Memories like dusk fade away
Into a night of black and blue
The bad ones change shape and size
Only the good ones stay true
__________________________
He said he loved her though he didn't
She said she'd love him or die
He walked away without a thought
She hung herself with his tie
__________________________
I am a wandering soul
With no destination in mind
I travel with a simple passion
To see what I will find
__________________________
Life throws you a curveball
You think it's coming straight
You put your hand down to catch it
And it whacks you on your pate
__________________________
Pleasure is not unlike pain
One joy, the other strife
The biggest purpose of both
Is to remind us that we're alive
Monday, June 16, 2008
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Being Single And Fabulous for a Day
Inspiration can hit me at the most frivolous of times. I can get terribly inspired by good food and then I suddenly find my self in my kitchen whipping up a mess and trying to look good while I'm at it. Thankfully my food related inspiration is always short lived! Or if I meet a friend who has just run a marathon, this invariably sparks a fresh wave of desire to be an athlete. I'll walk briskly for a few days and if I am truly inspired I might do a good imitation of a run, if I'm lucky I might even break into a sweat. Not surprisingly, exercise related inspiration lasts even shorter than my cooking ones and soon common sense prevails and I am grateful to be back to getting my exercise from dancing in high heels (to those poh pahing this, please try a 3 hour dancing session in pointy toed high heels. I assure you that gruelling levels match that of a marathon and you don't even get a medal to show for it).
More uselessly, movies which have gorgeous women in it - Jennifer Aniston, Demi Moore, Drew Barrymore, Cameron Dias, Julia Roberts - never fail to inspire me to the scary extent that I can take on their accent, the toss of their heads and their sexy walk (if only from the theatre seat till the parking lot). No, none of these last long - after all, inspiration from a flaky sources is, at the end of the day, flaky inspiration.
Speaking of flaky inspiration, I decided to see if I could be a Sex and the City kind of gal. Not any particular character from the series, but a composite of what a fabulous Manhattan woman would be like. I am determined to examine if buying 50 pairs of shoes can high heel my troubles away, and if I can still look great after endless nights of partying with countless glasses of cosmopolitans and if plunging necklines and shrinking hemlines can make me appear more attractive (you already know the answer to that but for some reason I feel compelled to test the theory in person!). I imagine this would be a truly liberating experience.
First things first - I scour my shoe shelves (sorry Carrie Bradshaw, I wish I had an entire shoe closet, but if I did, it would probably be filled with books). I take out all my high heels and choose a pair of gorgeous maroon stilettos. Then the outfit - a neck line slightly lower than what I would wear to work, wind tousled hair that took 30 minutes to carefully create, a cute pink beret on my head (I normally don't do berets), a scarf around my neck and some chunky jewelery. Finally, the make up. Make no mistake, Manhattan women really go the full nine yards with make up, even just for regular work. I wasn't going to sell myself short. And so I spend an inordinate amount of time applying concealer, eye shadow, eye liner, mascara, blush, lipstick and a hint of gloss. I know I am digressing here but I feel compelled to say that purple eye shadow really does look purple...there is none of that delicate hue that you see gorgeous women wearing on their eyes. This is eek, what is that on her eye, did someone hurt you honey, purple. Try washing it away vigorously with dish washing liquid and if lucky, you then may get the colour you are hoping for, but then again it may clash with the very red eyes.
And thus I set off to work. Huge sunglasses, gorgeous handbag that fits nothing that is of use in it's 5mm length and a confidence that comes with...well...ignorance. In hindsight I should have realised that I look like a transvestite with an Hermes bag, on his/her first night at the dance club. But at 9 am in the morning, what is obvious to everyone else (hence the stares that I mistake for admiration) is completely lost on me.
As I strut into my practice, the receptionist nearly drops the phone. I cannot tell if it is the neckline or the 4" heels or the huge gold rings dangling from my ears, but I help pick her jaw up from the floor.
As we gather for the morning patient case discussions, my partner looks at me and casually says - Forgot to comb the hair?
I hate unsolicited comments, er...actually, only the ones that don't compliment. I roll my eyes and say, it's the natural look.
I get an unnatural look in response from him.
The first patient who also happens to be a friend walks in. What's with the hair? she exclaims. And this is before she sees the makeup and the stilettos, which effectively renders her speechless. The only plus in this is that I can work on her teeth without any of the usual interruptions from her. Needless to say, she spends the entire appointment with her mouth open and her eyes on my purple eye shadow. I could have opened a root canal without anaesthesia and she wouldn't have blinked an eyelid.
Somehow what I think is going to be a morning of Sex and the City meets Grey's Anatomy ends up being a bad remake of the beginning of Pretty Woman.
I go out to lunch. After all that's what the fabulous women in Manhattan do - they are the women who lunch. And despite the less than auspicious start, I am determined to complete this day in Manhattan style. So in my favourite pair of high heels I step out onto Mumbai's rain drenched streets. An in ghastly moment that I don't recall seeing on Sex and the City, my heel goes and gets stuck into the gaps in the metal lid over a gutter, in full view of 5 autorickshaw drivers, 3 roadside romeos, 25 construction workers and 2 really hot guys.
As I limp into the restaurant, my lunch date looks at my feet in concern.
What the hell happened? he asks
My heel got stuck in a gutter, I mumble.
Oh poor you, he sympathises, is that also where you got the bruise around your eyes?
I am never wearing this damn purple eye shadow again.
He looks at me quizzically. Why such high heels on such a miserably rainy day? he asks.
Because I want to be absolutely fabulous for one day and look and act completely unlike myself, I try to explain. I want to reinvent myself as a walking talking object of brilliance and beauty and style.
He grins back. Yes the black eye is very in, he says, going back to eating his steak.
I contemplate whacking him with the one remaining heel, but instead sneak the fries off his plate which I am sure will hurt him more.
After the afternoon gutter incident, I am also now forced to go shoe shopping - yes, it is in the plan, just that now it is completely justified. I go from one shoe store to the next, feeling like Cinderella. I am also testing the theory that like the characters from Sex and the City who can pay ransomish amounts for designer shoes that call out to them (!) and still have a wallet with money for drinks, lunch and more shopping, will my wallet have an endless bottom. I am sad to report, an afternoon of aggressive shoe shopping leaves me with an empty wallet (no, not even coins), a rumbling stomach but ooh, truly divine shoes.
That evening as I get ready to go out for a night of dancing with friends, I am hopeful that atleast the evening will end on a high note. I am dressed in Manhattan chic - the little black dress, silver strappy shoes, loads of make up (to compensate for dim lighting) and re-installed confidence. I am determined to have the city strewn with gorgeous men in my wake. Two dances into the night and I'm feeling a vibe. I know someone has their eye on me. My ears are burning up. My antenna is catching a signal. I then feel a hand tap me on my shoulder. I turn around to see a large moustache.
Hello, says the moustache, myself N.D. Shashi Subramanium. I peer below the moustache to see a mouth full of very white teeth which glow neon blue in the discotheque lights.
I smile sweetly at him and say, hello, myself going.
As my friends and I toss back the cosmopolitans and walk out of there, I am hit with the epiphany of a lifetime....(I admit it, my epiphanies are as frivolous as my inspirations)....sure I can do Sex and the City as long I slightly modify to suit local conditions, like lets say Heels and the Gutters or Cosmopolitans and the Moustache.
I have achieved one thing though. It has been a liberating experience - I no longer feel the desire to be Manhattan-fabulous. For what I might be able to carry off in Manhattan, I now know I cannot in Mumbai. From personal (and some of it painful) experience, I can tell you that you can bring Manhattan to the girl, but you sure as hell cannot take Mumbai out of her.
More uselessly, movies which have gorgeous women in it - Jennifer Aniston, Demi Moore, Drew Barrymore, Cameron Dias, Julia Roberts - never fail to inspire me to the scary extent that I can take on their accent, the toss of their heads and their sexy walk (if only from the theatre seat till the parking lot). No, none of these last long - after all, inspiration from a flaky sources is, at the end of the day, flaky inspiration.
Speaking of flaky inspiration, I decided to see if I could be a Sex and the City kind of gal. Not any particular character from the series, but a composite of what a fabulous Manhattan woman would be like. I am determined to examine if buying 50 pairs of shoes can high heel my troubles away, and if I can still look great after endless nights of partying with countless glasses of cosmopolitans and if plunging necklines and shrinking hemlines can make me appear more attractive (you already know the answer to that but for some reason I feel compelled to test the theory in person!). I imagine this would be a truly liberating experience.
First things first - I scour my shoe shelves (sorry Carrie Bradshaw, I wish I had an entire shoe closet, but if I did, it would probably be filled with books). I take out all my high heels and choose a pair of gorgeous maroon stilettos. Then the outfit - a neck line slightly lower than what I would wear to work, wind tousled hair that took 30 minutes to carefully create, a cute pink beret on my head (I normally don't do berets), a scarf around my neck and some chunky jewelery. Finally, the make up. Make no mistake, Manhattan women really go the full nine yards with make up, even just for regular work. I wasn't going to sell myself short. And so I spend an inordinate amount of time applying concealer, eye shadow, eye liner, mascara, blush, lipstick and a hint of gloss. I know I am digressing here but I feel compelled to say that purple eye shadow really does look purple...there is none of that delicate hue that you see gorgeous women wearing on their eyes. This is eek, what is that on her eye, did someone hurt you honey, purple. Try washing it away vigorously with dish washing liquid and if lucky, you then may get the colour you are hoping for, but then again it may clash with the very red eyes.
And thus I set off to work. Huge sunglasses, gorgeous handbag that fits nothing that is of use in it's 5mm length and a confidence that comes with...well...ignorance. In hindsight I should have realised that I look like a transvestite with an Hermes bag, on his/her first night at the dance club. But at 9 am in the morning, what is obvious to everyone else (hence the stares that I mistake for admiration) is completely lost on me.
As I strut into my practice, the receptionist nearly drops the phone. I cannot tell if it is the neckline or the 4" heels or the huge gold rings dangling from my ears, but I help pick her jaw up from the floor.
As we gather for the morning patient case discussions, my partner looks at me and casually says - Forgot to comb the hair?
I hate unsolicited comments, er...actually, only the ones that don't compliment. I roll my eyes and say, it's the natural look.
I get an unnatural look in response from him.
The first patient who also happens to be a friend walks in. What's with the hair? she exclaims. And this is before she sees the makeup and the stilettos, which effectively renders her speechless. The only plus in this is that I can work on her teeth without any of the usual interruptions from her. Needless to say, she spends the entire appointment with her mouth open and her eyes on my purple eye shadow. I could have opened a root canal without anaesthesia and she wouldn't have blinked an eyelid.
Somehow what I think is going to be a morning of Sex and the City meets Grey's Anatomy ends up being a bad remake of the beginning of Pretty Woman.
I go out to lunch. After all that's what the fabulous women in Manhattan do - they are the women who lunch. And despite the less than auspicious start, I am determined to complete this day in Manhattan style. So in my favourite pair of high heels I step out onto Mumbai's rain drenched streets. An in ghastly moment that I don't recall seeing on Sex and the City, my heel goes and gets stuck into the gaps in the metal lid over a gutter, in full view of 5 autorickshaw drivers, 3 roadside romeos, 25 construction workers and 2 really hot guys.
As I limp into the restaurant, my lunch date looks at my feet in concern.
What the hell happened? he asks
My heel got stuck in a gutter, I mumble.
Oh poor you, he sympathises, is that also where you got the bruise around your eyes?
I am never wearing this damn purple eye shadow again.
He looks at me quizzically. Why such high heels on such a miserably rainy day? he asks.
Because I want to be absolutely fabulous for one day and look and act completely unlike myself, I try to explain. I want to reinvent myself as a walking talking object of brilliance and beauty and style.
He grins back. Yes the black eye is very in, he says, going back to eating his steak.
I contemplate whacking him with the one remaining heel, but instead sneak the fries off his plate which I am sure will hurt him more.
After the afternoon gutter incident, I am also now forced to go shoe shopping - yes, it is in the plan, just that now it is completely justified. I go from one shoe store to the next, feeling like Cinderella. I am also testing the theory that like the characters from Sex and the City who can pay ransomish amounts for designer shoes that call out to them (!) and still have a wallet with money for drinks, lunch and more shopping, will my wallet have an endless bottom. I am sad to report, an afternoon of aggressive shoe shopping leaves me with an empty wallet (no, not even coins), a rumbling stomach but ooh, truly divine shoes.
That evening as I get ready to go out for a night of dancing with friends, I am hopeful that atleast the evening will end on a high note. I am dressed in Manhattan chic - the little black dress, silver strappy shoes, loads of make up (to compensate for dim lighting) and re-installed confidence. I am determined to have the city strewn with gorgeous men in my wake. Two dances into the night and I'm feeling a vibe. I know someone has their eye on me. My ears are burning up. My antenna is catching a signal. I then feel a hand tap me on my shoulder. I turn around to see a large moustache.
Hello, says the moustache, myself N.D. Shashi Subramanium. I peer below the moustache to see a mouth full of very white teeth which glow neon blue in the discotheque lights.
I smile sweetly at him and say, hello, myself going.
As my friends and I toss back the cosmopolitans and walk out of there, I am hit with the epiphany of a lifetime....(I admit it, my epiphanies are as frivolous as my inspirations)....sure I can do Sex and the City as long I slightly modify to suit local conditions, like lets say Heels and the Gutters or Cosmopolitans and the Moustache.
I have achieved one thing though. It has been a liberating experience - I no longer feel the desire to be Manhattan-fabulous. For what I might be able to carry off in Manhattan, I now know I cannot in Mumbai. From personal (and some of it painful) experience, I can tell you that you can bring Manhattan to the girl, but you sure as hell cannot take Mumbai out of her.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
There Is No Such Thing As A Sane Family Reunion
As far as family reunions go, this one was quite tame - no one was murdered and atleast half of the family still talks to each other. The other half is ofcourse plotting it's revenge.
It all started with Rajanchayan sending out an innocent email inviting about 65 members of our extended family to the family home in Thumpamon, Kerala. Rajanchayan and his wife are citizens of the US, but have returned to India post retirement to enjoy the good simple life (that means getting local gossip at the beauty parlour, reading the obituary fastidiously and getting involved in local YWCA or church activities and politics...the politics at times far outweighing the activities).
The family house in Thumpamon is the old house that my great grandparents lived in. It is huge with 15 rooms, a long verandah, large wooded areas around the house, a 200 year old well and a cow shed which now houses the lone cow Susie. The red oxide floors have now given way to printed ceramic tiles and there are four indoor bathrooms with plumbing (I hear several male cousins were disappointed to hear that no one bathed at the well anymore). But for the better part, the house still feels like part of history. Over the years it had absorbed the charcoal firewood smell which now lingers on despite firewood having not been used there for over fifteen years. The smell is part of the house's legacy.
Day 1: Many of Rajanchayan's brothers came into town including my grandfather with my grandmother. I had already arrived that morning with my parents. As each car came up the driveway, there was a bit of a welcome ceremony. It was Taj meets Cozy Inn Motel. Omanakochama (Rajanchayan's wife) got a welcome drink out complete with an umbrella and a cherry for each guest. Rumour has it that troublesome visitors had their drink spiked with plenty of rum to put them in a better mood. I cannot attest to this for unfortunately I was not troublesome enough and I arrived before the fancy plans were in place. Each person also got a garland made of banana leaves.
There was much hugging and kissing (the Kerala way of kissing is to inhale sharply as lip touches cheek) and many many comments on weight lost or gained and receeding hair lines. Malayalis are not in the least bit diplomatic and this was in full evidence here. As soon as Maryamma got out of the car, everyone immediately asked her why she was looking so old and frail. As for Thampichayan, he was left struggling to answer why his paunch had grown so much and was told that if his pants were any further down, the children would be asked to close their eyes.
And so began the reunion.
Relatives were pouring in from various parts of the world. The first of the 'incidences' as I call them, happened soon after noon on Day 1. Ryan arrived - he's a cousin from the U.K.. His mom Daisykochama was already there. Everyone ran out to welcome him. As he got out of his car, his face hinted that there was more to come. Sure enough, behind him popped out 2 long legs, green high heels and a very short skirt. Ryan, in all his wisdom, had chosen the family reunion to introduce his Puerto Rican dancer girlfriend of 3 months, to his mother. Daisykochoma was first shocked, then furious. She started muttering under her breath about bad children, ungratefulness, selfishness, embarassment and the such. At lunch she kept banging the plates as she laid them down. After 2 plates cracked, Omanakochama gently removed the rest of them from Daisykochama's hands...this was too minor an issue to break Wedgewood China over.
By evening there were 28 relatives at the reunion. Patsy Aunty suggested a small prayer before the evening round of drinks started (let me just state at this point, Alcohol is a family member and present at all family gatherings). So everyone was summoned into the dining room where Patsy Aunty stood in the front with the Bible and started singing a hymn. One hymn led to another and very soon you could see the men look at each other restlessly. As the fifth hymn drew to an end, there was a collective sigh of relief. Patsy Aunty took the opportunity to start a prayer which had no end. Finally as she was praying for a whole bunch of people no one knew, Rajanchayan asked her if we could stop. In the few moments that it took her to decide what to reply, the 'congregation' had dispersed and within 3 seconds, everyone was knocking back vodka shots. Patsy Aunty was offended and went off to brood in a corner.
Dinner was an awkward affair. Patsy Aunty bravely proposed a prayer before dinner (she's not one to give up easily) - it just propelled everyone to shovel spoonfulls into their mouths and chew loudly. Ryan's girlfriend was drunk and kept trying to kiss him. Ryan was not drunk enough to reciprocate. Everyone else tried to look away except for his mother Daisykochama who glared straight at him without blinking.
It was eloquently summed up by my 6 year old niece Tia who said "sheesh" as she rolled her eyes as only six year olds can.
Day 2: New visitors. The Americans had arrived - aunts, uncles, cousins. Between the twelve of them, they covered all vitally crucial questions - how many calories did the welcome drink have, was the water in it bottled, was malaria going around, why had'nt the airport improved, did the cable tv offer Fox channels. They took over the house with their protein bars, mineral water, Blackberrys, vitamin pills, exercise videos (I am not joking) , iPods, laptops and other exotic things. Sara was my mom's cousin from L.A.
So Preeti, said Sara, how are you?
Great. Absolutely fine, I replied breezily with a huge smile on my face.
I was quickly reminded that Sara was treated for depression a few years ago. I wanted to be extra cautious not to trigger any strong emotions in her, such as jealousy or envy.
I quickly lost the smile. Er, actually things are not perfect perfect, they're just ok fine, I amended.
She looked at me as if I were the one a little off my rocker.
She held my hand. Do you feel no one understands you? Do you need someone to talk to? she asked me in a low whisper.
Oh my God, what have I gotten myself into, I thought.
I was saved from answering by the bell, literally. We opened to door to find Sara's ex-husband standing there, big grin on his face, new wife on his arm.
Rajanchayan and Omanakochama look at each other in horror. Someone had screwed up. Who the hell had invited the ex?
Sara went white and speechless. Ex-husband leaned forward to give her a peck. Sara lifted her hand to push him away. New wife got in the way. A bloody nose and a bruised eye followed.
Everyone watched this like a movie unfolding. Everyone except for Rajanchayan who was at his computer, frantically through the reunion invite mailing list. He was furious- who was responsible for this fiasco? A few seconds later, he returned with a guilty look on his face.
Sara went in to lie down. The aunts fawned over her. The young boys fawned over the new wife - they tripped over each other to get her ice for her black eye. Rajanchayan got dirty looks for messing things up.
A few minutes later, an aunt came running out of the bedroom. Sara had appearently swallowed five anti-depressant tablets. A doctor was summoned, though some idiot did say - Let Preeti have a look at her. I stared back - I am a dentist, I dont think checking her teeth at this time will help, I said pointedly. The doctor arrived 2 hours later. He checked Sara and pronounced her safe. He then checked the new wife's eye which was swollen like a lemon. There was much emphasis on how the doctor was not to let one know that he was checking the other.
That evening everyone hit the bar even before Patsy Aunty could make her usual suggestion. So she headed to Sara's room instead to offer a special prayer. As soon as Sara saw her coming, she reached for her pills. Patsy Aunty had to be led away gently. The rejection of her prayer sessions was getting her down and I suspected she would soon need some of medication of her own.
And thus the second day passed. Ryan avoided Daisykochama. Daisykochama avoided Ryan's girlfriend. Sara avoided ex husband. Everyone avoided Patsy Aunty. Rajanchayan was fired for sending the ex an invitation, even if it was by mistake.
The reunion was really on a roll.
Day 3: 11 am and I was sitting at the arack shop with Sue, a cousin sister from the UK. Sue is half Malayali and half English, a combination that makes her exquisite. We're were stopping traffic as people spied 2 girls in strappy tops and shorts sitting at an arack shop. Sue was especially arresting with her blonde curls and 5 ft 8in height. A crowd of men wearing lungis hiked up to their underwear had gathered outside the shop and were openly staring at us. A few more cousins joined us and pretty soon we had 15 people inside the 3x6 ft arack shop. For most of us, it was the cheapest (and quite frankly strangest tasting) 'liqour' we had drunk in a very very long time.
As we returned home, we noticed two people huddled together in the cow shed. On closer inspection it was Ryan's girlfriend (presumably ex girlfriend now) and the neighbours son!
That afternoon while most took a nap, Sara was heard telling Patsy Aunty about the benefits of anti depressants. Ryan meanwhile, was asking everyone below the age of 25 if they had a joint (atleast 5 people did...). The ex husband and the new wife left quietly, appearently she was quite miffed with the welcome she got! Sue was headed back to the arack shop - the owner had promised her eight free bottles if she spent some time there drawing attention to his little shop.
The evening tea was finally the first normal, peaceful meal in 3 days. Everyone was heaving a collective sigh of relief when Yohan, cousin from Chennai, loudly announced that he was gay...and all hell broke loose again.
Love, anger, deceipt, drugs, prayers, black eyes, excitement. Such was the nature of the family reunion. Rajanchayan has been banned from ever proposing one again, or else his wife Omanakochama has predicted that the next one will come complete with it's own divorce.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Yours Fatally
life said to death
it's a downright pity we met
death said to life
I'm always around but you forget
it's a downright pity we met
death said to life
I'm always around but you forget
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Scratching the Seven Year Itch
I am told that the institute of marriage should have it's license revoked or expire at seven years. Not less, because there is a certain freshness that exists even at five years of marriage that somehow and strangely disappears at seven. Not more, because experts tell me that after 10 years of marriage, the spouse is more sibling-like and less better-half...they fight over old wounds, they develop selective hearing and worst of all, husband and wife start to look like each other thus reinforcing the sibling theory. Thus after 10 years, it seems pointless to dissolve one union only to get into a fresh one and have to slowly metamorph into yet another person's sibling-like being!
Seven years , wow that's a long time, says my good friend (lets call her SAS for Short And Sweet).
We are in fact attending a wedding and chatting to fill time while we wait for the bride to arrive. The groom is already in the church, sweating a wet patch through his pristine white shirt. The heat? Could be. But my bet is that he is nervous and wondering if he has foolishly killed any last minute chance of sprinting out of here. I pray (being in church and all that) that the video recording of the service does not capture any snippets of our talk. SAS however has no such concerns as she states her opinion in a loud stage whisper which I swear can be heard three pews down.
How can seven years be a long time? I ask, bewildered. When you have promised "till death do us apart", you should be hoping for 50 years upwards. Do you really want death just seven years later? Should the priest modify his sermon to include "till death do you apart or till the first seven years, whichever comes first". And what about the astrologers who joyously tell you that you'll be together for the next seven lifetimes?
With certain people seven years can feel like seven lifetimes, SAS says, her voice no longer qualifying as a whisper (it is now gaining strength in terms of decible level and speed).
I hush her but it only fuels her enthusiam for the subject.
Besides, she continues, marriage and life span should not be so intricately connected. When the priest says - till death do you apart - he may not be talking about physical death but death of the marriage.
Her warped logic strangely makes sense and even I cannot argue it.
So how do people move beyond the seven year barrier? Is it like pretending it does not exist? Does one go from celebrating their sixth wedding anniversary directly to celebrating their eighth?
Oh well, says another friend sitting in the pew behind (I'll call him SAM for Semi Automatic Marriage), I decided to give the seventh year all I had. I had been flying on auto pilot for so long that I decided it was time to romance my wife, I wrote her poetry, I took her out, I complimented her.
Did it work? I was so curious. Could the seven year itch be appeased if enough effort was put into it?
The problem, SAM says, is that she continued to itch while I tried to be the emotional equivalent of soothing lotion .
Effort from his side did not equal effort from her side. It's a lesson hard learnt. Six years of being a bad partner could not be itched away so easily.
No one says marriage is easy.
The wedding on the other hand, proceeds without a hitch. Vows are exchanged in nervous voices, rings are exchanged with only mildly shaky hands, the kiss takes place (an unfortunately short one keeping in mind that parents were watching!). SAS sighs in disappointment over the last one. As the couple walk down the aisle after the ceremony is over, the bride is busy straightening her dress and veil and pushes the grooms hand away with a grimace as soon as he tries to help.
Trouble in paradise? I wonder aloud.
Oh no, SAS says gleefully, that's the seven year itch getting an early start on things.
Everything would have been just fine had the couple not heard us!
As I came home that night, I could not help but wonder - do all marriages go through this? If yes, the future looks kind of bleak.
Nonsense, says ALIA (stands for nothing, it really is just her name), best friend and confidant, married for 15 years. The seven year itch is a misnomer. It is actually pre-wedding jitters which are proven right over the course of the next seven years.
I am sorry I asked. And I rest my case.
A few nights later, I sit with MBH (that's Married But Happy!). She's the sister of the bride and the one who had to convince the bride not to beat SAS up in front of all the other guests.
How did you manage the seven year itch? I ask her.
She thinks about it. She looks at me and then decides that I deserve the truth.
I got my seven year itch in my second year, she says. I did everything one dreams of doing during this time. I gave into it completely. It was unadultrated hedonism 101. I got close to another man, I ignored my home, I went back to study, I went into therapy hoping to find myself, I travelled around the world pretty much for the same reason. I finally came back home 8 months later, completely spent and with the startling clarity for the very first time in my life that my husband and my marriage were absolutely perfect for ME. No other man and no other marriage would do it for me. The seven year itch saved my marriage and taught me more about life and choices than anything else ever will.
As for me, I dont know what the future holds. Does bliss today ensure an itch-proof tomorrow? I'm taking my chance with time, love and marriage. I'll learn my own lessons along the way.
But this much I know for sure - SAS should no longer be invited to weddings!
Seven years , wow that's a long time, says my good friend (lets call her SAS for Short And Sweet).
We are in fact attending a wedding and chatting to fill time while we wait for the bride to arrive. The groom is already in the church, sweating a wet patch through his pristine white shirt. The heat? Could be. But my bet is that he is nervous and wondering if he has foolishly killed any last minute chance of sprinting out of here. I pray (being in church and all that) that the video recording of the service does not capture any snippets of our talk. SAS however has no such concerns as she states her opinion in a loud stage whisper which I swear can be heard three pews down.
How can seven years be a long time? I ask, bewildered. When you have promised "till death do us apart", you should be hoping for 50 years upwards. Do you really want death just seven years later? Should the priest modify his sermon to include "till death do you apart or till the first seven years, whichever comes first". And what about the astrologers who joyously tell you that you'll be together for the next seven lifetimes?
With certain people seven years can feel like seven lifetimes, SAS says, her voice no longer qualifying as a whisper (it is now gaining strength in terms of decible level and speed).
I hush her but it only fuels her enthusiam for the subject.
Besides, she continues, marriage and life span should not be so intricately connected. When the priest says - till death do you apart - he may not be talking about physical death but death of the marriage.
Her warped logic strangely makes sense and even I cannot argue it.
So how do people move beyond the seven year barrier? Is it like pretending it does not exist? Does one go from celebrating their sixth wedding anniversary directly to celebrating their eighth?
Oh well, says another friend sitting in the pew behind (I'll call him SAM for Semi Automatic Marriage), I decided to give the seventh year all I had. I had been flying on auto pilot for so long that I decided it was time to romance my wife, I wrote her poetry, I took her out, I complimented her.
Did it work? I was so curious. Could the seven year itch be appeased if enough effort was put into it?
The problem, SAM says, is that she continued to itch while I tried to be the emotional equivalent of soothing lotion .
Effort from his side did not equal effort from her side. It's a lesson hard learnt. Six years of being a bad partner could not be itched away so easily.
No one says marriage is easy.
The wedding on the other hand, proceeds without a hitch. Vows are exchanged in nervous voices, rings are exchanged with only mildly shaky hands, the kiss takes place (an unfortunately short one keeping in mind that parents were watching!). SAS sighs in disappointment over the last one. As the couple walk down the aisle after the ceremony is over, the bride is busy straightening her dress and veil and pushes the grooms hand away with a grimace as soon as he tries to help.
Trouble in paradise? I wonder aloud.
Oh no, SAS says gleefully, that's the seven year itch getting an early start on things.
Everything would have been just fine had the couple not heard us!
As I came home that night, I could not help but wonder - do all marriages go through this? If yes, the future looks kind of bleak.
Nonsense, says ALIA (stands for nothing, it really is just her name), best friend and confidant, married for 15 years. The seven year itch is a misnomer. It is actually pre-wedding jitters which are proven right over the course of the next seven years.
I am sorry I asked. And I rest my case.
A few nights later, I sit with MBH (that's Married But Happy!). She's the sister of the bride and the one who had to convince the bride not to beat SAS up in front of all the other guests.
How did you manage the seven year itch? I ask her.
She thinks about it. She looks at me and then decides that I deserve the truth.
I got my seven year itch in my second year, she says. I did everything one dreams of doing during this time. I gave into it completely. It was unadultrated hedonism 101. I got close to another man, I ignored my home, I went back to study, I went into therapy hoping to find myself, I travelled around the world pretty much for the same reason. I finally came back home 8 months later, completely spent and with the startling clarity for the very first time in my life that my husband and my marriage were absolutely perfect for ME. No other man and no other marriage would do it for me. The seven year itch saved my marriage and taught me more about life and choices than anything else ever will.
As for me, I dont know what the future holds. Does bliss today ensure an itch-proof tomorrow? I'm taking my chance with time, love and marriage. I'll learn my own lessons along the way.
But this much I know for sure - SAS should no longer be invited to weddings!
Friday, May 23, 2008
Perfection
Ice cold beer and Tom Petty's Walls. Savoring the cold liquid trickle down the throat while listening to Tom Petty tell you that "Some days are diamonds, some days are rocks".
Laughing so hard over silly jokes with friends that you get an ache in your side. Then looking at each of their faces and feeling a love so profound, so fierce, that you know you would rather give up your life than lose the friend.
Saying sorry even when you know you are right. Because ego melts away in the face of love so strong.
Riding in the rain, feeling not cold or wet, only the rain on your face and more free than you have in years. Riding in the rain with no looking back.
The morning after...still feeling loved and cherished.
Reading Toni Morrison's Beloved. Re-reading passages because they are so beautifully written, unable to read ahead until you have savored each precious word a 100 times as it lilts off the page.
The first kiss, awkward, hands dont know what to do, eyes half shut, heart beating wildly. Beautiful with promise.
For the first time, not worrying about finger positions or the complexity of notes, but playing Beethovan's Moonlight Sonata on the piano and getting absorbed in a music so powerful that you fear nothing else will ever compare. And nothing else ever will.
Sitting with a man, having the best conversation you have had in a long long time, thoughts, opinions, secrets flowing back and forth. Laughing. Realising. Knowing that you'll never be as attracted to anyone as you are to this man who matches you sentence for sentence with a twinkle in his eye.
Achieving everything you have ever wanted and then giving it up for the freedom you truly desire.
Spending time with your partner, an intimacy so deep that words seem superflous, a silence so comfortable it lulls you, a peace so profound it moves you to tears.
Sitting on a hot hot day, drinking an ice cold beer.
Sometimes perfection is as simple as an ice cold beer.
Laughing so hard over silly jokes with friends that you get an ache in your side. Then looking at each of their faces and feeling a love so profound, so fierce, that you know you would rather give up your life than lose the friend.
Saying sorry even when you know you are right. Because ego melts away in the face of love so strong.
Riding in the rain, feeling not cold or wet, only the rain on your face and more free than you have in years. Riding in the rain with no looking back.
The morning after...still feeling loved and cherished.
Reading Toni Morrison's Beloved. Re-reading passages because they are so beautifully written, unable to read ahead until you have savored each precious word a 100 times as it lilts off the page.
The first kiss, awkward, hands dont know what to do, eyes half shut, heart beating wildly. Beautiful with promise.
For the first time, not worrying about finger positions or the complexity of notes, but playing Beethovan's Moonlight Sonata on the piano and getting absorbed in a music so powerful that you fear nothing else will ever compare. And nothing else ever will.
Sitting with a man, having the best conversation you have had in a long long time, thoughts, opinions, secrets flowing back and forth. Laughing. Realising. Knowing that you'll never be as attracted to anyone as you are to this man who matches you sentence for sentence with a twinkle in his eye.
Achieving everything you have ever wanted and then giving it up for the freedom you truly desire.
Spending time with your partner, an intimacy so deep that words seem superflous, a silence so comfortable it lulls you, a peace so profound it moves you to tears.
Sitting on a hot hot day, drinking an ice cold beer.
Sometimes perfection is as simple as an ice cold beer.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Teething Trouble in Kindergarten
Child's play, I think to myself, secretly thrilled at the pun. I am all set to give a talk on teeth and dental care at a kindergarten class. My research tells me I should wear wear pink and blue (does not bring a very fashionable image to mind, I know, but appearently these are the soothing colours for children). I carry my doctor's coat and I'm off. In my mind I practise easy ways of explaining complicated dental situations-
Scientifically: Caries is the breakdown of tooth structure caused as a result of pathogenic bacteria which in the presence of sugar produces acid which degenerates the enamel and deeper structures of the tooth.
Modified for kindergarten kids: A cavity is formed when you eat chocolates, and all the chocolatey gunk gets stuck between your teeth and you forget to brush it away. That is what creates a hole in your tooth.
Piece of cake.
Subconsciously I wonder if 3 & 4 year olds know the meaning of create. Never mind. I am brilliant. I'll think of something. I am good with on-the-spur-of-the-moment situations.
30 minutes later:
18 pairs of curious eyes stare at me. I smile back at them, confident that I am about to change their life, motivate them towards better dental health forever, give them a lifetime of good oral habits. It is such a bouyant feeling. I hope that they are not shy or uncomfortable around me. A cute as button girl grins back at me and then out of the blue and for absoutely no reason that I can fathom:
Where do babies come from, she asks.
Huh, I say, my smile fading just a little bit. I was under the impression this was to be a talk about teeth...
I mean, she continues paying no attention to my growing confusion, do they fall from the sky? My mommy told me they come from the penguin.
I'm guessing she actually means the stork, unless ofcourse mommy thinks the stork is a penguin in disguise...
I look helplessly at the teacher. Were the children told the gynaecologist was coming today and got the dentist by mistake? Had one orifice been exchanged for the other? But she's tending to her cuticles, oblivious to the disaster unfurling around me. This is probably the most peace she's had in her class and she is determined to dedicate the precious time to her fingers while her mind takes a nap.
Ah, I said, babies, er..., well, you see..., they come from mommy's stomach. Er..., they're a gift from God, I add for good measure.
(I again wonder how a dentist has ended up in the strange position of explaining such a delicate matter to a bunch of precocious babies.)
While most of the kids are looking dubiously at me, one boy who was earlier busy digging his nose now peeps up to declare - No, I know, babies come from Preity Zinta's stomach.
My eyes are as wide as saucers now. My only hope is that he has recently seen Salaam Namaste.
I am thankfully prevented from answering by another little boy who chooses just this moment to tell me - My father is Superman.
Wow, I say, grateful that we're headed to firmer ground. I nod encouragingly at him. I am thinking, this cannot be as bad as all the baby talk.
Yes, the boy says in all seriousness, he walks around in his underwear, with a towel on his back.
I wish my firm ground would just open and swallow me whole. This is Nightmare on Kindergarten Street. I have yet to say a single word about dentistry and teeth and all those exciting things that I had planned to say. Instead I have been swept into a world of the birds and bees and unlikely Supermen by a bunch of 3-4 year olds. Why? How? Most importantly Why Me? And were my special soothing colours really doing nothing to help me?
As if to answer my questions, a little girl with pigtails tugs on my trousers.
Are you a dentist, she asks.
Yes, I say hopefully, wondering if this was finally my chance to get back on track, to strut my stuff.
Can you take me to the bathroom, she asks shyly.
I take my coat off. The coat seems rather superflous considering the way things have turned out. The teacher has finally got her cuticles exactly as she likes them. She looks up at me and smiles - all done? I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
Parents have come to pick up their kids. As I leave the classroom, I see Mr. Superman claim his child. He weighs about 200 lbs and has a gravity defying paunch. Much as I try not to, I cannot but help imagine him in his underwear and towel cape, dashing around the house. It is not a pretty picture I assure you.
I get a call a few days later from the school. Apparantly the children were saying they had not heard anything about teeth from me. Would I care to come in and speak to them once more. I said I would love to, as soon as I have recovered from my previous visit. In the meanwhile I volunteer the name of a gyneacologist who say I am sure the kids would love to meet....there is stony silence on the line....the school has not gotten back to me since.
Scientifically: Caries is the breakdown of tooth structure caused as a result of pathogenic bacteria which in the presence of sugar produces acid which degenerates the enamel and deeper structures of the tooth.
Modified for kindergarten kids: A cavity is formed when you eat chocolates, and all the chocolatey gunk gets stuck between your teeth and you forget to brush it away. That is what creates a hole in your tooth.
Piece of cake.
Subconsciously I wonder if 3 & 4 year olds know the meaning of create. Never mind. I am brilliant. I'll think of something. I am good with on-the-spur-of-the-moment situations.
30 minutes later:
18 pairs of curious eyes stare at me. I smile back at them, confident that I am about to change their life, motivate them towards better dental health forever, give them a lifetime of good oral habits. It is such a bouyant feeling. I hope that they are not shy or uncomfortable around me. A cute as button girl grins back at me and then out of the blue and for absoutely no reason that I can fathom:
Where do babies come from, she asks.
Huh, I say, my smile fading just a little bit. I was under the impression this was to be a talk about teeth...
I mean, she continues paying no attention to my growing confusion, do they fall from the sky? My mommy told me they come from the penguin.
I'm guessing she actually means the stork, unless ofcourse mommy thinks the stork is a penguin in disguise...
I look helplessly at the teacher. Were the children told the gynaecologist was coming today and got the dentist by mistake? Had one orifice been exchanged for the other? But she's tending to her cuticles, oblivious to the disaster unfurling around me. This is probably the most peace she's had in her class and she is determined to dedicate the precious time to her fingers while her mind takes a nap.
Ah, I said, babies, er..., well, you see..., they come from mommy's stomach. Er..., they're a gift from God, I add for good measure.
(I again wonder how a dentist has ended up in the strange position of explaining such a delicate matter to a bunch of precocious babies.)
While most of the kids are looking dubiously at me, one boy who was earlier busy digging his nose now peeps up to declare - No, I know, babies come from Preity Zinta's stomach.
My eyes are as wide as saucers now. My only hope is that he has recently seen Salaam Namaste.
I am thankfully prevented from answering by another little boy who chooses just this moment to tell me - My father is Superman.
Wow, I say, grateful that we're headed to firmer ground. I nod encouragingly at him. I am thinking, this cannot be as bad as all the baby talk.
Yes, the boy says in all seriousness, he walks around in his underwear, with a towel on his back.
I wish my firm ground would just open and swallow me whole. This is Nightmare on Kindergarten Street. I have yet to say a single word about dentistry and teeth and all those exciting things that I had planned to say. Instead I have been swept into a world of the birds and bees and unlikely Supermen by a bunch of 3-4 year olds. Why? How? Most importantly Why Me? And were my special soothing colours really doing nothing to help me?
As if to answer my questions, a little girl with pigtails tugs on my trousers.
Are you a dentist, she asks.
Yes, I say hopefully, wondering if this was finally my chance to get back on track, to strut my stuff.
Can you take me to the bathroom, she asks shyly.
I take my coat off. The coat seems rather superflous considering the way things have turned out. The teacher has finally got her cuticles exactly as she likes them. She looks up at me and smiles - all done? I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
Parents have come to pick up their kids. As I leave the classroom, I see Mr. Superman claim his child. He weighs about 200 lbs and has a gravity defying paunch. Much as I try not to, I cannot but help imagine him in his underwear and towel cape, dashing around the house. It is not a pretty picture I assure you.
I get a call a few days later from the school. Apparantly the children were saying they had not heard anything about teeth from me. Would I care to come in and speak to them once more. I said I would love to, as soon as I have recovered from my previous visit. In the meanwhile I volunteer the name of a gyneacologist who say I am sure the kids would love to meet....there is stony silence on the line....the school has not gotten back to me since.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Some Days
some days like today
are meant not for
talking or
working or
even loving
they're meant
for doing nothing
and doing it
blissfully
are meant not for
talking or
working or
even loving
they're meant
for doing nothing
and doing it
blissfully
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
The Friendship With A Noose Around It's Neck
I shot a friendship in its foot. It was a classic case of homicide. I planned it, went armed with carefully constructed sentences aimed to maim if not kill, I took aim when least expected and fired. I imagined the friendship would cry out like a wounded animal or flap its tail helplessly and struggle to stay alive. But no, it just smiled and said – No problem darling. Whatever you are comfortable with, I’m always there for you. And just like that, the friendship flipped over on its side and I suppose it died.
I met him 3 years ago; we worked together on a project. We lost touch really quickly that time – a direct result of really having nothing in common between us. We met again a year ago at the most unlikely of places – he came in to the practice to get some work done on his teeth. He was obviously more in need of a friend this time around – he started calling regularly, he messaged me good morning every morning, he invented exciting things for me to do (specifically involving movies, Thai food, lots of cola spiked or otherwise, drives, random flattery and stories of his advertising world – I am susceptible to all of these and not necessarily in this particular order!).
We still had nothing in common. We didn’t have great conversations - mostly I spoke and he didn’t listen very well. The few moments that our conversations actually showed sparks of depth in it, we would quickly kill it lest it became a regular thing. The friendship initially hung by a very fragile thread and then slowly became something more tenacious - Habit. But what a habit it was – we spoke of nothing, every single day.
He would say – So what’s happening?
I would tell him.
His only reply would be – So what else is happening? (Though sometimes when he was feeling
creative he would vary it by saying – You’re crazy.)
And I would tell him some more.
He would always end by saying – Lovely, lovely – irrespective of what I told him.
That was the sum total of our conversations, except when the tables were turned and he complained about life and I got my sadistic chance at saying “Lovely”. Yet he called or messaged no matter where in the world he was. And I do have to thank him for some outstanding gifts.
No one in his life knew I existed – not his family or friends. I was his escape from the inane. I was the bubbly cheer that made him feel good about himself and pulled him up from the quicksand of his negativity (his words, not mine and in a rare moment of introspection). I gave him job advice (he didn’t need it), I gave him house hunting tips (he did need it), I gave him relationship advice (he said he didn't need it but I didn't know a person who needed it more). Mostly I just gave him my shoulder to moan on.
We stayed friends for a year. In a friendship that was by turns symbiotic, infuriating and frustrating, one that threatened to morph into something else or nothing at all. Or worse, one that would be at a stand still for the rest of our lives, unable to go back, yet refusing to budge ahead. And thus, one fine afternoon I shot it and walked away.
It’s been 1 month now. I’m ashamed to say I don’t miss it much. I guess there is nothing to miss when there is nothing to cherish. I do miss the convenience of it but when was friendship ever supposed to be convenient.
Some days I wonder if I should call and say – how are you? Because I do care. But then what? Relive history again? I don’t even know if my aim to kill will be as good the next time around.
I met him 3 years ago; we worked together on a project. We lost touch really quickly that time – a direct result of really having nothing in common between us. We met again a year ago at the most unlikely of places – he came in to the practice to get some work done on his teeth. He was obviously more in need of a friend this time around – he started calling regularly, he messaged me good morning every morning, he invented exciting things for me to do (specifically involving movies, Thai food, lots of cola spiked or otherwise, drives, random flattery and stories of his advertising world – I am susceptible to all of these and not necessarily in this particular order!).
We still had nothing in common. We didn’t have great conversations - mostly I spoke and he didn’t listen very well. The few moments that our conversations actually showed sparks of depth in it, we would quickly kill it lest it became a regular thing. The friendship initially hung by a very fragile thread and then slowly became something more tenacious - Habit. But what a habit it was – we spoke of nothing, every single day.
He would say – So what’s happening?
I would tell him.
His only reply would be – So what else is happening? (Though sometimes when he was feeling
creative he would vary it by saying – You’re crazy.)
And I would tell him some more.
He would always end by saying – Lovely, lovely – irrespective of what I told him.
That was the sum total of our conversations, except when the tables were turned and he complained about life and I got my sadistic chance at saying “Lovely”. Yet he called or messaged no matter where in the world he was. And I do have to thank him for some outstanding gifts.
No one in his life knew I existed – not his family or friends. I was his escape from the inane. I was the bubbly cheer that made him feel good about himself and pulled him up from the quicksand of his negativity (his words, not mine and in a rare moment of introspection). I gave him job advice (he didn’t need it), I gave him house hunting tips (he did need it), I gave him relationship advice (he said he didn't need it but I didn't know a person who needed it more). Mostly I just gave him my shoulder to moan on.
We stayed friends for a year. In a friendship that was by turns symbiotic, infuriating and frustrating, one that threatened to morph into something else or nothing at all. Or worse, one that would be at a stand still for the rest of our lives, unable to go back, yet refusing to budge ahead. And thus, one fine afternoon I shot it and walked away.
It’s been 1 month now. I’m ashamed to say I don’t miss it much. I guess there is nothing to miss when there is nothing to cherish. I do miss the convenience of it but when was friendship ever supposed to be convenient.
Some days I wonder if I should call and say – how are you? Because I do care. But then what? Relive history again? I don’t even know if my aim to kill will be as good the next time around.
Monday, April 28, 2008
The Comedian
There once lived a Comedian in a club
His eye was a goat's and his foot a stub
But when he started talking, you forgot it all
For he was full of tricks, humour and gall
In twenty seconds and two lines he could make
A divorce lawyer, a snake
A foot doctor, a fraud
A real estate agent, God
The weatherman bore the brunt of his act
The actress he turned hooker but with such tact
The worst off was the President without a doubt
He was always being caught with his foot in his mouth
There was nothing the Comedian could not make funny
He could make you laugh over a nose that was runny
He had strange faces he could pull in a lark
And face paint that would glow in the dark
But if you met him after the show
Sat with him for a moment, only then you'd know
Behind the laughs and the jokes he'd thrown
Lived the saddest man you've ever known
His eye was a goat's and his foot a stub
But when he started talking, you forgot it all
For he was full of tricks, humour and gall
In twenty seconds and two lines he could make
A divorce lawyer, a snake
A foot doctor, a fraud
A real estate agent, God
The weatherman bore the brunt of his act
The actress he turned hooker but with such tact
The worst off was the President without a doubt
He was always being caught with his foot in his mouth
There was nothing the Comedian could not make funny
He could make you laugh over a nose that was runny
He had strange faces he could pull in a lark
And face paint that would glow in the dark
But if you met him after the show
Sat with him for a moment, only then you'd know
Behind the laughs and the jokes he'd thrown
Lived the saddest man you've ever known
Friday, April 25, 2008
Tiny Little Steps that Matter
What will it take for this world to be just a little better? Not miles better, not better by leaps and bounds, just a tiny little bit better.
For example, what would it take to have just one more happy person everyday? 365 happier people every year. That's not a lot, it is a drop in the humanity ocean. But one of those persons could be you or it could be me or your neighbour next door or my best friend, and for that one person , it is going to be 25 or 50 years of a better life. Now THAT is a huge gigantic deal. To get here, would it take more teachers to teach us about the world around us and show us how we impact it and how it impacts us? Would is take more interaction with children? Children are instinctively happy, cocooned in their world of simplicity and innocence. Is that what we need? Or do we all need to learn to be travellers - see how others live, experience their lives, see their sorrows and learn to grow beyond ourselves? What about lack of peace and solitude - Is it this lack of introspect and lack of meditation and self understanding that leads to constant disappointment and a sense of failure? Or could it be the other way around? In an ovecrowded world with everyone searching for their own quiet space, has aloneness given way to isolation and loneliness? Ever known a lonely person to be happy? Being able to share and talk and laugh and exchange and to love and be loved and cherished and to hope, these are the stepping stones to happiness. Do too many of us not have this today? How glorious it would be to make just one more person happy everyday.
How can we keep one more person healthy everyday? Is it really lack of affordable medical care and access to medication that starts us on the path of ill health? I don't think so. I think most often sickness starts in homes where families don't know better or just don't care enough - don't care to keep their children warm in winter, don't care about their own nourishment, don't care about keeping the home stress free, don't care about sitting in front of the television instead of getting some exercise. A lot of times sickness starts and stays with people who have long forgotten how to hope to be well again. If we could keep just one more person healthy everyday, how much better this world would be.
Finally, the thing that is closest to my heart - how much better the world would be if more people could find the one thing that they are truly passionate about. The one thing that can raise you above the humdrum and give you a special reason for waking up each day, inspired and grateful.
Sure, the world needs more food, stable weather, better governance and so many other important things. But at the end of the day, in our hands lie the little things which we so easily forget can have a huge positive impact on our world.
"Not only is another world possible, she is on her way. On a quiet day, I can hear her breathing." - Arundhati Roy
"The Grand essentials of happiness are: something to do, something to love, and something to hope for." - Allan K. Chalmers
Sunday, April 20, 2008
ANTICIPATION
She sits alone at a table for two,
waiting, watching, wilting, as
second after languid second ambles by.
Her fingers drum on the table,
she reminds herself to not be shy.
She knows she is early, painfully so.
To distract she tugs her neckline up,
smoothes the hemline down.
She absently twirls her spoon,
her reflection stares back up-side down.
She wonders:
Do I look alright,
or is my kohl too dark
or my lipstick too bright?
Should I talk a lot,
bare my soul?
...or maybe not.
Will he like what he sees?
Or will it be an illusion,
for he can't see the real me?
The waiting, the suspense, is mounting,
her confidence a thin veneer.
As the clock strikes nine,
the chimes sing to her,
"He's still not here, he's still not here."
She feels her heart beat wildly,
thumping at a galloping pace.
She hears it echo in her ears,
feels the tingle down to her toes.
She hopes the night won't drown in tears.
Then suddenly without warning the door opens
He's there looking right at her.
One hand out, he holds a rose
and smiles at her
And she just knows.
waiting, watching, wilting, as
second after languid second ambles by.
Her fingers drum on the table,
she reminds herself to not be shy.
She knows she is early, painfully so.
To distract she tugs her neckline up,
smoothes the hemline down.
She absently twirls her spoon,
her reflection stares back up-side down.
She wonders:
Do I look alright,
or is my kohl too dark
or my lipstick too bright?
Should I talk a lot,
bare my soul?
...or maybe not.
Will he like what he sees?
Or will it be an illusion,
for he can't see the real me?
The waiting, the suspense, is mounting,
her confidence a thin veneer.
As the clock strikes nine,
the chimes sing to her,
"He's still not here, he's still not here."
She feels her heart beat wildly,
thumping at a galloping pace.
She hears it echo in her ears,
feels the tingle down to her toes.
She hopes the night won't drown in tears.
Then suddenly without warning the door opens
He's there looking right at her.
One hand out, he holds a rose
and smiles at her
And she just knows.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Doctor, My Tooth Is very Sentimental and Other Tales from the Chair
Dentistry can be a pretty cut and dry kind of profession. You see, you drill, you fill. The quintessential image of a dentist has been that of a middle aged man of slight built, with a back that is hunched at 45 degrees to the rest of the body (the more hunched the better the proof that he is a seasoned veteran at extracting very stubborn back teeth), spectacles balancing at the tip of his nose and a very serious disposition. So serious in fact, that he discourages any conversation between him and the patient. Thus in earlier days, the dentist would enter the room, open your mouth, figure out what the problem was, fix it and send you on your way without there being a single exchange of words between you and him.
To be honest, this was pretty much the way I worked when I was doing my Dentistry at Mangalore. There was no point me listening to what the patients said about their dental problem for the simple reason that I didn’t understand a word of the language. So, irrespective of what was said, I would open their mouths and figure out what the real issue was…I had a far better chance of providing accurate treatment this way than by deciphering all the various local dialects of Kannada, Tulu, Konkani and Malayalam.
Today, I am happy to state that things are very different. Now there are days I do a lot less clinical dentistry and a lot more talking with my patients. Ofcourse we do talk about teeth. Thankfully we also talk about things that really matter to people – health, family, finances, interests. I even have a few brave patients asking me for relationship advice. Much as I love doling it out (and I really do, ask me for advice and you’ll see), I have warned them to follow my advice at their own risk.
It is in these many conversations about teeth and other things that lie little nuggets of inadvertent humour so funny, that despite appearing to keep a straight face thanks to a very large mouthmask, I am actually grinning from ear to ear.
The following are conversations or incidences that have taken place between patients and myself
A Sensitive Issue
Mrs. Raman sits on the chair. I ask her if all’s well with her teeth.
Yes, she replies, but this last tooth is a bit sentimental!
Hilling Away
I walk into the room to see Mrs. Nair on the chair. She is a sweet 75 year old woman who insists on speaking English with me. She already has the good judgment to realize that my communication skills in most other languages, gets her gender all wrong.
I ask her that the matter is.
My lower teeth are hilling, she replies.
Never in 10 years of Dentistry, or in my many other years of life, have I heard this phrase. So I think maybe she means they need a filling. I take a look at them and by gosh, they are definitely ‘hilling’ - shaking and literally rotating in their sockets!
Bottom Line
Mr. and Mrs. Shah are visiting us from the UK. They have been living there for about 2 years. They have just about reached the stage where they have adopted the British pronunciations without the fluency. So happy are they with their treatment that Mr. Shah returns the next day with a box of sweets.
To thank you from the bottom of my heart, he says smiling, and from my wife’s bottom.
That was one thank you I sincerely hope he did not mean!
Strip Show
Mr. Harry Wright is a top guy at one of the consulates. He weighs 110 kgs and his stomach generally makes an entry before he does. The first time he comes to me, just before he sits on the dental chair, he says he needs a minute. Then right there before my very eyes, he starts to loosen his tie and belt. He then removes both. He proceeds to remove his shirt from the waistband of his trousers. He unbuttons his shirt to expose his vest (thank God). He then starts to unbutton his trousers. I feel that I urgently needed to stop him at this time but am completely stunned. I had never had anyone feel the need to strip in my clinic before. Is he angling for a discount, I wonder. As he lowers his trouser zip, I finally find my voice.
Mr. Wright, I say as casually as I can, what are you doing?
Oh, gas, is all he says. Cannot lie down with tight clothes.
I am so relieved. My clinic is not turning into a strip club after all. And if gas is a problem, I will gladly help him kick those trousers off! Needless to say, my assistant gets the shock of her life when she walks into the room to see Mr. Wright stand there in his vest and boxers and socks. She gives me a dirty look. So does the next patient waiting outside, who sees Mr. Wright when he steps out to use the washroom. As for Mr. Wright, I have never seen anyone dress more comfortably for the dental chair. There are days when I even have to remind him to put his clothes back on when he leaves.
Mr. Sujan
I had just started work. It was my first day as an associate at a well known dentist’s clinic. I was going to show him how good I was and how great my patient management skills were. My very first patient walked in. A very fashionable woman called Mrs. Makhijani.
She speaks to me in Hindi and unwisely I reply likewise. She says that there is ‘sujan’ on the outside, looking at me suspiciously. (No one has faith in a new doctor in my experience.)
Now ‘sujan’ was another word that I had never heard before. To me it sounded very much like a first name. Perhaps someone who had come with Mrs. Makhijani and who was waiting outside, I concluded.
I take off my gloves and walk out into the waiting room and loudly call out for Mr. Sujan a few times. I then walk back in and confidently inform Mrs. Makhijani that there is no ‘Sujan’ in the waiting room. She looks at me shocked and asks for Dr. Arora, my boss.
Needless to say that for the next 4 years that I worked there and pretty much took care of the entire practice, Mrs. Makhijani never once let me treat her.
(To those of you, who like me, are not very familiar with Hindi, sujan is the Hindi word for swelling. Something every dentist needs to know before he sees his first patient!)
Identity Problem
This happened at the previous practice where I used to work. The conversation was again all in Hindi and very, very strange.
She walks in with her mother. Both are looking rather scared, but this is to be expected in a dental clinic. I make her sit on the chair and she spends a while adjusting her sari. She works as a domestic help and has taken time off for this very important visit. I am impressed with her dedication to her dental health. She is very shy and speaks very softly.
So, I ask in Hindi, what’s the problem with your teeth?
She says there is no problem.
I am perplexed. Do you have pain in your teeth, I ask her.
She’s looking at me just a bit strangely. No pain in the teeth, she answers.
So what is the problem with mouth? I ask again
She’s beginning to look worried, thinks really hard and then says, no problem with my mouth.
I decide to use my age old method. I ask her to open her mouth and peek inside. After doing a thorough check up, I have to agree with her. Her teeth are in sparkling good condition. By this time mother and daughter are in the midst of a conversation, rapid sentences going back and forth, and quick furtive glances being stolen at me and at the door.
I finally ask, why have you come here?
Because of the itching, she says.
I’m thrilled to finally have an answer. But wait a minute, itching in the mouth?
Itching down there, she says.
I take my gloves off and refer her to the VD clinic next door.
In case you are wondering, all of these stories are true. To make them up would require more imagination than I possess!
To be honest, this was pretty much the way I worked when I was doing my Dentistry at Mangalore. There was no point me listening to what the patients said about their dental problem for the simple reason that I didn’t understand a word of the language. So, irrespective of what was said, I would open their mouths and figure out what the real issue was…I had a far better chance of providing accurate treatment this way than by deciphering all the various local dialects of Kannada, Tulu, Konkani and Malayalam.
Today, I am happy to state that things are very different. Now there are days I do a lot less clinical dentistry and a lot more talking with my patients. Ofcourse we do talk about teeth. Thankfully we also talk about things that really matter to people – health, family, finances, interests. I even have a few brave patients asking me for relationship advice. Much as I love doling it out (and I really do, ask me for advice and you’ll see), I have warned them to follow my advice at their own risk.
It is in these many conversations about teeth and other things that lie little nuggets of inadvertent humour so funny, that despite appearing to keep a straight face thanks to a very large mouthmask, I am actually grinning from ear to ear.
The following are conversations or incidences that have taken place between patients and myself
A Sensitive Issue
Mrs. Raman sits on the chair. I ask her if all’s well with her teeth.
Yes, she replies, but this last tooth is a bit sentimental!
Hilling Away
I walk into the room to see Mrs. Nair on the chair. She is a sweet 75 year old woman who insists on speaking English with me. She already has the good judgment to realize that my communication skills in most other languages, gets her gender all wrong.
I ask her that the matter is.
My lower teeth are hilling, she replies.
Never in 10 years of Dentistry, or in my many other years of life, have I heard this phrase. So I think maybe she means they need a filling. I take a look at them and by gosh, they are definitely ‘hilling’ - shaking and literally rotating in their sockets!
Bottom Line
Mr. and Mrs. Shah are visiting us from the UK. They have been living there for about 2 years. They have just about reached the stage where they have adopted the British pronunciations without the fluency. So happy are they with their treatment that Mr. Shah returns the next day with a box of sweets.
To thank you from the bottom of my heart, he says smiling, and from my wife’s bottom.
That was one thank you I sincerely hope he did not mean!
Strip Show
Mr. Harry Wright is a top guy at one of the consulates. He weighs 110 kgs and his stomach generally makes an entry before he does. The first time he comes to me, just before he sits on the dental chair, he says he needs a minute. Then right there before my very eyes, he starts to loosen his tie and belt. He then removes both. He proceeds to remove his shirt from the waistband of his trousers. He unbuttons his shirt to expose his vest (thank God). He then starts to unbutton his trousers. I feel that I urgently needed to stop him at this time but am completely stunned. I had never had anyone feel the need to strip in my clinic before. Is he angling for a discount, I wonder. As he lowers his trouser zip, I finally find my voice.
Mr. Wright, I say as casually as I can, what are you doing?
Oh, gas, is all he says. Cannot lie down with tight clothes.
I am so relieved. My clinic is not turning into a strip club after all. And if gas is a problem, I will gladly help him kick those trousers off! Needless to say, my assistant gets the shock of her life when she walks into the room to see Mr. Wright stand there in his vest and boxers and socks. She gives me a dirty look. So does the next patient waiting outside, who sees Mr. Wright when he steps out to use the washroom. As for Mr. Wright, I have never seen anyone dress more comfortably for the dental chair. There are days when I even have to remind him to put his clothes back on when he leaves.
Mr. Sujan
I had just started work. It was my first day as an associate at a well known dentist’s clinic. I was going to show him how good I was and how great my patient management skills were. My very first patient walked in. A very fashionable woman called Mrs. Makhijani.
She speaks to me in Hindi and unwisely I reply likewise. She says that there is ‘sujan’ on the outside, looking at me suspiciously. (No one has faith in a new doctor in my experience.)
Now ‘sujan’ was another word that I had never heard before. To me it sounded very much like a first name. Perhaps someone who had come with Mrs. Makhijani and who was waiting outside, I concluded.
I take off my gloves and walk out into the waiting room and loudly call out for Mr. Sujan a few times. I then walk back in and confidently inform Mrs. Makhijani that there is no ‘Sujan’ in the waiting room. She looks at me shocked and asks for Dr. Arora, my boss.
Needless to say that for the next 4 years that I worked there and pretty much took care of the entire practice, Mrs. Makhijani never once let me treat her.
(To those of you, who like me, are not very familiar with Hindi, sujan is the Hindi word for swelling. Something every dentist needs to know before he sees his first patient!)
Identity Problem
This happened at the previous practice where I used to work. The conversation was again all in Hindi and very, very strange.
She walks in with her mother. Both are looking rather scared, but this is to be expected in a dental clinic. I make her sit on the chair and she spends a while adjusting her sari. She works as a domestic help and has taken time off for this very important visit. I am impressed with her dedication to her dental health. She is very shy and speaks very softly.
So, I ask in Hindi, what’s the problem with your teeth?
She says there is no problem.
I am perplexed. Do you have pain in your teeth, I ask her.
She’s looking at me just a bit strangely. No pain in the teeth, she answers.
So what is the problem with mouth? I ask again
She’s beginning to look worried, thinks really hard and then says, no problem with my mouth.
I decide to use my age old method. I ask her to open her mouth and peek inside. After doing a thorough check up, I have to agree with her. Her teeth are in sparkling good condition. By this time mother and daughter are in the midst of a conversation, rapid sentences going back and forth, and quick furtive glances being stolen at me and at the door.
I finally ask, why have you come here?
Because of the itching, she says.
I’m thrilled to finally have an answer. But wait a minute, itching in the mouth?
Itching down there, she says.
I take my gloves off and refer her to the VD clinic next door.
In case you are wondering, all of these stories are true. To make them up would require more imagination than I possess!
Monday, April 14, 2008
Running on a Treadmill and Going Nowhere
I see them everywhere. Flat abs (for those who have been living in outer space, that’s abdomen in gym talk), buffed arms, broad shoulders. If you cannot tell them by their bodies, their conversations are dead give-aways. They liberally use these 4 key phrases /words – carbs, fat content, diet & workout. These are the new generation gym bodies. Chest puffed out (no, not just the guys), stomach sucked in, 36”-24”-36” has a new meaning all together.
I start to panic. I am definitely slim, but I can’t really say I am perfectly toned. And I downright refuse to be the only un-toned body around. I re-think my health mantra, which when simply put, is to eat absolutely everything, drink almost everything and walk like a manic. Only it now seems terribly inadequate. Oh, what abuse I have been subjecting my body to. In a desperate attempt to set things right (and also in my quest to aim for higher things, like a JLo body) I join a top gym. I pay for 6 months (to be fair, they have a deal going on that gets me a great membership at 50% of the cost).
Joining the gym is like getting into a special club. I all of a sudden develop a paraphernalia of things that did not exist earlier – clothes of 100% spandex or lycra that cling and make me look horrendous, special gym shoes that I’m promised is different from shoes for tennis or shoes for sprinting, a water bottle from which I can squirt water into my mouth from a distance, a napkin to wipe away that bucket of sweat that comes with losing 1500 calories an hour, a change of clothes, a deodorant and a gym bag to hold all this.
Day 1: I walk in, terrified. Everyone looks at the new girl and I keep my eyes firmly on the floor. I spy the trainer and head straight towards him.
What do I need to do? I ask.
Let’s start with measuring your fat content, he says.
Please note: I personally think that it is much better to hear someone say let’s start a root canal, compared to let’s measure your fat content…but hey, it could just be me.
He gets a strange vernier caliper like gadget and then asks me to hold out various parts of my body, which he then proceeds to pinch and measure. Finally after doing great mathematical calculations, he looks at me and clears his throat.
21, he says.
What’s that, I ask, wondering if he is really asking me for my age.
That’s your fat content, he says.
21% of my body is fat? I am thoroughly disgusted. 1/5 of my body is FAT? I would have pinned the figure closer to 10%, but then again I am an optimist by nature….
It’s actually not too bad, he says, quickly adding – for a girl.
I ask him some questions, get no real answer and come to the conclusion that most people are so shocked at hearing their fat content, they lose their power of speech. This gives the trainers time to pop you on a machine and start your workout, after which you cannot talk even if your life depends on it.
I am started on the basic treadmill.
Don’t touch the red button, don’t touch the yellow switch, don’t touch the keys on your left side, he says.
I keep my hands firmly on the handle and don’t touch anything. I am walking at a happy pace and am thinking this gym thing is not so bad. No wonder everyone is doing it.
He comes back 2 minutes later.
You have not increased speed, he barks.
This, from the man, who told me not to touch anything.
He increases my speed intermittently and after quite a while (er, 7 mins exactly) I begin to feel weak limbed and light headed. I touch the only button he has actually given me permission to – STOP. The treadmill comes to a blissful stop and I tumble off, so glad to be on non-moving ground. Just as my eyes are beginning to focus again, he puts me on the cross trainer. Now this is the mother of all torture in my humble and very limited experience. It requires extreme coordination, great stamina and lots of courage. I lack all of the above, but step on it nonetheless. He starts it up, again after giving me a list of technical instructions that I do not understand. 45 seconds is all it took for me to jump off in a state of extreme agony – my throat is so dry I cannot swallow, my legs are burning, my stomach is paining and as for my lungs – well, they have just collapsed. I lie on the floor (now everyone is really looking at the new girl sprawled on the floor between the cross trainers and the exercise bikes) and I wonder for the 100th time – WHY???
He gives me a squirt of water. I can catch only half of it in my mouth, my eyes are not focusing too well, you see. I am just wondering how I could slink away without being noticed when he says that I should do 15 minutes on the exercise bike and then stop for the day. I pedal at 0 resistance and at 1.5 km per hour – it is all I could do without fainting.
Day 2: My body aches a bit, but my self-appointed personal trainer calls to tell me that I have to come in today. I try to tell him I have a serious life- threatening disease, but I can already hear him scream at someone – another 10 reps - before he hangs up on me.
I show up. I survive 8 minutes on the treadmill, steer clear of the cross trainer, and do 20 minutes on the cycle. He is not amused to see the resistance level and tells me I need to be more sincere. I tell him I just need to be able to breathe right now.
Day 3 – 10: Things get better, but only by a bit. I am no longer on the verge of death, but I still look it as I step off the cross trainer, wet hair plastered across my forehead, sweat dripping off my chin, T-shirt clinging to me in the worst way possible. But I think it can only get better from here.
Day 15: I am wrong. Without warning, he introduces me to resistance training. I am shown a series of exercises on some very scary looking machines. I nod and try to look enthusiastic, all the while hoping those weights don’t do serious body damage.
I’ll start you on the lightest weight, he says.
Ok, I say. It’s what I say when I have no option.
And so I start. 1 rep, 2 reps and the arms just won’t lift it for a 3rd rep. The mind is willing, I am pushing myself, but the body is flatly refusing, non negotiable. He sees me struggling and for the first time I see humanity in him….or maybe it is just pity. Either way, I am grateful and frankly, beyond caring.
I’ll take off all weights and you do these exercises with only the base ok, he says.
Have you any idea how strange it is to see someone do weights with no weights on? 3 people stopped to ask me if I knew the machine had no weights. One sweet boy offered to put 10 kgs on. NO, I screamed and he backed away slowly.
Day 16: My muscles ache so bad, I lie in bed and take a painkiller. Someone tells me that I need to move, because otherwise the muscles will tighten and hurt more. So I take a slow walk to the fridge and get a tub of ice cream. Except for the pain, it is a great gym-free day.
Day 17 – 40: I have gotten better at this, albeit slightly. My trainer and I no longer look at each other with dread. He is actually quite sweet when he isn’t trying to get me to do 3 sets of 30 reps each. Right now I can proudly do 1 set of 10 reps. He spends a lot of time these days telling me all about his dental problems. I even sneak a peek at his molars, all the while holding a 10 kg dumbbell in one hand. He is a brave man, I’m thinking.
Have I lost weight with all this exercise? No.
Have I lost fat? Probably not, though I have not asked him to measure my fat again. I am probably down to 20% but then again, I did say that I am an optimist!
Day 55: I am playing tennis after 2 years. After being in a closed, airconditioned gym for 2 months, this feels like heaven. I can feel the breeze on my face. I can smell only my sweat and no one else’s…ah, what bliss. And then it happens. A bad backhand and I feel a sharp pull and a radiating burning pain in my back. The Doctor says I’ve pulled a very large muscle, could be a sprain, no lifting heavy weights, no excessive pressure on the legs, no aggressive twisting at the waist. In other words, no gym for a significant duration. I could have kissed him!
When I tell my trainer this, I could see the look of pure liberation on his face. He is trying to hold his joy in when he tells me that I should take a couple of months off and then re-start all the way from the beginning again. I say no, I am not that masochistic by nature. I don’t know who is happier at this news, him or me. Either way, I say goodbye to him, kiss my 4 months of membership goodbye (no, they would not let me transfer it to anyone, much as I begged) and am back to happily walking in the fresh air.
As for that perfectly toned body? I’ll get it someday, just not today.
"To get back my youth I would do anything in the world, except take exercise, get up early, or be respectable." - Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray, 1891
I start to panic. I am definitely slim, but I can’t really say I am perfectly toned. And I downright refuse to be the only un-toned body around. I re-think my health mantra, which when simply put, is to eat absolutely everything, drink almost everything and walk like a manic. Only it now seems terribly inadequate. Oh, what abuse I have been subjecting my body to. In a desperate attempt to set things right (and also in my quest to aim for higher things, like a JLo body) I join a top gym. I pay for 6 months (to be fair, they have a deal going on that gets me a great membership at 50% of the cost).
Joining the gym is like getting into a special club. I all of a sudden develop a paraphernalia of things that did not exist earlier – clothes of 100% spandex or lycra that cling and make me look horrendous, special gym shoes that I’m promised is different from shoes for tennis or shoes for sprinting, a water bottle from which I can squirt water into my mouth from a distance, a napkin to wipe away that bucket of sweat that comes with losing 1500 calories an hour, a change of clothes, a deodorant and a gym bag to hold all this.
Day 1: I walk in, terrified. Everyone looks at the new girl and I keep my eyes firmly on the floor. I spy the trainer and head straight towards him.
What do I need to do? I ask.
Let’s start with measuring your fat content, he says.
Please note: I personally think that it is much better to hear someone say let’s start a root canal, compared to let’s measure your fat content…but hey, it could just be me.
He gets a strange vernier caliper like gadget and then asks me to hold out various parts of my body, which he then proceeds to pinch and measure. Finally after doing great mathematical calculations, he looks at me and clears his throat.
21, he says.
What’s that, I ask, wondering if he is really asking me for my age.
That’s your fat content, he says.
21% of my body is fat? I am thoroughly disgusted. 1/5 of my body is FAT? I would have pinned the figure closer to 10%, but then again I am an optimist by nature….
It’s actually not too bad, he says, quickly adding – for a girl.
I ask him some questions, get no real answer and come to the conclusion that most people are so shocked at hearing their fat content, they lose their power of speech. This gives the trainers time to pop you on a machine and start your workout, after which you cannot talk even if your life depends on it.
I am started on the basic treadmill.
Don’t touch the red button, don’t touch the yellow switch, don’t touch the keys on your left side, he says.
I keep my hands firmly on the handle and don’t touch anything. I am walking at a happy pace and am thinking this gym thing is not so bad. No wonder everyone is doing it.
He comes back 2 minutes later.
You have not increased speed, he barks.
This, from the man, who told me not to touch anything.
He increases my speed intermittently and after quite a while (er, 7 mins exactly) I begin to feel weak limbed and light headed. I touch the only button he has actually given me permission to – STOP. The treadmill comes to a blissful stop and I tumble off, so glad to be on non-moving ground. Just as my eyes are beginning to focus again, he puts me on the cross trainer. Now this is the mother of all torture in my humble and very limited experience. It requires extreme coordination, great stamina and lots of courage. I lack all of the above, but step on it nonetheless. He starts it up, again after giving me a list of technical instructions that I do not understand. 45 seconds is all it took for me to jump off in a state of extreme agony – my throat is so dry I cannot swallow, my legs are burning, my stomach is paining and as for my lungs – well, they have just collapsed. I lie on the floor (now everyone is really looking at the new girl sprawled on the floor between the cross trainers and the exercise bikes) and I wonder for the 100th time – WHY???
He gives me a squirt of water. I can catch only half of it in my mouth, my eyes are not focusing too well, you see. I am just wondering how I could slink away without being noticed when he says that I should do 15 minutes on the exercise bike and then stop for the day. I pedal at 0 resistance and at 1.5 km per hour – it is all I could do without fainting.
Day 2: My body aches a bit, but my self-appointed personal trainer calls to tell me that I have to come in today. I try to tell him I have a serious life- threatening disease, but I can already hear him scream at someone – another 10 reps - before he hangs up on me.
I show up. I survive 8 minutes on the treadmill, steer clear of the cross trainer, and do 20 minutes on the cycle. He is not amused to see the resistance level and tells me I need to be more sincere. I tell him I just need to be able to breathe right now.
Day 3 – 10: Things get better, but only by a bit. I am no longer on the verge of death, but I still look it as I step off the cross trainer, wet hair plastered across my forehead, sweat dripping off my chin, T-shirt clinging to me in the worst way possible. But I think it can only get better from here.
Day 15: I am wrong. Without warning, he introduces me to resistance training. I am shown a series of exercises on some very scary looking machines. I nod and try to look enthusiastic, all the while hoping those weights don’t do serious body damage.
I’ll start you on the lightest weight, he says.
Ok, I say. It’s what I say when I have no option.
And so I start. 1 rep, 2 reps and the arms just won’t lift it for a 3rd rep. The mind is willing, I am pushing myself, but the body is flatly refusing, non negotiable. He sees me struggling and for the first time I see humanity in him….or maybe it is just pity. Either way, I am grateful and frankly, beyond caring.
I’ll take off all weights and you do these exercises with only the base ok, he says.
Have you any idea how strange it is to see someone do weights with no weights on? 3 people stopped to ask me if I knew the machine had no weights. One sweet boy offered to put 10 kgs on. NO, I screamed and he backed away slowly.
Day 16: My muscles ache so bad, I lie in bed and take a painkiller. Someone tells me that I need to move, because otherwise the muscles will tighten and hurt more. So I take a slow walk to the fridge and get a tub of ice cream. Except for the pain, it is a great gym-free day.
Day 17 – 40: I have gotten better at this, albeit slightly. My trainer and I no longer look at each other with dread. He is actually quite sweet when he isn’t trying to get me to do 3 sets of 30 reps each. Right now I can proudly do 1 set of 10 reps. He spends a lot of time these days telling me all about his dental problems. I even sneak a peek at his molars, all the while holding a 10 kg dumbbell in one hand. He is a brave man, I’m thinking.
Have I lost weight with all this exercise? No.
Have I lost fat? Probably not, though I have not asked him to measure my fat again. I am probably down to 20% but then again, I did say that I am an optimist!
Day 55: I am playing tennis after 2 years. After being in a closed, airconditioned gym for 2 months, this feels like heaven. I can feel the breeze on my face. I can smell only my sweat and no one else’s…ah, what bliss. And then it happens. A bad backhand and I feel a sharp pull and a radiating burning pain in my back. The Doctor says I’ve pulled a very large muscle, could be a sprain, no lifting heavy weights, no excessive pressure on the legs, no aggressive twisting at the waist. In other words, no gym for a significant duration. I could have kissed him!
When I tell my trainer this, I could see the look of pure liberation on his face. He is trying to hold his joy in when he tells me that I should take a couple of months off and then re-start all the way from the beginning again. I say no, I am not that masochistic by nature. I don’t know who is happier at this news, him or me. Either way, I say goodbye to him, kiss my 4 months of membership goodbye (no, they would not let me transfer it to anyone, much as I begged) and am back to happily walking in the fresh air.
As for that perfectly toned body? I’ll get it someday, just not today.
"To get back my youth I would do anything in the world, except take exercise, get up early, or be respectable." - Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray, 1891
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Goodbye Old Year
Another year gone, only memories remain
What I saw and what I heard will never come again,
Like leaves floating on air, it’s there and then it’s gone
The old year has just decided to move on.
The skin is the same and so is the hair
The sight is as bad. No, no improvement there.
The smile is as wide, the waist is as lean
There is no sign of age, no more than last year.
Relationships have changed, some grown, some died
My heart has rejoiced, it has loved, it has cried.
All this has now passed, now wrapped in a thought
to be stored somewhere safe and thus not forgot.
Some new friends have come and left with a smile
Most old friends are around, they’ll stay for a while
They know what’s important and hence I am told
“Baby it’s not you, but the year that's grown old”.
What I saw and what I heard will never come again,
Like leaves floating on air, it’s there and then it’s gone
The old year has just decided to move on.
The skin is the same and so is the hair
The sight is as bad. No, no improvement there.
The smile is as wide, the waist is as lean
There is no sign of age, no more than last year.
Relationships have changed, some grown, some died
My heart has rejoiced, it has loved, it has cried.
All this has now passed, now wrapped in a thought
to be stored somewhere safe and thus not forgot.
Some new friends have come and left with a smile
Most old friends are around, they’ll stay for a while
They know what’s important and hence I am told
“Baby it’s not you, but the year that's grown old”.
Having a Boss vs. Being the Boss
6 years of corporate life has spoiled me rotten. Centrally airconditioned office set to a comfortable 23 degree celsius, 24 hours on-site computer support (alas, cannot blame a computer break down for not having done anything productive in any given hour), airport pick up and drop, flight bookings taken care of by the company travel desk who are so efficient they can change your bookings about 25 times in a span of 2 days and can literally get you on a flight that has already taken off. And oh, the coffee dispenser coffee – so sweet and strong, it can make a believer even out of a coffee teetotaler. And I have not even begun to talk about exciting meetings at exotic locales, personality and leadership building courses that aim at building the perfect..well..er, person and leader, and the benefits of having a full time secretary who keeps the wrong people out, gets the right people in and answers all those pesky emails.
A Company is more than the sum of its parts. I use a capital C for Company because it really does have a personality of its own and I do speak of it as if it is a flesh and blood person….
"This stupid Company won’t even give me a Saturday off."
"The Company says that it will reward good work and good results."
And thus the Company is like a huge human being, with a brain and limbs and hopefully, a heart. Working for a Company is a lot less about who you are and a lot more about whom they need you to be. The Company dictates your vision, your mission and the terms of your bonus. Then ofcourse, there is the question of power. In a large company, and in my position (and completely irrespective of the important sounding designation on my visiting card), I have finally accepted that I only have complete power to choose when to go to the loo and when to call home to check if all is okay. Every other action and timeline is evaluated, discussed and decided at team meetings, by company policies, by my boss or at the very least by my secretary. Sure I can decide when to call these meetings, when to re-evaluate budgets and expand business, but only if all 25 people that I work directly with (and including the temporary secretary) are in complete agreement!
It took me a year to realize that I had given up autonomy in exchange for the tremendous sense of achievement that working in a large Company can bring. I have the authority to make decisions that can affect millions of people around the world, I have the monies to make this happen, I have the resources of brilliant minds and technical know-how literally at my finger tips (I email many of these minds several times a day in hopes that they will save me from impending disasters. Till date, they have, which is why I live to tell this tale). I have efficient supply chain systems in place and powerful advertising to make this happen. It just does not get any better than this, does it?
At the end of the day, when I work here, I am the Company and the Company is me. I am bigger than myself.
But my dental practice is my baby. I dreamed about it…well that’s actually a gross understatement. I fantasized about it. I obsessed about what kind of practice it would be and about the kind of dentistry it would provide. I made blue print after blue print of layout plans, I was architect cum supply chain manager cum desk top publisher cum sweeper. (Thank God the plumbing was being taken care of by someone else.) I chose the exact equipment that I wanted, I selected the perfect wall colour, I decided what my work hours would be, how many staff I needed and what my rates would be. Then more importantly and quite impossibly, I had to be Dr. Genuis and Ms. Sales Person at the same time. Let's just say, I am still working on some of these skills, and no, it's not the former!
When I decided to expand my practice and put in an additional dental chair and some more equipment, it was such a relief to not have to get a work order passed by a purchasing department and to not have to speak to the man who holds the budget who just happens to be sitting in Paris and who wants to club the purchase of my dental chair with the start of another project in a completely different part of the world, thus delaying my plans by 4 months! My new dental chair was in place in 3 weeks – the perks of being my own boss is pretty great.
That’s the beauty of running your own show – there is absolutely nothing stopping you from making it as fantastic as you want it to be. It is clay in your hands, waiting for you to mould it and give it life. But every step has to be well thought out and researched. Mould it one way, and it may be impossible to change it's shape later on. The history of any business weighs heavily on it's future. When it's your baby, you get to determine what it's history is.
To be honest, it is not true that if you run your own business, that you do not have a boss. For me, my bank can make a formidable boss! On some days, so do my patients:-)
Today if I have a happy practice, all the glory is mine. I’ll be the first to admit that all the failures have been mine as well. The buck ends with ME. And I will have it no other way. It’s really is the best feeling in the world to start your own little Company and grow it into a giant. The hardest part is to take that first step.
"Success in business requires training and discipline and hard work. But if you're not frightened by these things, the opportunities are just as great today as they ever were." - David Rockefeller, US banker (1915 )
A Company is more than the sum of its parts. I use a capital C for Company because it really does have a personality of its own and I do speak of it as if it is a flesh and blood person….
"This stupid Company won’t even give me a Saturday off."
"The Company says that it will reward good work and good results."
And thus the Company is like a huge human being, with a brain and limbs and hopefully, a heart. Working for a Company is a lot less about who you are and a lot more about whom they need you to be. The Company dictates your vision, your mission and the terms of your bonus. Then ofcourse, there is the question of power. In a large company, and in my position (and completely irrespective of the important sounding designation on my visiting card), I have finally accepted that I only have complete power to choose when to go to the loo and when to call home to check if all is okay. Every other action and timeline is evaluated, discussed and decided at team meetings, by company policies, by my boss or at the very least by my secretary. Sure I can decide when to call these meetings, when to re-evaluate budgets and expand business, but only if all 25 people that I work directly with (and including the temporary secretary) are in complete agreement!
It took me a year to realize that I had given up autonomy in exchange for the tremendous sense of achievement that working in a large Company can bring. I have the authority to make decisions that can affect millions of people around the world, I have the monies to make this happen, I have the resources of brilliant minds and technical know-how literally at my finger tips (I email many of these minds several times a day in hopes that they will save me from impending disasters. Till date, they have, which is why I live to tell this tale). I have efficient supply chain systems in place and powerful advertising to make this happen. It just does not get any better than this, does it?
At the end of the day, when I work here, I am the Company and the Company is me. I am bigger than myself.
But my dental practice is my baby. I dreamed about it…well that’s actually a gross understatement. I fantasized about it. I obsessed about what kind of practice it would be and about the kind of dentistry it would provide. I made blue print after blue print of layout plans, I was architect cum supply chain manager cum desk top publisher cum sweeper. (Thank God the plumbing was being taken care of by someone else.) I chose the exact equipment that I wanted, I selected the perfect wall colour, I decided what my work hours would be, how many staff I needed and what my rates would be. Then more importantly and quite impossibly, I had to be Dr. Genuis and Ms. Sales Person at the same time. Let's just say, I am still working on some of these skills, and no, it's not the former!
When I decided to expand my practice and put in an additional dental chair and some more equipment, it was such a relief to not have to get a work order passed by a purchasing department and to not have to speak to the man who holds the budget who just happens to be sitting in Paris and who wants to club the purchase of my dental chair with the start of another project in a completely different part of the world, thus delaying my plans by 4 months! My new dental chair was in place in 3 weeks – the perks of being my own boss is pretty great.
That’s the beauty of running your own show – there is absolutely nothing stopping you from making it as fantastic as you want it to be. It is clay in your hands, waiting for you to mould it and give it life. But every step has to be well thought out and researched. Mould it one way, and it may be impossible to change it's shape later on. The history of any business weighs heavily on it's future. When it's your baby, you get to determine what it's history is.
To be honest, it is not true that if you run your own business, that you do not have a boss. For me, my bank can make a formidable boss! On some days, so do my patients:-)
Today if I have a happy practice, all the glory is mine. I’ll be the first to admit that all the failures have been mine as well. The buck ends with ME. And I will have it no other way. It’s really is the best feeling in the world to start your own little Company and grow it into a giant. The hardest part is to take that first step.
"Success in business requires training and discipline and hard work. But if you're not frightened by these things, the opportunities are just as great today as they ever were." - David Rockefeller, US banker (1915 )
LOVE is not a four letter word
Care is a word, a four letter word
It can make you soar on the wings of a bird
If care is the soul, then love is the heart
Two sides of a coin, they are slightly apart
Hope is a word, a four letter word
The most wonderful thing you ever heard
If hope brings peace, then love springs joy
Both merging into life giving alloy
Kiss is a word, a four letter word
Two lips touch while their hearts roar
If kiss is the thread, then love is the quilt
For many a kiss may not love build
Dare is a word, a four letter word
It can capture the warrior and the nerd
If dare is on earth, then love floats above
For you may love to dare but not dare to love
Love is not a word, not a noun nor a verb
It is but life’s most precious herb
To love is to give, to hold and to free
All of one’s being to another’s eternity
It can make you soar on the wings of a bird
If care is the soul, then love is the heart
Two sides of a coin, they are slightly apart
Hope is a word, a four letter word
The most wonderful thing you ever heard
If hope brings peace, then love springs joy
Both merging into life giving alloy
Kiss is a word, a four letter word
Two lips touch while their hearts roar
If kiss is the thread, then love is the quilt
For many a kiss may not love build
Dare is a word, a four letter word
It can capture the warrior and the nerd
If dare is on earth, then love floats above
For you may love to dare but not dare to love
Love is not a word, not a noun nor a verb
It is but life’s most precious herb
To love is to give, to hold and to free
All of one’s being to another’s eternity
A Life Less Ordinary
Today is the first day of the rest of my life. It is a brand new start. Today I have decided to live a life more intentional, a life more deliberate. To not just go with the flow, lovely as it may sound. For, as experience has taught me, the flow may not go any place I want it to. It may not even actually 'flow', but may just pool and puddle and do nothing else but look at me with large droopy eyes, waiting for me to create a wave. I am going to take initiative. Give wishful thinking the promise of reality. No more finding excuses for not doing the things that I really want to do and for not learning more about the things that really interest me.
You ever met one of those people who can take 24 hours and make 48 out of them? They are the ones who do what we can in a day and then so much more. They work, study, play, party and are pretty darn successful at all of these. They find the time to do things that they have to (like work) and then find some more time in the day to do things to are important to their soul. Things that they are passionate about and things that actually make their day worthwhile. This does not happen by incident or accident, rather it does by desire, focus and smart prioritizing.
I know a person just like this. For starters, he works 10 hour days in a high level stressful job. Now if he were a regular jock, he would spend the rest of his time between bed, bath and tv and wishing that he were not missing out on all the fun things in life. But no, this boy - he is way beyond ordinary. He devours fantasy fiction. You know he has read a lot of it when he can quote from them verbatim and then give you a history lesson on when the book was written and what made the author tick. He works out - his physique does not reflect it but hopefully his heart and arteries do. He keeps track of current affairs - nothing like a meal with him to bring me up to date with all topics that I know nothing about - national politics, implications of the budget, new age swamis, and the perils of being in the IITs and IIMs. He does yoga in the mornings, every morning irrespective of the night before. And he listens to music with an unbridled passion. Rock bands from 20-30 years ago are his thing. He knows his bands, he knows their first albums and their last. He listens to them everyday. I learn from him everytime we meet. More than anything I see how rich his life is because he gives his 100% to everything he does.
So here's to a new beginning. I'll start small, big starts always scare the hell out of me. There are so many things that are close to my heart and that I really want to do - re-learn the piano, start a 2nd business, travel more for pleasure, walk everyday, nurture certain friendships, read more of the kinds of books that leave an impression, learn to cook the kind of foods that I like to eat... I've always wanted to write - this blog is my start to a life less ordinary.
"Work like you dont need the money, love like you've never been hurt and dance like no one is watching" - Randall G. Leighton
You ever met one of those people who can take 24 hours and make 48 out of them? They are the ones who do what we can in a day and then so much more. They work, study, play, party and are pretty darn successful at all of these. They find the time to do things that they have to (like work) and then find some more time in the day to do things to are important to their soul. Things that they are passionate about and things that actually make their day worthwhile. This does not happen by incident or accident, rather it does by desire, focus and smart prioritizing.
I know a person just like this. For starters, he works 10 hour days in a high level stressful job. Now if he were a regular jock, he would spend the rest of his time between bed, bath and tv and wishing that he were not missing out on all the fun things in life. But no, this boy - he is way beyond ordinary. He devours fantasy fiction. You know he has read a lot of it when he can quote from them verbatim and then give you a history lesson on when the book was written and what made the author tick. He works out - his physique does not reflect it but hopefully his heart and arteries do. He keeps track of current affairs - nothing like a meal with him to bring me up to date with all topics that I know nothing about - national politics, implications of the budget, new age swamis, and the perils of being in the IITs and IIMs. He does yoga in the mornings, every morning irrespective of the night before. And he listens to music with an unbridled passion. Rock bands from 20-30 years ago are his thing. He knows his bands, he knows their first albums and their last. He listens to them everyday. I learn from him everytime we meet. More than anything I see how rich his life is because he gives his 100% to everything he does.
So here's to a new beginning. I'll start small, big starts always scare the hell out of me. There are so many things that are close to my heart and that I really want to do - re-learn the piano, start a 2nd business, travel more for pleasure, walk everyday, nurture certain friendships, read more of the kinds of books that leave an impression, learn to cook the kind of foods that I like to eat... I've always wanted to write - this blog is my start to a life less ordinary.
"Work like you dont need the money, love like you've never been hurt and dance like no one is watching" - Randall G. Leighton
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