Fortifying emotive ties Monday, Dec 28 2009

Every night I fantasize about fertilizing my crops, finding a clumsy deer, a lost baby calf, uncommon brown and white mystery eggs, sharing a perfect bunch of roses, gifting a handful of poinsettia, completing g level 3 of pineapples mastery and becoming the king of compost blue ribbon. During the day I gawk at the farm photos face bookers upload on their walls – But I never had the guts to click on Farm Ville.

Root cause
The reason is simple – Farm Ville is too much like the make-believe world I surrounded myself with when I was a child.

Fantasy or real

My favorite fantasy then was to live in tree house built on the widespread branches of a sturdy mango tree. A mango tree because the plump, sun-ripened fruit would be easy to clamber up and pluck. The tree house would be in the center of a farm, with a farm ville not far away. At the height of summer the tree house would be my secret hiding place, a reading room when I wanted to escape visitors and complete the climax, a sulking spot when I was refused a movie, the launch pad of a million daydreams depending on how the day went. The fantasizing was endless.

Years slipped by. I was many places wiser, many houses were changed. My personal roots were replanted. I became like the hubristic people I saw around me. In the place of my tree house stood real houses firmly laid on terra firma, houses fringed by ornamental gardens.

Then one day I saw Farm Ville on Face Book. Suddenly what do I smell? Was the scent of mangoes really in the air or was it a delusion brought on by a lost childhood. For a minute I was transported to the magical world where I made my own friends, my own stories and looked out of the chink in the door which did not close properly because the hinges were incorrectly hammered. From high up in the branches I saw thick dark leaves and sun-kissed yellow fruit. The dreamy me became completely immersed in my fantasy one more time.

A house, a tree, you, me, a way of life and the spread of roots, these are more inextricably linked in my mind than Farmville can allow me to click on.

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A warm December Friday, Dec 25 2009

Before I moved to live in the UAE, the people I knew here waxed eloquent about the magic of the desert – the brilliance of the stars, the cool sands, the miles of dunes and wild camels.

For a long-time city dweller like me it was hard to believe them. Greenery in the desert, did you say? You mean the dull, green, thorny shrubs I would counter. After living here in the UAE for two years, I can’t stop rambling about the magic spell the desert has cast on me. It is not the empty space touching the horizon like the ocean. It is not the barren brown dunes. It’s the many young trees that awaken your senses and make you want to leave the concrete jungle of the city. A trudge up the dunes is the best sport you can take. Three steps up and two back again for every three you take – until you reach the top. Then you begin the exhilarating slide down the other side. Through the fabric of your jeans you can feel the fine sand, its quality better than anywhere else in the world.

True the unpleasant shocks are more than the pleasant surprises. Even as you thread the sand through your fingers, crabs and scorpions peep out of a thousand holes. You almost shout in panic.

But the desert winter is the best. The sky is dotted with flocks of migrating birds. They come in every size, shape and color – perched on trees, pecking at the grass or drinking water in the tiny lakes that dot the landscape.

And when the sun goes down you lie back on the sand and wait for the starlight and the glow. The glow that stays within you and warms your heart. For that’s when you believe all that you hear about the charm of the desert.

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Calendar Friday, Dec 25 2009

Calendar! That’s a widget I needed without a doubt. I dragged and dropped it on my blog home page giving it a prime slot. Isn’t that the item I used the most? Even in this era of blackberries and laptops you ask? I look askance. Perhaps being a calendar girl is something that runs in my family or it is a mark of a generation still attached to paper.

In our childhood, there was always one calendar in the living room. This was usually given by a friendly bank manager with “best compliments.” Mom however was the happiest when Dad brought the “Bangalore Press” calendar with one page for each month, large black numbers, and holidays marked in red and enough space to jot down the baffling things of daily living – Things such as when the laundry was due back from the Dhobi, when the newspaper man missed a delivery, when the gas cylinder had been booked, and even our important school events. The calendar had removable sheets which she would not tear or discard, just flip it over pierce a hole and roll it back. It made a lot of sense because she could always back track and check on dates and figures. Sometimes it helped to prove a point. What we call the data system now.

When we visited our aunts and uncles, we found similar calendars on their walls and we took them for granted, almost like the family portraits that hung on the walls. There was something so familiar about a calendar on the wall, that naturally, at the beginning of our married life, I just did what I had my parents’ did at home. I got that plain functional calendar, hung it at an accessible height and wrote whatever I had to on it, including phone numbers and little post-its and reminders to myself and others in the house.

Then one day my boss put up a desk calendar with the Spice Girls in “Come hither” poses. I compared this with the mess of scrawls on my plain calendar. I decided that healthy chuckling babies was what I want on my calendar especially because I was expecting a baby. I also wanted a calendar with a different baby each month not the same one looking at me all year long. I went out a got one.

But glossy calendars had their minuses. How could I deface them with writing that could appear on the other side and show through the babies’ laughing eyes? Naturally then the calendar lost its face value and was relegated to the back. It went unnoticed and I came to rely on my memory instead. Things slipped into a routine – if the gas didn’t arrive on time I just lit the kerosene stove or borrowed my in-laws cylinder and called the agency.

Still, every year when I flip the page for the last time that year I wonder how and where I will buy the next calendar. I do use it especially when I am planning a trip or making a commitement. Calendar girl is a habit deeply drilled down.

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Jogger on the road shedding the load Tuesday, Dec 15 2009

The electric supply in my apartment tripped plunging me into darkness. I groped for a candle and went down the stairs to check the fuse. Unfortunately the stairs were designed for athletes’, not me. I huffed and puffed and blew out the candle. As I climbed up the remaining steps I fell into black depression and resolved to get myself into shape.

I recalled doctors rambling about the Emiratis and expatriates being inactive. They recommended a 30 minute exercise regime. They totted up the numbers and said that the UAE was the 18th fattest nation. My resolve grew stronger. The weather had turned for the better and I could jog, or so I thought, for a kilometer without breaking into sweat.

The following morning I went out into the balcony. The harsh winter cold bit my skin. My will power momentarily crumbled. I looked longingly at the inviting bedcovers. Then I had an idea. I put on a toque, a ridiculous hat that looks like a stocking pulled over your head. It would keep my ears and head warm I reasoned. I tied a double loop on my expensive trainers and fixed the pedometer. I coached my self – “You are not going for a leisurely amble. There are no roses to smell along the path. A brisk stride will get the heartbeat racing and the load shedding.”

As soon as I turned my block I broke into a jog. I could feel the jarring sensation of pounding the pavement with my heels. My teeth rattled and my tummy jiggled, I remembered the half kilo biryani meat I had tucked in the night before. The jog ended after exactly hundred steps. My legs were shivering. I looked down, my legs were intact, I was not suffering from some disease called lurge-y. But they felt wobbly, I collapsed onto the curb and pretended to enjoy the scenery – Something which I later realized could have had me taken in for a vagrant.

I placed three fingers on the wrist of my other hand, palm side up. I could feel the blood pulsing under my fingers. I counted 60-100 beats. I had achieved my goal. My heart rate was fine. I must have lost a few calories. I would try again tomorrow but this time I would go for the rubberized track along the Mamzar Beach. If I qualify for the next winter Olympics it would be a historic and record breaking moment for me.

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Steeped in tradition Monday, Dec 14 2009

The Indian culture has a long history of traditions. But when I was young my household was not steeped in them. We celebrated Eids, attended weddings, anniversaries and funerals perfunctorily. These events just happened. There was no preamble. When they concluded we came home and got on with our lives.

It was after I launched into my married life that traditions became a determiner of all action. I thought that a happy future lay by my side given my husband’s good looks and good nature. But an “odd elder” at every event turned my life upside down. She would look peeved that I was not conforming to some tradition. No flowers in the new bride’s hair, no downcast eyes, no gold jewellery, no respectful silence… tut tut just not down. In fact, even my marriage did not go through the traditional fest of a Muslim wedding. But life sailed on and I survived the rocking boat effect.

Years slipped by and I observed traditions on both sides fervently. Festivals were the first to rear their heads. Food and sweets were exchanged. I was appreciated for my cooking and I made traditions a happy habit. I hummed a song while I kneaded and mixed, baked and boiled. I watched with pride when my laden table creaked with dishes brimming with food.

But in my nuclear family it was I who sweated over the stove. I had created a new tradition – a tradition of slogging it out all alone. Not quite because my little tot would get into the way chanting, questioning, reasoning and many times answering her own questions. As time passed she actual became a useful help while I embarked on the rituals of a tradition. Wasn’t I was too ingrained to let go of traditions?

Oh me gosh – now I am that “elder” who frowns on non-conformists;
who knows exactly how many people to invite, how many kilos of meat are needed, who will receive gifts etc. When my turn comes will I beguile newcomers into the family fold lovingly or will I drive them insane with my quirkiness?

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Gatekeepers of Geni Sunday, Dec 6 2009

I begin my day, like many others, checking my face book account, bank account, Gmail account and office intranet. I sort out the spam from the work related and readable emails. Off late, I take a sneak peek into the new exciting Geni account. Almost always there is a funny one-liner or a set of pictures, or a video from a relative waiting to cheer me up and set my mood for the day. Today was different.

I read a message that categorically stated that a self-appointed gatekeeper was going to begin trafficking the content on Geni and would, the message read…. “remove any such material, unintended or otherwise, real or imaginary” which maybe perceived as being embarrassing to someone else. I was tempted to write back and say –“We will not remove ‘posts’ just because you disagree with the statement being made.”  I let the thought go, lest it became a chronicle of internecine drama leading to palpable emotions running riot. My anger and frustration at this disclaimer (use of the metal rod in cyberspace) led me to unleash my feelings here.

I smiled when Younes Matheen replied, “the intention is not to deliberately embarrass someone, but if it comes…take it coolly”. Cool dudes… that’s what our tech-savvy, gadget –hungry generation is. Chill… Just a joke being played and lets play along.

Brilliant or Banal?

The love bond

We need to make allowances for this generation to belly laugh. To give them opportunities to be themselves and live in the times they belong to. Give them space to engage in some ribbing. If I can find a cousin on Geni, first or once removed, with whom I can share a laugh.. then why not? Laughter really does make the world go round. There is maturity in today’s youngsters, to know, how well, the ribbing will be accepted by the person they are targeting and the reverse. Placing pseudo restrictions on what they can or cannot say, crams their style. Every post will be carefully rehearsed, well thought out, well framed to please rather than be spontaneous and interactive. Is that brilliant or banal?

I hate to say this but the mundanity of our life must change to accommodate jokes, laughter and embarrassment. Have none of us faced or recovered from an embarrassing moment? So what are we afraid of ? If we want to cherish the love bond and raise the family on a firm footing of trust then we need to have an internal tolerant pleasing disposition and not an attitude of doom, fear and negativity. Life is after all only an infant.

Caution: Keep blowing the whistle and the players will leave the field.

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