Croeso i Arddunol Caerdydd

Cardiff Bay

The sculpture outside the Visitors' Centre

View From the Visitors' Centre

Cardiff Castle

The dragon- synonymous with all things 'Cardiff-ean'

The town crest

Cardiff Bay Visitors centre

Pickwick having fun at the millenium centre

Looking up from the castle well

Peahen decided to investigate the food scraps with her chicks

Fort entry

Duck swimming at the bay

Little Britain

Stonehenge. Stones. and nothing much else around for miles. Except wooly sheep.

Yes. So there are no 'Parag heart Simmi' s on the monuments

Richmond Park

Deer sighting at Richmond park

Sighting of a different kind of beast at our apartment

Inside Victoria Quarter, Leeds

Mural opposite the Market, Leeds

Corn Exchange, Leeds (lovingly restored, as the plaque puts it)

Leeds Skyline

Leeds Church

Great Expectations

Oftentimes in life, what you expect in life is very different from what you come to accept.
What you expected (WYE): (on hearing hubby has a very mobile career) Lots of fun travelling and new places to see
What you've accepted (WYA): The 'yay' factor wears a bit thin when no sooner have you finished unpacking the last box and settled down for a cup of tea, than hubby breezes in to announce that we've got to pack up coz we're moving again!

WYE: New Places - new friends, new hang-outs...
WYA: New Places- New maid servants to break in or *shudder* no maid servants to break in.

WYE: ooh... expecting! Darling baby movements in you belly
WYA: Ooh! someone needs to tell that baby to stop stomping on my bladder

WYE: Smart baby
WYA: Smart baby using his brains for destructive purposes

WYE: (judging by our sizes) Chubby baby
WYA: baby that won't sit still long enough to become chubby

WYE: Me playing with baby and being fit enough to keep up with him
WYA: Baby running circles around me.

WYE: Me being super mom- having a neat house, clean baby and super chef, while I dazzle colleages at work with my keen business acumen
WYA: You won't die from eating slightly charred meals, you can work you way around the mess, and babies will become filthy exacly 4 .8 seconds after you've bathed them. And work? you think I have time for work after all this???

WYE: Blogs. Will read all blogs, post like there's no tomorrow, leave scintillating comments on others posts.
WYA: there's just barely enought time to publish in a post, without even bothering to run a spell check on it, before baby tries for the umpteenth time to burn the house down.

WYE: a good end to the post
WYA: To end is good enough.

Who's loss is it anyways?

While my house was being turned upside down by the packers (actually, it was the first time I saw some of the stuff that I though had vanished into a black hole – including the missing sock of a pair- which I’d promptly thrown away the other leg of. So I was still a missing a sock in a pair), Mother-in-law (the brave soul) offered to baby-sit Pickwick.
Now if you’re wondering what packers were doing at the house- well, apparently hubby was once again bitten by the one-year-itch and had the look of wanderlust in his eyes. (No. no, you dirty minds wanderlust!!!) So we’re upping and moving.
But I digress (what’s new?). Back to the glee on hearing MIL will take Pickwick off my hands for a bit. Hmm… so what can I do that I haven’t been able to do for ages? And there’s no contest! I gleefully switch on the telly! (Again, dear readers, wanderlust. Also, with packers there? You MUST be joking!). So, I look forward to watch Oprah generously hand out mansions to her studio audience uninterrupted.
The packers sensing I was going to fight tooth and nail before I handed over the remote packed everything else around before warily approaching the telly. I was outnumbered six-to-one and gave up the remote with some reluctance. With a sigh I picked up the day’s papers and the first thing I read (My eyes just glaze over anything to do with the world Cup. So my mind automatically skips those sections of the newspapers and in effect I’m left with just 3.2 pages of newsprint to choose from) is some gloriously delusional article written by some socialite who cribs coz she has to travel from town to Lower Parel for work- which she claims isn’t in real Mumbai at all.(What’s she doing on my planet??)
I disgustedly toss the paper aside and with nothing else to browse thru’,I pick up my unfinished copy of Kiran Desai’s Much hyped, much awarded, much praised ‘Inheritance of Loss’. Now call me old fashioned, but I like stories to have an end. At least do the decent thing by pretending to have an end.
Half-way thru’ this book I realized that this book had no such intensions. For all practical purposes, this book was like an Indian soap- spectacular visuals, opulent sets and no end in sight. Skip a couple of episodes, and you wouldn’t have missed a thing!
What’s also annoying is that most of the characters in the book are the sort who let things happen to them. Well, if you’re going to write a book about people who let things happen to them, at least let interesting things happen to them. If everyday things that happened to you and me made for an interesting read, every diary ever written would be a darned bestseller! There’s a reason the book is categorized under fiction, I just desperately wish the author would realize that! Even an Adoor Gopalakrishnan movie has some pretensions of conclusion for crying our loud! And NO, a ‘My salaams’ page at the end of the book does NOT classify as a suitable end.
Just so you can partake in my righteous indignation, I’m penning this post that has no point to make and has NO end. HA!
PS: Please be warned- All the hate mail I will be receiving for this post is liable to be printed, quoted verabatim, rediculed and twisted beyond recognition and pointed and laughed at.

London on a Student Budget

Images of London- when you have no Budget to speak of, and not nearly enough days...

Tower Bridge. One of the most photographed places in London

The tower of London. Infamous for its numerous executions.

The Big Ben- by twilight

The new London Bridge

The Thames- in all it's fury. Not a patch on the Bhramaputra, but intimidating all the same.

Westminister skyline

A Dali Sculpture.

The London eye. AKA a mother of a Ferris Wheel.

Buckingham Palace.

Deer. Richmond Park.

Nice, eh?

Rainy streets.

A break in the weather

another view of the eye. Notice the chopper circling it.

Trafalgar Square. We caught the beginnings of a Protest.

Nice Brit Pub near Trafalgar

Typically Rainy Afternoon...

... And then the sun peeks out.

Freeze Framed!

Yes, Boss

Early Start

'Of course we're running!' Says hubby. This was, needless to say, the indignant reply to my apparently silly question- 'are we running the Marthon?'
'And by we, you mean...' I ask. You know, one doesn't want things to be ambiguous.
'You, Me and Amma' says Hubby- clearly think I've lost it now. For hadn't we discussed this earlier- and decided that we would. You know, the family thing and all.
Good. Just so we were clear. Now for the Coup de Grace- 'So, who's going to take care of Pickwick?' I ask.
'Oh.' 'Yes, Oh. Minor fly in the ointment, eh?'
'Ah.'
'Now is not the time to practice you vowels, hon.' I say, a tad impatiently.
Hubby's brow, which had temporarily furrowed, cleared up.
' No Problem. We take him with us, of course.'
Eh? (now is was my turn to do the vowels) No Problem? No Problem?? how is it Not a problem? Six Kilometers. Bad enough for a couch Potato like me. With Pickwick? Somebody send for the lawyers. I want to write my last will and testament.
'don't worry. we'll take turns. You me and Amma. Easy Peasy.' says Hubby patting my head. *gulp* 'OK. If you say so.' I mumble, sending up a silent prayer, rashly promising all kinds of thing to about 6-odd Gods. (it would have been more, but the names dried out at number Six.)

Marathon Day:
Overslept. Ran in and out of the shower. Changed 3 track pants. Settled on a fourth one belonging to Hubby. Bundled Pickwick into whatever I could lay my hands on. Had to re-do it. he was wearing 2 T-shirts and no shorts. Halfway to the station, Hubby realises he's forgotten our registration bibs. Damn. Backtrack. Just make it in time for a departing VT Train. Make our way thru a sea of humanity to the Company Marquee. Stuff myself with a Frankie, a Narial Panee and covetously eye the chaat counter before I realise I have to Pee. Run over, wait and do the needful, and the announcements for the starting of the race is on. Well, so far, pretty normal. Hmm.. maybe things wouldn't be so bad after all.
At the holding block, Hubby suddenly announces 'You know, I want to give it my best shot. If I hold Pickwick, I'll never make it in decent time...' he looks at the two of us desperately, and Amma and self exchange the wouldn't-you-know-it glance. 'Fine. we'll handle it. go ahead'. I say resigned to dropping out of the race after 2 kms and joining the cheerers.
'Thanks!' says excited Hubby, hand over the squiming Bundle and head our front.
'If you can't trace me, head back home. don't wait long!' he yells as he vanished into the crowd.
Oh great. Might as well head home now, when the trains were empty!
Pickwick and amma, however kept me entertained enough to stick on- at least til the race started. Initially all we did was walk. We couldn't do much else. Pickwick was amused and amusing in turn, and I though to myself 'well, not bad, lest see how far I can stick it out'.
Pickwick, however had other ideas and firmly settled down for a good nap halfway through. Well, nevermind. There's Amma for company. I think. A further 2 kms down, I lose sight of Amma. She has been swallowed by a crowd of enthusiastic Giant I-Pods. Ye gads! just as I entertained thoughts of wading in to rescue her, Pickwick, fresh from his siesta, decides to egg me on in his peculair way- by digging his heels into my middle if I showed signs of easing up.
I had no choice- I had to finish...
As I made my way into the Marquee once more - after squeezing through the gates along with a million other people and introducing Pickwick to the joy of Feeling like a sardine in a can, I finally locate Amma.
NO sign of hubby though. As we make our way back, Hubby calls up. 'where are you?' he asks. 'where are you' I ask in turn. 'Home.' says hubby, as if what I was asking was a rhetoric.
'ah.' followed by silence on my part. Hubby sweats. 'well, I looked. Everywhere. you weren't there. Honest.'
'Oh?'
'well, you're alright aren't you? good. I'll see you at home then. right. toodles.' says hubby with a feeble attempt at cheer.

Two hours later, outside our door. Sheepish Hubby- 'hi!'
'Why are you standing outside?' I ask surprised.
'well. The Keys. you have it. I though I'd wait til you get home. ' Poor thing. So he did keep his word about coming home together.
Hmmm... maybe next year, Pickwick can join this fun do- this time he WALKS!

Whoa, woe!

I was tagged by Loca and the rules are- I write 9 weird things about Self, Tag 6 others and leave comments on their blogs. Now admitted, this was done a good 3 months ago, but I seem to have stumbled across it just now, hence the post post-haste. which brings me to weird thing number 1.
I love limericks and funny verses. In fact I love it more than soulful poetry. Anyone can be soulful, I say, but it take a true genius to be flippannt in the company of Wordsworth nad Tennyson. That's why Nash rules. (With a name like Ogden, his parents didn't leave him much choice, did they? I mean, come on, can you think of 'Daffodils- by Ogden Nash' and still read it with the same countenance?)

I love food. But I'm not a gourmet. Now if that seems like a contardiction, it isn't. It's just that I'm as much a fan of the Vada Pav and Dhabeli as the Risotto and Wasabi. In fact a little more so, since the former is far lighter on the pocket than the latter.

I 'm one of the few women I know (women all over blogdom will be rolling up their sleeves at this) who honestly thinks that I have far too many things to wear. Really. My closet is bursting at the seams.

I'm also the woman who thinks you can never have enough socks though. I love socks. I try to collect one in every colour. I am hampered in ths quest by stern hubby, single-sock- eating washing machine and now, also joining the fray, kleptomaniac son. But I plod on, relentless in my quest.

I intend to try out sky diving soon. Quickly and on the sly before my son decides to emulate me.

I'm the queen of Freudian slips. Freud would have a field day with me. And I'd threaten to break his spine in five places if he so much as suggested that my mother was to blame for my oddities. I prefer laying the blame squarely on my brother who tormented me relentlessly throughout childhood.

I get a lot of Great Ideas while sitting on my throne. I don't know what it is about loos... (thye have to spotlessly clean though), but they inspire me to come up with some absolute winners.

I still dream of arriving at school in my underpants!

I might be married and a mother, but I still wouldn't advocate marriage for everyone. I'd much rather people live together in sin (is it a sin anymore?).
There. Nine thngs. Nine very uncomfortable things about me.
I'm leaving this open. no tagging. anyone who's interested can pick it up and run with it. Hope you don't scrape your knee in the process.

Ek Glassy, do glassy...

‘Honey…’ I say in a melodious voice
‘Yeah?’ asks hubby warily. ‘You know those headaches I’ve been having?’
‘um-hmmm’ he says even more warily. ‘Well, I think we should do something about it. I plan to visit the opthal tomorrow.’ I say.
‘You mean they were real? Wow. OK. Yes. Opthal. Good.’ Says much relieved Hubby.

Evening, at Opthal.

‘Place your chin here please’ says Doc- pointing to a large intimidating thingummy. I do. ‘erm…. Rest your forehead as well..’ say amused doc- I had poked the chin forward and was looking like I was ready to bay at the moon.- which apparently is not how they check eyes nowadays. After looking at an ice-cream truck and white picket fences with both eyes for a while I hear… ‘hmmmm…’ ‘Interesting. Very Interesting.’ - Now that is not what you want anybody who’s peering into your eyes- who’s not drunk or your romantic love-interest, to say.
‘What? What??’ I ask nervously.
‘ hmmm… lucky… I wonder…’ murmurs Doc, to himself, completely ignoring a sweating me on the chair.
Finally, he pushes the machine away, thrusts an owlish looking frame upon me and asks me to read the gibberish alphabets chart. As I real the Last line… ‘ P N O U…’
‘No? hmmm… now? Yes, yes… I see…’
He sees? He sees?? Well, I don’t… Isn’t that why I was there? And things had only become foggier…

After a series of swapping glasses, and flashing blinding lights into my eyes, he says, ‘Yes. Are you driving?’
Startled by this sudden change in subject, I stammer ‘eh? Who? Me? Now? Right. No.’
He lapses back into silence with only annoys me more.. not only does he pass sweeping statements like ‘interesting’ and ‘lucky’ while peering into my eyes, he’s now taken to asking me about my driving habits and then going into these pensive silences… well, ok… so I forget to give that occasional hand signal (while turning, you perverts, not the one you gave to the boor honking his horn behind you), and yes, there was that one time when I had parked illegally for five minutes, but I failed to see what business it was of his… ‘ Good. The nurse will put some drops into your eye that will blur your vision for the next six hours.’ he said, interrupting my thoughts. Oh. I saw all… or rather was about to not-see at all in the next couple of minutes.

Five minutes later…
‘hmmm…’ said doc. I wished he would expand his vocabulary. Even eskimos have only so many words for ‘snow’.
‘so whats the verdict, Doc?’ I ask, looking at what I though was his face.
‘you’ll have to wear glasses, of course.’ Said a voice from behind me. I whipped my head around- I had been talking to Doc’s reflection. Further proof that I needed glasses, I guess. Glasses? That was the reason I was termed ‘lucky’ and ‘interesting’? feeling oddly deflated at such a mundane reason for the excitement, I staggered out into the waiting area, trying to stuff the prescription into my bag- and succeeding after 3 attempts. Back in the Doc’s cabin I could hear the voices floating out…’hmmm… inetresting…’ followed soon after by a panicky ‘what? Eh?’
Poor Sod. I could have told him he needed glasses.

BRNAD DEAD!

well, Brad, as usual, had something to say about the last post. And here it was. So, naturally, I had something to say about that! enjoy!!

Dilli, we have a problem, yaar!

In a bid to streamline the admistration, my company has decided to print all cards/ stationery and other sundry accessories centrally from 'dilli'. Which is great, provided,
a. I get my Cards on Time (which does NOT roughly translate to sometime in this decade)
b. I don't have to handle annoying administration guys suggesting that in the meanwhile I use a colleagues card, and scratch out his name and put mine instead.
c. When I DO get the cards, I'd be ecstatic, if they'd please, please not coin new acronyms for my position, and just manage to get the spellings right.

Right. For now I'm stuck with cards with read 'Sense- BRNAD SOLUTION (pliss to note the singular) MANAGER.

My clients now have the pleasure of choosing between scratched out, overwritten- cards, or ones which introduce me as a BRNAD Solution manager. Can we get the weekend here a bit sooner?

Godfather to the fore!

Conversation between Brad and Godson!

Can also be seen Here, Here & Here

wORK wEEK

I'm celebrating a week at work. Well, OK, celebrations would be pushing it... people in my office are already looking shifty-eyed and start shuffling their feet when asked whether my joining was a good thing. Thankfully I have a thick hide, and refuse to take hints, so I simply carry on the back-thumping and the bush-esque shoulder massaging as if I didn't notice poeple scurrying for cover when they see me approach.
I must say this for the workplace though- they stand up to punishment well. I suppose it goes with the territory when you're selling media. here's an example of a typical conversation:
(over the phone)
Colleague: Hey... It's me. I'm not with ABC anymore. Yeah, I'm with XY....
Client (cutting Colleague off in Mid-flow): oh, ah... I'm tied up can you call back a bit later?
Colleague( as if no interruptions occured): sure thing.. in fact. I'll call you back. Just tell me when.
Client (pushed into a corner): er... afternoon? sure... bye!

Come afternoon...*brrrrring* *brrrrring*
metallic voice: the person you are trying to reach cannot take your call. Please leave a message at the beep.
Grrrrr!

Same Colleage and Same client, after the magazine hits the stands, and he finds his ad in the wrong posish.
Client: hey! it's me. I saw the ad. What's...
Colleague (getting her own back): hey... I'm sorry, but you've caught me at the worst time possible. Could you send me a mail on this?
Client (seething and vowing to wait till colleague comes back for business): sure, and I'll mark a CC to my boss and your boss.
Colleague (distractedly): oh? Oh. seeya then.

Next month: Colleague and client at it again.
Colleague: Hey... It's me. could we meet up ? i've got this great idea....
Client (cutting Colleague off in Mid-flow): oh, ah... I'm tied up can you call back a bit later?

-And so it goes. The Office. The best place to watch karma bite you in the arse.

All in a Day's work

*Beep* *Beep* - said a beligerent phone at 2:30 am. Then only reason I even heard the darned thing was because I had just woken up to feed Pickwick. Mercifully, Pickwick slept right thru' the cacophony.
Muttering dire threats at whoever was at the other end, I picked up the phone to see who wished to commit Harakiri. 'Twas the boss. Or soon-to-be Boss. Darn. Plans of wanting to see the colour of his insides dropped. For now. (which reminds me of a classmate who once insisted on calling all our undies 'insides' for the duration of the entire study tour. These insides are not the insides I refer to in my post. Just in case a few random readers had similar thoughts)
Bleary eyed I read the message- and Goggle. The chap wants me to call up some female in the morning and tag along with her as she heads to office at the other side of town!!! You may well wonder why I goggled. I mean, that doesn't seem like such an absurd request, does it? Ah, but there were wheels, as they say, within wheels.
Let me start at the beginning. Skipping early evolution and other trivial matters, I shall move on to the matter in Q. After a nine-month hiatus, I had decided to join the ranks of the gainfully employed. My first day was supposed be the first of December. Boss-man- who's a Diliwallah was to make a trip a couple of days prior and get me up to speed, so to speak before tossing me into the thick of things. As luck would have it, Boss-man cometh and boss-man goeth- all without having an opportuinity to have the tete-a-tete. So, boss-man sayeth- No point starting tomorrow. Take the weekend to mull over material (which he promised he'd be sending over the mail), and start afresh Monday. Good, I say. Great, even. Weekend to prep up, and Monday morning, shall be In My Element.
By Sunday evening, the plan seems to have developed a slight flaw- no mail in sight from Boss-man. No answer to frantic phonecalls. Ah. Oh well, I think. Tomorrow we shall try again, I think.
Only, that night- at 2:30 to be precise is when Boss-man replies! Now you see why I goggle!
All right, no reason to panic. We shall meet aforementioned lady, and she will give me the goods, I think. Only, Lady is Late, has no clue who I am and what I'm there for.
Office isn't much better. No one in office knows I'm joining up. So naturally no one knows what I'm supposed to be doing. Er... I shall spent the day constructively blogging about it. And I would, only apparently, there are just so many workstations, and a tad too many people. Long tea breaks? Naah- the tea is delievered into your hands! So I now know every story that was printed in yesterday's paper. Go on- ask me what was printed on page 4 of the entertainment supplement. Or page 6 of the main supplement. I shall tell you verbatim. Still, there's only so much time you can spend with your nose buried in the newspaper. So I did the only thing any good new employee would do- disrupt Work and engage everyone in so much chit-chat that nothing constructive was done by anyone for the better part of the day. Finally deciding they've had enough of me, they politely told me I could leave early (they tried hinting at first, but I was too dense to get it. They had to spell it out for me).

This morning, trying to head off trouble early on, they have given me my own workstation. I think I'm going to like it here. They catch on quick.

Pickwick Capers

Did a few rudimentary toons on strip creator- here they are
MOre to follow post refinement.

Family Tree

As my son fumbles about bravely trying to insert his tiny fingers into every available socket, it makes me wonder what kind of stock he comes from and if, as his mother I am going to survive his bumps and bruises.

Well, I don’t have too much of a reference point, considering both my great great grandfather (on the maternal side) and throw in another great and we have the paternal side; both of whom were adopted. So that leaves me with about 3 generations worth of stories.
We will dispense with the greats and get down to the grandparents, since I have personally never had the pleasure of meeting any of the greats, and hence have heard no accounts of their heroics first hand (although my granddad’s grand mom was allegedly bitten by a snake when she was pregnant, and hence they believed my great grandma was a walking antidote to venomous bites. On another interesting aside, the lady was supposed to be pretty venomous herself…That apparently accounts for my wayward tongue)

Lets start with the granddaddy (literally) of all stories- which involves the maternal grandpop (if he could see me being so irreverent now, he’d have my hide). Well, like all middle sons of families with not a lot of ancestral wealth, grandpop landed up having to support not just his family but also those of his brothers (the elder brother having pushed off to join the INA with Netaji and the younger one going about doing a fair bit of social work and bringing honour to the family- the bread and butter was really not his forte, but think honour and you had your man!). So off he want on some project with the Brits to Rangoon. Bear in mind, this was the time of the Second World War, and once a bloke vanished to far shores, it was quite often the last time you saw him. In fact the only way you knew the chap was still slogging away at some remote location was the money orders that used to arrive home every month.
So- getting back to the slogging ancestor in remote location- Grandpa was just getting into the thick of things, when suddenly, the Japanese took it upon themselves to Bomb the S*** out of Rangoon. Naturally, working with the Brits made Grandpa and his colleagues sitting ducks. Not liking the Sitting Duck posish. one bit, Grandpa decided to take matters into his own hands. NO, he did not grab a musket and charge the Japs- he was brave, not stupid! He packed a few of his measly belongings and decided to hightail it back to India. Now, since most of the ships were filled with ladies and families, and had left port long ago, the only way into India was by land thru’ the forests.
Now I don’t want to give you lessons in geography, but From Rangoon, he made his way to a place called Pittakoon and from there into erstwhile Bengal. Naturally, like all great travel stories, this had its fair share of bombs, murder, jungle fever, thuggee and wild animals. Two months later when Grandad returned home, he’d lost half his weight and most of his hair (or so he told me- C’mon, the man’s entitled to a wee bit of creative leeway after the ordeal he’s been thru’)
The grandmum, all this while wasn’t wasting away, pining for the husband (this despite it being a love marriage- Grandmum fell in love with Granddad and decided she was going to marry him, all at the ripe old age of 12.) She had mouths to feed and children to clothe. She’s also had the distinction of being the first lady in the family to have travelled from the southernmost tip of India to the north (to the Bhakra Nagal project, as a matter of fact) alone with her kids to set up house there- all this without knowing a word of Hindi at that time.
Now coming to the paternal side- Pretty uneventful life, if you consider having lost a fortune via gambling (that was the great granddad), coming to Bombay penniless and reclaiming the lost fortune for his dad bit-by-bit as uneventful. On the way he also managed to pick up a wife and have four healthy kids.
The Grandmum- ah she was a rare one. She’d come to Bombay after marrying granddad at the age of 15. She learnt to speak and read both Hindi and marathi within a short while just by watching the telly and speaking to people. The dragon lady, as I used to call her affectionately bounced back after an amputation- and was seen pottering about the building just a few months after the operation. This, despite having unchecked diabetes for ages and a heart that functioned at 20% capacity. The lady buried a husband and a child within two years of each other and came close to losing a grandchild. They say punters lost a whole lotta money betting on her early demise.

Considering the above facts, I can safely bet on a good-ish capacity to bounce back after setbacks from Pickwick. Now if only this bouncing-back thingy hadn’t skipped my generation…

Sleepless in Mumbai

*sigh* My son is growing up. Last night was the first night he didn’t want to nurse…until 4 in the morning! That of course didn’t stop me from getting up on auto pilot every couple of hours, and it didn’t stop him from wanting to be rocked back to sleep during my semi-wakeful bouts. Hubby, naturally was blissfully unaware of the turmoil in my mind (Why isn’t he nursing? Is he sick? Maybe he doesn’t like the taste of milk anymore… what if he refuses to drink any more milk? So now my milk is not good enough for him, huh? Just like a man to want something one instant, and the moment he gets it, he loses interest! Ha! ), after a restful nights’ sleep wakes up, smiles pleasantly and asks for coffee. Poor chap. It was the wrong thing to have asked. I nearly bit his head off, and he hurriedly retreated to the bathroom with his morning paper, and refused to emerge until sanity made a comeback.

In the meanwhile, the other man in my life was up and about and smiling sunnily as though he had no hand in driving his poor mother up the wall with worry. Still, I have chosen to look at the bright side of this new development.

1. Longer hours of sleep- translating to black circs. around the eyes retreating to manageable levels. Now I can stop looking like a reality show participant.
2. More time can be spent away from Pickwick- meaning we can now sneak in that odd movie or two.
3. Pickwick will (hopefully) not scream blue murder every time we step out with him coz he wants me to nurse him in the middle of a mall/ restaurant/ train/ wedding/ funeral and other public places with absolutely no privacy
4. My bust can now return to normal proportions, and (again, hopefully) head northwards again.
   
   I was just beginning to cheer up again, when Pickwick looks at me, gives me a killer smile (complete with just one tooth) and promptly settles down on my lap to nurse.
   OK. So maybe it isn’t just time yet for point four. But we’re getting there. In the meanwhile, I’m planning a killer wardrobe to be worn at the beach, all in my head.

Weekend Getaway

I spent last weekend in Matheran. I had no clue I'd be anywhere near there. In fact I'd happily made plans with Smithy to be her date at a Halloween Bash (three whole hours with no Baby or Hubby! wheee!). Then come friday, Hubby lands me with the Matheran Plan. On asking why it's taken him this long to bother informing me, he say in all earnestness, 'but honey, it wouldn't be a surprise then, would it?' Bah. Sorry Smithy, I can't argue with that!

So, off we went, with Pickwick in tow. Here are a few excerpts from the weekend:

Cottage No.13

Yeah, that's right, that was our home for the weekend. A British-era Cottage with the number 13. And nothing remotely eerie to report! (damn!)

It's a tree...it's a stump... it's...it's a dustbin!

Male Bonding

One of my favourite father-son moments during the trip
(that and Pickwick swinging his undies in the air a la Saurav).

Here Comes the Son!

I know! Corny! still, that's what i feel like singing everytime i see this picture.

NO Clue what existed below the vines.

Cool Pool
No, Really. the water was Frigid! Hubby bravely strolled out of the cottage in a towel and swimming trunks, only to return 3 minutes later, after having dipped his toe into the pool and retracting it with a howl!

P.S. By the way, i strongly recommend 'Sakville's' for all your foody needs- he may be no gourmet, but he's given us better service than I've seen at star restaurants. besides, you also get to catch all the hubub of the market place from his place!

Back Room Business

I have seen the backs of more restaurants and pubs than I care to remember. Now I know what you’re thinking… get your mind out of the gutter- that’s NOT how Pickwick was conceived. In fact it is precisely because of Pickwick that I have the … er… privilege of visiting these places. Well, it’s either visiting the back room, or flashing unsuspecting customers, making them swallow their soup the wrong way. Very unsettling. And totally bad for business. So in the interest of his regulars, the owners/ managers of these places generally give me a guided tour of their back rooms.

The back rooms Or in some cases glorified broom closets) of these restaurants are mighty interesting places. Not only do you find the occasional odd creatures all limbs intertwined (which makes you immediately want to separate them with a water hose and yell at them while holding Pickwick aloft ‘Exhibit A’) but also the friendly neighborhood spider (who’s NEVER as delectable as the movies), the inquisitive rodent and despicable stars of ‘Joe’s apartment’ (why aren’t they on the endangered list?)

What is interesting to note is you learn a lot about the place and the people who work there from the back rooms. For example, you see a neatly folded trouser and shirt all nicely tucked into a plastic bag, and you KNOW you want that man serving you at the table. You see the carelessly tossed jeans along with the body hugging t-shirt and you can safely surmise that this man is here to fulfill his tinsel town dreams. You see the worn half shirt neatly pressed, and you can imagine the wife faithfully ironing out this chap’s shirts and he trudges off to work. Once you head back to your table it then becomes an interesting game- to put a face to the clothes in the back room. Naturally these are often met with very strange looks- since this is probably the first time any patron will be looking so hard at the waiters and Maitre D’- with a knowing smirk on her face, no less…

You can also hazard a guess if the water’s safe to drink at this place, from the back rooms- I mean one look at where they store their tipple and as Wodehouse would put it- All Is Revealed. You may well wonder where all this is leading to- and I don’t blame you- in this post I have rambled on more than usual (which is like saying that the Mahabharata was just a tad long-ish). At the risk of sounding repetitive, All, as they say, will be Reveled- I’m dabbling with the idea of starting off a restaurant critique from a ‘back-room’ point of view. Just wanted to know if it would pique anyone’s interest or am I the only odd-ball restaurant voyeur in blogdom.

True Vacation

Last week, we were in Goa doing what you should truly do in Goa- no, not living it up. You have Mumbai for that, for crying out loud. We were there to hibernate. Relax. Pig out. And not move a muscle. Well, we did all of the above. Almost all. There only so much inaction your six-month old will permit you.

The weather was crap. It was raining all night- and most days. Which suited us just fine. All we needed was a bit of sunshine so we could hit the pool (which was just outside out room) and the beach (which was just beyond the pool). Pickwick loved both. The beach had him a tad confused, with what the waves and the ground beneath his feet literally slipping away. He didn’t like that. No one does, I guess. The pool was more his scene. He was basking. In the sunshine and the mini admiration society which seemed to have formed around him as soon as he stepped into the pool. So naturally he wants to show off for his fans and tried to float. To our utter amazement he actually succeeded! He even got so bold as to venture a few Kicks. Sigh! The things one has to do to please people!

The food was especially good. I pigged out on sea food while poor hubby stoically held back his urge to puke. I guess he thought it’s the least he could do for the woman who’s bravely decided to spawn his offspring (Yes, I’m going to hold that over his poor head for another eighteen years!). Having this scandalized three generations of the iyer khaandaan, I decided to reserve my second tattoo plans for another day. We don’t want to kill the poor fellow, do we?

Our return journey was another adventure altogether. After having raced to the station to narrowly make the train (thanks to a forgotten jacket in the lobby of the hotel whose pockets held a mobile phone and tickets to the very train we were about to board…), we board the one compartment in the train that is bursting at the seams with kids. You should have seen the night sleeping routine. 35 mums trying to put 40-odd hyperactive kids to bed. Sometimes, even now, when I let my guard down, I hear “Shhh! Look at that nice boy. He’s not troubling his mummy.”

So, it’s no wonder I took so long to write this post. I needed a vacation to recover from my vacation!

Mee Mumbaikar

And now, ladies and gentlemen, presenting a post for the express reading purpose of the Mumbaikar…

Overheard in the second class ladies compartment:

*self- fly on the wall- or at least plastered to the partition near the entryway*

Plump Lady (to skinny one nearer the door): ay! Dadar?
Skinny: nai
Plumpy: toh idhar kay karti hai? Andar jao na!
Skinny: kaisa jayegi? Jagah kidahr hai? Tum side se jao na!
Plumpy: ai! Kya baat karti hai? Mera size dekha hai? Tum hi ja nahi sakti, main kaisa jayegi? Ab dadar ayega to tum utarke phir chado..
Skinny: arre... main kyon utregi? Main nahin utregi. Tum side se jao.
Plumpy: getting more annoyed: he bagh! Jyada mach mach nahin karneka. Tumko malum nahin Dadar mein utrneka nahin to idhar nahin khada rahneka? Malum nahin kidhar kidhar se train mein aa jata hai.
Skinny: getting equally riled: ai! Tum idhar dekho- kya kar legi tum? Kuch bhi bolti rehti hai. Phir mai bolne lagoongi
Plumpy: gearing up for full-scale war:ay chokri- tu jaanti nahin main koun hoon. Main roz yeh train mein jaati hoon. Train mein chadhne ko atta nahin to kyon aati ho?

Skinny was just about to launch into a tirade of her own when the train pulled up into Dadar. Although she put up a brave fight, she lost her battle to the tide of people flowing out of the train and had to decend at Dadar.

30 seconds later when the train pulled out of Dadar, however, I did a double take. Not only was Skinny back on the train- right next to her was a mournful Plumpy- who was pushed back into the train by the incoming tide! Looks like Skinny had the last laugh!

Ah! It’s good to be back in Mumbai!

Irwin Lives!

It is just like the Polterigeist, only, in reverse. Somehow, the spirit of Steve Irwin has managed to enter my son thru' the telly! there's no other logical explanation for it...
... I'm not much of a fan of watching creatures behind bars for no fault of theirs, so I tend to avoid most zoos (Also, I have been asked by certain curators to keep a safe distance from the primates, as apparently, I make them nervous). I especially made this a point while I was carrying Pickwick. Neither me nor my husband have ever campaigned for the SPCA, PeTA or any such group- not because we don't feel for the poor things having to share the earth with us humans, but simply because we're really not the campaigning types. I didn't even campaign for my own elections as school captain (I got elected by deafult- all the other contestants fell ill or discovered lurrve- both of which have remarkably similar symptoms, by the way), simply beacuse it involves a lot of, you know...work!

so how else can you explain the fact that my son's favourite method of locomotion resembles that of an Aardvark- as demonstrated bythe previous post. And that's not all- he's taken to making sounds like a pelican (which causes me to go into an instant panic attack and I end up vigorously thumping a surprised Pickwick on his back). Most recently, he's started to practice hopping on our laps like a kangaroo. He never tires of this activity, and he results are evident on all our bruised thighs.
Hence I have concluded that it's the ghost of Irwin that's possessed him, and we have patiently been taking him out in the sun and urging him to 'go towards the light'. Passers-by have not taken kindly to this urging and make hissing sounds- which seems to excite Pickwick all the more. We wish Irwin to be at peace and have erased Animal Planet from the telly favourites. Pickwick in the meanwhile has learn a new word which sounds suspicoiusly like 'bee-u-tee'

P.S. Since publishing this post last night, Pickwick has develeoped strange new symptoms where he creeps up on your unsuspecting hand, and does a complete salt-water croc style stealth attack, including the death roll. Things Seem to be getting worse before the get better(I hope...)

History Repeats Itself

August 2006

This was Pickwick trying his hand at locomotion. Overheard on observation"What a weird way to move around... I never seen such a sight! Wonde where he got that from "

June 1979

Ahem...

Que Sera Sera

Ten years ago, if you had asked me what I’d be doing ten years hence, you can bet your last rupee the answer wouldn’t have been ‘Married. With Kid. Currently Unemployed.’ And yet, here I am, busily washing drool off my keyboard as I type, while former classmates who at that point had the ambition of a snail are busy attending conferences in Thailand and Singapore and planning vacations in Bali.

People who knew me then would fall off the chair if they found out I had an arranged marriage, let alone mothered a child. Somehow they’d be more willing to believe that I’d run off on a trip to Rishikesh where I’d met a bearded weirdo and we were currently shacked up in the foothills of the Himalayas waiting out the winter so we could continue our trek to Nepal. Well unless hubby decides to quit cushy job and turn into a Yeti, I don’t see that happening anytime in the near future, which is going to cause quite of few of those ex-classmates to shake their heads and wonder what the world was coming to.

I recently ran into one such then-unambitious, now-jetsetting friend last week. ‘Sense! Is that you? Why you look positively… feminine!’ he said. ‘So do you.’ Said I, thinking it was only fair that I should return the compliment.
‘ So… where have you been? What naughty things have you been upto?’ he asks, lighting up a smoke. I stare at him open-mouthed- this was the same chap who used ro get a coughing fit every time our canteen wallah maroed a tadka!
‘I’ve just got back from a 4 day conference in Singapore.’ He continued, 'life’s a bitch, man. Shitloads of work. Had to even cancel my plans of watching the football finals!’ ‘on the telly?’ I ask innocently. ‘No way dude. In Germany! You couldn’t make it either huh?’ ‘Nope. Was otherwise occupied.’ I said. ‘Oh? Work? Play?’ he asks elbowing me in the ribs and wiggling his brows.
‘Well, you could say that, although dangling a ball in front of Pickwick can’t technically be called play.’
‘Pickwick? New pet?’
‘Nope. New Son.’ Just then Hubby saunters in with cherubic face and a grinning Pickwick. ‘This is hubby- and That’s Pickwick.’ I say to the gawking classmate. ‘I’d love to stay and chat, but I gotta rush home and make dinner…’I throw out as I make my exit. That should remind him- I was always unpredictable.

Ode- To a C'Ode

There's nothing more sorry to behold,
than a lady with a cold...

...sorrier still
is that lady was over the hill

But the sorriest of all
is if this lady's son looks set to bawl!

Why People Keep Blogs

This post is dedicated to Smithy, who dug up this piece I'd written long ago and took the trouble to save it!Reproduced here with a few minor changes...

I bet if you took a poll on reasons why people keep Blogs, sheer boredom would be in the top Five. The number one reason of course, being vanity, i.e. people actually think their thoughts count. Yeah, right. So, why, is it people keep Blogs? I suppose it would be to pen down what they’re feeling at that particular moment. But really, is what you feel at that moment that important? Is it even real, coz one night you might be writing about the cute lurve of your life who could do no wrong. And a few posts later, he’s the jerk who won’t take a hint, (Unless you’ve impulsively married this loser, and you need to keep reading that one post to remind yourself that the sod once made you feel that way.)

Wow. I had no idea I was this cynical. Hey! That’s why- Its to probe deeper into oneself, to understand yourself better – and its either this or singularly bad poetry. But then, we’re back to my original Q. Why probe? Why prod? Let's not open the can of worms here. I mean, how boring would it get if you knew yourself so well that you’d know your exact reaction to every situation. Surprize yourself I say; sometimes go the extra mile and positively shock yourself! You’d be surprised how good that’ll make you feel – and it serves the same purpose – Its amazing what it does to your vanity – and you save a whole lot more time this way.

However, most people have to get it out of their system. They start out on this writing spree – in search of their literary masterpieces. The one really good book they haven in them. There’s just one hitch – This book they have in them – most of the time its good as long as it stays in. The moment it takes a peek out in the open, it sucks! I think most people would be cured of this bug, however if we forced them to sit down and read what they’ve written.

You’ll have a 50% fallout rate here already cos they can’t read their own writing. That leaves the wilier customer who decided to type out his masterpiece – double spaced. Out of these another 36% will drop out when they see that they haven’t proceeded beyond the first line after 16 tries and several days. That leaves the really nasty 14% of ‘em, who’re what I call ramblers. There are the ones who’ve typed page after page of any thought that has popped into their head.
A solid 75% of this 14% turn out to be long-suffering husbands who have never gotten a word in edgeways with their wives. They include thoughts that jump from the sandy beaches of Hawaii where a story of intrigue is set, to the grocery list the wife dictated over the phone.
About 10% of the 14 then drop out meekly, cos u see they’re used to dropping out meekly. The really resilient 4% are the tough nuts to crack. They’re the ones who’ve decided, I Have An Opinion And I Shall Voice It (And You’d Better Listen To It – Too). Unfortunately dear reader, at this point I must tell you that I head the pack when it comes to the aforementioned 4%!

Travel Travails

I am exhausted. And for the first time in 3 months, Pickwick’s not to blame for it. I am recuperating from my first travel experience alone with Pickwick, and guess what- he was the best thing about the entire affair.
Now there comes a time in every new mother’s life when she has the take the bold step to venture forth with her young ‘un unassisted. Well, suffering from a massive superiority complex, I thought I’d make this landmark occasion more challenging by adding enough luggage to the equation to single-handedly overload the plane. I packed not just my entire wardrobe, but also Pickwick’s along with his odds, ends, toys and bathtub. To top it off the hand baggage (which contained all the rations for self and Pickwick in case of a nuclear holocaust) had to be precariously balanced- one on each shoulder. Remove one, and you would just topple over like the proverbial pin. Thusly armed, I proceed to the check-in counter, leaving Pickwick for one last time in my parents’ care. I was fully confident of getting the royal treatment- on account of being upgraded to business class, thanks to hubby’s frequent flier card, and being the hapless mother of a young papoose.

I was greeted by a stony eyed manager who takes one look at me and decides I’m one on the bourgeois elite and mentally knitted my name into his woolies.
Me (smile wavering slightly at the stony look): Hi… I’ve already tele-checked in. Could you give me some assistance? I’m travelling with an infant…

Stone man: Eh? I’m sorry, but we can’t upgrade you. Your husband not part of the multi-platinum class, so your voucher’s no good.

Me (a bit slow on the uptake): But I have a voucher. I’ve tele-checked in, my ticked, upgrade and seat were confirmed. Now about assistance with my infant…

Stone man: Sorry. Pay the difference if you want to sit up front. Next.

Me: Next?? There’s no one behind me you daft man! I’m the only one in business class, so just upgrade me!!

That last remark didn’t sit to well with the desi Defarge and he ignored me, but I could just picture the knitting needles clicking away at a feverish pace.

Five minutes later, after a frantic phone call to hubby, his irate phone call to the airline, and their livid phone call to stone man
Stone man: yes. You can sit up front. But there’s no upgrade voucher for your infant. He sits in economy.

Me: eh? He’s 3 months old! You can’t just pat him on the head and ask him to proceed up the aisle!

Stone Man: Next!

Another five minutes and frantic, irate and livid phone calls respectively…

Stone Man: Yes. He can sit with you.

Me: No! really? Gee thanks! Now about my luggage…

Stone man: next!

I gave up. I trudged up to my parents, like a wounded but triumphant soldier, to see my parents struggling to keep Pickwick’s volumes down. Pickwick in his finer moments has been known to render unsuspecting salesmen passing by the house temporarily deaf. One minute they’re walking along, merrily whistling a tune, the only thing on their minds being how to outrun the subsequent pet Pom, and the next they’re tottering away in shock trying to make sense on the ringing in their ears. Now at such times, I discovered quite by accident that the only thing that distracts him, is to do a little jig with him (to the latest Himmesh Reshammiya number, preferably)
So imagine my distress when I came across panicky Parents with Pickwick in the ‘Naach Chhamiya’ mood. Of course, having no alternative, I tried to surreptitiously do the cha-cha-cha mumbling ‘oh oh aashiqui’ under my breath at the airport lounge (I distinctly saw a few firings trying to capture this authentic Indian experience on their still cams). Mercifully, by this time Pickwick had calmed down some, and loaded with baggage and Pickwick, I proceeded for my Sec-Check, bidding a final adieu to wailing parents who were too busy to notice, since they were bidding goodbye to squirming Pickwick.

I finally made it in safely onto the plane. The journey from then on was largely uneventful, barring stray incidents like unscreened baggage, threat of offloading and the insistence of a flight purser that I nurse Pickwick during take off and landing. (Pickwick had his own ideas about that last bit). On landing in Mumbai, I was so relieved to touch ground in one piece, I decided not to tempt fate for quite some time, and have never ventured out alone with Pickwick since.

Fathers Down the Ages

Terms of addressing:
Granddad: Appa
Dad: Dad
Hubby: Yo Pops! (If not the first name, in which case, poor Pickwick is going to have a mighty sore bottom)

Earliest memory:
Granddad: Frowning down from a distance, as you look up from the cradle, saying- “ erm…I think he’s pooped again..”
Dad: Look of consternation as he’s holding you – “erm, I think he’s pooped again”
Hubby: “aww- look he’s pooping! Quick, ask him to hold on while I get the camera!”

Discipline:
Granddad: The Look (and you’ve already peed in your pants)
Dad: “harrumph!” followed by The Look
Hubby: “Just you wait to you Mommy gets home”

On education:
Granddad: I want you to be the top 3 in your class!
Dad: I want you to do your best
Hubby: Just make sure you get decent results, so I won’t have to visit the principal’s office too often

On sports:
Granddad: don’t you play enough in the evenings? Now you’re doing it at school too?
Dad: I want you to do your best.
Hubby: Cricket? Wait for me! Anything else- ask you mum.

On Arts:
Granddad: No one in our family’s made a decent living yet out of being an artist!
Dad: I want you to do your best.
Hubby: You think we should be saving his doodles? I can’t for the life of me figure out what he’s made, but hey, I can’t get Picasso either!

Career Options:
Granddad: harrumph! Engineering.
Dad: Do whatever you’re best at.
Hubby: The world is your playground- but don’t expect me to push you swing!(at which point Pickwick demands a translator)

Equal rights:
Granddad: Some men are more equal than others
Dad: Of course women are smarter. Just look at my daughter…ow! Ow!!… and my wife
Hubby: I’m now going to fight for equal opportunity for men!

Music:
Granddad: Hindi film songs? Gah! Humbug.
Dad: AC/DC? I’m not surprised that cacophony comes from electrical malfunctions…
Hubby: You paid HOW MUCH for the Sting Concert???!!!

On daughters:
Granddad: hah! The fool doesn’t deserve you!
Dad: hah! The fool doesn’t deserve you!
Hubby: hah! The fool doesn’t deserve you!

To Be Me

Sunday was a good day...

- My husband, who generally won't even notice if I wandered about in a gunny sack said I looked good.

- My Mom made me my favourite dish for lunch.

- My son,who generally reserves his smiles for ceiling fans and such, gave me his first gummy smile.

- My friend called up, Just Because.

- I celebrated my First Mothers Day.

Sometimes, its good to be Me.

My Baby

My Son- When he was just a couple of hours old.

Ode to My Mum

I know it looks like I've been doing nothing but making lists off late, but I promise,this will be the last one... for the time being.

You know it's unconditional love when...

...there's Poop or pee on every single dress you own, but you think your baby's smell ought to be bottled and sold as perfume.

...your nipples are cracked, sore and painful, but you allow you baby to chew on it meditatively so he can sleep peacefully

...you haven't slept for more than two hours at a stretch since the baby was born, but you're wondering if 18 hours of sleep is enough for you baby, or is he suffering from sleep deprivation

...you stop looking for yourself in family photos (and act of pure self-preservation, since you look like crap in all of them) and look for your baby instead

...you think spiky, patchy hair is the best hairstyle God ever made

...you can sleep thru' a deep purple concert, but spring into action at the tiniest wail

...you wonder how people can confuse him with some other baby when he looks so distinctly unique!

...you marvel at this miracle of God everytime your baby burps.

...you've just emerged out of the feeding-pooping-peeing cycle and can sleep thru' the night for the first time in years and you say,'Wow! lets do the whole thing again!'

...Twenty-five years after you've done it twice over and thought you were finally finished with it, you sit up nights again- just because your daughter's going thru' it!

Thanks, Mum. I love you.

Granddad

Grandfather and Grandson- Resting.

Coorg

The coorg valley. Awesome view! A must-visit during the rains.

Bloggy Recognition!

Was pleasantly surprised to find my post mentioned in the bloggy awards! here's the link!
Rather nice to get back to such words! *sensorcaine takes a bow*

Isn't It Ironic...

Call it one of the cruel ironies of life- The one time I have breats that look like they'd give Pam Anderson a run for her money, the only male interested in them is 3 days old and looks at them purely from a sustenance point of view!

Yes, the stork finally decided to pay us a house call on- would you believe it April fools' day! Needless to say, when my dad sms-ed all my friends with the news (I'd thoughtfully given him the phone numbers and the message to be sent in advance), they ran true to form and refused to believe I wasn't pulling a prank, and insisted on speaking to- you guessed it- my parents!

I went into labour at 6:30 in the morning and by noon I was convinced that this had to be a new Guiness record of sorts coz there was an amazing amount of pain but no baby. Finally with much reluctance (do you blame him?) my son decided to put in an appearance at a quarter to two! whew! The doc promptly informed my parents- 'Ais ais... for a first-time labour, it went very fazzt,you see.'
very fast? huh? I just think if you ain't got a uterus, your opinion don't count, buddy!! Someday I shall be up do describing the whole crazy scene in greater detail*shudder*.

Anyways, Junior looks like his dad but has managed to inherit my night-owl tendencies. Somehow I have this crazy feeling, someone up there's got a cruel sense of humour. He's now having a quiet chuckle everytime my baby wails at one- two hour intervals thoughout the night but sleeps like he's been knocked out throughout the day!

Well, moutains of soiled diapers to wade though which threaten to take over the bathroom if I dont' start making serious inroads into them. And all of them are the efforts of my son injust one afternoon. I always knew he'd be a superachiever! sigh! Grey hair, here I come!

DOC, DOC, WHO’S THERE?

I consider myself to be one of the privileged few in my ken who have hitherto escaped the agonies of a visit to the dentist very often.

My few visits* to the Dentist consisted of:
1. Getting my first tooth out at the age of 5,after which ‘I was so brave,I deserved a lolly pop’
2. Getting my upper pre-molars extracted at the age of 11 coz I had buck teeth, and my teeth needed space to fit themselves while they were being forcibly shoved back into my tiny mouth (after which I was so brave, I deserved a lolly pop)
3. Getting my braces removed, and finally being able to see the whites of my teeth again (after which I was so brave, I deserved a nice boy)

* In the interest of the reader, I have mentioned only those visits which were of significance… weekly visits to ‘tighten the band’ have not been noted

I was in a blissful state of ignorance of the torture chair until a few months ago, when I was happily chomping down on a scrumptious paani puri when a pain radiated from my molars that had me breaking out in cold sweat. A thorough investigation carried out by my tongue confirmed that it was indeed my molars that were a bit tender. Never having experienced such a thing before, I though it an aberration, and continued to thoughfully suck air through it for the next few days, to check how much punishment I could take.
As it turns out, I’m pretty chicken, and couldn’t avoid going to the dentist any longer.

It had been quite a while since I visited the dentist’s office, & I felt an odd sense of homecoming when I spotted the magazines that were in the waiting room for our ‘reading pleasure’. It took me just a few minutes to pick out my favourite magazine from the lot- the same one I used to read when I’d visit the dentist for my ‘tightening’ appointment at the age of 12!

Doc, naturally, not having spotted my mug for quite a while failed to recognize me, and taking one look at my grin said, “Ah! I see the spaces. Not to worry. Six months of corrective braces, and the gap between your teeth is as good as gone!”

“But Doc…”

“No, no, no need to worry. It’s completely painless. And if you’re really brave, we’ll give you a lollypop!”

This time I was a bit more forceful in my interjection. “ Doc! I did have braces. You put them on. And you said I looked just fine!”

“I did? Oh. Ah! I see now! Yes, yes… perfect row of teeth. Straight as an arrow. Erm…why are you here again?”

So I set about describing the painful tooth. One grave inspection later comes the verdict-“Yes. I see it. It’s a cavity. And a pretty large one. Looks quite deep… we may have to do a root canal…”

Had I not been spread-eagled in the chair with 3 instruments poking out of my mouth, I would have made the roadrunner seem sluggish. Well, as it turned out, I didn’t need a root canal just as yet, but the verdict was that it was inevitable. Like aging. And death.

But the ordeal wasn’t over just as yet. He wanted to do something called a filling. Now for those of you who haven’t had one, it simply means they scoop out the messed-up portion of your tooth, and fill it in with metal ( here, you’re just hoping that you won’t beep everytime you pass thru’ a metal detector at the airport). Sounds simple enough…
But really not so. First there’s this drill they use to clear out your tooth. A sound so bone jarring, it can only be compared to nails scratching across the blackboard, only, a hundred times worse, coz this stuff’s happening in your mouth! Then you hear those ominous words… “Now hold still. This won’t hurt a bit.” Re-he-he-he-ally? And I’m Queen Latifah!

When it was finally over, I was just so glad to get out of that chair, I swear I didn’t even blink when the doc wrote me up the preposterous bill for filling my mouth with a smidgeon of metal- that wasn’t even gold!

Two days ago, my tooth started to trouble me again. I have firmly told myself to stop being such a baby and just put up with the minor inconvenience. I am also eating out of just one side of my mouth.