IDLI CHUTNEY

Moving

2010-02-05T04:44:00.001+05:30

Idlichutney is moving.

Thanks

Bengalooru

2010-02-03T13:54:00.001+05:30

Associations inevitably come into being aided by memories. And years later when the memories have no co-relation to the present the association still sticks, perhaps this is what constitutes nostalgia. Like or dislike for a place can stem in various ways. Some places have a romantic air about them that lend them a quality of Shangri-La. Some have an oppressive and foul name attached to them, like a malignant canker. The former and latter are talked often talked about leading us to attach epithets to those places. Some places are famous because of some natural attraction, or political importance. And there are some places that exist only on maps nestled along treacherous contours or nested unluckily in between page folds or margins; places that are just meaningless dots on a railroad.

For someone who is in the lesser twenties, talking about any earlier era seems redundant, even if the ensuing decades are littered with major changes. Even if I am a child of the new age, googling away to glory and crippled without wikipedia I cannot but look at the nineties with a simple longing. And my memories of the India I saw and experienced then threaten to go away to that wispy place where all memories eventually go to. The more I remember, the more I hazy it seems until the past and present merge into a continuum. So cutting a long thread short, my associations with places date mainly from the nineties. Chennai was the sunrise, temples and strains of MSS's suprabhatam. Kolkata was a thirty six hour train ride on the Geetanjali and the fervent bleats of a goat before it splotched in blood, Mumbai was Bollywood and gangsters and Bangalore was for retired people.

Today's Bangalore contrasts with my minds Bangalore with a violent clash amidst honks of incessant traffic. For a wide eyed kid taking in notes furiously ( yes yours truly scribbled in notebooks while travelling, made lists of stations encountered and described landscapes ), Bangalore was confusing even then. Was it a small city? Was it a large town? How could it be a city if it had such gorgeous weather ? I remember standing with my mouth wide open at the Visveswaraiyya technological museum, especially at a display showing a continuum machine with balls running though it. My mouth remained open as I awed at Kids Kemp, and stubbornly refused to close strolling along M G road with its book shops and old fashioned coffee houses and a tree lined pavement, Brigade road with all its 'modern' shopping and Ulsoor which suddenly seemed like a suburb of Chennai (I know I'm ruffling feathers here :P ). When the train pulled out of Cantt station, I silently prayed we got transferred and could live there. A recent trip to the city also had me agape, at the airport first, then at MG road where trees were furiously being hacked, but as India moves so must old sensibilities.

I wish this wizened twenty something could visit the Bangalore of the nineties again, but don't we all want to relive the past?

PS: Happy birthday, to a pesky Banglorean.

Revelation

2009-11-14T08:04:00.006+05:30

Vadivu sniffed the air, something was not right. And whatever was not right, was attracting her irresistibly. Something rose deep within her, almost like the rush she felt at nights with her husband. But this was different. She sniffed deeply again, inhaling fully and the scent left her before she could completely explore it. Dropping the basket she was carting she stepped back a few paces and looked around. Just another normal day. And no one had time to notice a low-caste woman who carried excreta away. In a back alley of all places. Untying her saree’s loose end to fan herself in the hopes of trapping the scent within its folds she inhaled again in quick short bursts this time. And it hit her. The most blissful divine scent. Definitely masculine, full bodied, rich dark and enticing beyond rapture.

Dhanammal wished the tonga would move faster. It was hot and she dare not uncover her face lest any man set sight upon her. Her mother-in-law sat next to her and her husband Thannilaipadi Narayanaswami, in front of them. She was new to Madras and the sights and sounds awed her and scared her at the same time. Narayanaswami worked for the East India Company. It was a prestigious position and he often reminded Dhanammal of his importance by unleashing English words at home. Sometimes in passion, sometimes in fury, sometimes in boredom. Many of his words were poorly pronounced, some bizarre to the point of offense but the illiterate Dhanammal had no way of knowing his folly.

The tonga stalled. Apparently there was some commotion in the road ahead. Narayanaswami got down to investigate. As they sweated it out in the blazing midday sun, Dhanammal smelt it. Her first reaction was to turn up her nose at what she perceived as an alien stench. Then a curious secondary sniff and the slow realization that she was smelling something new, something different. She turned to see if her mother noticed anything, but Periya Meenakshiamma was asleep, her drool coating the edge of her widow’s saree, her tonsured scalp sweating freely. Slowly she raised her head out of her veil. She turned around to the source and saw an Englishman’s mansion. And amidst the noise and stench of the city, amidst the perspiration of a hundred men, the distinct flavor wafted to her. “Like Radha to Krishna” she thought. Several well dressed men and women were seated around tables. Just as the tonga lurched, she saw a dirty ragged half caste woman sniff the air vigorously. Dhanammal felt sick to her stomach and retreated in the veil again, content to sniff the diluted scent that spinned her head.

The incident was a few months ago. Deepawali had come and gone and the winter chill was upon them. “Ice falls in England. Ice katti. brrr” Narayanaswami shivered one particularly cold day, refusing his cup of buttermilk that Dhanammal had churned for him. The couple had settled down in Madras in a tiny house near kotai. Dhanammal had busied herself in domestication while Periya Meenakshiammal acted supervisor tut-tutting her disapproval more often than not. Come margazhi and Dhanammal requested her husband to take her to see the magnificent Kapaleeswarar temple at Mylapore. Now and then Dhanammal would recall the day she smelt ‘that’ but she never whiffed it on any of the innumerable trips she made to Mylapore. At the temple market she kept herself unnaturally aware of her surroundings and yet she never whiffed that scent. It must have been magic, or the heat she thought to herself. Yes the heat.

Narayanaswami was deferential to his bosses at work and played the role of a subservient dull clerk to boot. He befriended no one from his office preferring to rush home and immerse himself in brahminical rituals of yore. Occasionally Dhanammal would sing to him what she had learnt in her childhood. A mixed bag of bhajans, prayers and the occasional keerthanai. She would often try to impress him with a Dikshitar krithi (to whom Narayanaswami was partial as he claimed descent from the composer) but failed miserably. Life went moved on in the slow sedate way that urbanity sometimes brings.

To be continued…

Mee Marathi

2009-11-11T11:53:00.000+05:30

For someone who has grown up speaking Marathi, the whole mee Marathi thing seems a little jaded. Even since Raj Thakeray went from being a on the sidelines to a politician of prominence the debate has raged endlessly; to Maharashtrianize or not that is the question.

And I have no easy answer. I have found myself vociferously opposing the man’s strategies and vehemently endorsing what he says at times. Maybe it is the Marathi boy in me speaking, maybe this is what philosophers call ‘rationale’. I do not know, but the Marathi issue is too close a topic to the heart to not talk about or to brush under the carpet.

Mrs. Pawar was my first link to the Marathi world, a burly woman, she babysat me till while my parents went off to work . It was at her place that I took my toddler steps and ate varan-bhat. I learnt to cuss in the way to school sharing meager space in an autorickshaw with seven other kids. I learnt to read at tuition classes (Mrs. Koregaonkar, who prayed to all the Gods in the pantheon for my passing) and learnt the ‘gavthi’ accent from our bai. I have more friends to whom I speak the language than I care to admit, and have sighed endlessly over ‘davya dolyavar vat’ all the time maintaining my innocence with a studied ‘khara ki!’.

The charm of Marathi is lost in Mumbai people will moan but ask anyone to speak hindi and the words will be littered with offerings form Marathi. Scores of words I use to express myself in lose their beauty in sore translation. How can one explain to a non Maharashtrian what ‘halkat’ is. Or when someone is being a ‘bawlat’. Or what the meaning of ‘maaz’ actually is? To date I call the potato batata and onion kanda regardless of the language I speak in. And what can replace the mellifluousness of a sighing heart, lost in its sweet nothings of ‘premat padloy’. The exclamation ‘haila’ (immortalized by a Mr Tendulkar) to a coy ‘laaz’ and the versatile ‘ai gaa’.

You can take sides all you want, I am content sitting on the fence here. Or maybe even on the other side, where comfort takes precedence over language and words are no longer hindered by thoughts. It is not years of schooling that have made me Marathi, neither is it long nights of mugging up textbooks. Belonging doesn’t stem from laughing helplessly over PL Deshpande’s works or from sipping the perfect solkadhi. I can live in the USA, consume mounds of rice drenched in rasam but when the going gets tough I sigh a fortituous ‘sagla bara hoil’ and that’s really all it is to it.

varan-bhat:dal-chawal

gavthi: pertaining to the country, rural

davya dolyavar vat : curl of hair over the right eye, line from a famous song

khara ki: really?

halakt: a man of loose morals

bawlat: irksome, troublesome? I cannot find an exact meaning, peevish maybe?

maaz: charbi(Hindi), kozhupu(Tamil)

premat padloy: fallen in love

haila, ai gaa: exclamations!

laaz: shame, blush

solkadhi: a Konkani dal with kokum in it, is simply awesome

sagla bara hoil: all will be well

Pithy prose

2009-11-07T02:12:00.002+05:30

I am never too enthused about grammar. There are those who ponder for hours thinking if a participle must be gerunded or if the adjective clause satisfies causal requirements for it to be one. I am not one of those. In fact grammar can go take a hike as far as I am concerned. This is not to say that I sentences constructs this like, but that as long as I can get my information across I am good.

Clauses and the like only serve to confuse the already bewildered writer, who has reached this state of bewilderment because of the many eccentricities that bedevil this English language. Anyone can attest to the fact that English is a minefield of traps of various forms, and the unwary are often causalities in its complex constructs.

Although in hindsight, professing to write without heed to grammar is like attempting to sing without following a raga, ie. Simply noise. A friend of mine, a grammar nazi, spends all his free time hacking away my beautiful prose with the axe of grammar and punctuation. I call my prose beautiful only because after all the grammar bashing I was left drained and my self confidence languished below a heap of incorrectly used adverbs.

Spellings are another grey area, or is it a gray area? I know not, but my friend the spell check that Microsoft so kindly provides wildly gesticulates with red undulating waves and lets me know of lexical malapropisms among other things. It also fancies itself by neatly underlining all of my prose with green waves. Apparently this signals bad bad grammar. Wren and Martin (who are to English Grammar what Rakhi Sawant is to the Indian Media) would frown with extreme displeasure.

Perhaps I must take to writing in French, although I am entirely unsure how the French would react to moi butchering through their pretty cedillas and cute accents. Also if memory serves right French objects carry genders, rather all objects when referred to in French, must be addressed respectfully by a gender, failure of complying to which leads to a report of sexual abuse and a stint in the prison linguistique in Montreal.

Which is when I realize the versatility, beauty and brilliance of ‘it’. It effectively desexualizes any lingering masculinity or femininity in objects and clears our obfuscation in addressing things. It also lets you insult subtly a male or female by referring to them as such thereby effectively rendering genderless (Although some species of homo sapiens may be too dense to get the intricacies of this, in order to insult them, just slap them. Once should do the trick).

Rambling along and ranting about positives and negatives has made me weary and wise

Off I go with the rest of my damaged poise

All of this dear reader isn’t just noise

I shall post regularly or may the Gods smite my voice.

PS: Apologies for the absence, and failure to reply to previous posts.

Regular programming hopefully resumes.

Home

2009-09-19T09:44:00.002+05:30

For me Bombay has always been home. If anyone asks me “favourate city” I say Bombay in a heartbeat. There are several reasons I am attached to the city, apart from the fact that it always spells out home. So recently I was myself stumped (discombobulated, googly-ed, startled senseless out of my wits) when someone asked my what’s my favourate city and I said “Chennai”.

There was silence, the kind associated with a patriarch revealing incestuous facts of a family. Friends opened mouths and forgot to close them, others looked at me and wondered if the flu hit my brain and as for myself I sat in a quiet daze of shock still ruffled at the alacrity and the gall of my response. Later that night I took in a deep breath and came out of the proverbial closet. To myself first, then to family and friends. It was true I liked Chennai, ok loved. Yes I had always had these aberrant desires. No it wasn’t my parent’s fault I assured them. It must be the trauma of a scarring childhood experience my wise counselors sighed and concluded. Maybe it is.

Vacation for me always meant gallivanting off to the south by whatever means of transport available. And vacations were never complete without Chennai. The city played host to me several time a year, lulled me to sleep on lazy summer days, fed my appetites on breezy evenings and watched me grow with a matronly eye. As a kid, and a Bombayite I hated Chennai. I wanted to Gestapo the auto-karans, outlaw Saravana Bhavan and revamp the Marina into a mega-mall. No one travelled by trains, buses ahd alphabets and no one spoke indhi. And yet I unfailingly visited the city, my visits held together by a gaggle of endearing relatives and affectionate grandparents.

Very much like the prodigal son coming home, slow realization dawned on me. Like the first soft rays of dawn that broke over the Bay of Bengal, like the subtle aroma of coffee assaulting nostrils, like the gentle whiff of malli on a hot summer’s day. Every time I visited the city I was hit by a wave of nostalgia and a realization of returning to something inherently comfortable. Chennai did not have Bombay’s sense of acceptance or Bombay’s kill to get to the top attitude, but Chennai felt different, felt like home.

Childhood remembrances are important clues to personality traits my psychiatric friend says. If ever mine was analyzed there would be an entire kaleidoscope of images. Of Mylapore in the mornings, T. Nagar in the evenings. Of going up and down the 1A with cousins, running on the endless expanse of sand on Marina and a thousand other inconspicuous, innocuous memories all of which climax into a giant snowball of emotions leading to lumpy throats and misted visions.

So there. I’m coming out on my blog now. I love Chennai, I think it rocks and I’m proud of it.

There and back again

2009-09-12T23:32:00.001+05:30

Dedication to writing is one thing I admittedly lack, as evidenced by the gaps in my blog archives. I would rather it have at least four posts every month and be a neat 48 to close a year but then life rarely moves in symmetrical progressions. Nastiness abounds in various forms and blogging is the first casualty too often. I admire some who keep managing to spew words out week after week irrespective of what offerings they chew in life. A recent blogging behavior of mine has been to trash almost everything I write as un-blogworthy. As a result of this incessant trashing I lost focus of what was blogworthy and gave up writing altogether rather than face complex theological conundrums.

I blog because I write. And when writing itself is stilted, blogging automatically stops. Why then , I thought to myself in a rare moment of self introspection did I not write anymore? Writing is impulsive stemming from a momentous inspiration I reflected. Images, people, words, music and all of the aspects that go on to making our daily life are reflected in one bright nanosecond of a realization that writers expound in words.

Or writing springs from a carefully collected repository of ideas. Ideas that have been examined for fallacies and stored. Ideas that are to be written about because of their very fallaciousness, ideas that are hilarious and ideas that are profoundly interesting. But this would involve a certain degree of discarding time since reflections are rarely pertinent to the current real world. These I like to write and there is a certain degree of comfort that comes from dipping into ones thoughts and not having to worry about how those fit in with the times.

The cynic in me then pops his head to say that I write merely for an audience. I shamelessly concur. What art is not driven by the thought of praise or of moving the masses? Although it will take a lot more than my pedestrian prose to move masses I yearn to see my words in print, with my name bolded. So the lack of a discerning audience is the real reason for my intermittent hiatuses. There is a part of me that still thinks that writing that is for fame’s sake must be shallow and will cause the well of ideas to dry up as a vengeful curse, very indicative of my minds medieval weirdness. A small conscience wanted to write for humanity when the cynic replies that words do not fill stomachs.

So I a fit of cognitive blogging I write about writing thus metablogging and also pushing another of my digressive ramblings into blog archives. Here’s to hoping the metaphorical well never has to dry up again!

This and That

2009-08-08T18:07:00.002+05:30

Bringing to you offerings from my drafts folder. Enjoy.

My aunt is a lovely creature sometimes prone to fits of efficiency, but otherwise charming and delicate. The only time she loses her charm and delicateness are when she is reprimanding, using a combination of words that would make Shakespeare blush (and get back to work at once). Often softer relatives of ours, God bless them have called upon her to do the dirty job of minding the children. Many an errant cousin has been ‘brought to line’ by my aunts gentle ministrations. Her own daughter once in a fit of boredom I suppose, ran away with her then current boyfriend and was subsequently discovered in a not very reputable lodge outside Jammu no less. Legend has it my aunts screams could be heard all the way to Gilgit, rattled the high command in Siachen and caused an avalanche of Himalayan proportions to hurtle down those gentle hills.

A camera distorts images. At times, it shows more than the naked eye can see adding details to the frame, capturing an image wider than two eyes can. It zooms to objects of dexterity and pans across panoramas. The eye seems curiously deficient in these regards. And apart from all these optical shenanigans, a camera also records images for posterity. But then there are times when the camera seems a poor substitute for the eye. Unable to capture nuances of light as rays of the sun fall delicately, colouring different parts of a vista differently. The eye dims when the sun is up and persists sharply in fog. The camera doesn’t hesitate a second to remind you that the sun is right behind you and throws everything in the viewfinder into black chaos. More often than not I am disappointed when I look at something with a camera because the recorded image does not do justice to the real thing out there. Most of my gripes I realize can be remedied with a better camera and a more talented photographer but a camera is no substitute for the eye. This is not to say that the eye does not manipulate; in fact the mind calculates several parameters (mood, music among others) to suit itself and the image one sees is the very result of all those factors coming together. Sometimes beautifully and sometimes not.

Our society was built in the early nineties. Fortunately or unfortunately the buildings reflect fashion of those times. One of them being symmetry. All flats are identical and I really do have a point to make as you shall see. At a social gathering I excused myself to use the restroom and was terribly perplexed to find myself in front of an immaculate but tiny kitchen. The sink lay exactly where the flush might and condiments occupied the place of other motley toiletries. My face was part wonder, part confusion and the hostess kindly directed me to an orifice in the wall, which miraculously was the toilet. As I did my business I counted the number of airline toilets I had peed in that were bigger and sighed sadly. I am no architect but what I had just witnessed was the rise of an alarming trend. At first I assumed it merely to be a social experiment in testing if one could cook where one used to pee previously but the plot is far more sinister than I had imagined. In a dazzling display of spatial ingenuity people are resorting to bizarre tactics to modernize homes.

In search of the one

2009-07-30T19:03:00.003+05:30

To some a temple is merely an edifice in stone, mortar and bricks. A collection of cement loosely arranged to house objects of reverence. To others it is a marvel of sweat, blood and tears shed in copious quantities to appease the deity within. For a demanding deity tall spires stretch out into the sky their shape dictated by social norms of the region and the resident deities religion. Gods seem curiously similar to humans in this regard, some have grandiose structures that seem to pale anything into insignificance next to them. Some temples have exquisite carvings demanding extreme devotion and extracting the skillful dexterity of the sculptor. And then there are those temples seeming to be but simple abodes, a roof and a porch; stark in structure making up for it with millions thronging outside.

Real estate goes by three commandments; location, location and location. Some temple builders of yore seem to have known this all along. Which is why there are temples straddling the rapid and visceral Ganges, those built along the mature Ganges; temples overlooking the placid bovine Ganges and then those looking upon the great river as it disintegrates into muddy silt and meets the sea. There is a beautifully derelict temple in the Kangra valley where nothing seems of grandeur. Then as one bows down before the Goddess, the mighty snow capped peaks of the Himalayas rise and seem to form the very roof of the temple. Some temples have the sea as a fourth wall, yet others lie submerged in caves demanding precarious climbs. And some temples rise magnificently out of nowhere, themselves becoming a beacon of architectural beauty and enriching the surroundings. Spires rise out of green paddy fields, and spires stand among skyscrapers blending into the landscape almost as if God intended them to be there.

Does a temple ask to be reviewed? Or are critics merely supposed to comment upon the more trivial pursuits of mankind? To a devotee a temple is a sum of several parts architecture being but one if at all. The munificence and largesse of the God, the sternness of austerities demanded for worship, the extent of penitence demanded in case of a wrongdoing and the power and veracity of the said God to mete out justice, these theological parameters often decide the position of the temple in the Indian social fabric, irrespective of religion. Art and architecture are therefore incidental, which is not to say we are a society of philistines but that God cannot be bothered with too much art. And then there are temples where art is the sole God, but man needs pray at the altar of his needs than his appreciation for mere structures.

Every temple has an ambiance factored by aspects within and without. It is these that make every temple unique. Some are places of refuge, some places of fervent prayer. Some ask for open mouthed adoration and some are inconspicuous to the extent of being one with their surroundings. The temple is an innate part of the Indian geography imbuing its many hues to the landscape.

Love

2009-07-19T17:29:00.000+05:30

It was afternoon when I walked in. She was there sitting with her legs splayed, a violin resting delicately over her shoulder gracelessly obscuring her lithe body behind wood and string. I has always seen her hair as a wet collection ending in little droplets that ran down to her skirt at the temple, today however they were dry, and beautiful though a tad colourless. Lengthy strands moved lightly near her face, and one troublesome bunch strayed across her eye, she brushed it casually eyes sparkling with the promise of music to come.

“I’m really rusty you know. Not proficient or anything, I just dug this out today”

And then with the incongruence that betrayed her shyness she blurted out

“Lets jam”

She slowly began, her arm moving in a rhythm, gently poking me every time she moved up an octave. I was captivated. By the music as well.

Absorption into music comes suddenly. One moment you are there listening to ordinary sounds, the telephone, people moving about, the trees rustling and the next second you are spellbound, stuck within a world without any escape. What happens in those few seconds of rapture I know not but the realization of having been lost in music always comes about as wondrous and novel. She moved through familiar notes quickly and I was humming at the crescendo I squeaked. She opened her eyes her large black orbs moving about a little shocked a first, with the intrusion of this alien note in her world of rich sounds, then a little apologetic.

“I’ll shift lower, how do you want it?...no no sing. I’ll continue”

And I slowly found strength to go over those notes with her. Shyly at first barely audible, then moving about cautiously as if testing the raga for endurance before breaking out, into full throated exuberance. Faster and faster she moved her arm, keeping up with my new found tempo across Shankarabharanam and Mohanam. Unawares except for constant poking of my chest by her elbow, dimly aware of her presence and completely ensconced within the confines of a few notes. Her string snapped with a sudden twang at Hamsadhwani when our eyes met. I was in a cold sweat.

To drink or not to drink...

2009-07-04T18:49:00.001+05:30

Tamilians cannot make tea. Take it from me. I can brew an almost perfect filter coffee that makes maamis go besh and look upon me as a potential son in law, but I cannot for the life of me make tea that might impress a Malyalee, a Maharashtrian or a martian for that matter ( No offense to Malayalees, Maharashtrians, or martians for that matter).

My philosophies for making tea are rather hasty as I have come to realize but my habits have steeped in and I am unable to change them. Making tea for me means boiling an inordinate amount of water and throwing in tea powder, sugar, milk, ginger or any other spice that strikes my fancy and then let the unholy concoction bubble for as long I am willing to wait. My tea drinking friends consider this nothing short of blasphemous and I am often looked down upon for this alone.

My shortcomings with regards to tea were discovered by chance. On a rainy afternoon in damp Syracuse, friends unexpectedly dropped in and a spirited evening of conversations followed. Wanting beverages to revive flailing spirits tea was called for and I in all good earnest volunteered. Later on I received heapfuls of curses; someone even accused me of trying to thwart the pleasant evening with my mean coffee drinking agendas.

There are few things better than a good cup of coffee, filter or otherwise and a strong flavourful cup of tea is one of them. Tea drains away blues in the rains. And yes I am quite aware that rhyming is not one of my stronger skills. At home we follow the good Indian tradition of stuffing our guests silly with food and drink. Coffee is passed around ubiquitously, propelling late night caffeine driven card games with unusual amounts of calculations defeating the mathematically challenged.

Last week I went to a friend’s home. “Im sorry there’s no tea or coffee” she said exasperated, her hair forming tense ringlets near her temple. “Beer is in the fridge though, chalega?” A better time was never had before.

Country roads take me home

2009-06-12T16:07:00.003+05:30

There is a virile excitement to be found in driving fast. Zipping across landscapes in a rush, driving in raucous speeds gives one a thrill otherwise unattainable. And this is not a pleasure extended to those who occupy other seats n the vehicle. The slow increase of numbers, ascending to the forbidden and mentally marking off milestones as the road markers seem to merge, until time itself begins to fly. Wind in the hair, spirits loose and caution (or the lack of it) hovering like a concerned parent behind.

There is another joy in driving slowly, the slowness brought upon by choice or force; with a low speed limit and a near empty road, the lack of acceleration not robbing the essence of movement. With speeds like 30 mph, there is time to note every lark that perches upon telegraph lines, time to feel every bend in the road, time to whoosh past trees and time to feel gravity working on you, as you hurtle down hills.

Driving in Massachusetts can be exasperating because the roads there have potholes. Lanes dizzyingly and exasperatingly merge or diverge, befuddling the novice. Driving in Massachusetts can be rewarding because the road suddenly will cut across a lake, pierce through a dense forest or dally around rounded hills; or even more suddenly deposit you in a city amidst skyscrapers and the sea.

It takes two to tango. And providing a much needed background score to this vista was a well furnished ipod that would play notes befitting the landscape and friends in tow, replete with lazy witty repartees. I spent most of the fall and winter of 2008 on trips that were more lessons on nature appreciation and less trips.

Much has been said of the American freeways and how they are a pleasure to drive on and also extremely purposeful and useful. This post is a tribute to the unsung heroes in Massachusetts, the state routes. Unseen, unknown like dark ribbons on the landscape.

Route 9: Is a major artery for Boston and its suburbs. About 10 miles form the city centre, it decides it has had enough and then exclusively zips past lakes. Peppered with grocery stores, malls and humdrum commercial establishments that suburbia thrives on.

Route 20: Is actually US route 20 stretching form Boston proper, traversing the length of the continent ending somewhere non-descript in Oregon. Parallels I-90 for most of its length often ducking under it and in one case going over it. In the city it has a most innocuous beginning in a leafy square, hardly expected of a road going all the way to the Pacific. Becomes a surprisingly crowded road, linking areas. Is densely forested, and in my opinion has some of the most lip smacking restaurants this side of the Atlantic.

Route 85: This one is hardly important but a personal favourate, simply because it was close to home and I had a treat driving on it one cold snowy afternoon with kathanakuthoohalam for company.

Route 135: One does not expect waterfalls on an urban road. And it is not inappropriate to lose ones head if the first time one sees a waterfall on a road, it is frozen and the ice threatens in looming shapes, to engulf small cars.

There are many more but I realize that I can hardly say different things about any of them. All of them were the same, traversing lands of great beauty and picturesque. Route 140 where a friend (who cooked well) lived. Route 111 where we got lost at 1 am in the morning, route 62 that we were always confused about, route 117 that took us to a great big Wal-mart. Routes 2 and 3 that were less state routes and more freeway, route 110 that had the huge houses, route 30 which most illogically loops around everywhere, route 28 where I ran over a duck, route 1 with all the seaside villages, route 128 winding along cold forlorn marshes, I could go on and on.

What I’ll do instead is hope I haven’t bored you with this long post, and hope you can see all of what I have said without calling me a clichéd sentimental old fool.

This post is also a birthday present to K, who was privy to all the aforementioned incidents and travels. Music connoisseur, in charge of general maturity and a close friend.

City Profiles

2009-05-22T23:39:00.001+05:30

I like writing about cities. Most people see them as dots on a map or as places populated with urban detritus, but not as an organism. Not the fire breathing, I-will-destroy-everything-in-my-path kinds nor as a gaggle of dysfunctional humans. But as an entity that shapes the environment around it, in all spheres political, social, geographical and mental. It is easy to see a city as a collection of famous buildings or past happenings of importance. It is also easy to see every city having a ‘character’ atry, hep, modern, conservative, heartless and so forth. What is not easy to put in words the ‘je ne sais quoi’ of every city and see it with that perspective.

Consider a piece of lush land between low rounded hills and a shallower inlet of the sea. Miles of mangroves blurring the distinction between the land and water and the whole scene reads like a page out of Tolkien’s epics. In the nineties denizens of Mumbai were confronted with the existence of such a piece of land lying east of the city, on the Indian mainland and they conspired to turn it into a city.

And this momentary deliberation is what makes New Bombay what it is. A planned city with the widest roads in this hemisphere. Railway lines with stations so near one can walk to and from them. Malls, theatres and shops confined to particular areas and homes in sectors. Sectors in nodes. It was all very novel and for the first few years after its conception the city lay barren with pockets of population stranded like some post-communist city. And with time all industries moved to Navi Mumbai (in a cruel mockery of the name change from Bombay to Mumbai, its sister followed suit). MIDC (Maharashtra Industrial development corporation) was established all over the hills, ironically with toxic companies having the best views. Come monsoon and all the unpaved roads become unofficial waterfalls with picnickers reveling in them.

Viewed from the eastern end of Mumbai, New Bombay has an impressive skyline, one that is tall, modern and spans the length of the city. Mangroves, buildings and the foothills of the western ghats in the distance.

Season

2009-05-19T14:48:00.002+05:30

Anyone who has lived in Bombay long enough can tell you when the rain won’t come. We are experts at predicting when it won’t happen. Come the last few days of May and all of humanity has had enough of the heat and the sweat. And of the dull monotony that stark afternoon sunlight brings. Mangoes have been consumed, the raw ones pickled. Juices with ice cubes floating in them had by the gallons to make the throat sick. The last few days of May are the summer that deprive us the joys of the season without affording its pleasures.

As reports of drizzles come in hopes turn heavenwards. The first of June is awaited with a fervor bordering on the religious, but like all other things Indian, the rains are late. Veterans then remark that the rains never arrive on the first, and that the one time they did come on that day, in the 50’s, the rest of the season was bad. “Monsoon hits Kerala” newspapers exclaim a few days into June and then the real countdown begins. Three Kasargode, five Uttar Kanara, seven Karwar, nine Goa. The wait becomes irresistible, unbearable and the rains seem sadistically within reach but away.

Vacationers will come back with tales of how they encountered a few stray showers on the ghats, or how their seaside weekend was spiced up by the sudden prattle of premature showers. And all we can do is sigh at their luck, and beseech the fan to miraculously cool us faster. A few more days of dogged heat and listlessness and then action suddenly comes to the backyard. “It rained in Uran yesterday” a Port trust official would blurt out, in the manner of revealing a state secret. “My cousin living in Panvel said that it s raining there now”, the bai would chip in excitedly. Reports would come in from seaside urbania all around Mumbai. Pen, Alibag, the ghats near Pune, the Ggats near Kalyan, Vashi.

Tomorrow. The experienced would nod their ascent. And paving the way for the anticipated tomorrow would be a day far stickier than any other day of the season. I never knew if it is really a meteorological phenomenon that makes the day hotter and more fetid or it is simply the minds preparation for a new season. The heat at its zenith, humidity at a naturally impossible hundred and the first could sighted. Like the climax of a movie life then moves in slow motion. The eye impatiently scans the skies for the pregnant clouds, but there are none to be found, and almost magically the clear sky turns murky, the smell of mud assaults long before the first drop wets the earth.

Like a slow orchestrated ritual culminating in a bedazzling climax the rains hit Bombay. As the dispossessed shriek and run headlong into the spray.

Exercise

2009-05-07T09:30:00.003+05:30

I woke up groggy and sleepless. A tangle of arms and legs greeted me. And slowly a head emerged from within. “Good morning beta, welcome home” Appa’s head said to me. Thinking myself to be in a surreal Kafkaesque dream, I promptly went back to sleep. Seconds later a leg landed on me, pushing all the wind out of me. “Sorry, I haven’t quite mastered this asana” again Appa’s head spoke to me. I opened my eyes fully and Amma stared at me, nothing unusual in it, except that she was upside down. Jet lag is funny I thought.

A few minutes later I was completely awake, although my body believed it was still ten time zones away. And I got a feel of the situation at home. “One must be healthy, we aren’t getting any younger you know”. The parents had discovered Yoga. What followed was a bewildered me being demonstrated a series of bodily positions I never believed possible, especially from the ones who had birthed me. Appa effortlessly rolled himself into a series of punctuation marks and enquired to my well being. On the other side of the room, Amma was breathing like a wounded rhinoceros. “Advanced Pranayama...good for the stomach you know” she said.

And the house was in the throes of extreme fitness. Mornings started with a pod of garlic. No wonder the milkman left, and the paper fellow doesn’t come in until nine I mused. Breakfast was a minimalistic fruity affair. Lunch was seasoned with queer strange smelling herbs. Dinner almost did not exist. Hedonistic I balked at such austereness. And craved for ghee dripping form edible surfaces. Instead I am supposed to do crunches. Something about me having a non-flat stomach.

Pah!. Homecoming.

* I am home for a vacation. And this is what happens.

Revolution

2009-04-07T04:55:00.000+05:30

Chaos theory will have us believe that small disturbances in a system will ripple through, magnifying themselves leading to one huge cataclysm. The bigger the system and the longer it takes for the smaller errors to accumulate. And after the big bang, the newer systems are generated with small errors of their own, which in time lead to further chaos. India was an idea crafted by politicians, visionaries. An impractical reality that somehow defied all laws of coherence and managed to stick as a coherent entity. Too many differences in the entities that constituted it. Most countries had a strong basis in language, religion, history or culture. Some were racially defined, some were remnants of large civilizations. India was all this and more. And none of this. Peoples of different colors and histories, strange languages and stranger antecedents. At time the only string holding the country together was its land mass and the sheer number of people.

Throughout the latter half of the nineteenth century Indians sought to gain common ground. Politics provided a great platform, the violence and dazzle luring all equally from Itanagar to Calicut. The onslaught of the middle class with similar values. The common feeling of battling poor infrastructure, violence and general chaos to reach the elusive higher plane. At the turn of the century it lay poised like a badly balanced airplane to take off into the future. And like a horrible aircraft , ill fated to reach the skies, it blew. And splintered into pieces. Like the body parts of the mythical Shakti, into several pieces, as it was since antiquity. India as a nation ceased to exist in 2035. Experts will point out several factors and reveal the imminence of that action. Some say it was to happen, some felt it to be an unnatural paradigm. Foreign hands, Gods, Religions, Colour and every possible prejudice were blamed in this fission. But reality lay splattered, a loose coalition of city-states and smaller principalities across the sub-continent.

And now each of these entities would be free of violence they thought. Bound by religion, culture or language exclusively. Some countries exclusively urban, some completely rural. Some spread out over large swathes of land, some confined to off shore islands and scanty mountaintops.

Circa 2009

Facebook and Orkut were merely tools. Sure they provided valuable connections now and then but that was about it. Six degrees of separation worked for once, in his favour. Combing the mists of the ancient past, searching through medieval rabble and trying to locate the future in the present chaos of modern India, his was a difficult task indeed. Especially the part of India he was supposed to work on.

Searching wasn’t easy. For one his search began around 1279 AD. And history wasn’t an easy pursuit. Like a temptress his destination moved across regions and countries. It changed languages and religions. And the messy proposition of caste. Which had oscillated no lesser than five times in 1500 years.

The task was fairly straightforward, to separate India into little nations. They were a large organization and had working teams, named in a cruel mockery of the Indian army. The Rajputanas would take care of Rajasthan, the Sikh regiment would create Khalistan. The Marathas would bring back their medieval glories and the Telengana dream of statehood went a step further to nationhood. Their team was nicknamed ‘Sangam’ signifying the lost Tamil age.

To bring back the glories of the Tamil nation, they needed a king. And not just anyone would do. So a meticulous search began. Looking through temple records, land deeds, properties and inheritances. Modern government databases, census data. Methodically sifted. Each demographic scanned and formulated. Large swathes of data residing as a muddle of names and places. It seemed hopeless at first but slowly a pattern began to emerge. And history, initially obfuscating, then slowly revealing patterns only to disappoint. Then letting out a little clue and piece by piece the jigsaw fell into place.

They had started with the Pandyans first, the last surviving Tamil kingdom. The lineage seemed straightforward enough till the fifteenth century where it ran into several errant progeny marrying in and out of religions. Invaders complicated the picture and the present day descendants would most likely be Indonesian. Or not. The Chera descendants were lost, over records and state boundaries. Eventually with time and meticulous research they had got to the inevitable.

Find the descendant of the Cholas. She survives.

Origin

2009-03-25T09:50:00.001+05:30

"So where did we come from?" I asked. And my grandmother gave me the old Iyer lady’s equivalent of a finger, proceeding to slurp her rasam with sudden gusto. Appa looked pointedly away at a spot on the wall, concentrating suddenly on it. For a family obsessed with its Iyer ness this was definitely off-beat. No one would admit how and when it happened, but it did. And its repercussions were felt even today in the later generations.

Like most protagonists of a certain age I had delved deeply into my family’s history and discovered certain truths, which no one was willing to explain. My parents are very liberal and open minded with regard to love marriages, as long as it is not me who is doing the loving. Somehow my grandmother and mother seem to harbor the notion that I am a stud-muffin of gargantuan proportions and that some harlot will seduce me into marrying her and swapping bodily fluids with her (probably just one point where mother-in-law and daughter-in-law agree, but I digress). So when I led a long and mostly inconclusive argument about our origins and trying to figure out if anyone had transgressed the noble traditions of arranged marriage within my family I stumbled upon it. The more I thought the more evidence I got. People, places, names, phrases, why even the Gods that adorned our pooja-room.

We have Telugu blood in our family I concluded. So did anyone in last century elope? I asked my grandmother and she shuddered. Did we have arranged marriage with other linguistic groups. I asked in chaste Marathi and Appa admonished me likewise, in unchaste Marathi. Mind your language Appa, but pray tell me how did this happen? No one, all arranged marriage only and grandma closed the topic with her air of finality.

As I staggered with my new found knowledge I looked for support. Evidence apparently didn’t count for enough. Our ancestral village was Anantapur AP, within its’ very heart. Far away from the Kaveri or any other water body associated with Tamizhness. Our clan-deity, Tirupati. All the ancestral property we would have had but for evil zamindars (this is often used to reiterate the supposed greatness of our lineage) was in what is present day Chitoor. But the one thing that clinches it: eat my grandmother’s thakkali thokku without steam emanating from your ears or sweat drenching your face. So I went from family member to family member in vain hopes of getting a past legitimate “love-marriage” so that I could now pursue my Assamese love with zeal and woo her.

“Telugu-Tamil all are same pa no difference” Ramudu mama said, licking avakka pickle off his fingers.

“In days of yore, everywhere south was Madras presidency; you don’t know anything about that” Shanta maami screamed taking a break from watching Gemini TV.

“Didn’t you learn Carnatic music, you numbskull, similar culture. All arranged” Subudu periapppa reiterated all the while tracking constituency boundaries across Telengana.

“No we aren’t Telugu, don’t get ideas in your head” Savitri chitti said, going off to fight with her borthers over a paddy field in Guntur.

“Lite teesko da” said my cousin smirking at my futile attempts.

I have decided. I shall woo my girl in Assamese style. I shall sing Bengali love songs from Charulata to her. I shall quench her thirst with tall glasses of lassi, feed her undhiyu and dance the lavni with her. We will ring in vishu and she shall pray for my long lasting life keeping vraths on karva chauth.

Jai hind!

Offence takers: Don’t take offence. No slights to Telugus (I am partly one). Or anyone else for that matter.

Pohe

2009-03-17T04:40:00.003+05:30

part 1 here

The following days saw a blur of people in Jag Jivan nagar. Sadhus, Mendicants and sahib’s men always, conferring, and plotting. The dattatrey temple that was the focus of the community was abuzz with talk of the next miracle and what the future portended. Men and women held forth on the significance of the God’s appearance at their humble abode. Every Friday evening as the suburban week drew to a close a small respite would be provided to the slum’s residents too. It was movie night. Every week, a movie would be screened at the ground where everyone gathered to worship their screen Gods. This week saw the screening of “ Jai Shakumbhari Ma” (The goddess of vegetables and fruits), a potboiler featuring the right mix of sex and devotion, each facet carefully existing in its own domain designed to please the masses with their equally strong appeal. After the short movie all the week’s happenings were neatly encapsulated by one of sahib’s more talkative men. He also promised a ‘happening’ and of a sacrifice needed to be made to appease the God (Ramlal, who owned two goats involuntarily shuddered).

Sunday in the slum was cricket day. Kids would crown around the ground where the teens played. Competition was fierce and most men dropped in to watch, reading newspapers, squatting to shit, making deals or simply wiling time away. Teams were a mix of both religions for obvious reasons as decreed by the slumlords. Apart from that all other rules were flexible. It was a community gathering of sorts with women sending over their meager fare to each other and a general feeling of Goan sosegado settled over the huts. A week after Sakhubai’s find however, the Sunday routine was interrupted.

“A right trunked Ganpati is not a coincidence and he needs to be appeased sufficiently so as to not incur his wrath” screamed the mendicant cutting a resplendent picture in his saffron robes and all his paraphernalia. The sahib was there too, listening respectfully. Most of the slum dwellers were from Konkan and Ganpati figured high in their priorities of life. All listened agog. A few more minutes of religious preaching later Saheb took over. He was gifted as a speaker, that’s what got him votes twice every decade. As Saheb spoke, the entire populace seemed to be under his spell, his words exhorting them, pleading with them and beseeching them. He would speak in their rustic dialect of Marathi, suddenly switching to high poetic language. He would crack jokes in hindi and come back to pray in Marathi and as he spoke he cleverly wove the words in. For the Right facing god, of righteousness as a blessing and a sacrifice he asked for them to give up their houses.

Most would have been stunned but his entreating baritone kept them riveted. As an atonement for their, nay his and their sins. It was simple. All they had to do was to move to the ‘right’ side of the slum the green side, the other side. At this the slum erupted. And it took all of the man’s efforts to keep the audience calm. Sahib effortlessly fielded questions and arguments. It was the same slum, just the other side. He would build a new temple there apart from the one here. No, no communal violence would be involved. In fact moving to the other side, he guaranteed legitimizing the slums. No Khairnar would come rumbling at odd hours to grind their dwellings to dust. Children would have a proper address to write on their letters. No it wasn’t possible to legitimize this side of the slum because the land was already owned by some organization.

The promise of legitimate housing, with the religious lure of doing the right thing was slowly turning the residents around. What of Salim Khan? The mafia lord who held sway over the Muslim half of the slum? Salim Khan was in fact at that very moment convincing the other half of the slum to move to the left side. Nothing would change he assured his people and his men would make sure everyone moved into huts which were of the same size, no one would be cheated and certainly no one would get an advantage. The slum would remain the same, the people same only saffron and green would diffuse and seep to the other sides. Smoothly. The current Hindu side was owned by Asra Inc, who had decided to donate the land as zakat by its righteous chairman, Mr Salil Quereshi. Legitimizing homes for them there would be no problem. A new mosque would be built and the current one would continue to function too.

The next week was a frenzied sequence of days, nights and noons all marked with discussions. Sahib threw open his home for harried families, they were welcome to drop in any time they desired to talk. His wife was there too gently talking, making things clearer. More importantly they welcomed guests with food and beverages. Saheb himself opened casks of ‘imported daaru’ for the more rambunctious men at night. Tai attended all night sessions convincing the ladies to move, home hearth et all. Salim Khan on the other side spent an equally hectic week doing the same. Slowly even the inflexible relented and the great move started.

It happened in phases, and henchmen were always available to carry across meager possessions. As the populace settled in each was given a token sum of Rs 51/- and a document with the person’s name stating that the legalization process was started. Over two weeks Jag Jivan nagar frothed, fermented, moved, restlessly mingled and resettled. Small disturbances did occur, and fights broke out but were diffused in minutes. Sahib was always there pulling strings and occasionally dealing a stern hand, smiling, scolding and making the move possible. Ramlal the goat owner was discovered to have two establishments, both with 4 children each as the wives proceeded to battle it out for the bigger house. Apart from the catfight and the entertainment it had provided the moving was mostly smooth.

Sakhubai woke up to the cawing of crows just as dawn was breaking. Forcing her arthritic joints into action she rushed to fill her lota to reach the loo before the men took over at seven. Ablutions over, she busied herself in making tea as Surekha came, empty lota wildly swinging. Both women sat to drink bitter tea, chewing on meager onion pohe and readying for the days travails. Not much had changed for them. Up above the slum, in his 14^th floor apartment Saheb smiled as he drank his bitter tea. And as he breakfasted on pohe he allowed himself to smile. He had never believed the move to be possible but he had done it.

“Constitutional boundaries to change after 30 years” the newspapers had screamed and Saheb had nearly had a heart attack that day as he discovered that his part of Jag Jivan nagar would now go to Salim Khans constituency. A day of tense sweating and serious number crunching later he had decided that he could not afford to lose Jag Jivan Nagar. It was crucial to him and had single handedly sent him to the parliament five times. Sahib did not know the meaning of gerrymandering but he knew what it could do to him now. He needed to act and his mind was on overdrive, desperately looking for a solution. Money could be thrown but what could redraw constitutional borders? As he had pondered it one evening his maid Surekha, rushed out saying that some potato that was right-trunked had miraculously appeared in her neighbour Sakhubai’s house. That was all the push his maverick mind had needed.

The move secured Saheb’s vote bank and sent him thumping into the parliament for a sixth time.

The title is because Chai and Pohe are the typical maharashtrian breakfast, transcending all barriers of class and religion. I could imagine both Saheb and Sakhubai partaking of it.

Kindly bear with my attempt to make a story of a flimsy idea. I haven’t executed it to my satisfaction and excuse any errors. Do be amazed though. Anything is possible in India.

And as for the potato, it carefully rested in a wooden casket, on a velvet sheet and surrounded by incense, in Fatima Bibi’s house. Carefully hidden from outside in the folds of her muslin sarees where it seemed to relish the madness of human life teeming outside.

Chai

2009-03-10T07:24:00.000+05:30

Sakhubai almost tripped over it. She let out a small curse and looked down and at once she saw that it wasn’t a normal potato. It had a tiny protuberance the shape of a trunk. Turned neatly to the right. ”Ganpati Bappa Morya” she exclaimed loudly, hoped the lord hadn’t heard her cursing and rushed to her house all the while loudly exclaiming. The whole slum was within her house in minutes. A small pooja was immediately conducted to secure blessings and the shapely potato occupied centre stage in her modest hut, appropriately anointed with sandal, kumkum and strewn with flowers. A small trickle of people portly women were praying devoutly. The appearance of a Ganesha provided for a much needed break in Jag Jivan nagar. The nearest festival was months away, the heat had already begun to stifle. For most denizens of this slum in north Mumbai, highs on the cruel plot of life were such, and interspersed amidst a grim, penurious existence.

Jag Jivan nagar was divided into two halves by a large gutter with one bridge. It wasn’t always like that but after the riots in 1993, the police, the politicians and the mafia lords had felt it prudent to divide so that trouble could be contained. One half became Hindu with a temple and a saffron flag atop it. The other half obviously was Muslim. Mosque, prayers, minarets, Id. The dividing gutter was a stinky black morass of plastic bags, human excreta and sewage from the apartment complexes around. It was also only during holi that the gutter actually saw secularism, its blackness lost in a sea of gulal and shimmering silver pellets. Most areas of Mumbai are similar in hiding a dank slum behind the glamorous façade of sky scrapers. For every building sweeping cobwebs off the sky, a real cobweb of teeming enterprise and life existed. Vegetable vendors, domestic help, rickshawallahs and the mass of humans that made for the smooth running of suburban lives.

Fatima Bibi heard of the tuberous manifestation of God. It was time to pray Sakhubai a visit. She too worked as domestic help, as did most of the women in the slum. In a time polarized by religion Fatima was proof of blurring boundaries and mixing colours. Just to be safe though she would go in the night, in a saree. Just in case. With the elections in sight flare ups were common and deep down she felt the appearance of the potato wasn’t a mere accident. But Ganpati she prayed to. And she would go. It was dark when Fatima reached the other side. Slowly she crept up the lane and saw lengthy shadows outside. Shadows of Hindu caps and a trident even. She saw a typical profile and instantly slunk backwards. Saheb was visiting the Ganpati.

Saheb stood tall in his starched kurta, bowed down gently. He had heard of the miracle only some time ago, in his own land and one of his own people and had romptly rushed. A Ganpati with the trunk towards the right! As the evening shadows lengthened Saheb had arrived with his men all around. He looked grim, almost angry as he pushed his way through to Sakhubai’s hut. His wife, Tai was attired in all her Maharashtrian splendor and had an aarti plate with her. Husband wife made a great show of praying and devotion. At once led by his men a spirited rendition of the Ganpati aarti ensured. The spectacle of the Ganpati aarti in Maharashtra is not an ordinary one. The words and the tempo, along with cymbals clanging lend a spirit and a unique high. Ganpati ceases to be a pleasant benign God then, and at once becomes a terrifying avatar, a true destroyer of obstacles. A vanquisher of all evil. A beacon of hope from all dreariness and as suddenly after the crescendo, Sakhubai snapped out of the trance with the last few notes.

The next morning dawned muggy and pregnant. Sakhubai’s home no longer remained a home. It was thronging with people, Sahebs men. Why the Saheb himself had come to pay his respects. After the cursory aarti, he had even touched her feet. Asked for her blessings, she was destined for greatness one mentioned. Several praised her fates and cursed theirs. A right-trunked Ganpati is more demanding it was said. Mere poojas and aartis wouldn’t do many added. Sakhubai was mainly confused, scared and realized that the potato and God no longer figured in the scheme of things. Something greater was brewing.

to be continued…

What the...

2009-02-27T08:50:00.002+05:30

Roommate (RM): Dude, I need to talk to you
Me: yeah? (did I forget the rent?)
RM: er…well its
Me: Anything important?
RM: No, no…it’s just that…you need to watch yourself
Me: ? (??)
RM: Well, I’ll come to the point, you keep saying fuck that’s not good
Me: ? What? (what the F...oh no!!)
RM: Well you keep saying the ‘f word’ in front of everyone so, especially in front of the girls
Me: oh…so? (Still confused)
RM: Well, if you keep saying it, then the girls will want to say it too…I mean they might pick up this habit from you. So
Me: eh?
RM: Well, it’s not good for our girls to say fuck and such things and we have to take care of all that so.

I refrain from saying anything. After all I have been effectively silenced. I leave it to my perceptive readers to comment.

Encyclopedia Geographica

2009-02-20T05:26:00.001+05:30

Most families discuss politics at dinner. Some well read ones bandy about famous words, and talk of Rushdie and Khalil Gibran. Still others watch soaps and grin at the vamp’s evil machinations. In my family, we talk. But none of that normal stuff for us. Being the dysfunctional unit that we are we talk geography. If this conjures up visions of people talking of Darfur and Patagonia, again dispel those. Let me elaborate.

Appa or Amma will start with where they went that day. The travelling spouse’s modes of transport would be acutely examined and then a long and protracted discussion would occur. Major roads would be discussed, the number of signals computed. The number of panwallahs, gutters to be navigated and the closest relatives abode from the point of destination would all be taken into consideration. Then the weather comes in. Mumbai being what it is, and more importantly where it is, you wouldn’t want to be flushed away in the rains. Hence all previous parameters would be voided in the face of the south western winds and newer, drier routes plotted.

Hinduism neatly divides the year into two halves, one replete with festivals, the other conspicuous by their absence. Travelling secular Mumbai in dakhshinayan compounds life. Amidst all the mandaps, mandals, makeshift temples and human detritus thronging them appointments must be made, offices reached on time and examinations be vomited upon. This is where we really excel. Sample this actual quote by my father to a bewildered rikshawallah: “Don’t take the left at the Church like you normally do, instead take a U-turn, immediately get into the housing society, pass through it and leave form the other gate. Never mind their watchman ill take care of him (!). Then get into the bus depot, circle the lake, go the opposite direction through that one-way and you will see a small gap between two trees, go through that, and you will be the first to reach the station today. Don’t thank God, thank me, and you will live to see another traffic jam”. Needless to say rickshaws avoid us like the plague.

Bandhs and political stirs leave all people scared and wary. My parents call too, but with detailed instructions on reaching back avoiding all the ‘political hotspots’ of the city (usually involving walking alongside stinky gutters, trespassing through several plots of private property and in one case, going through a tabela. No the cows weren’t pleased either).

Records, inevitably are set. “My husband can reach the mall under heavy traffic in a matter of seconds” Amma will proudly boast. In a benevolent mood she might even confide “We take a right turn at the vegetable market. Cuts 13.7 minutes, but watch out for cabbage peels.” These candid confessions sometimes lead to us bumping our rival families on one of ‘our’ secret routes leading my parents to froth at the mouth and devise newer, faster (and decidedly shadier) routes. We could give Google Earth a run for their money any day!

Talents rarely stay hidden and we are the local neighborhoods preferred database. Recently my father went a step further and lectured a cousin on how to find her way. Nothing wrong in it except that she was in Chennai and he in Mumbai. “Don’t listen to that autofellow, no train comes at that level crossing, just go across and you’ll reach home in time for dinner”. I was stumped. Amma, unfazed added for good measure that if my cousin took a particular lest turn she could pass by a temple too (and thank God for geographic mastermind relatives?).

All this knowledge isn’t gainsay. We have an original Rand Mc Nally atlas 1985 edition. It is a work of art no less. Mapping the entire globe form Cambodia to the Caucasus, Buenos Aires to Bangkok (with helpful footnotes on how to get to Juneau from Jakarta). The bloody thing must weigh a ton if anything at all. Then there are countless Indian atlases, from various publications. Also every time we take a vacation, as souvenirs we collect maps. So we have maps of almost all major Indian cities, two towns and some vague scribbles detailing a hidden Shiva temple a few kilometers off the railway tracks at Arakkonam. And then Appa bring maps from his sojourns abroad. So I know the way to wadi Haifa from Sharjah, and that the river through Gloffhausenbach has no bridges on it (leading me to pontificate if all Germans prefer wading to walking, but there is a time and place for every discussion). The digital age taught us to operate Google maps and latest versions of Google Earth are downloaded as soon as they are available.

A few weeks ago, I saw Amma reading a book on the Solar system (National Geographic special edition, weighs another ton and is a beautifully informative book). Houston, be scared. We are almost up there. “Beam me up Amma”

Cadence

2009-02-16T06:59:00.001+05:30

Red room presence requested now the message blinked. All round the room there was a flurry of activity. Samir woke up from his deep revere and blinked stupidly, all the others were already on their way. M was there with his ubiquitous sheaf of papers.

Sarika Khanna was trained in espionage. Tall, fair with hazel eyes, every time M looked at her he felt a surge of testosterone. Ususally she prowled Chandini chowk in salwar-kameez, speaking unchaste Punjabi, on her activa.

Aman Khan. Liaison officer. Hard to believe that the soft spoken man could stop hardcore gangsters in their tracks. His Arabic was a definite asset in these troubled times, especially when most trouble stemmed from the near west. It always irked M how it was the ’Middle East’, even though it was clearly to the west. But then lots of things had irked M more lately.

Vani Ganapathy. Msc Physics, IISc. halfway through her Phd. M picked her up noting her extreme analytical skills, would she like to work for the country’s think tank? Sure…did it exist though? Over pav bhaji and lassi he explained to her the intricacies of the organization. How the CBI and the government had created it, sometime in the 60’s. It was hard to believe that even in a country as corrupt and as underdeveloped there existed a think tank to rival any nation’s. Some of the country’s finest brains, heavy funding (some of it illegal, M smirked as he thought of all he had done) and the governments unending support, they had established it. In the mess that is old Delhi, in one of its many ancient mazes was a house no 14 approachable only by scooter and within an seemingly innocuous home lay some of the most sophisticated piece of computers the country had ever seen.

Shruti Deshpande. Weilded the rolling pin and a gun with equal ease. The team loved her food, she loved to cook. She churned out exotic dishes with alarming regularity and most team successes were celebrated at her South Delhi pad.

Samir Sinha. IIT Kanpur. IIM Ahemdabad. No one knew more about contemporary India more than he. With his vast knowledge and experience in espionage he was more the father everyone looked up to. The world often failed to realize just how deeply India was involved. Often it projected itself as a struggling third world nation occasionally throwing out a Pokhran or a Chandrayaan at the world news, a few inches in some papers. Foolish pop-fiction had glorified Jason monk, failing to point out to the quiet Raj’s and Shalini’s laboring away for Indian (and sometimes world) safety. 9/11, the capture of Laden (M’s smile would often turn into a laugh, whenever he thought of this) the eventual liberation of Myanmar planned, the dealing of LTTE, life went on (it was her birthday next week, he had to buy her a gift how would she like the head of the b****** responsible for the Mumbai blasts?).

Shrouds

2009-02-10T07:49:00.004+05:30

"So we broke up. I mean it wasn't so much breaking up as..it dint work out ok "
I nodded sagely. The mall around buzzed with activity. Young lovers held hands, leery youths looked on partly intrigued, partly repulsed. Fat aunties splurged their husbands assets seeming to be hep and an anachronistic chaatwaala pushing his cart settled in front of Mocha. She carelessly brushes her hair off her face and looked again. I was listening, coz this was the first time she was willing to talk about it. they had been the envy of the college. She the babe of chiffon dreams, he the life of every mehefil. He wooed her bollywood style, she left him hollywood style. Like a 1920's actress, tormented. Seeking deliverance.

She has always been some sort of an enigma. Not in the girly way and. No femme fatale buisness for her. simply put a mystery. In all those years of friendship none of us knew where exactly she lived, what her parents did (her behaviour most likely suggested a super dysfunctional one). She never asked for love nor gave any away. He was free to woo her and she was free to indulge in him. She did so. And then she gave it all away in a disinterested way.

He drinks like a fish now. Apparently. Smokes till ethereal smoke consume him. In that darkness of tears and the sweat of his weariness only she resonates. And yet in that chaos that one calls Bombay, they met at the local station and looked gravely. Held hands and caught together that fast local to the sunset.

PS:
I havent been smoking anything. True friend. True story. I tried to recreate the mood of the moment. I think its safe to say I have failed miserably.

One

2009-02-03T05:24:00.006+05:30

Today is one year since I started blogging. And hence, it is time for the mandatory reminiscence post. I could talk about a year gone by and how seasons fly and all that. I could talk about drafts sitting about, words waiting for release. Of songs and singing, of geographical mishaps and maamis. Of temples, travels and meetings. I could unleash a flurry of cheap jokes or write something really profound (both of which I am capable of).

And then again I don't feel like writing about any of these things, which is precisely why I am doing this whimsical post, hoping that if I linger on those drafts long enough, I won’t have to write them.

Every year leaves its mark in various ways. Some mysterious, some blindingly obvious. And being humans it is a must for us to age and to learn. Make newer mistakes and get over older ones. Fall in love, fall out of it, and go through the entire gamut of emotions (dont' try this alone at home though). As clichéd as it may seem, writing this mush-ridden post is good. Or so I tell myself.

I have always been writing. I wrote for newspapers (my finest hour), wrote for trashy publications, worded pamphlets for Shantala cooking classes and have written introductions for babas and God-maamis. And publicity shy that I am (Ya right!), I never thought of blogging at all. T'was a fine cold day of -17 when she persuaded me to blog, she would have gladly got a gun to my head but a few thousand miles saved me then. She was to whom I cribbed about my blogging ambitions and the Einstein that she is, she created the blog, sent me the URL and left me to post. Thanks are in due. Also to him, My fiercest critic, foulweather friend and intellectual blogger himself.

Thinking back in time and getting a little philosophical this blog couldn’t have happened at a better time. Instead of being a Tom-Riddlesque diary for my misplaced feelings it has turned out rather fine I think. I have read some great stuff in other blogs and rather surprisingly made great friends, got me in touch with some older ones and made my ancient grandfather click his way here to read whatever the hell I write.

So here's to a year of blogging, wishing for more to come and lots more to read.
Cheers!

Paper Planes

2009-01-27T19:52:00.003+05:30

Most suited when one is driving on the I-93. There comes a moment, precisely one, when the city looms over. Vehicles streaming into adjacent lanes. The cold air nipping through. The rough sea and calm skies with the sunlight bouncing off them skyscrapers onto your face and suddenly you’re underground. From up above, descending steeply into subterrainia. Speed. Lights. And a time flows liquid like, in slow motion as a million lights flash past by.

No bohemian atmosphere. Prudish and not ashamed of its intelligence. The subways teem of students reading Neitzsche and Proakis. Taking the “T”, walking among buildings whose collective intellect could shame some entire nations. Looking out the seafront, walking the freedom trail. Losing yourself in the north end among cobblestoned paths and ancient houses. Freezing in the cold longing for vendakkai curry and digging into hot clam chowder at Quincy market. Walking through its numerous squares with a gaping mouth, taking it all in. Looking down at the city from the Prudential tower at the brilliant autumn foliage. Cheesecake at Copley square. Gourmet Indian food at backbay. For a relatively young nation, this city oozes history. And snobbish aristocracy.

Suburbia is eye piercingly beautiful. Suburbs have no right to be so. Lakes with roads cutting through them, almost apologetically. Streams and forests. Homes, schools, malls are extremely incidental.

Cities like Mumbai and New York are made of real stories. Of grit and struggle and of hard life. These cities command a sometimes silent, sometimes bloody struggle and compensate magnificently. None of that shit here. No immigrants looking wishfully at plenty. No gangsters and pimps, certainly no one smuggling stuff into its exceedingly cold harbor. One is born rich, becomes only richer and dies in a golden grave. Buried amidst oaks and holly, on the Charles riverside.

Elitist. Cold. Old. Home for the past three months, and maybe for the next five. Boston, MA.

*Paper planes- ARR, Slumdog millionaire. Listen to it. More importantly, watch the movie. A lesson on how to laugh, cry, be shocked and be amazed. More importantly, a lesson on Mumbai.

Ambrosia

2009-01-21T07:53:00.005+05:30

Circa 4.30 pm. A cold Mumbai day.

K: “Outside my office in an hour”

Me: “Roger”

I started the piece of junk my bike had become and parked outside the station. Had a nimbu-paani just before I got in. At Durga’s. Set up by an enterprising housewife outside the local train station, slaking the thirst of a million commuters since 1975. Tickets in place and the 4.31 CST fast. K’s office in 25 mins sharp.

Khau galli in Ghatkopar is a small lane. Full of stuff to eat, obviously. All illegal carts parked flush with great food. The Gujrati palate meets South Indian. Half a kilometer of pure hedonism.

“1 Jain spring dosa and we’ll leave ok man?”

“Sure”

And we take Best bus 385 in the aftermath of the Jain delicacy to Sion circle.

Sion Circle is a circle. Surrounded by decrepit businesses, 3 restaurants all of which are mysteriously called Peninsula and the Cinemax theatre. Printing presses and small businesses thrive. S joins us there in all her bohemian glory. Kurti. Purani jeans.Cigarette and a sheaf of papers. Always the girl carries those mysterious papers. I wonder.

L calls and says she will be 10 minutes late. We wisely take that to be an hour and proceed.

Cutting chai at the tapri. Awesome.

“Let’s take a taxi to Matunga circle I say in a moment of inspired lukkhagiri”. They acquiesce.

Lounging around Matunga circle is very pleasant. Matunga circle feels right, anytime of the year. Old buildings look disapprovingly at newer towers. Maamis mingle with Bawas and trees overshadow humans. All round great places of learning (VJTI, UDCT) and tons of other not do great places abound, with their inexorable campuses. Mumbai was a surprising 20˚C that day. Browsing second hand books under wide peepal trees, politely haggling to buy books and a relaxed filter kaapi at Madras café.

“Oooh…lets go to the temple” S says. “It’s been ages since I went to one”

The Asthika Samaj stands in Matunga, a former tam-brahm bastion perhaps as a testimony to more peaceful times in Mumbai. It’s very south Indian, from the gopuram to the flower vendors mouthing invectives in unchaste Tamil outside. Inside, S outdoes herself by correctly recognizing 3 Gods and we are rewarded for her religiousness by hot dollops of chakkara pongal by the priest. Lucky day!

Out again and this time R and C join us. R is very very hep and frowns upon us for having eaten at all the aforementioned “sad” places. C is meeting a friend at garnish for notes. We all giggle. C admonishes us, chastises us and proceeds to blush when a hunk of a man hand her ‘notes’ to her. Meanwhile K and S are gobbling dabelis outside at a cart as I pounce to bite my rightful share.

“Philistines” R announces.

L calls “Yaar yahaan koi nahin hai! Kahaan ho tum log?”

Oops. L is politely asked to come to Matunga. She politely replies (as polite as a string of four letter words across three languages can sound), and finally agrees.

7.00 pm and all of us finally outside New Yorkers. Facing bad bosses, personal prejudices, exams, placements, errant moms, global warming and other such vagaries finally we managed to meet at the same time. In we go and do what we do best. Eat.

“I’m not having this Jain pasta. What Rubbish ya”

“Oooh look look chocolate fondue!”

“Thu parakkadhe...saniyane!”

Hour and a half later, with bursting bellies we tumble out, laughing raucously.

“Desserts?”

7/11 near Matunga station. Ice Cream.Bliss.

And like most meetings conversation had almost staled. We needed alcohol and since Murphy was our patron God, we couldn’t find any. So the awesome day ended with a pursuit of cheap alcohol. Ashish beer bar, Roshni deshi Daru and Laxmi wines later all we had managed was a little beer. Split among five (C lectured again). Time to say goodbye. S took a western line fast train. R borrowed fistfuls of notes form all of us and took a cab. C whistled for her chauffeur and magnanimously decided to drop L. K dropped me at Ghatkopar station and I hesitated a little before I plunged into a crowded fast train, heading homewards.

In the train I thought a lot. Of the awesome food I had had. More about the people I had them with who had changed through the years, yet stayed same in essence. More importantly I thought about the city that had fed us. The city that has seen us grow, fall, stumble. Love, burp, eat, puke and sweat. The city that in all its doom could not stop its benevolence. The city of tired nights, weary days and crowded noons. Of spicy chaats, dirty iced golas, filling vada-paos nurturing the immigrant. Seaside cotton candy, corn in the rains and pizza by the bay, with jazz. Wine soirees and beer drinking binges. Pav bhaji with chikoo milkshake in the rains. Mumbai in all its infinite gastronomic glory.

11pm.

Thoughts flew as I was pushed onto my destination by harried people and the station was awash with vegetable vendors selling wares at half price. Getting rid of stuff before they too caught the last local home. I got a bunch of badishop in a Rupee. I delicately plucked them enjoying the taste as I burped and kicked my bike to life.

January musings

2009-01-01T11:16:00.003+05:30

Happy new Year all. I'm home. And i shall not dispense with needless adjectives to describe it. It is as all homecomings are. A mixture of feelings and mostly the anticipation of awesome food. Today as I was digging into my computer I came across classics (kuan ma, page 3; deewane by the awesomely awesome shweta shetty; lootela ... the likes) . I also found several things in my hidden folders (not that I have anything to hide, windows just creates them meaninglessly) and I shall post one of my earliest writings from there, for the benefit of my intrepid readers.

Here goes

Rain

It was more sudden than the most sudden thing one could think of. One second it was swelteringly hot, sweatily oppressive, a world of shimmering concrete, and just a nanosecond later it began to rain. Even before I could soak up the smell of mud, or rejoice in the coming of the monsoon, I realized I had not a scrap of anti-rain clothing with me, and sprinted to a nearby bus-stop. Unfortunately, half of my city’s population was in the same predicament and had the same idea, so I found myself a wee bit cramped. The bus stop, which had never been used as one before, (people here just wait around aimlessly, and when the bus arrives, there’s some sort of a mini-stampede cum id’ kill you to get in type scuffle) was suddenly home to about twenty-five of us, all in various degrees of wetness…

There was the bone dry man…he belonged to that rare breed of people who can sprint in the rain without getting wet. My idol, maybe because I get drenched even in a washbasin. Then there was the anxious human, ready with a half-unfurled umbrella, pants rolled, cellphone carefully wrapped in his handkerchief, prepared to beat the rains at its own game, staring at the sky with part awe, and part worry. Occupying the driest corner was a large family. The men stood in a protective circle around the women and children, resembling a herd of wildbeest on the African savannah, and all of them were eating noisily passing snacks from one end of their circle to the other. Their brats, unmindful of nature’s vagaries, were engaged in various activities and without much ado bawled, screeched and made enough noise to make you wish you were born deaf. The rest were a motley crowd of office going women, jamming cellular networks by frequently calling home barking thousand confused instructions to their children, ranging from the mundane “shut all the windows, no I don’t care if you suffocate, I’m not going to have pools of water everywhere” to the slightly bizarre “its raining, throw away all the food and start stringing the hall with clotheslines”

Our peaceful existence in the bus stop however, was rudely interrupted by a troika of ‘babes’, snobs, right down to their branded heels (sounding something like shooing a dog away). The babes cursed the rain, the clouds, and their fate (I just got my hair permed! Drat this *swear word* rain…What? Why do farmers want it to rain?) .Another one was seeing a bus stop for the first time”What’s this structure? Isn’t it cute? I’m going to ask papa to build one for us in the balcony”. Their leader had the sense to keep her cellphone dry and was frantically trying to reach her driver…The uncles of the large family had stopped crunching chips, stopped minding their little brats and were unabashedly looking at the ‘babes’. Their wives sensed the danger. Gathering their various children they began glaring at the babes, hard enough to burn a hole right through one of the babe’s freshly permed hair (which suspiciously resembled a wig, the girl’s tense expression and precarious demeanour only fuelled doubts).Working women’s association weren’t too pleased either, and began issuing a fresh set of instructions home “don’t get out unless you are wearing a burkha…”

By now everyone was getting fidgety, the intrepid slowly ventured out, and then began moving about, the safe ones decided to wait… Meanwhile a big car pulled up, as one of the babes uttered a shriek and ran pell-mell into it. The other two followed suit, looking immensely relieved. Slowly the rains abated. The world looked clean, and fresh. I stepped out, leaving behind me the human exhibition the bus-stop had become, with the delicious realization of the rains having arrived…

Minutes later, as the sun shone, the bus stop was deserted…as if it had never housed people in it.

Yuletide joy

2008-12-20T04:38:00.003+05:30

The sun shone in the mellow way that it sometimes does. It was a cold morning and a little boy was excited. For this was the day Santa brought gifts! He had carefully hung out socks and an old muffler. They did not possess stockings and mittens, in fact,he actually had no idea what a mitten was. Since he was only eight, we excuse him for thinking it was some kind of a kitten. He just hoped that Santa would accept a sock and a muffler as a suitable receptacle for placing goodies.

Vimalambal woke early. It was margazhi, the holy month and it was said that getting up early would ensure a spot in Vaikuntha. She was getting old and did not want to take any chances. Savitri, her arch rival had most conveniently expired on a holy day and if savitri was in heaven, then by hell (pun unintended) she was going there too.Plus It was Vaikuntha Ekadasi. After her bath, she mumbled prayers and fiddled for the light switch in the hall and her hand hit something.

"Aiyyo" . Her screams woke the entire household. Appa thought she had fallen and broken her hip. Amma chastised appa for thinking that way and guessed (rightly) that some blasphemy had occurred. "I have touched socks..Which fool has placed them here? Chah..im all impure now! fie fie*"

A few strong cups of coffee later the mystery was cleared. I was reading to many Enid Blyton's and in all my naivete had believed Santa mama to come bearing gifts. Also I have never seen my parents laugh so hard. Ever. The events also sparked off a series of cheap jokes on me and socks. To this day it rankles. Most children rejoice at the thought of Christmas. I cower in fear of lame jokes and people dangling socks under my nose (smelly ones at that).

To be fair to Vimalambal (name changed to protect identity) and the others, I shall narrate this too. Later in the day she called her grandson and gave him a 100 rupee note. for Christmas, from Santa mama. His parents also got him gifts. Awww..happy family moment. His parents also later discreetly cautioned him against getting such ideas during Easter. He was expressly forbidden to get eggs of any sort, lest Viamlambal throw a royal, purple fit.

*replaced. This is a family-friendly place. And words uttered by old ladies sometimes put the most reprobate to shame, notwithstanding holy months or days.

I Need To Know!!

2008-12-13T23:12:00.006+05:30

A person without thoughts is not a possibility. The thoughts may be redundant, silly, stimulating, destructive..anything but, thoughts they are! We think about multifarious things in a day. Thoughts triggered by different events, with a varied essence and of varying magnitudes.
According to me Maslow's Pyramid of needs helps in answering a lot of questions which are physiological and psychological in nature. It can help each of us identify the pattern of our thoughts.

Maslow's hierarchy of needs consists of five levels: the four lower levels are grouped together as being associated with Physiological needs, while the top level is termed growth needs associated with psychological needs. Deficiency needs must be met first. Once these are met, seeking to satisfy growth needs drives personal growth. The higher needs in this hierarchy only come into focus when the lower needs in the pyramid are satisfied. If a lower set of needs is no longer being met, the individual will temporarily re-prioritize those needs by focusing attention on the unfulfilled needs, but will not permanently regress to the lower level.

So when we actually reach the stage of self-actualization we are apparently materially and emotionally satisfied individuals.

Of the last few months I can visualize myself as an animated stick figure trekking up the learning curve of my organization, Maslow's hierarchy and life on the whole. After a lot of analysis I figured I think I'm in the "Need to Know and Understand" segment.

So where do you think you figure in the hierarchy of needs??

P.S: Cross posted from my other blog, Life is above it all.

Sheer brilliance

2008-12-10T08:50:00.009+05:30

We have been tagged. By a veteran blogger, close friend and a humourous-psychotic-cranberry eating-song sending maniac. So we have no choice but to accept it. After all in the scheme of things that is the blogosphere we are but an insignificant blimp (as opposed to him, a minor celebrity). So we accept graciously.

But whats more pleasing than something to blog about is the reception of an award. Its not everyday that one gets to boast about being called most brilliant.

We is happy :) :D and slightly delusional.

The rules of the tag are: Post 5 links to 5 of your previously written posts. The posts have to relate to the 5 key words given (family, friend, yourself, your love, anything you like). Tag 5 other friends to do this meme. Try to tag at least 2 new acquaintances (if not, your current blog buddies will do) so that you get to know them each a little bit better.

Family: They're crazy. They're a hoot and are mostly inadvertently so.I really haven't even begun to write about all the stuff that goes on, but all of them make for posts tagged as humour, satire, and such many varying platitudes. This is an example of things they usually do. This, however was written after much anguish. A rare time no family should have to go through.

Friend: A category that's suddenly expanded to include lot more people. More craziness. Most of my blogroll.The beginning of it all. A rare breed of inspiring friends here.

Yourself: Not much here. Or then, my entire blog. My posts are a very good indicator of what I'm feeling currently and whats eating my mind most. So there.

Your love: No talking here. Simply
one
two
three

Anything you like: I suspect this category has been included for the express purpose of shameless self publicity. But then that's what the whole tag manages to do. Oh well. Here go. What I call parent-friendly swearing. And one of my personal favourates.

We are also supposed to tag few more. Basically make them link around their blog (yawn!). We are also giving out to the award to the same people (so that we dont have to choose and be accused of favouratism later). I call brilliant swatimala, elusive, liberal and chocoliciousgal. Newcomer fat-gujju can just do the tag and feel happy.

PS: I am most peeved. humourous and favourates are underlined in red by blogger.

Time

2008-12-07T17:49:00.001+05:30

The earphones fit perfectly for a change, snugly, warm and comforting in my ears.

I reached into my pocket and turned up the volume of my iPod. Dido began to sing a little louder than one second ago.

'no white flag, above my door'
oh no baby, I thought, no white flag.

'...go down with the ship...'
indeed you will, and so will I.

Walking through the aisle, I looked at the passengers on both sides. They stared back mat me scared, faces pale and it struck me a little funny. I positioned myself and began my performance, I'd rehearsed my lines well and knew I would kill it. I realised though, that I was talking a bit too loudly, like headphon'ed' people normally do.

Same can be said true for people with 2 Kg RDX trapped on their bodies. One of my two brothers was done with the praying and he tapped me on the shoulder saying that it was my turn.

I walked into the pilot's cabin and sat in the co-pilot's chair. I smiled at the pilot's blood streaked face which radiated hate at me like a brilliant heater, the kinds we could ony dream of back home on cold winter nights. I sat there looking at the clouds, Strato Cumuls the passanger next to me had called them and the cities standing tall and far far away.

Not for long though.

I did not pray, just skipped to my next favorite song. The clock at my belt slowly ticked to blasting point.

Just enough time to squeeze in Floyd.....'Time'.

Concealer

2008-12-05T01:04:00.001+05:30

She sat in front of the dressing table and unscrewed the concealer, the same brand that she had been using for the last 5 years.She poured out the the ususal copious amounts of concealer and began to carefully apply the liquid on her face.

Remembering back to the day of her wedding when she, who had always been envied for her beauty and her flawless complexion, didn't require any of this unsavoury stuff. She now sat with intense concentration to hide that very skin behind a clayey concealer. She remembered her wedding day nearly 5 years back - the beautician was amazed to see a bride so beautiful without the bridal paraphanelia.It was her face that had captured the attention and consequently the heart of her future husband.

This beauty which she was once so proud of was today the bane of her life. The challenge to hide her pain and still measure up to the standards of the world had become a matter of routine for her.Touching up the makeup she realized this careful regimen for her had now become a sad necessity.

Just as she finished and turned, the pallu of her sari caught on the bottle and it crashed to the ground. She saw the mess caused by the gooey liquid which was for her; not a whim, but a necessity. Suddenly she found herself crying, the broken pieces of glass reflecting her state of mind and something in her snapped and she thought, "Till when will I paint away the streaks of pain??"

She walked into the bathroom and washed away all her makeup to expose her peaches and cream marred by black and purple bruises. Purposefully, she picked up her handbag and strode out of her home into the world without her concealer!

This was the first step in the fight to get her life back!

Brilliant Tutorials

2008-12-02T05:22:00.003+05:30

Professor R.V. Rangachary Vedanthakrishnan: “Is a gun madi*?”

Kameshwari Devi Suryanarayanan: “Nope, it isn’t”

“It is…stupid Kamu, your elder sister Abithakujalambal went to IIT Mumbai (Indian Institute of Terrorism), your elder brother Venkatasubbu is an ISO 9001 certified terrorist and you…such a waste!”

Kamu looks decidedly embarrassed and slightly peeved. The professor softens; after all she is his favourate student.

“Listen now, since it is madi you have to wash it, bullets et al before you take it up. And needless to say, you must be bathed”

“Now tell me how to throw a genade?”

Kami rattles off stuff she has learnt by-heart, staying up all night long.

“No no no…You will touch the gun with your left hand? Aiyyo! Right hand ma, left is impure…have I taught you nothing?”

“And no biting the grenade off, its yechal** (abacharam! These kids were getting too influenced by western media now-a-days). You must take the pin off with the middle finger and thumb of your right hand, circle the grenade round your head thrice and then throw it”

“What about clothing? No Versace, Gucci and Prada. Wear stuff that’s soaking wet, untouched by anyone. Get it class?”

"Guys..remember Panchapakesa Iyer..brilliant student, IIT topper the idiot was foolish enough to let his gun get stuck in his poonal; tch tch..."

Professor R.V. Rangachary Vedanthakrishnan shuddered as he remembered that ghastly moment.

"Always be careful. Constant vigilance"

“And bonus points if you get any one on the abishtu list***. Poitu vaango kozhandel”

*madi: An eccentric South Indian concept, requiring the person in question to wear wet clothes, touch only similar wet (pure) things and generally be a public nuisance.

**yechal: jhootha, hindi. Something that has had saliva on it.

***abishtu list: An array of names, populated as far back as 2008. Boasts prominent personalities who played a vital role in the rape of Mumbai (caste, age, sex, nationality no bar).

PS:

If you want to take offence, feel free to do so. I find no other way to react. For now.

I way

2008-11-26T07:50:00.008+05:30

495, 81, 90 he knows them all
290 and 93
ribbons over her unforgiving landscape
moving rainbows of yellow and red
at 80mph her far screams shatter his dreams

PS: I-495, I-81, I-90, I-290, I-93 all American freeways
Image photographed by yours truly, I-93, New Hampshire, 2000ft

Ping

2008-11-19T09:03:00.002+05:30

I crack bad jokes. Really bad ones, and then I get responses berating me.

Thoo he says, haak thu another one spits, thu she says delicately reminiscent of her mellifluous voice, aiye thu another one pings.

Naturally it got me thinking. So many variations just in a spit, whod’ve thought! But then my online friends are like that. Varied in their means to a similar end (essentially expressing opinions about me). I learn. Constantly from them, the delicate art of this chatting. I have been a diligent student and incorporate all their small mannerisms in my own language. Hey, wassup, sup, hi, kanna, doood, *****,****** all greetings. I take them in good spirit, after all the words we use online must make up for the lack of flesh and blood, and the voice. This talking online transcends barriers of sorts, language for instance, gender too. All busily twisting available resources to express opinions.

Talk of chatting and I must mention the ubiquitous emoticon. I used the limited ones available in gtalk, but my resourceful friends come up with more. She taught me the :|. Something without which I wonder how I ever chatted in the past. Whether to counter an opinion, or to endorse it. To scold, encourage or just fill in the gap between two timestamps. He, a most recent friend, said :O. I loved it. The piggy eyes over an open mouth. I express surprise similarly now. Most handy it is, the :O. Another one uses :) naturally making me smile. :-/ to express his stymied status after his girl is through with him.

“Khoop milega rang jab mil baithenge teen yaar, aap main aur youtube” It’s true. I spend all the time pasting links into that little blue box, and so does my friend. Talk a lot we may but our secret vice is in doing this. No video is spared, his extensive talents also include digging up little known lost videos, so chatting with him always leaves me like :)

And then there is the other half of this blog, the formidable vitruvian. We have chats that no one can understand, least of all us. On glimpsing the green dot near our names, both of us start typing inordinately large amounts of information, burdening the little chat box, not caring in the least of the other listens or not. Then we backtrack and read. Then we crack silly jokes. And just when we are having fun she decides to promptly log off. So they end, on a note of hopeless confusion, and assumed future clarifications.

The :O friend also says lol to my supposed attempts at humour. LOL if it is particularly rib-tickling. ROTFL’s, LMAO’s and heehaws follow. They do make me laugh. I am becoming slowly, an extension of my online self. Sadly a friend of mine once mistook my muhahahaha as muuah. I was confounded. Like this :| or perhaps a better sequence of alphabets and symbols was wanting. But I am neither as imaginative nor as resourceful. So I just rely on words to do the needful. Call me old fashioned if you will.

Chatting with people of high office is a challenge. Mainly cuz u cant do this. Or evn hav tyops. So 1 must be clareful. Most high office people however stick to stiff emails, Leaving the dominion of chatting to us lesser peoples. So we do as we please, laugh, cry :’( :(( and as she does , x-( and go through the motions of life all in the little blue box. Orange always was associated with the Indian flag (for those not subtle enough to appreciate the delicate hue of saffron), sanyasis and a political party. Now orange means someone has graced you with their ping and it hangs there, unanswered. Orange dots mean the person at the other end is on the phone. And try however I may, I am unable to get my status to be orange at my will. It is upto the great algorithm inside google. Most sensitive it is, the mere shadow of my finger makes it green, unless I am red. Which has no effect on the pingers, or the pingee. And then there are those who like to have the first and last word. Like him and her. Always invisible, pulling strings, watching you be green, orange and green again, quietly smirking at your futile machinations. They greet, talk and before you know it they are gone. Or maybe they just like to play with me. Anyways, that is no mere power they wield.

Days of chatting have left my fingers longing for evermore. I treasure these online meetings and the friendship that logging in brings. Foulweather or fine, Orange, Red, Green or naught, they are there for me, talking, teaching me, and being there for me. Always.

PS: More than half my blogroll chats, and I credit them as a major inspiration for this post. Yes it is you I am talking about, you know who you are.

Faith

2008-11-13T07:48:00.003+05:30

The kebabs we had for lunch were awesome. Tender, crispy, just perfect. Finished off with Cabernet Sauvignon and another perfect meal was thus ended. Later braving the irregular Boston streets and making use of the great American feature that is the expressway, we were out in the suburbs heading home, when I suddenly decided to take a detour. Just on a whim, I took the exit onto temple street and proceeded to the Ashland Laxmi temple. None of my companions said anything, but the question hung there, like juicy kebabs just about to drop from the skewer. I had just slaughtered a few innocent animals, washed them off with alcohol, and I hadn’t even showered. And here I was, at the temple, in all my non-vegetarian, unwashed glory. As I parked, one of the company announced his intentions to stay outside owing to his having consumed a goat. As I removed my shoes, I felt guilt finally stab. ”You uncouth creature…at least you could have bathed”.

Was I wrong? I personally felt that I failed, not because of my perceived sins, but because I felt guilty. I did not have any reason to, I hadn’t done anything wrong. Or had I? Was non-vegetarian consumption a sin? Surely then scores of people on the world couldn’t worship, even most Hindus. Didn’t Shiva himself live in a cemetery? Did not the ancients sacrifice goats and loll about in jars of soma? And then I thought of my people, all pious, washed, sinless and vegetatively fed. I went to the temple because I felt like it. That’s all. No moon positions influenced me. Nor did any sins ask for absolution, and for once I had no favours to ask. The temple itself is in an exceedingly beautiful area, with several small streams and woods and that drive alone is divinity. At least it is to me.

Nevertheless onward I pushed. It is not in me to reach a destination and deny myself entry to it. So I went and did whatever I do usually. I prayed, I sat quietly, I asked for stuff, I watched people affirm their faiths. And all the while I was thinking. Furiously. And I was frustrated that I was unable to reach an answer. Essentially whether I was wrong would depend on whom I asked. Like India itself there were several variations, but everyone absolutely seemed to agree on the depravity of my unwashedness. And I realize that this is a conundrum that I myself have to solve. Does a bath wash the turkey off me, like the Ganges? Does alcohol dissolve into righteousness under the cover of night, to be replaced with piousness when the sun rises? Can I eat and drink after I visit the temple?

There are no rules. There are actually, but they too are shifting, allaying themselves to the times, to popular opinion. Its’ my life, my Gods, my sins, my blessings, my dharma, my karma. Or is it? Isn’t my family linked to my karma? Why is it so complicated? Wouldn’t it be just easier to confirm, not just to appease the ubiquitous others, but to also silence the beast within? And from clarity emerges chaos again and I am drawn into a whirlpool of questions. I see all my friends clearly, meat eaters and unalike, all clear in where they stand religiously. Firm and faithful or equally firm in their faithlessness.

My road it is to drive, and I have a lifetime to explore it. Laying the Questions aside, I accept the Prasad noting that the priest has a leather jacket on to protect him from the biting cold.

I smile.

PS: idlichutney celebrates it's 50th post. Thanks to all you readers. We love you for reading us. :) And the writings shall continue.

Of Music, Food and LOve

2008-11-09T16:21:00.003+05:30

Scene 1: Independence Cafe, Hill Road, Bandra

A flyer...
HOPE 08 is a programme to promote love, peace harmony, forgiveness amongst all walks of society and to encourage people in distress going through various negative situations and emotions in life which could lead them to take drastic steps like suicide , nervous breakdowns, etc.We invite citizens from all walks of life for the HOPE 08 to come , participate, relax and unwind through the music of the famous Indian Jazz Fussion Band- CONVERSATION., which is a 8 piece Band with instruments like the Violin, Tabla, Drums, Keyboards, Bass Guitar, Mirdumgam, Saxophone and the Sitar.
When : Saturday 1st November 2008

Time : 6:00 pm to 10:00 pm

Where : Carter road Promenade

"Guys you want to check this out! We're not doing anything else yet anyway...AND its free!"

"Hey guys..Conversations is soooo great..The I've herad the drummer Vinayak and their vilonist jam! I'm so definitely going. Anyone interested??"

Scene 2: Carter Road Promenade, Bandra (west), Mumbai
The salty sea breeze carried the taste of anticipation through the crowd. A diverse pack of mottled rockers, high class socialites letting their hair down and the random people who had accidentally strayed into the awaiting mass thronged amongst the few who actually knew why they were there.
HE was lost absolutely new grounds for him...What Jazz?? Who Conversations?? He was just there to check out the chicks...with his buddies of course!!
"Ooooo...Hot one at 10 o clock..seems all trippy about the music though..Hmmm!"

This was her thing the entrancing trippy music, the serenity of a sitar combining with a six piece drum set!! She was loving the beauty of it all.. the evening...the music..She was lost in a world all her own!
"Buttt...A guy different from the ones you usually meet at these things...Hmmm...Hot in a geeky kinda way! Cute!"

Scene 3: Brownie Cottage, Off Carter Road, Bandra

"Can I have the Snicker Brownie Please!?!"
"Can I have the Snicker Brownie Please!?!"

"Sorry.. thats the last one I've got!"

They exchange glances and he gathers the guts to ask..."How would you like to split it??"
She gives him a lopsided girn. He hasn't seen anything as beautiful in the whole wide world.
After a cataclysimic pause, she said, "Okay, but only if you share a Guliyaan with me after this one!"

Damn!! He HATED Guliyaan!!
"Nah..I'm running late..Boss..Madam ke liye ek Snickers!! Bye! Enjoy your brownie!"

"What did I do NOW!! Well awesome evening! I got a date with Vinayak to top it all!!" ;)
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

If music be the food of love, play on;
Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.
That strain again! it had a dying fall:
O! it came o’er my ear like the sweet sound
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odour.
(Twelfth Night, 1.1.1-7)

Tangy tribulations

2008-11-08T04:53:00.007+05:30

She came on her Honda, vrooming neatly into the parking lot. Hair check. Makeup check. Dress check. Confidently she strode into the hotel.

He arrived moments later in his car. Parked and wondered which kind of idiot parked bikes in a lot clearly meant for cars. He disheveled his hair, smacked his lips and walked into the hotel.

“What would you like to drink?”

“I’ll have a panagam, please”

“One neer mor for me”

The ass is starting with mor? Sigh…So this was it Pushpavalli thought. Her parents had set her up with this random guy. Hell it was exactly a setup, but they preferred to call it a meeting. Whatever. She couldn’t refuse, might as well see what happens.

“So what do you do?”

“I’m an actuary” …Or at least that’s what I’m supposed to tell outsiders.

“I’m…err…a banker” Like I’m telling you what I really do.

“Appetizers?” The waiter, a really good impression of SPB appeared as if from nowhere.

“Fried lentil puffs with the green coconut sauce please”

“I’ll just have some thattai with ricotta cheese and north Indian date sauce”

The waiter quietly disappeared.

Such was their conversation. Trivial things and the weather. Time, as it does, passed.

“Can I take your order?”

“Err Ill have the Shallots in tamarind sauce, over a bed of fragrant thanjavur rice”

“I err wanna have the eleven vegetables in coconut sauce over raw red rice”

-eh? Foreign cuisine aa? Hmph!

May I tempt you Sir? And Madam? We have a fine cellar. A Yercaud 1927 for the shallots? Vintage year it was. The Nellai ’51 is good too, but it goes better with drumsticks, would to care to sample it?

“Yercaud ’27 it is”

“And for you?”

“Just a toddy”

-what a Philistine!

And the meal continued amidst lies and half-truths.

“And we come to dessert the waiter smiled as he cleared the plates.”

“Roasted vermicelli in milk for me”

“I’m good”

“I insist you end with a sweet” she smiled and said.

“Ok then the rice marinade in jaggery, please”

Gastronomic successes often translate into other spheres. Later that night she shyed and smiled as they ate peanuts on the beach, holding hands. He let her drive the bike, enjoying the humid sea breeze as they sped past Samudra Avenue. 3796 rupees well spent.

Kvirk

2008-11-04T05:05:00.001+05:30

Hello there. I have been tagged by karthik. This particular one involves myself exposing my quirks to the world. Six is the limit, thankfully and I shall plunge into it without much ado.

1. Symmetry

I border on the obsessive-compulsive when it comes to symmetry. Two exact halves. Straight lines, linear relationships. Since 95% of the world is non-linear, I rigidly enforce the other 5 %. Or at least try to. Any exercise in cleaning my room is an exercise in drawing straight lines. Only 45 degree angles are permitted, and that too only in extreme cases. I usually restrain myself from straightening things, but if I start, there is no end to it. Which is why I don’t clean my room (get it ma?). I once lived in a room with an off-center light on the ceiling, it drove me crazy. Another proof, almost all my posts are justified (margins on both sides). Most blogs I follow are really good, but trailing alphabets bother me. Extending the symmetry schizophrenia, I must use both hands equally. If I touch a strange surface with my left hand, my right hand automatically goes there, otherwise it feels bad. My parents have incessantly pulled my leg over this. If a cold gust of wind hits the left side of my neck, my muffler is adjusted to let the right side feel cold too. Usually I can be found touching things with both hands (I know this sentence doesn’t read too well for my image, but this tag is going to screw me over anyways so what the hell).

1a. Folds

As an extension to the aforementioned, I hate carelessly folded newspapers. I try to restore them to their virginal state after reading, as much as possible, alas the perfectly folded newspaper, once you’ve read it, does not exist.

2. You can’t judge a book by its’ cover

Hence, I smell it. The first thing I do on opening a book is to plunge my nose into its deepest recesses and take a deep breath. And I’m pretty good at it too. If I don’t like the smell of a book, it usually turns out to be a crappy book. If I like the smell, I love the book. Extended to all reading material. Pamphlets smell like shit, Times of India has a rich smell, Indian Express is tolerable. Best smelling book: Lord of the Rings. Worst smelling book: One night at a call centre.

3. 9

I add up numbers I see.

Total = 3 :|

Total = 6 :)

Total = 9 :D

If alphabets bedevil the sequence, I code them and then add.

4. Siht is tahw sneppah

One of the voices in my head turns around English words, especially when I’m talking to myself. Ew evah snoitasrevnoc ekil siht. And if voice makes a spelling mistake, others step in with the correct one. I started this quite early and it does improve your spellings (not that I ever had bad spellings). If you want to read my great writings, you now know how. Ylno ni hsilgne hguoht .

5. Not of Jeannie

I dream. This seems to be fairly a common quirk from what I’ve been reading. At the risk of being accused of plagiarism, I confess. Day, night it doesn’t matter. I dream when in drive, when I eat. I have even been known to dream during particularly bad exams. Content censored.

6. Pee perils

Most of my readers will know my bladder problems. Sometimes they are self created. I set deadlines (short term obviously) and refuse to pee till the task is met. Like finishing a book. Or like cleaning my room till it is symmetric. Or till I finish posting. Enough said.

If you think I need help, help me. If you think I am normal, kindly get in touch with my parents and inform them. They will give you lots of sweets.

Unrequited Love

2008-10-30T21:49:00.005+05:30

Since buddy is now talking about Love Unrequited..a subject I never thought his pen(or rather his keyboard in this case) would dispense.
The beautiful sublimity of the prose he has brought forth gains an inexplicable level of significance for her not having read it.
As it may be, my gut twirls too and my heart flings itself within the inadequate confines of any medium of expression..

If I were to compare and contrast then his love is sublime beauty and mine is extreme insanity!

Prose is not my forte, I guess this better explains the madness thats my Unrequited Love..

I still hope in time that he will be mine,
Even though I know otherwise;
I'm aware that I'm being blind,
But its the only way I keep alive.

Though the distance physically has grown,
I feel his heartbeat closer than my own;
He's not even a part of my day,
Yet he lives alongside me always.

In this delusional world of mine,
My love for him is the only sign that;
I exist in this fabric of time,
He lives in this world where I survive.

His presence in mind is so strong,
Thats why I feel my world is all wrong;
Without him I do easily exist,
But it is exceedingly difficult to live.

A glimpse of him breathes life in me,
A reason to live and go on I see;
Emotions though are a complete upheaval,
Happines, melancholy & anguish all part of me!