The whole nine yards
This is the umpteenth time I am wearing it in the last month. Is it too loose? Worse yet, is it going to unravel in the midst of the rituals and give the priests a coronary? A million doubts are running in my mind as I step out of the room. "You've tied it really well today!" proclaims the voice of experience. My mother-in-law who's reticent by nature, issues her stamp of approval. For a few minutes I savour the heady feeling as I look down at the nine yards sari draped over me. I feel I've gained entry into the Madisar Mami Hall of Fame.
My father-in-law's sudden demise a few weeks back in Chennai led to a series of unexpected events. Having grown up in a traditional Hindu family that diligently followed the lunar calendar, the slew of funeral rites wasn't a complete surprise. But for the first time I was house bound with several females ranging from 84 years to 8 years with my husband being the sole male in the house. And when a couple of sharp tongued women like my sisters-in-law, experts of the madisar sari, were thrown into the mix, it became a testing ground of sorts for me.
“Don't let go of the leg on the sari ...” My husband's aunt muttered under her breath as she tied the nine-yards sari for me for the first time. It appeared to be a complex procedure of gymnastic steps as I followed her instructions. A tuck here and there, legs akimbo, and twirls every now and then. By the third day, I got the hang of it and was ready to face the music even as the women kept up the drill in other activities. “Don't walk too fast, take small steps!” everyone chorused as I flitted around in my new avatar. Whenever I slipped up, my husband's sisters were only too happy to pull me up!
My friends were curious to know how I had pulled this off. For someone who barely knew how to tie a six-yards sari with finesse as a young bride, I had come a looong way. Do I dare mention that the internet can be a marvelous resource for those who have no 84 year old aunts helping you go the whole nine yards?
Birthing pains – confessions of a writer
My fingers freeze on the keyboard. The creative juices have completely dried up. Tomorrow is the deadline! I am desperate at this point and look around for inspiration. "1001 Article Ideas" the yellow book in the top shelf of my bookcase catches my eye. As I crack it open, a musty smell attacks my nostrils. For several years now it has been on the shelf, wasting and neglected. My husband had picked it up at a book sale and presented it to me. But it had been relegated to the “read” pile, along with other books that have suffered a similar fate.
As I quickly run through the ideas listed on page 3, the phone rings. It's my father who begins a long-winded explanation on why he needs the driver. “Cut to the chase, Dad” the words slip out inadvertently. For a moment he's too befuddled to respond. After all, he's still not come to the reason of the phone call! I assure him that I would return his call in a few minutes and race back to my desk. The ideas are now jumping at me and I'm raring to go. For the next few minutes the sound of furious typing echoes in the living room. Only the quiet chime of the clock can be heard in the background. As I'm halfway through the piece, a sneaky thought appears . Is the writing a tad dull? Does it need a bit of pizazz? Soon enough, alarm bells start ringing in my head. But no, it's the doorbell - who could it be now?
My sister-in-law breezes in behind the maid announcing, "I need to see my brother!". There's a light of battle in her eyes. "Close your ears, I'm going to talk to him!" Easier said than done. I'm out of cotton balls at the moment.
Mentally wishing everyone to perdition, I head back to my cozy little corner. The piece is shaping up well. It's time for that punchline. One that will make or break the article. I run through several scenarios in my head, laugh out loud even as the spouse looks askance at me. When I write the last word of the article, I expect to hear the roll of drums. Or better still the strains of some soft music. Instead I get the jarring sounds of vessels being dropped in the kitchen sink.
Divine Deals
- Image via Wikipedia
“We’ll stop at the temple on the way out!“ My father is emphatic. Whenever I have a concert he insists on breaking the proverbial coconut at the corner Ganesha temple. While I have last minute jitters of getting to the concert venue on time, my father nonchalantly goes about the business of propitiating the elephant God. As another Vinayaka Chaturthi festival passes by, I find myself wondering why Ganesha seems to figure in our lives only when we need something to happen.
To test my hypothesis I began quizzing my friends and neighbours. Rita, my neighbour's daughter was my first interviewee. I asked her about her temple routine. “When my exam results are due, I do several rounds of the temple with multiple offerings of flowers and fruits.” “What happens between exams?” I asked. "Oh, just one round, sometimes a coconut thrown in!" Last week when another friend underwent a battery of tests with her doctor, the "modaka" preparations at her home gained astronomical importance. As always my husband had his own take on matters. “Ganesha is probably the most overworked God among the Hindu pantheon today” he declared pompously - ensuring he was out of my father's earshot.
Having grown up in a traditional family bound to the lunar calendar and every Hindu festival on it I never did question my beliefs. Today as the mother of two girls who question everything and want to know why we are doing something, I feel the picture of Swami Vivekananda in my living room mocks my passive acceptance.
My friend who lives in the US scoffs at my "silly spiritual struggles" as he terms it. “I don’t believe in visiting temples or undertaking pujas. God resides in every human being!” Strangely enough when he comes visiting, a trip to Tirupati with his parents always features in his itinerary. I’m sure he doesn't go there for just the scenic beauty!
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On fast track
- Image via Wikipedia
This article originally appeared in the Deccan Herald
Fantasy is one genre that has become popular with children today.
It all began with a book. The latest in the ‘Twilight’ series was out and all the kids in school were talking about it. “Our classmates are reading it, why can’t we?” My children couldn’t understand why I was so reluctant to let them read the book by Stephanie Meyers. “We’re the only ones who have not read it”, was their constant refrain. When I heard that the story revolved around a vampire’s relationship with a high school girl, I was conflicted.
Should I be a Cool Mom and let them read it or a Boring (worse yet, control freak) Mom?
For the first few weeks after the book came out I opted to being the latter. But my kids like most others of their ilk have an enduring trait. Like a rottweiller, they would wear down my resistance with constant badgering. Not that they use the same strategy while studying for their tests and exams. I eventually succumbed but only after it passed my litmus test of suitable reading for teens.
A quick peek at the children’s section in the local bookstore brought home the fact that witches and wizards have become de rigueur. Fantasy is one genre that has become very popular with children today.
Whatever happened to that one witch whom we encountered with Dorothy in the land of Oz, who sent shivers down the spine? She seems a tame, insipid cousin to her brethren today. When I even talk about fairies and pixies that Enid Blyton brought to life, my kids simply roll their eyes.
They are now caught up with a book series that doesn’t involve wizards or vampires. When they explain that it’s about characters who disappear in and out of a book as it is read out aloud, I am stumped. It’s not a whole lot easier to handle than blood-sucking vampires but I can live with this one. I know I’m on the fast track of earning the sobriquet of Cool Mom.
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Mum’s the word
[This article originally appeared in the Deccan Herald]
"They are freshly washed!” I become conscious of the hovering waiter. I 'm seated at a newly opened “fine-dining” restaurant in the neighbourhood. The waiter must have seen me staring at the glasses on my table. After he takes my order and leaves, I begin to wonder if the food is being prepared in a clean kitchen? When was the last time these plates had been washed in hot water? The poor waiter had no idea that I had actually been admiring the fluted design of the glasses! In his over-zealous attempt to please, he had inadvertently led me to ponder on the restaurant's hygiene.
I have barely begun to eat, when my cell phone rings. I see it's my friend. “I didn't make it!” he says in a voice filled with disappointment. He had failed to clear the admission test for the college of his choice. “The worst thing is the principal told me that I missed the cutoff by only a few marks!” Even as I sympathize with him, I fume at the principal's insensitivity for giving my friend the complete details of his failure. How relevant was it to mention that he'd missed by just a few marks?
There are times when I wish people refrain from full disclosure. Holding back is hard, as there's a little voice inside all of us that says "Keep going, tell all!" It's one of those peculiar traits we seem to have – an enthusiasm to blurt it ALL out. Rarely do we stop to think if the other person truly needs the gory details. The line demarcating a succinct synopsis from needless Bollywood narration is unclear to most.
The best way I have found to not cross the line is to keep the lovely Spanish proverb in mind - "If you keep your mouth shut, the flies won't get in!"
The bard of Tiruvaiyaru
This article originally appeared in the Deccan Herald
Five songs. One collective voice. It's unlike any other music festival. It's mid-January and there's a motley crowd gathering in the town of Tiruvaiyaru, near Thanjavur in Tamil Nadu. There are pandals erected everywhere and the town becomes the focal point. It's the annual memorial to Tyagaraja, the saint-composer of Carnatic music where Carnatic musicians have gathered to pay homage to him.
Tyagaraja's "pancharatna" kritis are rendered by Carnatic singers, instrumentalists and percussionists at his shrine. The Tiruvaiyaru festival has spun-off similar festivals in different parts of the world that follow the same pattern. In April, the American edition of Tyagaraja Aradhana takes place in Cleveland. It is a huge success with near live telecast of it back to the heartland by Tamil TV channels bringing the music full circle. Tyagaraja, who lived nearly three centuries ago and never ventured from the Cauvery Delta, today is alive and a global traveler. After the hectic month of December concerts in Chennai where he figures figures front and center, Tiruvaiyaru is all Tyagaraja, as is Cleveland in March/April and Bangalore with its Rama Navami festival. A peripatetic lifestyle for someone who has been dead for nearly 300 years!"
This year, a familiar figure in the Tiruvaiyaru festival will be sorely missed. Kunnakudi Vaidyanathan, a famed violinist and one of the lead organizers of the Tiruvaiyaru aradhana passed away last year - who can forget that smiling countenance and the super-sized dot on his forehead?
I've often wondered what makes this festival unique? It's one singular occasion where the music itself has no variations, petty politics are cast aside, and musicians come together for the explicit purpose of celebrating this great composer's music. Tyagaraja along with Dikshathar and Shyama Shastry formed the triumvirate of Carnatic music who are often likened to Mozart, Bach and Beethoven of western classical music. Tyagaraja's music stands out for the simplicity of his lyrics and the sheer emotion that it inspires. Like the Bard of Avon remarked, "if music be the food for love, then play on". Tyagaraja actually lived this philosophy - his legacy continues to inspire musicians all over the world.
Raga Dreams….DH middle
- Image by JIGGS IMAGES via Flickr
Even as I'm shuttling between Bangalore and Chennai for the music season (performing, listening) the Deccan Herald featured my article for the middle column today
"There's one Hollywood number in the list," declared my 10 year old. She had just returned home from her rehearsal for the annual day bash at our apartment complex. In her inimitable style, she stood there rattling off the details. "Nine items - different groups of children dancing to Bollywood numbers." Each year the children in our complex practice hard for the annual show and it’s the highlight in many a parent and grandparent’s lives. Dressed in their Sunday best, little ones and not so little ones put on their most creative dance moves watched by the adoring crowd of relatives and friends. This year my daughters were the emcees for the show and they walked around as if they‘d won the lottery!
“Why is there no traditional music or dance programs at our annual day?“ Girija aunty was busy bending the ear of anyone who’d listen. It was her reedy voice in my head that set me thinking about Bollywood and its pernicious influence. Why do kids today act as though Indian culture means Bollywood? Going by the number of Bollywood dance classes mushrooming all over the city, I won’t be surprised if schools take it up as a vocational hobby class. I recall as a kid that there were times when I’d rather have learnt western piano or sang ghazals with Jagjit Singh than do what my mother wanted me to - learn Carnatic music. Today as a practicing classical musician and a mother I try to understand why our kids are not more enthusiastic about traditional music.
"I really don't understand the nuances of classical music, it's just too complicated for me!" Maya, my friend’s eighteen year old shakes her head in despair. “The hardest part is when the musician breaks into a raga” she says, looking at me for sympathy. “Do you realize that many of your favorite filmi numbers are based on these very ragas?” I ask her. I see that perks her up, at least that’s what I think her raised eyebrow meant. “There‘s only one way to get past this. Listen to a wide variety of artistes. Classical music has a way of growing on you. Soon you'll wonder if you’d have enough time to hear all that you want!“ To my amazement, she resisted the urge to roll her eyes. I hope my advice and our children’s natural curiosity will bring more of the Pappu can’t dance crowd to the classical concert halls.
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The sixty four arts…
- Image via Wikipedia
This article originally appeared in the Deccan Herald
“That sambhar doesn’t look right — too much water”. My mom was watching me cook the evening meal with a critical eye. “It has to have the right consistency. Why don’t you learn from Radha Chithi?” At times she forgot that I was approaching middle age and had two nearly teenaged daughters to boot. In her mind, I was still a child whose education in certain areas was sadly incomplete.
“Do you remember the fluffy aapams that Girija maami made during Krishna Jayanthi? And Padma akka’s cheedai was so crisp, you never stopped eating them. You could still ask them to teach you.” If mom was impressed with someone’s skills whether it was cooking, painting, singing, writing, or any of the other sixty four arts, they got into “Mom’s Hall of Fame”. She kept her lists constantly updated. There were some perennial favourites in every list but rarely did anyone get bumped off any list. Cousin Gowri, my bete noire, featured in the writers and super cook list. Even if I had ever aspired “to be like Gowri” my mom’s constant anything-but-subtle reminders had put an end to it.
Uncle Andrew, our erstwhile neighbour and the resident art expert played a starring role at our post-prandial discussions when my daughter struggled with her pencil sketching. “He would bring Elizabeth Taylor to life, you could imagine blooming irises when you gazed into the eyes,” Mom sighed dreamily as she was an art enthusiast herself.
"How does it matter, Amma, if I simply can’t whip up perfectly shaped murukkus that gives you a crunchy feeling at the first bite or my articles are yet to see the light of day in The New York Times?” I argue with her.
“If I never egged you on to realise your full potential you would have ended up like me! I never had half the opportunities that you do.” My mom had had a hard life growing up, with her own mom passing away before she was fifteen. I knew I wouldn’t be where I am today if not for her prodding and support. And when I now insist that my older daughter sign up for the upcoming school debate, much to her dismay, I realised that the apple didn’t fall far from the tree!
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Releasing your inner Attila….
[this article appeared in DH this week]
Confronting her did nothing. She was weepy at first, then slowly turned belligerent. “Do what you have to do!” she declared staring me down. Earlier that day I had discovered my maid trying to steal some jewels. My faith in her for three years had been rock-solid, so this volte-face on her part stunned me. I had to let her go. The next day she was back demanding her pay for the previous five days. For a moment there, I admired her gumption.
This young girl on the threshold of marriage, was ready to face me head-on even though she was guilty as sin.
I remember the first time I tried to confront someone. I must have been 16 then. My bete-noire was the most popular girl in class. I resolved to tackle her on the last day of the school year. On D-day, my palms were sweating as I watched her approach. The cold put-down plan dissolved into incoherent babbling on my part when I faced her and I slinked away on the verge of tears, her high-pitched giggle echoing in my ears.
"Confront your fears!” My husband has a hard time understanding why I avoid unpleasant situations. “Nothing like a healthy fight to clear the air — even if it means facing a recalcitrant friend, or a troublesome sister-in-law.
And when you’ve had not just words but even spice jars flung at you, you toughen up — all that simmering angst comes out in the open!” “It’s easy for you to say that,” was my constant rejoinder.
So when my maid stood outside with that smirk on her face confident that she’d wrangle some money out of me, it dawned on me that I wasn’t 16 anymore. I decided to take my husband’s advice. The look of astonishment on her face was well worth the effort as I sternly told her off. Even though I know I’m not going to morph into Attila the Hun, it was certainly a start. My husband now safely keeps the spice jars out of my reach!
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Agony around the Aunt..
My neighbour's 15-year-old was standing outside, when I opened my front door. "Can I borrow the newspaper...Aunty?" she asked. I handed the daily to her with my best smile and no indication of the storm that raged within me. "...Aunty" the word continued to ring in my ears - here I was still on the right side of thirty and not yet picturing myself as "Aunty". To me, Aunty conjured up an image of a 50-year-old, someone matronly wearing a sari and of ample girth!
The first time it happened was a few years ago, at a party soon after my marriage. I was conversing with a girl who had just entered college and was non-plussed when she suddenly asked, "What does Uncle do?" At first I had no idea what she meant and which uncle she referred to. I did not see any uncles anywhere in the vicinity when it dawned on me. Of course she meant my husband who probably seemed old to her. I soon tried to get away from her as I was unprepared for what would surely follow. After all, Uncle's wife was Aunty and I was not ready to swallow that bitter pill then.
Today, five years later, I am Aunty to my maid, cook and other domestic help as well as all the children aged 3 to 20 in my apartment complex. You would think with so many nieces and nephews, I would be reconciled to this moniker, yet my mind rebels at being grouped along with other aunties.
In the beginning when I would correct people a few years younger, I was greeted with suspicion and sympathy. They assumed that I was having a hard time accepting my age and would simply nod their heads. It took me quite a while to reconcile myself to the reality of being addressed thus. My husband consoles me with the insight that Aunty is infinitely preferable to being called "Mamee"! Though Mamee literally means maternal uncle's wife in Tamil, it is also widely used to address a married woman.
Once when my brother was visiting from the US he addressed one of my mother's friends as Mamee. The lady in question coyly said, "Oh don't call me Mamee or Aunty!" and offered no further suggestion. So what did she want to be called? 'Akka' or 'Didi'? That too with a 20-year gap between the two parties concerned?
On my last visit to Delhi it was a refreshing change to be addressed as 'Behenji' or 'Bhabhiji' by strangers. It seemed to lend some respectability to my status as a married woman. "Oh, it's all in your mind" was the pat reply from my spouse everytime I taxed him for an explanation.
At a recent wedding, when I observed a twenty-something's horrified reaction to my 2-year-old greeting her as Aunty, I realised the wisdom of my husband's words. Somehow the transition from Aunty to Mamee no longer seems terrifying.
This article appeared in the Deccan Herald a while ago.
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