh why are we put to such tests!? Is it not bad enough that we have a facial hair ripped off to appease beauty. Must we bow our heads to these edicts as well?

May be I'll just make a trip to Tirupathi, what say?

Talking in tongues.

My mother tongue is malayalam.
Therefore,logically, that would be the language spoken at home.However- showing evidence of strong familial similarity to the author- logic is thrown out the window. The common linguistic scene that greets the eye-the ear, perhaps would be more appropriate- is a a sea of languages sloshing together like spirits in a cocktail.Something on the lines of "Athu ko vaha leavekar vekum kalambaffy karo."(simple transalation: 'Leave that and get going', number of languages used 4)is as common as day in our residential premises. And this is a simple example.
Trissur Malayalam flows into cheri Tamil and that mixture is splashed with a dash of some tapori Hindi and then heated with some rapper lingo and shudh, school-tought-Hindi. To this is added a smattering of French a breath of Arabic along with a brand of English that is unique to this family , and Voila! That's our language. It is surprising that any of us understand each other. Even my father,being the only comparatively sane person among a horde of confirmed lunatics (sorry,ma),does. Yet people who come home and chance upon one of our informal conversations will most definitely be at sea.

Forget the languages themselves, the various allusions-intertextual and otherwise-the quotes (from books,movies, relatives etc.), the mannerisms to go with each of these and of course the accents... Hmm.. maybe we should declare what we speak a different language as a whole.

The point being that there are more things than the tenets of the Mendelian Theory that bind family members together. And no,not all that sentimental stuff either- though that's definitely an aspect. Families connected,and each member made uniquely a part of that family through the bonds of language. No one family- no matter how alike- can speak like any other. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is another reason why language must always be respected.
Go Linguists!

Beauty-fool

Back in the days when my mother had hopes for turning me into a beauty, we used to have lovely back-and-forths on the virtues of slathering the face with a variety of unidentified gooey objects. The major contention was gettin it applied. Seriously, how can you expect a healthy..er..hyperactive twelve year old to sit still for something as silly as a face pack? Of course once it was done, my brother and I had great times enacting monster attacks( no points for guessing who the monster was.)
Perhaps it's because of this traiing that face paint never bothered me. Niether did having to go on stage as a monster. Hmm...

Ah well, moving on- my mother's efforts slackened in between the school years, probably because she couldn't get her hands on me long enough. I thought I'd seen the end of it.But I was much mistaken. I left home to college with two containers of beauty powders pressed into a nook in my stuffed box. I admit I did apply them for a few days. I didn't have much of a choice- I used to be "reminded" to do it everyday. When the phone bills intervened, the reminding stopped, but then there was the guilt factor. So i kept at it for a while. Human nature saved me from falling into the clutches of beauty- plain laziness put an end to my beauty treatments.

The days turned to months, the months into years. The skin tanned, the hair mussed, but I continued uninterested. That is until the NoseRing Girl intervened. NRG is a babe of the first order. And she takes it as a personal offence to find someone not interested in personal grooming. Pretty soon I had to listen to blistering set downs for standing in the sun, not using cream, bla bla bla (Sorry NRG). And it's not just NRG. The aunties and uncles, not to mention cousins (traitors!), joined in. Every college break was punctuated with comments on the lines of- "Oh you used to be so fair! What happened?" or "Your hair!!..(shocked, tactful silence)". Still the human spirit in all it's resillience refused to be converted. I remained a slob. After a while the "advice" began to die down. They had finally given up at the sight of my unrepentantly unpretty face.

Or so I thought.

I return home for the brief space before the race restarts-A few weeks of relaxation while the rest of the family slogs (hah hah hah!). I get woken up in the morning by a mother who in the middle of rushing to work remembers to tell me- "Oh and put that thing on your face alright, it's good for your skin."

And here I sit in front of the computer looking like something from some B grade alien movie. Life has a distinctly ironic way of saying things never change.