In which we re-read "1984"

The way I used to read when I was younger was with a certain breathlessness. To say that we (Several of my family members & I, trace the tree up and down, stick to the women, you will get the list) are addicted to books is an understatement. There are many moments when my need for a book is almost alongside my need for breath, for example. There are other family members who hold the book like a protective cloak. Any book, not like a singular particular book or anything.

Though I don't remember when I read 1984 earlier in my life, I know for sure that I read it with more than the usual measure of morbid fascination, and hurriedness. Like it was going to run out. You can trace this back partly to the fact that my sister & I were always in a race to finish books and borrow  new ones from Kavitha Circulating Library before he closed for the day (which he did whenever he felt like it - mostly when he ran out of cigarettes or felt bored).

I am a little bit changed now. For one, I read on my iPad. The Kindle App is everything to me. The font size is big, bigger, biggest (as the day proceeds and my eyes get tired). I ruminate a bit. I also fall asleep way more, nowadays. I own the books (or at least I can keep them as long as I want, if I get them on Kindle Unlimited). There is no fear of Kav. Circ. Lib. guy's wrath or fines. Plus my elder sister, likely to breathe down my neck and push me to "finish already, slow poke", doesn't live in Chennai.

In between my nagging for the usual things like bathing, working, folding the bed sheet, putting away clothes etc. I inadvertently challenged the child to a reading contest. I should have known better! Foolish, very foolish. Unlike in those days, the reading can be done simultaneously by all of us in the house now. So that was the plan. I was at 21%. It was a Sunday. Quickly, father and daughter said they are "in", and are taking me on.

Eldest member, i.e., my husband, read for 30s and fell asleep. I ploughed on valiantly from my 21%. But suffice to say, she beat me hollow and made lot of jokes about it and felt immensely smug. We occasionally sit shoulder to shoulder and read, I can make excuses that I have 100 things running in my brain, my eye sight is bad, she is hogging the backrest, blah blah, but the fact of the matter is she reaches the end of the page way before me and it takes all her patience to wait for me to swipe to the next one. I knew this, but see, this is a book not really in the style teenagers are used to, I was counting on that, for sure.

Oh well, we have enjoyed immensely the aftermath of this reading challenge session, despite me having lost so badly. NewSpeak is clearly twitter/social media language, and it's not as if we don't have our own interpretations, mispronunciations, and intentional-misuses of several words in several languages, our own private NewSpeak to to say. We have spoken about the characterisation of the women, actually the singular woman in the book. A bit unidimensional, isn't it? And some of the parts that are weird, like the long Goldstein manifesto - which was quite a pain (in our opinion). Finally, the ending. It scared her. It pissed me off and left me unsatisfied.

What do you all think? Can you speed-read 1984? Did you like the ending? Should we watch the movie? 

Rasam Chronicles

I am not a fan of rasam. I would like to rise against the tyranny of rasam. Go ahead, disown me. I am from Mysore, and though my family does have some Tamizh roots, the well-entrenched dislike of rasam is pinned (mostly) on my Tamizh friends. As soon as you speak of the thin soup and the idyllic town together, they will turn to you, their noses turned up, and say “So you put sugar in the rasam, right?” I don’t know why, but this infuriates me immensely. I mean I do feel superior in the knowledge that they have no clue what they are talking about, but still. 

First let me talk a little bit about the current state of affairs and chronicle in a detailed manner, my rasam preferences. It has to have tomatoes in it. Tomatoes can be eliminated if it has fried neem flowers in it. Third and most important, it must not have a green tinge to it (which comes from a preponderance of coriander powder and a distinct lack of chilli powder). I accept lemon rasam, with green chillies and tiny tomato pieces, if it packs a punch. Currently, I rarely partake of any of these variants, though one or the other is prepared at home every day.

Ok, so rasam went by another name in my childhood, I cannot ignore that, despite the fact that it will slot me. Saathamudu is what it was (to be) called. Childish tongues tripped over that big word and various bastardisations were evident in our family, including the rapid-fire uttered Saatund. Which sounds like an electronics manufacturer or something. In effect, when we said rasam, we conjured in our minds, the big bad city of Madras and the heaving temple towns of southern Tamilnadu, which was our (at least my) only exposure to our neighbouring state in those young Mysore days. It is saaru in Kannada and that was acceptable too. Eventually, when I moved abroad and had to cook for myself via Mallika Badrinath recipe books, I accepted rasam as rasam, and now I don’t much use my childhood word for it. Which is just as well, considering that I rarely consume it in adulthood.

Now I get to the sugar part. I don’t remember in my household, sugar being added to rasam, ever. An occasional piece of jaggery, maybe. My mom was not much into cooking for several years due to various reasons, so when she finally got the full kitchen duties on to her plate when I was 10 or 12 years old, she experimented a lot. Sometimes those experiments resulted in events like too-spicy things, which she then tried to “fix” via jaggery. Mom is a big one for this fixing, and is quite adept at it. I am too. One of my #covidlockdown skills has been to repurpose the morning’s kootu into a lip-smacking dal for the night’s chapati. I pride myself in the complexity of flavours in Mysorean food, particularly mine. So when someone tries to pour disdain with this sugar comment, it riles me up. I know that sugar, in many instances, helps bring out one or the other flavour, but yes it irritates me because it is a trivialisation. And you do NOT get “Mysore Rasam” by adding sugar to the rasam that’s currently boiling on your stove.

It is likely that, as I am a vegetarian, I have not had the opportunity to taste the full scale or variety in Tamizh food. As I have anyway slotted myself above, I bravely add this comment as well. Usually, I am the sole representative in a room full of Madrasis (in the true sense of the word, people from Madras, born and brought up, went to school here, spent a few years away maybe, at most, but back here again, talking about Drive-Through Woodlands and its halcyon days), and I struggle. How do I convey to them my deep dark feelings about how their food pales in comparison to mine? It literally does. For e.g. the yellow-tinged tamarind rice here vs. the fiery brown one my aunts or mom (or heck! ME!) make. Tamizh food should also come with the warning “no copra has been harmed in the making of this food” – how do I convey to this room what they are missing by not including this awesome thing? Do they even know what copra is? (Hint: It is not a snake)

So let me bottom line it here. Those paroxysms of joy you are feeling thinking about rasam, whether it is soup or not, I don’t indulge in them. And nor will you, if you know that world over people, married to Tamizh Rasam, are settling for an imitation. The real rasam powder is brownish red, yes, many red chillies are incorporated, the coriander is but a small subdued presence, bowing to the superior flavours of the other things in it. Dal, mashed, a handful, is invariable. Pieces of tomato float on top. The jeera is tadka-d in ghee and floats alongside. Fresh coriander leaves are abundantly sprayed. You can drink it, it will unclog the sinuses, but you better not, mix it with hot rice, for heaven’s sake.

(I don't believe a word of what I read here. 
https://www.nytimes.com/2020/05/27/magazine/soup-so-vibrant-its-called-the-elixir-of-life.html)

That Ultra Running Book - A Review

I bought it the day it released, more or less. And finished reading it almost in one shot. It was worth the excitement, for sure! If you are a runner (and who isn't?), you have to read this book. Anyhow I have loved all the books by Adharanand, so I was really really eager. 

The strange thing about social media is that you feel like you are so connected, somehow. I saw Camille Herron post a photo of the book copy she received and I remembered reading somewhere that she was in the book herself. I mean, I didn't know the details, but still. I knew Finn ran a number of ultra races - including the Comrades one. I also knew about the experiment with the Kenyan runner and the ultra race, again, not the details but the bones of it. So in some ways, there weren't as many surprises in the book. I regret that a little bit, I admit.

What I like about Finn's books as compared to the numerous other books about running/runners that I have read is that he provides what I can term a sort of gentle analysis of the situation, basing a lot but not all of it, on his own personal experiences. I like how he weaves in his own experiences and story along side that of the members of the ultrarunning community in this book. Compared to the previous books, I get the feeling that this was physically really demanding, and required a lot of out-of-comfort zone activity. I appreciate an author who takes the craft seriously enough to be willing to do that. Of course we runners are a crazy lot, everyone knows that.

My favourite part of the book was the two-three times Finn describes getting some sort of second wind late in a race and then going nuts and getting to the finish line propelled by that. I am not looking at an ultra race, I don't think I can not do it, but I feel it doesn't align with my goals or life right now. However, I do understand that feeling, having run my share of kilometers for the past 35 years. It is hard to describe, and Finn struggles to identify the cause (it would be great to figure it out and distill the essence into a bottle, wouldn't it?), but we all know that each race is completely different! A salt tablet in one, a kind word in the other, a song sometimes, a bit of rain perhaps - any of these can be a positive X factor on a given day! I know it is looking at it from a "glass half full" perspective (I know the line between this and a DNF is a very fine one, definitely been there), but don't knock me for being positive!  

It's a book with lot of rich description, plenty of food for thought, and a good number of personal experiences to inspire you on your running journey. I give it two thumbs up, and am glad to have a complete set now in my (e) bookshelf, and my brain. I also want to use this opportunity to express gratitude to Adharanand for granting me an interview - for our magazine The Rundown a few years ago (2017). Here, have a peak at my article. This was based on "Running with the Kenyans". 

About "Karmic Kids"

"I have read your blog" - every once in a while someone (new) that I meet tells me. Of course I am super surprised always, I have been really quite bad about maintaining this space. Years and years ago, when I first started out, my buddy told me that the activity could be hard to sustain. I assured him I would be fine, 'cause I am an idea monster. I still am. I have many thoughts, ideas, plans, but also many distractions, and work, and way more hats to wear than I could have imagined.

Anyway, I am back now, and that is what counts, right? And I am back for a good reason, I assure, to review a book!  I am reading almost exclusively on the kindle now, 'cause my eyes decided to fold in the microsecond I turned 40, and as my daughter won't hesitate to tell you, I can keep it to a word a page type font setting on the kindle.

A few weeks ago, I finally bought Kiran Manral's umpteenth book, Karmic Kids (the story of parenting nobody told you!). It's a quick, breezy read, even as it compresses 10 rich years of the bringing up of her son, the one we knew well enough as "the brat" back in the days when blogging was furious all around!

I found myself re-living all those days in Mumbai, as I read through the captivating book. The early years of motherhood, when we compared notes and found ourselves nodding in sympathy at each other's travails. The later years, when it wasn't all "cute" what the kids (her brat, my monster) were unleashing upon us, but the sisterhood made us feel like we weren't alone. The memories came flooding back as I read without pause.

Although I have a feeling us "older" mothers will enjoy this book for nostalgia reasons, it has that distilled wisdom (without being overly preachy and scarily prescriptive like some of those other parenting books - I still shudder when you say "Ferber", by the way), that young parents will appreciate. It is pretty no-nonsense about dealing with various aspects of parenting, including the tough bits, and, at the end you are left feeling in control and happy! 

Read it, you will fall in love with parenting all over again!

Running Q & A

Do you have any "doubts" to clarify, about running? Well, you can always go refer our little magazine. The various editions of The Rundown (India's only magazine on all things running) are available at  http://www.chennairunners.com/rundown/

Meanwhile, why not sample a bit of it here? Perhaps one of these is a question you are grappling with at this time. #PracticalTips #UtterNonsense #MaamiThayirSaadam #Sweat

Absolute Shorty

We took this photo a month or so ago. I got so dejected at being the absolutely shortest person in the family that I invested in a pair of heels. It was long overdue, for sure. Thankfully, nowadays there are wedges that one can wear somewhat comfortably, not having to recourse to "Sky High Heels" as I see them referred to, is definitely a great thing, considering my loose ankles. 

The teen was cracking up at my feeble attempts to look bigger, stronger, older, & what not. As we were getting ready to leave one night for a dinner with a couple of friends (Yeah, 'tis true, I wear jeans as if my life itself depends on it. I switch between older pairs for work and newer ones for going out), I dragged out my new footwear. 

The teen pounced on it and wore it. It's a clear 3in. heel, which could put me in fighting range of being of "normal" height - though the effect is somewhat mitigated by the towering-ness of the 185cm tall guy next to me. We decided to take a photo as #lifegoals for her, while she was wearing the heels. She hopes to grow to this height. It puts her a clear half foot above me, and at least within "earshot" of her father. 

Anyway now I have accepted that all these people will tower over me, heels or not. My best bet is to go stand next to my mom - or my aunts for that matter. And you know, I am quite happy that the kid is (most likely) not going to be the disembodied voice emerging from behind the stage podium in public speech situations...

Of Brown Diaries and Ink Pens

It has been an interesting week (the one that passed, that is). The elections were interesting - and that's all I want to say about it. Finally, after 43 years of existence, I have found my feet planted somewhat on real ground, but let me not push it and pretend as if I have deep political views! I am on top of all the trending stories, however, though I did manage to escape to the 1940s via a nice little novel about The Channel Islands, for part of the time. 

One of the recent things we have been doing is a Sunday family workout episode. We drop the child off to basketball and proceed to the gym. Due to some new rules they have brought in place there, I go to the aerobics room (which also, conveniently, has weights). So we are all in separate places. The duration of the class is sort of insufficient to have a satisfactory workout, so the best bet is to push oneself. The sweaty car ride on the way back when the child cribs about her team mates, and we both jump in as we are wont to and say "You see in the 1985 when I was playing at XYZ..." are good fun. I carry several towels 'cause I care about how my car smells later. 

Noting down the food, exercise routine, and something of feelings through the day in a diary - albeit from 2011 - has been an interesting experience. The online notings I have done while training for the recent marathons were alright and they are there for future reference, but this one, where I write alternately using blue and black ink pens, is better. I was writing in real small font though today I have decided to increase font size 'cause eyesight. 

The photography workshop that I was a reluctant participant at (because I was the driver and did not relish coming back all the way and going back all the way using googlemaps) talked about shots being framed correctly and the background cleaned of clutter. I went with a 'medium' distance shot above and I think to tell the story correctly I should have followed it up with a real close shot. Maybe of my brown 2011 diary which has my name embossed on it (with incorrect spelling). 

Next time. 

For the love of the art

I made this comic for my class blog. And since my students don't seem to care about it at all, I thought it will be interesting to use it here and talk about why I love teaching. I guess the short version of it is that it allows me to bring up all the (somewhat) repressed tendencies to be dramatic, crazy, and most of all to talk a lot. 

I have been teaching for a long while now. Formally, as Assistant Professor->Associate Professor->Professor etc. for 15 years now. But well before that I was informally teaching little kids whenever the opportunity presented itself (and it did present itself with some frequency). These past decade and half obviously have presented numerous challenging, frustrating, and rewarding experiences! 

I love Chemical Engineering, and especially love Reaction Engineering. In fact a few years ago, when we were working on Underground Coal Gasification, one of the things that most enamoured me to the topic was that we coined the term 'nature's own chemical reactor' and shopped that phrase in many conferences (of course to raised eyebrows and snide giggles). 

But mostly, I love teaching. I study diligently for my classes. I have fresh notes for every class I teach - both online and in a notebook (not necessarily overlapping). Based on a session I attended during my MIT days, I don't hesitate to use the chalkboard, though the convenience of PPTs cannot be always denied. I use my blog space and moodle, and (unsuccessfully) tried to use another platform called TodaysMeet to foster discussions (which did not happen). 

With pixton, the chance presented itself to augment something I had taught them in class with a comic, I jumped at it. And in case you are wondering, the "Doublets"(or word ladder) game was invented by Lewis Carroll and you can find tons of them online. And no, I did not first encounter them in wikipedia but rather in that GIGANTIC GREEN 'Complete works of Lewis Carroll' that we owned in the family (and which my sister and I read sooo much). *

[& no I owe no explanations about surface reaction mechanisms & elementary reaction steps here]

35 Pieces of Pasta

It was one of those mornings today. 

My maid (cook) called in sick at 6:20am.

Good news - I was awake and reading an unputdownable book.

Bad news - it was "Bad Mothers United" by Kate Long.

I didn't even work out 'cause I was lazy. 

And she had early school today. 

I ploughed on, I am 43, I can deal with one measly lunch box.

'How many farfalle does she need?' I mused aloud.

'35' he answered promptly. God bless him.

Sometimes your questions need precise mathematical answers.

'How do you know how much sauce to add?'

'Well, I just do' 

Sometimes I surprise myself with how good I am at food.

I blundered on after, all a-tizzy, 'cause today was going to be a good day.

I was going to make up for last week's unproductivity at work. 

The sambar thingie splattered down as I picked it from the fridge.

There was sambar (small onion) pretty much everywhere.

Including the ceiling, oh heaven help me. 

I calmed down as I cleaned. 

I think I deserved it 'cause I was whining. 

About the fridge which is over-flowing with stuff. 

Shouting in my head at the maid (cook).

Anyhow the kitchen got a good wipe.

The cloths are all done for & I found sambar in the MnMs.

But order prevails, generally! 

As for the lunch box? 

It went with a long note from her father.

It was all ignored. 

She shared the sandwich with a small boy. 

She rolled the used fork in the cloth napkin.

She brought back 10 farfalle, if you must know. 

Togetherness

How to get a selfie together? 

Some of our most memorable times have been when we are exercising together. Over the years, we have had basketball, running, volleyball, gym, long treks, p90x, and more recently, walking (!). All of these have been fun in their own way, and though we do a number of workouts separately  as well, I feel like these together workouts are an important component of our lives. True, we have never run a marathon together like some of the other couples that we know. We haven't even run a half marathon together, though, compared to the former, the latter is not too far-fetched as a possibility for the future. The photo is from a gym session yesterday.

We had a schema for our weekend treks during our Massachusetts days. I remember agonising for days over the what-to-wear what-to-pack questions, while he just threw some random things together in like 5 minutes. Sandwiches, water, trail mix, some chips in a backpack. An insanely long trek which I remember now with only pleasure. Reaching the summit. The exhilaration at seeing the vistas at the top. Me, always impatient to climb back down. Chinese take-out at night. Waking up with really sore limbs the next day. Such a long time ago it all seems!

Nowadays we have our very short morning walks together, that's it. So far it is something we manage to do after dropping the child off, a time to breathe a bit. The whole child-house-work-deadlines-morning meetings saga has put paid to anything more than that. And our running goals are not yet aligned well enough that we do that together. I do my strength training on the terrace for expediency. He prefers the gym. I am still an impatient sort who always winds up at least 10 mins before him and sort of breathes down his neck, at any rate.

So it was a pleasant thing overall that we found ourselves with a nice hour long window (not more not less 'cause the child had to picked up from her basketball session) on a Saturday morning. We went together to the gym, and though we exercised separately, he on the treadmill and me doing my workout in the "padded" section, it still was reminiscent of that past life. I suddenly felt very grown up. And not for a second did I ponder the 'What-To-Wear' question. In fact, I think I picked out my workout clothes (blue TWCM volunteer tshirt and a pair of Nike running tights), with my eyes closed.

Bloody Hell!

I had a blood test recently - a routine check up which revealed routine things about my body and so forth. Before you ask, yes, it involved a urine test as well, which - however many times I do it - is a major pain. Anyway that was all fine, I don't want to talk about peeing though I just did.

There is a snatch of a memory from my childhood, I was very small, at least in size if not in age. We used to go to our family doctor - named Subba Rao - a super old gentleman who gave us those red tonics and half a 'celin' [Vitamin C] each. It was generally assumed that I got half portions 'cause I was one, but I suspect that the guy was just cautious about loading up the body with chemicals - a thing I appreciate a lot now.

The memory, yes, was about a vaccine I had to get. Mom told me about it and we walked from our house to my grandmom's house first (the good doctor was en route). And I was so excited throughout the whole outing. I could hardly think straight. I dragged mom out of the grandmom's house quick quick double quick so we could get the injection.

"Maybe she will become a doctor" I think they said. "Maybe I will" I remember thinking to myself as I inhaled the deliciously decrepit odours of the doctor's clinic. I had no use for the prattle that they use to make a patient comfortable. I didn't mind one bit the injection - not even the initial pin prick.

During my teenage years, thanks to the braces I had on my teeth, it was all those injections in my gums. I did not mind them, though that slurpy feeling in the aftermath was not desirable. I got four teeth removed in one shot one time, and no worries. The dentist was a very nice (and handsome) man but that was not the point, really.

In recent times, I am a bit more wary. I looked carefully as he broke the seal on a brand new needle. I watched him dab the antiseptic. I decorously looked away as he poked the vein. I only peeked a glance when he was a little rough during the vial change. I still am unafraid of injections - though I did not "become a doctor" - at least not of the variety they were referring to. 

Of Careers and Creches

Today I want to muse a little on parenting - as loyal readers know, it is one of my favourite topics. Mostly, it's a chance to say unkind things about The Child, who is, thankfully too preoccupied with a pile of books borrowed from the library last week, to get back at me.

I attended an interesting session at IIT today. I was the "Chief Guest" at the creche in the campus. I agreed to go simply because a friend of mine asked me and I found it hard to say no (she is most accommodating and I owed her one). I was a bit hesitant at first, 'cause I didn't have a ready made speech to give. I know, I know, that has never stopped me before, and it did not stop me today either.

I laid out a salwar kameez to wear then on the spur of the moment ditched that and wore a sari. It was a purple-ish one and I wore matching earrings and a bindi. My parenting moment involved the walk to school to drop the child off, during which she laughed loudly and informed me that all three were different shades of purple, and nothing matched. Oh well.

My parenting philosophy has mostly revolved around Role Modelling. I can't for sure say that it has worked out super well for us or anything. But it is something that makes sense to me, and it gels with my own personality. Some aspects of role modelling are such that it can backfire on you - for e.g. the fact that I wake up early and run regularly leads to a certain disdain for running, for sure! But so be it! I am hopeful that in the future she will be somehow inspired by it, and last week I distinctly heard her say "I need some exercise now, it has been a while since I had a proper workout."

Speaking of creches, I think an important thing to bear in mind is the fact that all the feminism and equal rights and lack of a glass ceiling and so on falter at the altar of early motherhood. I know that in the absence of a high quality day-care center, on campus, right close to my work place, with a reasonable philosophy of child rearing, I would not have managed to have a career.

I could have handled a job, yes, I would have worked for sure, maybe simply because I am not very good domestically, but having a full fledged career would have been well nigh impossible without a set-up such as the one I was at this morning [My own early motherhood was dedicated to a sister concern that is in IIT Bombay, where the child went from the time she was 16 months old].

For that reason among others, I am immensely grateful that such things exist today, unlike when I was a baby. While the grandparents are super awesome and are any day better at parenting than any creche (or myself), the guilt I felt for putting them through the whole feeding - diaper changing - nap-time - and other routines of babies, was strong. Plus I think for a single child, having a set-up outside the home and some friends and non-family adults to interact with, were valuable.

It was a great walk down memory lane for me today. It was nice to introspect a little and tell the eager young parents that were in the audience, that the "Food Battles" are really not worth it. It was so hilarious to think about how much I used to agonise over her food, considering that she is 3 inches taller than me now!! I tried to convince them that it has been one of my failures as a parent.

Most of all, it felt good to do this informal session and spend the rest of the day mulling over the various things said and heard this morning. As we move on to Phase two - 'Parenting a Teen' - due to happen soon, while all is said and done, it has been a really wonderful journey. Although it sounds geeky to say it, the apple of our eye has grown to be a good (if distinctly disobedient) friend, and perhaps when she reads this she will recall those early creche days with fondness...

A long-ago memory captured for posterity

   

Rejection

I was contemplating rejection, mainly in a work situation. We write all these manuscripts all the time - by and large we have been lucky, but a good number of them are returned back, rejected. My co-workers and I go through a period of dejection then - if the reject is with good, stated reasons, we can at least sit down and address them - but many a time no details are provided, and we don't even know why it was turned down! In any case, I convince everyone to think positively and move ahead. It's definitely one difficult aspect of my work, but we generally move on ...

(From New Yorker)

I read this nice article about the New Yorker cartoon rejects - check out this awesome blog:

"Rejection as Creative Catalyst: A Lesson in Entrepreneurship from New Yorker Cartoon Editor Bob Mankoff". It has nothing whatsoever to do with my work life, but it was still interesting to read! I stumbled upon it when I was searching for information about Gold Catalysts for my class, of all things! And it reminded me of a recent rejection I had suffered (not that I have found a way to make money off of that! Though the idea of a web portal of rejected manuscripts in Chemical Reaction Engineering would surely be cool! 😛)

As I was discussing something with the child, I remembered, due to the context, the  basketball games I have lost in over the years. It is quite a substantial number! But I had to dig deep in my memory for that - I was trying to convince her of the usual - that failure is sometimes a stepping stone to success - and no one wakes up and starts winning things, games in particular. The importance of effort, and dedication, and a good dose of luck cannot be under-emphasised, I was saying.

I guess I should have added that the memory of happy situations can be more prominent than that of unhappy ones, and while I know that pit of the stomach feeling of disappointment very well, I think I know the thrill, the exhilaration, the joy of a good job done to completion much better. And the happy moments can easily dislodge those unhappy ones in the long run! I don't think she believed me.

My student graduated and the committee was very respectful of him, unlike in previous encounters. We had a great lunch together where a visiting German professor gave the boy a hug. After the number of times we have had rocky meetings and the amount of heart ache I had suffered thinking about his thesis over the past five years, it was such a pleasant experience! I came out of it feeling super strong and ready to deal with stuff, after all, these young folks deal so well and come out happy, why shouldn't I! 

So here I end, on that pleasant note. If I had applied to be a Spice Girl and was rejected on the basis of my height (or unruly hair), I would be one of several, and all of us would go out into the sunset in companionable silence, heads held high and positive thoughts in our hearts! 

Short Shorts

At the Standard Chartered Mumbai Marathon 2016

Running shorts are my favourite thing in the world. Though I have never found a satisfactory pair of them in India. As in the past, in my recent trip to the US, I obsessed over it for days and finally ordered a bunch of them on amazon, to my hotel room. Only to discover a rather nice running store round the corner... 

It was heartening to read this article making a desperate plea for better shorts for women:

Longer Shorts

The options in India are generally pathetic as far as women's running shorts are concerned. I admit having to resort to men's shorts - they rarely fit well though they at least they are longer. I occasionally succumb and buy the latest model of Nike or adidas shorts since they loudly proclaim that they are for running, but they are all uniformly disappointing. 

I am seriously contemplating moving to those three-quarter tights that seem to popular among women runners in India (and beyond). I may even be okay with the weird patterns that these tights seem to possess. Maybe then my daughter will stop teasing me about my 'thunder thighs' - at least they will be decorously swathed in colourful polyester... 

Triggers

That's all. 

At least there are no cats

(From: amazon, not my copy - which is anyway from the library)

I have stopped myself from buying any more Murakamis. I still like him fine, I assure you, despite the fact that he was yet again passed up for the big prize & yeah, sure, I have listened to Bob Dylan for a long time now and love him and his voice and his weird lyrics. At any rate Dylan is not a runner like Murakami so there is that corner of my brain that is going to always pro-Murakami despite what the Nobel Prize committee feels.

At any rate I rapidly read this anthology of birthday stories and all of them without exception were decidedly scary. Ranging from that one about a king without skin to the absolutely outrageous one about the two call girls and the Italian husband, they were all, on some levels, scary. The worst was the one about the ageing parents and their only son, and that birthday meal in that distinctly bleak Irish village setting. That one I narrated to my husband (to his horror) hoping that our future is not that.

I waited anxiously for the one authored by Murakami himself, and of course he saved it for the very end. I read with interest that it was written exclusively for this anthology, and that it was triggered in his mind by his own experience of turning twenty. I tried to recall my own 20th birthday and frankly, I just don't recall a single detail of it. Likewise my 21st. Anyway, I hurriedly read it through to the end, and of course, did a double take and read it again to make sure that (a) I understood it somewhat and (b) the story had really ended.

I was a bit disappointed with that one, I admit. I expected something poignant, thought provocative, with a hidden depth that I would explore at length in my mind later, and yes, the word I am looking for is haunting. Instead I was left with something that felt, for lack of a better word, just plain unfinished.

Before you accuse me of it, no, I am not a fan purely of the long form, I like short stories. I read them quite often, especially when going through a busy stretch of life, they are the best. I like the suddenness of them, the inherent unpredicability, the comfortable lack of deep character exploration, and ultimately the fact that they allow me to imagine beyond the typed words.

But this book left me - not - as I expected -  in a thoughtful mood where I would sit around and think about the stories and try to pick at them in my head, but in a hurried mood wanting to pick up something else to read and replace it all with. Nevertheless, there was one saving grace in it all, and that was that none of the storied featured cats! Cats! I have had enough of and will take Dylan's 115th Dream over anything to do with cats, anyday! 

Hydrating for a marathon

(source: not me)

I usually carry a water bottle wherever I go. Especially if I am running a marathon the next day, and all my friends are busy hydrating for what seems to be a week and I figure I may as well do that too, 'cause you know, you never know the day before the marathon that you may twist your ankle and throw 16 weeks of training (even if desultorily done amidst much stress).

But I forgot.

Plus the rule in the airport is never really clear. Can you carry your bottle through the security if it's empty? Or should you take a sip and show them it's potable? Or will they chuck the damn thing into the trash? So of course I don't dare to carry my good bottles. But a random one lying around the house can be recruited for this purpose easily.

But this time I forgot.

So I sucked it up and bought a bottle of water paying an astronomical amount in both paper currency and mother earth screwing up currency. I drank up a bunch and decided to save the rest for the car ride in Mumbai (bound to be long).

I got on the flight and proceeded to do my usual thing of sleeping from before take off to just after landing, waking up only to scarf up the breakfast they provided (don't recall what it was, I was awake just long enough to consume it).

When the flight landed in Mumbai I woke up and twiddled my ears a bit 'cause they were blocked and looked for my bottle. It was all crushed like. I guess they make these water bottles from cheaper and cheaper plastic of late, and plus all the pressure changes or what not. A bit of OCD made me try to straighten it out a tad but it wasn't important so I left it.

Then this stranger woman sitting next to me says "here, let me". I was fine, I DO NOT MIND I wanted to say but before I could capitalise my letters she grabbed the bottle. And believe this. A stranger of a woman who I had had no relationship with up to the point we boarded that 1.5 hours flight. SHE BLEW INTO THE BOTTLE.

I am not known as a good poker player. She must have seen the emotions clearly go across my face. I am not violent by nature so I could easily resist the temptation to slap her on the cheek. But I was so so annoyed! I am pretty easy going among friends and family about sharing food or what not but *shudder* what was she thinking! I pictured all the germs in her mouth, all the cooties and what not.

I reached my room and gave that bottle a nice big rinse. And yes, I did not hydrate (at least not from that bottle) for the rest of the day.... 

For the love of writing

At the end of it all, when I think about the reasons why I love this little space of mine, it boils down to just that. The love of writing. The joy in seeing words form in my mind and find their way to the keyboard and then on to this nice little template on blogspot.

Admittedly, 2016 has come and gone and I have very little to show for it. I used moodle a fair bit for my course and even that was not with the same degree of enthusiasm as usual. Aside from that, I wrote a number of articles of a general nature for The Wipro Chennai Marathon's public outreach. The most fun I had was when I wrote for our magazine The Rundown. Here have a look at something I recently put together, just some irreverent stuff in the context of The Wipro Chennai Marathon.

From The Rundown, Dec 2016 Edition

I like my alter-ego Maami Thayir Saadam, or MTS. She has gotten around to saying things that I wouldn't have said as Preeti, or KPBM, for that matter. But it's a tag team effort with the one and only ludwig for the column (not that he is a Maami, though he could be I suppose!) and so it may be that we have to fight it out for our space there at some stage, we'll see!

Meanwhile, having finished with the myriad responsibilities of 2016, which left me breathless and with barely a minute of time for myself, I am glad to be back here, doing what I like to do on a Saturday evening! (Having spent Friday evening putting together a little space for my course, over here). 

A page for my current course

I am also determinedly attending to my twitter and facebook handles, I won't repeat what I said over there about the annual pilgrimage to the Standard Chartered Mumbai Marathon, go see it over there, instead! 

Oh I suppose I will do this. The child, monster, as it was referred to earlier times, does occasionally use the opportunity to diss me in public, on her own blog, at The One Blog To Rule Them All  as she likes to call it. Do have a peek and give her some back pats once in a while. I do rue the day I set up the page for her occasionally, as my name is dragged through mud, but I guess it's all a part of the joy of motherhood! 

Till later then. 

Nostalgia

(with thanks to facebook for unearthing this gem)

I think when you are 42 years old, you spend a whole bunch of time thinking about the past. I recently met with some friends - girls err women - I went to college with. We had a nice lunch - chat - exactly like we would have in those days in the early 90s'. Well, except for small differences. You know, one of the kids came along, one of us drove, the other brought her bike, Ola cab was summoned. We talked about calories. And uteruses.

But mostly, we talked about - and thought about in between sentences - about our life in those days. The fun days in the hostel. That old tree outside the library. Boys. Rules. Life lessons. How we thought we knew everything there was to know. We laughed at ourselves - our naivete, the confidence that we had in those days.

In many ways it was wonderful. We have been in touch for the most part, we know a lot about what our lives have been in the past 25 years since that day we all first met, back in 1991. We understand each other without having to say much. We can talk about the others without having to give the whole back story or explain things. We are happy, secure, and life is just generally awesome in one's forties no?

But then there are always those lingering moments - sometimes during our meet-ups, but most times afterwards when I think about it. It's a sadness, for what has clearly been left behind. And a regret that I didn't do that or say this. For me, these are not about the big things - career, husband, family. It's the small things. Not understanding someone's cry for help. An unnecessary argument I still recall. A small meanness I once displayed. A jealous feeling I had. A callousness... Taking someone for granted at times...

Oh I was young, I tell myself. I couldn't have known better. I was grappling with a ton of things. I was working myself to the bone on so many things. I justify it, in my head. I wouldn't call it guilt - not like there are that type of big old skeletons in my college closet to make me feel guilty per se. I guess it's an inescapable feeling that I should have been a better person, and a fear that even now, at 42, I may not be as good a person as I want to be.

Overall though, I clutch jealously to my old friends. They give me a peek into my old self, they remind me of the firebrand I used to be, they tell me the stories I have forgotten, and the best of it all is that they have grown meanwhile, into lovely women. All the edges rounded, a really peaceful aura around them. Of course, I can stay 'Hey BSA, Can I borrow your SLR?' and they will laugh, and we will talk about the godawful common room where the TV was located... 

Again about Gulmohars

I used to love the summertime back then. There was the whole last-day-of-school ritual. We would just go crazy. I would warn my family that I would be back home late. And we would get up to something or the other in school - just silly things - like playing a lot. That one time we challenged each other about using the teacher's bathroom; or to throw something into the staff room and escape before we were caught... Random stuff.

Once that was taken care of and all the sundry people we would not really see through the summer vacation dispatched, my friend & I would return home slowly, on our cycles. Weaving in and out and trying out any cycling tricks we had mastered. And then, reluctantly, with regret, we would separate and go to our individual homes (that were two streets apart, so not like miles away or anything).

The evening brought much excitement as my sister & I ran to the library and checked out as many books as the guy would allow. He was always very wary about us, I guess he was convinced that between the three of us (my mom, sis & I), we were capable of making him go out of business! Which was rather silly 'cause mom was one of his biggest supporters and always paid him extra. IF he had shut shop during our Mysore years, we would have been devastated, so seriously, he needn't have worried. [Last month we walked past and yes, he has gone out of business now, surely].

I would make grandiose plans for the rest of the summer. It involved things like: borrowing all the books my friend Anu's parents would allow from their collection (mostly, P G Wodehouse, Agatha Christie); & checking out all the arts & crafts books from dad's college library (all those special things I imagined I could do, if only I lived in the U.S., and had access to pipe cleaners, double sticky tape, craft paper, & what not). I signed up for several hours of basketball. I walked over to houses of my seniors and begged them for text books and work books (seriously).

May in Mysore is really wonderful. It's boiling hot - something that didn't used to bother me as much in those days as it does now. The large number of Gulmohar trees in the city are all in bloom (they were, this year as well, no worry). The koels and other birds are in fine form. And the general atmosphere of laid-backness is only amplified. I barely noticed that people in jobs continued to rush over to their various destinations in the morning. There is a fresh smell that used to hang around in the air - and believe me, I have tested the air right from early morning hours (basketball) to mid-afternoon (cycling expeditions here and there), to early evening (play time with friends).

Most of all, it was time for renewal and to do all the things I wanted to do in my life, which the regular schedule of school & homework & exams and so forth didn't allow me to. Over the years, I have become rather attached to this, which is why it's a good thing that I am in an academic job. Whatever else it is or isn't, the summer is awesome. Except that over the years, it is losing it's charm. One year it's a house move, the other a school move, or it's house painting or a family function. It's some unanticipated travel. Or that pile of things left over from the semester.

Obviously, as a full grown (ahem!) adult, it's incumbent upon me to finish all those tasks. To use the summer, when there is no teaching, to check all those boxes. To make sure that, by the time the undergrads come back to the campus and life goes back to insane busy-ness, I am ready to give my undivided attention to just juggling the usual teaching-research-home-parenting-other stuff stuff. So no more dreamy lists and fun "projects"; no more 3 hour basketball sessions (or whatever). No origami. No writing. Just Nose To The Grindstone again. Fine, I will do it. But I am under no obligation to like it. Mind it.