Of Diwali and Deja vu.

I started typing out what i was feeling earlier today. And then i realised i've already written exactly what i wanted to. 2 years back. Here. 

Enjoy the festivities and the food ya'll. 

That Elusive Ice-Cream

I talk. A lot. And this is an understatement really. If you know me beyond this blog you will have no problem believing me. And if you don't, well, believe it. Talking was something i've done well all my life. As a 4 yr old, i was introduced to my best friend's extended family as the girl who taught her how to talk. Go figure. And when the family went on a road trip (which, for an 8 yr old me was the hour long drive from the suburbs to *town*), i had a captive audience in the parents and sister.

Of course, dad would decide to use the opportunity to help me build some character, and of course, learn to hold my tongue for at least a few minutes (if not for the entire drive). What would he do? What any parent with a modicum of common sense would. Bribe me. And so dad would promise to get me ice-cream if i could stay quiet for 5 minutes. Not difficult you say? It's just 5 minutes after all right? Yeah well. Let's just say, 5 minutes is quite a lot of time, and back then, it felt like *ages*.

And now. Almost like the universe is making up for all those 5 minutes i never managed to keep quiet, i find myself forced to keep quiet as prescribed by the doctor. Ok so the entire left side of my face is killing me and not talking is making it better. But still. No one who knows me can imagine a quiet me. Even people who've met me once for a couple of hours are finding it difficult to believe. And my dad is just tickled at the idea and takes immense pleasure in going sshhh if i open my mouth to say anything.

It's been 3 days of no talking (10 minutes in 72 hours doesnt count) and i think i'm ready for that ice-cream now. With interest.

Of That Smile

I’ve tried writing this post out half a dozen times. And there is just no right way of doing it. I wish I could find the words to express what I’m feeling, but each time I start writing, I don’t seem to be able to end it.

Unlike Rita aunty. Who hung herself three days back.

Rita aunty. The first neighbour I remember, someone who’d seen me as a 2yr old, and my sister as a babe in arms. A lady, who babysat us on numerous occasions and smiled her way through each of them. Someone who came to mum’s rescue when my sister locked the family (and guests) in the house when she went down to play after latching the main door from the outside. Rita aunty. Someone I always associate with ashtmi and halwa, puri – that loaded paper plate with a ten rupee note hidden under the puris which we looked forward to with childish excitement. A lady I never heard being loud, someone who always had a kind word and smile for anyone she met. And even though both families moved, we stayed in touch – weddings, deaths, festivals, random running into each other on the road even.

But somewhere along the way, unknown to family, friends and neighbours, that soft, shy smile became a mask. Something she hid behind. Till one day when it got the better of her and she succumbed to herself.

My sister and I weren’t allowed to go pay our last respects. But mum said she looked at peace. And smiling.

Rediscovery of Pleasure

(Day 74 of 112)

I’ve rediscovered one of those small pleasures of life. That it relates to food shouldn’t surprise anyone who knows me well. But what am I to do huh? While I may ignore several moments of undiluted happiness that I may come across from time to time, the ones that do remain with me most vividly, are those connected in some manner to food.

One of those vivid memories is of fresh, homemade, absolutely delicious white butter. I remember eating it as a child at my maternal grandmother’s home. But with time and at the insistence of cousins, she too moved to salted, commercially available yellow butter. I happened to mention this to the MIL in one of our numerous conversations and last night she made some (well actually a lot).

Today I refreshed my memory of fresh white butter eaten with piping hot parathas. Heaven, I assure you. Few things match the pleasures of watching a chunk of pure white butter melt in rivets in the middle of the paratha. And the taste. Oh yeah. Nothing beats the taste of white butter which all but melts in your mouth in an explosion of textures and flavours.

So for the next few days (or weeks) mealtimes are going to be so much fun. The butter is ready. Bring on the parathas I tell you.

Unicorns, Pixies and Blue Candy Floss

(8th July, Day 27 of 112)

Ok, so the first two are fantasy and according to me, blue candy floss is also right up there with unicorns and pixies and elves and magic wishing trees.

Candy floss. Fluffy, light, delicately spun sugar. No childhood is ever complete without at least one (or two) memories of enjoying this sticky treat and giggling with childish pleasure when it melted in the mouth.

For me candy floss belongs to childhood trips to Juhu beach where my sister and I insisted on getting our own stick of pink sugar before we went home. We knew it was unhealthy (pure sugar really) and we knew eating it all in a few minutes was guaranteed to make us feel sick. But we did it anyway. No trip to the beach was ever complete without it.

Today I experienced the simple joy that candy floss can be all over again. And this time it wasn’t at the beach but at a friend’s home. She has a small candy floss maker which is the source of much pleasure and happiness (and not only amongst her kid sister and her friends). So a bunch of us friends spent the evening making blue candy floss and grinning with contentment and surprise at the familiar taste and the sight of our bright blue tongues!

It was an evening filled with unbridled laughter, big grins, lots of blue coloured sugar, and of course childhood memories. An evening which reminds you of the simple joys of childhood and of spending time with friends. Much like the simple joy that unicorns and pixies bring.

Of Magic Shows and Balloons

For the first time in some ten years I had to attend a 5 yr olds birthday party (not because I was never invited but because I didn’t know any tiny tots). My worry began with buying the gift. What do you buy for a 5 yr old boy who spends his playtime taking his shirt off and singing (and dancing to) dard-e-disco for the benefit of his friends? Anyway, after a lot of walking back and forth in the toy section of a big shop, I picked up a sensible gift which his mother will appreciate and he will ignore in favour of a noise creating apparatus (gifted to him by someone who wants to trouble his family).

So I got to the birthday venue (which I recognised because of the balloons and illegally loud music playing). The party was already on its way when I get there and the children were all entranced by a sight I saw last when I hadn’t reached a double digit age – a magician pulling handkerchiefs out of a black bag! Nothing had changed in some 15 odd years. The same tricks, the same apparatus (not the same magician though…I think…). So we had the birthday boy blowing on random pieces of paper and cloth which then turned into flowers or confetti, an empty bag from which appears a (very battered looking) mouse, a bag on fire and then a white dove (albeit slightly singed) emerged. And the biggest hit of the evening – the birthday boy was given a glass of water to drink. And then the magician begins to drain water back into the glass from his ears, his nose, his fingers and much to the delight (and giggling) of the children, from the front of his pants!

I couldn’t help smiling at the reaction of the children to these tricks. Never has a group of some 30 children behaved so well and been so quiet. It was almost endearing. I say almost because of the apparently deaf guy handling the music and more importantly the volume control.

The magician takes his final bow and it’s time to play games. I’d forgotten how easy it was to entertain children at a birthday party. All you need to do is divide them into girls and boys, make every game is a versus one and allow each team a couple of boos towards the other. You’re set. Even something as simple as racing got them jumping up and down. So there were the usual party games involving dancing, jumping and divulging adults around of things like bangles, one rupee-coins, shoes and even watches all in the name of the game!

During all this, the only thing that kept coming to my mind (the little I could hear myself think above the ridiculously jarring music) was how much you have to love children to do this as a career. I mean 30 adrenaline pumped children under the age of 10 is no joke.

Once the games were done, the highlight of the evening was presented – the cake. One huge Power Ranger shaped cake. After the usual you’re born in the zoo bit was sung, the noise level abated a little (and someone apparently shot the music volume control guy) as everyone was too busy stuffing their faces (and I say this in the politest way possible) with food and of course the cake!

Mid-way through this peace the children decided they’d been decent long enough and so, with a vengeance, attacked all the balloons in the hall. It was a pleasure watching the innovativeness and the unity amongst children when it comes to destructiveness! I added my two bits to the fun by pulling down the balloons that were too high for them to reach even after climbing on 2 chairs.

So between the magic show and the balloons I had some fun at least. Of course at the end of the party I couldn’t help but fondly remember birthday parties I had and attended as a child – simple and boring by today’s standards, but something everyone my generation will relate to - coloured streamers and mummy-blown balloons on the walls, passing the parcel and musical chairs, paper plates with one samosa, chutney sandwich, wafer and chocolate cake. And one Styrofoam glass of bright orange, sugar spiked Rasna. Ah.

Shudder

Just saw Baba Sehgal on TV while channel surfing.

Brought back memories of childhood when 'Thanda Thanda Pani' was the hippest song on air.

I seriously had a weird childhood, not to speak of traumatised.

Yay for growing up!

PS: Of course songs part of my adulthood are not inspiring either. Evidence: 'Very happy in my heart, Dil dance maare' .

Games children play (or dont play)

There was a piece in the papers today (one of the several colourful, ad-filled, bollywood news flashing supplements). It mentioned how playing will really not help children with their obesity.
I have a simple question.Will playing help children NOT reach a state of obesity?

In India there is this unfortunate love of plump babies and chubby toddlers. You see a 2 yr old child with cheeks like chipmunks and all the women go cootchy-coo and maternal and oddly scary (what with the cheek pulling – the child’s, not their own- and funny faces that are meant to be amusing!).
Grandparents constantly feel their grandchild is being malnourished and ill-treated and thus give in to any demands made by their precocious (!!) darling (which, at a young age mainly involves eating anything remotely junk and unhealthy and buying anything that will allow them hours in front of the computer/tv).

Which brings me to why I started writing this. Children today do not play anymore. At least they don’t play in the traditional meaning of the word. Their play is more sitting at home in front of the computer with joysticks in your hand type of play. Their play involves weekly outings to the closest mall with a gaming arena.
Obviously play is not going to help with their obesity, except perhaps to be a cause of it!

What will help children avoid obesity (and also control it) is a more traditional form of playing. The kind of playing we participated in when we were children (as much as I don’t like to think about it, I am growing old!!!).

The games we played gave us as good a full body workout as anything – be it Sankhli where we struggled to either get away from a human chain encircling us or remain part of the chain and run behind others, or Lagori that had us running helter skelter after 7 stones of varying sizes and at the same time dodging missiles being thrown by the opposing team. Then there were the all time favourites, Hide and Seek, Langdi (a strenuous exercise!), Hop Scotch (oh the agony of not being able to make ‘houses’!), Lock and Key (a strain indeed on not being able to move), Kho-Kho (oh my what fun), and Dodge ball (oh my what a pain).

Parents fail to see the value of such games. They fail to realise that one hour of playing kho-kho or langdi will help their child (in more ways than one, but that I will leave for another time) much more than one hour on the treadmill.

Today children probably do not even know of these games. What they will know is the address of the closest gym.