Winds Of Mischief

Courtesy:Google.com

Suman has a love-hate relationship with the 

house they had recently moved into. "They" included Suman, her husband Sanjay and their 5 year old boy Rohit. Well, she loved the house for its bright sun soaked interiors and spacious kitchen. She hated it utterly for its stuffiness and the constant need to leave all the windows, doors and even the bathroom ventilators wide open to aerate the house. The constant banging of doors by the wind startled her invoking an unpleasant stream of mental expletives. The balance of the love-hate relationship tipped alarmingly after the fiasco on Saturday afternoon.

            *******************************

Suman folded the creamy flour and sugar muttering, “Trust is something that is very special. And somehow I cannot say it goes well with my son!"

She brimmed with irritation at the thought of Rohit’s tantrum after lunch.

He wanted to go out to play cricket with the neighborhood boys in the hot son. For few minutes Suman wondered if her child was simply stupid, who else would want to get fried in the hot summer sun. With each “Howzzzat!” from the play ground below his stomping the floor grew louder. A furious Suman banished the whimpering boy to his room.

He is only a child who wants to play. Suman understood that. But she did not agree that he would want to play in hot sun.

She mixed a few drops of vanilla essence and her secret ingredient the ice cream essence and put the mix for baking.

"Done!" She said triumphantly to herself. It was then that it struck Suman that Rohit has been silent for a very long time. Tantrum or no tantrum, Rohit was not one of the quiet boys.

“Up to some mischief for sure!” Suman shook her head opening the door to Rohit’s room. It was silent but for the thumping of the cupboard door.

”Rohit is stuck inside!” Suman panicked.

“Rohit, sweetie, Mommy is here honey. Don’t worry!”Suman shouted trying to keep fear from creeping into her voice. A million bad thoughts bounced across her mind.

“What if he is hurt?”

“What if he chokes?”

Why is he not speaking or crying now?

Pushing aside these thoughts Suman pulled at the door. Summer had made the door tight and Sanjay had procrastinated oiling the hinges. Her terror struck mind noted the procrastination point and subconsciously added it to the list of things to confront Sanjay with when things return to normalcy. She tugged harder and but the door stayed firm.

“Security! I should call the security to break open the cupboard” Suman ran to the balcony as the thumping continued in Rohit’s room.

She peered over the balcony and shouted, “Security!” Her voice was drowned by the screams and war cries of sweat soaked dust coated Lilliputian cricketers.

For a guilt ridden moment Suman felt she should’ve let Rohit out to play and all this wouldn’t have happened! Tears clouded her eyes and she paused to regain her poise.

“Rohit!” Suman shouted her voice trembling in relief. There he was, her little prankster, red as a tomato, running around the hot sun.”He must have sneaked out when my back was turned!”

“Get back here this minute!” Suman yelled and realizing the futility of her act decided to get down and drag the little Tendulkar back home by his ears.

“It was the blasted wind all the time! Rattling doors and cupboards! It gave me such a scare!” Suman thought as she secured the windows and ventilators.

Suman paused at the front door before going down to bring Rohit back home ”Not a sound. Wind it was!”

           *******************************

The click of lock falling into place filled the house.

Silence.

Then the thumping started again. Only this time it was louder, more violent, accompanied by the mock whimpering of a little boy and followed by a wicked cheeky chuckle!!

            **************FINIS***************

P: S: Now let me confess, our new home has the same issues. On an evening back from work the cupboards in a closed room started rattling scaring me. The scary part is that there was no one in the apartments on my floor. The husband wouldn't pick up my calls as his phone was resting in the dark dungeons of a gym locker. I made panic calls to my friends. All this because the bathroom ventilator was wide open and the wind was playing the prank. Don’t ask, all of them had a nice laugh at my cost !

An Year That Was

Too many things happen in a day let alone a year. In 2012 too many unexpected things happened. Things that made me look back and analyze. Situations that made me weak and question myself. Experiences that made me stronger and may be a lot less of a cry baby. I was losing myself yet discovering a new person. A person I somehow did not know existed.

It all started on Jan 1st 2012 when I jumped off a cliff in Oludeniz in Turkey. People call it paragliding and for the first five minutes of the gliding I called it 'the-biggest-mistake-of-my-life'. I found out I could flash my brilliant smile with my legs dangling in the air a few thousand metres above sea level. I conquered my fear of heights.

Then came the shift to Perth. I packed our bags, my two and a half years and his six years of existence in Singapore into cartons and suitcases. I said good bye to a city I had come to love. I said farewell to the pubs which made me drinks at happy hour rates even if I shimmered in past the hour. With much sorrow I said bye to my friends. I taught myself to deal with separation.

Perth, Sydney and friends. I realized how much certain people know me. People who go way back to the days of pinafores and pig tails. Friends without whom school life would've been a bland memory. Friends I met after a decade. Friends with whom conversations simply don't end. I discovered that school friendships are like wine. They mature over the years. Rich and fluid, warming you up from deep inside.

Loss. A personal loss. Ammoomma. The woman who stood by my through thick and thin, through illness and good health, through my failures and small victories.I don't know if I would ever be able to love someone like she loved me. Unconditionally. Sans conditions. Loved me for who I am and not for who I became. She was in a lot of pain and when she was finally at peace I wanted to console myself that death was a relief for her. With her life she taught me to love, to care and to respect. With her death she taught me to cope with bereavement.

As for reading, it was an awesome year. I devoured 107 books in 2012. Here's my reading list.

http://www.goodreads.com/user_challenges/257337

I concentrated on Christie's Poirot and completed all the novels featuring him. I was heartbroken when he died of old age in "The Curtain".That is the magic every author should aspire to concoct. Binding the readers in the magic weave of your words. Spell binding them to your characters, making them feel the pains and joys of the characters. Once again I realized there is no smell better than the smell of paper and no joy greater than losing yourself in the pages of a book.

We celebrated this new year in Srilanka along with our family. We spend an excellent week in Kandy eating, shopping, sightseeing and chit chatting. I picked up a few English books by Srilankan authors and they have not disappointed me.

I hope this year would involve a lot of time with family and friends, good books, good wines and a whole lot of love.

Wishing all readers a very Happy New Year! May all your dreams come true and this year mine too!!

As An Elevator Levitated

I am a stairs person. No, it is not because I am health conscious and I revel in inner joy of burning a few calories. Instead, the reason is elevators hate me. It may sound bizarre but it is true. Initially I thought it was just another elevator breaking down.  What if the elevators you use regularly, at work or at your apartment building, breaks down leaving you at the mercy of the stairs? Not just in one city but over multiple cities? Then you know it not just a coincidence but the revolt of the elevators.

Last week on a Monday I was on the way to work. I took the elevator. The elevator started making grumbling noises and the passengers collectively commented on the noise. I was happy that I was on the way out. Anyways on the way back I realized the elevator is down and I am supposed to take the fire exits. Obviously we were not provided with the keys to the fire exit at the ground level exit or to the fire exit at our floor. We spent an hour outside the apartment till a gentleman going out of the apartment let us in with his keys!

It was all fine as our home is on the first floor. Wait, I go to office the next day to find out that the elevator in the vice-chancellery building of the university is under repair. Too much of a coincidence eh?

This was not the first time the elevators have been nasty to me. It has happened before when I was in Mysore (and later in Singapore as well). I was this naive, young thing who totally believed that the monthly pay check and space to call my own is synonymous to independent woman!

This was something I wrote sometime in 2008 based on a real-life experience. I’ll let you get a glimpse of my younger self.

A mundane weekend in Mysore:

I, on an average Saturday mid day, resemble a walking super market with a minimum of five bags (filled with assorted things vegetables, fruits, milk, ironed clothes and anything you can think off…)

I get off from my home with a single task in my mind so that I end up only with a single bag when I come back. But Women!!!God made them with shopping in their blood and eyes meticulously trained to read the “SALE” board in any language…And last Saturday I ended up with more bags than I could handle…

As I heaved up to the entrance of my apartment I lavished myself with a triumphant smile ...Voila I reached home without breaking a single cover and picking up things from road…:D :D…

The elevator in our apartment was a piece from history. It had giant retractable metal doors and resembled the ones you regularly see in horror movies ..As I waited for the elevator and I read the instructions on the left hand side wall…

“Elevator keys to be used by authorized personnel only…”

Did you ever know elevators had keys? Even I didn’t…Now that it has been documented and pasted for public reference those keys should exists…

          I put my stuff in the elevator’s floor and hit my floor number..wait wait…and it stopped…Great…I pick my packets and ..EEEEEEEEEEKSSSSSSSS I’m hanging between two floors…The elevator is stuck between my floor and floor below….I hit the alarm and stop buttons…They blink at me remorselessly..There is no electricity I realize…

I keep my packets down..Do an “appadi podu” dance feat for 10 seconds…

(But then I remembered all stories about people dying in lifts and lifts that crashed when power came…Brrrr Brrrr.)

I revel..I’m stuck in a lift…for the first time…I call up my mom and my friends and let them know about my “elevated” situation...My mom suggests that I rock the grill and scream for help..I tried…I cried HELP!!!!!!!!!!!  In all filmy ways and tunes…

(I wanted to try BACHAAAAAOOOOO KOI HAI BACHAAAAAOOOOO...then I felt it was a little too dramatic)

Then I whistled and my mom scolds me over the phone...”Girls are not supposed to whistle…”

(I wanted to ask  her “Oh Gyaan Devata, are boys allowed to whistle???”)

But 2 secs after my shrilly whistle went out my neighbors daughter came looking for the source…

“Hey..me stuck here..Can you tell the security guy that I’m here…”

I tell my mom about the little rescuer girl…Then the Don of our flat (An aunty who runs everything there, a very helpful being) whom we lovingly call Ground Floor aunty and security guy comes…

They smile at me or are they suppressing a laughter…Hmmm I flash a happy smile and wave from down under….

Image Courtesy:Google.com

There in the security’s hand is a long thin cylindrical metal rod .I strain my head to watch my rescuers in action…

(“Elevator keys to be used by authorized personnel only…” the words flash before me like a warning…)

He puts it into a key hole in the wall and turns it left and right with little success…After ten minutes of directions from the lady outside the lift and the lady inside the lift he quit …”Aagalla madam..”

(It’s not working Madam)

GF aunty opens the outside door to demonstrate the lever in action to him and I open the inner doors to the lift…They both look at me wondering what this little monkey is upto…I throw my packets onto my floor..I pray to Aamir khan of Ghajini for strong arm muscles and hoist myself out of the lift…Phew I’m out…I smiled at my rescuers who are still struck by the monkey like antics of the girl next door…

I learned two things

•        Elevators do have keys
•        Buy only what you can take home by stairs

I only had two regrets

•        I wasn't stuck with a handsome guy with a background music “hum tum ek dibbe mein bandh ho..”
•       My rescue team didn't include a Tom Cruise look alike that would’ve stretched his arm to lift me out and said “Main hoon Na”

P:S: My roomies comment :”I thought you go to gym regularly..Then why take the lift???”

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I've not edited this piece much. I wanted it to be just the way it was when it was written. It does take me to that era and to the girl I was.

Boy, I did use a lot of full stops and unnecessary emoticons. Nevertheless I think I like her for her spunky spirit!

New Age English Fiction By Indian Authors : A Commentary.

I am a reader, an avid reader. I read all genres of fiction (Except M&B and vampires. Twilight was an exception partly owing to its novelty of theme. The only other vampire I know is Count Dracula. He might have been a handsome bloke but is definitely not cut to be a boyfriend.Defintely not mine.)I read English fiction by English authors, foreign authors and translations from foreign languages to English. I read Malayalam books. Well, I grew up reading novels in Malayala Manorma much to the chagrin of my Amma and Ammoomma. (That was at an age I should’ve been reading Balarama or Chandamama.) Bengali translations into Malayalam are my favorites. Apart from communism and fish we Malayali’s share with the Bengali’s a love for literary works par excellence. I devoured Sunil Gangopadhyay’s and Asha Purna Devi’s with a passion reserved for T.Padmanabhan and Madhavi Kutty. Translations from Indian languages to Malayalam have always been a favorite with me. It was my way of knowing my country of diversity. I read through them to understand the different cultures to see the differences, to feel the invisible thread that binds us into one in spite of these differences. Whilst hoping that the beauty of the words in these pages have not been lost by translation and regretting my inability to read the books in the they were written in ;I thank DC books from the bottom of my heart for publishing these translations.

There! I have established my right as a reader to comment on books.

I totally agree that every book that is published on the face of earth is not forced upon me. I can use my deliberation to choose the book off the shelf. The scenario is very similar to that of producers who dish out an apology for a movie with a take it or leave it attitude. This we call the sad state of Indian cinema, once renowned for its world class productions and profound story lines.

          

The new age English fiction by young Indian authors genre is in a similar state.I am not sorry to say what I am going to say. As a reader I have some expectations from a book. Honestly most of the books that come out in this genre have zero literary value, contain cheap, under the belt, double entendre jokes and is almost always based on the author’s shattered pathetic life. Portrayed over a protagonist caught between his dreams and dreams of his family, it may also involve a romantic interest that goes for a toss somewhere in the middle of the book. And it is not until the last chapter of the book that it dawns on our poor protagonist that he/she was not the one and that sometimes one must choose to rebel for one’s life. It would’ve saved us the book if the protagonist had some sense right in the beginning.

I am being harsh, necessarily so. I have read a few promising authors and I am 
proud of them.I have been fortunate to discover some new authors of immense potential. After all I was not going to call the above mentioned rubbish genre as the future of Indian literature.I would’ve wept tears of blood if someone dared to do that. When I am browsing a book store for Indian fiction I expect books are at par with the works of Amitav Ghosh, Anita Desai, Vikram Seth and others. The excerpts from their books have been part of school curriculum in India. It has become a sample of good writing for a child who steps in to the world of English language. That is an honor a new age writer should strive to achieve.   

There is essentially a difference between a journal and a published book. This is something our publishers have seems to have problems in identifying. But then somewhere it all boils down to likes on FB, re-tweets on twitter and a whole lot of marketing gimmicks. All this to sell the first 1000 copies.

I am not expecting a book to be of Nobel Prize winning standards. Just remember this; we all have made mistakes in life. We all have had relationships in life that went tragic. We have all done things we are not proud of. If all of us decide to publish books about all the above said, would you as a reader want to read it?

I am not a published author. I write simple blog posts that may or may not be interesting. So I might not understand the pains of writing a book and getting it published. Now that you are taking all the pain, please make sure that your book does not fall into the category which would sell only its first 1000 copies and never see a reprint. If you are not bothered, glow in your “five-weeks-of-fame” and risk being tagged as trash in public. And remember your books are not works of literature or fiction but a category which is might be labelled as new-age trash.

Before someone tells me that it matters only to be published and everything else is a conspiracy let me share another real life example.

          

Every Onam the stalwarts of magazine world in Malayalam publishes a two volume digests called Onapatippu. The pages are filled with short stories, poems, interviews, essays and commentaries. It is a literary feast more fulfilling than the Onam sadya. This was so until the late 90’s.In the 2000’s these digests were devoid of stories. I was thoroughly disappointed. The whole season of Onam suddenly felt a little less fun. Onam was always about new dress, feast and the Onapathippu filled with stories! Acha, Amma and me would reminiscence the golden days of Onapathippu.

Bereaved Acha would say,” Oru otta katha polum ilya! Kashtam!”

Not even a single story! Sad!

All of us felt the pinch of the lack of short stories in Malayalam. We read and re-read the old masters. When I think about it now, I realize it was not the drought of stories that prevented the publishers from printing stories. It was the drought of good stories. I am glad that in the meantime the publishers had not decided to torture the readers with sub-standard stories. It must have occurred to them that it is not the number of books that you publish that matters. What matters is the quality of the content. That definitely is food for thought for publishing houses that publish without discretion.

I am proud of the Malayalam publishing industry for their staunch conservative views on publishing. Publish ones worth reading in print. The rest goes where it is deserves to stay-Trash!

P: S: This year during Onam season midst of all hospital stays, sorrow and pain ,Amma remembered to tell me about the Onapathippu.

”Nee kanedetha ee kollathe Mathrubhoomi onapathippu.Assalayitundu!”

You should see this year’s Mathrubhoomi magazine’s Onapathippu.It is brilliant!

It indeed is.Called “Kathayude Katha” or “The story of the story”,it contains stories published as part of the weekly from 50’s till date.I includes an interview with the author of the story on the premises of the story.And the authors tell us how the story came to be,when it was written and what made them write that story. Some based on people they have met, incidents they had heard about or some simply from their fertile imagination. It gives us the glimpse of their lives at that time and in many a case an overview of the state of things in general in that era.Needless to say a copy rests on my bedside table!

A Loss And A Hiatus

I have been on a hiatus from everything except reading. I was going through a rough patch and I simply couldn’t bring myself to write or let alone spend some time by myself without feeling numb. I lost my grandmother (If you know the Ammoomma who features very lavishly in my posts) to cancer and old age. A relief from sufferings for her and a void that will never be filled for me. It is easy to preach about how death is part of human life until it happens to you. Some losses are irreplaceable .You will learn to live without the person but you will always miss their presence always.

I miss Ammoomma greatly. She was someone who intuitively knew my state of mind even when we are miles apart. My sorrow, my pains, my little joys – she knew all of them. She had no expectations out of me. All she had was pure unconditional love for her grandchild.

I am starting my first job in Australia tomorrow. Today is my last day of freedom. Today also happens to be the day I finished my Goodreads.com reading challenge 2012.So I decided to celebrate both by doing some pickling. Ammoomma would’ve been proud of me.

She was a pickling expert. Except for the most recent Kadumanga pickle, Amma always made pickles under Ammoomma’s guidance. She would look at the tender mangoes, poke them around and announce the amount of spices required. Experience is something that comes with age and actually dishing it out in the kitchen. Aged I have, but experience? Well, I am working on the building blocks of making pickles, jams, sweets – A La Kerala Style.

Now, instant mango pickle is something I love. I don’t have to wait for ages for Amma’s consent to open the bottles of pickle left for ageing. The best part is we are done in 15 minutes flat with only one wok and ladle for cleaning up afterwards. I am the laziest cook on earth and would not give you a recipe that is difficult. Would I?

(I managed to find frozen sliced raw mangoes in one of Indian stores last week. I am scourging Chinese stores this week for fresh mangoes.I did see raw bananas and couldn't wait to make upperi’s out of them :D)

Ingredients:

1. Raw Mangoes (to be cut into small pieces)– 2 medium size
2. Salt         -1-2 tbsp
3. Chilly Powder- 2-3 tbsp
4. Turmeric Powder –1 tsp
5. Fenugreek – 1 tbsp
6. Mustard Seeds – 1 tbsp
7. Asafoetida   - ½ -1 tsp
8. Oil  -2tbsp +2tbsp
9. Pepper powder– ½ tsp
10. Boiled Water – ¼ cup
11. Secret Ingredient (Ohh!!!)

Cooking Procedure:

1. Cut the mangoes into small pieces.
2. In a wok heat 2tbsp oil and splutter mustard seeds. Add Fenugreek. Wait until Fenugreek turns brown.(Not too brown, mind it!)
3. Add Fenugreek powder, Chilly Powder, Turmeric Powder, and Asafoetida.Throw in the curry leaves.
4. Add boiled water and wait for the mixture to thicken
5. Add the cut mangoes and salt.
6. Once the mixture boils switch off the gas and leave the pickle to thicken in the heat of the wok.
7. Transfer the pickle to an air tight container when sufficiently cool
8. Heat 2tbsp oil and pour into the container. Secure the lid tightly and keep aside for 2-3 days for the spices to develop their flavor.

Cheat Code:

If you get bored after all the cutting and slicing.Do not worry. Transfer the salted mangoes in to an airtight container and keep it aside. When you feel like it continue with rest of the steps.

Oh! The secret ingredient! Mine is jaggery. A tiny piece added at Step 5.It gives a sweet edge to the pickle and is bound to tease the taste buds.

About the job. It is nothing fancy; just a nine to five contract job with Curtin University as an associate in their in-house IT department. Well, the salary would pay for my shopping binges whilst leaving some positive balance in my bank account much to Amma’s relief. After all I am the wife, I am not expected to be the breadwinner. My earnings are only to treat myself to the spa, watches, bags and books. I shouldn’t worry my pretty head about climbing the corporate ladder. My worry should not be delivering project within the deadline but delivering a baby before I turn thirty. Did that sound like a rant pregnant with sarcasm? Oh! Well then it is another commentary delivered successfully. Beep Beep Pun Alert!