Matches made in heaven - and set us ablaze!

 A great grand aunt twice removed once called out of the blue to invite us to her granddaughter's wedding. "What, you don't remember me?" She shrieked in abject horror into the phone and proceeded to explain the exact and excruciatingly complex web of relationships that connected us. "Why, I was right there at your parents' wedding!" I apologized that I had missed that event, probably because I hadn't been born yet. She snorted at the namby pamby excuse. As far as she was concerned, in terms of namby-pamby excuses, it was right up there alongside "I was out fighting a war!" or "I was in the hospital having a baby!"

You see, the Great Indian Wedding is the ultimate 'do' where you are expected to turn up, turned out in all manner of finery, so that you can chalk out all manner of circles of reference between everybody present. A wedding is not declared complete until all those in the hall have been linked to everyone else, and everyone has been introduced to everyone that can be introduced. That's why a good wedding takes anywhere between 2 days to 4 days. The good old six degrees of separation simply doesn't work with everyone and the old family tree has to be literally uprooted and examined to find invisible tendrils of connections that links the brat who has set up base at the ice cream counter to the matriarch to whom all lesser mortals are kowtowing.

Match-making seems to be a part of our genes. We seem to have this primeval need to desperately form patterns all the time between everyone we know, a need to prove again and again the cosmic interconnectedness of the universe. Facebook and LinkedIn help by showing us exactly how many people we have in common with every person we know on the planet.

"Oh you're in XYZ company?" People ask me ever so often. "Do you know so-and-so? I have no idea what department he's in or which branch. In fact, I barely know his full name. What, you don't know him?" The company has about thirty thousand employees across about eight offices in the city. But that makes no difference. I still have to endure the accusing and disappointed glares of people whose so-and-so I have just refused to recognize. And what if, by some miracle of probability I do actually know the person? How does it help anyone really?

My husband is routinely asked whenever a conversation with a new acquaintance veers to matters relating to alma maters. "Oh you studied in IIT/IIM? My so-and-so was a professor/student there..." Well, so what if it was about ten years before my husband was born or twenty years after he graduated from said institution. Or if the said institution he was in is about a thousand kilometers away from so-and-so's?? IIT is IIT and IIM is IIM right? Whenever, wherever.

No wonder then that a wedding is a rite of passage of sublime importance, higher on the scale than even births and deaths. Never mind if the bride and groom have already been living together for a few decades. Never mind that both have been married several times earlier. Great grandmothers are still in attendance with their wheelchairs, oxygen masks and other apparatuses in place. Hugely pregnant sisters-in-law are expected to keep their contractions down to a decent frequency.

Of course, at the critical moment in the wedding, when the nadhaswaram has reached its crescendo and drowns out all the chatter around anyway, all conversation comes to a standstill and the whole family along with its extended branches and circles holds its collective breath as the wedding garlands are exchanged and the mangal sutra is tied tightly in place. A sigh of relief wafts through the hall like a hot summer breeze. The attendees can now go about the business of living. Grandfathers can now have their insulin injections, hungry babies can now be fed, the sisters-in-law may now deliver their offspring in peace.

And of course more matches can be made. "You know, I have this lovely divorcee grand niece of mine, you wouldn't happen to know a handsome widower or divorcee, would you? Wait, you do? He's in IBM? Wait, you know, my husband's mother's sister-in-law's nephew's colleague's father-in-law is in IBM. Let me ask him if he knows him."

Left and right brain

'Be rational," says my left brain,
"No be creative," says the right.
I think they should talk it out,
So I send out an invite.

But my left brain says it's busy,
So I propose another time,
Then my right brain has a conflict,
And (regretfully) has to decline.

Finally, we agree on a day and time,
A room is booked, the agenda drawn -
We're ready to find out how
The two sides of my brain can get along.

But despite my best laid plans,
I'm still plunged in gloom,
For the conference team in my head has
Rejected my request for a room!

And so I walk around the place,
Perplexed, confounded, and bereft,
Always wondering if I'm in my right mind
Or if even I have one left!

Day 30 - My 30-day Challenge - The good, the stats, and the (relatively) ugly!

So, my 30 days are up! Here are a few interesting things I found during this experiment...

The Good
1. I completed the challenge that I set out for myself - no one was monitoring me but me, no one cared if I made it or not but me - and I did it anyway! If I can do this, I can do anything. Bring it on - life!

2. I have tried to look at life from 30 different points of view - a triacontagon prism of life if you will (that is apparently what a 30-sided polygon is called). See, that's another thing I just learnt.

3. I have managed to write 30 original articles/poems every single day, no forwards, no stuff done by the older me (or is that the younger me), all the posts were done by the me of the day!

4. I looked at everything closer, better, clearer- I smelt the roses, well enough to describe the fragrance. To write a coherent post about it, you need to be clear about what you are writing.

5. Because I tried to write mostly humor, I got to laugh at some things I might otherwise have been angry about - I like to think that I saved myself a couple of arguments while putting a grin on someone's face.

The Stats
1. I started off looking at stats, how many people were commenting, how many people were responding. In the beginning, it spurred me on.

2. I realized fairly soon that stats only measure the breadth of the post, not the depth. There are a few posts that were not exactly prvate in nature, but would have more meaning for a few selected individuals. Their responses were breath-taking.

3. I realized that all posts were not the same for everybody - even within my circle of friends and  acquaintances, there were a wide variety of people who seemed to resonate with different things, some that I did not really expect. Different posts struck different notes with different people. It was like a jala tarang of sorts and I enjoyed the music.

4. My three top posts (most viewed posts) are in order - Why Women Put on Weight, Postcards of Varanasi, and The Art of Shopping. Perhaps because these keep showing up on popularity feeds, they keep getting more and more popular - which kind of ets you thinking about life in general, doesn't it! Not too different with 'lucky' people in life who just seem to keep getting luckier.

5. So does that mean the most popular post would be of a fat woman who shopped to go to varanasi? Just thinking aloud, I know it's a flawed premise.

The (Relatively) Ugly
1. The days I put stuff up on Facebook, I was sorely tempted to keep checking for updates and on occasion was a little disappointed when they didn't make the waves I hoped. I stopped doing that eventually and started sharing posts independently with the people I thought might enjoy them.

2. I was so engrossed with writing the next post, that I realized I wasn't internalizing what I was reading or listening as well as I should.

3. Spinning a new story every single day was not easy - some days were uninspired and I tried to squeeze stories where none existed - those who have been following my blogs faithfully will know which ones those are. There is such a thing as too much of a good thing!

Day 29 - Journal of a teddy bear with an identiy crisis

I am a dark chocolate brown teddy bear, tall, soft, and handsome, with a large soft grey bow. I was given to Dhwani on her first birthday.The family called me Charmain after an ad for a brand of toilet paper in which a teddy bear happily wiggles its presumably clean bottom after having used Charmain. Apparently I resembled that teddy bear.

In Toy School, we are prepared for our lives after we are adopted by a family. I am twelve years old, and in teddy bear years, that is very very old! I have heard of friends who have been disembowelled by love within a year of adoption, whose arms and legs hang by threads. That is the destiny of a teddy bear, we are told in Toy School, a destiny we should embrace.

But Dhwani did not seem to need me very much in those early years. I stayed sadly intact for years, perched up on the shelf and saw many toys come and go, either get broken by use, or misplaced before they could be used. I saw dolls desperately in need of baths and a few that actually got one but still remained damp and smelly. I saw toys with dribble and drool and chocolate stains and several other unmentionables on them. Well, if you name me after a brand of toilet paper, you have to be prepared for some toilet humour!

Anyway, after a few years, along came Dhruv who inherited all those stuffed toys, the clean and dry ones, as well as the wet and smelly ones - and me! He did not bother to rechristen too many of the other toys, but decided to rename me Teddington, a dignified name if ever there was one, after a character in a children's show. But suddenly, Dhwani (who was now eight years old) decided that I was far too precious to part with. So they fought over me. They grabbed me each by an arm, and just as I thought I would finally achieve my destiny and get an arm torn off, their mother always intervened.

The matter was often settled depending on who needed me more at the time. Sometimes, Dhruv would settle for the monkey, the lion, the kangaroo, or one of the many dogs. Those nights, I was Charmain, guardian of pre-teen nightmares, warder off of dreams of teasing love-struck pimply pre-pubescent boys, or thoughts of stern teachers peering from over horn-rimmed glasses. I did not have much to offer - after all I had spent my teen years in various toy cupboards - but all she seemed to need sometimes was someone soft, non-judgemental, quiet, and supportive. I seemed to fit that bill very well indeed.

But when the matter could not be so amicably settled, I became Teddington, defender against dreams of big grabby sisters (the very one who came to me for support the previous night), guardian against bullies on the playground, whispering tips on how to colour within the lines and write cursive 'f's'.

Sometimes, it would start with me going to one bed and then being snuck off with the one who slept last. I would start my night as Charmain and then somewhere in the night turn into Teddington, or the other way round. This is rather a strain on my old body and older mind. In Toy School, we are taught to expect and welcome grievous bodily harm inflicted upon us, but we are not prepared to have our minds cleaved in two, step out from one character into the shoes of another. But maybe, I should have read the fine print better - Expect the unexpected.

Day 28 - Life on a Monopoly board

Day 27 - Diary to my unborn son

Dhruv, you are a lucky little guy, maybe even more so than your sister because you had one more person to pray and wait for your arrival than she did.  I’ll tell you a secret, no matter how cool she acts towards you, no matter what she says and does, she loves you to death, adores you. Don’t for a minute believe otherwise, even when it doesn’t feel like it. She sobbed and wept when she saw or heard of stories of something sad happening to babies. She kissed my tummy everyday at the door when she left for school even when I wasn’t showing yet, and even after you were born but when you were in your crib sleeping – how odd it must have looked to anyone passing by!

We were trying for a year to have you. We waited and prayed and planned for you.

November 27, 2007:

My birthday. I find out that I am pregnant! And when we tellyour sister the news, she is exultant. She credits your arrival to her heartfelt prayers. And she is right! We go out to celebrate at South Indies that had just opened. And they give me a teeny tiny little chutney jar – a baby jar. So appropriate. This is the most beautiful birthday that I have ever had. Ever.

November 28, 2007:

A doctor formally confirms that I am indeed pregnant. I can’t believe my eyes. Or ears! I have my first scan at Manipal Hospital and check it out for myself.

We are now getting used to the idea that pretty soon; we will no longer be just the three of us, but four! We decide to celebrate properly and plan a quick trip to Bangkok to visit your athai and cousin Trayi. We will celebrate Mom and Dad’s tenth anniversary there. We shop for tickets and deals and everything.

Jan 9, 2008:

I have my next scan and the doctor hits us with some bad news – we can’t go to Bangkok after all. I have something called a low-lying placenta – in other words I can’t travel. So there go all our plans. But it’s okay, we all love you anyway!

Jan 18, 2008:

Mommy and Daddy’s 10^th anniversary which we were supposed to celebrate in Thailand – instead we end up spending the day in a place called Angsana – a lovely place. But I can’t do half the stuff there – guess why? Because I am pregnant! Now, if it was anyone else who was playing spoilsport, I would have been upset – but it is you! I can't get upset with you!

March 19, 2008:  

I go for another scan, to make doubly sure that everything is okay with you. Thank goodness, you turn out to be fine.  

April, 2008:

Again, we make plans to go to Bangkok. Again, they don’t materialize. But this time it isn’t your fault. But Dhwani goes with Ammamma and Thatha - she goes to spend a month with Cousin Trayi and has a whale of a time. She returns by the end of the month.

May 8, 2008:

We realize that you are in my tummy in the breech position. That means you are upside down - not the way you are supposed to be. The doctor says it could still happen. So we have not yet given up hope.

May 9, 2008:

We fly out to Chennai a little earlier than we had originally planned. You, me and Dhwani, with Usha Ammummai.

June 1, 2008:

It is time for Dhwani’s school to re-open. We all go to Bangalore to attend a function and leave Dhwani behind to stay with Ammamma and Thatha for a few months and go to school while I stay back in Chennai to have you. I don’t think I’ve ever done anything more difficult than that. But she goes through with it. For you.  Dad and Dhwani come every second weekend to spend some time with us.  They must have made at least a dozen train rides during those months!

We get settled in Chennai – it is hot and sweaty, but we are happy. You are tumbling inside (even upside down!) and we notice that you seem to love music (I think you still do). There is one song in particular that you seem to love – the title track of a Malayalam serial - Guruvayurappan. I must try to find that song and play it to see if you still like it!

May 31, 2008:

 We go in for what should be the final scan at the same hospital that your sister was born, which had worked out fine back then. It confirms what we already knew – that you are upside down. But to be told that, we wait for over four hours! We decide to go to Thatha’s hospital for a second opinion. And boy, am I glad we did!

You see, we find out there that not only are you upside down, which is bad enough, but you have the umbilical cord around your neck! This is not a very good thing and we have to keep a close watch on you! Naughty little fellow! The radiographer describes the position you are in, upside down, cord around your neck, hand holding on to the cord, and leg stretched out. Now, babies are supposed to be all curled up in their moms’ tummies – that’s called the fetal position. You, on the other hand, are resting like an Emperor after a large meal!

So, I have to have surgery to get you out – there is no other option. But will you be able to make it to nine months – It has been only seven and a half months!

So we have to go in once week for scans to make sure you were growing well. And you were – for the first few weeks.

Jun 27, 2008:

We go in for one of these routine scans in the morning and the docs are not very happy with you! They want to get you out immediately. But we haven’t planned or prepared –we tell the docs that we’ll be back the next day which gives us a little time to pack our stuff and set the house in order. For your sister we had days and weeks to get the house painted and cleaned and everything. But you hurried us all up!

June 28, 2008 – 8:34 AM:

I am wheeled into surgery – I am awake throughout the procedure. I can see lights on the ceiling and stainless instruments gleaming. Some time later I hear the doctor announce, “It’s a boy!” I am elated and ecstatic. But a little worried from all the movies I’d watched. Imagine, all the books that I’d read, all the studying I’d done – and when the time came, what comes into my mind are silly Hindi movies!

“Why isn’t he crying?” I ask. Babies must cry when they’re born. I know that much. Turns out that since you were upside down with the cord around your neck, not once but twice, your bottom came out a few minutes before your face.

But out you come and cry you do. Lustily, with your tiny little face all scrunched up and your little fists all balled up. But you are so little (about 2.5 kg) and so new to the world that you are placed in an incubator for a couple of days in the Neonatal ICU (NICU). But pretty soon you move in with me and your grandmom takes care of us both till we are strong enough to go home, first to our home in Chennai, and then back to Bangalore.

Day 26 - A day with our grandmother

Each morning, we awoke,
To a gentle noise
That became more and more insistent,
Until we reached out to turn it off,
And discovered we couldn't
Because it was our grandmother's voice
Raised to a pitch that got us
Somersaulting out of bed.

Rumbling tummies were fed,
With soft white steaming idlis,
Dusty shoes polished to a shine,
Dowdy uniforms still warm from the iron,
Unruly hair magically oiled
And combed and straightened,
And neatly coiled,
Into two neat plump plaits,
Finished with ribbons
Tied up in pretty blue bows,
Like presents packaged for a party,
That wasn't quite a party.

At the door, she checked us for essentials,
And we turned back for the
Most essential thing of all.
She inhaled our cheeks,
(Because we hated slobbery kisses),
And breathed us in,
Sucking in our fears and tears,
Our gloom and doom,
And releasing them
Into her seventh cup of
Coffee of the day,
Strong enough to take them,
Hot enough to burn them to dust.

When we skipped out, we were
fresh-smelling happy little girls,
Neat and clean and well-fed,
Ready for a punishing day at school,
Which we got through
Knowing that at the end of it,
There would be hot food,
A listening ear, a bedtime story or two,
And another cheek inhalation at night,
To release our fears and drift us off,
Into the sweet world of childish dreams.