Realizations

I had been to my cousin's thread ceremony on Sunday. To all my international readers (the huge big zero of them), and to the non hindu ones (another big zero), it is the Jewish equivalent of Bar-Mitzvah. I made a few observations there.

• Older women cousins, and aunts (Yes, we South Indians have some aunts younger to ourselves, thanks to prolific grandparents) will play to your ego regarding "your beauty", or in normal parlance, "handsomeness".
• The uncles over 50 shall do so too, but the 30 year old married guys shall not even remark about that great shirt you are wearing and everyone loves.
• To find a great looking South Indian female is very difficult. To pacify all the angry female readers (yet another zero), I have heard that finding that handsome South Indian Male is equally so.
• During every South Indian function, at least those with a moderate size, the males in action, have to display "what lies beneath the dress". Thanks, in no measure, to the dress here. Ironically, all the display happens by married men.
• The women in their nine yard sarees look pretty (round?).
• Some women in their nine yard sarees manage to walk. The others maintain their normal activity levels by remaining seated.
• South Indian Mamas have an opinion, and a suggestion for everything. This includes tips for MBA, Greg Chappel, dressing for women (the lungi that the Mama has worn notwithstanding of course), career choices, food, cooking food, the neighbor Mami, how to be great with women....
• South Indian Mamas CAN gossip for hours on end.
• Humour is well appreciated by all south Indian females. This might be due to the fact that they are normally accompanied by males who are as sprightly as they would be when they are at a funeral.
• People can be really generous. Its sad that it wasn't my thread ceremony.
• The definition of a mother cannot be restricted to "Women who have children, or for that matter borne them".
• No matter who, or where you are, there shall always be that guy who is smarter than you. This is not exactly a realization though.
  
• Self deprecation makes for great humour
• I can relate to middle aged, and aged Maharashtrian people. Possibly because they are similar to South Indians (The above mentioned points are not applicable to them!).
• Trains in Bombay is great for chemical engineers/science students. They can memorize all the organic smells there.
• Trains in Bombay have no ceiling limit on the number of people.
  
• Most men in the Bombay trains are gentlemen.
• I am bored writing this post as of now, but I am going to bore the reader some more.
• The worth of an IIM degree is immense in marriage circles. Even clearing the CAT is useful.
  
• Grandfathers can be great company.
  
• Daughters scold fathers after they start earning.
  
• I am really bored of this post.
• No one will read this post.
• End of post

Madonnas and Jesuses

I traveled by bus last night. It wasn’t too crowded, but had to stand nonetheless. My friend was seated, and I was left alone standing. Since we were both tired, I was left to the silence for company. I had the option of thinking to myself, which of course, I chose.

My eyes began scanning the bus. My friend was seated in the seat adjacent to the one I was looming over. The others were taken by people of various shapes and sizes. They were images that were forgotten easily. Nothing special. I went back to ruminate over the past year. The bus passed a few stops.

Bored of those thoughts, the scanning began again. I noticed a cheerful child in a lady’s arms. She was the mother apparently. There she was playing with her child, oblivious to the surroundings. Children with mothers are beautiful. Its natural, since it’s the first love that a child experiences. But there could be something more beautiful. Two children, with their respective mothers.

Adjacent to mother nearest sat another mother son duo. And the little fellow here was fast asleep. There was that blissful baby sleep. And I watched in silence again.

It was quite later that I noticed the attire. One was in a burkha, and the other in a saree with the sindoor et al. I noticed that atleast two of the foursome knew nothing about the sindoor, or the burkha for that matter. They knew only the person. They knew only their mothers. They didn’t care if the lady in front, whose hair the active one was busy tugging at, was clad in burkha or had a sari on. He just wanted to play. And then I thought of Gujarat, and the Babri Masjid, and the Bombay Riots, and the Bombay blasts, and the Jihad in Kashmir, and God knows what else.

The bus jerked. I lost balance. I looked out. Saw my stop, and got out. That image remained in my mind.