A husband in his back yard is trying to fly a kite. He throws the kite up in the air, the wind catches it for a few seconds, then it comes crashing back down to earth.

He tries this a few more times with no success.

All the while, his wife is watching from the kitchen window, muttering to herself how men need to be told how to do everything.

She opens the window and yells to her husband, ‘You need a piece of tail.’

The man turns with a confused look on his face and says, ‘Make up your mind. Last night, you told me to go fly a kite.’

It’s one thing when two young buck males square off and slug each other.  When an old guy and his crusty wife duke it out with two apparently intoxicated girls on the streets of some Eurotrash metropolis, you’re taking it to a higher plane of hilarity.

I don’t know how to embed Break videos, so you’re gonna have to just clicky da linky to watch the awesomeness.

It’s like they recast the fight scene from “They Live” with even worse actors than Rowdy Roddy Piper.  Totally rad.

EDIT:  As per Mike’s instructions, I tried popping in the embed code from Break, but it just turned into coded-up scribble scrabble.  I’m sorry that WordPress hasn’t made teh internetz safe for numbskulls aka me.  Just click the link.

Holy. Shit.

There’s something about NewGuy and I that we simply can’t just have a weekend to ourselves. We always have to share, with deep things, hard things, and interesting stuff. Like. Forever. (Among other deep things)

How is it you make relationships work? We’re going so fast skipping through all the “How do I tell him I was in a bad relationship” aspect. Or hiding things to try and save each other’s feelings. Instead we do the rational thing and talk about it, and talk, and cry, and talk, and cry and lose sleep. How is it you make a relationship work? Because sooner or later my smile isn’t going to be the thing that makes him smile. We won’t always have constant butterflies, at what point will these cute puppy dog things wear off and become real? Who’s to say though, that what we have is not real just because it is cute, and will it wear off or will we always be able to look at each other and smile? What happens when we stop thinking like the honeymoon couple and start thinking like the old couple sitting on the bench? How do you become that old couple? Why is it so scary losing him? I love him so much and I can’t image anyone else spending *gulp* forever with. Just… What if…? And, How? How does this work?

Sadly Hari, one of the people we support in Nepal, has died today after a short stay in hospital.  Our prayers are for his wife Gyanu whom he leaves behind.

Hari and Gyanu were the only ‘old couple’ we supported – they had no children of their own and their nephew had cheated them of their life savings.

They are pictured together here.

Gyanu and Hari selling on the streets of Kathmandu

Women Without Roofs will of course continue to provide support to his wife.

(Click on the image to go to my flickr set.)

It was the second day of Pentecost, Monday, the first day of June, the third day of summer.

25 Celsius degrees, sunny, the perfect day for beach life. So also for this couple.

She with a red wool hat, he with long trousers and a sweater. And they sit there for ages, just watching the sea. Sometimes he uses his arm, pointing on the boats and birds passing by, and she follows his lead.

It’s old sweet love on a sunny summer day.

(here)

This is enchanting and lovely isn’t it. 

i don’t need anything.

Just be by my side,

and dance with me.

And then of course there’s the expected “Aaaww.” when old couples kiss–what we accept to be the testament of enduring love in marriages. It was a different picture when I happened to pass by the former Finale art gallery at Megamall the other week. An old couple, probably marking their golden wedding anniversary, is kissing instead of posing upfront for a typical portrait painting. Their expressions are more photographic–capturable only in a quick snap–than something which a painter can contemplate and appropriate. And when you try to read their expressions, there is something ambiguous, a kind of discomfort on the woman’s face. Did she forget how it is to be kissed? Is it shame for doing it in public? Then you’ll notice her husband’s hands lodged on her shoulders by the neck. What appears to be a usual snapshot turns out to be a strange visual experience. This gallery may have a new name, but it still hasn’t disappointed me with its choices. Seeing a huge Arturo Luz painting at the backroom was a bonus.

First off, here are two pictures of the flying spaghetti monster scarf:

Up close:

Second, other things:

Instead of going to the grocery store yesterday, we went today. We got pretty much everything we’ll be needing for Thanksgiving. I will be making a pecan pie, which I already mentioned, and layered jell-o, which I think I also already mentioned.

My father and I noticed a dear old couple at the supermarket, a little old man and little old woman. They were so sweet. My father said that the man reminded him of his grandfather, who died when he was young.

A little while ago I was almost done knitting a lovely mitten out of this very same yarn:

when I realized that it was humongous. Like countless others before me, I had almost finished making something that closely resembled an oven mitt, or something of the sort. A mitten for someone with ginormous hands, anyway. So, I frogged it and am now looking for another mitten pattern, one that uses yarn of similar weight to my yarn. No success, yet.

My father (with a bit of help from my younger siblings) has spent this weekend painting all of the cabinets in our kitchen. Now they are a cheery white, matching the warm yellow walls and now newly painted chocolate brown counter bottoms. All together, the colors make the kitchen look much bigger and happier.

Well, it is almost time for bed and I still need to take a shower and other traditional before-bed happenings, so good night and farewell.

Until we meet again, I hope you have a lovely life. (And after that as well, for that matter)

PART II – The Fate of the Old Couple.

Sometime Feb 2007 - Kris is on his way off, after seeing them get into the car… feeling a bit cold and sad, at fate’s fatefulness. Time playing Ping – Pong with an old couple. The old couple do not speak about their leg pain or swollen ankles to Kiran, lest he starts treating them as the BIG Burden, as though they were old castaways, and out there to spoil his fun time with Girlfriend Mia who is a half-french, half-german blonde. Dr. Narain and Mrs Shyamala, are mum till they reach Kishore’s home, but he is still not back from work, as he’s got several phone calls to attend, several more meetings before he could end his day.

Kishore is one Hyper-Career-Oriented-yet-to-be-millionaire Kiran hands over the key of Kishore’ss apartment in the middle of Cupertino’s Grand downtown school District (read “ middle of nowhere” for the old couple) as they have no relatives, no contacts, but have to wait for Kishore to come back home. Kishore comes back at 8:30 pm, but dear Mrs. Shyamala has already cooked his best Kichdi, and the Aloo-saag-mutter curry with ingredients carried from India. “Mom how can you cook this spicy dish for me.. you know I hate spice, i hate this masala, and the smell of it. You must have bought it from some goddamn GTR Store in India. That thing causes infection and allergy in the United States..when you go to Rome, behave as a Roman, not as an Indian”.

He thinks… “Calories man!! Calories!! If i eat a little more than this, Stacy will stop looking at me and I cannot ask her out anymore.Damn the Indian food…”… Mrs. Shyamala and Dr. Narain retire to bed after dinner at 9:30 pm, where they talk to each other in loneliness. Mrs. Shyamala::: “Why do we have to come to the US to stay like this..India is so much better..No one to talk to, no good food, and our sons are all grown up”. Dr. Narain “No dear, we have to let our children know that we care for them”…Mrs Shyamala “yes, dear we really care well for them..thats why we don’t even let them know our pains..Tommorow let me see ask Kishore if he can take us to the Nilgiris superstore here to buy some medicated oil for your legs..good night” lights off.. – Day 1 ends… Kishore is back from his “lite” dinner at 10:30 pm the next day, where he ogled at a couple of beautiful half-dressed-Mexican babes standing at the counter of the “La-Camba delicacy”.

.Looked like if his parents weren’t there, he could have gotten one of them home for the night.. Next day morning Mrs. Shyamala is up at 6:00 am chanting the Venkatesha suprabhatam, from a book she carried with her. She is a cultured South Indian housewife who has spent her whole life waking up early, cooking food for her kids, and being by their side at all time of need, and now she is really proud of their achievements, devoutly serving her husband, and her kids throughout. Kishore is the only Ph.D. Computer science from a top US School, and Kiran is another Ph.D student. She pats her back at 3:00 am thinking, “Wah!! I’m successful as a mother, I’ve grown them up to be such fine gentlemen with Foreign degrees and great jobs”……then she gets back to applying Amruthanjan on her ankles and soles, and her husbands soles which were resembling balloons filled with Carbon-monoxide Gas.

No sleep either since they’re now living in day-time India(exactly 12.5 hours difference in the timezones).Days pass like this with the old couple talking to each other in their vacation, while their son is out there dreaming of the millions once the company goes IPO. The first week was spent nursing their swollen ankles, second in walking at the neaby park, third by talking the morning bus down town and walking through shopping malls, fourth by socializing at thier relatives places… fifth, sixth, seventh, eight by just sitting at home “waiting for Time to die “…

Sometime April 2007

In their ninth week they tell Kishore, “we’re going back to India..we already spent 2 months with you son..When are you coming there?” Kishore says “Mom, my company is going IPO in the next few months(ofcourse this is always the reason!!! ), until then I’m busy. I got to finish this project well..may be after that”.. Mrs Shyamala then broaches the topic of marraige to an indian girl from their Kayastha brahmin community ” Son I have carried 20 photos of eligible girls for you. See here. Preethy is an engineer working for Infosys, and is a team lead. She has an engineering degree from RVCE and is pretty smart. We like this girl because she is homely, well educated and from a cultured family”.

Kishore asks”Mom, I have already told you my requirements she should be fair, have medium hair, should be athletic by build, and should be able to adjust into the American society,..Can you arrange for a phone-call talk between me and this your Preethy. I’d also like to see if the girl can live an Open-Marraige”. Mrs. Shyamala – “Son what is an open marriage” …”Mom, that’s an American concept, where both husband and wife live legally together but follow their own options in career and life”… he didn’t elaborate.

Kris lands at the right time when this conversation is going on and hears this conversation as he parks his Hertz- rented  Red-Mercedes-Sports coupe….. Mrs. Shyamala tells Kishore that he met Kris at the airport and was starting to admire his rental car, when Kishore interrupted telling “This is called 3 months of masti- 3 months company pays, you drive around in the car you love “…. He tells Mrs. Shyamala “Aunty, looks like you will have to create a girl like Panchali from fire or something for Kishore. He expects a marathon runner with the brains of einstein, and the beauty of Aishwarya…and I’m sure if there are such girls still today waiting to get married, there are no men born in India, ofcourse, I’d have been the first to pick one up”..

Kris added “Kishore, look at yourself man, you work like an alcoholic you are thin and frail and will not last more than 10 minutes …., and you want Ms. Cat Zet Zone”..Cat zet Zone was the name of Ms. Srishti Punder, back at IIT, the college model …the college model finally landed up marrying a french businessmen, and the last they’d heard, she was already divorced and again remarried this time to some “Algerian businessman staying in the USofA”.

Then Kris says “Dude, I met Mom and Dad at SFO airport and am leaving on the 15th, If your mom and dad are travelling back into Desh, let them know that I’ll be available for their support and service”…. Kishore, anyway doesn’t heed to any advice as he is an ABOUT to be one more dot-com-IPO millionaire and needs no advice , not the least from Dr. Narain and Mrs Shyamala and from his India visitor friend Kris, who was no where close to him back at undergrad school. He belonged to the elite of the American society of Indo-American software engineers.

Sometime May 2007….

At the airport Kishore bids a farewell to his mom, which was tearful for the mom and happy for the Dad while Kiran waits in the background thinking “Stupid Indian emotions, they come out in all public places; makes me feel so bad when they cry; but can’t help it; America is America, India is India….I love the place man, here are the babes, the wealth, the cars, the land of Milk and Honey”. On their way back Mrs. Shyamala and Dr. Narain are accompanied by Kris, who seems to be at his cheerful best, lest their minds go back to their ankles and the arthritis that is slowly being built up from their once in a six month trip the States to see their kids. They have a big bungalow with 6 bedrooms, one driver, a couple of maids and a cook at home in bangalore, but only themselves to look upon.

They are very open about their feelings for their children who .Mrs. Shyamala still thinks that Kishore is 6 months old and needs diaper changine, and Kiran is still in her womb. She needs medical attention with her problems but doesn’t let anyone know. In India women bear the pain right from their marriage, through the ups and downs of growing up, through their children’s growth age, handling many relatives, and protecting and feeding the family..They are the strongest support and the pillar of existence of the Indian society. The hand that rocks the cradle – that hand that makes the nation of men who are bound by duty – very very contrasting to kishore and kiran……

Va amintiti de batranul si batrana in verde?NU?!Nu pot sa cred,nu i-ati observat azi trecand pe langa dumneavoastra?Imposibil…sunt acei doi batranei care ies spre inserat la plimbare,amandoi avand costume verzi mirosind a vechi,dar un miros placut,dulceag si un pic poate acrisor…Chiar nu i-ati vazut?Nu pot sa cred,azi m-am intalnit cu ei de doua ori,se tineau de mana si vorbeau incet,parca in soapta.Nu am reusit sa deslusesc care era subiectul,dar imi placea ca vorbeau “ordonat”,fiecare isi spunea parerea iar celalalt il asculta tacut cu atentie…Intr-o zi am avut norocul sa ma asez pe o banca in aproprierea lor,ma simteam destul de ciudat,fara sa imi dau seama ca de fapt e un loc public si nu fac nici o ilegalitate in a sta in apropierea a doi batranei.I-am ascultat si privit cateva minute bune,pareau sa se gandeasca la acelesi lucruri cand taceau si cand priveau pierduti la oamenii din jurul lor,la un moment dat batranelul saruta mana ei,iar batrana zambi si il privi cu multa dragoste…la un moment dat as fi vrut sa ma duc sa ii imbratisez…sa le multumesc pentru faptul ca oameni ca ei inca mai exista in jungla asta prin care incercam din rasputeri sa ne strecuram…se tineau de mana s-au ridicat de pe banca si au trecut prin fata mea,batrana m-a privit gingas cu ochii ei albastrii si a zambit,iar langa mine aparu iubitul meu…Poate ca o facusem sa se gandeasca la tinerete..poate asa a fost si ea…poate nu…Dar voi?Chiar nu i-ati vazut pe batranul si batrana in verde?E imposibil…ei mereu ies in oras cand se aproprie amurgul…Va rog spuneti-mi daca i-ati vazut si transmiteti-le salutari….

Scene: A crowded booze shop in Malleshpalya, Bangalore. 

Mission: Get myself a bottle of Hercules Deluxe. 

A bottle of Hercules Deluxe.

Busybee that he is, the man behind the liquor store counter breezes past – my request falling on deaf ears. No, the customer’s no king in these places; they just seem to know that we need them more than, well, the other way round.

A bottle of Hercules Deluxe.

The guy’s now involved in an intense argument with another character on the far end, who – quite obviously – wants more namkeen to go with his cheap liquor than he is actually  entitled to. Even with my feeble grasp over Kannada, I can see that the fight is undeniably one-sided. Finally – accepting defeat – the customer dunks his entire glass in one go, wipes his mouth with the unbuttoned end of his shirt sleeve and stomps indignantly into the horizon. Ah… now that’s taken care of, I might finally get what I have been asking for….

A bottle of Hercules Deluxe.

I might as well have been trying to strike a conversation with a stone wall. A stone wall with a major goddamn-them-all attitude.
So, as he tears past me again to address some person screaming whiskey, whiskey nearby, I let out a heavy sigh and start thinking of ways to attract his attention. A well-aimed bottle of Kingfisher Strong at his shiny scalp, maybe?
It was then that I see them. An old couple dressed in rags, with only a begging bowl between them.  They are standing at the counter, counting their earnings of the day coin by coin, coin by coin.
The man is bald, and the few strands of hair jutting out of his head look white, withered and droopy – like eucalyptus leaves on a hot, summer day. The cheeks on his sunburnt face are no cheeks at all; they are gaping depressions that bear the grotesque impression of a row of cracked teeth beneath. For clothes he wears a dirty woollen blanket – probably provided by one of the very few that may have felt sorry for him.

A bottle of Hercules Deluxe.

I could have saved my breath. So, I turn my attention to the old couple again.
The woman looks even worse than the man – though the clothes on her back are in a better shape than his. As she counts the ones and the twos and the fives, I see her eyes light up. She’s going to put the money to good use, from the looks of it.
They are done counting. She looks up at the booze guy, who is still racing around the shop pretending to look busy, and says something in Kannada. His feet screech to a halt. Apparently, they are quite well-acquainted with each other.

A bottle of Hercules Deluxe. By now, I am just saying it for the heck of it.

The man throws the handful of coins in the drawer beneath the counter and reaches out for a bottle that has Big Bullet Rum written on it in bright red Verdana. The way it looks, the dreary bottle might as well have contained liquid rat poison.  A big blotch of red splashes into the dirty glass tumbler he has in his hand,  followed by a flood of Bisleri. The old couple look on, obviously thirstying for the golden ale before them. Hard-earned stuff, this.
The old woman takes a long swig from the tumbler, and the old man stares on – wanting to make sure that she doesn’t have more than her share of booze.  Then, even as he sees the alcohol level in the glass go past the danger line, he shakes her by the shoulder violently, making some of the rum spill. Quite understandably, the missus gets annoyed and thrusts the glass towards the object of her discomfort. Then she says something really harsh in Kannada, something that probably translates to: You want the booze? Then keep the booze, buster!
But would the old guy be concerned by some bad language coming his way? Naah, he looks the other way and performs an enviable bottoms-up on the glass, before stepping on to the street again.  She runs after him, still screaming at the top of her lungs.
I never get a chance to prepare for what happens next. The old man stops suddenly, smiles.  Then he holds out his hand, which she takes with some reluctance. And the next thing I know, he is leading her back to the road – arm in arm.
A couple of minutes later, they are squatting on the road again with the begging bowl between them. A picture so romantic, it has to be from another dimension. A picture so real, yet so humble that it would never find itself framed in some billionaire’s bedroom.
Aur tumko kya chahiye?!
The ape seems to have awakened to my presence after all. And he is talking in a tone one would reserve for somebody who has butted into his home through the bedroom window.

For the sixth time, I say A bottle of Hercules Deluxe. I get it this time.

On the way back, I drop a fiver in the old couple’s begging bowl. Unlike some people I know, I don’t care what they do with it. If Big Bullet Rum works for them, so be it.