Gold Finger.

My husband's childhood friend (Sunand) came for a visit complete with his two kids, mother, Macs but sans wife and jackets. Even his child figured out that the further north you moved, the colder it got and she's just 7! Nonetheless, the shifty nature of Chicago weather and and its politics should have been well known. No wonder it's called the 'The Windy City'. The friend lives in Indianapolis, the name a mouthful by itself and often mis-pronounced as Indiana-police by many (Indians and others). There have been many instances of the lost and confounded being sent off to different Indiana police stations when seeking directions to Indianapolis. English is a tough language and unfortunately not phonetic like Hindi or even Spanish. We Indians have a hard time pronouncing some names here in the US.

Anyway, our friend was in Chicago for an Indian wedding where anything less than the color of gold is unacceptable. So in keeping with the Indian tradition, the 7 year old son was donned with shaadi gear and a beautiful gold ring. I'm sure the ring looked perfect with the shaadi clothes except for the unfortunate fact that the ring grew smaller and tighter or the child's finger grew bigger and bulkier as the hours went by. I noticed the finger being red and bulging around the ring; told Sunand about it and from there on our entire house was plunged into a frantic activity going across state lines. Grandma said get oil; I said which oil - almond, sesame or arnica.; my husband said forget all oils, bring out the soap. My evil teenage children suggested a big saw for the finger and the ring. The child screamed and I'm sure the gold ring shrank even further. Sunand quickly got on the phone with his wife in Massachusetts. 

From Massachusetts, Sunand's wife gave some brilliant suggestions albeit one at a time; put the child's hand in hot water which would expand the ring. I protested what about the finger that would expand simultaneously as well. I was ignored. Sunand quickly gathered the confused child and headed off to the bathroom. Some whimpering was heard and within a few seconds before gold could even think of expanding, Sunand came out as quickly as he'd gone in. Grandma cried out in horror. Our friend was back on the phone with his wife. This time she said use ice cold water. The child wailed that he would freeze. Sunand asked my husband for one ice-cube. My husband said one was not going to be enough; three ice-cubes at least were needed for freezing one little finger. I said ice was going to shrink both the ring and the finger thus making everything redundant. I was ignored completely, again.

The only one who cared to expand the conversation at any time was the other non-gold-ring-child, the one mentioned in the first paragraph. She stated in a matter-of-fact manner how difficult it would be for her brother to eat his food with one finger missing! Meanwhile, having run out of options and the ring being stubborn about staying stuck on the finger, I sighed and suggested trying some jeweler who kept special pliers or saws to cut rings off. (Somehow marriage bands also tend to get tighter and tighter as years of marriage go by. My husband and I have both landed at the jeweler's at different times). This time I was heard, my advice heeded, and everyone looked hopeful of finding a jeweler that would be open on a Saturday evening except the gold-ring-child who was completely oblivious to all the whirlwind of confusion and fuss around him. Ah those adults and their incessant worries!

An Obituary of Sorts.

It is an unnatural phenomenon when the young die young. Even after 15 odd years, my friend Sonali's demise kept hovering on the periphery of my existence; poking me, prodding me, nudging my sensibilities; the phenomenon a complete conundrum to me. More so because the elements seemed to have defeated the impervious youth at their own game. Sonali was bright, beautiful, and kind. She wanted to see the world and she did. She did this with such ferocity that the skies opened for her. She circled the world many times over. I cannot point the way to heaven but do hope her spirit is rested, refreshed, and replenished with all the flights she has taken.  

I never thought she would go away. In fact, I never believed it - for her, for me, for anyone else. There was a cloak of invincibility which was hard to shake off; or perhaps it was the obdurate nature of things that prevented me from seeing. Sooner or later I would have to  let my guard down; I did and it was scary. The water was too when it rose up and swallowed my friend. Was this the rush she desired? Did she have a moment to breathe or did she hold her breath never to take one again. What happened to the gentle rhythm of life? Were we not destined to oscillate; to glide with the ebb and flow of life?

RIP Sonali. 

For years, I've wanted to know what happened. I gleaned bits of information from here and there. I did not say good bye; well I did but not with the intention of never seeing her again. There were some regrets at not keeping in touch. I don't remember life being that full that it allowed me to fail so miserably at reaching out. It's that apathy that we all fall into; that glaze which blocks our vision. I should have allowed chinks of light to penetrate the armor. My friend Anu said let it go. I said it was unfinished business and could not be laid to rest. Other friends like Rohin, Reena, Chhabi and many more never gave up missing Sonali. She continues to come alive ever so often.

Many years ago, Sonali gave me Roget's Thesaurus. I still have it. The web almost destroyed it but words of endearment inside made it almost sacrosanct. She often visits me in my dreams which Doc Samson said was the creative force striving to be unleashed. Another friend Kat made it her mission to seek and destroy all myths surrounding the affair. She said she will find a rock for me and carry Psalm 40 with her; she said we will bury this together. I have to do this for all of us; I also have to borrow Emily Dickinson for the closing: my life closed twice before its close; it yet remains to see if immortality unveil a third event to me, so huge, so hopeless to conceive, as these that twice befell; parting is all we know of heaven, and all we need of hell.

Thank you Kat and all who helped. 

Are Pakistanis the highest paid people?

For years, I've wanted to develop the unique style of getting paid for doing nothing. Zen Masters developed this philosophy but it's the Pakistanis who fine-tuned it to an art. Maybe I should have found a house in Abbottabad - the place where Osama had been living for the past 5 to 7 years. It certainly seemed like a good place. Neighbors minded their own business; high walls didn't scare anyone; nobody noticed the growing number of non-school-going children or that no one ever emerged from that house. Pakistanis were so well behaved in Abbottabad that nothing seemed to distract them from their daily affairs; even flying saucers and helicopters were tolerated with good spirit. However for me, the most amazing thing to emerge from all this was how on earth did the Pakistanis ever figure out Zen. They're not normally given to thinking. Scheming, screaming, burning are more their style.

Forget the GDP of China or USA or any other country. These countries have been left far behind in the earning potential of any group of individuals. Pakistan has now surpassed all countries in its earnings, more so for doing nothing. They in fact got paid in billions by both Osama and Obama for sitting pretty and twiddling their beards. Obama thought Pakistan was hard at work and Osama thought the same as well. In all this mayhem, Indians watched the scenario with a smug smile. They knew how to beat Pakistan at their own game even though it was just cricket. The game can excite passions like no other and India and Pakistan can go to war at the drop of a ball or a wicket.

In reality, Abbottabad, nestled within a stone's throw of the Pakistan army, was the perfect place for OBL. There Osama lived and occasionally took time off from porn and having babies to deliver his many diatribes against the evil America and Israel. There was no way any US satellite could have found a point of attack on the crumpled bed sheet that served as the background for his many threatening video deliveries to the world. The world also watched the magic of Osama's beard turning different colors; sometimes black, sometimes grey, and sometimes even a mixed shade of gray. For decades, Americans watched the drama of Osama's beard haplessly. They just could not figure out who was supplying the hair color to Osama! Finally they nabbed the courier, dropped some water in his nose aka water boarded him, sent in the SEALS and voila just like that Osama was dead.

Old Man Osama and the Sea.

Did Hemingway have Osama in mind when he wrote his book? Who is going to write the sequel of the sharks, sea, and Osama now? It took almost a decade to get Osama Bin Laden aka OBL. Taliban is upset at Pakistan because they did such a poor job at hiding Osama. US generosity and their caves had served well, both for OBL and his goats. Even though Pakistan is Taliban's sugar daddy whose grand sugar daddy in turn is Saudi Arabia - OBL's capture, death, and being thrown in the sea, now will have their women throw off those despicable garments with a greater ferocity. More speeches, from all sides of the mouth will be delivered. However, on the financial level, I am hoping that Pakistan will lose millions and millions of dollars, both from the Saudis and the US. Saudis had showered them with a cart load of millions to hide OBL in caves or compounds; the US to seek and destroy OBL. They failed miserably on both fronts. The head is gone but the body will show the world what it can do minus the head. The big fat challenge is out and there will be quite a few rounds of bombings and suicide missions to go around the world. 

So what else can the US do now? One enemy Saddam was vanquished and hanged by the Iraqis. Iraqis got loads of freedom only to turn around and curse the US. The world too joined in the chorus but quickly got distracted and dropped some bombs on Gaddafi's compound. In response one particular friend in Australia raved and ranted about labor issues and the corporate world! Others I noticed revived the issue of propping up OBL in Afghanistan. I got confused. Of course, the US has been senile in its policies. But what could be more insane than OBL starting a world wide movement (WWM) within a stone's throw of the world wide web (WWW). We'll still get to see the finger-wag and threats to annihilate al and sundry and other such blah blah blah. Obama removed the b from his name and put an s in its place, rolled up his sleeves, did a few more rounds of Golf, found some more euphemisms for terrorism, and said, that's it, if I can't get Muanmmar Gaddafi because that name is too difficult, let me try the simpler and similar sounding name of Osama; Obama-Osama. 

Maybe O also lost patience with the extreme myopic vision of the Pakistanis who couldn't see just below their nose even. Boys, Obama said, I'll simplify it more than Bush; I don't want OBL dead or alive; only dead; and let's not get into the drama of embalming the body and all that. Let's bury the body in the sea - another euphemism for throwing the body in the sea. Now the sharks are cringing and complaining from the paucity of meat and like a friend Vandana said, are protesting from all that human poisoning. If the US has to be believed and all the conspiracy theories to be disbelieved - Osama Bin Laden, dead or alive is now swimming in the sea. Considering the mayhem this man caused, he still managed to achieve a nice rhythmic movement - from palace to cave to mansion to sea. I'm wondering if Osama will have the same mesmerizing powers over the sharks as he had over people; perhaps recruit some sharks for a few suicide missions; maybe have them give up the comfort of the box or sea; go out swimming in alien waters; change their shark like habits of feeding on the ones thrown in and become more proactive; don some suicide belts, read some literature, get soaked in the ideology; become messengers of death.

Oh that Spectacle of the Royal Wedding.

Yes, I watched the show and before it was over, I also thought of a quick collective prayer for my girl friends and I. It went something like this: Dear God, please make my girl friends and me (I) some sort of princesses in our next birth, preferably in the British royal family; no not those harem kind of princesses, all covered up and crap like that. Once princesses, we were not going to bother God with other mundane requests like sending a prince to rescue us because we will be hell bent on being absolutely ecstatic about existing as gilded birds. I wish I could make that just 'a one day' thing, but honestly that is not going to work for us. We need this as a long term affair. Also God if we could just enjoy a life of riding in gilded carriages and waving madly at everyone. Amen.

Anyway, now that I have the prayer out and flying to God, I can come back to describing the spectacle. I loved those hats and especially the ones that were worn by the royalty and others pretending to be royalty. I also marveled at the precarious way in which some of those hats were placed. I saw a few resting on top of the nose. There were a few behind the head. Only the Queen's was on top of the head. And being the Queen, God forbid if anyone could have ever taken upon themselves to suggest a different style of wearing a hat. She may have cried, off with his head. There were some hats on one side of the head, actually three quarters down the head. I don't know, maybe they were clipped to the ear. Any moment, I expected a gust of wind to upset those pretty things and go soaring past the gloating crowds. No, this crowd of people was not anything like the raucous soccer crowd - the belly smacking, crooning, cursing, bottle throwing, body smacking sort. This was a motley crowd hoping to catch a glimpse of a commoner turned princess. One who had made it, not by birth but by being in the right college at the right time. Location, location, location.

So, no wind or rain came by. Then too, I half wished for at least a monkey or two to take a swipe at those colorful hats and go bounding across Buckingham Palace. But these mishaps only occur in the world of colonized people albeit past ones. Nothing of the sort happened and all the silks and hats and ducks and duchesses went in - in the most respectable manner. The new princess recited the mile long name of the Prince effortlessly and everyone breathed a sigh of relief. The jinx was off. I saw the Prince briefly struggle with the wedding band but then thank God for small mercies; this was the only struggle the Prince would face. The royal couple could now live happily ever after and do nothing else for the rest of their lives. The commoners could go home with a hefty debt but at least they had a Prince and Princess to boast of.

Khichdi of Terrorism.

Come to think of it, terrorism is the most miserable profession in the world. It literally has a dead end. I cannot believe that the God I believe in, is actually the same one terrorists claim their allegiance to or at least to a similar one. How is it possible that this God is not upset at some mortals trying to sabotage his creation? Just for a moment if I could place myself in God's position, I would be extremely upset at the gall of these creatures impinging on the right to life of the human race. Not only this but being hell bent as well on killing people while hoping for a quick entry into heaven! (I am disregarding atheists here because they'll have to come up with better reasons for terrorism-in-the-name-of-God concept). 

By these standards, how dare a few men and women take upon themselves to maim, destroy, and kill  the rest of us. I'd like to see proof of this dictum. The one being claimed by terrorists doesn't hold water. The instructions also happen to be in a strange language which I doubt any of the terrorists are able to read or understand. If the proof is in the pudding, then there is no pudding. In fact this is a case of terrorism being akin to a bowl of Khichdi. In short terrorists ने खुदा की खिचड़ी बना कर रख दी है! (Terrorists have reduced God to Khichdi). Somehow the garbled reasons for terrorism run very close to the Khichdi concept. It then becomes pertinent to state that if terrorists like Khichdi so much, who better to approach about this than the Indians themselves who seem to have perfected this cuisine to a perfect art.

Coming back to the Khichdi bit, whether ill or not, Khichdi is the remedy for all ailments. Have a stomach upset, have Khichdi; caught the flu, eat some Khichdi; feeling blue, make yourself some Khichdi; run out of ideas, whip up a bowl of Khichdi. Maybe God can be found in Khichdi itself. If cooked well, Khichdi can be quite delicious specially when accompanied with yogurt and chatni.  I would say God damn the terrorists but what if the terrorists also call on God at about the same time. That again would be a khichdi of sorts,  don't you think? I am so enamored by this food that I cannot but help recommend a full 4 to 10 years of rigorous study in Khichdi leading to the degree of MoK 'Masters of Khichdi'. This can be achieved from the comfort of their homes or caves or jails or wherever they are or from  universities, some surreptitiously housed in Indian Jails.

Khichdi Expertise will be the newest profession for misguided-terrorist-minded youth. Enroll them in the School of Khichdi and soon the world will have raging bands of bright young Khichdi graduates. Closely following the Khichdi course is a very similar discipline of Bharta, which is highly popular with all the Thanedars who run the show in the dreaded jails in India. Maybe aspiring terrorists can head there. After all, Indian cops are extremely proficient at teaching the minute similarities and differences between Bharta and Khichdi. They may add the 'murga' bit in the initial years of study just to warm up the session of various culinary disciplines. I think this would be a wonderful opportunity for terrorists to emerge from their confusion and venture instead into a world of talent and art.

Notes: Khichdi is an Indian dish cooked and cooked with rice and lentils; Bharta is roasted and mashed egg plant; Thanedar is a constable or police officer; Murga is chicken, and also a popular punishment stance in Indian public schools and jails; chatni is a dip of coriander, green chillies etc.

Ms Harley Davidson, my Husband's first Love.

For many days now I've been hearing this low growl. As I am not particularly a dog lover or even a cat lover, I don't think it's an animal caught in the boards. Perhaps it's the kids just being boys and maybe that sound is mere complaining or maybe just joy - I cannot tell. I finally decide to take matters in my hand, find this damn noise and be done with it. This has been the nth time of my sleep-in-Saturdays being rudely disturbed. I decide to roar downstairs to investigate the sound from the basement where my husband aka Bapi does his browsing and works out. There he also drools over various Ms Harleys. I find him sitting in front of the computer watching clips of Harley Davidson on a loop. I cannot believe it - Bapi is watching one particular Ms Harley start up, rumble, die down, and then like the obsessive compulsive disordered being, do this repeatedly. Argh, it's that sight of Ms Harley that gives meaning to Bapi's existence; it's that sweet rumble; it's that thing that throbs between the legs; it's what Bapi lives and dies for; for all I care it's that big black buffalo that permeates the air.

What is with men and these glorious roaring machines? My husband's current love luckily sleeps in the garage. I've put my foot down, the garage or nothing. If Bapi had his way, Ms Harley would be sleeping with us every day. Pre-marital counseling nowhere in the universe includes husbands' first love - Ms Harley eternal, past-present-future. Woe is me who thinks this was going to be a passing fancy. Heaven forbid that I even remotely considered that this affair would fizzle out with time. Time has only added to the menace. It has in fact grown larger and bigger! After all this affair is unique unlike others which often result in divorce, death, or destruction. Harley love is directly proportionate to size. The bigger the beautiful; the blacker the better. On the other hand, the more I hover around Ms Harley Davidson, the better I too feel for me and my size. Not to be undone by such blatant affirmations of love, I too have found a way to get around this conundrum; love the lover better than the love. 

I thought the first Harley, a mere 1200 cc and weighing a 1000 pounds would suffice. Then way deep into our marriage, having survived the 7 year itch, the Harley mania began to surface again. For the past month, the madness has been in full bloom. Ghosts of Ms Harley are being seen and heard around the house; finances are being re-calculated; trade-ins are being discussed; the sounds of Harley growls are being turned into the morning raga as well as the evening ones. That rumble that I mentioned in the first paragraph, well that is our household's newest mantra sound. It is the Fat Boy Low that Bapi is pining for. Bapi now wants the 5000 pound bike, the kinds that would require a truck to haul them up, if they fell. This is what Bapi wants. This is what is going to make him the complete man that he's always dreamed of being. When he gets his Fat Boy Low, oh boy would he feel the veritable HOG. He would finally hold his head high among those insufferable Harley riders who till now have been sneering at him; sniggering at the sight of him riding one of those Sportsters, the kinds that women ride. This mistress I feel is not going away; if Harley is the sweet Sauten, it can stay ...

Saute' the Sauten.

I get a kick
out of sautens
they work so hard
untangling knots
knots
hardly interesting
as other matters
pending

do justice however
to monitoring pressure
inflating one
deflating another

keep things cooking
simmering at best
spicing it
with a battle at rest

don't care
for the cadence
of pretty
fade-ins
it's the intent
of the maiden
that will
saute' the sauten ...