Moana's Open Salon Blog

Thresholds

Tue, 17 Jul 2012 07:07:53 -0400

I was running late. The only consolation was that she would be shocked if I wasn’t . She was the one who dragged me from my bed in our apartment to the classroom all those years ago. She was the one who’d make me gobble my breakfast at the cafeteria before we rushed into class at the last minute, a split second before the lecturer entered. I used to joke that she had become my surrogate mother during those four years of college. She had just rolled her eyes.

The only argument we had ever had was over a bad relationship decision. She’d stormed out when I had refused to see it for the mistake that it was. We later made our peace. She never approved and though I was defiant enough to continue in the relationship through all the emotional and mental turbulence, I secretly acknowledged to myself that she had been right from the start. But by that point in time, I was neck deep and truly believed that I could never find a way out. She stood by me, telling me at every juncture that whenever I broke free, she would be there to guide me through the hell that would inevitably break loose.

Then I grew up. We both found jobs at the same places but decided for different reasons to take two different ones. Jobs became careers and family life claimed us both. We still kept in touch but the intensity was long gone and what remained was warm casual acquaintance.

The years in college, the threshold years, in retrospect feel like a dream; the kind of dream that you have just before you wake up. You never know for sure if the bird song you heard was real or if the voice that woke you up was heard by your ears or your mind. I know I went to college because I have a degree to show for it, photographs and lists of people in my Facebook friends list. But my memories of what happened, how I felt, what I saw, how I reacted, what I thought, have nothing to prove their accuracy. Engineering was what I learnt the least in those four years.

If she was everything I remembered her to be to me and to all the others, how did I let the strength of our friendship get diluted so?

When fate got me a chance to work in her city, I promised myself to not waste this second chance away. I was going to build our friendship all over again.

I called her the evening I received the final contract.

She was overjoyed. The clock turned back and we planned our life as neighbors.

We forgot for an hour our husbands, her child, our jobs, we were just us, roommates, friends who had lost and found each other.

The day before I boarded my flight, she called me. I had asked her to look around for a suitable apartment for us and answered the call fully expecting to hear her tell me that she had found me the perfect home at a perfect distance from hers.

I was partially right. She had found me the perfect home. Only it was hers. She was relocating on short notice due to an emergency at her parents’.

She said there was nobody else she would trust her precious house with. We were to use it till we found a place of our own and then to put it on the market on her behalf.

A suggestion of rent for the months we were to stay in the house, was dismissed with a scoff and a rebuke.

I am now at her threshold, waiting for her to answer the door.

The door opens and she stands before me.

I will never need to doubt my memories again as at this moment in time I am living them all again.

Vegetarianism - Why I quit meat (..or rather how)

Fri, 5 Aug 2011 08:08:10 -0400

“Archaeology, it seems, has unwittingly proven that Vegetarianism is not only unnatural for our species, but a meatless diet is actually counterproductive to our survival. Had our prehistoric ancestors not learned to hunt, kill, and eat meat, we would not be present today to have this debate. The truth lies in the fossil record, eating meat is ingrained in our evolutionary history, and even in our DNA.”

From an extremely well researched and well written post by

Oliver King

I am a vegetarian which means no eggs, no meat, no fish (if ever you feel inclined to feed me). I was not always a vegetarian. In fact I was a borderline carnivore till about ten years ago. Why I gave up non-vegetarian food is quite a mystery to me. Every time someone asks me that question, I invent a new answer.

So this post is about trying to discover why I became a dimwitted vegetarian after sixteen years of flesh eating.

There used to be this show on television hosted by animal rights activist Maneka Gandhi. They used to telecast these blood and gory embellished episodes every weekend, showing how animals are slaughtered for the sake of human consumption. At school, I started to hear of people giving up meat after viewing a few episodes, a student council member and a classmate being among them. This sort of fascinated me. I realized that if I gave up these fleshy pleasures, I might have a real chance at popularity in school. So, one fine day I declared to my parents over dinner that I was going green. My father laughed and my mother stuffed a handful of rice into her mouth to hide her mirth. That spurred me on.

O.K. a little history here is required. I loved all things non vegetarian to the extent that I would kill for prawns and die for mutton chops. As a child, I consumed non-vegetarian food with a passion that made my parents fear for my tiny digestive system. Hence my parents’ reaction when I made my declaration.

Their sarcasm and ridicule challenged my ego. I accepted the challenge and swore off all the temptations of meat/fish/eggs. I was happy in my vegetarian paradise, my friends oohed and aahed, my vanity was massaged. Trouble started two days later, when Amma made my brother an omelet. I tried to ignore the smell, I tried not to stare at my brother’s plate, struggled not to hate my mother but to no avail. Midway through the meal, my mother asked if I would have an omelet. It was seduction, I capitulated to her schemes and before I realized my fall, I was half-way through the egg. From then on I declared myself to be a vegan.

So, I had solved all my problems with a small compromise. Or so, I thought till we had prawns for lunch one day. I of course refused any serving and having learnt my lesson, used tact and strategic seating to avoid a view of the sinful prawns. The meal was over, my father was surprised by my forbearance and my mother puzzled. After the meal, when everyone dispersed from the dining area, I lurked, waiting for my mother to finish up the washing and cleaning (No, I didn’t help, I never claimed to be a good daughter). Finally with that wrapped up, my mother proceeded to her bedroom for her regular afternoon siesta. I saw my chance, stole into the kitchen, spooned out some of the prawns and devoured them with one eye always on the lookout for enemy/my family. It was either stealing from my own kitchen or putting up with my father’s ridicule. I chose the more ego-preserving option.

I was stronger with other fish and meat, though I confess to having stolen a few pieces of fried chicken and on one occasion fried beef when my parents were hosting a dinner. Anyway, this charade was kept up for about two months when my father decided to take the matter into his hands. He took us out to dinner to a favorite eating joint. Their specialty was the “Mughlai parantha”. It’s bread with a filling of mutton “keema” and eggs. Before entering he very innocently asked me if I was O.K. with the choice of hotel. Seeing this as an open challenge, I said yes. I should have known better. My father has been wasting his time at Tata Motors for the past 30 years. He would have made a great politician, a master strategist. He knew my failing and attacked my one weakness, my bloated head, mercilessly.

We went in. The other three ordered the family favorite, the “Mughlai paranthas”. I stoically asked for some boring vegetarian dish which I don’t even remember now. The orders came and we started to eat. However much I tried, I could not block out my father and brother relishing their “egg and keema”. My mother, bless her soul was more considerate. Half an hour into the meal, I broke down. My father, his victory complete ordered another of the paranthas for me. With my head bent in humiliation, I ate like it would be the last thing I would ever eat. I had to steel myself for the hoots and catcalls I would face once we got home so I decided to gorge myself on mutton to at least make the humiliation worth it. I ordered another one. My father raised his brows, I dutifully ignored him altogether. Now, these paranthas were large, about the size of a large pizza, dripping with clarified butter and filled with an eggs and mutton mixture which would be taxing enough to the human digestive mechanism on their own. I had had two of these and one vegetarian dish at one go. Add to that the fact that, I had been off non-veg for almost two months. My body was wont to revolt.

Revolt it did, I was throwing up for the whole of the next day. I missed school for two days.

After this I developed a serious aversion to meat. No matter how my mother fried chicken or how many mutton chops my father tempted me with, I could not have them. I gradually started to dislike fish too; the smell and the flavor would put me off. I continued as a vegan for about six more months more when after eating half of a poached egg, I threw up and had to give up eggs too.

The whole process took about a year and I still cannot enjoy the non-vegetarian flavor in any of my food. I did have an omelet at college as part of a bet (my friend had had to sponsor a whole week’s food for me on losing it). But though I did not become sick, neither did I enjoy it. I have tried having chicken biriyani once, the flavor got to me again and I withdrew.

So I am doomed to be a vegetarian for life, though that is not a particularly bad thing.

And yes, Oliver if you read this, I have to admit that my brain seems to be a little more scattered now than it was when I was a carnivore. Hope I don’t start swinging from trees anytime soon. Now that would be a major embarrassment for me and a heyday for my father.

The Wedding Crasher

Fri, 17 Jun 2011 10:06:27 -0400

She had always liked coloring within the lines. She had never wanted to rebel, to do something different for the sake of doing something different. In her late twenties now, she had begun to feel doubts creep in. Had she really missed out on something? Was she insane for being so completely boring? There was only one way to find out.

She decided to have an adventure. She had no idea whatsoever about she meant to do. But instead of letting this tiny detail ruin her plans, she boarded the next bus that stopped at her stop and bought a ticket to the last station, a place she had never been to before.

The rain had fizzled out into a slight romantic drizzle and she gazed aimlessly out of her window, her mind wandered off and when it returned, she found the bus idling at some stop. She focused on the scene outside. It seemed to be a sequel to her daydream. A shamiana in peach and white decorated with flowers of all colors imaginable stood on a grassy bank behind the bus stop. People milled about the grounds and there were more inside. The slight drizzled was a nuisance to no one. In fact it seemed to envelop the whole tableau in a happy mist. It was a dream and she wanted to live it, to touch it, to feel it.

Just before the conductor rang the bell, she hopped off ignoring the calls of the conductor who feared she may have got off at the wrong stop.

She walked towards the huge canopy of flowing fabric. The flowers were being kissed by the rain and the droplets of water lingered on the petals and folds like the lips of a lover so far gone that physical separation was death. She could not help touching, the flowers, the satin bows inside, she caressed the carpet with her feet, her sandals kicked to the side. Her finger tips lingered on the backs of the chairs as she walked down some random aisle. She was oblivious to everything around her except the texture caressing her fingertips. Her whole existence at that point was concentrated on the tips of her fingers.

And then she had to stop. The scene in front of her brought her back to her senses as effectively as a dip in the Arctic would have. A ceremony was about to take place. And from the looks of it, it was going to be a wedding. The crowd milling outside had started to trickle in. With them came attention and she felt the inquiring glances like needles all over her inappropriately clad body. She turned about and was about to make a quick getaway when the shehnais started to serenade. Half turned away, she halted as if arrested by a spell she saw the bride enter. A vision in red and gold. Had she ever seen anything prettier…. she could not tell.

The needles were forgotten as the angel walked to the hawan kund in the centre, her groom in white seated there already awaiting his princess.

He looked up and the bride looked down. Eyes met, smiles escaped and hearts fluttered, all witnessed and understood by the wedding crasher.

Every gesture, every touch, every look between the couple in the center of dream bubble was now what held her there. She was seeing love, was feeling it like she had felt the flowers, was caressing it, like she had caressed the seats.

The crowd forgotten, she wept unabashedly as the couple took their vows, circling the hawan kund. She prayed as the sindoor colored the parting of the bride’s hair, she was awestruck as the ring encircled the fingers and sighed when the mangalsutra embraced the swan like fair neck.

The applause was thunderous and burst the bubble of ecstasy that had formed itself around her. Soon murmers started trickling into her consciousness.

“It must be her…”

“I never would have thought that she would dare to turn up.”

“She was invited of course….”

“Look at her….shamelessly crying, right where he can see her…”

“I wonder he didn’t falter….as if he had seen nothing…”

“And her…no reaction at all…today’s generation…so insensitive…like the robots they create.”

“I almost feel sorry for her.”

“I pity her parents….and a nice looking girl too, would have made a nice match for some nice boy.”

“She looks half mad, turning up here with her hair all wild and the clothes….wet and shabby. She means to create a scene. It will be fun to watch. These weddings can be incredibly boring. Diversions such as her are rare. I am glad I didn’t stay home like Mrs. B.”

“You mean Mrs. B lied about her mother in law, wait till Mrs. C hears about it…hey look, she’s leaving….what, no drama…”

“She cannot have come all this way just to see the guy marry her lover….I hate these sentimental fools….She dared to love…I mean love a woman(I can hardly imagine) and now she doesn’t dare interrupt the wedding. She did create a big scene however the other day at Mrs. C’s house.”

“Imagine poor Mrs. C coming back all thrilled after shopping for her daughter’s wedding lehenga and walking right into her daughter’s torrid tryst with this homo here. It’s a miracle she is in her senses now, even three days later. Although I did hear that she was at the psychiatrist’s for the rest of the day. I am sure if she were to see this girl here, the nervous breakdown averted that day would be right upon us.”

“Poor thing….who can blame her…for liking a girl….with the guys all turning girly these days, with their clean shaven faces and long hair….And with test tubes and all, they don’t need a man even for a baby nowadays…”

She was in the bus when she finally dared to think and thinking giggled helplessly, causing another set of murmurs, this time suggesting asylums…and psychiatrists...

Flash Fiction - The Copier Machine

Fri, 10 Jun 2011 07:06:41 -0400

She loved her cubicle. It was right next to the copier machine. She loved seeing all the people who came to copy, scan, print or just fix a jam.

She played out stories in her head about all of them. Hushed conversations on cellphones, snatched bits of office gossip shared over the whir of the machine added spice to the narratives.

He came to the machine for the first time on his second day in the office. He caught her sneaking looks at him. He smiled, just to be nice, she turned her face the other way. He did not take offence, he knew she was discomfited.

But it was too late for him, he had seen her eyes, her lips pursed in concentration, the dimples on her chin, her hair curling all around her face.

She was surprised he had seen her watching him. No one ever noticed her. She looked up only when his retreating back was visible over the top of her monitor.

He started coming everyday. He never looked her way. She never turned to watch him. But he always caught her profile while turning to walk away. She always looked out for his retreating back over her monitor.

Then one day he didn’t come. She waited. He was absent the next day. She was curious. He stayed away for a week. She was anxious. She went through the discarded papers at the machine. No clues.

She looked out for the familiar back at the cafeteria, during walks through the office, in the elevators, in the reception, in the subway, on the streets, in her dreams….

Two weeks after the last time the back had vanished beyond the range of her monitor, she gave up. She stayed home to mourn the end of her affair.

Next day she took her seat in the cubicle beside the machine. Her screen had a post it stuck to it smack in the middle.

It had a name and a number

…….and a sketch of the machine.

When Life gives you Writer's Block -

Thu, 2 Jun 2011 05:06:23 -0400

- Write about other people's posts....

A few posts which I think were read by shamefully few people. All cover posts have been excluded, out of spite. Just kidding....

1. Angels Everywhere

2. Kitchen Comedy