People that leave shredded bits of toilet paper on the floor, Dee hates you. Are you bunnies gnawing on it while you're trying to while away your time in there? Or are you thrashing around in yogic enlightenment that you destroy the paper that's the nearest thing you can get your hands on? Is it really too much to ask that you learn to cut the paper off at that ragged little edge of plastic neatly? Seriously people, grow up.
That Dee is crazy about order and symmetry in her world is known. She gets off on such episodes. When she works herself into such a state over something trivial, you better stay clear of her path and her hormones. Such entertainment.. that someone can get SO worked up about bits of toilet paper on the floor and the likes, but will probably not even bat an eyelash at the big stuff in life. She sure shows promise of turning into the screwed up crazy bat lady in that dark house around the street corner, hehe. Maybe B will save her heroically from the clutches of the underground bat people.
If he is not busy playing a cricket game, that is. That being never!
7/15/09
7/9/09
Blast from the past
Recently, I've started wondering about my parents' and their parents' lives growing up. What must it have been like? What do we not know about them? Maybe they were wild kids growing up. Maybe they had grand dreams and plans for the future that kept changing with time. What did they like, what memories do they hold dear? What random things did they think about? What cause or goal were they passionate about? What events changed their perspectives, and why?
I love it when I read novels where the present generation discovers a diary from their ancestors which gives them a whole new insight into how the course of their current lives was shaped a long time ago. How fascinating it would be to sit down and listen to those stories!
Of course, I could simply ask... Hmm. Maybe I'll come up with a family tree first and go from there. Imagine having a veritable 'History of the Xs' in hand. Of course, X will not be simple since by the South Indian tradition, the first name of the father becomes the last name of the child, and it is a never ending continuum. It would've been simpler had we all gone by the same last names! This will be an exciting project. If I move my lazy ass, that is :)
I love it when I read novels where the present generation discovers a diary from their ancestors which gives them a whole new insight into how the course of their current lives was shaped a long time ago. How fascinating it would be to sit down and listen to those stories!
Of course, I could simply ask... Hmm. Maybe I'll come up with a family tree first and go from there. Imagine having a veritable 'History of the Xs' in hand. Of course, X will not be simple since by the South Indian tradition, the first name of the father becomes the last name of the child, and it is a never ending continuum. It would've been simpler had we all gone by the same last names! This will be an exciting project. If I move my lazy ass, that is :)
23 Pri Ave
To me, that was (and still is) THE address to be at. Not Poes Garden or Boat Club, or anyone else that laid claim to being the posh-est locale in Madras. Okay, maybe I'd make a concession for Boat Club road. After all, I've ogled at the houses forever while taking my driving lessons or the occasional walk through. Anyhow, memories of PriAv are pretty central to my childhood. Ah PriAv!
The veranda where I've stood during several showers loving the saaral and summer vacations that would bring out 'the bench'. The same veranda we'd run to when we heard the car's honk as it came through the common path. The common path I walked through to get to the waiting school van (and one I've endlessly driven my cherished bicycle and Nan her roller-skates on, for a while). The same common path that would flood during rains, and a stepping-stone-bridge of sorts would be laid to lead out. The stones on the curving landscape region that we'd re-paint once in a while with the kaavi color. The corners with the manathakali plants, and the various grafts and saplings we'd borrow from friends and family to expand the garden. The little green bugs that would drip down from the neem and asoka trees, hanging there by a thread, only to stick on to unsuspecting passers-by. The same neem tree that must've sprung the leaves that were used to soothe my chicken pox bout. The maravattais that would freak me out every now and then, and pretend to play dead by curling up. Playing random matches of badminton in front of the house. Squeezing into the trunk of the car for beach trips, and getting back home carefully, minus the mud as much as possible.
And the house itself, what a beautiful place! Shiny red oxide floors, countless rooms, curios full of beautiful things including Paati's 'Dressed around the world' collection of handmade dolls, and our medals and shields. Thatha's room with its 'office' desk and that little 'important' cupboard in the wall. Paati's always neat room with the loose pink face powder, multiple sarees, and the writing desk with red, blue and green pens. Mom and Dad upstairs with that picture by the Taj Mahal (or was it Charminar? Shame on me) window print. Nan and me (and Anandhi for a while) rampant upstairs, but unlike usual messy kids. A very young Nan being 'schooled' by Anandhi to pick up movie song lyrics, and calling Athai by her name, much to mom's mock horror.
Playing board games with the family during those days when the cable TV mania was non-existent. Playing endless video games during summer break with the cousins. The night when Dad set up our very first computer. Walking a tread into the floor on those long walking-reading aloud-memorizing-vomiting study sessions. Long and hard dance practice sessions in the room with the divans. The same divans that I would try so hard to stay awake on while I woke up bleary eyed to study in the a.m. (never an early morning person, even then! I wonder how Nan does it) Mom's distinctive anklet sound when she came up the stairs with that steaming cup of the yuckiest Complan Mango. Her weekend aromatic oil concoction with for yenna thechuvidal and the sambrani afterward. Enthu on the mottai-maadi every now and then. Trials on the staircase with jumping the last three (or more, if we were adventurous enough) steps down. Very vague memories of Sundar in a woven chair with an Eclairs for me when I returned from school.
The temporary heartbreak at moving into the ground floor. Getting to choose the wall colors from the swatch cards for our rooms. Cooking Maggi and attempting to plead my case to try my hand at cooking other stuff. The kolla-pakkam with its asbestos sheet that Thatha fell through (in an attempt to reach the nellikai/suppota?) The short lived kitchen garden amidst the vazhai trees that I've never really seen a banana on. Breaking the sweetest walnuts outside, eating delicious sugar canes at Pongal and spitting the fiber out. Trying to look appropriately religious and spiritual during pujas around the thulasi modai. Eagerly awaiting the midnight bonfires to signify the end of Diwali. The creaky well-worn comfortable cane chairs in the veranda downstairs.
I guess I could go on and on about the million things that made PriAv what is was to me. Of course, each experience relied on the people involved! And for that, I'm glad that I lived the charmed life :)
Here's to 23 PriAv of the past, and the 13 PriAv of the future!
The veranda where I've stood during several showers loving the saaral and summer vacations that would bring out 'the bench'. The same veranda we'd run to when we heard the car's honk as it came through the common path. The common path I walked through to get to the waiting school van (and one I've endlessly driven my cherished bicycle and Nan her roller-skates on, for a while). The same common path that would flood during rains, and a stepping-stone-bridge of sorts would be laid to lead out. The stones on the curving landscape region that we'd re-paint once in a while with the kaavi color. The corners with the manathakali plants, and the various grafts and saplings we'd borrow from friends and family to expand the garden. The little green bugs that would drip down from the neem and asoka trees, hanging there by a thread, only to stick on to unsuspecting passers-by. The same neem tree that must've sprung the leaves that were used to soothe my chicken pox bout. The maravattais that would freak me out every now and then, and pretend to play dead by curling up. Playing random matches of badminton in front of the house. Squeezing into the trunk of the car for beach trips, and getting back home carefully, minus the mud as much as possible.
And the house itself, what a beautiful place! Shiny red oxide floors, countless rooms, curios full of beautiful things including Paati's 'Dressed around the world' collection of handmade dolls, and our medals and shields. Thatha's room with its 'office' desk and that little 'important' cupboard in the wall. Paati's always neat room with the loose pink face powder, multiple sarees, and the writing desk with red, blue and green pens. Mom and Dad upstairs with that picture by the Taj Mahal (or was it Charminar? Shame on me) window print. Nan and me (and Anandhi for a while) rampant upstairs, but unlike usual messy kids. A very young Nan being 'schooled' by Anandhi to pick up movie song lyrics, and calling Athai by her name, much to mom's mock horror.
Playing board games with the family during those days when the cable TV mania was non-existent. Playing endless video games during summer break with the cousins. The night when Dad set up our very first computer. Walking a tread into the floor on those long walking-reading aloud-memorizing-vomiting study sessions. Long and hard dance practice sessions in the room with the divans. The same divans that I would try so hard to stay awake on while I woke up bleary eyed to study in the a.m. (never an early morning person, even then! I wonder how Nan does it) Mom's distinctive anklet sound when she came up the stairs with that steaming cup of the yuckiest Complan Mango. Her weekend aromatic oil concoction with for yenna thechuvidal and the sambrani afterward. Enthu on the mottai-maadi every now and then. Trials on the staircase with jumping the last three (or more, if we were adventurous enough) steps down. Very vague memories of Sundar in a woven chair with an Eclairs for me when I returned from school.
The temporary heartbreak at moving into the ground floor. Getting to choose the wall colors from the swatch cards for our rooms. Cooking Maggi and attempting to plead my case to try my hand at cooking other stuff. The kolla-pakkam with its asbestos sheet that Thatha fell through (in an attempt to reach the nellikai/suppota?) The short lived kitchen garden amidst the vazhai trees that I've never really seen a banana on. Breaking the sweetest walnuts outside, eating delicious sugar canes at Pongal and spitting the fiber out. Trying to look appropriately religious and spiritual during pujas around the thulasi modai. Eagerly awaiting the midnight bonfires to signify the end of Diwali. The creaky well-worn comfortable cane chairs in the veranda downstairs.
I guess I could go on and on about the million things that made PriAv what is was to me. Of course, each experience relied on the people involved! And for that, I'm glad that I lived the charmed life :)
Here's to 23 PriAv of the past, and the 13 PriAv of the future!
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