It's just been too much of a bother blogging these days, besides i have found a new love - Linkedin!
And anyways i like one to one conversations much more than one to many.
Sunday, October 02, 2005
Sunday, June 19, 2005
Nauseating Couples
Have you come across those couples who go too far with their very public display of affection which makes you want to throw up or look away or at the very least pretend that you don't know them any more.
More about them later.
More about them later.
Saturday, June 11, 2005
Marriage in the family!
My precious sister Aditi is getting married and guess where - In Singapore. And in Bangalore. Bless her soul, she has chosen the two places in the world where I would like to be and where I am at the moment.
Of course, since it's at very short notice, the last few weeks have been a whirl of phonecalls across the world, chats on the www, hurriedly exchanged emails and complaints about the dates and the two venues, phonemeeting of the parents, sari shopping, fall, beading, venue fixing, what have you!
In the middle of all this, my grandmom Baby Aji, who is staying with me has been constantly at my side and she is as amused by my excitement as I am with hers.
Arya on the other hand, is in steady state. With some amount of disappointment I realized that marriage will never be for Arya an event as important and fun as it is for us. She hardly gets a chance to attend the great Indian weddings. So she doesn't have a clue what the excitement is all about. She has simply decided that she is going to wear her Mujhse shaadi Karogi dress (the one they got for her Shiamak Dawar concert)
She looked at the sarees I bought with some amount of disdain. Then she finally deigned to tell me which one she liked the best. She asked me what's wrong with me and why would I wear a saree when Baba had bought 3 lovely dresses for me to wear.
I told her the next marriage in our family would be hers and she was not coy or shy as I thought she would be. Instead, she was interested and attentive. She asked me whether she could stay with me even after she got married. I said yes of course!
Now she is asking, why can't Aditimaushi still stay with us after she gets married.
Of course, since it's at very short notice, the last few weeks have been a whirl of phonecalls across the world, chats on the www, hurriedly exchanged emails and complaints about the dates and the two venues, phonemeeting of the parents, sari shopping, fall, beading, venue fixing, what have you!
In the middle of all this, my grandmom Baby Aji, who is staying with me has been constantly at my side and she is as amused by my excitement as I am with hers.
Arya on the other hand, is in steady state. With some amount of disappointment I realized that marriage will never be for Arya an event as important and fun as it is for us. She hardly gets a chance to attend the great Indian weddings. So she doesn't have a clue what the excitement is all about. She has simply decided that she is going to wear her Mujhse shaadi Karogi dress (the one they got for her Shiamak Dawar concert)
She looked at the sarees I bought with some amount of disdain. Then she finally deigned to tell me which one she liked the best. She asked me what's wrong with me and why would I wear a saree when Baba had bought 3 lovely dresses for me to wear.
I told her the next marriage in our family would be hers and she was not coy or shy as I thought she would be. Instead, she was interested and attentive. She asked me whether she could stay with me even after she got married. I said yes of course!
Now she is asking, why can't Aditimaushi still stay with us after she gets married.
Friday, May 13, 2005
BPO Blast - People mgmt
When I wanted to be a people manager, I had no idea that I will be faced with these kind of problems. Sometimes it's so hilarious I want to laugh, sometimes it's so crummy, I want to cry, but I have to sit through that 1:1 or that skip level meeting with a completely straight face.
When I am asked to speak on "HR updates" what they are really asking is "When am I getting promoted" When someone says "I have an issue with the process" it means "my shift timings don't suit my personal life". So on and so forth.
Day after day, some unique problems surface. There's this girl who came to me with recently shorn locks. I was about to comment on how nice she was looking when she stopped me dead in my tracks saying - Please change my shift cab. There's a girl who comes in that cab and she has lice-infested hair. I caught the lice too and I had to cut off all my hair to get rid of them.
If you thought that was funny, there's this girl who lives very near the office and she comes in the morning shift walking. She wants cab service (not available due to proximity to office) her reason being - There are too many street dogs, I feel threatened to walk there. It's early in the morning and they are hungry. They could take a bite out of my leg.
Thursday, May 12, 2005
Someone gave me a high!
Out of the blue, totally unexpected, one of my direct reports told me - The way you handled the All team meeting yesterday was simply superb. No one but you could have done it!
And the thing is that this guy is moving on to another team, so he really didn't need to. But I am so glad he did. It made my day.
And the thing is that this guy is moving on to another team, so he really didn't need to. But I am so glad he did. It made my day.
Mangoes make life worth living
I can't express how delighted I am today. I picked up my first Alphonso mangoes of the season. So far I had to satiate my tastebuds with just Raspuri, Badami and the likes. Mommy did send some Alphonsos with Baby Aji but they were bad or went bad in transit.
Today I had the pleasure of smelling each one before I put it in the basket. I got greedy and took more than I could eat. After all they were only Rs50 a kilo. That's nothing. I remember when mangoes were so prohibitively expensive that we couldn't afford to buy anything more than 1 per person.
Ummm, more when I have savored them all.
Sunday, May 08, 2005
India Reloaded - Accidents galore
I was going to write on Wednesday because it was a high point in my life. I actually drove my car myself to my office and back home. Ok I ran out of patience when I was trying to park back again in my puny little parking lot at DD. So I asked somebody's driver to help out, but other than that, the feeling was totally awesome and exhilirating.
I drove.
And I was determined to drive everyday now that I had driven once, I didn't want the confidence to ebb. But then, it rained two nights in a row and I didn't want to take the car out on wet roads. So my car stays perfectly parked (by the driver, of course)
Meanwhile, I had to gloat about my newfound ability to drive without causing major havoc on the road. So when Dicky (my childhood friend called me up, that's the story I told him first) He seemed wan. He told me his car was in the office as he had had an accident a couple of days ago. A motorcyclist rammed into him from the front. But since that guy had a fracture and he was the guy on the smaller vehicle, the law is likely to be on his side.
My world almost came crashing down all around me. Dicky has been driving for eons. And even in Bangalore he drives quite a distance to and from work. There is absolutely no reason that Dicky could make an error. And he probably didn't. Bangalore roads are truly the worst. I keep hearing of accidents day in and day out. A lot of them are fatal. Even pedestrians are not spared. It kind of makes you wonder whether you should go out at all.
My world almost came crashing down all around me. Dicky has been driving for eons. And even in Bangalore he drives quite a distance to and from work. There is absolutely no reason that Dicky could make an error. And he probably didn't. Bangalore roads are truly the worst. I keep hearing of accidents day in and day out. A lot of them are fatal. Even pedestrians are not spared. It kind of makes you wonder whether you should go out at all.
The other day one of the guys in my team Ravi, had an accident, where he swerved to avoid a motorcyclist and rammed his car into the kerb. The crowd still broke his windshield. The crowd menace is probably more of an issue than the accident itself. In this case, the motorcyclist was totally unhurt, all that happened was that he fell off the bike.
And then just when we were going to go out on holiday, I heard that a jeep full of people from Fidelity had a head on collision with a truck and all the people including the driver died instantly. This was a Trinity Cab and I have been regularly using their services. It made me shudder and mutter a rushed prayer of thanks that it wasn't me.
Accidents have become very commonplace in Bangalore. People are very used to it. It makes me sick, the low value that life has here.
Life Is Same, Predictable and all things Boring
Sometimes I don't know whether to count my lucky stars that my life is predictable or boring. I always yearn to go back to Singapore where things are always the same. Nothing is a surprise. But is that exactly how I want to live my life forever?
I have tried to insulate myself as much as possible in Bangalore as well. For example, every Saturday and Sunday, Arya and I go skating and then dancing and we share a Chocolate Icecream at Corner House and the rest of the time we are at home. We do this over and over again every weekend. It makes me happy that I know that my baby is with me and she's safe and sound. However it irritates the hell out of me that I have nothing better to do on the weekend than ferry her around to her classes.
And I tell myself that since I am a working mother, this is the quality time that I get to spend with her and I should make the most of it. But I am so irritable these days. Most of the time I leave her bewildered during our quality time sessions wondering what she did wrong. She would rather not have that kind of quality I think.
It's Mother's Day today. I am really upset. There are a thousand things I want from life but most of all I want another baby. I wish it was easy for Kushal to understand. I wish he wanted a baby as much as I did. I wish things didn't have to be so complex.
I really don't want to be superwoman, supermom, etc etc. I just want a normal life with as many kids as possible. I want to look after them and teach them to be good human beings. I find it irritating that people gloat about how they balance a career and a family. I don't want to balance anything. I would throw away all the glamor to just have that second child. I know I really desperately wanted to have Arya as well. I thought I wouldn't be so keen the second time. But seems like it's an obsession with me. In the middle of my highly dramatic life in Bangalore, with so many uncertainities that it makes your head spin, I have insulated myself to the highest extent possible in the hope that Kushal will agree to have another baby, inspite of the turmoil and the uncertainty.
But No!
Monday, April 25, 2005
Saying Bye Bye to Singapore All Over Again
Arya tells me that she has a funny, sad feeling in the pit of her stomach. We are leaving for Bangalore tonight. Our 2 week vacation in Singapore has come to an end. She had nightmares 2 nights in a row and she is feeling down and out and vulnerable.
And me - sigh! I am not even starting to describe how I am feeling. At least in my mind, I can rationalize that it's nicer to spend 2 weeks in Singapore and bear the 2 day ordeal of parting pangs rather than not come at all. But for Arya, she doesn't know how to deal with saying Bye Bye to her precious Singapore all over again. She would much rather not come here at all, because she can't bear the depression of saying Bye.
Kushal went to Mumbai on a business trip on Saturday and that was probably what started her downward spiral. She is now reached a point where she is ready to cry at the slightest provocation. Helpless mother that I am, my heart goes out to her of course. Yet at the same time, I wish she was tougher. What with all the hard knocks life has to offer - I worry, I worry a lot!
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Junya Athvani - Pathare Prabhu Swapna Sundari
People form associations. They want their children to grow up in communities. They want others to take pride in their children's achievements. My parents are part of the Pathare Prabhu association. As children, we really enjoyed participating in the numerous debates, elocution, drawing competitions and the like.
I was feared and respected in PP circles for my English prowess. Although the PP community tried hard to instill the Marathi-ness of us all into our impressionable minds, secretly they admired English speaking people much more and each one of them broke into English when suitably drunk (in an effort to sound more learned)
I was feared and respected in PP circles for my English prowess. Although the PP community tried hard to instill the Marathi-ness of us all into our impressionable minds, secretly they admired English speaking people much more and each one of them broke into English when suitably drunk (in an effort to sound more learned)
So we were growing up with the sense of being a PP somewhere on the periphery of our vision - I would proudly proclaim that we PPs are the Original Inhabitants of Bombay City - (of course I had no clue of how to say that in Marathi)
Then hey presto - Sushmita Sen won the Miss India and went on to be Miss Universe and Aishwarya Rai won the Miss World title in the very same year and the PPs, forward thinking as they are, decided to have their very own beauty contest. They named it Pathare Prabhu Swapna Sundari which roughly translates to PP Dream Girl. My mother was very insistent that I participate and some of the glamor of Ash and Sush had rubbed off on me too, which is why I was very willing.
We had a quest for finding the perfect saree. And then the perfect accessories and then we had to decide who would do my makeup and what I would say on stage. Of course I had loads of people helping me to rehearse my lines. There was excitement backstage and mostly in the minds of my cousins and little brother and sister, who were awaiting my arrival on stage with a lot of anxiety and trepidation.
The magic moment arrived and I did exactly what a headstrong idiot would do. I spoke in impeccable English about my sense of pride in being a PP and how I would make sure that we preserve the culture and the PP-ness of us all. Duh!
Of course I didn't win. A better looking, Marathi speaking, airhostess did. I was very glad for her, but the disappointment of my mother was too much for me to take.
Did she actually expect me to win?
India Reloaded - Vacationing In Singapore
That title sounded funny. After living in Singapore for 8 years, what is the one spot I choose to come and vacation in - Singapore. Duh!
Well it is not so dumb. I think it helped me to respect the place that I had come to take for granted. The safety, the security, the seafood - just the predictability of things.
Besides we have to celebrate Arya's birthday party here with all of her friends. I met up with a few of my friends and I was reassuring them that they are not missing out on anything by not participating in "India shining" The media is just all hype. India still has a long way to go to measure up to Singapore. And truth always hurts.
What are the things I loved about India - The warmth of the people, the kindness and hospitality, the ease with which conversations took place between perfect strangers, the opportunities that I got in my school and college, the places that I could visit, the food that I could eat, all different, all delicious. Most of all, I enjoyed the sense of association, the sense of belongingness.
Now I am different - I no longer find people warm, kind and hospitable - the national greed overwhelms me, at every point, people want to be overpaid or bribed. Schools and Colleges are part of the racket. They spew out venom and take in only kids who's parents can afford Donations - which are cleverly disguised as Admission or Registration fees. Getting from one point to another in Bangalore is such an ordeal, that one simply does not have the strength to go from one city to another. My food preferences have changed - ever since my palate has widened and I no longer find Indian food the most fabulous (although my preference for Indian sweets will live on forever). But the fact is that there are other cuisines which I find delicious and they are simply not available in India. As for the sense of association or the sense of belongingness - it's just not there. I don't belong. Not anymore.
I am starting to sound like Jhumpa Lahiri, so I better cut it out - NOW!
I am starting to sound like Jhumpa Lahiri, so I better cut it out - NOW!
Saturday, April 02, 2005
All about Arya - Teaching a lefthander to play Badminton and go Bowling
It's a tough enough job to teach a left-handed child to write when you are right-handed, but since Arya decided to be ambidextrous, I didn't have to worry too much.
But recently I took it upon myself to teach her Badminton and it was a constantly frustrating exercise for both of us. However, we were determined to keep at it day after day and she bravely tried to mirror all my serves and swings and backhands and then after about 20 days there came a day today that she could actually return my serves and serve by herself too. Badminton champ she is not, but I am proud of the way she just wouldn't accept defeat.
I had taken her bowling too some days ago and conveniently forgot that she was left-handed, so I kept showing her the correct position and the correct grip and where to aim and how. She kept throwing gutterball after gutterball and accused the ball of being too heavy. It was only after my friend Candy who was with us that day, asked me - Isn't she left-handed? that it struck me like lightning that I was expecting too much out of her poor sore right hand.
Since then, whenever i visit a bowling alley, I keep a close watch on left-handers to see their technique.
It kind of makes me realize why people force their left-handed kids to use the right-hand instead. Well someone told me that left-handers have a natural advantage in golf - so the next thing that I have to do is start her on golf and who knows, we may just have a Tigress Wood on the way.
But recently I took it upon myself to teach her Badminton and it was a constantly frustrating exercise for both of us. However, we were determined to keep at it day after day and she bravely tried to mirror all my serves and swings and backhands and then after about 20 days there came a day today that she could actually return my serves and serve by herself too. Badminton champ she is not, but I am proud of the way she just wouldn't accept defeat.
I had taken her bowling too some days ago and conveniently forgot that she was left-handed, so I kept showing her the correct position and the correct grip and where to aim and how. She kept throwing gutterball after gutterball and accused the ball of being too heavy. It was only after my friend Candy who was with us that day, asked me - Isn't she left-handed? that it struck me like lightning that I was expecting too much out of her poor sore right hand.
Since then, whenever i visit a bowling alley, I keep a close watch on left-handers to see their technique.
It kind of makes me realize why people force their left-handed kids to use the right-hand instead. Well someone told me that left-handers have a natural advantage in golf - so the next thing that I have to do is start her on golf and who knows, we may just have a Tigress Wood on the way.
All About Arya - You Notti
This was way back when Arya was just 2 years old. She had learned two things - sometimes she was a good girl and at other times she was naughty, or notti (tti pronounced as the word for "her" in marathi)
To our amusement, she would pick herself up when she would fall and call the ground 'notti', when it rained while she was enjoying herself in the playground, she would look at the sky and say 'notti', the TV would be called 'notti' if her fat little fingers weren't able to press the remote power on button, if a biscuit fell out of her hand, she would just look at it with a great deal of frustration and say - you guessed it - notti!
Kushal found this very amusing and so he started teasing her and calling her notti whenever it caught his fancy. This used to make her really angry and she would fly into a rage and say - YOU Notti - to which he would reply with the same fervour - it's you who's notti, only to enrage her further and further till her anger drove her to tears.
Poor thing, she had only a limited vocabulary back then. So everything around her was just notti. Today things range from the mildly crazy to idiotic to horrible, terrible, miserable and extremely bad. She often rolls up her eyes skywards and tells me that the food can't be called bad, it's just tasteless, or tastes awful. Mumma, don't say it's "not good" to touch stray animals - Say that they aren't clean so wash your hands afterwards. Mumma, why do you say your teeth will become 'kharab' if you don't brush, just say that they will decay. The list goes on.
Of course, I miss the fat little cherubic toddler who simply said - You Notti!
To our amusement, she would pick herself up when she would fall and call the ground 'notti', when it rained while she was enjoying herself in the playground, she would look at the sky and say 'notti', the TV would be called 'notti' if her fat little fingers weren't able to press the remote power on button, if a biscuit fell out of her hand, she would just look at it with a great deal of frustration and say - you guessed it - notti!
Kushal found this very amusing and so he started teasing her and calling her notti whenever it caught his fancy. This used to make her really angry and she would fly into a rage and say - YOU Notti - to which he would reply with the same fervour - it's you who's notti, only to enrage her further and further till her anger drove her to tears.
Poor thing, she had only a limited vocabulary back then. So everything around her was just notti. Today things range from the mildly crazy to idiotic to horrible, terrible, miserable and extremely bad. She often rolls up her eyes skywards and tells me that the food can't be called bad, it's just tasteless, or tastes awful. Mumma, don't say it's "not good" to touch stray animals - Say that they aren't clean so wash your hands afterwards. Mumma, why do you say your teeth will become 'kharab' if you don't brush, just say that they will decay. The list goes on.
Of course, I miss the fat little cherubic toddler who simply said - You Notti!
India Reloaded - Citibank India Stinky Poo!
Those of you who read my blog and thought that Citibank sucks - think again! It actually STINKS.
Thanks to the original mess-ups I have had my account open in Dec, operational since Feb. I finally got a hold of my internet password and managed to even log in. But when I eagerly went to check out my account statement, it said - Please register to read your statements online. Are they so dumb at Citibank that they have no idea that people who sign up for an internet password would need to access their statement online.
Needless to say, Citibank neither sends me a statement by post, nor by email, and now it wonders whether I want to register to read my statement online. HelllllOoooooo, this is my money we are talking about. Have I no right to know what Citibank is doing with my money without signing up zillions of times and answering gazillions of questions? Is there something wrong with me? Does the rest of the world believe in trust and faith? Will Citibank lend me money based on the same trust and faith that they keep my money without ever bothering to send me a tiny little inkling on what transactions are happening in MY bank account?
Anybody in their right mind, still signing up for a Citibank account???
Thanks to the original mess-ups I have had my account open in Dec, operational since Feb. I finally got a hold of my internet password and managed to even log in. But when I eagerly went to check out my account statement, it said - Please register to read your statements online. Are they so dumb at Citibank that they have no idea that people who sign up for an internet password would need to access their statement online.
Needless to say, Citibank neither sends me a statement by post, nor by email, and now it wonders whether I want to register to read my statement online. HelllllOoooooo, this is my money we are talking about. Have I no right to know what Citibank is doing with my money without signing up zillions of times and answering gazillions of questions? Is there something wrong with me? Does the rest of the world believe in trust and faith? Will Citibank lend me money based on the same trust and faith that they keep my money without ever bothering to send me a tiny little inkling on what transactions are happening in MY bank account?
Anybody in their right mind, still signing up for a Citibank account???
Sunday, March 27, 2005
India Reloaded - Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous
Bangalore – The population ranges from the mildly rich to the extremely prosperous. Most IT bigwigs get paid obscene salaries and they spread the goodness around resulting in obscene salaries for their drivers and maids as well. I see a cellphone in every hand, unfailingly. Every new condominium which comes up for booking gets lapped up instantaneously. Money is being spent, no burnt.
I went to the I-Bar at The Park Hotel. Many of the city’s movers and shakers were present of course and more poured in as the night progressed. The bar was overflowing with people demanding booze at a faster rate than the bartenders could supply. The dance floor took a while to warm up but once we started, there was no stopping the crowd. Everywhere designer shoes, designer clothes, designer bags – I wondered whether I was the one from Singapore here. I seemed to be too ordinary. Someone stopped me and asked whether my bag was an Aigner original. I earnestly nodded yes to gain that instant look of acceptance into the hoi-polloi. When the lady turned away to talk to someone else, I confessed to my colleague that I had bought my Aigner original for all of S$35 at a Rock Bottom price sale.
The disco crowd of course gets younger every day and it was distressing to see 14 year olds (or perhaps they were 12) smoking a sickly sweet substance. I wonder what it was, but it made my head spin and I had to get off the dance floor.
Outside, I looked at the line of cars. All big. I think I must be the only senior manager in Bangalore who owns a puny Santro. But compared to my life in Singapore where I didn’t even own a car, I am doing good (I think)
Then I was at a birthday party with Arya today evening. Again, the prosperity is so in your face. This was a luxurious 3 bedroom flat with a lovely terrace garden with actual artificial grass laid out all over. I hadn’t stopped reeling from that fact when the women with their sparkling diamonds chirped all around me, only interested in the fact that I was from Singapore. Every man of every age was wearing a pink shirt. I was wondering why that was, when it suddenly occurred to me that it was a fairyland theme. I can’t imagine for the life of me – the Indian men in Singapore complying with the rules if they involve wearing a pink shirt. I am tempted to try it out with Arya’s next birthday party.
Everywhere I look, people are withdrawing thousands of rupees from ATMs, spending thousands on meals (and they are not all expense accounts), squandering away tens of thousands on holidays, clothes, what not!An Indian girl who’s lived in Singapore for a longish time went to Delhi to shop for her wedding trousseau. She came back in a state of shock saying that while she was hesitating about what to pick and checking out the price tags (despite the fact that she was earning in Singapore $), it was shocking to see locals not batting an eyelid while shelling out upwards of INR 50000 (SGD 2000 approx) for their wedding dress (something that you end up wearing only once in your life). I couldn’t relate to it then, but you bet I can now.
I went to the I-Bar at The Park Hotel. Many of the city’s movers and shakers were present of course and more poured in as the night progressed. The bar was overflowing with people demanding booze at a faster rate than the bartenders could supply. The dance floor took a while to warm up but once we started, there was no stopping the crowd. Everywhere designer shoes, designer clothes, designer bags – I wondered whether I was the one from Singapore here. I seemed to be too ordinary. Someone stopped me and asked whether my bag was an Aigner original. I earnestly nodded yes to gain that instant look of acceptance into the hoi-polloi. When the lady turned away to talk to someone else, I confessed to my colleague that I had bought my Aigner original for all of S$35 at a Rock Bottom price sale.
The disco crowd of course gets younger every day and it was distressing to see 14 year olds (or perhaps they were 12) smoking a sickly sweet substance. I wonder what it was, but it made my head spin and I had to get off the dance floor.
Outside, I looked at the line of cars. All big. I think I must be the only senior manager in Bangalore who owns a puny Santro. But compared to my life in Singapore where I didn’t even own a car, I am doing good (I think)
Then I was at a birthday party with Arya today evening. Again, the prosperity is so in your face. This was a luxurious 3 bedroom flat with a lovely terrace garden with actual artificial grass laid out all over. I hadn’t stopped reeling from that fact when the women with their sparkling diamonds chirped all around me, only interested in the fact that I was from Singapore. Every man of every age was wearing a pink shirt. I was wondering why that was, when it suddenly occurred to me that it was a fairyland theme. I can’t imagine for the life of me – the Indian men in Singapore complying with the rules if they involve wearing a pink shirt. I am tempted to try it out with Arya’s next birthday party.
Everywhere I look, people are withdrawing thousands of rupees from ATMs, spending thousands on meals (and they are not all expense accounts), squandering away tens of thousands on holidays, clothes, what not!An Indian girl who’s lived in Singapore for a longish time went to Delhi to shop for her wedding trousseau. She came back in a state of shock saying that while she was hesitating about what to pick and checking out the price tags (despite the fact that she was earning in Singapore $), it was shocking to see locals not batting an eyelid while shelling out upwards of INR 50000 (SGD 2000 approx) for their wedding dress (something that you end up wearing only once in your life). I couldn’t relate to it then, but you bet I can now.
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Junya Athvani - 1
3 years after my brother Atul was born, my mom was pregnant again, and this time, I told her I wanted a sister, no matter what. She told me that such things are not under our control, etc,etc.
However, I was 6 years old then, and started thinking of creative ways in which I could indeed influence God to give me a sister. I used to be an avid reader of Amar Chitra Katha and I found out that Aditi is the name of the mother of all the Gods. So I started bribing God (at that age) in my daily prayers, every morning and every night, for almost all the 9 months saying that God should give me a sister and I will name her Aditi in honour of God's mom.
So when a sister was born, of course my joy knew no bounds and I felt complete, now I had a sis in addition to a mom, a dad, a bro. All relations in the family. When the day was decided for my sister's naming ceremony, my mom told me that our Atya (dad's sis) will decide the name, just as she did for me and my bro. That's when I went into panic mode, yeh toh maine socha hi nahi. The moment my Atya arrived at home, I got her to my room, she told me she had no time to play with me, and that she had to discuss the names she had so carefully researched with my parents for their approval. This is where I had my first debate (never knew I was setting the stage for many debating competitions in future) I put forth so many arguments on why my sis should be named Aditi that my Atya was completely bowled over but she said - "Baghu, ata tu zaa tayaar ho"Then she went and told my parents that this time the name was a total secret and she wasn't gonna discuss it with anyone.
My mom told her I was counting on the name being Aditi but it's ok, it didn't matter. I was crying, telling God that I am really Sorry, I can't keep the promise I made, my atya wasn't going to listen to me. I was shit scared as to what God would do to me as punishment. Then it was Atya's turn to pass the baby to the my other Atya and she had to whisper her name in her ear- She called out, " Prita, tu sangh, tujhya bahinachanaav kai" Gosh, that must have been one of the happiest moments of my life as I shyly said "ADITI",in full view of 100 odd family and friends.
Monday, March 14, 2005
India Reloaded - Citibank India Sucks!
First of all, Citibank was recommended by my employer as the default and so I needed to get an account with them whatever happens. They sent one pin to my home address, another to my office address, for about a month I didn't know what was happening and of course I didn't get paid for 2 months, since I didn't have a Citibank account.
Then today I realized that I need a cheque book urgently. Why oh why do they issue only 20 cheques?????? So I went online. My H-Pin didn't work. So I called their customer service to request for a chq book. Now this customer service officer called Jitu asks me for a T-Pin. I tell him I don't have one, it never was issued to me. So he asks me for my last 3 transactions and mind you he wants exact amounts. Add to the fact that their statements are only available ONLINE (duh!) So I tell him patiently, Jitu, didn't I just explain - I don't have my online password which is why I am using the phone to request for a chq book. How will I be able to get online and check for my last 3 transactions?
Simple - It was 5 am in the morning and Jitu said - Madam please go to your nearest ATM and get a mini statement. So just to play along I did. Guess what - the Statement machine did not work - Are you surprised? I was not. I went to their phone and called the customer service hotline again. This time I got a Prashant online. Another smart alec-y idiot, nevertheless, I explained my problem to him and included my conversation with Jitu in it.
Now Prashant told me that he didn't know whether getting the last 3 transactions would solve my problem and why didn't I wait while he called his technician and meanwhile why didn't I log in and request for a chq book.......Grrrrrr!
So finally, I asked him is there a branch I can go to to get a chq book issued and he said I could go to any branch and do it. But I needed to wait till HE asked me the necessary verification questions. Ask him why and he said it's regulatory. After wasting my time some more, he told me that he could not guarantee me a chq book, but he will send a T-Pin to me so that I can call up and apply for an Internet Pin (H-Pin). Again, duh!!! So why don't you just apply for my H-Pin straight away, I asked him, now that you have verified all my details? He says - No madam, this is the procedure. (Don't ask me why)
This is when I just blew my top and let it loose. As part of the verification, he made me go to the ATM and do my last 3 transactions, so that he could have his #$%^*^ last 3 transactions. He also asked me the exact amounts of my last 3 transactions and the exact amount of my salary credited - In this land of the heavy and random tax deductions at source, who the hell knows what salary is credited to their account every month? You can just sit back and pray.
I have already had quite an experience with Citibank Credit Cards. THEY identified me from my salary account and sent a form for me to fill. The guy who came asked me to sign on fields which requested Additional Card. When I refused to do so, he kept insisting. I said, how can I be sure that you will not fill in your own details and take my additional card. Besides I don't need one I am not signing. Then the verification checks. Oh my God - You would have thought they are handing me the key to Fort Knox. Someone landed up at my house to ask for my birthdate (which my father in law didn't know of course). I got 2 calls on my cellphone and 1 call on my home land line and 1 more on my office landline and each time they asked me the doggone same bloody questions.
After my experience with their customer service, I have decided to call it quits with Citibank. So I will be cancelling my card before its arrival (pity I had to go through their stringent security measures). Of course, my salary account is something that I will have to live with, but I will make sure that I do all my transactions in the branch now. They can take their H-Pin and T-Pin and shove them!
Please don't be a Citibank India customer if you can help it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Then today I realized that I need a cheque book urgently. Why oh why do they issue only 20 cheques?????? So I went online. My H-Pin didn't work. So I called their customer service to request for a chq book. Now this customer service officer called Jitu asks me for a T-Pin. I tell him I don't have one, it never was issued to me. So he asks me for my last 3 transactions and mind you he wants exact amounts. Add to the fact that their statements are only available ONLINE (duh!) So I tell him patiently, Jitu, didn't I just explain - I don't have my online password which is why I am using the phone to request for a chq book. How will I be able to get online and check for my last 3 transactions?
Simple - It was 5 am in the morning and Jitu said - Madam please go to your nearest ATM and get a mini statement. So just to play along I did. Guess what - the Statement machine did not work - Are you surprised? I was not. I went to their phone and called the customer service hotline again. This time I got a Prashant online. Another smart alec-y idiot, nevertheless, I explained my problem to him and included my conversation with Jitu in it.
Now Prashant told me that he didn't know whether getting the last 3 transactions would solve my problem and why didn't I wait while he called his technician and meanwhile why didn't I log in and request for a chq book.......Grrrrrr!
So finally, I asked him is there a branch I can go to to get a chq book issued and he said I could go to any branch and do it. But I needed to wait till HE asked me the necessary verification questions. Ask him why and he said it's regulatory. After wasting my time some more, he told me that he could not guarantee me a chq book, but he will send a T-Pin to me so that I can call up and apply for an Internet Pin (H-Pin). Again, duh!!! So why don't you just apply for my H-Pin straight away, I asked him, now that you have verified all my details? He says - No madam, this is the procedure. (Don't ask me why)
This is when I just blew my top and let it loose. As part of the verification, he made me go to the ATM and do my last 3 transactions, so that he could have his #$%^*^ last 3 transactions. He also asked me the exact amounts of my last 3 transactions and the exact amount of my salary credited - In this land of the heavy and random tax deductions at source, who the hell knows what salary is credited to their account every month? You can just sit back and pray.
I have already had quite an experience with Citibank Credit Cards. THEY identified me from my salary account and sent a form for me to fill. The guy who came asked me to sign on fields which requested Additional Card. When I refused to do so, he kept insisting. I said, how can I be sure that you will not fill in your own details and take my additional card. Besides I don't need one I am not signing. Then the verification checks. Oh my God - You would have thought they are handing me the key to Fort Knox. Someone landed up at my house to ask for my birthdate (which my father in law didn't know of course). I got 2 calls on my cellphone and 1 call on my home land line and 1 more on my office landline and each time they asked me the doggone same bloody questions.
After my experience with their customer service, I have decided to call it quits with Citibank. So I will be cancelling my card before its arrival (pity I had to go through their stringent security measures). Of course, my salary account is something that I will have to live with, but I will make sure that I do all my transactions in the branch now. They can take their H-Pin and T-Pin and shove them!
Please don't be a Citibank India customer if you can help it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Sunday, March 13, 2005
Poem - Time (written when I was 14)
As an infant, I'd eat and sleep
Time would creep
When I was a child, I'd play and fall
Time would crawl
In my teenage laughter and talks
Time walks
When I will be a full-grown woman
Time will run
And faster as the days go by
Time will fly
Soon enough in the daily grind
I will find
Time - it has left me behind!
Time would creep
When I was a child, I'd play and fall
Time would crawl
In my teenage laughter and talks
Time walks
When I will be a full-grown woman
Time will run
And faster as the days go by
Time will fly
Soon enough in the daily grind
I will find
Time - it has left me behind!
Poem - Arya ( written when Arya was 1 )
She believes in fairies
And all my stories
She claps her hands when I dance
And moves to music as if in a trance
She knows just when I need a hug
And when she breaks the coffee mug
She can melt me with a tear or two
As for shocks she's given me a few
One day, she got lost walking on the street
Me n her dad our hearts missed a beat
We searched for her high and low
And found her gazing at the store window
Then once, she fell down and grazed her knee
A drop of her blood I couldn't bear to see
She shook her head at the medicine I had
Mommy, kiss it and make it better, she said
She taught me to give all that I had to give
She made me cry and laugh and live
She turned me into my own mother
Now I wonder how I ever lived without her
And all my stories
She claps her hands when I dance
And moves to music as if in a trance
She knows just when I need a hug
And when she breaks the coffee mug
She can melt me with a tear or two
As for shocks she's given me a few
One day, she got lost walking on the street
Me n her dad our hearts missed a beat
We searched for her high and low
And found her gazing at the store window
Then once, she fell down and grazed her knee
A drop of her blood I couldn't bear to see
She shook her head at the medicine I had
Mommy, kiss it and make it better, she said
She taught me to give all that I had to give
She made me cry and laugh and live
She turned me into my own mother
Now I wonder how I ever lived without her
Poem - The Splendor of Color
I still remember the wonderful sight
On her forehead stood a red dot's might
And with her songs cheery and bright
She made all our loads light
I shudder at the sight I missed
When the sun hid behind the miserable mist
And the bangles slid off her desolate wrist
Another rainbow crossed off the list
Her splendor in red was her right
Yet it was snatched away one night
But she didn't give up without a fight
Today how well she carries white!
On her forehead stood a red dot's might
And with her songs cheery and bright
She made all our loads light
I shudder at the sight I missed
When the sun hid behind the miserable mist
And the bangles slid off her desolate wrist
Another rainbow crossed off the list
Her splendor in red was her right
Yet it was snatched away one night
But she didn't give up without a fight
Today how well she carries white!
Saturday, March 12, 2005
My Mummy Papa & 30 years
I wrote this on the occasion of my parents' 30th wedding anniversary:
I woke up this morning feeling really special. It's my parents' 30th wedding anniversary. They have spent 3 decades as man and wife, raising us 3 kids and magically granting our little wishes. On Wednesday, I had 2 final job interviews, and I pressurised both managers to give me an answer by today, because I know that this will be the best anniversary present that they would want-that I still had a job. While walking back home that day, I thought of the many days at Opera House and Amboli, when I stood in front of the Grey Ganapati and shining circular frame of Ambika, looking at one and then the other, beseeching them to help me in my exams, although I hadn't studied regularly, and later, asking them to see me successfully through job interviews and promotions. I thought of all kinds of things then, of the 5 wooden cupboards, the study desk in the gallery, the first Camel geometry box I owned, the Marathi essay Papa wrote for me "majhya unhalya chi sutti" for which I got a remark "mulani aaple nibandh svata lihave", the countless dictations mom used to give me, and how we used to jump on the black sponge bed in the gallery, as if it was a trampoline and how i used to take refuge on that very bed, when I wanted to cry myself to sleep. Infact, I even remembered my first responsibility-to be with Atul on his first day at Santock nursery and KG school, and everybody had a jigsaw puzzle to complete and he just couldn't do his 12 piece puzzle-the last 4 pieces wouldn't fit. Everyone finished and it was time to go home, and he looked tearfully at the teacher, who insisted that he could only go after he had finished. She looked in my direction and said- "I am sure your sister will wait for you to finish" With steely glares from me, and some whispered pointers he did finish, but that was the first time, I got into trouble with my mommy-for getting late. Since then, I fought with her 100 times or more, for challenging her curfews, but it took me a good deal of 22 years to learn that it was all her concern, for her little girl out in the big bad world, which made her raise her voice. I remembered the little girl who used to look at me from the shadows and go back into hiding behind her aiyaa's pallo. Little Aditi, who was Kumta's little darling, and Bappa's gundu. I remember the tearful decision to keep Aditi in Kumta, wasn't an easy one for both my parents to make. There were days of silence, I spoke to neither of them, but I didn't notice as a 6yr old that they weren't speaking to each other either. As I struggled to reach out to my brother and sister, I think I lost touch with my parents, especially Papa, who doted on me, as his Paili beti, dhanachi peti. But they wanted me to set a good example to my siblings, rather than to be the model daughter. When I got my 10th Std result, my Papa came to my school, without any warning, and treated me to Thums Up, my favourite drink. He called his father and said-My daughter scored higher than any Nayak so far. I know it as his proudest moment, it was his result he was holding in his hand, not mine. Mummy's face when Papa was in ICU at Hinduja flashed before me, me giving her the weak reassurance that everything will be OK, she did not know what food or drink went down her throat and I struggled to keep her afloat, she kept talking of Bappa's lethal heart attack, she was in shock then. I saw a shadow of the man who could instill mirth as well as fear in me, attached to life support machines, but with his eyes he told me, he was ok, and he was going to make it. I held his hand when his parents died one after the other. It was the first time, I had seen my Papa cry, Aji's Ballu, whom she always had a special - Ballu Neet zaa for, and he always said Yeto never zato to her, and taught us to say the same. The Chinese dinners, the games of Rummy, and Trade and Scrabble, the movies at Super and Central, the Republic and Independence day picnics with Prakashkaka's family, visits to Mithibai, all those Mudkavi and Kothare jokes, shopping at Linking Road and treats to Friendly ice-cream, always strawberry, always cones. And when I got married, my Papa cried again, as he hugged me Byebye, his little girl, whose hair he used to dry and set with the white hair dryer, but only after he had vigorously rubbed my hair with a towel, and I had said "aa-aa-aaa-aa--a--a" My mummy's fervent prayers when I was operated for a cyst, her look of utter relief when the doc read the report and said it wasn't cancer, her stories of how difficult it was giving birth to me, and how I had never fallen sick ever, so why this hospitalisation now? My M.S.S paper, and how she half carried me in a deliriously high fever to my final B.E. exams, and waited for me outside for 4 hours, praying every moment of the time. Over the years, I have said many things to them, both good and bad, but I have never thanked them for always staying together, and giving me the joy of both parents, and always encouraging me to find my own true love for leading a life as inseperable as theirs has been. Congratulations Mummy and Papa for 30 years together, and here's wishing you happiness and sunshine always.
Anuprita
Friday, March 11, 2005
Short Story - My friend Radhe
I have known Radhe for a few years now and he must be as ancient as his name sounds. He is rather thin, with thinner hair and wears glasses as he has trouble with his eyesight. In order not to inconvenience anyone on the road, he prefers to walk sideways or just glide away from an animate obstruction rather than just say “Side Please” as they do on the busy streets of the bustling city where I used to live – Mumbai.
The stray dogs of Mumbai panic Radhe and in order to avoid them he constantly crosses the road. The beggars and eunuchs panic him even further and he quickly parts with all his money, throwing it out of his hand into theirs, shrinking from the very thought of their touch.
His voice is barely audible mostly and he has never been able to complete a sentence without being interrupted – I think it is because people can’t tell whether he is speaking at all. Do you think that Radhe minds in the least? Not really, he appears happy to have the strain of conversation being taken off his weary mind.
My friend Radhe has been married for 15 years. His wife is a thin, sickly woman with nervous hands who has a surprisingly shrill and unbearably loud voice as well as a vicious tongue. I think of a lion tamer each time I see her, but then Radhe doesn’t exactly measure up to what we would call a lion. Ahem!
Radhe – you have to wonder how – has successfully produced a child who has been named by the mother of course as Ranavir Rajavir. He is tall, intelligent, sarcastic (especially to his father) and distrustful. Obviously he obeys only his mother and the two of them have decided that Radhe is a burden on this planet and has little to offer the world, so they choose to ignore his rarely expressed opinions.
I think Radhe has worked at the same place for years – a dismal exporter of marble and granite. His boss is a burly old man with strong forearms and he looks as if he could split a stone slab with his bare hands. He regularly gives Radhe a pay cut to subsidize his other employees pay increases or so he says. Radhe’s entreaties are often met with violence. Unable to bear the ferocious looks he gets from his boss, Radhe regularly works late hours in his crumpled old suit. He owns only one suit, the one he had stitched for his wedding 15 years ago. He also has just one tie, which is frayed at every conceivable point along its edges. Since his wife will probably kill him if his shirt gets dirty, he always works with his jacket on.
Just after the burly boss decided to cut Radhe’s salary one more time, his wife has decided that Ranavir Rajavir cannot go to the government polytechnic with such good marks. She has registered him at an expensive institution in a posh Mumbai neighborhood. In view of the additional outlay of funds required, Radhe has stopped buying his daily newspaper and his only monthly luxury, Readers Digest (a considerable sacrifice). His sacrifices could not have been timelier. His wife has recently exhorted all the neighborhood wives on how they should train their husbands to suppress their overwhelming desires in order to provide for the family.
That is Radhe for you – docile, dumb and depressing. You wonder, could there be anything remarkable about this man. Well, wait till you see him get on the crowded Mumbai suburban train network.
Here is what happens:
He wants to buy a ticket everyday. He stands at the ticket window before it opens. Then he fumbles with his change for as long as he wants, especially when the hollering starts from those in the queue behind him. Invariably he will hand at least one outdated coin which is no longer in use. He will also make sure that he never has the exact change despite paying with the largest number of small denomination coins, always delivering a few at a time. He seems to derive mild pleasure from the ticket clerk’s exasperation. When the guy starts shouting, Radhe in his usual serene manner starts inaudibly muttering about his rights, presenting arguments so contradictory that no one really understands what point he is trying to make. He usually succeeds in getting a ticket without ever paying the full fare, because the ticket clerk just wants to get rid of him the minute he sees his face at the ticket window.
Once on the train, Radhe has the penchant of opening the windows if it is raining and closing them when it is not. All the other passengers who admonish him to do otherwise are met with a silent steely stare. Smoking is not allowed on Mumbai’s trains, but Radhe makes sure that he holds in his hand a cheap beedi, which he lights but does not smoke. This, despite the fact that Radhe himself hates smoking.
I have always known Radhe to be a sedentary person without the slightest interest in sports, but he will switch on his tiny portable transistor radio full blast in order to follow some insipid hockey or football match or even a cookery show, subjecting the fellow passengers to a noisy broadcast full of static as he tunes in to a godforsaken channel. However when people want to hear the latest cricket score, he will pretend the radio has stopped working.
The seats in the train are meant for 3 people, yet the people of Mumbai are accommodating enough to allow a “4th seat” passenger to precariously balance half of his backside as the train journeys are long and arduous. Despite his small size, Radhe will take up the full space he is entitled to – exactly 1/3rd of the long seat. However, when he is the one standing and there are only three people on the seat, he demands his 4th seat and manages to take up an excessive area simply by putting his hands in his pockets and poking his bony elbows into his neighbors’ sides. The few occasions that he has to travel standing, he keeps his jacket unbuttoned, adjusting his height such that the flaps of his jacket hit the face of the seated passengers. He is delighted if someone is reading, he will stand against the window or whatever is the poor fellow’s source of light. As if that is not enough, he will withdraw himself for a brief spell just enough for the reader to open his book again and read a couple of words before Radhe moves back into position.
On the evening rush hour, Radhe makes sure that he is eating a “Bombay sandwich” all through the journey. Then with breadcrumbs and threads of tomato, onion and cucumber hanging from his mouth, he will walk along the length of the compartment saying “Side please”
My friend Radhe gets off the train in a jolly mood. Timidly, he walks home, staying out of the way of anyone he meets. He is not allowed a key, so he has to ring the bell. If anyone is home, they rarely refuse to open the door to him. But if neither his wife nor his son are to be found, Radhe sits on the doorstep until someone arrives.
The stray dogs of Mumbai panic Radhe and in order to avoid them he constantly crosses the road. The beggars and eunuchs panic him even further and he quickly parts with all his money, throwing it out of his hand into theirs, shrinking from the very thought of their touch.
His voice is barely audible mostly and he has never been able to complete a sentence without being interrupted – I think it is because people can’t tell whether he is speaking at all. Do you think that Radhe minds in the least? Not really, he appears happy to have the strain of conversation being taken off his weary mind.
My friend Radhe has been married for 15 years. His wife is a thin, sickly woman with nervous hands who has a surprisingly shrill and unbearably loud voice as well as a vicious tongue. I think of a lion tamer each time I see her, but then Radhe doesn’t exactly measure up to what we would call a lion. Ahem!
Radhe – you have to wonder how – has successfully produced a child who has been named by the mother of course as Ranavir Rajavir. He is tall, intelligent, sarcastic (especially to his father) and distrustful. Obviously he obeys only his mother and the two of them have decided that Radhe is a burden on this planet and has little to offer the world, so they choose to ignore his rarely expressed opinions.
I think Radhe has worked at the same place for years – a dismal exporter of marble and granite. His boss is a burly old man with strong forearms and he looks as if he could split a stone slab with his bare hands. He regularly gives Radhe a pay cut to subsidize his other employees pay increases or so he says. Radhe’s entreaties are often met with violence. Unable to bear the ferocious looks he gets from his boss, Radhe regularly works late hours in his crumpled old suit. He owns only one suit, the one he had stitched for his wedding 15 years ago. He also has just one tie, which is frayed at every conceivable point along its edges. Since his wife will probably kill him if his shirt gets dirty, he always works with his jacket on.
Just after the burly boss decided to cut Radhe’s salary one more time, his wife has decided that Ranavir Rajavir cannot go to the government polytechnic with such good marks. She has registered him at an expensive institution in a posh Mumbai neighborhood. In view of the additional outlay of funds required, Radhe has stopped buying his daily newspaper and his only monthly luxury, Readers Digest (a considerable sacrifice). His sacrifices could not have been timelier. His wife has recently exhorted all the neighborhood wives on how they should train their husbands to suppress their overwhelming desires in order to provide for the family.
That is Radhe for you – docile, dumb and depressing. You wonder, could there be anything remarkable about this man. Well, wait till you see him get on the crowded Mumbai suburban train network.
Here is what happens:
He wants to buy a ticket everyday. He stands at the ticket window before it opens. Then he fumbles with his change for as long as he wants, especially when the hollering starts from those in the queue behind him. Invariably he will hand at least one outdated coin which is no longer in use. He will also make sure that he never has the exact change despite paying with the largest number of small denomination coins, always delivering a few at a time. He seems to derive mild pleasure from the ticket clerk’s exasperation. When the guy starts shouting, Radhe in his usual serene manner starts inaudibly muttering about his rights, presenting arguments so contradictory that no one really understands what point he is trying to make. He usually succeeds in getting a ticket without ever paying the full fare, because the ticket clerk just wants to get rid of him the minute he sees his face at the ticket window.
Once on the train, Radhe has the penchant of opening the windows if it is raining and closing them when it is not. All the other passengers who admonish him to do otherwise are met with a silent steely stare. Smoking is not allowed on Mumbai’s trains, but Radhe makes sure that he holds in his hand a cheap beedi, which he lights but does not smoke. This, despite the fact that Radhe himself hates smoking.
I have always known Radhe to be a sedentary person without the slightest interest in sports, but he will switch on his tiny portable transistor radio full blast in order to follow some insipid hockey or football match or even a cookery show, subjecting the fellow passengers to a noisy broadcast full of static as he tunes in to a godforsaken channel. However when people want to hear the latest cricket score, he will pretend the radio has stopped working.
The seats in the train are meant for 3 people, yet the people of Mumbai are accommodating enough to allow a “4th seat” passenger to precariously balance half of his backside as the train journeys are long and arduous. Despite his small size, Radhe will take up the full space he is entitled to – exactly 1/3rd of the long seat. However, when he is the one standing and there are only three people on the seat, he demands his 4th seat and manages to take up an excessive area simply by putting his hands in his pockets and poking his bony elbows into his neighbors’ sides. The few occasions that he has to travel standing, he keeps his jacket unbuttoned, adjusting his height such that the flaps of his jacket hit the face of the seated passengers. He is delighted if someone is reading, he will stand against the window or whatever is the poor fellow’s source of light. As if that is not enough, he will withdraw himself for a brief spell just enough for the reader to open his book again and read a couple of words before Radhe moves back into position.
On the evening rush hour, Radhe makes sure that he is eating a “Bombay sandwich” all through the journey. Then with breadcrumbs and threads of tomato, onion and cucumber hanging from his mouth, he will walk along the length of the compartment saying “Side please”
My friend Radhe gets off the train in a jolly mood. Timidly, he walks home, staying out of the way of anyone he meets. He is not allowed a key, so he has to ring the bell. If anyone is home, they rarely refuse to open the door to him. But if neither his wife nor his son are to be found, Radhe sits on the doorstep until someone arrives.
The Unposted Letter
Yesterday, I came across a letter to a friend that I had forgotten to post. In it, I had chided her for not being "online" and stated that I was doing her a favour by writing a letter instead of the normal email or chat communication that I had with all my other friends.
The letter contained a lot of stuff about my daughter who was just a 1 year old then. Arya and I read it together and it was a barrel of laughs. I had written about how Arya had started walking properly and even running about in short spurts. I had written about how she spoke some words and a whole lot of nonsense. And most importantly, I wrote about a funny incident which somehow I had forgotten - we were all watching a Hindi movie with it's typical fight scene, when Arya leapt into action, jumped off the sofa, attacked my mom with her fists saying "Dishum Dishum". Fond memories came racing back into my mind.
I started scavenging the box in which I had found this letter for more such blasts from the past. The search yielded nothing. But Arya requested me to write letters to all my friends now so that she may discover these several years later and we can have fun reading them. My daughter is a sentimental fool and gladly, so am I.
I remembered with lots of regret, the email box I had set up for her and the emails I used to religiously send to that mailbox hoping that someday she would read all about her first smile and her tiny fingers and the way she looked at me when I caught her with my palmtop which she had removed all the keys of. Her first piano lesson and the first time she was on stage - the list was endless. I forgot to sign into that email account for a month when I was on holiday and hey presto! they erased all that stuff.
Coincidentally, yesterday my brother's friend asked me to write about my recent experiences of moving back to India after living in Singapore for 8 years. He also referred me to this site. I was reluctant at first but discovering the unposted letter and thinking of all the memories which I was flushing down the drain by not recording them anymore (after the unfortunate email incident) made me certain that I definitely wanted to chronicle my life.
So here goes...!
The letter contained a lot of stuff about my daughter who was just a 1 year old then. Arya and I read it together and it was a barrel of laughs. I had written about how Arya had started walking properly and even running about in short spurts. I had written about how she spoke some words and a whole lot of nonsense. And most importantly, I wrote about a funny incident which somehow I had forgotten - we were all watching a Hindi movie with it's typical fight scene, when Arya leapt into action, jumped off the sofa, attacked my mom with her fists saying "Dishum Dishum". Fond memories came racing back into my mind.
I started scavenging the box in which I had found this letter for more such blasts from the past. The search yielded nothing. But Arya requested me to write letters to all my friends now so that she may discover these several years later and we can have fun reading them. My daughter is a sentimental fool and gladly, so am I.
I remembered with lots of regret, the email box I had set up for her and the emails I used to religiously send to that mailbox hoping that someday she would read all about her first smile and her tiny fingers and the way she looked at me when I caught her with my palmtop which she had removed all the keys of. Her first piano lesson and the first time she was on stage - the list was endless. I forgot to sign into that email account for a month when I was on holiday and hey presto! they erased all that stuff.
Coincidentally, yesterday my brother's friend asked me to write about my recent experiences of moving back to India after living in Singapore for 8 years. He also referred me to this site. I was reluctant at first but discovering the unposted letter and thinking of all the memories which I was flushing down the drain by not recording them anymore (after the unfortunate email incident) made me certain that I definitely wanted to chronicle my life.
So here goes...!
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