What’s the good word?

“That’s sick, dude!” said my colleague! I stared at her for a moment, before I realized she meant “Wow”. Sick, to mean awesome? Another colleague wanted to know all the “goss” (gossip) from a meeting, while checking if the boss had “bounced”, meaning had the boss left office! “I think I am going to dip” said another, to mean that now he was going to “bounce”.

Welcome to the world of millennial lingo! I have still not sussed out most of their language, but what I have heard so far is utterly and comically fascinating! It’s a most desirable bonus of working with a bunch of lively millennials.

Every generation has had its slang which defined it. I remember being called an ‘enthu pea’ for my overzealous participation in English class. I cringed every time I heard it, though I didn’t mind being called a ‘cat’ (as in “she’s quite a cat”, said admiringly).

English is the most mauled languages of all times. Do you remember (and if you are a pre-millennial, you will), the horrible phase when short cuts were used in text messages, like “dat, dis & der”. Shudder! Thankfully it’s mostly died down. As P.G. Wodehouse would have said, God is in his heaven, and everything is right with the word, er, world!

One may accuse the millennials of many things, but certainly they don’t resort to “dis, dat & me2”. Instead, they have decided to be willful, resorting to completely contrary words to convey emotions, like “sick” when they mean superb, and “snatched” to mean something or someone is looking good. As in, she looked completely “snatched”!

To the millennials, their “squad” is their “fam”, even if sometimes their squad can make them “salty” and they may feel like “throwing shade” at someone in the squad. Translation? Their group of friends is like their family, even if sometimes they feel upset at a friend and they end up talking crap about that person. They particularly “throw shade” at anyone being “extra”, as in OTT.

Have you noticed, millennials are mostly gender neutral in their speech. They refer to each other as “bro” and “dude”. But tender emotions are always in the air, just expressed differently, I am told. So, if a boy or a girl sends a direct message on Instagram to the object of their interest, it’s called “sliding into someone’s gram”! But dare you use the phrase “Netflix and chill”, as apparently, it’s a highly sexual, pick-up line or invitation for a romp between the sheets. Who knew? But all is not lost. Once you do have a significant other, you can refer to them as “bae” (before anyone else)! If the relationship unfortunately hits a rocky patch, then of course you start giving or getting “can it” vibes!

Being very mindful of their need to maintain balance, millennials love to “vacay” (vacation) often, and failing that, at least go to parties which are “lit”, meaning, really happening. You could also be “turnt up” if you were at a lit party, though I have been warned, “turnt” could also mean “horny” or “turned on”! And would you wear expensive second-hand clothes to such a party? You will, just that such clothes are referred to as “pre-loved”. Seriously? Pre-loved? This reminds me of Marie Kondo way too much!

The millennials live with some glaring contradictions. They hate carbs, I mean seriously hate carbs. I feel like an absolute pachyderm eating my rice next to them. But they can’t do without their quota of chocolates. They can get really “hangry” (hungry angry) if they don’t get their daily chocolate fix. They are obsessed about health food and chocolates. Go, figure! Next to this they love their “sesh” (session) with the squad, which could be “goss sesh” or simply a “catching up sesh”! And anyone who isn’t in sync is of course a “wack” (whacko).

If you want to gain millennial approval, just go “savage”. It has nothing to do with savages and cave men, and everything to mean someone who is hardcore. It’s said in an appreciative manner. And if someone’s worthy of emulating, then they are “goals”. As in, “Look at her at 45, she’s serious goals, dude”.

Millennials, like many among us, have FOMO (fear of missing out), while the more evolved ones embrace JOMO (joy of missing out). But most millennials do fear going on a BT or “bad trip” (drug induced), much to the relief of their parents.

While they don’t necessarily suffer from hubris, millennials do think they are GOAT (greatest of all time), definitely they are the greatest of their own times! I must be really “cray” (crazy) to write this blog post, and I just hope I have “killed it” (done well), otherwise my young colleagues may accuse me of being a tired “boomer” (referring to those born pre-1965), while I will have to remind them that I am actually GenX…just one generation before them!

Working with millennials

I am reminded of the movie The Intern each day I walk into my new office. Barely two months have passed since I joined this firm, and the job is still spit-shiny and sparkling new. I am reminded of The Intern, because the vibe in the office is almost completely millennial. I am no Robert De Niro in my 70s looking for a place to hang out. But my ‘boss’ like De Niro’s boss, is 26, about half my age, if you round off my 46 to the nearest decade, which unfortunately is 50! It’s a testimony to his immense abilities that my boss already has my respect, which I am normally very loath to give to people unless they have truly deserved it.

The millennial work place is a very different planet from the work places I am used to. The last place I worked full-time was at the magazine brought out by an environmental NGO. While the place had the buzz, there was overall, an attitude of world-weariness about the onerous duties of saving this planet. We were all battle worn, or at least pretended to be. People seldom bothered about trivialities like clothes and attire. It was as carelessly prosaic as you can imagine.

After that I joined a magazine which as a colleague put it laconically, had people “past their expiry date”. It was a less cliched way of saying that the office environment was tired, dispirited, and completely unenthused. I loved my work there, but was very soon infected by the lack of any kind of energy. It was a dead environment. By the time I stumbled out of there, I was more a zombie than an active, functioning individual.

So one can imagine the contrast my current environment is. My first week went in just getting acquainted with the various software and programmes that keeps the place buzzing and fine-tuned. The next few weeks have gone in finding my way through the maze of young, younger and youngest colleagues, whose work ethos, frankly, astonishes me. I have been told repeatedly that the millennials believe in work-life balance to the extent that ‘life’ outbalances ‘work’. But I find that is not wholly true. The millennials work hard, and are very focussed about their work. There is carefully cultivated bonhomie, but their focus is razor sharp. They are near ruthless in achieving their targets, seniority and experience (of others) be damned.

It seriously doesn’t matter to them where you are from, what you have done before, and your general ‘history’. It’s not rudeness or indifference, it stems more from utter professionalism which sees an individual as a whole instead of a part of an extraneous whole. In my earlier jobs all my colleagues knew within the fortnight my husband’s profession, and my entire antecedents. It was a given that one would be asked probing questions, and one just answered them. At my current work place, I think my young colleagues barely know that I have a kid, let alone anything else. I find it strange, but truth speaking, quite liberating! One starts with a clean slate, which is not a chance one always gets, is it? So only the work I do from now on, actually matters. And since everyone is giving their best, I have to do the same. And that alone is so very refreshing. To work alongside people who are the brightest and the best, in the hope that it will also bring out the best in me.

So, armed with my golden laptop and a will-do attitude, I have launched into my ‘second’ career! The learning curve is so steep that I sometimes wonder at my audacity in shaking myself out of my comfort zone. But then age is just a number, isn’t it, though my sluggish metabolism and aching limbs beg to differ!

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My cup of coffee

 

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Photo credit: Pexels.com

I have been searching for that perfect cup of coffee since aeons. Now, I really shouldn’t be, as I grew up in a South Indian household, with the tantalising smell of filer kaapi (coffee) wafting through the house every morning. We had started out with the traditional, double compartment steel filter, graduating to the electric filter. The electric filter speeded up the process. If earlier we used to drink warm to hot coffee, now it was piping hot.

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South Indian filter coffee is brewed in this

Once I was deemed old enough to drink coffee, I drank it every day. Somehow, my world righted itself when I held that cup of coffee in my hands. It was not just a beverage, but it was the comforting embrace of roots, traditions and habit. That strong, milky, sugary, coffee was just so home!

After marriage I discovered to my utter dismay that my new hubby drank tea in the morning. But I who mocked him, was soon drinking tea myself. Somehow, tea was the easier beverage to make, and I just didn’t have the patience and time to make that cup of filter coffee, just for me. Like so many other small and familiar rituals, this too fell by the wayside. It seemed easier to let go of the old, in the eagerness to embrace the new. Once in a way I cheated by making Bru Instant, which kind of satisfied my coffee soul. (To Nescafe aficionados, I say this – try Bru Instant just once!)

When we moved to Mumbai fifteen years ago, though we lived in Colaba, I made Matunga my own haunt. And I soon acquired a steel filter from Soham store, and the filter coffee powder from Mysore Concerns, both in Matunga. Yet, I rarely brewed it. I was experimenting with varieties of tea by then. My buying the coffee filter was more a cursory salute to the past. Waiting for the decoction to trickle down and then have lukewarm coffee was not my cup of..er, coffee at all. Or so I thought.

This is when Sachin got hit with the Nespresso craze. He acquired the machine and the coffee capsules, which came in their own sleek box, with the different flavours marked out, almost like a jewellery catalogue. Every day, while he fiddled with the Nespresso machine, a half cup of very hot milk, a spoon, and a sachet of Stevia were set on a tray next to the machine. Sachin would pop the coffee capsule into the machine, after much deliberation over which flavour to have that particular morning. It was a grand performance, which Sachin insisted was just about worthy of Nespresso. He achieved coffee nirvana after each such ritual. I think it was more the ritual, and less the beverage, which put him there.

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The Nespresso machine 

I just couldn’t bring myself to like Nespresso. None of the flavours appealed to me. But what it did do was kickstart my coffee yearnings. I started having the filter coffee when I could, and Bru when I was rushed. Since I like my coffee with milk and loads of sugar, I had it infrequently…hitting the 40s does have its downside. I can’t abide the taste of sweeteners like Stevia, Splenda, and I would much rather have coffee with sugar on weekends, rather than with these artificial sweeteners daily.

The advent of Starbucks into Mumbai was a milestone as much for our household, as it was for that august Organisation! Sachin discovered that he could also order a cup of Starbucks coffee through Swiggy, which I found amazingly wasteful. I offered to make him as much coffee as he needed, especially for the late nights up working or watching football on the telly. But of course, he wouldn’t be satisfied with Bru or filter coffee. He soon raided Foodhall and got decaf coffee, which frankly flummoxed me. It wouldn’t load him with caffeine and yet would give him the caffeine kick, he explained to me seriously. A coffee, which really isn’t coffee…hmmm.

Meanwhile, I was having my own palate evolution. Last November, while holidaying in Perast, Montenegro, I discovered by accident, Nescafe’s 1+2 instant coffee, which just needed sugar to be added. I discovered that adding a spoon of milk made it even more delicious. In the wintry cold of those November mornings, it gave me the greatest joy to sit with a cup of that coffee, gazing out to the beautiful Kotor Bay enveloped in pleasing stillness. But I couldn’t source enough of it before we left Montenegro. A search in Mumbai stores didn’t yield that particular combination. It was left to a dear friend to get it for me from Hong Kong, and I enjoy that coffee occasionally.

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The pleasing colour of the filter coffee!

That said, I have realised that my love for filter kaapi will never fade. A trip to Matunga even today means snacking at Mysore Cafe or Madras Cafe, rounding off the meal with piping hot filter coffee served in the steel tumbler and davra. You cool the coffee by pouring it back and forth between the tumbler and the davra from a height, which also generates a pleasing froth. Just look at the rich colour of this wonderful filter kaapi!

Today, one can even find herbal coffee to beat all herbal teas! And as many varieties of coffee as there are probably coffee drinkers, I guess. So the next time I want to drink coffee or Sachin does, I have an array in my house – Bru Instant, Nescafe 1+2, filter coffee, Decaf, Nescafe Gold, Nespresso, even Turkish coffee. If all these fail, I will head to Matunga, while Sachin can fall back on Starbucks, of course.

The dog we sent away

We had a dog called Maui. He was a pure stray, the kind you find roaming the Indian streets. Maui was highly intelligent, highly energetic, also, very aggressive. Yet, or maybe because of these qualities, we had to send him away. A flat in Mumbai is barely enough to hold humans, and if one stretches it, maybe the more domesticated breeds like the Beagle, the Labrador, the Pomeranian, or the Daschhund. These breeds I believe, have over generations got entirely accustomed to living with humans in confined spaces,  acclimatised to being ‘taken’ for walks down. They are conversant with elevator etiquette and wait patiently for it. A free-spirited stray stood no chance against the reputation of such ‘finishing school’ dogs.

The decision to adopt Maui had been an emotional one. Our mixed breed Daschhund, Joey, also an abandoned dog, had died in the summer of 2016. We had adopted him six years earlier. He was found cowering under a bench in a park in Santa Cruz, and an NGO for strays had rescued him. A friend of ours connected to this NGO, convinced us to have a look at Joey. And we who had gone to ‘just look’, returned with Joey in the back seat!

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Joey, Sachin and Ishaan – the happy trio

Thus came Joey into our home. The vet estimated his age at about a year and a half. We took some time to adjust to this new member, though he took to us without any reservations. He formed the closest emotional attachment to Sachin, while I was the primary care giver – of food and walks. He came with some emotional baggage, a result of having been abandoned, perhaps. It manifested in utter hatred for other dogs, and a dislike of kids. Ishaan was the exception. Joey was fiercely loyal to us, and when he passed away, it was like we lost a guardian angel. Sachin and Ishaan took his death very badly, and the house was shrouded in a pall of gloom for many days. I suffered too, even though I had been always more detached.

I knew their campaign for a new pet would start soon, and sure enough, Sachin and Ishaan started to work on me. Much against my wishes, we adopted Maui, six months later. Maui was a stray pup found on the road. He was a very clever, intelligent pup, from the beginning. He was incredibly cute, and had an alertness about him which was astonishing.

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Maui was an incredibly alert pup

We hired a dog trainer, as this time we wanted to tick all the right boxes. He was the trainer’s brightest student, and received many accolades from her. But, we soon realised that his loud bark and charging at people he was suspicious of, didn’t augur well for domestic peace. The staff would tie him up every time the door bell rang, which just made Maui more angry and aggressive. We too couldn’t invest the kind of time needed to train him, as I believe, that persistent training could have overcome genetics. Maui had a special affinity for the garbage bin, and he guarded it jealously, even charging and biting, if necessary, to defend it. When we stepped out, he would shred books on the book shelf. I felt the staff was on the verge of a revolt, and I was not far behind. It was finally enough.

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Like Joey, Maui’s attachment to Sachin was very strong

We knew we would never put him back on the streets. He couldn’t, in all honesty, be given to another household. We had by now realised that he needed a lot of space to vent his excessive energy. That’s when a member of our staff came up with a brilliant solution – send Maui to his village in Ratnagiri, where there was enough space for Maui to frolic. We were initially skeptical, but were soon convinced seeing his enthusiasm. He said his family, which kept cows and buffaloes and hens, didn’t have a dog.

We got Maui neutered. Finally, one find day, a fully outfitted Maui in a new collar and leash, and with his food and water bowl, set out in a car from Mumbai for Malgund village in Ratnagiri. Sachin and Ishaan were very upset, till we started receiving tidings from Malgund. We came to know that the entire village turned up to see this dog brought in such style from the distant metropolis! The name ‘Maui’ (from the movie Moana)  was a bit too much of a tongue-twister for his new masters, and very rapidly he was re-christened ‘Maavi’. Maui took to the village and his new family like ‘to the manor born’. Soon we were sent videos and photos of him chasing cattle, thankfully the family’s cattle, and generally having a most carefree existence possible. He became that family’s watchdog in every sense. All this news pleased me especially, as I had headlined the ‘send Maui away’ effort. That was autumn of 2017.

Though I knew Maui had taken well to his new environs, the guilt stayed with me, and I promised Sachin and Ishaan that we would one day visit him. That opportunity finally presented itself this winter. We decided to go by road to Goa, and took the Chiplun route to Malgund village, where resided Maui. This was also a good opportunity to visit this kind family which had come to our aid.

It’s well-known that dogs never forget a smell. Yet, I was sure Maui wouldn’t remember me, and even if he did, it would be with some rancour. Such was my guilt. I was mentally ready for the ultimate rebuff – that he would turn away from me in disdain while he enthusiastically greeted Sachin and Ishaan. We reached the village in the afternoon, after travelling on the most crater-ridden road I have ever seen. The new highway being built has destroyed all vestige of the previous one. Travel worn and weary, we stepped out of the car to the sound of the most welcome, enthusiastic barking from Maui!

He was tied up in anticipation of our arrival. We went near him, and he went berserk. After leaping on Sachin, he turned to me and lavished me with all his affection. He was ecstatic at meeting us again. I was close to crying. Dear friend, I said to him, forgive me for sending you away. Maui looked at me with only love in his eyes.

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Maui and Sachin renew their bond

He ran about and looked at us to follow him, as if to show us his new family and home. When we did a tour of the homestead, he disappeared for a while, ‘on his usual jaunt’ said a family member, and returned at peace, and happy to see us again. He was so secure in his new home, that while he went crazy at meeting us, he didn’t cling to us or follow us everywhere. Maui, I realised, was truly home. I slept particularly well that night…

A strange visitor

Long years ago, we lived in Colombo, Sri Lanka. We lived in a sprawling bungalow on Polhengoda Road, a shaded lane, where large houses existed cheek-by-jowl with tiny hole-in-the-wall takeaway places offering the most delicious  kottu roti and buriyani (Sri Lankan for ‘biriyani’). The house we leased had a large, green lawn, where mango, jackfruit and coconut trees cast their glorious shade. The house was old and rambling, with a sloping, tiled roof, and hosted us and a myriad other creatures, as we were to learn soon. Our Sinhala landlady who lived in England was kind, but a bit eccentric, and gave us a house filled with heavy furniture, bronze pieces, crockery and vases.

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The house which the monitor lizards visited!

Like most Sri Lankan houses, this one also had two kitchens – a ‘wet’ kitchen for all the wet work like cleaning meats and vessels, while the ‘dry’ kitchen was for all the other less cumbersome cooking. Honestly, I never used the wet kitchen at all, it was completely the domain of the house help, who swore she couldn’t function in the more modern dry kitchen. I had no quarrel with that, as she turned out the most delicious prawn curry and dried fish sambol (chutney) you can imagine.

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The house had an eclectic collection of vases, chandeliers, and even a monitor lizard or two!

Now, the house had plenty of lizards, which strangely we never saw, just heard their call.  Lizards have a peculiar call, and only by the end of our stay did we realise the sheer population of lizards in the house. They cleverly inhabited spaces away from our eyes and while today I would jump a mile-high even at a glimpse of one, then, it just didn’t matter to me. The roof of the house was inhabited by a pole cat, which made its presence felt often, and at nights. But the strangest of creatures which came calling was the monitor lizard.

It was a hot, muggy day. The watchman came running to say that there was a snake in the garden shed. My city-bred mind immediately panicked. Sachin (who functioned out of a home office), went to investigate, while I climbed the mooda in the patio, and flailed my arms helplessly. The watchman and Sachin peered into the shed, shone a torch, for what seemed to me an interminably long time. They came back excited, nervous, to report that indeed they had glimpsed the snake’s twitching, long tail. After conferring with the other staff, a call was made to the pest control people, who arrived with admirable alacrity.

The pest control ‘team’ was a pair of young, grinning, Tamil boys, who seemed very amused by my panic and antics, and less concerned about the situation at hand. I rather curtly told them to get on with the job at hand, in Tamil. They nearly fainted when they heard me speak in Tamil. They were promptly marched off to the shed and after peering into the innards of the shed, they too came back saying there was indeed a paambu, snake!

This was now stale news for us. The question was, what was to be done? They were most reluctant to kill the snake, as were we. But what was the alternative? Now, a gurgling drain ran behind the house, past this same garden shed. There was an opening to it, from the shed. Could we nudge the snake towards this opening in the hope it would enter the drain and swim away? Armed with a long pole, the pest control boys, the watchman and Sachin, gingerly entered the shed. Bravely they poked around and that’s when they got the shock of their lives! This was no snake! This was a fully-grown, monitor lizard, about 4-5 feet long. It had obviously entered the shed from the drain, and was all coiled around the discarded articles in the shed. It was more panicky than us, for sure.

Anyway, this was a nasty surprise for all concerned. How does one deal with a monitor lizard? That’s when Sachin sheepishly mentioned to me that a baby monitor lizard had been occupying the guest room in the house since a fortnight, and he had mistaken it for a normal lizard, and had let it be! I stared at him, aghast! The watchman pitched in saying, did you know monitor lizards are carnivores? They have even been known to lift babies? I was frightened out of my wits, even though there was no baby in the house. Sachin’s usual sangfroid faltered for a second, but he revived soon enough, after all, a strategy had to be charted out.

The only way out for the monitor lizard was the way it had come in. After much prodding around the creature, and thumping on the floor, it uncoiled itself. Sachin later described the creature’s head and size, which just made me thankful I hadn’t been anywhere near it!  Much to everyone’s relief, the tactic worked, and the monitor lizard slipped back into the drain, and was gone. I think we sealed that gap instantly. I made the boys locate and rid the house of the baby monitor lizard. That house, coming to think of it now, was a regular menagerie!

We dined off this tale for many years. We told this story with much embellishment to all our local friends, and later, to friends in India. Of course, with each telling, the size of the monitor lizard grew and grew, till it eventually reached ten feet and more!

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This house exists no more

This was in 2001. We left Colombo and that house the following year, with a heavy heart, and relocated to Bangalore. For my 40th birthday in 2013, we went to Maldives, and on the return journey, stopped over for two days in Colombo. I insisted on visiting our old house. When we reached there, I wept. That beloved house no longer existed. In its place was a modern, multi-storied office building, with concrete where the green lawn had stretched. I was heartbroken. A piece of precious memory from my past keeled over and died.

 

The new religion!

 

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There is a certain symmetry and logic, to gymming. And I have discovered this rather late in life. I have never been a gym-goer. I much preferred walking to gymming. But about a month ago, a switch flipped in my head, and I found myself in my building gym.

Now, the gym in question is a superlative one. Well-equipped, and immaculate. When I stepped on the treadmill and started walking, it just felt so right. The act of putting one step in front of the other, in a regular, timed rhythm, was almost military in its precision. I can imagine how soldiers marching for their army must feel. That nothing matters more than that next step.

In short, I have discovered a new religion, with its own set of dogmas, stories, and rituals, yet totally undemanding! To think, I was such an unwilling devotee at its altar, convinced that its ‘sterile environs’ were not for me. My earlier attempts at gymming had always fallen by the wayside. I guess, one has to be in the right frame of mind to receive even the most positive of changes.

A friend and I decided to start together, on this new adventure. We entered the gym with much trepidation. Except the treadmill and the cycles, the rest of the array of machines were unfamiliar, and we had no clue how to work them. But the gym trainers, kind people, put us through the paces. So I now have a nodding acquaintance with about half the machines there. As for the rest of the machines, I have called a truce. We have decided, the machines and I, that we will meet and greet at a future date.

But the one thing I decided very early on was, I was going to go solo, instead of enrolling under a trainer, ever since I saw what they were capable of. Take my word for it. These trainers come from a land where gentleness and moderation are held as depraved qualities. Their utmost satisfaction is when their charges are huffing and panting, and screaming out their pain and frustration. They puff up with pride when their students mock-complain about how their particular trainer pushes them to the extremes of endurance. I swore to myself, I was going to maintain a safe distance from them.

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Fitness has become my new religion

So far it has worked for me. Since I am on my own, with no one to tell me what routine to follow, each day is a new day for me. I choose what I want to do, and which routine to follow. I absolutely love the machine weights section. You see, it’s just the machine and I. The machine helps me, guides me, even as I get to decide how much I want to push myself, or how many repetitions I want to do. Even, which of those to skip and which to keep coming back to. There is a certain logic to it. More important, there is no deception here, and machines certainly don’t judge you! I get a big high the days I have made my way around most of those machines, not the heavy-duty ones though, which to me, still resemble torture racks.

I enjoy being around others who gym with so much focus. Once in a way, some unsolicited, but welcome tip comes my way. I don’t mind it, in fact, I quite like it. It’s fun to be the newbie in the room!

I enjoy the routines so much now, that the days I don’t gym, I am crabby and grumpy. I am aware that my more relaxed pace will not yield the desired results soon. The world of fitness is like an unfathomable ocean. I know that I have barely skimmed the surface, a bit akin to flinging the tiniest pebble into its depths. But I know myself enough to know that rushing headlong and pell-mell, into gym routines will only drive me away with as much speed. Slow and steady does it for me. So if you are hoping to see a svelte me any time soon, you are bound to be disappointed. Give me time and I hope to show you why the tortoise is still the winner:-)

And have I stopped walking? Oh no! Gymming is for the body, while walking with friends, is for the soul:-))

 

An umbrella saga

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Our home is littered with corpses of umbrellas. Like the mice which followed the Pied Piper of Hamelin, we have them in all shapes and sizes – large, thin, fat, small, black, grey, blue. Yet, at the nth hour, when the clock is relentlessly ticking towards the ‘school bus is almost here’ zone, and my son has to be dropped to the gate  in torrential rain, not one comes up to scratch. In desperate hope I open a few and try them, a daily ritual, but as expected, not one works. Finally, I settle for the least ungainly one.

What is wrong with our umbrellas, you may ask. My most coveted one, a black and sleek grandfather umbrella, has got that one flaw which no self-respecting umbrella must have – tiny holes! Agreed, the holes are very tiny, but kind of defeats the purpose, right? My second large umbrella, the grey one, is a stout fellow, and is currently the only half-decent one I have. But it is also a shabby one. The paint has peeled off the grip, and it presents a sorry sight. No sane person would like to be seen holding this one. But my ego has been relentlessly squashed these past rainy days, and I am beyond lofty feelings like pride and dignity. I carry the grey one to the gate every day, my mood mirroring its dull colour.

Now, I have this really fancy umbrella. It’s a brilliant black, Star Wars umbrella, and was my dear son’s choice. It’s shaft is a light sabre with a little button to turn the light on or off, which my son convinced me is most essential when we walk down a dark alleyway on a rainy night. Well, he’s surely watching too much Netflix. I must have been either drugged or in some stupor to have bought this one, because it cost me an arm and a leg.

I bought this from the John’s Umbrella shop at Goa airport. This is the famous John’s kuda (Malayalam for umbrella) one sees advertised heavily on Malayalam channels. We were returning from Goa on the cusp of monsoons, and this seemed like just the right thing to take back with us to Mumbai. Reluctantly eschewing the more sane options, I got persuaded to buy it. Within days, its light was flickering and fading, and one of the ribs was bent. So much for the famous brand. I have a good mind to write them a strong email about it!

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My umbrella saga doesn’t end here. We have a brilliant blue umbrella, with a classy wooden handle. Now, this was bought from outside Amarson’s shop on Warden Road. This was supposed to be my personal umbrella, the one I would grow old with, sheltering me from life’s vicissitudes. Just that, within days, the shutting mechanism failed, which means, the umbrella opens with a flourish, but can’t be shut! It has spawned many jokes in the household,  and I am heartily tired of it. After multiple repairs, there is tentative truce – we are able to shut it. It has now been kept in the car. In a way, it has been semi-retired.

I thought maybe the ill luck plaguing us had to do with large umbrellas. So we adopted a small umbrella, a really good, automatic one. It gave us much joy that we could save the  enormous labour involved in manually opening it. My son had a field day with it. And now it lies disemboweled, all sorts of wires sticking out of it. We have decided to throw it away, with much sadness.

Are we to blame for this state of affairs? I don’t think so. I think the umbrella fairy has simply deserted my family. I know I should start afresh. Throw away the non-functional umbrellas. And look for that one umbrella which will serve us well, and long. There must be an ideal umbrella somewhere, just waiting for me to claim it. I will find it. Even if it takes me a monsoon or two…:-)