Armchair Evaluations

Indian food porn and time-poor Indian women - II

2011-07-13T15:41:00.000+08:00

My friend Chinmayee further dwells on the romance of Indian cooking and why it turns into a monster if you're a working woman. What must you do, if like her, "you don't want to use readymade pastes and masalas that frankly taste like sawdust" ? I particularly like the way she takes us through a journey of how the meal spread at home has changed since the time mums lovingly prepared Indian food from scratch.

Read her full post here.

Indian food porn and time-poor Indian women - I

2011-07-08T21:02:00.007+08:00

Dining out within a multi-national food landscape such as Singapore can be stressful for someone who's had a tumultuous working relationship with chopsticks. For the last one year I've held measly morsels of food with a desperate prayer that the food doesn't elude my grasp with a self defence technique. But sometimes bad experiences don't prepare you for certain atrocities. You can never be warned enough to be able to face Indian food that challenges muscle memory acquired over 25 years. Suddenly good old Palak Panneer and Butter Chicken assume intimidating forms plated out in radical symmetries; instead of the loving touch of the hand they seductively ask you to indulge in BDSM type dining with at least two types of fork, a knife and any other cutlery you fancy that day. It's a big bad world out there and they are determined to prove they're worth it. Honestly I am yet to come across a cuisine from a third world country that tries so painfully hard to fit in. Such food is - to draw from an oft repeated 'dont' to young advertising trainees - trying to be interesting rather than interested. And to borrow shamelessly from the Sound of Music - really, how do you take mush and pin it down?

My earliest and fondest visions of food porn involve watching wet lentils yield under granite, to form a reassuringly aromatic soft mass that invites you to play with it. And sinking my palms into a sack of rice grains at the kirana shop. I grew up watching women in my family prepare dosa batter and chutney the primitive, backbreaking way - on a stone grinder. Indian cooking, particularly in the southern region, demands a lot of (wo)manual labour (requiring kneading, rolling, patting, grinding, cutting, grating, pounding) using primitive implements. This creates a sort of Freudian playground for children to take part in the most joyful of kitchen activities - handling different textures. I remember sitting on the floor and possessively rolling balls of Gulab Jamun dough between my palms. And carefully ladling out - with my mother and grandmother - equal dollops of spiced starch on stretched sheets of cloth under the sun, and leaving them to dry into crisp translucent wings of an angel.

Today, I sometimes dismiss all this as tedious, but we'll come to that shortly.

The other manner in which I was at the helm of culinary matters at home was by way of a frivolous role I took very seriously; the role of arranging the table when we had guests over. Usually kids were relegated to this task - the lowest in the hierarchy of Indian cuisine values - a good way to channel their hyperactivity. I would arrange the cutlery in a pompous fan, the serviettes till they looked as snobbish as the best cold cuts at a lavish buffet; I was the self-appointed drizzler of chat masala rangoli on the raita. All this was feverishly set up only to die an unceremonious death:

Guest: "Wow, what a spread!"
Host, full of fake modesty, in an oblique attempt at drawing attention to the food: "Oh, I suppose when you don't make good food, you just arrange the table very well. Haha."

The seduction of Indian cooking is in its preparation. Women tease guests and get competitive by adding their own secret twists to time honoured recipes. Glory and success is when their rasam or vermicelli upma inspires love and poetry, or is, at the very least, extolled at a get-together in the presence of other competitive females. The sex appeal is in the secret preparation, and with it comes creative ownership - a flavour to call their own - which they hope will create a legacy. The sensuality in Indian cuisine is in understanding that too much external beauty can be intimidating, and too much make up can repel or take away from the real lusciousness of what's on offer. Food, even at a standard restaurant serving authentic Indian, never dishes itself out; it calls out to you in a soft whisper (except for the occasional silver foil). Conversations at an Indian wedding are almost never about how lavish or gorgeous the food looked, rather about the flavours. The voluptuousness is not in the plating, but in the generosity, variety and the flavour. Indian cooking is about the secret art of fusing spices. Kannadiga women use the term "hada" to describe the art of being able to gauge the proportion of spices to create an optimised flavour.

But perhaps the emphasis on preparation earns disfavour among young women today, many of whom make a virtue out of not being able to cook anything at all. Even the most unglamorous homey dishes in Indian cuisine can be very process intensive. Sabudana Khichdi requires the thoughtfulness to soak sago pearls for half an hour before draining out the water and leaving them damp for eight hours. Dosa and idly batter need soaking, grinding and fermenting of urad dal and rice. Chapatis require kneading, rolling out and roasting. Indian cooking assumes that a woman stays at home and her domain is the kitchen. It still does not accommodate women who step out of the home to work. To make mean Akki Rottis or Dosas at home, the pancakes must slide straight out of the pan into the plate. Leave them lying around and they turn into lifeless hard carcasses. This demands that someone (a woman) be standing by the stove instead of sitting at the table and eating with everyone.

So a woman migrates to some western dishes that save her time: pasta, noodles, soup.

Now living in a multi-national society gives you the opportunity to peek into different shopping baskets and shopping hubs. An ang moh (white-skinned people) basket contains alcohol (crate of beer or bottles of wine), processed meat and maybe some broccoli. A Chinese basket will have meat, some processed meat, a few vegetables and Yakult. An Indian basket has a lot of raw material for cooking. Pulses, rice, vegetables and fragrant herbs (mainly coriander and curry leaves) that go gratis with bought items. And they are mostly bought from the wet market, not a super market.

Convenience products are aplenty and are tempting, but clearly, Indians love preparing food using fresh produce. Indian cuisine needs to solve the woman's dilemma; it must evolve and inspire working women to cook before we turn into processed and packaged food junkies and abandon our own cuisine for other alternatives. And as for pretentiously plated upmas and chaats, my sincere appeal to the advocates of such bastardisation: cut the embroidery and the fake accent and be the custodians of true Indian food porn.

Out-of-body experience

2011-06-16T02:59:00.003+08:00

It is when you drive around on hushed roads and taxis in Singapore that it hits you: motorists in India honk way too much. It is when you're in a three member team from Singapore ready for a con call ten minutes before schedule, that a twelve-strong India team calling in late, laughing and garrulous, becomes unbearable.

Living outside your home country is a bit like an out-of-body experience. You're yanked back from your blurred, zoomed-in existence in familiar surroundings among similar people, and you hover around watching from above. Suddenly you get a perspective. You see Indians, the way they are, as part of a larger global community - and that often presents some hilarious pictures, precious ones, that would have otherwise gone unnoticed.

I had one of these moments just a couple of days ago while reading a list of Indianisms. If it wasn't for the multi-cultural team at the office I used to work at, I wouldn't have realised how absurd "Do one thing" (something I have found myself using very often) sounds. More importantly, I wouldn't have found it half as amusing, leave alone taken notice of it, if I was living a zoomed-in existence.

Jugaad, of course, is our life breath. It comes with us wherever we go. We are like hyenas in queues for taxis. When there's a shortage, we are the first to leap and try our luck with a taxi uncle looking for his last passenger on the way home.

Another peculiar one: slipping out of footwear the moment we are at a desk or table. My theory: Indians feel restricted in footwear. Looking around at work desks and restaurant tables, I see feet abandoning the d'orsays they were in, or a pair propped on flip-flops stroking each other therapeutically, and I find mostly Indians above them. Among humans we seem to be the least hesitant in honouring the urge to take shoes off. The liberation of the foot is essential for relaxation and for carrying on most of our activities.

A couple of months ago, a young Oriya couple moved in next door. They cook at home. Every evening, masala laiden fumes from their home slip out into the courtyard and humour the building with a little performance. I'm probably the only audience, because Singapore mostly eats out.

There's probably a reason why Indian expats "change" upon leaving their country. Zooming out brings out the beauty and the ugliness of being Indian. It could draw you closer, or repel you.

Testing instagr.am

2011-06-14T14:10:00.001+08:00

Testing out my new form of torture. Evil convergence. Made possible by iPhone. Discovered via Google.

(see full image)

Sent from my iPhone

Call me AUNTIE

2011-04-05T09:24:00.015+08:00

I know many Asians and Indians cringe at the ubiquity and what according to them is the annoying misuse of 'Auntie' and 'Uncle'.

Before you dismiss this as a bad habit, consider this:

In India, your canteen boy is 'anna' (brother). The taxi driver, painter or carpenter is 'bhaiyya' (brother). You are 'baby' to your live-in maid of 25 years who is akin to family, and you call her 'didi' (sister). Your Malayalee colleague is your 'cheta' (brother). You meet people, you immediately strike a relationship with them. To me, the argument, "He is not your uncle, so it is incorrect to call him uncle," while no doubt undisputed in logic, comes from a need to follow a global culture largely driven by a country of fantastic conversationalists. I haven't lived in the US, but many Indians imagine it to be a place where absolute strangers say hello to each other, where you can walk up to a stranger in a bar and have a great conversation. Without making a friend? If that is your picture of America, then it seems to be a country of many strangers hungry for nothing more than conversation. India is a country where people instinctively strike relationships. That is how we are wired. In India we like to give every stranger we meet some standing in our lives.

When western culture and imagery was first streamed to us via satellite TV, we peered with curiosity at Americans who were calling their in-laws by their first names. This is not something alien to Indians alone, but to other Asian countries as well. As kids we have always been told to respect our elders. At traditional Chinese family dinners during festivals, young family members are expected to "wrestle" to win a courtesy match against family elders who will pretend to resist. A Japanese friend invited her boss at work as the guest of honour at her wedding. The Indian Cricket Team dedicated the World Cup win to Sachin. Asians are innately deferential. Calling elders 'Uncle' or 'Auntie' is our way of conferring a 'status' upon a stranger who is senior to us. To call it "incorrect" is to take a very simplistic view of things. We are strikingly different from our western counterparts.

Singaporeans, like most Asians, have a very similar approach to interactions with elders. I moved to Singapore a year ago, and despite its cosmopolitan exterior, it was interesting to find that it takes its 'Auntie-Uncle' culture quite seriously. In a migrant culture increasingly moving towards an expat culture where local flavour is threatened everyday by economic ambition, interactions with the older Aunties and Uncles provide you human connection beyond conversation. Auntie Ng is a sweet hardworking old auntie in charge of housekeeping at the office I used to work before. When I asked her the name of her newly hired assistant, she thought really hard and finally said, "Donno leh. I call Auntie. You oso call Auntie can". Taxi drivers refer to themselves as Taxi Uncle in the third person. "Taxi Unkuh canno' stop here. Taxi Unkuh haf to pay fine," they say.

So next time you are speaking to an Asian elder, don't hesitate to spread the love. Call your Singaporean Taxi driver 'Uncle'. He will feel more fulfilled. Call your watchman in India 'Bhaiyya'. He will take pride in what he is doing. Call your older neighbour 'Auntie'. She will generously dole out the laddoos she prepared last evening. Embrace your Asianness. We outnumber the Americans in any case.

Even the Singapore Government agrees that this institutionalisation is 'Uniquely Singapore' and now promotes the 'Trishaw Uncle' service as a cultural experience.

Gifts for boys and how Assorted Cookies got her groove back

2010-10-26T17:03:00.008+08:00

I've been baking every weekend for the last three weeks with above average success. It all started with my husband's birthday.

Kat is not an easy person to give a gift to. In my experience, very few men are. They value very few and very fancy things. They are very rigid in their likes and dislikes, and they seldom are graceful accepters of gifts. They can't handle unfamiliar surprises. My grand mum has now resorted to buying pyjamas and white underwear for my dad because he hated everything else she had bought him. I've smartened up watching this happen year after year. I've come to realise that every man has a mania that is looking to be fed. It's a bit different from a woman's shoe, bag or make up mania. The difference is that there is little or no subjectivity involved. In my dad's case there are three - liquor, cooking and an old Philips LP player that is currently bereft of a magnetic needle. The LP player is slowly becoming a lost cause, so I now buy him either liquor (Vodka) or a Pakistani Brand of Biryani Mix that he absolutely loves cooking and improvising with. He uses it to make even chicken dishes and has been promoting it amongst friends and relatives. Kat is into music and loves slick gadgets. So I once bought him a Bose iPod dock which he is still very much in love with. It now sits perched quite snobbishly in our sitting room below the wall mounted television set. Yes it was expensive hee hee. My secret Cosmo tip to women is to find your man's mania - and please, just because it has to do with cars, the gift doesn't have to be a car. And if your man has an Apple fetish, quickly develop one of your own to justify the expense.

There is another way: Make something. No matter how bad it turns out, you will enjoy the process of making it, and even if it doesn't turn out well, the effort always evokes warm feelings. I was telling you about my efforts to think of a nice birthday gift for Kat - and hope was slowly fading. I knew shirts, shoes, perfumes or any accessories that I think are nice would be met with criticism. "This is not my style," he'll say. Books are a bit dicey because it's a very subjective matter or often has to do with abstruse law related topics. (And books as gifts are more everyday than special ocasion). And the iPod dock had already been done to death by me. As they would've exclaimed in Singapore, so how? How do I make it special?

That's when the thought of baking a cake popped into my head. So on his birthday eve, I took Kat along:
1. to buy baking ingredients at Raffles City Mall (of all the places)
2. to buy a blender and check out ovens at Mustafa
3. to check out ovens and baking dishes at Tangs and Isetan
4. back to Mustafa, because we thought they were cheaper at Mustafa
5. back to Tangs, because they were, in fact, not (although the baking dishes were, and we bought them)
6. back to Mustafa to buy the oven because Tangs was closed by the time we got there

The oven was brought home and quickly put to use. The cake was ready just in time to bring in Kat's Birthday. And for the rest of the week we came home to chocolate cake and burnt caramel ice-cream. Not to sound soppy, but I think making gifts is far more gratifying than buying them - thanks to Kat's exacting standards as a gift receiver, I've now discovered a new mania for myself!

Here's my simple recipe to bake a delicious chocolate cake (picked up from my mom and grand mum): Take equal quantities of eggs, butter, sugar, flour. Blend in the sugar and butter until light and fluffy. Mix in the egg yolk. Fold in the sieved flour into this batter along with 2 teaspoons of baking powder and a teaspoon of vanilla essence. Add generous heaps of cocoa powder to some warm milk and make a thick liquid - and fold this into the batter. To finish off, pour the egg white into the batter and mix well. Bake!

One good thing always leads to another - thanks to this new found obsession, I have new found fodder for my blog. I will upload more stories on my cooking and baking exploits - be warned!

The Bar Over the River Singapore

2010-10-07T23:11:00.007+08:00

I had to live in Singapore to actually notice it. It’s easy to fall victim to the hysteria around Clarke Quay if you’re a tourist. Once you get over it, however, the rest of Singapore surfaces. This limbo between the two banks of Clarke Quay isn’t worth a mention in anyone’s travel journal. It does not peddle itself as a locals’ haven or a tourist mandate. With nerve it stands right next to Clarke Quay without an address or a name. There is no queue to get in, no cover charge, and it doesn’t give you dress code anxiety. You get your own drinks and food, and you can be rest assured no one is going to feed you using ghastly intravenous tubes or make you sit on wheelchairs.

True, there is something inviting about places with no names offering an ambience for free. But what makes this place buzz with human flies on every weekend night is a wonderful coincidence that only something god-like could have designed – a river, a bridge, a mega cluster of night spots next door to feed off of, and a 7-11, all within a 5 minute radius. Oh, and Clarke Quay toilets.

The place does have an expat feel. Since it is a free-for-all, it becomes the place of choice for university students from all over the world wanting to have a night out in town for cheap. And it attracts young professional imports that still haven’t gotten over their college years.

Friendly strangers walk up to you asking if you can share a drink in exchange for ice or cigarettes they picked from 7-11, corny passes are attempted. Unknown camera hogs pop into your pictures and fleeting friendships are cemented with people from far away lands. The air is thick with human hum. Occasionally it is infused with the sound of trance-like didgeridoo music played by an anonymous male talent who performs every weekend night. It is the kind of atmosphere that makes it perfectly sensible to pick up a toy trishaw with twinkling lights from one of the many uncles selling cheap toys that go whrrrrrrrrr and make you go wheeeeee!

Now imagine slathering a good greasy McDonald’s meal over all of this on your way out.

I highly recommended if you are a young expat in Singapore. Not if you are a tourist. Locals won’t like it.

Privates going public

2010-01-26T18:53:00.008+08:00

I once read a quote about the difference between the way men and women think about their privates, and it went something like this:
For a woman, her privates are her privates, but men consider their privates to be publics.
I mean why else would the world's most iconic lingerie brand have a name like Victoria's Secret?

For an illustration of the above, I have a funny forward from last year. The woman bit has been pushed a little too far I think, but I can say with some authority that a summary of my life experiences so far features more men than women scratching their nethers, or their butt, or peeing in public. And it was one of the reasons I was very interested in sending my pink chaddies to Pramod Mutalik (for the Pink Chaddi Campaign). My motivation was not to vent my ire and embarrass a crook fanatic. I think the biggest reason for the success of the Pink Chaddi campaign was in giving permission to women to make their privates public. Women and men alike were for the first time talking about female underwear in a most unusually raucous way.

Women's intimates travelled the world with the very successful Vagina Monologues, which allowed women to say "vagina" freely without hemming and hawing.

Yet, Pink Chaddi was still about an underwear, and Vagina Monologues was only a play and a book. I thought women had a long way to go before they could go out there to get some true sunshine where the sun don't shine.

Then I heard about Boobs for Booze. I got over the shock very quickly and realised how incredible and amusing this idea was. No, the judges weren't bra experts. No they didn't feel the women up. No they weren't sleazy. They were just there to guesstimate your size and give you a drink for free. There were the token activist women calling this event sexist, demeaning and disrespectful. If this event really was really intended to be sexist, they would have left the ping pong sizes out, and made this a ding dongs only one. But this event was exactly the opposite of sexist - it was a fun night, when for once (to improvise on a tired abused cliche) size, shape, bounce, feel, direction etc. didn't matter. It the pushed conversation about breasts into a humorous and completely non-sexual area. It was in fact the complete anti-thesis of Victoria's Secret and Pirelli calendars - women were getting drunk, laughing and talking about them unapologetically (unlike the detractors).

I love the brand Strip. To my mind, even though it perpetuates a stereotype (hairless is sexy), it speaks of the issue in a very liberating way. It takes feminine intimates out from a very constrained world and brings them smack in your face, and sprinkles everything it says with a sense of humour that puts you at ease. Of course it just makes business sense haha, but I am yet to come across a beauty parlour talks about the fun of a Brazillian Wax - before, during and after - so unapologetically.

10 habits of highly effective Singaporeans

2009-12-11T18:44:00.007+08:00

It meanders its way into every conversation. Especially if you are a non-local, your chilly crab or chicken rice tastes even better with a half-informed discussion on signature Singaporean tendencies. You take delight in speculating their historical and cultural roots.

I being a total wannabe for the local culture here, have accumulated some wisdom from all these conversations with locals and some of the species that the tide washed in, as well as my own observations. Of course this is meant to be an ever growing list which will hopefully grow deeper too. For now, I’ve gotten my ankles wet and I think you should get in too.

For all those who wanted to know, but were afraid to ask, I present to you,“How to wayan like Singaporean one”.

You need:

1. Coloured Umbrella
You don’t leave home without one. You never know when it might shine or rain. Your bright coloured umbrella with happy prints is one thing to depend on against the vagaries of life and nature. It is perfectly acceptable to pop one open in the middle of a light drizzle or a cool breeze.

2. Snacks
It is worrying not to have snacks at arm’s length. In addition to a well stocked pantry, make sure you have a stockpile on your desk and in your draw. This could consist of different kinds of chips, cheeselets and biscuits, so you can reach out for some comforting crunchies when the urge takes over.

3. Cutsie toys, especially Hello Kitty
This is not true of all Singaporeans, but if ever you plan on taking on the avatar of one, an easy place to start would be to discover your latent fixation with Hello Kitty (and other adorable soft toys). Start believing they are too cute to be not purring on your office desk or any other empty space. And no, it is not considered annoying.

4. A table, chair, a stomach and a slim gene
Yes, more food. It is not just a pang, it is your calling. What I first thought was a nice way to describe the Singaporean affinity to food is now a serious summary of their instinct: at 3am, if there is a chair and a table with some food on it, there will be two Singaporeans hunched over it. It’s a sin to leave a table idle here. It doesn’t take three months of living here to understand that.

5. A craze for Japan
Go Japan. Eat Japan. Dress Japan. Whatever you (verb), aim to (verb) it Japan.

6. Hair gel
If you have little kids who are Malay boys, spike their hair up with hairgel and leave an uncut tuft at the neck. It looks cool.

7. Paper tissues
The world is a tough place, but the food court is nothing short of a blood bath. A Singaporean knows the horrors of waiting in the queue to buy his food, and then finding that all the tables are taken. Acquaint yourselfwith a civilized wrestling format called “Chope” played with a cheeky packet of paper tissue which can be purchased for 30 cents. Before heading to the food queue, place your tissue packet as your proxy on the seat orthe table you wish to occupy. Paper tissue is soft power that everyone respects – no one goes near a table with a Chope tissue, and make sure you don’t either.

8. An escalator fetish
It is perfectly foul to think of escalators merely as things that take you from one floor to another. If you’re a Singaporean teen, this is your Tunnel of Love. An escalator ride can be the ultimate romantic thing you can do as a couple: indulge in mushy touchings and kissings as you scale various consumerist fantasy levels of Louis Vuitton, Cavalli and Salvatore Ferragamo at a mall.

9. Tapering jeans and converse shoes
Just wear them. They’re cool. Spike your hair a bit too. And if you want to go fully Malay, throw on a tie and a hat just as coolly.

10. A crazy Singapore fantasy
Singapore exists in one of these two states: one, ‘Resort’ and two,“Business District”. In many ways it is almost impossibly ideal. Yet, if you want to act like a Singaporean, you must carry with you a wild dream that one day something unexpected and untamed will unleash itself in Singapore. To quote a localite, “Wish something crazy happens here, like someone explodes a bomb or something”.

11. It is sub-human to stare at humans.
4th Jan 2009.
This one is going to be tough for people – such as I, who have grown up in India – who are predisposed to meaninglessly stare at others with prying eyes. When in an intimate public space (by which I mean a space where strangers are forced to come physically close to each other, such as a local train, bus or an elevator) a true Singaporean will do anything to not look at people. The polite and civil thing to do in such situations is to stare into your mobile device, and if, god forbid, you don’t have one, then bore an imaginary hole into some people-less spot (the ceiling, the floor, or the air are ideal spots for this) and stare at it.

The other day I watched Kurbaan, and it occurred to me that this story wouldn't have been possible in Singapore. Saif would have, out of habit, stood in a queue behind Kareena even if he was in a hurry to catch a cab.

Isabgol

2009-12-10T11:41:00.004+08:00

This is a meditation upon binging and purging, and input and output. It is the elementary couplet of nature and life on earth. Without the first half, we are deprived, and the absence of the latter manifests as distress in the form of frustration, claustrophobia and constipation. Now that I have unsettled your chi by inflicting this unnecessarily pungent opening paragraph on you, I seek your permission to take you down the rabbit hole and waste your time completely.

If you know me well you will know that I am an acute case of binge-purge dependency. If you know me well you will also realize that the above writing is mortifyingly pretentious; it’s just not my style. I have my reasons. Over the last few months I have been consuming life at a very rapid rate – as if it were a delicious thali meal. I have been engulfed by the new and unfamiliar – for instance, I am newly married, new to Singapore, new to the work culture here, new to a global business, there are new faces, new food, and a new style of grocery shopping where you have to step into an intimidating mall to buy soppu. And in my frenzy of consumption, I haven’t written about anything in ages. All this has built up to a situation that is very similar to one where you’re hiking in the jungles of Myanmar, and wake up one morning in a tree house to pull out the plug. And after a forty five minute concerted effort on the pot you’re wondering what caused that horrible colour. So you see, this is one of those blog posts. But I got to do what I got to do.

Thank you. I feel much better now.

Feeling like I'm lost somewhere in the Vindhyas

2009-07-01T00:47:00.013+08:00

A therapeutic blog entry shouting over the overwhelming blur of wedding preparations, a full time advertising job (that if nothing else, is currently pinning me down immobile to a revolving chair and a computer) and some galloping bridal angst. Too much has been happening.

My mom and I have been doing the perfunctory and exciting rounds of jewellery shopping. So far we've been doing what we'd like to call poking around, first carefully covering the most unglamourous and fascinating alleys of Chickpet heavy with stale air and the sweat of hard labour, and after getting our kicks from hammering out the best rates from every wholesaler and getting an eyeful of eye-popping variety, heading to the more tepid streets in the upmarket areas of Bangalore, to supercilious hypnotic window displays, and to cocoons of diffused synthetic light which make my 50 buck danglers look like they cost a million.

On our snooping around trips, we loitered into a showroom that specialised in North Indian style jewellery. For the moderately South Indian Brahmin mother-daughter team that we were, it was dazzling, very unfamiliar territory, but still worth exploring. The pieces were breathtaking - Jadau styles, Meenakari and Kundan work, and rich with massive uncut diamonds - far, far away from the world of gold, cut, colour, clarity, carat, classic evergreen styles, weight of gold, throw of gem sparkle and good investment that we knew so well. My mom and the extremely warm and eager jeweller got into a microscopic discussion about the intricacies of an exquisite peacock styled set. I thought it looked like a marvel - I hadn't seen anything like it before - and it fit our budget. My mom of course being a sum total of all her South Indian Brahmin life experiences enquired about the diamonds. Oh no, not again. The jeweller, a North Indian, with a very knowing but deflated grin complained to us that we South Indians always buy 'expensive' diamonds. And my mom vociferously added her bit to that premise. She had some North Indian friends who ran off to Delhi everytime they needed to buy diamonds, because diamonds up North are much cheaper and the designs are much better. Again, the deflated grin from the jeweller, who I was beginning to think was swimming against the tide here in Bangalore with his beautiful North Indian ware, although I think he was wise in steering clear of Singara Chennai where he would have been eaten alive. Sensing dissonance which he was probably used to, he feebly tried to reassure my mom that he was the most well known jeweller in the North, and a household name like CKC to them. Mom declared that the diamonds didn't shine well and asked him the per carat rate. Both the jeweller and I could see the peacock set slipping out of our hands. I felt sympathy for him and the craftsmanship that had gone into the piece while my mom's interrogation raged on. He told us it was Rs4200 and I could feel that somewhere in my mom's mind there was a reaction similar to what happens when you put a steel spoon in a microwave. This was unacceptable. What diamonds were these? He said they were standard, good quality 'G' grade diamonds, and he said that South Indian jewellery stores (like CKC and Ganjam) usually sold far superior (and unnecessarily so, he tried to hint) "F' grade diamonds. The fate of the gorgeous peacock set was sealed with that submission.

I have reason to hazard a suppostion from my limited experience that North Indians, in keeping with their relatively stronger outward nature and their predisposition to 'show' wealth are 'lookists' when it comes to jewellery. The sets that we saw had massive uncut diamonds. The absence of 'cut' makes an uncut diamond gorgeous but stupendously lower in price compared to a cut diamond, affording the design not only a massive size, but also a colossal number of diamonds in a single item. Plus, they use standard quality diamonds, and not 'F' grade. South Indians on the other hand are more inward and understated. They are less concerned about the look and hold 'value' in high regard. What goes on in their mind while purchasing a piece is that if they want to make something else out of the incumbent in the future, is it worth it's weight in gold and gems? North Indian pieces with their emphasis on looks, waste gold in craftsmanship and use lower grade diamonds, so the resultant piece doesn't really add up to much resale value. My mom and grand mum on the other hand still recall how aunts came up to them on the wedding day to check how 'heavy' their traditional gold coin chain was. Obviously, ruthless judgment followed.

North Indians take pride in how 'valuable it looks to others', or evocative value, and South Indians take pride in how 'valuable it actually is', or intrinsic value.

So where does that leave an exasperated bride-to-be? I do want value, but I do want something unusual as well. I feel like I'm lost somewhere in the Vindhyas right now. Hmm. Maharashtrian jewellery? Sigh.

In our poking around we've pockmarked this beautiful city, broken hearts, dashed many hopes and driven salesmen up the wall with our constant clamouring, hemming, hawing and bickering - me, in my young and audacious attempt at rightfully owning my wedding and insisting on 'design', and my mom in her eternal search for 'value'. It has become both addictive and an obsession, with each shop throwing a fresh challenge to us. So much so that disagreement become a bigger gratification in itself, resulting in us going home without a single piece of rock or metal at the end of a day's exploration.

Sorting Hats

2009-06-25T16:13:00.012+08:00

Although I don't follow Harry Potter (except for the odd Philosopher's Stone which I read and watched, and The Prisoner of Azkaban which I caught on HBO), I draw from the world's seething obsession with the subject to get a smattering of an understanding on it.

Of late, I have realised that I seem to be caught up compulsively with the subject as well, when I found myself doing a Sorting Hat on anything with the potential to have a 'character'. Practically everyone now knows which house they belong to after using one of the zillion Sorting Hat quizzes on Facebook or by using websites devoted to just that. It's just too out there to not have crossed anyone's mind. Which is why I was surprised when googling "brands + sorting hat" didn't show any relevant results. (if someone does find something of the sort, please send me a link!)

People, companies, celebrities, cheese, wine, single malt, food, movies, fictional characters, scotch whiskey, cities....you can sort the world into Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin.

I did a sorting hat on some brands around me, and I've also said why I sorted them so. Tell me what you think.

Gryffindor: Bold, flamboyant, courageous, will break rules for the greater good.
Levi's - a bold brand, makes a virtue out of not following rules. Frontrunner. Sometimes can slip into the darker shades of Gryffindor, inching towards Slytherin.
Nike - for it's Just Do It spirit. It makes an enemy and overcomes it. When the whole world says you can't be an athlete, just run. Irreverent to the core, although in India it's probably a Ravenclaw and is waiting for a hook to get into what people see as Gryff here.
Apple - originally a Ravenclaw, but made its way into Gryffindor after it brought in sex appeal to geekism. With it's bold colours, sleek design and cutting edge technology, it is definitely a golden Gryff.
Pepsi - the voice of a bold irreverent Youngistaan.
Times of India - for being a change agent with the Lead India initiative (and several other activities) and being an inspiration to a bold outward looking India.

Slytherin: cunning, ambitious, selfish, resourceful
Virgin (mobile) - For the best lessons in sliming out of situations, and for its focus on the end and not the means. *
Mentos - May not be as cunning as Virgin, but definitely falls into Slytherin for its unconventional wisdom in getting out of trouble and getting the upper hand
Max New York Life Insurance - Can there be a nice shade of Slytherin? Slytherin also stands for pragmatism. I think this category was in Hufflepuff when it spoke about safety and concern, but with the ' Karo Zyada Ka Irada' chant, methinks Max has given the category a new selfish edge as it plays on the 'what's in it for me?' motivation.
Fastrack - Don't get bored, get rid of him! Famous for endorsing the 'use, throw and move on' generation.
* I also feel that Virgin as a company falls into a likeable shade of Slytherin. Pragmatism, ambition and resourcefulness which are instinctive to Slytherin are desirable traits, and we as humans are materialistic, we network socially and are looking for the best deal. The tinge of Slytherin quality in Virgin is what gives it the differentiating competitive edge to outwit competition.

Hufflepuff: Friendly, nice and non-threatening. Hardworking.
Levi's Strauss Signature - a friendly, inclusive cousin of Levi's. Approachable and doesn't challenge.
Vodafone - Friendly, and forever "Happy to Help", for you and I are in a beautiful world.
Stayfree / Whisper - every girl's confidante and works hard so that nothing keeps her down
Appy Fizz - a great drink to hang out with.
Cadbury's Dairy Milk - because like a friend it encourages you to indulge a little. And it has always stood for friendship and bonding amongst people.
Disney - a clown full of entertainment for kids, perhaps? Something that makes them smile?
FM Radio - sure this is a category, but I thought it was a good example of Hufflepuff. After a long hard day at work, you're just waiting to enter a zone where you aren't judged or challenged. Your friendly RJ isn't in your face, and gives you comfort by being cheerful, undemanding and being in the background.

Ravenclaw: This group to me means intelligence and creativity in a good but unglamourous way.
Intel (as an employer) - going by the latest Intel Heroes campaign, Intel is all about unabashed geekism.
3M - because their mandate is to solve unsolved problems innovatively.
HSBC - because their lifeblood is their 'worldwide people wisdom' and they have a superior understanding of different kinds of people, local culture and needs.
Mizuno - for hard core performance and intelligent products, but somehow lacking the inspiring quality of Nike.
The Hindu -intellectual, noble, possibly quaint (their proof checking is done on print outs, not on screen) without the nerve of a Times of India.
Ikea - Ingenuity in design and good looks sans the flamboyance and prices to constantly remind you of it.

So how do I feel the Sorting Hat would help? It sets the rules. The framework. It would be a good tool when you're defining the role for a new brand, trying to argue with people what an existing brand should be doing next, or while evaluating creative. You could also use it to describe your consumers and your category to clients and creative. It may also come handy when you're wondering how your brand should use a medium, or how it should respond to a new development in the world. The Sorting Hat would give you a vivid description of what your brand is all about.

Making love, not borders

2009-03-12T15:01:00.006+08:00

Today, I take a break from the self-indulgent magnum opus on Singapore I’ve been tripping on for a really phaffy post on something that’s irking me.

What do toilets, changing rooms and showers have in common?

Yexcuze me, but I was miseducated to believe these were private places. I’m sorry, but where I come from, it was in the bathroom that the woman found her refuge away from the clamouring world (in the movies I grew up on, people even bathed with their clothes on, but that’s another story).

I know borders are uncool these days, but can someone please explain this irritating new open door policy that is infesting our most closeted places? Our bathrooms and changing rooms, it seems, have abandoned their roles for more fulfilling things in life. Why hide when you actually want to show? Apparently curtains, and not doors, are a truer reflection of the open society that we live in today. You know you’re “youthful-edgy” when you buy clothes because you want to be seen naked in them. So as I hop and wiggle ignominiously to fit into a pair of skinny jeans, I’m supposed to feel optimistic that someone might barge in to catch me doing some grotesque salsa move. The private joy of performing ablutions just got funkier behind those barely-there saloon doors. Make the right noises, and you shoot to instant fame and recognition as you step out – everyone knows those feet and how much time they spent there doing what. Public has become the new private.
In India, barriers break when people talk. Private spaces could morph into socio-sexual destinations in the US for instance where they are otherwise guarded fiercely with moats – so peoples' need to reach out to anything other than their own devices could actually turn into a monster. But India? We don’t need over-ventilated bathrooms to air ourselves! People have always been a part of our lives! We live in an overcrowded noisy country, we have our festivals, our families, nosy neighbours, our chatty domestic help and our altercations with the vegetable vendor.

Hmm…

Unless it is a device to make someone feel vulnerable inside. One usually ends up spending a lot of time in the company of mirrors and hot water. Perhaps a precarious barrier would induce enough discomfort to ensure the person spends little time inside, particularly in a public place.

Either way, I don’t like it! Because I’m Indian, I have people around me all the time, and I really value my bathroom time!

Perfectly Singapore (Part 3)

2009-03-08T16:07:00.017+08:00

Perfectly Singapore:
A mini-series of gushings and useless observations about a place that I love dearly.
This had been waiting for a long time.

Part 3 - Sit back, relax and enjoy the ride

Four hours of flying time and two-and-a half hours ahead of my biological clock, I’m sleepy but not jet-lagged. I catch a few winks, and I’m all set for a day of kopitiam-ing*, mall-crawling and MRT-ing**. Add Clarke Quay and Boat Quay to this list, and that’s pretty much the living space of Singapore. My adventure gear consists of a transit card***, a few doulars and a comfortable pair of shoes. Here’s a place you can lose yourself in and not get lost – there’s always a trail of signboards behind you to take you back home, and you’re never too far from the MRT or some form of public transport. Sissy and sanitised? Perhaps to some. As for me, I am venomously allergic to the undisciplined outdoors with a predisposition to chaos and clumsiness, and seek comfort in things that work well and in an orderly fashion. So if you’re aching to be flung with flailing arms and legs out of your comfort zone (most Singaporeans are), then just jump off a plane into some isolated island of Papua New Guinea and get your kicks from some unnecessarily contrived struggle. Don’t come to Singapore.

You look around, and the two things that cross your mind are “rules” and “non-interfering”. I hop on to the train on the red line towards my first stop, Orchard Road. On the train, the younger lot have their eyes transfixed on games or phones. The older ones don’t make eye contact either – they stare in to space or at the floor. A heartening relief from all those eyes and tongues that obnoxiously fall out of their sockets at unintended provocation. Indians stare, Singaporeans don’t. I love this “mind-my-own-business” manner. I look around and catch a sticker that prohibits Durian and eatables on the train. Durian looks like a cousin of the Jackfruit that you find in India, only spikier, with kernel that tastes and feels like custard. Durian is the obnoxiously stinky but very likeable uncle who has wedged himself inextricably into the South East Asian family. He is the unabashed third class citizen of Singapore, and people poke fun at him. But he’s a great sport, and lets people tell him when to get in and where to get off. So the proverbial stink notwithstanding, you will find people enjoying many Durian-based preparations – cakes, ice cream and biscuits - and of course, whole. Frankly I don’t see what the fuss is all about. I think the fruit comes only second to the reassuring stench of the 4th Block Jayanagar vegetable market.

Everyone uses the MRT, because the Government makes it impossible for the average citizen to own a car around here. Quite a departure from the IT infested, neo-wealth riddled, and hideously car-empowered city I come from. Singapore is a business hub and pretty much everyone works hard, but unlike Mumbai, the “struggle” that is palpable even in the local trains is missing here. I certainly don’t miss it!

I get off, and am overwhelmed by more rules. I’ve grown up being a lowly Indian pedestrian, always half expecting to be hit by traffic. My moment of glory is when a stream of cars stops just because the signal says I have right of way. I shuffle clumsily in the middle of the road because this to me is awesome and humbling at the same time. I sheepishly grin and mouth a “Thank you” before darting across to the pavement.

*Kopitiam - Literally, coffee shop. Kopi is Malay for coffee and tiam is Hokkien for shop. They are like polka dots all around Singapore. You can grab a quick bite and a beverage here. More about them in my next post.

*** MRT - Mass Rapid Transit. The (very comfortable) underground network of local trains that Singaporeans depend on

***Transit card - a card with currency worth the amount you have paid, which can be redeemed for commuting on trains and buses

Perfectly Singapore (Part 2)

2009-02-22T17:40:00.009+08:00

Perfectly Singapore:
A mini-series of gushings and useless observations about a place that I love dearly.
This had been waiting for a long time.

Part 2 - Appetisers along the way

The rigidity and fear with which one ought to conduct oneself in Singapore has been spoken and joked about threadbare. For all the reputation that precedes it, I don't find a single cop patrolling the streets - unlike India where they prey on you for dinner after 9.30 in the evening. Changi Airport is a free place - no one bothers you every 50 feet asking for your passport, ticket or security checked baggage. Not even at the entrance. Security here is far less obvious and more effective. And no, Singapore is not a "fine" city as the stale joke goes. I see quite a few cigarettes being stubbed on the road. Although if you're looking for chewing gum - you won't find any being sold anywhere! And oh, if you don't have international roaming with you, please ensure you make all calls at the airport, because there is no semblance of an STD/ISD/Local Calls/Xerox/Internet booth anywhere in the city!

Singapore has historically been a trading port, so all along my drive home I spot charming colonial style warehouses rolling out one after another - converted into business and commercial establishments, restaurants, and hip night spots. The buildings look like something straight out of a watercolour, with wooden windows painted in happy hues of green, pink, orange and blue against a pale wall. So that's really my first (and abiding) impression of Singapore. Till my cab turns into Buffalo Road in Little India, which could have been Salem or Trichy (this is where I come back on another day to buy tomatoes and coriander from - off the street, just like in India). There are two temples here - a Brahmin Temple, and a non-Brahmin one. Yes, it is really a microcosm of small town Tamil Nadu. Men fold up their lungis and roam the streets, and Tamilian women wear loud synthetic sarees putting challenge to the Sun, in the true spirit of Rajnikant. There is also the famous Komala Vilas here, which is the Mecca for the vada-sambar-dosai-idly craving lot. However, try Lakshmi Narasimha, which is newer, more convenient for seating, and offers pretty much the same quality of food. Like a good Brahmin boy, my fiance takes me for breakfast here straight from the airport. You can't dispute its authenticity, but the food is more homely than sumptuous. The pongal and the ghee dosai are worth a try. Saravana Bhavan, Murugan Idli and Anjappar are some of the other legendary names that haven opened shops for their thambis in the orient, although you'd be a dummy if you didn't find a South Indian or Indian place in Singapore to eat.

Just a stone's throw from Little India is the grand and much spoken about Mustafa, which is Singapore's Wal-Mart. Here's a tip. Give duty free a miss and buy your coming-home chocolates from here. This place takes "all under one roof" to obscene proportions. You can buy salt and airline tickets, and anything in between at Mustafa. Even gold. Everything here is cheaper than duty free, and the rush at 2 in the morning and the impossibly narrow aisles are just an added delight. This is also a good place to get your money exchanged. The rates are, you guessed right, the cheapest and best.

Farrer Park is a tranquil little locality that rests right next to Little India and Mustafa, and quite amazingly is far removed from all the chaos and din. It has very English sounding streets like Dorset Road, Oxford Road and Owen Road. Two Chinese dining houses opposite each other are my cues for taking a turn. One is called 'Food Street (Keng) Fish Head Steamboat Eating House', and the other's board is written only in Chinese. If I was Chinese, I'd have recommended them instead of Lakshmi Narasimha, because they both look like those regular joints for good Chinese home-cooked food. Besides, the aromas are reassuringly unappetising for good Tamil boys - so they must be authentic. The tables are usually occupied at all times. Old couples sit together for hours nursing their noodle soups and chopsticks. Young people tuck in some quick lunch. Families come over to have an authentic Fish Head Steamboat just for a lark (much like the way we all head out for a masala dosai). I stop at a condo called Kentish Green, and Uncle offers, "I take you to kha pak ah?" I say no thank you and ask him how much. "Thirty doular." Kha pak = car park. The cuteness just doesn't stop.

Perfectly Singapore (Part 1)

2009-02-21T23:38:00.009+08:00

Perfectly Singapore:
A mini-series of gushings and useless observations about a place that I love dearly.
This had been waiting for a long time.

Part 1 - Bangalore Leaves Me

A sense of serenity bubbles inside me everytime I'm at the airport waiting to board the flight to Singapore. Of course my fiance lived there until recently, but it's amazing how for someone who recoils at the thought of flying, I swell with anticipation - of so many beautiful things - just because I'm going to Singapore. It's always the same routine. Hesitation gives way to brazenness for the greater good, and I apply for leave at work. I'm also granted a reputation for taking leave in the process. But all the good and the bad in my world cease to exist as I realise that in five hours I will wake up to another sky, to a beautiful orange oriental sun served up on a fat slice of groggy clouds. All through the night I sleep intermittently, looking out into the blackness outside every now and then. Cupping my hands to get a clear view I stare down at lights from unknown lands. I see trawlers mucking about like little planets in their own orbits. Nebulas of bright living lights spring up suddenly. The Andamans perhaps? Indonesia? There's that feeling of "life in another world" that clutches my abdomen as my plane drones along. And slowly, the signs of "arrival" dawn on us one by one. I see a glorious sun coming out of the horizon, the lights flicker on, the flight attendant apologises politely for spraying aerosol in the Indian Airlines flight (please don't! I love it because it's a nice, familiar smell that tells me we're almost there) and the voice of the captain crackling through the microphone like an old record that reminds you of simple times. Peace. We descend close to Malaysia before sharply swerving into Singapore. I see hordes of ships and trawlers, against an ever so well mannered sea, I see a couple of random rivers (apparently Singapore has 32 of them). Finally the urban sprawl emerges, like a toy city with everthing perfectly arranged in its place. That's the city I love, and I stare down waiting to lose myself in it - in the freedom it gives me, its easy spirit, its organised vibrance and of course, its many flavours. This sentiment will surprise a lot of Singaporeans, because many of them see it as a very robotic, predictable and sanitised city that doesn't let you do anything. I can only say, come to Bangalore and sample its auto drivers, traffic jams, pollution, randomised roads and you will understand how palatable your city is. Anyway, back to the plane that's now landed. In a few minutes I will rush into a very hushed but cheery Changi Airport, all soft and carpeted, with a wonderful aroma clinging about the air (smells are a huge thing for me, and I don't know of another person who's caught this aroma - I think it's fragrant Chinese rice from the food stalls). This fragrance unfailingly waits to give me a hug everytime I arrive, and it gives me an overwhelming sense of coming home. I zip through immigration, and my luggage waiting for me orreaddy! (that's Singlish. I've developed a strong affection for it and anyone who speaks it. The Singapore Government discourages Singlish but I doubt if anyone really cares). A sweet old Chinese gentleman stands at the glass door exit. Wearing white gloves, he takes his job of coordinating the customer waiting in line with the cab waiting in line very seriously. To me, this is pure delight. I dive into the perfumed, chilled leather interiors, and say, "Uncle, Oxford Road, please." And I am already jumping out of my skin to hear that response typical of Chinese cab drivers that tickles me no end. And Uncle doesn't let me down. "Ofskos Road ah?" he says, confusing the syllables. I let out a squeal in my head. And then Uncle wants a few references or landmarks - which I happily offer with a Singlish seasoning, "Uncle, Farrer Park! Rangoon Road? Near Owen Road there!" And in Singlish he exclaims, "Owen Road ah! Okkkkay can!" And off we go, with giggly Chinese girls singing on the radio - very softly, mind you - so as not to trouble the passenger.

Stiffness in my bones!

2009-02-04T20:57:00.009+08:00

It's been over a month since my last post - I didn't even write the perfunctory New year post. You know, I'm beginning to like this word like a bad habit, thanks to Halfboy for quickly salvaging absurd conversations with a timely garnishing of "perfunctory" flung in with flair. The moment it leaps out of his mouth, I like the word a bit more. Purrr…funkk…try. Anyway, back to the main story. What main story? I’m going to be a Bangalore auto driver today. I refuse to take you to any conceivable destination, and I will meander without signal. Reason? I'm rusty as an old nail right now, and this old nail isn't just about to launch itself into writing anything that makes too much sense. Just to thaw myself I've decided to put down some of the meaningless stuff I've been doing over the last four weeks. I hope that’s sufficient orientation for you.

In the wake of the proverbial “recession”, I’ve swiftly found myself a new cheap thrill which is to taunt all security guys at malls and multiplexes. These guys epitomize the word perfunctory. The security women at Inox curse their jobs when I pass them. One bovine male specimen at Oasis Centre was embarrassed when I thrust my handbag at his face for a check. “Illa medum, no problem, hogi,” he says. I encountered another of the species at the parking lot entrance of Garuda. This one was wearing a mithaee pink top with matching glitter lipstick, and had the air of a heroine waiting for her lover in a park. Three of my male friends walked in letting off loud beeps. Obviously she couldn’t hear them over her make-up. I questioned the reason for her employment and she questioned my values. “Oh you want me to check gents a?” she cooed. And with that my doubts of living in an unsafe city were put to rest.

I’ve had too many occasions to have a drink this month. Tavern. Noon Wines. People’s houses. Leisure journalists wanting my company for reviews. Farewells. And lots of just-like-that forums for drinking that are a part of my professional life. Being famous is a curse I tell you! Tsk tsk. Moving on…

With my wedding date fixed for late this year, I’ve enrolled at Fitness First, for fear of looking larger than my groom in my wedding photographs. I have also decided that my strategy will be not to sacrifice, but to compensate. Good food must be had. And a good gym must be visited. The last one year has been one of chronic gym-hopping and gym-skipping rather than actual working out. I have some really peculiar but valid reasons for being so motivated this time. One is of course my increasing girth that needs immediate containing. The trigger was a few pictures that were taken over last month. Bulges from all over challenged the popular perception of human form. It was painful. The other reason is the freebies at Fitness First. I have an endless supply of Diet Pepsi during my work out. And hot coffee after. I like walking across all sweaty and helping myself to something at the vending machine. It’s damn slick. The other reason is s p a c e. I think gymming is a very private thing even though you’re in the midst of people. I had an unnerving problem at my earlier gym – I couldn’t avoid eye contact with the person running next to me because there was a huge mirror against the wall. I look ugly while running, but I don’t fancy the triple-bellied triple chinned monstrosity hobbling in front of me with his eyes falling out of his sockets. At my new gym, no mirrors - and there are eight TV screens in front of you for you to fix your eyes on. I really value something as simple and intuitive as that. What else? Hair dryers! A lounge! Large locker rooms, which is a huge departure from the analogous at my earlier gym where I was busy avoiding body contact. But clearly the highlight is the steam room! It’s becoming a weekend routine for me to step in and cook for about fifteen minutes before slithering out like a happy momo!

Speaking of steaming, an adjunct routine to the gym is steamed food for lunch. There are few things more blissful than plain salted toordal pressure cooked. That, and boiled veggies - even thought I hopelessly give in to temptation sometimes.

I am a nervous flier. Now I’ve turned into a super-nervous auto passenger as well. Strangely my tolerance for auto rickshaw speeding and swerving has diminished post 26/11. Even more strange is my newly adopted tone when I want the driver to slow down. Far removed from a vixen I now sound like an old woman with a heart problem. “Speed aagi hogbedi pa!” I plead. Perhaps life has become far more valuable to me after the terrorist attacks, and this is one of the weird manifestations of my fear. Auto rides.

Another marked change in direction is my veering towards Bollywood. At least in my world, I think Bollywood has finally come of age. I was never a movie buff. But I find myself leering sidelong at it these days. Nothing is expected or formula based anymore – stories are breaking fresh ground each time, production values are totally slick, the styling is sexed up, the music is catchy, and movie marketing is buzzing like never before. I totally loved the Ghajini hijack on the day Rab ne… released. I dig Shahid’s dancing and can’t stand Hritik’s technically sound moves. Bollywood and dapangutu gets me on the dance floor where western music doesn’t. Bollywood makes me want to watch a movie, while Hollywood doesn’t even figure anywhere in my to-do list. I catch myself watching a lot of Bollywood music videos on MTV and Channel V. I can’t seem to relate to VH1 at all. The song I’m playing in my head right now is O Jaana from Raaz. Love it. I feel the need to keep myself updated on tinsel town news and gossip. I think it’s cool. The last flick I watched was Dostana. In my world, this situation was unthinkable five years ago.

Ok I’m bored now. Bye.

If politicians want media, let them earn it

2008-12-07T03:19:00.017+08:00

The Mumbai attack has incensed the blog-world, and practically every blog I’ve come across spews venom, voices opinion, cogitates, or vents frustration in an aching effort to make sense of all the chaos. Some have come up with ideas that make a lot of sense, like this one on Civil Obedience.

Me? I muck about in a bogful of phaff and gas, and it keeps me happy. But since the last post about my birthday – which sadly has now come to be associated with the Mumbai attacks – I’ve been starved of anything ticklish to write about. Like any other Indian citizen, my head has been seething, with confused thoughts and emotions. Now these atrocities are too significant for a flaky blogger like me to write meaningfully about. But I was terribly stuck (in a moment I couldn’t get out of). My blogging was choked, and I realized I just had to write something, anything, about it if I wanted to move on. So here’s a not so flaky effort, for what it is worth, at writing down a couple of things that crossed my mind and came up in some conversations with friends.

From now on I want two things to rule this country: the people, and the media, as a coalition.

Indian citizens have lost faith in the people who run the political system, and this is coupled with a sense of country-consciousness like we haven’t seen since 1947. Everyone is in zero tolerance mode, and there is a steely willingness to be part of the change. So far, this has shown up in knee jerk reactions, whether it is lighting candles, writing petitions, or uncensored lashing out against politicians. Some people see this as emotional, clumsy and ineffective – even misguided. But this is raw energy, and it can be the beginning of something long-term and strategic. It can be moulded into a response. The time and the mindset are ripe for change. The country-consciousness is just looking for someone or something to harness its collective raw power.

The media is this force. The media, as I have seen it in the wake of the attacks, has shown that it can bias itself towards or against anything – in a good and necessary way. Between the 26th and the 29th, I loved the way the media (particularly TV channels) completely sidelined politicians during the coverage of the attacks, and how it ripped the pants off those who tried to snatch a few bites of mileage. I loved the way it focused on those who really mattered – the victims, and those who tried to save them. Now there seems to be a bit of both – it is sometimes about people, and it sometimes panders to the meaningless voices of politicians.

I want the media to be biased towards citizens – citizens who want to be part of re-construction. I want more platforms like Lead India and Teach India to capture good citizenry without personal agendas. I want to open a newspaper every morning and read about the country, the people, and development. Not politicians. Not agendas and petty quarrels and comments. I want to be inspired by good news everyday that talks about some progress made somewhere, and good work done by country-conscious people. I want the media to continue to bind the raw energy of the people and help turn them into ideas and strategies. I want the power of the people to be palpable to those who warm their seats and launder money. I want them to start sweating.

And when it comes to reporting news, I want the media to report the situation. Not what the politician has to say about it. And if it must mention a politician, refer to him by his job title, not by his name. Maybe that would remind him of his job, and not himself.

“Maharashtra CM visits the Taj" as opposed to "Vilasrao Deshmukh visits the Taj" - as if it is his personal achievement.
"Vilasrao Deshmukh says terrorists came to Mumbai by boats." - as if he found out for himself. Such things need to be given a pass.
So does: “Sonia Gandhi condemns the Mumbai attacks.”

I really don't mind the flaky page-3 types shelling Jayanti Natarajan. Let JN be told to make a flower arrangement with the choicest words she picked up from the thesaurus. What I do mind is when I see this in a newspaper:
“Deve Gowda lashes out, 'You can’t run this country without politicians'".
“Narayan Rane expresses ire over not being appointed CM, and doubts Ashok Chavan’s capability”
Or this on TV: “Musharaff says Pakistan is innocent and is being blamed as always.”
What are their job profiles and what makes them worthy of a news item? Let the media become a very scarce and inaccessible commodity for such people. Let us be very harsh on meaningless actions of politicians. If politicians want media, let them earn it. Till they are in a position to earn some, let the people rule with the help of the media.

For now, I’m going to follow Civil Obedience. It's a great start, and I can do it without waiting for anything.

Birthdays - yesterday and today

2008-11-26T21:14:00.013+08:00

Birthdays had always been a mixed bag. For me at least, and not so long ago. On this day I expected a lot. I wanted to be the centre of everything. I wanted gifts. I wanted wishes pouring in. I expected lots of calls and text messages. I’ve always wanted to return home in the evening to find a bunch of friends scream, “Surpriiiiise!”

Now this is going to sound nutty, but I used to feel more pressure than elation on my birthday. Not counting my school years of course. That was when by default, either you distributed sweets to everyone at school, or your mom hosted a party for you and you got all the attention and gifts. Your birthday was announced at the assembly, your classmates sang for you, and you pretty much owned the day! Those were the protected years. Then I got into college where I had to work my way up towards making friends. I am a confirmed ambivert. I am a friendly person, but not necessarily popular in the zillion people on my friend-list sense of the term. So the birthday situation after I left school had always been very iffy – there was noone to really ensure it was special. To give me that “Surpriiiiiiseee!!!” People have always mattered a lot to me, and I believe that a good birthday is made up by the people around you. And while my birthdays after school were simple and pleasant, my expectation of something utterly out of the world remained the same. So the worry on my birthday could be attributed to mainly two things – a small closeted social circle, and high ambitions. Often my expectation has been met with disappointment. Don't get me wrong - of course my parents, my relatives and my close friends have made all the effort in their capacities to make my day special. And I have been happy. But I think I’m quite a tough-to-please person. I've always wanted that climax.

As if all this wasn’t bizarre enough, I had (and still have) further complicated my life. The other reason for the pressure: I believed that this was the day I got a sense of what my share of mind was. How important I was to people was directly proportionate to how many people remembered my birthday. I wanted lots of phone calls. Call it silly, but I hadn't (and still haven't) made my birthday public on my Orkut (and now, Facebook) profile. I have my reasons for this. I had once made the fatal error of asking “someone special” if he knew what was coming up in a couple of days. Obviously it was my birthday, and he should have known, especially since he had become “someone special” only a month earlier. To my utter agony, he wasn’t able to guess. And when I told him what it was, he said, “Oh yeah, I have a reminder set on my phone!” What? I didn't want some freaking machine to remember my birthday! I wanted PEOPLE to remember! Especially good friends! So even now when people wish me on Facebook, well, it’s okay - Facebook is a networking site, and I find it peripheral and distant. I don’t care for Facebook wishes as much as I do when good friends remember on their own. That’s when I know I’ve got share of mind. Good friends shouldn’t need a machine to tell them. That is why I don’t mention my birthday on Facebook. I want the truth. Just that sometimes I wasn't able to handle the truth :)

All these hang ups had led to a heightened sense of expectation and oversensitivity on this day. Last year on 26 November I was on a flight back from Bangkok, after an ad shoot. I was miserable.

Strangely enough I have been unusually serene this time. I got a really nice chikan work churidar set from my family, complete with a card – and that kind of made my day. My grand mum came home early in the morning and drizzled a lot of good cheer. My long distance fiancé made a cute power point presentation which didn’t work properly. A close work-pal of mine took the trouble of making a card and giving me a small gift. Aw, he shouldn’t have! :) I got cake on my face at the office cake-cutting. (I never thought that an office cake-cutting would make me so happy!) I got a few calls from friends. I got wishes from my relatives and my fiance's. I was in and out of meetings all day. Those who didn’t call didn’t matter so much this time. And now I’m off to my future in-laws’ place because I share my birthday with my fiancé’s mother.

This behaviour of mine today has left me intrigued. Was it the electric yellow churidar set (I love it by the way – someone said I look like I’m just out of a Yash Raj production) Have I been too busy? Am I growing old? Or growing up? Somehow I seem to have grown beyond all of this. Of course I’d have been much happier if the level of activity and excitement increased, but it was a great day. I am happy.
:D Ting!

PS - apologies for using the word "birthday" like I just learnt it yesterday :)

Women can, men can't

2008-11-23T12:16:00.016+08:00

"There are two things in the world I can never understand - the auto rickshaw driver and the woman. Both of them swerve without an indicator when you least expect it.”

Had my male colleague been comparing driving skills, I'd have bitten his head off. Fortunately for the poor child I knew he was drawing a likeness between the volatile ways of the latter’s mind and the former’s driving sense. Of course I knew it was a powerless submission to the mysterious ways of women. In his limited understanding of a very superior species, he was trying to secure male supremacy by making this sour and lowly comparison. I felt good about his clumsy scramble for power and flung a sneer at him. “What rubbish”, I said perfunctorily.

Being unpredictable is a quality worth holding on to when it comes to dealing with men, for males are predisposed to walk all over women. Do you know how to outsmart a charging bull? Just confuse him by dodging from side to side. Bulls are unidirectional creatures and simply can’t keep up with dodging. Men believe they are simple creatures whose minds are no more adroit than four stiff, clunky hooves, and that women are artful dodgers. So be it.

Before I continue, let me provide warm reassurance to men that they will not be given any cheat codes for their rescue here. This is just an attempt by another one of the dodging species to break a woman’s unpredictability down to its elements. Of course I have a personal bias as I write this, but I know a lot of women think like I do.

Unpredictability in a woman, according to men, can range from being fickle to pure conspiratorial. To set the record straight, women are not innately unpredictable any more than men are. There are no statistics to prove it. And all statistics are made up anyway. Unpredictability as a woman’s stereotype is completely constructed by men, because it is one of those things that – quite serendipitously – work unfavourably against the male species. The way I see it, men change their mind about things as much as women do – relationships, people, clothes, jobs. Men can be as mercenary, if they find a woman of influence or wealth. Men can be quick turncoats when they see anything more lucrative. Men can say something now and something else tomorrow. Men show enough signs of pms and menopause. And then you have auto-drivers and the call-centre cab drivers who are the exponents of the unexpected. And men are in constant denial of all this. Men!

In most cases, unpredictable men are like so because they want a short cut to their end. And their wants are few – success, sex, and social standing, because ever since they came into being, that is all that has ever been expected of them. A simplistic reasoning for a simplistic species. Historically they have been the providers and the foragers for the necessities of life, and they continue to be. Their “find” is their achievement.

Why are women unpredictable? Women’s roles and goals are constantly expanding, and they keep adding more and more into their kitty every now and then. They are an evolving species, constantly bending traditional role expectations. They ask for a lot more out of life as compared to men. They have created for themselves a wide range of roles and goals to choose from. And they know they’d still be respected for any choice they make. So there is an inherent freedom that comes with being a woman - the knowledge that she is not bound to any specific role like men. This shows up in the way she handles situations as well. With so many choices and a nebulous role expectation from her, there is a conflict in her mind as to how she should react and behave – silently sacrifice? Fight and ask for more? Slowly bring about a change? Be independent? Be lady-like? And at different points in time, she is likely to think different things. What is good and bad is more “grey” in the case of women as compared to the “black and white” expectations from a man. Women have a clear advantage.

I watched Dostana yesterday. Neha (Priyanka Chopra) is an assistant editor of a fashion magazine aching to be the chief editor. She is shattered when someone else bags the post. She goes home and cries. A lot of things happen, and she falls in love with the chief editor, and that’s because, “He knows I’m a successful woman but still treats me like a lady!” She can’t make up her mind whether wants to be seen as an equal or be babied around.

A woman can make any of the following choices if she wants to:

Homemaker, not a career woman.
Career woman, not a homemaker.

Sit in the US on a spouse visa.
Insist that the couple will settle where she is working because she loves her job.
Quit her job randomly.

Pursue spirituality, art, writing, theatre or any other nebulous career.

Slap a member of the opposite sex in public and get away with it.

Get angry with the spouse for not earning enough.

Get angry with the spouse for not complimenting her on her cooking.

Like being complimented on their looks.
Hate being judged on her physical features.

Frown when there is no chivalry.
Dislike chivalry and prefer to be seen as capable of handling herself.

Be sexually predatory.
Get emotionally attached to her prey.

Go ahead and have a baby.
Abort.

Be a ruthless corporate and a sensitive cry baby at the same time.

Demand that her husband helps at home even though she's at home and her husband works.

She can ask for anything and be completely justified in asking for it. Women can be mature but are still “work in progress”. They are like onions – closer to the core are years of being submissive, being the damsel in distress, listening to what the male has to say and not having much of a choice. The upper layers are the ones of independence, free spirit, and demanding more out of life and love. They are the challenger species who will push the boundaries of everything that is imposed on them. A lot of freedom comes with being a challenger, and that is what makes women more spontaneous and volatile. So they react differently to the same situation at different points of time, and without guilt. Just because they can. Men can't get away with it, because they have voluntarily decided they are simple creatures, and have not redefined themselves when it comes to role expectations.

The new masthead-courtesy Halfboy

2008-11-14T03:46:00.006+08:00

What a happy coincidence. It's 1.40am today and I am looking up getty images for glorious shots of cookies for my masthead, when I happen to check my blog roll to find this new entry by a friend of mine. My day is made, and so is my new masthead. In reciprocation, I strongly recommend following his blog, particularly the Halfboy sketch-series which I adore and eagerly wait for.

I'm joyfully obsessed with my blog. I tend to it everyday like it's a puppy that needs all my care and attention. This foodie name was a good idea because it helps my appetite for food rub off on writing! And today, along with the new masthead - courtesy Halfboy, a toast to my appetite for food and writing.

In a few hours I need to be awake for a pitch. And then a nice weekend follows. Promise myself to write more.

Look at me!

2008-11-13T12:24:00.003+08:00

Considering most of my readers at the moment are men, this just confirms the theory that men just don't notice when women have done something new with their hair.

You didn't say anything about the new stuff I've done with my blog!

Tell me what you think of it!!!!

And sisters, please visit me more often to start off with, let alone leave comments.

Yeah, so I'm waiting.

Don't call me babe!

2008-11-09T05:03:00.017+08:00

Do you want to really drive me up the wall? I will tell you how to. Just call me “sweedie” or “honey”, or “darling”. If you were at zero, here’s your reward of minus 1000 points. You could be Pierce Brosnan for all I care, but call me one of these things, and you will summarily be relegated to the bottom of my consideration list.

A term of endearment is a verbal cuddle and it gives me a lot of happiness when it comes from well-meaning people in the right contexts. But you have these species all around, who use these expressions like prostitutes, appropriating them to the most absurd contexts. Here are some of those unlikely contexts I have come across:

“Hello sweetness!” Someone forgot my name and was clumsy enough not to admit it.

“Sweetheart, try and get this…” Either I was slow on the uptake, or the person was really not making sense. In any case I was too timid to tell the difference. The use of sweetheart didn’t lubricate the communication, but it did make me feel small and foolish.

“Listen babes.” Someone (male) didn’t care who I was or what my name was. All women are babes, right? For some reason the famous Pamela Anderson line spilt out of my mouth – and he apologized.

“Thanks so much sweedy!” (Ooooh, I’m so friendly I’m going to call you reaalllyy soon when I need a favour).

“Honey, let me explain.” I was too naïve and foolish and someone was taking the trouble of explaining the harsh reality of life through their astigmatism.

“Sweety, please…” Someone thought I was talking bullshit and suddenly felt the urge to express their love.

“Honey, I will f*** your trip.” Someone wanted to consummate the love we had shared for so long.

And then there are others whose praana (life-breath) is affectionate terms. They can’t speak a sentence without using one. They think and even dream that way.

The point I’m trying to make is, notice how a term of endearment can be employed, in one way or the other, to make your victim feel really small and foolish. Nothing establishes your superiority and your victim’s perceived inferiority more effectively. Not even what you have to say. By calling the person cute, you have already overpowered him, and what you have to say is of little importance. Even when the situation is not hostile, in some way you trivialise him with this style of addressing and dismiss his intelligence. At least that's how I see it.

So you see why I hate being called “babe”.

Recently I discovered that in most contexts - appropriate or absurd - guys don’t particularly like being called sweet nothings. Big evil grin. It seems, the more sugary the name, the less manly they feel. I think we have a winner here. So girls, I suggest you please go ahead and experiment with cute animal names, obscure food items, odd sounds and everything else. When used artfully, apparently it works. And if used continuously overtime, your victim may actually internalise it.

Terms of endearment have no endearing qualities anymore. They are modern day psychological war weapons. The thing to do today to show affection towards someone is say, "You b*****d" or "You b***h!"

The clinic of love

2008-11-03T20:28:00.018+08:00

His qualification had me at hello.

Apples are for little girls. I want to be examined. Now.

I found this sprouted in the backyard of Koramangala. I don't mean to spoil it for you but I did a Google search, and it stands for Bachelor Of Unani Medicine and Surgery.

Ladies, behave!

2008-10-26T02:49:00.011+08:00

I love Thai food to a fault. Kah pun kha! So I was at the Oberoi Hotel yesterday for the Thai cookery demonstration by the Head Chef of Rim Naam (one of the best Thai restaurants in Bangalore). I’ve cooked Thai at home with moderate success. Everyone loves it, but my discomfort has been the absence of blue ginger and kaffir lime leaves which are the essence of Thai cooking, and the lemongrass I buy from Namdhari is often a broken reed. So my rendition has been far from authentic and it makes me feel I’m taking everyone including myself for a bit of a ride. While I didn’t expect to learn anything spectacularly new at the demonstration, the main reason I was there was to find out where in Bangalore I could get the elusive blue ginger, the shy kaffir lime leaf and some robust lemongrass.

But really why I’m writing this blog is not to share with you the secrets. I write this to try and put words to the behaviour I observed from the women who attended the show. To call it overzealous would be grossly unfair. This is really how women are when they aren’t playing mother, wife or daughter-in-law, and when they are in a large group of women like themselves.

The Thai cookery demonstration was part of the Times Bangalore Fest, and it was for free. But with the organizers at large, the “queue” outside Orchid hall looked dangerous. Women looked like they were standing in a water line behind a hand pump in a drought ridden land. Each one violently guarded her place, and those who tried to weasel their way to the front were sharply caught by darting eyes and verbally flung back to their places. The show had got postponed by two hours, and there was a lot of whining. Mahishasuramardhini was pms-ing big time, and her spirit took the form of about forty women – some unmarried, some mothers, some wives, some grandmums – who were annoyed enough to claw alive even an unwitting fly. Anyone from the Oberoi hospitality hovering around the area met the same fate. In a large group, the women felt invincible and were ready to abuse this sudden surge of collective power. It was hard to imagine they were here to hone a domestic skill.

“How can you make us wait for so long?”

“Can’t you give us chairs?”

“This is so inefficient. So badly organized!”

Finally a group of two men and a very poised woman from The Oberoi came in. The woman very politely announced that the chef was in, and that we’d have to stand in queue to enter our names at the registration desk once again. Famous last words. She was smothered alive. Handbags held firmly, pallus were tucked in, and with eyes ready to fall out of their sockets, curly red tongues tumbled out.

“Do you understand we have been waiting here for two hours?”

“Do you have any concern at all?”

“First of all you delay without informing us and now you want us to register again?”

“Just let us in, will you. This is absolutely senseless.”

“I’m arthritic and my legs are aching. Press them for me.”

Okay the press them for me was made up, but you get the idea. The poised-turned-shrivelled lady made some feeble attempts to tame them even as she tried hard to keep them from pushing open the door behind. The two men who had accompanied her wisely sank into the walls and furniture. They looked like idiots as they silently watched with their eyes and mouths open. I didn’t want to get involved in the brawl, so I decided to tease them. “How can you just stand here and let one person handle the crowd? Do something man!” They just smiled and nodded nervously. By now the front row had overpowered the poised, nay, shrivelled lady and tumbled into the Orchid hall. I slipped in too, at the next available opportunity.

The funny thing was we were just about forty of us, and the number of available seats was actually 100. So this confusion was completely unwarranted. So after a serious game of musical chairs for the front rows, we were all settled in our chairs. The raw energy took a different form here. I don’t know what happens to (some) women when they are in a large group of their likes. A fist-banging determination to hammer the most out of every instant, before it becomes a scarce commodity tomorrow. The head-chef came in, along with his accomplices. It was announced that we could ask questions right through the demonstration – please raise your hand, and wait for your turn was the request. A wave of eagerness swept through the crowd. My heart did a little skip as well. I was waiting for the secret to be revealed. Meanwhile someone had already bounded off up to the chefs' table and whispered her private hello, and engaged them in a little chit-chat. The first demonstration was Tom Kha Gai. At the sound of Sawadee kha, the place turned into a B-school classroom in its first week. Annoyingly overzealous class-participation. The chef, in all his Thai capacity, struggled to communicate, cook, and entertain the women leaping on him with questions all at the same time. Sensing his nervousness, his Indian accomplice took over handling the questions. I have never seen inquisitiveness take such a formidable shape. But the young man managed to tend to the curiosities of forty women with panache, while the head-chef continued to cook up a storm. Obviously this was too much for the ladies and they clambered on to the men like a bunch of convent school girls.

“Chef, can you please pass around the kaffir lime leaves so that we can taste?”
"Sure, ma'am"

“Chef, please show us your blue ginger and your pea aubergine!”
"Of course ma’am."

“Chef, what’s the calorie count of this dish?” (I am not kidding.)
"Ah. Not sure, ma’am."

“Won’t the coconut milk split if I squeeze lime on it?”
"No ma’am there’s a technique. I’ll show you."

“Chef! Is your coconut milk French?” (Not kidding!)
"No ma’am. It’s from Foodworld."

“Chef, won’t the vegetables lose their nutrients if they are boiled in water?”
(Yes they do lady, I think we learned that in Class 4, but you just wanted to ask, didn’t you?)

“Chef! Please pass around the Pok Choy. We want to see please!”
(Yes, and here’s a peeled onion as well – yes that’s what it looks like naked)

“Chef, which brand of Chicken powder to use?”
"Knorr"
Chorus: “Knoorrrrrr”.

“Chef, what’s the Thai brand of oyster sauce that you get nowhere in the world but Thailand?”
"Nam Prom Pree."
“Ahh I see.” Scribble. Scribble.

“Chef, isn’t this high in sodium?"
"Yes."
“So what to do?”
(I say you satiate your tastebuds by watching me eat)

It was the ladies' day out, and the open forum before them was almost unbearably liberating. They loved the obedience from the chefs. They loved it that every word they said was heard. They lapped up the responses and the attention. As a large group they felt invincible and super-energetic. The Q&A was intense and everything was stripped and discovered, hopefully leaving their brand of underwear to mystery. Hopefully. I don’t know. I couldn’t watch. And of course there was feverish sampling. It was a food crisis and Thai food was being rationed out.

I was there with a couple of female colleagues, and we happened to be sitting next to two men who were fairly knowledgeable about cooking. We were in splits the entire time. We picked on each question and privately ripped it apart amongst ourselves. After the demonstration was over, we made our way towards the snacks outside, while many of them starved just to fawn and get their last licks of the Rim Naam chefs.

Just as we were enjoying a moment’s peace, a woman strode up to the tea counter next to us. Obviously one knew it was the place where tea was being served because a placard said so.

But she simply had to ask the chap manning it: “What is this?”
“Tea, madam”
“Oh. How do you make it?”
“I’ll make it for you madam. Would you like some?”

If it ees going to be like this, then howww??

2008-10-23T20:43:00.013+08:00

I’ve spent 23 years in Bangalore and not once had I watched a Kannada play. I am a Kannadiga whose knowledge of her language extends woefully to “street Kannada”, and with it, I just about manage everyday conversation and haggling with auto-drivers. That’s about it. I don’t make much of all this, because I don’t think this lack of knowledge comes in the way of carrying on with practical life. I don’t consider myself a pseudo or a runaway, or a kall-Bramhin*, rather a harmony of Kannadiga, Brahmin, Indian and global flavours. I’m a bit of everything and not too much of anything. But my limited knowledge of Kannada led me to believe that I would find Kannada theatre incomprehensible. That I would never understand the idiom and metaphor.

Then I happened to watch Heegadare Hege (badly translated: if it ees going to be like this, then howww…?), which was staged as part of the Times Bangalore Fest. Basically "Heegadare hege" is a rhetoric that you express for the lack of a more potent response to or action against a situation or behaviour ranging from whacky to unreasonable. E.g., auto-driver demands Rs.150 to go from Rajajinagar 1st Cross to 5th Cross. You're overwhelmed, but your polite response: "Heegadare hege pa?" To which the auto driver lazily looks away and speeds off. The rhetoric does not have the fang to change anything or get you into trouble. It's just a relief. Instead of swallowing the nonsense life sometimes throws at you, you say, "Heegadare hege" as your retiring disapproval. I wonder if such an expression exists in any other language. It comes from knowledge and powerlessness. Trust Kannadigas to come up with a harmless repartee to a provocation. Anyway, back to the play. It was all unplanned. I had asked some friends at Times of India to get passes for the performances I was keen on watching (Heegadare Hege wasn’t part of this list). Along with the relevant passes which they had to wrest from the organizers, they handed me passes for Heegadare Hege. Apparently there were not many takers. The newspapers had said it was a humourous play about a middle class elderly couple. I didn’t expect to be mighty amused, but I went nonetheless. It was free, I had the time, and I knew there wouldn’t be a crowd.

There's something so charming about walking into an auditorium of unpretentious people. Uncles and aunties, ajjas and ajjis – it could have been the large hall of a nice Kannadiga home. Ajjis and aunties happily wore their printed silk sarees high up, to reveal un-pedicured feet and toe rings. They wore Jasmine in their hair, and talc on their necks – very customary when you go out. The men, all of them moustachioed, wore a stitched set of pantu-shirtu. Some dapper grandpas sported caps, safari suits and shoes, and proudly swung their walking sticks as if they were still in the forties. They didn’t smoke before the show or engage in intellectual piffle between themselves. They were here to have fun. I walked in and enjoyed the surplus of seats. I took the liberty of changing my seat a couple of times – just because I could. The air was light and fluffy with laughter and and simple talk. We were kept waiting for long before the play started, and old Dr.Rajkumar songs that crackled through the speakers gave the impatience something to hold on to. But, much to my amusement, these folk were quite the rowdies, and had a twinkling sense of humour. Someone took the lead, and to his count of three, a large bunch started clapping and giggling. The entire auditorium followed, till it faded away. After another considerable chunk of time was spent staring at a barren stage, the procedure was repeated. Someone shouted, “Heegadare hege ri?” and sent everyone into peals of laughter. So silly, but so ticklish!

When the play finally started, it made me realize how much I had been missing by not watching Kannada plays. It was a very loose plot – very P.G. Wodehouseish. I relished the nuttiness of the characters and their quirky perspectives on things. We laughed at the silliest things. It was about how life stands you up. You're chasing your dream with full vigour, and you think you're inches away from your golden moment, plump with anticipation. Suddenly your balloon bursts. In some sub-cultures this phenomenon is explained in one crisp acronym - k.l.p.d. This is when "Heegadare hege" slips out of your mouth. You bid goodbye to your dream - only to quickly find another one to chase. And when you've collected enough lemons to start a little shop, you realise that the little you have is worth a fortune. The performances of Lakshmi (as Sarasu) and Sundar (as Mylariah) left me spellbound. They were so charming and sprightly as a couple! Lakshmi played an over-enthusiastic woman who allows herself to get carried away with anything. But her enthusiasm leads her into whacky situations and embarrassing dissapointments. Sundar played five characters during the course of the play - each one coming in with a special brand of quirkiness to cause commotion in the life of zesty Sarasu! The most adorable part of the play was this: they both scurry away to separate rooms to prissy up for a press interview. They emerge from their rooms only to discover to their horror that they're both dressed alike - in their favourite "Sultan" and "Sultana" costumes - and cover their faces in a cute gesture of embarrassment. There was so much energy on stage, and the middle-class zest for life rushed on to the audience like a tidal wave. The ebb and tide of their lives tickled your feet. Music and clumsy dancing popped in very aptly like oggarne**. All this made up for my pathetic Kannada. Not for a moment did my mind wander away from the stage. Of course, unfortunately, I missed a lot of jokes where the Kannada was a little too intricate for me. But I have never sat alone in an auditorium and laughed so much.

At the end of the show, a timid young chap from the organizing team came on to the stage and mustered all his courage to fumble a thank you speech. You could tell he wasn’t Kannadiga. He sincerely thanked us for watching Haagadare heege, nay, Hegadare haage, oops, Heegadare haage***. Once again, raucous laughter. There couldn't have been a more appropriate ending to this giggly evening.

*Literally, thief-brahmin.
**Tadka, or a sizzling seasoning of sesame seeds, jeera, asafoetida, methi etc made to splutter in hot oil before they are abruptly flung into our dals and curries.
***Nevermind.

Recession kisses Snow White

2008-10-21T02:31:00.007+08:00

Who would have known!
The recession kissed Snow White awake.

Companies are cutting costs. They're being forced to call back things that they can do without - the Blackberries they had so ambitiously thrust upon some people, for instance. My very harassed friend now gets her life back :)

Hmm. But she doesn't get her company-paid foreign trip either. Evil twist to the fairy-tale.

I tell you, these channel guys are way too pampered for their own good.

Sparrow-person

2008-10-19T17:58:00.015+08:00

No bird-bath,
No grain,
Just a smattering knowledge of twitterese -
Not really a sparrow person.

This autumn tree has few visitors -
Guess they don't mind autumn colours!
They perch,
Drizzling honey-twitter over
Sugarless marmalade glow.
They make fun out of nothing at all!

They hop and twitter and flutter,
Never sitting still - restless -
Shucks, wonder if they’re being kept from
Something they’d rather be doing?

You know, winged little people
Don’t have roots,
And aren't made of wood.
So one by one they're off -
In a heart-breaking burst of feathers,
In search of mates, and new nests,
To new lands, and new lives,
And some would rather
Be with fellow sparrows.

They fly away leaving behind
A silent tree with
Its spread-eagle branches, waiting.
Sometimes they fly by and fling a "hello"
But they're on their way. "Brb".

That was the old lot.

Newer sparrows are busy checking out
Spring gardens and stuff.

Now silent branches and marmalade leaves wait
For good old honey-twitter.
But a heart that's eager for sparrows
Does not a sparrow person make.

Snow White and Blackberries

2008-10-16T03:17:00.011+08:00

I try and divide my life into protected compartments of absolute enjoyment, immersing myself in one beautiful thing at a time. And when I'm completely snug in one compartment, any interruption invites a growl.

At the other end of the spectrum are people who derive a great sense of achievement from a diluted hotch-potch life, where how much in a given time is more important than what. They call it multi-tasking. I think it's a cheap thrill. Order a Zafrani Pulav with Roghan Gosht to regale everyone during an important presentation that spills over into lunchtime. Once it arrives, wolf it down along with some statistics, arguments and some well-pickled ego, for that extra zing. Keep washing it down with Pepsi. Let the rice get cold and hard in the air-conditioned room as you abandon spoon, jaw and senses over some niggling minutiae in that presentation which is about to change the way the world ticks. Send the conference room into a spin by showing a never–before perspective on what rice and curry looks like inside your mouth. Spit some precious basmati out on the table along with some meaningless point that can't wait for later. Wah. What better way to attend an exquisite Indian meal and savour a fascinating presentation.

Given my strident hate for multi-tasking, you can well expect my mind to skip a fart at the thought of a Blackberry being thrust at me. Black. Berry. Tempting, but fatal. Don’t eat it, innocent Snow White! Currently, it is the senior management at my office that gets the privilege of having one each. I, for one, plan to act ridiculously junior and incompetent for as long as possible to dodge away from this black mole. I don't want to multi-task in my personal life. But then…when the mobile phone first came in and stole our hearts, we unwittingly raised it to a status symbol. Alas. Now it dines with us, goes to the loo with us, caresses our most intimate parts while riding in our pockets and crassly ruins our most beautiful moments. Worse, it has developed a spawning mechanism. The incumbent starts acting up after a couple of years, forcing us to spend vulgarly on acquiring a more evolved, more lethal specimen of its species. A willful and mutual sacrifice of private spaces takes place along with the exchange of mobile phone numbers, particularly among business seekers and business givers in India. As if they were exchanging a handshake or a hug. It is unthinkable to function otherwise. While the younger lot have made a virtue out of this social evil by constantly upgrading their phones, there are a few oldies and rebels who try clinging on to the old good old landline, till they are held by their collars and brought around. The Blackberry is following the same track. It tried to convince us that we never had to go to office ever again. It looked beautiful and seductive. Like the witch’s chocolate house that tempted Hansel and Gretel. Of course we knew it wanted to fatten us with opportunity and take our personal lives away. But we wanted it. We numbed ourselves and traded our lives. I have come to hate words like 24x7, multi-tasking, work-life balance and flexi-time. Some people consider it a talent to do too much in too little time. My worry is that I’ll be just like those oldies and rebels a few years from now, frantically trying to hide behind the pallu of my slow-paced, quality time, only to be whipped and tamed into getting a Blackberry.

One of my very good friends recently had the vicious berry thrust upon her. Young – about my age, and fresh and spirited, just like me. She has lost her weekends and her love for the work she does. Multi-tasking! An acquaintance shared this dreadful piece of trivia about himself: he cannot go on a holiday without taking his mobile / Blackberry and his laptop with him. He tells me – and I don’t know if it is pride or disdain – that he can even hear his Blackberry vibrate in his sleep, and he attends to it. He's on call 24x7 you see! People have lost it. Some perpetually think their mobile is ringing. When I misplace something, my first instinct is to give it a missed call.

So as I wait for my fateful berry-day to slowly arrive, let me take pleasure in the remaining neat slices of life that I have attempted to cut out carefully for myself:

A hot lingering shower.
A cup of hot uninterrupted coffee.
A movie and a laugh with family.
Being completely in love.
A gossip session with friends.
A silly game with my dog.
Daydreaming.
Spending time with my grand mums.
A leisurely brunch.

While they last.

Khajuraho, Holi and other conundrums

2008-10-09T22:03:00.032+08:00

The most sought after guy in class gets the most number of Rakhis. How warped!

Back in school, Rakshabandhan was a big deal even though we were all mostly South Indian kids. To the best of my knowledge, Rakhi is a very North Indian concept, not celebrated with much fervour here. This was, however, cleverly twisted to assist some specific motives. The Rakhi fad started when we reached the higher classes (Class 6, I believe). Tying a Rakhi was the most intimate, yet tolerable exchange you could have with the opposite sex at that age. It sent off a clear signal: “I like you. I will not say it explicitly, but I hope you get the hint!” Many girls used it as a means to get a foot in the door, to ease their way into the radar of their crush. Hence, on this day, your biggest crush had the supreme honour of becoming your Rakhi brother. And he revelled in this recognition. Of course, by the time we were in Class 10, our hinting mechanisms evolved and became more complex. Rakhi lost its relevance as a love-beeper, and assumed a role similar to that of garlic used to ward off vampires. It became a boy's worst fear because it was a clear indication that a girl wasn't interested in him.

India is a culture where so many things we say or do are veiled and dependent on collective understanding, much like a private joke between close friends. A single thought or action can be perceived in different ways depending on the context in which it is put. You will see how as you read on. We Indians happily hide our true motives by quickly seizing an acceptable context to fit them into.

Nudity and sex are abhorred, but how come the Khajuraho Temples have slithered free of the moral police? Because they are temples!

In college, many so-called renegades (I'm talking about guys here) get their heads shaved, ears pierced, and grow their hair long. This isn’t allowed on most campuses, but they give excuses like, “Sir, I have kept a vrath”. This immediately touches a responsive chord, and he is let off.

So if something is not acceptable to society, just give it another name - God, religion or tradition. When you need a bahana, employ one of these three charms - this is India, after all!

Indian festivals have come to be associated with indulgence - in new clothes, rich food, splurging of money, playing cards, dancing, animal sacrifices and alcohol. Curiously, religion tells you to steer away from desire, indulgence and anything material. But it’s all good when you do it in the name of God.

In South India, it is hard not to notice the sexual vein in Holi celebrations. It involves touching, water and slipperiness, and bhang! An open forum for boys and girls to send out veiled hints through some serious non-verbal communication. All set in the context of tradition and celebration!

So nothing is inherently bad. Just give it a holy context and watch perceptions swing. I have a couple of ideas for Valentine's Day celebrations. Bajrang Dal would perhaps vociferously advocate Valentine’s Day if it were a day when we worshipped Parvati, the Hindu Goddess of Love. We could make it a celebration of how Parvati won Shiva’s affection, braving all kinds of perils, even before she was married to him. Refer to this story : http://www.goddessgift.com/goddess-myths/hindu-goddess-parvati.htm. It would be a day when every unmarried girl over 16 years dutifully went out with someone she had a love interest in. And if she didn't have someone in mind - oh horror! So over the years, arranged marriages would be a social stigma. How can you start such a momentous relationship in the absence of spontaneous love!? A disrespect to Parvati! Cheh, what a wanton girl! Now here's the other idea: Meera’s love for Krishna was sanctioned even though they were not married - because it was devotional love. So Valentine's Day could be celebrated in memory of Saint Meera, as Krishna-Prem Divas. No one would lay a finger on you as you sat in the park, your very own Krishna caressing your cheek with a peacock feather, as both of you took turns playing the flute - and spontaneously burst into a dance to Mhara Saavra Giridhari amongst the trees. What fun!

Something tells me I am going to get clobbered for writing all this. Either by people or by God.

To Mangesha C. from Sultanpalya - KA 01 C 7732

2008-10-08T03:41:00.014+08:00

For charging one-and-hoff, over a tampered meter.
For retching and spitting all along the way.
For taking at least ten years off my life expectancy with your pathetic driving.
For playing sleazy music.
For refusing to go anywhere.
For the hearts, lips and suggestive messages you sex up your vehicle with.
For that special rear-view mirror you use to leer at any moving traffic in your backseat.
For writing idiotic messages on the back of the hood.
For taking unsuspecting tourists for a ride and giving them the wrong impression about Indians.

I refuse to spend any more time and blog space on a species of cockroach that will be annihilated along with their sissy looking vehicles once the Bangalore Metro is up and running.

Happy Ayudha Pooja, and much love.

An instant bearhug for coffee

2008-10-07T04:11:00.013+08:00

My pet, my red Nescafe mug, waits silently for me everyday on the kitchen shelf. I never keep up time, sometimes arriving early, and more often shamelessly late. But he’s always ready, and not a whimper. I pick him up and we sit down to spend fifteen peaceful moments of togetherness in the bustle of the morning hours. Mornings are meant to be enjoyed slowly and deliciously. We both know that.

Today, I went to the kitchen shelf expectantly, only to find my baby missing! A horrifying thought struck me and I looked into the dustbin to find him abruptly thrown along with egg shells and onion peels and other kitchen waste. Some heartless person I’m sure. He was fatally wounded. I would have at least wanted him to die in my arms.

My heart sank. The one who woke me up every morning had drifted off into permanent sleep.

Now my South Indian brothers and sisters might recoil at the following confession, particularly the rigid advocates of filter coffee. I have gone against our tradition and embraced instant coffee. I used to ask my mother to prepare the decoction for Sundays, so I could enjoy a nice post-meal coffee. But often she would forget to do the hot water-filter-coffee ritual the previous night. And that's what led me to this captivating discovery. I’ve developed a possessive affection for Nescafe Classic. It is so much quicker, lazier and curiously, yummier. Probably because, unlike filter coffee, there is no water to weaken the rich confluence of milk and coffee here. I generally buy the 50g bottle, because he's just so right for me. He looks well groomed and well mannered, with neat rounded corners, dressed in a dapper brown wrap and a fitting brown cap. A very proper label says 100 percent pure coffee. I love the way the grains uniformly pack themselves in the bottle. I can't wait to ruffle up this impeccable order - to take off the cap, tear open a bit of the foil and catch a long whiff of the burst of robust aroma. And of course make some brown blissfulness. God that sounded like Nigella Lawson.

Bru doesn’t do it for me. Everything’s wrong with Bru. The presence of chicory, to start off with. Worse, the absence of wholesome grains of coffee. Nescafe Classic is such natural beauty! Bru is a fine unappealing dust that makes me think of an old woman with jet black hair dye. Bru comes in horrendous green packets and low-priced sachets, which only bring down its value and desirability even further. Now look at the kind of people who drink Nescafe Classic: an inspired lot with fresh creative ideas, like photographers, painters, RJs and free spirits. The ads of Bru that I remember depict a smart young housewife pleasing her mother in law or her husband (I know there's Bru Cappuccino – but let’s not even get into that venomous territory. I think coffee has been made young in a thousand ways that are more appealing than Bru Cappuccino). Nescafe on the other hand is about spontaneity and soul. And you know something else? I love the way they hold their Nescafe mugs so protectively, and so indulgently – close to their heart, or with both hands – like it’s a part of them!

I’ve noted, with a mixture of disdain and envy, the way my elders sip coffee noisily, unmindful of the mental torture they are putting me through. In many ways I feel it is the ritualistic and appropriate way coffee must be savoured - leaving the clamouring world behind you. But some frivolous values and meaningless manners have become a part of my mental make up and they hold me back from doing so.

I just remembered I need a refill. My mom tells me there are too many empty Nescafe bottles at home and she's run of of spices and masalas to put into them. But please can I pick up another bottle? I want to skip to the supermarket and feast my eyes on an entire cluster of them cutely and compactly arranged on the shelf, the bigger boys at the back, the smaller ones in the middle, and the teeny babies in the front row. All dressed in neat brown wraps and caps. I want to pick up one baby and take him home, place him on the kitchen shelf and tend him every morning. I want to go to sleep thinking about breaking the foil and slipping a spoon into those glorious brown grains to make that wonderful morning cuppa! Maybe this time I'll pick up a larger baby, so I can get a new red mug free with him!

Beauty in darkness

2008-10-05T23:12:00.013+08:00

Everything was beautiful and grey. A happy yellow board with big irregular fonts waved out, almost jumping when it saw us. Some contrasts are delectable: a steaming cup of bittersweet coffee on a nippy morning, curd rice and pickle, crisp papad and mushy rasam-rice. I instinctively liked this this yellow board on a grey day. Mamma and I walked in and were asked to take off our footwear. Shucks, we thought. A light drizzle tickled me as I tiptoed over wet soil towards the little shacks. Gosh I can't remember the last time my finicky feet touched wet earth! They were hesitant at first. Then I decided to place them flat on the ground and drag them a little so I could get as much sensation as possible. A bespectacled, bearded head popped out of one of the shacks to welcome us, and obliged us to stay for an hour. We explained we just wanted to spend 15 minutes looking around. But the face told us we wouldn't understand unless we sat through the entire thing. Mobile phones off please. Huh, why? With an air of finality, its kurta clad hand indicated the shack we were supposed to get into. We weren't exactly prepared for this.

We pushed the door open, and it was fully dark inside, except for a glow from the far end. A dark figure of a woman sitting by the glow politely told us to be seated. I stumbled over a wet umbrella as I groped for a place on the cane mat. It was an intimate audience of elders and very young kids. Mamma and I were still indifferent, and our pupils were still trying get a grip on the small dark space we had been inducted into. The woman asked us if we were comfortable with Kannada and we said we were. Slowly as I thawed, I became aware of what everyone was staring at. It was an arrangement of dolls and miniature sets in a stunning recreation of a scene from Indian mythology. Thanks to my scanty knowledge on the subject I couldn't tell which one, and the only person I could recognise in the scene was Lord Krishna. The dark figure lovingly rolled a torch light over her creation explaining the breathtaking detail. There was a beautiful rustic-styled house in the middle of a forest with a Banyan tree and a Parijata Tree (Lord Krishna's favourite) outside. The inside was done up with rich silken cushions, ornate arches and pillars, sheer golden curtains and bejewelled curios. In this grandeur was a resplendent Krishna on bended knee, a Bramhan with his feet in a large bowl of water, and a radiant woman decked up in finery. Outside, there were elephants and peacocks in the garden. There was a bird bath too, and a young boy with a basket of pineapples at the doorway. She loved dishing out the nuances she had included in the depiction, obviously the result of knowledge and research. There was the silk pitambara - Krishna's favourite costume; the makara kundalas on his ears; Krishna's hamsa tulika thalapam on which the bramhan was gingerly seated; the miniature jewellery adorning the characters - Krishna loved dressing up apparently; and the gorgeous saree draped to perfection. In the darkness, with little lights in the set illuminating it, the scene looked divine.

Once she was done with the guided tour, she started with the story: Krishna and Sudama. It was a story about friendship and unending devotion. I had read the story in my school textbook and answered questions about it in an exam. But this was something else. The narrator held me with the the dancing of her eyes, the arch of her eyebrows, the curl of her lips and the inflection in her voice. The glow of her creation by her side cast stark shadows on her face as she looked intently at everyone: you just had to listen and imagine. I could see she was wearing antique jewellery which so quietly and elegantly complemented the setting. She sang the parts that were meant to be sung, and she did a bilingual narration switching between Kannada and English. Her Kannada had a strong Tamilian undertone, and she sometimes halted searching for words. And it all added up to a mind blowing experience.

When she was done, I had to show my appreciation. She had taken three months to make this, carefully carving out divine countenances from wood. She had crafted each rich detail eagerly with her own bare hands. But I was in a hurry, and I forgot to suggest that she could heighten this experience even further using incense and the music of the flute playing softly. Mamma and I quickly snapped back into reality. We left wonderful comments in the visitors book and dotted our foreheads with the kumkum offered to us on our way out and looked for an auto.

The Krishna-Sudama shows are on till 9th Oct for Navratri, and apparently they have another one about Adi Shankracharya in a similar style. It's happening at Bimba The Art Hut in Basavanagudi. I haven't really investigated but I hear they have activities like this every Sunday.

Growing up with Star TV (R/A)

2008-10-05T04:32:00.018+08:00

It happened in the nineties. It descended upon me with precision, just when I was going through my curious age. Star TV was launched in India, uncensored, landing amidst us like a meteor. For the first time, the sleaze of the west was slathered all over us in our own living rooms. Routine activities like talking, chewing and breathing were interrupted by salivary exchanges on The Bold and the Beautiful, bikinis barely containing their contents on Baywatch, garlands of expletives and uncut movies, and music videos that could be well watched on mute. Families helplessly surrendered to all of this under the watchful eyes of the Gods and the dear departed that adorned their walls. If flies were intelligent enough to understand the effects of Star TV, they would have stopped being such nervous foragers and buzzed carefree in and out of our slack jaws for half-chewed food.

Of course we loved this exciting new flavour, but how could we admit it with a clean conscience! We all remember squirming and making timely excuses to leave the room once we learnt the patterns of love scenes. Suddenly, Indians were gawky teenagers. And Star TV was this bold, attractive, over-liberated Caucasian woman eagerly thrusting her voluptuousness against our quivering brown bodies. Everyone went weak in their knees. People were intimidated, attracted, curious, awestruck and disapproving all at the same time. She was just too much to handle. The easiest thing to do was label her a bad influence. But that year, something changed forever. Star TV had shaken us up and caused a hernia in our minds. We realized that we all wanted a piece of Star TV. And since we’d never openly accept it, everyone found their furtive means of enjoying it. Mine was on weekend afternoons when everyone was asleep. That year, families stopped watching television together. Teenagers began to have a private life. They wanted their own space. And parents resented it.

To me, it was a sudden gush of smut in my life, and I was enjoying it like a nice hot shower. It was pretty much the same time I stumbled upon an odd Debonair stashed away in some cupboard, which I cheaply showed off to a friend, and spoke about to classmates. A good thing must be spread. I pored over agony aunt columns in Femina and Women’s Era - Home Truths, by Pearl Padamsee and My Body by Dr Kothari, renowned sexologist – and made concerted efforts to put the pieces of the puzzle of sexual procedure and anatomy together. Of course, many hours were spent watching Star TV at my grand mother’s place. We didn’t have cable fixed in our house yet. In compensation for this, I spent time combing all the adult novels available for steamy passages. Still the complete picture remained elusive for a long time. Many authors have described the same thing differently: Paulo Coelho* says that when you want something really bad, the universe conspires to help you get it. Esther and Jerry Hicks* say that your mind is like a magnet, and you get what you think. Solving this jigsaw became an obsession with me, and my universe fed me with enough fodder to keep this obsession raging, as I plodded through any matter I could get on the subject.

One day, after many months of going through anxiousness from the lack of information, I decided to reward myself by writing a short porn story. I was eleven then, and I didn’t know the word “sex”. Instead I awkwardly used “loving”, amongst other half-baked references. But I provided startling detail for an eleven year old porn writer with limited knowledge and vocabulary about sex. I must have been interrupted in between my writing, because later that evening, my mother found the half-finished story in some bag. Of course I denied everything. But I couldn’t escape a mother’s intuition. Soon everyone in my family knew. I was ashamed. Star TV was blamed. I knew I had to be careful next time.

* I have never read Paulo Coelho. This is just GK. Esther and Jerry Hicks, well at least I'm in the process of reading their Law of Attraction

Childhood

2008-10-04T15:17:00.018+08:00

Looking back at childhood always makes you smile because, well, it just does. I think my childhood was a lot more beautiful than what most kids can hope of getting today. Nothing special about it: it is just the way I see it. I wonder if my nieces and nephews quarter and half my age can look back on such ordinariness and smile.

We were a nice, innocent bunch. Our minds were as clean as a water-sprinkled portico in the morning. Our mouths were stuffed with the sweetness of burfees and chakklis made lovingly by our grandmothers. The ears were were filled with devotional or classical music every morning. Our hands sank into wonderful things such as soil, gulab jamoon dough and the softness of puppies and kittens. The eyes were not as lustful and searching. Just subjected to the odd prolonged focus on a woman's waist on Chitrahaar or Chitramanjari, or a man resting on a woman's heaving bosom in the weekend movie.

Evenings were when we played hopscotch, hide-n-seek or football with neighbouring kids. Adults enjoyed their tea, thindi and gossip. Aunts and uncles came visiting. Men settled down for an evening drink. Heated discussions ensued, till their wives gently intervened and suggested dinner. Weekends were spent screaming on the giant wheel at the local consumer fair, or enjoying a meal at a Chinese restaurant, or at Bannerghatta National Park. Sometimes, when adults were enthused enough, a picnic was planned. Where? Nandi Hills: a prospect which made us kids jump out of our skins with joy*. Lemon rice, sandwiches and idli-chutney were packed carefully in tall steel multi-storeyed dabbas, and lemonade in bottles. For mammas it was an occasion to wear their thick monstrous goggles. The dress code was salwar kameez and sneakers, but some mammas were stylish and wore a pant. Everyone powdered themselves till they looked ashen, because they wanted to stay fresh all day. Oh, and they never forgot loads of water in mammoth thermos flasks, kept for chilling the previous night. When there was a large group, the Omni or the Gypsy was the best bet. It was all well planned. And off we drove. There was singing, joke-telling, and card-playing. Pictures were taken against backdrops of flora, fauna and waterbodies. Pure delight. Sometimes we had visitors from Mumbai or from the US. On such occasions, the choice was a fancy Chinese or North Indian restaurant, or a pub, depending on the people involved. Pubs were family-oriented then. Fathers amused us by offering a sip or two of beer, while mothers clicked their tongues in disapproval. We had "family friends" with whom we planned trips to Ooty for the hills, Pondicherry or Goa for the beach, or Tirupati when we thought it was time to balance all the fun we'd indulged in.

Life was good and almost prescriptive. Yes, the south Bangalore childhood in the eighties was fresh and absolutely charming as a Jasmine bud.

*Actually I haven't ever been to Nandi Hills! Its like a social stigma I face when I reveal this to Bangaloreans. I have, however, been to other picnics.

They bombed my blog!

2008-10-01T20:17:00.012+08:00

How rude!
I thought I had taken to it like a fish to water. And suddenly I've got this cramp. I love the way assorted cookies is shaping up, and writing in it gives me great pleasure. It's totally me. My worry is my other child: making a noise. People (the few who have taken the trouble to spend a few minutes on it) say it is too laboured and academic! I wanted to use it as a place to make quick notes on ideas and observations, and of course I wanted all the approval and praise in the form of glowing comments. I thought cookies was "flaky" me, and noise was "sensible" me. I thought cookies was all heart and soul, and noise was my very own intellectual semen. I sincerely felt that "making a noise" was something I ought to do in my new role as planner. I had all these dreams, and now people have gone and spoiled them! I thought this was MY SPACE and suddenly I have all these opinions looming over my head. Of course, I hammered it out of my readers. And after much hammering I found that my currently very close(d) circle of readers does not want to spend time on my noise. Oh horror! They don't want to spend time with my ideas! That's the worst thing that can happen if you're in JWT: people not wanting to spend time with your ideas.

Whine.
Okay, so...

I don't want to sound academic, but yes I want people to take me seriously. Cool - that's a start.
I have some ideas, and I like writing. But maybe I'm just getting too caught up with "writing" instead of sharing. Ideas need to be shared, not written. Ok, I will learn to share. Cool. Next.
Aaarghh! But I want to write! Kya karein! Control nahin hota! I want to indulge in it! Hmm...but maybe I'm becoming too self absorbed in my noise, like Sanjay Leela Bhansali's movies. The notes are unnecessarily wordy and long - I need to be brief. Ok, what else?
Some blogs are like a bag of potato chips. One you start, you can't stop. They're great while it lasts, but nothing lingers with the reader. I want my entries to linger with the reader! (and that's just an aspiration - I will not make an obscene effort to achieve it)
So then there's the other question: am I writing to make a difference to other's lives? No. Should I write for myself? Yes.

From all the ranting above I think I did make some points after all.

Personally I think this piece is absolute trash. But you know, this is the stuff that sells. All my readers will come and laud me for such a brilliant bag of potato chips and leave wonderful comments on it. Plebians! Rakhi Sawant lap-upers! (Please leave nice comments ok!)

Hmm...so like, maybe...should I position my blog or something?

Sigh. How needy!

Curling up with perfection

2008-09-22T22:33:00.008+08:00

Call it kismet.
Perfection came off
Into my life,
Wearing a cloak of mischief.
I can’t be like perfection:
I can only learn a few things.
And never keep up
Because perfection is
Forever perfecting itself
In leaps and bounds.
I can only find fault,
From my own inability to take in
Such perfection.
And only wonder,
What happens after perfection
Is perfected?
As perfection widens and deepens itself?
And I can only curl up next to it,
And cover myself with the cloak of mischief
And awe myself to sleep everyday
What a kismet!

What I need on a day like this

2008-09-22T13:36:00.007+08:00

Grr.
Go away, 'coz I'm busy staring
Into my toy viewfinder of unwanted images.
I have a water balloon waiting
For those who come
With their normative, rectifying hats -
That cover their ears,
And wearing their yellow dresses.
I'll wet their yellow dresses.
There are other colours too!
But wait. What's in your satchel?
Hmm. Let's see.
A puke bag, some home made chocolate,
A warm hug, and some hot soup.
Nice. You know me so well!
Slurp. I know I deserve it :).
I feel great.
Hugggg. Thank you!
Sighhhh! :)

My respect to Mr Mohan Chand Sharma

2008-09-20T20:09:00.006+08:00

Father, husband, son, and India's ace encounter specialist who devoted the better part of his life to fighting terror mongers. And he died as he lived. Sounds like a Nana Patekar film.

About ten years ago, a news item like this might not have stirred such emotions in me. Rinni Khanna or Geetanjali Aiyer would have probably spent two or three dispassionate moments on it. This death does not affect my daily life. But today, the loss was palpable. I was his wife, his child; why, for a few moments I was him in the middle of an encounter; and I was a citizen of India.

Five police medals, two president's medals for his gallantry (yes, I will use the lower case for president). His boss says that the Indian police force has lost its best man. Journalists speak fondly, of how over cups of coffee he would educate them about the terror network in India. They wistfully recall the last cuppa he had promised them upon his return, as he rushed out without a bullet proof vest to the hideout of the Delhi bombers. A journalist almost chokes in a poignant realisation that it was a promise he couldn't keep. I watch a tragically lifeless body that throbbed warmly with the blood of audacity just yesterday, being taken through Delhi streets. An emotionally charged crowd of ever grateful citizens follows. Miscellaneous politicians grab a piece of attention as they make their important presences felt at the funeral.

What a way to exit the world. Mr Mohan Chand Sharma, I salute you. I salute you. I salute you.

Delicious music

2008-09-20T01:04:00.007+08:00

I feel ecstatic when I listen to Buena Vista Social Club. I play it when I'm completely at peace, just to get a greater kick out of the mood I am in. Sometimes I play it when I'm in office, and I guess it has a similar effect on other people as well. Today, for the umpteenth time a curious colleague wanted to know what I was playing and asked me if she could have the music as well. As always, I told her I would send it. And as always, I didn't.

Because Buena Vista is like the most precious chocolate that's just too good to share. Nevah!! No I won't share it with you. Get your own bar!

Pic of the flower on the road

2008-09-18T19:25:00.007+08:00

Indian Cork Tree flower: my most adorable flower in the world

The flower on the road

2008-09-18T18:48:00.016+08:00

It is the most beautiful boulevard in Bangalore and it doesn’t have a name. They didn’t find a local MLA, freedom fighter, engineer or institution, or any random initials worthy of naming it after. Thank god for that. Some things are best left untitled. Like a breathtaking piece of art. A beautiful relationship. A new born baby. The moment it is named it just reveals itself and becomes “explained”, leaving no space for someone to experience it the way he wants to. We call it variously as Nanda Road, Garden Road, Beautiful Road, 3rd Main and “After South End”. Now this road is an arterial road in Jayanagar. Imagine branding it as Ambedkar Road, L. Ramamurthy Road or D.G Road, just to make it easier for everyone. Think of the extent of oral abuse it would have to bear, leaving it stripped of its ability to create any sense of anticipation in the person who drives or walks down it.

Thank heavens.

X X X X X

I think the name, if it ever came to it, would have to be nature-related. Like Sampige Road and Margosa Road in Malleshwaram. My suggestion is Biraata Mara Road.

Biraata Mara or the Indian Cork Tree bears the most delicate-looking, and delightfully fragrant flowers my senses have ever met, and they are (obviously) my most loved. The trees by themselves are not very distinct, and many of them grow on Nanda Road and its bylanes all over Jayanagar 5th Block. But during the flowering season, which is September through December, you simply cannot miss them. You don’t look up to find them. You need to look at the footpath, and you’ll find plenty of these little treasures all strewn about. They grow in clumps on the tree, looking like a troupe of bright-faced ballet dancers in white stockings and frocks, all frozen in a dramatic formation. And one by one, they flit and dart away from the group and playfully scatter themselves on the ground. If you’re lucky, you just might catch a whiff of their simply adorable perfume as you’re whizzing past.

I don’t know why they don’t make garlands out of them, or use them for aroma therapy or as prayer flowers. I mean, unlike other flowers which we force out of plants and trees, these angels were created for easy Nirvana. I can’t find another instance of such perfection having the humility to so willfully shower itself on us! I want to stand under a spell of perfection and humility.

The happiest weekend

2008-09-18T00:16:00.007+08:00

Saturday.
Wake up and feel incredibly happy that it's a Saturday. Switch on Travel and Living, and settle down on the sofa to have a sumptuous breakfast consisting of anything with a lot garlic and butter. Share this meal with my doggie by dropping a few scraps once in a while and feel good that he’s enjoying it too. Wrap it up with a nice hot mug of Nescafe Classic coffee with my doggie nestling in the nook of my leg while watching Anthony Bourdain. By now, I am completely buzzing with relaxation. Continue in this position till about 11.30, and then brush my teeth, belatedly. Have a long, hot bath. Chat with my fiancé online. Snooze for a while in the afternoon. Go for a walk around the locality with my iPod, with Buena Vista Social Club playing. Soak in the breeze, the trees, meet some of the doggies going out for a walk and find out more about their lives from their walkers. Pick up a few Kaatu Malli (Indian Cork Tree flowers – they are my favourite, and there are lots near where I live. Must write about them sometime) and inhale deeeeeeply as I walk along. Head towards Namdhari and spend a lot of time there looking for ingredients I need for the exotic menu I've planned for tomorrow. Get a call from my best friends to meet up. Meet up somewhere close to home and spend hours chatting and laughing about the same old things till our stomachs hurt. Come back home and spend some time chatting with my mum (who will invariably want to talk about my wedding function which is many months away). Spend some more time on the net with this and that. Go to sleep, happy about a day well spent.

Sunday.
Wake up late, and spend the entire day fussing about the exotic menu I'm making. Pig out, and watch my family enjoying what I've made. Spend the rest of the day thinking, “What a good girl am I.”

What's your brand of weekend?

2008-09-17T23:18:00.011+08:00

When I first started working, I was often faced with a question that I thought would either limit or enhance my career depending on my answer. At least that’s what it seemed to me at that point of time.

A senior vulture* hovering about suddenly swoops down on my cubicle and shakes me up with a bumptious baritone, demanding:
“So miss, what did you do over the weekend?”

So unwarranted! He is way too loud and lofty to be actually interested in your life outside work; he is challenging you; you better have had an awesome weekend; my colleagues are well-known iconic weekenders who always have a lot of experiences to cackle about.

“Umm…nothing much, I chilled out!”
“Arre come on! People your age should be out partying like crazy!”
Sheepish smile. (Sorry for not meeting your expectations with my weekend.)
And a mild momentary paranoia creeps in. Am I too boring to be in advertising? Will I ever be seen as a person with exciting ideas?

I began to feel some amount of pressure to have an awesome weekend. Of course I've been here for long enough and such questions don't threaten me anymore :) but here's the point:

Calvin says it's not a weekend unless you do absolutely nothing. I couldn’t agree more. I’m very contented not having a happening weekend.

* I don't have any one particular vulture in mind when I say this. I remember being asked this question quite a few times by quite a few significant people. And it used to make me jittery.

Explanation of "A Joke"

2008-09-17T15:02:00.001+08:00

I don't think too many people got it. It's about a joke called life. The tubelights that we are, we get the joke only much later in life when the moment has gone past us. So we look back and laugh about the situations we were in, the way we behaved and how we were affected by them.

Wish we could see it that way in the present, right now. Like watching a sitcom!

Funda zyada ho gaya na?
See I had put it in a nice way for you and you didn't get it!!

A joke

2008-09-16T13:51:00.001+08:00

Life: Knock, knock!

A: Who's there?

Life: Life!

A: Erm...I didn't get the joke

Life: It's like this ....ajkfhldjksdh

A: Ok, I still don't get it. What's so funny?

Life: Oh man, you're so slow on the uptake!

(Fifty years later, doddering):

A: Hahahaha!! God, that was so funny!

A1: What's funny?

A: Ok. Knock! Knock!

A1: Who's there?

A: Life! *giggle*

A1: Oh come on, don't be silly.

A: You don't find it funny?

A1: No, and I'm not that desperate for a laugh.

No poetry for the pervert

2008-09-16T02:17:00.004+08:00

Here's a limerick I had written when I was in class 10

There was a man called Bots
Who was completely out of sorts
On seeing a short-skirted doll
Having an awkward fall
He said, "Ah, she gives me such naughty thoughts!"

I just thought I'll put this up and close for the day, but one thing led to another and I suddenly thought of someone. This limerick reminds me of a classmate of mine. Rumour has it that this boy grew up to be a local rowdy. I'm not the least bit surprised, because, in class 2, this guy was a budding pervert. When most boys his age were busy avoiding girls, he was already objectifying them. You can imagine what an innately snotty mind it could have been to have an aptitude for such thinking in class 2, because there was no star TV and no internet. Besides, I studied in a school where the very word "love" was taboo (because there are different kinds of love, you see. And what if you actually mean "lustful love" - now that's a benefit of doubt the authorities of my school would never give you!)

Now the class teacher always alloted us our seats at the beginning of the new academic year: two kids on each bench, each belonging to two different sexes (oops, genders), unless one gender outnumbered the other. That was the thumb rule. And when it came to that fateful day, every girl prayed feverishly to God that she wouldn't have to spend the rest of her year sitting next to Mr. Perv. Sure enough, class 2 was my ill-fated year. I was "put" next to this character. I remember how he drew a line across the bench and the desk to clearly demarcate his territory and mine. And then, with a gleam in his eye, he would deliberatlely slime his grubby fingers on to my side of the desk and grin. I also remember once wearing this (rather cute) pink sleeveless frock to school. He leered at the slightly (and inadvertently) revealing armholes of my dress and said "He he he, free show! Free show!" And he developed this cunning device to stare furtively at little girls' panties. He used to throw his eraser on the floor, and go under the bench to fetch it, but wouldn't resurface.

I don't know why this is beginning to sound strangely amusing, 'cause he was an erstwhile nightmare. And I'm glad I didn't have to grow up with him: he left after flunking many times.

No, I'm not dedicating my limerick to this guy!

Here at last

2008-09-15T15:48:00.001+08:00

Hello, and I am hoping to break a pattern :)

I have a track record of getting into seizures about pursuing something new, and then losing steam before I can even say I dabbled in it. The "about me" as a first step came flowing out with much alacrity. I almost considered putting up a picture of myself, and then stopped. Maybe the trick lies in changing the pattern. I should take it a little slow this time. I remember throwing a fit (a real, noisy, weepy fit) at home when I was 11 or so to join Bharatnatyam classes. And today, my four month stint is not worth a mention to anyone. I decided to spend two hours every Saturday at Parikrma (a fabulous school for underprivileged kids). I felt good about the time I spent there, relished the idlis and coffee at the neighbouring Adigas, and poof, I was gone after the third Saturday. More recently, on the not so gentle persuasion of my fiance, I joined one of the most expensive gyms in Bangalore (it's amazing how someone living many time zones away has the time and power to make you do things). I signed up for four months, and attended for a sum total of two weeks, and that too in fits and starts. Such has been my story.

But you know what, I blogged even when I was six years old!

Here's the story of how it came about. I had this habit of falling into a reverie (much like Darsheel in Taare Zameen Par) every morning, especially while I was on the pot, or before brushing my teeth. I would squeeze out the paste on to my brush and then drift away into wonderland, till my very patient mother hissed at me. So it was her brain wave to make a recalcitrant child more responsible with her time, by having me make my own "getting-ready-for-school" time table (7am to 7.20 am - loo, 7.20 to 7.30 - brush teeth, and so on). I remember how, again, with great elan, I made several drafts of it, each one being an improvement on the previous. The version that I was most happy with went up on the wall, and I tried to follow it for a week or so, till I discovered a more interesting way to use it. There was this one time when I thought my mother was being very unreasonable and unkind to a tender helpless child (me). And that was when the time table morphed into a billboard - of my feelings. My mum looked at it smugly and thought it was very cute, and that made my six year old blood boil. Heck, that was not the intended effect! So I decided to go completely dramatic and be more regular at posting stuff on my time table (erasing the previous post to make space for newer entries). Soon the piece of full scape paper became fraught with demonic impressions of my mother. She had a large bindi and dark circles that were deliberately emphasised out of spite, and was depicted as spewing expletives such as "fool" and "idiot" at a frail, weeping stick figure (ie., me) begging for mercy. So this was really my first attempt at creating a private mind space meant for public viewing. Of course, with all the erasing, re-writing and re-drawing, the paper became too weak and grey to write on. It must have been taken out along with the cobwebs on a Sunday. Funny, I don't even remember missing it.

I suspect that if not becoming a fervent blogger (again, I'm keeping my overzealousness under check here), I am likely to visit my journal at least more than once in a while. I say this with some amount of conviction because I have always liked word play and writing (I have, at various points in my life done a wee bit of proactive writing for newspapers) and in starting this journal, I am catching up with years of not putting my thoughts to paper.