This just in

Time: 7:40 a.m., today
Place: Home

Aie: If you whine one more time because you want watch another episode of Handy Manny, I promise you that I'll throw that TV out the window.

Chip(looking straight in my eye): If you do that, I'll throw away the playstation!

Learning Disabilities

Tharini sent me this and I was so heartened to see a symposium like this in India. This is in Chennai, but I hope a simlar effort gets undertaken in other cities as well.

What it is
A multi-disciplinary conference on dyslexia- Samyukth on Jan 30 and Jan 31 at IIT Madras.

Why you should attend
The programme aims at discussing solutions in an Indian context and includes language acquisition processing and disorders in children with learning disability, behavior modification and social issues, efficacy of Math games, kinesiology, indigenous remedial techniques that work, the Irlen syndrome (a learning disorder associated with dyslexia), adaptations and innovations in helping children from 5-15 and the Multiple Intelligence Approach.

Who are the speakers
The event hosts speakers from across the world- Mala Nataraj, (Department of Mathematics Selwyn College, NZ), Mindy Eichorn (Special Educator from Tennesssee), Shobha Madhavan (Lecturer- Deeside College, UK) , experts on learning disability, multiple intelligence, orthography and literacy acquisition, Irlen research, and leading faculty from NIMHANS

Who should attend
This conference is open to remedial teachers, therapists, mainstream teachers, Principals, counselors and parents, students and researchers who are interested in the field. The event involves psychiatrists, special educators and mainstream teachers presenting their experience and work in the field of dyslexia

Contact
MDA at 044-65622462 or Subha Vaidyanathan at 98844-18327

Last word:- "Early identification of children "at risk" and early intervention makes main-streaming easier", says Lakshmi Radhakrishnan, senior consultant from Madras Dyslexia Association (MDA)," and who can be better equipped to help, than a child's teacher?"

Sweeter His Thoughts

I once asked BigGeek when his first crush was. He had thought for a moment and said “Second Standard.” Ok, a little early than most. I, obviously needed to react in a grown-up, responsible fashion. “That’s sick.” I said smugly, my eyes as narrow as slits, looking down at him. Tsk-tsking too for the effect. BigGeek was clearly displeased with my less than bubbly reaction and calmly spent the next fifteen minutes in a ferocious vendetta by telling me certain things about people I know too well, ensuring for life, my inability to see the said folks in the eye.

Pride goes before a fall, they say, and my hubris has, a few dozen moons later, come to bite me in the south. Like father, like son. There is no cure for genes, you know? Yes, Chip with all of his three and half years behind him fancies someone at school. My own two dim eyes have witnessed it. How she brings him his jacket everyday and ties his shoes. (in knots that his mother cannot undo- poetic, uh?) And how he compliments her earrings and promises to share ALL his toys with her, including the shiny helium-filled balloons bought for a party; when the mere suggestion of giving each one to a kid in attendance triggered a level-5 meltdown. And begs to have her over for a playdate.

This morning as we sat down for breakfast, BigGeek solved a puzzle. Chip’s school has a rotating policy – the two rooms for their age-group switch teachers weekly. Why it is so is only known to the powers that be. Chip, would always whine about going to one class or another. At first we thought maybe it was the teacher, (it was to a certain extent) but the last few weeks, it was becoming rather haphazard. Until BigGeek understood what had been happening. Chip, would go to the class he was assigned to for that week, peep in and look for N. Not having found her, he would run to the other class and look for her there. If she was in the class he was not assigned, Chip would break out in a mega-whine.

Today, I went to drop Chip off and while I was punching the code to enter, Chip saw N’s car pull. “Look Aie! That’s car. I want to wait for her.” So while N’s mom parked the car, and N stepped out, we stood out in the freezing cold, a wide grin plastered on Chip’s face. As soon as N saw Chip, she came running over and held his hand. I punched the code again and we all entered. “We must have N over for a playdate oneday.” I said to N’s mom. “Yes, yes, at home it’s always Chip this and Chip that.” I felt a little relieved. As the two kids ran to their room, Chip had forgotten Aie. “Bye Chip” I said, but he did not hear me. He was busy chatting with N and I as walked to my car, I knew my son had grown up.<sup>*

*</sup>This is written in a moment of mush. Two hours later, I know I am going to tell him to “grow up” and stop being a baby. Motherhood is mostly about contradictions.

Sunlight on a broken column

Summary
Set in colonial India of the late 30s, Sunlight on a broken column by Attia Hosain paints a picture of a traditional, purdah-observing upper crust Muslim family in Lucknow. Narrated by the protagonist, a 15-year old Laila (who does not observe purdah), born into a wealthy family of taluqdars, but orphaned at an early age, the narrative follows her through her teenage years and early twenties, in what is essentially a coming-of-age story during tumultuous times of a freedom struggle and partition.

What worked for me
The language, the pace. It’s not a large book – it’s about 300 pages, more like a novella than a novel, yet it manages to maintain that there-is-all-the-time-in-the-world-for-this-story kind of pace. The language is lilting, almost poetic, and has the grandeur of Urdu in it. Not for a minute do you feel, that the subject matter could have been better expressed in Hindi or Urdu. This is not really a plot driven book, but the narrative evolves through its characters seen through Laila’s eyes. The book begins with a slice of life depiction and it does a fantastic job of looking at day-to-day life like a 15-year old. It reminded me of how I was when I was 15. Slightly self-centered, questioning, over-confident, highly distractible. Laila is all those things and it makes her an endearing protagonist. What I also enjoyed is the depiction of wealthy Muslims – their customs and traditions all portrayed through every-day events. The books starts with Laila’s life – her dreams, her desires and then it slowly but deliberately weaves a thick mesh of love, ambition and most importantly of a way of life that soon must become extinct. In that it evokes the same nostalgia, a wistful longing, a lament of sorts really that resonates with Gone with the Wind.

What did not work for me
The end. I did not really like how Hosain chose to end the book. It ends on a positive note, but I got the feeling that it was all too-constructed.

Hot or Drop
Definitely hot. It’s putdownable – and I meant it in the very positive sense of the word. While you will not feel compelled to stay up nights to read this book, you will want to come back to it after a long day like you would want to meet a dear old friend – for the warmth, the comfort and the nostalgia.

Let it snow

Its 7:30 in the morning and I chase Chip downstairs for breakfast. He looks out the window and says in his best Leo-from-the-little-einstein-voice “Oh my god. I cannot believe it!” I follow his little index finger pointed at the window thinking something utterly disastrous has happened. It is a Wednesday and I am late. Would have been perfect timing, actually. But no. Not today. I look out the window and see something that is best said by pictures. The First Snow Of The Season. We’ll it’s only a dusting but it covers the road and the cars and the roof and trees. All very pretty, yes, but the damn plough hasn’t cleaned the road.

I give Chip his milk and grind some coffee, make some toast and sit down at the table.
“So, now we can go and make a snowman?” Chip asks.
“There isn’t enough snow.”

Well, we could have made miniature snowmen, but hey, I am not 3 and I have a job to get to, not to mention the ghastly traffic because well, in the spring and summer and fall months, people simply forget how to drive even in a quarter inch of snow. Snowmen are hardly the agenda on a Wednesday morning. (How do you blow a raspberry on the blog without having to spit all over the monitor?)

“Of course there is” Chip says.
Chip, I am convinced will be a good negotiator. He never lets go. Never.
“We can collect all the snow from the backyard and from the front and make a BIG snowman.”

Ok. Plan B, then.
“It’s going to get warmer later today, your snowman will melt.”
That buys me enough time to finish my toast.
“How warm?”
“Warm enough to melt the snow. There won’t be any snow when we get back in the evening.”
“Let’s go ice skating then.”

I can’t ice-skate. Or ski. I have the limb co-ordination and balance of a three-toed sloth. I waddle and fall down. Mostly. Actually, that’s not completely accurate. I can’t ski. I have never ice-skated. This past weekend, a friend coerced me gently to go ice-skating. I was so scared that when we had to go run some errands before the rendezvous, I wore a skirt and boots. BigGeek looked quizzically at me – and I couldn’t tell if it was because my selection of attire was completely inappropriate for an afternoon on ice or if it was because my sides bulged out like cheese popovers.

“You are going to ice-skate in THAT?”
A-ha. No cheese popovers. That means- I have either slimmed down or the man has wisened up. Prolly the second.
“No. I am not ice-skating in that.”
“We won’t have time to change.”
“No. I am not ice-skating. It’s my insurance. So I don’t have to ice-skate.”

We never did end up going. We came home, tried and decided to call the friends over to drink beer instead. At least there is no danger of slipping and falling. Not right away in any case.

So. End of long, un-necessary deviation from that Wednesday morning. Chip had been a bit put-off that we cancelled ice-skating the past weekend.

“You want to ice-skate now? I asked him.
“Yes. Let go get me some skates and we can ice-skate on the road.”
“You have to go to a rink to ice-skate. You can’t ice skate on roads.”
His lips pouted and steam came out his ears. A nuclear-grade tantrum was brewing.
“I want to ice skate now.”

Plan C.
“Look outside. Is that snow or ice?”
“Snow.”
“And do we say ice-skating or snow-skating?”
“Ice-skating.”
“Then how can you skate when it snows?”
Chip thought for a second.
“We need ice to skate.”
“Eggggzactly” I said being quite proud of myself for having defeated a three year old through logic.

Live in, live out

So, there was this snippet of news that caught my eye. National Women’s Council Chair Girija Vyas declared that

Neither the live-in relationship is acceptable nor it is needed in India, NCW Chairperson Girija Vyas told reporters here. She alleged the live-in relationship of the West was against human values and the country does not need it. According to her, the NCW has asked Maharashtra government to stop its move to give legal sanctity to live-in relationship.

My knee jerk reaction was to obviously think this is all ludicrous. Why should a single person, decide the fate of millions of women that do want a live-in relationship? They are adults and have every right to make their own choices, don’t they? How do two consenting adults that choose to live together go against human values? Which human values, exactly? This is what grates me about Indian society in general. Our inability to give choices. Our refusal to evolve, socially speaking.

I don’t see anything wrong with live-in relationships at all. Perhaps it’s because I have been living in the “West” for so long or perhaps because BigGeek and I moved in together (and yes, our parents knew) before we were married. It was something that we, two people above 18 years of age decided to do. And accept whatever (undesirable) consequences too.

Late last year, it seems, Maharashtra decided to pass a legislation that will legalise live-in relationships. In that, the definition of “wife” would be changed to include a woman who has lived with a man for several years without marriage. So, this would obviously include polygamous relationships. And that is something I don’t like. A live-in relationship is not a marriage. It is a relationship that takes place in-lieu of marriage (as a long-term) or before marriage (as short-term). They cannot and should not be treated as equal. Marriage is a contract of sorts. A live-in relationship is not. A marriage confers upon the two people entering it, some legal protection; live-in relationships do not and should not. Of course it also is harder getting out of marriage than it is out of a live-in relationship.

So, I think Girija Vyas is a bit confused about all this. She is confusing legally changing the definition of “wife”, with social sanction of live-in relationships. They are two different issues altogether. Apples and oranges. Legalising something does not necessarily make it socially acceptable. For example, it is illegal to marry off 13 year olds. But in some parts of Rajasthan, it is a very socially acceptable thing to do and is regularly done.

Live-in relationships have their place. Consenting adults that get into them (whether it is monogamous or polygamous) know exactly what it entails. This relationship is not bound or shacked by the marriage laws and yes, to some, it can be liberating. What is the point in trying to transform it, legally, into a marriage?

¿Se Habla Español?

Soon, I hope I can answer that question with a Si, hablo Español. I am learning Spanish. Yes! I, for as long as I can remember have wanted to learn a foreign language. French would have been my first choice. I just think it feels like silk and velvet on your ears. It’s just so beautiful to listen to. But it’s impractical. At least where I live. Spanish is spoken fairly widely here- there are TV channels and radio stations, not to mention actual people who speak in Spanish everywhere I turn. So, Spanish it is.

With a job and a killer commute and a young child, taking time to go to a local college for classes would not have worked out. Plus I want to do things at my own pace. Enjoy the ride, you know. So when a friend told me of the Radio Lingua Network on iTunes has free podcasts for learning Spanish, I jumped. Not really hoping much, because, well, if it’s free, how good can it be? But I am blown away with Coffee Break Spanish. I listen to it on my uber long commute or when I jump on the treadmill. Suddenly the boring commute and the even more boring treadmill has a purpose. To enable me to learn Spanish. The lessons are 30 minute podcasts and I have covered the first 10. Several times. Listened to them for 2 weeks now. They are encouraging and enjoyable. Never thought it would be this much fun. Of course, I am at a point where I have graduated from – “Hey this is not too difficult” to “I am so damn confused.” And that is a good thing, I think.

I know three and a half languages, half because I can only speak a smattering of Kannada, not read or write it and am not terribly fluent either, but I can understand and will be able to get by in Kannada-only town. And of course I speak, read and write Hindi, Marathi and the Queen’s language. But all these languages were learnt before I was eight. I did not study their grammar while learning and it was mostly a hit-and-miss, learn as you go kinda experience. Just the way Chip is picking up Marathi and English (and a smattering of Spanish too in school) now. Which brings me to the point of how different is to learn a language in your adulthood. You are more mindful looking for patterns, you want to learn the rules and you are conscious and embarrassed to a certain extent to speak it to a native.

In the last two weeks, I have learnt something about learning a language in your adulthood. And the most important point I think I have learned is to stop translating from English or Marathi into Spanish. It just doesn’t work. At best, it is ridiculous, at worst disastrous. Take for example a very common English phrase, ‘See you later’. Try to translate that word for word in Marathi - Tula nantar baghoo, which sounds ridiculous and in Hindi – Dekhenge tumhe baad me, which is disastrous. Yesterday, I replied to a friend’s email (who is supposed to be my Spanish language buddy) with a Spanish literal translation of “see you soon’ – Veremos te pronto. I have no idea if it sounds ridiculous in Spanish especially in the context in which I said it. The correct phrase probably should have been Hasta pronto, which literally means until soon, a phrase you would not use in English at all. So, for me to get a true fluency I really need to think in Spanish. I don’t know if I will ever reach that stage. I hope to. Until then, I’ll work at those verb conjugations and tenses and idioms and listen to those podcasts every week for several hours. So, wish me ¡Bueno Suerto!

Traffic Light

We are driving home from school. We stop at a crossroad, at a light.
Chip: Whaddya waiting for?
Aie: What color is the light, Chip?
Chip: Red.
Aie: What color should the light be for us to go?
Chip: Green.
Aie: Right, so I am waiting until it turns green. Why don’t you sing your green light song?
This is a tradition we have followed ever since Chip started stringing sentences. To pass time at a light, I made up a silly song – “Green light, green light lavkar ye.”
Chip: That doesn’t make the light go green.

I am aghast. When did my three year old son realize this?

Aie: Of course it does. You have sung it scores of times before and the light has turned green, no?
Chip: No. No. This light (pointing to the light on the street to our light) will turn yellow, then it will turn red. Then our light will turn green. Then we can go.
Aie: Who told you that?
Chip: I see it.
Aie: No, your song makes the light go green.

Chip slaps his forehead and shakes his head. But the angels are on my side today. As luck could have it, the light on the street to our right, turns red, but the light in front us does not turn green. It stays red. The light above our heads (for the onward traffic) turns green, which Chip can’t see.

Chip: What just happened? (peers to the street on our right). That light is red. (peers to the street on our left) That light is also red. (points to the light in front of us) That is also red. Why is it not green? It should have been green.
Aie: Because you did not sing your song.

Chip looks at me in disbelief. But his impeccable logic has been proven wrong. He begins to sing, with utter skepticism, in a half-whisper, hurriedly. The light stays red. Chip is triumphant.
Chip: See, see? I told you. The song does not turn the light green.

Aie: Your heart wasn’t in the song. Sing it with love and sing it loudly. The light prolly did not hear you.

Chip shoots a “I can believe this is my mother” glance at me. But he sings. In a robust voice. Again, luck is on my side today. The light changes from red to green. I let out a hearty laugh.

Aie: See? The light turned green. It was your song.

I can’t stop smiling. Chip is awfully quiet on the ride home.

Later, at night, I narrate the events to BigGeek who laughs and then asks me, “Did you tell him he was right? That songs don’t change traffic lights and that yes, his logic was correct?” A wicked gleam lights up my eyes. “Of course not.” I answer, leaving a very annoyed BigGeek. My little boy is growing up too fast!

And with that, a very happy New Year to all of you!

Time Capsule 2008

These are the things we often buy over at our household. I thought it would be fun to keep a record of prices and how things look today. I did a smilar time capsule in 2007 (see it here)

On the whole, it cheaper to drive than a year before (gas is down by almost a $1.50 since last year), but more expensive to get that cup of coffee on the road, costs more to mail a letter and read the newspaper, but less to eat healthy- organic stuff seems to be more affordable. How are prices in your part of the world?

Cheerios: $4.99(18oz)
Juice: $7.49/gal (Tropicana Orange)
Oatmeal: $4.99/42 oz, (Quaker Oats)

Milk: $5.79/gal (organic), $3.75/gal (regular)

Bread: $3.29 (Organic), $1.99(Wonderbread)
Pasta: $1.25/lb
Rice: $2.39/lb (Tilda Basmati)

Sugar: $0.53/lb
Salt: $0.69 (26 oz)
Oil: $3.74/quart (Canola)

Potatoes: $0.79/lb (regular), $0.99/lb (organic)
Apples: $1.16/lb(regular), $1.99/lb(organic)
Spinach : $1.69(regular), 2.69(organic)

Chicken: $4.99/lb
Salmon: $9.99/lb

The Washington Post: $0.50
U.S. First Class Stamp: $0.42
Cup of Coffee: $0.80
Gas: $1.58/gal (87 octane), $1.83/gal(93 octane)

Christmas Secularly

“Don’t forget the true meaning of Christmas.” I head someone admonish her companion in the store a few days ago. I winced. And looked around guiltily as if that someone was pointing a finger at me. Every year, unfailingly, I hear some one go on and on about the true meaning of Christmas, how it has been commercialized, how it is just about the gifts and food and this year, the inevitable – how the recession will bring back the true meaning of Christmas. Every time I hear this, I wince and gulp. Because, you know, Mea Culpa. I am probably the one of many contributing to the whole “commercial” aspect of Christmas. Gifts, Santa, Tree. The whole shindig. I am not a Christian. Let alone a practicing Christian. But every year, the weekend after Thanksgiving, I send BigGeek down to our crawl space to get out the tree and the ornaments. (The lights are already out for Diwali and they stay on until the New Year). My silk tree is moved from its year-long corner, the Christmas Tree is set up. Trimmed with lights and ornaments. A tree skirt with a giant Santa and Ho-ho-ho written in very large letters spread out under it. And the gift or two, for Chip placed under it. Cookies are baked. Wine is mulled. Cinnamon scented candles lit. And we all look forward to enjoying some nice family time. With lots of food of course. A very secular Christmas. Sounds like an oxymoron, doesn’t it?

But it is what it is. Our Christmas has no religious undertones whatsoever. I love the nativity scene our neighbors put out (and they hadn’t this year until this morning and I wondered is something untoward had happened there). I love listening to the carols and hymns. And the uber-cheesey Christmassy pop songs blaring out on the radio and in the malls. I love how every house (well almost every) puts icicle lights and wreaths and the whole dull, gray winterscape suddenly springs to life. I love the mall crowds (I am probably the only person in the entire world to say so), although this year, they have been abysmally thin. I love the Starbucks specials (peppermint mocha, mmmm) and the new gizmos that come out during this time of the year. Bulk of my gift shopping happens at Diwali and I sorely miss the buzz of the festive season then.

Does this mean that I am truly stealing Christmas from its true meaning? Being a Hindu, immigrant Grinch of sorts? Probably. But Probably not. This is also a time for us, to reflect on the year, so see how we traveled through it, so to speak. It is also a time for us to give to the many charities we support. Our local volunteer firefighters association, Wikipedia, the National Children’s Leukemia foundation, Smithsonian. It is a time to cherish our families and spend this day in their warmth. Sleeping late, eating a lazy breakfast and staying in.

A few days ago, as I picked Chip from his school, we met his principal on our way out and she asked Chip if he had a good day. Chip nodded and said, “I was a good boy today Miss F, because if I am not good, Santa is not bringing me any gifts!” Miss F. was surprised. “You celebrate everything.” She said to me. I just nodded. A big part of our Christmas celebration, is also that I don’t want Chip to be left out. If we lived in the middle-east, I would have celebrated Eid, if we lived in China, I would have celebrated the Chinese New Year. All with gusto. We live in the US and we celebrate its biggest holidays. What’s not to celebrate? And of course it also ensures that Chip will never be lost, when his friends at school ask him the inevitable post-holiday question, “What did you get for Christmas?”

All Dolled Up

A few days (could be weeks) ago, I had a spirited debate with CeeKay about gender identities. While I can’t quite give a blow-by-blow account of the discussion, I was certainly arguing for this point. That gender identity is not just a social construct. Genes play a role too. Boys have one whole chromosome different than girls. It makes them more susceptible to autism and learning disorders, some types of cancer, it is not a big surprise that it plays a role in the way we think and act. We agreed to disagree in the end and that was that.

Imagine the irony this weekend then. We had been invited to a birthday party. Lots of our friends were invited too. With their kids, obviously. Girls and boys. It was a fun party. The kids ran and played with each other. And ate the delicious food. Suddenly, a friend exclaimed. “What is Chip doing?” I looked up in alarm. There was Chip, holding a cute baby doll in his lap, feeding her with the toy bottle and singing a song. To me, it was a beautiful sight. “What do you mean? He is playing with the doll.” I told our friend. “Don’t encourage these things, I am getting him a nerf gun. Dolls?” “What’s wrong with dolls? He likes playing with dolls. I don’t mind at all.” The conversation was left at that.

A couple of hours later, as guests dwindled somewhat and everybody relaxed with a cup of tea, the topic came up again. Because, well, Chip had found the doll again and was playing with it. “What are you calling her?” I asked Chip. “Dottie, don’t encourage him.” The friend again cautioned me. I was getting riled. “Why not?” There was some snickering that could have only meant this. “Because he will turn gay? I don’t mind if he grows up to be gay.” I don’t think boys turn gay because they play with dolls. Girls certainly don’t turn gay because they play with cars. “He is three, let him be. What is the big deal?” “Give him action figures.” Someone suggested. “He can play with action figures and he can play with dolls. I said. “In fact I should buy him a doll” “Some one record this.” Someone said. “We’ll play it back to Chip when he is older.” “You know what” I was trying hard to not let my irritation show, “His wife will thank me. Because it will bring out his inner sentimental self.” “But he will curse you for 25 years before that.”, our friend laughed. I gave up. It’s all imaginative play, isn’t it? Really, what is the big deal? “What if he turns into a cross dresser?” someone asked again. “Who knows?” I said “In a couple of generations, it would be acceptable for boys to wear skirts. A century ago, pant-wearing women were frowned upon.” Another friend was amazed at me. “I really didn’t think you were this sort of a person.” Whatever that meant. “I am surprised” she said. “Why, won’t you let your son play with a doll?” I asked. She hesitated. “I won’t encourage it.”

That seems to be the common sentiment. Ignore boys playing dolls. Do not encourage doll-playing. If they seem to be too drawn towards dolls, quietly buy them nerf guns or other macho toys. What load of bull-x. Tell me, would you buy your son a doll? Because I will and should have. To nurture is an emotion that occurs naturally in boys and girls.. So what is the harm if they express that sentiment when they are children? Boys grow up to be loving fathers, you know. Compared to earlier generations, men today are much more hands-on as fathers, much more nurturing. As the need (and thus the expression) for violence has declined in the past several generations, in the developed countries at least, men (and boys) have found their nurturing side. And that’s a good thing. It does not make then sissies. In cultures that encourage violent toys, the rate of violence is much, much more than cultures that that are more accepting of gender-role-reversals. Daddies opting to stay at home to raise kids, instead of mommy being default are on the rise. If the wife makes twice the money than her husband, what else would be logical, for a family, tell me?

But for some it’s hard to be accepting of these changes, I suppose. Big and small. Including boys playing (or rather encouraged to play with dolls). I wonder what it is they fear.

An Absolute Scandal

Summary
In the early 1990s, about 1,500 (out of 34,000) Lloyds members (called Names) went bankrupt trying to pay asbestosis claims for companies that Lloyds insured. An Absolute Scandal is based on that event and takes a look at the lives of those affected by this unlimited, personal liability. Wealthy, upper-crust folks, find themselves being slowly stripped of their wealth as losses mount and they struggle, at first to keep appearances, then to maintain their lavish lifestyles and then in the end to just survive.

What worked for me
The English-English. The very Brit language was charming. I read the whole book in a faux-British accent (yes, it was exhausting) and that was fun. Almost like role playing.

What did not work for me
Pretty much everything else. I had never heard of Penny Vincenzi until I picked up this book. It is very long. 500+ pages. And frankly the subject matter does not warrant that. It takes many unwanted twists and turns that add nothing to the plot or to the characters. The plot itself is quite weak. Also the sheer number of characters are hard to keep track of. And a lot of them are romantically involved with people they are not supposed to. Too many tangled relationships to keep track off. I found myself skipping several pages and found it did not really affect the story, or rather my understanding of the story in anyway. The back cover has some review excerpts and I agree with the one that says, it is a soap. Yes, this is a soap in print. It really told me nothing about how Lloyds operates, it gave me a general, vague-ish idea about the ‘Names’ and syndicates but nothing more, really. Perhaps Vincenzi expects the reader she is targeting to know innards of Lloyds operations, but given the amount of fluff in this book, I doubt if that is the readership she is really trying to attract. I think someone like Grisham would have done true justice to the subject matter. There absolutely was no research in this book – it feels like Vincenzi just read the wiki page about Lloyds and tried to incorporate some of that information across 500+ pages. In the end, I did not understand what the book wanted to be. A whodunit? A romance novel? A historical fiction of sorts?

Hot or drop
I think drop. If you are looking for a romance novel, I am sure there are others that have more to offer than this mish-mash.

Winter

I haven’t left the building. Had only been hiding, not knowing what to really say or write. I saw the Mumbai attacks on TV; was horrified and tongue tied. What could I possibly say here on this small blog without really trivializing the whole sordid deed in some way, I thought. I am no public policy pundit or a security expert or a journalist. What could I possibly say that would affect the outcome of what followed? I could not sleep for a few nights. I was jittery, perplexed, trying to internalize the whole affair through snippets of conflicting information from news sources and family back in Mumbai. Too many questions, too few answers. Too many what ifs. Too many buts. Too many too manys.

This is a winter of wrath. No doubt. Wrath of the terrorists and the wrath against them. Wrath against the blasé Indian intelligence and the flaccid politicians. Wrath against the banks of Wall Street, wrath against the foolish homeowners who bought more than they could possibly afford. Wrath against the car industry, wrath against the lost jobs. And exasperation. Like gray sky outside that casts its dreary glow everywhere, the attack, the downturn has cast a dull, depressing shadow everywhere. Holidays are almost here, but they seem so far away. The icicle lights not as bright, the holiday songs jaded and forced. Uncertainty hangs in the air like the sword of Damocles. Fear lurks around the corner, waiting to pounce on its newest, unsuspecting prey. Like the milky fog I see rising from the river I must cross twice each day, the vagueness of our times veil what lies ahead. And I wait with millions others around me wondering what I can do to lift it and ask if there is a bend ahead somewhere towards sunnier times.

The Phone Call

Phone rings.
Aie: Hello
Woman Caller: Can I talk to Jolanda?
Aie: Umm, I think you have the wrong number.
Caller: Ok, sorry. (disconnects)
Chip: Who was that?
Aie: Someone dialed us by mistake.
Chip: Was that a mawshi?
Aie: Yes, it was a mawshi
Chip: Which mawshi?
Aie: I don’t know. She called us by mistake.
Chip: What her name?
Aie: I don’t know. It was a wrong number. She dialed us by mistake. We don’t know her.
Chip: Ok, she was just some random mawshi, then?

The LadyBug Mystery

So, as the weather turns cooler, we get around two or three ladybugs in our house. Every year. They live on the ceiling of our bedroom, in a corner, and some times crawl down the frosty window and let us admire their utter cuteness.

Chip is fascinated by them. From since he was a baby. When they come down the window, he can watch them for hours (ok, I am exaggerating, but hey, I am a blogger!) with rapt attention. Their tiny feet, their hard backs, their strange wings and their half-hearted, clumsy attempts to fly and their total inability to flip themselves if they happen to land on their backs. It’s a fascinating lesson of nature right on our windowsill for Chip.

Last weekend as we got ready to go out, Chip spotted a ladybug come down from its heavenly abode. He was delighted to watch it. I was delighted to get him out my hair while I dressed. He watched the bug for a few minutes and then dashed out of the bedroom. I could hear him downstairs in the kitchen, opening a drawer. In a flash he was up, wielding a plastic storage box. “I wanna keep them” he told me. Without waiting for me to answer, he ran into the bathroom, opened the vanity and got a ball of cotton. Using his makeshift brush, he tried to coax the red bug in his box. The ladybug was obviously frightened at Chip’s ham-fisted attempts to “catch” it and tried to feebly move in the other direction. “Aie, its running away”, he exclaimed. “Let it” I told him. “Why do you want to catch it? We don’t even know what it eats” “I’ll give it a green leaf.” said Chip, no doubt drawing his wisdom from the nature bible for 3 year olds – The hungry caterpillar.

“Please put him in the box” he pleaded with me. I gently brushed the ladybug (which appeared a little lethargic and sick) into the box. “What are you calling him?” I asked. Chip pondered over the question. “Sheanoo.” He said. Sheanoo? Chip has come up with some imaginative names in the past – his rag doll is called Shant because he is quiet, duh. And our fish is called submarine because it lives in water. “What’s Sheanoo?” I asked. Chip looked as if some great force had sucked out the intelligence from his mom’s head. “I told you. That’s the ladybug’s name. He is Sheanoo. How many times must I tell you?” And off he walked with the ladybug, trying to snuggle with it under the comforter.

After I told him, he could not snuggle with the lady bug he looked sullenly at me and he just kept playing with it on the window sill when, another ladybug joined Sheanoo in the box. Chip ran into the bathroom to show me. “Another one came” he grinned. “That’s so cool. What are you going to call Sheanoo’s friend?” I asked. “Chivda.” This time I did not bother asking what Chivda was all about.

But this is not the end of the story. I told Chip to go downstairs and put his shoes on. Chip for once did not run, but climbed down the stairs carefully, with the ladybugs in his box. As I straightened up the room, I could hear Chip pottering around the kitchen downstairs and when I went down a few minutes later, Chip had dumped a bag of skittles (they are small hard, round candies, that umm look like ladybugs, the red ones at least) in the box that had the ladybugs and was eating them one by one. “Chip! That box had ladybugs in them. What have you done with the ladybugs?” Chip looked down at the box and searched for Sheanoo and Chivda. “They are lost” he told me with a puzzled expression on his face. “Lost? Lost? How could you put skittles in the box that had ladybugs? And you wanted to keep them as pets? You can’t even look after them for five minutes.” I ranted. “Where are they?” “I don’t know Aie, they are lost.” “Did you eat them?” I was suspicious. Chip had eaten ants before and it took him a while to get into his head that we don’t eat ants. “Did you eat them?” “Umm.. I don’t know.” Sheanoo and Chivda were no where to be seen. I looked in the kitchen if they had flown away, but couldn’t see them on the countertops, floor, even the ceiling. One of them was too sickly to even move, let alone fly. I looked and looked but we never did find those ladybugs. Wonder what’s happened to them. I guess we’ll never know.

Debug my batter

For all the things I can cook, and cook well - just as BigGeek and Chip, they will vouch for it – I can’t, to save my life make idli/dosa batter. I usually buy the overpriced tubs of batter in my local Indian store and palm the dosas and idlis made from it as “home-made”. It’s pathetic, really. My mother, on the other hand is the queen of idlis. She had a bunch of Tamil co-workers and she got awesome tips from them and her idlis turn out to be soft and fluffy and delicious, her dosas crisp and golden that will put any udipi to shame.

Her batter always rises well. Always. No matter where she makes it. In German winters where she lived for a few years or in winters here. And we keep our house coooold. 65F. And she makes the batter and it rises like it is the tropical Mumbai. She can make batter on an Antarctican ice-shelf and it will rise. I don’t know what she does. I ask her and she says she has given me all her tips, but I still can’t get my batter to rise unless I keep it on the deck outside on a hot July afternoon.

It’s so depressing that I have stopped making batters at home. Altogether. But two days ago, optimism reared its head again and I said, “Why, not?” So I soaked two cups of urad dal (the skinned, whole ones), some methi seeds and tried my hand, again at making a multipurpose batter. Idlis, dosas, uttapams. But it turned out to be a total disaster. The uttapams were so heavy that I sprained my back holding a plateful of them. Sigh. So, please all yout idli-maidens out there, help me debug my batter. This is my trace output.

Tuesday, 10:30 a.m.
Yay! Vetran’s day. Let’s make idli batter. Soak two cups of Urad dal with a tablespoon of methi seeds. No rice. Plan to use idli rava.
Urad dal is skinned but whole? Check.

Tuesday, 6:30 p.m.
Hmm..dal looks soaked. Let’s grind it in my (horrible) Cuisinart food processor.
Use as less water as possible? Check. Grind very fine? Check.

Tuesday, 7:00 p.m.
Add idli rava. For each cup of urad dal, 3 cups of idli rava. I hope I haven’t got the ratio wrong. What if it's 2 cups? Let’s compromise. 2.5 cups of idli rava per cup of urad dal. Mix, mix, mix. With hand. A little water. I was told that the bacteria/yeast on the hand will help ferment in the chilly weather. No spatula (although I am sure my spatula also has a ton of bacteria too)

Tuesday 7:15 p.m.
Find a warm place for the batter to rise. Vents are not warm. Top of the fridge? Umm, no. What if I forget? That will be one stinky science experiment by the weekend. Oven? Maybe. (Stick hand in oven.) It’s not exactly warm. But it will do. Turn on the oven light for warmth and put the batter in.

Wednesday 8:00 a.m.
Who turned off the oven light? Who ? Who? BigGeek confesses to having committed the act before he went to bed on Tuesday. Arrrrgh. Take out the batter with zero hopes. The batter looks pathetic. It hasn’t risen. Turn on the oven light and stick the batter once again with many prayers.

Wednesday 6:45 p.m.
Batter looks even more pathetic. It hasn’t risen at all. My dinner plans crumble to tiny pieces. I have been looking to eating utthapams since two in the afternoon. BigGeek to the rescue. Batter is stuck into the oven. Oven is set to warm (170F) despite my vociferous protests that the batter will be cooked in it at that temperature. A large hairy hand shooes me away. The oven is too warm, the batter in. In a few minutes or an ternity in Dottie’s time, the oven is turned off. Hope hangs in the air.

Thursday 7:00 a.m.
Gingerly take out the batter. What are the three brown spots? Did the batter get cooked? Sniff, sniff, sniff. Its smells ok. And it has risen. But in an over-fermented sort of way. Store batter in fridge. Oh well. Atleast it did rise.

Thursday 7:00 p.m.
Chop onions for uttapam. Make chutney, make sambar. Drool at the smell.

Thursday 8:00 p.m.
Get the batter out from the fridge. Thin it a bit with water. Add salt. Heat griddle, make uttapam. They stick. Oh no they stick. Change griddles. Repeat. It sticks again. Panic. Chip is super hungry. Think fast. Take a can of flour from the pantry. Rice flour, hopefully. Add it to the batter. More water, more flour. Make uttapams. Better now. Still a bit sticky but not plastered to the griddle. Repeat 6 more times. Thank god dinner is over.

So this is what happened. Where did I go wrong? Please debug my batter. Sending out an SOS.

Blackhole memories

When they are not fighting over guitars –not real guitars mind you, but the guitar controllers for RockBand and Guitar hero, our little kingdom here settles into a cozy Sunday night routine. Chip’s insistence that his toy guitar be granted the same sharing privileges as the guitar controllers, meaning, he get his legit turn pushing the plastic buttons on “our” toy guitars is as old as the Friday night and the last hours of a lazy, cozy weekend are spent post-dinner in the family room.

As one of us does the dishes, the other shoos Chip upstairs for his night-time routine. Brush teeth, get into his pajamas. Ten minutes later the kingdom of three assembles excitedly in front of the TV. The lights are dimmed and BigGeek who has the supreme powers granted by his being the “Secretary of Remotes”, either turns on a specially DVR-ed show or we just browse our favorite channels until we find something that excites us. We huddle on a couch at first, but soon the cushions find their way to the floor as we stretch lazily, arms and legs in every direction. Chip burrowing here and there like a little squirrel, trying to fit into this crook then into another as we all try to get the “sweet” spot to watch the show, catch the sound effects and stay away from that elbow poking in your ribs. A few minutes after much twisting and turning, some yelling and some compromising, the three of us settle down. Monday morning blues are still far away.

Yesterday is one of many such Sundays. We find our places on the couch, fleece throws covering chilly hands and feet. BigGeek turns on the TV to the science channel. He flips through the guide and we see “Supermassive black holes”. “I want to see that! I want to see the black hole show” Okay, BigGeek, true to his name is a sucker for things like that too. “Are we playing Rock Band?” asks Chip and dives for the “real” toy guitar. “Are we playing Black hole sun?” Chip’s connects black hole to black hole. The cosmological phenomenon to Soundgarden’s 1994 hit. “No sweetie, we are watching a show on black holes.”

The show starts. The graphics are mind blowing. And it’s a bit nostalgic too. For BigGeek and for me. Black holes, Special theory, Quantum physics are some of the topics we discussed at the dining table, growing up. Ditto with BigGeek. His claim to fame is also a couple of uncles who were particle physicists. So, to the both of us sitting here with Chip, watching a show on black holes brings back many childhood memories and as Chip snuggles close to me, I realize that we are making memories here for Chip too. That being said, watching a show on black holes with a three year old is a multi-dimensional experience.

Some excerpts.

“Why is there a black hole?” Asks Chip with his typical 3-yr old existential logic.
“Well… that’s what the physicists have been asking too. For a really long time.”

A graphic of a swirling black hole in the middle of a galaxy fills the screen.

“Is that a black hole?”
“Yes, that’s a black hole.”
“What’s that?” pointing to a swirly graphic.
“That’s a quasar”. Wrong answer. I have dug a hole and a super massive one just now.
“What’s a quasar?”
“It’s just a lot of dust that goes into the black hole. The black hole eats the quasar.”
“Is it hot?” the graphic artist has obviously done a great job.. Chip can deduce the gases are hot.
“It’s very hot. Very very hot.”
“Like the sun?”
“Yup, just like the sun.”
“So is quasar a sun?”
“Umm. No… no.”
“Is sun a black hole?”
“No, but it can turn into one.”
“I want to touch a quasar.”
“It’s very hot and it’s very far away.”
“I’ll get a boo-boo?”
“A big boo-boo. Go to sleep now.”

The images on the screen are swirling galaxies now.
“I want to fly, Aie. I want to fly and go there.”
“And you will. Sleep now.”

p.s. thank god he drifted to sleep before the next show on string theory began!

Pat a cake, Pat a cake

Pat a cake, Pat a cake
Bakers man
Bake me a cake as fast as you can
Pat it and Prick it and mark it with a T
Then put it in the oven for Teddy and ...

“Chip!” Chip completes the rhyme excitedly. And then asks, “Does that cake have egg in it?” “No sweetie.”, I reply. “That’s a special cake. No eggs.”

Chip is allergic to egg. Both yolks and whites. It means that his body does not recognize the egg protein as a harmless food. It attacks the egg protein by releasing immunoglobulinE that cause certain histamines to be released in his blood, causing a severe reaction. He gets hives, his face and ears inflame, he itches, gets unbelievable stomach cramps and finally his body tries to get rid of the offensive substance by making him violently sick. When Chip was younger, he would also wheeze – his airways would get inflamed as well. Fortunately egg allergies rarely result in an anaphylactic shock – something that nut allergies can snowball into.

For Chip, the tiniest amount of egg causes a severe reaction. (For differences between intolerance and allergy refer to Tara and PG’s posts). Pastas made on equipment shared with products that have egg in them. A bite of a bread brushed with egg whites. A tiny dot of ice-cream containing egg yolks. When he was younger, even touching egg products would bring on a dermatological reaction – the site of contact would get itchy and he would develop rash or hives. As he has grown older, the response has toned down in its ferocity. Instead of suffering for a few hours, he suffers for one. His pediatrician thinks he might outgrow the allergy by the time he is 5 or 6, and even if he doesn’t, it would downgrade to an intolerance level- he should be able to enjoy a small slice of cake or half a muffin by the time he reaches adulthood. He might not be able to eat a plate of eggs all his life.

Chip was diagnosed with egg allergy when he was 10mo old. The allergy had manifested itself once before, when I gave him a dot of peach ice-cream, he grew red instantly and howled and vomited multiple times. But he suffered from colitis as a baby and we attributed it to that fact. When he started flailing his hands and turning red and having severe bouts of vomiting, twice, when I fed him french toast, I suspected an allergy and the doctor confirmed it. Chip also has eczema and asthma, which put him in the high-risk group for food allergies as is.

Having an egg allergy is difficult. A lot of foods have egg or egg derivatives in them. Baked goods, salad dressings, battered foods, ice-creams, chocolates, potato chips, corn chips can have egg in them. So do influenza vaccines (which Chip does not get). The first few months after the diagnosis were hard. Two years ago, many foods did not list egg as an allergen 9many still don't), so before buying every processed product I had to learn to read labels. Before buying every ice-cream at the concession stand I would have to ask to see the list of ingredients. Before buying every pizza, I would ask the restaurant to provide me with a list of ingredients. Often we would turn back with Chip not getting the ice-cream, pizza or chicken nuggets. Baked goodies were avoided like the plague. The nanny was taught to spot an allergic reaction and dispense Benadryl. Then the same process repeated when he started daycare.

The first thing we realized in dealing with Chip’s allergy was that we had to make him aware and educate him. By the time he was two, we taught him to ask “Does this have egg?” when offered a new food. And to decline if it did. He did admirably, most of the times, but sometimes it was hard for him, especially when a plate of birthday cake with colorful icing was offered to him, and on many occasions he ended up having a meltdown and refused to accept substitutes. But he learnt. We reminded him of what an allergic reaction would do to him. It was not the world’s most pleasant experiences. He also learnt to identify when he was having an allergic reaction and alert a grown up.

He did me proud a few weeks ago. We had carried chocolates for our family when we visited India. Twix and mars bars and three musketeers, that sort of thing. Someone offered Chip a chocolate and he ate it –nobody thought chocolates had egg in them. A few seconds later, Chip ran into the kitchen proclaiming he was having an allergic reaction. “To what?” I asked. He said he had eating a piece of candy and it had egg in it. The signs were all there. He was itching, his face had inflamed. I gave him ½ tsp of Benadryl, but it was too late. His stomach started to growl and he started to howl in pain as cramps twisted inside his little tummy and a minute later, he violently threw up. This was not the first time Chip had eaten candy. He ate lollipops and gold coins all the time – it was just luck that he had never consumed candy with egg in it – I really had no idea candy would have egg.

It’s hard for Chip at birthday parties. And other social occasions. And it’s hard for us. I wish people were a little more sensitive to his allergies. Especially in the desi circles. I remember an incident a few weeks ago in India. We were visiting some family and they had bread (the paav, not the sliced bread) for dinner. It came from a small bakery, with no nutritional information anywhere. A similar paav had caused an allergic reaction in Chip once and I was cautious. I asked Chip’s aunt if there were any rotis for Chip or rice. The paav might have an egg glaze. She said she could make rotis, no problem, but could he not “try” the bread and see if it had egg in it? I did not know whether to laugh or beat my head against the wall.

Parents whose kids have allergies are most understanding. I have two such friends (one of them is gnd) who will always have a ready substitute on hand for Chip. And for that I am grateful to them. Another friend is also very understanding. Her child has no food allergies, but knowing how hard it would be on Chip, she asked me before her daughter’s 1st birthday party if it was OK for them to cut cake in front of Chip. I thanked her for her consideration and quietly took Chip away to the garden while cake was served. Most people don’t realize what it is to have a food allergy, in a social sense, for a young child. To be “different” like this. It’s not easy for a child. So, I have taken the liberty of compiling a list of dos and don’ts for all of you out there that are fortunate to not suffer food allergies.

Don’t feed my child without asking me first.
Although Chip will ask if a food has egg in it, he is only three and very often he will forget. Check with me or his father before you feed him anything. For parents of young children who are allergic, there is a good selection of tees and onesies at cafrepress.com. Just search for 'allergy' and you will get results for tees with things like “Don’t feed me, I am allergic to XYZ.” It’s great if you are attending large parties or if your child is starting a new daycare.

Do inform the parents which foods with common allergens will be served at a party
While your menu should be allergen-free when a child with severe allergies (like nuts) is invited, for most other non-anaphalytic shock causing allergies (like egg), a warning will be appreciated. The parents can then decide how best to handle the situation.

Do serve alternate foods
Don’t make it a party where the child can only eat potato chips and nothing else. Children are very sensitive. Do offer some, other non-allergic foods.

Don’t pity my child
Not to his face, at least. Admire his courage instead, when he declines a piece of most yummy looking cake. I have had friends exclaim loudly to me at parties “This is such a pity. So sad he can’t eat the cake.” To Chip’s face. Don’t rub it in.

Don’t thrust a cake in my face when I am shaking my head to a “no”
This does not mean I am disrespecting your party/guest of honor. It only means I am going to give my son some company while he sits by himself, unable to enjoy the goodies. And yes, please refrain from asking things like “Even if Chip can’t eat, you can eat, na?” in Chip’s presence. Especially when he is whining for that item. The child is old enough to understand. And if you do ask, don’t be offended by what I answer.

Do educate your own child about food allergies even if your child doesn’t have them
No parent wants their child to be weird of different. In the US at least, there is a growing allergy awareness and kids are understanding. In India, even adults think allergies is a firang disorder and will tell you so. No idea what their kids will do.

This post is a part of an allergy awareness month started by Tara. Please share your stories and comments and help spread the word around.

Baayko (Wife)

Chip: Am I married?

Aie: No pilloo, you aren’t married.

Chip: Are you married?

Aie: Yes, pilloo, I am.

Chip: I want baayko (wife)

Aie: Not so soon

Chip: I need to get a moustache and a beard first?

Aie: Yes. And you need to go to school, then go to a college, then go to an office, then you get married.

Chip: But I don’t want to go to an office. I will go to school, then to college, then to NASA, then to moon.

Aie: OK. You can get a wife after you go to NASA.

Chip: But I want a wife now.

*Who will marry him? He is a snotty, tantrum throwing, overactive sorta fella. But it would be a stupid girl, who would say no to this charming prince. He does have a twinkle in his eye and says the darndest things. And he gives endless hugs.*

Chip: Aie, I want a wife now and a diamond.

Aie: Do you want a wife or a diamond?

Chip: Ummm.. diamond.

Aie: No wife? Just diamond?

Chip: No. I want both. Diamond AND wife.

Aie: Diamond first or wife first?

Chip: Diamond first.

*So, yes, looks like this guy’s pick up line is going to be this- ‘Give me a diamond, else I’ll make you my wife’. Any takers? And oh, I forgot, he already has a mangalsutra. A string of green mardi gras beads. That he wears around. It’s the age of equality, people. My son proudly wears his ‘green mangalsutra’.*

Halloween -2008