Out in the cold

There was once a woman who lived in the Indian capital. Every year as the leaves began to fall, as the days grew shorter and a chill permeated the air, she felt an inexplicable gloom descend on her. When winter set in in earnest, she hated that her hands, feet and the tip of her nose were always cold. She detested putting on layer after layer of clothing. She abhorred shivering inside her home even after bolting the doors and windows shut.

There were good winter moments too. Like sitting in the garden on a sunny afternoon, munching on roasted peanuts and sesame brittle (til patti). Rushing to the college cafeteria for a cup of sickeningly sweet tea, not to drink the brew but to clutch the hot cup in the hope of thawing the numb hands out after a freezing hour-long bus ride to the university. And year-end parties around bonfires.

But the good moments weren't enough to make her enjoy the north Indian winter. Her winter aversion was a standing joke in her family. Her father claimed that the woman in question put her woollies on in September and didn't shed them until March. I'd like to clarify here that he tends to exaggerate a bit for effect.

Then this woman (am sure you've figured by now that I'm speaking of myself) moved to one of the coldest regions in the world. Her family couldn't stop laughing (especially her brother)! The prospect of Rupa braving a frigid Canadian winter was just too amusing. It didn't matter that the move was to Toronto, which is one of the warmest places in this country any given time of year. I have to admit that the thought of winter did scare me. Acclimating to the cold was always going to be the single biggest challenge for me.

But here I am, making my way into my maiden Canadian winter, and quite enjoying it. Yes, you read it correctly the first time. Temperatures are already struggling to stay on the positive side of the Celsius scale. The lows have been dropping to -9 now and again. Next week they'll probably touch -12. And wind chill has been holding steady at -13 and will soon be -20. Frightening, if you just look at the figures.

But the fact is bearing the cold is so much easier in this part of the world. You are never, ever uncomfortable while indoors. And that makes all the difference. When you step out, you bundle up. You wear the right shoes, the right headgear and the right outerwear. And unless you're out for a day of winter sports, it's unlikely you will be exposed to the elements for prolonged periods. So you don't feel like a taxidermist's creation all the time, which is a big plus in my book. I absolutely despise being bundled up constantly. I feel constricted, stifled.

The few times you do step out here, you quite enjoy the crispness of the fresh, cold air. And because I'm obsessed with airing out the house, I open the door to the backyard for a few minutes most mornings when there's no one but me at home. It feels really good. And the house doesn't feel stifling and stale after that blast of freshness.

So I've realised that being out in this cold isn't as frightening as I'd feared. And that's certainly a very pleasant surprise.

A childhood without Aunt Enid?

The other day a friend and neighbour asked me at a kiddie party whether I had ever heard of Enid Blyton. Of course, I responded, finding the question a little peculiar. Her excitement at my response threw me completely. "Wow!" she gushed. "Finally someone who knows Enid Blyton!"

I was flummoxed. "Who doesn't know of Enid Blyton?" I asked. Mostly everyone in Canada, she responded. I refused to believe her. After all this country is very much part of the Commonwealth, which is the strongest market for Blyton's delightful children's books. So my friend called out to a young mother of 25 at the party and asked if she'd ever heard of Enid Blyton. No, never, came the reply. My jaw dropped. My friend then asked a couple of teenagers. The response was the same. I couldn't believe my ears.

I cannot envision a Blyton-less childhood. It couldn't be as magical. The world has produced few authors as prolific as Enid Blyton, who penned more than 600 books for kids and young adults in her four-decade career. Wikipedia tells me she is the fifth most translated author of all time, ranking just behind the legendary William Shakespeare. I believe her books have sold over 600 million copies worldwide. And they're still strong sellers more than four decades after her death.

Blyton gifted us some of our dearest childhood friends, including Noddy and his adorable gang. She made life in residential schools so very alluring with the Mallory Towers and St. Clare series. She brought adventure into our lives with Famous Five, Secret Seven and the Five Find-Outers. And she took our breath away with the Magic Faraway Tree and many other tales full of delightful characters.

The friend I refer to grew up in Guyana and moved to Canada about two decades ago. Her childhood, quite like mine, was punctuated with frequent Blyton moments. And she naturally wants to share that with her daughters. But it is apparently difficult to do so in this country because Enid Blyton books aren't readily available. That's something I haven't noticed. I suppose I took it for granted that all kids sections in all bookstores have shelves packed with Blyton's works. Apparently you have to place special orders for Blyton books here, and you don't always get what you ask for.

So perhaps I should make this a mission. Introduce at least a small section of kids to the treasure trove that is Enid Blyton's legacy. Indian city kids are definitely more fortunate on this count. Their parents grew up on Blyton and have made sure the kids haven't missed out on the magic of Aunt Enid.

Finally, social responsibility with social networking

Even though Facebook has always suggested that those signing up be at least 13 years of age, I know for a fact that a lot of kids much younger than that are on the social networking giant. So my older son, who is 10, has quite a few friends on FB and has often asked me to sign him up. I had been putting it off so far, telling him we'd take a decision on that after seeing how things were among his peers in Canada, where we recently moved.

Yesterday my first-born told me at least 15 of his classmates were on FB. Even if I made some room for exaggeration there, I suppose a few of the kids might just be. So I tried to sign him up. The last category on the sign-up form was the complete date of birth, with the year. When I entered the information, FB very clearly said "you are ineligible". I made sure my son saw it. He was crestfallen, but I was very relieved. And also pleasantly surprised, given all the flak FB has been taking lately over its privacy policy and other issues of security. I don't know if this is a new, stricter sign-up policy or just enforced in this part of the world. Whatever the case, it made me happy.

I guess I fall into the category of more conservative parents who believe in limiting their kids' access to the great beyond of information and networking till they're more capable of handling it. I feel that too much access too soon can be detrimental. Kids are always in a hurry to grow up. We were too at that age, but it was a time when it was possible to remain innocent and child-like for longer. Now with so much information out there, kids are graduating from childhood much too soon. Before they're actually ready for it. I don't think children in their pre-teens or early teens are emotionally equipped to deal with a lot of the stuff that being socially active online might potentially bring their way.

Let me clarify here that my kids do not live a cocoon. They are very aware of the world around them. They have had questions about drugs, rape, incest and homosexuality after reading of these issues, and we have answered them in the simplest possible way. Our boys have email accounts and use them often to stay in touch with family. They browse the Internet almost every day. But I take every opportunity to remind them to carefully choose what they read, especially while using a search engine. They have been advised to consult us if they're not sure of the source of information, and so far they do that. I suppose I hover a bit when they're online, but I think this is one area in which you can't be too careful. There are a lot of freaks, pests and perverts out there. And I believe my primary responsibility is to make sure my children are safe, in the real or virtual world.

There's plenty of time for online social networking, or whatever else replaces it in the future. That day too shall come. In three short years. Right now my older son is still a kid, and I feel he should stay that way at least for a while longer. Thanks FB, for declaring my 10-year-old ineligible.

Indian BPOs, accent training isn't enough

I'm an outsourcing industry wife. For about a decade in India I have heard several conversations about the many things that go into making a business process outsourcing (BPO) firm tick. While all the technical stuff was wasted on me much like Latin, I followed with interest stories about accent training for Indian kids barely out of their teens so they could masquerade as Americans or Canadians over the phone. It was pretty phenomenal what India had pulled off in a fairly short period of time. In less than two decades our country was serving as back office and troubleshooter for a lot of the Western world.

But now that we're on the other side of the globe I'm seeing things with different eyes. Or, to be more precise, hearing things with different ears.

This afternoon the phone rang and some young man with an extremely peculiar accent asked to speak to my husband and then began a fairly long and clearly rehearsed greeting/small talk routine. I asked where he was calling from and what the call was about. He launched into a long speech that was hard to follow. The twangs and lilts of the American/Canadian speech pattern were all misplaced.

Anyway, I politely pointed out that he hadn't answered either of my questions. So he went through the whole thing again, emphasizing a few words here and there for effect. I still had no answers. Finally I lost my patience and told him my husband wasn't available and he should try calling tomorrow. The caller asked when he'd be back home today. I told him not before 6.00 p.m. He went into an involuntary "so that would be.....okay", which was a dead giveaway. It was so very obvious that he was calculating what the local time would be when it was 6.00 p.m. in Toronto. Again I asked where he was calling from, I confess entirely for my amusement this time. He said, "Toronto, the same place you are." Yeah, right buddy.

Now here's what the Indian BPO industry should take note of. First, the accent training is not cutting it. People in this hemisphere realise pretty quickly that they're not speaking to a local. Besides, I found it very hard to understand what the caller was saying. I have no such problems of comprehension when conversing with Canadians or Americans. The caller's accent was unnatural, forced and really quite annoying. So, is it unnecessary? Or do you need to do a better job on accent training?

Second, people in this part of the world value their time. Legitimate callers with real business open a telephone conversation with pleasantries and then immediately get to the point. There's nothing vague about the call. It is polite, crisp and as short as possible. These callers know they will lose customer/potential customer goodwill by wasting the other person's time. So please, train these kids to get to the point a lot sooner in the conversation. Especially if the call is being made to fish for business. And equip them with the information they need to give straight answers.

If the Indian BPO industry wants to stay ahead of the game, it should perhaps consider these suggestions from this insider/outsider.

Lardy-da

I'd heard of them, but never seen them in the flesh. When I spotted them first I suppose I stared a bit. Even though my brain kept telling me to look away and stop being rude, I couldn't immediately avert my gaze. I noticed that they jiggled when they moved. The only form of vegetable they ate was deep fried and quite often dunked in a viscous cheese dip before being shoved into the mouth. They consumed unimaginable amounts of meat. And when they walked, it was always with a gigantic tumbler of some form of aerated beverage firmly clasped in a forelimb. They came in all colours, but the racial differences were neutralised by the body mass.

I am speaking of the gigantic blobs of lard that had come to Niagara Falls, Ontario, from south of the Canadian border. I got a chance to observe them last weekend. The Canadian part of the Falls is apparently considered more of a tourist haven than its counterpart in New York state, which is why most weekends Americans drive north of the border and inundate the town.

No matter how much you hear about the obese American, nothing really prepares you for the first sighting. It's hard to explain. Every visitor to the U.S. has told me that the vastness of its people matches that of the nation. Even though you now see a lot of obese Indians back home, especially in the big cities, they aren't yet in the same league as the true-blue large American. And Canadians often discuss the growing incidence obesity among their people. But at least in Toronto and surrounding areas, people are by and large fit and healthy in appearance.

I'm a big Jay Leno fan and try to catch his show whenever possible. Practically every evening he'd have a "now how fat are we getting as a nation...." segment. I'd laugh at the jokes but think to myself, surely he's exaggerating. Now I realise that he is most certainly not. These people are HUGE. They probably haven't seen their own feet or genitals in many years!

I understand now why the restaurant we ate dinner at on our first night at Niagara had "deep fried cheesecake" on its dessert menu. I checked with the waitress if that was correct. Yes, she said. It is really deep fried. And comes wrapped in a tortilla. But of course. Surely a simple cheesecake - made with cream cheese, butter, flour, sugar, eggs and cracker crumbs - isn't decadent enough for these people? I was dying to see a serving of this monstrous dessert but was too chicken to order it. Maybe next time.

Hygiene vs Conservation

I'm all for personal hygiene. My kids might tell you I am fanatical about it. They'd be exaggerating. Like all moms, I insist they wash their hands periodically, brush their teeth twice a day, do a thorough job when bathing and hound them a little about being clean after using the washroom for a do-do.

If there was a scale to measure hygiene fanaticism - with 0 being a complete slop covered in layers of germ-infested slime and 10 being an unnaturally sanitised being in danger of scrubbing away skin and flesh in the quest for personal cleanliness - I think my score would be somewhere in the middle.

Germophobes who'd rank top on that scale amuse me a little. You can spot them from the way they wash their hands in public restrooms (if at all they use those). There is a normal hand-washing that most people do, and then there's the germophobe hand-washing which lasts a lot longer. I don't think surgeons going into the operation theatre do quite as thorough a job.

Anyway, I came across one of those at a restroom at Niagara on the Lake on Sunday. She made quite a production of cleaning her hands. Then she used the middle digits of her clenched fingers to yank some towels out of the dispenser. The elbows, feet and knees were then very creatively employed to dispose of the used paper towel, open the door and leave the washroom without contaminating her freshly washed hands by touching any surface whatsoever.

When she'd left I noticed the tap she had used was still gushing. That's when I got angry. She was so obsessed with hygiene that she didn't care she was wasting so much water! If I hadn't been in the restroom to turn that tap off, heaven knows how long it would have been left running. Hygiene is essential, but is it okay to seek it at the cost of such a precious resource?

Then there's the other extreme - conservation over hygiene. Singer Sheryl Crow has been the butt of quite a few jokes for suggesting that we all use just one square of toilet paper per bathroom visit. One stand-up comedian said he had immediately added her to the list of celebrities he'd never shake hands with. I agree. That's a tad too much, don't you think?

Hindi-Chini, more alike than we think

We've moved into a predominantly Chinese neighbourhood on the eastern fringes of Toronto. You'll see a few brown or white faces on our street, but most residents are Chinese. And the more I observe them the more it strikes me that the middle class Chinese person is so very similar to the middle class Indian.

This morning I was watering the lawn in our backyard. Now ours is a corner lot and the street side hasn't been fenced, which means we have little privacy in the outdoors. So while I was in the garden, one of our Chinese neighbours from across the street walked up to say hello for the first time. "So you bought this house?" he asked. No, I said, we're tenants. His eyebrows went up a bit. "Very good tenants," he said, pointing at the hose pipe and then rotating his finger to cover the general spread of the lawn. Because we have a corner plot, we have one of the largest patches of grass in the area.

So similarity number one - if you're a tenant, you aren't really expected to take an interest in the appearance and upkeep of the property.

"How much you pay?" came the next question. I was a little taken aback. I haven't heard that one hurled at me quite so casually for a few months now. And I have never been comfortable with questions of this nature - how much rent do you pay; how much did you buy the house for; how much do you earn etc. I was instantly transported back home. Anyway, I mumbled a ballpark number which seemed to impress him.

So similarity number two - you can be asked the most intrusive and personal questions in the most casual manner. And you're expected to answer, pal.

It wasn't over yet. "For whole house?" he asked. I nodded. "You sublet?" he pressed on. Now I have heard this is fairly common practice among Asians in this part of the world. One couple or family rents a home and then two or three other families move in as well, splitting the rent. The property, naturally, goes to seed pretty quickly. Despite being aware of this, the question threw me a bit. And I was a little offended. But I managed to shake my head to convey that that wasn't going to happen.

Similarity number three - (and we faced this more in Mumbai than in Delhi) just four people living in a big house is considered a waste of space and money. I remember when we bought our four-bedroom apartment in Thane, many asked us if our parents would be moving in. When we said no I could see their brains trying to comprehend why these strange people need such a big home for a small family.

A couple of weeks ago a white lady from across the street asked me if we were home in the afternoon. We'd been out at the time she was speaking of. I asked why. She said she had seen three of four Chinese men walk right up to our kitchen and living room windows. press their noses to the glass and peer in. I had forgotten to close the blinds. "You definitely need a fence," my white neighbour said. I agree. The fence will hopefully be up within the next fortnight and we'll get a shield against prying eyes.

Similarity number four among the Hindi and Chini - curiosity about how others live will often get the better of you. My parents back home once had visitors going into the bedrooms and opening up closets!

Cockroaches - the latest political weapon

Among the hardiest creatures to crawl the Earth, the humble cockroach can survive adversities most other species can't. Maybe that's why it has become the latest weapon in the arsenal of a political group that is all but dying out across the world. At least, that is, if the Indian Marxists' ace opponent is to be believed.

Indian Railways Minister Mamata Banerjee has reportedly accused the Communist Party of India (Marxist) of sneaking cockroaches into meals served on trains in the hope of denting the image of the mammoth state-run railroad and her credibility.

"They have been planning sabotage. They are trying to ruin (the reputation of) the Railways by letting cockroaches into food," The Times of India quoted the notoriously melodramatic Banerjee as saying during an address to her Trinamool Congress party in Kolkata. She also accused the Marxists of engineering a train accident last week that claimed nearly 70 lives.

Cockroaches? How much more ridiculous can Indian political discourse get? Mamata di seems to have hit an all-time high note of absurdity. Get serious people.

Census idiocy

I've spent the past seven years fooling myself into believing I've made the righteous choice by giving up my career and choosing to stay home for the kids. I even gave up dabbling in freelance writing because it was interfering with my family's happiness and taking time away from my children. I felt I was doing the right thing by focusing on home and hearth. What a fool I am. Not until this evening did I realise that my contribution to my country was as worthless as that of a convict, a bum or a whore. But wait. Don't those people make some money? So I guess we homemakers are even less productive and consequential to our great nation.

India's decennial census reportedly clubs housewives with non-productive groups like beggars, prisoners and prostitutes. I'm not judging these other groups of people. My objection is to homemakers being labeled non-productive. Just how much more chauvinistic and blinkered can our vaunted mandarins get?

A former colleague told me today that a research group had assessed housewives' worth to the nation some two decades ago and come up with the figure of 10,000 crore rupees. I agree with his view that it was an extremely conservative estimate. But even if you keep to the conservative scale, how much do you think our contribution is worth now?

I understand it's hard to put a price on the things a housewife does. But let's break it down to basics. Add up the incomes of a caregiver for children, a cook, a cleaner, a nurse, a housekeeper. That's something, isn't it? Please take into consideration that we're on call 24 hours a day, seven days a week and 365 days a year. That necessitates higher remuneration. Then compensate those of us who have given up jobs for the voluntary early retirement from the workforce. There are many other intangibles, but even if we leave those out the sum can't be small.

So what the heck are these idiots at the Census department talking about? Thankfully the Supreme Court has stepped in and I hope the judges will give these morons a well-deserved kick in the pants. But the very fact that there is a group of people who think this was is extremely disheartening. If they're right and we're of no consequence, let's strike work my sisters. Bet your ass they'll notice our worth and productivity very quickly then.

Settling in my simple, upside down new world

After two months of upheaval, my life is finally falling into a familiar and comforting routine. Having moved into the rental, found a place for everything and put everything in its place, we can finally begin to explore and enjoy the city we now call home.

I've found that life in the West is very uncomplicated. That is, of course, if you are willing to put in some hard labour and not whine and complain about all the work that needs to be done around the house. If you keep on top of the chores, there's enough time to relax and unwind. Besides, you're not tense about whether or not help will show up. You're not losing your sanity trying to keep the peace between your driver, maid, cook, gardener and car cleaner. You know you'll get hot water when you turn the tap to the left. You know the light will come on when you flip the switch. You're not left guessing when the gas cylinder will show up at your door. Things are simple that way.

They're also upside down or (to me) the wrong way around. Literally. And that takes some getting used to. Keys go into locks upside down here. Light switches and electrical sockets are all upside down. Some taps move in the opposite direction to the way we've been used to turning them. And because traffic moves on the right side of the road, you're expected to follow the pattern when you're walking. So you take the right escalator instead of the left or keep to the right side of the stairs. I still haven't managed to reorient my instincts of 36 years.

Whose bad?

Users of correct English will quite naturally assume I've made a grammatical mistake in the heading. Isn't that supposed to be "Who's bad?". Haven't I mistakenly used a possessive where I should have used the contraction of "who is"? Not in today's world apparently. This is the age of "my bad", "your bad", "his bad", "her bad" and "their bad". The "bad" in those sentences - if you can call them that - means mistake. Every time I hear these expressions, I get very distressed. I don't know why that should be, but I invariably do.

The first time I came across the term was while watching an American programme on television. It took me a while to understand what was said. Now the usage has become quite common, so much so that these expressions are commonly heard even in children's television. So it was just a matter of time before my older son, whose brain is like a sponge, picked it up and used "my bad" after doing something wrong. My insides churned in revulsion when I heard that coming out of his mouth. I explained to him patiently that wasn't the correct way to say what he was trying to. But I really wanted to scream "Nooooooooooooooooo"!

I also get inexplicably peeved when someone mixes up "its" and "it's". I found out really early on that it's completely lost on them that the former is a possessive pronoun and the latter a contraction of "it is". They just don't get it. I also get peeved with the Indian tendency to generously scatter apostrophes around, but always in places they don't belong. Like when naming a family. "The Singh's came to visit", they'll write, instead of "the Singhs came to visit". Why? Why can't they understand that the former denotes possession, for instance "this is Mr. Singh's son"? And if you want to denote possession for the entire family, it'll be Singhs'. For instance, "This is the Singhs' home" and not "this is the Singh's home".

Knowing about this deep aversion I have to poor punctuation, a friend of mine gifted me a wonderful book called Eats, Shoots & Leaves by Lynne Truss. The title is derived from a joke that amply demonstrates how a misplaced punctuation mark can at times completely change the meaning. Here's the joke from the book:

A panda walks into a cafe. He orders a sandwich, eats it, then draws a gun and proceeds to fire it at the other patrons. 'Why?' asks the confused surviving waiter amidst the carnage, as the panda makes for the exit. The panda produces a badly punctuated wildlife manual and tosses it over his shoulder. 'Well, I'm a panda,' he says, at the door. 'Look it up.' The waiter turns to the relevant entry in the manual and, sure enough, finds an explanation. 'Panda. Large black-and-white bear-like mammal, native to China. Eats, shoots and leaves.' Get it? The addition of a comma in the final sentence makes all the difference. 'Eats shoots and leaves' would have meant something entirely different, wouldn't it?

Anyway, I'm digressing. The point is language - and not just English - is evolving in a not altogether nice way. The result is an exponentially larger proportion of each successive generation is less articulate. More and more kids and young adults find it hard to verbally convey their thoughts and feelings. I'd hoped the "like,.....like,....you know" syndrome would die out with the coming of age of my generation, but that hasn't happened. People young and middle-aged still suffer from it. If video killed the radio star four decades ago, text messaging is killing language and spelling today. The abbreviations and contractions used in text messaging are alarmingly spilling over into other domains. I am one of very few people I know who doesn't ruthlessly abbreviate every word in a text message.

I suppose in a world that's perpetually in a hurry, "my bad" is more economical on effort and time than saying "sorry, that was my mistake". But I'm not ready for a world like that. I don't think I will ever be. And that's not "my bad".

Subway parody

My kids love riding the Toronto subway. And the whole time they're on the tube they keep coming up with explanations of or puns on station names, especially my little one. This afternoon we travelled on the subway from Finch to Yorkdale, which is one of the longest circuits you can do on the network. And so it began again.

Finch feels a pinch. Sheppard has a lot of farmers living there. Rosedale has a big flower garden. Eglinton sells eggs. The station after College should be named School. People in Dundas have a lot of sticks (play on the Hindi word danda for stick). King and Queen are where the palaces are. Union is where you can smell onions!! The opposite of Osgoode is os-bad. St. Patrick always provokes peals of laughter. "They should also have stations called St. Spongebob and St. Squidward" (from the Spongebob animation series). That last one is always from the older one.

On the other lines you have Dufferin, which must be full of duffers. Bathurst is where people keep bathing and feeling thirsty. Broadview is where you get to see a long way around. People in Chester have big chests. Greenwood has green trees. And Coxwell is full of roosters.

Is this news?

One of the newspaper headlines highlighted on a major Indian news portal on Sunday states "US says India destined to be a nation of global influence". Now my question is what makes this headline news? Haven't we heard such platitudes enough times? Do we need to keep flashing these in a vain attempt to massage our national ego even though we know our country hasn't really gained in influence or earned much leverage over other nations in the past few years? Why do we need these patronising pats on the head from the superpower? To me it's disgraceful that we feel these comments significant enough to flash as a headline. And the fact that such articles continue to appear is also proof of the lack of initiative and imagination in Indian journalism today. Actually it reads like something regurgitated from a press handout.

Just a few days ago we were speaking to an Indian friend who has been living in Canada for the past few years. He was telling us about how angry the Indian community here was after the terror attacks on Mumbai in 2008. He said Indians here couldn't understand why New Delhi didn't use its influence to aggressively pursue those responsible for the strikes. I asked him what influence he was talking about. That's when it became clear that we Indians seem to credit our nation with more leverage than it actually enjoys on the world stage. Other nations might hear us out patiently, but it's clear that they don't take us seriously enough to do our bidding.

Anyway, news items such as the one I've referred to might make our foreign office mandarins feel they've accomplished something. But I don't think they're fooling thinking Indians into believing that their nation has actually gained in influence. If anything, such patronising remarks should make us feel slighted. After all, we've been hearing them for decades.

No refills please

So we're out to lunch at a restaurant called Swiss Chalet on Saturday. The server was happy enough with us at the start of the meal because we'd ordered what he felt was a fair amount of mains and sides. The first round of incredulity hit when I declined his offer of a refill for my lemonade. "But it's free!" he said. I know, I replied, but thanks anyway. He stood there gaping at me for a few seconds and then dashed off in the direction of the kitchen. Out he came a couple of minutes later bearing a huge glass of water with slices of lemon and plonked it in front of me. Just in case you regret your decision of not ordering a refill, was the unspoken message.

When we were done, having, to our minds, eaten a little more than was necessary, we asked for the cheque. The server came running towards us looking extremely troubled. "But you haven't ordered desserts!" he exclaimed. We said we'd eaten too much already. He blinked rapidly for a seconds, looking from one to the next in our group. Then he walked off mumbling, "I'll give you Skittles and M&Ms anyway. They come with the meal." And the cheque didn't make an appearance until the candy packets were duly handed over.

In this land of bottomless drinks and huge portions, we new settlers with relatively smaller appetites seem quite a rarity. And this is just Canada, which by most accounts is slightly better than the US when it comes to portion size. We'd had a similar experience at a Red Lobster downtown the weekend before. The charming server there started laughing when we voiced a collective and vehement "No" to her offer of desserts. A Red Lobster main comes with a choice of not one, not two but three whole side dishes!! All of us chose not to have a third side. That had surprised our server a little, but she was more sophisticated than the man at the Swiss Chalet and didn't let her incredulity show on the face quite as plainly.

Last week on the local news I saw a report about what's being touted as the world's worst drink. It's a peanut butter and chocolate smoothie that carries a whopping 2000 calories per serving in the US and a much healthier 1700 calories in Canada! Can you imagine exceeding your entire daily calorie intake with one drink?!!!

Yesterday we went out for a Chinese lunch and Arvind and I ordered a small soup each. Our eyeballs nearly popped out when the soup arrived. The serving concept here is different. You order one soup and then share it with others at the table. Each small soup was enough for four people! So doing the meal justice was a struggle indeed.

Such lavish portions, to me, are a waste. There are other forms of excess one witnesses here. Canada is supposed to be one of the most environmentally conscious nations on earth, which is why the level of waste of electricity surprises me. The corridor our suite is in has in excess of 60 very powerful light bulbs on 24 hours a day. The space is just too brightly lit. They could easily put half the lights off and still have more than enough illumination. And this is just one corridor that doesn't even span the entire width of the building. It's a 26-storey structure with a twin that stands a couple of floors taller. Then there are other common areas that are equally brightly lit, not to mention the apartments themselves. Having just come from power-starved Gurgaon, this amount of waste of electricity is extremely troubling to me.

There's a lot one can learn from this nation in terms of caring for the environment and maintaining high standards of health and hygiene. But there is also a lot that Canada could learn from nations that have fewer resources at their disposal about plugging wastage. Turn a few lights out and don't serve quite so much food. You'll be surprised at how much energy and money can be saved.

City of ugly pooches

There's a lot of stuff that we've been noticing about Toronto since we moved here a week ago. The cleanliness, order, common courtesies etc. were all expected. But one peculiar thing I've seen is that the part of the city we're currently in is full of the ugliest pooches I've ever set eyes upon!

We're temporarily in an apartment in the affluent North York region. This area, especially around the Yonge and Finch intersection, is full of upscale condominium apartment blocks. Accommodation is extremely compact. So pets are compact too. Which is fine, even sensible. But I'm sure there are a whole host of nice looking small pooch breeds one could choose from. Instead people here seem to favour the ugly ones. Apart from the predictable pugs, poodles and chihuahuas I've seen a whole host of ugly dog breeds that I don't even know the names of. The one that took the cake had a snout like an anteater's! I spotted it during our visit to High Park on Monday. It was just the most godawfully ugly dog I have ever seen and the sighting left me speechless for a few minutes.

Don't get me wrong. I am an avid dog lover. But these Toronto pooches just don't tug at the heart strings. Having lived in Delhi and Mumbai most of my life, I am accustomed to seeing absolutely beautiful pet dogs. The day we moved out of Mumbai my husband and I spotted an Afghan hound trotting majestically up and down a street in Powai. He was an absolute stunner.

Haven't people in North York heard of apsos, spaniels, beagles and basset hounds? They're all small, but all beautiful. Or perhaps the problem is me. Maybe when it comes to dogs, I am shallow and superficial.

Time to move on........

Just about a week left in Thane/Mumbai. Then a few days in Delhi, my hometown. And then it's off to life in another country for a while. I honestly never thought it would happen to me. Relocating overseas, I mean. It's not that I'm dreading it or am opposed to the move. Just didn't think it would happen, especially since the stages in life when relocation generally occurs - higher education, start of working life - are long past.

One of my ex-colleagues couldn't believe that my husband and I had no objection to uprooting our family and relocating thousands of miles away. Especially since we'd moved into our own home just a year ago and were loving it here. Our children were settled, happy. Surrounded by the familiar, with family just a two-hour plane ride away.

But hubby and I see this move as an adventure. A new kind of life in a very different kind of place. A great opportunity for us and our kids to broaden our horizons even more. Too see more of the world. The great distance from family is the one thing that still troubles us a little. But otherwise, we're all very gung-ho about it.

As the date of departure draws closer, I find myself wondering about the things I will miss most. After a while I'm definitely going to miss the din - the ambient noise that envelops every city-dwelling Indian all the time. And I'll miss the colour. I don't mean in the landscape, but in the people. Joseph would fit right in if he wore his technicolour dreamcoat in India! I'll also miss the food, especially the street food. I don't frequent street food stalls, but I know I'll miss them when they aren't around.

What else? Oh yes, free home delivery of everything from fresh vegetables and fruits to chilled beer and cigarettes. And easy, affordable household help. I'm not afraid of housework, but on an off day when I'm dog tired I know I'll wish there was someone to put the laundry away and make me a cup of tea. Also chauffeur-driven comfort. I hate driving. Chaotic Indian roads terrify me. But I suppose it'll be easier on the other side of the globe.

Soon my whole world will be packed into cardboard boxes, caught in transit. I'm impatient to get on with it and settle into the next phase. That'll take a few months. Will keep you posted.

Crime isn't for everyone

Quite like Jay Leno, I love hearing stories about stupid criminals. And this one is just the tops. We heard it at a friend's last night. This friend's absent-minded brother-in-law left his wallet in the car, which he'd just parked at a shopping mall in Gurgaon. He'd also forgotten to roll the window up. So the family was walking away from the car when the brother-in-law suddenly realised he was missing his wallet. He turned back just in time to see this young man reach into the car and pocket the prize.

The 'robbee' followed the robber into the mall, caught up with him and challenged him. The young scoundrel couldn't deny he'd done the crime. There was much excitement. The brother-in-law decided to take the thief to the cops. The rest of his family returned home. After waiting for a while, our friend decided to go to the police station to give his brother-in-law moral support. There he found the thief, naturally, begging for mercy and the brother-in-law a little confused about what to do. He wanted to press charges, but that would mean doing without his wallet and its contents for a while because they'd be held in evidence.

So there's the thief (who had called his mother in to plead his case) begging to be let off without charges and his victim keen to get his wallet back so his life wouldn't be disrupted. The young robber's melodramatic mother poured her heart out, saying her grown son was a complete no-good who couldn't keep down a job. "He's such an idiot that he can't even pull off a theft!" she wailed.

Finally the friend's brother-in-law decided against pressing charges, took his wallet back and was about drive off when the thief's mother came up to him and politely asked for a ride home! The intended victim agreed and followed her directions to the house. Our friend and his brother-in-law's jaws dropped when they saw the wannabe robber lived in a plush bungalow.

Incidentally, the only ones who gained anything from the entire fiasco were the cops. They managed to get a cut from the thief for letting him off and from the victim for the return of his wallet!

This reminded me of another story I'd heard long ago about someone's house being robbed. The burglar broke in in the dead of night, carrying a sack to cart off the booty. The homeowner was a wealthy man so there were lots of valuables for the robber to choose from. He went around the lower floor of the house, transferring the best stuff into his sack. Then suddenly he stood before the best-stocked bar he had ever seen. So he picked up a few bottles and put them in his sack. Then he decided to help himself to one for the road. I suppose one drink led to another. After all, he was sampling some of the world's finest Scotch and single malts. The thief should have known greed would be his undoing. The homeowner's family found him passed out near the bar in the morning!

Crime, clearly, isn't for everyone. It certainly doesn't pay if you're an idiot!

(Please share any stories you may have heard about stupid criminals)

Keep that unwanted guest out

Mr. Calamity turned up yet again like the proverbial bad penny. Kolkata was the unwilling host to the ultimate unwanted guest this week. The unwelcome caller turned the top floors of a heritage building in the city's heart into Dante's vision of a flaming hell, leaving death and devastation in his wake.

We all know that clever Mr. Calamity is a master of disguise. He could visit us as a fire, a building collapse or an epidemic. But even though this hated visitor makes such alarmingly regular calls, we haven't learnt to bar our doors to him.

We live amid wires exposed to the elements, dangling dangerously close to one another. We permit commerical and residential buildings to come up without even basic fire-safety measures. We let water pipes leak, moisten walls and electrical circuits. We look the other way when there are elaborate remodelling projects in homes and offices occupying lower floors even though we know in the backs of our minds that this is bound to compromise a building's sturdiness. We let garbage pile up high along the streets and in vacant lots of land, nurturing rodents that spread disease. We allow our ageing sewers to leak and overflow, contaminating groundwater and pitting roads with their toxins. We indiscriminately spray venomous pesticides on our crops, never thinking of the mass slow poisoning that their harvest unleashes.

I speak here only of Mr. Calamity's visitations borne out of negligence, callousness and sheer carelessness. These we have the power to prevent. We are almost entirely powerless against him darkening our door due to nature's fury. But if small precautions can make Mr. Calamity's visits less regular, we're insane not to be taking them. Each time he comes, we despair. And after he leaves we point fingers at everyone but ourselves. But the sad truth is we're all culpable. If we insist on basic safety and hygiene, this unwanted guest would be making much fewer calls.

I'm no good without..........

I thought it would be fun to list the things my day is incomplete without. So here goes. I'm no good without......

1) ...the three main men in my life around me. I know I complain sometimes and wish I could escape it all for a while now and then, but I'm no good without my family.

2) ...my morning and evening cups of Darjeeling.

3) ...my morning newspapers. Has to be more than one. Two at the very least.

4) ...my daily newspaper Sudoku, word jumble and a few other puzzles. I get restless and a little irritable if I haven't completed this ritual.

5) ...an ongoing creative project. It could be a painting, a blog/article, a sweater I'm knitting, a candle I'm making. There has to be something. Otherwise I feel like I'm coming unhinged.

6) ...a periodic intake of nictone. It's terrible, I know. Have resolved to reform soon. But it hasn't happened yet. It will though. Thankfully I'm under tremendous pressure from my children to quit.

7) ...a few minutes at the computer, catching up with friends around the world.

8) ...my morning yoga. There are days when it doesn't happen, but those days see my patience wearing thin and guilt clawing at my insides. Like this Saturday morning. Maybe in the evening. But it is so bloody hot! Let's see.

9) ...music.

10) ...my evening dose of comedy on television. No day is complete without a good laugh towards the end.

11) ...at least one bear hug from my kids.

12) ...thanking a higher power for the life I have. I'm not ritualistic, but not an atheist either. I do believe we should give thanks to a higher being for the series of coincidences or twists of fate that have shaped the lives we lead, the choices we made along the way. I seem to have made the right ones, and for that I am grateful.

I think that completes my list. Tell me what you can't do without.

Mirror, mirror on the wall

How vain are we getting as a people? The obsession with physical appearance is becoming positively frightening. If you're not convinced, just switch the telly on. Every second commercial is for a hair, skin or grooming product. And more than 60 percent are for skin whitening creams.

I personally believe the genuine Indian complexion is absolutely beautiful. Dusky Indian skin is so much more attractive than pasty, patchy white. I can understand people wishing to improve the quality of their skin by reversing the damage that pollution and heat cause, but I can't for the life of me figure out this white fetish. Don't people realise the result of prolonged use of such harsh chemicals is an unhealthy bleached-out look and premature ageing?

One particular brand is now plugging a body-whitening cream. Its argument is that you should try to lighten your body to match your white face. I find that absurd. Generally it's the face that is darker, more tanned than the body because it is exposed to the sun the most. Especially in India, where not that many women wear slinky clothes. Isn't it sort of dangerous encouraging women to use these products all over their bodies? Ah well, these people are looking to shore up their bottomlines. So to hell with the lines that might soon pit the skins of their gullible target demographic.

I guess all this is also because Indians are the largest group of closet racists on earth. We might hate to admit it, but we make snap decisions about people based on the colour of their skin. Why else does every prospective groom openly scout for a "fair-complexioned" wife? Why do we find ourselves being more polite to those with lighter skin?

And when it comes to first impressions (and this is more pronounced in north India than any other region in this country), Mark Twain was sadly very right. Clothes do make the man (or woman). You're only as good as your solitaire diamonds, glitzy footwear and all that covers you in between. People might not take the time to get to know you if you don't look trendy enough. That's the truth. I've been fortunate to have spent the last seven years in Mumbai and Thane where I haven't come across this annoying trait as much. People here are much more relaxed, casual and willing to appreciate you for who you are and not who you're wearing. But every time I go back to Delhi it hits me in the face and is a rude shock on each occasion.

There's more. Open the classified pages in your daily rag and you'll find endless advertisements for surgical and non-surgical body sculpting. I have to say I am most tempted to explore these every time I hit a weight plateau - that frustrating period when my exercise regimen shows results very, very, very slowly or not at all. Fortunately it is just a momentary lapse.

I can understand the morbidly obese with grievous health problems going in for drastic measures like bariatric surgery. But those who are just overweight can easily make themselves healthier with exercise and smarter choices in food. It is a long, uphill battle, especially for women who've had babies (Men are blessed with much more efficient metabolisms. It drives me insane when my husband - who is extremely erratic when it comes to exercise - looks trimmer after just two or three days of walking/jogging while it takes me months to get the same results!). But it can be done. This I can personally vouch for. I am still overweight, but I've come a long way from my nearly 85 kilo days! And I intend to shed more. Slowly.

The point of this post is that we're sadly beginning to get confused when it comes to physical appearance. The emphasis should be on being healthy. Instead it's on looking good, at whatever cost. Many in my generation of nearly middle-aged people are falling victim. But what's more alarming is that younger generations are succumbing more spectacularly. Instant gratification today could lead to prolonged regret tomorrow. Can we prevent the mirror of vanity from cracking under the strain? I suspect not.

Old maid habit for new age woman

Do you ever go through these phases when the mind just won't be still and calm? Simply can't concentrate on anything no matter how hard you try? The mind is restless, the body oscillating between listlessness and hyperactivity? Well I'd been going through one of these of late. And when all else failed (even an unfinished canvas) I turned to the old faithful - yards of yarn and knitting needles!

Before you raise your eyebrows, roll your eyes and dismiss me as a victim of an early-onset geriatric condition let me tell you knitting can be fabulously relaxing. That is if you're blessed with the basic dexterity required, of course. Once you get the rhythm going the regular clickety-clack of the needles is extremely comforting. There is a pattern, order and structure to knitting. It's not a mindless pastime. You have to concentrate, unless of course you don't mind creating a shapeless woolly thinggy full of holes.

Anyway, if you're working your way towards a definite end product, following the pattern helps you regain focus. And once you reach the intermediate level in knitting, sight and touch immediately alert you to any mistakes. I graduated long ago from the beginner level when you panic every time you drop a stitch or mess up the pattern. I can now work a few rows down without unravelling the yarn and correct mistakes.

My first major knitting project was when I was in my teens. I ambitiously set out to knit a sleeveless vest for my high school boyfriend. My grandmother and her friend very sweetly helped out, shaping and salvaging as much as they could of what I'd made. Another friend simultaneously tried her hand at knitting a scarf for her boyfriend. I'm proud to report that mine was MUCH better, with fewer holes and sags per quare inch of knitted garment! But I also have to give the boyfriends credit for the fact that they actually wore those hopeless creations of ours. Aaah, puppy love.

That was then. I've thankfully improved considerably since and over the last eight or so years have knitted for my kids, nieces and nephews as well as my friends' children. In the past three weeks I've knitted two sweaters for a friend's baby and am now making warm, chunky scraves with fringes for my boys. One sweater is all done - finished and sewed up - and just needs a few buttons. The other (in my favourite a cable pattern) is currently in four pieces, awaiting the finishing touches. Seeing them fills me with a great sense of accomplishment.

But even better is the fact that I've got my mental mojo back. My mind is well on its way to returning to its general calm, collected state. Might take a few more days. And I owe it all to something that's wrongly stereotyped as an old-maid pastime. Knitting can work wonders for new age women too. Just give it a try.

Leap of faith

It was horrific hearing and reading about the fire at an office building in Bengaluru (Bangalore) yesterday that claimed at least nine lives. But what was even more disturbing was finding out that five of those fatalities were people who jumped out of the inferno in the hope of escaping the flames and fumes.

Some newspaper reports claimed firemen encouraged the jumpers to take the leap after having hurriedly spread out some nets and padded them with clothes and mats. The padding was not nearly enough. Each one of the people who jumped died within seconds of taking that big leap of faith.

I am aware that rescuers at times ask people to jump out of burning buildings, but they are generally better prepared to catch the victims and save their lives. What happened in Bangalore's seven-storey Carlton Towers last evening was just appalling. If those people had hung on, they'd probably have had at least a slim chance of surviving.

3 Idiots lead the way to sanity

Rarely does a Hindi film come along and change the way people think. But Aamir Khan and Raju Hirani's 3 Idiots seems to have pulled it off. It has made a difference in the thinking and priorities of simple, middle class families that relentlessly pressure their kids on academics. This blog isn't based on hearsay. It's based on conversations I have had with other mothers of school-going children.

One lady, whose older daughter is now just a month away from the high-pressure 10th standard board exam, said her husband had made her back off from forcing their first-born into any academic stream after watching the film. Post-3 Idiots he apparently advocated that the daughter be allowed to do what she chooses and be happy.

A friend of mine in Powai said she'd heard something very similar from a mother in her kids' school. After watching the blockbuster movie this mother had backed off, stopped pushing her son on the academic front and also cut down on micro-managing his life.

3 Idiots is a laugh riot (I loved it). But the subliminal message - let kids and youngsters be; don't sacrifice their happiness on the altar of success - behind the jokes seems to be penetrating the middle class consciousness. The film harshly brings out just how heavy a toll academic pressure can take on some - one suicide and an attempted suicide by students at an engineering college. The book on which the film is loosely based, Chetan Bhagat's Five Point Someone, somehow doesn't manage to communicate the message as effectively.

No matter who the messenger, I'm just glad the message is finally getting across to some people. Indians as a people can be extremely demanding of their children. The cut-throat competition and unrelenting pressure in academics has led thousands of kids to take their own lives in the past few years, choosing death over humiliation from a poor result. A drastic change in mentality urgently needed. Kudos to 3 Idiots and all those behind it for nudging Indians in the right direction.

Confessions of a compulsive decorator!

Here's my confession - I am secretly addicted to looking up design and decorating sites, constantly seeking tips to make my home better! I just can't help myself. It's chronic. The Better Homes and Gardens (BHG) website is my design bible and I check it every single week. I also regularly visit House Beautiful and Elle Decor.

Every time my husband walks in on me browsing through these sites, he gets extremely nervous. I can see an alarmed "now what does she want to do?" running through his head. But to be fair to myself, I must point out that I never go for any elaborate, expensive changes. Just little things here and there that end up making a big difference.

The addiction began when we were waiting for the builder to hand over our Thane apartment. It was a very long, agonising wait. I spent all those months planning, researching and dredging the Net for ideas. And I think my hubby will be the first to admit that it paid off. When we finally moved in a year ago, it was to a home that we absolutely adored. The little touches made a huge difference. I owe BHG a lot. It showed me ways to make the ceilings appear higher and, consequently, the rooms larger. My kitchen was more organised. The best idea was the installation of an appliance garage close to an electrical point. It keeps the appliances handy, yet out of sight. BHG also taught me how to control clutter and plan closets. I can't say I've conquered clutter for good (that's an almost impossible task with two growing kids in the house), but things are much better than they were a couple of years ago.

And even though my home is complete, I still visit these sites. I can't get enough of tips on the use of colour and textures; ways to make cool rooms feel warm and welcoming; tricks to make a tiny room appear larger. One never knows when one might need them, right? ;)

Orchestrated?

This might make me the newest conspiracy theorist on the block, but something about the timing of the entire Shah Rukh Khan-Shiv Sena brouhaha leaves me deeply suspicious.

On the off chance the Shiv Sena wasn't in on the conspiracy (and deep down I don't believe that is the case), it has played right into a crafty Khan's hands by raising a stink over his willingness to include Pakistani players in his floundering cricket squad. All the resultant jingoistic chest-thumping from either side might just turn out to be the biggest boon for the actor's just-released My Name is Khan. It's been better publicity than Khan or Dharma Production's millions could ever buy. Suddenly SRK has been virtually elevated to sainthood and is being celebrated as patriotism's newest mascot.

By rising to the bait and pledging to disrupt the film's screening, the Shiv Sena has made millions overly keen to watch My Name is Khan. While those millions surely have a huge number of die-hard SRK fans, I'm sure they also include people who would otherwise probably have given the film a miss.

Now why would a political party do that? What has it gained except bad press? The Shiv Sena seems to be fast losing relevance in the political arena. It seems now to be concentrating on screaming itself hoarse over some regionally chauvinistic cause or the other, generally giving the PR advantage to the opposing side. It must be gaining from this somehow. Why else would it do this so consistently? What's in it for the party? Bears thinking, doesn't it?

Yeah, silence that annoying ring

I felt like doing a little jig this morning when my bleary eyes spotted a front page news brief saying the Maharashtra government was thinking of slapping an entertainment tax on downloaded mobile phone ring tones and caller tunes. I hope it's steep enough to pinch. Maybe that'll silence the excessively annoying and shrill blares of music that regularly penetrate the air in public places and even at private events.

I suspect I'm in a very, very small minority here, but I just can't stand it when musical ringtones keep interrupting conversations at lunches and dinners. Somehow it doesn't bother me as much if it sounds like a good old-fashined telephone ring. I mean here I am having a fairly impassioned argument about politics or whatever when suddenly my senses are mercilessly assaulted by a few bars of "Livin Da Vida Loca" or "Roop Tera Mastana" or "Majua Mauja".

The most bizarre ringtone I ever heard almost had me leap out of my skin. I was riding the elevator up to my apartment and the only other person with me was a man in his 30s. Suddenly I heard a child's shrill voice scream, "Papa, papa, mummy ka phone hai; Papa, papa, mummy ka phone hai; Papa, papa mummy ka phone hai"! For the first couple of seconds I couldn't figure out where the child's voice was coming from. And when I did, I was praying for it to stop screeching because my head was pounding. Unfortunately the father made a complete hash of his first attempt to answer the phone. (I don't think he was too happy about being shaken to his very core every time the wife called. His trembling fingers hit all the wrong buttons). So it happened all over again. All this took place in a matter of half a minute, but it seemed like the longest, most agonising half a minute of my entire life!

I'm not sure the proposed tax would cover wierd personalised ring tones like that one, but even if it manages to silence a few, I'll be thankful.

Hot air over melting glaciers

Glaciers the world over are melting. That's the one incontrovertible truth. Some say they are melting abnormally fast. Others call this claim alarmist and say the pace of disintegration is actually a lot slower.

The last few days' very public row over the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Control's (IPCC's) projection that the mighty Himalayan glaciers would melt away by 2035 strikes me as a little unnecessary. Now personal attacks are being made to discredit the panel's Indian head, Dr. Rajendra Pachauri. The controversy - following an IPCC admission that its forecast of doom wasn't actually based on solid research or scientific study - has certainly dented the international panel's credibility.

But my question is, what does it matter? We've been told - and I believe this is beyond question - that the glaciers are melting faster than they should. Whether it is at a rate judged too fast, or even faster, what's clear is that the world has to attempt to arrest the liquefaction because the result could be catastrophic for our entire planet (sea levels would rise and swallow large tracts of low-lying land, the planet would soak up more heat with less ice to bounce sunlight back etc.). So let's get down to finding a solution instead of bickering and arguing over the melt rate. No need for all this hot air over ice. It runs the risk of accelerating the pace of the meltdown!

Pushed to the brink

It's been truly scary reading over the past week about a spate of suicides in and around Mumbai. Most of them were young adults, some little children. The count, I believe, now stands at 14 in a span of seven days. Academic pressures, unhappy family situations and unfulfilled aspirations led these children to end their lives.

Being on the other side of the divide as a parent, it got me thinking about motivation and pressure. Where do you draw the line? We all know that the Indian schooling system is cruelly demanding. The kids are pushed to perform in school and that inevitably transfers to the home, prompting parents to at times make unrealistic demands of their children. Any child who doesn't fit into the mould of the ideal pupil suffers. The system isn't flexible enough to handle children whose interests may lie in other areas, whose strengths are not necessarily in the stuff included in the curriculum. They aren't encouraged to hone their natural abilites, instead are forced to submit to the norm. And this can be fatal for a child's morale.

So how far is it safe to nudge a child? When do motivation and encouragement turn into unhealthy pressure? When does it become unbearable? Why do parents lose perspective? At what point do the marksheet and college prospects become more important than the child's happiness? How do you know for sure whether your child isn't trying hard enough or is genuinely unable to cope? Why don't parents make it a habit of talking to their children so it never reaches the point where communication is so broken down that they can't even sense their child might be dangerously depressed?

Those questions are relevant when it comes to academic pressure. But what left me baffled and terrified was the suicide by an 11-year-old girl who had participated in three reality TV dance shows. Neha's parents had apparently pulled her out of the dance academy she used to attend because they thought enough was enough and it was time she got back to focusing on her studies. These are parents who had allowed their child to follow her dreams. It was just a drastic reaction by their daughter to finally hearing a "No" from her parents.

But that "No" becomes essential at some point. Any parent knows that saying "No" takes a lot more strength than capitulating to your child's demands.

My kids read the newspapers and must have noticed this report. I have to make sure they understand that what Neha did was silly, that she unnecessarily cut short a life that could have been full of joy and success.

I suppose it's easy to say these things when it hasn't happened to you. Easy to sit in judgement. I can't imagine what the parents of the children who ended their lives are going through. They will probably carry a crushing burden of guilt for the remainder of their time. A few days ago they wouldn't have imagined such a thing could happen to them, as we can't now. But it does happen. And, as parents, it is our responsibility to learn to recognise the signs. Learn to take a step back and reassess priorities when our children seem to be floundering. Keep communicating with our kids. It isn't a one-time lesson. It has to be learnt and practised over and over again. I hope I never forget this.

Sick to the Gill

So where the hell does he get off insinuating that liberated women can have no claim to their "modesty"? So-called retired "Supercop" K.P.S. Gill - him also of bum-slapping infamy - said so quite plainly while appearing on a television debate about India's attitude towards molestation.

Cases of molestation are suddenly in the media spotlight in India after a former senior police officer was convicted of sexual misconduct against a schoolgirl (who later committed suicide) nearly two decades ago. But the sentence slapped on S.P.S. Rathore was a horrifying light one - six months in the slammer and a paltry fine of Rs. 1,000. The prosecution did not make a case of abetment to suicide against him even though Ruchika Girhotra's family fought hard for it.

Also in focus has been a German minor's rape in Goa in which a minister's son is the main accused. And the alleged molestation of an airhostess by three players of Goa's prestigious Churchill Brothers football club.

So NDTV 24/7's We The People debate was about whether Indians have a very casual attitute towards molestation (which, I feel, they do). After all, in this land a girl/woman feeling completely violated after being pawed or groped against her will is described merely as being a victim of "eve teasing". And on this debate appeared Mr. Gill, who was convicted of "outraging the modesty" of bureaucrat Rupan Deol Bajaj at a party in 1988. A drunk Gill had allegedly patted her behind.

Gill said anti-rape/molesation laws were being grossly misused. I suppose he meant against poor, innocent, saintly men who never so much as ogled a woman. He said - now I can't regurgitate his exact words, but this was the gist - a woman can't claim to be liberated on the one hand and object to having her modesty outraged on the other! Now where's the connection, Mr. Gill? If a woman goes out into the world and builds a career on the basis of her diligence and competence, does she become fair game for every man with a glad eye and wandering paw? Is it too much for her to expect to go through life without having her bum slapped or grazed, breast brushed against or sexually explicit remarks muttered as she passes? That is really, really crass, Mr. Gill. And this from a decorated retired policeman!

Most women in Indian cities have suffered molestation to some degree, especially if they use public transport. Men will brush against you or try to grope you in crowded buses and trains. They will flash you even in open, public places or masturbate in plain view on lonely avenues. I can personally vouch for this. It happens for a few fleeting seconds but leaves you feeling sickeningly violated. There's not much you can do. Who do you report? You've never before seen the molester and probably won't again. So you shrug it off as yet another nightmare and get on with your life even though you feel rage and outrage in equal measure, at least for a while.

I hope Gill is reincarnated as a liberated woman. I'd kill to know how his avatar feels after being sexually harassed.

The 'wind' beneath their wings

This is turning into a total mommy blog, isn't it? But then bringing up the kids is my primary occupation for now, so I suppose it's justified. Anyway, I'm my own boss. Any occasional reader of this blog will just have to suffer my whim if he or she chooses not to navigate away from this page instantly.

So my boys are completely obsessed with all things wind-related. Burps and farts, either genuine or feigned, are constantly echoing through our home. (No, our home doesn't smell foul. Thankfully the builder has designed an extremely well ventilated apartment). And then come the giggles, which are terribly infectious. So any attempt from either my hubby or me to sternly tell the boys that this isn't acceptable behaviour comes to nought because a hint of a smile invariably escapes.

Recently our older son had to undergo a minor medical procedure, after which the doctors asked him whether he had "passed" gas, urine and stools. He couldn't get over it! Now he very religiously informs me each time, "Mama, I just passed gas", and then dissolves into giggles.

They laugh hardest each time they make me recite a Sanskrit shloka (it isn't genuine, guys) about the supposed hierarchy of farts. I learnt this at my dad's knee and have dutifully passed the wisdom on to my children. Padakasya dhadaak raja, Tasya mantri tuntuni, Phushphushayya malaya gandha, Nishshabde praan hantika. For the sake of dignity, if there's any remaining, I will refrain from translating. (Incidentally, a version of this appeared in the new hit film 3 Idiots).

Another thing that's caught my kids' fancy is pretending to be hurt in the crotch. There's much show of cupping the groin, doubling over and writhing in imagined agony. After watching Kung Fu Panda again recently, they've taken to doing all that and then moaning "oooh, my tenders" just like Jack Black does as the voice of the animation film's lead character Po, the giant panda.

Something else my boys can't get enough of is saying chaddi, which is the Hindi word for underwear. Their twist on the old childhood ditty goes thus: Akkad bakkad bambe bo, assi nabbe pure sau, sau se nikla dhaga, chaddi leke bhaga! One day they came home from school and asked me, what's the full form of C.H.I.N.A.? Chaddi hanging is not allowed!

And their attempts to develop original jokes continue. Just this afternoon Kabir, my older one, asked me, which author is really deep? Malcolm Gladwell! (I was reading Gladwell's 'What the Dog Saw', so it was on my bedside table.) Raghav too has now met with some success in his attempts at being original. Where do ostriches live? Os-tralia! Which cars do octopuses drive? Oct-avia (Skoda)! Not bad for a six-year-old, eh?

Oh, to fall ill in peace

Some years ago an ex-colleague asked me what I missed most about life before children. I had just been through a harrowing week of nursing two kids with the flu and was feeling pretty poorly myself. After thinking a bit I responded, "I miss the luxury of falling ill in peace"!

He must have thought I'd turned into a total crackpot. I know that at first this sounds completely outrageous. But think about it. When you're a mom, you're never off duty. I mean, NEVER. Not even when you're sick as a dog. There's just no scope for quiet R&R.

Visits to the paediatrician are frighteningly regular for the first three years of a child's life. Kids seem to catch a bug just by looking at an ill child. And when you're looking after them all day and night, you're bound to catch it too at least 50 percent of the time. Predictably, it's all about getting the kids better. Though my husband helps out a lot, he just can't be around all the time. And when every bone, sinew and joint aches while you're calming your feverish baby, you wish you could just lock yourself away in a quiet room and lie down in total silence for a couple of hours. Unfortunately, that's one thing you just cannot do.

I used to miss other things that were part of my life before motherhood. A career, late nights out, drinking without a care, sleeping in on weekends, putting my interest first. But I traded those in for familial bliss and now their absence in my life hardly bothers me. But every time ill health comes calling, I miss the luxury of recuperating in peace. Aaah, to be able to lie in bed and take a few days to recover. Give the body a well-deserved break. Let the mind drift. Savour the khichdi and chicken broth. Do nothing. Nothing at all.

But now life can't be put on hold despite illness. There are mouths to feed, lunches to pack, school runs to make, rooms to tidy, clothes to wash, homework to supervise, TV viewing to regulate, fights to break up, arguments to conclude. It's hard enough doing all that without having a runny nose, leaden head, breaking back, cramping uterus and wobbly legs. So imagine what it's like with all that, and more.

Cause without caution

Many have done crazy things for charity or to promote a cause. And in most cases the end justifies the means. People have skydived, run, hitchhiked, cycled, walked, roller-bladed, rolled, driven, baked, sung, danced, stitched, knitted, written, raced snails (yes, you read it right!), auctioned themselves, climbed mountains, dated, shaved beards, walked dogs, eaten, kissed and swum - all for a good cause.

But when I read this morning that a man drove blindfolded from Patiala to Chandigarh to promote India-Pakistan friendship, I thought it a bit much. Is there really need for such recklessness to get a message across? The driver, 30-year-old Bhatinda resident Harpreet Pappu, had a skilled navigator to guide him through the 60-km route. But still, what he did could endanger others using the same road.

If the blindfolded driving was meant as a metaphor for the extremely complex relationship between the twin nations of India and Pakistan, I laud the man's creativity and sense of humour. But was there any need to put lives in danger to promote the cause of peace? The Indian Express quoted Pappu as saying that people flocked to his car - decorated with the Indian and Pakistani flags - through the route, but he kept the speed in check for the sake of safety. And he apparently had a very loud motorbike lead the way so he could follow its sound.

Mercifully, things went off without incident. But it could easily have gone wrong. I can understand and salute daredevilry when people risk their own lives for a good cause. But I have to draw the line at putting others in peril. That's just plain stupid and should not be encouraged.

Sweaty feet, keep your shoes on

This is for all those who suffer sweaty feet. Please, please, for the sake of others who are cursed with strong olfactory senses, keep your shoes on in an air-conditioned cinema theatre!

This past Christmas was movie marathon day for my husband, our kids and I. We first watched James Cameron's Avatar in 3D and were completely blown away. For me that is indeed strange because I detest sci-fi as a genre. Epic fantasy and science fiction buffs, please don't take this personally. It's just a matter of taste. So here we were watching this epic unfold with three-dimensional impact when someone seated behind us decided to take his/her shoes off. That dampened the experience for us to quite an extent. How can one concentrate completely on a film when the senses are assaulted by the vile smell of someone's sweaty feet?

Feet prone to sweating are a fairly common problem, especially in a humid climate like Mumbai has. And those who suffer it have a really difficult time. But they are fully aware of their condition and should at least not subject others to the torture of a stinky movie theatre! Please, please, please keep your shoes on in air-conditioned, public spaces.

If that wasn't enough, those foul-smelling cheese popcorns seemed to find a lot of takers during the same show. So it was a double whammy. The combined stench, arrested and circulated by the air-conditioners, was overpowering. I had to sit through most of the film with my shawl clasped over the nose, held in place by the 3D glasses!

Thankfully we were spared a similar experience at the second film we watched (3 Idiots, which is a complete hoot and we all loved). It was a different multiplex theatre where the air was unmolested by sweaty feet. Phew.