Marital Bliss - Happily Ever After????

I'm off to the hills to escape the CWG heat. Leaving you with one of my earliest posts. Will be back, hopefully with more anecdotes. Ciao

We start early when it comes to acquiring aversions. As children we are mostly averse to milk, studies, pesky relatives who love tweaking our cheeks. I had all of these and a special one – an aversion to newlyweds.

My first brush with this strange species was as a six year old on a summer trip to Mount Abu. A giggly, coochie-cooing group infesting the back rows of our sightseeing bus. Unfortunately they took a shine to me and I was mostly perched on their laps, privy to the most inane conversations ever heard and embarrassing public displays of affection. Every time we halted they would scurry off to the nearest cliff and pose kamasutra style with me as the hapless spectator. Needless to say I was traumatized.

From Gangtok to Ooty, Kanyakumari to Kalimpong , there was no escaping them. You could hear them before you could spot them. Hysterically happy, over made up girls tottering on high heels clinging for dear life to their macho mates. But what puzzled me the most was how just a few years down the line the same couples would turn into stoical uncles and aunties with a bunch of wailing kids in tow. Domesticity kills and how! Quite like the before and after ads that slimming centres love splashing in newspapers.

Time stops for no one and soon it was time for me to bear the ignominy of being “newly married”. After a whirlwind courtship where I managed to run up telephone bills that had my parents in the throes of panic attacks, I was ready to play house with the man of my dreams.

On our honeymoon, I was cautious, very cautious. I didn’t giggle and maintained a safe distance from my puzzled husband. I looked somber, almost angry at the world. I was so sans the usual jingbang one associates with a newlywed that we had curious people make surreptitious enquires about our marital status or rather the lack of it. We didn’t bother to clear the air.

Hey! We had fun too. Smoked my first cigarette, had my first bottle of wine, tried my hand at cooking and failed miserably. A tantalizing teaser to our rosy future.

Men and women have diametrically different expectations from this holy union called marriage. We, the fairer sex have silly romantic notions and the men expect us to be a wife, and not just an ordinary wife. Now these are guys who grew up watching ads which show the lady of the house cooking up a six course meal with a beatific smile plastered on her face. Is overjoyed when her kid comes back home in soiled clothes. And cleaning utensils is her lifelong passion. She scours and scrubs from morn to noon and she still manages to look like a million bucks. The occasional back pain is taken care of by MOOV massaged lovingly by the husband.

The Men In My Life

My life would be incomplete without them. Every time things go wrong, I reach out for them. They are not one, but many. My needs are not one, but far too many. Just one man is not enough.

Oh, they are a pain. They make me go on a wild goose chase, they make me wait, they make me stew and fret. Just one call is not enough. Heartless, insolent, smooth liars – yet I can’t survive without them. What they do, the husband can do better, but he is so busy and always short on time. I don’t want to stress him any further. Sometimes I wish I could do it myself. My life would be so much simpler.

I have a daily morning guy. At the crack of dawn, the first person I think of is him. Does he know how impatiently I wait for him? Peering anxiously over the balcony, the sight of his parked scooter sends me into a frenzy. My heart leaps with joy when I hear the sound of his shuffling footsteps and I rush to open the door just when I hear the gentle thwack on the foot mat.

A Suit-able Expedition

With the festive season approaching, I decided I wanted a traditional outfit for myself. Not that I don’t have enough of them, my closet is crammed with my largely unworn saris. In Gurgaon, if you wear saris for a casual occasion, people look at you as if you’ve landed from Mars.

Now we women have this unique talent of creating islands of needs even if we are swimming in a sea of plenty. You can’t possibly expect me to wear one of the many outfits I purchased this season, do you? (Insert horrified expression). And on festivals I wouldn’t be caught dead in a western outfit. I want a formal churidar suit for myself and come to think of it, I don’t even have a single one.

So one pleasant evening, we headed to one of the popular malls of Gurgaon. The husband wanted a new pair of spectacles and I would be surveying the many boutiques for “the perfect one”. The mall on a weekday is a pleasant place to be in. It’s surprisingly uncrowded , you don’t run the risk of your toes getting trampled upon and landing an elbow or two in your stomach. The husband busied himself with the onerous task of selecting the perfect pair (yes, both of us are a match made in heaven) and I trundled off for my survey.

Old Boys Have All the Fun

Chulbul Putin

A new study in Britain has revealed that the typical nifty 50 is more sociable, happy and active than most 25- year-olds. They enjoy more nights out, travel further afield and catch up with friends more frequently. Their partying would put even a 25 year old to shame. 50 it seems is the new 25!

Take the case of Vladmir Putin, the 58 year old Russian P.M who is all set to replace his rusty old model with a sleek, acrobatic one. And no, I don’t mean his car. Putin apparently has split from his wife and is preparing to tie the knot with the 24 year old gymnast, Alina Kabeva. Alina’s father when contacted expressed ignorance about the ‘good news’, but added if she marries such a man it will be great, he’s quite similar to me. What’s so great about marrying a man who reminds you of your dad!

The septuagenarians, it seems are having even more fun. It has been reported that Morgan Freeman, the 72 year old Oscar winning actor, is all set to marry his longtime sweetheart E’Dena Hines. The 27 year old incidentally, also happens to be his step-granddaughter. Freeman has been maintaining a 10-year relationship with his step-granddaughter, which means she would have been barely 17 when they first ‘got together’. “Becoming Mrs. Morgan Freeman has been E’Dena’s goal,” revealed a family source. Some girls, it seems are intent on making a transition from sugar daddies to grand daddies. And granddaddies are only too happy to oblige. 

Let the games begin!

My overoptimistic guest blogger Cacofonix, is unfazed about the stink surrounding the Commonwealth games. He presents the perspectives and solutions as a true Indian.

It is just a conspiracy by western nations against India, as the secretary of the commonwealth games committee has confirmed. By white people who dare to say that their standards of hygiene are superior to ours and that the games village is filthy. For heaven’s sake, they are the ones who do not wash their bottoms, and instead use dry toilet paper for removing fecal matter after their ablutions. Fecal matter is a biological byproduct that unifies India by being visible all around, emerging from the behinds of all life forms, two-legged, four-legged or otherwise, squatting, hanging or otherwise. Our ancient texts teach us to treat all living forms with respect because our souls progress through several births, up the food chain. If, at the games village, a member of the canine family has chosen to deposit the said matter on a spotless bedspread from an Italian designer (purchased thoughtfully by Kalmadi-ji at Rs 4,500,000 apiece during one of his many visits to Europe to study the drainage systems there), we must not take the typically dim western view in describing it as ‘stray dog s*it’, but rather consider it as a natural action by a living being blessed with good taste, strongly indicating that its soul is close to being human. Not to forget the fact that the venue is a ‘village’, and in villages, things are done in the open.

By the way, it is these white westerners who really spoil their own dogs by feeding them holy cow meat, and ox blood, and dressing them up in tartan square kilts and bowties, and taking them to beauty salons and what not. So, you will agree that they are being hugely racist in describing canines in our country in a demeaning way, just because the dogs are dark-skinned and poor and do not have access to affordable healthcare. We are a democracy and our canine souls can do as they please. It is not a case of our country going to the dogs.

A foot bridge has collapsed in front of a stadium. There is such a fuss about it, even after the Chief Minister has confirmed in her press conference that this foot bridge was not meant for athletes. Especially white athletes. Three laborers may have died. But they were Indians and they were poor. So, it does not matter. An enquiry commission will look into the accident and confirm that it did not matter. The souls of the laborers have already moved into the highest human form for their next births and will get elected to Parliament. Or get employed by the police.

Losing My Religion

People often ask me whether I am religious. I can never give a straightforward response to that. Yes, I believe in the existence of a supreme intelligence, who I look up to for guidance and succour. When things are going good I thank Him (or ‘Her’, as it suits), when things are going downhill, I bombard Him with why me? He is my constant companion in fear, hope, in happiness and in moments of despair. But what do people mean when they ask, whether I am religious? Do they mean to ask “do you pray and engage in religious rituals”? I pray only under duress, rarely visit temples, do not believe in rituals, and I never fast, unlike most of my friends. Yet I think of this higher being as my protector, benefactor and expect ‘His’ unconditional love. That’s unrealistic isn’t it, considering I hardly work towards this relationship!

But tell me one thing, why do we pray? Is it because it makes us feel good or is it because we are expected to? We meditate to feel closer to ‘Him’, to find inner peace – and rituals are supposed to be a means to that end. But if we are getting stuck with rituals as the end, is it making us any better? We are living in a fast-paced world and many of us lose sight of the intent behind these rituals. It is now more like a duty that has to be performed, rather than being a construct within which we can seek enlightenment.

I know am treading a tricky path – most of us take our religion rather seriously. When we observe Monday fasts, or a Friday fast it is never sans expectations. For many of us religion works as a barter system. Dear God, if you make my son pass this exam, I promise to fast for 12 consecutive Mondays or I will not touch a morsel of food till the moon comes out, for the long life for my husband. One dares not deviate, even if it’s food that one thinks of the whole day, in fear of retribution. We dare not question our age-old traditions because we have fear lurking at the back of our minds. Why are we God- fearing when we should be God-loving.

Once, when I was much younger, I decided to fast on a religious occasion. I was miserable, hungry and salivating even at the sight of karelas. God was the last thing on my mind. So, now you know why I don’t fast anymore.

I do not consider myself an authority on religion – but for me, being religious means respecting other human beings and being kind to others. I try not to be judgemental and am allergic to being sermonized. For me, happiness is my religion. Only if I am happy can I make others around me happy. Only if I believe in love, will I be able to love others.

The Bumbling Mum Diary – II

Continued from Bumbling Mum Diary - I

It is one of the first things your family and friends enquire about, when your baby is born. Years later, when you are recounting baby tales - you are saddled with the same query. And sooner than you realize, by Gosh! You are asking the same profound question!!!! How much did your baby weigh?

For most first time Moms, their baby’s weight is akin to a scorecard for their motherly performance. Quite similar to Indirank, which we bloggers wait for, with bated breath every month. For me, each visit to the pediatrician was fraught with anxiety. Chewing my non-existent nails, I would wait for the verdict – two kilos in just a month...yessss! 

My baby girl was born underweight at a mere 2.6 kgs. I was aghast, a little shame-faced that I had managed far from a bonny baby. Maybe, I should have listened to my Mum and had those ghee laden laddoos... I should have been less bothered about my burgeoning weight...Should have slept more, hogged more...I was constantly plagued with these concerns.

But like most underweight babies, Tee managed to catch up really fast. I was jubilant – so what if I was cranky, depressed. At least I was doing a fine job as a Mum. Sadly, despite her piling on pounds, my baby was not exactly chubby. I would wistfully look at roly-poly babies sleeping contentedly in their mother’s arms, stare at their sumo wrestler frames and wonder why my baby preferred a size zero frame. Ahh...the cruel irony of fate. 

Oh, I toiled hard - tried a clever diet of mashed fruits, pureed cereals, freshly squeezed juice, experimented with all varieties of Cerelac, but my baby refused to plump up. The stubborn thing that she was, she would clamp her mouth shut and gave a firm thumbs down to all my path-breaking initiatives. Even if I did manage to coax some of it down her gullet, she would promptly puke it out and preferably on her unsuspecting mother. I even made husband click pics, so that later in life I could furnish photographic evidence of the systematic torture in her tiny hands.

My Maa would make it worse with her edition of motherhood horror stories. You think this is bad? Wait till you hear mine. I was a skinny baby and continued to be so despite her herculean efforts. Not the type to give up easily, like King Bruce she tried and tried until she was tired. My dad had to resort to clownish gyrations to keep me amused during my feeding ritual. I was subjected to endless experimentations – stinky goat’s milk diet (yuck, yuck, yuck), eggy diet (no wonder I couldn’t stand the smell of eggs for the longest), visits to the new, happening Russian specialist, oh she tried it all. It was only at the age of 17, after attending a music camp at Aurobindo Ashram in Nainital , did I start eating properly. The food was so bad there it made me realize the goodness of home food. I returned skinnier but wiser.