The nonsense memoirs

The Highest Court

2009-02-04T22:23:00.006+04:00

Lady in Red: Hi. New around here?

Lady in Blue: Yeah, it's only been 2 months.

Lady in Red: Oh, are you working?

Lady in Blue: No.

Lady in Red: Oh, ok.< Oh man. Must be one of those poor dependant types. Did an engineering degree. Waited for a US groom. The minute one was in sight, handed over the resignation papers and got ready for blissful matrimony. No interest in her own career or independence. I'm sure she's all set to pop out babies as well. One after the other. She has the time, nothing else to do and can save on day care. Her husband must be happy at snagging a perfect housewife and she must be happier providing for all his demands.
Really, how pathetic.>

Lady in Blue: What about you?

Lady in Red: Yeah, I work downtown.

Lady in Blue: Oh nice. < Oh. She must be one of those aggressive career woman types. Junk food. Late night. And bosses to suck up to. I'm sure she spent years away from her husband just so that she can still have her career and come here with a work visa. Which quite obviously means she had or maybe still has a sad marriage. Doesn't feel the need to be with her husband every night. And yeah, DINK - the double income- no kids thing. Or maybe she has kids. They must've gone straight from the hospital crib to day care. What's the point of being married and living a life if you don't take the time to enjoy it.
Really, how pathetic.>

Lady in Red: I got to rush. Nice meeting you.

Lady in Blue: Sure, Bye.

Uploading . . 20%

2008-10-28T04:24:00.012+04:00

So today was the first Diwali after my wedding. It was also the first time I didn't wake up to the sound of firecrackers. Or the acrid smell from burnt gun powder. That day I dreaded is finally here - it's now my turn to do the American Diwali. Where making sweets, lighting lamps, wearing new clothes is only half the celebration.

As a social junkie, I'm a pretty frequent user of Facebook and Orkut. It didn't take me long to figure out IQ and desperation levels of the different profiles there. Or why I showed up right on top of somebody's fan list. Yet, for years, one thing I didn't understand was the picture- posting pattern of Indians in the US. I didn't have a damn clue till I took that painful 18 hour flight.

The first categoy of DAPONS ( Desi Album Posting On Networking Sites) is usually occupied by newly married ( 0-3 years) individuals. Couples who usually appear in public at least one restaurant table apart are often seen in a difficult and unnatural embrace. The wife's hand is usally placed in such a way that hubby's expanding tummy is covered. Husband's hand is, well, usually holding the camera cover. Also included in this category are couples who painstakingly dress up and take timed-self portraits on anniversaries and birthdays. They are, most often, celebrating the event by themselves. Single people who dress up in traditional attire and take matrimonial pictures, this is your stop.

The second category talks about locations but really, calling them all 'Patel pictures' would be so 1960. Maybe 'Sriram Pictures' or 'Ganesh Pictures'. Or even 'PavanPictures'. Besides usual suspects like the Statue of Liberty, Empire State Building, Times Square, Golden Gate and the White House, the scope of this category has expanded vastly. Accepted backgrounds for an entry here would include a Toyota Camry, someone else's sports car, trees in fall colours and the first batch of snow.

Pictures of the last category are unique in their composition. Most of these pictures do not include a living subject. The pictures are usually of Indian dishes made with Mom's recipe narrated over a Reliance call. The others usually include shots of the kitchen, a bare living room, the view from the balcony and the bathroom tub. Pictures of the diwali decoration and the navrathri golu also belong here.

I can think of many reasons why we post the way we do. The simplest one is probably to convey ' We are having fun. Really.'

Anyway, that's what I'm moving towards. From festivals and events where I had too much fun to remember to take pictures to a world which funnels itself through an uploaded image. Category 3, here I come.

P.S All my issues from my earlier post have been solved and settled. A ton of thanks for all your comments and emails. If any of you are stuck in similar situations as listed there, please leave me your email id. I will try to help you out and keep the karma in circulation.

Living the American 'Dream'

2008-08-01T21:16:00.004+04:00

I've often asked people who moved to the US why they like it so much. Some people confessed that they actually didn't. But most told me that life is 'convenient'. For someone who has always had groceries delivered to the door, people around to help with every difficult thing and impromptu trips home every month, I was intrigued.

I was never a stranger to this country. I was familiar with most American terms and the general life here so I definitely knew what I was in for. However, trying to move your entire life here is quite painful. To say the least.

My travails started when I landed with a dependent visa. As per the rules here spouses of some legally employed aliens (SOSLEA) are not allowed to work. Or study. Luckily for us, we were in a special situation which would get us work authorization documents in 90 days. So I set out getting my life back in order.

I applied for jobs the day after I landed, my head still groggy from jet lag. After very carefully timed interviews, i got a fantastic job on day 91. Today is day 106. No documents yet. I have the job but can't work.

To do anything here, you need to drive. So the license. To get a license you have to get a learning permit. To get the learning permit you need a Social Security Number. The hitch? Social Security Number is not given to SOSLEA. Hmm. There is an escape route- we can go to the Social Security Office and tell them we are not eligible and ask them for a reject letter which is also accepted in lieu of the number itself.

So I went, armed with everything from wedding invitations, certificates and pictures. The sweet lady at the SSN office, considering my special situation, actually decided to give me an SSN. Yeah, that means she actually rejected my request for a reject letter. (How unlucky can you get?) Getting the SSN approved wasn't a great thing since it had in big bold letters, 'Not Valid for Employment' plus I had to wait for two whole weeks for it to arrive. Which means reading that Driver's manual again till I had Stop signs for eyes.

The path to the learning permit wasn't rosy yet. I had to get a medical test done. So depending on your medical history you have a few million tests like reflex, temperature, Blood Pressure, Urine, Breathing rate, etc. Then one fine day my sun shone bright and I got the learner's permit.

I used my Social Security number and got a bank account opened. Hurrah! I was jumping around in little circles. But hold on, no credit card as yet. Apparently you need a good credit history here to get a credit card. And that credit history is built up by, no kidding, paying credit card bills. In the hope that paying electric bills on time would help, I called up the electric company today to start an account in our new place. No prizes of guessing. I apparently can't start one that easily as I don't have the credit history. Awesome. So that's the current scene. I have no bills to pay on time because i can't get a credit card or an electricity account. And I can't get those because I have no bills paid on time.

Do me a favour please. If any of you come across the 100 odd people who called me everyday in Mumbai offering free credit cards let them know how much I miss them.

Disclaimer: I do like the country and it's people, the opportunities, the places and Food network. Sometimes I just wish they would be easier on us, the ones who came off the boat a little later.

How's married life?

2008-05-02T02:34:00.005+04:00

I've had so many people ask me this in the recent past that I've thought of throwing the enquirer from the balcony, over and over again, much like in Jodhaa Akbar. Honestly, it's not about the question itself - I have myself unflinchingly used this as a conversation starter with newly weds several times. What annoys me is that -you are only allowed two answers - 'great' and 'good'. No one wants to stop and hear even a syllable more than that. That's probably because my audience is either the much-married-well-meaning-aunt- who-doesn't-really-care or the Don't-talk-to-me-about-marriage-I'm-too-cool-for-it-friend.

It's not the easiest thing in the world to explain how marriage makes you feel. But there definitely is a difference. Something that can still be felt even if you strip off the years you have known the person, the languages you speak, the Gods you believe in (or don’t), the food you eat or the person you are. Companionship.

When your teachers asked you to pick a partner for lab, when your professor told you to pick a team mate for project work, has there ever been a slightest doubt of fear in your head?
I have had it. All the time. Oh, God. Will she work with me? I hope he's not already taken. God, please please, don't let me end up with that girl. That guy is lazier than me, please, not him. Sometimes, if you are lucky you end up working with a person you like, good vibes, good chemistry, good results. You then team up for a couple of projects and there is a certain security - when the next project is announced you only look back at the person and smile, amidst the noisy deal making. The small joy of knowing you have a great team-mate without having to clamor for it, without having to worry about being there before someone else does.

Marriage is like that. It's like finding that perfect activity partner for life. There's someone to split those calorie heavy molten lava chocolate cakes. Someone to bring you home safely when you are many a happy drink down. There's no sitting alone on the roller coaster cars anymore. There's someone to yell at the driver to stop when you are busy retching on a highway. Heck, now there's even an excuse to order that ultra heavy Death by Chocolate. And yes, all of the above works both ways.

It's a pretty cool thing if you think about it. This one's there for good and can't complain about how s/he hates to work with you. (Even if s/he does, it doesn't really matter, they are under contract for life). So there, that's how it feels. Really. I would recommend it. For even if you have to sit through Iron Man, you know you won't miss 'Sex and the City'!

Maid of Honour

2008-02-15T15:39:00.003+04:00

Leaning on our refrigerator in my newspaper column-sized kitchen, I stared intently at my maid. There was a continuous jet of water from one of the taps and she was swiftly passing soaped vessels under them. Once the assortment of steel, melamine and ceramic had had their express showers, from where she stood, she expertly threw each of them into their designated storing places.

Wait a minute. Isn’t she supposed to wipe them dry before you do that? Not like I remember what mom used to do. A quick memory access does not yield too many image results. Now accessing science section. I’m pretty sure the water remains helps in breeding of dangerous microorganisms. I look around for a dish cloth. 1 found. Only I, a classified female with a colour vocabulary of 435686543779, can’t figure what shade it originally is.

I dash inside my slightly bigger Happy-Birthday-Sonia-ad size room while mentally constructing signs to explain the phenomenon to the aforementioned only-Telugu-speaking help. My head deeply buried between some aging clothes, I’m searching for that elusive piece of unwanted cloth.

‘Mein jaa rahi hoon, madam’. *Bang*. I’m leaving for the day.

‘Whaat? Wait! Hey!!!’

Great.

Lakshmi walked into our lives quite by chance. Our ex-maid Latha had barely been working for a month when she wanted to go back to her village for a short vacation. So she entrusted Lakshmi with the 10–day job and lied to her (Ref: Our cook) about how much we were paying so that she could pocket a neat margin. As luck would have it Latha didn't turn up for several weeks. By then we had given Lakshmi all the specific household instructions and had also begun a crash course in Telugu basics to communicate her.

Then one day Latha landed at my door. (Of course the whole conversation was in Hindi, or what I thought was Hindi)

‘I’m coming from the 1st’

‘No, I think it’s better Lakshmi comes. She’s knows everything now, she does her job well and we don't have the time to train you again’.

‘But I only told her to come for 10 days while I was away’

‘You didn't come back in 10 days. You didn’t even come back in a month. ‘

‘She wont come’

‘She will. We’ve spoken to her’

‘She doesn’t know Hindi.’

‘Neither do I’ (Didn't you get that with my smart gender assigning throughout this conversation?)

Her pupils became one tiny spot in the horizon and i could see her nerves throbbing. She stepped back. Her whole body was shaking now. I grabbed the pillow next to me and was ran some defensive moves in my head. Will she hit me? Will she spit at me?

She turned in a huff and ran down the stairs. That was the last I saw of her.

From what I hear (again thanks to my cook), Latha went and confronted Lakshmi the next day. She told Lakshmi that she is not to work with us anymore and that we have asked Latha to resume her services right away. Luckily for us, Lakshmi had the sense to pay no heed and turn up to work the next day. I’m still trying to figure out in what language they communicated.

Actually,it’s not their fault. Because all we do is compare all our help to our ex Man Friday.

Shankar was almost part of the house we moved into. He would sweep, mop, wash clothes and dishes. He would dust all the furniture and make our beds. He would pay all our bills, buy all our groceries and even fix fused bulbs. He would supervise the carpenter or plumber who came in and would even whip us an occasional omelette if we were too lazy. We couldn’t imagine life without him, he was truly heaven sent. Till the day he vanished into thin air. With my room mate’s phone. And the charger.

Well, I’m glad I don't have to bother about such issues a few weeks from now. For I’m moving to the *promised* land. Where I have to do all above mentioned things myself. Including the work of the carpenter and the plumber.

Guilt trips and stolen thunder

2008-01-30T14:45:00.000+04:00

I saw an amazing movie last weekend. An engaging movie is always a rare occurrence, yet Reservation Road was truly different. For it actually made me think - beyond the Intermission food choices, the post-movie options and other 'loo'ming decisions.

This is the story in short. Dwight is a single dad with visitation rights to his son Lucas. One fateful night, driving back from a game with his son, Dwight runs over 10-year old Josh, killing him instantly. Dwight hesitates for a mere second, before leaving a bereaved Ethan weeping over his son's body. What follows is an amazing portrayal of suffering, of guilt and pain, with some unwavering and true-to-life performances from the cast.

It led me to think - how much guilt can a person handle?

Frankly, if I were in Dwight's position I would have definitely considered, at least for a whole hour, the option of hiding the whole thing away. Of acting like it never happened and then beginning to believe in it. After all, it is the option of free life over no life. If you can ignore the guilt. If only.

How much hidden guilt can a person live with? When does it start hurting? How big should a sin be to actually matter? What counts?
Lying to your parents? Stealing a good -looking pen? How about reading your best friend's diary?
Fine. Let's go by the global rule that no one should be harmed in the process or as a result of it. Then, does stealing office stationary count? How about poisoning (God forbid) your neighbour's pet. Or ruining someone's chances at an interview? Really, where does one draw the line. And then, when you decide to stash those memories away, does one ever feel like letting it go? To someone, to anyone?

While this was merely a mind stirring thought, the wonderful piece of cinema had more in store. Ethan is slowly eaten away at the lack of response from the Police. With just one clue, they hang on, make a few inquiries and are ready to throw the towel in without, according to Ethan and most of us, any substantial effort.

For heaven's sake, that's America. One thing they've managed to get right is the Policing. Or so we thought. They would be glad to know they have good company in their fellow compatriots here.

A couple of months ago, at my wedding, an uninvited guest took off with my mom's handbag. It contained gifts of gold and cash worth a fair bit. For hours the whole wedding party were immersed in all kinds of basic investigation, rummaging through wedding gifts, asking people, calling the misplaced phone, drawing out suspects, going through videos, etc. Wasn't much use. A complaint was duly filed at the nearest police station. "Forget about it" - public voice.

The next day we scanned the hundreds of pictures that were collectively taken and watched the video for the millionth time, drawing out at least 23 different suspects among the eleven of us family members (aged 8 to 80). I must admit that it was quite some fun, turning into prime investigators, coming up with hypotheses to why the lift operator could have teamed up with the priest in the master plot to steal the bride's gold. There were some hilarious moments too, like when the whole family was lined up in front of the video, ready to take a picture of the stolen handbag to give as evidence. Hardly a few minutes later, the stolen bag was found under a coconut tree in the porch. Without the valuables, of course. The perpetrator had been just a few metres away from us, inside our premises, dropping off the bag, all while I was busy clicking pictures of a TV screen.

Anyway, like the tech-savvy new age family we are, we scanned the hall's CCTV videos and got a long shot of the culprit. (Of course, he was not part of the elite 23 suspects circle). So we took the bag and the video clips to the police with a brief description of what the guy looked like. Well, I must say they weren't too happy with our efforts. They told us they would like a clearer, close up shot, preferably in white background with his eyes no less than 12 mm away from the top of the picture.

While the rest of moved away from the scene of crime after the holidays ran out, my supermom was still on the trail. No one messes with her. She unearthed more videos and actually worked with some visual graphic professionals to get this shot of the culprit.

Now that we got the police got the matrimonial picture they wanted, they still aren't ready to move their well-fed behinds. We are now working on getting his current and permanent addresses, PAN card number, family tree, current salary and job description, bank account details, besides a well written accurate horoscope.

If you do see him anywhere, please buy him a ticket for Reservation Road. I will reimburse you and even buy you a free ticket. He should know my pepper spray is still unused and so are my karate skills.

For the larger sin, mister, was stealing my wedding thunder.

Moving on

2007-09-03T20:06:00.000+04:00

I still remember the first time. Everything was so impulsive. And for a brief moment, guilt-ridden. Since then I've asked myself so many times why I did it. Maybe because it felt so right. And incredibly magical. For when I felt you against my skin and looked into your eyes I just let go. Of my reservations, inhibitions and my senses.

Looking back, I'm happy some of my life's best memories were with you. Carefree days, beautiful sights, unspoken nights. Braving chilly winds as I clutched at your sleeve. Walking unfathomable distances knowing you were with me. At times, shielding you with my little hands, for whatever it was worth. You were my obsession, a completely inexplicable one. Would I struggle so much to understand anyone else? I wonder.

It always annoyed me - the way you would show up my flaws. Yet, there wasn't a single time I didn't forgive you. Not a single time. Not even the days you gave up on me. Or the days I couldn't see you in the eye. You were precious to me. And you always made me smile. In return, I reserved some of my best smiles for you. To cherish, to hold and to freeze forever in memory. It was all you. For when people saw me with you, I glowed.

You changed my life. The times I felt at peace just feeling your presence on me. The way you caressed my nose. How there was nothing more beautiful than burying my face in your back and just holding you. The way I searched for the nooks in you body to fill with me. And the certain joy of looking at life through your eyes. Something no one will ever understand.

You should know it's impossible to forget you. And to think you were never a part of my life. I can never stop wishing I had spent more time with you. Or at least done justice to the times we were together. Deep in my heart, I'll also keep hoping for that miracle reunion.

I'll miss you. Really. I'll miss holding you and making memories with you. I'll always regret never having told you how much you meant to me. But I guess it's time to move on.

There's just one nagging fear in my heart. And I can't stop thinking about it. I hope the lenses that came free with you will fit on to my new Canon.

Kissed by an angel

2007-06-16T10:13:00.000+04:00

Thursday was a different day. One that I spent doing things I had been craving to for so many days. Things which gave me a lot of time to reflect on my life. Like a long soak in a warm bath. And a much needed conversation that left me in tears. I looked up at the dark clouds hovering threateningly from my grand window, wondering if this would be the day the city was waiting for. Brushing drenched images aside I added a slide to my presentation - with lots of boxes and arrows. Things which my work life was now surrounded by. I stepped out into the dark a full two hours later, carrying a small backpack and a heavy package that I'd received from home.

Bandstand is usually a lovely place. Most of the days I step out of office to the beautiful shades of sunset over the sea, trying to hold my own against the strong wind. It's crowded with huddling couples, eager rickshaws and an occasional movie unit. Well, today was not exactly the same. I squinted to spot a run down Premier Padmini amidst the drizzle, crossing the road twice to try my luck on both sides. No one wanted to make the trip.

Finally I flagged down a rickshaw and hurried into it, cardboard box and all, asking him to take me to the farthest point into the city that he was allowed to. We passed by the seaface, the radio blaring 'Barso re megha megha'. I hummed along, the sea breeze blowing the shorter strands of my hair all over my face. My super dramatic alter ego was busy, fancying myself as the pretty heroine under the gorgeous waterfall, splashing around and getting drenched without a second thought. ' Nanna re nanna re nannare na na re'. I put my hand outside the auto to catch the raindrops - what every second self respecting actress would do. And then suddenly the movie stopped, like a power cut in a village talkie.

'Yahan se taxi le lena madam'. Take a taxi from here.

A different final point for the autos. I took my own time paying him, hoping a cab would stop by us. No such luck. Getting down gingerly, I focussed on the road, hoping to see the yellow headed cabs flowing my way. Nothing. I surveyed the surroundings. Dark and empty, the drizzle was slowly morphing into a full flown downpour. Several empty autos. One stationary cab filled with four men. A lonely lady with wares of potato wafers and two Bisleri bottles under a small umbrella. This is Bombay, I thought, it's always safe. Finally a taxi. Damn. People in it. Several minutes passed on the empty road. No luck. The rain was falling heavily by now and I could feel the droplets running down my neck.

'Goa ja rahe ho?' Going to Goa?

I turned around sharply to see the Bisleri woman standing next to me with her little umbrella.

'Mahim', I said, managing a wry smile.

'Taxi chahiye?' Want a taxi?

I nodded my head, trying to decipher any hidden messages in her words. Things I usually suck at picking up.

She came closer to me and held the umbrella over my head and yelled out a name. Four kids came running out of nowhere like pixies from an Enid Blyton. They rushed off in different directions on receiving orders from the woman. One older boy stayed behind.

'Soch raha tha kiske liye chhaata pakadke khadi ho', he told her. I was wondering who you were holding the umbrella for.

She replied ,' Bacchi akeli khadi thi na.' The girl was standing alone, you know.

'Meri bhi do bacchi hai, tum jaisi', she smiled. I have two daughters just like you.

I smiled at her wondering what I should say. Was this a trap? Why would she do this?

'Mein pakad lun?', I asked, my hands already full with my things. Shall I hold the umbrella? Frankly, amidst the hundred thoughts that were running through my mind, none of them involved holding her umbrella. Yet I heard myself saying it.

I never heard her reply. It was muffled by shouts of 'Aunty' and 'Didi' that suddenly rung the air. The little kids ran towards us, followed by a taxi which truly seemed to have appeared out of thin air. Before I could react they shuffled me in, their grimy wet faces smiling at me from the different windows. From the one I sat at, I could now see her wares, cold and unprotected in the rain.

Stunned, I mumbled a 'thank you' under my breath and waved at the six excited children and the Bisleri woman. They waved till I went out of sight.

I reached home safely that night. Drenched, but safe.

Funny how sometimes it takes a total stranger to make you smile. Out of nowhere. With so little.

Fangs of separation

2007-03-29T08:18:00.000+04:00

I stretched lazily and walked up to my window. A sweeper raking specks of leaves from the pale green grass swathed in the morning sunlight. A stray mongrel waited by, confused. I squinted to see who else was lounging around after breakfast. Just one more morning, I thought. At this window.

People deal with farewell and separation in many different ways. They try different ways till the one time they find that they have truly cut themselves successfully away, without much damage. They develop networking and social skills and try hard to keep in touch, in hope that one day they'll never have to say the dreaded word. I hate saying goodbye - to places, to things. Especially to people.

Some people deal with it by slowly taking it in. By savoring and enjoying every last second. With the things they always wanted to do. By taking pictures, by graciously accepting that this is going to be the last time. They wish they would cry and get over with the sorrow but then the tears disappoint. Because they have already grieved enough.

Sometimes, you want to say goodbye by spending all your time with that person or in that place. Doing things you have always enjoyed doing, living the life you have always led. Perhaps with a implicit reassurance that nothing will change and nothing should. This is when you want to believe that this going away is just a small deviation in the master plan of life.

Some people deal with it by keeping away. They immerse themselves in packing, running errands, in things which would take them away from dealing with the pain, and in the process those precious last few moments. They simply don't want any memories of saying goodbye. That would ruin the lovely picture they have in their minds.

Some people just walk away, out of your lives, in a precious second. Some people cry. If it needs some alcohol, so be it. Some people say nice words. Some others hug and kiss.

I blog.

Leap of faith

2007-03-24T21:38:00.000+04:00

I always admire the picture that shows on my fone when I get a call from home. Mom's chilling out in the sofa with my cat Puchoos happily snuggled on her lap, lifting her head and enjoying the caresses. One such time,right in the midst of the picture-gazing, my mother's excited voice from the other end made my ears perk up. Quite cat-like.

My parents had, with a new found business contact, visited an astrologer, a specialist in the field of 'nadi jolshiyam' or 'astrology that is sought'. Apparently, centuries ago, the period when every village happening was later made into a legend, a Goddess wanted to know about the people who would be born on earth. Her following of saints took up the task and wrote down the life histories of every human being who would ever be born on this earth, each inscribed into a leaf. Wars and natural calamities destroyed a lot of these but about a few hundred years ago, the remaining inscriptions were recovered and translated into a more recent comprehendable Tamil. These were then auctioned off by the British and bought by rich Tamil families who maintained it for years before handing them over to different astrologers. These little biographies are said to be matched to a person by his/her thumb print and not the date of birth unlike other forms of astrology. This because they believe that a human is born when it is conceived and not, like the rest of us swear by, time of delivery. So even though the saints might have written the futures of thousands of people, each astrologer only has the leaves of those 'destined' to go to him. I patiently listened, waiting for the twist in the story, the critical point where my semi-sceptical mom would have fallen hook, sinker and line for this too-good to-believe faith. I didn't have to wait long.

After giving their thumb prints, the man brought sets of leaves that matched them, she said. He started off not knowing anything about them, even their names. He would ask 3-4 basic questions to find out which leaf was yours and once all the answers matched, he would declare your leaf found and write down the matter into a notebook and then explain it to you. Hmm. Mom was stunned out of her seat, she said, when he found her leaf and told her my grand mother's rather uncommon name. He also mentioned some unusual details of our family which he could never have guessed otherwise. Details of her siblings and children followed, complete with marital status and location and even the age at which she would seek out this form of astrology. My dad had a similiar leaf found and read out to him. Both were even told, much to their amusement, what they were and where they lived in their previous lives.

I got back home in a few days and the more I heard about it, the more curious I got. I don't really believe in astrology but this one seemed too entertaining to miss. And maybe disprove. I thought of all the ways they could have found out the details, like how much the business contact knew and how much my parents would have absently relayed. There was no other way to find out than to book myself an appointment.

I went to the small house, tagging behind my mother. There were pictures of Hindu Gods and Goddesses all around. After awhile we were called in to where the astrologer was seated. I pressed my right thumb into an old Camel stamp pad and made two impressions. There was a young boy, an apprentice who stood by. I keenly observed the astrologer, trying to keep my eyes on him and my prints to see how he was going to match them. He wrote down numbers beside them and gestured to the boy who went in, without as much as taking a look at the notepad. He returned in a few seconds with a bundle of long rectangular palm leaves bound together with white rope.

Sometimes you genuinely try to look at these things with an open mind. Something about it could be genuine, how else would they unearth so much of personal information. A faint glimmer of hope that this man and his bunch of leaves could perhaps get me hooked to this and actually believe in it. I waited with bated breath.

Are you above 20? Yes. Above 22? Yes? Born in 85? No. 84? No. 83? No. 82? Yes.

Ok. Not much rocket science in there, I thought. My eyes focussed in and out of the dull picture of an unknown deity behind him.

How many letters in Tamil does your name have? Five. The first letter of your name begins with R? No. V? No. P? No. L? No. S? Yes, I said.

My left eyebrow was now slightly above the normal level. What next, I wondered.

Is you name Shyamala? No. Sangeetha? No. Savitha? No. The last letter of your name, Na? No. Tha? No. Thi? No. Ra? No. Pa? No. What is it? 'Ya'. Is your name Sathya? No!

How did I even think this would be genuine. I crossed my legs, folded my arms and sat back. I glanced at my mom. Was this how he guessed Grandma's name?, I asked with my eyes. She returned a disappointed look that told me even she thought this was unusual.

Now the second last letter, he said. Concentrating hard and trying to figure out, I guessed, what normal Indian names could fit the given pattern. A baby name book would help, I mused, rather than ancient palm leaves. The session went on for awhile. He 'told me' my mother's name and my name after a letter-by-letter guessing game. He knew my dad's name so we were spared of the ordeal of going through his rather long name. He then proceeded to again' tell me' what line I was in. Since no astrologer can ever guess HR, I took my ex profession, software, as a valid answer. After all with more than 80% of the educated youth there, it was a safe guess for him. Then on seeing my mom's doubtful face, he made some quick calculations with my age and said that I have now studied further and could possible be either in the same line or in an administrative, managerial line. Wow. Smart.

It was a smart business model. Yet, my parents insist that for them he didn't do much guessing. He apparently took their parent's names out of thin air. With no prodding. Some of my mom's friends testify to this too. One of them even had their future husband's name accurately given at a time when they hadn't even met. How could so many people stick by this unexplained foresight?

Either my astrologer didn't get my leaf and just pretended to or the whole thing is a big sham. The former, in my humble opinion, would anyway mean the latter. I later looked up 'nadi astrology' on the net. Several interesting pages appeared with many good-looking testimonials and pictorial proof that there is some sort of truth associated with this. After many discussions with others who have had this experience, mine seemed the most bogus of them all. Without even an ounce of stun power. Yet, there's something about this mysterious way of foretelling that still keeps my questioning. Maybe some day when I have the time and patience, maybe I would try another astrologer and get some answers. Till then I can recount the way he guessed my date of birth and smile.

Jan-Feb? No. Nov-Dec? No. April- May? No. . . . . . . June? Yay!!!

Before 15th or after 15th?

What women want

2006-12-08T21:31:00.000+04:00

A brief attempt at unravelling the great mystery. In honour of my friend Rishi who gave me the idea. Dedicated to all the confused men around. Just say sorry :)

She: ' Just say yes or no. No ifs or buts'
He: ' Ok... No.'
She: 'No????'
(pause)
Fine!'
He: Ok. Bye
She: Fine! Gbye and Gnite!

She stares at her fone secretly wishing she could bang it down. 'Men!'.

She wakes up, by habit trying to remember what she dreamt of. Then she remembers the argument. What a loser, she thinks. Wonder if I'll see him at the parking lot. She does. Walks away, avoiding eye contact.

'I wonder if he ever realises what he did. Hurting me like that. I bet he's regretting it right now'. She turns on her laptop trying to immerse herself in the jargon and matrices.

It's around the time he has lunch, she thinks, picking her keys and staring out the window. No sign of him. A second helping? Maybe he'd be here by then. No sign. Some fruit juice? No sign.
'What an absolute moron. Maybe he just doesn't like to say sorry.'

3 pm. No email. 4pm. No offline messages. 5 pm. Nope- no phone calls and no smses either. And then suddenly footsteps outside her door. She holds her usually heavy breath, trying to concentrate and recognize the steady sounds coming closer. A knock. On the neighbour's door. She heaves a disgruntled sigh and goes back to her wired world.

9 pm. 'Maybe I should call. Maybe that will open him up. Give him an opportunity to realize what a fool he's been. Or maybe I should just pay him a visit.' She gathers her books, her keys and her phone and then stops. She puts them all back and waving her hands, walks up two flights of stairs. She steadies her breathing, goes to the door and puts her hand on the knob and turns it.

He turns to look at her, an expression of relief crossing his face. She walks in, trying to suppress her smile and look angry. She sits down at his table waiting for him to speak.
' Ok. Here goes. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. I was just worried about what the others would ..'
' It's okay. But I was upset too. I'm not totally devoid of emotions, you know!' she smiles. ' I just had to come and see you. I was thinking about it all day and I knew things would become alright if I came.'
' Thank you. You make me feel much lighter. Dinner tommorow?'

How nice that would be, she thought, brushing her dreams away. She turned the knob, it only went half the way. She paused, then turned it the other way. No luck. She rushed back to her room, picked her stuff and walked to her car. ' Well, he's getting more time. He better come around by tommorrow.'

Next morning she meets him at the parking lot.

She: 'Left early yesterday?'
He: ' Yes, Around 8'
She: ' I came to your office. Around 9'
He: ' Oh. What for?'
She ' What do you think?'
He: ' It's ok. Your apologies are accepted.'

She: 'Whaaaattttt?????'

Pieces in a Kaleidoscope - II

2006-09-25T22:40:00.000+04:00

This post and the one before is my attempt at trying a new style of writing fiction. Pieces of vivid descriptions to be stitched together by the reader's imagination. A thousand patterns can be formed depending on what you perceive, much like a kaleidoscope. Do let me know what you see.

***********************************

She waited on the wooden bench, quietly checking the people walking across. She strained her eyes to see the end of the platform. It was empty except for a naked boy of about 2 crawling to his sleeping mother. Maybe it was a joke, she thought and looked straight ahead. And then she saw him. A sigh of relief, a joyous smile.

***********************************

They sped down the road, under the shadows of the tall neem trees, her childish laughter resounding for miles. She giggled loudly as the first drops of rain hit her face, her brown eyes gleaming with excitement. A pothole unsteadied her. She caught on to his shirt, screaming in delight. They stopped at a closed shop, waiting for the rain to stop. He looked at her shivering in the cold and kissed her cheek, affectionately.

***********************************
She stared at the screen. Her nimble fingers flew across the old keyboard and she typed furiously, trying in vain to put all her thoughts into words. Then she found the backspace key.
She froze for a moment, thinking if she would regret this later. She fiddled with the keys, her hesitant fingers matching up with her wavering mind.
She hit 'send' and gathered her belongings. She slowly walked out of the room, making up tales in her head to convince herself that everything was alright. Nothing was wrong. No one was drifting away.

***********************************

The light was dim. The music was soft, almost non existent. There was nothing to stop her - it only took a question to bring it on. From a million miles away she opened up to him, and he to her. Nothing mattered anymore and neither remembered the backspace key. Excuses, misgivings, battered feelings. Assumptions, reasons and explanations.

It had all been over 7 years ago. Yet, this was closure.

***********************************

When was innocence lost?

Pieces in a Kaleidoscope - I

2006-09-25T18:12:00.000+04:00

She rested her chin on the grill and looked out. Myriad of bright green hues battling for sunlight. Childhood memories ran in her head and she smiled, turning to look at him discreetly. He met her gaze, his laughter travelling all the way to his eyes.

************************

She looked ahead, words floated by, she wasn't listening. He held her close for a brief moment and whispered into her ear. She closed her eyes and shut the lone tear out from the world as the cold wind ruffled her damp hair.

************************

He looked up at her, unsure of what to say. She paused, suddenly concious of how much she had spoken. He shook his head and gently rested his head on the wall behind, thinking of the days gone by. Deafening silence marred by insignificant voices behind. She fiddled with a piece of paper slowly, looking down at it with intent.

A few seconds or a dozen hours.

She felt his eyes on her and looked up. A tiny tear gingerly made its way down her cheek as she bit her lip. Fears of the past clouded her mind, she brushed away her thoughts as she picked a strand of hair off her dress. She prayed, dont let it happen again.

************************

Does every relationship have a name?

The Holy Trail

2006-07-31T17:41:00.000+04:00

It was the morning of the wedding of my close friend. To be celebrated in the temple town of Trichy or Tiruchirapalli, it would've been a sin to not visit the temple. So that's quite precisely what we ventured out to do at 6 am. A middle aged brahmin couple cheerfully volunteered to accompany us and guide us through the labyrinth of the ancient temple. We didn't have the heart to tell then that all we needed was a hi-bye flying visit that can be declared to the outside world as an extremely devoted trip to the Sri Ranganathar Temple.

After forty minutes of waiting in the queue that led to the sanctum sanctorum, we reached the entrance to it. The ancient carvings on the stones had lost much of its beauty since someone had decided cement and paint would be nice to adorn the upper end of it. That the waiting area made me claustrophobic and I was squashed between two aged grannies was of not much importance. We finally reached God. Or so we thought.

The priest near the gold-covered stone idol was hurrying everybody who had waited long for the moment. He would let you a super short glimpse of the deity and barely enough time for you to clasp your hands together before showing you the way out. Just as we were about to step in, we were blocked to let in a family of 6- they had paid Rs 20 for a shorter wait and a smarter detour. We waited and looked at each other wondering if we should've paid too, for a second happy of the existence of the hurrying priest.

We slowly inched our way into the tiny area, stole a quick glance at the idol and hiked up our skirts to hurry out when the inviting voice of the priest caught us by surprise. He not only gave us welcome smiles but also a patient explanation of the God there , his wives and the temple's history. He went on in sudden fervor as we exchanged bewildered looks among us- wondering what could've brought out this surprising change. And then we got our answer.

Clasped in my friend's hand was a 500 Rupee note. The priest finished his talk, looked at her hand and said ' Pray and keep what's in your hand as an offering to God'. She didn't. As we came out we were stopped by another priest-like man with a receipt book asking us to make donations. We hurried out in silence, disgusted with the experience.

My relationship with God. It's a task to describe it.

My earliest memories of praying include learning shlokas or hymns from my grandmother- not knowing the meaning or even the right words. To this day that's how I recite them- like Udit Narayan sings in Tamil. No feeling, no emotions, nothing. But if a God does exist, I'm sure he'll know me by name.

As a school going kid, I used to visit the nearby temple every single school morning, discussing with Her ( no, not a feminist, just that it was a Goddess) my daily worries and little triumphs. As was the norm there were tiny bribes involved - like the deal to walk around the temple three times every Friday in exchange for a full score in Math. I have been to Sabarimala four times- the last two of which I had to be carried part of the way since I ran a temperature- now I'm officially banned to enter there till I'm 50. I have distinct memories of regular visits to the school chapel, kneeling down closing my eyes and feeling the space around, the sheer silence of which still enchants me. And the cool white marble of the Saraswathi temple at Pilani, reminiscences of sitting on those steps and waiting, waiting for I-don't-know-what. To this day, most of my visits to Kerala involve a trip to Guruvayur where I would not just encounter another hurrying priest, but also be forcibly dressed in skirts/ sarees and accept my untouchable status. A couple of months back, when I felt a burning desire to go to a temple, I took a 9 hour journey to the Golden Temple in Amritsar. The simple 'langar' food was the tastiest I had had in a long time.

Somewhere in the transition between a girl to the half girl- half woman I am now, I may have lost some faith. I stopped believing in the numerous rituals that did not make sense the thousand Gods of the Hindu faith and their few thousand wives. I stopped praying everyday, those hymns were now reserved for rare temple visits and disturbed nights. Maybe it was science, maybe it was sheer arrogance -but I didn't believe in paying thousands to astrologers who claim to be able to appease the Gods. It was not just about God, suddenly it was about astrology, about religion, about customs- anything that could be held at ransom by my logical self. If I was born equal to the holy priest, why would he have to perform a purifying ceremony if I touch him? Why does he drop the Blessed offering into my hand from atleast half a feet above? It was perhaps the blurred line between God's so called agents and God himself that now became clearer.

I could be talking for many people in my generation and the one after. For us, God is a possibility. There could be a supreme power - but the power certainly has no name, no form, no gender and definitely no agents. Your life is what you make it to be and your peace is when you think it to be. The simple calm of a church and the power from the holy fire is what emanates from us and what we attribute to it. Not the other way around. We honestly don't care if our soul goes to heaven or hell- or even if there is such a thing as a soul at all. What would perhaps make perfect sense is a silent conversation with God, on all things bright and beautiful, stupid and silly, frivulous and inane. For us, God is in ourselves, in our family and in our loved ones. We look into ourselves to find courage- and in those unimaginable times, hestitatingly seek the unknown God. Other than that, the supreme power would only be a faithful companion, that voice in the head which silently listens when you want it to. And shuts up when you want it to.

I would probably teach my kids about the big power up there and the thousand gods and goddesses that go with it. The hymns and the idols and the holy priests. Not to mention heaven and hell and their admission criteria. I would give them the peaceful secure childhood I had with God to lean on and then slowly let them figure it out on their own. Maybe its unfair of me to latch on to God for so long and now lessen the faith. Whatever it is, God, I think you might owe me a blessing.

Crossroads

2006-04-03T20:16:00.000+04:00

Some call it the beginning of adulthood, some call it the quarter life crisis. A girl’s journey to become a woman is, more than anything, highly puzzling. What follows are the thoughts I put on paper for the forthcoming issue of my alumni magazine- Sandpaper.

As I looked at the mail that had just landed in my inbox a few million random thoughts crossed my mind. Attached were wedding pictures of my close friend from college and standing with the happy couple was another friend with her husband, visibly expecting their first child. As I regretted not being there, my eyes instinctively landed on the wall behind me. My old poster of a cozying couple with much torn edges and very visible creases stared back. I don’t even know why I chose to hold on to the one relic my college hostel room was identified with. It had no place in my life and certainly none in a B-school. I told everyone it makes me feel at home. Frankly, I think it just makes me feel younger.

Is the honeymoon over, I wondered. Twenty four is a funny age to be. It’s when your opinion has suddenly begun to matter and strangely, you don’t seem to like it. It is the age when they stop forgiving you for acting like a kid and start expecting you to know how to handle one.

Friends of mine think they might still be a little too young to marry. But of course, you really cannot be taking competitive exams now- for when you graduate there might not be many eligible bachelors left. A corporate woman then? Maybe not, because for all the gorgeous women of this generation, three years is a long time to be working on the same job. For the thousands of women who joined the workforce three odd summers back, the crossroads of life are now taking form.

Is there such a thing as too many choices? I thought about my close circle of friends. As independent young women with the freedom to step forward in time or back into domesticity, we are a lot pampered for choice. Gone are the days when working women were the toast of the day. Today it’s suddenly cool to stay at home, look after the kids and make aromatic candles. We can study at the best colleges, get the highest degrees, give up everything for the man we love and move to unknown lands. Who is to stop us? Hot shot careers could well be giving way to chocolate chip cookie baking lessons.

As we needle our way out of our protective environments, the comfort of being the new employee, the junior student, the blushing bride, there’s an overwhelming amount of challenges and decisions thrown at us. We grapple with them, mostly alone, too independent and proud to ask for help. The truth is, we may not be as tough as we claim to be. We wax eloquent in public on how strong we are. And yet we crumble at the thought of calling a close friend to condole the death of his beloved.

Today no one raises as much as an eyebrow when I tell them of my plans to start a restaurant and author a book. Another close friend just made a successful shift from a software techie to a well paid finance executive- with a one year MBA. Except for some student loans, there’s nothing to stop her now. Just as I write this more and more women are changing lanes faster than we can imagine, all to pursue something unusual and more fulfilling. We are breaking stereotypes to form niches of our own. We want to be fashionable and comfortable, silly and suave - all at the same time.

It is true. We now like to pay our own bills. But we aren’t going to deny men the pleasure of opening our
doors and pulling out chairs for us. After all, there can be nothing wrong in a little pampering and that’s exactly how we like our lives too. Among all the generations of women on this earth we are probably the easiest to live with. And the most difficult to understand.

I thought of the bright and sunny days spent at college. When the next quiz and submission used to be the big obstacles to our carefree life. When girls would huddle around the night canteen at midnight to discuss the next hot topic of discussion. When most of our plans for life ended with the campus job or a flight to the states. When the next best thing to look forward to would be the next movie, not the next wedding. And how much things have changed since then.

As we stand in the way, with the million others zooming past us, there is only one big question. What is life all about? Each of the paths we take may lead us to some kind of successes, but what is it that we are putting at stake? Our careers? Our families? Our capabilities? Or plain personal satisfaction?

I closed my laptop and reached out for a glass of milk. If this were ‘Sex and the City’, now would be when the camera pans out and the credits roll. Like many others, I wonder what the next episode holds in store.

Winter, wedding and six new sisters

2006-01-07T19:31:00.000+04:00

I wouldnt know how to describe the last two weeks of my life. It's one of those times which you wish would play over again and again. It's the few days you have planned and waited for a whole year ahead. It's the moment you try and picturise a few hundred times before it actually happens. When your only sibling gets married and you are endowed with new family from a different culture, it's nothing short of a breathtaking experience.

When my brother told me about Ruth three years ago I was more amused than anything else. A white sister- in-law. Now that would be something, I thought.
Even without the novelty, I've always dreaded the day I'd have to share my brother with another girl. (Special thanks to Bollywood and Kollywood for all its stereotypes and sob stories). It's not that I've spent my entire life with my brother that I would hate the women who'd change that. I havent. In about 7 years Ruth wouldve spent more days with him than I ever have. It was about meeting the person who'd now be the most important woman in my brother's life. I couldnt wait.

A couple of fone calls, a few battles and many months later, the wedding plans began. It was exciting to plan for a wedding which would just have your side of the family and a handful from the other side. It was more like one big birthday bash. Mom and me wanted to extend the normal mallu wedding to beyond its usual ten minutes. (Mallu weddings are more like the instant versions- if you are in a hurry you know where to get married). We incorporated the mehendi and the sangeet and personalised it so that they would have a more 'Indian' experience. Besides we now had to live up to the 'Monsoon wedding' expectations. ( Special mention to Karan Johar for letting everyone think we always have dancing damsels and grooving grandmoms). Every wedding is a celebration, that of love, new family and of the event in itself. And we wanted it to be just that.

Looking back now everything seems like a big blur. The difficult run up to the wedding, when I had end term exams and everyone else was having fun. The relatives raving about Ruth. Me annoyed on being the last to meet her. And finally meeting her.
Meeting her was like catching up with a lost friend. In a coupla hours we were shopping for accessories like we'd done it all our life. The salespersons looked on as the multi-racial gang laughed and hopped around like children in a candy store. In half a day I had an accent which I annoyed most of my friends with. Everyone fell in love with Angela and Greg, Ruth's best friends. They loved to try every kind of food we had and at times while my eyes were tearing with the spice, they would return the dish asking for more 'chilly'. Adventurous, very.

It's tough to explain India to anyone else. How do we explain people standing just half a millimeter away from you in a queue. And the same distance between a couple in love is taboo?! Why do people give cash gifts of Rs 1001 and not in rounded off figures? Why is it that we dont hug people when we say goodbye, but cry and wail over their bodies when they are gone? What is it that keeps us from being natural and shedding tears in public? The best thing about my new family was that they could accept ' It's just like that' as a satisfying answer. ( I certainly couldnt).

The wedding was a ball. We danced, we laughed and we lived through all the chaos. I havent even been to any other 'mehendi' before but this one really rocked and at the reception we even got our otherwise-stiff-family to shake some leg. At the wedding my friends took the place of her family and welcomed us, the groom's family, into the hall. The decorations were lovely. The glowing bride looked more beautiful than any Indian bride I have ever seen. She glided in her saree exactly like I'd told her, as amused onlookers smiled on. I played the role of the sister, helped my brother tie the 'thali' on Ruth and whispered in her ear that this was 'the moment'. I dont think she heard it amidst all the noise but I thought it was one beautiful wedding. And it was just how we wanted it to be for her.

Me describing the wedding wouldn't be half as good as Ruth's or Debra's descriptions ( click on their names to see them).

The wedding was an experience. Not more than having Ruth in the family. And her lovely mom, Debra. The difference in this wedding was not that it was a mix of cultures, it was more about everyone being so eager to fit in and to make the other happy.

I'm really glad this is the way things had to happen. I'm happy my brother found Ruth for him and for all of us. Ruth and Debra are now officially family as also Ruth's dad and sisters and brothers. I now understand what my Dad meant when he said Indian weddings are not about two people getting together but about two families. This was truly one of those. Everyone from the US ate with their hands the entire trip and my family has now began hugging to say goodbye. When it was time for me to leave them, for the first time at any 'goodbye', I was in tears.

When I look at all the pictures I wish some moments would never pass. I wish we could always stay close to the people we love so much. I wish we never had to say goodbyes. But I guess that's just the way things are meant to be. Ruth- I'm glad it's you and noone else.

When turning 23 is a good thing.

2005-08-16T09:35:00.000+04:00

Some people think I wait long periods before each blog so that my 'Comments' count touches double digits. That's really not true. Though I think that might be a nice idea :)

I've been wanting to talk about these few people in my life for quite awhile. Since my birthday on June 4th to be precise. I procrastinated for as much as I could, then declared to myself that I would do it on Friendship day ( the day otherwise holds as much meaning to me as Valentine day does- sub-zero levels, really).

Among life's many unexplained things is the concept of friendship. As we get older and more mature, it's been increasingly difficult to find people who match your wavelength or simply those who are true to you. Moving from school to college to work and then again to school, I've seen life becoming increasingly complex. Life, and with it relationships. I know I'm landing on sensitive ground when I say this , but in the picture above are my closest and oldest friends- people who remind me how simple life can really be.
It's not like we've always been together- the last we've been in the same city for more than 3 days is in 1999.

We were the group which just fell together in our 11th- half made up of the new comers to school, the other half already the teacher's favorites. The light of our lives were the breaks- the first 10 minute break where we would attack all our lunch boxes with gusto and the second , the real lunch break when we would go around piling on to the others'. If my school then had the close circuit cameras it boasts of now, I'm sure we wouldve spent a many hour explaining flying bits of chappati to Sr.Patrick.

We would go for all the inter school culturals, win some, lose the rest, make our impacts and look forward to the next. Life was as easy as that. As much as it's difficult to believe and as much as I'm glad to be sitting on an wooden cot, back then, someone had to teach me what jealousy or envy or bitching was. We looked at other troubled relationships and wondered what the fuss was all about. They lost their voices campaigning for me to be the School pupil leader and we gained ground to be one of the most popular gangs in school ever. Even this year, when a few of us went back to school, the teachers fondly asked us about 'our gang'- they were thrilled to know we had kept in touch and are as close today as back then.

I'm not sure if going away to college was a lean phase. The six of us were in five different colleges and I was the one the farthest and, in many senses, the luckiest. My friends would write to me- long letters with details on which colleges our ex crushes had joined and which ones our classmates were in. Now when I read through the carefully saved up letters continued over several days, I dont even remember the characters we discussed with such rigour. The letter -writing phase soon reached a sad end. It was the email era- where we displaced an art that would never be found again. We soon became quite involved in our own lives and colleges. During my vacations at home we would meet up in my house, share space on my bed and come up with everything we could remember that had gone by. The sad, the good , the bad and the miserable of it. And then came the jobs.

Worklife was in a way the light at the end of the tunnel. After four long years we were back. Four of us in the same city of Chennai. Weekend shopping trips, walks along the beach and scrambles over beachside delicacies. We would stay over with each other for the weekends and bring back our school days.

The best part of all this is there's nothing compelling about this relationship. It's simply uncomplicated. For me my best friends are those I can meet up with after months, put up our feet together in the air and fight childishly over maggi like six years had never passed between us. It's about how smoothly our conversations have moved from who the next prank call was for to what to wear for the first of our weddings. It's when our lives merge seamlessly over the miles - and the smiles and the giggles are just the same as years before. It's when each person is so unique and special that we miss them rightaway when they aren't around- or even when they are sleeping while we are busy in conversation. It's such a heartening feeling to know that you dont have to take any effort to keep this going- if it has lasted this long, it will last forever.

This birthday was very special to me. After 6 years I was getting to spend it with my closest buddies. I think that if a li'l persuasion could get them to board trains, take a day's leave and come over to celebrate my birthday, then I must be a special person. And we surely have something nice going. So on the Fourth of June at 12 midnite, there was a familar sight. There was food flying in the air and we were scrambling for cake. In a few minutes we were sharing space , sprawled out on one small bed, licking the icing off our fingers, pondering over whether the cake and tomato all over our faces would make a good facial. I closed my eyes, smiled a silent smile and wished myself a happy birthday. There was simply no better way to turn 23.

Later that afternoon , we went to a studio and got this picture taken. One of the biggest travails we have gone through as a group was to select the best picture out of fifteen- considering there were some of us who just couldnt keep our eyes open or smile right (that's me). More than anything, God, I thank you for having got us through that one :)

Back to school

2005-06-19T08:13:00.000+04:00

It was always super fun going back to school after the long annual vacation- the eagerness of donning the crispy new uniform, the suspense of who the class teacher is going to be, the fun of reading through all the stories in your brand-new English book, sizing up the new students and getting confused to where your new class is. Some days ago I got back to school, only this time it was a wee bit different.

Everytime something new happens in my life and I'm taking it in all by myself, there are a zillion thoughts which run through my mind. There's this inherent feeling that I'm going to be looking back at these days with nostalgia someday so we want to take as much as of it in as possible. You try to remember the dress you were wearing, the taxi ride and your first sight of college. Well, frankly, the first time I was driven into XLRI, I totally missed the gates with the big golden sign- the one with the edges hidden by neatly trimmed pale green bushes. So much for dramatic beginnings.

Every thing here in Jamshedpur brings back memories of my undergrad days in Pilani. Every single thing. As much as I try to make this a whole new experience for myself and not act like a forlorn lover on the rebound ( we are talking about my ex-college here) it all just comes right back. The way I first entered my hostel and saw the water cooler - the last time I'd got water from such a contraption was in BITS. The newly white washed double rooms- the fond memories of unpacking and then sleeping in the newly done up room. The bathrooms- the swanky white tiles and the struggle to hang the extra towel on the door handle. The mess- the plates with exactly the same 6 depressions of various sizes. Even the dal tastes the same. A small pang in my heart when I see 'Veg Maggi' on the cafeteria menu. Another when I try to put on my fake northie accent and say "garam paani, bhaiyya''.

There are differences, some of which I like. It's nice having few people in your batch. It's nice to know most of your batchmates by name. It's nice to know everyone in your hostel in ten days. It's nice to have professors who recognise you already. It's not so nice to have aloo for breakfast, lunch and dinner everyday.

But you warm up to this place easily. The small campus is cozy and the fact that you bump into people you know makes you feel like you've been here forever. The 'family' thing these people so talk about is true- trust me. In three weeks I'm sitting in my room, reviving my old forgotten blog, messaging my buddy, making faces at my roommate and bugging her like I've known her my entire life. The weekend's welcoming us with open arms and we're making plans like girls from the Malory Towers. Within a week of classes we are swamped with work and deadlines a few hours of reading, project preparing and assignment discussions- much like the dizzy world I escaped from , but with a lot more excitement and fun added to it. Most laptops and PCs are busy typing out 'submissiles' - while I'm staring at this blog.

In a silent moment the other day, I looked outsidethe window and reflected. There's something about the old times which will never be back. The fun of bumping into your latest crush when checking your mail at the lab. The million people you say hi to when hunting for your best friend. The old world charm of the men waiting outside the hostel to call you. But life's changed since. And I think I'm beginning to like it.

That thing called Culture

2005-05-18T21:05:00.000+04:00

There's an auto stand at the end of my road and it's the end everyone loves to avoid. People are constantly urinating there, mostly the auto drivers. This week the Association came up with a solution. Two big pictures of Lord Ganesha were stuck up there. Just as expected, now that end is a mini temple. The Great Indian Culture!

The topic of Indian culture came up very often when I was rallying for my brother's inter-race wedding. Everyone in the family was so worried about how the 'culture' would be burnt away. So I paused to think - how much of the culture are we following anyway?

I'm not particularly proud of the culture that frowns at the birth of a girl child. Or even worse, kills it by smothering it. Our's is the culture which doesnt educate the girl child and marries her off before she reaches the waist of her mother. When she has to get married, along with her goes tons of gold, almirahs, cars, documents of ownership for land and a house. Maybe the earlier events happen only in rural areas and in uneducated families but dont you even dare and deny me the existence of dowry even in the richest families. Worry not, if you are male, from either a Malayalee Christian/ Telugu family and reading this from Bush's kingdom, you are easily worth atleast fifty lakhs. That's Five Million, darlings.

We are also the great culture which has divided us into a few zillion castes and subcastes. We practised untouchabitlity and sometimes still do. Our ancestors did not even allow the lower caste women to cover their chests. Even today, I hear noon meal scheme has been stopped in Bihar because it is being cooked by Dalits. Dont even get me started about the Babri masjid or the Godhra or the Coimbatore Bomb Blasts (something I saw from up close). Maybe that's something that happens only with the fanatics. But would your parents gladly let you marry a Muslim if you a Hindu or vice-versa?

In our culture men and women marry the people their parents choose or in some cases force down their throats.
Your parents wouldve told you that arranged marriages work and that's why India has a lower rate of divorces. Totally Mistaken.
In our country many men and women grit their teeth and tolerate the torture called marriage. All for the sake of their parents, their children and of course, their society. And also because they arent independant- which is again because they werent educated. Divorce is totally taboo, even if you'd be better off without your alcoholic, wife- abusing excuse for a husband. So take a second and count all your aunts, uncles, cousins, mausis, attimbers, periappas and chittis who are stuck in bad marriages and there - we have the real divorce rate of India.

We are the country who came up with Kama Sutra and the most sexy garment ever- the Saree. But while men can urinate in public, you cant even kiss.
We are the people with the horoscopes, the thousand gods and godesses and the Vaasthu shastra. But while the rich get richer, the poor get children.

I do like a lot of things in our culture but i think we just practise as much as anybody else in any other country does with their own. I like the way we respect people, books, animals and even our dvd players. I like the way we keep our parents with us when they grow older. I like the way we wait till marriage before living together.

Of course there are exceptions to everything here. But I'm only making a small point. What is it that impressive in our culture that we easily put down other cultures?

The final journey

2005-05-07T13:08:00.000+04:00

I met her for the first time about a year ago. She is my cousin's wife- 41 years of age. I vaguely remember telling her that she is the only member of the family who has been in the family ever since I can remember, but somehow never got to meet.

I hate funerals. And this is precisely why I avoid them like crazy.

It's been 44 days since she died. Noone is clear how, it's either an asthma attack or a heart attack that killed her. She was working as a nurse in Saudi Arabia. She apparently lives right across the hospital , yet, died at its doorstep before anything could be done. My cousin was about 500 miles away at the time.
The Saudi government wouldnt allow to cremate her there. They took 44 painful days to clear her papers and send her in a aluminium coffin filled with cotton and saw dust. She is a Catholic but her church in Kerala wouldnt bury her since she had married a Hindu. So she was to take her final journey from my grandfather's house.

When a person dies, there is immense grief, there are thoughts rushing into your head and you just want to cry looking at the lifeless body. But what would happen if the body comes after 44 days? Is the grief still there? Is it a little lesser since the person's time on earth is extended a little? or is it more?

The van had not arrived yet from the airport. People had started streaming in. Passers-by looked at the bright red shamiana and peeked in, expecting to see gaiety and finding none. I stood in the hall looking at the different faces seeing how many I could identify. Noone seemed like they were here for a funeral. Impending weddings were being discussed as were childbirths and new houses.
Someone announced that the van would be arriving in a few minutes - a call had been recieved. Before the message reached the ears of everyone in the house I could see a white van stalling at the gate. It backed into the gate with a shrilling tone of Jingle Bells. My cousin and his daughter got off, followed by three other people. Someone then lowered the coffin to the wide bench kept for it.

How soon we start calling a person 'it'. It doesnt take much at all. What should I be doing now? Do I go near the doorstep? Or do I just stay here with the rest of the ladies?
All thoughts went to A~ . She seems calm. Is it because she has already mourned enough over the past month and a half? Or is it because she has never lived with her mom? Would she break down today? Is that what everyone is thinking about?

They opened the coffin slowly and a strong smell overwhelmed me- women hurriedly brought saree ends to their noses and men took a step back. It was formalin , I think. This was what was keeping the rot away.
Someone shouted for scissors and I could see it being returned in a few minutes. I couldnt see much of what was happenning- old ladies pushed their way to the front and all I could see were oiled hair loosely tied in buns of different shapes and sizes. I could see wisps of smoke from a bunch of incense sticks. I couldnt see the plaintain which I imagined they were stuck into. 'Om namo narayana' was playing in the background. The ladies in front of me moved forward and I could suddenly see her lying there. Our second meeting.

I'm having a few million thoughts rush to my mind now. The first of which is to close my eyes and just dissappear from this scene. The incense smell is too much - too unnatural. Like some smells remind you of some events, this one is also rushing in memories. Like ten years back, the last time I'd confronted the death of someone so closely. The image of the day still so clear. Come back, girl. You are much older now. You havent shed a tear for people you have known even more. Why would you get affected for this? I'm bang in the midst of so much of grief, so much of tears and so much of pain. If I dont feel anything now I wouldnt be human at all.

Two nuns walked in carrying books and their rosaries. Soon we heard them raise their voice in a prayer. Half in English, half in Malayalam. The 'Om namo nama' is turned down in reverence to the religion of the departed soul. There are hushed voices- most noticing the smooth intermingling of the two religions. One she was born with and the other she married into. Someone was telling how she would devoutly fast on all the Hindu auspicious days and with that more appreciation flows in. The short service is over. The womenfolk move into the house leaving a few of us at the door and the daughter fanning her mother, for the last time. The men were talking in whispers, already wondering when the day will be over.
People walk around the body praying and I join in. We lay some flowers at her feet and pray for her soul. Her sisters place some silks at her feet, their silence at that instant is deafening. The coffin is slowly loaded back into the van . More Jingle Bells.

That was not very difficult. You survived it,beautiful. I hope this is the last funeral I ever have to go to. I hope I die before everyone I care for does. Why should people die? I hope I dont have many sleepless nights.

In an hour there were no others, just family. It was like nothing had happenned. Only the rose petals on the bench had a tale to tell.
My throat was parched and I walked towards the kitchen for some water. Everyone had moved to the bedrooms and bathrooms to have the mandatory bath. I took out a glassful from the pot in the empty kitchen and looked outside the window. Father and daughter were in a tight embrace, far away from the rest of the world. Softly they reassured each other, with wet and swollen faces, how they would be there for one another, for the rest of their lives. I leaned back on the wall, out of their sight, a lone tear escaping my eyes.

Maybe I am human, after all.

The belle and the cat

2005-04-19T20:57:00.000+04:00

Here's why I prefer cats to dogs- they dont need to be walked, they dont need to be bathed and they have a nice air about themselves.

I've had two cats so far. The first was given to me by a school friend. We lived in an apartment then and I was amazed at how my kitten- Puchoos- was naturally potty trained. Her 'loo' was a flower pot with all mud and no plant. I had her for seven whole years , seven lovely years.
Since Im very allergic, my father sent Puchoos to my native place. Since my neighbours there thought she would harm their baby my grandfather abandoned her more than ten miles away. I cried and cried and didnt speak to my dad and granpa for days together. After 5 days there was a call- Puchoos had found her way back home. Over the years Puchoos became a member of the household- relatives and friends calling from overseas would enquire about her in all their letters and fone calls.

One fine day Puchoos became the proud mother of two kittens. My joy knew no bounds- the whole world got to know of their arrival and as a 12 year old beauty-struck kid, I duly named the two 'Ash' and 'Sush'. After that there were many babies and the names got crazier and crazier from Ina, Mine, Myna, Mo to Coffee and Toffee. The kittens would either run away or be adopted by friends. At that cute age, there would be a frenzy of photography with baskets and flowers and the works- just like in all those greeting cards.
Puchoos died in a road accident in my last year of school. Mom and me didnt believe that she had passed away for a long time- we would look up to the window expecting her to jump in anytime.

After about two years, an orange brown cat waltzed into our lives. She just walked into our home one day and jumped onto my lap like she had been doing it all her life. Puchoos the Second had arrived. She loves to stretch and sleep next to me while I take an afternoon nap, with one paw on my hand, to make sure she doesnt miss Tea. She has also been giving us a steady supply of kittens- and their names have become slightly more creative ( Previous two - Laddoo and Jalebi ).
Two weeks back Puchoos gave birth to her latest litter. I thought I'll name the two kittens after the Mallu comedy serial my family watches everyday- Indumukhi and Chandramathi. Then I saw the third kitten.
So now i'm looking for some nice innovative names for the three. Feel free to drop in your ideas.
The best set of three names will get... well, of course, you'll get the satisfaction of having named three cute kittens not to mention us calling these names everyday. I'll even upload their snap with the winner's name next to it.
Whatsay?

It's in the stars.

2005-04-01T21:56:00.000+04:00

It's been a really really long time since I hit the 'Create post ' button.
I've always been very amused with astrology. I have had late night discussion with friends, cousins and family and have, most of the time, totally stripped it of any credibility. Couples knotted in marraige after heavy horoscope matching are resorting to things from wife-beating to mutual seperation .Those predicted with dire consequences if they married are living quite happily.
And when we ask the astrologers for an explanation when a whole family dies, they tell us something like the planets are all aligned in one row, indicating catastrophe - but that of course cannot be predicted by the horoscope. What's the whole point if you cant predict something as disastrous as that!
To add to that there is the constant shift of residences by the various planets, whose effect you have to nullify by a few million poojas and yagnas.

More than a year back, my mother did what is a routine yearly thing for most families. The horoscopes all came out and took a journey to the astrologer. The guy took one look at mine and declared that I would study. My mom gently interrupted him to tell him that I am working. He shut her up, saying that there are no working stars for me now and I would only study further. There was simply no doubt about it.
That night, with my mom on the fone, I had a hearty laugh. I was working with a software firm and didnt have any plans of moving out.

A few months later, I quit my job and moved to my hometown. I has simply hated my job and realised I was going nowhere with it. I couldve done that job after standard 10. I quit with plans of helping my dad in the business and moving on from there. On the way I took some classes for MBA entrance exams.

Two days back, the XLRI website told me that I'm selected for their PMIR course. It's a premier institute and I'm looking forward to going there in June. This afternoon the topic of astrology came up and my mom reminded me of the astrologer. My face contorted into a hundred expressions. I didnt want to give in to the prediction but thinking of it now, for the first time after more than a year, it seemed incredible that he could predict such a thing. After all, it was something even I had no inkling of.

I still havent made up my mind about astrology. It has never ceased to amuse and entertain me.
But do I start believing it? Should I join the journey next time? Where would I draw the line?
********************************************
Is it my imagination or do i hear someone laughing at me?

For Her

2005-03-07T22:08:00.000+04:00

I look with awe at the woman walking the treadmill next to me. Her third day in the gym and she is showing more energy than I am. Her ID card says 50 though her face and appearance dont. She is slightly shorter than me, about 4 or 5 kilos heavier. She is probably the only woman her age in this gym who doesnt need a weight loss program. She wipes off the sweat from her face and reaches for the water bottle, ready to go to the next machine. She catches my eye and I smile at her through the mirror, wondering why I dont resemble her at all. My mom.
Funny, to think of it now. I only got close to my mother after I moved far away from her and left to college. She had tried to the best of her ability to make me stay at home and attend a local college, something I declared I would never do. I screamed and cried and fought and finally got permission to leave home.
After my parents left me at college and went back, I realised what 'homesick' meant. It was those tears which rushed to your eyes when you heard their voice on the fone. It was all the emotions that crushed you when you realised you had just missed their call. (It wasnt the age of the cellfones yet) These sentiments didnt last long though. Probably about two weeks while I got a hang of college and the concept of ragging. Mom would always take the first oppurtunity to send me a letter. She would post it with Homeo medicines, some allergy tablets or with a dd I'd never asked for. I would read them about 15 times and carefully put them away. If she found any known soul taking the trip from Delhi to Pilani, I would get something. Chips, mysorepa, pickles and a letter in her small neat slanted handwriting.
During the holidays I would wake up early just to catch her still cooking in the kitchen, sit on the kitchen counter and narrate all the happennings of the semester that was just over. Exciting happennings, movies, plays, exams, sicknesses and eventually even crushes. I would tell her the stuff that our college days were made of while she kneaded the dough and fried the fish. She was more excited than I was when I left to France for 6 months. I taught her to use Yahoo messenger then and it became our newest and hottest mode of communication. She would be so thrilled with the smileys that chatting with her would be like a fully animated conversation, bringing a smile to my face thousands of miles away. She returned my favor. When I got back from cellfone starved Pilani, she taught her ignorant daughter how to message using the fone and how to send movie song ringtones to her number.
As a young girl, my mother was a famous dancer in Malaysia where she grew up, wearing shorter skirts and hipper styles than I have ever worn in my 22 years. As a result of which, she wanted me to have some artistic inclining. I was given the green signal to pursue many things. Karate, Dance, Music, Ikebana, painting lessons and so on. But sadly, today the only thing I can do well in public is speak. Sometimes I do feel I let her down, atleast for her sake I shouldve learnt to dance . Dance well, that is.
I have very little barriers of what to discuss with my mother. Last week, I was telling her about how some pubs in Bangalore have strippers for women's day and how much fun it would be to go see. Her motherly act lasted a few seconds, and that too only in her eyes. Soon we were both cribbing about why our home city has no nightlife. Given a choice between my mom and one of my close friends, I would take my mom out for a wild night, anyday.
To the rest of the world she is the disciplining mom. To me, she's happy that I've found the person I want to marry. She is secretly even happier that atleast he has some artistic inclinations. When my brother decided that he wants to marry his American girlfriend, he told my mom first. For she just wouldnt say no. Today she's gleefully submerging herself in wedding plans announcing loudly to her friends that her kids have minds of their own and that she's terribly proud of it.
She did join the gym for me, to give me company. Today I counted three friends I had made there, which included two guys who asked me if I was in school. My mom's tally is 8 and still growing. At this rate, i will soon be known as ' her daughter'. Not that I really mind.
She taught me how to dress, today I'm her self appointed fashion consultant. She taught me to write but it's me who writes up and dramatizes all her club speeches. There are somethings you can give back and there are some you cant even come close to. I only hope that when it's my turn, I do atleast half the good job that she is doing. Love you mom.

So, where are You from?

2005-02-15T22:08:00.000+04:00

There is no question which has baffled me more than this one. My answers to this question usually varies depending on various factors :- my geographical location at the time, the profile of the questioner, the occasion,what I am doing at the time and my mood besides other things.
For I, having been born a Malaysian citizen, of Indian origin, with roots in Kerala but having lived most of my life in Tamilnadu, can surely be very confusing.

Last week, at a college interview, the first question was ' So, what do you have to tell us about Malaysia?' . ' I was just born there' I replied. 'Just born?' the panelist replied and proceeded to ask me questions on the economy and the infrastructure and the political scenario and the landmarks of the muslim country. After replying to all of it, I decided I better clarify before they start grilling me the specifics of the place, which , honestly, I dont know much about. ' I was only there for two months, as a baby' I said . With oh-how-uninteresting smiles, they then moved on to other questions.

School life was quite okay. Being a convent school run by Malayalee nuns, a lot of students were from Kerala and since I was officially admitted as an Indian student, there was hardly a problem. In my gang of 6, though four of us were mallus, we never conversed in Mallu. My mallu skills were confined to home, where we happily adulterated it with a lot of Tamil and English.

During vacation trips to my native place in Kerala, I would be dismissed as a quiet kid. The truth being, I didnt understand many of the words my cousins used, and was quite scared my masala malayalam would be ridiculed.

My Tamil, though,was picking up. Armed with just a year of formal education in the language in my 1st standard( I took Hindi after that), my skills improved .Thanks to the bus boards and the movie posters and of course, Oliyum oliyum movie names. Malayalam script, on the other hand, was as alien as Telugu to me.

Four years at college taught me colloqial Hindi. I am well versed in all words and phrases required to converse with people who cook and serve you food and those who stitch your clothes. But of course, since I have never understood why languages need to assign genders to tables and TVs and dreams and vegetables, my Hindi can be really funny. Telugu words unravelled a bit and slowly the jalebis in their script differed from the murukkus of Malayalam. For people guessing which state I was from, the guesses always ranged from Gujarat and other Northern states as their first choice to Tamil Brahmin as their second (they are such a famous breed, I think they deserve a state!).

I was part of the Malayalee club in college, called Kairali. The meetings left me with a comfy feeling, being able to listen to Malayalam being spoken so many miles away from home. But I was still shy of my mallu and would only speak back in English. I watched Tamil movies and plays and would even consider auditioning for it. But I have only seen half a malayalam movie in BITS and preferred to stay away from mallu skits and dances. Though I did turn up to serve for the mallu feasts in off-white gold bordered sarees.

My Mom and Dad speak excellent Tamil. My Dad can even speak like a typical Tam Brahm and with his name noone would doubt him. They then hope the mallu channels show the movie name for more than a minute because they cant read it soon enough. My brother's Tamil is as bad as his Malayalam but given a choice he'd pick Tamil. Our 500 book-strong library has four books in Tamil including 'Bharathiyar Kavithaigal' ( Poems of Bharathiyar) . Zero books in Malayalam. The first and only recipe book I bought , though, is ' The Essential Kerala cookbook'. None of us can understand the Malayalam news and we google when we are asked for the meaning of the mallu lyrics in ' Jiya jale jaan jale..'

When travelling abroad, we often simplify things and say we are malayalees from Kerala when in the company of true blue foreigners. It is just too complex to explain where we stay and where we belong to. Besides they often seem to know about the beautiful backwaters and we have something to talk about. We thank God for not giving us the mallu accent and when people say ' Malayalees are Kolayalees ( murderers)' , we smile and speak about how long we have lived in Tamilnadu that we are almost Tamilians. But of course, when people speak about how beautiful mallu women are or how amazing the mallu cuisine is, let me remind you that my grand uncle was the Diwan of Cochin and I am as Malayalee as anyone can get.

My parents did try and make sure I learnt a few alphabets in Malayalam and it is a language I would want my kids to know. But of course, they would need to learn Tamil too, to understand the stiff, I adulterate their mother tongue with.

Travelling around for interviews last two weeks was good fun. The students would ask me, Where are you from?. Coimbatore. Which college in Coimbatore? . Oh no, I studied in BITS, Pilani. Oooooh ok, So you are a Tamilian?. No, no, I am a Malayalee. Oh! So where are you from?!

Food Fetish :P~~

2005-01-28T21:54:00.000+04:00

I'm crazy about good food. Usually, i'm met by raised eyebrows and other such facial contortions when I say that beacuse, well, I'm a kilo or so underweight. But I adore food, even if I'm not a heavy eater, I like the concept of eating. So to say, I live to eat.
I never wanted to learn cooking- coz it was projected as a very feminine thing and at the age of 15, when feminism is at its peak, you only want to rebel. That led to me wanting to marry a French chef. French beacuse I'd read somewhere that the French are the most romantic, also because I'd always wanted to go to France. Chef because, like I said before, I didnt want to cook.
A picture of Eiffel on my desk, French perfume in the air and French fries on the side. My dream was complete. As luck would have it, about 5 years later, I did go to France. And ironically had to learn cooking to even survive there.
An Indian would never call France the food capital. For me the meat was nauseating, the wines all tasted the same and the baguettes resembled weapons. And French men werent too inviting either ( maybe it was my brilliant French knowledge). I was forced into the kitchen armed with packets of home packed masalas and a few pages of recipes.
Frankly, I turned out to be quite good at it. For the records there was not a single dish which was inedible that i had cooked. Cooking slowly began to delight me- I'd cook when I was lonely or depressed , when I wanted to surprise my tired roommate or simply when I felt creative. Our menus were always simple, chocolate croissants microwaved for exactly 12 seconds for breakfast. Rice/bread/ tortillas with sardine or mushroom curry for dinner. Sometimes we would feel guilty of devouring so many members of the sea kingdom and make some vegetables.

Sundays were days of experimentation. We would cook sambar and rasam ( from the recipe booklet) and try out different recipes from internet printouts- which we would faithfully use the office resources for. There were several nice discoveries on our journey-Chicken 75, coconut mushroom sambal and woodchop ( a very unique frozen dessert). One total disaster was Gobi manchurian. Well, to put it nicely we couldve supplied some to replenish the dwindling glue supplies at our local post office. when I left France, my friends gifted me a lovely book on 'Desserts'. I flip through it very often- to drool at the pictures.

Back in India, when i was working in Chennai, i got back to the cooking routine, but things changed because there was no microwave and ofcourse no sardine tins. So I turned into a veggie at home and my cooking turned less experimentative. Though there is one particular session my theatre pals love to remeber even today.
It was a pot luck dinner and me and my roommate decided to take Gulab jamuns. We bought the mix, and set out with making the dough. We rolled it out into small cute balls with all the experience of doing the same for chappatis. We fried them and made the sugar syrup. Heated the syrup till it became a little viscous and dropped the jamuns into it. We then waited for a while and put it into the fridge. We mustve gone wrong somehwre coz in a few minutes the syrup had crystallised. we took the dish out and analysed the situation. Maybe the syrup had become too thick. We started digging out the jamun. Well, it was really digging beacuse there had been a fair amount of solidification. The jamuns came out with sugary deposits all around it.. so we, ummmm... well.... washed each with tap water. May I remind you here that tap water in Chennai is as salty as sea water. Now to offset the salty taste we dropped the jamun balls in mineral water. And carried it to the party. What followed at the party ranged from wild shrieks of laughter to discussions on how our poor jamuns could be used as ammunition. Last I heard was that my play director was describing my jamuns to some Slovenian friends of his- almost 2 yrs after the incident.
Over the last few years I've tasted many cuisines ranging from Mexican, Lebanese, Italian, German, French, Chinese, Thai, Malay, Baba nyonya ( a very special Malaysian variety), Turkish, Pakistani and many others. The following are some of my all time favorite foods- in random order. Also includes some which I have tasted just once.
*Raw mango with chilli powder
*Belgian chocolates
*Pal Payasam
*Matthi Fish fry
*Thin crust pizzas in Italy
*Satay in Malaysia
*Chaat
*Kela Rabdi in BITS
*Chicken Biriyani at a Bhai's shop in Coimbatore
*Fish tikka in most restaurants
*Elaiada- a mallu sweet dish
*Hot doughnuts
*KFC chicken
*Dahi vada in BITS IC
*Hot 'n' Sour chicken soup at a Chinese restaurant in Coimbatore
*Mom's egg rice
*Chilly paneer at C'not, BITS
*Mango Ice cream
*Bread sandwich with ' kaya' - the coconut jam
*Chendol in Malacca
*Cakes with icecream in the centre and on the top
*Tub Tim siam (sweetsoaked chestnuts in coconut milk) at Benjarong, Chennai
*Danish butter biscuits in round blue tins
*Sardine curry
*Little onion samosas
*Curd rice

Hmm, I'm going rumbley in the tumbley...
Till next time...