Tuesday, 13 June 2017

Missing trepidation

A new academic year is on the threshold but this time, I seem to be calm and collected in starting the new year. Usually, I feel anxious and jittery but this time it is a different feeling altogether. I don't know whether it is the familiarity, or a sense of belonging or something else. Last year around the same time, I wrote about how I feel anxious and a sense of butterflies taking flight at the deep end; I guess I have passed that stage but that also makes me wonder whether it's the age - ageing does that to you! Nothing seems to surprise or shock you and you have the uncanny ability to anticipate and foresee happenings, reactions, responses and everything else. For example, I can exactly predict what my colleague will say when I ask him/her something; I know what response a student will give when asked some inane question. So much so, I can even predict how meetings and exams will go. Hmmm. No place for novelty, it spells out loud!

But wait, there are moments, tiny ones, which take you by surprise and in some cases, extreme surprise, which make you feel alive and reassure you that yes! moments like these are also there - invisible but there and that they needed to be provoked. Now, it does seem that I am contradicting my self - perhaps so, you have to give some credit to my thought process which is getting rusty and mellow with age! No, before you even start thinking, "Ah! No, you are not so old," let me assure you that this has nothing to do with ageing but ageing of the mind and experience.

That said and done, I await moments - moments that make people engage to their utmost levels devoid of compulsion, marks, people-pleasing and doing-things-for-the-sake-of-doing. You get the drift, right. I just hope and pray that the forthcoming year gives me moments to cherish and job done sans procrastination.

New semester, here I come! Are you ready? 

Thursday, 18 May 2017

Coming home

It has been a year since I last visited Chennai. You know how it is! When one is away from one's home (now, which one is this? I have three - the home where my mom is, my husband's home and my home in Goa) - I would call it the Chennai home, the place where I grew up, studied, loved, lost and finally left after getting married. Well, staying away from Chennai makes me yearn for it - pining would be a strong word, perhaps longing would fit - Chennai in my imagination is all mellow and soft with edges burnt with the flame of nostalgia and preserved smells like a template. I go ooh and aah and let out sighs and sounds of emotional outbursts to the great amusement and anger of my sibling who finds my gushing a bit above the prescribed limits. I don't mind those admonitions feeling only happiness and loaded sentiments.

Then the heat gets on to you - First it touches you, you brush it off; Then it spreads across, smothering you, you try to ignore it; It coerces you to say it, I suppress the words;

Finally, I spit it out - "It is so hot! Goa is not so hot!"

The entire bubble of emotions and nostalgia goes away, Woosh! Then another wave of nostalgia fills the gaping hole of the previous one - Well, this wave is the grand narrative of heat nostalgia - Of how it used to be hot those days and we did not bother but now the heat is unbearable and that we have become creatures of comfort and that we were better off without internet, blah blah and that we read and played and ate chilly-*^%$ing-mangoes! Ah! Have you experienced nostalgia fatigue - where one nostalgia replaces another and finally you wonder whether the reality that you are living is much better.

Coming home is always lovely - until your imagination wears off and you itch to get back to your regime and routine.

Assessing my states of mind sometimes I wonder what is the home that I am longing for - this is a perennially running question in my mind - whether home is a place, person, emotion or imagination and I wonder whether I will ever get an answer.

I wish it was as simple as clicking 'Home' on Facebook and watching the people on your list ranting, raving, expressing and lying.

Monday, 1 May 2017

The taxi ride

It was balmy and mellow January evening. If you had grown up hearing, "Chennai has only three seasons - hot, hotter and hottest," then this evening would have put that statement to rest. There was a nip in the air with the hangover of Christmas and the dawn of a brand new year. The year was . . . never mind! Sita was looking out of the taxi's window and thinking of a time when she wore pinafores and sported a pixie. She remembered the name, 'Vinit' distinctly. How could she forget that name which was always hounding her during her classes, in her History books and by her friends and his who were constantly hooting his name when she passed by. The taxi-driver honked and Sita not the one to let go without a conversation, started talking to the driver.

"Where are you from?"


"How long have you been driving the taxi?"

"Five years."


"One boy. He is quite smart. he wants to become a Collector when he grows up."

"That's wonderful."

The conversation stopped mid-way when the taxi reached his house. He was waiting. Sita was seeing Vinit after twenty years! A grand rush of a giant wave of nostalgia hit her. She did not know whether it was the same for him. He greeted her and seated himself in the front, next to the driver.

"For *&^%'s sake, we are meeting after so long and you occupy the front seat and not to the place next to me," Sita fumed but smiled when he politely asked her how she was. "I am fine. It has been a long time, no?" "Yes, almost twenty years," Vinit mused. It was quite evident that the same rush of nostalgia was hitting him as well but he effectively controlled himself while directing the driver to the restaurant which was in a beautiful location.

The restaurant situated next to a water body was a lovely place especially when one was washed in a wave of colliding pasts and presents. The seating formalities done, the pace was awkward. Sometimes when one has been out of contact for long, starting and continuing a conversation becomes uneasy and stressful.

"What would you like to order?"

"Some starters and a cocktail perhaps."


"So, how are you? Tell me everything since the time you left school," started Sita.

"Where do I start?" answered a smiling Vinit.

While the details of the bygone was shared and the concoctions were being downed, it became apparent to Sita that Vinit had not changed much since the time she knew him. It was surprising to her that this evening was the first time they had spoken comfortably and long. In school, it was a brief exchange in corridors save the one time when Vinit directly approached Sita just as she was preparing for an exam and trembling asked her, "What did you ask my friend?" Sita finding herself in a quandary quickly hushed Vinit away mumbling something about the exam in a few minutes.

"So, do you like the food?"

"Yes. Not bad."

It was time to leave and the same taxi was waiting for Sita and Vinit, who insisted that he will see Sita home and return in the same taxi.

This time Vinit sat next to Sita. The evening with its coolness and the sugary drinks stirred Sita's insides that the moment Vinit's body slightly brushed her's, she felt strange sensations that started from the pit of her stomach. She was dizzy with pleasure for a man who was by and large a stranger during her school days and with whom she just had the first 'real' conversation. Perhaps January's balmy evening was the mischief, she bemused.

Without thinking, in a husky voice, she whispered, "Vinit, I feel like holding your hands."

"Hold it then."

Carefully and gently, Sita interlocked her fingers with his. Silence. Sita first gently began to knead Vinit's fingers, building the pressure gradually. Vinit was squirming and pressed his body next to Sita's. With the pressure of Sita's fingers on his, Vinit, kissed Sita on her neck gently. The bodies speak a different language under the thrill of building pleasure. Vinit had started to breathe heavily whispering, "I still love you, Sita. I wish you were mine." Sita silent yet speaking through her fingers.

The taxi-driver could not fathom that the girl who had been talking so earnestly with him a couple of hours ago, was a different woman now - those types which indulge in heavy petting in the taxi's back seat.

The taxi had reached the bend of Sita's home. It was time to say goodbye. Both Vinit and Sita knew that they might not meet again.

Some taxi rides are a concoction of past memories and present desires, bemused Sita as she stood waving to Vinit as the taxi whirred to life after dropping her.

Sunday, 19 March 2017


At the shack:

First time: Smile
Second time: More smiles
Third time: How are you?
Fourth time: The usual?
Fifth time: How many children?
Sixth time: _______________

At the grocer's:

First time: Smile
Second time: Prices are going up
Third time: How many children?
Fourth time: Smiles

At the Staff-room:

First year: Hellos and how are yous
Second half year: What about children? Hurry up before the bus leaves the stop
Second second half: No children, more time no?

Familiarity definitely breeds contempt!

Saturday, 25 February 2017

Coming of age with the Lipstick

My Facebook newsfeed is punctuated with different articles and posts condemning the recent censorship of the film with an intriguing title, Lipstick Under My Burkha. Right from the time this film was announced, I was awaiting the release of this one and much to my and my fellow cine-goers' dismay, the news of CFBC hit us hard. It stars some of my favourite actors and of course lipstick as a metaphor for desires, secret dreams and oodles of passion.

I could immediately connect to the title of the film especially the lipstick because lipstick is not just another cosmetic application which makes one feel good and sexy (if you please. Pardon the indulgence). I remember that while growing up, lipstick was something which was used during the annual day programmes. We needed to look our best and a bright pink lipstick which of course, only one used for all, became our most awaited part of dressing up. I used to like those lipsticks and often times annual day became important because of the whole make-up. That time lipstick was reserved for that one special day. Lipsticks were also laced with a quality of the forbidden -- I have heard my relatives mention, "Only women of lose moral character wear lipstick and walk around;" "Lipstick calls for attention when you walk down the road;" "Lipstick makes you stand out in the crowd and hence you become an easy target for men." And of course, lipstick was a forbidden fruit which will ruin me if I apply it on my lips!

Then came College where lipstick was seen as a class-specific item. Rich kids wore lipsticks whereas we middle-class 'simple' students pretended that wearing lipsticks means that the girls were rich, spoilt and usually dumb. Lipstick was never seen a tool for enhancing one's beauty which in turn will make one feel 'good.' My friend who belonged to an upper middle-class family regularly wore lipsticks and as it is usual with friends of that age, I started applying lipsticks whenever I went over to her place. I started experimenting with maroons, browns and the so-called earthy colours and also found my kind of lipstick - Matte and Earthy. I never wore them to College, except when we had some special function but then I did wear them whenever we hung out together. It felt special - the whole application and how it changed the way I looked and how it made me feel within. I admit it was a bit vain keeping in mind the beauty quotient. But mind you, I did not yet own any lipsticks. Once my friend gifted me a bright red lipstick for my birthday and man, was I thrilled. When I look back, it seems so funny to think that owning a lipstick was something that gave me happiness. Since the pocket-money I received was just about sufficient for my basic needs, a lipstick was a luxury.

Switch to my post-graduation days: I wore lipstick regularly and now I had a reasonable collection of browns and maroons. It was a co-education college and all of us in the M. A. class were seen as mature and independent-thinking men and women and the lipstick became an important part of my identity. I wore it every single day until . . . One of my friends with whom I had started spending a lot of time, asked me out of the blue, "Why do you wear lipstick? Why are you so much given to being artificial?" Man, I was stumped. I did not know what to say because no one had asked something like this to me. I was ashamed and apologetic for being vain and costemised instead of being 'natural and beautiful.' Those were the days of heady idealism and questioning everything and my friend was someone who challenged every norm of the society which was taken for granted. Why was I given to artificiality? Why was I engrossed in decking myself up? My friend also remarked, "My sisters don't wear lipstick. They still look beautiful. Why do you need something extra to make you look beautiful?" That was the last straw. I gave up wearing lipstick and threw away all the lipsticks I had owned at that time. My lips were free of artificiality. Oh! My friend also mentioned how lipsticks were made of lead and fish scales and that it poisoned the human body. I was afraid of dying. The lipsticks were now history.  My friend was happy and I assumed even I was . . . I further started criticising people for applying lipstick and being artificial.

I don't remember exactly when but gradually realised that one dresses up not for anyone else or for the love of showing off but to please one's own self. I guess it was then that I embraced the love of doing something because it gives a smile when I look into the mirror. It was then that I had again started applying lipstick. It made me fee beautiful and confident - ready to take on the day. And this time I had the resources and confidence to buy lipsticks and wear the same everyday. I stopped being bothered by the poison quotient, being artificial or even being called a bourgeois. I guess age and financial independence matters when decisions such as wearing lipsticks should be made. I still get 'those' looks from people who think that wearing lipstick is an undertone for a certain independence, a brashness, a symbol of arrogance and many others. And that is precisely why the film appeals to me because I think the film uses the metaphor of the lipstick to talk about the issues which women face just because they chose to dress up in a certain way -- read as 'going against the fixed and rigid norms of the majority of the patriarchal society.' It is quite startling to think that in spite of living in the 21 C, the lipstick can be seen as a symbol of arrogance and waywardness (only prostitutes wear bright lipsticks and walk around).

The film, I gauge, will also raise questions about the whole notion of dressing up to appeal to our own selves and take control of how and what women would like to portray themselves (dressing, sexuality and others) breaking the delicate shell of the so-called notions of the society. And like many others, I await the film and Konkona Sen Sharma.

What's your lipstick story?

Image courtesy:

Image 1: Internet
Image 2: Internet

Sunday, 19 February 2017

When time and priorities come between passion and love

Many a time in our lives, we find something that we absolutely love doing and engage in the new-found love most arduously. It keeps us going for a while but after a point, the love is sustained but the efforts aren't. This post is about one such blogger who loved what he was doing but abandoned his love as other life dependent loves kept him 'busy.' The blogger is Sankar Narayanan, who works as a consultant. In his own words, "I started off as a food blogger, but stopped that due to health reasons. So I am diversifying to generic topics." Isn't it strange and worthwhile to wonder about something that was (still is) loved by us, is now being neglected by us. It happens all the time - in relationships, with books, with writing and sometimes we tend to neglect our own selves and in turn start flings with less interesting but other time-consuming affairs. Take my blog for example - There was a time when I used to check my blog notifications for comments and posts from other like-minded bloggers. I cannot say that my time is filled with less interesting affairs. I teach and it is my profession which takes up my time, energy and attention. Perhaps, even Mr. Narayanan has fallen into the same pressure trap - the trap of the overpowering of the routine and career.

We both (Narayanan and I) strive to work towards writing more regularly and meaningfully. He is thinking of diversifying his posts instead of niche food blogging, which he has been doing thus far and that too quite well. You could view his blog here: <www.greengastronomyst.com>. I find myself in awe of food bloggers. Ask me why? They get the opportunity to visit different eateries, sample the food and write about the same in the warmth of their rooms. I don't know how one becomes a food reviewer because I tend to believe that those who write about food should have some background experience on the authenticity and taste of food. If one is reviewing a dish from Kerala, I suppose that the food blogger should have had a prior experience of either living in Kerala, tasting their dishes made locally or should have done a course in food history. Well, I guess that is stretching the whole business of a food blogger too far. Let me stop my pedantic rigmarole and turn towards the existing scenario of showing my blog some love and also cajoling Mr. Narayanan's blog to be showed some love by him.

As years role by, we take everything for granted - relationships, health and even our blogs. In the initial years of courtship/marriage and blogging, we try our best to charm the significant other/blogger by spending time and energy but as the years go by, we are good at giving paltry excuses - Oh! we have been married for so long, Ah! My old posts are there without realising that some gas has already escaped and the whole affair is falling miserably due to neglect. I think that there is no better time to revive anything we have taken for granted by showing some care and promising that in the future we will try nurturing what we once found fascinating and engaging.

Cheers to care! Cheers to love!

P. S.: This post is written for the 'Love Theme' contest by The Chennai Bloggers Club (CBC), in association with Woodoz (http://www.woodooz.com/) and Indian Superheroes (http://indiansuperheroes.com/).


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