Confusionist

Um, no. Nothing to do with Confucius. But with Confusion. Complexity. Chaos. In the brain - an Xray of which would confuse it with a Pollock painting.

An avid reader of the AARP magazine, I follow suggestions on how to keep the brain active. Do mind exercises, it advises.

What mind? The mind that cannot remember one’s own phone number? (Wait, is it 1916, or 1619? 6191? ) The mind that cannot remember how old one is? (Wait, am I 58 or 59? This is September and I was born ...) The mind that cannot go to the grocery store without a list and then leaves it in the car? (Then goes to the car, and the list isn’t there, because it was in my pocket all the time.) Alternate scenario: Goes to the car, and the car is not there. Help! It’s been stolen. No, it’s not. I came in my husband’s car.

Yes, that (non) mind.

Forget the mundane stuff that every oldie goes through ... entering a room and not knowing why you went there, opening a drawer and not knowing why you opened it ... etc.

It’s the highly intellectual stuff that gets me ... or I don’t get, actually.

Quantum Physics: Huh?

Statistics: Four out of three people can’t understand statistics? I am the fifth person. For one thing how do you believe them? And just how accurate are they? Example: 50% of young kids ages 5-20 skip breakfast. How do they know? Did they interview every single young kid/young adult in the country? What if they lied? Does a granola bar count as breakfast? What if they turned 21? What if ...

Directions: Make a left at the next light, then a right at the stop sign. Go straight and then the freeway will be on your left. I was already glassy-eyed at 'Make a left' and then just heard blahblahblah. Thank goodness for that life-saver called GPS. Without it, I would still be somewhere on the 405.

Math: Now there’s a subject that can discombobulate the innards of my brain. When I first started working in the school, they thought “Indian=Math Genius” and threw me in all the Math (or Maths) classes. They thought wrong. What’s with that place value crap? And GCF and LCMs? Fuggedaboutit. Word Problems? The very words ‘Two trains left the station at the same time ...’ send me out of the room at bullet speed.

And don’t get me started with that crap about the flap of a butterfly’s wing in Brazil, or the sound of the falling tree in the forest. The only thing I hear flapping and falling with regularity are brain cells.

I love being a Buddhist, but try understanding the koans. The sound of one hand clapping? Expressing truth without speaking, without silence? A Buddhist Zen Master says Enlightenment rarely comes if the Road of Thinking is Blocked.

So be it. I shall take the detour.

The Tale of Ganji

Not to be confused with the Tale of Genji - that one is a venerated Japanese text. This one is an undergarment that covers the chest.

There were flagrant disparities when relatives doled out gifts to my children in India. My daughter got gold chains from her grandmother. My son got ganjis. My daughter got diamond earrings from her aunt. My son got ganjis. My daughter got silver anklets ... you get the idea.

Strange as it seems, I think my son got more pleasure from his gifts than my daughter did from hers. She handed me her gifts, which I put in the safe, where they stay till today. My son wore his ganjis out ... or at least till I threw them out when there were more holes than there was cloth.

To quote Seinfeld: “ Men wear their underwear until absolutely disintegrates. Men hang on to underwear until each individual underwear molecule is so strained it can barely retain the properties of a solid. It actually becomes underwear vapor. We don’t even throw it out, we just open a window and it goes out like dandelion spores. That’s how men throw out underwear ...” ... Or until mother/wife wait till the men are out of the house and bury it under the potato peels, tea leaves and other trash in the bin.

The ganji habit was inherited. Father and son never left home without one. If your chaati is covered, you won’t get a cold. Never mind the heat index is high enough to use the sidewalk as a tandoor, father and son will wear a ganji. And ... this year we welcomed the newest, ganjied member to our clan. Yes, we set the bar to enter our family pretty low.

Make sure you wear one when you cross the threshold.

School Kids Categorized

Here’s a Proposition for Parents from an Instructional Aide in Middle School: Could I request you to tick off which category your genius child fits into?

•  The Talker: Talks non-stop. Verbal diarrhea. Jabber Jaws does not raise hand. Yells out answers. Interrupts the teacher constantly. Is duct-taping illegal? 
• The Noise-Maker: Related to the Talker. Slams books. Sighs. Yawns loudly. Hums. Drums on desk. Clicks pen. The only noise allowed is the sound of me pounding his head on the desk. Sorry. Got a bit carried away. 
• The Nose-Picker: Self-explanatory. Fascinated with his/her own booger. Will scrutinize it, and finger it, tactile play-dough. It’s when it is ingested, is when I run outside to find a place to vomit. 
• The Spoiled Brat: Aren’t we in the OC? Cell phone goes off in class. I go over to confiscate the Blackberry. When I was eleven, I was got a new pencil-box. Blackberry kid starts arguing with iPhone 5 kid. Discussion stops when I walk over. Campus Clean-up trumps Bragging Rights. 
• The Drama Queen: OMG! I will just die if I don’t get an iPad for Christmas. I am going to kill my mom if she doesn’t take me to the Justin Bieber concert. Gag me. Shoot me. I hate my parents. I hate my brother/sister/stepbrother/stepsister etc ... I hate my hair/my teeth/my nose/my butt etc ... I hate my life. I should just die. 
• The Chair Tilter: This one starts with rocking back and forth. Then discovers it is more fun to see how far one can tilt the chair back before falling and getting a concussion. When he does, his parents sue the school for negligence. And yes! it is usually a boy. For some reason, girls are not Tilters. 
• The Fashionista: This is, duh, no surprise here, a girl. Should a boy in middle school pay attention to his appearance, he will immediately be dubbed ‘gay’. A Fashionista does not care about Failing grades - the F is capitalized here for a reason. She has a manicurist on retainer. She worships at the temples of Juicy Couture and Forever 21. She will wear Ugg boots in 90 degree heat and a tank-top in winter. This wannabe model for Victoria Secret gets hella pissed when given a Dress Code Violation. 
• The Bottle Crinkler: Cousin to the Noise-Maker. Brings a frozen-solid water bottle. Sucks ice, slurps noisily. As the glacier melts, rivulets of water soak textbook and homework. Crinkles empty water bottle and does not (or can not) complain when I ram it down his throat. Just kidding. I can dream, can’t I? 
•  The Excuser: I didn’t have time. I had other homework. I had baseball/soccer/volleyball practice. I left it in my dad’s car. I left it in my mom’s house. I don’t have a pencil. I ran out of paper. My computer doesn’t work. I was sick. My dog was sick. Etc. 
• The Speler (sic): Several of these specimens exist, who cannot copy down homwork from the bord in their english class. Well, hellooo ... that’s what Spell-Check is for. Names are written with lower case, the last name apparently optional. Heck, writing your name on your test is optional! And puh-leeze! Periods and commas are so old school! Contractions are obsolete, as are quotation marks. Why can’t i (sic) dot my i with a heart? And ‘alot’ is not one word, seriously? 

 Stay tuned for the follow-up blog on Categorizing Parents :

•  Parents who think their child is a prodigy.
•  Parents who think schools give too much homework. 
•  Parents who think teachers don’t know anything. 
•  Parents who think theirs is the only child in the classroom. 

 and more.

Wedding Vignettes: A Non-Fashionista

She is 27, but I can still tell her what to do.

“Go clean your room,” I say. The Why? look freezes on my daughter’s face as she sees the Or Else! look on mine.

An hour later, she comes out with two garbage bags full of clothes. I thought I said Clean, not Clean Out.

“Give these to the poor in India,” she says. The poor? You know who’s poor? Me, after buying her those sackful of clothes. I peer inside. The Ann Taylor shirt still has the tag on it. The rag-pickers may not get enough food, but at least they can qualify for Make Me a Supermodel. I have no idea how she comes up with the “I have nothing to wear” -whine.

She picks out a conveniently-placed one from the top of the pile. “Mom! This is from 9th grade!”

It sure is. But she’s not wearing it. I am. I try on some of her rejects and lo and behold! they fit. Fine, no need to go to the mall. Another upside is that I get a lot of compliments for dressing trendily (or at the minimum not looking my age).

Trendy, except for when I wear a scrunchie in my hair. I am absolutely forbidden to wear a scrunchie. Apparently carrying the stigma of a Ba, an episode from SATC clinched her conviction that no (self-respecting) women, except oldies ... and hicks from the Mid-West ... would be caught dead in one. It is, however, my sine qua non on my daily walks and is cleverly hidden in the glove compartment of my car and removed from my hair upon entering the house. One hour on the windy trail and I would give Jimi Hendrix a run for his afro.

The older I get, the less I care about fashion. My daughter? The fancier she gets, the less my wallet weighs.

Her sunglasses are from Prada. Mine are ten bucks from TJ Maxx. She goes to Bloomingdales to buy her shoes. I go to the pavements in Bandra. Her wedding jewelry cost as much as I got for selling my apartment in Bombay (many eons ago, but still true story). My watch is a freebie from signing up for a checking account at Citibank (also many eons ago, when they had money to spare).

But now it’s wedding time and time for a Mommy Makeover. Awww ... my little girl, still believing in miracles.

We hit a few boutiques in Ahmedabad. The first was Elan in Gulbai Tekra. The ground floor had some nice kurtis and I picked up a fancy one. Yes, but that’s something you can wear to work, she says authoritatively.

I follow her downstairs meekly and she picks out an outfit. Ooooh, Mom, look!

But I can’t. I am blinded by the bling. They will be able to see me from the moon, I say and heave it back on the shelf, using two hands as the weight is like pathra ... and the price is like gold. Like I am ready to fork out $ 400 for something I will wear for a couple of hours, and for something I will never, EVER! wear again (except in my nightmares).





We move on. Next was a small boutique called Essence. We found it by mistake, looking for Shyamlal Bhumika, which is right next door. Excellent service by the sweet young owner Shaini. Aaah, this was more my style (and my wallet). Cute, funky clothes. Darling, chunky jewelry. I picked out an outfit.

MOM! You can’t wear that. It’s my reception, not the Masai Ball. Well, it did look kinda Afrikaani, but it was so cute. I bought it anyway, and maybe ...

Don’t even think about it, she says, as we leave the store.

Sheesh! I wonder, where did she get those bossy genes?









Shopping Information:

Essence Boutique: 5 & 6 Akik Complex, Opp. Lemon Tree Hotel, Mithakali Six Roads, Ahmedabad. Tel: 79 3251 8155. Contact Shaini Shah.

Elan: Hill Plaza, Opp Sears Towers, Gulbai Tekra, Ahmedabad. Tel: 792656 9699

Jagruti: 37 Nutan Society, Suvidha Shopping Center, Paldi, Ahmedabad. Tel: 79 2665 1501

Gunthan: 1 Sunrise Ave., Commerce 6 Road, Navrangpura, Ahmedabad. Tel: 79 2640 3119

Wedding Vignettes: Banglemania

Bangles and handbags. My two obsessions. I collect them like Carrie Bradshaw collects Manolo Blahniks. What is really weird is that with safe deposits and drawers full of them, I rarely change either.

A few years ago, I switched from wearing the traditional gold bangles seen on quasi every Indian woman’s hands, to wearing silver bangles bought in bygone days. While in college, I received an allowance of twenty rupees, half of which was spent at Chida Kashi, conveniently located across the street from Elphinstone. Now ten rupees in Bombay wouldn’t buy you a grain of rice and beggars will throw the note back at you in disgust (true story).

My handbags I rarely change because I am just too lazy to go ferret them out of the cavernous drawers in my closet. Plus I am petrified at what petrified remains of a granola bar or Starburst I may find at the bottom.

But back to bangles, or bracelets as we call them here. Apparently the ones in the safe deposit are not fancy enough for today’s youth, and since I was not prepared to sell the house to buy real ones, off we went to the highly-recommended Ambica Bangles at Shivranjani Crossroads.

The owner Munish is a delightful young man who helped find the right bangles for two people who were stupid enough not to bring the outfits to match. The salesman Bharat patiently pulled out box after box for two people who were also ignorant enough not to know what size they wore.

While we were trying on the bangles, we chattered away as I am wont to do with anyone who breathes (and at times even with anything that doesn’t). I expressed an interest on Gujarat ‘kahevat’ and mentioned it was absolutely impossible to find a book on the same. They suggested going to this Crossroad and that Crossroad and even the bookstore Crosswords (who are way too focused on Western literature).

After a week, when we returned to the store to buy the rest of the bangles (since we were now smart enough to know what outfits we were going to wear) we had a pleasant surprise ... that touched me deeply.

Bharat said he had something for me from Munish, reached under the counter and ... there was a book on Gujarati kahevat. I cannot guarantee he will give all those who go there this book, but he will give you the best darn service and the most beautiful bangles ever.

Address:

AMBICA Bangles
110, Silicon Valley, Shivranjani Cross Road, Satellite, Ahmedabad, 380015

Tel: 79 2676 7351

Wedding Vignettes: Chaos-city

Pretty much any big city you go to in India is chaotic. There are always the crowds, the tired, the poor, the huddled masses yearning for oxygen to breathe, for roads to drive on, pavements to walk amongst the wretched refuse on the streets ... (now there’s a twist to the New Colossus).

So we left one crowded city (Bombay) for one less so (Ahmedabad). A lot less people, but a lot more dust. A lot less traffic, but it still takes you a long time to get from one end to the other. While we did most of the clothes-shopping in town, we had to go to the ‘city’ to buy the pooja stuff. All fingers pointed towards Manek Chowk.

Manek Chowk. Think Mall. Rows and rows of shops. Wares for sale. Hordes. Noise. Dust. Autos. Cycles. Scooters. Honking. Heat. And the occasional cow. Ok. Don’t think mall. Think chaotic orient-style bazaar. I go into a western mall like I am entering the Temple of Doom. Here I have no depression whatsoever and am eager to dive into this house of babel for which a blindfolded architect must have drawn designs.

Only a fool would take a car past the gate, so our driver Bachubhai parks nearby and hails an auto for us. A few minute’s worth of hair-raising, Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride later, we pass through the ancient, stone gateway and he deposits us smack-dab in the center of the action. Your senses are assailed from every angle. A riotous rainbow of colors blending turmeric and mirchi with bandhinis and patolas, the clamor of people calling out their wares, and smells of incense and spices emanate from the stalls, which are practically on top of each other. While you are busy looking down to make sure you don’t step in cow-doo, you are danger of being run over by two- and three-wheeled maniacs who think you are are wearing your invisible cloak. I stop to roll up the hem of my jeans while my daughter rolls her eyes. I will roll them down when I am on Project Runway, I promise her. She rolls her eyes so much, one day they will reside permanently in the occipital section of her brain.

You can find everything here - from cosmetics to underwear, socks to suitcases, jewelry - both real and fake, fruit, vegetables and all kinds of lentils and spices. But we are here to buy pooja stuff or samaagri as it is called. True to my anal nature, I had brought a printed list of items we needed to buy. In English. About as useful as my Google Map of the city. The man had already started rattling off stuff we would need. Varmala. Sampoot. Kalash. Chaab. Dhoop. Antarpat. Naadachadi. Never having done a pooja (or one lasting more than a minute) I had no clue what he was talking about. To avoid looking dumb, and obviously failing miserably, we just asked him to give us one of everything. Sheeesh! What is all this stuff and who invented all the rituals for it anyway? What the hell does tal have to do with the gods? And why is it seven paan, but eleven supari? Fear of invoking evil spirits made us pick up the tab (and the super-heavy bag) without a whimper.

It was a family-run enterprise. The genteel, old patriarch advised, explained and convinced us what was necessary and in an honest fashion telling us what not to buy. The son ran around getting the stuff down from the shelves, while a small chokra-boy continuously packed the items.

We left after Old Man Saraiya gave my lawyer-daughter a blessing and asked her to come and visit him in a few years ... as a judge. We left with a huge canvas theli of stuff ... and a lump in our throats.


Saraiya Stores, Manek Chowk, Fuwara, Ahmedabad 380001. Tel: 79 2214 6531

Wedding Vignettes: Shopophobia

There is a reason why the word Shopophobia does not exist in the OED. If there were people who had a fear of shopping, there would be a word. A bit ridiculous to invent a word for one person. Moi.

Seriously, I would rather have a colonoscopy while a dentist was giving me a root canal. Without anesthesia. Yes. I dread shopping that much. That’s not entirely true. I pretty much hate it as well. So when I was expected to go wedding shopping, you will understand the palpitations and the cold sweat. And that too, to go to India for it. Shoot me now. Spoiler alert! I survived, as can be attested by the date of this article.

Apart from the blue funk, I was the not your 'go-to' person to accompany anyone shopping, least of all my daughter for something so important (unless it was as a coolie to carry their bags). I had not the faintest clue where to begin. Couldn’t tell the difference between a chiffon and a georgette, a lengha from a ghagra, a banarasi from a kanjeevaram, a kundan from a polki. Enamel was what was found on your teeth and not on a minakari necklace.

So there we were, stress-begotten OCIs in hand, ready to take on this gargantuan task.
Alone. For two and a half weeks we maneuvered our way through a maze of recommended designers and shops, in a complex system of ordering invitations, choosing saris, picking up gifts, finding mithai boxes, selecting jewelry, giving measurements to tailors, delivering samples and going to pick stuff up, running from pillar to post and back again - because nothing was ready on time.

The invitations were first. We finished that on Khadilkar Marg in Bombay. A street lined with shops devoted to cards and anything remotely related to it. It took us the whole morning and afternoon, and we left after giving half the deposit and receiving assurances that they would stay on top of the order and stay in touch regularly. Yes, and I also believed the taxi driver when he said he knew where to go and the tailor when he said he had the right measurements.

Even before we left, we had heard horror stories about misspellings and delays, irregular edges and smelly cards ... wrong sizes, wrong fonts, wrong paper. As tempted as we were to go to a gora shop in South Coast Plaza, we realized, apart from the cost, our invitations involved (way) too much fandagiri. We had (way) too many different inserts and (way) too many permutations as regards the invitations, the envelopes, the RSVPs cards etc. Sangeet. Mehndi. Garba. Wedding. Two receptions. And this was supposed to be a low-key wedding. Hah! (The breakfasts, the lunches, the picnic, the pithi, and the high teas were considered non-invitation items.)

There is a happy ending to the Invitation Card story. We have them. They look beautiful.  They did smell, but leaving them in my son’s room, spreadeagled on his bed, with the windows open for a week solved that problem. (What was that scream I just heard?) It was painful calling the card guys every night, with them not answering the phone, not replying our emails (who in their right mind uses the excuse “I didn’t get the email” these days? They seriously don’t know how the internet works?) Give them five corrections to do, they would randomly choose three of them.

I don’t know much more about how traumatic everything else was, because the Invitation Task had been delegated to my husband and my daughter. Which was the only reason why I survived. Or rather, the card guys did.