It Happened One Evening At A Coffee Shop

I admit it. I am one of those people. I am one of those people who adores coffee shops. My love affair with these cozy little spaces which smell of warm coffee and harbour romance and writers and dreamers, spans a timeframe that can rival my love for books or my obsession for doing strange and mostly unattractive things to my hair. One of my favourite things to do is to find a cozy corner, get settled in and then lose time and myself in a book. Just the thought of this relaxes me. The actual event itself, the right coffee shop with the right mood with just the right combination of coffee bean aroma juxtaposed with just the perfect view (and in a perfect world, just the right smattering of intelligence and good looks within these glass enclosed walls), is unadulterated nirvana. And the funny thing is that I actually do not drink much tea or coffee at home. People close to me have correctly stated that i only drink coffee if I have to pay upwards of Rs. 75 for it!

And thus a cool evening not too long time ago, I was cocooned in my neighbourhood coffee shop, completely immersed in a great book, The Post-Birthday World by Lionel Shriver. I was supposed to meet a friend at 7 :30 for drinks and dinner and had thus discarded my regular uniform of a pair of jeans and a top, for a slightly more jazzed up fashionable...well...pair of jeans and a shiny slinky top. I was looking forward to some time alone before what promised to be a long, loud and fun filled evening. I seated myself, smiled at the two women at the table in front of me and opened my book. A few moments later, a guy walked in. In a coffee shop with eight empty tables, how was it that he found it fit to come and sit at a table 5 inches from where I was. Darn. But I thought nothing more of him until three minutes later when he leaned over to my table and asked me a question. I looked up rather blankly, to see a pair of huge brown eyes, a close buzz cut and a delicate face with a very very nice smile (this dentist approved of it at any rate). Now let me state just for the record, I have sat alone in coffee shops all over the world, China, US, UK, Thailand, and yet have actually had very few guys try to start a conversation with me, and no I am not talking about the gay guys who flirt with me as a cover when they come in with their mothers or the geriatrics who need help with their trays and who then thank me by telling me all about their grandchildren. But very rarely (I can count the instances on one hand...er...actually on 4 fingers) has someone spoken to me without asking me to pick up their paper napkin or if the chair next to me is available or something equally as unexciting.

Did you say something, I asked him with an expression of mild curiosity on my face (all faked, I was actually terribly curious. Maybe he was going to tell me I dropped my wallet).

The two women sitting in front of me were all of a sudden taking interest in what was transpiring here. So embarrasing for a insanely private person like me.

Can I see the book, he said. I gave him the book and looked away, just a little irritated. I mean couldn't he tell that my sole intention in sitting here was to read and what was the point if someone was going to borrow the book for a while, and leave me to ineffectively twiddle my thumbs. So I did the next best thing one does when one has nothing to do. I started messaging my friend to see if she was running on time. He held on to the book long enough for me to suspect that he was actually reading the back cover and the first chapter. It was either that or that he had pocketed the book and left the scene of the crime. But when I looked back at him, he was miraculously still there, still reading with a slight smile on his face (doctored, I suspect).


So who do you think lies more, men or women - he asks. I am blown away. For one, the question perfectly pertains to the book and how the hell had he figured it out by reading just the back cover. For two, what a brilliantly open ended question. He had already guaranteed himself an hour of conversation. Much as I tried to resist the temptation to answer, I could already see the words forming in my mind.

I think men lie more, I said. I refused to elaborate since I was still trying to not have this conversation.

I think women lie more, they just do it better, he said all the while smiling at me with those gorgeous gorgeous teeth.

So how's the book, he asked. Now I have never seen such empathy and eloquence in ones eyes when enquiring about a book. It was more appropriate for perhaps a question like - will he live?

And as I proceeded to talk about the book, he proceeded to move over to my table, much to my surprise and much to the entertainment of the two women behind me who had given up all pretense of having a conversation in favour of staring owl eyed at us. I'm guessing action in front of their eyes sure beat gossip behind someone else's back.


This, I told myself, was to make up for the fact that no one ever came up to me otherwise. Some force greater than myself was ensuring that I was now getting it in double doses.

So what do you do, he asked me.

I am a dentist, I said suddenly conscious that he'd wonder what kind of a dentist I was if I was sitting at a coffee shop at 6:30 in the evening. The lucky kind, I decided.

Oh great, he said, I need help with my teeth. Again he flashed me that perfect smile.

I seriously doubt it, I said grinning back.


We spoke about all the things people talk about when they first meet. Music, hobbies, friends, food. My book was long forgotten, which was so shocking to me since I usually open the book even before I sit. But I had forgotten that the one thing I liked even more than a great book is a fun conversation.

We discussed clubs. He told me that every time he went to a popular club he had the Chinese Box there.

What is that? Is that a game? I asked him, to which he laughed and laughed and joyfully patted my hand like I was the most endearing thing he had seen in a long time.

It's a platter that has all kinds of Chinese food on it, he educated me. He was learning more things about me than most people knew. For example he now knew that I had no taste for fine dining.


And we talked some more and laughed a lot. The two women behind us were staring at us with huge smiles as if they had personally played a role in boy meets girl. I looked at them and felt a little foolish. It was so obvious that he was flirting for all he was worth, in front of ten filled tables, approximately thirty curious people, without a care in the world. Why wasn't I telling him to bugger off? To be honest, I was more busy waiting for him to ask if I had someone special, just so that I could see his reaction when I told him I was married and had a child who had thrown up on me that morning. Or maybe I would fabricate twins. I was dying to see how he would extricate himself from a hopeless situation. Would he slink back to his table, tail between his legs? Would he get up and leave? Or would he change tracks and stop flirting so charmingly? But no, we spoke of everything but THAT.


A large chunk of our conversation revolved around him guessing my age. He started from 20, God bless him. I did give him a huge hint by telling him I was almost old enough to be his mother (did I ever tell you he looked young? Polished and well spoken and young. Could not have been more than 24 even if I added a few years to his age). He grinned back and said his mother was most definitely not 25. He added all the many years of my professional education (8) and then looked confused because that would make me much older than what he thought. I had half a mind to put him out of his misery, but this was way too much fun.

He asked for my number.

For your teeth? I asked him

Ofcourse. Whatever did you think, he grinned back.

And just like that I gave him my number. To all of you who think that it is really foolish of me to give out my number, I am DOCTOR, you people!. Everyone and their mothers have my number. Complete strangers have my number. About 200 dental companies have my number. My business board has my number. My website has my number. One more person would hardly make a difference. And so I gave him my business card with name, address, number, email and website, as I have to so many hundreds of people. I could see victory in the two women's eyes - Guy got Girl - they were thinking. Hardly, I wanted to tell them. It was more - Guy got Dentist's Number. Or Dentist got Patient, if he was really persistent and I was really lucky!!


He paid for my coffee. I tried to stop him but it seemed to involve too much of touching his arm and hand and torso and was only going to give him more pleasure than I wanted to. And so I did what the very rich do. I graciously allowed him to pay. I was only wishing I had had the foresight to order the special coffee with the hazelnuts and icecream. He said I could pay next time. I told him there would be no next time. He still paid (would have been rather awkward for him to wriggle out now). And then walked me to an auto outside. The two women probably though we were leaving together and I could literally see them judging the youth of today while secretly giving me the thumbs up.


As I walked into the restaurant where I was to meet my friend ten minutes later, I got a message from him.

'You are the sweetest thing ever'

Wow, with a line like that I now know for sure that he was probably not a day over 18! But hey, it's not everyday that I get to be called 'the sweetest thing'. And that is ageless. And so much fun.

Flush-Wordy

Some days there's a whole lot to say

And words trip over each other

Erupting out in a gush

Other days like today

Words are silent with decay

Like water stuck in an ancient rusted flush

Doctor, My Pain Has Subsidized And Other Tales From The Chair. Vol 2

Dentistry is no laughing matter. Coming to the dentist is often a sombre occasion - there's nothing funny to be found in between a root canal and 3-inch thick tartar, no matter how deep you dig. It's all serious business of pain relief, more efficient chewing, better smiles and greater confidence (well there you have it, my 25 second elevator speech on how I help humanity. How many of you can say the same, ha? ha?? Let's not get into a discussion right now on how many of you actually WANT to say these things, especially the chewing part.... ). But if you think that dentistry makes for a boring day, I am happy to report that the biggest laughs and faux paus come from the patients themselves...in house entertainment to rival any prime time sitcom. Let me clarify, it's not that I laugh at patients, but what can I do when Mrs. Vaswani tells me that her pain has subsidized! I look at her in earnest and want to ask her how much her pain costs now with the subsidy.



Sometime the fun is in the topic of discussion. For example I spend about thirty minutes explaining to Mr. Reston that teeth move. And for most of that time, he looks at me strangely, a little doubtfully. I can see him wondering if the dentist has been drinking.

What do you mean, he say for the fifth time, looking at me from the corner of his eye.

I try to look as professional as possible as I say this - Well if there is an empty space near a tooth, it will tend to move into that space. Or if I shape a tooth for a crown and the crown is not fixed in time, the tooth can move in any direction and the crown will no longer fit.

He looks increasingly uncomfortable with this information and says, you tellin' me my teeth are moving? Will I'm tellin' you that they're not.

I explain to him that the teeth do not develop legs and start walking. Teeth drift. They drift very slowly. But drifting is moving.

He summarises - So what you're saying is that some day soon my teeth will 'drift' into my gullet or glide into my palate. What a load of bullock.

I look at his red face flushed with the beginning of anger, his stubborn tone, his hair standing on edge and I do the only thing that a self respecting doctor can do when faced with an excessively argumentative patient - I change the topic and ask him if his bad breath problem is solved.





Or take for instance the matter of repairing a broken tooth. Sometimes teeth break in such a way that they cannot be repaired. And the last time I looked, a dentist was not God. Abhay is one of my favourite patients. He's relaxed on the chair (he falls asleep during treatment on a regular basis), he trusts my treatment and judgement and this helps me treat him to the best of my capabilities. Yet, early Monday morning he walks in carefully cradling I piece of tissue in his palm. I know of his long term relationship with a girl and for a second think that he is going to show me some jewellery that he has bought for her. At the back of my mind, a small voice is asking why he would be carrying said piece of jewellery in a tissue in his palm. He unveils the tissue to expose a crown of the non-jewelled kind.


The top of my tooth just cracked off, he says.


I look at it and yes, he has in his hand the entire crown of his molar. I peek into his mouth and see just an empty space where the molar should be. An xray reveals a tooth broken beyond hope. And yet, Abhay is as hopeful as ever.


We can stick it back right, he asks


No we cant, I say.


Can't we just glue it back on, he says. And then for my benefit he adds - Superglue? Fevikwik?? Fevicol??? Kwikfix???? I wonder at his familiarity with various glue materials.


This is not a cocktail stirrer. It cannot be 'glued' back, I say.


How about if we keep it in place with a rubber band which bands it to the next tooth, he asks.


Wont work, I tell him honestly.


Ok, he says, what about if we drill a hole in the root and screwed this top back onto the root, he asks.

It's not like a screw on your washing machine fell off, I tell him, feeling the need to put things into perspective.

But perseverance is Abhay's middle name.

The last thing he said to me before we both burst out laughing is - Lets take the root out too. Then we can weld the crown back to the root and it can be placed right back into my gum.

I do know this - if I ever decide to do research in how to fix a badly broken tooth, Abhay is the first person I'll call.


And sometimes you just cannot help but laugh at the silliness. Arjun is a well known model and has been a patient for the past several months. We're just about to start his treatment when his phone rings. He picks it up and tells the person on the line - I can't talk now. I am in the middle of a shoot!!


A dentist has a tough job. We occasionally have to deal with paranoid partners, as in the case of Nikhil and his girlfriend. Nikhil is getting a smile makeover. It involves veneers, crowns, teeth whitening and many hours on my chair. After the third day of treatment, he tells me that his girlfriend is getting mad at him because he seems to be spending so much time with me.

As if on cue, his girlfriend (whom I have never met before) barges into my operating room and says - Anytime I ask him where he is, he says he's at the dentist.

I look at her benevolently and start to explain how this is a long procedure with no short cuts, but she is on a roll and I cannot get a word in edgewise. When I stop talking, I realise that she is saying - He's with you at nine in the morning, at two in the afternoon, at eleven in the night.

I tell her, he maybe with me at nine in the morning and at two in the afternoon, but I have no idea who he is with at eleven in the night and it sure as hell aint me.

Nikhil responds intelligently by burying his face into his hands....


Most recently, it was Mr Lall who was getting a root canal done. I had placed a temporary filling in his tooth (the temporary filling is a bit rubbery). He calls me later to say that the 'bubblegum' that I had placed in his mouth was getting loose and should be take it out and throw it or could he chew on it for a while!!!

I rest my case.

Happy smiling everyone.

Hello and Goodbye

Goodbye

friendships that don't mean much

mechanical days and tired nights

focussing on things that in the long run mean nothing

viewing the world through dark and cynical eyes

bad books and worse music

mourning the past and obsessing over the future

unmindful of the present

agonizing over boys with issues

agonizing over boys, period

monday morning blues and saturday night highs

loss of freedom and spontaneity

planning for the next 1 year or 10

broken dreams and failing courage

giving up and losing out

living incompletely


Hello

living preciously

living passionately

living


(Written on the eve of taking a one month break from work. Star gazing, bonding with friends, rediscovering old loves [er, of the non-human kind], basking in eternal love [yes, of the human kind] and living fearlessly are under-rated professions in my opinion and I look forward to a month of doing them justice)

All Left Feet

I peep around the door and see a huge room with about 20 couples. Lots of youngsters, but also quite a few grey heads. There is some Latin music playing in the background. The sense of anticipation is so high, I can feel adrenalin shoot through my veins as if I am at the start of an Olympic race. But no, this is something of far less national interest and of far greater personal interest - I am joining a dance class session at the Bangalore Club. My parents recently signed up for this dance class and they cajoled the instructor into letting me try a session out when I was visiting. I haven't been this excited since...er...well....to be honest, since Brian tried to hold my hand in high school (that was the very first of my hand holding experiences and tragically still rates as my all time high) . In my mind I can already see myself gliding across the floor. I can see myself doing twists and little marches and twirls and all the while looking fantastic while staring into my partner's eyes and making great conversation...yes, my mind is a wicked thing and I firmly believe that my power to hallucinate is one of my greater talents.



Alan is our instructor. He's there in track pants and a t-shirt that says - Chicks fall for guys who dance. I like him already. Most others have dressed up for the occasion - not sure of it's a Bangalore thing or a Bangalore Club thing. Since all the women get to dance with all the men (as in you don't just stick to your partner but you shift partners at every step), I can see that care has been taken with creaming hands, painting nails, spraying on the deodorant, then spraying plenty of perfume over it, shaving off the 4 o'clock whiskers and shoes polished to a reflective shine. It is all in all quite a grand affair for a dance class. Even the youngsters are well dressed and non-grungy. How cool is that.



Most of the class has already had a few sessions of Salsa. As the Salsa music comes on, the groups deftly divides itself as efficiently as Moses divided the Red Sea - men on one side, women on the other. This is where everyone re-caps their steps without partners. 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8. More precisely it is 1-2-3-clap-5-6-7-clap. The steps are easy enough to pick up by watching the others. The basic salsa step is a forward backward step. If you can manage to shake your hips and arms along with the footwork, and at the same time miraculously manage to not look like a rabid dog, you then know that you have a bright future in the dance world and you can then work on upping the 'sexy' quotient. For me, the challenge is more on looking 'human' and less on looking 'sexy', a problem I recognise right away. But hey, I am getting into the groove, I am doing the steps right and feeling a wonderful sense of liberation. I am thinking that I should have done this years ago.



And then suddenly it is time to pair up. I am paired with a man who dances like Fred Astaire and smells like the Malboro man - a heady mix of cologne and tobacco which magically transforms the aura around him. The only problem here is my two left feet are no match to his perfectly performing ones. When I bump into him and step over his feet for the second time, he kindly asks me if this is my first time. I start to nod yes, which causes a seconds lack of concentration and my two feet finally trip over each other and I fall flat on my face. The dancing comes to a complete stop, people rush over, my parents (who until then, I thought were kind people) are laughing away in a corner and wondering if they should tell anyone that they are related to me, I sit up far more embarrassed than hurt. It has taken me a mere 6 salsa steps and fifteen minutes to learn that dancing is indeed rocket science and I am the equivalent of a third grade imbecile.



But when you hit rock bottom things can only move up. I stand up to discover that my new partner is a cute young chap who looks extremely nervous at partnering the new girl whose dance moves involve intimate contact of her face iwth the floor. I gather up my fast fading courage and draw my thick skin closer and I start to dance cautiously. Maybe because this boy isn't as good a dancer or maybe because falling is the absolute worst thing that can happen to me, but my initial trepidation and self consciousness evaporate. I start doing the steps right, of course I have to stare at my feet all the while without which my mind goes blank and I cannot remember the next step. Alan keeps telling me that dancing is all about romance and social interaction and staring at my feet means that I am completely ignoring my partner. I smile at him, all the while wanting to grab him by the collar and let him in on the secret that staring at my feet has less to do with being unsocial and more to do with keeping myself upright instead of horizontal on the floor.


Alan moves onto a new step. It involves holding the right leg at right angles to the left one and then moving the left leg behind the right one and moving your body the other way, then twirling and finishing it off with a hair combing action...I wasn't kidding when I said this is rocket science. A few practise rounds of this and those who can dance are looking pretty darn good. Those who cannot dance look like they are on the verge of a grand mal epilepsy attack. My mom has mastered the steps pretty well, her habit of doing things precisely has permeated into her dancing. My dad on the other hand has a non-existant sense of rythmn, he cannot tell his left from his right and no matter how hard he tries, he can only start the first step on the third beat! With all these handicaps, his salsa looks like he is playing tennis on the spot. I suspect that I look like drunk toddler when I dance but by now I am having too good a time to care.


It is a one hour class. I get the chance to dance with all the guys. The tall one who has to bend at his waist to hold my hands. The young one who has to count loudly to keep his feet in time. The aggressive one who insists on showing me all the wrong steps (like I wasn't doing enough of that all on my own). The good looking one whose eyes I look into, never mind that I don't get a single step right with him. The 65 year old who stops to catch his breath after every 3 steps. The cute one who dances so well, the only thing I can do is stop and admire. The corporate one who decides when to start and stop and delegates the job of keeping the beat to me. The Bollywood one who keeps looking at himself in the mirror and (oh horror) keeps pouting.

The dancing class is over too soon. Did I learn to dance over that one hour - probably not. But I did learn that I would love to try it again. I imagine that in a hundred classes or so, I just might learn to be slightly graceful, to not step on too many toes and to smile and keep beat at the same time. But I know that I'll start enjoying the process from the first step.

We Are Just Good Friends

Some questions are eternal. They serve to eternally perplex and eternally amuse. My favourite quintessential eternal question is - Can a guy and girl be just good friends? It's one of those age old questions, one that has no right answer and yet it begs to be asked every now and then.

Ofcourse the ambiance in which this question is asked determines the quality of the answers you get. Ask it during a mellow evening, 3 beers down and Doors playing in the background, and chances are you'll get to hear some very funny experiences and some very honest opinions. Ask it at a less opportune time (like just before entering a meeting, if you have really bad judgement) and your guaranteed response will be a cold sharp look.

I'm sitting in a bar with a friend, rock music on the side and potato fries in our mouths. This is the perfect setting to delve into shady conversation such as this.

Can a guy and girl be just good friends? I ask her. Her being Priya, an old friend and someone who has just exited her 15th relationship in half as many years. Probably not the most appropriate person to get an opinion on being just good friends with a guy , but hey, she's candid and opinionated and she could be just what I need to get this question answered.

Sheesh ofcourse they can, she replies, all the while trying to make eye contact with the rocker looking fellow sitting on the opposite side of the bar. She continues - The pre-requisite is that each has to be physically repulsive to the other, otherwise there is always the danger that chemistry may creep in through the back door.

This from the girl who is drop dead gorgeous...but then again she can just about spell platonic. Hmmm, maybe she does have a point here.

So does a platonic friendship rely on smelly fungal feet, black teeth with holes in them and 300 gigantic warts? I turn to ask her this but am instead treated to the eye rumba between her and the rocker. I am guessing that those two are not heading up the platonic street any time soon.

I ask this to another friend, Sara. She's petite and bubbly and adorable and has been married for ten years, but not without her share of guy adventures.

Sure a guy and a girl can be friends. But I have found that a guy and I just cannot be good friends, she says ruefully. She puts it down to the fact that she thinks she sends out wrongs signals inadvertently, she is all green lights where reds should be glowing. Hence she has cut men friends out, no men, no complications. And yet despite her best attempts, her stubborn signals must be shining bright for she's is always the one to get hit on when when we go out, she has old boyfriends (and boys who were friends) constantly trying to get back in touch and a series of new men trying to get her number. In her defence, I have to say that the only guy she actually hangs out with a lot is someone who is awfully cute but obviously someone in whom she senses no danger and someone she introduces as 'my best girlfriend'.

I ask a guy I have known for quite sometime now. Can you and a girl be just good friends?

I'm just good friends with you, are'nt I, he asks with a twinkle in his eye. According to him, this is a question for an 18 year old. They are apparently the only ones who should be racked with strange and meaningless questions like this. Once you have crossed 30, you should only worry about the monumental questions like, how can I keep from balding and how can I make it last longer? We giggle together like the old friends that we are.

This question is irrelevant to an 18 years old, I tell him. Most 18 year olds can muster up enough chemistry even with a tea pot.

It's all age related, he insists. Then he elaborates - At 18, every girl you see has potential. At 30, you are probably in a relationship and it becomes easier to be just friends with other girls. At 70, the only friendship that exists is of the platonic type. Chemistry at this age is related to how quickly the aspirin tablet will dissolve in water.

Okay, so here's a new twist to an old tale. Can a guy and a girl be just good friends despite some initial chemistry / attraction? Are'nt there people we all know who were attracted to each other, maybe even went out for a bit before realising that they worked better as friends than as a couple and have stayed great friends ever since?

They probably can be friends even when the attraction exists, my friends says after chewing on the thought for a while. He continues - but as long as there is some amount of attraction, under no circumstances, not even accidently, should she try to look any prettier or touch his hand or kiss his cheek or say she missed him and wear a blouse with the top button undone!

Our final conclusion is that minor attractions can be managed if the girl acts like a bitch, dresses like a nun and keeps a room's distance between them.

It appears that being just good friends is hard work. Either there needs to be replusion of some sort. Or one foot needs to be in the grave. So what about people who really are just good friends? Work colleagues? Gym buddies? Singing in the same choir? Drinking buddies? Movie buddies?

They're probably people who just dont find other people sexually attractive, says Arpana, close friend, confidant and someone who has managed to convert even the most complicated of relationships - her marriage - into a platonic state of two good friends living together as flat-mates. She says that opposite sexes can be great friends, but only if the friendship is not complicated by lust. You can never be friends with a guy you fantasize about. I agree completely. No point playing Scrabble with a guy and pretending to think of a word that starts with an s and ends with a t, which will fetch you 22 points, when all you are dying to do is run your fingers through his hair. Bad bad idea.

So here is the final conclusion from a bunch of been-there-done-that people. As a girl if you want to be good friends with a guy, you need to be terrible looking, mean, married and not in touch with your sexual side. As a guy, if you want to be good friends with a girl, you need to leave your testosterone at home and belch a few times for good measure.

As for me, I do think guys and girls can be just good friends. It's got do with being with the right people, being happy with other aspects of your life, being in a satisfying relationship, having areas of interest with your friends and trust . Have I had strange vibes from guys I thought I was being just friends with? Er, yes, especially in those hormone driven college days, but I moved beyond it or through it depending on how important the friendship was.

But today I am good friends with several guys. Fun, intellegient, talented guys. And I dont look at them as 'guys', I look at them as friends. And we're just good friends. No complications, no issues. And you know what this means right - Either that I am acompletely unattractive pain in the neck or that I'm one of the luckiest girls in this world.

the mind vs. destiny

destiny is muscled, sinewy and strong

plowing through best laid plans

unheeding to what the soul wants

erect and unweilding it stands

but my mind has a mind of it's own

more fierce and willful than fate's hand

it knows my heart which destiny ignores

and i know life will always be grand

for as fate pulls and shoves with might

the mind fights tooth and nail

both may be matched in strength and wrath

but my mind will rarely fail

Mini Arranged Marriage

Mini is getting married. To all of you who don’t know her (and most of you won’t since Mini is not really her name, you see), she is one of my closest friends. This is an event that marks miracles this side of the resurrection. To recap mildly, Mini is an aberration. She fits into her family the same way a pole dancer would fit into the knitting club. She is bold, they are conservative. She is reckless, they are planners. She stands a full head taller than them, they are...well...short people. Her family routinely discusses which planet they think she has dropped down from and regular blame is assigned for her faulty genes (her father’s father is the most popular culprit since his was the family had the rogues, the smugglers, the travellers and the thinkers).

Mini for her part, is an expert eye-roller. She can even roll her eyes with her eyelids shut. It has gotten to be such a habit that I am quite sure it has been taken the place of a nervous tick. She now does it involuntarily (much like her breathing) and at the most inappropriate times (like when someone poor unsuspecting soul is complimenting her).

Mini’s marriage (or more recently the lack of one) has been a source of conversation in her house since she was 21. Most girls in their family are married by the time they reach 24. 25 and single is considered a very dangerous place to be. 26 is considered dead. At 32, Mini is apparently a walking talking veteran ghost. Yet she remains unfazed. Her strategy, for better or worse, is that if you can’t beat them or join them, then ignore them. And she does it with such panache. Her not being married is not for her family’s lack of trying. There was the boy who wanted a homely girl, only to meet her and amend it to ‘quiet’ girl. Then there was the proposal where she was asked to sing. She did walk out of that one saying she was definitely underqualified for the position. There was also the boy who was 2 inches shorter than she was. She didn’t mind, he did, end of story. Her family even tried where there was no hope. The boy who was already married. Only that it was in an obscure court and could / would be annulled and could she please marry him now since he promised to get everything sorted out within the year. She was thrilled to have a reason to not talk to her family for days after that. She was 28 at the time.

A few weeks ago, Mini calls me. I can immediately tell that something is up from her deceptively calm voice that quivers just a little bit. Mini is only calm when things are going terribly wrong. Otherwise she is the human equivalent of an electric storm.

There’s a boy coming to see me, she says without preamble.

Boy? I am a bit confused.

Boy, man, whatever, she replies and I get it.

I don’t know what to say. We’ ve done the “wow, that’s great” routine way too many times. So I say the next best thing - oh no.

Oh yes, only now that I’m 32 it no longer qualifies as a proposal. They’re calling it the ‘Family Friends Visit’, she mutters.

What do you know about him, I ask her. I am always more curious about the boys than she is (I don’t think I even want to know what that says about me!).

She sighs. He’s a venture capitalist, he is with a bank, he’s 35 years old, he probably weighs 100 kgs and has bad breath, she rattles off.

I can help with the bad breath, I tell her.

I can literally see her rolling her eyes. Do you think mainly about teeth and nothing else, she complains.

I have half a mind to tell her that I think only of teeth and nothing else, but I do like to keep the image going that I have half a dozen important and interesting things perusing in my head and hence wisely keep my mouth shut.

He’s coming over tomorrow. Say you’ll come over and hang out with me so I feel like I have one friend in the room, she says.

Mini needing moral support is an alien concept. She normally has enough mental strength to booster the Indian army. But I am not about to say no and turn down the chance to be in the middle of more action than I’ve seen in a very long time.

I go to her house early the next day. I am dressed inappropriately in jeans and a t-shirt. Her mother gives me severe disapproving looks. I try to look apologetic. Mini is in her room. She has a list ready of all the things that she will not do. I first think that she is talking about her life, but soon realize that she is referring to the next 4 hours.

I will not walk into the room carrying a tray of tea. I will not wear a sari. I will not sing/dance/recite poetry/touch my toes. I will not attempt to make 20 bhajjias in 5 minutes. I will not look coyly at him and bat my eyelids. I will not cry afterwards.

I cannot agree with her more. Besides, the only thing she can do effectively with her eyes is roll them. Batting them is not in her repertoire, I point out to her.

She wears a beautiful cotton salwar kameez. In mild rebellion she ties her lovely hair up in a pony tail. Wears minimal make up which in my opinion only makes her look more beautiful. Puts on 3 inch heels which makes her very tall indeed. She’s ready.

The ‘family visitors’ have arrived. Mini is upstairs but her eye rolling has started as soon as the first hello is said between the prospective families. Her grandmother has already started her nervous cough.

This is all so blasé, she grumbles.

I look at her as strictly as I know how and say, Mini, no matter what, no matter why, please please do not roll your eyes when you get down there.

Her mother comes up to say that her grandmother is having a bad coughing fit in the middle of all this and can Mini please first get her some warm water and then come out to meet everyone. Mini puts a glass of warm water onto a tray and goes in search of her grandmother only to realize that her grandmother is sitting with all the visitors and that Mini has entered the room with the dreaded glass on a tray. I can see her kicking herself over breaking the first in the list of things-I-will-not-do, never mind that the tea is now a glass of water. Her family is creative at desperate times, I give them that. I give her credit for not rolling her eyes, though she’s had to keep her eyes remarkably fixed on her gran to prevent them from making their usual journey upwards. In all this Mini has yet to look at the boy, but I have had no such delays. As I look at him looking at her, I begin to smile. Maybe this day will be alright after all.

She finally stops glaring at her gran long enough to look around the room. As her gaze settles on him, I see her break another promise in her will-not-do list. She smiles coyly at him and bats her eyelids. The rest as they say is history. And no she didn’t have to do sit ups or sew a button in front of them. No he is not shorter than her in her 3 inch heels. And no he is not overweight, or geeky, or creepy, or just plain old, or boring (all the things she was worried about). And as she triumphantly informs me later, no he has does not have bad breath.

She’s getting married 3 months from now. More importantly, she is reformed. She tells him to drive safe. A few months ago, she would not have tolerated anyone giving her the same advice. A drive safe comment would normally push her into careening across asphalt at 100 km per hour. She now spends hours on the phone when in the normal case she is so distracted that it is near impossible to keep her on the line for more than 3 minutes even in a life or death situation. She now worries about whether he’s eaten enough. I am beyond shocked. The last time Mini worried about anyone eating enough was in 2002 when her dog fell ill. She now watches romantic comedies and cries when earlier her idea of a light flick was Kill Bill.

And finally, finally, she has stopped rolling her eyes! God bless you, Mini.

Hush

Listen carefully

Look inwards

For God speaks

In quiet whispers

Last And Final Call

I love flying. Admittedly for purely selfish reasons. I love being in my own coccoon of peace for two hours or ten, being able to watch movies back to back, being able to relish food that a hungry person would not touch normally, being able to read while the body moves at 800 kilometers per hour (amazing), for being completely cut off from the world with a very valid reason. But most importantly, I love the identity crisis that flying presents me with. Once I enter the airport, I am anonymous. Despite the fact that the ticket, the boarding pass, my passport, and all documents of any relevance have my name on it, when I fly I am anonymous. I am surrounded by 300 people who don't know me from Adam (er, Eve in this case). I can be whomever I want. I can be this gorgeous sophisticated girl who turns her nose up at everything (I carry this out to perfection despite my nose being a little too flat for it). Or I can be this giggly cute girl who smiles at everyone. Or I can be the pain in the ass who complains about everything. Oh, I relish the thought of re-defining myself if only for a few air borne hours.



Ofcourse then there are the flights that have forced me to be a certain persona despite my best intentions at being someone else. Like the British Airways flight that lost my luggage (again). Up until that time, I was Ms. Calm & Unruffled, my head did not turn even when the passenger in front of me threw up loudly. Yet the lost luggage miraculously transformed me into a screaming and shouting shrew, fighting for the 200 pounds compensation to buy new underwear and a few jackets - yes it was a matter of life and death, I yelled at them. Did they want the complication of death by hypothermia - cause of death: loss of baggage and warm clothes by careless airline? Or the Singapore Airlines flight where I was the ultra casual, torn jeans, thin t-shirt, well worn sneakers, no make up Ms. Grunge until I realised that I was seated next to the Fashion Editor for Elle. I did desperately attempt damage control by taking out the newest Estee Lauder mascara from my purse and waving it around like a wand hoping she'd notice that I was infact slightly fashion conscious - but she just looked at me though eyelashes that were like a forest and said - honey, I'm not sure if you know but that is expensive. I did deliberate laying out my Clinique and Mac make-up on my food tray, but for that I'd have to get into the aisle and then she'd see my ultra scruffed shoes. But my favourite was when I was Ms. Gothic - 1 inch thick black kajal on my upper and lower eyelids, funky hair, dark blue nail polish, nude lipstick, 10 black and silver bracelets, two silver crosses on my ears, a larger silver cross hanging from my neck and an all black ensemble where the t-shirt said BAD BOYS ROCK. The steward looked at me strangely as he seated me, I saw him glancing at my seat number, probably earmarking it as a source of future problems. About 10 minutes later someone sits next to me. I turn trilled at the prospect of scaring someone new when I see a very distinguished looking gentleman whom I recognise to be an extremely well known doctor. I spend the rest of my flight trying to convince him that I am a doctor too and that yes, I do have a great practice and no, I do not normally dress this way and no I am NOT a troubled teenager.



I recently flew to the U.S. on work. This time I was going to focus on the things that were important - the movies, the desserts, the sleep, catch up on my reading. I was looking forward to a quiet flight. I was going to be Ms. Not Interested In Talking and would have my iPod glued into my ears for good measure.



I sit back loving the seats, I go through the food menu, I scan the entertainment listings, boy was I in for the flight of my life. In hindsight, I cannot fathom how something that started so right, ended up so wrong.



It all starts when he sat next to me. He smiles, I smile. I look away, it is all part of the 'dont even think of starting a conversation' move. Twenty seconds later, he taps me on my shoulder. I look at him. His lips are moving. Does he not see the eyephone in my ears? I slowly take my iPod out.


Yes, I smile

Hi, he says, travelling to New York?

I stare at him in amazement. I am on a flight to New York and yet he asks me this?

Yes, I say for lack of a better answer.



I turn away. I turn the volume up on my music till I am sure he too can hear it. Twenty seconds later, he taps me again. I turn towards him incredulously. This time I can see his lips moving but I do not take my eyephones out. It is only when I see him gesticulating wildly that I realise perhaps he is trying to tell me something important. I take my iPod off and smile.


I hope you don't mind but I might snore when I sleep, he says sheepishly

No problem, that's what my head phones are for, I smile back

There is one more thing, he says, when they come around with the liqour can you please take two extra bottles of Black Label for me, if you don't mind?

I don't know what I am more aghast at - that fact that he feels comfortable enough to ask me this or the fact that he has mistaken me for his wife or sister or best friend.

I'm sorry I cannot do that, I say and firmly plug my earphone back in.

And the flight has not even taken off.

As the liqour cart is being wheeled around, he sneaks glances at me. I figure he is trying to muster up the courage to ask me again and so I pointedly stare into my book. I order some white wine for now and a Coke for later. He orders two bottles of Black Label. After forty minutes, he goes for a walk and comes back with one more bottle.

Good for him, he has figured this out all on his own, I think.


As I plug into the in-flight entertainment, he drifts off to sleep. A few minutes later, I cannot understand why the movie has a strange background sound. Something like a drum roll. I fiddle around with the settings but cannot seem to get rid of the sound. It is at this stage that I also begin to notice some other passengers looking my way.

As I take off the headphones, a very loud unnatural sound accousts me. A sound that overshadows the drone of the aircraft, that dulls the chatter of the other passengers, that even infiltrates through the inflight entertainment. It is the sound of a chugging locomotive going through a tunnel to a background orchestra of a hundred out of tune trumpets - by gosh it is his snore. No wonder he had felt the need to warn me about it. If only he had told me he makes a horrendous, painful, choking whining noise when he sleeps, but no, he chose to call it a snore which completely misled me into thinking it would be...well...a snore.

I have no option. I put the volume on loud and try and lose myself in George Clooney's eyes, a feat normally achieved without any effort on my part, but not today. I feel cheated. I briefly contemplate stuffing two pens up his nose or putting a wad of paper in his mouth but chicken out at the last moment. Just as I am staring at him in complete frustration, he opens his eyes, yawns loudly (I stop breathing for a minute lest there be any exchange of air), goes for a walk down the aisle and comes back with a Black Label bottle. I watch him surreptiously as I have yet to see him take a single sip of the stuff. He glances around furtively and then opens the lapel of his jacket and the bottle disappears inside. I stifle a grin, I can't wait for him to start loading up his jeans pockets with bottles.

In the meanwhile, I know my seat comes with a foot massage. Mine is wonderful and puts me to sleep almost immediately. A long, black, dreamless sleep, during which time, unknown to me, two more bottles have been delivered to the next seat. As I wake up and make my way to the washroom a little unsteadily, two air hostesses smile at me sympathetically. Another one comes to hold my hand and guide me into the washroom. I am perplexed.

As I exit, one of them asks me if I'm feeling well and says that a lot of liqour can sometimes cause dehydration when flying.

A lot of liqour??? Could they possibly be referring to my 30 ml of white zinfandel consumed 6 hours ago?

The airhostess continues unfazed. She has appearently seen many drunk passengers feigning sobriety.

Do you think a coffee would help? she asks me

Help what? I ask, really confused.

Help you feel better, she says

But I feel fine, just a little groggy, I insist.

She smiles knowingly. It's fine honey, she says. Most people are pretty groggy after a few Balck Labels.


I think the shock on my face finally registers.


But he kept telling us that his friend would like some more and we thought you were the friend, she says.


I march back to my seat distintively less groggy and significantly more angry. What audacity. How dare he. As I reached my seat, I note that he has his foot massage going on and is sitting with his eyes shut and listening to something on his headphone.

I try and control my temper as I do not want to create a scene in front of the crew. So I stick my headphones back into place and this time I try I really try to focus on the movie. After a while, from the corner of my eye, I can see that he is saying something to me. I look determindely at the screen, I ignore him, I refuse to look at him. I know that his voice is growing louder, but this is my space and I am not obliged to chare it with him. But then he starts gesticulating again, wild gestures which for some reason seem to be concentrated around the front of his pants. I finally look at him helplessly as I turn down the volume. I am just in time to catch him tell me, at the top of his voice - Your zip is undone.

All eyes turn towards me. I look down and he is right. Now I know and the entire plane knows that my zip is down and that worse still, I'll probably have to stand up to zip up.

It is the longest 10 hours of my life. I refuse to acknowledge him for the rest of the journey. He on the other hand now seems to think that we're best friends since we have crossed a personal line (my zip being down and all that). He talks a lot, I keep completely silent and shut my eyes.

Finally when we get off the flight, I am almost tempted to ask for a refund. He on the other hand has arrived in good spirits. As he is disembarking, he confides in me - My friend in New York loves Black Label and asked me to get him some from the aircraft. The crew were really nice about it, I just had to tell them that it was for my friend and they kept giving me more without asking any questions.

I know, I say wearily to his retreating back, as I finally pull my zip up.

Five x Four

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

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.

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.

Yours Fatally

life said to death

it's a downright pity we met

death said to life

I'm always around but you forget

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!

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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