Of Corona and Coiffeurs

Amid a global cataclysm induced by the coronavirus pandemic, the year 2020 comes to a close with a faint, almost hallucinatory, promise of a utopia where all 7.8 billion people on Earth will soon be made available an effective vaccine, which they will then willfully inoculate themselves with before proceeding to gallivant around incautiously like they used to in the pre-corona era.  While scientific community has been feverishly working toward transforming this chimera into reality, the privileged populace has been preoccupied with their own woes stemming from the new corona-lifestyle.  Although these woes are generally mere inconveniences that disrupt an otherwise agreeable existence, they are weighty enough to polarize the said populace into factions.  One such ludicrous woe is related to personal grooming, particularly, hair management.

While many hair-cutting establishments are open now, you might remember the early days of corona when closed hair salons caused panic among the dapper.  Several folks began wielding the scissor & comb and honing their home barbering skills citing the example of Mahatma Gandhi who taught himself how to cut his own hair during his days in England because an English barber refused to cut his hair, and several others chose to turn into long haired barbering skeptics and began imposing on others their newfound opinion on how nonessential activities like cutting hair interfere with life's spiritual pursuits.  

Interestingly, my own haircut schedule has mirrored NE Ohio weather patterns.  If I look back on any mild weather day since April 2020, I can picture myself sitting cross legged on the deck facing a mirror, with a meandering orange extension cord behind my back, trimming away merrily with my faithful WAHL trimmer, oblivious to the cries of "Don't sprinkle hair everywhere!", "Don't come inside without dusting yourself!", "Why don't you have the broom ready?", "Why is there hair on this side of the deck when you are sitting on that side?", "Why can't you clean as you go?", "There has to be a better solution!", etc. emanating from inside the house.  As a result, ever since winter temperatures have settled in, I have been bumming around the residence with an overgrown mane and bushy sideburns threatening to reach Elvis proportions soon.  With extremely limited outside social contact though, it is hard to find motivation to remedy this Neanderthal visage.  My only motivation at this time is Mira, who got a surreptitious haircut during a naptime covert operation orchestrated by Pavana earlier this week, and is now looking all spruce and tidy.

What's for breakfast?

"Tindi ge enta?"

This question seems to have taken over a large portion of our mental space lately.  There was a time when Pavana and I would wake up 15 min before we had to leave for work, break our fasts with a bowl of cornflakes each or grab a couple Kashi trail mix granola bars, and head out.  Even that was a significant lifestyle boost from my college days when I would have to apportion the $5 per diem my on-campus deli job provided for the entire day's meals, which I would do by either skipping breakfast altogether or relying on free coffee in my lab or occasionally raiding the bagel table at someone else's thesis defense or dissertation.

Today we are fortunate enough to have so many breakfast options at our disposal; umpa, vermicelli, idli, regular dosa, masala dosa, rava dosa, godi dosa, onion dosa, pancakes, tellavu, dhokla, sabudana khichdi, poha, patrode, cucumber sandwiches, za'atar sandwiches, potato sandwiches, thokku toast, what have you.  Not only have we learned the skills to make these items and expanded our appetites to accommodate them, but we are also fortune enough to afford the necessary rations their recipes call for.  And yet, the aforementioned question has become a constant in our household.  While the verbiage in the question is indicative of a genuine underlying concern for the family's nourishment, do I sense a lurking irreverence toward our privileged circumstances in the mild exasperation with which it is asked?

The Family Meal

"Appa!  I have virtual lunch today!  Bread kodukkariya?"

"Lalit!  Can you feed the kids?  I have lunch meeting!"

"Happaaaa...?  Mum-mummm...?"

This was today at noon.  I had just come downstairs with Mira and had begun heating glass dabbas containing yesterday's dal and beans curry.  The IP was already at LO:112, indicating that Pavana had kept rice almost 2 hours ago.  Even the bottle of cranberry thokku was out on the counter.  Such perfect planning.  And yet, today's lunch ended up being one of those 'on-the-go' ones!

As I wedged a morsel of dal rice into Mira's mouth and simultaneously fed myself a spoonful of curd rice + thokku, I tried to recollect the last time we had all sat together for a meal.  Although I could call to mind a few occasions like Janmashtami, Ganesha Chaturthi etc., I realized that our standard operating procedure for meals is largely to eat when you can so you can be free to do other important stuff.  In Pavana's words: "Ondu kelasa mugiyali".  Notwithstanding all the blogs and research articles extolling the virtues of the family meal at the dining table, if someone were to create a video of a family meal in our house, they would have roam all over the house at indiscriminate times to capture footage of people sitting at miscellaneous spots facing arbitrary directions, inhaling food speedily so they can proceed to other tasks.

It is not like we don't own a dining table, in case you are wondering.  We do.  Unfortunately, number of times the table has served its actual intended purpose since we bought it is a laughable statistic.  Granted the table was semi-regularly used for family meals when my parents were here, but that was over a year ago.  The last time we used it for a family meal was on Thanksgiving Day this year, thanks to Medha's resolve to make everyone sit together and participate in the Thanksgiving activities she had organized.  On a normal day, however, the table is used less as a dining space and more as a horizontal surface to stockpile assorted objects.  For example, at the moment, the table, incidentally draped in a plastic table cloth with loud floral pattern that we thought was pretty at the time of purchase, is strewn with a healthy amount of randomness, viz. a dusty table fan, a nondescript white gift bag containing one purple bead, an opened humidifier box with no humidifier inside, a half filled box of Christmas ornaments, and exactly one plastic table mat.

Mixture

Modern employers typically organize an annual event called "Health Fair".  These events are a great excuse for leaving your desk and getting some circulation going in your legs.  Additionally, the free Band-Aids, pens, Mon-Sun pillboxes, and tiny reusable rPET bags at these health fairs make them the willful hoarder's dream come true.  Being such a benign event, I would have never imagined that one such health fair would become the cause for chronic domestic clashes in the LalPav household.

It all began 3 years ago, when I decided to skip my annual checkup with my primary care physician and entrust my health assessment to a company health fair instead; after all my doctor would never give me a free cookie just for showing up at his office!  However, I should have known that I had made the wrong choice as soon as the health fair workers measured my height as 5'2" and weight as 192 lbs, resulting in an obscene BMI of 35.1!  Instead I nonchalantly went ahead and allowed them to prick my finger for blood for other tests, knowing well that non-fasting fingerstick blood draw tests are not as accurate as traditional fasting blood draws.  

A week later, the blood work results arrived in a white self-addressed envelope.  At the time, I had no idea that this piece of paper would soon become my worst enemy -- it said that my triglycerides were 386 mg/dL (normal: <150 gm/dL)!  Obviously, Pavana panicked and had a fit.  I tried to convince her that the results were obviously inaccurate, but she wouldn't believe me.  "I knew this would happen!", she exclaimed, "It is all because of that stupid mixture you keep eating!".  I kept telling her that I was fine, and that the blood work results were incorrect.  I even tried to prove my point by getting a traditional bloodwork done.  As expected, the new blood work showed that my triglycerides were well within limits, but I was still subjected to the harshest lifestyle change, viz. "No more mixture for you!"

Needless to say, I have since avoided getting blood work done at health fairs and relied instead on checkups with my primary care physician.  After receiving excellent grades on my blood tests since then, my mixture consumption rule has been relaxed a little.  However, that one piece of paper that came in the mail 3 years ago has resulted in permanent PTSD; I still feel like a low-level criminal whenever I walk over to the snack cupboard.

The Christmas Tree

"Do you celebrate Christmas?"

This is a question I get asked often.  More often than not, it triggers a meaningful and very positive discussion about different cultural traditions, racial and ethnic diversity in multicultural communities, themes common to different cultures, and sometimes even more serious topics related to faith and theology.  This kind of dialogue I think is necessary.  I am not here to preach about religious equality or write an essay on the dangers of belief discrimination.  All I am saying is that we must not shy away from these conversations.  These conversations are of paramount importance in today's multicultural society.  They are needed for administrators, employers, schools, and average citizens to develop tolerance and appreciation for cultures that do not fit into mainstream contexts.  They are needed to help immigrant families in countries like the US assimilate into their communities.  They are especially needed to help kids like ours growing up in this country grapple with straddling two different identities.

In a world where egregious jingoism is the becoming the prevailing patriotic sentiment, where cultural diversity is increasingly considered an infraction of cultural integrity, and where there is chaos and conflict in the name of preservation of culture, I want to show my kids that there is a flipside.  While I certainly want them to be true to their own traditions, I want to raise them to be tolerant toward other traditions.  I want them to grow up to honor other people's cultural upbringing or theological preferences.  I want their minds to be always open to educating themselves about ideologies different from their own.  I want them to know that identifying with one faith does not give them a license to be disdainful of the traditions of others.

My desire for raising my kids this way stems from the way my parents raised me.  While quite obviously, I remember celebrating every single Hindu festival with utmost sincerity, I don't remember my parents ever saying anything about Christmas being not for us.  In fact, it was their Santa-avataram that bought me my first HMT wristwatch!  

So this year, just like every year, we will put up a Christmas tree.  The tree will be installed and decorated right under our favorite Shankaracharya picture frame.  Lord Ganesha will supervise our work from across the living room, sitting on his mantelpiece throne, which he had only recently shared with Navaratri golu bommais, Diwali diyas, and Halloween pumpkins equally graciously.  

And this year's Santa-avataram will have to up his game from last year's cheap travel moisturizers, chapsticks, and flossers to Medha's specific petition this year for a magic locket that can eradicate coronavirus.  Thankfully Mira doesn't have any such requests yet! 

It's a Masked Masked World

It is a Sunday morning.  I finish teaching my morning class and hop down the flight of stairs and merrily sail into the kitchen, filter coffee on my mind.  My jovial mood doesn't last too long though, as I am met by Pavana's steely gaze.

"I'm fed up!", she says.

"Huh?"

"I see so many of your masks lying around in the car!"

"Er... how many..."

"Why do you waste masks like this?"

"Wait... how many masks did you see in the car?"

"I don't know.  You can't just remove a new mask everytime you go out and throw it in the car!"

"Wait... how many ma..."

"The car is in a mess.  The house is in a mess.  Why do I have to keep telling..."

"Wait... how many masks did you..."

"And tell me when are you going to install that shelf?  I can't tell you again and again.  We also need to clean the basement.  There is some smell there, I have told you a hundred times."

"Wait... I thought you were talking abou... ahem... how many masks did y..."

"Doesn't matter.  Don't remove new masks every time!  Also, that smell in the basem..."

"I kept one mask on the dash, that one is new.  It needs to come back in.  The one in the door is mine.  There should be no more masks in the car!  I don't know what masks you are talking about!"

"Let it go, Lalit.  Why do you keep pulling and pulling the saaaaame topic?!!  If you have no interest in cleaning the basement then just say so!"

"Wait... so are we done talking about masks?"

There are masks and masks everywhere nowadays.  Our key holder has two fabric masks and one disposable surgical mask hanging off of it pretty much all the time.  The kitchen island drawer has a disposable N95 mask.  Every single jacket in the mud room has at least one mask in its pocket.  And I need not tell you about the cars!

The COVID-19 pandemic has ruled our existence since March of this year.  Notably, it has resulted in an overall heightened awareness of the modus operandi of communicable diseases.  Everyone now talks like an infectious disease expert and thinks like a socially responsible germaphobe.  For instance, I found myself subconsciously reprimanding F. S. Fitzgerald for not putting masks on Gatsby's midnight party attendees or making them think about social distancing while reading his account of the roaring 20s in The Great Gatsby.  For any juncture in the 20s of this century to be 'roaring' would be an act of sacrilege.  In fact, any roars articulated in today's times are expected to be attenuated by at least one layer of polypropylene.  And for good reason.  Studies have show that masks are effective in containing the spread of COVID-19 by reducing transmission via respiratory droplets(read: https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC7191274/, https://www.cdc.gov/coronavirus/2019-ncov/more/masking-science-sars-cov2.html).  

You probably don't need a reality check, but here's one just in case.  Remember how shaken we all were back in April when the number of confirmed cases worldwide was inching closer to the 100,000 mark?  Today this number has gone up sevenfold.  We have to keep reminding ourselves that every single one of us is vulnerable.  Unfortunately we as a society seem to have gotten too used to the pandemic.  Isolation fatigue has started setting in as people have started letting their guards down and going out in public without masks.  On one hand we are seeing the deadly impact the virus on our communities, and on the other hand we routinely hear some 21st century Gatsbys proudly proclaim how they were able to organize thousand guest events.  All I can say now is stay safe and do not be foolish.  None of us has has the vaccine yet!

Why did the boy cross the road?

Q: How should one cross the road?
A: One should first look right, carefully walk to the divider, then look left, then carefully walk across to the other side.

I distinctly remember furiously writing this in my ruled CW (classwork) book in cursive handwriting.  We had to write this down quickly before Miss erased it from the blackboard.  I even remember my bench; with its distinct gouges probably exacted by elementary school vandals and its position next to a window overlooking a barbed wire fence and unkempt bushes.  I think I was in Std II or Std III, aged around 6-7 years.  

Those were the days I used to spend the majority of my school year at my maternal grandparents' home, a modest train-dabba-kholi style layout that occupied the ground floor portion of an old-time building.  The building was owned by a family that inhabited 3 out of 5 of its portions.  It had two common toilets and one common open bath mori in its stone floor courtyard.  It was located on a busy street in Rastapet, the then domicile of choice for many South Indians in Pune, and the chosen temporary residence for me because of its proximity to my school.  The street was always brimming with life, always filled with various Bajaj scooter models, old style autorikshaws, muscle motorcycles like Rajdoot and Enfield, occasional Ambassador cars, dusty buses and lorries, pedestrians, bicyclists, cycle rikshaws, roadside sabudana wada vendors, and the odd member of the bovine family.  On the other side of the street perennially sat a mochi (cobbler), who serviced all our podiatric needs.  I was particularly enamored by mochi kaka.  During my evening walks with my Thatha (spent trying to catch up with him for the most part), I would freeze in my tracks when we got close to mochi kaka, my eyes riveted to the master craftsman's hands weaving magic.

It was one of these days when after chanting four-wonzaa-four, four-twozaa-eight, four-threezaa-twelve, etc. as part of my Maths HW, I decided to take a break and cross the street unaccompanied to go watch mochi kaka work.  I recollected the valuable road-crossing lesson I had learned at school -- "One should first look right, carefully walk to the divider, then look left, then carefully walk across to the other side".  I set out to do exactly that.  I stepped out of the front door into the hot sun with no chappals.   After dodging a couple of cycle rikshaws, I looked right per the instructions and headed straight into traffic.  Needless to say, it didn't go well.  Problem #1 - the instructions didn't specifically say to wait for vehicles to pass after looking right, so I conveniently skipped that step.  This lead to furious honking and screaming by scooterists and motorcyclists, and my grandma rushing to the front of the house from the kitchen in horror.  Problem #2 - the instructions said to look left only after reaching the divider.  The street had no divider.  So I stood frozen in the middle of the scorching road, barefoot and petrified, not knowing which side to look, with lorries passing me in the front and two-wheelers passing me in the back, and rikshawale kakas staring at me disapprovingly as they whizzed past me.  I also remember looking straight through the traffic at mochi kaka and seeing him irrelevantly engrossed in his work with the focus of an Arjuna through all this!

My memory of this incident ends exactly at this point.  However hard I try, I cannot seem to remember what happened next.  I am inclined to say though that no one got injured and that I must have somehow gotten back home safely!

Uncle 'n' Auntie

Never guess someone's age based on their physical appearance.  Sure, a graying bean or a creased epidermis can indicate aging, but these are neither physiologically accurate indicators nor states that cannot be temporarily undone with the help of some age-defying makeup.  And before you think I'm going to go all philosophical and say that you are only as old as you feel or that age is just a number, let me state that society really doesn't care about how old you feel or actually are.  At the end of the day, your age is a nothing more than a social perception determined by your function in society.

Allow me to explain.

I started teaching music at the age of 24.  A relatively bantam age, right?  Not according to society!  Here I am, on the first day of teaching, sitting in my bicep hugging Aeropostale t-shirt and juvenile faded jeans from Old Navy, feeling all youthful and buoyant (you get the picture), and the mother nonchalantly says to her child:

"Beta, ANKAL ko Namaste bolo...".  

Boom!  --  From that day forward, I became an Uncle.  Sometimes Sir, sometimes Master, rarely Anna or Mama, but mostly Uncle.  Pavana wasn't spared either; she became an Auntie too around the same time!  

In reality though, it would just be a matter of time before these honorifics would start feeling appropriate.  Besides, I personally find honorifics petty and couldn't care less about what honorific was attached to me, if that.  I just find it interesting that students that are almost the same age I was when I started teaching still call the two of us Uncle and Auntie!

The Song of Winter

A frosty waft sails through his blanket

He writhes in the warmth of his sheets,

His ashen brows furrow as his eye meets

The calendar that he is never to forget.

'Tis almost the end of the autumn motley

The old man bethinks himself of his pact

With the child whose tongue won't redact

Until a snowflake descends on it softly.

He knows not though of the modest disquiet

At early morn that the young woman endures,

For the image of unruly wagons she conjures

On snowy highways they inconstantly striate.

His gaze pierces through the milky window

Straight at the verdant fir standing tall

Soon to be cloaked in a silvery shawl

Elegant but austere with nothing to show.

Powdery precipitation seemingly benign

Will soon result in routines so betossed,

For he's none other than Old Man Jack Frost

Snatching the last whit of warmth from thine.

In the Glow of a Diya

My most trusted companion in my teenage years was a crimson colored 'emergency light', a contraption my parents had bought for me to help me study through power outages.  The comradeship between the emergency light and me saw many important education milestones such as my Std X SSC matric and Std XII HSC inter examinations and even a couple of my college years if I am not mistaken.  The little gadget not only shone a white fluorescent tubelight on my formative years, but also provided entertainment during power outages via an inbuilt cassette deck and an AM/FM tuner.  It managed to survive through Y2K and lived long enough to see the birth of Pune's first private FM radio channel Radio Mirchi.  It had come with a free Daler Mehendi cassette (with 21 minutes of playtime and exactly four songs), which was the only cassette it could play without getting stuck.  Uncannily, the cassette and its player breathed their last around the same time.

The point behind recounting this story is that power outages were an elemental feature of growing up for many of us.  Not so much normalis situ in America.  As such, the resultant practice of stocking up on candles or investing in a battery powered lamp or an inverter/UPS is an alien concept here.  Luckily, with all our prior experience with power outages, we did not bat an eye when we lost power for 11 hours yesterday due to heavy winds and fallen trees.  What with it being Deepavali, we already had little diyas all over the kitchen and living room!  All we had to do was to bring out a couple of candles from the shelf and we were all set for a pleasant evening.  There was no hum from the refrigerator, the dishwasher.  The TV-Chromecast-iPad apparatus took a sabbatical.  There was no heat but we made up for that by huddling together and bundling ourselves in sweaters and blankets.  For the first time in many months the four of us plus my in-laws all sat the same room at the same time and had conversations without distractions!  We ate chaat, played antakshari, and recounted old stories.  A much needed power outage, this!

Honey, I Got You a Present!

Choosing the right birthday or anniversary present for your spouse is a harrowing ordeal.  Expectations usually run high and the pressure to deliver to these implied expectations leads to errors in judgement, like that one time I had to stand in the returns line at the mall because Pavana had expressed dissent at a CD player I had thought was the perfect gift.

While society at large has plenty of advice to give on this subject, there is no one-size-fits-all approach to interspousal gift giving.  For instance, society will tell you that gifting is less about the actual monetary value of the item and more about the sentiment it implies.  Basically भावनाओं को समझो.   Sounds like good advice, right?  But what if the भावनाs are misconstrued?  Society doesn't tell you how to handle that.  Let me illustrate.  We all have heard time and again that gifting your spouse a vacuum cleaner is a strict no-no.  The basis for this hypothesis is the sentiment implied by gifter to the giftee via the vacuum cleaner, which is, "Here's a vacuum cleaner, now I expect you to regularly vacuum the house while I lounge around.  Happy Anniversary!", when in reality the gifter might be saying: "Here's a vacuum cleaner, from now on I will start vacuuming the house regularly.  You may now lounge around.  Happy Anniversary!".  

In case you are wondering, Pavana and I did actually buy a vacuum cleaner together for our 10th wedding anniversary two years ago.  We really needed one.

The scope of anniversary gift giving between Pavana and I has been elastic and fairly inconsistent over the years of our marriage.  Today is our 12th wedding anniversary.  We did not give each other presents this time.  The fact that there was no verbal clash between us throughout day leads me to believe that our marriage graph has reached the we-no-longer-need-presents-to-show-love point.  Pundits will no doubt tell me that I am delusional.  But I am comfortable being delusional.  I have no intention of standing in line at a mall to return a CD player. 

It's a Virtual Virtual World!

"I'm not sure why it isn't working.  I just had it working a few minutes ago!"

"Try clicking on the top right corner where you see the little note like icon..."

"I did, but it won't allow me to type!"

"Oh, you need to go to settings and enable it."

"Oh okay!  Is it in the meeting settings or do I have to go out into the main settings to enable it?"

"Umm... not sure.  Do you want to share your screen?  We can try to work through it together."

"Yeah okay!  Lemme see...  okay here we go.  Can you see my screen?"

"Not yet, it's thinking... oh there it is!  Yes, I can see it now..."

One would probably assume that the above conversation was being had by two adults, presumably during the course of a work meeting or a call with IT.  What if I told you that this was actually an exchange between two 7-year-olds during a Zoom call?  

The technological adroitness exhibited by today's youngest generation never ceases to amaze us senile Gen-Xers, a generation that supposedly was right in the middle of many major advancements such as personal computers, the internet, smartphones etc. and has yet somehow developed a sentiment of antiquity.  The said talent is all the more discernible this year with society almost completely metamorphosing into a virtual world in the wake of COVID, scilicet virtual school, virtual classes, virtual work, virtual play dates, virtual lunches, virtual happy hours, virtual concerts, what have you.  At the beginning of the school year we had felt a bit apprehensive about virtual school, partly because this was Medha's first time in public school but mostly because we were concerned that virtual school might introduce a steep learning curve for her and that it might come in the way of actual school work.  Our apprehensions were however brought to naught within no time.  Medha has not only became a pro at operating her school issued Chromebook (it took her all of two days to become an expert), but has also gained enough wisdom to give us recommendations in allied matters, for e.g. whether to restart Chromecast or merely end and restart the Hotstar app on the iPad, whether to add the Google meet link in the Google classroom header or send it via Whatsapp for music classes, whether to be on gallery view or speaker view during bhajans, whether to use the reverb tool in the Fx panel or right click on the voice track to select preset effects in BandLab (a cloud based digital audio workstation) etc.  

Mira is not far behind either.  She knows exactly how to switch her 'singing' toys on and off; how she discovered that little switch on the stuffed puppy's lumbar region under the velcro of his coat is beyond my grasp.  She even taught me a sophisticated hack to make the puppy resume his singing if he goes silent for some reason; gently tapping his head and then hurling him violently to the floor usually does the trick!  She also understands how do-while loops work evidenced by her ability to create exact conditions for a given toy to play the exact song she wants to hear.  She has even figured out all by herself how humans of yesteryear used to talk using flip-phones; her latest activité de choix is to roam the living room holding an old flip-phone to her cheek, babbling and giggling incessantly into it.  Oh, and she also knows how to end a Facetime call whenever the conversation turn to topics she might not prefer!

The world has now turned into a real-time sci-fi movie.  And frankly, I am not complaining.  Why would I?  After all, scientific advancement is nothing but a natural consequence of human intelligence.  The concept of technological singularity, i.e. the notion that one day robots will rule humans, is, I think, absolute drivel.  To quote sci-fi writer Isaac Asimov - "I do not fear computers.  I fear the lack of them."

Nighttime Nibbles

Five years ago.  

A glow of blue light emerges through a comforter in a bedroom that is otherwise dark.  

"Switch off that damn phone, I can't sleep...", grumbles Pavana.  She is hanging onto the edge of the mattress on her side of the bed.  Separating her from me is a tiny two-year-old laying spread-eagle, defying the laws of geometry by occupying 75% of the bed area.

"I can't sleep either...", I mutter.

"Exactly, it's that damn phone... switch it off... now!", she responds in a loud whisper.

"I think I am hungry."

"No, you are not.  Go to sleep."

"I'm going downstairs."

"Lalit, switch off that phone and sleep."

"You coming with me?  I'll make us papdi chaat."

Five minutes later, we find ourselves plopped down on the couch, watching late night comedy and chowing down layers of papdi, onions, dahi, and chutney, while the tiny two-year-old somehow manages to occupy an additional 10% area on the bed upstairs.

Cortisol has a rummy tendency to surface past bedtime.  And once cortisol spikes, the mind loses its restraint relative to dietary discretions.  Hallucinations of food items that are the antithesis of fruits, veggies, or whole grains manifest.  The immediate course of action in such a situation is to head straight for the snack pantry.  One knows this is imprudent, almost reckless behavior, and yet one cannot evade this cortisol bait.  What ensues then is the unlawful presence of humans in the kitchen and living room at ungodly hours, and newly dirtied dishes in the sink upon conclusion of the misdemeanor.

Like I said, these midnight snacks are seldom healthy choices.  Our choices have almost always belonged to the chaat family, ranging from simple concoctions like mixture + curd to more elaborate preparations like sev batata dahi puri.  On occasion though, we have fired up the stove to griddle up a couple of buttery frozen maida parathas, also known as 'junk paratha' in our family parlance, to be eaten with oily thokku.  Our midnight snacking desires have become a bit subdued now compared to five years ago, but we still fall prey to the cortisol bait occasionally.  While Pavana does not have the opportunity to admonish me for nighttime smartphone usage due to our current avant-garde (and hopefully temporary) sleeping arrangement of occupying separate bedrooms with one kid each in custody (necessitated by our baby's jumpy sleeping habits, the knack both kids have of being able to occupy more surface area of the bed than their bodies geometrically permit, and the impact all this has on all our sleep patterns), our thoughts continue to be pretty aligned w.r.t. midnight cravings.  Snacking heist operations are periodically carried out when such cravings hit, provided that the little one is not sitting up randomly saying "Apple" or restlessly circumvolving in the area assigned to her for sleeping.  For instance, sample the below text conversation that transpired last night - 

Biryani is NOT Pulav!

The first time I lived by myself was when I was in Youngstown (read this post from that solo Youngstown era) in an aging apartment unit that was half under the ground.  The landlady, an elderly lady of German origin, had somehow considered me worthy enough to adopt as a tenant without even running a credit check.  It was an eccentric place, to say the least.  The front door to the building was perennially jammed so all tenants had to enter through the back door.  A little coop like structure next to the building constituted the laundry room where the landlady provided free laundry supplies to all tenants but charged $5 to make a copy of the key to the laundry room.  Mine was a 2 bedroom unit; well, 1 bedroom where I had blown up an airbed and 1 room with a weird purple carpet where I had set up a cassette deck and would practice music.  The living room had two levels, 1 foot apart in elevation, separated by a jagged line that ran obliquely through the room; a bizarre architectural choice, one might say.  The kitchen was a separate room that was incongruously spacious for the one frying pan, one copper-bottomed vessel, one rice cooker, one plate, and 4 spoons I owned.  Every morning I would put a half a cup of rice, a cup of water, some frozen mixed veggies, some salt and garam masala in the rice cooker, switch it on, and go off to work.  When Amma or Appa asked what I had for dinner, I would proudly say 'Pulav'.  

Strange days, those.

Thankfully, both my accommodation choices and cooking skills have evolved.  With regard to the latter, I can unabashedly say that my skills have now reached a point where people who eat my food can clearly tell if I served them a Biryani or a Pulav.  Allow me to ascend the soap box for a bit.  If you are a vegetarian cook and are at a point where you are ready to learn how to differentiate between Biryani cooking and Pulav cooking like I once was, I am going to let you in on a secret.  All it is, is a marketing strategy.  Here's your MO.  The day you plan to make a Biryani, make sure everyone in the house knows that you are making a Biryani.  And don't tell them directly.  Instead keep giving them not-so-subtle hints all day.  Talk about how you decided to buy mint the last time you went to buy groceries.  Ask loudly where the javitri, elaichi and cashews are in the pantry, even if you know the answer.  Populate the kitchen counter with various unnecessary gadgets and make sure to use multiple cookers even if your Biryani can be accomplished in one.  Say things like "Now the rice is done, on to the next step!" aloud.  Make sure to announce "....and this is for the garnishing!" after you fry the onions, even if no one asks you.  And then strike the final blow by asking, "Do we need raita or can we manage with curd?".  Now when you serve your entrée, even someone who cannot differentiate between ginger and garlic will be able to tell that you served them Biryani!

A memoir of a...

I peered out the window with a little excitement and a little nervousness.  I was being driven to a park shelter in Solon on a late fall morning for the first ever assignment of my life.  Through the window I spotted a decaying Party City store with an 'Everything Must GO' sale banner.  Instantly, my mind was cast back to a time not so long ago when I would spend my days laying on a dusty shelf inside that very store.  The official party line, pun intended, was that our store was on Corporate's closure list and that if no one bought me and my shelf-mates soon, we would all be transferred to a mysterious dark place where spooky rats and creepy racoons supposedly roamed the aisles.  A shudder passed through my creases as I saw the store disappear into the distance through the SUV window.  I hated to imagine what would have happened to me if someone hadn't bought me in time!

The little girl had just turned one.  Her parents had planned an outdoor birthday party.  'Winnie the Pooh' was the theme.  Going by the tacky 8.5x11 sheets of dully colored Pooh pictures and handwritten notes that said 'Cheese Pizza', 'Coconut Laddoo', 'Cake', etc., I could tell that the family was fairly unschooled in the art of party throwing.  Furthermore, they had decided on an outdoor party in 40°F weather, which meant that had to figure out how to get the fireplace in the shelter going and keep it going for 4 hours.  I remember seeing people scurrying back and forth with bundles of firewood throughout the duration of the party!  Watching the parents scramble through the motions of the party, blowing balloons, setting up the tables, welcoming the guests, managing the pizza delivery, and blissfully forgetting to hand out return gifts, all while the little girl angelically slept in her car seat, I could not help but feel a sense of belonging with this clumsy little family.  My job was comparatively simple.  All I had to do was stay hanging on the wall by two nails and display the Happy Birthday message printed on me, which I did very proudly!

Seven years have passed since that party.  That I have seen the little girl blossom from a tiny little baby into a chirpy little seven year old is my claim to fame.  Over these seven years, I have truly assimilated into my family.  The little girl makes sure no one forgets me; she even made them bring me out for her 'half birthday' when she turned 6.5 years old!  I have been a constant in all the different types of birthday parties my family has organized over all these years.  I have been in outdoor birthdays, indoor birthdays, birthdays overseas, birthdays with music concerts, birthdays with kids making care packages, mom's birthdays, dad's birthdays, and what have you!  I have been with my family through many joys and sorrows.  I have seen career promotions, job losses, health issues, surgeries, address changes, new arrivals (we now have another cute little girl, who's first birthday we recently celebrated in the house amid COVID fears), and so much more!

On occasion, as I sit carefully folded in my cardboard box in the basement, my mind wanders thinking what would have happened to me if I hadn't found my family.  I shudder when I am reminded of that mysterious place with rats and racoons and thank my fate for deciding instead to send me here to this warm home!

Smart pain

The first time I discovered smart pain was in a public restroom when the light automatically turned off on me because I was sitting too still.  Try as I might, I cannot forget all the objects I bumped into while trying to exit the restroom a few minutes later. Felt actual pain.

I define 'smart pain' as the trauma caused by smart devices.  Devices capable of inflicting smart pain can range from simple motion sensor lights like the one alluded to above to sophisticated smart speakers like Google Home and Alexa that can hold full blown conversations with their owners.  I vaguely remember hearing a story of someone's Alexa misunderstanding their conversation and placing an order for seven thousand oatmeal raisin cookies or fifty-six bags of cat food or some such ludicrousness.  Real pain, that!  And of course, we constantly hear about the vulnerability of privacy caused by smart devices that clandestinely collect personal data.

Everything is smart these days.  A smart key gets you into your car.  A smart thermostat controls your furnace.  A smart speaker controls your lights.  A smart TV controls your entertainment needs.  A smart phone controls, well, you.  There is no escape from all this smartness.  And we regular humans are barely beginning to catch up.  Like the time I was standing in front of a lamp blurting out various permutations and combinations of commands trying to turn it on until someone walked into the room and turned it on by nonchalantly flipping a switch!

Polyglot, what!

India is one of the most multilingual countries in the world.  The Indian Constitution lists 22 official languages, but the number of spoken languages and dialects is a staggering one.  Back in 1956, the Indian Parliament enacted the States Reorganization Act, which resulted in Indian state lines being drawn in a way that people with different mother tongues had to holler over state borders to communicate with each other.  And while there continue to be disputes because some people keep wanting to redraw these lines so they can holler louder across them for some inexplicable reason, most Indians and persons of Indian origin around the world have managed to stand largely united amid linguistic disparities.

 

It is no marvel that the average Indian is multilingual.  Having grown up and lived in pleasantly cacophonic soundscapes where my left and right ears were subjected to different languages and dialects simultaneously, I automatically acquired the ability to converse meaningfully in five languages and fake meaningful conversations in least four more using basic phrases.  And this by no means is an extraordinary accomplishment.  Ask any person of Indian origin and they will profess to skills similar or, in many cases, superlative to mine.  In fact, we are multilingual to the point that we can train our kids to be multilingual as well and still keep one language a secret from them so that we can use it for undercover parental communications!  Ergo, any arguments regarding the pros and cons of being multilingual sound trifling to the average Indian.  Delayed language fluency in multilingual kids, it seems -- pfft!

A book purchased on Amazon with the intent of converting my fake Kannada into the real deal 

(partially successful project, this)

An inevitable outcome of this multilingual culture is the intermixing of languages.  This has resulted in the birth and evolution of hybrid languages like Tanglish, Hinglish, Kanglish, Tenglish etc., which serve well for creating comedic effect in conversations, for example -  

 

Why this kolaveri di?

Straight-a po!

Come here na?

Ay don't sing like this type of filmi songs no!

What and all he is doing, chchaa!

Lite teesko

OK boss, do one thing

Chill madi

etc.  

One hybrid that I grew up listening to a lot was the typically Puneri hybrid that organically manifests when a native Marathi speaker attempts to speak Hindi, for example, 'Mereko pohane ko nahi aata, tereko thaaook hai na?  Mug tu majhya samor swimming pool mein udi marke kaiko mereko ola kar raha hai? Poosne ko towel bhi nahi hai, ab anga waalega kaise?' or as P.L. Deshpande succinctly called it 'Hindi chi chindi karane' in his book Batatyachi Chal through lines like 'Hum Trilokekar, aur hum Gupte, aani Baba Barve acharya hoenga maloom hai acharya hoenga!'  

This macaronic propensity among Indians is not a new phenomenon.  It has been a part of Indian culture for many years, evidenced by old languages like Manipravalam (an eclectic blend of Tamil, Malayalam, and Sanskrit).  The well known composer king Maharaja Swati Tirunal is said to have been fluent in over 13 languages and has composed Carnatic compositions in all of them, including Manipravalam.

Another curious outcome of this multilingual culture is the knack of switching accents many Indians possess.  I addressed accents in a previous post but didn't specifically address accent switching.  And no, I am not talking about the oft heard wannabe Ame'zhi'can or Bri'ish accents bordering on cultural appropriation, like this conversation from my engineering college farewell party I remember too vividly for some reason - 

Boy 1: (in fake accent) Ay yo, I ain't drinkin' man!

Boy 2: Abbe paagal hai kya, 'ain't' sab kaun bolta hai!

Boy 1: (in regular accent) Ay gappa bas, America mein sab aishi hi English vaaparate hain...

Followed by intense teasing because Boy 1 had just received an admit from some U.S. university.  

No, I am not referring to people like Boy 1.  I am referring to Indians who seem to be able to effortlessly jump state or country lines by switching articulation and intonation styles accurately and genuinely.  Case in point, my older daughter, who can not only flawlessly switch between Tamil and Havyaka languages, but also shift seamlessly from a standard American (or Ohio) accent to a mixed Tamil/Kannada accent while speaking English.  Now, whether our local school system thinks this is a good thing or not is a different matter altogether...

Long Drive

That long drives, especially with family, are daredevil undertakings is an indubitable fact.  Furthermore, I have observed that with time, these sojourns tend to consistently rise up on the scale of effortfulness.  Gone are the days when I could just hop into the car and drive 10 hrs from Youngstown OH to Louisville KY to meet my friend Amit a.k.a. Cookie, deliberately choosing country roads instead of interstate highways and stopping at random convenience stores along the way to purchase local brands of weirdly flavored Pringle-like chips, tiny mint chocolates, and orange colored sodas.  Gone, also, are those days when Pavana and I would go on long drives through winding Pennsylvania roads, chewing the rag about this and that, me sitting at the wheel and Pavana carrying out her favorite project of tidying and organizing the glove compartment, and occasionally reprimanding me whenever she found a half eaten chips packet or a receipt that showed proof that I had once eaten chips out of a packet.  

These days the drill begins many hours before the actual drive.  The notes app on the phone starts getting populated with a long list containing some straightforward entries like phone charger, diaper bag, E-ZPass, etc. and some mysterious ones like banana, pot etc.  Next, two large suitcases are pardoned from their exile in the dark regions of the basement and loaded with clothes that seem to be enough for a couple weeks but are in reality intended for only a couple days.  A dozen stained Walmart cloth bags find their way to the kitchen island and start getting filled with snacks that are blasphemy on regular days but inexplicably not so for the drive.  Meanwhile, the Instapot merrily beeps away announcing the culmination of the cooking process of tomato rice that would then be transferred to individual Tupperware boxes for everyone to eat on the go.  A meticulous strategy is chalked out detailing which bags go where in the mini-van, when baby is fed and changed, who uses the restroom last, what is the sequence of getting into the mini-van, who sits on which seat, etc.  When it is time to leave, everyone gets into the mini-van as planned, but not without considerable yelling and shrieking and a couple extra trips back into the house because the person responsible for filling water bottles forgot their job.  Finally, a single chant of "Bolo Bajrang Bali ki Jai!" puts an end to the commotion and everyone settles down.  The rubber hits the road and everyone heaves a sigh of relief (and silently prays that the baby won't fight the shackles of her car seat).  

Within 5 min, a lone voice is heard from the back seat -- "Are we there yet?"

Mattress Mattress

I was introduced to the great American mattress by the kind souls at The Chapel on the campus of UAkron.  Being an international student with meagre means, I had signed up with them to receive some free basic furniture, which included a blue 6" twin mattress with a bunkie board.  The mattress was apparently unused, and therefore passed the test of sanitariness.  It had however been damaged in during transportation, causing the original buyer to reject it.  Other than the frayed seams and an obnoxious mutilation of fabric on the non-sleeping surface, the mattress wasn't visually unappealing.  Also, one didn't have to perform a finite element analysis on the mattress to know that some springs were damaged; the mattress was bouncy in some parts and recalcitrant in others.  My 23 year old body however organically adapted to this unevenness with no problems at all.  I was in fact quite pleased with this free piece of bedding.  I was and will always be grateful to have received it.  It stayed with me for two years until a particularly ghastly army of bedbugs infested the off-campus UAkron student community, and I had to transfer ownership of the mattress to the said bedbugs.

The reason I tell you this story is that I want you to know I wasn't always hypersensitive about my nightly support surfaces.  I don't want you to think that I am one of those people who use plush mattresses as an example to grumble about the decadence of civilization and societal collapse.  That being said, I truly don't understand the great American mattress.  You know what I am talking about.  I am referring to the luxurious looking, opulent, rich mattress you find in hotels.  The mattress that is meticulously attired in clean white sheets with enough layers to confuse you as to which two layers to insert your body into.  The mattress that cause your posterior to descend so much when you sit on it that you can feel the rest of the mattress at your elbows and you suddenly feel like a diminutive human.  The mattress that is so cushy that you wonder if your body will get entirely engulfed in it like a slice of aloo in besan batter during the bajji making process.

I grew up in a land where most people sleep on cotton or coir mattresses.  As such, even the highest number of springs in an American spring mattress cannot meet the mattress hardness I am used to.  Until last year, I would complain daily to Pavana of a neck sprain or a backache and spend many nights sleeping on the floor with an old comforter.  One fine day, Pavana literally dragged me to the neighborhood mattress store and forced us to spend a fortune on an extra hard mattress.  This mattress was supposed to be the liberator to my nightly anatomical woes and Pavana's solution to put a stop to my incessant grievances.  

However, much to Pavana's chagrin, this wasn't the case.  

My current sleeping arrangement is a futon mattress covered with a 100% cotton Bombay Dyeing bedsheet.

Right ho, Wodehouse!

Today is the 139th birth anniversary of my favorite author P. G. Wodehouse.  Thanks to PGW's brilliant novels, my adolescent years were spent in the esteemed company of many Jeeveses, Berties, Psmiths, Mr. Mulliners, an army of butlers, valets, aunts, uncles, dukes, earls, viscounts, and a pig called The Empress of Blandings, who all seem to come to life and share room and board with me through PGW's brilliant prose.  Wodehouse was my comfort reading growing up, and continues to be so even today.  PGW, or 'Plum' as his first name Pelham had apparently elided to in his circles, undoubtedly stands among the tallest of the tall in written comedy.  

One of my absolute favorites is 'The Code of the Woosters'.  If you have read the book, you know what I am talking about.  How could one forget how the droopy saucer-eyed Madeline Bassett breaks off her engagement with the horn-rimmed spectacled newt-fancier Gussie Fink-Nottle, and how Bertie travels to Totleigh Towers to heal the rift between the Bassett and Gussie under the pretense of assisting his Aunt Dahlia, famed for her booming voice owing to years of fox-chivvying with the Quorn and Pytchley, in pinching a silver 18th century cow-creamer from under the nose of Sir Watkyn Bassett in order to appease Aunt Dahlia's husband Tom and in turn prevent a life-ban from the delicious food dished out by God's gift to the gastric juices aka Anatole at Brinkley Court in Worcestershire, and how in the end Jeeves relies upon the psychology of the individual to save the day and wins Bertie's approval to go on his world cruise!

Thanks to both my parents being huge fans of P.G. Wodehouse, our bookshelf in my childhood home was filled with a battery of lightly tattered orange spined Wodehouse paperbacks, each one containing the small Penguin publications logo on the cover and moderately foxed pages inside waiting to tickle my funny bone with the most absurd premise imaginable.  It owe to both my parents for introducing me to the idyllic world of PGW and his idiosyncratic band of characters ranging from the quirky members of the British nobility to the unemployed but rich English youth living their lives on inheritances to dignified and erudite valets capable of solving any problem!

Okay, time to curl up with 'Uncle Fred in the Springtime' now!

Baaton Baaton Mein

Common wisdom lays ample stress upon good communication in order for a marriage to be successful.  Yet, whenever I am in the presence of a septuagenarian or octogenarian couple with a long and successful marriage, I am invariably struck by the scarcity of the spoken word between them.  It almost always seems like they are just happy co-existing.  So what is their secret?

The answer lies in their ability to communicate effectively using non-verbal cues.  Pavana always says that I am quite the bumbling idiot when it comes to picking up on non-verbal cues, especially when we have someone over or when there are more people present than just the two of us.  I do not completely disagree with her.  At the same time, I don't think she is particularly adroit at picking up on all of my non-verbal cues either.  And that's okay.  We are merely into the 12th year of our marriage, and we are both evolving as marital communicators and learning as we go.  The learning happens at different rates though, which is why we sometimes have small conflicts.  I leave it up to you to decide who is the faster learner; it should be pretty obvious!

And then there is also the written communication (read texting).  As a young couple in the early days of our courtship, our conversations were embarrassingly frivolous, or at least they seem so now.  Those were the days when cell networks would offer 100 free text messages per day, and I remember we would exhaust our respective quotas every day with the said frivolities.  Today, I can safely say that we have evolved well past that embarrassing stage of our relationship.  Our text message exchanges are still embarrassing, but in a different way.  Sample the screenshots below.  And also know that in most cases, each exchange is the only worthwhile text conversation had in that entire day. 

On fall-time kid hygiene:

On domestic smells:

On furniture rearrangement:

On nocturnal duties:

So irrelevant that I can't even think of a title:

Family portraits

"We need to go for a photoshoot with Appa and Amma before they go back to India", declared Pavana.

I sighed, not because I have anything against family portraits; I am actually a sincere proponent of documenting memories via photographs.  I sighed because my mind went back to a particularly bitter experience we had had recently with a local photo studio.  The propensity of such establishments for swindling customers into paying for pointless photo packages is well known.  However this one time, not only did we experience the usual smooth talk soliciting unsought packages, but we were also almost hoodwinked into paying for low quality prints and products that we hadn't even ordered.  Meanwhile, manager after manager mysteriously kept quitting the establishment and we kept getting re-directed to an elusive individual of supposed authority at the 'corporate office' to talk to about our perfectly bona fide concerns.

"I'm looking at booking a professional photographer", said Pavana, effectively bisecting the bedlam in my head.

"But", I countered, "private photographers must be really expensive, no?"

"This one is really cheap', replied Pavana triumphantly, "she has some deals and all.  Seems like it'll cost us only $100 for a session plus prints".

She had a point.  $100 for a session and prints was cheap, considering the aforementioned photo studios that would never allow one to walk out without spending at least $200.

"Okay fine, when?", I asked.

What followed was a exhaustive conference scrutinizing our schedules and trying to find a suitable time slot with the photographer.  After scrounging for an hour here and an hour there in our respective activity registries we finally reached a resolution.

"Nothing is clicking.  I guess it won't work". Pavana sighed this time.  I fixated on the pun that had been uttered inadvertently, but resisted joking about it.

"Fine", I said instead, "How about we just go to a local park and I click photos with my iPhone?"

Pavana moodily nodded affirmative.  I got the familiar feeling that she didn't trust it would ever happen.

Remarkably, we did find a couple free hours to implement this plan this past weekend.  We bundled the entire gang into the minivan, threw a few clean diapers and a box of yogurt bites into the diaper bag, and drove to the nearest park armed with a fully charged iPhone.  Notwithstanding all the distraction caused by particularly impatient photo subjects, dog poop at the most unexpected locations, other families already occupying good photo locations, and a kid who wanted to pee urgently but also wanted to go on a 1.1 mile walking trail called "Blue Bird Trail" to spot blue colored birds, we miraculously managed to click some excellent photographs.

Ironically, we spotted a family getting their photographs clicked by a professional photographer.  On our drive back home from the park, Pavana remarked, "You know, I think it was the same photographer I was trying to book!"

Jeans

Trends in fashion follow no real logic. What is more, the basis of promulgation of these trends among the public is also suspect. Case in point, jeans.

I have come to understand that jeans pants started becoming mainstream in the 70s, and the public was largely told that they would feel comfortable in these pants. Inexplicably, this garment has survived through changing fashion trends. Think about it. Tie-dyed shirts with jeans in the 70s, neon colored tops with high waisted jeans in the 80s, tube tops with acid-wash jeans in the 90s, and leather jackets with low-rise ripped jeans in the 2000s; jeans pants figure in every decade.

In my opinion, the comfort provided by jeans is overrated. I have never felt comfortable wearing jeans. Denim is a coarse material. Moreover, jeans pants are seldom flexible. I have never been able to sit cross-legged comfortably while wearing jeans. The pockets are excruciatingly tight, meaning, if I am sitting and my phone rings, I have to twist and twine my body like some contortionist to extract my phone and answer it in time. Also, most pairs I own become tighter when washed but proceed to get looser and looser through the day, which means that my A.M. decision to skip a belt starts backfiring after noon. Oh, and speaking of washing, not a single pair of jeans I own dries uniformly in the dryer. As such, laundry days routinely end with blue pants hanging to dry at random locations in the house, usually with the wet remains of a grocery bill or other such paper balled up in each pocket.

Parle-G and Uncle Chipps

A pair of angelic albeit slightly somber eyes peered at me through circular plastic spectacles that sat on the middle of her nose.  Her hair was short and wavy, presumably brushed, but unkempt looking.  Her typical bright yellow 90s shirt with jet black stripes made her look somewhat like a harmless tiger.  A faded purple satchel kept slipping off of her left shoulder while she tried to balance a water bottle on her right hand.  I couldn't stop staring at the water bottle.  I found myself waiting for it to fall.  I wondered why the harmless tiger wouldn't just put it in her satchel.

The dusty little playground had white chalk line markers denoting spaces about 4 feet apart.  About 35 kids just like us, all within the ages of 8 and 11, had gathered at the playground for the Camlin Art contest.  I had ridden pillion on a Bajaj scooter with my Thatha, who had dropped me off at the venue with strict instructions to drink only from my water bottle.  On the playground, extroverted kids had formed groups and were chattering away excitedly, while the hesitant ones like the harmless tiger and myself were standing by themselves.  I was suddenly jolted out of my trance at the harmless tiger's water bottle by a strong voice emanating from two inappropriately loud speakers.  The source of the strong voice was a wiry young man, probably in his early twenties, standing at a makeshift podium.  He enthusiastically rattled off a welcome note, gave information about the contest prize (a Camlin hamper consisting of art supplies), and invited us to use the white chalk line markers to find a space to sit.  Kids began scampering around to find spots close to their newly found friends.  Being an introverted kid myself, I wandered around the playground to find a spot away from the boisterous sort.  Finally when I sat down, I found the harmless tiger sitting right next to me.  She was peering at me moodily through her glasses.  I smiled at her halfheartedly.  

"Hi", I mumbled hesitantly.

I was almost startled to see her face break out into a bright grin.  

"Hello", she chirped in a high pitched voice.

The loudspeakers cackled again.  Suddenly, as if on cue, the grin disappeared and her face took on an expression of extreme focus.  The topic of the day was announced: "Prehistoric Age". I soon got busy with drawing colorful dinosaurs and Mesozoic fauna on the sheet of paper given to me.  I ended up depicting a fairly unimaginative landscape.  An awfully asymmetrical pterodactyl was flying above a bunch of trees and staring down at a tall diplodocus chewing on a peculiar leaf.  A triceratops that looked more like a rhino was drinking water from a stream. A tyrannosaurus rex was also bizarrely present, resting under a tree.  After a while I glanced sideways at the harmless tiger's sheet.  Her canvas was much more imaginative that mine.  She had illustrated an action scene of two allosauruses trying to hunt a little baby stegosaurus while a large brachiosaurus was trying to save the baby.  The mother stego was standing afar, presumably unaware of the danger her baby was facing.  A pterodactyl was looking down on the scene from the sky with its mouth open, as if it was shouting for help.  Quite avant-garde, I thought.

It was soon time for us to turn in our sheets.  The harmless tiger and I looked at each other and smiled.  A friendship of sorts had germinated, or so it seemed.  Kids broke out into groups again, chattering away.  The harmless tiger and I found a large rock to sit on.  She sipped water from her water bottle.  I took out a packet of Parle-G biscuits from my bag and started chomping away.  It semi-occurred to me that I should share my snack with her, but for some reason I decided not to.  She produced a packet of Uncle Chipps from her satchel and started crunching away.  I could sense that she also semi-thought of sharing the chips with me, but had then decided against it.  It was alright, I hated Uncle Chipps anyway.

"Good competition this", she said, rather suddenly.

It took me a couple seconds to comprehend what she was talking about as I was still in the process of swallowing a soggy Parle-G.

"Ya", I responded when my mouth was free.

"What did you draw?", she asked.

"Oh nothing, some dinosaurs and trees, that's all", I said.

"Oh", she said.

I couldn't think of anything else to say.  So I decided to eat more Parle-G.

"Did you see my drawing?", she asked suddenly.

"No.... I..", I fumbled.

"I saw you were looking at my drawing.  It's okay.  Did you like it?", she asked, her somber eyes lighting up.

"Yes, very thoughtful drawing", I said sheepishly.

Silence, except for the sound of munching.

"Chip?", she said, holding out the Uncle Chipps bag.

"No thanks", I said, "I don't really like them".

Her eyes became somber again.  I felt sorry for her.

"Parle-G?", I offered.

"No thanks", she replied, "There are too sweet".

The sound of chip crunching and biscuit munching filled the silence again.

Shortly, my Thatha arrived on his scooter.  It was time for me to leave.  I blurted out an "OK bye" to the harmless tiger and departed.  I thought she waved as our scooter bounded off, but I'm not entirely sure.

After a few minutes, I suddenly realized that I hadn't even asked the harmless tiger her name. 

Once Upon a Mall

I am fairly positive that when they said that the world is coming to an end, they referred to the annihilation of brick-and-mortar retail stores.  The last decade or so, in-person retail shopping has been swiftly outmoded by e-commerce.  The 'Retail Apocalypse', they call it.  The dilapidation of shopping malls is almost eschatological and certainly symbolic of the speed of evolution (or devolution) of things in this Ghor Kaliyuga.  ऐसे में  one can only muse over the glory days of the JCPenneys and the Macy'ses.

Chapel Hill Mall

When I was a graduate student, a visit to a shopping mall was one of the most glamorous getaways for my roommates and me.  On selected Saturdays, the four of us would hop onto Akron Metro bus no. 10 that would painstakingly traverse the 4.5 mi distance from Downtown Akron to Chapel Hill Mall in about an hour.  We would then trek the entire square footage of the mall and snoop around JCPenney and Sears in search of that one elusive $4 t-shirt and that one $8 jeans.  Shiny clearance boards at Aeropostale and American Eagle would lure us in to buy apparel that we would then save to take back to India during the next vacation as gifts.  We would also sometimes splurge on an expensive $13 haircut at one of the swanky hair outlets in the mall instead of our usual $7 barbershop grandpa near campus.  A Saturday mall visit was also an opportunity to treat ourselves to a veggie burger lunch at the Burger King next to the mall (this humble meal has been since expunged from BK's menu and replaced with a monstrosity called the impossible whopper).  We would also religiously partake in the annual lunacy that is Black Friday by hitching a car ride to the mall to contribute to the enormity of the 3AM line outside BestBuy so that we could get our hands on that cheap USB stick or some other such inutile entity.  We share many a mall memoir, including that one somewhat snowy November evening when we missed the last bus back and had to stand in the cold outside the closed mall doors waiting for a car-धारी student to come and rescue us!  Eventually when I graduated, divorced this group of friends, and moved to Youngstown (read about it here), the Boardman mall became a big part of life for me and Pavana.  Since we lived practically down the street from the mall, we would spend many evenings shopping at the mall.

It is a different world today with online shopping literally eating away at the remains of whatever is left of shopping malls.  As a consumer, while I certainly feel for the stores going out of business, I honestly have no problem with the online shopping experience.  My take is that as long as you can keep track of your weekly waistline trends, you can effectively e-shop for pants without stepping out from your home.  The trouble I have with online shopping is when the item you receive fails to meet your expectations, and you rather ironically have to step out from your home and go to UPS armed with a malodorous cardboard box and return label! 

First World Problems

This is something I have been wanting to address for a while.  As you have probably read in my older posts, I have rather gleefully complained about my wi-fi, an overcomplicated TV, inability to plan a vacation, problems with my cars, barbies in the house, and not having desired features in my colonial home.  First world problems, right?  Also, all probably excellent material for internet memes! 

Let us first acknowledge that the etymology of this phrase is a bit dated, since the "third world" is no longer called that; we are now more used to the "developing world".  Secondly, the connotation of the phrase changes depending on whether you apply it to yourself or someone else uses it as an accusation toward you.  I am perfectly fine with the first case.  Here you would use the phrase to succinctly acknowledge that the issue you were complaining about was just a minor inconvenience and a part of an otherwise favorable lifestyle.  This is exactly what I did above when I used it on myself; I acknowledged that I live fairly comfortably, that I have a home, own a car, do not have to worry where my next meal comes from, have internet, have a cellphone.  I accepted that I am blessed to have many luxuries in life and that all the stuff I was lamenting about were miniscule problems.  However, I have a slight problem with the other case where someone else coughs out the phrase "first world problems" when you complain about your little peeves like the long drive through line at Starbucks or a late Amazon delivery.  I'll tell you why.  Does it not feel a bit pretentious for someone else to check your privilege and feign a higher morality as if they only ever worry about starving kids and never complain about more trivial things?  Is it not preposterous to imply that just because you complained about a malfunctioning sump pump in your basement automatically means that you don't care about people who cannot afford to have roofs over their heads?

Here is where I stand on the usage of the phrase "first world problems".  I think it is perfectly alright to complain about things that are deemed trivial and then apply the phrase to yourself.  Just make sure to choose your audience cautiously and sensitively.  On the other hand, if you want to use the phrase when someone else complains about trivial things, here's my advice to you -- Don't. 

Crack me up

"English is a very phunny language", asserted Rajinikanth in Veleikaran (1987) and Amitabh Bachchan in Namak Halal (1982).  I concur wholeheartedly.  Some commonly used phrases in English can sure be comically absurd when taken literally.  Here are ten bizarre usages that have cracked me up time and again!

1. Crack someone up - To cause someone to laugh so hard that they inexplicably begin fracturing themselves all over.

2. Piece of cake - An uncomplicated task that can give you a blood sugar boost for some reason.

3. Break a leg - Something you are supposed to say deliberately to someone going on stage for a performance that might very well cause them to actually break their leg.

4. Spill the beans - The act of deciding to reveal a secret but then forgetting all about it, opening a bag of dried beans instead, and strewing it all over the floor.

5. Cat is out of the bag - When the aforementioned beans are all over the floor and a cat exits a bag, presumably to eat them.

6. Bite me - Telling someone that you disagree with them by inviting them to come and start gnawing at you.

7. Put lipstick on a pig - The unfruitful effort of trying to prettify something inherently unattractive by finding a member of the porcine family and chasing it around the room, lipstick in hand.

8. Not a big fan - When you don't like something, you change the subject and claim that you are not a large apparatus with rotating blades.

9. Ballpark - A word used to quantify something you don't know the actual quantity of by claiming that it is the middle of a park of balls.

10. Put something in the parking lot - An expression you use when you are discussing something with someone and suddenly everyone runs out of ideas, so you oddly decide to start running out of the room in search of some parking lot to put the topic into.

English 'With an Accent'

Soon after I set foot on US soil back in 2006 (read more about it here and here), I teed off my life as a US wage earner to support my college life.  My first employer was a prominent coffee establishment that enjoyed a fairly monocratic status on campus.  During the first week of training, amid all the coffee education and coffee tastings, I made friends with another international student who had also just started working in the US.  Her name regrettably slips my mind, but I do remember that she was from Namibia and that she was a particularly bright and perceptive individual.  We would discuss various topics everyday during our walk back from the coffee shop to the student housing zone.  One topic that we would find ourselves coming back to very often was English language pronunciation and accents.  She spoke impeccable English, albeit with a few idiosyncrasies like "how late is it?" instead of "what time is it?".  And I'm sure my speech contained plenty of Indian influences as well.  But we both shared the same opinion on one thing, and that was that clarity of communication always trumps accent.  Furthermore, we both detested it when we were called speakers of "English with an accent".  "What do they mean 'with an accent'?", my friend would say, "Who is to say that we are the ones with the accent and not them?"  

I agreed with her.  

Everyone has an accent.  You may be a native English speaker who was born and raised in the US, but depending on where you come from, you have an accent too.  You not only have a unique accent, but your dialect is unique as well.  For example, do you remember the 'Two Yutes' scene from My Cousin Vinny?  My second job in the US as a cashier in a deli exposed me to various accents and dialects from around America and the world.  I would in fact experiment with my own accent while responding to customers, eliciting looks of bewilderment.  I guess, they expected me to talk like Apu from the Simpsons!  As a matter of fact, the accent used by Indians speaking English varies greatly by region, and ironically none of these accents sound like the ludicrous one used by Apu!

Click here to watch this iconic scene

Here are some lessons I have learned in the last 14 years in the US.  Clarity of communication definitely trumps accent.  As such, embrace your accent and focus on clarity of communication.  I have found that my train of thought while speaking gets greatly impeded if I obsess too much over what my accent sounds like.  Also, do not try to mimic anyone else's accent, lest they construe your efforts as appropriation of their accent, even if you didn't mean it.  Respect other accents.  An accent is not a sign of intelligence.  Nor is it a sign of dignity!

Rasam and Beans Curry

Comfort food.

Basically, माँ के हाथ का खाना.

Comfort food is food that reminds you of your childhood.  It isn't usually just one dish.  It is often a combination of foods.  One such childhood food combination etched in my memory is jeera rasam with rice and ghee, with a side of green beans curry.  Today's lunch menu of a simple tomato saaru and beans palya, although not the same, instantly conjured up a collage of sights, smells, and memories from childhood.  In essence, food prepared by my mother and both my grandmothers.  Food that supplied energy for my growth.  Food that provided me comfort through my adolescent years.  REAL comfort food!

At lunch time today, I found myself reminiscing about more than just the aforementioned jeera rasam and green beans curry.  I entered a dreamland where I could almost taste Sankariamma's (my paternal grandma) Peerkangai (ridge gourd) kootu with chapati, bite into Premamma's (my maternal grandma) crispy vazhaikkai/senai kizhangu/seppankinzhangu roast with milagu rasam, catch a whiff of Amma's fragrant amti (with amsul) bhaat with tondlichi bhaji (cut lengthwise), savor Premamma's kurma (with ample potatoes) with chapati, work my way through a well of Sankariamma's spicy vatthal kuzhambu inside curd rice with keerai kootu on the side, and devour Amma's flavorful bharli vangi with chapati.

I think it is also about little traditions.  For instance, back when Appa would do grocery shopping on Thursdays (his work week ended on Wednesdays with a break on Thursdays), he would almost every time buy matar karanjis and suralichya vadya (khandvi) from Chitale Bandhu to supplement lunch.  Little things like these are never forgotten.  I hope my kids are building such memories as well.  At least we try to make little traditions.  For example, we try to do Friday chaat nights, Saturdays hakka-noodle nights, and Sunday pongal-gojji lunches.  Ultimately, when my daughters grow up, I would like them to think of home cooked food like sambar, saaru, kootu etc. as their comfort food, instead of what is portrayed as comfort food in popular culture, viz. all high sugar, high carb, indulgent items like ice cream, french fries, pizza, etc.