Thofah

The husband and I were watching Seinfeld one night. In that particular episode, Elaine celebrates her birthday. Seinfeld gives her $200 in cash (do men do that?). While she tries to impress upon him the beauty of the thought behind the gift, Kramer walks in and gifts her a table (worth $10). Needless to say she is impressed, with Kramer, the gift and his thought behind the gift. Set the scene for a much needed argument on the topic for the husband and me.

After noticing much rolling of eyes that I am wont to do in situations like these (’cause I so, so got the it’s-what-you-give-that-matters-not-its-price tag thing) the husband warily remarked that it was sensible to give her cash so (believe it or not) she could buy whatever she fancied. Was I going to explain to him why I disagreed with his interpretation of the basic tenet of gifting, and ruin the rest of the evening (for me). Of course I had to, ruined evening or not. So I did. At the end of a much heated argument (which might have involved a few gentle blows to the hands, legs and everything else that was in the line of vision) one had to mutely resign oneself to the fact that one was never going to get a bunch of fresh flowers and breakfast in bed for one’s birthday. Maybe an expensive necklace with a cheesy heart-shaped pendant (how I hate those!) twice in a row. But never the small things.

I must have done something right with my constant nagging ’cause this year the husband made up for all the lost years. Moral of the story- you can feel guilty all you want of the hen-pecking, but the moment you know that it yields results ah, lovely results, you know it’s the perfectly right thing to do. Only don’t make me write a book on it. ’cause once it’s out in the open like that, it’s irreversible. They will never read our minds the way we want them to.

Oh and you might also want to mention in passing, like I did, that this raises the bar for all the years and all the occasions to follow. I did add that I still had 1,843 things to cross off my list of small things (that can please me).

I am so easy to please.

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Free Rice

Help! I’m addicted!

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The leggiero tenor

Show me your love

By giving me what I want

Show me your love

By not laughing at this, my song

Show me your love

By pesanjifying sambhar sadham for me

Ooooooh baby

Show me your love now.

Another of the husband’s gems.

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Yoga

Re………..laaaaaax

Riiiiiiii…………………..laaaaaaaaaaaaax

Now bend forward, touch your forehead to Earth mother. We must be healthy wealthy long life. Give us peaceful and prosperity.

You get used to it. But, it’s still difficult to stop giggling, you know?

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Ban ’em

Do film directors and actors watch the songs they direct and act in, on mute? Do they find it insanely funny? Do they find it ridiculously silly? Do they wonder what impression they deliver to the non-Indian audience?

I do.

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Any guesses?

“But I’ve been looking forward to this for a whole year now!”, she wailed.

“I know. Believe me I know! What can we do though”, her sister countered.

“Maya, your son is my favourite nephew. If I can’t attend his wedding, I’m never going to be able to get over it for a long, long time, you know.”

“Sigh. Just our luck that this had to happen on the morning of the wedding. When did you find out?”

“This morning.”

“You haven’t told anyone else, have you?”

“No.”

“Good. Tell you what. Sneak into the mandabam. Don’t tell anyone. Act normal.”

“Are you sure?”

And thus it came to be that Maya forced her chicken-poxed sister into attending her son’s wedding.

—- 

Fact: Based on a true story.

Fiction: True story had a happier ending. Sister refuses to attend wedding.

Cause of unbelievable disgust: Maya narrating the incident to me, smilingly gliding over the “I told her it’s OK as long as no one finds out” part.

—-

(If you are reading this you are no longer eligible to guess. Contest closed.)

What were Maya and her sister trying to hide from their families and the 5,000-odd guests who were expected at the wedding?

Warning: Once you know the answer, it will sound silly (that I made this story up, not the act itself).

Hint: Act smacks of social ir-responsibility.

Prize: A 24″x24″ blow up of my entry for the Canon photo marathon.

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Google me!

To the person(s) who:

– arrived here looking for ‘how to grow karuvepillai’: Sorry I couldn’t be more helpful. If you did manage to grow it, could you please, please mail me with explicit instructions?

– got here by typing ‘where can I find a guava tree in Singapore’: Bad news. Singapore gets all its fruits from its neighbours. But pray, what were you going to do with the information anyway? You do know that trying to casually fling a stone and score a few fruits constitutes theft here, right?

– was more than once directed here when he/she searched for ‘reasons to have a baby’: Hi- were they good enough for you? If they were, they are more than good enough for me.

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Gulp

I hardly chew my food. You might find me lecturing a little one, sometimes older ones too, on how masticating the food is so important to proper digestion. Turns out, I don’t practise what I preach.

Especially when I’m hungry. I wolf down the food like there’s no tomorrow. This, depite my conscious effort during the first three bites to chew. Slowly. (Three bites, n= 1423.) Tummy and mind can’t stay patient longer than that so it goes back to eye morsel greedily- scoop- deliver to mouth- chew twice– gulp. Repeat.

After the 1424^th time of gnashing my teeth in desperation for not putting them to more constructive use I delved into my past (yes, everything goes back to childhood. Don’t you watch Oprah?). For many years while in school, lunch used to be delivered. The break would last forty minutes. And I would always, always be the last to finish. The carrier aunty often moaned about how I chewed my food thirty two times before swallowing. (Imprinted into the sub-conscious no doubt.) She wasn’t the only one. I had a similar rep among family too. My aunts would goad my much younger cousins into finishing their food faster by saying, Now let’s see who finishes first..you or akka. Needless to say they won, always. Sometimes I’d be found chewing and seriously contemplating upon life’s complexities until the aunts finished feeding their food-fussy toddlers and their own meals.

Outings were always a source of worry to my mom. An evening outing slated for 5pm would mean that I start eating tiffin at 3.30pm and finish in an hour. I would often thanni kudichu muzhingify (gulp everything down with water). I saw it as a great time saving strategy although I failed to understand why my mom was never impressed with the idea.

A moment to reflect on the events in chronological order here- heavy-duty chewing (age from-whence-I-could-chew to 12) followed by water-aided gulping (age 12- 17) followed by normal gulping (age 17- now).

OK, this hasn’t helped as much as I thought it would. This going back in time exercise, I mean. Let me go meditate on it a bit more. (With images of food floating around in your head? No gulping afterward you mean? Fat chance. You’ll get hungry and greedy and do it all over again! Apparently that’s my sub-conscious trying to be helpful.) Meanwhile you tell me, are you a masticator or a gulper?

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