Being VIP Madams

They say Seriousness is a very serious disease. I say, ditto! I also add that it is the only disease on the Planet of the Apes which you can guiltlessly laugh at. 

You know, like one-hand-on-the-stomach-the-other-on-the-mouth, moving forwards and backwards, going Ha Ha in gay abandon. No thorns of conscience pricking in your bosom. Between those guffaws, saying ‘Oh God! How they suffer, and make suffer. Have some pity, on them and our aching tummies too, Prabhu!’ Yes, quite like a symbiotic relationship. Quite like – ‘You give me your Seriousness, I give you my Laughter’. And laughter as we know is the best medicine, after a gooey yummy bar of chocolate that is.

But I should furnish specimens examples of those who I think suffer from this Condition of Seriousness. Let’s say we talk of … of certain governmental wives. Just a handful, I promise you, but there very much so.   

Now, if you were to attend a party of such VIP madam log who happen to be married to men who happened to have cleared their UPSC examination at some point of time in the past, you will know what I mean (although, I wish you no such ill luck!) 

In such a gathering, every breath you take, every move you make is according to the year your husband became an afsar. Which means, when I get up to introduce myself to the gathering of silk and skin, I say – ‘Hello respected honorable madams, pairee pna, I am Sakshi Nanda Mrs. 2006’. No more is needed. This is the most important identity that you have. In fact, the only one relevant, in all Seriousness. And just like our age (hiding cushy under the wired push-ups), the lower the number of the year the closer you are to VIP Godliness, of course. 

So, Mrs. 1980 may have lost all her teeth but not the bite, for her husband is still the Chiefest of Chiefs you can find. She will arrive late, solemn expression on her face as if this is a funeral of all things sensible and not a Diwali get together, occupy the highest chair around, swivel ever so nonchalantly towards all reverentially staring faces and stop at an angle which suits her best. One smile, barely there. Rings on all fingers, there! The rest of the Mrs will adjust their sofas, chairs, stools, cartons, door mats accordingly. For the best view of her feet which they may want to touch any time. After all, she is the chief guest welcomed with an orchid bouquet. And this is Serious.  

Mrs. 1990 will fuss over her, but will make sure she is fussed over amply in return too by the lower in order. While she will deliver the welcome note, a Mrs. 2000 will dust her chair with her dupatta for her. Mrs. 2004 will stand around ready to catch the command of the duster. A mutual co-existence as if giving a purpose to your life on Earth. Food chain - with primary consumers, secondary consumers and grass, or prey! And all this while, Mr. 2004 sits on his white-towelled office chair, oblivious to what clearing his UPSC so late in the century means for his wife's VIP social life. 

Once the royal behinds find their deserved-n-designated destinations, introductions will begin. Numbers of years will flow around. ‘Myself 2001’, ‘Hello everyone, I am Mrs. 420 1 triple 9’, and so on. Some whispered some said with full gusto. So many numbers you wish you had never failed your Maths exams, or could tattoo them on their foreheads as reference numbers. Seriously!  

And then there is chai to be had, with chips, salted kaju and burfi, to down all the pyramids of hierarchy floating around. It comes in gold-rimmed bone china, but sans any respite. The first ‘sssslup’ has to come from the high command, like a signal. The cup touches the saucer thereafter, and the other ‘sssslups’ will follow suit. Age no bar, rank bar bar. Cashews will be served in descending order of men’s seniority, no matter that by the time the tray reaches the lower rungs, you are still in queue for your first ‘sssslup’. 

Everything is orderly, don’t mistake me. Disciplined and orderly, and so Serious you will forget what your father looked like when the share market dropped. Who laughs first, who sits first, who stands first, who picks a plate first, who burps first. Yes, Mrs 2006 has to hold hers in till the biggest one burps! Sometimes, it dies a natural death inside, trying its best to come out the other way. But then, you don’t know if the senior most fart saw the light of the day in the celebration today. So Serious the scheme of things, so serious the Condition. 

And finally, when it is time to leave, Mrs. 1980 gets up with her stiff upper lip and back, while the rest of the room bows at angles according to, you guessed it, their husbands’ ranks, before shuffling out of the room to where the cars are parked. The valets understand the Seriousness of the years, and get the official cars in line with that order. Waving hands and a dozen kissing hands ‘honoured to meet you’ later, Mrs 2006 hails her auto and goes home, promising to avenge her sore bum and aching back. After all, she had to bend a full 180 degrees of good bye, no less!

I know you cannot truly understand. After all, I suffer from a serious case of hyperbole myself. I exaggerate, a little, maybe. So I took a picture to illustrate my point about this encounter of the strangest kind.

If there was a single bar of chocolate to be had between the VIP Madams, the scene around the plate would look something like this. No points for guessing who gets to have it. Actually, the one who rightfully rank-fully gets it needs it the most too. Like I said, this gooey yummy chocolate is the best medicine for the Condition of Seriousness that I speak about.

Don't you think so?

Disclaimer, from under the table - No hard fillings for anyone, seriously!

TABLETS

My everyday life with a tablet 2 Tablets

Tablet number 1.

Do you know what you see above? A tablet, of a fossil of a plant, older than the oldest tree in your colony. Someone was kind enough to get the stone tablet framed. And then foolish enough to sell it off in a garage sale. For the price of peanuts, I got this priceless piece of a fossilized fern. 

This tablet leans against my desk, tapping its feet and staring me down day after day, even as I try my best to meet stare with stronger stare. The fossil is always at it, to remind me of Time. Are you exercising your brain and your muscles enough to be called ‘of sound mental and physical health’? Are you taking your writing in the right direction? What is the latest technology you have learnt about? What do you do to call yourself a worthy parent? When did you last cook something new? Have you even won yourself something worthwhile ever? 

Or, are you that lazy bag of bones fast becoming a fossil like me – vertebral column on chair included!

And more often than not, I look away. Shuffle my feet in my two pairs of socks, scratch behind my ear where there is no itch, close my pen and eyes and go to sleep. The only way the tablet of the fossil stops telling me – carpe diem. 

Tablet number 2. 

When the fossil tablet, with all the thoughts that it generates in my head, gets too much to take I pop this tablet. Also, when sleeping on the chair instead of listening to the fossil’s ‘inspiring talk’ gives me a sprained back or neck. Of course, there are multiple other kinds you can swallow – some bitter, some to make your life bigger and better. I do this one, nearly every day. It relieves the pain enough...

But am I digressing off topic and towards an irrelevant musing, is it? Oh, that tablet! No, I do not have a tablet as technology defines it, where I can go tap-tap-tap and get things done sitting on trees or under bridges. Those squarish rectangles looking like mini-television screens but with enough nuts-and-bolts inside to make your life better. No, I do not have that tablet.  

But then, even if I did, I wonder if it could tilt, lean and rest back the way I like to most hours of the day - as a mother, a wife and especially when being a good for nothing bum.

Is there such a tablet?

There is!

Better Ways to use the new Lenovo YOGA TABLET

So I heard about the latest one. Really, does not sound like me at all, what with its flexibility and speed. But surely sounds like something I can use. Exactly something that I need to make the fossil tablet stop speaking to me about seizing my days and the pain reliever tablet from entering my tummy. Also, something that may make me a more hands-on mummy.

This new wonder-on-the-block looks promising. I can hold it with one hand or use its unique kickstand to let go and enjoy a hands-free viewing experience. Why, I can even make it stand up to my commands, and my son’s. I need this. I need it everywhere I go, for reasons galore. But mostly because of what you see in the pictures below.

Don't get me wrong. Not looking for a replacement for the super human mummy that I can be sometimes. But you see, not every time can I make fun and learning paraphernalia (including my ageing back) available for my son. That's when I need something else to exercise those tech-made muscles. To twist and turn, tilt or stand and do the deed for me, and in place of me. This Yoga Tablet to the rescue in all of the above situations, and more! It simply seems a Better Way! 

And you are still asking about the Ideal Tablet?

The Ideal is always something that stands the test of time. It’s makers don’t wait for tomorrow to start creating it, but make today what our Tomorrows can start using already. The most futuristic tablet that keeps the future generations in mind is the ideal tablet for me. 

The next generation works somewhat like what you see in this picture. 

And views things from that very angle. At least in my house. 

For those who like to start their young ones young, a dream tablet will be one which is unbreakable. Say, one which stands falling out of the baby cot or slipping onto the floor from the baby chair. One which can be dragged along to the favourite corner of the house to watch the rhymes. Which is water, food and saliva resistant, and scratch resistant for sure. 

It will be safe, perhaps made of friendly rubber and with screen flexible enough to stand a little twist, or the weight of a toddler deciding to use it as a pillow while listening to his lullabies. It will be fold-able, so it fits in their bags carrying their milk bottles and diapers. (I am keeping chewable out of the list, for now!) 

And most importantly, it will be made such that it is easy to navigate on and use by the 'younglings' who like to believe they are older in the mind. With their tendency to be independent even before they learn to pronounce their names right, a Work-it-Yourself Toddler Tablet would be great! 

I am sure there is someone not smiling off my suggestions. I am even sure that someone is taking notes right now and will be working on it real soon too.  

Look what I use. 

Those letters I trust. And I trust they are listening to this mother's plea too. 

As for me, like the fossil tablet hints - it’s time to move on. Get to the next level. Get a tablet, a real one! Something that far exceeds my abilities and hence something that a person like me needs. In the meantime, my son will wait his turn for that 'Ideal Toddler Tablet'. 

Now, who is playing my Santa Claus this Christmas?


[Written for Lenovo Yoga Tablet - A Better Way in association with IndiBlogger]

PT and Serendi-Pt

We joined our new school the same year. Different classes, for some we have to call our seniors. But the same year. Coincidence. After 9 years of the nuns working hard on me, I was in a co-educational set-up. Happy. He, after years of hopping schools as a ‘transferable case’ was finally in 9th standard to hop no more. I was in 8th. Close behind!

No idea that his class was next to mine. Or that we were welcomed in the same orientation. That we both shared apprehensions and curiosity of the new school together, but apart. We did not even know what the other looked like. 

Years went by, like they do in school. He did his thing and I did mine. Best student he would be declared every passing year, whereas my report would read ‘she tried’. He would travel to play, sing and debate for his school all over the country, and I would travel too – to school and back. He shone bright, I instead socialized. Apart, still. 

Fast forward! Standard 11th and he in 12th. Still ahead! 

And now this is important … 

A rumour somewhere, that he has his eyes on me (Even tried finding out from a cousin of his from my previous school, about me). I closed up mine, totally. Did open them, those eyes, sometimes to see admire him from behind the herculean century old pillars and wonder – Him, Oh I see. But why me? The peahen danced secretly, but gathered all her feathers the moment him she would see. He was told it’s the wrong bird, for she is taken already. Someone’s jealousy! So he wound up his feathers too. And we went about doing our thing. Apart, still, but proud in our own swings.    

And then there was no choice one day. No pillars to hide behind. 

We both hated PT. Coincidence. 

And sports day was fast approaching. Which meant our PTIs would don their caps and running shoes with salwar-kameez, polish their whistles, get all worked up standing under the cool shade of the trees as we tried to jog, crawl, trot, swim and sleep walk around the 500 mts track at 40 degrees. Hundreds in the field. Trying to look sporty, be sporty and win their races. And 2, just 2, looking for excuses to not do anything. Me and him. Apart though, still, not knowing that the other’s anatomy too was making similar excuses to skip the march past. To sit on the sides, in the shade and watch the world slog, left-right-left.  

He reached before me, to that certain step where I saw him seconds after he sat. Too late to turn back and no other place around. Fidgeting with my hair, re-buckling my watch strap and doing other mindless things that being conscious is made of, I reached where he sat. Trying to look away to look disinterested. Him and me, both. Failing miserably. The first encounter after the rumour, and there were 2 pairs of jelly legs and a pair of teenage hearts shaking and beating to the tune of – ‘Oh Lord! What next?’

Serendipity. 

A fortunate coincidence.

“I am sorry for causing you embarrassment. I did not mean to, was never my intention. I just wanted to be friends. And we can never trust these middle men and women” said he. I looked up to him, literally, for he sat a step above, as had always been. 

“Cool!” said I, as nonchalantly as I could feign it. Did not expect it. Who admits it, except a gentleman of the highest degree? My voice was not prepared. My heart even less. It skipped loops upon loops. What nice jaw line he has.Thank God for the drum beats of the march past. 

“So, I guess it’s all OK then. No discomfort no turning away no need to make the visible invisible, right?” So he had noticed, thought I. Even me behind the pillars, and I turned red.

“Yes” is what I said. This time my heart danced. 

Friends. 

Down he came to sit beside me. Two yellow dots on the grey steps. One still towering over the other. 6 feet. No, nearly there. But then, he was always a step above the rest. Wasn't he?

We talked, and soon we were speaking to each other. Drums and whistles and PTIs’ instructions no longer claimed our ears. “I quite like you, you know” and I wondered if he was proposing? “You’re okay too, actually!” and I could see our feathers opening. Not to flaunt or be a prude. No. Just to reveal everything that we wanted to. About ourselves. At this point. From inside. 

And that moment etched in my photographic memory. His too, or so he claims.

Thank God for hating PT. Thank God for a kind PTI. And for the fortunate coincidence of lame excuses of anatomy.

Thank God for Serendi-Pt. Serendi-Pt? 

Platinum – Pt. 

Did you know?

Rare material and hence highly valuable. For sure he is, my man I speak about. 

Resistant to wear and tarnish. Of impeccable character, I tell you! 

A by-product of mining and processing. Really! It does show, those manners, that polish! 

Non-reactive even at high temperatures. The calm in the storm of my tea cup. 

Catalyst for many reactions. He made me pick up my pen, again. And so much more.

“Little silver” but lots of love. 

It’s rare. 

It's so him.

And it’s been 13 years since we shared that berth. Married for 6 years, and with a bundle who loves to pull my ears. Especially when I don these you see in the picture above. The first ever gift in a little red box, from a fellow yellow-dot, who I fell in love with when no such plan existed.

On our day of love. Our day of Serendi-Pt.

[Written for 'Platinum Day of Love' hosted by IndiBlogger]

83-13-30 - and Shopping

No, the title is not supposed to be a version of 36-24-36. Neither mine nor yours! Rein in that brain, rest it and just read. These are years – 30 years before 2013 was 1983. 17 years from today will be 2030. Too many numbers to begin with? Shopping sounds better. So, let’s proceed.   

1983. 

Notable piece of news? The Cricket World Cup trophy came home. Even bigger news? The author of this post was born. Yes, my doctor deliverer held me up even as Kapil Dev held up The Cup, this very same year. Now, if I was born in 1983, would I know what shopping in 1983 was all about? I am sure if I thought hard enough, I would remember where my frilly frocks came from. But, I decided to ask around. Parents, their parents, maternal aunt, paternal uncle, the 1000 or so cousins born before me, even asked the kid brother who was yet to come, really. That hard I worked to know how, just how, were people shopping back in 1983? With land-lines more ‘dead’ than alive, mobile something that Batman travelled in and online banking an impossible idea from future colonies on Mars, people were simply going to the market with their lists and picking things up. Maybe stopping over at the bank and withdrawing some money, in case the monthly budget kept in the envelope under the flower vase had run out already. Market meant a Paltan Bazaar. Shop meant a generational general merchant (& Bros. & Sons variety) where all branches of the family had been buying the time-tested brands from. Clothes were handed down, or bought in whole-sale from good bargain shops. Luxury was NRI relatives (God bless those ones from then) getting you a Sony TV, wooden body and wooden screen cover complete. Needs were few, choices of brands even fewer and the will to experiment with the fancy looking-foreign sounding “imported” bottles in exclusive shops (British ancestry, please) reserved for the elite. That was shopping where I was born, in 1983.

2013.

Three decades down, and we enter the Now. The breaking news is breaking through your TVs, so that I need not tell you about. Plus, I wasn’t re-born. But shopping? Seems like that has been re-born in an entirely different avatar! The groceries either come home through our telephones or are picked up in super-market. In 10 feet of retail space you see 10 brands of tooth pastes and 100 different brands of women-attracting deodorants (though none for keeping them). Clothes with Italian tags, bed sheets named after Greek Goddesses and even dedicated sections for keeping children and pets occupied even as you pick and choose from shelves that reach the sky. The lift will zoom you till the car and then goodbye cart, and mall and supermarket – our monthly groceries as well as a few indulgences have been bought, and hefty parking charges for our wheels paid. Good deals on electronics, books, cameras, phones can also be picked up from Karts christened after the products. No shipping charges, payment on delivery sometimes, cash back guarantee if the customer is not satisfied, secure banking transactions and there you have it – Sir Shopping in shining armour, sitting beneath that button and always at your service with just a click. And the latest from the online shopping grapevine?  eBay’s ebay.in CHECK - a one-stop, auto drop down wonder, gift-wrapped for us as a tiny button, downloaded on our tool bar within seconds and always at our beck-and-call. Press it and see the best deals on the site for anything you desire. Ah! Fingers can continue to be lazy, wallets smile happy and more time on our hands to philosophize on the pot, or elsewhere. Oh! As for that NRI luxury and Sony TVs from 1983? Well, last I checked my cousin Sachin a.k.a Steve from the US of A was busy buying Rakhi gifts from this very .in site. Genius invention for our generation! Even Einstein must be wondering – Jeez, why didn’t I think of it?

2030.

Fast forward, not 30 years but a little over half of that – 17 years. Bad mathematics? Well, partly. But mostly because if yesterday technology was leaping forward at the speed of sound through air, today it is moving with the speed of light itself. So 3 decades of the past are equal to half that time of the future – techie-wise. And it will only take lesser time for bigger leaps, as my 30 years turn into 60. S.i.x.t.y.? Wow, time to change the topic and get back to shopping 17 years from now. 

Even though my mane looks like Einstein’s in humidity, I am not him most certainly. But I do shop online, a lot, and am experienced with the good, the bad and the ugly bits of ordering your objects of desire through .coms and the more patriotic .ins. After burning the midnight yellow CFL in my lamp as well as a handful of grey cells, I came up with the following 5 ideas that can change the orbit of online shopping into a wider-smoother-faster ellipse in 2030.

Idea 1 – Auto-Replenish

Dear post-it on the fridge, you just lost your job. No more grocery listing. No more keeping a tab on beer in the chiller or oil in the pantry. Auto-replenish technology will send a signal to the online shopping portal whenever the stock is dwindling and poof! It will be delivered to you even before you spot it was over. Radar racks and censors in the fridge will do that listing for you, send the re-order list to the portal and get your needs delivered at your door step in good time. Radical? I think so too! You can now save your post-its for love-ly messages instead which say – ‘Out for dinner with friends, honey. Cook yours, will you!’ Of course, all inside a little red heart! 

Idea 2 – 3-D Prototypes

By 2030, 3-D printers will take over homes – be it for helping with the kids’ school projects or sending a sample of your wedding card to the generous Sony TV NRI family from once-upon-a-time. Why not use them for shopping too? Free ordering/printing of prototypes of products might help us with choosing options. Will the size of the phone look good in my hands? Are those ear rings too big for my face? Will an iPod armband for cycling feel comfortable? Will save us so much hit-and-try buys of wrong shapes and sizes and thickness and depths. Don’t you think?

Idea 3 - Expert Advice

Let’s face it. Online shopping portals offer everything – variety, exchange offers, best prices and bonanza deals. What they do not offer? Expert advice, like the one available in the form of a goodly young man who follows you in a departmental/electronic store in a tie and guides you about the various specifications of the products you are looking at. Most importantly, he gives you a much-needed inter-brand comparison. No, I do not mean product reviews which are available aplenty on forums across www. I mean a person who could tell me, for instance, which rim tape is best for my bicycle, or which lens should be my next buy - right then and there. For all the times I haven’t really been sure of what I want or need, even if it were an animated avatar doing the expert talking I would not mind. Would you? Make him good-looking, feed in the information, the know-how and the comparisons and dear Factoid, I will be ready to fall in love with you. 

Idea 4 - Delivered, urgently

My pizza comes home in 30 minutes. Why can’t the handbag I want to gift my sister coming for dinner in an hour? Or ColicAid my baby’s tummy needs for gassy fuss at 2am? Or maybe just a tissue paper roll even as the pressure on the pot is on its way? Big things or small, fancy or mundane, a little networking with small shops around and there we have it (Yes, small shops will always be around!). Delivery within minutes! EBay does this already, as my experience of ordering on it tells me.  But we can make it faster, by many hours! And then, does not the idea of including the stores in the online ordering system beam better than all of government’s Inclusion Policies put together? That provokes a thought!

Idea 5 – Artificial Intelligence, at my service

Getting personal is not always a bad thing, especially if we are talking about personalized shopping services. What if a site more intelligent than me can keep track of my past purchases, memorize my interests, remember the products I dig and prompt suggestions every time I need them? Say, in the type of books I buy or the kind of gadgets that suit my interest? And equally important, not overwhelm me with information on products I really don’t care about. I mean, why flash pictures of designer ties to a hippie? We do know sometimes technology can be better than us. After all, smart phones are, aren’t they? So why not the AI on my favourite shopping portal. I can just let my head be in peace. It’s 2030 people, who wants to use their own brains?

For now, I have used mine. All 30 years of it, and even beyond. While I wait for much-deserved patents for all 1-5 above, I will go look for a new pair of glasses. A press of a button away and poof! I already found what I was looking for. Look at that! If that’s not fast, funky and futuristic what is?

[Written for 'The future of shopping' contest hosted by IndiBlogger in association with eBay] 

Saying Hei Helsinki, Again!

I can travel through my travel pictures. Such a mind I enjoy. Every time I feel that urge of packing my bags and leaving the mundane behind, I open my photo albums and get lost in them, literally. I have travelled a lot, not enough to pen a ‘Lonely Planet’ but certainly more than what just 3-decades of shamelessly indulgent existence deserves. Hyperbolically speaking, my photo collection can make a ring around the Moon and make astronauts feel Saturn is closer home. Really!  

Lately, on an unusual day of trying to feel constructive, I started labelling old pictures and shoe-boxing them in the right categories for ease of search. That’s when I came across old pictures of our Helsinki-Stockholm trip from some years back. Forgetting what I had set out to do, my grey matter started itching to remember the little Finnish I had learnt for the trip. To God Mr. Google I instantly prayed for some help and found my answers.

I looked at the basic phrases of Finnish on this British site. With a smile I remembered how everyone smiled when I tried to pronounce “Anteeksi, missa on WC?” (Excuse me, where’s the toilet?). Being 7 months pregnant meant frequent nature calls and the sub-zero temperatures did not let you hold it in too long either. Even as I scanned the list for all the mispronunciations a human being is capable of, I kept going back to the blue-and-orange Yatra.com advert banner flashing before my eyes. It seemed to be saying to me what Oscar Wilde wildly said once – The best way to get rid of temptation is to give in to it. Was this tempting 'Hurry!' a Happy Coincidence asking me to do just that - give in? 

Past Tense 

I was in Helsinki for Christmas holidays in 2010. Call it a cross between a honeymoon and a baby shower, if you please. It was the closest I have lived to the Arctic Circle and very exciting. Exciting because at 9 am the Sun used to make an attempt to rise behind the snowy clouds and at 3:30 pm it was gone. Did that mean it was time for dinner and bed in the afternoon? No sir, no way! The city kept awake, of course. Wrapped up like onions and with my belly full of baby, we used to walk the streets every night, me and my husband. The smell of snow, of Christmas lights adorning every corner and the ‘Hei’ generously shared with strangers on festively high spirits, literally, made us go wow at every turn. We saw all important sites of Helsinki on foot, night-after-night. In the day we slept like owls. We even took an over-night cruise to gamble away our hard-earned money on the Baltic, only to enjoy old Stockholm’s charm on empty pockets but wide-eyes the next day.  

The Finnish are impressive personalities, with lovely cheek bones, jaw lines and eyes which remind you of blue lagoons, albeit at a height of nearly 6 feet. I made sure I got an eyeful (and I am sure Mister did too) only because when pregnant, you should look at nice-looking things and no other. We ate everything from shark to boiled beetroot to our comfort food in foreign climes called McDonald's and Subway. The water went from spring to mineral to sparkling to I-just-want-the-normal-purifier-water, someone? Pregnancy hormones behaved themselves, the baby kicked in glee eating all that fruit yogurt and Mister and I got a good one week to hold hands in abundance and answer the ‘boy or girl?’ questions of kind passers-by with a shrug of our shoulders, but a heart full of anticipation.

On one such night, when the 20 layers of clothing on our bodies could not hold out the minus 20 degrees of wind blowing and we desperately looked for a coffee shop to revive our frozen ribs, we came by a warmly lit-up baby shop. It was our last night of the holiday and as we peeped inside at the prams and strollers, we swore to ourselves, right there, that we will get our little one to Helsinki and Stockholm one fine day. To tell him how, at 28 weeks, he had added to the beauty of our experience manifold!  

Present Tense 

The advert on the Finnish language site that seemed to be Coincidence's doing was to be the catalyst for keeping my promise to my little one. I rubbed clicked on the magic lamp link and a genie seemed to start a chain reaction of click after click leading to a ‘booked’ for the December that is to come. Not having planned and booked my family’s travel on my own before, I had no idea about the how and why of doing it all online. But a desire to throw a surprise for the boys and being wildly led by what Wilde said, I thought why not.

I was bent on planning everything to the T, to ensure that my holiday is speed-breakers free. I wanted to ensure a wallet-friendly package, hassle-free booking procedure and everything delivered as promised on the site. I also wanted to leave no stones unturned or no other site unchecked before doing my fare comparisons. And the last thing I wanted to see? A message that read ‘page expired’ or ‘session ended’ as my bank balance decreased even as the transaction failed over a sad server connection. With this baggage of expectations I entered the advert and keyed in my expected dates of travel.   

This indeed took just a few seconds and the confidence ringing through the ‘best international flight combinations for you’ made me very confident in turn. An array of flights found and the competitive rates to grab right before my eyes. A quick calculation of budget and time zone difference away, my flight was ready to take-off with me and my family. Next came the hotel booking, especially important since a week is not a short duration. Will I have to sell off my car to afford it? Or my house? I mused. The filters helped me find the one that fit the family income as well as my specifications of facilities, especially since I was to have a toddler in tow. The detailed advanced search for short-listing hotels was a breeze.  

 And eureka! Yatra.com seemed to have read my mind! Radisson Blu Royal Hotel , where we had stayed the last time around too, popped up as I entered my requirements. And when I saw a Smart Deal offer on the hotel of my choice, I quickly added a few extra items to my long shopping list because now I could afford to - thanks to the sudden windfall of another happy Smart Coincidence! 

I was a happy (and confident) traveller already, as I “travelled” on Yatra.com and finalized the formalities. Like I said, I had never booked a holiday single-handedly before. But now I know, that if this is the site you too choose for your travel plans, you need not worry about failed transactions, online banking security, sorry speed of servers, limited options to choose from and hidden catches waiting like a trap. Yatra.com is a different experience altogether.

Future Tense

I sit enjoying my Pre-travel Happiness High, for I know already that I have ensured a well-planned and comfortable trip to Helsinki for my beau, my boy and myself. And what begins so well, can only grow to be even better. Happy Travellers we shall surely be. I always wanted to scream “Olemme takaisin, Helsinki” – We Are Back, Helsinki. And this time around we will be three. But shh! That is just a little secret between you, me and my genie.   

[Post written for 'Creating Happy Travellers' hosted by IndiBlogger in association with Yatra.com]

My Nose, My Time Machine

The nose is a very important organ. Not just because you can poke it where you please or dig it in times of boredom. The nose is also important, as we all know, for helping us smell. Now, olfaction is an ancient sense. We have been sniffing around for food or trouble ever since this planet of the apes came into being. However, if a cocktail of science and psychology is to be believed, it seems that our 2 humble little (or big) nostrils can even evoke vivid memories in our heads, with just a whiff of a scent that we have smelled in the past. 

And it’s 100 per cent true! 

All too often, my nose becomes my Time Machine, for as it smells various fragrances doing their rounds in my house, it makes me fly back into time faster than the speed of Shaktiman. A simple inhalation and a deep exhalation that softly says, “Ah, those were the days!” and brings an ear-to-ear smile on my face. What creates those ‘ah’ moments in my mind? Here are some:

Aam ka achaar

God made mangoes seasonal, but he added ‘let there be mango pickle all year through’, and mankind learnt how to make it. Puri-aalu needs it, gobhi-parantha loves it and mathree is nothing without it. Same goes for us. Every time the bottomless jar of mango pickle that my mother-in-law made opens in my kitchen, out comes the masaledaar smell of about 200 ingredients mixed right and preserved in oil to keep it finger-licking good. The smell instantly takes me back by many years to when I was 7 years old, sitting next to my grandmother with 5 other children and watching her hands fill huge martbaans with pickle made from home-grown mangoes. Even the trees used to watch on, fascinated, as her measured hands made manna from their fruit, to last our joint family of 12 a whole year. Oh we did our bit too – removed the seeds, and dropped the mango pieces in the yellow paste waiting in the paraat, beaming with pride as our pick got pickled!

The same tangy aroma reminds me of days of hungry temptation too, as we sat on our school desks. In the periods before recess, which were usually reserved for chemistry lab work, tiffin boxes would start opening with clandestine clicks as if too impatient with hunger to wait for the interval bell to ring. We front-benchers would stare at our teacher lecturing about organic-inorganic compounds and show us magic tricks in test-tubes, while all the while our olfactory organs were going dizzy with the mango pickle smell around the pulao that a backbencher’s lunch brought our way. And no, frequent glances at the watches did not make the time pass any faster. Needless to say, by the time the acids and the alkalis were put to rest at the sound of the bell, the rear seats in class had been fully fed.

Cardboard boxes

Call me strange, but there is a smell to an empty cardboard box which, I am sure, only a few mortals have learnt to appreciate. From humble Relaxo chappal boxes of yesterday to Hush Puppies of today, from peytees which carried our monthly groceries from the kirana shop to sleek-n-slim ones within which our LED TVs arrive now – cardboard boxes have a characteristic smell of their own, not musky but somewhat that. 

The smell makes me remember those countless hours I spent with my kid brother creating wild collections of match boxes picked off the streets, used Campa Cola caps and Ripley’s Believe it or Not cut-outs from newspapers – duly sorted and laid to rest in cartons arranged by our father to forward his children’s “creativity”. With no real sense behind all the hard-work, we continued with a steely purpose to fill up the Gagan ghee cartons to the brim, housing within our sibling hearts a secret desire to enter the Guinness Records ourselves with the classified, taped and neatly preserved collections! Days of gay abandon, when best-out-of-waste was not found in fancy showrooms but in the space under the staircase in my house. And that’s where it still lies – a little forgotten, but right there. And that’s where I get transported to every time a big brown box stares at me to be emptied of its contents, or to be filled up with my memories, whichever happens first. 

‘Flora’ in a Bottle

Not all scents are made to jog the memory down childhood’s lane. Some take us back by just a few years from what we call today, to when we were grown-up adult hearts and arms, ready to take a beloved in. For me this was some years back, when I met a boy from my school days, fell in love, got our love arranged and impatiently waited out the 6 long months before our wedding day. As we love-birds were courting and counting down days to our wedlock, he gifted me this lovely fragrance ‘Flora’ by Gucci. I did what many would do – locked it up only to be used on those very special occasions. And special occasions were all occasions when I was to meet him - coffee dates, long drives, movies and other fillers-of-courtship-days-until-d-day when Love chooses to swim in the air, and walk the ground too. Today, 6-years and one toddler later, whenever I go spray-spray the same pink hearts and little cupid appear as they used to in those filmy days of hand-holding, smiling and going pink, in that exact order.  

Sigh! Those were the days. 

Every time I wake-up from my reveries into the present that we must occupy and live in, I wonder - if only our noses had an inbuilt filter buffering away the bad odours from the good. Alas! Evolution was never meant to be perfect, and neither was olfaction. And while mishaps of toddler toilet-training, dankness of the monsoons, smell of sweat in cycling shoes and of the fishy curry getting cooked for you cannot be wished away, they can surely be wiped away. How else will all the nostalgic scents flow easy and act the spark plug for my nose, my Time Machine, and zoom me back to yesteryears?

The elixir for that is in another bottle, not Gucci this time but certainly flowery enough and as wonderful. And that’s my AmbiPur, a hero that helps keep the smelly out and the smiley aglow - who not just deserves mention in this lovely smelling post but a picture too. Here it is then, posing, but instead of saying ‘cheese’ it chose to say a deep fulfilling ‘Ah’. And just look what happened ...  

Now, the proof of the pudding is in the eating, or so say the sacred texts. If you really want to see how I make no tall claims but speak the tried-and-tested truth, spare 2:43 minutes of your lives and watch this video, taken many weeks before this post was invited. I assure you no blossom scents will come out from computer screens and enter your rooms to prove their potency. What you will see here is me, and a few others, as part of a secret experiment to demonstrate the power contained in this bottle. In the midst of mind-numbing rot I sit blind-folded, ignorant of the reeking garbage strewn around. My nose does the talking, as it waxes eloquent about how my surrounding scents take me back to Kerala backwaters, with boats full of flowers floating around me and my beloved. This here is my moment of Ambi Pur induced nostalgia caught on candid camera!

 So, there we go! You have got your proof that I speak the truth and nothing but the truth, and I have got a second bottle to add to my 'Ah! Those were the days' collection. I had only one heart-felt thing to say then (in the video at the end of the prank) which I say now too, with even more confidence - "I had seen this advertisement before but I did not know it is so cool. Now I do, really! So, thank you!"

And chances are, you will say exactly those words when you experience your Ambi Pur too.

[Written for 'Smelly to Smiley' contest hosted by IndiBlogger in association with AmbiPur; https://www.facebook.com/AmbiPurIndia]

Steam

We were engaged to be married. Six long, very long, months separated us from the day my books were to move into his shelves, and my being into his life. We had tried to bribe the panditji to shift auspicious July to an even better (for our sanity, surely) April, but His Holiness's wrath and the ensuing lecture on how-not-to-be-desperate had reached the elders of our family. To our long wait we then surrendered. However, that did not mean we could not meet for a conservative cup of coffee or go on a roaring road trip in his humble little hatchback. So what if the destination was in our neighbourhood hills and the trip just a day long? We had our car, our music, our love, our good time and even a knock on the window by a cop – all the masala that some recipes of perfection are made of.

"Where do you want to go?" he asked, looking and talking as handsome as always. 

"Away," I responded with a smile as I sat down next to the wheel. "Take me away, will you?"

The car smelled fresh and flowery, and considering it was a bachelor’s nest on four wheels I expected worse. Don Williams played in the background and we ringed love birds were soon zooming our way to a certain cluster of shops called ‘Char Dukaan’ in Mussoorie - just a stone’s throw from our homes but far enough to get away from the known. 

If you thought clandestine is magical, the legitimate togetherness of the semi-official couple is even better. You can throw to the mountain winds all fear of bumping into Pummy aunty from Doon Club or Col. Joshi of mummy’s NGO in a town the size of your daddy’s golf ball. You can talk about ahem-n-that and start naming your children already. You can debate out ideas of ‘space’ and draw a line running right through the middle of the shared wardrobe, and the TV remote. Best of all, you can stop putting your best foot forward and show the official other half your obsession with coloured socks, or expensive Oxfords, whichever go on sale first. Most importantly, you can do all that as you lay back and enjoy the ride, even with monsters jumping in your stomach waiting to dig the cheese omlette, vegetable and cheese maggi, banana waffles, chocolate pancakes, strawberry shake, in exactly that order and only at the destination point. 

But what you cannot do is what we did do. And then there came the knock on the window.

"I will show you something that will take your breath away," he announced enigmatically, as the car made a steep turn uphill only to come to a sudden halt. Oh God! What does he mean? I thought I had made it amply clear. I have my rules. I cannot break them – no, not even when his car smells like the valley of flowers, he a Greek god very available (legitimately) and we surrounded with nothing remotely close to human eyes or ears.

"What do you mean?" I managed to stutter, soon as the car engine's roar became all silent. The angel on my shoulder screamed at the devil in my mind - I have seen everything I wanted to see. The rest can wait! I am convent-educated and my parents believe in God and I cross my heart that I loved my moral science classes and I am a chicken and that all things happen only when they are supposed to and it's a car for God's sake... 

"Step out will you?" And in a second he had jumped out of the car, opened the door to my side and was waiting with a Hitchcockian smile of a detective to show me what he meant. 

You can ask me if I indeed lost my breath or not, when he showed me what 'Away' looked like. But do not ask me if I was a little disappointed that it was about the view, only. I will not answer that. Just know that at exactly this point, when my lashes were fluttering little pink hearts towards him, I realised how confident I was about my choice my beau. Certain, that I will not be wearing running shoes under my Punjabi wedding dress. And that everything will be as perfect as this day, my life, our road trip to … um …where were we going, sorry?

"Time to have mummy’s coffee," he proclaimed and rubbed his hands in glee, as he rushed in to get a thermos full of steaming home-brewed coffee my mother thought obliged to send with us kids - in case we wanted to take a break before the breakfast on the hill-top. (What is this thing with mothers always trying to send a part of the home with you I understand not. If they could, they would convert a visit to the kirana shop into a picnic.) So well, there was coffee in Styrofoam cups, on the road side, with the hills yawning awake and the sun coming in gradually, as the mist rose to come another time. A penta-sensual experience and as close as it gets to feeling divine!

"Divine, isn't it? And we are only half-way there...," he smiled as if reading my mind, with a knowingly mischievous glint in his eyes. He got up to play ‘Delirious Love’ on the car stereo and a waft of that flowery scent from the car glided outside to merge with the woody one around. But as I heard Neil Diamond’s voice so did I hear his ‘Yikes’. His cup of coffee lay seeping into my seat. While I had no idea how a semi-official is supposed to react to such a situation, considering how men love their cars and even more their girls not thinking them clumsy, that blot of coffee spreading its ground on my seat had momentarily become a blot on our perfect moment, indeed. 

"Oh! It does not matter, we’ll get the covers changed. I’ll sit at the back, don’t worry," is all I could say. Little did I know that Mr. Ready was ready with solutions for anything and everything.

"A battery operated steam-brush? You mean something like what the dry-cleaner uses and charges a bomb for?" I asked, almost befuddled by the sudden gadgetry around on this beautiful morning and wondering if all engineers-turned-civil-servant procure these things just to remain loyal to their university degree.

"Jump in, let’s show you how it works. I do not want you sitting at the back because then I cannot get to look at you or hold your hand and … err … this will take just one minute," promised he, all pink by the sudden slips of tongue we always blame Freud for. And the steam brush worked wonders, such wonders that it fetched us our surprise and surprised visitor. You see, Physics, maybe Chemistry too, tells us how too much steam inside the car, or anywhere, can make the glass windows go all misty. Least realizing what the whirring hand-held cleaner was doing to ours, we had transformed our tiny hatchback into the dotted rocking one from your favourite advertisement or that car from Titanic The Movie’s basement. We only noticed the misty windows when the cop knocked, with a hard hand that moral police enjoys.

In one breath he spoke - "What’s going on here, haan? No shame you youngsters have, no shame. Get out of the car and hand over your license. At least the girl should have some shame. Where does she stay? Tell me now." All this, as he turned a deaf ear to our absolutely genuine and innocent explanation. He continued after a breath, "It is a case of 294. I will take you to jail for this 294 here. Don’t you know so many cars come here for 294? No shame you kids have! I could hear your ‘Oh yes, it’s working it’s working’ till the adjacent hillock. Openly doing 294," he pronounced in his Garhwali Hindi.   

It was not long before the hills echoed with our shared laughter when Mr. Cop was finally convinced about what we were doing. Little did we know then that the hero of this humorous movie – our dear steam brush, will be taken away from us by a man who wanted to keep his uniform clean much more than us our car seats. He wished us good tidings that soon-to-be-married couples need and we wished him happy free dry-cleaning.   

As we took the final bend and reached ‘Char Dukaan’, we knew we had had quite a day. Ravenous hunger, the gastric variety, had to be taken care of, now. And it was! In the form of all the items mentioned above, and some more. By the time the last burp was out and the plates polished clean, we had already forgotten about our steamy friend altogether and were ready to roll down the mountain exactly the same way that we came. Exactly like that! 

Looking back, it almost seems as if the car, the coffee and the cop had conspired to make our road trip a perfect one – full of freshness and beauty, revelations and comfort, surprises and laughter that echoed in the whole valley. Perhaps a perfect road trip is not one which clocks a hundred miles to an exotic destination, with fancy food and a fancier car, with loud music and everything else that young blood is made of. Perhaps, all it needs to be is something that makes you feel all warm inside whenever your memory decides to jog off to that road and those four wheels.

Is this my ‘idea’ of a perfect road trip or a perfect road trip as had happened six years ago? Or is it a third entity somewhere between fact and fiction? That I will leave for the reader to guess. The only fact of the matter that I will freely share is that 294 is indeed a section in the Indian Penal Code. And this was not the first time we had heard it through our car window. 

Or was it?

[This is my entry for 'The Perfect Road Trip' contest, hosted by IndiBlogger in association with Ambi Pur https://www.facebook.com/AmbiPurIndia]