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Dandiya 2010

Dandiya night in the society and Hrit Naisha were bubbling with enthusiasm. Time again for chaniya cholis, dandiyas, dressing up and dancing.. recipe for a great night.
For once I was relaxed and just as excited. To begin with their clothes were taken care of. A good friend sent awesome dresses straight from Gujju land. Thanks Apoorva. That rid me of the bother of putting together their wardrobe. What’s better he also got them super cute accessories and dandiyas. I was let off scott free. Yayyy!
He actually wanted to take the gada down… managed to dissuade him.

How she loves dressing up

With the spoils of the evening
Reason number 2 for rejoicing.. I’d learnt a few dance moves.. few meaning about two.. but that was enough. All the past years I was getting by without any, this was a windfall. We were set. Then someone asked “What are you wearing?” Eeeeeks?  Hadn’t thought about that at all. But no worries….just rustled up some junk jewellery and I was done.
Well we all dressed up for D day. Unlike Bombay where we got to groove all nine days here in Pune we just had one day and we were ready to make the most of it.
The programme was scheduled to start at 7pm with an hour of Tambola, then dancing. Tambola on a dandiya night??? Incongruous to say the least, from a Mumbaikar’s point of view. But since I’m not really one.. anything goes.
By the way tambola was never my favourite sport. Now with kids specially, I don’t see myself concentrating on middle line and full house with two restless kids laced with weapons (read dandiyas) creating havoc all around. So we decided to go down by 8.
When we did go down we were met with pin drop silence. About a hundred people sat sedately pens/pencils poised crossing out numbers as a ‘DJ’ did the announcing. Quite undandiya like, I thought.
I was at a loss how to rein in the kids. Hrit was cartwheeling with sheer energy and excitement while Naisha was flitting around holding up her lehenga in the most ladylike fashion.
They charged right into the tambola scene along with a friend creating such a ruckus that they made the veterans miss a number or two. Of course they were shooed away and had to play in the lobby while we waited. When the music finally started they were the first ones on the dance floor.
Now no event can be complete without at least one of the twins doing something outrageous. The prize for the best dressed boy went to their best friend. Hrit still doesn’t understand the concept of one person getting a prize and the others being left out. He asked me ‘Where’s my gift?’ I shushed him quickly. When he realized I was not going to help he decided to take matters in his own hands. He marched up to the podium, saw a gift kept there and walked away with it! Of course I made him take it back. Twice. Then the organizers gave up. “Let him have it.. anyway this was also for the best dressed boy,” they said. And I wished the earth would swallow me up. Hrit of course was thrilled.
After about an hour the garba music gave way to good old Bollywood. Punjab completely took over Gujarat. The kids sure had a ball.
Then at dinner time Hrit spilled gulab jamun syrup on him and I caught him just in time trying to pour a glassful of water inside his dhoti to ‘clean up the mess.’
That was it. It’s bye bye garba night till next year. Hope we’re back in Mumbai then.
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Mama vs Mama

This post is dedicated to my dear cousin brother.  Every few days Hrit gets this huge doubt, “Mama is Bobby Mama a boy or a girl?” (Sorry about that Bobby) I presume I must have been preoccupied each time he posed the query. I brushed off his question with a.. “Of course he’s a boy.” or, “Boy, boy.. now finish your roti.” or even “He’s a boy baba.. now no more talking.. close your eyes and sleep.” However, the query kept coming on and on. I was rather puzzled because it wasn’t like he hadn’t met my cousin. In fact they got along pretty well. So I asked, “Why do you keep asking Hrit?” He replied finally, “If he’s a boy how can he be a ‘mama’? He should be a papa, isn’t it?” Hmmm that explains it all.

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Time travel tag

This Tag/idea came to me from Sweta, it is originally written by Emily Barton.

Here’s how you do it…

Emily’s Rules
1. Depending on your age, go back 10, 15, 20, or even more years.
2. Tell us how many years back you have travelled and why.
3. Pretend you have met yourself during that era, and tell us where you are.
4. You only have one “date” with this former self.
5. Answer these questions.

Okay, as we start, what year is it and how old are you?
It is Oct 1990. I’m 22 years old. I am going back 20 years as everything else seems too recent. 🙂 I am in my last year of graduation struggling with my Physics and Geology.

1. Would your younger self (YYS, from here) recognize you when you first meet?
Oh yes she sure would. I am the same old plump me – the one thing that’s remained unchanged over the years give or take a few kgs. The hair might be a bit shorter now and I might have learnt to carry myself a tad more confidently otherwise I’m pretty much the same.

2. Would YYS be surprised to discover what you are doing job wise?
Completely. On the career front YYS is totally confused and a bit dejected. She has only recently given up Engineering aspirations after putting in what she considered her best and failing to make it to any Engineering College. She is now debating between a PG in Management, a career in teaching like our parents or maybe a career in Geology. Journalism is just not her. It doesn’t exist even in her dreams.

3. What piece of fashion advice would you give YYS?
Fashion advice… ummm.. that’s something I’m still a bit deficient in. All I’ll say is look for comfort. Don’t follow trends. And for godsake get a haircut.. scanty hair worn long does absolutely nothing for you.

4. What do you think YYS is most going to want to know?
Will I clear my graduation? She’s not really a bad student but each year she thinks she’ll flunk .. specially post the Engineering debacle.

5. How would you answer YYS’s question?
Yes you will. Have faith in yourself. Besides, it really doesn’t matter.. 20 years later no one bothers how you scored.

6. What would probably be the best thing to tell YYS?
You’ll get to go on foreign cruises and visit some wonderful countries.

7. What is something that you probably wouldn’t tell YYS?
What’s it like to go through a gynaecological examination… ugh..ugh..ugh.

8. What do you think will most surprise YYS about you?
That she’d be a mom … tough to imagine …to twins.. hah.. completely inconceivable, no family history at all. She’s really not into kids and can’t see what’s the ‘they’re-so-cute’ hoo haa about. That she’d completely fall in love with kids.. not just her own but the entire tribe.. unthinkable.

9. What do you think will least surprise YYS?
That I’m still fighting to remain fit. Diet, gym.. the whole thing.

10. At this point in your life, would YYS like to run into “you” from the future?
Sure. She’d love being me.

Thanks Sweta.. that was fun. Leave a comment guys and take up the tag.

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Dilli 6 meets Kite Runner

I was born and brought up in a small mohalla of old Lucknow. That’s a somewhat Dilli 6 setting, the same interconnected rooftops, pleasant camaraderie and long hours on the terrace.
The hottest ‘sport’ back then was kite flying. No gulli cricket for the mohalla boys. No sir, those were tame games for our toughies. It was a strictly boy thing. The gender barrier was clear.
My sister and I had kept out of the way of ‘the boys’. We stuck to our Nancy Drews and Little Women peacefully playing Chinese Checkers and Carom to while away long vacations.
However it was tough to remain unaffected by the sights and sounds that surrounded us. The terrace of the neighbouring house overlooked our garden and was a hotspot for kite kings. Bereft of any parapet it offered full view of all the excitement. “Dheel de, dheel dheel dheel DHEEL DE.. gayi gayi teri toh gayi. Woh chand tara le.. abe chand tara le na… ama yaar kya karte ho…. kaat kaat kaat kaat kaat kheench le kheench le.. gayi gayi gayi… and then mayhem.
Mothers screamed warnings, boys ran recklessly from roof top to roof top, while others dangled dangerously from terraces to catch the kite. Meanwhile the subject of their excitement swayed gently down completely oblivious to the turmoil it had caused. That a flimsy square foot of paper and few bamboo sticks could inspire such thrills seems inconceivable to me today.
However back then it seemed completely natural. I sat chewing my pencil, my homework untouched, with my eyes on the sky avidly taking it all in. I watched as the boys spent entire days on their terrace not sparing a thought to bleeding/bandaged hands. I saw them mending their kites with boiled rice and dough (yes they stick). I watched as they boasted about their razor sharp manjhas. I heard them brag about bringing down two kites in one go or laugh about broken heads as someone ran to catch a ‘cut kite’.
Sometimes a kite would sway straight into our garden or on our roof and I’d enjoyed my moment of power as tens of hands were held out — ‘humein dijiye, humari hai’ they said till I handed it to the lucky one who took my fancy that day.
This, my friends, was an almost everyday affair. However the day after Diwali was special. Shops would down shutters and services would come to a halt as Lucknow geared up to celebrate Jamghat, a day dedicated to kite flying. Men and boys, old and young came together in this kite festival. No mother could dare to protest, no house could close its doors to the boys as they came rushing in behind their catch.
By evening the competitions were at full peak. Amidst all the excitement my sister and I sat in our garden with our school books half- heartedly struggling with our holiday homework. However our ears, eyes, hearts and minds were totally centred on the terrace next door as it buzzed with excitement. The contest seemed to be hotting up between a saffron and gold veteran and a blue and red challenger. All eyes were glued on the high action in the sky with people excitedly taking sides. We too put aside our books and cheered the challenger. The kites met and separated then met again. The countdown had begun.. the weak must go down. Then it happened. The veteran proved it’s mettle as the blue and red came sailing down to loud cheers and disappointed sighs.
Our neighbour’s 10-year-old son had also been observing the match rather keenly but he was more interested in the catch than the match. His eyes fixed on blue-red he dashed to get it. With caution the last thing on his mind he sprinted from terrace to terrace as the kite meandered down and some other kids joined in. Soon the ‘catch the kite contest’ became just as hotly contested as the previous one. The neighbour’s son had a decided edge as the kite made its way to his terrace. He ran and ran and ran; till he had no clue where his terrace ended and our garden began. In the blink of an eye he was running on thin air and in another blink he was falling .. falling.. falling.. right onto Me!
There we were – the neighbour’s son and I with my school books and geometry box scattered all around us and my extremely startled sister looking on. The lucky boy escaped with just a few scratches while I sat nursing a broken ankle for months.
Moral of the story: Watching a sport is injurious to health.

PS: Needed to acknowledge my sister’s contribution to this post for holding my hand as we walked down memory lane together.

 

|This post is participating in the BlogAdda contest with the theme “Sporting Memories”. The contest is sponsored by myntra.com.

I’m not sure this will be classified as a memory of ‘playing’ a sport or even if is a ‘sport’ at all. I’ll let you decide.

Buy Official Cricket and Football jerseys
online at Myntra.com and visit the largest community of Indian Bloggers at BlogAdda.com

Finally I won something.. this entry was one of the winning posts at the Blogadda Contest.. Here’s what the judge  Tikuli Dogra had to say… Yes yes I’m being immodest.. bear with me.. I really don’t win too often… be gald I spared you the video of the jig I performed.

Dilli 6 meets Kite Runner by Tulika Singh: This brought back so many nostalgic memories of kite flying. As I said before the games we play as kids in the neighborhood are the best sporting events. The preparation that goes on for the kite flying contests, the adrenaline rush, the eyes trained to catch the kati patang and the magic of community sporting event all came floating in front of my eyes. I have seen it all come alive at Dilli 6 and heard many such incidents like yours from dad, who was from Allahabad. Great trip back to childhood. Congrats.

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Star crossed

When we changed houses in Mumbai the kids’ took a long time adjusting. Whether it was the new house, the new school or the new friends.. the kids were just not themselves. Their misbehaviour reached the peak, or rather the nadir. At a complete loss on how to handle them the doctor-dependent me marched off to the counselor. She helped.. immensely.
At her advice I started the kids on a star-cross system, a star for good behavior a cross for bad. It worked so well that now, almost a year later the stars and crosses are still celebrated and mourned with gusto.
H remains more sensitive to the issue. Threaten him with a whack and he remains blissfully unaffected, threaten him with a BIG BLACK CROSS and he comes running. For some weird reason each time I say ‘H you’re getting a big black cross,’ his immediate reaction is ‘And N?’ It’s as if N’s getting a cross too makes the whole thing more bearable. But boy oh boy if he’s the only one being penalized I am prepared for some serious protests.
A few days back he got a cross. He pleaded with me no end to reconsider, which of course being a mean mama I didn’t. Then for the longest time he followed N around saying, “Please take a cross.. please N, please.”
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