'B' Goddess for Dummies - A review

Oh ok!! I still can't make myself say the B***** word!

Not that I am a prude or anything - far from that. Believe me if you heard me while I manoeuvre the Delhi roads, you'd send me for the audition of the 'Roadies'.

Blame this (new found) squeamishness on the 'Mommy syndrome'. I cannot, try as I might, write or say words that I cannot use in front of the kiddos. Hey, but that doesn't mean that I have a problem with this particular word - I have successfully, in the past, used them to good effect - especially at workplace :-).

It was a pleasant surprise when Maya Sharma Sriram wrote in to ask if I'd like to review her book. Ofcourse I was ecstatic - in no small measure, because this also stoked my waning ego as a blogger. So here is the review, a la Nirvana

The first look : Its a Rupa publication book, with an interesting cartoon for the cover, which gives you the hint of the sense of humour you'd find in the book.

Plot : While the world may want to mock chick lit novels, the truth is that they are a force to contend with; and for good reason - most of them are pages out of real life, and most of the readers (especially women readers) would have that moment of deja vu in these novels. This novel is no different in that aspect - there are pages in there which look like scenes straight out of my office or my home.

The story revolves around a young woman with career aspirations and the competence to see the aspirations through, but with an element of 'goodness' in her which seems to hamper her perceived growth  - both in personal and professional life. So she decides to take charge, and change all that. Whether she succeeds or not, and whether it is indeed the new avatar that works for her is what the story is all about.

Set in two cities - Singapore and Chennai, it explores the feelings of a vulnerable woman who wants to take charge of her life. Nothing exceptional in that situation - except that the whole approach to the novel is with a pinch of salt, a dash of Worcestershire sauce and even a shot of vodka (what the heck!) which makes the book a completely refreshing read.

Writing style : Sometimes when you read the book, you forget you are reading, and are probably watching a movie - a bollywood movie at that! What I mean is that the book is easy to comprehend, with no heavy duty words acting as speed breakers in the reading speed. Which means this is something to read when you want to just laze out in the winter sun, with a hot cup of coffee, on a chaise lounge - with occasional giggling bouts.

The South Indian influence is evident in the book - and brings back memories of filter coffees, hot pakoras and absurd phone conversations with my mother. Again - something that every woman fondly remembers.

The author brings in an element of modern romance, but somewhere, there is a certain awkwardness in depicting love scenes - which is not uncommon in Indian writers. Maybe she could have avoided them, or only have notional depiction if required. There were a few jarring pararagraphs which seemed forced.

Another aspect which somehow, seems a tad too convenient - was that the love story seemed like a match made in heaven from the first meeting - from the religion to the industry...... Or maybe I am just jealous that the protagonist had it too easy :-)

Character Development : The author gets brownie points on this aspect. From clothing styles to hairstyles and quirks, you get a definite visual of the characters (remember I said it was like watching a movie?).

Also the transformation of the protagonist - the physical one, is very vivid. A certain amount of stereotyping does happen (the office b**** wears revealing but stunning outfits etc etc) but what the heck! Most of us have seen people like that haven't we?

Final Verdict : An easy on the mind, but entertaining read for a lazy afternoon. You will want to read the book cover to cover, but it is not a book that will demand your grey cells to work overtime. I read it intermittently, during a holiday, and it was easy to pick up from where I had left it (this is a boon for mothers, who get constant SOS calls from the kids). Oh! And do prepare for a few giggles that will escape your lips while reading. 

The First Born

My elder one, soon to be a highly inquisitive ten-year-old girl, threw a half-hearted tantrum the other day. G and I were quite perplexed with the whole thing, as she has not, in all her growing up years, thrown anything remotely similar to a tantrum (which probably explains why even this one did not quite look convincing enough).

All through her baby years, toddler years and school years, she has put to good use, her convincing skills, her baby charm and her intellect to get what she wants (mostly); and also has given in gracefully when she had realized things aren’t going to work her way.

This sulky avatar was new to us, and we set about analyzing why this little anecdote happened.

This led me to compare the age-wise behaviors of both the kiddos – the elder nine-year old and the younger five-year old. In almost all the tasks that required independence, we discovered that the elder one was far ahead. Let me elaborate…..

She stopped wearing diapers much, much earlier. Infact, there were times when it was a common sight to see a very exasperated mother running behind a very determined two-year old, trying to get her into diapers for the night.

She started eating on her own much earlier. She refused to let anyone come between her and her cereal bowl, once the meal began.

She picked out her clothes quite early, plainly refusing to wear what she thought was not ‘nice’. (the younger one still cares two hoots what I make him wear). She would run around with little feet, fetching the knick knacks that I needed during the course of the day to take care of another brand new baby.

Then it hit me – the new baby had changed my first one!

The Big 'little' Sister

On hindsight, I do feel that 5-year-old first-born was like a helping hand, while 5-year-old second one is more like a few confused rabbits set loose. With the elder one, when she was five, she knew she had to keep the volume down during nap times, or the baby would wake. The current 5-year-old knows no such rules.

When she was five, she would come back from school, gather her clothes, neatly put her bag in a corner and tip toe in to give me hug. I am also aware that she would do it willingly, just so that life was a little easier for me.

The second one still needs to be threatened, coaxed, warned, bribed and finally screamed at, to do his bit. And when I try emotional blackmail on him, (“Mamma is tired, and will have to do all the work if you don’t help out…”) he looks at me with all the understanding of a cocker spaniel, and continues to create a mess.

Suddenly, it seemed as though being the first-born, daughter dearest grew up much faster. I was suddenly gripped with a strange guilt, wondering if she would have been a different person if she was the second one.

G was quick to the rescue with his arguments – as the first-born, she was the special one – and will always be so. And she did get exclusive time with parents and grandparents for about 5 years.
So I leave you with this question … Is there a flip side to being the first-born?

Read this article that was first published at Parentous, a platform for parents.

Older and wiser ? Maybe not!

Okay guys, I am done sulking (whaddaya mean you didn't know I was sulking!!) 

To all my readers out there, (yes, yes.... all three and a half of you!) apologies for being such a self centered spolit brat wallowing in self pity.

I 'celebrated' my birthday recently, right after a few incidents that made me want to point a certain finger skywards (nope! didn't do it!). And as a consequence of all the negativity I'd been harboring, I managed to put my colossal self into a bout of seasonal flu. (No, I refuse to blame my vanity in dressing for peak Delhi winters)

So.... Happy New Year all you wonderful people, and leaving you with a thought:

"Happiness can be found in the darkest of times..... if only one remembers to turn on the lights"
~ Dumbledore
 

Off with their heads.. err.. stubble

This post is a part of the 'Shave or Crave' movement in association with BlogAdda.com

Knowing each other for over 15 years has its pros and cons. (yeah, yeah.... we are ancient and all that!!). G and I know each other well enough to complete each other's sentences, and yet, there are times when shy, subtle hints are just not enough to convey a heartfelt message.

G prides himself on his immaculate grooming at work in the hospitality industry. So much so, that there have been instances where he has shaven twice in a day to ensure brownie points in a meeting. Hence, as I went through the misery called wedding rituals, I would take one look at his drop dead gorgeous looks and congratulate myself on a job well done.

Alas! Little did I know Dr.Jekyl and Mr.Hyde were not a fiction of someone's imagination .... they truly exist! Let me elaborate this complex situation by using a conversation during our first few hours after the wedding ceremonies:

G : Hey gorgeous...... wakey wakey!

Me (eyes still closed) : Hi sweetheaaaaa ...... err..... what happened to you?

G (hands going to his face) : What? Oh this? This is my macho look..... a stubble.... nice, no?

Me : Err...... ummm......... What are we ordering for breakfast? (dodging the deadly weapon on his face in an attempt to save my face.... literally!)

G : What happened?

Me (still trying to be a nice bride) : I haven't brushed yet.......

Thankfully, by the time we were dressed to go out for the day, he was back to being Dr. Jekyl err..... G. Pretty soon, I discovered that G was the alter ego of "Office G", when it came to shaving. He was content with the 5 o'clock shadow (5 o' clock shadow my foot !! what about the morning, evening and night? I could sue whoever coined that phrase) that adorned his face on the days that he lazed around at home.

I tried various subtle hints, from screaming 'Ouch.... A porcupine!!' when his face found mine, to placing his shaving razor at all unimaginable places. (Truth be told, I married a kind man - he did not seem to mind the razor showing up on the breakfast table, on the TV remote, inside his pajama pockets, or even on his favorite spot on the couch! He simply scratched his head muttering "Strange......" while putting it back to where it belonged)

In yet another instance, I clicked photos of him in all his sleeping glory, and showed it to him during an exceptionally romantic moment. He reacted quite badly to the way he looked. "Hey, I look so geeky! Thank God for that stubble, huh?"

Yes, I waited till he walked out of the room to physically try and kick myself, thank you very much!

In another instance, I bought for him, one of the best shaving products (you know, like Gillette says, "The Best a Man Can Get" ....) to try and coax him to shave. He was touched. "Wow!! Thanks dear.... I've  always wanted this one. Will use it when I get ready for the meeting tomorrow" ..... This time I almost succeeded in strangling myself.

Pretty soon, I realized that for the good of all humanity for my own sanity, I would just have to get the message accross.

G and I were looking forward to a lazy weekend.  No parties, no mall hopping, no friends. Perfect oppurtunity!

I decided to go ethnic on him. (Call it slimy, scheming or just plain selfish - whenever I care to wrap the 6 yard devil's creation around me, I use the sari to my distinct advantage). My red georgette sari (thank you, Sridevi and no thanks to you, Mr. India!!) with a ridiculously low cut blouse, not to mention the perfume that G loves, and I was ready.

G : "Whoa!! Where are we going?"

Me : "Nowhere..... why?" (God! I am good at this!)

G : "W-Why are you dressed like that?"

Me : "Oh, you don't like it? I'll change then..........."

G : "No.... please don't. Looks great" (Pulling me towards him, running his hands over my arms)

Me : "You really like my arms, don't you?"

G : "Yeah ..... so soft. You sure we aren't going anywhere? You're wearing that perfume too!"

Me : "Well, I want tell you a secret."

As G's eyes widened like Mr. Bean's, I whispered lovingly in his ear, "I wax my arms, you know."

G : "Huh?"

Me : (still whispering conspiratorily) "I also do unthinkable stuff to my eyebrows too."

G (the gentle soul that he is, he was getting distinctly uncomfortable with the conversation) :  "I already know that.... and I don't think I need the gory details....... W-What do you want?" (I swear, I almost saw him holding a cross to ward me off)

Me (smiling sweetly) : "Why don't you shave on the days you are at home?"

G : "Oh I get it now - you don't like my 'at-home' avatar!!.....  This why I've been finding my razor all over the house? I just want to be me! This is the real 'Me' ......... so get used to it!"

Me : "OK dear. I completely get it."

G : "Y-You do?"

Me : "Yes ofcourse, I do. I love you, remember?"

G (as he took me in his arms) : "I love you too"

Me : "Awwww.... I am sure you too will love the real 'Me' next weekend. 

G : "Err.......What?"

Me (almost gushing in excitement) : I can't tell you how happy I am that I can be in my nightie all day long! And no waxing, no threading, no makeup... wow!! You are a darling, G! ....... Oh! And I hope you like under-arm hair as well...."

The next moment, I was on the floor, G was running towards the bathroom, razor in hand.

Mission accomplished. Sanity restored....... the Best a (Wo)man Can Get indeed!!

Once upon the Tracks of Mumbai - A reivew

Railway tracks and India go back a long way. We have depicted the railways as being a catalyst in many of our movies, the ones that come to mind instantly being "Jab We Met". Of course there are many, many more that can be pulled out if one really wants to remember.

At the same time, I wonder how many books are written on the familiar settings of the enormous presence in our country called the Railways! And what better place to have the story than Mumbai, the 'city that never sleeps', where the Railways contribute to the economy and the lifestyle.

Allow me, ladies and gents, to put before you, in the usual Nirvana style, yet another book I have been fortunate to get my hands on Once Upon the Tracks of Mumbai by Rishi Vohra

First things first, I got an autographed book (Yay!!) The cover has two pretty faces over the railway line. While this is definitely the settings, do not be misled into thinking that this is all there is to the book! The book goes into much more shades of grey, black and white than you would assume from the cover.



Pic courtesy Rishi Vohra





 

• The Plot : Without letting too much of the proverbial 'cat' out of the bag, let me just tell you what the synopsis of the book says about the story :

"Autistic. psychotic. Schizophrenic....". For the twenty four years of his life, these are some of the words "they" have used to describe Babloo. He knows his family agrees with "them" and he senses that he is different. He doesn't hate people; he just cannot find the right way to connect with anyone. Vandana is the only exception. What can he do to make himself worthy of her?

Babloo finds simple pleasures in small things, A random twist of fate along these familiar train tracks brings Babloo face to face with the harsh reality of escalating crime in the local trains of Mumbai, and shakes him out of his apathy.

• The Writing Style : The writing falls into the usual style of writing adapted by young Indian writers - easy prose, with a fair amount of 'Indian English' - though here, the author has used it only when the characters communicate to themselves or to each other (so much more believable). The story is told in two streams  - one in which is in the first person (of the protagonist) and the other, as narrated in third person. Sometimes, it gets a little confusing where the first person has stopped and the third person has started. Goes to show that this is not a book that you can read while multi-tasking.

Also something that was pleasant in the writing was the sketch of the city I love so much - Mumbai in all its glory, and sometimes, the coldness of the city too.

• Character Development : The characters are well sketched out. Which, in a way, may not have been always good for the surprise element - from the early introduction of the characters, they are very clearly bucketed into 'good' people and 'bad' people. This has a tendency to create a bias in the readers' minds, and, to an extent, remove the element of surprise that evolve in the twists of the story. On the other hand, this approach makes one take sides very early on in the book, and hence cheering when the 'good guys' win.
• Words and Print Quality: Jaico has done a good job of the Printing, and there was no jarring typo that one usually associates with many Indian authors. The words, as mentioned earlier, are easy to comprehend. This works well for the story, which, since it looks at what goes inside of a person's mind, is complex enough, without using big words. An example excerpt :

"No one understood the dual existence of 'him' and me that made me the person I am. Only the railway tracks that ran along outside my bedroom window knew the both of us individually. The endless, idle wooden planks connected by durable steel had formed a fine segregation between my fantasy and reality."

For some more excerpts, do visit this site

• Final Verdict : Some mature writing, of a topic not written much about. Some insights into a schizophrenic mind that has learnt to love, and a real look at how the average Indian family treats people that have different needs. A must read, if only to explore Babloo's mind.

 

Mother of a Son

Yes, I have a son.

When he was born, there were joyous celebrations to welcome him. My elder child, a daughter, welcomed him with love only a sister can have for a brother. All the ashirvads (blessings) of “Doodho nahao puto falo” (bathe in milk (ugh!!!) and give birth to sons(!)) had apparently worked its effect well.

Before my son was born, my daughter was my entire world. I would glare angrily at anyone who even remotely suggested that my second one (I knew I wanted two!) had to be a boy to “complete the family” (whatever that meant!).

I was certain that my second one would be a daughter too – because I felt I would never be able to love a son as much – yes, that’s how much I love my daughter.

But when he was born, it ceased to matter that he was a son. For me, it was just love all over again. I remember how some indignant relatives (angered by the fact that I preferred to have healthy babies to “puto falo”) told me that bringing up a daughter was a difficult task in this terrible world. How the daughter would prove to be a huge responsibility – even a liability (“Paraya dhan” – somebody else’s 'property' - WTF!!)

But today, what prompted me to write this post is not how my daughter is my blessing (which she is!). Rather, it is to explain why I am glad I do have a son.

No – not because my family is “complete”.

Nor because I feel he will set fire to the pyre when I die (frankly, I care two hoots what happens to my body after my death). Neither is it because I think a son is insurance to an easy retired life, or because of a dowry that he traditionally is supposed bring in.

No – not even that he may act as a bodyguard to my daughter…..

After all, these are the traditional reasons to have a son, right?

My reason is something different. The way I see it, raising a son is way more difficult.

See why,  in my post at Parentous.

Walking "The Talk"

I thought I'd just shut my eyes and ears, and maybe I'll be able to breathe with lesser difficulty. I was wrong. Every time there is any woman I know, who does not come home by the usual time she does, I panic.

When it happened in Guwahati, it was because 'she was drunk'.

When it happened in the various villages across Haryana, it was because the poor young boys had too much chowmein

When it happens in the city we just love to hate, it is because they wear clothes too short or too tight, or too bright. Or maybe it is because they party too much, go to all the wrong places, or are dressed too well.

When are we going to realize that in all the statements that we make about such incidents, anything that comes after "because" is exactly what these demons in human form bank upon. It is all the 'because's that help them go scot free after having taken away, horrendously, from an individual their right to live fearlessly.

When I was moving out of home to a hostel closer to college, my parents had 'the talk' with me. All young girls know 'the talk'. My mother first sat me down, and went into the details of what was 'right' and 'wrong' for me. She overcame her embarrassment to tell me all about staying safe, and about wearing right to stay safe. She reminded me that I had to remember them - her and Dad, before I did anything that might cause them pain.

Then Dad sat me down to tell me his version of what he thought I should be doing so that his little girl was not hurt. He too, in his own words, conveyed the message I already knew. I had already been groped, pinched and leered at in crowded buses, in trains and in market places.

When my sister was ready for the same move, this drama repeated itself. She too, got her share of 'the talk'

I do not have a brother. Which means I am not an authority on what parents tell their adolescent / young adult son. So let me ask you readers, especially the men, or women who have male siblings out there, something...

How many will have 'the talk' with their sons?

Let me tell you of a relative who did sit his son down and give him a serious talk. The talk went something like this:

"Son, I know you will have fun. Colleges are meant for that. You will find girls too. Sexy ones (a whisper here) too. Its ok to have fun. Just remember that you can have all the fun in the world, but you will marry the right girl who we choose."

This is not the talk I meant. How many parents of future men have sat them down to teach them to respect women?

How many will tell their darling sons that women are not objects, are not meant to be leered, groped or pinched, no matter what their clothes are.

How many will actually overcome embarrassment (yes, mothers and fathers) to tell the Alpha male that all women, like the person who gave birth to them, have to be treated with dignity? And that the choice of who touches the women's breasts and bottoms are entirely their choice?

How many will tell them that rapists and molestors are a reality, and may even be their friends?

How many will tell them that no woman, irrespective of religion, caste, creed, age, skin color, deserves to be treated the way the girl in Guwahati was, or the girl in the moving bus was, treated?

How many will tell them, "Son, there will come a time when peer pressure will look you in the eye and tell you to do something you know is wrong. When that happens, promise me you will kick peer pressure in the ass, and do the right thing."

I have a son. Embarrassment be damned, I, for one, will tell my son as much, when the time is right. Will you?