Of my love for water

A lot of people have asked me about Petrichor. I love the rain and often times the anticipation of it more- the smell of the world just before the clouds burst open- and thus Petrichor. 

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It rained last night when I was sleeping and I woke up today to a different world. 

As I touched my skin this morning I felt like a different person, the air smelt different too but I was still me and the house looked the same.

Rain for me is magical. It has the power to wipe me clean, to pause time and circumstances to make peace with them. To stay calm and wait as the world continues to be in motion, bringing me all I want heaped on a silver platter. As much as I love that platter what I crave most is this moment of weightless suspension. Everything is tranquil here just like it is at the bottom of a swimming pool.

My brother tells me I learnt to swim as a toddler but that my introduction was more graceful than his to the world we both love so much. He claims that at some unknown age soon after he could walk, my father- man in the navy- the man from whom we have inherited our deep, unquestioning devotion to water bodies- picked him up and threw him into the water. 

Ettan says that like any child he floundered a little bit under my father’s watchful gaze (and my mother’s silent- voiceless aquaphobia) and then paddled around merrily for the rest of the day.

I must be clear that a) I have no idea how this boy remembers all this and b) my parents love my brother. He is, after all, their cherubic first born who to this day laughs merrily at the slightest provocation. I must also clarify that as barbaric as it sounds, I wholly support this dumping-of-toddlers-in-water-bodies-under-controlled-environment method of teaching, especially when I meet adults who can’t swim and don’t understand the best friend they have given up on- everybody is always regretful.

My introduction was not quite the same (according to my brother with his elephantine memory). I got a pink polka dotted bikini (despite it not being yellow, it must be said that I was quite a fashionable toddler), a matching float, and my father’s shoulders as we chilled in the sea beside Goa’s beaches. I also got a pool and very specific lessons on how to and not to breathe and co-ordinate my limbs. At some point we bid adieu to the float- I’m sure it was more from my family’s collection exhaustion from filling it with their life breath each time I wanted a swim- which was pretty much everytime I saw water- which, incase you haven’t connected the dots yet- on a naval base, on one of the most beautiful coastlines of the world- is a few times each day.

When Achan retired from the Navy and we moved to Chennai. Amma signed us up for swimming coaching. 

Here’s another something you must know of my civilian childhood- those stories you hear about kids who have done more extra curricular activities than most sane adult indulge in through their whole life put together- that was my brother and my childhood. Between the two of us (and then if you throw in Oppa who for all intents and purposes is much more sibling than cousin) there is very little that we have not done as children. 

And so of course if Oppa was swimming for the country when we moved to Chennai, Ettan and I would swim atleast state.

Every evening we’d be off to the pool to swim swim- swim- swim- swim. 

This was competitive coaching though, so we got whipped by the nylon end of a whistle for striking out wrong or splashing about in the water instead of working on speed or technique. We’d be taken to task about turning up 15 minutes late- "20 laps extra", or turning up exhausted- "get out of the pool and run 50 laps around the pool- WAKE UP!"

I loved it. I know if Amma or Ettan are reading this- especially together they’re going to look at each other with that this-one’s-memory-is-a-joke look but I swear I did. I love being pushed. I like having my endurance tested and beating the crap out of a challenge you will set out for me. I like basking in the glory of that victory. I learnt that as a child when the coach- Pratap Sir would clap us on the back with a huge smile for having learnt something well or swimming into the deep end when told to and not harassing him about it, or diving off the highest point on the dive pyramid (I’m just calling it that. I don’t have the slightest clue what it’s actually called) when your big brother thinks you won’t and has already started bullying you about it. 

Of course I made faces and pretended to hate my coaching classes- I was some single digit age when we’re meant to hate all authority figures and I didn’t know myself well enough to not care about what the done thing is.

The last time I was part of the team that was coached, I got the back of my foot stuck on some ledge and had a hunk of flesh ripped out of my foot. I was meant to swim 5 laps across the breadth of the pool and I remember crying through it and saying I was tired (because as an active child who knows what pain is) while Pratap Sir having dealt with my crap a hundred times before firmly told me to just shut up and keep swimming. 

When I did get out of the pool (after finishing all my laps let it be said) and he saw the mess my foot was, poor Pratap Sir was more upset than I was. It’s weird but I still remember going to SMF Hospital where they said some new bandage had come in that would deal with the wound better than having to get stitches and hearing my mother talk about Pratap sir apologising to her beside the pool while I was in the shower washing off the chloride before being taken to the hospital.

By the way, the hospital lied. The stupid wound took 2 or 3 months to heal and needed to be redressed everyday. I hated it but love the softly fading scar.

During the time it took for my foot to heal I know Ettan stopped going to his coaching lessons so when I was completely healed I wasn't sent either. They were really more about him than me anyway-  in the first state level event that I was signed up for (and the only one for me) Ettan finished 3^rd in freestyle for his age group while I came last. The crowd cheered me for having finished because of how far back I was! 

And so Pratap Sir and I never really worked together after that day and the SDA pool in Shenoy Nagar just became this pool that I thought of as having swum around in knowing full well that kids were pissing their life out in as explanation for why that particular pool has chlorine enough to kill anything but us thick skinned humans.

Then I started traveling from one coast to another swimming in the sea, challenging the waves as I swam deeper and deeper in; Enjoying the excitement of first swimming out through rough waves to calm seas and then- the far more thrilling challenge of swimming back to shore while the waves throw you in whatever direction they feel like in a battle to hold you forever. 

Amma if you’re reading this- I’m not reckless;  I make sure to swim only as far as I can see another human being and if not then to make sure I tell the lifeguards on the beach and swim in their line of sight. 

Recently I was in what is popularly called a “bad space”. I needed an escape and despite my derision of pools only four feet deep I decided to make a run for it and work off my thoughts in a pool (I’m not a runner. Think Phoebe-from-Friends not a runner). I swam lap after lap not realizing the time go. 

I wasn't racing against anybody this time, only my thoughts and we have a lifetime together, speed would take me nowhere. The pool was mine as much as my thoughts were and as I swam I felt some of the caged anxiety drain out of me. 

There is a rhythm to swimming. One-two-three-four-five-six breathe or dip--- breathe------dip---- breathe------. It’s a pulse that codes into your heart beat and clears your mind. I felt suspended, time didn’t mean anything, physical limits didn’t either because, there was no conscious thought, lesser conscious action- it dawned on me that time is elastic.

Of course I got out of the pool and my mind caught up as I stared out of a window- even after a swim I'm still me. But I did it everyday for the next ten days. Everyday I would stake claim to two hours of my life and make it mine. After many years I dived off a board giggling like I did at 6. My father joined me a few days- we didn’t talk or even acknowledge each other in the pool but strangely I felt at peace- like life would work out anyway.

It’s been two weeks since those ten days and I’m on a quest to find a pool in my little desert city. One I can cycle to everyday and stake my claim of two tranquil hours in everyday. 

But today I woke up to that feeling that I need a swimming pool for- that feeling of infinite possibilities as you tuck your ears under the surface and watch the world go by through shuttered eyelids. 

Everything is possible, everything is rushing to you as you drift on- life is blue-green-tranquil perfect. 

When Darkness finds me

I can feel you. 

You don't have to shout any louder, run any faster, be any heavier or any more anything, not even lesser. I can see you from the corner of my eye and sense you with every beat of my heart, creeping towards me. 

Your grey vapours only chase me harder when I run so I chose, this time, to brave your wrath, to cross my fingers and wait for you to pass me by. 

I chose to believe the false promises I made myself and I chose to believe the false comfort every disconnected whisper offered me because I was hiding from you in plain sight. I was hiding from the person you are conjured up by the recesses in my mind not deep enough to keep me safe.

I hate that you caught up. I hate that you chose the brightest day, in a room most filled with love in a voice I cherish deeply to wrap your vapourous trail around me and inch your way up to my mind while I stood paralysed- without even a whimper in self defense.

You know your own ugliness. 

You know I will succumb to the power you have over me. You enjoy the chase and it was longer this time than ever before. I didn't miss you. Not one bit. If I could wish you away I would. I let myself believe that is all it would take but you have proved me wrong. I will congratulate you on your victory, ever the graceful loser. You have taught me from practice, I will even thank you, gratitude flowing out of the wounds you stab into me. 

I wonder if this will be my last memory of these months in the rainbow. I stand here immobilized by the crushing weight of the knowledge you bring. 

You call it the truth and I want to believe you but it is difficult to have my mind reconstruct reality to suit a whim while you are twisting your knife deeper into my heart making sure I can see you through the haze of tears I won't shed from pride.

After all that I have sacrificed- laughing little floaty bubbles and flitting through reality, my pride is all I have and if you asked nicely I'm sure I would give you that too, but not while you suffocate me and watch me bleed out so clinically. 

It won't do. I won't give you that satisfaction, not because I don't want to- for you I would give anything, but because my pride is the only oxygen I will find in the dark lonely grave you have dug for me.

I will dream of flight and wine and dancing and sleep through the worst of this. I will wake up in another season having befriended my nightmares again. Companionship more reliable than your promised smiles in the dark- I am blind.

The parents I see

I have strong views on what good parenting is which means I have stronger views on what bad parenting is. It has been pointed out to me on multiple occasions that the validity of my views is directly proportionate to the number of children I have and thus currently, completely unimportant (I have zero children as of writing this. For the record).

Now, I acknowledge the need for practice/experimentation to validate ideas and hypothesis, allowing parents to dismiss my scaling of their skills but I have plenty of experience in meeting, interacting and bonding with people whose parents have and continue to do an amazing or abysmal job. And so, however unwisely, I continue to hold my judgement of parenting close to my heart against what I'm sure is good advice. 

Time and multiple bad decisions have taught me not to point out to parents of young children how to be better and save the world from the train wreck the human monsters their wards are growing into. The hope is that in time I'll either be dead and not have to deal with it being too amazed by my own adventures funded on a fat retirement saving or too damn cool to be affected by it in anyway. But since I'm not any of that yet- since I am only the woman who now has many friends with young children and irksome parenting skills (fueled no doubt by the garbage books they read instead of following intuition and directions from the people who raised them), and the aunt of two nephews I love very much, I will write this blog post  because there is little else that I can do.

If I have been any less than clear than you require let me be so now. This post is a rant that is likely to offend many people. If your sensibilities are easily hurt by dancing about architecture leave now.
(I find the need to explain dancing about architecture. I know my mother will ask and she's pretty smart in general. I read somewhere that writing about music is like dancing about architecture. A similar line might apply to writing about parenting without intention at this point to even go down that road)

Every time I see parents with children I wonder if they thought about it. Was money put away? A discussion about changing responsibilities around the house? The installation of a sound proof study maybe? What is the discussion that a husband and wife (yes I'm speaking only of those in this particular case although I have nothing but love for any other combination you choose) have before smiling at the thought of turning their lives upside down and only seeing if that was a good idea at the end of their lives by which time there is little they can do if anything. How do you go from the magnetic pull of the occasional wild party to a super human ability to hear your child's distress as though the message is telepathically transferred to you? Is there even a discussion outside the need to conform to the pressure of proving masculinity and femininity and the often dicey bond between a newly married husband and wife?

You'll see I've thought about this and should at any point somebody have the idea to start a family with me the poor boy will be talked to tears before birth prevention is even considered off the table.

My mother always said parenthood was about making choices about choosing what the lesser crime is to inflict on your child for a greater purpose. I've always considered that the first crime (the bad kind) in parenting is putting your progeny before the greater good. In argument, it is human selfishness that has gotten us as far as we are as a species, not self sacrificing altruism but one can hope (perhaps even for the extinction of a species that's cruel only for pleasure).

Despite all that, irrespective of how this conversation went down, should you have your birds and bees in order or the good doctor working his magic you have a new, mostly dependent camper in an average of 9 months. I wonder if you can tell how parents will be based on how they treat a pregnancy. I haven't had a chance to explore that question. Have you? Is the degree of paranoia or not, disinterest or not, a sign of the rest of their lives?

But like I said, irrespective, a living breathing thing with a supposedly malleable mind arrives. Young (or old) parents assume responsibility to shape this person and if nothing else put up with it for eighteen years keeping him or her fed and clothed with a roof above their heads for the most part for at least 18 years.

I was a disgusting teenager. Like the kind whose ear strangers want to twist while walking angrily to already harassed parents who are ringing their hands in fury while also thinking up the punishments that would make me most miserable and terrified of pulling bad stunts from simply not wanting to deal with the punishment. My parents were so very scary, I learnt bravery from defying them, they were far far scarier than the prospect of jumping off a bridge 83m high. The point I'm making though is that I was a self righteous teenager who walked around with the grand notion that since I didn't choose my life and my parents did it was their job to provide me with the food, clothing, home and education that I felt was my right and not expect gratitude for it in any way- the choice wasn't mine right? 

I've since spent a lot of time with children who deserve everything I have had and more and yet receive so little that I've had my head detached from my bum and screwed on straight, but there is one thing that holds true. Children don't choose to be born (we're talking biology here. Do not get started on the spiritual relevance of that statement. I have an argument but it is completely out of context), parents make that choice irrespective of what forced them to or not. I wonder then how they could think it's ok to want so little to do with these mini people's lives.

I just don't understand how dropping food on a mother's lap while eating is more stressful than the child not eating after a long exhausting day; how is it ok to leave your child unsupervised at heights; how is the only tone you find when speaking to your child that of derision. I just don't understand it. 

How can you feel ashamed of giving up a job you hate anyway to spend as much time as you can with your child to a)see the magic of their becoming themselves b) helping shape that person who could well change the world. How can a discussion about your disgust of government policies that you neither understand nor have a valid opinion on (you don't vote!) be more important than helping your child develop the ability to tell right from wrong? 

This is the part that scares me- as a parent, how could you not be the first one to hear your normally quiet child's call of distress and be able to tell the difference between genuine distress and an ugly tantrum? Why, as a stranger can I hear it and recognise the shock in your face when the sound registers?

I don't understand this and so much more about parents these days and to be quite honest I don't intend to.
But if you are a parent who sees why this is how it should be, do go on and educate me. I really do want to know. 

My list of 25

I'm trawling saved drafts of blogs I wrote but didn't publish. I find this list as relevant now as I probably did writing it. Learnings to take to the grave only maybe?
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Here are the lessons I have learnt from my quarter life crisis, ones that I hope, in an alternate universe I am wise enough to learn earlier. So dear 25 years of my life, here is what you have taught me

1. It only gets as bad as I let it
2. My family might drive me to a point where I want to stab every vital organ out with a fork, but they're there. Always. Especially when I least deserve it
3. Sometimes, a fresh start with new people is all I need
4. Everytime, some indulgent self-loathing, self sympathy is all I need- I can be my best friend
5. Promises change just as priorities do. It is the principles that matter
6. It's ok to shop
7. It's ok to be broke
8. It's ok to love somebody or something- even a job that doesn't love you back.
   The magic is not in waiting, the magic (and might I add, satisfaction) is in knowing you gave it all you had and did not take no until you achieved what you set out to- surprise yourself
9. It's ok to call in sick when you feel like the world has folded on itself. Take the day, find yourself and go back and show ém why you matter while the sick day doesn't
10. Sometimes, just let it play out. Some battles you win from walking away
11. Let other people stand up for you. It doesn't make you weak, and it is ok to be taken care of
12. A hang over is not good, lime juice on the other most certainly is. And watermelon juice. And raw mango juice. And sweet lime juice. And orange juice (you get the picture)
13. People change, that's life. Today you matter to somebody tomorrow you don't. It's ok, you are still worthy of being the best damn person you know to be without needing somebody's validation of it
14. Trust your gut. You do not need permission to set things right
15.  Trust your gut. Some people are not worth it, some things are not.
    Trust your gut and do not be persuaded by guilt
16. Learn to speak many languages, especially your own tongue
17. Collaboration is a high like no other- listen to ideas, evaluate them, then put your spin on it, then let the other people put their spin on it, work at the collaborative idea until it's better than anything your mind came up with alone and revel in the brilliance of it
18. Do not let the good times go- celebrate them
19. Dirty laundry smells great after a good wash
20. Do not give up because somebody tells you to
21. A clean conscience is worth so much more than a stamp of approval
22. When you're telling a person to go to hell, if you say it right they will enjoy the ride and love you for it
23. You can't help the spite. Let. It. Go.
24. All it takes is an easily repeated signature. Do not get smart with banks or immigration officers- a signature is not a piece of art!
25. A handwritten note is magic.

A and her neighbor

I heard a story today. A cruel funny story about a human being as warm and beautiful as can be. I haven't laughed this hard in weeks (that feel like lifetimes) and I feel duty bound to write about it to induce that guilty jot in more people.
Let me warn you that I've met the heroine of this story once and have met nobody else, including the streets featured in this story before. I'm very likely to be making up the details and descriptions because I'm describing them as my mind's eye saw it.

A is an artist. The kind who creates magic not just from the art she produces and teaches but from simply breathing. Truly.
I have met her once, at a meaty barbecue party where I was vegan and knew very few people whom I hadn't met in years; but around A, everything was fun and perfectly hilarious- like I was in a Indie movie reflecting on life through the giggly haze of an evening in a hotbox.

Now A is the sort of artist who lives in a funny part of the world, around very funny people (no I certainly don't mean the ha-ha kind of funny) because the rents are cheap and she won't have to take on a third job to pay rent- I understand this pain and applaud her perseverance. You would too if you have ever been paid badly to follow your dreams; you should irrespective.

Now A, as anybody else who lives alone and has a job, doesn't get to shop very often; and as with every person who doesn't live off their mummy and daddy and gets paid peanuts and then some and lives in a busy city, uses public transport or two feet to get around. As a result of all this, one not so sunny evening A walked back with her arms full of her shopping for probably the month. One step after another, achey head, achey hand and shoulders that would probably break soon from both boredom and exhaustion if the plastic bags didn't snap first.  

She was almost at the gate of her building when she saw a hyperactive ten year old boy fly off the landing and run towards her with a big smile across his face.
Now who doesn't want a smile after a long day right?
Except A, as wonderful as she is, and as optimistic as her outlook on life is- knew that when that particular boy, had that particular smile on his face she is better off dropping her bags and running as fast as her feet would carry her. But A is A- sunshine, hope and endless optimism so A slapped herself mentally and smiled back as the little boy stopped right in front of her, took a deep breath and spat out a big fat glob of mucus on her face.

And A stood with all her bags weighing her down laughing and crying and not moving a muscle as the mucus made it's slow slimey trail down from the top of her eyebrow to the creases in her neck.

I'm horrible. I'm still laughing as I write this. 

Of things jagged and Beautiful

I like broken things. I like laying out every piece, feeling the bite of every jagged end and wondering whether I should let it slip into oblivion at the bottom of a trash can, fixed back with glue and love to a measure of it's former glory, or find an artist to transform the broken jagged ends into art that is as stunning and under-appreciated as every broken piece is. I can spend years sitting on the floor of my room cross legged as the jewel tones of my curtains drift in and out of the periphery of my vision making up stories for every piece, drawing parallels to my life that don't really exist, convincing myself of the missed opportunity of that broken thing, the newer opportunities that await it, in my home or of somebody more deserving. I can spend lifetimes, as many as the strands of hair I have on my head. Because broken things don't make me cry. Broken people do, but oh how they appeal to me anyway.

I can't explain it. I love imperfection. I am obsessed with it, especially in people. I'm suspicious of people as clear as fiction- as good and neat- or not, as a character I could read about or easier yet write about. What hooks me is reams and reams of flaws tucked into a beautiful package of disdain. I like the complexity of broken people who are convinced of their perfection.  I'm obsessed with unraveling the flaws and chewing on them, turning each flaw to catch the light and observe as it bursts into the dazzling human brilliance that it each is.

It starts with a conversation. A simple hello, I find intrigue in that warm confidence. And then it begins, rapid exchanges of a humor I don't possess, of a confidence I can't be bothered working on. New cities, new experiences, questions- lots of questions that I hold my breath waiting for the answer to. It's a volley really, I like answering questions more than asking them. The things people are curious about say so much more than what any other conversation reveals.
One word builds one castle, one card over another, one idea over another, a simple exchange, a thoughtful gesture, a brutally honest- indifferently delivered truth seen as harsh but oh so endearing. A display of anger, a measure of comfort, the intensity of a plan, the casual comfort of knowing safety, of finding a smile everyday. Slowly the pieces come together- a reward for patience that I work at.

The warnings are clear, from me. I can hear myself shut down conversation with myself and not inspect the many pieces I've collected, a warning echoed repeatedly but gently, another piece of the puzzle collected. It's a cruel test of myself to feel every jagged end, but not find out just how deep every cut could be- I repeat to myself every lesson learnt the hard way from the past; of the parade of beautiful, good people too perfect in their imperfections to wait while I take a hammer to my life. I know beautiful people, broken, mysterious, beautiful people and I know what I let them do to me. After years I have given up trying to change my preference. I can't help but be fascinated by every deformity; discoloration is my oxygen.

And so I wait for confirmation, to be told the jagged ends won't cut bone- not mine, I wait to set out the pieces until I have a hypothesis I'm fairly certain of. I hold myself back because the only way to inspect the perfect symphony of this pristine imperfection is to take a hammer to it and see what happens. My most dangerous imperfection is self destruction with a wide minefield of every person who matters. The battle scarred but surviving are the keepers.  But here's the thing about people who take their time with people, a little secret we're ashamed of. People who wait for people hold the could-bes dear, we don;t know how to give up while doors are slammed in our faces.

Calculations and possibilities are laid out from one constellation all the way back, the hopes mulled and debated and paced out until an unshakable truth presents itself- to continue enjoying the space or dive, head first, life in hand trusting unconditionally in the power of that hope questionably. And this is when the jagged broken ends emerge and do exactly the opposite of all those calculation. You see, they're beautiful. Radiantly beautiful, the kind that is blinding and brilliant and magnetic and so we race in a white darkness into the harshest of the impervious jagged ends being cut in a heartbeat like paper ribbons; at once amusing and exasperating in our giddy obtuseness.

And so, like unwanted paper ribbons we fall away as waves crash, slowly to gather again, quicker this time because of a knowledge learnt over and over again from many years, shutting out the questions and berating our weakness to hope.
Until the next parcel arrives and this dance begins all over again.

My mother and her surprises

I have strange memories from when I was a child. The sun felt different against my skin and retrospect makes my vision clearer, the dust of wisdom gained from disappointment doesn't cloud my vision in memory.

I was listening to this throwback compilation by U-Penn's desi a Capella band and realised I'm a child of the 90s. I may have come chocking, kicking and screaming into this world in 88- and yet the music that makes my heart melt (unconsciously and embarrassingly) is from what the screen tells me is the 1990s.

Yes, this isn't where I started but I get side tracked by the opening dusty little rooms in my mind and the people who inhabit them, you will forgive me.

The memory I have listening to this compilation is, again, of my mother. Always my mother. She was and continues to be the greatest advocate of surprises. The small things would come gift wrapped in the bubble wrap of happy, the big things would shimmer and shine with a certain dazzle nobody else can conjour. My brother has picked up on this fascinating art but Amma is, without a doubt, the ruling queen of all things surprise.

Now, I was born a morose old soul who felt the weight of the world and lashed out in dark mood swings. It's quite a shame really to be born into a large family that is so energised by the thought of every breath and a life that has given so much, to find that the one dark unpredictable cloud in the room is really- the baby of the family. I like to think that it adds a dollop of the "unexpected" and spices things up in the family. That is far from the truth and I will be the first to admit it, but let's not pay heed to the truth for today, for today we will believe the version my kind family at their patient best will explain to me and I will get on with the memory that drove me back to this blog after so long.

Chennai is a very hot city. For a child with trouble being in a good mood, the heat that wrapped itself like a thick blanket around my mind filled with the worries of the world. This is bad news.
In Madras (yes Chennai now but we ignore that as we do my sullen demeanor) it is inescapable bad news. For a child sitting in the front seat of a navy blue Maruti van powered by an LPG cylinder and cooled by an AC that would only work on being fueled by acceleration... I can't begin to explain the tragedy. Nobody should be subject to such melodramatic tragedy.

Amma would drive us, the world and God knows who else all over the city in this car. We had a music player that I think may have been more important to Amma than the gas tank. I can sing more RD Burman and Mohammed Rafi songs than I can explain to the people who catch me singing along, or in fact myself, thanks to the many car drives to music, dance, tuition, schoool, I-35, birthday parties and everything in between.  

I was just discovering going out with my friends when the film Na Tum Jaano Na Hum released. I can't explain why this was the movie we (and I don't remember who else was part of this group) chose to watch but I remember coming back and announcing that at some point of time we should buy the cassette (yes that is how long a time back this was, we bought cassettes). 
Given the tone of this post so far you get no prize for guessing that a few days later on our way back from somewhere, while we sat baking in our trusty Maruthi Van at the traffic signal in Annanagar's famous Roundtana, I announced that whatever new music was playing on the cassette player royally sucked and Amma had no taste in music.
I have always thought that Amma deserves a Nobel Peace prize for calmly telling me that this was music from Na Tum Jaano Na Hum before gunning the accelerator to cool, I suspect, my head.
I destroyed her little everyday surprise and it wasn't the last time.

The other time I remember with frightening clarity is when I was forced to move with the family out of one house to where we now live. I had my reasons, very many actually,that I continue to think are more than valid. I explained my point of view to my parents over and over again. I think I even went on a hunger strike and some strange version of mouna vrath  that only the two then villains in my life- my parents, were subjected to. The thing about my parents though is that they have never ever given into a tantrum, a lesson I am grateful (now, most certainly not then) to have been taught very early on in life, and we moved to this new house.

Unlike often before I suspect Amma felt guilty about this one. She knew what it meant to me for them to give in just that once and just how alone I felt for not winning. So one day I came back home to find Lalith and Amma working together to set up a Tata Sky Set Top Box. This was the year it was just introduced and Chennai unlike any other city in India could not access cable TV without a digital box. In that world I was one of the few privileged children, who despite my atrocious 10th standard results still had access to cable TV. I couldn't be less impressed. I was too upset, or so I let her believe.

I'm quite sure I'm screwed now. Karma is finally catching up.
Amma I still love the surprises, nobody shall ever know but it is true. Whether it is the surprise of a special dish at dinner, kulfi in the freezer on a hot summer day, a note in my suitcase when I walk into yet another new life, an elaborate party, the not-so-surprising-anymore surprise-birthday-party or a carefully and secretly thought out gift, I will always love all of it not because it is about me (ok, maybe a little) but because it captures who you are- the master happy maker.

If you've ever met my mother you know what I'm talking about.
Tarun Menon, sharpen up those skills, if you've got all the good genes you might as well make the best of them.

Here's the compilation that started this up
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lErtjguuvSw