Choices

Alamelu woke up. She realized she had woken up by herself. No alarm had gone off. No one had called her. No one had knocked on her door. She was surprised at herself. That too on a day she had decided not to go to work.It had been a tough week, especially on the personal front. Her father, whom she had been estranged from for 4 years now was trying hard to get in touch with her and make amends. He sent her email, photos, packages in the mail. She had disregarded all of them. She could not do it. She could not forgive him. He had been a good father, but sometimes an unforgiving one. It was in her genes, she thought.

At 26, Alamelu was the oldest unmarried woman in her entire extended family. All her sisters, cousins, and even most of her friends had done the right thing. They studied hard, got a good job, which they quit at 23 to marry some Iyengar boy settled in the US. That was not for her though. In college she had met and dated a fashionable Mumbaikar. And when she was about to graduate, she told her parents about him. It surprised and shocked everyone. Shocked people who had met her, because, she, Alamelumangai, with her long oiled hair in a neat braid did not look like someone who would do this to her parents. People who knew her well, were surprised because she, Alamu, with her strategically hidden tattoo was too much of a globe trotting rebel to settle down with a husband and kids. Yes, she had surprised them all. And surprised them even more by making that relationship work for 7 years across countries and timezones.

And that was why her father was reaching out to her now. He wanted to see his only daughter married. Even if it was to some Marathi boy. She had proven her love by making it last. And now she had her father's blessing.

That bothered Alamelu. She wasn't sure she wanted to be married. And certainly unsure about Rahul. No. She didn't think she would marry someone who would fit right in into a Karan Johar movie. The uncertainty was heightened by the new guy she had met. Tall and Turkish, he had walked into her office. When the shift ended at 9.30 that night, he offered her a ride home, during which mentioned that he found her pretty. Alamelu reflexively frowned at him. But upon reflection, realized it was just the thing she needed to hear. It also made her realize things had just ended with Rahul. That night she imagined how her father would react if she brought a new boy home. An Arab at that. Her thoughts took her to the first time she mentioned Rahul. Her father had blown a fuse. It was no surprise. It was the exact reaction she received when she told him she was going to major in Psychology and not Engineering. She remembered feeling guilty. She remembered graduating with a B. Tech.

And here she was again. At a place where she had to make a choice. All of her family and all of Rahul's family expected them to get married. And now she knew she didn't want to. She wanted to tell Rahul it was all over. But she could not bring herself to. Rahul cared about her too much. And there was more at stake than what she was feeling. Breaking those unspoken vows that had gotten them through those seven years had consequences. Of putting her parents and his through all of it. And immediately, again, she felt guilty. Guilty about making a choice that affected her life more than anything else- simply because to everyone else it was a given; there was no two ways about it. She was feeling guilty about making a choice because nobody had expected it of her to be making such choices. With a chuckle she wondered if she was Jewish.

As she lay there staring at the ceiling fan, vaguely following its low hum, Alamu wondered if all her decisions were affected by her need to rebel. She wanted to believe that it was outrageous to even think that; but she suspected that it might have a sliver of truth. Having been taught to be considerate of others feelings first, she realized she could not end it with Rahul simply because of what him and their families would go through. She could not date a Turk simply because she could not put her father through it once again. She remembered all the lessons she had been taught as a child; most important of which was that there were consequences. There were always consequences. When you made a decision, you honored it by following through. She did not know if those lessons were right. But she knew she did not have the courage to investigate them. With that realization, she called her father, asked for his forgiveness, and asked him to arrange for a weeding within the next three months.

Vaudeville is in the Details

I thought crumpling freshly ironed clothes was depressing. Although that is decreasing.

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Defender bender: minor collision between two lawyers

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Being a conservative requires serious deliberating

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I don't like the only candidate for this post. I need to find a denominator.

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I am confused. I need a decider. Although, sometimes, I jut need cider.

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Some say all this new age technology has brought sloth. Would that mean that we simply need a device?

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If inflate is the opposite if deflate, is incision the opposite of decision? Does institute mean the opposite as destitute?

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How is it that part and depart mean the same?

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I wonder if witch hunts were started as a form of demonstration

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I am sure the antonym of assert is dessert.

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If you run uphill on a warm day, it needs to be followed by a serious descent

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Dottie was an unruly child. Dottie needed a despot.

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P.S: Jerry Seinfeld is coming to town. Me and Paprika quarrel about whether or not we can afford it. Unity in diversity is easier than unity in adversity.

Gaah

I think I have earned the right to rant on my blog and vent out to strangers (most of) whose faces I have never seen. With school in session, and all the free stuff that comes with it (right now I'm wearing a shirt that proclaims that I belong to the class of 2013. And some people believed it. Highlight of my day) you would think my life would be better. More interest groups. More student clubs. More people. More work. More excuses. New apartment. New neighbors. Bigger kitchen. Cable. You would think this would make life more interesting. My school has a 'quidditch club'. Much fun. I wondered how they were going to fly high. Many ideas. Then they told me they only run around with the brooms. Life is still teetering on the perilously thin wall between meh and blah. The only good feeling I have is the "runners high" I get from biking my way to and from school. And that's just sad. What's worse is that I'm getting used to the distance and it'll soon no longer be strenuous enough. Also gaah is the realization that said bike is growing old and needs serious tune up. Or replacement. But it's the recession. People are no longer giving away free bikes.

Gaahd help me.

I... Miss India

I'm... home... sick...

I'm assuming all you smart folks out there read those two lines right. Else, the previous statement should have made you.

I've been told a vacation to the des makes you feel this way when it's over. Even if you had been itching to get back midway during the vacation.. being annoyed with the powercuts, the heat, the crowds and the fact that to be connected to the internet, you still have to have a cord running from your computer to the modem. The last few days of the vacation are ofcourse, a totally different matter. With mommy asking you "oorku eduthundu poga enna panni tharattum?" ("what shall I make for you to take back with you".. read 'food') and daddy asking you if you needed cash. And that kinda tends to take the wind out of you for a while. And you begin to miss it all. Ok not all. Mum's maalaadu mostly, to be honest. But there are things that I miss terribly and often. Things that I don't have anymore. And not just because I'm in a different geographic location. But also in a different temporal location. (I'm writing a paper, ok. Deal with the geekese)

Like weekends and newspapers. They simply go together. When I was about ten years old, my school asked us to develop the habit of reading newspapers. And the max I managed was to read the 'Young World'. And fight with my brother for it. It was also around this time that I learned to read upside down alphabet. I figured I'd read read the newspaper as I grew older. But even then I simply graduated to the Sunday Magazine. (Yes yes, I favored The Hindu over any other newspaper. Even when in Delhi, and ToI forced itself down my throat through the Newspapers in Education program.) The only thing the main paper had to interest me was the center page - with the crossword pzzle and the op eds. And often, I saved them and read them over the weekend. And I don't have that anymore. I mean, I havent held a newspaper in this country. Unless you count the "Lifestyle" section that my coffee mugs came wrapped in. Yeah sure, with 24 hour newschannels, and the internet newspapers are rapidly becoming passe. But that's just sad.

Or the rainy season. It was the funnest. Sure, Delhi didn't have much of a monsoon most of the time, and Thanjavur simply succeeded in muddying my pants. But still. Running sopping wet through puddles and hearing your shoes squelch when you hit concrete. Or chai pakode. Those are things I haven't had in a while. Fall is beautiful and all, but it's no monsoon.

And oh, the radio. Specifically, AIR Delhi FM, and the Chennai stations. There's something about the radio playing in the background while I'm sipping tea/kaapi. The tea kadai effect, if you will. There's always something about music whose source I can't place... music that sounds distant.. music from another room. Ah, Jude Law... Er. Oh. Sorry. To try to reproduce the tea kadai effect to a close approximation, I play the Chennai radio often on my computer. Even at work. I obsessively searched for a website that would let me listen to it, but I just managed to find one that plays Chennai stations 7 to 9. So if anyone knows a place I can listen to it at night, let me know ok? It's not so much what it plays - I don't like half of it, and can't really place the other- but I still want it. For the fake radio voices, and the silly set ups. It's like what Sun TV used to be to my mum when we moved to Delhi. Something to ground her to Chennai, a faint link, that even though is mostly stuff we don't necessarily care about, is still about some place we would like to be.

It's not just the radio. I even obsessed about cable TV for a while. I don't even like the programming. Like they say about the superbowl, I just watch it for the ads. Face it, advertisements in this country are b.o.r.i.n.g. And totally unimaginative. Ok, I accept it's hard to sell prescription medications in a fun way. I also accept the fact that when I was in the des, I always made fun of the ads. But I now miss what I have lost. I spend innumerable hours on youtube watching ads. I want desi TV. Well, maybe if I moved to New Jersey...

And the potti kadais. I was in Chennai a while ago, and this potti kadai we used to buy bananas from is now just a shanty cabin with inches of posters on every inch of the surface. Maybe the person who owned it moved on to a bigger shop. Hopefully. It's not even just the potti kadais: I don't even remember one in Delhi. But just the street shops and carts, you know. Like bargaining for bhindi or haggling over a handbag (fake Fendi ofcourse). Shopping is just not fun without it. And grocery shopping is so much worse. While buying food, I want to smell its freshness, not see it's sell by date. And I want to pick from a cart, not drop stuff into one.

I miss the simple life. The vibrant life. With it's multitude of flavors and smells and colors. Now all is bland. Boo.

P.S: maalaadu = besan laddoo; Tea kadai = Tea Stall; potti kadai = small stall shop, usually selling stuff found in a convenience store, only at regular price.

Typocal Names

Hello World.

When away from India, a name as normal an indubitably tam brahmish as mine becomes compliacated and unendurably long. (Ram in only the beginning of my last name. I know, I know there are people with longer names out there. I feel your pain. Don't flame me.) Yes, yes, all ye desis living in the vides, I'm talking about the involuntary but mandatory butchering of beautiful, exotic names. My name, now, is by default Rukmaahni. Even the single videsi who learnt to say desi properly (after days and hours of repeating daisy, I finally explained that it was pronounced theysee) couldn't get my name right. Forget the videsis. Even the desis mess up my name. From the deliberate "Rukmini" to the more tambrahmish "Rukkumani", I've seen most of it. But that doesn't bother me much you see. As long as my name is printed right, I really don't care. I've had worse names. Far worse than Rukaaamni.

But when you print my name wrong, it gets me. I don't know why. I guess it started when in middle school my name got misspelled as RUCKMANI in the class register and it took me over a year to get it corrected everywhere, and stop feeling like a rugby term. And when you spend as much time online as I do, and people are yelling your name all over cyberspace..... things happen.

Like RukmaniRan. I didn't know what I was running from, but apparently I did. Or Rikmani and Yukmani. I mean, "Excuse me, but do I disgust you *that* much?" How about Rukmami? Ok, I'm a tam brahm, and I definitely look the part. But please, the last thing I want to be referred to as is mami- especially as part of my name. Wait. That's not the last thing. That would be Ruknani. If I'm not a mami, I'm definitely not a nani.

At this juncture, I would also like to thank the soul, who I can only assume, as a prank, ordered in a subscription of "Working Mother" with my name and address. I appreciate the joke. It was a very innovative prank, seeing as I'm neither a mother, nor am I employed. Besides, it did prove to be a wonderful read. But I only wish it came to Rukmani instead of Rukman. I am enough tomboy without having to display it through my name.

And as usual, I saved the best for the last. Thanks to the one inglorious typo, I was rechristened Tukmani. That's ok. It's an obvious typo. No harm intended. But that singular, harmless typo, led to a newer nickname that stuck. Forever. So bad that when my roomie tried to wake me up, she used that name. It was almost on my birthday cake. I had to move cities and make a whole new set of friends to stop people using that name. Guys (by which I mean those who fondly gave me this name that would never leave me) if you're reading this: as much as I adore that I have a nickname, please keep it an inside joke. Don't run it in the comments!

P.S: To all those who missed me, and to the two persons who said so: I'm sorry. I was trying to live in the real world. Shame, I know. And I have learned better. I could not survive in there, and I have now come running back. Accept me please, won't you? I know you will.

Plisxcuse

Mandatory Pimpance:

Presenting! Friend, fellow English enthusiast, and master wordsmith... Kindly be gracing with your presence