Adoption Update: Friday the Thirteenth

Thank goodness we’re not superstitious. What kind of date is Friday the Thirteenth for the first hearing to formalize the adoption of our twins?

So, there’s going to be another trip to Pondicherry coming up soon. Too soon, if you ask me.

Does anyone know a good adoption lawyer? One based in Pondicherry, preferably, otherwise one based in Bangalore will do. Our current lawyer is a bitch. Sorry, I don’t usually describe people that way, but there seems no other way to describe her. She yelled at Amit yesterday, again, and he didn’t even do the slightest little thing to provoke her. Unless you consider asking politely for the date and likely time/duration of the hearing to be a provocative question. Plus she’s told us that it is altogether impossible for either one of us to attend the hearings, and get some kind of exception for the other; and that it is altogether impossible for us to request a change of date for any hearing date set by the judge that may not suit us. I don’t know about the former bit of information, but the latter definitely seems like she’s being deliberately obstructive. Can any court be so reasonable as not to have some procedure allowing the petitioner to request a change of date? What if one of us were out of town or scheduled for a medical emergency on the given date? According to Madam Lawyer, the judge would simply dismiss the case. I don’t know much about legal matters, but to me, that seems absurd.

So anyway, in the course of shouting at Amit, she said that we would have to be present at court the entire day, from 10 a.m. till about 6 p.m. with an hour off for lunch, because our case could be called at any time. Again, this seems ridiculous to me, but more worryingly, I have NO IDEA how we’re going to manage the twins that whole day. Has anyone ever heard of keeping two almost-two-year-olds quiet and happy in a hot, sweaty, crowded courtroom where they’re not allowed to talk far less move around or play - the WHOLE DAY LONG? Well, I don’t think it can be done - quite apart from minor matters such as afternoon naps and diaper changes. Amit is convinced that if I’m absent from the courtroom for just 5 minutes changing a diaper or trying to soothe a frantic girl, the case WILL be called in that interval, the judge WON’T accommodate my short-term absence, and we WILL have complications like the case being adjourned or dismissed. I doubt that things can be quite so completely arbitrary even in our judicial system (what if one of the petitioners has to use the toilet?), but there’s no reasoning with him.

So presently, we’re trying to get my sister to accompany us for the trip. Let’s see how that works out. Meanwhile, we have four weeks to work on getting a second legal opinion, which I think we really need.

I Hate Elections

Actually, I hate politicians. All of them. I think they should all be lined up and shot, the entire lot of them. Even the ones who try to appear decent and good are lousy and corrupt, only they’re actually even trying to cover it up.

So naturally, when it comes time to actually pick one of these rascals to run the country, I hate it. You know they’re only going to screw the country and line their already fat pockets.

If I had my way, I’d never vote. Or, if such an option existed, I’d select “abstain”. The last two times we’ve had elections here in Bangalore, Amit has forced (persuaded would be a nicer word, but less accurate) me to cast my vote. His main argument is that, if I don’t, someone else will vote in my name. My answer to that is: let them. They could hardly do any worse. It’s not as though I have any strong conviction about who should - or even for that matter who shouldn’t - come to power. Any which way, it’s going to be a bunch of scoundrels.

I let myself be persuaded only because I learnt in Civics when I was 10 that it is every citizen’s duty and obligation to vote.

Last time, Amit persuaded me to vote BJP and I did, and I deeply regretted it. If I must pick between rogues, at least I should pick those rogues with whose ideology I least disagree.

This time, I was determined to stay away from the polling booth, but Amit, who had just returned from yet another trip abroad, started telling me about this fantastic new party run by a bunch of professionals (doctors, engineers and suchlike) who had radical ideas (hang the rapists and the corrupt; reservations are for trains) and a zany (for want of a better word) manifesto. Though I don’t agree with capital punishment, I figured that voting for such a party was as good a way of expressing my minuscule displeasure as abstaining; and that, moreover, this party hadn’t a hope in hell of coming to power anyway, so they wouldn’t be able to do much harm, but might gain a little motivation from whatever votes they got. So, I decided to go and vote for this party.

Only trouble was, I didn’t know anything about the party apart from its name: Jago

Being too lazy and indifferent to find out, I went to the polling booth expecting to see some list or chart of the various parties. Well, there was a list, but it didn’t list anything called a Jago party. I went into the booth, still hoping this party’s name would figure on the ballot “paper” (it’s a machine now) - but it didn’t.

So, I would up voting for one of the usual thugs. And if those thugs come to power, I know I’m going to hate myself for it. But for now, I have the black mark on the index finger of my left hand that says I did my duty and cast my vote. For whatever that’s worth.

A Young Woman Travels Alone (And Lives to Tell About It)

I wouldn’t say that I’m quite the quintessential intrepid woman traveler, exploring the farthest corners of the globe alone, bravely going where no woman has gone before, without a thought for my safety or sanity; but then, I have done some solo trips in India that have been considered quite… adventurous, for want of a better word. I have been led to believe that it is rather brave - if not downright foolhardy - for a woman to go traipsing off into the remotest corners of Madhya Pradesh, Ladakh, and Tamil Nadu alone, as I have done on various memorable occasions. Reactions of friends and family have indicated that this is not quite the normal thing expected of a well-bred, seemingly intelligent and sane Indian woman.

And for what, pray? Not for anything sensible and laudable like work, or even social work – merely for pleasure, for a holiday. What’s that? A young and respectable (married!) Indian woman holidaying alone? Who ever heard of such a thing?

Very few people, apparently… and not just amongst my friends and family. Reactions from members of the general public who have see me travelling, then looked around for a companion and found none, have been varied and diverse, but unanimously incredible.

There is, it seems, a peculiar and unspoken hierarchy for women traveling in India, which I’m not sure exists anywhere else in the world. At the top of the ladder are women travelling with husbands, mothers, sisters, and other members of the family – the more, the merrier. Women carrying babies or young children, whether in all-women groups or with husbands, are at the very highest rung of the ladder, and young men will sometimes even give up their seat in a bus/train for them, while older men and women will offer to hold the kids, or accommodate sundry pieces of luggage that inevitably accompany such travelers.

Women travelling with husbands, but without children or extended family are also generally judged to be respectable, and are usually left alone. They might, however, be subject to some harassment if they are sufficiently young, even remotely good looking, or if there is any suspicion whatsoever that the accompanying male might not be a legally wedded husband. I faced such harassment in rather scary circumstances at the hands of a local traffic cop just outside Delhi, who was not convinced that Amit and I had been married eight years, and demanded to see the kids as proof of our relationship! This was rather difficult to arrange, as we didn’t have any at the time. He then took each of us apart and asked for the maiden name of the other’s mother!

Elderly women traveling alone (not as rare as one might suppose) are strictly left alone. They are immediately recognizable as the Family Matriarch, withered and old, loud-voiced and not averse to obscenity, immune to leers and (being partially deaf) lewd comments, used to having everyone around them come running, snap to attention, and do exactly as they’re told. They will immediately remind you of your mother, mother-in-law, grandmother, great-grandmother, and the archetypal Aunt Agatha, all rolled into one. Nobody, but nobody, messes with them.

Younger women traveling in groups are seen as fair game for young men roving in gangs, but the larger the group of women, the rarer the men who will take them on.

A Young Woman Traveling Alone (AYWTA), however, is right down there on the bottom-most rung of the ladder. AYWTA is viewed by some with a leer, and by others with extreme suspicion normally reserved for cobras, scorpion and the like. For example, AYWTA on a bus or sitting in a restaurant (in semi-urban or in rural settings; big cities have their own, completely different set of rules) will be carefully shunned by all the respectable “family” men. Wives, if present, can be safely parked next to her, and perhaps young male (and, of course, female) children, but other male members of the family will conspicuously avoid sitting or standing nearby, or even looking in her direction. The unfortunate bus/train conductors and restaurant proprietors who must deal with her do so quickly, with an air of embarrassment, while carefully avoiding her eyes and all the other eyes focused on them.

I’ve had bus conductors show very visible reluctance in having to place male passengers next to me while I was traveling alone, even when the bus was quite full and the seat next to me was the only vacant one left. I’ve even seen the young men selected for this terrible task blanch and visibly pale at the prospect. But then there was the guy who not only sat willingly next to me (though other seats were vacant), but, much to my disgust, fell asleep (and drooled!) on my shoulder. Only after waking up and taking a careful look at me, did he realize with a start that I was - horrors! - AYWTA, and quickly moved away with a muted apology. (Probably the fact that he was significantly inebriated had something to do with his belated realization.)

If the reactions reserved for AYWTA were to vary only between embarrassment, suspicion, and shock, things would be great for us women travelers. Unfortunately, however, too much of the attention focused on AYWTA is of the unwanted type. Young men, singly or, more worryingly, in gangs, will leer at her unabashedly and perhaps make some lewd or disrespectful comment, blandly assuming that AYWTA must be a foreigner. I have had the dubious pleasure of retorting in the vernacular, and leaving the ruffians somewhat abashed; they didn’t intend to pick on an Indian woman, nor did they want their ribaldry to be understood.

I have also been the subject of a most “decent” indecent proposal, when an elderly Greek (?) gentleman (who must have been at least 80 in the shade, 95 in direct sunlight) communicated to me that he would be delighted if I would care to join him in his room that evening. Well, I declined, but you have to hand it to the old grandpa for trying.

Not all indecent proposals are so polite and lacking in deceit. On a particular occasion in Manali, I found myself hunting for a roost for the night the hard way - on foot, luggage in tow. It was June - peak season in Manali - and decent rooms were impossible to find. After being turned away for the umpteenth time, a young and smooth, smart sort of chap approached me and suggested a hotel just down the way. I normally brush off these touts without even looking at them, but tiredness and the beginnings of despair dulled my usual alertness and I found myself following him into a hotel. “A room for this madam,” he said authoritatively to the chap behind the counter, adding in coarse vernacular, “she’s alone.”

Well, they found a room for me, of course, but by then my stranger-alert antennae had picked up some really seedy signals, so I beat a hasty retreat. I could just see a long line of men queuing up outside my door once darkness descended, with the tout selling tickets for the gallery view no doubt.

The other sort of attention AYWTA attracts is that of the con artist. This could be either man or woman, decently dressed and well spoken, who approaches with an innocuous question, perhaps concerning the time or else asking directions. The person then proceeds to sit at a very respectable distance from AYWTA and slowly (and completely without prompting) brings out the sob story… Robbed, cheated, or somehow hoodwinked out of all their money, credit card, cell phone and vital addresses, they are roaming the streets of a strange city without enough money to get home, do you think you could help, sister…

Oh, sure, I’ve heard that one before, brother. I might be AYWTA, but do you think I was born yesterday?

And so it goes… the good, the bad, and the downright ridiculous. I wouldn’t say it’s dangerous for women to travel alone in India, but I wouldn’t say it’s easy either. You have to keep your wits about you, and you have to remember to be suspicious, even if it is tempting to be trusting. And it helps if you are completely immune to staring, leering, and general lewdness. I’m sure a course in self-defence and the company of some reliable weapons of male destruction would help, but so far I’ve traveled with just my wits and my backpack, and I’ve managed alright. One thing’s for sure: if you do travel alone, you might be wary, tense, lonely, scared, or just plain bored – but you’ll never be left alone.

Rolling Stones

There’s an upcoming travel website - at least, I hope it’s coming up, soon - that I’m loosely associated with, that had asked me for a “generic” travel article. At first I couldn’t come up with anything, but the trip to Pondicherry let loose a flow of words, which I captured on my mobile phone, of course, and this and the following (that is, previous) entry are what emerged. I thought they were rather good, I hope you think so too.

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I’m on the road again. It’s a wonderful, comfortable feeling, like a favourite old blanket, torn and worn and smelly that has settled over me and wrapped itself all around me, warm and cozy.

The milestones roll by in slow motion, counting down the long, leisurely hours on the move, with nowhere to go and nothing to do. Vast open vistas unfold, usually layer upon layer of green and yellow fields, crops waving in a gentle breeze. Occasionally, a river flows across the path, with a rickety old bridge spanning it.

People board, and get off. I lose track of them, as they swap seats, stories, and snacks. Time passes in a haze, as I drift in and out of sleep, in and out of conversations, in and out of a book, in and out of a bag of something to munch… The mind enters a peculiar state of disassociation. Nothing seems very important, or even very real, except the set of wheels (car, bus, train, or any other) rolling me along and the slowly passing landscape, the inexorable countdown of the milestones. Something - or, more often, someone - awaits me at the end of the journey, but for now my mind, body, and soul are adrift, gliding freely among the swaying fields and floating away on the noiseless waters of the flowing river.

I have, of course, promises to keep, deadlines to meet, miles to go before I reach… but, as usual, I don’t want this journey to end. Not yet.

Adoption Update: Papers Resubmitted

Sunday night, I caught an overnight bus to Pondicherry. We still had not really managed to initiate the legalities of adoption - our previous attempt had been rendered null and void as we later discovered that there were certain errors in the petition that would have to be corrected. A month had passed and we were still trying to correct and resubmit the petition.

The task of getting the papers back from the court, making corrections concerning my employment status (now unemployed) and income (now nil), and resubmitting the papers had finally fallen on me. Amit had an important(ish) meeting (teleconference) that he was optimistic of attending from home in the afternoon; besides, I think he’d had just about enough of traveling for the moment.

Monday morning, after a sleepless night being bounced around on bad roads, I was dropped at Pondicherry bus stand at the ungodly hour of 4.30 a.m. I spent three hours sitting in the bus stand, surrounded by recumbent figures sprawled all over the floor, as is to be expected in the wee hours of night in any bus stand anywhere in India. I had my book for company (A Crack in the Edge of the World, by Simon Winchester), so I wasn’t bored, but I wasn’t happy about the volumes of foul tobacco smoke (beedi, at that, which is unfiltered and therefore particularly foul, even in comparison to ordinary cigarettes) that went up my nose and down into my lungs - way more passive smoking that I’ve done in many years combined.

At 7.30, having had idlis and coffee at the local shop for breakfast, I walked out of the bus stand and started searching for the court house. Searching, because the last time I went there we had gone directly from the hotel. Not being very familiar with the geography of Pondicherry, I decided that the simplest thing to do would be to get to the hotel, and then navigate from there for the courthouse. Thanks to this decision, I got an impromptu walking tour of Pondicherry, for more details of which, see below.

Having reached the courthouse at 8.30, I called the lawyer, who said she would come by 9.30. She finally turned up at 9.45, shortly after the judge arrived. She succeeded in locating our case papers and getting the clerk to return them to us, but there was no time to make the changes before the judge was seated at 10. I was rushed into the courtroom, my papers were passed up to the judge, he called Amit’s name, looked up and saw me, nodded, passed the papers back down and then I was ushered out of the courtroom. After waiting a few minutes, our papers returned to the court clerk in the back room, and it was now that the lawyer set about making the requisite corrections. I signed half a dozen times, and by 10.30 it was all done.

I took an auto back to the bus stand, boarded a bus to Chennai, alighted at Guindy, called for a cab, grabbed lunch at a nearby restaurant, located my cab, got dropped at the airport, caught my flight back, spent an hour stuck in evening rush hour traffic, and was home by 7.30. The effort hardly seemed worthwhile for the sake of 30 minutes and half a dozen signatures… but at least I can now describe any of the major roads of Pondicherry.

My Walking Tour of Pondicherry

• Exited bus stand in front of the pretty pink foot overbridge, turn left.
• 150 m on, passed Mass Hotel on left
• Road splits, HTV take the high road, but it meets again at the next intersection
• Took a brief and unnecessary detour on to cuddalore road; saw railway crossing, thought, “That way lies our agency,” turned back
• Continued on previous path, keeping bus station behind me; passed botanical garden, ornate gate looked inviting
• Saw a familiar-looking left turn and took it - turned out to be Anna Salai; walked the length of it (seemed like a lot) and it eventually turned right on to SV Patel Salai, right in front of Anandha Inn, the hotel we stayed at last time. “Good, I should be able to find my way from here,” I thought.
• Turned right at next intersection off SV Patel Salai, on to MG Road (mistake).
• Walked down it until I met Jawahar Lal nehru at right angles, turned left.
• Entered the French Quarter and was tempted to take a right on one of the inviting-looking streets, but didn’t know which one or where it would land up, so kept going straight till i ran out of road. Then took a right, found a lovely garden in front of me, did a little zig-zag to the left and found the sea - at last!
• Took a right turn onto the promenade, Gaubert Avenue, walked on for another few minutes, found the courthouse.

Time taken - 1 hour

What I should have done - or rather, what the auto did on return and charged me 30 bucks for…

• Get on to Rue De Bussy (Lal Bahadur Shastri Marg) and keeeeeeep going straaaaaaight till you come to the pretty pink foot overbridge in front of the bus stand

time taken - 10 minutes

Well, you live and learn.

Twinkle, twinkle

In all 35 (almost) years of my life, nobody ever told me I had a nice singing voice (except a guy who was flirting with me, which doesn’t count). I suppose this is primarily because I don’t have a nice singing voice. Which is a pity, because I love to sing. Once I even considered taking classes, but dropped the idea because I felt that in addition to voice, I also lacked the ear to sing properly.

Now I’m forced to the conclusion that my kids must be tone deaf - they love to hear me sing. This is very flattering of course and it is most gratifying as well, I must admit, to have an appreciative audience; but I wish this particular audience (and they are very particular) would expand its range of musical preferences.

See, they have this book of nursery rhymes (gifted by S&S, thank you very much) that they absolutely adore. One of the rhymes it has is Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. One day, I decided to introduce them to the concept of stars (never too early, seeing one of them is called Tara, which means star in Hindi) and showed them the typical star-twinkling hand movement. I also sang the so well-known first verse to them. In fact, I have to add that that first verse is so well-known that I didn’t even know there were other verses in that poem/song.

Now I know why it is so well-known - these girls loved it! They couldn’t get enough of it. Every half an hour or so, when they tire of whatever they’ve been keeping themselves busy with, they come up to me doing the twinkle-twinkle hand movement. If one girl remembers, the other catches on right away. They both sit there looking at me expectantly, twinkling away with their hands, waiting for me to sing them the song. And, they want that very verse of that very song - it’s the only way to get them to stop twinkling at me. I’ve tried, for the sake of variety and completeness, to sing them the other five verses, and even, for the sake of variety alone, to sing an entirely different song, but it won’t do. They get a pained, slightly puzzled expression, as though trying to understand why I’m trying this cheap con job on them, and they keep twinkling.

So twinkle twinkle is the flavour of the month - or the week at least. Since I have - for once - got a captive audience for my singing, I suppose I better give them what they want. Now here we go again… “Twinkle, twinkle little star…”

Tennis: Keep Your Eyes on the Ball, Girls

We took the twins for tennis on Sunday. Oh, we weren’t trying to get them to play (yet) - they were supposed to be audience or at best ball-girls, while Amit and I played. That was the plan.

It wasn’t the first time we had taken them to the courts - it was the second. The first time was Sunday a week earlier, when they had allowed us to play for precisely 25 minutes before Mrini began wailing and would not be consoled and had to be taken home post haste - wailing all the way.

In the following days, I realized that perhaps her shoes were too tight, so this time we had her in a larger pair of shoes. Also, I was more conscious about keeping them well fed and hydrated. Of course, I would imagine that no child wants to be awakened at 6 a.m. and hauled off to a strange place where they are expected to sit quietly in a corner, while their parents are off having a good time whacking a ball around. Nor did these kids appreciate it. It wasn’t that they minded being woken at six and taken off to the courts… it was just that they wanted to be out there on the court as well, bumbling around, picking up balls, leaves, sand, insects, and whatever else came their way.

The first half an hour or so was pretty good. I hadn’t been playing too well last week, but with just Amit and me on the courts, and the girls sitting quietly in the shade keeping themselves busy with God-knows-what, I was able to really focus and find my rhythm. Amit was impressed, which is saying a lot. Actually, Amit was already impressed last weekend, when he confessed to being amazed at the improvement in my game since we last played together, way back before we got the twins. But last weekend, with all of 25 minutes of play, I was only just warming up before the game was abruptly terminated by Mrini. This time, I really was able to get into my stride and I knew I was playing well, by my standards.

Then Tennis Sir dropped by to meet the twins. He is a really lovely person, and it says a lot about him that he didn’t make any stupid comments about the kids, the adoption, or about how lucky they are etc etc… just spoke to them a bit and told us how cute they are.

After that, the girls just could not be kept off the court. Despite the blazing sun (around 8 a.m.) they insisted on walking on to the court and standing right in the way of our game. We fed them, changed diapers, gave them water, showed them their toys, and told them to go sit in the shade, but nothing doing - back they came, walking on to the court and trying to get hit by the ball.

Luckily Amit was not playing his usual ferocious game of tennis, or it would not have been only the kids who would have had to leave the court in a hurry… All the same, I wouldn’t have wanted them getting bowled over even with one of my balls. I mean, they’re not even two years old yet! But Amit wouldn’t hear of calling it quits, so despite the two girls and sundry toys straying on to court, we continued to play.

I have to say that it probably did my game a great deal of good. When there are two moving targets that you’re desperately trying to avoid, and a partner who - under doctor’s orders - is supposed to avoid running at all costs (due to Patellar Tendinitis), you really have to direct your balls very, very carefully. Just to keep me on my toes (literally), Amit would periodically indicate that I should hit the ball to this side or that side of the court, and then we would shift the game to the indicated side, leaving the girls to slowly toddle over from their side to our side. I’m sure it was a most entertaining game of tennis.

We had reached the courts around 7, and it was a little past 9 when we finally packed up and drove away. The girls were still in good spirits, and by then, so was I. A few more sessions like this, and we’d at least have a decent pair of ball-girls on our hand, hopefully adept at dodging bullets, and maybe even turning into tennis players at some point.

Child Labor? Works for Me

First you spend all your time doing things for your kids - serving them meals and tidying up after them; perpetually changing, washing and bathing them; and the amount of time you spend picking up the toys that they’ve deposited in every nook and cranny of the house (only to have them gleefully upturn the basket and scatter the whole dang lot the next minute) doesn’t bear thinking about.

But that was then. Earlier. Way back when they were just a year old and not yet able to walk let alone talk. Now is different. Now they can run and jump and understand a whole lot of what is said to them. Now, in short, is payback time.

The twins are learning very quickly to handle most of the tasks required to get them through the day. At milk time, they enthusiastically help me to take out the packet of milk and proceed to play pass the parcel with it before I can recover it from them and pour it into their glasses. At mealtimes, they quickly climb into their high chairs and belt themselves in. They lend a helping hand in changing their own clothes (and diapers!), taking off their shoes and clips, brushing their teeth, and bathing themselves and each other.

But it doesn’t stop there. They are already trained at several household chores as well - and picking up new skills every day. As soon as I enter the house after a tiring session of tennis, they immediately take my water bottle from me. Jostling, pushing, biting, screaming, they run all over the house with it. It eventually ends up in the kitchen where it belongs, but I can’t really say how it gets there.

As soon as they spy a goodly pile in the laundry basket, they drag it to the washing machine, stuff everything in, and do their utmost to start the machine. When the laundry is done, there they are, waiting to unload the machine and hang the clothes out on the line. (So what if a few of the freshly-laundered clothes are dragged on the floor or flung over the balcony railing in the process?)

If I’ve just finished eating, they’re happy to carry away my (unbreakable)plate and deposit it in the kitchen (though I don’t trust them with my favorite all-too-breakable coffee cup yet). If I’ve just returned with a big bag of groceries, which I’ve deposited near the front door, each item will be carefully extracted, inspected, tasted, and then ferried to the kitchen, usually into the waiting hands of Amit or the cook. Grapes take a while to reach, and suffer a bit, being transported individually after having been brutally plucked off the stem.

The best sight is when Amit comes home from office and they wait for him to take off his boat-sized shoes so they can take them and put them away in the shoe cabinet. Some days they even drag his 25-kg computer case around to put away in the study.

Even the girl who comes to clean the house benefits from their activities as they delight in taking charge of the broom and brandishing it about six inches off the ground, which is pretty much what she does anyway.

But all of these are nothing compared to the great Put-It-Back Bonanza. About twice per waking hour - or more, if required - I get to stand and crack the whip (figuratively speaking) while the girls round up every last one of their toys and put them back in the designated boxes. Then they replace cushions and pillows, table mats and bibs, and sundry other bits of furniture and furnishing that have been misplaced and wound up quite far from their proper places. At the end of a comprehensive round of put-it-back, they get either a meal or a nap.

Another week or two, and I’ll have them making the coffee and perhaps frying sausages and popping the bread into the toaster while they’re at it. Child labor is great, I tell you.

Culinary Delight

Sometimes I surpass myself.

Doesn’t this chicken look delicious? I thought it did - it tasted just as good, too. Yeah, I know I shouldn’t be saying it myself, but you see, there wasn’t anyone else around to say it for me.

Sunday evening. Alone. Amit travelling. Yeah, again. I wasn’t much in the mood to cook, naturally. Still, it was Sunday and there was some chicken. So - a simple grilled chicken, even grilled in curd, seemed too boring. Curry, then? I reluctantly chopped an onion, tomato, a load of garlic, a tiny sliver of ginger (all I could find in the fridge), added a lot of peppercorn and a bit of cinnamon, and tossed it all into the pan. When it began to stick and burn, I added the chicken. When that began to stick and burn, I scraped out the leftovers of the twins’ special full-fat yoghurt (Nandini’s - it is really delicious) and threw that in as well. Oh, and, somewhere along the way, I added all the powders, of course - jeera, dhania, haldi (cumin, coriander, turmeric) and a bit of Bolst’s curry powder. Salt - goes without saying. To my surprise, it turned out way better than the “passable” I’d thought I was heading for. I’m good!

The Namesake

I caught this movie on TV on Friday night. I’d heard a lot about it - not all of it good - when it was released, so I was quite happy for the opportunity to watch it without making any special effort. But I have to say, I was quite, in fact thoroughly, disappointed with it. So disappointed, in fact, that now I must read the book to find out whether it is just as bad, or whether much has been fouled up in the process of translating it to screen.

As usual, what follows is not going to make sense if you haven’t seen the movie. Also, spoilers ahead (if anything I say can be considered to further spoil this movie.)

I have several “minor” complaints with the movie - it is too jerky and episodic and there is no continuity till at least halfway through the film; characters are not built up at all; there are gaping holes in the story line. Why, for instance, does Ashima not go with Ashok to Cleveland or wherever it was he went where he dropped dead all of a sudden? What did he drop dead of? Why did he ask her to change her mind about not accompanying him, and she later say that he had gone away to train her to live alone? Whose decision was it and why? Why did Moushmi feel that, having got married to Gogol, she had to stop living her life and be a “good bengali housewife who fries samosas every Thursday”? What was the basis for Moushmi’s wedding with Gogol anyway? Did they have anything at all in common or was it only because they had sex on their second date? (And, by the way, what happened to that chicken on the stove, while they retired to the bedroom? That worries me greatly, that does - did she turn it off, or did it burn? Or was there, as Amit suggested, a timer on the stove that turned it off automatically when it was done?) Why was all that emphasis on locating Gogol when his dad died, and not much concern about his sister? Why did Gogol have such an awkward relationship with his father anyway? That scene where Ashok gives Gogol the Gogol book is so weird! That, and the breaking-up scene with Max - what was that all about? If either scene were to make sense, it had to have a lot, LOT more context and character-building preceding it. Max is looking like a real nice gal, so well suited for Gogol and all of a sudden, bam! - there’s a complete disconnect.

But those are all the minor inconveniences. What I really didn’t get about the movie was, whose movie was it anyway? It started and ended with Ashima, and for the first quarter or so, she seemed to be the protagonist. But then, it suddenly became all about Gogol and his obsession with his name. Which might have been ok, only, it never convincingly made Gogol its subject. At least, at the end we know that Ashima returned to India and found her life waiting for her there. What happened to poor Gogol, cuckolded by his wife and abandoned to loneliness? At the end, his fate seems quite irrelevant - he never even reads the book by his namesake gifted to him by his father, and therefore understands nothing about Gogol (the original) or his father.

Humph. A completely unsatisfactory movie and the best that can be said of it is that at least at one point it made both of us laugh out loud (probably by mistake). Here’s how that happened.

Ashima is upset that Gogol is too busy to come home to mom and dad, but not too busy to spend a weekend with his girlfriend Max (Maxine) and her family. She complains to a friend/colleague:
Ashima: “How come… blah blah blah… and what kind of a girl calls herself Max anyway?”
Colleague (without losing a beat): “Maybe it’s a guy.”
And this is supposed to be comforting and sympathetic?