Morning’s a little misty. Puddles from last night’s rain still decorate the road and make walking difficult. School children are cheerful now that they are on the road finally past the battles at home. They are shepherded carefully past the puddles by mothers. Inside is a little tremor of trepidation about homework left unfinished, lessons unlearnt for tests. A little beam of hope lights them up inside. Hope that that the teacher will be absent, some unexpected function will cancel the test.
Mothers - some in their nighties, some in crumpled sarees, some in old salwars - a bag in one hand, a little hand in the other, stand at the bus stop and breathe fully.
It is a look of satisfaction on their faces. They‘ve made it. It’s the first breath they seem to be drawing fully from the morning.
All the morning rush. Cook breakfast and lunch, wash half a dozen boxes, wake up the children, listen to a recital with one ear, make coffee and tea for the other members of the household, cope with the odd visitor and phone call, give instructions to the milkman and maid, search for lost books and socks and soothe fears, pass on something a neighbor needs.
They’ve done it .Got to the bus on time. Now they can go home and face the rest of the day in peace. And you can see that this is the best moment of the day from their faces.
A moment to stand still and breathe. When hands are not busy with something and yet so much has been accomplished. And there is so much of the day left.
Published on zine5 on 31st jan,2008
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Making An Entry - Cover story
We’d walk into the auditorium in little groups pushing and shoving so as not be first to walk in and get noticed. The catcalls and hooting would start. We would scramble to sit down in the first few rows as fast as possible so we could pretend we were invisible. Or at least we were facing forward, blind to what was going on behind us. The noise would die down, after a while. But if one of us was called on to speak before the crowd, then it was sure to raise a lot of furor in the hall.
We were the ‘ladies’ of an engineering college, though we hardy felt like ones. We were a minority, and treated on par with a particularly undistinguished, rather unlikable minority. In an era when going to college was not even the usual, accepted norm for women, any interaction between unrelated men and women was frowned upon socially. Even if a boy wanted to talk to one of the girls or act friendly, he was soon pulled back into line by peer pressure. It was only after spending about three years in the college, that most girls found the courage to walk anywhere in the campus alone.
Two of us were a little more isolated, because we chose Mechanical, an unusual branch for women and were two girls in a class of 60, removed for three long years from fun, excursions, shared notes - everything that means college. We were the ghosts in the class.
The crazy part was during college festivals when some barriers were lowered liberally. We did get to interact then but once it was over, the barriers went up automatically.
The naiveté of all the young people then is astonishing. The boys thought that the way to get our attention was to make loud remarks. So they tell us now. And we, not realizing their intentions froze them out. But nature did have her way and a few couples did end up together after five years.
But most of us went our separate ways happily. I can’t say we lost touch. Since you can’t lose something you never had.
After 20 years, strange things started happening. One by one, old classmates started trickling into my life. We slowly got friendly. Surprisingly the people one thought should be in the jungles turned out to be decent, nice, thinking human beings.
Now, we meet often in small groups and discuss so many aspects of our lives. We share problems about our children, our work and help each other.
And we have this huge reunion coming up 25 years after we left college. Many of the articulate people on the organizing committee are female. We find that we are respected, listened to and yes, appreciated and admired.
And I got to design the cover of our souvenir. It won’t mean much to the casual reader but it does represent something to me and hopefully, to some of my 180 classmates.
For me, it contains several happy hours spent putting it together, experimenting with a great many colours and concepts and coping with the tricks that Adobe Photoshop can play on newcomers. And trying to rise above the remark of my daughter,” Ma, accept you are boring engineers and your design is going to be boring but if you could do that boring concept well, it will be fine”.
Mostly, it symbolizes the ways we have grown in 25 years.
We’ve come a long way.
Published on zine5
We were the ‘ladies’ of an engineering college, though we hardy felt like ones. We were a minority, and treated on par with a particularly undistinguished, rather unlikable minority. In an era when going to college was not even the usual, accepted norm for women, any interaction between unrelated men and women was frowned upon socially. Even if a boy wanted to talk to one of the girls or act friendly, he was soon pulled back into line by peer pressure. It was only after spending about three years in the college, that most girls found the courage to walk anywhere in the campus alone.
Two of us were a little more isolated, because we chose Mechanical, an unusual branch for women and were two girls in a class of 60, removed for three long years from fun, excursions, shared notes - everything that means college. We were the ghosts in the class.
The crazy part was during college festivals when some barriers were lowered liberally. We did get to interact then but once it was over, the barriers went up automatically.
The naiveté of all the young people then is astonishing. The boys thought that the way to get our attention was to make loud remarks. So they tell us now. And we, not realizing their intentions froze them out. But nature did have her way and a few couples did end up together after five years.
But most of us went our separate ways happily. I can’t say we lost touch. Since you can’t lose something you never had.
After 20 years, strange things started happening. One by one, old classmates started trickling into my life. We slowly got friendly. Surprisingly the people one thought should be in the jungles turned out to be decent, nice, thinking human beings.
Now, we meet often in small groups and discuss so many aspects of our lives. We share problems about our children, our work and help each other.
And we have this huge reunion coming up 25 years after we left college. Many of the articulate people on the organizing committee are female. We find that we are respected, listened to and yes, appreciated and admired.
And I got to design the cover of our souvenir. It won’t mean much to the casual reader but it does represent something to me and hopefully, to some of my 180 classmates.
For me, it contains several happy hours spent putting it together, experimenting with a great many colours and concepts and coping with the tricks that Adobe Photoshop can play on newcomers. And trying to rise above the remark of my daughter,” Ma, accept you are boring engineers and your design is going to be boring but if you could do that boring concept well, it will be fine”.
Mostly, it symbolizes the ways we have grown in 25 years.
We’ve come a long way.
Published on zine5
Monday, January 14, 2008
Are We talking Too Much on Our blogs?
Last night, on NDTV, there was a discussion on whether bloggers or blogging should be regulated or not?
Barkha Dutt, who was moderating, had been the target of several rumors on various blogs so she was clearly anti-blogging to start with. But being an intelligent person, she saw the way the wind was blowing and dropped her stance by the end.
The discussion covered why people blog - to express themselves, reach out to wider audiences, make like minded friends, talk about topics difficult to touch on in real life.
Being the media, they did spotlight on two or there very candid personal bloggers who talked about sexuality. One, a very attractive male was picked up by the cameras very often. He did confess to a certain amount of voyeurism when blogging. The two young women said they used pseudonyms because they were so candid and that gave rise to a lot of unwelcome comments. And that their parents were aware of their blogging and hence their sex life too and they weren't too embarrassed by that.
The Man from Aaj Tak did say that a lot of people could now easily write in public and that was very cathartic and releasing. So more or less, it was agreed that it was a good thing and policing could be done only after the blog was written or 'the crime was committed'.
I only wished that they'd manage to identify Mysore Blog Park when they did their research and had our GVK on the show. He would have had a couple of things to say .
Barkha Dutt, who was moderating, had been the target of several rumors on various blogs so she was clearly anti-blogging to start with. But being an intelligent person, she saw the way the wind was blowing and dropped her stance by the end.
The discussion covered why people blog - to express themselves, reach out to wider audiences, make like minded friends, talk about topics difficult to touch on in real life.
Being the media, they did spotlight on two or there very candid personal bloggers who talked about sexuality. One, a very attractive male was picked up by the cameras very often. He did confess to a certain amount of voyeurism when blogging. The two young women said they used pseudonyms because they were so candid and that gave rise to a lot of unwelcome comments. And that their parents were aware of their blogging and hence their sex life too and they weren't too embarrassed by that.
The Man from Aaj Tak did say that a lot of people could now easily write in public and that was very cathartic and releasing. So more or less, it was agreed that it was a good thing and policing could be done only after the blog was written or 'the crime was committed'.
I only wished that they'd manage to identify Mysore Blog Park when they did their research and had our GVK on the show. He would have had a couple of things to say .
Joi Baba Felunath (The Elephant God)
This is an entertaining light detective story written and directed by Satyajit Ray. It’s such a change to see an Indian detective on screen in kurta and pyjamas instead of a long black coat and top hat. But there are allusions to the sleuths of the West.
An old man living in Kashi, an avid detective story fan (like his grandson) recruits the famous detective from Calcutta, Feluda for a case. The mystery of the missing Ganesha Idol is actually solved with the help of ‘Tintin in Africa’.
The assistants are rather cute - young Jotayu and Topse,
the Uncle who himself is a writer of popular detective stories for children. Uncle conducts himself admirably in the lair of the villain when a doddering old knife thrower is called in throw knives at him while he stands at a board. 
Villain Utpal Dutta has enough villainy in his big eyes to frighten one but of course not Feluda.
Another interesting byplay is a body-builder with whom they share a room. He is fanatical about the temple of his body and cannot allow it to be sullied by such things as knives, so he is prepared to depart when a threatening note arrives. .
Soumitra Chatterjee as Feluda is perfect, underplayed and yet broodingly intelligent and his smile with crooked teeth appears only occasionally fittingly. And the best part is the action is set in Benares and one is allowed to go through the narrow streets, past cows and holy men, right into ancient buildings with endless corridors and numerous arches. With Ray’s camera, even the grime on unpainted walls looks regal. And the river, when it makes an occasional appearance is of course magnificent
A charming film to entertain both children and adults.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Hold My Hand
A couple of days ago, I was reveling in my kids thinking Im so lucky . This happens when they do something good or other people's kids do something bad.
Then yday Sindhu calls up 5 minutes after the train has left the station. 'Dont scream, but... can you send me my certificates by courier .' I don't scream- yes, outwardly, but inwardly I'm at fever pitch.
One would think that a young adult on her way to a job interview would have taken care of her certificates first.
But then one would think an older child would take her hall ticket to the exam. And find one is mistaken after reaching the exam hall 5 miles away.
And a hundred other things that I have been mistaken about.
The problem is Im not a questioning, want-to-know-all mother. I don't live my children's lives with them. And they often fall short of all they are supposed to know or do which might not have occurred if I was on the ball with them.
Hopefully, its teaching them to take responsibility for their own lives and allowing them to make their mistakes (lots of mistakes). And learning how to cope when things go wrong.
I have an Aunt who likes to know every detail of her kid's lives. They feel secure because she is monitoring each detail, taking care of so much, helping them out wherever she can altho they live across the world.
But, their married lives are not succesful.
This is an observation of just one instance. I really don't know how far it holds good for other people.
Then yday Sindhu calls up 5 minutes after the train has left the station. 'Dont scream, but... can you send me my certificates by courier .' I don't scream- yes, outwardly, but inwardly I'm at fever pitch.
One would think that a young adult on her way to a job interview would have taken care of her certificates first.
But then one would think an older child would take her hall ticket to the exam. And find one is mistaken after reaching the exam hall 5 miles away.
And a hundred other things that I have been mistaken about.
The problem is Im not a questioning, want-to-know-all mother. I don't live my children's lives with them. And they often fall short of all they are supposed to know or do which might not have occurred if I was on the ball with them.
Hopefully, its teaching them to take responsibility for their own lives and allowing them to make their mistakes (lots of mistakes). And learning how to cope when things go wrong.
I have an Aunt who likes to know every detail of her kid's lives. They feel secure because she is monitoring each detail, taking care of so much, helping them out wherever she can altho they live across the world.
But, their married lives are not succesful.
This is an observation of just one instance. I really don't know how far it holds good for other people.
You are Born With The Spots
I watched my cousin screw on her diamonds earrings and nose ring and put on her rings at 5.a.m. It was barely 10 hours since she'd returned to the room post-op. A catheter bag was still attached to her and she could just about walk.
I had consciously left my ring behind so it wouldn't hurt the baby.
Rani, the maid in my father's house, was sizzling in yet another new saree. She said, since her son was going to Sabari Malai, she has to be bathed and fresh everyday so she had had to buy half a dozen sarees.
So, its obviously not a matter of whether you can afford anything; only what you think you can afford.
I said "Why have I never done this in my life or even thought it possible?"
Sindhu said, "Ma, you would die of guilt if you bought half a dozen sarees.So don't think about it."
A friend was saying that she might change out of 5 dresses before she picked one she was happy with when she was dressing to go out. Another friend and I , with the narrow souls of housewives said we would only think of the cost of the ironing involved.
These are women who believe they owe it to themselves to look good. And because they think so, they look good .
I hear you can have self esteem without self confidence and vice versa. Im not quite sure of this, but some people certainly have self esteem and that is nice.
I had consciously left my ring behind so it wouldn't hurt the baby.
Rani, the maid in my father's house, was sizzling in yet another new saree. She said, since her son was going to Sabari Malai, she has to be bathed and fresh everyday so she had had to buy half a dozen sarees.
So, its obviously not a matter of whether you can afford anything; only what you think you can afford.
I said "Why have I never done this in my life or even thought it possible?"
Sindhu said, "Ma, you would die of guilt if you bought half a dozen sarees.So don't think about it."
A friend was saying that she might change out of 5 dresses before she picked one she was happy with when she was dressing to go out. Another friend and I , with the narrow souls of housewives said we would only think of the cost of the ironing involved.
These are women who believe they owe it to themselves to look good. And because they think so, they look good .
I hear you can have self esteem without self confidence and vice versa. Im not quite sure of this, but some people certainly have self esteem and that is nice.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
It takes a Baby to show You where You are
I was roped in to help a mother and her new born child and was in the hospital with them for three days, rather nights. Not really something I enjoy but something one has to do, when called.
I'm not thinking when I look at the little wizened face, that this is a miracle of nature. Thoughts running through my head are more on the lines of when will she sleep so I can sleep too.
After two nights of sleeping on a sofa, I had this terrible ache in my arm. Like most healthy people, I can't take signs to the contrary in my stride. I had to call my husband to find out whether it is pain in the left or right arm that signifies a heart attack. He said crossly that I was take a tablet and go to bed without worrying about vague stuff.
I do have to admit he is right because mostly it's gone away. But tough to realise, that I can no more plonk myself down on a sofa and get up unscathed.
But last night, after putting my daughter on a train, I had to jump off after it started moving and that I can still do it cheered me up immensely.
I'm not thinking when I look at the little wizened face, that this is a miracle of nature. Thoughts running through my head are more on the lines of when will she sleep so I can sleep too.
After two nights of sleeping on a sofa, I had this terrible ache in my arm. Like most healthy people, I can't take signs to the contrary in my stride. I had to call my husband to find out whether it is pain in the left or right arm that signifies a heart attack. He said crossly that I was take a tablet and go to bed without worrying about vague stuff.
I do have to admit he is right because mostly it's gone away. But tough to realise, that I can no more plonk myself down on a sofa and get up unscathed.
But last night, after putting my daughter on a train, I had to jump off after it started moving and that I can still do it cheered me up immensely.
Dollar-City
Manal kadigai by M. Gopalakrishnan is the ultimate book on Tirupur, South India.
It follows the lives of 5 young boys who leave school and start working in Tirupur’s sweat shops; through the romps of youth, their trials in the working world and their personal lives. Each of them takes a different path although bound by a common denominator of the ‘banian business.’ The title means hour glass and the book goes through a couple of decades.
There is Siva, a smooth talker and hard worker, steadily moving upward; changing from a shy young boy who is the butt of the jokes when he starts work in a bra company, moving on to becoming partner and then a big business man himself. People are attracted to him. He uses them without compunction and then discards them when he needs them no longer.
Shanmugham is the poet who is never recognized. And a womanizer, whose own personal life ends up with a question mark.
Anbu, who works hard, struggles and yet never gets anywhere.
Steady Tiru who looks after his own and does his chosen job with dedication and strong principles even if it ruins him. Chettiar says of him ‘a man can be good but sometimes he can be too good to prosper in such a place’.
Rajamani is the communist; the man with ideals and dreams who gets disillusioned.
Paranthaman, finding his own personal life in a mess, listens avidly to the adventures of Shanmugham, half believing, a little envious, and yet reveling in second hand capers to assuage his soreness with life.
The women in their lives don’t figure much except as partners in bed and a little more besides. It’s the men who make Tirupur and are the main figures in this epic work.
There are a few woman characters that stand out. The young girl whose life moves from luxury to hardship overnight and yet is self possessed and confident. The watchful wife who has to keep a tab on the wayward husband. Vimala, the girl who shares the life of the upcoming Siva in every sphere but whom he never thinks to marry. The beautiful divorcee he plays around with.
There are other quiet women in the background who still make a mark.
Chettiar‘s wife who runs away with the movie manager while her husband is busy producing a movie just to get close to the leading lady. The good daughter in law who disappears with the god-man the family has been promoting. Shanthi, who leans on her brother‘s friend in gratitude when he bails them out.
Each character is lightly sketched and yet rings a chord in the mind. Of course, this character is real.
But it’s the dollar city of Tirupur which has a turnover of crores and figures on any business map in the world which is the real protagonist of the story. The different people it takes to keep this industry ticking. The moves they have to make.
The small boys who are lured there by stories of jobs and wealth and are promptly kidnapped by agents and housed in buildings, to become bonded labour till they grow enough to rebel and move on, only to be replaced by others.
The hardworking women who can’t stay home to cook and clean. They have to be in the workplace even if it means breaking up their married lives. In spite of the rough words, the brushes, the sexual harassment, the hard work that takes its toll on hands and mind.
The young girls who are led by promises of clothes and money into easy sex.
The tailors with their calloused hands. The stressed out supervisors who fall to drink.
The go-betweens who live on their mopeds and keep running between factory and bank and agent. The small business men carrying huge loads on their two wheelers, making a business of ‘seconds. ‘ Some of them save and send home, some spend the money easily, and some save to become mudalalis themselves, bringing kith and kin to earn money like they’ve never seen before.
The men who work the ‘lines’; going from city to city to sell the products in shops and then to collect the money from them. Their travails in strange cities
The men and women who run the barotta and chai kadais that are the life blood of the city. The old ladies who run the idli and dosai kadais with sweaty faces and worn bodies.
The mudalalis who sweep in and out in their cars which they keep changing.
The problems of leading such a life on the go are satiated in food, wine and women. At all levels, rich and poor. The foreign priest says he never had to give so much absolution in any other city in his life.
Each chapter is a little story revealing a little more about Tirupur. And the lives and thoughts of the people who live there. It’s hard to call it a novel. It’s more a series of short stories put together.
There are little poignant vignettes. Like the little boy who is sent out to buy tea and plays on the sand and falls asleep. The bull like agent who recounts the most sensuous encounter he has ever had in his life which happens in a crowded train compartment. Hardened Shiva breaking down when his friend’s little daughter runs away thinking he is yet another creditor. The delight of a young boy from the country in eating an omlette for the first time.
The noise and the smell of the factories and the bustle of the city that never sleeps at night. The buses and the traffic and constant roar of vehicles. The new flyover and the displaced mad man beneath. The havoc caused by the dye from the factories in the surrounding areas. The toll it takes on those who live there. The office of the anti child labour agency which grows in posh ness, and yet the plight of the child laborer remains the same.
It’s a book which encompasses gigantically a whole city and its way of life. With poetic descriptions of this dirty fast moving city and the beauty of the countryside around. Its all of 500 pages and more and in Tamil. It took me months to read it and that’s why I write so much. Because it hasn’t quite left me.
On zine5.com on 9th Jan, 2008
It follows the lives of 5 young boys who leave school and start working in Tirupur’s sweat shops; through the romps of youth, their trials in the working world and their personal lives. Each of them takes a different path although bound by a common denominator of the ‘banian business.’ The title means hour glass and the book goes through a couple of decades.
There is Siva, a smooth talker and hard worker, steadily moving upward; changing from a shy young boy who is the butt of the jokes when he starts work in a bra company, moving on to becoming partner and then a big business man himself. People are attracted to him. He uses them without compunction and then discards them when he needs them no longer.
Shanmugham is the poet who is never recognized. And a womanizer, whose own personal life ends up with a question mark.
Anbu, who works hard, struggles and yet never gets anywhere.
Steady Tiru who looks after his own and does his chosen job with dedication and strong principles even if it ruins him. Chettiar says of him ‘a man can be good but sometimes he can be too good to prosper in such a place’.
Rajamani is the communist; the man with ideals and dreams who gets disillusioned.
Paranthaman, finding his own personal life in a mess, listens avidly to the adventures of Shanmugham, half believing, a little envious, and yet reveling in second hand capers to assuage his soreness with life.
The women in their lives don’t figure much except as partners in bed and a little more besides. It’s the men who make Tirupur and are the main figures in this epic work.
There are a few woman characters that stand out. The young girl whose life moves from luxury to hardship overnight and yet is self possessed and confident. The watchful wife who has to keep a tab on the wayward husband. Vimala, the girl who shares the life of the upcoming Siva in every sphere but whom he never thinks to marry. The beautiful divorcee he plays around with.
There are other quiet women in the background who still make a mark.
Chettiar‘s wife who runs away with the movie manager while her husband is busy producing a movie just to get close to the leading lady. The good daughter in law who disappears with the god-man the family has been promoting. Shanthi, who leans on her brother‘s friend in gratitude when he bails them out.
Each character is lightly sketched and yet rings a chord in the mind. Of course, this character is real.
But it’s the dollar city of Tirupur which has a turnover of crores and figures on any business map in the world which is the real protagonist of the story. The different people it takes to keep this industry ticking. The moves they have to make.
The small boys who are lured there by stories of jobs and wealth and are promptly kidnapped by agents and housed in buildings, to become bonded labour till they grow enough to rebel and move on, only to be replaced by others.
The hardworking women who can’t stay home to cook and clean. They have to be in the workplace even if it means breaking up their married lives. In spite of the rough words, the brushes, the sexual harassment, the hard work that takes its toll on hands and mind.
The young girls who are led by promises of clothes and money into easy sex.
The tailors with their calloused hands. The stressed out supervisors who fall to drink.
The go-betweens who live on their mopeds and keep running between factory and bank and agent. The small business men carrying huge loads on their two wheelers, making a business of ‘seconds. ‘ Some of them save and send home, some spend the money easily, and some save to become mudalalis themselves, bringing kith and kin to earn money like they’ve never seen before.
The men who work the ‘lines’; going from city to city to sell the products in shops and then to collect the money from them. Their travails in strange cities
The men and women who run the barotta and chai kadais that are the life blood of the city. The old ladies who run the idli and dosai kadais with sweaty faces and worn bodies.
The mudalalis who sweep in and out in their cars which they keep changing.
The problems of leading such a life on the go are satiated in food, wine and women. At all levels, rich and poor. The foreign priest says he never had to give so much absolution in any other city in his life.
Each chapter is a little story revealing a little more about Tirupur. And the lives and thoughts of the people who live there. It’s hard to call it a novel. It’s more a series of short stories put together.
There are little poignant vignettes. Like the little boy who is sent out to buy tea and plays on the sand and falls asleep. The bull like agent who recounts the most sensuous encounter he has ever had in his life which happens in a crowded train compartment. Hardened Shiva breaking down when his friend’s little daughter runs away thinking he is yet another creditor. The delight of a young boy from the country in eating an omlette for the first time.
The noise and the smell of the factories and the bustle of the city that never sleeps at night. The buses and the traffic and constant roar of vehicles. The new flyover and the displaced mad man beneath. The havoc caused by the dye from the factories in the surrounding areas. The toll it takes on those who live there. The office of the anti child labour agency which grows in posh ness, and yet the plight of the child laborer remains the same.
It’s a book which encompasses gigantically a whole city and its way of life. With poetic descriptions of this dirty fast moving city and the beauty of the countryside around. Its all of 500 pages and more and in Tamil. It took me months to read it and that’s why I write so much. Because it hasn’t quite left me.
On zine5.com on 9th Jan, 2008
Friday, January 4, 2008
Assembly Line
For a few hours this morning, I was transferring logos to T-shirts.
This involved a few steps- opening up a new T-shirt, positioning it, picking up the transfer, positioning it on the T-shirt, ironing it on, and then dropping it somewhere on the floor. ( mine are fairly clean).
Later, when it cooled off, I had to peel the transfer off.
But when I had done this 40 times for 40 T-shirts, I felt rather zombie like. The repetitive cycle was so monotonous.I was eager to finish the job fast. And happy, that I dont have to do this kind of a thing for a living. And glad that I could call on my maid to fold them up and pack them.
As it is,I was quite motivated to do the job. The T-shirts are for a training course conducted by Our local Wildlife conservation society for forest rangers. Although they are supposed to pay me, they never do and since its not much, I think its my bit to support these people who are doing something for the environment and global warming instead of just talking about it.
What is it like for people who have to do assembly line work to live?
Sometimes, of a morning when I'm waiting desperately for the maid and thinking nasty thoughts and spy her through the window, walking slowly up the hill, in no hurry at all even though she is late; I have to think - why would she want to hurry? If my job was to clean other people's dirt, would I be bounding up to my workplace in joy everyday? NO way. Then why do I think she should be cheerfully doing my housework?
But,she does, most days. To live.
This involved a few steps- opening up a new T-shirt, positioning it, picking up the transfer, positioning it on the T-shirt, ironing it on, and then dropping it somewhere on the floor. ( mine are fairly clean).
Later, when it cooled off, I had to peel the transfer off.
But when I had done this 40 times for 40 T-shirts, I felt rather zombie like. The repetitive cycle was so monotonous.I was eager to finish the job fast. And happy, that I dont have to do this kind of a thing for a living. And glad that I could call on my maid to fold them up and pack them.
As it is,I was quite motivated to do the job. The T-shirts are for a training course conducted by Our local Wildlife conservation society for forest rangers. Although they are supposed to pay me, they never do and since its not much, I think its my bit to support these people who are doing something for the environment and global warming instead of just talking about it.
What is it like for people who have to do assembly line work to live?
Sometimes, of a morning when I'm waiting desperately for the maid and thinking nasty thoughts and spy her through the window, walking slowly up the hill, in no hurry at all even though she is late; I have to think - why would she want to hurry? If my job was to clean other people's dirt, would I be bounding up to my workplace in joy everyday? NO way. Then why do I think she should be cheerfully doing my housework?
But,she does, most days. To live.
Sloshed!!!
This may be the time when a few people, recovering from New Year revels, maybe thinking 'never again'.
To me, the reader of many books, a drink seems to be what people bond over. People chat, get to know each other, bond, make deals, discourse freely and get rid of inhibitions. In some situations, its like what else is there to do? It seems rather nice and liberating.
I don't drink.
To me, that is something like saying 'I'm a vegetarian.'Or Im a HIndu. It's not a choice made out of awareness. Given the households and society in which I grew up and then continue to live in, its a given way of life.
But, a friend of mine sees it as a self-defining statement. Something that sounds righteous and above other lesser mortals who drink.
Above the women who cringe inwards when the men in their lives drink. Fathers, husbands, brothers, and now, sons. For, the men are happily sloshed and know not what they do. Its the women who face the social consequences when a husband stands in the middle of a room and holds forth to an amused audience on stuff which they don't actually follow. Or has to help him home. Or has to call desperately around to a friend to see why he hasn't come home yet. Or walk around on tiptoe the next morning when he holds his head and acts like a zombie.
Maybe the easiest solution is to have a drink or two yourself. I have a couple of cousins who do just that. When you can't cure them, join them.
But they won't admit it, bless them:-)
Like sex, this is one of our middle class taboo topics.
"The worst sin - perhaps the only sin - passion can commit, is to be joyless. "
Dorothy L. Sayers'
To me, the reader of many books, a drink seems to be what people bond over. People chat, get to know each other, bond, make deals, discourse freely and get rid of inhibitions. In some situations, its like what else is there to do? It seems rather nice and liberating.
I don't drink.
To me, that is something like saying 'I'm a vegetarian.'Or Im a HIndu. It's not a choice made out of awareness. Given the households and society in which I grew up and then continue to live in, its a given way of life.
But, a friend of mine sees it as a self-defining statement. Something that sounds righteous and above other lesser mortals who drink.
Above the women who cringe inwards when the men in their lives drink. Fathers, husbands, brothers, and now, sons. For, the men are happily sloshed and know not what they do. Its the women who face the social consequences when a husband stands in the middle of a room and holds forth to an amused audience on stuff which they don't actually follow. Or has to help him home. Or has to call desperately around to a friend to see why he hasn't come home yet. Or walk around on tiptoe the next morning when he holds his head and acts like a zombie.
Maybe the easiest solution is to have a drink or two yourself. I have a couple of cousins who do just that. When you can't cure them, join them.
But they won't admit it, bless them:-)
Like sex, this is one of our middle class taboo topics.
"The worst sin - perhaps the only sin - passion can commit, is to be joyless. "
Dorothy L. Sayers'
Painful Joy
I've just been with a friend who seemed very distracted, in spite of pressingly inviting me over. Her little grandson,who had been with her for a week, was about to leave - to the other grandparent's house. He will be back in a week. But for my friend, even that seems so hard.
Parents of NRIs seem to have it even harder. They go as baby sitters, nursemaids, cooks and cleaners for about 6 months, get extremely attached to the children and then have to return home empty handed. 'It breaks my heart', one lady was saying. 'Why do I have to undergo this cycle?'
Our society has turned around so much in the past few decades,that living with parents is anathema to any newly wed. To be avoided as much as possible.
So, that precious relationship between grandparents and grandchildren, gets more and more tenuous. And more and more painful to sustain. Grandparents have to work hard at being interesting and accepting and amiable and giving to have their grandchildren visit and stay.
Parents of NRIs seem to have it even harder. They go as baby sitters, nursemaids, cooks and cleaners for about 6 months, get extremely attached to the children and then have to return home empty handed. 'It breaks my heart', one lady was saying. 'Why do I have to undergo this cycle?'
Our society has turned around so much in the past few decades,that living with parents is anathema to any newly wed. To be avoided as much as possible.
So, that precious relationship between grandparents and grandchildren, gets more and more tenuous. And more and more painful to sustain. Grandparents have to work hard at being interesting and accepting and amiable and giving to have their grandchildren visit and stay.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
God's Special Children and God's Chosen Mothers
Meeting Ramya on New year's Eve was refreshing. Refreshingly positive.
Ramya's daughter, Tharini is all of 4 years old , tall for her age, has big black eyes that stare at you for all of 5 minutes and then maybe, maybe her lips will curve into a little smile. But not at you, its to herself? - for feeling assured that here is a person who is okay? No one knows. Because she doesn't speak. Nor does she relate to people.
Tharini has Attention Deficiency Syndrome which means she doesn’t concentrate long enough to register things or people or what is happening.
She has learnt to say a few words and Ramya's beaming pride as Tharini says 'bye 'fills the heart. She overflows with joy when Tharini says a rhyme which is barely decipherable. She is happy when Tharini responds to one command in a hundred. It’s a milestone.
Because Ramya, has been through so much with her daughter. So many hours of therapy – activity, speech, attention. So many doctors. So many worries. So many embarrassing situations.
People would be quick to disapprove of a child who won’t listen, who pulls things off their plates in buses and trains, who will lie down and scream in frustration when she can’t express herself and nobody can understand her.
Ramya was one of those girls I love to bemoan now - a few years ago. Pampered, sheltered, pretty and sure Prince Charming was going to sweep her away and keep her on white cushions for the rest of her life. Her wedding to a tall, good looking executive was all she dreamed about.
Life was good when she gave birth to this wonderful baby doll whom she dressed up as well as she could. But slowly when Baby wouldn’t respond to any spoken word, she got worried. She went to a slew of doctors and grew up rapidly.
Yet, Ramya has lost none of her zest. She dresses up prettily, and her daughter is part of the package, shops madly, cooks exotically , chats entertaingly and finds time for tanjore paintings which she sells. Inspite of a child who might stick her head in the fridge for an hour and won’t be torn away inspite of cajoling or beatings.
Trouble brings out the best in people, and Ramya shines.
Ramya's daughter, Tharini is all of 4 years old , tall for her age, has big black eyes that stare at you for all of 5 minutes and then maybe, maybe her lips will curve into a little smile. But not at you, its to herself? - for feeling assured that here is a person who is okay? No one knows. Because she doesn't speak. Nor does she relate to people.
Tharini has Attention Deficiency Syndrome which means she doesn’t concentrate long enough to register things or people or what is happening.
She has learnt to say a few words and Ramya's beaming pride as Tharini says 'bye 'fills the heart. She overflows with joy when Tharini says a rhyme which is barely decipherable. She is happy when Tharini responds to one command in a hundred. It’s a milestone.
Because Ramya, has been through so much with her daughter. So many hours of therapy – activity, speech, attention. So many doctors. So many worries. So many embarrassing situations.
People would be quick to disapprove of a child who won’t listen, who pulls things off their plates in buses and trains, who will lie down and scream in frustration when she can’t express herself and nobody can understand her.
Ramya was one of those girls I love to bemoan now - a few years ago. Pampered, sheltered, pretty and sure Prince Charming was going to sweep her away and keep her on white cushions for the rest of her life. Her wedding to a tall, good looking executive was all she dreamed about.
Life was good when she gave birth to this wonderful baby doll whom she dressed up as well as she could. But slowly when Baby wouldn’t respond to any spoken word, she got worried. She went to a slew of doctors and grew up rapidly.
Yet, Ramya has lost none of her zest. She dresses up prettily, and her daughter is part of the package, shops madly, cooks exotically , chats entertaingly and finds time for tanjore paintings which she sells. Inspite of a child who might stick her head in the fridge for an hour and won’t be torn away inspite of cajoling or beatings.
Trouble brings out the best in people, and Ramya shines.
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