Notes from an almost-empty-nester
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| The batsman and the wicketkeeper |
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| The bowler |
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| The spectators |
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Some watch from balcony seats
The wicketkeeper/fielder wondering.. Mera number kab ayega |
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| Change of batting.. the coach steps in to help |
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| This bowler knows how its done |
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| The coach gives a demo… |
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| And the ball is lost.
End of game. |
Linking to the Thursday Challenge : “HAPPY” (Playing, Laughter, Things one enjoys, Happy people,…)
And
Linking to ABC Wednesday
: G is for Game
Don’t believe me.. believe Shakespeare… will you? Wasn’t it his beautiful Jessica in Merchant of Venice who said “Love is blind and lovers cannot see…”?
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| He said it….. Love is blind. |
Would you make the most important decision of your life blindly?
Think Shakespeare is old fashioned? Believe the Discovery Channel? Here read this..
A study
by Rutgers University biological anthropologist Helen Fisher and colleagues examined the
brain scans of men and women reported truly, madly in love.
Each of the images showed the same activity in the brain’s reward system as that
which occurs in the brain of a cocaine addict.
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| Yup.. that’s what addicts think they are… |
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| … that, my friends is the real deal |
That’s right .. cocaine addict!!! Would you make the decision of your life under the influence of cocaine?
I rest my case.
I, of course had an arranged marriage… the whole deal. Sari perfectly draped, tray in hand, laden with mere haath ke bane samose and steaming chai, that’s how I made my entry. One bite of the samosa and The Husband nodded out an emphatic ‘Yes’. No one knows to date, whether it was for the marriage or the samosa. Both, I hope.
It’s been over two decades and he continues to love the samosas of my hometown, which he later discovered, were bought from the neighbourhood halwai. What? Cheating? Oh so now you’ll get all righteous and carp about one tiny samosa. What about those hundreds of lies people in love tell each other? The whole tare tor laoonga bit and the duniya se ladoonga promise, then there’s the tripe about sab kuchh chhor doongi, mujhe paisa nahin chahiye. Lies.. all of it.
In fact, I think one should go a step ahead and opt for child marriages. For one there’s the obvious advantage of the girl adapting to the ways of her new home. Also, she learns to love her new family like her old one. I mean no matter how horrible our siblings are or how eccentric our parents are we still love them, don’t we? Well that’s how she’ll be with her husband and in-laws. Perfect recipe for a happy life. Right?
Doesn’t happen in today’s times, you think. Don’t you watch television? Haven’t you seen our own Anandi raking in the TRPs? And here’s an instance from real life.
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| That’s 5 year old Khalid and 3 year old Hala, on their engagement http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-503543_162-20020554-503543.html?tag=contentMain;contentBody |
Had my parents had the foresight to marry me off young I might not have needed that halwai at all. I’d have made perfect samosas, just the way mom-in-law makes them, just the way The Husband likes them and my life’s ambition would have been complete. Foresight — that’s what my parents lacked. I spent years and years slogging, studying, working but what’s the point? Can I get the samosa right? Nope.
Sigh!
While we’re on this.. suitable alliances are invited for a strapping 6 year old boy and a delicate 6 year old girl. Send in with photo.
Thank You
Disclaimer: This is completely a work of fiction. Any resemblance to people dead or alive is merely coincidental. Oh the bit about inviting matches is true.. just wait for another 20 years, though.
This post is part of the raging controversy between love and arranged marriages. For more points of view go here
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| Naisha drew this peacock on a bit of cardboard.. a bit crooked but never mind. |
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| We cut it out and glued on plastic spoons. I never thought they’d hold but they did, beautifully. You have to be generous with the fevicol. |
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| Paint it blue/green/gold/glittery.. whatever you have. Naisha was too impatient to try more detailing. |
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| Her favourite part.. thumb printing the peacock feathers… |
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| … like this |
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| Then some blue glitter |
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| A yellow beak and yellow feet.. |
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| And of course the sequins. The bestest part of all – I found googly eyes, finally. (at Hypercity, Pune) So we had to use one. |
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| .. And it’s done. It looks much better than the picture.. my photography skills leave much to be desired. That reflection will be the death of me.. sigh! |
Linking this to Shruti’s Artsy Craftsy Challenge .
I always knew ice creams were cool.
I came across this really quaint little bookshop inside a Barista. Lovely concept, isn’t it — Coffee and books? There was no way I wasn’t buying both and I chanced upon Saeed Mirza’s ‘Ammi – Letter to a democratic mother’.
For once, I’m glad I didn’t wait for a review.
It’s not a conventional book at all. If you’re looking for a storyline, or dramatic highs and lows you will be disappointed. If you’re looking for an autobiographical journey, arranged in neat chronological order you won’t find it either. The book seems like a compilation of pages from the author’s diary which takes the form of letters to his mother. He talks about his parents, their love story, his childhood, his journey to film making and his disillusionment with the system. The book delves a bit into history, breaks off to tell favourite stories on Mulla Nasruddin, then turns into a travelogue as Mirza takes to the road with wife Jennifer. The best part is a short film script that he incorporates at the end.It’s meant to be read and savoured in bits, very very interesting bits.
I have to confess that there’s another reason why I bought the book. For one, Saeed Mirza’s a celebrity I like and admire. I’d been too young to understand/admire his films but I certainly loved Nukkad. Besides, he was a celebrity I once interviewed. Strange, it might sound, but each person I’ve interviewed or even met, during my working days, remains special to me. I keep a soft corner for them unless they’re someone really nasty or opinionated (like Shobhaa Dey, Gosh was she patronising!).
I met Saeed Mirza in Bhopal and interviewed him back in the 90s. He was staying with a friend when I first went to meet him. A colleague, an aspiring actor, tagged along hoping he’d push his case. Withing a few minutes of being there he realised he’d wanted to meet Aziz Mirza, not Saeed Mirza, and he immediately wanted to leave.
As it turned out the interview was a long winding one. The restless colleague kept making furious eyes at me to end it while I was in no mood to do so… it was way too interesting. He came away hugely irritated while I couldn’t conceal my amusement. I ragged him for a long long time after that. Mirza talked of writing a book then. “It will be a critique on me,” he’d said. I’m not sure it was this one.
The next time I met him he was staying at a hotel. I had an evening appointment and he welcomed me to his room with a glass of alcohol in his hands, certainly not a setting to put me at ease. I was grateful for the presence of my photographer friend. However, once he started talking I forgot to be uncomfortable and stayed on till nightfall. Quite a raconteur, he is.