As far back as I can remember, our household has always woken up to the smell of freshly brewed coffee. This is common in all Tamilian homes. The Keralites and the North Indians start their days with chai. For us, Tam- brams, chai is a beverage to be consumed around 3 pm after a siesta. The wheel of action for the day is set rolling only with a cup of…sorry… a glass of …or more traditionally speaking, a tumbler of coffee.
Our coffee is not the glamourous brew aired on the TV … where one finds young couples or maidens sipping from bright red or green mugs and uttering punchlines. We feel the satisfaction of having drunk coffee only when it is served in a ‘davara and tumbler’. And mind you, not for us, the instant variety. We expect coffee to be made with the decoction prepared in a coffee filter (what the Kamath and Saravanabhavan menus refer to as filter coffee.) The steaming hot coffee has to be alternately transferred to and from the tumbler and davara and sipped at a temperature agreeable to your tongue.
It is always beneficial to be an early bird ... Nope, you don’t catch the worm… but you get to taste the coffee made with the freshly boiled milk and the first thick decoction. As the day progresses, the decoction is rendered thinner by the addition of boiling water a second time… and a third time ( for the poor unfortunate maid servant!) They say the cooks in wealthy homes drink the best coffees.
The quality of the coffee served to the guests decides the reputation of the house. The right ratio of the decoction and the milk is the acid test for a good coffee. Many a marriage function has faced crisis because the sammandees did not get ‘degree Kaapi, a situation which results in Sammandi Shandai!’ I have always wondered what this degree kaapi is… May be it is the one that results in words like “Ida…ida … Idathaan naan edirpaarthen!” And normally the cooks are forewarned to ensure degree coffee for the ‘boy’s side’.
The roadside teashops serve coffee in small thick glasses. You can see the residue of the coffee powder settling at the bottom as they don’t use filters, but strain coffee in cloth and I have never drunk such coffees to the last drop. Before I reach the settled dregs, I stop, thus not getting my money’s worth. Yet, holding a hot glass of coffee with both your hands and taking sips off it after blowing into it is an experience in itself!
I first heard the term ‘Peaberry’ in my maternal grandmother’s house. She used to buy coffee beans, fry them ceremoniously and powder the crisp black beans in a manual powdering machine. The smell of freshly ground coffee powder as it falls into the receptacle, used to transport me to some heaven of delight! I thought peaberry was a kind of berry, a substitute for coffee bean and as far as I remember grandmother used to use it in combination with some other coffee beans, hence my misunderstanding!
The size of the glass in which coffee is served varies from house to house. The elders in the family have their traditional ottu ( bronze) glasses or at least big steel glasses that can hold ¼ litre of coffee and they have matching davaras. Others generally have the steel tumblers half the size. It was a cultural shock for me when in my in-laws’ home coffee was served in miniscule glasses the contents of which would hardly suffice to wet my throat in the mornings. Generally, I have noticed that in Karnataka, the size of the coffee tumblers are much smaller than in those in the Tamil Nadu homes and the Palghat Iyers’ kitchens. After a few agonizing days, I found out why. The frequency of drinking coffee is more, so the servings are small. Though I have accepted this general practice, my mornings in Bhadravathi still start on a note of discontent. I know no one would refuse me a larger quantity of coffee in the morning if I choose to have one, but I believe in being a Roman in Rome, so I can always wait till I get back to my own kingdom, where we guzzle a large tankard full of coffee every morning…to the accompaniment of the newspaper.
The North Indian practice of making coffee is rather funny. I mean funny- peculiar …not funny –ha ha! May be I should rephrase this statement. The coffee made by my UP and Punjabi friends taste good, but when I see the traumatic method of preparation, I really feel sorry for them. First my friend spoons out sugar into a cup. She adds coffee powder to it. Next she adds a few drops of … yes, DROPS… of milk into the cup and with a spoon starts beating it like you whisk eggs for a cake. This she does for 10 to 15 minutes, non stop, till the whole thing is a frothy mixture. It is then added to the milk boiling on the stove and the coffee is served. It all seems like futile exercise prior to adding calories ! And I can not cotton to their practice of drinking coffee after a meal, especially at night. Coffee at night is meant to keep you awake.
Coffee is no longer a pick me up on a sleepy morning. Coffee joints have added new dimensions to our youth culture. These days, one can see stylish coffee bars where, hip crowds of the young and the restless hang around. People sit with a cup of coffee for hours together… If you do that in an Udupi restaurant or a Mallu’s tea-kkada, the waiter will come and whisk the glass away and wipe the table with a dirty rag literally telling you to get out or order something else! Initially I was appalled at the price of coffee in such places… Rs. 60 for an ordinary coffee…100 to 150 if it is laced with chocolate and / or other flavors. I realize the youngsters today have that kind of money to burn. Well… to each his own! I personally used to feel it was daylight robbery in Bangalore Barista till I had the Starbucks and Costa experience in the UAE. They seem to be the natural place to enter when you are an hour too early at the airport or in a mall…but afterwards you feel guilty about the amount of calories you have sipped in and the amount of cash you have shelled out!
Whether in my earthen mug with the words ‘Coffee Addict’ or in the steel tumbler and ‘davara’, coffee continues to be the first thing on the agenda every morning in my life. I don’t mind doing without either tea or coffee for the rest of the day, but my cup that cheers is a must for me to get me going. There are thousands of us who are compulsive- coffee- drinkers- in- the- morning, and I dedicate this piece to them all.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
GOOD LUCK, TEACHERS!
It’s that time of the year again!
Yes…since New Year the familiar comments heard in the corridors of schools will be “ Exams are round the corner…start getting serious!” And by mid February the feverish pitch has set in. Worried parents of underachievers will start visiting the school regularly, suddenly concerned about their wards’ progress. Teachers often wonder how they manage to hibernate from June to Jan.
The scenario is grimmer if your child is in the so-called ‘Board Class’ ie, appearing for the crucial grade X or XII exams. The two or sometimes three pre-board exams normally get dismal results leaving, students dejected and anxious, parents worried and demanding and the teachers frustrated and helpless. The whole year one has been teaching… testing, revising…yet there seems to be a cul de sac ahead you.
The arrival of the Hall Tickets somehow brings a flurry of activity all around. Now the kids know there is no way out. Time to pull the proverbial socks up, burn the midnight oil and seek help from all quarters…
Suddenly God seems to be the right counselor. The next fortnight is spent not eating enough…not sleeping enough…walking around with a book in the hand… and calling up friends and empathetic teachers for clearing doubts…
Once, the first paper is done, a sigh of relief is let out. Not as bad as I thought… is the reaction. CBSE gives enough gap between papers for some of those ‘indolent –throughout- the- year’ students to cram in at the last minute and end up scoring well… so that the parents can thumb their noses at the teachers who had been sending warning letters home or calling up parents about their kids’ performance all rendered cruel and insensitive… ‘See my child has done so well… All the time you people were demoralizing her/ him…!’
What they don’t know or care to know is the effort put in by those who teach these classes. The teachers have accountability too. No one chooses the thankless job of teaching for the monetary benefit it offers (which is peanuts for all the strain they go through) nor for the glamour. They are teachers because they choose to be. They are responsible for the good result of the school and ultimately the image of the school. But generally, they are accountable to their own conscience! I know teachers who force underachievers’ parents to drop their kids home so that they can revise at the teacher’s residence till 9 or 10 pm. They don’t get overtime for such acts…if anything, they get dark looks from their family! There are teachers who wake their students up at 4 or 5 a m and coax them to study. But no one, including the student who passes with decent marks, cares to remember these efforts.
For the student, it is newer, greener pastures… for the teacher, it is the same scene…with a different set of students. Who will remember that they wield the four expedients, Sama ( conciliation) Dhana ( gifts) Bheda ( separation) and Dhanda, the last resort ( punishment) for the sheer benefit of the students?
I am sure all kids will do well, ultimately. My best wishes to them. Yet, having been one, I would like to express my best wishes to the teachers, for they really deserve it!
Yes…since New Year the familiar comments heard in the corridors of schools will be “ Exams are round the corner…start getting serious!” And by mid February the feverish pitch has set in. Worried parents of underachievers will start visiting the school regularly, suddenly concerned about their wards’ progress. Teachers often wonder how they manage to hibernate from June to Jan.
The scenario is grimmer if your child is in the so-called ‘Board Class’ ie, appearing for the crucial grade X or XII exams. The two or sometimes three pre-board exams normally get dismal results leaving, students dejected and anxious, parents worried and demanding and the teachers frustrated and helpless. The whole year one has been teaching… testing, revising…yet there seems to be a cul de sac ahead you.
The arrival of the Hall Tickets somehow brings a flurry of activity all around. Now the kids know there is no way out. Time to pull the proverbial socks up, burn the midnight oil and seek help from all quarters…
Suddenly God seems to be the right counselor. The next fortnight is spent not eating enough…not sleeping enough…walking around with a book in the hand… and calling up friends and empathetic teachers for clearing doubts…
Once, the first paper is done, a sigh of relief is let out. Not as bad as I thought… is the reaction. CBSE gives enough gap between papers for some of those ‘indolent –throughout- the- year’ students to cram in at the last minute and end up scoring well… so that the parents can thumb their noses at the teachers who had been sending warning letters home or calling up parents about their kids’ performance all rendered cruel and insensitive… ‘See my child has done so well… All the time you people were demoralizing her/ him…!’
What they don’t know or care to know is the effort put in by those who teach these classes. The teachers have accountability too. No one chooses the thankless job of teaching for the monetary benefit it offers (which is peanuts for all the strain they go through) nor for the glamour. They are teachers because they choose to be. They are responsible for the good result of the school and ultimately the image of the school. But generally, they are accountable to their own conscience! I know teachers who force underachievers’ parents to drop their kids home so that they can revise at the teacher’s residence till 9 or 10 pm. They don’t get overtime for such acts…if anything, they get dark looks from their family! There are teachers who wake their students up at 4 or 5 a m and coax them to study. But no one, including the student who passes with decent marks, cares to remember these efforts.
For the student, it is newer, greener pastures… for the teacher, it is the same scene…with a different set of students. Who will remember that they wield the four expedients, Sama ( conciliation) Dhana ( gifts) Bheda ( separation) and Dhanda, the last resort ( punishment) for the sheer benefit of the students?
I am sure all kids will do well, ultimately. My best wishes to them. Yet, having been one, I would like to express my best wishes to the teachers, for they really deserve it!
Monday, February 19, 2007
ARE YOU MY VALENTINE?
Two decades and some years back…
When I followed you during Saptapadi,
When you committed yourself to me,
For better or for worse,
In health and in illness
Before seeing all my idiosyncrasies,
When you said ‘kubool’…
I forgot to ask you,
Will you be my Valentine?
Two scores of years…
When the gynec snipped off the umbilical cord,
I quietly took it back and tied it
Well and tight …
Around You, Me and the Twins…
Secure, snug and strong…!
Never asking you…
If you were my Valentine!
We stayed tied…
Through colic, teething, insomnia,
Homework, competitions, tests, exams,
Bruises, braces, admissions, performance,
License, heartbreak…dreams of future
Since you were always with me
During my fears, doubts and occasional tears,
I forgot to ask you
Are you my Valentine?
Sands of time…strands of grey…
We watched our fledglings
Poised for flight
Each like a Jonathan Livingston Seagull,
Stretching his wings to hug his destiny,
Comfortable silences, shared smiles,
Warm togetherness,
Sans overtness…
Just the deep understanding that
Together, we have journeyed
Life’s long trek…Still I haven’t
Asked you if you’re my Valentine!
When you say…
This is what I’ve done for you,
In case I am not there…
A sharp jolt in my heart hurts me a lot!
I say, what if I am not there?
And when you look crestfallen,
At the possibility,
I realize….
You are my Valentine- my very own Valentine!
When I followed you during Saptapadi,
When you committed yourself to me,
For better or for worse,
In health and in illness
Before seeing all my idiosyncrasies,
When you said ‘kubool’…
I forgot to ask you,
Will you be my Valentine?
Two scores of years…
When the gynec snipped off the umbilical cord,
I quietly took it back and tied it
Well and tight …
Around You, Me and the Twins…
Secure, snug and strong…!
Never asking you…
If you were my Valentine!
We stayed tied…
Through colic, teething, insomnia,
Homework, competitions, tests, exams,
Bruises, braces, admissions, performance,
License, heartbreak…dreams of future
Since you were always with me
During my fears, doubts and occasional tears,
I forgot to ask you
Are you my Valentine?
Sands of time…strands of grey…
We watched our fledglings
Poised for flight
Each like a Jonathan Livingston Seagull,
Stretching his wings to hug his destiny,
Comfortable silences, shared smiles,
Warm togetherness,
Sans overtness…
Just the deep understanding that
Together, we have journeyed
Life’s long trek…Still I haven’t
Asked you if you’re my Valentine!
When you say…
This is what I’ve done for you,
In case I am not there…
A sharp jolt in my heart hurts me a lot!
I say, what if I am not there?
And when you look crestfallen,
At the possibility,
I realize….
You are my Valentine- my very own Valentine!
SAUCE FOR THE GOOSE…..
Every morning, I sit at my computer, going my regular blog-reading route, exploring new by-lanes and side routes, adding more stopovers to my list. All the while, the FM radio is on… (have become quite good at multitasking…I even answer a few phone calls, have my breakfast and exercise my neck too…while blogrolling!) Once in a while I make an effort at listening to the RJs instead of hearing them. The result? I feel exasperated by the inane chatter most of them indulge in. The monotony of the singsong monologues is grating…whether it is in Hindi or Malayalam. The jokes render me blasé and the ridiculous and sometimes crude and biased remarks leave me disgusted enough to switch the radio off. Since I can’t stand the silence or the click-clack of my keyboard, I tune in again and start whining…
This has set me thinking, am I not doing the same thing? I write on and on and on about myself, my views, my opinions in my blog and expect others to enjoy it!
Sauce for the goose should be sauce for the gander eh? Perhaps now I know why I don’t feature in many Blogrolls…. Heh…heh…That's another story! Anyway, it is only February…Still resolution- making time of the year. So I make up my mind to be more tolerant to the RJs… Hope this resolution stays put!
This has set me thinking, am I not doing the same thing? I write on and on and on about myself, my views, my opinions in my blog and expect others to enjoy it!
Sauce for the goose should be sauce for the gander eh? Perhaps now I know why I don’t feature in many Blogrolls…. Heh…heh…That's another story! Anyway, it is only February…Still resolution- making time of the year. So I make up my mind to be more tolerant to the RJs… Hope this resolution stays put!
Sunday, February 11, 2007
NIGHTMARE ON THE… AHEM!... STREET
* A story written on behalf of my husband! keep a pinch of salt ready!
The clock strikes 9 sending me to fresh waves of panic. I gobble the last piece of the paratha before lobbing the plate like a Frisbee into the kitchen sink. I grab the car keys and hurriedly snatch the haversack packed by wifey. Before I can hurry out of the house, she manages to grab hold of my neck and plant a worried kiss on my cheek! I wonder when I shall see her again.
I reach my destination. I had thought I’d be decently early. Ahem! Apparently not! There are already around a hundred in the queue. I quickly join the tail end of the line… Furrows of worry are beginning to appear on my forehead. Am I too late?
Ahem! I need not have worried. Within half an hour there are 300 men and women lined up behind me. I avoid eye contact with the women lest I fall prey to their pleading looks to exchange places with me. ( I have strict orders from wifey regarding this as she knows that my Achilles heel is my chivalrous nature!) I look at my watch.
Ahem! It is only 11.30 pm. The queue seems to lengthen non- stop!
I look around. New coteries are being formed. Old acquaintances are not acknowledged for fear of favours sought. Some are beginning to settle down for the day. Some enterprising ones take out the foldable chairs, they have brought and relax. I curse myself for not having thought of that. Now I’ll have to squat on the road for the rest of the night.
Past midnight. All is silent. People have retired for the day. Ahem! I can’t seem to sleep. Good thinking on the part of wifey to have made me take a valium 5 the previous noon and made me sleep for 8 hours. Now I am as wide-eyed as when both Wifey and I were struggling with post- natal depression! I keep a sharp eye on the sly ones who try to worm their way up the queue surreptitiously!
Ahem! I say aloud, alerting the intruder that he was being watched.
3.30 a.m. Wish I had brought a hooded jacket. These February nights are c..c..cold! I hug myself, hoping that the sacrifice I am making will be worthwhile in the long run!
5 a.m. People are getting up… getting ready. A mallu thumbi appears out of nowhere vending tea that is welcome… oh so welcome!
7 a.m. The long queue is causing traffic snarl-ups. It is peaktime and tempers fray and pop out! Soon the police come, trying to control the crowd. Ahem! They don’t seem to succeed much!
7.30 a.m. The gates open. Instantly pandemonium breaks out. All those people who have been waiting patiently all night have changed into panic stricken beasts stampeding for life.
The security guards can hardly handle the avalanche of parents tumbling into the school.
I am propelled by unseen hands to the counter when my turn comes. ‘Sorry, only one application form per parent says the indifferent shadow on the other side of the bullet proof sheet of glass. ‘I have twins’, I yell into the hole in the glass too low and tiny for me to put my head into. I whip out my wallet and thrust it in showing her my twin sons’ photograph. Luckily she believes me and gives me 2 application forms for the kindergarten section of the school.
As I step out of the queue jubilantly, an irate parent shouts, ‘They are going back on their word. They are issuing more than one form per parent. This’s black marketing!’ Like angry bees they swarm towards me. Someone tries to grab the forms from my hand. I dodge, trying to escape. Soon I am grappling with a man twice my size. My yelling, ‘I have twins, you idiot!’ falls on deaf ears. I struggle hard to free myself. THUD! I fall down. Even as I fall, I am…ahem!...clutching my two forms!
‘Are you okay?’ screams Wife. ‘THE FORMS….the kindergarten application forms for the kids…’I mumble desperately!
‘What! Your kids will be completing their B.Tech in three months… what’s wrong with you?’ She yells!
Ahem! I pick myself up from the floor and glance at today’s newspaper in which I was reading about kindergarten admissions in the emirates when I had fallen asleep… What a nightmare at…ahem…!!
The clock strikes 9 sending me to fresh waves of panic. I gobble the last piece of the paratha before lobbing the plate like a Frisbee into the kitchen sink. I grab the car keys and hurriedly snatch the haversack packed by wifey. Before I can hurry out of the house, she manages to grab hold of my neck and plant a worried kiss on my cheek! I wonder when I shall see her again.
I reach my destination. I had thought I’d be decently early. Ahem! Apparently not! There are already around a hundred in the queue. I quickly join the tail end of the line… Furrows of worry are beginning to appear on my forehead. Am I too late?
Ahem! I need not have worried. Within half an hour there are 300 men and women lined up behind me. I avoid eye contact with the women lest I fall prey to their pleading looks to exchange places with me. ( I have strict orders from wifey regarding this as she knows that my Achilles heel is my chivalrous nature!) I look at my watch.
Ahem! It is only 11.30 pm. The queue seems to lengthen non- stop!
I look around. New coteries are being formed. Old acquaintances are not acknowledged for fear of favours sought. Some are beginning to settle down for the day. Some enterprising ones take out the foldable chairs, they have brought and relax. I curse myself for not having thought of that. Now I’ll have to squat on the road for the rest of the night.
Past midnight. All is silent. People have retired for the day. Ahem! I can’t seem to sleep. Good thinking on the part of wifey to have made me take a valium 5 the previous noon and made me sleep for 8 hours. Now I am as wide-eyed as when both Wifey and I were struggling with post- natal depression! I keep a sharp eye on the sly ones who try to worm their way up the queue surreptitiously!
Ahem! I say aloud, alerting the intruder that he was being watched.
3.30 a.m. Wish I had brought a hooded jacket. These February nights are c..c..cold! I hug myself, hoping that the sacrifice I am making will be worthwhile in the long run!
5 a.m. People are getting up… getting ready. A mallu thumbi appears out of nowhere vending tea that is welcome… oh so welcome!
7 a.m. The long queue is causing traffic snarl-ups. It is peaktime and tempers fray and pop out! Soon the police come, trying to control the crowd. Ahem! They don’t seem to succeed much!
7.30 a.m. The gates open. Instantly pandemonium breaks out. All those people who have been waiting patiently all night have changed into panic stricken beasts stampeding for life.
The security guards can hardly handle the avalanche of parents tumbling into the school.
I am propelled by unseen hands to the counter when my turn comes. ‘Sorry, only one application form per parent says the indifferent shadow on the other side of the bullet proof sheet of glass. ‘I have twins’, I yell into the hole in the glass too low and tiny for me to put my head into. I whip out my wallet and thrust it in showing her my twin sons’ photograph. Luckily she believes me and gives me 2 application forms for the kindergarten section of the school.
As I step out of the queue jubilantly, an irate parent shouts, ‘They are going back on their word. They are issuing more than one form per parent. This’s black marketing!’ Like angry bees they swarm towards me. Someone tries to grab the forms from my hand. I dodge, trying to escape. Soon I am grappling with a man twice my size. My yelling, ‘I have twins, you idiot!’ falls on deaf ears. I struggle hard to free myself. THUD! I fall down. Even as I fall, I am…ahem!...clutching my two forms!
‘Are you okay?’ screams Wife. ‘THE FORMS….the kindergarten application forms for the kids…’I mumble desperately!
‘What! Your kids will be completing their B.Tech in three months… what’s wrong with you?’ She yells!
Ahem! I pick myself up from the floor and glance at today’s newspaper in which I was reading about kindergarten admissions in the emirates when I had fallen asleep… What a nightmare at…ahem…!!
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
NUMERICAL SKILLS VS VERBAL SKILLS
The other day, my sister in law made an observation that disturbed me, though I hadn’t realized it at the time. She said, ‘Do you think different parts of the brains control different skills? Have you noticed how people who are good at languages fare very poorly in Math and vice versa?’ I had at the time, agreed that that was a general observation. Somehow, even as I agreed, it had left a bad taste in my mouth. I felt that I had betrayed myself by agreeing that I am a mathematical ignoramus because I am a language freak!
Talk about the internet making the world a small place! I later came across a blogger, Amardeep singh@ sepiamutiny.com , who has written about a ‘desi crossword puzzle afioconado’ named Kiran Kedlaya who came in second at the 2006 American Crossword Puzzle Tournament. Kedlaya is an MIT mathematics professor who specializes in polynomial equations. According to the interview on Cogito.org, he started competitive crossword solving in graduate school, and says the skill works the same part of the brain math does:
Is there a connection between math and crosswords? Dr. Kedlaya thinks that math, music and computer science – popular professions among “solvers” – tap into a similar part of the brain. Wordplay, says Dr. Kedlaya, suggests that the link is using language in unique way. In a crossword, figuring out the word from the clue is not sufficient; decoding how the letters cross is vital, too.
Ahhh! Victory, I gloat!
In the film Wordplay, it’s pointed out that a disproportionate number of the top crossword puzzle-solvers are people with computer science and mathematics backgrounds.
I want to mention this to my SIL. I hope she will eat her words…at least regurgitate and ruminate on those wild accusation she had unknowingly made on the capabilities of my greycells!
See, it requires the same section of the brain to do a crossword puzzle as well as solve a polynomial equation . So if a + b = b + a, if I am good at solving crossword puzzles, I should be good at math too, right? Now I know why I enjoy doing the daily Sudokus after I finish the Easy and Cryptic puzzles in the newspaper, every morning. Since I am good at Crosswords, I am good at MATH! Elementary Maths, my dear Watson! I want to scream from rooftops, if not to the whole world, at least to convince myself.
My mathophobia can be traced back to the childhood years when I was subjected to sheer mental torture through the math sums set by my grandfather during the holidays: The one that used to give me nightmares for decades was worded like this:
“ Kaale arakkaal kaasukku naale arakkaal vazhakkaynna, oru kaashukku ethra vazhakkay?” ( Sorry, the effect of the question will be lost in translation…. In other words, words fail me when I try to explain the question in a language used by laymen!) Now, if as a teacher, I fire such a question at my students, I shall definitely be reported to the ministry of education. If I asked my kids such a question, they will no doubt sue me later for mental abuse. I was expected to work out this fraction sum and arrive at the right answer ( which happens to be 11 but I don't know how ) or forgo the evening snacks! Years later I sympathised with Swaminathan, whom R.K. Narayanan put through a similar predicament about the price of mangoes.
My aversion to anything mathematical increased in geometric progression till I abandoned Math for English after two torturous years of Integral and differential Calculus…( Oh! I love Calculus now though…and Captain Haddock…and Tintin!)
‘My heart aches and a drowsy numbness pains my sense…’ I mumbled as I ran for cover into the world of literature and there I found my niche and settled down to live happily and unmathematically ever after… till my twin sons started going to school.
I couldn’t let my phobia of Math get into them. My mathematical prowess was a skeleton in my personal cupboard and I shut that Boggart inside and threw the key away. For the next 12 years I put on a fine act (deserving nothing less than an Oscar for my performance) while I supervised my sons’ studies and made them revise Math so that they scored centum or something near it in their tests and exams.
I had to use all my wits when it came to stuff like problems in Base 2 and Base 5 ( to tell the truth, even now I don’t know what the heck they are…. Luckily my sons are almost engineers now and I can confess my ignorance without maiming their love for Math.) I would make both the boys sit far away from each other and later tally both their work to see if they had done the same thing! It used to work, most of the time! Now does that make me a whiz at Probabilities? No chance!
I discovered my talent for mental math after I took up teaching! Maybe there is some truth in the adage, ‘Practice makes Perfect’. Totalling all those students’ test papers honed my addition skills… soon I started calculating percentages (To enter the column called Attendance in the report card, for each term!) Slowly fragments of what I had listened to in my math classes started making sense… ( Am I what they call a slow learner?)
Today I have progressed to a stage when I can openly talk about my boggarts. I keep telling myself that I am not a total numerical moron each time I finish a Sudoku or when I tally the scores during the family sessions of Rummy. That I can’t manage finances is another bloggable matter altogether! Like my father used to quip, ‘at the end of the money there’s always some month left!’
Of course, I barely glance at the Kakuro puzzles everyday…Trying to solve them is like ‘adding to my problems’- pun intended! In the meantime I revel in my verbosity and thank Amardeep Singh and Kiran Kedlaya for the glimmer of light that beckons me from the far end of this particular tunnel!
Talk about the internet making the world a small place! I later came across a blogger, Amardeep singh@ sepiamutiny.com , who has written about a ‘desi crossword puzzle afioconado’ named Kiran Kedlaya who came in second at the 2006 American Crossword Puzzle Tournament. Kedlaya is an MIT mathematics professor who specializes in polynomial equations. According to the interview on Cogito.org, he started competitive crossword solving in graduate school, and says the skill works the same part of the brain math does:
Is there a connection between math and crosswords? Dr. Kedlaya thinks that math, music and computer science – popular professions among “solvers” – tap into a similar part of the brain. Wordplay, says Dr. Kedlaya, suggests that the link is using language in unique way. In a crossword, figuring out the word from the clue is not sufficient; decoding how the letters cross is vital, too.
Ahhh! Victory, I gloat!
In the film Wordplay, it’s pointed out that a disproportionate number of the top crossword puzzle-solvers are people with computer science and mathematics backgrounds.
I want to mention this to my SIL. I hope she will eat her words…at least regurgitate and ruminate on those wild accusation she had unknowingly made on the capabilities of my greycells!
See, it requires the same section of the brain to do a crossword puzzle as well as solve a polynomial equation . So if a + b = b + a, if I am good at solving crossword puzzles, I should be good at math too, right? Now I know why I enjoy doing the daily Sudokus after I finish the Easy and Cryptic puzzles in the newspaper, every morning. Since I am good at Crosswords, I am good at MATH! Elementary Maths, my dear Watson! I want to scream from rooftops, if not to the whole world, at least to convince myself.
My mathophobia can be traced back to the childhood years when I was subjected to sheer mental torture through the math sums set by my grandfather during the holidays: The one that used to give me nightmares for decades was worded like this:
“ Kaale arakkaal kaasukku naale arakkaal vazhakkaynna, oru kaashukku ethra vazhakkay?” ( Sorry, the effect of the question will be lost in translation…. In other words, words fail me when I try to explain the question in a language used by laymen!) Now, if as a teacher, I fire such a question at my students, I shall definitely be reported to the ministry of education. If I asked my kids such a question, they will no doubt sue me later for mental abuse. I was expected to work out this fraction sum and arrive at the right answer ( which happens to be 11 but I don't know how ) or forgo the evening snacks! Years later I sympathised with Swaminathan, whom R.K. Narayanan put through a similar predicament about the price of mangoes.
My aversion to anything mathematical increased in geometric progression till I abandoned Math for English after two torturous years of Integral and differential Calculus…( Oh! I love Calculus now though…and Captain Haddock…and Tintin!)
‘My heart aches and a drowsy numbness pains my sense…’ I mumbled as I ran for cover into the world of literature and there I found my niche and settled down to live happily and unmathematically ever after… till my twin sons started going to school.
I couldn’t let my phobia of Math get into them. My mathematical prowess was a skeleton in my personal cupboard and I shut that Boggart inside and threw the key away. For the next 12 years I put on a fine act (deserving nothing less than an Oscar for my performance) while I supervised my sons’ studies and made them revise Math so that they scored centum or something near it in their tests and exams.
I had to use all my wits when it came to stuff like problems in Base 2 and Base 5 ( to tell the truth, even now I don’t know what the heck they are…. Luckily my sons are almost engineers now and I can confess my ignorance without maiming their love for Math.) I would make both the boys sit far away from each other and later tally both their work to see if they had done the same thing! It used to work, most of the time! Now does that make me a whiz at Probabilities? No chance!
I discovered my talent for mental math after I took up teaching! Maybe there is some truth in the adage, ‘Practice makes Perfect’. Totalling all those students’ test papers honed my addition skills… soon I started calculating percentages (To enter the column called Attendance in the report card, for each term!) Slowly fragments of what I had listened to in my math classes started making sense… ( Am I what they call a slow learner?)
Today I have progressed to a stage when I can openly talk about my boggarts. I keep telling myself that I am not a total numerical moron each time I finish a Sudoku or when I tally the scores during the family sessions of Rummy. That I can’t manage finances is another bloggable matter altogether! Like my father used to quip, ‘at the end of the money there’s always some month left!’
Of course, I barely glance at the Kakuro puzzles everyday…Trying to solve them is like ‘adding to my problems’- pun intended! In the meantime I revel in my verbosity and thank Amardeep Singh and Kiran Kedlaya for the glimmer of light that beckons me from the far end of this particular tunnel!
MAYANK SARAF’S WORDS: HARAPPA, SEQUESTER, MERMAID
Anxiously he looked at the dipping sun. 'Pack up!' He yelled to his assistant before occupying his chair. As he reached for a chilled bottle of water, he looked around at the hundreds of junior artists on the sets of his period classic Lord of the Ruins. He was certain this magnum opus on the life of Rai Bahadur Daya Ram Sahni, the excavator and archeologist who started the extensive excavations of Harappa, would elevate him to the heights enjoyed by the likes of Peter Jackson and Steven Speilberg. His script writer had done a brilliant job, by adding a time machine to transport the protagonist to the time-frame of the glorious civilization! Maybe it was destined that he, Bahadur Mandarkar, the ‘Director with a Difference’ as the tabloids addressed him, would be the man to win an Academy Award for the nation! He took a contented swig out of the chilled bottle of Bisleri.
How many strings he had to pull at the central government level to get permission to shoot his film in Lothal! Permission was not granted by the Pakistani government to do the actual shooting in Harappa. But here in Lothal, there were topographical similarities…and the ruins of the bygone civilization….OH! How jubilant he and Saxena had been when they discovered this valley sequestered from the eyes of the modern world, preserving the ambience of a world, 3000 years old!
Harappa had been an obsession since his high school days. He had to thank his history teacher for this movie. It was in her class that he had been labeled a prize fool. History lessons in the post lunch periods were a pain… He used to sleep, screened by the hulks sitting in front of him. On one such noon, the teacher had fired a question at him. He hadn’t even heard it properly and she had thundered, ‘Haven’t you even heard of Harappa?’ He had jumped up and said, ‘Yes Maa’m. He was our Field Marshal…!’ He had been nick-named Field Marshal after that! I will show the world who I am, he used to tell himself. Today, 2 Screen awards and 3 Filmfare awards later, ( the latest for his ‘ Platform No 3’ depicting the stark life of the microcosm whose life and destiny were on the platform of a railway station…) he was a director of great repute!
Today, actors clamoured for a role in his films. Bahadur Mandarkar… You have made it, man! He mentally patted himself. Hearing a muffled cough he returned to the present. It was Saxena, his assistant, who looked quite troubled. ‘BM’, Saxena said, ‘we have trouble. The heroine wants to talk to you. She wants something. You better talk to her.’
Mandarkar walked with Saxena to the heroine’s tent. When he heard her request he was livid! ‘Madam’, he said trying not to blow his fuse. ‘This is a period piece. What you want is impossible! We are in Harappa . There can not be any mermaids in this story….!’
'C’mon, director saar, if you want to, you can always put in a dream sequence, where I can come dressed as a mermaid and the hero can sing from the beach to me. We can do the shooting in Amsterdam!'
‘ BUT… but…’ blustered Mandarker, ‘My movie is about a race that existed thousands of years ago!’
The star pouted. “Don’t talk to me about race and racism… I know very well how insensitive and racist people can be! It is the mermaid scene for me or I say Goody...I mean Goodbye to you and your film!’ Mandarkar realized the mistake of having cast a controversial reality show celebrity as his heroine! ‘If I were Field Marshall Cariappa, I’ll shoot you, madam… and not the film!’ he muttered angrily. ‘Saxena’, he yelled, ‘Get a car to dump Miss. Dumb as Mermaid at the nearest railway station!’ He took another swig at the bottle hoping that the chilled water would cool him down!
How many strings he had to pull at the central government level to get permission to shoot his film in Lothal! Permission was not granted by the Pakistani government to do the actual shooting in Harappa. But here in Lothal, there were topographical similarities…and the ruins of the bygone civilization….OH! How jubilant he and Saxena had been when they discovered this valley sequestered from the eyes of the modern world, preserving the ambience of a world, 3000 years old!
Harappa had been an obsession since his high school days. He had to thank his history teacher for this movie. It was in her class that he had been labeled a prize fool. History lessons in the post lunch periods were a pain… He used to sleep, screened by the hulks sitting in front of him. On one such noon, the teacher had fired a question at him. He hadn’t even heard it properly and she had thundered, ‘Haven’t you even heard of Harappa?’ He had jumped up and said, ‘Yes Maa’m. He was our Field Marshal…!’ He had been nick-named Field Marshal after that! I will show the world who I am, he used to tell himself. Today, 2 Screen awards and 3 Filmfare awards later, ( the latest for his ‘ Platform No 3’ depicting the stark life of the microcosm whose life and destiny were on the platform of a railway station…) he was a director of great repute!
Today, actors clamoured for a role in his films. Bahadur Mandarkar… You have made it, man! He mentally patted himself. Hearing a muffled cough he returned to the present. It was Saxena, his assistant, who looked quite troubled. ‘BM’, Saxena said, ‘we have trouble. The heroine wants to talk to you. She wants something. You better talk to her.’
Mandarkar walked with Saxena to the heroine’s tent. When he heard her request he was livid! ‘Madam’, he said trying not to blow his fuse. ‘This is a period piece. What you want is impossible! We are in Harappa . There can not be any mermaids in this story….!’
'C’mon, director saar, if you want to, you can always put in a dream sequence, where I can come dressed as a mermaid and the hero can sing from the beach to me. We can do the shooting in Amsterdam!'
‘ BUT… but…’ blustered Mandarker, ‘My movie is about a race that existed thousands of years ago!’
The star pouted. “Don’t talk to me about race and racism… I know very well how insensitive and racist people can be! It is the mermaid scene for me or I say Goody...I mean Goodbye to you and your film!’ Mandarkar realized the mistake of having cast a controversial reality show celebrity as his heroine! ‘If I were Field Marshall Cariappa, I’ll shoot you, madam… and not the film!’ he muttered angrily. ‘Saxena’, he yelled, ‘Get a car to dump Miss. Dumb as Mermaid at the nearest railway station!’ He took another swig at the bottle hoping that the chilled water would cool him down!
Monday, February 05, 2007
AL SHAH MATA!
The king is dead! Shah Mata! That was what flashed in my mind, when I read about the death of Sidney Sheldon. At an age when parents would frown if their daughter was walking around with a Harold Robins in her hand, I got away with Sidney Sheldon! I read his Naked Face first. What a change from the Wodehouses, Nevil Shutes and Richard Gordons my father used to avalanche me down with! Quite a different kettle of fish from the J.T. Edsons, Suddens and Louis L Amours pilfered from my brother's collection!
When it comes to reading, I suffer from compulsive disorder! If I like one writer, I end up reading him till I finish all his published work. Master of the Game made me a slave of theis great master. Rage of Angels left me terrified for months... But nothing beats the book called "Are You Afraid of the Dark'. I finished it in record time during Xmas vacations... on the 25th. The next morning the notorious tsunami struck wreaking havoc of the kind hitherto unheard-ofin Asia! My first reaction was to take the book again and read the ‘Afterword’ once again... And I was in a turmoil... Was the tsunami a natural disaster or masterminded by a superpower? It took a few weeks of self-counselling to allay my doubts and fears...such was the mastery of the great story teller! May he rest in peace up there!
Art Buchwald! I was (as usual) introduced to him by my dad, an ardent fan of his column in the HIndu. Initialy I just read because I was forced to...unable to understand anything due to my ignorance of the political scenario in the US... Later things started connecting and his infectious humour worked its way into me and thus started my long liaison with Buchwald's brand of writing which later led me to the likes of Khushwant Singh, with his malice towards one and all! Buchwald was forced to write his obituary by his friends, which he did and the papers ran it the day after his passing away... It is just like him! If anyone could have died with a smile on his face, it would have been Art Buchwald definitely, in spite of the physical agony he was going through!
The world is shy of two great writers-- each a master of his own game... And we fans feel stalemated! Sigh! Shah Mata... the king is dead!
When it comes to reading, I suffer from compulsive disorder! If I like one writer, I end up reading him till I finish all his published work. Master of the Game made me a slave of theis great master. Rage of Angels left me terrified for months... But nothing beats the book called "Are You Afraid of the Dark'. I finished it in record time during Xmas vacations... on the 25th. The next morning the notorious tsunami struck wreaking havoc of the kind hitherto unheard-ofin Asia! My first reaction was to take the book again and read the ‘Afterword’ once again... And I was in a turmoil... Was the tsunami a natural disaster or masterminded by a superpower? It took a few weeks of self-counselling to allay my doubts and fears...such was the mastery of the great story teller! May he rest in peace up there!
Art Buchwald! I was (as usual) introduced to him by my dad, an ardent fan of his column in the HIndu. Initialy I just read because I was forced to...unable to understand anything due to my ignorance of the political scenario in the US... Later things started connecting and his infectious humour worked its way into me and thus started my long liaison with Buchwald's brand of writing which later led me to the likes of Khushwant Singh, with his malice towards one and all! Buchwald was forced to write his obituary by his friends, which he did and the papers ran it the day after his passing away... It is just like him! If anyone could have died with a smile on his face, it would have been Art Buchwald definitely, in spite of the physical agony he was going through!
The world is shy of two great writers-- each a master of his own game... And we fans feel stalemated! Sigh! Shah Mata... the king is dead!
Sunday, February 04, 2007
K2’S WORDS:FOOTBALL, MC DONALDS, GIRLFRIEND
They say unlike poles attract… they are right….they also say birds of the same feather flock together… Now doesn’t that contradict the first statement? It does.
My friend Sahil is very disconsolate at the moment. You just won’t believe what happened to him. If you belong to the female species you will not sympathise with him… but we males… we fully understand Sahil’s predicament and all our sympathies are with him. Do you raise your eyebrows skeptically? Have patience, listen to me.
Life was all hunky-dory for my friend, Sahil till last week. He has been recently promoted and unlike many footloose, fancy- free guys like me, he was planning to settle down in life. Yeah, he had planned everything meticulously. He proposed on his knees to Prathima, his girlfriend, who rather expected it of him and nodded happily! There was only a small snag. Her parents! She couldn’t commit herself unless they first approved of him. She promised to bring them over to the revolving restaurant- Al Dawar in the Hyatt at Deira. Sahil had winced when she told him he’d have to foot the bill as that would impress her dad and remove any obstacle on the path of his eligibility as her suitor. It was not yet the salary-time of the month, so we friends had to pool in to save our friend’s future.
They say it is human to err… and Sahil, my poor friend, is human… and like all other humans he has a chink in his armour, a weakness. He is an avid football fan. That’s not a crime, you say? I know… It is not a sin to be sporty… but it is obviously a sin to be so obsessed with a game as Sahil was. We were all sitting at the McDonald’s watching the thrilling match played by the UAE team and the winning of the Gulf Cup Championship. There was much jubilation after the historic win and we all were a part of the celebrations that followed at the McDonald’s. By the time we returned to our flat it was past midnight. It was only then that Sahil remembered to his horror that he was supposed to have met Prathima and her parents at Al Dawar. To his dismay, he found that he had switched off his mobile… which later showed 8 missed calls from her. Next morning, he had tried calling her, but her stentorian-voiced mom gave him a large chunk of her mind before ordering him never even try to contact her daughter again!
I am sure if we explain the whole situation to her father, he might understand… after all, we,birds of the same feather must flock together, right? But no…he had been upset because he had missed the game waiting for an irresponsible upstart of a suitor to turn up! You say, ‘ Serves him right?’ But then, you’ll say that! You are a woman aren’t you?
My friend Sahil is very disconsolate at the moment. You just won’t believe what happened to him. If you belong to the female species you will not sympathise with him… but we males… we fully understand Sahil’s predicament and all our sympathies are with him. Do you raise your eyebrows skeptically? Have patience, listen to me.
Life was all hunky-dory for my friend, Sahil till last week. He has been recently promoted and unlike many footloose, fancy- free guys like me, he was planning to settle down in life. Yeah, he had planned everything meticulously. He proposed on his knees to Prathima, his girlfriend, who rather expected it of him and nodded happily! There was only a small snag. Her parents! She couldn’t commit herself unless they first approved of him. She promised to bring them over to the revolving restaurant- Al Dawar in the Hyatt at Deira. Sahil had winced when she told him he’d have to foot the bill as that would impress her dad and remove any obstacle on the path of his eligibility as her suitor. It was not yet the salary-time of the month, so we friends had to pool in to save our friend’s future.
They say it is human to err… and Sahil, my poor friend, is human… and like all other humans he has a chink in his armour, a weakness. He is an avid football fan. That’s not a crime, you say? I know… It is not a sin to be sporty… but it is obviously a sin to be so obsessed with a game as Sahil was. We were all sitting at the McDonald’s watching the thrilling match played by the UAE team and the winning of the Gulf Cup Championship. There was much jubilation after the historic win and we all were a part of the celebrations that followed at the McDonald’s. By the time we returned to our flat it was past midnight. It was only then that Sahil remembered to his horror that he was supposed to have met Prathima and her parents at Al Dawar. To his dismay, he found that he had switched off his mobile… which later showed 8 missed calls from her. Next morning, he had tried calling her, but her stentorian-voiced mom gave him a large chunk of her mind before ordering him never even try to contact her daughter again!
I am sure if we explain the whole situation to her father, he might understand… after all, we,birds of the same feather must flock together, right? But no…he had been upset because he had missed the game waiting for an irresponsible upstart of a suitor to turn up! You say, ‘ Serves him right?’ But then, you’ll say that! You are a woman aren’t you?
Saturday, February 03, 2007
BACK IN THE TRI-WORD CIRCUIT
Last month, my sons gave me 2 sets of three words and asked me to write nonsensical stories using them. Sure, I told them. Yet, till last week I did not get round to it. Urged by a very insistent son, I penned one down on a piece of paper, as I didn’t have access to a PC at the time. His infectious guffaw was reward enough. Am posting it now.
P.S. To the people who comment on the marked ‘Iyer and Ammami touch’ in my tales, I just have a smile as response…
K1’S WORDS: RONALDINHO, TOOTHPICK, LAUGHING BUDDHA
As the plane taxied along the runway, Ambaal looked at her husband, Srinivasa Shastrigal, seated next to her. His bald and shining pate and potbelly reminded her of the statuette of Laughing Buddha she had seen in her friend Meenakshi’s house. Only the ears were different, she mused, with red kadukkans (earrings) adorning her husband’s ears. She recalled how the young women at the entrance of the plane had smirked at the sight of her husband’s earrings. They must have wondered where the two oldies were flying to. What do they know?
It all started in May. Her grandsons were home for their annual vacations. They were glued to the TV all day. Compelled by the grandsons, Shastrigal had started watching the curtain raisers for the world cup football. She had noticed his mounting interest, especially whenever a team wearing green and yellow played. There was excited talk among them about a new sensation in the Brazilain team. Now what was that boy called? Aah! Ronaldo? Er…no…Ronaldinho. Her husband sat riveted to the screen showing the lean young man zigzagging across the field. Though he talked about strange things like ‘centre forward’ and ‘penalty shootout’ with his grandsons, he seemed to get more and more obsessed with that buck-toothed young man with flowing hair and puzzled look on his face. Something was going on in that head, she thought as her husband used a burnt out agarbathi stick as a toothpick while staring at the game.
When she had asked him what was wrong, he had become emotional. ‘Ambaal, doesn’t he remind you of Rasamani?’
Ambaal stared at the young man who was trying not to let anyone get hold of the football under his control… Yes…yes… the boy really resembled her son, Rasamani who had died at the age of 18. The same teeth, the same innocent , wide-eyed expression, the same curly hair… only Rasamani used to sport a kudumi! Yes, it was as though her son was reborn as the Brazilian!
That evening he had told her of his decision. And now they were on the flight to Germany, to meet Ronaldinho, and get a picture taken with him…in memory of their son, Rasamani!
P.S. To the people who comment on the marked ‘Iyer and Ammami touch’ in my tales, I just have a smile as response…
K1’S WORDS: RONALDINHO, TOOTHPICK, LAUGHING BUDDHA
As the plane taxied along the runway, Ambaal looked at her husband, Srinivasa Shastrigal, seated next to her. His bald and shining pate and potbelly reminded her of the statuette of Laughing Buddha she had seen in her friend Meenakshi’s house. Only the ears were different, she mused, with red kadukkans (earrings) adorning her husband’s ears. She recalled how the young women at the entrance of the plane had smirked at the sight of her husband’s earrings. They must have wondered where the two oldies were flying to. What do they know?
It all started in May. Her grandsons were home for their annual vacations. They were glued to the TV all day. Compelled by the grandsons, Shastrigal had started watching the curtain raisers for the world cup football. She had noticed his mounting interest, especially whenever a team wearing green and yellow played. There was excited talk among them about a new sensation in the Brazilain team. Now what was that boy called? Aah! Ronaldo? Er…no…Ronaldinho. Her husband sat riveted to the screen showing the lean young man zigzagging across the field. Though he talked about strange things like ‘centre forward’ and ‘penalty shootout’ with his grandsons, he seemed to get more and more obsessed with that buck-toothed young man with flowing hair and puzzled look on his face. Something was going on in that head, she thought as her husband used a burnt out agarbathi stick as a toothpick while staring at the game.
When she had asked him what was wrong, he had become emotional. ‘Ambaal, doesn’t he remind you of Rasamani?’
Ambaal stared at the young man who was trying not to let anyone get hold of the football under his control… Yes…yes… the boy really resembled her son, Rasamani who had died at the age of 18. The same teeth, the same innocent , wide-eyed expression, the same curly hair… only Rasamani used to sport a kudumi! Yes, it was as though her son was reborn as the Brazilian!
That evening he had told her of his decision. And now they were on the flight to Germany, to meet Ronaldinho, and get a picture taken with him…in memory of their son, Rasamani!
Friday, February 02, 2007
TAG TIME !
I was visiting Akkare's blog and decided to tag myself. So here is the list of three things I want to share with you all.
Three things that scare me:
· The thoughts of something untoward happening to my sons.
· RP not answering my call
· Being in a speeding car
Three people who make me laugh:
· Mangala and Rat
· My ex-colleagues
· Raymond, Robert and Frank Barone
Three things I love:
· Short stories
· Smell of hot chocolate
· Sentimental movies
Three things I hate:
· People creating a scene
· Backbiting at workplace
· Smelly socks
Three things I don’t understand:
· The share market
· High school Math
· How some parents let their kids disobey them
Three things in my handbag:
· The little brown book with the list of books to be bought
· Sunglasses that I rarely remember to use
· A light brown lipstick
Three things I am doing right now:
· Enjoying the freedom ( after quitting job)
· Planning my magnum opus
· Catching up on my reading
Three things I want to do before I die:
· Learn to sing the pancharatna kritis
· Publish my novel
· See my grandkids
Three things I can do:
· Do sudoku of all levels
· Make perfect ‘phulkas’
· Listen
Three things you should listen to:
· The Priya sisters’ concerts
· Old songs
· Your conscience
Three things you should never listen to:
· Gossip
· Flattery
· Salesmen
Three things I'd like to learn:
· Computer graphics
· Maa kolams of intricate patterns
· Starters
Three favourite foods:
· Adai
· Kadi chawal
· Idlis
Three beverages I drink regularly:
· Coffee
· Juices
· Tea
Three Films/books I watched/read as a kid:
· All Enid Blytons
· Mythological movies
· Classics
Three things I want to pass on to my kids:
· Sense of humour
· integrity
· Passion for reading
Three things that scare me:
· The thoughts of something untoward happening to my sons.
· RP not answering my call
· Being in a speeding car
Three people who make me laugh:
· Mangala and Rat
· My ex-colleagues
· Raymond, Robert and Frank Barone
Three things I love:
· Short stories
· Smell of hot chocolate
· Sentimental movies
Three things I hate:
· People creating a scene
· Backbiting at workplace
· Smelly socks
Three things I don’t understand:
· The share market
· High school Math
· How some parents let their kids disobey them
Three things in my handbag:
· The little brown book with the list of books to be bought
· Sunglasses that I rarely remember to use
· A light brown lipstick
Three things I am doing right now:
· Enjoying the freedom ( after quitting job)
· Planning my magnum opus
· Catching up on my reading
Three things I want to do before I die:
· Learn to sing the pancharatna kritis
· Publish my novel
· See my grandkids
Three things I can do:
· Do sudoku of all levels
· Make perfect ‘phulkas’
· Listen
Three things you should listen to:
· The Priya sisters’ concerts
· Old songs
· Your conscience
Three things you should never listen to:
· Gossip
· Flattery
· Salesmen
Three things I'd like to learn:
· Computer graphics
· Maa kolams of intricate patterns
· Starters
Three favourite foods:
· Adai
· Kadi chawal
· Idlis
Three beverages I drink regularly:
· Coffee
· Juices
· Tea
Three Films/books I watched/read as a kid:
· All Enid Blytons
· Mythological movies
· Classics
Three things I want to pass on to my kids:
· Sense of humour
· integrity
· Passion for reading
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)