R’s blog

Snow

Ξ December 27th, 2008 | → 0 Comments | ∇ Uncategorized |

I ventured out after 10 days of snow and storm into civilization again. Our little Honda refuses to cooperate in the snow, and our complex looks like Siberia. J told me that while returning from work, he saw cars  abandoned on the road throughout our vast complex as they couldn’t budge further because of the snow and ice. I insisted on accompanying him as he went out to replenish our dwindling supplies, and the 10-minute walk to the nearest grocer took us 40 minutes. We hardly saw any people for most of the (almost always busy) walk, and J kept telling me to walk slowly. I didn’t listen to him as usual until I almost slipped. Then I got bored of walking slowly, and I made J pretend we’re pioneers, one of the first (white people) to trek across the western lands.

He has no imagination. “Hey, look at all the cars parked here,” he said. “And the houses.”  I told him to pretend the cars were buffaloes, and the houses didn’t exist. Then we went home, and I heated my hands near the heater.

“Let’s pretend we built a fire outside our tent,” I said, “and you’re getting dinner ready.”

J raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t that be your job?”

I smiled. “Not in the history I write.”

Spanish

Ξ December 24th, 2008 | → 0 Comments | ∇ Life |

I regret not pursuing Spanish more religiously.  I love the way the words roll of my tongue. Any language that lends places beautiful names such as Zaragoza and Asturias is worth learning.

Yessssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss!

Ξ November 4th, 2008 | → 5 Comments | ∇ Barack Obama, Politics |

I am so happy.

May President Barack Obama be all that he promised to be.

Running Mate

Ξ October 22nd, 2008 | → 6 Comments | ∇ Politics |

Can somebody pick me as a running mate, please? I want new clothes too.

Ba

Ξ October 19th, 2008 | → 8 Comments | ∇ Family |

It’s getting harder and harder to call my grandmother these days. I can hear her struggling on the phone to talk, sometimes not aware of where the mouthpiece is, until somebody attentive enough near her props up the phone for her.

“Chinta na karti,” she always tells me. “Badha majama che. Hu pan saari chu.”

Don’t worry about me. Everyone is all right. I am fine too.

And I marvel at how brave she is. Because she can no longer walk, and her left arm that broke when she once tried to get up by herself in the night refuses to heal. And I have seen cry with pain but never complain.

I went to meet her last year. She was more coherent than she is now. When she found out I was coming, she insisted on going downstairs to greet me until my family had to lie to her that I had postponed my trip to dissuade her from going down. When she  finally saw me, she started crying. I cried, too; my grief doubled because I realized that I had never spent enough time with her when everything she did all her life was for her family. Even when we should have been taking care of her, she took care of us. Our mothers might forget to do things for my brother, my cousins and me, but she never would. Each of us had different ways of drinking milk while growing up, and she would make sure that our milk was ready the way we liked it, morning, evening and night– hot, cold, lukewarm, sugar, no sugar, Horlicks, Bournvita, hot in the morning, cold in the evening, steel glass, glass glass, mug… .She would remember and have our glasses/mugs ready for us, quietly, without fail, even before we realized we needed to drink milk. We just took it for granted like everything else she did for us.

Today, even with progressive dementia, that part of her hasn’t changed. She may not remember our names but she won’t sleep until she hears everyone’s voices or sees us in the house. If she doesn’t, she needs to be explained why the person is not home yet.

When talking to her, I ask her my name. If it’s a good day, she remembers. Or sometimes, she confuses me for my aunt, her daughter. Or my cousin. Or, she says, I can’t remember, and then I tell her.

Sometimes that rings a bell. The last time I talked to her, she told me she is coming to see me next week. She said she is going to book tickets for Ahmedabad (Ahmedabad = America in her mind), and she will come see me when she goes to Palitana.

And I tell myself then that maybe she is in a happier place in her mind, when she’s forgotten briefly that she can’t walk and how dependent she is on others. I tell her then that I can’t wait to see her.

It’s the truth. It always will be.

Peek-a-boo

Ξ October 16th, 2008 | → 4 Comments | ∇ Uncategorized |

I am back, but it’s late, so I will write more later. Thanks for all your patience and comments.

Dream job

Ξ August 19th, 2008 | → 6 Comments | ∇ Uncategorized |

I just read a job description that got me really excited. Then I read the fine print. It only pays $12 an hour.

Thank you for your time

Ξ August 15th, 2008 | → 0 Comments | ∇ Life |

Dear Doctor,

I got your Thank You card yesterday for “choosing your practice.” That’s sweet and all, and I am big on Thank You cards myself, but I really would have just preferred more time and answers instead of rushing me through the appointment.

That’s your job, you know.

Sincerely,

Looking forward

Ξ August 15th, 2008 | → 6 Comments | ∇ India |

One of the numerous reasons that my Parsi all-girls’ school was super cool (even though I was miserable when I was in it) was that we had a class on sex education. It was pretty forward thinking, to empower us with that knowledge. Whether we got educated through all those giggles is a different thing, but, well, they tried. The first topic that our teacher, a doctor, touched on was what she called hermaphrodites. I don’t really remember any of the biological explanations but I remember the teacher’s appeal for compassion and acceptance. That it’s natural. That we shouldn’t judge and that they have every right to live normally. We didn’t go into a lot of details and the rest of the year was one long morality lecture about self-respect, but I took those words with me.

It was in school again that I heard another appeal for compassion and acceptance for “queers” when a girl made a comment about eunuchs. I forgot what she said, but I recollect the art teacher, Mrs. Nimkar, who I now remember as a sharp-tongued shrew, explaining that they’re human just like the rest of us and instead of being mocked and being forced to live on the fringes of society, they are entitled to live with dignity. That memory of her totally redeems Mrs. Nimkar for me.

This Saturday it’s Mumbai’s turn to hold a gay pride parade after Delhi and Kolkata, and reading about it triggered those earlier memories. It gives me hope that although there are infinite ways to divide the 1 billion plus people, there is still compassion and tolerance and acceptance. Not that sexual freedoms (well, IPC 377 still stands) make a nation strong in the presence of other larger problems; not that we’re going to be holding hands and singing “Kumbaya” anytime soon; not that a handful of people marching on the street will get rid of homophobia,xenophobia, social inequalities or environmental mauling, but I do want to be optimistic.

This is where I want India to be going, and this is how I want to measure her progress. I want respect for human life, differences, human dignity and growth and environmental sustainability. More importantly, I want progress to be measured by not how quickly we grab the material and superficial but also by how steadfastly we hold on to what is good and meaningful in what is traditional and cultural. The roots should be strong even as the branches spread.

Happy Independence Day!

Right Rice

Ξ August 14th, 2008 | → 6 Comments | ∇ Food, Uncategorized |

I never manage to get rice right, at least not in the eyes of my husband. He (usually) only eats rice, and I (usually) only eat rotis as the main staple for all our Indian meals. And every once in a while, I feel like cooking him something other than plain white rice. If it has peas (I hate them), I don’t even taste it, but I like to cook it for him.

Anyway, I decided to cook him vegetable biryani today. I researched the recipe, shopped for the ingredients, chopped the vegetables and started cooking when my husband walked in. He asked, “What’s cooking?”

“Vegetable biryani,” I announced losing confidence as I saw the flicker of doubt in his eyes. Burned by past experience, I guess.

“How are you cooking it?” he asked.

I recited the recipe, trying to impress him with the fancy procedure and exotic ingredients - the saffron, the milk, the baking after it’s all done. But he expertly announced it’s all wrong, not in so many words, but I got the drift. I never get the measurements right when it comes to biryani. Too much water or too much rice and not enough vegetables. And I mess things up with my fancy recipes.

Then he did the culinary equivalent of back-seat driving.

“You need to heat the onions for a little more time…There’s too much water… It won’t cook right… No, don’t add any milk. I want it my way.”

You can’t argue with a Hyderabadi when it comes to biryani. So I just walked out of the kitchen. He’s cooking now, and I am blogging and nursing my ego.

I am a good cook, damn it. The rice should have heard that by now.

But the solution is simple. I have to practice my biryani again and again until I get it right, even if it means that J might begin to hate it. At least, the biryani will be well cooked.

I have the best husband in the world ,though. He’s been the one slogging in the kitchen, yet he thanked ME sooooo sweetly for cooking him a delicious biryani.

Everything tasted good after that.