It takes a brave person to agree with Mum without being ordered to do. Especially if Mum belongs to the 70s and has questionable tastes.
I think I used the love affair between Mum and the Swedish quartet to develop what I hoped would be biting sarcasm to hold me in good stead in my growing years.
I got pretty good at the eye roll and the eye roll while simultaneously saying Lay-ame.
But I couldn't for one moment effectively hide the evident song in my heart (hyperbole alert) when ABBA came on.
Even that ridiculous Pierce Brosnan - Meryl Streep film had me all confused. Did I like it?
I've learnt to make excuses for any ABBA love, one of the best ones being that I'm not the only one. (Heard the one about how ABBA were one big Swedish mind-control exercise?)
With the benefit of hindsight, we can say that ABBA were so simplistic with their tunes - catchy, we say - so flashy with their persona, that their songs have survived better than others.
This survival has only been aided by that their songs, rife with double meaning (unintentionally I believe), to be appropriated by LGBT community who, (I wish I could find the link for this essay) saw a measure of equality in these songs and have been keeping them alive, so to speak.
So bonus: the "gayest song ever"
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Friday, 9 July 2010
Monday, 12 May 2008
Art Classes - 2
I needn’t have blamed my family or even swallowed my pride and accepted responsibility for a nearly wasted week – apparently it was all Guruji’s doing. He wanted me to do the course.
So I guess more than his garlanded photo was there all along as I walked up to strangers and told them Hello, I Belonged to Them (and then proceeded to volunteer information of where I lived.) And the time when I held my partner’s hands, looked into their eyes and Saw Love in Them. He was definitely around as I Found My Aura.
Trust me Guruji, happiness right now is a pair of shoes and the pursuit of happiness.
Maybe in 25 years when my kid is an incorrigible adolescent, I'll run to Art Classes for peace of mind and drag the poor kid along too.
Saturday, 10 May 2008
Art classes - 1
I've been learning the Art of Living this last week.
For the SECOND time in my short life.
Yes - why.
As usual, I blame my family. Mum didn't want to go alone, granmum insisted "Journalists need Art of Living," and general consensus was that I'd die cold, alone and out-of-breath in far-away England without Guruji's guidance. Now you can't argue with illogic like that so I went, wishing I was related to at least one old-fashioned cynic who'd side me on this one.
I'll be woman enough to accept some responsibility - I kept an open mind and was willing to give this one more shot. Hey, everyone's searching for Answers. Plus I didn't want to die cold, alone and out-of-breath.
So I went. Day One itself - 'I am Joy, I am Peace' and I'm not sure I can handle it....
For the SECOND time in my short life.
Yes - why.
As usual, I blame my family. Mum didn't want to go alone, granmum insisted "Journalists need Art of Living," and general consensus was that I'd die cold, alone and out-of-breath in far-away England without Guruji's guidance. Now you can't argue with illogic like that so I went, wishing I was related to at least one old-fashioned cynic who'd side me on this one.
I'll be woman enough to accept some responsibility - I kept an open mind and was willing to give this one more shot. Hey, everyone's searching for Answers. Plus I didn't want to die cold, alone and out-of-breath.
So I went. Day One itself - 'I am Joy, I am Peace' and I'm not sure I can handle it....
Saturday, 10 November 2007
Celebrate Good Times!
Just when you get yourself ready to pass a perfectly normal evening watching the daily dose of depressing news on the tele, the world surprises you.
This was during Ganesh Chaturti and celebrations were taken especially seriously in my neighbourhood. I was used to bumping into a painstakingly constructed pandal around every street corner. The loudspeakers, playing a puzzling mix of bhajans and crass regional film songs, no longer woke me up at the ungodly hours of the morning. I made my peace with the Lord and then proceeded to ignore the loud processions outside my door.
Then, if our religious calendar was to be believed, ages after all the Ganeshas should have been safely at the bottom of Sankey Tank, one group of devotees from across the block decide to hold the grand finale of their celebrations. And what a celebration it was!
They started out early that evening—we heard them. When they finished their rounds around the neighbourhood and came back near home, it was well into the night. But they had lost none of their enthusiasm or energy. It was just as alive, colourful, loud and noisy. I suppose a healthy mix of religious fervour, cheap alcohol and a smoke or two of something helped them get along rather well.
The beats of drums announced the arrival of the carnival from the end of the street. The deity’s entourage was a merry band of performers. There were dancers holding aloft huge garish masks that swayed dangerously with their every step. There were stilt walkers with their heads in the trees and the electricity poles, high in more ways than one. They were men in animal costumes, clowns, and dancers. The young boys (who really should have been in bed at that time of the night) seemed to be having the most fun—dancing like that was their only purpose in life.
Entertaining, they were. But from a distance. One ‘cow’ from the group had evidently and completely lost it some blocks away. He insisted on chasing the children all around. The brats were no better, encouraging such behaviour by pulling at his tail and sticking their tongues out at him. And they had to run in my general direction. The look of pure terror that must have crossed my face when the stupid cow came charging at me was probably comparable only to the expression on my neighbour’s 18 month old when the smart-alec cow stuffed its big painted nose in the poor child’s face. Thankfully at twenty, I am still small enough to hide behind Daddy Dearest, which was my vantage viewing point throughout the hullabaloo.
The cows weren’t the worst. A clown for some unfathomable reason took it upon himself to socialise with the good folks of the neighbourhood. When will people learn that people with painted faces and unnatural behaviour are in no way funny?
But I wasn’t the only one cowering in her pyjamas that day. My dog, a supposedly fearsome Mudhol Hound, didn’t know where to hide. She didn’t want to lose her face among all the dogs of our street, who by then were creating a cacophony, but she had sense enough to go to the furthest corner of the compound and bark her head off. Unfortunately for her, two of the Cows, the ones that weren’t scarring little children for life by chasing them all around, had decided to take a break and had parked their behinds gingerly on our back gate. If there’s anything scarier than the face of a painted cow, it’s the derriere of the cow in question. At the sight, my dog stopped dead in her tracks, yelped and bolted the other way before anyone could say ‘moo’.
While they were waiting for the rest of the party to catch up, two of the dancers thought they had just enough time for a quick canoodle in the park right there. A stilt walker however needed more than a little love to keep up his strength. If there was anything more fascinating than watching him tower over the rest, it was watching somebody trying to feed him up there in the tower.
Then the brightly lit idol followed eventually in full grandeur. In its dark shadow followed a frail man pulling the large generator that was supplying the electricity for the evening. Whadya know—it wasn’t divine light after all.
One by one, all the performers moved along. Their audience, glad that God had consented to visit their doorsteps, folded their hands in quick prayer and proceeded to their warm beds to sleep off the entertainment. The last to leave was the photographer and video-guy capturing the whole thing on tape. He had to pull out his extension wire from our house plug point and wind up yards of wire before he was off again!
The night was calm again.
But was it over? Not nearly! At the other end of the road, in the light of the street lamp, a small group of men were getting ready to—believe it or not—set up another Ganesh Pandal!
The good times never stop!
This was during Ganesh Chaturti and celebrations were taken especially seriously in my neighbourhood. I was used to bumping into a painstakingly constructed pandal around every street corner. The loudspeakers, playing a puzzling mix of bhajans and crass regional film songs, no longer woke me up at the ungodly hours of the morning. I made my peace with the Lord and then proceeded to ignore the loud processions outside my door.
Then, if our religious calendar was to be believed, ages after all the Ganeshas should have been safely at the bottom of Sankey Tank, one group of devotees from across the block decide to hold the grand finale of their celebrations. And what a celebration it was!
They started out early that evening—we heard them. When they finished their rounds around the neighbourhood and came back near home, it was well into the night. But they had lost none of their enthusiasm or energy. It was just as alive, colourful, loud and noisy. I suppose a healthy mix of religious fervour, cheap alcohol and a smoke or two of something helped them get along rather well.
The beats of drums announced the arrival of the carnival from the end of the street. The deity’s entourage was a merry band of performers. There were dancers holding aloft huge garish masks that swayed dangerously with their every step. There were stilt walkers with their heads in the trees and the electricity poles, high in more ways than one. They were men in animal costumes, clowns, and dancers. The young boys (who really should have been in bed at that time of the night) seemed to be having the most fun—dancing like that was their only purpose in life.
Entertaining, they were. But from a distance. One ‘cow’ from the group had evidently and completely lost it some blocks away. He insisted on chasing the children all around. The brats were no better, encouraging such behaviour by pulling at his tail and sticking their tongues out at him. And they had to run in my general direction. The look of pure terror that must have crossed my face when the stupid cow came charging at me was probably comparable only to the expression on my neighbour’s 18 month old when the smart-alec cow stuffed its big painted nose in the poor child’s face. Thankfully at twenty, I am still small enough to hide behind Daddy Dearest, which was my vantage viewing point throughout the hullabaloo.
The cows weren’t the worst. A clown for some unfathomable reason took it upon himself to socialise with the good folks of the neighbourhood. When will people learn that people with painted faces and unnatural behaviour are in no way funny?
But I wasn’t the only one cowering in her pyjamas that day. My dog, a supposedly fearsome Mudhol Hound, didn’t know where to hide. She didn’t want to lose her face among all the dogs of our street, who by then were creating a cacophony, but she had sense enough to go to the furthest corner of the compound and bark her head off. Unfortunately for her, two of the Cows, the ones that weren’t scarring little children for life by chasing them all around, had decided to take a break and had parked their behinds gingerly on our back gate. If there’s anything scarier than the face of a painted cow, it’s the derriere of the cow in question. At the sight, my dog stopped dead in her tracks, yelped and bolted the other way before anyone could say ‘moo’.
While they were waiting for the rest of the party to catch up, two of the dancers thought they had just enough time for a quick canoodle in the park right there. A stilt walker however needed more than a little love to keep up his strength. If there was anything more fascinating than watching him tower over the rest, it was watching somebody trying to feed him up there in the tower.
Then the brightly lit idol followed eventually in full grandeur. In its dark shadow followed a frail man pulling the large generator that was supplying the electricity for the evening. Whadya know—it wasn’t divine light after all.
One by one, all the performers moved along. Their audience, glad that God had consented to visit their doorsteps, folded their hands in quick prayer and proceeded to their warm beds to sleep off the entertainment. The last to leave was the photographer and video-guy capturing the whole thing on tape. He had to pull out his extension wire from our house plug point and wind up yards of wire before he was off again!
The night was calm again.
But was it over? Not nearly! At the other end of the road, in the light of the street lamp, a small group of men were getting ready to—believe it or not—set up another Ganesh Pandal!
The good times never stop!
U/A
I was so caught up in figuring out why Mir Ranjan Negi would want to have anything to do with Reality Dance shows with as much melodrama as the primetime soaps they've dethroned, that I failed to notice the dangerous effect he was having on my folks. Dad's so inspired by the compliments heaped upon the man week after week despite an evident lack of dancing skills that he now considers it within norms of acceptability to dance in public again.
I knew I shouldn't have let Mum n Dad watch the same stuff on TV as me.
I knew I shouldn't have let Mum n Dad watch the same stuff on TV as me.
Saturday, 5 May 2007
The Big G
One day, somebody in an evidently inebriated state decided to compliment my mother on her ginger juice. Since then, what started out as a culinary experiment has morphed into an exhaustive annual exercise comparable only to her efforts at making tomato ketchup.
I’ve tried reasoning with her that ginger is best left in the medicine cupboard, and even then, rarely (if ever) used, but to no avail.
This time, the ginger juice monster in her lay latent for a good twelve months, when it burst forth in all vengeance demanding a couple of extra hands to do the very dirty work for her, whence my forced volunteering of labour and kind.
I should have left home when she came armed with a two-foot tall sac packed with various sized and shaped stems of the particular underground variety in question. But I didn’t and it was worse than I feared.
My first task was to clean the wretched stem-vegetable. Ever cleaned mud off a bucket full of tangled roots in numbing cold water and then waited the rest of the day to be able to feel your fingers again, only to be told you did it all wrong in the first place?
My further services were required to grate the lot of ginger. I suppose there was a certain sadistic pleasure to be got out of shredding the g while continually mentioning the absolute irreverence I held for it. Until it avenged itself by making my eyes water and murdering a couple of hundred olfactory epithelial cells.
I weathered the dense reek that covered every inch of my house and person for three days, as the elaborate process of making the juice unravelled. The golden brown liquid menacingly simmered in a huge (what can only be called a) cauldron. (Who had to scamper up the atta to bring it down?)
But my contributions weren’t yet complete. I also had the unenviable job of scooping out gooey goo left over after the preparation and dunking it dollop by slow, messy dollop into the home’s compost pit, uninvited, into the humble abode of a rat family and the roaches. The stains still haven't left my nails.
I realise what a thankless job it is, when I am further assigned to fill the (by now) ready juice into ten bottles, all waiting for me in a line. Given the responsibility, I spill not a drop, working with immense precision despite a wonky ladle. Mum waits till bottle no. 10 is full to taste a bit of the concoction and realises it needs “some more lime.” Out she pours all ten bottles worth back into the cauldron to repair the apparent damage. I’m not pleased. I pour the improved product back in, this time rather ferociously, spilling about a bottle’s worth, and still finding that we now have enough to fill twelve bottles.
So now I’m sticky and no amount of soap can rid me of the ginger stink on me.
Mum forced some g juice down my protesting throat. I know I made a face to crack mirrors and informed her that it was no less foul than last year’s.
“It’s good for colds,” she said in an attempt at justification.
“But I don’t have a cold.” Just in case she hadn’t noticed.
“And you never will.”
Honestly Mum, I’ll take my chances with the cold.
I’ve tried reasoning with her that ginger is best left in the medicine cupboard, and even then, rarely (if ever) used, but to no avail.
This time, the ginger juice monster in her lay latent for a good twelve months, when it burst forth in all vengeance demanding a couple of extra hands to do the very dirty work for her, whence my forced volunteering of labour and kind.
I should have left home when she came armed with a two-foot tall sac packed with various sized and shaped stems of the particular underground variety in question. But I didn’t and it was worse than I feared.
My first task was to clean the wretched stem-vegetable. Ever cleaned mud off a bucket full of tangled roots in numbing cold water and then waited the rest of the day to be able to feel your fingers again, only to be told you did it all wrong in the first place?
My further services were required to grate the lot of ginger. I suppose there was a certain sadistic pleasure to be got out of shredding the g while continually mentioning the absolute irreverence I held for it. Until it avenged itself by making my eyes water and murdering a couple of hundred olfactory epithelial cells.
I weathered the dense reek that covered every inch of my house and person for three days, as the elaborate process of making the juice unravelled. The golden brown liquid menacingly simmered in a huge (what can only be called a) cauldron. (Who had to scamper up the atta to bring it down?)
But my contributions weren’t yet complete. I also had the unenviable job of scooping out gooey goo left over after the preparation and dunking it dollop by slow, messy dollop into the home’s compost pit, uninvited, into the humble abode of a rat family and the roaches. The stains still haven't left my nails.
I realise what a thankless job it is, when I am further assigned to fill the (by now) ready juice into ten bottles, all waiting for me in a line. Given the responsibility, I spill not a drop, working with immense precision despite a wonky ladle. Mum waits till bottle no. 10 is full to taste a bit of the concoction and realises it needs “some more lime.” Out she pours all ten bottles worth back into the cauldron to repair the apparent damage. I’m not pleased. I pour the improved product back in, this time rather ferociously, spilling about a bottle’s worth, and still finding that we now have enough to fill twelve bottles.
So now I’m sticky and no amount of soap can rid me of the ginger stink on me.
Mum forced some g juice down my protesting throat. I know I made a face to crack mirrors and informed her that it was no less foul than last year’s.
“It’s good for colds,” she said in an attempt at justification.
“But I don’t have a cold.” Just in case she hadn’t noticed.
“And you never will.”
Honestly Mum, I’ll take my chances with the cold.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
Posts
