Meenakshi Reddy Madhavan's Blog, page 162

And the good news is...

More Tales from Nizamuddin
You guys were awesome and super supportive about my Mr Shawl dilemma, so I thought I'd give you an update. A couple of days ago, I had a meeting with the landlord and my immediate downstairs neighbour--his other tenant. It was decided that I would take my downstairs neighbour's parking spot--the undisputed parking spot--whenever I could, and he would brave the demons, them not being demonic to him, of course. This works out fine, mostly, but since it is an undisputed spot, it's a bit of a free-for-all claiming it and more than once this week, I've returned late at night only to have to park by a public garden two blocks away.



It's a bit scary walking through a neighbourhood at night, through dark alleys, though Nizamuddin is relatively safe, I feel a bit like a daredevil. Anyhow, for the next couple of days the problem is solved for me, because Downstairs Guy has taken his family on an Eid road trip. In the meanwhile, I've gone from chatting to my other neighbours, to a cold nod of my head when I pass them, except Mr Shawl who I meet head on with (what I'm hoping) is a vicious glare. Go, passive aggressive!






Anyway, this means the problem isn't solved, except temporarily,  and I might just get a Vespa and end it all. In the meanwhile, daredevilry is suiting me, because it's great being able to give everyone a big old Fuck You I Don't Need Your Spot And I Don't Need To Be Nice To You and I can wake up in the morning thinking of other things. What's a little dark-alleyway compared to peace of mind, eh? (I'm such a wimp.)



In all this terrible-ness, and the flu, the one shining spot in my household this week has been the arrival of S. S is a professional cook who I found recommended on an expat network, and comes to my house once a day, except for Sundays, and is worth every bit of the relatively high salary I pay her. She's really good--she experiments with food, "would you like roast chicken and mashed potatoes?", yesterday we recreated an Andhra dish neither of us had cooked before just from a recipe off the internet, but she's intuitive with food, knows what tastes good, and now I never want her to leave. She's also young and educated, speaks quite good English, takes the metro every day to her various jobs, and reads recipe books. I've offered her the pick of my library, whatever you want to borrow, I said, and I hope she takes me up on it, even if I have to thrust books at her, it is such a joy to give someone reading.

 

We complain a lot about how expats drive up prices--rent and domestics and whatnot--but I can't help but think it's a good thing, in cases of girls like S. I've met so many young women working as maids,  I had a couple in Bandra, always a little angry because this was not the life they wanted, they wanted to be like anyone else, to rise above the unfairness of class and economic structure. S. can call the shots, she manages a few households too, not just as a cook but as a housekeeper, and when she came in for the interview, she sat on the couch with poise. She's not traditional or old school, and even though she calls me "ma'am", I see a certain camaraderie between us that doesn't exist between me and the cleaning lady, primarily because the cleaning lady still requires supervision or she just flicks a broom over the floor and calls it a day. That's it. That's the essential difference between the new help and the old ones, the new ones are professional about their jobs and the old ones will slack off if you don't point stuff out to them.



Although, we are swiftly coming to the day where there will be no more domestic help, except for the very rich, as is in all other countries. People might still get someone in once a day to sweep or wash dishes, but no lounging about all day with a full time person at your beck and call, unless a) they're an old family retainer and have no more choices or b) you're giving them adequate compensation to work for you. I am constantly rather shocked by how little people are willing to pay the men and women who make their lives better--you pay them less than what you'd pay on an expensive night out or on holiday or whatever, and why? Because you can? It seems a deliberate way to "keep them in their place" and to ensure the class barriers are never broken, because it is so inherently unIndian to pay someone what you think they're worth. Always with the bargaining and the hardselling.



So, I hear stories on the same expat network about how these maids won't work for Indian families anymore and then there's OUTRAGE, HOW DARE THEY, RACISTS ETC. But it kinda makes sense. Would you go back to a life of being chivvied and bullied after being king of the castle? Would you take a pay cut and BE GRATEFUL for that pay cut because LOOK HOW MUCH I'M PAYING YOU COMPARED TO OTHER PEOPLE and work your ass off regardless because I AM GOING TO GET MY POUND OF FLESH? I wouldn't. But then expats don't stay here forever and there are all these people who have no choice but to give up the lives they almost had and go back to being a domestic servant for the rest of their lives. (Nothing gives me the heebie jeebies more than the word "servant". It's awful. Please never use it.)



Which is where you and I come in. If you can afford a cook, you can afford someone like S. You can pay a little more than you normally would and get stellar service. You can create employment opportunities and you can remember it's a new world, you're getting a raise so why not them? I actually have been smoke free* for close to a month now and the money I'm saving on cigarettes comes to approximately Rs 2,000 a month. This goes into S's salary. Win-win, and a healthier habit.



*except when I'm drinking, which, come ON, I'm only human.

Anastasia Krupnik probably would have been your best friend.

In between reading Zadie Smith's latest--a rather hard book compared to her other, more linear, less patois plots, but Zadie and I are BFFs even if she doesn't know it--I've also been finishing the entire Anastasia Krupnik series.



Anastasia is up there with Cassandra Mortmain (of I Capture The Castle, one of the best books ever written, and incidentally, by the same author who wrote 101 Dalmations, a book that was SO MUCH better than the Disney movie and which, if you like dogs, you should read) (Here are some links to buy them: I Capture The Castle and 101 Dalmatians ) as one of the most attractive young adult heroines of all time. Anne Shirley was nice and all, but a bit too dreamy, Jo March was too "ernie", and don't get me started on the wrongness of Elizabeth and Jessica Wakefield. (Claudia Kishi was kinda awesome though. I liked her. Here's a blog about her, which is very cool.)










Why do I like Anastasia Krupnik?



1) In her first book, pictured above, Anastasia catalogues the things she likes about herself including a small pink wart on her thumb. She (and her parents) think it's the prettiest wart ever.



2) She wants to call her baby brother One-Ball O'Rielly. (She calls him Sam in the end, but it was a good thought.)



3)  Descriptions of being an adolescent litter the books: for example, a complicated middle school ritual we all remember about how you had to act like you hated the boy you liked and scream and look pissed off every time he bugged you. But if he bugged someone else, then it was understood that all was over between the two of you.



4) The Krupniks are the kind of family you want to belong to: poet/professor father, artist mother, genius toddler. Plus shaggy dog called Sleuth.



I believe Sam gets his own series a little later, but I haven't read those. If you have, weigh in!



Anastasia is a bit like Ramona Quimby--who deserves a whole post to herself-- in that it's a very clear, very honest view of being at an awkward age. Each book is slim and deals with one adventure: posting dog poop in the litter box or running the house while her mother is away. And because of this bird's eye view, it's very detailed. Honestly, you can't complete your YA literature education without reading these.



Buy here:Anastasia Krupnik.



And here is an interesting argument about both Anastasias in  recent literature: Steele vs. Krupnik. 

A dog with issues and a cat named Monochrome

Those are really ugly shoes, bro.

Vital stats:

Name: Tonks (aka Atom by shelter, I prefer Tonks.)

Age: 4 months, aww, he's just a baby.

Plus points: Leash trained, disease free, AWESOME.

Minus points: A rather long nose. It's okay, Tonks, we can't all be beautiful.

And other things: He's a boy and he's Indian or street bred, which means he'll be super hardy. Plus, despite my dig about his nose, quite a handsome champ. ADOPT TONKS, CALL 9818201987.



Dirt tastes like earth, thought Hagrid, swiftly followed by OOH I MADE A POEM




Hagrid is a Bull Mastiff.  If you're reading that Wikipedia article allow me to highlight one bit for you: They're very quiet and rarely bark.

Ladies and gentlemen: ninja dog.

ADOPT HAGRID (but as an only dog, he's not great with sharing, I feel you, kid) CALL 9818201987.








He dreamt in vivid technicolour, however

This is Monochrome. Get it, get it? It's because he's black and white. And so I put a black and white filter on his photo! Yay! I'm so clever! You can be clever too: all you need is a cat, and here's a perfectly good one. It's scientifically proven that people with cats are 75.6% smarter than people without. They're not CRAZY cat ladies, they're GENIUS cat ladies. Mono also has a sister who's brown and white and so I'm calling her.. wait for it.. Sepia. Oh, I crack myself up. ADOPT MONOCHROME CALL 011-28539921.

Thank you to Friendicoes and Red Paws Rescue for the animal information and photographs! The usual wittering: yes, I'll post your pictures + animal for adoption (email me!), no, please don't ask me to help rehome your poor abandoned animal (no one asked you to get a pet in the first place) and OBVS I'll be happy to name your pet for you. For free.

A list of really good packaged foods for the lazy eater

Mother Dairy fruit  yogurt, plum flavoured : It's a sort of pale beige-y salmon and if you leave it in your fridge overnight, it's deliciously, decadently cool and reminds you of high summer, sitting in front of a water cooler, eating plums, and yes, I know you want me to say the poem, because the poem is this yogurt, so here we go:

This Is Just To Say
by William Carlos Williams
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

 I've had a cold recently, in fact, I currently have a cold and am on antibiotics, so I'm eating a lot of these because I can't breathe and eat at the same time any more. (I know. Best--but most annoying--diet ever.)






Nong Shim Shin Cup Noodle Soup : The best cup o'noodles style thing I've had. It has dehydrated veggies in it that actually plump back into real life after you add the hot water. I got the spicy one and it didn't even need any extra hot sauce, which is awesome and rare. I'm thinking this is imported? But I got it at my local guy, so if you have a reasonably well stocked place, you could ask. I wish I had bought more. 



Git's Instant Rawa Dosa Mix : Breakfast, snack and currently tea. Really easy to make, just add water, and unlike the MTR version, this doesn't require any extra salt. You also get pretty professional at making dosas in a frying pan after your first few scrambled-egg attempts. PRO TIP: Make teeny tiny dosas if you actually want to be able to flip them over!



MTR Instant Upma Mix : While I'm on South Indian food, it would be remiss of me not to mention my all time favourite, MTR's suji upma. It is so good that I think homemade from scratch tastes inferior. Enjoy with a squeeze of lemon and some extra green chillies. Oh, also, the microwave version works, but isn't as good as the the one you make in a saucepan on the stove.





I believe in mirruhkuls!

Cadbury's Hot Chocolate : Better than Hershey's with a richer flavour--except not being a syrup, you have to really get in there and mix it up to make a cold drink. On a chilly night, however, you've just gotten home from a bar, your feet are tired, you're a bit peckish but also want to go to sleep, you kick off your heels, get into your forgiving, loving pajamas, and heat some milk up on the stove till it sizzles and then pour into a cup with three spoons of hot chocolate and curl up in bed with a book and yes, this is pleasure. This is the way life should be lived.



Plus the can's just so pretty.




Recommendations? I'd love to add to my repertoire!

Strings Attached OR Help! My Neighbour Is An Asshole!

Mr. Shawl lives downstairs and does not like me. He's never spent any time actually chatting to me, but I put a spanner in his works when I moved it by daring to own a car, and now someone's nose is going to be out of joint.



Mr Shawl and his upstairs neighbours each possess two cars. Then, there's the family immediately below me, who have a car. And then there's me. There are three floors to this building and five parking spaces. The family below me park in the landlord's spot next door, which means the two floors have enjoyed spreading out with their mostly large vehicles across five spaces. Lalala, they said. Life is good. And then along came I.







First Floor Guys are sweet. Two young men are nice to me, their father says hello when we cross on the stairs, I've only met their mother once, but smells of her cooking waft upwards on Saturday evenings making my stomach growl. As a result, when I'm out of town, First Floor gets my keys to move my car at their will.



I've only ever encountered Mr Shawl once, when he returned from holiday in Kashmir and I was on my way to the airport and he said in a very low, very aggressive voice that he had been parking there forever and I should move. I didn't. I returned from my weekend to find my car absolutely filthy. Mr Shawl employs the watchman, my maid's husband, who I had hired to wash my car. "Why is it dirty?" I asked him and he shrugged, "I don't want to wash it anymore." I know Mr Shawl is behind this because when I returned, the watchman smiled at me and I asked him to help with my bag and as soon as he reached for it, we both heard a loud voice summoning him into the house. Mr Shawl is trying to bully me out of the building. He isn't a very nice man.



I could leave, I suppose. I have a sinking feeling each time I pull in, who will I have to fight with now? and that's not very nice. Mr Shawl and the First Floor will go back to having five parking spots. The watchman and the maid will continue to be tyrannized. But I just moved in, and I like my actual flat. It's a nice flat, but it comes with SO. MANY. STRINGS. I have to nag the landlord about three things on a weekly basis: 1) my direct water connection (I'm still drinking Bisleri) 2) installing some cupboards for my clothes (I'm living out of suitcases and boxes and he promised) 3) getting me my parking space (it's his house too!). Yesterday, someone closed the door and a tile fell off. Seriously. What am I doing here?   



Mr Shawl is doing what Indian men do. I am the only man-less person in this building, therefore I am the softest target. He can't threaten me with violence, because hello, cops. (Well, not yet, let's wait and see.) He makes me SO MAD BECAUSE HE'S A FUCKING ASSHOLE AND YET HE CONTROLS MY PEACE OF MIND. My comforts. Bam! Dirty car! Bam! Stomach knotting as I walk down the stairs! Bam! It's three am, will I have to park two kilometres away? Pretty soon, I can see him getting to my cleaning lady and telling her to quit too, but she hasn't yet, so maybe that's a good thing? If I leave, it's conceding defeat. Mr Shawl and his kind will win forever.



But then there are such scary stories online. People getting killed for less. Cars being burnt. Wars being fought. How can I deal with this in a firm, above board manner? How can Mr Shawl not get to me? I'm the only one in my corner, my landlord is using me as his cat's paw to reclaim his parking space in this building. 



I should move, right? But, again? I'm tired just thinking about it.



Thoughts? Suggestions? Sympathy? Sigh.

Three really sexy books I've read recently

Being monogamous to a person who doesn't always live in the same city as you means you sometimes got to help yourself, so to speak, know what I'm sayin'? etc. I combat this with sexy reading and having a fully battery-ed up helper. (I now can't buy batteries without blushing deeply. Worse than condoms.)



The Kindle is your friend, ladies who love smut, because you could be sitting on a plane, innocently crossing your legs, eating your cookie, and the gentleman next to you thinks, "Aw, how sweet, she's so into her book" not being able to hear all your heavy breathing over the whirr of the aircraft. Here are three books you must get for yourself, Kindle or not, because they will leave you heaving:




1) The Everyone Told You It Was Dirty But You Took A While To Get Into It Book:





Yes, yes. 50 Shades Of Grey. I mocked. I scoffed. I moffed, even. Here's what my friends said:

"Oh. My. God."



"Couldn't stop reading it."



"It really worked, you know? It worked!"





And so, I got it for my Kindle and began and at first I wanted to roll my eyes as much as Ana. Is this what the feminist movement has become? Here's the thing; it's a really, really terrible book. There's no plot, the writing is terrible, the characters are one dimensional, but... the sex scenes are really sexy. I mean, even as someone who is fairly vanilla about these things, the description of a riding crop one evening *rowr*.



The problem is in the next book, Christian Grey stops being a sexy fucked up person with a Red Room of Pain and becomes very vanilla AND SHE DOESN'T EVEN DESCRIBE THE SEX ANYMORE. It's all, "we finished and rolled over and smiled with love." Yuck. Get a room. I'm  not even bothering with book three because they'll probably be picking out their kids names. Stick with book one for maximum satisfaction.



Buy here.





2) The Unexpectedly Sexy Read Which You Thought Was Historical Fiction But Turned Out To Be Historical EROTICA Book:







 Um, yes. This book starts off all very well with a young man in Amsterdam going to seek his fortune as a tutor for a rich family. But almost immediately afterwards he seduces the kid's mother, and that's quite rollicking.



Then, just as you emerge, breathless and gasping from those encounters, there's some homoerotic stuff which is seriously knee shaking. And then it all ends with a very vague To Be Continued. It helps that the story is engaging, the language genuine and you get invested in the characters (unlike a certain E.L I could mention). The to be continued business is very annoying though.



NOT GOOD ENOUGH, RICHARD MASON! I WANT MORE SEX!



Buy here.





3) The Classic Always On My Kindle In Case Of Emergency Book:





Anais Nin is generally a really good beach/holiday read because her languid sensuality suits sand and sun and nothing to do. But! Delta Of Venus is tantalisingly sexy, prying you open, turning you inside out, each story complete in and of itself and by the end of it, you want to just close the book and lie down, thinking about sex, sex, sex for at least forty minutes. Also, it leaves you feeling beautiful and goddess-like. What other book can do that, I ask you?



Buy here.

Urban meditations

(I wrote this for National Geographic Magazine,but they wanted something more city-ish, so I decided to use it here.)




There’s a particular time of day when Lodhi Road actually
makes my heart contract—literally squeeze. It’s about 4.30 pm. It’s about
October-ish or July-ish. I’m driving from the India Habitat Centre towards
Safdarjang Tomb. The sun catches the leaves and the light that filters through
them, down this avenue, is so soft and rich and gold, you’re almost in another
time. If you’re looking down at the pavements, sometimes a breeze will lift the
old dry leaves and the melancholy that evokes is sweet and too much to bear. 







I used to have the same feeling; a combination of stillness
and yearning and pit-of-my-stomach-anticipation when hurtling down Bandra’s
Carter Road in a rickshaw. A road is a strange place to have an epiphany, but
then if it’s a straight road, combined with the almost automatic task of
driving, it can make you zen-like, transcendent.  What is Delhi if not its roads?




It’s on Lodhi Road that I think of the small, quiet things
in my life that are important to me. It’s a sad road some days, tied up with
the death of a beloved person—those memories sometimes chase me home at two in
the morning. But in the very early evening or very late afternoon, Lodhi Road
is the best of all roads. It is, in fact, my urban meditation.  

Shoebox of photographs and sepia toned loving

and so it is,

just like you said it would be,

life goes easy on me,

most... of the time.

 - from The Blower's Daughter by Damien Rice. (which, incidentally, also stands out as the song two of my characters in You Are Here have sex to.)









Laundry in a window cage

Summer is fast turning into fall. Early October is almost like magic, how it smooths out bad moods, keeps your spirits high and hangovers low, and for certain former smokers, helps to make the transition easier. (Okay, it's only been a week, but still worthy of bragging about. Even if I slip up again, I'll still have this week.). I find myself getting chilly at night, and with a sigh, I'm folding up small dresses and thin cotton, all tucked away till next year, or in my When-In-Bombay pile.








A rare non-house party night out

Winter also means it's been nearly two years since I returned to this city, and even though in the beginning I was fleeing from something I left behind, I was SO homesick for Bombay, for everything that city had--from the busy roads, the smell as soon as you get out of the airport, the certain still, expectant feel of a pre-monsoon evening, I missed it all. I missed my friends. I missed my life.



But in two years, Delhi has done much to convince me that this is currently the city I want to live in. My standard of living is higher, no more fighting with a million people just to get my space. (Metaphorically. Literally, I probably fight MORE in Delhi than in Bombay.) Cheaper rents, larger spaces. A world that's not just Bandra and doesn't have to be just Bandra because it takes so long to get anywhere else. And little things that make aging better--nicer food, house parties, an abundance of green spaces, wide roads that are mostly traffic free. 





House on the Delhi-Jaipur highway.

Certain things--and people--keep me tied to Bombay though. And there are days, like today, when I miss it so fiercely, all I want to do is close my eyes and be at the Carter Road promenade, wind in my hair, Bandra hipsters leaning casually against the walls, the choice of cupcake, fro yo or ice cream at my fingertips. Being land locked truly sucks, Delhi doesn't have the feeling that the world is endless and your possibilities are infinite.



But there are certain green afternoons, sleepy roads, the sun shining through the trees that make you catch your breath with nostalgia for that which is actually still in the present. It's that kind of city.





Besides which, we have the winter, bitches!*







*sorry, too much Breaking Bad. 

Transportation Stories: Guest Post by Rini Rafi

I got LOADS of responses to this one--thank you all!--but Rini's really stood out for me. It's slightly longer than I would normally post, but it's a very sweet story of her relationship with her first car, and in the telling of the story, we also know about her relationship with her husband and her father. By the end of it, I was all "awww". Funnily enough, almost all the entries I received were about Bangalore public transport, not the Delhi metro or Bombay local I was expecting. You guys really love to hate your rickshaw drivers, eh?



And before we begin, the theme for the next set of guest posts is help--your household help to be exact. I could write a whole book on the women and men I have known in my life, part of the family, and yet not. Tell me about yours--the new bai, the ayah who rocked you to sleep, the driver who knows all your secrets--and the one I like the most will be posted here with your byline! Email me, or Facebook, or Twitter, or leave comments! You know the drill.



*****





All About The New Car



The story of my stunning relationship with auto-rickshaw
drivers in Bangalore is a constant source of entertainment for friends.
Every evening, I stand outside my office, bag on the shoulder and eyes sharply
in the lookout for the familiar – yellow roofed, green painted three
wheeled vehicles. It is always a daily routine to stop at least ten
autos before I find one that agrees to take me to the destination. So, I
enter the auto with feelings of immense gratitude for the driver

that I consider it absolute lack of gratefulness
to be distant with him.



And hence it comes to be that I happen to know the
life history of several auto drivers in and around Bangalore. The grey
haired driver who actually owns ancestral property worth crores, the
nineteen year old guy who is married and is already a father, the
deep-voiced driver who is also a spiritual guru or even the pleasantly
round man who speaks the most impeccable English.



Then again – the unbelievably frustrating process
of convincing the auto-drivers to transport me often leaves me drained. There have been occasions
when I have called V at his workplace threatened him with divorce if he
did not consent to come and pick up that very moment. Sometimes he would
oblige and come pick me up on his bike – and the other times, I would be
left squinting into the darkness, waiting for yet another auto.



So it was with absolute joy that we welcomed the
idea of buying a car. Always the man for thoroughness, V dragged me
along to every possible car showroom in Bangalore and we spent long
evenings trolling through the internet for the perfect vehicle. Every
car on the road was inspected and commented on to the extent that me –
the celebrated car illiterate - came to know the names and details of
most of the cars in the small segment.



After a neck to neck competition, Chevrolet Beat
won over Ford Figo and was finally endowed with honor of being our first
car. We decided to buy the car from a Kerala considering the ease of
getting a loan. After a visit to Kerala to sign all the documents, we
came back with the knowledge that we would get the car once the
formalities were done with.



However, it was on a regular work day that I
received the message from my dad.



“KL 2A 2997”



I immediately forwarded it to V and a colleague
added up all the numbers in the registration and pronounced the car to
be lucky.



Now there was the small issue of transporting the car all the way from Kerala to Bangalore. I
suggested to the parents that they send the car
along with a driver to someplace midway – perhaps
Coimbatore and V and I would take it up from there. The father
immediately objected saying

that the driver may drive irresponsibly and that
he would come along as well.  It was only a seven hour journey and
it wouldn’t be too
taxing on him if he is not driving.



We boarded a bus bright and early on a Saturday
morning, hoping to be in Coimbatore around lunchtime. As luck would have
it, the bus was
hopelessly late. Instead of being entertained by
the back-to-back movies being played in the bus, I shuffled and shifted
– reading the

place names on shop signs and analyzing the
distances with Google Maps on V’s phone (I own a much scratched
super-basic Nokia model)



Meanwhile the father had already reached
Coimbatore and informed us that he would be waiting at the railway
station. While I hated the
fact that he had to wait, I was consoled knowing
that he had company,as he had told me that he would be coming with a
driver.



We reached Coimbatore around two hours later than
our scheduled time and rushed to the station.



And there – in the parking lot – was the deep grey
car with tints of gold. There it stood, between two dusty cars, waiting
for us to claim it.



It was around this time that the father emerged
from the station, smiling and handing over the keys to us. I looked over
his shoulder,
for the driver who was to accompany him. At my
suitably puzzled expression, he sheepishly admitted that he had chosen
to come alone –
and wait alone for two hours at the station – just
to hand us the car.



V looked as if he would burst into tears at the
father’s sheer patience and concern while I, in my usual fashion ,
considered it
merely my birthright that the father goes out of
his way for every single thing that concerns me. Right from sourcing
materials for my
summer projects in school – to hand delivering my
brand new car.



It was a considerably grateful V that dropped the
father at the bus stop to take a bus back home and gave me a huge
lecture on the
greatness of his father in law. Not forgetting to
add that I have been irreversibly spoilt by the princess treatment that
the father metes
out to me. As for my part, I couldn’t wait to
drive my brand new car and demanded that V shift immediately and let me
handle the wheel.



 We drove, with V panicking and refusing to
even open his eyes while I drove. He ducked, screamed, rammed at the
imaginary brake and finally
begged me to hand him the car if I wanted to spare
him a heart attack in the middle of nowhere.



We stopped at the road-side dhabas for random
doses of kothu parota and sugarcane juice –  , reaching Bangalore
around two early in the
morning.



And so, if you ever happen to see a grey Beat
cruising along Magadi Road , changing lanes like nobody’s business and
gathering rude stares
from all the co-road users , you can rest assured
that behind the wheel is yours truly.



I’ve never been one to covet things – or even be
excessively attached to the things that I do have. But with this car,
things are a little
different. Each time I get behind the wheel , I
remember my father driving for hours to deliver it to me , my mother
painstakingly
wrapping up pickles and masalas and whatnot to
 fill the dickey with stuff for me , V sweetly allowing me enough
sleep as he drove quietly
for hours together.



Each time I look at the car, I am overwhelmed by
the amount of love and luck that I have in my life that I would be
ungrateful to complain
about anything at all. 





Every day that I drive the
car to office, I am a little more thankful.



(25-year-old Rini lives in Bangalore where she works as an architect. She blogs at The Ground Level .)

By way of a small announcement

You might have noticed that I've changed the URL of this blog to my own domain. This is partly because of a glass of wine, a debit card and a late (as in not-on-time, not dead, touch wood) friend and partly because I had a thought. Thoughts are dangerous things.



Over the years, I realise my favourite part of this blog are comments and the reader feedback I get. So, as part of a little experiment--urban India crowdsourcing as it were--I'm throwing it open to you, every week as guest contributions. (Also, this means I have to write less, which, when you're on the internet ALL THE TIME, is a bonus, no?) I thought I'd do a little theme each week and see whether you guys had something to say.



So, as part of what I hope will be a LONG series (please? humour me?) the first theme is transport here in our cities. You could send me anything, a short piece (maybe 200 words?) a photo with a description? a song? about your experiences with transport.



Do you drive? Do you own your car? Do you like road trips? Met a chatty auto driver? Been felt up on a bus? Have a playlist for your ride to work? I want to know everything. WE (yes, totally speaking for all of us) want to know everything. Email me! Tweet to me! Facebook message me! Tell me your stories! Three of the best get posted with credit!



I want to do this on Mondays, so any time over the weekend would be awesome.