Navratri, a 10 day festival in India is the threshold for the holiday season. Homes are adorned with rangolis with the most intricate designs and there is a festive mood all around.
South Indian culture adds to the glory of this festival by displaying dolls on odd numbered steps. Miniature parks are created with varied themes and each household out does the other in creativity. It is a great time for social gathering, and, the sounds of bells and melodious vibrations reverberate throughout the community.
Having left this behind over a decade ago, I started the doll tradition in the US about 5 years ago. My mom has been adding little trinkets of dolls over time to build my collection. During my recent trip to India, I brought another such collection.
As I carefully opened each one, my daughter’s eyes grew big with amazement at the display of clay Lilliputians around her. She was quick to beg for permission to play with them as my mom and I sat and admired the little hands placing things fondly and communicating to these inanimate objects. I was driven by the nostalgic memories these brought when I was enamored by these very things, only bigger in size. Three generations of women, each living their past or present memories at that very moment.
The excitement soon grew and she wanted to hear all about the arrangements we plan for the festivities this year and my mom told her stories of how her mom would have a grand display of 11 steps in her house. She told her stories of the many artists who would come and sing melodious recitals in praise of the many Gods and Godesses that adorned those steps. I still remember all the yummy savory and sweet snacks my grandma and great grandma prepared. I would gingerly step into the kitchen every day to get into the forbidden snack box and sneak away with a snack or two.
While, we were all engrossed in the storytelling, one little monster has crept up to the clay creations and was eying them with bated breath. My 15 month old tyrant was all ready to charge at them with all his might and leave them with missing parts. One poor cow now has a missing ear, but we managed to save the rest before any further cruelty was instilled on them.
Phew! what a difference a boy and a girl make. I have a yin yang experience with my kids, one who is a doll and keeps her stuff like a diamond that shines in the sky and other, who like the crates of the moon better
Nonetheless, I love them for what they are but I made mental notes to first invest in a safety gate to prevent the carnage on the dolls for the 10 days that they beautify my home.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Budding musician??
As I write this, my eyes well up with joy and the warmest smile is plastered on my face and I can relive the moment a thousand times and still let the same emotions run.
A lazy last afternoon, my daughter was tasked with practicing her Carnatic music to prepare for upcoming festivities. No sooner did my 15 month old son see her walk with the music box (shruthi petti), a wide grins adorns hi face and he starts chiming “Sa…”. He grabbed the box and gingerly wedged himself between my Mom and daughter and started singing “Sa Ri” in a high and low pitch as if to match the scale. If this did not stop him, he then started singing, complete with talam (beats) on his lap like a professional with self made lyrics. Every now and then, he looked at the box to make sure the volume was right, acknowledged with an “uhmm” and continued his kacheri (concert).
It was a delight to see the little master prove that he can sing just as beautifully as his sister and he would run up after a few minutes with a gleeful look, clapping his hands, looking for praise. It was a sight to hold and behold and I wish I had the camera to capture the essence of his joy. Maybe many years later, I can sit surfing these videos when they are grown up and don’t need me anymore and relive the joy I feel today as I write this post
A lazy last afternoon, my daughter was tasked with practicing her Carnatic music to prepare for upcoming festivities. No sooner did my 15 month old son see her walk with the music box (shruthi petti), a wide grins adorns hi face and he starts chiming “Sa…”. He grabbed the box and gingerly wedged himself between my Mom and daughter and started singing “Sa Ri” in a high and low pitch as if to match the scale. If this did not stop him, he then started singing, complete with talam (beats) on his lap like a professional with self made lyrics. Every now and then, he looked at the box to make sure the volume was right, acknowledged with an “uhmm” and continued his kacheri (concert).
It was a delight to see the little master prove that he can sing just as beautifully as his sister and he would run up after a few minutes with a gleeful look, clapping his hands, looking for praise. It was a sight to hold and behold and I wish I had the camera to capture the essence of his joy. Maybe many years later, I can sit surfing these videos when they are grown up and don’t need me anymore and relive the joy I feel today as I write this post
Thursday, September 3, 2009
My hometown or is it?
August, I think it went missing from my calendar. Running form pillar to post, the final arrangements and packing for the big trip was planned and executed. Five suitcases lined the hallway as we delegated home security tasks to trusted family and soon we were aboard SQ15.
After a tiresome journey handling 2 kids and a husband, I disembarked to what I remember as home. I felt a strange tickle in the throat and knew that it was indeed my hometown, but yet nothing I remembered existed on the streets lining the tall apartments that had sprouted everywhere.
After a 2 hour journey from the airport, I entered the house. All through the way, I was troubled about the lack of identity I had with Bengaluru, the city, I proudly called mine. Determined not to lose hope, I dismissed thoughts about northern Bangalore being stricken by the apartment fever. With renewed hope, I started exploring my familiar paths when we ventured outside to the many eateries that have sprouted wings, but much to my dismay, all the lovely single family homes with lush green garden were replaced with giant apartment complexes with monster driveways. Bengaluru was a concrete jungle and thats how I remember Mumbai, though my fondness for Mumbai is very strong too.
A trip to the vegetable vendor with Rs 50 in hand, fetched me supplies for a week in my days, but the current situation, Rs 50 doesn’t even fetch me vegetables for a dish. Waiters earned an average Rs 50 a day, today, they earn Rs 50 per meal per table. Cost of living has gone through the roof. While the westerns have wised up on their lifestyle, everyone in India seems to have made their investments in the evils that were shooed away from here.
I still remember the look on my husband’s face when I promised him finger licking good food at restaurants I had frequented, only to find that they were long gone. Not to forget, the innumerable one-ways we have to maneuver to get there in peak traffic. It is than that I began to wonder if it really was my home town at all.
Nothing I knew existed the way I remembered, every street had nuances of new life that the influx of MNC’s had inculcated on their appearance in the city. It amused me to read the maintain distance behind BTS buses; only to notice that the auto behind stood at hairs length. Traveling to any place, even 2 kilometers away, took well over 20 minutes. There were 6 cars lined up in a two lane road. At some point, I stopped promising a time to friends and family as there was no predicting how long the commute would take. I was always prepared with extra food, clothes and snacks for kids as road closers happened on a whim and the detours meant an additional hour.
Nothing that existed in mind still held any importance in my hometown. Now, I can only say, those were the days.
After an equally exhausting 24 hour flight back with the kids, I must admit, I missed this home just as much and all the familiarity it brought with it just made me feel like I was back in my home and this felt more like my home town.
Am I being hypocritical? I don’t know, but changes in life happen faster than you can fathom.
After a tiresome journey handling 2 kids and a husband, I disembarked to what I remember as home. I felt a strange tickle in the throat and knew that it was indeed my hometown, but yet nothing I remembered existed on the streets lining the tall apartments that had sprouted everywhere.
After a 2 hour journey from the airport, I entered the house. All through the way, I was troubled about the lack of identity I had with Bengaluru, the city, I proudly called mine. Determined not to lose hope, I dismissed thoughts about northern Bangalore being stricken by the apartment fever. With renewed hope, I started exploring my familiar paths when we ventured outside to the many eateries that have sprouted wings, but much to my dismay, all the lovely single family homes with lush green garden were replaced with giant apartment complexes with monster driveways. Bengaluru was a concrete jungle and thats how I remember Mumbai, though my fondness for Mumbai is very strong too.
A trip to the vegetable vendor with Rs 50 in hand, fetched me supplies for a week in my days, but the current situation, Rs 50 doesn’t even fetch me vegetables for a dish. Waiters earned an average Rs 50 a day, today, they earn Rs 50 per meal per table. Cost of living has gone through the roof. While the westerns have wised up on their lifestyle, everyone in India seems to have made their investments in the evils that were shooed away from here.
I still remember the look on my husband’s face when I promised him finger licking good food at restaurants I had frequented, only to find that they were long gone. Not to forget, the innumerable one-ways we have to maneuver to get there in peak traffic. It is than that I began to wonder if it really was my home town at all.
Nothing I knew existed the way I remembered, every street had nuances of new life that the influx of MNC’s had inculcated on their appearance in the city. It amused me to read the maintain distance behind BTS buses; only to notice that the auto behind stood at hairs length. Traveling to any place, even 2 kilometers away, took well over 20 minutes. There were 6 cars lined up in a two lane road. At some point, I stopped promising a time to friends and family as there was no predicting how long the commute would take. I was always prepared with extra food, clothes and snacks for kids as road closers happened on a whim and the detours meant an additional hour.
Nothing that existed in mind still held any importance in my hometown. Now, I can only say, those were the days.
After an equally exhausting 24 hour flight back with the kids, I must admit, I missed this home just as much and all the familiarity it brought with it just made me feel like I was back in my home and this felt more like my home town.
Am I being hypocritical? I don’t know, but changes in life happen faster than you can fathom.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
