Categories
Humour Incidents Thought and Reason

Bits, Bobs and Sexy legs

Ok, if you are one of those few people who re-read the title just now, for your kind information, it is ‘bIts, bObs and sexy legs’. Perverts… 🙄

I miss blogging! I miss reading posts by my blog-buddies, I miss commenting, I miss replying to the very kind comments on my own blog! 24-hours a day is simply not enough! There is so much to do, so much to not do… and hardly any time to write. So here are a few bits and bobs….

1) Just read this yesterday: It takes all the running you can do, to keep in the same place. How very true. You simply have to run faster than ever before, just to remain in the same place. I thought this was by Kotler, however, Wiki told me otherwise. To read the source of this brilliant line, do click this link.

2) We were browsing the ‘Father’s Day‘ Cards at Tesco today, and the young security boy commented about how ‘people are marketing every single thing!‘ and how ‘there is a day for every thing and every one’. I agreed , nodding wisely, until he blurted, ‘There’s a fathers day, a mother’s day… at this rate, they will introduce a Child’s day!‘ I guess this boy hadn’t heard of ‘Children’s Day’ 😆 😆 😆

3) On sexy legs… (Ah…. finally!)

I actually went to the gym last month. Twice so far! And I actually enjoyed it. Now having sweated out for two hours (one hour each session), I instantly felt ‘fitter’ than ever before.

So, there is this pedestrian crossing that I have to cross every day, to drop the Brat off at school. There is a glass wall on the opposite side of the road.

Now, the Brat and I were standing on this side of the road, waiting for the traffic signal to change, so we could cross over to the other side. And voila!! In the glass wall, I saw the most amazing reflection of my legs. Looking lean and long in those dark blue denim jeans. I was amazed at the results of my two hours of gym-ing. I gazed at the reflection for a couple of seconds, sighing, wondering why I didn’t begin exercising earlier. And then – guess what happened next….

.

..

….

…..

……

…….

……..

………

……….

And then.. the pair of legs turned around and started to walk away!!! 🙄

Despite my average levels of sanity, I could not – for the life of me – figure out (pun unintended) how my sexy legs could do that … Until I realised those belonged to someone else. .. to a real girl who was actually standing behind the glass wall and whose upper half was hidden by a board that contained the tube map 😦

🙄 🙄 😆 😆

It was all I could do, to stop myself from clicking a picture. Saks would have done a great job, but hey, I am not her.

On that note, where the hell is she????? And that reminds me, where the hell is every one else? Where are Vimmu, Solilo, Indyeah? Where are Pixie, Swar, Mon and Uma? And why are Hitchy and Brat not commenting in their usual style? I miss all of you people.

(I also miss all those whose names I have forgotten remembered but just not written down ;-))

Itna sannata kyun hai bhai???

(4) P.S: I watched ‘Ready‘ yesterday. Total time-pass!! The first half of the movie was funny and had quite a few laughs, and great catchy numbers. The second half was entirely boring. So any of you planning to watch it, have fun 🙂 My Brat cannot stop singing Dhinka Chika and trying to copy Sallu’s moves 😉

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Y1V5up6ljw

(5) Edited to add: Just read this line on a fan-page on facebook. Lines of appreciation for a very popular male person, from his female fan…

‘….Its been a pleasure sharing with you as to my recent interest which had grown oversize…’ 🙄 🙄 :mrgreen: 🙄

I seriously wonder what she was referring to… any guesses?!!!!!

P.S: For the non-perverted mind: The male was Vah Chef  😉

Btw, I am a huge fan of Vah Chef myself… I enjoy his recipies on Youtube… and most importantly, I looooooooooooove his expression when he tastes his own food 🙂 Priceless and totally enviable 🙂

Happy rest of the week, folks. I am not sure when I will be able to reply to your lovely comments. But please keep writing ….

Categories
Short story

The old armchair – fiction

[Warning: Very long post ahead!]

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‘Aunty-ji, Aunty-ji, open the door!’. Loud shrieks woke Mrs Marathe from her daily siesta. She hobbled slowly from the airy balcony, back into the sparsely furnished hall. The clouds were looming into darkness, although it was only 4:00 pm on a hot summer afternoon. By sheer force of habit, Mrs. Marathe peered through the faded looking glass. Satisfied that it was indeed the girls, she unlocked the chains that held the door.

Lavina and Priya barged into the hall, and dashed into their room toward the rear end of the old apartment. Mrs.Marathe followed them but stopped just outside. It was her policy to never enter the rooms of her paying guests, though the children did not mind her gentle presence. ‘Arre, what happened? Sooo arly today? College bund (closed)?’, she enquired.

The girls had pulled several outfits out of the small wooden cupboard and thrown them onto the bed, all quite breathlessly. ‘Sorry Aunty-ji, we forgot to call and tell you earlier’.

‘We are going away!!’ – they yelled in unison. They looked at each other, their cheeks burning pink with excitement.

Mrs.Marathe stood as still as a statue. She looked at the two glowing faces. Of all the paying guests she had had over the last ten years, these were the only girls who had managed to carve themselves, a place in her heart. The others had come from good families too, had had excellent upbringing, but had always treated her as only a landlady, a stranger who hailed from several generations before!

Mrs. Marathe lowered her gaze to the ground, as if to examine the grey-black speckled tiles on the floor, for the first time. At 80, she had finished living almost her entire life. She had married well, had three children, two of which migrated to foreign shores, leaving her behind in their ancestral home. The third had been prompt enough to sell that beautiful house, and send her away to this apartment. ‘This is a residential area, Aai, you can relax here’, he had said. True, this was a beautiful locality in the heart of Pune. Green leafy trees, wide roads, and to complement the stillness, a neighbouring college that buzzed with the lively banter of youth – the sound of distant chattering voices that kept her company through the otherwise quiet day.

Lavina and Priya were students of that same college. Both were in their late teens, came from middle-class backgrounds, and were studious, respectful and very friendly. They had spent many an evening, chatting over a cuppa, in that balcony, Mrs.Marathe sunk in one arm-chair, Lavina perched on the arm-rest, Priya in the other arm-chair.

‘Oh, theek’ Mrs.Marathe whispered slowly, and exited to the balcony. For two reasons. First, it would allow the girls to pack. The second, and real reason being, she did not want her eyes to betray her emotions in front of them. Her eyes had been accustomed to seeing people leave her. Her parents, her husband, children.. infact everyone she had known ever! Except for a handful of friends who, like her, were supposed to enjoy ‘retired life’ in the same neighbourhood. She knew, that at 80, she was supposed to be more ‘in control’ of her emotions than the two teenagers who were at that very moment, excitedly stuffing clothes and shoes into their bags.

‘Rent is high.. I can reduce..’. ‘They want telephone? Or come home late!’ She was already thinking, quite involuntarily, of why the girls were leaving, and how she could convince the girls to stay.

Her life was an empty page now. All the work of rearing her children now finished, she had nothing to do, but ‘relax’. How she hated that word! ‘You’ve worked so hard all your life, Aai. Time for you to take rest now’, they would always say to her. That she lived all by herself, with her nearest relatives living four hours away in Mumbai, hardly made a difference to their stance. She had been too hurt to argue with their logic.

She had gracefully surrendered before the war could even begin. Retired to her little shell, and sported a content smile. Always.

Her three sons would faithfully call her every Sunday. The same, standard questions.

‘How are you, Aai?’

‘How is your health?’

‘Are you taking care of yourself?’

‘We will come to visit you soon, Aai’.

They were loving boys. They had always respected her and her late husband. Always ensured she had a steady source of income.

But they hardly came to visit.

In the two years that Lavina and Priya had lived in her apartment, they had never seen her sons. Never heard of her going to meet them in Mumbai or Dubai either, where they now lived.

‘Arre, I am too old to travel’, Mrs.Marathe would always say, when they broached the subject.

‘Too old’, Mrs.Marathe thought to herself, and stifled a laugh. She laid a wrinkled palm on the jaded edges of the arm-chair and thought to herself.. ‘People envy my restful lifestyle. My slow-paced life. My indulgence in books. The rare afternoon tea parties I have with acquaintances from two generations before them! And whenever I want to DO something.. GO out.. play with my grandchildren here, they say ‘Relax, Aai. Don’t stress’. And I continue to plough through this lonely, lonely life.. this .. this curse’.

Suddenly, someone hugged her knees. Mrs.Marathe looked down to find Lavina crying in front of her. ‘Please don’t cry, Aunty-ji, please don’t’, she pleaded. Priya walked behind her arm-chair and gently placed her arms around Mrs.Marathe’s frail shoulders and gave her a peck on her cheek.

Mrs.Marathe smiled, and touched her cheek. How she longed for her own grandchildren to give her a kiss like that! She touched both her cheeks again, this time. They were wet. Tears were streaming down her pointy chin, and had made her green cotton sari damp where they fell! She instantly covered her face with her knotty palms. And let go of all the emotions that had been binding her heart, like a thick rope around a brittle vine. She shuddered for a few seconds.

‘I don’t want to Relax. I want to Live!!’ she cried.

Lavina and Priya held her close. Suddenly, they were the parents, and Mrs.Marathe, the child – desperately seeking solace.

In about fifteen minutes, Mrs.Marathe had calmed down.

Priya rushed to fetch some cold water. ‘Feeling better, Aunty-ji?’ Lavina asked softly.

‘Yes, my dear. I am sorry! For crying like this. You got frightened?’

‘Not at all’, they cooed. Priya gently stroked her silvery hair. Lavina massaged the frail legs.

Mrs.Marathe looked on at them. What relation were they to her? Neither her children nor grandchildren had displayed so much affection towards her until now. She was suddenly exhausted. ‘I want to take rest’, she whispered.

The girls supported her carefully, into her bedroom, fluffed up her pillows, and eased her onto the bed.

‘Aunty-ji, by the way, will you be OK when we go?’

Mrs.Marathe blinked hard. She suddenly realised, this was what caused the outpour after all. The girls going away from her. The tears had however, drained her of both energy and emotion. ‘Yes, don’t worry’, she replied and smiled faintly.

‘Its only for a week! You know, there was this sudden announcement in College, about a fully sponsored training programme, an entire week – in GOAAAAA!!! And guess what? We BOTH got chosen!!’ The girls looked at each other and grinned. Lavina clapped her hands like a child, who had just been given a lollipop! Priya let out a low whistle.

Mrs.Marathe smiled. The enthusiasm was infectious. Suddenly, she realised. ‘Then, you will come back?’ she asked with barely noticable a tremor of excitement.

‘Ofcourse Aunty-ji!’, they chanted happily.

‘This is our home’, Lavina exclaimed. Mrs.Marathe squinted.

‘She means, like our home’, Priya added quickly, not wanting to irk their already distressed landlady.

Mrs.Marathe laughed. She stretched out her hands towards the girls. They held her palms tightly. Almost as if they were afraid to leave her alone.

‘This IS your home, children. For as long as you want’.

The girls enveloped her in a gentle hug, and rushed to get on with the packing.

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[Another para left – will be completed tomorrow 🙂 ]

[P.S: Had written this quite some time back, and was too bored to read and edit… so I leave the job to you 🙂 There must be a lot of language/syntax errors, please do help edit this!]

Categories
55-er MommySpeak Short story

Un-forgiven (55-er)

‘Why do you hate her, Sumi?’

My new bride kept silent.

‘Did she abuse you in any way?’

She looked down.

‘What IS the problem with your mum?’

A tear drop rolled off her beautiful kohl-lined eyes.

‘Problem is…

Same spirit, same zest, same frustrations…

I see myself in her.

And I cannot stand it!’

Categories
Humour MommySpeak

Mommy knows all!

The sun hadn’t risen this morning, and it was still dark at 7:30 am.

Sonny wakes up first, pulls me out of bed, and says

‘Please can you make it morning?’

 

🙂 🙂 🙂

 

(Btw, sweet as it sounds, all he meant was: ‘Switch on the da*n lights, you lazy b*m’)

Categories
Incidents

Biggest ever compliment

Since I bombard you with my various rants, I thought I must share something happy too 🙂

It was quite windy, but I wanted to take sonny cycling, for atleast 10 minutes while before the sun set for the day. So I got him ready first, put him on his trike and snapped the seat belt into place. As I got ready myself and was about to wear on my shoes, he suddenly looked at me, and said ‘You’re the coolest, Amma’ !

I am sure he has no clue of what it means. He must have just seen something on TV.

Still, this undoubtedly, and most most certainly, is the biggest ever compliment of my life!! I am so grateful!! Thank you, Rishi baby.

Categories
Awards Short story

Nanny Maa (short story for Indus Ladies Mothers Day contest)

 il_votebanner-120x240

Thanks a million, for taking the trouble to vote for my short story (submitted for IndusLadies Mothers Day contest)! I have made it to the Top Five!

The second round of voting is underway, so I need your help again.

Please visit    http://indusladies.com/partners/poll1.php

and Vote for my entry: ‘Pal of Crocodile Tales’ as soon as you can!! Thanks a ton!

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Reema watched the children play quietly in a corner of the room. They built castles from building blocks, and painted vibrant colours using their fingers. They giggled as they enjoyed their ‘Messy Play’. ‘I wish Monu were here’, she thought wistfully. Her three year old lived with her mother, while she worked as a nanny in London.

It had happened all too soon. The recession, Rakesh losing his bank job, the looming loan installments on their apartment. She didn’t have an option, but to resume work at the nursery she had been employed with earlier. She winced at the irony of not being able to afford the same nursery for Monu. ‘He will be looked after much better in India. Family, school, friends…’ Rakesh had assured her.

‘Reema, its potty time. Could you take the toddlers please?’, Meg called. Reema first took the girls into the toilets. Then came the boys. ‘It burns…’, cried Mick. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll ask Mummy to take you to the doctor’, she replied. It seemed to soothe the boy, and he hugged her. As she held him for just a second, she remembered the last time she had hugged Monu.

‘Mamma! Look! Granny sent me a present! And she’s got lots more. IN INDIA!!’, Monu cried excitedly. Reema looked at the train she had bought yesterday, and had signed: ‘Your loving Granny’. ‘I’m so happy, Mamma! Can we meet Granny ? Plllleeeeeeasssssseeeee… I want my presents’. She hugged him in a tight embrace. She felt choked. Her plan was working. Her heart was breaking.

A series of gifts of Thomas and Roary toys, colouring books and pencils followed that week. By Sunday, Monu was all set to meet his ‘loving grandmother’. In a home miles and miles away from home.

Rakesh didn’t lose much time. He booked tickets on the same Air-India flight on which his friends were travelling. ‘Look at them, Reema. They don’t even have an option! No jobs, three kids.  They start from scratch…’ Reema didn’t let him complete. She had heard this often enough in the last month. She slipped into their bedroom and sat by Monu’s side, stroking the mop of black hair and kissing his soft, tender forehead. ‘In two days, my little angel…you won’t be with me. Oh God! What have I done to deserve this?’. Hot tears streamed down her sunken face and dropped onto her track pants.

‘Aw…I’m sorry’, cried Mick. ”That’s Okay, dear’, she replied, wiping the drops of paint that had fallen onto her trousers. Her favourite Dorothy Perkins, bought from her first salary. She had cried miserably that afternoon, hiding inside the toilet.

‘Lunch!’.  The nannies cleaned the room, quickly transforming it into a dining area! Today was ‘Soup day’, which meant, a day of struggle! The toddlers pushed around the bland leek and carrots, while the infants unabashedly dribbled it out.

‘Let’s go for a nice walk after lunch, alright?’, the assistant manager came around, trying to cheer the children and staff alike. The former nodded excitedly, while the latter suppressed disapproval at the thought of having to dress and chaperon four children each!

The nannies strapped one end of the wrist-link onto three girls and a boy, and tied the other end to her own wrist.

They strolled leisurely around the sturdy bridge across the River Thames. Little Leah shrieked excitedly, ‘Boat! Boat’! The other children immediately looked in that direction. ‘Hey! Its Ducky!’ cried Mick. Before Reema realised, he started to run towards the steel barricade, so he could get a better look at his favourite black and green duck, that was bobbing away on the surface of the glistening river. ‘Slow down’, Reema cautioned. Mick quickened his steps towards the water. Reema tugged at his wrist-link. It was too late. The link snapped!

Thrilled at his new-found freedom, Mick ran as fast as he could on those little feet. ‘Noooo! Come back!’, cried Reema. She had to stop him. But she couldn’t just let go of the other three children. She quickly glanced around for help. The other nannies were chatting amiably, the children in tow. ‘Somebody help! Meg!! Meg!!’ she screamed.

Mick was now leaning precariously through the lower rung of the barricade. Another tilt, and he would fall into the river. There was no time to lose. Reema tied the wrist-links in hand to the rim of the dustbin on the path. ‘Stay here!’ she shouted to the baffled children. ‘God, please, please save him! Keep these children safe!’ she muttered, as she ran towards the barricade. The other nannies finally noticed, and quickened their pace. ‘That’s Mick…he’s falling through the barricade!’, cried one. ‘Oh Gawd! Hurry!’ screamed another at the children who trudged behind, blissfully unaware that this was their last outing from the nursery, for a long time to come.

That evening, when the shutters went down at the nursery, everyone was in a state of shock. They were still unable to digest what had happened. Mick’s parents had been informed immediately. Reema had been temporarily asked to take a few days off. There were to be no further outings until ‘the incident’ had been ‘thoroughly investigated and necessary measures put in place’. The children continued with their daily activities of rhymes, colouring and increased sessions of Messy Play. Occasionally, someone asked for Reema. But they soon forgot.

A month passed. And another. Six months now.

‘Rakesh, I’m sorry!’, Reema whispered into the phone.

‘No…’

‘I really am. I shouldn’t have left’

‘Don’t worry. How are you?’

‘Okay’

‘How’s our apartment?’

‘Looking great, with the new Italian flooring’

‘Wonderful !!!’

‘Monu’s enjoying his new school. I think he hated the Government school, where Mummy sent him earlier. He loves this one though. Huge playgrounds, friends..everything, really!’

‘Fantastic! This is all because of you, Reema’.

Silence.

‘If you hadn’t saved that boy, none of this would have happened. What was his name? Mike? Mick?’

Silence.

‘You risked your life to save his! And his parents rewarded you. With enough to last us a lifetime!’, Rakesh said softly.

‘Don’t be silly, Rakesh. Mike..  Mick..  Monu..  all the same’.

Reema’s voice faltered slightly, as she reminisced that fateful day. She remembered running towards Mick, yelling ‘Monu…Monu…!’ all the time. Mick had turned and smiled. She hadn’t realised the strangeness of it all then. She had just grabbed him by his jacket, and yanked him back onto safe ground, and showered kisses (against the rules!), crying uncontrollably.

The teardrops fell on Monu’s cheeks, as he shifted in his sleep. Reema quickly patted his back and whispered ‘Go back to sleep, my Angel!’.

Tomorrow was Mother’s Day. She was going to buy presents. Two sets of Thomas Tank Engine. One would have to sent by courier to London.

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* Featured blog in Sulekha.com Expressions

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Guys n Girls,

I have submitted this story for the Indus Ladies Mother’s Day contest (click link). Please vote for me if you like the story. If not, do let me know (so I know what to do when you participate… hee hee…just joking!!!).

Cheers…

Categories
Humour Incidents Short story

The benefits of rising early – A day in the life of a mum

6:00 am

The alarm rings, I promptly press snooze and enjoy those ‘5-more-minutes, mummy!’. Just as I complete my work-outs and 5-mile-run, the alarm beeps rudely, waking me out of my reverie. Sigh!

 

6:20 am

I stumble into the bathroom and search for the toothbrush in the dark (not wanting to awaken the rest of the family). Aah! I get hold of it, but it’s the wrong one. I then reach for the correct one, and it slips into the little dustbin that is placed conveniently under the washbasin. The new Cool Me doesn’t swear…she just picks it up with a resigned air, washes it and completes the morning ablutions in auto clock mode.

 

6:50 am

Now its time for the workouts I’d been dreaming of the last week. I search for my jogging tracks (not that I’m going jogging, but hey, you do need an outfit that motivates you!). I find them under a bundle of rubble, read: clothes meant to be disposed off in the local charity box! I yank it out, dust the spiders off lovingly and don it. Obviously, one can’t wear the going-out-shoes indoors. So I search for the old pair of sports shoes. The damn thing seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth. But this isn’t going to deter me. I patiently clean the soles of the current pair of shoes until they are ‘shainey an cleen’ (as my son would say). (Let me omit the hunt for the perfect pair of socks). Then I take a deep breath of lovely, early morning air, and turn on the treadmill. I wait to begin running. And wait. And wait. For the treadmill doesn’t work. Like we do with our computers, I try a Ctrl-Alt-Del but the damn thing just won’t work (oops, no swearing!). I decide to do a bit of Yoga instead. So I get out of my sporty outfit and search for something serene. As I ravage the shelves of the messy cupboard for a pristine white dress, my little one wakes up. Sigh!

 

8:15 am

The chef in me is invigorated to cook a nice and traditional breakfast. Yes! Idli-sambar. I reach for the idli-maker that some idiot has thrown into the recesses of the kitchen loft. Who could it be? Considering that I am the only one to enter the kitchen. Anyway! I do find it eventually, and drag it out using an idukki(pakad). It lands plop, straight into my hands. I smile like I’ve just caught a match-winning wicket. As I turn, a plastic bag full of unused crockery follows the way of the idli-maker. Just that, this time, I am not available to hold it when it falls. So there it is, all over the kitchen table. ‘Shit!’ I mutter, and proceed to swipe it off into a big garbage bag.

 

8:25 am

What the **** ! I’m way beyond schedule. The husband’s late for work and sonny hasn’t don’t his poo yet. I thrust the little brat into his potty and hurriedly oil the idli-plates. Obviously, the little jar is almost devoid of oil, so I search for the new bottle. To save time, instead of replenishing the little oil jar, I pour it expertly, straight from the big bottle. Of course I should have known that it would simply ooze over and fill the entire idli-plate. Now I begin the cursing routine. I clean it all up and pour in the idli-batter and set the cooker on. Just as I keep the rest of the batter back in the fridge, I notice the little one is not to be seen in his potty. He has, however, very kindly left a trail in brown, to where he is at the moment. Playing with his train set, and glue-ing together the engine and the wagons, with someone that also looks brown and sticky. And I must say, he’s having a whale of time!

 

8:55 am

I’ve cleaned the trails, set out the breakfast table, and made sure the little one is perched in his chair. As hubby sits down at the table in complete awe of the shiny stainless steel plates and a clean little boy beaming across at him, I proudly open the idli-maker and take the stand out, in the process scalding my little fingers. I take a flat spoon (specifically meant for this purpose) to ease the hot, steaming idlies out of their plate, and onto ours. I am, however, unable to do so much, as to even pierce the edge of the idlis. I try, and re-try. But the little white rocks remain firmly glued to their plate. I resort to the knife. Now that has some effect! I manage to scrape little white stones into the casserole and finally bring it to the breakfast table, swallowing both my pride and my tears.

 

9:25 am

Hubby has left for work, and sonny has resumed his play. I clear the dishes and put the cornflakes back into the cupboard L. And suddenly realise that the train set the sonny is playing with, hasn’t been cleaned of the brown stuff yet.

 

10:00 am

Tired, and back in bed for a nap.

  

Moral of the story:

The benefits of rising early, are, but a myth. Mommies (and Daddies), just enjoy your beauty sleep as much as you can!

 

(I’m submitting this entry to (please click on the link) IndusLadies for the contest, as I think the tone of all the entries is personal parenting experience and not creative writing. Please vote for me if you like the submission!).