Hmm...

There are some small things that bother me on and off. But lazy as I am, I don't have much to say about them except for a few comments. Except that it not all times due to laziness, but also because too many people have been talking about it.

1. Rihanna/Chris Brown - I do not know what happened between them and no one is really clear about it. Has she come out with a statement? I'm not sure. However, on FB, I saw an icon for 'Throw Rihanna at your friend' in the Hug Me Application. Frankly, that appalls me. Considering the number of people, the kind of people, the kids and the youth using FB, this is a bad move by the developers of that application and I do think FB should take responsibility for this application.

Domestic abuse is not a joke and certainly cannot be a game or be mocked at. What does FB mean when it says 'throw a Rihanna?' Does it mean treat your friend like Chris Brown treated Rihanna? Or does it mean something very American pop-culturish that my Desi mind doesn't seem to grasp?

Personally, I don't like it. I don't like the fact that something like Domestic Abuse has been trivialized this way.

2. Obama: I admit I'm a huge fan of Barack Obama. And I'm not ashamed to admit it. While I may not agree with everything he says or does, I do understand that he is a human being like any of us and cannot live the ideal lives for all of us. Let alone his life. He cannot adopt a shelter dog just because some of us feel for that issue. I do feel shelter dogs need to be adopted more vigorously than pedigree pups, but in this particular case, I support the Obama family in prioritising their daughters' allergies over an image of the President that the country'd like to see. If you voted for Obama because he 'promised' to adopt a shelter dog, then, I'm sorry, your priorities are all wrong in this time and age.

At the same time, I've read umpteen blogs and umpteen Editorials about the failure of the current Govt. I'm no fan of America and its policies as is evident from this blog. But I do think that this Govt needs time. We need to let them do their thing before judging them. Stop judging them just because they are politicians. I personally believe politics is not a dirty job. Some people in it make the profession dirty, and that's about it. Again, am not saying Obama is the best person to handle anything and everything thrown at the US at this point in time, but then, we've voted for him since he was the best choice then, and more importantly, while we do constructively criticize his policies, we should remember that he is still new to the job. All of us know how bureaucrats work. All of us know how a new leader is always in trouble managing a team with old ideas used to old ways. Remember the last time you took over a project from a colleague?

3. Our prejudices: Recently, several states in the US reconsidered their stand on same-sex marriages. I'm quite happy about it. I do have a lot of friends who are homosexuals and respect them for taking a stand in an absolutely unsupportive society as ours. I'm no saint who is not prejudiced. However, something recently made me think.

http://twitpic.com/2hpih/full
The headline reads: Mickey Rourke asks ex-Russian boxer to marry him.

A friend tweeted this and spoke about how he was surprised to find that he was prejudiced. He thought that Rourke was gay.

However, I thought of something else different altogether. Can't a woman be a boxer? Is that why he thought that the boxer was considered male, and so Rourke considered gay?

I know I will be labelled a feminist for thinking this way. But hey, I certainly didn't think beyond the fact that Rourke was getting married to someone. Is it because I'm a woman that I thought that way? Or, what is it?

Sorry I had to just vent it out. I know this is not a great post or anything, but just some things that made me go : hmm...

The Pakoda Chronicle - Part 2

Part 1

5 months later-

"Kose narikki vai. Saayangalam pakoda panna poren, unga maamanaru ku." Kosu pakoda! (Cut the cabbage. I'm going to make cabbage pakodas for your father-in-law for his evening snack. Cabbage Pakoda!) Anu had never heard of such a thing, but she was happy she had something to do! Cutting the cabbage, she thought back to her mother's house. Evening chai with onion pakodas. God, how she missed that life. Though her mother was fairly traditional and her grandmother was a severe woman, Anu herself had never followed as many rules. Except the all pervasive 3 days isolation rule. Sometimes, she thanked God that her grandmother had been that strict. Otherwise, she wouldn't have been able to survive in this family, for sure. She heard rain outside. It seemed to rain in this city always, she thought. Saroja saw her daughter-in-law cutting thin slivers of the cabbage and thought only young people could cut it so thin! She heard the rain and screamed at Anu: "Mazhai vardu. Odu di, Anu. Melendu thuni edithindu vaa!" (Its raining, go, run and clothes down)

27 years later

Bringing the clothes back in, she heard the gate open. She peeped down from the terrace to see her husband come in, totally drenched. Anu rushed down to make coffee for him. After giving him his dry clothes, she entered the kitchen looking for the Murukku her mother-in-law had made the previous week. She always kept them hidden and gave it to her son or her grandsons only. Just one, 'shastrathikku' (for the sake of tradition/name sake) in her words for Anu and her daughters.

"Coffee porum. Ippo daan Masala Dosai saaptu varen," he said. (Just coffee will do. I just had a Masala Dosa)

"Avanikku pakoda panni podardhu daane. Mazhai le nenanju vandirkaan,"(Why don't you make him some pakodas? He's come dripping wet) Saroja said to her daughter-in-law. She, obviously, hadn't heard him. She had grown partly deaf over the years. But she missed nothing. At least the things she should certainly miss. Right now, all she was concerned was why Anu had not kept anything ready for her son who came drenched in the rain.

Anu always made onion pakodas when it rained. She had first made them for her father-in-law. He had liked them so much that he had forbade her mother-in-law from making any, going forward. He had wanted only Anu to make them. And only onion pakodas at that. Bakkoda as he used to call it, she recalled with a smile. It was 10 years since he had passed away, but she couldn't help but remember him every time she made pakodas. She knew her mother-in-law resented her for that compliment and her pakodas, though everyone else loved it. She never ate them. She did not even know how onions tasted, so she imagined these pakodas to be tasting horrible, and didn't have problems saying it directly in front of guests even. It was always a battle between her mother-in-law and her. Onion v/s cabbage. She would snidely point out to onion every time Anu bought a cabbage from the vegetable vendor. Sometimes, Anu wished Balu and her father-in-law had not liked her onion pakodas.

Saroja watched her son read the paper and thought, "how long does it take to make coffee, anyway?" It wasn't like the North Indian tea anyway. Just decoction and milk. Not even sugar for her diabetic son. "Yen ma, enakkum konjam kaapi thariya? Nenjellam kaanju pona maadri irukku. Inniki madhyana tookathu lendu seekram ezhindhinduten. Naa kai kaal alambindu varen, " she groaned to Anu loudly. (Can you give me some coffee too? My throat is parched. I woke up early from my afternoon nap. I will use the washroom and get back) Anu heard her. All the groans and sighs were for her son. All the complaints of lack of sleep was to make him ask her if everything was okay. Balu had, after all, never seemed to reciprocate his mother's love. Anu knew he loved her more than anyone else, but he was not the man to show it. Who would know it better than her? He always fought for his mother with her and their daughters though. This only seemed to make her mother-in-law very happy. Sometimes, Anu wondered if her mother-in-law had ever loved her. Had ever thought nice of her.

Suddenly, she felt ashamed to have thought this way. Pushing away her 'evil' thoughts, she thought of how Saroja had helped her with her delivery when her own mother fell ill. She even cooked everyday, albeit to follow her rigorous customs, but never complained. "I should be happy she takes care of the kids when I'm away and looks out for us," Anu thought. A thought stayed on. Would it have been different if Anu hadn't made those much-loved/hated onion pakodas?

Anu sighed, thinking of the latest convert to onion pakodas, her sister-in-law, Shanta who had asked for the recipe to make it this week for some guests. Anu made a mental note to ask her how it turned out. She hoped it was good. Otherwise, she knew Shanta wouldn't let her forget it easily. Just like her mother, she was all out to 'prove' things to Anu even after 27 years of knowing and interacting with Anu. Every time Shanta made something 'healthy,' she made sure to send it to Anu and point out that she should make it for her diabetic brother. She never sent anything for her mother though. Knowing her mother's strict eating habits, none of the daughters made an effort.

The doorbell rang. Worried the milk would boil over, she ran to open the door. She wasn't surprised at all.

"Hey, Mami! Amma asked me to give these pakodas to you," her nephew, Vinay said. Anu called out to her daughter to get a towel for him. Running back, she called him in, "Ulle vaa da. Indha mazhai le scooter liya vande? Coffee kuduchutu po." (Come inside. Did you come on the scooter in this rain? Drink some coffee and go)

She walked up to her mother-in-law, stood away from her being careful not to touch her, spoke loudly into her ears. "Vinay vandirkaan. Murukku pannele? Adha tharela? Naa Coffee podren." (Vinay has come. You made some Murukku, didn't you? Can you give some? I will make some coffee.)

Saroja was excited to see Vinay, her only grandson from among the brood of grand-daughters she seemed to have been cursed with. She ran into the store room to get the Murukku she had hidden for him and Balu. Vinay followed her and took the Murukku from her hands, handing over the steel dabba he had brought. "Epdi irukkel, Pati?" (How are you, Granny?)

Saroja didn't hear what he said but was happy that he had brought something for her. From Shanta, her daughter. She recognized the dabba. Anu had given these dabbas to all her sisters-in-law for Nombu. That extravagant girl!

She opened the dabba to see chunky pakodas. It had been years since she'd eaten one. Ever since Anu had started making those vile onion pakodas, actually. Which she made lots. Like her son's hard-earned money grows on trees. To be fair to Anu, she made cabbage ones for her alone. But she made them so crisp. Her daughter had lovingly sent her some pakodas that didn't seem crisp and hard. She sighed happily as she broke the second pakoda and threw it into her mouth. After such a long time. Pakodas, just like she used to make them. Chunky. Only, the cabbage in these pakodas tasted better than the ones Anu made. Even better than the ones she herself made.

The Pakoda Chronicle

Saroja could not believe that her husband had agreed to get Balu married to a girl brought up in the North. So what if she belonged to the same caste as them? She was still used to the ways of the North. To be fair, she was not all bad. She did have one redeeming factor at least - that huge pottu on her forehead. But then what would a Northie know anything about the customs and traditions that Saroja had so faithfully and strictly followed all these years ? Besides, she looked sickeningly thin and starved. Couldn't her parents even afford to feed her properly ? No, this girl will definitely not do for my son, Saroja decided. She would have to talk to Balu. He was just 23. What was the hurry ? She was sure they would easily get better girls for her darling son.

Pulling her 9 yards around her, Saroja purposefully walked out into her kitchen. She had not been able to sleep all afternoon, thinking of the girl they had just seen in the morning. No, she would have to put an end to this before it went any further.

Just as she walked in, she heard Balu’s voice. She hesitated. She knew she could not possibly say anything to him in front of his father. She had to deal with this smartly. Like she'd done all these years.

She had been 14 when she had got married. She had been learning about the lakes in Michigan when her Athimbair had pulled her out of the class with the news that her father had passed away. She did not really remember how it had affected her. From what she could remember, she had always lived with her oldest sister (Akka) and her Athimbair (sister’s husband). Akka needed help managing her 7 kids. And Saroja, being the same age as the oldest girl was more a playmate to the kids than their nanny. Her Athimbair was a nice man. He used to send her to school with his daughter Lakshmi. Now, as she sat behind him on the scooter, she had a feeling that she was not just leaving school early, but probably leaving it forever. After all, her father had passed away and her mother was alone.

Saroja loved her mother. She had a lot of rules but to Saroja they all made sense. It was important that a girl be isolated during those three days. Saroja herself felt she needed the rest. And anyway, onions and garlic smelled vile. That Christian girl had brought something in her lunch box the other day. Saroja could swear it was onions. It smelled and all the girls seemed to relish it even more. It felt even sinful to look at their expressions as Maria shared her food. Sometimes Saroja regretted studying in a Convent school like this. But, thank God her mother had taught her well, otherwise she may have fallen into the vicious trap herself.

"Dei Balu, inga vaa," Saroja pulled him into her small kitchen. "Unakku andha Anu ponnu pudichirka?" Before he could reply, she knew she had to let her opinion known. He would never let her down. The apple of her eye, born after four daughters, Balu was everything in this world for her. She may have even resented her husband at times but she had never been able to bring herself to scold her boy, however mischievous he had been.

"Enakku avlova pudikale. Unakku innum chinna vayasudaan. Unakku kadekaadha ponna?" She continued, knowing that she had to make inroads quickly.

Balu listened intently. He always listened to his mother. He knew she had a special spot for him. For all the bitterness she sometimes harboured towards her daughters and her disciplinarian husband, she had always been kind and loving.

Now, watching her make the evening coffee for everyone, he wondered why she, and not his sister, was doing this. He sensed she was up to something. His mother was always up to something. He reckoned it was just her way of life. "Po, Appa kitte sollu. Indha ponnu vendaamnu. Nethi maatram irundha poraadhu, vodambilyum konjam irukkanum."

As she had surmised, they had told her she could not go to school anymore. Athimbair would just not be able to afford it. After all, he had seven daughters of his own. And Lakshmi was of marriageable age already. Suddenly Saroja realized that she was the same age as Lakshmi.

She had decided early on that she did not like her mother-in-law very much. She seemed proud of her brood of ten children, most of them sons. Initially Saroja thought her mother-in-law would have the same rules as her mother, but then her mother-in-law seemed liberal. She seemed to eat those biscuits from the potti kadai down the street. Her mother had never done that ! Saroja was not comfortable with all this. She wanted to be like her mother. She was sure that she and her sisters got married into good families only because of her mother's pious ways and all the traditions she followed unflinchingly.

So at 14, Saroja had taken a momentous decision to follow her mother's ways in her new home. And not her mother-in-law's ways though she was the matriarch at home. Saroja had learnt early in life that doing things her way quietly garnered no attention and people soon got used to it. She decided this was the way to go in her new home too. So what if she had to cook for a family of 30 including her wastrel brothers-in-law and their wives from rich families ? Saroja was sure her unflinching loyalty to her mother would reward her.

"Balu! Inge vaa." Saroja heard her husband’s voice calling Balu. "Poda, koopadrar paaru," she pushed her son towards the hall confident that she had done her bit well and that her stubborn son would say no to the girl.

She strained her neck to try to listen to the conversation but could not catch a word. Her daughter, who had just been in the drawing room, walked into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. Saroja pounced on her.

"Ennadi solra? Unga Appa phone pannitala?”

“Seri naa sonnar?"

Saroja could not believe her ears. She had been so sure she had managed to get her boy to see her way. How could this have happened ? And so fast. Saroja decided that she now had to take it up herself with her husband. She was not going to watch her young son's life be ruined like this. After all these years of fighting for him, this was the most important fight of her life.

"Enna na...indhaango coffee." She paused. She knew better than to talk to him when he was sipping his coffee. She never spoke to him directly. But this time it was too important an issue to let go. She looked at her son sitting on the sofa. She wondered what was wrong with him. Why could he not stand up to his father ? Man to man ? Why did it always have to be his mother who had to sort things out for him ?

She sighed, watching her husband make another phone call to the family priest. She was determined that it was time that the unwritten rule of not talking to him directly was changed.

(to be continued...)

Translations:
1. "Dei Balu, inga vaa," - Balu, come here.
2. "Unakku andha ponnu pudichirka?"- Do you like that girl?
3. "Enakku avlova pudikale. Unakku unnum chinna vayasudaan. Unakku kadekaadha ponna?"-
I didn't like her at all. You are still a young boy. You think you won't find a girl?
4. "Po, Appa kitte sollu. Indha ponnu vendaamnu. Nethi maatram irundha poraadhu, vodambilyum konjam irukkanum." - Go, tell your father that you don't want this girl. Its not enough to have a big bindi on the forehead, there should be something in the body as well.
5. "Poda, koopadra paaru,"- Go, he is calling you.
6. "Ennadi solra? Unga Appa phone pannitala? seri na sonnar?"- What are you saying, girl? Did your father call them? Did he say yes?
7. "Enna na...indhaango coffee." - Here, your coffee
8. Seri na sonnaar: He said yes?

UPDATE: Edited it a little bit after feedback from a kind soul. It is much better now :) Thanks again, kind soul ;)

There is nothing that a warm hug, tons of Vethal Kuzhambu, Keerai Masiyal and a cup of rice and a hot shower cannot cure.

May God bless the people (women!) who created Vethal Kuzhambu and Keerai Masiyal with men who cook for them, and people (women and men) who cultivate rice with more abundance than a cup of rice can already give ;)

And people who want to say how lucky I'm just coz my husband cooked for me need not comment. Thanks, but no thanks. I can survive without that compliment(!), because I know it and do not like to hear about it CONSTANTLY.

He is lucky to have someone as a guinea pig. Yes.

Sometimes you reach a point where you just want to throw everything and go back. Back to who you were, where you belonged to.

It doesn't help that you are in the middle of a recession and so lose everything that you think you had. And when you have a back sprain putting a spanner in your latest plans to change for the better, it gets worse.

Then you go mad and scream and blog. And just hate yourself and the rest of the world.

More Idlis?

Ananthu shuffled into the dining room where everyone had assembled for dinner. His wife was inside, lying on the bed. She'd eat on the bed. Like she had for the last 2 months. One of the girls fed her everyday. In fact, everyone seemed to be only too happy to take care of her. She was, after all, their aunt. And the girls had inherited their father's famous streak for unconditional generosity and responsibility. Amazing how the mother didn't grumble too. Like most women in her position possibly would.

He was the first one from his village to go on to study at the college in erstwhile Madras. He'd finished his Doctorate studies and landed himself a plum job with the Central Government. His good fortune didn't end there. He was immensely lucky to have married Annapoorna, a nubile young girl full of dreams and a rebellious streak that he so loved to control. It turned him on. To see her rebel and then whimper back to reality. They were on a vacation. Visiting all the temples in South India on a pilgrimage. He'd promised his mother this trip ever since he got the job as a Senior Scientist with the Government. Now, here they were at 7 A.M. nearing Trichy.There was a bustle around a small road-side tea shop and the bus driver decided to stop there for a quick breakfast.

Ananthu rued the day he'd boastfully offered to take his young brother-in-law, all of 7 years old on this trip. Of course, the boy had been of immense help. He'd carried the bags around, watched bags all night in the bus lest someone steal it. But then, the boy was a real pest. Very independent, shrewd and too smart for his own good, he decided. Now, he wanted more Idlis. How much does the boy eat anyway? He'd already finished 2 big Idlis that costed 25 paisa. More, he asks! Ananthu refused and walked back into the bus.

He sat down opposite Babu. The girls sat on the rest of the chairs around their father. Ananthu always had a bad feeling about Babu. Even at 50, Babu behaved and worked like he was 30 and had a whole lifetime to do anything and everything he wanted. He was extremely ambitious in everything he worked at. He'd made sure to find a wife who supported him in his ambitions and laugh away all the loans and all the risks. Strangely enough, the girls were the same. Classic businessmen's daughters. He never allowed them to have it easy. He made his girls work hard and learn things the hard way, Ananthu observed. Just like he had. All his life. Babu was known to be a slogger. Someone who didn't take too kindly to lethargy or indecision. Ananthu still remembered the way he'd taken control of the situation on the day his wife was diagnosed with cancer of the urinary tract. Babu announced that he'd take his sister home and take care of her himself. Like he didn't trust her with Ananthu. No one said anything. Even his daughter who was studying for her Board exams. Ananthu was just hoping he could accompany his wife too. He certainly couldn't cook to save his life and didn't want to spend money on eating out for a long time. Considering Poorni had cancer, he wasn't sure of the next events in his life.

The boy stared back at Ananthu and looked beseechingly at his sister, though he knew it was of not much use. His sister did everything that her husband wanted. For all her rebelliousness, she was totally a doormat to her parsimonious arrogant husband. He knew in his young heart then and there that his parents had made a mistake with this one. He asked her this time. "Poorni, tell Athimbair to buy me one more Idli no? Please." She shrugged. "Ivaniku unnu oru Idli venumaame?" After being the recipient of a glare, she told the young boy to go and check if the bags were still on the top of the bus. Annapoorna was tired of the travelling. All the more because of her mother-in-law. All she needed was that brat of a brother of hers to irritate her.

Geeta served Idlis. The girls groaned. Seemed like they all hated Idlis. He noticed that breakfast was usually Dosas or Poori or even Chapati. The girls ate out quite often too. Something he'd ever allowed his girls to do. The girls brought something back for him and his wife too, always. He'd eaten some Pani Puri that evening. After moving to Babu's house 3 months ago, he'd even eaten that expensive international Dosa - pizza. He himself may never have spent Rs 250 on that, but then the girls had ordered some and offered him some. He certainly would never say no to food. Babu didn't like pizza, it seemed. Ananthu thought he saw Babu and Geeta noticing him when he bit into that pizza, but didn't think much of it. He knew that Babu didn't like him too much. He always felt Babu's mocking gaze every once in a while. When he organized his daughter's wedding or when he sent Poorni with a one way bus fare to help her mother when Geeta had gone to her mother's house for her delivery. Babu had sent his sister back with the next visit's bus fare.

Babu wasn't any longer at the table. Geeta kept up the conversation as always: "Avarikku Idli na aagadu. Pasee thaangale na daan saapduvaru. Neenga unnu onnu edthu kongo. Ungalku Idli daan romba pudikyun ille?"

P.S. - This is the first story that I've written in my life. All kinds of feedback welcome. Non Tamil speakers, I'm terribly sorry. Thanks a ton.

The biker girls!

Early in our lives, my sisters and I were warned that going on bikes with boys/men was not the thing done by girls like us. 'We are not like that' - my mom used to say and still says for everything. It is her 'because I said so' statement. The three of us were fairly independent with our own modes of transport when we needed to go out. Once in a while, there were times when in the interest of our environment, the group of friends I'd hang out with would consider vehicle-pooling. Strictly frowned upon by girls' parents because the vehicles chosen for the ride would invariably be bikes which only boys rode that time. *hmph* (I did learn to ride a bike later on in my life much to my mom's horror) So, while I never needed to go on a bike ride with any of the guys I knew, this was a constant source of argument with my mom. When I was in Class 12, and had to run for tuitions and that is when most kids in Bangalore got their first bikes/scootys etc, my parents insisted I learn things the hard way and made me cycle all over the city running for coaching classes. Until I did so badly in Math that I attributed it to the time spent cycling all over the city. Finally, my dad gave me his trusty blue Kinetic Honda. Soon, I was to be known as the Kinetic girl. I was everywhere with my Kinetic. It carried everything from people to dogs to huge cutouts for plays. It also carried varied carpenters and painters from the college auditorium to the nearest bus stand. Of course, my parents didn't appreciate it too much. My grandmother felt I was 'mingling' with men I should not 'mingle' with if at all 'mingling' was the issue.

I'd ferry my mom on her innumerable shopping trips. Trust me, they were innumerable. One such trip, we were cruising along with my mom doing what she does best: backseat driving. She believed in shoulder squeeze backseat driving. The moment she senses danger which is always, she'd squeeze my shoulder hard. One such time, she wanted to point out to me a girl we knew going on a bike with some guy. My mom squeezed my shoulders. I slowed down thinking of the obvious. However, this time, she whispered in my ear that X was going on this bike with this boy she didn't know. So, the argument ensued. About how girls and boys are so physically close on a bike that 'anything' could happen. And that in our 'youth,' we dunno what we want and we end up losing 'control.' And with pride, she said to me (warning me, actually!) about how her daughters, she knew, would never do such a thing. About how her daughters were fine women who were independent and would never seek out a ride on a bike with random men.

Finally, as I was driving, I mentioned to her about how my best friend V and I were always roaming around together on my Kinetic or her Scooty. I could sense her nodding vigorously and proudly (everyone in my family loved V. She was an antithesis of me). I continued talking. Suddenly, it all stopped. She suddenly withdrew her appreciative hand from my sore shoulders. She grew quiet. She stopped nodding. When we got home, she didn't stop to comment on how I got off the Kinetic like a boy, and how I walked back into the house like a victorious racer.

And all I said was : What if V and I were 'going around', then would she approve of us, two girls on the Kinetic hanging around?

P.S. - Why don't parents understand that a lot more can happen in a car than on a bike? My mom always insisted that my male friends drop me in the car and not the bike. Ugh! However, when I was talking about this to a male friend of mine, he grinned and confirmed a bike was worse. I haven't understood how, still!