Resolution Round-about

Sorry to the people who commented on American Blue, but I suddenly realised that some family do have the link to this blog, so I created a private blog and moved the post there. It has just that one post for now, but I intend to use it more often especially when I want to rant.
If any of you want to read that, please send me your email addresses and I'll send you an invite. This seems like a perfect solution to my Invite or Not to invite issue. A kind of round-about way of doing this, but it's the only solution on offer for now. I wish Blogger soon decides to introduce the Private Post feature that Wordpress has.

Plain talking

Dear angst-ridden blog friend,

I have been occasionally following your blog. You write well. It's been a pleasure to read your blog. Until recently when I noticed a lot of posts that I don't agree with. They relate to your resentment that your parents have not accepted your relationship with your partner. I have been waiting for you to get over this reform-the-parents fixation for a while now.

It is none of my business but when I see the scores of people who are so sympathising with you and keeping their fingers crossed that your parents will fall in love with your mate soon, I feel compelled to write this post.

Not that you should not rant on your blog. You should. But always remember that your readers in the blogosphere are always so willing to extend sympathy to any well written whine, no matter how irrational, that before you know it, you will become convinced that you have a genuine case. (The 'you' in this paragraph is used more in the universal sense, not you in particular).

So I wanted to just give you (this is you in particular) a different perspective of your situation. I have no sympathy for you and I don't believe that your parents are wrong for not accepting your mate unreservedly and not being ecstatic over your relationship. You have parents that love you (even if they aren't pleased with your mate), a great job, a supportive and caring mate. Just why am I supposed to feel sorry for you?

While I agree that it would be great to have your parents love your mate, I also believe your parents have the right to not fall all over themselves, and you both, in excitement.

I am happy you found love. Love that you find so comforting and love that you believe will be enduring. But I also do not know you and your mate, need not have you guys over for dinner, introduce you both to my social circle, look after any potential kids you may have. Your parents have to do all of the above. At least.

As long as you expect them to take your partner into their fold and play a role (as grandparent, perhaps) as a result of your relationship, you should probably also realise that they are entitled to have an opinion on the subject. And you should probably also realise that this opinion may not match yours.

What you should be doing (if you're a mature, secure person) is to let them know you are in a relationship (so they're not spending time matchmaking). Leave it at that. Let them have their own opinions about your partner. If you feel touchy about them making mean comments, tell them you don't want to hear their opinions. That's the best you can do.

Why would you try to control or form their opinions? Why do you want them to love and accept your mate into their family? Don't you think you are being unreasonable here? You throw your mate at their face and ask them to be as fascinated, as in love with your mate as you yourself are. Isn't that weird? Aren't they entitled to an opinion of their own?

If you want to have a mate of your choice, make a family of your own. Have the same relationship with your folks as you always did (unless they hate the mate so much that they don't want to see your face either). You have a parental family. Your mate has a parental family. Stick with your groups. Expecting his/her folks to love you and your folks to love him/her is silly.

Why can't you be a couple and still have separate friends and separate families? I don't see any specific benefit in making yourself, your mate and your folks unhappy because they don't like your mate. And you've been unhappy long enough, don't you think? What an unreasonable thing to be so worked up about!

So your folks don't like your mate. Big deal! So their dislike is not justified. What dislike ever is? They are being politically incorrect. Let them! They are being old fashioned. So what? Fifty years ago, you would have been the one in the wrong. Fifty years hence perhaps you will be the one in the wrong. So you just happen to be right today. 'The right thing' is not time-proof. Just keep loving your mate, stop pressurising your folks and get on with your life.

With apologies for bringing a little proportion into your pity party
Careless

Dark Waters

On the days when the maid takes off, Ken is responsible for washing up his lunch-box and spoon after he gets back from school. He loves the whole process.

He ends up using about half my Vim bar and most of my dishwash liquid on the little lunch-box, but I console myself that he's learning to take care of his own stuff and that's a BIG lesson. And he's very thorough about his lunch box. And when he's done, he shows me the box and says it shines “Ting Tshuk!” (the sound of 'squeaky clean' from some TV ad).

Today, unfortunately, the maid didn't come. So he goes into the kitchen. It's 10 minutes and no sign of the child. I know that if I let him stay there, there will be no Pril, or Vim left in the kitchen, so I call him. I suddenly hear the sound of rushing water. I mean it sounds like a dam or a waterfall. “Ken! Why are you letting the tap run this way? Don't waste water!" The kitchen door opens and out comes Ken, drenched. "Mummy come right now!"

I rush to the kitchen to be met by a surge of water. The tap of the kitchen sink is broken; water is spurting everywhere. Memories of the bathroom pipe come to mind.

The Little K, who was almost asleep, wakes up fully and begins to giggle with glee. She loves water. She tries to catch the water, but is intimidated by the speed.

The mate is at work, so I call the apartment's plumber. He's on leave. The manager promises to send someone. I call the spouse. He advices me to plug the pipe with something. The watchman who is in charge of the apartment tank comes by about 10 minutes later. By now, both kids are drenched and giggling. I try hard to keep order, but it's hard when I'm giggling too. I try to change their clothes and the Little K thinks it's great fun to go get her dry clothes wet again.

I put on my my flip flops which are supposed to have some vacuum technology so they don't slip on wet floors. Every time I move, the suction thingy on the soles of my flip flops make a desperate squeaky noise like a mouse in trap. The kids burst into giggles again and so do I. It is weird. I take them off in an effort to regain some control and dignity. “Please put them on, Mummy. Make the funny noises,” begs Ken as if he's watching a clown.

The watchman arrives, reviews the situation and then observes that all the water from the common water tank would have been finished now because of the broken pipe. “I'll be back soon,” he says. By now I locate a valve and close it; water flow has reduced a little. I call the spouse again. He now advices me to take a big towel and hang it in front of the pipe because water will at least fall into the sink instead of showering my kitchen.

I first change both the Ks clothes again when there's another sound like the Niagara. I rush to the kitchen and find that water is gushing even more fiercely from the broken pipe. I figure that the watchman has – in his questionable wisdom – filled the apartment's water tank again.

Water is rushing out at about 10 litres per second and before I can get my breath, there's water seeping out of the bathroom and into the drawing room, and the bedrooms. It's like a horror flick. The Ks come running out and fall once more in the water, soaking themselves - again. I am wet through. I get Ken to salvage whatever he can from the wreck. “Put everything up in the sofas or the beds,” I advice. While he's at it, I call the manager in panic.

“Tell the watchman to close the main tank's valve. We have a terrible leak here.”

“I know madam. You see, the plumber is not here.”

“Yes but opening the main tank's valve is increasing the pressure. There's so much water everywhere.”

“Don't worry madam. I'll send the watchman.”

“He came here already. Tell him to close the main valve.”

“Yes madam. He has gone to open the main valve. When he comes downstairs, I will
tell him to come to your house.”

“CLOSE THE MAIN VALVE.”

“Yes madam. He is not a technical person, you see. He will see what to do.”

“CLOSE THE MAIN VALVE. MY HOUSE IS FLOODING.”

“You don't worry madam. He will come. But you will have to adjust till tomorrow you see. The plumber will be here at 11 tomorrow morning.”

“CLOSE THE MAIN VALVE. MY HOUSE IS FLOODING. I HAVE LITTLE CHILDREN!!!!”

“How can we close the main valve madam? We always open it at 4 'o' clock. We have to supply water to the apartment, you see. It's the rules.”

I bang the phone down. This is exactly the sort of thing that happens when ex-government employees take up post-retirement jobs as apartment managers. During this entire conversation, the kids are having a ball, treating the floor like a skating rink. Even Kaavya's ultra-absorbent diapers are dripping.

I call the spouse again. He listens as I rave and rant and end up in a fit of sobs and giggles combined. The man is on his way home. He knows Hyderabad well enough to realise that nothing will get done till he does it himself.

I herd the kids into the bedroom, change them into dry clothes again, command them to sit quietly and read on the bed, try to tie anything I can get my hands on (which happens to be Ken's shorts) to the pipe to control the flow. Then, I get out the wiper and begin the daunting task of getting the ankle high water out of my house.

The bell rings and the watchman is there. He looks at the water, takes in the situation at a glance and rushes back upstairs to close the valve. In 10 minutes more, the water is flowing steadily into the sink and after a little more work, most of the the water is out of the drawing room and the kitchen.

I go to change my dress and Ken takes this opportunity to help me, by (a) pushing all the water from his room and my bedroom into the drawing room (which I have just cleaned out), instead of intothe bathroom which is on the way, and (b) breaking my wiper.

I go to the kitchen, make myself a cup of coffee and settle down on top of the cushions and blankets piled on top of the sofa, too exhausted even to scream at him. The coffee refreshes me, but the sight of him amuses me. He is struggling to set matters right by sweeping out the water with an old broom, trying to gather the sticks which are dropping off the broom and floating in the water, running after the stray sticks and falling butt-first into the water, getting the water onto the walls and into corners which were not even damp before. It sends me into another fit of giggles.

A few minutes later, the mate arrives, fixes everything and I realise all over again one of the reasons why I adore him. I love fix-it-ness in men.

Question their skills, not their judgement

One of the things that really annoys me about movie reviews is when reviewers not only trash the movie but also question the judgement that actors show in accepting the role they played. As in, “I can't understand why X agreed to play this role,” or “Why does Y choose to act in such loser films?” Of course the critic's job may include criticizing the acting skills or the role itself. But they are going beyond their mandate when they make derogatory comments such as, “And X again reprises those dumb stupid roles that she's rapidly becoming famous for. Why does she keep doing the same kind of roles all the time!".

Before they question an actor's judgement in taking a role, they should probably realise that like themselves, the actors also have financial commitments and sometimes need to do silly stuff for the money. How we all wish we could only work with the best teams, be genuinely proud of the work we are associated with and be so much in demand that we can pick and choose our projects. Don't reviewers themselves work at jobs which require them to watch films that they'd rather not watch, or read books which they can't stand? How many journalists have interviewed only people that they genuinely respect? How many journalists have only filed stories that they honestly agree with? Haven't they ever adjusted their article so that some fussy interviewee (aka big advertiser/celebrity) gets more space or a better placement than others interviewed for the same article?

Before they begin to question the motives and intelligence of actors, they should perhaps look at themselves. Acting is, after all, a job. The reality is that actors – unless they are really well established – cannot wait for ever before they come across a script and a role that they really believe in and would be proud to portray. Even after they get a couple of good roles, there is no sense in waiting (on loss of pay) till every role they accept is equally strong or path-breaking. Just as a reviewer cannot wait for a really mind-blowing film to come along before he writes a review.

Work sucks, as much for the actor as it does for the reviewer. Sometimes more. If I were a struggling or an out-of-work actor and needed to put the roti on the table, I would play a dumb blonde if someone is willing to pay me 50 grand for it. I wouldn't wait for Mira Nair or Deepa Mehta to make a film and then play a role as a strong, sensible woman in it.

If you've decided to take up your cross and make a living as an actor, you have to catch the attention of the public, as well as of people who want to cast you for roles in their good films. And of course if you're lucky, you may end up with a good director, script, story and role – every time. What if you're not? Will you choose to sit down and warm yourself by the fire till a film with the combination of all of the above comes along? Of course, by then the media will write you off as a wannabe with no offers. And laugh as your pretensions to acting.

And having family in the film world does not seem to help all that much either. TOI ran an article on how people in Bollywood are literally a big family. Fardeen Khan and his obnoxious brother Zayed are related to Hrithik, Mohit Suri is related to the Bhatts and Emran Hashmi, Shaheen is related to Saira Banu, Mohnish Behl is son of Nutan and cousin of Kajol & Rani. Despite such influential connections, none of them have done path-breaking roles. So even being in the family can't get you good films or good roles. Add to that equation, models, beauty pageant or talent-hunt winners all taking a shot at acting. You simply have to grab what you get. Just like the rest of us.

In the middle of all that competition, with about at least 80 percent of the films flopping, not all actors can choose to play significant parts in the rest of the 20 percent that are hits. And it's not always because they are bad actors. Not many would have expected that after about a decade of insignificant roles or forgettable films, Vikram would give 3-4 superhit films back to back. He didn't suddenly become a great actor when he played Sethu.

The same applies to actor Surya who only shot into prominence after Nandha and Kaakha Kaakha, though he'd been acting for about 5 years previously. And I'd be surprised if anyone had predicted that of all people, actor Dhanush's first 3 films would be hits. Look at Priya Mani. Apart from Paruthi Veeran and Thirakatha, where she gave clearly proved her mettle as a good actress, she's been playing pretty insignificant characters – even in lead roles.

Don't reviewers realise that when they sign a film, actors really can't tell what the end product will look like? What if there's a great role and a great story and it's spoiled by bad direction or dialogues. Look at Kareena in Khushi to see her transform into Jyothika under S J Suryah's direction. In Khushi, Kareena replicates the slightly demented expressions and the exaggerated effervescence that plagued Jyothika's acting (until in Kaakha Kaakha, she suddenly discovered the secret of underplaying).

Fabulous dialogues and great songs were what made the regular boy-meets-girl Jab We Met a runaway hit. It could have been so easily spoiled. And then the actors would end up looking like idiots. Geet would be the sterotypical hyper-bubbly Bollywood child-woman types. And Aditya would have been a non-entity. It took Imtiaz Ali's mastery to stop vivacious Geet from becoming over-the-top Khushi.

All of this is best expressed in Ego's review of Gusteau's in Ratatouille.

“In many ways the work of a critic is easy. We risk very little, yet enjoy a position over those who offer up their work and their selves to our judgement. We thrive on negative criticism which is fun to write and to read. But, the bitter truth we critics must face is that, in the grand scheme of things... the average piece of junk is probably more meaningful than our criticism designating it so. But there are times when the critic truly risks something... and that is in the discovery and the defence of the new. The world is often unkind to new talent, new creations. The new needs friends.”

And before reviewers (and every Tom Dick and Harry who pays 120 bucks to watch a movie) questions the judgement and choice of films that actors make, perhaps they will be so kind as to remember this. As an afterthought, I'd like to add that I am in no way connected to any actors, celebrities nor do I have any connection with the film industry. This is just a regular person's disinterested POV. I have no agenda, except perhaps to make people think before they trash.

The apartment chastity belt

For the second time in the last six months my maid has been asked to leave her house in under 24 hours notice. To me this is terribly disturbing at a number of levels. Before I explain why, let me start at the beginning. A number of rooms have been built in the basement of our apartment complex to serve as 'servant quarters'.

Around 60-70 families live in these 200 square feet single rooms in the rat-infested basement, and share four bathrooms, four taps and have no power backup facility. It's a regular slum down there; when it rains, water flows into the rooms drenching everything.

The people who live there work as maids, nannies, drivers and office boys with the families in the apartments. Besides water seepage and cracks on the walls, these people-below-stairs (as the British put it) have flimsy doors and live with the realities of eternal cramping.

In one of these rooms lives Latha - who works as a maid in three households in the complex, her husband – who works as a driver for one of the “sahibs upstairs,” her two school-going children (aged 9 and 5) and one of her younger sisters. One or the other of her three other younger sisters and their families stay over for deliveries, hospital treatments and festivals. Latha, the eldest child, has lived here since her mother found work here and moved to Hyderabad with her daughters; Latha was barely 6 then. Ten years later, she fell in love with her Bihari husband and married him. It's been 10 years now and she describes her life as “happy and successful.”

In these rooms downstairs, as everywhere else in this moral nation of ours, live a number of regressed hormone-ridden men, who look at any and all women as easy prey. A couple of them make passes at the women upstairs as well, so it won't be hard to imagine how relentlessly they pursue the women who have the misfortune to live nearer them.

Four months ago, frustrated by the lack of response – or rather the standard Indian "chappal response" - from some of the women, three of these perverts levelled soliciting allegations against the women. All eight women had the bad taste to prefer other men (husbands/boyfriends) over these letches.

The manager of the complex along with flat association members a notice to the relevant flat owners asking them to evict the maids and their families within 24 hours. Scared that they would meet with the same fate, other women joined the unfortunate eight who'd been asked to leave and petitioned the sahibs. An actual enquiry was conducted, it was discovered that there was no proof of the allegations and the women were "allowed" to stay. So were the men who levelled the charges.

Last month, another Bihari man staying 'downstairs' who is apparently was enamoured by Latha (she is pretty) got the chappal treatment from her. Last week, he accused her of pursuing him. The whole drama was played out again. Notices were sent to flat owners and the woman was asked to leave. The sahibs didn't have time to discuss the minor issue of a "fallen woman," (they needed to talk about the lawn and the new benches), so Latha was peremptorily asked to go.

Of course, the crowd rose up in her defence and the exasperated sahibs (who clearly had so much more important work than settling these petty squabbles of "these low class people") asked her husband for a written statement, reiterating his trust in her fidelity. The owner of the flat connected with the room she stays in, was also asked for a conduct certificate. (She doesn't stay in the room attached to my flat, though I have offered.) She gave her the letter with a severe warning against getting into silly fights with her neighbours. What did she expect? That Latha should welcome her horny neighbours' advances to keep the peace?

Anyway, this uncovers the fragility of the lifestyle of economically disadvantaged. Though with a collective income of 7,000 per month, Latha's family probably make much more than the average BPL family. But this incident seems wrong at so many levels. First, it assumes that the sahibs have the right to play panchayat in such disputes.

Second, the offhand eviction orders with 24 hour notice to a woman just seems so wrong. Apart from the trouble of finding alternate housing, rents, advances, schooling, it also takes away their jobs because they are declared unfit to be near our morally irreproachable apartment complex.

I am even more uncomfortable with the idea that any moral misdemeanour strips a woman of the right to live in our complex. Downstairs, I mean. The rest of us can have male visitors and dress any which way and still stay on as long as we pay the rent and don't wake up the neighbours with the late night parties.

Forget that the allegation were false and they were not even investigated; I am more worried that such allegations justify eviction notices. “She has a man (not husband) visiting her at all hours!” “Oh my, Throw her out!” As long as she's not doing anything illegal and has a job at one of the flats upstairs, shouldn't that be enough to justify that 150 sq ft space she gets downstairs?

Even more disturbing is the idea that she needs a moral certificate from “her man” and her employer to be considered eligible to live on there. No action – in both cases was taken on the men who made the false allegations. Either you accept them as false and throw the men out or accept them as true and admit that you're letting the women stay despite their extra-curricular activities. This band-aid solution of conduct certificates is just so wrong. Latha and her family have heaved a sigh of relief and moved on. To me, nothing is ever settled until it is settled right. Now poverty has joined madness and mobs as the things I fear most in this world.

Those villainous journalists

The kurta-clad, bespectacled, benign-looking, principled journalist used to be a fixture in many Indian films of the past – especially in films dealing with social reform. He – and sometimes his family – was usually killed at some point in the film as well, spurring on the hero's quest. Sadly the media is no longer the good angel in films. I don't know whether this represents a breakdown in the general perception about the integrity of the media or whether it is Bollywood's revenge against the paparazzi.

At any rate, instead of being the embodiment of righteousness and goodness, the media has now been reinvented as the new villain of cinema, especially Hindi cinema. Many major films in the recent past have portrayed journalists as the villain of choice. One of the earliest films in this genre is the notorious Page 3. Starring Konkana Sen as a dissillusioned Page 3 journalist who moves to the crime beat, uncovers a celebrity paedophile network only to have it swept under the carpet by the editor under pressure from advertisers, it showed to some degree the muck into which modern journalism has sunk – becoming a voice for corporates and politicians.

Showbiz, the 2007 film about a voice talent show winner who goes on to make his own album, also casts the paparazzi as villains. The scene where his car crashes while fleeing from the media with his sister and the cameraman unbutton the injured girl's top for a hot picture, is disturbing to watch.

Halla Bol, where the media sways this way and that – once celebrating the protagonist in his shallow manipulative superstar image and then attacking him when he takes a stand on a social issue – is yet another case of media villainy in Bollywood.

Of course, the one that really takes the cake was Mission Istaanbul which had a news channel running its own terrorist network and martyring its leading journalists to generate news. The idea – suggestive of a hyper-imaginative scriptwriter – was made even more incongruous by the styling of the channel chief (also the chief villain), who wore colourful suits, appalling ties and what looked like super-sized gerberas and chrysanthemums in his buttonhole.

I remember this motif (villianous journos, not gerbera-sporting ones) flowing through a number of other recent films as well, though I can't remember most of them. As a former journalist myself, there is a secret sense of mortification when I watch these films because some of this has its roots in truth.

I still remember approaching a magazine known for its bold stories with the idea for an article about the pathetic conditions of divorce courts – the lack of facilities, the bad treatment, the long drawn and torturous process. “Oh we ran a rape story just recently, so the circulation is going well. We'll think about it a little later. We'll do the exploitative angle.”

I've heard about publications running supposedly women-centric rape, incest and sex worker stories just to boost publication and pander to the public that wants to know the intimate details allegedly to fume but secretly to get off on them. But seeing the principle in action was a bit too much. So when people ask me if I regret my choice to not pursue a career where I could make a difference, I look shamefaced and mutter excuses.

But at least, journalists in films today have the honour of being killed quickly and painlessly by the hero rather than painfully and tortuously by the villain. So that, to an extent should reconcile them on their removal from the side of the good guys to that of the bad guys.

The trouble with great minds

Ritu Beri has started a new line for kids. I was horribly upset when I heard this. Because a baby boutique was my entrepreneurial dream. Or rather one of my entrepreneurial dreams. Over the years I've thought of loads of things that I want to do but have been too bone lazy to do any of them.

First, when I worked in journalism, I noticed that the demand for content spikes around festivals or special occasions (e.g: every paper and magazine worth its ink has a Diwali or Akshya Tritya special supplement). And they don't get quality content. On the other hand, are people with a turn for writing who can't take it up as a full-time job.

So I decided to start a content database online with freelancers submitting their work with a blurb. Prospective customers could read the blurb and a sample paragraph and purchase the rest of the article. Considering that many of the articles are static (History of Christmas, Brighten your home with rangolis this Holi.. you know the type), this seemed a great idea to get connect good writers and content-hungry publishers. Admit it, it's a great idea. But I didn't do it. It's still sitting in the back burner - with the gas switched off :).

Then, inspired by the trouble I had with juggling work and Ken's weird daycare timings, I wanted to start a 24 hour childcare center. I wanted flexible programs where parents could simply extend the hours or drop off the kids when they went for a dinner or a meeting or a nightshift. I planned on an online streaming thingy where parents could log into a secure website and check on their kids during the day. I discussed and thrashed it out with my friends. So many agreed it was a great idea, I was too bone lazy to make a start. Now someone else has started one just like that.

Then I went to Coorg on vacation and had another brilliant idea. Buy some land along with other members of the “less coven”, build 4 small cottages (real cottages, not bungalows that call themselves cottages). Each of us would name and do up our own cottage as we liked and we'd rent it out to people who wanted to stay there for short stays – weekends or a few months types. Especially artist/writer types who wanted to get away to be in peace. We planned a small hall with a kitchenette downstairs and a bedroom upstairs (with a slanting roof like this one, mind you!). Of course, the idea simmered and simmered and I kept putting it off. A few months ago, I read a newspaper article about a group of male software engineers who did exactly the same thing in Munnar or somewhere. It's a huge success. But it's very annoying.

Then, one day as I was shopping at Hyderabad Central, and looking at women coming out of trial rooms in clothes that completely didn't suit them, I decided that I wanted to start a makeover consultancy. And not that these are ugly women. (There are no ugly people :) ) They just pick bad clothes and bad makeup. When you're young, it's almost impossible to be ugly if you dress right. Skin and glow and God knows what else is already on your side. And if you're older, you can look elegant and nice, even if you can't be gorgeous. Very often, elegant and nice is gorgeous. I kept thinking I should meet the people in charge at Hyderabad Central and offer my services because it made sense to start with a store of that sort, initially. Then I thought that maybe I should put in an ad to see if I have any takers. But then, as usual I didn't get started. Now Shoppers Stop in Hyderabad had introduced a personal shopper service. It's just a service that makes sense, it's a natural extension of an apparel store. It wasn't like I was thinking anything specially cutting edge, so I took that in my stride.

Then I wanted to marry the cooking skills of people with time and the demand for home cooked food and start a website where people could order food and interested others could supply on a small scale. Suddenly the whole range of regional home cooked food is thrown open. You want kachiya more and thenga chammandi? You want aloo baingan and wadi-mutter thehri? Just ask and it's delivered. Of course, just thinking about the mechanics of finding deli guys and other cooks who wanted to participate and having a control over quality was scary. Especially in Hyderabad where service sucks and is, as the mate says, “reliably unreliable.” So I sat on it and recently found just such a website in operation in Hyderabad already (Sorry, I forgot the name. It started with “v” though). Anyways, I checked out the menu and it was no different from restaurant stuff, so I didn't see much point in having home cooked food if it's a restaurant type menu. So I'm not overly jealous about that. See! I'm not overly jealous about all my business ideas – just a few.

When I got pregnant, I saw how hard it was to get right sized clothes for newborns and how hideous most newborn pics looked because of the oversized clothes, and I decided that I wanted to start a baby boutique. I mean our babies are not 4 kgs. The average birth weight of Indian babies is 2-3 kgs. And worse, there's nothing out there for preemies. Apart from the fact that when newborns have their first pics taken, they are usually squint eyed, and blotchy and have cradle cap and terrible hair, they also wear clothes that are three sizes too big for them. I am doing everyone a favour here.

And while we're on kids clothes, what is it with Indian babies and special occasion clothes? Baptisms and naming ceremonies? All fancy baby clothes are only available for babies 1 and a ½ years and up (if then). Aren't there folks like me who like their younger babies dressed traditionally for Indian festivals? I remember sewing Kaavya's first Diwali dress (she was 3 days old then) out of an ethnic dupatta I had, because a search across Hyderabad yielded nothing but Western clothes for infants.

I may even expand to a maternity line, since my experiences in getting affordable, decent-looking maternity clothes drove me to sewing. I've sat on that idea for so long and just now as I'm beginning to get serious about learning sewing properly and signing up for a course just to get the hang of buying and marketing, Ritu Beri has the same idea. Argh!! I am insanely jealous about this one. I'm not, in any way, indicating that I'm in the same league as Ritu Beri, but you get the picture.

So, I have concluded that the problem with having a great mind is that you're not alone. Great minds think alike and all that. I can try to downscale to an ordinary mind, but how does one go about doing that? (Not modest at all, as you can see :).) Anyway, the only option that is now open is get my book published before someone else brings out a novel with the exact same story, concept and cast. Now that will definitely have me fuming! Maybe...

To invite or not to invite

For a while now, I've been playing with the idea of making this a subscribed or an invited blog. And I am still unable to figure out a good way to do this. The only option now is to make it private, invite the handful of readers whose email address I do have and hope that the rest will simply ask.

But after a week of trying this, what I realised is that anyone who potentially tries to reach here gets a cold “This blog is open to invited readers only. It doesn't look like you have been invited to read this blog. If you think this is a mistake, you might want to contact the blog author and request an invitation.”

Now to most people that would look like a locked door. People assume, as I myself have done many times, that if the blogger wanted me to read, I'd have got an invite. As I did not, I'm not going to embarrass us both by asking. Until I realised that things really don't work that way. I didn't have all my readers' email addresses. And even those I had were only of a few who have commented on the blog - a small percentage of my actual readers.

And I do want my blog to open to anyone who wants to read. It's like my home used to be at one point. Where people could drop by anytime, grab a coffee and make themselves comfortable. Some people who read are friends or at least kindred spirits as Anne of Green Gables would say. They understand where I'm coming from. I have no problems with strangers reading my blog either. Their opinion can't affect me at all.
The in-between relative/acquaintance/colleagues non-kindred-spirit type people reading it scares the hell out of me. The other day someone quoted something from my blog, assumed that I'd written about the mate and actually sympathised that we were having problems. Now that I wish I didn't have to deal with. I have loads of friends and we talk about loads of issues – some related to us, some to other people. Not everything blog about is about me.

Now I either don't write or I keep in mind all the possible ways in which a post can be misconstrued by non-kindred spirits. I do defensive writing now and its wearying and not so much fun any more. And then, tra la, blessed release! The spouse noticed the trouble I was having and the sparse posts since we met and asked me “to publish and be damned” if I wished. So for now, I'm opening up the blog again. And airing my opinions in my own little corner of cyberspace. :)

What was God thinking!!!!

Ken wasn't particularly in a mood to finish up his food today so he asked for a loo break. I usually know when he's faking it just to take a break from the meal, but I was feeding the Little K so I let him go without examining the motives behind his request.

Half an hour later, I hear these broken sobs from the loo.

“OMG! Zipper malfunction,” I think and ask “What happened!”

And he's like “I broke the bathroom plumbing.”

I'm going “What?”

The mate is going “How did you manage THAT!”

So Ken says “I was sitting on the pot and resting my head on the tap.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I was sleeping!”

“How can you fall asleep in the loo!!!!!”

“I was thinking...”

“What?”

“What God was thinking.”

The pipe was broken. The bathroom was flooded. It's just been 3 days since our house last flooded!!!!

And I began thinking what God was thinking when he created Ken. :)

Then the mate takes everyone's breath away by saying:

“It costs Rs. 110 to replace this pipe. One ice cream costs Rs. 5. How many ice creams could we have bought with Rs. 110?”

Now I am thinking what God was thinking when he created the mate. :)

The deluge

Little K has the unhappy habit of walking in her sleep. Not somnambulism type of walking. More like, “Open an eye - No parents in sight - There they are! - Walk over - Drop over them - Back to Sleep.” So we've all taken to sleeping on a big blanket on the floor in the drawing room, which is the only really baby-safe room in the house. She has enough freedom to sleep walk.

I'd gone to bed at 1:30 last night. Around 3 a.m., I heard a sound like waves lapping the shore. I'm not used to sleeping to the sound of lapping waves – no matter how peaceful they're supposed to make you feel. [I sleep to Hindustani classical music (which I hate and the spouse loves), sports commentary (which I hate and the spouse tolerates), News channels (which we both hate), Tom and Jerry (which we both love) or a sleepy screaming baby].

So I tried to turn over and shut out the sound but it just would not go away. I tried to focus my mind on a different dream, because of course, I was sure I was dreaming. But the damn waves just kept lapping. Frustrated, I decided to wake up entirely in the hope of getting rid of them.

And then I realised that it was damp. Lapping waves? Damp? Cold? I woke up to the strange sight of the spouse, floor wiper in hand, trying to wipe the floor. Not a pre-dawn attack of cleanliness, No. On the floor was something that looked like a mini flood. Apparently, he had left the tap connecting the water supply to the cooler on. The cooler doesn't have an auto shut off valve. So once the cooler was full, the water overflowed into a bucket and then for the next few hours flooded our balcony and then just flowed everywhere into the house.

The spouse's part of the blanket was soaked first, so he woke up and was trying to wipe the water out ASAP. By now I was kind of awake, because it is terribly hard to sleep on wet blankets. I generously took over the wiper just to show off my spirit of generosity in the face of his rare lapse into irresponsibility. I'm the one that's always leaving taps open and gas stoves burning, and milk boiling et al.


We blundered around sleepy and damp and uncomfortable, trying to get the water out. The bloody thing took an hour! I was so tired by the time I got back to bed at 4 and woke up just now.