A quick tale 25

Inevitable

They were all ready to say goodbye. They had even started mourning while she was still hanging around. Even if it was only by the flimsiest of threads. They were used to surprise deaths – an accident here, a stroke there. This waiting for death was something new. And it was beginning to take its toll on their patience.

The family wished she would hurry up. But the old matriarch was no pushover. After all those years when she had put her life on hold until they were all done eating, studying, marrying, having children, falling ill and dying, it was her turn now. And she was not going to be rushed.

A quick tale 24

Photo

They were surprised by her decision not to have father's photograph in the house. They didn't know that she wanted to remember him as a complex human with capacity for infinite love and a foul temper that made him a monster to live with. And not just as an old man with a benign, toothless smile beaming down from their living room wall.

A quick tale 23

Look away

They would quickly change channels whenever there was an ad for a contraceptive or a sanitary pad or a performance enhancer. The kids shouldn't hear of these things, they believed, it will corrupt their minds and give them wrong ideas. For their part, the kids would pretend not to know.

A quick tale 22

Amma

They will forget everything she ever did for them. How she would stay up late until they were all home. How she would wait until they were all served before sitting down to eat. Or how she would fast so that they may pass an exam or get a good wife or not get chicken pox. They will remember what a good cook she was and how they miss her food.

Quick tales

Water, terribly, sleep

Waters of the world had had enough of abuse and decided to go to sleep. And never wake up. There were no waves, no ripples. No whirlpools, waterfalls or vortex. Only still water everywhere. And the world was a terribly poor place for it. But the people did not notice a change.

~

Young man in a strange country. Boards a train. Drinks coffee offered by stranger. Drugged and robbed of his luggage, thrown off the train. Remembers nothing except three words 'water, terribly, sleep' which he keeps repeating to himself. But what good is 3 English words in a land where they spoke a different tongue with their noses? And why was everyone walking on their hands? Were the tree waving their roots at him? How was he ever going to get out?

~

'Never swim after a heavy meal' were the last words that flashed through her mind. Her mom her given this sagely advice many years ago. The words were of no use. Now that the water was turning terribly cold and she was drifting into a deep sleep. Sinking all the time.

~

He had a lisp and could not pronounce 'r' properly. At six, that was a terrible or a 'tellible' thing to happen. So he invented a new vocabulary for words that involved pronouncing an 'r'. He'd say 'jingo' for 'water' and 'bingo' for 'bread'. Thankfully, he did not have to come up with a word for 'sleep' as there were no 'r's in it and in his dreams he was not teased.

~

She could remember it like it was yesterday. Walking into his house for a drink of water, falling asleep on the couch and waking up feeling terribly ill. She told her mom about it. But the mother asked her not to breathe a word. For father would be real mad if he found out.

~

She longed for a pet. But mother wouldn't allow any in the house. 'They make a terrible racket and won't let me sleep at night', she said while adding helpfully, 'Instead, you could have a plant, water it and watch it grow'.

'But I cannot take it for a walk', countered the daughter with irrefutable logic.

~

Note: These were written as part of an exercise to weave stories around a set of 3 words picked randomly. All stories have been reproduced without the benefit of revision or editing.

A quick tale 21

An expense

No holidays. Rarely new clothes. New shoes can wait, old soles re-stitched. Why bother going to movies when there’s tv? Dinner always at home. Nothing wasted, everything saved. Squirreled. So that it may all be spent in one afternoon. The day the daughter gets married.

A quick quick tale 20

Long-distance lover

They had cyber sex and his spelling was all wrong.

A quick tale 19

Search
Once they were lovers. Now one does not know where the other lives. She put her photo on her web page. With her husband and child. Hoping that he would google her name and find out. Just like she had found him. Still single, she had noted with glee.

Had to share this...

Marriages Are Made

My cousin Elena
is to be married
The formalities
have been completed:
her family history examined
for T.B. and madness
her father declared solvent
her eyes examined for squints
her teeth for cavities
her stools for the possible
non-Brahmin worm.
She's not quite tall enough
and not quite full enough
(children will take care of that)
Her complexion it was decided
would compensate, being just about
the right shade
of rightness
to do justice to
Francisco X. Noronha Prabhu
good son of Mother Church.

-- Eunice deSouza

A quick tale 18

Two people
She could not believe that these two people could ever have been intimate. Two old people who had very little to say to each other. Who had grown into strangers they barely recognised. With nothing but anger and discontentment left between them. She could not see how the couple could have made love. One sultry summer night many years ago. And yet there was undeniable proof in front of her. Staring from the mirror.

Project why

Anu is a special friend of mine. Someone I've only known virtually. She is an extraordinary woman and one I greatly admire and support. Please visit her blog and tell her that she is not alone. Please. Thank you.

A quick tale 17

Farce
He will clear out his wine bottles and throw away the porn magazines. She will stop swearing and start cooking two meals a day. He’ll ensure that she wears her wedding necklace and will hide her designer jeans. The Gods will be dusted, contraceptives hidden and they will not kiss each other good morning. His parents will fly thousand of miles from their homeland and remark how true to tradition they live. And the younger woman will ask them how many sugars they would like in their coffee.

A quick quick tale 16

Secret
She married one, loved another.
He became her husband, the other her password.

A quick tale 15

Bargain
He seemed a pleasant enough chap. No hair sticking out of his ears or warts on nose. He had clipped his nails short and seemed to be interested in what she was saying. They spoke for some half-an-hour. Mostly about their lives, careers and hobbies. Then they agreed to get married.

Later, his father called up and said in a soft voice that her father would bear the wedding costs. And furnish the house the newly-weds were going to be living in. Her family agreed it was a fair demand. After all, she was 27, a mere graduate and wore glasses.

A quick tale 14

Irony
They sent their son to an engineering college. Paid a hefty donation to get him a seat. It was an investment for their future, they believed. 'He would get a good job and take care of us when we are old', they told themselves. The daughter got married right after school.

The son studied well, went to a far away land to study some more, got a job there, gained recognition, built a house, became rich and called his parents every Sunday at 10 o' clock.
The daughter lived in the next street and bought them medicines to control their blood pressure.

A quick tale 13

Re-birth
Her knees were wide open, legs splayed and she had lain like this for nearly 4 hours. This morning she woke up with a slight discomfort that had gradually grown into a steady pain. She told her mother about it who then called an autorickshaw* (‘free for delivery trips to the hospital’ it said at the back) and took her to the hospital. There, a nurse shaved her pubic hair, stripped her bare and gave her something that covered only her front. She was then led into a room where there were several other women dressed like her. All of them were screaming. The nurse pointed out a hard bed for her to lie on and scream.

The pain was now coming fast and frequent, starting from the back and spreading all the way down her legs. It seized her body leaving her paralysed for several seconds.
‘Mmmmaaa…’, she moaned.
‘Shhh…don’t scream. Put your energy into pushing’, said the nurse in an unsympathetic voice.

She grunted and tried to push like the nurse had said.
‘Look at her shitting herself. I said push, not shit’, admonished the nurse cleaning up the bed.
Another spasm was coming, she could feel it. It felt like being poked in her most private parts with a red hot iron.

‘Aaaaahh, Muruga**…can’t bear it, sister….it's so painful’, she cried.
‘Well, you should’ve thought about it when you slept with him’, came the reply. Everyone giggled.

After an hour that lasted a decade, she was engulfed in a wave of pain that crushed her very bones. It was the worst yet and she felt something sliding out of her. Like a fleshy mango being squeezed out of its skin. And in an instant, it was all over.
‘Look, it’s a girl’, said the nurse cleaning the bloody, wet bundle.
This time she wept out loud.

*three-wheeled motorised rickshaw
**Hindu God

My Day of glory, one year on

It is one year since I ran the London Marathon. It was the most moving, exhilarating, exhausting and above all, humbling experience of my life. An emphatic triumph of human spirit. My prayers and good wishes are with the 34,000 runners today who are about to undertake a life-affirming journey. Good luck, y'all. Rise again.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
you may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

-from 'Still I rise' by Maya Angelou

For my experience, please go to http://jikku.blogspot.com/2005/02/longest-run.html

A quick tale 12

Untitled
She grew up speaking a language that had special words for pickled lime peels and clotted rice morsels. It was rich, lusty, pungent and full-bodied. Her teachers taught her to love it. It was the language of Gods, they told her. She secretly believed it was the language they made love in.


So when there came a time for her pack her bags and follow her husband to a new land, she wrapped her mother tongue in a tiny velvet pouch and took it with her. But there, where they spoke in a floating, mild tongue, her sumptuous syllables suffered. Over the years, her edges started to wear thin and her little velvet pouch waned. Some days, she even forgot words in her native tongue. But at nights, when her head slumped on the pillow, she wept tears of sorrow. And they were always in the language of Gods.

The sweet taste of memory

When we were growing up, we used to have something called ‘chocolate’. Except that it was not. It was hard-boiled toffee, I later learnt. The real stuff, the one made of cocoa, those were referred to as ‘Cadburys’. And this we saw rarely of. Anyway, into our world of limited choice came a rare treat courtesy of a peripatetic sailor uncle. One day, he came home with a packet of crisp, golden, feather-light ‘sweets’. We didn’t have a name for it and so came to refer to it as ‘foreign chocolate’ (what else!). Foreign was a country outside India and chocolate was anything sweet. These tiny balls of heaven were strictly rationed and we’d carry our share to school in the top rack of our two-tier tiffin box.

Years later, as I was browsing through the aisles of an impersonal supermarket in a ‘developed’ country, I chanced upon a carton that had pictures of honey-coloured globes. The box read ‘Breakfast Boulders’ and I knew I had to get it. I ripped open the pack as soon as we got home and when the first of those boulders melted in my mouth, a mystery was laid to rest. I called my sister the following day and told her that I had found ‘foreign chocolate’. She understood instantly. “How does it taste?”, she asked. “Just like it did when I was 11 and you were 9, all those years ago”, I replied.

A quick tale 11

A very brief affair

As love affairs go, hers was a fleeting experience. He was a boy who lived across the street. She was standing at her doorstep waiting for a friend to arrive. He caught her eye and smiled. She smiled back. He asked her for her name. She replied. And the school she went to. She answered. Her aunt appeared on the scene and the following week, she was sent packing away to her grandmother’s house in a nearby town.

Some months later, she was married to an army man who was on vacation. Many years later, she sat listening to the priest who performed her husband’s funeral rites. He was telling her that she had to lead an austere widow’s life from then on. She found herself wondering what it would have been like if she had married the boy from across the street. A boy whose name she never asked.

A quick tale 10

Baggage

They weighed the luggage one more time. '39.5 kgs' read the scales. "Perfect", said the husband. It was just under the 40 kilo-luggage-weight limit imposed by the airlines. "Have you taken everything? Is there anything left behind?", asked the mother-in-law.

So many thing, she wanted to say. Mother, father, grandmother, sunshine, curd rice, late mornings, lazy afternoons, pointless giggles, best friends, former lovers...

"In which case", she replied,"I'll take 1/2 a kilo of sambar powder. The ones we get in the US are just not good enough."

Overheard

“Walk with your head bowed”
“Sleep with your legs together”
“Don’t leave your hair loose. Tie it”
“You really should start wearing long skirts now. You’re a big girl”
“No, no, you cannot cut your hair. I don’t care what your friends do”
“It’s dark now. You can’t go out alone.”
“If the man touched you, just ignore it. You cannot be reacting to everything, you know”
“Shh…don’t tell your father about it. He’ll say you invited it upon yourself”
“What’s wrong with this boy? Why won’t you marry him?”
“What do you mean you don’t like him? If I had spoken like that to my dad…”
“Let the men eat first”
“Women are born to suffer”
“If you can’t bear this pain, how are you going to have babies?”
“So, when are you going to make us grandparents?”
“My God, you look so much like your mother!”

A quick tale 9

Namesake
Everything about her had had to change after marriage. Her routine (she had to be up at 5.30), what she wore (no more jeans), hairstyle (“Oil your hair, plait them and wear flowers. You’re married now”, reminded the mother-in-law) and even what she saw on TV. The other day she innocently remarked how good-looking Aamir Khan was and it was met with a stern rebuke from the in-laws and a snide remark from the husband.

She clung to the one thing familiar – her name. She refused to add her husband’s name to her own. Everyone else seemed happy doing it but for her it meant something final. Which is why she wept when she received a birthday card from her mother. It had her name tagged to her husband’s. It was like looking at a scarred face in the mirror and not recognising it as one’s own.

Guest blog by Chinna Ammani

Here’s an interesting write-up by Chinna Ammani on stereotypical portrayals in Indian adverts. The opinion expressed is strong and the language uncompromising. Read at your own peril!-a

The Aiyaiyo Syndrome

These days I do what is called as a shooting supervision. When ads are filmed (with lip sync) in Tamizh, my job is to teach models their lines and rehearse with them. Most of them are from Mumbai and are non-Tamilians. So when they have to do a line in Tamil, for example "Adanaaladan Dettol ubayogikaren" (And that's why I use Dettol) , they invariably say "Aadanaladaanu naanu Detttaalu ubayogikkareanu" (Something hideous). Their exaggerated delivery of our supposed accent is all thanks to Hindi actor Mehmood. My blood pressure rises and I yell "DO NOT DO A MEHMOOD HERE. WE DO NOT SPEAK LIKE THAT".

Though their voice is dubbed later with a Tamil voice-over, I ensure that they pronounce it the non-Mehmood way. Mehmood has done this major damage to us South Indians by doing films like Padosan! Feel like sueing Lucky Ali, since his father is dead.

Saw a commerical for Alpenliebe toffees recently. The father in the ad is "Souuuueeth" Indian and is therefore dressed in a dhoti and is shown wearing a 'vibuthi pattai'* on his forehead. His son asks him "Appaaaa paaisaaa Alpenleibe kiliyee" in a Mehmoodish way. When will these ad guys ever learn? I wish I could put up a poster out there saying 'WE DO NOT SPEAK LIKE THAT!'

I was at a shoot for a headache balm the other day. It features a domestic help in a South Indian family. He is aged 28, wears a lungi and an Alen Solly full-sleeve shirt tucked in!!! And there's of course, the ubiquitous 'vibhuti pattai'. I protested and told them "No, this is not the way velakkarans (servants) dress" even though it was not my job to 'style' them. The assistant director replied "No No.. please don't change the dress . The costumes have been finalized after research(!) and umpteen pre-production meetings with the agency, client etc!

God please spare us!

* sacred ash usually smeared on forehead

A treat

It was my birthday yesterday. Some people would have baked a cake. I made thayir vadai. Guardians of Indian Culture would no doubt approve.

A quick tale 8

Less is more

It was too late now. Her aunt was already staring at the picture.
“And where was this taken?”, asked the aunt.
“That…um, that was taken at our local swimming pool”
“And is that you in that swimming dress?”, the older woman pressed.
Her niece nodded. The aunt continued to stare at the picture for a few more seconds before saying, “I always wanted to wear a swimming dress. It must feel so free when you wear it. Does it?”
She wanted to reply ‘Yes, more than anything else, it felt so free. For once I was not ashamed of my body, my breasts, my thighs, my legs. Yes, it felt so good to show my God-given body without guilt.’ But she simply nodded.
The aunt sighed and smoothed her sari.

Rant

What a sad person she had become. Writing for strangers and delighting in their response. Losing touch with real life. Seeking solace in an imagined world. Hiding behind an alias. Shunning the sun. Warming to a neon hue.
Turn it off, girl. Say goodbye. You have no new messages. Smell your child or something.

A quick tale 7

Mirror
She would sit in front of the glass window for hours on end. Her breath misting the double-glazed panels. What else was there to do but watch passers-by? The husband would go for work early and would be away all day leaving her alone in this quiet house in a cold country far away from home.
She loved looking at the women on the road. Strutting purposefully in their pointed high-heels. She admired their grace, their confidence and their impossibly beautiful nails. Long and painted to match their clothes.
“How do they peel onions? Or scrub the burnt pans? Or rub oil on their hair?”, she asked him one day. “Oh, they never cook. They just buy something from the supermarket, heat it and eat. And have you seen their hair? Dry and dirty, I’m sure. They’re not cultured like our Indian women, you know”, he replied. She nodded in silence.

Sigh!

A scent, a hint,
a whiff, a sniff,
a smell, a spell…
everything reminds me of you.
I have an India-shaped hole in my stomach

Goodbye and thanks for all the sambar*

(click on pic for recipe)

There are those whose memories are linked to sight and smell. Not me. My remembrance is curiously connected to my taste buds. A familiar taste often triggers a total recall. Like it happened the other day. I had made 'vengaya sambar' like I usually do and one sip was all it took to send me reeling back to my childhood. Back then, vengaya sambar was a rarity. A dish reserved for occasional Sundays or when we had guests over for dinner. We'd clamour for the tiny onions that swam in a sea of delicious lentil broth. It was strictly rationed and I'd tuck my share of onion away in one corner of my mouth and savour it at leisure.

I still remember the one time when I was 19, I was to come home after a 6-month long exchange program when mother asked me what I'd like for my welcome-home lunch. I replied without hesitation, "vengaya sambar". I only have to close my eyes and I can recall instantly the taste of tangy sambar as it slid down my parched throat reviving every taste bud in its path.

I'm not due back home for another 8 months. But I already know what I'm going to have for lunch that day.

*This is my tribute to one of Tamil cinema's best-loved heroes, Gemini Ganesan, who passed away yesterday. He used to be referred to as 'Sambar', much to his chagrin.

A quick tale 6

Retort
She could not believe this was happening to her. To her! The Champion of women’s rights, Feminist incarnate, Guardian angel of the downtrodden et cetra et cetra was now sitting before an elderly couple answering questions about her life. They were here to do a pre-selection. If they found her suitable, they would let her meet their son in the next round. And if their son gave her his approval, she would then become his bride.

She was doing the very thing she rebelled against all her life. Arranged marriage, breeding babies and getting trapped by duty were things she had scoffed at in her youth. But at 28, there wasn’t much room for idealism and she was beginning to doubt her convictions. Maybe marriage wasn’t such a bad thing. All her friends had done it, she reasoned.

Just then the old woman in front of her cleared her throat and asked in low voice, “er…do you get your periods every month?” Surely the lady wasn’t asking her about that. “Sorry?” said the girl. The might-be-mother-in-law repeated, “you know, your monthlies, do you get them regularly?” Our girl was stung. She thought for a moment and replied for all to hear, “Yes I do. I get my periods every month, without fail. And your son, what’s his sperm count?” Oddly enough, no one got the joke.

Negative

Do you know what it's like to have been out the whole day then come home, picked up the phone and dialled 1571 even before taking off your shoes, only to hear the robotic drone, "You've no messages. None. Nyet. Nada. Not one. Nahin. Non...."?
I know.

Different shades of orange

clementines, tangerines, satsumas...so many to peel, so little time

Bio-data

Married for 31 years, 2 months and 17 days
Six cups coffee a day, brewed everyday of marriage
Three meals a day,
At least two dishes cooked, each meal-time
One snack for every Sunday
Big basket of clothes ironed every Tuesday
Average 18 items of clothing washed per day
Three children
1 miscarriage
One mother-in-law suffered
900 sq metre of floor space mopped, once a day
One caesarean endured
3 chicken poxes, 2 measles, 2 fractures, 8 diarrhoeas, depression, conjunctivitis every summer, 1 tonsilitis and countless common colds and flues
1 job held for 29 years
6 hours slept every night
Sex tolerated every 2nd week
Religious rituals everyone of them, carried out
Not one of them, believed in
Lived 52 years and some
Died exhausted

Overheard, “At least she had the satisfaction of having lived for her family”


http://jikku.blogspot.com/2005/02/quick-tale-3.html#c111042815438237631

Consider this

In England, 'dinner' means 'lunch' and 'tea' means 'dinner'. And there I was telling my son's health visitor, 'Tea? What tea? I don't let my son have tea. He drinks milk'.

A quick tale 5

All manners

“Don’t slurp your food”
“Eat with your mouth shut”
"Remember, you're not the only one at this table"
“Don’t make a noise while chewing your food. Eat quietly”
The man she had married had all kinds of instructions for her. In the early days of her marriage, her eyes would well up. She was bitterly lonely in this new country with its short days and moonless nights and she hankered for a kind word, a smile, a shared joke. But all that was forthcoming from the husband was instructions on how to eat.

She tried changing the way she ate. She really did. Sitting in front of a mirror, she would scoop spoonfuls of rice from the plate and put it in her mouth. She would chew the food with her lips pursed. But it never worked. Halfway through the exercise, her lower jaw would drop involuntarily and she would find herself eating with her mouth open.

So she stopped eating dinner with her man, always finding some excuse not to. She would serve him food and watch him eat noiselessly with his mouth moving like a well-oiled machine. But after he went to bed, she would slip out to the kitchen, take the rice pot from the fridge, dig out a mound of rice, pour a generous helping of curd, mix it with her fingers, roll it into a ball and swallow it. The food would dribble down her elbow and she would lick her fingers as she ate. She didn’t care if it made a noise. His snores were sure to drown it.

A quick tale 4

Impetuously yours

“So, are you an impetuous person?”, asked the boss.

'Impetuous? What on earth is impetuous?' she thought. 'Is it a good thing or a bad thing to be impetuous?' She had to answer quickly. She, who prided in her knowledge of English even though it was not her mother tongue, had majored in English literature and come to England on a scholarship, then met and married an Englishman, was now left wondering what it meant to be impetuous.

'Could it mean being impish? Or perhaps impressionable? No, it cannot be an ‘imp’ word' she reasoned. 'Something else, like say, ‘organised, efficient’ or even ‘meticulous’. Yes, impetuous meant being thorough and leaving nothing to chance, she concluded.

“Yes, Mr. Draper. You could say I am an impetuous person”, she replied.
Later that evening, she checked her well-worn copy of the Oxford English Dictionary and realised that she was not.

For my son, aged 2 1/4 years

A Cradle Song

The angels are stooping

Above your bed;

They weary of trooping

With the whimpering dead.

God's laughing in Heaven

To see you so good;

The Sailing Seven are gay with His mood.

I sigh that kiss you,

For I must own

That I shall miss you

When you have grown.

-- William Butler Yeats

A quick tale 3

Mrs N

Everybody thought she was ready to die. After all, she had outlived her entire family. Lost her only daughter, aged 17, tragically to meningitis over a decade ago. Her husband had passed away quite suddenly last year from a heart attack. What did she have to live for? But at 56, Mrs N had so many things left to do.

Never - worn pants, cut her hair short, read an English novel, enjoyed sex, been told ‘I love you’, stayed late in bed, chatted with a stranger, wrote a cheque, drove a car, touched snow, tasted meat, screamed out loud, visited another country, learnt French, questioned God.

She died last Friday. Nobody asked her if she was ready for it.

What's in a name? Everything

Working in advertising and TV has taught me the importance of naming. Give something (a product/tv show) the right name and half your job is done. This naming business is all the more critical when it comes to food. Take ‘vathal kuzhambu’ for instance. It is self-explanatory. I do not have to tell to you what goes in it. Or ‘Oothappam’. How is it cooked? Your pour (or ‘oothu’) the batter on the griddle hence the name. Anyway, the point is, while we have cracked this art of naming, the British have lost the plot.

Let’s take ‘sour cream’ for instance. Where I come from, if cream is sour, it has gone bad and not fit for consumption. Then why is its sourness not only proclaimed but also endorsed? Then there’s the worryingly named ‘rock cake’. I certainly won’t be testing my teeth on it. Or ‘bakewell tart’. I hope all the tarts are baked well and not just this one. What’s with ‘shortbread cake’? What is it short on? And have you heard of ‘spotted dick pudding’? Enough said.

Lentils and tamarind sauce soaked rice

It has been a good many years since that balmy December morning when I left the comforts of my parents’ home in Chennai for the untold horrors of Mumbai. I have since gone back to the city intermittently and each time I’ve felt more and more of an outsider. These days the city has become so alien to me that there are few things left for me to miss. Except its Sambar sadam (yes, capital ‘s’). A treat that deserves to be protected as a national treasure.

Nowhere in India, dare I say world, would you find sambar sadam that tastes quite as exquisite as it does in the restaurants of Chennai. In my early Mumbai days, I used to fly down to Chennai for weekends (on cheap Air India flights), head straight for Saravana Bhavan, down two portions of Sambar sadam and then proceed home. Such was the power it held over me. These days I have to rest content dreaming about steaming plates of Sambar sadam. But funny how it cheers me up like nothing ever can.

A quick tale 2

Tonight

It was just a few hours since she had been married and the excitement from the wedding ceremony had given way to an exhausted lull. She was sitting in the marriage hall surrounded by her cousins and aunts. Her younger cousins were chatting away while the aunts were busy gossiping. Soon she would have to get ready for the evening reception. "So", began her athai (father's sister), "are you ready for tonight?". At this cue, the other women started shooing the kids away. This talk was not meant for their ears. The new bride lowered her eyes and pretended not to understand. "You know, it's going to be your first night. I am going to tell you something important" the older lady proceeded. So this is going to be sex education, the bride thought, bring it on.

"Do you know what happens on the first night?", another athai quizzed. The newly-wed, feeling utterly embarrassed, did not answer. She was thinking about that time, when she was nine, when an uncle put his hands up her skirt. And how this went on for months. She remembered the time when an old man pressed himself against her in a crowded bus. She recalled the day when the college peon had exposed himself to her at the college lab. She pushed the thoughts away, lowered her eyes and nodded as the aunt proceeded to give a graphic and crude version of what she was to expect on her wedding night. There were giggles and chuckles all around.

A quick tale

Food comforts

They had come to the country on temporary visas. But they both wanted to stay permanently. So when the government decided to make it tough for immigrants to settle down, they silently made their plans. They would become more British. She gradually stopped wearing salwar kameez. It was only trouser suits from now on. He would call his friends 'mates' and say 'cheers' instead of a 'thank you'.

They even stopped talking to the kids in their native tongue. They understood English better, they reasoned. Soon they were being invited to pub lunches and barbeques. Eventually, they applied for citizenship, took the nationality test and sang 'God save the Queen'. But some days they would eat curd rice and pickle with their hands. And no one mentioned it.

The longest run

Those are images from last year's London Marathon which I ran in. I hope those taking part in next Sunday's Chennai Marathon will be inspired to put in their best performance. Good luck, people! And
here's something I wrote the day after completing the race.

26.2 miles - Monday, 19th April, 2004

My knee felt excruciatingly painful, my feet were screaming for help, I was drenched in sweat and tears...and I couldn't wipe the smile off my face. I ran in the London Marathon yesterday and I've never felt better than when I completed the 26.2 mile (42 km) course. My finish time was little away from what I'd hoped for but I'm not complaining.

It was heartening to see runners of all shapes, sizes and ages taking part in the challenge. A lady I overtook in mile 15 had had a kidney transplant and a gentleman I ran with for almost 18 miles was running in memory of his child who had passed away from leukaemia. There were plenty of eccentrics as well. There was the ‘toilet bowl’ man, a camel, a centipede, Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker, Batman and Robin and several rhinos that added to what was already a wonderful celebration.

I had my name printed on my t-shirt and the crowds would chant it out screaming ‘Go girl, go!’. It was a fantastic atmosphere to run in with hordes cheering us all through the route. Pubs played music, bands entertained us, kids handed out sweets and everyone had a word of encouragement for the battered 34,000 runners pounding the mean streets of London yesterday.

Almost as if the skies didn't want to be left out of the carnival, they opened up. We were drenched in drizzle through out the course and as I came into the last 200 metres, there were blindingly sharp showers. I sprinted down the finish and as I crossed line, all I could say was 'Thank you, God! Thank you, God! Thank you, God!'

Devil's dung

Asafoetida - not the most fragrant of spices in my cupboard. I was never a big fan until I realised that it helps relieve indigestion caused by strong, spicy food. It gets its name from two Latin words 'asa' meaning 'resin' and 'fetid' which means 'bad odour'. Doesn't do the poor spice any favours, does it?
In Tamil, it's called 'perungayam' which means 'big wound'. True, if you have ever had a huge helping of it to relieve a bad case of stomach gas and then doubled over in nausea caused by its foul smell and then hit your head against the sink tap while coming up causing a 'big wound'. Happened?

Curd no more

When I was a young girl, I used to beg my mother for some curd. You see, we were always served weak, watered down buttermilk and never soft, thick-set curd which was the exclusive preserve of my father. But sometimes, very rarely, my mother would relent and I would be given a spoon of curd which I was convinced was the very taste of heaven. Back then, ours was a large family with tight budgets and rigid hierarchies. Earning male members were at the top of this pecking order and us kids always brought up the rear. But we didn't complain. Some 'moar*' is better than no 'moar*'.

Things are different now. We live in a different country and in relative affluence. We no longer have to dilute our curd. We can choose between natural low fat and greek style. There are even flavoured versions of it - from rhubarb to valencia orange. So I can have a different taste of heaven every day. But some evenings, when we sit down for dinner, I water-down my curd making it buttermilk. My mother used to say you should never have thick curd at night. It doesn't digest well.

*buttermilk in tamil

And then something happened

For the last few days, I've been type-tied. A bad case of writer's block. There were several drafts but nothing published. Nothing seemed quite right. But that was until I came across this poem. So simple. Yet so vivid. I read it after a particularly busy morning. It was rushing about everywhere and when I sat down to read it, the style forced me to slow down. 'No, no', it seems to be saying, 'read, pause, read, now slowly'. Genius.

'Poem for Everyone'

I will present you
parts
of
my
self
slowly
if you are patient and tender.

I will open drawers

that mostly stay closed

and bring out places and people and things

sounds and smells,

loves and frustrations,

hopes and sadnesses,

bits and pieces of three decades of life

that have been grabbed off

in chunks

and found lying in my hands.

they have eaten

their way into my memory,

carved their way into

my heart.

altogether

- you or i will never see them -

they are me.

if you regard them lightly,

deny that they are important

or worse, judge them

i will quietly, slowly,

begin to wrap them up,

in small pieces of velvet,

like worn silver and gold jewelry,

tuck them away

in a small wooden chest of drawers

and close.

-- John T. Wood

1974

Takes your breathe away, doesn't it? Pass it on

Message or medium?

Good ads are about simple ideas and this one does its job well. However, I wonder if they paid any royalties for use of the Mahatma's image to sell telecom services. More importantly, would he have approved?

The Scourge

Last week's Outlook carried a cover story about Indians who are choosing to shun marriage and live life single. I've always maintained that marriage should be a choice. But for many Indian women, we do not have that choice. For us, marriage is never an 'if' only a 'when'. People featured in the Outlook article live in metros, have successful careers and are reasonably sure of what they want out of life. Good for them. Unfortunately, they represent a tiny, tiny miniscule of the population.

For a large percentage of everyday Indian women, we are told that we MUST get married. Some of us (self included), resist this notion and go on to pursue careers and live our dreams at least for a short period of time. But at every turn, the question looms -'when are you going to get married?'. So eventually, we succumb. Because often we are so tired from the questioning that we just want to put an end to it. If truth be told, we are not brave enough to remain unmarried all our lives and be called 'that' spinster aunty. We want to be accepted. Do the things that society/family/parents expect us to do. So we marry the guy they want us to marry, have children, set aside career, cook, clean, wash, iron and get sucked into a domestic vortex.

One day, many years later, we ask the daughter, 'So, do you want to get married?'. When she answers 'no', we shake our heads in dismay before coaxing, cajoling and ultimately threatening her into submission. After all, if she didn't marry, what would the society think? Besides, this is just a phase she will grow out of. Whoever heard of a girl who didn't want to marry? Can't she see her parents are getting old and they have a duty to do? Does she want to grow old alone? She won't find a man when she wants to. Look at so-&-so's daughter who's happily married and expecting a baby soon. Of course, she can study and pursue her career after marriage! But first, let her meet this lovely boy from...

Thus we tighten the noose. Repeat lines from our past. Clip wings in the name of culture. We get our daughters married against their choice. Because that is the done thing. And we don't dare otherwise. More's the pity.

p.s. This is just an anguished rant and does not reflect on my personal experience of marriage.

Salt, flour and something special*

In the movie 'Azhagan', the hero Mammooty desribes himself as 'being like upma'- quick, unfussy and comes to the aid in an emergency. No truer words have been said about the this classic dish. It's fast to cook and fantastic to eat. There's no planning needed and you can add just any veggie (save brinjal and ladies finger) in your fridge and you won't go wrong.

p.s. I've used vermicelli in this recipe. You can use rava instead.
*Upma in tamil literally means salt and flour

Upma

(About 10 minutes to cook)

You'll need

Vermicelli - 250 gms, broken into small pieces

Potato - 1 small, diced

Onion - 1 small, finely chopped

Carrot - 1 small - diced

Cauliflower- a handful of florets

Peas - 50 gms, shelled

Green chilli - 1 small chopped

Mustard seeds - 1 tsp

Urad dal - 1 tsp

Channa dal - 1 tsp

Cashew nuts - 5-6, halved

Cooking oil - 1.5 tbsp

Salt to taste

Here's how to

1. Heat a pan with 2 tsp oil and drop the vermicelli in it. Toss it around till all of it is coated in oil and is browned. Set aside
2. In another pan, heat the remaining oil. When hot, add mustard seeds and once they splutter, add the dals, cashew nuts, onion and green chilli
3. Saute over medium heat till the onions is transparent and then add the veggies
4. When they are half-cooked, about 6 minutes later, add 300 ml water, salt and bring to a boil
5. Lower the heat and add the oil-coated vermicelli and keep stirring till the water is absorbed and the vermicelli cooked. Serve hot

The Obsession

I recently read transcripts of an interview with Gwyneth Paltrow where she goes into detail about her eating habits. Specifically, about her macrobiotic diet. The diet, apparently, can be broken up like this -
50 % whole grains,
25 % seasonal vegetables
10 % protein foods
5 % sea vegetables
5 % soups and
5 % fruits, seeds, nuts and drinks

I've got two words for you, Gwyneth - Orthorexia Nervosa - Obsession with healthful eating.
Cake, anyone?

Coffee, tea or Horlicks?

'It is an acquired taste'. I know they say this of delicacies and exotic food. But I would say the same of Horlicks. Yes, good old, friend-of-the-feverish Horlicks. Appparently, it is one of the most popular drinks in the UK! It's hard to imagine big, boozing British blokes drinking a warm mug of malted drink before hitting the sack. It seems they do. I suspect that the renewed interest in the age-old drink has much to do with its latest advertising campaign. Here's how it goes.

Ad 1- Woman comes running into a bus stop to catch a bus which is already waiting there. But just as she is about to board, the bus moves away leaving the woman stranded in the bus stop. Shot of the bus driver and a voice over that says 'How does he sleep at night?'. Bus driver is now in his pyjamas, ready for bed, blissfully downing a steaming mug of Horlicks. Voice over whispers 'Horlicks. For a good night's sleep'.

Ad 2 - Parking attendant checks watch, checks the parking slip displayed on a car window. Checks watch, checks time on parking slip. Does the same third time around and then, boom! slams the much-hated parking penalty ticket on the car window. Skips away merrily to a voice over that says 'How does she sleep at night?'. Parking attendant is at home, ready to go to sleep, sipping on a foaming mug of her favourite malt drink. Voice over, in a whisper, says 'Horlicks. For a good night's sleep'.

I'm going to get my Horlicks fix for the day. I won't drink it. Just gobble it straight off the spoon, like I always have.

The way we speak

Speak this line out as you read it. Now stop. Do you know why you were saying the words the way you did? Why you paused when you paused and stressed when you did? Accents are such big part of who we are and yet we rarely think about them. I saw an interview on TV this morning with an expert on accents. He is in the process of recording and documenting different accents heard across the UK. These documents will then help actors getting their speech right especially when playing a regional character. The expert mentioned that in his studies, he found that people in the UK trust the Edinburgh accent. Which is why we hear it more in advertisements selling mortgages. How interesting! Apparently, the 'Liverpudlian' and the 'Geordie' (sic) accents, the latter as spoken by Ant and Dec and as heard on Big Brother voice over, were much loved.


Wouldn't it be interesting to carry out such an exercise in India? In Tamilnadu alone we could get a bouquet of accents. Apart from the geographical classification, there might be accents classified along communal lines. Like say, Madras-Brahmin and then Tirunelveli- Brahmin. I wonder if someone has already done such an exercise. I know that in films like 'Virumaandi' and 'Dumm Dumm Dumm', the movie-makers have tried to introduce a way of speaking specific to the area where the story is set. But often the accent ends up a caricature and rarely does justice. It would be great to save the real accents for posterity. In an age when everything is increasingly homogenised, it is well worth preserving a small part of our lives - the way we speak.

Look, there goes a vegetarian!

I am a vegetarian. By birth. As opposed to someone who has chosen to become one for political or health reasons or simply because it is fashionable. Let me explain, I was born in a family that has always eaten vegetarian food and it was natural for me to follow suit. I have lived in places where vegetarian food is available a great deal and the choices are aplenty. I have been fortunate enough not to have gone to some places in Romania where, rumour has it that, the only food available during winter months is sausage.
Anyway, these days that fact that I've never (knowingly) tasted meat has become my USP. My party trick. My sex appeal. People always want to know what on earth I eat! So imagine my delight when I recently came across this poem by Benjamin Zephaniah - a rasta British poet who famously turned down an OBE, eats only organic vegan food and writes some deliciously wonderfully poems that are pleasure on the ear. Pass it on, if you please.

Vegan Delight

Ackees, chapatties
Dumplins an nan,
Channa an rotis
Onion uttapam,
Masala dosa
Green callaloo
Bhel an samosa
Corn an aloo.

Yam an cassava
Pepperpot stew,
Rotlo an guava
Rice an tofu,
Puri, paratha
Sesame casserole,
Brown eggless pasta
An brown bread rolls.

Soya milked muesli
Soya bean curd,
Soya sweet sweeties
Soya's de word,
Soya bean margarine
Soya bean sauce
What can mek medicine?
Soya of course.

Soya meks yoghurt
Soya ice-cream,
Or soya sorbet
Soya reigns supreme,
Soya sticks liquoriced
Soya salads
Try any soya dish
Soya is bad.

Plantain an tabouli
Cornmeal pudding
Onion bhajee
Wid plenty cumin,
Breadfruit an coconuts
Molasses tea
Dairy free omelettes
Very chilli.

Ginger bread, nut roast
Sorrell, paw paw,
Cocoa an rye toast
I tek dem on tour,
Drinking cool maubi
Meks me feel sweet,
What was dat question now?
What do we eat?

-- Benjamin Zephaniah

Milagu Kuzhambu

Describing this dish as 'pepper sauce' in English is such as travesty. For one, 'sauce' always conjures up an image of something bottled and ready-to-eat. Whereas milagu kuzhambu is fresh, tangy and fires up the insides like no readymade sauce can. Ever.
My grandmother used to make milagu kuzhambu in an 'uruli' (a traditional cooking pot) and let it soak in the flavours for hours before serving it. This is a calorie-rich and nutrionally-dubious recipe. So if you're cholestrol conscious, go away and nibble on some celery sticks. But for the intrepid, milagu kuzhambu can open up parts you never dreamt of.

Milagu Kuzhambu
(About 30 minutes to cook)

You'll need
Tamarind - the size of a small lemon

Urad dal - 1 tbsp

Toor dal - 1 tbsp

Dried red chillies - 3

Pepper corns - 1.5 tsp

Shallot onions - 2

Jaggery - 1 tsp (optional)

Turmeric - 1 tsp

Oil - 2 tbsp

Mustard seeds - 1 tsp

Asafoetida - 1 tsp

Curry leaves - 2 tsp

Salt to taste

Here's how to -

1. Soak tamarind in warm water for about 15 minutes

2. Meanwhile, heat a pan, add the oil and when it's hot, add the onions, urad and toor dals, red chillies and the pepper corns. Saute till onions are transparent (for about 5 minutes)

3. When cool enough to handle, drain the above masala and grind to a paste. Save the oil for later

4. In a pan heat the same oil and when hot, add mustard seeds. When they finish popping, add curry leaves and asafoetida

5. To this, add extracted tamarind juice, turmeric, jaggery and bring it to a boil

6. Now add the ground paste, mix well, add salt and bring to a boil. Turn off heat

7. Serve hot with rice and papad

Wizards of the wardrobe

I have never been a keen follower of fashion, preferring to stick to bland, familiar, tired but safe choices. Which is why you’ll never find high heels or leather pants or halter necks in my wardrobe. You’ll find me in salwar kameezes that would look good on a pillow, jeans two sizes too big, baggy tee shirts and basically anything that would make me blend with the background. In what I call, ‘wall paper clothes’. In fact, I even have a couple of shirts that match what’s on the wall. Anyway, one day my cosy world of sartorial dysfunction was rudely shaken awake by two women. Two straight-talking, no-nonsense and downright rude women.

Trinny and Susannah (of ’no last name’ fame), stars of the show ‘What Not To Wear’ on BBC1, pull any poor old, haggard lady off the street and give her a makeover that would put most plastic surgeons out of work. And this they would go about doing in the most outrageous manner. The twosome would strip their hapless victim to her underpants, shove inside a trial room fitted with mirrors on all sides and then go about systematically dissecting her. Then they’d make her wear a number of new outfits (some frankly, ridiculous) before deciding on a final look. While I do not agree with their modus operandi, the results that these women wrought were fantastic. Honestly, there was a world of difference in the ‘before’ and ‘after’ shots with the participants walking away with a spring in their stilettoed step and a swing in their newly-coloured hair.

So when I had an important meeting coming up, I cast my beige coat aside and decided to put Susannah to the test. I bought their books, tried on clothes that I’d never dared to before and finally bought something that would have been as natural a choice for me as say, speaking Finnish.

The morning of my meeting was one of the coldest days this winter and my long cardigan was hopelessly inadequate. Still, I braved on. I hoped that no one would comment on how great my trousers were or ask where I bought my shoes or say anything that would make me confess to my sins. My fears were unfounded and the meeting went quite well. So well that they offered me the job. There’s just one small hitch, what do I do with my mountain of frumpy clothes?

Don't call me THAT!

There's a new show on Channel 4 called 'Desperate Housewives'. It's an American show (what else could it be?) about saucy, glamourous housewives with a sex-life that would be the envy of a rockstar.

Now, as anyone who has ever been a housewife (btw, whatever happened to stay-at-home mother and all that politically correct jazz?), there's barely enough time in the day to cook, clean, wash, iron, feed, mop, vaccuum, dust and dry. Let alone, have steamy sex with plumbers! The women on the show are pure American fantasy. They all have fantastic figures, gorgeous wardrobes, fabulous husbands who pay for their indulgences and children who conveneiently disappear when their moms want to have a fling with the postman.

You know how I feel about being called a housewife. So I wince each time I watch a promo for this show with its ghastly title which sounds like the subject of something I'd get in my junkmail. Still, I'm going to try again to sit through a whole show to see what the hype is all about. Watch this space for reactions.

Pita Pizza

This is a great afternoon snack and it's so easy to cook. I personally prefer soft cheese (like Philadelphia) for this recipe but you could substitute it with any cheese, really. Enjoy!

Pi(ta)zza

(About 20 minutes to cook)

You'll need -

Pita bread or dry chappati - 1

Tomatoes - 1 large, chopped fine

Oil - 2 tbsp
Onion - 1 medium, chopped fine

Bell pepper (capsicum) - 1 small, diced

Corn kernels - 50 gms

Paprika or chilli powder - 1.5 tsp
Cumin powder - 1 tsp

Any soft cheese - 100 gms
Salt to taste

Here's how to -

1. Heat the oil in a pan and add the diced onions. Saute for a couple of minutes and then add finely chopped tomatoes

2. Keep stirring on low heat for about 3 minutes or till the tomatoes turn pulpy

3. Throw in the paprika, cumin powder and salt, give it a stir and then add the capsicum pieces

4. Cover and simmer for another 2 minutes before adding the corn kernels

5. Cover and simmer for a good 7-8 minutes or till the capsicum is cooked

6. Heat another pan and roll out the pita bread (or chapati)

7. Turn it over and make sure both sides are browned before taking it off heat

8. When cool enough to handle, spread the tomato mixture and then spread (or sprinkle) the cheese on top

9. Return pita bread to pan and let cook for a couple of minutes till the cheese starts to melt.

Serve hot

Rasam to die for

Now, this one is a crowd-favourite. Never fails to impress the guests whenever I serve it. There is a bit of frying, pureeing and grinding to be done. But don't let that put you off. The rasam can be served as a soup or as an accompaniment to rice. Do try it and let me know how it went.

Tomato Rasam a la ammani

(About 20 minutes to cook)

You'll need -
Tomatoes - 3 large
Ghee or butter - 3 tsp

Green chillies - 3 small

Shallot onions - 2

Garlic - 2 cloves (optional)

Coriander seeds - 2 tsp

Cumin seeds - 1 tsp

Cinnamon bark - half an inch

Curry & coriander leaves - to garnish

Salt to taste

Here's how to -

1. Drop the tomatoes in boiling water and let them stay for a couple of minutes

2. When cool enough to handle, slide off the skin and puree the tomato in a blender

3. In a separate pan, heat the ghee (or butter) and add the green chillies, shallots, garlic (if using), coriander seeds, cumin seeds and cinnamon bark. Saute till the onions become translucent (I'd say 3 minutes)

4. When cooled, grind the sauteed 'masala' in a blender or using a mortar

5. Add the ground 'masala' to the tomato puree and bring to a boil

6. Turn off the heat, season with salt and garnish with curry & coriander leaves

7. Serve piping hot and take a bow

Recipe time!

There are plenty of blogs out there dishing out serious stuff (who reads them, btw?). My head is whirring with so much cerebral activity that I've decided to take it easy. The next few blogs will be recipes. Simple, home-made and absolutely lip-smackingly gorgeous food made easy. I'm kicking off with one of my favourites.

Straw potato cake

(About 25 minutes to cook)

You'll need -

Potato - 2 large

Oil - 2 tbsp

Salt & pepper - to season

Here's how to-

1. Grate the potatoes (yes, grate them) with the skin

2. Quickly season it with salt and pepper before it turns brown

3. Heat the oil in a saucepan and wait till it's quite hot

4. Add the grated potatoes and pack them in quite tight with a spoon.

Make sure the potatoes aren't loosely packed as the cake will fall apart when you flip it

5. Cover and let it simmer for a good 15 minutes

6. When the bottom side is nice and browned, gently loosen it from the saucepan by using a flat wooden ladle.

Now slide it onto a plate and then tip the plate upside down into the pan so that the other side cooks.

7. When both sides are deliciously golden, turn off the heat

8. Slice and serve hot

Add this to your dictionary

'Muffin top' - Spillage of flesh at the waist caused by jeans worn too tight

God? What God?

I am not terribly religious. But I do turn to God in times of crisis. Such as the one we are confronted with right now. Hundreds and thousands of innocents dead in the flash of an eye. While I've been praying for the wounds to heal and the grief to wash over, I'm left with one daunting question. One that keeps coming back and forth much like the killer waves themselves. 'Where is God in all this?'
Not for me the abstract theological explanations. Nor can I reconcile myself to fate, like many Hindus would. And so each time I saw the body count rise, my mind kept asking 'Why God? Why?'.
While I haven't found a satisfactory answer, there is something I read in the papers a couple of days ago which offers some solace. The Archbishop of Canterbury says,

'God is to be found in the hands of those helping to bury the dead, to
bring clean water to the living, to administer medicine to the ill and counsel
to those in darkness.'

Om to that.

From ground zero

Amit Varma is an old colleague of mine. He is visiting the tsunami-ravaged coastline of Tamilnadu and has been blogging from there. His reports make compelling reading.

India Uncut

Camel river 

The Camel trail 

Camel river 

Azure skies of Cornwall

cornwall

To kill a Mockingbird

I have long resisted the temptation to watch the movie version of one of my favourite books of all time. Until today. I watched Harper Lee's 'To kill a Mockingbird' on DVD and I was gripped. This has to be the most faithful adaptation of a book ever made.

However, the movie, while capturing the mood and spirit of the book, skims over details and skips characters and events. The book's richness in detail and the way in which it devotes a substantial part into the painting a portrait of Jem and Scout's life, are irrevocably lost in the movie.

Initially, I had reservation to someone as handsome as Gregory Peck playing Atticus Finch. In my mind, Atticus is quite plain, almost severe-looking. Someone whose sense of justice is not distracted by his good looks. But Peck does such a good job of it you can almost forgive him for his looks.

My favourite part had to be the first half. The lazy summer with its endless days of nothingness were so nostalgic it hurt. Someone once said, ' Don't judge a book by its movie'. I agree, except this once.

Don't stop me now (Queen)

They just don't make music like they used to....

Tonight I'm gonna have myself a real good time

I feel alive and the world it's turning inside out Yeah!

I'm floating around in ecstasy

So don't stop me now don't stop me

'Cause I'm having a good time having a good time

I'm a shooting star leaping through the skies

Like a tiger defying the laws of gravity

I'm a racing car passing by like Lady Godiva

I'm gonna go go go

There's no stopping me

I'm burning through the skies Yeah!

Two hundred degrees That's why they call me Mister Fahrenheit

I'm trav'ling at the speed of light

I wanna make a supersonic man of you

Don't stop me now I'm having such a good time

I'm having a ball don't stop me now

If you wanna have a good time just give me a call

Don't stop me now ('Cause I'm having a good time)

Don't stop me now (Yes I'm having a good time)

I don't want to stop at all

I'm a rocket ship on my way to Mars

On a collision course

I am a satellite

I'm out of control

I am a sex machine ready to reload

Like an atom bomb about to Oh oh oh oh oh explode

I'm burning through the skies Yeah!

Two hundred degrees

That's why they call me Mister Fahrenheit

I'm trav'ling at the speed of light

I wanna make a supersonic woman out of you

Don't stop me don't stop me don't stop me Hey hey hey!

Don't stop me don't stop me Ooh ooh ooh (I like it)

Don't stop me have a good time good time

Don't stop me don't stop me Ooh ooh

Alright I'm burning through the skies Yeah!

Two hundred degrees

That's why they call me Mister Fahrenheit

I'm trav'ling at the speed of light

I wanna make a supersonic woman of you

Don't stop me now

I'm having such a good time

I'm having a ball don't stop me now

If you wanna have a good time

Just give me a call

Don't stop me now ('Cause I'm having a good time)

Don't stop me now (Yes I'm having a good time)

I don't wanna stop at all

La la la la laaaa

La la la la

La la laa laa laa laaa

La la laa la la la la la laaa hey!!....

Ironing

6th December

Is there anything more pointless than ironing? Have just been doing three hoursw of it and despairing at the depths my life has sunk to :D...oh well, it's a dirty job and someone's got to do it

From rediff...

27th November

My thougts exactly. Only better put.

From rediff.com - November 22, 2004

On Diwali, the Kanchi Shankaracharya, Jayendra Saraswathi, was arrested oncharges of murder. On the next day, the title of an article in a national daily read 'Seer heads 5,000 crore empire. Another article in a leading national newspaper read, 'Of high priests and their lust for more power.' He has been variously described as high profile, influential and the seventhmost powerful man in India.

The Shankaracharya is in custody, the police are on a wild evidence hunt,and the media is marauding a large cut of the spoils. The seer's high profile status has somehow been conveniently used to imply that he is a goon-wielding, power kooky tycoon. The assets of the Kanchi Math are being referred to as if they were the acharya's personal possessions, and everyone of his past actions is being interpreted according to the revised image that the press has decided to give him.

While the mainstream media sensationalises the latest newsmaker, often indulging in misrepresentation, let us try to examine the Shankaracharya in the eyes of millions of his followers. The Shankaracharya is a sanyasi.Sanyas, as all history books will tell you, is the last stage prescribed by the Hindu way of life. The current Shankaracharya, however, like others in his monastic lineage, did not live the other stages before dedicating hislife to asceticism. He was divined by the previous Shankaracharya as the successor to the title, at whose behest he was given away to the Math by his father.

As a 19-year-old boy, he stood in hip-deep waters and embraced asceticism,pledging detachment from every material pursuit. Ever since, he has eaten minimally for subsistence, not slept on a comfortable bed and not indulgedin any sensual pleasure. He has no next of kin; he severed ties even with his parents. Austerity in the absolute sense. For more than 50 years, he haslived such a life in complete public view. He is a scholar of wide attainments and great versatility who has mastered the Rig Veda, the Dharmashastras, the Upanishads under all the Veda Shakas, Vyakarana, Vedanta,Nyaya and Tarka shastras through the course of his life.

All the articles that holler about the 'high profile' pontiff do not devoteany newsprint to how he has utilised his position of authority. Jayendra Saraswathi, after taking over as the Shankaracharya, is singularly responsible for opening 55 schools and a string of hospitals, professional colleges, child care centres and universities throughout the country. The services in these institutions are offered free of charge or at subsidisedrates, and benefit large sections of society. In addition, charitable trustsfor aiding poor families, old-age homes, rural development trusts, food donation projects, and research projects have also been flagged off by theacharya. Although the seer is perceived as a Hindu Brahmin icon, the condemnation of his arrest by the Muslim and Christian clergy is acomforting testimony to the tolerant, secular face of Hinduism that he has presented in crises.

The Shankaracharya wears saffron according to the canon prescribed for a sanyasi, thereby giving the media and the literati, an easy stereotype. So,the Shankaracharya gets pigeonholed with the paan-chewing, debauched politician who views the ochre as lucre. Hinduism's lack of rigidity doesnot prevent all and sundry from donning saffron. What is unfortunate is that we are not able to distinguish between a genuine ascetic and a masquerader.For the most poignant players in this drama, the followers of the acharya,these are nightmarish times. Within a matter of hours, a man, who for manyyears, had graced their puja with the Gods, had been disgraced. The episode itself, with the unceremonious arrest of the venerable religious leader on an auspicious day, after a yagna, by commandos, was a rude jolt. To exacerbate the wounds, the acharya, a 70-year-old diabetic, was held incustody for the outrageous reason that he would abscond to Nepal. He was not allowed to cook his own food, despite his religious caveats that prohibit food from outside, since it was alleged that he would attempt suicide. He was denied transfer to a hospital or house, unlike most high profile captives. His bail application was adjourned and he was remanded to judicial custody.

To the followers who have seen the Shankaracharya in all his glory, theimage of an old man with failing health, drinking ragi porridge given to prisoners, and performing pujas in a cell, is heart-rending. Yet, unlike anyother community in the world that can speak up when it is hurt, they find themselves mute. Before they could feel the impact of the shock, the VHP and the rest of the Hindutva brigade were already well on their way to politicising the issue and promoting party agendas. Worse yet, due to theirpublic perception as extremist troublemakers, the support of these parties in this issue is a liability for the followers of the acharya. For them, this intensely personal moment of distress does not have asounding board.

The denigration of one of the last bastions of their faith has left them disoriented, victimised and hurt. Their grievances will neverget print footage, as they will be viewed with saffron coloured glasses and quickly branded as 'right wing' or 'fundamentalist.' Since their cause is not as fashionable as those of large dam project victims, people ofalternate sexuality or people in another country's war, they are media-untouchables.The overriding concerns in this issue are its actual intent and impact. The arrest of a religious leader is unprecedented. If the seer is proven guilty,the law will take its course of action as it rightfully should, for everycitizen. However, speculation is rife on the political machinations and theframe-and-blame-game in the case. If the seer is proven not guilty, then where do we go from here? If this case is a political conspiracy, what is to become of the millions of devotees of the man? Do the politicians enmeshed in the throes of the immediate, understand the cultural and moral impact ofthis issue, and the possible damage that they have done?In the smutty power and revenge match between individuals, along with thearrested seer, a 2,500-year-old institution has also been sullied, an institution that has stood the test of time, of cultural invasions and of religious warfare.

The Shankaracharya is not a person, but a sacrosanct position of eminence in people's minds. After this episode, irrespective of its outcome, will the devotee still feel the sanctity of this position andthis institution? Will he not feel demoralised and despondent about hisfaith, against the overwhelming backdrop of scepticism? Will millions of our citizens, with a beaten spirit, be able to place credence and hope in a leader again?

Shobha Vasudevan is a PhD student at the University of Texas at Austin

The day I fell out of love with Madras*

25th November

I used to be a hardcore Chennaiite. How else could I be? After all, I’d spent the first quarter century of my life in the city. When the winds of fate intervened, I was swept away to a different part of the country. But that’s another story altogether. Anyway, wherever I went I would defend Chennai against slander and ridicule and would fight to save her name from being muddied by vicious rumours (really, I was once asked if we had cable TV in Madras! Duh!!).
Once when someone commented how dull Chennai was, I was livid with rage. I told them that for someone who spent half his life being chutney-fied in the sardine cans of local trains, Chennai’s relative calm would seem dull. I would act like I was the ambassador for Madras! That’s how passionate I was until things went belly up.

* Madras and Chennai have been used interchangeably

(To be continued)

Gem

November 20, 2004

Never know where you'll find one, do you? Heard this little gem on the radio this afternoon.
'Youth is wasted on the young,
Before you know it's come and gone...too soon'
- Robbie Williams

My Deepavali wishlist

November 10, 2004

There was a time when I would pray for good weather on Deepavali day so that we may burst all the crackers and if my wish was granted, I would be the happiest little girl in town. But then, those were simpler times. Today I'm 31 and sitting in front of a laptop in a strange land on a quiet evening before Deepavali, this is what I hope for -
More peace, less talk
More tolerance
More happy families for little children
Less burden for children to carry
Less fear, more trust
More love, more love, more love.
Happy Deepavali, you all!

Welcome home to India

October 12, 2004

Coming home to India is never an easy experience. It is fraught with conflicting emotions that are often exhausting. I never realised how living outside India can sanitise one's life. And coming back home, where life screams full-throat from roof tops, can shake oneself out of a stupor. I'm absorbing every minute of my holiday so that I can play it back in slow motion once it is over. More later.

In defence of housewives

Sunday, September 26, 2004

There was a time when I would look down on anyone who called themselves a ‘housewife’. The term immediately conjured up images of someone who simply wasn’t interested in life anymore - a lazy bum who spent their waking hours cooking and watching daytime telly. Someone who had no ambition, no drive, desire or self-esteem. In those days I was a hotshot career woman working in a fancy television channel and I could afford to have this stereotypical, holier-than-thou attitude.But years went by and my family grew. Now, I have consciously chosen to put my career on hold to raise my family. To spend time with children. To not juggle career and home life. To not make a martyr of myself by trying to do it all. Sure, there are women out there who manage to run a career and be a mother. I’m just not one of them. So now, I am something I never thought I would be - a housewife. And guess what? It’s my choice.

People think I no longer have an ambition or drive or desire to do something. Of course not. There are so many things I do in my day and so much more I plan for. I ran a marathon last year and plan to do a triathlon next. Isn’t that ambition? I take care of my son in way that no nursery or crèche can do. Doesn’t that count for much?When I examined my motive for working (in an office), two things came up – working because we need the money and working because it gave me a lot of satisfaction. About money, my husband and I decided to live cheaply by cutting down on unnecessary expenses. In any case, what I’d earn and what I’d pay in childcare, I’d be left with little at the end of the day. As far as satisfaction goes, I’m clear in that nothing can ever equal the satisfaction of being there for one’s child.Sometimes I think that being a mother is not valued enough in this world. There is no salary, no promotion, no holidays, no weekends, no retirement, no pension, no job-title and sometimes, no recognition. How I would love introduce myself as a ‘stay-at-home mother’ and not feel sorry about it. Writing this piece is my own form of catharsis. Yes, I feel good now. I’m a housewife and proud of it.

A weekend of myself

August 25, 2004

I'm taking off this weekend. Just to be by myself. I did not realise how much I've been missing my company. When I mentioned this to a friend, she exclaimed, 'What?? Just you? Then who'll take care of your husband? Your son? Have you thought about his future? What will happen to him in your absence? How could you be so selfish? How could you?'Listening to her, you'd have thought I was abandoning my family for good. I had to (politely) remind her that I was going to be away for just 48 hours. And that my husband is 34 years old and more than capable of taking care of himself and our son. And that I wanted to spend some time without worrying about the brain-sapping mundane chores of domestic life. And quite simply, I needed a break.To this, my friend tried to guilt-trip me and I had to spend a further ten minutes justifying my decision. In the end, she wasn't very convinced and I just felt wretched. Anyway, I'll be in Edinburgh this weekend. I hope to catch some of the shows on offer at the this year's comedy festival.

When will India win an Olympic gold?

24th August '04

The Chinese have 14, Americans a dozen, the Germans a handful, the British a prized few...even tiny Mozambique and impoverished Ethiopia have a couple. But India? When will you fulfil your Olympic golden destiny?