Tag: contest

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Getting artsy craftsy

I’d actually been meaning to do this post on kid crafts for Diwali. I’d written part of it too then just felt too lazy and gave it up. Thanks to Mindfulmeanderer  here I am doing it finally. Thanks Shruti for the push.

Designer Diyas

What we need: Plain diyas (they come at a rupee a piece), Acrylic paints, Rangeela glitter tubes.
What we did: We began with washing off the diyas so they absorb less paint. Then I got the kids to paint them.. you’ll see a lot of blues because my son was the more enthusiastic one! Then we did some simple designs with the glitter tubes. The nozzles are quite kid friendly but I did lend a hand.

We also did some diyas with sequins. The kids used toothpicks to apply fevicol and then stuck on the sequins. Kept them busy for hours while I got my cleaning done.

 

Diya streamers
What we need: Sheets of plain white paper, Oil pastels or water colours, Rangeela glitter tubes, Gota/ribbon
What we did: I drew a simple diya then cut it out. (I folded the paper over before cutting it out so I got multiple cutouts in one go). Then I got the kids to colour/paint them. Oil pastels work better than regular crayons. Then we outlined them with the glitter tubes and left them to dry. Finally, we punched holes and strung them out on the gota or ribbon.

Diwali cards

What we need: Paper, Oil pastels
What we did: I drew simple designs.. diyas, flowers, stars … sometimes I threw in a basic border and got them to colour it. Simple.
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Diwali is where the home is

Yessss! I won. The kids did it for me this time. Here’s what the judge Bhawna of An Indian Summer had to say about my post.

Tulika: I relived my train journeys to Lucknow as a child through your post. Not that I travelled without a reservation ;-) , but the experience of taking a night train and then taking the rickety auto rickshaws (what are they called again?) once out of the railway station – all came back to me. The fact that you made it for Diwali as a surprise – I am sure, it must be your family’s favorite dinner table story :) . But the winning stroke of your post was the gorgeous handiwork of your four year old twins! Thanks for sharing the early works of the two very talented artists currently residing in your home! :) ”

Pic Courtesy: Google Images

There’s something about Diwali that makes me want to go home. And each year I did, for many many years. All was well till I was in Delhi.. home was a night’s journey away and life was cool. Then I moved to Bombay. I thought I was all grown up and could handle being away from home. A few weeks to Diwali and the longing started. I can handle it, I reiterated, I’m a big girl. Diwali got closer. Activity in office hotted up, more so because I was in the business of stocks. Brokers poured in with gifts and sweets. Everyone, yes everyone seemed to be headed home. They waved their reservation tickets proudly. Everyone else seemed to be perpetually on the phone checking their reservation status. I didn’t even have a ticket. The longing kicked in real bad.

A week before, I became desperate. Of course by then reservations were full and there was no chance I was ever getting home other than by travelling on the train roof, something I wasn’t really keen on doing. Then, like a messenger from God, I got a call from an ex classmate who was also going to Lucknow and had tickets to spare. I shamelessly piled on along with another friend, double pile on. Then I discovered all his tickets were waitlisted. “They will get confirmed”, he assured us, “my uncle’s in the Railways”. The three of us reached the station only to find the uncle had failed us – just one ticket had been confirmed.
Interestingly, the moment other passengers realise you do not have a valid ticket you become an outsider and they tacitly gang up against you, and so they did. Oh I’ll never forget those scornful stares that seemed to say, “Aajkal ke ladke ladkiyan….” followed by thoughts of unmentionable things they were capable of. They checked the locks and chains on their luggage as if we would make off with it all. We sat through it, closing our eyes and ears to everything, chatting about our respective jobs and reminiscing college days.
Then the TT came along and we seemed to be in imminent danger of being thrown out. We talked and pleaded, argued and haggled to be allowed to just sit in the compartment. We did have one seat, didn’t we? The ‘uncle’ came to our rescue. Name dropping does wonders in India and we had our permissions. The TT retired grudgingly saving the worst stare for me.
That 26 hour journey squeezed together on a single seat with two boys is unforgettable.
I was given the privileged window seat by my chivalarous friends. By 10 the co-passengers switched off the lights and by 10.30 I was nodding off too. By 11 I was longing to stretch my legs and by 11.30 I was wondering why I came at all. I rested by head at the window and stretched out my legs sprawling on my one third seat. My head rolled with the train’s pace and its steady rhythm seemed to say.. sleep sleep sleep.. except there was to be no sleep.
The night was interminable. We got off at every platform through the night, welcoming the sounds of “chai chai”. Drinking endless cups of tea gave us something to do. Somewhere during the early hours we all fell asleep in one tired heap. We woke up on Diwali day with the muted morning sun upon us through the dark glass windows. The co-passengers seemed in a much better humour. Perhaps the morning cup of tea had warmed them, or maybe it was just the relief that we weren’t the goondas they’d thought us or was it simply the miracle of Diwali… they struck up human conversations with us. By 9.30 the train ambled onto the platform. We said our goodbyes and hopped onto rickshaws. That was another first.. a pampered me had always had my dad receive me at the station.. but this was different.. it was meant to be a surprise.
Anyone who’s sat on a cycle rickshaw knows of its dawdling nawabi pace. By the time I reached home I was almost hopping on the seat from frustration and excitement. That homecoming will always be very very special.
I don’t think I have it in me to do it again, ever. But that year I did get home…. and it was well worth it. The look on my mom’s face when she saw me made it MORE than worth it.
Afterword:
I kept up the trend for many years even after I was married. Diwali saw me making my way from Delhi, Mumbai, Bhopal, Pune.. wherever I was, all the way home and it was always worth it.. always. Things changed only after I had my twins. I leave you with some pictures of their handiwork this Diwali.
Hard at work
The finished products

A diya streamer

Some of their Diwali cards
If this seems a tad drab remember it was done entirely by the kids (other than lighting the candles) for I was down with fever on Diwali day this year and couldn’t leave the bed

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The great battle of the bulge

No prize for this one but I did get a special mention at the Blogadda contest ‘Good over Bad’.. yay yay yay. Here’s what judge Vidya Sury had to say…

Tulika (yes, I scrolled your blog to find your name) – more power to you! You’ve proved that one of the really ‘good’ qualities of an individual is the ability to laugh at the self. Humorously presented – and fun to read, you’ve waged the battle against that “bad” xxl and emerging victorious on the path to looking “good”. Yes, when you talk about health, good is certainly better than bad. Listen to your body talk to you!


This is what I think I look
like when I exercise



 This is the story of the war I’ve been fighting for as long as I can remember — the battle of the bulge — the biggest battle of my life. There has been no truce for nearly thirty years.

For many many years I had been on a winning streak… till my twins happened. The enemy, finding my attention diverted, attacked with full force. By the time the kids turned four and I took cognizance of the situation, the enemy stood waving its victory flag all over me. My cholesterol was soaring and my knees hurt from carrying the excess weight. My ten chins showed themselves off proudly like the ten heads of Ravana. I needed to take charge. It was gym time.

I took on aerobics six times a week. I loved the music and thought I’d have fun. My mistake. Ten minutes into the session and I was spent. I stood panting by the stepper. “Giving up?” Taunted all of my seventy kgs? “No way,” said I and on I went driven by will power alone.

There were days of kickboxing, which I thought I would enjoy till the instructor told me to do sixty kicks in a row followed by sixty punches…. My shoulders protested, my thigh muscles cramped but on I went kicking and punching away at the enemy.

Then there were Fridays.. bhangra days. Now, I NEVER dance, never ever. Not even a casual step or two. But I was a woman on a mission. Fridays saw a resolute me boogeying to bhangra beats. I thought that was as far as the War would take me.

My mistake again. The instructors introduced Salsa every Monday. Slasa and me??? My friends laughed … but did I back out? No. On I went. “One two three.. five six seven..… move your waist,” exhorted the trainer. I struggled to move my feet, my waist and my hands in time to the music holding on to an imaginary partner. Once I lost my self-consciousness it wasn’t so bad. I began to have fun. And the icing on the cake – it wasn’t hard work like the bhangra.

After a well-rested Sunday I entered the gym thinking of a cool Salsa session. But is a war ever easy? No sir. The gym replaced Salsa with Hip Hop. Gawd I don’t even like watching that. But where was the choice? Shahid’s song boomed out — Dhan tanan.. Half a dozen youngsters shook, moved, jiggled and jogged. I thought I would die before I’d try those jerks. But I didn’t. The second week there I was again, yes all of my 40 years and 70 kgs, trying to keep pace. I never dared to glance at the mirror at my ridiculous self. I hated it.. every bit of it. But I did it… again and again every week.

For two long months the weighing scales refused to budge. Then slowly.. very very slowly.. gram by gram.. they moved. Within four months people were commenting.. my XXLs are now XLs and I’m waiting for the Ls.

I war with fat because I love myself. Oh yes I intend to be around for a long long time.. my kids need me and I like being alive.

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The reluctant convert

I’m not really a cellphone person at all.. at least I thought I wasn’t.
Back in the nineties since when mobiles were launched I have doggedly stuck to my landline. Each time we changed homes and the husband suggested we do away with the landline I protested. Each time he offered to get me a mobile I balked. I didn’t need the interference, I proclaimed.

Mobile phone etiquette leaves a lot to be desired … they ring at the oddest hours.. during official meetings, cosy dinners, in theatres even in temples. And people leave mid-sentence, mid-prayer, mid-meal to answer the call of the call.

I dismissed it as a fad, a tashan. It will fizzle out just like the damp squib pager, I said. I waited patiently with my blinkers on. I had a long wait coming.
I moved to Pune and my new editor insisted I carry a cellphone. I cringed, then allowed the husband to get me one. I kept it but vowed not to use it. I’d give people only my office numbers. Each time someone asked, “What’s your mobile number?” I’d reply grandly (and a tad rudely), “I take official calls only at office.”
Then I missed a story because when the girl I was supposed to interview called me I was out on another assignment. Then I missed another one and another. The boss’ sour face made me start handing out my mobile number. It started to ring more and more frequently. “Oh okay,” I agreed, grudgingly. “It’s a bit useful”. Slowly, silently, insidiously it worked its black magic on me. I found myself reaching out for it in times of happiness and stress.

I got a promotion, it let me gloat in private.
The doctor said I was having twins, I couldn’t call my husband fast enough.
My aunt passed away it helped me lighten my grief.
My son fell ill it let me share my worries.
We moved to a different city it lessened the heartache of parting.
My daughter threw up in school it summoned me in a flash.

Yet I refused to acknowledge and accept its significance in my life.

Then two days back it died. I felt like my whole life had come to a standstill. I had to beg my husband to put an alarm on his phone for the next morning. We’ve long since done away with the alarm clock. I went to drop the kids to school and the bus seemed late. I had no way of telling the time. I haven’t used a watch since I got my mobile. “How will I call the driver,” I wondered. Thankfully the bus came and the kids went off to school.
My son had a cough and I worried as I left for the gym, “What if the school calls and I’m not home?” I ran home from the gym because I had no way of telling the maid, “I’m on my way.” Is it anyone’s birthday today, I wondered as I got home. The trustee mobile never fails to remind me. Oops gotto run now… almost forgot, time to pick up the kids.. no alarm today, damn I’m late.
Whew! Got there just as the bus was arriving.
I have a battery of friends who I catch up with every single day. The husband who shells out the bill will vouch for that. Come evening and the landline started to ring. Where are you? Where have you left your phone? Why is your phone switched off? Why aren’t you taking my call? I must have called you 200 times.
Even my friends and family are missing my mobile. When did it become so important? When did it progress from an unwanted accessory to an official necessity and then to a friend and confidant?

It’s supposed to come home today and I’m ready with my welcome song and aarti ki thali. It’s all about My Friends, My Life, My Phone.

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By the water cooler contest

While I was working office life meant periods of high action, when the deadline loomed large, to periods of relative inaction, when we waited for the deadline to loom large.

Life was anything but boring back then. To give up a glimpse of what we grapple with in a newspaper office here are a few vignettes from long long ago.

The Lamba Ladki

Once we had a Bengali editor with a penchant for catchy headlines. He loved puns and suchlike. No sooner would a press realise come by with an invitation for an event and he’d be mulling over the headline even before the story was filed. For a piece on Minissha Lamba he took a fancy to the title, ‘Ek Lamba Ladki’. He just wanted it. I was dubious to say the least.

— first the headline was entirely in Hindi, not too good for an English paper
— the grammar was all wrong.. it had to be Lambi ladki, which of course he didn’t appreciate (no offence to my Bengali friends but I’m reporting this as it was).
— lastly, the biggest problem of them all, the petite Minissha Lamba was just not Lamba enough.

Such a tussle that was.

When the sub is too tired

You do know we work night shifts, right? Coming in at 6 and staying on some days till 2.30 or 3 am was the norm. So there was once this sub, editing the last piece for the day, with the editor breathing down his neck, the deadline long dead. He scurried through the copy, a final spell check and he was done. Next day the article appeared, with the spell check having converted the then Prime minister’s name to Atlas Behari Vampire. What a hoo haa followed.

And then we have reporters

However, it’s not nice to blame the sub editors all the times. The kind of copies they get take a lot out of them. A rookie reporter once had to stand in for the sports reporter. Wrote she, “The team struggled for a long time till finally lucky lady smiled at them…,” Lady luck – lucky lady.. what being the difference?

And the Mix Ups

There are of course famous mix ups. The typo that changed the ‘marital’ to ‘martial’ didn’t make much difference, they are perhaps the same thing. However, when the ‘R’ was dropped from friend, it quite altered the equation  and when ‘l’ was dropped from ‘public’ there were serious repercussions. Oh and there were others – the sub editor wrote ‘use picture of Zakir Hussain from Library’ and handed over the dummy to the designing team only to find the percussionist sitting in place of the President next morning.

D the driver

Outside office, life was no less exciting. We had a rather temperamental driver, let’s call him D, who took us home every night/morning. He drove like a maniac on those wide empty roads. To make matters interesting he was extremely short tempered and an alcoholic to boot. Imagine how  desperate we would have been to get home to entrust our lives to such a person.

So after we finished work we would go in search of him. Waking him up from his alcohol induced stupor was a task in itself. One night after I had managed to wake him, I found him walking away into the bushes that lined the road near our office. So worried was I that he’d find another quiet corner and drop off asleep I followed him calling, ‘Arey kahan ja rahe hain? Itni der ho gayi hai. Gari nikaliye, please’. Without turning around he lifted his little finger at me and disappeared into the bushes.

So embarrassed was I, I vowed never to call him again, ever.

Fortunately I had my own vehicle and on most days didn’t have to depend on him. However when it got exceptionally late D would be instructed to follow me as I drove home, since I lived pretty close by. He had a thing with my building guards. He would honk much before we reached the building expecting the guards to have the barrier open, which they refused to do insisting they had to check who’s in the vehicle before they let him in. This irked D no end. And one day he simply rammed the jeep into the barrier. The windshield came crashing down, filmy style.

And the big adventure

On the way home was a boys’ hostel. Normally things were pretty peaceful. One eventful day I rode on a little ahead of the office jeep. I had barely crossed the hostel when a stream of boys poured out brandishing swords. (Yes they would settle scores with swords and no I’m not joking neither is this a figment of my imagination). I rode on blissfully unaware of what was happening in my wake while my colleagues in the jeep had the scare of their lives. Mercifully it was an inter-hostel war so the boys weren’t interested in any of us at all plus the reporters got to write out an ‘aankhon dekha haal‘.

Life in a newspaper never has a dull moment.

 

This post is for Parul’s contest, cool momma to Adi and Ragini, the writer of a hilariously funny blog (Radio Parul) and the author of a book (Bringing Up Vasu, That first year). Her new book (By the Water Cooler) is ready to hit the stands and I’m looking for an autographed copy.

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