Stray thoughts compiled

 I wanted to eat an orange,

but you weren't there,

So, I asked my help who was mopping,

Both of us shared an orange,

and both of us spit the seeds.

Afterwards,

She mops

And I mope!

At least the words sound similar!

After the Fire!

On the 08th of April while most of India was sleeping, a kind and alert neighbour who has never called me before, called me on my mobile phone. The time was about 04. 43 am. The number was unknown and my groggy self was quite baffled to decipher as to why someone would make a call in that time. After confirming that it was me, he indicated that there was smoke coming out of our kitchen and asked us to get out of the house. I awoke my sleeping husband and along with our nonhuman companion, rushed out of the house but not without opening the kitchen door and trying to see what was happening; I could not make out anything. Later we found out that our fridge caused the fire burning the entire kitchen in the process. 

We were homeless for a week, living in a temporary arrangement for we could not live in the house which was blackened by soot carrying a strong odour of burnt residue. 

-----

That was a month ago.

Today we have shifted our house and still settling in the new house. Alongside everything, my meandering mind was shuttling back and forth to the old dwelling place from where we were unceremoniously driven away. It still seems strange to us that while we retired to our bed the previous night, little did we know that exactly a month after, we would be waking up in a different house. The uncertainty of life hit us hard but we were quite gracefully accepting the blows. We did not panic. But there were many questions from some of my friends; They argued whether life was trying to tell us something or we were being warned by the divine power. R and I were just focusing on what had to be done - clearing whatever was available and packing the things in boxes to be carried to the other house which was thankfully in the same campus. The whole memory trigger which was laying still chose to hit hard while we were packing. Most of the items reminded me either of people, incidents, moments or generally a time in the past when things were different and we were younger. While I was thinking of something and mechanically packing, my husband was quite focused on meticulously packing (thanks to him, I cannot find many things). 

While bits and pieces of our stuff still remains in the boxes, we have completed most of it. It took us a month to get used to the present house--the walls, the switches, the nooks, corners, and everything else. Sometimes I sit and stare at the new rooms that my old stuff occupies and feel weird because though I know the items, I imagine them in my old place and picturing them in the new place is something that I have to get used to. 

Cooking in the new kitchen though exciting suddenly pulls me back to the crammed kitchen and I search for an item in the exact place that I had kept it in the old place. Then I physically shake myself and nod--a nod to remind me that we have shifted to a new place. 

Getting up in the mornings is also a challenge at times but yes I am slowly getting myself cocooned in the present house and forcing comfort out of the walls and windows. Whether one lives in one's own house or a house provided by the employer, the lived experience is the same. We form a kinship with the nooks and corners, passages, walls and bathrooms.

Well, life has to go on and tomorrow is another day.

Being home!

Home is the new downtown! The rooms are the places we visit when we need a little break now and then from the same rooms. The sound of a distant train catches my attention and I'm all ears - we haven't heard a train in the last few days. I try to gauge the train by the time only to realise that my kitchen tap has a leak and hence sounds like a passenger train. Small mercies! I let that tap be - I enjoy the sound of the train that is otherwise impossible to hear during these days.

My nonhuman companion, Feni, is a welcome entity in these quiet times. Taking care of him, understanding his language and entertaining him and us is another new routine which we enjoy and relish. I often wonder whether he understands that we are with him 24/7 - Is he happy? Is he stress-free without having to gaze at empty walls and chew furniture. He hardly bothers about the furniture or anything remotely chewable. I think he is indeed happy.

Sometimes thoughts rush in where angels fear to tread - but I allow them to run their course and pass. Sometimes I do give in to them and feel despondent but that is a normal behaviour, I reckon. I engage in sundry works around the house - It's nice to see clean and well lit spaces! I seem to cultivate new routines and re-routines. Actually there is no routine - I do what I ought to do and I do them mindfully.

My reading has been awful, though! I had imagined that I would read like there is no tomorrow only to realise that every tomorrow comes and quickly leaves without me reading. It's a phase, I concur and let that settle in.

I have been cooking delicious meals and enjoying eating them at our own pace. We don't have a clock at home; The mobile's time is our go-to which we ignore going to these days. Time is a forgotten entity unless the mobile is in our hands. It's wonderful to reverse roles. How long you have kept me in your clutches - now it is my turn! It's a moment of victory.

I hope you are doing well and keeping yourself amused by observing your queer antics!

Leaving you with a 1964 pop song that I have been listening to of late, written by Hatch Anthony Peter and performed by Petula Clark.

Downtown

When you're alone and life is making you lonely
You can always go - downtown.
When you've got worries all the noise and the hurry
Seems to help I know downtown.

Just listen to the music of the traffic in the city
Linger on the sidewalk where the neon signs are pretty
How can you lose?

The lights are much brighter there
You can forget all your troubles, forget all your cares
So go downtown
Things will be great when you're downtown
No finer place for sure downtown
Everything's waiting for you.

Don't hang around and let your problems surround you
There are movie shows downtown.
Maybe you know some little places to go to
Where they never close downtown.

Just listen to the rhythm of a gentle bossa nova
You'll be dancing with 'em too before the night is over
Happy again.

The lights are much brighter there
You can forget all your troubles, forget all your cares
So go - downtown
Where all the lights are bright downtown
Waiting for you tonight downtown
You're gonna be alright now
Downtown
Downtown
Downtown

And you may find somebody kind to help and understand you
Someone who is just like you and needs a gentle hand to
Guide them along.

So maybe I'll see you there
We can forget all our troubles, forget all our cares
So go downtown
Things will be great when you're downtown
Don't wait a minute more downtown
Everything is waiting for you
Downtown
Downtown
Downtown
Downtown
Downtown
Downtown
Downtown...

Madras Musings

A terribly cliched, title, I realise! Over the years, visiting Chennai, time to time, I have grown used to the oscillating emotional scales; The roads, smells and the sound of Tamizh being spoken - Once all these used to evoke a sense of deep melancholy within me but I now seem to have made peace with them. I now no longer gush at the flyovers and the electric trains which were strong reminders of the yellow past. I have not completely lost the sense of nostalgia as I step down from Indigo into the bustling city. I still allow myself to be moved, turn misty-minded (not eye, mind you) and gasp at how different Meenambakkam used to be and smell. Today, I was a tad apprehensive when a good friend asked me to board the Metro and meet him. I have never boarded ANY metro in my life, I quipped. "It's nothing," replied he. How would he know the trepidation. I, of course have moved past the initial moments of apprehension and have decided to be brave enough to get into the metro and experience the joy that I have often seen on Facebook posts of people who have put up pictures of their 'First Metro-ride.' As I get older, experiencing something for the first time does create a small flutter in the pit of the stomach. I try to remember when I first took the electric train - I honestly don't remember that - It was after all a long time ago, say somewhere in 1990 or was it 1992. Let that be!

I think after a point, years blur, memories fade, though not entirely gone. I guess that I have been out of Chennai for a long time now that old memories are being replaced by new ones. It is not a conscious process but something that happens but not without leaving tiny remnants in the back of the mind. On a normal (read relatively younger) day, the sight of jasmine flowers would send me into a dizzy ride which begins with, "Malli poo reminds me of . . ." but now, I just stare at the flowers - blank in the mind devoid of stars in the eyes. I still love their fragrance and texture but don't have the urge to grab them and store their presence in my hand for eternity.

I still think whether I should return and search for a job in Chennai. And then, I think of the traffic, the hard water, the irritation of the heat and stop my thoughts. I know that I cannot return. Returning seems like a sweet respite that is tinged with nostalgia, only beautiful in the crevices of the mind. I am content with dwelling in the tiny state of Goa with all its warts and minus the malli poo and khusboo idlis. Whenever in Chennai, the affection wanes after three days when I begin to get restless with insipid days. The intoxication remains only for a time after which the land of Feni beckons.

Sometimes, I wonder which is the home - where is my heart and what does it mean to be traversing to places which are considered  homes. I guess I should thankful that I have not relocated out of the country, otherwise I would constantly be in a restive state of doubt about home(s).

Image: Internet

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.

Watching Kabali in Goa

I cannot say that I am a fan of the Superstar Rajinikanth but I like to join in the excitement that surrounds him and his films. Having been in Chennai for the better part of my life, a Rajini release did not incite any excitement in me. I did have friends and acquaintances who went insane over tickets and detailed planning on first day, first show matters but I remained aloof from all of them.

Then marriage happened.

Along with marriage, change of location happened.

Then Rajinikanth became one of the synonyms for home and Chennai.

It is always said and largely believed that one starts craving for home in different ways, some of which are quite unusual and one of those was Rajini. Heaping praise for the superstar and getting a high talking about him were aspects of me that baffled me. Very easily, I could turn from a demure teacher to a crazed fan of the Superstar when my students criticised him. I was always a fan of good acting and films that were close to reality. But Rajini was beyond the circumference of my usual like of films. He is a phenomenon worth studying - a vortex that one gets pulled into willingly.

But for the first time catching a Rajini film after two days of its release was something I did not expect that I would end up doing (I guess earning and having one's one own money in addition to living out of Chennai does that!) I JUST WATCHED A RAJINI FILM YESTERDAY!

Watching Kabali was an entirely different experience in Goa. The theatre was housefull (what else!) and almost the entire hall was filled with Tamil speaking people. It was definitely a joy to behold Tamil Nadu in Goa! But alas! my joy was short-lived because many of the Tamils here were only Tamils by birth and not spirit. The children were not as fluent in the language and hardly knew the charisma and wonder of Rajini. They sat there placid and unmoved while I was jumping and hooting in glee. I was quite sad that I was not able to whistle otherwise I would have shrieked with full power. The claps and hooting were only present when Rajini first made an appearance in the film after which the spirit slowly ebbed away. I was quite excited and beside myself and could hardly contain myself whenever the superstar crossed his leg or uttered, "Magizhchi," (translated joy) but everyone around me were unmoved.

For me Rajini is not Rajini but my years of growing up in Chennai, my memories of school, sightings of huge cutouts of superstar when any of his films were released, friends bunking classes to watch first day first show of Rajini's films - In short HOME. Home means many things to me but on this occasion, home was Rajinikanth and Chennai. This explains why I was a bit low when I did not spot any cutouts, life-size posters or any merchandise of the superstar - In Goa and for Goa, Kabali was just another film (from South India). I went to watch the film not because it was a Rajini film (I also watched Mani Rathnam's O Kadhal Kanmani on the second day of its release) but because I wanted to vicariously experience the spirit of my growing up years and memories of distant teenage.

Needless to say, I enjoyed the film - the complete package with popcorn, hooting, clapping, standing up and applauding the man and also shedding copious tears when the superstar misses his wife whom he assumes to be dead.

Thalaivar - magizhchi!

Searching for home in a post-postmodern world

In today's world, the word 'home' is a charged and loaded one; While some debate the idea of rootedness and one true place, certain others dialogue homelessness as a feature of the postmodern home. These thoughts and more, accosted me while I happened to accidentally stumble upon Lisa Ray's article, where she claims that she is homeless and the reasons she attributes to her state is: ''one house under renovation, and the lease on another starting in mid-March . . .'' I cannot but be amused with her choice of words considering her background and social standing. Perhaps there might be some significance of her celebrating her 'homelessness' but given the social condition of today's world where the problem of refugees and illegal immigration is a cause for concern, Ms. Ray's living out of suitcases, hopping hotels and airport jumping definitely leaves one with a taste of ash in the mouth.

 

 

Well, she could be justified with her claims as many in the postmodern world cannot pin down 'one true place' as their home. We have several homes today - the home where we were born, the home where we were raised, the home where we grew up and after our marriage, the home where we live as an independent family which often comprises of the husband, wife and children. I have often been in a dilemma when after marriage, I was repeatedly told by many loving family members that my husband's home is NOW my home. Well, changes do not often happen overnight and the idea of thinking of my husband's parents' home as my home was a bit stifling; Home is often associated with memories and nostalgia (the word nostalgia itself in Greek means, ''homecoming'') and how can one think of a completely different home as one's home. Probably the idea was to getting used to 'owning' responsibility in a different sphere which from the time of marriage becomes the playing ground of action. It takes time, I understand. Home becomes home after many years of living and soaking in the place, people and peculiar culture of that specific home.

 

Coming back to Lisa Ray's homelessness, I could just manage a raised brow for I could not comprehend her state. Pity, sympathy and anger in equal measure coloured my thoughts. She mentions her father. Does he not have a home? Does his home not welcome the daughter? Perhaps the daughter has outlived her father's home and yearns for her own space and that is preventing her from living a life with a home. Or perhaps she finds a strange comfort in living out of suitcases and hopping flights and calling herself homeless. Is she a refugee running away from familiarity or is she afraid of living in one place for a long time. Sometimes homelessness is a state of mind rather than that of a 'real' place, I come to understand.

Reader, what does home mean to you and what do you think of Lisa Ray's predicament?

Chennai - A concoction of the traditional and the modern

This post is part of the blog tag titled, The CBC Tablog - 3, where CBC stands for Chennai Bloggers Club, a group where bloggers (young, old, new, jaded, bored) from Chennai gather and discuss everything under the sky including blogging and blogs. About 20 bloggers from Chennai are participating in this blog tag where  we will write about our favourite city Chennai and how it stands as a testament to the blend of the traditional and the modern. So here's my post for the CBC tablog - 3 titled, Chennai - A concoction of the traditional and the modern.'

Writing about a place that nestled me for many years of my life from a distance seems a bit excruciating. A post on the blend of the traditional and modern nonetheless. It seems almost an impossible task for me to gather the different parts  picked from memory and desire and knead them into a post. Well, I do hope that as I chug along, I am able to relive myself in the memories that I nit pick and weave them into a worthy concoction.

First, Chennai - though the name is fairly recent but ancient does not capture the essence of the place that is so dear to me. And like the name Chennai, which is at once ancient and recent, the place also displays similar hues - housing traditional tastes, smells, customs albeit packaged in brightly coloured modern wrappers which shock you at first but later settles in familiar smiles. I think every city undergoes a change, rather it evolves with every passing year - changing governments, citizens from neighbouring states, business houses that set up shop - everything contributes to the process in different degrees.

If French style Bistros, 10 Downing Street, Thai eateries and Tibetan momos do not come as a shock, then it is because the same crowd finds solace in familiar idli-sambar-chutney-podi at Saravana Bhavan or in the comfort of their homes. The easy and effortless slipping of beer to filter coffee to Coke, stands example to the shifts in the mind sets of the people as well as the city which houses these people.

Now this traditional and modern is quite natural in some quarters whereas a bit gaudy and uncomfortable in some but both these quarters seem to contribute the wholeness of Chennai. For me getting used to the vernacular name Chennai rather than the anglicised Madras itself was a psychological effort that needed coercing and acceptance and sitting in Goa, I see the city also in a similar way - A city that is named Chennai but has embraced modernity that is more often synonymous with aspects of the Western world without much ado. Of course, the change has not come overnight and without any bumps - We have had our fair of teething problems but we have learnt to accommodate and assimilate.

 

I pass the baton to Deepak Raghuraman, a vibrant and enthusiastic blogger who adores his Chennai and supplies readers with a mine of information on Chennai in his blog titled Namma Area. If you require any specific information about the city, then you know where to head to - Namma Area (translated as Our Area). Please do visit his blog and show some love, dear reader.

Lizard in my potty

It's one of those days when my urge to pee is rather urgent and I practically dance and run and make it to the toilet and rush to make myself comfortable when I spot a tail . . . I can understand that I eulogized the house lizard to mean home but the tail sends me into spasms err . . . convulsions of horror. Though the meek lizard does not scare me or sends me freaking out, the thought of sitting on the potty with the fear of the lizard springing up into my . . . is rather scary. Well, thankfully, we have another toilet and I quickly made my way there. I was back twice or thrice to see whether the poor fellow had made it outside the WC but to my utter dismay, he or she was still there almost forlorn (my interpretation) and sad.

This incident led mt to wonder on many similar aspects of life. We take so many things for granted and expect it to be the same always. Come on who thought that a lizard, of all places would land into a WC and shoo me into the neighbouring toilet. I shudder to think what I would have done if there was no alternative to this. I was able to pee because our home had another toilet. If not, would I have used the lizard-in-the-potty toilet? Would I have overcome my fear and let go of the creepy feeling to attend my urgent call of nature? Would I have played brave? It's easy for me to philosophize over a post but still the thought niggles me and I am unable to stop the rush of possibilities.  Well, I could have always sat down and let the stream of water flow out. Well, what if I had to shit and there was no other option but to sit on that lizard-inhabited-potty? My mind also thought of the hundreds of people who squat on open spaces with the risk of being bitten by scorpions, snakes and women especially who are prone to many untoward incidents while going out to relieve themselves.

Some questions remain as questions alone. I guess I am chicken to even think of the options. I always play safe, you see.

What about you?

Image 1: Internet

City love

When you're happening to travel alone in an auto . . . oops, metered Chennai auto from Egmore to home, which is quite a distance of 16kms, your auto meanders through many flyovers and you get to see a wonderful city bathed in the lights of the numerous street lights that illuminate the roads. It was about 9. 45 pm and with no one to converse, brushed by the gentle breeze of the night, I fell in love with Chennai all over again. I craned my eyes to see beneath the flyovers if the auto was driving above a road and tried to look above and side ways if the auto travelled beneath a flyover. Cities look beautiful at night, especially Chennai with wide roads and multiple lights of different hues - I could soak in those sights like a love-lorn lover or a love-sick poet. The heat and dry humid wind of the day time does not evoke such love unless one is so stricken by the city that even the heat is exalted. I think I like to be a realist here. The gliding Government buses, bikes with couples, cars with hurrying families or singletons blasting radios while casting a stray lingering look at the passing by woman/man sitting in the pillion or auto-rickshaws getting back home after a tiring day -- everything presents a lovely sight. Parallel to these sights, I also imagine the Chennai when I was a regular on those roads, mindless of the heat and sweat and always walking purposefully and never once glanced a loving glance at the city.

This gush of love first began showing its streaks when I started reading the post, "Those girls on Mount Road" by Snigdha Manickavel which was shared recently on Facebook by Jothi Vel Moorthy. I could relate with that writer's perspective on Chennai and tender feelings of joy started taking wings within me and I wanted to reach out to all the places in Chennai that I have known and loved - The place where I went to school lazily walking about on the roads and sharing love notes and class gossips; the bus-stop where I drank Panneer soda; British Council of the early 2000s; WCC and MCC . . . There are many such places.

While reading Manickavel's post, I also remembered another article that I read a day ago in The Economic Times where a certain French writer, Bennet Voyles in his article, "Paris is not Paree anymore; outshined by London, New York" laments that Paris has lost all the seemingly French traits and that London is more French than Paris! He lists many points that were quintessentially French but now is no longer seen in Paris. Can a city every lose the traits that made it, I wondered. Can Chennai ever lose its peculiar traits. It might, otherwise there wouldn't be so many complaining that Chennai is not the same Madras anymore. Will a day come when the spirit of Chennai will be seen only in blog posts and Madras Muthiah's articles, I wonder. But what is this spirit of Chennai that so defines this city -- Is it the healthy idli-dosa-sambar-chutney or the magic tunes of December Festival or the safety factor that makes women fearless on the roads even at 11 pm or 12 pm or the balance between tradition and modernity or the connectivity of the city or just the feel of being in a relatively calm and secure place. I cannot put my finger on any one point.


Well, I just hope Chennai doesn't lose its peculiar Chennai flavour like Paris! Inspite of everything, every time I return to Chennai, I see so many additions to this place and those additions please and irritate me as and how my mood commands but last night while travelling home in that auto, every single sight was being taken in by me as aspects of that city which I have grown to love gradually and all those sights spelt - 'This is home!'

On Vacations

Shortly we will be leaving for our vacation. Oh, and before you think exotic locations and sunny climes - STOP and refresh your mind and read on. This is the annual shuttling between the husband's and my mother's homes. It seems rather strange to me as I have become so comfortable and cozy in my new home that the thought of leaving it for a month leaves me a bit listless. Few months ago, this home was just a house - sans curtains, beds, and other household articles but now the house has gradually turned into a home step by step. The curtains make a huge difference, you see. Once you decide that your affairs need to be shielded away from the peering world and the sun and wind needs to be let in only when one desires, the home starts shaping. Waking up and falling asleep in the room that has come to become a cave of one sort forces me to wonder about the soon arriving vacation.

But it wasn't always like this. It was not as difficult when I was in my mom's house. Perhaps that home was a home in a different sense - that home was shaped and contoured by my mother - It was a ready-made home that was always there unlike my home which was lovingly made up by me and my husband. It sounds rather mawkish when I seem to think that I can do better without a vacation after all, my home is my comfort zone where I have done things that are close to me and more than that I dictate the rhythms of my day and chores. Going to another place takes the power of my own rhythms - I have to subscribe to another routine and have to comply no matter what. It's a different matter altogether when we were children - Children adjust quite well to any kind of change. That said and done, I'm not resisting change. I'm just resisting going away from here. Come to think of it, it's only five months in my new home. But isn't five months long enough to establish a deep connection that binds one to the walls, nooks and crannies (cockroaches included) and the doors and windows. It's almost like leaving behind a part of oneself. And, I can't wait to get back into my skin and pet peeves.

Five days to go. Perhaps you will not find me popping out much in your comments and news-feeds on Facebook. Well, you may think that a break is good and I trick myself to think the same when in reality, I can do well without boring breaks. Anyway, I can take deep breaths anywhere I choose. Life goes on . . .

Image 1: Blogger's own
Image 2: Internet

Pray, tell me the antonym of housewife/homemaker

In vain, I have been trying to come up with a logical antonym for housewife/homemaker. While many find the the term housewife derogatory, the term homemaker is no less. Both terms mean the same anyway albeit the term homemaker can refer to a stay-at-home husband as well. Well, now to the post's main concern. What is the suitable antonym for housewife/homemaker?

While one can easily say that the opposite of housewife is working woman, I don't find that convincing. Well, let's try to make some word operations. The term housewife can be split into house and wife. Right? Of course, yes. Now how do we base the opposites here. Do we see the term as one single word or two words. If we split the words, then what could possibly be the opposite of house -- non-house? homeless? I can't answer this one. Now for the wife part! If the opposite of wife is husband, then the antonym should be 'househusband.' Now I haven't seen many use this term. But let's think logically. If housewife refers to an individual who is at home and takes care of everything that includes the home - children, cooking, cleaning, husband and so on, then the opposite of that should be an individual who works outside the home thus being free from every work at home. Now, does that happen at all? A working woman is a person who works at home and also outside of the home.

Well, there are certain words which cannot have an opposite for it is illogical. I tend to think that the word, 'housewife' itself is illogical. Okay, you find the word 'homemaker' sensible. Then what is its antonym? Homebreaker? Well, there are homebreakers but the opposite of homemaker is not homebreaker. For that matter, even the husband is a homemaker. In fact, he earns for the upliftment of the home and hence he also has an equal share in the making of a home. Out of curiosity, I checked with our friendly Wiki and here's what it has to say, "Homemaking is a mainly American term for the management of a home, otherwise known as housework, housekeeping, or household management . . . [It is also] a gender-neutral term for a housewife or a househusband." Well, I'm nodding my disapproval and reading further and the various related aspects of the term fail to convince me.

A word should be coined taking into consideration the different dimensions of its association - logically and semantically. If you ask me how to then distinguish between a working and non-working status, I will be at a loss for I can't think of A word to describe a woman who works at home and also outside of home and also a woman who works only at home. Work is work, outside and inside of home.

Readers, I would be curious and happy to know if you can coin better words instead of housewife and homemaker.

Sometimes a single term can pack our entire lives into a compartment.We need better terms and definitions.

Did I make sense at all? Just asking.

Image 1: Internet

Image 2: Internet

Image 3: Internet

The Migrant Syndrome

The word ‘migrant’ mostly refers to a state where an individual is away from home for purpose of work and employment. Sometimes there are other border issues, which is not my focus of attention in this post. Thus a migrant is in a state of ‘unhome’ where he/she is away from the comfort and familiarity of the home and hearth. Of late, the word ‘migrant’ has been sporadically colouring newspapers and news in general. If an individual is away from his/her home does it also mean that there is a greater sense of recklessness and wanton abandon? We have also heard of the clichéd phrase, “home away from home” and so I would presume that the migrant leaves his/her natal home in search of greener pastures and adopts the new place as his/her home. When one adopts the new city/town as his/her home, then he/she is liable to behave in the new place as he/she would do in his/her natal or native place. But in many cases this does not seem to be the norm.

The new place is treated with callousness and a sense of foreign which cannot be like one’s home or even nearer to it. There comes a sense of freedom and independence which borders on the promiscuous and the unethical. Probably this is one reason why the migrants are seen with a certain disdain by some political parties. This attitude of the migrant also came about in many episodes in the recent past. I would like to highlight some incidents in Goa where the word ‘migrant’ has raised its ugly hood quite often in the recent past. There have been several crimes (read rape, molestation, kidnapping, murder) where the main suspects are perceived to be migrants who commit a crime and then escape. That a local person cannot commit a heinous crime in his/her own place is collective opinion of the police as well as the general public. But my question is, ‘Is the police trying to nail the migrant as a soft target thereby completely negating the hand of any others in the crime?’ No matter what crime takes place, the first comment is that “The hand of migrants is suspected.” I cannot tell whether the statement is a general one or a carefully investigated one.

Are migrants all that dangerous? Or are migrants of a particular class seen as dangerous? But the same migrants also belong somewhere. It would be interesting to observe their behavior in places where they have been born and brought up. There they aren't migrants or unhomed people. In their native place, they don’t have the tag of criminals or law-breakers. Is there something which goes wrong when one leaves the safe confines and familiarity of one’s home and family? Is there no sense of accountability in the new place which has willingly given them employment and shelter? After all, the host city/town has embraced their skill and given them a place to earn their livelihood which was unavailable in their home-town or village.

I don’t blame the police or the public in looking at a migrant worker with suspicion. At times, I also cannot stop having a certain feeling of doubt when I see someone who I can identify as a migrant. After the Delhi episode, I cannot but see every foreign looking construction worker/labourer/driver without thinking of the rape. I know that I am over-reacting but the incident has left me quite bitter and scared. I wonder if the same individuals would have done a brutal act if they were at home with members of their kith and kin. And this situation is not in India alone. There have been many such instances in many other parts of the world as well where migrants are not those who seek employment and sustenance alone but also those who cross porous borders and boundaries illegally and are known as refugees who are also in a state of unhome. There have been many studies along these lines but not many to prove that the state of being unhomed also leads to many criminal and wild activities. 

This post was a thinking aloud post. I would like to hear what you have to say on this issue. 

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Whose space is it anyway?

I switch on the light. They respond as if they are ‘caught in the act.’  I wait for them to leave. They wait for me to leave. They are motionless. I don’t see them looking at me but I know that they can sense my presence.

This is MY house, I think but they don’t care. They never cared. Why should they care? They are not like me living in A particular space with marked boundaries. They live wherever they can find an environment that is conducive for food and reproduction. After all, unlike me they don’t need different rooms, utensils, clothes and other stuff. All that they need is filth, wetness and leftover food left carelessly by me in nondescript places.

I am not scared of them. I never was. But the feeling of them on me is quite icky and unpleasant. I would never want them on me even for a second. Of course, I revere my body as I do my space. Whenever I spot them on and off ‘the act,’ I imagine them climbing on my limbs. I cringe. I imagine a bit too much. I have dwelled on this thought of imagining something and actually feeling something. Sometimes, both are the same. Sometimes, the actual is never experienced, so certain things exist only in the imagination. The invaders’ tale is also similar. Whenever I spot the invaders of ‘my space,’ my mind is on a high-alert imagination mode. I stand there transfixed imagining and looking – looking and imagining. The invaders mirror my action. They remain there motionless. I have half a mind to spray that pesticide which is lying unused (I think that pesticides are unhealthy for the air which circulates inside the house thus putting the family in danger!). Then? Do I kill them and feel queasy about the white blood that gushes out? I do neither. I will and cannot bring an uneasiness to my sight and smell. I leave the spot and allow the invaders to continue their (k)nightly rendezvous.

The next day, I google, “Natural and chemical-free way to get rid of roaches.” As always, Google gives me the answers but I’m yet to try them on the invaders of my house and space. In the meanwhile, I thought I would write a post and in the corner of my eye, I can spot a stealthy movement. I know that I’m being watched.

Cockroach problem, dear readers?      

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Stories on a plate

Meal times are usually conversation times, if one is at home and everyone else is also at home. Slowly the first mouthful is swallowed and the stories begin.

You know what happened yesterday . . .

Ears perk up and the mouthfuls become slow and steady. Sometimes, I find it extremely difficult to concentrate on the food and on the equally delicious talk. I love both to bits. Then to add a flavour from times of yore, my mother adds her bits to the conversation that was started by my sister. She adds colour and antiquity to the interesting string of stories. Me, being the teacher starts a string of related student stories.

The conversation flows.

The food slowly but surely finds its place in our tongues. We savour the flavours of the food and the talk.

The plate goes empty. The stories run.

The juices and the remains of the food are slowly polished off clean. The act of polishing serves a double-fold purpose: It cleans the plate and it prolongs the act of eating.

After the plates, it's the turn of the fingers. In between hearing stories that leave us asking for more, the fingers are licked clean. And I don't know why the remains of the food sticking on the plates and the hands are the tastiest bits. The chatter continues non-stop.

And, in a moment of brief silence, the first person who has had enough tries to get up. NOOOO. PLEEEAAASSSE, we protest. Don't get up to wash your hands. If you wash your hands, the mood and the chain of conversation will break. 

My mother always remarks, "The drier the hands get, the juicier the conversation gets."

The person eventually gets up. Ah, we lose interest. The conversation breaks off. The bits of food on the hands and the plate are viewed with distaste. The magic evaporates. We return to life and that is clearing the dishes away and washing them.

(I guess the same happens even while eating with forks, knives and spoons. But somehow for me, eating with spoons does not create the same magic. I have to use my hands and in the end lick them clean. Wow!)

What happens in your meal times while at home with family?

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Killing can be addictive!

Mosquitoes, like lizards, are very common-place in India. Unlike lizards which are not as harmful and irritating, the mosquitoes are known to cause several diseases. To combat the growing menace of mosquitoes, there is a cheap tennis racket like device, made in China but found all over India, which is battery operated and is designed in such a way that one can use that device to kill mosquitoes while they are flying or are seated on the wall. If any mosquitoe is caught in the device, then it makes a whirring noise which indicates that an insect has been killed. When there is no electricity, people sit out side their homes and kill mosquitoes and other insects using that device. Well, what begins as an exercise to keep mosquitoes away gradually gives way to another instinct: That of killing.

I observed this trait in me when I was at a friend's place. The house was infested with mosquitoes and to combat that, seh gave me this tennis racket. First, I used this to swat the mosquitoes that were buzzing around me. Slowly, when there were no mosquitoes around me, I started searching mosquitoes to kill. I started walking around the house to find my kill. The ability to take a life started thrilling me. Finally, I was so exhausted that I threw away that devise. The devise went into the hands of my friend who accompanied me. He first started killing the mosquitoes that were around him. I was looking intently at his next step. Then, like me, he started looking out for mosquitoes to kill. Now, this was something that everyone did. I didn't know whether it was the killing or the device which made the task addictive.

Sometimes, even without the device, I have seen children killing mosquitoes and collecting them and then bragging, "I killed twenty-three mosquitoes." I wonder whether it is the same with killing humans. When a person first starts taking a life, it torments her/him but later when lives are taken, it sort of becomes addictive, I reckon. I have never spoken to a hitman before but would like to sometime. Talking of hitmen, I remember the film, Leon: The Professional, which was a very sensitive film about a hitman and a young girl. Natalie Portman makes her debut in this film.

So, killing could be addictive, right - mosquitoes or humans!

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When the house lizard signifies 'home'

The lizards in our house are very sexually active. I see many baby lizards while gazing at the walls to take a break when I am marking papers. The lizards have almost become a part of our home. I cannot figure out where they come from and where they go. All that I know is that  I always manage to spot one in each room. These lizards which without invitation share living space with us have almost become something of an extension of our lived reality. I realised this when I went to Belfast, Northern Ireland. I sensed that I missed something in my living space and after a great deal of thinking realised that I missed the click-click sound of the lizards. In Tamil Nadu, if we are speaking of something and the lizard makes its clicking sound, it is believed that the lizard has answered our question. So, whenever we talk about something and the lizard makes its sound, we exclaim, "See, see, even the lizard thinks so." Sadly, in Belfast there was no lizard to affirm our talks.

It is interesting to think that the lizard which minds its business and copulates energetically becomes a part of our existence. Vikram Seth also mentions this. In his travelogue, From Heaven Lake: Travels through Sinkiang and Tibet, Seth mentions how he misses the familiar lizard on the walls while he travels through Tibet and China. Somehow, the lizard signifies 'home' in a way.

Watching the lizard is another activity that we do while having mundane conversations. When the lizard is about to catch its prey, many times, a hapless fly or insect, it slowly follows the movements of the insect and at a moment when the insect is caught unawares, the lizard leaps and catches its prey. Observing its actions and antics, I find that even humans behave in a similar fashion except that the lizard can grow its tail again unlike man whose body parts except one or two, does not regenerate.

And, its not only the lizard which in a way creates familiarity, there are many trees, birds and insects which also make home for us.

So, do you also have anything like this which signifies home for you.

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What do you think?

The last post titled, "Thoughts on the words 'missing home,'" saw some interesting insights on home and place. Not long ago, I had asked a question in one of my posts. The question was: What is home to you? The post provided many insights on home and similar thoughts.

On that note, I would like to pose another question for you to ponder and answer:

CAN THE WHOLE WORLD BE SEEN AS HOME OR IS HOME A SPECIFIC PLACE?

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Thoughts on the words 'missing home'

While sojourning in Kerala, several things made me miss home. The newspaper was one such thing. But it must be noted that while in Chennai (which is home), I don't crave for the newspaper. This attribute made me reflect. The fact that in Kerala, my husband's home, subscribed only to the Malayalam newspaper made the difference. In Chennai, just seeing the English newspaper was a comfort factor. The comfort was that I could read the paper any time I wanted to and that it was in a language that I could follow, whereas in Kerala, the script of the newspaper and the foreign language gave a different feeling. Just a look at the newspaper gave a flash of home and the treat of reading the newspaper at home, made me think of home rather fondly. I wouldn't call this factor as 'missing home,' but I cannot get closer than that.

I write here especially about the newspaper as I missed reading the paper but the language that made me miss home was English, which is not my tongue. It is quite strange that despite the fact that English is foreign but that language made me miss home is quite amusing. Paradox, isn't it? Now gradually I begin to wonder whether the post is on 'missing home' or on paradoxes?

Another aspect were the smells. I missed the smell of home and there was no specific smell which I could think of but I guess every home has its own smell. Do you get what I mean? But those were the initial "missings." After that I got used to the new font (Malayalam) and smells. Humans are quite adaptive, aren't they.

And now . . . I miss the smell of Kerala home. Life goes on.

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do you think you have your landscape in you?

all of us come from a specific region. but sadly even though our roots belong to one place, we are far removed from our roots physically. but inspite of that, one inherently possesses some traits that belong to the place of our roots. for example, whenever i eat, my mom points out that i closely demonstrate the eating patterns of the place from where my father came. sometimes her comment quite irritates me but it is something that i cannot change. the same can be said about the way i argue: another trait of people from a specific place!

it is quite interesting as to how we possess traits of our ancestors even without us consciously realising it. it can be called 'genes' but i prefer to see those traits as the cultural habit of my landscape: the place where my roots lie. what makes it more interesting is the fact that inspite of having no much connection with the place of my roots, i have traits that are common to that place!

i have heard some people saying, "the sea in me makes me crave for fish and crab." probably that person might just use the above line as an expression but digging into that person's roots might point out to the fact that that person is indeed from the coastal region. when one pins down oneself to one place, one ceases to be a citizen of the world. while the term 'citizen of the world' sounds quite grand and cool, it seems quite generic and all-encompassing. and this is too grand for me to think!

long ago, i read a novel and something from that struck within my mind. the protagonist says something like this: Long ago we could identify people by the shoes they wore. But now everything is uniform. Everyone wears the same Nike shoes and trainers.

so, what landscape do you belong to and what trait reaffirms that? your grandma would have told you something about that trait!

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