Kamon Accho? Ki Khobor?
You ask why Im blogging today instead of my mother? The mater is having one of her bad spells, and it is left to me to put fingers to keyboard. The amount of time Ive spent rolling over (yes yes a tumbling we go in recent days) and banging on the laptop, my mother said its about time I make myself useful. So what have I been up to? Well Im trying to pick up a fair bit of Bangla as you can see. I might not be saying much, my repertoire is restricted to Mumumum, Bubbaabaaa,ditditdit, Eeeeee, and uhhuhh (in three different pitches) and humming to every song but everyone feels Im THINKING in Bangla. Oh well.
OK next question. What keeps me occupied here? Well, I remain fond of blowing raspberries. I do also play with my toys. Though my mother thinks Ive got the operative principle wrong and use them more as a gada/ club to bludgeon everything in sight. The other day I was successful in dismantling something that involved stacking wooden rings. She was very upset, what with it being German and sturdy and meant to be used for a number of years.
How did you do this? she screamed.
Well she would have been very pleased with me if she could have made out what I said in apology (her being a Bollywood buff and all).
Khilona Toy (Gaadi) toh aapki videshi hain, sahab, lekin haath zara Hindustani pad gaya...
(Your foreign made toy just encountered a desi fist)
I hear you also want to know about my Katrina fascination. Well, I had just developed the fine art of distinguishing her songs and appearances from the plethora of new channels appearing on our TV, when my mother decided that she had had enough of Paisa Paisa, May Teree Dhadkan, Mann Ka Radio, Tum Mile played on a loop, and how many times could one snigger at the Nazar Surakhsha ads. Hmmmph. I was a sad baby when she pulled the plug literally on the TV. But not as sad when I woke up one night to see that the parents had put on their projector and were watching Gulaal. No more mindless drivel, my diaper clad ass. My mother was telling her friends how I timed my waking up to the strumming of Mahi Gill's ghungroo. I dont know who timed what, but after a diet of the vegetarian Katrina Kaif on the small screen it was a shock to see a non-veg Mahi prancing about on the wall. My mom said I looked quite the corrupt Sub Havaldar Gulsher in my vest as I leaned on my elbows and ogled at Ms Gill. She had to be replaced by Baby Van Gogh, yeahh to me.
OK coming to my mother's black mood. She says its a sorry day when mothers (especially her mother) dont have answers for their children. Yesterday she was screaming on the phone at her "What do you mean there is no solution to the current crisis? Yes, yes I know its our own Frankensteins, our zombie chickens come home to roost. But what should we be doing now?" My grandmother has no answers. And that scares my mother like anything.
My father, ever the " lets put out the fires that we can" kind of man has sprung some tickets for me and the mother to accompany him on a work thing to Doha. It aint Switzerland, but then it isn't South Waziristan either.
Now my question to you is
Tumi ki amake bhalobaso? Should I continue blogging off and on?