St. Valentine: Smartly Single and A Patron of the Plague

14 Feb

This Valentine’s Day, because we’re sodding balls of mush, because the OJ-Boy romance is far from typical (who gets a book on financial investing on the very first V-Day of their relationship? I do!), and because it is my moral duty to educate you about the reality of this cotton candy-filled, chocolate-centered, gooey-as-snot emotion, here is a compilation of my Twitter hashtag ‘Things Marrieds Say To Each Other’. I don’t guarantee sappy, puppy-eyed romance. But I do promise this: Someone, somewhere was made for your sense of humor. And blessed are those who land them.

~

“I’m an equal opportunity farter.”

“I love how effective our communication is. The morning greeting beautifully boils down to one word: “COFFEE!”

“I have photographic rights. When we married, you signed off on them.”

“Isn’t Cheteshwar Pujara that Bihari festival?”

“I never find anything soulful. Except maybe a shoe.”

“I will share my life but not my plate /The depth of my heart isn’t quite that great.”

“My needs are simple. Coffee and a little Tiffany.”

“You had me at correct punctuation.”

“Oh good lord, don’t pass out! That’s not my toe lying on the carpet, it’s the Band-Aid!”

“You’re my ardhaangini. So I get half of every cupcake.”

“That’s your ‘We’re getting late’ sigh.” ~   “Yeah, and…?”   ~    “Aaaaargh!! I can identify your various sighs!”

“You’re too far away.” Apparently, six inches of separation is terribly much.

You know that awkward phase between sizes?”  ~   “Hmm.”    ~   “You don’t know! You’ve always been 1 size! Just PRETEND!”

“Ear-digging can be a dangerous business. I just found chocolate shavings in mine.”

“‘Bheeda’ and ‘eeda’ rhyme. That’s proof that they’re meant to be together.”

“My camera, my house, my wife,” he says, when I accuse him of being a stalker. Damn such sound logic!

“It’s MENstruation, not womenstruation, and yes, you can tweet that.”

“You’re so much more than a pretty face.” ~ “You’re so much more than a wild imagination.”

“Sometimes people are broken and imperfect, you can’t reject them because of it!” ~  “Baby, it’s a WAFFLE.”

“I think I’m getting bucktoothed.”

“What do you call someone whose farts knock people out?”  ~  “What?”  ~  “Gaseous Clay.”

“See you in my dreams,” he says, blowing a kiss from his pillow.”Oh, and make dhansak while you’re there.”

“I’m not cooking dal. Then you’ll have a bad air day.”

Me (digging into his IHOP pancakes): “Babe, these are two of the three pillars of our marriage.”

“I’ve had better luck finding a spouse than a coffee table.”

“In this new year, may you realize the critical importance of coasters.”

“I’d say your eyes are my windows to the world, but now you have Twitter.”

“Ooh, baby, you’re so fly!” ~ Me to the Boy every time he takes a plane.

“Even the inside of your nose is cool and nice.”

“I share my LIFE with you. Now you want my mawa cake as well?!”

“It’s so hard to walk around hearing the Canon all day!”  ~ “Wow, that must be loud.”  ~ “I mean Pachelbel’s.”  ~ “Oh!”

“Bless you…now that you’ve sprayed your germs on the wall.”

“That’s it. We’re moving to a nudist colony. I’m not doing the laundry anymore.”

“Repeating verbatim what your spouse wants you to say.”

~

Happy Sweet-Saint-Whose-Head-Was-Chopped-Off Day! Don’t forget to share the things you tell your beloved in the comments section! 😉

Under the Redwood Trees

5 Feb

There is no feeling in the world comparable to standing on a forest floor, surrounded by redwood trees as they quietly, mightily graze the sky. It wasn’t a feeling I was familiar with when we first moved to Northern California 3 years ago. An acutely urban creature, I am completely at ease amidst concrete and glass towers, maddening traffic, and the ceaseless buzz of humanity that characterizes metropolitan cities. Be it New York, Philadelphia, Boston, L.A., Paris, Washington D.C., Miami, London, Seattle, San Francisco, or my own Bombay, I have felt a sense of comfort in city air. I have never known nor craved the outdoors, or wanted a home with a sprawling garden like some folks dream of. The streets were to get to places. Who aimlessly rambled outside their home when there was so much fun to be had with indoor pursuits? So when I first walked into a redwood state park 40 minutes from our home, a never-before hush descended on me.

There, in patches of sunlight that struggled through dense treetops, I experienced an exquisite sense of aloneness. Not to be confused with loneliness, no, just a feeling of being the only human in that cool, scented universe, being watched by companionable flora and the creatures that call it home.

Occasionally, there were others who passed by respectfully, with a nod and genial smile, their sneakers crunching along the path, babies on their front or bottles of water on their hip. Then, I was alone again.

The silence pressed in on my eardrums. It is amazing how deafening a lack of sound can be. There was, quite literally, nothing. I strained to catch a distant chopper. I recognized the sound of my breath. And all the while, I was dwarfed by these magnificent natural marvels that have stood guard for several centuries.

I touched their tannin-tinted bark. Imagined what they have witnessed. Has their environment changed so much in the last 500 years? Some trunks lay horizontal, their gnarled roots exposed. Others formed a ring around their Mother Tree, a mammoth entity worthy of awe. A carpet of ferns sprawled around them, gleaming emerald-gold in the slanting light. Embarrassedly, I hugged one of the slimmer trees, my arms wrapped around its solid girth. Bloody Californian, I mocked myself inwardly. But there was wisdom in soaking up their energy, and I was conscious of doing just that as I loitered, no particular plan in mind, no agenda, just a wish to be.

Deeper in the woods is a river. Jumping across stones, I stripped my socks off and wiggled toes in an icy stream. I’ll never be Huck Finn, it’s true, but for someone for whom taking off footwear outside the home is a Parsi version of haraam, you’ve got to concede it was a beginning!

The sun traveled, ruling a cloudless sky. Such welcome warmth in its friendly rays! I inhaled the pungent, heady scent of our ancient friends one last time, then turned and walked toward ‘civilization’. And this worshipper of all things urban knew an unexplored part of her had awoken.

~

I leave you with pictures from an afternoon jaunt to Land of Medicine Buddha and the ‘Enchanted Forest’ in the Santa Cruz mountains, and hope you experience the peace I did. Click on any picture you wish to view larger.

[Credits: Instagram on my Google Nexus phone, and the charming Land of Medicine Buddha.]

Mother Mine

28 Jan

No, no, I definitely clean my fridge every 2 weeks.
Really? Ours goes a full month sometimes.

How do you remove stains on the carpet?
Spray with vinegar-water solution and iron over a paper towel.

What about cleaning the ceilings? No cobwebs in America, no?
Try Lime-Away for hard water stains.
Perfume sachets in the underwear drawer are a good idea.
I’m trying to not be too particular about color-coding my closet hangers.
At least we aren’t those anal people who alphabetize their library collection!

You’ve got it from me, she says in a deeply satisfied tone.

Sometimes the most fulfilling conversations can only be had with the person whose cleanliness fetish you’ve inherited.

~

Have you entered the Parsi Bol giveaway yet?? Go it do it now! Time’s running out!

Stuff, Nonsense, and a Giveaway

15 Jan

One of my enduring childhood memories–and, in retrospect, a favorite one–is of my mum haggling with our regular fish vendor. (A piece about that interaction and my relationship with all things piscine will be part of an anthology in the mid-future, but never mind that right now.) We knew that after all the dramatic declarations of unfed mouths and daylight thugee had faded away, our prize would be fresh, delicious fish–fried, curried, or put in a good old patio.

Among the previously mentioned declarations was this unique phrase my mother would exclaim: Dhoor ne dhumasso!

“Dhoor ne dhumasso”, stuff and nonsense

Pronounced: dhoo-r neh dhum-aaso

Direct translation: dust and sawdust (?) I’m not certain what dhummaso means–will update if I find out!

Time to practice:

You’re telling me the prices have gone up since last week?? Dhoor ne dhumasso!

More:

Dhoor ne dhumasso they’re moneyed! Their type shows Colaba, buys Dadar.

Still more:

The maid came back today, claiming she’d had malaria for the 4th time in 3 months. Dhoor ne dhumasso, she’d be dead at that rate!

For an authentic exclamation, add a snort and a miffed shake of the head. Foot-stomping optional. My very efficient mother did all three seamlessly.

*****

Because it’s a spanking new year, because I have recently returned from a trip to the mother ship, and because I’m delighted with the stash I’ve carried for you, here’s 2014’s first giveaway on WWNP!!

Presenting:

parsi bol

I am thrilled that I don’t have to be your sole source of Parsipanu anymore! From the scriptwriter/director of the award-winning Salaam Bombay, Mississippi Masala, and Little Zizou, and the author of Laughter in the House: 20th Century Parsi theatre comes this delightful collection of Parsi-isms that had me guffawing late into the night.

Between its covers are gems like “Budhvar na vandha” (so dim, can’t recite days beyond Wednesday), “Tamboo ma saheb” (pregnant), and “Kamakli”, (of lesser intelligence), which you may recall from this post.

And you, lucky people, get to raise your hand for one of three author-signed copies I’m giving away! All you need to do is tell me your favorite Parsi thing. It could be a dish, a person, a book or movie, a phrase, or a quirk you can’t quite wrap your head around.

Exhibit A:

You: Do Parsis really sip an albino bull’s urine at their Navjote?

Me: Yes! And because once isn’t enough, at their wedding too–so anything that comes after seems infinitely better! Here’s your free copy of Parsi Bol!

~

Exhibit B:

You: Do Parsi dead people really get fed to vultures?

Me: For breakfast, lunch and dinner! In fact, I’d last them a whole week. Here’s your free copy of Parsi Bol!

~

Exhibit C:

You: My favorite Parsi is Freddie Mercury.

Me: Oops, wrong answer! It should’ve been me. Next!

~

So go on, jump in and wrangle! Winners will be randomly chosen. Giveaway open until January 31st and to U.S. residents only. Everyone’s welcome to chime in, though! Please leave a valid email address in the required field (and not in the comment box) so you can be contacted.

Happy New Year, my friends! So glad to infuse some chuckles into 2014. :mrgreen:

*****

 

Updated to add:

 

*Trumpet blast*

 

*Lion roaring ala MGM*

The 3 lucky winners of the Parsi Bol giveaway are……. *drumroll*

*nail-biting anticipation*

*torturous silence*

*clears throat*

 

# 1: Subu

 

#2: A. Rashid

 

#3: allMom

 

Congratulations! I hope you have a truly enjoyable time reading the book. 🙂 Please email orangejammies@gmail.com with your last name and mailing address and I’ll pop your prize in the mail right away!

*****

This giveaway has now concluded. Thanks every one of you for participating and chiming in with your lovely responses! 🙂 You guys are the best.

 

Rounding Up

31 Dec

Because bullet points are my new best friend, here is a quick round-up of the year we called 2013.

Discovery of the Year: Mascara. Hitherto discarded as something that made my lashes bump into my glasses, I got the waterproof version and Oh. My. Lord. My life will never be the same again. On some days, I even manage to wear it clump-free and not look like Helena Bonham Carter’s Kumbh Mela twin.

Realization of the Year: I am capable of single-minded devotion and razor-sharp prioritization when it comes to relationships. Exactly 7 people in this world truly matter. Everybody else is lovely but entirely peripheral.

New-found loves: Pilates and dancing. And the former had a lot to do with the latter.

First-time travel: Seattle (stunning), Leavenworth (so charming), Las Vegas (dazzling), Blue Lakes (serene), Russian River (picture-perfect), and Carmel (quaint).

Where I would have loved to go: The little Gujarat village I yearn to see.

People: 2 women who came into my life in the latter half of the year and have benefited me tremendously. An addition to the family! One relationship I am relieved is over. My inner circle as supportive and blessed as ever.

Cities: Bombay, still home, still the city of my heart. San Francisco, a new love interest I am casually dating because… *pause for effect*….I discovered the Mission. London, the soulmate I continue to miss, knowing it is out there but we must live apart.

Time well spent: In a hospital. As a caregiver. Night and day, for weeks on end. I have never felt more fulfilled.

Culinary Development: Baking from scratch! Butter sponge (perfect texture, not enough sugar) and French Apple cake (bellissima! Yes, I’ll share the recipe sometime).

Focus: Telling stories for non-profits I believe in. Meeting some incredibly inspiring people through my work. Discovering that the Valley is a generous, socially responsible place.

Connections: To some really smart, successful, and interesting people who are part of the Indian diaspora doing wonderful work for the motherland.

Most terrifying moment: Watching a loved one battling for their life. May you never have to witness it.

Rediscovered: Swimming. How I love the water!

Lost: A pant size.

Gained: Two jasmine plants, a newly-minted sister-in-law, and the perfect gold pump. *respectful silence*

Not lost: The ability to roll on the floor at potty jokes. The hope that 2014 will be bigger, better, brighter. I’m champing at the bit to get started!

~

Happy New Year to you, dear reader. 😀

Let’s wish each other’s dreams come true.

The Season of Rust

23 Dec

I wrote this post 2 months ago, but clean forgot about it in the non-stopness that has been life lately. Apologies for the delay, especially since it was a time-relevant subject, but without any further delay, here it is.

~

Northern California has two seasons: sunny-and-pleasant, and sunny-and-mildly-chilly. And oh, three- drops-of-precipitation-before-the-sun-colonizes-the-sky-again. For about 2 and a half days a year. Last week, we awoke to Season Two. And felt a delicious shiver on throwing off our down comforters and savored that warm, milky coffee a teeny bit more.

The leaves have changed color. Like an earnest child who can’t quite catch up with his peers. You love him for trying, but you know he’ll never make the League of Sporting Champions.  He’ll always be the one with “Good effort” on his report card, and a slightly patronizing smile from his teacher, glory reserved for his siblings further east.

The pumpkins are out in all their plumpness. And if, like me, you enjoy the national color of this blog, you’re in for a treat, because it’s everywhere.  Crunch through piles of raked, dried foliage in your chocolate suede boots, wonder whether you can sneak in a swim for a few days more, and smile as your favorite hot drinks make a comeback at Starbucks. Apples and caramel abound. The soups are hearty, there are spices in the air, and ovens begin their annual overtime. Suddenly, sugar is a friend.

But this time of year isn’t special just for what it offers. It carries the promise of what lies ahead: Halloween costumes and Bingo night. The sparkle of Diwali, the colors, the lamps, the family time, the mithai. Thanksgiving, our annual mini-moon, and another year added to our legal partnership. Bringing home our Christmas tree, stringing lights while drinking eggnog and spiced cider, picking out new ornaments to add to our collection, watching our holiday traditions—The Nutcracker and A Christmas Carol—baking brownies and hosting our annual Christmas gathering. Playing Holiday Radio until it comes out of our ears. Singing hymns into the clear, starry night. Spending time with loved ones, exchanging gifts, Christmas Day dinner and the food coma after, and festivities until another year is properly welcomed. All of this, permeated with that delightful winter chill that has us wrapped in light scarves and jackets, with not a snowflake in sight.

This year, our already-busy season is topped with two special family events. The excitement mounts. We trade updates about outfits and coordinate schedules. Calls fly across the globe as we prepare for visitors and make lists of places to take them.  Much lies ahead. We bubble with plans to celebrate. But for now, I’ll enjoy the moment. Watch another leaf drop and the season turn, as I grab the chance to stand still. The pleasure of anticipation is half the fun. But the other half lies in letting the future take its time.

Here’s a toast to the season of rust. As the earth evolves, so must our destinies with it.

Et du?

18 Dec

“OJ Mami,” he says with all the breathlessness of a critical revelation, “milk has 2 names: last name Du and first name Du.”

And with that, my 4-year-old nephew gulps down his glass of cocoa.

(Yes, yes, I only married the Boy for his genetic material, so sue me.)

Opposes/Supposes

11 Dec

I shared this with close friends exactly a year ago, and the question still haunts me, so I thought I’d put it out there for you guys to shed light on. Not your typical cheery holiday fare, I know.

~

American rhetoric is littered with war words on a daily basis. The nation’s lexicon is so charged with conflict–the war against smoking, the battle against cancer, the fight to save a marriage–that every act, no matter how innocuous, is verbally militarized. So deeply entrenched are these cultural references to violence, that those raised in the country barely appear to notice. Is there anyone else who sees this? I can’t be the only one! Why don’t we question it? Is there any literature or research on this that would help me understand the phenomenon?

Halve the Dozen

7 Dec

Me: I look like a potato.

The Boy: I look like a celery stick.

Me: Aww! Together, we make ….. a rather strange salad.

And, just like that, we turn six today. And your erstwhile blogger of dark thoughts is an annoying globule of mush. Blech.

 

The Wee Three

4 Dec

He stands in the doorway, framed by light that dared to slip in ‘tween the slats.

He moves closer and I can smell his shower gel.

Leaning in, he whispers the three words women long to hear: “Your coffee’s ready.”

I sigh happily, sit back against the pillows, and know all is right with the world.