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!
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
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
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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!
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!
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!)
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.
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!
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.
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?
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!’
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!’
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