tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52701259002720469752024-03-08T08:04:31.014+05:30homeland insecuritiesWelcome home. Join our search for ours. Here, we three chronicle our journeys across the land of opportunityNitinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03330941857062104830noreply@blogger.comBlogger161125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270125900272046975.post-65799901577000028422011-03-07T02:32:00.003+05:302011-03-07T02:35:30.569+05:30Let's talk about the cat peeEveryone knows the house we bought as the one formerly with all the cats. Each time we've been in there, the air gets clearer and clearer. BUT there is a distinct cat pee odor. We assume that sanding the floors will take care of it -- and painting AND a good scrubbing -- but worry that every now and then we might still catch a whiff. Which will seriously gross me out. Anyone know if there's anything we should do NOW, before they begin sanding etc.S. Mitra Kalitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01758858775289619879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270125900272046975.post-83120606575881533592011-03-06T18:47:00.003+05:302011-03-07T01:15:30.484+05:30Where we stand...Considering we just closed on Thursday, we've made great progress. On Friday we had contractors in and out (along with the junk-hauling guys) to give us estimates. Our priorities before move-in are paint, floors, replacement of a lead water main and demolition of a wall in the kitchen. And cleaning!<br /><br />Because we had to source so many ideas from other sites, here's a breakdown to hopefully make someone's renovation in Queens a little easier. One of my biggest pet peeves of all those sites is that they tell you XYZ is good or great but they never tell you how much they spent. I know houses, sizes and scope of work vary greatly but it's the thing I still want to know most. <br /><strong><br />Water main</strong> -- The inspector found lead content of 15 parts per million - just on the cusp of acceptable. Well, it wasn't acceptable to us so we are replacing the water main. Two companies in NYC that came highly recommended were Harris Plumbing and Balkan. We're going with Balkan for $2,600. <br /><br /><strong>Painting</strong> -- We got three estimates ranging from $3,000 to $5,000 to sand the walls, paint them and do all the trims. We're going with a guy named John from Forest Hills who is exclusively a painting contractor and seems to know what he's doing. He started this morning! <br /><br /><strong>Floors </strong>-- This is a case where we are not going with the cheapest but the guy in the middle. Estimates to sand and rip up carpets from the floors of a 1900-square foot home ranged from $2,200 to $5,000. We went with Jan Zejia, who did our floors in the coop we just sold. He's charging $2,500. <br /><br />Demo - Haven't found anyone yet. Here's hoping. Stay tuned. And am still obsessed with finding a matching wooden cabinet for the metal Lyons (thanks, Pam, for identifying)...S. Mitra Kalitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01758858775289619879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270125900272046975.post-89396299681066943232011-03-05T20:00:00.002+05:302011-03-05T20:08:07.020+05:30Metal vintage kitchen cabinets<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfLtkGKY6B3e0XON8TyXUEhoB3yVZZG8mjsqIgKaMTEsGNoB_Ah0XAhd2JnQClPnc18ucUMhIlQ7_m-0v143h-hh68JVqSQINg1opm7NrXrvYCGqQl704dWCymSzZpOcXWTMYF3T6ycnE/s1600/cabinet+detail.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfLtkGKY6B3e0XON8TyXUEhoB3yVZZG8mjsqIgKaMTEsGNoB_Ah0XAhd2JnQClPnc18ucUMhIlQ7_m-0v143h-hh68JVqSQINg1opm7NrXrvYCGqQl704dWCymSzZpOcXWTMYF3T6ycnE/s320/cabinet+detail.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580605061423793938" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnxuZ3lbtKJaTGuVjjF3rk_i_L-TQwY72Xb-qSE7l9l3JLKjnR_ehw71hPFlvseuctUvbGcU8Y13Jucm6Vw-C7XCwBi05ePVcln97a-zf2f42KQF0Qx6sLlBCjOx3So8UFRlV-sAWA97U/s1600/cabinethandle.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnxuZ3lbtKJaTGuVjjF3rk_i_L-TQwY72Xb-qSE7l9l3JLKjnR_ehw71hPFlvseuctUvbGcU8Y13Jucm6Vw-C7XCwBi05ePVcln97a-zf2f42KQF0Qx6sLlBCjOx3So8UFRlV-sAWA97U/s320/cabinethandle.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580605057119913106" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfEVqq_jjmxHoSn0TEc4HSWdBmlMqMOAqKbV43UlxZitvwkrMBv2GfYk_Qq7iDCtoKWgdcEZK2XavGCmvnSImERrq2V0a8niOS9teqx8UakvClEU08tu4aWX3eWzU1jEDGbT2Y0YxvwHA/s1600/cabinet+old.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfEVqq_jjmxHoSn0TEc4HSWdBmlMqMOAqKbV43UlxZitvwkrMBv2GfYk_Qq7iDCtoKWgdcEZK2XavGCmvnSImERrq2V0a8niOS9teqx8UakvClEU08tu4aWX3eWzU1jEDGbT2Y0YxvwHA/s320/cabinet+old.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580605051053447618" /></a><br />We had planned on a gut renovation but a walk-through with our <a href="http://www.cu-a.com/">architect</a> and <a href="http://www.nitinmukul.com">Nitin's </a>good eye made us look at these orange metal cabinets from the 1950s with fresh perspective. We're now trying to figure out whether we can integrate the metal with our very old antique Indian furniture and perhaps some newer cabinetry/countertop to bridge these two worlds. If anyone has ideas, holler. I've been looking through the <a href="http://retrorenovation.com/">web site </a>that seems the Bible on this stuff -- run by Pam Kueber -- but am not seeing a blend of the metal "mod" look with the heavy wooden antique style that Indian furniture almost forces.S. Mitra Kalitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01758858775289619879noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270125900272046975.post-74684490710567772842011-03-05T19:38:00.003+05:302011-03-05T20:00:12.443+05:30A new set of insecurities<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW7zcw3Tz2kcmn2wqOOAHlUdMHUOsxoG5z8t6YEpYQYDwm-szlwKlLQUvITE7L7RefyoXhRE6Va2bgEzmQfL0Mhw0c__ug8NRY9u42ZhEzhMPtkjPQKbjsq7w03TJMYgv0vNEJLTqReu4/s1600/fronthouse.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW7zcw3Tz2kcmn2wqOOAHlUdMHUOsxoG5z8t6YEpYQYDwm-szlwKlLQUvITE7L7RefyoXhRE6Va2bgEzmQfL0Mhw0c__ug8NRY9u42ZhEzhMPtkjPQKbjsq7w03TJMYgv0vNEJLTqReu4/s320/fronthouse.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580603056515311666" /></a><br />In keeping with this blog's original and not-yet-ready-to die theme, we're back in our quest to create a home. This time, we're getting a bit more specific: a 1920s Tudor-style rowhouse in Jackson Heights historic landmark district. We are only the third owners of the house, and the seller lived there for 52 years so we have our work cut out for us.S. Mitra Kalitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01758858775289619879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270125900272046975.post-14597414108214560602009-03-07T22:17:00.001+05:302009-03-07T22:18:20.416+05:30Naya!Mommy: Do you know what a journalist does? Naya: Ummm... they work really hard.<br /><br /><br />And then...<br />Naya: You don't know how to dance. See, I am Hindi. WE know how to dance.S. Mitra Kalitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01758858775289619879noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270125900272046975.post-39428546115528552482008-10-03T18:47:00.001+05:302008-10-03T18:49:04.670+05:30Naya on sleep and politicsMommy: Children need to sleep earlier. I am not a child. <br />Naya: You are a child. Your mom's child.<br /><br />---<br />Mommy: I don't know which job I should take. Brand X or Brand Y. <br />Naya: You should just work for John McCain.S. Mitra Kalitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01758858775289619879noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270125900272046975.post-15574306708421535262008-08-28T22:22:00.001+05:302008-08-28T22:24:52.798+05:30Patriotic Naya-ismNaya: I want to be Assamese president of New York. No, wait, the Hindi one of Orissa.<br /><br />And then today, a heartbreaking Naya-ism<br /><br />Naya: Mommy, I want to travel again.<br />Mommy: Where do you want to go? <br />Naya: To Kashmir. <br />Mommy: There's a lot of fighting there now. <br />Naya: Then let's go when it's over.S. Mitra Kalitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01758858775289619879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270125900272046975.post-4186880177368138142008-08-02T22:49:00.002+05:302008-08-02T23:15:54.739+05:30Swimming lesson/School issues againNaya has been taking swimming lessons at the Niti Bag country club. But the other day, she said this:<br /><br />Are we going to the Lychee Bug Club? <br /><br />As an aside, I meant to tell you about trying to get our driver's daughters into a government school. If we thought <a href="http://homelandinsecurities.blogspot.com/2008/04/nursery-admissions-opus.html">our nursery saga was nightmarish</a>, we got our eyes opened by seeing how much harder it is for lower classes. First he asked me to get a letter from the ministry of human resource development for his daughter. I said that would be a conflict of interest given what I do but that I was happy to go with him to the school and see if I could help in some way. So on a Monday morning, we set out and put ourselves in a live of people at the principal's office. The reality is that the school actually looked clean and impressive (it is a central government school known as a Navodaya, instead of the Municipal Corp of Delhi school his daughter attends now) and the people in line looked well dressed and working class. I could see how this would be a school he and his family aspired to. <br /><br />When the principal saw me and I said I was there to get the little girl beside me into school, she said: "This must be your maid's daughter."<br />"Driver's," I responded with a fake smile. <br />"Does he live in Pushp Vihar," she asked referring to the colony. <br />He lied and said he did. (Actually it's his uncle.)<br />She asked why he didn't send his daughter for the admission test held the week previous. <br />"I didn't know about it," he said. <br />After about 15 more minutes and my begging, she said there was nothing to do but said the child could appear for another test in a week's time. <br />Back in the car, I let the driver have it for a bunch of reasons: not taking her for the test, waiting until class 3 to get her schooling together, not considering private school even as his kids qualified to attend for free. "But ma'am, if she does well by class 8, they will give her a scholarship of Rs5,000."<br />"If she attends private school and does well and then goes to college, she can make that every day," I responded. <br />Next we drove to the offices of the Delhi BJP rep for that area. Another line and everyone seemed to be there to get a letter for school admissions. <br />A week later, Shruti appeared for the test. <br />She failed. <br />And her father is still being boneheaded and won't even let me pay for private school. If I can get her in on a scholarship somewhere, I think he'd agree... So that's my next course of action. Even though I think there is something to the saying that you value something if you are forced to pay for it...S. Mitra Kalitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01758858775289619879noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270125900272046975.post-80251030682405259942008-07-28T20:46:00.001+05:302008-07-28T20:48:33.583+05:30Two NayaismsNaya: H is for horse. <br />Mommy: So what sound does H make? <br />Naya: Neigh. <br /><br />AND<br /><br />Naya: Barack Obama is better than John McCain. <br />Mommy: How do you know? <br />Naya: <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bhupen_Hazarika">Bhupen Hazarika's</a> friends told me so.S. Mitra Kalitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01758858775289619879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270125900272046975.post-90099720494898877222008-06-29T12:38:00.004+05:302008-06-29T13:22:58.755+05:30NRI Sojourn<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-RWQN2N9he8fNjTGgIXYXqL7LbffiWrk4kbi06tM_wA5qkDa2GZjhD_6IuB0UwGAx0jyc3zrqjapl3OqWdJy29aYCoyf5yhG5bQEOEPnUYOxfEzzYTvEAQu7XjTFohma3dEjp48-aeAo/s1600-h/papa"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-RWQN2N9he8fNjTGgIXYXqL7LbffiWrk4kbi06tM_wA5qkDa2GZjhD_6IuB0UwGAx0jyc3zrqjapl3OqWdJy29aYCoyf5yhG5bQEOEPnUYOxfEzzYTvEAQu7XjTFohma3dEjp48-aeAo/s320/papa" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5217198074940476338" /></a><br /><br /><br />I am back. One day soon, I will post a recap of the day-by-day, play-by play of my time in Guwahati. Until then, just take my word that it was one of the most powerful experiences of my life--between witnessing someone die and being with all of my family under one roof (which finally happened to be OUR roof). Unlike when I went to the village in my childhood, this time I appreciated the rarity of the togetherness and tried to revel in it (in between enlarging photos, hunting for the right brand of mustard oil for use in puja, sitting on the river bank at 6 a.m. for yet another offering to the gods and grandmothers, publishing memorial books, buying more and more disposable cups and plates for all the visitors--all on a diet of boiled rice and potato once a day, the food mandated by someone long ago for the bereaved.)<br /><br />Because my father couldn't come for his mother's <a href="http://www.obitsindia.com/info-obituary/shraddh.html">shradh </a>on the 13th day, nor could my mother come for her brother's, I flew to them and we made up our own US version. Shockingly, it was the first formal prayer I could remember my parents having in our house, Naya's annaprasanna not counting. The picture above is courtesy of dear <a href="http://www.myhovercraftisfullofeels.com/">Stony</a>, a friend of my grandmother too, whom he lovingly called Jumbo Jet. Ironically, the gangly white guy at the ceremony of 70 people was the one, who besides we seven Kalitas or Mukuls, had spent the most time with her.<br /><br />Anyway, once I hit my 20s, I stopped crying uncontrollably when I left India/Assam because the frequency of visits made that seem silly. When I left Assam last week, I felt like I was 12 years old again only I didn't have that angry question I always posed to my parents on the LOOOONG plane ride (usually the awful <a href="http://homelandinsecurities.blogspot.com/2006/11/arrival.html">Romanian </a>Airlines, remember) back: Why did you leave? I don't understand. Why wouldn't we want to live with our grandparents?<br /><br />Nope, last week, as my uncles (and I) cried more over my departure than when Aita died, I knew the answer, thanks to living here for the last 20 months in an India better off than the one my parents left. As an aside but totally related, the number of people who want me to find government jobs for them in Assam is up to four... My maternal uncle's wife's brother ... does anyone know anyone in public works and engineering in Assam? <br /><br />The US was more of a blur, although I am glad I went and felt my place for the shradh was more with my nuclear family than the extended. Nitin's show sold out, my brothers took a day off and we went to the beach to relax, etc etc. <br /><br />On the flight home, a packed Continental nonstop worthy of a <a href="http://homelandinsecurities.blogspot.com/2006/11/arrival.html">ballad</a>, the plane was defined by NRI kids and their weary mothers, all going back for the summer. The one seated in my row was miserable, her mother told me: She has her friends now and doesn't want to spend six weeks in Lucknow. The two boys before me in the customs line were practically bouncing off the walls, they were so excited to see their cousins. And the kids behind me, upon hearing I moved to India, promptly asked their mom: "Why don't we live in India?"<br /><br />I miss that innocence, miss having a grandmother to go to, even miss fighting with my brothers on the flight. <br /><br />Naya-isms to round out your life:<br /><br />(She remains in the US with Nitin, his parents and mine, busy with museum visits, swimming lessons, story hour at library, dance camp and her new best friend Antonio down the street, whose mother MY mother has been having coffee and play dates with. Like I said to my parents, if you had done all this for me, I would have been the most well-adjusted, all-American gal there ever was... No wonder she doesn't want to come back.)<br /><br />She knows my brothers will let her dress any way she wants so as she wore a yellow-and-blue Fab India kurta with a pink and purple skirt, she did a curtsy before me and said, "In these clothes, I look like a stepmother!"<br /><br />"Ata (grandpa) eats with his hands so he belongs in India, but I eat with a fork so I will stay in America."<br /><br />Her pronunciation of binoculars is the definitive Indian accent - BINO-coolers...<br /><br />And she also has taken to imitating my parents now on the phone. The other day, she sat behind the couch on her play cell phone and said, in Assamese: "Yes we are all fine. Only my mother died."<br /><br />On that note, I am outta here...S. Mitra Kalitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01758858775289619879noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270125900272046975.post-38670746858574031352008-06-19T23:52:00.000+05:302008-06-19T23:53:40.156+05:30Column on AitaHers was a wonderful life<br /><br /><a href="http://www.livemint.com/2008/06/19232621/Hers-was-a-wonderful-life.html">MINT<br /></a><br /><br />Wider Angle | S.Mitra Kalita<br /><br /><br />We had a tradition, my grandmother and I. Every few years, during childhood trips to her village of Sadiya on the banks of the Brahmaputra, I would spend the last night with her. She’d scratch my head and my back and mosquito bites. Often, I sobbed, sorrowful over my impending departure.<br />She was stronger.<br />And so last week, it seemed only fitting to be there for her last night, along with about 35 other relatives huddled around a bed in my home in Guwahati.<br />By coincidence or calling, I was there from the beginning of her end. She saw me, who had conned her way into the intensive care unit before visiting hours, and asked if I wanted to sit, have a cup of tea.<br />A few hours later, she slipped into a coma.<br />We were told nothing could be done, so we brought her home.<br />Even as I write this, I feel numb at what it means to lose the only person who so represented my connection to this country in its reality. Like 40% of India, she was illiterate.<br />Like about half the population, she was married off before 18 (11, in her case). Like nearly two-thirds, she made her living primarily off the land.<br />And yet, she was one of a kind.<br />Over the last week, the stories have come tumbling out.<br />How she threatened the district’s most infamous dacoit, known as Hemen-goonda, with a kerosene lamp at night and called him a dog.<br />How she got around her illiteracy by lining the girls on the veranda and having them recite their studies to keep each other in check.<br />How she ensured the household and farm workers always toiled on a full stomach; “that way, they don’t really care if I yell at them”.<br />How she told my cousins to stop watching the World Wrestling Federation on TV after she learnt, on a trip to America, that it was really all fake.<br />Deceit, even as entertainment, had no place in her life. I mourn not as much the loss of the person—at 86, she had had a full life— but the loss of a generation that we can never get back.<br />Their values, however, are something I suspect to which we will, rather must, return.<br />Just two months ago, when my grandmother fell and broke her arm, I dropped everything and packed my husband, my daughter and a video camera.<br />As I wrote in a recent column, this tough-as-nails lady grew tender for the first time and thanked me for coming, told me how much my family and my alleged success mean to her.<br />She spent some time detailing her life’s philosophy, which—given her background and achievement, in spite of it—might hold some secrets for others.<br />Namely, she was thrifty. She bargained, counted her money every night, reined in extravagance.<br />Last week, as I rode autos and taxis to get around Guwahati, I could just hear her cringing that the Rs11 bus would have been a much better option.<br />She defined family broadly, forced others to think beyond their front gate, and in doing so, stirred them to action. She was often the voice called upon to represent civic concerns. In the 1980s, when a politician and singer and artist Bhupen Hazarika came to call, she chastised them for the sorry conditions of roads, schools and health care in Sadiya (as lore goes, she first fed them, then yelled).<br />By not being educated, she served as the ultimate example of why it matters. During family gatherings, it was often said: “What would have been if she had learnt to read?” The lack of an answer kept her children and grandchildren always reaching for more.<br />She was a big believer in long-term planning, even for her own death, from heavy gold bangles cut into eight pieces for each of her children to Rs10,000 she donated for the final shradh’s feast to a cream and gold mekhla chador (Assamese two-piece sari) left for my daughter.<br />When I contacted local newspapers to run her obituary, one editor told me he didn’t think my grandmother met standards; they preferred business leaders, politicians, “people who have made a big difference”, he told me.<br />“If she were alive,” I retorted, “she’d say that her life might not amount to much, but people like you will serve her dinner in her next life.”<br />He laughed and relented.<br />My obituary included these lines: “It was the end of a remarkable journey that began with her birth in the Kamrup village of Gorput to marriage in Baranghati to settlement in Sadiya, where she spent most of her life. In recent years, Mrs Kalita divided her time among her family’s homes scattered across Guwahati. Her heart—and stories—however remained in an India fast disappearing...”<br />As I wrote, I shed tears of regret. For so many questions and untold stories remained.<br />Your comments are welcome at widerangle@livemint.comS. Mitra Kalitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01758858775289619879noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270125900272046975.post-54696964295498038832008-06-16T00:57:00.001+05:302008-06-16T00:59:04.940+05:30Aita - More later<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixFtZTj2krbZpzb7UKy0G5WZCC1DCIlDcRQVOLFJW6Oy1I5fupN_opXoN9LwsG1LVngH5McUsvK6OWwkIU76nRFgli4zUsvyvQ2mQ611Yy-p1O0FItYKac3-hzaBvpMBab-3b-rsB7R6c/s1600-h/2_copy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixFtZTj2krbZpzb7UKy0G5WZCC1DCIlDcRQVOLFJW6Oy1I5fupN_opXoN9LwsG1LVngH5McUsvK6OWwkIU76nRFgli4zUsvyvQ2mQ611Yy-p1O0FItYKac3-hzaBvpMBab-3b-rsB7R6c/s320/2_copy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5212192449290996658" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />By S. Mitra Kalita<br /><br />Jambowati Kalita, wife of late Mohan Chandra Kalita, mother to eight,<br />grandmother to 20, great-grandmother to four and memorable to everyone<br />she met, breathed her last on 9 June in her son's residence in<br />Panjabari, surrounded by family and friends. It was the end of a<br />remarkable journey that began with her birth in the Kamrup village of<br />Gorput to marriage in Baranghati to settlement in Sadiya, where she<br />spent most of her life. In recent years, Mrs Kalita divided her time<br />among her family's homes scattered across Guwahati. Her heart—and<br />stories—however remained in an India fast disappearing, where<br />elephants paid respects before reporting to duty, where households<br />grew their own food and spun their own clothes, where family was an<br />inclusive word that meant neighbours and extended cousins.<br />Despite never attending school and being married at age 11, Mrs Kalita<br />managed to run several enterprises from home (tamul-paan, vegetables,<br />eggs, pigeons, cow's milk, bamboo), handle her husband's accounts and<br />even travel to the US and Canada with her thumbprint image as<br />signature on the passport and visa. She often detailed what she<br />learned in the West, from the efficiency of roads and cleanliness to<br />the tangible loneliness ("Sometimes all you will see the whole day is<br />one bird," she'd say) to the culturally profound ("Wrestling is fake.<br />Everyone in America knows.")<br />During World War II, Mrs Kalita recalled, she would run into an<br />underground tunnel with her family as soon as she heard the planes<br />overhead. She lived through the earthquake of 1950, playing a role<br />with her husband in the rebuilding of a ravaged Sadiya. In the 1980s,<br />when an MLA came to visit with the singer, artist and Sadiya native Dr<br />Bhupen Hazarika, Mrs Kalita sat them in her drawing room and listed<br />all the ways they needed to improve conditions: better roads, schools,<br />health care. Frequently, she was the voice enlisted by the local<br />community to articulate their demands. Mrs Kalita feared no one, not<br />the frequent dacoits and thugs omnipresent in the India of then and<br />now; at night, if they tried to threaten her neighbours, she would go<br />out with a kerosene lamp and yell, "Who is this dog who has come?"<br />(Fittingly, she died on the day of an Asom Bandh.)<br />She straddled traditional values with modernity and advocacy of<br />progress. Her three daughters never felt their gender was an obstacle.<br />Because her illiteracy prevented her from supervising studies, Mrs<br />Kalita forced her children to shout answers from work tables on the<br />veranda so they could check each other. Today, each daughter—Nirupama<br />Mahanta, Bimala Deka, Jyosna Deka—is working professionally.<br />With each of her sons, too, she shared a special relationship. Her<br />eldest, Mohesh Chandra Kalita, retired as a vice president from<br />Citibank, and lives in New Jersey. Her next, Krishna Kanto Kalita,<br />retired as general manager, Numaligarh Refinery Ltd, and currently<br />works as an adviser with the ministry of health and family welfare.<br />Her next three sons carried on the family's businesses: transport,<br />cultivation, contracting. She cared deeply for her middle son, Jogen<br />Chandra Kalita, treating each of his three children as her own. Her<br />next son, Dharani Dhar Kalita, inherited Mrs Kalita's curiosity, love<br />of storytelling and being with people. As for the last, Mitra Ranjan<br />Kalita, Mrs Kalita most likened her own temper to his, although she<br />also passed on decency and a sense of humour.<br />For her grandchildren, Mrs Kalita served as the ultimate source of<br />inspiration and a reminder that anything is possible. Like all<br />grandmothers, she indulged them but, unlike many, was not<br />materialistic in her demonstration of love. She sought to remind each<br />of them of their rural roots, how lucky they were but how far they<br />still had to go—always with hard work and honesty. At family<br />gatherings, people often remarked: What would have been if she had<br />been given access to education?<br />The lack of an answer implicitly conveyed the importance of<br />learning—for one's entire life.<br />Her words and ways could be harsh and damning, yet honest. She<br />remained calculating, shrewd, highly observant, frugal to her last<br />day.<br />Yet Mrs Kalita never let a visitor leave without sharing a cup of<br />tea—and a trip down memory lane. In her final months, her own memory<br />failed her but she resurrected images of pre-independence Sadiya as a<br />British outpost and the details of each of her children's births and<br />temperaments as babies.<br />While movement to Guwahati was a necessity for the family, it was<br />clear Mrs Kalita preferred the days where all lived under one roof and<br />could be self-reliant. Ironically, in death she was granted that wish<br />as everyone—from seven of eight children to her American-born<br />granddaughter to her sister-in-law, who once lived down the road in<br />Sadiya—was by her side as she passed.<br />Her larger-than-life presence is missed but her family takes solace<br />and inspiration from her longevity and strength, a purposeful but<br />divergent path. In her children, grandchildren and the countless<br />people she impressed and touched, her lessons and stories will always<br />endure.S. Mitra Kalitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01758858775289619879noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270125900272046975.post-46334798466649051802008-06-02T16:58:00.005+05:302008-06-02T20:15:06.137+05:30Mama Mia...My uncle died yesterday. He was my mother's elder brother, with a daughter exactly my age and another boy. My paternal grandmother, who could never keep track of my mother's seven brothers by name, used to call him "engineer mama". We called him Naupa Mama. <br />I didn't know him as well as my other mamas who used to take me to get Thums Up across the street (Bapu Mama) or bring me Gems candy regularly (Deep Mama) or stick his finger in my mouth to tell me he knew exactly what I had eaten (Bapkhan Mama). But he was definitely a fixture in our visits to India. Last week, when my aunt called and told me his kidneys had failed and the dialysis wasn't working, she told me they were pretty much just waiting for the end.<br />So last night, as I was at my friend Himanshu's for dinner, the call came and I knew as soon as I heard my aunt's voice. He had just died 10 minutes ago. I glanced at the wine in my hand and had a lump in my throat but didn't cry. <br />The calls with bad news, of course, have been coming as long as I've been alive. And I could always tell you where I was. When I was 7, it was my maternal grandfather -- and my mom was pregnant with Rahul; I was upstairs when the call came. When I was 9, it was my father's cousin, a murder detailed in the economic space of a blue aerogram; I was in the hall where we kept the crib and I started screaming. When I was 10, it was my mom's elder brother and I remember I was reading one of the Babysitter's Clubs where Claudia was the main character (was it number 2) and my mom fell down on the stair landing of our house in shock. That one, I think, hit us hardest, most unexpected, a heart attack, a scurry to the hospital, finally death in an auto rickshaw. When I was 13, my grandfather died and I remember feeling intensely sad because I had spent most of my childhood afraid of the funny way he talked, due to paralysis; it was the middle of the night and I remember my cousin was staying with us and I was embarassed to cry in front of him so I poured water into a steel glass and covered my choked-up-ness by taking sips. Six months later, my maternal grandmother died and I remember how much harder it seemed to strike my mother than when her father died. In between, there were a few baby cousins, a few close friends and neighbours from Assam. Common to all was the absolute helplessness with which we grieved and watched from afar. <br />I thought moving to India might have made things different but if anything it makes me ache for the family literally on both sides of me -- my maternal extended family in Assam and my mother in New Jersey. She has been counting down Nitin and Naya's upcoming visit and isn't coming here for the funeral and last rites. So I will likely go and represent for the 13th day of mourning - shradho - next week. And then the week after, I think I will go to the US for a few days. Expensive options but possibly best for the mental health, which really is beginning to wear and shouldn't be alone for a six-week stretch, I have decided. <br />As we did in the US, we turn to ritual to get us through-- we will be vegetarian for 13 days (or less). We will pray and light incense sticks stuck in a banana. We will call our relatives every day and ask for details and they will offer others we didn't ask but are curious to know. My aunt: They dressed him real nice. I gave him so many kisses before they took him off. Your other uncle waited till his body had entirely burned before they left. His wife was sound asleep when we got there; she then bathed and dressed in widow white and still seemed very despondent. <br />Today I left work early to get the details and my aunt described the day; as she told me everyone arriving by dawn to begin dressing the body and preparing it for cremation, I finally broke down. For my uncle's loss, of course. But also that I missed out on the remaining seven siblings coming together for the first time in a very long time. Two have died. And one, my mother, remained in America.S. Mitra Kalitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01758858775289619879noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270125900272046975.post-22667182695127886812008-06-01T12:15:00.001+05:302008-06-01T12:16:34.140+05:30NayaismNaya: When I grow up I want to be a painter and a Mint worker.<br /><br />And then this morning... <br /><br />Mommy: What colour are your eyes? <br />Naya: Black and white.S. Mitra Kalitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01758858775289619879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270125900272046975.post-28496149888733893132008-05-31T23:50:00.003+05:302008-05-31T23:54:37.524+05:30Iowa sounds just like India!This sounds more like a worker in Delhi than Des Moines...<br /><br />“Do they have a free gym, dry cleaning, Starbucks on site?” he said. “What are they doing to make the community better? And once you’re there, companies know they have to promote you to keep you. We’re a little spoiled in our opportunities here.”<br /><br />See story <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2008/05/31/us/31iowa.html?hp">here</a>.S. Mitra Kalitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01758858775289619879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270125900272046975.post-66002039531860150772008-05-31T03:08:00.003+05:302008-05-31T03:17:34.025+05:30Cricket<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinjVmdNuVs5yjVajcmRYs4O8TkTjUBFsRuj2C5eHWEtCa6hMF8KHJ9l9Q_XHBg0aRhtTYbWjii0ZpS7erI8h_AGEncPrhmpSV05-WAxP6JSPYmRPJQ0ccXeT05Cn9-pVY61ANt2SMeRgg/s1600-h/viru.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinjVmdNuVs5yjVajcmRYs4O8TkTjUBFsRuj2C5eHWEtCa6hMF8KHJ9l9Q_XHBg0aRhtTYbWjii0ZpS7erI8h_AGEncPrhmpSV05-WAxP6JSPYmRPJQ0ccXeT05Cn9-pVY61ANt2SMeRgg/s320/viru.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5206290645060276450" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.livemint.com/2008/05/29235159/IPL-lessons-for-the-office.html">This week's column </a> was inspired by a trip the three of us took last week to a cricket match between the New Delhi Dare Devils and the Mumbai Indians. We were prepared to have to shove through crowds and ask 38 people which way to go but were amazed at the signage, cordoned-off areas, orderly lines and cops who actually knew where gate 6 was. I think the Republic Day parade needs to ask the cricket folks to handle their crowd control. Nitin printed out pages on "how to follow cricket" from <a href="http://www.therulesofcricket.co.uk/">some web site</a>. Naya kept saying she was looking for Dhoni. I thought we might get bored halfway through but about 20 minutes into the game, thanks to our friend Seema's commentary and the hordes of people around us, we got really into it. Definitely faster than baseball--which makes me wonder what the heck people are talking about when they say it's a cross between baseball and sleeping or such nonsense. I loved it and even yelled "VIRU" for the star Sehwag... but once Delhi's fourth batter scored low, we thought our team was doomed--and we left. Big mistake. While we were in the car, some guy came to bat and scored 56 runs! Oh well, we learned a few lessons.S. Mitra Kalitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01758858775289619879noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270125900272046975.post-67034076109518669592008-05-19T01:11:00.002+05:302008-05-19T01:14:24.375+05:30nayaThe other day in the bath: <br /><br />Naya: Mommy, when you want something, you just have to ask God. Like, God, can I please have some toffees. And then he will give you toffees. <br /><br />Today:<br />When I am on laptop...<br />Naya: Mommy, you should write about mommys and papas who play ball with their baby.S. Mitra Kalitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01758858775289619879noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270125900272046975.post-5465329733485167242008-05-14T22:49:00.003+05:302008-05-14T22:50:15.078+05:30Nayaisms you might not likeGirls only fight with girls because boys are more important. <br /><br />Mommy: Naya, what should I write my column on? <br />Naya: Ummmm. How about "good people who eat cheese?"S. Mitra Kalitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01758858775289619879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270125900272046975.post-6263884783873093522008-05-09T23:06:00.001+05:302008-05-09T23:08:01.442+05:30Is it a happy mother's day?www.livemint.com<br /><br />Is it a happy mother’s day?<br />Working parents in one survey spend just a half-hour a day nurturing their own kids. It's time to wake up<br />Wider Angle | S.Mitra Kalita<br />I know you think it’s you. But it’s not.<br />The award for Worst Mother of the Year goes to…me.<br />I turn my laptop on the minute I get home. I pretend to listen to my daughter’s stories as I frantically volley replies on BlackBerry. On weekends, I relish the chance to sleep in and let the maids deal with bath and breakfast and the most dreaded chore—brushing little teeth, especially those hard-to-reach, squirm-inducing back ones.<br />Two days before the world celebrates the joy and wonders of motherhood and thanks us who have dutifully filled and then emptied our wombs, I hang my head in shame and hardly think I deserve any special attention. Really, as a mother, I am a failure.<br />Well, sometimes.<br />Because that’s just the way parenthood is. Unlike our daily jobs, there are no benchmarks to success. Just when you think happy kids are the goal, a child psychologist or teacher will instruct you to let sadness occasionally wash over them, “so they can learn to deal with it on their own,” as one educator recently told me.<br />Nobody ever chastises working parents. We pat each other on the back, then say: “She’ll be fine. You’re doing the best you can.” Experts advise parents not to give into guilt.<br />I disagree. It’s time.<br />This week, The Times of India reported the results of a survey that find working parents spend only 30 minutes “nurturing their own children”. Not surprisingly, more than 85% of the 3,000 working couples in the study gave themselves a negative rating as bad parents. “Parents are working not only out of economic compulsion but also to cash in on their technical and professional qualification,” the study said. “Parents that work long or irregular hours are not available for children after school, and especially to help with the homework, ...and not able to do things together at weekends or eat together.”<br />Even on Sundays, when companies are allegedly off, working couples report being consumed with the endless tasks involved in running a household: paying bills, cleaning, going shopping.<br />The study illustrates the net effect of several societal shifts in the middle class. More and more couples are both working. Fewer families have the grandparents around. The demands at work are enormous: first, to sustain the growth in the economy and now to ensure all is not lost in case of a slowdown. Sadly, childcare has really not caught up; due to the sorry state of education in rural and poor India, most people’s maids have not even the nurturing instinct of one Mary Poppins bone. Creches are a fast booming business, but concerns over hygiene, safety and space persist. Parents who spend Rs5,000 on a meal quibble about spending half that to keep a good maid around.<br />In 10 years, will the neglect show? Is this study foreshadowing a future generation of kids who are needy, lack confidence, resent our success at their expense? Possibly.<br />Every now and then, when my mothering sinks to the all-time low I describe here, when my husband and I are both on deadlines and our daughter seems to crave even just a glance from us, something more powerful than the desire to achieve and excel washes over me: Mommy Guilt.<br />It is a most powerful and necessary warning. It inspires me to leave the laptop behind (or at least the cord so the battery dies in an hour). It forces me, no matter how pressed for time, to incorporate my daughter into my daily activities, if only to spend a few more minutes with her; we bathe, we brush, we banter. We reconnect.<br />This week’s findings, released by trade chamber Assocham’s Social Development Foundation, must inspire collective guilt, triggering changes at home and work. If reducing hours is not an option, children must be more effectively integrated into our lives, shopping to dining out. As parents have moved towards managing without their own parents around, so too might they learn to manage sometimes without another appendage: maids.<br />The rearing and nurturing of children in India is in crisis. Besides parents taking responsibility, workplaces will need to react quickly with flexible scheduling, not just to watch children but to take care of chores such as doctor appointments and car servicing. The risk of not reacting is to lose a diverse, necessary part of the workforce; according to Assocham, just 21% of mothers with young families want to work full-time, with an overwhelming majority preferring part-time work alongside raising their children.<br />Even as us working parents beat ourselves up, there’s some irony in what most motivates us: our children. To provide for them, to make the world a better place for them. Working mothers like me, with girls, try hard to set an example of the type of women they can be.<br />But in the end, our long hours and business plans really mean nothing without ensuring growth and vitality— of our most precious assets of all.<br />Your comments are welcome at widerangle@livemint.comS. Mitra Kalitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01758858775289619879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270125900272046975.post-36361116213937951652008-05-04T21:12:00.001+05:302008-05-04T21:13:43.726+05:30It's all about who you knowhttp://www.livemint.com/2008/05/01230250/It8217s-about-who-you-know.html<br /><br />Wider Angle | S.Mitra Kalita<br /><br /><br />All he did was “put in a word”.<br />That is how Union shipping, road transport and highways minister T.R. Baalu defended his move to procure gas for two companies owned by his two wives (yes, two) and sons, companies that happened to be previously headed by him.<br />According to news agency Press Trust of India (PTI), Baalu admitted he had spoken to petroleum and natural gas minister Murli Deora to ensure gas was allocated. “I put in a word with the petroleum minister,” Baalu told Parliament, according to a PTI report. “What is wrong with it?”<br />He didn’t add what he very likely also felt, what many of us realize on a day-to-day basis: That’s just the way life goes in India. Everyone uses connections or else nothing gets done.<br />Right?<br />If you’re squirming with discomfort, recognition, uncertainty, you’re not alone. For, many of us—from salaried professionals to the working poor —largely accept that bribes are wrong: Paying or gifting someone to grease the wheels is immoral, corrupt. But pulling a favour to get the job done?<br />It happens.<br />Think about it. Need to get your three-year-old into nursery school? One after another, the calls go out to principals and board members of elite schools—or their friends and family. Attached to applications are the letters vouching for your child and your character from Prominent People.<br />How can a retail entrepreneur secure the licences needed to stock yarn, put up signs or even play terrible background music? It’s time to make rounds among The Influential.<br />This deep tapping into networks is especially acute in this connection-conscious Capital, but other cities certainly suffer their share, too. By no means is India alone, but the problem worsens here because connections, often, must be relied upon to get the littlest thing done.<br />It is not just the government to blame. Even as the growth of the private sector has spoiled us for choice, it has created new hurdles to getting services smoothly. Well educated and intentioned they may be, but bank tellers rarely have a clue about foreign exchange or money transfers. The cashier who fields your mobile payment has little power to do much else, like print out a bill statement from six months ago. And so we seek out those second and third cousins who work at Citibank and Vodafone for rescue.<br />Every time I raise this issue, old-timers shrug, saying: “It used to be so much worse.” One writer on the blog, Mutiny.in, reminds, “In the ’70s, if you wanted to buy any car anywhere in India, money wasn’t the problem. The waiting period was. It ranged from a few months to a few years depending on the model and your political connections.”<br />But guess why he raised this point? Recently, the blogger noted that folks eager to book the Rs1 lakh Tata Nano were already in queue, buttering up dealers and plastering automobile websites with their emails and phone numbers so they could be first.<br />So, how much has really changed?<br />Are there just shades of grey between paying a bribe and invoking a connection? In many cases, the answer might lie in our professions. Politicians, journalists, government contractors should be held to higher standards because for them, a favour is rarely just a favour (for a copy of Mint’s code of conduct, visit www.livemint.com).<br />The more important question is why the straight and direct route is failing so many Indians. Crumbling schools, tight regulations, lack of access, crooked civil servants, all of the above? As with much of middle-class woe, if it’s tough for us, the poor and lesser connected are the real victims.<br />“The normal systems have collapsed in most spheres in life,” says Arvind Kejriwal, the former bureaucrat who pioneered the right to information movement. “If you normally apply for something, you wouldn’t get it, even if you deserve it, so you need connections or money. The people who have connections feel comfortable about it. But if I don’t have connections, I’ll say it’s a rotten system.”<br />In Baalu’s case, it has been revealed that Prime Minister Manmohan Singh, master of the art of crafting a squeaky clean image—even in India—made “certain references” on the shipping minister’s behalf to secure gas. Of course, the implication of the Prime Minister’s Office getting involved is more damning: Give this guy his gas—and whatever else he wants.<br />The actions in regards to Baalu and his family’s companies smack of nepotism and cronyism. If only the elected would show so much concern over the public they represent. We wouldn’t even need 10,000 cubic metres, as Baalu requested.<br />In fact, I think most Indian households would settle for just a letter from the Prime Minister’s Office guaranteeing steady power in these summer months.<br />And maybe, for good measure, he’d throw in an extra gas cylinder?<br />Your comments are welcome at widerangle@livemint.comS. Mitra Kalitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01758858775289619879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270125900272046975.post-58619113924016868532008-04-27T18:53:00.002+05:302008-04-27T18:55:47.457+05:30Naya's story - verbatimOne day Radha and Krishna went to the park. They went on a slide. Then they climbed up the mandir and went to see a movie--with earphones. They went to see Ratatouille. Then they came down a bridge and took off their earphones. There was a big big big party. Everyone was dancing. Even the trees were dancing. It was beautiful.S. Mitra Kalitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01758858775289619879noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270125900272046975.post-76514512205504531082008-04-26T16:42:00.002+05:302008-04-26T16:48:39.993+05:30Naya-isms all in oneMany funny things going on: <br /><br />Yesterday, my friend Michael and his son were visiting Delhi and when we got back into the house, Naya and Ayaan greeted us. <br /><br />Michael: Oh, wow, Naya, is this your friend?<br />Naya: No, he's my <span style="font-style:italic;">boy</span>friend. <br /><br />Naya is surely, but very slowly, learning how to read. So she has a book of words and today she spells out: "S-O-C-K-S"<br />Mommy: Very good!<br />Naya: S-O-C-K-S spells <span style="font-style:italic;">muja</span>!!<br />(Muja is the Assamese and Hindi word for socks. So if she never learns to read, at least she can serve as a translator...)<br /><br />Then she saw the words C-U-P and said, "That spells cup."<br />Mommy: Very good. <br />Naya: Oh Mommy, I am so proud of you. (big hugs followed and I think she was hinting that I should have said it to her)<br />Mommy: Thank you. <br />Naya: Mommy, what does 'proud of you' mean?S. Mitra Kalitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01758858775289619879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270125900272046975.post-63457430874472865872008-04-25T00:20:00.001+05:302008-04-25T00:22:38.649+05:30The Royal TreatmentSo I have been holding out on where we went last weekend... Read on...<br /><br />http://www.livemint.com/2008/04/25000400/A-touch-of-royal.html<br /><br />Even before any probing, pressing, caressing, the new spa -- Kaya Kalp -- at the ITC Mughal in Agra invokes sensory overload<br />S. Mitra Kalita<br />New Delhi<br /><br />About 99,000 sq. ft of massage and treatment rooms, workout and yoga space, gardens and fountains. Lavender wafting through the air. Stark red pomegranate motifs on floors and walls, a nod to Emperor Babur’s favourite fruit.<br />Spa junction: Bathe together in the couple suite. (Photograph courtesy ITC Mughal)<br />Spa junction: Bathe together in the couple suite. (Photograph courtesy ITC Mughal)<br />But being overwhelmed is not relaxing and so, the real test of the just-opened Kaya Kalp–The Royal Spa will actually be in transporting the stressed-out set to places far, far away from big and busy. Based on my recent experience, it will succeed precisely because of the attention to the little: water fragranced with cucumber and orange slices, the delicate cymbals chimed at the end of an ayurvedic treatment, decorative marble candle holders reminiscent of the behemoth ode to love nearby.<br />Offerings range from salon standards—haircuts, manicures, pedicures and facials—to elaborate packages known as “journeys” that can last up to three hours. The spa claims it is Asia’s largest, as well as the first in India, to offer the Turkish bath known as a hammam.<br />And so, I began my journey.<br />I lay on a marble slab, stripped of clothing, dignity and tension all at once. The steam around me blinded, suffocated, hypnotized but dozens of candles danced through the haze, their light bouncing off tiny mirrors and creating rainbows around the room. Just when fainting felt imminent, hard sprays of cold water awakened and invigorated. In life, two distinct stages force human beings to be bathed at the hands of another: childhood and old age. Thus, the hammam, a meeting of a sauna, bath and massage in one, might startle those of us in the active, independent purgatory of middle age. But it is well worth getting over such inhibitions because being cleansed, lathered, rubbed in this manner felt like the very embodiment of what a spa should be.<br />“Remember a spa is about water,” reminds Christine Hays, the operations head who has spent the last eight months overseeing the conversion of ITC Mughal’s gardens into this decadent space. She recounts how the spa designers sent pieces of electrical equipment for modern-day treatments and she simply stored them away, explaining: “Everything has to be so natural and hands on.”<br />For the unique, transcendental experience, the hammam (Rs4,400 for 100 minutes) should be tried. But, if you’re looking for a strong rub with your knots and stress in someone’s firm hands, this might not be the best option. The 30-minute tension reliever (Rs1,500) is a more affordable blend of the pointed nature of Thai massage with the longer strokes of, say, a Swedish.<br />The entrance to Kaya Kalp (Photograph courtesy ITC Mughal)<br />The entrance to Kaya Kalp (Photograph courtesy ITC Mughal)<br />Notably, here, I finally learnt to embrace ayurvedic massage. In massages past, I have often just wanted to get up from the oily table and yell at the well-intentioned women in sync to stop sliding and teasing, to start applying pressure already. For those who value the healing and natural elements of ayurveda, ITC’s spa offers three rituals. I tried the hot herbal poultice massage (60 minutes for Rs3,500), which relies on a ball of herbs dipped in hot oil— “You could eat it,” Hays assures—to move across the body. The pressure of the ball on the joints across my legs and arms was especially welcome. And the soft wad perfectly juggles gliding yet applying pressure; there is none of that panic-inducing feeling that someone’s fingers might fracture your spine.<br />Kaya Kalp also offers a chakra balancing gem stone massage (60 minutes for Rs3,000) that seemed to incorporate similar elements as the herbal ball, but with the use of stones; this is also the massage given to couples during the Taj Mahal romance journey, which, for Rs15,000, gets the two of you three hours of rubbing, bathing, feeding and loving (the masseurs give you a 5-minute knock as a warning before entering so you can go wild in the tub strewn with rose petals).<br />Roses and red are striking themes throughout; some massages begin with dipping feet into a bowl of water with petals. The observatory garden outback is still being worked on, and when it cools down, outdoor massages will be added. The pool, which is only for users above the age of 15, follows the sharp lines and maze-like arrangement of the garden. At night, the candles, shooting fountains and sprays of mist overhead inspire literal and metaphoric reflection.<br />“The Mughals were known for opulence,” explains Anil Chadha, general manager at the ITC Mughal. “They were very aspirational.” That puts them pretty much on par with the target customer here.<br />Like the backs it kneads, Kaya Kalp has a few kinks to work out. For a place that has promised such a Mughal experience, background music veered into the new age or elevator ambience at times. The couches and interior décor feels heavy, expected of the Mughals, but not necessarily cozy. The addition of some rituals, such as tea or healthy snacks while you wait, might help loosen the atmosphere up.<br />While prices are affordable by five-star spa standards, a few packages blending the works—say, manicure, pedicure, facial and massage—would likely do well, especially for the stressed who are time pressed. Unquestionably though, ITC Mughal’s spa has admirably fashioned itself into a destination in a city where most are lured by another awe-inspiring structure. So, while visitors are off seeing the fruits of one man’s devotion, stay behind, for Kaya Kalp is a divine place to pay homage to what should be your greatest love of all: you.S. Mitra Kalitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01758858775289619879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270125900272046975.post-10961852301423276872008-04-24T23:48:00.002+05:302008-04-24T23:53:57.498+05:30Have the tables turnedA little preface to<a href="http://www.livemint.com/2008/04/24231000/The-tables-are-turning.html"> this week's column</a>...<br /><br />A few weeks ago, when I was in Chennai, I interviewed literally dozens of candidates. <br />One guy proudly told me that he already had three offers.<br />"From where?" I asked.<br />He named two companies. And then he named my employer.<br />"But I haven't made you an offer yet?"<br />"You will," he said. "My profile is something everybody's after."<br />I wasn't.<br /><br />Here u go...<br /><br /><br />By S. Mitra Kalita<br /><br />Is this the beginning of the end?<br />Not of incredible India or even shiny India, for that matter. Not of favourable export-import ratios or affordable food prices. After all, in an interview with The Wall Street Journal earlier this week, finance minister P. Chidambaram already read his prescient tea leaves and broke the bad news: The party is winding down.<br />He braced Indians for slower growth—and the flurry of earnings out this week point toward the same downward trend.<br />But, what I really wonder about is the future of another imbalance that has come to define this economy of recent good tides and fortune: between employer and employee.<br />For too long, Indian companies have engaged in a game where employers— strapped for great talent and strong mid-level managers—are held hostage by their workers, tiptoeing around them, resorting to better canteen food and themed office parties to impress, essentially living in fear that employees will leave and take all the pricey training and precious time invested with them. Over the last few months, that feeling has intensified as workers hold out for their year-end bonuses and increments to give notice or even make decisions about leaving.<br />Yet this season, unlike recent years past, is seeing a new entrant to workplace woe: layoffs.<br />It all started back in February when Tata Consultancy Services (TCS), the country’s largest services provider, announced that it had asked 500 underperforming staffers to leave. Through reviews and performance evaluations, employees are ranked from a scale of 1 to 5. Those who score a 2 or less are put on a plan to help them improve— and if there’s no sign of improvement, TCS “disengages” with them.<br />The move is not entirely new at TCS, which let 500 people go in all of the last fiscal year and already has “disengaged” 500 in the first three quarters of this year—sending a stark message to its more than 100,000 employees and the rest of the tech sector. Given weaker-than-anticipated results reported earlier this week, more such pink slips might be on the way.<br />On Monday, Mint reported the news of Yes Bank letting go of nearly 400 employees in the first quarter of the year, also for non-performance.<br />“Individuals who do not fit into the service culture and performance parameters of the bank mutually go their own ways in order to sustain the highly motivated business environment of the bank,” Deodutta Kurane, president of human capital, which is to say human resources, at Yes Bank, told Mint in an email.<br />Likely, a lot of young Indians have been reading the headlines and feeling panic over layoffs. In reality, though, the panic should be setting in over another word: non-performance.<br />That is the one thing there is no place for in a slowing economy. We who thought we were working harder than ever to keep up with the pace of double-digit growth—and triple digit in the case of many of our employers —have not seen anything yet.<br />The only comparison I can make is when I visited India just around the time of the dot-com bubble bursting in 2001 and a human resources manager in Chennai bluntly described the sentiment of his office: “You need to constantly run to stand where you are. Every day is a day where you deliver.”<br />Seven years later, the workplace is not that different—but India is. Even as the talent crunch grew more acute and workers more valued, attitudes towards layoffs have changed—everyone, after all, is dispensable; high attrition rates have taught us that much. In the rush to hire freshers, companies made offers and promises years ahead of schedule—which many are surely going to have to rethink, as TCS’ move has shown.<br />In the next few months, Indians will discover they will have to work doubly hard to fight from losing all they have built. They will need to prove worth and value to their employers. And, unlike the boom times, mediocrity and slack work ethic cannot be masked by growth. In many sectors of the last few years, we have moved from zero to acceleration. That is the easy part.<br />Now comes the hard part: to innovate, hang on to clients and customers to tap new markets. The exuberance and overconfidence of recent times will be knocked down, making way for good old-fashioned sweat equity.<br />Call me sadistic, but I welcome the reality check—at least when it comes to the new equilibrium it might bring about between employers and employees.<br />Despite the dire projections of many companies this week, a study carried out by industry chamber, the Associated Chambers of Commerce and Industry, said foreign information technology firms plan to proceed with hiring 40,000 people in India by 2010.<br />No need to complacently cheer or gloat yet. The recent spate of layoffs and warnings to non-performers still send an important message.<br />It’s time to get cracking—or else.<br />Your comments are welcome at widerangle@livemint.comS. Mitra Kalitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01758858775289619879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270125900272046975.post-55390859974532536852008-04-22T02:25:00.003+05:302008-04-22T02:30:42.907+05:30KajalMy favourite actress has let me down... U Me Aur Hum royally sucked. You name a cliche - instant love, drunken machismo, strange Europeans of unknown origins lurking about, random disease -- and this was the movie. Oh how could she!S. Mitra Kalitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01758858775289619879noreply@blogger.com2