Angreji Mujic

I hardly need to emphasize how close-knit a family I belong to. This results in strange side-effects. One very prominent one happens to be my lack of interest in English music. I never needed it as a medium where teenagers usually find a vent for their emotions or peace or an identity (in saying they love what everyone else loves?!). I was never alone. I didn't have too many friends. I didn't have cable TV.

In a world governed by stereotypes, my ignorance in this sphere has often proved to be a handicap. I cannot blame other people. The extent of my ignorance can be quite appalling. For instance, till recently I thought that Pink Floyd was an individual and not a band..err..or is it vice versa? (just lost most of my blog readers. sigh)

I have made attempts at familiarizing myself with the different genres and the popular artists. I quite enjoy listening to Marc Anthony. I even bought a collection of Bryan Adams' songs. And this purchase led to a startling discovery. Rock music puts me to sleep.

Millions of people believe that the best days of their life were back in the Summer of '69 (even though they weren't born then! previous janmas?). And they jump and shout and scream the fact. However, listening to Bryan Adams singing this song and more importantly songs like Everything I do or let's make a night to remember has consistently led me to nights of blissful slumber. Nights I remember nothing about, thankfully!

Last night I couldn't sleep. Tossing and turning in my bed, I wondered at what I could possibly do which would help. I tried eating something thinking about the dinner I had eaten very little of. Logged on to the internet. But who has ever felt sleepy while surfing?! Fearing my parents catching me using the comp, I went back into bed. Listening to the radio on my walkman I hoped to hear some soothing hindi oldies. Unfortunately, all channels seemed to be catering to the truck driver listeners at that hour.

And then it happened. One channel was playing English music. The RJ , not a very professional one, was talking in a sweet calm voice. He obviously believed that nobody was listening to him. Sample this: "This song is dedicated to my fun friend who means a lot to me, with whom I have shared a lot of fun moments, who has cried on my shoulder more often than I have cried on hers, with whom I have fought a lot but who is a great friend" Well..something to this effect! And then he played a song. I have no clue who the singer was and I cannot recall the lyrics. All I know is that it had the most calming effect on me and I fell asleep soon after!!!

[Kind people have enquired about my mother's wellness and that of the gadgets in my house. The washing machine is working fine. However, the water level indicator (which tells us how much water is present in the tank on the ground floor and how much in the overhead tank) has conked off. While I was writing this post, she was shouting at the engineer on the phone asking him to send a more competent fellow. Please pray for us.]

Everyday Scenes

Scene 1: Four people gobbling down their lunch in five minutes to be able to catch the 2 p.m. show of Parineeta on the day it was released. A few weeks later, three of them rushing to catch the first day first show of Paheli

Scene 2: Four people playing Dumb Charades till midnight because there is no electricity.

Scene 3: Four people out on a morning walk deciding impromptu to head for a two-day vacation. Bags packed and out of the house in one hour flat.

Scene 4: Four people trying to fit on one bed and in the process, making such a ruckus that concerned neighbours ring the doorbell to enquire if everything is alright.

That's my family. I love them.

Why My Mother Might Get Murdered

Disclaimer: Dear God, this is meant to be a joke so PLEASE shut Your Holy eyes and ears .

The past couple of months have been rough for my mom. A lot of things in the house stopped functioning: A tap in the loo, the washing machine, the sewing machine, the water pump, a bad drycleaning job, a misbehaving electrician, cheating painters and carpenters. Co-operation from family members was also on a low. Dad and I have never been of much help and when my sweet sister decided to move back into the house, she came home yellow. Cherry on the cake: Our maid went off to her village for a month. You get the picture.

To get the things fixed was no mean task. For instance, to fix the tap, we needed to contact the company which has given a lifetime guarantee. The numbers we had did not work. So, mom and I ended up calling approximately 50 bathroom fittings dealers trying to locate one which had the company's new numbers. We eventually discovered that the numbers we had were correct but could only be reached when dialed from a mobile phone.

The drycleaners was another disaster. The clothes which were returned to us looked dirtier than they had originally been. Though we doubt whether someone ever cleaned them, they had definitely been ironed. This we know because the clothes had been burnt and hence were shining at different places. Mom was compelled to make some very nasty phonecalls to the shop which included references about how she had been their customer for years and how she was very disappointed and how nobody who cheats can ever succeed. Yesterday while taking a u-turn near our home, mom spotted the drycleaner's rickshaw. She tells dad, "Yeh to XYZ Drycleaner ki gaadi hai. Isko to neeche de do."

The biggest pain was the washing machine. Infact it was Kirthi's post on her problems with her mom and the washing machine that prompted me to post this. Our machine is ten years old. It stopped working and mom called in the repair guy. He changed the bearings and convinced mom to sign the annual maintenance contract. She agreed. However, the machine did not work. Since it was now under the AMC, all spare parts could be changed free of cost. Mom called and an engineer arrived. He wasn't the same guy who had come earlier. Mom wasn't too happy with the fact as a single person handling the issue would have made more sense. Anyway, he came, examined the machine and said that the drum would have to be replaced. Few days passed before a drum became available. A new engineer arrived with the drum. Fixed it. He said we will need to buy a new trolley which he will get the next time. In the meantime, we were to use the machine and see if it was working alright. The machine still refused to work. He came with the trolley and rechecked the machine. Diagnosis: the motor will have to be changed. That did it. Mom was furious with the incompetence of the engineers and false assurance from the service centre. The engineers always came at around 3 p.m. which is nap time for mom. A lot of phone calls had already happened at each stage. A final threatening call was made. They promised to send a senior engineer.
A guy came. He was late and was not carrying the motor. The moment he entered, he must have sensed the tension. He didn't know he was supposed to get a motor. He proceeded to examine the machine while mom protested how useless it was to do it and how he will also not be able to fix it and how she had been duped to take the AMC.
Mom (muttering under her breath): They said they will send a senior engineer
The guy: They have sent the right guy, ma'am.
Mom: oh!

He checked the machine and declared that three parts will have to changed. Mom wasn't too pleased. She kept expressing her lack of faith in those people. She asked him his name. His reply, "Yogesh". Mom said, "And how are we to know you are speaking the truth. Who knows, maybe Yogesh is not your name!"

In the end, the machine is finally working. It seems Yogesh was Yogesh, a senior engineer, who could fix the machine.

Chatting at the dining table, sis and I warned mom, "You speak so rudely to these guys. One of them will get pissed and murder you one day! It is happening all over the city!" Mom replied, "I ensure that doesn't happen. I keep feeding them cool beverages to keep their heads cool." When we expressed how insufficient that was, she said, "In any case, you are not using an original dialogue. I used to say the same thing to my mom."

An Hour A Day

After I quit my job, I had 24 hours a day and nothing to do in them. A blank page to be filled. One of the things that was decided by powers that be was a daily visit to the gym. The person who as a child who used to run barefoot on rooftops after kites and not feel her day to be complete until she had done her daily dose of skipping, couldn't see her child sitting in front of the computer or the television, or lying and reading books all day. Mom (why do I mention her in almost every post? I don't know. Don't you also do it sis?) decided that I accompany dad to the gym daily. It's been almost four months now and I am keeping up the routine.

The gym I visit is different from the usual idea that prevails in the minds of most people. It is not an airconditioned place with loads of mirrors and swanky equipment with young people working out in trendy gym wear. My gym is part of the physiotherapy department of a hospital. A corner of the huge hall has been segregated using curtains and that serves as the fitness centre. This makes visiting the gym a very unique experience.

Around me every alternate person is on a wheelchair. There are some patients lying on their stomachs on the stretcher. As I pass the cafeteria, there are worried relatives huddled around tables discussing, pondering over X-rays and reports. There are the men sweeping the floors all day. Dad, who has been visiting the gym for a year, always makes it a point to apologize to them if we ever happen to walk across a freshly mopped floor. They always acknowledge my dad when he passes by. In the evenings, some of the patients are out in the garden or driveway with their family members. The eyes that must have stared at the hospital ceiling all day fill themselves with the sight of the blue open sky.


The timings of the gym are such that they do not coincide with the time when most patients are present for physiotherapy. However,the past couple of times my father and I happened to visit the gym a little earlier than usual. I saw things that prompted me to write this post.

A five year old child pushing his father's wheelchair around the ward for fun while his father smiled and laughed. This is not the kind of game the father must have thought of playing with his son. Shouldn't it have been the father pushing the son's swing?

A man on the treadmill being helped by three others to take each painful step. The treadmill I so easily walk or jog on. His leg had to be lifted every single time. The pain writ large on his face.

While using the stepper, I saw another face filled with pain on the other side of the curtain. A patch on one of the eyes. A collar around the neck. The person had been strapped on a bed and the bed had been lifted to bring him to the vertical position. We looked at each other. As they lowered the bed, he cried out with pain. I could no longer look into his eyes and lowered my gaze.

I walk through this scene everyday. Unmoved and untouched. It doesn't make me fall on my knees and thank the lord for saving me from such pain. I don't do anything that could make the suffering of these people more bearable. I live in my own world.

Ah, That's Sujata!

Last Saturday evening saw a unique get together at my place. My mother's school reunion. Four batch mates who completed school with mom in 1973 were the guests along with their spouses. One of them infact got married (yes, for the first time!) a few weeks ago. This gentleman is credited with being the only person who used to score higher than mom in school. She tried very hard to surpass his scores and win the trophy for the "First Prize" which was bigger than the "Second Prize" she used to get. In the last year, she actually did manage to score better. Unfortunately, that year the school authorities decided to make the trophy smaller. Quite a tragedy.

It was touching to see these people remember the various incidents and people, recreating in their minds the familiar images that were their school days. Grown ups metamorphosising into school kids. The school lane, the small shop near the gate, the strict principal, the brilliant History teacher whose lessons they still haven't forgotten, the shuffling of sections, the cheating in exams...everything was discussed with great excitement. Pregnant silence followed each of these discussions as all of them got lost in their own memories.

Since all the four alumni present were guys (men?), the most happening women in school were also talked about. Their memories were sharpest when it came to recalling their names. Mom had a few pictures from school days and some of these ladies were present in them. It was an amusing sight when balding , pot-bellied men took out their reading glasses to look at the pictures closely. Ah, that's Sujata!

My own images of my school days are beginning to fade. However, seeing mom and her friends recollect happenings from over two decades ago has made me determined to try and organise a reunion of my own schoolmates. Let's hope it happens soon!

My E-Mail Female

Stumbled on this song called 'my email female' by Garret Swayne on TDH's blog : Handsome's Journal(?!?!)
Enjoy the video and do read the corresponding entry in his blog! Quite funny.