The Five X

1. This is a break in my mammoth saga of just one day at the IHC. It has been hard to write without saying horrid spiteful things and giving suggestion as to how they could change them (that’s the OCD in me). First, because even months later I nearly hyperventilate each time I begin to write the next part. And second, not many people seem to be reading it - although so many are happy to continue commenting on vapid writing and bad photography all over the Internet – see what this day has done to me? Turned me into a mean mean mean person, that’s what. Third, because its summer and oh Summer how do I count the ways in which I love you? The weather is too glorious to write about the depressing pit that that High Commission is and how humiliating they make Indian citizens feel. I have not abandoned the series, no sir I have not, but I need to get my blood pressure back down before I can attempt the other 2 parts (although one is quite amusing).

2. Talking of summer, these lovely long days of sunlit 10pm skies are just so soul reviving. Our routine has needed constant tweaking since I went back to work nearly 3 weeks ago. It seems to be settling down somewhat and with the Kid in bed by 7pm I have a lovely long evening of unwinding usually interspersed by laundry and dinner making before the zzz’s hit.

3. The long days also mean that I am reading a lot nowadays. And I have a book recommendation – Hearts and Minds by Amanda Craig. The past year on maternity leave has slightly shrunk my world to mainly include baby related things. And although I have been reading voraciously even through this year it has been the combination of this book and the return to work that has once again engaged my mind with the bigger wider world. The book is an intersection of lives of the middle class and immigrant underclass of London. It shows the intersection of heart and practical need and how they don’t always find a happy medium, in even the most carefully laid plans. It looks at the lives of people trying to escape from different situations; a Russian Au Pair who goes missing, a Ukrainian girl sold into prostitution when she leaves her country to become a waitress in London, a Zimbabwean asylum seeker searching for a better life and his missing wife, a white South African looking for his path through teaching and an American woman escaping a failed engagement. All these people’s lives intersect with the main protagonist Polly Noble, a lawyer trying to juggle her life as a busy, single, working mum. Here is a better review than mine. What I took away from it is how insulated a life we live. How even our most basic givens are luxuries for other people and how often we are not mindful of the luck we have in the life we live. And while it would be lovely, on the basis of this book, to say something preachy like we must all do much more meaningful things with our lives, I won’t. Instead I would just say that this is a book worth reading because it has given me more interesting things about the world that I hadn't known or thought to think about. Things that influence how I live my own life and view those around me. I urge you to get a copy and read it.

4. Being back at work is somewhat surreal. Even 3 weeks in it is almost as if I never left. I’ve been thrown into the thick of things and with so many new colleagues and new work these are exciting, if slightly challenging times. I am enjoying the adult interaction and thinking about the needs of the world is a far change from thinking about what vegetables to mush up for the Kid’s next meal. The only negative bit really is the travel in the tube where I can almost see the infectious germs looking at me and laughing. I already had a 12 hour tummy bug which caused projectile vomiting as one of its nicer aspects and caused a day of sick leave to be taken. How much longer before I am dramatically ill I wonder?

5. We are off on a short break, away from the crowds of urban sprawl. Although we will have our laptop I will not blog or answer emails unless urgent. I also fully intend to ignore my phone (as far as possible). I know this seems anti-social but I seriously want some switched off time for us all and there is no way to do this but cut clear of the technology that hounds us day and night. I fully intend to lay in the grass with a glass of something nice, watch my son crawl through his pop-up tunnel and attempt to walk, eat simply, read voraciously and rest deeply. I hope the weather lasts. See you in a week or so people.

Day @ IHC: A play in 5 parts – Part 3: Website? What website?

According to the Website (on which I am reliant because of course no one answers the phone or responds to the numerous messages I have left or responds to the e-mails I have sent) this is what I need to get my Power of Attorney attested:

‘The person needs to bring the documents in original along with a photocopy, valid passport and the requisite fees directly to the Consular Counter of the High Commission. In case of Power of Attorney a photograph (s) of the executant (s) is required. The executant is to sign the documents in the presence of the Consular Officer.’ Check check check and check.

Aha! Finally, I am at the counter being served, or not as it were. From what I have gathered so far this is the way it shall go. There are two men behind the counter. One of them takes the papers and then barks an order at the other, who is clearly his subordinate. The subordinate then meekly says “£whatever”, collects it and rings it into a cash register and produces a receipt. All this while the main dude, whom I assume is the aforementioned Consular Officer, is looking through the papers and either:
a) smirking
b) making weird jokes about names and places which make no sense
c) telling you which documents you have missing
d) all the above.

I have read the website so many times that the instructions are printed on the inside of my eyelids. But as he (and just then I nickname him SmirkMaster Go-Go) ruffles through my papers (and comments on how I do not look like my photograph) he says “where is a copy of your passport and UK visa page?”.

Now go back up to the first paragraph if you will, reproduced from the IHC website – does it mention anywhere that either a copy of my passport or my UK visa pages? It asks me to bring the documents (to be attested) with a photocopy (which I have), my valid passport (which I have) and the fees (which I have, exact change actually). If it does, in some secret language, please please do tell me.

Meanwhile, SmirkMaster Go-Go benevolently says ‘Madam, if you want this done today you need to go and photocopy passport first last pages and UK visa. I will hold papers, you go and come OK?’. So I leave him the papers, grab my token back, and race up the short flight of stairs where the Nepali doormen await the throngs of photocopying idiots with varying versions of the words, ‘worry not, go out, turn left, cross the road, go right and you will see photocopy place. You have your token, now run!’

So I run. No mean feat if you have ever seen me and know that I NEVER run. I turn left, cross the road, turn right in front of Somerset House and am quick walking wildly on the footpath looking for the photocopy place. I barely notice the many others like me, wandering around, clutching their sheaves of paper. About 8 shops down, just before the dirty entrance to the India club is a jewellery shop. Outside is a young-ish boy chanting ’Photocopy? Photocopy? Photocopy? Photocopy?’ Without thinking I turn into the shop.

It’s no jewellery shop this. I mean there is some jewellery, but like the amount I have at home, just spread thinly across one wall in a display case. It is instead a thin front for a heaving photocopy business, with 3 machines being run by the owner, his wife and some other relative. I recognise about 15 people from the token line, entry line and inside halls of the IHC. All here, in short lines, to photocopy documents that they forgot to carry or that the website ‘helpfully’ omitted to mention. I get in line. It moves quickly, the men who man the machines churning things out at supersonic speed. The owner’s wife tries to convince me to photocopy my entire passport ‘because you never know beta when you will need these pages’. I decline, makes sure she makes only one copy and that I have all my pages, original and copied. It is 48p for each photocopy. For 3 pages I leave £1.50 and run back to the consulate. Only later does it occur to me that I should have got 6p back. It was neither offered (nor was a receipt) and I was in such a hurry that I didn’t think about it. It may seem insignificant in amount but by volume this is huge. This is how the money is made. Work un-receipted, change unclaimed.

I push through the last of the crowd trying to enter the building and am let in by the guards. I then push my way through to near the front of the counter which now smells of exhausted tired and sweaty people. SmirkMaster Go-Go is grilling some other poor sod. I wave at him. He waves me to the front, smirks (naturally!) and takes my papers. Nods, and then ignores me and goes back to the other guy. 10 minutes later he says ‘Come back at 3.30 to collect’, throws the receipt at me and goes back to yelling at someone.

I walk out with the student who tells me this is his second time for the same documents (the first got lost in the post poor chap) and that when we come back it will take at least 2 hours to collect our papers. I gawk at this because I assume that they will have everything done and dusted and just hand back my papers in order. I had every intention of collecting my still tiny child from day care and feeding him an early supper. He assures me that this is the modus operandi and that it will ‘take time’. For what, I ask. He smiles and a very Indian way says ‘Just’ and crosses the road.

I am so tired that I want to sit by the statue of Nehru in that courtyard and weep.

Day @ IHC: A play in 5 parts – Part 2: Token, what token?

There is only one token window for all 800 people in the snaking line. It is giving out tokens for each service that the High Commission provides, so you have to get to the window (shuffle shuffle shove shove) and then say what you want. Then the person of authority behind the window barks some questions at you and deeming your work fit for their attention hands you a numbered paper token differentiating your counter by colour.

It takes nearly 3 hours to get to the window. I ask for, am barked at and have now been given a pink token with number 86 on it. But wait, consular services only gives 50 tokens while all other tokens are given out in the hundreds. I immediately question the bobbing head behind the window only to be told that since yesterday was a holiday and so today they are doing ‘double work madam, so 100 tokens, you are very lucky’. Oh the largesse!

Once you have the token there is no line to join, just a rugby sized huddle of people outside the wood doors next to the token window. These doors are guarded by two Nepali gentlemen, suited and booted and surprisingly soft spoken yet firm in their decisions of how to manage the crowds. They are letting great swathes of people in every half hour based on the token numbers.

Now that I have a token I must wait patiently with the masses to get inside and present my case. I jostle for space in the rugby huddle. People are trying to get in by showing their tokens but covering the bit with the number with their thumbs. Others are using the ‘I want to use the loo’ tactic. But mainly everybody is standing around trying to be friendly yet becoming mildly aggressive if anyone gets inside on false pretences. Finally after an age and much shoving I get let inside with the 11.45 lot of people.

Inside it is nothing short of a fish market. There is a difference between this time and the last. Last time there were all the non-Indians applying for visas. Now visa services have been outsourced - probably somwhere that is airier and more organised - and now it is just the bursting Indian population that has multiplied itself to take up all that extra space they left behind. There is the usual counter ringed by a wood and glass frame (to keep us out and them safe)and rows of chairs affixed to the floor (which do not even accommodate half the number of people in here). There is an electronic board with each counter number, the service it provides and the token number being called forth. Of course having all this is not much use as the number of people far outstrips the seats. People are standing in packed sardine like fashion gasping for air and making tight clusters around each counter, totally ignoring the 'please move back' admonishments of the staff behind each counter. Move back? Where lady?

The Consular Services is Counter 1 and I am happy to see that they have reached token 80 by the time I am positioned near enough the counter, in a mass of people, complaining about the heat and lack of seating after hours of standing outside. The token numbers are speeding by and about 30 minutes after I step in token 86 comes up. I jostle my way to the counter only to see that token 74 is still at the window arguing with the 2 men sitting behind the glass. I find about 6 people behind this man, all with random token numbers, not so much in a line as a hovering cluster. So clearly token numbers are just that, random numbers, addressed in nowhere near the order in which they were given out.

So a further 20 minutes later, after an engaging conversation with a college student about how we shall be here all day all year all our lives, I shove my way past someone trying to sneak in with token number 90 (the cheek!). I have arrived at the very front, the background music of complaints becoming more faint with each passing minute. Little do I realise that life is about to become a lot worse.

Day @ IHC: A play in 5 parts – Part 1: Ash clouds

It’s been a manic morning requiring precision planning for childcare followed by the mad sardine tangle of the Tube that I have become so unused to. My aim today is to get a Power of Attorney attested.

So here I am here at the Indian High Commission in Aldwych, London, standing in a snaking line of over 400 people at 7.45am. I am around 250 people along – a common line for people surrendering passports, applying for passports/ renewals/ Overseas Indian Citizenship/ Person of Indian Origin status and all other consular services.

The Indian love of paperwork dictates that every person in queue at the Indian High Commission have a file (or knapsack) overflowing with sheaf’s of paper. Documents and their photocopied triplets all to be chewed up by the Officialdom of Government. In front of me is an Aunty (whom am I kidding, I am an aunty but she is way older than me and that makes her my aunty) in her sneakers and polyester trousers, clutching her knapsack for dear life. She turns around almost the minute I join the line and begins a conversation which includes (but is not limited to) where are you from, what do you do, why are you here, where is your husband, was it a love marriage (I kid you not) - all rapid fired in about 3 minutes, the answers almost inconsequential. I am tired, most of my answers to her are lies and it’s not even 8am. I plug my ears with my ipod and tune her out.

The line moves so slowly that my chances of reaching that tiny window seem dimmer with each passing minute. My phone rings and I answer it to find my father-in-law calling from India. He says that the breaking news is that London airports are shut due to the ash and wants to know where his son (who will not answer his mobile in office and is not answering his landline) and grandson (who as yet has no phone) are. I assure him that son is at work, probably in a meeting and that the grandson is at daycare. I have not heard about any ash (but then I am cut off from the real world by concerns of the childrearing type, still in a slightly obsessed sleep deprived phase) so I ask him where the ash is coming from. This is the rest of our conversation (and please remember that it is on the phone while the other people jumping in are all in line with me):

30in2005: What ash? Where from? I don’t see any ash.
FIL: I have no idea. The news only says that there is ash coming to London and therefore all the airports are being shut.
30in2005: OK. But is it a fire or something? What sort of ash?
FIL: I don’t know; the news doesn’t say.
Aunty-in-front: It is coming from Scotland. SCOT-LAND. You know, in the north. Lots of ASH!!
Boy-behind-me (with own file of paper): Yes, from the North, you know. In the air you know. Much ash is covering London.

I look up and see the bluest clearest sky I have in days.

30in2005 to FIL (now pointedly ignoring Aunty and Boy by looking at own shoes): I don’t see anything. I am out at the moment. I will call you this evening.
FIL: Find out and don’t get stuck. Who knows they may shut down the Tube. And then baby will be stuck!!
30in2005: Tube was working fine when I came out this morning. Don’t worry I can always take a cab.
Aunty: Tube is working. I came by tube.
Boy: No problem with tube. Even all buses are running. Ash cannot touch the Tube. See I can show you the news on my iphone.
30in2005 to FIL: Can I call you back? Bye.

So two people whom I do not know, who can only hear one side of the conversation, who clearly were eavesdropping instead of minding their own business have given me the news that there is ‘ash’ over London, its coming from the North, possibly Scotland and that the journey home should be fine (in their opinion).

I ignore them, pretend like they never said anything and use every bit of self-restraint to not tell them to shut up. I pop my headphones back into my ears and continue the slow shuffle shuffle shove shove to the token window.

The Five X: Get going

1. I won't get into the reasons I haven't kept up to my promise to self to write. Suffice to say my middle name used to be organised, now it's lazy.

2. I go back to work tomorrow after a year of Maternity leave. We are incredibly lucky that the law in the UK allows women this amount of time off work to settle their babies into the world outside the womb before deciding on returning to work. Some people need less time to get back into the workforce, others can afford less time. Others decide that working at an office job (because make no mistake raising a child is work in every sense) is no longer for them. In my case I thought I would be back in 9 months but when push came to shove I found myself unprepared to return so soon. And thankfully we were able to afford me this break. We spent the past two and a half months getting our son settled into daycare and getting through the worst of the bugs that merrrily roam those four walls. Now he is happy and we are happy and I am off to being a office drone.

3. I spent the last two weeks doing things I have not done in a while. Mainly lunching with friends, browsing bookstores, attempting to buy additions to my wardrobe and even watching a movie. I had lunch with my mentor a week ago at Busaba (still one of my favourite places - although they are spreading like a rash across London so let's see how long that lasts) and as we left saw the fab duo from Little Britain leave with us. Matt Lucas and David Walliams - Mat was thinner than he looks on TV and David way taller than he looks on the screen. They are incredibly funny and their show is a good insight into the prejudices and oddities of this country, made humourous. They smiled. We smiled back. It made my day.

4. I watched a movie. Let me repeat that in case you did not understand the significance. I WATCHED A MOVIE. Now, I am not a big movie fan in that I do not go and watch every movie that comes out on the big screen. Heck I usually miss most of the movies till they appear on DVD much later. But I have not watched a movie in the cinema in over 11 months. I watched Julie and Julia on a flight from India in November but it took 1 very cranky baby and 7 hours of stop/start to do so and therefore that does not count. So last week I went to the cinema to watch Sex and the City 2. I knew it would probably be rubbish (and it was) but I was thrilled to be watching anything on a big screen uninterrupted by much but the slurping of coke and the chomping of popcorn. The movie was like a bad tourism advert for Abu Dhabi and the story was basic and tired and very unrealistic (as movies are sometimes meant to be?). However, it was a visual feast of colour and fashion and just the mind-numbing thing I needed. The 4 women have aged and although they have incredible bodies it is their faces that show an age that no amount of make-up can hide. I got my £7.50 worth from just the experience so no complaints here.

5. In other news it is sports mania time what with the World Cup football, F1 Grand Prix and Queens and Wimbledon tennis in the next few weeks. So our TV screen is going to be stretched to its limit. I am watching only snatches of it as I try and move back from being lazy to being organised. I have lined-up a number of sociable things for us to do over the next few months including a short vacation, 1st birthday parties for us to attend (not host), and lunches with family and friends. Speaking of friends, one of my dearest friends, who makes London eminently more interesting, is being enticed back to India. I shall miss her terribly. Thank goodness for skype and e-mail and long distance lines and text. I shook my fists at the Universe for this injustice in life. The Universe took one look at me and magnanimously offered to keep our number of friends at a constant with another planning her return. Oh goody!

Memory Box 5: Bukhaar

The bout of illness that our child has just faced has left us anxious and utterly exhausted. It's first time parent syndrome. I am reliably informed that this is a pattern that will be repeated manifold in his childhood and that the best way to deal with it is to remain calm and reassuring as children sense fear and negativity quite quickly. I am nothing if not calm; unless forced to answer the question 'is he well in himself' by the NHS Direct one more time. We have turned a corner and now its about the road to getting him to eat well, gain some weight and stay healthy. It has however triggered another memory from my childhood.

The Nik and I were Principal Players of the Unexplained High Fever Club. We got them a few times a year, always in the range of 105 degrees, unusually unexplained or accompanied by tonsillitis (my speciality). My ever calm mother dealt with us efficiently and calmly, cold compress from small hand towels, soothing words and regular doses of crocin. Once severe the fever usually abated with a course of antibiotics dispensed by our family paediatrician.

One year, days before Diwali, we both went down with the fever simultaneously. The Nik was about 5 years old and at the height of his popularity in our street of many children. His friends would keep coming and ringing the bell each afternoon to ask 'Aunty, when can Nik come and play?'. Assured by my mum that he was unwell but would be out to play in a few days the posse would disperse to indulge in whatever shenanigans 5 year olds get up to. The fever would come and go and the Nik and I would amuse ourselves but sticking forehead thermometer strips on our own foreheads and checking what the other had, comparing temperature notes as it were. (There is a picture of this - but that merits its own Memory Box story).

Then just two days before Diwali both our temperature started to soar. Enough to worry our normally unflappable mother. She began to borrow thermometers from everyone along our lane, disbelieving of how high our Hicks thermometer was going. At near 106 on EVERY THERMOMETER I was delirious and finally on choti Diwali had to be admitted to hospital. I was better by the next morning, having been pumped with antibiotics and observed and sent home on the morning of Diwali.

Of course it was then Niks turn to add the grey to my mothers head and he was nearing 107 and admitted to hospital on Diwali evening. It was a time (and this makes it sound like centuries ago rather than just a few decades) when we knew all our neighbours really well, played in front of our houses without fear, and enjoyed a childhood of outdoor games watched from kitchen windows by parents. Mothers stood at bus stops to pick up their children when buses dropped them off in the summer heat or winter cold, we said hello to all the aunties/ uncles and there seemed to be hordes of children of every age, willing to play and share their toys and form silly clubs and cycle around with. For Diwali each year everyone did their prayers (or versions of it) and then brought their fireworks out and shared them. This Diwali our street was quiet. Diwali was officially postponed in light of illness. Our illness. It was unbelievably kind of the parents and understanding of our friends, mere children, who had looked forward to this day for weeks and weeks and weeks and counted their firecrackers and planned on what sequence to use them in. It was a quiet, quiet street.

A few days after we had both recovered sufficiently our street came out to celebrate Diwali. So there in the MIDDLE of the week, a SCHOOL NIGHT to boot, was a street full of kids laying out diyas outside their houses and then letting off strings of firecrackers and flowerpot thingies and sparklers and spinning wheels and rockets from empty soda bottles, giggling hysterically and chattering away the night. It was a bright and lovely celebration and that evening cemented the path for so many of our friendships into adulthood.

We had an amazing childhood, of this I have no doubt. The camaraderie between neighbours a stark difference from the mere nod of acknowledgement that passes between people in our hallway now.

Memory Box 4: Dancing in the rain

Rain. In my adult London life the dripping English rain is uninspiring, a damp squib if you will. I rarely carry an umbrella or wear a raincoat as the mist rain will get to you one way or another, and I see no point in lugging around more layers or carrying an umbrella for no good reason. I am bored by conversations about the wet English weather and will use the drip drip torture as an excuse to stay in 9 times out of 10.

Yet at age 7 I could think of nothing more exciting than being allowed to jump around in the rain. Being prone to colds and tonsilitis accompanied by record breaking fevers of the most severe kind I never was allowed to get wet. And the Delhi monsoon which usually broke on my birthday was a beast in its own right, lashing and very very wet, rendering washing damp and mouldy and chasing the mosquitos into the house. The pouring skies were very inviting to a young child. Being forbidden from walking right into the rain was torture.

We lived in a first floor flat with a large terrace. The Nik was only a baby and my father lived abroad for most of the year. My mum needed to devise some activity to keep her bored ("you are too young to be bored darling" - her favourite line) child busy each afternoon of the year.

In my memory this afternoon was unremarkable in any way, indistinct from the others preceeding it. The monsoon was upon us and the rain fell in sheets over Delhi. I remember reading 'Heidi', a book I was greatly taken with, and imagining the Alps and wondering what Goats milk tasted like. (I like milk- drank two glasses a day - often still do, so get over it - but goats milk has been tasted in adult life - and one word is 'yuk'). Suddenly, with no warning my mum came into the room and told me I could go and dance in the rain. Those were her exact words. I remember them so clearly it is weird. And without questioning the how or why of her decision I was up in a flash, abandoning Heidi and shooting out of the room before she could change her mind. She opened the front door and with not a nanosecond of hesitation I flew out into the pouring rain.

It was an amazing sensation, being pelted by the steady large drops of rain, soaked to the bone within seconds of running onto the terrace. I did a little jig, jumping around in the rain puddles on our uneven pockmarked concrete terrace floor. I remember turning and there framed in the doorway was my mother with the tiny baby Nik in her arms. She was smiling broadly, my joy her joy. She then went inside while I continued to run around the terrace, like some child on a sugar high. She came back with a towel having deposited my brother in his cot.

I'm not sure how long I was outside, face turned to the skies, bathing in the rain. I remember being done with the rain, satiated, drenched, soaking and oh so happy by the time I went in. I remember drinking hot chocolate after I was dry, sitting with my mum and brother, jabbering on about how much fun that was and when could I do that again, please? It turned out never as I got a mighty cold in return for the dance of unbriddled joy.

Those few minutes of dancing in the rain sanctioned by my mum, remain one of my favourite childhood memories.

The Five IX

1. Clearly, time flies. I have been tardy tardy tardy. Slap on knuckles with ruler. I shall be better. I missed you internet and my peeps, I did, I did.

2. It turns out that daycare, no matter how clean or efficient or well run, is the playground of germs and children. This happy mix has left some of us with colds, high temperatures and now hacking coughs. Endless trips to doctors, calls to NHS direct and doses of antibiotics. Loads of sleep interrupted nights. All somewhat the reason for tardiness.

3. Have a bunch of memory box thingies in my drafts, waiting to be finessed or for missing detail to come back to me in a rare moment of lucidity. I shall try and do one a week for the next 4 weeks to get back on track.

4. I recently spent (or should I say wasted) an entire day at the Indian High Commission. I am writing this down as a play in multiple parts, so surreal was my day. Shout out to Shoefiend for trudging out to meet me, bolster my spirits with a margherita and listen to my many rants at lunch time.

5. Did I say I missed you? It's spring and when I spend so many hours with the face turned upward to the sun I guess my brain turns a bit woozy, sleepy and lazy. I apologise. I am writing, I promise.....

Memory Box 5: Age is all in the mind

My mother and the Nik share their birthday. It's today. The 12th of March. Each year from the year the Nik was born my father would tell us how he (Nik) could be tied with ribbon and given to mum every year as a new gift. Bigger and better (?). Free and cute (? haha!). Of course dad never got away with it and always had to shell out for gifts. Worth a try though I reckon.

My mum believes, unwaveringly, that age is all in the mind. It's a quality that I did not inherit. I feel every day of my 34 years with great grouchiness whereas my mother still feels 18 with great joie de vivre. This joy of life and youthfulness of mind has held her in good stead and it's what made so many of my friends and peers be friends with her independent of me. Something that pissed me off when I was a teenager looking for something to get angst-y about but which fills me with pride and smiles all the time now.

When the Nik turned 4 he had a big birthday party. Delicious home made cake (no one makes a devils food cake quite like her) and a multitude of snacks from my mother, the Nigella Lawson of India. All of Nik's pals arrived bearing gifts at around 4pm and after party games it was time to cut the cake and eat some food.

After cutting the cake Nik was sitting on the stairs next to his pal, let's call him Al, and this is the conversation they had:
Nik (chomping on cake): Today is my mums birthday too.
Al (also chomping on cake): Hmmm
Nik (very well coached): Ya, she is 18 today.
Al (not coached at all, clearly): My mum's birthday is on xxxx and she is going to be36.
Nik (not to be left behind): On her next birthday my mum will be 81.

Even at age 11 I found it hilarious.

Today the Nik is 28 and mum, well she is still 18. Happy birthday both!

Memory Box 4: Holi

Two memories from the Holi of my childhood.

1. There is great excitement for one of my parents two children. At age 4 the Nik is finally being allowed out to play holi with his friends; colour powder has been bought in small paper packets and a pichkari to fight the wet fight has been tested. There are a few parents to supervise, make sure the children stay within the gates and off the road and ensure that holi does not disentigrate into a rowdy affair. His best friend comes to collect him at around 9.30 and off he goes attired in an old pair of shorts and a t-shirt, excitement brimming over, knowing that there will be colour and water and that these clothes are destined for the bin. I have exams in a matter of weeks and don't really like holi so after about an hour of playing with dry colours I am home, watching proceedings from the balcony or window, pretending to study.

10 minutes after he leaves the doorbell rings and it is opened with caution. It is Nik, soaked to the bone, demanding a change of clothes BECAUSE THESE ONES ARE WET! So mum rustles up another set of old clothes and makes him change and leave his wet clothes on the floor near the front door. He is sent off again with the warning that he must only come home once he is finished with holi and ready for his bath. 3 minutes later here he is AGAIN, demanding to be changed because his clothes ARE WET. This cycle continues till noon by which time mum has run out of patience and old clothes that can be discarded. There is a sopping pile of clothes by the front door and one very happy, exhausted youngster asleep this afternoon, dreaming of his next holi.

2. My father insisted througout my childhood and probably still does, although we all ignore this point now, that hindi movies would adle the brain. Therefore under no circumstances were we allowed to watch hindi movies. I remember watching a few minutes of some hindi movie on television at my grandparents neighbours house one summer vacation and being admonished and sent home almost immediately because everyone who knew us knew the rules that applied to us.

So it came to pass that I led a deprived-of-hindi-movies childhood. I had nothing to discuss with classmates who had been to watch every Bollywood offering. Instead I buried my head in books (not of the academic kind) and pretended that this difference, this lack of knowledge about the star and storyline of the day just did not bother me.

But the year I went to class 10 I felt that enough was enough, I wanted to learn the secrets of the hindi movie screen, to be 'in' with the discussions on what the latest and greatest in Bollywood were up to. So after some heavy negotiations, in exchange for not playing holi just before my Class 10 Board exams (which would cause a cold/ cough/ tonsilitis/ fever and interfere with academic ha-ha-ha brilliance), I was to be allowed to watch a hindi movie on video while everyone was out playing with colours and water. The year was 1991 but I chose Qayamat se Qayamat tak, released three years previously, just to see whether Amir Khan was indeed a dreamboat. So I stayed home and watched the entire movie from the comfort of my parents bed. 3 hours of plot, dramatic dialogue, costumes and pop-up-out-of-nowhere songs. I was no longer a bollywood novice; I was just like any other teenager who had watched a hindi movie.

But the truth was that it did not change my life, it turned out that Amir Khan was not a dreamboat and that my mind would actually not be adled with just one hindi flick. I would go on to watch many many hindi films and be introduced to what V calls the greatest movies ever. But even now I never watch a hindi film without a quick thought to how late in the day I came to Bollywood movies and how I gave up holi to do so.

Memory Box 3: Doctor Doctor

I am 7 and a bit. We have a black and white TV but for some reason it is not working. Or we don't have the correct channel. I don't remember. Either way every Wednesday night we go next door to the home of the Mathurs and watch 'I love Lucy' on their TV. Oooh that Lucille Ball, she is so funny that I shall not complain about being forced to have a short afternoon nap when I could instead be playing some made up game again. A nap that allowes me the luxury of staying away past my daily bedtime of 7.30pm just to get a weeks quota of funny.

Today my stomach hurts. But instead of complaining I go and have a nap in the hope that the pain shall fly away with the sleep fairies. We eat dinner at 7pm, properly at the table, no wasting is allowed and we discuss my day at school. My stomach still hurts but any complaints to avoid the food on my plate will surely mean going immediately to bed, without Lucy or Desi to giggle about as I fall asleep. Nothing is worth that.

After dinner its time for 'I love Lucy' and we troop next door. By the end of Lucy my stomach ache is unbearable. Could that be because of all the laughing? I don't say anything till we get home and my mother is tucking me into bed. She soothes me by stroking my forehead, murmuring words of comfort about how a good nights sleep shall help and its probably just something I ate. Goodnight, I love you, come and call me at night if it hurts too much.

It hurts too much. I am wide awake and standing in the doorway of my parents room. It is definitely still night. Then we are in the car being driven to the hospital. It is still dark and I am doubled up in pain. Turns out my appendix shall burst and spread gangrenous goo throughout my body if they don't operate immediately.

I have surgery early the next morning. I do not remember anything about the surgery or my stay in hospital. But I remember feeling like a martyr while recovering; behaving as if I am the first ever person to experience pain or undergo surgery. The raw red scar is proof enough of the extent of my vast surgical experience. And of course from teacher-student games (which just seem silly now) my dolls and I have quickly graduated to doctor-patient as our favourite game. I am sure my experience will add more than a smidge of reality to the situation. Will my friends be impressed by my knowledge of words like appendix and scalpel and operation theatre? Can I get a stethescope for my birthday? Will I grow up to be a doctor?

Sadly the answer to all three was no.

Memory Box 2: Not so brave

The year is 1986, early March. We live in a first floor dupleix 3 bedroom DDA colony flat, close to the colony gate. Like thousands of Delhi families our home bustles with activity each day. My father like many other middle income service people must trudge to office daily to earn an honest living. My mother has chosen her children as her priority over her job and is home when we leave for school and home when we get back, doing translations and editing part time each morning. She grows money plant in odd bottles, tidies after us, feeds us an innovative lunch (chicken in a basket is my favourite), gets homework on the front burner, reads to and with us, limits our tv viewing and encourages talking to each other instead.

My parents have the big bedroom beside the dining room on the first floor. The stairs curve upward from just next to their bedroom to the second floor. At the top of the stairs is a long thin corridor with a bedroom on the right and a bathroom in front. Turning left onto the corridor leads to my very own bedroom. After all at nearly 11 I am a big girl now and this merits my own space. The corridor has a wall on the right but the left is open and at night if I creep into the corridor and look down through the railings I can look right into the dining/TV room for the reassuring bulk of my parents. There is a balcony on the left just before my room and another smaller one leading off my bedroom. My bedroom isn't very big but it has a little store room attached to it which is full of boxes, suitcases and other stuff clearly not immediately needed. Mostly I like to think of my room with its many doors as my own apartment. I even make Nik knock on the door if he comes up to call me or play.

The news says that the murderer Charles Sobhraj has walked out of Tihar jail after drugging his prisoner and guard friends. If it is that easy what chance do any of us have? Tihar jail is at one end of Delhi. Since he escaped into Delhi and is most likely trying to get to the otherside of Delhi to avoid capture it is not unlikely that he is headed straight for our house. I am in Delhi, he is in Delhi, my house is the safest place I know, surely he must be hiding here!!! In the BOXROOM! on either of the BALCONIES! under MY BED! in MY CUPBOARD! OMG he is going to kill me next. Nothing will convince me to go upstairs on my own. Each time I go up a parent must accompany me. Fearless 4 year old Nik is not enough. To get my uniform, to bathe, to get my school books, to get my shoes etc. etc. etc. - I want a parent tail. And I will most certainly not sleep upstairs. Why heavens, he could burst in and stab me in my sleep! My parents bed seems like the best possible safe haven and that is where I shall stay till he is captured. Or I forget about him.

This is the life of an overimaginative child. Who has no 24 internet or TV newsfeed to update her on his whereabouts or hunt and capture in Goa. Only the once nightly Doordarshan news or the Times of India newspaper to wait for, to make the world a safe place once again.

Memory Box 1: Gaining a brother

This is the last day my nani will collect me from the bus stop, bundle me into the car and drive me miles across the city to the hospital where my mum and brand new baby brother are. He is tiny and not shiny like a new toy. Instead he is all wrinkly and his hands are balled into fists. His tiny hands were joined at the wrists by a tiny piece of skin that he has now illustriously pulled apart, leaving little blue birthmarks that need to be observed.

My nani will sit with me in the hospital gardens and as we stare up at the big big building my six year old self is impatiently fidgeting for lunch. Everyday this week it is podi-sandwiches, a treat of thick white bread slathered with butter and sprinkled with tongue burning podi, clearly called gunpowder for a reason. If we were at home I would be made to eat something sensible that probably inludes vegetables, so I am relishing every bite of this forbidden lunch.

After lunch we will go in and see mama who is resting. And then walk to the nursery to look at the Nik through a window, lying in his bassinet, all bundled up. Even though I like coming here, in no small part because of the sandwiches, I want everyone to come home. This commuting is boring and takes away from my play time. Also I imagine my brother will instantly be a captive candidate for my endless games of teacher - student. A live one to make the dull toy dolls seem a bit more real and give my game some credence. Isn't that the entire purpose of having a sibling?

I clearly have no idea that I will get chicken pox within days of everyone coming home and be quarantined to my room across the hall. And that I will stand in the door every day demanding to know when the scabs will dry and fall off and I will be allowed to play with Nik. Agreeing uncomplainingly to another layer of lacto-calamine being applied. All this time I never realise that even once the quarantine has passed the Nik is not nearly big enough for my games. And when he finally is big enough I will have outgrown them. Childhood is fraught with random memories like this one.

The Five VIII

1. I'm ready for spring. Never have truer words been spoken. If I see another snowflake or sleet stone hit my windows before next winter I might scream. Long and loud. Not losing my temper as part of my resolutions is really hard to keep in sh*t weather where the grey outside sometimes tranfers itself inside. To remedy feelings of gloom I intend on planting some small evergreen succulents. And putting them on a high shelf where crawling creatures cannot venture.

2. This year I am all gung-ho about sending my friends gifts and random things in the mail. A few of them already got the scrummy little calender refills from etsy (although most were handed over in person). And now I have about 6 more ideas of things to buy online and get sent off directly. Wait for your birthdays or just random days for a surprise in the post.

3. The main idea of de-cluttering is not just to organise what we have stashed away like jewel thieves (mainly paper!) but to come to a path where I don't need to be surrounded by stuff stuff and more stuff. So I'm organising and getting filing for one but also abandoning a variety of things I can easily live without. It's difficult, this learning to live with what I need and only a little of what I want (i.e. not buying every beautiful thing I see to adorn shelves/ walls etc.) So throughout the year I am going to implement ideas to organise and de-clutter and to keep me on my toes I am going to blog it. And post pictures.

4. I was afraid to put this down as a resolution because I am pretty sure it isn't going to be an easy one to follow through. The bottomline is that I can no longer do without driving and after weeks of rubbish classes in India (which I never followed through) and a perpetual irrational fear of the roads, this is the year I am going to have to learn. I'm spending the first 3 months of the year psyching myself into it and getting on with some precursor paperwork that needs doing before I can apply but sometime this year I shall be behind the wheel of a car. I'm aiming to learn and get my licence before I turn 36 (in 2011, that's how long this project shall take I expect). Will you commiserate when I fail my driving test multiple times on the way?

5. I'm also startng a mini-series called Memory Box. I've had it in my head for a few years now (see, 2010 is totally about getting off my butt and follwing through!) to record incidents from my childhood before my brain caves in. I am also planning a paper version for my family in which I shall write down stories and incidents that are narrated by my dad and aunt. My first memory box story is already a draft.

Resolutions future: Blame Dell

So the next day or Sunday turned into way more than a week. But this time it is not my procrastination but the hellish customer service from Dell that is the reason for the silence. Here I was with my list of resolutions all ready to type away and start to follow through, partly attempting to guilt myself into doing something about them by the fact that I write them down and because last years were a washout, and I am usually very very good about resolutions. Of course the laptop refused to cooperate. It's given us problems from the day we bought the damn Dell. The keyboard is the main accused, with keys behaving errantly and causing words to come out looking all sad and misshapen. I won't bore you with more, I already chewed a whole bunch of people's ears with my miserable life. Anyway, it seems to work now and so here are my resolutions for 20-10.

1. De-clutter: Our house regulary looks like the paper monster came and threw up his lunch all over it. There is paper everywhere and no matter what we do it seems to never come under control. Of course now we have hideous plastic toys and furry animals and spilt biscuits to add to the mess. This year I will devise a workable filing system and get rid of as much unused stuff as humanly possible.
2. I will finish my scrapbook/ photo album which has been lying on the bookshelf, filling in pictures and ticket stubs etc that hark back to 2005. I will also get on with the new scrapbook that I enthusiastically started and have somewhat abandoned.
3. Lose all the weight that having a child has added back on. This will include going back to the gym with enthusiasm by April and not eating the dregs of leftover food. And abandoning chocolate and anything Ben & Jerry's (within reason of course; a gals gotta live a little!). So 20kgs lighter (and make no mistake I will still be grossly overweight!) by 31st december 2010.
4. Lose my temper less and count to 20 before I nag. Harder to quantify but I shall try try try to not sound like a whiny old woman. And I don't want to hit 35 and look in the mirror and see a curmudgeonly wizened hag.

That's it folks. 4 resolutions in what promises to be a busy year anyway. And this year I aim to meet them all head on.

Resolutions past

The first week of a new decade over and done with - a bit quick don't you think? All a giant blur in face of rubbish Dell laptop and endless screaming at their poor employees via phone while small child purses lips and refuses to eat ANYTHING. I can already see how the tone of this year, if not decade, is set.

So very quickly on resolutions past:
1. Learn to de-clutter: Tried. Valiently. But did not count on arrival of small person and all their clutter.My once 'good sized' home now looks like a small hovel made of hideous plastic toys and fluffy animals.
2. Read read read: Bought a second bookshelf. Unsurprised to find that it is already full. And I have stacks lying on the side, homeless. Not inspired to try much writing though. Have ideas but too chicken.
3. Treat my friends and acquaintances better: Was ruthless about people taking advantage, expecting me to call, takers not givers – I cut them out. And seriously pared down the ridiculous numbers on Facebook, giving email and the many phones their chance.
4. Host yet more convivial meals: More or less the same as the previous year which I came to realise was very hectic with socialising. More than I imagined considering the second half of the year brought us a whole new timetable and takeaway menus to keep up with the upkeep of a small child.
5. Slow down with the blogging. But try not to stop. Stop being obsessed by blogs. And by people who write them: Yes. Yes. Yes. And Yes. Although I was not much less harsh about other people's crap. Only now I do it in private and learn to temper my feelings with the 'to each their own' philosophy!
6. People watch: Failed miserably. Basically I have no time to stop and smell the roses. More like daipers these days.

Resolutions future is nearly there although not quite. List should be up tomorrow or Sunday. I guess not putting everything off all the time ( I have so many book and restaurant reviews in draft stage it is frightening!) should make that list....

The Five - VII or the New Year One

1. I have come to love this time of year in London despite the bitter cold. It's crisp (yes, I feel like a shivering lettuce when I am outside) but so long as it is dry I try and go out for a short walk each day. Of course we've just had two solid days of rain (drizzle) which were miserable but on the whole we've had more sunshiny cold than wet cold. We've already seen some snow and apparently there is more to come in the new year. Of course it is nothing like the States or Siberia but it is always amusing to see how 5 snowflakes cause an entire city to shut itself down. No wonder the world laughs at us when a bit of snow closes the transport system and has people working from home to avoid panic attacks of commuting in an already rubbish system.

2.This year, after 7 cold winters dealt with, a small miracle has occured in the 30 household. V turns on all the heating as soon he is awake. Yes, in every room. And encourages me to keep them all on till the house is like a mini-furnace by mid-afternoon. Now to people who turn their heating on in September and only turn it off in April this may seem like a non-event. But for the penguin that is V this is a total turnaround. Till the day we discovered that a child was on its way we never turned the heating on because it 'gives me a headache' (his mantra) and I should 'add some layers (my winter fashion look). Well, miraculously the headaches have vanished because house must be kept warm so said child can crawl around. If only my double socks, multiple layered person had known that it was a child that could procure me heating I would have had the child years ago!

3. We spent Christmas day as we always do, making and eating pizza and watching rubbish on TV. I had a glass of wine after about 4 years. Sort of went to my head but no hangover whatsoever. I shall be returning to the occasional social drink in 2010 after a long dry hiatus. Tequila shots here I come!

4. Unlike the past 7 years of New Years parties this year we are staying at home like boring old people. For one, most of our friends have gone out of town on exotic holidays - Boston, Spain, India and Argentina. Two, V would like to not have to host yet another party but instead stay home and play with his son. Three, I guess it's impractical to host a party for the 6 people who do remain in London considering we'd have to dumb it well down for the sleeping child. I have to say though that I am disappointed and sad for I love-hate hosting parties and look forward to this every year. Instead I will cook couscous with peppers and peas and bake chicken with lime and chilli for dinner and possibly have another glass of wine while watching the fireworks, to bring in the new year.

5. All that remains is to say that I am busy compiling my 2010 resolution list and going through last years resolutions to see how badly I fared. In the meanwhile I hope you have a splendid New Year party (think of me - grumpy old woman wrapped in blanket and with her bedsocks on by 10pm!). This is 30in2005, V and babyboy signing off for 2009 and wishing you the best, brightest, healthiest 2010 possible. See you on the other side!

Merry as wine

A break in my (slow moving, rarely read) Delhi stories to say Merry Christmas all.

At around 5am UK time, 10.30 India time, it will be 8 years to the hour that V and I stood in front of our closest family and friends and declared mental fitness to be tied in holy matrimony (the requirement of a public registered wedding!). Under a tree draped in strings of jasmine and terracotta lamps, on a glorious Delhi winter sunshiny morning, decked in finery and smiles so broad they contained our whole hearts in them.

Like every year between then and now we will celebrate with homemade pizza and wine, perpetuating a tradition we created for ourselves to mark the passing of time, the strengthening of bonds, the joy of our lives together and the anticipation of another year. Happy Anniversary V boy.

And if you celebrate it, Merry Christmas cyber world people.

Dilli Kahaani 2

I think I've said before that in our family it is the Nik who has the midas touch. Each year he plays cards before diwali, wins a s**tload of cash and then uses that (plus some) to do something house enhancing. In the crap construction of DDA it is only enhancements and continued bolstering that ensures the buildings remain standing or re-saleable. Last year it was pop (that's plaster of paris, not my father) and painting. This year, in anticipation of being a married man next year, it's fixing his loo and building a walk-in closet for his room.

In true desi style the builder promised a one month slot in which he would finish everything (before diwali) and of course nearly 2 months later when we arived things were more than a nudge away from being complete. It didn't help that only my dad was at home to supervise while the loud, bellowing, authoratative voice of my brother was sitting at work all day. So when we arrived in Delhi it was not to the room of my youth that baby and I settled. It was my parents room, thereby displacing my father who was more that happy to live with the gadgets in the TV room.

Once the dust had settled and every garment and shoe in my room (see I still refer to it as my room, even though it was always 'our' room and even though it hasn't been my room in about 8 years) had been washed/ drycleaned/ ironed/ scrubbed to a shine, we began the slow move. Of course not before we procured new matresses and unpacked our suitcases into the new shiny cupboards. This whole process took most of the second week and it was not till week three that the room was actually usable.

By the start of week two I had shed my sloth like avatar, comandeered the car and driver and was trying to leave the house each day, father, baby, car seat and 10 million pieces of equipment in tow. We had lovely lunches with my parents (kidnapping my mother from work), an afternoon with my cousin M & her two adorable children, and an afternoon with my school friends sitting around our living room and chatting nineteen to the dozen over chai. I read bundles of David Baldacci books each afternoon and night (the Nik has every single one) and ordered a different kind of stuffed paratha to be made by the cook each morning. I tell you there is almost no vegetable that man cannot stuff into a circle of deep friend cholestrol.

In the evenings, the Nik and P would entertain us with stories, gup-shup and the bubliness of youth (mainly funny noises which baby thought were hilarious) and sometimes their friends would drop by for a bit. We ordered in a variety of eats from momo's to kathi rolls to kebabs to ice cream depending on the day, mood and state of stomach.

It was a tiring week what with all the weeding and cleaning out, one final push before the room could take shape and the rest of the house and we could all settle in our respective corners. But it was that most pleasant of aches, where all the activity made for a little progress each day and a deep satisfied sleep each night.

Dilli kahaani 1

There is so much to tell that I think it is wisest I break it up into little stories. Also it's been over 2 weeks since we got back and it all seems a bit like a fairytale to me rather than a real life lived. Here goes.

My parents live in a DDA flat. For those non-familiar with the term, officially it stands for Delhi Development Authority. Unofficially, as my father succinctly puts it, it means lowest tender construction. It's a south facing ground floor flat, well proportioned but not of garangutan proportions. When we first moved to it in the early 90's even our school bus would not venture this far south. We had a private pool of parents taking on the resposibility of organising transport for school and lobbying for the windowless DTC buses to ply our way. It was a deserted shell of a colony and people stared in utter amazement and laughed out loud (at us, not with us) if I ever told them where we lived. It was akin to telling someone that we lived in the middle of the Thar Desert. Of course now it is considered a reputable outpost of south Delhi and with burgeoning Gurgaon to its south it seems almost central what with its endless malls and ridiculous rents and house prices. Who's laughing now?

It's south facing-ness with just a prk in front always made my parents feel like they had won the lottery. My brother and I used to grouse growing up that living at the back of the colony with wilderness in front of us meant that we lived at the southernmost tip of the southern end of Delhi. It also meant a 10 minute trudge to the bus stop each morning - and that meant a few extra freezing cold or burning heat minutes (depending on the Delhi season) than the oh-so-lucky kids who lived facing the front road. We hated it.

Well, now we have no one peeking into our house and the flat gets that delightful Delhi winter sun streaming through its large windows. And we have a park with somewhat mature foliage between us and the ample parking space. So I guess in some small way my parents did win the lottery. For the entire first week I stayed indoors, reading and napping and eating my way through anything made of flour and deep fried in butter. And most mornings I lay on the sofa chatting with my dad as he sat on the doorstep, reading and chuckling with the baby on his lap on the doorstep, soaking in the sun, listening to music on one of his many many music systems. After our whirlwind 4 weeks, 3 cities tour both baby and I needed it, that feeling of stopping and letting everything settle. It was a good week.