Pieces of the Puzzle

If I hadn’t I chanced upon Madhu’s site and drooled over the picture of Tao Hoo Pad Bai Kaprao, I would have mistaken it for another swear word the Vietnamese pedicurist uses on me. That’s a whole different story. Someday.

Frankly I have never ever used basil leaves or white pepper or for that matter shallots in cooking before, but hey! Recipe is the bible and Madman (No, I didn’t just abuse him- He calls himself that) is God. You kinda trust a guy who owns a restaurant. Never question a dentist when he is drilling your tooth (the fact that you can’t speak at that time has nothing to do with my theory).

‘I hope you make more of this dish’, said Pi when he looked at the bill that included the Wok, the big dabba of white pepper and half a gallon of peanut oil. He hadn’t even tasted it yet and I could already see positive vibes.. Aha! I combed the whole town to get the freaking shallots. I distinctly remember what shallots are… they are dry fruits inside shells. Forget I even mentioned that, coz when I did find the shallots- they were nothing but miniature onions!! Jeez Madhu, why the hell couldn’t I use plain ol onions? I wouldn’t have minded discarding ¾ of a large onion if need be.

Armed with everything other than light soy sauce (here, I become a little adventurous and wild- I use dark soy sauce instead), I start my project only to realize it's easier than I thought. The hunting is the more difficult part, the wise one had once said. I am already in the last step even before I started. I hope this still qualifies for an exotic dish. Now I get slightly worried, but I decide not to share the recipe with anyone. I’ll just say, it's too difficult to explain. Problem solved. Unperturbed, I throw in the basil leaves and I pick up my novel while I wait for it to wilt. It takes 5 seconds… never mind! Needless to say, it was a howling success and I can only hope and pray that Madhu will help me to finish the white pepper… or else its going to be Tao Hoo Pad Bai Kaprao for every meal without Tofu & Basil (both being shit expensive!).... with idli on the side.

I am thankful for Lovely Bones. Alice Seabold is a very charming writer and has done a wonderful job in expressing human emotions through her characters that come to life almost instantly. She aims to shock at the same time relate. The book definitely kept me away from everything else I had planned for that Sunday. I had to know if they found Susie’s killer. Don’t worry people, I haven’t killed any suspense of the book. The book itself starts with Susie telling us, "I was fourteen when I was murdered on ….." It made me sit upright till I finished what Susie had to say from her heaven. Susie Salmon was brutally raped and murdered and was the last victim of a serial killer. Seabold leaves out the graphic and sordid details. She doesn’t make you sick with grief, but rather she makes you want to reach out to her family members who try to pick up the pieces of their lives after her death.

The story is from the perspective of the little girl, Susie, who cannot let go of her life even though her niche in heaven is all she wanted during her stay on earth. She has Vogue and Glamour as textbooks and in her school in heaven and the boys don’t pinch her butt. But she longs for her family and wants to kiss Ray Singh again. Her soul wanders around watching her distraught dad desperate to find her killer. She envies her sister, Lindsey, for leading a life she never could, but is proud of her fortitude. Susie helplessly looks on as her mother drifts away from the family, unable to cope with the tragedy. Her kid brother, Buckley, will never understand why there is a void in his life.

The most touching moments are when the father remembers the time he spent with his daughter building little sail ships inside the bottle. Susie was his only child who loved his crazy hobby. You cannot help, but cry for the mother who is fighting to find her real identity and in the process hurts herself even more. Susie wants her family to move on and stop crying over her, but as times goes she yearns for the mention of her name every now and then. Its not a very easy thing to let go and move on.

It is a sad and depressing book, I agree.. but it is emboldening and very real, the recounting filled with innocence… the voice of a child. Lovely Bones is a book that is compelling, spooky, heartbreaking, sometimes funny and definitely worth it. I am a sucker to good endings and I feel Alice Seabold has done justice to it…unlike my recent reads, Da Vinci Code or The Namesake (both recommended).

Never done a book review before. I give a book to Patrix and let him do it. I have always wanted to tell you all about this book and Toinks just instigated me.

I am lucky to be still employed in spite of some people’s repeated efforts to frame me and get me kicked out.

Today’s day at work. I check my hotmail (where I get only junk), 2 yahoo ids (make that 3), one gmail (only Smiley and Lee write to me there), one angelfire (from which they deleted all my mails), one more yahoo id (to threaten unsuspecting souls under fake name) and my office mail. So, here I am minding my own business unmindful of my boss telling me to work and shit like that when I get the melodious ‘ting’ noise. Excited as hell, I know it’s an email that too not an official one. Gosh! What a productive day! I open it with all ebbing enthusiasm the four soft walls of my cube will allow. I even manage to muffle a rapturous laugh.

The email is from my friend. It’s a forward. So I yawn and curse him a little in very mild language. But I am courteous and curious, so I still open it to see to what level he can actually stoop. I want to know what disease I'd be affected with when I ignore this mail so that I can alert my medical insurance. I’ve already stocked medicines for astigmatism, gingivitis, african bora bora and just in case, I've also purchased an extra kidney in black.

So I click to this link. I have to spot 10 differences in the two similar pictures. My friend claimed to have spotted only 7. This is so very Champak! What next, I thought, join the dots to form a Donald Duck? Jeez, how juvenile! But like I mentioned, I am courteous and bored, so I decide to take up the challenge. There is sweet sober music that actually makes me sleepy.

Immediately I go to get some water from the water fountain leaving the screen as it is.

When I come back, there are agitated people crowding around my cube. Some colleagues are catering to an old lady who has just had a mini heart attack. Many more guys are making their way to my area. ‘What the heck was that?!!! Sounded worse than your laugh, Alpha!’

 Here, try it at your own risk!

I was still reeling with this embarrassment when our Admin guy hands out a stack (80 pages) of papers. ‘Alpha, there’s something really crazy going on. You are getting all this junk fax from someone. The fax machine has run out of paper! I put some in and there’s more coming!’

‘Junk fax? No way! I didn’t ask for the Bible to be faxed. Cant be for me!’ Yes way! The first sheet was an email format (like a forward) with the sender’s name, say Jane Fonda and a message saying’ This was too funny not to forward’. I don’t know who Jane Fonda is, but I do know she has the worst sense on humor. I saw my full name on the top of every sheet and with loads of undecipherable crap.. like some weird code language. And interspersed between the lines was the only legible word- Iraq. *gulp*

The pages kept coming…126…179….370….

No amount of stopping and starting the fax machine was working. Unrelenting fax message. So while the IT guys were alerted and the big shots in my company, who are supposed to receive some real serious fax, were pacing up and down, I was squirming in my seat hoping to God that Saddam Hussain wasn’t sending me a plea in Arabic. Oh well! He seems to have a lot to say.

While I was squirming, I googled for Jane Fonda and I got a lead… Tadaa! A very familiar company in Canada. I made a frantic call to Starfest (we all know her for her smartness). ’Hey! Does Jane Fonda work in your firm?’

‘Yes..why?’

‘Why the heck is she sending me a huge fax?’ I was unaware of the absurdity of that statement.

‘Fax? No, I sent you an email which she forwarded to me.’ said Star obviously thinking I had some Vodka for lunch.

‘Something about Iraq?’

‘Yes. But it was an email.. not a fax.’

Aha! The quest narrows down. So it was Star!! ‘Ok what the heck? How did it get to the office fax machine?’

I was shocked at the revelation. It can actually happen when you think my email id is my fax number. She sent a video clipping to me by fax!

By hook or by crook (read- by email or by fax), they all get me!!!!!!!

Grrrr… Now how do I get this fax to stop? ‘ermm..heh heh.. Mr. Gilbert, do you want to tell the client to send your fax to my husband’s office? I can bring it tomorrow!

‘I think you should wear jeans and this T-shirt thing more often.’

‘Wow Ajji (granny), you are so cool!’ I said beaming and proud that my granny was suddenly beginning to have a modern outlook towards life.

‘These kinda clothes will ward away the evil-eye.’ she was quick to clear all misconceptions.

________________________________________________________

‘You look like a Barbie doll today’

*blush*

’Ajji has never seen a Barbie doll before,’ my brother clarified breaking my bubble.

________________________________________________________

Granny is generally a healthy woman for her age *touch wood* who just had an appendicitis operation. Poor thing! She has recovered now but she was obviously shaken and could not fathom why it had to happen to her. ‘Just one more day and my stomach would have burst,’ she loved to tell people who showed any concern about her health almost choking with emotion. In the most serious tone, with tears welling she professed confidently , ‘There should have been five deaths in the family, but He averted them’.

The five should-have-been-deaths were that of my dad, one far away aunty hospitalized for back ache, my mami and my cousin who had a minor accident and of course, herself. Jeez! She can be so morose.

She has nine kids.. Nine freaking kids! But the love and concern she shows for all of them and their spouses and their children makes me wonder if she ever did anything else with her life other than strive for her family. Probably not, but aren’t we eternally thankful for that.

Kids today.. tch tch tch… are SPOILT!

The first time I heard of a CD player was in 10^th grade when I went to a really rich kid’s house and she demonstrated the virtues of a CD player. I admitted to myself that I didn’t hear much of a difference; the cassette player was good enough for me. Imagine buying CDs worth 300 bucks and throwing away the wonderful collection of cassettes.

’Papa Don’t Preach’ sounded as good in my walkman. … I’m in love with him…Papa don’t…brrrrrgtwirlllllcrrrrrrrrr… *remove cassette, put pinky finger in hole and twist twist twist anticlockwise… whoa no… clockwise…yes… put cassette back* There you go!

___________

‘Raji has email… kewl!’ my brother announced as if she just acquired a seat in a Medical College at the age of 12. ‘What is email?’ I asked making sure he hadn’t missed something (like the last time when he called a ventilator- Kelvinator). Expecting this reaction from his rather dull sister, he explained excitedly,’ Email is something like a message through a computer.’

‘Oh’ I was not impressed since we didn’t even have a freaking computer… to cry out aloud.

‘The other person you are sending this email too also needs an email facility called the internet.’

‘What??? Totally useless!’ I couldn’t imagine something like that could electrify my brother so. Never were we going to shell out so much money on something that is interrelated to other people shelling out equal amounts of cash. Its like saying… I can talk to you in sign language, but for that my dear, you have to enroll in a class and learn that too.

‘Its instant messaging.’

‘So what! People can wait or call.’

The visionary leaves me in a huff!

I run to check mail. Look at the postman longingly till he can take it no more and hands me the letter from my friend with some of the contents spilling out like the intestines of a dead raccoon on a highway. Ecstatic, I run inside… lock my room and pour over the hand written letter (on an Archies letter pad) seven times.

__________

Cell phone? You must be kidding, right? What’s the urgency to keep in touch? I tell you… these rich buggers! Yes, Neetu had one in college so that she and her boyfriend could chat! How desperate could you get? Bloody show offs!

Ok excuse me here, while I stand in the long queue to make a frantic call to my brother to get him to return my most priced possession, my Kinetic! ‘Err… Can you excuse me.. I am in a hurry.. I have to make an urgent call.‘

All I heard was very bad language (chee chee) from the eight damsels on how long they had been waiting in the blasted line. Didn't buy my handicap story.

Finally my turn comes. ‘What? He is not in his room?? Please check Room number 708 and 956 while I wait.’

25 minutes and 30 rupees later, ‘I’ll call back.’

You know that it is Olympics time…

...when you started writing about Olympics in 2004 and haven’t yet stopped after 87,967 posts and 20 Olympics.

...when the matchstick I was keeping above my head to burn the gas stove, burnt my hair in the shape of the current Olympic Mascot, the Burnt Chappati.

...when my grandchildren presented me with a podium styled commode.

Last year…

-I managed to ride in a hot air balloon (which inflated as soon as the channas were devoured)

-I hiked all the way to the Thar Dessert in the wheelchair (till I found out that it was a mirage)

-I created a line of self-made greeting cards called Leemark cards (had to give fictitious artists names in the bottom, Payal Sinha, age 6)

….90, here I come!!

On Monday its 50 years since I moved to Germany. The years have gone by in a hurry. Memories that remain are those of travel and people. Of the times when I traveled around Europe with Wife, Sister, Daughter, Son-in-law, Grand son, Mother and Father. And those recorded in a hurry in the 43 versions of a small book called ‘Atomic Absurdities’ where what is revealed is actually concealed.

Upcoming posts-

Delirium- 7

Happy Birthday Lee’s dog!

My driver ate my balls topped with coffee seeds

The sagging voluptuous teacher and the killer squirrels I & II & III.

Smiley the (old) man’s (old) man wonders why he doesn’t have a woman.

Lord Shiva appeared in his dreams,’ Life or Hair?’ He chose hair. Rarely blogs from heaven. (someone had to die of oldage (sorry Yogs) & since he attained spirituality at an early age.. the Gods thought he would be a good influence on them). He does nothing but dance with married apsaras.

Jahan teri yeh nazar hai, meri jaan mujhe khabar hai!

....And I wish they do.

Happy One year of blogging to me. Actually its my fake birthday (I started on the 26^th). I decided to celebrate it with AmitL and make him still believe I am his twin. He is a great guy and is crazy about making new friends. One of the first guys who came to my blog and still comments for every silly post of mine. Amazing! Wishing him and his wonderful family well in the years to come. Happy Birthday Twin and I do hope you keep dropping by my blog with a ‘Lol, Twin’ for 50 years more.

On a friend’s high recommendation, I walked into Ayush Ayurvedic Science Center for a massage while in Madras. With a name like that, I was sure nothing could go wrong. (You see, I am a little wary of these places for weird reasons) A petite Mallu babe welcomed me in hushed tones. Instantly lowering my voice and walking in tiptoes, I could hear faint mantras playing in the background in a mystic way. I was served herbal tea and made to read some books on yoga while I waited for my massage. It seemed a little too serene for my liking, but hey! it was supposed to be therapeutic.. so I dealt with it. But I still uneasily looked around at the impressive display of different herbal oils and balms.

Another Mallu with large mole on her cheek asked me to follow her. Aaaha! The moment had arrived. I was going to get a soothing massage I deserved. I could already feel my muscles aching for the masseuse’s magic to relax them. I was ushered to a room which was sparsely furnished with a wooden bed and a dressing table. There was a bathroom attached and an open window. ‘OK, remove your clothes’ Mallu Mole ordered.

‘What???’ I was slightly shocked. Not that I didn’t expect this part, but seriously, No introductions or making you feel comfortable and shit? Just straight to business? Eerie Man!

‘Ok yeah, Can I have the robe? Can I use the bathroom to change?’

‘What robe? Here, you can put this on, if you want.’ She handed me a strip of white cloth 3X50 inches long while she prepared herself for the deal. She pulled her saree up like a mini skirt and secured it tightly with a rope. Then she donned an apron. She looked like a warrior about to mount a horse and scream,"Aakraman!!'

‘No Robe? Where’s the blanket under which you could just place your hands and massage my back gingerly? At least could you turns the lights off?’ I stared at the measly piece of cloth and thought maybe I should retreat.

‘Is this your first time? Here let me help you.’

Aiyoo Ayyappa Swami! I winced and jumped back, startled. Eventually, I agreed to comply and shed my inhibitions along with my modesty. I looked at the window suspiciously and looked around for hidden cameras. This was very freaky and sidey at the same time. Only if I had been warned. But my friends seemed to have enjoyed this deal. Ok what the heck, I better learn to be comfortable with my body.. going by the plumpish customer that walked away just when I entered, I am sure Mallu Mole wasn’t going to roll on the floor laughing at my paunch. I stripped but kept some essential garments on. She was exasperated at this point, I could see.

I am embarrassed to admit here that I undressed completely for a total stranger and didn’t get a penny! She helped me with the cloth to cover whatever dignity I had left. I couldn’t see the point of that cloth.. but at that moment, I was numb.

I was looking at the exit route. If I had to run out of this place without any clothes on, how much more humiliation was that going to cost me? Well, she’s kinda puny. Maybe I could whack her with the huge lamp, if need arose.

I lay vulnerably on the really uncomfortable wooden bed while she performed a small prayer and applied warm oil from head to toe and everywhere in-between and started to execute the best massage I have ever had. I was a little stiff at first, but I later eased up when I realized that I wasn’t going to get molested. She was very professional and gifted that at one point, I got a bit too comfortable and I let out a sigh.. or maybe it was a loud moan *yikes*. Not the 'oohhh-yess-baby' kind, but the 'Aaah-great' kind. She stopped the rubbing at once,'what happened?’ she asked curtly. ‘er… nothing nothing. You are a very good masseuse’, I confessed. She smiled and when she realized I wasn’t going to rape her, she became a little talkative, ’So where are you from?’

I refuse to have conversations when I am feeling like a naked worm slithering in slush. Yes, the amount of oil on my body that day was more than I had used in my entire lifetime. I could have fried papads for the whole year and used the left over for tadka.

But like I said the whole experience was very de-stressing after I had gotten over my initial apprehension. Her fingers did magic and I actually felt bad when she was done with all the twists and kneads. Next I was locked in a sauna for 15 minutes. Wah wah! This was great. I could feel my skin rejuvenating and breathing till I myself could breathe no more with all the steam and sweat enveloping me in a 4X4 hot room. Wonder why Finland is so crazy about these suffocating heat chambers. This is how Hannibal Lecter's victims might have felt before getting slaughtered. I banged on the door to be let out.

Thank Heavens! Mallu Mole rescued me and then led me to the bathroom. I thought, Ok.. I will clean myself of all this oil and leave now. But she insisted on bathing me. Fine fine..what more? I felt like a princess from the 12^th century. I was bathed and shampooed and bengal-gramed. Also dried. It was worth more than what they charged me for all this considering they swindle 50 dollars from you in this country for a foot massage.

I was let to put on my clothes (phew!). But now I felt rather at ease with her. So I took my time and asked her name. I need to at least find out her name when I come again. I didn’t want to go through the same awkward introduction process with another person. Also next time I could tell her to remove the excess oil in my crack while bathing me.

I tried to put if off, I managed to shut them up, I frivolously avoided any allusion to the very topic all these years after my marriage. This time the parental pressure just got the better of me. I had to forfeit my cool image and finally agree to achieve the maami/aunty status, which I avoided like plague. I have become the reluctant owner of the most notable South Indian kitchen accessory after the ubiquitous coffee filter- the Ultra wet-grinder.

Now my parents and in-laws must be living in ultimate peace assured that I am not starving of idlies and dosas anymore. Any amount of convincing them that the Sumeet mixie (1/10^th the size of the grinder) was doing the job, was frowned upon. ‘Yes, you can use the mixie to make chutneys, not dosa batter. And you can never ever make soft idlies with that.’

‘But ma, I can live without idlies. My friends love my dosas. Ask Patrix. He licked his plate clean too. And…I don’t know if I’ll do justice to the grinder.And.. I have no place in the kitchen. ’

My mom was quick to retort, ‘Patrix must be a dosa starved north Indian. They can’t tell the difference. You’ll make more now that you have the ease of the grinder and keep it in the computer desk if your kitchen is too small. Its so convenient. Try it’

So it was bought and neon-orange colored nylon ropes were tied around the shiny box with the picture of the grinder surrounded by plates of dosas, vadas and idlies and a cool caption- Better Batter. (Almost reminded me of our Betty who bought the bitter butter).

The flight back home was filled with students starting a new exciting life in a country so far away from home, trying to achieve their dreams of making it big. I was accosted by many- ’Which college?’

"Oh college?! Ermm.. hehe" *shyly blushing, pulling out mirror and applying anti-wrinkle cream and adjusting T-shirt that says- Teenage Rocks* ‘No actually, I am working and I got there 5 years ago. Started out like you onlee..hehe.’

I wait for them to swoon and say ’Wow, you look so young’.

But she says, ‘Maam, can you give us some ideas for housing around the UIC area?’

Ma’am???????" No more being truthful! Harishchandra in me can go hang.

Time for baggage claim. Bulky suitcases covered with huge address labels move around on the carousel and remind me of my student days. I look around. Many apprehensive faces hoping that they would make good friends in this alien land. Some look at me, I smile a reassuring studenty smile. A smile of someone they could relate to, not some confident woman of 28 who has been around for a while. I still could pass off as a student, you see.

There comes my grinder. I almost forgot about it. It comes closer. I panic. That’s a dead give-away. I let it go for a few rounds till I feel safe to pick it up. I cover it with my jacket and suitcase and roll it out of the airport.

‘What is that and why is it covered?’ the customs officer stops me.

‘Oh, it’s a grinder.’ I reply demurely now getting all flustered.

‘Coffee grinder?’ He is amused now. He wants to see the thing opened. Right there, in front of all the students walking by. Darn!