Running Ranis

Over the weekend, Shoefiend and I took part in an 8km run. I wanted to finish in under an hour. I did it with 7 minutes to spare. The results may be found here. We had great fun running and I thought wouldn't it be better if we could get more women jogging and logging their runs and sharing their successes and inspiring others to do the same?

So I've gone ahead and started Running Ranis. A sisterhood for runners. A place where you can come for encouragement, advice or simply a kick up the rear. Send me something about your run - maybe a race you're planning to enter or a review of a training bra you've recently bought. If it is about running, then I want to hear about it. Send in your photos too. Send them all to ammania@gmail.com and I will upload them on the blog. Ready, steady, Ranis!

Fifty and Counting

Not everyone wakes up in the morning, excited about going to work. Fewer still get to do that for fifty years. How lucky are you, Appa! That not only do you love your work but you get to practice it for over half-a-century. The funny thing is, you never aspired to become a lawyer. You had applied to study medicine along with four of your friends. While they received a call for interview, you didn't. You were heartbroken and consoled yourself that it was not meant to be. And it was your father and uncle who persuaded you to take up law as an alternative.

Did you even think back then that one day you would be celebrating your golden jubilee in a profession that you only took up as a consolatory choice?

But having resigned yourself to the choice, you threw yourself wholeheartedly into work. Sure you had your father and uncle before you to help get a head start in the profession. They were already established lawyers and you never had to struggle the way other newbies did. That said, how you took the baton and ran with it is entirely to your credit. You have never compromised on your integrity and you have worked tirelessly to get to where you are today. Even now, you rarely take a holiday and your spare hours are spent in the library reading up on legal matters.

I admit there were times when I wished you worked in an office like other fathers I knew. Those who worked fixed hours and took their families around the country on vacations on LTC. Granted that would have meant monthly paychecks and retirement at 60. And you could not have supported a large and rambling family the way you uncomplainingly did or carried on working for as long as you have. But working for someone else might have meant being with your wife and children more instead of putting in 14-hour work days all year round. Retirement might have meant taking time to enjoy your grandchildren instead of fitting them around client meetings and court hearings.

I see you bustling about in the mornings as you get ready for work. Answering phone calls, packing your briefcase, calling out to juniors, slipping on your black coat and rushing off to court because your case is about to be called. And deep down I know that you are never more happy than when you are working.

Fifty years in a career that you love and that has rewarded you in more ways than one can recount. And what's more, you aren't done yet.

Congratulations, Appa! We are immensely proud of you.

My brother giving a wonderfully measured speech at the function organised to felicitate my father

Down Strange Paths by that White-Rabbit Curiousity

While browsing through the weekend's bulk of newspaper, I chanced upon a column by Nick Laird (otherwise known as Mr. Zadie Smith) where he talks about the gangrenous growth of facebook and twitter and how it has eaten into our abilities to concentrate on one thing and one thing alone.

Here is the link to the article. With that I take a breather. I'm off to India for the summer and I will see you sometime soon. And yes, results for the 'Letter to your teen self' contest coming up soon.

The War on Terror using a Plastic Chair

Please watch Dispatches - Terror in Mumbai aired a couple of days ago on Channel 4.

Warning: Deeply disturbing content.

Michael - In Memoriam

Natural Star - For Michael Jackson

© 1991 by Alice Walker

I am in mourning
For your face
The one I used to love
To see
Leaping, glowing
Upon the
The stage
The mike
Eager...
Thrusting
In your
Fist.

I am in mourning
For your face
The shining eyes
The happy teeth
The look that said
I am the world
And aren't you
Glad
Not to mention
Deeply
In luck.

I am in mourning
For
The sweet brown innocence
Of your skin
Your perfect nose
The shy smile
That lit you
Like a light.


I am in mourning
For a face
The Universe
In its goodness
Makes but once
Each
Thousand
Years
and smiles
And sends it out
To spread great joy
Itself well pleased.

I am in mourning
For your beloved face
So thoroughly
And undeservedly
Released.

Oh, my pretty little
Brother. Genius. Child.
Sing to us. Dance.

Rest in peace.

If there is a tether...

...I am at the end of it.

Let's crank this up a bit, shall we?

Earlier I'd asked you to send me your letters to your teenage self and I've received some of the most wonderfully interesting responses. All of which may be read here.

I wish to make it a bit more interesting. I'd like to turn this into a competition.

Write the most compelling letter to your adolescent self and send it to me at ammania@gmail.com by the end of the month. My favourite letter will win a prize (which is yet to be decided). You could even send a picture of yourself as a teen, if you like. Or go anonymous, if you would rather.

Either way, get writing and I look forward to your letters. Thank you!

Yes, that's me as a 13-14 year old with Blogeswari by my side.

Novice Triathlon

I just had a crazy idea. There's this novice triathlon to be held on the 4th of July. To complete the event, I need to swim 200m, bike 5km and run 2.5km. I've done all of these before. Only not one after the other.

But I need to do this for some reason other pure, personal motives. And I'm thinking of Projectwhy on this occasion.

Should I give it a go?

If I knew then what I know now

A while ago Stephen Fry wrote a letter to his teenage self in G2. It was a wonderfully reflective piece, typically Fry-esque. It got me thinking. If you could talk to your teen self what would you tell her? Send your thoughts in a mail to ammania@gmail.com . Mention 'If I knew then what I know now' in the subject line. All letters will be posted in Lost in Post

Yes, that's me as an 18-19 year old.

(Sticky post. Scroll down for newer ones. )

A quick tale 228

An Offering

It was Sundar who first spotted them. Tiny black dots scurrying around in a frenzy on the kitchen floor. He blinked rapidly mistaking them for little squiggles that often swam before his eyes when they hadn't yet fully adjusted to the bright morning light. It was only when he got down on his hands and knees to inspect the purposefully moving dots that he realised what they were. He instinctively squashed a couple of ants under this thumb before he remembered how as a young boy, his grandmother would smack him on the back of his palm and tell him off for killing harmless insects. She would tell him how in his next birth, he would be born an ant and be crushed to death by a little boy. Sundar could not understand how he could come back as an ant when only two days ago she had warned him that he'd be born a sparrow who'd be stoned to death by a lad "just like him" But he never asked her about it because if he had, he'd get a clip around the ears and be told to stop being so 'wise'.

Sundar's mother however, had a different reasoning behind the ants' appearance. Whenever she spotted ant clusters around the house, she would be convinced that she had forgotten to honour one of her promises to the gods. And the ants were there to remind her of that. No crisis - however minor or major - around the household went without an appeal from Amma to her favourite god to resolve it. Like the time when Sundar came down with chicken pox two weeks before his board exams. And Amma stood in front of the framed picture of Pillayar which hung on their living room wall, with her palms folded and eyes closed. She made a deal with the Lord. You cure him and I will break a hundred coconuts in your temple by Friday. Or the time when Appa lost keys to the locker which had all their jewellery. A dozen coconuts promised. And eleven coconuts were cracked every Tuesday until Sundar's sister Sharadha's wedding was finalised - which took 62 weeks from start to finish, which made the local coconut vendor a very happy man. Once the ants had been sighted, Amma would do a quick inventory of the recent events to see if there had been any mishap. Even if she couldn't recall any dealings with the Lord, she would break a coconut anyway at the temple that very evening. It could be something that's completely slipped my mind, she would reason, why tempt fate? After all, it's just a coconut.

Sundar looked down at the ants crawling furiously over a spot of jam on the floor. He followed their trail all the way to the door. They'd built a nest in a corner of the doorway and were scurrying food back and forth. He couldn't just let them be. Janice would freak out if she came down and saw her kitchen invaded by an army of ants. Once when he'd picked up a piece of cake that he'd dropped on the ground, she'd been outraged. Do you know what kind of germs you could be tucking into right this very minute? she'd asked horrified as he chewed on it. Whatever it is, he'd replied between bites, it's quite delicious. He was then treated to a full list of illnesses he could contract if he continued with this rather despicable practice.

Sundar had to do something quick before she came down and created a scene. Wasn't salt supposed to act as a repellent? Or was it for snails? May be he should try sprinkling pepper on the nest. Perhaps vinegar would do the trick. Somehow he felt he was getting his household tips mixed up with recipe for a salad dressing. He was busy rummaging the cupboard that he barely noticed his wife standing behind him in silent horror. Don't worry, I'll have it sorted, he told her as he put his arms around her shoulder and gently led her away from the crime scene.

The temple was not on his way home. And he was not even sure if they would let him break coconuts inside. But when he told the Panditji that it was a thanks offering to the gods for helping him close a very important deal at work, the Panditji agreed. Sundar found a smooth piece of rock in the garden behind the temple and split the coconut in two in a single knock against the rock. He thrust a £5 note into the Panditji's hand, tucked the two halves of the coconuts into a plastic bag and felt absurdly happy driving home that evening.

Just one spray and the buggers are gone, announced Janice triumphantly waving a bottle of insecticide. Looking around Sundar realised that indeed the ants had vanished without a trace. What? he asked her, have they just run away or have they been killed? Killed obviously. So where are all the dead bodies? he wondered aloud, immediately wishing he had rephrased the sentence to make it sound less like a murder mystery. Well, Janice hesitated, may be they've run away somewhere to die. Yeah, he concluded, that explains it. But he wasn't convinced.

I have this little sister...

...Lola. She's small and very funny'. That's how Charlie introduces Lola in their eponymous show every evening at 6.45 on Cbeebies. Lauren Child's (an appropriate name for a children's author if there was one!) characters are funny, incisive and really, very ever-so very clever. Here's a little sample of their quirky little world.





On a related note, I have this little sister Blogeswari, who celebrates her birthday tomorrow. Happy birthday, thangachee!

Fruits of my labour

&

(Okay, the joke's starting to wear out...even for me)

Grown My Own

We've started growing vegetables in the garden - carrots, cabbages, courgettes, tomatoes, cucumbers, marrows, pumpkins, aubergines, cauliflowers, strawberries, peppers, chillis, garlic and leeks. On my window sill sit pots and pots of compost with all kinds of plants that I've been trying to grow. I see a seed on my spice rack and I want to scatter them on a bed of soil and see what happens. I have plunged tamarind seeds into old yogurt pots. Fennel seeds should be sprouting any day soon. Even the old mung bean has not been spared. There wasn't enough for our Sunday sundal. Can't you see, I have only just sown the channa? I demand.

Here's two I grew earlier.

A quick tale 227

Somethings Never Change

We spent much of our growing years together. Our mothers were sisters and his family lived in the next street. We were almost the same age and went to the same school. I was taller than him but he started shaving long before I did. I introduced him to cigarettes and he would smuggle cold beer bottles to our terrace on warm summer nights. I don’t remember a day when Vaithi did not come by our house. He usually came straight from school and would stay back until late. He was a permanent fixture of my childhood and adolescence.

It must have been sometime after we left school that we started to drift apart. Vaithi went to Vellore to study engineering and I studied at our local arts college. He would come home during holidays but didn’t come by our house as often he used to. He had discovered books and movies and I had started to work at my father’s pharmacy during holidays. During the second year of college his father passed away and his whole family moved to Madras.

These days he lives in America doing something important in computers and I've remained in our hometown. So I was surprised to hear from him the other day. It seems he was here on vacation and wanted to know if he could visit me. “Ada, since when did you start seeking permission to come to our house?”, I told him over the phone.

He had put on weight since I last saw him and had started wearing glasses. “This is where we used to play cricket”, he said pointing the street corner out to his wife. “This is where we would sit and read our books in summer”, he said sliding on to the old swing which groaned under his unfamiliar weight. “And this is where I learnt to ride a bike. Ah, I can't tell you how many mangoes we've had from this tree. Still here…the old tree”, he said patting its trunk like it was an old dog.

“Yes, things don't change much around here'”, I said. Immediately annoyed at how defensive I sounded. “Shall we have lunch?” I asked wanting to change the topic. “Everything has been hygienically prepared. Even the water has been boiled twice and cooled. So you need not worry about an upset stomach. It must be very clean where you live. Not like how it is here...”, I said as we sat down to eat.

“Of course, of course...”, he said a little too quickly. But I noticed that he never touched the water and ate very little of the food. After lunch, our wives went into the kitchen to clear up and we stretched out in the front veranda. We talked about some of our old friends. He told me about his present life. I wanted to ask him a lot about his life abroad. But instead I let him do the talking.

“Do you know what happened to Sharada?”, he asked me eventually. His tone carefully casual. I shrugged my shoulder. It had to come up some time. “She now lives somewhere in Bombay or Delhi”, I said watching his face for any change of expression. “I see her mother at the temple sometimes”. His face did not betray any emotion.
"Married?"
"Hmm…two children, I think. Her husband’s a General Manager or something big in a multinational company."
We both grow silent for a long time.

Sharada was our junior in school. Dark with a slightly crooked nose. She looked a little bit like actress Sumalatha. But really, she just looked like herself. When we were in the 11th standard, Vaithi confessed to me that he wanted to marry her. Apparently, he had proposed to her during lunch period the previous day and she had accepted it. I could hardly believe my ears. For a long time I had set my eyes on Sharada and was going to propose to her myself. The bastard had beat me to it.

I asked him what he intended to do next without appearing to be too curious. It seems they were planning to get married in secret the following Sunday at a temple and wait until they were both 18 before running away from home. “Dei Vaithi”, I cautioned him, “all this is too much. You have to be careful. Otherwise…”

“Poda”, he cut me off, “nobody would know. In any case, we have to wait until we’re both majors. And that won’t be for another two years.”

It was easy for me to find Sharada’s father. He ran the mess opposite the Pillayar temple. That evening when I told him about his daughter’s plan for the following Sunday, he let me off without paying for my dosai and coffee. I don’t really know what happened to Sharada after that. But the next time I saw her was about 7 years later when she came to her mother’s house six months pregnant with her first child.

“We must leave before it gets too dark”, Vaithi said getting up, “we have a long journey back. And we have some last minute shopping to do.” He invited me to come visit him in America. And I told him that I’ve already started buying lottery tickets. Before he left that evening, he thrust 500 rupees in my hand. He said he had not had any time for gifts and that I should buy the children something with it. I gave it away it to an orphanage the next day.

Memories of food - Milk Biscuits

(image courtesy - www.adelanwar.com)

I am ten years old and being sent away to spend my summer holidays with an aunt in Bombay. Somewhere in my luggage are 5 or 6 packets of Britania Milk Biscuits. My aunt has specifically requested for them. Milk Bikis are not yet available in Bombay and somehow Parle G is not quite the same. It's a long train journey and it takes all my will power to keep from me raiding the bag. But by the time we reach Pune, I can no longer resist the call of Milk Bikis. To hell with it, I think to myself, I'll just tell her the railway rats got it. I grab the bag I know contains the packets and plunge my hand into it. But inside I find a smaller cloth bag. And this one has its mouth sewn shut. The witch! I dare not rip the bag open because that would be a step too far. Instead I sulk to a corner seat and hope that I will at least get some crumbs.

It's been two days since we arrived. The biscuits have disappeared into the kitchen. But I have a good idea where they may be kept hidden. The afternoons stretch interminably and there's only one thing to do. I wait until I hear the snores from the bedroom and tiptoe to the kitchen. The shelves are groaning under the weight of dalda tins and grime-stained plastic boxes. I feel like a child in a sweet shop. Heck, I am a child and so on. I must make a quick move. I wildly grab the first box I see. Some kind of flour speckled with scurrying insects. The next few boxes reveal a variety of wildlife with random cooking ingredients thrown in. But I strike lucky by the time I reach the top shelf. I cautionary shake of the box reveals an unmistakable thud-thud. I open to find a half-eaten pack of my beloved Milk Biscuits. I hear movement outside. I have to hurry. I snatch a couple of biscuits, shove them into my skirt pocket, replace the box and saunter out of the kitchen casually.

Just having a drink of water, I call out to no one in particular, and now going to the toilet. I bolt the toilet door secure and reach for my stash of booty. Tears spring to my eyes and I muffle the scream of joy that threatens to escape my mouth at the sight of the biscuits. I sink my teeth into a small corner. And in that instant, the rest of the world falls away. It's just me and the biscuit. I want to savour this experience for as long as possible. But someone outside is wondering what's taking me so long. Reluctantly, I shove the biscuits into my mouth, chomping on them as quickly as possible. It's all a bit too rushed for my liking. But I cannot risk being found out. Tomorrow afternoon, I promise myself, tomorrow.


On Murukku, Elandampazham, Milkmaid, Maggi & Idli

Seems like yesterday

It's been five years since I ran the London Marathon. It's something I never fail to bring up, even in a casual conversation which might go like this.

You: Nice day, isn't it?

Me: Yes, a most pleasant day to go running.

You: Yes, did you hear about what happened to that ship that was attacked by pirates?

Me: Pirates? Bet they never go running.

You: They threatened to kill all on board if they weren't paid a ransom.

Me: And if they are killed, they can certainly never go running. Did I tell you about the time I ran the London Marathon and someone came dressed as a pirate?

As you probably guessed, I'm darned proud of having run the 26.2 mile course. Here are some pics. (Rest assured I will do the same year after year. Write about my day of glory that is, not run)

25 Random things about me

It's one of those tags that never came my way. Still, here goes.

1. My name has always been no.1 in the school attendance register.
2. My name is usually the first on mobile phones. And I get a lot of calls from kids who happen to be playing with the mobile. Usually at 3 in the morning.
3. I share my birthday with my father.
4. I rarely wear anything blue.
5. I ran the London Marathon five years ago.
6. I get annoyed when people say they ran the Mumbai Marathon but omit to add that they ran the half-marathon distance.
7. Recently, I was surprised to learn that I am a shoe size bigger than I'd previously thought.
8. I have two sons. Both of them are boys.
9. I once auditioned for Countdown on Channel 4.
10. Routines tire me.
11. I had never ironed a shirt until I came to the UK.
12. I dreamt of my firstborn's name.
13. I am terribly ambitious.
14. Some days, for no apparent reason, I get a big buzz just waking up in the morning and then want to go climb Everest before breakfast.
15. I crib every single day about cooking.
16. If I could make one thing disappear from this world, it would be cooking.
17. I am a very slow reader.
18. I'm good with cryptic crosswords and positively brilliant with jumbled words.
19. I have two other names - Meenakshi and Rama.
20. I am very undecided when it comes to religion.
21. I absolutely hate travelling by bus in India.
22. I envy anyone who studied beyond the basic graduation. I never did.
23. I have worn my hair short for the best part of the last 20 years.
24. I have dimples on either cheek (on the face, since you ask).
25. If you gave me maa-ladoo, I will be your slave for life.

If you are reading this, consider yourself tagged.

Memories of food - Murukku & a Paati who made them

I don't know what made me think of her. It is quite possible that it was the sight of the still half-full packet of murukku on the top shelf that triggered the memory. Long before Grand Sweets and Snacks took over the murukkus of the world, there was murukku paati. I don't think she had ever been murukku-young girl or murukku-lady before she became the grandmother who squeezed out the best murukkus out of the mould. She was nobody's grandmother in particular and yet everyone in the neighbourhood called her paati.

Paati was a widow and she wore a widow's garb of pale pink cotton 9-yards saree. Her head was shaved and she wore no blouse. When she sat down, her pendulous breasts would rest on the folds of her stomach like a well-fed cat on his owner's lap on a Saturday afternoon. Snug, settled and unrushed.

I do not remember her face very well. But when I think of her, I can see her holding a large mould filled with murukku dough and squeezing it over a vat of boiling hot oil. She would then sit back and using the long end of an iron ladle move it around so that the murukku rounds didn't stick to each other or to the bottom of the pan as they tended to.

I think Murukku paati lived alone in a small room. I have vague recollections of being sent to fetch her once and I remember finding her hunched over a kerosene stove stirring something. Perhaps she really lived in a bustling joint family where three generations lived under one roof. But some how the image of her lonely self cooking a meal-for-one, seems to stick to my mind.

Paati passed away when I was about 10 or so after a brief battle with breast cancer. Someone said she must have developed cancer from inhaling wood smoke for all those years. We must've clicked our tongues in sympathy when we heard the news. Paavam paati, someone would have remarked, she made such wonderful murukkus. The mention of murukku would have prompted someone else to wonder who would take over from paati. And in all likelihood, conversation would have veered towards the direction of finding a worthy successor to paati.

I look up at the shelf with its murukku packet. I reach for it. It tastes stale. The crispiness has long given way to a soft sponginess which feels alien in a murukku. It eat it anyway. It seems such a shame to let it go waste.

On Elandampazham, Milkmaid, maggi & idli

Origami Abhirami

I want to spend an afternoon with a few friends folding paper. Hands up if you are interested.

p.s. Ahiri, there will be a place marked for you on the table. In case you wish to join us.

Around The World - A Tag

I look around me. There's torn paper all over the floor waiting to be tidied up. There's also a sinkful of dirty dishes to be washed. Lunch to be cooked, nappies to be changed. I have yet to glance at the day's newspaper and my cup of tea has grown a thin layer of cream on top. But I want to sit here and sink further into the sofa. I don't want to disturb the chaos. I no longer wish order around my household. I'm still in my pyjamas as I settle down to respond to a tag from the wonderful Sur (I'm still waiting for your phone call). I'm supposed to write five things I love about being a mother.



1. I love the fact that I no longer need to appear civil in public. I can go to the supermarket looking like I've just spent an hour inside a tumble dryer along with bottles of jams and pickles and sauces and I'm likely to get sympathetic nods from fellow travellers.

2. I'm glad that I no longer need to bother with cosmetics or anti-ageing creams. The frowns that furrow my forehead and the bags that support my eyes cannot be undone by creams and potions created to ease lines caused by problems less vexing and milder than children.

3. Motherhood means that I no longer have to pretend to be well-read. I've dropped out of this rat race where people want to out-read others and clock up books in the same way as some of us clock up frown lines (read above). I'm no longer plagued by the fear that life being so short and all, I might never get to read all the books there are to be read and what with a book being published every other minute or so, I may never get to read enough unless I get started now or there will never be hope for me.

There are days when I couldn't be arsed to read. Because I'm so tired that my eyelids feel like they are cast out of lead. And it's fine.

4. I'm decidedly thrilled that as a mother, I'm no longer visible. Ads don't talk to me (unless they are for baby food or nappies or head lice shampoo). Fashion ignores me (who creates trendy clothes for plus-sized mothers-of-twos?). Songs don't appeal to me (yet another song about eternal love/maternal love/justplainlove? Yawn). TV tires me (where do I begin?). So basically, I'm unhinged and unobserved. I am not a demographic that interests anyone and I can wear my hair purple and roam around in kaftan for all I care. And no one would notice.

5. It's great that motherhood has drained me of all energy. I'm so tired, so tiringly tired. So tired of being so tired. So tired of being so tired of being tired. Most of the time. All of the time. Exhaustingly, achingly, overwhelmingly. Tired.

And then there are days like this morning. When I was being pinned to the mattress by two little bodies. And we are a jumble of flailing limbs and heads. We are suddenly cast adrift in the middle of Indian Ocean and we have to cling to each other for survival. We are in the middle of a snowstorm atop Mount Everest and we need each other to keep ourselves warm, alive. We are champion wrestlers in a tangle for an Olympic gold medal. We grapple and grasp. We toss about until we are worn out. And then my two boys sit on my stomach and bounce about announcing victory. I close my eyes, roll my head and pretend I'm dead. Knowing what happiness feels like.

p.s. Rules of the tag here. I hereby tag - Bhaamini (India), Prema (UK), Umm Oviya (Qatar), Deepa (US), Teesu (India) and anyone else who feels like it.