This & That

Dangerous Intellectuals

2012-01-24T14:25:00.000Z

My God. How stupid I’ve been...all these years. I thought racists, fanatics, fundamentalists and all those crazies were a ‘fringe’ population; more often than not associated with political parties. They usually crawled out of the sewers now and then to represent the moral compass of a billion people.

But social media has been a revelation of sorts. For a moment I felt I was living in a town invaded by evil aliens, disguised as innocent humans. Let me begin at the beginning.

I joined this group on facebook because I found it to be an interesting platform to discuss Shri Vaishnava philosophy. Well, more than that, members shared beautiful photos of remote temples with interesting historical details. Initially, it was a cosy group, cackling with wonderful discussions and stories. As the membership grew, the discussions became more blasé, and on an average, there would be at least one rant about the usual ‘disrespect for elders’, ‘materialism’ ‘inability to inculcate spirituality in youngsters’ etc. I also had to put up with some rude questions about my surname – in no way my surname indicates that I can bow before Maha Vishnu – so what the hell am I doing infiltrating their group? Slowly, I stopped participating in this group, though I do keep an eye out for some wonderful photos of historical places.

But one fine day, my news feed showed some strong comments from my sister on some discussion. I was absolutely taken aback. My sister is the plodding, sedate type, who rarely makes herself conspicuous especially on moronic discussions. I checked out what had provoked her much feared wrath. Aah. It was a discussion on inter caste marriage. Someone had termed the marriage of two people from two different states (that means, same religion, same Gods, different languages) as ‘inter race’ marriage; and had passed her judgement that the child would become a ‘confused individual’. To which, another gentleman had replied, in what he felt was a humorous tone, that the child would be a ‘dhobi ka kutta’. And that – that below the belt, senseless, classless, basest comment about a child had ruffled my sister no end.

So, here is my niggling discomfort. It is perfectly okay to have strong opinions about certain social practices. But when those opinions take on a racist shade, and when those opinions make you think you are superior because of the choices you’ve made, and the rest are low-life – that’s when the tear appears in a social fabric. My discomfort turned into a full blown despair when I found out that these opinions were put forward in such a crude manner, with such impunity, on a social platform - not by some Sena or Taliban types – but by your average Joe youngsters. Yes, well educated, well heeled, and possibly well travelled youngsters in their twenties and thirties harbour such vicious thoughts. In the office, they’d probably be the dudes you would enjoy your coffee with. They’re probably the dudes with whom you’d go to the cinema, picnic, and restaurants . You probably consider them as a dependable friend. But all the while, they’d think you are scum because you had the balls to select your life partner based on mutual respect, admiration, attraction rather than community and religion.

My new education did not stop there. I came across an elderly gentleman. An upright citizen in every which way. The type who has probably paid his taxes meticulously, worked hard and honestly all his life to support his family, and always at the forefront when help was needed. He had an important question – I guess the curiosity was killing him. Did my ‘love marriage’ create problems for my sister? Our response was to blink in surprise. I come from a family who can be labelled as ‘liberal’ - the thought had never crossed our minds. The gentleman continued his monologue without waiting for an answer. He said his only son was ‘not allowed’ to ‘go astray’ because the son’s offspring would be the family’s first grandchild. And I could gather the unsaid comment – this would ensure a ‘pure blood’, unadulterated continuity of the family’s blood line. I am used to elders behaving in rude and obnoxious ways – they think their advancing age gives them a birthright to be disrespectful; so I was not surprised by this gentleman’s intolerable invasion into my personal space. But I was surprised that such notions of ‘pure bloodlines’ exist in this day and age.

As my sister rightly pointed out - history has shown us nothing good has ever come out of this obsession with race. We’ve seen the worst genocides all in the name of race – be it the holocaust, the 800,000 deaths in Rwanda or the killings in Serbia.

Much research has been done in social psychology to study the pattern of obedience and groupisms. The results are conclusive – a good percentage of rational, intelligent, educated adults tend to obey malicious authority without questioning. As far as groups are concerned, it is in our psychological makeup to gravitate towards similar minded-people – and voila! You have a group. Now, the mere hint of the existence of another group brings out the competitive side in us. The ‘us and them’ shit starts.

But you’d think education is an answer – the key that will open the door to tolerance and acceptance. If not anything, education, such as it is, has firmed one’s intolerance it seems. I look around me and I see such people everywhere. Every article on newspapers and magazines draws out hoards of educated, intelligent racists – who cannot present their opinions without needlessly degrading another religion, community, gender.

I thought we’re beyond heinous genocides in this day and age. I am not so sure now. Because as far as I’m concerned, the mystery of how one evil man could make hundreds of thousands of intelligent men commit mass murder is solved. It just requires a critical mass of people to believe they are superior than the rest. And it requires just that one catalyst, that one spark to ignite these racists.

All I can say is Shriman Narayano Vishnu Vasudevobhi Rakshatu!

My Christ

2011-12-23T19:18:00.002Z

Courtesy: http://1800sunstar.com/

When I joined a convent school as a snotty kid, I believe many tongues clucked, many fingers wagged, many foreheads creased with deep frowns. This was seen as a detriment to my religious development. It was predicted that I would soon forsake my own religion - my Krishna, my Vishnu, my Ganesha, my Rama; and adopt their Christ. After all, our religions were so different, the tongue-cluckers and finger-waggers murmured. Here we were – our Gods are powerful, handsome, bejewelled and bedecked. Our Gods fought wars and destroyed the evil Rakshasas – be it Kamsa or Ravana. But look at Christ – look at the suffering on His face, and He’s been nailed to a Cross for crying out loud. Why did my parents not put me in Saraswati Vidya Mandir where we were allowed to put bindis and wear bangles and necklaces – the way a Hindu girl should look like? Could my parents not see that I would be instilled with ‘Christian values’? Clearly my parents were upstarts and were ‘acting very smart’. It is another matter that no one had an answer when probed about what ‘Christian’ values were (as against ‘Hindu’ values).

I completed my schooling unscathed – without losing sight of my own religion, but at the same time, embracing Christ too. My tongue did not wither away when I sang English hymns instead of Sanskrit shlokas (and I did both). Indeed it still hurts when some idiot insults Krishna or Christ. As for values, I believe I’ve imbibed the values that make me a decent human being, if not a saint.

Life is the greatest teacher. But therein is the problem. The more we look around, and open ourselves to new experiences, new cultures – we can either become more enriched, or more cynical. Technology and science have made great strides – so much so, even ‘love’ has been analysed down right to a chemical reaction. So it is no surprise that we often find ourselves questioning the relevance of ‘Gods’ we grew up with. But perhaps no other saint/Messiah has come under so much scrutiny as Jesus Christ. Did Jesus really walk on this planet or was it all a myth? Did He really perform miracles or was it all imagination? Was He married or was He a bachelor? Was He coloured or was He white? And all those scrolls and reams and reams of nitpicking documentation on what He actually said. All those conspiracy theories. It’s so tiresome...all this so called ‘establishing the truth’. Does it really matter? What matters is what Jesus, or Krishna, or Rama means to you. Personally. Spiritually. If you believe Jesus is a Saviour, then, He is your saviour. If you think Jesus was a smokescreen created by political strategists, then that is your truth. If you equate the life of Christ to your own – and compare Him with your society – then sure, you will find a million faults with Him, as with Rama or Krishna.

Christ says, ‘Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and dine with him, and he with me’ (Revelations 3.20). It’s as simple as that. Strip off all the paraphernalia – the questions and debates and interpretations, and focus on what He embodies. To me, He is THE symbol of faith, forgiveness and the power of prayer – three powerful virtues. It might sound silly, and the rationalists might snigger – but faith is comforting; and can indeed move mountains. Forgiveness has a tremendous healing power – but so difficult to achieve; to let go, to cleanse all those negative emotions and start afresh. We’ve seen the futility of nuclear missiles and blazing guns fuelled by hatred; perhaps it is time to try forgiveness? And prayers – they bring in the light of hope into our souls – and what is life without hope?

Yes, Christmas is all about retail these days. Given a chance, I think they’ll fix up Christ in some Versace. Nonetheless, even if Christmas represents only shopping and wine and roasts to you; no matter how strong an atheist you are, no matter how strong a rationalist you are... become a child this Christmas. Regain that naive, innocent mind where belief and faith entered unquestioningly, easily – a time when you could hear an inner voice in the silence of your mind.

I wish you a blissful Christmas. And I pray that you are able to bear your Cross with dignity and strength.

Too Sexy For Your Food

2011-12-16T19:30:00.000Z

Courtesy:http://www.thehindu.com

I am an average cook. Indeed some might even sneer secretly and comment that I have to improve to reach the ‘average’ rating. Not that my food kills. It is good enough to satiate a rumbling tummy – not good enough to make you lick your fingers. I can, though, boil a mean rasam blind folded. Anyway, I am one of those positive thinking fools who set about improving weak points in a plodding manner. Ergo, I’m addicted to cookery shows. I’m not alone. I’m told by reliable sources that most of Britain is with me.

What is it about these shows that nail me to the sofa? With a slack mouth I gape at the idiot box as harried wannabe chefs dash around the kitchen grating, chopping, peeling, frying, steaming, boiling, baking. And from the mess rises dishes too beautiful to behold - exotic looking, perfectly shaped lumps placed on a colour-coordinated sauce that has been spread on the plate with the perfection of zari work. Not to mention sprigs of herbs balancing here and there on the plate delicately. And the super sensuous voice-over describing the food – I wouldn’t know most of the terms, all French. To me, all I hear is Chandler Bing’s voice saying ‘Rue de la blah bluh blah blah’. But before I know it, the hour would be up, and I would not have blinked.

The other day I caught this program where the chef is a bloke. Nothing glamorous about him. ‘Yond Cassius has a mean and hungry look’ would describe him well enough. Yet, I was captivated. He was in a kitchen that was bright and cheery – very ‘farmy’ if you know what I mean. It was a kitchen of my heart – no stupid cupboards and cabinets – all solid, open oak shelves on which sat ancient-looking porcelain jars. Something on the stove was bubbling away as Cassius drank tea wiggling his eyebrows at me. Then, he led me out of his kitchen to his kitchen garden, and I swooned. It was as lush as a rain forest. Cassius went about cutting sprigs of coriander, basil, thyme and what not. Then he wiggled his eyebrows some more and pointed out to the hazelnuts and avocados. He said it was nature’s plan to make these two available at the same time. He gave me a lopsided smile and told me ‘Don’t be afraid to experiment’. He collected the gifts of his garden in a beautiful wicker basket and went about explaining how simple it all is to cook. Into the roaster went olive oil, butter, cloves of garlic, herbs and many other magical things (magical in HIS kitchen, mundane in MINE). Meanwhile, he drained the pasta and drank some red wine. Then, we went back to his lovely garden where he sat at a wrought iron table and enjoyed his meal as I stared at him with a mean and hungry look.

It gets worse during Christmas. The wholesome, absolutely delectable Nigella rules the roost. Her kitchen is spotless, not a splatter on her clothes, no batter on her nose, no flour on her chin, no oily T-zone as she goes about grilling veal or venison. Her tresses are perfectly curled, her makeup is impeccable, and even if she says ‘peel the potatoes’ – it sounds incredibly sexy.

Why am I – a curd-rice eating Iyengar by birth, a daal and aloo posto eating Bong bou by matrimony – watch shows where I cannot even attempt to try 99% of recipes? I can’t put my finger on it. Perhaps I am responding to the sensuous factor in all these shows. You know, the beauty-in-food logic. What tastes good, should also look good logic. A lot of unsaid messages are absorbed. ‘This is what a cheerful kitchen looks like’. ‘This is what a good cook looks like’. ‘This is what good food looks like’. ‘Quality over quantity’ justifying the miniscule portions.

Have you noticed that in the past decade, there has been a distinct shift towards ‘being sexy’. No no...not your clothes and shoes – it’s just everything. From choosing curtains to dinner plates – every magazine and every T.V. show tells you ‘THIS is perfection – are you there yet?’ Now, this messaging has percolated to food too. Earlier on, cook books used to be slim paperbacks with just the recipes. At best, there would be a photo of a homely Aunty in a printed silk saree, with two or three gold chains on the neck in ascending order of loop size, jasmine strands peeking on either side of the ears, standing next to a bowl of laddus, smiling awkwardly at the cameras. Now, cook books are more eye-catching than the average fiction best seller. Usually hardbound, the glossy covers have the chefs - perfectly tanned, perfectly toned, flashing away dentist-fixed smiles as they hold up some equally alluring dish. Besides, chefs these days are celebrities – with their own paparazzi following.

Talking of celebrity food, I’d been to this Indian restaurant in Salisbury. We were proudly told there was a special menu – a three course meal. The starter was a choice of chaats. It was served in a shiny, narrow, rectangular plate. There were three chats in three teensy weensy portions. Measured to a teaspoon if you ask me. The food looked as beautiful as a Botticelli. It was gone in 60 seconds. Then came the main course. Pulav served in a grilled capsicum sitting on a bed of roasted tomatoes and potatoes. Tasted great. But it was over before I blinked. The dessert was one gulab jamun sitting shyly on a bed of vanilla icecream. The hungry Iyengar blood boiled.

You see, in my land this is what sexy food looks like. First of all, food is served on a large plantain leaf. And when we say ‘special’, we mean it. There will be MOUNTAINS of rice. There will be rasam, sambhar, nalagiri, morekolambu, manjekolambu, aviyal, pachchadi, appla, at least three different palyas, at least three different gojjus, at least two of these - puliyogre, chitranna, kadambam, pongal apart from the plain rice, and then some shundal, some khara boondi, medhu vade, thair vade, at least two different payasas, one served on the leaf, one served in steel tumblers. And yes. CURD RICE to signify all’s well that ends well.

But, remember that I am a positive fool? I did try assiduously to live up to the expectations of the media.

I thought I’ll start with the food. Now, how sexy can anna, saaru, palya get? I eat out of a steel plate. I slurp the sambhar. I smack at the mosaruanna with nimbehannu uppinakaayi. I drink my coffee out of a large mug, and usually have a foam moustache during this ritual. Darn it. Maybe I can just describe the food in a sexy way. So today I told The Husband (in what I thought was a sexy voice) that for breakfast, we are having ‘semolina roasted in clarified butter and cooked with stir fried vegetables seasoned with mustard, asafoetida and turmeric, spiced with green chillies, garnished with coriander and grated coconut, topped off with a dash of freshly squeezed lime juice.’ The Husband’s first question was if I had a throat infection. And then, that cunning ‘play it safe’ look dawned on his face, because obviously, he had no clue what I had just described. He said he’ll have oat biscuits instead. I slapped on the upma on an unremarkable thatte and thrust it at him. Che.

Just so you know, there’s hot chapathi with steaming tomato irulli gojju for dinner. The finger will be licked, remaining gojju gravy shall be slurped off the plate. That’s as sexy as can be. So there!

Ministry of Offence

2011-12-09T15:57:00.001Z

Courtesy:http://www.indiawires.com (but also saw this floating on evil FB)

Dear Sir,

Ref: Your objections to evil western networks and search engine

It is with great relief that I came across your opinions on the above subject. You see sir, I am an average Indian housewifeu. I have studied upto degree. I have worked for a decade. Even then, often I cannot decide if I should take offence about something or not. Most of the time, I don’t get time to take offencu. But now, I can breathe easy. You, as an elderly person, have taken over that responsibility...of taking offence on my behalf. Really sir, very good sir. Forget google geegal, facebook geesebook sir. Look here only...inside India. I will only give you a list sir, you can start off with that.

See sir...morning, morning I do Namaste to the sun, then to Narasimhar photo. Then only I drink filter coffee sir. This place where I stay, I don’t get Indian newspapers. So I have to use internet to read Indian news sir. So I am sitting with my coffee, and I wopen online newspaper. I want to see the update on FDI sir. But the newspaper insists I read about some lady called Veena Malik and see her breasts sir. Really sir, God promise...I don’t know her sir. And what is this karma sir – after seeing God’s photo to see such things? So please sir, take offence on my behalf and ban them sir...the news papers I mean, not the breasts, sir.

And not only that sir. See I am reaching middle ageu so I want to be a bit more healthy sir. Whatever health article I wopen no sir, it talks only about ...about...doing THAT sir. At this rate how can I read any news sir? This is the state of Indian family newspaper, sir.

So I switch on the T.V. sir to watch news. See sir, I told you I am educated no sir? Still why newsreader is shouting and shouting sir? She should just read news no? Whenever I look at her face sir, I can feel she is insulting me sir. She thinks I am a fool and I cannot understand implications of the news she is shouting. I am deeply offended sir. But I am afterall a housewifeu, what can I do? So best you only take offence on my behalf sir. And ban news channels also.

And sir, you are right about google sir. Third rate fellows. See sir, the other day, I was trying to search for some Rajasthani paintings sir. This google no sir, it gave me images – all are very vulgar sir. All showing people doing THAT sir. Please take offence on my behalf sir. The painters are Indians only I believe.

Facebook is okay sir...I am not offended. My family is there sir, on facebook. We all keep telling each other what we do every hour sir.

Sir, but biggest, corruptest thing is filmsu sir. Aiyaapppa. I can’t tell you how much I have taken offence. See sir, when you walk on the street, do you see any woman wearing saree below her panty line sir? (sir please don’t get offended sir). Do you see her wearing a bikini top as a blouse sir? Do you see that the pallu is covering only one breast sir? No na? How decently we all wear saree in real life. Still sir, in movies why women are wearing saree so vulgarly? On my behalf, please take severe offence sir. It is a serious erosion of moral ethics sir. What will foreign people think about Indian woman sir? Sir also sir, I take offence to middle-aged and senior citizens starring opposite to girls in their twenties sir. I find it perverted sir. Again, I am giving you full permission to take offence sir.

Sir lastly, you please take offence regarding this gentleman’s blog sir. http://www.bhagwad.com/blog/2011/rights-and-freedoms/time-to-legalize-internet-hate-speech.html/

He is telling it is my fault I open bad bad links sir. So I am only responsible for becoming offended I believe. How sir? You only saw no? At this rate I can’t read Indian newspaper, I can’t watch Indian news, I can’t watch Indian movies...how this boy can say it is my fault sir? And he is using big big words in bullet points in his blog sir. Show-off. Please sir...take offence immediately.

And lastly sir – all the above things no – this lady with breasts, cheap way of wearing sareesu etc etc – when I asked my husband and many male friends – none of them have taken offence sir. Sir please sir, take offence against men on my behalf sir. Ban men sir.

Best regards,

Below average Indian housewifeu.

Hair-Raising

2011-12-06T13:27:00.001Z

Courtesy:http://www.espncricinfo.com

I just bought a new comb. Not the flimsy plastic ones with a couple of teeth. This is a solid one with a thick wooden frame. Strong enough to crack a skull. It has a very specific purpose, and it is not called a ‘comb’. It is called a paddle brush. The ‘teeth’ have ceramide technology stuff in them, I’ll have you know. It’s the gateway to luxurious, glowing, silky smooth hair. Or so I thought.

From a very young age, I’ve been a bit finicky about the mane. Possibly because that is the only thing one can change about oneself in a jiffy. Childhood saw me with waist length hair, often oiled, pulled taut and plaited into two braids. Years of chasing me up and down the ‘vataara’ before pinning me down and braiding the said plaits left my Mom traumatised. So she decided to get me a ‘baaf cut’.

On a happy, happy summer afternoon, Amma bundled me and the cooing sister in a bus, and off we went to Jayanagar 4th block shopping complex. The complex housed Bangalore’s best known beauty saloons of the 80s. I don’t remember the name, but there was a ‘Chinese’ one and an ‘Indian’ one. Reliable sources had informed Amma that the Chinese were masters of the game when it came to hair cuts. And there, I had my first brush with ‘hair fashion’ even before I was ten. I remember being mighty pleased about the ‘baaf cut’ – but photos prove I looked like a character from Dilbert. Anyway, Amma had relaxed mornings.

As a teenager, I naturally had a narcissist obsession about the way I looked. One afternoon, during some study holidays, while I was supposed to be solving quadratic equations, I figured my forehead was abnormally wide. It is. Like LCD or Plasma screens. My remedy was simple. I needed a fringe to even out this facial distortion. That was the moment I realized that cutting hair was not easy. You’d think your hand is steady; but the mind boggles at the zigzag line that’s emerged. Now, since I had the hair over my eyes to cut the bangs, I had managed to trim the edges of my eyelashes too. Once the business was done, I surveyed the result. I looked like a tramp. I hoped a litre of coconut oil and twenty-five thousand clips could hide the mishap. But Amma had a sharp eye. It was apocalypse for me. That too, I had used the scissors meant for cutting milk packets and jasmine strands.

By the time I got into a job, I had more or less well settled hair. My style was a non-fussy blunt just above the shoulders. It was neat and professional. Until one day... boredom struck. I marched into the nearest salon and picked up a superbly chic style from their catalogue. Unfortunately for me, the girl supposed to cut my hair was used to doing ‘step cut’ and ‘baaf cut’ for 3 year olds. She did the same to me. Photos of that era show that I had an uncanny resemblance to Daniel Radcliffe in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. For the first time, I did think of running away from home. How could I go home after this catastrophe? But I did return home. My sister burst out laughing. Amma’s eyes bulged. I think Appa wanted to join the evil sister, but fearing Amma’s reaction, chose to remain neutral. Let us draw curtains on that sad evening.

Next morning, when I shampooed the cursed hair and dried it, I looked like an exotic baboon. It was too much for Amma and she joined the sister’s continuous laughter. I visited an upmarket salon on Commercial street and got the hair re-styled. Such was my plight that I was allowed inside without an appointment – I was treated as an emergency case. Now, the hair was truly well groomed and Amma loved it. It was like Demi Moore’s in Ghost. However, sadly, my resemblance to Moore ended there. The new hair style was a blessing. It warded off pesky marriage alliances – I no longer belonged to the ‘traditional with modern outlook’ category. I belonged to the ‘ultra-modern spoilt by western influence’ category. Undisputedly, a result of disastrous convent education.

That brings me to the essence of this blog, you poor blighted readers. The Psychology of Long Hair in India. No, no...please don’t leave this page. It gets interesting I tell you.

‘Teri zulfon se judaii tho nahin maangi thi,

Quaid maangithi, rihaii tho nahin maangithi’

‘Yeh reshmi zulfein, yeh sharbathi aankhen...

Inhe dekh kar jee rahen hai sabhi’

‘...Aakhon per tum ne kuch aise, zulf gira di hai,

Bechaare se kuch khwaabo ki neend uda di hai’

And a million such lines. Obviously they don’t refer to short spiky hair. In these lines lies the essence of a woman’s sexuality. Indeed, there is nothing as seductive as a woman with such a luxuriant, lustrous crowning glory.

But the obsession about long hair does not end there. The roots go deeper, pardon the poor pun. Apart from being a symbol of femininity, long hair is also associated with strong moral values. Not convinced? As a parent who would you choose as YOUR daughter-in-law? The one with waist length hair or the one with the spikes?

Girls-with-long-hair are deemed as more homely, conforming to tradition when compared to short-hair counterparts. Girls-with-short-hair evoke an uncomfortable chemistry. They may as well walk around with neon lights that blink ‘rebels, no respect for society’ and other similar messages. But the most dangerous label they carry is ‘westernised’. Indeed that one word reflects all the evil that threatens the Indian morality –career-minded, ambitious, no-respect-for-elders, does-not-believe-in Gods (note the plural), boyfriends, dating, affairs – phew!

In many of our movies, the vamps are the ones with short hair and ‘western’ outfits. They are mean-minded, they don’t hesitate to assert their sexuality and are always after the hero’s money. The leading ladies on the other hand are docile, pure of body and mind and stand by the hero even if he is an obnoxious bum because of the ‘sachcha pyaar’. And yes, they have long hair. Or, if the heroine is a shrew in the first half – she wears a short hairstyle to drive home the point. When the hero has sufficiently insulted and assaulted her ego and sense of identity and brings her to the path of conformation (usually in the second half), her hair magically grows in length. Pah! Thankfully, the modern bollywood cinema and ekta kapoor have blurred the line between leading lady and vamp sufficiently.

Why all this contemplation, you ask? It is because the expensive paddle brush has not delivered what it promised. The hair is as luxurious as weeds on a marshland. I am tempted to get the mane chopped ; but Vogue advises me not to. Now that my body shape has reached spherical proportions, I am supposed to maintain shoulder length hair. Of course, I can get a neat Halle Berry look, and then WORK OUT to make my body suit my hair. That will take 20 years, and by then, old age will catch up anyway. In order to look neat, I am advised to go in for a ponytail. But that will make my ears look elephantine and my nose will jut out like the rock of Gibraltor. Hold on...I am offered the option of looking neat in a messed up way. Like Meg Ryan. I will only need twenty four different creams, oils, serums, sprays, shampoos, conditioners. I can start with some Moroccan oil. Then I can use that shampoo which will add a shine and nourish my hair with tea tree oil. Then I can use the conditioner with avocado oil that will make my hair feel like silk. Then, I can gently towel-dry my hair and use this cream on the roots of the hair to lock in proteins. Then, I can use another cream only for the ends to prevent damage from harsh environment. Then, I can gently use the paddle brush to even out all these good, rich nourishing creams. It took 2.5 hours to do all this.

I stand in front of the mirror and survey the effect. Bob Marley stares back at me.

Swimming Against The Tide

2011-11-17T18:52:00.000Z

Courtesy:http://businesstoday.intoday.in

I read a friend’s blog post, and I feel disturbed. One of my many faults is that my reactions are driven by the heart, rather than the head; and I might have ended up giving him a clichéd, wrong advice. I hate taking advice, and I resist from giving advice – but such was his anguish that I could not stop myself. Read his post here.

To the vast majority who don’t know Karthik – the first reaction after reading his post would be to smile and shake the head. Ah! The immaturity of youth! Do I know Karthik? I don’t have an answer for that. I’ve never met him. I don’t even know his last name. But all I know is that he is different – in his thinking, in his creativity, in his passion towards literature. And that, for me says a lot about a person. And, I can recognize an underdog miles away, being one myself.

By and large our engineering colleges have become like the Ford factory assembly line. The colleges spew out thousands of engineers – and 95% of them fall into some IT net; irrespective of the stream of engineering. Like molten metal poured into moulds, in a couple of years all of them develop similar characteristics. Yes, we are the Stepford generation, all beaten into the same shape and size. All traces of individuality are slowly wiped out. It is eerie. I look around and I notice only one thing. How A’s life can be B’s life. Only the characters’ names change. They’ve passed through the same milestones in life – job, marriage, two kids, car, apartment, onsite trips, second car, second real estate investment. They talk about the same things too – kids’ tennis lessons, piano lessons, karate lessons, school work, their career, stress levels, travels, outsourcing, resourcing benchmarking. They crib about the same things – corruption, pollution, inflation, escalation, frustration, desperation.

I laugh out loud whenever someone laments about how India has not produced a single Bill Gates, Zuckerberg blah blah blah. It’s like discussing possibility of life on Neptune. From the corrupt government to the education system to NRN and Premji – all are held responsible for this failure. But here is the truth. You live in a society where everything runs on ‘what will others think’ sentiment. Starting from the school you attend, the clothes your wear, your behaviour, your looks, where you studied, what you studied, where you work, where you live, how you live, with whom you live, what you buy, what you eat, what you drink, what you drive, when you have children, how many children you have – EVERYTHING is driven by that one powerful sentiment. Because that is the key measurement of family honour. Your success is deemed a success only when these ‘others’ say so. So powerful is this sentiment that it leads to some terrific emotional blackmail. ‘Our heads are hanging in shame. Everyone asks us why you don’t have a job/why you are not married/why you don’t have kids yet (and so on...take your pick of the question)...after all that we have done for you, is this how you repay us?’ So yeah. Best of luck bunking your IIM or IIT or BE and sitting in the garage with a business idea.

Coming back to Karthik – why do I feel for this kid? It is possibly because I can identify with his predicament all too well. He’s an engineer by academic qualification – when he should have been studying literature. I don’t say this because he writes a blog or because he ‘likes to read’. I say this because I’ve rarely come across a young person these days, whose taste in literature is eclectic. Plus, it is not just superficial reading. He reads, absorbs, contemplates, critiques and applies to his own writing. He pursues this passion with a single-minded dedication. And this is what disturbs me.

Passion is always accompanied by pain. Karthik is at his cross-roads. He can choose the road that will help him pursue his dream. But it will be a lonely road, a difficult path – a road that can test his endurance to the limits. A road where relationships can sour because he’s not following someone else’s priority. The road could lead to fame and success – or bitterness and frustration. The other road is the safe one. If he takes that road, there is stability, security, honour, respectability, money – not to mention the happiness and peace of mind of dear ones. The biggest trade-off will be that he has to slow down the pursuit dear to his heart.

It is a cruel choice that many Karthiks have to make. It is the price one pays for breaking the mould and swimming against the tide.

The Spam Who Loved Me

2011-11-09T12:42:00.000Z

Courtesy: http://thetechherald.com/

Today I had a revelation. You could say it is cosmic in nature.

A cold, grey, foggy, wet (in other words, vintage British) morning. I sat squinting at the coffee foam, contemplating on the absurdity of life (I’ve been doing this for decades – keeps me grounded); when the revelation flashed in my mind. What is the only constant thing in our lives? I questioned as I slurped. Love? Bwahahahaha. Friendship? No, there only twittership and facebookship. That’s when the answer tumbled. Caved in, I must say, and filled the cavity of my brain. SPAM. Yeah – that’s the constant in our life. Faithful, relentless, ever-present, omnipresent.

Every morning, after the squint-at-coffee-foam-and-contemplate routine, I snap into life. Like hundreds of millions of earthlings, I log on. The hand trembles, the breath heaves, the heart flutters as I click on the inbox. I fully expect to see tonnes of emails from potential agents and publishers; all clamouring to sign me on with obscene signing amounts. (We creative lot often suffer from psychological disorders related to grandiose self-disillusionment). So of course, it is a bit of a damper to see emails asking if I want to watch a busty lady do some routine in front of her webcam, or from some Nigerian bloke informing me of some mysterious inheritance. Thank God for spam folders.

Actually, I’ve never paid much attention to spam, until recently. One fine morning, my sent folder indicated 80 emails had been sent out the previous night. Whoa. I had sent out only one email the previous night -to The Husband, asking him to buy onions on the way back from office. I clicked on the sent folder with trepidation. My worst fears came true. ‘I’ had ‘sold’ a certain pill that targets a specific, unmentionable area of male anatomy, thereby making the man’s...errr...romantic life robust and vigorous. My heart sank. Most of my friends would know this is spam – but then, the email had gone out to some senior citizens too. None of them in Hugh Hefner mould. I immediately sent out apologies and set about researching ‘dealing with spam’. Apparently it’s like cancer. No cure. I went ahead and added an extra character in every email id in my address book. At least now any spam will bounce back. Yes, it means I have to edit the address each time I send an email – but it’s worth the effort-I wouldn’t want naive people to think I’ve launched a racy business after quitting the corporate world.

From that day, I’ve had a strange fascination towards spam. So much so, I check the spam folder before I check the inbox. If I lived life according to the SPAM guys – man it would be joie de vivre all the way to the pyre. First of all, I would get umpteen credit cards from unknown banks (Orchard bank seems to love me). I could buy replica Rolex watches. I could get coupons for eating red lobsters in some posh restaurant. I could buy certain pills at 85% discount prices. I could be showered with IPads, Iphones, Macs, Dells. I could sharpen my nose, stretch the cheeks, tighten things here, loosen things there..hell, I can even permanently tint my eyebrows and eye lashes if I wanted a new look. I could meet, date, flirt and do many other things with hot singles of my area. Indeed, I could strike a friendship with those Nigerian gentlemen and inherit a cool half-a-mill. Then, I could ‘incorporate in Nevada’ to avoid taxes. And in case I went overboard with this hedonistic lifestyle, lawyers would be at my beck and call to write off my debt and give me a clean credit history.

In contrast, my inbox which actually reflects my REAL life, seemed dead. I get ‘word a day’ emails, and I get to learn a new word. I get Linkedin updates - so-and-so is now connected to such-and-such and I wouldn’t know either of them. Now and then, I get an email from my sister, in response to some rambling emails of mine; she waits till I send three or four such emails, and then gives one reply –‘Hi...okay...take care’. On occasions I get emails from some close friends – usually runs on the theme of ‘how are you – we are fine’ type.

How the tables have turned! There was a time when I used to think spammers are lonely geeks who sat hunched on a laptop, typing away rubbish. Yeah a load of spam emails are automated, but STILL – somebody is out there programming, right? The revelation, my dear friends, is that if there is anyone who is lonely, lifeless, boring...it is us – non-spammers. Remember the fun of making prank calls to strangers (in the pre-callerID, pre-mobile phone era)? I am sure the spammers have similar fun day after day. The spammers have opened my eyes. They have made me realize the vast chasm between ‘what life is’ and ‘what life could be’ states.

So when you get back to your machine – examine your inbox. Is it as exciting as your spam folder? If not it is time you did something about it. I, for one, have commenced on the SPAM journey. I’m curling my eye-lashes.

The Tourist And The Poet

2011-09-07T15:38:00.001+01:00

The last leg of our Scotland trip ended at Inverkip - a beautiful town/village near Glasgow. A 7-hour drive would bring us back home to bland, bald Reading. The weather on the return journey was made to order - sapphire blue skies and pearl clouds topped off with excess sunshine.

We took a break a little ahead of Manchester - at a Services spot somewhere near Kendal. We spotted picnic tables at one end of the parking lot - just perfect! We had packed a sumptuous lunch that befitted the picnic spot. But really, nothing could have prepared me for the view. I won't even bother describing it - take a look at the photos.

We oohed and aahed for a bit. Then growling tummies took over and out came the lunch. Phulkas, sabjis, salads, mishtis, juice, tea, biscuits. We ate happily in the warm sunshine, cleared up and headed back to the car. Of course I could not leave without taking a few photos of the place. I headed back with my camera.

Just as I was selecting my perfect spot, another weary traveller came by. He was a biker – all leather clad. His hair was all silver and fell about his face in unkempt curls. He was perhaps in his late fifties. There was a swagger about him – clearly a veteran road hog. We greeted each other and I went back to my camera business. He sat down at one of the picnic tables and brought out his lunch - a can of Stella Artois and a sub. I finished clicking my photos and turned around. “Heaven,” he muttered to himself. He left his lunch unopened at the table and walked away hurriedly towards the car park. He returned within a minute with a large guitar case. I could not leave now; I had to listen to whatever he would play. I clicked some more photos.

The biker shoved his food to a far end of the table. He brought out his guitar and looked around the emerald green slopes and the mirror lakes. He started playing his guitar. To me, it sounded like he was composing a new tune then and there. As far as he was concerned, the world had stopped. The time had stopped. Nothing else existed for him, except for his music and his muse. His hunger and thirst were long forgotten. This tune was his offering to the beauty around him. I’ve never heard the tune before, and in all probability will never hear it again. In fact, by the end of the week, I’ll probably forget what it sounded like.

But I’ll never forget the magic of the moment – the stillness of the afternoon, the stunning view, the sun burning my face - and the hesitant tune caressed out of the guitar by this old biker – an unlikely poet. Yeah, some would probably call him a musician, but for me – he is a poet of wordless poems. Where ever you are stranger, I wish you joy and many, many more such inspiring moments. And thank you for making that lazy afternoon memorable.

Book Review - Stephen King's Under The Dome

2011-08-09T15:42:00.000+01:00

I am limping back into reality. That is the only way I can describe the way I feel, after having read Stephen King’s ‘Under the Dome’ – an 877 page mammoth experience. The book is vintage King, yet, at the risk of sounding clichéd, King has outdone himself once again. I am in awe of the man’s fertile imagination, and his untiring ability to yarn spectacular stories.

The first Stephen King I read was ‘It’. In fact, King was the first ‘horror’ author I had picked up, more out of curiosity. ‘It’ is another lump of a book, and the minute your eyes rest on the first word, you cannot let go. I took two weeks to finish the book, my reading time being limited by office time. But for those two weeks, I was mentally in Derry – Maine. I became a steadfast fan, and many days and nights have been spent in Stephen King’s world – Christine, Carrie, Cujo, Bag of Bones, Insomnia, The Shining ...the list is endless.

I have only one word to describe King’s writing style – three-dimensional. You not only hear and feel the characters; you begin to react to their environment too. His writing style is so fluid, so effortless that is hard to remain uninvolved with the characters and their situation. More importantly, those who seek horror thrills in his books are merely scratching the surface. Delve deeper – and you’ll see the razor sharp focus on human psychology - the horror is not outside, the horror does not come from zombies and ghosts and evil aliens. The horror is always within us. The greed, the violence, the hatred – all covered and wrapped up by civilised society norms – watch them unravel when people are pushed to a corner. What is compelling in King’s flavour of horror is that the ‘horror’ element arises from a very ordinary incident, place or person.

‘Under the Dome’ is too spectacular a canvas – unlike anything I’ve read. This manuscript has sealed and secured Stephen King’s place as the greatest story teller! Only a genius can create book that is about an entire town; and only a genius can compel a reader to get involved with the town folks - politicians, the regular pool-playing feral youth, the dope junkies, the police team, the farmers, the only retailer in the town, the journalist, the doctors – even before you hit 100 pages, you are already living in the town. You know every character by their name, where they live, what they do and how they look. You know every street corner of the town, the lay of the land, the freeways and the high streets.

For all appearances, the story is sci-fi. Chester’s Mill is a small hole-in-the-wall town in Maine. One fine October morning, as everyone is going about their mundane business, an impregnable, invisible dome surrounds the town like a bell jar, physically cutting it off from the world. Chester’s Mill, for all practical purposes is now like a gold fish bowl.

At one level, the story moves on the alien angle. What could have caused this barricade that rises from deep within the earth and goes high up in the stratosphere? The dome is indestructible too – nuke warheads are unable to even scratch the walls. So this alien thread in the story is all about how to destroy this dome. It is fascinating to visualise the consequences of such an event. King has beautifully described the change in weather patterns, the change in the way the sky appears, the excessively bleeding sunsets, the strange appearance of the moon, the invisible pollutants in the atmosphere getting stuck on the dome – like dust particles that stick on to TV screens – it is absolutely riveting. Cleverly, the narration indirectly focuses on the way we are heading. We may not have a dome capped on the earth, but the way we are constantly abusing our environment – I am sure we will all be living ‘under the dome’ soon enough.

But more than the sci-fi angle, the human side of the story offers an incisive insight into social psychology and our political ideologies. Indeed as we reach the catastrophic end, we question our entire outlook about life, and our place in the universe.

All through time, right up until today, countries all over the world have come across dictators and despots – men of such cruelty that Satan would seem tame. We all wonder – ‘How did it come to this? How did this one man grow to become the most feared person? How did this one man grow to control my life?’

‘Under the Dome’ holds us by the hand and shows us how despots rise from amidst us. Big Jim or Jim Rennie is the town Selectman. He’s also a used-cars dealer. Big Jim is the shark you’ll find in every small town, big city and neighbourhood. He is the smarmy politician who mouths ‘greater good’ clichés while arm-twisting businesses and making tonnes of illegal money on the side. Big Jim is the average outwardly respectable, but extremely corrupt leader – as with most politicians around the world. When the Dome falls on Chester’s Mill cutting it off from the outer world, the true Big Jim steps out in the open – brutal, manipulative, and psychopathic. Indeed, the Big Jims of the world never get the big picture – it is always about them, their image and their power. This character has been crafted to perfection – from the language to the closet racist opinions to the physical appearance. As we readers sit with Big Jim in his study while he plots his next manipulative move, we are astounded. The manipulations themselves seem needless and childish. Yet, the consequences are significant – strengthening Big Jim’s stronghold on the town layer by layer.

Whenever there is a despot, there is a revolution. But revolutions do not happen overnight. Revolutions have to be clandestine and no one knows on which side one is. As the story unfolds, the reader is introduced to an array of heroes – they are heroes because they stand up against Big Jim – sometimes in spectacularly stupid, naive ways. Principle amongst the hero brigade is Dale Barbara – a decorated ex-army guy who is now a cook in the town’s pub/restaurant called Sweetbriar Rose. When the dome comes down, he is nominated by the President of USA to take control of Chester’s Mill. But Barbara (or Barbie as we shall affectionately call him like all other townies), has his own problems with Big Jim and his hoodlums. Indeed the Dome has changed the dynamics of civilised law of the land. You’d think being an ex-army guy Barbie can go POW WOW and mow down the bad guys. But that won’t happen in real life. And so it does not happen in the book. Indeed, at times you feel like yelling at Barbie – but you know deep down that he is right in remaining subdued and understated. One wrong move and Big Jim can have him executed with impunity. In the piece of land that is cut off from the world, Big Jim’s word is the law.

You’d think the climax will have some phenomenal ‘Independence Day’ type nuke attacks on some alien space ships. But even that satisfaction to the ego is not given. We are brutally shown the mirror – we are like ants in this cosmos – our intelligence, our power, our knowledge – everything is miniscule and insignificant. Our only chance at survival is to beg the superior ones to let us go, have mercy on us and allow us to carry on with our unremarkable lives. And perhaps, live with a little more gratitude thereon.

So there! One masterpiece that weaves crime, horror, social psychology, political science and philosophy. A sumptuous feast!

In the true Guru-Shishya tradition, I hope that someday I will be able to pay King my gurudakshine.

Movies That Maim

2011-08-05T11:48:00.000+01:00

Before I outrage sentiments, let me say that these are movies that have maimed ONLY me. To those who have enjoyed these movies...umm...errrr...

First impressions are formed within a couple of minutes after meeting a new person. Well, when someone meets me for the first time, ‘normal’ is not the first adjective that enters their head. Freud puts it all back to childhood experiences. There’s a grain of truth in that.

My earliest recollection of a truly bad movie experience dates back to school days. 1985-1986 type. I don’t remember the occasion that was responsible for a group of us school mates to loiter around in Majestic area. But such occasions usually called for a group activity. Snacks in Kamat and perhaps a movie. There would be HELL to pay for if our parents came to know. So it HAD TO BE DONE. There was a re-run of Sholay, but it had already started an hour ago. Some wanted to see it nevertheless. Some of us wanted to watch something new. The afternoon was hot and sweltering. I suggested beating retreat – I longed for the cool confines of home, and settling down with Tintin. But such opportunities don’t arise often; a movie had to be seen. And so we did. It was Mithun Chakraborthy’s Zindagani. It was a ‘misplaced, lost and found’ formula. The leading lady was Rati Agnihotri. 3 hours of screaming and wailing Rakhee Gulzar, 3 hours of yelling – everyone yelling revenge and everyone slapping everyone. Everytime Mithun came on screen shaking his fist and more, money was thrown and people clapped and whistled. We kids sat trembling – perhaps a riot was about to break out, we thought. Yet, such was our dedication to our goal of watching a movie that we sat through. We felt like heroes – the movie had hardened us (thinking back, it froze our brain cells perhaps).

In the same year, a bunch of us were taken to Shivajinagar for some discount shopping – cheap school shoes and stuff like that. This time, it was not school pals – it was neighbours. My Mum, a neighbour Aunty and four of us kids had taken the bus from Malleswaram to Shivajinagar. After gawking at the by-lanes, we were then shepherded to M.G. Road for a surprise treat – ice creams at Lakeview. Feeling blissful, we then started to walk back to Shivajinagar bus stand.

Near the bus stand, right after Infantry road junction, there is a small non-descript theatre. As we neared this place, a drizzle that had started turned into a ferocious downpour. We ran near the cinema hall to take shelter. Twenty minutes later, the rain had only strengthened. The man at the ticket counter beckoned Aunty and Mum and asked us to sit inside the cinema hall. The ladies were doubtful – but by now, the narrow road had started flooding. “It’s a family movie, don’t worry. The children can at least sleep,” the kind man behind the counter said. Apparently the movie was running for over a year. It was a Rishi Kapoor movie, so it was indeed safe. Tickets were bought. This was serendipity for us children. Surprise ice-cream and surprise movie.

Incidentally, Rati Agnihotri featured in this movie too. I knew her very well of course, much to my Mum’s surprise. The movie was ‘Tawaif’. The ladies hissed at us to shut our eyes and take a nap. Fat chance. The movie was quite entertaining. Poonam Dhillon, Rishi and Rati. I was so entertained that I caught on the songs too. Especially ‘Mera shohar bada sharmeela’ much to my Mum’s mortification.

Then came college; pre-university. A close friend was in the throes of first love. She asked me ‘What is Eelu?’ I had no clue. But we found out soon enough. A song from a movie. It was actually ‘I-L-U’ apparently. We browsed through Stardust in the library. Yeah some movie called ‘Saudagar’. It was a big deal because – it was apparently a historical moment in Indian cinema. Two Thespians were coming together. ‘What’s thespian?’ my friend asked. I frowned. I had heard about lesbians...no...there could be no connection. We read the article. Dilip Kumar and Raj Kumar were acting together. ‘Maybe thespian means old men,’ my friend guessed. I shrugged. Hell she had scored over 85% in I.C.S.E...so she must be right.

The movie gave me my first migraine. Monisha Koirala in atrocious wigs, frilly clothes, the two old geezers snarling around...I thought I’ll have a stroke.

Degree college. A similar dreaded outing in Majestic. A similar impromptu decision to watch a movie. The only difference was that we needed block tickets – 15 or more. Only one movie was available. Gadibidi Ganda. Ravichandran. Two wives. ‘Nuf said.

First job was close to Cauvery theatre. Our first team movie was Gupt. We bought the tickets in black, and we were right up in Gandhi class on the second row. Loved the songs. Enjoyed the movie. But Monisha’s thighs at close up in cinemascope – unnerving. Kajol’s midriff at close up in cinemascope – the mind boggles. No wonder Bobby Deol looked all squashed up.

One quiet evening, a disgruntled colleague asked if we can head for a movie. Never say no to a movie, is my policy. It was just three of us. Colleague, his Mrs...and I. Same old Cauvery. The ticket wallahs were swatting flies. The movie was ‘Hamesha’. Burly Kajol, Puny Saif (those days, he was puny), Crazy Aditya Pancholi (those days, he did not have the silent ‘s’ in his surname). Some movie about reincarnation. By the end of it, I wanted to die, never to be born again.

A year later I was posted in Mysore. The team went to watch ‘Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam’. By then, I had enough cynicism flowing in my blood, but the fear of becoming an outcast reined in my tongue. Normally I would run miles away from a movie with such a title – but the need to fit in was greater, even though I had a crew-cut. I sat listlessly through ‘Nandini’s’ moronic chatter and ‘Samir’s’ ‘I am so saccharine’ antics. I completely lost it when Ajay Devgan came on screen and said he is ‘Vanraj’. From then on, it was downhill, I could not stop laughing hysterically.

My final attempt to ‘fit in’ was when I went to watch SRK’s Devdas. I felt like a meth addict who had withdrawal symptoms. Never again, I swore, I would put myself through this torture. My outcast status was complete.

Last year, on a bus ride from Bangalore to Mysore, I caught a Kannada movie on the bus video. HD quality DVD on a plasma screen, dolby 5.1 setup. I believe the movie name is ‘Junglee’ and the gentleman who’s the hero goes by the name of ‘Duniya Viji’. The sound was so loud that it was impossible to even plug in my Ipod or read. Every time I looked up, the hero’s well oiled six-pack flashed on the screen. I kept hoping the bus would plunge into a ditch to put me out of my misery. The only memory I have of this movie is some dance number where the hero twitches his pecs as a dance move. There! I passed on the misery to you.

Now-a-days I mostly catch movies on DVD or on the T.V. I am careful with DVDs because – well – it’s money out of my pocket. Yet, I’ve managed to buy some pretty horrid movies. I bought ‘Jade’ only because of William Friedkin. This is the superman who had directed Exorcist. Only one word to describe Jade - abysmal. The sexual psychological thriller plot worked like a charm for Basic Instinct. Except for the soundtrack, nothing worked in Jade....errr...not even the booby traps. Another hopeless movie I bought was Burn after Reading. Perhaps I missed the so called satire entirely – but I thought the movie was just deadening.

On T.V. it is a different ballgame. I believe I am at an age where I have to do ‘neurobics’ to ward of impending old-age senility. So I choose to watch Bollywood movies to keep me on the edge. ‘Hisss’ was one such experiment. I told my friends that this is the worst thing to happen since the Biblical plague. But the more I think about this movie, the more my respect grows for the director. There is no way a ‘normal’, ‘sane’ person could have directed this movie. Unless there was an ulterior motive. A government conspiracy to see if brains can be washed and bleached en-masse. I would say the experiment was successful.

I caught a movie called ‘Salma Pe DiI Aa Gaya’. I watched it while having lunch. I lost a couple of pounds over the next few days. This is a 1997 movie apparently – so do you see the pattern? The brain experiments have been going on for decades.

Then, I saw Karzzzzz. Himesh Reshamyaaawn. I was spellbound by the close-ups. He’s got terribly chapped lips you know. And the close-ups were such that I could count the pores on his nose. I had to check into rehab after this one.

Last week I caught a movie called ‘Indra – The Tiger’. It had Chiranjeevi. But I thought there was a problem with my T.V. All the men in the movie looked huge in the white jubbas and veshtis (and the turkey towels on the shoulders). So much so, it looked like a bunch of rhinos with moustaches stampeding. I caught the movie half-way so I could not make out what was happening. Except there was a lot of moustache twirling and thigh slapping. I burnt 600 calories in one hour, just by suspending my senses and watching this mayhem.

I believe Prem Shakti is on the agenda today.

Unlikely Guru

2011-08-04T16:24:00.000+01:00

Courtesy:http://www.figarospeech.com

I am sure all of us have a favourite time of the day. When I used to work, my favourite time was when I finally hit the bed. I looked forward to fluffing up the pillows, retrieving my paperback and reading till I could no longer keep my eyes open.

After I ‘retired’, my favourite time is afternoon; post lunch. Nothing beats settling down on the couch with some wonderful book, and reading uninterrupted for hours.

But these past few months, I must say I look forward to two particular time-slots – 8:00 AM - 8:30 AM and 4:00 PM - 4:30 PM.

One cold Jan morning, the sky was a bulging sack of dark clouds, threatening to burst with snowflakes any moment. It was bitterly cold, and I sat huddled under a fleece shawl, like an ancient Mayan tribe lord. I was totally immersed in the newspaper when I heard a loud voice outside. This was followed by shrill shouts of a child. I went up to my window and looked out. I could not help but smile.

It was a stand-off between a Mom and her Little Guy. The fellow was about two and a half feet tall. He was bundled up, and all I could see was a nose projecting from beneath the hood. Now and then, his mouth made a small ‘O’ to emit some more screeches. Mom lifted her finger and wagged it with some warnings. Little Guy crossed his teensy arms and stood like a little warrior for a minute. Then, he walked to the snow-covered grass and lay down. His Mom approached menacingly; but he was used to her tactics. He emitted a series of short blasts at very high frequency and rolled all over the lawn at top speed. By now, curtains were drawn in many flats, and faces were poking out.

On the lawn, Mom had caught hold him. But the slippery little bugger quickly unzipped his coat and ran away, leaving Mom holding on to the coat. Clearly he had pushed all the wrong buttons and Mom finally fused out; she charged at him with the speed of a panther. The Little Guy, a veteran at such predator games, promptly crawled under cars and refused to emerge. Finally, he was caught. Yes, Mom went on all fours and pulled out the little fellow – who was now laughing uncontrollably.

Mom’s anger dissipated and she joined him – both of them sitting on the slushy ground of the parking lot. Well, I thought, Little Guy got his entertainment for the morning. Who would want to go to school on such a lousy day? I saw Mom and the fellow going back to their apartment block. Guess, he won, and he would miss school. Ah! No. They came out in five minutes. The Little Guy was now on his cycle. He could not pedal properly because of the slush. Every two minutes, I heard a shrill ‘Whoopsie'. This was followed by Mom’s ‘Look OUT!’ as Little Guy headed dangerously close to the parked cars.

So that was his tantrum. He wanted to go to school on his cycle. In his world, snow and slush were meant for entertainment – and what is the use if one cannot ride a cycle in such weather?

That evening, I was once again alerted by ‘Whoopsie’ cries. I went up to the window. Sure enough, our hero had returned from school. His Mom, who must’ve been frozen by now, impatiently lifted him off the cycle. I could not hear what she said – but it sounded like an ultimatum; that Mommy was going to go inside, and he can stay on. Of course Mom would not do that; it was clearly a naive threat – she, like many Moms thought that it would scare the Little Guy. The Little Guy sniffled and shuffled. He was contemplating the next course of action. Should he cry, or should he just obey? He did neither. By then, it started snowing so he jumped on the grass again and started rolling in the mud and slush and snow. By the time Mom lifted him, he was blissfully caked with the earth; he was as happy as can be.

From then on, I always keep an eye out for him. From my fifth floor, I can only see a shock of blond hair darting about at the speed of bullet. I don’t know his name, but to me he is Little Guy.

Little Guy’s soul resides in his shiny black cycle. Weather be damned, the cycle has to be ridden, stunts have to be tried and tested. Also, one of the cardinal rules of cycle riding tradition is that every pedal push has to be accompanied by a war cry.

On warm evenings, Little Guy and his cycle lie on the grass after some frenzied stunts. Mom comes by to give him a good tickle, his irrepressible laughter spreading around like dreamy soap bubbles. Then, the ice-cream truck rolls by with its silly TING TING music and sure enough, Little Guy is up on his feet with a ‘wheeee’ uttered in some supersonic frequency. As he rushes to the truck to choose his flavour, he keeps glancing back, to make sure his pal, The Cycle is still on the grass.

As I hear his ecstatic screams every now and then, I think to myself – “When did we lose this? This ability to be happy?” I chat with a couple of my friends, and casually ask, “Are you happy? I mean happy happy?” Some shush me and ask me not to bug them with philosophy. Some say a vanilla “Yes, I guess so.”

But I dig deeper. “I mean, you know...I don’t know how to put this. When was the last time that you felt mind-numbing happiness?” My short survey with a very miniscule population comes up with a predictable answer. “Can’t remember.” The most popular events that caused mind-numbing happiness was the birth of a child, or hearing ‘I love you’ for the first time. There were the odd ‘happy’ moments brought about by academic or career success. But these are events that occurred ‘long ago’. In general, it seemed that life has reached equilibrium of sorts. The absence of sadness is deemed as happiness. And these are not answers I am looking for. I wanted to know when the last time was when someone was happy without a reason.You look out the window and see rain – you’re super happy to step out like Little Guy. You look out the window and see sunshine and hey! You are super happy to step out. Again, when did we lose this?

My answer was given by my new-found Guru – Little Guy again. One fine summery evening, Little Guy stood sullenly on the lawn. That was a surprise – he should have been doing his wheelie by now. A frown creased his forehead. He stared at his friends – two boys taller than him by half a foot. They were on skateboards. Little Guy looked at his cycle and looked at the skateboards. He kicked his cycle and ran into his apartment block yelling “MU-UH-UMM! Want katebord!” For a week, there was silence. The cycle never came out. Then I heard a whoop again. Little Guy was on a Little Katebord. He’ll be happy for a while, till he spots something else which he feels he absolutely wants. And till he gets that new thing, he’ll be sad.

I laughed. Indeed such is life. Wise men across the ages have contemplated on this very question of happiness. Eternal Bliss. Something that can be experienced only from within. Something that cannot be derived from the external universe. I am not ready for that yet. My body and mind cannot withstand that happiness. Till such time, it is enough if I sip on my diluted version of the Happy Tonic, like the Little Guy and his cycle. I’ve made progress though – I’ve broken the barrier of ‘Happiness Through Consumerism’. My tonic now is a mix of some sunshine, a good song, some good prose. Yeah...that’s my tonic. For this life, it is good enough.

Love Of The Letter

2011-07-18T17:30:00.000+01:00

Courtesy - http://www.nordinho.net/

I read this article with a chuckle - http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/northamerica/usa/8643971/Lost-US-love-letter-delivered-53-years-late.html The ‘hero’ of the letter is now 74 years old. Indeed, he and his lady-love had tied the knot, but are now divorced. The letter was written in 1958.

That got me thinking; half way into 2011, the act of ‘writing’ a letter has become so quaint. One ‘types’ a letter under exceptional circumstances. The norm is to drop an email. In fact, the first ever hand-written letter I’ve received as an adult was in 2010. It was from my neighbour, who stays opposite to my flat. She is a gorgeous 60+ British lady. The letter was written on a small cream-coloured paper with floral corners. The hand-writing was slanted and loopy, clearly written with a fountain pen. The letter was neatly folded midway and enclosed in a white envelope. The letter asked me if I could join her for tea on the morrow, at her home. Or if the weather permits, we could walk up to a cafe in the town centre. The letter had me smiling the whole day. I felt like a character in Jane Austen. There was something so warm, so sweet, so wonderful about those two hand-written lines. Of course, I responded with a letter of my own. (That’s when I realized my fingers are so stiff when it came to holding a pen.) Up until then, my coffee invites to friends have usually been on the email, or instant messenger. The message would usually be ‘coffee?’ This RSVP stuff was a first!

During my childhood, letters were common though. My father was posted in Gulbarga for a couple of years, while the family stayed back in Bangalore due to our schooling. Letters from my father would arrive in Inland letter – his handwriting big with loosely chained words which most of us could not decipher. My mom’s reply would be voluminous – with her tiny, economic scrawl filling up every empty space of the letter, updating him about our progress in school, local gossip, money transactions, grocery updates, and the usual dire warning asking him to take care of his health. The letters would usually start with the ‘Om’ symbol, and the word ‘safe’ double-underlined next to it. Other occasional letters came on post cards, and usually started with a ‘praise the lord’ sentence like ‘Srimathe Ramanujaya Namaha’.

I remember tying myself into knots in the grammar class – where ‘letter writing’ was a very important topic. Business letters, personal letters – how to address them, the importance of the subject line, how to sign off etc. etc. The business letters were a real pain the ass. One had to be concise, yet use the most ornate legal (as far as we kids were concerned) terminology. All this came out in our resumes at a time when it was fashionable to have voluminous bio-data. The introduction letter had all kinds of ‘forewiths’ and ‘herewiths’ and ‘thereofs’ and ‘highly obliged’. Indeed, as a person who has screened enough resumes, I was often stunned by the self-eulogy that poured out from these pages. If I had my way, all these resumes would have gone as suitable profiles for psychological experiments on narcissism.

Coming back to love letters; I’ve rarely come across anyone in my friend circle who have exchanged such notes. I mean, not even in college. No sign of a note being passed surreptitiously during the physics class. No hidden letters in the practical record that had been borrowed for ‘copying notes’. No official ‘letter bearers’ – the critical communication channel between budding lovers. Either that, or I just missed all the action by sheer thick-headed ignorance.

But I do remember vividly one particular love note. I was in third standard, spending my holidays in my grandma’s house. Grandma’s neighbour was a family of four sons –all teenagers with raging hormones, particularly of the Telugu blood enriched by NTR and all the Babus. But one of them was an ardent worshipper of Bruce Lee. Well, while he had the body of a praying mantis, his hair was carefully groomed like Lee’s.

We shared a common balcony wall, and it meant my cousins and me, termed as ‘Vaanara sainya’, would usually jump across and create mayhem in their house too.

On one such morning, when this particular guy was adjusting his locks to cover his ears a la Bruce Lee, we were monkeying around with his shirt that was draped across a chair. One of my cousins felt the heavy shirt pocket, and assumed it was Cadbury’s. This was confirmed by Mr.Lee absently. The ‘chocolate’ was brought out tactlessly, and it turned out to be a couple of sheets of paper, torn out from a notebook. Kannada words were scrawled on the pages, some words were written in red ink, most in blue. My cousin started to read it aloud – “Oh nanna praanave...’ and before he could proceed, Mr. Lee sprung into action. Indeed, original Bruce Lee would have been proud of this prodigy. Ears were boxed, arms were pinched, the letter was retrieved and order was restored in a matter of seconds. I don’t know if Mr. Lee ended up with the woman he loved. Probably not. The law of averages tells me Mr. Lee would have been swatted away like a fly.

History is witness to many such embers of the heart; now timeless memories in the form of love letters. From the most powerful men to the most peaceful poets – the love letter has become a subject in itself in literature. From Byron to Beethoven, from Churchill to Napolean – they’ve all trembled and choked as their pens formed the words. I guess now love letters are more of character bytes on twitter, or incomprehensible sign language in an SMS. And somehow, writing love letters has become too sissy an act in this war-mongering world.

I suppose many of us will never, ever know the pleasure of the blood rushing to the cheeks, the pulse racing, the heart hammering as we open that mysterious letter which says -

Haseena Likhoon, Meherbaan Likhoon, Ya Dilruba Likhoon

Hairaan Hoon Ki Aap Ko Is Khat Mein Kya Likhoon

Yeh Mera Prem Patra Padh Kar

Ke Tum Naaraaz Na Hona

Ke Tum Meri Zindagi Ho

Ke Tum Meri Bandagi Ho

Sigh!

Asuras of Today

2011-07-14T09:23:00.000+01:00

Courtesy:http://devi-durga.com

I was watching the Sidney Sheldon-like Rupert Murdoch drama unfolding on BBC. That was when the marquee crawled by, informing me about the Mumbai blasts. Shocked, I switched over to an Indian news channel. The same old scenes greeted the viewer – chaos, stunned people milling around, news anchors catching hold of anyone who can give a version, injured being physically lifted and taken away, policemen trying their best to control the crowds.

I was waiting with bated breath to see the statements from our leaders. Will the statements finally reflect justifiable anger and instil trust in the people; that the government will move swiftly, effectively, ruthlessly this time? I was hoping for too much. When the statement came, it merely said, ‘Strongly condemn the blasts’; followed by ‘Urging people of Mumbai to show unity’ and many other clichés. I think these statements are in large files that are marked ‘Post-attack statements’. So each time there is an attack, the same statements are released.

Dealing with terrorism is a sustained action. A lot of it has to be proactive, more than reactive. It is expensive, time consuming and requires tight co-ordination of all intelligence agencies. But going by India’s response in the past, the famed Indian restraint looks more and more like twiddling thumbs, rather than a strategy. I know it is unfair to comment this way. I am sure a team is working tirelessly to gather intelligence and put together a plan of action. And I am also 100% sure that their hands are tied because of political feet-shuffling.

Indeed, patience is a virtue. But patience is often misconstrued as a sign of weakness. When does patience become a virtue? In the art of war – patience is a strategy. A strategy where you show utmost restraint; but strike decisively at a moment when the enemy least expects. In our case, unfortunately, patience has indeed become a weakness. So far, our only response to terrorist attacks has been restricted to finger-pointing and little else. It won’t be any different this time around. In a few days, we will be engulfed by another scam, or another Bollywood item number with foul lyrics will occupy headlines, or another XYZ will sit down for a fast – and life will go on.

In our Hindu mythology, the Asuras of yore were the ‘terrorists’. Whenever an asura went berserk, terrorising Bhooloka and Indraloka – people would run to Shiva or Vishnu asking for help and protection. This would often lead to an ‘Avtaara’ – where Vishnu would be born on earth, grow up AND THEN fight the demon. But in some cases where an immediate action was required, the process was cut short, and the Asura would be felled by a divine feminine form - be it Mohini, Durga or Kali.

When I see the cancer of terrorism in our world, there is always one Asura who comes to mind – Raktabeejasura. No one could kill this Asura. Every drop of his blood hitting the ground would act like a ‘seed’ or a ‘beeja’ – and a clone of the Asura would spring into life. Thus it was impossible to eliminate him. If one slayed him with a weapon – blood would gush out and it would result in a million clones of the Asura. He used this as a tactic in the battlefield. He was invincible, or so he thought, till Mother Kali stepped in...in her Roudra Avataara.

Imagine a battlefield where a million clones of this Asura are viciously attacking everything in sight. Suddenly, over the horizon, the ferocious face of Kali appears – like the massive disc of a setting sun. Her skin is the colour of a twilight sky, Her eyes are blazing with fury, Her tresses are streaming wildly like violent storm clouds. She then opens Her mouth wide. Her bloodshot tongue rolls out to cover the entire battlefield, lapping up the foul Asura’s blood before it touches the ground. Her gigantic cavernous mouth swallows the million forms of the Asura – who look like ants in front of Her. Finally, when there is no more blood in his weakened body, he is slain.

Today, every country’s fight against terrorism is like fighting against the clones of the Asura. For every terrorist that is felled, however ‘powerful’ he might be; hundreds others are getting their hate-training and are gearing up for more attacks. Perhaps today we need a Divine Shakti again – a fearsome force that can annihilate the root of the problem once and for all.

To all my fellow beings who have suffered directly or indirectly by such asuras; I leave you with my humble prayers –

Om Kreem Kalyai Namah

Om Hreem Shreem Kreem Parameshvari Kalike Svaaha

Om Kali Kali Mahakali Kalike Papaharini Dharmarthamokshade Devi Narayani Namostuthe.

Revisiting Classics - Jane Eyre

2011-06-17T14:17:00.001+01:00

Courtesy: http://usedbooks.co.nz/

There’s always a meditative joy in re-reading a classic; especially when one is older and hopefully wiser because of life’s travails. Subtle interpretations that one missed in the flush of youth now bloom gently and delightfully.

Jane Eyre is not a story that can be easily erased from memory. The characters of this story inhabit your mind for a long time, urging you to introspect, question beliefs and redefine ‘love’ as we see it today. I have to admit, I’ve not read any of the modern family sagas. I am not embarrassed to read love stories; it’s just that I feel nothing new, nothing stirring has been written in a long time. Nothing has compelled me to put myself in the protagonist’s shoes and ponder ‘What would I do if I were her?’ I am also guilty of basing my decisions on reviews, excerpts. But really, if something can’t catch my attention with an excerpt, there is no way I can wade through the book.

As a youngster, when I had read Jane Eyre (I think it was an abridged version), I found it to be one heck of a love story. But that was just the adrenalin speaking. Several years later, more recently, I found a wonderful hardback edition of this classic, with ‘opinions of the press’ possibly dated 1847, introduction and notes. Last week I succumbed to the schizophrenic weather of UK, and was in bed with a sore throat and cold. I’ve never enjoyed an illness so much.

Even as you tumble helplessly into the world of Jane, even as the tea is left untouched as you turn the pages; you have to stop and take a breath periodically to ponder over what you’ve read. As I lay back on the pillows - holding Jane’s hands during her difficult childhood, revelling in her success of a good employment, falling in love along with her with Rochester, weeping with her at the unfortunate turn of events – I understood the genius of Charlotte Bronte. I understood, and I bowed my head in awe and respect. To question strong beliefs and societal conditioning, in an age where pretty much everything was still considered a man’s domain, must have taken a lot of nerve. But to pose those questions as a part of the narrative, as a part of the very definition of the principal characters – it goes beyond genius.

Conflicts between man-made religious rules, rules on moral behaviour versus one’s own reasoning and dignity are beautifully interwoven in the story. At no point does the author impose her judgement or views on the reader; yet, it compels the reader to think. For example, one of the very tenets of Christianity is nurturing the virtue of forgiveness – one must forgive those who sin against us. But a young Jane points out spiritedly – 'When we are struck without a reason, we must strike back very hard'. She correctly points out that if we keep tolerating those who harm us, then they would continue to get worse and possibly inflict the same atrocities on others too. At a superficial level, the reader can smile at this naive outlook. This opinion as dispensed when Jane was but a child; a child ill-treated constantly by her step-mother and step siblings. One can laugh gently – surely, we cannot go through life with such a passionate attitude. And why not? I examined many of my own experiences where I chose silence over action. Was it fear? No, I would not call it fear. Actually I don’t quite know the word for it. It is probably the realization that confrontation would make things even more unpleasant. The best way to wear out a nasty person is to ignore them – how frustrated they get when you don’t rise to the bait. But it also means giving them the impression that ‘they have won’; that they have subdued you well enough; and they move on to the next victim.

The love story of Jane and Rochester is unlike any I’ve read. There is no ‘sweeping off the feet’ scenario – indeed it is the love story of two ‘plain’ looking individuals; two individuals who have very strong opinions on just about everything; two individuals who cannot be called a ‘great pair’ unlike Lizzie and Mr.Darcy. Jane is quiet, firm in her opinions, knows no diplomacy and can bluntly state the truth without malice. Rochester, the master of the house, her employer, is much older to her, cares two hoots for ‘moral’ way of life; has had mistresses all over Europe; he’s edgy, rude and even comes across an arrogant man. Yet, you never question for once the marked difference in their characters; you never think ‘how can these two fall in love?’ Their love story resonates in your soul because it is written at a level higher than a physical plane. Their love is more of a devotion; a spiritual union of sorts. As the story proceeds, you come to admire Jane’s insurmountable stature when it comes to her virtuous character; and indeed you fall in love with Rochester – for all his seeming arrogance and unconventional principles he is childlike in his fervour to make things right; his love for Jane is as unconditional as a mother’s towards her child. A sombre pair one would say – yet, you don’t feel weary at any point in time. The interaction between Rochester and his Jane is as crackling as the warm fire that burns in the gloomy manors of Victorian England, tickling the reader constantly drawing out chuckles and full throated laughs.

Just as a good painting is all about the blend of colours, so is this book. There are ‘support’ characters that embellish the story – drawing out sharp contrasts with the main hero, at the same time, representing lines of thought of the society. St John Rivers is one such superb character etched by Bronte. To me he represents THE MAN WHOM ONE SHOULD NEVER MARRY. Just as Rochester is a ‘man of the world’ who loves his comforts, St John is a man of God, a missionary, who wants to do good in mankind; who is not afraid of the mortal dangers of visiting far off places to uplift the poor and suffering. Yet, unlike the warm-hearted Rochester, St John is cold and calculating, a man who can use others around him with impunity by justifying that he’s doing so in the name of God. He proposes to Jane because in his observation, she would prove most useful as a missionary’s wife. He tells her that she is not made for love, but for labour. He is a young, good-looking man – a man who is in love with another girl; but feels that girl will hinder his progress in God’s work. Perhaps he feels saintly to stamp out the feelings of true love and instead select a partner who is ‘fit for labour’. Perhaps he thinks it is a good sacrifice. In my memory, I’ve never hated a character so much. How often we have come across such hypocrites! How often we have come across people who make snap judgements about us, and decide for us what we should do with our lives. How often we have come across such people who seem to have a mind-numbing sway over us. We strive to constantly meet their expectations, we go an extra mile to do so – and yet, we are never good enough for them. These are the parasites in our lives who chew at our self esteem, self respect and reduce us to snivelling bundle of nerves. How beautifully Bronte has cast this character – without directly criticising the so called men of God! She has left it to the readers to draw our own conclusions. Can a person who is not true to his own feelings be a man of God? Can a person who is cold-hearted be a man of God?

A good story, when told with a perfect language can become a work of art. This is indeed a work of art. Each and every description in the book is three dimensional – I don’t know any other way to describe it. Not only do you see the setting and events in your imagination, but you can also feel them.

'The ground was hard, the air was still, my road was lonely'...I smiled when I read that. This is indeed vintage England. Even today the countryside can be described by only those words.

'The charm of the hour lay in its approaching dimness, in the low-gliding, pale-beaming sun'... I’ve not come across a better description of an English winter evening.

Apparently a reader once commented that Mr Darcy and Rochester have spoilt her chances of romance in the real world – and I can’t help but agree with her. It is unlikely that one can be loved as devotedly as Jane. It is also unlikely that one can make a man fall in love hopelessly, helplessly, against his wishes – and be completely unaware of it; as Lizzie did to Mr. Darcy. For now, I am just happy to inhabit their world.

My next pilgrimage is to Bronte Parsonage, Haworth.

Regret to inform you Mr. Bose...

2011-06-07T10:28:00.001+01:00

you've got the Delhi Belly. It's terminal.

Courtesy: http://fwdmarketing.co.uk/

It never occurred to me when I heard the title of the song. It was only when I saw it on Youtube that the tubelight flickered on. Ironically, the words that came out of my mouth were, ‘Oh! F*uck!’

I quickly scrutinised myself for this double standard. I mean I’ve grown up listening to iconic bands, and profanity in the lyrics is nothing new. I guess I’m just used to poetic lyrics at home-base. We use beautiful metaphors and similes and all forms of constructs to describe emotions. So hearing something so raw was indeed a shock.

Why is it that I can sing at the top of my voice (and terribly off-tune too) the superbly risqué ‘samandar mein naha ke, aur bhi namkeen ho gayi ho’ and not this unfortunate twist on Bose? It’s a generation thing I guess. As young girls, probably one of the first ‘explicit’ songs we heard was from Bryan Adams of all the people – the lingerie one where he wishes to be a lady’s undergarment. I still love this song – the music is great, the lyrics are very base and pedestrian and wonderfully amusing. But I made sure I enjoyed the song on the walkman, and fast-forwarded it while playing it on the stereo. And how cool was it to sing ‘Who the f*ck is Alice?’!

Yes, there were the absolute gentleman bands who wrote profound lyrics like Dire Straits. Then there were bands like Def Leppard who could cause hysteria with clever innuendoes ... ‘pour some sugar on me’. There are innumerable ballads where the f-word is cleverly slipped in. Here’s something very polite though. Whenever there is a live rendition of such songs by the band, the f-word is never used; it is either completely eliminated or replaced. Of course there are songs that make me cringe like 50 Cents ‘Candy Shop’. I love the trance/club music of ‘Closer’ by Nine Inch Nails; but the lyrics are too explicit. Whatever said and done, even today, I hesitate to play explicit songs on the stereo - it's just a reflex and conditioning.

I am sure a lot of youngsters have all these songs on their playlists. And the kiddos are irritated with all the brouhaha over the DK Bose song. Yeah, there are the usual fights – some are saying the song is in very poor taste (of course it is), and that it is ‘spoiling our culture’ (of course not). Apparently there was a war of words too between the music directors –the summary being ‘if you can be vulgar, so can I’. The biggest argument is when one can use f-words in day-to-day life, and listen to English songs sprinkled with such words, why a different rule for a desi song?

Well, here’s the pickle. The usage of the f-word in contemporary rock/pop is limited to the role of an adjective; and more often than not, it is used to describe someone or something in the superlative. And, in many cases, it is also summarises succinctly in one word, the desire to make love. You cannot compare this word with our vernacular expletives. My vocabulary in this aspect is extremely limited, but I do know that most of the cuss words in Hindi refer to private parts (of the body) of women family members. There are English equivalents, but these are rarely used in popular chartbusters and that too, as a refrain. What is even more unfortunate is the twist on the name, which makes it sadly personal to many people.

I suppose it is only a natural progression in Bollywood – from sexing up first names and pet names of women to desecrating the family name of hundreds of thousands of Babu Moshais. And yes, apparently this play on Bose was always around; it’s just that this song elevated it to a cult status. I pity parents who have to clap their child’s mouth shut whenever it tries to sing this number gleefully.

The herd mentality and formula mentality in Bollywood is very well known. I wonder what next? I am sure it will be some ode to an orifice of the human body.

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If you liked this post, you can try Tera (Item) Number Kab Ayega?

Psychology of Corruption

2011-06-05T18:01:00.001+01:00

Courtesy: http://bharatrbh.blogspot.com/
The brilliant artist of this image: http://www.ustream.tv/recorded/15034819

At my previous work place, I came to know of a couple of senior managers who were sacked due to ‘integrity breach’. I was told they had forged bills while filing for their claims. I thought it was a huge amount that they had forged; but no. It was a few hundreds. But still, it was an act of deception and they had to leave. I did not know them personally, but I was surprised. Their CTC at that time would have exceeded 15 lakhs per annum. So why did they cheat for a few hundreds? The answer is simple – there was an opportunity to take extra money, so they did it. The act was not driven by some desperate need; it is more of an attitude – kis ka baap ka jaatha hai/yaar appan mane gantu?

Similarly, I overheard with amusement a conversation between two young employees at the cafeteria. They had the earnest, well-scrubbed look of college freshers. One of them was pissed off that his project manager was not approving his claims for snacks and dinner. If an employee stays back late in office, ON WORK, then he/she was entitled for dinner and snacks, paid for by the company. The process to do this was to pay for one’s meals, and then claim the money. Apparently this project manager refused, and rightly so, because the kid was NOT REQUIRED to stay back late at work; but if he did stay back to beat the traffic and go to gym, then clearly, the company was not obliged to pay. This employee understood the policy. But his grouse was that the claim was only Rs.75. So why was the project manager ‘behaving cheaply and acting like he was giving the money out of his pocket?’

When I filed for my tax returns for the first time, some of my friends clucked their tongues and said I was a fool because I had not claimed for HRA (house rent allowance). ‘But I am staying with my parents, and it is our own house,’ I was bewildered. ‘Who will come and check?’ was the reply, ‘you can make receipts in your father’s name, and say you are paying him rent.’ Apparently that is the standard practice, endorsed by even CAs. I found it all too unnecessary – I mean, my salary was anyway meagre and it barely fell in the taxable bracket, and I just shrugged my shoulders and ignored the ‘you are a fool’ taunts.

Somehow, in our collective social conscience, we feel it is okay to load on freebies when someone else is paying for it. Tap the electric pole and draw power illegally; or draw the cable for the cable TV stealthily...the list is endless – and what’s more, be proud about the cunningness.

The Kalmadis, Reddys, Gowdas have all risen from amidst us, with this very same mindset. Some where a manager thought it is okay to forge a medical bill, and make that Rs.150 look like Rs. 750. When it came to Kalmadi et al, it was the same act – only the amount was different. The motivation was the same – kis ka baap ka jaatha hai?

And we’ve all grown up in an environment of bribery. We don’t even spare God from our bribes. ‘If I win the election, I will put a diamond crown on Tirupathi Balaji.’ ‘If I pass this exam, then I will shave my head.’ ‘If I get married in the next 45 days, then I will put a silk saree for Durga’ and so on. We have time-bound, money-bound pacts with God which has nothing to do with devotion and faith and prayers. Isn’t dowry a form of bribe too? ‘Here are two sites, a car and 3 crores in cash. In return, please treat our daughter like a human being.’ Is it any surprise that bribery has become a way of governance in itself?

But hold on! Is this the problem only with Indians? Not at all. In UK, many MPs were caught in an expenses scandal – where they lied and claimed excess money. Again, these are well-educated, well-off people. Like our fellows, these guys too exploited an opportunity to make several extra bucks. And from the shores of USA emerged the biggest sharks of the 21st century. The Banker Boys. Greed is one of the universal sins of mankind; indeed a deadly sin because of which the sufferings today are innumerable. But the difference lies in how the corruption is handled.

Societies everywhere, all over the world are hierarchical. This has been the case from time immemorial, and will continue to be so till the apocalypse. There will be one leader and his ministers ruling over the rest of the masses. Yes, there is democracy; but that does not change the fact that you, as a commoner, will bear the brunt of taxes and funding cuts and live in your cramped home, while the leaders you CHOSE and ELECTED to work for YOU live in relative luxury. They will not be the ones worrying about the winter and heating bills and mortgage. Also, wherever there is money and power, there WILL be corruption. This is a universal truth, and the faster we accept it, the better we will be able to deal with it. The only thing we can control is the extent of the corruption. For this, rallies and satyagrahas are not the answer in this day and age. Yes, we have all made a point loud and clear – that we are AWARE and UNHAPPY about all the scams; and we are no longer passive spectators. But beyond this, the whole thing becomes a tiresome comedy circus.

Corruption cannot be fought with such disorganised, ill-informed, knee jerk reactions. Corruption cannot be wiped away through arm-twisting tactics and emotional blackmail. Personally, I am wary of anyone who whips up emotional mass frenzy. Corruption can at best be MINIMISED by use of technology in bringing about transparency in governance. Of course, this has to be coupled with several changes in the way we operate in our daily lives. I would say the first thing is to remove God and religion from the political arena, and keep it personal, the way it is meant to be. Secondly, there has to be a better way of selecting people who can even STAND for elections. Thirdly, and most importantly – we as citizens should grow up. We should admit that we are all enmeshed like flies in a spider’s web when it comes to a corrupt system. We cannot act like we are the innocent, morally upright downtrodden class, while the political class is an alien, thieving layer. We need to develop enough maturity to understand that popularity is not necessarily the mark of leadership.

If we need good governance, we need able administrators; we need tough-as-nails leaders and ruthless negotiators. We need someone who has a clear vision and strategy for the country, instead of some irrelevant ideology. So can we please stop hankering after movie-stars and gurus (and god forbid, cricketers) to ‘lead’ us?

If we want to minimise corruption, then we as individuals need to develop a social conscience, cultivate an awareness of our rights and responsibilities and engage with the political class in a meaningful way to bring about accountability. We cannot evade tax using some loophole, and then in the same breath complain about ‘corrupt government officials’. We cannot go and vote for a Bollywood hero because he had all the hit songs and dance moves; and then complain that he is unable to understand the complexity of governance. We cannot keep viewing the news channel that is 90% movie gossip and 10% crappy reporting; and complain of a biased and stupid media – you are the one upping their TRP. We cannot salivate over Sheila and Munni but expect virginal saints to rule over us. We cannot use our cars to go to the mall 10 minutes away from home, and then complain about noise and pollution and trees being axed to accommodate traffic. If we want corruption out of the public life, then we must stem it in our personal lives.

Is it possible in India? Yes. Is it probable? I don’t know; we are too fractured in our opinions and priorities.

Strictly Come Dieting

2011-05-27T16:40:00.000+01:00

Courtesy:http://www.diet-blog.com

I’ve never got the hang of ‘dieting’. Ever. I so admire people who are able to stick to a weight-loss diet; I don’t envy the diet, but I do envy their will-power. But there’s another reason why I can never associate the word ‘diet’ with seriousness.

I think it was only when my weight hit a particular number (if it were marks, I would have won a medal at my degree course for sure), that I contemplated on a serious diet. I knew that a diet without a proper exercise is useless, but taking time out for the gym was impossible in my schedule. I was also happy to see that all my team members had similar issues. The only difference was that they were all guys, and I was the only girl.

Once, I caught two of them cribbing. Both have the same first names. Both had become gigantic. And I remember both had been lean when they joined the team. As we sat sipping coffee, these two kept calling each other unpleasant names. Finally one of them turned to me and said, ‘I have become fat because of this f*cker. Every afternoon, after lunch, he buys a packet of salted cashews. And he shares it. And soon, we both head out to buy more packets. It has become like drug addiction.’ The accused, who sat munching the offending cashews, looked nonchalant. Even as he stood trial, he offered the cashews to the complainant, whose spirit crumbled at the sight of the packet. He set upon it like a relapsed junkie, all the while calling the peddler names which cannot be reproduced here. As I sat witnessing this tragedy, another sturdy guy joined us. He said he had come across a proven diet, where one could lose enormous weight in a week. I scoffed. He said look it up. Of course, it was the GM diet. http://www.iimahd.ernet.in/~jajoo/gmdiet.html

It seemed doable, although I had my doubts. We all decided to start the diet on the same day. The cashew nut victim, we call him Don, charged into the food court. There was a juice junction stall which served everything from fruit salads to samosas. He instructed the guys behind the counter seriously, ‘If you see any of us today, you will offer only watermelons. Don’t you dare talk about noodles and samosas and chaats, understood?’ They all sniggered but cut up several watermelons for us. We sat in a remote corner and ate our watermelons sadly, as whiffs of piping hot samosas and dosas tickled our nostrils. Don sighed and snorted. Always short on the fuse, that evening, devoid of proper food, cashew nuts and coffee, Don was apoplectic. There were a few who ventured near our table with masala dosas, but they ran away because of Don’s growls. The cashew peddler sat calmly next to Don, eating his portion of the blasted watermelon. He had a sly look on his face, and I could read his expression as clearly as newspaper headlines. This bugger will stop over in Jayanagar 4th block on the way home and have about ten to twenty bowls of chaats.

“What are we supposed to eat tomorrow?” Don growled.

“Morning you are supposed to eat boiled potato with butter,” someone informed.

Don called up home immediately and spoke to Mrs. Don, “L...are there potatoes at home? Is there butter at home? Better tell me correctly.”

Mrs. Don would have probably laughed her head off and fallen off the chair. After all, this would be the first time in their married life that Don had called from work to enquire about potatoes. At the table, we were all trying to keep a straight face, lest he empties the watermelons on our head.

The next day, Don’s mood was darker. All of us had eaten a breakfast consisting of a boiled potato with some butter. And we were supposed to eat only vegetables that day; either raw or cooked. When I walked into the lab where the cashew nut eaters sat, it was like walking into the world of Karamchand. Everyone was munching dejectedly on carrots. Gone was the happy yakking in the lab. It was replaced by a mechanical kachoom kuchoom kachoom kuchoom sound.

During lunch, Don covered his plate with beans palya and shuffled slowly towards the salad section. Known for his heaped plate, and also known for paying extra for extra sweets, the caterers were naturally concerned about Don. They enquired after his health. Don answered in a tragic tone, ‘All karma.’ Also, it being the lunch hour, we could not escape to some remote table – we had to sit amidst people eating pulavs and biryanis and nans and puliyogres. But we sailed through thanks to Don’s incessant curses – ‘Avan ajjina badiya’; ‘baddi nan maga’ etc.

The detox diet had brought down our metabolic rate. All of us were usually night-owls ; but we could not stay awake beyond 9:00pm. It was the body’s way of preserving energy, someone commented sagely with a hippo yawn.

The next day we were supposed to eat a mixture of fruits and veggies, of course no bananas and potatoes. So the carrot munching continued. A silence had fallen in the lab. In the afternoon, Don appeared near my cubicle. ‘I am going to the canteen,’ he said in a haunted tone and left.

After a few minutes, another of my team mates came running to me. This fellow is famous for his weird laugh. And this weird laugh was echoing all over the floor. “S! S! Kkkkkkkkiiiiikkkkkkiiiii hhhhaaakkkkkkkk kkkkkkiiiii!”

“WHAT? BWAHAAHHAHAHA!” When this guy laughs, none of us can help but join in.

“Come and see Don. Useless fellow. Kkkkiiikkiiiiiiiikkkkkkkii!”

So we all trooped into the food court. There sat Don, like one of the ancient mughal emperors at the head of a royal feast.

“I started getting headaches, S,” he explained while steadily chewing on the masala dosa. There was bread omelette, a wicked brownie and a sev puri yet to be tackled with. He had also ordered Espresso. This was a breaking point for all of us and we fell upon the feast like a pack of wolves. And of course the cashew packet was offered as a mark of celebration. Some more curses were exchanged and before long, the packet was empty.

Some days later, while laughter had returned to the lab, my boss was hovering around with a vacant expression. He’s a petite man, and his lack of height is made up by an unstoppable ability to talk continuously without drawing in a breath. We suspect his tongue has six-packs. Anyway, I wondered about his sudden quietness. I even prodded him with some questions about home theatre systems – which can keep him talking for at least 3 weeks non-stop; but to no avail. Then he revealed the calamity. He had gone for a regular check-up, and apparently his cholesterol levels were on the higher side. I was surprised. The bloke is not even chubby, and drinks black tea without milk and sugar, and I’ve never seen him wolf down chips and cakes and brownies and cashews. Apparently the doctor told him it is a combination of genetic factors and stress. Apparently stress can somehow generate cholesterol too. We both discussed about how diseases meant to show up in late sixties are hitting us in thirties. I promptly forgot about it.

But he took it head on. He started bringing lunch from home, and stopped his Andhra sapaad routine. Then, in the blazing afternoon sun, he started walking around the huge campus like a zombie. Soon, it was like the Curious Case of Benjamin Button. The man had started shrinking, his clothes became baggy and cape-like. He had become obsessed – he spoke only about red blood cells and white blood cells and cholesterol and blocked arteries. Once, after a long meeting, we went to the cafeteria for lunch. He had his dabba and I bought a sandwich. He offered me his homemade dosa magnanimously while we discussed his Onkyo system. The dosa tasted like cardboard. I told him as much, and he said there’s no oil, no salt in the batter but it is rich in probiotic bacteria or something. Except for the flourishing French beard, he looked like a kid just out of middle school. He’s snapped out of it now; but he’s maintained his weight unlike the rest of us.

Finally when I did join a gym, I was asked to meet the resident dietician. It was impressed upon me that weight-loss is 80% diet and 20% exercise. Damn.

I was shocked to see the dietician. I mean talk about irony. Three of me could have sat on her lap. As if reading my mind, she explained it was ‘post-delivery’ fat. Guess a lot of people must have asked her directly and tactlessly. I made some kind comments about her degree certificate which hung on the wall.

After the small talk, she took out an official looking form and started filling out details of everything I eat every day.

When I said I usually have Maggie for breakfast, she clucked her tongue and shook her head. She was horrified about my coffee addiction. She was aghast that I had rice for dinner.

“I understand you have a busy lifestyle, but this won’t do,” she chided. I nodded, suitably chastised.

“Why can’t you have idlis in the morning?”

“Usually I don’t have time...”

“No...no...you keep the batter ready in the idli plate. When you get up, just switch on the stove, and by the time the coffee is ready, the idlis will be ready too. Okay, now, how many idlis do you usually have?”

Something told me she would explode if I said 8. I mean, I would prepare idlis on the odd weekend, and usually it would be a brunch. So I lied. “4-5.”

“No no. You have to cut it down. You must have just 2 idlis.”

“The idlis I make are very small.”

“Okay, at the most, 3 idlis... no more.”

3 idlis – would not even give me energy to move my tongue. But I held my peace.

“Also, no chutney or ghee okay? If you must have chutney, make something without coconut.”

“Hmmm how about groundnut chutney?”

“No...no...no nuts. And you can have a small glass of coffee in the morning. No more.”

My world was crashing.

“For lunch, you can have one bowl of rice. No papads, no sweets, no pulavs, no fried rice okay? You can have two phulkas with the rice. Some vegetable curry and daal.” She kept a sample bowl, so that I could understand the quantity. Let’s say it was not even one third of what I ate regularly.

“Look, I will feel extremely hungry if eat the quantities you are specifying. I don’t want to land up feeling hungry all the time and have acidity,” I spoke firmly.

“No, no. See the key is having several smaller meals. Now after this lunch, you will feel hungry in two hours. You can then have a fruit. With your evening tea, have two Marie biscuits. Only two.”

By then, I had stopped listening. I mean, clearly, she was rambling off a text book diet without understanding my lifestyle.

I casually asked some of the cashew nut eaters and other team mates (all built like the pillars of the earth), about the number of idlis they usually have for breakfast. The answers ranged from 25 to 50 at one sitting. I told them the dietician had recommended 2. They fell about laughing hysterically. They had plans of visiting this dietician, I don’t know if that happened. If it has happened, then I suppose she would have set her degree certificate on fire.

Anyway, except for cutting down on coffee, I did not follow any of the stuff. If I ate the quantities the dietician had specified, I would be hungry all the time, obsessing about what to eat next. I did not want to become a slave to food; calorie-counting every morsel.

My mantra – eat sensibly, and enjoy what you eat. That is more important. Eating good, tasty, healthy food does make you happy, and in turn, it does have a positive effect on you internally and externally. Don’t starve, don’t deprive yourself...it’s just too negative! In my experience, a sensible food intake, coupled with an active, stress-free lifestyle is more than enough to keep you fit.

In any case, thanks to these experiences, the word ‘diet’ makes me laugh uncontrollably – and that burns a lot of calories too!

Is that a weapon? Is that a machine?

2011-05-24T18:38:00.002+01:00

errr...no...that's a handbag.

Courtesy: http://www.eafricainfocus.com/

When anything in the house gets misplaced, the first place we check is in my handbag. It is irritating – as if my handbag has a Potter wand and says ‘accio’. Also, it implies that I might be responsible for the ‘misplacement’, and as if for some reason, I keep shoving everything into my purse. I mean it has become some kind of a standard reflex answer.

‘I can’t find the nail cutter.’

‘Check in your handbag.’

‘I can’t find the glue stick.’

‘Check in your handbag.’

‘I can’t find the TV remote.’

‘It should be on the dining table. Else, check in your handbag.’

I mean really. There is a limit for accusing me of this behavioural disorder. But I can’t blame The Husband entirely. I’m known to maintain fully loaded handbags; in complete readiness and anticipation of any unforeseen event – good or bad.

I know that things were simple decades and decades ago. The ‘handbag’ was a small 2 inch by 2 inch purse in which some loose change could be wedged between notes rolled up like cigarettes. The purse would then be shoved into the blouse near the shoulder. The handkerchief and house keys would be tucked into the saree at the navel. Thus equipped, with hands free to drag children, women would set out. But for the women who went to ‘office’, and also when occasion demanded (such as weddings), the vanity bag would come out (we all called it vanenty bag). My mom had a sleek, stiff one made of regzine. It had a small inner zip for keeping money. The rest of the space was just enough to keep a neatly folded handkerchief, one thin booklet of Vishnusahasranama and the house keys.

By the time I had to buy a handbag, my needs were different. I had to carry a lot more stuff to get through the day. For one, I used to travel by BTS buses extensively, and exclusively. Living in the outskirts meant that using autos were simply out of question. Travelling in a BTS bus comes with its own challenges. In the morning rush hour, your nose will probably be wedged inside someone’s ears – that’s the average distance between two people in a bus. Such being the situation, you cannot afford to have complicated handbags with too many zips and buttons. You should be able to retrieve the change swiftly and securely to pay for the ticket. At the same time the length of the handbag should be right. If it’s too short, you will not be able to retrieve the change without elbowing someone’s jaw. If it’s too long, it will gauge a seated person’s eyeball.

So you see these practical observations were the basis of my handbag selection. Then of course came the contents. Now, if I were the type with long hair which could be neatly plaited, I would be so happy. But I have short hair. And not the silky sleek type. It is unruly, and any hint of humidity, I look like Bob Marley. Therefore I have to carry a comb at all times. And in the bus, people have used my head as a prop to move ahead towards the door (as I have done to others, it’s a perfectly fair practice); so when I used to get out of the bus at my stop, my hair would look like John Rambo’s. Soon I realized it is impossible to achieve a professional look with just a comb. On some really bad days, I needed hair clips and bands. So those went into the handbag too, just in case.

Now, the bus journey, as you would have guessed, is really a test of physical strength. I learnt different types of war cry, growls, snarls, the art of elbow movement, the art of any movement in a limited space – all in the BTS bus. Quite naturally, once one steps out after such a physical endeavour, one needs to ‘freshen up’. Hence came the additional items to the handbag. The ‘facewash’. The dry tissues. The wet tissues (just in case I did not have time to wash my face). And a little tube of some cream, because the face becomes dry after using soap. And the cream makes the face a bit oily, so a small box of compact powder. And, okay, the eyeliner, which is supposed to be waterproof, but whatever...just in case I have to reapply after washing my face.

Now you’d think that was the end of it. But no. The contents of the handbag grew with every passing year. The handbags would be sleek when I bought them, but in six months, they would bulge like Santa’s sack. When I started carrying my laptop, I thought I could shift the load to the laptop bag, and have a stylish handbag. The result was that both my laptop bag and handbag became like sniper kits.

Once out of frustration, I emptied the hand bag. I was determined to throw out things which I did not need. Like for example, I probably don’t need 10 packs of hair clips. Maybe two will suffice. Okay, five. And do I really need that pack of 50 hair bands in different colours? I look like a dork when I tie my hair. Okay, maybe I will keep five of them for emergencies. Anyway I have that ‘crocodile’ clip too. But I clip that to the strap anyway. Then there is the 600 pg paperback which gives the handbag the shape of a double-door fridge. But I can’t keep it out now; I’m halfway through. Then, there are the usual cosmetics. Let’s see, let’s see. I need the face wash, absolutely. The compact powder, yes. The sunscreen with the moisturiser, yes. Then the bottle with the ‘after sun exposure’ cream – yes, yes. There is the lipstick for the odd dinner-with-friends-directly-after-office. There is the deodorant as large as a fire extinguisher – yes, yes, yes. But there is also the small bottle of perfume, just in case – very much necessary. There is a ‘regular comb’, and the ‘roller comb’ – absolutely vital for survival. Well stocked with wet and dry facial tissues – critical requirement. Eyeliner, eye pencils, lipliners – not very necessary, but they don’t take up too much space. And then, the stationery. One pack of passport size photos – just in case some bank comes up with a cheap loan scheme, I could apply immediately. And that also meant carrying pens, staplers, stapler pins, glue-sticks, paper clips. And then, the medicine chest. One strip of Saridon for all those painful meetings where I used to have near-death hallucinations. Eldopar for loose motions, considering the canteen food. Don’t laugh. Luckily, I’ve never had any problems, but I’ve saved lives with Eldopar. Band-aids because of my tendency to slip, trip and fall. Neosporin ointment in case I scrape skin during such a fall. Dettol soaked cottonwool to disinfect such injuries. Miscellaneous items - Mint, chocolates, safety pins, mobile phone, a small pocket notebook, keys, key chains, receipts which I have preserved and I don’t remember why, and I don’t intending throwing them out till I figure out why they were important. Then, the ‘money purse’ a bulging (what else) clutch which had the credit cards and money. Laminated photos of Sri Ramanujar...just in case I confront mortal danger and I needed to pray. Visiting cards of people I don’t know. My own visiting cards with outdated designations and phone numbers. Another pouch with my prescription specs. Another one with the sunshades.

I sighed as I surveyed the contents. I was carrying the bare essential items in the handbag. I knew what the problem was. I had to buy a bigger one.

I tried living with a small handbag. My life spun out of control. Last year, just before travelling to India, I decided I needed something substantial. The Husband remarked my current handbag looks like a ship. Who cares? It’s loaded and I’m ready to go – be it to India or Andromeda.

Nevertheless, I believe my need to load the handbag has turned into paranoia. I once found a tomato in the handbag, and I don’t know how or why it got there. Maybe I need professional help. But this much I know – in the next James Bond movie, the bad man hides the nuke bomb in my handbag, and it will be Bond's first unsuccessful case.

Thin City

2011-05-19T13:08:00.000+01:00

Courtesy: http://cartoonbuddy.blogspot.com/

Every time I speak to my sister or my friends, I’ve noticed that we invariably talk about weight loss amongst many other things. Always. In fact, the issue of weight loss nibbles away at everybody’s mind constantly.

For me, the period of ‘exercise-to-be-slim’ is long over. Now it is more of a health issue. Considering the fact that my lifestyle is very sedentary, and I’ve not mastered the art of doing push-ups while typing, I have to compulsorily have fixed time periods everyday to shake the limb and work out those muscles padded in adipose.

But this ‘perfect figure’ syndrome is largely a 21st century thing; and I believe it has reached a crescendo in the last two decades. There is a constant visual, passive pressure to be thin and proportionate. Switch on your T.V. See the ads. Do you see any ‘regular’ women? No.

In fact, everything under the sun is ‘advertised’ by thin and perfectly proportioned women. From bikes and cars to tea and coffee. The mommies feeding cereals to cheerful kids are wafer thin. The lady in the ad for a laser eye treatment is stick thin. Perfumes are advertised by ethereal models. Hell, I almost bought J’adore Dior perfume only because of a superbly toned Charlize Theron prowling around to the beats of Funky Space Reincarnation. I finally did not buy it because a) it is too expensive for my pocket b) my social outings are limited to the Tesco store next door, so it does not warrant usage of such a perfume c) realization hit me that even if I bathe in the perfume for next 10 years, I won’t have a body like Theron’s.

In the movies the leading lady is always thin. The ‘regular’ ladies are support roles – the heroine’s friend, sister, hero’s sister, or hero’s ‘best friend’. A ‘regular’ lady rarely gets the lead role, a role where the hero falls in love with her. According to the movie people, it is impossible that a man can fall in love with a woman whose waist is above 30 inches. Man if only my grandmom had caught hold of Keira Knightly and Thandie Newton – they would be promptly put on a carb-rich diet of ghee smeared chapathis, ghee smeared rice, milk loaded with almond powder and ghee and honey. Not to mention several types of 'undes' all balled with ghee. For my grandmom – there was only one question when she looked at young women – ‘Are those child-bearing hips?’

Forget movies, even the most popular T.V. serials have thin women in lead roles. Be it Friends, Desperate Housewives, Sex and the City – you name it. You will not find a single ‘regular’ woman, unless it is a ‘side role’. Even the detectives in most of the crime dramas are thin women.

Pick up any catalogue for clothes. Thin women everywhere. Of course, it is visually appealing, and that is the aim of the catalogue. That printed dress on that size sub-zero model looks stunning. It’s not just the dress, it is the entire setting that messages your brain. The bare-chested hunk hugging her, the white sand, the blue sea, the sunshine. Before long, thousands of ‘regular’ women would have bought the dress. And only after wearing it, one realizes that at size 12, the dress creases and folds in areas where it should not. That full-length evening gown on that two dimensional model might make you, a regular woman, look like a Bedouin tent on the move. And don't get me started on the term 'plus size'. I'll accept that term when you put Size 0, Size 1 etc under 'Starvation size'.

In India, when I was attending this aerobics class, there were a couple of obese girls. I used to feel sorry for them. Clearly, they needed a more controlled exercise regime for their body type. They should have started with gentler cardio exercises like walking. Pushing them into a high impact aerobics class was just cruel. But it was their moms who did this. I happened to overhear them at one point. I was furious. They wanted the girls to lose weight ‘quickly’, otherwise ‘who would marry them?’ I mean, all through the childhood, you pamper the children with chips and cola and unhealthy snacks. And then suddenly one fine day you call your own daughter fat, and remind her that her only goal is to get married, which won’t happen if she is fat. What is the messaging you are giving her? That she is worthless because of her weight? That she can only be loved if she is thin? How absolutely despicable! But I can’t blame them entirely. Every parent wants a ‘slim and fair’ bride for the son, even if the son himself looks like a sea-elephant.

I tried to remember what my Mom was like in mid-thirties. I rarely remember her discussing weight issues with her friends or sisters. Sure, there would be the occasional joke about one’s weight – but it was just that. A joke. I don’t think it was the end of the world for my Mom or other moms because they did not look like the Liril model under the waterfall. But of course, they lived in a totally different world, with totally different role models. Take a look at some of them, and you’ll know what I am talking about.

Check out the very healthy, dusky Saritha – dreaming of squashing a lean Dr. Raj with her embrace.

Check out the evergreen Laskhmi and Ananth Nag pair – Although Lakshmi's biceps are as robust as Nag's, she is absolutely stunningly gorgeous even in a simple saree.

Or what about the effervescent, bubbly Manjula? Who bothered about her weight as she looked at Dr.Raj’s photo in that locket and ran in slow motion singing ‘I love you’?

And move over you plastic Baywatch babes. You are nothing compared to our Amazonian Jayamalini and Disco Shanti when it came to oomph. And 0% silicon in those bodies mind you. (Sorry, can't put up the videos for this ;))

Oh! And they did not have a model with washboard abs and hands like water pipes selling detergents. There was a very healthy Lalithaji teaching us about Surf and stains and domestic intelligence.

Not to mention all the apsaras and other celestial ladies painted in caves and carved on stones – all buxom and well endowed beauties.

Madhubala and Meena Kumari; they were not cardboard thin, but none of the size-zero 'actresses' of today can be compared even remotely to these two iconic beauties of Indian cinema.

I am all for leading a healthy lifestyle. But I am against the messaging that seems to get stronger every day – Thin=Intelligent=Beautiful=Successful.

Lessons from Narasimha Avatara

2011-05-16T17:04:00.000+01:00

Courtesy: http://neelavarnaperumal.blogspot.com/

According to me, no other avataras of Maha Vishnu is as powerful and captivating as the Narasimha Avatara. As a child, this story of little Prahlada being hounded by Hiranyakashipu was my favourite. The entire story is so dramatic and mesmerising. Even today, when I imagine the scene where the Lord appears from the pillar in a thunderous roar, I get goosebumps.

All through childhood, this was another story demonstrating the power of Good over Evil. Today, as I contemplate on the story, I realize the wonderful demonstration of the laws of karma and maya.

One might say today we are all surrounded by Hiranyakashipus. I disagree. Today, we are surrounded by the basest forms of humans. Even the lower-most asura had a code of honour. Hiranyakashipu was scholarly, disciplined and learned ruler. After all, it takes tremendous sadhana to have Brahma Himself grant the most improbable boons. Yet, through his single-minded perseverance, Hiryanyakashipu managed to extract a boon that for all practical purposes, granted him immortality. But, the biggest lesson I learnt from him – all the intelligence in the world is useless if it is tainted with arrogance; if the goal is egoistic. Imagine if Hiranyakashipu had asked for boons for the greater good of his people. But that was not to be. Another big lesson from Hiranyakashipu – and I believe this is a very important lesson for all you cruel despots out there – the end can come from the least expected, weakest quarters. Here is my message to you fools – fear and tremble in front of those who are pure of heart and soul. For all his power and intelligence, Hiranyakashipu’s arrogance and ego were his worst undoing; and his end came because of a child.

Many times, usually during tough times, I’ve been clouded by helpless anger and self-doubts. Indeed, how many of us have not ranted, ‘Is there a God?’ That debate is eternal. Personally for me, the devotion and faith of little Prahlada is very inspiring. It is extremely difficult to have that level of unwavering faith, even while facing the worst possible mortal dangers. Torn between the love for his father, and his bhakti towards Maha Vishnu, the child never relinquishes his beliefs. How often we have faced these situations in life? How often have we been forced to compromise on our own beliefs, our own principles for the sake of an amicable solution? If we stick to our beliefs, then the immediate consequences will no doubt be bitter. But such compromised solutions are invariably just band-aids. The more we compromise the real problems never go away. They come back disguised in some other form. In Prahlada’s mind, the truth is very clear. No amount of raving and ranting by his father, no dreadful punishment can change his mind. Is he scared? Yes – he is, after all a child. But can the truth change? No. The truth is an unshakeable fact; like the sun rising in the east; like the moon revolving around the earth; like the tides; like the seasons – the fact being Maha Vishnu is the Supreme Being of the universe. Indeed, Prahlada’s story is an important illustration of faith. The path of faith is not easy. Obstacles will be great, and dangerous even. But when the truth has illuminated your mind, it will always set you free. Even the mighty and powerful cannot win a battle against you. It’s easier said than done. But in this day and age, if we are able to have even 1% of this child’s faith; and when confronted by a tough situation, we do what is RIGHT, even if it means getting punished for doing what is right; I believe our blessings will be boundless.

Why was Prahlada, the most celebrated devotee of our puranas, a child? I think it is a wonderful illustration – that God answers to every prayer; there is no such thing as an ‘insignificant’ prayer. There is no segregation of prayers based on WHO is praying. A president’s prayer (if any) gets answered; and so does a beggar’s (in this case, many). A ripe old sanyasi’s prayer gets answered, and so does the innocent prayer of a child. Where you pray and how you pray does not matter – all that matters is the truth and conviction in your prayers.

Also take note that Hiranyakashipu’s gruesome end came not because he hurled insults at Maha Vishnu directly; but he dared to harm an innocent child, a devotee at that. There have been many times in my life where I’ve been wronged. And as we have all seen, not all of us can go charging with guns blazing against those who wronged us. Many times, our hands are tied, and all we can do is simmer and shed hot tears of helplessness. But I can tell you this with conviction. Those who seek to hurt innocent people wilfully will suffer a million-fold. It may not be an instant consequence. As the victim, you may not even witness the retribution, which can come after decades. But there is NO ESCAPE for the wrong-doers.

Look at Hiranyakashipu again. His conditions in the boon that was granted to him – he should not die in the hands of a human or a beast, he should not die because of an animate or inanimate object, he should not die inside or outside his dwelling, he should not die during the day or during the night, he should not die on earth or in the sky. Like I said, granting this boon was indeed granting him immortality.

When the arrogant asura rages ‘Is your Vishnu present in this stone pillar’ – he was in for a surprise. Even in a regular zoo, when you hear the full-throated roar of a lion, it vibrates against your ribcage. Imagine when the Lord Himself took on the form of half-lion, half man and roared into existence! I guess that was the first clue for Hiranyakashipu that his end was near. The form the Lord had taken was neither man, nor beast. Even at that moment, had he sought forgiveness, had he surrendered unconditionally, he would have been spared. But his soul was poisoned by his pride. The Lord then carried the asura and sat on the doorstep – what we call as ‘umara’ in Tamil, or ‘hosilu’ in Kannada; neither indoors, nor outdoors. And this is one of the reasons why our ‘hosilu’ is usually adorned by flowers and rangoli, and it is considered ill-manners to step on it. Hiranyakashipu was splayed on the Lord’s lap – neither on earth, nor in the sky. And he met his end when the Lord used His lion claws to disembowel him – they are neither animate, nor inanimate weapons. The time of his death was twilight – neither day, nor night. So you see this is the most important lesson. As a sinner, there is no such thing as ‘covering all bases’. Make no mistake, your ass will be kicked one way or the other.

And finally, the logical question. If Hiranyakashipu was so evil, surely an all-knowing God would have ended him earlier on? Here, we learn the important concept of Right Time. Nothing can move forward unless the time is right. In our own lives we’ve been a witness to this ‘phenomenon’. We plan and plan and nothing seems to fit. Then suddenly, all events come together; you find yourself in the right place at the right time. It’s important to persevere. It is more important to let go. It is absolutely critical to know when to let go, and when to put in hard work!

Today, we celebrate Narasimha Jayanthi. The puja is held in the evening, at twilight. And I pray that may His grace and protection be on you and your loved ones always.

In Hot Water

2011-05-09T12:36:00.001+01:00

Courtesy: http://www.graphicshunt.com/

Some people need Jacuzzis. Some people need gold-plated taps. Some people need antique bathtubs. Some people need ‘shower temples’ which can direct water at the body from a million different angles. For me, bathing luxury is just hot water. Even if it is in a plastic bucket. And since irony double underlines my life all the time, I’ve landed in a country obsessed with bathrooms, yet, they have heating systems that go berserk often.

It was in our first residence in UK, which was actually a matchbox disguised as a house, that I came face-to-face with The Boiler. A monstrous metal box, about five-feet high, with all kinds of counters and pressure valves, sat in a closet. I was told that all the settings have been made, and there’s really no need to even peek into this closet. Of course, on one cold, rainy day, no hot water came out of the taps. The pressure cooker and other ‘large’ pots and pans meant for the occasional pulav-when-guests-come were promptly employed to heat water on the stove. The maintenance team of the agent was contacted, and 8 hours later, a plumber walked in. He set it right in 10 seconds. He said there is a ‘slight’ problem with the boiler. But all I had to do was to keep an eye on the pressure gauge and ensure that it remained at a certain level. If the pressure fell, then I would not get hot water. I had the magic wand to control the beast now. But the beast could not be tamed so easily. Once, it just stopped working, even though the pressure was okay. The agent appointed plumber did not turn up for 48 hours. I finally did a google search and called the first plumber available. It was a Friday evening, and I did not have much hopes of anyone turning up. A plumber did walk in at 8:30 PM.

He opened the boiler room and looked at the metallic hulk from top to bottom. He looked at me. He looked around. He looked at me again. “You have about five to six bedrooms I presume; all ensuite?” (He meant rooms with attached bathrooms.)

I laughed hysterically. “Did you mistake me for some Asian cousin of the Windsors? This is it. This cubby hole. Why do you ask?”

“You mean...just this one room and that’s the kitchen I presume.”

“Yes.”

“Then why the fuck...sorry ma’am...why have they installed this monster? This is more like a commercial boiler.”

“Can you get it working?” I was not interested in his amazement.

With grim determination he did what I had been doing for 48 hours. Resetting the pressure. But the beast recognised a professional’s touch. Finally it sputtered alive, and the hum was the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard.

“It’s out of hours on a Friday night ma’am. I’m afraid that will cost you £75. Even though I don’t know what is wrong with this, and how I set it right.”

I like honesty. But I did ask him if I can do a 10-year payout.

Then, we moved out of the hole-in-the-hole-in-the-wall to a decent sized place where we could stretch our legs and hands without punching into the ceiling or the next flat’s wall. This place is on ‘electric’ heating. I opened the boiler room. I met the new beast. This one had no counters and tickers on it. It is shiny, solid and smooth. There is just the one panel where a red light keeps blinking. A small chit of paper was glued on with succinct instructions – ‘Blinking red light – normal operation. No red light – hot water available for immediate use. Rapidly blinking red light – problem’. Of course, I’ve used too many words. It is even briefer on the 1 cm by 2 cm chit of paper.

Then we realized this is a glorified Indian geyser. It has additional parts and mechanisms to pump hot water through-out the house, is all. And as usual, in the midst of a shower, the water went tepid. I fumed. I mean this is one thing that can make me absolutely livid. Cursing darkly I spoke to the letting agent of my angst. A plumber was dispatched.

He came in all genial and jovial and looked at the boiler and patted it affectionately. “What’s the problem, eh?”

“Even though the red light keeps blinking, I get only lukewarm water. And whenever I need a good amount of hot water, I have to push that black button and wait for HALF AN HOUR.”

“Yeah. That’s the way this works.”

“What? Really?”

“Yeah. Let me top up the thermal tank for you.”

The thermal tank is a tub which sits on top of the boiler on another shelf. Apparently, this where hot water is stored and it is the circulation centre.

“But you know,” the plumber continued, “I don’t know why they have installed it this way. See, one should be able to look into the tank and see the level of water and then decide if more water needs to be poured into the this tank.”

“You mean, poured in manually?”

“Yeah. People use a bucket. But you don’t worry. See this tap here, on this pipe. You just have to turn it.” You see, the morons had installed the tank in such a way that the ceiling is right over it. If I tried really hard, I could probably insert a hair.

“Okay, but how do I know how much water is needed? Why have they not put any level indicator?” I demanded.

“Because,” the plumber gave a dramatic pause, “they did not have you designing it.” Apparently, whether work gets done or not, everyone attempts to be James Bond in Britain.

“In the absence of common-sense design, we’ll just go by the noise of the water,” the plumber declared.

He turned on the tap and we both listened, as if we were trapped in some cave, and the sound of a distant waterfall is the way out. This was stupid.

“Let me give you a thread with a small nail tied to the end of it. You can insert it into the tank and pull it out. At least going by the wet mark, we can assess how much water is there,” I suggested.

The plumber looked at me with new admiration. I blushed, even under the grim circumstances. But seriously, is this the same country which built all those glorious bridges and buildings and railway tracks all over the ‘colonies’?

Anyway, since it was established that the boiler was working as it should, I did not give it another thought. But never to be outdone, I had done a massive research on this brand. As it turned out, it is most unpopular second only to Tony Blair. The entire apartment block has been installed with this baby. It runs on two different electricity rates. It runs on a very unique design. It is also designed to be as cryptic as Unix when it came to user interface. But I poured over the discussion forums, filing away symptoms and causes. I listened to every gurgle and sputter with utmost attention. Winter sailed through without any problems. But just as the daffodils and tulips bloomed, I heard an angry murmur from the boiler room. It then turned into a hissing static. The hot water came in a trickle.

I immediately went to my notes. Aha! Noise followed by low pressure. The heat plate exchanger must have scaled up. The plumber came, a different one. A more professional, sensible one. But I had the power of knowledge now. I waited for his verdict. If he hummed and hawed, I could unnerve him with a lot of technical questions. One turn of the tap and he gave his answer, ‘Heat plate exchanger needs to be replaced.’ At last! Someone who is a subject matter expert. But, as with everything in this country, nothing ever happens ‘immediately’. The parts had to be ordered, and it would come after a couple of days. That meant a weekend of heating water in pots and pans.

But that’s okay. Back in Malleswaram, I’ve woken up every single day of my childhood to the sound of the ‘pump stove’. As was the case in all the houses, we had two ‘Handes’ or large copper pots. One ‘hande’ was set in a cement kiln, under which there was space to light the fire, be it a stove or wood. The other ‘hande’ stored cold water. Wood or ‘soudhe’ produced too much of soot and smoke due to the poor quality, so we had to use a kerosene stove. Some of my friends, who had access to coconut shells, used that as fuel.

Kerosene was rationed – so every Tuesday, I would accompany my Mom to the ration shop – a 15-20 minute walk. We would carry two empty kerosene cans. The quota was four litres or six litres I think. It was exactly enough for a week for a family of four adults and two kids. These ‘ration’ days were always tense. We had to reach there early to beat the queue. Because of course, some of the kerosene quota was sold in black; and that meant if we went late, we had to pay double the amount. And that meant delaying school fees. There were times we were turned away, all of us. The ration guy would simply say the tanker has not come. And I would be sent every day to find out if it has come.

I don’t remember how my parents managed on the days we ran out of kerosene. But not a single day did we kids shower in cold water. I suppose the adults managed in cold water on such days. So yes, when I think of those days, I realize I have no right to complain.

In fact, all these boiler experts are hot property here. I’m seriously contemplating a profession in that line, if my literary hobbies die down. Meanwhile, I wait for the plumber eagerly. Incidentally, this time around, his name IS James.

South Wales - Last Leg - Brecon Beacon

2011-05-05T18:48:00.001+01:00

Day 8

While the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge stood on The Balcony contemplating a kiss or two, we, on the other hand, were somewhere inside Brecon, searching for a place to eat. Brecon is a small town in ‘mid’ Wales, a gateway to the breathtaking Brecon Beacon National Park housing lush mountains, river-fed valleys and some unique waterfalls. But it was a bank holiday and the entire town was shut down for the long weekend. An hour away from Brecon, is the charming small town of Crickhowell. We had booked ourselves into The Manor slightly out of Crickhowell. The Manor hotel seems to be another period building converted to a hotel. It sits on an elevated land, with an approach road shooting off the motorway, and of course, sweeping views of the mountain ranges. The other significant advantage (for us) was that the popular Cider Mill Inn was almost next door to the hotel property. We dashed off as soon as we checked in; and had a late lunch at the Inn, checking out the action on the motorway and the mountains beyond.

Then, we set out to a mysterious place; a place on which I had set my heart upon – the Llanthony Priory. Dated back to 12th century, these ruins are deep within the Vale of Ewyas, surrounded by the Black Mountains. As usual, we selected a route that would take us within the rural areas, rather than the main motorways. It was sheer magic.

For once, the websites did not exaggerate – the ruins are indeed in a very dramatic location. There are mountains all around and the Priory stands in dignified silence amidst lush green blankets. There is a fairly large car park, with a very basic WC (clean, but no hot water, mirrors etc). On the ruins is the Abbey hotel as well as an old St David’s church. There are gently rolling slopes all around, with beautiful horses and sheep and cows shuffling around. They also have pony trekking in these parts, if one is interested. I am sure it will be a phenomenal experience to trek into the belly of these mountains on horseback! Just across the road, there is a ‘Half Moon’ hotel if one is in dire need of coffee/tea/beer.

We decided to drive deeper into the valley – the road takes one as far as Hay-on-Wye. This is a town I missed visiting –it’s known for charming book stores! The silence this deep inside the valley is so wonderful, so spiritual, that we felt guilty about the car engine noise. But we went only up to Capel Y Ffin, and returned since it was late. The evening sun, the crisp air and charming Welsh farms – an eternal romance!

Day 9

The next day, we checked out, and had to head towards Ebbw Vale, but not before visiting Craig Y Nos country park, right behind the Craig Y Nos castle. The drive from Crickhowell to Craig Y Nos is another astounding one. On the way, just near Libanus, there are a couple of right turns for a national park centre. These are famed for trekking routes into the mountains, and also for some wonderful views. But we did not stop; perhaps next time!

We had lunch in the tea room within the Craig Y Nos park, and then just strolled around a small area within the park. It is a wonderful picnic spot, and if you are up for some long hikes – it can’t get better than this!

Ebbw Vale is another charming town, and as the name suggests, it is in the valley of the Ebbw river (or one of its tributaries I think). We reached Ebbw Vale sometime in the evening; and stayed at Premier Inn in Victoria Business park. This is slightly out of the town, but a really nice and quiet location. There is a good pub next door for food and drink.

Day 10

The last day of our trip. WAAAHHHHH. We initially intended to cover just one more place – Blaenavon World Heritage site; but you can never get enough of Wales! We covered two more wonderful spots before finally heading home.

Blaenavon is important for its role in the industrial revolution of Great Britain. At one point this used to be the centre of iron-ore industry. People from all over Britain would come to Blaenavon for a job in the mines. There are several spots within the world heritage area where one can visit, including underground coal mines. But we selected only one spot, and were very satisfied – the Blaenavon Ironworks. Dating back to 1789, the blast furnace complex in this place is apparently the best preserved in the world. They also have charming exhibits, where they’ve converted a row of houses to depict the lifestyle of miners of that era. Worth taking a look – the details are elaborate, from bedrooms to stuff on the kitchen counters! Each area of the complex also has an audio guide, and you can listen to the fascinating details of the working conditions of those times.

From Blaenavon, we headed towards Raglan Castle, situated in the town of Raglan in Monmouthshire. This is another extraordinary castle, with remnants of lush gardens, stately apartments, towering cupolas over stained glass windows framed in Irish oak, fountains – you name it! But the memory I take away from here - sitting in the tea room behind this castle, and watching the yellow mustard fields! If you are looking for a good place to eat, then Cripple Creek Inn nearby (15-20 min drive I guess) seems quite popular. But if you are pressed for time, the tea room is good enough.

From Raglan, we headed towards Tintern Abbey, again in Mommouthshire, nestled in the Wye valley. Tintern itself is a small village, the nearest town being Chepstow. Even with the river Wye twinkling by, even with the towering mountains around, the Abbey ruins stand solemn towering over the landscape. This Abbey was once the pride of the lords of Chepstow. The Abbey dates back to 1100s; and like Llanthony Priory, this monastic ruin too captures your imagination.

Unfortunately, the Abbey was closed by the time we reached the place (it closes at 5:00pm); but we managed capture some excellent shots from outside. Well, all the more reason to head back again to this place!

After the pristine beauty of those valleys and mountains and beaches, the bland concrete buildings dotting the cityscapes on our way back looked ugly. But then, it is because we live in this ‘ugliness’ that we are able to appreciate beauty with a resounding soul! It’s a healthy mix if you ask me! And yes. Wales is addictive.

South Wales - Leg 2 - Pembrokeshire

2011-05-04T15:23:00.001+01:00

Day 5 (contd.)

As expected, the drive from Rhossili to Tenby was excellent. We stopped by at Greyhound Inn in Oldwalls, Llanrhidian for a wonderful lunch. We reached Tenby sometime in the evening. In Tenby, we stayed at The Park hotel in North Cliff. It’s a 10- minute walk from the town centre, but with excellent views over the bay area.

Tenby is refreshingly different. Thankfully, there are no large malls. Old structures still encircle the town centre. Centuries ago, there would have been the regular markets within these walls I suppose – today, all kinds of pubs and inns and small retail outlets – from clothes to hardware – jostle for space on the cobbled streets.

Day 6

We were torn between two options – do we visit the Caldey Island first, or do we visit the Pembroke castle? Caldey Island has this monastery, and Cistercian monks still live there. Pembroke Castle on the other hand, is historically significant since the Tudor dynasty started here, this being the birthplace of Henry Tudor. Finally, the Castle won. It was another beautiful day – and we figured Caldey could be done in the evening.

The scenic drive from Tenby to Pembroke is just half an hour. When we reached the castle, we were indeed happy with our choice! The main structure of the castle is well preserved – and climbing up and down the towers had my knees quaking! After a good round of walking about, exploring every arch and dome and dungeons, it was blissful to finally sit down on one of the several benches in the Castle lawn. There is a coffee shop within the premises, in case one gets hungry with all the walking.

On the way back to Tenby, we stopped by at another sprawling inn/pub (I forget the name) for some great lunch. By the time we reached Tenby, the boats to Caldey had been called off. But we did find a 4:00pm cruise boat that offers 1 hour boat trips around the islands of Tenby. We took that up – and boy was it a right choice or what! We had some fantastic views of the Pembrokeshire coastal line as we cruised around the islands. The boat seats about 15 people I think, and it was very comfortable. Besides our ‘captain’ also doubled up as a guide and had a rich knowledge of all the birds that were roosting on various islands. And then – I was thrilled to bits – we spotted seals!

Once we returned, we spent some time on the beach, and then, climbed up Castle Hill on Tenby dock for some more wonderful views of the coastline. Before hitting the bed, I checked the mirror to see if my waist matched Kate Middleton’s, given all the climbing and running around I’d done that day. No luck. But I did sleep like a princess!

Day 7

I was very excited about this day. We were going to do a complete coastal drive along Brides Bay. But we first headed off to St. Davids (note – there is no apostrophe). St. Davids is in the ‘northern’ curve of Brides bay. On the way, watch out for Newgale, a few miles ahead of St. Davids. The approach to Newgale is breathtaking as the Brides Bay comes into sight.

As you enter St Davids, you will see a car park near the information centre. We initially parked here to get info about the boat trips to Ramsey Island off the coast of St Davids. Right across the road, almost opposite to the information centre, (the road that goes into the town centre); is the office for Aquaphobia boat bookings. We booked ourselves on one more speed boat trip – this was a 1 hour 15 minute trip, and we would be seeing some more aquatic life, as well as going into island ‘caves’. The boats dock at St. Justinian dock, and its about 2.5 to 3 mile walk from the information centre. We took the car and drove down through the town centre. There is a car park near St Davids Cathedral and the Bishop’s palace; but strongly recommend driving further down to St. Justinian car park. From here, you can walk down to the dock – and there a good number steps to climb down to reach the speed boat. The steps are wide, the slope is slightly steep; apparently, cattle used to be herded on these steps.

The boat cruise is slightly expensive at £25 per head, but worth every penny! We enjoyed it all the more because of the wonderful weather. However, make sure to wear warm and waterproof clothes. Not that you will get wet, but when the boat goes into some of the caves, water from the stones drips on you. Watch out for the amazing rock formations across the islands – and of course, the remote pebbled beaches, and the ‘seal’ area – we saw so many of them flapping about on a remote beach; it was wonderful! I think between June and August, there is a 3 hr boat trip deeper into the Atlantic, where you can spot whales! That’s definitely on a ‘to do’ list!

After we returned, we had a lunch at a local pub (macaroni and cheese, soup...yummm!) and headed back to the Cathedral. It is once again, an impressive one, and so very peaceful inside.

We started off from St Davids at about four in the evening. We stopped at Newgale and spent some time on the beach there. The place is very thinly crowded and truly spectacular. The car park is right behind the beach. From Newgales, we wanted to drive down all the way to St Ann’s Head at the outskirts of Dale. That is at the southern tip of the Pembrokeshire coast. We took the ‘Welsh Road’ route, passing through the little villages along the Brides bay coast such as Little Haven and Broad Haven. Absolutely rural area, and most beautiful views all along!

There is nothing much in St Ann’s Head except for a light house that is at the entrance of the Milford Haven waterway. But the views are stunning!

The day ended with a delicious dinner in a place called ‘Little India’ back in Tenby.

We were sad that our Pembrokeshire leg had come to an end. But we still had to cover Mid-Wales – the Brecon area. From coasts and beaches, we would now be heading into mountains and valleys and rivers!

South Wales - Leg 1 (Cardiff & Gower Peninsula)

2011-05-03T17:12:00.002+01:00

Courtesy: http://woodlands-cp.torfaen.sch.uk/

‘Wales is beautiful.’ Nowhere has the word ‘beautiful’ been so inadequate. Wales is a smorgasbord of scenic beauty. The gods really went crazy when creating Wales. ‘Let’s put lush green mountains,’ they said. And where there are mountains, there will be valleys fed by rivers. Next came the beaches. But not your run-of-the-mill sandy resort beaches. Oh no! That would be too sissy for Wales. You have sandy beaches, pebbled beaches, remote beaches – and they are lined with the most amazing cliffs. And then, man came along. And chose the most dramatic spots, some deep within forests and valleys, to build spectacular castles and priories and cathedrals. Wales leaves you panting for breath – you never know what’s round the corner. And this is just South Wales I’m talking about.

After a lot of research on travel blogs and lonely planet website and Wales official website, I managed to come to up 10 day itinerary that would cover three distinct regions – Cardiff, Swansea and the Gower peninsula, Pembrokeshire and its coastal path, Brecon Beacon National park and surrounding valleys of Usk and Wye in mid-Wales.

Day 1

We eased into the trip with Cardiff as our first stop. I usually dislike visiting cities – but Cardiff was different. Ancient castles and monuments sit comfortably amidst modern day structures – on one side there are towering cupolas of centuries-old churches, and on the other, there are sleek antennas of high-rises housing hotels and offices. Yet, everything somehow falls into place, giving Cardiff a unique profile.

We spent a lovely, balmy evening roaming around the effervescent Mermaid Quay on the Cardiff Bay area. From speed boat trips to just lounging on the steps overlooking the bay – you are spoilt for choice. You can sit and enjoy an ice-cream; or you can enjoy an elaborate dinner while listening to some phenomenal live music!

Day 2

Cardiff Castle

The next day, we ventured into Cardiff town centre - and this is so unique too. A thousand cobbled streets criss-cross and house a million eating joints, pubs and inns. There is the ultra modern Cardiff library, and soaring John Lewis building and several other shopping arcades; and nestled between them are charming little churches. As we exited the town centre area, we were greeted by the massive walls of the famous Cardiff Castle. It was a glorious warm spring morning, a perfect day for a picnic at the castle grounds. We spent a good half a day checking out the exhibits and walking around the large castle area. In the evening, we walked into the beautiful Bute park, just behind the castle. We did not have time (or energy!) to visit the Llandaff Cathedral though. I think it is just a mile away from the castle.

Hotel details –

There are no dearth of good hotels in Cardiff – from budget ones to five-star ones. We stayed at a Holiday Inn express in the Cardiff Bay area. This was in a quiet location – 10 minute walk to both the Mermaid Quay as well as the town centre. In fact, we never started our car in Cardiff!

Day 3

We checked out of our hotel, and headed towards our next destination – Swansea. Swansea is the gateway to Gower peninsula – and an ideal location to go ‘beach crawling’! But we did not take up a hotel within Swansea town centre. We stayed in Neath – actually in the Holiday Inn Express at M4 Jct 43. We felt this was ideal to explore two particular spots – the Carreg Cennen castle in Carmarthenshire; and of course the Gower bays. The castle is about 40 minutes drive from the hotel, and Swansea town centre is a mere 15 minutes away by car.

Carreg Cennen

Carreg Cennen is a privately owned castle. It is in ruins; but what makes it so attractive is the location – it sits on top of a cliff, about a mile away from a village called Trapp. Not to mention the drive. Maybe because it was the Easter Sunday the roads were almost deserted, especially when we hit A483 that leads to Llandeilo and then on to A474 which is the approach to the castle. In fact, the right turn into the A474 is almost hidden, and we missed it; and had to take a detour. But what a detour it was! It was a very warm sunny afternoon – and we were the only ones driving down on a single track Welsh country-side rural road. As I discovered later, all these ‘A’ roads that take you into the heart of Wales country side are hemmed by lush green hedges – a treat for the eyes! Ten minutes into the detour, we reached the spot. There is a good sized car park at the base of the cliff (and I think I saw WCs too. Else, you can always use the ones in the tea room next to the car park.)

The castle silhouette looks imposing from the base of the cliff. I could not wait to scramble up! There is of course, a modest entry fee. For nearly three-fourths of the way, the path is paved. The slope is medium (as far as I am concerned that is; it could be easy-peasy for the really fit ones), and yes, I was out of breath. The last leg to the castle is unpaved – grass covered slope. The castle, as I said, is in ruins. But yet, the structure is imposing. The view from the top of the cliff is worth every stumble I took on the way to the top. There were children on the grassy slopes below chasing butterflies. There were dogs of all sizes exploring every possible hole in the ground, and getting scared silly by bumble bees. The sky was a sheer royal blue. The sheep and cattle went about their business in their ambling pace. This is what heaven must feel like. I will never forget those few hours on the cliff, where time has no meaning.

On the way down, there is a wonderful tea room. We stopped by for our lunch – and I’ve never tasted a better soup ever – it was piping hot, thick and creamy vegetable soup served in this wonderful pot along with the usual stick of cheese and butter and garlic bread. The soup is known as ‘Cawl’ – and you must not miss it! I was so hungry after the climb that I also had toasted tomato and cheese sandwiches along with the soup – and was ready to call it a day!

Going by the exposed stone walls, the tea room seems to be a part of some kind of remnant structure belonging to the castle. It has been reinforced with wooden beams and wooden flooring though, giving it a warm and welcoming atmosphere. There is also a small shop which sells gifts and knick knacks – and some pretty good paintings by local painters.

From Carreg Cennan, we headed towards our hotel. We freshened up, and decided to visit the Aberdulais falls – which according to some of the websites, was described as ‘famous’ and ‘powerful’. It was just 10 minutes away from our hotel, and we headed out again. I did not expect a Niagara, but man, this was a huge disappointment. Probably the water’falls’ looks better when the river Dulais is in spate. Some kind of a tin works industry flourished here centuries ago, and there is a small exhibit of this. But like I said, coming from the home state of Jog falls, this was nothing but ’joke false!’

'beach' behind Mumbles pier

We then drove down to the sea-side town of Mumbles, about five miles away from Swansea. It was a nice evening – we parked at the entrance of the town and walked all the way up to the Mumbles pier. There is a cafe at the pier – and we had tea and French fries (chips) while looking out at the sedate bay – it was low tide. To the rear of the pier, one can go down wooden stairs that leads to the rocky beach. But I suppose this can be done only in low tide. After slipping on a stair and leaving my butt print on the sand, I gathered my dignity, and stumbled right into the sandy coves, covered with rounded, smoothened, and dangerous (only for me) large pebbles. Further ahead, the bay opens up and once again, it was a wonderful sight. On the way back to our hotel, we missed a turn and once again, it was a lucky miss. We had turned into a road that suddenly dipped, and we could see the wide Caswell bay lined by a wonderful beach – the water was blue and white and orange all at once in the setting sun, and it was indeed a sight to behold!

Day 4

I think this was the only day which I found exhausting and I did not enjoy it one bit. For one, we planned to cover two other famous bays of Gower – the Three Cliffs Bay and the Oxwich Bay. But the day was sweltering. Yeah coming from India I must not complain about 27 deg, but it’s the dry piercing heat that can absolutely char your skin.

Our first stop was Three Cliffs Bay. I was especially interested to see the ruins of the Pennard Castle on a cliff, from where one can get spectacular views across this bay. The official websites do not have proper directions to this castle. One traveller had written we can park at Linkside drive in Southgate, and walk through the Southgate golf course – a 20 minute walk should bring us to this castle. Unfortunately, we could not figure out the correct entrance – and we headed back to the main road – which is the A4118.

Three Cliffs Bay is a remote beach – so keep your eyes peeled for the road signs that direct you towards the parking –it’s quite a hidden, steep left turn. The parking area is quite large – and you have to pay at the small shop attached to the area. There are no facilities on the beach – so you’ve got to finish all your business in the shop area and then head out. If you have too many things to carry, here’s a warning. The road is quite steep and it is a long walk down a slope to the beach. After a few minutes, the paved approach gives way to loose stones and pebbles and sand which can be slippery. Going down might be okay, but coming back will be really, really tough (again, I am referring to people with low to average fitness levels). I guess there are other less strenuous approaches into the beach – but I am not aware of it. Anyway, we gave up halfway – the heat was too much and I was of course worried about the steep climb back on loose soil – given my walking skills.

From there we headed to Oxwich bay. Ample car park and direct access to the beach without mandatory requirements of mountaineering skills! But the beach is part pebbles and part sand. We reached Oxwich in the afternoon and by then the heat was steaming up from the sands. The Oxwich hotel at the beach seems to be quite popular – and you can stop by for lunch. When we went, the place was extremely crowded, so we headed back to our Holiday Inn Express. Right next to our hotel is the Harvester Inn; had a sumptuous and leisurely lunch there and decided to spend a quiet evening. There is also the Gower Inn near Parkmill, with a large car park. I don’t know how good the place is (it’s got poor reviews). But we had breakfast here, and it was pretty decent.

Day 5

We checked out in the morning, and were ready for our next leg of the trip – Pembrokeshire. But on the way, we had one more bay to cover in the Gower peninsula – the Rhossili bay. When we parked our car in the vast parking area of the bay and walked up – we were astounded by the sight. Rhossili bay, is the most understated, and most spectacular spots of the Gower peninsula. I’d say, don’t waste your time in Mumbles and Three Cliffs and Oxwich. This is the real deal. The topography of Rhossili itself is very dramatic. From the car park, you can take two ways. One way leads you to Worms Head. Worms Head is an island that can be accessed only during low tide. The path to Worms Head is actually a series of cliffs that overlook one side of the bay. The path is paved though, and has wooden benches at regular intervals. However, you can even walk up easily to the edges of these cliffs and get some spectacular views across the bay.

Rhossili - Worms Head

The other path leads you straight to the wonderful beach. It is quite a long strip, and by the looks of it, I don’t think it ever gets too crowded. On the whole, quite a dramatic location – the roaring sea, the sandy beaches, the sheer cliffs, and a series of mountains encircling the landscape! In case you get hungry, there is a tea room near the car park. We settled for a delicious ice cream since it was too early for lunch, and then set out on the long drive to Tenby in Pembrokeshire.

I might add that the drive from Swansea to Rhossili itself is another beauty. One moment you see lovely stretches of emerald green fields, and the very next moment, the road suddenly dips and you are confronted by the twinkling blue sea! It’s so thrilling not knowing what’s going to show up at the next dip! We took the route through Llaneli, Burry Port, Kidwelly which eventually connects to A40.

Tell Me Your Creams

2011-04-20T11:02:00.000+01:00

...and I'll tell you your age!

Courtsey:http://ministryoffashion.co.uk

The realization that I am growing old hit me acutely. Not because I suddenly felt my brain is bursting with new found wisdom. Not because my joints are all creaky. Not because another goddamn birthday is round the corner. But because the cosmetics I usually buy have longer and longer names. It’s no longer just some ‘lotion’ or ‘cream’. Its pro-this-that with-this-that molecules/extracts.

When I was a kid, I remember the predominant term used for face cream was ‘snow’. Yes. I remember a lovely dark blue/indigo bottle which contained a white cream with a heavenly fragrance. It was called ‘Afghan snow’. I guess it was expensive – I had always seen these bottles in my friend’s place. Her mom used to work in a bank or someplace, and this bottle was a guarded treasure. This was enough reason for my friend and me to stealthily slather on this cream on our face and hands and legs and giggle. Finally her mom made a pact with us – she will give us the empty bottles to play with, but we should not touch her cream. Her cream was stowed away in the little secret locker within the locker of the Godrej ‘beeru’. I asked my mom if we could buy this cream. She said, ‘When you grow up and go to office and get lots of money, you can buy the cream.’ Of course, Ms. Smarty Pants that I was, I promptly asked why Appa is not buying the cream since he is grown up and he goes to office. While my Mom replied vaguely about ‘Appa not being a grown up’, Appa grumbled from some corner, ‘That is the only thing left for me to do.’ And then, everyone had burst out laughing, including my grandpa. I went away irritated – grown-ups had no straight answers for anything.

But I will always associate those growing years with Vicco Turmeric cream and Ponds talcum powder. And then, Ponds came out with the ‘vanishing cream’ and the ‘cold cream’. While Vicco wagged their forefinger and said ‘Vicco Turmeric, nahin cosmetic’; Ponds placed their face creams as exactly that – cosmetics. Soon enough, a lot of women I knew switched brands. In fact, the cold cream became more of a unisex cream. It had a thick oily texture to it, and once you massage your face with it, and pat on some talcum powder – what can I say – it was like whitewash on fresh plaster. For the women, the ‘make-up’ would not be complete without ‘eyetex’ kajal – it came in a small round dabba, and ‘Shringar’ liquid kumkum. A little ghee smeared on the lips served as the gloss, at the same time acted as a chap stick – and more importantly, no harm done if ‘accidentally’ licked! The weekly castor oil bath ensured the skin remained adequately moisturised – and body lotions were unheard of. In the worst case scenario, coconut oil would be rubbed gently on the hands and legs to keep the dryness at bay.

But the revolution came with Fair & Lovely. What a brand placement! Simply genius! They took the Indian prejudice towards the dark skin tone – and turned that into an everlasting opportunity. I vividly remember the print advertisements – the lady’s visage going from dusky to radiantly fair in a matter of six weeks. Tubes and tubes of creams were emptied on girls of marriageable age.

But my teenage years were devoted to Lakme. They were the first ones (of a mass brand) to bring the beauty parlour concepts to homes – sunscreens, moisturises, toners and cleansers. Then one of my friends discovered ‘Oil of Olay’. She had used it in her ‘foreign returned’ cousin’s house. She described its virtues – a creamy lotion in a bottle (those days, Olay used to come in a glass bottle), and so soft and so gentle on the skin – can’t even feel it; but almost immediately, the skin becomes like velvet. But it was not yet available in India, and we lamented our bad fate. But finally, Olay did open up in the market. But only in select stores. I remember rushing to our kaka kirana shop in the suburbs of Bangalore. When I asked for Oil of Olay, the shopkeeper in a torn vest and checks lungi scratched his head and said he has ‘Wonly gogonut oyil’.

I went back home and had a good laugh. Then, we three girls – Mom, sis and self – set off for our pilgrimage to Malleswaram. If something was not available in Malleswaram, then it was not available anywhere in India. It was as simple as that. Malleswaram 8th cross is the holy of holies. Hanuman Stores on 8th cross was like a Christian Dior store for us. While we bought the Olay bottle, the charming lady behind the counter also convinced me that I need the liquid eyeliner from Lakme (how did I live without it all the years?), and a Lakme foundation cream, just in case some function came up and I had to ‘glow’. Looking back, those Malleswaram trips with my Mom and sis were the happiest days of my life. And now, I believe the traffic is just unbearable and the place has lost its charm. In any case, now that my Mom is not there, I cannot bear to step into 8th cross – it would be too painful.

During my first job, I became an ardent fan of Shahnaz Hussain. I still believe that of all the stuff I’ve used – her range is truly awesome. But by the time I joined my second job, everyday was a race against time and it was truly a miracle that I managed to brush my teeth and shower. In any case, with Health & Glow outlets everywhere, stocking all possible brands both local and international – the thrill of stumbling across a new cosmetic was gone.

Now, as I stand in malls or in any beauty store – I just feel weary. I should apparently use a night cream so that my skin repairs from the vagaries of the day. No, I cannot use the night cream during the day because the composition is different. No I cannot slap on the under-eye almond cream everywhere on my face. It has to be UNDER THE EYE ONLY. Do I take the cream, the lotion, the foam or the serum? Do I want oil-based creams or water-based creams? Do I just want to smoothen out the complexion or smoothen out wrinkles? Do I want to hide enlarged pores or do I need spot treatment for ‘localised problem areas?’ Oh! And apparently fingers are not good enough for spreading the cream on the face. So do I want something with a ‘brush applicator’ or a ‘sponge applicator’? There is pro-retinal, pro-age, pro-visage, pro-collagen. And it does not end there. They come with ‘pearl molecules’ or ’24-carat gold flakes’, or the goodness of some seaweed which releases blasts of antioxidants. I thought this was only for the face creams. But no. Is my lipstick weather-proof, coffee-cup proof, kiss proof? Is it a leave on? Does it have a diamond shine? Does it moisture my lips while adding glamour? Does my mascara add a ‘million times’ volume to my short, non-descript eyelashes?

Yes I’ve grown old. Because the magic is broken. I KNOW that the model lying on the couch, gently biting her pearl necklace, coyly looking into the camera with a hint of cleavage has that radiant glow because of photoshop. Not because of pro-effingenzyme. But wait a minute! It says here that this cream tackles ‘7 effects’ of aging. So far I knew only one effect of aging – forgetting to apply anything to the face because one is in a hurry to finish a blog. Ah! But this one is supposedly for people like me – who don’t bother with the moisturiser and concealer and foundation – they’ve swirled everything into one mother of all cream. All I have to do is apply it a couple of times a day after ‘gently cleansing’ my face – not with some harsh facewash. But with their wonderfully formulated face wipes. I can see the results within a couple of days apparently. My skin will become even-toned, supple, soft and the glow of youth shall be restored. Of course, what is unsaid is that I may have to dab a bit of that diamond-shine kiss-proof lipstick. I may have to stick on false eyelashes and curl them and then use the ‘volumising’ mascara so that I can flutter my eyelids. I may have to do something about my hair – combing it regularly would be a start. And while I’m at it, I may have to lose about 30 kilos. Yeah, definitely then the ‘glow of youth’ shall be restored. I sigh and buy the damn cream because I spot The Husband; he is chatting too much with the well-endowed blonde behind the Gucci counter down the floor.

I come home and gently place the ‘elixir of youth’ in my ‘dressing draw’. Only to find an unopened‘elixir of youth’. ‘Oh! You already had this! Shall we go and return it?’ The Husband asks over- enthusiastically. Man those Gucci babes are persuasive. ‘No, no!’ I reply, ‘see this old one is a serum for spot applications, what I bought today is an overall cream.’ By then, The Husband has zoned out. And I am sure in another three months time I will go and buy the same cream forgetting that I already have two of them. Sigh.

My IDEAL World!

2011-04-07T11:56:00.001+01:00

Courtesy: http://coromandal.wordpress.com/

In my ideal world...

1) Sitting for hours would burn tonnes of calories

Mom A to Mom B – How is Prerna doing?

Mom B – Oh! I am very proud of her. She just reached the 8-hour milestone. Yes...she can sit continuously for 8 hours without a break.

Mom A – Oh! That is really a great achievement. I am sure in two years she will be able to reach the 14-hour milestone? What a clever girl! Can you ask her to talk to Spoorthi?

Mom B – Why, what happened?

Mom A – Aiyooo. I am unable to control Spoorthi. She goes jogging for two hours every day. You know how jogging adds weight right? How much ever I tell her, she does not listen. Maybe she will listen to Prerna.

2) Coffee and milkshakes are health drinks

Doctor to Spoorthi – If you continue with these sugarless fruit juices, you will get heart problems and all kinds of ailments. You are young, and your diet must be healthy. From today, you will start with 5 cups of strong filter coffee. Here, this is the cup. 250 ml. You will need two heaped spoons of sugar. Depending on your progress, we will increase the dosage. Okay? If you don't like coffee, you can have any milkshake as a substitute. Remember, you have to top it with icecream.

3) Fried-snacks are a must everyday for healthy bones and blood circulation

Mom A – SPOORTHI! HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I TOLD YOU NOT TO EAT SALAD?

Spoorthi – BUT MOM! I love cucumber and raw spinach with olive oil!

Mom A – Listen MISSY! If you want to stay under my roof, you will eat what I give you. (Mom A snatches away Spoorthi’s salad). Here! Finish this. I want the plate to be polished!

(Spoorthi looks down dejectedly. The plate is heaped with Alu kachoris, sabbakki sandige and heerekai bajjis.)

4) Fruits are medicines

Mom A – SPOORTHI! How many times have I told you NOT TO EAT APPLES? They are meant to be eaten only when you have fever.

Spoorthi – I did NOT.

Mom A – Don’t lie to me! You have one in your hand!

Spoorthi – Oh! I ...I was trying to keep it properly in the fridge.

Mom A – If you are hungry, there is some mysore paak in the kitchen. Go take that. It is good for your acne. I have put lots of ghee in it.

5) Exercises are bad for health

Mom A – SPOORTHI! (One can hear the sound of slaps.) After ALL that we do for you! Is this how you behave?

Spoorthi – (Sobbing) I was just skipping Mommy!

Mom A – I also saw you were doing spot jogging. Next time I see you pulling such stunts, I’ll throw you out of the house! Do you even know how much we spent on your bed and those 25 goose down pillows and quilt?

(Spoorthi hangs her head in shame.)

Mom A – I have arranged and fluffed up all the pillows. Go and lie down quietly. From now on, every day for two hours in the morning, and two hours in the evening, I want to see you lying down on the bed. Do you understand?

6) IT Consultants and MBAs are taboo in civilised society.

Mom B to Mom A – (Wiping away tears) – What do to with such useless relatives? See our Prerna is a high school drop out. You have seen my angel right? How they even suggest such an alliance for her?

Mom A – Don’t get so stressed. What are the details of this boy?

Mom B (wails) – He has done MBA from IIM-B. As if that is not enough, he is also working in some software firm I believe.

Mom A – Shiva! Shiva! I hope you declined the match immediately.

Mom B – Of course! We even cut off all relations with these people. By suggesting this match, they have insulted us like anything. You know why they are suggesting all this cheap alliances? (Mom B whispers) It’s because Prerna is very fair to look at. Had she been dark, then they would have brought in very good alliances.

Mom A – Chi! Chi! Such shameless people. Don’t worry. I am sure Prerna will get a suitable match!

(After a few days - )

Mom B to Mom A – Prerna solved the problem for us!

Mom A – oooh! Tell me all the details!

Mom B – She found her own match! He’s a poet!

Mom A (squeals with delight) – How WONDERFUL! Tell me more!

Mom B – Oh! I am so excited. He is also 10th standard pass. After that, he discontinued his studies. Said formal education polluted the heart and mind. (Some more squeals.) He has been writing poems for last ten years. Not a single bad habit Mrs. A. Does not waste time in the gym, does not go jogging, no Yoga problem, nothing. Just sits through-out the day and writes wonderful poetry.

Mom A (sighs) – I wish Spoorthi also found someone like that.

Mom B – Where is Spoorthi these days? I don’t see her.

Mom A (wipes a tear) – Don’t tell anyone Mrs. B. We had found a painter for her. It was a very good match. But only then, we came to know she was going around another boy. He is the CEO for some startup IT firm. Can you imagine our shame, Mrs.B? I have sent her away to my sister’s place. God is testing us.

7) Being rich has nothing to do with money

Mom A – Mrs. B! Mrs B! Finally our Spoorthi has agreed to the painter!

(Both women hug each other.)

Mom A – Finally Spoorthi saw no future with that CEO. He had only newpapers in his house can you imagine? He thought having 20 crores in some overseas account is good enough.

Mom B – What nonsense! How did Spoorthi find out?

Mom A – Oh! She had visited his house. It is near Bangalore M.G. road I believe. She was disgusted. She told me he has 3 Bentleys and one Aston Martin. That time only she got a doubt about him. She saw in all the 16 rooms of the 3-storyed house I believe. Not a single book, Mrs.B can you imagine?

Mom B – Chi! Chi! What a tasteless life that is!

Mom A – So now, she agreed to marry the painter. He has a modest collection of 500 books. But all very rare editions Mrs.B!

Mom B – 500? That is really a great start at such a young age! Good for Spoorthi!

Mom A – Yes. He lives in a single-bedroom house which doubles up as his studio. His house is filled with books and paintings. They have to take 4 buses to reach the Majestic bus stand. For emergencies he has a moped.

Mom B (beams) – Very good match Mrs A! Even our Prerna stays in a single-bedroom house. They also have a TVS 50. I am telling you now only Mrs. A! I will give the main gift for Spoorthi - single coil electric stove.

***************
SIGH! Have to get back to filling up the gym application. arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrghhhhhhhhhhhhh!

The Unproductive Housewife

2011-03-31T18:13:00.000+01:00

Courtesy:http://cebella.wordpress.com

Two years into my career break, and I’ve often encountered the question ‘So! How do you spend your time?’ The honest answer is ‘I don’t know.’ Before I know it, the day is over. Some days are breathlessly busy. Some days take my breath away. Some days I plod on. But ALL days, I am contented and happy. Of course, this question is innocuous, and it is just an icebreaker.

The conversation usually starts with the above question, and I hum and haw in response. In most cases, I’ve realised saying ‘I write’, or ‘I read a lot,’ are conversation stoppers. So I don’t talk about these activities. But my previous job as an IT consultant has enabled me to give specifics with sufficient vagueness, so I employ this skill to the fullest possible extent. More often than not, we speak about my previous job, and the usual clichéd conversation about why I quit, etc., etc. And this ends with a helpful (albeit unsolicited) list of openings for my kind of profile. I smile and brush it aside, hoping I don’t come across as arrogant. One friend told me about the various jobs that are rotting in the UK market. These are very highly paid roles. And in frustration I was told, ‘I don’t know what you are doing at home.’ The words ‘wasting time’ was unsaid, but hung heavily in the air. The Husband was visibly upset. After all, when he has respected my decision, and left it entirely to my good judgment, how can some third person judge my staying at (my own) home? Again, let me tell you, this was not said with any kind of malice. This friend really means well. But the underlying psychology interests me.

You see, ‘productivity’ or ‘usefulness’ of a thing/person is a quantifiable parameter. It can be measured. There seems to be an unsaid measure of productivity of a wife. One, she should have children to care for, therefore, it is perfectly understandable if she’s at home - she is doing something useful. I am 200% percent sure that if I had a couple of pre-school kids at hand, these job offers would not have been suggested. Or, two, she should have a career (with or without children), and therefore she is being super productive. In the absence of either, as a worst case, she should be seen doing something to show for the day - like say painting (even then, there would be suggestions as to how to sell the prints and earn money). I realized with a sense of achievement that I belong to a new category. It seems I am the quintessential Unproductive Housewife. I neither have children to care for, nor do I have an office to go to (and so I don’t earn money). And worse, I don’t have anything ‘concrete’ to show for the day.

I am often given examples by these well-meaning friends – so-and-so has two kids. But she manages to take the 6:10 AM train to London for her job. She gets paid a bomb for her role. She is back by 6:30 PM max. Between her husband and herself, they are able to manage time with the kids. So I say, excellent – good for them! But you know what? I’ve been there, done that for a decade. Taking up that lifestyle is not my cup of tea at this moment. But even direct answers are brushed aside. “What is there to it?” I am asked jovially. And the perks of the job are listed out. “It’s not like India,” I am told. “No one will dare call on weekends or beyond 5:30PM,” I am further informed. Yes, a great work environment. But I don’t NEED a job right now. It falls on deaf ears. Surely, there must be some problem with me, that I throw away such good offers while others struggle to get a job. The obvious reasons could be arrogance, laziness, or lack of self confidence!

I am also offered other ‘suggestions’ (of course, I need not tell you that my fellow Indians are big on the free advice front, whether one asks for it or not) – ‘Why don’t you take up some short course?’ ‘Why don’t you learn a new language?’ ‘Why don’t you do some volunteer work?’ and so on and so forth. Of course, all the suggestions are based on the premise that 1) I am wasting away precious time when I could be earning thousands of pounds 2) I don’t know what to do with myself, 3) I come across as an introvert, so I must not know anything about the outside world. So why were these assumptions made subconsciously? The answer is right up there – I don’t have children and I don’t go to work. So I must be spending my day cluelessly watching T.V. and sleeping. Hence let us advise her on The Glorious Opportunities.

I voluntarily stopped earning money because I was presented with an opportunity to explore creative pursuits. I don’t know if I will get this opportunity ever again in my life. I had to grab it with both hands. So why is this simple decision so difficult for people to digest? I think it’s just the way we’ve been conditioned.

In general, you are certified as ‘doing well’ if you meet the mandatory parameters of success – ‘complete family’ that includes kids, kids going to posh schools, uptown address, overseas vacations, and of course at least two cars. In other words, your success and therefore your productivity are measured by the amount of wealth you garner. Everything you do MUST have some tangible benefit. If you took a useless course on ‘leadership styles’ because it looks good on your resume – no one bats an eyelid. But take a course on something that has no bearing on your job – say poetry during renaissance period – then you are a fool, even if you think the course enriched your mind.

See, that’s the key. Our entire education system and value system is big on return-on-investment, effectively eradicating all signs and symptoms of innovation and creativity. We all take up professional courses because there is a well paying job waiting round the corner. How many of us have done an engineering course with some kind of innovative vision in mind? How many of us have taken up some offbeat course because we were passionate about that subject? I think the answer is very, very few. For a vast majority of us, the pressure to conform to this return-on-investment mode is too high. So much is at stake, including family honour and societal status. When someone breaks away from this herd, we become jittery. We try to bring them back into the fold. Why would anyone NOT WANT to earn money?

At best, a career should offer you an environment where your education can be productively employed. It should offer you an environment where your own knowledge increases, and you have a sense of achievement at the end of the day. It should offer you an environment where you feel you’ve made a difference. At the very least, a career should offer you financial independence and a cushion to withstand the rough edges of life. But the day your career starts dictating every moment of your life –it’s time to put it back in its place. Whatever said and done, it’s just a job. There’s SO MUCH MORE to life than deadlines.

Yes, I will take up a job. Not because I HAVE TO. Not because IT SEEMS RIGHT. Not because IT SEEMS PRACTICAL. Not because EVERYONE DOES IT. Definitely NOT TO FILL MY TIME. I will take up a job IF AND WHEN it makes sense TO ME. Perhaps to put myself through school. Perhaps I want to buy some property. Perhaps I get an urge to wear only expensive designer clothes. Perhaps the job itself is very enriching. Whatever is the reason, one thing is clear – I will take up a job that fits into my personal schedule; and not vice versa. But all this is so difficult to convey to those concerned, well-meaning friends. So I guess I will continue to be a stubborn, unproductive housewife.

But tell me, since when did maintaining a spotless home, having piping hot food on the table, having mint fresh, crisply laundered clothes in the closet become unproductive?

Living It Light

2011-03-23T14:36:00.002Z

Courtesy: http://www.clipartguide.com/

14 deg cel. The sun is shining away, making up for lost time, urging the daffodils to bloom (they've succumbed and how)! I've got ladybugs crawling on all the windows – polka dotted little buggers with orange and red wings. The tree next to my home is still bare, yet all kinds of birds sit and trill as if in anticipation for the spring leaves to show up. It is indeed the kind of day that makes you sing ‘pehla nasha’.

My heart was filled with a heady cheer. So much so, I looked forward to doing the most mind-numbing, boring chore – ‘cleaning up’ the wardrobe. I threw open the wardrobe doors with a song on my lips. To the untrained eye, it looks like a decently organized wardrobe. Ah! But let me tell you the secret. In the darker recesses of the wardrobe, there is the forgotten Pile. These are clothes that don’t fit me anymore. Some of them are brand new. But a size smaller. Instead of returning them, I thought to myself - three months on the treadmill and I can fit into it. Since then, I guess it’s been three centuries; and now, these new clothes are a part of The Pile. And then, there are clothes that have been bought keeping in mind some imaginary occasion. Like a full length maxi so ubiquitous to English fashion. Yeah, I thought I could wear this when I walk on the moors of Pembrokeshire, in anticipation of a Mr.Darcy-type taking a similar nature walk. But today’s sunshine cleared my vision. Walking on the moors require solid boots. Boots and maxi...yew! Criminal fashion faux pas. And apparently the moors have gusty winds. So maxi is out of question – we wouldn’t want Mr. Darcy-type to have a glimpse of the sturdy, tree-trunk legs now do we?

An integral part of The Pile is a million tops – shirts, tees, tunics, kurtis. They’ve been relegated to the recesses for such a long time that I’ve forgotten about them. The forehead wrinkles. Now, what on earth is wrong with this perfectly wonderful, copper sulphate blue top? Ah! Memory rushes in. The sleeves. They are a tad tight. Makes me look like Popeye. What about that wonderful tunic with the red and orange checker pattern? Ah! See that stitched-in belt? Makes me look pregnant. What about that brown tee? It does not go well with my equally brown complexion. What about that ivory top with lace trimmings? Yeah...when I act in a period play, I’ll wear this. What about that green kurti? Too much embroidery. As if I am in a folk-dance group in Rajasthan. Why the fuck did I buy all these? Err...they were on discount sale. Oh. Makes sense.

And then, there is The Pile Of Denim. Jeans of all hues. And I don’t even bother to give them a thought. No amount of flexing of different muscles, no amount of holding the breath will help me pull them on.

Of course, there are all the salwar kameezes. Bought from India for ‘special festive occassions’. I cannot wear them in winter because they are too flimsy against the cold. I can’t wear them in summer because – well, they are all silk, and the static makes me rabid.

No! No! This won’t do. I set the jaw in a determined line and excavate The Pile. The Pile is now segregated and arranged into different bags. There is a recycle bank next door – and the clothes, depending on the condition, will be given to the homeless. I feel good about it.

The wardrobe has been sprayed, sanitized and looks fresh. I am proud of my will power. I have not retained even a single piece of clothing that does not fit me. I was not seduced by the ‘what-if-I-become-thin-in-three-months’ thought. I survey the wardrobe with pride. It is empty, barring two pairs of pyjamas and their tops. One pair has large polka dots of different colours. It reminds me of Gems chocolate buttons, and makes me happy. The other one has little clover leaves all over. It’s cute. This, ladies and gentleman, is my universal truth. From now on, I shall be in clothes that maketh The Body happy, namely, these pyjamas. Therefore the mind can concentrate on other important things, instead of worrying constantly if the butt is looking a tad too large in such-and-such piece of clothing. Yes! Yes! These pyjamas are representative of my liberation! They are a symbol of my independence! Oh Yes! You want me? You want my company? Then accept me, pyjamas and all – even if it is a white dinner jacket party.

The mind feels free, the soul soars. I feel a weight has been lifted off my chest. I have finally accepted the reality – pyjamas are my fashion statement. It represents the true me – comfortable, borderline obese, chilled out, err...perhaps with a dash of sloth.

But then, the Corporate Satan swiftly moved in to seduce me. A catalogue has just landed in the mail box. There is this lady – high cheek bones, emerald-green eyes, copper-blond hair as straight as a metal ruler – she stares at me through the cover. Her cherry red lips are parted slightly. She’s reclining in a coracle, and her hands are dangling carelessly in the water. She’s in a one-piece dress that reaches the knees. The black and burgundy patterns on her dress shimmer in the photoshopped sunlight. The dress sets off the golden tan on her shapely legs. The cut of the dress is exquisite. I bet the fabric is as soft as a feather. I bet it whispers as it falls through the fingers. The price is just £25.99. Hmm. It is March now. If I can jog for the next three months, then I can wear this in time for some summer event that’s bound to come up.

And The Pile Shall Be Born Again. And Again.

Wedding Hooplas Of Yore

2011-03-15T20:52:00.000Z

Courtesy: http://www.myweddings.com/

I was chatting with a friend of mine a couple of days ago. His daughter is going to tie the knot towards the end of the year, and his excitement was such that it managed to explode from the chat window! In fact, just the other day, I was browsing through a professional photographer’s website. She had showcased her coverage of several weddings. The photos were out of the world. I don’t know anything about photography, but I can say that the angles, the lighting, the moments – they all had been captured with the skill of Picasso no less. And I spotted a new trend too. ‘Out-door shoots’. The couples were installed in places bulging with natural scenic beauty, and some amazing photos had been taken. No, there were no naughty ones – just the pair mooning at each other, or staring away into the sunset – those kinds. I could not help but think of my own wedding. The Husband and I, never comfortable in any kind of limelight, were all fidgety and restless. And yes, we both look like something out of Terminator Salvation in all the photos.

Coming to think of it, it’s been ages since I’ve attended a wedding. But I do know that there is a general ‘bollywoodisation’ of the event. Even the generally quiet and sombre South Indian wedding, has been modified to include the mehandi, the sangeet and other fun ceremonies that I don’t know about. Thankfully, the fathers and uncles have not (yet) started to dance in their thiruman and veshtis! The last tamil wedding I attended was a couple of years ago. It was only then that I realized the role of the ubiquitous vadyaar (priest) has expanded along with the waistline – the vadyaar not only sets the wedding date, but he’s turned into the wedding planner too! He can take care of the cooks, the flower fellows, the volga and damte fellows – the works.

That reminded me of the weddings I’d attended as a child. I remember the hysterical excitement I felt when a wedding was announced. For one, I would miss school. Secondly, it meant unfettered freedom from parental control – I could whoop and scream and monkey around to my heart’s content. As a norm, the excitement in the ‘wedding family’ peaked six months before the actual date. Sisters and brothers were consulted, chores distributed. I remember sitting on my Mom’s lap as a puny 6-year-old while such discussions were in progress. I would be busy with some scary-ass drawings, but all the while listening to the cacophony. It always started with ‘how the boy is related to the girl’s family’ and ‘how he was found’. Invariably, in the close knit Iyengar community (those days), the boy would be someone’s someone’s something on the girl’s father’s side (or mother’s side). If the boy was employed in central government, then it was nirvana – no one could ever lift a finger against the choice. Then the conversation would veer to the cook. So-and-so wastes a lot of oil. So-and-so siphons off coconuts meant for the tambula. Finally, after a lot of debate and lot of votes, the cook would be zeroed upon. One of the elderly gents would then take off to track down this specimen of a cook and book him. Looking back, the dirtier the cook and his team, the more ‘experienced’ they were considered; and when I say dirty, I only mean the degree to which the veshti has yellowed, and of course the number of stains on it!

I think I had two silk pavades which had three or four folds hemmed into them. With every incremental increase in height, one fold would be ‘un-hemmed’. The pavades were reserved for the wedding muhurtha and vara puje. For the reception, it would generally be a hideous, frilly frock bought on instalment from T.D.Shah angadi on Malleswaram Sampige Road. Later on, thanks to Disco Dancer and other gems, the frocks went out of fashion and we were into ‘midi maxis’.

For one such relative’s wedding that was to take place in Malleswaram, my home became the eye of a tornado – it brought in sweeping storms of aunties, all talking simultaneously in different pitches – shrill, but different. Usually a late riser on holidays, I was literally dragged out of bed early in the morning – I had to take the dreaded ‘oil head bath’ – to look smart for the vara puje to be held that evening. One aunt told my mom not to use seege pudi because the hair becomes rough. Aah! I thought I had escaped. But the aunt had another remedy in mind. She made my mom prepare some gloop using methi leaves and antvalada kayi (I don’t know the English equivalent). The gloop looked like the bile-puke from Exorcist. They smeared this horrible thing on my head. Of course, the hair becomes absolutely soft and lustrous. And it did not sting the eye. But imagine the humiliation of sitting with that stuff on your head for two hours. My sister was a crawling pumpkin of a baby at that time – and she was cooing away happily as everyone cuddled her while I sat in misery. I was so cross that I wanted to pinch her butt! There! After three decades, that’s off my chest now. But the situation was remedied by providing me with Tintin from the library and a couple of kodubales; and non-violent thoughts returned.

We were supposed to head to the kalyana mandapa by six. By four, the coffee rounds had been done; the men had finished their siestas while sitting on the aluminium chairs, oblivious to the thunderous noise around them. The women had started combing the hair and comparing length and thickness of the plaits. Then everyone changed into their kanchivarams, still yelling and laughing. Someone had discovered something called as ‘lip gloss’. It was passed around. Almost everyone was a fan of vicco turmeric, and the house smelt of turmeric and sandalwood. Ponds and Emami powder was slapped on the face liberally. Kajal was smeared on and in the eyes. The end of a comb was smeared with some more kajal and this was used as a ‘pencil’ to draw out the line at the corner of the eyes – giving the Sharmila Tagore look. Not to such a pronounced extent, yet, visible. As a finishing touch, jasmine strands were passed around. With a final tuck here and there, the ladies were ready for the wedding!

Gifts were never a big deal. Almost everyone shoved in fifty-one or hundred and one rupees in a crumpled envelope and gave that as a gift. Or, we would go to the steel shop and find some fancy tray, and have our names inscribed on that. Most came with wall clocks, or Ganesha idols.

The photographer and his assistant were some local boys. I remember one Chitrakar studio on 10th cross Malleswaram. This team was quite popular. Now and then they captured only hands and legs, but by and large, they captured most of the events quite well. Their studio, the size of a match box, had Hema Malini and Rekha welcoming us. Hema Malini as Dream Girl and Rekha as Umrao Jaan. For a long time I thought the ladies were actually photographed in Chitrakar studio.

The biggest attraction to me was always the balloon fellow standing at the entrance of all wedding choultries. I had some bizarre liking for the coloured plastic sunshades that was sold by this person. Every wedding that I’ve attended as a kid, I have made my parents buy me a pair of garish sunshades and a balloon with sand inside it (so when one shakes it, there’s a horrible scratching noise).

Of course, as I grew up, attending weddings became a pain in the ass. Those days, we were all openly racist and did not think twice about discrimination based on colour. It’s only now that we hide these qualities behind politeness. So yeah, there were vexed debates about my dusky complexion. The way some of the old hags used to stare at me, you’d think I’ll have to make do with a one-eyed man with webbed feet as a husband, because I am dark. Finally I found the perfect remedy. It always helps to make an imperfection as perfect as possible. I complimented my dusky complexion with a crew cut. In some cultures, I would be labelled as ‘chic’. So for one relative’s wedding, I blazed in like a punk version of Indra Gandhi – short spiky hair teamed with a kanchivaram. The old hags shied and neighed like horses whose rumps have been whipped. And I was never ever bothered by them again. I went back to enjoying weddings!

So! Who is getting married next? Just let me know the date and place – will be there!

The First Born

2011-02-17T15:17:00.000Z

Courtesy: http://spacemanmick.blogspot.com/

The first born was planned on an impulse. Now those are two words that shouldn’t be together – impulse and planning. But that’s the story of my first born. Initially, the idea of the first born was a whim. It drew out a chuckle. ‘Yeah, right!’ I said. But the idea lodged firmly, and nudged and nibbled at my brain. Like the tongue feeling a loose tooth. ‘I don’t want to start something that I can’t finish!’ I said to myself. And drowned myself in grand novels, insipid movies and longer walks.

As time went by, the idea had morphed into a fever, tormenting me. I would lie awake for hours, in suspended animation, as I watched the fever devour my thoughts ravenously. I saw faces, places, heard voices. I tossed and turned. I woke up with red-rimmed eyes. I wanted to sleep peacefully, dreamlessly, thoughtlessly. But every waking moment, every sleeping moment, I would hear sentences echoing in my head.

I could not take it any longer. ‘What do you want me to do?’ I whispered. ‘Create us!’ the voices commanded. ‘Damn YOU!’ I cursed.

I wrote a word. And many words. And a sentence. And many sentences. And pages. And Chapters. I sat back and saw the creation taking shape slowly. Initially with blurred outlines. Without features. Without voices. But the fever dictated. And I mutely followed, enslaved to my own imagination. The creation became sharper. Details were added. And added. I could now hear the tone and tenor of the voices. I could see the distinctive body languages. I could see the clothes, the hair, the smile, the frown. The line between the reality and my fever-induced imagination became blurred. Could I just draw a curtain aside, and step into the world that I’ve created? How I wish I could. How I wish I could touch my creations. Feel their warmth. Feel their breath. Look into their eyes.

10 months. The first born was delivered. I slept well now that my duty was done. I had been exorcised of the idea that had possessed me for over a year.

Only a few dear friends beheld the new born. They had only nice things to say about my creation. Of course...they will never say anything otherwise – they are my family, bound to me by some unseen cord – not of the blood. Yet, I know they spoke the truth.

My hands trembled. Do I? Dare I now show my first born to the world? Have more people find joy in those few hours as they hold and savour my creation? I wanted someone who feels as strongly as I do about my baby, to take over the responsibility. I ventured out slowly. I have not let go yet, but each day, I am getting there. A bit nervous. A bit afraid. A bit confused. But every bit thrilled.

Last week, I sat up. The room was dark, and only the street light filtered in through the windows. Venus had risen over the eastern horizon, chasing the moon. It was 1:30 AM. I had woken up to the sight of a floating word. ‘NO!’ I said to myself and grabbed a news paper. Reading about banks always puts me to sleep. I had a disturbed sleep.

The word now had a voice. A feeble whisper. ‘Not before the first born is shown to the world!’ I was adamant. For a few nights, I slept fitfully.

Last night, the face was back. With many other faces. There were no whispers this time. The voices were distinct and strong. The faces had sharp definition. The faces smiled at me mockingly. ‘You will create us! You have no option!’ they laughed.

‘NO!’ I said with vehemence. ‘I cannot live like a hermit again. I will study this year. I will learn music this year. I will learn German this year. I will learn Salsa this year. Hell I will comb my hair and wear good clothes this year. I will do something different this year.’ The faces smiled and faded away.

I woke up this morning to a cacophony in my head. Words were pressing against my fingertips, as if they would bleed from my body if I held a paper beneath my hand. There was a tableau playing in my head. Some of the faces coyly told me their names and smiled. They showed me places. I saw villages and paddy fields and oceans and islands. ‘This will be my story!’ one particular face said, pouting at me. I still shook my head. ‘You lot have to wait,’ I said, ‘The world has to see the first born yet. And I have to get on with life.’

I thought the faces understood. They left my mind. I reclined on the sofa as I had my morning coffee. Today is an unusually sunny day. The rays reached out to me and caressed my face. I loved the warmth and closed my eyes.

‘But we ARE your life!’ the voices sprang up again, startling me. ‘You did not create the first born for the world. You created because you loved that act of creation.’ I could not argue. How can I argue with the truth? Yet, I feebly said, ‘Just a few more months.’

But the faces had dissolved into words. They were bursting from every pore of my body. I was in agony, and in ecstasy. I finally succumbed.

I am at peace again, as I stare at the cursor blinking next to ‘Chapter 1’.

MANASVI

2011-02-12T22:02:00.002Z

GUEST BLOG by Karthik

Karthik and I have never met in person. Yet, if he probably calls me at 3 in the morning, and asks me to pick him from the airport...I will. I'll kick his ass...but I will pick him up. So what is the kinship we share? We are not even in the same age group. Answer - literature and movies. For a generation whose only exposure to fiction has sadly been Chetan Bhagat, Karthik (and his circle of friends) stood out like roses in a cactus garden. First of all he ds nt rite lyk dis. We both share the love for the written language, in its prose, in its correctness, in its vocabulary. Secondly, if Frederick Forsyth wants to adopt, we both would be first in the queue. I have rarely come across a young person who loves literature, and is passionate about pursuing any option in literature, despite being an engineer by qualification! You can read some of Karthik's fantastic crime short stories at http://unalloyedwritingpleasure.blogspot.com/

I asked Karthik, who writes about guns and conspiracy theories, if he can come up with some fluffy, mushy love story. I was tired of 'deep' reflections on love, relationship analysis etc. And he did. Perfect candy-floss...heartwarming, sweet, simple college romance! Read on :) - Moonbeam

Courtesy: http://www.mylot.com/

Manasvi

A Short Story by Karthik

I was happy in my own world, living my own life, playing with my best group of friends; cricket, football, riding bicycles, climbing trees, wrestling in the mud, swimming in the lake. It was the time (probably it still is) when we hadn’t heard about a dirty word called,’cleanliness’. Apart from our school uniforms (which looked OK only in the morning) we wore brown clothes all the time, or perhaps they looked brown, no matter what their original colours were.

We were playing hide and seek when she moved into our neighbourhood, along with her humpy-dumpty-looking parents. It was then the confusion started. It was then that so many questions cropped up in my head. Dressed in white frock and white shoes, she looked so clean and out of place. How anyone can be so clean, I wondered. When the workers started unloading the furniture from the truck, Mr. Humpty-Dumpty picked her up and walked towards their house. I frowned. When my mother came outside and stood beside me, I asked, “Is that an angel?” It was a serious question. My mother laughed, “Why don’t you ask her whether she is one?” I never did.

How could a 6-year-old boy ask that? Let me rephrase that question. How could a boy of any age ask that? He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He shouldn’t. Some questions are never meant to be asked or answered. Else, the magic will be lost. And she was magical.

***

She was not seen for the next two days; although we played cricket right in front of her house to get a glimpse of her. Mrs. Humpty-Dumpty called us in and we threw our bats and ball, and ran inside. We sat on the sofa with a ‘thump’ as angel’s mother brought us orange juice. Our eyes swept the house as we drank, producing all sorts of creative sounds. One of my friends even rinsed his mouth with a gurgling sound.

“Manasvi has gone out with her father,” Mrs. Humpty-Dumpty said.

We were four boys in all and everyone chanted the name one after the other, as if the name was a difficult poem. Years later I would realize that she was indeed a poem. Difficult, yes. But also lovely. Manasvi, Manasvi, Manasvi, Manasvi … The name had a beautiful ring to it. Sitting in her house that day, drinking juice, I didn’t know that I would be chanting her name for the rest of my life.

***

The next day when I saw her in my class, my happiness knew no bounds. I kept grinning and the girl who was sitting beside me kept staring at me. “I know that girl. Her house is nearby our house,” I said, as if she was a celebrity. The girl didn’t respond. And I didn’t care.

After our class prayer, our class-teacher called the new girl and introduced her to the whole class. Manasvi stood there and surveyed the whole class. For some reason I’ve never found Barbie Dolls cute, but if the makers of those dolls had seen Manasvi that day they would have agreed with me too, for all the dolls looked pale in comparison to her. Her uniform – blue and white chequered shirt, blue skirt, black shoes and white socks – was spotless. Her hair was neatly combed and two pony tails were tied with blue ribbons; not a strand of hair was out of place. Mrs. Humpty-Dumpty had taken good care of her.

Her sparkling eyes surveyed the whole class as I tried to look bigger by sitting straight. A moment later our class-teacher sent her back to her place. I scowled. Years later when I asked her whether she noticed me in the class that day, she said, flatly, “I don’t even remember my first day.” Splendid.

I could never talk to her in my primary school days. Though she lived nearby (she still does), went to the same school in the same school bus, studied in the same section, I could never make friends with her. All those monkey tactics I tried to impress her and get her attention never worked: deliberately playing in front of her house, falling down and bruising my legs, smiling when it hurt like hell. Nothing worked. Now when I recently asked her about it, she said, sadly, “I was jealous of all the boys. I wanted to play cricket and football too, but my mother never allowed me. So, no. I was busy imagining as to how I would’ve played when I stood behind the gate like a prisoner.” I silently thanked Mrs. Humpty-Dumpty, for I preferred a girl who was girlie; not a tomboy.

I was in 10th standard when I talked to her for the first time. I had practiced it for five days and when the D-day arrived, I delivered the line with utmost honesty and confidence: “How is your preparation for the exams?” And she sweetly replied, “Good.” And that was the most beautiful word I’d ever heard until then. Well, it was a start.

Manasvi had become quite popular already; dancing, singing, et al. And the competition to get her attention was fierce. As the exams were coming up, I couldn’t think much about it. But there was improvement finally. It was the day of our first exam. We were going through our books during the final moments. She passed in front of me, looking down at her book. “Hey Manasvi,” I called out. She looked up and raised her eyebrows, her lips still moving.

“Studied well?” I asked.

“Yes. You?”

Ah. She asked me something. Finally. Looking back, I don’t know whether my answer would have meant anything, but I am eternal optimist, you see. So I really thought she was interested to know.

“Yes. Kind of.”

“Kind of? It’s our board exam, for heavens’ sake,” she laughed.

Let me not describe how she looked when she laughed and how I felt about it, for I’m afraid I’m going to bore you to death. On second thoughts, I don’t care. So listen. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen her laugh. But it certainly was the first time in front of me, in response to my answer. We had our English exam that day, and W.B. Yeats, P. B. Shelley and many others’ poems were being learned by heart, ferociously, without understanding what they actually meant. Our English teacher had repeatedly said, ‘Understand the poems properly. Only then you’ll be able to enjoy them.’ None of the students seemed to have grasped it. I was the only exception – to a certain extent. When others were reading and reciting poems, I was literally seeing one in front of me. I do not know whether I understood it (I still don’t know whether I do), but I thoroughly enjoyed its beauty.

I was lost. She said when I didn’t reply, “All right. You seem to be tensed. Good luck, Sawant.”

“Huh? Oh, yes, thank you. You too.”

Do I really have such a good name or is it just that it sounded good because she said it, I asked myself. And I still don’t know the answer. Though I strongly feel it’s the latter. Well, I think it is the latter. Wait a second. I think? No, it is the latter.

***

When the results came, I had scored more than she. I didn’t know it until she said it.

“Congratulations.”

“What for?”

“You’ve scored well. You’ve scored more than I. Damn it! How did it happen?” she said in mock anger.

“Maybe because you wished me before exams.” I swear I wasn’t flirting.

She laughed, wholeheartedly. “That’s very sweet of you.”

***

School days were over. But that didn’t bother me much, for I was looking forward to my new life ahead. I was sad about only one thing: Manasvi would not be there. Luckily, I was wrong. She had taken admission in the same Pre University College as I. Boy, was I happy that day?!

I had taken Biology and I was interested in only Anatomy. But my specimen had chosen Statistics. Whatever for, I didn’t know.

Two years passed in a jiffy; tensions, headaches, worries – about board exams, CETs, etc. I sometimes wonder; from the day we are born, we are made to think in only one direction. Work hard to get good grades; work hard to get good grades in 10th standard, work hard to get good percentage in plus two, which will land in you in a good college; work hard to get good percentage in college, work hard to get a good job, work hard to get promotion, work hard to get a salary hike, work hard to get a good wife, work hard to make children, work hard to make your children work hard, work hard to get them into good colleges, work hard to die peacefully. So basically you only live to die. Is that it? Monday blues on Mondays and TGIF on Fridays! Aren’t we supposed to do something that doesn’t require hard work but lots of love and smart work? Aren’t we supposed to do something where Monday blues and TGIF do not exist? But every day of the week is pure fun?

My mind was wavering, trying to find answers to all these questions. I was also aware that nobody was going to ask me these questions. Everyone would ask only one question: how much did you score?

In the midst of all these ‘mental’ problems if there was one thing that kept my sanity, it was certainly Manasvi’s presence. Unfortunately I could never talk to her much in those two years and I thought she’d go away after plus two, to some ‘top’ college. I was about to be proved wrong.

I had turned eighteen and along with driver’s license, I had also secured a license to practice Ornithology. I brazenly did it. I believe practicing ornithology and flirting is every boy’s birth right. No one can take it away from him. All these things came to an end on the third day of my college life, for Manasvi arrived on the third day.

I was astonished. “How come you are here? I thought you were going to Mysore.”

“No, I chose to stay. I had come to you house last evening. Didn’t your mother tell you?”

“No. I was off station. Returned this morning. She must have forgotten.”

“OK. Seems like we are going to be together for the next four years,” she laughed. Years had passed but her laughter had never changed. Perfection can’t be improved, you see.

We were together for the past twelve years, I wanted to say. But didn’t.

“Yes, right.”

Though we had known each other and stayed in the same neighbourhood for twelve years, we had never really become friends, or perhaps I had never tried. This changed soon. We became good friends in college. And it wasn’t a good thing. Being ‘just friends’ with the girl you love is very dangerous, because there are good chances of remaining ‘just friends’ forever. ‘Make your intentions known’ is the mantra, and I never chanted it.

The only good thing was I got to spend time with her: College, library, movies, parties, visiting each other’s house during festivals and exams. But I was still ‘just a friend’. I didn’t complain, thinking that I had three more years to let her know about my feelings for her. I was wrong. Time was running out.

***

We were in our second year when she announced that she had a crush on Abhilash, the so-called ‘hunk’. They became friends very soon. As the days progressed she started spending less time with me. I was her friend and I was supposed to ‘understand’ it.

‘Hunk’ had one more name: Ghost Rider. There is a curious story behind the name. He had a Royal Enfield Bullet Electra 350cc bike. It suited well for his personality. When every boy in college either had a Pulsar or Yamaha or TVS, our hunk stood apart with his monster bike. When he was in first year he had a girlfriend named Namitha, who seemed to be a permanent pillion rider. Nobody ever saw him alone on his bike. Now, Namitha darling weighed around 80 kilograms (conditions apply). She had an amazing dressing sense. We sometimes wondered whether her father owned a textile factory. Not because her clothes were distinct, but because we never believed that jeans pants came in such sizes. They had to be specially made. Another thing was that four days in a week she wore tribal dress; the ones with tiny, round shaped mirrors all over. As an icing on a cake, her hair was always let loose. And like a double icing on a cake, she had loads of ‘additude’ (not attitude). She was the ghost, who rode pillion on ‘hunk’s bike. Hence the hunk became Ghost Rider.

And now, my love rode pillion on his bike. Though the name Ghost Rider stuck, everyone changed his tone: ‘He finally has a nice-looking girlfriend.’ Needless to say, my stomach churned.

There were only a few minor differences between me and Ghost Rider. He was well over six feet tall; I was (and am) five-seven. He had well-built body, whereas I only had a body (like everybody does). He had a monster bike, and I had an old Hero Honda Splendour. He participated in glamorous activities like dancing and music (he played guitar for a band) and I took part in dramas and skits. He played Basket-Ball and I played chess. He anchored and gave opening/closing speeches to important college functions, whereas I wrote speeches, which somebody else gave and got the fame. The bugger even studied well.

When an incredibly beautiful girl like Manasvi falls for such a guy, it’s not a surprise. Now what was I supposed to do? I didn’t know. So I didn’t do anything.

***

“So tell me, Sawant. Do you have a girlfriend?” Ghost Rider asked.

“No.”

We were sitting in an ice-cream parlour. It was owned by a local boxer and Ghost Rider was a good friend of his. Both went to the same gym. Since it was a boxer’s ice-cream parlour, all the ice-creams had distinct names.

Ghost Rider was about to say something when the waiter arrived.

“What will you have?” asked my arch rival.

He was already eating Rocky Marciano and I don’t know what Manasvi was eating. Perhaps she was having Laila Ali. I didn’t want to be left alone, so I ordered Raging Bull. Five minutes later when my ice-cream arrived I found that it wasn’t as good as its name. Just like Ghost Rider.

I took another spoonful when Ghost Rider asked, “Don’t you really have a girlfriend?”

I eyed him once. He was definitely well-toned. He was definitely more handsome than I. There was no way I could have challenged him and made Manasvi promote me from ‘just a friend’ to ‘someone special’. But as my Guruji Mark Twain once said, ‘It’s not the size of the dog in the fight; it’s the size of the fight in the dog.’ I fought on.

“As a matter of fact I do,” I said, taking another spoonful of Raging Bull.

Manasvi stopped eating and looked up.

“But there is a small problem,” I continued, “I’m not her boyfriend.”

Angel raised her eyebrows and tilted her head sideways, as if asking, ‘What are you talking about?’

“What’s the problem?” It was he.

“She is with someone else.”

“You never told me,” Manasvi cried.

“I wanted to tell you, Mans. But the time wasn’t right.” Irony, that.

“You are such a moron. Who is she? From our college? Do I know her?” It was a typical girlie question. She wanted to know everything at the same time, irrespective of the priorities.

Before I could think of something, she said, giggling, “I think I know. It’s Ashwini, right? I knew you had a thing for her.”

“So what is it? It’s just a crush or you have feelings for her?” Ghost Rider asked.

“More on that later. Now let me ask you the same question. It’s just a crush or you really love Manasvi?” I said, smiling at both of them. It was a very direct question and it startled them to the core.

When none of them replied, I said again, “Tell me. Where is it going?”

“I’m not sure,” he faltered. I looked at Manasvi. She didn’t respond.

“So you are just friends?” I probed further.

“No,” he was quick.

“Then? You are not just friends; you are not sure whether you love her. So what’s the name of this relationship?”

“She is my girlfriend.” There was some mild anger in his voice.

“That’s the problem these days. Everybody says the same thing. ‘She is my girlfriend. He is my boyfriend.’ But what nobody says nowadays is, ‘I love her or I love him’. Saying that you are in love with a girl is termed old-fashioned,” I paused for a few seconds, letting the words sink, and then continued. “All right. She is your girlfriend. Or perhaps your Champion’s Trophy. Right?”

Manasvi didn’t speak a word. Perhaps she wanted to know what her ‘boyfriend’ would say.

“Look, here’s the thing,” Ghost Rider began. “It’s like this. Before you buy a bike, you have to take a lot of test drives. Once you are convinced that a certain bike is comfortable, you go for it.”

I didn’t dare look at Manasvi. Rather I asked, simply, “So, how many test drives have you had so far?”

It was then it hit him hard like a thunderbolt. I had done the necessary damage. Damn it, I am not guilty of it. Everything is fair in love and war. It may sound cliché, but it is relevant.

“Oh, no, Manasvi. I didn’t really mean it that way. I was just trying to give an example …”

No use, my boy. No use.

“Answer his question, Abhi. How many test drives have you had so far? And how many do you intend to have in the future?”

Gosh, was I enjoying this! If I was, I didn’t evince it.

“Why don’t girls understand me?” he cried.

Oscar Wilde came in handy then. I said, “Women are meant to be loved, not to be understood, you know.” That was some salt on his wound.

I could see Manasvi from the corner of my eye. She was staring at me.

Oscar Wilde had fallen on his deaf ears. He said to Manasvi, ignoring me, “Come on. Don’t say that. I can die for you, you know.”

I suddenly looked at the wall behind me and checked the calendar. It was unquestionable. The year was 2010, all right. For a moment, after hearing Ghost Rider’s dialogue, I was a bit confused. I thought it was 1960.

“Oh, really? You can die for me, yet you don’t know where this relationship is going, huh?”

He opened his mouth to say something, but words wouldn’t come out.

Moments later she got up and left. I followed suit. Ghost Rider was left alone among boxers.

***

Ghost Rider was really a nice person. I liked him a lot. But the boy didn’t know what he really wanted. If he were not Manasvi’s ‘boyfriend’ we would have been good friends.

Over the next few days he kept trying to reach Manasvi, but to no avail. She didn’t return my calls either. Why would she? After all, I was the culprit.

They were back together a week later. They had somehow reconciled. And I was back to square one. I was still ‘just a friend’.

She invited me and a few other friends (including Ghost Rider) to her house. It was her birthday. Over the past few years I had just wished her, verbally. This time I wanted to give something adorable, something worth remembering. But what? I had no idea.

Mrs. Humpty-Dumpty welcomed me, lovingly. I had grown fond of her over the years and she always treated me like her own son. So naturally I was the star guest. Two hours earlier I had decorated the house for the party. It wasn’t too grand, but had an aura of elegance. Manasvi didn’t speak much, as she was still angry with me over the ice-cream parlour incident. At least I thought like that.

After the cake-cutting ceremony, snacks were served. Everyone had bought cool presents: Teddy bears, big, musical greeting cards, a pair of high-heeled sandals (girls!), etc. A huge, life-sized teddy bear was of course given by Ghost Rider.

When my turn came, I carefully took out a thin 5” X 5” square gift-wrapped pouch, with a silver-coloured ribbon on it. Manasvi said a mild ‘thank you’ and opened the wrapper. It was a DVD.

“What’s in it?” she asked.

I shrugged my shoulders.

Everyone was eager to know. Manasvi ran the disc in her DVD player, connected to TV. A movie started to play on the screen.

I have always believed that going to a gift shop and buying gifts is easy. It’s too formal, it’s too frivolous. Also birthdays are not remembered these days. Mark Zuckerberg reminds people of their ‘friends’’ birthdays. Telling the birthday boy/girl, ‘I remembered your birthday and bought you a present’ is not important. But showing how much his/her birthday means to you is. This could be your birthday, but it’s my special day too. Time is the greatest gift one can ever give to a friend.

What I had done was simple. I had compiled all her photos; right from her childhood days, right from the day she moved into our neighbourhood. Photos of her birthday parties when she was a child and all the little boys and girls of our neighbourhood were her guests, photos of school days, photos of her on stage, reciting a poem or singing or dancing along with other participants, photos of her in the hospital when she was sick with typhoid (I had taken it without anyone’s knowledge), photos of send-off parties in school and PUC, photos of little trips we had been to, along with other classmates, and many more. Almost every type of emotion was captured. In fact many photos were being seen for the first time. Even Mrs. Humpty-Dumpty was surprised. “When was this?” she kept asking from time to time. Bottom line: Her whole life ran like a movie, with suitable captions and quotes and mellifluous music in the background.

I was increasingly becoming emotional with every photograph. I got up to go, but Mrs. Humpty-Dumpty wouldn’t let me. The movie got over. Everyone looked at me. Two girls that had come were impressed. But the birthday girl stayed silent. Not a word.

“But how come you are not there in a single photograph? Those Deepavali photos. You were here that day. Why haven’t you included a photo with you in it? Not even one?” asked Mrs. Humpty-Dumpty.

“At least you could have put your name in the end. Something like, ‘Video created by Sawant’,” said a girl.

I cleared my throat and replied, candidly, quoting Oscar Wilde, “To reveal art and conceal the artist is art’s aim.”

After that I couldn’t stay there. I wished her once again and left. Had I stayed there a moment longer, they would’ve noticed tears welling up in my eyes.

Manasvi didn’t talk to me for over a week and I didn’t try. I left her alone. Then one day she called me and asked me to meet her in the reading room of our college.

“Thanks,” she said.

“For what?”

“For the memories.”

“Oh.”

I said a moment later, “That hospital photo is damn good, isn’t it?”

“Yes, right. Get ready to die.”

We laughed, deliciously, holding each other’s hands.

I began when the laughter had subsided, “Look, Mans. I never got a chance to apologize. I’m really sorry about the other day. I should have kept my mouth shut.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not with him anymore.”

I was shocked and happy at the same time.

“What?! What happened?”

“Nothing big. We didn’t have a fight. It’s just that I realized that he was not my type and I was not his type. Also, thanks to you. I wouldn’t have realized this if not for you. Whatever you said made sense to me later. Abhilash is a good guy, but not good enough for me.”

They had never had a fight after the ice-cream parlour incident. As the days progressed they had drifted away, respectfully, in a decent manner. No goodbyes, no ‘let’s break up’, no nothing. Just a simple understanding.

“I’m so sorry,” I mumbled.

“Don’t be,” she snapped.

***

Days and weeks passed and we started spending a lot of time with each other. One day when we were sitting in the reading room, writing our lab records, she suddenly asked, “What about Ashwini?”

“Ash who?” I asked, without looking up.

“Don’t act now. You were about to say something about your secret one-sided love story in the ice-cream parlour the other day when the conversation took a different turn. Now tell me about it in detail.”

I stopped writing. “Forget it.”

“I won’t, my dear.”

“It’s not Ashwini, all right.”

“Then who?”

I had always fantasized about my proposal; a nice evening in a restaurant, with a magnificent gift in hand, and so many other filmi things. But when I actually did propose to her, it was in the most awful, unromantic place on earth (college reading room), at the most awful time (two-thirty in the afternoon, when the sun was having its vengeance on innocent college boys and girls), wearing the most atrocious dress possible (jeans, t-shirt, sandals).

“You,” I said, flatly, looking straight into her eyes.

She stared at me, probably looking for some sign of naughtiness.

None of us spoke for two minutes. Then she said, “You are serious, aren’t you?”

“Of course, I am. Since eternity. I just wanted to play with you when you moved into our neighbourhood; I wanted to make friends with you in high school. We did become good friends later on and we still are. Whatever happens, I hope this will never change. But the fact remains. I’ve always loved you. If there is any girl with whom I want to spend the rest of my life, it’s you.”

She didn’t respond. I continued, “Throughout the centuries people have been telling that a boy should find a girl to die for. Somehow it doesn’t apply in my case; it doesn’t make any sense to me; because you are the girl I want to live for.” I paused for a minute. Her expression remained inscrutable. “Look, I know this is coming as a shock to you. I wanted to tell you two years ago, but I ran out of time. You were with Abhilash already. Never found the right time. I still do not know whether this is the right time.”

Silence sang in the air again. “I know I am not a romantic person. I won’t say that I’m going to die if you don’t accept me. I won’t become a lovelorn tragic hero. I love myself too much for that. But remember this: You were, you are and you will always be the one. Whatever I do with my life, you’ll always be my muse, my love, my reason to live and achieve.”

Several minutes passed and she still hadn’t said anything. She never took her eyes off mine. And then, without saying anything, she collected her books and walked away.

***

The next two weeks were unbearable. She neither called me nor replied to my calls and messages. I was confused. I had already lost hope of even being ‘just a friend’. I thought I had lost her forever. But if such a thing had happened, I wouldn’t have had any purpose to write this.

She visited my house one evening. After having a pep talk with my mother she entered my room. I was writing my assignment then. She came and stood next to my table. I got up. Our eyes met. A moment later she slapped me hard across my face. What just happened? I was about to find out.

“Who said you were not romantic, you moron,” she said as a tear rolled down her cheek.

“Wh … wha ... –,” she slapped me again.

“That video you made me says everything. I should’ve understood it then. In fact a thought crossed my mind, but how should I’ve known for sure? You’ve no idea how many times I’ve watched it in the last ten days. Why didn’t you tell me before?” she burst into tears as she slapped me once again and hugged me.

I held her in my arms, not wanting to let her go. She didn’t mind. A few minutes later I asked, smelling her hair, “Hey, Mans, your hair smells great.”

“Wish I could say the same about your hair, your shirt, your room. Such a dirty scumbag you are.”

A new problem had begun. Cleanliness. It was only my mother till now. Now there were two women. God, where are women manufactured? Sterilized room of a perfume factory?

***

It was Valentine’s Day. We were sitting in a cozy restaurant, enjoying every second. Today was a special occasion and she looked ravishing in her red dress. I could never take my eyes off her. “Thank you,” she said, brushing her curls to the back of her ears. I don’t know why but I’ve always loved to see a girl do it. And when the girl is Manasvi, it’s still better.

“So what’s that you are hiding in that bag?” she asked.

I took out a neatly bound book, which had Manasvi written on it, and pushed it towards her, on the table.

“Manasvi? What is it?”

“Remember that video I made for you?”

“What kind of question is that? Of course I remember.”

“Well, this is the book version of it. I’ve penned down everything. From the day you moved into our neighbourhood; from the time I asked my mother whether you were an angel to the recent times. A sort of memoir, an epistle, a symphony to my Valentine.”

She didn’t say anything for a few minutes as she leafed through the pages. The book was handwritten.

“You are a nerd. Do you know that?” she said at last.

“I knew you’d say something like this. That’s why I’ve also bought a big box of chocolates, a fancy greeting card and a teddy. Here, take them. Enjoy,” I said, handing over the bag.

She pushed the bag aside, without taking a look inside, and continued to go through the book, all the while smiling. I knew she was overwhelmed, but would never admit it. When she couldn’t go further she kept the book back inside the bag and asked me, “Tell me something. What’s the most you can do for me? It’s Valentine’s Day and I have a right to know.” She was anything but foolishly romantic. I knew she was teasing me.

“The most I can do for you, Mans, is to be with you always,” I said, looking at her delightful face.

She smiled and looked away, not knowing how to react.

My Guruji Mark Twain once said, ‘Never say the obvious thing, but leave the obvious thing to commonplace and inexperience people to say.’

Sorry, Guruji. It doesn’t work always. I’ve learned from experience that when you are with a girl, don’t act smart. Just say the very obvious thing.

********************The End********************

Copyright © Karthik 2011

Iconic Men In My Life

2011-02-09T18:20:00.000Z

Luvvvv is in the air. The T.V. relentlessly informs me that Valentine’s Day is just round the corner. The retailers have packaged everything – from lingerie to love song album CDs to wine! I see more than the usual flower delivery vans. Ah! If only someone could control the weather here! Then they’d make sure we’ll have a warm, sunny day!

Anyway, I thought I’d do my bit over the next couple of days in spreading luvvvv. Should I keep pink chaddis ready? I’ll take the risk! Here’s a compilation of most iconic men in fiction and cinema – who I think are the ultimate dream boats (it’s a personal list)! They’ve entertained me, shaped my thoughts, travelled with me to different worlds – I’d say they are the most important men in my life!

Courtesy: http://www.siffblog.com/

15: Tony Manero – played by John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. A.W.E.S.O.M.E. Can you forget Travolta’s swinging walk as the Bee Gees sang Staying Alive? All I can say is I became a disco diwani for life! Check out the video!

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Courtesy: http://www.parallax-view.org/

14: Joe Frady – newspaper reporter in the classic thriller Parallax View (1974 movie). The role was played by Warren Beatty which is what makes it unforgettable. I know that many believe Warren Beatty’s best was in Shampoo as the hairdresser cum sex machine George Roundy. But somehow...I feel he was really great in Parallax View. Till date, no one in Hollywood has that raw animal magnetism that Warren Beatty exudes. Check out a clipping.

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Courtesy:http://blog.moviefone.com

13: Jim Stark – the clueless, disturbed teenager in Rebel Without a Cause (1955) played by the drop dead gorgeous James Dean. The movie captures the unrest, the disturbed mental angst of teenagers, who are unable to find a common ground with their parents and ‘adult’ world in general. I suppose the same applies even today! This movie is James Dean all the way. His portrayal of a teenager – the vulnerability, the cockiness, the trying-to-fit-in skirmish, the insecurity – was too perfect to be true. I hold this movie all the more closer to my heart because James died in a car crash, just before this movie was released. He was all of 24. Had he been gifted with longevity, believe me...many of the Hollywood stars would have paled in front of his intensity and his charm.

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Courtesy: http://www.wordandfilm.com/

12: Hannibal Lecter – of course...he can’t be classified as a dream boat. But, you can’t ignore this character; absolutely one of a kind. Let’s keep the cannibalism aside for the time being. You’ll have to admit that he has an evil charm - in his bearing, in his eclectic taste...and of course in his intelligence. Imagine if you had him as your boyfriend. ‘Honey...my boss is bugging me...’ you’d say. And he’d say ‘Don’t worry darling, I’ll have him for dinner!’ LOL! Anthony Hopkins was an unlikely choice to play this sinister character...but oh! What a perfect choice! Listen to the Doctor....

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Courtesy: http://johnniecraig.wordpress.com/

11: Sherlock Holmes – Crack addict, weird, eccentric, anti-social, and THE best detective the world has ever seen. And yes, he does not care much for women. Which makes us want him all the more! Undoubtedly, Jeremy Brett brought this character to life...and to me, he will always be the voice and face of Sherlock Holmes. Having said that...I don’t have any complaints about Robert Downey Jr. The first time I saw the movie...I was so busy ogling at him...that I had to watch it for the second time to follow the story!

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10: Edmond Dantes a.k.a. The Count of Monte Cristo – even today, when I read (for the 100th time) the thick-as-a-brick Count of Monte Cristo book by Alexandre Dumas (published in 1855 I think)...I get goose bumps. The story is so rich, the plot is so well-knit, the characterisations are so perfect – that the entire book remains in your mind and heart forever. And I can’t help falling in love with Dantes – the handsome, intelligent, noble, chivalrous and wronged hero! No modern day adventure novel even attempts to match up to this wonderful book. The movie is nothing compared to the book. Though, Jim Caviezel as the Count was great.

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Courtesy: http://phantomphorum.blogspot.com/

9: Phantom – I never cared much for Superman, Batman, Spiderman etc. For me, Phantom is the ultimate vigilante hero. The Skull Cave and the jungles and Devil and Hero...phew! What a wonderful world that was! I loved Mandrake too...but given a choice, I would always pick up Phantom! Thank you Indrajal! The only phantom movie I've seen had Billy Zane in the lead role (the Mummy guy)...

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Courtesy:http://www.booksmonthly.co.uk/wodehouse.html

8: Bertie Wooster – Absolutely cuddly cutie sweetie pie of the lot! Who cannot love Bertie – the scatterbrain who means well...all the while leaving a trail of disaster everywhere? Not a single bad bone in the boy! Thank you P.G. Wodehouse!

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Courtesy: http://thebluebookcase.blogspot.com/

7: Rhett Butler from Gone With The Wind – Ah! Weak knees! Sardonic, cynical, devil-may-care attitude and a suave rascal! Clark Gable did an outstanding portrayal in the movie.

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Courtesy:http://blog.moviefone.com

6: Indiana Jones – A tame archaeology professor. Tell him about some hidden, ancient treasure and he turns into an unstoppable blood hound...with a cocky sense of humour. Robert Langdon is such a big bore compared to good old Indy! And can I imagine anyone other than Harrison Ford as Indiana Jones? Not at all!

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Courtesy: http://fantasticfiction.co.uk/

5: Charles Calthrop a.k.a Jackal in Frederick Forsyth’s Day of the Jackal – Possibly, no political thriller has come anywhere near to this cult classic. The quiet lone wolf, the well-dressed, well-behaved psychopath, the ultimate killing machine – all rolled into one...and voila! Forsyth presented to us the deadliest assassin we’ve seen in the fiction world. And I love the Jackal. For his intelligence, his discipline and his cool-headed confidence. Superbly kick-ass. The original movie had Edward Fox essay the role. He fitted the description given in the book really well.

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Courtesy: http://in-spirati.blogspot.com/

4: Remington Steele – It was probably the first time I felt my heart physically jump out of my mouth. A young Pierce Brosnan. Need I say more?

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Courtesy: http://www.neogaf.com/

3: Chandler Bing – No lean, mean body. No bravado. Not a pinup boy in the ‘handsome’ department. ‘Funny is all I’ve got!’ he says. And funny he is. Sensitive, vulnerable, low-key and the king of one-liners. Chandler Bing ...my day is incomplete if I don’t hear your voice!

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Courtesy: http://bbc.co.uk/

2: Mr. Darcy – I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you.....

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Courtesy: http://blogs.orlandosentinel.com/

1: James Bond – I can’t type till my palpitations have stopped. Wait. Phew. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. James Bond...life would never be the same without you! Thank you Ian Fleming. I hope you are surrounded by angels.

Auto Rajas!

2011-02-05T17:23:00.000Z

Amazing! Courtesy - http://rickshawchallenge.com/blog/?tag=indian-autorickshaw

Visiting India on a holiday is a remarkable experience. Especially when one is not pressed for time to get to any place in general. Half the vacation goes in waiting in traffic jams. That’s when I realized that while in Bengalooru, I am always in the company of street-side movie stars. I started to love traffic jams. It was like a constant street- theatre in action. During my holiday, I had to entirely rely on autos to get around. Tiresome, wearisome autos. Yet, the entertainment was wholesome. Oh! You need to be familiar with Sandalwood industry to appreciate my experience.

My first encounter with ‘celebritydom’ was when I hired an auto to ferry me from Sarjapur ring road to Koramangala. I stood beside the auto and asked politely ‘Koramangala ಬರ್ತೀರ?’ I waited patiently for a response. The driver was busy with an SMS. I did not know if that neck-twitch meant ‘yes’ or ‘no’. SMS was done. He flicked his shoulder-length unruly hair and said ‘ಬನ್ನಿMadam!’ Aah! My first meeting with Upendra!

We started the journey. Upendra’s hand signals could have been MJ’s dance moves. With the wind blowing his hair, clearly, my driver was enjoying the drive! Perhaps being an auto driver is not a career-by-choice. I suppose he has no options. But to enjoy whatever you have at hand, given that you have no options, is indeed a formidable virtue.

My return journey was from Forum to HSR layout. And who should I meet but Tiger Prabhakar! Yes, there was the distinct nest of curly hair on the head, with a matching adornment below the nose. Tiger was smoking a beedi and chatting with other fellow-movie stars. I told my destination. ‘Madam one and a half’. I started walking away when he called out, ‘Madam thirty rupees over the metre.’ The Decemeber sun was cooking my scalp and I had heavy bags in both hands. Naturally, I was not in an amicable mood. All the while Tiger was negotiating in Hindi. My outburst in chaste Kannada surprised him. ‘Heh! Heh!’ he laughed. ‘At least one Kannada customer today!’ he informed his friends with a grin. His friends, especially Vishnuvardhan, recommended that he charge me only according to the metre. I was welcomed into the auto like a queen.

Tiger Prabhakar clearly did not consider his auto as a three-wheeler. Oh No! For him, it was a Lamborghini. And Tiger did not like anyone overtaking his Lamborghini. Bikes that overtook us were subjected to intense stares and mumbles when the Lamby finally caught up with them at traffic lights. At one point, I thought a fist fight would break out. A young chap on a bike (with a babe sitting behind him who seemed to be chewing off his shoulders) was a victim of The Tiger Stare. The bike chap quite naturally took offence and asked “ಏನು?” (What?) The response was more of Tiger Stare and more Growls. This agitated the bike chap. “ಐ ಥೂ! ಎನ್ನೋಡ್ತಾ ಇದೀಯ?” he shouted. (What are you staring at?) To which Tiger replied, “ನಿನ್ನನ್ನೇ! ಯಾವ್ ಹುಚ್ಚ್ ನನ್ ಮಗ ನಿಂಗೆ ಲೈಸೆನ್ಸ್ ಕೊಟ್ಟ?” (I am staring at you only! Which bloody fool gave you the license?)

Thankfully by then, the signal blinked orange before turning green and everyone on the road leaned on their horns. The stand-off was cut off as we sped away in different directions. Another signal. Luckily the Tiger had calmed down. The timer showed 87 seconds at this signal. Tiger got down from the auto and stretched. He whipped out a comb and styled his hair. He gave a couple of Tiger poses and tried to see who in the public was looking at him. I’d say everyone. During the last leg of journey, I was subjected to his whistling skills as he plugged in his cellphone in the radio mode.

I was off to Mysore. As I reached the KSRTC bus stand and dashed towards the non-stop Volvo, I was impressed. Mammootty would be driving me. I was greeted by a pleasant smile. I am a sucker for pleasant smiles, and I promptly returned one myself. I was one of the last passengers. The ticket counter was about to close when Mammootty’s booming voice pinned the guy behind the counter to the chair. I bought my ticket and found a place to sit somewhere towards the last row of the bus. Mammootty stood chatting with the ticket fellow while cleaning out his nose. Then, he got into the bus and boomed ‘Maidam!’ addressing me. He wanted to know if I’ve taken the complimentary bottled water and newspaper. No, I had’nt. I was handed over the said items with another brilliant smile.

Back in Bengalooru, I had the chance to meet up with Salman Khan. I suspect with the six-pack too. No, he was not shirtless. It was just that he had rolled up his sleeves to reveal bulging biceps. When I told him the destination, he was polite in naming the price. ‘Return time koi passenger nahin milega madam. Aap twenty rupees extra denge?’ Oh my! He had even mastered the original Sallu’s voice and tone. In fact, the tone of the last question was like Prem saying ‘Dosti mein no sorry, no thank you!’ It was 8:30pm, and I did not want to haggle ...tone or no tone. I was not surprised when I sat inside. Sallu beamed at me from either sides. To my left was Chulbul Pandey, to my right was Prem in a vest. It was only when we set off that I realized he drives also like real-life Sallu. Thank God no one sleeps on the pavement between Koramangala and Sarjapur. But my life flashed in front of my eyes, and I was cursing myself for not having made a will at the ripe old age of mid-thirties.

Now I am back in the land of lane discipline and traffic rules. All the taxi drivers are unremarkable dorks. They are polite and they don’t cuss or spit. Che! Useless fellows.

I leave you with a favourite song of my favourtesht...the only and only Auto Raja :)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EU0iSiJQHhM

Bollywood Blues

2011-01-25T20:51:00.000Z

I am huge fan of Javier Bardem. The man is a chameleon. As Anton Chigurh in No Country For Old Men, he completely creeped me out. As Juan Antonio in Vicky Cristina Barcelona, he melted my heart. As Brother Lorenzo in Goya’s Ghosts, he made me detest him. As Ramon Sampedro in The Sea Inside he moved me to tears. At 41, his body of work is so rich, so steeped in excellence – that I often wonder, what’s next for him? Such is his mastery over his craft that directors and screenplay writers define their characters keeping him in mind. His latest movie is supposedly terribly, terribly depressing, and I have no intention of catching it. But yes, the director of this movie (Biutiful) – Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu wrote the story keeping Bardem in mind. In an interview Inarritu said he took a big risk – if Bardem had refused, he would not have gone ahead with the movie with anyone else. Such is the faith and respect that Bardem carries.

That got me thinking...is there anyone in Indian cinema today who is just as talented? When I say Indian cinema, I don’t mean just Bollywood. The answer is yes, we do have tremendously talented actors in Indian cinema. It is just that the crass, overly glamorous and obscene side of Bollywood has obliterated any opportunity for such talent from getting due recognition in the national and international platform.

Whether we like it or not, Indian cinema has become synonymous with Bollywood the world over. The world does not get to see the intense Maqbool, or the well-crafted Gangajal. The world gets to see the insipid, brain-dead masala fares most of the time, the ones that are so ‘wannabe Hollywood’ types – where the language, the characters, the music – everything looks like one big MTV parade. We have many stars but less number of actors. These few excellent actors have to survive within this decaying ecosystem doing their best with a flimsy script. As far as some of the fantastic, world-class regional cinema go, it is such a shame that they never get a better recognition within India – forget at the international level. If these movies have to be showcased in the festival circuit, it is largely the onus of the producers. They might get support from the state government, and I am not sure about the centre at all. Just take a look at IIFA – the regional cinema folks are literally drowned in Bollywood banter.

It cannot be denied that Bollywood, by and large, has been a looming presence in our lives. Bollywood holds a special place in our hearts. So it’s all the more frustrating to see the deterioration. What has gone wrong? The industry is supposedly better organized. There is no dearth of talent – everyone and his/her aunt want to act. The technology is richer. We have access to some of the best technical talent from all over the world for our cinematography, sound, special effects etc. Yet, what is missing is the core – the soul. Art without soul is no art at all. Suddenly, everyone looks alike, talks alike, dresses alike. There is no originality, no depth of thought or action. Our heroes and heroines look like they’ve been transplanted from some Florida bump and grind beach party – with the chiselled bodies and Barbie doll looks and outfits inspired by Veronica Lodge and Reggie Mantle.

Check out the output from Ken and Barbie factory!

Remember the golden age of 70s/80s? There was Amitabh Bachchan, Rajesh Khanna, Dev Anand, Sanjeev Kumar, the Kapoor brothers, Dharmendra, Jeetendra, Vinod Khanna, Feroz Khan...and EACH of them, had their place. A role which could be done by, say Sanjeev Kumar – could be done only by him. The script was so well crafted for him. So was the case with Rajesh Khanna, or any of the others. I cannot imagine Amitabh in Aradhana. Neither can I imagine Rajesh Khanna in Amitabh’s role in Deewar. On the Hollywood side, some of the counterparts were Travolta, Warren Beatty, Clint Eastwood...all gorgeous men. Yet, our leading men did not feel the urge, the pressure to blindly ape their Hollywood peers. Our Bachchan and Khannas and Kapoors were secure in their image, secure in their space; despite the lack of six packs and chat shows. It was an age where talent (over movie-star looks) had a fan following – how we loved Farooq Sheikh and Amol Palekar and Asrani!

The stories of that age were simple, yet the characters had depth. Even in a masala movie such as Yadon ki Baraat, each brother had his own place in the script. And this is what connected us with the movie and the characters. Remember Basu Chaterjee gems - Chhoti si baat (Amol Palekar, Vidya Sinha and Asrani) and Baton Baton Mein (Amol, Tina)? Simple, refreshing entertainment...and yet, so relevant even today! These were stories about us - our lives, our environment, our skirmishes ...and not some Hollywood version of our lives! And somehow, I never, ever found it odd when Randhir Kapoor ran behind Jaya Badhuri singing ‘Jaane Jaan...’ I never found it out of place if Rajesh Khanna or Amitabh Bachchan ran around in circles with Asha Parekh or Rakhee in the beautiful by-lanes of Shimla. But now, I find it absolutely ridiculous to see hulks with beefed up bodies capering around the Swiss Alps and Giza and Bali and wherever. Why? I don’t know. I just find it moronic.

Remeber Chupke Chupke and Golamaal (Amol and Utpal one)? That, to me, is comedy. It was classy and it brought the house down. Today – comedy can involve any or all of these things – sexual jokes, bathroom jokes, making fun of regional dialects (mostly South-Indian), making fun of disabilities and physical attributes (stammering, hearing and speech impaired, obesity, squint eyes etc) or a ‘girlfriend trouble’ theme – the hero trying to ‘maintain’ many girlfriends at the same time (and the ‘comedy’ is supposedly how the hero wriggles out of such a ‘funny’ situation.) This is what happens when stupid Hollywood ‘comedies’ such as Hangover are copied. And that...that mindless adaptation of Hollywood movies (the bad ones, more often than not), and trying to garnish it with ‘Indian’ sentiments and passing it on as Indian cinema – that is the rot that has set in.

When Amitabh came on as a coolie – he looked and acted like one. When he came on as a police officer – he looked and acted like one. Today, barring a few movies, no preparation for a character is made – neither in the script nor by the actor who plays the role. At best, character preparation seems to be about ‘experimenting’ with a new look. All the other aspects of a character – mannerisms, body language, accent – things which add depth and a third dimension are completely overlooked. As far as the themes are concerned...well, by and large, genres are non-existent. Out of 20 movies, maybe one movie would have explored a unique storyline with a unique treatment. It is unfortunate that some of our talented actors never get to explore the amazing range of characters international actors have access to.

Brad Pitt - Aldo Raine (Inglorious Basterds), Benjamin Button, 'Death' in Meet Joe Black, Tom Bishop (Spy Game)

Javier Bardem - Ramon Sampedro (The Sea Inside), Brother Lorenzo (Goya's Ghost), Anton Chigurh (No Country For Old Men), Juan Antonio (Vicky Cristina Barcelona)

The general complaint is that there is a dearth of screenwriters. For a country with a fertile writer population, I find that hard to believe. If good screenplay writers are given importance, independence and due remuneration for their work, I am sure there will be a deluge of talent. But it’s not just the screenwriter problem – the entire ecosystem seems to have crumbled. Nepotism has set in big time. So yes, star kids are ruling the roost. Even yesteryear star secretaries are now launching the sons. The qualification in most cases – facial features have to be reasonably well-aligned, ripped body, ability to dance – and yeah...must have attended ‘acting schools’ set up by senior Bollywood members. I have rarely come across newcomers who show a passion for and understanding of the craft – they are all in it for the easy money, and they are anyway not qualified to be in any other profession. Besides, the ‘launch’ movie will anyway be the same – a couple of fights, a couple of songs and some drama. Years ago, when a newcomer (but belonged to a bollywood family) came on an interview – I was amused. Yeh, the kid was goodlooking. Yeh, he had all the right muscles. But why was he trying to behave like Tom Cruise? The body language, the way he spoke, the way he smiled – it was such a blatant imitation of Cruise...that it became comical after a while. So much for originality. Today the kid is an actor of repute – he’s apparently ‘matured as actor’ and has ‘shown multiple dimensions in his acting’.

In one of the interviews, Karan Johar lamented that everyone is a critic today, and questioned ‘where are the audience?’ The audience of today, Karan, have been exposed to some of the best cinema of the world, thanks to cable television, and increased travel to other countries (yes, not just you movie fellows, even us, from middle class families, have travelled all over the world). When you see the best, you can’t help but compare it with the crap that’s dished out at home. When I spend upwards of five hundred rupees per head for a ‘movie experience’ – tickets, snacks, getting to the cinema hall in hellish traffic – I expect and demand to be entertained. If the movie is rubbish, I have enough intelligence and every right to critique it.

In yet another interview, Sanjay Dutt remembered the respect his mother Nargis carried. He wondered why today that respect for actors is gone. The answer, in one word, Sanjay, is D-I-G-N-I-T-Y. It seems to me, dear Sanjay, that your parents and their colleagues knew clearly when the reel life stopped and real life started. They would dress, speak and behave with dignity and class at all times. But today, look at your colleagues. They think the camera is on all the time. They dress absurdly. They speak nonsense. They behave like morons. Don’t believe me? Watch Karan’s chat show with Hema Malini and Zeenat Aman or Madhuri Dixit. And compare it with any of the episodes that feature today’s girls and boys. You’ll have your answer.

So are we, the much abused audience, expecting to see complex, cerebral movies? No. We too know that such movies will not make an economic sense. Besides, for a country being plundered by ruthless politicians and millions of day-to-day survival problems, spare us the seriousness even in cinema. But all we ask - even if you want to make a jaded love-story, bring in some originality. Pay attention to detail. Make your characters believable. Don’t put 45 year-olds as college students. Don’t make a college girl look like a cabaret dancer. If the leading lady is kidnapped and is held hostage in a jungle, please for heaven’s sake, remove the lipstick and mascara and eyeliner and foundation and blush on her face. If the leading lady is a nurse, don’t doll her up in a Sabyasachi skirt. Employ proper scriptwriters. And please...stop copying foreign movies so blatantly and calling it as your own. It might come as a surprise to you...but most of us have seen and enjoyed the original ones. In short, Bollywood – stop insulting and assaulting our intelligence.

It is said that movies reflect the taste of the audience. In that sense, I can safely say that our parent’s generation had a better taste in cinema!

I leave you with this comparison which amused me A LOT - realism plays a large part in bringing a character alive!

Juliana Moore as a troubled doc (psychiatrist) in Shelter; Aishwarya Rai-Bachchan as a nurse in Guzarish

PS: All the images are from the internet. I've just collated them to make a point.

Sundarbans!

2011-01-19T19:17:00.000Z

I look forward to journeys more than the destinations. Having said that, I am not much of a traveller. I dislike getting up early in the morning to get to some place, unless there is some compelling reason. A trip to Sundarbans was compelling enough for me to lose sleep.

During our India trip this December, The Husband and I had booked ourselves into a 24-hour Sundarban river cruise organized by the West Bengal tourism department. The motivation was not the chance to spot a Royal Bengal, but just the idea of being in the middle of nowhere.

On a cold morning (yes, Kolkata was brutally cold this winter), we reported to the tourism office (I think it was near Priya Cinema, Deshapriya park). In fact, the cold surprised me – the howling wind was the culprit. Inside the office, it was warm and cozy. Seating arrangements had been made to accommodate all the tourists. Steaming chai was being served while we waited for our buses. LCD TVs were playing WB tourism DVDs. All of us with red-rimmed, puffy eyes and scowls stared at the TV as tigers splashed in backwaters and pythons slithered around. There was one thought all around – will we be lucky to spot a tiger? We were shaken out of our stupor as a voice boomed. The officer in charge was making an announcement in English with a heavy Bangla accent. He was urging all of us to use the rest room before the start of the journey, since we won’t have access for the next two/three hours. Some of the elderly tourists who had downed too much of chai made a beeline to the restroom. The rest of us headed towards the bus.

Outside, the wind had dropped, yet the chill was biting. The bus was an A/C coach. Breakfast was served before we started. I was possibly the only vegetarian on the bus. The breakfast packaging was a surprise to me. I had expected airline-type tinfoil packaging with clingfilms. This was a big, generous airtight plastic container with the goodies inside. Cheese sandwich, apple, cake and a mishti (sweet) for the vegetarians. All the above with a boiled egg for the non-vegetarians.

We set off on the long 2.5 drive to Shonakhali – a small village in the South 24 Parganas district, on the banks of the River Hogol. Bengalis, by and large are a vociferous group. They have the innate ability to feel at home in any place and convert any stranger into a family member. As soon as the bus started rolling, there was a discussion amidst the hitherto unknown-to-each-other tourists as to what should be played to pass the 2.5 hours time. Should it be DVD? Or Audio CD? A quick inventory with the cleaner revealed DVDs are out of question – the collection was a bunch of boring Bengali masala movies apparently. So thankfully, everyone settled for the evergreen Kishoreda. In the excitement of the journey, some of the middle-aged gents transformed into Vinod Khanna and crooned loudly ‘Pyaaaaaaaar pyar pyar pyar pyar...’ along with Kishoreda, in a totally different pitch. No Bengali conversation is complete without food updates. The ladies promptly called up family members back home to give a status update – that the bus has started. And of course this was followed by a detailed description of the breakfast. And an analysis of why boiled egg and why not something else. And a conclusion that one cannot eat mangsho (meat) so early in the morning. And that there will be mangsho for sure in the lunch menu.

With a grin plastered on my face, I settled down. What a deliciously lively crowd! As we travelled through the dusty roads of rural West Bengal, the beauty of the place felled me. Vast ponds, possibly prawn farms, dotted the sides of the road. Everywhere I saw a sea of colourful shawls and vermilion-lined foreheads as the women hurried to whatever work they had to attend to. In several places, in the muddiest, dirtiest water I have ever seen; I saw a riot of lotuses of the richest pink hue.

We finally reached Shonakhali close to noon. The sun was now searing, but it felt great after the chill of the morning. A ten minute walk brought us to the jetty. We were asked to wait for a couple of minutes – a boat would take us to the cruise steamer that was anchored a couple of metres away. The itch in my throat had turned into a full-fledged infection and being an Iyengar, I yearned for pepper rasam. Yet, I was too excited to crib as I waited with breathless anticipation for the next leg of my journey.

The boat came. I shuddered. The thought of hopping from the concrete moorings into the wobbling boat parched my throat. The Husband, used to my gymnastics in public, gently told me he’s right behind me – just in case. But he first made sure the suitcase with the camera got into the boat all safe and dry. Then came the turn of an elderly lady. I stood behind her. The boat fellows held out their hands to help her get in. She was probably around 75...age wise. Weight wise she was far beyond 75. I had seen her wobbling gait. The boat guys were instructing her – ‘keep your left foot here, then your right one here’ etc. She just hitched her saree, and as gracefully as a deer, she stepped into the boat much to the surprise of the boat fellows. Next came my turn. The boat fellows withdrew the helping hand. I was after all a young energetic woman...getting into a wobbling boat would not be a problem. I got in. Not before displaying some of Mithunda’s nifty Disco Dancer steps, accompanied by alarmed cries of the boat fellows.

Finally we were off. A five minute boat ride brought us to MV Chitrarekha – our cruise launch. ‘Cruise’ probably conjures up images of a Bacardi party type luxury yatch. This was a richer version of Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn on Mississippi. We had booked a ‘coupe’ the only private ‘room’ on the boat. The rest were all berths, like the ones you would find in an A/C train coach. Yeah...the towels could have been fluffier and whiter, sheets could have been crisper – but everything was neat and clean, including the attached toilet; which was a big relief. Almost immediately we started off. Our guide, a lanky young man, requested all of us to head to the upper deck for lunch.

The wind on the river was simply bone-chilling, despite the sun. It brought with it the smell of the water and whiffs of masala – food was being prepared in the lower deck. My throat shut shop and I was sounding like Marlon Brando as Don Corleone. Even swallowing water became painful and I had to skip lunch. The wind made me feverish yet I did not want to miss out on any of the scenery.

We reached Sudhanyakhali sometime in the afternoon. Our itinerary was limited to stopping by at the watch tower – where if one is extremely, extremely lucky – one can spot the king of Sundarbans. The watch tower is a regular concrete tower beyond which the enclosure of the national park starts. Large man-made ponds dot the landscape – watering holes for the tigers and other wild beasts. We saw a couple of deer. A tiger waltzing into the scene was simply out of question, given the number of noisy people coughing and laughing and chatting away to glory. Some of the wiser gents waited. They figured a tiger should be hiding nearby to pounce on the deer. This theory quietened up the crowd and everyone squinted into the thick foliage. Some of the children finally got restless and much to the guide’s horror, they started ‘roaring’ – it was a competition to see which kid roars the loudest. This was followed by the sounds of ‘thwack, thwack’...open adult palms against kids’ bottoms, followed by angry howls. That ended the watch tower excursion and we headed back to the launch.

As we dozed in the winter breeze and the warm winter sun, one of the tourists with a pair of binoculars squealed ‘Tiger!’ We all leapt up and generally peered in the direction in which he was pointing. Then a collective shout went up ‘TIGER! TIGER!’ Some of the lucky ones on the right side of the deck had seen a tiger resting in the thick mangroves. I just managed to see a flash of orange...it could have been a turkey towel left behind for all I knew. But for the record, I maintain that I saw a tiger...somewhat.

But I can’t tell you the jubilation we felt! Calls were placed to family members immediately (of course the network coverage was strong – it’s India people...we have coverage everywhere)! One excited lady said the tiger was napping after a kill. As the conversation progressed, the size of the tiger had increased. I won’t be surprised if accounts of point-blank encounter with the tiger were circulated.

Next stop was Sajnekhali sanctuary. Sajnekhali is a part of the Sundarban National Park, and houses a turtle farm and a crocodile enclosure. Sajnekhali also has a tourist lodge run by the WB govt I think. Exploring the national park in a jeep, in a smaller group is a better option. In any case, the sheer lush beauty of the place is astounding.

The launch anchored for the night a little away from Sajnekhali. The wind had dropped and it was now pleasant. Cold, yet pleasant. The sky turned a flaming orange, then purple-pink. Venus appeared first, and then I saw the constellations twinkle into sight. The purple-pink was erased in one splash of black. It was so dark that barring the smell of water, there was no way to know we were on water! Other launches had moored nearby, and it was magical to see twinkling deck lights like some UFOs hovering nearby. Although we were in the middle of a really large river, I could not help but think of the lurking maneaters. Tigers are excellent swimmers. Their night vision is superb. Was the beast smacking its lips on the banks of the river, trying to pick his dinner? I popped a crocin and drifted off to sleep as The Husband took out a paperback.

An announcement by the guide startled me awake. He was requesting all of us to go to the upper deck. Dinner would be served at 9:00pm, and since it was only 6:30pm, we could spend the time with some ‘joyous games’. Anthakshari. I slept fitfully in the knowledge that any lurking maneaters would have bolted away with twenty odd off-tune adults playing anthakshari.

The next day, we started off at 5:30 in the morning. It was cloudy and a bit foggy so we missed a spectacular sunrise. But at least we caught an orange disc over the River Bidya....and it was just as beautiful. We were heading towards Netidhopani watch tower. There was excitement – Netidhopani is a core area. Maximum tiger sightings have taken place in this area. Besides, we were reaching there early, at about eight in the morning. Will we get lucky? I felt lucky. My throat no longer hurt. I now sounded like Rani Mukherjee with a sore throat. An improvement from Don Corleone voice.

We moored at the dock and walked into the watch tower enclosure. We saw a blackboard where the dates when tigers were spotted were listed neatly in chalk. There had been a spotting the previous day. There was palpable excitement. The crowd was silent. The early morning air was still – the sun was still filtering through the fog. We saw a stunning kingfisher near the pond in front of the watch tower. We waited. Green foliage turned blue-grey in the mist. The slushy pathways hemmed by the thick, loamy vegetation had a brutal beauty. I could visualise the great beast – springing out of the thick trees and walk gracefully towards the water. Perhaps it is the aura of the place. Perhaps it is all those stories. Whatever it is, the feeling in Netidhopani is indescribable...the feeling that you are in the territory of a dangerous predator, a noble beast, a cunning one at that. It makes you feel humble and puny.

Our cruise itinerary had come to an end, and we headed back to Shonakhali without spotting the king. We just sat out on the deck as the sun finally melted the fog away, and the breeze no longer had the bite. At regular intervals the guide would announce the name of the river – to me it just looked like one large water body. As one tributary merged with another, it was fascinating to see the subtle change of colour on the water – from a blue to a dirty green, and then all grey and silver in the shimmering sunlight. Waterways branched and snaked away to oblivion amidst the brooding forests.

I was hypnotized by the scene around me – the water and the sky merged into one entity, and I felt I was in a glass bubble. Perhaps it is the poet in me. Perhaps it is the medication. Whatever it was...I understood why some people are attached to the sea. I understood why some of them want to go away sailing all by themselves, shunning all human contact. I understood that being in that environment – with just the water below you and the sky above you...in an uncanny way is yet another form of meditation. And perhaps, in the most non-spiritual way, sailing is the nearest one can get to feel the Creator.

Attached are some photos of the trip. If you would like to use them, please do mention this site as a reference.

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=245609&id=726512573&l=90cff9e38f

Tera (Item) Number Kab Ayega?

2010-12-17T14:37:00.000Z

Given the recent fever over Munni and Sheila, I strongly believe would-be parents have one more criteria in selecting a name for a child, especially a girl-child - never select a name that can fit into an item number. But that is easier said than done. One would have thought it’s the sexy sounding ones which fall prey to bollywood. But bollywood proved us wrong. Prior to Dabaang, the name ‘Munni’ conjured images of a sweet, cherubic child. Thanks to the item number, the innocent ‘Munni’ became a slutty Lolita.

Sheela/Sheila is the name of my mom’s generation as far as I know. I have not come across any of my friends name their children ‘Sheela/Sheila’. So I can safely say ‘Sheela/Sheila’ largely represents a population of middle-aged women. I feel truly sorry for them. Farah Khan says the song should be taken in a humorous way, and we should just enjoy Katrina’s dance moves. Of course we will! But we are just a wee bit worried about those million men in India who can’t help touching themselves in public, who can’t stop making passes at women in public, who won’t miss a chance to rub against a woman in a crowded bus. Sheer misery if such fellows come to know that one’s name is Sheela/Sheila or Munni.

Item numbers have always been a part of Bollywood. Only earlier, they were not called ‘item numbers’. They were a part of the narrative sequence. Usually, the songs took place in a club, where the hero has gone to drown his sorrows in the ‘bothel’. Or, the hero is an undercover cop and has gone to this club to spot the villan. Or, it would be a ‘jashn-e-shaam’ at the villan’s monstrous palace where he has captured the hero’s sister and mother. In all cases, the ‘item song’ would usually be a cabaret where Helen would shake her booty. In those Eastman colour movies, where the virtuous hero and heroine were allowed to barely clasp hands and hug each other, these cabaret songs probably offered the sexual release for the audience. All the cabaret songs have one theme, and one theme only. A sensuous woman boldly proclaiming her sexuality, daring, cajoling, inviting men to errr...hmmm. Sorry I’m a prude.

I believe the first name that succumbed to the cabaret was Laila. From Laila to Sheila – we’re getting there I suppose! The only common thread I find in names that feature in ‘item numbers’ is that the names are short and sweet, usually two syllables. Not that you are still safe. Remember ‘Shabnam’ in Kati Patang? ‘Pyaar se log mujhe Shabbo kehthe hai’. Or Monica. Which will immediately be followed by 'oh my darling!'The only way to prevent bollywood ignomy for your child is to go back to the old method of naming.

See in those days, no one really fretted over names. No one gave a crap about ‘the name has to be rare’. It was all based on the horoscope. Depending on the star, some name would be allotted. If you were born under ‘Swati’ ‘Kruthika’ etc. then there was no need to think. Your name would be Swati and Kruthika. In most cases, one would be named after some ancestor. Take any Iyengar family, and you will have a million Seshadris. They are all distinguished by native places, employment, physical characteristics. For example, on my Mom’s side, there were a couple of ‘Kannan’s – shortened to ‘Kannu’. One was a ‘Bus Kannu’ on account of his employment with KSRTC; while the other was ‘Depot Kannu’ – he worked in some depot somewhere. Whenever these gentlemen visited, it would be announced 'Bus Kannu has come', or 'Depot Kannu has come'. The gentlemen did not mind - it was their identity.

In most cases, names would be derived from our Hindu Gods. It would simply be Laxmi, Saraswathi or Parvathi. Or names from Mahabharata and Ramayana and our Vishnu Puranas – Rukmini, Shabari, Urmila etc. In some cases where they did not have the patience to do even this, I guess they named the baby after its physical characteristics...like Gundamma (the round one). Yeh, life was simple then.

So! Here’s the deal if you want to insulate your baby from Bollywood assault.

1. Select the name of a goddess. Who can dare give a sexy spin to a holy name?

2. Let the name be more than three syllables. E.g. Rajarajeshwari (from the Lalitha saharsanama!)

3. Be as unimaginative as possible. Errm...Varalakshmi. It is simple; a direct name of the Mother, and as my grandmom used to opine ‘the name fills your mouth. So nice!’

4. If you are in doubt, add ‘amma’ to the name. For example, you want to call the baby Lakshmi. But you never know with Bollywood fellows. So just call the baby Lakshmamma.

5. If you can’t think of anything, naming your baby girl after your grandmom or great-grandmom is a good idea. You can throw in your village name too.

In my case, since I’ve married into a Bong family, I don’t have any worries. They are notorious for their ‘daak-naams’ or the pet names, which can only be used in Tinkle comics. Once I was sitting with my father-in-law and looking at some old photos. He pointed out to a serious-looking, beefy gentleman – a very well educated, well travelled person (got a couple of PhDs under his belt or some such thing). They call him ‘Tullu’. It took a while for my father-in-law to recall his real name. It took a while for me to recover – I had snorted ginger tea up my nose.

Item numbers have always been a part of Bollywood, and they will not go away. If someone includes ‘Bollywood’ in a university syllabus, I bet ‘item numbers’ would be a specialization. It is an interesting study – the ‘progress’ of the item numbers. Earlier, you would never have a leading lady do a cabaret. The leading lady represented a certain virginal morality. And so, cabaret meant two things – Asha Bhonsle and Helen. If you ask me, all those Helen numbers are as good as any burlesque shows in today’s Paris. Helen’s classy sex appeal, her costumes, her expressions are unmatchable. Like I said earlier, the cabarets would kind of flow into the narration, and you would miss a significant piece of the story if you stepped out for a smoke. But the item numbers as we see today are more raunchy and slutty than classy. There is no simpering indirect innuendo. Some of them are so bad that it looks like a foreplay before an orgy. Perhaps in terms of progression, the leading lady no longer represents a pseudo morality, and so we don’t have a specific ‘Helen’. Yes, Malaika seems to be the flavour but we’ve had everyone shake their booty – from Katrina to Aishwarya. I guess the only constant factor in today’s item numbers is Sunidhi Chauhan.

Bollywood has a habit of repeating tried and tested formulae. ‘Lost and Found’, ‘Multi starrers’ ‘Revenge against system’ etc. Now with Munni and Sheila’s success, all we can do is wait and watch. Who is it going to be next? Mina? Nina? Anju? Manju? YAAAAAAAH Madhu?

I leave you with my favourite number - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DWka14hrmBc&feature=fvst

Image courtesy - http://tkada.com/helen-exclusive/

The Labor of (Royal) Love

2010-12-15T12:54:00.000Z

In one of the FRIENDS episode, Monica tells Ross that girls probably plan their wedding from the time when they are five. I don’t know if this is true. But I can tell you for sure that all girls without exception dream about a Prince Charming who will suddenly burst into the scene and sweep them off their feet.

And it has to be Prince Charming in every which way. Incredibly handsome, rich, sensitive, brave, virtuous gentleman. Girls don’t dream about the local shopkeeper or the newspaper guy. It’s different with guys of course. Let’s not go there.

Perhaps it is genetic. Perhaps it is conditioning. Even before your milk teeth have fallen out, you are introduced to some of the world’s most popular damsels in distress - Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, Cinderella. I still love these stories. They capture a child’s imagination completely. I remember getting stressed out when Cinderella was ill-treated by the evil stepmom. I was terrified when Snow White was sent away to be killed. I loved the dwarfs to death. But the subtle message in the stories – the girls are incredibly beautiful. They have pure, virtuous, noble characters. They take shit from everyone with dignity. When they get into trouble, they are saved by the handsome prince with a kiss.

I remember watching a Korean movie when I was a kid. (I think it was Korean). DD used to screen world movies on some week nights, once a month I guess. The story was about this deaf and dumb guy who comes to work in a village. He stays with a family, and is generally bossed around. Only one girl from that family is kind to him. She is the stepdaughter. At some point, the stepmom conspires to get the stepdaughter married to this ‘stupid’ slave and send her away – so that her own daughter can inherit the property. The stepdaughter is very happy though. She sees this guy as her ideal soul mate. He is respectful towards her; he is kind and hard working; and she believes she will be happy with him. Towards the end of the movie, it is revealed that the dude is actually a prince in hiding, and he regains his throne with his new queen – whom he indeed loves dearly. The stepmom eats her arm out at her failed venture. It was a thrilling movie. The stepmom was not a caricature-type character. Every character was realistic. There was no over the top drama. The chemistry between the subdued stepdaughter and the mute ‘slave’ was so restrained, and so right. I think I was 13-14 when I watched this. I did not sleep for days on end – I had fallen in love with the idea of falling in love.

And then, Pride and Prejudice came along. It did not help matters for me. I tumbled into the world of Darcy and Lizzie. I still maintain that Pride and Prejudice is the best love story I’ve ever read. The thought of a ‘common’ girl arresting the mind and heart of an incredibly rich, arrogant guy – of literally bringing him down to his knees – phew! It is so satiating to the ego. Plus, Lizzie is not like those weakling, virtuous princesses we read about while growing up. She is her own person, with her own opinions, her own ego. She can say ‘no’ to the handsome, rich guy if she feels it is a bad idea. I believe all girls without exception, dream of a Lizzie-like state. Of being pursued. Of being wooed. Of having the power to say no. Of having the power to change one’s mind and say ‘Yes.’

On the real life front, most of our Princes turned out to be boring IT professionals. In my case, my husband and I were best friends for about three years before we decided to tie the knot. I still don’t know what the defining moment was – that made us decide to live with each other. Occasionally, when I ask The Husband about that single magical moment, he admits there was no moment. He apparently got tired of dropping me back home after every 6:30pm show – and felt it would be convenient if we just lived under the same roof. These are the times when I eye the porcelain vase, but the moment passes. I am just so glad to live with a guy who lets me be!

But I never lost the fascination for Mr.Darcy and his ilk. Happy love stories captivate me. So when Prince William’s engagement with Kate Middleton was announced, I was thrilled to bits.

Here was a real-life fairy tale love story. A prince marrying a ‘commoner’. But a modern-day princely romance is really a nightmare. I felt really sorry for the kids. Especially for Kate. I cannot imagine how she put up with the pressure of being the Prince’s girlfriend.

Kate comes from a rich family – they are millionaires. But mind you, self-made millionaires. Kate and the Prince met in college. I believe a friendship blossomed, which turned into love. And that started the Hounding-of-Kate-Middleton by the press and the paparazzi. She was possibly 21-22 at that time. Every time she stepped out, she was photographed and her photos would be splashed on the tabloids – dissecting her dress sense – was it cheap, was it expensive, was it gaudy, was it elegant; judging her body language – was she confident, was she fidgety , was she slumped, was she fit-to-be-a-prince’s-girlfriend...and so on.

At her age, I remember feeling insecure. I am sure all girls go through that (and possibly even guys, but the pressure is more on girls). We are still trying to figure out our way in the world, we are insecure of our bodies, insecure of the way we look – I mean, no matter how good-looking one is, one goes through this phase. Imagine having all the cameras of the world focus on you when you are in your most vulnerable state of mind.

Well, the hounding did not stop with her looks; it spread to every sphere of her life. Her lack of a steady career was criticized in some sections of the media. How the hell do you expect a girl to work peacefully if you kept shoving cameras into her face, and then say mean things about her? Soon, they gave her a title of ‘Waity Katy’ – apparently she lacked ambition to fire a career; and all she did was wait around for Prince William to go down on his knees and propose to her.

Whether rich or poor, a girl in love is like any other girl in love. I am sure there have been many, many nights when Kate has cried herself to sleep. But despite the nearly decade-long hounding, she has shown admirable dignity and poise all through, and a maturity beyond her age. She may not hold a PhD in abstract algebra. She may not have a career as an investment banker or a hot-shot lawyer. She may not even have the mind-numbing charisma of Princess Diana. But what she has is something even more admirable. She is the girl-next-door. She is you and me. In her own quiet way, she has stripped off all the frills – the prince, the palace and everything in between. She has just focused on her love for a boy.

The struggle is not over for Kate. The analysis that followed the engagement of Prince William and Catherine Middleton was even more bizarre. Their wedding is said to bring a cheer to a gloomy country– gloomy because of the economy and the weather. What a pressure on a wedding! Their engagement photographs were analysed and critiqued on BBC. Was the lighting okay? The intimate pose is certainly different from the stiff and cold engagement photos of other royals. Do the photos represent a ‘modern’ day couple as against a ‘royal’ couple? In yet another program, a palace source predicted that the relationship between the Queen and Kate would not be comfortable. It was reported that there could be pressure on Kate to hire a British designer for her wedding gown, as against the Brazil chaps she prefers. And so on and so forth. Phew! Yes, unlike all the storybook romances, falling in love with a prince in real life is nothing but STRESSFUL WORK. I certainly wouldn’t want to be in Kate’s Jimmy Choo!

But still, I miss the feeling of falling in love. And I believe no matter what age, despite the hitched marital status, I will always love the thought that someone could sweep me off my feet.

War of the Words

2010-12-08T22:42:00.000Z

Sealed the wrong end mate.

The mother-of-all political thrillers is brewing even as we speak. The worst diplomatic nightmare is unfolding. Not atom bombs. Not nukes. Not missles. Just words.
Over the last couple of days I’ve had some spirited debate with a couple of my friends over WikiLeaks. It was interesting to see that people on the other side of the Atlantic think Wikileaks is detrimental to the delicate diplomatic work being done by USA and its allies. Eastwards, we see Wikileaks has confirmed what we knew all along – the powers-that-be are a bunch of glib liars – lies sugarcoated in the garb of diplomacy, instigating unnecessary tensions and arms race.

Some of my friends are surprised as to why everyone is so worked up about Wikileaks. I mean, everyone knew all along that politicians everywhere are a bunch of liars...so what’s new in this? Today, Wikileaks has over a million followers on facebook, and increasing by the second. Are all these people following Wikileaks because of the ‘juicy gossip’ as some people term it? Because somehow it offers a titillating insight into the murky world of diplomacy? Hell no. It is because people are finally tired. Tired of being screwed over by governments time and time again. After all, if one wants gossip, we have the tabloids. If one wants titillation, porn is just a click away – be it the mouse or the remote.

Millions of people having stable jobs, paying taxes, trying to give a decent life to their families – suddenly found themselves jobless. From white-collar jobs to bar tending and waitressing– it has been quite a downward slide. People are working overtime, in multiple shifts, in multiple roles to ensure their kids’ education is not disrupted. Youngsters are graduating from colleges with heavy debts on their head, and with no job opportunities. Young soldiers are dying in war that does not belong to their homelands. Governments are cutting university grants, cutting healthcare grants, increasing taxes, banks no longer lend money (unless you prove you already have plenty of it) – the man and woman on the street are being squeezed and wrung out in this ‘we have to tighten the belts due to recession’ drama played out by all the elected leaders.

And so here we are. You and me. Plodding along thinking recession, recession. But whoa! How come that banker CEO retired with a multi-million dollar kitty? WTF? The clerk who worked sincerely for the bank for over two decades goes home with peanuts, and has to hone his skills mixing cocktails, while the guy responsible for the mess gets to buy more choppers and yachts?

Your baby has scored fantastic marks. She can now go into any university. But the tuition fees are sky high. Your leaders have told high tuition fees are a necessity. Because they’ve cut back university grant. Because of the recession. And then you read that your country has doled out multi-billion dollar kitties to some small, obscure countries as a part of some vague lobbying strategy in some climate summit.

Then you are told about the war on terrorism. You are told that there are bad nations hiding an arsenal of weapons that can destroy the world. You are told that there is a very bad man hiding in a cave. And that all the sons of the soil must go and find these hidden weapons, and capture this bad man. Nearly a decade later, you are disillusioned. There were no weapons apparently. The bad man is still somewhere in the caves. The best of the soldiers from various countries, the best of the global intelligence machinery and billions of dollars down the line, there is nothing on the report card. Meanwhile, the son who meant the whole world to you – the son who could have been a doctor, an engineer, a scientist...he is dead. Like many other sons. They all came back in a box. The guys who said this war is necessary are very much alive. Laughing, talking, telling lies, making money, sitting in their leather chairs behind large oak desks.

But where do you raise your voice? Who do you question? Who is there listening to you? Who do you hold accountable for the lost job, for your child’s missed higher education, for your child’s death? The ‘government’ in all the countries without exception has become an impenetrable wall; completely divorced from the ground realities, oblivious to what the man on the street wants. And the irony? We put them there. They are supposed to work for us. And yet, here they are. In their own world of sleazy games and expensive toys. Oh. And all this is paid for by your money by the way.

If Big Daddy and its allies had taken on the expose with a bit more dignity, with a bit more transparency, perhaps people around the world would have waited before forming opinions. But the reactions from Big Daddy have been rabid and fatwa-like at best.

Some quotes http://www.abc.net.au/unleashed/41914.html –

“We should treat Mr Assange the same way as other high-value terrorist targets: Kill him,” writes conservative columnist Jeffrey T Kuhner in the Washington Times.

William Kristol, former chief of staff to vice president Dan Quayle, asks, “Why can’t we use our various assets to harass, snatch or neutralize Julian Assange and his collaborators, wherever they are?”

“Why isn’t Julian Assange dead?” writes the prominent US pundit Jonah Goldberg.

“The CIA should have already killed Julian Assange,” says John Hawkins on the Right Wing News site.

Sarah Palin, a likely presidential candidate, compares Assange to an Al Qaeda leader; Rick Santorum, former Pennsylvania senator and potential presidential contender, accuses Assange of “terrorism”.

The attitude is not, “Hey! All those things you have put up are lies. We never took DNA samples, credit card details, passwords and all private information of those UN guys. We never told any lies about any of the wars we’ve engaged in. We never bribed any nation in exchange for support in useless climate forums.” The attitude is brazenly, simply, “How dare you expose our lies? We will hunt you down.”

That is precisely why Wikileaks has caught the attention of every tax-paying working citizen, laid-off citizen, bereaved parents, bereaved wife, orphaned children and debt-ridden students around the world. Wikileaks is no longer about a sea of leaked documents containing diplomatic garbage. It has become a movement. A people’s movement. A common platform for the masses. A commune where the global public can vent their frustration against useless, money-guzzling governments. A movement that can change the power equation between the rulers and the ruled, if it can sustain its momentum.

Will Wikileaks change the way we are governed? I don’t think so. The men in suits and uniforms will come up with a convenient law to outlaw Wikileaks type ventures. But what Wikileaks has unleashed cannot be ignored – the enormous power of the internet and the social networking community when it comes to opinion-forming!

And so, depending on which country one owes allegiance to, one sees Julian Assange as a modern day Robin Hood, or as a ‘shameless blackmailer’. Personally speaking, all I know is that whistle-blowing takes tremendous courage. Especially in this case where you run the risk of pissing off the most powerful offices of the world; and possibly lose your life in the process. Is it stupidity? Is it recklessness? Or is it sheer genius? I don’t know. If you ask me to give up everything for a cause (whether the cause is right or wrong is another matter), and to take on the most powerful men on the planet, to piss off armies and have all possible secret services crawling up my ass, to live like a fugitive – I’d say no thank you. This man seems to have made this choice. For that, he wins my admiration.

Image courtesy - clipart (caption is mine)
I leave you with this video clip. I always thought Osho is a bit out there, but man he makes sense here!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x6UMT94jNGI

My Time Machine!

2010-11-29T18:53:00.002Z

It’s hard to imagine Moms and Dads as youngsters isn’t it? They always seemed like such dorks when we were growing up. And when we finally ‘grew up’ and built our own nests, Moms and Dads became the infallible, indestructible Gibraltors of our lives. It is really difficult to imagine the Dads goofing off and loafing around during the college days. It is really difficult to imagine the stern and ever-so-practical Moms simpering over Rajesh Khanna. And that’s why, this particular book is so invaluable to me. It is probably 40 years old or more. It’s my very own time machine. Like Calvin’s cardboard box. Like Dumbledore’s pensieve. All I have to do is open those pages, and tumble into my Mom’s younger days.

First of all, it looks like she had this note book right from college. She got married while she was studying, so she must have brought this book to her new home, which makes it all the more endearing. I can almost imagine her, a shy bride with her precious and sparse belongings, accepting a new home and new family as her own. And how typical of her to have carried a book with her!

Also, it looks like it was her Chemistry notebook in college. There’s “State the important differences between mixtures and compounds. Illustrate you answer with an example.” And - “Under what conditions does hydrogen combine with Chlorine, Sodium, Ethylene?” and so on. These were the college notes of the early seventies. And I realize that I broke my head over the same things in the 90s! Her handwriting is clear and neat – just like her character!

After a couple of pages, the Chemistry notes give way to a lot of bhajans and shlokas that I grew up with. The lyrics are neatly written down in Kannada, and as I run my fingers over the words, I can see her in our small kitchen, humming away some keerthana of Purandara Dasa or Thyagaraja, as she went about her chores.

And of course! The most precious legacy of her magic hands – the timeless recipes! Recipes that she received from her mother and aunts. It’s a treasure trove of recipes that most of my generation no longer prepare at home. There are recipes for pickles, ‘sandige’, exotic sweets, cutlets, savouries, jams, jellies...and even detergent soap!

Those were the days when there was no concept of ‘bottled’ pickle being sold in kirana shops. Everyone made their own pickles at home. I remember large porcelain jars – specifically used for pickling! Every house had a couple of such ‘Uppinakaayi jaadi’. Same was the case with pappads and crispies, known as ‘Sandige’ in Kannada. Summer used to be sandige time. All the ladies of the road would get together and prepare the ‘batter’ for the crispies. Some would be made of a mixture of rice and urad daal flour. Some would be made of sabudaana. I remember Mom getting up early and keeping the batter ready. Then we would troop out with large plastic sheets and bricks to any neighbour’s house that had a terrace. The plastic sheets would be spread on the floor, bricks weighing the sides down - you see the batter had to be spooned onto the plastic sheets in small dollops, and sundried.

The sabudaana sandige was easy enough, and we kids were allowed to help her. We had to take a scoop of the gloop in a small ladle and smear it on the plastic sheet in a small circle. The rice crispies were tougher. They had to be put through a perforated press that would bring out the batter in a ‘noodly’ form. The consistency and temperature of the batter was key here, and it had to be done fast! All this had to be done by 7 or 8 in the morning, so that the sandiges get the best of the searing sunlight. I remember those lovely summer mornings with all the aunties bent over their plastic sheets – laughing and chatting and exchanging cooking tips. We kids had the important task of guarding the sandige as they sundried – we had to shoo away the waiting crows and sparrows, and after a couple of hours, we were supposed to turn the crispies over so they dried evenly on both sides. My Mom had two large aluminium containers which were lined by a plastic sheets. She would store the sandiges neatly in them – to be fried on special occasions or whenever bisibelebaath was prepared!

Those were idle summer days, when we kids could sit for hours – without TV, without Nintendos and XBOXs – just making up our own games and stories as we watched the sun dry our sandiges. We did not care about sweating it out in the searing sun, blackened like coals as we played our ‘just-invented’ games. There was no fear of sun-tan, no fear of skin cancer, no fear of dehydration (we used to drink litres of tendercoconut water...did’nt we?)

Ahh! Mom’s written down the recipes for the lip-smacking rasam powder, sambhar powder, vangibaath, yengai...yumm! I suppose the same recipes have been around for generations! Preparation of these powders used to be a ‘once-in-a-quarter’ affair. Spices were to be roasted in a particular order, and in particular proportions. Once they cooled, they would be packed in big steel dabbas, and then we had to head out to the ‘Machine’. Yeah, coming to think of it, these ubiquitous shops were known as ‘Machines’. It was basically a shop with this monstrous machine, which made horrendous sound while in operation. From one end, the owner/machinist would feed in the whole spices, and from another end, the spice powder would emerge. Now, there were specific Mom-rules here too. These rules were followed by all Moms. We had to first check what had been put in the machine earlier, so that the taste of our powder does not get adulterated. If someone was waiting to get their whole raagi (millet) seeds powdered, it was common sense and decency to wait for them to finish. And so, the ‘Machine’ was another place where Mommies would hang out exchanging news, while they waited for their spice powders to be done. And of course, the stern inspection of the powder – the rasam powder had to be absolutely fine, the sambhar and yenghai should be slightly coarse. The sambhar powder had to go in only after the rasam powder is done...and so on! Phew! But the machinist was more often than not, a pro. These creatures know the intricacies of South-Indian spice preparation. Once the machine job was done, we would go home, and my Mom would lock us kids out of the kitchen lest we get the spice in our eyes or nose; you see she had to sieve the different spice powders to ensure clumps are filtered out. She would emerge after a while – tears stinging her eyes because of the pungency, yet triumphant. Her perfectly balanced spices were ready, and packed in air-tight containers for use!

Another nugget of a memory! Tucked away in a corner of the book is this sales receipt from Bata – possibly from the early 80s. It was for ‘Snow White’ costing Rs.5.50! This was a ‘white’ polish for the white keds shoes that we had to wear in primary school I think (before they mercifully switched over to blue canvas shoes). Keds had to be worn once a week when we had P.T. ..and it was a pain maintaining them. Well, why am I complaining...it was Mom all the way – washing the keds, drying them, and then spanking our butts to make us sit and ‘polish’ them.

And her usual financial account – rent was Rs.300, Gas and kerosense was Rs.100 and so on!

It also looks like I first discovered my self-proclaimed talent as an artist in this notebook of hers. Perhaps I was bugging her no end, writing on walls and eating chalk pieces instead of using them on a slate – so she spared this book of hers! Some of my art pieces -

A weirdly happy king

An early self-portrait - clearly made of zeros.

When I look at this book, I think – my God! How active, how full of life my Mom was! Never a dull moment – always trying out something new! She was probably in her mid-twenties when this notebook ran out of pages – and she has left a legacy of spirituality, recipes and innovations! How diverse! And above all, how useful to me and my sister. And perhaps for future generations too! On the other hand, I remember, with a squirm, that when I was her age, how frivolous I was – drawing hearts with arrows around Kurt Cobain’s name written in red sketch pen! Yew!

That had me thinking about ...well, myself. Will my children, if any, have a chance to reminisce about me after I’ve finally joined my Mom up there? Well, first of all, the logistics – will this blog server still be up decades later? Should I save all this rubbish I dribble in a blog in a USB stick and pass it on as legacy? Will USB sticks still be around at that age? Maybe I should write down each blog in longhand. Coming to think of it, when was the last time I used a pen to write something? I took a look at my blogs again. There’s ranting against corruption, there’s ranting against journalism, there’s ranting against thin models on a stupid TV program, there’s ranting about how everyone have ignored the Vedas, there’s ranting about my weight...oh my god...! Fifty years down the line, if someone reads this – they’ll say they had a senile schizophrenic woman in the family tree. Guess I’ll leave the blog as is, in a digital format.