Virtuoso

18 Jul

Some days I scoop up love in those neon-hued plastic shovels from a kiddie sand pit, scrape-whoosh, scrape-whoosh, filling the spirit, topping it up with a rare fill of generosity and compassion, so that I may lie back, eyes closed, contented, and bask in the simmer of affection until darkness swarms and she siphons me out again.

O Mother mine, dementors chant like schoolboys at your feet.

Three Loves A Crowd

1 Jul

Dear Blogette,

Congratulations on being done with the terrible twos. Now that you’re all potty trained, less attention-seeking and inching past toddlerhood, I grow fonder of you each day.

You’re a sociable little one. You like visits, don’t you? And those mean folks who lurk in the shadows and never say hello upset your contented California existence.  There, there. Not on your birthday. Here’s a clean tissue.

Let’s take a quick look back, shall we, and then onward ho to fabulous four!

The beginning, One and Two.

Happy 3rd, precious page. You’ve brought me joy, catharsis and friends. And for that, I shall always be grateful.

Your typingly,

OJ

 

Abstraction

29 Jun

Are places just places or do the ghosts of events past lurk around their corners, dribbling narratives and memory like senile elders? Can they ever be sterile, antiseptic, scrubbed free of the flotsam that is a solitary man’s story? Will there always be a stance to a square of earth, a side of emotion, a tug, a claim? What is it about places that make them more than places?

Perhaps just the fact that everyone has one. And loves one. Even if the ‘twain do not meet.

That Heart Part

18 Jun

She sat alone in the car, mopping tears that sprang when she heard those lines.

“Every place I go, I think of you; Every song I sing, I sing for you.”

Then she busied herself tidying up her face. Wiped clean, sniffle-free, composed.

Wicked stepmothers can’t be seen missing little souls not born of them.

 

Life in California…

14 Jun

….revolves around an ivory leather couch. And a dutifully vacuumed beige carpet. Around a sweet-smelling fruit basket and an oven bubbling with cheese. Around a shared silver car and welcome home kisses. Sherlock Holmes episodes at night and the polite chirping of robins by day.

Life in California revolves around rattan chairs and a white table. Scented candles and sunflowers in a blue vase. Around the warmth of family, a clutch of friends and a cat that eyes me with minimal interest.

Life in California is the goodness of home cooking, lavender in a yellow planter, mildly scented laundry and red Netflix envelopes. French coconut pie, lemons in iced water, shimmering peach gloss and aroma oils. A merging of rhythms, the strains of Sinatra, wide open spaces and Mexican dancing.

Life in California is the technology buzz, swirls of innovation, the thick of things. The beautiful Valley and Mt. Diablo and sting of the cold Pacific on browning skin. Sareed aunties and baby booms and fresh bhel, bhature, bhungra around the nook. Sunshine and summer and chilly evenings; poolside and wifi and stacks of free books.

Life in California is an exhaled breath, a winding down, that feeling of calm. Cherishing people, valuing life, savoring a hard-fought way of being. Counting one’s blessings, praying daily and dangling an evil eye talisman in every reader’s face.

Then comes one downpour in the city of my heart and the fickle spirit turns traitor again.

The Lady Rules

10 Jun

Nana worked in the admin office of a South Bombay girls school for 40 years. With her clipped boarding school accent, strong sense of discipline and not a hair out of place, she held court from behind a large desk, stepping out only to silence high-decibel schoolgirl chatter with her mere presence during Assembly. At least two generations of schoolgirls quaked in their shoes as a hush swept over the room, and I, on my rare visits to her workplace, would wonder how they couldn’t see the person whose love of laughter and good times I have inherited.

Knowing her extreme honesty and loyalty to her employers, traits historically associated with our community (but certainly not exclusive to the Parsees), the school board entrusted her with the annual fee collection. “If I had taken only a hundred rupees from each of the families who came seeking admission, we’d have a bungalow on Altamount Road today,” she was fond of saying. But for Nana, Altamount Road bungalows held little attraction if they came with dishonor, and so we continued living, as had 3 generations before us, in a humbler locality down the road, where the prices of homes run into only single digit crores versus the doubles Peddar , Carmichael and Altamount Roads command.

But this post isn’t about Nana’s honesty. It is about the rules she lived her life and ran her home by. The etiquette that made her every bit of the lady she was—straight-backed, well-mannered and house-proud.  And it is now, in the setting of my own home, that I realize how tremendous her influence has been.  How grateful I am for it. And how I have consciously and unconsciously modeled my home living on her ways.

This post isn’t to toot my/her horn or uphold a certain way of life over others as much as it is a documentation of the lines I grew up hearing. The practices that insidiously crept under my skin and now hold me very willingly captive. This is a collection of my grandmother’s hostessing, housekeeping  and daily living beliefs, but they are certainly not the only things she held dear.  I write this so that someday I may pass on to my children a way of life that they are tied to by blood. Whether they choose to follow or reject it will be up to them.  Some or none of these may apply to you, but bear with me, I do this for myself. Without further ado, here are The Lady Rules:

  • A home must be, at the very least, clean and organized. Beauty is not optional. As much as you can afford it, take the trouble to tastefully design and maintain your nest. Make it a joy to live in.
  • Don’t confuse simplicity and frumpiness. Worse, don’t use the former as an excuse for the latter. Decorating a home needn’t be expensive or bury you under the effort.
  • Maintenance is key. Polish the furniture, use dust covers and moth balls where necessary, rotate the crockery and linens, nip signs of wear and tear in the bud. Antique furniture requires devotion. There’s a reason why Parsi-owned cars sell at a premium.
  • When playing hostess, do not ignore rooms you think your guests won’t see. Lay on the embroidered bedcovers, tidy your desk, have potpourri/perfume and extra hand towels in the bathrooms.
  • Take the trouble to look presentable when you have guests over. It’s disrespectful to be sloppily dressed and for heaven’s sake, don’t run around in your slippers just because it’s your home. Wear shoes, like everyone else.  <Note: Parsis do not remove shoes at the door.>
  • Stepping over the threshold necessitates a switch from house slippers to shoes. Yes, even to buy bread. <House slippers are a non-negotiable, by the way.>
  • Slippers are what you wear at home. A sandal must have a strap at the back and at least a low heel, or you can’t wear it with a saree.
  • A handbag. Never go without. And please carry one to suit the occasion and your outfit.
  • Coordinate your handbag and footwear. And always carry a handkerchief, preferably with a dab of perfume on it.
  • Dress appropriately. Be event-specific. Wear your family jewelry proudly but elegantly. Never pile on all the pieces. Bling looks best on Christmas trees. Don’t go around clinking and jangling like a bag of coins.
  • When in doubt, pearls and baby pink always work.
  • Manicures and pedicures are a good idea. Even if you just cut your nails short, your hands and feet are visible signs of grooming.
  • Learn to lay the cutlery when you are young, so you know which fork to begin with when you’re older.
  • Practice eating with a fork and knife in front of the mirror when you’re about 6, so you can be taken to the Taj and won’t embarrass your ancestors.
  • Always “pardon?”, never “hanh?”
  • Excuse me when you sneeze, God bless you when someone else does.
  • Mind your Ps and Qs.
  • Zip that mouth when there’s food in it and zip it good. And may Ahura Mazda help you if chomping sounds emanate.
  • Clean the toilet seat each time you’re done. Especially in another’s home.
  • Use “tameh” (the Gujarati version of the Hindi “aap”) for all older people, even the domestic help.
  • Pick up after yourself and thank the household help. You’re not the boss of anybody.
  • When sitting on a chair, your feet stay down, down, down. If you want to cross your legs, go join a yoga class.
  • When visiting someone’s home for the first time, take a little token—flowers, a box of chocolate, something they would appreciate.
  • Never give back an empty container. Not even to your mother. Put just sugar in it if you have to, but don’t leave it empty.
  • Cash, cheques, letters are all handed over in envelopes. If you think it’s a waste of paper, don’t write on the cover and ask the person to reuse it.
  • Write a note or call to say thank you for having me over.
  • Apologize for rude windy sounds that emanate from your body. Burping after eating is for neanderthals in the hinterlands.
  • Use napkins at mealtimes. Light a candle or have a pretty centerpiece at the table. Play soft, soothing music if possible. It aids in conversation and digestion.
  • Do not display personal pictures in the public areas of the home. Portraits are acceptable. Photographs can be put up in the inner rooms that are not typically meant for guest use.
  • Unless the guest is a close friend or relative and will be living with you, a house tour is an unnecessary Indian ritual. It is a home, not a museum. Unless you live in Buckingham Palace, a walk-through isn’t necessary.
  • If you have been eating, wipe your mouth on a napkin before taking a sip of your drink.
  • At a table, seating must be so arranged that a person from the opposite sex sits across from as well as next to you.
  • Cutlery is to be laid so you use it from the farthest piece from the plate to the nearest.
  • Have a basic knowledge of drinks that go with specific foods, even if you do not imbibe.
  • If you are not comfortable with a guest smoking in your home, inform them politely and lead them to the balcony. Politely is the key word.
  • Don’t confuse formality with courtesy. Many folks don’t know the difference, there is no reason for you to be one of them.
  • When hostessing, ensure there is adequate seating for everyone. And extra crockery. The same goes for beds and sleep-over guests. We do not throw down mattresses and flop onto them, or, heaven forbid, sit on the floor and eat. <insert dramatic shudder>
  • Do a weekly nail and hair check. Does either need a trim? Banish chipped nail paint. And oil your hair. Just don’t gad all over town without washing it off first.
  • Iron your pillow covers and bedsheets. Or let the help/dhobi do it. Live genteelly, even if no one’s watching.
  • Whites are always washed separately. They live longer that way. Refer earlier point on maintenance.
  • Put washed linen and crockery at the bottom of the pile so the unused ones get a chance/an airing.
  • Do not encourage latecomer guests. Do not be a latecomer guest. It isn’t fair to those who made the effort to arrive on time.
  • Be warm and welcoming to family and friends. Even if you have leftovers, gather around, make them comfortable and enjoy life’s blessings together.
  • Ensure your granddaughter is around, learning and imbibing these ways, so that someday she may write of the gray-eyed, pepper-haired grand dame with a heart larger than the vast home she lived and loved in.

My Animals & Other Family

23 May

Of the family we have in the area, I confess my heart is partial to one. A gorgeous, green-eyed fellow named after a French emperor, this charming chap loves flattery, milk and treats in that order.  Don’t expect him to warm up to you as you walk through the door. He’s a bit of a ‘fraidy cat that way. But if he sees you often enough and you sing-song his name and tell him what a handsome boy he is, he may deign to pad up to you and sniff your ankles. Then, if you’re gentle enough and really lucky, he will permit you to sit next to him and stroke him.

He adores his Mamma and sleeps by her feet at night and curls up on her lap every chance he gets. But he doesn’t appreciate being brought back inside and struggles to escape. When faced with the futility of the situation, he sulks under the dining table and gives you hurt looks from his post and won’t emerge until he’s absolutely certain you’re terribly sorry. We have a special understanding, being fellow Leos and all. And I’m secretly quite pleased he prefers me to the Boy.

He is easily alarmed by strangers and children.  His friend and not-so-secret love is KittyKitty down the road. He welcomes his Mamma home with all his heart on display and follows her everywhere, waiting patiently by the bathroom door for her to emerge. I suspect he believes he’s a dog. Here he is, lying on the couch that is his perch by the window, snoozing in the sun. Isn’t he so beautiful? Go on, tell him you agree. Love and fresh air are splendid things to live on.

[Credits: OJ and the Boy’s  Olympus E-520 DSLR. And HRH Languid Lounger.]

West of Madness, South of Peddar Road

17 May

I heard her before I saw her.  A loud, hoarse voice screaming expletives that would make a sailor blush. If you knew the busy street my parents’ home is on, you would be awed by the power of her lungs. She is crass, she is angry, and simply known as the not-so-friendly neighborhood crazy.

Back in the day when my parents were teenagers, hanging out with their ‘gang’ of 30 and going for summer swims to the Golwala pool, Daisy B. was a stunning young thing in her early twenties, with permed hair, immaculate make-up and outfits to die for.  The boys wanted her and the girls wanted to be her.  And admirers never left her vicinity. Dressed to the nines and aware of her power over the opposite sex, she led a life of promiscuous abandon, going through several lovers, brazenly flaunting her sugar daddies and breaking homes and marriages with nary a care. Talk of how men’s brains would turn to putty at a mere glance from her and how she could get any man to do her bidding abounded and provided the neighbors with much fodder for gossip.

Of course, for the old families who continue to live in our neighborhood (mine included), it was all her fault and no good was going to come of a used girl who refused to settle. She’s lucky to be Parsi, Jeroo said, rolling her eyes heavenward at her own fabulous fortune, or else she’d have been arranged-marriaged off, like those Hindoos do all the time.  Would’ve done her good, retorted Tehmina, to have a husband keep her in check, quite forgetting that her own Edulji wouldn’t venture any such thing with his opinionated wife. In a community of eccentric people, aberrations are more easily overlooked and Daisy B. went about her wild life without samaj, biradri or similar Hindi film constructs pointing their accusing fingers at her existence.

A generation grew up. And then another. And one evening in the year 2010, a loud, hoarse voice, screaming expletives that would make a sailor blush, rose above the roar of rush-hour traffic and floated into my fourth-floor bedroom.  There she was, a now-wrinkled woman with golden-brown curls, suggestively gesticulating toward her nether regions and screaming bloody murder at a man she accused of looking at her. I retreated from my balcony, shaken by the hysteria in her voice, and tried to focus on other things. A week later, there was that voice again, railing against a world that was out to group-fornicate with her.

The episodes began occurring with alarming frequency and she would rant and rave and verbally target anybody on the street, regardless of age or gender.  I (and half my zip code) was informed that I have ‘false boobsies’ while on my way to a workout. A passerby was almost beaten up because a group of men on the street believed she had been genuinely molested. People would stop and stare. Some men would scurry past, afraid to be implicated for merely being on the road home. Some would yell back. Most would just be stunned into silence by the lady in the frilly nightgown, who bought Coke and bread from the local vendor before turning on him viciously.

Efforts to reach out and help came to nought. Between my mum and I, we tried a social worker, relatives and a trustee of the Bombay Parsee Punchayet, but nobody wanted to get involved. I’m not sure how many of you know that a large part of my education and work experience has been in the mental health field, and it pained me to see someone so direly in need of help. Daisy B. lives alone now, after her mother passed away. Relatives and neighbors claim she was cruel to her and this madness is the cross she has to bear. Nobody is willing to entertain the notion that she may have acted in a harsh manner because of her illness. My cousin who lives in the neighborhood confirms that her behavior has expanded to screaming in buses and glaring at anyone she pleases, all the while going about her daily business. On some days, she is calm, walks quietly down the street, dressed up like the old times. She has no immediate family and nobody who can step in to help. Everybody I spoke with says she’ll only be taken advantage of if we take the matter to the police.

So Daisy B. is left to her own devices and everybody goes back to their own lives after the bi-weekly screams have stopped reverberating and the honking of jostling taxis has taken over the world again. I think of her occasionally, curled up on my ivory couch in California, and pray she is kept from further harm. But for the old families of my erstwhile neighborhood, this episode of karma beats their nightly airing of reality television. And life, twisted bitch, wins hands down against soap-saga fiction.

Dear William & Catherine

29 Apr

It is finally today. I will not hazard a guess about your feelings, but sincerely wish they are mostly positive. Be it for royalty or commoners, a legal union (and often a religiously binding one) is an event of significance. For you, this event is not, and never can be, yours alone. Your marriage has innumerable stakeholders, but only two worker bees. And no matter how grand or humble the wedding itself, after the finery is off and the meals digested, it’s all about the marriage.

There are as many kinds of marriages as there are people, this I know. But I hope there is love. And a purpose. And kind spirits who will shelter you.

As a bride of 5 months’ experience, I will say this:  Keep it real. Laugh. Be a team.

God bless. I’ll be watching. With a pebble on my finger from a man who made his naysayer partner discover that the institution can be rather nice after all.

Best wishes,

An Indian girl in North America with a fascination for all things English

A Portrait of Us

25 Apr

My wonderfully talented friend and fellow blogger Lavanya gave us (her version of) a portrait of the Boy and me as a wedding present.

I love her artistic ability. I love how painstakingly she has detailed the picture, adding the little silver evening bag she and I shopped for together. I love how the Boy looks like Rohinton Mistry in this version (he doesn’t really, but I think  I prefer him on paper).  I love how pictures speak louder than words and this one screams ” OJ IS SKINNYYYYYYYY!” like nobody and nothing else will.

So here’s us, now hope over to her page and tell her I said hello. Ooooh, will ya look at that teeny-tiny waist? :mrgreen: