Tuesday, September 30, 2008

Good Egg!

[Source:www.fantasticfiction.co.uk/w/p-g-wodehouse/ge...]


Today is my day for a doff of the hat to a master wordsmith - P G Wodehouse. I'm reading a Psmith omnibus and like every time I read it, I'm chuckling insanely to myself all the time. Psmith's verbose flights of fancy and his habit of using at least ten words where one will do - coupled with the classic English dry humour - still charm the reader across all these years. It isn't the zany situations Wodehouse's characters get themselves into, it's the way he takes a threadbare plot and spins into a wonderful, light confection. A review I once read compared his works to souffle - and I agree. My personal favourites are Bertie Wooster and Lord Emsworth - could anyone be more dim-witted than these two? Hilarious! For a paean to Wodehouse, read Stephen Fry's article: http://www.pgwodehousebooks.com/fry.htm. Stephen Fry played Jeeves in television adaptations of the Wooster chronicles. Whenever life creeps up and catches you like the down express in the back, to use a Wodehousian simile, all you have to do is curl up with a Wodehouse creation and allow him to do some gentle healing. If there's a golf links up there, with a whisky and soda , and a comfortable smoke at the end of the day, Mr. Wodehouse, I hope you are getting yours.


[Source:http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/1574698/P-G-Wodehouse-fan-reveals-the-real-life-Jeeves.html]



Monday, September 29, 2008

Manic Monday

Does anyone recall that old hit by the band Bangles - 'Just another Manic Monday?' And so, here I am, it's another Manic Monday. It starts with my daughter being in a foul mood because she's starting her half-yearly exams and has to wake up early. I'm still trying to tide over the weekend sleep-deficit by trying not to doze and fall over into the eggs:-) Coax unwilling daughter into eating a chapathi and omelet. See her off on her way to college.
And, disaster - maid-servant's late! What to do? Do I start cleaning up? Or should I wait? This time, I tell myself, I'm going to get rid of her. But where will I find another one? I can't do all the cleaning, washing, cooking and still go to work in the morning. She arrives, at last, with her trademark sheepish grin. After she's done, feed the pigeons - they've been waiting patiently for their millet. They coo and gurgle and show off. Then run downstairs to make coffee for a still-sleeping husband. Curse a little at how all men have it so easy and then curse myself for spoiling him so utterly. Bath. Pooja. Pack lunch. Where are my clothes? I never have enough clothes to wear. Never mind that the recent painting job has left about 6 bags full of old clothes in the downstairs bedroom. Take the plunge and dive into traffic. There's this lunatic who thinks he can squeeze between two cars as if he's two-dimensional. Traffic lights - a beggar knocks at the window. I could cheerfully strangle him but hunt around in my overcrowded purse for a coin. Traffic starts again like racers in the Grand Prix. Try to find a parking place in the basement. All places taken. Swear and curse. Go back to ground level to park. Lift takes an infernal time and I'm trying not to drum my fingers or kick the door. Sign in. Open door and switch on the lights in the cabin. My Manic Monday has just begun.

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

His love for her was deep, he said
Deeper than the Marianas Trench,
What was about it then?
That left such a stench?
She smelt a rat,
Or was it a mouse?
He was in such a hurry
To bag him a spouse
Was it her plum job?
Was it her beauteous eyes,
He praised her cooking,
And her laughter, to the skies.
His love for her was deep, he said
He's convinced her that he cares,
He’s a hunter, he is, that man
He lays careful snares.
All the while he dissembles,
‘I don’t want a 'phuti cowrie’
And all the time, he was
Eyeing her fat dowry.

Thursday, September 4, 2008

Dear Diary....


Don't you just love reading the 'Dear Diary..' kind of books? Like 'Daddy-Long-Legs' or Olivia? I wish I had a diary habit too - but since I don't , this blog will probably be the nearest to it. I'm at a cross-roads in my life - talk about mid-life crisis! Behind me I see the tough journey that I've been through and ahead, lies uncertainty. Like every other Indian parent, I worry a lot about my daughter (scond from left, front row, in the photo) and what lies in her future. Did we make the right decisions? Was I right to let her choose the path she's taken? Should we have counselled her against her choice? Parenting can be very agonizing at times.
I'm not sure what my next step should be. I feel like I'm at the very edge of the cliff ( shades of Jonathan Livingston Seagull, eh?) - either I plunge into the abyss or I find my wings and fly. But I'm sure I'll fly.

Here comes the sun!



The clouds have let up for the moment and we've had a patch of sunny weather. Blue skies are back again - yippee!
September is a month for memories. My grandfather's birthday is at the end of the month and whenever September comes around - we tend to reminisce about him a lot. And boy, was he ever a character! Peppery, irritable, fractious, witty, acid-tongued and with very little patience for fools - he dominated our lives as the original paterfamilias. His grandchildren were always a little scared of him, I think - me , least of all , as his eldest grandchild - because we never knew where the next irritable remark was coming from. But he was like the banyan tree - in whose nurturing shade, we were protected and shielded. And that's something you realize when you leave home for the first time and step out into the big, bad world.

As part of an extended family, in a typical patriarchal system, girls generally get the short end of the stick. But strangely for a man of his age and social mores, my grandfather was unequivocal in his support of the female child. When I wanted to leave home to study in the far off north, he was my strongest supporter. When I had a falling-out with my in-laws, he was my rock. My grandmother trotted out the usual arguments about how a girl should learn patience and adjustment (yeah, right!) but he was so proud of me for having struck back at the Empire.

He was a repository of tales and reminiscences - my cousins will remember the one about the tiger and the one about the scary footsteps at night especially. His feisty comeback after his strokes never ceased to amaze us. Nor did he miss a chance at exasperating us with his insistence that he was absolutely fine. From a humble background, he climbed to the rather rarefied heights of a conferred IAS and headed the APSRTC as Director, Operations and APSTC as well. My daughter remembers him as a very old man, her great-grandfather, who taught her to say 'Kanakaambaram', when she couldn't pronounce the word.

How happy he was to see her when she was born, when I got home from hospital! And his reaction was so typical too; I was admonished for not holding her properly and he told me not to drop her!:-) And then, in spite of our outcry, he insisted on carrying her so he could see her face properly. In his waning years, he would sit out on the porch in winter, in the sun, falling asleep over the newspaper. But woe betide anyone who thought him a faded old man - he would spring up into wakefulness like a tiger and could argue the proverbial hind foot off a donkey when he chose to.

When I think of him, he seems like a beacon, shining strongly down the years, guarding us against rocky shoals and steering all of us to safe passage. May god bless his soul!