Eavesdropping on marriage counsellors in the Tube

Its rare to overhear an interesting conversation on the tube. Most people either look preoccupied with the days business ahead or glum at the days business behind them. Or, of course, they read.

I wasn’t paying attention to the two women seated opposite me on the tube till they started saying something about marriage and babies. This sounded interesting. With my curiosity thus piqued, I fixed my eyes on the bottom half of page 92 in ‘The Age of Kali’ and began listening really hard.

The woman speaking, did so with tremendous authority; almost as if she was a marriage counsellor, operating a mobile service on the London Underground, dispensing little gems of advise to anyone in distress. The woman listening seemed to hang on to every word.

The marriage counsellor, and we'll just call her that, was a trim older woman in a printed skirt, red blouse and big black beads around her neck. She said, “Too many people live entirely for their children.”

(This was when, I stopped reading and started shamelessly eavesdropping.)

“Yes… yes…..”, said the younger one, a little uncertain but in agreement nonetheless.

“The women start living for the children and ignore their relationship with their husbands. The kids… they grow up and leave home and then the parents find that their relationship has a big gaping hole. Its suffered because they stopped paying attention to each other when in fact that is the most important relationship in your life!”

“Yes!”, said the younger woman, much more certain now.

“Don’t get me wrong. You obviously love your kids, but you actually spend most of your life with your husband.”

“And the kids are watching your relationship. They can see when it is strong and secure…. that you have your own life. And they take it forward into their relationships,” she continued.

“Children are a gift. You bring them into this world but you shouldn’t stop living your life.”

With that, unfortunately, we reached the last stop and the two walked off with the marriage counsellor still going strong.

* * *

Holy Shit! Theres actually a project on, encouraging writers to eavesdrop!

Britons Well-Read, Even When Not Well-Fed

Bill Bryson writes in ‘Notes From A Small Island’ that the average person in Great Britain is very well-read. Visitors to London also notice that Londoners will board the tube and routinely pull out a book or atleast a newspaper. You could do a little naked jig in your coach for a full 30 seconds but people may not have noticed, absorbed as they are in ‘The Moonstone’ or ‘The Time Traveler’s Wife’ or whatever.

I thought of all this when my husband alerted me to a homeless person sitting on the pavement of the very posh King’s Road in Chelsea, totally engrossed in a book. My caption for the photograph below would be, "Britons well-read, even when not well-fed."

Wish Me! I’m Five Years Old Today!

Five years ago, I was a reporter with NDTV in Chennai and I had just covered the biggest story of my career – the Indian Ocean tsunami. Reporting on the tsunami from the ravaged coastline of Tamil Nadu had been fraught with a muddle of emotions – shock, sadness, pride, joy, despair, hope, anger and frustration. I was full of stories and the medium of television wasn’t enough to tell them.


I wanted to empty every corner of my soul and put it down in words. So I asked someone to teach me how to start this blog. The title ‘A Reporter’s Diary’ was hurriedly chosen and I settled down to the business of jotting.


I began with the tsunami but soon started writing about everything else. The personal side of my work for NDTV found expression here. The formal interview with Richard Gere was for them, but that he had torn his trousers was discussed here. The formulaic he-said, she-said of political coverage was for them, the outrage and the disgust over much of it was for here.

Sometimes when I go back and re-read some of that ranting and raving, I cringe. My choice of words feels embarassing and I can also see some earlier prejudices quite clearly.

But the process of writing has been incredibly therapeutic. It gave my impotent rage, from being a reporter in India, a much-needed release and improved my writing in the process.


To my complete surprise, you guys actually seemed interested in reading about it! And when you left comments, trust me, I felt and continue to feel thrilled. Some of you of course cursed me out and said I was shit, but I cunningly disabled anonymous comments. But all your legit comments became so interesting to me that often I found myself thinking harder about what I was going to write on this blog than put on air. (Future employers, please ignore.)


So today I want to say a big “Thank You.” Really. I love writing and I love that you read it. There was stiff competition for 'Most Loyal Reader' between my dad, other members of the family and Sathej, but in the end Sathej won because he is not related to me and therefore not obliged to read this blog and because he leaves more comments. Please take a very large slice of the cake above, Sathej. Thanks to everyone else as well. Sorry I can’t mention you all by name but I like you for stopping by.


The life-span of this blog also made me reflect on my own life during this time. Its been a terrific half decade. I’ve survived some awful decisions, made better ones, moved three continents, met brilliant people, felt humbled, met my life partner, felt elated, got a new family, definitely gained a few pounds, gone back to school, sank all my savings, emerged with wonderful friends, lost a debit card and travelled. I’ve also had several bad hair cuts and a bite from an unknown insect at night but I won’t bore you with that.


It seems as though more happened in the last five years than in the previous 25. (Stop trying to work out my age!). Through this time, this blog’s been my constant companion reflecting my life and my latest interests.

 So happy birthday Blog and thanks for everything!

5 Easy Steps to Build Lovely Museum (like Musee D’Orsay)

Everything within touching distance at Musee D'Orsay

View of the main hall as you enter Musee D'Orsay

Step 1: Take old, unused railway station.


Step 2: Find lots of money to convert it into museum.


Step 3: Invite talented architects to get job done.


Step 4: Select famous painters like Van Gogh, Cezanne, Degas, Manet, Monet etc. and put all their work under one roof.


Step 5: Keep all art-work within touching distance. Allow people to feel they are looking at fantastic human creations and not Crown Jewels.


Your museum is now ready for inauguration. Open and Enjoy!

Bringing it Up, Deeper Underground

One of the hazards of public transport in London on a Friday or Saturday night is that you have to share it with lots of people who have had one too many. This means you have to watch your back, front and sides, to see who is shifting around uncomfortably, who is clutching their stomach and who has buried their face in their hands. Sorry for stereotyping but these are all likely suspects who might produce their dinner on the floor before you.



Two weeks ago a woman to my right suddenly stood up in the moving train, rushed to the door, dropped her bag with a thud and threw up in one big explosion of mushrooms.


Then during the walk home, I saw a guy staggering down the road like a two year old who has just learnt how to walk. As he came stumbling forward his path was blocked by the short parapet wall of the neighbourhood church and he inadvertently fell into a superb position to vomit. He was hanging on the wall like a pair of trousers on the clothes line. Perched on his stomach, with his legs on the outside and his face on the other side of the church wall he began drenching a bush with what were probably his extra beers.


And then there is the pissing with all the full bladders trying to catch the last train home. But this is enough information for one post. Some other time.

Notes From a New Town

My large Manila envelope was signed, sealed and stapled when I walked into the post office a few days ago. But when it came time to have it delivered, the lady at the counter said, “Next time, don’t staple it.”


“Why”? I asked, trying to think of what could possibly be wrong with this age old method of securing an envelope.


“Because its dangerous to the postmen.”


What? Staples?


“Okay”.


I am not one who delights in postmen getting poked by loose staples. But her reason didn’t make me come over all sympathetic for them either. In fact, I’m not feeling sympathetic at all towards the Communication Workers Union which will go on strike in the UK on October 22nd and 23rd, jeopardizing the services of Royal Mail. From what I know and understand it seems a case of workers being unable to face the reality of a declining business (when was the last time you wrote a letter?) or adapting to the changing game of postal services (they lost Amazon’s contract).


I can think of many more things that are more dangerous to postmen right now than the humble stapler pin.


Attacked By A Plump Pestilence

Who doesn’t enjoy hanging in cafes? There is such chemistry when you bring together some sunshine, a blueberry muffin, the newspaper and a hazelnut cappuccino. However, in London I simply can’t do it. Rather, I was so shit-scared after the first time that its very hard forme to eat outdoors again.

I have a long history of leaping out of my skin when a bird gets too close. For instance, when I hear the sound of fluttering wings, like a lot of newspapers being waved furiously in the air, I will cover my face with my hands, hunch my back and run in the opposite direction of the menacing bird.


So when I settled down at a nice corner table under a canopy at a neighbourhood café, I was alarmed to find that pigeons were walking happily under all the tables picking up the smallest crumb that fell off your muffin. I was tense but saw that if I sat absolutely still they just worked around my feet and didn’t bother me. So I carried on and even thought to myself that with more such outings I might conquer my fears.


But about ten minutes into such thoughts, and just as I was finding the ability to focus on the piece about Obama’s heathcare bill, shattering my confidence was the fattest white pigeon of London town. While the other pigeons were content with the crumbs, this bird, in an audacious grab for more, flew straight at me and tried to land on my table to have a stab at my muffin from off my plate!


It was a real battle for a few agonizing seconds as the bird hovered over the table, flapping its wings madly (a sound that makes me weep) while I clung to the wall behind me hoping it would dissolve like the sugar in my coffee.


The confrontation ended only when a gentleman at the next table waved a languid hand at the bird. The pigeons in this city are plump, hungry and aggressive. “See Muffin, Will Peck” is their motto.

Give Me What I Want, What I Really, Really Want

When I was younger, marriage wasn’t a particularly appealing prospect. I mean how boring to be stuck with one man all your life when variety is a well-known spice. However even in the deep cynicism that sometimes afflicts the young, I have to say that one thing about marriage was wonderful even back then. Gifts. Aaaaaahhh. The idea of standing on a stage receiving hundreds, indeed thousands, (hey, I’m Indian) of gifts on your wedding day was mesmerizing. For that one thing alone it was all worth it, I thought. But then I really did get married and what a great shock it has been to the system. Things are not what they seem and everything has turned upside down. The idea of one man is now very appealing but the gifts – oh dear, oh dear – what a great big disappointment!


So here I propose a radical overhaul in the way we give gifts at weddings in India.


I’m writing about this many months after my wedding because I had to go out to buy a gift today for a little new born. Allow me to digress completely here. The mother and child will be leaving town soon to return home so I took great care to avoid bulk. After a quick browse, for I hate dallying in malls, I settled upon a little blue pillow and a little blue baby suit. If you’re good at packing a bag, you know that both these items can be compressed to the size of an adult fist - easy to pack, unbreakable and utterly useful. No mother looks at a little blue pillow and tosses it into the rubbish heap. And if it has a stuffed teddy on it, no way! Pleased with my purchase I have now packed the gift into a little, believe it or not, blue bag which is ready to be personally delivered tonight.


At the risk of beating my own drum I want to say that I took great care to buy the gift. I had a modest budget but I put an effort into creating something of value for the user. And here I want to show you how this is all connected to wedding gifts.


Is it just me or have any of you had the experience of getting odd cups and saucers palmed off to you on your wedding day? Our parents had pleaded with the invitees not to bring “boxed gifts”. Basically we were subtly trying to tell everyone that we would be leaving the country so just bring cash. Or bring gold bars if you really must. Or just bring yourself for Christ’s sake. But please don’t bring in the crockery you don’t use.


Most people didn’t listen.


We ended up with lots of unwanted coffee mugs, tea cups, a kettle, random cut glass dishes and a hideous photo frame. It’s all sitting in cupboards at our parents’ house, occupying space and will probably not be of use to us in this millennium or the next. Why, oh why can’t people be more thoughtful about what they give? Don’t get the wrong impression, I really don’t mind recycled gifts. My grandmother is constantly giving me things she doesn’t want but only because she knows I’ll love them. She never gives me a jute sack or a gold tray, or a Swarovski pig. That she knows will go out the window. So why can’t more Indian wedding guests put some effort into gift-giving?


Because they don't, here is my proposal. If the gift registry concept won’t work in India because people won’t use their credit cards online, then the bride and groom may have a collection of gifts of every price range ready at the door. Just pay up front, put your name down against it, wish the bride and groom, eat and leave. All’s well that ends well and the couple can live happily ever after without the clutter of bad china.


Doable you think?

Worst One Yet

In the explosion of useless Obama merchandise, these drinking water bottles have to be the worst I've seen. But if you must buy the bottle make sure to display the part of the wrapper that says "I was there" as you chug down its contents. I highly doubt however that if you preserve the sticker wrapper for your grandkids they will get much for it.

EAST OR WEST, FAIR AND INNOCENT IS BEST

I was looking at the matrimonial page in a leading NRI (non-resident Indian) newspaper and couldn’t help noticing a few unusual new additions to the sales vocabulary for young Indians of “marriageable age”. Or maybe these are not new around here although I certainly haven’t seen these terms before.

The parents of the girls describe their daughters' in usual glowing language. These girls are always “slim”, “fair”, “gorgeous” and one even said “exceptionally beautiful”. What they seek for their daughters is someone from the same religion and caste of course, but also someone who has a good “East West blend.” Haven’t seen that one before. . .

US citizens and green card holders are handed a clear advantage and if they are “into fitness” - even better.

Many of the boys’ parents also describe their sons with generous adjectives such as “fair”, “handsome” and one said, "charismatic". The son's wealth is nakedly mentioned with the promise of even greater riches because he is invariably from an Ivy League school. But curiously, most of these wonderful sons are in the market to re-marry. Nothing wrong with that except that he is described almost as a victim since advertising a divorce raises a hundred red flags for most Indian parents. So, the new invention in the wedding vocab is “innocently divorced”! Have you heard that one before? I haven't.

The poor, helpless handsome, fair, wealthy son was innocently divorced by some wicked witch of the east-west. But thankfully, the parents can guarantee that the affair ended “issueless.”

KAZUO KAWASAKI AND FOREIGN POLICY

I was on the phone, walking absent-mindedly towards the Metro when I saw this window display at a spectacle store on Connecticut Avenue in DC. The frames being advertised of course are the now famous Kazuo Kawasaki, model 704, 34 gray. They look incredibly good but if you want a crash course in foreign policy, a real school is still better.

BEG TO DIFFER

There are a lot of homeless, hungry people on the streets of Chicago. Outside my apartment, I hear the jingle of coins all morning as a panhandler (urban beggar) downstairs shakes his large plastic cup at pedestrians. Many others simply sit slumped against a lamppost with a cardboard sign reading, "I am Hungry."

However, if there are hundreds of people pouring out of a baseball game and several other panhandlers to compete with then they get creative. One guy outside Wrigley Field held up a huge sign that read, "Why Lie? I just need a Cold Beer."

Another guy didn't bother with signs. In fact, I'm not sure his activities are even within the realm of begging. He takes a dollar to click a picture of you and your buddies all standing together before baseball broadcaster Harry Caray's sculture outside the stadium. You don't have to stop passers-by and request them to do it for you. Just give this guy your camera, get snapped up and stuff a bill into his cup.

OVEREAT OR THROW?

When I was a wee lassie I was taught not to waste food. Thanks to that early lesson I try really hard to finish everything on my plate and in my cup. Sometimes I will even overeat just to clean the dishes.

But America has skewed its sizes and now I'm struggling to marry good habits to good health.

Here's what I mean. I'm trying to write a travel piece right now but I don't know if it should be a travel piece or a piece on culture and whether its tone should be serious or funny. To clear such cerebral fogs I always need a cup of coffee. It is the fuel that drives a stalling brain.

However, I just want enough of it to recharge but not so much that I'm up for the next twelve hours. But there seem to be no options for those with smaller stomachs. The smallest size looks like a jug compared to a regular cup of coffee in India. Starbucks even calls its smallest size 'Tall'.

If I throw away half I waste food, or drink in this case, and money, but if I drink it all up I get over caffeineated. Theres no way I'm saving the other half because the only thing worse than stale coffee is perhaps stale tea. Why must I be confronted with ethical questions in this simple act of buying coffee? Curses.

With food I always bring a doggie bag home but I can't eat hardening ravioli or darkening lettuce leaves for another three meals. So I invariably have to trash that as well after one meal at home.

There are ways to get around the problem. Maybe I should just tell the guys making my coffee to fill only half the cup although I will have to pay full price. I will also stoically suffer their 'is-she-a-lunatic' expressions. Or I could buy a coffee-maker and brew my own little muggies. But why can't there just be smaller quantities available?

Till I establish why sizes have been skewed let me just say that there is a discernible bias against small stomachs. Don't think we don't get it.

In fact, I'm marking my protest here.

SMILE PLEASE, IT'S DIPLOMATESE

Government propaganda isn’t as sophisticated in India as it is in the United States. Obfuscation has been elevated to art. But here are some less-than-intelligent and bizarre samples of American euphemisms.

The U.S. invasion of Grenada in 1983 began at five am with the descent of thousands of U.S Army Rangers in parachutes. It was codenamed Operation Urgent Fury. But quite contrary to the sound and fury of that codename, the U.S. described it as the “pre-dawn vertical insertion of personnel.”

Several instances of diplomatese can be found in the tomes produced by the State Department. In a Human Rights report on Zaire in the 1970s, when the U.S was friends with Mobutu, the language was kept soft enough to be palatable to him and yet not so diluted as to be a complete lie. Here is an example. “Generally speaking, non-political prisoners are not subject to repeated beating.”

That’s not an under-statement. It's an un-statement.

A similarly inspired U.S spokesman said last year on Iraq, “There are some parts of the Sunni Triangle where the security situation right now, quite frankly, is not that bad. In parts of the Diyala Province, some parts of the Salahuddin Province and some parts of Nineveh Province the situation is not all blood and fire and destruction in all places every day.”

So wait, what is it everyday? Come again?

Closer home, President Musharraf bowled a googly in 2002. In a referendum on his presidency, voters were asked the following question: ‘For the survival of the local government system, establishment of democracy, continuity of reforms, end to sectarianism and extremism, and to fulfill the vision of our nation’s glorious founder, would you like to elect President General Pervez Musharraf as President of Pakistan for five years?”

YesNo.

FOOLING AROUND WITH BUSH

Last weekend, we smushed George Bush. In fact, we smushed him so badly, his head came off.

So what were we up to exactly?

I think we were celebrating freedom of speech and expression while playing with a rubber doll. I doubt there are too many countries in the world that sell little caricature rubber pieces of their President or Prime Minister at the national airport. And since they do in America, they went the whole hog and added the words ‘No Brainer’ at the back of his head.

I bought one and introduced him to my three year old niece. I told her he was ‘George Bush’ and that she could go ahead and ‘smush him.’ She did it in right earnest. In fact once when she dropped him she prophetically said, “George Bush went down.”

Of course, honey. He’s definitely headed that way.

By Sunday night she had been kneading little rubber Bush with such gusto that his head came off. We put it back on because we won’t be denied the joy of smushing Bush.