The Blog-Health-o-Meter™ reads Minty-Fresh™.

Crunchy numbers

A Boeing 747-400 passenger jet can hold 416 passengers. This blog was viewed about 1,500 times in 2010. That’s about 4 full 747s.

In 2010, there were 5 new posts, growing the total archive of this blog to 38 posts. There were 4 pictures uploaded, taking up a total of 741kb.

The busiest day of the year was September 7th with 19 views. The most popular post that day was Fortifying emotive ties.

Where did they come from?

The top referring sites in 2010 were lsayed75.wordpress.com, mail.live.com, alphainventions.com, google.com, and mail.yahoo.com.

Some visitors came searching, mostly for tree house, tree houses, house tree, bangalore press calendar 2010, and tree houses pictures.

Attractions in 2010

These are the posts and pages that got the most views in 2010.

Fortifying emotive ties December 2009

Babul Mora; Feb 20th 2008; 9.15 am February 2010

Book Worm May 2009

Bait Allah May 2010
1 comment

The silver masquerade January 2010

On the 15th year something fell apart. Maybe age set in firmly and resolutely. Maybe I was too tired to care. Maybe tension dissipated. Whatever the reason today I can no longer see the mess in my house. And that includes when I entertain.

When I returned from Umrah, I had well-meaning friends drop in every evening. Some came by with expensive hadiyas (gifts) and some stopped to chat. That’s when with, trial and error and overwork and irritability, I learnt how to handle guests the easy way: I relaxed, didn’t try to do everything right, didn’t rush to clear away the detritus of daily life and present a spanking clean house as if it were our everyday abode. I just enjoyed their company and overlooked a passing cockroach unfazed. If there wasn’t time to prepare the three-course treat I’d wanted to — so what? A happy sandwich could do wonders for companionship, and I’d have energy left over to laugh till tears streamed.

The new look to life has changed my appearance. I look less harassed, there is upward smile to my lips. The wrinkles have crinkled into laughter lines. At night I carry a pile of clothes from the cot to the living room and come morning I carry them back to the bedroom with no feelings of guilt attached.

Tumble down is indeed fun.

When I was young conservation was a way of life. A wasteful lifestyle was abhorred. In the wee hours of the morning, my mom would get up and switch off the fans and open the windows. Was she saving electricity or was she just letting oxygen in. I never knew. All I heard was the sound of her voice waking me.

The daily run to the milk booth was my duty. I would step out into the mist blotted winter mornings in Calcutta and make my way to the match-box sized dairy milk counter. At 5 am a serpentine queue of men and women was already formed. I would join them holding my coupons and ID card tightly as instructed by my mother, till my turn came to exchange the coupons for milk. I counted four bottles of milk for our family of six. I checked for leaks. None. No wastage.

Very often on my way back I would meet my brother who made the run to the grocery; like me he would wait for the vegetable vendor to dish out fresh vegetables. Check them for flaws, weigh them, pay for them and return. Frozen vegetables long withering in the fridge or decaying, waiting to be thrown was unheard of.

Then came the Sunday mornings… the afternoons were spent reviving the barter system of exchanging old clothes for brand new utensils from a hawker at your door step. Re-cycling was not a word, only an act. The walk to the ironing man, three streets away, for Dad’s trousers and mom’s starched sarees was a child’s duty. The last minute dash to the neighborhood cobbler for a patchwork of my school shoes which must not catch the eye of the school prefect. Waste was curbed in every way. Walking was a way of life. No petroleum wasted at long traffic signals. Not that there were many options. Effort and cause were always attached to the hip.

Those were the days when taps were closed after use. Forget to do it and you got the spanking of your life, lights were turned off as a habit, one-bucket of water per person was allotted, showers were relics that sprayed rust instead of water.

Earth hours were like any other hour of the day. The cumulative saving was higher than the latest statistic. These avatars of the past are unequalled. Today when I walk past a never ending aisle of stocked milk of different varieties and brands, I am reminded of a life that was fun, natural and rhythmic. There was no dearth on earth then.

The sanctity of the place, the sheer reverence and awe, hit me harder than the rivers of lava flowing out of erupting, active volcanoes. Bait Allah. Was I really here? Is this the stone I had seen in a thousand pictures in a million homes? Was the touch against my fingers real? Tears flowed uncontrolled. My sins of the past and dreams for the future inundated me. Subhan-allah – Wallah Hollah wallah quwwatah.

Proud to be born a muslim. Proud to believe in a religion so meaningful and rich. I stood humbled before the ‘first wonder of the world – the well of zam-zam. I drank of the cool liquid. It was a hair raising experience as I thought of the pain and hardship of a mother when her child was crying for water – alone on a deserted piece of land. I pressed my bare feet hard on the man-made rocks of safa and marwah and I felt the pain again. This is the reality. This is where it all began. Here is a slice of the tranquility of Paradise – the promised home for all good deeds. May my duas be accepted and may my sins be forgiven. Ameen.

In the light rain we circumambulated the Kabah, I wanted to stay here forever. I wanted to freeze the moment. We returned every day, spending hours revelling in this wonder and beauty. But the moment had come for Tawaaf – e- vida..

Convinced beyond doubt that I must come again, I kissed the stone and made my exit. Lightened in heart and clear in my head about where my future lay.

Mallom na tha ithni mushkill hai meri rahen

Babul Mora… (mine ofcourse) sang K. L. Saigal in Street Singer, and you shimmied to the beat of his music.

Not only in the choice of your music and singer, you were uniquely different in many ways. Saigal gave you schmaltzy moments and your love for his immortal songs made our hearts lighter.

Ek Bangala Bane Nayara….. Rahe Kumbha jisme sara.. the cassette would play and the dance gremlin bounced onto our beds and kicked our day into a dance mode. Sonay Ka Bangala. Chand ka Jangala (a house of gold enclosed in silver fence) – a dream we dreamed together.

Prem Nagar mein bana oonge ghar mein…. You made eyes at Mom behind her back and we crept behind you, laughing till our sides ached, our eyes streamed and we begged you to stop.

Choopo Na Choopo Na; Hamse Choopo Na wo pyari nazariya… Biappa your favorite daughter, Choti the Jaan of our house. Bhaiya the unpredictable one and me the Pathani Ki beti…. We miss those magical moments and pray for you.

As to the grandchildren and the great grand ones, they still believe in the … Udhne Wala Ghoda.. And when they come to the line.. Chalte Chalte, Udhtey Udhtey Thak gaye Uske Paon.. they each turn away and hide a tear. But we all know nothing could ever come between you and us except Allah.

Inshaallah, in heavan, we hope that Paya aab jee bhar key Sukh; Jisne Bhi Dhook Paya. Ek Bangala Bane Naira..

A smiling, lively dentist, whom I met for the first time, asked me to recline on his black leather couch. I look furtively for a straight backed chair to discuss my problem first but it appears that the reclining position is the best. I feel defenseless and exposed. But he smiles on. While we talk I peer at his teeth and I can even see the epiglottis.

When we are done understanding the procedure, the different treatments and I have relaxed a bit, he slips on a pair of gloves and says pleasantly, “I am going to numb you out,” tapping my paining molar with something steely. I half get up, he gently pushes me down and adds, “The tooth is perilously close to extraction, but I am going to save it.” I look at him gratefully, as I communicate with my eyes, since my lips are being pulled by a gloved finger.

“Let’s hope the filling holds,” he says ruefully. “The extraction will be complicated as the roots are curved into the gum”. “I will have to cut into the jaw,” he adds. In panic I push his hand and rise from my reclining position. At that moment he looks like Gabbar Singh and the epiglottis like a sword over my head. I am frozen with terror; my courage is at sub-zero level. Relax he says, pushing me back again, “that’s routine, you won’t feel a thing.” I resist his push and ask, “How much will it cost?” “Check with the receptionists,” he says thoroughly looking at all of my teeth. ”There are three other cavities,” I immediately multiply my agony and his fortune. My unfettered eyes see the castles he is building with my bank balance.

“Would you like to make an appointment?”, he asks after a while. I gargle a reply. It is impossible to discuss anything as wads of cotton are stuck in my cheeks and a tube inserted into my mouth which steals away every drop of spittle. .

He ceases his ministrations for a while and I wait for the magic word rinse. I am actually desperate for a drink and wonder if I will die if some water for rinsing does get into my windpipe.

The drilling probing and sound of instruments continues a little while longer. I feel my lip has got a tear. Then he lifts his head and says ‘bite”. I look around for something to bite. “Bite what?” I say. My words are slurred and my tongue feels heavy and wordless.
“Your teeth – Bite and grind,” he says, still smiling. I slip away from the couch, I have fizzy feet and my right jaw feels like it does not exist.

As I am emptying my purse at the receptionist I promise myself that I will take better care of my teeth. But the appointment leading up to the silver tooth continued. On the final date the dentist and I both looked into the mirror and I smiled and there in the corner we saw the glint of silver. Too late.

Today when I smile – you see what anybody would see – rows of teeth, a tongue, a palate AND at the end of the smile the glint of silver.

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.

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.

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.

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.