Charity begins in the heart

Khaleej Times (Issues) / 27 July 2012

Back in India, it is common practice to ‘(p)reserve’ leftover food from the previous days for the house help or the roaming alms taker.

In many orthodox families, these leftovers are assigned a special place, at bottom most tray in the refrigerator and sometimes out in the open, for, their consumption or even sharing of space with the day’s fresh cooking is taboo, and is vehemently opposed by the elders of the family. However, with the passage of time and widening of views, the religious aspect has bowed out and now this theory and practice of handing out leftovers and old, used out things to the ‘poor and needy’ has acquired a whole new aspect.

Once, a woman relative who had pushed food from the previous week into the innards of her refrigerator and gone on a trip handed it out to her maid servant when she chanced upon it a week after she returned home. With a look of glowing satisfaction over her charitable ways, she exclaimed, “What a blessing that we have someone to give these leftovers to! Else the whole thing would have gone waste. It is one good meal for these poor things and I am glad I am feeding them. It is still not rancid, you see.”

I blinked hard. Did she mean to sound pleased to have not wasted the food, or vain over her largesse, or was she merely shaking off a secret guilt of dumping something that was inedible for her family, but could mean a feast for the poor woman’s children?

“I am not sure if they should be having it. If it is not good enough for you or me, it isn’t good enough for them either.” I must have sounded oddly ecclesiastical and moralistic, but I spoke my mind.

“Oh, they are used to it. A little here or there doesn’t matter to them. They will add some spice, boil it and refresh it. It is better than throwing it in the bin. It is filling some empty stomachs, after all.” I gulped emptily, as she spoke those words of vindication.

Come to think of it, haven’t we all been agents of pseudo philanthropy at some time or the other? Remember how when we were asked to cough up relief material for the flood, tsunami, earth quake or famine affected people around the globe, we stuffed bags after bags of overused, frayed clothes that we had no place to keep in our house? How many times have we been guilty of finding relief appeals a means to get rid of the rubbish choking our closets, sometimes disposing even inner wear and towels! I have witnessed volunteers at pains to sift through mounds of refuse, separating the truly usable from the trash. Does it take too much of good sense to know that it is to real, living people like you and me, people at a disadvantage in a world of imbalances for no fault of theirs that we are passing this junk to in the name of charity?

For once, in this season of giving, let us get reasonable for the sake of our own conscience. Let us give only if we really have the heart to help and not to clear clutters or gain an ego high. What is old and decrepit to us is so to those whom we give. What is unpalatable or worse for wear to us is so to them too. Depositing bags full of unusable refuse makes a mockery of the fine virtue of charity. Let’s not wait for the use by date to pass. Let’s feed when the food is still fresh, clothe when the cotton is still crisp; let’s count those to whom we give as human beings made of the same elements and sensibilities as we are.

Wishing you pest of luck

Khaleej Times (Issues) / 19 July 2012

 

It is the season of pests. The weather in town is getting cozier for the creepy crowd to swarm into our homes, no matter how well swept, mopped and disinfected. The sightings of three bed bugs and some other romping creatures in our house last month openly challenged the hygiene quotient of my immaculate home and freaked me out of my wits. Of all the intruders, the most wicked is the bed bug - the nocturnal vampire that sets shop and proliferates as if there were no tomorrows.

I clearly remember the night it first registered its presence home. An itch on my elbow, followed by another. As the island grew on my arm I knew there was something on the prowl in the bed. I looked in the dark at the snoring bulk next to me, unsure if I must stir him out of sleep.

Something just bit me, I said shaking him.

Nothing bit me. You must be imagining, he mumbled when I tried again.

Imagining? You don’t imagine such things. Look here, I said, stroking the island on my arm.

He pulled the blanket and turned to the other side.

Frustrated with my attempts to wake him up, I turned the lights on. The sudden glare forced him to sit up and squint at me, irritation galore.

Get up. I want to check the bed, I said urgently.

I pulled the pillows and blankets out, flapped them hard, peered into the bed and then saw the frolicking, little pest against the pristine fabric.

There! Get him, I screamed.  By now wide awake, hubby boy swooped down on the devil and crushed it, leaving a brilliant red spot on the sheet.

That’s my blood, I squealed with horror as if I had just survived an attempt on my life.

Least amused by my theatrics, hubby boy slumped and picked up his sleep and snoring from where he had left off.

Turn the lights off when you are done, he droned.

I failed to fathom why in the world the bug had picked on me while the guy next to me slept like a baby, oblivious to the presence of the terror elements in our midst. Wallowing in the self pity of being a soft target, I lay awake, shuddering at the slightest tingle against my skin. A strand of hair, the fold of the sheet, the air from the AC, everything made my skin creep. Fear, when given some leeway, doesn’t just mar your sleep; it wrecks your sanity and causes brain damage.

Get the pest control guys immediately, I said the next morning. I‘m sure there are more guys holed up in there and we must flush them out ASAP, I said with the gravitas of a homeland security chief. And so, the commandoes arrived, armed to the hilt, to evict the evil creatures.

Our home is now sanitized. But the scourge and its lieutenants will creep back, I am sure, once the vigil slackens and the effect of the operation wears off.  It is impossible to wipe out evil completely, but that can’t push me into a state of perpetual fear, can it? You can’t stop taking the public transport or going to restaurants and hotels or giving clothes to the laundry for the fear of bed bugs. Just as you can’t stop eating out because of a recent report of food poisoning, or stop leaving your home because some house in the neighbourhood was broken into, or stop flying because you read about underwear bombs, or simply stop living because the new world is fraught with danger. Life has to go on, picking its way through the warren of apparent risks, genuine threats and perceived fears. Some precaution and prayer can help bolster our confidence. The rest is destiny, for, if anything can go wrong, it probably will.

Gifts from the Gulf

Khaleej Times (LIFE) / 2 July 2012

I REMEMBER a time, several years ago, when I used to look forward to the visits of a maternal uncle and a family friend from the Gulf.

The two men would come once in two years with goodies — colour pens, perfumes, dresses in garish colours and wild patterns and once even a chain with a locket watch. The distinct foreign scent that wafted out of the packet took my breath away as I gratefully accepted whatever came with it, doing nothing to hide my toothy glee, although mom and dad protested to the gifting that by then had become a happy routine.

My sister and I wore the pleated skirts and twirled like ballerinas, sprayed the scent all over us, slung the mini purse from abroad on the shoulder, peppered our speech with accent and acted like foreign madams. Those were days when gifting wasn’t mere posturing or formality; it was a gesture that was imbued with a sanctity largely missing today. Much as it was a ritual to carry presents when one visited relations and friends on a vacation home, there was a genuine sentiment of joy in both giving and receiving, no matter how big or small the present was. Even scented erasers and 3D rulers were prized possessions to flaunt in school.

Cut to the new age. Consider taking paint boxes and Chinese toys to the young ones and be prepared to be damned and shamed. And, why not? The things you take home, those little things that once made your day, are now on display at the nearest variety store back home, thanks to China. “Oh, we have this in the store here. Cheap things. I had hoped you would get me an I-pod Touch,” the little fellow mumbles. And then as if to belittle you, he lists the things his maternal uncle from the US had brought in the previous year. His slightly older sister then dumps the dress you thought was ‘oh, so pretty and princess like’ and didn’t even buy at a sale by saying, “I don’t wear these sort of clothes. Moreover, it is not my size. I don’t want it!”

Chocolates, the less said the better. “You either get us Ferrero Rocher and Lindt or nothing,” the boy quips. Older lads prefer laptops and smart phones, young girls are confused about their choices, their parents cast aside (albeit discreetly) smaller stuff along with the love you tucked inside and there are those who remark, “We get better dry fruits here these days, although expensive.”

Very well. Get them if you like, you want to say, but you don’t. You want to say that things are pricey there too and buying expensive presents isn’t even a remote proposition to you, but you don’t, because you can’t talk about dearth, deficit and downturn to folks who now watch cricket on LEDs, drive SUVs and whose children wear uber cool clothes and accessories. To a majority back home, a guy in the Gulf is always in plenty, enjoying manna from heaven, no matter which way the world goes. They won’t believe that you haven’t got a bonus or a raise in three years, that your tax free income doesn’t pack in as much as it used to, that you live in the perpetual fear of the pink slip and that life abroad is no more what is used to be.

It is not about presents anymore, it is about meeting their expectations. It is not about the sentiment that you pack in, but the worth of what is inside. It is not about what you think they might like, but their newfangled preferences. We are fully conscious of it, yet as creatures of habit and slaves to a tradition, we scramble from store to store, looking for bargains and means to fill our vacation bags, eager to please but never quite measuring up, time after time

Mom, will you be my best friend?

Khaleej Times
Opinion / Editor's Choice

4 June 2012

From the diary of a teenager…

It’s exactly a month since I left home. A month since I left the nest that held me safe within its confines from the time the stork left me at my parents’ doorstep 15 years ago. I remember the day when dad and mom made the announcement of my going to the boarding school for higher studies. I resisted it in all ways I could – sulked, wept, pleaded, threatened and threw tantrums. But they showed no mercy. “We cannot leave you huge bank balances. A good education is all that we can give for you to build a life of your own, to make your dreams come true,” they explained.

Do I really have a dream to fulfill? I don’t know, but they believe so, and they have led me to a path that they think will take me to my destination, whatever and wherever it is. I didn’t believe that they could let me go so easily to be in a strange new place where the food was more like fodder, the rules were unbending and the lady called the matron was less of a human and more of an ogress. Did they really want to push me into such hell just because they thought I had a dream to pursue? It made me think that they merely wanted me out of their life; it made me hate them for imposing on me what they thought was ‘for my good.’ What good could there be for me outside of home?
The days leading up to my departure were awfully grim. I felt like a death row inmate waiting for D-day. I was mad and angry that no one even let out a whimper at my going away. No one thought it was avoidable. It made me depressed to think that I was not indispensible. I was certain that there was no love left for me in the house until we reached the airport and it was time for me to actually say adieu.

Suddenly, I saw the dark cloud of sorrow sweep their faces and the restrained emotion in their farewell hugs. When mom held me close and gave me a squeeze, I held my breath. Mom had never before been so forthcoming with her emotions. In that instant, I knew that mom had something special to tell me. I could read it in her eyes, and when mom slipped an envelope into my bag asking me to open it after they left, my heart missed a beat. Later, I wept reading it.

I now read the note almost every day. It reassures me of her love, which had lain unexpressed in her heart all these years. What a shame that I had always thought that mom didn’t love me! But how could I not? She always returned exhausted from work, and had no time for me. I never had her beside me to discuss my school or friends, never around for me to share my problems and secrets. We always argued over things she described as “not done” leading to revolts and revulsions. To me mom was just a family monitor.

What do you tell someone who after all these years suddenly comes around brimming with such sentiments that I never thought existed between us? It took fifteen years for me to be convinced that mom loved me dearly. I wish she had expressed it more often. I wish she had held me close like she did at the airport more often. I wish she was with me when I needed her, as a friend, a confidante.

I don’t want to write anything in reply to her. When I go home next, I will probably ask her, “Mom, will you be my best friend for life?”

Beyond my wallet

Khaleej Times - Opinion
(Issues) / 17 May 2012

The malls in Dubai don’t cease to amaze me even after all these years, not just for their grandeur, but also for the wisdom I gather every time I waltz through their aisles, wide-eyed and open mouthed. There is something very enticing about hanging around the malls, an activity that is boring to many and amounts to criminal waste of time and money.

Yes, it is a waste of time if you do it at a time when you should be home attending to your children’s homework or working out in the gym, not if you spend an empty weekend evening watching life play itself out in its myriad colours and forms, taking in the amusement it caters and just enjoying the diversion from the mundane. It is a waste of money if you step into the stores, more hazardous if an innocuous window shopping stint converts to a mindless buying spree of things you really don’t need, yet end up buying just because your wallet allows you to.

Now that’s my advantage. My wallet is so pathetically flaccid that I don’t step into most of the stores there, especially those that sell designer stuff. Actually that makes a visit to the luxury outlet completely risk free and allows me some vicarious joy. Yet I don’t, because behind my weak wallet is an acute middle class sensibility that clearly marks the places and things that are out of bounds for me.

Once, goaded by my sister who was on a visit, I walked into an international accessories store.  The store keeper was busy texting, his glance flitting between the phone and us. We walked around reading price tags and suppressing our reaction with great effort. Shock, surprise, self consciousness – all camouflaged by our fake conversion. And then, almost at the instant that my sister picked a bag, the sales person darted in, seized it from her hand and said curtly, “you cannot take it ,” as if we were just ‘taking it’.

We could see the derision in his face, a look that said that we didn’t belong in there. Or so it said, we felt.  Didn’t I tell you about our middle class sensibilities? 

“What if I really wanted to buy it?” my sister fumed as we sauntered out.

“Oh well, they can tell a serious buyer from an idle browser. They know that people like us are not wired to make that kind of spot, high value purchases.” I said wryly.

The incident made me reflect on how ceremonious high value purchases in middle class families like ours are. It follows a certain procedure and goes by the laid out rules of our household economy. We first sow a seed of desire, covet it for prolonged periods of time, visit the showrooms umpteen number of times, ask for the price, sigh and sough, set ourselves a target date by which to build up the capital by scrimping and saving,  and when we finally get there, make ourselves feel like royals. It’s a triumph that has no parallel. Then there is the other kind among us, the loan besotted sort.  Though perilous when done in excess, the sense of personal achievement one feels when the EMIs stop eating into the salary is indescribable.

Even now, when I see a rich shopper come out of a high end store, I imagine some day I will have the wherewithal and the mind set to do the same. I will be so well heeled that Rolex, Rado or a Prado, I might buy it in a trice. But then, I will miss revelling in the glory that comes at the end of an elaborate ceremony of accomplishing desires that the heart had coveted for long.  I will miss the unique sense of gratification that comes at the end of a long, arduous expedition to a dream destination.

Pappus Flower

I am suddenly feeling released from the branches of the tree, floating in the air like a pappus flower.

I feel the wind carrying me on its wings.

Sooner or later, I know, I'll stop drifting.

I'll alight, get attached to corporal things,

for I'm a mere pappus flower.

Until then, let me glide unconcerned in His infinite presence,
In the ethereal,

Oh, what a joy to know Him and nothing else !!

So, what's the price really?

Khaleej Times  - Opinion
(Issues) / 4 May 2012

I am not sure about the rest of the world, but we Indian women are super hagglers. Now my husband has a problem with the haggle word and wants me to say ‘super negotiators’. According to him, there is a ring of discredit to the haggle term, and being a procurement guy, he is sensitive to what I say about this bargain battle that we girls glibly indulge in.

Despite being a past master of bargaining, my man has always stayed away from it when it came to my personal purchases and I nurse a permanent grouse against him over this. Isn’t it sacrilegious that someone who strives and saves millions for his company should leave me to my own defenses when I am dying to save a few Dirhams on my dress, accessory or the curio in the Global Village? But I guess in our personal domain, we women have a cleverer way of getting the bargains out than men.

Often to the embarrassment of less intrepid souls, we employ this incorrigible habit lavishly to varying degrees of success on everyone from the salesman at the gold showroom to the vegetable vendors to real estate agents to even the dentist and the doctor. Seriously, I have asked my dentist in India for a discount on the bill because my husband was out of job at that time, tough times…so you know….

The tools we use vary widely - some are extremely weird and spontaneous that give unexpected results, others are old tricks that stand only half chances. In India, we ask for the price, raise an eyebrow exaggeratedly as if to say that I wasn’t buying a plot of land but a few bunches of spinach and then walk away feigning disinterest. Then the predictable call from behind would see us trotting back in suppressed glee. This trick however has run its course, and now if you walk away…you simply walk away. And then there is always the fear of getting fleeced should the vendor get wind of your Dubai back ground, so we are often very guarded in speech and manner. Hyper market bags from here can be big giveaways, mind you! 

Last month we had been to a gold store here which wasn’t Indian owned, but the moment the salesman began to speak, I grinned inwardly at the prospect. We Malayalis can sniff a Malabari bro from miles away. Some Mallu chat on monsoons and power cuts later, the making charge happily trotted down the scale. Tra-la-la! Fraternal feelings and a common lingo are, no doubt, handy trump cards to use.

Interestingly, there is perfect understanding on this between the shop keepers and the customers. They know about our fad for wrangling and we know that their price tags are inflated. So we both take no offence at the drama that unfolds before every purchase and go through the motions by default. Just that shopping becomes a bit too tedious with all the haggling and harangue.

I remember how a few months ago I confronted a salesperson at the Dragon Mart with a “What? So much? We India China poor people. No rich. We less money get, so, less money give.”

I have no clue if the bemused China man got through anything I said. But after a long battle in pidgin language I got the ware for half the quoted price. Quiet a victory, I gloated on my return home, to which my procurement man commented, “He still would have made some money. No one sells anything below cost, silly. After all, he is there to do business and not charity.” I was crushed to a pulp, but it also made me think about how skewed and suspicious the pricing structures in our market place are!

So what is the real worth of the things we buy?

Incidentally, a friend recently purchased a 15 million Rupee villa in India for 10 million! Down by a full five million rupees! “1.5 crore for fully furnished and one for unfurnished. We talked the builder down to it”, she explained.

“To that much? Wow!”

“Good buy?”

“Of course, of course.”                          

Now, let’s hear it for our sharp bargaining skills and their bogus price tags, folks!
Applause, applause

Dear fellow human being...

Khaleej Times / Opinion
(LIFE) / 20 April 2012

Dear fellow human being,

I have been meaning to write to you since long, but never got down to doing it. Oh well, it seemed such a task trying to find your co ordinates and track you down. Where have you been? We haven’t touched base in a long time. Is it because we didn’t have much use for each other since some time that we didn’t quite bother to reach out? That’s what our relationship has now come to be, isn’t it – selfish and need based?

While I was caught up in my existential angst, you were busy too, I presume, in your allied pursuits. It seems like a long time since we sat down for a coffee and chatted up. Seems like it was eons ago that we were friends, when we shared and cared selflessly, when we opened our doors to each other even in the dead of night; when we didn’t have to take appointments to see each other, when there was always an extra serving of meal at home should you drop by unannounced. Times when we had no secrets to keep, when we saw through each other and reflected like mirrors, when we held hands and walked long distances. Pray, when did the clasp break? When did we lose sight of each other? When did we drift away? When did we turn strangers?

When did I grow so wary of you that I peep through the door hole, size up the human figure outside and think a dozen times before deciding to not open? Even when my heart said that it was just a fellow human being selling a ware to make a living, the mind said it could be an intruder. When did I grow so frosty that I made my smiles overly pricey and my social manners so picky? When and why did trust become a commodity in short supply? I panicked when someone showed more than a fair share of friendliness towards me. Watch out, there is a sinister design behind it, my head hollered and I recoiled with fright. I missed you so sorely in those moments of panic. I wished I had your hand in mine, reassuring me, “Chill, it’s only me, your fellow human being and old buddy in disguise. “

I wonder when we grew so estranged that my children and your children ceased to be our combined bundles of joy and became barometers of individual recognition, pitting us against each other to decide grades of superiority. From being parts of a whole, when did we fracture and fall apart?

I think of you with longing when I see your namesake somewhere on the way. I look for traces of the old companion in the faces on the street, but most are mere imitations of you, and bear no resemblance to you in spirit; just imposters, now attributed with all that you once weren’t. I sometimes see flashing glimpses of you here and there, and realize that the real you are somewhere out there, alive and kicking, and hopefully looking for your old mate in the crowd. I want to find you, but my myopic eyes and timorous heart make the search doubly arduous.

I know that you are only missing and not dead. I desperately need you back in my life for you are my soul. I want those days of love, trust and camaraderie back. I refuse to buy into the story that you have become a myth. I know you are somewhere out there, lurking in the dark shadows of the new times, just as apprehensive and unsure as me.

I don’t have a postal address to which I can send this letter. I shall just let it fly to find its destination. Someday, it will reach your door step and you will call me. Won’t you?

Eagerly waiting,

Your fellow human being.

The million dollar question

When Sushil Kumar won a million dollars on a TV game show in India some months ago, it was as if the entire country had hit the jackpot; as if the entire population was bound not merely by the ecstasy of winning but by a cord of positivity and a subtle feeling of middle class gratification. The vicarious pleasure of winning manifested itself in the form of hectic discussions - some enchanted by the simple, rustic manner of the country’s latest millionaire, some raving about the ways of lady luck, some others airing platitudes like how every man was worth his salt
and some green-eyed skeptics even suspecting game fixing.
So, what will you do if you had such a windfall? The husband asked as I watched the episode, goose bumps on my skin, tears in my eyes. I must confess it is a question that has struck my head several times, almost every time someone walked away with a hefty cheque, but every time, I felt so overwhelmed by the enormity of the question that I chose to laugh it off than find an answer. A million dollars!
Five Crore Indian Rupees! It was more intimidating than elating. Given my weak appetite for shocks and surprises, I may in all probability kick the bucket even before feeling the cheque with my fingers, leaving the fortune tragically orphaned and open to claims. And if I lived to tell the post windfall tale, my open mouth might just stay that way for the rest of my life. Either eventuality didn’t augur well for a happy, bouncy woman of my age.
Yet, the niggling question remained, and for my own appeasement I had to find an answer.
What if I really found myself in the hot seat and the moot question is thrown at me by the Big B? It would be a shame to look bemused and stutter out of unpreparedness than out of awe for the man with the baritone in front. I tried to recall answers given by past contestants, some of which remain etched in my memory for either their frivolity or for their poignance. The answers reflected personal priorities and gave insight into what essentially constituted the participants’ lives. I knew that the question carried connotations more profound than what it apparently revealed.
I remember how a young man of good means once wished to buy a BMW for his parents if he were to take home the big prize. A BMW might be a great idea to the young man, but I can guarantee it wouldn’t have amused many who watched the episode. Not in a country where farmers embrace death after incurring debts of a lakh or a little more Rupees. To the common man who lived on a meager income from small sources, the game show was a life changer. It was touching when people expressed their wish to win just enough to pay off their home loan or get a
sibling married or get their children into good schools. The modesty of their dreams and aspirations was inspiring.
So, what will you do with the million? The question stared in my face again. Lost for words,
I decided to use my lifeline this time. Phone a friend. I made a call to my all knowing friend who lived in the little log cabin of my consciousness. Here is a transcript of our conversation.

“Hi, I am back again. I am in the hot seat of this game show and I need help desperately.”
“I know. But I am not going to give you the answer. You will find it yourself. I can help you find it, though.”
“All right.”
“Do you live well?”
“Yes, fairly well.”
“Do you own a house?”
“Yes.”
“Car?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sitting on a mountain of debts?”
“No.”
“Do you have enough to share?”
“Yes.”
“Are you putting away enough for the justified needs of old age?”
“I guess so.”
“Children?”
“None.”
“Other commitments?”
“Nothing presently.”
“Pleased with your life?”
“Yes.”
“Then what on earth do you need a million dollars for?”
Time out, the ticker stopped and the connection snapped.
Entranced by what had just transpired, I whispered, “Thank you.”

Sizing up our shopping habits

Whoever said that you cannot sell something to someone who doesn’t need it was a hermit who didn’t know women and their preposterous buying habits. This old marketing rhetoric falls flat in front of our innate weakness for impulsive buying and compulsive shopping, a trait that by now has become almost central in deciding marketing strategies and devising sales tactics in global board rooms. Remember the corny joke about the spending woman that our scrimpy men love to crack repeatedly, a jibe that they take at us given the slightest opportunity? Trust a woman to buy
junk and lug it home just because she got it for a song! Guys, we are not amused, although you are somewhat right!
I say, do the mathematics and see our womanly wisdom before passing uncouth remarks on our
penchant for shrink wrapped, bundle offers. An entire assortment for the price of half! What a steal! And the crystal bowl that was once so prohibitive is selling dirt cheap. Not for me, of course. But it might help to keep it, just in case there is an urgent, unexpected need to gift a friend - a sudden, unannounced birthday bash or a baby shower. It always makes sense to keep
things in stock, for you never know when an emergency would arise. And we like to be prepared for exigencies.
Our men have made such a sport of censuring our buying decisions. What a shame that they don’t factor in needs of the future while making household purchases! I remember how buying
eight kilos of detergent on a bargain almost caused a domestic melt down once.
“Planning to start a laundry?” He asked.
“Nope. Just grabbing an opportunity. Eight kilos and a softener at this price. It is a deal for heaven’s sake and how can we let it go?”
“All this? Do you plan to hire your neighbour’s room to store this? This will last till my retirement.
Do we really wear and wash so many clothes? You use detergents as if I come home every evening after playing kabbadi. No wonder my trousers and shirts wear a bleached look in two months….”
Shrugging off the exaggeration, I rolled my eyes in the way exasperated wives do and growled, “Do I ask you questions about your work in the office, how you go about your business of buying materials? Ever?”
I don’t think we exchanged so much as a glance for the rest of the grunt-laden day. The detergent however came home. The intensions of a determined woman cannot be thwarted, you see.
Come to think of it seriously, regular home supplies might make a case for all our excessive buying and storing, but not crockery and cutlery, lamp shades and candle holders, flower vases and floor mats, bed spreads and show pieces that we often pick up and drop into our shopping carts offhandedly. I am not even beginning to mention clothes and other fashion accessories. We ourselves have been snowed under an avalanche many times while opening our cupboards. Oh! We go so hopelessly weak in the knees at the sight of a bargain board. Throw in the word “sale” and see us up our ante rod straight, turn our blinkers on and gather details.
One only has to stroll leisurely through the aisles of a store to hear couples squabbling over use and disuse, need and extravagance. The altercations that fall on my ears give me the smug satisfaction of not being alone in presenting our men folk their pet peeve.
I have changed homes eight times in fourteen years across three countries and over my multiple experiences of packing and moving, I have wisened up. I have cleared clutters and stopped accumulating. The most remarkable discovery I have made in these learning years is that I can actually walk out of a store without falling for inducements and be happy about it. I don’t regret leaving those enticements behind because they are things I simply don’t need in my life. Yet I go store browsing and window shopping extensively, not just for the love of it, but also to be a shopping guide unto myself in times of need.

Life between people and peeves

Khaleej Times - Opinion

(LIFE) 30 March 2012, 9:13 PM

My neighbour and I have a serious problem with our apartments. We don’t have a room with a view. Being on the inner ring of the building the windows of which open into the middle space, we both are forced to stare at each other if we happen to open the windows at once.

In good old times, such an arrangement would have made for a direct channel for some happy, everyday banter — what’s cooking, are the kids home, and stuff.

Our apartments have yet another deficiency. There is no balcony to grow a garden or dry our clothes or dump our LCD and PC cartons. So we hang our laundry outside the window on strings and hangers, more out of compulsion than choice. Now, our lady and her family across find this offensive because what they see from their living room window when they pull the curtains is our clothes line! We see theirs too, but for some reason it doesn’t rankle us. Call us short sighted. Or severely deficient in aesthetics.

“Can you stop drying clothes on this window? It looks dirty from our living room,” she says one day. “Huh? Dirty? I swear that I wash them before drying.” I pinch my throat. I lean over to make sure I haven’t festooned anything that would hurt their sensibilities – lingerie and such. No fears, I have always been careful about that.

So what gives, I wonder. How awful can some washed, well spread clothes look from a distance of 30 feet across your window, outside someone else’ room?

“We don’t like it. If you see, we don’t do it either on this window, because we know it would look bad from your living room.”

“No, no! We don’t even look.” I begin to say, at which point she says, “Don’t take me wrong. Just that we don’t like it.”

“How about pasting a picture of the alps on our window?” I itch to ask.

“You may use the window outside your bedroom if you want,” she suggests haltingly.

“Blind to that one?” I want to ask. Instead I nod my head blankly.

“Don’t take me wrong,” she repeats and slips out before I can respond.

It is nearing lunch time. The other folks next door are frying fish and the smell wafts in thick and fast. Being vegetarian, it is far from appetizing and taking a cue from the lady above, the head suggests, “Go, ask them to stop eating fish. Tell them it churns your stomach.”

Right! Catch me doing that! Or telling the lady on the floor below that the way her little girl bawls all day crushes my creative instincts. Or impressing upon the guy somewhere downstairs, practicing the same notes on the key board every weekend that his dull, repetitive music grates on my nerves. Or telling the lady sitting across me in the train that her red hair colour blurs my vision. Or telling our neighbour back home who painted his bungalow in an appalling shade of blue that the colour explodes in my face every time I step out. Or confront men who callously spit on the road centimeters away from my foot, and yell, “Hey, you civilized homosapien or what?”

No, I don’t have it in me. It takes genuine guts to tell someone of your peeves upfront and ask them to change their ways just because personally they make you queasy. In a new, hyper sensitive world order, it is better to move on than to leave a bad taste. We had better be martyrs than rebels because we don’t roost in ivory towers. An appallingly slavish attitude perhaps, but verily practical. Call it compliance, tolerance, or plain timidity, but rest assured, you will have that many more people sniffling into their kerchiefs at the end of your term, whispering, “bloke never made an enemy in his life.”

When the old leaves fall..

Khaleej Times - OPINION
(LIFE) 9 March 2012


Three old men that I was related to or closely acquainted with passed away recently. They were all in their eighties; grand old men who had been there, seen that and then receded silently into the space from which they came.

Their deaths weren’t untimely considering the years they had walked this earth, nor was it unexpected considering that they had been ailing and personally waited for deliverance. For all the stoicism and equanimity one might hold, death is a bitter, hard truth to those close to the departed; a reality to come to terms with in time. That the men I spoke of earlier were old and infirm might make acceptance of the truth a bit easier, but to those who lived around them the vacuum is hard to fill. People who leave — whether in a hurry or at leisure — leave behind gaping holes. And in the case of grand old dads and moms, the holes are not just physical.

Remember those times when our parents taught us those little things — from walking to brushing teeth to tying shoe laces and ribbons to clipping nails to holding a pencil to how to pray to…all those endless things that earned us an exclusive place in this world?

I put my hand on my heart and confess: No, I don’t remember. I don’t remember the day they taught me to hold the brush or pencil, I don’t remember how I was readied – smart and tidy – for my first day at school, or how they helped me memorise the multiplication tables, how to say thank you, please and good morning, how to smile and be kind…

But I know they did. They taught me life’s gambit, without me knowing that they were preparing me to take on this world, leaving only sketchy memories in my mind of those days, memories that faded and vanished as years went by. And when they let me go find my way and I took flight, I saw them brush a tear. They knew that their fledgling had newer lessons to learn, bigger places to go and live.

The world away from the nest was different from what I knew. I gained skills, and grew. Signed papers and cheques without remembering my first day with the pencil and alphabets. Tabulated accounts without remembering the days my (now) old parents spent helping me memorise numbers and tables. Made presentations, gave lectures, socialised, and fixed meals, all without remembering the first lessons at home.

Yet somewhere in that tiny space between the soul and the world, I knew all the time that I might build a car, but the tools in my box were theirs. I might conduct an orchestra, but the notes are entirely theirs. I might win the race, but the training ground was them. And I realise, even as the arrogance of material triumph raises its head every so often, and the egoism of adulthood impales, that they exist as ready reference guides to my life.

I may not ask for counsel, thanks to my sense of being an all knowing adult of the new times, but I know that I have lessons yet to learn. There are nuggets of wisdom to nibble from the tales of their lives, caveats to pick from their experiences in the world, notes to make from their conduct with people and conditions.

Even as we disqualify our old folks as senile and many times portray them as intruders, and even talk of them as an obligatory presence in our present settings, I realise that sooner or later they will cease to exist. Somber and depressing the thought might be, yet it’s a truth I reckon with. And when they move on, they will leave behind not just a gaping physical void, but a legacy of life lessons that no book or experience can ever impart.

Fighting to fit in

Khaleej Times OPINION

Asha Iyer Kumar (LIFE)
11 February 2012, 6:15 PM

I have been on an eating binge lately. Okay, not lately. Since October last year. It was something I had promised to shrug off once the festive season was past and the guests had left.

I mean, this kind of thing can’t last. You can’t keep wolfing forever. That’s what I had thought. But it is so easy and convenient to slip into that eternal state of self denial, isn’t it, extending the days of self defence and pretexts beyond a season? So you keep saying — I am in check. This one benign piece of paneer or an occasional dip into the cloying gulab jamun isn’t going to add inches to my waist (for a vegetarian, the sweetmeat is the most evil of all foods, an absolute hazard to the midriff, and the paneer or cheese, its close lieutenant). Now come on, if you won’t summon the courage to eat the dessert you’ve made, who else would?

And weekends? They are for eating out, without question. One must be a dunce to not eat out on the weekend while living in Karama. How many times have I seen people’s face go bling bling at the mention of this gem of a locality! Blame it on all those folks who are ruining my diet with their culinary enterprises out there. A flier everyday outside the door calling out names of goodies of all shapes, sizes, contents and tastes. This is absolutely blasphemous to my sense of well being and good eating. But then, if people like me don’t patronise them in these downturn years, who would? They need to make a living too. Staunch believer of the “live and help live” theory, you see.

I hate my conscience in times like these.

You had promised to stop this soon after the festive season, remember, you glutton? Look at your friends, sweating to get down to size. From a generously sized pair of jeans in which they walked clumsily, they have whittled themselves down to wearing a modest 32, if not a petite 26. Going by their reports and the speed at which they are shedding fat, they would soon be there too.

Ah, it is the soup and salad routine. Is that some kind of food, actually? It is torture. Gosh, imagine me doing all that just so I can wear the kind of clothes I saw on the mannequin at the mall! Petite sizes and flat stomachs are for mannequins and models, for heaven’s sake.

But your friends are doing it. They are getting smaller sizes, trendier fittings, chic costumes. Why don’t you at least pull out from your kitchen shelf the equals that you so ardently purchased a while ago?

Oh, that was on an impulse. Just curious to know what these girls were adding to sweeten their once-in-a- blue-moon coffee. But tell you what? It is an awful tasting thing, though the girls swear by its merits. I am planning to wrap it in g(u)ilt and gift off to one of them on her birthday. And let me add (as an aside), all these girls have health issues that force them to cut their cravings.

Gloating over your fitness, eh? When was the last time you checked your vital signs?

Two years ago. And got a clean chit, after all. The doctor was not serious when he said that I needed to watch my fat. What he meant, for sure, was I must not flab up. A genuine advice to a lady in good shape!

You are a lost cause, I tell you!

Yes, I am. The last thing I want is to look like a million bucks neck downwards and a ghostly shadow of myself in the face – concave cheeks.. withered lips.. popping eyes..zero spice. No thanks. Sell your counsel and regimen to someone else, while I tuck in the weekend chowmein merrily.

In a realm of blissful oblivion

Khaleej Times OPINION

Asha Iyer Kumar (LIFE)
27 January 2012, 7:43 PM

The young gentleman standing across from me in the metro seemed like just another eager, home bound employee - a jolly good fellow who was smiling and whispering, perhaps telling his wife on phone that he was almost there.

And then I saw — he wasn’t on hands free; there was no one next to him, yet he was in conversation with someone, now complete with gesticulation and frequent contortion. Soon, others noticed it too, some openly gawking, some more discreet. Even as the man struck me as odd for his apparent behaviour and I verged on labelling him slightly demented, I felt a hard, phantom thump inside my head. Whackk!!

So, what’s strange about him?

He is talking to himself. Isn’t that weird?

Oh, yeah? But you too do it all the time, buddy. Ever realised it?

Me? No way. I have a saner top storey, heh..heh.

Really? So who on earth do you think you are in a chat with right now, and every time that you are by yourself?

I..er..um..

It was an instant of sudden awareness and awakening. I gulped emptily as I became alive to a cabin full of people engaged in animated conversations with themselves. The air at once was filled with a muted cacophony of conflicts and debates, fears and ecstasies, anxieties and emotions, all wrapped in individual cloaks of vainglorious entities. I looked again at the young man in the corner, still caught in his quixotic inner world. The difference between him and the rest of us around, now I saw, was, what he articulated for the whole world to see, we camouflaged with aplomb. The difference, I realised, was merely in the posturing. And the world stamped him a weirdo!

Thoughts, thoughts and more thoughts, some wired, some wilted. About yesterdays and tomorrows, men and matters, life and death. The seamless weft that allowed no empty space or time for me to rest and rejuvenate. How many times have I vented them, at the cost of being branded vocal, vociferous or belligerent! And how many times have I swilled them into my heart indignantly and smiled and pretended that “all is well’! Silent or spoken, they have been around, these mental eddies, tossing me up and down, freaking me out. Yet no one thinks I am a weirdo!

The madness in the mind has never ceased, it feeds on the external world like a ravenous beast, asking for more, even as the agony aggravates and makes me want to retch. You need to think, think sane, they say. Thought and sanity, what an absurd, mutually exclusive twosome! Yet I strive to put them on the same page and get them to work together, day after day.

Is there someone who can stop this frenzy and place fetters on this cognitive riot? Someone who can build us a log house by the sea of insanity, into which we can escape when witless thought waves run amok? Don’t we long for a private space, separate from the world, from where we would merely witness and not partake? A realm of blissful oblivion that we can enter for a while everyday and just BE – watching the waves rise and fall, wash the shore and back away - in the depths of the silence where we have only our cadenced breath for company?

Here is an anecdote to end the piece with. A little moth strayed in and landed on our window glass last week. A chirpy sparrow outside spotted the insect through the glass and pecked at it greedily. I watched with interest as the birdie spun away in despair, only to return and peck at the glass again and again, unaware that its prize catch was not on the outside, but inside. Bliss inside, pursuit outside! It was a moment of instant Zen, inspired by a moth and a sparrow.

We are like that only

Khaleej Times OPINION

Asha Iyer Kumar (PERSPECTIVE)

15 January 2012, 7:13 PM

When my parents from India and sister from the US recently came on their maiden visit to Dubai, they couldn’t help marvelling at the phenomenal strides the UAE had made in the 40 years of its inception.

They drew frequent comparisons between Dubai and their countries of residence respectively, the folks from the West raving about how contemporary, yet traditional and classic the city of Dubai and the rest of its territorial partners were, and the old folks from the subcontinent awed by just how well the country was run in comparison to the mayhem that prevailed in all walks of life back in India. “Such immaculate governance is unimaginable in India,” said they at every step.

What struck me about their comments chiefly was the despondency they felt over the way affairs were conducted back in India, a banal subject that we nevertheless discussed at length in the aftermath of the failed Lokpal bill and the parliamentary theatrics that preceded it.

The newspapers here gave my father a comprehensive view of the attitude and approach that people had towards life and living in a country where law is supreme, where work is worship, where administrative integrity is uncompromising and where the mind is by and large without fear of violence and crime. The questions that he threw up were not new, but they were compelling in the light of what he had seen, experienced and encountered here during his month long sojourn. Why don’t people respect and fear the law in India? Why doesn’t crime get detected there like it does here? Why don’t trials happen faster there? Why do passengers have to invariably haggle with ranting rickshaw drivers? Why are the roads pot hole ridden and our rides back breaking there? And the most significant of all – why do the same people who strike work or shun labour in the home country embrace hard work here under all conditions?

I had no conclusive answer to his questions. His frustration was genuine and tangible. It is true that while young, able bodied men here worked up to 16 hours a day here and scrimped to send home the money, those back home resorted to blatant apathy. Violence and high handedness have become second nature to our youth back home. According to my father, it was getting increasingly difficult to get labour for common household work like plumbing, masonry or even plucking coconuts from the trees in our yard. The maid in the house found it demeaning to scrub the bathrooms in the house (something my parents are finding tough to do with each passing year) and the unemployed youth preferred to loaf than do menial jobs. Safety of women and senior citizens was becoming a major concern among a people that when transported to another country follows the local justice system unfailingly. So where exactly was our country going wrong and what was it that made our people so civilised and law abiding when in a country like the UAE, he wanted to know.

Perhaps, it is the political system that makes things so difficult there, I suggested, cautiously. Scores of parties with fractious issues and frequent bickering between them is a perfect recipe for misgovernance and administrative malfunction, especially in a country of a billion plus people. Add to it, a “we are like that only” and “nothing will ever change” attitude that we seem to employ more as a ruse to cover our failings.

A graffito I recently saw on a kid t-shirt sums it up. “When daddy says ‘No’, ask mummy. When the law comes in the way, circumvent or break it. This happens amply in India and rarely here. Is it then a surprise that we love being here so much?

For the love of our shoes

Khaleej Times - Opinion (LIFE)

Asha Iyer Kumar
30 November 2011, 6:28 PM

It’s official. At long last, the relationship has now been acknowledged and accorded its due status. There is a deep, psychological intimacy between women and their shoes and the phenomenon cannot be dismissed as a flippant obsession anymore.

Thanks to the new documentary film ‘God save my shoes’, people will soon start taking this innocuous, humble fixation that made icons out of Imelda, Jayalalitha and Mayawati more seriously. Aha! We women can now openly brandish our elaborate, stuffed-to-the-shutters shoe rack. We can now ignore the bewilderment on our men’s face when we drool over a matchless pair in scarlet red in the store window and if berated for our love, blame it on our chromosomes. Dear women of our times, we owe a salute to the team that has purportedly striven to comprehend and legitimise this bond between us and our footwear, and the creative men who thought of putting the movie together, please take a bow. We are gratified and vindicated.

We have endured years of chastisement and it is time for redemption. Do you think we don’t notice you watching us derisively as we gingerly pick our way through the crowds in our pencil heels? Agreed, we sometimes make the mistake of donning the wrong pair for the occasion, like how one of us once wore tight, tall boots on an airplane. It was a blunder. Now, how are we to know that the new age travel rules stipulate us to take off our shoes for security checks?

Yes, we do have our issues, but which relationship doesn’t? What happened on the New Year’s Eve last year was an aberration. We were out there at the Dubai Mall in our platforms and pencils, stilettos and chunky heals. After the celebrations we had to walk all the way back home. How we missed our flip-flops then!

You may wonder why many of us prefer style to comfort when it comes to our shoes. To my mind, it has got something to do with our definition of self esteem and a unique predilection. We dote on our feet and pamper them no end. We treat them like we treat our pet puppy. Now, if that beats logic, go and watch the new movie on our shoes, while I carry my specially made, orthopedic sandals to the cobbler for repair, for without them, my fussy, flat feet will get hopping mad. Despite their down to heel condition, I love my pair, for on them rest my soles in lasting peace.

The faults of over efficiency

Khaleej Times OPINION

Asha Iyer Kumar
21 November 2011, 7:49 PM

The fire alarm system in our building has the habit of going off on a whim, ringing at the most indiscreet moments and with such annoying regularity that I am forced to think that either the contraption is innately defective or is downright neurotic. I even suspect that it has been uniquely wired to keep a tab on the emotional quotient of families in the building, detecting the minutest spark or fume that materialises between the residents here in.

The first time it struck after we moved into this building some months ago, I was in the shower scrubbing an obstinate layer of henna off my hair. Although one is expected to run to safety on instinct, the circumstance is such that it would take at least a good five minutes to steer clear of the situation. First, you don’t walk out of the bathroom in a full suit; second, you spend moments gauging the genuineness of the alarm and debating the need to run because such devices by nature love to scream and scare, and their integrity is always in question; third, you need time to find and grab at least the phone before you scoot.

All done, as I step out hoping that it is only a bogey out to hassle us, the earsplitting ring stops. The silence that falls in the corridor is more deafening than the eerie screech of the alarm itself. Looking around, I realise that not a soul has stirred out, no hint of panic, no fire. I go back to the shower and the henna, glad that I didn’t make an odd spectacle in front of my new neighbours. So much for vanity and its fake formats!

Although the regularity with which the alarm knocks me out of my skull these days has made me more skeptical than scared, I am yet cautious. So much so that my husband thinks I am a jerk to keep a bag containing my passport, some money and a few other items ready to pick up and run whenever summoned by the alarm.

“Preparedness never hurts, honey,” I tell him. What I don’t mention is the lurking fear of an eventuality where we find ourselves in front of a scorched structure, like dispossessed people after an earthquake as shown on television. Sinister thought, yet one that is as real (or weird) as a passing contemplation of life after a temblor or a tsunami. Some weeks ago, the alarm struck again. This time, it lasted for more than the prescribed period of waiting set by our security person.

“Get out only if it lasts for more than 5 minutes,” he has advised.

Clutching my emergency kit and cell phone, I waited, getting restive as minutes passed by. The warning lasted long enough to shake people out off languor and open their doors. It was a convention of sorts, throwing open an opportunity for us to know who lived next doors.

“I can smell something burning,” a gentleman shuffling across in a frenzy remarked. I sniffed. It was only the smell of the brinjals I was sautéing a while ago. Men sometimes can’t tell the smell of burning objects from 
fried vegetables!

As some of us huddled inside the elevator, he called out, “Take the stairs. The lift can be dangerrr.…”Elevator shut, we were on our way down. The descent seemed to last an eternity. Outside, the firemen, the cops and the ambulance had arrived and we scurried into a sea of 
curious onlookers.

“What happened madam?” a young lady inquired from behind.

“A fire alarm.”

“You living here?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, so scary.” She shuddered.

“Ah, yes, scary.”

Minutes passed by and nothing untoward happened. The policemen gave an all clear and as we sauntered back wondering what it was all about, someone remarked, rather derisively, “Smart system up there. Won’t let our women leave a simmering stew on the stove and get on the phone or Facebook!”

I gasped. Did he say stove? The brinjals! Had I turned it off before leaving? God!

I rushed to the elevator dreading the return of the rattle.

I tell you, an over efficient, faultless system that allows no margin of error or scope for deviation can be as frustrating as a system in disrepair.

Not in the driver's seat

Khaleej Times - Opinion (LIFE)
Asha Iyer Kumar

1 November 2011, 7:07 PM

There are some things in life that I really don’t miss doing. Driving around Dubai, for instance. Of course, I am eligible to hit the road, what with a license that I pocketed after my maiden traffic test.

It is a different matter that roads in Fujairah, where I accomplished this feat, are sparsely loaded and have modest speed limits. But that cannot take away from the achievement, for I must have certainly passed muster before being awarded the coveted ticket to ride.

Yet, when we moved to Dubai, one thing that I left behind in the quaint lanes of Fujairah was the zeal to sit behind the wheel and cruise across this throbbing city. There was something that held me from taking the car out and careening the highways of Dubai; something about the manner in which people went about the task of commuting on the roads. For long, I avoided putting a name to that which made me stay off roads, even as I strove to explain to people about my non driver status despite being a bonafide licensee.

Absence of a second car in the family, I said dismissively. For someone who works from home, has no youngsters to be ferried between classes, doesn’t party during the day nor has membership in social groups and ladies’ forums, a car is a needless accessory. I proclaimed that I didn’t intend shelling out money on such excesses, not when the world was on the brink of a double dip. Ahem.

Sometimes, I sounded off lofty phrases like carbon foot print and energy conservation, and threw in a heap of blah blah for effect — rising oil prices, global food crisis et al. I have no clue if my mindless babble made any sense to them, but it effectively stopped people from quizzing me further on the issue. And on occasions when we were in robust company and the audience was chirpy, I stole an impish glance at my husband and said, “I have a long running affair with my chauffeur,” all the while wondering if we were obliged to answer people’s queries about our choices in life! It wasn’t until much later that I could bring myself to openly admit that I had developed a severe driving phobia (it surely must have a scientific name?), courtesy of the insanity and insensitivity that is prevailing on our roads today. It is not easy to own up to your failings and then expect empathy, especially when it has got to do with something as commonplace as driving a car. From surprise to ridicule, from suggestions to counsel, from sniggers to open guffaws — I took them all, while staunchly maintaining that I did not intend to become a statistic in the road casualty records of the country.

“Just venture out,” some suggested. “It is fun. The freedom it gives you is unsurpassed. Just do it.” Kidding, are they? Do they know that I freeze in my seat when I see a wannabe Formula One racer flashing from half a kilometer behind me, that my limbs become dysfunctional when a thoughtless bloke cuts across under my nose without as much as a signal, that the veins in my head squeeze and throb when I hear a haughty, impatient honk behind, that I become utterly disoriented when I see vehicles ahead weave a tapestry on the highways, that I nearly suffer a panic attack every time I imagine driving on our roads?

This, by no means, is fun or freedom to me. There is a metro station at five minutes’ walking distance from my residence, a bus stop equally close by, I live in a locality that has everything one can ask for — from groceries to restaurants to salons to lending libraries to shopping malls, and when I need to go out and about, gallivanting, I let my husband be in the driver’s seat. Sometimes, I am genuinely happy not doing some things.

Back to the future of childhood

Khaleej TImes - Opinion
Asha Iyer Kumar (LIFE)
13 October 2011, 6:29 PM

Last night in my sleep I saw my childhood digitally enhanced. I dreamed that I had shrunk to the size of a ten-year-old in pigtails and pinafore! No, not exactly.

The pigtails and pinafore were in the sepia frames, the modified version flaunted trendier stuff-fringe cut and noodle straps.

Oh, what joy it is to be a little thing in an age of Barbie bags and princess pillows! To grow up celebrating birthdays at McDonalds. To carry noodles and cheese sandwich in the lunch box. To get haircuts done in the salon where mamma gets her feet and face scrubbed. To be seen in Reeboks and denims. In bolero jackets and tank tops. To wear platform heels and strut around like Katrina and Kareena!

Oh, what fun to watch 3D in theatres and frolic in water parks! To brag in school that papa has just upgraded his vehicle status to a 4WD and that there are plans of a trip to Europe in summer. To feel important and pricey when the teacher reads out your essay and exclaims, “Brilliant! Class, learn from her.”

So in the dream, I am just back from school and mamma says, “I want the food finished in fifteen minutes.”

I ask for the Cartoon Network so that I wouldn’t know what’s on the plate. It suits her too and she agrees, but adds, rolling her eyes, “Fifteen minutes and not a minute more.” The rice is a pain to eat. I wish I had French fries on the platter! I despise the man who made eating meals compulsory.

“Are you done?” mamma hollers, “You have to practice abacus for half an hour after your food.” I scratch my head with the tail of the spoon and nod. Abacus at three, karate at four thirty and homework on return - I remind myself dourly.

Mamma rummages through my bag and fishes out the exam circular and wheezes her lungs out.

“All these lessons for the exams? And you are wasting time on the food and cartoon? Here, let me feed you fast.” She shoves a spoonful of rice into my mouth and just as I begin to gulp it, I choke. Mayhem ensues. Some water, some more mouthfuls, and lunch time is over in well under fifteen minutes.

“Mamma, did you go to abacus classes?” I ask as she begins the practice.

“No. We didn’t need to.”

“Then why do I need to?” She merely throws a glare and says, “What do I hear from your karate master? That you are very sluggish in your movements. You will wake up earlier from now on and practice all the katas before going to school.”

I want to ask her if not knowing karate made her life difficult. But I don’t. I can plainly see that not knowing music, abacus or karate didn’t make any difference to her life. I hate her for making me plough thorough fields she herself didn’t and still lived happily.

“I am stopping your art and music till you finish the exams. I don’t want any excuse for not scoring a high A-plus this time. Do you understand? A high A-plus in all, including English and Hindi.”

That meant close to centum. I want to ask what happens if I don’t, but I don’t dare. I have some idea of what she would say. “No more TV, no birthday parties, no outings. No fancy accessories, no presents, no night-over....”

I dread losing the perks in my life and fix my mind on high A plus.

Papa looks pitifully at me slogging till midnight and asks mamma if it is necessary to push me this hard. “She is just ten,” he implores.

“Come on, you know it…”

Papa doesn’t dispute. He knows it, indeed. And I know it too. I ought to be the best. Nothing less will do. The nightmare breaks and I awake, thankful (and more relieved) to have been a child of a

bygone era. Oh what joy! No extra classes to attend. No rat race to run. Just a childhood that schooled out of tailored cotton satchels and delighted in small pleasures and simple amusements.

Retiring, returning - willingly

Khaleej Times OPINION

Asha Iyer Kumar 2 October 2011, 7:49 PM

An acquaintance of ours is hanging his boots up and heading home after working in Dubai for eighteen years. I do not know his age, but I can say from his looks and his sprightliness that he has more working years left in him.

He was a picture of complete contentment as he announced his decision to call it a day some days ago. If there was one emotion that swept over me in that moment, it was unadulterated envy at the man and his wife’s immense capacity to say, “Enough. We are satiated.” It was almost as if their hearts were letting out a happy burp for all of us to hear. Been there, done that.

As expat workers, we are all faced with the certainty of beating a retreat home sooner or later. But it is a prospect that a majority of us hate to think of or confront when the moment presents itself either in the form of a pink slip or a personal compulsion. We shun the thought, like we do with death and disease. For all the emotional outpourings about home and all the nostalgia about rains and relations, we still have a fascination for living abroad and it is one that we cannot wish away easily.

Blame it on the comforts that the mind and body has got habituated to in this land of plenty or to the tedium of adapting back to a lackluster, disorderly existence in comparison, a majority of us would want to extend our lease in a foreign country, fill our insatiable personal coffers and talk of retirement as if it existed light years away. And should such a discussion crop up among the fifty somethings sometime, one is quick to exclaim, “I would love to. But one has to keep doing something, hasn’t he? Or one would rust to death.”

Having something to do is such a compulsion to us that despite a healthy corpus stashed away for a comfortable retirement, one chooses to plod, revising retirement plans an umpteen number of times. Pray tell, is it a genuine fear of inactivity that keeps us in the grind or is it the uneasiness of letting go the pay cheque and the vain trappings of a working life that makes us report for work and endure the stress, even after the sons have graduated and daughters have married? It must be a little of all, I reckon.

Drawing a line to one’s wants is a tough task. So is deciding what comprises a healthy bank statement for the future. When ‘saving enough to beat the inflation’ becomes the objective, when the prospect of an intransigent, lonely old age looms, then no amount in the bank seems enough. The labouring limbs strive to gather might to serve some more years and the will refuses to wilt.

To be able to arrive at a decision to call it quits and recede from the active shoreline in spite of the above mentioned concerns calls for immense maturity and wisdom. It is a rare quality that comes with years of equanimous living and modest thinking. If one only has to keep doing something, there are options even after going home. One could globe trot if one has the wherewithal and health. One could join an NGO or teach children in the neighbourhood if one has the qualifications. One could read, paint or indulge in interests he previously couldn’t. If nothing, one could reflect on his past, take stock and perhaps, write an autobiography, if not to publish, at least for his grand children to read. Every human being gathers lessons on life which he can pass on.

Knowing one’s options and taking refuge in them is a challenging task. That our friend could arrive at that point of resolve is what makes me jealous. There is a joy in having your desires fulfilled, but there is a greater joy in being desire-less. Deciding to return home giving up the perks of a life here is nothing less than that state. In some ways, it marks the beginning of one’s journey to freedom and peace.