mindblogging

Capitalistic Conspiracy

2009-10-04T22:43:00.007-04:00

In what seems like a mainstream realization of the greed that capitalism breeds, Michael Moore packs a punch with 'Capitalism a love story'. It is a more contemporary version of what 'Zeitgeist' and 'The Money Masters' attempted to unveil long before the big avalanche on the stock market in 2008. Were they just conspiracy theories or was capitalism the real conspiracy?

The movie starts off with an attempt to define the capitalism that US once romanced and got married to during Reagan's era. The honeymoon was long over but even as America tries to come to terms with the real avaracious and shortsighted face of the ideology it married to spite Russia, it is in serious denial that anything can go wrong with it. As it grapples with it's own daily battles to survive this bad marriage, everyone from Paul Krugman to Michael Moore is screaming for a divorce. They are calling for government regulation and not 'free enterprise'. The moment such a thing is even suggested, one gets labeled as a commie because a large part of America still thinks economic ideology is binary: capitalist or communist. There is no happy medium and even though Obama burst onto the scene with promises to rescue people's money, they do not want socialism because they view it as a betrayal to the very foundation on which their nation grew to such great heights and was revered by the world. But Michael Moore questions this sense of betrayal stating that the founding fathers of America never laid down capitalism as the pedestal of this country.

The movie has the uncut version of everything that got onto Michael Moore's camera especially if it was sensational like a guard at GM denying the filmmaker access into the building. But it is not unedited random shooting: it spoke a language that people in the theater cheered and identified with as their own. It told a story of broken homes and broken cities that vaguely resembled the crumbling erstwhile USSR. It told a story of broken dreams, despair, angst and outrage that raged across the nation like wildfire within a span of a year. But Moore doesn't simply stop at the disease and its symptoms, he also tells the story of the healing process: worker protests and co-operative societies forming companies : something that India has long adopted as a socialist nation, something that for once, I believe the architects of our nation did not get wrong!

Moore finally ends with his trademark symbolic shenanigans: parading outside Wallstreet trying to make a citizen's arrest of the bank CEOs and cordoning off the NYSE building with crime scene tapes. What intrigued me the most was not so much the content or theme, but the fact that artists have some of the most powerful instruments and vocabularies to reach out and make their thoughts heard and yet it is very few artists who take that gift and become the voice of the society.

The Choice is Yours

2009-08-23T02:07:00.004-04:00

Volition, like most other gifts of democracy, comes with a price and a burden of responsibility. Whether we choose for ourselves consciously, making an educated decision, or the choice is forced upon us by circumstances, it is each one's prerogative to defend one's choice but not impose it on others. In a social environment that debates every single choice and silos them into stereotypes, it almost becomes imperative to be able to justify one's stand on anything from personal habits to sociopolitical issues. Unfortunately, these debates seldom end in a 'we-don't-see-eye-to-eye-on-that-but-we-won't-sock-each-other's-eyes-out' ceasefire: they are raked up every now and then, resulting in one too many blackened eyes, of course, only verbally.

I often get asked questions about my vegetarianism and distaste for alcoholic beverages. Although my answers vary according to the level of intelligence and state of consciousness of the inquirer, I found that most meat eaters and beer drinkers insist that I am missing out on something good in my life.

To be completely honest, I did sip a few alcoholic drinks just to find out what it is that makes people want to drink it all the time and I still do find it a mystery. For those who have never tasted it, in my humble opinion, it is mostly repulsive in flavour and odour. What I find more outrageous and condescending, though, is the persistence of these folks in their attempts to initiate me in their 'gang'. Well, they aren't so much concerned about being 'inclusive and considerate' when they talk amongst themselves in a tongue foreign to others, but oh no, they have to get include everyone in getting stoned out of their senses by morning whether they are 'Delhiites', 'Gultis', 'Mumbaikars' or 'Bongs'! If only our interstate wars could be solved by tequila shots - cheers to national integration Hic hic Hurray!

When it comes to finding vegetarian food, I thought UK was pretty bad, but I had another thing coming when I came to the US: it stinks! No wonder you see people around carrying three truck tires around their bellies, because anything and everything must have cheese in it. Much to the frustration of my friends who eat anything that flies, hops, runs and poops, I continue to send them on a wild goose chase for a restaurant that serves vegetarian food, which only results in yet another veg versus non-veg debate.

On a more general note, almost everyday I see a bunch of 'pro-life' supporters picketing around the Women's med center which is presumably the place abortions are done. I have even see a priest come and sermonize people about the sanctity of human life. While I personally hold a very moderate view on the issue, I do believe that assuming the women in question know the status of their fetuses and are allowed to choose to keep the baby or abort, these protestors of abortion should respect their choices. Although that appears to be pro-choice, I believe, the women should be made fully aware about how much their fetuses have developed and they might essentially be killing another human. Having said that, most 'pro-life' campaigns are almost akin to the moral policing that is prevalent in India, except that, so far, it has not been blatant or physical.

People are adept at using their freedom of speech and undertaking unsolicited advising like they are being paid for it. I believe that such self appointed advisors find every opportunity to reaffirm conviction in their own choices by advocating them to others and recruiting yet another member into their 'tribe'. There's almost a social need to be just like everybody and yet the individuals who are considered exemplars are ones who walked against the social tide even to the point of ostracization for standing by their beliefs. So yes, I am advising people to lay off the gratuitous advice: please choose to respect others choice.

Gross Anatomy

2009-07-04T10:22:00.006-04:00

Warning: People who are squeamish about body parts should avoid reading this. Even if you are not, do not read this while eating. Don't blame me if you barf your lunch on your favorite laptop!

Pep talk to self pre-course: "This isn't going to be too bad. After all you have done dissections in the past on rats and despite the initial disgust you felt for the whole process, it turned out pretty interesting, didn't it? You have also been to the 'Bodies' exhibition. I am sure it's not a big deal."

In the classroom: "I am the only girl in this class! I am sure none of these guys are vegetarians! I am doomed! I don't even have scrubs! Arrrrggghhh! Let me out of here..."

In the Lab: Dr. P: " ....most students do not have a problem with this lab. But occasionally there are cases..."
Cases of what? Students swooning, vomitting, having nightmares of cadavers running after them?
Dr. P: "Just make sure when you are not feeling ok, you raise your hand and I will have someone walk you out. Some students just walk out of the room without saying anything and it's only when I hear the crash in the hallway that I realize that they must have had a problem with what they saw."
'Gulp! I am next in line for that.' Dr. P noticed the horror writ all over my face and thought, 'Oh yes you are.'

Dr. P started making an incision from the nape of the neck and I could feel the hair on my neck stand. As he got down to the superficial fascia and layer of fat, I could feel my morning cuppa tea trying to make its way out the wrong way. The nauseating smell of fat subdued the odoriferous formaldehyde and began to overwhelm my olfactory nerve till my head starts to spin and I decided that I've had enough. Steve accompanied me out to the lounge outside.

Pep-talk to self post incision incident: "That lady was dead years ago. She cannot feel pain. Yes it takes just a scalpel to skin a person! She voluntereed to give her body for science so her soul won't wince at what we are doing to her. Go back in there, girl, and validate her sacrifice."

So back I was all pumped up to wrestle with the fat and the muscle and the blood and everything human that could possibly ruin my apetite for the rest of the day. 10 minutes into the dissection and I was right back in the lounge trying to get some air into my lungs.

Pep-talk to self post failed pep talk: "You are not a mouse! It is a human body just like your own. This is a one time opportunity to see how it all fits in together and works. C'mon clench your fist and say you can do it."

For the rest of the class I hovered around the table scalpel in hand just observing the dissections of the back muscles and even that made me rush back home after class and shower till my body became red. My olfactory senses became fully functional only after smelling and drinking coffee. Thankfully my apetite returned too.

Since then it's been less bumpy on the road to understanding human anatomy. I think I am getting the hang of telling the blood vessels and nerves apart and needless to say, it is immensely interesting. I believed it's the initial inhibition both physiological as well as psychological, one needs to overcome. If anything, being a vegetarian in an anatomy class makes it easier for me to handle what I am doing. The food I eat rarely looks like a body part. But every once in a while, there are cases : teammates who will insist on cutting open the gall bladder and insisting it looks like spinach, Dr. P cutting open the caecum with gloves covered in semi-formed faeces, dissection around the anus, turning the cadavers over and the arms almost detaching from the body, fat splaying on people's faces, dissection of the testis with fluid oozing out of it...it never ceases to get grosser and I spend a lot of time in the lounge!

'Altar'native Rock

2009-06-11T00:16:00.004-04:00

They all waited with baited breath with eyes pealed on the giant altar. Some of them restless by the long wait and tedious distractions that made minutes seem like months. Some of them up on their feet ready to herald the arrival of their demigods. Some jostling among the early birds to get ahead of the crowd and get a priceless glimpse of the demigods. This could easily have been a scene at a popular Indian temple, except that instead of prasadam there was pizza, instead of agarbattis there were ciggies, instead of teertham there was beer and instead of the devotees rising to their feet chanting mantrams at the unveiling of the idol, the fans rose to their feet singing the leitmotif of 'Viva La Vida' at the arrival of Coldplay. Blasphemous? Maybe. The euphoria surrounds when you are standing in the middle of a rock concert, just as the beating of the drums and the cymbals do when you are in a temple during the Aarti. Of course, one cannot begin to equate the madness of rock music fans with the devotion of Hindu followers.

I have always been a great admirer of the Coldplay's compositions and lyrics and hoped to see them perform live some day. And Voila! They landed right here in Cincinnati. While it was anticipated that they would jump start their performance with the most popular Viva La Vida, they started with an instrumental 'Life in Technicolor' instead, which although not entirely disappointing didn't seem as quite appropriate for the start. While the crowd in the pit and the benches seemed to have a great direct view of the band and their shenanigans, back in the lawn, we were trying to use our psychic powers to request for our favorite numbers. Just as I was screaming 'Fix you' Chris Martin dedicated the number to all of us 'lesser' souls out on the lawn. Somehow the lyrics of that song strike a chord with a lot of what one goes through in life and the fact that the 'lights will guide you home', while being awfully cliched, is perhaps one of the most reassuring thoughts one could hope.

Violet Hill soon became Cincinnati Hill and huge yellow balloons descended during their rendition of Yellow. The whole band then decided to tour the Riverbend Amphitheater and they even made a pit stop at the lawns, where they regaled us with a cover of Neil Diamond's 'I'm a believer'. We were just a few feet away from their stage and couldn't believe our eyes and actually couldn't stop screaming our lungs out. Chris Martin looked positively stoned and yet incredibly charismatic and attractive. N and I were pinching each other to make sure we were actually seeing Chris Martin from such proximity. N had a good mind to jump across the crowd and try to shake his hand but decided she didn't want to be arrested for hooliganism.

The band then pretended it was over and time to go home, when we were wondering why they didn't play the hugely popular 'Scientist' yet and screaming out the leitmotif of Viva La Vida. They returned on stage and obliged us with 'Scientist', an encore of 'Death and his Friends' and 'Escape'. The cherry on the top was the free CD of their most popular compositions that we received at the end of their concert.

I am certainly not one of those maniacal fans who follows the band, star-struck, around the world and worships even their sweat. I am not even one of those devoted fans who shells out 400 bucks for a front row seat at a concert, buys every CD that comes out into the market and remembers all the lyrics of all their songs like nursery rhymes. I am just a curious fan who paid 50 bucks for a good time in the lawn with friends and aquaintances, got my money's worth seeing them as close as the front benchers and came home with memories of having screamed like a teenager till I nearly lost my voice.

Shards of faith

2009-04-13T22:10:00.003-04:00

She handed him an urn of innocent clay
Borne from the gentle, pristine earth
Unsullied by the squalor of the sly
Shaped by her open palms of faith.

It had no pomp of silver or gold
Nor embellishments of outer design.
A labour of love that would hold
The true reflection of their mind.

‘Twas to be burnt in the kiln of pain
And endure the merciless test of fire
But fortified by love it would remain
Indestructible by forces higher.

Alas, it fell from those callous hands
‘fore it could mould into permanence.
Smashing as it hit the veritable land
And she picked up the pieces in silence.

The crumbling pieces filled her hands
As she fervently fixed the urn again.
But now defiled by amorphous sand
The purity of ere it would never regain.

Her quivering heart upon him turned
Questioning those hands that wavered
Her reflection drained through the broken urn
Leaving her trust unanswered.

-Kirthi Radhakrishnan

I dream of a White Christmas

2008-12-26T00:35:00.004-05:00

As the smoke smoulders over the Mumbai 26/11 attacks and the Indian media insisting on fanning the flames by reeling out images 24/7 and mindlessly interviewing every Tom, Dick and Harry who has an opinion about it, I believe its time people stopped the finger pointing and mourning and started thinking of affirmative action.

All the media can do is keep reminding us of how tragic the whole incident was and keep scratching the scab so that the wound never heals. It has only one purpose, like all cheap entertainment: to titillate; by either voyeurism, fear or sorrow. It seldom talks to the right persons who have concrete and useful solutions, because it truly seeks no answers and probably because the right people hopefully would be on top of the problem rather than speaking with a bunch of looney journalists who could kill each other for a sound byte from some 'important-sounding' person. Peace protests and boards filled with messages of solidarity only serve at best to unite people until the time they forget the tragedy and go back to their microcosms.

With every tragedy come the scapegoats and inevitably the first on the firing line are the politicians. The people are ostensibly tired of politicians and the media seems to fire it back to the people for not exercising their franchise: like it would make a difference! Its the same herd of jackasses up for elections each time and they just keep playing musical chairs: once in the opposition, the next time in the ruling. Our country is what it is, whether good, bad or ugly not because of our government but because of the people: right from the rickshaw driver to the corporate honcho. The politician serves only as comic relief.

The next heads to roll are obviously those of the Pakistani government and to date all the diplomatic and not so diplomatic ways of getting them to be declared a terrorist state have proven to be futile. Even if we have them declared a terrorist state, would that stop them from producing and harbouring jehadis? Would that give us a tangible excuse to go to war against Pakistan? War between two countries has never served any purpose more fruitful than a shouting match between two raucous juveniles: no matter who win., The former get battered economies and piling debt unpayable for any forseeable future and the latter get their larynxes battered and can't speak for a forseeable future. There are a lot of countries out there that could benefit from this war given the global economic situation, and one of them most certainly isn't India or Pakistan.

In this whole post-mortem of the terrorist attacks a few things were blurred out of the context. One cannot keep one's safe unlocked and expect no one to steal. The whole process of tackling the terrorists left a lot to be desired: for one we were caught napping, next our forces did not have the right ammunition, the commandos reach the hotel and then rummage for maps and layouts and further the terrorists used GPS when our average joe NSG commando would never have laid eyes on one! It beats me how a country with top IT giants can fail at the most rudimentary tranferrence of information.

Now that the war is no longer fought in battlefields of Panipat or for that matter Kargil, one would expect the security forces to be armed for such civilian warfare and on their Christmas wish-list would be getting the right arms and ammunitions and fast enough, getting briefed about the layout and locations well in advance and to top it all getting the media out of their hair when they are on an operation. With an apathetic government, a Prime Minister and a President who are a travesty to the posts they hold, one can only expect inaction from them on this wishlist. Its time corporate India which has so far been a silent spectator, largely viewed by the public as an emblem of capitalistic greed and an equally visible finger pointer in this whole circus begins to take affirmative action and becomes the 'secret Santa' of our security forces. Corporations like Tatas, Wipro and Infosys have been pioneering in trying to effect social and infrastructural changes in cities like Jamshedpur and Bangalore. I am sure the security forces would be happy to use CCTV cameras installed in public areas, lobbies and hallways of commercial buildings, databases containing layouts of buildings and for God's sake a good PR who would get those rapacious media hyenas out of the way and cordone off the area before they start a tea party amidst gunfire.

Ideas of having paid public toilets, of installing pollution meters, of manning traffic during rush hours, of building a city around steel plants took birth within corporations that looked beyond merely profit margins and annual turnovers. They sought to change the situation around them not just point fingers and blame lazy governments. Lazy governments came and went and yet the cities that survived were those with responsible corporates. It is time that those within corporate India cogitate and percolate such ideas with the powers that be to reclaim our belief that we the people truly run our country.

Deja vu

2008-11-02T02:00:00.002-05:00

Upon this familiar path I set afoot
The caressing grass I have trodden before
Its sinuous windings as I saw them last
Beckon my footsteps to explore

I know the little leaves that wave me by
The pebbles that crumble under my feet
The breeze that whispers into my ear
Foreboding the destiny that I am to meet

Anticipation throbs through my being
My footsteps hastens every moment
Alas! Visions of the past cloud my thoughts
And rain emotions without relent

Why did the leaves smile as they do?
Does the harbinger wind prevaricate?
Are the celestial beings conspiring too,
To make this path my only fate?

Wisps of forgotten smoke filled the air
An odour of irreversible abhorrence
The burnt bridge now a lonely decrepit
Recites its story in a chilling silence

Of a path once green with ebullient spring
Wafting with love and tenderness
Lives floating through the dreamy clouds
Treading towards a bridge of promise

Alas! A bridge of deception t’was
Feeding on my guileless faith
But a mirage lasts not the storm of reality
Crushing every memory in its wake.

But this path that now enchants my mind
Promises bridges that need to be built
Will the ominous clouds of the past disperse
Before the flower of hope begins to wilt?

Kirthi Radhakrishnan

'Hulla'baloo

2008-10-21T23:56:00.007-04:00

Its been a while since I have visited this long derelict and probably decripit website. But I am indeed, very grateful to all of you for egging me on to keep writing. So I guess although my fingers are rusty and my creative right side of my brain is hibernating, I will try to grease the phalanges of my fingers and awaken the moribund neurons in my right brain with something I do with relative ease: a movie review.

I did not pick up a Bollywood blockbuster or gigantic budget potboiler to shoot down: KJo what's with you? You haven't made your annoying genre of movies in a while: so much less fodder for some pseudo-intellectual like me to chew and churn to dust! I did not pick a Hollywood flick to gloss over and by the way, I found The Dark Knight a little overrated.

I actually enjoyed a simple, seemingly nondescript movie like 'Hulla'. It does not have a fantastic concept or big stars. It is about a simple situation in a typical building complex in Mumbai. The protagonist (if we can Sushant Singh one) enters a new apartment with his wife and finds himself being disturbed every night by the night watchman's 'rounds'. His insomnia reflects on his quality of work and his irritable disposition throughout the day. He tries to deal with the problem in every perceivable way: pacifying the watchman, talking to the secretary of the housing society, using sleeping pills, earplugs, bribing the watchman with new job prospects and even lodging a police complaint.

What is interesting is how a small problem like the watchman's rounds snowballs into bigger issues and becomes a social commentary on people's self-centered and self-absorbing ways. It is used as a background to portray contemporary socio-economic wars that happen everyday in a highly stratified urban India. For instance, when the secretary of the society (played by Rajat Kapoor) finds his wife comparing his economic status to that of the protagonist's, he tries to bolster his self esteem by claiming that the security arrangements he made for the society serve as an exemplar for other neighbourhoods to follow, that being the greatest achievement of his lifetime of failing attempts at doing business.

The sense of defeat that the middle aged secretary feels as he watches the newly wed couple enjoy a car and a two bedroom apartment while he grapples with his ramshackle Kinetic Honda and a family of three living in a one bedroom apartment is a picture straight out of middle aged middle class urban India fighting to keep its head above the water in the onslaught of the DINK (double income no kids) couples and newbies earning twice the former's current salary.
The servile attitude of the watchman who grew up in colonial British ruled India and listens not to reason but only the orders from a man of heirarchy and the transformation of a normal sophisticated and successful stock broker into a raving self-absorbed vengeful maniac are also very real scenarios.

What I really liked about the movie was that it ended with a karmic message without being too preachy. As a result of the stock broker's insomnia and his irritable nature, he ends up pulling down the stock price of a company that his client has invested in and is forced to quit his apartment which was being financed out of the client's pocket and to add to the repercussion, the secretary who also has a stake in the company is forced to sell off his apartment to cover for the loss. So with both ending up as losers in a battle of egos they have to let go of their vainglorious attitudes and eat a humble pie in front of the whole society.

For those who watch movies with an intent to escape into a world of fantasy and unrealism, this movie will seem as bland as boiled vegetable: avoid it. To me movies do not serve as entertainment, they are a reflection of today's society: in terms of attitude, aspiration and values. 'Hulla' made a passive commentary on it in a realistic and in a sense, sattirical way. The very fact that there is money invested in such a movie shows that the concept of realism is not dead in Indian cinema which sadly for a good part of the time invests in mindless megalomania.

Mars and Venus

2008-02-17T21:21:00.004-05:00

Disclaimer: This story is purely fictional and has only fictitious characters who bear no resemblence to anyone dead alive or yet to be born. Please refrain from speculation.

‘This one is the worst I’ve ever seen.’

“…and then she came into my kitchen and yelled ‘Hi’. I was so taken aback that I screamed and threw the salad bowl into the air. I so hate it when people creep up from behind and say something. It was so hilarious all the cabbage was on my hair. I could have passed off for Bozo!…” she giggled to herself.

He stared at her for a moment and realizing he was supposed to react, he smiled.

‘It just gets worse every time doesn’t it?’

“ So what’s up with you? Do you have such crazy embarrassing things happening in your life?”
She dug into her sub as the mayo dripped from the sides.

‘I am getting a bad feeling about how this has been going…’ he stared at his mobile and sighed.

“Well, my friend once took off the signs on the restroom and I walked into the ladies room and literally got beaten by a crummy old hag with a stick. It wasn’t funny then, but I guess it is funny now.” he shrugged.

She laughed with her mouthful almost choking on the banana peppers while he pecked at his pasta. He had almost lost his appetite. She noticed.

“Is something wrong with your ravioli or with you?”

‘How am I going to get myself bailed out this time?’

“Err nothing. I am just not too hungry right now. The ravioli is wonderful.” He dug up a forkful and stuffed it in his mouth to prove the point.

“ Oh ok. I remember once at a restaurant we were served some really rotten cheese and my friend told the maître d' that he should inform the chef that even her dog would not eat that. And he told her….”

‘Should I call Shailesh? Maybe he’ll help me out of this one. He’s such an expert in such situations.’

“…then we planned to walk out of the restaurant after meeting the manager and telling him what a rotten restaurant he has. But he didn’t want us to give his place bad publicity so….”

‘I’ll text message him first.’ He started punching the buttons.

“…and every time we go there we get a little dessert or a discount.”

By now he was totally distracted and did not make any effort to hide it from her.

“Is something bothering you or is it just me?”

His mobile beeped. “I’ll be right back with you in a few minutes.” He rushed clutching his phone to the restroom.

“Would you like to order a dessert tonight Ma’am ?”

“No I’d just like to wait for a while before I decide.” She glanced at her watch once more. He had been in there for over half an hour. She considered requesting the manager to check on him but didn’t want a manager peering at her date in the restroom during their very first meeting.

‘Maybe he had a bad stomach. That explains why he was not eating.’

A few minutes later. ‘What if he stood me up? He could have climbed out of the vent in the restroom and run away. I could tell he was not even interested in me from the beginning. Hah! He didn’t even have the guts or the decency to tell me on my face. Men!’

She signalled the waiter that she wished to pay the bill.

At long last he emerged from the restroom with a sullen face. Seeing the empty table he threw his hands up, “Story of my life. I just lost all my money to the stock exchange and now I lost her too. They somehow sense a pauper. Women!”

Noose: that's what the Indian media needs

2008-02-14T17:33:00.003-05:00

At the risk of repeating myself, I subject you readers to yet another of those rants on the current state of journalism in our country. Despite the fact that 24 x 7 news channels have burgeoned faster than breeding bunnies, the scenario is more or less like our unplanned cities: ugly and disoriented.

They have reduced themselves to entertainment shows: some even report on hour to hour basis about entertainment channels. Such utter lassitude that they'd rather just walk into the next studio room and take the interview of the sweeper of the Indian Idol studio rather than get their microphones half way across the country and cover some really pressing issues. What's more is, one channel thinks of a brilliant idea to fuel their laziness the rest of the channels will follow suit with 'exclusive' pictures of the sweeper of Indian Idol studio copied from the first channel: so much for 'new'ness in news!

Of course, all that is old hat: but this is what really ticked me off. While we are quite familiar with the pettiness of journalists who ask 'Aapko kaise Lag raha hai' to folks who lost their families and homes in earthquakes; it is quite distressing to know that despite the source of pressing news (in this case the Chinese insurgence in Arunachal Pradesh) being handed to them on a silver platter by none other than Arun Shourie, they didn't bother to get their act together and make it exclusive. They'd rather hang around at hip socialite parties happening a mile away from their cozy Delhi studio, taste some 5 star food and catch some politicos brat smoking pot or as in this case Shilpa Shetty kissing away to glory! So much for covering ground breaking realities.

Furthermore, the apathy towards reality is compounded with the political leanings of these news channels. The 'serious' news channels are not supposed to be blatantly voyeuristic or sensational. So they'd rather pick out a political angle out of a piece of information only to reiterate that they are 'serious'. They are happy supporting the party in power or at times opposing it, simply to open a can of worms, when even their weather report has nothing new!

This is the 'truth' as doled out by the news channels: the geography of India comprises only 3 cities : Delhi, Mumbai and Bangalore. That is where 'true India' lives, kisses, dances, drinks pot, shines and dies. Every once in a while the news channels discover obscure villages like Kumbakonam where a Tsunami hits or Kargil where the Indian Army fights insurgency. These places miraculously disappear from the map of India once the sensationally tragic yet newsworthy events cease to grab eyeballs.

Now what is so newsworthy about the Chinese army blowing up a Buddhist statue in Indian territory: a few hurt Buddhists in Arunachal Pradesh that's all! It pales in comparison to monumentally significant events like the desecration of an Ambedkar statue in Delhi or a Shivaji statue in Mumbai. They are not going to go up in arms and burn taxis and buses, besides whose taxis and buses will they burn? Chinese?

On a different note: I really wonder why some political parties are fixated with the idea of incinerating public property to express their angst. Is it to reinforce a Hindu ritual like a Yagna? Still on this 'burning' issue: I really wonder what kind of a message Mr. Thackrey's party and we as a nation of petty warriors will be sending back to China which insists on swallowing up a whole Indian state, while we are still bickering over which Indian has the right to live in an Indian state .

Now that I am far away from the obnoxious Indian news channels, I try to look up what is happening back in India once in a while. But for the rest of the time I enjoy the onion : I think it presents far more realities than any news channel would be willing to divulge. What's more, it's entertaining. I wish they'd make one of these in India!

Resurrection

2008-01-15T02:30:00.000-05:00

She threw the lacy wrap around her shoulders. It slid gently off her satin nightgown. The solitude of the night had ceased to perturb her. Making herself a cup of coffee she tuned to the radio station that they both loved. She cupped her palms around her mug letting the warmth spread through her hands before the liquid could warm her insides. She glanced at the coffee table in the living room. He was already there waiting for her. On that cold winter morning she did not need the coffee for the warmth, all she needed was a glance at him to infuse it into her being till it exploded into a smile on her face.

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

She stroked her bloated abdomen gently and she could feel the form that love had metamorphosed into. She wanted his hands to feel them as well. Tears of silent desperation moistened her soft cheeks as her mind flipped through the pages of their photo album: their days in college, their graduation party, their first date by the riverside, their first kiss, the first time they made love…
She could feel the cold draught mock her need to be caressed by his tender touch. Memories of his laughter rang through her ears shattering months of the deafening silence she had grown accustomed to.

“Lost!” “Missing!” The headlines had screamed.

Her thoughts clung precariously onto a precipice called hope. “He will come back!” she shouted deliriously at the empty walls. But the desolation in those words echoed shaking her fragile hope. Her body pleaded her to let go and collapse into an eternal abyss so that miraculously his arms would wrap around her and transport her far away from the benumbed unfeeling world. But it was no fairy tale and his masculine hands were not there to lift her out of her misery. She yearned to stare into his deep hazel eyes reassuring her during every struggle that they would make it through. Instead all she saw was a hazy light on the ceiling that faded with every ticking minute until silence and darkness pervaded her mind.

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

“Isn’t that the old Billy Joel song playing there?” he asked.
“Yes. Pretty old. Reminds me of the good old days…” she turned up the volume for him.
Her eyes were filled by the image in front of her. She felt as if she was walking into the past and almost said 'He is back'. ‘The same wavy hair. The same hazel eyes. The same aquiline nose. The same baritone…’
“Happy Birthday Mum” he wished her and smiled warmly.
‘The same smile. He is us.’, she looked at her son on the screen proudly. She was glad the pills hadn’t worked.

Jigsaw

2008-01-05T23:11:00.000-05:00

My fingers toyed through the confounding pieces
Feeling the myriad contours and shapes.
My eyes searched for a semblance of order
In the labyrinth of undefined spaces.

The vivid memories of shadowy pasts,
Sprung forth from distinct moments in time.
Each seemingly detached from the other,
They confronted the rationale in my mind.

As I drew myself further away,
Lifting the haze of present from my eyes,
The pieces connected to take form
And I perceived a picture arise.

At each dark piece, I would wonder why,
It perturbed the quiet waters unknown?
Until I stepped back to realise
They formed the picture of the stepping-stones!

-Kirthi Radhakrishnan

Sweetheart

2007-12-18T00:51:00.000-05:00

Maya woke up with a start on hearing the car tyres crunching the gravel at the driveway. 'Oh great! Dad's here. What have we done to this place! He is going to fly into a rage.' Her eyes darted around from the stereo which was still blaring, to the plates of half eaten biscuits and sandwiches on the table, to the tilted lamp shade, to the sofa cushions lying on the floor. It seemed like a tornado had hit the place. His head was still on her lap. They had spent the whole night together. She even smelt like him now. She looked at him tenderly as he slept and yearned that he could stay forever. She ruffled his hair gently. He seemed to stir. She didn't want to awaken him. 'Such a sweetheart!' she remarked as she watched him turn towards her belly.

She saw the hickey on her ankle and she was alarmed. 'How do I get rid of it?' she thought as she heard the door of the car slam. He had such a foot fetish! He loved her toes and she loved the way his tongue sponged and tickled them. The warm saliva on her bare toes. It seemed impossible not to love him. In fact, he was irresistible even at first sight. She was jogging at the neighbourhood park, when their eyes first met. Both of them stopped on their tracks. The moment she saw those deep brown eyes she felt the warm fuzzy feeling like molten chocolate spreading all over her heart. He too felt a strong connection draw him towards her.

But Maya knew her dad would never approve of his kind: roadside types. 'Pedigree, my dear child. Learn to appreciate and demand it!' he would say so often. But her affection for him was strong enough to goad her to rebel against her father's notions. Thus began the clandestine meetings at the park. It seemed perfect. Her dad would never know of it: he would never venture into the park for he exercised only on a treadmill.

However, soon enough the initial affection grew exponentially with every meeting and it had become almost heart rending for her to tear away from him to even go home. So finally after much deliberation, she brought him home. Dad was away at a conference and wouldn't return home until the next day. The coast was clear and they had the whole house to themselves. He was fascinated by the grandeur of her house but followed her silently as she led him into her bedroom. They had dinner together on her sofa. She loved watching him eat. He was as insatiable when it came to food, as he was when it came to her affection. She turned on the TV and they watched her favorite shows together. Later at night she turned on some loud and energetic music and they danced like crazy till they were out of breath. She plonked herself on her sofa and drew him in an embrace. She didn't remember much of what happened after that and the next thing she knew was hearing dad's car.

She panicked. Her brain was telling her to act fast: get rid of him, clear the room, spray herself with a deo and meet dad downstairs before he smells a rat. Her heart on the other hand, clung onto him and was ready to face dad and the consequences no matter what they were.

She could hear dad's footsteps climbing towards her room. She felt her heart exploding through her rib cage.
The door swung open.
'Maaaya....' her dad's excited smile metamorphosed into shock, bewilderment and finally anger.
'What's going on here?' he demanded.
'I can explain dad.' All the commotion and her pounding heart awakened her sweetheart.
'And what's that thing doing in my house?' Her dad's eyebrows were knit and his veins were throbbing on his forhead.
'Excuse me dad! But this is not a thing!' She said mustering some courage in his presence. 'He is Joey dad. Just look into his eyes! Aren't they cutest you've ever seen? Please let me keep him daddy. After Lassie this house is so lonely! Pleeeeeaaasseee Papa!'

She made a puppy dog face that her dad got confused which one was the puppy. He just left her with her sweetheart shaking his head hoping that when she grows up, her choice in men would be a bit better.

War heads

2007-11-01T15:28:00.000-04:00

When I was travelling by the shuttle today across the campus, the radio was tuned into 700 WLW. The broadcaster normally intersperses the news tidbits with his own views on them. I normally don't have an objection to that method of presentation because the views expressed are usually moderate and more like rhetorics. But today I was outraged beyond words and was fuming by the time I reached my lab.

Today's top news was that the Hiroshima bomber, Paul Tibbets died at his home in Ohio after living a ripe age of 92 years. The radio announcer apparently after much "thought" subscribed to the bomber's views on the bombings and was "mourning" the death of a brave soldier and a true patriot. Mr. Tibbets had no remorse for his act of having annihilated 140,000 people in a split second. He probably never understood the full import of his execrable act because there are another 80,000 Japanese (called Hibakusha) who suffered inconcievably terrifying diseases and mutations. The consequences of his act even today loom large over a population that was undeniably blameless in this whole ratiocination of why his act was "justified". I can even exempt the aforementioned bomber for having had such views, because that was one way for him to psychologically shut out the brutality of having killed thousands of stillborn children and condemning several others to misery and suffering. Escapism and reiteration of his intentions of ending war was one way to keep himself mentally sane which explains his longevity I suppose!

It is however, beyond my comprehension that the radio announcer should endorse such a view! What really incensed me was the fact that he illuminated only one side of the aftermath. The bombing brought a halt to the imminent war and nipped the alleged plans of Japan to attack the US in the bud. The highlight which was underscored repeatedly was that the incident saved the lives of some 10,000 odd GIs: a "commendable" achievement from the RJ's highly parochial and bigoted standpoint. While he reiterated that the war could have wrought havoc on 200,000 lives, the bombing doesn't seem to have made a significance difference given the aforementioned numbers, unless by "lives" he meant American lives and not human lives.

So isn't it as good (or as bad) as supporting the opinions of a terrorist-bomber? How is a terrorist any different from Mr. Tibbets? Every Jehadi believes in the nobility of his violent acts, so did Mr. Tibbets. A Jehadi decimates the perceived threats with bombs to safeguard his clique, so did Mr. Tibbets. The only difference being that a president of a nation that redefined the word superpower, ratified Mr. Tibbet's act.

If a broadcaster can advertize such a view openly, I won't be surprised if another 40% of Americans espouse it too. I now fully understand why George W Bush got re-elected! Most Americans haven't seen misery, the only graphic image of destruction that their eyes would have encountered is that of the WTC crashing. They will never understand or empathize with the destruction in the rest of the world sitting in their pretty glassy buildings with leather chairs and suede cushions. All they know is their lovely fantastic little microcosm needs to be protected from "percieved" or "potential" threats. So in their "global" view its the American lives and the American interests that need to be safeguarded.

Coming to think of it at a macro level, I think such Americans are really no better than some of the uncivil Indians in terms of selfishness except that the scale is much larger and the consequences more significant: the latter keep their houses clean and throw the garbage outside onto the street while the former keep their country bomb-safe by throwing bombs on other nations. Consequentially we Indians have to only deal with a few dirty streets, while America creates a few mutilated nations.

We do need some education

2007-10-26T22:18:00.000-04:00

Seeing two ends of the spectrum of the educational system is a unique experience. While it would seem rather churlish to compare one in a country of 300 million and that in a country of 1 billion, it would be interesting to contrast the diametrically opposite aspects of each. It would become a tome if I were to enumerate all such differences, but these are a few things that struck me as stark contrasts in terms of attitude.

Disclaimer: These are a few scenes I have witnessed and wouldn’t dare to extrapolate them to any generalisations.

Scene in an average-Joe undergraduate Indian classroom:
Enter professor: students rise to wish him, like he is an emperor who just made a royal entrance in front of his subjects and begins to hold session without much effort.

Scene in an average-Joe undergraduate US classroom:
Enter professor: everybody is seated and is playing with their laptops, clickers, mobiles, chewing, eating and drinking till he draws their attention to the session. In many cases the students proceed with auxiliary activities despite the professor's efforts, which I attribute to their limited attention span spawned by handheld digital distractions. So the professor has to use technology to fight technology: he makes animated power point presentations, uses the overhead projector to write down the keywords for inattentive students.

Scene when an Indian professor doesn't know an answer:
a) Professor lets his imagination run amuck without any statutory warning about where real ends and fantasy begins and students initially accept the gas. Students later realise that it was a load of dino-shit and stop asking questions in the lecture.
b) Professor is creative enough to retune the question so that it is within the realms of his knowledge. He answers the question he frames and assumes he has answered the original question.

Scene when a professor in the US doesn't know the answer:
The professor acknowledges that he doesn't know and requests the student to email the question to him so he could find the answer.

Scene in an Indian classroom when the class does not perform too well in the test:
Professor has a smug look and blames the truancy and inattentiveness of the students for the miserable performance, when in fact most students would study from the textbook rather than attend his lectures. He frightens them with dire consequences of failure and the high likelihood of tough questions in the next test that cannot be found in any textbook.

Scene in a classroom in the US if the students don't perform well in a quiz:
Professor urges the class to do better in the next class and even bets that 90% of the class will do well. He encourages and lures them with easy and sometimes mind-numbing questions, which some dimwits still get wrong.

Scene when a lecture is extended by an hour without prior warning:
Students begin to whine and protest, eventually the dissent dies down and the extended lecture proceeds without much ado.

Scene when a lecture spills over by two minutes:
Students have packed their bags and evacuated the classroom like it is on fire, while the hapless professor still shouts out the last words of his sentence so they can hear it on the corridor.

Scene in a laboratory in India:
Limited equipment, unlimited students. Students crowd, push, kick and pull other students out of the way to gain access to touch, feel and see the elusive piece of equipment even if it is a dissected rat.

Scene in a laboratory in US:
One piece of equipment for two students period. Students can take their time to fiddle around and get the hang of it, but they’d rather get it over with and scram.

It is not just the method or approach towards pedagogy that is different; essentially it appears to me as an attitudinal chasm in the educational system of the two countries: both of the students and the professors. In India the professor is many times unduly albeit grudgingly given the kind of respect that is superficial but inordinate. The students seldom learn in class, what they learn is only what they study at home and yet they show respect to their professors. In the US, the professor-student relationship is blurred by an informality in interaction, in that there is no "pretence" of respect. It is actually the lack of respect when it is due, that comes across as apathy and ungratefulness of the students despite the fact that they sometimes have better faculty and facilities. But then again, they have not seen worse to know what is better.

Given the factors like higher population, higher emphasis on academics and therefore grades and the fact that teaching is not a highly coveted profession in India, one would think the condition of the education system is perhaps the best in these circumstances. But what really exacerbates the situation is the fact that we also have reservations, so not only is it fiercely competitive purely because of the population, but also because of the unfair handicap that undeserving candidates get over meritorious ones by virtue of their caste. The learning process is never relaxed, enjoyable or stimulating because it is always about one-upmanship and unhealthy competition.

Having said that, one feel good factor about the mess called Indian education system is that, its made us somewhat resilient: most students from India manage to survive and adapt to the US education system; what are the chances of the reverse happening?

Shot!

2007-08-16T11:40:00.000-04:00

I got shot thrice in three days! No I was not prowling around in the forests of the Sahyadris to get hunted down like that. Nor am I facing the flash lights and shutterbugs because I am not ultra famous. I needed to get my immunization against a horde of diseases that seldom get the same level of limelight as bird flu, dengue and chikangunya in our country of unidentified flying objects having a predilection to inflict disease on unsuspecting human victims.

I am terrified of needles and other weapons of incision. Fear breeds procrastination. So I tried in vain to put off the inevitable till it grew like a humongous insurmountable task and an unconquerable race against time. Of course I exaggerate! After making an enormous effort to shake off the mental inertia and irrational fear, I brought myself to the clinic of our family doctor. He took a look at the immunization history form and engaged in a long interrogation about the vaccines I was given as a kid. My mother did not happen to keep those receipts and normally hospitals did not award a certificate of merit and good conduct to kids who don’t throw tantrums during immunization. So we had no documented evidence of what diseases I was immunized against. Of course I do have bodily evidence of the small pox vaccine, but then there was no date written on it! When they give kids a shot they should also tattoo a date and time stamp just below the spot where the needle was inserted. So much for fear of needles!

In any case, for those diseases that required an adult dosage, I had to get a shot as early as possible. The doctor himself offered to administer one if I could procure the vaccine and the syringe within his visiting hours. It was as if the hunted was being asked by the hunter to buy the rifle and the bullets to have itself shot. So here I go about on a wild goose chase for the drug store he mentioned and finally found that they would need to go the warehouse for the vaccine. It nearly made me jump for joy, but at the same time I needed to take my shot at the right time. I decided to try my luck elsewhere. I was really amazed that there are so few, in fact, no questions asked when one shows a doctor’s prescription for something as significant as a vaccine and it is just handed over without much ado.

Back at the doctor’s clinic I saw the waiting room filled with folks who had more serious ailments and deserved more attention than I did. I was willing to patiently wait my turn and in fact would have been deeply grateful if the doctor had left without seeing me. But the receptionist thought otherwise and led me straightaway into the examination room. I sat upright on the bed rolling up my sleeve and trying to visualize the size of the needle and the proportional pain that was to follow. When the doctor saw my horrified face he asked me whether there was something wrong. I was just about to tell him about my fear of needles when a quick legerdemain of his deft hands left me speechless and actually quite disappointingly painless. Pain as they say is all in the mind so I could feel my muscle go numb for a while before the doctor patted my shoulders and said I would be alright.

The next day I was to get yet another shot and this time, as advised I went to the nearby hospital instead. Once again I was told that the vaccine was not available and I would have to purchase it over the counter. I was about to take to my heels with that excuse when the voice in my head reminded me that I still had the tetanus injection to take. So there I was lying on my side in the casualty room remembering all the horrid typhoid shots on my hind side that I received as a kid and cringing with fear. Why does it have to be the gluteal muscle? Can’t all these things be administered as an oral medication? Just as I was reflecting on such profound needs of mankind that the world of medicine failed to fulfill, I was caught unawares by the pointed end of the syringe jabbed onto my backside. One can’t even get mentally prepared for things happening behind one’s back!

As I got off the bed soothing my sore butt, I informed the nurse that I needed a certificate. She gave me a look of disbelief. While she simply said, “We never issue certificates”, she actually meant, “Are you going to frame it and hang it in your living room?” Perhaps she thought I would award her a certificate for rapid and painless injection. The doctor asked me if I would be back with the MMR vaccine as well. I had had enough puncturing for a day, so I decided to postpone the last one for the next day.

The next day when I arrived with the bullets and rifle, apparently the hunter was way too busy shooting down and tearing apart other rapacious creatures to bother with me. Fifteen minutes of gore and sickness outside the casualty room was enough for me to mentally shout, “Shoot me shoot me shoot me”. Finally when I decided to barge in and get it over with, my eyes caught sight of the gruesome denouement of a road accident and I retreated into the waiting room. When the nurse eventually decided to put me out of my misery, I was rather relieved to see the needle jabbed into my arm.

But not all was happy and gay in Shotsville. Three shots in three days gave me a horrible reaction and I was down with fever on Independence Day.

High in the Highlands

2007-06-29T06:55:00.000-04:00

My last post was a rant and those were the least of the memories I would carry from Scotland. It is the ultimate hunting ground for folks who love natural beauty and enjoy photographing it. Every moment leaves you feeling in awe of the creation that surrounds you. Three days are really not enough to even scratch the surface and I realized that while planning the trip.

Most people don’t like planning their own itineraries and prefer guided tours. Guided tours and professionally planned itineraries seldom leave time to venture too far into the wilderness. It becomes a packaged experience in every sense of the term with even the photographs looking like the same big nature posters with different faces stuck on them! Of course the flipside of not going with a package tour would be like wandering around the streets of London and completely missing the Buckingham Palace, Piccadilly Circus and Thames! But then if you don’t do the clichéd tours and packaged pictures then explore it your way and plan it your way!

Here’s a low-down on how I did it. In retrospect, apart from the fact that we were bound by the train and bus timings and I would advice any keen traveler to drive around instead, I really thought it worked out pretty well in the end. Of course there were a few minor things which could have been done differently too.

Day 1: York – Edinburgh – Loch Lomond (via Glasgow)

We took the 7.30 am train to Edinburgh from the York station via Newcastle upon Tyne. The train journey was quite enjoyable, traveling through bustling cities, quiet villages and English countryside in the interim. Post Newcastle, the train took a route via Berwick upon Tweed along the coastlines leading to Edinburgh. The view of the sea over the jagged rocky edges of the precipice, the quaint little town stations like Dunbar and meadows stretching to the horizon were visual treats that literally zipped passed the window. I just wished they weren’t such ephemeral images that flashed by and that I could linger a little longer till they filled my mind’s eye.

At the Edinburgh Waverley station, I left my strolley at the luggage area. Much as I attempt to be a light traveler, and I digress, I end up carrying a lot of stuff like my life depended on it, but I’d rather be mentally at peace having that load rather than ruin my vacation traveling light and having to buy stuff along. In short I have reconciled to the fact that I am incorrigible in this respect.
I had already been to Edinburgh on my last trip to the UK, but the moment one steps out of the Waverley station is worth savoring any number of times one visits Edinburgh. Everything around vies for one’s attention: with the humongous Edinburgh castle looming in the background, the Sir Walter Scott memorial spiraling towards the clouds, the shopping malls thronging with myriad weekend shoppers and visitors, the open top sight seeing buses waiting to be loaded with the next batch of eager travelers and the central garden lined with trees and benches beckoning the weary ones to repose awhile. The city is vibrant and like most cities in the UK is a quaint mix of Victorian architecture and modern structures. We headed towards the bus station to book our tickets to Loch Lomond later that day. To kill time we walked along the Castle Street towards the Edinburgh Castle. Again since I had been there and seen the castle from the inside, I didn’t feel enamored about paying another 6 quid and seeing it all over again. But yes, for castle lovers it is worth a visit and it gives a lovely panoramic view of the city and the sea.

We walked back to the St. Andrew’s square to catch our bus to Loch Lomond. We had a transit through Glasgow where we took our connecting bus. As we drew closer to Loch Lomond, watching the billboards outside, I started to panic that we might miss our bus stop. So I pestered the bus driver till he promised to inform us when we reached there. He dropped us off at what seemed to be the middle of nowhere. We could see the Loch at a walking distance, a board indicating Duck bay area, a Loch Lomond Youth hostel board directed into the thick of the Trossach’s national park and a highway on which cars and motorbikes screamed across at unimaginable speeds that could blow us away. The Duck bay area was under renovation so they did boat rides only from Balloch which, we were informed was a 15-20 minute walk from Duck bay. Walking through the Trossach’s national park in the canopy of towering trees was a rejuvenating experience with the sunlight filtering through the virgin pale green leaves, the sound of a little brook running by, a small clearing with a moss laden table and a creaky wooden bridge over the brook. Just when we had covered half the way to Balloch, we saw a gate leading towards the lake. I enquired with an old man walking towards us about it. He was kind enough to give us a ride in his car. Sometimes it’s really the free rides that take you places and make you feel the serendipity of traveling and discovering on your own!

At Balloch, fortunately we managed to get the last cruise into Loch Lomond. God bless that old Scottish man! Loch Lomond happens to be the largest natural fresh water lake in Scotland and supplies water to many of the important cities including Edinburgh and Glasgow. As the boat glided into the quiet waters leading into the Loch (lake), we took to the deck. Apart from the occasional wave rocking the boat, it was a fairly quiet cruise at reasonably slow pace to look around at the castles along the shores and the Inchmurin Island in the middle of the lake. Of course if you are looking for some adrenalin pumping experience the speed boats and water scooters are for you, but its best to reach Balloch earlier than 5 pm to go on one of those rides. On our way back to the bus stop we dined at an Indian restaurant at Balloch (where do you not find one of these!) We returned by the 8.30 pm bus to Edinburgh.

For the night’s stay I had booked the BlackFriar’s Youth Hostel which is near the Waverley station. We had some difficulty locating the place, but I found the folks in Scotland pretty helpful and we finally reached our youth hostel. The scene outside the Hostel was that of typical UK nightlife and I was pretty apprehensive about my own decision to stay in a youth hostel! I met only one of my would-be roommates in the Ladies dorm at 11 in the night. She was from Canada and looked like a student. I hit the sack for an early rise the next day and was hardly aware of when the rest of my roommates piled into the room.

To be continued.....

The day the "Shutter" Bug bit me

2007-06-19T07:56:00.000-04:00

I have despised the horror genre of movies right from my childhood. Even the ‘Onida’ devil used to make my hair stand on ends and I used to hide behind my grandma’s back while watching ‘Vikram Aur Vetaal’. Jaws could keep me away from the swimming pool for a week and my friends refused to associate themselves with me after I screamed while watching ‘Kaun’ with them.

DJ on the other hand gets an unfathomable thrill out of watching horror movies and I normally keep a safe distance from the living room when infernal noises emanate from the TV. But this time around there was no escape! I visited the apartment of A, S and M to finalize our Scotland trip plans. Their living room gets a good wireless signal and there wasn’t much recourse to getting out of that room without booking the tickets. While I surfed the net for the best possible deal at a decent Youth Hostel, the guys were interested in scaring the living daylights out of themselves. I politely declined the offer, so they drew the curtains and turned up the volume for the perfectly diabolical ambience. The Thai horror movie was called ‘The Shutter’. Its funny how, when you don’t understand a language you tend to listen even more carefully and that’s what makes such movies even more scary! While I successfully managed to wean my eyes away from the screen and concentrate on locations in Edinburgh, my ears could not escape the frequent yet sudden screams and crashes that made me jump out in fear every time. After booking the tickets I pretended to busy myself with surfing the net but snatched a few glances of the nefarious movie. While I was told that I missed one of the scariest visuals of the vindictive ghost, I was not too sure about sleeping well that night.

At 10 I bade goodnight to A, S and M and turned homewards. The streets were well lit and I made sure I took a road that was likely to have some semblance of life on it. But the creatures of the dark crawling out of the pubs of Great Britain were not the species I’d have liked to encounter on a night like this! As I marched confidently repeatedly telling myself that I was a sane individual and it was just a movie, I felt something hitting against the back of my windcheater. I was horrified, screamed and spun around to see what it was. Just my laptop wire bobbing out and rubbing against my back! As I was about to breathe a sigh of relief, I saw a man across the street waving out to me. His inebriated presence was only adding to my discomfort. I walked as fast as I could lug a 3 kg laptop. He drew closer and flailing his arms malevolently he tried to beckon me and asked if I’d like a drink. I couldn’t have given him a more disgusted look as he slithered away into the darkness, while I fled in a fit of terror towards my home chanting all the Shlokas I could ever remember. I only stopped when I was in the safe environs of my apartment. I related the incident to my roommate and warned her of the rough night ahead.

I tossed around a few times in the bed and silently crept out to the living room. After indulging in a few midnight tidbits I turned on the TV to watch something soporific enough to tranquilize me to sleep. There were some mind-numbing word games, baseball match and a snooker match to choose from. I couldn’t tolerate the blithering butter mouthed game show host, so I chose the baseball match. But every now and then the commentator would yell out the score loud enough for the whole of the European Union to wake up. If I turned down the volume I tended to stay awake and think of the depraved ghost and how she haunted the photographer all his life. As my focus drifted from the baseball game to the hallway I could see the staircase light flood in through the door and cast a spooky shadow on the wooden walrus hanging in the hallway. On a normal day I wouldn’t have thought much of it, but just for safety sake I decided to close the door of the living room and shut off the view of a potentially satanic shadow. As I kept telling myself to think rationally and that there were no such things as ghosts or Santa Claus, the door of the living room swung open right in front of my eyes. I tried to stare hard into the darkness wondering if it could be my roommate checking to see if I am ok or was it a figment of my macabre imagination! With my heart pounding like it would explode through my rib cage, I turned on the lights. The door was open alright and there really was no one! I checked the bedroom: my roommate was fast asleep. ‘Think logically’ I reiterated to myself. I tested the living room door again. Because of the friction of the carpet it stayed in place for sometime but the loose hinge and the weight of the door caused it to swing open after a few minutes.

Glad that the world of ratiocination had not deserted me when my mind was getting overwhelmed by thoughts of ghosts and irrational stories I finally slept with the lights turned on and snooker on the TV at 4 am in the morning out of sheer exhaustion.

Footnote: I haven't revealed much about the movie 'Shutter'. I don't want to spoil the fun of all you horror maniacs out there. Watch it if you like to spend a sleepless night wondering if two cadaverous hands will come and grab you under your sheets!

Scouring Scotland with a Sack of Potatoes (The Rant)

2007-05-09T09:14:00.000-04:00

Visiting a new place and a new culture is always a different learning experience. I found that we Indians tend to be more insular to these cultures and in general make for one of the most finicky, fussy and lazy travellers ever. I have seen the “we are like this only” attitude surface every now and then; a complete refusal to adapt and a fiercely defiant need to stick to the Indian ways, unmindful of whether they are good bad or ugly. But is it really an Indian trait or was it just me picking the wrong group to travel with?

I was in the heart of Scotland with the 3 'wise' men from 'Indolia'. It would of course eat up all the available webspace if I were to expound their ineptitudes, but it would just suffice to say that they were nothing but deadload on the trip. What is with the strange obsession to look for an Indian restaurant and eat a three course Indian meal whilst in the heart of the Highlands? Yes, the Brits and Scots dote on our Indian food: but is that the pièce de résistance of travelling in Scotland? Every precious minute of our stay in Inverness would have ticked away at some dingy “Indian” restaurant playing infernal Indian remixes with seemingly Indian décor but run by Pakis and Bangladeshis, had it not been for me putting my foot down! While I managed to inveigle my co-travellers out of dining at an Indian restaurant, what followed seems even more baffling: eating take away food sitting in the restaurant! Take away food should be, and no prizes for guessing, just taken away and eaten as you go. It took me 5 minutes to eat my Veggie Sub whilst walking around the city centre, so it beats me why it should take 45 minutes to eat a Macburger and fries! There is much more to do in new place than to stuff oneself with fast(!) food.

Another thing that irks me the most is lethargy on the tour: indolence of both the brain and the body are totally unacceptable to me. When one goes touring, one looks forward to getting as much value for money from the journey as humanly possible or at least not lose an opportunity to see something exotic, do something adventurous and feel exhilarated by the very thought of doing it. So if a good part of the day is already spent getting there and then one would want to spend the rest of the time snoring inside a youth hostel when it’s bright and sunny outside, it really gets on my nerves! Most of the times in UK, the best way to get around anywhere is walking if there are no buses. I’ve found walking anywhere in UK very rejuvenating and not as tiresome as it is in India. Given my physique and dietary habits one would think, I couldn’t manage more than 2 kilometres at a stretch and that folks twice or thrice my size and rapacious eating habits would be ‘well-equipped’ for a physically exerting excursion like a 6 kilometre walk around the River Ness. Not only did I see one of the most divine looking river crossing, islands and a beautiful rainbow on my 6 km peregrination but also had my dinner and returned to the hostel before sun down whilst the rest of them were cooling their heels at a salmon eatery after a mere 2 km walk. Of course sacks of potatoes do not have legs do they?

I think the problem really starts with not knowing what to expect out of a trip.
The last thing one would want is a person going to Scotland to see sharks swimming in an artificial aquarium. Scotland is a place of natural beauty, so if one would go seeking a rollercoaster ride in a theme park at Scotland, I wouldn’t be surprised that one would meet with anything but disappointment and a big hole in the pocket. It’s a place you would want to travel into the tranquil wilderness, to sit on those little benches on the islands, soak into the capricious weather climb atop those castles and to capture the colours of terrain, the flowers and the joy of spring on your camera. In my view, a person who cannot appreciate these should never really venture into a Scotland trip. Travelling all the way there simply to claim that one went to Scotland is like raving about a bestseller one hasn't even read!

What exacerbates the situation is not planning it right! When you are focussed on what you want to experience and know the best place you can find it, nothing can really stop a determined traveller: rain, turbulent weather, hunger or even languid company. Unplanned travel is a sure shot recipe for disaster, wasted time and unforeseen expenses. So when one has no plan of one’s own it’s not rocket science not to figure that the next best thing to do is to stick to someone who has one! It’s totally juvenile to go to a tourist information centre and act like a kid in a candy shop. It is even more vexing when the person who knows what do next, is made to look foolish and dragged back into a redundant discussion to take a consensus. When you don’t even know which direction you are standing in, how on earth are you going to decide where to head? Men never believed in reading maps that’s why Columbus landed in the wrong country. And what’s more? He was egotistical enough not to accept his mistake and called the natives there as ‘Indians’. Men!!!!

Footnote: Like I said before every trip teaches you something new. For me this trip where I was carrying an extra baggage of 3 sacks of potatoes, taught me to travel light next time!

'Stuff'ed

2007-03-30T12:08:00.000-04:00

Sorry folks,
I do apologise for the long sabbatical. As to what has happened of me, lets not get into that: because at the moment I am "stuffed". Stuffed: that's a rather strange word and one would think I am stuffing myself with a lot of Muffins, but that's so not the case! Well actually my manager likes to bandy that word around and I am absolutely fascinated by it. He'd say 'Gosh we are stuffed' which loosely translates to 'We are in deep shit.' 'They just stuffed us in.' which means 'They pushed us into deep shit.' The first time I heard it I went 'Whaaaaaaaat?' (no not that loudly)! But I wondered about the origin of this phrase: does it mean 'stuffed like a christmas turkey and cooked in the oven' or does it mean 'stuffed with so much food down one's throat that one would want to puke' or 'stuffed like a trophy head of a moose' or perhaps 'stuffy and suffocating'. That's a lot of stuff to think about but I don't have the time or the energy at the moment so I'll leave the thinking to you brilliant folks. Okie dokie. Cheers!!
By the way if any of you thought I was drunk when I wrote this you are right: Happy All Fools Day!

Patience

2007-02-07T08:04:00.000-05:00

Note: The post has nothing to do with the Take That song. Nor do I intend to allude that my readers should have some patience before they find my next post.

I never believed in it and yet on a day when I was physically and mentally drained and too exhausted to even react, let alone vent my anger, I learnt the value of equanimity: the one that breaks adversaries and brings them down on their knees.

I live in an area which is close to the heart of the city and owing to the burgeoning traffic the road near my house had been considerably widened and finally converted into a wide road one way. Despite this there are innumerable bikers who drive onto the pedestrian sidewalk near the signal just to get ahead of the others and zoom past when the signal turns green. It has been making me irascible by the time I reached home almost on a daily basis, the irritation vented long after the cause was out of sight. Initially, I thought anger management techniques would help: I counted ten till my ears went red and the caricaturesque steam would come out of my ears, I tried nipping the vexation right at the bud by spewing expletives at the root cause of my irritation: the bikers, I tried to give myself feel-good factors to distract myself from the anger: singing songs while walking, eating a cake before walking back from the bus stop and even watching Seinfeld after going back home. But invariably that five minute walk back home managed to ruin the next five hours that I spent pacifying myself.

Yesterday as I stepped onto the sidewalk a truculent biker was weaving his way through pedestrians followed by his uncouth brethren on their respective vehicles. With an inexplicably calm disposition that overcame me, I stood my ground and refused to give way. Another colleague walking with me also stood by blocking his path completely. It was now the biker’s turn to be irritated, he gestured that I could squeeze through like the others and let him proceed. But I told him that I could stand waiting there forever till he got his motorcycle off the sidewalk. He thought that it was just an empty threat and a half pint of a girl like me wouldn’t last a second longer before his burly bike. I did not make an empty promise and continued to glower at him. It did not take longer than 20 seconds before his caravan of fellow bikers obediently move their steeds onto the lawful route after which they jibed him to follow suit. I waited with no seeming hurry or care in the world. The other pedestrians passed us by and coaxed us into letting go. He even began to plead but we did not budge nor did we sermonize him on what was a lawful place to drive: because everyone knows the law but few of us follow it. We persisted. Soon the traffic light turned green and he realized that it was he who was in a hurry not we. As he lowered his vehicle onto the road, my partner slapped me on the back and said victoriously, “We did it.”

Yes, some things get done by sheer persistence and patience: both of which I need to practice especially when dealing with people who are not at par with me but more on that later. At the moment the 50 seconds of patience and equanimity would probably keep me jubilant for another 50 hours. I wasn’t the one to advocate Gandhigiri (a clichéd term by now) in daily life and yet I inadvertently practiced it and won: not just against the biker but also my anger.

Book review: The Inheritance of Loss

2006-12-23T10:18:00.000-05:00

I am not much of a reader and can quite easily lose patience with books that are slow and uninteresting to me, which in itself explains why I have not done a single book review on this blog thus far. It’s pretty much an aberration of the genes, I believe because my parents and even grandparents are voracious readers and my mom and grandmom are known to have devoured books of varied genres: right from business magazines to reader’s digests to novels to religious texts to comics. Having said that, surprisingly, I have brought myself to read some of the most insipid pieces of fiction (Last Man Standing David Baldacci, Acceptable Risk Robin Cook) and my mom was amazed that I managed to reach the last pages of these books when she herself used them as a soporific for her afternoon siesta. But that is beside the point. I did manage a few good reads apart from the absolutely racy and fantastically unreal pieces of pulp fiction by the likes of Jeffrey Archer and Sidney Sheldon.

I had never read a Man Booker winner so far and didn’t have any preconceived expectations from Kiran Desai’s Inheritance of Loss. I found her style reminding me of a rare concoction of the styles of R.K. Narayan and Ruskin Bond. Although the narrative is set in the late 1980s there is contemporariness in the context: a senile old grandpa with a colonial hangover, typical old world aunties with their silly British accents, a convent bred teenager coming to terms with a world outside her own, a gutless Nepali who on one hand wishes to join his brethren and claim what is rightfully theirs and on the other hand lacks the courage to let go off his puppy love, an illegal immigrant in the US who leads a more miserable and wretched life than his poor father in India would have ever seen in his entire lifetime and a paradise called Kalimpong torn in pettiness of war.

The narrative is a bit slow especially when it veers away to Jemubhai Patel’s ancestry and Gyan’s family tree. However, the descriptions are so vivid that you can almost feel the picture grow in front of your eyes as you read it. The metaphors are so accurate that you jump at the comparisons and say “Didn’t I think of that too!”
Sample this excerpt:

“Unsuspecting of the approaching news, Lola was in her garden picking caterpillars off the English Broccoli. The caterpillars were mottled green and white with fake blue eyes, ridiculous fat feet, a tail and an elephant nose. Magnificent creatures, she thought, studying one closely, but then she threw it to a waiting bird that pecked and a green stuffing squiggled out of the caterpillar like toothpaste from a punctured tube.”
Déjà vu ! How many times would DJ have squished a caterpillar under his boots and exclaimed “Cibaca!” as a kid.

Kiran describes human nature so beautifully. Look at this gem:

"Cowardice needed its facade, its reasoning, like anything else if it was to be his life's priniciple. Contentment was no easy matter. One had to situate it cannily, camoulfage it, pretend it was something else."

The language is peppered with so many figures of speech that it is literally a hunting ground for English teachers (I can almost imagine Mrs. Aga jump at this book). Where words don’t suffice to paint the picture, sounds do, which seemed very Ruskin Bondesque. Despite the floweriness in the English, the liberal use of Hindi words keeps the feel very Indian. You can see flashes of R.K. Narayan in the heart wrenching, yet funny depiction of the characters: each one pretentious and yet so painfully human that you don’t whether to laugh or to cry because you see a reflection of your own mind in their foibles and contradictions: Gyan, who is so childlike in his need for love and doesn’t want to stand up to his calling; Biju, who despises the Americans and yet yearns to settle in America; the judge Jemubhai Patel, who cannot see beyond his microcosm of his dog Mutt and him, even as a war is tearing the landscape; Sai, who turns away at the abject poverty of her lover; Noni and Lola who fall off their high English horses when they see their opulent lifestyle shredded down to the bare minimal needs of survival during war. You sometimes wish these characters would rise above their frailties and become the heroes about whom books are written. But alas! The book is not about overnight saints, gun-totting heroes of war or a rags-to-riches success of illegal immigrants in the US. Like the title suggests, it is about loss and losers: loss of peace in paradise, loss of dignity, loss of direction, loss of love; yet it is not recounted like an elegy or a rant. It just leaves you with a medley of feelings.

I am not the one to judge whether the contents and context are universally appealing and I am not even aware if that is a criterion for a Booker. Even so, as an Indian reader, I would think it comes the closest to portraying the dichotomous state of the present Indian society and the Indian minds. It’s not a book meant to be read at a super fast pace in a superficial manner because it doesn’t have any dramatic turns or unexpected climax, it is slow paced like real life. It is meant to be savored and mulled over just like rolling your tongue on a mint and letting the flavor pervade all the taste buds.

What Women Want

2006-12-13T07:43:00.000-05:00

Warning: This post has nothing to do with the movie of the same title. Nor does it provide a step by step analysis peering into a woman’s mind. Disappointing, I know. Sorry guys! Also feminist brigades can do well to keep off.

The idea of egalitarianism in our society is quite befuddling. I have often wondered, when we talk about women’s equality or equality of the castes, whether we actually mean equality in the absolute sense of the term or we actually provide them with crutches to “help” them feel equal. I see the latter being the order of the day and there is a supercilious air with which this equality is bestowed upon the “lesser” mortals subtly conveying that “you can never become equal without these crutches”.

What do you feel when you see seats in a public transport bus that say “Only for Ladies”? Does it mean “Ladies, we have tormented you for ages and now as a token of atonement we offer you reserved seats”? Does it mean “Women, you still are like weak dandelions that will get blown away by the fierce wind of a man’s world. So sit down and don’t hurt yourself”? Does it point out, “Females, the harsh reality is that we men are ill-mannered and cannot control the movements of our hands and our eyes. Hence in view of your own safety we suggest you sit down separately.”? I have come across seats reserved for the elderly and disabled persons in the buses in UK and even a special area for buggies but never seats reserved for women. So is this what we are really looked forward to as equity in our country?

The other day as I was taking the public transport to office, I did not find a seat while some blokes were occupying the seats meant for ladies. A lady, who herself was seated, started arguing with the men seated in the reserved section and pointed out to me as a victim of their incivility. She wanted me to join her Mahila Mukti Morcha Andolan and claim what was lawfully mine. I simply stood spectator. There was another incident where a friend of mine demanded that her colleague should be chivalrous enough to offer her his seat and reproached him for his thoughtlessness. It goes for all the acts of chivalry and many women outright demand it: we love to dump our heavy shopping bags on the men while our hands remain free to twirl our locks and adjust our makeup, we expect them to open the Bulund Darwazas for us while we make our regal entry like Queen Victorias (we could do with some applause as well), we demand that they draw our chairs out so we can place our fragile bottoms on those exquisite cushions at fluffy sounding restaurants and yet we’d like ourselves and the men around us to believe that we are superwomen! I am rather amused at the dichotomous stand that we women take on what we believe is equality and I surmise many men are quite bemused too. I am not too surprised that we do not get what we really need because we are not clear about it ourselves! We expect reservations right from seats in the buses, to engineering colleges to parliaments and yet we want to be judged on level playing field and be awarded promotions and raises at par with men. I do not have problems with engineering and medical colleges solely for women or the fact that women’s tennis is played as best of three instead of best of five. These cases accept that there are areas where women have niche skills even though nature has not endowed them with the physical prowess of men.

Breaking the proverbial glass ceiling has become an obsession for women’s lib brigades. Why don’t they accept that some women out of their own choice would like to quit their high profile careers to devote time for the family? Why are women, who choose to stay at home and become “mere” housewives, looked upon with derision for having “wasted their qualifications and professional degrees”? Isn’t liberation all about volition even if you choose the same path your grandma was forced to take? I think the most memorable scene in the movie Mona Lisa Smile is when Katherine Watson (Julia Roberts), a feminist arts professor at Wellesley women’s college, is shocked by her best student’s decision to settle into family life. Katherine did not realize that in her ambitious plans for her bright student she was treading on the latter’s right to choose family over career. Although the movie was very pro-feminist, it did not show either the career woman or the housewife as a winner or a loser. Instead it just questioned their ideologies. Perhaps it is time women just sat back and asked themselves what they really want rather than live life in one big blur of time and fighting the wrong battles in their lives.

What's up doc?

2006-11-01T06:05:00.000-05:00

Strange things happen in the medical world, but stranger are the denizens of the medical world. I visited a general physician today, to check up my foot problem. He is a very amiable and familiar person in our locality and we have consulted him on several occasions in the past including the time I was bitten by some unidentified creature leaving two fang marks on my foot and the time I was bitten on my hand by an unidentified human being! What is with all the biting around?

This time an unidentified pointed object lodged itself into the sole of my foot causing a minor swelling. I was rather concerned that a small white spot was developing into it, so I walked into our friendly neighborhood GP’s clinic. He began his friendly chat with small talk in Marathi. I cut to the chase because I was supposed to be on my way to the office in another half hour. I stated in clear terms how the problem came to be and voiced my concern about the probable infection.

The doctor frowned and asked me, “Are you feeling feverish?”
“No.”
“Do you feel cold since the past few days?”
“Well the weather is pretty chilly nowadays isn’t it?”
“Do you keep shivering all the time?”
‘Eh? I would, if I came out into the cold without a sweater!’ I shrugged.
By now I was pretty much worried about where this conversation was heading.
“Are you on any medication?”
“No.” I eyed him with suspicion.
Then he picked up the torch and stared down my gullet. Nodding in a rather concerned manner he said, “Your throat is pretty inflamed.”
“Yes. I had a cold last week and I am having a cough now.”
“Right. So what did you take for it?”
“Nothing. Just vitamin tablets and hot milk.”
Wow! A poke on my foot can cause me fever and a sore throat? Must be one of those holistic medical principles.
Then he walked into his medical counter and started rummaging for some pills.
Yipes! He was getting serious, but I wondered if he heard my real problem. I was trying to replay the conversation mentally and figure out how “foot” got replaced with “throat”. I was even trying to figure out if “throat” in Marathi sounded like “foot” in English.
He was back with his trademark neatly folded paper packet of pills.
“Have this twice a day (or was it once I can’t remember from the stupor) for the next three days.”
I was stumped for words and was wondering how old he must be to get senile.
“Do you have an earache?”
“I had a scratchy ear last week from the cold.”
“Ahh a cold huh? So did you go out of town for a vacation?”
“No. I was right here.”
A cold from out of town can cause a swelling in my foot? Wow! How the medical world has progressed! Perhaps he can tell I went for a long drive out of town last week by staring at my tonsils, or the sole of my foot. Yes foot! Right! I want to talk about my foot.
“Come and see me on Thursday after you are done with the pills.”
He stood up to lead me to the door but I remained seated and refused to budge. I was not going to give him the benefit of the doubt that he could be deaf or senile or that he was trying to humor me with some placebo. I am not a hypochondriac: I don’t need to be humored with vitamin pills!
I showed him the sole of my foot and asked him, “What about my foot?”
He took a cursory glance at it and said, “Ohh that’s a corn. Just soak your feet in saline water for an hour. It hurts doesn’t it? Don’t run around too much.”
He smiled as I walked in a dazed state to the door. “Come back on Thursday and I’ll tell you if you need more medication.”

I laughed all the way home and narrated the incident to my parents. My dad said, “Perhaps he has been treating too many chikangunya patients these days. Maybe he thinks you’ve got it because of a mosquito bite on your foot!”

Cheep! Cheep!

2006-10-10T23:25:00.000-04:00

I was amused when I read this in JP’s blog. I have had a fair share of incidents when I have had to keep a straight face with people around me make horrible howlers in pronouncing English words. I completely understand that they may not have had the opportunity to study the language in great detail. What gets even more hilarious is the use of English words in the vernacular language.

The other day, I was at the Fotofast store to get prints from my digital camera for the first time. The last time I had prints done was way back in 2001 when we didn’t have a digital camera. At the counter I saw a couple getting their photos downloaded onto the PC first. I hadn’t brought my USB cable along so I wondered if I could borrow theirs.

I informed the salesgirl at the counter that I didn’t have a USB cable.

Salesgirl: Cheep ahe na?

Me: (Yeah right I know it is cheap to get prints at Fotofast.) Majhya kade USB cable nahiye.

Salesgirl: Ho kalale. PaN cheep ahe na?

Me: I know you need to endorse your shop and all that with the competition increasing but I have a problem here. *gawking like I landed from Jupiter*

Salesgirl: Tyachyat memory cheep aste. *quiet exasperated by now*

Me: Oh no no, my 512 memory card was not really cheap. And I don’t want to buy one more from you even if you say it is cheap. *Still gawking*

Finally the irate salesgirl took me to the Fujifilm kiosk and showed me the slot for the memory card.

Me: Ohhhhhhhhh Chip!

The salesgirl looked at me as if I was a cavewoman.

Sorry folks, I didn't translate the conversation to English because it would have killed the joke.