The trouble with children…

Children come in all sizes, shapes, temperaments. I have two of my own which is two too many, but I will make sure I let them know how much they should appreciate me when they grow a little older. Having kids is easy, bringing them us is difficult. Footing the bill for their varied needs is getting more difficult as I even write this column. But that is not my gripe. There are financial planners for that kind of a problem.  

When I brought my first born son home, I thought he was just so precious. He absolutely was and still is precious, that is if I can find him under all the clutter he has accumulated in his room. It’s just a little difference in opinions (his and mine) in terms of nomenclature – he calls it a room, I’ve called it many things over the years but I never thought of calling it a room. It used to be a room before the said Homo Sapien inhabited it. I’ve called it a disgrace, I called it a garbage can, I’ve called it a nuclear wasteland and I’ve also called it a cause for a heart seizure. But it has had “precious” little effect on my “precious” little offspring. His room to this day is cluttered and overflowing out into the corridor. Again, not the only gripe I have but one of my many gripes as a parent. 

When I brought my first son home, I thought he had such beautiful and intelligent eyes. He was going to be the next Albert Einstein, well not really but at least he was going to be a model student. He still has beautiful and intelligent eyes, especially long curvy and thick eyelashes, the kinds females would die for. But the same adjective cannot be used for his brain or his concentration. He gets distracted 72 times in a single minute that only has 60 seconds. C’mon anyone should be able to stay on one topic for a span of at least a couple of seconds. Not him.  

“Sweetheart, you’re late for your music class, can you please hurry up!” I scream every Saturday at 10:00 am. Finally by 10:30, Mozart finally makes an appearance sans his music book which is essential to attend the music class. Another ten minutes pass by when the entire family frantically searches for the music book which had been thoughtlessly cast away after the previous music class. We find it finally and now we are ready to set off for the music class. But Mozart here has yet another brilliant idea.  

“Mommy, it is fifteen minutes to the music class and so can I please get my Harry Potter book along. I can read it on the way” pleads my “precious” little offspring with the killer eyelashes and intelligent eyes. Ok, we’re a sucker when it comes to reading and books and so we agree. Mozart speeds up the stairs and hunts for his book and makes it to the car in record time. Imagine that he was not distracted at all. En route to the music class, we realize Mozart brought his Harry Potter book along but completely forgot to bring his music book along. The forgotten music book is lying on the carpet in his room. So yet again, we get reprimanded for his absentmindedness. 

Speaking of being a model student, we’ve made tremendous progress in that pursuit. Einstein here is an intelligent child alright, but not exactly a quiet one at that. He can chatter away the entire time which causes other kids to get distracted. All through the first couple of years at school we had to coach him to be quiet. And I can tell you that was an uphill task. Try explaining to a five year old that he had to stay quiet. You cannot predict dire consequences if he does not stay quiet because that will just make him not want to go to school. We persevered and today we have a very good student who is extremely friendly and who is a great joy to have in class (His teacher’s words, not mine) but still if only he could learn to whisper softly and not get distracted during class. 

When he has an exam or test, I have indigestion the previous night. If only, I could study hard and he could be graded on how well I studied. Being a parent is tough. I can just imagine how all the coaches in the world feel. 

And trust me these are just a few of my favorite gripes, if I list them all, it will be a 500 page book. In a nutshell, I’ve always wanted revenge on my “precious” offspring. And we found the ideal revenge, we had another child. What an absolutely brilliant idea – Give the elder one an opinionated, bratty, temperamental, nagging, whining younger sibling. Just perrrrfect! 

 “Yoo Hoo! Oldest offspring of mine, please pick up all your brothers toys and clothes.”  To which my son protests, “But they are not mine. They’re his”.  

My husband and I mentally rub our hands together and gleefully answer, “Yes but that’s what an older brother does. And if you don’t there will be dire consequences”. 

Whenever the younger one cries, we scold the older one – he may or may not be at fault, but that is never an important consideration. “Yoo hoo! Oldest offspring of mine, can you make sure your brother does not cry.”  

“Yoo Hoo! Oldest offspring of mine, read a Dr Seuss book to your brother. And nope, we really don’t care what you are doing, just keep your sibling busy. Read to him NOW.”  

“Mommy, can I go play in so and so’s house?” asks the older one. “Yeah sure, no issues”, reply I. “Make sure you take your brother with you. Make sure he does not wander away and don’t let the other boys pick on him. Make sure he wears a jacket at all times.”

Parenting is fun. I get a fiendish delight seeing my older son’s face twitch at the long list of do’s that I demand. 

“Mommy, if I take care of my brother for the whole week. And I do my homework regularly and I behave well. Can I get pocket money at the end of the week” asks my son.

“You mean to say you want to get paid for being an elder brother. Son, let me give you lesson in life for free. Parents and elder siblings are people who never get thanked or appreciated. They are hated for being the voice of reason and for being responsible. They are expected to always be there for their children and their younger siblings but don’t expect a thank you note for your efforts. On the subject of money, you can get pocket money but you’re going to have to mow the lawn and wash the dishes for that.” 

It is so much fun watching my older son run behind his sibling picking up after him, making sure all his needs are met, teaching him his alphabets, taking care that he does not wander away when they go to a friends house to play.  First time parents are exhausted people, they overdo everything and generally wear themselves out with their first offspring. With the second offspring, it is time for revenge on the first child. It’s almost like we have a marker out on the first one “You owe us! And how!” 

And since my sons have a pretty large gap (six years), my older son is almost a pseudo parent for my younger son. He loves his brother and will go to any lengths to take care of him, when he remembers that is. I see him growing up to be a really awesome older brother. One I myself would have loved to have as a child. A cluttered room not withstanding, my older son makes me very proud. Being a Mom is absolutely one of the best things that could ever have happened to me.  

“Yoo Hoo! Younger offspring of mine, I now have a marker our on you too. You owe me and how!”  

I just need to figure out a way to take revenge on him. No more kids though – coz that would be like cutting off my face to spite my nose(or something like that). Kids are fun, kids are adorable, kids are precious but most of all kids are a lot of TROUBLE. And they are totally worth all the trouble. 

And for those of you who are older brothers and sisters, your younger siblings thank you. You are our heroes. I should know since I am a younger sibling myself.

And then there were none…

Warning: This column may teeter on the edge of being morose. If you don’t like old fogies on the dance floor, or old fogies period, then this one ain’t for you. If you are old and you know it but are still trying to deny it like me, then this column is definitely for you – tailor made for you as they call it.  

Today, I received yet another invitation for an old fogie birthday bash. How do I know it is an old fogie bash, well when you are welcoming a person’s 40^th birthday, I think you can safely assume that this bash is an old fogie bash, especially if the invite says something like “Taking you out of youth”. Flash sign – you are now in an old fogie birthday bash. When the birthday cake has way too many candles, it is absolutely an “old” fogie bash. How do these old folks find me, I don’t know. I wonder where they got my address from. Oh well, I fess up. I am friends with these old fogies. After all birds of a feather, often flock together. And by that token, I too suffer from the same malady – I am advancing rapidly to old age too. Toodeloo youth, vigor and energy! Hello there, achy limbs, back aches, bad cholesterol levels and diabetes.  

Ah youth, such a fleeting period of time. I don’t even remember when I was young. Hold it just a minute. I still have aeons to go before I turn 40. Hello what am I saying. I’m not old, I’m young! At least when compared to all the folks I’ve been hanging around with – they are OLD as in ancient!!!!  

Life begins at 40 they say, and to that I say “You Wish!” Truth be told, life ends somewhere around 35. Once you’re on the wrong side of 35, then you’re just in plain “old” territory. The cola companies don’t care one hoot for you, the beer commercials do not even speak to you, the marketing managers and advertising agencies don’t have you down as a marketable segment. Do not despair, my “old” friends(pun absolutely intended), you still are very important to certain companies. The life insurance dudes were just waiting to get us on their rosters and the AARP is waiting for the next decade to pass so they can send you your very own personalized AARP card.  

Overheard recently, “let’s go to SOB guys. Heard it’s the hottest club in town.” SOB stands for Sounds of Brazil. Yes, I’m all game. And I don’t care that some of the “youth” out there in the club are a decade or two younger than me. Read my lips, I don’t care. So what if I look around self consciously when I get there finally. Actually make that “if I get there” instead of “when I get there”.

When the teen movies no longer make sense to you. And the latest teen sensation is probably your son’s classmate.  

When you can read the Williams Sonoma catalog from page 1 till the end in one sitting. And not just look at pictures. I mean read the excerpt on the very expensive cast iron slow cooker priced at only 245 dollars. It is especially intriguing since you just bought one at 17 dollars just a couple of months ago. 

When you know what a stock market is and can sit through and listen to stock averages for an hour. Nikkei, DOW, Sensex, S&P all these finally make sense. When you have gained “experience” by losing a shit load of money in the last stock market crash.

When you worry more about retirement rather than having a good time. When you count the number of decades you’ve been in the workforce rather than the number of years. Two decades gone, another three to go before I sleep. 

When you drink wine by the glass and not by the gallon. The $9.99 gallon jar of white wine of questionable vintage is no longer the drink of choice. When your taste runs more to expensive red wine. 

When you actually open up your Social Security annual statement and wonder how little the government can pay you for your sweat and blood. 

When you buy a minivan to lug those tiny people you call your heirs. When there are more soccer and baseball games than there are days. 

When you have a house with a big yard and you have no hope in hell to mow the lawn without a lawn mowing service or a rider lawn mower.  

When you own more combs than the number of individual hairs on your head. 

When the discount bin at Burlington’s can get you all excited. 

When you just have to hit the sack at 10:00 pm sharp every night.  

When you have “assets” vs liabilities. When you no longer fit the YFB population. Young, Fabulous and Broke! 

When you know what HDL and LDL stand for. 

When you are ready for mammograms and you finally realize it has nothing to do with an animal name and everything to do with breast cancer. 

When you watch cosmetic surgery on Channel E! and wonder if you need a tummy tuck or a face lift. The liposuction may be gross but you still watch in fascination wondering how much of that fat stuff you are carrying inside you. 

When eating carbs is taboo. When eating carbs is a luxury. When eating carbs is a FANTASY!. Aalo tikki, Samosa Chaat, Rava Idli, Onion Uttappam, man these are a few of my favorite things. 

When you have a birthday bash declaring you are 40. 

These are just a few tell tale signs of aging. I

’ve worked in HR all my life or at least it seems that way. In one of the firms I worked at, I was putting in an online Benefits module. One of my customers was a lady who held the utterly foreboding and morose job title of ” Bereavement Specialist”. What she actually did was administer benefits for deceased employees. So all day long she would be talking to family members of the deceased, some of whom were half way to the grave themselves. You had to give the lady kudos because despite having a glum job, she was always in the best of spirits and one would always find her ready with a joke or two. When her workload suddenly increased and she was forced to put in 50 hour work weeks she put it in without a complaint. Of course she would joke about it often, “What’s up with the country Guys. These employees are falling like flies. I’m telling you, they’re hitting the bucket three people a day. I cannot seem to keep up with them. Please God, save the poor guys. Slow down the pace to one person a day.” 

They say, you’re as old as you think you are. Well, thinking ain’t believing. I can think fifteen but I may still look like 50. But I’d rather be the age I am rather than going back to the days back in school. No more exams for me. Recently I had an ITIL exam and I was up till 2:00 am cramming. My elder son wondered out loud what I was doing to which my husband replied, “Mommy is ghotting. Do not disturb”. Trust me, I haven’t sweated this much since about a decade or so ago. The last exam I wrote was for my MBA and suddenly I had another exam for ITIL certification. Oh my God! And trust me the exam was not easy, how can it be if all the answers were similar. 

Q. Which of the following illustrates a building? 

1. The leaning tower of Pisa
2. The Empire State Building
3. A McMansion in New Jersey
4. The Buckingham Palace.

 Seriously, the answer could be all four. So this was one tricky exam. Whew! Am I glad that is done. No more ghottoing for me, thank you very much. But I digress, I apologize. ‘Tis a bad habit I know, but blame it on my advanced age and my much too feeble brain. My concentrating power is not exactly what it used be. 

But, and here’s the grand finale. I love my “old” friends. I’d rather be friends with them than with any one else in the whole wide world. So every old fogie who is going to turn 40 soon, I’ll be there for you. I will be there to make a couple of digs at how old you are and how young I am. I will be there on the dance floor to keep all you wheezing fogies out there company. I’ll be wheezing right alongside you. So, we’ve had quite a few 40^th b’day bashes. Soon there will be no one under 40 left in our crowd. 

Here’s to finally growing up. Here’s hoping we get just a tad bit wiser too. Or in a couple of decades we’ll just be wizened old folks.  

Young at heart, but old of age.  

Giving and Receiving – Essential art forms.

Gift giving and Gift receiving are both art forms. Both need some practice and both give a lot of pleasure. Often times, we stress more on Gift Giving. Ever heard of “It’s more important to give than receive”? It is true that giving is absolutely more essential, but a body also needs to also learn how to receive. 

I love giving – be it advice or gifts. I’m much better giving both than actually receiving either. Try giving me advice and I turn into a regular porcupine with my quills all bristled and ready for launch. Try asking me for advice, and I can preach till the cows come home. Giving is so much more fun than receiving.  

Every year the first quarter brings with it a plethora of occasions that require a sound memory. I have a great memory but somehow when b’days of loved ones roll by or aniiversary dates come by, I remind one of an utterly absent minded professor. I got married twice, to the same husband both times. And I forget both the days every year – without fail. You would think that by the time the second anniversary date comes along, I would remember, especially since there are just 30 days between the two anniversary dates. Nope, the day comes and goes like any other day with me being non the wiser. My husband on the other hand has a memory for dates, he remembers every single date that I forget. I’m not sure how he does it, but the man has an appetite for important dates. I’m still waiting for him to forget our anniversary date….it’s been a long wait so far. 

And he is particularly cruel because he waits till noon time on say his birthday and at 12:30 pm, he will call me and sing Happy birthday to himself. Now if that is not cruel, I don’t know what is. The first quarter of every year is one long guilt trip – there are four important dates and I usually forget all four of them. But, I do remember the important stuff – I remember the precise moment when I knew I’d fallen head over heels in love. I recall the exact moment when I knew this was it. My husband still cannot answer a simple question like “So what precisely was it about me that made you fall for me?” I love torturing him with that question. Actually am I torturing him or myself . Oh well! 

The female gender usually is a good record keeper of dates. As the song from Hum Tum goes, “1^st Jan ko tumne mucjhe chua tha. 3^rd April, mujhe kuch hua tha….”. I’m uncharacteristically absent minded about dates. In my defense,……wait, I’m still thinking…….I guess I have no defense. I suck when it comes to remembering my own anniversary date(s), that’s all there is to it. 

So this year, I forgot my anniversary again – well, what can I say, I’m incorrigible. This year, I’ve made up my mind not to forget my Husband’s birthday. I’ve got a sticky note at work reminding me of the same. I have yet another sticky note in my study at home reminding me of the same. There is no way I’m going to forget it this year.  

Even though I often forget important dates, my heart is in the right place. The few times when I do remember, I go all out when it comes to gift giving. I scratch my head to first figure out what my husband really wants. If you think this is easy, you probably have never bought your spouse a gift. It is tough, after all the man has everything he will ever need – he has me, what else can the man want for? J 

But seriously, over the years I have always managed to surprise my husband with a gift that he didn’t know he wanted. One year I gifted him a very expensive tea service. Bone china with a gold embossed border. Did he like it – absolutely. It may sound like an odd gift to give a guy but hey, if the shoe fits….. Another year I bought him an IPOD, I think he fell in love with me all over again for that. He just loved that gift. When times were lean, he had to make do with a gift wrapped box of Carrots. But again, it is the thought that counts right. 

My husband I have to say is not the sharpest tool in the shed when it comes to Gift picking. Granted, he has some additional constraints that I don’t have. But still, how tough is it to buy a gift for me Huh! Last year I was so fed up not getting anything for my birthday that I actually told him the exact perfume I wanted and where to buy it from  – the man goofed up on that too. My birthday came and went and I still was sans the perfume. He’s not the only one to blame for this, I too am at fault for the current status quo. The first year we were dating was easy, I got a stuffed Gorilla and  a stuffed snake – I know ridiculous taste but I was happy. My first year of being married, he gave me a dozen red roses. The most gorgeous roses I ever laid eyes on. And what was my next step – I couldn’t just say Thank You – no, I had to ask him how much they costed and what was he thinking spending do much money on something so frivolous. Yup, I can be a jerk. So from that day onwards, my gift receiving days were far and few in between. It’s pretty much like the rain in the Mojave Desert – sparse to none at all.  

He gave me a couple of shirts not too long ago and what did I say to that – “Don’t buy me clothes. I prefer doing that myself.” 

He tried jewellery and what did I say – “That’s too expensive. We can use the money for the kids’ college fund.” 

And so the poor man has stopped trying. Can I blame him – ummmm – Absolutely! I want flowers (even if I don’t trust him to choose the right kind), I want jewellery, I want perfume, I want…. I want…. I want… 

Over the years, I’ve always managed to pick a gift that he either wanted or he liked. You could say I have a gift for gift picking.  The truth is my husband is an awesome gift receiver. Anything I give him, he accepts gracefully and makes me feel ten feet tall. I could buy him the most ridiculous gift and the man will graciously accept and thank me profusely. He will never make me feel like I have a ridiculous sense of taste or choice. I know we need to give more and concentrate on giving generously. But over the years my husband has taught me that just to give is not enough. One has to learn how to accept gracefully. I’ve often told my children to always say thank you when they receive a gift, no matter if it is something they like or don’t like. So why am I such a baby when it comes to receiving gifts from my husband. Hmmmmm! 

My husband’s birthday is almost here and I have the most perfect gift picked out. What is it, you ask. I’m not telling. Ask my husband after I give him said gift.

Chak De India!

Author’s note: I tend to stay away from political comment but sometimes one just has to take a stance. If not for Politics, what would a democracy be? I hope I don’t offend anyone’s personal politics by my personal political opinion. Bhai, afterall we live in a democracy. But at the end of the day, personal politics aside, phir bhi dil hai hindustani. I have often been accused of being too idealistic, which is a kinder way of saying “You are too naive”. Well, I’d rather be idealistic than cynical. I’d rather have hope than think all hope is lost.

At fifteen years of age, I realized that in order to have an intelligent conversation with my Dad, I needed to start reading the paper. My Dad is a very well read man, be it politics, international strategy, military warfare, international politics etc, my dad stayed abreast of it all. He did not have much time for fiction, and so apart from the occasional James Hardley Chase and all the classics he had devoured as a young MCom postgraduate he stuck to non fiction for the most part. 

 And so, with the motivation to impress my dad, I opened the Times of India to see what the newspaper was all about. It took a little effort to get used to the rhythm of a newspaper article but within a week I had at least half a dozen stories that I was following. But at the end of the first month, I forgot all about impressing my dad, I just was worried sick. I finally went to my dad and said “Dad, India will not last beyond the end of the current year if things don’t change. Corruption is widespread, ego’s rule the political world, crime rate is up, caste system is still lingering, dowry deaths just don’t seem to be ending, we are too diverse as a nation to ever become one unified entity. This country is not going to last Dad”. I was hoping my Dad would have the panacea for the plethora of maladies afflicting India. 

 “India is not going anywhere”, said my Dad. “When I was your age, I started reading the newspaper and started following current affairs. I always thought the world and India along with it were going to end too. Nothing of the sort has occurred. India has changed tremendously over the years, some were really good changes and some were bad changes but change it did. And even though it looks like we are on the brink of doomsday, don’t you worry, India ain’t going anywhere”.

 At the time, I remember thinking for all the intelligence my dad demonstrated, he definitely had lost a screw or two. But he was absolutely right in his reply. India has changed since I was fifteen. She has made amazing progress in certain arenas and the in some, she has stayed stagnant and in some areas she actually has taken a couple of backward steps. India is no longer the “chalta hai” India that R.K. Laxman portrayed in his comic strip over the years. We are currently a “go-getters” nation, this is reflected in our attitude towards everything. Our cricket strategy reflects it, our cinema reflects it, our young politicians reflect it.  We‘ve carved out a formidable reputation in the international arena one BPO contract at a time. We showed the world, India was not a sleepy little village everyone thought she was. She has military muscle, political muscle, economic muscle, and what’s more an artistic muscle as well. What happens in India today becomes international news. That is assuming the local news channel in question are done reporting about a local cat who climbed a tree and needs rescuing (that’s another story completely). The world today listens when India speaks, or at least they pretend to listen. 

We have a long way to go still. And only time will tell if we make good use of our new found muscle or if we frittered it away. So when one hears of the fiasco that the MNS party started in Mumbai recently, one wonders what are we doing. How did we get so parochial is what every headline asks that reports on this issue. 

To quote a dialogue from a very recent blockbuster Chak De: “Mujhe na States ke naam sunaayi dete hain, na dikhayi dete hai. Mujhe to sirf ek mulk ka naam sunayi deta hai. India.” Now there is a dialogue that all Indians, be they from North, South, East or West should learn by heart. 

When a Gujju or say a Punjabi or say a Tamilian spits in front of the Empire State building in New York City, people standing around watching the entire scene will conclude that an Indian spat in front of the Empire State building and how Indians lack a basic civic sense. It is never a Gujju, Punjabi or Tamilian but an Indian that the outside world sees. When the world sees us as one, why one earth do we see differences in ourselves. We should be one India where each region/state has its own unique mores and customs. We should embrace these differences rather than sit and sulk about them. (Sorry, I sound preachy even to myself. Oh Well!) 

Recently a well educated hindu friend of mine commented that what BJP did by showing its hinduatva muscle was the right thing to do. We have to show the muslims that hindus are not laid back, and that they cannot walk all over us.

What good came out of this gentleman being educated if he still harbors such thoughts towards another Indian citizen? How misguided of him to think India as a Hindu state – no India is a secular state, how conveniently we forget this when it comes to our own backyard. 

 Why are we as educated Indians not thinking right – it all comes down to exposure. We may adore our Sharukh Khans and Salman Khans but do we know of any muslims up close and personal. Most of us may not. We who are educated have a responsibility to think rationally. But how rational is our thought when dowry deaths are as frequent with educated classes as the illiterate masses. How rational are we if we still identify ourselves from a caste perspective. How rational are we if we think every religion apart from our own religion is an evil one. Education teaches us not to judge by color, creed or religion. To judge rationally and to think with our head and not our emotions. Politicians are men too, we should never forget that. We tend to put our leaders on a pedestal and completely forget that they are mere mortals with faults like everyone else. Politicians will practice a much different tune than the one they preach. Always judge a politician by his personal choices rather than by slogans they shout from their respective “raths”.

Nehru once made his famous speech and said “we have a tryst with destiny….”. Well I think we can say the same today. We have a tryst with destiny today. Our actions today will decide for us our future course. Our future generations will bear the fruit of our wise course of action or they will pay for our follies. And as I once had a conversation with my Dad about the future of India. I would like to have the same conversation with my sons. I also want to reassure them that India will not drown. That change is inevitable but India, US and the world are not going anywhere.  We all remember how we won our freedom, but do we remember how we lost our freedom in the first place. We lost it because of infighting, because of our stubborn pride, and because we made disastrous personal choices. They say that if we forget history, we are doomed to repeat it. Let’s not forget that united we stand, and divided we will definitely fall.  

Forget sates, forget language, forget caste, and definitely forget religion.  We are India. Let’s make her proud. Again to quote a recent block buster, Chak De India!.

Maa Ki Mamta…

Let me begin today by saying, I have found maternal gratification at the bottom of a bowl of Daal Chawal. I’m sure that is a most confusing statement, but that is more the conclusion than the beginning. So let me start right at the beginning then. 

I am a mom. I have been one for the last nine years and a very proud one at that. For some people motherhood comes very naturally, I thought it would for me too, after all I knew more nursery rhymes than anyone else I knew. But that was not the case, my early days at this business of motherhood was filled with mind numbing pain. Third degree lacerations as a result of childbirth can do that to a person. The baby diapers we loaded up on served both my new born son and also as an icepack for me. But pain not withstanding, I was both overjoyed and scared at the birth of our first baby. 

Back when I was a Sergeant in the NCC (Army wing) in Vizag, I was asked how much a new born baby weighs as part of the C certification exam. I failed to see how serving as the sixth line of defence (after the babies) for India and knowing how much a new born baby weighed were even remotely connected. But who was I to question “army intelligence”. Mine was not to question why, mine was but to do and die. And so I scratched my head a few times, scrambled to imagine how much a kg of onions felt like and took a wild guess. “Sir, a new born baby probably weighs 10 kgs or so”, I replied. (10 KGs equate approximately to about 22 pounds) 

In my defence, I had not held a new born baby in my arms till then. I also abhorred biology and hence practically ignored all things biological except the few things that I couldn’t manage to ignore. I still passed the C certification, amazingly. The officer who had asked me the question (I think he was a Major so and so), just smiled and told me I was way off. I didn’t know how off till I had a baby of my own a little later in life. My new born baby was 9 pounds and 14 ounces – two ounces shy of 10 pounds. Every where I went in the hospital, all the nurses recognized me – “oh you’re the one who gave birth to the kindergartner”. Who knew, I was a mini celebrity!  

Now, can you imagine a 10 kg baby – oh my God, it’s a good thing Mother Nature was not as clueless as I was or at least had been. After going through childbirth twice, I am now all caught up to speed. 

The first two weeks after my first child was born, I had my husband to help me and then he was scheduled to go back to work. I panicked, what am I supposed to do with a two week old living breathing baby who equated me to a milk machine. So the first day that I spent alone with my son was a very silent one at least from my end. Gooing and gahing to my baby – making nonsensical baby talk was as foreign to me as speaking Greek. I could not if my life depended on it say something silly to my baby. My husband spoke to him constantly where as I just held him close and hoped he understood my silence. A couple of days later I got into the groove and was talking utter nonsense – I could go on for hours together. My baby didn’t care – he just listened and smiled every time he passed gas. 

It’s a constant challenge for working mothers to spend quality time with their children. I am a working mother. I plan to rectify that someday, but short of winning the lottery I think the status quo will remain in place for a few years at least. Oh well, who am I kidding, it will be couple of decades before I quit working. Between my husband and I we try our best to stay close (very close) to the kids. But it still is tough, between all the extra curricular activities, Kumon, homework and cleaning up their room (this one is an tough – kind of like climbing the Everest), there really is no time left over.  

I live with three pack rats – all three men in my family detest throwing away anything, no matter how useless the thing in question may be. I on the other hand have a very healthy relationship with my Garbage can. I purposefully bought a really large dustbin and it now proudly sits in my kitchen. All the paperwork my sons bring home goes promptly in to the dustbin. I have to wait till my kids are not watching to throw their notes, artwork, etc into the dustbin. There have been times when the dustbin cover comes off and my son will spot the little red heart he made at school the previous day. “Mommy, you threw away my heart. I made it in school yesterday”.  

Yeah! Yeah! Yeah, go tell it to Oprah! 

And the little heart that was so unceremoniously discarded, will now again be placed on the kitchen counter. And there it will sit till I abolish it once again, when my sons are not watching. I told you, this motherhood business does not come naturally to me. De-cluttering on the other hand is a most natural skill.  

There are times though, when even I cannot throw away some of my sons artwork. One such instance is the still life painting that my three year old labored over for Valentine. It is a drawing of a bud vase on which my son put some real colorful touches. Most artistic and very green. And the picture is appropriately titled “The single rose; A Valentine Still-life”. This specific picture is still floating somewhere in my living room. Well, Da Vinci my son ain’t but even my heart swells with pride when I see Green paint smothered on a bud vase drawing. Such is motherhood!!! 

They say that a Mango never falls too far from the tree. This is because as a parent we like to instill our values and  our ethics in our children. Mealtimes at our home are sacred. We sit around the dinner table as a family and finally spend some quality time together. Every weekend, I make dal chawal – something I excel at even with my limited culinary skills. I then mix the dal chaawal exactly as my mom had when I was young – lots of ghee and lots of salt. And down we sit on the floor, two bowls of dal chaawal, two glasses of water, two steel spoons, two very excited children and one “very-close-to-being-demented”  Mom. And the three of us spend the next hour talking and chatting and just plain goofing off.  

As a mother, I find this time that I spend with my kids extremely satisfying. I tell them how lying is bad and how telling the truth is courageous. I put on my Solomon hat and settle minor spats. I talk about my elder son’s school and gaze admiringly at my younger sons’s matcbox car(s). I guess one could say, I have finally found maternal gratification at the bottom of a bowl of Dal Chaawal. Who would have thought! 

Of Mice, Men, Marriage, Marital Spats etc…in no particular order

It’s is very close to Valentine’s day and Cupid is definitely in the air. Now would not be the right time to say anything negative. In fact now would be the perfect time to write a blog in praise men. I’ve often been accused of being a tad negative towards men in general. Well my acerbic tongue aside, I have always admired men. My ideal in life is a man – no points for correct guesses. I’ve tailored my entire persona around him and have always aspired to be as good as him. 

Ahhh! Men, Men, Men. Can’t live with them, can’t live without them. Can you imagine just for a moment, what the earth would be without men. Let’s just picture the earth being inhabited just by women…. I cannot. If there were nary a man, who would we lech at? Who would we drool over? Who would the women marry? Please bring back the men. Poof! And men now inhabited the earth. Thank God I can now sit and make moon eyes at SRK all day long.  

Jab Tak Suraj Chaand Rahega, tab tak SRK TV pe rahega. 

Marriage some say is an institution. The sentence that always follows this is – and who wants to be in an institution. Well I for one. It’s a wonderful institution. Marriage gives you the luxury of not always having a best friend. Coz your best friend is now your spouse. In my case, I just married my best friend. You never have to make a decision by yourself ever again. You can instead make a decision together. Of course, doobenge to dono saath milke doobenge….. but that’s just minor details. 

Over the years they say, women have evolved from being a homebody to a career person etc. But over the years men also have evolved. They’ve had to morph themselves to complement the changing woman. If the definition of a woman has changed so has the definition of being a man. Once upon a long, long, long, long time ago, much before my time apparently men were MCPs. They were the bread winners and they were the patriarchs of their family. But Neanderthals went out of fashion at the turn of the previous century. Men in my generation and age group have a pretty tall order to fulfill indeed. Women today (and I am as guilty as the next woman) require their men to be a little bit of an MCP and yet be soft, gentle and kind. We like our men to cry sometimes and yet we don’t want a namby pamby for a spouse. We want then to be strong and resilient and a shoulder to lean on. And yet be respectful of us women, and let us make our own decisions. 

 I guess we are not sure what we want – but then we’re women and not knowing what we want is our prerogative. That’s just the long and short of it. And here we have to give it you guys, you manage to somehow fulfill our nebulous requirement and more. What would life be without all you men. 

Growing up we often visited my Grand Parents in South India. My Ammama(Grand Mom) and Tatayya(Grand Dad) were a couple made for each other. Ammama was nearing complete blindness. She had weathered the ups and downs of life with a determination that comes with lack of monetary funds but age finally caught up to her. She was a Doctor’s delight – she had Diabetes, high Blood Pressure, cataract and a whole plethora of medical complications. Tatayya didn’t have as many complications as Ammamma but he was growing old rapidly and the body definitely was not as energetic as before. Every morning, Ammamma would park on this long wooden Sofa placed in the front verandah and would then beckon to Tatayya. And then would begin her litany of complaints. Even as a teenager, I was always awestruck at how long and how consistent a monologue my Grand Mom could keep up with her own self. She was content airing her issues while my Grandfather at the other end of the sofa slept like a baby.  

Sometimes in the middle of a particular grievance, Ammamma would prompt him for a reply and he would somehow grunt the appropriate “Aahhhh” despite being sound asleep. What an amazing marriage those two had. They never fought – or maybe they did but definitely not with each other. That I would say is the key to a happy marriage.  

It takes two to clap, and it definitely takes two to fight. When my husband and I were dating, I found it most annoying and dissatisfactory to see that my boyfriend at the time did not fight. I could call him a duffer and he would just very calmly agree with me. Of course my husband now gives back as good as he gets. And he has the cheek to say it’s all my influence. Not being able to fight was a tad bit dissatisfactory but it definitely would have been better than the sulking we both do after a good fight. I almost wish I was more influenced by him than the other way around. 

Marriages I believe are made in heaven. eHarmony, can claim to do it but life partners are truly picked somewhere above the big blue sky. Pick any couple and you’ll see a certain rhythm. A certain pattern that kind of makes one go – Yup! Those two belong together. Or It’s no surprise those two ended up together. I definitely have done some elaborate observations on this and it’s always held true. Ammamma and Tatayya were destined to be together. Ammamma was the flamboyant firebrand to my ever patient, resilient Tatayya. 

Men and women are both from Earth, I say. And I can prove it.  

Men can be as silly as us women – but you just won’t be able to get then to admit it. Men can tear up like the next women – again try and get them to admit to it. Men can fight as dirty as us women. They can do emotional blackmail as well if not better than us women. Men can be brave. Men can be kind. Just try and get them to admit it.  

Similarly, women can mow the lawn just as well as a man. Women can empty out the garbage just as well as a man. Women can pick up dead mice just as well as any man. But try getting us to admit to it. 

Happy Valentine’s y’all. And let’s lift a toast for all the special men in our lives.

Now that Cricket is over, here comes Football…

So I hear the test series between India and Australia is over. I’m not sure what the score is but India came out of the series looking  golden. Apparently we handled the monkey issue with a lot of maturity and dignity. As they say, all’s well that end well. And that is that.

 So you would think I would have the TV to myself without contantly having to battle with my husband for full control of the TV remote. Nope, no such luck. In America, ’tis the fiootball season, or to be more specific American Football season. On Feb 3rd, we have the superbowl where New England Patriots will play against the New York Giants. Each advertisement slot will be sold at 1.4 million dollars. Imagine, 1.4 million dollars for a 60 second slot.

 Now do I care about football, not really. I just keep abreast of who is playing who just so I don’t look ignorant. The game overall is very rough game, I wince every time a player gets pounded. I keep imagining how much pain they will be in the next day. Definitely do not want to be in their shoes no matter how handsomely they get paid.

At work, football season turns into an active minefield. Why you ask. Every January people start talking about the Superbowl and invariable an industrious colleague will start a Superbowl pool. I always avoid all talk of the pool since according to meit is yet another lottery. There is no strategy, no intellighence but just sheer luck. You can be as dumb as a bedpost but you could still win the pool. This year too, the pool at work started a week or so ago. And I was solicited actively to contributre. I ofcourse did not care, but my husband is super  interested.

My colleagues finally tracked me down earlier this week since they had a few boxes open. I finally gave in and contributed my ten dollars. Totally goes against my grain to gamble but a person’s got to do what a person’s got to do. And so I marked down another 10$ to charitable contributions.

 On Feb 3rd, I will be attending a superbowl party at a friends place. Not because I enjoy the game but the food spread is always awesome and the conmpany as always is delightful.

Another year, another superbowl. Oh Well, a girl has to choose her battles. If you cannot change ‘em, then might as well join ‘em.

The Stock Market …. and my weight…. (???)

Yesterday, an old pal of mine from College (you know who you are) asked me why I had not written in ages. What can I say, lots of work and lots of to do’s hanging out there. I have great ideas but if you have a Damocles’ Sword handing on your head (metaphorically speaking), it is tough to put your ideas into words. They just always come out flat. I worked hard this weekend and my to do list has now whittled down to almost nothing. Before any new tasks get added and the proverbial sword hangs once again over my head, I thought I ‘d take the time out and write something – anything as long as it has nothing to do with work.

So what do I have to say today? Is there a new gripe I can latch on to or can I dust off an oft repeated theme about my kids who provide me ample material. No, none of that. Today I want to talk about the mess that is the stock market and draw some parallels between stock market and my adventures in weight fluctuations. What does the stock market have to do with my personal weight – not much to the layman but if you follow my convoluted argument, I think you can be convinced. I have done some analysis over the past decade, and I think I have gleaned some parallels.

As we are growing older(not at heart but in age), all of us old fogies are on some diet or the other. Be it to fight bad cholesterol levels, gout, or just plain overweight, we all have our motivations. Some of us have turned teetotalers, and some of us have started downing bowls of salad like we were all goats. Nothing against salad personally, I love salad very much.

Overheard at a recent get-together, “Man, you’ve lost so much weight. What have you been doing”. Overheard at yet another get-together, “Yaar, I like the South Beach Diet. It totally works for me”. At another get together, the host made sure that the guests were made aware that he had lost hajjaar weight. It definitely showed but he just had to rub it in. And then we come to my husband who lately has been attached to the weighing machine – he religiously weighs himself after a bath, before a bath, before going to bed etc. I think he’s secretly in love with eth weighing machine and I think I spied him sending flying kisses its way. As if this is not enough he has to beckon me no matter where I am and how busy I am and show me his latest weight loss. What a loser – pun absolutely intended. Come to think of it, is that not the title of the latest reality show – “The Biggest Loser”.

I was never blessed with “thinness” – if it can be called that. Or in other words, I never can remember a time when someone called me skinny. I was always just a tad bit overweight and I have strived hard to always remain overweight. It’s been tough staying overweight but with sheer perseverance, I have managed the feat. J Growing up, it didn’t help that all the women in my family (My Mom, my sister and my dog) were gorgeous (well, beauty lies in the eye of the beholder and to me they were and still are gorgeous) and very, very slender and thin. I may sound like a “poor, poor pitiful me” – but that is because I sometimes felt like it. Most of the time, I was too busy to care but there were a few days when I would get up feeling blue. Those were the days when my poor Mom and sister almost pulled their hair out trying to figure out a way to make me feel better. My Dad was no competition since Guys absolutely do not care about weight.

Like the stock market, I have had some major upticks in the radar. The first one was when I entered the country. My body which was used to the heat, sweat and grime of New Delhi, was in absolute shock when I landed in Toledo, Ohio. And it didn’t help to realize that I absolutely loved Tex Mex food, and Daroo. Within a couple of months, I ballooned a couple of sizes larger than what I was. I lost a couple of pounds here and there but the general direction was up. Kind of like the lateral movement of the stock market with a general upward trend.

The next serious uptick was when I became pregnant. Remember in 2000 when the Dow slid from 13000 all the way to 9000 and then at 9000, there was some traction. That’s how I was. I gained a little in the first trimester and then form the second trimester, there was no looking back. I just kept growing larger and larger. My obstetrician and I would often laugh at the amount of weight I had put on. From then on, I pretty much bade goodbye to all my former clothes. There really was no going back, baby or no baby. This period of weight gain was akin to the irrational exuberance that Alan Greenspan touted through out his tenure. I had pretty much lost all rational thought, I was on the road and made some really poor choices in food – all in the name of a healthy baby.

Fast forward six years, yet another baby and yet another uptick. This time there was no serious damage done since I had Gestational diabetes and hence had to control my weight. This was the cautious investment phase. My poor mother in law, who hd come a-visiting, had to tone down her cooking since I barely could eat anything. All she wanted was to feed her sunbaai and I was pathetic enough to count the number of peanuts that I was eating. I think I pretty much survived on Ham and Swiss Cheese sandwiches for the last trimester or so.

But after the second baby I really have no excuse, my weight still trended upward. After seeing a couple of friends lose some serious weight, my husband and I decided to try some good choices in our food. So from that day onwards, starch was Enemy number 1 and vegetables, meat and salads were my best friends. We haven’t adhered to any one diet but it is just a general hodge podge of diets. It’s mostly my husband’s half baked ideas and long(really long) lectures. Trust me, the man can pontificate for ages on good foods vs bad and exercise vs no exercise. If you think my columns are long, you should hear a sermon by Nallu on the advantages of eating protein every day. Try to stay awake if you can – I dare you.

Anyway, it’s been a couple of months and I have slowly reduced my weight by a couple of pounds or so. And every time I climbed onto the weighing scale and saw that I’d gained back all I had lost, I felt the same sinking feeling you feel when your yahoo portfolio gives back all the gains from the prior week. I hate the weighing scale as much as my husband loves it. Nallu on the other had has lost weight at a rather rapid rate. Any place I go, it doesn’t matter if I went butt naked, I probably would not even get noticed. “Nallu, what has happened to you? Man you’ve lost some serious weight. Kya hua, biwi bahut bhaga rahi hai kya?”. Why do we wives get all the “credit”? I truly have no contribution to Nallu losing weight, he got there all by himself.

So anyway, Thank God weight fluctuations are not exactly like the stock market. I would definitely not want cyclicality in weight gain. So you lose some today and gain some tomorrow. I just want to lose weight once and for all. And that would be that. Back in College, our Economics Professor always said, that in Economics, especially in macro economics, if you collectively think gloom and doom, the economy will be doomed. It’s all about perspective. If you think the stock will fall, the stock will fall. If you think the economy will have negative growth, the economy will have negative growth. It sounded fantastic then but I’ve seen this in action and it really does hold true. It’s all commonsense at the end of the day. The irrational exuberance of 2000’s has now been converted to over conservative investors. The double digit gains in the housing market are now flat if not negative.

There is one parallel that I always wish were true of weight fluctuations. I wish I could just will myself to weight loss. If I think I am thin, I will be thin. Oh on! That never works with me, if I even think thin, I will be that much more hungry that day. So I’m hoping to lose a little more weight. And thanks to Nallu’s overbearing Nature, big bully that he is, he has bullied me, nagged me, scolded me, snatched food away from me and in general has been a royal pain in the you know where. But thanks to him, I have stayed the course and have at least not gained any weight in the past two months. A couple of folks at work have started Jenny Craig and yet a few have joined the Gym. I told them I had lost a few pounds and all they said was, “Really! It does not look like it.”. Little do they know that I have smuggled my weighing scale into the office today and am going to somehow find an opportunity to plonk it on their collective heads. Really, indeed.

The funny thing in this whole battle against weight is that I’m not even sure what weight target to strive for. Most people think that they would be on top of the world if they could get back to their pre pregnancy weight or if they were down to the weight back in 1980. Well, I’ve always been overweight for as long as I can remember, so what weight do I aspire to. Huh! It’s like I’m at the battlefield, and I have an army. Right, now who do I need to fight?

I think I am thin. I think I’m thin. I think I’m thin. I think I am thin. I think I’m thin. I think I’m thin…..

When all else fails, hope and prayer prevail….

A cross sectional study of a romance novel…fictional heroes vs real life heroes…

Author’s note: Some of you may find this article boring – well, read on my friends. Who knows, I may have football scores or cricketing averages or even a non-veg joke. Who knows. As Forrest Gump said, “Life is like a box of chocolates….” 

He takes her hand in his and looks into her eyes with an intensity that could burn one’s soul. She can see the love burning in his gaze and cannot hold back the love that is in her heart. “I love you”, she says, “I love you so much. More than the air I am breathing, more than  my own self”. He smiles at her and says, “I know. I love you too.” And together they hug, secure in the knowledge that they will always have their love for each other to keep them warm during cold dreary nights and a love that will grow strong with each passing season. Together at last. 

Yes, romantic fiction is absolutely that corny. You may think that I copied this stuff out of a book. No – I didn’t have to. I’ve been reading romantic fiction since I was fifteen. I’ve been at it for so long that I can sneeze this stuff out in my sleep. So no, I did not have to refer to a novel to write the above lines. Most romantic fiction novels end in a similar vein. My husband often wonders how I can read romantic fiction. There is a wafer thin plot in most instances. Girl meets boy, they marry and live happily ever after. There truly is no mystery about the final outcome – nah, they always marry in the end. And so his question, how can one read these books when one already knows how the end will pan out. He has a valid point but then how does a film like ‘Titanic’ become a blockbuster. It is not the end but how we get to the end that matters. To quote from a more recent example, Johnny Gaddar, the film all my friends are raving about. I personally thought the film was ok but according to a few of my friends, my husband included this is the best film ever. But getting back to my point, right at the beginning of the film, we see how the film will end but we still watch the movie to see how the story gets there.

A very wise man once said, happiness is found not at the end of the road but along the road. Similarly, no matter how predictable the end is, its how the main protagonists get to that end that matters. The plots may be wafer thin or extremely meandering but the living breathing characters that the authors conjure up are worth the read. I’m always fascinated by the male protagonists – they have such awesome qualities. They always are TDH (Please tell me you know what that acronym stands for. If not, where have you been all this time, Macha? TDH stands for Tall, Dark and Handsome), have always managed to accumulate wealth against all odds, are brilliant at everything they do, and yet are dumb enough to make some stupendous errors in judgment – all to make the plot move forward.  

The ending may be the same in every novel, but there are some other aspects that do change. The settings are slightly different. So romantic fiction can be divided into three broad categories in terms of time period, Contemporary, Victorian and Historical. In the contemporary novels, the female protagonist usually has a poultry farm or a book shop or an inn in a God forsaken village or other such “no prayer in the world of making any money” venture. The female in these novels at least has a backbone and so one can identify more with them. We still have some doormats that adorn these books but I am pleased to note that they are far and few in between. For the most part the female leads are extremely career oriented. Unfortunately for them, the male protagonist just happens to be richer and more successful. Oh well, who can complain about a rich dude who also wears his heart on his sleeve. Not me! 

Historical romance is usually the pre Victorian setting – so way before the women’s suffragette movement. The women here may still have a backbone but they have to be as devious and manipulative as Machiavelli himself to get the story moving. These books are full of historical facts and historical figures. If you heard of Castle Roslyn when the Da Vinci Code came out, you are way behind then. Most of my knowledge of English and Scottish history has been gleaned from these historical romances. 

Victorian novels are my favorite but that is not to say that some of the most annoying novels also come from this category. All the Barbara Cartland novels could give you a major headache. And the heroines of her novels are so badly typecast that they almost grate on your nerves. The Barbara Cartland heroines are true damsels in distress and most of them are also unfortunate enough to have an annoying proclivity towards stuttering by the end of the novel. The final few pages of all BC(Short for Barbara Cartland) novels were all full of dots. “I…………………..…..love…………………………….you”, stutters the female protagonist to the male protagonist with utmost regularity in every BC book. I…..think….I’ve…..just……….about……had…….it…..with…..this……book……..!!!! is my final stuttering thought when I’m done with a BC novel.

 I recently found one of the BC novels actually made into a movie – it is titled “The Devious Duke”, I think. Reading a BC novel is painful enough without having to sit through a one hour feature based on the book.  I found it at the West Windsor Library while I was perusing the Video Cassette bin during their many annual sales. The story was non existent and heroine was grating to say the least and then we come to the hero. Guess who played the devious Duke – none other than Hugh Grant. Can you imagine! The same guy who so brilliantly played the male lead in Notting Hill. The same very guy. Here he was supposed to be tall and muscular and he definitely did not fit the bill. Oh well, I guess he got very desperate to have agreed to the role.  

I was very happy with Enid Blyton’s and Three Investigators till I was fourteen or fifteen. Then one day I had my first crush and that was when romantic fiction made sense. Of  course in India (at least at that time), we had the nonsensical Mills and Boon novels. A more pathetic story line I have yet to read. But they were very popular then. Even within M&B’s you had the Doctor Nurse romance category, the secretary-boss romance category etc etc. I do remember one M&B that I enjoyed. I remember the name even after all these years – “The Duke wore jeans”. But for the most part they really were a ridiculous excuse of a book. 

I’ve been blessed to have made a love match. And there are days when I often wonder how come my hero never does what the heroes in the books do? If I sneeze, he’d make sure to get away from all the germs instead of handing me a tissue and asking me if I were ok. If I were to get a little emotional and dissolve into tears (yes I suffer from that malady), the hero form the romance novel would hold me tight and wait till I finished crying and following that he would hunt down a tissue to wipe my tears away. My husband on the other hand avoids me like the plague when I turn into a watering tap. And then I realize, the romance novel hero is a figment of the “female” author’s imagination. He has all the qualities that a female would love for a man to have. They really don’t exist except in someone’s imagination. That’s why it is called fiction I guess. 

But, by the same token, the men in our lives ain’t so bad. They pick up the slack when necessary. They watch the kids when the girls go out and play. They still take care of the garbage. And they will allow themselves to be dragged to watch a movie they don’t want to – all for us women. They cook for us, sometimes clean up for us and control that urge to burp/fart if need be. They may have their faults and all, but they still very much are our heroes. 

Remington Steele (season one) once said, “What is the point of a large tree falling to the ground in an isolated forest with no one nearby to hear the noise. The loud noise is almost like it never happened.” I think that is what this marriage and love business is all about. Bearing witness to the other person’s life. Caring enough to bear witness.  

A very philosophical Pillu.

What one can learn from a monkey…

Seriously, what can one learn from a monkey? I would think a lot. I personally have learnt much these past couple of months. The beauty of it is that I don’t even need to be in the physical presence of one to actually learn from it. I have learnt that the word monkey is somehow the eye of an international cricket storm/issue. It’s either monkeys who play cricket or all cricketers are monkeys, or maybe it is the spectators who are the monkeys. Who knows, I always get that part mixed up, and very intentionally too. J 

I come from a cricket frenzied nation. We’re not just crazy about cricket but we almost work ourselves in to a frenzy over a mere game. Just for this last statement, I have a feeling I will face a cricket fatwa from some of the members on this reader list. Whatever! All in all it is very amusing watching grown men and women (mostly men) become blathering idiots over a game. In India, Cricket is not just a game; it is our national sport, our favorite pastime. It is the one sport that sells cars, candy and cool drinks. I have often been accused of being unpatriotic all because I have not been able to drum up the necessary levels of enthusiasm when India plays a match. I’m sorry but I really don’t care. I don’t care if Anil Kumble takes a record 608(I may be off here) wickets or if he makes a test century. Seriously guys, grow up. It’s a game and some folks are interested and then there are some who just aren’t interested. 

I played a lot of sports growing up. Badminton and table tennis were a staple, Basket Ball was the sport for which I was handpicked for the school team – not because I was good at it but because I had the height for it. Apart from these sports, I have always taken an active interest in field and track events while in School. I also tried my hand at Kabbadi but then called it quits when I lost three buttons off my school shirt in one game. Time to move on to something with less physical contact. My Mom always complained how dirty our school uniforms got – well you should have seen our Basketball court – the D’s were basically hollowed out. The dirt from the Basket Ball court usually landed up on our shirts. A few too many hop, skip and jumps I guess!. 

I never excelled at sports, I was your average person who also enjoyed sports. Seeing me now, you may not know it but in school, I was actually sought out for most sporting events. I have a whole bunch of certificates to prove it too. And so despite having been active in sports and having participated in a variety of sports, I have never had the patience for Cricket. It always was too long to sit through. 15 minutes into the match and it is still the 2^nd ball of the 2^nd over – Oh My God! Another 18 overs(in most school matches each team played 10 overs each) and 4 balls to go. At this rate, life will totally pass me by. Even the grass takes less time to grow. 

To say that I’ve never been interested in the game of cricket would be an untruth. Yes, I’ve taken an interest in cricket now and then.  My first crush was on the Captain of the KV No 2, Pathankot Cricket Team. What is KV No 2, Pathankot, you ask. Well that was the name of our school. In fact apart from a few schools with distinguished names –   Bishop Scot, Staines High, Lawrence School, Fort William or St Josephs, most of the schools I attended had non descript names like KV No 1 Army, Deolali Cantt or KV BSF, Jodhpur. No fancy cricket teams in PKot.  So with stars in my eyes I sat through the first five overs of the inter-KV cricket match. We were playing an equally non descript team called KV No 1 – Airforce, Pathankot team. And it took an entire day for the game to trudge on and I was fast asleep by the end of the match. I was shaken awake when the girls around me were getting up to go home. I then found out we were well and soundly trounced, oh well, Airforce scores another one against the army. Was I interested in the match, ummmm no. I couldn’t care enough. But the cricket captain dude sure cared and so yes, I cared too. Well, love they say is completely blind and I definitely proved the point. 

The next time I was interested in the sport was when Imran Khan was the captain of the Pakistan team. Now, there was a dude. I think most girls my age at that time had a massive crush on the Pakistan Captain. Till then I couldn’t fathom how curly hair could look good on a guy. What better way to sell Godrej soap than to ask Imran Khan to endorse the product. I think I used that darn Cinthol soap for at least a couple of years before switching to Lux.  

I barely know cricketers by name, but please do not ask me what or how they look like. A few I know since they adorn the Page 3 columns. A few like Kapil Dev and Sunil Gavaskar – you have to know. I think everyone and their grandmas know them. I had to know a couple of sport facts since they always showed up ominously on all the General Knowledge tests and quizzes. What was the batting average of so and so, who was the man of the match of so and so match. Who knows and seriously who cared. I’d rather spend time learning if Benazir Bhutto was actually corrupt or not. Cricket averages indeed.  

More recently I am stuck between my husband and his obsession for cricket. He never misses a match if possible. He loves the game and can pore over statistics for days and days. His entire family is loony over the game. There are days when I get up in the morning to hear him talking to his business partner in Uk and they always first spend the first fifteen minutes discussing the current/last/up coming cricket match. And only then get down to talking shop. When some player hits a fundoo six, you can hear my husband reaching for the phone – why? To call another cricket fanatic and discuss the six. I have a friends circle full of cricket mad people, they can stay awake eth entire night for a match. That is called dedication. I’ve often been dragged to these all night games. I being me, always take a good romance novel to keep me company. 

And so coming back to the completely over hyped fiasco involving the word monkey or a gaali – whatever the case maybe. I finally got interested in Anil Kumble. Why you ask, well you have to hear my Husband speak about him in glowing terms. A living legend, the best thing to happen to Indian Cricket, the best captain India has ever had….the list goes on and on. I think CNN-IBN went so far as to call him Captain Courageous, OUCH! And so I just had to see this paragon of virtue and so I pored over the internet looking for him. He’s a decent looking dude – seems very down to earth. I have so far seen two interviews of him and I can say, he is very good at speaking his mind and doing it very diplomatically at that. He also has a very heavy South Indian accent and says embarrassing like my Dad does. And I think my Dad would like to remind me that he paid for the school that taught me English. J Point taken Dad. 

I think Mr Kumble’s interviews are fun to watch. And now try getting me to watch a cricket match with him in it – fat chance. No way Jose! I’d rather watch grass grow.