Tuesday 19 December 2017

Urban vignettes


She waits in the car
while he has gone to pick up some kebabs
The glass is half-down,
She looks out while he places the order and glances around.
Windows up
The smell of spice and coriander fill the car
Another day of no cooking dinner!


She walks the aisles of the mega-store
She remembers foreign herbs
And fills her shopping cart.
The bottles neatly stacked on the racks
Lie forgotten.


She promises herself
"No more online shopping."
She clicks JAYPORE
Just once, let me glance.
With horror and pleasure, she reads:
Your order has been successfully placed.


She yearns for her days of childhood
She arrives at her hometown.
After half-a-day,
She yearns for the place she lives in!


She thinks in English
worries in English
swears in English
yet teaches,
"English is after all our second language!"

Thursday 16 November 2017

Memories of a short-lived conversation

When does something become yours?
When you talk to her?
When you hold imaginary conversations with her when she is within?
When you weave future memories in absentia?
When you internalise your motherhood even before you deliver?
When you dream of holding tiny hands and walking around the block?
When you await the smell and smile and imagine them?
When you talk of grandparents and books and music ---

Alas! The memories of a short-lived conversation cuts through my being
Someone who should have been born is gone
~ Anne Sexton

P. S.:- Written for a dear friend S. 

Tuesday 22 August 2017

Song of the uterus

Glorious bloody tunes
when the first bleeding occurs at puberty.

Lusty glorious tunes
when the hymen is ruptured.

The first year of the marriage
An expectant tune of a forthcoming baby

But the baby never came
But the baby never came

Thus begins the scan room chronicles
Pricking, prodding and scanning.

Scanning, pricking and prodding!
HSG - oh no! by God, it's traumatic.

Surgical process
Pricking, prodding and scanning.

The baby might come
The baby might come

The biological clock is ticking - they say
God will have his plans - some say!

I did not sign up for this - I say!
The uterus sings its song thus.

Saturday 29 July 2017

My taxi sojourns

S was our faithful taxi driver - We used his services whenever we were having guests or the husband was away and I needed to commute to and from College. There was a time when S was my mode of transportation for a whole two months. He would come in the morning at 8 and we would make our way through the highway and the narrow road commonly known as the junction. Our togetherness was brief, say a brief seven-minute in the morning and then another seven in the afternoon. But those minutes were an assortment of the weather forecast, politics, students of today, elders of yesterday, traffic defaulters, irresponsible animal owners and so on.

The journey would begin with, "Good morning S ji. Looks like it will rain today." To which, I would receive, "maybe yes or maybe not." Then the topic would skirt around the current trending news and our opinions. S ji would thrillingly use MC, BC and other colourful words which would shake me out of my reverie but then when feelings have to be expressed, why would a sieve be used. And then without much ado, we would fall silent only to puncture it with something else that catches his or my eye.

Together we used to count the days of the husband's return and mark his duty days with me. Our mornings were clouded with the urge to rush to College and our afternoons with the urgency to go home and rest. S would have stories of his customers and how each one was different from the other - some made him wait for hours while some were stingy; some wanted only his taxi services with low prices, of course, and some called him when their friends were in town. There was a fare for regulars and there was a fare for regulars' friends.

S was well versed with the kind of people after experiencing them as his customers. He could spot a rotten apple in a basket of many. He could advise on traffic timing and low prices in shops. He was an encyclopedia of the common man. I knew what he ate and what his children were up to and when he woke up, offered puja and bathed. Nonchalantly, he would talk about the area's councillors, police personnel, customs officer and their stories of greed and power. Everyone had been his customer one time or the other.

He used to understand my measly bank balance mid-month and lament how it is impossible to earn enough in a straightforward service. He used to say, "dho number ka kam se khoob paisa kama sakthey" (Illegal work only could earn more money).

I look forward to those mornings and afternoons when S and I chat endlessly and merrily about all and sundry. Then one day the journeys with S stopped with the husband coming back and my knowledge bank of 'local' stories became scarce and limited.

I then wondered, "What stories would I tell my students?" But then there is a story everywhere!

Sunday 9 July 2017

The curse of the blue ticks

The former days of land line telephones and long distance letter-writing was a bliss when compared to today's instant messaging. Those days one received a call that they have reached and the rest would not matter until another call was received. But today, the blue double ticks on WhatsApp makes the heart palpitate needlessly. Just yesterday, I was trying to contact X and saw only a single grey tick. For a while, I was calm then the imaginations soared. I tried keep them at ground level but to my dismay, they seem to have a mind of their own. I was frantic for the blue ticks, at least the double grey tick marks. But no. I started panicking. I was thinking about the million possibilities that could have prevented X from seeing the messages - Mind you none were simple possibilities. Sitting miles away, one cannot help but wonder at the million impossible things that could occur.

In the midst of all these, I wondered about the days of yore when two blue ticks did not exist and how people went about their lives carrying on routines without speaking for days and weeks. Even then people were awaiting news but did not require instant blue ticks. The tricks that the mind plays when the blue ticks are missing, is deplorable and I'm not exaggerating. The basis of existence depends on those two blue rascals.

No matter who the person is, the blue ticks are reasons for many fights and heartbreaks. If the person has seen the message at 10. 30 am but responds only at 10. 00 pm, the he/she can be sure of some hard questioning. Now, there are three categories:

1. Single grey tick - message not seen
2. Double grey ticks - Message delivered but not read
3. Double blue ticks - Message read

Either of the categories could cause potential harm if in a particular frame of mind and the most adept at this is the female of the species (I speak for my specie and there is no overt discrimination, I suppose).

Some may ask:
Where were you? Why did it take so long to see the message?
Why did you not respond even if you were online?
I was so frantic, what happened to you? Why only a single grey tick (This question of course plays in the mind)

Now you understand why I consider the blue ticks as cursed. Perhaps the closer the person, the greater the frantic levels!

Let peace prevail in the heart and imagination be reserved for better things.

Image 1 courtesy: Internet
Image 2 courtesy: Internet

Sunday 2 July 2017

Love, Sex and Growing Up

Today while watching the 1961film, Splendor in the Grass, directed by Elia Kazan ( Yes, he directed the hot Brando in The Streetcar Named Desire), I was wondering how the film holds relevance today, much like what it used to in the 20th century. The film largely deals with sexual repression, mental illness, Christian values, and other related aspects of growing up. Bud and Deanie are high-school sweethearts who enjoy a cosy relationship. While Bud would like to have sex with his girlfriend, Deanie resists, in spite of feeling the same for Bud. She owes this largely to the value system and the concept of being 'pure,' which is drilled into her psyche by her mother and the society in general.

I could closely relate to the film because when I was growing up, things were quite similar to the that of 1961. Every teen fellowship that I attended in Church emphasised of being 'pure' which is being a virgin and keeping the wedding bed undefiled. EVERY. SINGLE. CHURCH. MEETING. My aunts, as soon as I attained puberty would regale how every girl should be like 'fire' and not allow any guy to touch her. Somehow the idea that every boy was evil was drilled into my head. It was okay to fall in love but make sure that the boy in question does not touch you, was the common sentiment. I guess it is no much different today. In school, the couples in love who sat with an arm's distance from each other were always held up high on a pedestal. And if by chance, anyone tried talking about how the kiss of last evening, she would be labelled as a 'forward' girl - whatever that meant.

Teacher, priests, aunts, parents, even peers were always advising on how boys were mean creatures who have been sent by the devil to seduce and corrupt the girl. In the entire picture, it was conveniently forgotten that girls had the same feelings as well. Both the sexes were battling a thousand diverse feelings of passion and desire. In the film, Bud is quite exasperated and frustrated when Deaney does not allow him to go beyond kissing; He slowly withdraws from her in spite of loving her immensely. His father also advises him that he should have two kinds of girls - one the good kind like Deaney and the other - the one who would sleep with him without any qualms. Bud does that precisely but cannot two time Deaney and so breaks up with her, driving her to an institution for the mentally challenged.

The film in passing mentions Freud whose experiments on the connection between human psychology and sex made great breakthrough in the 20th c.  The film knits together various aspects of love and sex in a beautifully written story. Watching the film, I was led on a rueful journey through my teenage years and the various incidents colouring those times. While no one spoke of practising kindness, compassion and the virtues of knowledge, sex without being named was the preoccupation of every adult and of course, every teenager.

I hope the times are gradually changing now and parents strive to have healthy conversation with their children about various topics that affect them as they step into the turbulent teens.

I quote lines from the film, from the poem Splendour in the Grass (also the name of the film) by William Wordsworth:

What though the radiance
which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass,
We will grieve not, rather find
of glory in the flower,
Strength in what remains behind;
 . . .

Image 1: Internet
Image 2: Internet

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/).

Monday 6 February 2017

When the elections in Goa rattled a peaceful/peace-loving citizen

Securing a government job is a dream come true for many. The reasons cited are often 'job security,' 'pension,' and 'easy life.' I aspired for a teaching job, not a government job. It so happened that I landed in a quasi-government job. Well, sometimes what happens accidentally, often leads to many unwilling accidents as well, as it recently happened. What happened, you may wonder - Unwittingly I was chosen to be a Presiding officer (on account of being an Assistant Professor in a quasi-government set-up) in the recently concluded Goa Legislative Assembly Elections 2017. Well, for many it was a cushy position - masquerading as an important person known as Presiding Officer. Well, when the order came, I was absolutely clueless as to what the position entailed and as always I sought the assistance of Google. I did get a fairly sketchy picture of what I was supposed to be doing. This sketchy knowledge was supplemented by three training sessions. As the trainings were completed, I was being jolted beyond my comfort zone but nothing was more rattling than what was going on within me as the day was fast approaching. The intensity of the entire profile hit home like a panic-attack on the 3rd when I went to the collection centre to procure the materials required for the actual poll on the 4th. But imagine my chagrin when I realised that I was kept in reserve. Well, I was relieved that now that I am a reserve staff, I do not have to bear the load of responsibility. But then we had to wait in the collection centre because we never know when we will be called to replace some one. But I didn't have to wait for long because I was assigned a Pink Booth - a polling station "manned" by only women. And lo behold, when the women saw me, they were rattled - Why? All of us were first timers and their levels of blood pressure shot up and eyebrows creased. The first jolt - I was an intruder into the team that had already been there from the first training. I think team cooperation and familiarity is IMPORTANT when it comes to doing something of this sort. When the vibes from the team are hostile, it does hit hard and is an impediment to the completion of formalities.

On the 3rd, I along with the polling peon and a lady police slept with the machines - The Control Unit, The Ballot Unit and the VVPAT machine. On one side it is rather fascinating to be a part of this side of the elections after being on the other side as a voter. Well, I prefer being a voter! One should see the number of forms and envelops - these are enough to upset the food digested and question your calm sanity levels, that is if you have managed thus far. And then, I also had to manage with the 'team' that was never mine. They were quite efficient you see - They did everything that was expected of them except for making me feel welcome and part of 'their' team. No problem. The Poll has to go on nevertheless.

The Presiding Officer is reduced to the level of a form-filling agent who has to fill mundane columns about the weather, no of voters and don't ask me more or else I will collapse with the thought of the stress levels of the polling day, which I am yet to get out of. I was in a deep existential crisis about an assortment of things which will haunt me for many days now till the results are announced. I had thought that it was only I who had these thoughts and experience but my better half had a similar experience. He tells me that his constituency had a woman staff who was nearly full term pregnant while it is clearly stated in the rules that pregnant women are exempt from Election duty. I think the EC has to consider humanitarian grounds and select people with care.

Now, comes the best part - Individuals are chosen for the post of a Presiding Officer based on their scale of pay and position, which means that there might be seniors in terms of age and experience who are placed as subordinates. Whoa! The Election Commission does not think of 'ego-clashes.' Well, why should it, anyway. But I being an Assistant Professor does not mean that I am adept at filling forms - I detest forms of any kind, leave along filling them but EC takes the cake in providing so many forms that the forms are enough to make you pee and shit in your pants for about the period till the results are announced. Why - if there are any errors or mistakes then you get called. Argh! It's an honour to be chosen for this "responsible" position and yes, be virtue of being an Assistant Professor in a quasi-government set-up, I am an expert in filling up forms of varied colours, white being the most common and putting these forms into colourfully annoying envelops of blue, yellow and green (further relegated as 'sealed' and 'unsealed'). I wonder why the EC cannot provide laptops for each Presiding Officers with the forms pre-loaded in the device and also having the digital signature of the Presiding Officer. Some forms which require to have the Polling agents' signature, could be given while other forms could be done away with.

The returning of the materials after the polls are another saga of woe and angst. One has to wait eternally till the local officials arrive at your table to collect the forms which are then verified by he Returning Officer and the Observer! Jeez. Now this activity goes on till the wee hours of the night and no provision is made for either food or water. There were many Diabetics, who were in dire need of something to eat - not just tea and batata wada which was provided. And some women, in my husband's constituency were waiting till about 01. 00 am without having any means to return home. When Election officials are having food while the menial Presiding officers and their teams are hungry and fatigued, it is quite sad on the part of EC. 

I had to down several cocktails, lot of comfort beef food and a movie to forget the dreary and depressing task of 'being a responsible' Presiding Officer. But still I'm not done with the haunting thoughts because my back and backside is sore with the all day sitting and I had to take leave today (Monday) to nurse the aching back which is a grim reminder of the aching task of filling up of forms and remembering a whole lot of clauses which have to be dug out of the deep crevices of the mind at the appropriate time.

Points to be considered by the Election Commission
It is high time the EC becomes reduces paper-work by collaborating with efficient institutions to develop a software for enabling filling of forms. It should also try and see that the staff are well fed with working meals to ensure good work and pleasant spirits. It would also be wonderful if teams could be decided in advance to ensure familiarity, good team work and efficiency. Furthermore, there should be sufficient time between sending the orders and conducting the training programmes. The training sessions right from the first should be given a mock poll conduction right from the scratch which will enable first-timers to gain confidence and expertise and the sense of responsibility should be owned by the entire team and NOT only the Presiding Officer.

Let peace prevail within and outside of me. 

Saturday 28 January 2017

Towards a cleaner, healthier and organic 2017

For quite some time, my family and I have embarked on the journey towards eliminating chemicals from our everyday life. Slowly yet steadily we are trying, exploring - one product at a time. Most of my time is spent checking out various sites which deal with selling chemical-free and natural products. I have come to realise that a drastic change as this requires a lot of groundwork and research. In spite of our interest and research, there are many products which I cannot rid of - lipsticks, perfumes and other such. I did find cosmetics which claim to be 'natural' but I am not quite satisfied with the results. Someone suggested that I stop wearing lipsticks and I have also been contemplating on this but still to arrive at a decision - So far, I'm happy to let my lips soak the chemicals.

In my early stages of research the website Mindbodygreen was helpful to me in many ways to simplify things, eat mindfully and practice some lovely affirmations. Though these days, I only visit MBG occasionally, I remember the wonderful lessons I had learnt from there. I guess I had taken all that I have needed and moved on.

One big step which we as a family decided to take was in the section of food - trying to consume foodstuff that were local and nutritious. I must admit that Broccoli, Strawberries and the like are also consumed by us and they are definitely not local but healthy. Another product which I have added to my daily cooking is using Virgin coconut oil. Earlier I was under the impression that using coconut oil for cooking would increase the cholesterol levels but discussing with nutritionists and reading literature on this topic helped me abate my doubts. But I had to look hard to procure pure coconut oil. It was then that my blogger pal, Vishnu Vardhan started his venture named Indian Super Heroes, based in Coimbatore, committed to providing authentic Indian organic stuff to people in search of the same. The concept of ISH is something that is simple and revolutionary - working with local people to source, grow and provide organic products to people, markets and society. Small scale ventures have always caught my interest and attention because they deal directly with the farmers without the interference of middle-men and commissions. And, the products are made with utmost care and love unlike the large-scale machines which are quite impersonal and stiff. And another reason for us to go organic is trying to support local and native products.

My first purchase with ISH 500 ml of coconut oil and a peppermint soap and I am excited now as I write this because many more products have been introduced by Vishnu Vardhan and his efficient women team. The soap does not dry the skin like the other famous soaps like Lux, Dove, Santoor and so on. It has a mild fragrance and a soothing effect on the skin. I have also previously used only handmade soaps procured from different sources and glad to now find it in ISH.

I am also looking to procure traditional and local items like millets, organic turmeric, wild honey and a wide range of products. There was a time I used to order items from ten different places and await their arrival but now after ISH, I guess I could order items from the same place. The website is still in its nascent stage but Vishnu tells me that it will soon be fortified.

If interested, you could procure products from Indian Super Heroes here:

Website: http://indiansuperheroes.com/ & http://indianorganic.store/
Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/SuperHeroesIndia/?fref=ts

The Focus Areas of ISH

I would like to know if you have been going organic and chemical-free too. If yes, what are some simple changes that you have made in your home and life-style?


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