Life moves

A week ago, we made what I believed was the biggest move of our life so far.

From a university town to solemn suburbia. From the embrace of an apartment to where-do-I-freaking-start-from home. From pushing the clock to finding that rushing is not an option anymore. From a ‘walk to’ to a ‘ride to’. From slamming yourself out to checking off each porch and garage light. From traipsing for tennis to stay at home hoops. As the last boxes were moving in, the mind was meandering out – thinking of other moves big and small, moves physical and not, moves wrenching and tranquil, moves personal and make believe.

Growing up, moving was not unusual - in fact there seemed a flurry. Boyhood years spent in Manila and vacationing in India, then dad being away in Jeddah and visiting India. Those moves feel marvelous looking back, as they involved many gifts. Each time dad visited my smiling glance at his face would turn into an even wider grin looking at his feet and the new pair of sports sneakers unfailingly there for me [carrying it like that meant even more gifts could be stuffed in the suitcase I like to think or if you want to think ingenious, one less new item for customs duty]. 

But moving back to Mumbai, the moves seemed to kind of dry up. Past life is no indication of the future could not have been truer for me, as I spurned one opportunity after another to move. Mainly I think because it meant moving away from being mama’s boy. I chose to do both my engineering and MBA [the years of education rest lightly on a TamBram’s shoulder] at good schools but this is telling: within a mile’s radius from home. However painful moving may be, not moving is considered cowardice. Choosing not to move is not such a moving story.

Marriage is one type of a move, becoming a parent another wonderful one. Moving up in your career [or sideways or round and round] while moving away from family is the kind of black hole move that always seems to lure you in.

You start to believe you're pacing yourself well for the mother of all moves. But relinquishing your own parents [it is really that, however much we immigrants may rationalize] to be 10000 miles away may be the most wrenching move. And the most devastating journey of all, God forbid? The 24-hour journey to perform the final rites of passage.
  
Human nature has a bias for the bright side, a penchant for the promised land. We feel the sense of dislocation only during the act of moving: as soon as we’re moved, we have the urge to unpack and to feel settled and organized. All, so we can start thinking again in peace about the next move.

A week ago, we made what I believed was the biggest move of our life so far?

Much silliness about nothing

I have a knack of stating the obvious: when it comes to being pushy and demanding, no one is as glorious as immigrant Asian parents. And besides our daily prayers, we don’t sleep well at night if we haven’t cussed at the public school education system.

I try to look at the bright side and found something to really smile about recently. Aakash is in grade 1 and they have a writing activity called ‘silly sentences’. Its sentences you have to construct using key words - the only rule is the more fantastic and outlandish, the better. The point is to have a lot of fun while letting your creativity loose; and I find myself endorsing that approach, however silly:) and limited the activity may be. And I know, I know, a big apology to model parenthood that I’m even using silly and one’s son in the same paragraph – ha! But today, I really want to share some of Aakash’ writing – they’re laugh out funny, interesting, and I’d even say deep and nuanced, but that’d betray proud-dad bias.

Words go to classes to learn more about themselves

Papers swing on branches

I went swimming in a hot cup of chocolate with marshmallows

A person sketches someone who does not have clothes on

Advait crashes into a walking paper

 

The beyblade shines on the sun when it’s spinning

The glue is bleeding because someone stepped on the glue

I can slide down a stapler

I keep ghosts at my house

I drive my car inside restaurants

This is the end of silly sentence classics

Of writing and being mama's boy

Fair warning for this post is that I will sound like a vain dandy. And how will immodesty do for a TamBrahm boy with a good upbringing? But what use mother’s pride, if it is not acknowledged? If it can’t, at least, be used as homage.

Mom was the biggest fan of my writing. That is, if my limited and very sporadic output could be called writing.

Even the occasional articles in the college magazine, and some caption contests won, were a matter of great pride for her. There were my letters [handwritten in cursive style] to dad who worked overseas in Manila and then Jeddah for few years. Among the adolescent flavor of those letters [that I cringe about now], I used sports mainly tennis metaphors to tell him about my school rankings [“Becker did not do well at the Australian open (unit test) but he we will be back at Wimbledon (final semester exam)’]. Mom had him bring those letters back every year when he visited and those were neatly stored away in a box containing, oddly, bank check books and LIC receipts.

During days studying Engineering in Bombay, there was my self-righteous letter published in the editorial page of The Times of India, about a ragging incident at the VJTI hostel. With mom, that may have been the one that brought the house down. Our close relatives did not hear the last of that from her, and I could never live down the embarrassment from the extra attention.

Close family say I'm very laid-back to the point of being irresponsible sometimes. I’m sure if there’s one thing they could change about me, that’d be it.

When my mom was growing very sick, I had planned to step up my writing and blogging, if only because I wanted to print it all out, get it bound and present it to her. True to form, I never got to it and that will be one of my enduring regrets.  Your writing is so bad it can disturb the dead was one famous editor’s legendary critique of a submission, but I still hope that mom’s watching over, and reading, my current output. Like her, I’m not very religious but just the happy notion that she may be watching over something that filled her with pride, brings me a lot of warmth.    

It’s true, I’m mama’s boy and when Ammai [Usha’s mom] visits us later this summer, one of my plans to bond better [right now, we have what could be called a strong but silent relationship] is to pick her brain about obscure Tamil proverbs and sayings. Usha says Ammai drops those all the time and just some gems so far [“Adhikari kushu vitaal ananda kushu*”, “Valiya paarthal shingaram ulla paarthal okkalam**”] means I can hardly wait.

And when that happens, a blog post to share the joy of language I’m bound to experience will surely be on the cards.

{I’ve heard Tamil swear words are some of the most colorful around but sadly, I don’t think that’s something Ammai will encourage very much!}

* someone with authority are allowed mistakes that others are not
** decorative from outside, vomit inducing from inside [as in, a home]

Of teasing out toothpaste and Costco excess

Since political correctness is a malady for our times, let me say in defense of what I'm about to say next that I'm being ironic and not negative.

Doing more with less is a nice catchphrase the developed world uses; for those of us who grew up outside, that was in our DNA.

If you've lived in the US for some time, wander into your pantry or storage closet. Very likely, you will come across a 3-ring pack of Heinz ketchup or maybe a 4 can set of shower scrub or a 5 pack Gillette shaving gel. And you have a situation there not unlike the Chicago university motto: Where fun comes to die.

That pantry and closet situation is you stocking up for a rainy day [if you live in San Antonio] or a snowless winter month [if you’re in Chicago]. Sorry, not trying to be sarcastic. Actually, trying to be very sarcastic. To come to the point, that situation is a sure way to more acquisition because imagine staring at and using the same type of shampoo or scrub year after year. You're bound to lose it and when you do, just a single bottle of the new brand will not do. Because if you happen to like it, you’d rather save by buying mega and have it in stock too, correct?

Cut from a Costco lifestyle to the more austere one many of us have grown up in. If you were brought up in middle-class India, odds are your uncle used an idukki/ kitchen tong to eke the last dredge of life out of a toothpaste tube! If not your own family, the domestic help (‘baai’) who worked in multiple apartments {network of baiis were like the news feed of the real world before Facebook, weren’t they?} may have gossiped to you about which family beat the crap out of the poor tube. It’s not that we could not afford to stock up; it’s just how we chose to live.

Drinking filter coffee each morning began with the ritual of stepping outside to buy the milk. If you instead cared for a wake-up call in the morning, you signed up with the doodhwallah and the 5AM harsh ringing of the doorbell would be milk announcing itself [It could also be someone milked dry, as in my brother the Chartered Accountant returning home after pulling 24 hrs at his Tax firm].

More out of less. The mind easily wanders to some time spent in Gujarat – a three wheeler /rickshaw, rickety and almost tottering, yet carrying 8 passengers when the safe capacity is 4. And that’s not a melah act or performance I’m talking about but just the daily evening ritual of transporting  employees from remote textile units back to the train station and on to civilization.

Doing more with moru. 'Moru' in Tamil means buttermilk and no one embodied the doing more philosophy in the kitchen than my diminutive, darling granny. Making dahi or yoghurt at home would certainly ring a bell for many of us. What may not be as common is that after the first setting of the yoghurt, it was possible to magically transform that, in smaller batches, into different tastes and textures. And that’s exactly the kind of kitchen voodoo that paathi [granny] specialized in. I liked my thayru [yoghurt] a bit bitter and others at home could care less, slightly sweet was perfectly fine with them. In the hands of the moru magician, the different taste needs were no problem at all. She was slightly OCPD too, a neat freak and in her kitchen, food [especially dahi] could never go waste. It would be progressively whittled down into smaller and smaller containers in the fridge. If the ‘cling wrap’ had been invented then, I’m sure she would have used that to organize yoghurt in different spoons. In the hands of my granny, the master cook, that would indeed be the 'perfect bite'. As I picture her now, scurrying around in the kitchen at my uncle's home in Chennai, the sadness of outliving her beloved daughter weighing heavily on those little shoulders, I wish I could hug her every morning for all that she did for mom and our family.          

But we easily made exceptions to doing more with less, didn’t we? If you're a South Indian, you know your mom or aunt could easily get through 4 or 5 cups of filter coffee every morning. Each cup was from freshly made decoction concentrate. To call that excess, now that would be sacrilege. And then the sweets and savories during Diwali, talk about going overboard. Tins, no, drums of laddus and ‘mixtures’, enough not just for the family for Diwali but enough to supply even near-and-dear ones for a month. 

In conclusion, my point sadly is, I don’t have a point. And it’s into the weekend and I'm slacking, and so I’m not going to be forced into taking a position. But between the developing and developed world, between needing and wanting, between teasing out toothpaste and Costco-like excess, at least lucky for a life both simple and rich.

Of a Ram and Shyam life

I surprise even myself, that's how Facebook active I've been the last 6 months or so. For someone who speaks sparingly (you'd think good listener at least but no, generally distracted describes me best), the words come freely (IF and) when I sit to write.

I suspect others answer to that description too, where our online persona is more the life of the party than our real ones. Most of us don't lead lives as constantly exciting as our Facebook/ Twitter activity would have you believe. But that's precisely why its become so irresistible, and why social media  is here to stay.

That most middle aged men (and women) lead lives of quiet desperation may be too morbid to suggest. But clearly: we're never on a year long vacation, don't  produce impossibly cute babies every 9 months, we're not bumping into famous people every weekend, not acquiring a diamond trinket every month.

But the beauty of social media is that's exactly what it would have you believe we're doing all the time. Because its not just instant but prolonged gratification: a newly added FB friend gushes on the timeline pic of your wedding from a year back and its like a virtual reception all over again (if you're an Indian, your wedding guests likely outnumbered your FB friends, but I digress).

You can showcase your Facebook year in review and you may well be the most popular person that never lived. Time has stood still and you're still the most promising geek from b-school, the most outgoing girl in your college, never mind what the rest of your life suggests.

One can even be memorialized on Facebook or if an "ironic legacy" is more your style, there are social media services such as LivesOn that maintain your "personal digital afterlife" ("even after your heart stops beating, you'll keep tweeting").

To close (but not in conclusion), my personal homage to social media here.

Spring > Summerofcontent

Just a whiff of the 40s in Chicago and the sporting gear's in the trunk; dad and son are already up to no good. There's been some letting go this weekend [I parted with my French beard of many years] and some learning anew [Aakash made his first jump shot with NCAA size basketball and standard height hoop]. It’s time for renewal, it’s already Spring.

Ten years from now, when he starts calling me old man [gently, I hope] and is confiding [in full, I hope] more to mom about teen angst, I wish the sporting bond survives. That we can still pick up the tennis racket or the soccer ball and it’ll feel like time had stood still. For now, as summer nears; let there be, not just forehand volleys but also verbal volleys; that I’m able to coach not just his love for the game but also a love of the language; that he feels just at home with power words as with power strokes.     

Fun with verse

Leisure [or rah-rah Facebook]:

What is this life, if full of care,
You have no time to update and share? -

No time each day to change profile pics,
And awake for likes that are record breaks

No time to see, the apps you pass,
Are Angry birds and Temple Run so crass,

No time to see, in your damn news feed,
Self-righteous posts, for all to heed,

No time to fawn over baby pics and exotic trips,
The social reality you can't come to grips,

No time to accept my friend's request
What's wrong if at my friend's friend's bequest


No time -if you're more private- to chat & poke,
You thought being part of a billion FB citizenry is some joke?

No time to complete your profile detail,
Your online social persona that'll seriously curtail

No time for using FB Insights to gloat over your likes and reach,
Using Android is your problem, and shame if to Pinterest you plan a switch 

A sad life this is, if full of care,
You have no time to update and share.

Our South Indian things: [to be sung like "My favorite things"] 

Curd rice with pickles and savory spices,
Vishukani namaskarams and avinyawattams,
Anything exciting always wrapped up in guilt,
These are a few of our South Indian things.

Dosas and idlis, and gayatri japams,
Filter coffee mornings and suprabhathams,
Peer pressures that start from learning to walk,
These are a few of our South Indian things.

Diwali bakshnams and snuff using vadhiyaars,
Unjals and kashi yatrais and other wedding rituals,
Go west plead parents and our fate is annual visits,
These are a few of our South Indian things.

When immigration law bites,
When backwater memory stings,
When I'm feeling sad,
I simply remember our South Indian things,
And then I don't feel so bad.

What goes around comes around

There was a bashful bloke from Mumbai
fervent about vada-pav and cutting chai;
Now in Chicago, yearning for days old,
Goes back on vacation it is told;
Pancake and fondue with friends, taste like humble pie?

After a company outing
 
It was billed as unforgettable,
Weather almost made it untenable

Heroics to set it all up and a boundary claimed
But truth be told ‘twas the cookie corner that was most densely safe

There were wives and girlfriends in attendance
And also, believe it or not, a pair of yellow boots

The food was filling and the company was convivial
Even the bloke on his iPhone seemed quite jovial

Who said the budget was tight
All said and done, it was a fun night


Domesticity Divine

Domesticity divine so says a Taurean
Call me not antediluvian

For what’s crazier than stay at home with no plan
And more adventurous than books of many genre to scan

What’s more romantic than ironing her silk top
And hands brushing over dishwasher and countertop

More epic than who gets to 100 soccer goals in the yard
Layups and dunks and letting down your guard

What’s more exciting than planning the next move
And promises not to be stuck in a groove

Calling normal (as) exciting I know will cause some furore
And clearly I can sustain this verse no more

So let’s troll priceline and ding for the next vacation
Convinced the journey is better than the destination

It wasn't time yet

Its mostly shut tight these days, a sorrow it won't let go. But many years ago, before cell phones, she would be sitting by that sliding window late at night, her anxious eyes scanning the road for me. I might be away for a late night movie with friends, or annual day at Ruia, at an inter-college fest, fair at Don Bosco or study circle with friends. She would be at that window without fail. Returning home today evening, I happen to look up and feel cheated that she has missed her beat. I know I will catch myself looking up many more times now and in the future. And it does not seem to be enough to know that she may still be watching over me, when I can't see her doing it. More than anything else about Mumbai, I pine for her the most. Two years on mom, I could be that shut window and I've missed you so.

Happy birthday mom, miss you every day. All those crazy-sappy about mom: what’s your most memorable gift/ surprise for your mom on her birthday? I don’t have a very striking one, and so have the rest of my life to regret it. But; there is the memory of buying a salwar kameez in Karol Bagh, Delhi from first internship pay. Two sizes too big and also, realized later, that I was duped into paying three times too much. But she rolled with it, although I think she got it altered secretly so as not to upset me. Hopefully things were way more classy since, mom, because you were after all, all class.

Air, water, and books

Returning from a class this morning, I stop at the library with A. We check out a lazy weekend pile and then the fun starts. I have to coax him out as he has started reading, shockingly, on a couch inside the library (how apt). There're couple of errands and he continues to read walking to and inside CVS as I grab the salt (like this is his personal Dandi march of liberation). Mad at me for stopping again, he keeps at it inside the dry cleaners:) My initial amusement has turned to surprise and then praying hope. We're back home and he's still reading as I type this. There's going to be mindless ball kicking and endless Temple run for sure but dear A, you made someone really really happy this weekend!


I am very vain about my book collection back home. Usha Sanjay and I had even lovingly cataloged it at one point. I returned with couple of old favorites from vacation this time. Picking up ‘Goa: a daughter’s story’, can’t help think that re-reading a book is like meeting an old friend. The familiarity as I turn the pages is oddly comforting. Some of the pages are smudged like silly spats one could never quite smooth out. Then there are the forgotten bookmarks, which remind of play locations [society water tank for table tennis and car parking area for cricket] where time has stood still. There are story details that jump out as if qualities you never saw in the person before. One never judged the book by its cover. And one can never be done cover to cover, always leaving the possibility to meet again and know more. Life is too short to repeat but aren’t we better for it, as for an old friend?

Nostalgia

I have never been very religious [another trait, good or bad, that I owe to mom]. I was walking down Matunga Road this morning, yes same place where I’m going to be re-born in my next life as a rich Gujju or an Udipi owner’s son, or a temple priest, or a crow, or something. My feet take control and they drag me into the Asthika Samaj Guruvayoor temple. I am somewhat nonplussed in the sea of ardent devotees. It doesn’t help that I’m carrying a copy of Asurayana, a story from Ravana’s point of view [and you have to trust me guys this was wholly coincidental]. And then I hear the Nadaswaram and drums [which I duly record but unable to attach here] and am instantly transported. As with many other temples, this one too has an attached hall for the many Hindu rites of passage [birth, thread ceremony, marriage, etc]. And I’m transported to the days of snot-nosed cousins, runny plantain leaves, 51 Re gift envelopes, and easy and loud camaraderie. And I walk out of the temple feeling light and happy, and dare I say blessed.


Cycling over Chembur flyover to the gymkhana (in a 2Rs/hr rental), the racket balanced with wrist band on the handlebars, is the earliest memory of pursuing tennis in Bombay. Being God-fearing & marks-obsessed is your fate as a TamBrahm boy, and tennis may have been the out I was lucky to have. (Cricket was common and in the DNA so does not count). Fast forward to the US, it took all of three years before I took to tennis here in Chicago - and then racquetball in defiance of the winter. Walking to the YMCA for RB, balancing over ice and snow, the mind is forcing a weekend respite from corporate dead end. Thoughts of getting into Ruparel science despite hard to score at Marathi seem eons ago and yet, the parallels and flashbacks are hard to resist.


Watching the punchy little film Kai Po Che burst a dam of personal memories, Gujarat 1998. Of a B-school internship with Castrol: riding pillion from one textile unit to another, market surveying in Surat. Of gutka-chewing kids working at those units with stars in their eyes about Mumbai. Feasting on the best thalis ever, the plague in the city a forgotten lie. Being heckled by regulars with 6 packs (playing cards, not muscles) because I sat in their 'reserved' area going by train Surat-Ahmedabad; meeting colorful teenagers bringing denim and tshirts to sell at Fashion street in Mumbai; thinking, at Sabarmati: is peace to die for? After early work and life experience at this cradle of entrepreneurs, how could Kai po che?


Growing up, cricket seemed like the only sport there was. And the Indian cricket unit demanded so much soul, heart and mind from a fan that it was almost exhausting to think of any other sports or team. I was lucky enough to have played some tennis though and watching Wimbledon on the telly together is the most vivid memory of time spent with dad [although why he would always, but always support the other player still rankles]. For a few years now, supporting the Chicago Bulls team is reminiscent of that child-like passion one felt for cricket. And watching it with a most ardent and knowledgeable 7-year old fan can make even time stand still. After a special night on the courts v Celtics, you once again hope that this team will reach the pinnacle of their sport and become an NBA champion. That like April 2nd 2011 in Mumbai, there will be another date to never forget. Even as you start thinking that, you know you're going to have to be disappointed several times first. But then, being patient is a true fan's life-long curse. And real closure comes only when your team achieves maximum while you've been supporting it. It does not come from being told that your team was a champion in some murky past. Because the past after all is an elaborate lie told so no one is disappointed.

Sach things

Sometimes fine writing transcends prose and feels like a haunting melody "One billion hard-pressed Indians, just one hero" or lilting verse "Give us an idea of what a light thing life ought to be".

Have you felt too that some written passages are so memorable they get a timeless quality? Such is (CP)  Surendran writing on Sach @ Sharjah in 1998 [can anyone forget those insane innings?]. While you won’t agree with all he says ["Please win. Win for us losers."], it could be because you and I [and others of our urban-educated ilk] comprise less than 1% of the demographic. Its also a perspective and an important one - it holds a mirror to a nation, for times when mass hysteria tends to drown out any dissenting note.

CP Surendran writing in April 1998:

Batsmen walk out into the middle alone. Not Tendulkar. Every time Tendulkar walks to the crease, a while nation, tatters and all, marches with him to the battle arena. A pauper people pleading for relief, remission from the lifelong anxiety of being Indian, by joining in spirit their visored savior.

Wednesday or Friday, Tendulkar lifts his gleaming bat, points it like a sword towards the TV cameras after his customary hundred, and a million hands go up in blessing; and in begging, pleading silently for redemption from the oppressive reality of their existence, seeking a moment's liberation from their India-bondage through the exhilarating grace of one accidental bat. One billion hard-pressed Indians, just one hero ...

The poor Indian lifts his hands to Sachin in supplication: give us respite, a sense of liberation; lift us up from the dark pit of our lives to well-lit places of the imagination with your skill-wrought perfections. Give us an idea of what a light thing life ought to be. Take our blessings, but give us a break. Please win. Win for us losers.

Telling tall tales

It started out harmless enough – a way to keep little Aakash in good humor [read ‘NOT-bawling-when-mommy-is-away’]. Other friends who are parents said it was over-rated and takes too much time, effort, and imagination. Why resort to it when you can use DVR and put Caillou in endless loop or have a turbo-charged McQueen or a benign Thomas do 273 laps on the toy track?

Then there was my wife’s and our parents’ mistrust [and my own misgivings] if I had taken this enterprise a certain way. That mistrust [and those misgivings] stem from my stunning lack of ‘knowledge’ about Hindu mythology. I put knowledge in quotes because as with some other things such as names, people, and places, I delude myself that it’s more to do with remembering – or not remembering, in my case. That I’m in fact a good Hindu parent who knows all there is to know about Indian gods and goddesses and other assorted Hindu myths. That using the power of stories handed down generations; I can somehow make my son a good TamBrahm boy [and myself a better human being in the process]. But alas, that’s as untrue as it is true that Rukmini was Krishna’s queen [before you go Ooooh, disclaimer that I had to verify even that simple fact with Usha]. And then of course Usha. Why even mess with that genre of story-telling when the other parent is a present-day incarnation of Ved Vyas? At the risk of being dismissed as both a skeptic and a sexist, I have always found it difficult to reconcile that a male could be such a prodigious story-teller.

So anyway – get to the point; stop beating around the whole damn forest. Right? Much as I made my case against it, this blog is about why I still consider myself a story-teller and how my son and I have had hours of eye-popping enjoyment around it.

Take last night for example. After a whole day jumping, running, and sliding at Chicago’s Winter Wonderfest, the moral thing would have been to feed and tuck Aakash in. But then there was a sleepy plead for a story which I could have easily ignored, that’s how drowsy he was. Before I knew it though [and much to Usha’s chagrin] and as I was making it up, both Aakash and I were going ooh and aah over this tall tale of superheroes behind the Haagen Dazs counter at Navy Pier. Spiderman was using his web to pull together butter-pecan, vanilla, and strawberry mounds to concoct a tall ice-cream cone stack for Aakash. Superman was zipping at super-sonic speed from store to store to bring the missing ingredients for his friend Atharva’s double chocolate chip ice-cream. And in the absence of coffee, Transformers used milk, sugar and tons of magic accompanied by lights and hissing to produce a cup of cappuccino for Amma.

My favorite [and I have a hunch Aakash’] stories are simple enough and sans super-heroes. Those are the ones where I put Aakash and a group of his friends in an adventure. It’s slice-of-life but adventure for them because they’re independently doing what they’d normally be accompanied by adults for. Such as taking a vacation to India. It’s only Aakash, Rishi, Spruha, and Neela that are doing it – NO parents allowed. Rishi calls American Taxi to book the cab to the airport, Aakash is in charge of all their passports, Spruha and Neela the more responsible task of talking to the authorities during check-in and immigration. They [I love it even more when Aakash’ friends are around to hear the story too] get such a kick out of it, it’s not funny. {Look around you, kids of Aakash’ age are always asking what they would and can do when they are 19 yrs old, 34 yrs, amusingly 99 yrs; and you’ll know why it’s so}. To continue the story - when the kiddy gang is at several thousand feet, what do they see flying outside the plane but a character in red and blue. Who then flies in and offers to give each of the kids a joy-ride on his back, zipping alongside but faster than the plane. Super-heroes can be ubiquitous, eh?

Many stories of course have a Wonka-esque quality to it. Those are the stories replete with roads made out of orange jelly, houses made of chocolate pudding, and dogs made of lick-able and likeable candy.

And then there are the stories which may have you going – what kind of twisted parent are you? It may be because Usha and I are such big fans of Lord of the Rings that Aakash has taken a fancy to the character of Gollum. [I know, I know. A big apology to model parenthood]. These adventure stories have the kids being stalked and chased by Gollum only to have them outwit the ogre in the end. This is also a call-to-action or maybe call-to-imagination as it were as I ask each kid to think [aka Home Alone] of a ruse or idea to trap the evil Gollum.

There's a personal, very selfish cause-and-effect I have surmised. I think I owe my renewed interest in writing to the creative bursts from story-telling.

What use, otherwise, these tall tales? I shall not launch into long-winded support of it. Only to say you know there’s wonderful payback when the art is used against you – “I can’t finish my lunch Appa. Gollum is coming to the kid’s library and Superman and my friends have to make him go away”.

My tale of two cities

Huddle up everyone for this is the classic tale of two cities.
… Not the Dickensian tale [will you settle instead for a writer of some disrepute?]
… Not David v/s Goliath, more David v/s his twin [if he had one]; two cities and their populace so perplexed about being similar that they forget to delight in their differences.

You would think Chicago chances are already buried with its epithet of “Second City” but old-timers say that’s part of Chicago chutzpah, her way of cocking a snook at the form book.

What’s the best place in these cities to get a “humanity bath” and experience the pulse of the place? New York has its square [Time Square], although if you asked some folks from Chicagoland, they’d say NY has become “square” - while a witty comment obviously meant to malign, NY is anything but dull. Chicago has its mile [Michigan Ave] – a hodgepodge but inspired show of architecture, museums, fancy stores and other stuff that can only be described as miscellaneous [how for e.g. does one even describe the feeling of mulling a chess move (in a free-staged public game) as you contemplate this giant, egg-shaped structure squatting in front of you?].

Nothing can beat a cycle ride around Central Park as nothing can beat a run by the Chicago lake front. NY has its momentous Met - a historical bulwark that has surprisingly kept with the bizarro times we live in: I can never forget the Fashion meets Fantasy special exhibit of Superhero costumes it once did. Chicago has its Museum campus which as much about the variety museums it houses, is also about projecting an attitude with its impossible location on lakeshore.

NY has Broadway and musicals; Chicago is known for its improv with Steppenwolf and amazingly quirky Second City.

There is the peace of mind from living in a quaint university suburb [such as Evanston] with the joy of being so close to the center of the Universe that is Chicago [did I hear a WTF from New Yorkers?]. There is the impossibility of renting and living in NY city and so the sad compromise of commuting from Jersey.

What about entertainment i.e. the movie glitz and glamour we cannot live without? Movies shot in Chicago – The Dark Knight, Save the last dance, My best friend’s wedding, My big fat Greek wedding, When Harry met Sally; Movies shot in NY - Annie Hall, As good as it gets, Taxi driver, but then also When Harry met Sally and My best friend’s wedding. Not to forget Godfather, whew … guys have that one burned into their soul, don’t we? And then there’s Home Alone 2: Lost in New York about the kid who loses himself in O’Hare only to lose himself even more in New York city. That’s before he transmogrifies into Superkid with a mind and drive that can leave grownups feeling inadequate.

And the personal – my Chicago and my New York cannot be the same as yours, can it? There’s the sibling situation - one inhabiting the exciting and reckless world of NY iBanking and the other in a fun and almost poetic neck of the business woods. And the romantic trysts … dressing up for and experiencing your first Broadway musical is a memory and a half, as also marveling together from the 103rd floor on a star-lit, already emblazoned night.

If the world imagined by Escape from New York were to become reality, would New Yorkers make a beeline for Chicago? I think so.

And finally: If in reading through this article you detected even a bit of bias towards Chicago, that’s purely intentional. Sitting on the fence may be the safe bet but its being opinionated that makes this a wonderful world, right?

Micro-blogging - etc.

Another week of not writing the unwritten, not backpacking the wild, not changing careers, not learning a language, not rocking the boat. But filter coffee was perfect, new plans were hatched, there was love and fresh air. What's my tune, then?


Reading, eating, sleeping. No racquetball. More eating and sleeping. So hectic there's not enough time for TV. Phooey to all the weekend over-achievers ... family's on vacation and I'm being the slacker God always meant for me to be.

I felt sublime touch at racquetball earlier this evening. With racquets, ralleys, and righteousness, it mimics tennis (it's winter in Chicago for God's sake and yes, too cheap to pay for indoor tennis). So - my infinitesimal homage to the Man and his game as we wait to be enthralled again by Federer.


I'm looking for a 2010 metaphor and surely its the Year of the Sloth so far. That's not in the 12 animal signs from Chinese Zodiac but also they did not get my last couple of years right - should have been the years of the ram and not the rat. In the meantime, God, its nice to have a life.


After seeing other dads of a certain (elder) age at sport, musings on (im)mortality from a 4 yr old: '"Appula, I want you to be always 35 yrs." Coo, enjoyed that:) Ouch, kids do say the darnedest things.


Indian independence day is close to what one could call a 'universal' independence day - due in large part on the means [tenets of the freedom movement] and in some part on the ends [progress since].


If movies also engaged our sense of smell - imagine stench of burning rubber in BOMBAY, the heady smell of books during a class in DEAD POETS SOCIETY, the sweat and grit in ERIN BROCKOVICH, or the extravagant food in MY BIG FAT GREEK WEDDING. What would it be for you?


Grandma said you can never turn back the clock and so a day like this brings such cheap thrill. But between changing time on the microwave, wall clocks, and watches, there was no time for anything past due. RIP Grandma, life is just as it should be.


I can't always "walk the talk" - sometimes the terrain is synthetic, the shoes are not rugged enough, the stop watch is not swiss. And I'm human. We live in exciting times maybe but I'll settle for less-than-a-revolution sometimes.


Drop, reach, lob, scamper, jerk, pop, faah#@!%&. While a sports-injury at this age has a certain cheap-macho thrill to it, sad if it prematurely ends tennis and cricket for the season. Granny, is there a Hindu god of sports you can appease?

Micro-blogging on words and the 'unwordly'

No offense to Pulitzer pundits, Booker boors, and assorted highbrow but the most delectable writing may well be about sports and within that, cricket writing. "What do they know of cricket who only cricket know" "Cricket is the least harmful of British colonisation's 'civilising' influences"


One reason to enjoy writing is I can complete my train of thoughts. Look around you - talking is no longer civil, you are interrupted even before you can start. 


Now, don't get me wrong but a mini-resolution for the year is not to use the word awesome in honor of and till such time as the awesome thing really comes along. Cool? Awes ... Er ... Cool.


"(nudge and wink)"
"(laughter, like bells)"
"(sigh, deafening)"
"(arched eyebrows)"
"(pause, so pregnant)"`
Conversations with 'you say it best when you say nothing at all' quality to it. To die for, to live for.


Means or ends ... journey or destination ... here's another thought: joy of the argument or urge to have the final word?

Micro-blogging on business

So many promises made in December,
It’s nice to bait it hook, line, and sinker;
All for a better tomorrow is the thinking,
Hopefully January is not a rude awakening;
Why can’t December [and New York] be forever?


Modern business meeting:
Person A - states the problem.
Person B - big on semantics, rephrases the problem.
Person C - says something verbose and impressive but unrelated to the problem.
Person D - throws the rule book at you. ... and so on.
End meeting. Now, what was the problem again?


Time to do something that's more kick-ass than, umm, kiss-ass:-)


A dollar for every hour over-worked and snatched away from family, from sports, reading and being plain goofy. Notional millionaires of the world unite, you have nothing to lose but your wretched inability to say No.

Micro-blogging on travel

The wonderful thing about travel [done right] is that it makes you less insular. Then it's no longer why something is non-American or why it's non-Indian but just thrilling in the melting pot.


My India is not the same as another Indian's or that of an outsider looking in. Why then do I delight in it [aka Dalrymple on India]? It's when any foreign land, with its million new sensations, is experienced at the deep end.

Dearly beloved Bombay

Is resilient a metaphor for something to screw?
You may say what a strange ode to brew
For a city that's given love, friends, and wings to fly,
But where events ever-so-often can make you cry;
Be safe, flawed paradise, a giant kala tikka in my mind I just drew.

Blogging in verse

What goes around comes around

There was a bashful bloke from Mumbai
fervent about vada-pav and cutting chai;
Now in Chicago, yearning for days old,
Goes back on vacation it is told;
Pancake and fondue with friends, taste like humble pie?

After a company outing
It was billed as unforgettable,
Weather almost made it untenable

Heroics to set it all up and a boundary claimed
But truth be told ‘twas the cookie corner that was most densely safe

There were wives and girlfriends in attendance
And also, believe it or not, a pair of yellow boots

The food was filling and the company was convivial
Even the bloke on his iPhone seemed quite jovial

Who said the budget was tight
All said and done, it was a fun night

Pleasures of slacking

At work these days, I take a break in the morning to read the daily paper. This is in addition to the lunch break. These times, I mostly like to get away from my workspace and park myself in the office lunchroom.

I hugely enjoy these breaks, not least because it is coming after what I like to call my ‘winter of discontent’ at work – a complex assignment that demanded obscenely long hours. The work cafeteria has glass walls that overlook the office. During these breaks (and this has nothing, at least consciously, to do with the glass walls), I make an elaborate deal of it – lay out the New Yorker and my lunch and splay myself comfortably. (Splaying by the way is not the best way to eat or do anything except if the objective is to just splay). And then the fun starts.

This morning for example, two lovely ladies were discussing dance and treated me to some ballet steps they had learned. That led to a discussion about Julliard and Save the Last dance and the merits of Julia Stiles as an actress {"Gorgeous and also strikes you as an intellectual". "Yale educated but did you know, hush, that she now appears in a risqué television series about lesbians?”}. It’s the sort of fun conversation you would never think an office set-up could afford you.

And then the flawless women and men (not necessarily beautiful, because it’s the flaws that make one beautiful) who hang around waiting for their name to be called and their time under the lights. {I work for a company that does media as part of the final service we offer to our clients}. It’s a great way to network for the future {“did you know about this new TV series that is all male-cast, but with all female roles?”} besides earning money for the day.

Not to mention, the discussion around food and cooking and diet {I’m still in the kitchen, remember?}. These are the ones I enjoy the most and in keeping with that give here a free-flowing, un-bracketed writing treatment.
“Nothing like carrot cake. It’s probably the best-kept secret in the cooking and binging world.” “Oh, well. I remember the cappuccino more from when I’ve had carrot cake”.
“Fruit diets work best when it’s not taken in addition to the regular cheese and fries diet”.
“I love coconut in my food.” “That does not even belong in the kitchen.”

And then there are the politically-incorrect office crushes and romances. Politically incorrect because the organization has not driven you to distraction enough with work to bury hopes of any spring fling and such. The timed entries. The furtive glances. And meals shared in silence in the backdrop of an adoring audience.

It's also amazing how at times an inspired work-related decision will happen just as you’re polishing off those fries or sipping that ginseng tea {"Why not apply that work flow to this new project and make it a standard, if it flies?"}.

As I leave a semblance of heaven and head back to more drudgery, I can’t help thinking about offices with lunchrooms. And those without. And how that is likely to be a deal breaker for me when I look for another job. Whatever ails the modern enterprise, it must be said how Sisyphean a task it is to keep employees engaged. To those, I provide advise gratis – you can never go wrong with a break room (ok, ok, lunchroom) having glass walls.

As I conclude this blog, it occurs to me how irrelevant the title is to the content of the blog. Because after all, work breaks can’t be considered slacking, right?