Archive | me-me RSS feed for this section

Gone Too Soon

14 Jun

It’s been 10 days since I landed at Sahar Airport, bumping my overflowing cabin baggage down a rickety ladder that led to the steaming tarmac. 10 days since I herded my clueless Aussie fellow passenger onto a state transport bus look-alike with screaming children, rattling windows and a general air of sardines that ferried us to our baggage and destination. 10 days since my face–burned and broken-out–has attempted to readjust to the humidity and grime with all the dignity of a two-year-old. (My mind hasn’t even made a pretence of fitting back in. It simply screams Leave.Me.Alone. Sigh. Puberty.)

Already, England is a mere wisp of the mists that hugged the Eynsford fields at dawn, shrouding rape flowers and the Darenth river valley and mazes of walking paths for doggie exercise. A feeling of alarm surges up from an unidentified place as I realize I’m losing that month already. Memories are being systematically archived in hidden folders, carefully hoarded peace is fraying at the edges and my life here, like a jealous lover, won’t let me gaze back longingly.

“Delisle Road,” I tell the cabbie, and shut my eyes to the world. Sharp aromas from the Maharashtra Masala-grinding Mill break my lavender-infused reverie.

I call my Uncle. He’s in Ireland to pick up my Aunt. The house is empty without you, he says. I nod sadly, not telling him there’s a reciprocal empty space where that house-on-the-river slid in.

The fridge magnets laugh at me. You’re clingier than we are, they say. Shut up, ingrates, I glare back. Would you have rather lived on in England? Never mind. Don’t answer that.

Is there a thing such as too much belonging, I wonder aloud. Hands gnaw at my flesh, my attention, my time. You haven’t come to see my son yet! Let’s catch up before I head back to Hong Kong. Oooh must meet, what’s the goss, tell me AAALLL about your trip!

The telephone is evil. It shatters my solitude and brings people to me. I’d rather ride the Tube all day. I’ll know exactly where I am, exactly where I’m going and no one can call me underground.

And on that note, I shut Adele, slide her into my new quilted laptop tote and get out the door. “Delisle Road,” I tell the cabbie, and shut my eyes to the world. Sadly, yeh zaalim duniya, it won’t return the favor.

***

Long overdue shout-outs to:

Offliners:

Ceej: For visiting from Geneva, the trip to Stratford-upon-Avon and non-stop giggles in the back of a bus. You set the bar so high for the rest of the populace when it comes to having fun.

Priya: For SATC2, warmth and being such a good, solid human being. Big love to you.

Shanbhag: For that loooong day of gadding about and yummy lunch at Wagamama. I’m much impressed and a little amused at how considerate and protective you’ve turned out since we last properly hung out 11 years ago.

Seema & Faabi: For old memories, all that pampering and butternut squash risotto. You guys are like old shoes. Reading should put you in its tour guide as the best thing the town has to offer.

Anant: For reminding me just how precious our collective time at Xavier’s was. It was wonderful seeing you after more than a decade!

The Boy:  Oh Boy. What the hell. I’ll tell you offline. :mrgreen:

Bloggers & Tweeters:

Anil:  For mojitos and fish cakes in the lovely Blues Kitchen.  I’m sorry I had to run out like that!

Mina: For the bandages and hot chocolate, hugs and compliments. Wish we’d had longer.

DewdropDream: For being such a sport, laughing with me and seeing me twice, despite the fact that I threw the wrong OJ your way.

Shuma: For that evening by the Thames and pretending to be me. Hyuk. You were a surprise—a very pleasant one!

Chips: For feeding me, arming me with biscotti, seeing me off on a bus and giving me change to spare. And changing your opinion about me! Ever considered the hospitality industry? You’re a star.

Big hugs to each of you. Thank you for sharing your time to make mine so, so special.

OJ’s Confession

27 May

a.k.a. My Big Fat Anti-Jinx

I can never break up with the Boy.

Then I’d have to change all my passwords and that would be painful.

Who the Laydeh

1 May

Let me tell you a little about my childhood. I grew up in a non-cosmopolitan building (where I still live), with neighbors who were either cuckoo or musical geniuses. Dogs were called Waffles and Rufus. Grandmas wore dresses and earlobe-length hair and said things like “Hi dearie!” and “Good day-good luck” to you as you drove off to school. Ma sang me English songs from the ‘60s as lullabies and Mozart serenaded us at lunch on Sundays at my Daddy’s insistence. His inner coterie included Beethoven, Brahms and Liszt, and Strauss was my favorite uncle from toddlerhood.

I knew what scones were at 6 but found out what dalia is at 28. Hindi movies were banned at home. I saw my first at 11 and it did nothing for me. At 31, they still don’t. Since my early years were spent under the omnipotence of good old Doordarshan, apart from some “acceptable” telly serials, my idiot box entertainment flew in from London, courtesy Dad’s best friend. So ask me about Kermit and Miss Piggy, Benny Hill, the Two Ronnies and the Royal Variety Entertainment Performance and I’ll chirp away excitedly. Tell me about S.D. Burman and I’ll nod. But mostly only because you’ll judge me for not having a clue.

Until 10, the world was Enid Blyton. Every book re-read in double digits. Queen Elizabeth was “aapri Rani” to my grandparents’ generation. We still have a “Rani ni cupboard” that’s nine feet tall and dates back to the early ‘20s with ye olde grand dame’s face engraved on it. And a dumb waiter that’s about as old. Adi Kaka, the granduncle who lived with us, demolished all finger foods with a knife and fork and my brother carries on that legacy. Nana rang for her tea at 3 p.m. sharp and the tea cozies she used were hand embroidered by Aloo Mami with the classic “Mudum” with a parasol in an English garden. My clothes and shoes were frequently sent over from Kent and I remember the musical Mickey Mouse tee and the red plaid dress that could only be worn at the peak of Bombay winters and the ballerina flats with detachable bows.

I went to a school named after an English Queen and am still the member of a club named after a Princess. My literature teacher in senior school worshipped Shakespeare. So Marc Antony’s speech was to be blazed through in our sleep. And Venice and Verona were the backyard, never mind Virar and Vasai closer home. So. Bloody. Angrez.

I know.

If I haven’t alienated you already with what sounds like a bizarre life to lead in 1980s India, then hear out why I’m telling you this.

I’m going.

To Blighty.

Finally.

After 31 years of hearing paeans to London and having it brought to me, I will finally be setting foot on the land that has so shaped my community, my family and, of course, my country. As Indian as I feel—and I very strongly do—my upbringing has had me at the receiving end of remarks such as “Angrez chale gaye, tumhe chhod gaye.”

So I’m off. To see where so much of it filtered down from, the monuments and towers hitherto seen in snow globes and family pictures, to hear Sir Colin Davis conduct the London Symphony Orchestra in its home city, to be fussed over by my surrogate parents, to watch The Lion King at the West End, to dance to Celtic music in Eire, where my Aunt comes from, to meet college pals and university pals, twitter friends and blogger friends, wear scarves and jackets and all kinds of pretty, step back, let loose and unwind, however I please. For One. Whole. Delicious. Month.

I’ll be the first to tell you that I’ve had a fairly privileged life, but this vacation, my friends, has never been more richly deserved. Or needed. To say I’m thrilled is an understatement. I only hope I don’t squish a stewardess to death in excitement as I embark at Heathrow. Three days and I’ll be gone. And hope to bring the rain back with me. Big hugs to all of you. And throw in some respect when you send them back, y’hear? You’re now in the presence of a mem.

Lately…

23 Apr

…I’ve been a stranger to myself.

Does that make sense?

If Only This Tag Were Wearable

19 Apr

First up, this little bauble from Kiran over at ThirtyNineandCounting:

She believes I am metaphorically beautiful and who am I to refute it, especially when my beauty lies in her perfectly lasik-ed eyes.Thank ye, kind soul. It’s been a while.

Passing on the endorphins, the Beautiful Blogger Award goes to:

1. Aunty G: A hug from her makes you want to weep with joy. As she is wheeled in for a cataract operation today, I want her to know she is truly beautiful and I’m blessed to know her.

2. The Purple Foodie: She shares a recipe for Rosemary and Garlic Oil Foccacia and shows you how easy it is to grow lemongrass. Enough said.

So that’s that. Enjoy the bling, ladies.

***

Now for the tag, also passed on by Kiran. The 5 things that disappear just when I need them are:

1. Scrunchies. They’re the cotton-covered elastic avatar of commitment-phobic men.

2. My key bunch. Since I casually toss it aside every time I get home, it decides it isn’t going to be wanted or needed or loved ever again and scuttles off to a grimy corner to mope.

3. Lip balm. This little baby is my best bud, but being the size it is, gets left behind in the last bag I used, so I’m always scrabbling through the inner pockets of my too-many-to-be-mentioned handbag collection. Ditto this.

4. Cabs. When I decide to walk, they cruise past me, flashing their black-and-yellow Hyundainess in my face. But when I’m late and hopping and waving and flailing, none. Zilch. Nada.

5. That product from the stores that was available to everybody and their grandma up until 2 hours ago. Like this smelly oil that does wonders for my hair. “Sorry medum, out of stock chhe.”

I’m tempted to throw in good sense as a sixth missing item, but shall pass this once. Now, who wants to play tag, you’re it?

It’s Been A Long Time Since 22

3 Feb

The Boy is currently in the U.S. of A. My old home. The one of mixed feelings and an avalanche of memories. The one I gift-wrapped my twenties for and offered with all the good faith only a 22-year-old who’s never left home can muster. The one that flung me in the air, picked me up, let me down, set me free, tied me forever. And four years after I left on that flight from Logan, I plead the same pointless questions on repeat: How is it there, tell me… How is it, the vibe… How is it, the feeling… How same, how different… knowing full well that my former Europe-dweller can only see it with the eyes of a frequent visitor while I crave a resident’s perspective. Specifically, my own.

You see, it’s not as simple as buying a ticket and hopping across the pond. Some things are like the unclaimed parcel you know not to touch. So you may wonder, and hanker, but leave well enough alone. And ask questions about the weather and the food and how many pairs of shoes he’s getting you. While you sneak onto Mapquest and roll the names of New Jersey townships off your tongue. Parsipanny, New Brunswick, Cherry Hill. Moorestown,Trenton and Belle Mead. Signboards from another lifetime, because hey, you were an upstate New Yorker, hicktown Pennsylvanian, too-proud Bostonian and Jersey’s for the desis with their H4 wives. And then you listen to John Mayer singing this

(via MM) and something forbidden unfurls deep inside and you know the marshland has begun and you’re one foot in.

The Boy comes back late tonight. And I’ll ooh and aah over my shopping list. But all I’ll be wondering is how it is there… tell me… How is it, the vibe… How is it, the feeling…. How same, how different… And some part of me will be glad not to know.

Know Thy OJ

28 Jan

So 202 posts down the road, I’m suddenly curious. Do you know me at all? Have you stashed away nuggets of trivia that you didn’t realize you knew? Thing is, when I read a blog, it’s hardly ever about the person behind it. If the writing doesn’t hold me, I’m out of there. Funny then that I’m asking you to do precisely what I don’t. Humor me, though. Put it down to Leonine narcissism. (Or my delight at social media.) There, I answered one question already. Head over:

http://urtak.com/u/OJ

Click.

Let’s play.

Hang a Ding-Dong on my Tree

23 Dec

As obscene as that line sounds, I’m going to be irreverent and it stays put. Yes, this is my “that time of the year” post and oh yes, I’m so doing it because I’m supposed to be on the job. So hah. :mrgreen:

This year, instead of the usual wishes (that I wish for you anyway), let me tell you about a tradition we’ve instated. Now you know I’m not the epitome of traditional and you also know I’m anti-symbolism. That said, I do value personal meaning and bonds and like to create my own rituals around them. As a selectively practicing Zoroastrian, Christmas tends to be my annual biggie (yeah, go figure….all that wicked, wicked missionary schooling, how come there’s no Peace & Love Jihad yet?) so this year, when we brought home a brand new baby tree to the Boy’s apartment, we invited each of our friends, neighbors and guests to put up an ornament on a branch. Whether the glow on our faces was the warmth of the season or the red and green fairy lights we’ve put up is anybody’s guess, but boy, did it feel like community.

How is that not symbolic, you ask? I don’t know if it isn’t. OJ say wisdom can be ambivalent. But the gathering of friends over prawn curry, chicken pie and cranberry juice, Bocelli’s sonorous booming of Adeste Fideles on Playstation, the BFF baking a dish for my dinner party that she didn’t even attend, a borrowed table cloth that was someone’s wedding present, the red-and-gold wreath on the front door, bought after much debate and hullabaloo on a Saturday afternoon jaunt to Crawford Market, a whiff of a vanilla-scented candle lingering in the air, welcoming visitors with the warmth we hope to extend, videotaping Ghattu as he boogied to the Trisch Trasch Polka (Strauss over Singh is King, y’hear that J?) and the wish that the love of friends will fill this little corner of our home and hearts aren’t mere symbols and it is these I am basking in as I ask the Lord to bless us and keep us while December rounds out into the unknown days ahead.

Were I clever and all tech-savvy, I would put up an e-tree and have you add baubles, but in the absence of either attribute, I’m going to ask you to visualize. Dear reader, gentle friend, won’t you hang a ding-dong on my tree?

Still Home, Still Heart, Still Horror

26 Nov

Time has done nothing to heal this wound.  I still come perilously close to tears each time I pick at the scab that has barely formed. What did help, though, was putting myself to use.  And it was only as I spoke about it at a couple of media interviews this past week that I realized how blessed I am to have found this route to sanity. With me in this journey have been 39 wonderful people in 5 countries around the world. For our stories, head to the India Helps blog where some of us will write about the year that was, beginning today all the way up to the India Helps anniversary on December 3. Wish us luck in the times ahead. Join us, because we need you. Tell your friends to spread word of our movement. And before you go, answer this: Whom Have You Helped Today?

Heeding Cultural Memory

1 Oct

I came across this phrase in the last book I greedily guzzled from my library and it struck a deep, sonorous chord too personal to ignore.  It implied that every culture disseminates its core values and practices deep within its holders, where it is sometimes held dormant like a capsule, and even though we may outwardly reject the mores of our milieu, there comes a time when we subconsciously succumb and are drawn to the very acts we shunned. It may not be as extreme as a vegan reverting to his lassi-chugging Punjabiness, but second-rung beliefs and commonly practiced routines often heed this siren’s call. And, surprise surprise, we find ourselves walking in the footsteps of our forefathers.

Some weeks before this concept popped out at me, I had the opportunity to meet someone who has given me a lifetime’s insight in a matter of hours. And in the course of seeing life patterns emerge before my very eyes, I have had it pointed out to me how much a product of my socio-ethnic culture I really am. And for all my rebellion against the values my parents in particular and my community in general hold dear, I am, inseparably, a composite part of both.

It’s the little things, really. Insignificant details that ought never to govern a life but they do. Nudge it, at any rate, and prod it in the direction their owner wishes to move. The firm belief in wearing slippers in the home (or else you’re a ghata-ghariya who deserves to curl up and die.)  Knowing more people at a western classical music concert that any other congregation on earth. Growing up hearing about the “good old” (i.e. Raj) days. Wearing Queen Elizabeth in your ears. Watching grandmothers hold office jobs and balk at cooking. Recognizing aunts thrice removed by their uniform of bobbed hair and sleeveless frocks. Dancing the Birdy Dance at weddings and singing Chaiyye Ame Zarthoshti amid raucous uncles down several Parsi pegs. Taking pride in the family gara. And kors. And vintage pearls. Smiling indulgently at Duke’s raspberry, an insider secret the community still holds close to its chest (and there, I just let it out.)

Putting education first. Especially if you’re a woman. Tasting brackish water from ancient Gujarat village wells. Sticking a fravarshi on the back of one’s car (and sometimes the front as well.) Being aghast at the merest hint of dishonesty. Being aghast at another Parsi not being aghast at the merest hint of dishonesty. Guarding your Sunday dhansak with the zeal of a Rottweiler. Always, always going back for seconds. Snapping “ovaryoo” at inauspicious talk and basking in the fragrance of lobaan, never mind that the smoke kills your tonsils every time. Dwelling in high-beamed homes where your grandfather grew teeth, the ones in which you could tricycle to dinner. Listening to your neighbor play Chopin and willing her fingers to fly across the ivory.

Tossing your head with cosmopolitan pride, declaring you have no Parsi friends, generating conversations across time zones and immersing yourself in the 21st century globe, but that tug, that teeny tiny tug, on hearing the accent only you fully understand and no one can replicate, nodding in agreement over disciplining children, cooing over plaid dresses and understated frills on display at Bambino, eyeing lemon tarts at RTI, coveting familiar cuckoo clocks and wanting to be that charming Aunty Hilla 40 years down the journey.

This is my cultural memory and whether I’m ready or not, this I know: the heeding has already begun.

← Older Entries
Newer Entries →