Identity Crisis!

I’m slowly getting used to sleeping with a dog let loose near my bed.
But enough about me—I think Bruce must be undergoing a severe identity crisis now. We call him by various names, and V. thinks that calling his name in baby-ese will somehow endear him—so he calls him “Bloosie,” “Bloosh,” “Blues Clues” (a very famous kids’ show, in my ever-expanding “useless pieces on information” folder) and anything weird that starts with a “B” sound.

Not to be outdone, I have christened him something ever further from his real name—Ambuli. Don’t ask me why—I just blurted it out one day, and it seems to have stuck. What’s more, my parents-in-law have taken to the name too. Of course, there’s the usual derivatives of Ambuli—Ambuja, Ambuls, Bulls, Ambu, Jambu, et al.

My f-i-l has somehow seen his grandson in Bruce. So he calls him Govind Bhashyam! Hopefully, that won’t stick—can’t imagine the kid (they live in the U.S.) coming home to see a dog with his name!

And here we are, complaining that he doesn’t listen to us—he might, if we settle on a name for him!

Bruce Almighty!

Seriously, if it's like this for a dog, I wouldn't mind living a dog's life at all!

• So, Bruce (the name is set now) is so used to the AC, that my usually hesitant father-in-law keeps the AC running longer than usual in the afternoon and at night.
• V. cleans his susoo and poo-poo without even wincing, while he'd make all sorts of excuses to avoid cleaning the bathroom at home.
• And of course, my ma-in-law, who is a total cleanliness freak, doesn't crane her neck at an angle to spot any dirt or dust on the floor.
• Also, usually reticent people come over and talk to us during those rare moments B. does decide to take a walk.
• I voluntarily take my tea with me when I walk him; earlier, I would throw tantrums when anyone so much as spoke to me during my sacred tea-time.
  
  Oh, and here's the funniest thing: V. tells B., who thinks it's the ultimate torture to leave the comfort of the AC room, except to eat, "If you only eat and sleep like this without any exercise, you'll become fat and bulky. It's not healthy, lazybones!"
  
  Hahahahaha!

Teething Troubles

Here’s the thing—we got a puppy recently. Am quite excited. He’s a 2-month-old Alsatian we call Bruce.
That’s one of V.’s long-term dreams turn into reality. I think the other is to be a champion at bridge.
In any event, this jumpy, cuddly creature is the cutest thing on earth—when he’s sleeping! He’s sometimes cute when he’s not sleeping—more specifically, when he’s biting someone else (he’s supposedly teething), and when it’s not 3 a.m.!
But seriously, if my parents-i-l want us to want children, they could not have conjured up a worse trailer. Bruce is not toilet trained yet, and insists on peeing and pooping in the kitchen. We take him for long walks during which he admires the views and the sounds around him, and then promptly come home to poop in the kitchen!
Now I’m not one of those who go “Awwwwwwwww!” on seeing a cute dog. I like to see them, preferably from a distance, even more preferable if there’s a partition between me and the dog.
But in one of those many compromises that you make instinctively (only to regret at leisure) as part of this agreement called marriage, I accepted the concept of a dog in the house. I also understand why someone’s scared of dogs, or refuses to enter a house when a dog’s in it (am –or is it ‘was’—one of those people). It’s been quite an effort to get over my idea that animals and people belong in different habitats.
This is not about to turn into a blog entry detailing how I started loving dogs, and how God has created all creatures bright and beautiful.
When Bruce first came to our house, I tried getting him to play with me. After all, I quite fancied myself as the ‘more lovable’ person, be it dogs or humans. But Bruce knew that I was trying too hard, or so it seemed.
That night, he seemed very sad. I felt sad for him too, for having left his family in Orissa, and coming into a house where the people were all strange.
Then, one day, when I was petting him, he wanted to bite my hands (those damn teeth again), and I withdrew my hands quite suddenly. He barked—his very first angry bark, for me.
And my old ideas returned. After all, they do act on instinct, no matter how much intelligence we bestow upon them, no?
And then, I started noticing that it meant at least a 30% increase in chores—getting his food ready, cleaning up after him, running after him, and sleeping in constant fear of being bitten.
The silver lining? Kids, who I thought will not have any inhibitions, also seem scared of him :)
He’s cute when he looks up with those forlorn eyes, but when he barks, especially at the broomstick which he’s convinced has a life of its own, it’s quite funny. And scary. Perhaps mine is the fear of the uninitiated. Perhaps it’s the truth.
In the meantime, I’m trying to savour the moments we have with Bruce. As V. says, he is what we all hope to be—true to his feelings.

One Weekend, Two Chennai Staples, Two Let-Downs

I've always liked Saravana Bhavan--good sambar, and good chutney (two of the rarest things, I learned from my years in the U.S.).
But recently, I went to the one near Ashok Pillar--the restaurant, with my mother-in-law. And promptly got sticker shock! Why is a dosai priced at Rs. 78? And when I ordered the regular masala dosai, I was warned by the waiter- It won't be enough for you. Do you want the ghee masala instead? The price difference? One almost double the other. And when we ordered juices, they arrived when we almost finished eating.
And the fresh lime juice had been extracted more than the IT worker! Total thumbs down!

And the other one? Murugan Idli Shop. I used to like the unpretentiousness of the place. When we went this weekend (again, my m-i-l and I, our spouses are out of town, you see!) we both had the mini meal. And when m-i-l spotted that the so-called mango pickle had gone bad, the waiter was unapologetic. He said something like, "I guess it had started to ripen." Huh?
And when we persisted, asking if there was some other pickle, or something we could eat with the curd rice, pat came the reply, "The pickle will come at 3 p.m." Double huh?? How about offering us some sambar, dudes? And the waiter was bit of a smart-alec too. When we thought he had an order wrong and asked him to repeat the order, he said it right. Along with the comment, "You must been too long in the sun"!!

Customer is king, but I guess these times are those of ridiculing your king!

Kids Say the Darndest Things!

This Saturday, a few of us CSR folks from our company (translate Singa paalam-- we’re apparently not supposed to blog about work or our office at all) went to Thirusoolam (a neat little hamlet just behind the hills that you always think will be perfect for trekking, whenever you feel active in the comfort of your bike/car/bus).

It was the CSR event for the month of June, and the organization we tied up with was Kaingkarya—an NGO that encourages the children of the village to go to school. It also conducts some training outside of school as well, and also nursing training programs.

In any case, we sponsored their sports day. We’d have liked to be more involved, but as it turned out, the young men of the village had it all covered.

It was good in one sense, because we had a lot of interaction with the kids. There were several interesting exchanges, which were very insightful—some funny, some very telling. These are, obviously, just translations:

Boy: Are you Hindu or Christian?
I: Why?
Boy: Chumma…
I: Can I not be Muslim?
Boy: Are you Muslim?
I: What do you think I am? (I’m not sure why I don’t give him a proper answer—maybe I still feel it’s not a kosher question!)
Boy: I think you’re Christian.
I: I am what you think I am (The kid must have thought I’m crazy!)
I: Are there many Christians?
Boy: No.
I: Are you? (I guess the question’s suddenly kosher!)
Boy: No, I’m Hindu. Are you really Christian? (This kid just doesn’t let up)
I: Is there only Hindu and Christian? Maybe I’m Sikh, maybe I’m Jain, maybe I’m Parsee!
Boy (calls his friend over): Hey, it seems Akka’s a seek da! You know, what you put in your hair on Diwali!

*--*--*

Lots of girls are fighting with boys who, it turns out, are their brothers. One such girl is talking about her brother, who’s actually quite the rowdy—and he’s not even 10!

Girl: He doesn’t listen to anyone at home.
I: Hmm… how did you come have a brother like this?
Girl: I don’t know.
I: (Trying humour here): Did you ask your mom why she bore such a brother for you?
Girl: I did.
Girl’s friend: Oho! As if mothers bear children after asking!

*-*-*

Girl: Are you from out of this country?
I: No. I’m from here only.
Girl: Then how come you’re so white?
I: I guess my parents are fair, so…
Girl: Are they from out of the country?

*--*--*

There were about 8 girls called Manimegalai. Everytime I asked some girl’s name, and the answer was “Manimegalai,” the girls burst into laughter!

Girl: Don’t call any girl called Manimegalai. If you do, around eight of them will answer!

*--*--*

Some of the kids are studying in English medium schools, and most in Tamil medium schools. One of the boys thought it was somehow funny.

Boy: Vanakkam, Englipees.
I: What’s that?
Boy (to another boy): This is Englipees Akka, da.
I: And what’s your name?
Boy: I’m Englipees.
I: Oh, so everyone’s Englipees?
Another boy: He studies in an English medium school—so….
I: Oh, that’s nice!
Boy: Avnu.
I: So, you’re Telugu as well?
Boy: Yes, all-India all languages.
I: You didn’t speak in Kannada.
(The conversation is getting a bit “out there”.)
Boy: Yes, I know it though.
I: Very good. Now how about you speak in English for me?
Boy: No Englipees. Haha…

The reason I mention this really otherwise boring conversation is that the boy seemed sort of embarrassed that he was in an English-medium school.

*-*-*

Well, it was a nice outing all in all. You should visit the temple that is atop a hill there--very cool. Try and go there before the sun gets up!

Ah! Print Acceptance

So, this morning I wake up to some really exciting news—my blog’s been mentioned in the Indian Express's Indulge’s Web Scout section.

I usually rush to grab Indulge on Fridays (I swear!) and read Niladri’s column, and glance through the list of blogs mentioned. Today, though, I had to look at it twice—and there it was: chennaigirlreturnshome.blogspot.com!

I jumped up and down, after ensuring that it was indeed my blog they were talking about, and was almost incoherent as I told my parents-in-law, “Indulge has mentioned my blog.”

I phoned V. from downstairs (after all, it’s not everyday that your blog gets mentioned in a national newspaper), and told him my blog was mentioned, when my mother-in-law asked me, “What is a blog?” I explained that it was sort of like an online diary. My father-in-law read the short write-up. My mother-in-law asked me again, “But where’s your name?”

Me: Opening my mouth and closing it.

In about 10 minutes, V. walked down. And ma-in-law was happy to see her son get up so early!

“Maybe you should write to Indian Express everyday,” she said, before walking off to water her garden, “Then V. may get up early everyday.”

Me: Speechless!

Wired Weird

Last night, I had a weird dream—that I had AIDS. Must be all this NGO stuff I read about and do, I thought. V. always says my dreams are too weird.
What was most remarkable was the fact that, in my dream, I could feel the inability to do anything, the fatality that I assume comes with something like AIDS, and also people’s reactions. The dream went something like this: I suddenly become aware that I have AIDS, although people around me haven’t told me anything. Then, there are parties and other fun stuff that happen, but I’m not interested in any of them. I don’t even want to participate in anything. When someone asks me what I want to eat, I say something like, “I don’t really care; what does it matter now?”
There is a rich neighbour as well, in my dream. The neighbor seems to be some sort of scientist guy, something I probably took away from last night’s “Honey, I Shrunk the Kids”! Would he be the person to deliver me from the dreaded killer?
In any case, what mattered most in the dream was what I felt—no determination to fight this thing, no will to live, nothing. I’m not sure if that’s indicative of the kind of person that I am deep down, or what Freud would say about all this. But when I woke up (or even in the dream, I thought), I was determined to do something about this virus.
Now what that is, I’ve to figure out.