On being tagged

I've been tagged. This is probably the only context in which I will concede to liking chain-letters and go on to honour them. Up until now I had no idea that Sujatha over at fluff 'n' stuff even knew of my existence but she has me listed right next to Usha from agelessbonding. Usha is a veteran of the blogging world--she started blogging in 2003 and her site meter indicates she gets 267 visits, on average, per day. Having blogged only since January of this year, I assume that my readership doubles on the days my husband wanders over lazily from his haunts to check out my latest entry. So now is probably a good time to share this thought: that the 'six degrees of separation' rule does not apply to the blogging world. Through blogs, people can probably be connected to each other in no more than three degrees of separation.

Now onto the business-at-hand.

These are the rules:

Pick up the nearest book.
Open to page 123.
Find the fifth sentence.
Post the next 3 sentences.
Tag 5 people, and acknowledge the person who tagged you.

The book is 'An Obedient Father' by Akhil Sharma.

The sentences:

"...When the Muslim moved into Tailor's Alley and started a milk bar, I said to the people there, 'In my life this has always been a Hindu alley. Tomorrow this Muslim will be selling your children milk with cow bones ground in.'" He realized he was merely boasting and brought the conversation back on track.

Now for the more difficult part--the tagging. The introductory narrative next to the chosen blogger is not essential; it is just my personal touch as a tribute to those chosen.

Kalyani from 'those middle ages' (after all she is only marrying off her daughter and does not have enough on her plate).

Anonandon (while being as opinionated as the rest of us, she manages, better than most of us, to carve time for Bellinis or rock concerts or both--much to the chagrin of some Y chromosomes. But that is another story).

Asal thamizh penn (if she rejects being tagged and chooses instead to write about how annoying the game is, she will at least stamp it with her ATP-brand comic style. But more importantly, she will show me all the respect my Tamilness deserves and will refer to me only as an anonymized 'M').

Lisa (she lives my dream--immersing herself in Russian literature AND getting paid for it in that beautiful state of Maine. Moreover, she too brings back the past with the likes of Pozharskie cutlets and столичный салат).

Angry African (because he can be funny, angry, poignant...Heck, he does not mince his meat, I mean, words).

I don't know if this will work but I am tagging an extra blogger: Melvin, my humor-immersed husband because I have this need to see him pick up a book and actually read a few lines.

Thanks for the thoughtful stuff masquerading as fluff, Sujatha.

The Hazards of BWM (Blogging While Mom)

I was just recovering from one of the hazards of blogging during lunch at work: I had typed 'Booker of Bookers' when I actually meant 'The Best of Bookers'. My husband had discovered the error and chided me. He is a stickler for facts. He is a writer after all. I was mad at myself. I am a stickler for facts too. I earn my living as a researcher. Plus, I hate to discover I embarrassed myself. I can be obsessive like that.

So here I am, on a Saturday morning, wanting to please myself by perfecting my next post. I treat my children to whole-wheat chocolate pancakes (healthy food laced with dessert to ensure maximum consumption by fussy toddlers) and hope they will be lulled into playing by themselves for a short while. Breakfast things uncleared, I open the laptop at the kitchen table. So let me see: what are the top 10 reasons I remain fascinated with Pi Patel's life. Hmmm ... is it because Yann Martel had the audacity to start his book with a short thesis on the biology, ecology and physiology of the sloth? Or is it ... ?

By now, all the usual noises in our home -- the plonking of piano keys by chubby toddler fingers, the thuds of graceless falls by a 4-year-old acrobat practicing on the couch, the outraged squeals of a 5-year old discovering that evil sibling has (once again) raided the forbidden treasure box -- have all been forcibly pushed to the background. Yann Martel, Pi Patel. Piscine Molitor P. Richard Parker. Gather. Focus. Type ...

But wait. What is that noise? A chair being dragged across the kitchen floor. Okay, just this one reason before I look up: Religion vs. Zoology. What an excellent juxtaposition.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

That doesn't sound good at all.

I ... have ... to ... go. Wait, no one else has argued for the concept of zoos this eloquently, not even the most pessimistic ...

Hey, what's that whirring sound? The microwave is on? Am I defrosting something?

No, no, no. NO, you two-year-old monkey! Get down from there! What are you cooking in the microwave?

I dart across the kitchen floor. Press the Stop button. Can't help noticing that there are 7 mins and 8 secs left to complete what I think is my toddler's microwave recipe of cooked air. Turn to leave. On second thoughts: I open the door of the microwave oven. And there, awaiting its next avatar as melted plastic-and-metal goo, is our molded plastic-and-metal can opener.