what price, philosoppy?

turned over a new leaf. getting crinkly around the edges.

the beauties in my stable

 

rushing down the stairs, i am met by a little salesman in company of a littler salesman, with a shared load of balloons, plastic toys and whistles.

both of them had abandoned their wares and were busy trying not to fall off from all the tip-toeing needed to ring the bell of the downstairs flat.

ever a sucker for wind-up toys and plastic vehicles, i spot these minuscule beauties among their stuff. it took a little persuasion to get the little salesmen to abandon the bell-ringing for some cut-throat commerce.


whatever they were expecting, it cannot have been a customer. after regarding me silently for a while, the elder businessman decided to clarify matters.
"you want this bike?"
"yes."
"you want to buy this?"
"yes, please. may i?"
"you want to give us money for this?"
"yes."
"and then you want to take the bike?"
"yes."

this was greeted in some silence. then, to the littler partner. "what should we take from her, fifteen rupees or ten rupees?"
"ten" came the decisive solution to the problem.


the exchange of the note was done in solemnity. both of them immediately lost all interest in me, and turned back to their previous occupation of trying to ring the doorbell stubbornly out of reach, and i was left to pick any one that i liked.

on my way back, there they were still.
i offered to buy one more bike.


"you want another one?"
"yes."

glances were exchanged.

the littler one this time;


"you want to give back the red one and take a green one?"
"no. i want to buy one more. a green one this time."

"you want to give us ten more rupees and take another one?"
"yes."

after the mandatory silent examination, they took the money and then ran up and down the stairs whooping, only stopping for a while to grab the apples that i offered.


and that is how the Red Bike and the Green Bike came to dwell on my bookshelf.


i wonder what the parents might have said to the enterprising salesmen on their return home. i keep thinking how kids as little as these two got sent out. i spend time exercising my considerable imagination on dire possibilities - a mother ill at home? i am wracked by guilt. i ought to have paid more.

a little death

why nice girls pick losers

Puppet making workshop tomorrow.

the kids are going to make rod puppets like the highly stylized wayang kulit puppets and will use them to stage a shadow puppetry show on stories from the ramayana or the mahabharata.

the scripts are in - one around sita's swayamvar and the other one on her abduction. we have such a fine sense for melodrama. even kids could unerringly go right to some of the most dramatic episodes from the great epic.

bits from the script for the play on Sita's Swayamvar;

narrator: janaka called all the princes to his court and declared a competition.

janaka: today i declare that who will lift the SHIVADHANUSH and string it will be declared the husband of my beautiful daughter.

narrator: many princes, demons, rakshasas tried to string it. but everyone failed. few were not even able to lift it. it was like nobody could lift or string it.

narrator: king janaka went to vishwamitra and told him something.

janaka: vishawamitra, would brave rama like to string the bow?

narrator: rama went to string the bow. he successfully stringed the bow. but soon the bow broke.

janaka: i announce rama my lovely daughter's husband. i am a happy man now.

soon rama and sita are married.

the end.

the end indeed, in more ways than one. poor girl.

:::

the entire idea of her swayamvar is so depressing - lovely princess, beloved daughter, all dewy eyed and innocent, the kohl in her eyes almost melting with the wait for the prince, landing the biggest chauvinist in the assembly. what would sita's fate have been, if she had but chosen a more ordinary man than the purushottam? definitely not the deified symbol of indian womanhood, but all the same, she could have been perfectly happy being wife and mother to an ordinary man and his ordinary kids.

following his shadow through dense woods and dusty roads, soft feet worn out on thorns and pebbles, sheltered complexion seared in noonday suns, rough cottons for the silks, flowers for the jewels...to what end? doubt and renunciation? to become the touchstone for a man's pride?

what waste.

i cant help being torn between sympathy and contempt for her.

i'd have taken ravan any day - good king, interesting parentage, skilled musician, good brother, brave warrior. plus, he must have really, really fancied her. helen of troy was more practical in these matters.

how stupid to have waited for him who led her through hardship and came for her not out of love, but out of a misplaced sense of bravado and affronted pride.

career crisis

i think i'l start a new phase in my life. the current one is getting jaded.

i have decided i'l be an agony aunt. not that i am not one already, but i have decided to go professional.

three life-altering years as an elementary teacher has taught me all i need to know about human nature. plus, quick thinking, decision making, personality analysis by just looking at the twitching of a nose or the flicker of an eyelid, pronouncing the final word and succintly summing up a situation are all now second nature. i am perfect agony aunt material.

i dont see how any self-respecting newspaper or magazine can get a better deal. on top of all my other qualifications for the job, i have one more. i can supply the question as well ! two for the price of one.

Q.

dear agony aunt,

i suspect my husband is having an affair. he comes back from work very late, and smiles at me! he also has the smell of another woman all over him. what should i do? should i just confront him that i am wise to his villany?

mrs. suspicious

A.

dear mrs. suspicious,

how can you be so certain that there is another woman involved? if it makes you feel any better (then again, it might not), it could be someone of an entirely different persuasion. anyway, why not look at the silver lining? atleast now he smells good when he comes back home.

summer

seasons change again, and we dont even notice it. the year wanes. winter is gone, but for the early morning fogs. the buzz of intoxicated bees fill the ear. the sun is warm on our faces in the morning.

the air is fragrant with the dense perfume of all the mango trees in bud. every gust of wind carpets the courtyard with showers of yellow neem leaves which crunch beneath our feet as we walk to and fro. ripe tamarind pods lie in spots of sweet-sour temptation.

everything sparkles with the promise of fruit and flowers. 

one twilight and loud birdcall

a stroll through scented, glazed, hazy twilight air. an everyday magic, a rare blessing.

"what is it that they are saying to each other? all of them talking all at once. arguing about where to go bug-hunting for dinner? i'm hungry, hungry, hungry. let's go eat, eat, eat. fast, fast, fast?"

"maybe not. maybe it is just the familiar family-sharing of conjugal trivialities. i-did-this, i-saw-this, i-ate-this, i-smelled-this, i-fled-from-this-huge-kite....look what i go through for you and the kids! do i get any appreciation?"

"haha. yes. perhaps. also then, the kids have been cawing their heads off all day, they really pick my brains, what do you care? you are off all day gallivanting! i am the one who is stuck with them the whole livelong day! and who gets to be the authoritarian villain? me, that's who! and who gets to be the savior who comes home with the bugs and ruins all the hard-enforced discipline? you!! that's who!! sometimes i think i should just up and fly and leave you and the blasted brood. oh, if only i had accepted that nice fellow who had been trying so hard to impress me in the spring. i had to go and pick you! and what do i get for all my sacrifices? for being a dutiful wife and mother? do i get any appreciation? no, no, no, no!!!"

"hmmm.., how they go on! they seem to be yelling their heads off."

"see that? fruit bats. this is a regular housing colony."

murder noir

the crow is such an elegant creature. black, sleek, the light of intelligence in their gleaming impenetrable eyes. all but gone from my city existance. i wonder why they all choose the peaks of individual, bare branches to perch on? what is it that they think about, sitting there, looking down at us going about our way? how futile, how hurried, how desperate our mad, noisy, dusty, rushing about must seem to them - creatures of wind and light and speed and grace...

i found some interesting bits about crows in popular culture, myth and superstition here and this is the squidoo page about crows in mythology.

i am glad i saw so many of them today. how did they end up becoming the cunning tricksters of my childhood tales? such lovely beings. if there is a life again, after this one fades, i wish to be a crow. 

is anyone listening?

thus hath the candle singed the moth

wandering away from the fireglow

every shifting swirl,a glimpse of you

the fog that fills my eye and dims my sight

the mouth of the precipice

too far have i travelled

is return but a dream?

maudlin' maudlin' maudlin'. my brain is fog-filled.no amout of 

shaking dislodges it.

kathalaya workshop

day one of the storytelling workshop by ms.geeta ramanujam from kathalaya. http://www.kathalaya.org
i am going to use a word i hate - eye-opening. well it was, so hang me. the face, voice, eyes all are such potent tools for weaving stories that captivate and hold a child's attention. it must have been this that mom must have known instinctively all those years back, when as a young mother, she was faced with a rambunctious bundle that demanded to be entertained every moment. i remember nothing of the plots of her stories, but the sense of being very close to a comforting presence and of being tricked into swallowing umpteen balls of rice just so that the story would go on. she could make up stories as she went, and had mastered the art of stopping a story at just the point where the suspense got too much to bear. this is where she would wheedle in one more ball of rice, and i would gulp it down to speed the story along. i remember that after bro n i were a bit more grown up, we would demand to be told stories of trutles that ate moong. dont ask me why turtles, and why ones that did something so unnatural as eat moong. i'v no idea. perhaps kids are just ornery for the fun of it.
anyway,

i cant wait to have my own kids. i'l try eveything i learnt here on them. after all the effort i go through to make them, they better well like it.

empty nest

last day of school. the kids left today. the girls were in tears. they will always remain special - and to think that i had thought last year that they were the special-most batch that i shall ever teach. now i feel the same about this batch as well.....that no one shall be so special.

the senior section's galaxian tonight. going to wear a sari. the bro is going bonkers with glee making dire predictions about how i shall look like a toothpick with a ribbon around it.

PMS

to parody the lycra ad, i have got it, have you?
i call it misery. mom calls it 'showing your true colours'.

The season of mellow fruitfulness

I leave the place for a few days, and entire seasons change! It was summer when I left, it is autumn now.

Orange season.

Leaves are dropping with every breath of wind from the neem trees in a steady golden shower, carpeting the tiled walkway. Some of them fall onto the still waters of the fountain in the courtyard, and slowly sink to the bottom, flecking the pool with yellow and gold.
It is lovely, to be alone here, and to stand in the steady fall of happy, free bits of yellow.
A squirrell runs down a tree and stays for a while, before running up another. It does not mind me there. Does not mind me humming below my breath, softly. Happiness is made of moments such as this.

Sudden Showers

It rained today. Sudden.
The gulmohur tree below my window looks happy, newly washed. The smell of wet earth rises up as I sit on my balcony with a cup of coffee and my book. I forget to read after a while. I watch the sunset after a long time and sit there till it grows dark and grandma calls me in for dinner.

The Day After Pill

Everyone all tired out and droopy-eyed, so all of us unanimously decided to watch a movie, and not study at all today, in the interests of our sanity. Saw Bebe. I love that pig.
Diwali vacations from tomorrow till the 19th. I’ll miss the kids. Got some greeting cards made on note-paper with “Happy Diwali ma’m” on them. The thought counts, yeah, it does.

Himalay met me on the way to the bus. Turns out he is making what he optimistically calls ‘bookmarks’ to sell to all and sundry, collect the cash, and donate it to lesser privileged kids this Diwali. He is also giving up his pocket money for the good cause. I bought the four remaining ones he had left. A kid with a conscience – one of the many reasons I just love this little bat-child of mine.

Going to A’bd tomorrow to see Ms. Sethi about the next term’s planning. I’m doing a bit too much of traveling lately. Living out of a suitcase and all that. They’ll be calling me Pegasus the Winged Horse if this continues much longer.

A Room With a View (and a toilet that flushes)

Bhuj is a lovely city. Dusty, colourful.

The lake in the middle of the city shines and sparkles and dances in the sunlight. Our hotel Lakeview has a lovely view of the lake from all its windows.
We reached Bhuj around 10:30, allotted rooms to the kids, got them all washed, combed and freshened up and down in the dining hall by 12:00. That’s record time.
No one complained, threw up, demanded ketchup or threatened to starve during lunch. A long bus trip is the best appetizer.

After lunch, we went for a spin around the lake. No visit to any place in Gujarat is complete without a visit to a local temple - permanent fixture on any itinery. We did not go against custom. I particularly wanted the Gods on my side for this trip.


We then took the kids to the park next to the hotel, and they all attacked the monkey bars and slides with all the pent-up energy of seven hours of relative inaction. I wonder where they get all this energy from. After all that travel, I just wanted to curl up and die in peace somewhere. Teesta climbed up one of those contraptions which has a rope ladder at one end and a step ladder at the other, with a platform on top, and could not get down for a good 15 minutes. The guys all surrounded her from all sides, and would not let her climb down. Revenge for all the times she smart alecks them in class, I think.

Rhythm showed off spectacularly doing the most daredevilish things like hanging upside down from puke-inducing heights and crossing the monkey bars at one go, repeatedly. Stuti and I spent some time speculating who among the young ladies in the audience was the intended target audience for this circus. He has a huge soft corner for both of us, and now we think Teesta may be the one to grace the third unoccupied chamber of his heart. Hmmm…..gives one furiously to think, like Poirot used to say. Will
have to do some serious detective work once we are back.





Back at the hotel, all of us spent the next 20 minutes rushing around like our pants were on fire, trying to get ready to start for Dholavira as soon as we could, so that we could reach the site by 4:00p.m., when we get news that the routes are closed down for repairs again. We’ll have to reschedule the trip to tomorrow early morning 4:00. That means waking up at 3:30.

We got to visit the still-spectacular 18th century palace Aina Mahal, which was considerably ruined in the earthquake that rocked the state.




Not even Gaia could hurt the beauty of the walls so beautifully built, the latticed windows from where queens might once have peeped out, the pillars with dragons and hibiscus flowers carved on them, the grand durbar hall, the huge mirrors….. the kids were a bit disgusted with all the stuffed heads on the walls - tigers, antelope, lions, lynx, even a hippo! Those princes were something!

The museum next door had a lovely portrait, a miniature, of Mastani. When Stuti and I were exclaiming over the oval perfection of her face, Ashita (who can say the darnedest things at the darnedest times) announced aloud for all to hear, “but she is not wearing proper clothes” driving the boys hanging around us many shades of red brighter. (Well, truth be told, the costume was a tad too transparent. Probably fashionable harem attire.) Poor Rhythm, he was trying his debonair, man-about-town act. He did not deserve such mortification. We could not help laughing.
The museum has very interesting old photographs. There was this picture of Lord and Lady Mountbatten taken when he was in Burma.

That evening, after a shopping trip, ice creams and dinner, we let the kids play for an hour before bedtime. All 30 of them ran about whooping and yelling their heads off. The other guests put their heads out of their windows to see what the commotion was about. Just my kind of game. Anything that requires one to yell at the top of one’s voice and run about at top speed is my kind of game. I would have joined in, dignity be damned, if Stuti had agreed to play too. Still, just sitting about watching people bump into plants, fall over chairs and call each other names was grand entertainment as well, so no complaints.

The Maachi Game:

Teesta suggested a new game, one invented by Nirman when they were in the fourth grade. Rather interesting. It goes like this – the person who gives the ‘den’ has to go about like a zombie with his hands outstretched saying “maachi, maachi…” till he touches someone. Then both of them do it, and so on till everyone is touched with the maachi. What makes me like this game so much is the sheer inventiveness of it. One can substitute maachi with whatever disgusting thing one can think of, say “charak” or “podhro”.

I’m planning to suggest to The Gang that we play this the next time we meet, in place of the tame Antaksharis and Dumb Charades we normally play.

For the uninitiated:
Maachi – fish
Charak – bird shit
Podhro – cowdung

Oh I know, I know. But the best kind of humour one gets from 11 year olds is sparkling toilet humour. The best kind. Actually, the only kind. I’m resigned to it now. That old saw about ‘if you can’t beat ‘em….’

The Ten Commandments.

thy shalt not give in. conquer, cajole, career around rejection. break down barriers. make the stone-hearted sing.

thou shalt say i art the light of thy life. thy joy, thy pride. thy weakness, thy strength. thou shalt keep saying it again, and again, and again.

thou shalt love my burnt toast and my bitter coffee. thou shalt not call my rasam bland.

thou shat walk with me in the rain, splash through puddles, ruminate, star-gaze, doodle, smile in the darkness.

thou shalt not make me wait. waiting is an endless pain, an unfinished book, a half-smile.

thou shalt lift me up and carry me about. thy arms wilt be mine cage, locomotion, refuge, sanctuary.

thou shalt sing me racuous melodies. read me gibran, the songs of solomon. croon careless whisper, every move you make.

thou shalt not find govinda movies funny. thou shalt love gulmohars, golden showers, the smell of old books.

thou shalt wander the world with me. inhabit the realm of mists and high mountains, never ending plains, old bookshops, streetside musicians, grassy knolls, hillsides.

more than anything, thou shalt be a goof. let thy silliness wash away my morose broodings. be the silver lining.