http://fcl-feytiat.fr/?sdrer=site-de-rencontres-des-hommes-celibataires-100-gratuit&98c=61 When my Mum and Dad went to Singapore, they, like all the other Indian Diaspora took a bit of India in a pot with them. They watered it and they nurtured it, shielding it from change and decay. They were so preoccupied in hanging on to our Indian -ness, they were blindly oblivious to the winds of change in India.
enter site My dad would unfurl the Indian flag in front of our house on the Indian Independence Day and on the Indian Republic Day. I learned the words of the “Jana Gana Manna”, the Indian National Anthem before I did “God Save the Queen”, the National Anthem of colonial Singapore. We were Indian first and everything else, only after that. When we had to change the ceiling fans in the house, my dad brought USHA fans from India, despite the paucity of spare parts and service. He ignored every state of the art device available in Singapore and chose to buy the “Be Indian, Buy indian” slogan from India, instead.
http://emilymarchblog.com/maglayd/3296 We attended the Tamil service and were taught enough Tamil tofollow the service and sing in the choir.
“We had to preserve our Indian culture” they said.
“Never forget that we are Indians”
go to link My friend, Preima Doraisamy, the daughter of the Methodist Bishop, Rt. Rev. Theodore Doraisamy and I went for dancing lessons to Bhaskar the Dance master who taught the classical Indian dance form of Bharathanatyam to most of the Indian kids in Singapore . We had to be dressed in a salwar kameez with a sash tied around our waists. We all had a pair of ghungroos strapped around our ankles that shook and clinked when we pranced around the room.
tarif site de rencontre The Master-ji had us in straight rows, one behind the other, dancingin time to the staccato beat that the Veshti clad Mrithangam players, who sat in a corner of the room, meted out. The Master-ji, had a pair of metal castanets, that were wound around the middle fingers of both his hands, that he used to clap with great authority, to keep us in line. When we slumped and slouched in untidy clusters, he would whack us from behind with his metal fist, making us jump several feet high in the air in fright and pain. He taught us to roll our eyes to music and to shake our heads from side to side. Once a year he used to have dance performances to showcase his pupils. In my short lived Bharathanatyam career, I danced as birds, deer and stationary trees with outstretched arms..
http://genepease.com/?morfin=mexican-dating-black&174=64 His weekly classes, were held in a street off Serangoon Road, which worked out well for all the mothers, who would drop us off and head for The Govindaswamy Pillai’s shops.
Finpecia online purchase Mr. P. Govindaswamy Pillai, was a migrant entrepreneur, with a few outlets on a block of shop houses on Serangoon Road. His, was a success story of a hardworking South Indian Tamilian. A self made man who started from scratch. As shrewd, as you make them, he ran a successful family business, without graduating from any business school. He retained a loyal customer data base, by attending to them personally and attentively, pleasing them with his stocks and service. Anything Indian, or specifically South Indian, that you needed for any reason in town, be it powdered spices, agarbathi, virgin coconut oil or ghunguroos, he would pull out from the orderly chaos in the Provision shop. Or he would source it for you.
Per chi si avvicina per la prima volta al trading, fare un buon see url online può essere veramente utile. La verità è che il trading non è He had a flower shop outside the provision shop that sold flower garlands, temple offerings , beetle-nut and coconuts. If you stood on Serangoon Road with your eyes closed and breathed deeply , the aromas and the smells wafting up, would have transported you back to any street in TNagar in Madras. Most Indian families needed their weekly day out, at the Serangoon Road shops. It helped keep us stay grounded, as Indians in a cosmopolitan island.
rencontres jasnieres 2011 During Diwali, they would sell firecrackers and sparklers, the Puthiris. His prices were fixed and fair, so bargaining was not entertained. He could do mind boggling mental maths, in Tamil, several pages long and there would be no mistakes at all.
http://hivtestkit.ph/?melisa=rencontre-non-payante&b52=2d One of his shops, was a cloth shop that sold the easy maintenance, Nylex sarees rolled on cardboard cylinders. stacked upright on long, shallow shelves that displayed their colours and print. These were really not customised sarees . They were imported bales of printed nylon cloth, produced for the masses at Japanese Textile factories . These bales were the breadth of a saree, which when cut at 6 yards, would drape as a flattering saree, that slimmed you down. They were lengths of characterless prints that repeated itself, for all of the 6 yards, with no borders or palloos, or head pieces. They were perfect for the working Indian ladies for whom, convenience superceded all else.
If the print was on the shelf, at least two of the shoppers, at any point of time, in the shop, would be wearing it . They were popular as presents, to take back to the relatives in India, as they were branded a bargain. Cheap-n-Best. For the more traditional silks and heavy wedding finery , one sailed back to India to shop. This did not always work out well, as you had to depend on someone else’s kindness, to shop for you, if you were not able to go back to India. Sometimes, the merchandise the kind shopper brought back, would be an unmitigated disaster . When it came to tastes and prices , many a friendship was strained or sacrificed.
The Gold Shops on Serangoon Road were Indian and reflected the obvious display of wealth-worn-on-person. The gold medallion was deep bright yellow, the colour of sunshine, butter and ripe lemons. The patterns and forms on the jewellery were bold, to reduce wastage and weighed a ton. No one kept their jewellery in bank lockers those days and on festive occasions
and weddings, you wore everything you owned, even if it choked you and covered you, from your chin to your chest and restricted your neck movements.
My mum liked shopping for jewellery. She usually collected pieces throughout the year. She would wear them and then gift them to her siblings and their families on her trips to India. My Mum was quite Stylo -Milo. She used to have a beautiful collection of Sarees and Jewellery, none of which lived with her for too long.
My Mum had a collection of handbags, with short straps, that she wore on her right, flexed-at-90-degrees-forearm, pressed close to her body. Inside every handbag, there was a small, ornamental, oval or round, powder compact, replete with a mirror. Each handbag, would have a folded handkerchief, with a lace trim and a small bottle of parfum usually the Evening in Paris. The purse and wallet would move from bag to bag , while the other occupants of her handbags were permanent residents of a particular handbag. I used to love sniffing her bag whenever she opened it.
Sometimes when someone you love dies, a whiff of a smell from the past, can cause a cascade of nostalgic memories, to come tumbling out. For a long time I used to remember my Mum with the perfumes that I associated with my Mum.
The ear-rings that did me in
For some reason, my ears, were not pierced till I was 14 or 15. Normally most Indian kids in Singapore have their ears pierced when the child is an infant. This is usually done in a clinic, though the Goldsmiths advertised their surgical skills of ear-piercing, outside their shops. Every time we went to the Indian shops, my Mum would ask me to get my ears pierced and I would refuse and threaten never to come with her again. One day, while browsing in a shop, I saw a pair of really cute ear-rings. My Mum noticed that I kept going back to look at them. It was a flat, crescent shaped, ridged, ring that had little beads hanging from the edge of the crescent. When you shook your head, it would move and brush against the angle of your jaw. I was totally captivated by the jingle-jangle of the ear ring and in a weak moment I agreed to have my ears pierced, if she would buy the ear rings for me. In a flash, she had me lying on the top of the display table and without a thought of Sepsis, Death or Disaster, my ears were pierced by a Goldsmith in Serangoon Road. before I could change my mind. My Mum was delighted and she took me home triumphantly with my jingle-jangles in-situ, to show my Dad who rolled his eyes in disbelief.
Women….was all that he said.
I used to accompany my Mum on her shopping trips. We used to shop at Tekah for vegetables, meat and fish. There were no fixed prices in the 50s. You had to bargain, a skill you earned with practice. Especially at the Chinese shops, when you felt that you were at a disadvantage, because you could not speak the language. My Mum and her regular vendors had a predictable song and dance routine. She would pick up something and ask the Chinese towkay how much something costed.
Ten dollars, lah, he would say.
My Mum would start at two dollars, while I stood there mortified, pretending that I had nothing to do with the lady.
Aiya , how can , lah ? 9 dollars okay, lah, He would say.
My Mum would put it down and walk away. The towkay would call her back every time. And she would return every time. My mum would inch her way up on the price, dollar for dollar and the towkay would climb his way down, dollar for dollar , muttering and cursing in Chinese under his breath. They would do a verbal Tango, every single time, to reach around 5 dollars, half of what was quoted to start with. If you saw them in action, you would have never believed that it was a well rehearsed routine.
When Sam and I got married , my Mum and Dad invited everyone who had touched their lives during the time in Singapore. Every Vendor , Tradesman, Dustman and Duke they interacted with, was seated in Christ Church and in the chairs outside, clutching confetti in their hands. Even the elderly Butcher , they threatened to marry me off to, if I didn’t eat my veggies, was there, grinning from ear to ear. I had difficulty in recognising him, as he was dressed, in formal clothes with his shirt tucked in. He was not in his usual sleeveless vest and lungi, wielding a cleaver. The Transvestite Appam person who supplied us with the fluffy rice pancakes was sitting next to the Butcher, beaming.
My Mum and Dad started off as Diaspora, but over the years they lived in Singapore, their list of friends and acquaintances, from all the walks of life would have been a Forbes List.