Her giggles changed me…

The father of modern technological revolution passed away this week. As cancer cut short his journey, I join global netizens in mourning his death, but no eulogies as I know Steve Jobs only through Apple. However, the few speeches I read of the man makes me believe he will rest in peace as he lived a life – his life – in faith.

That’s the one main reason he touched scores of people. In fact, any soul that fulfills even a part of its purpose in earthly life will leave an impact on at least a few mortals before it leaves the body. One such person touched me, too…

My family knew her for the last about 26 years. They had rented a house opposite ours in Secunderabad towards the fag end of 1980s. She was a rolly-polly short woman who perpetually giggled. With two toddlers in tow, she soon became a regular at our gate. I didn’t like her spending time with mom, especially in the evenings when we returned from school. On weekends, when we were at home I believed I didn’t get to see enough of my mother because of her. She was constantly yapping away– that’s what I called her conversations then. If it was not to speak of her siblings back home, then it was her house owner’s tantrums, or her neighbours kids, or it was to borrow some tea powder or sugar or sweater and a reason for the same always ran into an hour-long monologue. Come winter or summer, while in mourning or celebration, she didn’t need a reason to laugh and talk. If her constant presence irritated me, her giggles snapped at my nerves.  Why can’t she speak with a straight face, I wondered on several occasions.

If she had to buy anything new, she turned to my mom for advice, if she received a letter from her parents, the contents were shouted from across the compound. My mother, meanwhile, took the role of a counsellor, an elder sister and advisor. In short, my mom developed a soft corner for her in no time. Soon she began keeping aside her chores to attend to her needs – and I kicked up a ruckus at home. Looking back, I don’t think there was a single instance where I let my mom help her in peace.

We were regularly treated to ghee rice, mutton stew and kheer – her specialties. On Eid, we were invited over and I hated that even further. I refused to go to her place. So a parcel would be duly sent. In fact, she only needed a pretext to bring food. My mom sneezed and she would lay a spread on our table requesting her to take rest. And I muttered and sweared around. I just hated her presence and loathed her dominating maternal instincts at play. I said her show of affection was for her to fulfill her own needs.

Soon her kids grew up and the little girl was admitted to my school. There followed another request. I was to take the child along. A four-year-old tugging along meant I couldn’t run and jump into any bus along with my friends. I had to wait for the rush to subside, which delayed me by 10-15 minutes (it was humongous period of time and unacceptable then). There were days I literally dragged the girl along in anger. That was enough reason for me to completely ignore her mother, who would invariably be at our doorstep when we returned home. I would walk-in in a huff with an annoying pout and be reprimanded for the same until one day when my mother just gave up. Luckily that ordeal lasted just two years as I completed my 10^th and moved on.

Shortly afterwards they shifted residence to the next street and I began to see less of her. Only the weekend visits I was privy to as most meetings took place during college hours. But the mention of her name was enough trigger for me to put up my dirty side on show.

Apparently my mother found a friend and younger sister in her and I had failed to see that then. All that I saw was my mom sharing with her the time she ought to have spent with me or so I believed, which was totally unacceptable. Her presence in our house I considered a compulsive invasion. Her non-stop jabber irritated me and her perpetual giggle was fanatically unbearable. I would close the door of my room as she walked in lest I hear her giggles and imagining her whole upper body moving in rhythm made me mad.

Years passed…as I joined university and spent more time on studies and things more constructive, the irritation on seeing her lessened. I later moved to Dubai and forgot all about her. During my short annual trips, when my mom updated me of community news, she did figure, but I was unaffected. I had moved on. She was totally out of my world.

But this July – July 7, 2011 – when I landed in India, my mom told me, “Naseera is here. She wants to see you.” And I said so very casually with absolutely no feelings, “So let’s finish it now.” Because going home and visiting her later was not advisable – my home is 170kms away from the airport, while her accommodation just a 15km drive.

My parents, though, had visited her several times during her 45 days hospital stay - never considering the distance covered on each trip.  There’s no math in relationships!

I walked into the room, to find a frail frame – yes, the rolly-polly woman whose upper chubby body mass shivered in rhythm to her giggles was reduced to a skeletal frame holding a bald head.

The moment she saw me, she tried getting up. Her aged mother helped her.She was wheezing hard while she tried helplessly to independently cover her legs with a bed sheet. She wanted to set her sparse hair right, but couldn’t manipulate her fingers to her whim. Her old mother helped with that, too.

But all through this arduous exercise of helping herself up and trying to decently present herself to the guests, she was giggling.  I now saw how even her hollow cheeks and darkened skin couldn’t soil her giggles – her trademark expression that once irritated me no end. Though her flow of speech was affected, she started off.

In between bouts of wheezing, coughing and holding for breath, she said: “You look the same, Nisha. Put on a little weight. But you are the same girl I knew when I first came to Secunderabad.” She turned to her old mother and said, “She was this tall even while in school. She used to take Suneera to school  (Suneera is the little girl I dragged in anger on most days). Oh, now you cut your hair. She had long hair…” and so she went on, as I stood blankly.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. Soon it was only some sound that I heard, for I couldn’t arrest the thoughts that barged into my head – those of the hatred I nursed almost two decades ago. It was for no substantiate reason. Why did I hate her? I couldn’t think of even one reason?  It was my personality trait – of not being accommodative. Period. But that had no effect on her. As I trailed back into the room, she was still on…”your daughter looks like you only, Nisha. Even she is so thin. You were very fussy with food. Is she also like that?...” Oh my, she remembered my eating habits, too.

A short while later, we had to take leave because my little girl was getting impatient. Life is cyclic! For the first time in our long-acquaintance I was beginning to bond with her and my daughter was playing the spoilsport.

When we got up to leave, she held my mother’s hand and said, “ I’m so happy, chechi, you brought Nisha and her daughter. Now don’t delay. You’ll have got a long drive ahead.”

She then looked at me and said, giggling as always, “I’m happy to see you. This is the first time I spoke for this long in months. I become breathless off late. So I just don’t attempt speaking. But today I’m ok. I’ll improve now. Will get back home and call. You must be tired, the packing and the flight you must not have slept last night, too, isn’t it?...”

And so we took leave of Naseera aunty.

On August 1, 2011 when I returned from shopping late in the evening, my mother was still in her working saree, looking soiled and worn out. “Naseera died this morning,” she said. Three weeks after I first bonded with her – she was gone.

That night though I was extremely tired after a day-long outing, sleep eluded me. I couldn’t put off Naseera aunty’s giggles. Am sure she would have sensed a teenager’s feelings for her, but she never once showed it. The positive character that she was she treasured her giggles on her deathbed, too, even when the ugly tentacles of the disease spread to her insides.

Only after I promised myself not to ‘hate’ people; only after I made a resolve not to use that word ever again; only after I decided that even if I were to have an earth-shattering reason to abhor someone, I would only ignore them or dislike them at worst, could I rest that night.

My faith in relationships has been strengthened by someone’s innocuous giggles. Her death may not have made news, her deeds may not have altered the destiny of thousands, but her life has definitely changed me.

PS: A tribute to an aunty who I will always remember.

My shoes give me a culture shock

Oh! I love fresh kicks. I just can't stop drooling over their feel, their looks, their makes and continue piling on the increasing numbers in my rack.

So recently when I heard two new Dubaiites talking of going footwear-shopping, I threw myself into their conversation uninvited and enthusiastic, like children would when their birthday party is being planned - they know the best.

From sales and deals and formals to party dos and beach wears and matching boots, I ranted out the malls that housed identical and branded ones of each type. 

 

Picture Courtesy: MorgueFile

Soon the two new colleagues became my admirers. Now that gave me a further kick, exactly like the high I feel when I try a new pair on. I soon began recounting tales of a finicky acquaintance who matches her hairdos with that of her sandal fabric. She adjusts the bounce of her tresses with the length of her heels. They were in splits when I said how she reminds me of a well-bred shiny horse that moves its well-chiselled head in rhythm with its banged tail.

I quickly learnt the duo belong to the same breed. They were both Thoroughbreds! But now I had treaded too far that I couldn't just pull my foot out - it was stuck in the wrong place. The classic case of putting one's foot in the mouth.

"So you have a shoe fetish," they chorused.

Oh yeah! I added with vanity oozing.

"My only regret is not getting all my pairs, you know. The damn baggage limit. How I hate airline rules," said one.

"Tell me about it, I just could pack 109 pairs. Have asked my mom to send across the rest," said the other and added "it feels good to know someone shares the same craze as me. So how many pairs do you have?"

I pretended not to hear and said why don't you head to Dubai Mall? Suddenly my fetish seemed amateurish. My treasured 35 numbers seemed kiddish.

Alas, the show jumping was well underway..."I've never seen you in heels."

"You don't believe in stilettos to work, yeah," one of them inadvertently came to my rescue.

"I just cannot stay off them," said Miss 109.

As if she sleeps in them, too. Why do women exaggerate any indulgence that's already brimming all rationale norms anyways!

With a new-found determination, I said, "you'll only see me in flats."

"Somehow, I find flats washroom culture!," said Ms Baggage Limit, and quickly uttered a "sorry, I didn't mean anything personal."

Washroom or prayer meet, party bash or official forum and no matter what the dress code I stay loyal to my moccasins, flip-flops, grungy crocs or strappy wedges. The farthest I can walk holding my vertebrae upright in is on kitten heels.

Now I need to quickly come up with a name for people like me. Who would love to say they have a fetish for shoes, even when their pairs do not cross primary double digits; who cannot walk on heels even when threatened by a firing squad; and who hates being categorised under washroom culture!

You may want to check out...
http://nishasanjeev.blogspot.com/p/blog-page.html

Sr Bachchan and his junior bahu can cause a civil war

The hottest pair of Bollywood's first family - the senior Bachchan and his junior bahu - can easily cause a civil war in secular India!

This was proved right yet again when Canadian stand-up comedian Russell Peter aired his view about the acting capabilities of the first daughter-in-law - Ms Rai-Bachchan.

As she's been bestowed the crown by over zealous fans, let's leave the Kapoors alone. Anyways the Kapoors have always been in a league of their own. And so was Amitabh Bachchan until the green-eyed beauty decided to add his pedigree to the only feather in her cap - the Miss World title.

Russell's words were not a prepared malicious assault. His comments came while promoting his latest flick. It was purely his opinion when he uttered, "Aishwarya is the biggest example of bad acting." He also said, "She is still good looking, isn't that good enough?" But the damage was done. 

A beautiful face and flawless skin might make a star, definitely not an actor - is an age-old truth. Sad to learn adulation of stars has reached fanatical proportions. Years ago, when a temple was built in Tamil Nadu in Kushboo's name, Bollywood tabloids blasted the South Indian culture. Wonder why they are quiet now when women activists are demanding an apology from Russell. Well, that's another topic at war - Bollywood versus regional cinema! So be it.

No Indian, media or otherwise, can be absolved from the crime of not letting an opinion be just that - an opinion.

But then, that's the pied piper effect of the Bachchan duo. They seem to lead yet another sect among the already caste-infested Indian diaspora so much so serious allegations and character assassination cases in Bollywood go without a hearing expect for the femme fatales involved who get two-minutes in the limelight recalling the sounds of boots.

No wise person will expect mademoiselle to speak up because she does not utter a word unrehearsed. And there can be no robotic comment to a truth told loud! But surprisingly, Sr Bachchan who seems off late to have taken up the role of spokesperson and chaperon of his son's wife has chosen to remain silent, too. But don't we see a pattern in his silence?

Remember, how the pregnancy was declared during the IIFA weekend that the family boycotted. That was a cheeky propaganda to be present in absentia. The same logic applies here. While the bahu has shut herself through family way, the more this issue simmers the better it is for the Bachchan brand!

Of Fengshui, tarot cards, black cats and mynahs

A civil engineer by profession and a husband and dad to vouch for family status he moved to the Middle East with stars in his eyeballs in 2007. The next two years he lived life king-size in the extravagant emirate revelling in being dwarfed by the magnificent towers he helped erect.

Early 2009, when he failed to receive a cheque he called up his parents who consulted the family astrologer to find out where the leaf due to their son was stuck. It's just a narrow bottleneck, it will squeeze through, they were assured and the engineer confidently ignored the pending cheque and instead signed three new projects.

Five months later, when two other payments refused to come his way, a colleague introduced him to a gemologist who suggested he wear a diamond ring not less than eight carat in weight on the little finger of his right hand for immediate positive effect. Without hesitation, he swiped his credit card.

By mid-2009, when one of the sub-contractors refused to answer his calls, he told a family friend who in turn suggested the wonder of numerology. No harm, no stakes involved, only a couple of letters in his name had to be re-arranged. The following week he sent out mails to all and sundry alerting them of the new phonetic stress in his name.

By the year-end when he had no balance to dip his fingers into, he sought the help of a Tarot reader, who assured to guide him efficiently. She explained the three cards that faced his silently-muttered wish were balanced. Man on a horse with a sword in his left hand raised meant the subject is rearing to go ahead. The second card of five of cups meant emotional reunions and the reverse bright yellow sun over a mountain top meant a bitter-sweet experience. But no worries. The three together says you will venture into new territories and land on your feet, the Tarot reader prophesied to his delight.

 With hopes renewed, the engineer mortgaged his ancestral house in his home country and signed another project when an acquaintance insisted. Though his sixth sense hesitated to co-operate, he believed the famous Tarot reader's third eye.

Learning about his property loan, a good-willed colleague suggested he re-do his current home to usher in good luck. In came a Fengshui expert who felt negative chi run inside her through her index finger that made contact with the doorbell switch outside his flat. Nothing can be done in a rented apartment, so alter positions of some things, discard others and buy new ones and re-paint every room in another colour, she advised. With credit cards' limit brimming, he borrowed the required amount.

Shortly, when banks started haunting his relatives to know his whereabouts, he rushed to a money lender to see him through in the interim. But when the latter insisted on having his or the family's passports as guarantee he pleaded another friend to lend him some cash and sent his wife and children to his parents in India.

As the wife prepared her bags, she said: "I saw a mynah on our window sill this morning. It's not a good omen." Now he became paranoid as beliefs seeped in through his partner too. Later when they set out to hail a cab to the airport, a cat crossed their path and the engineer took the lift back to his apartment, luggage and family in tow, only to rush into the immigration at the final call for boarding without a good-bye kiss even.

The numerologist, astrologer, gemologist; Tarot reader and fengshui  expert have done their job. Wonder what the palmist, vastu specialist, signature analyst, face readers, parrots and tantrics have to advice.

Hope they help him keep his sanity!

Occasion: Onam; Uniform: mundus; Activity: Eating

Beginning today evening and into Friday mallus in their mundus will rock!

Their day will begin by praying obeisance to their Godfather Mahabali. Luckily it's the weekend, else Malabaris (as Malayalis are ignorantly called in the Middle East) would have kept the ancient king waiting at their doorsteps until next Friday.

The difference (if applicable) ends here. Only time zones and mandatory work days can force Malayalis across the world to differ from their brethren in celebrating Onam. 

Otherwise subjects of Kerala - the bitter gourd-shaped landscape at the southern-most tip of India - and Malayalam-speaking non-Keralite suspects celebrate the harvest festival alike.

Prayers and divinity begin and end with the scratching of the match on the box and rubbing it on to the wick before drooling over the growling within.

Uniformity being the highlight of Thiruonam, men, women and kids will all adorn off-white outfits as if chicks from the same hatchery. No forgetting the legend of equality prevalent in God's Own Country once upon a time!

Not just yet, the significant uniformity lies in the treat. Yes, they also gorge and burp alike on similar-looking sumptuous spreads on green banana leaves.

The courses are manifold. If starters are placed at the left-hand corner of the leaf that is placed with its tip facing your left, then you can start eating from the right. But remember to fold the leaf bottom-up after you've licked your palms, this time, in the similar direction - from the wrist until the fingertips. Take care not to breathe during the act else the payasam (dessert if you may call it) will drip onto your starched mundu.

What a stain of shame that would be as you will be squatted on the floor with a droplet in the wrong place.  Those with pots for bellies and logs for thighs will be pardoned to lower themselves onto dining chairs but the rules of caution remain the same.

More the merrier is yet another commonality. The number of dishes on the leaf (15 and more is the going rate) will declare the prosperity of the subject. It doesn't matter if the base ingredient is the same - coconut, coconut and more coconut. Be it any vegetable combo, you must bite into coconut - grated, smashed, ground, sliced or garnished after it is cooked and fried in - yes, pure coconut oil.

 However, a strictly non-vegetarian feast until recent past has become a carnivorous affair for some today. Palates have changed, say defectors of uniformity who love to tom-tom the I-don't-know-Malayalam-culture phrase. Now, the common factor here is the pseudo-Malayali sect will be clad in jeans - mom and daughter and son and father alike - the length inversely proportionate to age or directly proportionate on the degree of pseudoism.

They will identify the dishes by their colours and makes than names. They will suck in rice from between their five finger tips and give scornful looks to those around who make rice balls peppered with pappad crumbles and toss it into their mouths. They will drink payasam with spoons than scoop it with bare hands off banana leaves.

Pseudo or natural, Keralites or stateless, mallus worldwide will ensure they eschew the routine lunch on Onam day. Mahabali's progeny adheres to uniformity at least on savouries!

A cleanliness freak for a wife

The wife relaxes her back after four gruelling hours. With a glass of ice-cold juice, she proudly takes in the interiors of her home...

Spick n span! Not a speck of dust on the ceiling even. Floor mopped to see her reflection. Toilet closets and sinks flushed and gleaming. Living area vacuumed and inviting. Kitchen oudourless and spotless. Vulnerably white drapery rods and curtain rings polished. Neat-to-fit wardrobes smelling Versace...when

The door bell rings. Who's that, she sings to herself. Not expecting anyone at 11am. She rushes to change her wet and soiled pajamas before answering the bell.

Lo! Surprised, aren't you? asks a beaming husband. Just thought of spending some time with you before the kiddo returns from school. He hugs her and  another surprise...Her favourite double chocolate delight with dark chocolate caramel topping.

Wow! Gimme a minute. A quick shower n am back. Feel so sticky.

She rushes to grab her clothes, spends a few minutes deciding what to wear and runs to the washroom...when she sees a tie on the bed.

Why is this tie here, she asks and hangs it on the holder.

Come fast, calls out the husband.

Hey, don't sit there, I've just vacuumed the sofa.

Okay Madam, no problem.

No touching that. Let the remotes sit in place at least for an hour.

Alright, no worries.

Uh, uh, no taking the juice to the bedroom. I've just changed the spread.

Okaaay!

Oof! why do you want to step into the balcony now? Dust will fly in!

Here I’m in already.

Now what's it with you. Why do you simply walk up and down the hall? Have just mopped the floor.

Is this a home or a museum?

Why a home can't be neat?

You’ll make a good curator.

Keeping the home neat is a disorder with me, yeah?

The ice-cream is melting!

All you men are alike.

The ice-cream is melting!

Then why the hell can't you place it in the fridge?

You asked me not to walk up and down.

Yeah, now blame that on me, too, she freaks out.

The ice-cream is melting! he says, holding the cup out.

Give the damn thing here, she says, and pulls it off his hand…

Blop! a fat brown gooey mess on squeaky clean off-white marble floor.

You men can never maintain a neat home! Never. She storms off!

A tough conversation and tougher solution

True 'passion chasers' cannot be bothered about conventional jobs or kids or loans. They just go for it!

What percentage of truth does this sentence entail? All those who earn a living by working their passion vouch for it.

All we lowly mortals who can't take our minds off future insecurity and at the same time yearn to fulfill our heart's desire once we complete our self-assigned tasks, must read the below conversation.

Here goes...

To begin with are you clear of your passion?

Yes.

Next, have you chartered a plan to realise it...Time, resources, support, knowledge, training and the kind. 

Done. Time glares out from the roster. A dilemma. Big one to crack.

Passion and dilemmas do not go hand-in-hand.

What about the 9-5 work?

Well, quit the damn job.

What about mortgages and lifestyle continuity for kids? 

Well, then gradually phase out the day job.

Sensible enough.

Then what if the passion does not attract equivalent cash returns?

Hold on that day job until such a time.

And what if such a time doesn't come and the stress tears the family fabric?

Then what you call passion is not exactly a passion with you.

Clarity is not a question.

Then you have no spine to face troubles enroute.

Backbone and resolve are great. But cannot see loved ones suffer?

What comes first: family or passion?

Both.

Then shut your thoughts and slog it out. Hardwork will bear fruits. No quick-fixes; neither in virtual nor practical world.

How long will it take?

Until you've mastered your talent.

But we are talking of passion?

Talent sharpened is passion. When you passionately work on your talent over years imbibing all the varied experiences is when you realise the so-called passion.

But some people live their passion early in life.

They are the ones who followed their heart at the first given opportunity. They are the ones who never compromised their hearts desire in the name of commitments and social obligations.

Doing these is not a crime. We are just being morally and ethically correct and fulfilling our duties to the varied souls that helped us in our survival in this world.

So be it. If you are so clear about your actions why crib about passion fulfillment being delayed?

Just that desperation is slowly turning into depression.

Then the time is ripe to take action. Period. If possible devote all energy and time to sharpen your talent. Else keep aside (strictly) mandatory hours and energy each day to listen to the call within.

Will it work?

Self-doubts and fear are not hallmarks of a passion chaser. Definitely not for beginners. Sit up and face it! From the moment you decide on it, believe me, your legacy has begun to be written!

Go for it!