The No Nose Situation Knows No Taste as Well

There are certain times when I enforce a restraining order on my husband, several times a day in fact – when he’s had a cigarette and is still reeking of the odor. If there is one thing I cannot stand, it is the smell of a cigarette. My nose is pretty sensitive to the slightest of obnoxious smells; add to this the fact that we live in a relatively small apartment, you can imagine how hard it is to actually enforce this unwritten restraining order. Most of the time, I end up screaming like a “mad woman”, to quote my husband, because I cannot tolerate the smell.

For the past fortnight however, there has been an eerie silence at our home; I have not been taxing my vocal chords, not because he has become a saint and quit smoking, but because my nose is out of order. A combination of too much travelling, the flu and a very severe cold confined me to the house for more than a week, with the result that my nose was fully blocked. So in effect, it was goodbye to the odors that make me and other normal people wince and screw up our faces.

Oh, how happy I was – on the shuttle court, when everyone else was rushing to throw open some windows and let the stink of the termite repellant out (we play on a wooden surface which was apparently under threat from termites), I was thrilled to not share in their misery; at the in-laws’ place, people were rushing to close windows and get far away from the stench because the septic tank next door was being cleaned, but I didn’t have to budge from where I was. And of course, it was very peaceful on the home front with my neighbors being saved from the sound of my voice (again, hubby’s opinion, not mine).

But then, the downside of a life with no nose reared its ugly head and in one stroke, pushed this feeling of smugness to a tiny corner. For quite some time now, two weeks to be more precise, I had found that food was tasteless. Yes, I understood that it was the cold and the fever that was playing with my taste buds, so I just pushed down enough of it in order to take my medicine and antibiotics. But when you start to feel better and are actually hungry, and food still tastes like sawdust, you start to wonder why, especially when you know that you haven’t cooked it yourself and that it is your mother-in-law’s normally very tasty mutton biryani.

It all boiled down to the nose again – apparently, when you cannot smell, your sense of taste is also diminished. So when your nose goes down for the count, it takes your taste buds with it –perhaps it is a one-sided relationship where your sense of smell cannot stand your sense of taste living on when it has died.

So in a nutshell, life is pretty bland these days – no smell, no taste, and no noise (hubby is very happy – add to this list “no nagging from wife” for him). And while the nose limps back to normal, I am wondering about the unfair choice – do I really have to stomach the nauseating stink of cigarettes if my stomach is to enjoy some tasty food?

A Different School of Thought – Schooling for Marks or Schooling for Growth?

One reason I love burrowing through attics where old junk is stored is the anticipation of finding lost and hidden treasures. The dust, dirt and the scare of scurrying mice, lizards and cockroaches do act as speed-breakers to my enthusiasm, but I plough on because of what I hope to find. No, it’s not that my ancestors were pirates or bank robbers who had hidden piles of loot somewhere and passed on only rumors and stories of their exploits down the generations; it’s not gold, silver or even money that I’m looking for – my sole intent is to find books and comics, the kind that made my childhood memorable and enjoyable and which you don’t get in bookstores today (even if you do get them in the revised versions, they are so damn expensive that you prefer to download the e-versions, if available, and read them on your Kindle).

So as I was going through one such room on a trip to my parents’, helped ably by my brother, sister and cousin, we came across a whole lot of comics and something I hadn’t bargained on – my old school project. To the others, it was just a shabby book, covered in peeling brown paper and filled with yellowing pages, fading pictures and the writing of an earnest 9-year-old, but in my eyes, it was the work of a whole holiday, a month or so, in which I searched for relevant pictures from the magazines and newspapers that my dad used to buy, and built up a collection to submit for my project at school.

I was in the fourth grade, and we had been asked to compile an album of the highlights of India and its states. The pictures were not uniform, the writing was not bad but my siblings still teased me about the odd spelling mistake (mainly because of what I do for a living today), and to sum up, the album was definitely not something any kid of today would submit. I was ribbed for a while about the fact that I had included a picture of a television under the page “Communication”, and about how sparse the content was.

But, in spite of it all, I brought the album back home with me, because, truth be told, it was painstakingly compiled 25 years ago, without access to any of the resources we have today (Google and the Internet have sure made life a thousand times easier for parents looking to help their kids with school projects), and most important of all, without the help of any adult. Just for that last fact alone, it was invaluable to me.

Today’s kids have a plethora of options at their disposal; even so, it pains me to realize that they seem to have lost the one thing that really matters – independence and the power to think for themselves. In the rat-race of competitions and parents wanting their child to stand “first” rather than improve themselves, to score “marks” rather than actually learn something, every school project becomes a sort of contest between the parents. And at the end of the day, it’s the ones who can afford to spend the most money, the most time, and the most effort who finish ahead of the rest.

In all this confusion, the kids are left by the wayside; they grow up without tapping into their creative side, without discovering where their talents and abilities lie, and unable to take decisions and do things on their own, always looking to their parents to take care of everything for them. Even the parents who don’t want to get on this bandwagon are forced to do so when they see that their children are disappointed at not winning any prizes. And this is why I lay the blame solely on the shoulders of the school; are they so stupid that they do not know what a child of a certain age is or is not capable of? To solve the problem of parent interference, they either need to judge more carefully when deciding winners, or they need to conduct contests that are held at school where the parents are not around. Only then will they be imparting an education to the kids and not just teaching them to “score high marks.”

But as neither of these options is going to be happening any time soon (or in the future), I think I’ll just hold on to my album as an item of historic value, one that I probably will never see again!

Food For The Soul…

This blog was born when I saw eyebrows being raised when I told people that I wrote for a living, yet did not have a blog of my own. But, as you can see, after an enthusiastic start, I’ve neglected it for close to a year. The problem with writing for a living is that you really don’t feel like writing for fun. Yes, you do have thoughts and ideas that beg to be put down in your creative style, but by the time you’re done with work for the day, all you feel like doing is switching off your notebook and switching on the TV, curling up with a book or catching up with friends and family.

But when the writing bug is in you, it never lets go, as I realized today. The dormant germ hibernating inside all this time was suddenly awakened today (no particular reason), and I decided to dust this blog and bring it back to life. Only after I started to write (the next article) did I realize why I needed to continue with this, why I needed to write for myself and not just for work alone – it’s because you need to feed not just your stomach, but also your soul.

So I begin anew, and I hope that the process of nurturing my soul does not take too long a break being relegated to the backseat in the hustle and bustle of everyday responsibilities.

A PONY “TALE”

“Ma, is breakfast ready? I’m so hungry I could eat a horse,” Samyuktha clambered down the steps to the dining table. “Behave like a lady Sam,” chided her father Rajendran, as Sam stuffed a few pieces of toast down her throat and washed them down with a glass of milk. “Bye Ma, Pa, I’m off to school,” she shouted as she rushed out the front door. “Hold your horses, young lady,” her father looked up from his newspaper, “What’s the big hurry? It’s not even 8 yet.” “Gotta rush Pa, Amma will explain.” Rajendran looked in askance at his wife Hema, who heaved a big sigh in reply.

Samyuktha, or Sam, as she insisted she be called, was their only daughter. Though her parents were overjoyed by the birth of a girl after two boys, they joy was tempered by the fact that Sam was a true tomboy in every sense of the word. The precocious 12-year-old would not even be caught dead in anything remotely feminine. Getting her to wear a dress was like flogging a dead horse. The only concession she made to acknowledge that she was of the female species was to grow her hair, as Hema simply refused to allow her pre-teen to chop her gorgeous tresses, which she always wore in a ponytail.

Hema had had to use the carrot-and-stick approach to coax and cajole her daughter to care for her hair and let it grow to its present thick and luxurious length. She had to resort to every trick in the book, ranging from bribes and threats to tears and blackmail. Shopping for clothes usually ended with Hema buying Sam a pair of pants while wistfully exclaiming, “I wish you would at least try on that pink dress.” Sam’s standard reply was, “Amma, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride and I’d have been born a boy.” End of discussion. My hair is my mum’s hobbyhorse, Sam would often tell her friends, to which Hema would retort, “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth Sammy, most girls would kill for hair like yours.”

“Well, I’m waiting,” said Rajendran, startling Hema out of her reverie. “Sam is entering a beauty contest. Her teachers will be selecting one girl from her class to represent her school at the inter-school level. She’s been going early to Sheela’s house everyday to practice her walk and try out costumes.” explained Hema. Sheela was Sammy’s best pal. “But that’s wonderful,” exclaimed Rajendran, “She’s finally discovering her feminine side, so why the long face?” Hema shook her head, “There’s a catch to this whole situation. She wants to cut her hair as she thinks it will make her look trendy and more in line with the latest styles.” Rajendran took a more practical approach, “Get off your high horse, Hema and look at the bright side of things. Her hair will grow back. For now, be happy she’s finally showing interest in being a girl.” Hema finally realised that she had been putting the cart before the horse and resolved to get her priorities right.

That evening saw an ecstatic and breathless Sam run up the driveway, “Amma, Appa, I’ve won. I’ve been selected to represent our school.” Hema smiled indulgently at her daughter’s exuberance, “Slow down Sammy, take a deep breath and tell us the whole story.” “It was a one-horse race as far as my class was concerned, but at the inter-school level I’ll be the dark horse. I have to start preparing for the big day, Amma. When are you taking me to the parlour so I can get my hair cut and styled?” Sam continued. Hema knew she could only take a horse to the water, but not make it drink, so she reluctantly agreed to accompany her daughter to the hair dresser the following day.
Later that night, Sam was indulging in a bit of horseplay with her brothers who were teasing her mercilessly for entering a beauty contest. “Phone for you Sammy,” interrupted Hema, “Sheela on the line.”

A few minutes later, Sam’s subdued announcement, “Ma, I don’t want to cut my hair,” stunned her family into silence. She continued softly, “If I do, it would amount to closing the stable door after the horse has bolted. Sheela said she overheard a few teachers discussing the outcome of today’s competition, and one of them said she heard it straight from the horse’s mouth that it was my hair that tipped the scales in my favour. The judges felt that it made me look more graceful and elegant.”

Hema smiled and realised that her “hair-raising” plans were back on track!

TOUCHED BY AN ANGEL WITH ANGEL

She’s not a permanent fixture in my life – she comes and goes randomly. Though I don’t miss her when she’s gone, I rush into her arms the moment I see them outstretched towards me. When she’s around, I know I’ll get to go out more often, take in the sights and sounds of the neighborhood. I know she loves me because – there was this time a few months ago, when we had just returned from a long trip and the food was under all the boxes, bags and other paraphernalia that filled the car. I was hungry, and she ran to dig out my lunch, not caring that in the process, her precious laptop (I know she treasures it cause no matter how much she loves me, she never lets me touch it) tumbled to the ground. She ignored it, choosing to feed me instead. I let her know how much her gesture meant by nuzzling her face – the look in her eyes told me she loved me.

I saw her again a few weeks ago. This time, she was hesitant to hold me and I wondered why. I soon realized that she was not well, her leg was hurt. I wanted to comfort her, but I did not know how. In spite of her disability, she opened her arms to me. I turned away, but not before I saw the hurt on her face. My sister explained to her that I was sulking because she did not take me out as she usually does during her visits with me. But she was wrong! There was a reason for my distance – I knew that if she held me, she would hurt more. I wish I could tell her that, make her understand – but I’m just 14 months old, and unfortunately unable to put my feelings into words yet. If I could, I’d tell my Perima just how much I adore her!

FRANKLY SPEAKING....

Now I’m no diehard Kamal fan but I must admit the man’s got oodles and oodles of talent – I loved all his movies except the ones that had a cascade effect of depression and sadness, like Mahanadi. I also took exception to the way the second half of Vettaiyadu Vilayadu unfolded, more like a sequence of thoughts lifted straight out of a masochist freak’s mind rather than an in depth analysis of the workings of a criminologist’s mind as he unravels a series of gory rape-murders - which is why I reacted with skepticism to every news item and all the media frenzy preceding the release of Dasavatharam.

After all the hype and hoopla, the film is going to be one damp squib, or so I thought. Even when the first few reviews trickled in from friends and family who had watched the movie, I was reluctant to believe them when they said it was good. Only after I sat through three hours of non-stop entertainment on a sultry afternoon inside the cool confines of an air-conditioned theater did I admit to myself that Kamal had outdone himself by weaving a masterpiece.

Of course, there were many things in the movie that made no sense, especially the miraculous cancer-curing bullet and the ten diverse roles – did Kamal want the world record so badly that he went so far as to don ten kinds of complicated disguises? Some of the roles looked like caricatures, especially the extremely tall guy and the old lady. The 7 footer also had the worst diction possible, coming off most of the time as slightly mentally retarded (the stiff layers of makeup contributing to a wooden face with no expression at all added to the stupid look).

But when taken as a collective whole, I walked out of the theatre feeling that yes, this is a good entertainer, thanks to the excellent screenplay – while Kamal the actor did not wow me with his ten different roles, Kamal the screenplay writer simply dazzled! He’s done a wonderful job of identifying the common thread that ties all ten diverse characters together and used it to hold the storyline in one cohesive piece.

At the end of the movie, in spite of having bravely endured Asin’s shrill voice in every frame, in spite of the nostalgia I felt when I compared Dasavatharam’s Govind to Punnagai Mannan’s Sethu (Oh, how handsome and romantic he was in that movie – in my book, Kamal outdoes himself in romantic roles), in spite of some parts of the story being so contrived as to fit in all ten characters, I was applauding the effort that had gone into the germination, the conception, the gestation and finally, the long-awaited birth of Dasavatharam. Sure, he’s indulged in a few excesses, the most notable one being that of the self, but isn’t he entitled to do so after his immense contribution to the world of cinema?

APPADI PODU ABHISHEK BACHAN...

It’s a sight as incongruous as a penguin in the Sahara – Abhishek Bachan twisting and gyrating to the beat of the hugely popular (if slightly old) Tamil number “Appadi Podu” from one of Vijay’s movies (I think it’s Gilli but I’m not sure since he has a similar item number in all his flicks). Now I’m the kind who hardly glances at the always on television, but the combination of Bachan Junior and a dappanguthu Tamil song was a strong magnet that glued my eyes to the TV against my will and made me watch the ad just so I could see what the producers were trying to convey by having the star contort himself into embarrassing positions.

This was hardly 24 hours ago, and now, I only remember that the ad was trying to endorse some Motorola phone – I don’t know which model, I don’t know what the connection was between the wild dancing, the Tamil song, and the phone; all my mind can think of is – why on earth would Abhishek Bachan do this senseless ad? But then, come to think of it, most ads are pretty senseless these days – how on earth do people get away with insinuating that a fair complexion is all that’s needed to breeze through an interview and secure a job? How do consumers fall for the ruse that eating food cooked with one brand of salt can make you a district collector a few years down the line?

It’s not that I have a grouse against all advertisements; in fact, there are some that are so tastefully done that you want to watch them again and again any time they’re broadcast – like the one for some gold ornament company where the daughter’s sad about leaving for her new home after the wedding and the father jogs her memory about a moment shared years ago when she, as a child, left for her first day at a new school. The ad was not directly about the gold, but about relationships that last forever, irrespective of time and distance.

But then again, is the ad serving its purpose when you can’t even remember the name of the product that was being endorsed in the first place? One brand that has managed to stamp its presence firmly and deeply in the advertising field is Virgin Mobile – I loved the tongue-in-cheek commercials that touched the fringes of hitherto un-chartered territory in the history of Indian television. Sure, there’s an element of disrespect in them if you delve too deeply, but you have to admit that the girl using reverse psychology to get her way was a brilliant stroke of genius, one that made me actually laugh out loud. The ad was subtle in that it flirted with the taboo issue of homosexuality, an attitude I find refreshingly honest and acceptable as opposed to the commercial where one whiff of a deodorant is apparently enough to get women blatantly falling all over or jumping into bed with a muscular hunk.

In a chauvinistic ad world that opens career and matrimony doors only to women with fair skin and portrays a convoluted relationship between casual sex and scent with absolutely no room for companionship and love, I guess Appadi Podu and Abishek Bachan are not so bad after all!