The Building AGM
In an unpainted room i didn't know existed, a broken tt table served as the chairmans desk. He was flanked by the secretary, a disgruntled mousey-looking man who used the opportunity to shout at all the neighbours he didn't like. Much like a batty school master, he wagged his finger and raised his voice. He seemed quite ready to throw people out of the class or send them into the corner till they learnt how to behave. On the chairmans right, sat a man who would periodically stand up and shout about how much research he had done into ganiteting/cementing/cable connections/water pipes.
I sat in the back with my brother and watched. this was definately better than reality tv.
Saturday, May 05, 2007
Sunday, April 01, 2007
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
She walked down the parking lot, the tick-tock of her heels echoing loudly. Her hair was perfectly done, not a strand out of place. She wore a suit and pearl earrings, carried a file of important papers and a no nonsense attitude, and talked on her mobile phone officiously. Tock-tock-tock-tock went her shoes. Tock-tock-tock.
From the other end of the corridor, I half-ran towards my car, already late for a meeting. Fachak-fachack-fichak went my chappals, my hair flew wildly into my face, momentarily blinding me, my t-shirt rode up my growing midriff and my jeans felt too tight. I juggled with my bag, my water bottle, the car keys, my mobile phone, a large bundle of un-ironed dhobhi clothes and my nerves.
From the other end of the corridor, I half-ran towards my car, already late for a meeting. Fachak-fachack-fichak went my chappals, my hair flew wildly into my face, momentarily blinding me, my t-shirt rode up my growing midriff and my jeans felt too tight. I juggled with my bag, my water bottle, the car keys, my mobile phone, a large bundle of un-ironed dhobhi clothes and my nerves.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Waiting for the boat to take me across to the other side, i can't concentrate on my book so i glance at the people around me.
A page 3 wannbe, peering disdainfully through her large fake Chanel sunglasses, cursing her useless husband and wishing like hell that she owned one of those zippy little white speed boats. As the locals push past her with their hold-alls and gas cyclinders, she clutches her belongings a little bit tighter. I want to giggle at her discomfort, so i look away instead.
Across from me, sitting on the wall, a guy in white pants, chewing on a toothpick. He has on a thick gold chain, but the locket has disappeared into the thicket on his chest. From his pocket, he takes out a packet of gutka. He spits out his toothpick, empties the contents into his mouth and then causually throws it aside. I open my mouth to protest, to tell him to pick it up and throw it in the dustbin, but then decide against it. Why get into a conversation with him. He doesn't seem the decent type. As i look back at the packet, a wind catches it and takes it to the sea. As it floats, shiny and crude in the water, i get angry at myself for not having said anything.
A woman settles down on the steps beside me. She looks like a simple villager waiting to get back home. She seems to exude a deep sadness. I try to look at her eyes and all i see is a vague glazed look. In her hand is a crumpled piece of paper. As she sits there, waiting for the boat, she opens up the paper and then crumples it up again. In that quick second, i happen to glance at the paper. It says Child Adoption Centre. Now i feel bad for being so nosy.
A page 3 wannbe, peering disdainfully through her large fake Chanel sunglasses, cursing her useless husband and wishing like hell that she owned one of those zippy little white speed boats. As the locals push past her with their hold-alls and gas cyclinders, she clutches her belongings a little bit tighter. I want to giggle at her discomfort, so i look away instead.
Across from me, sitting on the wall, a guy in white pants, chewing on a toothpick. He has on a thick gold chain, but the locket has disappeared into the thicket on his chest. From his pocket, he takes out a packet of gutka. He spits out his toothpick, empties the contents into his mouth and then causually throws it aside. I open my mouth to protest, to tell him to pick it up and throw it in the dustbin, but then decide against it. Why get into a conversation with him. He doesn't seem the decent type. As i look back at the packet, a wind catches it and takes it to the sea. As it floats, shiny and crude in the water, i get angry at myself for not having said anything.
A woman settles down on the steps beside me. She looks like a simple villager waiting to get back home. She seems to exude a deep sadness. I try to look at her eyes and all i see is a vague glazed look. In her hand is a crumpled piece of paper. As she sits there, waiting for the boat, she opens up the paper and then crumples it up again. In that quick second, i happen to glance at the paper. It says Child Adoption Centre. Now i feel bad for being so nosy.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
THE HOUSE
As you walk past and peep in, you find a story in every room.
An ailing grandmother who talks only to the people she truly likes. In the next, her 98 yr old sister-in-law, who is busy keeping up with the news, of the world and the family.
In the study, a son who's here to meet her, all the way from Washington. He snores lazily after a heavy winter meal.
In the dining room, another son, who visits regularly. Who talks to her even if she doesn't listen or talk back. On the phone, his wife, either councelling her pregnant daughter or listening to the exploits of her talented son.
In the kitchen the scheming servants.
Across the corridor and into the other side of the house, another son, playing card games on his computer and smoking cigarretes, worrying in his head about his mother, his work and his health. But always smiling and always welcoming.
In the kitchen, in the bedroom, in her mother-in-laws room, with the dogs, on the phone, in a charity school, is his wife, always calm.
Under the stairs, a greedy daughter, eats her mother food. The mother barks once and then drinks some water instead.
Thundering down the stairs, the youngest, his hair spiked and geled, late for college, or a date. Music from a radio distracts you and you peep into yet another room. Its the eldest, getting ready for work after an hour long massage. earings? high-heels? do i really have to go to work today? In yet another room, her friend from Finland who's come to India to find herself.
From elsewhere, loud snores. Its a young friend from madras, on a mission to save his family business, exhausted from the pressure of it all.
A door bursts open. Its the middle one. He looks at me blankly and then frowns at the snoring door. Laptop in one hand and cellphone in the other, he looks for a quite corner of the house to settle down in and do whatever it is he does.
The room in the far corner of the house has been strangely silent. Push the door slightly and someone jumps. Its a fugitive boyfriend, hiding from the extended family!
From the bathroom, a servant appears. Her sister killed her own husband because he drank too much. From the laundry room, another maid. Her husband works as the driver and her sister-in-law works in the other side of the house, but they don't talk.
Downstairs, my parents get into the car after a brief stop over. They say goodbye to the man who brought up my father and has cooked for all of us for the past 60 years. He makes the best souffle's in the world.
The watchman waves. Julie the stray barks. Dika her daughter from across the road wags her tail.
I hope they don't sell the house.
10 bedrooms.
3 living rooms.
2 dining rooms.
2 studies.
2 kitchens.
6 servants.
2 dogs.
12 inhabitants and counting...
As you walk past and peep in, you find a story in every room.
An ailing grandmother who talks only to the people she truly likes. In the next, her 98 yr old sister-in-law, who is busy keeping up with the news, of the world and the family.
In the study, a son who's here to meet her, all the way from Washington. He snores lazily after a heavy winter meal.
In the dining room, another son, who visits regularly. Who talks to her even if she doesn't listen or talk back. On the phone, his wife, either councelling her pregnant daughter or listening to the exploits of her talented son.
In the kitchen the scheming servants.
Across the corridor and into the other side of the house, another son, playing card games on his computer and smoking cigarretes, worrying in his head about his mother, his work and his health. But always smiling and always welcoming.
In the kitchen, in the bedroom, in her mother-in-laws room, with the dogs, on the phone, in a charity school, is his wife, always calm.
Under the stairs, a greedy daughter, eats her mother food. The mother barks once and then drinks some water instead.
Thundering down the stairs, the youngest, his hair spiked and geled, late for college, or a date. Music from a radio distracts you and you peep into yet another room. Its the eldest, getting ready for work after an hour long massage. earings? high-heels? do i really have to go to work today? In yet another room, her friend from Finland who's come to India to find herself.
From elsewhere, loud snores. Its a young friend from madras, on a mission to save his family business, exhausted from the pressure of it all.
A door bursts open. Its the middle one. He looks at me blankly and then frowns at the snoring door. Laptop in one hand and cellphone in the other, he looks for a quite corner of the house to settle down in and do whatever it is he does.
The room in the far corner of the house has been strangely silent. Push the door slightly and someone jumps. Its a fugitive boyfriend, hiding from the extended family!
From the bathroom, a servant appears. Her sister killed her own husband because he drank too much. From the laundry room, another maid. Her husband works as the driver and her sister-in-law works in the other side of the house, but they don't talk.
Downstairs, my parents get into the car after a brief stop over. They say goodbye to the man who brought up my father and has cooked for all of us for the past 60 years. He makes the best souffle's in the world.
The watchman waves. Julie the stray barks. Dika her daughter from across the road wags her tail.
I hope they don't sell the house.
10 bedrooms.
3 living rooms.
2 dining rooms.
2 studies.
2 kitchens.
6 servants.
2 dogs.
12 inhabitants and counting...
Monday, September 18, 2006
In the bright rude lights of my headlamps, i catch unsuspecting moments. I feel like an intruder. An outsider with a very bright torch. Pointing it where and when i please. Impolite. And inquisitive.
I see a man bathing, a boy studying, a woman cooking. I try to imagine that the lights are welcome. Like a beacon. Helping the man see how much water he has left in his bucket, helping the boy to read that important sentence clearly, and the woman see the colour of the daal she's cooking. Sometimes, i'm helping an old lady find her glasses. Sometimes i help a man cheat at cards. Sometimes an old gent on a charpoy doesn't have to strain his eyes to read the paper. Sometimes i catch a laugh. Sometimes a tear. Sometimes the kids find the ball. And the girls find the boys looking. And the boys see the girls eyes. Sometimes the mother sees the boy and girl together. Somebody finds their chappals. Somebody else finds they've lost theirs. Sometimes a little girl gets to see the colour of her shit. And a boy gets to jump out of the way of a giant rat.
From the safety of my car, i wonder if i helped.
I see a man bathing, a boy studying, a woman cooking. I try to imagine that the lights are welcome. Like a beacon. Helping the man see how much water he has left in his bucket, helping the boy to read that important sentence clearly, and the woman see the colour of the daal she's cooking. Sometimes, i'm helping an old lady find her glasses. Sometimes i help a man cheat at cards. Sometimes an old gent on a charpoy doesn't have to strain his eyes to read the paper. Sometimes i catch a laugh. Sometimes a tear. Sometimes the kids find the ball. And the girls find the boys looking. And the boys see the girls eyes. Sometimes the mother sees the boy and girl together. Somebody finds their chappals. Somebody else finds they've lost theirs. Sometimes a little girl gets to see the colour of her shit. And a boy gets to jump out of the way of a giant rat.
From the safety of my car, i wonder if i helped.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
my phone fell into the pot.
there's no other way to tell it than that. plain and simple. it jumped right out of my hand and plopped right into the pot. that too the office pot. not my harpic-clean, gleaming-white, 100% germ-free, cleaned by OCD-me, home pot. but the slightly yellowing, bacteria-infested, cleaned by unclean men, office pot.
as it lay there drowing at the bottom of the pot, its lights flickered hopelessly.
help. it shouted. HELP.
all i could see were bubbles that rose sadly to the surface.
should i put my hand in there? should i use the potty brush to bring it out? or should i just let it go? flush it down?
as i looked down at it, trying to make up my mind, it looked back up at me, its screen pleading, its lights fading slowly...i didn't have the heart to let it die. it had all those numbers of people i loved and hated. it had all those lovely messages i had saved. it had my movie list. it even had my pan number. i realised i needed it more than ever. i couldn't let it go. not so soon. not this way.
i took a deep breath, i held the potty brush and skillfully manuvered it out. with the other hand, i grabbed some tissues and held it firmly. victory!
not a drop of potty water touched me.
when i went home i gave it a savlon bath and then took one myself. actually i took two. and just thinking about it makes me want to take a third.
there's no other way to tell it than that. plain and simple. it jumped right out of my hand and plopped right into the pot. that too the office pot. not my harpic-clean, gleaming-white, 100% germ-free, cleaned by OCD-me, home pot. but the slightly yellowing, bacteria-infested, cleaned by unclean men, office pot.
as it lay there drowing at the bottom of the pot, its lights flickered hopelessly.
help. it shouted. HELP.
all i could see were bubbles that rose sadly to the surface.
should i put my hand in there? should i use the potty brush to bring it out? or should i just let it go? flush it down?
as i looked down at it, trying to make up my mind, it looked back up at me, its screen pleading, its lights fading slowly...i didn't have the heart to let it die. it had all those numbers of people i loved and hated. it had all those lovely messages i had saved. it had my movie list. it even had my pan number. i realised i needed it more than ever. i couldn't let it go. not so soon. not this way.
i took a deep breath, i held the potty brush and skillfully manuvered it out. with the other hand, i grabbed some tissues and held it firmly. victory!
not a drop of potty water touched me.
when i went home i gave it a savlon bath and then took one myself. actually i took two. and just thinking about it makes me want to take a third.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
One of my favourite books as a kid was Ferdinand The Bull. Written by a Spanish author who gifted it to my Grandma, the faded red cover with Ferdinand The Bull drawn on it, now lies on a bookshelf in my parents home.
Ferdinand The Bull was a young but beefy bull. When all the other young bulls were charging around grunting and hoping to be choosen for bullfights, Ferdinand liked to sit under the trees and smell the flowers. He liked to chase the butterflies as they danced among the petals. He was like a 60's flower-child bull. Like the Mahatma Gandhi of bulls. The other bulls used to laugh at him. Gentle, sissy Ferdinand.
I loved to see the drawings of the show-off bulls. Kicking up dust with puffs of smoke emitting from their angry nostrils. In the background, on the hill, Ferdiand my friend was sitting under the trees, sniffing a rose.
When the men came, they weren't impressed with the bravado of the other bulls. They were impressed with Ferdinand. Shit, this bull was big. He was intense and composed. He wasn't running around like the other foolish bulls. So they took him to the arena.
When he entered, people ooooed. The matador trembled. And then as Ferdiand moved, a hush fell over the crowd.
Ferdinand lumbered slowly and menacingly to the far side of the arena, where he found a lady with a hat full of flowers.
This October i'm going to Spain.
I shall look for Ferdinand my childhood friend.
Hopefully, i won't have to look in the arena.
Ferdinand The Bull was a young but beefy bull. When all the other young bulls were charging around grunting and hoping to be choosen for bullfights, Ferdinand liked to sit under the trees and smell the flowers. He liked to chase the butterflies as they danced among the petals. He was like a 60's flower-child bull. Like the Mahatma Gandhi of bulls. The other bulls used to laugh at him. Gentle, sissy Ferdinand.
I loved to see the drawings of the show-off bulls. Kicking up dust with puffs of smoke emitting from their angry nostrils. In the background, on the hill, Ferdiand my friend was sitting under the trees, sniffing a rose.
When the men came, they weren't impressed with the bravado of the other bulls. They were impressed with Ferdinand. Shit, this bull was big. He was intense and composed. He wasn't running around like the other foolish bulls. So they took him to the arena.
When he entered, people ooooed. The matador trembled. And then as Ferdiand moved, a hush fell over the crowd.
Ferdinand lumbered slowly and menacingly to the far side of the arena, where he found a lady with a hat full of flowers.
This October i'm going to Spain.
I shall look for Ferdinand my childhood friend.
Hopefully, i won't have to look in the arena.
Friday, September 01, 2006
in the garden in the winter sun. a bloody mary.
maybe two.
some good kashmiri food. divinely flavoured and not too spicy.
get every bit of the vassi out of the bone.
eat some yummy homemade pudding.
sponge cake with custard.
a homemade paan.
sneak a smoke on the terrace with the cousin.
find a sofa or a diwan near the window, where the sun streams in.
curl up warm and fade into a comfortable nap.
wake up cold. the sun has moved. take the shawl lying on the chair.
fade back into sleep.
wake up to laughter. and tea.
and samosas and hot jalebis.
don't eat dinner.
maybe two.
some good kashmiri food. divinely flavoured and not too spicy.
get every bit of the vassi out of the bone.
eat some yummy homemade pudding.
sponge cake with custard.
a homemade paan.
sneak a smoke on the terrace with the cousin.
find a sofa or a diwan near the window, where the sun streams in.
curl up warm and fade into a comfortable nap.
wake up cold. the sun has moved. take the shawl lying on the chair.
fade back into sleep.
wake up to laughter. and tea.
and samosas and hot jalebis.
don't eat dinner.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
I wash my hands after touching money. I wash my hands after signing with the courier guys pen. I wash my hands after petting dogs, and shaking hands with people, I wash my hands after touching door knobs. I wash the tap after washing my hands, before turning it off.
I kick open loo doors. I am quite good with holding doors open with my feet. I don’t really mind when people hold doors open for me. I push elevator buttons with my knuckles and hate when I need to use someone else’s cell phone. I keep wiping my ears after that.
I don’t sit on my bed with my work clothes. Nor can anyone else. I make people take their shoes off at the door. I make my maid wash her hands with Dettol soap when she comes in the morning.
There was a time when I used to put coins in my mouth and suck on them for fun. And once I licked rainwater off the bar of a train window. I guess I liked the way the drop was forming.
Inspired by a post on www.2x3x7.blogspot.com
I kick open loo doors. I am quite good with holding doors open with my feet. I don’t really mind when people hold doors open for me. I push elevator buttons with my knuckles and hate when I need to use someone else’s cell phone. I keep wiping my ears after that.
I don’t sit on my bed with my work clothes. Nor can anyone else. I make people take their shoes off at the door. I make my maid wash her hands with Dettol soap when she comes in the morning.
There was a time when I used to put coins in my mouth and suck on them for fun. And once I licked rainwater off the bar of a train window. I guess I liked the way the drop was forming.
Inspired by a post on www.2x3x7.blogspot.com
Monday, July 31, 2006
Sometimes Anxiety silently creeps up on me from behind and seizes my mind. Struggle as i might, i can't let go, it has a firm hold on me. It then proceeds to seep into every pore of my being. It holds my stomach hostage. It freezes my brain. It thinks It has the last say.
But little does it know.
I have an escape hatch. And a secret tunnel. I can reason my way out. And I can exile it from this universe. And I can choose to ignore it. And I can laugh at it. And i can not give it the time of day.
So boo to you. anxiety.
But little does it know.
I have an escape hatch. And a secret tunnel. I can reason my way out. And I can exile it from this universe. And I can choose to ignore it. And I can laugh at it. And i can not give it the time of day.
So boo to you. anxiety.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
While all the news channels spew hate and blood, body parts and broken lives, there is one oasis of pure delight.
Takeshi's Castle on Pogo.
Japanese adults (i wonder what they do during the day...) dressed in their Sunday worst, try to overcome obstacles on route to Takeshi's Castle (a thermacol castle that can never, never be taken. the last bastion of the Japanese empire is under attack!!!).
The ragged army (could they be accountants and secretaries? i wonder) have to keep their balance in a giant rice bowl that is pushed down a wet slope, into a pond below, by 2 clowns shouting incoherent Japanese (obviously incoherent, since i don't understand Japanese).
Wearing velcro fly-suits, they take turns in swinging from a rope across a muddy moat. The aim is to get stuck to the giant spiders web on the otherside (the creators of this show sure know how to make a grown man look stupid).
Then they run across giant rollers and play the dreaded game: wipe out! Wipe out has a Japanese man dressed as Pocohontas. Oh what a distraction he/she is...The army then makes its way skipping gingerly over real and fake stones, desperately trying not to fall into the muddy water below.
They survive fake earthquakes.
They wrestle fake sumos.
They swing across real muddy water.
They carefully cross a wobbly bridge, holding onto a golden ball, while another set of clowns fires black leather cannon balls at them (sounds kinky, but its innocent, or so i think).
They have a captain who urges them on with incoherent Japanese war cries.
They wear helmets.
They wear knee pads.
They wear lipstick and karate clothes.
They wear kimonos and yellow floral tracksuits.
They loose teeth and sleep when they don't make it.
All this is translated (oh so correctly) for us by Javed Jaffery.
I know it sounds crazy, but its not half as crazy as the war between israel and lebanon, or the war between america and iraq or the war between the terrorists and the innocents.
So i choose, every evening to watch the attack on Takeshi's Castle.
I think it should get an award.
I also think the original creators would die if they knew what Javed was saying.
Takeshi's Castle on Pogo.
Japanese adults (i wonder what they do during the day...) dressed in their Sunday worst, try to overcome obstacles on route to Takeshi's Castle (a thermacol castle that can never, never be taken. the last bastion of the Japanese empire is under attack!!!).
The ragged army (could they be accountants and secretaries? i wonder) have to keep their balance in a giant rice bowl that is pushed down a wet slope, into a pond below, by 2 clowns shouting incoherent Japanese (obviously incoherent, since i don't understand Japanese).
Wearing velcro fly-suits, they take turns in swinging from a rope across a muddy moat. The aim is to get stuck to the giant spiders web on the otherside (the creators of this show sure know how to make a grown man look stupid).
Then they run across giant rollers and play the dreaded game: wipe out! Wipe out has a Japanese man dressed as Pocohontas. Oh what a distraction he/she is...The army then makes its way skipping gingerly over real and fake stones, desperately trying not to fall into the muddy water below.
They survive fake earthquakes.
They wrestle fake sumos.
They swing across real muddy water.
They carefully cross a wobbly bridge, holding onto a golden ball, while another set of clowns fires black leather cannon balls at them (sounds kinky, but its innocent, or so i think).
They have a captain who urges them on with incoherent Japanese war cries.
They wear helmets.
They wear knee pads.
They wear lipstick and karate clothes.
They wear kimonos and yellow floral tracksuits.
They loose teeth and sleep when they don't make it.
All this is translated (oh so correctly) for us by Javed Jaffery.
I know it sounds crazy, but its not half as crazy as the war between israel and lebanon, or the war between america and iraq or the war between the terrorists and the innocents.
So i choose, every evening to watch the attack on Takeshi's Castle.
I think it should get an award.
I also think the original creators would die if they knew what Javed was saying.
Friday, July 14, 2006
i want to move to a tiny island off the Agean Coast. I want to sit by the sea, and string together coloured beads and gold and silver bits to make jewelry to sell to the rich and famous that visit. I want to eat fish and prawns in garlic and olive oil, straight out of the flat earthenware dishes in which they are cooked. I want to spend my days on a boat, sailing from one island to the next. Getting bronzed by the sun, and strengthened by the sea.
i want to not have to think of bombs or blood. Terrorists or communal hatred. Nor do i want to read the morning papers, watch the evening news, see any more sadness, fear, hate or resignation.
i want the world to shut up for a while. just shut up. and sit down.
i want to not have to think of bombs or blood. Terrorists or communal hatred. Nor do i want to read the morning papers, watch the evening news, see any more sadness, fear, hate or resignation.
i want the world to shut up for a while. just shut up. and sit down.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
My apologies to all, but this is something i have to write.
i have long been facinated by the number of names we have for...er...human waste. Here's my list. Please add to it, i know every household has their own private version. I'm considering doing a thesis on it...
shit
No. 2
potty
caca / kaka
chi-chi / chee (short form)
tatti
goo-goo
Hug /H (for the polite)
Big job
Motions (!)
Stools (i want to laugh everytime a doc says that)
doo-doo
anyone?
i have long been facinated by the number of names we have for...er...human waste. Here's my list. Please add to it, i know every household has their own private version. I'm considering doing a thesis on it...
shit
No. 2
potty
caca / kaka
chi-chi / chee (short form)
tatti
goo-goo
Hug /H (for the polite)
Big job
Motions (!)
Stools (i want to laugh everytime a doc says that)
doo-doo
anyone?
Friday, June 23, 2006
i have become my mother.
its true.
all the things she used to do around the house that used to annoy me, i now do myself.
she'd wake up at seven (or even six) and put away the cutlery. i wake up at 7 and cook.
she'd keep nagging me to hang my towel out to dry. now i nag my brother.
she'd sit down under the fan sweaty and tired after cooking and ask for a glass of cold water. (this didn't bug me, its just an observation) i do the same.
she'd tell me managing the house makes you great with time management. i now believe the same.
she'd always be clearing glasses and bottles and plates. ditto.
it is amazing how much we absorb without realising it.
does that mean that all children end up atleast somewhat like their parents?
its true.
all the things she used to do around the house that used to annoy me, i now do myself.
she'd wake up at seven (or even six) and put away the cutlery. i wake up at 7 and cook.
she'd keep nagging me to hang my towel out to dry. now i nag my brother.
she'd sit down under the fan sweaty and tired after cooking and ask for a glass of cold water. (this didn't bug me, its just an observation) i do the same.
she'd tell me managing the house makes you great with time management. i now believe the same.
she'd always be clearing glasses and bottles and plates. ditto.
it is amazing how much we absorb without realising it.
does that mean that all children end up atleast somewhat like their parents?
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Yes i am obsessed with maids. Sacking maids, finding maids, training maids, talking about maids and even blogging about maids. I have a feeling its on the verge of becoming a slightly unhealthy obssesion. Every conversation i've been having of late, with friends, collegues, and even with the stranger in the lift, ends up with me talking about my maid problems. And most of the time people pour their hearts out too...
My maid can't cook. My maid finishes all the sugar. My maid and the driver are having an affair. My maid never cleans under the bed. My maid gets more phone calls than i do. My maid uses my expensive moisturizer. My maids son spoilt my sofa. My maid refuses to do the ironing...
After movies and cricket, i think the only other thing that binds the people of this country together, is maid problems. The rabid RSS aunty and the jehadi Muslim uncle, the fat middle class bhabhi and the chic page 3 socialite will ordinarily not talk or even look at each other, but if you somehow nudge a maid into the conversation and they'll end up best friends, swapping stories and training techniques.
In the last month, i have fired 2 maids. I have never fired anyone before, and spent many nights wondering how to do it. Luckily it didn't turn out to be too traumatic. Though living without a maid, did. I remember getting annoyed with my mum because she always used to potter around the house doing something or the other. Just sit down, i'd say. Nothing will happen if you don't fold the towels today.
I was wrong. Stuff does happen.
The dishes pile up.
The washing piles up.
The ironing piles up.
The newspapers pile up.
The garbage piles up.
The dirt in the corners piles up.
The dust on various surfaces pile up.
The late marks at work pile up.
Sometimes i feel like i'll drown.
Under all that unattended housework.
So i call everyone i know. Find me a maid who is:
1. hygenic
2. responsible
3. trustworthy
4. cooks well
5. irons well
6. cleans well
7. can answer the phone
8. won't have an affair with the driver
9. or watchmen
10. or the nextdoor neighbours male servant.
Shouldn't be that tough, right. Right? RIGHT???
In the meanwhile, i sweep and swab, i chop and cook, i wash and dry, i hang up and take down, i wash again, i put away, i fold, i clear, i fix, and i get dust allergies. It isn't an easy job.
So heres to my mum and my aunts and all the people i know who run fabulous houses without a frown, a grumble or a sigh. Here's to them for never making a guest feel like a burden. For always producing a delicious meal. For always having a ready bed and fresh towels. And here's to them for smiling through it. Since i don't know if i can ever be like that, CAN SOMEONE PLEASE FIND ME A MAID!
Ps: anyone interested in opening a maid training school?
My maid can't cook. My maid finishes all the sugar. My maid and the driver are having an affair. My maid never cleans under the bed. My maid gets more phone calls than i do. My maid uses my expensive moisturizer. My maids son spoilt my sofa. My maid refuses to do the ironing...
After movies and cricket, i think the only other thing that binds the people of this country together, is maid problems. The rabid RSS aunty and the jehadi Muslim uncle, the fat middle class bhabhi and the chic page 3 socialite will ordinarily not talk or even look at each other, but if you somehow nudge a maid into the conversation and they'll end up best friends, swapping stories and training techniques.
In the last month, i have fired 2 maids. I have never fired anyone before, and spent many nights wondering how to do it. Luckily it didn't turn out to be too traumatic. Though living without a maid, did. I remember getting annoyed with my mum because she always used to potter around the house doing something or the other. Just sit down, i'd say. Nothing will happen if you don't fold the towels today.
I was wrong. Stuff does happen.
The dishes pile up.
The washing piles up.
The ironing piles up.
The newspapers pile up.
The garbage piles up.
The dirt in the corners piles up.
The dust on various surfaces pile up.
The late marks at work pile up.
Sometimes i feel like i'll drown.
Under all that unattended housework.
So i call everyone i know. Find me a maid who is:
1. hygenic
2. responsible
3. trustworthy
4. cooks well
5. irons well
6. cleans well
7. can answer the phone
8. won't have an affair with the driver
9. or watchmen
10. or the nextdoor neighbours male servant.
Shouldn't be that tough, right. Right? RIGHT???
In the meanwhile, i sweep and swab, i chop and cook, i wash and dry, i hang up and take down, i wash again, i put away, i fold, i clear, i fix, and i get dust allergies. It isn't an easy job.
So heres to my mum and my aunts and all the people i know who run fabulous houses without a frown, a grumble or a sigh. Here's to them for never making a guest feel like a burden. For always producing a delicious meal. For always having a ready bed and fresh towels. And here's to them for smiling through it. Since i don't know if i can ever be like that, CAN SOMEONE PLEASE FIND ME A MAID!
Ps: anyone interested in opening a maid training school?
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
THE WORST MAID CONTEST
in random order, feel free to add horrors of your own.
1. My maid and my driver are having an affair.
2. My maid sneezes into the atta.
3. My maid consumes 2 kilos of sugar a month.
4. I caught my maid sprawled asleep on my bed, spit drooling down the side of her mouth onto my expensive bed linen.
5. My maids son plays on the sofa and dirties it.
6. My maid sneaks her lover into the house at night.
7. My maid is an alcoholic. (i swear)
8. My maid is a bar dancer. (as accused by the other help)
9. My maid eats up all of last nights expensive dessert, for breakfast.
10. My maid slashed herself in order to fake a robbery.
Conclusion: Finding Mr Right may prove slightly easier than finding Ms Perfect Maid.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Childhood Train Trauma
Who's that man?
Why is he standing near my slippers?
Is he going to steal our luggage?
We're the only ones who haven't chained our bags
I told ma the biggest bag should be near the outside
Am i the only one awake?
Are my slippers still there?
Everyone knows my mum has 'hidden' her handbag under her head like a pillow.
What if someone puts their hands through the bars in the window?
Who would want 'chaiyaaa' at 3am?
There's a mad beggar lurking by the window.
That man is staring at me.
Is he thinking dirty thoughts?
Yuck
Asshole
Let me hide under my sheet
But then how will i know if someone is going to steal our luggage
Why am i the only one awake?
I am the family nightwatchman.
i want to do susu
hold it
but its coming
i'm not going alone
psst, wake up
come to the loo with me
ufff
get off the bearth and land in your chappals
eeee cockroach
shhhh you'll wake the train
evil men
with big south indian mustaches and checked lungis
lurk by the dim light outside the loo
they smoke smelly cigarettes
they hang out of the door of the fast moving train
their lungis hitched up like skirts
they pretend not to look at us.
we put on brave faces
hard city faces
huh! we maybe girls
but we're not scared of evil smoking men
in checked lungis
In the loo,
gather your clothes
don't let anything touch anything
hold your breath
pee
tie your pajama
don't let the bottom touch the floor
kick the door with your feet
wash the tap and then shut it
yuck
In the morning
Don't take biscuits from that sweet grey haired aunty
She may be part of the biscuit gang
They drug you and steal your gold
the poster says so
I told mama not to wear her chain
but she hides it like she hides her bag
everyone knows its there
oh no
now that noisy group of men are playing cards
i can smell alcohol
there is a fine of 1000 rs if you drink on the train
or you can go to jail for 1 year
the poster says so
aha
the railway cop is doing his rounds
we'll be safe now
oh
oh no
he's sitting down to play with them
now i'm the family policeman
oh god
now my mum wants to buy omlettes from the station
don't get off the train
no i dont want an omlette
no i don't care if it's fresh and hot
mum the train doesn't stop for long
where'd she go?
can you see her from the window?
there's a crowd at the omlettewala
she's going to miss the train
oh no
the train hooted its warning hoot
mummmy!
everyone is running back
can you see her?
oh no! its started
oh god
where is she
is she on the platform?
no she's not in the corridor
oh god
should we pull the chain?
how much time should we wait before we pull it?
tick tick one
tick tick two
tick tick - my potty is coming
ok i see her
god
thank god
the omlettes are yummy
bombay is coming
so is my potty
will i be able to hold on till we get home?
hurry up train
i shouldn't have eaten that omlette
i can't go back to that loo
oho
now all we can see are people doing potty on the tracks
welcome to bombay
try and think of something else
school starts tomorrow
i haven't done my homework
this is making my potty come even more
are you ok?
you're looking sick
whats wrong?
i tell you,
we enter this city and the kids look ill...
lose their colour in a day
lets get on another train and go off again!
nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.
Who's that man?
Why is he standing near my slippers?
Is he going to steal our luggage?
We're the only ones who haven't chained our bags
I told ma the biggest bag should be near the outside
Am i the only one awake?
Are my slippers still there?
Everyone knows my mum has 'hidden' her handbag under her head like a pillow.
What if someone puts their hands through the bars in the window?
Who would want 'chaiyaaa' at 3am?
There's a mad beggar lurking by the window.
That man is staring at me.
Is he thinking dirty thoughts?
Yuck
Asshole
Let me hide under my sheet
But then how will i know if someone is going to steal our luggage
Why am i the only one awake?
I am the family nightwatchman.
i want to do susu
hold it
but its coming
i'm not going alone
psst, wake up
come to the loo with me
ufff
get off the bearth and land in your chappals
eeee cockroach
shhhh you'll wake the train
evil men
with big south indian mustaches and checked lungis
lurk by the dim light outside the loo
they smoke smelly cigarettes
they hang out of the door of the fast moving train
their lungis hitched up like skirts
they pretend not to look at us.
we put on brave faces
hard city faces
huh! we maybe girls
but we're not scared of evil smoking men
in checked lungis
In the loo,
gather your clothes
don't let anything touch anything
hold your breath
pee
tie your pajama
don't let the bottom touch the floor
kick the door with your feet
wash the tap and then shut it
yuck
In the morning
Don't take biscuits from that sweet grey haired aunty
She may be part of the biscuit gang
They drug you and steal your gold
the poster says so
I told mama not to wear her chain
but she hides it like she hides her bag
everyone knows its there
oh no
now that noisy group of men are playing cards
i can smell alcohol
there is a fine of 1000 rs if you drink on the train
or you can go to jail for 1 year
the poster says so
aha
the railway cop is doing his rounds
we'll be safe now
oh
oh no
he's sitting down to play with them
now i'm the family policeman
oh god
now my mum wants to buy omlettes from the station
don't get off the train
no i dont want an omlette
no i don't care if it's fresh and hot
mum the train doesn't stop for long
where'd she go?
can you see her from the window?
there's a crowd at the omlettewala
she's going to miss the train
oh no
the train hooted its warning hoot
mummmy!
everyone is running back
can you see her?
oh no! its started
oh god
where is she
is she on the platform?
no she's not in the corridor
oh god
should we pull the chain?
how much time should we wait before we pull it?
tick tick one
tick tick two
tick tick - my potty is coming
ok i see her
god
thank god
the omlettes are yummy
bombay is coming
so is my potty
will i be able to hold on till we get home?
hurry up train
i shouldn't have eaten that omlette
i can't go back to that loo
oho
now all we can see are people doing potty on the tracks
welcome to bombay
try and think of something else
school starts tomorrow
i haven't done my homework
this is making my potty come even more
are you ok?
you're looking sick
whats wrong?
i tell you,
we enter this city and the kids look ill...
lose their colour in a day
lets get on another train and go off again!
nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
I remember:
Seeing Santa Claus in blue Bata chappals
An earthquake
A thermometer breaking & the mercury rolling up into little metal balls
Trying to fill the pockets of my green dress with water
A bee stinging my mother’s arm
Walking around the house on tip toes as if I were in heels
Looking for my dog Snowy
Copying UrmilaParmila drink their tea
A fat neighbour
Watching the coconut oil melt in a mug of hot water
Sitting on the pot, waiting for my mum to wash my bum
Malai-cheeni on toast
Somersaults in the grass
Thinking my car-seat steering wheel, actually controlled the car
Playing house-house and doctor-doctor
Being petrified during holi
Watching my mum wax
Running around naked on hot summer days
Sitting on newspaper and eating litchis dripping with juice
I remember having the best childhood ever
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