Day 12 - We, the Judgmental

For centuries, we've stood at our doorsteps and passed judgment on the goings-on in our streets. Now the whole world is our street, and there is no dearth of subjects for us to pass judgment upon.

Take for instance, the BBC dad video that everybody is talking about. I am pretty sure you would have watched it already, but here it is anyway.



Every bit of this short video is hilarious. The seriousness of the topic. The carefree toddler skipping into the room. The clueless child rolling in. The supermom sliding in. Even if you tried and planned, you couldn't make such a funny video. Truth is definitely stranger (and funnier) than fiction.

Although the video was largely received with laughter and delight (and commiseration for work-from-home-problems) judgment is being passed on the family. That the dad ignored the child, that the mom looked terrified, that the children were mishandled, that this is patriarchy at work, and what have you. [It is also worth noting that many assumed she was the nanny, and not the mom. Care to analyse why?]

Seriously, all of us, sitting at our desks on the other side of the world, what can we possibly glean from this tiny slice of life? How can we possibly know the workings of their family? Even if we did know, why do we think we have the right to pass judgment on them?

I think that we comment and judge other people so as to feel better about our own selves. We are all after all, struggling with our own lives and decisions and the rights and wrongs, and self-doubt, and any bit of looking down upon others probably make us feel temporarily superior and righteous.

This video is one of the funniest things that have come along in a while, and I for one am going to watch it till I squeeze out every bit of laughter from it.

Day 7 - The ultimate irony

Superstitions and irrational beliefs should rightfully be fading by now.  But it seems to be on the rise. 

"Scientists" performing nonsense rituals.  Otherwise logical and intelligent people going totally blind when it comes to "culture" and "heritage" and following outdated customs.  Fake godmen, fake medicines, fake everything - tricksters capitalizing on the gullibility of people, and taking them for a ride, and people willingly going with them!   

Who was it that said, "You should have an open mind, but not so open that your brains fall out."

I just don't understand it, and it always fills me with dread and sorrow, to put it mildly.

But the ultimate irony was this piece of news I read yesterday. 

Dr.Narendra Dhabolkar, who was shot dead last year, was a rationalist.  His murder is still unsolved.  And now, the Pune police are resorting to séances to find out who his killers are. The very unproven mumbo-jumbo that Dhabolkar fought against.

I wish it is a joke.

Day 6 - Indophiles, Everest's house, and neglected heritage

I took a course on Coursera last year, "Archaeology's dirty little secrets," conducted by Brown University.  It opened up new worlds to me.  I started reading up about the history of archaeology in India, which led me to British Indophiles, who did so much to bring India's lost history to light.  

 

The measurement of the Great Indian Arc is one such stupendous story, in which crazy-genius Brits are involved.  I urge you to read The Great Arc by John Keay.  Or start by reading this article "The men who measured earth's curves." I bet you'll come back wondering how it is that we don't know more about all this.  

 

One of the Brits involved in the measurement of the Arc was Sir George Everest, so when we visited Everest's house in Mussoorie, which was the centre of activity during this phenomenal effort, I was terribly disappointed to see what a state it was in.  Yes, we are famous for not recognizing or appreciating or preserving our heritage, and this is one of the more appalling examples.

 

Read my Mint Lounge article "Debris of an Odyssey" of an account of my visit, and my feelings when I saw the house.

Here are some extra pics:

 

The other side of the house overlooks the doon valley. This side overlooks the mountains.

It lies on a grassy hilltop terrace.

The inside of the house.

One of the observatories near the house.

The view of the doon valley from the house.

 

 

If you thought the interior was bad, apparently it was worse.  If you have the stomach, see this video.  Don't know when it was taken though.  But I'm sure you can make out how it must have been in its heyday!

 In 1990, it had been announced that the State Govt was planning to acquire it and turn it into a tourist/excursion spot, but there is no sign of it.  A couple of friends I spoke to told me that INTACH is trying to get control over it to restore it, but I couldn't find any official confirmation on it.

Honestly, I wouldn't want it to become a "tourist" spot, but some care and maintenance, and steps to keep defecating cows out, wouldn't be amiss.

 

 

Day 14 - Disagreeing with respect

I'm reading Chandra, a biography of S.Chandrasekhar by Kameshwar C Wali  [I recommend it highly, even if you don't understand astrophysics.  It is an absorbing story of the life of a great man.]

One of the most striking incidents in Chandra's life is when, as a young scientist, he derived a theory that was publicly ridiculed by Arthur Eddington. The theory was ultimately proven right after decades, and Chandra was awarded the Nobel Prize for this work.  But at that time, as a twenty-four year old in a foreign land, he was deeply upset and frustrated by Eddington's reaction.  Though Eddington's arguments were not valid at all, he was such an authority that none of the other astrophysicists even bothered to go into Chandra's studies and confirm who was right.  Those who did, agreed with Chandra privately, but didn't take a public stand.  So Chandra had to take the decision to abandon his exciting new discovery and concentrate on something else, because a cloud had been cast upon his work, and in that environment, he knew he wouldn't be able to progress.

You and I cannot possibly understand the level of his disappointment, but yet - Eddington and Chandra remained friends, dining together, going on picnics and bicycle rides together.  Chandra's letters show how deeply upset he was by Eddington's actions, and yet, he set professional discord aside and stayed friendly with Eddington on a personal level.  I can only marvel at this.

Ever so often, we are drawn into disagreements over minor things, and I've seen people take these disagreements personally, and things spiral out of control and degenerate into bitterness and name-calling.  I'm pretty sure you've all been in at least one such argument.  I know people who are afraid to disagree with people because they're afraid it'll break their friendship.  This is so sad!

I  personally welcome differences of opinion and disagreements, because it usually provides me with an entirely different POV.  But I'm very hesitant to start disagreeing with certain people because I cannot handle the venom that comes with it.  Hello, I'm disagreeing with your views, not your self!

My friend M and I have had such interesting conversations over our differences of opinion, with both of us putting across our points of views, and noting the other's view, and not taking it personally.  And at the end of the discussion, we still stuck with our personal opinions, but we knew why the other thought her way, and that was okay with both of us.   It was such a refreshing change that I remember actually thanking her!

If you're reading this, and if you're the kind who takes differences of opinions personally, please loosen up.  You'll benefit from it!

Losing their way...

I attended an Indian classical music concert after ages.  An all-night one at that (and we lasted the night.)

The concert boasted of big names, and there were some pleasant surprises, but on the whole, I was very disappointed and depressed after the concert.

Many of these artistes, in an effort to display their expertise in music, indulged in what I can only call musical acrobatics.  As a result, the melody and the quality of music was compromised.  At the end, it was more of noise and cacophony than anything else.

I have a similar grouse against literary writers.  They are so eager to show what great command they have over the language that they use flowery writing and grandiose words and the result is that it distracts one from the flow of the story.  While I am reading a book, if I stop to think, "Wow, how did he think up such a  turn of phrase?"  or worse, "Just a sec, what exactly did she mean to say with that complicated combination of words?" - then that book is a failure to me.  There are many writers out there who insert brilliant phrases and descriptions without breaking the flow of the story, or without making you stop to wonder what that was all about.  Oh yes, some writers do make me stop and catch my breath sometimes, but only to say, "How beautifully she said that! I totally understand and relate to that."  That - That is what makes a book a success.  Blend your cleverness into the story.

I recently came across some discussions of some latest movies too - someone said that the technology and the computer graphics is the star of the movie, and it doesn't have much going for it in terms of a story.

Why are we losing sight of the main intention?  When did the tools that was supposed to be just aiding you, become more important than what you set out to do in the first place?

Speaking out

At a wedding a few years ago, a doting grandfather carrying a one-year-old boy in his arms was doing the rounds, showing off his grandson.  "Look at this," he announced to one group, and turned to the little boy, who could barely speak, and said, "Joru maaDu!" (Loosely translated, this means, "Show authority/aggression!"  And the little boy said, "Ey!" in a threatening tone, and the grandfather looked around proudly as the group oohed and aahed and pinched the boy's cheeks.  It was absolutely sickening.

This child will grow up thinking that this aggressive behaviour is something to be proud of, and before anybody realizes it, he's being threatening and rude to his parents, and then years later, when he is somebody's husband, he's going to throw his weight around just the same way.  And if the wife turns out to be the little girl who had been watching the little boy when he was being fussed over for his display of aggressive behaviour, she will accept it, thinking it is but natural.

This aggressive behaviour is nurtured by society as a symbol of manhood and masculinity.  The sensitive side of little boys is beaten out of existence with repeated chidings, and phrases like "boys don't cry," "crying like a girl."  Decades of repressing emotions result in an explosion of rage and violence and aggression in later life. (Worded well in this blog post.)  This rage, this violence can take the form of short temper and intolerance, to road rage, to child abuse, and right up to, yes, rape.

With a multitude of voices rising against rape and all that goes to constitute a rape, people are becoming aware that it is not just the rapist who rapes a person, it is the entire society.  Every person who indulges in misogynistic comments, every person who laughs at sexist jokes, every person who propagates patriarchal society - everybody is responsible for every rape.  And  yes, you and me, we are included.  Rape is rarely about sex alone.  It is about control, rage, domination, punishment.  And what gives a person the right to think that he is superior to another being, and is therefore vested with a right to control and punish?  This society.  You and me.  Directly, indirectly.  Every time we said something that made divides deeper.  Every time we looked the other way when stereotypes were being repeated ad nauseum.

Not being a rapist is not enough.  Don't let yourself off so easily.  There is more we all need to do.

But what?  We hear utterly stupid and atrocious quotes about women and rape, by the so-called people-in-charge, and spiritual leaders - these people who wield so much influence on so many people...... and amidst all the anger and outrage these comments evoke, there is also the unmistakable stench of frustration, and desperation - that, you know what?  These are not the utterings of some random, misguided, handful of people.  These people are speaking from years of societal conditioning, and for every leader who thinks this way, there are lakhs of people who think the exact way.

The scale is too large, too immense to fathom.  It feels like a losing battle at times.  How will you try and make them understand?  How will you unravel the tight binds of those years of patriarchal and misogynist attitudes that pervade our society?  It is very frightening, depressing.

And behind it all, one burning question keeps asking itself - how are we going to protect our children in such a world?

What can we do, as an individual?  We can do many things at many different levels.  If you are so inclined and accordingly qualified, you can and must get involved in the changes, in the reforms.  Maybe you can join in the protests to show what a voice we have.  Maybe you can work with rape survivors and help them cope, get back to normal life.

But we all know that the changes  have to start from within.  From around us.  The change has to be wrought in the mindsets of people who cannot think in any other way.  But how will you do it?

One simple way - is to speak up.  Speak out against any act of misogyny, patriarchy.  Any act that objectifies women.  Any argument that trivializes women.  Any joke that portrays women in generalized, jaded terms, terms which are unflattering to women, and which only serve to deepen the bias that people have against women.

It is difficult.  It is exhausting.  I know.  There have been many times when I have been too tired to speak out, or have avoided getting drawn into an argument because of lack of time.  Sometimes I have backed out just because I have felt that it is not going to be of any use.

I know, it seems too small a step to change this large a phenomenon.  But who was it that said, paraphrasing "He is making the greatest mistake who does nothing because he fears it is too little?"  Who knows?  Your voice might just have an effect.  Your voice might be the straw that breaks the camel's back.  We need to speak out.

Oh yes, you might be termed a killjoy.  But we have remained in our comfort zone too long.  It is time we spoke out.

Eclipse!

Did you watch the eclipse? I did! It was beautiful. I have never seen the sun eclipsed so much (with my own eyes - from behind sun filters!). As Puttachi said, it looked like a "'C' in the sky."












What saddened me no end was that Puttachi and I were the only ones on our terrace, apart from another mother-daughter pair on the terrace of a neighbouring block. Out of the entire neighbourhood, only the four of us were eager enough to catch this fascinating event.

The rest, I am guessing, more out of false beliefs than out of disinterest, stayed inside.

I don't get it. Our ancestors didn't know what was happening. They had reason to believe that something evil was happening. But we are in 2010, for heavens' sake! We've been to the moon, we've been to space, we've photographed things from space - we know what is happening! Just that the moon has come between the earth and the sun! So why the fear? Why the fasting? Why the bathing? I am trying so hard to keep myself calm here, but indulge me a bit while I scream - IT IS RIDICULOUS!!!!

Puttachi and I went out into the eclipsed sun's rays, we ate during the eclipse, and we did not bathe after the eclipse, we did not offer prayers to propitiate anybody. And I am living, and hale and hearty, and writing this post. And this is not just us, everybody in my family has sat and eaten through a countless eclipses over the last 6 or 7 decades. Two of my aunts have gone out during eclipses when they were pregnant, and they have strong, healthy, intelligent sons.

What further proof can I give you? What else can I say? I know that there are some people who are "careful", you know, "Just in case". But think. The sun's rays are coming onto you. The moon blocks the rays for a while, and then moves away. What can possibly be the harm? It makes me want to cry.

Many people are trying to eradicate these silly superstitions, but is it really working? Rationalists do it, yes. But look at this. During the last eclipse, the seer of Murugarajendra Mutt of Chitradurga sat outside with his followers, and watched the eclipse, and even served food to them, and ate it himself, during the eclipse. (can't find the link to the report). During this eclipse, a couple got married at his Mutt!

I am your fan, Seer of Murugarajendra Mutt! We need more people like you! If people don't want to believe rationalists and scientists, at least I hope they will believe you spiritual leaders!

If you know Kannada, you might like to read this.












This post is too late for this eclipse, so I'll probably re-post it before the next eclipse. Please, people! Wake up and see the eclipse for what it really is!

Kids and maids

This post, about maids looking after kids, has been simmering in my mind for a very, very long time now. I didn't want to sound judgemental or righteous, nor did I want to comment on a trend that has almost been accepted as a way of life, whatever be the reason. But I feel very strongly about this and as such things go, strong feelings ought to be purged, or else!

I know perfectly well all the reasons that people employ maids. Just because I could easily chuck my hated job to look after my baby, it doesn't mean that I am insensitive to all those mothers who care so much about their career. Just because I have hard-headedly decided to do everything on my own around the house, it doesn't mean that I find it easy and fun. It doesn't mean that I have very often wished that there was someone who would just watch my child as I caught forty winks, or someone who would engage her as I sat back and sipped tea and read the newspaper, and a million such small things. But so far, I have been able to manage, mainly due to S~, who gets back from work and looks after Puttachi for a while, while I put my feet up, and who helps me with the housework even after a long day, so that I can get to do the things I like after Puttachi goes to bed, and hence feel normal after an insane day. I know that not everybody has these luxuries, and I am thankful for them. But that will not stop me from expressing my concerns.

It was in my township that I first noticed a maid looking after two young girls, because both the husband and wife went out to work. The maid in question was terribly young herself, certainly not more than 12. And she was extremely dirty. Unwashed face, snot pouring out of her nose, uncombed hair, dirty hands - the works. And she looked after these two kids, daughters of my father's colleague, by which reasoning the girls were like us. I don't want to go into details, but even to my young mind, that concept put me off, and probably scarred me for life.

That of course, must have been an extreme case. The maids I see now are older, much smarter, very clean and neat. Yet, I fail to understand how a maid can fit into a mother's shoes, even temporarily.

I don't know how it works inside the house - the mother-maid-child relationship, because I can't say that I have seen any such cases up close. My experiences are only those on the outside.

Case 1: When both mother and maid are around: In malls or in the market or in the park, the mother glides through, impeccably dressed, smiling a gracious smile out of a perfectly lipsticked mouth, every hair in place, every crease in her dress perfectly aligned, while behind her comes a huffing and a puffing maid, carrying a child, the child's bag, and shopping bags if any. [I have seen two maids too, sometimes]. Then there are those maids who sit on a different table at a restaurant, feeding the children and themselves, while at the next table sit the child's parents, "enjoying" a "relaxed" meal. If the child cries, it is the maid's problem. But if an acquaintance is sighted, then the child is picked up and shown off to gushes and gurgles, and then agian deposited with the maid to do the dirty work. And then there are those maids at a park, who engage the child in play while the mother just sits there and does nothing. I have seen other moms who go for a walk when the said maid is engaging the said child, and I approve of that. Makes the best use of the situation. Then there are those moms like these in LAK's post.

Case 2: When only the maid is around: The best place to watch this phenomenon unfold is the park. Elsewhere, it could be a one-off situation. But in the park, you know that it is not so. My pet example is this old maid who brings a three-four year old boy everyday. She is undoubtedly sincere. She carries the boy all the way, and brings along a big bag too, full of toys and a waterbottle and a change of clothes. Every day, her routine is the same. She puts the boy on the swing for five minutes, takes him to the slide for five minutes, and so on until a round of all the playthings is done, after which she puts him on the sand and gives him his implements to play. If there is any slip in schedule, for example, if the boy doesn't want to play the merry go round, he gets a rain of curses on his small head, and he is forced to comply. If he dilly-dallies on top of the slide, examining the rods, for example, or looking up at the sky to see an aeroplane, this old lady shouts at him not to waste time and to slide down immediately. Every single day, these two arrive at the park, and not once have I seen a smile on either one's face. Ok, forget the old maid who might have problems of her own. But a three year old boy without a smile? No smile on the slide, no smile on the swing, no interest in anything, always staring off into space with a vacant look. It pains me to look at him, it breaks my heart. I tried to engage him in conversation once, using all the broken Tamil I knew, but he just wouldn't respond. I let Puttachi loose upon him, but he just looked through her. I had to give up. I wonder what extreme necessity it is that makes the boy's parents/caregivers not be there for him.

I also remember two little boys in the park I used to go to previously. Each boy had a maid for himself. The younger of the boys, about a year old, wet his pants and the maid just let it be. Wet and stinking. Another time, she made him pee right there in the kids play area, where other kids play in the sand. She also tried making him walk barefoot on the sand, and the other maid scolded her. "What if he cuts his foot or something! Their mother just goes kwa-kwa-kwa for everything. She is a witch, she is ruthless, she has no heart. If he gets hurt, we will get it properly." Now, the older boy was old enough to understand all that was being said about his mother. I looked at his face - there was no expression. Was all that so common that it didn't affect the boy anymore? What on earth will he think about his mother?

This is just one aspect. I have seen other maids who truly enjoy being with their wards. They laugh, talk and sing, and they obviously have fun with them. And that's great. But yet. Yet I feel that with the mother around, the child would have got a more wholesome experience. But then, that's just my opinion.

Having said all this, I am fully aware that I am not in a position to judge anybody. I do not approve of how maids are being employed to care for their children. Their role is becoming increasingly greater, gradually replacing the mother more and more. And that is what troubles me. While a maid as a help and a temporary companion is understandable, the fact that a child has to spend a majority of its time with someone who is not an immediate member of the family - it troubles me. While it might actually work out beautifully if there is a great maid, my guess is that such people are very rare.

I've got it all out - well, almost, so that should give me a peaceful night.

Frocks - A tale of woe

When I was expecting, I didn't really care whether the baby turned out to be a boy or a girl. But whenever I saw pretty little frocks on displays in shops, I would wish that it was a girl, so that I could dress her up in those cute frocks.

Little did I realize that those very frocks would turn out to be such a pain in the wrong place.

Sometime ago, I had expressed surprise that one tiny frock costed 500 rupees, and someone had commented with a "This is just the beginning/ you haven't seen anything yet". I know now. I can't believe how terribly expensive baby clothes are. And their quality? Don't get me started on them.

No, wait. There are pretty frocks available at pretty reasonable prices, if you take the trouble of looking. Most of these frocks are based in white, with pastel prints, and a couple of ribbons and buttons and laces here and there. Some can be incredibly cute, and invariably, I tend to buy them. Left to myself, I can be very content dressing Puttachi in these beautiful light-coloured, white/pastel/light floral dresses.

But my mom-in-law craves to see her beloved grand-daughter in bright clothes. "Take advantage of her beautiful complexion - bright colours will suit her", she says. I know exactly what she means, and I would gladly dress her in bright colours, if I could.

For here is where the problem lies. Look for dark and bright frocks, and all you get are utterly atrocious pieces of cloth that make you wonder whether the designers were stoned. Colours that corrode your retina, prints that make your head go round and round. And designs that make you wonder where the neck is and the sleeve is, and what is this hole for.

Psychedelic prints. Solar systems. Grotesque teddy bears and bunnies. Animal prints. Sequins and beads all over. Sparkly writing, with some kind of shiny powder all over. Glittering paint. Gaudy coloured lace. Brass-coloured buttons of various shapes sewed on in the strangest places. A huge belt with a huger buckle in some weird place. And all in horrible, sweaty, prickly synthetics. I can't bear to inflict the synthetic-torture on Puttachi's tender skin.

The other day I saw a frock that looked like a fish's scales, and I could swear it had fins too. Another frock looked like a cross between the skin of a panther and a panda. And it had a few porcupine quills too.

Really, how difficult is it to take a nice, soft, piece of cloth and sew it in a simple design, add a couple of pretty buttons and motifs and attach a lace?

Actually, there are such frocks, yes. I saw a stunner of a frock in Weekender Kids and a heartstopping one in Lilliput last evening. I snatched them from the rack and my brain took a trip imagining how cute Puttachi will look in those frocks. Then I glanced at the price tags. 600 and 750. Can you believe that? Gaaaaah! I dropped them like hot bricks and hurried out.

S~ baulks at 600 and 750 too, but he is more liberal than I am when it concerns frocks that cost about 400 or so. Come on, he says, it is not everyday that we buy good frocks for her, and this is such a pretty frock, let's go ahead buy it. But I just cannot bring myself to do it. For one, Puttach will outgrow it in two months, and two - and this is the core problem - I know just how easy it is to stitch those frocks. I grew up only in home-stitched frocks. My mom and grandmom and aunts pored over Sears catalogues, selected good patterns, and churned out the most beautiful clothes for us. I know that this frock worth 500 can be stitched with ease by any of them. And that is why I cannot bear to pay so much for it. I know, a screw loose in my head, but that is hardly news.

S~ also says, come on, let's try one of those crazy hallucinatory prints sometime, I am sure Puttachi will look good. Oh yes, I say, I am sure Puttachi will look good. Like all mothers, I think my baby looks great whatever she wears (and doesn't wear). But really, even little girls are entitled to a bit of elegance. Little girls should look like little girls, and not like item girls.

Sigh. What do I do? Oh, I know, I know, mom, the solution is in my hands - pick up a good piece of cloth and stitch a frock myself. But it is one of those things that I "could" do, but don't do.

All I have to do is bide my time and look for a pretty, dark coloured, bright dress, which is not too heavy on the pocket, and meanwhile, I have to exercise utmost strength not to buy any more pretty light coloured clothes.

Now, if only it was that easy.

A fuller life?

We are in Mysore.

Mysore always wraps me up in this delicious, pleasant, languorous feeling, and I can never have enough of the city. Memories of summer holidays from my childhood, without a care, without a thought, flit past my eyes. Basking in the affection of my grandparents and aunts, eating to my heart's content, sleeping, meeting with people, long walks to nowhere - Mysore for me encompasses this and much, much more.

On a drive yesterday through broad avenues lined with Gulmohar trees in full, flaming bloom, I looked around the city I love. The old, beautiful buildings - some derelict, some renovated - but all of them charming. Old market areas, the antiquity of which no number of modern signboards or posh new shops can hide. Chamundi Betta (Hill), which stands like a sentinel, ever present, like a comforting caretaker. Endless charm.

I have written about this before, but I can never get over how easy it is to get to places in Mysore. Everything is just a short distance away, and commuting is a cakewalk. I have been thinking - it is perhaps possible to live a fuller life in a small town than in a bigger town?

Let me try and analyze with the example of Bangalore and Mysore. In Bangalore, the distances are too great. The traffic makes it even more difficult to reach a destination. In Mysore, the city itself is smallish. The roads are unclogged (so far) and getting to a place doesn't take too much time. Doesn't that mean that in Bangalore, we tend to spend a longer time on the road than at the destination? At least if the commuting was pleasant, then it would have been okay. But it only results in headaches and high blood pressure.

After Puttachi was born, we have had to work everything around her schedules. As of now, she takes two naps in a day, once in the morning and once in the afternoon, and the wakeful periods between the naps is about 2.5 hours. The only time she stays awake for a long period is in the evening - about 5.5 hours, before going to bed for the night. Thus, in Bangalore, we have to schedule all our outings and visits for the evening time. If we did schedule something in the morning, she will be sleepy and hungry by the time we reach the destination. But in Mysore, we can schedule outings in the mornings too without any problem.

On Friday, we took Puttachi to the zoo. Our agenda was clear. Show her the elephants, the big cats and the monkeys, and the giraffe, and get back before her nap time. The zoo would close at 5 30 pm, so it was best to go in the morning. Besides, morning is the time when the animals are active. So we waited for Puttachi to wake up in the morning, fed her something and whisked her away to the zoo. It took twenty minutes to get to the zoo, twenty minutes to get back, and we spent about an hour and a half at the zoo. It resulted in Puttachi's nap time being pushed a bit, but she saw everything that we wanted to show her and she enjoyed it thoroughly. Had it been in Bangalore, it would have been totally impossible to finish this whole programme in under three hours.

Then there are these times where you can take spot decisions and just leave. We had a dinner to attend on Thursday night at about eight. On Thursday evening, at 5 30, we thought, ok, we have a couple of hours ahead of us before the dinner, so what shall we do today? My cousin K2 said, why not go to Chamundi Betta? And voila! We were dressed and out of the house by 6, we were on top of Chamundi Betta by 6 30. Since it was May 1st, and a holiday, we saw the magnificent sight of the lighted Mysore palace from atop Chamundi Betta, and after enjoying the breeze for a while, we were back at home by 7 30, just in time to reach the friend's home for dinner.

Contrast this with what would have happened in Bangalore. We would have had to leave at 5 30 for the dinner at 7 30. As for an impromptu visit to the hills (if any), it would have been laughable to say the least.

You might argue that Bangalore, being a larger city, has more places to go to, more ways to spend your time, more activities, etc., and that is true. But what about the effort needed to get to these places in the first place? In Mysore, the time and effort spent in getting to a place could have been utilized in some other way.

What do you think?

You know summer is here......

....When

- 6 am looks and feels like 7 am.
- You automatically wake up at 6 am and don't feel even the slightest urge to curl up under the covers and go back to sleep for "just five more minutes".
- You cringe to even touch blankets and sweaters, even if it is to pack them away.
- The hot water knob is turned way down during your bath, and the cold water knob is turned all the way through.
- You tilt the coconut oil container and the hitherto solid coconut oil flows down in rivulets and soils half the room.
- Even the mere mention of hot soup, or tea or coffee is enough to make you grimace
- The fan stops being just a ceiling adornment.
- You stop complaining about high a/c at office.
- Peaceful afternoons are now interrupted with screaming children enjoying their summer holidays.
- Summer afternoons make you drowsy and you fall asleep even if you don't want to, and then you wake up with a bad taste in the mouth, and you feel unimaginably grouchy.
- You automatically reach for thin, cotton, sleeveless clothes when you open the cupboard.
- You find that water disappears mysteriously from your waterbottles and jugs.
- .. and yet, you nearly forget what your toilet looks like.
- The slightest fragrance of jasmine transports you twenty years back in time to summer holidays in Mysore.
- Household chores involving the use of water don't really seem that bad any longer.
- Any time is ice cream time.
- You are always feeling irritated and tempers are running high everywhere.

I could write more but I am feeling too hot to type. Maybe you can help me. The comments section is waiting!

Why chronicle?

Here is a part of a comment for the previous post by LAK.

Loved the post. Tell you what, do save this in hard copy as well, for her to read when she grows up---you won't be able to repeat these words then---in fact you'll love to read it then too. When my kids were small, I wrote about their antics to my mom, sis and friends. Now I've got back those letters from my mom and the kids and I love going thru those handwritten snippets of emotion.

My parents stayed in Germany for a year when I was about two years old. Communication, not being what it is now (to put it mildly), there was hardly any interaction between the family back home and my parents. But everybody wanted to know the latest antics of the only grandchild of the family (me), and so my mom wrote long letters back home on thin onion paper. She wrote about me, what I do, things I liked, things I said... and when she came back, she collected the letters from them, and kept them with her. She showed them to me when I was a teenager, and I had the greatest time reading them.

These letters contain those moments, those stories, which are run-of-the-mill, ordinary, but these mirror the real two year old me. These little things, which would otherwise have been forgotten, since they aren't too dramatic, were handed back to me to relish.

There are stories in every family about every child - stories that circulate wildly, are retold at every gathering. Stories like the time Peevee was missing for hours and was then found in my parents' room, playing with talcum powder that she had spilled all over the bed and floor. Like the story about my then two year old cousin K1 who came out of the room carrying his new born brother K2 like a kitten, and mouthing, "Nange paapa ishTa." (I like baby).

These stories, being dramatic, are remembered, but what about those other moments - a child's first witticism, a cute habit he had - what about those? Most of them fade out of memory.

Unless of course, a treasure happens to come by in the form of my mother's, or LAK's letters - which is one of the main reasons I keep an account of Puttachi's antics.

There is no guarantee that Puttachi will grow up and enjoy what I have written about her. But I believe she will. She will probably marvel at the number of unknown people who followed her life. But again, she might not like it either, which, if she takes after me, is improbable.

Anyway, if it so happens that she couldn't care less for these records, I will anyway most definitely enjoy it. I will probably look back at it, and laugh perhaps, of how naive a mother I was, or how different Puttachi was back then.

Either way, blog I will.

A lesson from Discovery.

I was showing Puttachi animals on Discovery yesterday. The programme was about the Wild Hunters in Africa, and I was keeping up a running commentary.

"Look!" I said, "Look how fast the leopard is running - there, it caught the deer..... Look at the leopard eating the deer..."

Just then a hyena entered the scene and tried to sneak away the leopard's kill.

"Look Puttachi!" I said, "That hyena is trying to steal the leopard's food. Should you take something that belongs to others? No! Bad, bad hyena!"

The hyena, however, did manage to snatch the kill away from the leopard, and went a few paces with it, before it was frightened by an elephant. The hyena dropped the kill and ran off, and the leopard retrieved it and dragged it up a tree to feast on it at leisure.

"Yay!" I said, "Look, the leopard got back its food. Serves the hyena right!"

On the screen, the hyena was then shown sauntering away. The voice-over in the programme then said, "The hyena lost her chance. She is on the lookout again. She needs to find food before the end of the day to feed her hungry cubs."

Zap! The entire perspective changed. The poor hyena was looking for food to feed her cubs. That's all. She was doing what she is best at doing - scavenging!

The screen then showed two little hyena cubs sniffing the ground, looking for scraps of food. A lump appeared in my throat.

The next scene was of the mother hyena loitering near a pride of lions. The lions were resting after a full meal, and the hyena was apparently trying to see if she could manage to get hold of something leftover from the meal. But unfortunately for her, she got too close to the lions for comfort. A male lion came across, pounced on her, and clamped his mouth on her throat. Her legs twitched for a while, and then she lay still.

The voice-over said, "The lions will not eat this hyena. She was just treated like a pest that had to be eliminated. With this, the lion took not one life, but three. The hyena's cubs cannot survive without her." And the camera showed the two forlorn little hyena cubs again.

I had to sit still for a moment - struck dumb. To the leopard, and then the lions, the hyena was an intruder, a pest. But the hyena, on her part, was doing what she had to do. She was looking for food for her cubs.

We are so quick to judge people, and to attribute negative characteristics to them. Who knows what instinct, what compulsion, or what pressing need they are acting under!

I think everybody deserves the benefit of doubt.

Eating food in class

When I was a student, I had an eternal problem. I would feel very hungry in the class just before lunch. I would have eaten a heavy breakfast, but as far as I was concerned, the lunch break was always too far away. In engineering college, we had a mid-morning mini-break, and I would have a quick snack packed for that break. So I was okay. But in school and pre-university , it was very bad.

The main problem was that I cannot concentrate when I am hungry. There was absolutely no use sitting in class when I was hungry. But eating during class was totally taboo. Something that didn't even cross my mind. So all that I did was think about my lunch box and look at my watch. What a waste of time.

In pre-university, we were slightly rebellious, so I would eat my lunch during class without being found out. My stomach would stop growling temporarily and I could concentrate.

When my sis PeeVee went to class in the US in the beginning, she took a long time to get used to people eating in class. She watched, horrified as they sauntered in with a sandwich and a drink and ate as the lectures progressed. She nearly fainted when the professors themselves walked in with food and proceeded to eat as they taught. She got used to it very quickly, and now she does it too.

It make so much sense. There is no way some people like us can concentrate on an empty stomach. So why make such a fuss if we can just have a quick snack during class? I wish the trend changes here too. At least the future generations can benefit!

What do we have here?!

Remember my post about the maid's pregnant daughter who went to have a scan, and the sex of the foetus was revealed to her? That she was going to have a son? Well, she delivered her baby yesterday, and it is a...... girl!

Go figure!

Update: The child's father has been distributing sweets. So, all of you out there who have been worrying about the fate of this girl, please rest your troubled minds.

On surnames.

I read an article recently about someone named, say, Nirupama Raghuram*. Throughout the article, the author kept saying, "Raghuram graduated from Bangalore University, Raghuram works with the poor, Raghuram likes animals..." - Hello! It is not Raghuram who likes animals, it is Nirupama! Raghuram is probably her father or her husband. And he isn't the one who works with the poor and likes animals!

Haven't you seen this often? It makes me laugh out loud. You could refer to her as Nirupama Raghuram! Or if that makes you cross the word-limit, just say Nirupama. Or is that too informal?

This problem arises mostly with South-Indian names, where the usage of surnames is not too widespread. But since the concept of surnames is catching on, most people just affix the father's name to their names. In fact, even in the above Nirupama Raghuram example, say the article was about Akshay Raghuram. Akshay is the guy, and Raghuram is his father's name. In the article, they would say, "Raghuram likes dogs", which again is not true. It is not Raghuram, but Raghuram's son Akshay who likes dogs. So, isn't there a rule in written media, about not using surnames, but the whole name?

This brings me to another thing that I have noticed. Say this Akshay Raghuram character gets married to Sahana Subbanna. Sahana wants to change her surname after her wedding. So she takes Akshay's surname, which is Raghuram. That makes her, "Sahana Raghuram". Now, Sahana is stuck with a surname which is neither her husband's name nor her father's name - but that of her father-in-law!

Of course, nowadays, many people I know simply attach their husband's name to their surname. For example, Sahana would be Sahana Akshay.

That brings me to changing surnames. Now, what is the necessity? Ok, I won't get into that argument - it is the individual's choice. But I also feel that there are some people in particular, who should not change their surnames after marriage. My sister had a friend who was doing her post-doctorate. Many of her papers were published in respected journals. Her name was, well, a known name in those circles. She was going to get married, and mentioned to my sister that she was going to change her surname. What? Asked PeeVee. And start from scratch? Building a reputation is not that easy. Why give it all up? At least use a hyphenated surname - but no, she was adamant. PeeVee gave up. She must have her reasons!

That brings us to hyphenated surnames. i.e. Sahana in the above example would be Sahana Subbanna-Raghuram. I think these are quite cool. You retain your surname, you add your husband's surname. Great. Do let me know if this results in any major hassles!

By the way, many Akshay Raghurams have got over their "Father's name as surname-not convenient" problem, by adapting the father's ancestral village as their surname. If Raghuram hails from, say, Doddakere, Akshay calls himself Akshay Doddakere. Personally, I think these sound quite nice!

Now, you might be wondering - what has Shruthi done? Retained her surname? Used S~'s surname? Used a hyphenated surname? Well. I had it easy. S~ has the same surname as mine. No, that wasn't one of the reasons I married him. It just turned out to be a bonus, though.

There are many, many more questions that remain unanswered. As to why a child should be given only the father's name, and not the mother's name. And why a husband should not take his wife's name after they get married. I leave the historians to explain that. If one of you can explain it to me, please go ahead.

Then there is the argument - why do we need a surname? We can have another name instead of a surname. We could. For example, Sahana could be Sahana Madhuri. I have heard of some people are going in for this option too. Will it catch on? Let's watch and see!

P.S. All the above statements are made on actual observation, and about my personal opinions on them. I am in no way demeaning any choice. I respect each individual's decision to do what he or she pleases.

*All names in this post are fictitious. Any resemblance to anybody living or dead is purely coincidental.

Newness

As I give and receive new year wishes, I think - the 1st of Jan is just another day like any other. The sun rises like any other day and sets as usual. But yet, we celebrate it because it is the first day of something new. Everything seems new, whereas, it really isn't. But if you think of it, every day is new. Every moment is new.

This hits me every morning when Puttachi wakes up. She opens her eyes, looks around, and whoops and smiles as if she is seeing everybody and everything for the first time. In the soft sunlight of the morning, her bright eyes look brighter as she greets everybody with the same unbridled enthusiasm. She bounces, and dances, and gurgles and coos. She looks around every room with delight and smiles happily when she encounters her favourite things. It is as if she re-discovers everybody and everything each day and finds happiness in it.

And that fills me with cheer and I find myself looking around and saying, "Yes, Life IS Beautiful."

I wonder when we stop being like that - looking at each day, each moment as something special, and enjoying it whole-heartedly. I wonder what makes us start waking up with a yawn and grumble, "Hmph. Yet another day."

I think all of us ought to bring back the children within us.

So this year, along with joy and peace, I wish for all of you the ability to find delight in every new moment, appreciate little things, and live life completely.

Happy New Year!

Of Nobel laureates..

So, it turns out that Leonid Hurwicz, the Economics Nobel laureate is known to my Dad's maternal uncle, and he has even had dinner at my dad's cousin's place. That is probably the closest I have come to knowing a Nobel laureate.

Unless, of course, one of you in the future becomes a Nobel laureate. Then I can open my blog (if it still exists and if I remember the url), and show people your comments and say, "Oh, s/he was my blogger pal!" And if I win a Nobel, you can go ahead and flaunt my name, I will not mind.

Ok, back to Nobel laureates. Actually, coming to think of it, I kind of know another Nobel laureate. Or rather, a Nobel laureate's home. My school was adjacent to C.V.Raman's compound (now all you North-Bangaloreans know where I did my schooling!). My classmate in primary school, let's call her Sma, lived in the outhouse in that compound. C.V.Raman's large house, situated in the middle of that huge compound, was uninhabited,, and always locked.

Now this compound contained a variety of trees - jackfruit, mango, silk-cotton, tamarind, and many more - it was actually a mini forest. A beautiful green place in the midst of busy Malleshwaram - we all envied Sma.

I would go to Sma's home to play sometimes, after school or on the weekends. Sometimes our games took us to the main house. We would play in the wide, sweeping portico, with the thick columns and pillars. We would go round the house and try to peep in at the windows. Once, looking at my enthusiasm, Sma's father got the key, opened the doors and let me look inside. It was large, spacious, with a high roof - a typical old-style home. The furniture was heavy, luxurious. The sofas had long, curved handles and printed cushioned seats. CV Raman's armchair was very heavy, dusty, and broken. His writing table was large and foreboding. I sat on his chair, sat at his table, and felt very important indeed.

The memory of that house still gives me the creeps, for some strange reason. It was obviously once a very beautiful and elegant and house, but it seemed to be falling apart - dusty, musty, and echoing with our hushed voices.

So there ends my tryst with Nobel laureates.

My sis and I had once chalked up a plan on "How to win a Nobel". We listed the categories and contemplated upon which Nobel it would be easiest to win. We first struck out Physics, and then went Chemistry. Medicine fell next. Economics wasn't even in the reckoning, as we had no idea what it even meant. All that was left was Literature and Peace.

Literature shouldn't be so difficult - just write a few books and you are good to go. But Peace, we decided, was the easiest. All we had to do was preach peace with zest, and we would be awarded the Nobel. (We were just 11 and 7, please!)

I still have a fascination for the Nobel, and am in awe of Nobel laureates. I am sure some of you are out there rubbing shoulders with Nobel laureates. When my sis got an admit to Stanford, somebody told her that in that University, if she stood in the cafeteria line, the guy in front of her and the one behind her would be Nobel laureates. I don't think that has happened to her - yet.

So, do tell me - have you met/interacted with Nobel laureates? If yes, who, when, how, where?

WTH!

The maid's daughter is six months pregnant. And the foetus is male. And how did she find out? The doctor who conducted her scan told her. Yes.

And me? The ultrasound clinics I went to had large posters with foreboding red lettering which warned me that "Foetal sex determination is illegal and a punishable offence". I had to sign declarations that I wouldn't ask the doctor to reveal the sex of the foetus, and the doctor had to sign in the report that s/he hasn't disclosed the sex of the foetus to me. And this is when I was ready, to welcome with open arms, either sex, be it a boy or a girl.

And the doctor reveals the sex of the foetus to the maid's daughter, she from that class of society, who are more likely than us to treat girls as burdens, and would tend to abort female foetuses. And as I gather, the doctor offered the information just like that. No money seems to have exchanged hands.

Did he offer the information because the foetus is male? Would he have done the same if it was female? But if he had the reputation of revealing the sex of the foetus, wouldn't his silence indicate that it is a female foetus?

In fact, when I was expecting, the same maid asked me if the doctor did not tell me the sex of the foetus, and that in her village, they "take a photo" and tell them the sex of the foetus. But this scan was done right here, in Bangalore. Where is this clinic? "There", with a vague wave of the hand is all the information we get from the maid about the whereabouts of this place.

This tells me how widespread sex determination is. And we scream ourselves hoarse about female foeticide.

Update on Jan 8th: The girl delivered the baby yesterday... and it turned out to be a girl!

Attachment

I read this news about a dark-haired Czech couple who had DNA tests conducted to quell rumours about their blond-haired daughter. But as the tests revealed, the baby was not theirs. They went to the hospital to find that there had been a mix-up, and another couple had their daughter. So now, the parents have decided to SWAP their babies after TEN months of caring for the wrong baby.

How heart-wrenching it must be for them! As I always tend to do (bad habit), I tried putting myself in that situation. If it turned out that there had been a hospital mix-up and Puttachi was not my biological daughter, what would I do? Give her up? NO WAY! But then the girl out there was my biological daughter, the one I had carried in my tummy for 9 months! Would I not want her too? I would, I am sure. I would willingly look after both the babies. But of course, so would the other mom! What a horrible situation.

My heart goes out to those parents. By agreeing to swap daughters, they have perhaps done the logical and practical (in the long run) thing. But I cannot bear to imagine the heartache that they must be going through.

I just realized how unimportant a "blood" relation is, when it comes to children. Would I have loved Puttachi even an iota less than I do now, if she hadn't been my biological daughter? I don't think so. My love couldn't have been any less. Then, by inference, it hardly matters whether you have a biological child or whether you adopt a child! So why go through 9 months of pregnancy and increase the population of the world, when you can do everybody a world of good and adopt a child and give her a good home? Is it that "our flesh and blood" is so important?

I would love to hear what you have got to say.