Garden

I have a small nook in my apartment that I have dedicated to exercise my green thumb. As an incidental analysis of my capabilities, I am no plant killer but it has been my observation that plants seem to be happier when they are elsewhere. Well, I have a reasonably good understanding of plant anatomy and chemistry, I was even good at biology in school and also, I wanted to be a doctor – so if a plant could read my stellar CV, it would hire me. But not the plants in my garden. They don’t grow as much in size, often get infected and don’t even start me on the flowering. And, it is not like I haven’t done anything about it. I often hold motivational talks with them, set them clear goals and breathe down upon them with consideration so they get enough C02 - typical, class A, management stuff. I have even tried to shame them by pointing them to my next door neighbor with blooms of envy, and that didn’t go well (there was a nasty rumor that one of the cacti tried to uproot itself, hush). It is almost like all other plants are self driven, go getters, doing a hundred push-ups every morning on one twig, and mine are hanging out in the back alley, updating their Facebook status.

Truth is that I do have a very matter of fact relationship with my plants. I know some folks who pamper them with organic plant food, classical music, yoga (plants can be pretty agile) and what have you. Not me. I water them, scowl at the bugs, poke around the dirt a bit, pick out dead leaves, discuss their growth progress and it is then adios for the next week or three. I like giving them their space to do – whatever it is that they do. But then when I come back, all eager to see my efforts bear fruit, and, they look at me all dull, mildly discolored and sometimes with odd shaped white colored bugs – panicky hand wringing ensues (mine). I drink some water, throw some on their faces, give them a hard talk and shake my head at their failure to deliver. But they just look at me back, all quiet and, am pretty sure, menacing.

A few months ago, I gave up. Completely. My flowering plants were barren, creepers were sporting an eerie white goth look and the cacti (not the dead one) looked prickly. Word got around, and my friendly neighbors began whispering behind my back (as friendly neighbors are wont to) about the need for a gardener. “You mean, like Me?” “No, not you - a professional Gardener”. That hurt a bit, I admit. But trooper that I am, I went and got myself the local Gardener. A shifty looking fellow, with a fondness of hurting the feelings of amateur gardeners trying their hand at a small patch of terrace garden.

The Gardener was neither impressed by my "garden" (borrowing his air quotes) nor with my casually strewn 'Good House Gardening' magazines. He was appalled that I never sang to them and sternly rebuked my casual attitude towards parenting – I think he meant my plants. In summary: he tut-tut-ted, shed a tear, mumbled, smirked, laughed sarcastically, asked me to stop talking and turned into a man of action. He cooed and sang to the plants while he re-potted them with cart loads of organic potting soil and rainbows; I tried to be participative by interjecting his ritual with curious exclamations, which of course, he either ignored or grunted a response to. The only logical segue to this event could be - regular brief visits from The Gardener that meant a gala of organic fertilizer, singing and a lot more cooing - which it was. I have no shame in admitting that now I own a nook that hosts The Gardener's garden, which I pay him to maintain. But hey, the plants look a lot healthier now and I get to show them off (mostly skipping out the back story). I could do with less condescension though.

life

Her: no, I don’t think that’s how you spell it

Him: yes it is.

Her: trust me, it is not

Him: maybe not in your world, but in mine, it is.

[note to self: use this statement where appropriate]

[overheard]

Him: see what I have got for you – Charlie and the Glass Elevator

him: is this like Charlie and the chocolate factory?

Him: yeah, but it is what happens after that.

him: like Glee Season 2?

[watching Superman 2]

Him: why is Superman wearing glasses and talking to that lady like he is not Superman

Her: he doesn’t want anyone to know that he is Superman

Him: that's dumb, if I am Superman I'd want everyone to know

back again.

Life throws all kinds of things and once in a while I manage to do something with it. And that achievement realizes not as an event but as a blip in the process; easy to miss unless one is really paying attention, and I am all for paying attention, when my whining doesn't get in the way.

I telecommute. Been doing that for close to four years now, and to be honest I never thought I would last this long. As a logical conclusion to a series of events, combined with a unexplainable attachment to a certain thread from the past, I began this process. I didn't think anything of it when it started nor paid any conscious attention as I went along; if I were to sit and take stock, at any given point I would have been busy swimming in one of these phases:

1. Ecstatic over the total control time and space -- no pop-ins, no spur of the moment meetings and no need to pay attention to the blinking chat session if I didn't want to. And of course, the travel = 10 steps = illegal amounts of pleasure.

2. Relentlessly fending off curiosity - There are questions, comments and advice from mostly well meaning people. "So you can take naps?" "Must be great to be able to watch your kid grow" “Can you run errands?” "Your career path must be stunted" "Are you doing data entry or are you a call center employee?" Very tough questions, I mostly try to brush them off (note: the ability to successfully brush off usually depends on how I am doing with respect to 1, 3 and 4).

3. Worrying about not having accomplished enough: The distinction between work time and the family time is a blur. As a result, I suffer from a condition that leaves me wringing my hands about not doing justice to either. Having written that down, I realize that the cause and effect I have drawn is a total sham. I don't think I'd be any different had I not been telecommuting. So scratch that: it is only because I am just made like that.

4. Trying really hard to make a difference and make my presence felt.

But it has been a constant through all these phases that I miss the social aspect of working in an office. Small children are not good OR reliable sources of water-cooler company. Case in point:

“So, what do you think of the latest enhancements asked for by X?”

“…”. “Have you seen my green back loader?”

See? We are not even in the same professional ball park. I know I know, choices, balance and what have you. I am not complaining, well at least not entirely. In fact I am now so used to this lifestyle that a bit of the regular "going to workplace" working style leaves me gasping for air. Nevertheless I do sigh with envy as I watch folks leave to "go to work" and I head out to my work desk, picking up Lego pieces on my way.

So yes, I do feel that I have made best of what I have but that feeling lasts only long enough before my overpowering sense of martyrdom takes over.

sundry

Happy New Year!

I know it's late, but the year is still new, right? Wishing new year beyond Feb is unforgivable.

Resolutions? None. I guess I am getting bitter and more cynical with each year so I decided this 'no resolution' thing might well match my personality; I really lack any conscience when it comes to resolutions, hence there is no question of them haunting me; so anyway, what's the point (see: cynical and/or bitter).

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Earlier this year we did a trip to Tirupathi and surrounding areas. The trip was one more proof that neither me or husband are cut out for pilgrimages; it's too early to comment about the child, though I caught him humming devotional songs more than once. The line about apples and trees, not true apparently.

It takes a very different personality and energy level to muster the enthusiasm for this kind of tourism. On the one hand you'll be asked to show up no later than 4AM for your appointment with God and on the other, you'll be given the option of sneaking into God's chambers if you are willing to cough up the right amount. And cough they will, all for a glimpse of the deity while one is shoved aggressively in the general direction of the exit. God has been appointed his very own bouncers, I didn't know that. I don't quite get the logic in going through with this, but the problem may be that I am looking for one.

**************

Finished Inheritance of Loss a month or so ago. It was a good read for most parts (I could relate to the 'Biju' character at some level) except that while it started like a warm and fuzzy conversation about this and that, all of a sudden (as if she realized that the calling card is running out of charge) she quickened the pace and wrapped up the bits. To be fair, she wrapped it up nicely; and unlike the above experience, her's was more of a nudge to get moving towards the exit.

Shifted

We moved. It's done.

My ex-neighbours were extra nice in the last few days (hmmm..something tells me that is not a good reflection); and my neighbourhood was resounding with a clear and unequivocal sentiment that my kid will be missed dearly. See, I am not a fan of brutal honesty. I'll miss my old neighbours, atleast some of them (and I am not just throwing it in as I know that atleast one of the latter will be reading this. Hi Radha!!).

I am a moderate pack rat, married to pack rat extraordinaire. Together we have amassed a fortune of urban junk that would make the stinkiest of rodents envious. We have a whole different interpretation of 'One person's trash is another's treasure'. So after fainting a little bit, the packers shoved every one of our *collectibles* with moderate annoyance into their cardboard cubicles and delivered them safely (with a couple of scratches or twelve) to our new apartment. After three days of frantic unpacking, now the apartment resembles a place suitable for human dwelling.

I didn't realize how sentimental I was about my old apartment until I moved here. That still feels like home, while this like a waiting room at a train station; and an expensive one to boot.

more than a penny for their thoughts

What I am about to write is very closely related to what Ram had said in his post about absenteeism. I am referring to it in the context of hired help. My mom had hired help when we were growing up and now I have three; I have no shame in admitting that I struggle to survive through the day without them. I have managed to keep a good relationship with all of them, and no one's about to spit in my drink when I am not looking (and at the end of the day, this is as good as it gets).

But the hardest part about managing them is their total disregard for call-ins when absent; It's a different rant altogether that most of the time there isn't even a valid reason for being absent in the first place. My maid has taken days off for the death of her father-in-law, thrice. I tried being the employer of the year when I started, but slowly figured (after two years, no less) that being the feudal lord yields better results -- but thanks to my passive aggressive trait (true to my genealogy, I'll proudly add) it is almost impossible for me to pull this off.

For those who are shaking their heads at this point: "I am not saying that I won't let my employees take a day off, I am just pleading that they give me advance notice". Even if one of them doesn't show up unannounced my whole day falls apart, and this drives me up the wall. In a few exceptional cases that I got advanced notices, I managed to find a way to work it out. They definitely got their day off or two and they didn't even have to pseudo-kill their kith or kin over it. Everybody won (sort of). I am waiting for the day that this becomes a norm.

Up until recently I couldn't put my finger on why I treat my job differently than my maids do, given that the necessity I have in retaining my job is almost negligible (economically speaking)! I guess what I aspire to have is a career, while they are busy making a living (duh!). Just about enough money to keep them off the streets and they are good to go. That and they invest more time in people, even if it is at the cost of ruining their source of income.

I have spent quite sometime thinking about this, and I hope that I haven't simplified it.

Commitment

We are moving to a new apartment soon. Not too far away, just a couple of streets further down our current place. Nonetheless, a full fledged move, involving packers and the aura of madness they reek of; add a child to this and you almost have a movie.

We have lived in this city close to three years now and haven't yet bought our own place. I am unsurpassed in my ability to stare at something good, and say, 'No Thanks', because I know that 'the best' is coming along. I just know it. My husband and I are a match that real estate agents' nightmares are filled of: we are extremely critical and we have the right amount of indecisiveness to annoy anyone willing to humor us. Together we have managed to stay non-commital with every house we have lived in and looked at.

"But the kitchen didn't have a place to store all the delicate china that we don't have"

*sigh*

I guess our wariness (indecisiveness and eventual decline to pursue) stems from our need to never 'settle for something'; pointless what-ifs, it's a lifestyle for some. But after we have declined an offer I always end up iterating over the pros and cons of the dead deal until the cows come home. It's an elaborate exercise involving techno gadgets (such as MS Excel) to convince the present me that the past me did not dwell in frivolity but was indeed a noble creature who made some very wise judgements. Being me is very exhausting.

My self-righteous conscience is frowning at my inclusive 'we' usage in this post: Ok, for the record, between me and the husband, I am more decisive about the indecisiveness. My kid however, is still in the envious, yet pesky age of simplicity. The toughest part of this move for me is to explain to my kid the need for leaving his 'home'.