Do-it-yourself guide to card making

It took a handmade card from D to remind me of what I'd been missing.

I had griped some months ago about the vanishing tribe of greeting cards. Of how phone calls, emails, e-cards and sms had replaced the once-cherished cards. I had proclaimed loftily then that I would revive this almost extinct tradition. But sometime early this year, my resolution fell by the wayside. Birthdays came and went with guilty reminders, but I just couldn't summon the enthusiasm...

... until D's card arrived in the mail.

It reminded me of the cards I used to make - a picture from a magazine stuck on a square of card paper, a few words rendered in calligraphy and a little decoration. Considering D had made it a month ago and posted it early to ensure it reached me in time, it made me feel inordinately good. So when my birthday calendar reminded me of two very close girl friends' birthdays, I decided to get back into the act.

First, I pulled out the 'magic box' - a cardboard box crammed with cuttings from newspapers and magazines, culled over 12 years. Sifting through 3000 pictures can be a bit cumbersome, so pictures have been sorted under various heads - guys, girls, children, couples, abstract, toons and so on. I pulled out the 'girls' section, started thumbing through it and waited for the magic to begin...

I don't know how it happens, but it's never failed this far. I think about the person, tick off the dominant qualities (or quirks) and even as I sift casually, my mind is uncommonly alert. Hmmm.... ohhhkay.... maybe.... nevvah.... BINGO! There is always a picture that's a dead ringer, a perfect match. For instance, I had a friend from Delhi who jocularly referred to South Indians as 'nariyals' (coconuts), which irked me no end. Incredibly, she married a South Indian. My magic box threw up a picture of a coconut seller with a raised sickle, ostensibly to thwack a coconut but for some reason his gaze was fixed steadily on the neck of woman at his stall, who looked distinctly Northie! The Nariyals strike back, I wrote.

Coming up with ideas for ads is a struggle in comparison.

Back to the cards, I found the pictures I was looking for, and started tossing around words to accompany them. Meanwhile, I started on the next task - choosing the right paper. No tacky chart paper will do. Hand made cards need hand made paper. The thick roll from Chimanlal's tumbles out. And with it the age-old dilemma... Use it? Hoard it? I can't help getting rather attached to the blood red Moonrock and pink Pigskin, silk fibre cream and petal pressed ecru, ridged sunshine yellow and gold-flecked turquoise. I once had a sheet with coriander leaves pressed into it and it broke my heart to use it.

I selected the matching paper with a sigh and started cutting it up. The room looked like it had been hit by a hurricane, but my mind was still incredibly focussed.

Picture and paper selected, I headed for the stationery drawer. Here's where my true obsession reveals itself. Water colours, photo colours, brush markers, gel pens, blow pens, calligraphy nibs, chisel nib markers, oil paint crayons, water colour pencils, stencils - I run a mini-stationery store. Truth be told, I've been shortchanged in the drawing department. So to counter my meagre artistic skills, I muster up all kinds of stationery resources and a little calligraphy to make the cards presentable. It's worked this far.

A card is incomplete without an envelope. So out came the envelope box with recyclable envelopes of every shape, size and hue. If a card refuses to fit into any of the existing ones, a little snipping achieves the task, or else a new envelope is made. The little strips of leftover paper are used to add colour to old envelopes and cover up post marks.

Why don't you get into the greeting card business, friends and relatives have asked? I've considered that option but somehow it doesn't appeal. The thrill comes from creating a card that is an accurate reflection of the person. And for that, I need to know the person. 'One size fits all', just won't work.

Because the entire process is time consuming, cards have to planned and made well in advance. Quite often it doesn't happen, but when the muse knocks, ideas fly fast and thick. And everyone gets a card - the boss, colleagues, Alison, even the dentist.

Do the recipients hang on to the cards, I've often wondered wistfully, or is it just tossed away after the special day has passed. A chance conversation with Ro (another personalised card-maker) reassured me a bit. 'I have every single hand made card I've ever received', she said.

Coming back to the two cards I started out with, I found myself sealing 9 envelopes. I'd been oblivious to life around for 4 hours. My fingers were sticky and paint splattered, the room was in a mess, mum was in a tizzy... but there was a warm glow of satisfaction. And anticipation.

Last year...

- Trekked 17,500 feet in the Himalayas

- Did the bungee jump – 180 feet

- Ran the Half-Marathon - 21 kms

- Won an Indian advertising award

- Was nominated for an international advertising award

- Got the biggest raise ever

- Started a blog

- Made friends-for-life through blogging (some of who I haven’t met yet)

- Got 5 articles published

- Got written about in a newspaper (Page 3 ;-)

- Did Vipassana

- Found answers finally…


… 30, here I come!

Two for the road…

Over the years I've used several euphemisms for the Bombay Curse. 'Reading time', 'thinking time', 'nap time' – I've called it. But there's no escaping the tedium of the daily commute. On most days I stoically submit to the three-hour bedlam, but on two occasions last week, I was almost grateful for it.

Episode 1: Taxi Philosophy
Time: 9:00 p.m.

A steady drizzle pounded the pavement. I made a dash for the solitary taxi parked close to the office entrance. When he heard my destination was the nearby railway station, he disdainfully waved me away. I was about to mutter darkly when impatient honking interrupted me.

Another taxi had appeared and the driver was craning out of the window, beckoning me. Half-expecting to be refused, I belligerently called out the destination. He nodded and turned the meter.

His uncharacteristic willingness already had me on the back foot. And then his next statement knocked me over.

"Insaan apni maut nahin chun sakta, to savari kyon chunta hai?"
(A person can't choose his own death, so why get choosy with passengers?)

Coming from a Mumbai cabbie – a species known for their hauteur – that was profound. I checked for signs of inebriation, but he seemed sober. If anything, he was lost in thought as he negotiated the traffic.

"Madam, Bharat ki aabadi kitni hogi?"
(What's the population of India?)

I had barely recovered from the previous statement.

Uh..er… 1 billion, I blurted.

"Billion matlab? Mujhe karod samajh mein aata hai."
(What does billion mean? I can understand crores.)

I wrestled with the numbers a bit and then said, 'Billion matlab sau crore'.

"Aur Amreeka ki aabadi kitni hogi?"
(And what's the population of America?)

I felt like an unprepared contestant at Mastermind.

"Tees karod," I bluffed confidently.

He mulled about this for some time, while I braced myself for the next salvo.

“Sirf tees karod? Wahan ki gaurment har aadmi ki acchi dekhbal karti hogi, na?”
(Only 30 crores? The government must be taking good care of the people, mustn't it?)

And then having worked it all out, turned around and triumphantly told me, "Aabadi his sabse badi majhboori hai, madam."(Population is the greatest disadvantage.)

I was expecting a rambling debate on politics, but his simplistic deduction was beguiling. I couldn't help smiling. The conversation would've been interesting if I didn't have to alight just then.

I was pulling out the change, when he started honking again. A couple with a sleeping child had just been waved away by another fickle cabbie. He beckoned them. Without waiting to hear the destination, he turned his meter.


Episode 2: Auto Philanthropy
Time: 1:00 a.m.

I was headed home from a dinner that had gone on a little too late. We were passing a deserted stretch when I noticed the auto driver peering at me in the rear view mirror. I've done a few late nights in advertising to know how to handle creepy drivers. I stared back coldly.

He anxiously asked, 'Madam, time kya hua?'

Without taking my eye off him, I told him it was one in the morning. There were icicles hanging on every syllable.

He looked almost relieved, "Mujhe do bajhe tak vapas ana hai. Mera kutta biscuit khane aayega."(I've to return by two a.m. My dog will come for his biscuit.)

Was this some sort of code, I wondered?

I didn't have to speculate for long. He happily told me. He usually parked his vehicle outside the colony, from where I had got on. At 2 a.m., he'd make his way to the tea stall and when he returned, he'd unfailingly find the driver's seat occupied by a stray dog!

No amount of prodding dislodged the dog. Finally, he'd pull out the biscuit bought at the tea stall. The dog would climb down onto the floor of the auto, munch on the biscuit and then go off to sleep. The driver would squeeze into the back seat.

What happens if you get a passenger and can't return in the night, I asked?

He smiled, “Woh mere liye subah tak rukega. Isliye main wapas aane ki dekhta hoon.”
(He waits for me until the morning. So I make sure I return.)

Allez, Lance, Allez!

‘Since when have you been interested in sports?’ asked my dad, surprised, as I beat him to the newspaper today and turned to the last page.

For someone who professes zero interest in any sport, I’ve been scanning the sports pages with an uncharacteristic zeal lately. The reason: Lance Armstrong, the cyclist who’s racing to an unprecedented 6th consecutive win in the most arduous sporting event in the world - the Tour de France.

I’d heard of Lance Armstrong fleetingly as a cancer survivor-turned-Tour winner. But it was only when I recently read his biography that I understood just what cancer survivor meant.

Oddly enough, his book is titled, ‘It’s Not About The Bike’. I say odd because his life story reads exactly like a bike ride on the Alps – tortuous uphills, heart-stopping downhills, insane hairpin bends and blinding pain.

Born on the wrong side of the tracks and raised by a single parent, Lance fortuitously discovered a talent on the bike. He raced out of a life of mediocrity and into the elite corps of cycling. In 1996, at age 24, he was the number one ranked cyclist in the world. He had everything – a dazzling career, a lucrative contract, a spanking new home. And then cancer knocked.

For Lance, life didn’t come to a standstill, it catapulted downhill. One day he was diagnosed with testicular cancer with metastasis to the lungs, and the next day he was in surgery to remove his testicle; a week later, the cancer had invaded his brain. He had less than 50% chance of surviving. Could life get worse? Apparently, yes. He discovered too late that he had no health insurance. And his key sponsor, Cofidis, was sidling towards the exit.

Even if he did survive chemotheraphy, there was every chance that he would never cycle again. And if Lance Armstrong wasn’t a world class cyclist, who was he? He writes, ‘I was brought low; this disease would force me to ask more of myself as a person than I ever had before.’

4 cycles of chemotherapy decimated the cancer, poisoned his blood and changed him irrevocably. “Getting cancer was the best thing that ever happened to me,” he writes. It not only made him more appreciative of life, but also motivated him to start the Lance Armstrong Foundation for cancer research and awareness.

Now, many people survive cancer, god be praised. But not one among them goes on to participate and win the world’s most gruelling test of human endurance - the Tour de France.

Initiated in 1903, the Tour de France covers 2,110 miles. That’s 21 days of cycling covering the circumference of France, mountains included, in the heat of summer. ‘It’s a contest in purposeless suffering’, he writes, ‘But it may be the most gallant athletic endeavor in the world.’

And here is what his statistics read like:

'93 - Did not finish
'94 - Did not finish
'95 - 36th
'96 - Did not finish
'97 - Did not enter
'98 - Did not enter
'99 - 1st
'00 - 1st
'01 - 1st
'02 - 1st
'03 - 1st

As today’s Times reports, ‘… only a disaster in the last stage could stop the American… from sealing his record sixth Tour de France victory.’ He’s won three consecutive stages this year, excluding the penultimate stage win. And he has an impressive 4 minute, 9 second lead over his nearest rival. In short, he’s coasting to victory.

But here’s the part of his story that I found most interesting. When he was declared clean of cancer, he didn’t just throw off his catheter, jump onto his bike and ride into Tour legend. For one long, painful year, he battled something more confounding than cancer and chemotherapy – survivorship. ‘In an odd way, having cancer was easier than recovery – atleast in chemo I was doing something, instead of just waiting for it to come back,’ he writes.

After surviving cancer, riding a bike seemed so trivial. He’d have nightmares about cancer returning, he’d get overtaken by old ladies riding on a bicycle. When he finally pulled himself together and announced his return, sponsors didn’t fall over themselves to sign him. And after a punishing training schedule, when he started winning races, critics accused him of taking drugs. But despite being the most tested athlete in the world, he’s never failed a dope test.

It’s true, however, that Lance has an unfair advantage over his rivals. His heart is almost a third larger than that of an average man. His muscles produce less lactic acid. His VO2 Max levels (the maximum amount of oxygen the lungs consume during exercise) are twice as much as a healthy man. But what gives him the edge is his extreme commitment to the sport. When his rivals take a break in winter, he rides alone in the sleet and gale-force winds. His trainers have to beg him to take a day off. In an interview he talks about his schedule, ‘People ask me what are you doing on Christmas Day? What are you doing on January 1st? Riding your bike? Absolutely.’ When asked whether it was necessary to adhere so rigidly to his training schedules he counters, “Depends whether you want to win. I do.’

I hope you do too, Lance.



Update: Vive la Lance! Six time winner of the Tour de France!

Water way to spend a Sunday!

Imagine walking backwards on a slippery, slimy, moss covered rock. Even as you take a few steps, a thick jet of water hits you square in the face. Now, imagine the rocky patch you’re ‘walking’ on is at an angle of 90 degrees…

This could give you some idea about ‘waterfall rappelling’!

It was Adventure Sunday. And 14 of us were seated at the base of a 55-foot waterfall at Karjat. The fall split into two torrents, thrashed down the mountain and then relaxed in a little pool, before streaming down between the trees. The resulting din drowned out every other sound.

We gazed at the waterfall, spellbound, and peered a little nervously at the thin, white rope which hung over one of the falls. “That rope can take up to 1400 kgs,” said J, astutely reading our skepticism.

Now, I’ve rappelled before. It’s exhilarating but not especially difficult or even as strenuous as say, rock climbing. Essentially you’re fitted with two ropes – a rappelling rope, by which you lower yourself down, and a belay rope which is controlled by a ‘belayer’ at the top. The latter ensures that even if you lose your footing, you don’t hurtle down the mountain.

The waterfall, however, added a thrilling element to conventional rappelling. The all-familiar anticipation built up as I strapped on my helmet and harness.

I started tentatively, trying to remember all of J’s instructions. The slimy moss tickled my bare feet and I clenched my toes to get a grip. I descended, one tiny step at a time, gripping the rope so tight, my fingers cramped. Suddenly, a powerful spray caught me smack in the face. The freezing, pelting water erased all instructions. I gasped, my foot slipped, I let go of the rope and crashed into the rock.

Thud! Glub glub glub…

The belay rope held while the water hammered hard on my helmet. I regained my footing and continued, wetter and wiser.

Rappelling works best when you work against your instinct. The normal tendency is to crouch, and stay close to the rock. But it was only when I straightened my knees, and leaned back until I was almost perpendicular to the rock, that I could balance myself. The rope swung to the left because of the force of the water, but I stayed on course, maneuvering myself to the bottom. The group cheered enthusiastically.

‘Good?” asked J smiling.

"Just warmed up…" I replied, shivering.

The weather which had been sunny and cloudy this far, suddenly changed. The heavens opened up and a misty breeze set our teeth chattering. One of the girls, a chronic asthmatic, began feeling a little breathless. 6 people whipped out their inhalers! I was surprised. An ex-asthmatic myself, I had a morbid fear of getting drenched. But these intrepid, foolhardy souls convinced me that I was at the Convention of Suicidal Asthmatics.

After lunch, we tried the second, more powerful waterfall. This time I felt more confident.

“Don’t look below or at the rope. Focus on your feet,” directed J.

I dutifully looked at my feet and almost leaped off the cliff! My feet had dislodged a colony of tiny black worms, and they were now clinging to my feet.

“Eeeeooowwwaaaaaargh!” I screamed and shook one foot violently, and then the other.

J got a little worried seeing my frenzied dance on the cliff edge. “They won’t do anything to you,” he insisted. Heck, they were doing plenty just by being on my feet!

I was stuck between a rock and a squishy place.

I still don’t know how I overcame my squeamishness, but with gritted teeth and bitter curses, I started rappelling. The surging torrent washed away the critters (and probably carried some into my mouth! Ack!) The spray stung at first and then felt like a ton of bricks. I had to turn my face away in order to breathe. But this time, I got the rhythm. My toes found footholds, I leaned back into the harness and fed just the right amount of rope to maintain balance. It was exhilarating and disappointing to reach the bottom.

A third ride down the fall and I just about had my fill. I leaned back against a rock in my soggy clothes and actually fell asleep. Mountains and dense greenery obscured the view on all four sides.

It was my friend B’s first tryst with the outdoors. She sported bruised knuckles, grazed knees and sunburned cheeks as she came up to where I was dozing.

“Leela, I feel like quitting my job and doing this for the rest of my life,” she whispered, her eyes shining.

Ah, I thought, another one bites the dust.

You've got spam

I will be forever grateful to the malfunctioning junk mail filter on my mail.com account.

Had it been operational, I would have lost out on some invaluable insights, perhaps even a lucrative career opportunity. (Thankfully, serendipity whacks me on the noggin from time to time.)

It used to be an unerring ritual. Log onto mail.com, gasp at the counter which said 42 new messages, gleefully welcome the sudden surge in popularity… only to discover one bounced mail, one forwarded mail which I’d first read in 1998 and 40 junk mails!

Naturally, I said some uncharitable things about spammers and their offspring, which I now regret. I also wish I hadn’t been so hasty in filing them in the Trash folder.

Spammers, my ‘research’ has shown, have an astute awareness of human psychology. Far from the faceless, joyless intruders they’re made out to be, spammers are in fact a professional, helpful lot with a lively sense of humour. My research also negates the notion that spamming is a random, ridiculous activity. There is clearly a method, which few people have cared to observe.

I’m now thinking of publishing my penetrating insights in a slim volume titled, ‘Everything I know about advertising, I could have learned through Spam Mail.’

Here is a sampling of it...


Rules for Effective Spamming:

1. Always follow the golden rule of marketing: Offer a product or service that a consumer REALLY wants…

Insanely cheap, Original Software!
(‘800 WORLD BESTu softwarec with 90%t discountm’) (sic)

Instant University Degrees!
(‘All certs are genuine & real which it can be found in University record.’)

Drugs which promise an impossibly upbeat sex life
(‘Do you want to pleasure your partner every time?’)


2. An unusual name is more likely to grab attention…

Try names like…

Unseeing V. Nosebleed.

Endeavors J. Humiliate

Numbers Meeks


2.1 Sometimes, the name can also give a clue about the contents…

Rod Small

Johny Ronni

Lisa Gay


3. Once you've got a winning name, you need a winning subject title.

The golden rule here is – Personalise…

"Leela, do you need medication?'

Or

“What r u up to these days?”

It helps sometimes to express urgency…

“Please come…”

Or willingness…

“I can watch”

A simple message can be livened up with the use of emoticons

Best offer of this year ;-)


Remember, humour lowers the barrier between you and your audience, and makes them more receptive to your message…

Are you satisfied with the smallness of your johnson?

Grow a thicker pecker

Small Small Little Dikky?? lol Granola


4. When it comes to content, make your message pithy and compelling, with a call to action

no degree = no job = no money
get an instant university degree = higher salary
no required tests, classes, books, or interviews!
CLICK HERE!


5. Give your prospective customer more than he/she expects.

One way to do this is pepper your incredible offer with platitudes and thought-provoking quotes…

800 WORLD BESTu softwarec with 90%t discountm

Light, God's eldest daughter, is a principal beauty in a building.

Babies haven't any hair, Old men's heads are just as bare, between the cradle and the grave lie a haircut and a shave


6. Turn spell check and grammar check OFF. When in doubt between using a comma and a colon, use both…

Please spend few momentsa of yours preciousl time to check our offerq- it is more than worthu it!

Pleaise followl here nowe!

Get a bu"lky p:0l'e ; vdeenujwfhplb

Help relieve your inexpen;sive '; creavwo


7. Sign off warmly…

Hope my little tips help you out.

<|^_^|>
I hope we can get in touch. I am usually online.
-kisses, Rachael


Perhaps there’s a future in spam mail consultancy for me. I could tour with the book, do book readings… Maybe even convince those two blokes to do a ‘Chicken Soup for the Spammer’s Soul’. Spammers have for long battled feelings of rejection and low self esteem. This could be an opportunity for me to give back to the spamming community who’ve so generously given me more than I could ever have asked for.

Spammers of my mail.com account, ho’pe my l1ttle t.ips he>lp u o,ut ;-)

Zen and the ken of dental maintenance

What’s the best part about dental surgery?

As of now, I can’t think of a reason. But this much I can say, a bi-cortical surgical implant isn’t as bad as it sounds. After 5 injections, you don’t feel a thing. The malevolent, gleaming steel implements hold no terror. The snarling drill doesn’t give you the heebie-jeebies.

I’m inexplicably detached as the dentist asks her assistant for a blade. And I can tell my gums are being sliced open only by the movement of her hand and the slight tugs I feel. John Denver is crooning, ‘Sweet Surrender’ in the background. The lime green and white interiors of the clinic are remarkably calming.

We both gaze at my Orthopantomogram (the full mouth X-ray). It grins back eerily.

“We’ll drill all the way up into the bone and then we’ll place the screw there,” she says. I nod matter-of-factly.

For someone who’s fastidious about brushing and flossing and bi-annual clean ups for years but is still regularly trounced by those vile bacteria, an unemotional standpoint is the best. Besides, the bi-cortical implant was a final attempt to correct the vestiges of an accident-prone childhood. A face-first encounter with a stone bench way back in school had left me minus a pearly white.

“Your bones are very good,” she says.

So the mouth did turn out something good after all. But it seems a bit funny… A dentist complimenting you on your bones is much like a neurologist admiring your kidneys or a proctologist raving about your complexion. I try to smile but the probe sticking out of my jaw gets in the way.

A titanium screw is reverently brought forth by the assistant. It’s fitted in the newly excavated good bone. Silver, acrylic and now titanium… Must admit, I feel a little cyborg-ish. Part human, part metal.

I forbade my tongue to find out what the mangled upper jaw feels like. But when the dentist offers me the mirror, I take it. It not as bad as I visualized. The titanium screw glints and the black sutures have successfully stemmed the bleeding. I wonder what it will feel like when the anesthetic wears off…

“Avoid solid food or anything that will cause pressure on your teeth today,” she says.

“Does that mean I can’t crack open beer bottles,” I joke. Only it doesn’t sound funny. With a numb jaw and a lip hanging lower on one side, all that emerges is a slurry sough, ‘wuff wuff wiffle wiffle weff weff’.

She prescribes painkillers and other antibiotics. And then tries to ease things by cheerily announcing, ‘You can have as much ice-cream and milk shakes as you want.’ She waits for my eyes to light up. When they don’t, she looks bemused.

‘Wiff wiff..,’ I try to explain, ‘I don’t like ice-creams or milkshakes.’

‘But you must have it,’ she persists. ‘You need to eat cold foods.’

When icecream and milkshakes get listed below Combiflam and Novoclox on the prescription, then you know that a little cheer has just left the world.

But the good patient (with good bones) that I am, I stop off at McDonald’s on the way home and place my order. I slurp the softie and toss away the cone before beginning on the milkshake. Doctor’s orders…


Update: Guess who's sporting the sultry, sought-after, bee-stung pout this morning? Move over Naomi Campbell and Angelina Jo-lee!

Just for the record

A degree in Psychology, a few years in a career which attempts to understand and influence consumer behaviour… and yet the question bamboozles me, ‘Why do people behave the way they do?’

There I was, setting my parents teeth on edge by zapping channels furiously when I came across the odd sight.

A woman was standing on a dais, a look of intense concentration on her face, even as her jaw moved up and down like a piston. Then, she opened her mouth and pulled out a glistening, pink gobbet of bubble gum. Crickey, I shuddered, hope it’s not a bubblegum chewing relay. It wasn’t.

She flattened the squelchy blob and covered her nose with it, patting it down securely. Then, she started blowing a bubble through her nose. The compere, who I previously hadn’t noticed, was giddy with excitement, ‘… will Elaine set the record today?! Will she enter the book of records?!...’

I watched gobsmacked as the bubble grew… and grew… and grew. ‘It’s bigger than her head!!!,’ screeched the compere. If it bursts now, she’ll surely need plastic surgery, I thought. And a wig as well. The twin heads – one auburn, one pink – bobbed uncertainly until the attendant recorded the dimensions of the latter. ‘She’s done it! A new record!!’ babbled the now-delirious compere. Elaine beamed and bowed like she’d just been handed the Olympic gold.

Bubblegum Nose Blow?! I understand the deep driving impulse to be different, to make a name, to grab whatever chance at fame. (Refer my transformation into an Enrique groupie!) But had we run out of record-defying categories already? Had we stretched all the bounds of cycling backwards, eating glass, pulling cars with teeth and baking largest cakes? And how does one come up with an idea like Bubblegum Nose Blow? Does one maintain a training schedule? What happens when a neighbour walks in on your practice session? And seriously, what NEXT?

The answer was revealed after the commercial break.

A couple stood on the dais this time. Uh-oh, I thought. The woman placed a deflated balloon between her lips. When the manic compere gave the signal, the guy clamped his mouth on the woman's nose and blew hard. The limp balloon swelled up. What looked like a revolting mating ritual was in effect the ‘Tandem Balloon Nose Blow’. When the balloon had been stretched to the limit, the attendant with calipers took the measurements. <“46 inches”, hollered the compere. The couple hugged breathlessly, assured of their place in history.

A few years from now, I foresee their son getting into a game of one-upmanship with the neighbour’s kid.

Neighbour’s kid: ‘My dad can hold his breath underwater for 10 minutes.’

Couple’s son (sneering): ‘Is that all? My dad can blow a balloon through my mother’s nose!’

In the Shadow of the Mountain: Complete Series

Another journey

In the Shadow of the Mountain I: A silent beginning,

In the Shadow of the Mountain II: The Hunter's Dance,

In the shadow of the mountain: Mastering Anicca

In the shadow of the mountain IV: The Mountain Stares Back

In the shadow of the mountain V: It takes all kinds...

In the Shadow of the Mountain V: It takes all kinds

Continued from In the Shadow of the Mountain I: A silent beginning,
In the Shadow of the Mountain II: The Hunter's Dance,
In the shadow of the mountain: Mastering Anicca
and
In the shadow of the mountain IV: The Mountain Stares Back


On the tenth day, noble silence gave way to ignoble chatter.

All through the ten days, a secret fear lurked in everyone's mind, 'Will we forgot the sound of our voice?' Or worse still, 'Will we lose interest in it?'

But that fear was unfounded. On Day 10, I tried several times to get hold of the single STD line at the centre to wish my mum for her birthday. But the sheer length of the queue and the unhurried pace at which it proceeded thwarted me each time. Jaws hadn't lost their elasticity after all.

Still, the words rolling off one's tongue felt uncommonly good. And the facial contortions which accompanied them seemed comfortingly familiar. Exuberant smiles and nods replaced averted gazes. And a trickle of conversation soon became a torrent. The huge group scattered into little chatty clusters, the ice-breaker being, 'How was it for you?'

Despite the no-eye contact rule, there were certain faces that had piqued my curiosity. And I wandered among the clusters looking for them. One of them was Rukmabai Bansod.

Rukmabai sat next to me in the Meditation Hall. Slightly stooped, she seemed over 50 years. She was one of the few who wore her sari the traditional way (between the legs and tucked in at the back). She was probably hard of hearing, because I had to discreetly nudge her each time her name was called for the interview with the teacher. And from the bemused way she looked at her nametag, seemed unlettered as well. But it was the unexpectedly loud growls from her stomach which got my attention. Initially, they kept me awake, and later, when I was deep in concentration, they made me jump. But I noticed something else about Rukmabai. Despite her age and the swelling in her knee which she massaged constantly, she never missed a single session. Towards the end, participants would leave the Hall before the gong was struck, but not Rukmabai.

It took me a while but I finally spotted her in the Tower of Babble. She seemed delighted that I was enquiring about her and grasped my hand, holding on to it for the length of the conversation. I learned that she was a tribal woman, whose family followed Buddhism and who eked out an existence doing menial jobs. But that hadn't prevented them from going to Sarnath twice and to Nagpur every year, for the Buddhists annual gathering. I was intrigued by her faith and wanted to inquire further but my rusty Marathi put paid to that desire.

Another person I found fascinating was a nun, whose saffron robes contrasted sharply with her olive skin and whose shaven head drew a lot of curious stares. But it was her eyes, which exuded a serenity that seemed other-worldly. The name she had adopted was Shramneri and she lived in a monastery in an unfamiliar sounding town. How did you become a nun, I asked. Her response seemed to come from deep within, 'Pehle se hi man me shraddha thi'. (loose translation: I've always had a deep devotion) The curiosity of a few other women was kindled as well. 'What was your name before you became a nun?', 'Do you meet your family now?', they asked. She coloured under the scrutiny but answered with humility, 'My earlier name is of no relevance anymore. And the people I work with have become my family.' She seemed to be in her early 20s but her wisdom and humility belied that.

The dining hall, which had hitherto only heard the clatter of utensils and shuffling of unshod feet, now revelled in the conversation and laughter. Between mouthfulls of kheer, everyone was asking everyone, 'Kaisa laga aapko' and some woes poured out and some epiphanies.

'It's too long,' one woman moaned to the assistants, 'It shouldn't be longer than 5 or 6 days, don't you think?" The assistant merely smiled. She herself had done three 10-day courses over 2 years and this was the first time as a volunteer.

Three! I was awestruck. Until I met a participant who was doing it for the 14th time. And for those who think a 10-day course is the ultimate in self-flagellation, consider this: There are 20 and 30-day courses as well. And a new facility to offer 45 and 90-day courses is being constructed. Enlightenment in this lifetime, anyone?

As the day wore on, people began easing back into the groove they'd momentarily renounced. Cell phones made their incongruous appearance. Numbers were exchanged and plans to meet in Mumbai were made. My pen was back in my grasp.

As I packed my bags that night, there was a sense of relief and apprehension. It had been an incredible experience, but would it go to nought in the 'real world'? Would chaos usurp clarity? Would good intentions lose the battle with inertia?

Before leaving in the morning, I took one last look at the mountain. The peaks were clear of mists and bright, irrepressible green blotted out the brown earth beneath. In that moment, I knew I had my answers.


(A small note: The experiences I've described are my own and hence purely subjective. My intention was only to share a little about my experience, so I haven't covered the Vipassana technique in detail. I hope I haven't coloured anyone's perspectives by describing the rigours of the course. If you have any questions or would like to clarity on some aspect I've mentioned here, feel free to mail me - leela@mail.com.)

In the shadow of the mountain IV: The Mountain Stares Back

Continued from In the Shadow of the Mountain I: A silent beginning,
In the Shadow of the Mountain II: The Hunter's Dance and
In the shadow of the mountain: Mastering Anicca


It’s the silence. Always, the silence.

The first thing people want to know is, how DID you handle the 10-day silence?

Were you able to keep quiet for that long? Did you miss talking? Did you feel like banging your head against the wall? Did you whisper to the trees when no one was looking?

What’s the most intimidating aspect about silence, I’ve asked these last few days? The bewildering unfamiliarity? The exacerbation of loneliness? The fear of losing one’s identity? Or confronting the demons within?

Its answers to these that I sought. My enduring quest has been to uncover what lies beneath. I admit too that I’m not the garrulous sorts. Sentences flow only when a comfort zone has been reached. So being among 300 women without having to strike up a conversation was a bit of a reprieve.

Still, I wasn’t in want of company.

Stepping out of the Meditation Hall one morning, I was jolted out of my stupor by a mesmerizing sight. A majestic peak towered from the periphery of the Institute. And clinging to the crest was a dense swathe of mist. The mist writhed languorously and dreamily, sometimes revealing a wee bit of the crag beneath, sometimes closing in. I don’t recall how long I stood there, but I only remember the mountain forming in my throat. There were no words to filter the moment. None were required.

From then on it became a daily ritual. During breaks, before sessions, during the afternoon walk. I’d stop by my perch in the shadow of the mountain and gaze. Strands of thoughts, tangled hopelessly over the years, would effortlessly unravel. And the clarity was so astounding that a thought could be plucked from the bottom, read, and if it was no good, pitched into the distance.

One morning, while we were deep in contemplation of Anicca, a storm raged outside. Thunder roared, wind gusted and rain fell pell-mell. A momentary yearning to see the mountain rose and subsided. There would be time later.

On the last day, when I stopped to look, the craggy, red brown face was enveloped with green.


Part V - It takes all kinds...

In the Shadow of the Mountain III: Mastering Anicca

Continued from In the Shadow of the Mountain I: A silent beginning and
In the Shadow of the Mountain II: The Hunter's Dance

Ever ‘observed’ a cramp? Or a mosquito bite? Or a body turn liquid?

Vipassana literally means ‘to observe clearly’. To observe the Anicca (pronounced a-NICH-a) - the ever-changing, impermanent reality about the universe. Since things are constantly in a state of flux, cultivating cravings or aversions are pointless. In fact, they only bring misery. So, through an understanding of Anicca, one learns to develop equanimity.

Impeccable logic, this. But Vipassana asks you NOT TO believe any of it.

Each person is encouraged to experience the truth within and only if it rings true, should one accept it. Vipassana eschews hand-me-down beliefs, mere intellectualization.

So with legs crossed and eyes closed, we began observing Anicca within the physical self. The laser-like mind was focused from head to toe, observing sensations without reacting to them.

Buoyed by the wee bit of success in reining the unruly mind, I was almost disappointed at how easy this seemed. And then the teacher mentioned Aditthana...

Until that point nothing fazed me – not the silence, not the peculiar food timings, not the 4 a.m. wake up bells. At Aditthana, I had the fiercest urge to dash to the nearest exit. Aditthana is Pali for ‘strong determination’. Strong determination to sit for one whole hour without movement.

I could not sit cross-legged for long because my feet got easily cramped. In fact, I changed my posture approximately every 10 minutes. On the first day, I had passed up the offer of a backrest and now I bitterly rued it. Aditthana wasn’t a rule, but since I was committed to the letter and spirit of Vipassana, I had no option.

A few minutes later, the desire to bolt passed. (Anicca?) And the challenge of Aditthana began to appeal. I chose the least distressing pose and closed my eyes.

10 minutes. The right leg began to cramp. I ignored it. The spine leaped up in protest, unused as it was to being ramrod straight. Like a diligent researcher, I made a note of the sensations and moved on to the next area.

20 minutes. The right leg was numb and weighed thrice as much as the left.

30 minutes. Detachment wasn’t working. I was ready to accept defeat. But wait a minute, was that my imagination or was it sensation returning to my right leg?

Mental high-five. Yesss! Anicca works!

45 minutes. I was gasping. The cramp had returned with three times the intensity. My knee was being sawed off. And I was sitting on molten lava.

Outside, I was a picture of serene contemplation. Inside, I was half-delirious with pain.

‘What if I get paralysed?’

Anicca… Anicca….

‘Will they carry me out on a stretcher?’

Anicca… Anicca…

‘Did I pay medical insurance this year?’

ANICCA! ANICCA!


Anicca-Shmanicca, said the once-more mutinous mind, you call THIS pain an illusion???

Any moment now… (gasp) Any moment now… (gnnnhhh)

CLICK!

It was the barely audible click of the tape recorder, which signaled the beginning of the minute-long Pali chants and the end of agony. The excruciating pain was suddenly endurable. And when the hour was up, the leg I thought I’d lost forever, moved smoothly and uncomplainingly.

Leela: 1, Mind: 0

There were 3 sessions of Aditthana each day. And each time the battle was fierce. Sometimes, I couldn’t sit beyond 35 minutes. Sometimes 53 minutes. On Day 6, I flopped on the bed, sore and aching. And it struck me, the last time I ached so much was when I was training for the Marathon.

But I got better at ‘observing’ the sensations, even the intense ones. And the results of Aditthana ceased to matter. What mattered was maintaining perfect equanimity at the end of the hour.

Let me reassure horrified readers, it’s not just about painful sensations. There comes a moment when the body is awash with very pleasant vibrations. Wave after soothing wave of it. However, the trained mind learns to recognize it as just another Anicca sensation. Sometimes a rare moment comes along when even the final illusion dissolves. The body is experienced as nothing but a mass of vibrations. And pure consciousness. It’s liberating, exhilarating… and unfortunately, all too fleeting.

During one session, I experienced such a moment. The cramp ceased to bother me. The pleasant vibrations didn’t seduce me. The mind was as calm and clear as a lake. And then, an incy wincy spider scuttled across my neck. With my heightened sensitivity, I could feel each of its furry legs brush against my skin. Frantic neck-slapping, hair-shaking and heart thudding followed. I glanced at my watch. Three minutes to the hour. There was nothing to do but close my eyes again and concentrate.

It was going to be a long road to Nirvana.


Part IV – The Mountain Stares Back

In the Shadow of the Mountain II: The Hunter's Dance

Continued from In the Shadow of the Mountain I: A silent beginning

No thuds on the door. No jangling alarm clocks. We woke up at 4 a.m. the first morning to the tinkling of bells.

The assistants went around all the rooms and dormitories ringing tiny bells. Lights came on one by one. And somnolent women in trailing nightgowns spilled out of their rooms. As I stumbled down the dimly lit path to the Meditation Hall, there was that familiar feeling of anticipation and apprehension which precedes an adventure. I couldn’t wait to begin.

I went to my cushioned seat, closed my eyes and as per instructions began to ‘observe my breathing’. As if on cue, thoughts of yesterday and the day before stormed in, stomping out any effort to even locate the breath. ‘This is going to be tough,’ I thought. And in the next few minutes that changed to, ‘this is going to be impossible’. My mind had worked out the equation: eyes closed = sleep. So when I wasn’t staving off the mutinous flow of thought, I was embarrassedly shaking myself awake.

This Rip Van Winkle effect continued through the morning and into the afternoon. If this continued, I thought, I was going to be VERY relaxed at the end of the course and not one bit enlightened. I spoke to the teacher hoping for some tips to stay awake. She calmly said, ‘It’s your first day and in a new environment. You’ll be fine tomorrow.” She sounded more certain than I felt, so I relaxed.

By the end of the day, I was deeply mortified. One WHOLE day of observing the breath and I was no closer to gaining any control over this openly rebellious mind. One moment I was observing my breath and the next moment I was replaying an old conversation or writing a blog or humming an obstinate tune. I laughed bitterly at all the times I thought I had a mind of my own. Hah! My mind had me. My thoughts were thinking me.

Day 2 was no different. But I stopped battling this willful creature that was my mind. It wasn’t a match of equals anyway. Again and again, I simply drew it back to the breath. Sometimes it took a few seconds, sometimes minutes ticked by.

Towards evening of Day 2, I began enjoying the chase. After a day and a half of stalking, the ‘observer’ had grown stronger. Instead of catching up with its quarry at Thought No. 10, the observer grabbed its coattails at No. 5. The quarry continued to dodge, but now the crosshairs were trained on it.

By Day 3 we had progressively narrowed the ‘observed’ area from the entire nasal passage to just the entrance of the nostrils. I could now tell exactly where the slightest breath made contact with the skin and could feel the slight flaring of the nostril with each exhalation. But those were the external sensations. The prolonged observing drew my attention to subtle vibrations under the skin. I felt the tip of my nose quivering each time I focused on it. Like a bunny rabbit, said the incorrigible mind .

Now, with this newly sharpened mind, we were ready for Vipassana.


Part III – Mastering Anicca

In the shadow of the mountain I: A silent beginning

I read all the ads pasted in the compartment 6 times. Leftover thoughts from yesterday and the day before, played over and over again of their own volition. The landscape hurtling by was bland and uninspiring. Half a day went by. My watch insisted only 45 minutes had passed. I craved for my usual distractions. But the cell phone was switched off. And I hadn't carried a book. (A first!) Even the few co-passengers provided no entertainment. Thoughts about unfinished tasks, minor woes and future plans continued to churn in the mental sludge. A sliver of anxiety curled into this mix. What did the next 10 days hold for me apart from solitude, silence and a boot camp schedule? The 2 1/2 hour train ride to Igatpuri was slow torture.

I got off the train and onto the congested road adjacent to the station. I dodged cow patties and slushy puddles and stopped at the first tiny store manned by two teenaged boys.

"Which way to the Vipassana ashram," I asked.

"Straight ahead and left from the masjid," he answered and then jumped over the counter. "Come I'll show you where to take the turn."

I was struck by his helpfulness. The self-absorbed thoughts stopped momentarily while I considered his spontaneity. I quickened my step to keep pace with him.

After he left, I walked on for about 10 minutes casually observing small town life. And then the giant pagoda hove into view. I didn't know what to make of this incongruous structure. Perhaps I had expected an ashram with thatched roofs and somehow this gilded, carved edifice jarred. I stepped inside the gates and walked up a winding, foliage-lined path. The air was fresh and earthy, unseen birds called out mellifluously. "Not bad... not bad," my until-recently-jangled nerves declared.

With defences suitably lowered, I walked smack into the bedlam that was the registration counter. Had I taken the turn which said 'Kumbh Mela' by any chance? There were hordes of people. Luggage of every shape and size was strewn around. A serpentine queue wound its way to the registration desk. The crowd was predominantly middle aged and middle to lower-middle class, drawn from Mumbai and surrounding districts of Maharashtra. The prospect of the 10-day silence must have weighed on everyone's mind because they seemed determined to compensate beforehand.

'How many people will there be at this course?' I asked the girl who handed me the registration form.

'Around 300 in the men's course and an equal number in the women's batch', she said, laughing at my incredulous eyebrows.

'Describe your mental state right now' - was one of the questions in the registration form. As I queued up to submit my form, I got a peek at some of the women's responses. 'Stable', said one. 'Good' said another. Jeez, I thought, was I the ONLY one who's mind was 'restless' and 'looking for answers'?

Next, I queued up to hand over my 'valuables'. I handed over my wallet and cell phone, when the girl at the counter said, 'You can hand over your pen also. You won't be needing it.' I recoiled. NO pen! No PEN! Old Advertising conditioning - ALWAYS keep a pen handy in case an idea strikes. Over the years, it had become the 11th finger. And now I was severing it and handing it over along with my other 'valuables'. Now, I felt truly alone.

I completed the formalities and headed to my room. My room mate was a simple Maharashtrian woman from Mumbai who's daughter had done the course the year before. We chatted for a bit and then headed over to the dining hall at 5 for 'supper'. A short initiation followed along with an introduction to the code of discipline:
- strict segregation of the sexes
- noble silence
- discontinuation of any other form of prayer or worship for the next 10 days.

The assistants then led us to the Meditation Hall where we would assemble for group sessions. We pinned our name tags on our cushions, sat in prayerful silence for a while and received our instructions for the next day. At 9.00 p.m. we went back to our rooms.

My room mate didn't look up when I entered. I unpacked, got ready for bed and turned out the lights.

The Noble Silence had begun...


Part II - The Hunter's Dance

Am back

Am back and simply waiting to share my experience of the last 10 days. It was extraordinary and want to do justice to it with a series of posts. Will post in a day or two. Thanks for watching over my blog all of you.


P.S. Thank you PR twins for entertaining people around here. Smiley, you surprise me. An attack of conscience??

P.S. Pardon these multiple posts. I think it should be sorted out now.

Another journey

I’m back, but only to pack my bags once more. I’m headed off tomorrow for another couple of weeks. This time for a course in Vipassana meditation. It’s an ancient technique of meditation, one that requires almost complete withdrawal from the surroundings.

What attracted me to it was the prospect of complete silence for 10 days. Simply because I’d never done it before. The thought of taming a wild colt of a mind was equally appealing. And something I've wanted to do for a long time.

The schedule for the 10 days seems daunting with almost 11 hours of meditation. But who knows, the journey may be interesting.

The course timetable

4:00 a.m.----------------------Morning wake-up bell
4:30-6:30 a.m.---------------Meditate in the hall or your own room
6:30-8:00 a.m.---------------Breakfast break
8:00-9:00 a.m.---------------GROUP MEDITATION IN THE HALL
9:00-11:00 a.m.-------------Meditate in the hall or your own room
11:00-12:00 noon------------Lunch break
12noon-1:00 p.m.------------Rest and interviews with the teacher
1:00-2:30 p.m.----------------Meditate in the hall or your own room
2:30-3:30 p.m.----------------GROUP MEDITATION IN THE HALL
3:30-5:00 p.m.----------------Meditate in the hall or your own room
5:00-6:00 p.m.----------------Tea break
6:00-7:00 p.m.----------------GROUP MEDITATION IN THE HALL
7:00-8:15 p.m.----------------Teacher's Discourse in the hall
8:15-9:00 p.m.----------------GROUP MEDITATION IN THE HALL
9:00-9:30 p.m.----------------Question time in the hall
9:30 p.m.-----------------------Retire to your own room--Lights out


I will be back on June 13. And will resume the blog, as before. Thanks for your vigil :-)


P.S. XXX, Khotta and the others please note, I've kept my date with 'early June'.

P.S. The self-appointed PR duo of Smiley :-) and Grumpy :-I will be slugging it out in my comment box, I expect. Don’t mind them. The doctors at the asylum say they need to be kept busy...

Absolute break!

I'm taking a couple of weeks off to wrap up a few assignments. Will be back early in June. Do come back :-)

Dealing with baggage

Just WHAT do you carry in this bag, asked a thunderstruck friend recently. She’d volunteered to carry my handbag and teetered off balance in the process.

Let’s just say, I’m a bit accustomed to that question. With the accompanying expressions of bafflement, exasperation and occasionally, soreness. But it’s not like I carry a huge bag. (At least not any more.) As a matter of fact, the current one is a compact 9 1/2” x 11”. And it can be quite accommodating without seeming like a bloated armadillo lodged under my arm.

It’s a black hole, another friend mocks. I’m sure even you don’t know exactly what’s inside. Not true at all. I’d like to think of my handbag as an exemplar of organisation and foresight. So whether it’s dealing with a runny nose or a moment of ennui or even, emergency surgery, I’d like to make sure everything’s at hand.

A recent inventory revealed I just may be equipped for a nuclear holocaust:

Outer Compartment
- Midnight’s Children by Salman Rushdie (current read)
- The Art of Feature Writing by Huned Contractor (for a break from current read)
- An article on ‘Avoiding Procrastination’ torn from Mid-day, April 19, 2004 (that I mean to read)
- A bandanna (to hold exuberant hair in place while in the auto)
- A pair of sunglasses
- Spectacle case
- An office I.D card

Zipper Compartment
- A wallet (we’ll get into the contents another day…)
- Spare change pouch (Totalling Rs. 200 in notes and Rs. 16 in coins)
- Lip Balm (Orange Coriander flavour!)
- A PDA
- A Mobile Phone
- A mini-Telephone book
- Mints (one local, one phoren)

Zipper-in-zipper Compartment
- House Keys
- A tube of lipstick
- A comb
- A Pen Knife
- A Plastic Bag (to collect litter)
- A stone from 17,500 feet in the Himalayas
- A medal from Sacre Couer.
- An Emergency Kit (containing Aspirin, Digene, Band Aid, Cotton, Safety Pins. Also, a needle and two skeins of thread. I’m paranoid about ‘wardrobe emergencies.’)

Inner Compartment
- A notebook cum diary
- Stray visiting cards
- A pack of tissues
- A Fountain Pen
- A Roller Ball (in case fountain pen runs out of ink)
- A pencil stub (in case roller ball runs out of roll)


Zip it. Sling it. Wing it.

I feel superbly in control. By alternating it between shoulders, I give the biceps on both arms the chance to tone up uniformly. And running for the train clutching the handbag takes care of cross training.

A Swiss knife of a bag, really.

The woes begin when it’s time for an evening out. How do you fit all the life-saving equipment into a purse that’s tinier than a handkerchief. Ooh, the heart-rending decisions. I almost always end up needing just the thing I leave behind. And then there’s that gnawing emptiness under the arm, the unfamiliar freedom from encumbrance, the insecurity of not being ‘prepared’…

Talk about baggage!

Of claws and paws

Episode 1: Fair-feather foes

Murphy, I stand corrected.

A couple of weeks ago I blamed Murphy for my delinquent Net connection. I had switched from a dial-up to a cable connection, expecting salvation to follow. But three excruciating weeks later, I was still beset with the same woes. I’d log on for a couple of hours and suddenly find myself bereft. From gnashing of teeth and wringing of hands, I graduated to choice cuss words. The carefully cultivated composure would evaporate every time I found the cable operator’s phone switched off. Finally, one morning, I got him on the phone…

He hurried over to my house before I could chew off his other ear. He set off tinkering with the wires while I scorched his back with the ferocity of my gaze. He examined the cables studiously before turning to face me and stammered, “I go check cable box outside."

I waited. The eyebrow stayed arched, the foot continued tapping. He came back, looking like he’d been in a scuffle. “Well,” I asked icily, “did you fix the faulty cables?”

“Medem, wire was ok. But pigeons had put off switch.”

I snarled.

He took a step backward and continued, “Pigeon make nest in cable box. They was putting on-off switch. But now I take out them and lock the box.”

He picked out feather bits from his shirt cuffs and then pointed to the screen, “Net bees working now.”

I stared at the screen dumbfounded and deflated. A conspiracy by pigeons!

And I thought the worst they could do was aim their droppings at you…


Episode 2: Chivalrous Canine

Sometimes I almost forget I live in a city. My house is surrounded by not one, but two gardens. Now, garden is a lofty term. It might conjure up images of rose bushes and manicured hedges, picket fences and such… Nothing of the sort. The area is overrun by towering Asokas, mango, jackfruit and papaya trees, a coconut palm, some wildflowers, some colourful shrubs, a few willful vines and some thrilled weeds. In short, it’s a forest. Albeit, a well watered, well maintained one.

Naturally, one third of those who got off the Ark have taken up residence here. Over the years, our guest list has included dogs, cats, rodents, squirrels, lizards, frogs, bees, bats, birds, earthworms, slugs and on a couple of occasions, snakes.

Recently, however, the stray dogs had begun to assume ownership of the building premises. And they had somehow figured that the best time to settle disputes was somewhere between 1 a.m. and 3 a.m.

A compound wall was built and heavy metal gates were put in place, so that our building came to resemble Fort Knox. Still there were a couple of strays who inevitably found a gate ajar and slipped in to reclaim lost ground. One of them was Tawm.

Limpid eyes, wagging tail, brown and white fur, Tawm. His sole daily agenda was to find a comfortable spot outside our door and stay immobile there, no matter what the provocation. There were times when he was chased outside Fort Knox, but he inexplicably found his way back.

Last week, I was as usual, rushing off to work. I slammed the door shut and geared up for the leap up the stairs, when the indolent Tawm beat me to it.

“Outta my way, Tawm,” I growled. But he sauntered ahead right up to the gate. I clucked impatiently, when a slim paw landed on the gate. Holding the gate with his front paws, and hobbling on his hind legs, Tawm swung open the heavy gate before my astonished eyes.

My jaw was hanging almost as much as his. “After you, woof woof,” he said, still holding on to the gate while I stepped out daintily.

All daintiness was forgotten when I spotted the auto. Arms flailing, half-yelling I thought I’d got the driver’s attention. But just then, another office-goer charged out from the building ahead and leaped into the auto. Pretending he hadn’t seen me flag it, he studiously examined his hands as the auto trundled away.

I was about to spew a string of curses when I spotted Tawm watching me calmly.

“It’s a human’s life”, he drawled and moseyed back to the gate.

Out of college… Into the fire

Last week, I had an appointment with a certain Mr. B in an ad agency. While the receptionist paged him, I went and sat in the lounge area.

“Are you here for an interview too?” asked the girl waiting there.

No, I reassured her quickly, and then asked, “Are you?”

“I’ve come for a summer job,” she said. "But the person in HR is in a meeting. And I’ve been here since 10.30”

I looked at my watch incredulously. It was 2 p.m!

“Does he even know you’re here?” I asked aghast.

In a choked voice, she replied, “He met me for 5 minutes but had to go back into the meeting. He said he’ll be back in 1 ½ hour, but it’s 2 hours now.”

I felt really sorry for her. I knew exactly how endless the meetings were. It was more than likely though, that the HR dude was either trying to avoid her or had forgotten about her.

So I gently suggested, “Look, why don’t you go home? Make an appointment and come on another day?”

Her face twisted with bitterness and fury. “How do I know he won’t do this again? No, I’m going to wait and give him a piece of my mind. Is this how they treat people who come for internships?”

While I admired her attempt to stand up for herself, I also thought she was being very naïve. What would HR dude do? Apologise profusely? Hire her on the spot? Give her cab fare home? In fact, the longer she waited, the closer she’d come to dissolving into a mass of tears.

Her rant continued, “He didn’t even do a formal interview with this other girl who was here in the morning. And poor thing, she’d come ALL the way from the suburbs!” (Hmm… I thought South Bombay types!)

“I mean how important can these meetings be,” she asked with a sneer. “Can’t they just take a break and attend to people who’ve come to meet them?”

I was truly dumbfounded. Did she even know what she was getting into then? Summer interns were a whole rung below the dregs known as trainees, in agency hierarchy! In all probability, if she got the job, she’d spend her summer photocopying documents, running errands and getting shooed away by busy execs. But here she was fresh out of college, thinking the world was her oyster and that the corporate world was waiting with open arms.

I remember being a victim of that fallacious thinking myself. I was a heady mix of naiveté and idealism. I’d met a Creative Director who liked my work and told me that the Vice President wanted to meet me. I was over the moon. The VP made appreciative sounds while going over my work and then seemed lost in thought. I hardly dared to breathe. Finally, he said, ‘You know I’d like to hire you as a Senior Copywriter. I’m trying to think how to fit you in.” From a nobody in Advertising to a Senior Copywriter! My eyes were as large as saucers and I remember thinking, ‘This is a g-o-d. When I become a famous copywriter, I’ll definitely remember to credit him.’ (Ok, so I was naïve, not humble ;) He asked for a couple of days to work it out. I could have skipped the 30 kilometres home.

Coincidentally, I met someone from that agency in the next few days. And I seized the opportunity to extol the virtues of ‘God’. He gave me a look usually reserved for those in padded cells. “X?! He’s the sleaziest guy in the industry. Steer clear of him.”

Kerr-RASH! Lesson learned.

Around the same time, I had an appointment with a super-hot CD in a super hot agency.

“Why do you want to join Advertising?”, was his first question. I stammered out my reasons.

“It’s an agonizing vocation. I still spend nights cursing myself for joining Advertising.” This from someone who’s a sought-after writer. He continued, “The high you get from cracking a good idea is so incredible, that you’ll sell your mother for it. But when your ideas get shot down, it’s like having a baby and watching it get butchered.” He was scaring me not just off advertising but childbirth as well!

He didn’t give me a job but put me onto a friend who did. So that scarefest was probably worth it.

Coming back to the poor summer intern, I found her still sitting forlorn in the reception an hour later. She was scribbling something, sad poetry perhaps, in her diary. Go home, I urged her again.

No, he can’t do this to me. I’m going to blah blah blah.

Ok honey, good luck! Happy learning…

Sorry Enrique… but I’m Not In Love

Enrique got me in the news recently.

It was quite unexpected. I’ve been avoiding him ever since he said he was coming to Mumbai. And all along, I’ve been stonily indifferent to his breathless entreaties, ‘I can be your hero baby’…

So I was a tad uncomfortable queuing up for passes for his show at the music store. Working in close proximity to a music store and having friends who are besotted with Enrique can be doubly disadvantageous. Still, I am the obliging sorts.

As I waited, I spotted an odd couple. The girl wore a lavender shirt and black trousers. Ditto for the guy. Peculiar dress code, I thought. At that moment they turned. Lavender Boy was gripping a video camera and Lavender Girl, a boom mike. And they were making a bee line for me…

Lavender Girl: I’m from Aaj Tak. Are you buying passes for the Enrique concert?

Surprised Lee: But these are for a friend, not me.

Lavender Girl: That’s ok. We just need footage.”

I’ve been called ‘background’ and ‘extra’ before. ‘Footage’ was a new insult.

I was about to protest again when the latent wicked streak began bubbling. The idea of ‘acting’ like a smitten groupie appealed. I once had a bit part in a winning play in College. And the arclights hadn’t dimmed ever since.

Ok, I will be Footage, I told Lavender Girl.

Out went the I-wish-I-was-elsewhere look. Replaced by an ‘Enrique-you’re-my-hero-baby melting-eyes tremulous-mouth’ look. Lavender Boy swung the camera this way and that to capture each nuance.

The guy in front of me bought 13 tickets worth Rs.1200 each. I hoped the camera didn’t catch that momentary flicker in my lovelorn gaze. The counter staff was saying, “Everyone’s buying the Rs. 1200 passes. We’ve only sold 9 booklets of Rs. 800 as compared to 20 of Rs. 1200." Wow, Enrique sure doesn’t miss ME.

It was my turn. The staff handed over the passes with a flourish. I accepted them with a flourish.

The boom mike was thrust under my nose. A small knot of people had gathered to watch. I patted my unruly curls in place.

Lavender Girl: Aap ye concert mein kyon jaana chahte hai?

ULP! I belatedly remembered it was Aaj Tak. I would have to speak in Hindi. My Hindi is a trifle rusty, corrupted by Bambaiyya and susceptible to gender bloopers when nervous. But seasoned performers aren’t fazed by trifling issues like these.

Hammy Lee (in Hindi): Um… I’m a big fan of Enrique. I love his songs. I love his music videos.

Lavender Girl: Most of Enrique’s fans are teenagers and teenyboppers. So what makes you such a fan?

Indignation momentarily nudged out nervousness and lovelorn-ness.

Indignant Lee: Lady, THOSE are laugh lines. And these glasses give me a severe look. So just what are you trying to insinuate?

But Indignant Lee only sputters and fumes in silence.

Hammy Lee: Erm… I’m a big fan of Enrique. I love his songs. I love his music videos.

Lavender Girl: “Have you been for other concerts before?”

Having almost got attacked by crazed fans at a UB40 concert some years ago, I didn’t care to repeat that experience. But while we’re acting here…

Hammy Lee: Yes, I’ve been for UB40… and Bryan Adams.

A belated, unsuccessful attempt to sound cool.

Lavender Girl gestures to Lavender Boy to stop filming. Whew, I thought, about time. The act was beginning to wear thin.

Lavender Girl: Could you please say on camera that you liked these concerts and you’re sure that Enrique will be even better?

Indignant Lee: What?! You’re asking me to lie? On national television? Is this HOW you gather news?

Lavender Girl: Rolling…

Hammy Lee: Yes I loved Bryan Adams and UB40 and I’m sure Enrique isse bhi better rahega.



Note to viewers: If you’re catching the news on Aaj Tak on the pre-Enrique concert hype and spot one respondent from Mumbai with red cheeks and a very very long nose… that’s me.

It's only words - I

First love

I have only hazy memories of the first time I was swept off my feet. But my aunt tells me I must have been 3 or 4 years old. I'd tagged along with her to her friend's house and after a while was nowhere to be seen. Assuming I'd gone down the stairs alone, they launched a frantic search. Imagine their chagrin, when they found me in one of the rooms itself, leaning over a table, swinging a leg and with total absorption, 'reading' a thick tome. I don't remember the title, but I recall being enthralled by row after neat row of alphabets and the wafery thinness of the pages.

Another memory is of a kiddies party perhaps not long after. The hostess held two cheerfully wrapped gifts and asked me, "What would you like - a game or books?" No conflict here. Thrusting my pudgy hands out, I earnestly lisped, "Bookths" And that's how the collection began... with Thumbelina, Little Mermaid and Beauty.

Toys came and went, but my precious bookths were carefully preserved. The first day of summer vacations saw an unvarying ritual: notebooks and textbooks were gleefully expelled and the motley collection of storybooks would be brought out and lined against the wall. The Library was open!

At school, the library was tucked away in one quiet corner. And my favourite moment was when we all had to troop out in a queue and climb the 54 steps or so from the Primary Section to the Secondary, where the library was located. Mystery, fantasy, adventure - all in one little room. Even the archetypal villain - the librarian. She not only rationed the Enid Blytons, but also shoved into our unwilling hands, books on animals, birds, science and even novels in Hindi and Marathi. Admirable intentions, some might think, but not us who shrank from these surrogate textbooks.

I bided my time until I became the library monitor. And then craftily went around distributing all the books I wanted to read to my classmates. Through the week I'd swap books with them and thus, swiftly worked my way through the Blytons, Hardy Boys, Nancy Drews, Richmal Cromptons and Wodehouses. Sometimes I'd even prop a novel between the pages of a textbook during a boring class and once suffered the ignominy of standing outside class when caught doing that.

The collection stayed very modest, until i discovered the detour from College to Marine Lines station. Two second hand bookstores lay in wait on that detour with books piled precariously almost up to the ceiling. Many an afternoon was spent craning and contorting, thumbing and sneezing in those musty bookstores. Rarely did i leave without carting away armfuls of trashy fiction, classics, thrillers and some rare reads. The 2 1/2 hour daily train rides were scarcely ever felt.

With English Literature, I had a reading list and therefore, a legitimate reason to indulge in my hobby. But my mother remained unconvinced as she saw empty spaces at home vanishing. She complained to Dad, who acted swiftly, but not in the way she expected. A bookcase was constructed which was dubbed rather fancifully, 'The Library'.

What kind of books do you read, I'm often asked. And here's where I flounder. The thought of limiting oneself to a certain genre is preposterous. At some point I savour Indian writers, then start craving the classics, until I get a whiff of travel writing. From there, I might hop on to short stories, dipping into inspirational and spiritual literature. There was once the war phase, where I devoured everything in sight on the Second World War and the Vietnam War. And occasionally, there's the regression to the Enid Blyton era, where I long wistfully for the Wishing Chair and the Magic Faraway Tree.

It's a journey I don't question anymore. In fact, sometimes I feel that it isn't me choosing a book but vice versa. With increasing regularity, I 'chance' upon books whose message I need to hear or books which set me off on a new path.

And along this path are also strewn quirks of various sorts. The egregious memory turns elephantine when it comes to books I've lent. I've been known to stalk people who fail to return my books in time. And then there's the meticulous cataloguing of every single book by name, author and category. Each new entrant is allowed into the Library only after it's sheathed in plastic. And I know the almost precise location of each of the 807 books right down to the shelf, row and surrounding books.

Obsession, thunders my mother. I wickedly point to the Erasmus quote pasted on the Library, 'When I get a little money I buy books; and if any is left I buy food and clothes.'

Somehow, these lines reassure me that I'm not alone.



It's been six months since I started the blog. And when i think about it, the urge to write has undoubtedly been inspired by everything I've read and enjoyed all these years. The journey continues...

A night at the Abbies

March 1998:
I wasn't even in advertising when I attended my first ABBY AWARDS. An aspiring, starry-eyed copywriter, I watched as hotshot creative teams strode up on stage to claim their awards, even as their agencies lustily cheered them on. At that time, I swore that I would be part of this industry too and maybe, just maybe, do the dream walk up to the stage.

March 2004:
6 years and 3 agencies later, a good bit of stardust had flown out of my eyes. I had realized my dream of being part of the industry. Two international awards made my resume look respectable. But then, for various reasons, I took the side exit. The Abbies weren't the annual high point that they once used to be. In fact, in the last year or two, they'd become only an excuse to catch up with friends and with the going-ons in advertising.

Still, there was a wee bit of anticipation when I headed for ABBY 2004. An ad that Art Partner and I had worked on 1 ½ year ago had been nominated. Thinking about it made me nervous, so I focused on all the familiar faces around. "Hiiii Albert… Hey Padhi…. Sangs, we must catch up… Rads, how've you beeeen!…" My head swiveled furiously as I spotted old colleagues and friends.

At the entrance, the sponsors handed us goodie bags with colourful cushions. "How thoughtful of them to think of my hemorrhoids!", someone quipped and we cracked up. Well, after all these were people who wrote one-liners for a living!

My friends and I bagged seats right in front of one of the giant screens. The comperes, Rakshanda Khan and Kunal Vijaykar, started off with some terribly lame jokes. A cardinal rule for comperes at ad shows - unless it's superlative, never never attempt humour. The cynical, jaded, chip-on-shoulder ad folk are especially unforgiving of forced humour. Two years ago when Shobha De breezily drawled, "Print advertising is seriousssssly sexy," the wags at the back hollered, "Shobha maushi, gappa bas." (loose translation: Shuddup auntie!) No sacred cows in advertising, for sure!

Another hilarious candid camera moment: Before the awards, the camera zoomed in on the current poster-boy (man?) of Indian Advertising, Piyush Pandey. Unaware of being in the crosshairs, he thrust a finger into the side of his mouth and tried to wrest that elusive bit of spinach from his teeth. Here was THE face of Indian advertising, the President of the 2004 Cannes Jury, scooping out his cavities with obvious relish. The audience watched in horror and disgust and then broke into hysterical laughter. Eeeew!

The evening was filled with a few other mirthful moments. Each time the agency, RMG David, went up to collect an award, they handed a foil-wrapped gift to the bemused presenter. By the end of the evening, everyone wanted to know exactly what was inside!

Some of the early winners - Axe, Cadbury's, Colgate, and…. Our Lady of Fatima's Church! An indication that ad folk might run out of brands, but never out of ideas!

And then the compere announced the award category that I'd been trying not to think of all evening. A loud pounding began in the region of my chest as the compere boomed, "And the nominees are…" There were six nominees including our ad. The voice in my head said, NOT A CHANCE. And I squeezed my eyes shut.

"There's a joint silver in this category. And the first joint silver goes to…"

My eyes flashed open and I gawked at the screen. OH-MY-GOD! Up on the screen was my name along with Art Partner's. And with a shock I realized we had to go up and collect OUR ABBY! That was the last thought before my mind went blank.

Like a bunch of bumbling robots, Art Partner and I did the dream walk in slow motion. Slow, because of her 7-month pregnancy and my knocking knees. Gosh, it was bright when we reached the stage. I was only dimly aware that EVERYONE was watching us. I can't remember who handed us the award, but he smiled very warmly and congratulated us. We weren't sure what to do next. Thankfully, there are no acceptance speeches at the Abbies, or else we'd have looked like blithering idiots. We walked off in a daze with goofy grins.

"Lee please hold the trophy," Art Partner requested weakly. I belatedly realized that she was finding it difficult to hold the trophy and negotiate the steps. The 'man with outstretched arms' was surprisingly heavy, but very very huggable!

For a while after that, I couldn't concentrate on the ceremony. People all around were shaking my hand or calling up or sending sms. The nicest one from Art Partner herself, "I always knew we were good together." In fact, the award couldn't have come at a better time. With me unsure about getting back into mainstream advertising and she, with Baby No. 1 on the way, it would be a while until Abby No. 2.

It was an O&M show all through, just like it's been for the last few years. Somebody SHOULD bottle their incredible success formula!

Post-awards, there were more congratulations in store. There was no need to visit the overcrowded bar, we were on a high all through. My friends laughed when they saw me with an armful of the Abby brochures. One, for each member of the family, I joked. Actually that brochure contained our only proof of winning, since the trophy would go to the agency, and the Ad Club didn't give out certificates.

I went home reliving every moment of the evening. For just a few hours, I was once again that starry eyed copywriter of 6 years ago.

A busy week for Murphy (or why I haven't left a comment on your blog)

I've had a glimpse of the Stone Ages this week. No email, no chat, no blogs (gasp!). And considering that I've strenuously held out against the insidious invasion of technology all along, I now realise I'm a regular net junkie. A net junkie with a bad case of withdrawal symptoms.

With all the 'free time' this week then, I've been ruminating about this unthinkable turn of events. Until nine months ago, I didn't even have my own computer at work. I used to share a terminal with a colleague. In my previous workplace, there were only two terminals which had the Net. This was an improvement over another agency where I worked, which had one connection. When there was information to be gathered, we went to the library. Google? Yeah, heard of it. I had a pc at home with a dial-up. Which one? Um... I didn't know. I never bothered logging on from home.

There I was, blissfully insulated from the inexorable tide of technology. Two things changed that: the hunt for a digital camera and blogging. From a bewildered, self-avowed techno-phobe, I slowly turned into a zealot. In theory, i knew all about the vastness of the medium. But for the first time, I got the feeling that I was standing at the edge of the ocean. Google and I became fast friends. My eyes almost fell off when I first discovered THREE links to my name! Mailboxes were checked throughout the day and then I'd get home and log on to check what I'd missed in the last hour. All was well; I was proceeding smoothly towards net addiction. Until Murphy struck...

First, my home pc threw a tantrum. It stopped showing the comment boxes on blogs and refused to let me access the blog home page. Also, it moodily refused to show me recent posts on some blogs. Then there was the matter of getting disconnected every few minutes. Thankfully, I had my office pc to fall back on...

Unfortunately, early last week, the management did a taliban on all mail sites. Vehement protests, wailing and sulking were as futile as our attempts to connect to hotmail, rediff and yahoo. I was especially indignant. Here I was, with bags packed, finally heading out of the Stone Ages. And now I was being forced off the bus! I ranted at every software engineer in sight, as though they were personally responsible for this development.

A minor respite. The elusive cable finally showed up at home and granted us the Internet cable. 24-HOUR ONLINE - the icon on the computer boasted when I logged on. And then this message followed:

Sorry for the inconvenience, the line is down as the underground fiber has been cut by BMC while digging the road. The line should be restored late afternoon.

And this was four days ago!

Seriously, now I know what drives people to sabotage!

Rants notwithstanding, I'm in a way grateful too. Perhaps, I've been singled out for yet another cosmic lesson in detachment. If the medium is the message, then this week's message has been loud and clear: GET A LIFE! Hmm... this has already been too much time spent on this post...

P.S. No, this isn't a goodbye-to-blogging. I'm still going to be around. Just bear with delayed comments and mails :-) Thanks!

Live commentary...

I love cricket. Totally, completely, absolutely love cricket.

But to assume that I’m a rabid fan who watches every match, knows every obscure statistic and worships the boys in blue, would be quite erroneous.

The truth is I haven’t watched a match in years, no, not even the World Cup. Whether India wins or loses, I enjoy a good night’s sleep. And I never ever care to ask, ‘Score kya hua?’

So why do I say I love cricket? Simply because I enjoy watching the incredible effect it has on people.

Take yesterday, for instance. My cricket loving brother was up at an abnormally early hour (read 8 a.m) just to watch the pre-match commentary. Knowing that I wouldn’t get any writing done through the day, I decided to step out to complete some chores.

I walked out into a deserted street. I could actually hear birds twittering. A sound normally obscured by impatient honking and the roar of exhaust. Forlorn shopkeepers beamed when they saw me approach. At the grocery store, a few other stragglers entered and started an animated conversation about the day’s match and prospects of winning. Perfect strangers until a minute ago.

‘Ohhhh…..’ a gasp went out in unison from several windows in a building. Some batsman probably had a near miss. It was incredible to think of families, friends and neighbours all sitting together, their voices and fervid prayers commingling with each other.

It reminded me of my office which has a rather hierarchical order. A cricket match and all the structures temporarily fold up since the director’s cabin has the only TV set on the floor. It’s fun to see people troop in under some flimsy pretext or the other. After a while all pretences are dropped and people unabashedly plonk themselves on the sofa. The transformation of serious, no-nonsense executives into raving, whooping fans is a sight to behold!

The latest tour of Pakistan has meant a brief and welcome respite from the bizarre political and filmi shenanigans. From the ‘India Shining/India Whining’ debates. From the mind-numbing soaps and go-to-any-lengths music videos. For just a little while, there’s just one religion in this crazy, troubled country. My favourite moment is when the players all stand in a row, hand over heart and with passion in the eyes sing the national anthem.

Finally, there’s one more reason why I welcome cricket this year. Since my exit from mainstream advertising, I haven’t had to ads that somehow ties in cricket with cosmetics or department stores or banks. No cricket metaphors, no clichés, no stale puns. Whew!

Cricket? I’m game for it…

Ro, you rock!

One of my closest friends, Ro, arrived from Sydney last week with 8-month old twins in tow. I was excited about meeting the new mum who I hadn’t seen in three years. And of course, the handsome TWINS!

I called the day after she arrived. Her sister said, “Ro is feeding little K. She’ll call you in two hours.” It seemed like an inordinately long feeding time. I didn’t hear from her so I tried again the next day. “Ro’s suctioning little K. She’ll call back,” I was told.

I could understand Ro’s inaccessibility. Twins can be a handful. And when one of them has a rare dysfunction of the vocal chords, a preoccupied mom is but natural.

The twins were a few weeks premature. J had no problem adapting. K however hit a rough patch. Like most kids, he bawled as he made his entry. But unlike most kids, no sound issued from his throat. What followed was a battery of tests and a tracheotomy to insert a tube into his lungs. The tracheotomy also meant he had to be fed through a tube in his nose.

“Lee!”, she yelled delightedly when I visited her yesterday. Her ‘telephone-wire’ curls were the same. The warm smile hadn’t changed. Only the dark crescents under her eyes were new. Little J was waiting to be introduced. I gazed at the cuddly ball with cheeks that spilled out over his shoulders. He flashed me a toothless smile and then gave an almighty yawn. I was in love.

K, an equally gorgeous but less plump version of J, was vigorously kicking his tiny feet in the air. It seemed like he was doing an airborne marathon. The tube in his nose was held firmly on his cheek with adhesive tape. The tracheal tube stuck to his neck like an amulet. And from it, his breath issued with a rasping sound.

I then understood why Ro never came to the phone. She sat with a box of tissues wiping the secretion from K’s throat. When he couldn’t cough it out, she had to suction the tube with an apparatus. She had to watch that his restless fingers didn’t dislodge the tube from his nose. And she had to hold and cuddle him when he cried tearfully but soundlessly.

I watched the feeding ritual. The formula was poured into a syringe attached to the nasal tube. The feed was drained in half an hour. But K had to be held for an hour and a half after that, to ensure that he didn’t throw up, since there was a danger of the reflux entering his already-weakened lungs. This procedure had to be repeated at each of the four daily feeds. Sometimes by the time they finished one feed, it was almost time for the next.

Ro’s dad laughingly told me of how they’d sometimes find her asleep, her head resting on little K. Once, her aunt found a way around that by tying her head to a cushioned bedpost.

“How’re you holding up Ro?” I asked her.

Without a trace of sorrow or self pity, she replied, “I’m taking one day at a time. I just want K to be well.” Doctors had given her mixed opinions. One said it was almost certain that K’s cords would recover by themselves. Another callously and decisively told her to give up hope. But she tenaciously believed that a miracle could and WOULD happen.

“I’m so grateful that my parents were with me all this time”, she said over and over. “And I’m so lucky that J and K are such adorable, peaceful, un-fussy babies”, she said looking at them fondly. Grateful? Lucky? Earlier, she’d mentioned the tubes irritating K’s trachea, causing him to cough up blood. What lay ahead – endless visits to paediatricians, multiple opinions, see-sawing hopes. But here she was using words like grateful and lucky.

I looked around at the room filled with baby things and half-unpacked suitcases. I wondered where the half-finished manuscript would be. Ro, a gifted writer, had been one of 6 people (and the only Indian) in Sydney who’d been selected for a Writing Mentorship Programme. She’d completed the first draft of a book – her FIRST book - before the twins changed her world. Now, she and her family are back in Mumbai, to start afresh. One day at a time.

International Women's Day? It's really a year long celebration.

Wine, Woman and Song

Dragging oneself to town on a lazy Sunday morning for a workshop, might seem like a terrible curse to some. But when you’re sitting in a conference hall with pen, paper and four wine glasses in front of you, the injustice is a little tolerable. Actually, make that, very welcome.

It was the Sula Wine Appreciation Workshop and India’s best known female bartender was holding court, seated on a bar stool. “What do you want to know about wine?”, she rasped. And 19 would-be connoisseurs spewed forth their questions:

“I know that there are red wines and white wines. Tell me more.”

“I was once asked, ‘What’s your grape?’. What does that mean and how do I ask such expert questions?”

“All I know is that it bears an expensive price tag. How do I discern?”

For my part, I wanted to graduate beyond Goa Port Wine. I wanted to be able to order French wine with a certain sangfroid and after delicately sipping it, pronounce loftily, ‘Mmm… the finish is dry.’

So there I sat, ears cocked and pen poised as Shatbi differentiated between table wines (red, white and rose), sparkling wines (like champagne) and fortified wines (where alcohol was added during fermentation to give it a sweet taste. Example, port wine.)

What gives each wine its distinctive taste? The grape variety, of course. The ‘cheat sheet’ listed all the major varieties from Chardonnay, Sauvignon Blanc and Gewurztraminer for white wines and Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot and Pinot Noir for red. This exercise of rolling our tongue around slippery French pronunciations primed us for the tasting that followed.

We started with a white wine, Madera. Everyone stared respectfully at the pale liquid being poured.

“Sniff it”, said Shatbi, plunging her nose deep into the glass. “What do you smell?”

Um… wine, I thought.

But the others seemed to have more perceptive nostrils.

‘Pineapple’

‘Jackfruit’

‘Rotten jackfruit’ (Had they been sipping already?!)

“Now, inhale and sip, and swirl it in your mouth”.

I did and the liquid imploded in my mouth. Sluggish tastebuds did the high-five as the heady vapours invaded my mouth and nose. The second sip singed a glowing trail all the way down my throat.

A Chenin Blanc followed. My sensitised nostrils now discerned the aroma of litchis. It also seemed to go down easier than the previous wine. A-ha, I thought, two wines down and I can already tell the difference. Next came a Riesling and a Sauvignon Blanc. And by this time, everyone was in high spirits. People began to detect the aroma of ‘turpentine’, ‘bookstores’ and even ‘new shoes’!

Lunch was accompanied by a sparkling Sula Brut. And post lunch, we went back to work (ha ha!) this time on red wines. Reds, we learned, are more complex and require mature taste buds. Also, one had to learn to bandy words like body, structure and depth.

We started with a Rose (pronounced Ro-say), Sula Blush Zinfandel, a delectable pink wine that was slightly sweet and slightly tart. Sniff, swirl and two swallows later I knew I’d found MY grape!

The Merlot which followed had a pungent aroma, like varnish. And also left an acerbic aftertaste. Cabernet Shiraz was warm and spicy. Full-bodied with a dry finish. I couldn’t remember the last wine we tried, smitten as I was by the Zinfandel.

Armed with information and fortified with wine, J & I tottered out and made our way to Tata Theatre. The Bombay Chamber Orchestra along with musicians from Amsterdam and a Russian pianist were playing Beethoven’s 2nd Symphony and Rachmaninov’s spirited Piano Concerto No. 2. A treat for the already heightened senses! We listened spellbound as wave after wave of exquisite music washed over us, rendering us even more light-headed, if that were possible.

Some Sundays don’t get more di-vine!