Vacation Exhaustion

When Ramzan holidays started last week, there was a song on my lips. I counted eight days (including both Sundays) of delectable mornings, lazy afternoons, and exciting evenings with a wonderful husband and an adorable daughter. Even though needling thoughts of my full-time job (I did not have a holiday), an in-absentia cook/helper, and household chores which have a knack of piling up crossed my mind, they did not ruffle the calm waters of anticipatory bliss. And thus the holidays started. I did not have an inkling of what was in store for me.

I learned one thing soon enough. Two is too much of a crowd in the kitchen. My camaraderie with my wonderful husband soon gave way to scuffles over who should cut and who should clean and who should throw the garbage out. When our constant bickering led to our daughter’s insistence that we zip our mouths, we decided to do something about it – cook less and eat out more. That foresight helped us ward off a potential Armageddon.

Holidays are constant reminders of chores not done. This holiday warned us of an imminent inundation of junk if a spring cleaning was not done forthwith. Thus a nerve-racking day was spent on sorting out clothes, toys, books, papers, and other miscellaneous household artifacts, and then finally stowing them all away in boxes for future decision-making, due to emotional, practical and procrastinatory forces at work.

We also realized that 4-year-olds accumulate back-breaking chores as they walk and talk. And a 4-year-old with hyper-affinity towards water is double trouble. Our daughter wanted to swim every day of the holidays. My anticipated lethargic mornings were thus replaced by getting into an extremely uncomfortable swim suit, finding towels, goggles, armbands and floaties, applying gooey sun-blocks, and desperately trying to stay afloat in water and cramping my leg in the process. Needless to say, I am a very bad swimmer. But my exploits at the pool will merit a whole blog by itself and are prudently being withheld from divulging here.

The times that our daughter condescended to remain at home, she wanted constant entertainment. As her present addiction is Monopoly, we ended up playing the rather tedious junior version of the board game at all timely and untimely hours with a total spoilsport who did not fully understand the basics of the game but still stubbornly insisted that all money transactions be made in her favor. I am always unlucky with money (play money was no exception) and both father and daughter routed me with devilish glee in all the innumerable games that we played. This did nothing to my already dampened mood.

Then my dance teacher decided, like a responsible teacher that she is, that extra practice sessions were warranted during these holidays to prepare us for our show in November. As we, the senior students, were doing a mohiniyattam piece along with the usual bharatanatyam items, we, more than anybody else, needed the practice. I am familiar with mohiniyattam, having learnt it during my younger years, and I was only too ready to show off. After a couple of days of intense two-hour practice sessions, I realized that mohini-esque swaying movements might not be meant for a woman past her prime, for there was not a muscle or a tendon in my body that was not sore. I longed to get back to my safe zone of bharatanatyam, an emotion echoed by the other senior students as well, which did help with the pain and embarrassment a little bit.

Holidays, if you get my drift, were becoming a pain in the neck and all the other unmentionable areas.

Thankfully, there were only eight days of it. The cook is not back yet, and with all the fettuccine con funghi and four-cheese ravioli, we might have gotten a little heavier around the middle – I still suspect that diabolic weighing scale of ours – but life is slowly limping back to normal in this household. And if I were to distrust holidays for a long time to come, I am sure you will understand.

Tears on the Pillow

There is never a disconsolate moment in your life. Your days are filled with work, friends, children, reading, interminable phone calls, piquant little arguments – you live each day uncompromisingly. Night comes, bringing with it a pervading gloominess and somber thoughts. And there are tears on the pillow.

You are sitting in the manicured garden amidst falling dusk. A brisk wind has picked up, promising rain and fecundity. The fishes are swimming in the pond and the children gather their toys to go home. You unwittingly think of great lovers, some historical and some just products of imaginative minds – Antony and Cleopatra, Romeo and Juliet, Shah Jahan and Mumtaz, Lancelot and Guinevere. You brood over trifles. You take a walk down the meandering jogging track to shake away the gloom. The swimming pool water, ruffled by the wind, laps at the edges inviting you to jump in. You traipse back to your apartment, lounge in front of the TV, get into bed earlier than later. You lie down on your soft king-sized bed, and there are tears on the pillow.

There is somebody playing piano next door. The hesitating notes reach your ears in fits and starts. It can be a Beethoven, you think – perhaps the Moonlight Sonata. A composition of love. There is no bright moon outside. The city lights have dimmed too. You listen harder. The notes, feeble and stuttering, make no music. Then for some unaccountable reason, it stops. And there are tears on the pillow.

Your husband is far away. He has his job. Your rational mind weaves a nest of reasons and justifications. You are cradled in that nest, soothed by a rocking ever so gentle, and you almost drift off to a dreamless slumber. But a memory ignites, your heart elates for no palpable reason. A wisp of a scent, a recollection so fragile, and your legs are out of the cradle. Your body slips through and you fall. There is a bump and there are tears on the pillow.

A close friend relocates, moves far away. She has been your sister, your counselor, your mentor in a foreign land. You are not sure whether the relationship will stand the test of distance. You just know that you will miss her terribly. You say your goodbyes, blink away uninvited tears, and go your way. But at night, there are tears on the pillow.

A friend tells you that he loves you. He has been in love with you perhaps forever. He asks for nothing in return. You try to scrub the emotion clean. You label it nostalgia, romance, madness – something that can be flicked away. You instinctively know that you have lost a friend but you painstakingly maintain the charade. At the end of it all, there are tears on the pillow.

Life is muted in this month of Ramadan, the month devoted to God, purity, and forgiveness. The pale eyes and dry lips of a fasting populace vouch for their rectitude and their silent strength. You do not fast, it is not in your custom to fast, but you still feel a subtle sense of shame lurking somewhere in the corner of the heart. And when you go to bed, it might be with a full stomach, but the mind is starved. You wake up before dawn to a muezzin’s call and the pillow is still a little wet – vestiges of those tears on the pillow.

Dancing to Her Tune

“Darling, why did you not dance during circle time today? I was watching you through the window.” I chided my daughter with deliberate casualness.

Her reluctance to dance was looking less and less like a passing phase of shyness that I was so ready to believe it as. It looked as if my worst fear was about to come true. She just did not like dancing.

Whenever I drop my four-year-old to school, I jostle with at least a dozen other proud mothers to peep in through the rectangle windows of the gym, and watch the children do their circle time. That is to say, half an hour daily of singing and dancing in a difficultly controlled and maybe slightly overbearing environment. Most of the children do indeed dance and sing – some do boisterous gimmicks, some dance happily, some hop around, some sing at the top of their voices, some talk, some cry, some bawl out loud, and a minimum few, like my little daughter, stand with their feet firmly rooted to ground and do half-hearted little shoulder-shrugs and hand-rolls.

“So why didn’t you dance, honey?” I persevered.

“Honey ha ha,” she giggled. She has learnt a new way of cupping her month and giggling away, her misplaced dimple barely visible on the left corner of her chin.

“Tell me.”

“Do you know, amma,” she said in a conspiratorial tone. “Portia smelled of fish today.” She made a silly face and the giggle came on again.

“Stop giggling now,” I said half amused. “You didn’t dance because Portia smelled of fish?” I persisted.

“Do you know? She ate fish in the morning and didn’t wash her mouth.” More giggles.

“That was not my question,” I tried again. “Why didn’t you dance?”

“Do you know? It is the same Portia who come to my ballet class.”

“Oh, is it? She comes to your ballet class too?” I asked without much interest.

“Do you know --” these days, all her sentences are prefixed by do-you-knows. They are as charmingly exasperating as her giggles.

“Tell me.”

“Portia doesn’t stand up and say good afternoon when ballet teacher ask her to,” she bent forward with the same conspiratorial air.

“Do you get up?” I asked suspiciously.

“Yes, and I say good afternoon Miss – I forget the name.” The giggles are never far off.

Now, to my indulgent readers, let me confess. In a fit of motherly anxiety superimposed by steely parental resolve, I enrolled my daughter in a ballet school about a month or so ago. My intention was quite simple. Like any self-deluding Malayalee woman worth – or maybe not – her dancing shoes (read anklets, chilanga, salangai, ghungroo – as the case may be), I want my daughter to dance. I want her to be a dancer.

“If she has inherited my genes,” my husband tried to argue, “she might not become a dancer.”

“And what will she be?” I asked petulantly.

“Perhaps she can play piano. We have a keyboard. Why don’t we start some piano classes?”

I assured him that that was in the pipeline too.

Meanwhile, we asked our now four-year-old what she wanted to be. “A drummer,” came the immediate reply. Reflecting on our thin gypsum walls and our even thinner tympanic membranes, we asked her to reconsider. I asked her whether she wanted to learn ballet, be a ballerina. She bargained for a pretty pink ballet dress and a matching pink hair band. I promised to buy her all that. I got a willing accomplice to my not-so-selfless dreams.

And thus she started her ballet classes, which going by her high enthusiasm levels so far, do not seem to be teaching anything other than rabbit jumps and frog leaps.

So, there she was, one month into her ballet class and still not showing any tendency to dance. “So, why didn’t you dance?” I asked her yet again.

“Amma, do you know –” she was going to prattle away again.

“No do-you-knows.” I admonished. “Tell me, because –”

“Because Portia smelled of fish.” She covered her mouth and giggled.

Now, what kind of an answer is that! I conceded, with reluctant amusement.

“My little dancer has two left feet,” I hugged her close.

The House at the End of Memory Lane

Memories are dutiful harbingers of nostalgia.

I have quite a pack of stark, lucid memories – one of the earliest is of my biting my twin in a well-justified bout of sibling rivalry and getting my first milk tooth loosened in the bargain. There is yet another one of both of us dancing a chicken dance (!!!), with a ruffled Dee at my side as a rooster because she did not get to wear the pretty pink dress of the hen. There are precious memories of Guruvayoor trips, Vishu kanis, a family friend bringing Gems packets whenever he came on a visit, our first dance teacher whose wooden stick (the talakkol) I hid behind our sofa because I had total conviction that she was going to beat me with it. My list goes on. We all have our memories. We all have our favorites too, the ones that we ruminate on, the ones that burn with an inner light, that can somehow make dark thoughts disappear.

One such memory is of summer vacations spent at our grandparents’ house in Madras (We knew it as Madras then, and Madras it will be). Excitement would start about a week before annual exams, which would invariably translate to terrible performances – mom remembers an instance where I came out of the exam hall barely after fifteen minutes of entering it, stating that the Math paper was very easy. Thankfully, I passed. According to mom’s memory, I just about did. Curiously enough, I don’t have any recollection of that.

We would pack a whole lot of things. Two suitcases, a bedding roll, a food container with hot idlis and chutney, a big water can – opening the tap and drinking water in its white cup was one of our pet pastimes in the train. By the time the train rolled on to the platform, our hearts almost ached with happiness and excitement. There would be fights for the window seat, over who drank water in the white cup first; there would be persistent questions about which station came next and the inevitable burying of heads when the train passed the Changanasseri tunnel.

After being rocked to sleep by the slumbrous jolting of the coach, we would wake up to mom’s insistent “Look, Integral Coach Factory, this is where railway coaches are made.” We would watch the coaches lined outside in fascination and have bizarre imaginations of how they are made inside. I think we knew Integral Coach Factory was in Perambur even before we knew that the sun rose in the east.

Our uncle would be there at the station – the one closest to our hearts (the uncle, not the station – though as stations go, Madras would be the one closest to our hearts), the one who considered us almost his own. We savored the haggling he would do in Tamil with the taxi drivers and then we rode through the big city, through the narrow T-Nagar roads to our grandparents’ house.

It was not a big house, but there was excitement lurking in its every corner – raisins and rock candy (kalkandu) in one of the bottles hidden away in a cupboard, an eccentric hand pump in the front that produced water at odd times, a big well in the backyard, a soap dispenser with red liquid soap, old moth-eaten albums, a dressing table with our aunt’s (the one closest to our hearts again) nail polishes, a black and white TV (which was Utopian compared to our TV-less Kerala days) and Shobhana Ravi reading news (on whom a younger cousin of ours, then aged two, had a crush), and most importantly, a big wooden swing on the first floor balcony, on which one could swing one’s heart away. We would go for walks with our grandfather, wear flowers on our hair, climb up the steps in the backyard to watch the Vaigai Express pass (there were rail tracks behind the house), go for interminable steel vessel shopping with the elders, visit Moor Market (which has since burned down), spend an evening at Marina Beach, and have the holiday of a lifetime. Funnily enough, I don’t remember any journeys back home.

After several years of growing up, the summer holidays lost their charm. Times changed. Our priorities changed. Our grandfather sold the house to a friend on the condition that they will take good care of it. Houses – and promises – are easy to break. I later heard that an apartment building has come up on the plot where our grandparents' house stood. We all speak of it with a hard-to-hide pang. But land is scarce and emotional attachments are tricky things. We just made sure that our grandfather did not come to hear of it and moved on with our lives.

I have memories that can bring a smile though. Maybe that will suffice.

Dear Time.....

Somebody very close to me lost her father day before yesterday. She lived in a faraway city and could not reach on time. She tried but still reached too late.

I live far away too and this fear of inescapable calamities is gnawing at my heart. I want to strike a bargain with Time - totally delusional no doubt - but let dreamers dream and pathetic versifiers doodle away.

Dear Time

Do not race when lovers kiss
Let them have their moment’s bliss
Do not hustle and bustle
Let the leaves in the wind rustle

Do not hurry on a starry night
When a tired man sleeps so tight
But when there is a storm, never tarry
When there is a mishap, never harry

Dance away when I am lonesome
Run when I am sad and glum
But hang on when I am having fun
With my friends out in the sun

When I say “please,” You stop
Be it to read or sing or shop
And then when I say, “You may,”
You can get up and go your way.

And when my steps grow weary
Be at my side, all cheery
Then I will dance along with You
And sing the same song anew.

Sleeping Partners

She cuddles close to me with her right leg on my tummy and her right arm snaking its way around my neck. I adjust a little to make myself comfortable, but my nearly-four-year-old is a determined boa constrictor.

“Amma, read.” She demands.

“As soon as I take your hair out of my mouth,” I sputter.

She chews a little bit of my hair to give me company.

“Okay. Here goes.” I read from her favorite Critter book. She laughs through the antics of Critter’s little sister and states that little sisters are naughty. I do not comment. Nowadays, there are too many “little sister” moments and I do not want to add to those.

I close the book and look at her. I see a layer of sleep falling over her eyes, but as I turn to switch off the table lamp, she blinks and perks up again.

“Amma, paattu,” she cuddles closer. Her breath on my neck is like a warm hug.

I begin my nightly rendition of Harivarasanam tunelessly but carefully lest I confuse the wordings. She likes to correct me and is ever vigilant to spot my mistakes. As I sing the beautiful verses quite discordantly, the melody which can put even a god to sleep starts to work on my little one. Her eyelids close despite a protesting mind and she sleeps, or so I think. When I end the song all out of breath, I hear her mumble again. “Amma, another song.”

I sing Auld Lang Syne this time around, as tunelessly, to the only one in the whole world who can enjoy my singing, and sleep listening to it too.

She wants more songs, she is not asleep yet. She whispers to me that her birthday is on Tuesday. I shh-shh her and sings her favorite omanathingal kidavo. Some time during all this singing, M slips under the blanket too.

When we finally doze off to the faltering strains of Irayimman Thampi’s lullaby, I momentarily feel suffocated. I feel sectioned off. My daughter’s arm is around my neck and almost suffocates me, while M’s left arm is heavy on my breasts, claiming them his own. My extremely territorial little girl owns the flat of my stomach and refuses to budge her leg even in her sleep. And M is the undisputed claimant of anything below my waist and he proves it with his heavy left leg sprawled across my hips and thighs. I squirm a bit. I feel suddenly itchy. I need to scratch my back. I need to turn to my side. I need a drink of water. I need to breathe. I need my freedom. I sigh. Finally, I give in to the bliss of being so totally and irrevocably owned.

PS: My daughter will turn four this Tuesday, on August 26th. She will be a big girl. She has promised us she will sleep in her own room once she turns four. She will cuddle her Fluffy and Appu, and Piku, her favorite penguin, and go to sleep all by herself. We tell ourselves that we will make her keep her promise. I shudder inwardly. I am not sure whether I am ready to be disowned.

A bug-bite and an itch

A bug with an inclination towards gastronomic snacking seems to have bitten me. This might have happened during our otherwise rather uneventful return trip from the US. After coming back, there has been this persistent itch which I diagnosed as an overwhelming desire to cook and eat. As nagging as it was, I decided to do something about it.

Now, let me make a confession here. I am a bad cook. Or I should rephrase and say that I am an apathic cook. With a terribly limited culinary expertise, my lunches do not go beyond unpretentious rice and sambar and my dinners are limited to unyielding chappathis and potatoes. Although what I cook is reasonably tolerated by my family – who might have no other choice in the matter – there is not even an ounce of creativity that might add more variety to my meals.

Faced with such a handicap, I turned to my better, plumper half who professes to be a better cook, for a second opinion on whether I should pursue this new yearning of mine. He said he would support me through thick and thin, wins and losses, triumphs and disasters. And thus we started cooking.

The first one – a potato “bonda” – was a success beyond even my wildest imagination. The phone bill might bear the brunt of a painstaking tutorial from our mothers, but our congratulatory smiles were intact on our faces. M, who still cherishes a nostalgia for Bombay streets, got burger buns and made “vada paav.” We celebrated.

Our next attempt was a more ambitious fish cutlet. M took the reins this time, while I was relegated to making oval patties, which he criticized lavishly for their lack of evenness. The fish cutlets were excellent, and if I did not like tuna all that much, I did not bring the matter up. We rode the wave of success one more time.

Our next project was an even more complicated “murukku.” For one, the dough cannot be too hard or too soft. Two, the circular shape of the murukku is almost impossible to achieve with a cookie press that weighs a ton. Of course, the hard job of making the precise circular shapes went to my dexterous husband while I took on the less strenuous but equally sweaty job of frying them. The murukku came out well too. Three hits in a row.

Needless to say, our beginners’ luck was about to give way.

The next weekend was set apart for “uzhunnu vada” – medu vada or urad dal vada or black gram dal vada according to the language spoken. Heeding the warning that the dough should not be too runny, we set to work. Our mixer/blender has a disinclination to grind without water, and with the confidence of a veteran, I said we could add a modicum of water. And so, the water went in. The batter was smooth. I asked M to watch and learn while I wetted my hands, deftly took some batter on to my left hand, pressed a hole in the center and tried to put the dough ball into the hot oil. I knew something was wrong that instant. The dough, with a surprising doggedness, just clung to my hand, a gooey mess. M snickered. It was too runny, we deciphered. I had an immediate solution to it – add rice powder. We added and added, and added some more. Finally, the consistency was just right and I congratulated myself. We fried our vadas golden brown. And then we sat down to eat.

The vadas were, quite explicably, rock hard. I ate one, commented on the suspiciousness of the texture, while M, with more resoluteness, managed to eat about three or four. A little dent in our record, our spirits were undaunted still.

As providence would have it, M brought home a huge packet of cashew nuts last Friday. It struck our minds almost simultaneously that we could make “kaju katli.” With the groundwork completed, we set about measuring the ingredients and faced our first hurdle. Our measuring cup measured less exotic items such as rice and sugar and flour but not cashews. Mom had cautioned us against guessing. We should have listened.

The sugar syrup was our next hurdle. The instruction was to boil the sugar in water until we got a thread-like consistency. Thin or thick thread? M asked. I did not know. While the syrup boiled, M expounded on the hygroscopic quality of sugar and the existence of a Brix value that measured — well, something. He was just showing off. I said I will hurl a brick at him if he did not shut up.

The syrup boiled and boiled and had almost recrystallized by then. We tried mixing in the powdered cashew. It just became a lumpy mess. We should add more water, I impulsively decided and poured some. What was once lumpy now became watery. We quite predictably panicked. We added more cashew, more sugar, tripled the existing quantity – finally, when we realized that our kitchen was becoming unrecognizable in a deluge of powdered cashew and sugar, we gave up our salvage attempts. We decided to call it our very own cashew fudge. A fiasco of unmitigated proportions.

Our fudge is still inside our fridge waiting for reprieve. We still nibble at it now and then and console ourselves that it tastes good.

The bug-bite might finally be losing its itch.