Tuesday, December 19, 2006

HOME SWEET HOME!

Am in India right now. Last few days had been hectic, with social obligations and shopping draining out my energy, and yesterday, I almost collapsed. Thank God for concerned sons! The emirates flight was equally exhausting... inflight food virtually sickening! I wish the airline would change their caterers. I didn't believe my sons when they had cribbed about the food served on their flight from Bangalore. But seeing, or eating here, is believing... and... it made me long for ( I used to think I'd never utter such a thing!) the Indian Airlines food. All that walking and shoppinng in the Duty Free at the Dubai airport had exhausted me and I had been ravenous... Now I know what it means when they say 'some people' cannot be choosers...!
Well, nothing can shadow the joy of landing in one's motherland, and I am in a state of euphoria. Tomorrow I leave for Bhadravathi early in the morning. Bhadravathi, with its old Mysore state atmosphere, THE sleepiest town I have ever been... but held close to the heart as my ' Appa and Amma' (as my call my in- laws) are there. The next month or so, I'll wake up listening to Sharada Aunty's carnatic music lessons to beginners... enjoy the sound of veenas and violins and vocalists echoing through the house. Life will be quieter, calmer, filled with sharing and caring.
Bhadravathi as my 'pukkaam' (sasural) deserves a full, separate post, and I shall do it at leisure.
Access to a PC may or may not be there, the internet centre nextdoor running either fullhouse or staying closed due to long lunch breaks and early nights. The charges are very fancy according to Appa, so I may not be very cyber-connected during the next 45 days. Let us see.

Saturday, December 09, 2006

WITHIN BORDERS ( OF A BIBLIOPHILE'S DREAMLAND )

Mall of the Emirates, 11.30 am. I go in search of Borders, the newly opened bookshop --for the inauguration of which, Jeffrey Archer had flown in...( Coincidence... coincidence... You can see Borders featuring throughout the movie, The Terminal.) What struck me about the outlet in MoE is the way books have been arranged. Genrewise, in alphabetical order and with a lot of elbowroom for browsers.
It is easier to locate your favourite author once you know the genre he/ she is slotted in. Such arrangement with alphabet of the writer's surname bordering the shelves I have seen only in one other place...at House of Prose, the secondhand bookshop in Jumeira Plaza, my favourite haunt in Dubai. Only, Borders is 10 times as big as HoP. One needs more than the one hour one spent there -- without an impatient husband snorting and sniffing behind one -- to do justice to the place. Maybe, some other time...
I liked the separate section for Indian publications. The comparatively inexpensive Rupa and Co publications. The full range of Wodehouse, Henry Cecil and Richard Gordon are available. Couldn't resist picking up 4 of Gordon's Doctor series. Cheaper look, bigger print, nothing glamorous compared to the old Penguin editions in my parents' collection, but I can make do with these. You can't judge a book by its cover or the publisher... or the price for that matter. I bought almost 10 Henry Cecils in India last June. Just a marginal difference in the prices here -- Dhs.11 as against Rs. 120 in Gangarams, Bangalore.
Got a small treat. Picked up 'Dead Poets Society'. Had seen the Robin Williams movie on Star Movies last year and realised how blatantly, Mohanlal has lifted the subplot for his 'Life is Beautiful'. Priced at Dhs.31, I felt it was worth adding to my collection of rare books. Must read it. Kiran Desai was there, adorning a special niche, but son told me she would be less expensive in India. Incidently, he got me an Indian edition (maybe pirated) of In the Line of Fire for Rs.100. When it comes to duplicating originals (books, I mean), we can outchinese the Chinese!
Saw many of Bill Bryson's but shall wait for a sale to pick up one or two. Not many Indian writers... Just Anita Desais and Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni and Vikram Seth, a couple of Khushwant Singhs and no Shashi Tharoor ( which means R may not visit Borders with me... heh..heh...). They have separate sections for horror, romance, thrillers, mysteries, travel, biographies etc etc.
One full corner for Chicken Soups, maybe season's attraction. But, my bookshelves are crowded with a liberal helping of Chicken Soup, so I barely spare them a glance. Couldn't help being disappointed about the absence of Nancy Farmer... been itching to get hold of her books for young adults for some time now.
On the whole, a very satisfying sojourn for me, and my sons who seemed to have fun browsing... unlike my better half who was trying to hide his impatience... in vain! Bookshops and RP don't go very well together! Anyway, it takes all sorts to make this world and he is stuck with me, a pedigreed bibliophile for life!
Next on agenda is the Sharjah Book Exibhition. For the first time in 6 years, the Book Expo has been going on for 4 days without my visiting it. Not today, definitely... Maybe tomorrow, or on Monday. Let us see.

Friday, December 08, 2006

OUT IN DUBAI

We are going to the Mall of the Emirates this morning. Want to go to the Virgin Mega Store and Borders. K1 wants Malcom in the Middle... says he watched it in the Emirates and wants more of it! Hope we get it there. As for the rest, we shall cross the bridge, when we come to it. Looking forward to my babies' day out! ( They'll kill me for this ;-) ...)

Thursday, December 07, 2006

ALL ( ABOUT) MY SONS!

Today, I watched The Terminal with my twin sons. We started at lunch and finished around 3.45.Another wonderful memory to cherish. My cup of joy is on a perpetual overflow these days. After 8 years, I am able to give quality time to my holidaying sons. we relish watching MASH, A Team or Everybody Loves Raymond, chatting about their life in the engineering college, their dreams, their frustrations etc, etc... There are jokes, chuckles, hugs, smooches, a lot of teasing and a lot of loving... As I run my fingers through the hair of my strapping 21 year old son leaning against my knees as I snuggle upto another strapping young man next to me on the sofa, I think -- realize-- God has been kind to me! Oh, so kind. The umbilical cords that were snipped 21 years have been replaced by some other invisible threads. I guess they are called heartstrings. Nothing simple about these. They are full of knots, each representing a joyous memory or a cherished event in our lives. When tugged, they trigger a sweet pain all over my heart.
Watching a movie with them is only an extension of what we used to do while they were growing up. Whoever heard of kids being sung to sleep with ragamalikai like 'Karpagavalli nin' or Raj Kapoor hits like 'Pyar hua, ikraar hua'? Telling them endless stories -- 'Kuruvi kathai' to ' Ali Baba' , going through the family albums, picture dictionaries and junior encyclopaedias again and again, watching cartoons with them and reading to them Russian books like 'When Daddy Was A Little Boy' and reading with them Tin Tins, Asterixes and these days the paperbacks, The Week and watching football -- tolerating funny hairdos or lack thereof of their favourite sportsmen... 21 years...
Nope! Not 21 fully. I lost out on the last 8 years. The most crucial years of their development as young men when they were sent to a residential school in Mysore and the Engg. College in Coimbatore. During these 8 years, the few weeks of vacation turned out to be so precious. For 7 years, they never complained when as a working mom, I'd be too busy correcting endless notes and test papers. They'd offer to do the household chores for me -- washing dishes, drying clothes and vacuuming so that I can finish fast and spend some time with them. They have never lost their temper with me. Never once disobeyed or defied me. I am scared...at times.
All their secrets, fears and doubts, I share. I have tried my best to never to say 'I told you so' or 'Why did you...' I have been very frank and open with them as they have been to me. Their respect for their father, their love for us both, their friendliness and self control... I hope all these continue for a long, long time.
They are anything but goody- goodies. I know all the scrapes they get into. But there is some basic goodness in them... certain pride in their heritage, their sense of right and wrong, their indianness, their familial bonding that ought to see them through safely in this world. Another six months and they start working...earning, spending, making big decisions about their lives. And RP and I... we shall stand side by side and smile at them and at each other. May be we'll pat each other's back. And thank God for having blessed the two of us with two premature scrawny twins 21 years back.

Wednesday, December 06, 2006

SOMETHING SMELLS FISHY!

Like billions of people all over the world, I start the day with a mug of coffee and the newspaper. Today, I huddle over the news paper spread on the dining table, too sleepy and lazy to get my 'pick me up after a late night' cup of coffee. What do I see?
Some Aussie researchers have discovered a link between a declining sense of smell and disorders such as schizofrenia and obsessive compulsive disorder... 81 young subjects at risk of becoming psychotic were shown a series of 40 cards, whose smell they had to match up with a list of four odours such as coffee, roses, oranges and petrol. The researchers found those who later went on to develop a mental illness had difficulty identifying more than half the odours. Oh...my! This triggers an alarm bell somewhere in me. Time to start sniffing out the truth of the matter... rather, my mental condition! I recall with growing alarm that last week while RP signed his petrol card at the filling station, I didn't sniff in petorl smell as I used to all these years...and, I don't salivate on smelling coffee in the mornings as I used to. Is it because I am half asleep early in the mornings these days and my sense of smell is still asleep till the rest of me wakes fully up? Or is it that my frontal lobe is getting affected?
Ahh! c'mon, my good sense tells me. Those 81 chumps must have gone bonkers smelling 40 cards. I mean, you go to the perfume counter and try out 5 or 6 brands and you don't even know which is what, do you? Any average person -- you mean, 'average' like me? yes... like 'you' -- would be confused. Nothing wrong with your frontal lobe.
Assured by my common sense that I am not losing my marbles, I scan the news item again. An abnormal sense of smell may indicate problems in this thinking area of of the brain, says the researcher. Sound of alarm bell again! Recently, I've started enjoying the smell of boiled cabbage, stopped being nauseous when my neighbours fry fish and do not react publicly to BO and MO... Am I turning schizofrenic? Or is it the onset of Obsessive compulsive disorder? Is it? Is it? Is it? Sniff...sniff... sniff... do I smell a rat? Am I wacko? Loco? Getting unhinged? Going bonkers?
Don't be delirious, my good sense prevails upon me a shade too roughly. Last week you were synaesthetic, remember? Don't get carried away by what you read early in the morning. Yes, yes, you are right. I brew myself a cup of nescafe and take a whiff of it. Mmmmmm! Smells like... coffee...divine! All's well with my frontal lobe. And I can sniff in disdain at such fishy tales!

Wednesday, November 29, 2006

REMEMBERING UNCLE G… WITH A CHUCKLE!

Last night, Rat called with the news of Uncle G passing away. Another chapter in family history closed, she said in a sombre tone and then we spent the next 20 minutes giggling and chuckling as we recalled our meetings and conversations with him.
Uncle G, actually my mother’s uncle Gowrishankar aka ‘Gowrichithappa’ was the most flamboyant relative I have come across. He was my maternal grandfather’s brother, so, as Indian relationships go, he ought to have been treated as a grandparent. But no one I know is as ‘ungrandparentish’ as Uncle G had been. In fact, he was the least avuncular person…more of boyfriend material.

My earliest memories of Uncle G are from the hush- hush talks in the family gatherings. I came to know much later in my life about his divorce and alleged wild ways in Bombay! My sister Rat and I got to know the man rather late…though we had met him several times in weddings and in Madras, in my grandparents’ house. It was long after my marriage and the birth of my twins. We had accompanied Mom to his house in Cheroor, Thrissur. I was curious to meet the man who was my Madras Thatha’s younger brother--the man who had, on a whim according to relatives, sold his flat in Bombay to settle down in Thrissur of all the places. He had a wonderful villa, very neat and stylish with a lush garden -- the ambience actually accentuating the persona. Somehow, we hit it off on that first meeting and then followed years of fun- filled friendship. Rat, having settled in Coimbatore, was more in contact with him.

We used to be so casual and relaxed with him, sharing quite a lot of ‘questionable jokes’ with him – something we would never have dared to, with Madras Thatha. He was a close friend of Prof. Madhukar Rao, my dad’s English lecturer, who, later, was my HOD in Victoria College, Palghat where I graduated in English Literature. Uncle G would often go to Ernakulam to share his ‘Happy Hours’ with Prof. Rao, and the next time I am in town, he’d tell me, Madhukar and I talked about you! We would tease him about his girlfriends, and he would regale us with wild stories…of the women in his life!

Somehow, we never felt either scandalized or judgemental with him, we loved him for what he was. That is why Rat and I did not shed a single drop of tear yesterday. She had called me three days back, with the news that he was in ICU after a massive heart attack, there wasn’t much hope. She said if he had been in a regular ward, she’d have called him and joked about ‘Shankaran Aanai’ or busty nurses…She recalled how he had called two weeks back and talked about all of us.
Rat tells me he has bequeathed his body to the medical college. I can visualize the puzzled looks on some student’s face as he studies his innards… Too many funny bones, an XXL heart and laugh -lines etched into the facial muscles… that’s our Uncle G. As a man who loved life in all its vibrant shades, he wouldn’t want anyone to mourn him, he’d like it if we giggled and chuckled in memorium, and, that’s what my sister and I did yesterday before saving him as a special memory in the CPU of our hearts.

Tuesday, November 28, 2006

K..K..K..KHAN HE DO IT?

So, Star Television has roped in Shah Rukh Khan to host Kaun Banega Crorepati! Can anyone replace the Big B? Can anyone be as suave, handle all that adulation -- all the fawning, flattery, ‘fan’tasy with such aplomb? I doubt if even the chip off the old block can -- even though B junior does seem to possess similar élan!
Ever since the genre of such quiz shows hit the small screen, I have witnessed many a matinee idol performing the role of the compere, none of them coming anywhere near Bachchan’s class.
I am skeptical about Khan’s ability to fit into the throne. Those grimaces he calls smiles, those shakings of head while getting his point across, pursing of lips…Oh No! Oh, Yes...and I can just imagine when a participant named Kiran would occupy the hot- seat. And I have a feeling there will be more of star smitten young things out there than real contenders for the crore.
If I were Samir Nair, I’d have gone for Naseeruddin Shah. I know I am ruffling the feathers of SRK’s diehard fans, but I want to get my views across as Kal Ho NA Ho…! And… DON know, maybe he khan pull it off… g..g...g..g..good luck to him!

Monday, November 27, 2006

WINTER IS HERE...SO IS RAIN!

Today has dawned bright. Yesterday had been cloudy,windy and drizzly announcing that at last winter is here in the emirates. It might have rained just about 1/2500 of a centimetre but that didn't put a damper on the general euphoria. The RJs were waxing eloquent on the downward sweep of mercury and celebrating with a generous dose of 'rain' songs. No doubt it was a welcome break from the sweltering heat that is the trademark of the region, but I couldn't help sniggering when my cabbie got out of the car at the red signal to welcome each and every droplet of rain! For a person associated with the rainy seasons in Kerala and Karnataka, such curling of the lip comes as naturally as the monsoons!
Rain back home gets no media hype. People don't go out of their homes with the intention of getting wet. They'll be busy rescuing clothes from overloaded clotheslines, mending old umbrellas, keeping their fingers crossed that the power supply would not get cut or even be busy placing buckets and other vessels in strategic points to avoid being flooded inside the home! It is only in the Indian Ad world that smiling young women rush out with their young kids and splash water on them. In real life mothers yell at their kids to come indoors; who wants to pay through the nose to the local GP?
I used to dread the rainy season as a child. First of all, I couldn't handle the thunder - lightning combination. The first clap of thunder would send me screaming into the darkest room in the big house where I'd dive under the cot to hide from the terrifying flash and noise. It took a lot of guts for me to appear nonchalant during thunderstorms, once my kids were born as I did not want to trasfer my paranoia to them-- like I had kept my 'mathphobia' hidden from them till I found out that they enjoyed Math! As a young schoolgoer, I used to have mixed feelings about rainy days. Chances of an unexpected holiday made one part of me love them, but generally I dreaded them as the very idea of getting drenched on the 20 minute walk to school and sitting on the wooden benches in wet clothes was sickening.
I learnt to enjoy rainy days during the years we spent in Iraq soon after my marriage when my newly found friend Mannu would invite me to her place with a, 'Chal Vijaya, Chai peethe hai!' And we'd spend hours chatting over steaming cups of 'adhrakwali' chai and pakode. Rainy season in Iraq used to be extremely cold and wet days, with slimy, slushy paths connecting the portacabins in which we resided. Once monstrous winds ripped off the roof sheets of someone's cabin. We'd be stuck inside the box-like cabin for a day or two. Yet, those were part of good memories -- the good old days of old black and white hindi movies acoompanied by garam chai and snacks.
Back in India in the late 80's and 90's rainy season in Bhilai, Bhadravathi and Bangalore were more or less exercises on crises management rather than celebration of 'sawan ki rithu'. And who wants to celebrate when it rains and rains and rains and... for days and weeks together and patches appear on the ceiling in a myriad of shapes and sizes and a damp mouldy smell pervades. One just prays for it to stop raining though one knows that there may be water and energy crises soon.
No fear of thunderstorms in the UAE. And it takes just an hour or two of average rainfall to flood the roads and cause umpteen accidents. It is fun to watch the submerged raods and the gymanstics of pedestrians trying to cross the roads. Still, even at the lightest sign of drizzling, the heart yearns for garam chai and pakode... So, that's how we celebrated the first rain of the season, last evening!
One swallow doesn't make a summer... nor does one evening of rain, winter in Sharjah. Proof? Looking out of the window, I can see the brightness outside. But when I open the window I can feel the nip in the air. Spring may not be far behind, but winter is definitely here!

Thursday, November 23, 2006

I SAY IT, I TASTE IT!

At last the dailies have come out with something that has tantalized the tastebuds of my creativity… Two prominent dailies of the emirates have come out with the same news on the front page—on ‘Synaesthesia’! Seems the media exercise of one-upmanship is passé and they are employing the same reporter ( the words are identical!)! Well, as it happens, their cold war is the least of my concerns. What interested me was the news item itself. It appears people who are synaesthetic experience a triggering of some taste by some words. Corny eh? ( Bet that triggers off the taste of ‘Cupo’corn’ the mall- stands dish out for weary shoppers…the tangy taste of the masala used.) I can understand someone drooling when I say ‘masal vada’ or ‘cinnabons’ and even getting a taste of those even as I mention it! But what the researchers claim is that the synaesthetes get the taste of something remotely connected to the word uttered. One participant is supposed to have tasted tuna fish when she was about to name a pair of castanets.
Just wondering if I was suffering from the condition, I started testing myself! For the general benefit of mankind I share my scientific findings…
‘Work’- I think… I can taste acid that has come rushing up my oesophagus!
‘Diet’ - tastes like burnt intestines… (in fact, whenever I diet while others don’t, I go through the ‘vayaru paththi eriyaradu’ a k a ‘pet jal raha hai’ syndrome).
‘Exercise’ … I get the taste of hot chocolate…And that’s the end of it! Now no one can blame me for my ‘obelixity’!
‘Fever’—I can taste Horlicks but Freud would relate that to my sickly childhood and glasses of Horlicks Mom used to make me drink!
‘Popcorns’ … whoa! That word triggers the heavenly smell of fresh, hot --popcorns! That must be the proverbial exception proving the rule!

One consolation is that, apparently, Synaesthesia is very common among artists, poets and musicians.

So, ‘Write’ I think….and voila! I can taste success! ( Pssst! It tastes sweet!)

Sunday, November 19, 2006

ONE NEVER STOPS LEARNING……ESPECIALLY THIS ONE!

Today, I learnt another lesson – a valuable one at that. I met my ex-boss…..the big boss, in fact, after a long time. Of course, I had tried to meet him a couple of times after returning from India, but busy as he had been, I was somehow unable to meet him. I should have called, but, does one call one’s ex-boss and say ‘ Hey, I’m back….'???? Will that be translated as… 'Can I have my job back?' And is it the done thing to ring up someone so high up in the ladder with this notion that he would welcome a call from the ranks? I am a true avatar of Hamlet and went around mouthing ‘to ring or not to ring……’ and finally decided that there is no question about it….I don’t trouble the big man! And today, the great man magnanimously comes to meet me when I am in the premises of his empire and makes me feel smaller than a worm! His reproachful words fill me with shame. Inverted snobbery is as bad to sport as snobbery itself! I learnt an important lesson today. I don’t mind apologizing if I am in the wrong…. And I did, and apparently, it was accepted with the élan, the man is quite famous for! I stand corrected…. Some people have class…. Unparalleled class! Kudos FAW!

Sunday, November 12, 2006

MEMES ……SOUNDS LIKE A SPOILT BLOGGER EH?

These are the days of Do –It _Yourself kits…. So if no one tags you, tag yourself and that’s it! I mean You are it.
Here goes my meme:

I am thinking about...
Writing more- like you veteran bloggers out there!
I said...
If you can not fight ’em, join them.
I want to...
visit Rome …… and Vatican.
I wish...
the world is a happier place to live in!
I miss...
my childhood. Things were so uncomplicated then.
I hear...
and also listen when people talk to me.
I wonder...
why I am unable to build up a good readership of my blog.
I regret...
Not being able to say ‘No’ to people without regret…or guilt.
I am...
basically an honest person.
I dance...
in my dreams.
I sing...
along with the radio or tapes or mp3 files. Never in the bathroom.
I cry...
when I watch a sentimental movie, or listen to a song that tugs at my heart-strings….
I am not always...
ready for company…. I like my moments of self-exile.
I make with my hands...
tasty food.
I write...
as I enjoy it.
I confuse...
whenever I do mental math.
I need...
friends and books, sometimes not necessarily in that order.
I should try...
to be more money savvy …
I listen to...
M. S. Subbalakshmi, Unnikrishnan, Priya Sisters, Yesudas, old hindi, Malayalam film songs.
I find...
demanding people very tiresome.
I dislike...
narrow-mindedness, arrogance, backbiting and snobbery.
I have...
a good sense of humour that helps me sail in the turbulent sea of daily life.
I'd like...
to ensure that everyone treats their parents with love and respect.
I expect...
to write my novel in the next two years.
I finish...
with great expectations of many people reading this.

Monday, November 06, 2006

OF OLD FURNITURE, SEPIA - TONED MEMORIES AND NEW LONGINGS…..!

When I heard the RJ Charu of 89.1 FM network call upon listeners to talk about the oldest piece of furniture in their homes, I was immediately reminded of one in our ancestral home in Thrissur. We called it the Rolltop, I guess because it had a top which had to be rolled back to open the writing desk, which it really was. It was banned territory for us kids, as it was my grandfather’s prized possession. Made of original, teak wood it had been specially created for my grandfather. The carpenter Andy, whose name was engraved on a small piece of ivory, at the edge of the writing surface, used to be summoned specially from Cherpu , and given a royal treatment for periodic maintenance of the Rolltop.
My grandfather outlived Andy and used to grudgingly allow Andy’s son to do the honours to the Rolltop later, but last we heard, even Andy’s son was no more….. and as per other carpenters, who wouldn’t risk tampering with such fine piece of furniture, there was no one in the vicinity skilled to repair it.
Luckily for us, it has behaved well all these years, in spite of our abandoning it in my brother’s house (which he had rented out), as my parents could not risk damaging it by transporting it to Delhi where Dad had a short stint, before settling down in Bangalore. Luckily, his tenants didn’t make off with it when they shifted. It lay unattended to in the vacant house for a couple of years. Recently, my younger brother decided that enough was enough and got it safely sent across to his flat in Bangalore and I must say, it hasn’t lost even an iota of its aura. The shine is still there, the lid slides back with a dignified silence as you open it. Not for it, the squeaks and groans that comes with age! It is a good 150 years old. Seeing it in my parents’ house brought back memories of my childhood in a rush of sentiments.
I fondly ran my fingers in and out of the pigeon holes that used to hold my grandfather’s belongings, his silver framed lens, his Brahmam pen, a set of wooden pens… colourful tapering sticks with slits on their rounded top to fit in a nib of your choice. He would let me, as a special treat, use some of them. I would select the colour that fancied me for the moment, select a really broad tipped nib( I learnt the term ‘calligraphy’ much later in life) fit it firmly in the slit, dip it in the inkpot and try to imitate the perfect cursive writing he used to have. I would leaf through the bills and receipts he would have pierced through a curved piece of metal, fixed on around base…. I would hang around trying to guess where the secret niche (yes, it had a secret hiding place where he could hide valuable documents and other stuff)… I would wait for him to open one of the drawers on either side of the desk. If he was in a pleasant frame of mind, he’d let me take out a black metal box which housed two huge 10 rupee coins, one 100 rupee coin and other wonderful treasures…, if he was cross he’d shoo me away…in vain. Not that I minded! I would often ask him who the moustached white man in the round ivory photo frame was and he would with tears in his eyes, tell me about ‘Brown Saayippu’ who had helped him financially to pursue his studies as he had been at the verge of dropping out to take up the burden of running the family of 5 or 6 sisters, widowed aunts and unmarried cousins. He felt indebted to that great man, for enabling him to take his BA Honours in Chemistry and later join the Excise Department during the British Raj, and rise to the post of the Excise Commissioner. The Rolltop still houses the sepia-toned photo of Mr. Brown, who somehow, is still venerated along with the ancestors in the family albums!
I have always loved it and had the faintest of hopes that one day I might inherit it…. But no chance! My Brother is as much in love with it as I am and he refused firmly but lovingly that he would not part with that….filling my heart with desolation, …… till one day, I walked into the Canton Furniture Showroom in Al Wahda Street and came across a replica of my dream Rolltop! Of course, it is not as mammoth as the one at home, but it is such a beautiful piece, that my heart was awash with longing….
But my desire remains an unfulfilled dream as my ever- prosaic husband refuses to buy it for me. Lack of space at home, he reminded me none too gently. Where will we put it? I was ready to get rid of my dressing table, my dining table, computer table… but no, he just wouldn’t relent. I keep going into that showroom every month to ensure and comfort myself that nobody has bought MY Chinese Rolltop…. May be I’ll demand that as our silver wedding gift… May be I’ll just go and buy it, charging it to my credit card and face his wrath when he discovers it….. My cup of joy will overflow for ever if I get that piece of furniture and I’ll not part with it….I’ll take it with me to India and let it grow old with me….. and… I’ll let my own grandchildren discover all its treasures, the mysterious bric a brac I’ll keep in it!

Sunday, November 05, 2006

THE BEST LAID PLANS OF MICE AND MEN…. AND MINE

Last week, the Gulf News announced that Jeffrey Archer would inaugurate Borders, a new bookshop in Mall of the Emirates in Dubai. Immediately, a fierce longing to meet one of my favourite authors started surging through me. I started thinking of ways to be in the mall the whole day, as it was nowhere mentioned when the bookshop would be inaugurated. I should tell RP to leave me at the Mall before he goes to his office. No, that wasn’t very practical, I would reach around 7.30 and the Mall would open only by 9 or 10. I would have to wait in RP’s office till that time. No way, he said, I have a training scheduled for the day and won’t be able to drive you anywhere. Ok, I ventured…I’ll drop you in your office and take the car myself to the Mall. His expression said it all. No way will I touch his precious mechanical sweetheart!

Left to my own devices, I decided to plan my trip to the Mall all by myself. Okay, I am definitely taking the digital camera, an autograph book….no…I’ll take a copy of one of his books to be autographed. Which one? I loved Honour Among Thieves and As the Crow Flies. Why not take Kane and Abel or The Prodigal Daughter? Or, Shall We Tell the President? Or First Among Equals….that was an awesome book! They were all part of my cherished collection….. Maybe, I should take The prison Diary part III, and prove that I am a diehard fan of his and forgave him his transgressions….. ! No, that would be unnecessary. One look at my soapy expression, he’d know I am a fan. No, I decided. I’ll take his collection of short stories. He is brilliant in all his short stories. I can never forget the magic of his Endgame or Grass is Greener on the Other Side or every other short story he has written so far.
I have often used his stories in my literature classes as examples of volte- face that is the hallmark of good short stories. One thing, about his short stories…. They have been as useful to me as the Unexpected Tales of Roald Dahl and the short stories of O. Henry to create in my girls an urge to read and discover for themselves, the mastery of this great genre. I simply love short stories. It is comparatively easier to write a novel, where you have the freedom of length to deal with your characterization, plot and denouement. In a short story, you are expected to do all that and yet, sustain the suspense of the plot and the interest of the reader in a limited length. Ahhh!! How I have digressed!
Like I was saying, I planned what to ask Lord Archer, when I got face to face with him, got photographed with him…. Oh it would be well worth the one C note I’d spend on cab to reach the Mall of the Emirates all the way from Sharjah. And I kept my well- thumbed copy of The Collected Short Stories, ready for his signature….This was one opportunity I should not miss!
Everything happened as they do to the well- laid plans of mice and men. The next morning, the paper published an interview with the writer ( more about his political life than his writings) at the end of which it reported that he had gone back as the inauguration of Borders was postponed! I still look forward to going to the Mall of the Emirates, but definitely, am not going to spend money on cab for that. I shall wait for my better half to generously drive me down.

Thursday, November 02, 2006

WHAT’S IN A NAME?

This morning’s papers announce that the Chief Minister, H.D. Kumaraswamy has successfully ‘kannadafied’ Bangalore into Bungalooru. So what? I initially think… It is not a very earth- shattering move. The other states have done it. But the change of Trivandrum to Thiruvanandapuram, or Cochin to Kochi did not make as much impact on me as did Chennai, Kolkatha and Mumbai. I rebelled against accepting those changes. For good reasons, my mind keeps arguing!
Now the name Calcutta brings before my eyes the pristine lawns of the Victoria Memorial Hall whereas, Kolkatha transports me to those congested roads near Howrah Bridge and I can smell the fear of missing the night train when you are struck in the traffic to the station at 3.30 pm.
My heart never accepted Mumbai…… I can not visualize a Johnny Walker singing ‘yeh hai Mumbai meri jaan…’. I mean, the term mumbai sends tremors through my heart…of some underworld don’s henchman lurking behind me…. Though they do say it is the safest city in India ( at least when the Salman Khans are not driving… Or gun- toting goondas are not out on a gang war…or the man on the street doesn't get blown up by fanatical flicking of detonators)… Mumbaified Bombay ? Nah…! Will the Mumbai Duck taste the same as Bombay Duck? No idea, since I am a vegetarian!
And Chennai… I simply cannot. I am still a madrasi to my north Indian acquaintances. Somehow chennaiite seems so unhealthy…like cellulite or even pretentious as a socialite! Even when my nephew recited ‘Thalai nagarm Chennai’, I was humming…'Madraaaas Nalla Madras'! And…… how can I change my grandparents? My maternal grandfather was called Madrasthatha by all of us. Come on…. He cannot be changed into Chennaithatha…..would sound like a Youth Congress Leader!
Well, the Bard of Avon said, ‘ What’s in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other word would smell as sweet.’ Being rechristened as Bungalooru is not going to alter the traffic jams, make it less ITcentric or make Bisi Bele Huliyanna any different…But I shall shudder whenever they announce at the airport, ‘Indian Airlines announces the departure of IC 961 from Sharjah to Bungalooru…..!’ Will it seem like going home?

Wednesday, November 01, 2006

WITH APOLOGIES TO NIDHI , FOR THE DELAY

Nothing ventured, nothing done. For days I delayed writing on the words given by Nidhi’s friends, giving preference to others. And the ever patient Nidhi never once demanded why. Finally unable to bear the burden of my own guilt, here I am trying to do justice to her. I’m combining the two sets of words this once. Take 1 and Take 2 are bonus. Take 3 is what I had planned to do for her. Hope you like it, Dinni!

AISHWARYA’S WORDS : GLASSES, GALAXY, ANIMAL

KEERTHANA’S: VEHICLE, PLANT, WATER BOTTLE

Take 1.
Bhayya was such an animal. She had carefully hidden her box of Galaxy, which Chachu had gifted her on Diwali, but somehow His Snoopiness had ferreted it out of her hiding place and emptied it. She had not even tasted one. In rage, she took his Armani glasses, wrapped it in a wad of kitchen towel and placed it carefully inside an old water bottle. She first thought she’d throw it into the depth of the dustbin in the kitchen. Then she thought she’d bury it in the huge potted plant, her father so lovingly nurtured….No, she told herself, next time he worked on the soil, he’d find it. Justice must fit the crime, she thought. She looked out of the window. The Pizza Hut van had just parked and the delivery boy came out carrying two boxes. She quickly took the water bottle and slipped out of the flat. She gently wedged the plastic bottle under the left rear tyre of the van. Quickly she ran up and watched as the driver reversed the vehicle, crushing the water bottle with her Bhayya’s glasses in it. Serves him right, she thought. Revenge was as sweet as the taste of the uneaten galaxies.

Take 2.
I will kill these animals, she muttered to herself as she collected the broken pieces of the expensive water bottle she had bought for the Ladies’ Walkathon. If I had my way, I’ll parcel these monsters in an airtight wooden box and mail it to a faraway galaxy… they were not pets, they were pests! She had told her kids that she would not…do you hear me?… WOULD NOT …clean up after the mess created by their pets. No probs, Mumsie, they had chorused. We’ll do everything. And that, they had- exactly for 48 hours. Now the confounded animals were in her care. I have heard of families having a cat or a dog for a pet in a flat. But having both a cat and a dog is a bit too much! She yelled at the two animals that cowered before her. Especially when the two hated the sight of each other and chased each other all over the house.
Yesterday the blasted dog had dug up all her potted plants trying to bury his stupid plastic bone in them. The other day she had just washed her new set of crystal glasses and left them to dry on the dining table. CRASH! The cat had jumped onto the table smashing them to smithereens!
Her newly bought vehicle’s, her precious Pathfinder’s interior was scratched by the two beasts- gratitude for having taken them for a joyride. I’ll poison them…she thought. I’ll put them both in a sack and throw them down from the thirteenth floor… I’ll drug the monsters and take them in my vehicle to a far away place and abandon them…..she fumed. Yet, she knew she would do none of these as her kids loved their pets and she…., she loved her kids and would suffer any pain for them!

Take3.
JPX393 watched the screen in front of him. There it was again. Last mooncycle he had seen that thing float past in the screen. He had thought it must be some asteroid on its way to meet its annihilation. He watched it now. It was approaching his space ship. He put on his Space-spy glasses. By calculating its apparent speed and the depth of emptiness around him, in exactly four days and thirty-nine hours’ time it would float past his planet.
He reached the Transportation Plant. JPX390, his dna-donor was the Chief Executive there. The animals guarding the huge plexi-glass doors did not stop him. They could smell that his dna matched! He carelessly scratched them behind their ears and proceeded to the manufacturing section of the plant. This was JPX390’s dream project and he would be found there. Quickly he apprised him of the strange sighting on his screen. JPX 390 was excited too. He consented to let his Clone3 borrow the latest Space-O- Cart, the futuristic vehicle they had just test- launched.
Four days and thirty-nine hours later:
The vehicle was ready to be launched. Timing was crucial. JPX393 started the SOC. Soon he was hovering beyond his Ionosphere. The Emptiness of the space seemed to drag his vehicle. His eyes burnt as they came into contact with the ‘dark-nothing’ around him. He put on his oxy-glasses. He waited, peering anxiously into the monitor in front of him. T-h-e-r-e it was…. slowly floating nearer. Just as it floated past the SOC he activated the ATTRACTRAY at the tip of his glove and aimed it at the object. Attracted by the ray, it glided smoothly towards him and soon fitted into his gloved limb.
It was curiously shaped, cylindrical and brightly coloured. He kept it on his screen but it slipped and fell. A part of it broke, a domelike structure and something fell out. JPX393 took that curious thing out. He decided to take advice from JPX390 who had a Trans Galactic Translator which would explain things to him.
JPX390 unfurled the colourless piece of something and placed it on the scanner slot. The
TGT took a long time to decipher the marks on it. #@%****^#@@!!!!&&&^%%%%%%##@@mmmnnnngggHHHttttt!, it went.
Roughly translated for the benefit of earthlings, here is what it said:
Hi ,Whoever Finds This: My name is Jeremy Parker and I live on the Earth, a minor planet in the Galaxy called Milky Way. People normally drop their messages inside bottles in oceans and seas. I thought I’d be different and throw mine in the sea of nothingness. My dad is an astronaut and he is going on a space trip trying to start his business on Mars. I have asked him to drop this out of his spaceship into the space. If you find it please contact me at the following address. I know there is somebody out there like me in other galaxies. It will be nice to meet you, whoever you are. Do visit me.
A year later:
The following was a news headline .
UFO CRASH LANDS IN ANTARCTICA
An Unidentified Flying Object seems to have landed at the South Pole. The alien craft seems to have been totally burnt down. Heads and scientists of the Big 5 have congregated at the site to study the implications. There is a theory that the UFO was shot down by the Americans, the Chinese or the Russians. No one wants to believe a ten year old boy, Jeremy parker and his family who were at the South Pole claiming to have received a dream from an alien named JPX393 to meet them there. ‘Impossible!’ say authorities….. ‘There is nothing called UFO!’

Tuesday, October 31, 2006

AULD LANG SYNE

As she drives her four year old son
To his UCMAS class
She watches him idly play
With his plastic abacus
She recalls, how as a child
She played with a wooden frame
With rows of brightly coloured beads
Not knowing the Chinese secret
Of advanced math power hidden in them.
Yet, she could total up the grocery bill in her mind
She could budget the month to fit the salary
She could put two and two together,
And know, though it should turn out to be four,
Life’s quirks make it twenty- two at times…
Without having undergone special tuitions.

As she watches her kids
Eyes glued to the screen
Jubilantly criminal in sport,
Riding violent rides,
Outsmarting the unknown rivals
On their Play Station,
She recalls her simple rustic childhood
How on lazy days of summer break
With her grandaunt as her opponent
She waged battles in pallanguzhi
By no means a mean task,
Every move calculated
Every seashell manipulated to end up
In a premeditated slot,
To be scooped out
As the winner’s lot.

As she packs her kids’ lunch box
With deep fried samosas, pastries
Ajinomoto rich noodles
Sugar coated doughnuts, crimped potato wafers
And waves off the still sleepyheads
In their school bus
She remembers those hurried mornings
Of gulping down
Plateful of left over rice
Well mixed in thick curds
With dainty salted mangos
(Mmmmm…ambrosia, manna and nectar!)
Before walking three kilometers
To reach the school before the peon
Rings the stentorian bell;
Of opening the aluminium lunch box
At one o’clock and
Scooping out with fingers,
Cold sambhar or rasam rice,
Devouring the very last morsel
And rushing to the row of taps
To rinse the box
Before elbows start jostling
And water, splashing….

How times have changed
She muses
Alien land…alien habits
Alien taste…in food, clothing, routine.
Alien thinking, alien justifications,
Alien kids? Maybe soon, she thinks…
Why am I unable to adjust, she wonders
Why do I cling to my past
Knowing full well that
That past is past
And it shall never be the same
Ever again!

Sunday, October 29, 2006

A QUICK JOG DOWN MEMORY LANE

I got a call this evening from Akhila, an ex- student of my teaching years at Bhadravathi. We chatted for half an hour about her batchmates, other students and acquaintances in and around St. Charles English High School. Many of her batchmates are married and with kids of their own. Akhila has been in Ajman since July. She told me how a particular student of mine went to Russia to do his MBBS but dropped out after the second year, brought home his Russian girl friend and eventually married her. She told me of an alumni gathering of the 96 batch and promised to mail me the pictures, an initiative taken up by Vijayasimha.
A few of my students are in touch with me. Rashmi Raman working in IBM is a regular in my mail box. Prathibha Hampapur working with Volvo has remembered to send me greeting card every Teacher’s Day.
Once in a restaurant in Bangalore, I turned when someone called me ‘Miss’ and saw tall dark fellow towering over me. For a minute I couldn’t place him…. Not that he minded. M.S. Kiran, Miss, he told me. Oh my God! How he had grown…. A great kid in my English classes, he was in the third year of engineering at that time. Must have got married and even got kids by now.
These days you meet people in the most unexpected places. Once while I was playing Literati online, suddenly someone started chatting with me…. It was Vibhav Sharma who is working in Chennai as a software engineer. As usual we catch upon who is where. Another time I get a mail from Mohd. Wayeez who had been one of my favourites while at school. Not favourite as in favouritism but someone I liked, trusted and counted on to help me with that class of 62 students. I later taught Wayeez’ sister who was in my last batch in St. Charles. He had got my mail ID from her friend and mailed me about his whereabouts and that of many other of his batch. I have registered myself with batchmates .com hoping that someone might in the course of their busy life remember my name and at least talk about me with their family or friends. Thanks to technology many of them contact me and the life I spent as their teacher, suddenly seems to have been meaningful.
It was great talking about good old days with Akhila, but after we rang up I realized how time has flown. All those boys and girls I left behind in Bhadravathi after their Grade 10,have become young men and women. Soon my own boys will start on their career and eventually settle down in life. When I left Bhadravathi for Sharjah, I had been given an overwhelming farewell by my students and I had told myself that no one will love me as they have. I stand corrected. I guess I am one of those few blessed teachers who will be given unconditional love by students.
When I look back at the seven years I spent teaching in Sharjah, I thought I may just be an ‘also ran’ but the emails that flooded my mail box after I resigned made me realize something. Students are just great people. They like you…they love you. Every now and then I get calls seeking advice, announcing their performances, sharing their dreams for future…or just making a friendly call to ask me how I am. I bask in the love showered on me by my Sowmya, Arti, Afshan, Karen, Deepika, Michelle, Sana, Christina, Anju, Ann Isac and many others. I just love it when a chat box pops open with ‘Hi M’am’ smiling at me…. Then follows a quick session of catching up with what is happening in their lives. Their achievements are of great interest to me. One explains why she has chosen a commerce stream after pursuing Science in 11th and 12th. One justifies why she left the college after the first year in BA Political Science to join the Law Academy. One tells me of her dream of becoming an ace tennis player…. One needs my advice on a college project. One just mails saying how much she misses me……all these reiterate the truth- Students are the same…whether they are in India or in the Emirates.
They don’t always use the grammar I have tried to drum into their heads. They don’t use the right letter format..( One even wrote, ‘Now that I am out of school, I am not going to sign off with ‘ Yours sincerely’ I am going to use ‘With Love’…and I don’t mind if you cut my marks for this….heh..heh…’the student has the last word here…..because I am speechless with emotion). They don’t even use the English language I know…. They use a mutilated language with terrible spellings…… But the message they convey is always the same… They love me still…. And miss me…..as I do ……miss them. They are my gratuity… my bonus…my savings… to ruminate on during the twilight of my life and perhaps to entertain my grandkids in future. In the meantime, all my Deepikas, Sowmyas, Sanas and Akhilas are welcome to mail me, call me or chat with me.

Friday, October 27, 2006

K3’S WORDS- CHAPATHI, WALL, ELECTRICITY

Kalyanasundaram faced a cul de sac. The very thought of going home for dinner filled him with dread. Another chapathi to eat and I’ll scream, he thought. Amma had been right. Think twice before marrying a Punjabi she had said. Their life style and ours are not the same. But his love for Sarabjeet had been blind. Funny how she used to remind him of a tall glass of chilled meethi lassi that he used to order in Parmeet di Dabha…and that was another thing he couldn’t stand any more. His patted the layers of lard that had accumulated around his waist in the last three months of wedded nightmare!
Being posted in Jalandhar, it seemed a good idea to move in with Sarabjeet’s family, once they were married. Once the rose spectacles of newly married life were removed, reality struck. The toughest thing to compromise was the food. Chapathi for breakfast, paratta for lunch, tandoori roti for dinner…..Oh! his palate just longed for some pazhaya sadam (leftover rice) and katta thayiru( thick curds) accompanied by kadugu manga ( spicy tender mango pickle)…. But… no way…. His mother in law could not even boil rice properly. When he had placed the desire of wanting to eat rice before Sarabjeet, what was placed before him had been a plate of ghee- dripping half-cooked basmati rice tempered with jeera.
He did not bother them again. He bought himself a rice cooker, one which worked on electricity, which he hid in his office. Every morning he’d make one cup of rice for himself and gobble it around 11.30 with curds and pickle bought at the local Foodworld. Sarabjeet would personally bring his lunch to the office everyday. Sinfully rich parathas and aloo gobhi or palak paneer or if in a mood to punish him…,sarson da saag. He would take a deep whiff of it and feign to drool…just to keep her happy. After she left, once the coast was clear, he would, throw the whole thing outside the compound wall, exactly at 1.30 p m. The local curs would be waiting for their lunch and there’d be no trace of his lunch left over. Since he suffered the punjabi breakfast and dinner, he felt justified in indulging in a little madrasi deceit.
He had been lured by the newly- opened Udupi restaurant on the other side of the town. Today, irresistibly he was drawn into the Kamat restaurant. “Sadadosamasaladosaidliwadasambharoottappamkarabhathchowchowbathmeduwa-damasalwadaakkkirotiuppumaaaaaa!!!” announced the thambi in one long breath. Oh! Good old hotel jargon….! Even the way they announced the menu was appetizing! Kalyanasundaram said, ‘Idli wada sambhar and oothappam and closed his eyes in bliss.
He rang home and told Sarabjeet, ‘Oye! Have an urgent meeting…You have food, Don’t wait for me…Madrasi clients to deal with!’That settled, he tackled the steaming idli wada sambhar that was plonked before him. All’s fair in love and war! He consoled himself…
He loved Sarajeet…but he loved his madrasiness more. Diversity in Unity!


TRIAL 2

Eureka! Screamed Unnik as he rushed out of the bathroom not naked as Archemides had done ages back… He was fully clad but that did not make him any less genius than the originator of that yell. Unnik was a science freak.
He loved experimenting…creating…and doing things related to scientific theories when others of his age enjoyed playing cricket…or watching movies. He had been told to prepare a working model of some useful gadget for the annual science exhibition. He had been at a dead end. What could he do?
Last night as he watched his mother roll out chapathis, the idea had sprouted in his mind…. But it was just five minutes back, while sitting in the toilet, like Rodin’s Thinker, that he had finalized his idea.
He would make a 'multi- limbed roti- robot' that worked on electricity…. He had a blue print in his mind for the robot that would knead the dough with one limb, while another arm rolled the dough into balls and tossed against the wall. The third arm fitted with a flat sheet of metal would press the dough to form perfectly round chapathis which would be cooked on the electrically heated wall ….. Eureka, he muttered more soberly and jubilantly… Now to get the funds for the material to make my robot! Must tell Mom to sponsor the cost….After all, she’ll benefit first…only then I’ll give the patent for commercializing my product, he decided.

Tuesday, October 24, 2006

APPEARANCES CAN BE DECEPTIVE!

When I saw Sindoo’s words, the phrase ‘child’s play’ flashed through my mind and I smiled in complacence. Oh! How the mighty are fallen! For the last seven days, my creative self has been struggling to find a connection…and, finally early this morning, I woke up at 2.30 and voila! I got it…. Sindoo, thank you for making me eat the humble pie!

SINDOO’S WORDS: RADIO, BOOKMARK, SHIP

Bharat surveyed the elegant interiors of Café Theiere. Wow! So this is where the other half wine and dine. He had never before entered such an expensive restaurant, and perhaps, never would have, if he hadn’t won a prize in a Radio quiz show. He loved interacting with the RJs during the daily long trek via Emirates Road. And during peak hours when the car just moves a couple of feet every ten minutes, the company of those sonorous,humourous, witty and entertaining RJs was a solace. He often participated in their competitions and conveyed to them the locations of traffic bottle- necks, besides requesting for his favourite songs. Last month, there had been a quiz on ships, a topic dear to him, thanks to his maternal uncle who had been a marine engineer who had regaled his childhood years with stories of his life on the sea. Bharat had developed a keen interest on ships as a boy and had a collection of miniature ships and books on ships. The quiz had been a cake- walk for him. He had answered all the questions on ships, shipping terms and disasters correctly and won a free meal in Café Theiere …and here he was.
Seated in a secluded corner, he was able to observe what was going on around him.
When the sommelier gave him the menu for wines, he declined, no he wanted only water. Did the man’s nose go up by an inch or so? He slithered away into the darkness and was replaced by a commis waiter.
With a flourish, the commis handed Bharat another fancy menu with a list of mineral water with fancier price index….. Wow! Water priced so high? You get a two-litre bottle for just two dirhams in any restaurant! This was five star robbery. He stole a glance at the stiff figure near him...Yes, the sneer was there as though the man could read his mind. Hello, you are only an assistant…. Back home in a kalyana sadyai (wedding feast) you will be beckoned with the snap of a finger…’Ambi…inga konjam thanneen…’( brother…a little water here!) You are just the twelfth man in the cricket team…. A water-boy! And don’t you give me any airs!
Bharat glanced at the list again. Something caught his eye. Canaqua. Now that sounded familiar. Where had he heard the term? He tried hard to recall. Suddenly it clicked. He had heard his RJ pal talk about a new brand of water that has hit the shelves in an exclusive mall in Dubai. Some water bottled from a Canadian spring …what was that they claimed? ‘Untouched by air or any living thing!’ Priced at Dhs. 10 for half a litre bottle. Fine…. The meal included water as well…so he might as well opt for the fancy stuff.! A bottle of Canaqua, he said as snootily as he could and handed the list back. The man’s face seemed to change.. A flash of appreciation before the professional supercilious expression of five star waiter masked it again. As the fellow disappeared, Bharat surveyed the room again. He mentally book marked the scenario….. Maybe he would share it with his favourite FM network and all its listeners in the emirates. But, he must tell them one thing, the prize winner should have the option of redeeming the coupon for its worth rather than be a victim of five star snobbery…. He had only selected the water…now there would be the main menu and the dessert … What a torture!

Sunday, October 22, 2006

DIWALI DEBACLE: THE SAGA CONTINUES

Fools rush in where angels fear to tread! How true. Take me for instance. Born to an expert cook and DIL of another awesome chef, I am that culinary ugly duckling that will never turn into a swan! One should know one’s strengths and weaknesses…. at least the latter. Nah! So I give in to some foolhardy impulse on the 19th and decide to prepare sweets for this year’s Diwali, myself. ‘Okay, guys,’ I tell the men in the family, ‘this year we are not buying sweets…. I am going to prepare them at home.’ Both smile.
I rummage in my cupboard for the recipe book that was a part of my trousseau. It is a thick 1983 diary in which I have painstakingly written down instructions starting from making coffee…to arranging a typical South Indian wedding feast. I am an avid collector of recipes…though I do not get to trying out many of them as hubby is not a very adventurous eater.
I find the weather- beaten (having weathered 23 years of my married life) book and quickly thumb through the pages. After much speculation on the intricacies of steps, ingredient availability and possibilities of success, I decide on Maida- cake, Rawa laddoo and Mysore Pak.

Disaster on the First Avenue: Mysore Pak. The easy- sounding sweet, when you read the recipe. Child’s play , the way Amma makes it. So I collect besan, sugar, ghee and the biggest plate to pour the mix when it is ready. I start after 'raahu kalam' ( inauspicious time acc.to Hindu calendar). 1 hour later. Realise rahu kalam is doing overtime today…..My mysore paks are rock hard. The knife I plunged in to cut the mixture into squares is stuck. Can’t retrieve it…. I can’t let the guys see this…. I quickly take the entire plate, mysore pak and stuck- knife and all and chuck the whole thing into the garbage bin. Needed new plate and knife anyway…. Customary to buy new plates on Dhan Theras , I must tell the guys. Am not very comfortable with the discarded plate sneering at me. Quickly cover it with the Freehold and Property sections of yesterday’s newspaper.( One thing with the dailies is that they give you a lot of supplementary sheets which are useful to cover up whenever you bin wasted ‘not so fresh’ vegetables and culinary disasters!!) Phew. Must take the garbage out myself today.

Maida Cake Mayhem: Compared to my mysore pak misadventure, the maida cake recipe looks more promising. Mom normally uses green food colour for hers. I decide on saffron…. Maybe people will think it is from Puranmal or Chappan Bog. Start venture afresh. Confidence is restored. The recipe book is strategically placed near the stove for frequent reference. Mmmm! Vanilla essence smells yum… Saffron is a better colour for maida cakes….must tell mom to change her patent green… Pour out the hot mixture into a tray. All’s well that ends well?
Well? Not quite….At the end of the required cooling time, the maida cake has not set. But the recipe says….. Well, the recipe may say anthing….This is very like me…. Really flexible…. I try to take a piece off the tray… It comes like the chewing gum the twins used to take out from their mouth to annoy me….. I chuck the whole thing in the freezer. Maybe it will set when it is frozen…. Otherwise I’ll throw it out after Diwali at an auspicious time…. Like when nobody is home…heh…heh a little foul play is acceptable at times like this!

Ruinous Rawa Ladoos: They say one should learn from one’s mistakes. Well, the rendezvous with rawa ladoo seemed to be so harmless that I decide to go ahead and try my hand at that. No technicalities…..no possible glitches of timing…. This should be a piece of cake, I mean… Laddooo, I tell myself. I call the grocery downstairs to send up some raisins. Start warming the semolina in my kadai… the bell rings… I collect then raisins…rush back to the kadai… to find that the semolina has turned slightly (!) brown. Oh no! I have thrown away enough things for the day. Don’t want to waste any more. Why not innovate? I decide to camouflage the ever- so –light- brown grains of semolina by adding green food colour. Who says rawa ladoos have to be white? Besides, necessity was the mother of inventions….One had to improvise in life….So I try out my new plan.
Sigh……! Sigh, sigh! Sigh, sigh... sigh!!!
Learn a new lesson…. Some things are just not meant to be…like green rawa ladoos…or improvising with the wrong recipe…like my expertise at preparing sweets…!!!! The result of my lab work shows miserable looking ladoos which are speckled in green (never liked that green food colour…wonder what mom sees in it…must tell her not to use it in future!) and brown…. Like the eggs of sparrows or plovers…. Ugh!!! I definitely can’t place this in front of my guests. What about the packed gifts for friends? Dare I pack these into festive looking boxes and palm it off on unsuspecting friends? No…the fear of getting caught is too much. Public ridicule is unbearable! Got another day (20th) for trying out a few more recipes…. Gulab jamuns or Maa ladoos or at least Shakkar paare… (even culinary mrons can make them). Nope! This is no season to experiment. I pickup the phone and call Bala, my brother in law. “Bala,” I say calmly. 'On second thoughts, I am not going to make any sweets. Can’t risk my spondylitis. Can you pick up a few kilos of sweets from Sri Krishna Sweets or Chappan Bog?” “Sure!” says Bala. “Shall do. Just give me your list.” No questions asked, no fibs uttered in response! It is in my hands now to remove the incriminating evidence from my kitchen before the guys get home… Happy Diwali!

Friday, October 20, 2006

HAVE I NOT REASON TO LAMENT, WHAT MAN HAS MADE OF MAN?

Agar firdaus bar roo-e zameen ast,
Hameen ast-o hameen ast-o hameen ast.

If there is a paradise on earth,
this is it, this is it, this is it!

So sang poet Amir Khusrau seven hundred years back, waxing eloquent on the unravaged beauty of Kashmir. William Wordsworth expressed a similar sentiment in his Lines Written in Early Spring. More recently a poet / lyricist wrote: ‘ Ee manohara theerathu tharumo…. Ini oru janmam koodi…..’ (Will you give me another lifetime on this beautiful land) ! As we witness environmental degradation caused by Man’s mindless acts of ravaging Mother Earth, I ask myself, ‘What right do we have to commit such atrocities?’ As said by someone wise, ‘We have not inherited this world…. We have merely borrowed it from our children!’ Worth analysing?????

RAJASHREE’S WORDS: NIRVANA, IMPOSTERS, CONURBATION

Nimmi inhaled deeply as though she wanted to fill her lungs with the pure air devoid of pollutants…. She knew in her bones that this long whiff of bliss would sustain her for the next two years, the memory of it making every moment of her self-imposed exile in the West tolerable, till she came back on another holiday to her village and its neighbourhood. Standing on the tor, she stretched her hands wide open as though trying to embrace her favourite haunt in a big hug. The verdant hills, the azure sky and the zephyr waltzing with the foliage, and the trees trying to restrain them like a stern chaperone…. Aaaaaah! This was true nirvana! The ultimate bliss for human soul… This unique scene had been etched in her heart in her youth, when she used to seek an escape from her ruthlessly selfish and mechanical urban existence in this heaven on earth. She zoomed her powerful digital camera to capture another set of hard copied memories, for her to feast her eyes on, after staring at the computer monitor for hours together.
When your eyes smarted with exhaustion, those pictures on the panels of her dingy cubicle would freshen her mind, if not her body.
As she zoomed-in the distant hills, she froze. There was movement in the forest in front of her. Not the movement of the tribals who once in a while appeared to get in touch with modern civilization…, but of that modern civilization itself…. She zoomed the lens as much as she could. ‘It was true….,’ she realized with panic. There were mechanized saws cutting down trees. She could also see a few trucks waiting impatiently to get away with the loot.
How dare they! Trespassers in her paradise! ‘Chacko! Start the car…. We need to inform the police about some poachers….’she yelled to her driver, hurriedly throwing herself into the taxi she had hired for the day.
The Circle Inspector in the nearest town was not very interested in her story. Yes, he knew there was felling going on in the virgin hills, yes, they were authorized, yes, the municipality itself had issued orders, no, nothing could be done by her, no he didn’t feel moved by a pravasi malayalee’s artificial concern for her land, yes, he knew she was an NRK, (non resident keralite), yes, he had seen many like madam, no, it was not his duty to stop legitimate business…yes, it would be better if madam got a stay order from a court, yes, by that time considerable patch of forest would have been denuded….No, nothing could be done, that was that!
Imposters! She muttered angrily…. Devilish imposters pretending to be law enforcers! The legal system was impotent. No one bothered any more. She frothed and fumed making her driver shake his head in sympathy. ‘Madam,’ he said gently, ‘ They are going to set up a paper mill here. It would give job to hundreds of literate unemployed youth. This is called progress, Madam. Soon Parakkaankadu will be a conurbation, its nearness to Munnaar and Thekkady turning it into a tourist boomtown…. We will get our share of tourists…. And our economy will boom…. We all will all live happily ever after!’
‘Take me back to the tor, Chacko,’ said Nimmi in a tone devoid of any emotion. ‘Let me add a few more pictures to those on my walls….. Probably, I shall never return to this place.’

Thursday, October 19, 2006

NAF’S WORDS: JUXTAPOSITION, MORNING STAR, SNOOGUMS- BOOGUM

Annapoorni bent forward and hugged her knees. She turned her face and smiled at her son. Both of them watched indulgently as her daughter in law Brenda ran after her children, 4 year old Anna and 2 year old Dev. ‘You like them, Amma?’ he asked, with a yearning look in his eyes. ‘They are wonderful, Kanna,’ she said and ruffled his hair like she used to do when he was a kid. ‘I love them,’ she said gently… ‘and so would Appa. Just give him time.’ They both lapsed into silence, each lost in memories…

‘Daddeeee!’ Dev came hurtling towards them. ‘ Help! Anna’s after me! She’ll catch me!’ Before Kannan could respond, Annapoorni drew the panting child to her and said, ‘No…she won’t.’ ‘Yes, she will…she wants to beat me.’ ‘Really? said Annapoorni. ‘You go and tell her if she doesn’t behave, Snoogums – boogum will catch her.’
‘Whatums boogum?’ asked Dev. His grandma rolled her big eyes and whispered…
‘ Snooooooogumssss….boooooogummm’… Dev, half scared and half tickled at the thought of some monster catching his sister, ran back to her.
‘Amma! You remember!’ exclaimed Kannan with astonishment writ large on his face that she still remembered the word he had used to scare everyone in his childhood. The Snoogums Boogum was the ogre specially created for him by his dad on one of those never ending story sessions they used to have when Kannan was four years old! She just smiled. Why tell him that she remembered everything about him from the day he was born to that fateful day when he had quarrelled with his father and left home not ever to return? He would not understand the pain they had gone through… Maybe he will, now that he is a father himself, she thought and immediately chided herself. God forbid! Let him not go through what we have.
She stared at the darkening sky. She could see the evening star twinkling down at her… Back home it will be dawn, she reflected. Deva would have made his coffee and he would be leaning against the railings on the balcony, looking at the morning star and taking lazy sips at his coffee… That was something they both used to enjoy doing together… ‘This morning star is our ‘arundati’. Let us watch it every dawn, together,’ he had told her the morning after their wedding. They had….. for 52 years. ‘Wonder if he misses me,’ She mused. After 52 years of togetherness, it was for the first time that they were separated like this. When Kannan had called them and begged their forgiveness, the mother in her just could not resist flying out to him. Dev senior had been stubborn. ‘You go,’ he had said. ‘I’ll be fine here.’ The evening star and the morning star, both were the same…. The Venus… Both the worlds were hers now…..
Sensing her nostalgia, Kannan hugged her and said quietly, ‘I’m happy you forgave me, Amma,’ and as his eyes misted with emotion, he quickly got up and ran towards Brenda and children. Annapoorni sighed, wiping a few stray tears away from the corner of her eyes.
‘ East is East and West is West, and never the twain shall meet!’ People who oft quoted these words in her society were so biased, she thought. In the past one week, she had seen just how well East and West had met and this perfect juxtaposition deserved all her and her husband’s blessings… She decided to call Dev senior as soon as she reached home and bridge a five year old gap between the father and the son. She owed it to these wonderful people. She watched as Kannan swung Anna onto his shoulders, her long thin legs dangling over him, and Brenda scooped a tired, tousled Dev up into her arms……
She recalled Robert Browning’s lines from Pippa Passes, the lines she had learnt by heart in her youth. She murmured them now to herself:

The year’s at the spring,
And day’s at the morn;
Morning’s at seven;
The hillside’s dew-pearled
The lark’s on the wing,
The snail’s on the thorn,
God’s in his Heaven-
All’s right with the world!

P.S. Nafs, Impossible is nothing……Nothing is impossible! I swear!

IN CELEBRATION OF A MOTHER’S JOY !

19th October.
This morning’s Tabloid has the picture of a new born baby gorilla sleeping soundly on his mother’s chest, in a zoo in Rotterdam, Holland. More than the blissful look on the infant’s face, what caught my attention was the mother gorilla’s expression. It has that indulgent, serene and a complacent look which only a mother can sport. Last week there was a write up on the latest venture on explaining Mona Lisa’s smile. The researcher alleges that the model had very recently become a mother, and that a very thin veil that covered her (?) visible only after a thorough scrutiny, corroborated his theory. The expression on her face reflected her inner glow as a ‘new’ mother.
Like the female gorilla and Mona Lisa, every woman’s face takes on that expression when they beget children. Some of them learn to camouflage it ( for reasons best known to them).
Twenty one years back my face got that expression when I was elevated to ‘double- motherhood’ by the arrival of my twin sons….jointly referred to as Kath-Kash by our friends in Bhilai. The thing is, that expression has never been wiped off from my face! They say it is difficult to bring up kids. They say it is next to impossible to raise twins. Challenging? Yes….. Impossible? No! I have enjoyed the last 21 special years as I grew up as a mother with them. Every stage has been a wonderful learning experience.

I had delivered them in the seventh month of my pregnancy and had to watch over them eagle-eyed for the next three months. That I had the expert presence of my mom, mum-in – law, Grandma , a contingent of aunts and last but not the least, my younger sister, had helped a lot. But, there are moments, incidents, and milestones that are exclusively mine.

There was a time when I watched them with helpless tears- of frustration- when the one year old twins excluded me from their world, preferring their own company. They’d just approach me when they were hungry or needed me to change their nappies. The rest of the time they jabbered away in some special language of their own, laughing, discussing, fighting and never sparing a glance for me. Horrified that I was doing some wrong parenting, I had consulted many paediatricians who consoled me saying that it was a natural occurring. Twins had a special world of their own, which no one can trespass into- not even the mother. That took some accepting!
I have given it my best shot to not compare or contrast one with the other. There is no question of my loving one more than the other. My heart has ached, when in their course of life, others have done that- compared or commented on their achievements, or temperaments or their decisions. I know they have a deep bond that defies all logical reasoning and all attempts at analyzing their attitudes and aptitudes by outsiders.
I remember one incident that brings back the tears of pride that welled up in my eyes and heart, when they were six years old. They both were very keen budding artists and used to participate in competitions. Both of them won prizes in a painting competition sponsored by Camlin Colour Company, in Bhilai. One got the first and the other, a consolation prize. One accepted a certificate and two big gift- wrapped parcels with aplomb and happily joined us, the proud parents. The consolation prize winner was called and given just a certificate. The child lingered there thinking that he too would be given a wrapped- up gift. But he was gently ushered down the stage by someone. My heart bled the way only a mother’s can at the woebegone look on his face as he joined us. But my faith in my kids’ bonding was restored permanently, when, the one who had got two gifts told the other loudly, ‘ K! I have 2 gifts with me. Here, you take one,’ and handed one of his prizes to his twin. I cried and cried shamelessly then in that hall. God bless them both for that cherished memory that makes any physical pain I might have undergone while delivering them, well worth it!

They are great kids…. The best a mother could ever aspire to have. Adding a long string of such fond memories to my treasure chest, they have now grown up into fine young men. Anyone who has interacted with them has certified them as good kids. I only hope they get two wonderful girls as their life partners who will not mind my wearing that smug, serene and ‘overflowing with motherly love’ look, like that of that gorilla in the Rotterdam zoo, and Mona Lisa!

Wednesday, October 18, 2006

CONFESSIONS OF A DIEHARD PROCRASTINATOR

Procrastination is an art to be cultivated and perfected over a lifetime… Yours truly has graduated in it and is in the process of taking a Masters, at this point in time. Never put off until tomorrow what you can do today, my grandfather used to always advise me.
And I ….. , I can never do today what can be postponed for tomorrow…or the day after …or the one after that! Appa ( my father in law) and Amma (MIL) packed their suitcases on the 2nd of the month, if they were supposed to travel on the 15th. I, normally, throw all my things in on 14th night…. or on 15th morning mostly, if the flight is in the evening. Not for me the calm and organized existence. I always love the excitement of uncertainty in my life( that’s what we professional procrastinators always say)!!
Every year I tell myself that it is time to change and become more systematic and organized. Easier said than done. All these years I have had the excuse that the demands of my work were the impediments to a more organized existence. Now that I am a full time homemaker, I thought things would change…. Nah!
Well… I do plan things. I am great at planning things…. In fact, I make very elaborate plans…. Like I did for this year’s Diwali. Normally, I keep all my plans to myself so that only I know how many of them got shelved or abandoned. This year I was rash enough to share my plans with Puja, my neighbour, when she asked me what I was planning to do for the festival. Pompously I told her , ‘Everything! I have plenty of time this year, since I am not working. What about you?’ She has a kid in kindergarten and a 10 month old toddler. She said she wasn’t sure.. with the two kids it would be difficult… Maybe something simple, she said. This was in the first week of October.
The second week of October saw a sea change in my life. I started my own blog site…and I was busy writing and publishing my a4isms….I knew I had a lot of shopping to do. As usual I indulged in procrastinating! Tomorrow…., I kept telling myself.

Third week of October: Aaaah! I must get round to buying things – ingredients for preparing the sweets and savouries…. And gifts for friends and relatives….’I’ll do it tomorrow,’each day I told myself, knowing full well that tomorrow never comes!

14th of October: Puja came to borrow my chakli mould… She has already made two sweets. She asked me how far I had reached. I smiled mysteriously and shaking my head, said ‘ Surprise!’ ‘I’ll return this in a day or two,’ she said. ‘Take your time.’ I said. What I meant was give it after Diwali….that way I have a good excuse for not using it!

17th October : Something has triggered the panic button inside me. Was it Puja returning my chakli mould after finishing with it? Was it my husband who asked me if I had done the shopping, as soon as he returned from work? Was it my niggling conscience….or was it my ego that was all set to fall flat on its face in front of my systematic neighbour with two kids who is steadily doing everything well in time for the festival?
I realized I could not postpone action anymore. A kind friend agreed to accompany me to wherever I had to go…. I returned home lugging packets and packets of stuff…. Now for the actual action….as usual in the eleventh hour!
18th October: if I don’t start today…. I’ll probably celebrate Diwali after Diwali!! So I refrain from glancing at my PC or at the TV. I better use some extra elbow grease today.
Happy Diwali……..??? Not yet… I have not yet started making my sweets… That is a totally different story altogether!

U C’S WORDS: PASSION, PERSEVERANCE, PONDATTI

Major Sundarapandian entered the army hospital with Karthar, his orderly, a few steps behind him, carrying the food for Ajalaa. Hope she gets discharged soon, he thought. The sooner she gets back to normal, the quicker the accident will be forgotten in the regiment.
People were laughing at his spontaneous outburst at the time of the mishap.
He blamed himself for her condition. Ajalaa had a passion for dancing. She was a well- trained artiste whose career had been reduced, after marriage, to mere formality performances in the army’s ladies club and other social functions. She contented herself by taking part whole- heartedly in the parties, an ever willing partner for many a dancing officer.
Born as the only daughter of a Consul General who had been posted in the southern European countries, she was well versed in the western dance forms as well. The only problem was that while his wife was a whiz at dancing, he was born with two left feet and no sense of rhythm. Very early in his career he had realized that he was good at commando operations, but not social ones, especially dancing. After having tripped over and tripping over a number of army wives, he now-a -days, nursed his drinks from a vantage point, from where he could enjoy watching those blessed with two dancing feet. Maybe, that was why he had been keen to marry someone like Ajalaa. A dancing wife would certainly be an asset to an army man, he had thought.
Well, everything had been fine till last week. Colonel Braganza had come to know that Ajalaa was good at the Tango and Cha Cha and had told her to reserve a few dances for him at the regimental New Year’s party.
Sundarapandian had indulgently watched the new dancing sensations – Colonel Braganza and Ajalaa holding the attention of all gathered, dance after dance. After her fifth dance,she had managed to get near him and told him to get her away as she was tired. Sundarapandian who was cradling his fourth drink, drumming his fingers on the sides of the glass had murmured, ‘ Paaruda, Ajju, You are doing a good job! Perisu happyaa irukku ( the old man is happy)! Dance little lady, dance!’ He had waved her tipsily away, as his superior claimed his wife’s hand for a tango. He couldn’t recall what exactly had happened . Probably, the colonel had also downed a couple. At one point he was supposed to hold Ajalaa’s waist by one hand and swing her up… he slipped….rather she slipped out of his hands. Thud! There she lay on the floor!
‘Ayyo! En pondaattiye keezha pottoottayedaa paavi!!’( You have dropped my wife!!!)
yelled Sundarapandian…and ran to his wife’s side. The regiment doctor was already kneeling by her side… giving someone orders to call the ambulance! A sprained ankle and severe concussion had left her in the hospital ever since.
Sundarapandian entered his wife’s room. He quickly and smartly saluted Colonel Braganza, who was accompanied by his wife, visiting Ajalaa. ‘So, my boy! She is fit as a fiddle! And you know what? We are going to practise regularly from now on…Perseverance, young man, is my middle name! HA HA HA HA HA!’ guffawed Braganza. I must apply for a transfer, thought Sundarapandian, in frenzy.

MATSY’S WORDS: AEROPLANE, SHARK, UNDERWEAR

Srishti jumped out of the cab as soon as it stopped in front of the airport. She hurriedly handed the cabbie a fifty and two ten rupee notes and yanking her trolley and her kit ran in. She was already late! The flight was to leave in 20 minutes’ time. As she quickly reported for duty, she kept thinking the same thing. She had forgotten to pack underwear for her husband and her son… They had left for Mauritius by the morning flight. She had been in a tremendous hurry as she had had a hundred things to do for them. Once they had left, she had to take Kiki, her dog to the K9’s for a three-day stay as she herself would be away. Then there was Maaji. She had to take her mum-in –law to her brother –in- law’s place with all her paraphernalia of medicines, knitting and books. With all these things to do before getting ready for her own flight, she had forgotten completely about the their underwear till she got into her cab.
Shrishti! Where were you! You are late by half an hour! Cathy came running towards her. Cathy! You won’t believe this, Manoj and Vicky left for Mauritius without their innerwear!! I clean forgot to pack any!’ ‘They’ll survive,’ said the ever practical Cathy..but I don’t know if you will…. Gramps is livid you are late!’ OOOOH! Gramps is flying today. Just my luck! She said as she hurried through the formalities and boarded the aeroplane. Surender Bakshi, was a very senior pilot who would not tolerate any nonsense from his crew.
The flight from Mumbai to Dubai was full today. Even as she helped all the passengers settle down, she was preoccupied! How could she have forgotten to pack their innerwear? She knew there would be a showdown when they returned. Manoj hated disorganized people. He hated when the house was left unattended, which it often was, thanks to her irregular working hours… Her work was the bone of contention between them these days.
She passed the tray with swabs of cotton and sweets in an absent- minded manner. As she returned, Cathy told her to demonstrate the use of safety gadgets while she announced the safety instructions. Carrying the oxygen mask and the life- vest, Srishti moved to the front of the economy section. ‘ Krupaya…dhyaan de. Anthar rashtreeya niyam ke anusar…..” Cathy’s voice droned on while Srishti demonstrated the use of the oxygen mask and the life jacket. She paused after the announcement in Hindi got over. Then the English version started. “Ladies and Gentlemen, as per international flight regulations….”
Srishti mechanically started miming the procedures and let her mind wander. Manoj and Vicky planned to do a lot of scuba diving…she couldn’t imagine what they’d do without their innerwear… What if the waters were shark- infested, she worried. Then she consoled herself that if sharks attacked mere underwear was not going to save them! But still, they should go to the nearest outlet and buy some. Vicky could wear those Bermudas she had packed… She loved the look of concentration on his face as he dressed himself….” She was jolted out of her reverie when Pushpa shook her. She returned to the present. There was pin drop silence inside the craft. All eyes were on her. She looked at Cathy who was frantically waving at her. She looked down at herself. In horror she realized that she had donned the life jacket pulling it up her legs like she would wear her panties!! My last flight! She decided, as she hastily removed the life jacket and hurried to hide herself from the laughing eyes of the passengers!

Monday, October 16, 2006

DESIGNER WATER…… TAKE IT WITH A PINCH OF DESIGNER SALT!

‘Designer’ is the ‘in’ word these days. We have graduated from designer clothes to designer jewellery, from designer furniture to designer homes. And the latest to hit the shelves of ‘designer’ malls, is DESIGNER WATER! This morning I read about Canaqua , bottled water selling at fancy ‘designer’ rates. You are not going to believe this! A 475 ml bottle of Canaqua costs 10 Dirhams in Dubai….! Wait! The joke is not over yet! The same bottle costs 3 Pounds in London (ie. Dhs 20), 6 Euros in France( Dhs 28), 4 Euros in Italy ( Dhs 18) and 7 Yen in Japan ( Dhs 26)!!!! I must warn all those designer clad jet setters of the UAE to carry their own Canaquas when they travel to these places…. Or the poor dears ( pun not intended) will be fleeced!!

Well, the founder/ owner of Canaqua, Linda Samis, may get annoyed by my cynicism. She claims that the water is from an underground aquifer spring located in the mountains of British Columbia in Canada, around 1200 ft above sea level! And it is also claimed that it is untouched by air or any living thing (!!) and is hydraulically pumped up 180 ft to be bottled (by non –living things?….. )
This reminds me of a story I have read in the ‘Aithihyamala’, a collection of legendary tales of people, places and events of ancient South India.
There was this Brahmin who was suffering from severe stomach-–ache, who approached a famous vaidyan (physician). ‘You must have a dose of python fat for a month to get cured,’ said the vaidyan to the extremely religious and vegetarian Brahmin.
‘Impossible!’ said the man and walked away dejected. He could not bear to think of violating his dharma by giving up his sacred vegetarianism. Realizing that he would die soon, he went to a near by temple and sat there, dejected. A stranger who was seated nearby asked him why he looked so sad and the man told him of his plight. ‘Well! Anyway you are going to die, so why don’t you stay at this temple for 41 days and worship God? You should go to the waterfalls in the forest behind this temple, have your bath and drink three handfuls of water from the fall. Then you must offer your prayers at the temple. Thinking that he had nothing to lose, the man started doing that. Within a month, he felt better and after 41 days he was fit as a fiddle. He decided to meet the vaidyan and tell him how wrong he had been with his diagnosis. The vaidyan would not believe him and asked the man to show what he had done to cure himself. He accompanied the man to the waterfall and started looking around. When he climbed the mountain side from where water thundered down, he saw the remains of a huge, dead and decayed python hanging on a rock.
He showed his ‘would –have –been’ patient the snake and smiled. ‘I wanted you to have python fat for 30 days, you have taken it for 41. Well, in the long run it will do you good!!”
What I mean is, isn’t it a tall claim (1200 ft above sea level!!) to say that our designer water under discussion is untouched by ‘ air or any living thing’???? Some living thing must have touched that water…at some point of time. What about the hydraulic pump that draws the water up? Wasn’t that installed by ‘living things’?…Doesn’t the said pump need regular maintenance….rendered by living things? Well… that is food …er.. no…water for thought!!
And coming right back to our bottle of water that costs Dhs 10, for 475ml… 475 ml? Why not 500 ml? What will the price be for 500ml then? 1000 fils divided by 475 ml multiplied by .25ml, added to Dhs10…. Or is it….(OOooh!! This is as agonizing as R. K. Narayan’s Swami’s plight…while calculating the cost of mangoes!!)
Anyway, who will notice there is 25 ml less in the bottle than what you expect in an average small bottle of water? As it is, people don’t finish their bottles of mineral water and, generally leave behind unfinished bottles in restaurants and picnic spots… We, of the designer generation, have no value for money! So what if there are nations trying frantically to wet millions of parched throats, or are embarking on the Herculean task of connecting all the rivers within its boundaries…. Ours not to reason why…. Ours but to buy and try…. and waste. Sad, but disastrously and scandalously true!

Sunday, October 15, 2006

A TOPICAL FEVER OR A TROPICAL FEVER?

The people, the media and the hospitals of the subcontinent are all preoccupied. Health personnel seem to be working overtime with hands tied behind them… a battle so one sided that it resembles a cricket match…. A no win situation, as usual for us. As laymen we do not know anything about these fevers except that they hurt…and that they kill…. Let us hope India finds a solution for these exotic sounding fevers.

SHASHI’S WORDS: MEXICO, DENGUE, CANDLE

The power failed for the third time. The ceiling fan groaned to a halt. Yadav lit a Tortoise coil in the flame of the candle near him. Though it was warm, Yadav drew the shawl around him, covering himself head to toe, leaving a tiny opening for his nose. His body seemed to be on fire and his joints hurt. He felt as though someone was playing drums inside his head. BOOM, BOOM, TOM, TOM, TOM, BOOM, BOODEE, BOOM! He held the sides of his temples. THUD…THUD…DHUD….dhud…dhud… the intensity reduced with the pressure he applied. Still someone seemed to be dancing a wild number inside his head.
Sounds like conga drums, he told himself….On second thoughts, he decided, no they are bongos…… He was of logical mind. Conga drums were for African dances and Bongos for Spanish …..Since he suffered from dengue and not chikungunya, it had to be bongos… Everybody knew that Chikungunya was donated to India by a few stowaway carrier mosquitoes from Africa …..Someone in his village even said that those who suffered from chikungunya talked in African dialects in delirium. But, his doctor had told him that he suffered from dengue. Who had brought this? The name sounded Spanish. He remembered reading in the paper that a Mexican freight ship had docked in the harbour recently. For sure, dengue came from Mexico. Mexicans used Spanish, no? Dago mosquitoes brought Dengue!
What a funny name for a fever! He mused. In good old days fevers were called flu or malaria or (even if it was difficult to spell) pneumonia…! Dengue! What a funny name! First of all no one knew how to pronounce it. Some called it ‘deng’, others called it ‘dengu’, yet others ‘dengi’.
Angrezi was such a funny language…. Koyi logic vogic hai nahi yaar! A-R- G- U-E was ‘aargyoo’. T- O-N- G-U-E was ‘tung’ and D-E-N-G-U-E was ‘ dengi’….What language! No consistency, yaar! But, deng, dengyoo or dengi…..hai tho bada pahuncha hua bimaari! AAHHH! He writhed.What pain!
Who was it that said , ‘ A rose by any other name would smell as sweet’? He knew for sure his 9th grade English teacher had always said it…. But Sharmaji was quoting some phirangi….. Phirengi…. Dengi…. Dengi…. Phirengi….Very rhythmic. Arrey Wah! He was also getting poetic. What is that now? ‘A fever by any other name would kill as much!’ Ha ha ha ha… he chortled. Suddenly the import of his words struck him…As he became quiet he felt the boom boom inside his temples…. But that was not the only thing he heard…Ngggggggg came the sound of a mosquito. Definitely African, he thought in alarm! Can a person get chikungunya when he is already suffering from dengu… dengi… or whatever? His reasoning nature quizzed. Then his irrepressible sense of humour made him wonder immediately; ‘What will they call my fever then?’ ‘ Chikunengi? Or Dengungunya?’ Oh oh! He realized with horror that a mosquito had landed on the tip of his exposed nose. With rage he swung a fist at his nose.

Saturday, October 14, 2006

10 DISHES I MISS FROM MY MOM’S KITCHEN

What do bloggers do when they are not busy publishing? They read postings of their ilk. And while whiling my time away in such a wonderfully warm pursuit, I came across a few bloggers who have tagged others on the above- mentioned topic. I am not a culinary moron. My Dal Makhanis, Mattar Paneers, Aloo stews and chutneys have won accolades at home and workplace. I owe that to my mother’s guidance, motivation and inspiration. My sister Rat is, any day, a better, more adventurous and dedicated cook, than me…. Yet neither of us have that magic touch that is our mother’s patent.
This list is special maybe because of the memories associated with them.
So I have decided to ‘ tag along uninvited’ and tabulate the 10 things I miss / yearn for/ aspire to perfect….of my mother’s kitchen. WISHFUL THINKING!

1.The incredibly soft and perfectly round chapathis she used to make for us on a kerosene stove, seated at the foot of the staircase, in the dining hall of our ancestral home, while the five of us used to bicker and jostle one another for our turn.

2. Aloo, Onion and red pumpkin sambhar she made as accompaniment to those chapathis. Sambhar for chapathis? You don’t know what you have missed…She has given me her recipe, but….. sigh!!

3.Neyyappams- Whether for Karthigai or Ganapathi homam or just when we fancied it, hers looked and tasted just divine!! Mine, I usually add to my rock collection!

4.Payasams – Specially the ones she used to make for Bhagavathi Sevai pujas. She’d bathe around 4 pm and clad in her 9 yards saree prepare the offering for the pujai. We’d wait impatiently for the priest to finish his business so that we could dig into that ‘caramel -coloured, ghee dripping, dimpling with raisins and sugar crystals’ preparation…. More than Bhagavathi (Goddess Durga), we were pleased by that prasadam. May be if I start wearing 9 yards saree, I’ll be able to make it like she does.

5.Silky lacy aappams on Sunday mornings… Hers are like kanjeevaram sarees and mine Dharmavaram…or Aarni!

6. Vegetable Biriyani – She used to make hers in big ottu (bronze) uruli. We used to hang around the kitchen savouring the smell of fried shallots and bread cubes…..SLURP!

7. Idlis – Soft, whit, spongy….. mmmmmmm!!! I can compare them to only one thing…The music of M.S. Subbalakshmi….

8.Puliyinjaam – Our name for the traditional Puliyogere or tamarind rice. Her recipe had that tang that I associate with my happy, secure childhood. I have tasted a variety of the stuff, the Iyengar’s, the MTR, the Balaji temples’ prasadams. Nothing to beat my Mom’s!

9.Vetha Kozhambu and Chutta Pappadam – On those good old days of girlhood, She would give my hair an elaborate oil massage- an ennathechu kuli- and with my hair wrapped in a white towel, I’ll tuck into hot rice with mouth- watering vethakozhambu and pappadams dry roasted on the coal stove. With that inside me, I’d go drifting to slumberland and the adjoining dreamland.

10. Masala Bhath- She’d prepare that for my lunch box. I still don’t get the exact combination of Khatta, chillies and the perfectly boiled aloo and shallots… I’d fight to control the saliva and tears when my heartless, greedy classmates snatched it out of my bag and gobbled it all up!!

May be I could go on…and on… I am sure my sons may not feel inspired by this to write their version…… May be they will- only it will be titled ‘ 10 Things We Miss From Our Grandma’s Kitchen…..SIGH!!!!

Friday, October 13, 2006

QUITE A CHALLENGE

This is getting more and more challenging. A friend has given me three words which are OH! So bizarre in combination that my grey cells had to work overtime…..
Versifying has never been my forte. Still, as the Chinese proverb goes: He who rides a tiger is afraid to dismount. I have thrown the gauntlets at my readers…. Now let me fight…… to death? Not if I can help it!
So here goes
MARIAM ISSAC’S WORDS: EPHIMERAL, RAMBUNCTIOUS, INTENSE

He was thirty five
She was in her twenties
He was a pedigreed Londoner
She, from the sub continent
He felt color and religion were of no matter
She had a face that shone with joie de vivre
He watched her every evening by the Thames
She was his raison d’etre, he felt
He believed in Karma
She was destined to be his
He didn’t know how to approach her
She once was accompanied by a sardar
He followed the Indian that evening
She was worth any trouble
He befriended the affable sardar
She must have a name, an address he groaned
He bought pints of ale for his new friend
She was worth every single pound
He even started dining at Tandoori Nights
She was worth all the antacids he gulped down later
He felt his love grow more and more intense
She seemed unaware of all the havoc in his life
He met her along with his new Indian friend by the Thames
She as always, was happy, laughing and bubbling
He exclaimed, ‘God!What a girl!
She is rambunctious!’
He looked at his Indian friend who, shaking his head, said
She? No Sir, She is Punjabi…. And she is my wife
He knew enough of Indian society
She was wedded…. for life and forever
He knew there was no chance for him
She obviously adored her consort, he realized
He accepted that his love story had been ephemeral
She blissfully continued her riverside jaunts
He nursed his broken heart in solitude.